"The oath was given, but, last night, thinking of the innocent persons whom fatal coincidences might ruin, and frightened by the terrible responsibility of keeping silent, Mme. Steinheil's interlocutor confided the secret to us.
"We have faithfully repeated the narrative of the interlocutor without naming the culprit.
"It was our duty.
"Now let the law do its duty."
Can any reader wonder, after this, that public opinion was fearfully excited against me!
I need hardly add that not one of those statements was true, but the harm they did me may well be realised! There is unfortunately no Law for Contempt of Court in France.... And now, for the edification of the reader, and in accordance with my plan of submitting the actual evidence given by the witnesses, I will quote from the Dossier the various facts about this scandalous Ghirelli-Rosselli-Sauerwein affair....
"January 19th, 1909; before us, André, examining magistrate, &c.... has appeared Mme. Alphonsi, born Alba Ghirelli, thirty-six years of age....
Question. "We have summoned you here on account of a letter dated January 12th, 1909, which reached us two days later, on the 14th, and which the day before had appeared in the Matin."
Answer. "My counsel advised me to send you the letter. Mme. Steinheil entered our cell (Ghirelli's and Rosselli's) on Thursday, November 26th, 1908, late at night.... She declared 'I am here because I have told untruths, but it will be nothing. It will all be arranged in a few days' time.' She went to bed. All night she seemed very restless; she cried.... The next morning she wrote letters. At 10.30 A.M. she said she had been maddened by the necessity of finding proof of guilt against some one, that she had first placed the pearl in her cousin's pocket-book, that she had then had a violent 'scene' with her cousin's wife... and that she had afterwards placed the pearl in her valet's pocket-book.... She also spoke about a M. Bdl. of whom she was fond.... During the following night, she was again very restless and cried. She sat on her bed and spoke in an incoherent way. She mentioned a certain Wolff, and I asked her whether she was sure she had recognised him. 'Yes,' she replied, 'I thought I recognised him!'... During the night of Saturday-Sunday, I heard her wailing.... She said: 'I suffer so much, I am losing my reason.' She sighed and wept.... On the next morning, she was very weak. At 11 A.M. she seized my hands and said: 'The only thing is suicide; that suicide must and shall take place....' In the afternoon, she was taken to another cell. Before leaving, she said to me: 'Swear that we two shall meet again.' Her last words were 'à bientôt' (so long).... A few days later I met her on the Boulevard of the Cells and she said: 'I miss you so much. I have asked the Director to allow us to be in the same cell. He may grant me that favour....'"(!)
Question. "We ask the witness about certain newspaper articles published from January 5th, in which are related declarations attributed to the witness."
Answer. "My statements have often been misinterpreted by the Press.... I remember that the day of my release (Dec. 28th, 1908), Mme. Steinheil asked me to send her regards to a gentleman friend of hers...."
Question. "Tell us his name."
Answer. "I tore up his name and address, and I have forgotten them.... Mme. Steinheil never asked me to take a letter to any one.... According to the newspapers, I took a letter to Mme. Prévost, by motor-car, in great secrecy. That is wild romance.... As regards the confession of her guilt, which according to the Matin of Sunday January 17th, Madame Steinheil had made since her imprisonment, I know nothing whatever about it. I have not spoken a word to the Matin about that.... I have myself read the article in the Matin to which you refer and have found it fantastic...."
(Dossier Cote 3010)
Marguerite Rosselli made statements very similar to those of Alba Ghirelli, but concerning the pearl, she merely said: "She spoke about a cousin that lived in the house, she said something about that pearl, either that she had thought of putting it in the cousin's pocket-book or that she had done so...." She also stated: "On January 15th or 16th, Marie Jacq, who at night shares Mme. Steinheil's cell... came and told me that Mme. Steinheil had spent an awful night and that she had written to the Director so that the latter might send for me and recommend me not to repeat anything of what she had said in her moments of frenzy...."
(Dossier Cote 3011)
Marie Anne Jacq (Dossier Cote 3026) made statements to the same effect, but with fewer details.
And now we come to two curious documents, which will no doubt enlighten the reader.
On January 23rd, Alba Ghirelli was again summoned before M. André.
"I maintain my previous statements, made on January 19th," she said at once, after having taken the oath.
Question. "There is a contradiction between those statements and the contents of the facsimile of a letter, which appears to be in your handwriting, is dated January 19th, and which was published by the Matin on the 20th—we hand you the facsimile."
Answer. "The letter of which this is a facsimile was written by me, but was extorted from me. When, on January 19th, I left this room, I was literally besieged by journalists, then taken in a motor-car to a café where numerous newspaper men were gathered who wanted to hear from me the statements I had made to you. I answered vaguely, declaring that I considered myself as morally unable to supply them with the requested information.
"I was then invited to dinner at Maire's by M. Charles Sauerwein, whose card I hand to you. M. Sauerwein insisted that I should confirm a fictitious mission—to Mme. Prévost—with which I was supposed to have been entrusted by Mme. Steinheil, and which I was supposed to have carried out; he also asked me to confirm the letter from Mme. Steinheil which I was supposed to have handed to Mme. Prévost. I told him that there was nothing true in all that.
"In the café and during the dinner at Maire's Mme. Sellier—who lives with me—was with me.
"After the dinner, M. Sauerwein persuaded that lady to leave me, and he asked me to come with him to the Matin offices. There, M. Vallier and M. Bourse joined M. Sauerwein, and I was literally laid siege to. I wanted to withdraw, but they opposed that.
"These gentlemen then explained to me that since my mission to Mme. Prévost was going to be contradicted by the whole Press the next morning, they would find themselves in a false position with their Director, M. Bunau-Varilla, that they wanted at all costs to put themselves right with the Director, and that I could easily get them out of their trouble by handing to them a letter for him. They added that this would not compromise me in any way, that they would merely show my letter to their Director—who was in the next room—and that immediately afterwards they would hand the letter back to me.
"I did not think I could refuse, and, under the dictation of M. Sauerwein and M. Bourse, I wrote the letter.
"When it was written, M. Sauerwein took it, and walked away, saying that he was going to show it to M. Bunau-Varilla.
"One hour elapsed without M. Sauerwein reappearing. M. Vallier and M. Bourse were still with me.
"When M. Sauerwein returned, he held in his hands scraps of paper, and he said: 'That is all that remains of your letter. We tore it up, you can feel quite safe.'
"The next day, I was greatly surprised to see in the Matin the facsimile of the letter which you show me.
"I realised that M. Sauerwein had had the letter photographed during the hour that he was away.
"In the morning, I went to the Matin offices, where, protesting against such methods, I made a great scene.
"M. Sauerwein, and then M. Bourse, tried to calm me.
"Previously M. Sauerwein had promised to publish my 'Mémoirs' in the Matin, and I was to be paid £200 for them; but during the scene at the Matin offices, on Wednesday January 20th, I demanded that the manuscript of my memoirs should be handed back to me, and, after raising some objections, M. Sauerwein returned the manuscript to me.
"Besides, I sent you by an express letter (pneumatique), dated January 21st, a denial of the articles published in the Matin about me."
