Juliette read consternation on my face, but went on: "I assure you, Madame, I am not a bad woman.... And think of the awful risks I have to take! I have been caught. I am away from those I love, and I shall be here for years!"
Sister Léonide was right when she said Juliette would prove a most devoted companion. The Instruction had worn me out, and the prison doctor was seriously alarmed about my health.... Juliette saw at once that I was in a bad way, and when, the next morning, I started washing our cell, she snatched the cloth from my hand, carried me bodily to my bed, rolled up her sleeves over her mighty arms and, without a word, started scrubbing the tiles. Then she scrubbed the tables and cleaned the shelves on the wall. Afterwards, she carried me to another bed, looked at my sheets, and said: "You can't sleep in these!"
"There are no others in the prison, Juliette."
"Oh! yes there are! Just let me arrange things. I have been here so often.... I know the place only too well, unfortunately!"
At Sister Léonide's next visit, Juliette asked if she might change my sheets in the linen-room.
"But all the prison sheets are alike!" said the Sister.
"I know that, ma sœur. Only some are new and some are old. I want to find the oldest pair there is. The older sheets are the thinner and the smoother they are." And she added mischievously: "I know all about sheets, I have stolen so many in my life!"...
Juliette soon returned with a pair of sheets that were full of holes. She mended them, and when I went to bed, later on, she said triumphantly: "Well, what does it feel like now, Madame?"
The change was indeed wonderful; I told Juliette so, and she clapped her hands with delight.
Juliette was intelligent, but by living in contact with somewhat suspicious characters she had acquired a strange personality: she sometimes spoke like a lady of high intellectual attainments, but as a rule her remarks were those of a woman without much education or instruction. She would read aloud a chapter from some book—yellow and grimy with the marks of hundreds of hands, for it was borrowed from the prison library—Victor Hugo's "Notre Dame," for instance, and express original views on life in the Middle Ages; then, for the rest of the day, she would tell fortunes by cards. She raved about cards, and was amazingly superstitious.... With bits of paper and a pencil she had made for herself a pack of "cards," and would spend hours reading her fortune in them! She grew so feverish over those cards that I smiled sometimes.
"Ah! Madame," she exclaimed: "Don't laugh! Cards know everything and tell everything.... You look! I'll start over again. Just now they said there is a fair woman near my husband and that he is going to travel.... Well, watch.... You see, this is my husband.... Now, there is that fair woman again, with him!... I wonder who the wretch is!"...
She disliked going to mass on Sundays, but loved to listen to Pastor Arboux when he visited me in my cell.
She talked to me about her daughter, and I told her about my own Marthe, whom I saw twice a week. I taught Juliette all kinds of needlework, so that, later on, she might spoil her daughter with pretty things without stealing them. She was quick and clever, and soon learned not only to do nice work, but to do it rapidly.
Meanwhile I did "tatting," or painted. The Sisters had supplied me with some colours and brushes, and I painted for them flowers and landscapes on scores of handkerchief-cases, cushions, glove-cases, and lamp-shades.... This was far less of a strain to my eyes, but it seemed strange to paint flowers in prison, where I never saw any.
The chaplain (Catholic) of the prison came often to see Juliette, whom he, too, had known for many years. I had seen him before, on one or two occasions when he had visited Firmin.
He was a man of about seventy-five, tall and handsome, still erect, and he spoke in a soft, kind voice. "It is not so much what he says that I like," Juliette once remarked, "as the way he says it." But what the chaplain, M. Doumergue, said was well worth hearing.
He had travelled in the Near East, and knew Palestine well. Sometimes after telling Juliette—and me, for I eagerly listened—one of the parables, he would describe the place where the Son of Man had probably spoken it.
I talked of music with him, for he had told me that he loved sacred and classic music. He called J. S. Bach the "father of music," and seemed to know every oratorio worthy of the name. I told him how much I loved the singing of the Sisters, and once paid him quite unconsciously a compliment: I remarked that the organ music on Sunday mornings in the large Catholic chapel of the prison, though pleasant, was quite different from the splendid, inspiring music I heard every Sunday afternoon after vespers. Surely it could not be the same organist.
