Scowls and sulkiness from Edouard; tears and shrill hysterics from Yvonne. When informed of these tragic scenes, M. Lépine exclaims: “Poor little dears! But what can I do? Impossible to buy a whole farm-yard or an army with a piece of five francs.”
After toys, let me take pictures—the incomparable Monna Lisa, who, when She vanished, disturbed even the proverbial calm of M. Lépine. All France sent him “clues.” Every post brought him shoals of letters that strangely and severally denounced a Woman in a Shawl, Three Men in Blue Aprons, a Man with a Sack, a Negro with a Diamond Ring, a Turk in a Fez, and a Man Dressed as a Woman, as Monna Lisa’s base abductor. In each case these singular beings were said to have been seen carrying an object of the exact dimensions of the stolen picture. Also, their demeanour “was excited,” their “hands trembled” as they clutched the precious masterpiece, and they jumped into a passing cab or hurled themselves into a train just as it was steaming out of the station. “Believe me, M. le Préfet,” concluded M. Lépine’s incoherent informants, “believe me, I have given you an exact description of the culprit.” Then, letters of abuse, threatening letters, letters from practical jokers, letters demanding interviews—all of which had (under French law) to be considered and classified. Again, telegram upon telegram, and the telephone bell always ringing.
“If I cannot speak to M. Lépine himself, I won’t speak to anyone. And then the picture will be lost for ever,” stated a voice through the telephone.
“Well, what is it?” demanded M. Lépine, at last coming to the machine.
“Ecoutez-moi bien, M. le Préfet. My name is Charles Henri Durand. I am forty-seven years of age. I am a papermaker by profession. And I live on the third floor of No. 16 rue de Rome,” related the voice through the telephone.
“After that, after that! Quickly! Au galop!” cried M. Lépine.
“Monsieur le Préfet, my information is grave and I must not be hurried,” continued the voice. “At the very hour of the theft of the picture I was passing the Louvre. Suddenly, a man jostled me. He was carrying what was undoubtedly a picture in a sack. He hastened down a side street, casting suspicious glances about him. He was a Man with a Squint and——”
“Ah, zut,” cried the Chief of the Police, hanging up the receiver.
And on the top of all this incoherency, light-headedness. Always and always, when Paris is shaken by a sensational affaire, some light-headed soul loses what remains of his reason. On to the Place de la Concorde came a pale-faced, wild-eyed man, with a chair. After mounting the chair, he folded his arms across his chest and broke out into a fixed, ghastly grin. As he stood motionless on his chair, always grinning, a crowd inevitably assembled, and M. Lépine appeared.
“What are you doing there?” demanded the latter.