de l’Homme Arme. His mother never saw him again. She went out once more
to place her husband’s power of attorney with a lawyer in the rue de
Paon. On her return she felt so weak and broken-down that she was
obliged to go to bed and remain there for several days. On January 29th
the unfortunate lady had risen, and was sitting near the window which
overlooked the deserted rue des Menetriers, where clouds of snow were
drifting before the wind. Who can guess the sad thoughts which may have
possessed her?—all around dark, cold, and silent, tending to produce
painful depression and involuntary dread. To escape the gloomy ideas
which besieged her, her mind went back to the smiling times of her youth
and marriage. She recalled the time when, alone at Buisson during her
husband’s enforced absences, she wandered with her child in the cool and
shaded walks of the park, and sat out in the evening, inhaling the scent
of the flowers, and listening to the murmur of the water, or the sound
of the whispering breeze in the leaves. Then, coming back from these
sweet recollections to reality, she shed tears, and called on her
husband and son. So deep was her reverie that she did not hear the room
door open, did not perceive that darkness had come on. The light of a
candle, dispersing the shadows, made her start; she turned her head, and
saw Derues coming towards her. He smiled, and she made an effort to keep
back the tears which were shining in her eyes, and to appear calm.
“I am afraid I disturb you,” he said. “I came to ask a favour, madame.”
“What is it, Monsieur Derues?” she inquired.
“Will you allow me to have a large chest brought into this room? I ought
to pack some valuable things in it which are in my charge, and are now
in this cupboard. I am afraid it will be in your way.”
“Is it not your own house, and is it not rather I who am in the way and
a cause of trouble? Pray have it brought in, and try to forget that I am
here. You are most kind to me, but I wish I could spare you all this
trouble and that I were fit to go back to Buisson. I had a letter from
my husband yesterday——”
“We will talk about that presently, if you wish it,” said Derues. “I
will go and fetch the servant to help me to carry in this chest. I have
put it off hitherto, but it really must be sent in three days.”
He went away, and returned in a few minutes. The chest was carried in,
and placed before the cupboard at the foot of the bed. Alas! the poor
lady little thought it was her own coffin which stood before her!
The maid withdrew, and Derues assisted Madame de Lamotte to a seat near
the fire, which he revived with more fuel. He sat down opposite to her,
and by the feeble light of the candle placed on a small table between
them could contemplate at leisure the ravages wrought by poison on her
wasted features.
“I saw your son to-day,” he said: “he complains that you neglect him,
and have not seen him for twelve days. He does not know you have been
ill, nor did I tell him. The dear boy! he loves you so tenderly.”
“And I also long to see him. My friend, I cannot tell you what terrible
presentiments beset me; it seems as if I were threatened with some great
misfortune; and just now, when you came in, I could think only of death.
What is the cause of this languor and weakness? It is surely no
temporary ailment. Tell me the truth: am I not dreadfully altered? and
do you not think my husband will be shocked when he sees me like this?”
“You are unnecessarily anxious,” replied Derues; “it is rather a failing
of yours. Did I not see you last year tormenting yourself about
Edouard’s health, when he was not even thinking of being ill? I am not
so soon alarmed. My own old profession, and that of chemistry, which I
studied in my youth, have given me some acquaintance with medicine. I
have frequently been consulted, and have prescribed for patients whose
condition was supposed to be desperate, and I can assure you I have
never seen a better and stronger constitution than yours. Try to calm
yourself, and do not call up chimeras; because a mind at ease is the
greatest enemy of illness. This depression will pass, and then you will
regain your strength.”
“May God grant it! for I feel weaker every day.”
“We have still some business to transact together. The notary at
Beauvais writes that the difficulties which prevented his paying over
the inheritance of my wife’s relation, Monsieur Duplessis, have mostly
disappeared. I have a hundred thousand livres at my disposal,—that is to
say, at yours,—and in a month at latest I shall be able to pay off my
debt. You ask me to be sincere,” he continued, with a tinge of
reproachful irony; “be sincere in your turn, madame, and acknowledge
that you and your husband have both felt uneasy, and that the delays I
have been obliged to ask for have not seemed very encouraging to you?”
“It is true,” she replied; “but we never questioned your good faith.”
“And you were right. One is not always able to carry out one’s
intentions; events can always upset our calculations; but what really is
in our power is the desire to do right—to be honest; and I can say that
I never intentionally wronged anyone. And now. I am happy in being able
to fulfil my promises to you. I trust when I am the owner of
Buisson-Souef you will not feel obliged to leave it.”
“Thank you; I should like to come occasionally, for all my happy
recollections are connected with it. Is it necessary for me to accompany
you to Beauvais?”
“Why should you not? The change would do you good.”
She looked up at him and smiled sadly. “I am not in a fit state to
undertake it.”
“Not if you imagine that you are unable, certainly. Come, have you any
confidence in me?”
“The most complete confidence, as you know.”
“Very well, then: trust to my care. This very evening I will prepare a
draught for you to take to-morrow morning, and I will even now fix the
duration of this terrible malady which frightens you so much. In two
days I shall fetch Edouard from his school to celebrate the beginning of
your convalescence, and we will start, at latest, on February 1st. You
are astonished at what I say, but you shall see if I am not a good
doctor, and much cleverer than many who pass for such merely because the
have obtained a diploma.”
“Then, doctor, I will place myself in your hands.”
“Remember what I say. You will leave this on February 1st.”
“To begin this cure, can you ensure my sleeping to-night?”
“Certainly. I will go now, and send my wife to you. She will bring a
draught, which you must promise to take.”
“I will exactly follow your prescriptions. Goodnight, my friend.”
“Good-night, madame; and take courage”; and bowing low, he left the
room.
The rest of the evening was spent in preparing the fatal medicine. The
next morning, an hour or two after Madame de Lamotte had swallowed it,
the maid who had given it to her came and told Derues the invalid was
sleeping very heavily and snoring, and asked if she ought to be awoke.
He went into the room, and, opening the curtains, approached the bed. He
listened for some time, and recognised that the supposed snoring was
really he death-rattle. He sent the servant off into the country with a
letter to one of his friends, telling her not to return until the Monday
following, February 3rd. He also sent away his wife, on some unknown
pretext, and remained alone with his victim.
So terrible a situation ought to have troubled the mind of the most
hardened criminal. A man familiar with murder and accustomed to shed
blood might have felt his heart sink, and, in the absence of pity, might
have experienced disgust at the sight of this prolonged and useless
torture; but Derues, calm and easy, as if unconscious of evil, sat
coolly beside the bed, as any doctor might have done. From time to time
he felt the slackening pulse, and looked at the glassy and sightless
eyes which turned in their orbits, and he saw without terror the
approach of night, which rendered this awful ‘tete-a-tete’ even more
horrible. The most profound silence reigned in the house, the street was
deserted, and the only sound heard was caused by an icy rain mixed with
snow driven against the glass, and occasionally the howl of the wind,
which penetrated the chimney and scattered the ashes. A single candle
placed behind the curtains lighted this dismal scene, and the irregular
flicker of its flame cast weird reflections and dancing shadows an the
walls of the alcove. There came a lull in the wind, the rain ceased, and
during this instant of calm someone knocked, at first gently, and then
sharply, at the outer door. Derues dropped the dying woman’s hand and
bent forward to listen. The knock was repeated, and he grew pale. He
threw the sheet, as if it were a shroud, over his victim’s head drew the
curtains of the alcove, and went to the door. “Who is there?” he
inquired.
“Open, Monsieur Derues,” said a voice which he recognised as that of a
woman of Chartres whose affairs he managed, and who had entrusted him
with sundry deeds in order that he might receive the money due to her.
