My Memoirs

AT the beginning of the year 1908, my little Marthe became engaged to young Pierre Buisson, son of an intimate friend of mine. Shortly afterwards she renounced the Protestant faith and joined the Catholic Church. This suited her somewhat mystical nature. She loved the immensity of cathedrals, the light through stained-glass windows, the beautiful services, the incense and the little bells, the plain-chant and the vestments of the priests. She loved to be guided; she shirked responsibilities; she liked to be able to enter "her" church at any time of the day and any day. She thought it was "restful" to be a Catholic. Perhaps religion to her was more a matter of sensations and feelings than of the mind; perhaps more a question of art, poesy and comforting illusion than of thought. Dogma was nothing to her; atmosphere a great deal.... She thought she could pray better in the semi-darkness and immensity of an ancient cathedral than within the plain white walls of a small Protestant temple. She prayed for the man she loved, and he was a Catholic....

I neither opposed nor encouraged this change of religion. Marthe was seventeen, extremely "wise" for her age and never acted rashly. I did not question whether she was right or wrong; I merely asked her carefully to examine her heart and search her conscience, and when later she told me: "Mother, I feel I shall be happier if I become a Catholic," I raised no further objection.

"I am Mme. Steinheil," I replied.

The gentleman asked permission to call and inquire after my health. He handed me his card and I read "Comte de Balincourt."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Before relating all I have to say about M. de Balincourt, I wish to state that I have no intention whatever of accusing him of any complicity.

I shall merely describe the part he played in the lives of my husband and myself a few weeks before the crime, and why my suspicions against him were aroused then; and again when, in prison, I found in the Dossier of my case a number of documents concerning M. de Balincourt's life, I did not speak of my suspicions except to my counsel and two or three persons who visited me when I was a prisoner at Saint-Lazare.

Rémy Couillard—my man-servant—and Alexandra Wolff—the son of my cook, I did accuse of the murder in circumstances and for reasons which I will fully explain in due time. The Law found Couillard and Wolff absolutely innocent and I bowed—and bow—to the Law.

But since I have had, at a time, the gravest suspicions against them both and against M. de Balincourt, I must—and will—say why with utmost sincerity, although let it be thoroughly understood that I have long ceased to accuse them of having had any part whatsoever, directly or indirectly, in the mystery of the Impasse Ronsin.

The day after our first encounter M. de Balincourt called. After a few polite inquiries he asked to see M. Steinheil. In the studio he examined the pictures, made himself very pleasant, congratulated my husband on his talent, and asked him whether he would paint his portrait in hunting-costume.

M. de Balincourt, hearing that my husband intended shortly to hold an important exhibition of his pictures, said he had had some experience in organising shows of that kind.

"My paintings will probably be exhibited at the 'Georges Petit Gallery,'" said M. Steinheil.

"It will be expensive," M. de Balincourt suggested. "Why not have the exhibition here, in this vast studio. When I was organising an exhibition some time ago I made some notes, which I have kept, about art-collectors and lists of addresses of people likely to buy paintings. I could help you a great deal. We could fit up the studio specially for that exhibition. I am sure it would be a great success."

He came three days later, and again offered to assist us: "I shall require no payment...." he added, "but perhaps M. Steinheil will charge me less for my portrait."

Shortly afterwards the Count came to sit. He proved full of life and energy—"the very man to push the sale of my pictures when the show takes place," said my husband. At first M. de Balincourt came only to sit for his portrait, but soon he arrived in time for lunch, and remained until after tea-time. I began to be a trifle suspicious, but my husband, who talked a great deal with him, warmly took his part.

One day I overheard a few words of conversation between them, in which, to my intense surprise, the word "documents" and the name "Félix Faure" occurred several times.

This strange conversation between my husband and M. de Balincourt, who had only known us a few days, puzzled and irritated me a great deal, and after the Count's departure I asked Adolphe for an explanation. He merely replied that I was mistaken....

M. de Balincourt came more and more frequently, and ingratiated himself with the Buisson family, who were almost constantly with us. He was, above all, on good terms with my husband. I need hardly say that he was extremely attentive to me, and as I was most anxious to find out what was in his mind, and of what it was that he talked with my husband, I pretended to be pleased with his praise and flattery.

M. de Balincourt called on me one evening at Bellevue. Before his arrival I had had a brief conversation with Mariette Wolff, my old cook, who had been in my service, first as an occasional help, and afterwards as cook, for many years.

I had noticed that, in Paris, the Count often went to the kitchen.... Mariette seemed to know a great deal about him, and I asked her how it was.

