“Insinuations! What more can I say to compel you to answer? My wife and
son have disappeared. It is untrue that, as you pretend, they have been
at Versailles. You deceived me at Buisson-Souef, just as you are
deceiving me now, as you are endeavouring to deceive justice by
inventing fresh lies. Where are they? What has become of them? I am
tormented by all the fears possible to a husband and father; I imagine
all the most terrible misfortunes, and I accuse you to your face of
having caused their death! Is this sufficient, or do you still accuse me
of covert insinuations?”
Derues turned to the magistrate. “Is this charge enough to place me in
the position of a criminal if I do not give a satisfactory explanation?”
“Certainly; you should have thought of that sooner.”
“Then,” he continued, addressing Monsieur de Lamotte, “I understand you
persist in this odious accusation?”
“I certainly persist in it.”
“You have forgotten our friendship, broken all bonds between us: I am in
your eyes only a miserable assassin? You consider my silence as guilty,
you will ruin me if I do not speak?”
“It is true.”
“There is still time for reflection; consider what you are doing; I will
forget your insults and your anger. Your trouble is great enough without
my reproaches being added to it. But you desire that I should speak, you
desire it absolutely?”
“I do desire it.”
“Very well, then; it shall be as you wish.”
Derues surveyed Monsieur de Lamotte with a look which seemed to say, “I
pity you.” He then added, with a sigh—
“I am now ready to answer. Your Honour, will you have the kindness to
resume my examination?”
Derues had succeeded in taking up an advantageous position. If he had
begun narrating the extraordinary romance he had invented, the least
penetrating eye must have perceived its improbability, and one would
have felt it required some support at every turn. But since he had
resisted being forced to tell it, and apparently only ceded to Monsieur
de Lamotte’s violent persistency, the situation was changed; and this
refusal to speak, coming from a man who thereby compromised his personal
safety, took the semblance of generosity, and was likely to arouse the
magistrate’s curiosity and prepare his mind for unusual and mysterious
revelations. This was exactly what Derues wanted, and he awaited the
interrogation with calm and tranquillity.
“Why did you leave Paris?” the magistrate demanded a second time.
“I have already had the honour to inform you that important business
necessitated my absence.”
“But you refused to explain the nature of this business. Do you still
persist in this refusal?”
“For the moment, yes. I will explain it later.”
“Where have you been? Whence do you return?”
“I have been to Lyons, and have returned thence.”
“What took you there?
“I will tell you later.”
“In the month of December last, Madame de Lamotte and her son came to
Paris?
“That is so.”
“They both lodged in your house?”
“I have no reason to deny it.”
“But neither she herself, nor Monsieur de Lamotte, had at first intended
that she should accept a lodging in the house which you occupied.”
“That is quite true. We had important accounts to settle, and Madame de
Lamotte told me afterwards that she feared some dispute on the question
of money might arise between us—at least, that is the reason she gave
me. She was mistaken, as the event proved, since I always intended to
pay, and I have paid. But she may have had another reason which she
preferred not to give.”
“It was the distrust of this man which she felt,” exclaimed Monsieur de
Lamotte. Derues answered only with a melancholy smile.
“Silence, monsieur,” said the magistrate, “silence; do not interrupt.”
Then addressing Derues—
“Another motive? What motive do you suppose?”
“Possibly she preferred to be more free, and able to receive any visitor
she wished.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is only supposition on my part, I do not insist upon it.”
“But the supposition appears to contain a hint injurious to Madame de
Lamotte’s reputation?”
“No, oh no!” replied Derues, after a moment’s silence.
This sort of insinuation appeared strange to the magistrate, who
resolved to try and force Derues to abandon these treacherous reticences
behind which he sheltered himself. Again recommending silence to
Monsieur de Lamotte, he continued to question Derues, not perceiving
that he was only following the lead skilfully given by the latter, who
drew him gradually on by withdrawing himself, and that all the time thus
gained was an advantage to the accused.
“Well,” said the magistrate, “whatever Madame de Lamotte’s motives may
have been, it ended in her coming to stay with you. How did you persuade
her to take this step?”