This woman had begun to entertain doubts as to Derues’ honesty, and as
she was leaving Paris the next day, had resolved to get the papers out
of his hands.
“Open the door,” she repeated. “Don’t you know my voice?”
“I am sorry I cannot let you in. My servant is out: she has taken the
key and locked the door outside.”
“You must let me in,” the woman continued; “it is absolutely necessary I
should speak to you.”
“Come to-morrow.”
“I leave Paris to-morrow, and I must have those papers to-night.”
He again refused, but she spoke firmly and decidedly. “I must come in.
The porter said you were all out, but, from the rue des Menetriers I
could see the light in your room. My brother is with me, and I left him
below. I shall call him if you don’t open the door.”
“Come in, then,” said Derues; “your papers are in the sitting-room. Wait
here, and I will fetch them.” The woman looked at him and took his hand.
“Heavens! how pale you are! What is the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter: will you wait here? “But she would not release
his arm, and followed him into the sitting-room, where Derues began to
seek hurriedly among the various papers which covered a table. “Here
they are,” he said; “now you can go.”
“Really,” said the woman, examining her deeds carefully, “never yet did
I see you in such a hurry to give up things which don’t belong to you.
But do hold that candle steadily; your hand is shaking so that I cannot
see to read.”
At that moment the silence which prevailed all round was broken by a cry
of anguish, a long groan proceeding from the chamber to the right of the
sitting-room.
“What is that?” cried the woman. “Surely it is a dying person!”
The sense of the danger which threatened made Derues pull himself
together. “Do not be alarmed,” he said. “My wife has been seized with a
violent fever; she is quite delirious now, and that is why I told the
porter to let no one come up.”
But the groans in the next room continued, and the unwelcome visitor,
overcome by terror which she could neither surmount nor explain, took a
hasty leave, and descended the staircase with all possible rapidity. As
soon as he could close the door, Derues returned to the bedroom.
Nature frequently collects all her expiring strength at the last moment
of existence. The unhappy lady struggled beneath her coverings; the
agony she suffered had given her a convulsive energy, and inarticulate
sounds proceeded from her mouth. Derues approached and held her on the
bed. She sank back on the pillow, shuddering convulsively, her hands
plucking and twisting the sheets, her teeth chattering and biting the
loose hair which fell over her face and shoulders. “Water! water!” she
cried; and then, “Edouard,—my husband!—Edouard!—is it you?” Then rising
with a last effort, she seized her murderer by the arm, repeating,
“Edouard!—oh!” and then fell heavily, dragging Derues down with her. His
face was against hers; he raised his head, but the dying hand, clenched
in agony, had closed upon him like a vise. The icy fingers seemed made
of iron and could not be opened, as though the victim had seized on her
assassin as a prey, and clung to the proof of his crime.
Derues at last freed himself, and putting his hand on her heart, “It is
over,” he remarked; “she has been a long time about it. What o’clock is
it? Nine! She has struggled against death for twelve hours!”
While the limbs still retained a little warmth, he drew the feet
together, crossed the hands on the breast, and placed the body in the
chest. When he had locked it up, he remade the bed, undressed himself,
and slept comfortably in the other one.
The next day, February 1st, the day he had fixed for the “going out” of
Madame de Lamotte, he caused the chest to be placed on a hand-cart and
carried at about ten o’clock in the morning to the workshop of a
carpenter of his acquaintance called Mouchy, who dwelt near the Louvre.
The two commissionaires employed had been selected in distant quarters,
and did not know each other. They were well paid, and each presented
with a bottle of wine. These men could never be traced. Derues requested
the carpenter’s wife to allow the chest to remain in the large workshop,
saying he had forgotten something at his own house, and would return to
fetch it in three hours. But, instead of a few hours, he left it for two
whole days—why, one does not know, but it may be supposed that he wanted
the time to dig a trench in a sort of vault under the staircase leading
to the cellar in the rue de la Mortellerie. Whatever the cause, the
delay might have been fatal, and did occasion an unforeseen encounter
which nearly betrayed him. But of all the actors in this scene he alone
knew the real danger he incurred, and his coolness never deserted him
for a moment.
The third day, as he walked alongside the handcart on which the chest
was being conveyed, he was accosted at Saint Germain l’Auxerrois by a
creditor who had obtained a writ of execution against him, and at the
imperative sign made by this man the porter stopped. The creditor
attacked Derues violently, reproaching him for his bad faith in language
which was both energetic and uncomplimentary; to which the latter
replied in as conciliatory a manner as he could assume. But it was
impossible to silence the enemy, and an increasing crowd of idlers began
to assemble round them.
“When will you pay me?” demanded the creditor. “I have an execution
against you. What is there in that box? Valuables which you cart away
secretly, in order to laugh at my just claims, as you did two years
ago?”
Derues shuddered all over; he exhausted himself in protestations; but
the other, almost beside himself, continued to shout.
“Oh!” he said, turning to the crowd, “all these tricks and grimaces and
signs of the cross are no good. I must have my money, and as I know what
his promises are worth, I will pay myself! Come, you knave, make haste.
Tell me what there is in that box; open it, or I will fetch the police.”
The crowd was divided between the creditor and debtor, and possibly a
free fight would have begun, but the general attention was distracted by
the arrival of another spectator. A voice heard above all the tumult
caused a score of heads to turn, it was the voice of a woman crying:
“The abominable history of Leroi de Valine, condemned to death at the
age of sixteen for having poisoned his entire family!”
Continually crying her wares, the drunken, staggering woman approached
the crowd, and striking out right and left with fists and elbows, forced
her way to Derues.
“Ah! ah!” said she, after looking him well over, “is it you, my gossip
Derues! Have you again a little affair on hand like the one when you set
fire to your shop in the rue Saint-Victor?”
Derues recognised the hawker who had abused him on the threshold of his
shop some years previously, and whom he had never seen since. “Yes,
yes,” she continued, “you had better look at me with your little round
cat’s eyes. Are you going to say you don’t know me?”
Derues appealed to his creditor. “You see,” he said, “to what insults
you are exposing me. I do not know this woman who abuses me.”
“What!—you don’t know me! You who accused me of being a thief! But
luckily the Maniffets have been known in Paris as honest people for
generations, while as for you——”
“Sir,” said Derues, “this case contains valuable wine which I am
commissioned to sell. To-morrow I shall receive the money for it;
to-morrow, in the course of the day, I will pay what I owe you. But I am
waited for now, do not in Heaven’s name detain me longer, and thus
deprive me of the means of paying at all.”
“Don’t believe him, my good man,” said the hawker; “lying comes natural
to him always.”
“Sir, I promise on my oath you shall be paid tomorrow; you had better
trust the word of an honest man rather than the ravings of a drunken
woman.”
The creditor still hesitated, but, another person now spoke in Derues’
favour; it was the carpenter Mouchy, who had inquired the cause of the
quarrel.
“For God’s sake,” he exclaimed, “let the gentleman go on. That chest
came from my workshop, and I know there is wine inside it; he told my
wife so two days ago.”
“Will you be surety for me, my friend?” asked Derues.
“Certainly I will; I have not known you for ten years in order to leave
you in trouble and refuse to answer for you. What the devil are
respectable people to be stopped like this in a public place? Come, sir,
believe his word, as I do.”
After some more discussion, the porter was at last allowed to proceed
with his hand-cart. The hawker wanted to interfere, but Mouchy warned
her off and ordered her to be silent. “Ah! ah!” she cried, “what does it
matter to me? Let him sell his wine if he can; I shall not drink any on
his premises. This is the second time he has found a surety to my
knowledge; the beggar must have some special secret for encouraging the
growth of fools. Good-bye, gossip Derues; you know I shall be selling
your history some day. Meanwhile——
“The abominable history of Leroi de Valine, condemned to death at the
age of sixteen for having poisoned his entire family!”
