The tension between England and France is at breaking-point. Sir Edmund has sent, in the name of the British Government, what amounts to an ultimatum. The President says: "We may give up Fashoda, but we must have an outlet on the Nile. If there can be no longer any question of conquest, we must at least be enabled to facilitate our 'pénétration commerciale.'... Surely, some kind of compromise is possible."
In the afternoon I go to the Chambre des Députés. A storm is brewing. As I reach the Palais Bourbon by the Boulevard Saint Germain I can see, and hear, on the Place de la Concorde, an immense, and howling, crowd.
The sitting cannot be considered as an historic one, but it certainly is noisy and sensational. Déroulède opens fire. Déroulède, who has more than once been called a modern Don Quixote, is an eminently sympathetic figure. One likes him because, first of all... he is typically French—a brave soldier, a poet, an ardent patriot, and a delightful madman to boot. He is by nature unable to do anything quietly. He would be a leader of men if he were not anxious to write a patriotic and popular epic, and he would be a great poet if he were not so keen on saving the country. He has been one of the very first advocates of an alliance with Russia, he has assisted the cause of Boulanger; he was elected a deputy at the elections last May. It seems hardly necessary to add that he is a Nationalist and a staunch Anti-Dreyfusard.
Déroulède speaks, and what he says may be reduced to these words: The Government is... rotten.
And now comes the turn of Chanoine, the Minister of War. He may be a first-class general, but he certainly is a third-rate orator and politician. In a stern manner, with a knitted brow and a sweeping gesture, he asserts that he has the same opinion as his predecessor in the Dreyfus case. The House applauds.... Then, he adds, with a wonderful instinct for doing the wrong thing: "I resign!"
The Prime Minister, the unfortunate and exhausted Brisson, declares that the "Government wishes to deliberate...." He returns with his colleagues—less Chanoine, of course—and tells the Chambre that a provisional War Minister will be appointed. A general discussion ensues.... Two-thirds of the House are obviously hostile to the Government. Brisson asks for the usual but often dangerous vote of confidence. The majority is against it and... the Cabinet falls.
I rush to the Elysée and give Félix Faure my impressions of an eventful sitting.... He tells me that General Chanoine, after announcing his resignation in the Chambre, came to hand it to him.
"Of course, I refused to receive him. He might at least have known that he should have sent in his resignation to the Prime Minister.... Between ourselves, I am rather pleased to be rid of Brisson. He makes an excellent President of the Chambre, for he is impartial, impressive and venerable, but as a Premier, or even as a Minister, he is quite hopeless, in spite of his integrity and his general knowledge of politics.... So here I am, looking once more for a man able to form a Cabinet. Four months ago I was doing the identical thing. To-morrow I shall summon the President and Vice-Presidents of the Chambre and the Senate. In any case I shall retain Delcassé for the portfolio of Foreign Affairs. We must at least have one man who knows his business in the Cabinet."
The mention of Delcassé inevitably leads back to Fashoda.
"The Sénégal has reached Marseilles, the President tells me. Sir Herbert Kitchener and Captain Baratier are on board!"
October 27th. "What about Baratier... and Marchand?" I ask Félix Faure.
"Baratier is closeted with Delcassé. Marchand will leave Fashoda for Cairo, where he will await the instructions of the Government. England is more impatient than ever."
October 28th-30th. The game is up.... Monson's attitude and words leave no room for hope of a conciliatory settlement.... Unless, of course, we evacuate Fashoda....
I have never seen Félix Faure so bitterly dejected. That vast African Empire was one of his most cherished dreams....
France will lose none of her prestige, but it is clear that she will give way.... Silently, we put together various documents, and work at the "Memoirs."
Dupuy, once a professor of philosophy, who has twice before been Prime Minister, has consented to form a Cabinet. De Freycinet, a civilian, becomes Minister of War. Dupuy is strongly in favour of the "Revision."... And Dupuy was Prime Minister when Dreyfus was condemned! Fate has strange whims.
November 1st-4th. Marchand has reached Cairo from Fashoda, Baratier has reached Cairo from Paris. France has "officially" given up Fashoda. The long-drawn-out crisis, during which war with England has been so near, is at an end.... The humiliation brings tears to Félix Faure's eyes.... "And yet, it was inevitable that we should yield. Our fleet is too inefficient, the White Nile is too far, our position at Fashoda was untenable, alas.... Delcassé has acted wisely. War is averted... are you satisfied?"
"You know I am; but I cannot help thinking of Marchand and his brave companions. What must be their feelings!"
November 12th. Marchand and Baratier leave Cairo for Fashoda. From there, they will go south to Sobat, and then travel eastward, through Abyssinia, to Jibuti, whence they will sail for France. At least, the humiliation of retreating through Egypt will be spared them. The relations between England and France are gradually becoming more normal. Monson and Delcassé met three days ago... after a separation which had lasted nearly two weeks!
November 15-30. The attention of France is entirely focussed on the Dreyfus affair and the Picquart trial. How General Zurlinden can seriously accuse the Colonel of being a forger and a traitor passes my understanding.
December 7th. Last night Sir Edmund Monson spoke at the Annual Banquet of the British Chamber of Commerce, held at the Hotel Continental.
Just as I am reading a report of the speech, the insolence of which is phenomenal, the President telephones:
"Have you ever heard of anything more arrogant, more improper, than Monson's speech? The Fashoda incident is closed, but because the Government intend organising some schools in the Sudan, Monson gives it an impudent lesson, and tells our Ministers what they must do.... And that... on French soil, in Paris! And he is an Ambassador!..."
"Yes, the Marquis of Dufferin was a different man."
We then talked about the political situation. Félix Faure still repudiates the thought of "Revision," though far less strongly than before the Henry tragedy.
In the evening we meet at the Opéra Comique. 'A spectacle de gala is given, as this was the opening night of the new building (the former Opéra Comique had been burned down several years before). The programme entirely devoted to French music, includes one act of Gounod's "Mireille," one of "Carmen," and one of Massenet's "Manon."
December 15th-31st. The news has come that Marchand left Fashoda on the eleventh. So the last scene of that poignant drama has been played....
The "Revision" is being discussed in the Chamber. The Cour de Cassation has telegraphed to a magistrate at Cayenne a list of questions which he is to put to Dreyfus.
January 1st, 1899-February 10th. The President puts in order a number of documents and notes relating to the Dreyfus and Fashoda affairs and sends them to me. I am laid up with peritonitis. My mother is staying with me. The Beaucourt estate was sold nearly two years ago, and she came to live in Paris, but I have had a villa built for my mother, close to the old home, and when I am better she will go back there and live once more in her dear Beaucourt. The President telephones to me two or three times a day.
Delcassé, on January 23rd, makes a remarkable speech in the Chamber on the Fashoda affair, in which he accepted full responsibility for all that took place, explaining that the Marchand "Mission" was the direct outcome of the Liotard expedition which he had himself organised when Minister of the colonies. The chief points of the speech are: Marchand started on his mission long before the Anglo-Egyptian army entered upon the conquest of the Sudan—France years before had made it clear that she did not recognise the "White Nile" valley as being in the sphere of British influence—France could not expose her fleet, army and prestige, in what would appear to the majority of nations as an "inexplicable adventure."