Question. "Since we received the pneumatique, the Matin in its issue of January 22nd, has published another letter from you, still bearing the date of January 19th, 1909, and in its issue of this very day, the same newspaper speaks of persons who exercise a certain pressure on you. Give us some explanation about this."
Answer. "During the evening of January 19th, at the Matin offices, M. Sauerwein and M. Bourse, in the presence of M. Vallier, made me write (still under the pretext of putting themselves right with their Director, M. Bunau-Varilla)—besides the letter published the next morning in facsimile—two other letters:
"Firstly: the letter published in the Matin of January 22nd.
"Secondly: a letter declaring that I had, on December 31st, 1908, taken a letter written by Mme. Steinheil, to M. Leydet, examining magistrate.
"I was made to write those two last letters about one and a half or two hours after my first letter. It was in any case after M. Sauerwein had returned with the so-called fragments of my first letter.
"When I had written the two other letters, I was told that as M. Bunau-Varilla had left the offices of the Matin, they would be able to restore them to me only in the morning, and that, meanwhile, M. Sauerwein would keep them in his pocket-book.
"The next morning, during the 'scene' I went to make at the Matin office, I claimed from M. Sauerwein the two letters, but he refused to restore them to me. M. Sauerwein said: 'They won't be published, but I want to keep them.' I declared to M. Sauerwein that I was going to demand their restitution through a bailiff. He retorted: 'That will have no other result than having the two letters authenticated.'
"I assert in the most absolute manner that Mme. Steinheil never entrusted me with any letter or mission, no more for M. Leydet than for any one else.
"Besides, at the time of my release—December 28th, 1908—I had not met Mme. Steinheil, in the corridor, for several days, and when on December 28th, after my acquittal, I had to go back to Saint-Lazare for the various formalities in connection with my departure from prison, I was not taken to my cell, but waited downstairs, in the office, where my belongings were brought to me. It would therefore have been impossible for Mme. Steinheil to have given me any letter or to have asked me to do anything for her.
"The letter published by the Matin on January 22nd alludes to a M. Boune, who takes his meals in the same restaurant as myself. Talking to me there, he advised me, as a matter of elementary prudence, not to mix myself up in any way with the Steinheil Affair.... These days, several journalists and barristers have given me at the restaurant the same advice as M. Boune. It is probably to this that the Matin of to-day alludes when it mentions 'pressure.' It is most likely that there are now reporters of the Matin constantly at that restaurant, and that they watch everything I do.
"(Signed) Ghirelli.
Redmond, Clerk.
André, Judge."
(Dossier Cote 3029)
This retraction was complete, absolute, but the harm had been done, alas, and the public believed all these dreadful lies published in the Matin and attributed to Ghirelli. Besides, who heard of the retraction, except the judge... and I, months afterwards, when the Dossier was handed to my counsel and me?
And now, for the sake of the truth, I will quote from the evidences given by "M. Sauerwein, Charles, 32 years old, journalist"... to M. André, the examining magistrate, on February 4, 1909:
... "I wish to specify the conditions on which we obtained those interviews (with Alba Ghirelli). At the end of December 1908... we discovered the address of Ghirelli. She was very annoyed when we called on her, and said that before making any statements she wished to consult a few friends. She promised to call on me the next day at the Matin. I received an express letter from her, and joined her at the Restaurant de la Feria. I was accompanied by another member of the Matin staff. A first interview took place, which appeared in the Matin dated January 14th. This interview was entirely written under her dictation, and she signed it.... It concerned the statements made by Mme. Steinheil and collected by Ghirelli, about the guilt of Alexandra Wolff, the pearl placed first in M. Chabrier's pocket-book, but taken away from it after Mme. Chabrier's violent interventions, and about the 'necessary' suicide.
"The next day we gathered from Ghirelli a few other details about the visit of Pastor Arboux and plans for the future made by Mme. Steinheil. This second interview appeared in the Matin on January 16th.
"Between the first and the second interviews, Ghirelli told us that on the eve of the day when she was to appear before the Court of Appeal, where she thought she would be acquitted, Mme. Steinheil had given her two letters, one for Mme. Prévost, the other for a magistrate, and had asked her to telephone to one of her former friends. We have never mentioned the last two facts in our articles, but the Prévost story interested us. Ghirelli begged us not to attribute to her the revelation of the Prévost affair....
... (On January 19th) "When Ghirelli left your rooms, one of our reporters accompanied her to the café Ducastaing... where she was joined by many journalists... thereupon one of our colleagues brought a note (the source of which I ignore) that Ghirelli had confirmed certain of the details published by us, but had denied two or three of the other points, and particularly the letter taken to Mme. Prévost.
"I was there. I told Ghirelli that in the face of those official denials we were simply going to publish the note brought by the colleague I have mentioned. She begged me to remain with her and to send for a third party, whose name I cannot give on account of 'professional secrecy.' I summoned the third party on the telephone. We were to have dinner at Maire's, the 'Countess' (Ghirelli), one of her lady friends called 'La Générale,' and I. The dinner was not altogether pleasant, for I was in the presence of a person who had just denied what she had stated on the previous day. The third person arrived.
("Personally, I have no doubt that he was M. Camille Dreyfus, Rosselli's counsel, to whose 'indiscretion' the Director of Saint-Lazare alluded in his report of January 21st, 1909 [Dossier Cote 3021]).
"The third person had a long chat with the 'Countess' in the next room. I was sent for, and the third person told me that the 'Countess' had a confession to make to me. She then declared: 'All that I have told you from the very first moment, and that you have published, is false, and is due to my imagination, except the details I confirmed before the examining magistrate.' I told the 'Countess' how much I regretted that she should have so sought her pleasure in lying, and she said that the Matin would publish the next day the note which I have mentioned to you.
"I was about to leave, but the 'Countess' detained me. The third person had just gone, and the 'Countess' said: 'I swear to you on the head of my children that all of what I have told you from the first to the last, is the exact truth. If I have denied it, it is because eight or nine persons whom I didn't know before have influenced me, intimidated me. People have gone so far as to tell me that they would have me arrested!'...
"... Whilst the 'Countess' made to me, in private, the statements I have just repeated, the third person was waiting in the passage. I joined him, and told him what had happened.... He then left me and went back to the 'Countess,' whilst I went to the Matin and at once related all these incidents to the Editor. Five minutes later, the 'Countess' and the third person arrived at the Matin. In the presence of my colleague, M. Bourse, Ghirelli repeated that she had spoken the truth and that she hid part of the truth from you only because of the pressure put upon her. I said to her: 'Your word has no longer any value for me. You must write down what you say and sign it!' The 'Countess' showed some hesitation.
"I must tell you that on the very day when she gave us the interview which we published, I paid her 500 francs (£20) as a reward, and I promised her further sums of money—thinking of handing her—little by little, 2000 francs (£80) if the information which she might be able to supply, seemed interesting to us.
"Besides, I had it in my mind that the £80 were also to represent the price of her Memoirs....