Whilst she amused the people by her grimaces and grotesque gestures, and
while Mouchy held forth to some of them, Derues made his escape. Several
times between Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois and the rue de la Mortellerie he
nearly fainted, and was obliged to stop. While the danger lasted, he had
had sufficient self-control to confront it coolly, but now that he
calculated the depth of the abyss which for a moment had opened beneath
his feet, dizziness laid hold on him.
Other precautions now became necessary. His real name had been mentioned
before the commissionaire, and the widow Masson, who owned the cellar,
only knew him as Ducoudray. He went on in front, asked for the keys,
which till then had been left with her, and the chest was got downstairs
without any awkward questions. Only the porter seemed astonished that
this supposed wine, which was to be sold immediately, should be put in
such a place, and asked if he might come the next day and move it again.
Derues replied that someone was coming for it that very day. This
question, and the disgraceful scene which the man had witnessed, made it
necessary to get rid of him without letting him see the pit dug under
the staircase. Derues tried to drag the chest towards the hole, but all
his strength was insufficient to move it. He uttered terrible
imprecations when he recognised his own weakness, and saw that he would
be obliged to bring another stranger, an informer perhaps, into this
charnel-house, where; as yet, nothing betrayed his crimes. No sooner
escaped from one peril than he encountered another, and already he had
to struggle against his own deeds. He measured the length of the trench,
it was too short. Derues went out and repaired to the place where he had
hired the labourer who had dug it out, but he could not find the man,
whom he had only seen once, and whose name he did not know. Two whole
days were spent in this fruitless search, but on the third, as he was
wandering on one of the quays at the time labourers were to be found
there, a mason, thinking he was looking for someone, inquired what he
wanted. Derues looked well at the man, and concluding from his
appearance that he was probably rather simpleminded, asked—
“Would you like to earn a crown of three livres by an easy job?”
“What a question, master!” answered the mason. “Work is so scarce that I
am going back into the country this very evening.”
“Very well! Bring your tools, spade, and pickaxe, and follow me.”
They both went down to the cellar, and the mason was ordered to dig out
the pit till it was five and a half feet deep. While the man worked,
Derues sat beside the chest and read. When it was half done, the mason
stopped for breath, and leaning on his spade, inquired why he wanted a
trench of such a depth. Derues, who had probably foreseen the question,
answered at once, without being disconcerted—
“I want to bury some bottled wine which is contained in this case.”
“Wine!” said the other. “Ah! you are laughing at me, because you think I
look a fool! I never yet heard of such a recipe for improving wine.”
“Where do you come from?”
“D’Alencon.”
“Cider drinker! You were brought up in Normandy, that is clear. Well,
you can learn from me, Jean-Baptiste Ducoudray, a wine grower of Tours,
and a wine merchant for the last ten years, that new wine thus buried
for a year acquires the quality and characteristics of the oldest
brands.”
“It is possible,” said the mason, again taking his spade, “but all the
same it seems a little odd to me.”
When he had finished, Derues asked him to help to drag the chest
alongside the trench, so that it might be easier to take out the bottles
and arrange them: The mason agreed, but when he moved the chest the
foetid odour which proceeded from it made him draw back, declaring that
a smell such as that could not possibly proceed from wine. Derues tried
to persuade him that the smell came from drains under the cellar, the
pipe of which could be seen. It appeared to satisfy him, and he again
took hold of the chest, but immediately let it go again, and said
positively that he could not execute Derues’ orders, being convinced
that the chest must contain a decomposing corpse. Then Derues threw
himself at the man’s feet and acknowledged that it was the dead body of
a woman who had unfortunately lodged in his house, and who had died
there suddenly from an unknown malady, and that, dreading lest he should
be accused of having murdered her, he had decided to conceal the death
and bury her here.
The mason listened, alarmed at this confidence, and not knowing whether
to believe it or not. Derues sobbed and wept at his feet, beat his
breast and tore out his hair, calling on God and the saints as witnesses
of his good faith and his innocence. He showed the book he was reading
while the mason excavated: it was the Seven Penitential Psalms. “How
unfortunate I am!” he cried. “This woman died in my house, I assure
you—died suddenly, before I could call a doctor. I was alone; I might
have been accused, imprisoned, perhaps condemned for a crime I did not
commit. Do not ruin me! You leave Paris to-night, you need not be
uneasy; no one would know that I employed you, if this unhappy affair
should ever be discovered. I do not know your name, I do not wish to
know it, and I tell you mine, it is Ducoudray. I give myself up to you,
but have some pity!—if not for me, yet for my wife and my two little
children—for these poor creatures whose only support I am!”
Seeing that the mason was touched, Derues opened the chest.
“Look,” he said, “examine the body of this woman, does it show any mark
of violent death? My God!” he continued, joining his hands and in tones
of despairing agony,—“my God, Thou who readest all hearts, and who
knowest my innocence, canst Thou not ordain a miracle to save an honest
man? Wilt Thou not command this dead body to bear witness for me?”
The mason was stupefied by this flow of language. Unable to restrain his
tears, he promised to keep silence, persuaded that Derues was innocent,
and that appearances only were against him. The latter, moreover, did
not neglect other means of persuasion; he handed the mason two gold
pieces, and between them they buried the body of Madame de Lamotte.
However extraordinary this fact, which might easily be supposed
imaginary, may appear, it certainly happened. In the examination at his
trial. Derues himself revealed it, repeating the story which had
satisfied the mason. He believed that this man had denounced him: he was
mistaken, for this confidant of his crime, who might have been the first
to put justice on his track, never reappeared, and but for Derues’
acknowledgment his existence would have remained unknown.
This first deed accomplished, another victim was already appointed.
Trembling at first as to the consequences of his forced confession,
Derues waited some days, paying, however, his creditor as promised. He
redoubles his demonstrations of piety, he casts a furtive glance on
everyone he meets, seeking for some expression of distrust. But no one
avoids him, or points him out with a raised finger, or whispers on
seeing him; everywhere he encounters the customary expression of
goodwill. Nothing has changed; suspicion passes over his head without
alighting there. He is reassured, and resumes his work. Moreover, had he
wished to remain passive, he could not have done so; he was now
compelled to follow that fatal law of crime which demands that blood
must be effaced with blood, and which is compelled to appeal again to
death in order to stifle the accusing voice already issuing from the
tomb.
Edouard de Lamotte, loving his mother as much as she loved him, became
uneasy at receiving no visits, and was astonished at this sudden
indifference. Derues wrote to him as follows:
“I have at length some good news for you, my dear boy, but you must not
tell your mother I have betrayed her secret; she would scold me, because
she is planning a surprise for you, and the various steps and care
necessary in arranging this important matter have caused her absence.
You were to know nothing until the 11th or 12th of this month, but now
that all is settled, I should blame myself if I prolonged the
uncertainty in which you have been left, only you must promise me to
look as much astonished as possible. Your mother, who only lives for
you, is going to present you with the greatest gift a youth of your age
can receive—that of liberty. Yes, dear boy, we thought we had discovered
that you have no very keen taste for study, and that a secluded life
will suit neither your character nor your health. In saying this I utter
no reproach, for every man is born with his own decided tastes, and the
way to success and happiness is-often-to allow him to follow these
instincts. We have had long discussions on this subject—your mother and
I—and we have thought much about your future; she has at last come to a
decision, and for the last ten days has been at Versailles, endeavouring
to obtain your admission as a royal page. Here is the mystery, this is
the reason which has kept her from you, and as she knew you would hear
it with delight, she wished to have the pleasure of telling you herself.
