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This is a brief disclaimer. If you speak French, I'm sorry for what you're about to hear. It is hopefully better than the Count of Monte Cristo. I'm looking at you Danglars and de Villefort, but it's still a work in progress for me. Thank you so much for your patience. The necklace had survived even when the monarchy that made it had not. It was the rock that weathered the storms of revolution and it would buoy them. The House of Drou Soubise serving first as a life raft, then a vessel that would carry them to new heights. The Count de Droue Soubise's head was swimming when King Christian complimented his wife and her grace looking at her necklace. It said to everyone at the party, not the least of which the Count de Droux Soubise, that he was somebody, no matter what happened to his house, no matter how close they clung to the ledge of aristocracy, each fresh misfortune threatening to pry another finger until they fell completely. The necklace tonight was like a hand clasping his forearm and giving him respite. The necklace lived at the bank, in a safe deposit box in the One or two times a year they were invited to a party. He, the Count, would go personally and retrieve it. He would carry it in his coat, his chauffeur a bodyguard walking, three men behind him. And the Count didn't dare breathe until he heard his door lock behind him. The next morning after the party, he would head back to the bank. And that night had been magical. They returned well after their sole servant and her boy were asleep. But it was fine. Nothing could sully this night. The necklace was an original in a sense only the mountings were from the days when the King made it for Madame du Barry, his paramour, the originals being pried from the metal and sold off long ago. Still, a diamond was a diamond and an emerald an emerald, though none were as beautiful as the legendary originals. It was unclear how the house of de Dru Soubise came into possession of the necklace, though with the kings and queens and most of the owners heads in baskets, no one could really pull them out and ask them for permission. So it remained with the House of Drusibis. And though their fortunes dwindled and they had to sell off vineyards and all manner of manners to maintain themselves over the years, they never once thought of selling the necklace. It might as well be a pedigree unto itself. The Count de Ro Soubise tucked the necklace in its velvet box in the back of his closet. And for the first time in a long time, went to bed feeling worthy of his name. The problem? The necklace would not be there when he awoke. From Jason and Carissa Weiser, the creators of myths and legends. This is fictional. The next morning, the count dressed, had a cup of coffee, walked down to the stables. The condition of one of the horses worried him, so he had it exercised in his presence before the grooms attached the horse to the cart. When he entered his room, the maid was doing the countess's hair. Are you going out? I'm surprised you have the energy after last night. The countess raised an eyebrow. The count changed the subject, not out of modesty, because of their audience, but expediency. He was going to the bank. He found the key to the closet and entered. Did you take it out again, my dear? He called from inside the closet. Take it. Oh, no. I just rose from bed myself. I was worn out after last night. She stretched. Yes. Fantastic. Where is it? You must have moved it. The count was growing short with his wife. I haven't even opened the door, she said. The servant, trying to keep up with her exasperated head shaking as she glanced back to the mirror. He disappeared into the closet and then emerged. It. It's gone. She pushed the servant away. What? It's gone. The countess rose and pulled her robe tighter around herself. It couldn't be gone. The man pointed to the shelf. The empty shelf. It was gone, spinning in exasperation when she began looking through the shoes arranged below and the suits hanging on the racks. He said there was no purpose to that. He put it there. It was gone. They needed to call the police. Policeman stroked his mustache before putting a pencil back to paper. And no one was in this room? The count shook his head. No. He bolted the door and only unbolted it when his wife called for the maid this morning to dress her. And there was no other way in the closet other than through your room? The count said no. Well, actually, yes. But it was impossible. He directed the policeman back into the closet. He swept aside some suits to reveal a small window, one he never opened. It went to their courtyard outside, but it would be next to impossible to get in. You'd have to scale a wall. Additionally, the count tried to jiggle the handle, but it wouldn't budge. It was locked. Someone couldn't use it to come and go and lock it from the outside. Unless they didn't lock it from the outside. The detective pointed his eraser back out through the room. Who else lives on this floor? The detective asked. The count thought about it they had fallen on hard times, so he only had a footman and his wife a maid. Most of the rooms in the estate were now covered. Oh, don't forget Henriette, his wife reminded him. Henriette. Is she a servant? The detective took down the name. The countess snorted. What a servant? She said she would never consider her best friend a servant. She was simply a woman who lived in her house and worked for them occasionally. The detective looked to the Count, who shook his head almost imperceptibly, clearing his throat. The Count said that she was his wife's friend from school, having a future almost as grand as the