The old chaplain replied very simply. "The organist, Madame, is the Sister of the guichet (wicket). She plays while I say Mass, but at the close of the afternoon I go to the chapel, and all alone there I play, improvising and letting myself go at the organ."
From that day the kind old chaplain played in the chapel whenever he could spare a moment, and thus gave me back one, at least, of the joys I was deprived of in prison—the intense joy of hearing good music.
He talked to me of the Catholic religion sometimes. He knew that my daughter had become a Catholic, and, in a broad-minded manner, told me about the greatness, the unity, and the moral power of the Catholic religion....
Under his influence and M. Arboux's, I gradually found some peace of mind. Nothing could deaden my grief, but those two men killed all bitterness in me. I could not resign myself to the awful thought that I was accused of murder, but I considered it right that I should suffer for my past weaknesses, and for having denounced men without having real proof against them.
The wonderful example of the Sisters turned the pity I felt for the wretched women, who had so long insulted me, into sympathy and almost affection.... And a miracle—or at least I look upon it as a miracle—took place: The women soon ceased calling me a murderess, and shouting "Guillotine, guillotine!" at me.... They felt that I never returned their insults, and they gradually began to respect me. One day, one of them, while walking round the yard, cried: "I hope you will soon be free—you, up there!" Then another made a kind remark, then a third.... Another day a gypsy woman shouted: "Why don't you come down into the yard, we won't hurt you! Why should you rot in your cell, poor woman!" And another added: "We made a mistake about you, that's all!"...
IN THE PRISON YARD AT SAINT LAZARE
The trees were budding, the sparrows and the pigeons were more cheerful; sun sometimes visited my cell. I had never realised so keenly the extraordinary comfort that Light means. The cell was less cold, the days were longer.... The women in the yard below came more frequently to do their washing in the basin, and there was no longer any ice to smash.
The children had learned to know me. Through the iron bars of my window I sent those little gypsies little paper packets containing tiny bits of chocolate which Marthe brought me, and they shouted: "Morning, Madame," and then threw kisses. Sometimes, on my way to the room where I saw Marthe or my counsel, I met some of those little bronzed, dark-haired children... their big eyes looked bigger than ever as they watched me. They followed me, and touched my dress, and said: "We love you, Madame."
The doctor ordered me to take an hour's exercise in the yard every day. I trembled a little when I went down. The fresh air intoxicated me and I faltered, but two or three prisoners rushed to my assistance. They spoke kindly to me and made me sit on the edge of the basin.... And these were the women who only a few weeks back had hurled shouts of execration at me whenever they saw me! After a few days I knew the story of each of them. One had sung and begged in the streets without a licence, another had stolen bread for her children, a third had stolen because she had been ordered to, a fourth had stabbed a policeman in order to save her "man" and give him a chance to escape....
Sometimes, a woman who had been arrested only a day or two before started insulting me when she was told who I was, but the others at once stopped her, and soon afterwards the new prisoner came to me, timidly apologised, and, to my intense surprise, started telling me the latest news about my case. She had read the newspapers, she knew what was being said and rumoured.... And invariably the woman made things out to be brighter than they really were, just to give me hope and courage!
I must not forget to mention "Blanc-Blanc" (white-white), Sister Léonide's cat. He was quite black save for a spot of white between the eyes. He followed the Sister everywhere, and when she entered my cell, he went under my bed. After Sister Léonide had gone, Blanc-Blanc made his appearance and touched me with his paw. I knew what that meant. Juliette took our only plate—"our Sèvres dinner service," as she called it—and we gave the cat some milk. When he heard the door being opened, he took up a place against the wall. Then, before the door was closed again, he slipped through and disappeared. Sister Léonide knew exactly where the cat had been, but she exclaimed: "I wonder where Blanc-Blanc has been spending the afternoon!"...
