My Memoirs

I will now quote—in all fairness—the narrative of the "night of the confession" as M. Hutin made it to M. André—the judge who replaced M. Leydet—on November 27, 1908 (two days later):

"I wish first of all to state that in this affair I merely acted as a journalist, and that I have never in any way confused such a rôle with that of the Law."

Then, after a few remarks about my letter addressed to the Echo de Paris, and published on October 31, M. Hutin proceeds: "I arrived (at the house in the Impasse Ronsin) at about 9.30 P.M. As soon as M. Chabrier saw me, he exclaimed: 'Ah! you come as a saviour,' or at least he said, 'You are welcome.' (The bitter irony of it.)

"Mme. Steinheil herself received me with much sympathy. I noticed she was profoundly depressed (affaissée). She received me in the dining-room.... I told her that to my mind the best thing she could do was to free her conscience by telling me the whole truth. I told her that the next day, the Law, by its own methods, would extract the truth from her, and that she had better make a clean breast of everything.

"At about 10 P.M. M. de Labruyère arrived.

"He, too, strongly insisted that Mme. Steinheil should tell the truth. At one moment, Mme. Steinheil exclaimed: 'What do you want to know from me?'

"We asked her again why she had directed suspicion against Rémy Couillard. She replied: 'I have always had suspicions of him.' We told her that, in any case, she knew what had taken place on the night of May 30th-31st, that she knew who was the real criminal. And both M. de Labruyère and I declared to her that: 'We will not go until you tell us the name.' She exclaimed: 'I cannot tell you his name, because there is some one whom it would kill.' We asked her: 'Who? His wife? a sister?' She said: 'No, his mother... his mother would die of grief or would kill herself.'

"We asked her whether she referred to some one in the entourage, and finally she said: 'It is Alexandre Wolff, Mariette's son.' Then she begged us to let Wolff know very quickly so that he might get away. We asked her if Mariette knew about all this, and she replied: 'Oh! Mariette is there, watching us! She must not know anything. Yes, Mariette has known everything since... who knows how long?... Mariette will now probably turn against me.' Then narrating the crime, she told us: 'I did not ask Wolff to come. He came to steal the money.... There were no jewels. He terrorised me. He told me that if I spoke, he could assert that I had summoned him so that he might rid me of my husband.' She added that since then and even recently Alexandre Wolff had threatened to kill her and her daughter.

"I asked her if she were very sure that she was not again accusing an innocent person, if she spoke the truth, and she replied: 'Oh! the moment is too tragic for me not to tell the truth.' She added: 'My life is over,' and she talked about killing herself. I gave her the advice not to do such a thing, and to go in the morning and talk to the examining magistrate, and tell him the whole truth.

"M. de Labruyère and I left at about 12.50 A.M. expecting her to tell the whole truth in the morning, and expressing our sympathy with her.

"She was then very much depressed.

"During the whole evening we were alone with Mme. Steinheil. The two Chabriers and Mme. Steinheil's daughter were in a room near by."...

(Signed) André.
Simon (Clerk).
Hutin.

(Dossier Cote 3260)

M. Barby, of the Matin, remained with Marthe and the Chabriers, evidently to prevent any one from coming to my assistance. The plans of these men were well laid.

The evidence given on December 29, 1908, by M. Barby to M. André runs as follows:

"At about 8.30 P.M., on November 25, I arrived at the house in the Impasse Ronsin. I found Mme. Steinheil very depressed. She complained about Souloy, the jeweller, saying he owed a great deal to her and that she could not understand why he had made 'such a statement.' At 9.30 M. Hutin arrived, soon followed by M. de Labruyère. Between them and Mme. Steinheil a long conversation took place in the sitting-room, whilst I remained in the next room with the Chabriers and Mlle. Marthe Steinheil.

"Several times M. de Labruyère came to talk to me, and briefly told me what was going on. Towards midnight, he came and said: 'Mme. Steinheil is confessing to us.'

"M. de Labruyère and M. Hutin went away at about 1 A.M. As they went, M. de Labruyère rapidly explained the confession made by Mme. Steinheil.... He recommended me to remain, and, as far as I could, prevent Mme. Steinheil from talking with Mariette Wolff and check any act of violence on the part of Mariette against Mme. Steinheil.

"She said to me: 'What have I been doing? What have I confessed? What is going to happen to me?'...

"... At a certain moment, she said: 'I am not sure that Alexandre Wolff acted alone, for I heard noises in the hall and on the staircase.... I have only seen him.'...

"Then she added: 'I shan't be able to prove what I have said about Wolff.... I must die....'

"She asked me to kill her. She besought me to give her the means of killing herself, she asked for strychnine and told me that if I had nothing I must go and fetch the doctor, who could surely find something for her.

"I did my best to calm her.

"The Chabriers and I pressed her to go to bed, but she would not. Then we thought of drinking tea. To prevent Mariette from talking to Mme. Steinheil, I told her to pass the tray through one of the hall windows. She did so, but I saw her exchange a long look with Mme. Steinheil. That look lasted about one minute. Mariette muttered: 'What's the matter?' Mme. Steinheil was dumb. Mariette then walked round and entered the dining-room. She threw herself into Mme. Steinheil's arms.... I did not hear them say anything and then Mariette went away....

"Mme. Steinheil told us that she intended calling on the judge in the morning. She was quiet now, and asked M. Chabrier to go and warn her counsel, Maître Aubin, whilst she went to M. Leydet. She spoke in a calm, precise way. At last, she consented to go to bed.

"Afterwards she asked for Mariette. She said, 'I can't go without seeing Mariette; if I did she would guess something.' Mariette came. M. Chabrier and I were in the room, a few yards from the bed.

"The two women spoke in whispers. We could not hear anything. The scene lasted two or three minutes. When I tried to put an end to it, Mariette, who is usually polite to me, exclaimed angrily: 'Leave me alone' (Foutez-moi la paix).