Therefore, once again, when you see her, which will be very soon, do not
let her see I have told you; appear to be greatly surprised. It is true
that I am asking you to tell a lie, but it is a very innocent one, and
its good intention will counteract its sinfulness—may God grant we never
have worse upon our consciences! Thus, instead of lessons and the solemn
precepts of your tutors, instead of a monotonous school-life, you are
going to enjoy your liberty; also the pleasures of the court and the
world. All that rather alarms me, and I ought to confess that I at first
opposed this plan. I begged your mother to reflect, to consider that in
this new existence you would run great risk of losing the religious
feeling which inspires you, and which I have had the happiness, during
my sojourn at Buisson-Souef, of further developing in your mind. I still
recall with emotion your fervid and sincere aspirations towards the
Creator when you approached the Sacred Table for the first time, and
when, kneeling beside you, and envying the purity of heart and innocence
of soul which appeared to animate your countenance as with a divine
radiance, I besought God that, in default of my own virtue, the love for
heavenly Truth with which I have inspired you might be reckoned to my
account. Your piety is my work, Edouard, and I defended it against your
mother’s plans; but she replied that in every career a man is master of
his own good or evil actions; and as I have no authority over you, and
friendship only gives me the right to advise, I must give way. If this
be your vocation, then follow it.
“My occupations are so numerous (I have to collect from different
sources this hundred thousand livres intended to defray the greater part
of the Buisson purchase) that I have not a moment in which to come and
see you this week. Spend the time in reflection, and write to me fully
what you think about this plan. If, like me, you feel any scruples, you
must tell them to your mother, who decidedly wants only to make you
happy. Speak to me freely, openly. It is arranged that I am to fetch you
on the 11th of this month, and escort you to Versailles, where Madame de
Lamotte will be waiting to receive you with the utmost tenderness.
Adieu, dear boy; write to me. Your father knows nothing as yet; his
consent will be asked after your decision.”
The answer to this letter did not have to be waited for: it was such as
Derues expected; the lad accepted joyfully. The answer was, for the
murderer, an arranged plea of defence, a proof which, in a given case,
might link the present with the past.
On the morning of February 11th, Shrove Tuesday, he went to fetch the
young de Lamotte from his school, telling the master that he was desired
by the youth’s mother to conduct him to Versailles. But, instead, he
took him to his own house, saying that he had a letter from Madame de
Lamotte asking them not to come till the next day; so they started on
Ash Wednesday, Edouard having breakfasted on chocolate. Arrived at
Versailles, they stopped at the Fleur-de-lys inn, but there the sickness
which the boy had complained of during the journey became very serious,
and the innkeeper, having young children, and believing that he
recognised symptoms of smallpox, which just then was ravaging
Versailles, refused to receive them, saying he had no vacant room. This
might have disconcerted anyone but Derues, but his audacity, activity,
and resource seemed to increase with each fresh obstacle. Leaving
Edouard in a room on the ground floor which had no communication with
the rest of the inn, he went at once to look for lodgings, and hastily
explored the town. After a fruitless search, he found at last, at the
junction of the rue Saint-Honore with that of the Orangerie, a cooper
named Martin, who had a furnished room to spare. This he hired at thirty
sous per day for himself and his nephew, who had been taken suddenly
ill, under the name of Beaupre. To avoid being questioned later, he
informed the cooper in a few words that he was a doctor; that he had
come to Versailles in order to place his nephew in one of the offices of
the town; that in a few days the latter’s mother would arrive to join
him in seeing and making application to influential persons about the
court, to whom he had letters of introduction. As soon as he had
delivered this fable with all the appearance of truth with which he knew
so well how to disguise his falsehoods, he went back to the young de
Lamotte, who was already so exhausted that he was hardly able to drag
himself as far as the cooper’s house. He fainted on arrival, and was
carried into the hired room, where Derues begged to be left alone with
him, and only asked for certain beverages which he told the people how
to prepare.
Whether it was that the strength of youth fought against the poison, or
that Derues took pleasure in watching the sufferings of his victim, the
agony of the poor lad was prolonged until the fourth day. The sickness
continuing incessantly, he sent the cooper’s wife for a medicine which
he prepared and administered himself. It produced terrible pain, and
Edouard’s cries brought the cooper and his wife upstairs. They
represented to Derues that he ought to call in a doctor and consult with
him, but he refused decidedly, saying that a doctor hastily fetched
might prove to be an ignorant person with whom he could not agree, and
that he could not allow one so dear to him to be prescribed for and
nursed by anyone but himself.
“I know what the malady is,” he continued, raising his eyes to heaven;
“it is one that has to be concealed rather than acknowledged. Poor
youth! whom I love as my own son, if God, touched by my tears and thy
suffering, permits me to save thee, thy whole life will be too short for
thy blessings and thy gratitude!” And as Madame Martin asked what this
malady might be, he answered with hypocritical blushes—
“Do not ask, madame; there are things of which you do not know even the
name.”
At another time, Martin expressed his surprise that the young man’s
mother had not yet appeared, who, according to Derues, was to have met
him at Versailles. He asked how she could know that they were lodging in
his house, and if he should send to meet her at any place where she was
likely to arrive.
“His mother,” said Derues, looking compassionately at Edouard, who lay
pale, motionless, and as if insensible,—“his mother! He calls for her
incessantly. Ah! monsieur, some families are greatly to be pitied! My
entreaties prevailed on her to decide on coming hither, but will she
keep her promise? Do not ask me to tell you more; it is too painful to
have to accuse a mother of having forgotten her duties in the presence
of her son . . . there are secrets which ought not to be told—unhappy
woman!”
Edouard moved, extended his arms, and repeated, “Mother! . . . mother!”
Derues hastened to his side and took his hands in his, as if to warm
them.
“My mother!” the youth repeated. “Why have I not seen her? She was to
have met me.”
You shall soon see her, dear boy; only keep quiet.”
“But just now I thought she was dead.”
“Dead!” cried Derues. “Drive away these sad thoughts. They are caused by
the fever only.”
“No! oh no! . . . I heard a secret voice which said, ‘Thy mother is
dead!’ . . . And then I beheld a livid corpse before me . . . It was
she! . . . I knew her well! and she seemed to have suffered so much——”
“Dear boy, your mother is not dead . . . . My God! what terrible
chimeras you conjure up! You will see her again, I assure you; she has
arrived already. Is it not so, madame?” he asked, turning towards the
Martins, who were both leaning against the foot of the bed, and signing
to them to support this pious falsehood, in order to calm the young man.
“Did she not arrive and come to his bedside and kiss him while he slept,
and she will soon come again?”
“Yes, yes,” said Madame Martin, wiping her eyes; “and she begged my
husband and me to help your uncle to take great care of you—”
The youth moved again, and looking round him with a dazed expression,
said, “My uncle—?”
“You had better go,” said Derues in a whisper to the Martins. “I am
afraid he is delirious again; I will prepare a draught, which will give
him a little rest and sleep.”
“Adieu, then, adieu,” answered Madame Martin; “and may Heaven bless you
for the care you bestow on this poor young man!”
On Friday evening violent vomiting appeared to have benefited the
sufferer. He had rejected most of the poison, and had a fairly quiet
night. But on the Saturday morning Derues sent the cooper’s little girl
to buy more medicine, which he prepared, himself, like the first. The
day was horrible, and about six in the evening, seeing his victim was at
the last gasp, he opened a little window overlooking the shop and
summoned the cooper, requesting him to go at once for a priest. When the
latter arrived he found Derues in tears, kneeling at the dying boy’s
bedside. And now, by the light of two tapers placed on a table, flanking
the holy water-stoup, there began what on one side was an abominable and
sacrilegious comedy, a disgraceful parody of that which Christians
consider most sacred and most dear; on the other, a pious and consoling
ceremony. The cooper and his wife, their eyes bathed in tears, knelt in
the middle of the room, murmuring such prayers as they could remember.
