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The colour of the wallpaper was old pink. The salon wallpaper, of course—for in the bedroom it was green, an exquisite Trianon green. ‘Yes, gentlemen,’ declared Madame Emilienne de Rouvres, ‘it was about two in the morning. I was sound asleep. But suddenly....’ Upset by the recollection of her adventure, Madame de Rouvres shuddered at the word ‘suddenly.’ The two listeners seated opposite her shuddered as well, out of respect and with perfect tact. One was Inspector Jean Martin of the local detective squad; the other was a private investigator, Marcel Fermier, under contract to Sirius, the company with whom Madame de Rouvres had taken out an insurance policy against fire and theft. It was ten o’clock in the morning. The only sounds to disturb the peace and quiet of Rue Sablons in Paris came from the squealing brakes of the delivery tricycles ridden at breakneck speed by butchers’ or grocers’ assistants. ‘Suddenly,’ continued Madame de Rouvres doggedly, ‘I am woken with a start by creaking noises in the corridor. I turn on the light. “Who goes there?” I ask. No reply. “Who goes there?” I ask again. Silence. I live alone, gentlemen, and there are no firearms here. Still, I get out of bed and get as far as the bedroom door. A masked individual is standing there in front of me, blocking my path. Before I have time to cry out, he throws himself on me...’ The expressions on the faces of the policeman and the private detective underwent a series of almost comically synchronized changes: admiration for the boldness Madame de Rouvres had shown, anxiety about the risk she had run, and horror at the thought of the barbaric treatment she might have received. Madame de Rouvres’s face, powdered and pampered, was coloured by a retrospective anguish and, it must be said, by the reflection from the salon wallpaper. An irreverent Anglo-Saxon might have described the lady as a ‘dear old thing.’ Not that she was old. She confessed to being forty. Maybe just a little bit more. Well, scarcely more than fifty. She was from the top drawer, of ample charms, and had been extremely seductive around 1910—the same year that her salon had been the most ravishing example of Louis XVI, thanks to a happy choice of furnishings. Alas, the auctioneers had come and gone, and the Aubusson-covered armchairs and the rest of the inlaid rosewood furniture had finished up under the hammer. Only the old pink wallpaper remained as a reminder of the opulent past. And Madame de Rouvres’ features had, alas, also been marked by time, that pitiless auctioneer of beauty. Only the sparkle in the eyes and the carnation-coloured cheeks remained—enhanced by kohl and make-up, it must be admitted. ‘So, madame,’ prompted Marcel Fermier, ‘the frightful individual comes at you and knocks you down—.’ ‘No, detective,’ corrected Madame de Rouvres with an ambivalent pout, ‘he didn’t knock me down! He gagged me and bound me to a chair from the corridor.’ ‘Then,’ suggested Jean Martin, ‘he went into the green room?’ ‘No, inspector,’ corrected Madame de Rouvres again, ‘he didn’t go into the green room, but into the dining room, where he helped himself to my silverware. Then he went into the salon where we’re sitting and helped himself to a small clock and two silver chandeliers. After that...’ Madame de Rouvres got up, moved a screen aside and pulled back a curtain to reveal a small safe. It had been forced open. ‘In addition to family papers, this safe contained three thousand francs. The thief took them, naturally.’ ‘What about your jewels?’ ‘I don’t keep them here, as a precaution. I imagine safes attract burglars like bears to honey. I keep my valuables in the drawer of a bedside table.’ ‘Just like Edgar Allan Poe’s The Purloined Letter,’ murmured Fermier. ‘The best way to hide something is not to hide it.’ He asked: ‘So after he left the salon the thief went into the green room and made off with your jewels?’ ‘My jewels, thank God, are safe,’ replied Madame de Rouvres, with a deep sigh.