Such was the family to which accident had now introduced Derues. The unfavourable impression made on Monsieur de Lamotte had not passed unperceived by him; but, being quite accustomed to the instinctive repugnance which his first appearance generally inspired, Derues had made a successful study of how to combat and efface this antagonistic feeling, and replace it by confidence, using different means according to the persons he had to deal with. He understood at once that vulgar methods would be useless with Monsieur de Lamotte, whose appearance and manners indicated both the man of the world and the man of intelligence, and also he had to consider the two priests, who were both observing him attentively. Fearing a false step, he assumed the most simple and insignificant deportment he could, knowing that sooner or later a third person would rehabilitate him in the opinion of those present. Nor did he wait long. Arrived at the drawing-room, Monsieur de Lamotte requested the company to be seated. Derues acknowledged the courtesy by a bow, and there was a moment of silence, while Edouard and his mother looked at each other and smiled. The silence was broken by Madame de Lamotte. “Dear Pierre,” she said, “you are surprised to see us accompanied by a stranger, but when you hear what he has done for us you will thank me for having induced him to return here with us.” “Allow me,” interrupted Derues, “allow me to tell you what happened. The gratitude which madame imagines she owes me causes her to exaggerate a small service which anybody would have been delighted to render.” “No, monsieur; let me tell it.” “Let mamma tell the story,” said Edouard. “What is it, then? What happened?” said Monsieur de Lamotte. “I am quite ashamed,” answered Derues; “but I obey your wishes, madame.” “Yes,” replied Madame de Lamotte, “keep your seat, I wish it. Imagine, Pierre, just six days ago, an accident happened to Edouard and me which might have had serious consequences.” “And you never wrote to me, Marie?”