"To return to our conversation with the 'Countess' on January 19th... She suggested a document according to her ideas, but written by me, and merely dated and signed by her. I said I wanted the document to be written by her.... She consented, and wrote exactly four documents without being dictated to, but on lines that we suggested. (She thought them in accordance with the truth.) The first was published in facsimile in the Matin on January 20th; the second refers to the letter taken by the 'Countess' to a magistrate; the third tells the fact that Rosselli was beseeched by Mme. Steinheil not to repeat to the examining magistrate the revelations she might have made, and the fourth concerning the intimidations to which 'Countess' Ghirelli was submitted by various persons. We published this last letter too. When all was written and signed by her, she asked me for the rest of the £80, and I told her to come the next morning. She came... and asked me for the money. I consulted the Director of the Matin, and, returning to Ghirelli, I said to her: 'Madame, so long as you are a witness in the Affair, the Matin won't pay you anything, for I don't want it to be said that the Matin gave money to a witness in the Affair, so that she would confirm what she had said before...'
"Furious, she asked me to return her the manuscript of her Memoirs. The same evening she telephoned... and asked me to dine with her. I accepted... M. Bourse and M. Vallier were with me. She remained with one of the two others till 10.30 P.M., and afterwards went to the offices of the Eclair. And a day or two afterwards she told me that it was there, in the office of M. Montorgueil... that she wrote to you the letter of rectification which you must have received from her. Since then, Ghirelli has often asked me for money.... Last night, she again asked me for money, and again I told her: 'No, your being a witness makes it impossible for us to give you money... I only gave evidence in order to re-establish the reality of the facts in all its exactness.
"(Signed) Sauerwein.
Simon.
André."
(Dossier Cote 3035)
Comment is unnecessary.
In regard to the mission to Mme. Prévost with which I was alleged to have entrusted Ghirelli, who was described in the Matin as having mysteriously journeyed to Mme. Prévost's by motor-car, several persons residing in the street where the motor-car was said to have stopped—who had been mentioned by the newspaper as having made statements that were quoted, of course—were interrogated on the matter by the Law:
"Mme. Kaufman, aged 41, doorkeeper at No. 11 Rue du Cher, consulted about the Matin article... declared: I have not made the statements attributed to me. I have never noticed an automobile at the corner of the street, nor did I see Mme. Prévost go and talk to some one hidden in a motor-car. I absolutely confute everything that I have been made to say in the Matin. It is not accurate, and, what is more, it is untrue.'"
"Mlle. Leveque, aged 23... No. 11 Rue du Cher... consulted on the same matter, declared: I have seen nothing of the facts described in the Matin article, and have made no declaration whatever to any one, for the simple reason that I know nothing (about the matter), and that at the time when it is said a motor-car stopped near my shop I was not there.... I also wish to state that I don't know at all Mme. Prévost, and I don't like having been mixed up in that affair."
"M. and Mme. Thomas, doorkeepers, 9 Rue du Cher, also consulted, declared they had not seen the motor-car mentioned in the Matin, and they added that Mme. Prévost, their tenant, had not come down from her apartment on that day—December 31st—for she was unwell and could not leave her room.
"Mme. Prévost herself, asked whether she had received any letter from Mme. Steinheil on that date, and in the circumstances related by the Matin, declared that she had received nothing whatever from her since the last summer.
"(Signed) Inspector Dechet."
(Dossier Cote 3017)
There remains one point to elucidate in the Ghirelli-Sauerwein interviews: the question of the pearl which I was said to have placed in M. Chabrier's pocket-book, and then to have placed it in Couillard's, only after a violent scene with Mme. Chabrier.
Here again I will quote from the Dossier, and the reader will have a further opportunity of looking into the methods of the newspaper which did so much to ruin me in the eyes of public opinion—as much while I was in prison as before my arrest:
"This January 21st, 1909, before us, André", &c.... has appeared M. Chabrier... who states:
"... I have never had any knowledge that Mme. Steinheil tried to put, or did put in my pocket-book the pearl which was afterwards found in that of Couillard. I had never seen that pearl, and had never heard of it until the moment... when at the Matin offices, and before me, M. de Labruyère opened Couillard's pocket-book and made an inventory of its contents—which brought about the discovery of the pearl.
"With respect to this discovery—and as one of the instances of the methods of intimidation adopted by journalists in November 1908, against the various inhabitants of No. 6 bis Impasse Ronsin—I wish to draw your attention to the following fact:
"On November 24th (the day before the Night of the Confession) M. de Labruyère came to the house and talked to me about an article in the Journal, which stated that it was he who had opened Rémy Couillard's pocket-book. He added that since the statement was not correct, he wanted to prove to M. Bunau-Varilla that he, de Labruyère, had not opened the pocket-book. He asked me therefore to write a letter in which I would certify that I (Chabrier) had myself opened the pocket-book.
"Since it was M. de Labruyère who had opened it—as I stated when I gave evidence on November 21st, 1908—I protested, and so did my wife.
"M. de Labruyère insisted, saying that such an attestation was the more necessary to them (the Matin) and that my intervention as Mme. Steinheil's representative would be easier to explain than his own, and he added that if I did not write that letter, I might be ruining Mme. Steinheil's cause, for then M. Bunau-Varilla would abandon that cause and would turn against her.
"Mme. Steinheil was present. Struck by that argument, she advised me to write the letter. And I wrote the letter, after submitting a rough copy of it to M. de Labruyère.
"'To M. de Labruyère, at the Matin: In contradiction of a statement published by a morning newspaper, it was not you who opened Couillard's pocket-book, but I, acting as Mme. Steinheil's representative.'
"Taking advantage of a moment when my head was turned, my wife seized the letter and tore it. M. de Labruyère again began to intimidate me, and I consented to write a second letter absolutely the same as the first....
"I believe it my duty to add that on November 24th, 1908, it was not only the argument that I would ruin Mme. Steinheil's cause if I did not write the letter which made me write it, but also the following threat: M. de Labruyère said to me: If you refuse to write the letter I am asking for, I will publish in the Matin, a semi-official report declaring that it was you who opened Couillard's pocket-book, and bearing the signature of M. Lecondimer, who was a witness, and my own. There will be mentioned your surname and Christian names and your position as travelling postal sorter. And he added: You can guess the effects that will make on your administration....
"(Signed) Chabrier.
André.
Simon."
(Dossier Cote 3014)
Needless to say, Mme. Chabrier fully corroborated these statements by her husband adding this typical remark: "She was so exasperated to hear M. de Labruyère declaring that he would make trouble for M. Chabrier at the Post Office, unless he wrote the letter, that she said to him: 'If my husband gets into trouble, you will have to deal with me. I'll blow your brains out!'"
(Dossier Cote 3025)
Two other persons were called upon to give evidence concerning the Ghirelli-Rosselli-Jacq revelations. One was poor Firmin, who, called before M. André on January 22, 1909, declared:
"I have been Mme. Steinheil's companion first in Cell 11, then in Cell 12, which we still share. All I have noticed is that at night, as a rule, she does not sleep, but calls for her daughter, and opens the window at times, saying that her head hurts, that she is stifling.
"During the day she constantly talks to me about her daughter....
"She has several times told me that from the time she returned from Bellevue her house was invaded by journalists... I have heard her say how grieved she was to have accused Wolff, and to have hurt her old Mariette. She constantly repeats that she is innocent... to me... to M. Desmoulin, to Pastor Arboux...."