Countess, she threw it away for love. When she eloped with a man her parents thought below her station. They fixed that when, instead of accepting and elevating him, they disowned her. After her husband's death, when she had nowhere else to go, she came to live with them. She and her son live at the end of the corridor. Henriette is very clever with a needle and does some fine work. He looked to his wife. When she wishes, of course. Would Henriette know the location of the necklace when it was in the house? The detective made a mark in his notebook. No, the Count assured him. Well, the Countess said she wasn't sure what she had said to the woman in the past. It was possible. Possible? The count asked. The detective closed the book. Well, they should go have a talk with Henriette. Monsieur Velourbe was surprised the Countess thought Henriette a friend because he wouldn't put his worst enemy in such an apartment. It was one room with a bed for both Henriette and her six year old son Raoul, who sat on the stone floor. When he wasn't reading, he eyed the interlopers with suspicion. It was one room and a kitchen. No fireplace. All she had for storage were some loose shelves on the wall. It was well kept, but no amount of cleaning could make the stone walls uncrumble. Henriette was overwhelmed by the theft, taking the Countess into her arms. Henriette, who had to ration her breakfast so that her growing son could eat, only had the deepest condolences that her friend's priceless necklace had been stolen. Is it possible that the thief may have passed through your room, Monsieur Velour? The detective asked and Henriette laughed. No, she never left and perhaps he hadn't seen. She went to her kitchen window, opened it and pointed. It was over three meters across, nine feet. The detective grew serious, who told Henriette that the theft might have been committed in the countess closet. Well, that's where it was right. And how do you know that? The detective's pencil stopped. The Countess moved away from her childhood friend. I. They mentioned it a lot. It was kept there at night. I've always known. The lines on Henriette's face seemed now more worry than strife. She could understand the meaning of the detectives. Hmm. When the Countess and her husband and the detective were alone again, she said she understood what the detective was getting at. And he was also wrong. You don't suspect Henriette? I can answer for her. She is honesty itself, the woman pleaded. Of course I don't, the detective said with a nod. He sighed. He should probably start interviewing the servants and anyone else who had access to the house for any reason. Over the next six weeks, the police interviewed everyone in the house. And then, at the insistence of the Count, everyone again. They had no suspects nor leads. And privately, the opinion of the judge over the case was that the family had sold the necklace discreetly. An opinion which the Count and Countess could understand while reading over the vague report where words like theft and stolen were curiously absent. With misplaced and lost taking their places, the Count and Countess had no recourse. The necklace was gone. The countess entered Henriette's room. Raoul, the six year old, stood and walked to the wall. Henriette's face watched her friend. The face where rage had long since burned away, leaving only sorrow. Where is it? The Countess demanded. Henriette said she didn't have it. She never had it. Why wouldn't her friend believe her? The Countess pointed toward the room and her husband's man sighed and went to work. He emptied every cabinet in the tiny kitchen, took out every drawer, flung Henriette's and Raul's clothes about the room and slashed the pillows. Eight pillows. Every time the Countess searched the room, Henriette had to pay for the pillows she had bought. Eight pillows. It was all the money she had in the world. The day after, Henriette was informed by the same beleaguered footman that she and Raul could no longer use the apartment. The Count needed the room now that the estate could no longer borrow against the necklace. She and her son were to sleep in the servants quarters, which meant, of course, separating Henriette from her six year old son. The Countess waited for her friend to come to her in tears and pleading. But when she didn't, when Henriette simply accepted the cruelty of the woman she thought she knew, the Countess could only shrug and fire the woman. Henriette and Raoul were cast out into the street. We'll catch up with the pair and see who stole the necklace, but that will be right after this.
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It's that time of year again. Back to School season, and Instacart knows that the only thing harder than getting back into the swing of things is getting all the back to school supplies, snacks and essentials you need. So here's your reminder to make your life a little easier this season. Shop favorites from Staples, Best Buy, and Costco, all delivered through Instacart, so that you can get some time back and do whatever it is that that you need to get your life back on track.
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Instacart we're here Beautiful Anonymous changes each week. It defies genres and expectations. For example, our most recent episode, I talked to a woman who survived a murder attempt by her own son, but just the week before that, we just talked the whole time about Star Trek. We've had other recent episodes about sexting in languages that are not your first language, or what it's like to get weight loss surgery. It's unpredictable, it's real, it's honest, it's raw. Get Beautiful Anonymous wherever you listen to.