“My wife accompanied her first to the Hotel de France, and then to other
hotels. I said no more than might be deemed allowable in a friend; I
could not presume to persuade her against her will. When I returned
home, I was surprised to find her there with her son. She could not find
a disengaged room in any of the hotels she tried, and she then accepted
my offer.”
“What date was this?”
“Monday, the 16th of last December.”
“And when did she leave your house?”
“On the 1st of February.”
“The porter cannot remember having seen her go out on that day.”
“That is possible. Madame de Lamotte went and came as her affairs
required. She was known, and no more attention would be paid to her than
to any other inmate.”
“The porter also says that for several days before this date she was
ill, and obliged to keep her room?”
“Yes, it was a slight indisposition, which had no results, so slight
that it seemed unnecessary to call in a doctor. Madame de Lamotte
appeared preoccupied and anxious. I think her mental attitude influenced
her health.”
“Did you escort her to Versailles?”
“No; I went there to see her later.”
“What proof can you give of her having actually stayed there?”
“None whatever, unless it be a letter which I received from her.”
“You told Monsieur de Lamotte that she was exerting herself to procure
her son’s admission either as a king’s page or into the riding school.
Now, no one at Versailles has seen this lady, or even heard of her.”
“I only repeated what she told me.”
“Where was she staying?”
“I do not know.”
“What! she wrote to you, you went to see her, and yet you do not know
where she was lodging?”
“That is so.”
“But it is impossible.”
“There are many things which would appear impossible if I were to relate
them, but which are true, nevertheless.”
“Explain yourself.”
“I only received one letter from Madame de Lamotte, in which she spoke
of her plans for Edouard, requesting me to send her her son on a day she
fixed, and I told Edouard of her projects. Not being able to go to the
school to see him, I wrote, asking if he would like to give up his
studies and become a royal page. When I was last at Buisson-Souef, I
showed his answer to Monsieur de Lamotte; it is here.”
And he handed over a letter to the magistrate, who read it, and passing
it on to Monsieur de Lamotte, inquired—
“Did you then, and do you now, recognise your son’s handwriting?”
“Perfectly, monsieur.”
“You took Edouard to Versailles?”
“I did.”
“On what day?”
“February 11th, Shrove Tuesday. It is the only time I have been to
Versailles. The contrary might be supposed; for I have allowed it to be
understood that I have often seen Madame de Lamotte since she left my
house, and was acquainted with all her actions, and that the former
confidence and friendship still existed between us. In allowing this, I
have acted a lie, and transgressed the habitual sincerity of my whole
life.”
This assertion produced a bad impression on the magistrate. Derues
perceived it, and to avert evil consequences, hastened to add—
“My conduct can only be appreciated when it is known in entirety. I
misunderstood the meaning of Madame de Lamotte’s letter. She asked me to
send her her son, I thought to oblige her by accompanying him, and not
leaving him to go alone. So we travelled together, and arrived at
Versailles about midday. As I got down from the coach I saw Madame de
Lamotte at the palace gate, and observed, to my astonishment, that my
presence displeased her. She was not alone.”
He stopped, although he had evidently reached the most interesting point
of his story.
“Go on,” said the magistrate; “why do you stop now?”
“Because what I have to say is so painful—not to me, who have to justify
myself, but for others, that I hesitate.”
“Go on.”
“Will you then interrogate me, please?”
“Well, what happened in this interview?”
Derues appeared to collect himself for a moment, and then said with the
air of a man who has decide on speaking out at last—
“Madame de Lamotte was not alone; she was attended by a gentleman whom I
did not know, whom I never saw either at Buisson-Souef or in Paris, and
whom I have never seen again since. I will ask you to allow me to
recount everything; even to the smallest details. This man’s face struck
me at once, on account of a singular resemblance; he paid no attention
to me at first, and I was able to examine him at leisure. His manners
were those of a man belonging to the highest classes of society, and his
dress indicated wealth. On seeing Edouard, he said to Madame de Lamotte—
“‘So this is he?’ and he then kissed him tenderly. This and the marks of
undisguised pleasure which he evinced surprised me, and I looked at
Madame de Lamotte, who then remarked with some asperity—
“‘I did not expect to see you, Monsieur Derues. I had not asked you to
accompany my son.’