Question. "Have you any knowledge that, when Alba Ghirelli was released, Mme. Steinheil may have given her a letter or entrusted her with a mission?"
Answer. "I have no knowledge of such a thing. Now, ever since Mme. Steinheil has been in the same cell with me, I have never left her one moment alone. Besides, such a thing seems to me the more impossible since Mme. Steinheil and I have only heard of Alba Ghirelli's release, several days after the release had taken place.
"(Signed) Simon.
André.
Firmin."
(Dossier Cote 3027)
The other witness was M. Desmoulin, who on January 20 declared before M. André:
"For many years past I have been visiting the poor, the patients in hospitals, and also prisoners. About a year ago the Minister of the Interior gave me permission to visit the prisons of the Seine Department, allowing me free access to my protégés. One of these, at Saint-Lazare, is a girl called Firmin. I visited her early in December 1908, and found that she had been placed in Cell 12, and having entered that cell I saw near Firmin a woman in mourning, and guessed that she was Mme. Steinheil.... Since then I have seen both several times. Of Mme. Steinheil I have always asked, 'And you, Madame, do you feel well?' And she has always replied, 'Oh, yes, Monsieur, my conscience always keeps me up!' Every time she has emphatically asserted her innocence in convincing tones. She has always expressed her great grief at being separated from her daughter. That throughout has seemed to me the most noticeable point about her mental state. Sometimes, I have seen her cry, especially when she talked about her daughter.
"(Signed) Simon.
Desmoulin.
André."
(Dossier Cote 3014)
There is one side to this "Ghirelli Affair," as it has been called, which the reader has probably not realised. Not only did those revelations published by the Matin still further exasperate public opinion against me, but they added many days, perhaps even weeks, to my imprisonment. Judge André's investigations into the absurd matter took a long time to make—they represent 112 pages added to the already voluminous Dossier; I have read, re-read... and counted them!—and meanwhile the Instruction was delayed, and therefore my imprisonment made longer... And I counted the days, the hours, at Saint-Lazare!
To sum up: Ghirelli denied, on oath, all her damaging statements, and other witnesses proved that they could never have been made; Firmin and M. Desmoulin gave evidence which fully vindicated me; there remained Marie Anne Jacq, who spoke against me and clung to her statements.
Well, I will give the end of Jacq's story:
She remained in cell No. 12 for several weeks. One day—the Instruction was over then—Jacq spontaneously came to me, burst into tears, and said: "Forgive me, Madame... You are too kind to me. To think that you know all I have spoken against you, and that you have not reproached me once. You give me your coffee, the eggs that your daughter brings... I can't stand it any longer. Listen. Ghirelli and Rosselli gave me wine, and I love wine, for life is hard here, Madame, and they told me what to say if I was called before the judge about you. I hated you, at the time; those two women said you had murdered your mother, that they knew it... and I promised anything they asked me.... And then, I thought: If I am called by the judge, it will mean leaving this wretched prison for a few hours, and that's a change.... It was dreadful of me to lie as I have done.... Look here, you must let me scrub the cell for you, in future, I will light your fire, help you in every way, only, forgive me, Madame...."
Of course, I forgave her.
When she returned from the cell, that day, she looked greatly depressed. I asked her what had happened: "Ah!" she sighed, "they are sending me to the prison at Rennes.... Please, please, do something, speak to some one.... I want to remain near you, I want to stop here...."
But poor Jacq had to go. When she was about to leave the cell, she looked round, slowly, sadly. Then she came to me and said: "I heard you say to Sister Léonide, 'It must be nice to see a flower....' Well, Madame, I picked one up in the chapel, when I swept there to-day." And she gave me a tiny branch of mimosa.... "You won't think too harshly of me, will you? Good-bye, Madame...."
We were both weeping, she kissed my hand, and tottered away.
I kept the little branch of mimosa for four months. It became smaller and smaller, but it still looked like a flower, and the little gold pearls were the only beautiful things in that horrible cell.
The mimosa stood in an empty penny ink bottle, before a small frame containing a photograph of my mother, and one of Marthe when she was a baby.
CHAPTER XXIV
SAINT-LAZARE
TOWARDS the end of December 1907, after I had been about one month in prison, I had a long conversation with Maître Aubin and also with M. Desmoulin. I told them all I knew about the dreadful mystery.
When M. Desmoulin heard all the details concerning the mysterious personage whom my late husband and I had always called the "German," the pearl necklace given me by President Faure, and about the "documents," he eagerly said to me: "I will speak to the Prime Minister about this, and within a few days you will be a free woman again!"
Days went by. M. Desmoulin came frequently, but alas! instead of good tidings he gradually broke the news to me that an immediate release was out of the question!
I questioned my counsel. He, too, saw clearly that the pearls and the documents were the keys to the mystery, or, at any rate, one of the keys, but he hesitated as to the advisability of drawing attention to these facts.... "The whole affair is already so complicated," he explained, "it would perhaps be unwise to add new difficulties to... You have not spoken about the necklace and Faure's Memoirs to M. Leydet,—at any rate, not explicitly—you have not mentioned them so far to M. André... It is always dangerous and even suspicious to come forward with new statements.... And then, you must realise that the Government, the Law, will be rather displeased if those facts are brought forth, if the private life of a former President of the Republic has to be searched and discussed.... And it is never wise to upset the Government or to displease the Law.... After all, I will do what you decide but I am here to advise you; I am here, above all, to get you out of prison, to restore you to your Marthe.... Again, you have not sufficient proofs about those pearls. You don't know their exact origin, there is a mystery about them, the President told you so himself. It will probably cause a great deal of unpleasantness, and probably lead to no definite result.... A quoi bon!"
"I had thought that a counsel was a man who feared nothing and no one, who, with a strong conscience, indomitable will, and unconquerable logic, eliminated all obstacles and—at all costs—made truth triumphant in the end."
"Truth is a two-edged tool, Madame. The first duty of a counsel is to save his client, and I shall save you easily enough, for there are no charges against you whatever, but you must leave everything to me, and not complicate matters unnecessarily."
Time after time, during the twelve months I spent at Saint-Lazare, I revolted against such half-hearted, unsatisfactory and even compromising methods which made it possible for the prosecution to say that my evidence was incomplete, not clear, that I kept back too much... But Maître Aubin remained obdurate, and I feel sure that he meant well, and did the right thing.
Thanks to his all-conquering logic and fiery eloquence, the jury realised that I had done nothing to deserve being charged with a ghastly double murder, and I was acquitted. I thank him and his two secretaries—M. Steinhardt and M. Landowsky—with all my heart for their splendid devotion, but I know they will forgive me if I say that I regret that the whole truth did not come out at my trial.
Besides, Maître Aubin himself, time after time, told me: "I'll see that you are acquitted, Madame. Afterwards, you can and you should, tell the whole world all that I thought wiser not to reveal at the trial, for your own sake!"
I have followed Maître Aubin's advice: I am doing so now.
Saint-Lazare! How many times have I been asked, since I left that prison, to describe it, to describe the life I led there!
