In my heart I have often blessed the honest and zealous Underground employé who handed the cards he had found to the police. There can be no doubt that the "stolen black gowns" helped the jurors to understand that I had spoken the truth, and could not have murdered my husband and my mother. And I have often blessed the memory of my father, too. For had he not taught me to observe and see at a glance the main lines, the striking or essential parts of a person or object? And how without that training of the eye and mind could I have noticed and remembered on that night of terror the principal points of the murderers' attire?
CHAPTER XVI
INVESTIGATIONS
A CURIOUS thing happened while I was at Bellevue. I received from my notary, who had received it from the judicial authorities, a package which contained a number of things found at my house: a few letters from President Faure, some letters from M. B., and the President's talisman! If these objects are returned to me, I thought, it is evidently because it is not desired that anything concerning the late President of the Republic and the Attorney-General be brought up in the "Affair of the Impasse Ronsin." This impression was right, as will be fully realised later on. Every phase of my past life, from my earliest years to the date of the mysterious murder, was investigated, except my relations with magistrates and with President Faure.
The circle of my friends was daily growing smaller, which was perhaps only human, since I was in trouble. I still received many letters from friends and acquaintances, but they were every day fewer in number. And their tone grew less sympathetic, their style more formal.... Soon no letters reached me at all. No one seemed to remember me, not even the few friends in whom I had absolute confidence, and I painfully repeated to myself a saying of my mother's: "A friend who ceases to be a friend never was a friend."
Letters, however, kept pouring into the letter-box of Vert-Logis. But they were all anonymous letters, a few threatening me or calling me a criminal, the others denouncing as the authors of the double-murder, my cook, Mariette, her son, Alexandre Wolff, my valet, Rémy Couillard and others. The letters gave me all kinds of "information" about their past life and doings, suggested theories of the crime that were so crowded with details that one might have thought the writers had been present when it was committed. I burnt them all, except a few, which, when I was not too ill, I read and re-read, with an interest that became almost morbid.... They haunted me, some of those letters, and I lived in an atmosphere of suspicion that was painful and distractful.
Couillard was at Bellevue. Naturally enough he had not wanted to remain at the house in the Impasse Ronsin. He was nervous, trembling, frightened of everybody and everything, and was a pitiful object to look at.... I pitied him ... and I pitied myself.
Marthe was with me, and her presence, her solicitude, her love, enabled me to bear my cross. At the same time, I remembered the Inspector's startling promises, and the words spoken both by M. Leydet and M. Hamard: "Be patient ... we will find them...."
Doctor Regal—appointed by the authorities—came on June 26th with Inspector Pouce to see if I were strong enough to bear the journey from Bellevue to Boulogne (on the Seine). It appeared that M. Leydet was compelled, on account of the public feeling against me, to ask me further questions, in the presence this time of M. Grandjean, substitut of the Procureur de la République. The new examination would take place at the house of M. Brouard, the husband of M. Steinheil's sister Marguerite, whom the reader perhaps remembers as the lady who received me in Paris, when I returned from my wedding-trip.
I was only too anxious to assist the law in its investigations, and I consented to go to Boulogne—where I was to be kept from 1 P.M. till late in the evening! The nurse, who had accompanied us, of course, had to give me occasional doses of ether to enable me to breathe, and to reply to the questions I was asked. Marthe and M. Boeswilwald were in the next room, for serious fears were entertained that I might utterly collapse. I spent several long hours lying full length on a stretcher placed on the floor. The nurse remained near me.
I was asked the most fantastic questions by M. Leydet and M. Grandjean.... But here again I will quote from the dossier the questions and my answers.
I pass over the questions about the gate and the doors of the Impasse Ronsin, the story of the key lost by Couillard, and of the return of the dog he had borrowed, the story of my husband's revolver which Couillard did not hand back to M. Steinheil, and which was found in his apron, and of our delayed departure for Boulogne on account of my mother's ill-health.... These points have already been dealt with. I had nothing to add to my first statements. But here are some new questions, and my replies.
Question. "According to what you told us on the morning after the crime, the criminals appearing suddenly before you, in the middle of the night, in your daughter's room, which you were occupying, took you for your daughter. There is no doubt that you were then in a room which was evidently that of a young girl, and that you were in your daughter's bed, but we cannot conceal from you that the criminals' mistake is open to scepticism."
Answer. "I can only repeat the words that were spoken to me and which implied that mistake. I may add that my face was in repose, that my hair was loose, and merely held by a ribbon of blue satin, and was spread around my head. I wore no jewels, no rings, no wedding-ring. All these were left in the dressing-room—and were stolen. I wore a plain night-dress of pale blue linon. It has frequently happened in society that I was taken for my daughter's elder sister. Believe me, there is no question of coquetry in this. If I tell you all this, it is merely because you ask me to reply to those who are sceptical. I am slender, I lost much weight last winter, about thirty pounds, during my illness—gastro-enteritis. Although the criminals had two dark-lanterns, the scene lasted so short a time that they certainly had not much time to examine me carefully. Everything took place with fantastic rapidity...."
Question. "Whatever the acts of violence you had to suffer that night (blows, gags, and ropes round neck, hands and feet) it may appear possible that the criminals spared your life. This has given rise to various rumours. It seems difficult to admit that the criminals allowed a young lady—or rather the person whom they took for a seventeen-year-old young lady—that is, a most dangerous witness, to survive. Unless the chief of the gang yielded to a feeling of pity, which, by the way, is sometimes met with among hardened criminals, then another explanation must be found. Here is one which has been suggested—and it compels me to ask you a 'delicate' question. Suppose that in a moment of weakness you had relations with a man of doubtful morality, who, at some time might be capable of burglary and 'plunder and violence,' in order to obtain money. Suppose that man entering at night into your house, finding it inhabited contrary to his expectations; suppose that man, suddenly finding himself in your presence and, as far as you are concerned, not daring to go as far as murder, because of 'the past'—would you not have hesitated to denounce him?"
Answer. "I swear to you by all that I hold most sacred, on my poor dead mother and husband, on the head of my little Marthe, that I never had the 'weakness' you refer to in your most painful question. Even though I had been deceived by appearances, I should not hesitate, however painful it might be, to denounce the man."
Question. "The cord—three metres in length—with which your husband was strangled has been compared with and found similar to a ball of cord which was found in a basket in the cupboard of the pantry. Have you any interesting remarks to make on that matter?"
Answer. "All I can say is that the ball you mention was blind-cord and was used for various purposes in the house. Some was used at the time of the exhibition of paintings which took place in the 'winter garden.' I have no recollection of any piece of cord that might have been left somewhere in the rooms."
(Dossier, Cote 79.)
This Cote 79 contained only sixteen foolscap pages, and they represent the gist of an examination which lasted several hours! There were frequent interruptions, when I felt so ill that the woman had to come and give me ether.... Part of the examination was what I can only call conversation. I did my best to call the attention of M. Leydet to M. de Balincourt, to the "mysterious German," to the various men who had come into my husband's life during the weeks immediately preceding the crime.
I remember the judge telling me: "You don't mention Couillard. It looks as if you were protecting him...." And I replied: "Some tell me Couillard 'must know something,' others assert that he is absolutely innocent... I have nothing to say. Let the law make investigations, discover the truth and arrest the murderers...."
