The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar
It was, indeed, the famous necklace, the legendary necklace that
Bohmer and Bassenge, court jewelers, had made for Madame Du Barry; the
veritable necklace that the Cardinal de Rohan-Soubise intended to give
to Marie-Antoinette, Queen of France; and the same that the adventuress
Jeanne de Valois, Countess de la Motte, had pulled to pieces one evening
in February, 1785, with the aid of her husband and their accomplice,
Rétaux de Villette.
To tell the truth, the mounting alone was genuine. Rétaux de Villette
had kept it, whilst the Count de la Motte and his wife scattered to the
four winds of heaven the beautiful stones so carefully chosen by Bohmer.
Later, he sold the mounting to Gaston de Dreux-Soubise, nephew and heir
of the Cardinal, who re-purchased the few diamonds that remained in
the possession of the English jeweler, Jeffreys; supplemented them with
other stones of the same size but of much inferior quality, and thus
restored the marvelous necklace to the form in which it had come from
the hands of Bohmer and Bassenge.
For nearly a century, the house of Dreux-Soubise had prided itself upon
the possession of this historic jewel. Although adverse circumstances
had greatly reduced their fortune, they preferred to curtail their
household expenses rather than part with this relic of royalty. More
particularly, the present count clung to it as a man clings to the
home of his ancestors. As a matter of prudence, he had rented a
safety-deposit box at the Crédit Lyonnais in which to keep it. He went
for it himself on the afternoon of the day on which his wife wished to
wear it, and he, himself, carried it back next morning.
On this particular evening, at the reception given at the Palais
de Castille, the Countess achieved a remarkable success; and King
Christian, in whose honor the fête was given, commented on her grace
and beauty. The thousand facets of the diamond sparkled and shone like
flames of fire about her shapely neck and shoulders, and it is safe to
say that none but she could have borne the weight of such an ornament
with so much ease and grace.
This was a double triumph, and the Count de Dreux was highly elated
when they returned to their chamber in the old house of the faubourg
Saint-Germain. He was proud of his wife, and quite as proud, perhaps,
of the necklace that had conferred added luster to his noble house
for generations. His wife, also, regarded the necklace with an almost
childish vanity, and it was not without regret that she removed it
from her shoulders and handed it to her husband who admired it as
passionately as if he had never seen it before. Then, having placed it
in its case of red leather, stamped with the Cardinal’s arms, he passed
into an adjoining room which was simply an alcove or cabinet that had
been cut off from their chamber, and which could be entered only by
means of a door at the foot of their bed. As he had done on previous
occasions, he hid it on a high shelf amongst hat-boxes and piles of
linen. He closed the door, and retired.
Next morning, he arose about nine o’clock, intending to go to the Crédit
Lyonnais before breakfast. He dressed, drank a cup of coffee, and went
to the stables to give his orders. The condition of one of the horses
worried him. He caused it to be exercised in his presence. Then he
returned to his wife, who had not yet left the chamber. Her maid was
dressing her hair. When her husband entered, she asked:
“Are you going out?”
“Yes, as far as the bank.”
“Of course. That is wise.”
He entered the cabinet; but, after a few seconds, and without any sign
of astonishment, he asked:
“Did you take it, my dear?”
“What?....No, I have not taken anything.”
“You must have moved it.”
“Not at all. I have not even opened that door.”
He appeared at the door, disconcerted, and stammered, in a scarcely
intelligible voice:
“You haven’t....It wasn’t you?....Then....”
She hastened to his assistance, and, together, they made a thorough
search, throwing the boxes to the floor and overturning the piles of
linen. Then the count said, quite discouraged:
“It is useless to look any more. I put it here, on this shelf.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No, no, it was on this shelf--nowhere else.”
They lighted a candle, as the room was quite dark, and then carried out
all the linen and other articles that the room contained. And, when the
room was emptied, they confessed, in despair, that the famous necklace
had disappeared. Without losing time in vain lamentations, the countess
notified the commissary of police, Mon. Valorbe, who came at once, and,
after hearing their story, inquired of the count:
“Are you sure that no one passed through your chamber during the night?”
“Absolutely sure, as I am a very light sleeper. Besides, the chamber
door was bolted, and I remember unbolting it this morning when my wife
rang for her maid.”
“And there is no other entrance to the cabinet?”
“None.”
“No windows?”
“Yes, but it is closed up.”
“I will look at it.”
Candles were lighted, and Mon. Valorbe observed at once that the lower
half of the window was covered by a large press which was, however, so
narrow that it did not touch the casement on either side.
“On what does this window open?”
“A small inner court.”
“And you have a floor above this?”
“Two; but, on a level with the servant’s floor, there is a close grating
over the court. That is why this room is so dark.”
When the press was moved, they found that the window was fastened, which
would not have been the case if anyone had entered that way.
“Unless,” said the count, “they went out through our chamber.”
“In that case, you would have found the door unbolted.”