- [12:53]
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Podcasts an hour and a half, two hours tops, to Rouen Two minutes was quite enough for Guillaume Berlac when seven men, five of which were smoking, poured into his compartment on the train. It was time to find a new compartment. He gave them the sourest look he could muster, but he was only met with the unintentional jabbing of elbows as he struggled to the door. As he walked down the narrow hallway, he reached into his pocket, finding his pocketbook. In it was a small scrap of paper. The address the next compartment was better, but not by much. Guillaume put his folded coat in the rack above his head, and at that moment a woman sitting by the window glanced up and down at the stranger. Her look was chased by a grimace. Her husband, sitting next to her, turned and studied Guillaume more intensely, and while he knew he should be offended by how quickly and thoroughly the husband rode him off as non threatening, it was just nice to have a quiet place to sit where he wouldn't choke on smoke. He took a seat next to the couple so he wouldn't have to endure the woman's glares. But it quickly became apparent that the husband would not be the buffer that Guillaume hoped. You'll be fine, the husband interrupted. Whatever she was whispering, it was the husband's job to worry about him. She should just sit there and mind her own business. The husband will be back soon. I have important business and it cannot wait any longer, my dear. Adieu, the husband said, kissing her, nodding at the traveler and sliding the door open. Nearly as soon as he left, the door slid open again. A man entered without a word or a glance and sat down. Guillaume was a little surprised, but not as obviously shocked as the woman who yelped in fright and fanned herself with her kerchief. Guillaume, for his part, had seen that face before, but couldn't quite place it. Guillaume looked to the woman with whom he was sharing a seat as the stranger tipped his cap over his eyes. Um, was everything okay? Do you know who was on our train? She whispered. Who? Guillaume asked, intrigued now. Him. Guillaume pointed. That guy? Yeah, he's. He just sat down. Who? Who was he? No, not him. Arsine. Arsene Lupin. The master thief. Arsne Lupin. How do you know? Guillaume asked, and then looked to the interloper in their compartment also. Are we just going to, like, whisper? We're three feet away from this guy, Guillaume whispered as quietly as he could. A meter. We're in France. It's a meter, she corrected, inadvertently answering the question. Guillaume held up his newspaper. Just yesterday, Arsne Lupin was sentenced to 20 years of hard labor in absentia. The woman barked. Because he escaped. He had been spotted in Turkey, according to the newspapers. Guillaume shrugged again. But he is on the train right now. The woman hissed. She sighed. My husband's one of the directors in the penitentiary service. He was called in at the last minute. We were on our way to dinner and he didn't want to leave me. Lupin was spotted buying a first class ticket to Rouen by the station master. Guillaume sat back. Wow. Well, if Lupin was on the train, then he probably wants to keep a low profile. He's still wanted by the police. My husband, riding in this car with us, will be able to recognize Lupin with a glance. The woman said with a smirk, just slightly louder. Both she and Guillaume looked to the stranger, who didn't stir under his cap. She leaned in to give Guillaume more information. The guard at the waiting room didn't see Lupin pass, and it's thought that he could have gotten on an express train that left 10 minutes after theirs. Guillaume shrugged. Cool. Great. So that's what happened. Or he could have jumped to our train at the last second, throwing them off. Guillaume tipped his own cap over his head. Whatever it was, they were in no danger from Lupin. He was a thief, not a robber. If he escapes, fine. If he gets arrested, all the better. The woman gripped Guillaume's arm. He couldn't sleep and leave her alone with him, Guillaume said. Alone, he wasn't leaving. He was only one shout away. Also, he didn't know her, and until this more frightening man came along, she was scared and judgy of him. He pulled his arm away from her, closed his eyes, and opened them again on the floor, staring at a puddle of his own blood. What the. He felt a kick to his ribs, and then he rolled over to see the woman huddled at the edge of her chair, hands covering her face. In horror, Guillaume tried to call out, but the stranger's hands found his neck. Guillaume was shocked not by how strong this arsine new palm was, but by the cold, dispassionate way. He waited just until Guillaume was on the brink of losing consciousness again before relaxing his grip and flinging Guillaume to the floor. Guillaume gasped, trying to suck in as much air as possible, and while he did, the assailant removed a cord from his coat, tying Guillaume's and the woman's hands and feet. Guillaume twisted against his bounds as he saw the man going through his coat. 12,000 francs. Some notes, some letters. The man looked at Guillaume and smirked. Tucking the letter into his coat, he wrenched a watch and rings