“Edouard seemed quite as much surprised as I was. The stranger gave me a
look of haughty annoyance, but seeing I did not avoid his glance his
countenance assumed a more gentle expression, and Madame de Lamotte
introduced him as a person who took great interest in Edouard.”
“It is a whole tissue of imposture!” exclaimed Monsieur de Lamotte.
“Allow me to finish,” answered Derues. “I understand your doubts, and
that you are not anxious to believe what I say, but I have been brought
here by legal summons to tell the truth, and I am going to tell it. You
can then weigh the two accusations in the balance, and choose between
them. The reputation of an honourable man is as sacred, as important, as
worthy of credit as the reputation of a woman, and I never heard that
the virtue of the one was more fragile than that of the other.”
Monsieur de Lamotte, thunderstruck by such a revelation, could not
contain his impatience and indignation.
“This, then,” he said, “is the explanation of an anonymous letter which
I received, and of the injurious suggestions concerning my wife’s
honour which it contained; it was written to give an appearance of
probability to this infamous legend. The whole thing is a disgraceful
plot, and no doubt Monsieur Derues wrote the letter himself.”
“I know nothing about it,” said Derues unconcernedly, “and the
explanation which you profess to find in it I should rather refer to
something else I am going to mention. I did not know a secret warning
had been sent to you: I now learn it from you, and I understand
perfectly that such a letter, may have been written. But that you have
received such a warning ought surely to be a reason for listening
patiently and not denouncing all I say as imposture.”
While saying this Derues mentally constructed the fresh falsehood
necessitated by the interruption, but no variation of countenance
betrayed his thought. He had an air of dignity natural to his position.
He saw that, in spite of clear-headedness and long practice in studying
the most deceptive countenances, the magistrate so far had not scented
any of his falsehoods, and was getting bewildered in the windings of
this long narrative, through which Derues led him as he chose; and he
resumed with confidence—
“You know that I made Monsieur de Lamotte’s acquaintance more than a
year ago, and I had reason to believe his friendship as sincere as my
own. As a friend, I could not calmly accept the suspicion which then
entered my mind, nor could I conceal my surprise. Madame de Lamotte saw
this, and understood from my looks that I was not satisfied with the
explanation she wished me to accept. A glance of intelligence passed
between her and her friend, who was still holding Edouard’s hand. The
day, though cold, was fine, and she proposed a walk in the park. I
offered her my arm, and the stranger walked in front with Edouard. We
had a short conversation, which has remained indelibly fixed in my
memory.
“‘Why did you come?’ she inquired.
“I did not answer, but looked sternly at her, in order to discompose
her. At length I said—
“‘You should have written, madame, and warned me that my coming would be
indiscreet.’
“She seemed much disconcerted, and exclaimed—
“‘I am lost! I see you guess everything, and will tell my husband. I am
an unhappy woman, and a sin once committed can never be erased from the
pages of a woman’s life! Listen, Monsieur Derues, listen, I implore you!
You see this man, I shall not tell you who he is, I shall not give his
name . . . but I loved him long ago; I should have been his wife, and
had he not been compelled to leave France, I should have married no one
else.’”
Monsieur de Lamotte started, and grew pale.
“What is the matter?” the magistrate inquired.
“Oh! this dastardly wretch is profiting by his knowledge of secrets
which a long intimacy has enabled him to discover. Do not believe him, I
entreat you, do not believe him!”
Derues resumed. “Madame de Lamotte continued: ‘I saw him again sixteen
years ago, always in hiding, always proscribed. To-day he reappears
under a name which is not his own: he wishes to link my fate with his;
he has insisted on seeing Edouard. But I shall escape him. I have
invented this fiction of placing my son among the royal pages to
account for my stay here. Do not contradict me, but help me; for a
little time ago I met one of Monsieur de Lamotte’s friends, I am afraid
he suspected something. Say you have seen me several times; as you have
come, let it be known that you brought Edouard here. I shall return to
Buisson as soon as possible, but will you go first, see my husband,
satisfy him if he is anxious? I am in your hands; my honour, my
reputation, my very life, are at your mercy; you can either ruin or help
to save me. I may be guilty, but I am not corrupt. I have wept for my
sin day after day, and I have already cruelly expiated it.’”