I was greatly surprised when Couillard was sent for. I admit the anonymous letters had had some influence on me, and that I had certain suspicions against Couillard, but of late they had vanished. I thought only of the "clue of clues," of the man whose photographs had been shown me (Mr. Burlingham).
When I returned to Bellevue it was very late. Couillard had left for Boulogne. He returned at 1.30 A.M.
During the following days the detectives came just as often as before. They did not seem, however, to make much progress in the "case."
Mariette was still with me, and was as devoted as ever, to say the least. Her son, Alexandre, a horse-dealer, whom I had known when he was a mere lad, came twice to Bellevue. He was better dressed than usual and seemed to roll in money. I mention the two details because they were also mentioned in the anonymous letters I received, and because, five months later, and in circumstances which I will fully describe, I accused Alexandre Wolff.
As for Couillard, I no longer required his services now that my life was so completely changed, and I sent him to a motor-car garage to learn to be a chauffeur.
M. Souloy brought me the altered jewels. I gave one of the "new" rings (sapphire and diamonds) to Marthe, and kept the others.
The Inspector continued his assurances that they would soon arrest the murderers. They had fresh clues, they were on the right track.... All would soon be well.... But nothing happened, and I hoped and waited in vain....
Towards the end of July I felt a little stronger and could walk about. I asked a doctor to allow me to go to Normandy with Marthe. He said a change would do me much good. I left Bellevue and went to stay at Louvières (Calvados) with some friends who ran their own farm. Their daughter was an intimate friend of Marthe, who was, of course, with me. For a whole month we led the simple life. There were no detectives around me. I avoided reading the newspapers. The country people, who knew who I was, were kind and sympathetic, and Marthe and I breathed again. It was as if we were at last allowed to live, to be like all other human beings, and we blessed those good friends who had invited us to spend a few weeks with them in happy and beautiful Normandy.
After a time, however, when the meadows seemed less green, the sky less blue and the air less exhilarating than during the first days after our arrival at Louvières, the nightmare once more beset me.... Once more I thought of the night of terror, of the murderers... who were at large. I wanted to avenge the dead, and I wanted to put an end once and for all to all the dreadful suspicions against me which had sprung up everywhere because... the murderers had spared me. My unpardonable sin was to be alive! If I was not a murderess, why did I not prove it?... That is what I had heard, and read, alas!...
And I wondered, wondered, wondered what the police were doing! I received letters in which I was told that the Affaire of the Impasse Ronsin was being "classée," that is put aside, abandoned, given up.... And at the same time I heard public opinion was still against me. One letter written in vulgar slang and forwarded from Paris, said "You are the assassin; only, as you are highly connected (comme vous connaissez des gens de la haute) the police are not doing what they would do in the case of any poor wretch.... You coward, you have gone and hidden yourself in the country!..." Even the two or three "former" friends who occasionally wrote to me, gave me to understand that the pleasant relations, the friendship of the old days, would be impossible "until the murderers had been arrested." As if I knew where they were! As if I had only to call them or point to them and have them arrested! As if I were not more anxious than any one on earth to know who were the murderers of my husband and my mother!...
There are mental pains which are almost unbearable, and none greater perhaps than to see the being one loves best in all the world suffer near you.... Marthe, brave little girl that she was, tried to smile so as to give me courage to live. We spent long hours, under a tree or in the fields... in silence. I watched her, so worn, so pale, her pallor heightened by her mourning dress, her head bent down, her eyes filled with tears which she dared not shed. She knew my thoughts, and I knew hers. Her mind was in Paris.... She thought of her father, of her grandmother... and of Pierre, her fiancé, her lover, who no longer wrote... who would never write to her again, until the murderers were arrested. Not that he believed I was guilty, but probably because, like his parents, he dreaded Public Opinion....
And as I turned and turned these thoughts over in my distracted mind, I grew more and more resolute.... Public Opinion, indeed! Well, I would face it! I would go to the bitter end—and the end was bitter, my God!—I would look for those assassins, who after making two victims were now claiming two more, my child and myself, I would hunt them down, and if the Law were reluctant or disheartened, if the Law refused to go on with the search, I would force the Law to do its duty....
A letter came, at that moment, a letter from M. Marcel Hutin, a journalist on the staff of the Echo de Paris and the friend of a friend of mine. He told me that most people were still against me, and that he had placed himself entirely at my disposal.
I wrote a long letter to Maître Antony Aubin, entreating him to reproach the authorities for their apathy....
A little pacified, I tried to forget my trial, and, knowing that the best antidote to haunting thoughts and fixed ideas is work, I started with Marthe's assistance to decorate the whole house of our host and hostess.... We painted ornaments, huge decorative flowers, altered the appearance of the rooms, and even improved the gardens....
Sometimes we went to the seaside, or made an excursion to some beauty spot in Normandy. Once again I began to "forget." This country life was beautiful and simple. I thought of Beaucourt, and, as I watched Marthe, I said to myself: "How my father would have loved her!" The sorrow written in such pathetic lines on her sweet face—so young and fresh that it should not as yet have shown care or pain—made me ashamed to think of my own overwhelming grief. Seeing that the simple healthy life we led did us much good, our friends suggested that we should take half their house, and settle down permanently in Normandy....
But Marthe shook her little head. She longed to return to Paris, to see Pierre at all costs, to hear his voice.... And I was more than anxious to go on with the Impasse Ronsin affair—to press inquiries, to trace the murderers, to solve that mystery which was ruining my child's happiness, and which made me the most miserable and most unjustly abused creature in the world....
With all my heart I thanked our friends. Our stay with them if it had not cured our minds, had strengthened our bodies, and Marthe and I had both known many an hour of comforting peace.
At the end of August we left Louvières and returned to Bellevue. We would not go to the Impasse Ronsin yet, for the house was in the hands of the builders, who were dividing it, so that I could let a part of it, as well as the vast studio.
M. and Mme. Buisson came to Vert-Logis, but not often, and Marthe saw her Pierre....
The visits of Inspectors began again. It was chiefly Inspector Pouce who came to see me. I had been keenly interested in the "Burlingham" clue, and I asked what had been discovered during the month I had been away. The Inspector replied that all was well, that matters were very hopeful... and it was then that the all-important facts of the two cards in the Underground, and of the stolen gowns, were revealed to me.
The "Burlingham" clue had been arrived at in this way:
On May 27th, when M. Goldstein, M. Feinberg and Mlle. Jankel had called at Guilbert's to order a number of costumes for the Hebrew Theatre, there had been present in the shop some fifteen to twenty persons, among whom was Mr. Burlingham with some of his friends. It was M. Goldstein and Mlle. Jankel who said this. I may add that M. Goldstein also said that he believed that later he had seen Burlingham leaving the Underground, at the Gare du Nord, and that he had followed the red-bearded man early in June, but had lost sight of him. "The man carried a football bag," M. Goldstein added.
The Inspector procured a photograph which represented Mr. Burlingham, a friend of his, and a woman. He showed it to me at Bellevue on June 19th, and I remarked that the bearded man in that photograph looked very much like the red-bearded man I had seen on the night of the crime.
