These two futile efforts might have compromised Derues had they been heard of at Buisson-Souef; but everything seemed to conspire in the criminal’s favour:  neither the schoolmaster’s wife nor the lawyer thought of writing to Monsieur de Lamotte.  The latter, as yet unsuspecting, was tormented by other anxieties, and kept at home by illness.

In these days, distance is shortened, and one can travel from Villeneuve-le-Roi-les-Sens to Paris in a few hours.  This was not the case in 1777, when private industry and activity, stifled by routine and privilege, had not yet experienced the need of providing the means for rapid communication.  Half a day was required to go from the capital to Versailles; a journey of twenty leagues required at least two days and a night, and bristled with obstacles ind delays of all kinds.  These difficulties of transport, still greater during bad weather, and a long and serious attack of gout, explain why Monsieur ale Lamotte, who was so ready to take alarm, had remained separated from his wife from the middle of December to the end of February.  He had received reassuring letters from her, written at first with freedom and simplicity; but he thought he noticed a gradual change in the later ones, which appeared to proceed more from the mind than the heart.  A style which aimed at being natural was interspersed with unnecessary expressions of affection, unusual between married people well assured of their mutual love.  Monsieur de Lamotte observed and exaggerated these peculiarities, and though endeavouring to persuade himself that he was mistaken, he could not forget them, or regain his usual tranquility.  Being somewhat ashamed of his anxiety, he kept his fears to himself.

One morning, as he was sunk in a large armchair by the fire, his sitting-room door opened, and the cure entered, who was surprised by his despondent, sad, and pale appearance.  “What is the matter?” he inquired, “Have you had an extra bad night?”

“Yes,” answered Monsieur de Lamotte.

“Well, have you any news from Paris?”

“Nothing for a whole week:  it is odd, is it not?”

“I am always hoping that this sale may fall through; it drags on for so very long; and I believe that Monsieur Derues, in spite of what your wife wrote a month ago, has not as much money as he pretends to have.  Do you know that it is said that Monsieur Despeignes-Duplessis, Madame Derues’ relative, whose money they inherited, was assassinated?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“It is a common report in the country, and was brought here by a man who came recently from Beauvais.”

“Have the murderers been discovered?”

“Apparently not; justice seems unable to discover anything at all.”

Monsieur de Lamotte hung his head, and his countenance assumed an expression of painful thought, as though this news affected him personally.

“Frankly,” resumed the cure, “I believe you will remain Seigneur du Buisson-Souef, and that I shall be spared the pain of writing another name over your seat in the church of Villeneuve.”