"Well, Madame," she said, "M. de Balincourt often comes into the kitchen to have his boots cleaned, and also the hunting knife he wears for the portrait which Monsieur is painting. He is very chatty and communicative. I hear that he divorced his wife two years ago, and that he takes a great interest in racing. You know my son, Alexandre, often goes to race meetings. The Count and Alexandre know one another...."

M. de Balincourt arrived and I encouraged him to tell me all about himself. He described his adventurous life to me, his worries, the various "crises" he had gone through, his family affairs. He told me that he had taken an active part in revictualling the famous Fort Chabrol in 1899, and that he often gambled and lost....

He drank wine freely, and talked and talked....

"Oh! I always manage to get out of trouble. Nothing worries me... I have tried my hand at many games, including little political side-games...."

Now was the moment to find out what his conversation with my husband had been about. M. de Balincourt told me that M. Steinheil had talked to him about Félix Faure and the talisman. "He even showed me a very interesting letter written by the late President, on the margin of which there were several notes in your handwriting...."

"You lie," I cried boldly, for I wanted to force him to tell me more....

For a moment M. de Balincourt was taken aback, but he soon pulled himself together, and began to give me such details that it was impossible to doubt his word. "Your husband," he concluded, "tells me everything.... For instance, he told me only yesterday that he does not like to leave the house because he fears burglars; he has received many letters, the contents of which he keeps secret.... He also said the house had been broken into on one occasion...." (That was quite correct.)

It became clearer and clearer that my husband was concealing something from me. I had a further proof of this several months after the tragedy, when Couillard confessed to the examining magistrate that his master had kept up a secret correspondence, and that he, Couillard, had received orders from M. Steinheil, even on May 30th (that is a few hours before the murders were committed) to hide any letter that might come for him under the cloth on the hall-table, and that, above all, Madame must not know anything about them. Two mysterious messages did come by express, and Couillard concealed them as he had been told. These two letters were never traced. Who knows but that if they had been found they might have given some useful clue as to the authors of the murders?

I spent miserable days at Bellevue, wondering what to do. Sometimes I thought that my anxieties were childish and unfounded, but at other moments, danger seemed as near and real that I half believed that I should touch it if I put out my hand. It was there before me, though I could not see it and could not give a name to it. I thought of President Faure's necklace, of the documents, of the mysterious "German," of my husband's reticence and also of his sudden and inconceivable bursts of confidence in total strangers.... He was nearly sixty now, and on several occasions I had heard him speak to certain of his models as he would have to old and intimate friends. He was both imprudent and nervous, easy-going and suspicious.... What was there at the bottom of this relation with that German? Why were those secret meetings with my husband so carefully arranged that not once had I been able to come face to face with him! Why was not one single letter of his shown to me? And why would my husband never give me any details about his transactions and his conversations with the man?

And now M. de Balincourt had gained M. Steinheil's confidence. He had gained mine, too, but not for long, for, after I had seen him two or three times, I read through him!

I had so little to go by that in spite of every effort to concentrate my whole mind on it I could not solve the problem, and at last gave up all hope of doing so. I was in despair. Years ago I had dismissed the whole matter from my thoughts, but now the mystery had returned with renewed perils. It held me in its tentacles, and I felt that not only was I threatened by it, but also my mother, my husband and my only child, whose lives were so intimately bound up in mine.

One morning my husband, whom I had asked to join me at Bellevue, telephoned from Paris, where he had remained to put the finishing touches to a number of paintings destined for the proposed exhibition of his works. He informed me that a very wealthy foreigner had called to order a small portrait of President Fallières, which he wanted for a magnificent album containing drawings by great painters and also a few bars of music by celebrated composers.... He knew a great number of prominent Germans who were coming to Paris for the Horse Show, and whom he would bring to the studio....

"I cannot come to Bellevue," my husband concluded, "for I must do this portrait at once. The foreign gentleman says he is to be received at the Elysée very soon, and he wants to ask the President to sign his name at the foot of my picture.... I should, of course, paint the portrait from a photograph which the gentleman has brought...."

To me all this sounded suspicious, and I told my husband so. "I don't like the idea of President Fallières' autograph under your drawing.... Why don't you tell this wealthy collector to apply to our friend Bonnat?"

The telephone worked indifferently that day, and I could not quite catch the meaning of my husband's reply, so I said: "Please refuse to draw that portrait. At any rate, let the matter stand over for a day or two. Find some pretext and come to see me here."

