The Humbert Case, like the Dreyfus Case, is a _chose jugée_.
Thérèse Humbert, one of the greatest women of the century, who united
the commanding personality of a Catherine the Great with the genius
for intrigue of a Catherine de Medicis, has been formally tried and
condemned, and is now secluded from the public eye. The journals of
the Boulevards pretend to be satisfied; and their credulous readers
are taught to believe that this remarkable affair was a vulgar
swindle, and that the famous millions had no existence except in the
mind of the arch-intriguer.
It is under these circumstances that I find myself at length free to
make an announcement which I foresee must provoke a storm of denial
and denunciation.
_I know what has become of the Humbert millions._
I do not make this declaration without having weighed the
consequences. If my part in this affair could be brought home to me
by legal proofs, it is possible that I should find myself in danger
of a penalty such as has been meted out to Madame Humbert herself.
I believe, however, that I have sufficiently secured myself against
such a contingency. For many months past I have been engaged in a
duel of a singular character with the famous head of the French
police, M. Rattache: a duel of wits, in which the combatants have
kept on the mask of friendship, while exchanging thrusts and parries
with an assumption of perfect unconsciousness.
In no step of her marvellous career, perhaps, did Thérèse Humbert
show more sagacity than in establishing relations with myself.
Accustomed as I am to act almost exclusively for crowned heads, or
ministers of state, I was the agent least likely to be suspected of
any connection with what wore the appearance of an ordinary police
affair.
With the same prudence which marked nearly all her actions, Madame
Humbert refrained from coming to my office to engage my services, and
from asking me to visit her. Instead, I received what appeared to be
a casual invitation to dine with a banker, whom I will call Baron
Y----.
Baron Y---- was a man whom I knew but slightly, but his house enjoyed
a good reputation, and he moved in the best society of the financial
world. He was noted for his entertainments, and therefore I was
surprised on this occasion to find only three other persons present,
besides the members of the family.
The three other guests were M. Bas-Riviére, an ex-member of the
Waldeck-Rousseau Ministry, the Marquis des Saintes Roches, a
distinguished Legitimist, that is to say, a member of the party which
aims at the restoration of the Bourbons, and--Thérèse Humbert.
At this time the voice of rumour was already busy with Madame
Humbert’s name; but though assailed, she still maintained a bold
front, and her enemies had not yet been able to touch her.
It did not occur to me that her presence at the dinner had any
significance, but I studied her with that interest which her
reputation naturally excited. Impassive, almost stolid in her
demeanour, and speaking but little, Madame Humbert impressed me
more than any woman I have ever met, with the single exception of
the Dowager Empress of China. I will not say that I felt awed by
this extraordinary personage, but I recognised in her one of those
commanding personalities which overrule all who are brought into
touch with them.
After dinner Baron Y---- led us through some of the rooms in his
superb mansion, to view the pictures and curiosities which his wealth
had enabled him to gather together.
[Illustration: “‘I am going to ask you to undertake a service of an
unusual kind.’”]
Somehow or other Madame Humbert contrived to fall gradually behind
the rest of the party, keeping me by her side. I did not realise
that this was a deliberate manœuvre, until, just as the others were
passing out of a small Turkish smoking-room, my companion abruptly
laid her hand on my arm, and whispered in my ear--
‘Let us remain here a moment, if you please, Monsieur V----. I have
something which I wish to say to you.’
Even then it did not at first dawn on me that the whole entertainment
had been arranged for the single purpose of enabling Madame Humbert
to interview me without attracting the notice of the police, who were
already beginning to take an interest in her movements.
‘Let us sit down,’ the custodian of the mysterious millions said with
authority. ‘What I have to say to you will take some time.’
Observe, she did not admit the possibility of my objecting to receive
her confidences. She had made up her mind that I was the agent
necessary for her purpose, and it was only left to me to obey.
I took a seat beside her without speaking. Magnetised by her strange
power, it did not occur to me to lay down any conditions in advance.
‘I am going to ask you to undertake a service of an unusual kind. You
will run some risks, and I shall be obliged to trust you implicitly.’
‘Madame,’--I began to protest. She silenced me with a superb gesture.
‘I have not asked you for assurances, monsieur. If I have chosen you
in preference to any of my friends, even men of the highest honour,
like M. des Saintes Roches, depend upon it I know what I am about. Do
not interrupt me, but listen. In my safe at this moment I have notes
and securities to the value of two hundred millions of francs.’
Two hundred millions! That is to say, in English money, £8,000,000! I
stared at her in amazement--almost in disbelief. She went on speaking
with the most perfect composure, as if nothing out of the ordinary
were being discussed. It was this self-command, this air of the
commonplace with which she invested the most fantastic statements,
which constituted the secret of her power.
‘This sum, which originally amounted to only one hundred and twenty
millions, does not belong to me. It is a sacred deposit, intrusted
to me many years ago, since which time the interest has steadily
accumulated.’
‘But, then, whose----?’ I tried to put in. But Madame Humbert would
not permit me to speak.
‘It is useless to question me, monsieur. Think what you like
concerning the true ownership of this money, but do not expect me
to enlighten you. All that it is necessary for you to know is that
these millions constitute a war fund, to be employed in a certain
event, and on behalf of a cause which I was brought up to hold dearer
than life.’
‘A war fund!’ I could not resist exclaiming.
My companion ignored the interruption.
‘From which it follows that the whole sum must always be available,
at an hour’s notice, in the hands of a trusty agent. Hitherto I have
been that agent; but I have met with misfortunes, and a danger has
arisen that this sum may fall into the hands of my private creditors.’