At the beginning of February, my younger sister marries. I am still very weak, but manage to attend the wedding. A day or two afterwards, I drive to the Elysée, where I remain a few minutes with Félix Faure. He shows me a letter from the Czar which Prince Urusoff handed to him an hour ago, and two paintings representing the arrival of the President at Kronstadt, also sent by the Russian Emperor.
The Dreyfus affair is proceeding in the same more or less illegal manner. The great struggle, however, is no longer between Dreyfusards and Anti-Dreyfusards, but between the Republic and the enemies of the Republic, between Radicals and Socialists on the one hand, and the "reactionaries, Royalists" and "Anti-Semites" on the other. All kinds of leagues are springing up. Early in January, François Coppée with Brunetière, the editor of La Revue des Deux Mondes, and others, found the Patrie Française league, which staunchly upholds the Army against all Dreyfusards.... There are constant rumours of military plots....
Here may be briefly stated the end of the Dreyfus affair. Brisson had remitted the case to the Cour de Cassation—which comprises three divisions (criminal court, civil court, and court of petitions). But when it became known that the criminal division which had charge of the appeal had found that there had been a gross miscarriage of justice, and would decide in favour of Revision, Dupuy proposed and made the Chamber accept a law by which the momentous decision was to be left to the three divisions. This was, of course, in the hope that in the whole court a majority would be found against Dreyfus.
February 10th, 1899. (President Faure died February 16th). The Cour de Cassation decided for a fresh trial by court-martial. Dupuy resigned (June). Dreyfus was brought back from Devil's Isle, was tried at Rennes, found guilty but with "extenuating circumstances," sentenced to ten years' imprisonment and recommended to mercy. A fantastic verdict. Captain Dreyfus was pardoned, set free and at last fully rehabilitated after having suffered so long for crimes evidently committed by others.
The Affaire Dreyfus was used by all parties to achieve their particular aims. Some used it to wage war against Semitism, some war against the Republic, others against Socialism, others against the Army, and yet others against Clericalism.... Hundreds of men found in it a way of achieving notoriety, or of satisfying their private ambitions. Thousands fished in troubled waters. The Duke of Orleans, heir to King Louis-Philippe, inundated the country with manifestoes, and Prince Victor Napoleon, with the faithful Marquis de Girardin, tried to work up some Bonapartist enthusiasm. Perhaps the strangest phenomenon of all in that strange time was the Anti-Dreyfusard attitude of the Jewish élite.... As for President Faure, it can only be said that he was absolutely sincere in his conviction of Dreyfus's guilt, in his belief that the court-martial which condemned the Captain had passed judgment according to their conscience, and had not exceeded their rights, and finally that France would be much worse for a "Revision" of the case. Events proved that he was wrong and that France is able to recover from blows and agitation which would cripple other nations less endowed with vitality, elasticity, and idealism.
The Dreyfus affair was President Faure's "nightmare," the Fashoda incident his "shattered dream." Before closing this chapter, the only one in the book dealing with politics, I must mention the treaty with Lord Salisbury wherein were defined the English and the French "sphere of influence" in the Niger region, and in which France gave up the Nile (March 1899).
And now, as I have reviewed the chief episodes of the Fashoda affair, a few words may be deemed necessary about the man who piloted the vessel of French Foreign Policy during that dangerous crisis, and who since then has revealed himself, on many other occasions, as a very able diplomatist and organiser.
Delcassé was Minister for Foreign Affairs for seven years, from 1898 till 1905—a momentous period in the history of modern France. In the most difficult and dangerous circumstances, Delcassé was always cool and collected, and no one could ever "read" this little dark, round-eyed man, with a moustache bristling out on either side like a cat's whiskers, who makes few gestures, never loses his temper, forces his interrogators to ask their question twice, and speaks only when he chooses... which is seldom. Félix Faure, who fully appreciated his great merits, used to say: "He is too trenchant and too secretive for my taste. His coolness is highly provoking. I cordially dislike him, and I am aware that he is not very fond of me; but I have the utmost confidence in his judgment, although this man of mystery is too much of an autocratic ruler. When he speaks in the Chamber, the deputies listen to him in religious silence, and he is the Minister who is questioned least. He has succeeded in making it generally understood that he does the right thing, in his own way, and that he must be left alone. He guides the destiny of the country, and he is—almost—the only one to know when France is on the brink of war.... But I cannot deny that he is a born diplomatist. Had Talleyrand or Metternich brought him up he would no doubt be rather more refined in manner and method, and have learned a little more subtlety, but I do not think he would have acquired much more authority or ability."
When, in 1905, he fell, because the German Emperor, who had just been dazzling Tangiers with Imperial pomp, and making France uneasy about the Moroccan problem, demanded the resignation of the one man whom he feared in France—the one man who did not fear him—no insult was spared Delcassé, who had rendered so many services to the country, had worked for the development of our colonies and the improvement of our navy, and had restored France to her rightful place in European diplomacy. Delcassé was now considered as a bellicose maniac who had twice humiliated the nation, at Fashoda, and in Morocco.
When, however, Delcassé became Minister of the Navy, his return to power was hailed with as much satisfaction as his fall. His pleasure at being back in office must have been heightened by his sense of humour, which is great.
CHAPTER VIII
THE MYSTERIOUS PEARL NECKLACE—THE
DEATH OF FÉLIX FAURE
PRESIDENT FAURE, during the summer of 1898, presented me with a pearl necklace, which afterwards played such a strange part in my life that I will relate the story of the gift and of what followed, with as many details as my memory can recall, for probably the necklace, as well as the President's papers, had something to do with the mysterious tragedy of the Impasse Ronsin.
On several occasions the President expressed the wish that I should accept a token of his warm friendship. He had already given me a brooch, made by Lalique, in the three French colours—a cornflower, a marguerite, and a poppy—and a comb by Lalique, which was a work of art, but so heavy that I seldom wore it. Félix Faure said one day: "Since that comb is of no use to you, you must allow me to offer you some pearls. I know a certain pearl necklace which is unique, and by purchasing it I shall be rendering a friend a very great service. You must promise to accept it, if only for that reason!"
The President gave me no further information about the necklace or his friend. Two or three days afterwards I was dining at the Elysée. Bonnat was among the President's guests, also M. Le Gall, "general secretary of the Elysée," and Major Lamy, a distinguished officer who was about to start on a dangerous mission in Africa. After dinner, I sang a number of songs, accompanying myself at the piano. Whilst turning the pages of the music, Félix Faure again mentioned the "surprise" he had in store for me. The next day, Major Lamy, whom I knew well, and who had often called on me, came to bid me good-bye. He was leaving France.... He carried a large bouquet, which he said the President begged me to accept. I undid the white wrapper, and found, amongst the orchids, a green jewel-case lined with white satin, and containing a large gold box. I had some trouble in unfastening the lid, and when at last it came open, the "surprise" fell on the floor; it was a marvellous necklace of five rows of pearls.