from the woman's hands, necklaces from her person, and cash from her purse. He rummaged through the compartment and picking up a coat and hat, he sneered at the pair. They entered the tunnel. They were almost there, almost to Rouen. Then the train began to slow. The attacker, smooth and practiced, opened the compartment door, opened the train door outside, and stepped off the train. As soon as he did, the train sped back up and eventually they were out of the tunnel. They're doing work in the tunnel. The train slows down. For a moment he knew it was coming. This had all been planned. Arsine Lupin, the woman muttered. Without a doubt. Guillaume struggled. She looked at the door and closed her eyes. He took Guillaume's coat. No, he wore his own coat. Gray overcoat and hat, Guillaume said. Still struggling against his bounds, he managed to twist his hand to the side so he could slip the rest out. When he was helping the woman with the cords around her own wrists, the police stormed the compartment. They subdued Guillaume, but both Madame Renaud and her husband vouched for his innocence. At Rouen, they detached the car and the rest of the train continued on. Gray overcoat with a black velvet collar and a hat. That's what he was wearing when we saw him at the station. That was him all right, the husband swore. I am certain if we go after him, we can still catch him. Guillaume rubbed his wrists. I have an automobile here at Rouen. The policeman cut him off. They have police cycling back down the tunnel. All the trains have shut down. He's not in the tunnel anymore, Guillaume muttered. The husband turned. How did this man know that? Guillaume said he didn't. He was just thinking it through. If it were him, he wouldn't stay in the tunnel. Lupin planned the attack to the moment he knew where the train slowed and how he could safely not leap from the train, but merely step from it. He was likely on the move the moment his shoes hit dirt, before the train arrived at Rouen and before the police even knew he was gone. So Detective Monsieur Renaud laughed. Where is Lupin, if not in the tunnel? Guillaume pulled his crumpled train map from his pocket and traced it. Donnatel. That was the closest station. There was a train that left at 10:50, 22 minutes. It would take him straight to Amiens, two hours away, if he didn't get off before. But the police had eyes on him in the station, waiting for this train, so escaping from that one should be trivial. In three hours he would be on a train traveling anywhere in Europe. What makes you think you know him so well? Well, I was beaten half to death by him. But also he consulted my map of the routes before jumping from the train. Guillaume pointed off the train. Like he said, they could take his automobile. He had planned to meet friends, but he was more concerned with recovering his pocketbook. He would drive, just as Guillaume deduced. A man in a gray overcoat, Arsne Nupin with a black velvet collar, had boarded the train for Amiens. It had departed on time. The police with him, Gaston d' Olivier and Honor Masson, spread out the map. They could make it. It was an express train, and there was no service on the tracks. It stopped once, and the policeman looked up. 19 minutes. Guillaume did some quick math. 23 kilometers in 19 minutes. With his 32 horsepower engine, they could make it. Ahead of him. The three men, the two officers and the budding detective scrambled back into the car. They caught up with the train and raced alongside it. Luckily, the county roads were clear that time of night, and when there was a car, the policeman in the front and Guillaume's liberal use of the horn made up the difference. The horn did not just draw the attention of the other drivers, though Guillaume swore as he noticed the windows of the train fill with faces. The next stop confirmed it. When Guillaume and one of the officers waited on the platform, another combed through the train. He's not here. De la Vivier emerged, shaking his head. It was as Guillaume had feared. Lupin had seen him driving alongside and had jumped from the train before the stop. He can't have gotten far then. On foot too. He would have had to wait until the train slowed. He's close. Dilivier revealed his own potential for promotion to detective. Massault wasn't paying attention, though. He was squinting. There. He cried, and the three looked down the track, the one the train had traveled on. Spotting a figure leaping over and sprinting off into a field. Massault took off into a run, while Guillaume and Olivier made for the automobile. He's in the thicket, Massault managed between deep gulps of air. When the automobile pulled up, Guillaume pointed one way and then another. They should position themselves on each side. Guillaume would watch the side with the ravine, and if Lupin didn't come out, he would go in after the man. The police officers likely knew they should dissuade a private citizen from taking the law into his own hands. But they saw the swelling on Guillaume's face and had heard the legends of Arsne Nupin. Neither of them wanted to find out if the legends were true. They agreed. The police made their way to their posts. Guillaume immediately entered the grove. Not