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?”