Chapter 8
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.”
Monsieur de Lamotte rose, exclaiming—
“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.”