Derues gave up his place to the priest, but as Edouard did not answer
the latter’s questions, he approached the bed, and bending over the
sufferer, exhorted him to confession.
“Dear boy,” he said, “take courage; your sufferings here will be counted
to you above: God will weigh ahem in the scales of His infinite mercy.
Listen to the words of His holy minister, cast your sins into His bosom,
and obtain from Him forgiveness for your faults.”
“I am in such terrible pain!” cried Edouard. “Water! water! Extinguish
the fire which consumes me!”
A violent fit came on, succeeded by exhaustion and the death-rattle.
Derues fell on his knees, and the priest administered extreme unction.
There was then a moment of absolute silence, more impressive than cries
and sobs. The priest collected himself for a moment, crossed himself,
and began to pray. Derues also crossed himself, and repeated in a low
voice, apparently choked by grief
“Go forth, O Christian soul, from this world, in the name of God the
Father Almighty, who created thee; in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son
of the living God, who suffered for thee; in the name of the Holy Ghost,
who was poured out upon thee.”
The youth struggled in his bed, and a convulsive movement agitated his
limbs. Derues continued—
“When thy soul departs from this body may it be admitted to the holy
Mountain of Sion, to the Heavenly Jerusalem, to the numerous company of
Angels, and to the Church of the First-born, whose names are written in
Heaven——”
“Mother! . . . My mother!” cried Edouard. Derues resumed—
“Let God arise, and let the Powers of Darkness be dispersed! let the
Spirits of Evil, who reign over the air, be put to flight; let them not
dare to attack a soul redeemed by the precious blood of Jesus Christ.”
“Amen,” responded the priest and the Martins.
There was another silence, broken only by the stifled sobs of Derues.
The priest again crossed himself and took up the prayer.
“We beseech Thee, O beloved and only Son of God, by the merits of Thy
sacred Passion, Thy Cross and Thy Death, to deliver this Thy servant
from the pains of Hell, and to lead him to that happy place whither Thou
didst vouchsafe to lead the thief, who, with Thee, was bound upon the
Cross: Thou, who art God, living and reigning with the Father and the
Holy Ghost.”
“Amen,” repeated those present. Derues now took up the prayer, and his
voice mingled with the dying gasps of the sufferer.
“And there was a darkness over all the earth——
“To Thee, O Lord, we commend the soul of this Thy servant, that, being
dead to the world, he may, live to Thee: and the sins he hath committed
through the frailty of his mortal nature, do Thou in Thy most merciful
goodness, forgive and wash away. Amen.”
After which all present sprinkled holy water on the body....
When the priest had retired, shown out by Madame Martin, Derues said to
her husband—
“This unfortunate young man has died without the consolation of
beholding his mother.... His last thought was for her.... There now
remains the last duty, a very painful one to accomplish, but my poor
nephew imposed it on me. A few hours ago, feeling that his end was near,
he asked me, as a last mark of friendship, not to entrust these final
duties to the hands of strangers.”
While he applied himself to the necessary work in presence of the
cooper, who was much affected by the sight of such sincere and profound
affliction, Derues added, sighing—
“I shall always grieve for this dear boy. Alas! that evil living should
have caused his early death!”
When he had finished laying out the body, he threw some little packets
into the fire which he professed to have found in the youth’s pockets,
telling Martin, in order to support this assertion, that they contained
drugs suitable to this disgraceful malady.
He spent the night in the room with the corpse, as he had done in the
case of Madame de Lamotte, and the next day, Sunday, he sent Martin to
the parish church of St. Louis, to arrange for a funeral of the simplest
kind; telling him to fill up the certificate in the name of Beaupre,
born at Commercy, in Lorraine. He declined himself either to go to the
church or to appear at the funeral, saying that his grief was too great.
Martin, returning from the funeral, found him engaged in prayer. Derues
gave him the dead youth’s clothes and departed, leaving some money to be
given to the poor of the parish, and for masses to be said for the
repose of the soul of the dead.
He arrived at home in the evening, found his wife entertaining some
friends; and told them he had just come from Chartres, where he had been
summoned on business. Everyone noticed his unusual air of satisfaction,
and he sang several songs during supper.
Having accomplished these two crimes, Derues did not remain idle. When
the murderer’s part of his nature was at rest, the thief reappeared. His
extreme avarice now made him regret the expense’ caused by the deaths of
Madame de Lamotte and her son, and he wished to recoup himself. Two days
after his return from Versailles, he ventured to present himself at
Edouard’s school. He told the master that he had received a letter from
Madame de Lamotte, saying that she wished to keep her son, and asking
him to obtain Edouard’s belongings. The schoolmaster’s wife, who was
present, replied that that could not be; that Monsieur de Lamotte would
have known of his wife’s intention; that she would not have taken such a
step without consulting him; and that only the evening before, they had
received a present of game from Buisson-Souef, with a letter in which
Monsieur de Lamotte entreated them to take great, care of his son.
“If what you say is true,” she continued, “Madame de Lamotte is no doubt
acting on your advice in taking away her son. But I will write to
Buisson.”
“You had better not do anything in the matter;” said Derues, turning to
the schoolmaster. “It is quite possible that Monsieur de Lamotte does
not know. I am aware that his wife does not always consult him. She is
at Versailles, where I took Edouard to her, and I will inform her of
your objection.”
To insure impunity for these murders, Derues had resolved on the death
of Monsieur de Lamotte; but before executing this last crime, he wished
for some proof of the recent pretended agreements between himself and
Madame de Lamotte. He would not wait for the disappearance of the whole
family before presenting himself as the lawful proprietor, of
Buisson-Souef. Prudence required him to shelter himself behind a deed
which should have been executed by that lady. On February 27th he
appeared at the office of Madame de Lamotte’s lawyer in the rue du Paon,
and, with all the persuasion of an artful tongue, demanded the power of
attorney on that lady’s behalf, saying that he had, by private contract,
just paid a hundred thousand livres on the total amount of purchase,
which money was now deposited with a notary. The lawyer, much astonished
that an affair of such importance should have been arranged without any
reference to himself, refused to give up the deed to anyone but Monsieur
or Madame de Lamotte, and inquired why the latter did not appear
herself. Derues replied that she was at Versailles, and that he was to
send the deed to her there. He repeated his request and the lawyer his
refusal, until Derues retired, saying he would find means to compel him
to give up the deed. He actually did, the same day, present a petition
to the civil authority, in which Cyrano Derues de Bury sets forth
arrangements, made with Madame de Lamotte, founded on the deed given by
her husband, and requires permission to seize and withdraw said deed
from the custody in which it remains at present. The petition is
granted. The lawyer objects that he can only give up the deed to either
Monsieur or Madame de Lamotte, unless he be otherwise ordered. Derues
has the effrontery to again appeal to the civil authority, but, for the
reasons given by that public officer, the affair is adjourned.
These two futile efforts might have compromised Derues had they been
heard of at Buisson-Souef; but everything seemed to conspire in the
criminal’s favour: neither the schoolmaster’s wife nor the lawyer
thought of writing to Monsieur de Lamotte. The latter, as yet
unsuspecting, was tormented by other anxieties, and kept at home by
illness.
