and like that of the invisible world,
which contains marvels unexplored by the science of the visible one, the
history recounted in books is by no means the most curious and strange.
But without delaying over questions such as these, without protesting
here against sophistries which cloud the conscience and hide the presence
of an avenging Deity, we leave the facts to the general judgment, and
have now to relate the last episode in this long and terrible drama.

Of all the populous quarters of Paris which commented on the "affaire
Derues," none showed more excitement than that of the Greve, and amongst
all the surrounding streets none could boast more numerous crowds than
the rue de la Mortellerie. Not that a secret instinct magnetised the
crowd in the very place where the proof lay buried, but that each day its
attention was aroused by a painful spectacle. A pale and grief-stricken
man, whose eyes seemed quenched in tears, passed often down the street,
hardly able to drag himself along; it was Monsieur de Lamotte, who
lodged, as we have said, in the rue de la Mortellerie, and who seemed
like a spectre wandering round a tomb. The crowd made way and uncovered
before him, everybody respected such terrible misfortune, and when he had
passed, the groups formed up again, and continued discussing the mystery
until nightfall.

On April 17th, about four in the afternoon, a score of workmen and
gossiping women had collected in front of a shop. A stout woman,
standing on the lowest step, like an orator in the tribune, held forth
and related for the twentieth time what she knew, or rather, did not
know. There were listening ears and gaping mouths, even a slight shudder
ran through the group; for the widow Masson, discovering a gift of
eloquence at the age of sixty, contrived to mingle great warmth and much
indignation in her recital. All at once silence fell on the crowd, and a
passage was made for Monsieur de Lamotte. One man ventured to ask--

"Is there anything fresh to-day?"

A sad shake of the head was the only answer, and the unhappy man
continued his way.

"Is that Monsieur de Lamotte?" inquired a particularly dirty woman, whose
cap, stuck on the side of her, head, allowed locks of grey hair to
straggle from under it. "Ah! is that Monsieur de Lamotte?"

"Dear me!" said a neighbour, "don't you know him by this time? He passes
every day."

"Excuse me! I don't belong to this quarter, and--no offence--but it is