Monsieur de Lamotte had heard this second part of Derues’ recital with a more silent indignation, not that he admitted its probability, but he was confounded by this monstrous imposture, and, as it were, terror-stricken by such profound hypocrisy. His mind revolted at the idea of his wife being accused of adultery; but while he repelled this charge with decision, he saw the confirmation of his secret terrors and presentiments, and his heart sank within him at the prospect of exploring this abyss of iniquity. He was pale, gasping for breath, as though he himself had been the criminal, while scorching tears furrowed his cheeks. He tried to speak, but his voice failed; he wanted to fling back at Derues the names of traitor and assassin, and he was obliged to bear in silence the look of mingled grief and pity which the latter bestowed upon him. The magistrate, calmer, and master of his emotions, but tolerably bewildered in this labyrinth of cleverly connected lies, thought it desirable to ask some further questions. “How,” said he, “did you obtain this sum of a hundred thousand livres which you say you paid over to Madame de Lamotte?” “I have been engaged in business for several years, and have acquired some fortune.” “Nevertheless, you have postponed the obligation of making this payment several times, so that Monsieur de Lamotte had begun to feel uneasiness on the subject. This was the chief reason of his wife’s coming to Paris.” “One sometimes experiences momentary difficulties, which presently disappear.” “You say you have a deed given you at Lyons by Madame de Lamotte, which you were to give to her husband?” “It is here.” The magistrate examined the deed carefully, and noted the name of the lawyer in whose office it had been drawn up. “You may go,” he said at last. “What!” exclaimed Monsieur de Lamotte. Derues stopped, but the magistrate signed to him to go, intimating, however, that he was on no account to leave Paris. “But,” said Monsieur de Lamotte, when they were alone, “this man is indeed guilty. My wife has not betrayed me! She!—forget her duties as a wife! she was virtue incarnate! Ah! I assure you these terrible calumnies are invented to conceal double crime! I throw myself at your feet,—I implore your justice!” “Rise, monsieur. This is only a preliminary examination, and I confess that, so far, he comes well out of it, for imagination can hardly understand such a depth of deceit. I watched him closely the whole time, and I could discover no sign of alarm, no contradiction, in either face or language; if guilty, he must be the greatest hypocrite that ever existed. But I shall neglect nothing: if a criminal is allowed to flatter himself with impunity, he frequently forgets to be prudent, and I have seen many betray themselves when they thought they had nothing to fear. Patience, and trust to the justice of both God and man.”