In these days, distance is shortened, and one can travel from
Villeneuve-le-Roi-les-Sens to Paris in a few hours. This was not the
case in 1777, when private industry and activity, stifled by routine and
privilege, had not yet experienced the need of providing the means for
rapid communication. Half a day was required to go from the capital to
Versailles; a journey of twenty leagues required at least two days and a
night, and bristled with obstacles and delays of all kinds. These
difficulties of transport, still greater during bad weather, and a long
and serious attack of gout, explain why Monsieur de Lamotte, who was so
ready to take alarm, had remained separated from his wife from the
middle of December to the end of February. He had received reassuring
letters from her, written at first with freedom and simplicity; but he
thought he noticed a gradual change in the later ones, which appeared to
proceed more from the mind than the heart. A style which aimed at being
natural was interspersed with unnecessary expressions of affection,
unusual between married people well assured of their mutual love.
Monsieur de Lamotte observed and exaggerated these peculiarities, and
though endeavouring to persuade himself that he was mistaken, he could
not forget them, or regain his usual tranquility. Being somewhat ashamed
of his anxiety, he kept his fears to himself.
One morning, as he was sunk in a large armchair by the fire, his
sitting-room door opened, and the cure entered, who was surprised by his
despondent, sad, and pale appearance. “What is the matter?” he inquired,
“Have you had an extra bad night?”
“Yes,” answered Monsieur de Lamotte.
“Well, have you any news from Paris?”
“Nothing for a whole week: it is odd, is it not?”
“I am always hoping that this sale may fall through; it drags on for so
very long; and I believe that Monsieur Derues, in spite of what your
wife wrote a month ago, has not as much money as he pretends to have. Do
you know that it is said that Monsieur Despeignes-Duplessis, Madame
Derues’ relative, whose money they inherited, was assassinated?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“It is a common report in the country, and was brought here by a man who
came recently from Beauvais.”
“Have the murderers been discovered?”
“Apparently not; justice seems unable to discover anything at all.”
Monsieur de Lamotte hung his head, and his countenance assumed an
expression of painful thought, as though this news affected him
personally.
“Frankly,” resumed the cure, “I believe you will remain Seigneur du
Buisson-Souef, and that I shall be spared the pain of writing another
name over your seat in the church of Villeneuve.”
“The affair must be settled in a few days, for I can wait no longer; if
the purchaser be not Monsieur Derues, it will have to be someone else.
What makes you think he is short of money?”
“Oh! oh!” said the cure, “a man who has money either pays his debts, or
is a cheat. Now Heaven preserve me from suspecting Monsieur Derues’
honesty!”
“What do you know about him?”
“Do you remember Brother Marchois of the Camaldulians, who came to see
me last spring, and who was here the day Monsieur Derues arrived, with
your wife and Edouard?”
“Perfectly. Well?”
“Well, I happened to tell him in one of my letters that Monsieur Derues
had become the purchaser of Buisson-Souef, and that I believed the
arrangements were concluded. Thereupon Brother Marchois wrote asking me
to remind him that he owes them a sum of eight hundred livres, and that,
so far, they have not seen a penny of it.”
“Ah!” said Monsieur de Lamotte, “perhaps I should have done better not
to let myself be deluded by his fine promises. He certainly has money on
his tongue, and when once one begins to listen to him, one can’t help
doing what he wants. All the same, I had rather have had to deal with
someone else.”
“And is it this which worries you, and makes you seem so anxious?”
“This and other things.”
“What, then?”
“I am really ashamed to own it, but I am a credulous and timid as any
old woman. Now do not laugh at me too much. Do you believe in dreams?”
“Monsieur,” said the cure, smiling, “you should never ask a coward
whether he is afraid, you only risk his telling a lie. He will say ‘No,’
but he means ‘Yes.’”
“And are you a coward, my father?”
“A little. I don’t precisely believe all the nursery, tales, or in the
favourable or unfavourable meaning of some object seen during our sleep,
but—”
A sound of steps interrupted them, a servant entered, announcing
Monsieur Derues.
On hearing the name, Monsieur de Lamotte felt troubled in spite of
himself, but, overcoming the impression, he rose to meet the visitor.
“You had better stay,” he said to the cure, who was also rising to take
leave. “Stay; we have probably nothing to say which cannot be said
before you.”
Derues entered the room, and, after the usual compliments, sat down by
the fire, opposite Monsieur de Lamotte.
“You did not expect me,” he said, “and I ought to apologise for
surprising you thus.”
“Give me some news of my wife,” asked Monsieur de Lamotte anxiously.
“She has never been better. Your son is also to perfect health.”
“But why are you alone? Why does not Marie accompany you? It is ten
weeks since she went to Paris.”
“She has not yet quite finished the business with which you entrusted
her. Perhaps I am partly the cause of this long absence, but one cannot
transact business as quickly as one would wish. But, you have no doubt
heard from her, that all is finished, or nearly so, between us. We have
drawn up a second private contract, which annuls the former agreement,
and I have paid over a sum of one hundred thousand livres.”
“I do not comprehend,” said Monsieur de Lamotte. “What can induce my
wife not to inform me of this?”
“You did not know?”
“I know nothing. I was wondering just now with Monsieur le cure why I
did not hear from her.”
“Madame de Lamotte was going to write to you, and I do not know what can
have hindered her.”
“When did you leave her?”
“Several days ago. I have not been at Paris; I am returning from
Chartres. I believed you were informed of everything.”
Monsieur de Lamotte remained silent for some moments. Then, fixing his
eyes upon Derues’ immovable countenance, he said, with some emotion—
“You are a husband and father, sir; in the name of this double and
sacred affection which is, not unknown to you, do not hide anything from
me: I fear some misfortune has happened to my wife which you are
concealing.”
Derues’ physiognomy expressed nothing but a perfectly natural
astonishment.
“What can have suggested such ideas to you; dear sir?” In saying this he
glanced at the cure; wishing to ascertain if this distrust was Monsieur
de Lamotte’s own idea, or had been suggested to him. The movement was so
rapid that neither of the others observed it. Like all knaves, obliged
by their actions to be continually on the watch, Derues possessed to a
remarkable extent the art of seeing all round him without appearing to
observe anything in particular. He decided that as yet he had only to
combat a suspicion unfounded on proof, and he waited till he should be
attacked more seriously.
“I do not know,” he said, “what may have happened during my absence;
pray explain yourself, for you are making me share your disquietude.”
“Yes, I am exceedingly anxious; I entreat you, tell me the whole truth.
Explain this silence, and this absence prolonged beyond all expectation.
You finished your business with Madame de Lamotte several days ago: once
again, why did she not write? There is no letter, either from her or my
son! To-morrow I shall send someone to Paris.”
“Good heavens!” answered Derues, “is there nothing but an accident which
could cause this delay? . . . Well, then,” he continued, with the
embarrassed look of a man compelled to betray a confidence,—“well, then,
I see that in order to reassure you, I shall have to give up a secret
entrusted to me.”
He then told Monsieur de Lamotte that his wife was no longer at Paris,
but at Versailles, where she was endeavouring to obtain an important and
lucrative appointment, and that, if she had left him in ignorance of her
efforts in this direction; it was only to give him an agreeable
surprise. He added that she had removed her son from the school, and
hoped to place him either in the riding school or amongst the royal
pages. To prove his words, he opened his paper-case, and produced the
letter written by Edouard in answer to the one quoted above.
All this was related so simply, and with such an appearance of good
faith, that the cure was quite convinced. And to Monsieur de Lamotte the
plans attributed to his wife were not entirely improbably. Derues had
learnt indirectly that such a career for Edouard had been actually under
consideration. However, though Monsieur de Lamotte’s entire ignorance
prevented him from making any serious objection, his fears were not
entirely at rest, but for the present he appeared satisfied with the
explanation.