After Lamy had gone I wrote to the President that I could on no account accept such a sumptuous gift, and although the next day, when I called on him at the Elysée, he beseeched me with almost painful insistence to keep the pearls, I said I would return the necklace on my next visit to the Elysée.
Two days later the President sent for me. He was pale and perturbed, and restlessly paced his study.... It was clear that he had something of the highest importance to tell me, but could not make up his mind to speak. At last he began: "I am more distressed than you can imagine,... Something dreadful has happened.... It is about that necklace. I bought it from a friend, a man of the highest rank. I wished to help him out of a difficulty, and now I hear that, against my will, I am mixed up in a scandal which, if it were disclosed, would utterly ruin me.... I should have instantly to resign and even to leave the country. It is a most complicated and unheard-of affair. And yet, I bought the pearls to oblige that friend, who, of course, was no more aware than myself of the sudden complications which have arisen. He has been deceived... and I am lost if anything leaks out. I can tell you nothing more. I have not the right to discuss this terrible affair. No one must even know of it.... I entreat you to keep the necklace in your house. No one can ever suspect that you possess it. But you must not wear it at present, or show it to any one.... Has any of your friends or a member of your family seen it?"
"No... for as you know, I decided to return it to you; I could not wear it; it is too valuable. People would wonder where it came from.... Besides, there are not many such necklaces in the world. The pearls are so perfect and large...."
"Has any one asked you any questions?"
"Yes.... After a dinner yesterday, M. B., the Attorney-General, asked me casually if it were true that 'I had been presented with a £20,000 necklace.'... The figure startled me, also the fact that M. B. should have heard about the pearls. But I replied that I was not young enough to listen to fairy tales, and the Attorney-General remarked: 'I thought the tale was not true.'... And now," I added, "I shall drive home and return the pearls to you. I intended to do so in any case, but after what you have just told me, it is impossible for me to keep them an hour longer. I only wish I had brought them with me."
Félix Faure turned ghastly pale: "Do you wish to ruin me? Must I be dragged into a scandal that may lead to calamities such as I cannot even bear to think of? I beseech you to keep them. You risk absolutely nothing. When I am no longer President things may alter in time, and I may find a way out of the difficulty.... The pearls are yours, keep them, but if you ever wish to get rid of them, sell them one by one...."
"You frighten me.... Can I not know the story of the necklace?"
"It is impossible. Don't ask me any questions...."
I was angry. I longed to know the truth. I wanted to know who had laid a trap for the President and his friend "of the highest rank." I suggested that the necklace had belonged to some lady, who, in need of a large sum of money, had sold it, and that her husband, an important personage, noticing the disappearance of the pearls had threatened to make a scandal....
The President smiled bitterly...: "Would that that were the truth! For in that case, I should have at once told you everything, asked you for the pearls, and returned them to the lady.... And you would have allowed me to replace the necklace by some other jewel.... No, alas, it is not that. The friend in question is a man.... And the secret is his more than it is mine."
"Perhaps," I went on, "the necklace was stolen! The important personage, your friend, acquired it without knowing that. Then he gambled, lost heavily, and sold the pearls to you? Perhaps they are blackmailing him...!"
"No, no.... In that case, too, the simplest thing would be to hand back the pearls...."
"Is it a royal jewel?" I asked. "Would the scandal be a diplomatic one?..."
Félix Faure replied: "You are utterly wrong, and I swear that I cannot, must not, tell you the truth.... I am a man of the world and ever since I discovered what I did, I have been looking for a way out of this unspeakable catastrophe that threatens my friend, myself, and... others, perhaps others, if the story of the necklace becomes known. There is but one way of avoiding all trouble, you must keep these pearls."
"And if I refuse?"
The President looked me straight in the eyes. His lips were trembling and his face was distorted. "For God's sake, don't do that!" he said.
His distress was so evident that I ceased to question him. For an hour I tried to forget the necklace, and I sorted various papers that might be useful for the "Memoirs." Before leaving the Elysée, however, I could not refrain from talking once more about the pearls.
"I cannot solve this problem, and it irritates me beyond expression. I know you are incapable of anything dishonest, and I am sure you would never drag me into anything that might harm me. Still, why could you not entrust the necklace to some one else?"
"Because I trust no one else as much as I do you."
"Why not hide it here?"
"It might be found."
"Why not destroy it, bury it, throw it in the Seine?"...
"I might be seen. Any one doing such a thing might be seen. Besides, why throw away a small fortune, when in a few months' time the storm may have blown over, matters may have been adjusted in some miraculous way, and you can wear the necklace, or sell it. I have paid for it; it is yours now. There is nothing irregular.... Only, it so happened that there would be a great scandal—even something worse than scandal—if it were known that I, President of the Republic, and the 'personage' I have told you of, were concerned in this necklace affair, though only in a perfectly innocent manner. And now, I beg you, do please let the pearls rest in safety in your house, and if you can, never mention them to me again until I am able to tell you that all danger is over."
All this was spoken with such earnestness and gravity that I gave up trying to solve the mystery... that day.
Many and many a time afterwards, I asked the President if he would take the necklace from me. I told him what anxiety it caused me, not so much on account of its value as because of the mystery attached to it.... But his reply was ever the same: "Forget that necklace. It is yours. If you have any friendship for me, don't speak to me about it.... You run no risks whatever.... All will soon be well...."
Shortly after the President's death I found out that that was not so.
During the morning of February 16th, 1899, M. Le Gall, "general secretary" at the Elysée, telephoned to me to say that the President was most anxious to see me. I replied that I would call the next day, because I was not very well, and, besides, I had promised Bonnat to sit for my portrait, during the afternoon. Bonnat had given up all his appointments in order to get on with the portrait which, owing to my illness, had not been touched for many weeks. I did not intend to call at the Elysée afterwards, because sitting to a painter is rather fatiguing, especially when one has only just recovered from a serious illness.
THE GOLD BOX IN WHICH PRESIDENT FAURE
SENT ME THE PEARL NECKLACE
I lunched at home. Just as I was about to sit at the table the telephone bell rang, and I was told that the President himself wished to speak to me. Would I kindly hang on? A few seconds after I heard the voice of Félix Faure: "I must see you at all costs to-day; I wish to hand you something.... I don't feel quite myself.... By the way, I have noticed, these past few days, that you were quite right in your suspicions. Some one has been rummaging amongst my private papers. It is essential that you should fetch those I have had to write without you lately."
He stopped to catch his breath, and then continued: "I thought you looked very pale when you last came here.... But if you can manage to sit for your portrait at Bonnat's, you ought to try to give me a few minutes."
I replied: "If I don't feel too tired I will come, just for a moment, to take the papers you talk about and to beseech you to look more seriously after your health. You, too, looked quite out of sorts at the Elysée...."