Juliette was vexed with the appearance of our cell. One morning she suddenly declared that she had found a way of improving it beyond description.
"We are going to make a beautiful couch!" she cried, and forthwith she pulled the straw mattresses off the spare beds—each mattress was just a bundle of straw inside a sack—and also the three straw bolsters (for there were five beds in our cell). She placed the mattresses one on top of another in the centre of the cell and covered the "couch" with a spare sheet, and in front of it we put the "dressing-room" table, which was now adorned not only with the photograph of my mother and my child, but also with one of Juliette's daughter. We sat down, feeling almost cheerful, on the improvised "bergère," and then... we heard the bolt of the door being drawn and the key being turned. Sister Léonide entered, followed by "our Mother." The former saw at once the piece of furniture we had added to our small stock, and it was all that she could do not to laugh. Then, "Our Mother" saw it too.... I forestalled the coming reproaches by taking the Sister Superior by the hand and making her sit on the bergère. She had to admit that it was considerably more comfortable than the hard beds and the rush chairs in the cell.... But prison rules were prison rules, and gloomily, Juliette and I started undoing our great work.
Both "Our Mother" and Sister Léonide watched us despondently, and the former suddenly said: "Don't do it just yet.... Rest a little on the couch first."
On Good Friday, Pastor Arboux came to me and I received the Holy Communion. He had brought the bread and the wine from his little chapel, and we knelt down together afterwards on the tiles of the cell.
On Easter Day I felt unusually depressed. It was such a great day at home. My mother and I hid eggs of all sizes and colours in the garden. Each of them contained surprises, and Marthe spent most of the day looking for them. When a child I gave her chicks and ducklings on that occasion. She very soon learned to know them, and she gave them names. One Easter Day she came into the drawing-room followed by all her protégés, and her favourite cock, L'Effronté (Bold-face), a bird I had given her the year before, flew on the grand piano and crowed!
I sang at the Temple of l'Etoile on Easter Day, and in the evening Marthe, one or two musical friends and I, gave a concert. The whole family was gathered, and all the little roughnesses of life were forgotten. My husband gave up painting and came down from his dear studio, and played with Marthe, whom he adored.
M. Arboux came to Saint-Lazare, early in the morning, and although it was on one of the busiest days of the year with him, he remained with me longer than he intended to, for he saw how miserable I felt.
After vespers—Juliette had attended that service and had then gone to the "parlour"—the Sister Superior entered my cell. I jumped off my bed, where I was sobbing, and apologised. Gently "Our Mother" scolded me, and said: "You will wear your eyes out; you must not cry.... I have brought you some visitors."...
Several Sisters came in one by one, and my cell was lit up by all those smiling faces and the white cornettes.
Sister Léonide gave me some primroses. "They will replace," she said, "the faded mimosa on your little table. These primroses were sent us by a poor girl who has not forgotten the little we were able to do for her when she was a prisoner here.... 'Our Mother' has given me permission to offer you those few flowers."
There were nine or ten Sisters in my cell now; they all spoke kindly to me, and every one made me a little present. "Our Mother" handed me a small photograph of a Raphael Madonna; another, two new-laid eggs sent her by her parents, farmers near Paris.... One Sister, young, and with mischievous eyes, gave me a very faded branch of "snow-balls," and said: "Sister Léonide has told me that you can revive flowers that are almost dead.... When can I come to see the miracle?"
"In a day's time," I replied. Our Mother asked me what my "secret" was, and I told her that it merely consisted in nipping off the ends of the stems and dipping them for a while in warm water, but one had to instinctively guess how long they must be kept in the water, and how warm the water must be. Two or three "baths" might be necessary.
The next day, the "snow-balls" looked fresh and beautiful, and the Sister Superior spoke of "Resurrection."
I almost forgot, on that Sunday evening, that I was in prison, and when the Sisters left my cell, it seemed to me that a great part of my sorrow had been taken from me, and flew away on the great white wings of the Sisters' cornettes.
