My husband's exhibition was drawing near the date of opening. As the days passed by we saw less and less of M. de Balincourt, although he had so faithfully promised to come and help in the organisation. Several telegrams sent to him by my husband remained unanswered. It then occurred to me to invite him to dinner, together with the Buissons and Count and Countess d'Arlon. We received a note from M. de Balincourt explaining that he had been ill, and away on a journey, but that he accepted the invitation. He arrived at 8.30—an hour late. "You take many liberties with old French politeness," I said to him. "Neither my guests nor I have been used to such treatment. How is it that the three messages my husband sent you to the three different addresses you gave him have all remained unanswered?..."
"There must be some mistake..."
"I agree with you. No, listen, M. de Balincourt. Last Sunday some friends came to take me with them for a motor drive and lunch in the country. They were M. V.—the motor manufacturer—and his wife, whom you met here once. I was told that you called on the V.s afterwards. They wrote to you, but the letter was returned with the mention 'name unknown at this address.' Your life does not concern us, but you might at least give us your proper address! Hearing this from the V.s, I suggested that we should drive to the various addresses you had given my husband. We had the greatest difficulty in discovering the first one. We went to Boulogne (near Paris) and were directed to a narrow, evil-smelling, cut-throat place where rag-and bone-pickers lived. I thought we had made a mistake, and we were about to turn back when M. V. knocked at the worm-eaten door of the house. An evil-looking man appeared, and answered our inquiries: 'M. de Balincourt?... I don't know him, but I believe he sometimes has letters addressed here, and a friend of his, a M. Delpit, has asked us to send his letters on to an address which I will give you, if you like.'
"M. and Mme. V., who were as nonplussed as I was myself, which is saying a great deal, proposed that we should drive to that address. There, our suspicions became greater than ever, for we found ourselves in a worse place than the first. An old woman said: 'M. de Balincourt? He lives yonder, in that house.' We went there and made fresh inquiries. At last a man in tatters shouts from a window: 'He has just left'... I need hardly tell you that we all had the impression that you were there."
M. de Balincourt turned very pale and stammered: "That was not my address... a friend of mine, a very poor artist, lives there.... He forwards my letters to me."
After dinner he apologised profusely, gave me all kinds of possible explanations, talked to my husband before me about the "exhibition," and later addressed a great number of invitation cards... to show his goodwill.
A week elapsed, and M. de Balincourt did not appear. I organised everything myself. I decided to hold the exhibition in the vast "winter garden."
On the opening day, April 7th, 1908, some five hundred persons called, including several Ministers and scores of prominent officials. During the afternoon M. de Balincourt arrived. He came every day while the exhibition lasted, and had long chats with M. Steinheil, through whom, I noticed, he contrived to get introduced to as many important persons as possible. He had a small note-book, in which he jotted down the pictures that were sold and the prices. Several times I saw suspicious-looking characters enter the house. They had invitation cards. Once or twice, in order to test whether my suspicions were well founded or not, I walked straight up to these strange intruders and said severely: "I am sorry; the room is full. We cannot admit any more people." And they at once withdrew without a word.
On the last day of the show I spoke my mind to M. de Balincourt. And I never saw him again, except at my trial, where he gave evidence.