His voice was different from his usual voice; it was weak, lacked clearness. I told him so, and he remarked: "You are right; this affaire is killing me. I have more enemies than ever before, and then, during your absence, I have lived too well, perhaps...."
He seemed to hesitate, and finally repeated: "Do come this afternoon, I entreat you...."
After lunch I went to Bonnat. During the afternoon the telephone bell rang, and I was told that the President absolutely insisted that I should call on him soon without fail.... I am sure he must have been at the Elysée at the time, and I cannot see, therefore, how the President could have become suddenly ill at the house of a friend, that afternoon, and have been hurriedly driven back to the Elysée in a landau, as certain papers declared afterwards. At any rate, if Félix Faure went out that afternoon, he never told me, when I met him....
After the sitting I felt tired, and made up my mind not to go to the Elysée. Outside, however, I remembered the insistence of the President and drove to the Palace. I entered by the door in the Rue du Colisée. I saw the President standing at the open window near the little waiting-room. Blondel, his private secretary, was with him. I was very much struck by the President's pallor. It was not dark yet; it must have been about five o'clock.
As soon as I entered, he said to me, whilst Blondel politely withdrew: "There is something wrong with me. Ah! why have you not been around me all these days? I have lost control of myself.... I am so tired of all these intrigues and hopeless complications in the Dreyfus case. I have tried to forget my worries, and have been taking a great deal of that drug... which I ought never to touch. I have done so even this afternoon."
He seemed to conceal something from me, probably a visit which he dared not confess to me.
The blue petit salon, where he usually received me, and where we always wrote his memoirs, was in the hands of the decorators. So he took me to a room where I had never been before, close to M. Le Gall's study. To my great surprise, M. Le Gall was not in, but the faithful Blondel was sitting in the study. The door leading to it was open, for the President complained that he could not breathe easily, and wanted as much air as possible. I was not too alarmed, for, though unusually pale, the President did not look worse than I had seen him look on other occasions, a few hours after he had been indulging in that favourite—and dangerous—drug of his.
"I really must look after my health," he said, "and give up this 'poison.'... And then, I must try to be fit for the great ball we are so soon to have here."
I asked him how he had used his time that day, and he told me that he had received a few important personages... and also a lady friend who had done her utmost to influence him in regard to the Dreyfus affair. I knew her well, and the President had told me more than once that this lady was most anxious that her husband should become a Minister.
Suddenly the President exclaimed: "I am stifling.... I feel dizzy." I called Blondel. After a while the President said: "It will be all right.... I shall be all right in a minute."
Blondel and I helped him to walk to the door of his study. The President looked a little better now. Turning to me he said: "The trouble is over; I am going to rest a little.... I'll take no more of that wretched drug, I promise you—I swear it.... Make yourself beautiful for the ball; I have sent you the tickets you asked for. I'll telephone to you to-morrow morning. Promise me to come to-morrow morning to the Bois with Marthe if the weather is as splendid as it is to-day." Then, seeing I was not carrying the bundle of documents he had asked me to take home, he added: "Don't forget the parcel... au revoir...."
Thereupon he entered his study, unassisted.
I walked to the little waiting-room with Blondel and took the parcel of papers. Blondel accompanied me to the door. But as I did not wish the President to remain alone on account of his ill-health, and because M. Le Gall was not there, I said to Blondel: "Don't trouble to let me out. I will leave the Elysée by the main door. Please hurry back to the President, for he seems far from well. It would be wise, perhaps, to send for a doctor...."
I left the Palace by the main gate in the Rue Saint Honoré. As soon as I was outside I realised that I was being shadowed as I had been so often before. But my faithful "agent" was there. I walked along the Avenue Marigny, reached the Champs Elysée, and called a fiacre. It was about six o'clock when I reached the Impasse Ronsin.
Towards midnight (I had been in bed for some time), I was awakened by the bell of the telephone in my room. It was M. Bordelongue, a director in the Ministry of Postes et Telegraphes, and an old friend.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
And then I heard the news, the dreadful news: "The President is dead."
I could not believe what I heard. "It's impossible," I exclaimed. "I saw him to-day. He was tired, weak, upset, but there seemed to be nothing particularly wrong with his health." I asked Bordelongue all kinds of questions, but he merely replied: "Nothing is known. They say the President died of an apoplectic stroke."
The next morning at six o'clock I was told that my faithful "agent" wished to see me on a matter of importance. This "agent" did not belong to the Sûreté, or to the Ministry of the Interior, but was a private detective who had been specially selected and appointed by Félix Faure to keep guard over me wherever I went, and see that no harm befell me. (It should be remembered that during the Dreyfus affair Paris was in such a state of blind excitement and mad passion that in order to know the doings of certain persons, detectives were everywhere engaged. Indeed, before Félix Faure's mysterious death, France lived in conditions which reminded one to some extent of those that prevailed in Venice in the dreaded days of the Council of Ten.)
I guessed what the man came about, so I hastily dressed and met him.
"Ah! Madame, I see you know the news.... There's some mystery in the President's death. They say he died of congestion of the brain, but I hear his agony lasted several hours. Madame Faure and her daughter only came at the last moment.... I am myself being shadowed, and it will be better if I do not call again.... But you know my address and if at any time I can be of some use to you I beseech you to apply to me."
The man was deeply moved, and so was I. I had lost my best friend; he had lost a good master.... I never saw him again except on one occasion. That was ten years later, a few days after the murder of my husband and my mother. I was lying dangerously ill in bed at Count d'Arlon's house, when a card was brought to me with a name which I did not know, and I was about to refuse to see the person who had sent up the card when I recognised the handwriting of a few hastily scribbled words which begged me to receive the writer. The "agent" of Félix Faure's days entered my room, but I almost failed to recognise him, so cleverly had he disguised himself.
"Forgive me for intruding, Madame," he muttered, "but I thought it was my duty to tell you this. As soon as you are well enough to travel, leave Paris. Go anywhere in the country and try to forget the awful tragedy. At any rate, move not a finger, whatever happens. Somehow, I think the murderers will never be found. I daresay you will have no peace until they are arrested. But I beseech you to do nothing ... for, whatever you may do, those who killed your mother and your husband will not be arrested. The death of M. Steinheil and Mme. Japy will remain as mysterious as that of President Faure."
CHAPTER IX
AFTER PRESIDENT FAURE'S DEATH: THE
DOCUMENTS—THE NECKLACE
I HAD been seriously ill for six weeks and had only just recovered when the death of Félix Faure occurred. The shock caused a relapse, and I was unable to attend the President's funeral, which took place on Thursday, February 23rd.
I had lost a great friend, and France a great patriot. It was said that President Faure was a lighthearted optimist, that he had no control worth speaking of over the various political parties striving around him, and finally that he was a mere figure-head, a chief of State, but not a statesman—an ornamental President rather than a man of great ideas or a man of action.
