"Will you let me see the necklace, Madame?"
"Certainly. It is with my other jewels, in my wardrobe. I will go for
it."
"Pray don't trouble, Madame. Does your maid know the necklace?"
"Quite well."
"In that case, Sergeant Mazeroux will tell her what is wanted."
* * * * *
Not a word was spoken during the few minutes for which Mazeroux was
absent. Mme. Fauville seemed absorbed in her grief. M. Desmalions kept
his eyes fixed on her.
The sergeant returned, carrying a very large box containing a number of
jewel-cases and loose ornaments.
M. Desmalions found the necklace, examined it, and realized, in fact,
that the stones did not resemble the turquoise and that none of them was
missing. But, on separating two jewel cases in order to take out a tiara
which also contained blue stones, he made a gesture of surprise.
"What are these two keys?" he asked, pointing to two keys identical in
shape and size with those which opened the lock and the bolt of the
garden door.
Mme. Fauville remained very calm. Not a muscle of her face moved. Nothing
pointed to the least perturbation on account of this discovery. She
merely said:
"I don't know. They have been there a long time."
"Mazeroux," said M. Desmalions, "try them on that door."
Mazeroux did so. The door opened.
"Yes," said Mme. Fauville. "I remember now, my husband gave them to me.
They were duplicates of his own keys--"
The words were uttered in the most natural tone and as though the speaker
did not even suspect the terrible charge that was forming against her.
And nothing was more agonizing than this tranquillity. Was it a sign of
absolute innocence, or the infernal craft of a criminal whom nothing is
able to stir? Did she realize nothing of the tragedy which was taking
place and of which she was the unconscious heroine? Or did she guess the
terrible accusation which was gradually closing in upon her on every side
and which threatened her with the most awful danger? But, in that case,
how could she have been guilty of the extraordinary blunder of keeping
those two keys?
A series of questions suggested itself to the minds of all those present.
The Prefect of Police put them as follows:
"You were out, Madame, were you not, when the murders were committed?"
"Yes."
"You were at the opera?"
"Yes; and I went on to a party at the house of one of my friends, Mme.
d'Ersingen."
"Did your chauffeur drive you?"
"To the opera, yes. But I sent him back to his garage; and he came to
fetch me at the party."
"I see," said M. Desmalions. "But how did you go from the opera to Mme.
d'Ersingen's?"
For the first time, Mme. Fauville seemed to understand that she was the
victim of a regular cross-examination; and her look and attitude betrayed
a certain uneasiness. She replied:
"I took a motor cab."
"In the street?"
"On the Place de l'Opéra."
"At twelve o'clock, therefore?"
"No, at half-past eleven: I left before the opera was over."
"You were in a hurry to get to your friend's?"
"Yes ... or rather--"
She stopped; her cheeks were scarlet; her lips and chin trembled; and
she asked:
"Why do you ask me all these questions?"
"They are necessary, Madame. They may throw a light on what we want to
know. I beg you, therefore, to answer them. At what time did you reach
your friend's house?"
"I hardly know. I did not notice the time."
"Did you go straight there?"
"Almost."
"How do you mean, almost?"
"I had a little headache and told the driver to go up the Champs
Elysées and the Avenue du Bois--very slowly--and then down the Champs
Elysées again--"
She was becoming more and more embarrassed. Her voice grew indistinct.
She lowered her head and was silent.
Certainly her silence contained no confession, and there was nothing
entitling any one to believe that her dejection was other than a
consequence of her grief. But yet she seemed so weary as to give the
impression that, feeling herself lost, she was giving up the fight. And
it was almost a feeling of pity that was entertained for this woman
against whom all the circumstances seemed to be conspiring, and who
defended herself so badly that her cross-examiner hesitated to press her
yet further.
M. Desmalions, in fact, wore an irresolute air, as if the victory had
been too easy, and as if he had some scruple about pursuing it.
Mechanically he observed Perenna, who passed him a slip of paper, saying:
"Mme. d'Ersingen's telephone number."