Alicia's knuckles shone white against the emerald scales of the accused Valentino. "Stolen?" she scoffed, "Madame, discerning taste comes at many prices. I got it on sale."

Madame Dubois' disbelief morphed into suspicion. "Sale? Such a gem never goes on discount."

"Oh, but it did," Alicia pressed, her voice firm despite her racing heart. "A dusty shop in forgotten Florence, cobwebs clinging to forgotten corners. The signora, desperate to sell, claimed it was an inherited burden."

Madame Dubois snorted. "Likely story!"

But Alicia, emboldened, continued. "There was a tear, near the clasp. The signora offered it for a song, and a skilled artisan made it whole again." She snapped the bag open, revealing the flawless repair.

Madame Dubois' eyes narrowed, but the artisan's work spoke volumes. "The receipt?"

Alicia faltered. "The signora… she didn't have one." It was a gamble, a truth stretched thin.

Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Finally, Madame Dubois sighed, defeated. "Very well. Perhaps you're right. But remember, Madame, not all designer bags hide dark secrets."

Alicia left, the bag lighter in her hand, the weight of suspicion heavier in her heart. The truth, a mysterious stranger's gift, a whispered story, and a tearful exchange, remained her secret, woven into the very fabric of the bag. The emerald shimmered, a silent reminder of the day she was accused, and the day her truth became a hidden treasure, as valuable as the crocodile skin itself.