It cannot be denied that Félix Faure was astoundingly fortunate and that when he saw that things always "went well" with him, he became almost irritatingly self-confident and was perhaps inclined to be fastidious in the performance of his Presidential duties. He loved pageantry, and he revelled in the pomp and circumstance of his office, especially when he came in close contest with a King or an Emperor. He looked the part of "The First Magistrate of the Country" to perfection, being tall, handsome, refined in manner, and dignified to the verge of aloofness. But he had many worthy qualities: he was endowed with much common sense—a quality which too many lacked in France during the time of the Affaire Dreyfus—and he was an ardent—a zealous, patriot. He had a rare gift of sympathy, and there can be no doubt that he considerably increased the prestige of France during his Presidency, in spite of his inexplicable attitude in the Dreyfus affair, in spite of the Fashoda humiliation, and in spite of Zola's letter, "I accuse," and the fierce attacks of Clémenceau, Reinach, Jaurès, and many others. He had more enemies than any President ever had, including Declassé, himself another staunch Dreyfusard, in whose talents as a diplomatist he had such confidence. Félix Faure had bitter enemies not only in the Cabinets which succeeded one another with such "eloquent" rapidity during his Presidency, but even in his own entourage at the Elysée.
INVITATION TO THE FELIX FAURE "IN MEMORIAM" SERVICE
He loved the army. He had fought bravely during the war with Germany; he believed in the absolute righteousness of the court-martial which tried Dreyfus, and he did his utmost to prevent a "Revision" of the trial. He was a downright honest and sincere man, and believed he was working for the greatness of the country he loved so ardently.
Human malignity knows no limit or pity. Less than twenty-four hours after the death of the President, a number of newspapers coolly suggested that Félix Faure had been poisoned by a certain Protestant friend of his, a Mme. S. Others said by an actress whose name began with S, and others by a Jewish lady. But they mostly pointed to me as the murderess of Félix Faure, although in very cautious and veiled terms, and without ever giving my name. I had called at the Elysée during the afternoon of February 16th. The whole tragedy seemed quite clear... to certain people. I had been appointed by some secret committee of Dreyfusards, on account of the President's sympathy for me, to "suppress" the man who was supposed to be the great stumbling block in the way of the "Revision." Being ill and worn, I had no inclination to read the newspapers during those days, and might always have ignored those shameless rumours, but hundreds of kind souls sent me the cuttings containing the venomous allusions, and at the same time, shoals of anonymous letters reached me, in which assassin, poisoner, Lucretia, and Brinvilliers were perhaps the least cruel and offensive epithets hurled at me. Certain writers declared that if I had not killed the President, at least I knew when he died and who had killed him, and that dire calamities would befall me unless I revealed the name. A few letters mentioned the papers of Félix Faure, and said that if I knew where they were and could obtain possession of them, I ought to publish them, because their publication would serve the purposes of the Anti-Dreyfusards to which party I no doubt belonged, since my great friend the President had never shown any sympathy with the champions of the "traitor." Other letters entreated me to serve the Dreyfusards by burning such documents as might compromise their cause, whilst others, also originating from Dreyfusards, suggested that I should hand the papers to "So-and-so," who would examine them and decide which ought to be published.... And each letter ended with vile threats if I did not follow the anonymous writer's advice!...
In those painful hours, the trust and sympathy of a number of friends, Bonnat the chief amongst them, helped me to overcome the shame which oppressed me. I received tactful messages of sincere sympathy from hundreds of persons who had been revolted by this infamous press campaign. There also came a charming letter from Mlle. Lucie Faure, to whom I had sent my condolences on the death of her beloved father, at the same time promising to assist her, as in the past, in her charitable works, especially the "Fraternal Legion of the Children of France."
But all these messages of sympathy did not put an end to the insinuations in certain journals. The very horror of them gave me strength. I forgot my physical sufferings and went from one magistrate to another among my acquaintances. All told me that since my name was not mentioned it would be impossible to prosecute the offending papers, and that since the letters I received were anonymous, and written either in capitals or with the left hand, it would be most difficult to trace those who had sent them to me. True, one newspaper had mentioned the "wife of a painter," but there were scores of married painters whose name began with the letter S. The only wise policy was for me to ignore all insults and threats. The absurd rumours would soon die out, and the anonymous letters would soon cease to reach me. Besides it was, all of it, simply an indirect result of the Dreyfus agitation which aroused the worst passions and caused some men to stop at nothing.
I consulted M. P., a "State Councillor," and an old friend of mine about the documents. Should I keep them, send them to Mme. Faure, or destroy them?
M. P. hesitated, and at last replied: "If the papers were in my possession and had been entrusted to me by the late President, I do not think I should venture to destroy them. They might be useful.... But I should certainly hide them in a safe place at home.... By the way, who, besides me, knows that you wrote those memoirs with the President, and that they are in your possession?"
"It is difficult to answer. There are a few persons who saw Félix Faure writing with me at the Elysée, and on a few occasions I have been followed when leaving the Palace with a bundle of papers under my arm...."
"Evidently some indiscretion has been committed. But I should not take any notice. The President was perfectly free to write the more or less 'secret' story of the Third Republic, and with whomsoever he chose. He was at liberty to entrust those papers to your care or to give them to you, and you are fully entitled to keep them.... At any rate, I should keep them if I were you."
The next morning my valet came to say that M. Blondel (Félix Faure's private secretary) wished to see me. I had just received a further batch of anonymous letters and felt greatly depressed. M. Blondel, who had been so devoted to the President and so kind to me, tried to calm me, and then said: "Let me tell you what happened after your departure from the Elysée on the fatal day, and give the President's final message to you.... The President sat in his study and felt much better. I sent, however, as I had promised you, for a doctor.... There was one at the Elysée. He came, and found the President very weak, but not, he thought, in any danger. After the doctor had left the room, the President, to my intense surprise, said: 'If I feel worse, or if, as Dr. Potain has often warned me, I die suddenly, I want you to see that the talisman, which she gave me and which I always wear, be handed back to Mme. Steinheil.' Shortly afterwards he began to feel bad again, and a priest was sent for. It was then about seven o'clock, I think. After he had received the priest he handed me the talisman and whispered: 'I think I am lost.... Let all those who cared for me forgive my enemies as I forgive them myself....' Other doctors came; then Mme. Faure and her daughters.... Forgive me if I give you no more details. It would be too painful for you—and for me."
I had designed the talisman myself at the request of Félix Faure. It was a gold locket bearing the initials F. F. upon a diamond anchor, and was set with tiny pearls, rubies and sapphires to recall the tricolour. The word engraved upon the anchor, a friendly term, was in Russian, because the President liked everything that recalled his visit to St. Petersburg and the Alliance with Russia.
Having placed the locket in a drawer, I returned to M. Blondel and said: "Tell me the truth. You know what tragic rumours were abroad in Paris like wild-fire, soon after the death of the President. How is it then, that, if there was any suspicion of foul play, there was no autopsy? The Journal Officiel said: 'The President of the Republic died yesterday at 10 P.M., struck down with apoplexie foudroyante.' How could you reconcile that official statement of sudden death with what you have just told me; at seven o'clock the President already thought himself dying and sent for a priest. Why was there no autopsy?..."
