I was conquered by the evident sincerity and the business-like ways of M. Goron, and without hesitation I told him about the pearl necklace, the documents, and the "mysterious German."
He then said, quite simply: "Exactly. I had guessed something of the sort. The Impasse Ronsin affair is not unique of its kind. There is nothing absolutely new in it. I believe that what took place is this. Some man or men—who did it for the money the documents might represent, or out of fanfaronade or some kind of morbidness—heard that you possessed most interesting papers. They managed to become close friends of your husband. They found out, somehow, that the house would be empty that day, since you had decided to go to Bellevue. You know the rest."
I told M. Goron about the letters I was constantly receiving.
"Yes, yes," he said. "All this may be interesting. I have a good mind to lend you some of my men. There are workmen in your house just now. Well, my men will disguise themselves as workmen, and they will observe everything and everybody. I have never seen your house. Will you receive me and my son? I will look the place over. My son will assist me. We will come as foreigners who wish to visit the studio...."
I consented, of course. M. Goron came to the Impasse Ronsin the next day and examined everything with his son. Before going he said to me: "Persevere in your endeavours to solve the problem, but take care of yourself. Leave the Press alone. Tell the journalists you are exhausted, done for.... You are in a terrible state; you will lose your reason, if you go on with this kind of life. I have known even the strongest men come to such a state, in their desire to work out a murder mystery that the Law had given up, that they have had to be put in an asylum, or they have been seeing the murderers everywhere. I could quote to you the example of two men, both of superior intellect, who committed two dreadful crimes, convinced that they were killing the assassins they had so long been searching for; one of them is a convict now; the other died in prison—he was one of my friends—and all the members of his family were ruined and disgraced.... Look here, I will give you some sound advice: Think of your daughter. Go with her to Bellevue or to the Riviera, where it is bright and sunny. Try to forget. Send me all the letters you receive, even those from the people you trust, from your friends.... Everybody seems to have an influence over you.... That is bad, bad."...
"No," I said. "I must fight to the end. You will see I shall win yet, and the whole world will know...."
He interrupted me: "Leave the world alone. Think of yourself, think of your child, and let me act for you. You are in a fever, your eyes have an unhealthy glow, you look worn out. At this rate, in a week's time you will be seriously ill. If I were your doctor, I should lock you up for a time in a nursing home.... Meanwhile, I will send you some of my men who will carry out my instructions. But promise me to do nothing, and to go away and rest soon, very soon!..."
I promised, and shook M. Goron warmly by the hand. Then I went home, very much pacified and fully determined to follow his excellent advice.
When I reached home, I found a journalist waiting for me. He was M. D., an eighteen-year-old reporter. He came frequently and always had extraordinary things to say against Couillard—things which, curiously enough, tallied with the remarks about my valet contained in a large number of the anonymous letters I received. (Couillard was now once more in my service. He had not found a situation as a chauffeur and had returned to me.)
"Madame," explained the young journalist; "you can go and tell M. Hamard about Couillard. I know all about him!"