The Inspector gave me many curious details about Mr. Burlingham and his friends: they mixed with all kinds of strange people, they walked about wearing sandals, and used long sticks very much like the alpenstock found near my husband's body!
The apparently very interesting Burlingham clue had no value whatever.
I hasten to add that it was afterwards established beyond a shadow of doubt that at the time of the crime Mr. Burlingham, who had left Paris on May 22nd on a tramp to Switzerland with a friend, was at Montbard, in Burgundy, a small city which he left for Dijon the next morning.
But this entirely convincing alibi had not been established when Inspector Pouce—who, I really admit, did his utmost in this case and spared no effort to trace the murderers—explained to me the importance of the Burlingham clue.
I did not start these investigations about Mr. Burlingham. I was shown a photograph in which he appeared, and I merely said: "This bearded man looks very much like the red-bearded man I saw on the fatal night!" I was told that the clue was a conclusive one, and I was, naturally enough, inclined to believe it.
At the Sûreté when the photograph of Mr. Burlingham was shown to me once more, and I was asked: "Is that the man?" I replied (I quote the very words I used): "If my assertion alone was to bring about the arrest of the man whose photograph you are showing me, and whom otherwise I don't know, I would certainly never dare make such an assertion.... But I am very much struck by the likeness."
I was asked to disguise myself, and to accompany the detectives, who would show me Mr. Burlingham without my being recognised by him. Once I wrapped myself in an ample cloak; another time I had to put on a short skirt that considerably changed my appearance. We followed Mr. Burlingham on foot and in a carriage....
We went several times to Paris for the purpose of my identifying him. I remember seeing him leaving his house near the Gare Montparnasse, I believe, and I found that he was very like the red-bearded man I had seen on the night of the double murder "near the door, frightened and dumb." On another occasion we saw him, from our carriage, in front of the School of Fine Arts. At that time I still had my full reason and was incapable of accusing any one without absolute proofs of their guilt....
But my mind was at work.
Mr. Burlingham was "shown" to me again.... Later, the Matin arranged that I should see him at their offices in the Boulevard Poissonnière.... Through a door left slightly open for the purpose I saw the "red-bearded" man. I "recognised" him, but not absolutely.
Then, once more, I was called to the Sûreté, and there, after so many meetings with the red-bearded man, I said that I unhesitatingly recognised him as one of the men I had seen on the fatal night.... Is it really very much to be wondered at that I did...?
The most wonderful thing about this, as my able counsel Maître Antony Aubin exclaimed at my trial, "is not that Mme. Steinheil then 'recognised' Mr. Burlingham, but that she did not 'recognise' him before."
I returned to Bellevue. The inspectors and detectives all told me: "Be brave! We are nearing the goal!" And I believed them. We are always so ready to believe what we long for.
Whilst firmly believing in the Burlingham clue, I was utterly bewildered by the contents of the anonymous letters I received. Most of them mentioned Couillard, Mariette, and Wolff. A few denounced M. de Balincourt, and, I need hardly add, several denounced... me. A large proportion of these letters were actually brought by hand to Bellevue and dropped, probably by the writers themselves, into my letter-box. The average number was twelve to fifteen a day.... In Paris, a few weeks later, the number rose to thirty or forty.
I read every one of these letters. In any one of them I might find a clue, a useful suggestion, perhaps the whole truth, and I could not afford to neglect this correspondence, disheartening though it was....
Day after day the detectives came and told me of what was going on. Journalists called... and each had his theory, which he propounded with the confidence and eloquence of those who deal in theories only. Had I listened to everybody I should have denounced at least one hundred persons as being the murderers! The majority mentioned Couillard and Wolff, and as the days went by these two names became more and more deeply engraven on my mind. Alas! all these suggestions were, a few weeks later, to hypnotise me to such an extent that, without more proofs than mere circumstantial evidence, and the denunciations anonymous writers afforded, I accused first Couillard and then Wolff of being the criminal.
Mme. Buisson rarely came to Bellevue now. Pierre came to see Marthe, secretly, from time to time, and held a pistol to my head when he told me in his usual weak, timid and despondent manner, that the murderers would have to be found, or else it would be impossible for him to marry Marthe! An extraordinary dilemma!... This absurd condition revolted my daughter so much that her love for Pierre received a decisive blow, and, burying her head against my breast she cried: "Is that real love?" and burst into sobs.
Meanwhile, the inspectors were at war with each other, as most inspectors are, or so I have since been told. Each had his clue, and derided the clues of his colleagues. But what was worse than that, some were for, and some against me!
One morning, an able investigator who knew exactly what was going on at the Sûreté, and in whom I had the greatest confidence, entered the room at Vert-Logis, where I was sitting with Marthe by my side. He was as white as a sheet.... "Madame," he stammered, "I don't know what underlies this affair, but it seems quite hopeless, things are at an absolute standstill.... The Burlingham clue is given up. It has been established that Mr. Burlingham was far away from Paris at the time of the murder. The 'stolen gowns' remains, of course, as undeniable proof of your innocence, and I still believe that some day the murderers may be arrested, but the case is all over so far as the Sûreté is concerned.... Ah! If only the 'stolen gowns' clue had been fully investigated at once!... It is so obvious that it provided the only way to the solution of the mystery.... The Impasse Ronsin murder case is classé!"
I had more than once complained of the apparent lack of activity and zeal on the part of the authorities, but I could not believe that it had been decided to abandon the whole affair.... I was amazed and pained.... Naturally, I asked the reason for this sudden breaking off of the investigations. No doubt my imagination erred, but in these pages I describe all my thoughts, and it seemed to me that in some way it had been discovered that the main object of the criminals was to get possession of the documents. Perhaps only one of the three men in the black gowns knew about them, and he had let the others steal the money and the jewels.... That one of the men had known of the documents could not be doubted, for he had demanded them, and I believe that the authorities having at last somehow discovered that there was what one may call a political side to the Impasse Ronsin mystery, were not anxious to go on with the investigations, which, if the whole affair was unravelled, might eventually prove a source of much unpleasantness and embarrassment to certain officials.... Or perhaps—for I went as far as that in my eagerness to solve the problem—the authorities knew all the time the secret of the strange affair, and had made some inquiries, reluctantly, and only for the sake of appearances.... But now, they had had enough and they wished to drop the matter altogether.... A rather wild surmise.... Perhaps they seriously thought that I was guilty, but being unable to establish a strong enough case against me, wanted to give up the whole affair, rather than waste time on investigations which would necessarily be fruitless, since, in their minds I had committed the murder! (That is, had strangled my mother and my husband, concealed the jewels and the money, ransacked the drawers, put everything into confusion, splashed ink on the floor, and then gagged and bound myself, hands, feet and body!)...
The truth is I did not know what to think.... But one thing I knew, and it was this: Three men in black gowns and a red-haired woman had been in my house on the night of May 30th-31st, 1908; they had stolen my money and jewels, and they had murdered my husband and my mother.
Those four persons were somewhere in the world, and, for my daughter's sake and my own, as well as in vindication of the law, I would find them.
