may be permitted to wonder whether
certain crimes are really set apart for punishment, when so many others
apparently go scot-free. How many murders remain buried in the night of
the tomb! how many outrageous and avowed crimes have slept peacefully
in an insolent and audacious prosperity! We know the names of many
criminals, but who can tell the number of unknown and forgotten victims?
The history of humanity is twofold, 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 t