He came.... The Buisson family were present when he explained to me that the foreigner was quite reliable and that he had promised to bring to the studio two German Princes....

I asked him whether the wealthy foreigner was a German, and he replied in the affirmative. Then, reading a question in my eyes, he said hastily: "No, no... he is not the same man as the German you are thinking of!"

My husband spoke so well of the stranger that I felt almost ashamed of being so suspicious.

At lunch my husband said: "I really must finish that portrait to-day, for this evening a messenger from the 'Grand Hotel' will come to fetch it. So please see that no one disturbs me this afternoon. The gentleman who ordered the Fallières portrait is dining to-night with the German Princes I told you about, and with several other personages, and he wishes to show the picture to them all."

He then asked me several times whether I would go out or remain at home, and it was quite clear that, for some reason which I could not guess, he was most anxious that I should not be in that afternoon. I had a presentiment that it would be better for me to remain at home, and that by doing so I might, perhaps, find out something about this strange commission.

Besides, my dressmaker was there, and I was expecting a few friends. My time was, therefore, fully occupied, and I did not go up to my husband's studio.

In the evening, at about seven-thirty, I told Rémy Couillard to have dinner served. He said: "... Monsieur is not ready.... He is upstairs with the gentleman who brought a large photograph of the President. (Couillard had himself opened the parcel for his master.) The gentleman called this afternoon, and he is still in the studio."

"When did he come?"

"At tea-time, Madame."

I went up to the dressmaker, who was still at work.

"Oh! Monsieur Steinheil was looking for you a little time ago, to show you the portrait of M. Fallières. I saw it—it is very nice...."

It was clear that my husband had come down to find where I was, so that he might let the "foreigner" out of the house without my seeing him.

"No, no," said my husband, "that is not my daughter, but my wife."

"You are not on the ground floor, Sir," I said coldly, "but on the first floor where the private apartments are."

(It had struck me that he seemed to know his way to the corridor, and perhaps to the boudoir where the documents were kept. The tapestry hid the entrance to the passage so well that it could not possibly occur to any one not familiar with the topography of the house to raise the heavy drapery—in the thought that it led to the hall—for it looked for all the world as if it were hung against the wall of the landing.)

"Ach!" said the German, apologetically... "I have made a mistake. As a matter of fact, I passed through here this morning when M. Steinheil wanted to show me some old bibelots and prints in a small sitting-room you have up here... I came here quite accidentally, and we were going down, your husband and I...."

He stammered and looked most embarrassed. "It is really most extraordinary," I said to him in German, "that you should have found your way in here, especially in the dark. There is a light in the hall, whilst there is none in the staircase at present." Then, as I wished to see this person in a full light, for the passage where we stood was only faintly lit by the light coming from the sewing-room, I added: "If you are fond of old prints, I can show you some downstairs."

I ran and told Couillard to turn the lights on in the drawing-room.

"It appears," I told him, "that to-night you are attending an important dinner with some princes to whom you wish to show the portrait of Fallières which my husband made for you.... Could I see that portrait?"

The Jew brought out an album of medium size, from which he took a portrait which my husband had drawn of Fallières. As he replaced it in the album I could see that there were other drawings at which he evidently did not want me to look. The haste with which he shut up the album aroused my suspicions once more.

"Still," I remarked, "I cannot understand why you asked M. Steinheil for a portrait of the President. M. Steinheil seldom paints portraits. Like Meissonier, his master, his speciality is miniatures in oils, representing historic scenes, and genre pictures. You should have gone to M. Bonnat, who is the official painter of Presidents."

The man's looks grew almost threatening, and something of a snarl came into his voice: "You forget, Madame, that your husband has painted President Faure!"

"Quite so, but the picture you are referring to could hardly be called a portrait. The right thing to ask M. Steinheil for your album of celebrities would have been a sketch for a stained-glass window, a study of some medieval personage or a seigneur of the Renaissance period...."

The German collected himself. "Perhaps you are right, Madame.... At any rate, I am very thankful to M. Steinheil, and I will try to repay him for this portrait by bringing here some rich clients."

"But," I exclaimed, "I suppose you have paid for the portrait of M. Fallières?"

On the piano stood the box with the comb which President Faure had given me. Wishing to find out whether this strange man knew it, I said: "Since you are fond of beautiful things, what do you think of this?"

The man took the comb and said: "Yes, this is one of the finest works of art Lalique has ever turned out.... You sometimes wore this comb in years gone by, in the days when Félix Faure was President!"

The tone in which the last words were spoken told me more than the words themselves. I left the drawing-room followed by the Jew, who hastily left the house.

