Seeing that the mason was touched, Derues opened the chest.

“Look,” he said, “examine the body of this woman, does it show any mark of violent death?  My God!” he continued, joining his hands and in tones of despairing agony,—­“my God, Thou who readest all hearts, and who knowest my innocence, canst Thou not ordain a miracle to save an honest man?  Wilt Thou not command this dead body to bear witness for me?”

The mason was stupefied by this flow of language.  Unable to restrain his tears, he promised to keep silence, persuaded that Derues was innocent, and that appearances only were against him.  The latter, moreover, did not neglect other means of persuasion; he handed the mason two gold pieces, and between them they buried the body of Madame de Lamotte.

However extraordinary this fact, which might easily be supposed imaginary, may appear, it certainly happened.  In the examination at his trial.  Derues himself revealed it, repeating the story which had satisfied the mason.  He believed that this man had denounced him:  he was mistaken, for this confidant of his crime, who might have been the first to put justice on his track, never reappeared, and but for Derues’ acknowledgment his existence would have remained unknown.

This first deed accomplished, another victim was already appointed.  Trembling at first as to the consequences of his forced confession, Derues waited some days, paying, however, his creditor as promised.  He redoubles his demonstrations of piety, he casts a furtive glance on everyone he meets, seeking for some expression of distrust.  But no one avoids him, or points him out with a raised finger, or whispers on seeing him; everywhere he encounters the customary expression of goodwill.  Nothing has changed; suspicion passes over his head without alighting there.  He is reassured, and resumes his work.  Moreover, had he wished to remain passive, he could not have done so; he was now compelled to follow that fatal law of crime which demands that blood must be effaced with blood, and which is compelled to appeal again to death in order to stifle the accusing voice already issuing from the tomb.

Edouard de Lamotte, loving his mother as much as she loved him, became uneasy at receiving no visits, and was astonished at this sudden indifference.  Derues wrote to him as follows: 

“I have at length some good news for you, my dear boy, but you must not tell your mother I have betrayed her secret; she would scold me, because she is planning a surprise for you, and the various steps and care necessary in arranging this important matter have caused her absence.  You were to know nothing until the 11th or 12th of this month, but now that all is settled, I should blame myself if I prolonged the uncertainty in which you have been left, only you must promise me to look as much astonished as possible.  Your mother, who only lives for you, is going to present you with the greatest gift a youth