"Because it was the wish of Mme. Faure, and the Premier himself agreed."
M. Blondel was deeply moved, and I shared his emotion. I realised that he could not say anything more, or had nothing more to say.... And we parted....
The mystery of Félix Faure's death thus remained unsolved. I have more than once tried to solve it, but in vain. My opinion, however, is this: The President, as he himself admitted on the last time I saw him, had taken, or was given, that afternoon, and long before my flying visit to him, a large dose of his dangerous "remedy." He had often been warned that it might one day prove fatal—and it did.
It is a terrible thing to have to say, but when, a few months after the murder of my husband and my mother, I was arrested and imprisoned, the infamous accusations against me concerning the President's death were again circulated. When my counsel told me so I insisted upon a full inquiry into the matter, and M. Albanel, the judge, was appointed.... He made the fullest possible investigations and, I need hardly add, I was completely exonerated.
On the evening of the day after the funeral of President Faure, my husband came into my room, and closed the door carefully. He was trembling and pale. "You know," he began, "that we agreed, years ago, that, although living under the same roof, you and I should be entirely free to act as we pleased. We further agreed to discuss all matters of importance by letter.... But this time, I must speak to you. Something terrible has happened to-day, and we must talk about it and see how to save ourselves from disaster.... A man called on me and was with me for two hours in the studio.... Now, tell me, is it true that you possess a mass of important papers written by the late President, and is it true that you possess a most valuable pearl necklace? I know that Félix Faure presented you with a comb and a brooch, but what of those pearls? And what is the truth about the documents?"
I remained silent. My husband went on:
"The man, who talks French with a strong German accent, states that a number of times he saw you leave the Elysée with bundles of papers in your hands. On one occasion the President accompanied you to the garden-door, and before closing it said to you: 'Be careful with the documents.' As for the necklace, he has given me an exact description of it, he has told me the number of the pearls, their size and weight.... He says he must and will have the documents and the necklace, but he wants the necklace first. He knows its origin and history. If you keep it, you and I and Marthe will be ruined, he says. All kinds of dangers are threatening us. He knows the scandal in which Félix Faure was unwittingly involved, and says you must know that the matter is of the greatest gravity. If you give up the necklace, no harm will befall us, and the horrible insinuations in the newspapers will at once cease. Otherwise our position will become untenable.... He has said enough to make me realise that he speaks the truth. The man is no impostor. Indeed, the whole affair is so dreadful that if you don't hand me the pearls, I give you my word of honour that I shall commit suicide!"
I was dumfounded. Still, I managed to say: "That German is a rogue. He has discovered some facts about the friendship between the late President and me, and he wants to blackmail us... and obtain the necklace, the documents, which may be turned into money, and everything we possess."
"No," my husband replied, "he is not anxious to blackmail us, if he can obtain what he wants otherwise. As a matter of fact he is willing to buy the pearls row by row, or even pearl by pearl. But he demanded that the necklace shall never be shown or mentioned. He does not want it to be recognised, and therefore will buy at once a number of the pearls and the clasp. But the necklace must be unstrung."
"It is all very strange," I said. "The whole affair sounds like blackmail and at the same time the man seems anxious to shield some one...."
"Yes, it is strange.... But if you don't yield to him to-morrow, and hand him at least some of the pearls and swear that he shall have the others, in time, he will do his worst, and I know enough to realise what the worst would be.... Now, what do you decide?"
I did not hesitate very long. I remembered the President's fear when he besought me to keep the necklace. Also I had had but little peace since those fatal pearls were in my possession....
"I will talk to the man myself, and hand him some of the pearls...."
MY HUSBAND, M. STEINHEIL, IN 1898
"You will not see him. He came this morning only because he knew you were ill in bed; otherwise he would have made some appointment with me.... He will be here to-morrow. What shall I tell him?"
I fetched the necklace, unstrung the pearls—selected ten amongst the largest—and handed my husband the others.
"Do as you please with these," I said. "And tell that German that I shall keep these ten pearls.... Some day I may want the money that they will fetch."
The next day I heard that the man "allowed" me to keep the ten pearls, but first my husband had to swear in my name that if I ever decided to sell them, it should be to him, the German. One out of the five rows of pearls was "sold" to that mysterious individual, and the veiled libels in the newspapers ceased as if by enchantment!
Was it mere coincidence, or had the man really some power? Or had that scandalous press campaign been more or less directly his own work? Had he used it to intimidate me?
At any rate, the enigmatical German kept his promises. My husband, who had an abject fear of him, kept the pearls in his studio, and the German, who came every three or four months, insisted on seeing the pearls and then bought a few of them. He always managed to call when I was not at home, but once or twice I saw him leave the villa in the Impasse just as I entered it. He was small and dark, and had a very Jewish nose. It was winter when I saw him, and the collar of his overcoat was turned up to his ears. It was quite evident that he did not wish his face to be seen.
My husband corresponded secretly with the man, and sold, through the latter's agency, a number of pictures to various persons in Germany. The whole matter was so strange that I repeatedly attempted to drag from my husband all that he knew. I had an impression that he was aware of the origin of the necklace, and that there were some clauses in his compact with the man of which he had not acquainted me. But whenever I mentioned the German he at once ran away and shut himself up in his studio.
Two or three years after the death of Félix Faure I looked into the drawer in which the pearls were kept and found they had all gone, except, of course, the ten which I had put aside.
A few days later my husband said to me: "The 'German' has been again. His attitude has changed for the worse. He now demands the ten large pearls you have kept, and also the papers of President Faure."
I refused point blank. The pearls I kept in reserve, for some unforeseen emergency. As for the documents, I would sooner have burned them, in spite of their importance and of the memories attached to them, than hand them to that German who might have used them for Heaven knew what dangerous purpose.
"What did he say when you gave him my reply?" I asked my husband after the man had called.
"He said he could afford to wait... but he would gain his ends, 'in time.'"
A few weeks later, having finished some work I had been doing on a historical costume which my husband needed for a painting, representing a sixteenth-century nobleman reading by a window—the picture was intended for the salon—I went up to the studio. An old Italian model, a man called Giganti, was there.
"Monsieur went out for a while, and told me to wait for him, Madame.... He seemed rather upset...."
"What about?"
"Oh! He said he had lost a 'political paper.'..."
It then occurred to me that during the past few days my husband had been somewhat strange and embarrassed in his manner. We had a conversation about the "political paper," and he finally admitted that he "had mislaid a letter of President Faure...."
"I can guess what has happened," I said. "That man came again and demanded from you a proof that the documents were still in our possession. You had to show them to him, and one dropped... which the man promptly seized, no doubt, and as the letters are numbered you discovered when examining them that one had disappeared. Those papers are not safe in your studio. Give them back to me."
