Oh, it is all
quite honest," he added, as Grady snorted derisively. "Some years
ago, the directors of the Louvre needed a fund for the purchase of
new paintings; needed also to clean and restore the old ones. They
decided that it was folly to keep three millions of francs imprisoned
in a single gem, when their Michael Angelos and da Vincis and
Murillos were encrusted with dirt and fading daily. So they sought a
purchaser for the Mazarin; they found one in the empress of Russia,
who had a craze for precious stones, and who, at her death, left this
remarkable collection to her favourite son, who had inherited her
passion. A paste replica of the Mazarin was placed in the Louvre for
the crowds to admire, and every one soon forgot that it was not
really the diamond. For myself, I think the directors acted most
wisely. And now," he added, with a gesture toward the glittering
heaps, "what shall we do with all this?"
"There's only one thing to do," said Grady, awaking suddenly as from
a trance, "and that's to get them in a safe-deposit box as quick as
possible. There's no police-safe I'd trust with 'em! Why, they'd tempt
the angel Gabriel!" and he drew a deep breath.
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