I was no longer alone in my cell. I had the primroses and the "snow-balls," and I laid them, as on a tomb, before my mother's portrait.
Towards the middle of May, Maître Aubin came one morning, excited as I had never seen him before.
He seized both my hands and exclaimed: "You are saved. The murderers have been found. At least, it is an almost sure thing. At any moment you may be set free. I have seldom been so happy!"
I had so often been disappointed that I dared not share my counsel's enthusiasm.
"But, Madame, you must not be sceptical.... Listen!" And he told me that a man called Allaire, who had already been denounced as one of the Impasse Ronsin murderers in an anonymous letter received by M. Hamard, had been arrested at Versailles, where he had been caught stealing at a fair. Investigations had shown that Allaire had been concerned in a burglary with a friend of his, called Tardivel, and a red-haired woman called Batifolier. Allaire had denied his participation in the Steinheil murder, but had admitted that Tardivel had told him all about that murder, in which he, Tardivel, had played a leading part!
I was filled with hope, and yet I feared lest this new turn in events might lead to nothing, as so many others had, and merely mean a postponement of my release or my trial, a longer stay in prison....
I was right, alas! The Tardivel investigations lasted nearly two months, and merely led to the discovery that Allaire was an epileptic, that Tardivel was a lunatic, and that although both were burglars, they had had nothing to do with the Impasse Ronsin drama. Tardivel, to impress Allaire, had boasted that he was the murderer of M. Steinheil and Mme. Japy!
The Tardivel Dossier fills 234 pages and contains 36,000 words. That my counsel had good cause to believe that at last the assassins had been tracked down, may be gathered from the following extracts from the Tardivel dossier:
"May 15th, 1909. We, Debauchey, Police-Commissary at Versailles... have interrogated Allaire, Emmanuel, aged 27... about his alleged participation in the murders of M. Steinheil and Mme. Japy....
Answer. "So far as I am concerned, I know nothing about the Steinheil affair, except the declarations made to me by my friend Angello Tardivel.... I knew Angello at the lunatic asylum at Rennes, where I was placed at the same time as he. I left the asylum a little before he did, wandered and worked in many places and came to Versailles at the end of 1907. On July 5th, 1908, at the 'Feast of the Work-Yards,' I met Tardivel, and we had a drink together.... He told me about himself, and said he was the author of many burglaries. He proposed that I should join him, and said I would not lose by it, for burglaries paid well. I met him again a few days later, and it was then that he said he was one of the authors of the murder in the Impasse Ronsin. The widow Batifolier was with me at the time, but that did not matter, for he knew that she was deaf. However, I repeated to the widow, later on, what Tardivel had told me. Tardivel said there had been four of them in the Steinheil affair: himself, a man called Pierre Robert, aged 28 or 29, another whose name he did not give, and a tall red-haired woman called Amélie Brunot, who was Robert's friend.... Tardivel had lived in the Rue de Vaugirard, close to the Impasse Ronsin, and he seemed to know the Steinheil house perfectly well both inside and out. I cannot tell you whether Tardivel was once a model.... He has long dark curls falling on his shoulders, and is rather handsome. He speaks several languages, including Italian, Spanish and English. He also told me that he had acted as super in various theatres. He did not say how he and his companions entered the Steinheil house, but I understand that he had some skeleton keys, a crowbar, a revolver, and an electric lantern.... I remember his saying that they found a woman in her bed.... The red-haired woman went first, and the others followed.... They put some wadding soaked with chloroform on the woman's face... and they bound her. He said that the rope they used came from the girth of a saddle. He did not say anything about M. Steinheil or the other lady, but merely that they had stolen money... candlesticks and other things. When he told me all this, Tardivel was a little drunk. What I have told you is absolutely the truth...."
Question. "Do you not believe that Tardivel, when he told you all this in confidence... was only boasting in order to impress you with his ability, so that you would be led to accept his proposals? Do you believe he was sincere, and had spoken the truth?"
