as not satisfied with the
explanation she wished me to accept. A glance of intelligence passed
between her and her friend, who was still holding Edouard's hand. The
day, though cold, was fine, and she proposed a walk in the park. I
offered her my arm, and the stranger walked in front with Edouard.
We had a short conversation, which has remained indelibly fixed in my
memory.

"'Why did you come?' she inquired.

"I did not answer, but looked sternly at her, in order to discompose
her. At length I said--

"'You should have written, madame, and warned me that my coming would be
indiscreet.'

"She seemed much disconcerted, and exclaimed--

"'I am lost! I see you guess everything, and will tell my husband. I am
an unhappy woman, and a sin once committed can never be erased from the
pages of a woman's life! Listen, Monsieur Derues, listen, I implore you!
You see this man, I shall not tell you who he is, I shall not give his
name... but I loved him long ago; I should have been his wife, and had
he not been compelled to leave France, I should have married no one
else.'"

Monsieur de Lamotte started, and grew pale.

"What is the matter?" the magistrate inquired.

"Oh! this dastardly wretch is profiting by his knowledge of secrets
which a long intimacy has enabled him to discover. Do not believe him, I
entreat you, do not believe him!"

Derues resumed. "Madame de Lamotte continued: 'I saw him again sixteen
years ago, always in hiding, always proscribed. To-day he reappears
under a name which is not his own: he wishes to link my fate with
his; he has insisted on seeing Edouard. But I shall escape him. I have
invented this fiction of placing my son among the royal pages to account
for my stay here. Do not contradict me, but help me; for a little time
ago I met one of Monsieur de Lamotte's friends, I am afraid he suspected
something. Say you have seen me several times; as you have come, let
it be known that you brought Edouard here. I shall return to Buisson as
soon as possible, but will you go first, see my husband, satisfy him
if he is anxious? I am in your hands; my honour, my reputation, my very
life, are at your mercy; you can either ruin or help to save me. I may
be guilty, but I am not corrupt. I have wept for my sin day after day,
and I have already cruelly expiated it.'"

This execrable calumny was not related without frequent interruptions
on the part of Monsieur de Lamotte. He was, however, obliged to own
to