CHAPTER XVII
THE THRONE-ROOM
AT the end of October—on the 25th, I believe—we left Bellevue, Marthe and I, and returned to Paris, to the house in the Impasse Ronsin. The chief alterations were completed, but there was still a great deal to do in the way of decoration, plumbing, and so on, and the workmen came every day.
I had been told the only way to stimulate investigations was to let the Press take the matter in hand.... But before I did that I wished to make one more attempt at interesting the law in the Impasse Ronsin case.
I called on the Procureur de la République, who was then M. Monnier, at the Palace of Justice. Marthe accompanied me, and was present at the interview, which I will relate with absolute accuracy. M. Monnier, a very small man, with an expressionless face, and eyes that seemed to avoid meeting the eyes of those who addressed him, asked me what I wished.
"I have come," I began, "to entreat you to give orders for the various clues not to be abandoned, but followed up with the utmost vigour...."
The Procureur seemed quite surprised. Then, without hesitation, and in a lordly and lazy tone which clearly meant, "This affair does not interest me in the least," he replied: "Madame, we are following up some clues.... There's the Noretti clue—a friend of Mr. Burlingham—for instance.... That person is in Nice.... If you want us to go on with that clue it would be better for you to go to Nice yourself... and pay your expenses, of course...."
I started and said: "What! I should pay to assist the law in tracing the murderers!... Why! I have spent enough money as it is.... Even when I was asked to go to Boulogne for that examination—which you know I might have refused to go through, because of the state of my health—I had to pay about one hundred francs out of my own pocket for the motor-ambulance which took me!"...
The Procureur then said: "I should not mention Boulogne, if I were you.... Do you know that I prevented your arrest that day?"...
I could hardly believe what I heard. His cold hard words and tone stung me into revolt, and I exclaimed: "I wish I had been arrested. There was and there is nothing against me. You would have had to release me almost immediately. I should have been vindicated, and all attacks would have ceased.... You know there exists nothing against me!"...
"That's just why I prevented your arrest, Madame."
What could I reply to that. I shrugged my shoulders and waited. The Procureur pursued: "Really, why don't you keep quiet.... I fail to see what you expect of life!... You have your daughter, you have still a few friends.... What more do you want!... Also I read in the New York Herald that you are going to let part of your house—to wealthy Americans, I presume?"...
"Do you waste your time, then, reading 'apartment' advertisements, Monsieur le Procureur?" I remarked.... "As a matter of fact, I am trying to let part of my house, but I have found no tenant yet.... There are other people I am more anxious to find: the murderers.... Public rumours, as you are well aware, give out that I am the guilty person, and this must cease. The law must do its duty...."
Once again M. Monnier's eyebrows went up in surprise. He sighed, and then, looking not at me but at my daughter, he replied, in the same hopelessly slow and bored tone: "We do our very best, Madame, I assure you.... I can only say you have the affection of your daughter, a few friends, a pretty house, enough to live upon.... What more do you want?... Really, really, you should never expect too much of life."
Indignant, I arose and, followed by Marthe, I walked to the door. There I turned and retorted: "No, I am not satisfied. I do expect more of life—above all, more justice. My daughter's life, my own, are being ruined because you don't care to find the murderers. I shall go on trying to trace them, even though the law, for some reason that I ignore, is not inclined to search for them. You cannot deny, sir, that certain clues have not been followed up as rapidly and as thoroughly as they should have been."
Thereupon I left the room with my daughter.
My first remark applied, as the reader has no doubt guessed, to the "stolen gowns." Who could deny that had something been done at once, there would have been a great chance of tracing and arresting the criminals? I do not say that it would have been an easy matter to watch every person connected with the Hebrew Theatre, or to find out all who were sufficiently conversant with the ways of the theatre to have been likely to steal the three gowns and the cloak which a few hours later were worn by the three men and the red-haired woman! But, whether an easy or a difficult task, it ought at least to have been attempted—and at once. The crime took place on May 30th-31st, 1908; the two cards which led to the discovery that three gowns and one cloak had been stolen from the Hebrew Theatre, were found in the Underground on the next day, May 31st. Only on the 10th of June were M. Guilbert, and Mlle. Rallet, M. Goldstein, M. Feinberg and others connected with the Hebrew Theatre interrogated.... After that, nothing was done—except following the Burlingham and Noretti clues which were an indirect outcome of the affair of the stolen gowns—although one would think that any normal mind would have thought that those stolen gowns held the key to the whole mystery! It was only after my arrest, in December 1908, and during the early months of 1909, that, obviously in the hope of destroying the importance of the "stolen gowns" affair, the various witnesses connected with it were re-examined!... But what was the use of these investigations, seven to ten months after the discovery of the theft—a discovery which exhibited beyond a shadow of doubt that my account of the tragedy was accurate? The three men and the red-haired woman were, of course, by that time out of reach.
Here let me quote some remarks made by Maître Antony Aubin at the trial, on the subject of the law's unpardonable lack of enterprise in the matter of the stolen gowns: "What I regret is that, during the first days which followed the crime, the police did not make full investigations—by order of the judge in charge of the murder case—among those chorists of all nationalities in this cosmopolitan group. What I regret is that this group, the most international one conceivable—and therefore the most elusive was not carefully 'sifted,' what I regret is that these nomads were allowed, during the first days of June, to scatter themselves abroad without interference. What I regret above all is that after so slight a search—nay, no search at all, at a time when the mystery could have been cleared up, the unfortunate woman was mercilessly tortured.... How she is to be pitied, this poor woman, borne down under the weight of so many suspicions when thorough and immediate investigations might have led to the discovery of those who murdered her husband and her mother. Had it then been forgotten that, not only did she give an exact description of the stolen costumes, but that she had even mentioned the foreign accent of one of the assassins and the Italian accent of the woman! Now, go and try, throughout the world, to trace the wretches!"
And Maître Aubin, with relentless logic, added: "It would be rash to assert that the criminals should not have been looked for outside the staff of the Hebrew Theatre. Could they not have been amongst the group of fifteen to twenty persons—artists' models, Montmartre types—who, according to Mlle. Rallet, were at Guilbert's on the day when the costumes were hired, on May 27th? Could not the order given that day have been overheard, the messenger followed on the Saturday to the theatre, where you (gentlemen of the jury) know how robbery, undeniably the preface to the crime, was easy for any one. And could not this 'any one' be found amongst the mixed crowd, chiefly composed of foreigners, attending the performances at the Hebrew Theatre?"
A VIEW OF THE HOUSE IN THE IMPASSE RONSIN
The ten-foot windows of the studio only visible
After the interview with M. Monnier, the Attorney-General, I returned home, to the Impasse Ronsin, with Marthe. For many hours I turned the problem over and over in my mind, and all the time I heard the words of the Procureur: "You have your daughter, a few friends, a nice house... what more do you want!"... Oh, that attitude of bored superiority and indifference! Oh, the condescending blasé, supercilious manner in which I had been told: "We do our very best, I assure you!"...
Meanwhile, life was made quite unbearable to both Marthe and me. Insulting letters reached me day after day. Certain journals had begun to tear away the almost transparent veil which so far had covered their attacks of me, and the murderers were at large, undisturbed!... I should hardly have been worthy to be called human if I had not been in a state of rebellion against this intolerable position.