"I tried to make Mme. Steinheil repeat what she had said to Mariette, and after much hesitation she told me she had asked Mariette: 'If they arrest me, and the truth is discovered, what will you do?' and that Mariette had replied: 'I'll deny everything.'

"After a while—Mme. Chabrier was then upstairs, and I was in the dining-room with M. Chabrier—we heard a door being opened on the ground floor, and M. Chabrier saw that 'Champagne'—the dog—was in the garden. We thought that Mariette had gone to warn her son. Mme. Chabrier (who had come down) was exceedingly alarmed, and said that Alexandre Wolff would perhaps come and kill them. M. Chabrier then went upstairs to fetch a revolver. The dog was still in the garden. Following my advice, M. Chabrier went to fill a decanter with water in the kitchen, to see whether Mariette was in her lodge. When he returned, he said she was there.

"Soon afterwards Mariette came to us in the dining-room. At that very moment Mme. Steinheil called to me from her room. I went to her, and she again besought me to kill her, because she would be unable to prove what she had said about Alexandre Wolff. She again asked me to give her strychnine, and to fetch the doctor.

"Meanwhile, Mariette had returned to her lodge. Mme. Chabrier went there, and when she returned she told us: 'I found Mariette with a revolver in her hand, and she said, "That's my last hope."' Mme. Chabrier added that Mariette had declared that she had already tried to commit suicide with the gas-pipe, and that she had let the dog into the garden so that it should not be asphyxiated.... That had happened at about the time when M. Chabrier had gone to fetch the water.

"Mme. Chabrier fetched Mariette. The latter was tottering, and her face was livid.

"It was then about 4 A.M.

"At that time, M. Bourse, a colleague of mine on the staff of the Matin, arrived.

"He said to M. Chabrier: 'The newspapers are about to appear and render public Mme. Steinheil's confession. The crowd, since yesterday, is very hostile; it is to be feared that the mob may proceed to acts of violence against Mme. Steinheil and those who live in this house. Mme. Steinheil had better leave the place and go to some friends or to a hotel to await the time when she can see M. Leydet.

"M. Chabrier agreed to this but remarked that it would be better to go straight to the Sûreté. M. Chabrier told Mme. Steinheil and Mlle. Marthe this, and both accepted the suggestion.

"Mme. Steinheil prepared to start. She was then quite calm, so calm that she gave instructions about the house, said that the dog should be looked after and that the covers should be put on the furniture. Then she handed a hundred franc note to Mme. Chabrier 'for the household.'

"Towards 4.15 A.M. she drove away with her daughter and M. Chabrier. She had kissed every one, even Mariette, and had been continually repeating: 'Courage, have courage' or some similar words.

"M. Bourse and I remained with Mme. Chabrier at her husband's request. Mariette joined us and again questioned us to find out what had happened. I merely replied: 'We have advised Mme. Steinheil to go and spend a few days with some friends of hers, in order to avoid the hostility of the crowd.'"

(Signed) Barby.
Simon.
André.

(Dossier Cote 3282)

"After the departure of the two journalists, M. Barby remained with us. Mme. Steinheil drank some tea. She walked like an automaton. Her eyes were haggard and gazed into space. I had never seen her in such a state. She did not speak. Marthe and I took her to her room and undressed her.... At 3.30 A.M., M. Bourse of the Matin arrived in an automobile.... My husband and I went and told Mme. Steinheil that she should get up and go.... She said 'yes.' My husband added that he was going to take her to the Sûreté to M. Hamard.... She answered: 'Yes, I will feel safer there than anywhere else.'"....

To resume my own recital.

Marthe rested in my arms during the hour of sleep which we snatched out of the mad turmoil of that night. When I was awakened everything came back to me. It was decided that I should go to M. Hamard, and I kept repeating to myself: "I must tell him exactly what the journalists told me, I must not change a word. Otherwise, they have said, I shall be lost and Marthe too." I had suffered so much that I was numb, and had hardly any feeling in my body. I was calm. Nothing mattered.... Still I had one fear, the terrible mob outside, the mob that wanted to kill us all, to set fire to the house. I kissed Mme. Chabrier and gave her some money to look after Marthe, in case anything happened to me.... I had been told so many times during the night that I should be arrested!... I said to Mariette: "Now, you must speak the truth...." She replied: "I will deny everything."... The fresh air in the garden did me good. When I stepped out into the Impasse with Marthe and M. Chabrier, I was surprised to see that no one was there, not even a policeman! Those two men had lied then.... A taxi from the Matin was waiting outside the gate.

"Where are we going?" the driver asked.

"To the Sûreté," I replied.

M. Hamard was not yet up, of course. It was then about 4.20.... We waited awhile; then he arrived, hastily dressed, his hair unbrushed, wearing a night-shirt under his coat, and a pair of black slippers. Utter bewilderment was written on his face.

I said, or rather repeated, everything I had been made to say during the night: no men in black gowns; no stolen jewels; M. Bdl., my friend; Alexandre Wolff, the murderer.

M. Hamard said to me: "You and Wolff will be confronted."

M. Leydet arrived. "You have made a laughing-stock of me," he exclaimed; "why did you not tell me the truth?" ... I said: "Forgive me."

Why did he weep?... I wondered, and said to myself: "If he had had greater tenacity, if he had searched with greater diligence, he would have found the three men and the woman...."

Then Maître Aubin arrived. "What do I hear!" he exclaimed wildly. "You have accused Wolff!"

Wolff was then brought in. (He had been arrested at seven in the morning.) My declaration was read to him. He turned pale with anger and vehemently denied everything. I certainly had serious suspicions against Wolff, but, of course, my declaration, the new story of the crime, had been directly inspired by the anonymous letters and also by the two journalists, who had told me to "drop" the men in the black gowns and the stolen jewels—and to find something else. I did not know what to say, and thought that the only thing to do was to repeat the so-called "Confession" I had made during the night.