This execrable calumny was not related without frequent interruptions on
the part of Monsieur de Lamotte. He was, however, obliged to own to
himself that it was quite true that Marie Perier had really been
promised to a man whom an unlucky affair had driven into exile, and whom
he had supposed to be dead. This revelation, coming from Derues, who had
the strongest interest in lying, by no means convinced him of his wife’s
dishonour, nor destroyed the feelings of a husband and father; but
Derues was not speaking for him lone, and what appeared incredible to
Monsieur de Lamotte might easily seem less improbable to the colder and
less interested judgment of the magistrate.
“I was wrong,” Derues continued, “in allowing myself to be touched by
her tears, wrong in believing in her repentance, more wrong still in
going to Buisson to satisfy her husband. But I only consented on
conditions: Madame de Lamotte promised me to return shortly to Paris,
vowing that her son should never know the truth, and that the rest of
her life should be devoted to atoning for her sin by a boundless
devotion. She then begged me to leave her, and told me she would write
to me at Paris to fix the day of her return. This is what happened, and
this is why I went to Buissan and gave my support to a lying fiction.
With one word I might have destroyed the happiness of seventeen years. I
did not wish to do so. I believed in the remorse; I believe in it still,
in spite of all appearances; I have refused to speak this very day, and
made every effort to prolong an illusion which I know it will be
terrible to lose.”
There was a moment of silence. This fable, so atrociously ingenious, was
simply and impressively narrated, and with an air of candour well
contrived to impose on the magistrate, or, at least, to suggest grave
doubts to his mind. Derues, with his usual cunning, had conformed his
language to the quality of his listener. Any tricks, profession of
piety, quotations from sacred books, so largely indulged in when he
wished to bamboozle people of a lower class, would here have told
against him. He knew when to abstain, and carried the art of deception
far enough to be able to lay aside the appearance of hypocrisy. He had
described all the circumstances without affectation, and if this
unexpected accusation was wholly unproved, it yet rested on a possible
fact, and did not appear absolutely incredible. The magistrate went
through it all again, and made him repeat every detail, without being
able to make him contradict himself or show the smallest embarrassment.
While interrogating Derues, he kept his eyes fixed upon him; and this
double examination being quite fruitless, only increased his perplexity.
However, he never relaxed the incredulous severity of his demeanour, nor
the imperative and threatening tone of his voice.
“You acknowledge having been at Lyons?” he asked.
“I have been there.”
“At the beginning of this examination you said you would explain the
reason of this journey later.”
“I am ready to do so, for the journey is connected with the facts I have
just narrated; it was caused by them.”
“Explain it.”
“I again ask permission to relate fully. I did not hear from Versailles:
I began to fear Monsieur de Lamotte’s anxiety would bring him to Paris.
Bound by the promise I had made to his wife to avert all suspicion and
to satisfy any doubts he might conceive, and, must I add, also
remembering that it was important for me to inform him of our new
arrangements, and of this payment of a hundred thousand livres.”
“That payment is assuredly fictitious,” interrupted Monsieur de Lamotte;
“we must have some proof of it.”
