“Do you recognise him?”
“No, I do not.”
“Have the kindness to leave the room for a moment; we will ask you to
return immediately.”
This individual was the lawyer in whose office at Lyons the deed had
been drawn up which Derues had signed, disguised as a woman, and under
the name of Marie-Francoise Perier, wife of the Sieur de Lamotte.
A woman’s garments were brought in, and Derues was ordered to put them
on, which he did readily, affecting much amusement. As he was assisted
to disguise himself, he laughed, stroked his chin and assumed mincing
airs, carrying effrontery so far as to ask for a mirror.
“I should like to see if it is becoming,” he said; “perhaps I might make
some conquests.”
The lawyer returned: Derues was made to pass before him, to sit at a
table, sign a paper, in fact to repeat everything it was imagined he
might have said or done in the lawyer’s office. This second attempt at
identification succeeded no better than the first. The lawyer hesitated;
then, understanding all the importance of his deposition, he refused to
swear to anything, and finally declared that this was not the person who
had come to him at Lyons.
“I am sorry, sir,” said Derues, as they removed him, “that you should
have been troubled by having to witness this absurd comedy. Do not blame
me for it; but ask Heaven to enlighten those who do not fear to accuse
me. As for me, knowing that my innocence will shortly be made clear, I
pardon them henceforth.”
Although justice at this period was generally expeditious, and the lives
of accused persons were by no means safe-guarded as they now are, it was
impossible to condemn Derues in the absence of any positive proofs of
guilt. He knew this, and waited patiently in his prison for the moment
when he should triumph over the capital accusation which weighed against
him. The storm no longer thundered over his head, the most terrible
trials were passed, the examinations became less frequent, and there
were no more surprises to dread. The lamentations of Monsieur de Lamotte
went to the hearts of the magistrates, but his certainty could not
establish theirs, and they pitied, but could not avenge him. In certain
minds a sort of reaction favourable to the prisoner began to set in.
Among the dupes of Derues’ seeming piety, many who at first held their
peace under these crushing accusations returned to their former opinion.
The bigots and devotees, all who made a profession of kneeling in the
churches, of publicly crossing themselves and dipping their fingers in
the holy water, and who lived on cant and repetitions of “Amen” and
“Alleluia,” talked of persecution, of martyrdom, until Derues nearly
became a saint destined by the Almighty to find canonisation in a
dungeon. Hence arose quarrels and arguments; and this abortive trial,
this unproved accusation, kept the public imagination in a constant
ferment.
To the greater part of those who talk of the “Supreme Being,” and who
expect His intervention in human affairs, “Providence” is only a word,
solemn and sonorous, a sort of theatrical machine which sets all right
in the end, and which they glorify with a few banalities proceeding from
the lips, but not from the heart. It is true that this unknown and
mysterious Cause which we call “God” or “Chance” often appears so
exceedingly blind and deaf that one may be permitted to wonder whether
certain crimes are really set apart for punishment, when so many others
apparently go scot-free. How many murders remain buried in the night of
the tomb! how many outrageous and avowed crimes have slept peacefully in
an insolent and audacious prosperity! We know the names of many
criminals, but who can tell the number of unknown and forgotten victims?
The history of humanity is twofold, and like that of the invisible
world, which contains marvels unexplored by the science of the visible
one, the history recounted in books is by no means the most curious and
strange. But without delaying over questions such as these, without
protesting here against sophistries which cloud the conscience and hide
the presence of an avenging Deity, we leave the facts to the general
judgment, and have now to relate the last episode in this long and
terrible drama.
Of all the populous quarters of Paris which commented on the “affaire
Derues,” none showed more excitement than that of the Greve, and amongst
all the surrounding streets none could boast more numerous crowds than
the rue de la Mortellerie. Not that a secret instinct magnetised the
crowd in the very place where the proof lay buried, but that each day
its attention was aroused by a painful spectacle. A pale and
grief-stricken man, whose eyes seemed quenched in tears, passed often
down the street, hardly able to drag himself along; it was Monsieur de
Lamotte, who lodged, as we have said, in the rue de la Mortellerie, and
who seemed like a spectre wandering round a tomb. The crowd made way and
uncovered before him, everybody respected such terrible misfortune, and
when he had passed, the groups formed up again, and continued discussing
the mystery until nightfall.
On April 17th, about four in the afternoon, a score of workmen and
gossiping women had collected in front of a shop. A stout woman,
standing on the lowest step, like an orator in the tribune, held forth
and related for the twentieth time what she knew, or rather, did not
know. There were listening ears and gaping mouths, even a slight shudder
ran through the group; for the widow Masson, discovering a gift of
eloquence at the age of sixty, contrived to mingle great warmth and much
indignation in her recital. All at once silence fell on the crowd, and a
passage was made for Monsieur de Lamotte. One man ventured to ask—
“Is there anything fresh to-day?”
A sad shake of the head was the only answer, and the unhappy man
continued his way.
“Is that Monsieur de Lamotte?” inquired a particularly dirty woman,
whose cap, stuck on the side of her, head, allowed locks of grey hair to
straggle from under it. “Ah! is that Monsieur de Lamotte?”
“Dear me!” said a neighbour, “don’t you know him by this time? He passes
every day.”
“Excuse me! I don’t belong to this quarter, and—no offence—but it is not
so beautiful as to bring one out of curiosity! Nothing personal—but it
is rather dirty.”
Madame is probably accustomed to use a carriage.”
“That would suit you better than me, my dear, and would save your having
to buy shoes to keep your feet off the ground!”