Mariette was present, and she spoke of her devotion to me. Wolff now explained his movements on the night of May 30th. He had sold a mare in the morning, and taken her to the Eastern Station in the afternoon. He had had a few "drinks" with the buyer, dined with his partner, and spent the evening with him in a café. The two men parted at 11.30 P.M. On the way home Wolff met a friend or two and had other "drinks," and went to bed at 1.30 or 2 A.M. On the 31st, he had sold a horse in a small place outside Paris, and had not heard of the murder until June 1st.

Later in the day, before M. Leydet and in the presence of Wolff, I said: "I can say nothing more than what I have said to you.... I have no material proofs to corroborate my statements," and I added: "Alexandre, since you were in my room on the night of the crime, you might help us to discover the criminal." And I apologised to him.

I quote these three different statements of mine, made at intervals, on that 26th day of November, from the Dossier, Cote 65 and Cote 70.

All day long questions were asked me and confrontations took place.... And I had had less than two hours rest during the past five days.

Wolff called me a "mad and hysterical woman...." He was not far from the truth, alas. But I remembered the warning, "This time don't change a word of what you have told us, or else you and Marthe are lost."

I thought: If I am arrested, Wolff and Couillard are arrested too. And since they know something, they will speak. Couillard has already made a few revelations. Now it will be Wolff's turn. The whole truth will come out. I did not know that that very day Couillard would be released and that Wolff was only in custody for a few hours.

Maître Aubin once or twice took me to another room and entreated me not to accuse Wolff.... Then both he and M. Hamard besought me to reflect: "You have lost your reason," they said. "Retract your accusation against Wolff...." They spoke kindly, and I thought: "They want to arrange matters to stop this whole affair, because of the political mystery in it. But I must resist to the end. The three men and the woman must be found. I have gone too far, suffered too much, to give up the fight and the search."

Some one told me: "If you persist in your accusations, they will arrest both you and your daughter!"

And now Marthe arrived, accompanied by M. Chabrier. How pale she was! How tear-stained and frightened her dear eyes! She sank on my breast, clutched my arms, and sobbed. "Mother, mother," she cried, "they want to put us in prison. ... Can nothing be done? Say everything you know, if you know everything!"....

Then M. Grandjean, Substitut of the Procureur, tore my daughter away from me and said: "Ah! you love your daughter! Well, we shall make her suffer in order to make you talk!"

Since then, my daughter has told me that during the afternoon of that dreadful day the same M. Grandjean had threatened to arrest her, and also M. Chabrier, who had burst into tears.

From 4.30 A.M. till 7 P.M., with brief intervals, and one hour (2 P.M.) during which I was allowed to talk with Marthe and have some tea, I was subjected to endless examinations, in M. Hamard's Cabinet, by him, and by M. Grandjean and M. Leydet.

Alexandre Wolff, brought in by two municipal guards, was again confronted with me, and it was then that I ceased to accuse him as firmly as before, and asked him to "help me discover the murderer."

"Well, it was time you spoke like that," Wolff exclaimed. "I wasn't going to be guillotined just to please you!"

Many things were said to me or before me; but I did not hear them. I had no longer the strength or will to hear, or the power to reason....

M. Leydet said to me: "You are arrested." I did not mind at all. I could not understand the terrible meaning of those three words.

I left the room. Maître Aubin was outside, in the corridor, with Marthe. I saw that she was crying.

"Are you arrested too?" I asked her.

"No, no," said my counsel. "She is free."

I dried Marthe's tears, and said to her (she told me all this afterwards, when she visited me in prison, and that is how I am able to complete this narrative): "You must not weep. You know very well I am not the only one.... Marie Antoinette was arrested, and others...."

My daughter embraced me and we parted. She has told me that I smiled, and that my eyes were no longer like "living" eyes.

I followed Maître Aubin back to the Sûreté, where we entered the Cabinet of M. Hamard, and my counsel has told me since that I sat down quietly and waited. M. Hamard, it appears, asked me whether I would like to eat something. It was past nine o'clock then. "Oh, yes," I replied. "Some ham and tea, please." When the tray was brought in, I settled down before a little table, and said to the Chief of the Sûreté, "Surely you are not going to let me eat by myself? Won't you have some tea with me?" M. Hamard said gently, "I have too much to do...."

Then I heard some one sob behind me. It was an inspector, a good man, who for months had done all he could to help me trace the murderers of my husband and my mother.

My counsel's last words were, "In a week's time you will be back in your daughter's arms."

I went down the staircase between the inspectors, whom I knew so well.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To Saint-Lazare."

I had never heard of Saint-Lazare before. I only knew of the station of that name. I supposed they referred to a kind of home for women, a kind of infirmary. We entered a taxi and drove away. We passed by the Châtelet. I recognised it.... The inspectors looked very sad. They spoke kind words to me....

"Is it very far, Saint-Lazare?" I asked.

I looked through the window. Paris seemed a new, a different city....

We reached Saint-Lazare. I glanced at the big building; it reminded me of a convent.... And there were so many doors. We passed through a yard, a passage. Then we came to a small room.

"Your name," said some one.

"Why?"

"You must write it, here...."

"Yes, Madame," said one of the inspectors, kindly. "Write your name, your age...."

A bell rang. The inspectors, deeply moved, said, "We must bid you good-bye, Madame...."

They went as far as a door with me. I shook hands with them and said, "Courage, courage; we shall all know the truth soon."

Then I was taken to another room. There was green furniture in it; the ceiling was low. It was not a beautiful room, but it was most comfortable. I saw a small man of about forty-five, with a strong face, blue eyes, fair hair, and a pointed beard, and some one said, "That is Monsieur le Directeur."

"So it is you who are putting me here?"... I said. "That is a nice old arm-chair...." I was convinced that I should be given a room like this one.

She has since told me that the first words I said to her, when she entered the director's room, were: "It is I, ma sœur; it is strange, is it not, that it should be I?"...