It was atrocious for a poor young woman "of the people" like Firmin, for instance, to live in a cell, but my fellow-prisoner would perhaps agree herself, that for a leader of society, for a woman of the world, it was almost worse. She had been used to a small shabby room or even a garret, to misery... and I to a vast house, servants, comfort, luxury even. Intellectual and artistic joys were unknown to her, but they had been the best part of my life. She was used to insults and vulgar language; they made me ill. She did not mind very much what she ate... nor did I, if only it were clean, but food was not, could not, be clean at Saint-Lazare, where elementary cleanliness and hygiene were quite unknown.
It would be difficult to conceive a prison more hopelessly dilapidated and insanitary than Saint-Lazare. The walls are cracked; the passages and staircases are evil-smelling; vermin abounds everywhere; light and air are worse than scant; the stoves of the cells are inefficient and even dangerous, as I learned at my own expense, for twice I nearly lost my life owing to escaping fumes. All the walls are damp and clammy; saltpetre oozes from them; they are hastily covered with a coat of black paint, but the saltpetre comes through again and they look as if they had been stuck over with some repulsive, viscous substance; the ceilings are low, except on the ground floor, where are situated the Director's apartments and various offices. It is cold everywhere.... The steps of the staircase are mostly broken; each step has a rotten, crumbling wooden edge, and there is filth in every corner. I could supply other—and worse—details, but will merely mention the baths. They are in the vaults of the prison, and on the way to them, one passes along the awe-inspiring dungeons where State-prisoners were kept in ancient days. Water runs down the rough-hewn walls. The atmosphere in that cave is icy cold all the year round. It is only lit by small air-holes. Each "bath room" is separated from the other by low walls, and one gains admittance to those "stalls"—for that is what they remind one of—by lifting a curtain. There are about ten of these stalls, and when I bathed, Firmin used to stand before the curtain to prevent the other women from coming to see—and insult—me. The baths were so unspeakably filthy that I was allowed to place a thick sheet inside and round the bath, so as to avoid contagion....
The prison is in such a state that for years there have been rumours that it would be pulled down. It will tumble down, in a few years' time. It is a place of dirt and sloth, of abject misery and ignoble and degrading atmosphere, a hotbed of infection for the body, as well as for the mind.... Such is Saint-Lazare, where I spent one whole year—waiting for an ever-postponed trial!—Saint-Lazare, the woman's prison in the very heart of Paris, the City of Light!
Firmin worked, in order to earn a few pence. I did like her, in order to be occupied, to kill time, and also to live like Firmin and the other prisoners. We made sheets, towels, pillow-slips, napkins.... A part of this was for use in the prison itself, the other—the finer work—was sold to large Parisian stores. The days were short, and it was never very light in the cells with the ground-glass windows, the iron-bars and the wire-trellis. Besides the windows overlooked a yard, with high walls all round it and we were in winter.... So we worked mostly by the light of a candle stuck in the neck of a bottle. It was most trying to the eyes. The tiles were so cold that we always sat with our feet on the bars of our chairs, and our knees necessarily high up. Several times a day, we tried, with an old rag, to get rid of some of the water which accumulated in the crevices between the broken tiles and in all the places where the tiles had been. On rainy days, water somehow dropped through the rotten ceiling, and trickled down the walls, and there were small pools of water here and there around us. The walls, painted black except for a narrow band immediately below the ceiling, were so damp that after a few nights in prison, I felt such pains in the side of my body nearest the wall when I lay down that I applied for permission to pull my pallet a short distance from the wall.... I thus avoided the dampness of the wall and... the vermin which crawled on it. Mice were scarce, but ugh! the cockroaches!... One evening, I and Firmin, with hands trembling with disgust, killed over a hundred each in a very short time. At night, they ran about everywhere, climbing on our table, on our beds.... When one crawled on my skin I had nervous fits and screamed.... I wrapped my head up in a towel, and drew the sheet and blanket up over it, but I could still hear the cockroaches and feel them crawl over me.... "This woman will go mad," said the prison doctor one day, and I obtained permission to drag my bed, at night, into the very centre of the cell. Every day, I rubbed the legs and frame of my wretched bed with paraffin, and then I could rest in comparative peace... especially as Sister Léonide, by order of the doctor, gave me every night—and until the last day of my imprisonment—a sleeping draught, thanks to which I generally slept two or three hours.... But when one got up during the night, it was dreadful. One literally walked on cockroaches, and the horrible, crackling noise as their bodies were crushed underfoot, was enough to jar any one's nerves....
I can fancy some reader saying: "Pools of water in a cell, broken tiles, mice, cockroaches by the hundred!... She exaggerates.... She is describing a cell in some prison of another century...." I am not exaggerating; "Saint-Lazare" does not belong to another century. It is so old and tumble-down that, more than once, when looking into some dark room on my way to the parlour or the Director's office, I almost expected to see the heavy chains, the thumb-screws, the rack, the bilboes and other instruments of a torture-chamber!
Jacq left our cell at half-past six in the morning, and soon afterwards Firmin and I rose. We first of all lit the small stove. I had to pay for the wood and coal, of course. The coal was stacked in a corner of the cell, and I placed the wood on my only shelf, to keep it as dry as possible. Then we swept and cleaned the room. The door was opened to allow us to carry the dust away and fetch some water to wash—and to make coffee. We had to handle the coal with our hands, for a shovel might have been used as a weapon!
It was not easy to dress. All I had at my disposal was a very small stone basin, a jug—bought from the prison for fourpence—a brush and comb, a tooth brush, a piece of mottled soap, a penny looking glass less than three inches in diameter, and a hard rough towel. There was no bucket or pail, and we had to leave the cell—on the two or three occasions when the door was opened for a few minutes—to empty the basin. I had to do my washing-up in the very basin in which I used to wash... my face!
My daughter several times brought proper soap and toothpaste for me, but the warder near the parlour invariably decreed: "You can't take these in; they are luxuries, and luxuries are prohibited here."
I wore a plain black dress, which I made myself in one afternoon in prison, and when I left my cell I threw a black hood over my shoulders. I wore my hair parted in the centre and fastened at the back with a piece of ribbon and a few hair-pins. That was the simplest coiffure, and the lightest to my ever-aching head.
I only wore the dress in which I had come to Saint-Lazare when I went to the Palace of Justice for the Instruction, and, of course, when, a year later, I was tried in the Assize Court.
Owing to illness and the complete lack of exercise—I was entitled to go round the yard for an hour every day, but when I did so, once, the other prisoners insulted and even hit me, and I had to give up that hour of exercise—I became very weak. Shoes hurt my feet, and I made a pair of slippers for myself with bits of cardboard, velvet, and fur given me by the sisters.
I also made a basket with plaited paper, to keep my bread clean.
After breakfast—coffee and bread—I usually opened the window to air the room and to look outside.
Below was the yard, with its few trees and its basin. I saw women washing or walking. Many of these prisoners were mothers, and held babies in their arms. Many had two or three children. There were little boys and girls—the oldest being about five—and they played with the rubbish on the ground, cried, fought, or hung to their mother's skirts. All were terribly unkempt and slovenly, and all were in tatters. The majority of these mothers ill-treated their children and abused them in the vilest language.