waiting for their plan of attack, he found the man looking left and right. Guillaume noticed a revolver at his side. He would need to make this quick. The master thief heard a noise behind him and had his revolver half out of his holster mid turn. When Guillaume's feet found his legs, the assailant hit the ground hard. His gun tumbled away and Guillaume planted a knee on the man's chest and covered his mouth with his hand. I know something about you. Guillaume smirked. You are not Arsne Lupin. The man furrowed his brow in confusion. Because I am Guillaume or Arsine said. He breathed. He was just glad he made it to the robber first. You put me in a predicament. I managed to deceive the man who had come to hunt me to his face. But thanks to you, I spent the day leading the police. They didn't know what they had. And you don't know what you have. Guillaume rooted through the coat, his coat and found his pocketbook. Plans, contacts, a who's who of the French underworld. If the police saw this, the law would be the least of his problems. Now I'm going to let you up, Guillaume or Arsene said. I will save you from the police and we shall consider each other friends. I protect my friends from the police. Yes or no? Yes, the man on the ground said. I have to congratulate you on your escape from the train. That was perfectly timed and really. Arsene Whisper shouted as once the man was on his feet, he pulled a knife from his belt. You try to do something nice for someone, arsene said as he landed a sharp blow on the man's carotid artery. The attacker dropped to the ground, unconscious. That actually worked out the best way possible, arstime muttered to himself as he pulled out the man's papers. Pierre Henfre, the murderer who cut the throats of Madame Dubois and her two daughters when they caught him in the midst of a robbery. His face had been all over the papers. Lupin was glad to not have to protect such a man as a friend. He took the jewels from the train and the banknotes, both his and the woman's, scribbled a quick note, gave Pierre a quick kick to the head to really ensure that he would stay down, and picked up the revolver. He fired into the air and took off on the road down the ravine. Minutes later he was in his automobile, speeding away. Arsin Lupin to his worthy colleagues Arnaud Marcel and Gaston d'. Olivier. As a slight token of his gratitude, Massault read, he pulled out a hundred francs from each envelope and the papers of the wanted murderer. What are you doing? Massault said as Olivier began descending the path down the ravine, going after him. That man was Arsne Lupin. That man was Guillaume Burlap, a concerned citizen who took time out of his day and put himself in danger to help us apprehend a wanted murderer. He pocketed the francs from the envelope. He didn't know what his colleague was on about. Sorry, so sorry, Desolet, the Chevalier Floriani said as he strode into the party trains. You never can trust them to run on time or not to have a master thief on board. The rest of the party murmured, and the Count de Droux Soubise struggled to sit up in his chair at the news that Arsne Lupin, the gentleman burglar, had been, if not apprehended, at least chased when he stepped from the train as it slowed, the Chevalier gave all the details that he could and with a wink showed off the bruise on his face to the excitement of all in attendance. The count's nieces wanted all the details about Arsne Lupin and shared the stories of his exploits over dinner. The other men at the party, the president of Estaville, a deputy from the city, and the general Marquis de Rozier, and their wives, listened with rapt attention. All this despite the countess and the count trying to change the subject. The last thing they wanted to Talk about ever was theft. Oh, that's right, you mentioned that. The necklace. The Chevalier Floriani said when he saw the Count's face, looking as if he'd just bit down on a lemon. As talk of Lupin stretched into time in the salon, while the women had coffee and the men puffed their cigarettes, the Marquis introduced himself to the Chevalier Floriani. And the Count apologized. Yes, Floriani was a landowner in Sicily, right? From an ancient family. He lived in Rome now. That's where the Count met him last winter. Floriani was a friend of the Prime Minister and the King. Floriani laughed. He was just a simple farmer, but, well, he did like to make crime, or solving crime something of a hobby. Like Herlock Sholmes. He actually wanted to help out his friend. What was the whole story behind the theft of the necklace? Maybe they could put it to rest. You want to try to solve a crime 30 years later, one that the police and the magistrates at the time couldn't solve? The Count said. Well, they thought he did it for the insurance and that he sold it piecemeal. But because they said that he wasn't able to get insurance and if he sold it, he wouldn't still be living here. He gestured to the only modest manor that his family had lived in for three centuries. I can tell it gnaws at you, my friend. Let's hear it. Exorcise your demons, the Chevalier pleaded. And so the Count did. Most of the party only knew of the necklace, but no one knew the whole