e magistrate.

"I was wrong," Derues continued, "in allowing myself to be touched by her
tears, wrong in believing in her repentance, more wrong still in going to
Buisson to satisfy her husband. But I only consented on conditions:
Madame de Lamotte promised me to return shortly to Paris, vowing that her
son should never know the truth, and that the rest of her life should be
devoted to atoning for her sin by a boundless devotion. She then begged
me to leave her, and told me she would write to me at Paris to fix the
day of her return. This is what happened, and this is why I went to
Buissan and gave my support to a lying fiction. With one word I might
have destroyed the happiness of seventeen years. I did not wish to do
so. I believed in the remorse; I believe in it still, in spite of all
appearances; I have refused to speak this very day, and made every effort
to prolong an illusion which I know it will be terrible to lose."

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 c