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.”

“I will prove it presently,” answered Derues.  “So I went to Buisson, as I have already told you.  On my return I found a letter from Madame de Lamotte, a letter with a Paris stamp, which had arrived that morning.  I was surprised that she should write, when actually in Paris; I opened the letter, and was still more surprised.  I have not the letter with me, but I recollect the sense of it perfectly, if not the wording, and I can produce it if necessary.  Madame de Lamotte was at Lyons with her son and this person whose name I do not know, and whom I do not care to mention before her husband.  She had confided this letter to a person who was coming to Paris, and who was to bring it me; but this individual, whose name was Marquis, regretted that having to start again immediately, he was obliged to entrust it to the post.  This is the sense