story, save the Countess, who found reasons to be out of the room. At the end of it, the Chevalier poured himself another glass of Bordeaux. He paced. Okay, well, to find out who did it, you have to work backwards from how they did it. A locked chamber door and a locked window. The door was closed and bolted, effectively barred. If he was correct about those old doors, so opening it without a battering ram would be impossible. So it had to be the window. It was closed and fastened. We found it fastened the following morning. No one came in the window. The Count rejoined. Then they walked through the walls. The Chevalier took a victory sip of the Chateau Margaux. He believed the Count and Countess, that they didn't falsify the report. So the window really was the only option. So how would one get to the window? The window was fastened, the Count insisted. But the Chevalier continued, leaning his head out the window to the courtyard. He pointed. That was simple. A bridge from the opposite window. The window was fastened. The Count was clear that they would not be moving on from this Detail. The detail that took this case from a simple burglary to one of the great mysteries of the age. The Chevalier. Floriani chuckled a bit at that. That was overdoing it a bit. But okay. They would address the elephant in the room or the hole in the window. It was the Count's turn to chuckle. It was true. The man was no Herlock Sholmes. A hole in the window. That's what his explanation hinged on. Wouldn't that be obvious to him, the police, everyone? There was no hole in the window. How about in the transom? The Chevalier said. The count narrowed his eyes. How did the man know about the transom? Floriani said it was an educated guess based on the styles from when this house was built. But also he pointed to the second floor windows in the courtyard. A transom. And if you didn't know, the transom is the wood part that holds the glass in the window. A window is a window and the transom is also part of the window. And he would have noticed a hole in the window or transom. The Count crossed his arms and waved to his wife. He needed some wine to continue this conversation. Floriani squinted. It looked like the window above the transom was frosted or ornate or otherwise obscured. How about this? The Count and whoever he wanted to take could go up there and look. And if the window or transom didn't have a patched hole, maybe with paper or putty, but a hole that would be invisible unless you were looking for it. Floriani would give them a thousand francs each and never speak of this again. That's how confident he was. There was only one way in that night. The window was latched from the outside and it wasn't broken. There was only one conclusion left. The whole party left, everyone winning their thousand francs. And Floriani helped himself to another glass of wine. The Marquis came down and gave Floriani the Chevalier the a clap first. The rest of the party was amazed. Floriani was truly a detective. The Count and Countess were the last to arrive. Staggering into the room. Both of them had to sit 30 years and there it was. There was new information in the case. Someone should start a podcast or something. The Count looked up. How? How did he do it? A wire? A small poker? Anything with a hook would do. Once the hole was there, you could easily unlock the window and lock it again. No, but how would he get over to the window? The Count asked. Floriani shrugged. Well, he couldn't bring in a gangway from the outside. Perhaps he constructed it. They said the shelves in the little kitchen they forced the friend to use were loose. No one forced her to use that kitchen. We were. We were helping Amrit. The Countess winced. Of course, floriani said. But we shouldn't have. The thief. The Countess slammed a fist down on the table. At this, Floriani seemed to grow angry. No, it was the child and the child alone. After she slept, he kept it until he could manage to travel to a nearby village, pry out some of the diamonds and sell them. Bit by bit. She remained steadfast in her innocence. And the police searched her things relentlessly. But they likely never searched the boy's schoolbooks, did they? The Count and Countess looked at each other. Well, no. But that still didn't explain the 2000 francs that she received every year. The Chevalier cocked his head. Oh. Smiling, the Count said, yeah. For the last few years of her life, before she succumbed to her illness, she received 2,000 francs per year. And you know this how you cast her out, right? Floriani replied. Henriette had written them letters thanking them. It was pretty clear that she was admitting her crime, gloating even for 2,000 francs, the Chevalier said, which was roughly, what, 13 grand a year in US dollars in 20, 25? Could they not see it? It was obviously the son taking care of her. Even if she never knew. Even if, as he turned to crime to soothe her in her dying moments, she was so innocent and kind hearted as to thank the people who cast her out when she needed them the most. But no, no, she was gloating with that. Floriani breathed and drank his wine. The room was silent. How do you know so much about. About Henriette and Raoul? The