I followed her, I began to be surprised, almost alarmed. She took me through a long, long passage. At the end, there was a bed in an angle. A man was there, he took up some large keys, and opened the door. The sister took me by the hand and said: "It is a little dark...."

"How ugly and damp it is here, ma sœur".... I held the bannister: "It reminds me," I said, "of those in the old houses at Montbéliard, near my dear Beaucourt."

We came to another door. There I saw a sister sitting at a small desk in a room where the windows had big iron bars. I felt frightened. We went down another long passage, and came to a high gate which the sister opened.

"Where are we going, ma sœur? Everything is so dirty and dark. Are we going the right way?"

"Yes. You must come and fetch your sheets." She shut the gate behind her, and I noticed for the first time a bunch of large heavy keys hanging at her waist.

She opened the door with one of the keys and said: "I will choose some nice sheets... you must be very tired."

"Oh no, ma sœur, I am not tired.... I hope Marthe is not unhappy. I am glad she did not come here with me...."

The sister muttered: "Hush! You must not talk here.... Take these sheets."

I looked at them. I had seen soldiers' sheets, but these were much coarser.

The sister looked at me and said: "Yes... you are not used to them...."

I carried the sheets, and followed the sister along a filthy, evil-smelling corridor.

"My poor child, I am taking you to your cell."

Another sister arrived, turned a big key in a lock twice, and drew a bolt. A heavy door was opened before me. The sister held a lantern, and I was told to go in.

I saw two women's faces looking at me from two little beds against the black walls, two barred windows, and three other beds that were empty.

"Make your bed, there...."

The foot of "my" bed touched that of a bed in which I saw a dark, pale, fierce-looking woman, the sight of whom made me shiver....

There was a tiny unlighted stove with three legs and a long chimney in the middle of the cell. The floor was made of slabs. Many were missing, most of them were broken, and there was dirty water in the holes. It was very cold.

One of the sisters pointed to a shelf above the bed and said: "You can put your things there.... Give me your hat, your hatpins, your gloves. You are only entitled to keep your dress."

I AWOKE the next morning—in a cell. The women were still there. I felt as if I had been beaten all over my body and my head. At first I did not realise where I was, or what I was doing there.... I saw the slabs of the floor, the dirt, the door with the peep-hole, through which, after lifting a small wooden shutter, people from the outside could see what was going on in the cell, the iron bedstead with the rough straw mattresses, the pillow filled with dried sea-weed, and the sheets made of some yellowish material that looked like sail-cloth. I saw the boards fastened into the wall above each bed, the small stove, the heap of coal in a corner, a few yellowish earthen-ware bowls and jugs, and blunt knives on a rickety table. I saw the walls covered with tar, vermin crawling about the cracks and hollows in the slabs, around the little puddles of muddy, evil-smelling water, the rough-hewn, uneven joists of the dark ceiling, from which hung thick webs. (Saint-Lazare, I heard afterwards, is one of the oldest and most dilapidated prisons in France.) I saw the two windows, with their heavy iron bars, and thick wire-gauze—through which, later on, I found it so difficult to give some of my bread to the scores of sparrows and pigeons which nest in the old roofs of Saint-Lazare—and I knew that I was a prisoner.

But what did it matter! In less than a week everything would be arranged and definitely settled, the real murderers would be arrested, and I would be once more with my daughter! Meanwhile, it was horrible to be here, to be in prison! I thought of Marthe, of my father... and I cried.

The women watched me eagerly. They addressed me by my name.... How did they know who I was?

The noise of steps outside, of the key being turned twice, and of the bolts being drawn—a noise which I was to hear so many times a day during a whole year, but which always jarred painfully on my nerves—interrupted the woman's explanations.

The man with the fair, pointed beard and the stern expression whom I had seen on my arrival at Saint-Lazare, entered, followed by the Sister who had given me the sheets, and whom I will henceforth call by her name, Sister Léonide. The two women jumped up and said: "Good morning, Monsieur le Directeur."

He turned to me, and in a matter-of-fact tone asked: "Are you satisfied? Is there anything you want, Madame?"

"Oh, yes!... I want to see my daughter."

He made no answer to that, but said: "Your counsel will no doubt come to see you to-day," and walked away.

"How stupid of you," said one of the women to me; "you might have obtained anything. For the Director to call on you like that, early in the morning, it must be a political crime." (This remark amazed me.) "You should have asked for another stove, this one draws badly, or for an extra blanket...." And both started telling me what I should ask for the next time the Director came, so that our cell should be comfortable.

The door opened again. A young Sister, with a healthy glow on her round cheeks, came in.

"What do you want to-day, Madame?" she asked.

I could not understand. "She is Sister Ange," I was told; "she is the Canteen Sister." Still I did not understand.

One of the women explained: "Sister Ange fetches what the prisoner orders at the canteen.... You can ask for bread, for a pennyworth of milk, or two pennyworth of coffee—anything."

"They bring it up already prepared, of course!" and my two companions burst into endless and noisy laughter.

"Excuse me, forgive me," I said; "I didn't know...."

The Sister gently explained; "Yes, the coffee is already prepared.... It is not very good, but you can warm it up on the little stove here...."

I gave her some coppers and asked for some coffee and milk.

"Do you want a large or a small jug?" I did not answer. Everything seemed so strange, so abnormal. Sister Ange continued: "I will bring you a small stone bowl—you can eat everything in that—and a spoon.... No, no, forks are not allowed in prison. But you can have a small knife, blunt, of course...."

I asked if I could buy some bread.

"You are entitled to bread, Madame. You will receive half a boule of brown bread every day." When I tried a piece of the prison bread that day, I found two black beetles in it and gave a cry... much to the two women's amusement. They told me that was quite a usual thing.