The commissary considered the situation for a moment, then asked the
countess:
“Did any of your servants know that you wore the necklace last evening?”
“Certainly; I didn’t conceal the fact. But nobody knew that it was
hidden in that cabinet.”
“No one?”
“No one.... unless....”
“Be quite sure, madam, as it is a very important point.”
She turned to her husband, and said:
“I was thinking of Henriette.”
“Henriette? She didn’t know where we kept it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Who is this woman Henriette?” asked Mon. Valorbe.
“A school-mate, who was disowned by her family for marrying beneath her.
After her husband’s death, I furnished an apartment in this house for
her and her son. She is clever with her needle and has done some work
for me.”
“What floor is she on?”
“Same as ours.... at the end of the corridor.... and I think.... the
window of her kitchen....”
“Opens on this little court, does it not?”
“Yes, just opposite ours.”
Mon. Valorbe then asked to see Henriette. They went to her apartment;
she was sewing, whilst her son Raoul, about six years old, was sitting
beside her, reading. The commissary was surprised to see the wretched
apartment that had been provided for the woman. It consisted of one room
without a fireplace, and a very small room that served as a kitchen. The
commissary proceeded to question her. She appeared to be overwhelmed on
learning of the theft. Last evening she had herself dressed the countess
and placed the necklace upon her shoulders.
“Good God!” she exclaimed, “it can’t be possible!”
“And you have no idea? Not the least suspicion? Is it possible that the
thief may have passed through your room?”
She laughed heartily, never supposing that she could be an object of
suspicion.
“But I have not left my room. I never go out. And, perhaps, you have not
seen?”
She opened the kitchen window, and said:
“See, it is at least three metres to the ledge of the opposite window.”
“Who told you that we supposed the theft might have been committed in
that way?”
“But.... the necklace was in the cabinet, wasn’t it?”
“How do you know that?”
“Why, I have always known that it was kept there at night. It had been
mentioned in my presence.”
Her face, though still young, bore unmistakable traces of sorrow and
resignation. And it now assumed an expression of anxiety as if some
danger threatened her. She drew her son toward her. The child took her
hand, and kissed it affectionately.
When they were alone again, the count said to the commissary:
“I do not suppose you suspect Henriette. I can answer for her. She is
honesty itself.”
“I quite agree with you,” replied Mon. Valorbe. “At most, I thought
there might have been an unconscious complicity. But I confess that even
that theory must be abandoned, as it does not help solve the problem now
before us.”
The commissary of police abandoned the investigation, which was now
taken up and completed by the examining judge. He questioned the
servants, examined the condition of the bolt, experimented with the
opening and closing of the cabinet window, and explored the little court
from top to bottom. All was in vain. The bolt was intact. The window
could not be opened or closed from the outside.
The inquiries especially concerned Henriette, for, in spite of
everything, they always turned in her direction. They made a thorough
investigation of her past life, and ascertained that, during the last
three years, she had left the house only four times, and her business,
on those occasions, was satisfactorily explained. As a matter of fact,
she acted as chambermaid and seamstress to the countess, who treated her
with great strictness and even severity.
At the end of a week, the examining judge had secured no more definite
information than the commissary of police. The judge said:
“Admitting that we know the guilty party, which we do not, we are
confronted by the fact that we do not know how the theft was
committed. We are brought face to face with two obstacles: a door and a
window--both closed and fastened. It is thus a double mystery. How could
anyone enter, and, moreover, how could any one escape, leaving behind
him a bolted door and a fastened window?”
At the end of four months, the secret opinion of the judge was that the
count and countess, being hard pressed for money, which was their normal
condition, had sold the Queen’s Necklace. He closed the investigation.
The loss of the famous jewel was a severe blow to the Dreux-Soubise.
Their credit being no longer propped up by the reserve fund that such a
treasure constituted, they found themselves confronted by more exacting
creditors and money-lenders. They were obliged to cut down to the quick,
to sell or mortgage every article that possessed any commercial value.
In brief, it would have been their ruin, if two large legacies from some
distant relatives had not saved them.
Their pride also suffered a downfall, as if they had lost a quartering
from their escutcheon. And, strange to relate, it was upon her former
schoolmate, Henriette, that the countess vented her spleen. Toward
her, the countess displayed the most spiteful feelings, and even openly
accused her. First, Henriette was relegated to the servants’ quarters,
and, next day, discharged.
For some time, the count and countess passed an uneventful life. They
traveled a great deal. Only one incident of record occurred during that
period. Some months after the departure of Henriette, the countess was
surprised when she received and read the following letter, signed by
Henriette:
“Madame,”
“I do not know how to thank you; for it was you, was it not,
who sent me that? It could not have been anyone else. No one but you
knows where I live. If I am wrong, excuse me, and accept my sincere
thanks for your past favors....”
What did the letter mean? The present or past favors of the countess
consisted principally of injustice and neglect. Why, then, this letter
of thanks?
When asked for an explanation, Henriette replied that she had received