I had gone from Bellevue to see M. Hamard, but nothing had come from the visit, and after my interview with M. Monnier, I went once more to the head of the Criminal Investigation Department. Marthe was with me. The darling insisted on following me everywhere, for two reasons which may seem contradictory, but which nevertheless often go together: first, because she dreaded to be alone, and was frightened to the verge of collapse whenever I was away from her; and secondly, because she wanted to give me courage.
M. Hamard seemed very much annoyed at seeing me, although he did not make me wait. M. Chabrier, a cousin of my husband, had joined my daughter and me, but they both had to remain in another room, for M. Hamard received me alone. I explained to him the object of my visit, urged him to give up half-hearted methods, and to see that no efforts were spared in the search of the murderers. And I insisted on the importance of the "Underground cards" clue.
M. Hamard spoke the same words as the Procureur: "Madame, I assure you that we do our best...." He added a few, vague, common-place remarks, but concluded in a different tone, and with genuine sincerity. "I will look for the murderers until I find them!"
In spite of this last remark, I got a clear impression that the Affaire de l'Impasse Ronsin, as I had been told, was classée.
On the way home I remained silent, but as we entered the garden, I took my daughter in my arms, and said: "Marthe, I will fight to the end, come what may. I owe it to you, to your father and your grandmother, and to myself." She gave me a long kiss, and big tears rolled down her cheeks as she whispered: "You are right, maman, the murderers will be found, and... Pierre, perhaps, will come back to me!" She had not yet quite forgotten him....
During the last days of October, I saw M. Marcel Hutin, who had often told me that the Press was almighty, and that he placed himself at my disposal. If the newspapers took up my case, the assassins would soon fall into the hands of the police. I believed him. I would at that time have believed any one who promised to help me to get at the truth. Marthe, my few remaining friends, every member of my family, inspectors—all advised me to go on with the case.... My mind was irrevocably made up.
With M. Hutin's assistance, I wrote a letter to his newspaper, the Echo de Paris. In that letter, which was published on October 31st, 1908, I mentioned the lukewarmness and lethargy of those in charge of the case, and solemnly asserted my intention of continuing investigations, and avenging the dead. The letter created a deep sensation, and was everywhere reproduced. My house was assailed by journalists; I was in the hands of the Press.
On the day when the letter appeared, we went, Marthe and I, to the cemetery at L'Hay, a little village in the neighbourhood of Paris, where M. Steinheil was buried. Together we arranged the tomb, and decorated it with flowers, and—prayed....
When we reached the Impasse in the afternoon, we found it invaded by a score of journalists, who rushed to us and overwhelmed me with questions... but I firmly declared that I had nothing to add, for the present, to what I had said in my letter to the Echo de Paris.
Shortly afterwards, Marthe and I went by train to Breteuil, where my brother Julien lived. We arrived there in the evening and had a long conversation about the mystery. Like so many others, Julien thought a campaign in the newspapers the only means of getting at the truth. "Tell them what you know, what you think. Let them assist you in the search for the murderers.... In less than a month our mother and your husband will be avenged, and you will be triumphantly vindicated of all these vile insinuations...."
Poor Julien—and poor me. In less than a month, I was... in prison!
The next morning—All Saints' Day—we ran through the newspapers—my brother, Marthe, and I... and were astounded. In every one of them whole columns were devoted to the murder mystery, to my letter published in the Echo de Paris. Some approved; others criticised. Some praised my courage; others made it clear that they considered this daring, reckless move of mine a sign of my guilt! One journal—one which always knows everything—probably irritated because my letter, re-opening the case, as it were, had appeared elsewhere, described my visit to the cemetery at L'Hay, and did not hesitate to say that I had driven there in a closed carriage with drawn blinds, like a guilty person.... As a matter of fact, as the weather was splendid, and I thought that the country air would do both Marthe and me much good, we had driven to the cemetery in an open carriage.
Is it difficult to realise the harm such an untruthful comment in a newspaper, read by hundreds of thousands of persons, did to my case?
Marthe sobbed; my brother was furious, and I, profoundly hurt, wondered what to do.
"Go and see Maître Aubin," Julien suggested, "and the sooner the better...."
Marthe and I returned to Paris. I called on Maître Aubin, who I found was reading the newspapers.
"I am bewildered," he began. "Why did you not tell me you were writing to M. Hutin?"...
"I was told that the Press would help me.... My conscience is clear. I fear nothing, and no one. We will succeed...."
"I have no doubt about it," said Maître Aubin.
"Until now, I have refused to talk to journalists, but in future I will reply to all their questions, if only they will help me. And if certain papers attack me, or publish false statements, you will have to put a stop to it. The die is cast; I will go to the end of this mystery, and reach the truth."
Maître Aubin was somewhat bewildered. At the same time I could see that he was glad to find me so determined.
Shortly afterwards I went to the Palace of Justice to see M. Leydet and M. Grandjean the Procureur's Substitut. Maître Aubin had written to them that, dissatisfied with the apparent sluggishness and indifference with which the Impasse Ronsin case had been conducted, I had decided to take him, Aubin, as avocat-conseil.
I entreated M. Grandjean to see things as they were: "Try to understand my position," I said. "You are a friend of M. Buisson. You know exactly what my circumstances are, and you, M. Leydet, have known me for years.... Are you not both aware that the marriage of my daughter to M. Buisson's son will be broken off unless we get at the truth? M. Buisson, like every one else, is convinced that the affair has been abandoned.... You can deny this ... if it is wrong; you can declare that the detectives are at work... if they are! You know that I am innocent. Well, say so; do something.... It is your duty."
M. Grandjean, instead of replying to my question, stammered: "But, Madame, it is appalling.... You have raised the newspapers; things are in such a state that we cannot leave the Palace without being pestered and mobbed by an army of reporters. Life for us has become an inferno...."
"And what of my life?" I exclaimed.
M. Grandjean did not seem to hear, and pursued: "The clues are now being followed not only by our inspectors, but by the journalists, who take it upon themselves to act as detectives!"...
I interrupted again: "That is what you hate; what frightens you.... You are fully aware that you attached no importance to a great deal of information I gave you on various suspicious persons who came to the Impasse Ronsin, a few weeks before the crime, and about other facts and clues. If you, at the time, did make a move in any direction, it was because the attitude of the newspapers forced you to do so.... But it is too late now, after five or six months, to ask for alibis from those whom you suspect.... You shrug your shoulders. You look upon the matter in the same way as your chief.... I am more and more convinced that the case has been given up; I am even led to believe that it was given up very shortly after the crime! Well then, M. Grandjean, if you refuse to do what I have asked, I shall take the newspapers into my confidence, and they will help me...."
Then, turning to M. Leydet, I added: "Will you kindly draw up a document by which Maître Aubin becomes my avocat-conseil?"
M. Leydet, deeply moved, exclaimed: "I beg you to reflect, to wait... before putting this affront on us.... I have spared no effort.... I am an honest man...."
"I know that, M. Leydet," I replied. "But you have one great fault: you are a friend of mine. It would have been better for the public if the judge in charge of this case had been some one I did not know at all. I have been told that there was some thought of arresting me after your examination at Boulogne. If you had anything to do with preventing my arrest, I am sorry, for you would have had to release me at once, and then public opinion, satisfied that there was no case against me whatever, would have taken my part instead of accusing me."