I duly received the coffee, but it was well-nigh undrinkable. Four months later, after M. André had completed the Instruction (examination of the accused and all the witnesses: M. André replaced M. Leydet as magistrate in charge of my case, for the latter, ill and worn, had asked to be relieved of the painful duty of interrogating a lady whom he had known for many years), I begged to be allowed to prepare my own coffee, for it was almost the only thing I managed to take. Ground coffee was supplied to me, and I made a strainer with two bits of firewood sticks, some wire taken from my hat (during the drives to the Palace of Justice for the Instruction), and a piece from one of my handkerchiefs.

My companions cleaned the cell, and I helped them. We lit the fire, arranged our beds, and breakfasted. Then they began to chat, and I heard who they were.

The name of the other was Rosselli. She was much younger and kinder-looking, and had blue eyes and light brown hair. She had been accused of fraud, and was awaiting her trial. (I may add that three weeks afterwards she was sentenced to one year's imprisonment, but was almost immediately released.) At the end of December the appeal of Alba Ghirelli was heard, and she, too, was released.—I mention these facts because, as the reader will realise a little later, they have an important and pitiful connection with my own case.

A gong rang three times. Ghirelli and Rosselli exclaimed: "That's Sister Léonide.... She is in charge of the 'reserved' cells" (pistoles).

"What are they?" I asked.

They laughed again. "Why, this is a reserved cell. You have to pay 7 francs 50 (six shillings) a month to be in a cell like this. They are the best to be had. In each of the others there are twelve prisoners. In these there are only five beds."

Sister Léonide came in.

"Your counsel is downstairs," she announced. "Come, please." On the way she said: "In future, you will be known as 'Number 16170,' but as it is difficult to remember, we will call you '61.' When you hear the gong strike once and you hear some one shout '61,' that will mean that you are wanted; then I, or another sister, will open the door of your cell and take you to your counsel, or to the Director...."

She spoke very firmly, but there was a glow of warmth and kindness in her eyes.

"Ma Sœur," I said, "must I remain with those women? It is dreadful for me. Can't I be alone in a cell?"

"My poor child," she replied, in her big, gruff voice that sounded just like that of a man, "you must not think of that. They will never leave you by yourself. It is against the rules.... In a fit of despondency you might.... Well, well, don't look so disappointed. I will talk the matter over with the Sister Superior and the Director, and see what can be done."

At the top of a flight of steps, Sister Léonide said: "Go down. You will come to a door. Knock and a gaoler will open it for you."

The word gaoler made me shudder. I thought: "I am a prisoner... a prisoner! But Couillard and Wolff are in prison too; perhaps they are not guilty, but they know something, and they will have to confess."

The gaoler bluntly asked: "Who are you?"

I remembered my lesson: "I am '61,'" I replied.

The man looked like an old soldier, with his rough, wrinkled, and tanned face, and his martial appearance. "Ah! yes"... he mumbled, "I know, '61.' It is your counsel who has come."

I entered the parlour. What a dreary place, dark and cold.... There was a huge wide table there, with chairs all round it. On one side I saw Maître Aubin, and M. Steinhardt, his secretary. The gaoler pointed out a chair to me, opposite my counsel, and said: "Sit down there."

The two counsel were very pale.

"Ah! why did you not follow my advice!" Aubin began.... "If only you had not written that letter to the Press, if only you had not started the case again!..." Every sentence began with the word "if."

"Have Couillard and Wolff spoken? Is the truth discovered yet?" I asked.

"Spoken!... They are doing nothing but speaking. People carry them about shoulder high; they are the heroes of the day. The newspapers are singing their praises!..."

I was dumbfounded: "What do you say!... It is impossible. Are they not in prison?"

"They were both set free yesterday...."

The two men looked at each other. They hesitated.... I could read in their faces that some terrible news was coming.

I could not wait.... "What is the matter? Speak, Maître Aubin." The poor man halted, and then at last said: "You must be brave.... You must remain here.... Oh! why did you put that pearl in your valet's pocket-book. You don't know the anger of the Public against you.... You would be torn to pieces if you walked through a street."

"How long shall I have to remain in prison? You said a week. Will it be two weeks? Three weeks?"...

"I don't know...."

"What! A whole month?"

"More."

"Surely not! Two months?... Three whole months?"

"I don't know. I swear to you that I don't know. I would rather tell you the worst at once than slowly torture you, but I simply cannot. You will have to be examined by a judge; it will take a long time. Weeks, months, may elapse.... But you longed to know the truth.... Well, there will be a thorough investigation now; you will know everything. I will help you...."

It was as though I had received a stunning blow on the head.... I reeled. Several weeks, several months, perhaps!...

My head fell forward, and I sobbed.

They made me promise to try to eat. They called the gaoler, and said "She must eat," and the man went to the canteen and fetched a plateful of boiled potatoes.... Maître Aubin's last words were: "We shall have to talk together, to work, a great deal... but you may rely upon it: the murderers will be found."

I returned to my cell. There, Ghirelli and Rosselli overwhelmed me with questions, and showed much irritation when I declined to answer.... I had bought from the canteen some paper and ink, and I started writing to my relatives.

My daughter!... My God! Marthe was going to see me! I must not look so unhappy.... "Ma Sœur, tell me, can one see that I have cried?"

I was led to the Director's study. The Director was there, seated near a window.... Then I saw Marthe, with M. Chabrier.... She rushed into my arms, and for a long while, we wept and were both unable to speak. The Director, M. Pons, said: "You can only be together for a quarter of an hour."

I asked Marthe what had happened to her since the previous evening.

"After leaving you, mother, I drove home, and found there a journalist from the Paris-Journal, who when I had told him that I was exhausted and that he should have pity on me, shook me by my hand and went away without a word.

"I have come, mother, with M. Chabrier and M. Hutin, who said he would protect me. I didn't see any one, but I wonder how I shall reach home."

At that moment some one came to say that there was a great crowd outside, that the police were powerless, that he didn't see how they would get Mlle. Steinheil away.

The prison-treasurer (économe), who was present, said: "She will have to leave by the door through which she came. There is no other way out."

"You don't want this child to be mobbed, do you?" said the Director; and he gave some instructions.