"That man," I said to my husband when we were alone, "is the mysterious German of whom you have often spoken to me, the man you have met every few months for the past nine years, the man who first came here shortly after the death of President Faure, the man who 'bought' the pearls and wanted the documents!..."

My husband at first tried to deny, but soon admitted the truth of what I said. However, he kept absolutely silent when I entreated him to give me some details about the man, to tell me the truth at last, to explain the secret of this Fallières portrait and of this "wealthy foreigner," who did not pay for what he ordered, who knew his way about our house even in the dark, and who dined with princes in a shabby shotted coat!

That very night, fearing for the safety of the documents, I took them from the writing-table in my boudoir, and made, with a newspaper and large envelopes, a dummy parcel of papers, as like the genuine one as possible. On the top I wrote as I had written on the real parcel, my name and these words: "Private papers. To be burnt after my death." The dummy was fastened and sealed in exactly the same way and, as in the model, one could see here and there, when the wrapper was torn, corners of large envelopes, duplicates of those in which I had enclosed Félix Faure's papers and the Memoirs which we had partly written in collaboration. The dummy I put in the drawer where the genuine documents had been, and these latter I hid in a place of safety the next day.

The reader may wonder why I was so anxious to keep these papers. I can only say that they reminded me of a most interesting portion of my life, that they contained most enlightening information on many events of national and international importance.... And perhaps there was in me that vague, well-nigh unconscious and yet unconquerable sentiment which makes you loth to part with anything that, you have kept for a long time, for if you live long enough with things, they become, as it were, part and parcel of your existence.

"There must be some mistake..."

"I agree with you. No, listen, M. de Balincourt. Last Sunday some friends came to take me with them for a motor drive and lunch in the country. They were M. V.—the motor manufacturer—and his wife, whom you met here once. I was told that you called on the V.s afterwards. They wrote to you, but the letter was returned with the mention 'name unknown at this address.' Your life does not concern us, but you might at least give us your proper address! Hearing this from the V.s, I suggested that we should drive to the various addresses you had given my husband. We had the greatest difficulty in discovering the first one. We went to Boulogne (near Paris) and were directed to a narrow, evil-smelling, cut-throat place where rag-and bone-pickers lived. I thought we had made a mistake, and we were about to turn back when M. V. knocked at the worm-eaten door of the house. An evil-looking man appeared, and answered our inquiries: 'M. de Balincourt?... I don't know him, but I believe he sometimes has letters addressed here, and a friend of his, a M. Delpit, has asked us to send his letters on to an address which I will give you, if you like.'

"M. and Mme. V., who were as nonplussed as I was myself, which is saying a great deal, proposed that we should drive to that address. There, our suspicions became greater than ever, for we found ourselves in a worse place than the first. An old woman said: 'M. de Balincourt? He lives yonder, in that house.' We went there and made fresh inquiries. At last a man in tatters shouts from a window: 'He has just left'... I need hardly tell you that we all had the impression that you were there."

M. de Balincourt turned very pale and stammered: "That was not my address... a friend of mine, a very poor artist, lives there.... He forwards my letters to me."

After dinner he apologised profusely, gave me all kinds of possible explanations, talked to my husband before me about the "exhibition," and later addressed a great number of invitation cards... to show his goodwill.

On the opening day, April 7th, 1908, some five hundred persons called, including several Ministers and scores of prominent officials. During the afternoon M. de Balincourt arrived. He came every day while the exhibition lasted, and had long chats with M. Steinheil, through whom, I noticed, he contrived to get introduced to as many important persons as possible. He had a small note-book, in which he jotted down the pictures that were sold and the prices. Several times I saw suspicious-looking characters enter the house. They had invitation cards. Once or twice, in order to test whether my suspicions were well founded or not, I walked straight up to these strange intruders and said severely: "I am sorry; the room is full. We cannot admit any more people." And they at once withdrew without a word.

IN April I made the acquaintance of M. Bdl.... through a common friend, the Director of the Paris Mont de Piété. Mr. Bdl. was a widower with several children, and although his residence was in the Ardennes, he frequently came to Paris. We met at a time when I was greatly depressed, and also vaguely alarmed. I felt myself surrounded by invisible dangers, and life had become almost unbearable. M. Bdl. was a strong, straightforward, very intelligent and very refined man. He had a great regard for me, and we became intimate friends. Afterwards, however, he showed himself to be so violent and domineering that our acquaintance came very soon to an end, although we parted in the best of terms, and occasionally wrote to each other. I should not even have mentioned this episode of my life, if it were not that M. Bdl. played a relatively important part in that long and complex drama called the "Steinheil Affair," on account of certain declarations which I am supposed to have made on the so-called "night of the confession" (November 26th, 1908), a "confession" which was greatly responsible for my arrest.