Answer. "Yes, I believe he spoke the truth, and that he was really one of the murderers...."
The reader may imagine my feelings when I heard all those details from my counsel!
Tardivel was traced. He proved that he "had had nothing to do with the Steinheil affair," and that he was "the victim of Allaire's spite."
(Dossier Cote 34)
Of course Marthe, too, believed in the Tardivel clue, and when she came to the prison she told me to be patient "just a little longer." But nothing happened. It was clearly demonstrated after weeks of investigations, during which I could hardly eat or sleep, that neither Allaire nor Tardivel could have had anything to do with the murder.
Meanwhile, journalists were once more besieging the house in the Impasse Ronsin, and my daughter, finding that they stopped at nothing to gain admittance, resorted to a very simple and effective method of getting rid of them. She turned the garden hose on the invaders.
Scores of persons—especially foreigners—came to the house, and when Marthe was absent the doorkeeper allowed herself to be bribed into showing the visitors round the apartments!
Days went by; weeks, months... endless, weary months, and the Tardivel clue yielded no results. It was a dreadful blow to me, but a worse was to fall. Ever since March 30th, 1909, the Procureur had had before him all the documents of the "Steinheil case." On June 18th five magistrates of the Chambre des Mises en Accusation, found a true bill against me, and on July 8, nearly eight months after my arrest, I was informed, at the request of the Procureur, that a release was out of the question, and that I would be tried in the Paris Court of Assize....
The dreadful news was broken to me in the Director's room. M. Desmoulin was there with M. Pons. They both looked very uneasy, but made merely commonplace remarks. Then Maître Aubin rushed in with Maître Landowski.
"I am delighted, Madame!" he exclaimed. "I will vindicate you, I'll prove your innocence. Rejoice, Madame, rejoice!"
I believed that I was going to be released. "When do I leave Saint-Lazare?" I asked eagerly.
"Towards the end of October, I should think. You'll have been tried by that time, and acquitted, of course."
I understood.... A trial.... Several months in prison.... I heard a rumbling noise. Everything seemed to whirl around me and I swooned.
When I came back to my senses I saw Sister Léonide by my side. She signed to me not to speak, and helped me back to my cell.
For several days I was a prey to the deepest despair. Then came the relief of tears....
When I was well enough to get about again, I received a visit from Maître Aubin. Somehow, the mere sight of him made me angry. I told him that he was responsible for all that had happened; that he should have allowed and even advised me to tell M. André everything about the Faure documents and the necklace, about M. de Balincourt and the mysterious "German." I accused him of having sold himself to the Government, of having merely carried out their instructions....
Maître Aubin waited until I had flung my last accusation at him. Then, quietly, he explained that he was an honest and independent man, and that he feared no one. "You have only suspicions against M. de Balincourt, just as you had against Wolff and Couillard; and you know where those suspicions led you.... As for that German, although your servants, Marthe and others, saw him, it would be well nigh impossible to trace him. And you could not assert that he had something to do with the murder.... Treat me as you choose; you have suffered so much that it would be extraordinary if you had kept your full self-possession. All I can say is that you will be triumphantly acquitted. There will remain no trace of suspicion against you, and that is what is needed above all."
He spoke for a long time, and I apologised for my anger. Maître Aubin was profoundly devoted, and I should never have turned on him as I had done.
In spite of the hope my counsel gave me, in spite of Marthe's love, M. Arboux's and the Sisters' exhortations, I fell seriously ill, and for over three weeks there were serious fears for my life. After a time, Marthe was allowed to visit me again, and she besought me to be brave, to make a supreme effort. I had been eight months in prison, I should try to grow used to the thought of remaining at Saint-Lazare three or four months longer, since victory was at the end.
"But the victory," my daughter explained in deep, powerful tones that contrasted so strongly with her slim, small figure, "can only be won if you work on the dossier of your case. You will have to ask for that dossier, and study it most carefully for your own defence. M. Aubin says so, and he knows."