(I heard afterwards that there had been a serious altercation, passing from words to blows, between M. Hutin and M. Barby of the Matin, because the former's taxi had been allowed to enter the prison, to the unspeakable rage of the latter, who had the Matin car in readiness, and hoped to kidnap Marthe. M. Hutin's taxi, with my daughter in it, was taken through various courtyards inside the prison to the alley leading to the so-called porte des condamnés (the door through which prisoners sentenced to death were taken to the guillotine). The old gate had not been opened for a long time, and it was difficult to open it; but at last it was thrown open, and the taxi, carrying Marthe, M. Chabrier, and M. Hutin, sped out of the prison into the square.... The crowd was surging outside the main entrance. When they saw the taxi, and realised that Marthe was in it, it was too late. Marthe reached the Impasse Ronsin safely, thanks to M. Hutin, whom, when I heard of his kindness to my daughter, I almost forgave his conduct towards me on the so-called "Night of the Confession.")

From that day the Matin hardly ever troubled my daughter.

I thanked the Director for what he had done for my child, and also for having allowed me to see her, not in the parlour, but in his study.

I always found M. Pons a very strict but admirably just director.

I was led back to my cell; I could hardly walk and when I reached it I sank on my bed.

The thought of having to remain in prison three months perhaps, drove me mad. Ghirelli and Rosselli spoke to me. They wanted to know what had happened.... Poor women! News, whatever it is, however sad, breaks the monotony of life in a prison cell.... But I was more dead than alive, and remained on my bed, crying and thinking of Marthe.

Towards the evening some one came to tell me that a pastor had come to see me. I put on my jacket. Outside the Boulevard des Pistoles—"the boulevard of the cells"—a hand touched my arm, and a kind voice said: "My poor friend. I don't know you, but I know your family. I have read the newspapers, I heard you were here.... I am Pastor Arboux. I visit regularly the Protestant prisoners here and in other prisons. I have done so for the past twenty years.... How you must have suffered. Come with me! we will talk together, and we will pray."

I followed him up a few steps to a small chapel which contained a few chairs, a kind of desk with a Bible on it. I looked at the pastor, and found him a tall, strong man of about sixty, with a small grey beard, large kind eyes and refined features.

"You have seen your daughter," said M. Arboux. "That must have given you much courage. What a brave little girl she must be.... I hope you have a good counsel."... Then he asked me a few questions. I answered them, and he concluded: "I feel you are innocent. I have always thought so."

"Innocent of what?" I said.... "I am not innocent; don't you know that I put the pearl in Couillard's pocket-book?"

"No, Maître Aubin has told me nothing. He only said that I would be kept here for two or three months; he didn't know."

Deeply affected, M. Arboux then said: "Let us pray! Kneel down, my poor woman!"

He knelt beside me and he prayed: "Oh God, Thou who hast allowed my sister here to lose her reason and do an act of injustice, forgive her, and give her the courage to bear everything, even the awful truth...."

He stopped, and I waited for some dreadful revelation....

The pastor, making a great effort, then added in a broken voice: "Give her the strength to hear... that she is accused of a terrible crime."

"A crime! What crime!..." I seized his hands.... "tell me everything.... I am accused of having..."

"Yes, of having..."

I interrupted him: "Don't say it! Good God!..." And then I said it myself: "They believe I have strangled my mother and my husband...." And I fell forward, rocking and moaning in my grief and horror.

The pastor lifted me on to a chair: "Yes... that is why I came here to-night. I half thought that you might not know, and I thought you would suffer a little less if it were an old pastor who broke the awful news to you.... I have witnessed so much misery."

After a long while, when there were no more tears left to shed, he again tried to comfort me: "Be brave, perhaps the criminals will be found. There will be a thorough, a searching Instruction. The truth will out, sooner or later.... It will be a terrible trial to you, to be in this prison, awaiting the decision of the judges, but you must not lose heart. You must expiate past faults.... Try to forget the brilliant world where you have lived all these years.... Every week I will come to you, and we will pray to Him who has all powers. Believe me: it is not human beings who will give you the courage to remain here and to live, and to hope."

Pastor Arboux kept his promise, in a sublime manner. He gave me the courage to live, and reconciled me to this world. During the endless year of mental and physical agony, he came to see me twice a week, every Thursday and every Sunday, and remained each time at least one hour. He came even when he was ill or overwhelmed with work. During the summer of 1909, he took a well-earned three weeks' holiday, but even then, he came to Paris to give me the consolation which he knew I so sorely needed.

M. Arboux asked me: "What sort of women are those two in your cell?"

"It is terrible for me to be with them; they quarrel constantly, and they keep asking me questions. I refuse to speak to them, but sometimes, they are so pressing that I reply, but I am so ill, so tired, so miserable...."

"Try not to reply at all," said M. Arboux. "I will talk to the Director."

In spite of the pastor's kind words, I spent the night weeping and lamenting. I, Marguerite Steinheil-Japy, to be accused of murder, accused of having strangled my husband and my mother! How could such a monstrous charge have been brought against me! It was maddening....

The next day, Saturday, November 26th—no one came to see me, and the day seemed endless.

Another sleepless night followed, and then another day began, a Sunday! Seated on my bed, I wept bitterly. The two women again asked me questions, but during the afternoon, Sister Léonide entered and said to me: "Take your things. You are going into another cell." Later, in January, when the Matin published statements made by Ghirelli and Rosselli concerning a "full confession" which I was supposed to have made in their cell, the Director of the Saint-Lazare prison, sent a report to Judge André, in which he says, concerning my change of cell:

(Dossier Cote 3021)

Sœur Léonide led me to a cell much larger and lighter than the other, but in the same dirty dilapidated state. It contained seven beds, and had two windows, not only heavily barred, but also fitted with iron trellis-work. The windows were of ground glass, so that it was impossible to see outside, except when they were open. One had to listen to the rain and to "guess" if the sun shone, when they were shut.

