Александр Дюма
Derues
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 o f 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.”
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 —