My letter to my mother, dated May 21st, 1908, runs as follows:

My mother changed her mind—because she did not feel well—and wired she would come on the Friday evening (May 29th) instead of on the Tuesday (May 26th).

Question. "How is it that, being so nervous on the matter, and being aware of M. Steinheil's lack of initiative, you did not have the lock changed yourself?"

Answer. "I didn't—I yielded to my husband's remark that thieves were not hindered by a locked gate...."

In reply to a Question. "On the eighteenth of May I went to Bellevue intending to stay there for at least a month. In 1906 and 1907 I had similar stays there. In May 1908, I settled down at Bellevue with the two youngest of the six children of the Buissons, and with Marthe. The only servant there was Mariette. M. Buisson and his son Pierre (the fiancé of Marthe) were in Paris, but came frequently, of course. My husband spent part of his time in Paris, and part of his time at Bellevue. He slept sometimes in Paris, but when he came to sleep at 'Vert-Logis' (the name of our Bellevue villa), he usually let me know by telephone.... Before settling down at Vert-Logis, we concealed in a secret place in the dining-room (a hole in the wall hidden by furniture) the silver plate and also certain jewels...."

In reply to a Question. "After May 18th, my husband slept at Bellevue, or in Paris according to his work. He spent two or three nights a week at the Impasse Ronsin. On such occasions Rémy Couillard slept in his usual room, near the entrance to the attic, above the studio (third floor). But when my husband slept at Vert-Logis, the valet slept in the verandah, on a couch. He had a revolver, which on such occasions my husband handed to him. When my husband returned to the Impasse, Couillard returned the revolver to him—I could not assert that it was regularly returned, for I was at Bellevue at the time, but I have every reason to believe it was, for I have always seen a revolver on my husband's table, whenever he slept in Paris."

The programme for that evening and the following day was this: My mother was to spend the night at the Impasse Ronsin. My sister, Mme. Herr, would dine with us—but she did not come to the station, and afterwards I heard she was unable to come. At the station, therefore, I was alone to receive my mother. It had been arranged that even in the case of my sister and her family dining on the Saturday evening with us, my mother, my husband, and I would go afterwards to Bellevue to join Marthe and her friends; unless, of course, my mother's state of health would not allow it. On the Friday evening—or the Saturday morning—I received a note from my sister saying she could not come to lunch or to dinner, that she was going to a concert on the Saturday evening, but that she relied on my mother calling on her in the afternoon.

"On the Friday, May 29th, as soon as my mother and I reached home, I told Couillard to return the Geoffreys their dog, and scolded him for having borrowed it without permission, and also because the dog, by ruining one of M. Steinheil's drawings, had made the latter lose a whole week's work."

Question. "Why such haste in returning that dog?"

(The judge's idea was quite obvious. Convinced that I was guilty, even before he ever examined me, he thought the fact that I had got rid of the dog a proof of my guilt. I had, "of course," done it in order that the dog might not bark at my accomplices or bark while the murders were being committed!)

Question. "What witnesses have you to prove that your husband wished to get rid of the dog at once?"

Answer. "I believe Marthe and Mariette the cook heard my husband make the remark."

Question. "Why deprive your house so soon of a watch-dog when it was deprived of its usual guardian—the dog, Dick?"

Answer. "What importance did it have?... As a matter of fact, Turk hardly barked and was useless; besides, not belonging to the house, the dog was up to all kinds of mischief."

Question. "How can one admit that Couillard, in order to be protected, should borrow a dog that did not bark?"

Answer. "I don't know.... All I can say is that Couillard, just as he was about to take the dog back to the Geoffroys, told me that his idea in having the dog with him was that he would feel less lonely and more safe with 'something living' near him."

Question. "How did you know that the dog did not bark?"

Answer. "Madame Geoffroy, the daughter of my cook, frequently came to the house, accompanied by her dog, and I noticed that it never barked."

Question. "A number of your statements on this point contradict those you made on June 20th (less than a month after the murder). From the latter, it appears that Couillard borrowed the dog with M. Steinheil's permission, and that it was after M. Steinheil himself had ordered him to return the dog to its owners that the valet did so on the Friday evening."