I sank on to an old chair. Sœur Léonide comforted me, and, trying to be cheerful, "Do you know that everybody is spoiling you!" she said. "Look at this fine, big cell, and you will be almost alone here."

She opened one of the windows. It was raining, and what I could see of the sky, through the bars and the trellis, was dull and grey. The sister pointed to the courtyard below: "Look," she said; "there are a few trees there. In the centre of the yard you can see the basin where the prisoners do their washing. And look at all the pigeons on the roofs. During the summer it is very nice here, you will see...."

I looked at the good sister. She understood... and added hastily: "Of course, of course, you won't be here then; I was only telling you...."

It was very cold and I shivered. Still, to look out of the windows was a change from gazing at four black walls, and wearily, unendingly, counting the tiles at my feet.

But Sœur Léonide gently pulled me back, and closed the window: "It is not wise for you to remain there. Some of the women below might see you, and they would insult you. Everybody in the prison knows you are here."

"She is going to be your companion," said Sœur Léonide, "she is a much nicer little woman than the others, and she is very unhappy; so, she will know how to console you."

"Why is she so unhappy? What has she done?..."

The girl herself replied. "I am here because I tried to steal three blouses from a shop. I wanted to make myself beautiful for my sweetheart. But, Madame, what do you think they have done? They have given me four months! Four months in prison, for three blouses. I shall never live here four months, and 'he' will have gone."

Poor girl! She was small and delicate; she had big brown eyes. She reminded me a little of Marthe.

"What is your name?" I asked her.

"Firmin."

"Well, Firmin, we must try to comfort each other."

Sister Léonide left us together. The dreadful noise of the key and bolt, again.

Firmin was sobbing, and, seeing her in that state, I forgot my grief, for a while.... She told me all the horrible things the other women-prisoners said among themselves, and she said: "I am so thankful to M. Desmoulin for having sent me to this cell."

"Who is M. Desmoulin?" I asked.

"He is a man who visits prisoners, but not a priest or a pastor.... They say he is a painter.... He goes about the prison as he pleases. He is here to-day. I'd have died long ago, if it had not been for him. Ah! think of it, I am in prison! What will my parents say? They don't know anything yet...." And she burst out sobbing. Poor Firmin!

We heard a noise, voices, and then a gentleman came in, fairly tall, with a grey beard and moustache, and the appearance of an artist. He must have been about fifty-five.

He chatted with Firmin for a short while, near the door. I heard him say: "You must do all you can for her." He looked in my direction and said: "Have courage, Madame," then went away.

"That was M. Desmoulin," said Firmin.

"I am going to light the fire," said my companion. "And then, the Sister told me I was to make you eat something."

Firmin lit the fire, helped me to undress, for I was terribly weak, put me to bed and forced me to swallow some milk.

But I could not sleep. Firmin then exclaimed, "I have a bit of candle!"

"Are there no lamps, then?"

"No, Madame, but I have a candle. I bought it. I have no money, but I sew, I work to make money. You must sew all day to earn very little, and of course, to work at night you need a candle, don't you!"

She started to sew, near my bed, and I helped her.... Then suddenly, I heard the masculine voice of Sister Léonide shouting: "Will you be quiet, all of you? I shall call the warders.... I tell you she is not here!"

Heavy objects, by the score, were thrown against the door of my cell; and the most abominable insults were hurled at me. There rose hysterical screams of "Murderess! assassin! The guillotine is too good for you! We know you are there! Death to you! The guillotine!"

Firmin held both my hands and trembled like a leaf. "It is dreadful, Madame, don't listen!"

"What are they throwing at the door?"

"Their wooden shoes, and anything they can lay their hands on, I suppose...."

Then, abruptly, the noise outside the door ceased, but it started again almost immediately, behind one of the walls, where apparently a whole gang of prisoners were lodged. For a while, they shouted obscenities, and the vilest insults were once more hurled at me: "Murderess! You strangled your own mother, you killed your own husband.... If we had you here, we would gouge your eyes out, tear you to shreds, you assassin!"....

And all the time those demons hit the wall and tried to smash it, piece by piece.

I could hardly hear what she said, so terrific was the noise in the next cell.

Then the noise ceased.... The Sisters were coming.... But as soon as the round had passed, the din began afresh, and the insults and the threats were even worse than before.... Firmin and I, in despair, forced paper into our ears, and getting into our beds, we covered our heads not only with our blankets, but with our clothes. Still I could hear those women.... Yet another sleepless night, yet another night of terror and agony!

The next day I heard the gong, and then a voice shouted that number "Sixty-one," to which I was already getting used. It was Marthe. For half an hour we remained together and every second new life returned to my bruised body, and hope to my aching heart. How brave the darling was, how she tried to keep back her tears so as not to make me more miserable than I already was.... And then my counsel came, and the pastor....

I begged the latter to intercede in my favour. It was impossible for me to go on like this. I felt, especially after all the shocks I had suffered during the past few months, that I would go mad if I had to go through many more such nights as the last.

"I'll see," said M. Arboux. "But it would not be fair if an exception were made in your favour."

I spent three more days and three more nights in Cell No. 11, and night and day I heard insults. When, for some cause or other, the women went through the corridor, they raised the shutter of the peep-hole in my door and let loose a torrent of abuse. Then Firmin and I would stand against the wall on one side of the door, so that we could not be seen.

At night, since sleep was out of the question, I had no option but to think and think, and wearily through the long hours I tried to thrash out and see clearly all the details of the strange and terrible drama which had claimed two victims, and was like to soon claim a third, for I felt that life was ebbing from my limbs.

Then one morning dear Sister Léonide came and told me, "You are going to change your cell once more. I have instructions to take you to No. 12. There you will have on one side your former cell, and on the other a lumber room. You will at last be able to breathe—and sleep."