He readily consented, and I hid it in the "secret" drawer of my writing-table, after having carefully looked through the documents and found that none was missing, except the "mislaid" letter, which was, however, written in a cypher known only to the President and myself.
During the years that followed, the mysterious foreigner continued to call, and, as the reader will learn, did so until a few weeks before the murder of my husband and my mother in 1908. I am inclined to believe that the necklace was a crown jewel which, by a series of strange events, came into the possession of President Faure. That the "German" should have spent so much time in exacting the pearls seems strange, but it has occurred to me that the man was playing a double game, blackmailing not only us—I doubt if M. Steinheil was ever paid for the pearls—but also the personage who was so anxious to recover them. By giving them up a few at a time, he naturally kept that personage longer in his power.
As for the way in which the necklace came into the President's possession, I take it that some foreign... Prince, with whom perhaps, for political reasons, he ought not to have been on intimate terms, had very probably lost heavily to him at a secret gambling party. Félix Faure was paid with the necklace instead of in cash, owing to the temporary financial embarrassment of his illustrious friend. The latter then, to his horror, found out the origin of the necklace and that it had been stolen—for it seemed to me that there had probably been a robbery. If the truth had leaked out, both the President and his friend would have been involved in a scandal of such far-reaching political consequences that perhaps a war might have resulted. In their consternation, they agreed to deny all knowledge of the necklace, hence the agitation of the President, who had already given me the pearls and who two days later begged me to hide them and on no account to wear them.
The "foreigner" was probably a professional blackmailer, and when he found that nothing more was to be done with the pearls and that his livelihood from that source was gone, sought to turn to his advantage the knowledge which he had gained from my husband (always too ready to give his confidence to any one who posed as his friend) of Félix Faure's documents.
I earnestly hope that some day the mystery will be solved. My theory may then be found wanting in certain particulars, but I believe that, on the whole, it will seem, to the reader, the most plausible.
CHAPTER X
1899-1908
M. ÉMILE LOUBET, President of the Senate, followed Félix Faure as President of the Republic on February 18th, 1899. As every one knows, stones were showered upon the new President as he passed on his way from Versailles, where the "Congress" had elected him, to the station where he entrained for Paris. He was called "Panama the First"—though he had had nothing to do with the Panama frauds—insulted and besmirched as few men have been. I was only a few yards from M. Loubet at the Auteuil Steeplechase Meeting (June), when young Baron Christiani smashed the top hat of the President and almost hit with his stick the wife of the Italian Ambassador, Countess Tornielli. But M. Loubet never flinched, and he weathered the storm till it abated. Some have called this cowardice; I would rather call it heroism—of a kind.
Besides the highly important and final developments in the Dreyfus affair—which have been summed up in another chapter—and its truly amazing epilogue, that is, the complete and rapid way in which France recovered from the terrible crisis and emerged serene and vigorous, there happened little worth referring to during the year 1899. There were, however, a few amazing interludes. The poet Déroulède seized the bridle of the horse of General Roget, a staunch Anti-Dreyfusard, on the day of President Faure's funeral, and ordered him to march with his troops on to the Elysée—another coup that failed. Déroulède was arrested, but the Court of Assize acquitted him on May 31st. There were many comical conspiracies and many comical trials of conspirators; there were constant riots in Paris and elsewhere, all more noisy than alarming; there were thousands of Socialists with red button-holes in search of Royalists with white button-holes... and they never met. And there was the farce of the "Fort" Chabrol (a house in the Rue Chabrol, where the Anti-Semitic League had offices), which garrisoned by Jules Guérin, the secretary of the League, and a few friends, held five thousand soldiers at bay for nearly two months. Guérin and other heroes of the fort, and also Déroulède, were tried by the Senate transformed into "High Court," and were sentenced to ten years' banishment....
Afterwards things gradually quieted down. Dupuy had fallen and Waldeck-Rousseau had succeeded him as Premier. He was an able barrister and authoritive statesman who had held office in the strenuous days of Gambetta and Jules Ferry.
In May 1900, however, there was one more amusing incident. At the Paris Municipal Elections a huge majority of Nationalists and "Anti-Semites" were returned.... But then Paris was ever "in the opposition" and Parisians have ever been frondeurs.
The 1900 Exhibition brilliantly terminated the century. La Belle France, who was thoroughly tired of riots, "leagues," and agitations, had once more become quite peaceful and "respectable," as befitted a lady who was about to receive a number of sovereigns (including the Czar and his Empress, who came in 1901).
France is logical, although fond of Paradox—and practical—although, hasty, violent, quixotic, and ever in search of the truth.... And France respects Authority, although she tries to call herself socialistic, whereas she is merely democratic.
King Edward VII. came to France at the beginning of May 1908, that is, not quite a year after the end of the Boer War, and he was greeted in such a way that he might have been entitled to say: "I am the most popular man in France."
This was partly due to his almost abnormal gift of sympathy and partly to the well-known French readiness to swing round to a new opinion. Boer victories had been hailed with shouts of mad exultation, and English successes with groans of agony and fury, but the French became pro-English the instant King Edward landed in France. There was a dinner at the British Embassy, and President Loubet and several celebrities, including my friend Bonnat, attended. The Entente Cordiale was already talked of.
King Edward came to France exactly two years later, in May 1905, and for the first time there were cries in Paris of "Vive l'Angleterre" and "Vive le Roi." To shout "Long live the King" is just the sort of thing that Republicans of France love to do!
In March 1906 King Edward came once more to France, incognito this time, and travelling as the Duke of Lancaster. Fallières had then succeeded Loubet as President of the Republic. That year Paris received visits from a number of Members of Parliament, from members of the London County Council, and from the Lord Mayor, whose gilded coach and portly coachman took the Parisians by storm.... And the Entente Cordiale gradually increased in vitality and sincerity until it became an important factor in the equilibrium of Europe.
During those years the "separation" of Church and State was carried out and afterwards Anti-Clericalism subsided. A mention must also be made of the "Confédération Générale du Travail"—a kind of federation of trade unions—born in January 1908. This C.G.T., a child of Socialism, very soon broke from the parent, cultivated strikes, and showed from the first that its aim is social revolution, though it is not clear what the C.G.T. dictators would do after the social revolution had taken place. Syndicalism, so far, can hardly be called "popular."
In January 1906 M. Fallières—simple, solid, and safe—succeeded Loubet as President of the Republic, and the same year Clémenceau, unscrupulous but extremely able and so intensely picturesque, became Prime Minister. Whatever may be thought of him as a statesman, he, at any rate, did one great thing. He gave France confidence in herself at a critical moment. That was in November 1908. In 1905 Declassé had had to go because the German Emperor wished it. That was after the "Imperial" landing in Morocco. In November 1908 Clémenceau refused to obey Germany, who had asked for an apology in regard to the Casablanca incident. Ever since that France has seemed to be once more sure of her strength, and, without embarking upon any very great adventure, has shown much firmness and purpose in her foreign policy.
As soon as I was well enough after my illness and shock I threw open the doors of my salon.