Answer. "The statement you have just read to me I made when I was still seriously ill, so ill indeed that I had not the strength to listen to the reading of my statements after I had made them. Besides, what contradiction is there between the declarations I have just made and those I made then?"

Answer. "I can only say that it was on Friday evening that I told Couillard to return the dog."

In reply to a Question. "It was later on, after investigations had been made, that I learned that my husband had on Saturday, May 30th, withdrawn £40 from the Crédit Lyonnais. I did not hear of the fact at the time, but I am certain that my husband must have gone in the afternoon [Banks in France do not close at 1 P.M., as in England, on Saturdays], for when I left the Impasse Ronsin at about 11.30 to go to lunch with Marthe and the Buissons at Bellevue, my husband had not left the house. I also heard, after the police investigations had been made, that my husband had paid a few bills, including the bill of the carpenter."

Question. "Besides what may have remained of the £40, what amount of money do you think there was in the house?"

Answer. "On that day, there must have been in the writing-table of the boudoir, about £300." (Here I explained how that money was there, and where it had come from.)

Question. "But, on November 26th, 1908, you said there was about £120 in that desk?"

Answer. "On the 26th November, 1908" (I beg the reader carefully to remember that date, for it is one of the most dramatic in my eventful life), "I was out of my mind, and was not responsible for what I did or said, and forgot for a moment the £200 in a separate envelope."

Question. "Are you sure that envelope with the £200 ever existed?"

In reply to a Question. "On the Saturday morning, early, (Saturday, May 30th, 1908), finding my mother very tired and being somewhat anxious about her health, I sent for Dr. Acheray, who prescribed for her, ordered her to stay in bed, and strictly forbade her to go out. After the doctor's departure, my mother absolutely insisted on calling, in the afternoon, on Mme. Herr and on making another call, about which she gave me no explanations. It was agreed between us that I should lunch at Bellevue and that when I returned at 5 or 6 P.M., we should see whether her state of health would allow her to travel to Bellevue, or she would have to remain at the Impasse Ronsin. I left the house at about 11.30 A.M. to take the train to Bellevue."

Question. "Then you did not make the call or calls you had planned to make, in your brother's interests?"

Answer. "No. My mother's indifferent health did not allow her to come with me and we had postponed these visits till the following Monday."

Question. "What were those steps you were to take?"

Answer. "M. Dennery, Secretary to the Under-Secretary of State for 'Postes et Telegraphes' protected my brother, and it was on him that my mother and I intended to call."

In reply to a Question. "I had reached Bellevue that day towards noon. I lunched at Vert-Logis with the children, and then went for a drive through the woods with them. After the children's tea, I went with Marthe to the Bellevue station. I reached the Gare Montparnasse at about 5.30 P.M. and on foot I went straight home (a ten minutes' walk). On the way I called at the druggist's for my mother's medicine and also at Potin's (the grocer's stores)."

Question. "At what time that day did you telephone to M. Bdl.?"

Answer. "At ten in the morning. I 'phoned to him from my room, where my mother was lying in bed, and she heard what I said. M. Bdl. and I had parted in the middle of May, but I occasionally wrote or telephoned to him. I began by telling M. Bdl. that I was quite well, but that my mother (whom he knew) was ill. I remember that I could not hear a word of what M. Bdl. said, and finally I broke out laughing and put the receiver back in its place."

In reply to a Question. "It was only after dinner, at about 8 P.M. that I asked my mother if she felt well enough to go to Bellevue... I had to ask her, in order to know whether I should ask M. Buisson to go and sleep there or not."

Question. "Thus, you had warned M. Buisson that he might have to go to Bellevue and spend the night there?"

(Quoted from Dossier, Cote 3213-3218.)

CONTINUING my story, I shall still quote the more important passages from the evidence I gave to M. André concerning the fatal night of May 30th-31st, 1908, and various facts more or less connected with the murder. That will enable the reader to see clearly how it all happened, but also, incidentally, to get some idea of the methods of a French examining magistrate.

Question. "Since your last interrogation, a number of letters have been handed to us: twenty-four letters from your mother to your brother Julien, dated from January 4th, 1908, to May 30th, 1908. Those letters, on the whole, tally with your statements, especially as regards your illness at the beginning of 1908, the plans for your brother's marriage, and the intention to help him by calling on M. Dennery, and the fact that you called in Dr. Acheray to see your mother on the morning of May 30th. On the other hand, they contain remarks which contradict certain of your statements. For instance, on May 19th your mother wrote to your brother that during her forthcoming stay in Paris she would put up at M. Herr's, but the following day she mentioned that you had written and 'phoned to her, with the result that she would put up at your house for one night at least. This proves that your mother only decided to put up at the house in the Impasse Ronsin after you had pressed her?"