JUDGE ANDRÉ'S Instruction began in December 1908. But before dealing with it, I wish to acquaint the reader with a series of amazing and painful incidents, in which the two prisoners Ghirelli and Rosselli, Marie Anne Jacq—whose cell I shared for two days and three nights—and M. Charles Sauerwein of the Matin, were the chief actors, whilst, as usual, alas, I was the powerless central figure, the victim.

Maître Aubin, my counsel, came to me on two or three occasions in a state of great consternation. His first sentence was: "What have you done?" and his last sentence, after he had explained to me the new incident, was "All that is printed in the Matin." So, that newspaper, thinking that it had not made me suffer enough yet, continued its virulent attacks while I was in prison!

What did those articles in the Matin say? Merely trifles of this kind: According to one of my fellow prisoners, I had spoken of suicide, had accused Alexandre Wolff again, declared that before placing the pearl in Couillard's pocket-book, I had first placed it in that of my "cousin" M. Chabrier (whom I called cousin though he was no relation of mine, but a cousin of my husband). I had entrusted a secret mission to the care of Ghirelli and last but not least I had confessed to having committed the murder!

These various "statements," only dramatised and adorned by the Matin for the sole purpose of several columns of the most sensational copy, were published at intervals during January 1909.

THE STEINHEIL AFFAIR
EVERYTHING
EXCEPT THE NAME OF THE ACCOMPLICE.
MADAME STEINHEIL DENOUNCES HERSELF.
"MY MOTHER ... SHE WAS THE ALIBI."

"... We were able to see yesterday a person who has received fresh confessions from Mme. Steinheil. At a time when, having been already in prison a few days, entangled in the meshes of proofs which the examining magistrate was weaving around her slowly but surely, the painter's widow felt irremediably lost.

"In the course of an evening when despair came upon her, and with tears and sobs and resentment, and whilst calling upon death with all her heart, Mme. Steinheil told a new version of the crime, more tragic still, SINCE THIS TIME, SHE ACCUSED HERSELF NOT ONLY AS AN ACCOMPLICE BUT AS THE GUILTY PERSON, TOGETHER WITH ANOTHER.

"SHE NAMED HER ACCOMPLICE....

"He is neither Rémy Couillard, nor Alexandre Wolff, nor any one whose name has so far been mentioned. This accomplice, who is one of her friends (familiers) our interlocutor would not assume the responsibility of giving his name to public opinion.

"If Mme. Steinheil has once more lied, it is not right that an innocent person should share with her the heavy burden of that double murder. If Mme. Steinheil has spoken the truth, he will recognise himself.

*     *     *

"In tragic horror, it outdoes everything that one might, so far, have conceived.

"The double murder was decided upon, planned and premeditated.

"For the past two years, it haunted Mme. Steinheil's mind. For two years, she had, on various occasions, postponed its carrying out.

"'I WANTED TO BE FREE,' she said.

"When, unable to restrain herself any longer, when resolved to do anything to get rid of her husband and to marry the rich man she coveted, she made her final preparations, she thought that, alone, she would not be able to carry out such a dreadful deed successfully, and confided her plans to one of her friends (familiers).

"'I WANTED AN ASSISTANT, I FOUND HIM!'

"The latter accepted without too many objections. Had she not promised him a golden future?

"Then, plans were laid.

"To kill only the husband was to give herself away immediately, for everybody knew how the wife hated her husband. And the public rumour, implacable and revengeful, would at once have named the guilty person.

"An alibi was necessary.

"And coldly, resolutely, Mme. Steinheil wired to her mother, inviting her to the Impasse Ronsin.

"'MY MOTHER, SHE WAS THE ALIBI.'

"No one would dare accuse a daughter of having killed her mother, or of having had her killed.

*     *     *

"Her daughter is sent to Bellevue, Mariette Wolff is sent away, Rémy Couillard had gone up to his room. Mme. Steinheil, during the evening of May 30th, remains alone with the two intended victims. She is gay; she speaks with unusual tenderness to her husband; she is very attentive to her mother.

"The grog is prepared, Mme. Steinheil adds a narcotic to it.

"With her own hand she gives the grogs.

"Mme. Japy and Mme. Steinheil (M. Steinheil is evidently meant, but the author of this monstrous story had evidently lost all self-control, and was unable to read it over carefully when he had written it) half an hour later went to their room (rooms is evidently meant) and soon an unconquerable drowsiness, a death-like sleep (sommeil de plomb), glued them to their bed.

"Listening keenly, Mme. Steinheil hears the gate swing softly on its hinges. It is half-past twelve; she goes down quickly, takes the key of the pantry where Couillard had placed it and half-opens the door.

"A moment later, the accomplice is in the house.

"Stealthily, Mme. Steinheil and her accomplice, who has taken off his boots, go up to the first-floor, and there in Marthe's room, they deliberate for two long hours. What was this deliberation? Mme. Steinheil, overwhelmed with shame and grief, has not yet said....

"At 3 A.M. their resolution was taken. M. Steinheil and Mme. Japy were going to die.

"'I MYSELF SLIPPED THE CORD AROUND MY HUSBAND'S NECK AND TUGGED,' said Mme. Steinheil in a hoarse voice.

"'THEN CAME MY MOTHER'S TURN.

"'FOR IT IS I WHO DID EVERYTHING, WHO HAD DETERMINED ON EVERYTHING. MY ACCOMPLICE MERELY ASSISTED ME IN ORGANISING THE SHAM BURGLARY WHICH FOLLOWED.

"'IT WAS I WHO STOPPED THE CLOCK AT THE MOMENT WHEN HE CAME IN, IT WAS I WHO UPSET THE INKSTAND.

"'Then, after I had gone back to bed, my accomplice bound me.

"'The day was breaking. He left.'

"After finishing the terrifying narrative the painter's widow appeared relieved of a great burden.

"For a few minutes she seemed deep in thought, and suddenly she realised what a frightful secret she had just disclosed in a moment of despair and abandonment.

"She looked her interlocutor straight in the face.

"'Swear to me,' she said, 'swear on the head of your children that you will never say a word of what I have told you to-night.'