I went through a difficult time. The great majority of my acquaintances had read what the papers said, and knowing that my husband and I frequently went to the Elysée, they had no difficulty in guessing who was meant by "Madame S.," or "the wife of the well-known painter."... Not one of them, of course, was so tactless as to refer to the matter... but my friends had friends who insisted upon being introduced to me. And so to my receptions there came scores of amiable persons of both sexes, who gazed at me, looked me up and down, and studied me as if I were an object of great curiosity. I had the courage to take no notice whatever of this, and I faced it unflinchingly, although the ordeal was painful; for I knew well enough that these good people had not come with any goodwill towards me in their hearts, but rather to see one whom they looked upon as the latest "fatal woman," as a Delilah or Judith up-to-date. I smiled on them all, as I had in the past, and sang and played to them in the old way.
The ordeal was worse when I went to other houses. When I entered a crowded drawing-room all eyes were turned on me and a sudden hush fell, wrapping me as in my cloak. Then, as host and hostess greeted me, a strange murmur arose and went up and down the room in little gusts, that broke now from this brilliant group of men and women and now from that, and I felt that all this whispering was about me. There were many healthy-minded women and honest men who took my part and defended me, but I soon realised that it was beyond them to convince my enemies, and still less the sceptics and the cynics.... In Paris scepticism and cynicism are a fashionable pose, under which people too often hide the noble principles and generous thoughts which would more truly express their nature and true characters. I, therefore, determined to conquer one by one, not only my enemies, but also those in whose eyes I could read a poor opinion of me. It was an ardent, almost a titanic task, but in time I succeeded. And many of those who had spoken lightly of me, or had thought me a "fatal" person, became my most devoted friends.... It was a trying time, but I lived through it and won in the end—thanks, of course, to the fact that not a word of those calumnies was true, and also to my mother's devotion and to my little Marthe's tender love. My mother looked after me in that pretty way that children often have; and, on the other hand, my little daughter, now a tiny mite of eight, was almost maternal in her solicitude for me.
Why was I so anxious to return to my old position among the men and women of Paris?... Because my reputation was at stake. Whether I liked it or not, whether the task was feasible or almost impossible, I had to battle and conquer. And I did conquer. Calumny, the most elusive and dangerous enemy that woman may have to face, was routed... and some six months after the death of President Faure my receptions were more largely attended than ever. I had tested all those who claimed to be my friends, and found they were sincere. In official circles my influence had not waned, and I was able to render service to many as in the past.
My mother had settled down for good in her pretty châlet at Beaucourt, but she frequently came to Paris and stayed either at the house of my younger sister, or with me in the Impasse Ronsin.
My relations with my husband were what they had been for years. We were good comrades, and I did my utmost to make his life a pleasant and comfortable one. I spent much of my time in the studio. He felt much older than his fifty years and needed much coaxing and encouraging to work. His technique as a painter had marvellously improved, but more and more he lacked imagination, and time after time I suggested to him subjects for his pictures, and advised him in matters of "composition" and "grouping," of backgrounds and atmosphere. Our life, after all, was not abnormal. There are thousands of married couples in Paris who live apart, and yet remain the best of partners and friends....
From 1899 to 1908 my husband painted many portraits—delicate miniatures in oils which were not only works of art, but subtle, psychological studies; although I believe he never realised this himself. Several persons came from Germany to visit the studios and buy pictures, and my husband told me they had been sent by the mysterious foreigner.
But they always came when I was not at home. The pictures disappeared from the studio, however, and I know that my husband had received payment for them. He obviously did not care to talk about these clients, and I was not in the least anxious to find out details about them. I had for many months spared no effort in attempting to solve the mystery of the pearl necklace, and of the "German," but my efforts had been in vain.
In 1906 I hired a villa at Bellevue, a delightful wooded village overlooking the Seine, near Paris. It was M. Ch., my great friend, who had discovered this charming summer residence nestling under the heavy foliage of beautiful old trees....
We are now nearing the tragic time of my life, but before I go into that long story of horror and agony—the murder of my husband and my mother, my struggles to find the murderers, the terrifying scenes at the Impasse Ronsin, my arrest, my life in prison, and my trial—I should like to recall a pretty incident which occurred at Bellevue.... There is nothing wonderful or unusually amusing about it, but perhaps the reader will welcome it as a sustaining draught of pure and fragrant air, before being plunged into the dark abyss of grief and terror where I suffered and struggled for so long.
A LETTER SENT ME BY MASSENET IN 1907, AND SIGNED
"... Your Devoted, Faithful, Obedient, Respectful and Punctual Accompanist"
"Vert-Logis" (green cottage), my Bellevue villa, stood at a short distance from the Meudon Observatory, the director of which was M. Janssen, the famous astronomer. The observatory was surrounded by a vast and splendid park, everywhere enclosed off. Through the bars of one of the gates Marthe and I saw, one fine summer's day, a large field that was one mass of marguerites. Marthe was longing to gather great bunches of them. We hailed a keeper, who was passing by, and asked him whether he would pick some of the flowers for us and pass them through the gate.... Or perhaps he would open the gate to us for a few minutes?
"Oh! Madame, all that is strictly forbidden," said the man.
"What a pity!"
I must have looked very disappointed, for hesitatingly he said: "Well, perhaps you might come in the morning, say at eight, before there are people about. I'll open the gate and you can gather a few flowers."
The next day Marthe and I returned from the observatory garden with so many flowers that we could hardly carry them.
The old keeper scratched his head, and remarked: "I thought you only wanted a few! You must be really fond of flowers, Madame."
Soon afterwards I met M. Janssen. We had many friends in common, and the savant gave orders that the gates of the park should always be opened to me and allowed me to gather as many of the flowers as I pleased. Then, with a typical courtesy, the aged astronomer—he was then over eighty years old—said to me: "Madame, since you love flowers so well, would you care to see the flowers of heaven?"
I accepted, of course, and one clear night I experienced the unique joy of watching a star through a powerful telescope. With a feeling of rapture and enchantment that was wholly new to me, I saw the star scintillate, change colour, and shine forth in all the exquisite hues of the rainbow.... And thoughts of the Infinite whirled through my dazzled brain.... I would go to clutch that star, I longed to grasp it; I wanted to know, to understand, the meaning of space and matter, of Eternity and the Infinite—and of Life.... And on my way home, as I looked up towards the star-studded sky, I was thrilled as I had never been before, and forgetting what the old savant had told me about the endless and intricate calculations which are the chief occupations of the star-gazer ("a living algebraical machine") I felt that the astronomer, who constantly watches mysterious and unconceivably distant worlds in the depths of space, is devoting his life to the grandest, the most sublime and lofty science of all. And I thought of my father, who so often, at Beaucourt, had talked to me about the stars, the moon-world, the comets, the milky way.... And I recalled those words of Kant, which he more than once quoted to me: "There are two things which ever fill me with new and growing admiration: the moral law within me, and the starry heavens above me."