Question. "In any case, there is a most striking coincidence here. It is just about May 18th—that is, at the time when you settled down at Bellevue with the young Buissons, who seem to need your permanent presence at the time when your Paris home is disorganised—that you compel your mother to promise to stay with you during the forthcoming visit!"

Answer. "The Buisson children were not so ill that I had to be constantly near them at Vert-Logis. The main object in having them at Bellevue was that they should enjoy the fresh air of the country; and when I was away my daughter was perfectly capable of looking after them. As for my Paris home, how could it be 'disorganised' when my husband, my daughter and myself were there frequently!"

In reply to a Question. "When, on the Saturday, May 30th, I returned from Bellevue, I stopped, as I have said, at the chemist's to fetch the various medicines Dr. Acheray had prescribed for my mother. At Potin's I bought a lobster, a pot of mayonnaise sauce, some cakes and some fruit. Then I walked straight home. My husband and I ate lobster, but my mother ate only a bit of it; she preferred coffee and milk and a slice of buttered toast. At Vert-Logis that evening my daughter Marthe was alone with the two little Buissons and Mariette, the old cook. The children usually went to bed at nine, and Mariette, as a rule, retired afterwards. But that night she had of course to await M. Buisson's arrival.

"According to the rule in force whenever we were at home, and which he had observed the previous night, Couillard was to sleep in his room on the third floor, near the attic. I supposed that, also according to custom, he had already handed back the revolver to my husband on the previous day (May 29th). But, after the drama, during the judicial investigation, I found that Couillard had not returned the revolver, for when questioned by M. Hamard (Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department) about the revolver, he, in my sight, took it from the pocket of his blue apron. I had told M. Hamard that my husband usually kept his revolver by him in his room, in the drawer of his bedside table, and it was because M. Hamard had been unable to find it that he had been led to ask Couillard some questions about it."

"After my mother had emptied her glass, I had sat down on her bed and we had chatted for a quarter of an hour. But as she and I were very tired and sleepy, I went to my room, and I was in bed when my husband brought me the grog."

Question. "Couillard has stated that your husband was already in bed when he brought up the tray. He saw that through the door of your husband's room, which was open."

Answer. "Couillard made a mistake. Besides, how could he have seen my husband in bed! There was no light in my husband's room."

Question. "There was a light in the bath-room where the valet placed the tray, and since the door of the bedroom was open, that bedroom must have been light enough."

Answer. "No, for the gas in the bath-room was only half turned on."

In reply to a Question. "At the end of my chat with my mother, I kissed her and said: 'Till to-morrow!' And when my husband brought me the grog, I bade him good-night and asked him to leave the door open, so that, if my mother felt ill during the night, she might easily be heard by us, I was dead tired and went to sleep almost at once."

Question. "Describe what you know of the crime."

Answer. "I started up out of my sleep, and felt something on my face. I then heard a man's voice saying: 'Tell us where your parents' money is....' Now, before I go any further, I would like to say that I cannot promise you to describe that terrible night in exactly the same words as I used when I described it on May 31st, a few hours after the crime.... I pulled the cloth off my head and face. There was a light in the room, and I saw three men and a woman: a dark man standing near me; a dark man by the door of the boudoir; a red-bearded man on the other side, that is, near the mantelpiece, and a red-haired woman near my bed.

Question. "Have you really no other recollections?"

Answer. "I remember the appearance of those people. They had lanterns.... The man near the chimney had one, also the man near my bed. The man near the door of the boudoir held a revolver.... After they had bound me to the bed, one man climbed on me, stood on my body, and hurt me terribly. I could not cry because I was already gagged. They bound my hands.... At a certain moment, I don't remember when, I heard the twelve strokes of midnight.... I say midnight, but it was perhaps eleven o'clock. There were many, many strokes, that is all I can say. It was the big grandfather's clock in the hall... on the ground floor."

Question. "And that is all?"

Answer. "I can tell you what those people were like. The man near me had a long black beard. He was very pale, had dark eyes and a big nose. The man near the boudoir was also very dark, and his eyes were terrible. The one with the red beard looked rather stupid, bewildered, scared.... As for the red-haired woman, she was fearfully ugly, had black eyes, frizzy hair and a wicked mouth."

Question. "Is that all?"

Answer. "That is all I remember now."

Question. "What else?"

Question. "Which of the men was it who spared you?"