The cure resumed the conversation. “What you tell us ought to drive away
gloomy ideas. Just now, when you were announced, Monsieur de Lamotte was
confiding his troubles to me. I was as concerned as he was, and I could
say nothing to help him; never did visitor arrive more apropos. Well, my
friend, what now remains of your vain terrors? What was it you were
saying just as Monsieur Derues arrived? . . . Ah! we were discussing
dreams, you asked if I believed in them.”
Monsieur, de Lamotte, who had sunk back in his easy-chair and seemed
lost in his reflections, started on hearing these words. He raised his
head and looked again at Derues. But the latter had had time to note the
impression produced by the cure’s remark, and this renewed examination
did not disturb him.
“Yes,” said Monsieur de Lamotte, “I had asked that question.”
“And I was going to answer that there are certain secret warnings which
can be received by the soul long before they are intelligible to the
bodily senses-revelations not understood at first, but which later
connect themselves with realities of which they are in some way the
precursors. Do you agree with me, Monsieur Derues?”
“I have no opinion on such a subject, and must leave the discussion to
more learned people than myself. I do not know whether such apparitions
really mean anything or not, and I have not sought to fathom these
mysteries, thinking them outside the realm of human intelligence.”
“Nevertheless,” said the cure, “we are obliged to recognise their
existence.”
“Yes, but without either understanding or explaining them, like many
other eternal truths. I follow the rule given in the Imitation of Jesus
Christ: ‘Beware, my son, of considering too curiously the things beyond
thine intelligence.’”
“And I also submit, and avoid too curious consideration. But has not the
soul knowledge of many wondrous things which we can yet neither see nor
touch? I repeat, there are things which cannot be denied.”
Derues listened attentively, continually on his guard; and afraid, he
knew not why, of becoming entangled in this conversation, as in a trap.
He carefully watched Monsieur de Lamotte, whose eyes never left him. The
cure resumed—
“Here is an instance which I was bound to accept, seeing it happened to
myself. I was then twenty, and my mother lived in the neighbourhood of
Tours, whilst I was at the seminary of Montpellier. After several years
of separation, I had obtained permission to go and see her. I wrote,
telling her of this good news, and I received her answer—full of joy and
tenderness. My brother and sister were to be informed, it was to be a
family meeting, a real festivity; and I started with a light and joyous
heart. My impatience was so great, that, having stopped for supper at a
village inn some ten leagues from Tours, I would not wait till the next
morning for the coach which went that way, but continued the journey on
foot and walked all night. It was a long and difficult road, but
happiness redoubled my strength. About an hour after sunrise I saw
distinctly the smoke and the village roofs, and I hurried on to surprise
my family a little sooner. I never felt more active, more light-hearted
and gay; everything seemed to smile before and around me. Turning a
corner of the hedge, I met a peasant whom I recognised. All at once it
seemed as if a veil spread over my sight, all my hopes and joy suddenly
vanished, a funereal idea took possession of me, and I said, taking the
hand of the man, who had not yet spoken—
“‘My mother is dead, I am convinced my mother is dead!’
“He hung down his head and answered—
“‘She is to be buried this morning!’
“Now whence came this revelation? I had seen no one, spoken to no one; a
moment before I had no idea of it!”
Derues made a gesture of surprise. Monsieur de Lamotte put his hand to
his eyes, and said to the cure—
“Your presentiments were true; mine, happily, are unfounded. But listen,
and tell me if in the state of anxiety which oppressed me I had not good
reason for alarm and for fearing some fatal misfortune.”
His eyes again sought Derues. “Towards the middle of last night I at
length fell asleep, but, interrupted every moment, this sleep was more a
fatigue than a rest; I seemed to hear confused noises all round me. I
saw brilliant lights which dazzled me, and then sank back into silence
and darkness. Sometimes I heard someone weeping near my bed; again
plaintive voices called to me out of the darkness. I stretched out my
arms, but nothing met them, I fought with phantoms; at length a cold
hand grasped mine and led me rapidly forward. Under a dark and damp
vault a woman lay on the ground, bleeding, inanimate—it was my wife! At
the same moment, a groan made me look round, and I beheld a man striking
my son with a dagger. I cried out and awoke, bathed in cold
perspiration, panting under this terrible vision. I was obliged to get
up, walk about, and speak aloud, in order to convince myself it was only
a dream. I tried to go to sleep again, but the same visions still
pursued me. I saw always the same man armed with two daggers streaming
with blood; I heard always the cries of his two victims. When day came,
I felt utterly broken, worn-out; and this morning, you, my father, could
see by my despondency what an impression this awful night had made upon
me.”
During this recital Derues’ calmness never gave way for a single moment,
and the most skilful physiognomist could only have discovered an
expression of incredulous curiosity on his countenance.
“Monsieur le cure’s story,” said he, “impressed me much; yours only
brings back my uncertainty. It is less possible than ever to deliver any
opinion on this serious question of dreams, since the second instance
contradicts the first.”
“It is true,” answered the cure, “no possible conclusion can be drawn
from two facts which contradict each other, and the best thing we can do
is to choose a less dismal subject of conversation.”
“Monsieur Derues;” asked Monsieur de Lamatte, “if you are not too tired
with your journey, shall we go and look at the last improvements I have
made? It is now your affair to decide upon them, since I shall shortly
be only your guest here.”
“Just as I have been yours for long enough, and I trust you will often
give me the opportunity of exercising hospitality in my turn. But you
are ill, the day is cold and damp; if you do not care to go out, do not
let me disturb you. Had you not better stay by the fire with Monsieur le
cure? For me, Heaven be thanked! I require no assistance. I will look
round the park, and come back presently to tell you what I think.
Besides, we shall have plenty of time to talk about it. With your
permission, I should like to stay two or three days.”
“I shall be pleased if you will do so.”
Derues went out, sufficiently uneasy in his mind, both on account of his
reception of Monsieur de Lamotte’s fears and of the manner in which the
latter had watched him during the conversation. He walked quickly up and
down the park—
“I have been foolish, perhaps; I have lost twelve or fifteen days, and
delayed stupidly from fear of not foreseeing everything. But then, how
was I to imagine that this simple, easily deceived man would all at once
become suspicious? What a strange dream! If I had not been on my guard,
I might have been disconcerted. Come, come, I must try to disperse these
ideas and give him something else to think about.”
He stopped, and after a few minutes consideration turned back towards
the house.
As soon as he had left the room, Monsieur de Lamotte had bent over
towards the cure, and had said—
“He did not show any emotion, did—he?”
“None whatever.”
“He did not start when I spoke of the man armed with those two daggers?”
“No. But put aside these ideas; you must see they are mistaken.”
“I did not tell everything, my father: this murderer whom I saw in my
dream—was Derues himself! I know as well as you that it must be a
delusion, I saw as well as you did that he remained quite calm, but, in
spite of myself, this terrible dream haunts me . . . .There, do not
listen to me, do not let me talk about it; it only makes me blush for
myself.”
Whilst Derues remained at Buisson-Souef, Monsieur de Lamotte received
several letters from his wife, some from Paris, some from Versailles.
She remarked that her son and herself were perfectly well.... The
writing was so well imitated that no one could doubt their genuineness.
However, Monsieur de Lamotte’s suspicions continually increased and he
ended by making the cure share his fears. He also refused to go with
Derues to Paris, in spite of the latter’s entreaties. Derues, alarmed at
the coldness shown him, left Buisson-Souef, saying that he intended to
take possession about the middle of spring.