Foul and obscene language, indeed, is the rule at Saint-Lazare, when the scum of the feminine population of Paris, the lowest and most degraded of "gay women," the vilest viragoes of the slums, and thieves and vagabonds are brought day after day, the majority for a short time only.
How they loathed one another, and how they fought!... The Sisters hardly dared interfere, and it was only on rare occasions that the male warders were called upon to put an end to fierce quarrels and free fights. On one occasion I saw, through the bars of my window, two women literally tearing one another to pieces. They were gipsies, known at Saint-Lazare as "les noires" ("the black ones"). Their hair was loose, their clothes in shreds; they ploughed each other's face with their nails. Their mouths were torn and blood streamed over their cheeks and chins, giving them the appearance of demons. One had picked up a piece of sharp flint, and with it slashed the face of her enemy. Other women watched the fight and yelled with joy. The Sisters were powerless, and at last a warder was sent for.... He came, quietly. He was an old man who knew.... In each hand he held a bowlful of thick yellowish soup. Without a word, he handed one to each combatant.... Like beasts, they instantaneously forgot their battle, and eagerly started gulping down the soup, spooning it out with their hands.
I never dared remain very long at the window, for when the prisoners saw me, they invariably hurled at me shouts of execration.
I helped Firmin with the sewing, and by sewing all day and a great part of the night, managed to earn seven or eight francs a month. The work was paid for at the rate of one halfpenny per towel, napkin, or slip (one franc for two dozen), twopence per tablecloth and threepence for large sheets, but you had to pay for your cotton and needles, and when the work was not "perfect," it was refused, or no more work was given to you! With what I earned, I bought food from the canteen for Firmin, and my poor companion repaid me with such real devotion, such touching attentions as I had never received from any one, except from my Mother and Marthe.
The Sisters were so pleased with my work that they gave me the more difficult sewing to do—piles of fine napkins and tablecloths for the Spring sale at the Printemps and the Bon Marché.... No wonder those vast stores can sell beautiful table-linen at low prices which make purchasers exclaim, as I had so often done myself: "How can they do it!"
After a few months, my fingers became sore, and bled constantly—for besides the sewing, I had to scrub the cell, to prepare the fire, to wash up, to iron my own things (which I did by pressing them against the stove-pipe!) and all this soon ruins hands which have been used chiefly to play the piano, to embroider, or to write... Firmin, and later Jacq, wanted to do all the rough work for me, but that would not have been fair, and I insisted on taking my turn at it.
Sister Léonide then kindly taught me to make the "frivolité" (tatting), for which no needle was required, and for a time, I did no other work.
I have often thought of the sarcastic remarks certain newspapers and probably the Prosecution would have made, had they known that in prison I spent weeks making "frivolité!"... Did they not think it an extremely funny and eloquent omen that in the days of my childhood, I rode a mare called "Cléopâtre"!
There was a library at Saint-Lazare, but I could not read, for reading gave me neuralgia. Firmin read to me sometimes, very slowly and monotonously, of course, but I was very thankful to her.
Marthe came twice a week, and later, after I had been very ill for a time, she was allowed to come to the prison three times a week. Those visits were, need I say it, the one great solace in my misery. Poor little Marthe, how courageous she was, and how well she found the words that would comfort me and help me to live on until her next visit.... And to think that after my trial, after I had been acquitted, she was kept away from me for nearly two years, by kind souls who, thinking that I had not yet suffered enough, told her such fearful things about her mother and threatened her with so many calamities if she dared to come to me, that the poor child, who suffered as much as I did, alas, found it impossible to disobey those strict and inhuman orders, until, having married the man she loved, a young Italian painter, poor, but with a noble heart, she craved my forgiveness—as though I had anything to forgive her!—and came to me at last.
Maître Aubin also came two or three times a week, and not only gave me excellent legal advice, but did his utmost to comfort me in my awful predicament. His devotion, and that of his two secretaries, was truly admirable. And there were the visits of M. Desmoulin and of Pastor Arboux. I saw my notary, Maître Jousselin, several times, for I had to "emancipate" my daughter to enable her to sign certain documents and "represent" me in various circumstances.
The hours I liked best in the day were eight in the morning and half-past seven at night. Those were the hours of the Sisters' Service, in their own little chapel, which was exactly opposite my window. That chapel had been the cell of St. Vincent de Paul, and the spot where the altar stood was the very spot where the great man had died in 1660. I loved to hear the Sisters sing their beautiful Latin hymns, and Sister Léonide, who knew this, and who stood at the back of that chapel, that is, close to the window, opened the window just a little, so that I might hear the singing better.... And Sister Emmanuel, who was seventy-eight years old, and had been at Saint-Lazare for over fifty years, one day whispered in my ear: "You know, I have not sung in chapel for years. I am so old, but I sing now... for you, my poor child!"... I was so unhappy and so sensitive that this simple and sublime remark made me cry with emotion and gratitude. I could have knelt before her. I asked Sister Léonide what I could do for Sister Emmanuel, and she said: "Make her slippers. I'll give you everything to make them. It is so cold in this prison."... I never did anything in my life with so great and so radiant a joy.
What a wonderful person, this old, old Sister Emmanuel! When a woman who was being put into a strait-jacket screamed hysterically the presence of Sister Emmanuel was enough to calm her. She called all the prisoners "mesdames" or "mes petites" ("my little ones"). In the sewing-room she read aloud to the prisoners at work, but frequently her strength failed, the book fell from her hands, and she went to sleep. There reigned absolute silence then in the vast room, for the women respected her sleep. When Sister Emmanuel awoke she shouted from habit: "Now then, mesdames, silence, please!" And every one laughed....
She gave courage to all, took an interest in every prisoner, and invariably advised them to "appeal," without even knowing whether the woman had yet been tried! Nothing disheartened or wearied her; her temper was always even. She was Serenity itself, ever smiling and comforting.
She was full of quaint expressions. Once when a prisoner stared at her she gaily said: "I am very plain, am I not, with my nose like a potato! Well, I've always been like that!" Another time, when I had just seen her preventing a woman—a new arrival—who had vilely abused her, from being punished, I could not help exclaiming: "Oh! ma Sœur, you are sure to go straight to heaven!" She laughed and replied: "Well, if I go there, it will really not have been difficult!"
"I love 'my women,'" she once said to me, in her tremulous voice, "and the worse they are the more they need love, and the more I love them." The prisoners all worshipped her like a Saint, and even the fiercest and most degraded woman would obey her, whatever the order was and at once. Sister Emmanuel had only to look at the woman.... I often wondered how it was that everybody bowed to and gladly obeyed this aged, bent Sister of Mercy with the emaciated and trembling body, so small that when she was sitting her feet were off the ground, until one day I looked into her eyes.... There was the Holy Spirit in those eyes.
The Sister Superior, Ma Mère—My Mother—as every one called her, a tall, strong woman of about fifty, with large blue eyes shining with kindness, came from time to time to see me—which was a very great favour. At first, she was cold and almost distant, but gradually she changed and became more and more affectionate, and remained a little longer in my cell.
