"But," I exclaimed, "I suppose you have paid for the portrait of M. Fallières?"
A quick questioning glance passed between my husband and the Jew. "It is quite all right," said the former.... "I promised this gentleman to do the drawing free of charge, for he will sell a number of my paintings to his friends, and will help us with the forthcoming exhibition of my works. He has taken a whole pack of invitation cards and will send them to the right kind of people."
On the piano stood the box with the comb which President Faure had given me. Wishing to find out whether this strange man knew it, I said: "Since you are fond of beautiful things, what do you think of this?"
The man took the comb and said: "Yes, this is one of the finest works of art Lalique has ever turned out.... You sometimes wore this comb in years gone by, in the days when Félix Faure was President!"
The tone in which the last words were spoken told me more than the words themselves. I left the drawing-room followed by the Jew, who hastily left the house.
"That man," I said to my husband when we were alone, "is the mysterious German of whom you have often spoken to me, the man you have met every few months for the past nine years, the man who first came here shortly after the death of President Faure, the man who 'bought' the pearls and wanted the documents!..."
My husband at first tried to deny, but soon admitted the truth of what I said. However, he kept absolutely silent when I entreated him to give me some details about the man, to tell me the truth at last, to explain the secret of this Fallières portrait and of this "wealthy foreigner," who did not pay for what he ordered, who knew his way about our house even in the dark, and who dined with princes in a shabby shotted coat!
And here, let the reader allow me to state, that I fully realised—and still realise—that had I not consented to keep the necklace for Félix Faure's sake, all these troubles would probably never have occurred. But what woman would have acted otherwise than I did, after the words the President had spoken? And on the other hand is it not evident that, had my husband fully taken me into his confidence as regards that enigmatical personage whom he called "the German Jew" (his nationality may have been anything, but he was undoubtedly a Jew, and spoke German most fluently), matters might have taken another course, and many terrible anxieties have been spared us?
That very night, fearing for the safety of the documents, I took them from the writing-table in my boudoir, and made, with a newspaper and large envelopes, a dummy parcel of papers, as like the genuine one as possible. On the top I wrote as I had written on the real parcel, my name and these words: "Private papers. To be burnt after my death." The dummy was fastened and sealed in exactly the same way and, as in the model, one could see here and there, when the wrapper was torn, corners of large envelopes, duplicates of those in which I had enclosed Félix Faure's papers and the Memoirs which we had partly written in collaboration. The dummy I put in the drawer where the genuine documents had been, and these latter I hid in a place of safety the next day.
The reader may wonder why I was so anxious to keep these papers. I can only say that they reminded me of a most interesting portion of my life, that they contained most enlightening information on many events of national and international importance.... And perhaps there was in me that vague, well-nigh unconscious and yet unconquerable sentiment which makes you loth to part with anything that, you have kept for a long time, for if you live long enough with things, they become, as it were, part and parcel of your existence.