The paper making Maître Aubin my avocat-conseil was duly signed.
A new life began for me, a life of indescribable activity, of feverish, unending rushing to and fro, a nerve-racking life of hopes and fears, of constant surprise and anxieties.... I received every day from fifty to eighty visits from journalists belonging not only to the Parisian, but to provincial and foreign newspapers as well. Each had his clue and his theory; each had made some startling discovery and wanted my views on it, each told me that his journal was the only one which was really on my side, and each craved exclusive information.... I received them in a house crowded with workmen who every few minutes came to ask for instructions! Shoals of letters and telegrams reached me, from journalists who assured me of their devotion, or wanted an immediate reply to an "all-important" question. Anonymous letters came in greater numbers than ever, some threatening my life and others denouncing Couillard, Wolff, or Balincourt—as usual. And there were letters from relations and acquaintances who spurred me on—as if I needed it!—and assured me the murderers would be found, that the newspapers would discover them, no matter what it cost to do so. Yet other letters, thrown over my garden wall, and anonymous of course, dotted the lawns and hung in the trees!... And I read them all eagerly....
Journalists arrived at the house as early as half-past seven in the morning. Some called three or four times a day, and before returning home late at night they would call once more to hear if anything had happened that they would still have time to telephone before the papers went to press.... I was most grateful to them all, for they were working for me, and probably many of them were not responsible for the attacks against me in the journals to which they belonged. "I supply facts, Madame," one confessed to me, "but they are turned into anything that suits the editor or his employers."
I went round to all the Parisian newspaper offices and spoke my mind, and I thought that after this things would improve, and that fair and truthful statements would be the rule in the future.
In the evening, when I returned home exhausted, I was dumbfounded when M. Chabrier (a cousin of my husband and a post-office sorter, to whom I had let an apartment in my house) told me: "Don't be too angry with the Matin. Two of the journalists on the staff, M. de Labruyère and M. Barby, are waiting to see you. They have been here the whole afternoon. Be calm.... I believe they are well-disposed, they will help you.... Don't turn them out...."
I entered the house with Marthe. The table was laid for us in the dining-room. I found these two men seated and waiting. I told them that since I had said I would not be back till the evening, they should not have presumed to spend the afternoon in my house, especially as the journal to which they belonged was my bitterest foe. M. de Labruyère, extolled the Matin, explained that it was only a matter of misunderstanding, that M. Bunau-Varilla (the proprietor of the Matin) was extremely sorry.... He showed me a letter of M. Marcel Hutin of the Echo de Paris, in which the latter begged me to receive his friend and advised me not to decline the assistance of the Matin.
I was rather surprised, for it is unusual for Parisian journalists on the staff of rival newspapers to help one another in what they call a "big story." True, M. de Labruyère and M. Hutin were great friends, but I had seen so many instances of fierce rivalry amongst journalists during the past few days, that I could hardly believe what I read.
At the time, however, I had full confidence in M. Hutin, who was on excellent terms with a sculptor friend of mine, and, turning to the two journalists, I said: "I am quite ready to believe in the goodwill of the Matin. I shall continue reading the articles on my case which appear in its columns, and shall judge from them whether that goodwill is genuine."
M. de Labruyère then said: "Madame, M. Bunau-Varilla places at your disposal as much money as you may want to follow all the clues that you may suggest, and if you disbelieve me, please ask for an audience from M. Bunau-Varilla."
Although I was tired out and in no mood to laugh, I could not help smiling at the pompous, yet hushed tone of M. de Labruyère, when he mentioned "an audience" with his almighty chief.
"I will think of it later on," I replied. "I wish first of all to see how the Matin will deal with the Impasse Ronsin affair and with me."
M. de Labruyère was about to leave when I was suddenly startled by the flare and click of a flash-light. M. Barby had taken a flash-light photograph of my daughter and myself. I was angry, but the wary M. de Labruyère explained: "Believe me, Madame, nothing could be more useful to your cause than the publication in our journal of a photograph of you and Mdlle. Steinheil quietly dining together in this house where the crime took place. People will think: if Mme. Steinheil can eat in the place where her husband and her mother were murdered, then she must be innocent." I shrugged my shoulders, and bade the two journalists good-bye.
For awhile, I readily admit, the Matin carried on a vigorous campaign, which was in my favour, since it aimed at the truth, at the solution of the mystery. The articles of M. de Labruyère had undoubtedly much to do with the renewed activity of the police.
Meanwhile, the strain of my abnormal life, the constant excitement and strife around me, the ceaseless questions of journalists and visits of would-be advisers, the accumulation of clues, arguments, and suggestions, lack of sleep, and the almost complete loss of appetite, gradually brought me to a state of physical lassitude and mental agitation that bordered on madness. I still wonder to this day if it was that my distracted, tortured mind did not become unhinged sooner than November 26th (1908), the date of what has been called in this harrowing affair the "Night of the Confession," so easy was it for any one to persuade me into believing or saying anything, anywhere, and at any time.
When I left my house a crowd followed me and sometimes I heard a man or woman shout: "There she is, the murderess!..." Some said: "No, no, leave her alone!" I did not mind, I did not understand.... Nothing mattered. There was but one thought in my mind: "They will soon be found, and Marthe and I will breathe again; we will be allowed to live—like all other human beings...."
Journalists followed me wherever I went. I liked them, I smiled on them, they were helping me, they were working with me, for me and Marthe. I always did my best now to collect my thoughts and answer their questions. M. de Labruyère begged me daily to come to the Matin offices, and I went, half-heartedly, to tell him what he wanted to know. When I did not go he came to fetch me, accompanied me in a motor-car, on my errands, to my notary, to Maître Aubin, and on the way he interrogated me, and wrote down every word I said, and probably much else besides.... Sometimes I was quite normal, but these spells of lucidity were daily growing scarcer....
One day, at the Matin offices, M. de Labruyère telephoned directly to the Minister of Justice to ask him for an "urgent audience" about me. I was surprised, and said so, but he replied airily: "The Minister is an old friend of ours. We do as we please, here, with the Government."
I felt there was something not quite clear in this, and I may say that since the "Night of the Confession" I have been convinced that the direct telephoning to the Minister of Justice was a put-up comedy to impress me with the importance of the Matin—and I said to M. de Labruyère: "I think it far simpler that I should call on the Minister. He is sure to receive me, in the circumstances."
"No, no," came the hasty reply. "Let us arrange it. Let Bunau-Varilla arrange it. You must understand that Ministers must bow their heads before us. Surely you know that we end Cabinets as easily as we make them...."
Thereupon, he once more begged me to meet M. Bunau-Varilla. "He has been rather vexed because you declined to see him.... But I am sure he will at once grant you an audience, if you wish it."
I consented. After all, I might as well see this man with unlimited powers, this Bunau-Varilla who "granted audiences" like a sovereign or a Cabinet Minister.
I went down three steps which led from a vestibule to the "audience-chamber." I found myself in a room of huge proportions, with only a long, seemingly endless table and the chairs around it for furniture. At the further end of the table stood a white-haired man, white-bearded, in evening dress (it was 5 P.M.), erect, solemn, gloomy—but not awe-inspiring. There was something in his attitude that reminded me of the "Statue of the Commander" in Molière's "Don Juan."