“I will prove it presently,” answered Derues. “So I went to Buisson, as
I have already told you. On my return I found a letter from Madame de
Lamotte, a letter with a Paris stamp, which had arrived that morning. I
was surprised that she should write, when actually in Paris; I opened
the letter, and was still more surprised. I have not the letter with me,
but I recollect the sense of it perfectly, if not the wording, and I can
produce it if necessary. Madame de Lamotte was at Lyons with her son and
this person whose name I do not know, and whom I do not care to mention
before her husband. She had confided this letter to a person who was
coming to Paris, and who was to bring it me; but this individual, whose
name was Marquis, regretted that having to start again immediately, he
was obliged to entrust it to the post. This is the sense of its
contents. Madame de Lamotte wrote that she found herself obliged to
follow this nameless person to Lyons; and she begged me to send her news
of her husband and of the state of his affairs, but said not one single
word of any probable return. I became very uneasy at the news of this
clandestine departure. I had no security except a private contract
annulling our first agreement on the payment of one hundred thousand
livres, and that this was not a sufficient and regular receipt I knew,
because the lawyer had already refused to surrender Monsieur de
Lamotte’s power of attorney. I thought over all the difficulties which
this flight, which would have to be kept secret, was likely to produce,
and I started for Lyons without writing or giving any notice of my
intention. I had no information, I did not even know whether Madame de
Lamotte was passing by another name, as at Versailles, but chance
decreed that I met her the very day of my arrival. She was alone, and
complained bitterly of her fate, saying she had been compelled to follow
this individual to Lyons, but that very soon she would be free and would
return to Paris. But I was struck by the uncertainty of her manner, and
said I should not leave her without obtaining a deed in proof of our
recent arrangements. She refused at first, saying it was unnecessary, as
she would so soon return; but I insisted strongly. I told her I had
already compromised myself by telling Monsieur de Lamotte that she was
at Versailles, endeavouring to procure an appointment for her son; that
since she had been compelled to come to Lyons, the same person might
take her elsewhere, so that she might disappear any day, might leave
France without leaving any trace, without any written acknowledgment of
her own dishonour; and that when all these falsehoods were discovered, I
should appear in the light of an accomplice. I said also that, as she
had unfortunately lodged in my house in Paris, and had requested me to
remove her son from his school, explanations would be required from me,
and perhaps I should be accused of this double disappearance. Finally, I
declared that if she did not give me some proofs of her existence,
willingly or unwillingly, I would go at once to a magistrate. My
firmness made her reflect. ‘My good Monsieur Derues,’ she said, ‘I ask
your forgiveness for all the trouble I have caused you. I will give you
this deed to-morrow, to-day it is too late; but come to this same place
to-morrow, and you shall see me again.’ I hesitated, I confess, to let
her go. ‘Ah,’ she said, grasping my hands, ‘do not suspect me of
intending to deceive you! I swear that I will meet you here at four
o’clock. It is enough that I have ruined myself, and perhaps my son,
without also entangling you in my unhappy fate. Yes, you are right; this
deed is important, necessary for you, and you shall have it. But do not
show yourself here; if you were seen, I might not be able to do what I
ought to do. To-morrow you shall see me again, I swear it.’ She then
left me. The next day, the 12th, of March, I was exact at the
rendezvous, and Madame de Lamotte arrived a moment later. She gave me a
deed, authorising her husband to receive the arrears of thirty thousand
livres remaining from the purchase-money of Buisson-Souef. I endeavoured
again to express my opinion of her conduct; she listened in silence, as
if my words affected her deeply. We were walking together, when she told
me she had some business in a house we were passing, and asked me to
wait for her. I waited more than an hour, and then discovered that this
house, like many others in Lyons, had an exit in another street; and I
understood that Madame de Lamotte had escaped by this passage, and that
I might wait in vain. Concluding that trying to follow her would be
useless, and seeing also that any remonstrance would be made in vain, I
returned to Paris, deciding to say nothing as yet, and to conceal the
truth as long as possible. I still had hopes, and I did not count on
being so soon called on to defend myself: I thought that when I had to
speak, it would be as a friend, and not as an accused person. This, sir,
is the explanation of my conduct, and I regret that this justification,
so easy for myself, should be so cruelly painful for another. You have
seen the efforts which I made to defer it.”
Monsieur de Lamotte had heard this second part of Derues’ recital with a
more silent indignation, not that he admitted its probability, but he
was confounded by this monstrous imposture, and, as it were,
terror-stricken by such profound hypocrisy. His mind revolted at the
idea of his wife being accused of adultery; but while he repelled this
charge with decision, he saw the confirmation of his secret terrors and
presentiments, and his heart sank within him at the prospect of
exploring this abyss of iniquity. He was pale, gasping for breath, as
though he himself had been the criminal, while scorching tears furrowed
his cheeks. He tried to speak, but his voice failed; he wanted to fling
back at Derues the names of traitor and assassin, and he was obliged to
bear in silence the look of mingled grief and pity which the latter
bestowed upon him.