Monsieur de Lamotte was, in spite of himself, still detained by
ill-health. But a new and inexplicable circumstance made him resolve to
go to Paris and endeavour to clear up the mystery which appeared to
surround his wife and son. He received an unsigned letter in unknown
handwriting, and in which Madame de Lamotte’s reputation was attacked
with a kind of would-be reticence, which hinted that she was an
unfaithful wife and that in this lay the cause of her long absence. Her
husband did not believe this anonymous denunciation, but the fate of the
two beings dearest to him seemed shrouded in so much obscurity that he
could delay no longer, and started for Paris.
His resolution not to accompany Derues had saved his life. The latter
could not carry out his culminating crime at Buisson-Souef; it was only
in Paris that his victims would disappear without his being called to
account. Obliged to leave hold of his prey, he endeavoured to bewilder
him in a labyrinth where all trace of truth might be lost. Already, as
he had arranged beforehand, he had called calumny to his help, and
prepared the audacious lie which was to vindicate himself should an
accusation fall upon his head. He had hoped that Monsieur de Lamotte
would fall defenceless into his hands; but now a careful examination of
his position, showing the impossibility of avoiding an explanation had
become inevitable, made him change all his plans, and compelled him to
devise an infernal plot, so skilfully laid that it bid fair to defeat
all human sagacity.
Monsieur de Lamotte arrived in Paris early in March. Chance decided that
he should lodge in the rue de la Mortellerie, in a house not far from
the one where his wife’s body lay buried. He went to see Derues, hoping
to surprise him, and determined to make him speak, but found he was not
at home. Madame Derues, whether acting with the discretion of an
accomplice or really ignorant of her husband’s proceedings, could not
say where he was likely to be found. She said that he told her nothing
about his actions, and that Monsieur de Lamotte must have observed
during their stay at Buisson (which was true) that she never questioned
him, but obeyed his wishes in everything; and that he had now gone away
without saying where he was going. She acknowledged that Madame de
Lamotte had lodged with them for six weeks, and that she knew that lady
had been at Versailles, but since then she had heard nothing. All
Monsieur de Lamotte’s questions, his entreaties, prayers, or threats,
obtained no other answer. He went to the lawyer in the rue de Paon, to
the schoolmaster, and found the same uncertainty, the same ignorance.
His wife and his son had gone to Versailles, there the clue ended which
ought to guide his investigations. He went to this town; no one could
give him any information, the very name of Lamotte was unknown. He
returned to Paris, questioned and examined the people of the quarter,
the proprietor of the Hotel de France, where his wife had stayed on her
former visit; at length, wearied with useless efforts, he implored help
from justice. Then his complaints ceased; he was advised to maintain a
prudent silence, and to await Derues’ return.
The latter thoroughly understood that, having failed to dissipate
Monsieur de Lamotte’s fears, there was no longer an instant to lose, and
that the pretended private contract of February 12th would not of itself
prove the existence of Madame de Lamotte. This is how he employed the
time spent by the unhappy husband in fruitless investigation.
On March 12th, a woman, her face hidden in the hood of her cloak, or
“Therese,” as it was then called, appeared in the office of Maitre N——-,
a notary at Lyons. She gave her name as Marie Francoise Perffier, wife
of Monsieur Saint-Faust de Lamotte, but separated, as to goods and
estate, from him. She caused a deed to be drawn up, authorising her
husband to receive the arrears of thirty thousand livres remaining from
the price of the estate of Buisson-Souef, situated near
Villeneuve-le-Roi-lez-Sens. The deed was drawn up and signed by Madame
de Lamotte, by the notary, and one of his colleagues.
This woman was Derues. If we remember that he only arrived at Buisson
February 28th, and remained there for some days, it becomes difficult to
understand how at that period so long a journey as that from Paris to
Lyons could have been accomplished with such rapidity. Fear must have
given him wings. We will now explain what use he intended to make of it,
and what fable, a masterpiece of cunning and of lies, he had invented.
On his arrival in Paris he found a summons to appear before the
magistrate of police. He expected this, and appeared quite tranquil,
ready to answer any questions. Monsieur de Lamotte was present. It was a
formal examination, and the magistrate first asked why he had left
Paris.
“Monsieur,” replied Derues, “I have nothing to hide, and none of my
actions need fear the daylight, but before replying, I should like to
understand my position. As a domiciled citizen I have a right to require
this. Will you kindly inform me why I have been summoned to appear
before you, whether on account of anything personal to myself, or simply
to give information as to something which may be within my knowledge?”
“You are acquainted with this gentleman, and cannot therefore be
ignorant of the cause of the present inquiry.”
“I am, nevertheless, quite in ignorance of it.”
“Be good enough to answer my question. Why did you leave Paris? And
where have you been?”
“I was absent for business reasons.”
“What business?”
“I shall say no more.”
“Take care! you have incurred serious suspicions, and silence will not
tend to clear you.”
Derues hung down his head with an air of resignation; and Monsieur de
Lamotte, seeing in this attitude a silent confession of crime,
exclaimed, “Wretched man! what have you done with my wife and my son?”
“Your son!—” said Derues slowly and with peculiar emphasis. He again
cast down his eyes.
The magistrate conducting the inquiry was struck by the expression of
Derues’ countenance and by this half answer, which appeared to hide a
mystery and to aim at diverting attention by offering a bait to
curiosity. He might have stopped Derues at the moment when he sought to
plunge into a tortuous argument, and compelled him to answer with the
same clearness and decision which distinguished Monsieur de Lamotte’s
question; but he reflected that the latter’s inquiries, unforeseen,
hasty, and passionate, were perhaps more likely to disconcert a prepared
defence than cooler and more skilful tactics. He therefore changed his
plans, contenting “himself for the moment with the part of an observer
only, and watching a duel between two fairly matched antagonists.
“I require: you to tell me what has become of them,” repeated Monsieur
de Lamotte. “I have been to Versailles, you assured me they were there.”
“And I told you the truth, monsieur.”
“No one has seen them, no one knows them; every trace is lost. Your
Honour, this man must be compelled to answer, he must say what has
become of my wife and son!”
“I excuse your anxiety, I understand your trouble, but why appeal to me?
Why am I supposed to know what may have happened to them?”
“Because I confided them to your care.”
“As a friend, yes, I agree. Yes, it is quite true that last December I
received a letter from you informing me of the impending arrival of your
wife and son. I received them in my own house, and showed them the same
hospitality which I had received from you. I saw them both, your son
often, your wife every day, until the day she left me to go to
Versailles. Yes, I also took Edouard to his mother, who was negotiating
an appointment for him. I have already told you all this, and I repeat
it because it is the truth. You believed me then: why do you not believe
me now? Why has what I say become strange and incredible? If your wife
and your son have disappeared, am I responsible? Did you transmit your
authority to me? And now, in what manner are you thus calling me to
account? Is it to the friend who might have pitied, who might have aided
your search, that you thus address yourself? Have you come to confide in
me, to ask for advice, for consolation? No, you accuse me; very well!
then I refuse to speak, because, having no proofs, you yet accuse an
honest man; because your fears, whether real or imaginary, do not excuse
you for casting, I know not what odious suspicions, on a blameless
reputation, because I have the right to be offended. Monsieur” he
continued, turning to the magistrate, “I believe you will appreciate my
moderation, and will allow me to retire. If charges are brought against
me, I am quite ready to meet them, and to show what they are really
worth. I shall remain in Paris, I have now no business which requires my
presence elsewhere.”
He emphasised these last words, evidently intending to draw attention to
them. It did not escape the magistrate, who inquired—
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing beyond my words, your Honour, Have I your permission to
retire?”
“No, remain; you are pretending not to understand.”
“I do not understand these insinuations so covertly made.”