We were alone. There was a long moment of silence. M. Bunau-Varilla watched me with very keen eyes, and then remembering that I was a lady, he pointed to a chair, with a would-be royal gesture, and uttered a few words of welcome in an icy tone.
"I have just heard from M. de Labruyère," I said, "that you are sorry not to have seen me before, but I have been attacked, defended, re-attacked and re-defended by your journal, and before coming to you I wished to find out what your final attitude was to be."
"The Matin, Madame," he replied, less icily, "is entirely at your disposal. As you are no doubt aware, I am the master of public opinion. I change it as I please, I play with it.... Your letter to the Echo de Paris proved to me that you are a woman with brains and character; it pleased me. But I wish to tell you that I know a great deal about you and your past life—more, indeed, than you suppose, and I must tell you at once quite frankly that if you wish to find in me a real defender—which I am anxious to be—I shall expect greater frankness from you, fuller details—even confessions—about all you know that might help us to trace the murderers."
As he spoke he looked me intently in the eyes, as if to intimidate me. I thought, of course, that he was alluding to Félix Faure, to his death, to all that I knew about the President and other prominent men, but later I found out he had something else on his mind—the Rossignol affair, with which I will deal in the next chapter.
In my turn I looked him straight in the eyes, and replied firmly: "Monsieur Bunau-Varilla, if you expect great frankness of me, I expect the same of you. You have just spoken as if you knew things which you really do not know, but are anxious to know. Why are you not plain-spoken and sincere, why don't you tell me what you do know; or think you know?"
In the tone which Napoleon must have used when he congratulated one of his generals, after a brilliant move on a battle-field, M. Bunau-Varilla condescended to say: "Your firmness pleases me." Then he added, very gently and soothingly: "But you are only a woman, and, in spite of your courage, you need guidance. Let the Matin be your guide. If you place yourself in our hands you need fear nothing, and you are bound to reach the goal you have in view."
Finding that the interview had lasted long enough, I rose, bowed slightly, and left the Throne-Room.
CHAPTER XVIII
M. CHARLES SAUERWEIN AND THE ROSSIGNOL
AFFAIR
THE next day M. de Labruyère came with a gentleman I had never seen before. "This is M. Charles Sauerwein, who is a relation of yours and who knows you very well...."
M. Sauerwein, whom I did not know at all, interrupted his colleague: "I have often met you in Society, Madame. I married Mlle. K., who is a cousin of yours." He spoke in a tone which very much displeased me.
I told him he was mistaken: "Mlle. K. is not my cousin; she is only a close friend of my sister, Mme. Seyrig."
"Had I not been ill recently," said M. Sauerwein, "I would have called on you sooner to tell you all I know about the so-called mystery of the Impasse Ronsin."
"I have seen many journalists," I said, "but I never saw you before. So you have left the Prince of Monaco, whose orderly officer you were, I have been told. You are now on the staff of the Matin.... Will you tell me in what way the Impasse Ronsin mystery interests you?"
M. Sauerwein told me that he had been "passionately interested in the Steinheil affair" from the outset, that he had spoken to M. Bunau-Varilla about the mystery....
To my great surprise, M. de Labruyère said to me: "I prefer to leave you together. What M. Sauerwein has to tell you is no concern of mine."
I refused to let him go. "I beg you to remember, M. de Labruyère, that I have nothing to conceal. Whether M. Sauerwein has made some startling discovery or has merely an interesting fact to disclose, let him speak before you."
I had seldom seen any one look so scornful as M. Sauerwein did then. I pointed out a chair to him, and, sitting down, he began in a melodramatic tone, which, I suppose, was intended to frighten me.
"Since you wish it, let M. de Labruyère remain in the room, but you will regret it when you have heard what I have to say, Madame."
"Come to the point."
"Just as you please. What I have to say is this. I know the murderers of your husband and mother." Then, looking me straight in the eyes, he added: "And you know them too."
"My position is rather awkward," said M. de Labruyère, but M. Sauerwein silenced him with a gesture, and went on:
"I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I must say what I have to say without mincing matters. One of the assassins has fully confessed to me. He is your lover."
I was so indignant and dumbfounded that I could not speak. M. Sauerwein continued: "Two or three years ago, there was an attempt at burglary in this very house. You don't deny it, do you?"
"No!... Were I a man," I exclaimed angrily, "I would treat you as you deserve, for daring to say to me things which are false and which you know are false."
Taken aback, but still insolent, he said: "We will still get the whole truth out of you. Your husband went to the police commissary of this district, and an inspector was sent here to guard the house for a fortnight. The inspector was a tall, handsome and intelligent man. His name is Rossignol. After a good meal, he has confessed to me that he had relations with you, but they lasted only a short time. He was dismissed from the force for various reasons. It is no use denying that he was your lover. Rossignol is in our hands. If you confess the truth, we'll manage to arrest the two men and the woman who assisted him. They're all in Paris, and I know the haunt where they meet. Come now, admit the truth...."
I could not move, I could hardly breathe... I clutched my chair so as not to fall.... All I could do then was to listen, to listen intently. And the words M. Sauerwein spoke engraved themselves deeply on my mind. They are still there, and I repeat them to-day with absolute accuracy. M. de Labruyère himself will not contradict me.
The man went on: "Confess, I tell you!... You are safe enough.... Those men will never mention you. We will arrange everything. The two men and the woman, who did not know you, will be sentenced. Rossignol will go to prison, but as a reward for his discretion, we will see that he is not kept there very long."
Once more, I ordered the man to leave my house.... It was all in vain. He defied me, and remained.
"It is useless for you to deny anything," he continued, relentlessly. "I know you well.... I know everything about the murder, I tell you.... Don't attempt to deny anything. Listen: I followed you from Bellevue; when you went to meet your lover Rossignol, I saw you. You took the train and reached the Saint-Lazare Station. I was in the same train; I did not lose sight of you; I watched you at the station while you walked about, in the 'Hall of the Lost Steps.'
"Rossignol arrived, saw you, rushed to you and you kissed him. Together you went to a restaurant in the Rue du Hâvre, outside the station. You talked very softly, but I sat at the table just behind you, and I overheard the conversation. You two were talking about the crime. Then you gave each other a rendez-vous.... Is that enough? Do you realise now the futility of a denial? Speak, speak...!"
I summoned whatever strength I had left, and said: "I have nothing to tell you, Monsieur." I turned to M. de Labruyère: "You must tell M. Bunau-Varilla that I insist upon his sending one of his men here to-morrow morning, to go with me to the Police Commissary of this district.... And then this infamous plot will recoil on the heads of those who have conceived it."
M. de Labruyère did his best to calm me, and kept on saying in the most apologetic and kindly manner: "Don't be angry.... I don't know anything about this fantastic affair.... I am sure now there must be some awful mistake."
M. Sauerwein had not done yet: "I have spoken the truth. The facts I stated are undeniable."... Then abruptly changing his tone, he remarked with hypocritical sympathy: "Oh! I quite understand how painful it is for you to confess.... It must be hard for a society woman to admit that she once had a 'weakness' for a man of low origin."