The magistrate, calmer, and master of his emotions, but tolerably
bewildered in this labyrinth of cleverly connected lies, thought it
desirable to ask some further questions.
“How,” said he, “did you obtain this sum of a hundred thousand livres
which you say you paid over to Madame de Lamotte?”
“I have been engaged in business for several years, and have acquired
some fortune.”
“Nevertheless, you have postponed the obligation of making this payment
several times, so that Monsieur de Lamotte had begun to feel uneasiness
on the subject. This was the chief reason of his wife’s coming to
Paris.”
“One sometimes experiences momentary difficulties, which presently
disappear.”
“You say you have a deed given you at Lyons by Madame de Lamotte, which
you were to give to her husband?”
“It is here.”
The magistrate examined the deed carefully, and noted the name of the
lawyer in whose office it had been drawn up.
“You may go,” he said at last.
“What!” exclaimed Monsieur de Lamotte.
Derues stopped, but the magistrate signed to him to go, intimating,
however, that he was on no account to leave Paris.
“But,” said Monsieur de Lamotte, when they were alone, “this man is
indeed guilty. My wife has not betrayed me! She!—forget her duties as a
wife! she was virtue incarnate! Ah! I assure you these terrible
calumnies are invented to conceal double crime! I throw myself at your
feet,—I implore your justice!”
“Rise, monsieur. This is only a preliminary examination, and I confess
that, so far, he comes well out of it, for imagination can hardly
understand such a depth of deceit. I watched him closely the whole time,
and I could discover no sign of alarm, no contradiction, in either face
or language; if guilty, he must be the greatest hypocrite that ever
existed. But I shall neglect nothing: if a criminal is allowed to
flatter himself with impunity, he frequently forgets to be prudent, and
I have seen many betray themselves when they thought they had nothing to
fear. Patience, and trust to the justice of both God and man.”
Several days passed, and Derues flattered him self the danger was over:
his every action mean while was most carefully watched, but so that he
remained unaware of the surveillance. A police officer named Mutel,
distinguished for activity and intelligence beyond his fellows, was
charged with collecting information and following any trail. All his
bloodhounds were in action, and hunted Paris thoroughly, but could trace
nothing bearing on the fate of Madame de Lamotte and her son. Mutel,
however, soon discovered that in the rue Saint Victor, Derues had
failed—three successive times, that he had been pursued by numerous
creditors, and been often near imprisonment for debt, and that in 1771
he had been publicly accused of incendiarism. He reported on these
various circumstances, and then went himself to Derues’ abode, where he
obtained no results. Madame Derues declared that she knew nothing
whatever, and the police, having vainly searched the whole house, had to
retire. Derues himself was absent; when he returned he found another
order to appear before the magistrate.
His first success had encouraged him. He appeared before the magistrate
accompanied by a lawyer and full of confidence, complaining loudly that
the police, in searching during his absence, had offended against the
rights of a domiciled burgess, and ought to have awaited his return.
Affecting a just indignation at Monsieur de Lamotte’s conduct towards
him, he presented a demand that the latter should be declared a
calumniator, and should pay damages for the injury caused to his
reputation. But this time his effrontery and audacity were of little
avail, the magistrate easily detected him in flagrant lies. He declared
at first that he had paid the hundred thousand livres with his own money
but when reminded of his various bankruptcies, the claims of his
creditors, and the judgments obtained against him as an insolvent
debtor, he made a complete volte-face, and declared he had borrowed the
money from an advocate named Duclos, to whom he had given a bond in
presence of a notary. In spite of all his protestations, the magistrate
committed him to solitary confinement at Fort l’Eveque.