Answer. "I don't know. My head was covered at the time. The man had a foreign accent. He had spoken before.... It was the man who had said: 'Tell us where your parents' money is.'"

In reply to a Question. "I felt them seize both my hands. They fastened them above and behind my head to the bars of the bed.... They bound my hands, separately, that is, my arms apart.... I felt a rope round my neck and there was a cloth on my head. They also bound my feet. I did not feel them bind me round the body; it was later on that I heard I had been bound round the body."

Question. "Did the ropes with which your hands were tied hurt you?"

Answer.. "My hands were not tightly bound. They did not hurt me mch."

Question. "Did the rope round the neck hurt?"

Answer. "No... I don't know. I was terrified. I thought that I had been blinded, that I was dead, that it was all over...."

Question. "Did the ropes round your feet hurt you?"

Answer. "Yes, very much. But I did not feel it at the time. It was only when I came back to my senses several times, and that was terrible."

Question. "When you moved your head, you say that those movements tightened the rope round your neck?"

Answer. "I felt I was strangling myself; but I tried to be brave.... I also tried to free my hands, but found it was impossible, for when I moved them the ropes tightened round my neck.... I did not know if the men were still there.... My mind was in a whirl.... But I had courage, for they had said they would not kill any one."

Question. "At what moment?"

Answer. "When they asked where the jewels were I had beseeched them to kill no one."

Question. "And they said they would not kill any one?"

Question. "How did Rémy Couillard come to you in the morning?"

Answer. "I don't remember having called him.... When I saw him I was afraid of him.... When I saw him come near my bed I thought he was going to strangle me, and I don't remember having talked to him.... All I remember is that I saw him go to the window and shout 'Au voleur!' ('Thief, thief!')."

Question. "In what way do you suppose people might have entered your house on the night of May 30th-31st, 1908?"

Answer. "I suppose they entered by the gate in the Impasse, perhaps with the key which Couillard had lost. Then they must have passed through the pantry door. I suppose so, as I have since been told that that door had not been locked that night (for when M. Lecoq, a neighbour, heard Couillard's cries in the morning and came to the rescue, he had only to push that door to enter the house!); or perhaps they passed through the little kitchen window, for Couillard stated—and this also I heard later on—that he merely pulled that window to, without closing it, a thing he should never have done.... I have also been struck by the fact that a ladder was seen against the kitchen. None of us had seen that ladder there on May 30th."

Question. "Explain to us why there were hardly any traces of acts of violence on the bodies of the victims—that is, of your mother and your husband?"

Answer. "I cannot tell... I heard no struggle, no noise, that night...."

Question. "How do you explain that your husband was found with his legs bent under his thighs, in a kneeling position, and his arms stretched along his body, and that your mother had her arms resting on her breast—that is, in an attitude quite contrary to an attitude of defence?"

Question. "How do you explain that you were not made to share the fate of your mother and your husband?"

Answer. "Ah! I cannot understand that. In any case, I regret with all my heart that I was not killed.... My mother did not suffer much, it appears.... But I have been through constant agonies; and then there was that awful night of the tragedy, when I felt I was dying.... And all the time I was wondering what had happened to my mother and my husband.... Perhaps those people thought I would pull on the ropes and strangle myself... I don't know...."

Question. "How do you explain the fact that they could spare you when you were a dangerous witness—one who would be the more formidable, more implacable and relentless because the victims were your own mother and husband?"

Answer. "I don't know that they wanted me to live.... The way they had bound me meant death to me at the slightest movement. It needed a woman with my strong will—I was thinking of my Marthe—and also with my good health, to stand what I went through and live...."

Question. "On May 31st, at 6 A.M., Rémy Couillard saw that you were bound, but the ropes were tied in so indifferent a manner that they left on your wrists and ankles only superficial marks, marks that were not lasting. It was also found that the rope round your neck was rather loose."

Answer. "There is nothing extraordinary in the fact, since I did not move...."

oted from Dossier, Cote 3239.)

Question. "What was that cottonwool which on May 31st was found on the floor in the room where you were in bed?"

Answer. "I don't know.... I saw no cottonwool that morning. I only saw many people around me. In any case, there was no cottonwool in my room when I went to bed...."

In reply to a Question. "On the evening of May 30th, I don't remember who served out the soup, whether it was Couillard or myself.... Usually it was Couillard who did so."

Question. "In his report, Dr. Balthazard (the Home Office medical expert) has demonstrated that the gag was taken from the sheet of cottonwool which was found near the mantelpiece, in the room where you spent the night!"