This was more than I could stand. I walked up to M. Sauerwein: "If you do not leave this house instantly, I shall send for the police."
The two journalists beat a hasty retreat.
Hardly had I heard the gate shut behind them, than Mariette came to tell me that M. de Labruyère had returned. Before I could say that I refused to see him again, he came in himself.
"Madame," he began, "I beg you not to mention this painful incident to any one; above all, not a word to other newspapers. You know I have always done my best for you. Surely you have some confidence in me.... Well, tell me the truth. Will you not admit that this Sauerwein story is true?"
"What, you too!" I exclaimed, bitterly hurt, for I trusted M. de Labruyère, and believed him incapable of insulting a woman, wantonly or otherwise. "How can you place the least credence in that vile story!"
M. de Labruyère murmured, reluctantly: "Sauerwein, I understand, has all the proofs. M. Bunau-Varilla knows all about this affair, but he may help you, if you tell us everything. Briand (the Minister of Justice) will help us... the whole matter will be arranged. Those men and the woman will not mention you. Certain promises will be made to them.... Remember the Matin is almighty...."
I stopped M. de Labruyère: "I have heard enough. I have no one and nothing to fear. The Matin does not frighten me in the least. I shall come to the office and demand apologies for your colleague's vile insults, and, if necessary, I shall speak to M. Bunau-Varilla himself. Now, go, and remember that to-morrow morning some one on the staff of your journal will accompany me to the Police Commissary."
Need I say that after this new shock I passed such a night of anguish that my weary, harassed brain tottered one step further towards the brink of madness.
The next morning, quite early, M. Barby, of the Matin, called and said: "We are all indignant, Madame, at the way M. Sauerwein has treated you. I am ready to go with you to prove the absurdity of that accusation."
With Marthe and M. Barby I went to the Police Commissary. I told him what had happened, and he said: "This accusation against you is shameful...." He remembered the attempted burglary and the fact that M. Steinheil had requested him to have his house guarded by an inspector, but that his wife was to know nothing about it. The inspector had watched the house for about a fortnight, from outside, in the Impasse.
As a matter of fact, I had only heard of this attempted burglary by accident. A man came from the police to inform me that the house would no longer be watched. As I knew nothing more about the matter, I expressed surprise and asked a few questions, and it was then that I heard of the attempt. (Men had been seen climbing over the wall of our garden, by some compositors at the printing works at the end of the Impasse Ronsin, and an alarm being raised, the burglars hurriedly escaped.) I spoke to my husband on the matter, and asked why he had not warned me. Somewhat embarrassed, he replied: "I did not want to alarm you, and gave orders that you should not be told about it."
Meanwhile, newspapers published articles in which it was said that a former police inspector was suspected of being the author of the Impasse Ronsin murders, and that it was rumoured that he had been my lover!... The reader can imagine the sensation such "revelations" caused, and the amount of harm it did me, with the public! Anonymous letters reached me in greater numbers than ever, I was dragged in the mire, and when I left or entered the Impasse, there were loud cries of: "Death to her" or "Look at the murderess." It was enough to drive any one mad—and it did drive me mad.
I went to the Matin offices, and M. Sauerwein apologised. Then he and M. de Labruyère begged me to accompany them both, with some detectives in the pay of the journal, to some awful cut-throat place, at one in the morning, where they would show me the two men and the woman they had mentioned, so that I might state whether they looked like the persons I had seen on the fatal night.
I refused: "Since," I said, "those men have confessed their guilt, as you have said, and that Rossignol, the 'chief' murderer is in your hands, all you have to do is to inform the Law, and have them arrested. When they stand before M. Leydet, or before M. Hamard, I will come and identify them."
I heard no more of this sensational story, and the Matin turned to other clues and theories. "Confess," I was told one day, "confess that it is a political crime.... Don't think we are fools! If the Rossignol clue is worth nothing, then there are other clues!... Help us...."
I had not quite lost my reason yet, but I was blind enough not to realise that to the Matin, I was merely a useful, nay, a capital sensation-purveyor, a news-supplying machine that meant a valuable increase in the circulation of the paper. They only had one idea; to make as much as possible out of the "Steinheil Affair" and its wretched heroine, whether she had any news to give them or not!
True, most newspapers looked upon me in very much the same manner, but a great number of them were fair and human, and drew the line at certain "methods."
I called on Maître Aubin, to whom I told all that had taken place. He shook his head, and said, "Be careful.... Don't make an enemy of the Matin.... At the same time, I am sorry you sought the assistance of the Press.... The newspapers are exasperating the authorities."
I was stupefied. Whom was I to trust? Whom was I to believe?... Here was I become the sport of every wind that blew....
Not a word about the Rossignol affair was said at my trial. But, in prison, when the Dossier of the "Steinheil Affair" was at last handed to me, I discovered among the 4500 documents and the 15,000 pages composing it, some sixty pages dealing with the Rossignol clue. Below, I give the essential parts of those sixty pages, quoting accurately from the Dossier:
[Report]
Paris, November 14, 1908.
Yesterday and to-day certain newspapers have indicated as having possibly taken a part in the crime of the Impasse Ronsin, M. Rossignol, a former police inspector. It is true that a M. Rossignol was inspector in the Saint Lambert district, and that he had a bad reputation. I believe he was dismissed in May last.... I was told that Rossignol is now a traveller for a firm that sells coffee.... The examining magistrate will be at liberty to decide whether it would be useful to make an inquiry, in order to establish how the man spent his time on the night of May 30-31, 1908.
The Chief of the Sûreté
(Signed) Hamard.
(Dossier Cote 909)
[Official Report.]
November 23rd, 1908.
We, Octave Hamard, Chief of the Sûreté, &c., have this day summoned to our Cabinet M. Rossignol... thirty-eight years old... who made the following statements:
"It is difficult for me to say exactly how I spent my time in May last. I left the police at the beginning of that month and remained without occupation till June 1st.... On May 30th, in the evening, I met my friend Thiret, a chauffeur; with him and another chauffeur we dined at Zimmer's, in the rue Blondel. We left the restaurant towards 10.30 P.M., and went to various cafés.... In one of the places where we called (the address was given), people are sure to remember my presence that night. At 2.30 A.M. we were in the Faubourg Montmartre. It was 4 A.M. when I returned home to my wife and children.... On June 1st, I was engaged as a broker by a coffee firm. Later I was sent to Arras (in the North).... Then, I was suddenly called back to Paris. Certain newspapers, principally the Matin, were shown to me.... I was told that I was suspected of being one of the authors or the instigator of the Steinheil Affair, and that I had refused to be confronted with the widow of the painter, I was then dismissed from the firm....
(Signed) Rossignol
Hamard."
(Dossier, Cote 910)
Paris, December 5th, 1908.
Report from the Commissary of Police, Chief of the "Mobile brigade" to the Chief of the Sûreté:
In reply to your demand for details concerning a certain Cavellier (a friend of Rossignol), who once belonged to the "Mobile Brigade" as inspector, I have the honour to supply the following information:
"Cavellier was appointed Inspector on January 1st, 1906, and was ordered to resign on August 31st of the same year ... (on account of various robberies, mentioned in this document).