Sisters Superior from all parts of France came to see her when they were in Paris and they always visited me, not out of curiosity but out of sympathy, for My Mother had evidently spoken to them about me.
I remember the Sister Superior of a prison at Rouen. She came from time to time to Paris, and always spent a long while with me. This sainted woman spoke to me with so much profound sympathy that I once said to her: "But, Ma Mère, I am sure you must despise me.... I have not been a faithful wife; I have accused a man without having absolute proofs that he was guilty...." She took my hands in hers and replied: "No creature on earth is despicable; we don't know what a being is, has been, or might have been."
There were four small tables in our cell—three feet by one and a half—and Sister Léonide on a day when I was more profoundly dejected than usual gave them names to try to make me laugh: the drawing-room table (also called dressing-table) on which stood the mimosa in its ink-bottle and the photographs of my daughter and my mother; the dining-room table used for our meals; the library table on which we wrote our letters and the work-table for our sewing. Marthe once brought me some material to repair a petticoat, but there was more than necessary, and with the extra material I made a cover for the drawing-room table; and Sister Léonide occasionally gave us some sheets of white or brown paper to lay on the "dining-room" table.
After each meal we opened the window, whatever the weather might be, and gave crumbs of bread to the sparrows and the pigeons. When for some reason or other, we were late in doing so, the birds would knock at the window with their beaks through the wire-trellis.
At night, besides the cockroaches, there were the cats to prevent one from sleeping. Saint-Lazare is so infested with rats that scores of cats are kept to destroy them. Moreover, almost every Sister has a cat as a companion.
In the evening before the cells were locked and bolted for the night—after the prisoners had emptied their basins and filled their jugs with water—one or the other of the Sisters, and sometimes two or three of them, came to spend five minutes, at most, with me.... I looked forward all day to those five minutes.
After that, I used to go to the end of the Boulevard of the Cells, to watch the Sisters go to evening prayer. I loved those Sisters. Their life was like that of the prisoners; they lived in similar cells, ate the same food, were insulted by the women just as I and others were, but they remained quite unruffled and patient.... The mere sight of them did me good.
I watched the night procession through the bars of the gate.... The abbé came first, followed by the Sister Superior and then all the Sisters.... They went in single file, their heads bent down, their arms hanging by their sides, slowly, silently. The only noise was the soft jingling of the bunches of keys hanging from their waists, of their large ebony crosses, and of the beads of their rosaries....
In the shadow I could not see their black gowns; I only saw their white cornettes, which looked like the white wings of birds, and under each cornette there was a serene face, beautiful because the eyes were pure and the soul was filled with charity and the love of God.
Sixty Sisters passed thus, and as they went by the heavy iron gate through which I was watching, each Sister raised her head and faintly, divinely smiled at me as if to say: "I will pray for you in the chapel...."
I forgot my misery; I forgot that I was accused of murder;... I returned to my cell and from behind the bars of my open window, I listened to the songs and prayers.... Then I lit my candle, went to bed and read a page of the Bible....
Firmin, afterwards, would talk with me. We whispered.... But sometimes we forgot, and spoke too loudly... and in the night we heard the voice of the Sister on duty in the Boulevard of the Cells, saying slowly, monotonously: "Silence... silence... silence...."
CHAPTER XXV.
THE "INSTRUCTION"
FROM December 5th, 1907, to March 13th, 1909, my "Instruction" took place in the Palace of Justice, in the Cabinet of M. André, the Examining Magistrate.... I am not superstitious, but I state for the sake of those interested in such coincidences, that the cell to which I was taken after my arrest was cell No. 13, that my Instruction lasted 13 weeks, that my final interrogatory took place on March 13, and that the jury returned to decide my fate on November 13 (1909).
As I have already explained, what is called the "Instruction" in France is the preliminary but exhaustive, definite inquiry into a crime.
Before my first appearance at the Palace of Justice, Maître Aubin came to Saint-Lazare.
"The Instruction will begin to-day, Madame. Summon to your assistance all the courage you possess. André is no genius; but he is a relentless, pertinacious judge who will do his utmost to make you contradict yourself and draw terrible conclusions against you from those contradictions. You are innocent, but he will make you feel that you are guilty; every hesitation, every slip, however unconscious or unimportant, every reticence will become formidable weapons in his hands. Don't accuse any one—Couillard or Wolff, or Balincourt. Even though he examines your private life—and he is sure to do that—don't mention your 'friendship' with M. B., the Attorney-General, or your intimacy with President Faure. They would only irritate him. Besides, if you did, he would only change the subject of 'conversation.' You must forget that you have received in your Salon, Ministers of State and Diplomatists, eminent politicians and eminent judges, even though you are asked who came to your house. Just reply to André's question and nothing else. Say merely 'Yes,' or 'No,' whenever possible, for he will twist your replies as often as he can do it 'legally,' into something damaging to your case. I know that he is absolutely convinced that you are guilty and he will do his best to make even you believe it! It is scandalous, infamous, and everything else you like to call it, Madame, but I can't help it!"
I was bewildered!
Marthe came that same morning to give me courage, and also Pastor Arboux, Sœur Léonide and one or two other Sisters accompanied me, on my way to the prison door, as far as they could, and they, too, spoke many kind words to me.
Downstairs, under the porch, I saw three of the inspectors I knew so well, waiting for me. I was told to enter a taxi. One of the inspectors sat near the driver and the other two men inside with me. They were armed with revolvers, and looked anxiously through the windows.... They feared the crowd, but our journey was uneventful.
"Have you discovered anything?" I asked them. "Have you found any new clue? Are you on the tracks of the murderers, at last?..."
"Alas, no, Madame."
"Will the Instruction be very long?"
"Most likely it will. Ah! that judge! He is making all kinds of investigations. He sends us to all kinds of places. We don't get a rest. M. André is killing us!..."
"So much the better!" I replied in my eagerness.
The two inspectors laughed.... That was the first laughter I had heard since Ghirelli and Rosselli had burst into endless laughter because I did not know that the coffee was sold ready prepared.
We reached the Dépôt near the Sainte Chapelle, the stained windows of which I saw from a distance; and I thought of the day when I took Marthe to that marvellous Gothic jewel to admire her grandfather's work. The inspectors, after wishing me "good luck," entrusted me to the care of the portier who in his turn led me to the Sisters' gate. The portier, too, was kind and polite. A man of middle age with clean-cut features and grey hair, he saluted me in the military fashion.... Every time I came to the Dépôt, he had a good word for me, and these little attentions were a source of great comfort to me, who, at Saint-Lazare, heard day after day the foulest and vilest insults.
A Sister took me to a small cell, and locked the door on me. But it was soon opened again, and I heard a voice say, "The Sister Superior." I looked up and was transfixed. I have seen many beautiful women, both in life and in art, but none could have compared in divine loveliness with the woman who entered my cell at that Dépôt. The oval of her face was perfect, her eyes, which seemed like liquid and transparent turquoises, neither blue nor green, were exquisite.... Her voice was the most musical I had ever heard. Her refined and shapely hands were poems of loveliness. But her supreme charm was her expression. It was not of this world; it was too noble, too lofty, and, above all, too serene....
