“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.
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