Count's voice quavered a bit. Who. Who are you? A smile broke across Floriani's face. Why him? He was the Chevalier Floriani, whom the Count met in Palermo. He was a friend of the King and Prime Minister. No, these were just games, thought experiments. He took another sip of his wine. I endeavored to depict the pleasure the Henriette's son, if he still lives, would have in telling you that he was the guilty party and that he did it because his mother was unhappy, that she was on the point of losing the place of a servant by which she lived, and because the child suffered at the sight of his mother's sorrow at the hands of those she thought as friends. I met eye the Chevaliers and the Counts. One blinked. I enjoyed your story very much. The Count laughed. I wonder what this young man, Raoul, went on to do after stealing the Queen's necklace at 6 years of age and to steal it, remarked Floriani, falling in with the Count's mood without costing him the slightest trouble, without anyone thinking to examine the condition of the window. It was all so easy. He simply had to desire the thing, reach out his hand and take it. At that, the Chevalier Floriani rose. He must bid them adieu. He turned to his hostess, the Countess, and she recoiled slightly from his hand. Oh, my dear. The Chevalier took it. His speech, the solving of the crime. They were mere parlor tricks, and he took things too far. The Countess stood up straight and looked the Chevalier in the eye. Do you know him? Pardon me? Floriani smiled. The woman asked if Floriani knew the man, the child, Raul. If so, she would like to pass on a message. Floriani nodded slightly. I would like to say that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what happened. What? Not what happened. What I did to Henriette. I felt betrayed. I thought that she did it. I thought that she took advantage of our kindness and stole the one thing giving our house relevance. I know it looks like we're doing well now, and we are. But we almost lost everything. The Countess sighed. She did lose everything. Floriani's voice cracked. She lost her friend, her home, and her son, who had to do whatever it took to provide for them both. I know I regret it. And if either of them were here. She looked into the eyes of Floriani. I would beg their forgiveness. Floriani sighed. He said he was certain that she would be forgiven. And for the briefest moment, the Countess saw the eyes of the young man she recognized, one who spent all of his time reading and tending to his mother in the quarters just across the courtyard from her own. That moment passed in an instant, though, and Floriani put his hat on. Well, if they had enough of his tricks and parlor games, he will be leaving now. Tipping his hat to the host, who couldn't muster any words, the Chevalier left the party and disappeared out into the street. Four days later, the Countess came home and spotted something on the table in their foyer. A red leather case bearing the Cardinal's arms. The last time she had seen this case was 30 years ago, when her husband tucked it into the shelves in their closet. Her hands shaking, she didn't dare hope, didn't dare believe. But it was the Queen's necklace, restored to its former brilliance in the original mounting. Tucked next to it, a card with only a name. The following day, the paper Lacour de Paris published the following the Queen's necklace, the famous historical jewelry stolen from the family of Drou Soubise has been recovered by Arcine Lupin, who hastened to restore it to its rightful owner. We cannot too highly commend such a delicate and chivalrous act. That's it for the story this time. That was a fun one. And I also want to say real quickly this thank you to everyone who's written in with your condolences and your kind words. I really, really appreciate it and I'm sorry to cast words from listeners in a negative light. It's happened in the past where I have missed weeks. Then I've gotten some like, really nasty stuff and I just was not in the mental place to handle that at the time. But I just want to say again, you all are amazing and everyone has just been so wonderful. Really grateful. Thank you so much. That's it for this time. Fictional is by Jason and Carissa Weiser. Our theme song is by the amazing Breakmaster Cylinder. There's a list in the show notes of more of the music we used. Today's episode was based on the mysterious Traveler and the Queen's necklace by Maurice LeBlanc. In two weeks, we start our three part season finale with the original story of the wizard of Oz. Definitely not piggybacking on the publicity of Wicked Part 2. Thank you so much for listening and we'll see you next time.
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Hey everybody, it's Nicole Byer here with some hot takes from Wayfair. A cozy corduroy sectional from Wayfair. Um, yeah, that's a hot take. Go on and add it to your cart and take it. A pink glam night stand from Wayfair. Scalding hot take. Take it before I do. A mid century modern cabinet from Wayfair that doubles as a wine bar. Do I have to say it? It's a hot take. Get it@wayfair.com and enjoy that free shipping too.
- [42:12]
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