Later, when we had often spoken together, I begged her, discreetly, hesitatingly, to tell me about herself. She merely said, "I am the Sister Superior of the Dépôt... and I have suffered a great deal in the past...." I never dared ask her another question, but I have often wondered what great lady she was... and to what great sorrow she referred....
My cell at the Dépôt was even worse than my cell at Saint-Lazare. It was small and low, and had only an air-hole for window; there was a bed, a board fastened into the wall, used as a table, and a three-legged stool held to the floor by a chain.... But when the Sister Superior entered the cell, everything seemed radiant and beautiful.
She coaxed me into eating a little, asked me a few questions about my daughter, and comforted me.
Then the Director of the Dépôt entered, a tall, well-dressed, stern-faced man, with the look of the officer about him. He, too, compelled me to eat: "The Instruction will exhaust you. You will need a great deal of physical as well as moral strength." After he had gone, the Sister Superior advised me to lie down on the bed until I was sent for, and I did as she told me.
A sister came to fetch me, and led me to a door where two soldiers of the Municipal Guard were waiting for me. It was an awful blow to me. I did not mind the inspectors. I knew and liked them, and they had long worked with and for me ... but a soldier on either side of me!...
They saluted me, however, and later, when I asked one of them why he always saluted me, a prisoner accused of murder, as he would an officer, he replied: "I don't know myself, I'm sure, Madame... but there, I can't help it."
The two guards took me along a passage. We passed before a row of cages, inside which were men with horrid faces. They shouted at me through the bars, and the guards told me to hasten.... I learned afterwards that the official name of this passage lined with cages is "La Souricière"—the "mouse-trap."
We reached another building. The authorities were so afraid of enterprising journalists that guards had been posted at every door, a precaution, however, which did not prevent a photographer—on the Matin staff, of course—who had climbed up to a carved-stone ledge above a door at the top of a staircase, from taking a snapshot of me as I walked up the steps between the guards!... I confess, however, that I was so frightened for the man's safety in his perilous position, that I forgot to be angry.
I entered a room where I found my three counsel. After a few words of encouragement, Maître Aubin took me to Judge André's Cabinet.
I felt miserable, ashamed, and indignant.
I saw M. André. He wore a frock-coat and a black tie. He seemed a man of about fifty, was very stout, with a red, congested face, and a greyish beard. His hair was dark and spare. His eyes seemed to jump about behind the pince-nez, and they seldom looked straight at any one.
"Sit down!" he ordered. His voice was even more vulgar and aggressive than his appearance.
He sat at a long table, with my counsel behind him; opposite him sat his clerk, M. Simon, who wrote down the main questions and answers. I sat at one end of the table, with the two municipal guards behind me, and opposite, at the other end of the table, was the window, so that the light struck me straight in the face.
M. Simon, the greffier, was middle-aged, slim, and had a shrewd, pleasant face. He was calm, methodical, and kind. How many times, during that bewildering and painful Instruction, did he give me a glance of sympathy! How many times did he stealthily wipe away a tear!... How often, when I made a triumphant reply, did he half-mischievously wink at me, like a gamin de Paris, as if to say: "You got home all right that time."
Behind me the guards sometimes whispered, after some fierce battle of words between M. André and me: "Well done!"... and in their own simple, spontaneous way, they added:... "little woman!"
That "Well done, little woman" of the guards, and the winks of encouragement from the clerk, more than once gave me renewed strength at moments when, worn by my ceaseless efforts, I was about to give up the awful struggle, not in despair, but through sheer physical and mental exhaustion.
M. André's first move was a dramatic one, and one which he evidently thought would crush me outright. He handed me a letter—written by myself to my husband, in a rather angry tone—and asked impressively: "Was this written by you?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"To whom was this letter addressed?"
"To my husband."
"At what date?"
"I don't remember!..." I then explained that M. Steinheil and I always wrote to each other when we did not agree on some point, 'so as to avoid discussions and scenes....' And M. André thus led me to state that my husband and I were not on the best of terms, and that I did not love him.
I meant, of course, that there was no question of passion between us; but the sentence was written... "I did not love my husband," and these words became one of the greatest arguments against me, one of the proofs of my guilt.... You did not love your husband, therefore you killed him!
Having achieved this momentous victory, M. André proceeded, in the most aggressive tone, to interrogate me about my "friends," but took good care not to question me about the Attorney-General or President Faure. And as Maître Aubin made signs to remind me of his warnings, I did not mention them.
After that, the examining magistrate put to me endless questions about my jewels.... I have explained at length all about them to the reader, and need not go into the matter again. Nor need I reproduce here the whole of the Instruction. Several parts of it have already been quoted, and I intend quoting the last episode of this atrocious martyrdom in full.
From time to time M. André ceased questioning me, and tried by little dramatic interludes to throw me off my balance.
During the very first hour of the first Instruction he abruptly turned to me and exclaimed fiercely: "Your veil is down; why is your veil down?... It is down because you want to hide your face, it is down because you are guilty!... Raise that veil at once, raise it, I say!..."
Another time, he rose, bent forward towards me, and shouted: "You are the assassin!"... I rose in my turn, and, completely losing control of myself, I cried back: "It is you who are the assassin! You are murdering my daughter and me!"
He was furious. "I'll have you arrested!" he shouted.
"I'm arrested already," was my obvious reply. He made a violent gesture, went into the next room, and banged the door.
M. André invariably sought refuge in the next room, whenever I had the better of him.
He smoked cigarette after cigarette during my Instruction, and blew the smoke in my direction. It was so obvious an impertinence, and he showed such satisfaction at my impatience, that one day I did not reply to his question.
"Why don't you answer?" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Is it that you realise that it is no longer any use struggling against all the evidence that reveals your guilt?"
I merely replied: "I cannot speak on account of the smoke, Monsieur."
M. André continued smoking, but henceforth blew the smoke in a different direction.
"It is really amazing..." he said to me one day. "Can't you see that, if you were not guilty, you would ask your whole family, your friends, to visit you at Saint-Lazare! You are ashamed, because you are a criminal!"
Such words hurt beyond description, but I managed to reply:
"Monsieur, Marguerite Japy does not receive her friends in a prison-parlour."
M. Simon, my three counsel and the guards, nearly clapped their hands.
Another time, he suddenly placed under my eyes photographs of the bodies of my husband and my mother, as they had been found on the morning after the crime.... I have been told that all I said was: "Poor mother, poor Adolphe; at any rate, they probably did not suffer much, they must have died very quickly... there is no expression of agony on their faces. I wish I too had died that night."
M. André tore the photographs from my hands; his dramatic move had not had the result he expected.
The most extraordinary incident—I could say comical, had the circumstances not been so tragic—during that eventful and harrowing period, took place towards the end of the Instruction.
M. André, haunted by the thought of my guilt or rather by the thought that he must find me guilty, stood up and suddenly exclaimed in his usual hoarse and angry voice, and underlining, as it were, his every word with threatening gestures: "Yes, you are guilty! I tell you that you have strangled your own husband and your own mother, with your own hands, your powerful assassin's hands!"