As yet, nothing was publicly known; but vague reports and gossip,
carried from shop to shop, circulated among the people, and began to
reach the higher classes of society. The infallible instinct which is
aroused among the masses is truly marvellous; a great crime is
committed, which seems at first likely to defeat justice, and the public
conscience is aroused. Long before the tortuous folds which envelop the
mystery can be penetrated, while it is still sunk in profound obscurity,
the voice of the nation, like an excited hive, buzzes around the secret;
though the magistrates doubt, the public curiosity fixes itself, and
never leaves go; if the criminal’s hiding-place is changed, it follows
the track, points it out, descries it in the gloom. This is what
happened on the news of Derues’ arrest. The affair was everywhere
discussed, although the information was incomplete, reports inexact, and
no real publicity to be obtained. The romance which Derues had invented
by way of defence, and which became known as well as Monsieur de
Lamotte’s accusation, obtained no credence whatever; on the contrary,
all the reports to his discredit were eagerly adopted. As yet, no crime
could be traced, but the public presentiment divined an atrocious one.
Have we not often seen similar agitations? The names of Bastide, of
Castaing, of Papavoine, had hardly been pronounced before they
completely absorbed all the public attention, and this had to be
satisfied, light had to be thrown on the darkness: society demanded
vengeance.
Derues felt some alarm in his dungeon, but his presence of mind and his
dissimulation in no wise deserted him, and he swore afresh every day to
the truth of his statements. But his last false assertion turned against
him: the bond for a hundred thousand livres which he professed to have
given to Duclos was a counterfeit which Duclos had annulled by a sort of
counter declaration made the same day. Another circumstance, intended to
ensure his safety, only redoubled suspicion. On April 8th, notes payable
to order to the amount of seventy-eight thousand livres, were received
by Monsieur de Lamotte’s lawyer, as if coming from Madame de Lamotte. It
appeared extraordinary that these notes, which arrived in an ordinary
stamped envelope, should not be accompanied by any letter of advice, and
suspicion attached to Madame Derues, who hitherto had remained
unnoticed. An inquiry as to where the packet had been posted soon
revealed the office, distinguished by a letter of the alphabet, and the
postmaster described a servant-maid who had brought the letter and paid
for it. The description resembled the Derues’ servant; and this girl,
much alarmed, acknowledged, after a great deal of hesitation, that she
had posted the letter in obedience to her mistress’s orders. Whereupon
Madame Derues was sent as a prisoner to Fort l’Eveque, and her husband
transferred to the Grand-Chatelet. On being interrogated, she at length
owned that she had sent these notes to Monsieur de Lamotte’s lawyer, and
that her husband had given them her in an envelope hidden in the soiled
linen for which she had brought him clean in exchange.
All this certainly amounted to serious presumptive evidence of guilt,
and if Derues had shown himself to the multitude, which followed every
phase of the investigation with increasing anxiety, a thousand arms
would have willingly usurped the office of the executioner; but the
distance thence to actual proof of murder was enormous for the
magistracy. Derues maintained his tranquillity, always asserting that
Madame de Lamotte and her son were alive, and would clear him by their
reappearance. Neither threats nor stratagems succeeded in making him
contradict himself, and his assurance shook the strongest conviction. A
new difficulty was added to so much uncertainty.
A messenger had been sent off secretly with all haste to Lyons; his
return was awaited for a test which it was thought would be decisive.
One morning Derues was fetched from his prison and taken to a lower hall
of the Conciergerie. He received no answers to the questions addressed
to his escort, and this silence showed him the necessity of being on his
guard and preserving his imperturbable demeanour whatever might happen.
On arriving, he found the commissioner of police, Mutel, and some other
persons. The hall being very dark, had been illuminated with several
torches, and Derues was so placed that the light fell strongly on his
face, and was then ordered to look towards a particular part of the
hall. As he did so, a door opened, and a man entered. Derues beheld him
with indifference, and seeing that the stranger was observing him
attentively, he bowed to him as one might bow to an unknown person whose
curiosity seems rather unusual.
It was impossible to detect the slightest trace of emotion, a hand
placed on his heart would not have felt an increased pulsation, yet this
stranger’s recognition would be fatal!