She compelled me to eat, to take the various remedies ordered by the doctor and, seeing her so brave, I did my best to recover, and to call up courage and hope in the ordeal before me.
Soon afterwards, I was told that M. de Valles would be the Chief Judge at my trial, and M. Trouard-Riolle the Advocate-General (Public Prosecutor).
I had never met M. de Valles, but I was informed that he was a viscount, a grandson of Charles d'Hozier, "the last genealogist of France," and a descendant of another famous genealogist, Pierre d'Hozier, who, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, founded, with Renaudot and Richelieu, the Gazette, France's first newspaper. I also heard that he was an able archæologist, a learned Latinist, whose greatest joy was to sit in his library in the company of Horace, Lucretius, or the immortal Virgil, that he was a worthy, able, and extremely fair judge.
About M. Trouard-Riolle I needed no information. I had met him in various drawing-rooms at intervals for some fifteen years. I had known his beautiful and fascinating wife quite well, and I knew all about M. Trouard-Riolle's career, from the days he had left the Lycée at Rouen and had become a Doctor of Law, to the time when he was made an Advocate-General.
A few days later I was called down-stairs to the Director's study. When I entered the little room I knew so well, I saw, near M. Pons, a tall, well-dressed man of about fifty with clean-cut features, clear eyes, grey hair and beard, and an expression of great firmness and refinement.
The Director of Saint-Lazare said: "President de Valles."
The latter said: "Sit down, Madame." Those three words were spoken in a cold yet polite tone, which was in sharp contrast to the coarseness of another judge whom I had not yet forgotten. A greffier read aloud a document.... I thanked M. de Valles for having come to the prison, and then said: "The thought of being tried publicly for a double murder of which I am innocent is unendurable, but I still hope that light will be thrown on the mystery. But what difficulties there are, Monsieur le Président, for you as well as for me, in such a trial, for I understand that certain facts must be left in the dark!"...
M. de Valles did not answer my remark, but said: "Public opinion, Madame, is very much against you... and it is impossible not to recognise that your husband loved you."
"No, Monsieur le Président, my husband did not love me, he adored me, and since he did anything I wished, I obviously had no reason to kill him. As for my mother, her letters to me and my letters to her ought to have made it impossible for Judge André to maintain his accusation."
It was quite clear that M. de Valles did not care to discuss any point in my case. He asked me to sign the document which his greffier had read, and said: "I advise you to be calm, very calm, Madame. I can realise that the thought of the Court of Assize must be most painful to you, but, in order that you may get used, as it were, to the atmosphere of the Court, I intend, when your trial takes place, asking you first of all a number of questions of no great importance about your childhood and youth which you will find it easy to answer, however upset and distraught you may be."
I thanked him and said: "Is it true that my trial will be a kind of spectacle to which women will eagerly rush—and be admitted—to enjoy the sight of my grief and pain? If so, I must tell you, Monsieur Le Président, that I shall be unable to control my feelings."...
M. de Valles pretended not to have heard, and said: "Maître Aubin is an able counsel, with a great heart and a high conscience. Follow the advice he gives you, and since you say you are innocent, let your innocence give you the strength and power to convince the jury."
M. de Valles rose and rang a bell. A warder came, and I was escorted to my cell.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE DAYS IN
PRISON (continued)
A FEW days later, my counsel came and said to me: "We are to receive the dossier, all the documents of your case, and we shall then be able to read the evidence of all the witnesses, follow, page by page, the various clues in their reports, and learn all that has been done—and not been done.... Only, you will have to pay for that dossier."
"Pay!" I exclaimed. "Pay to know why I am accused of having murdered my husband and my mother! Pay to be able to defend myself! You must have lost your reason, Maître Aubin!"
"You are quite right, Madame: it is an infamous thing that money should be demanded for your own dossier. It is scandalous, wicked, unheard-of.... I grant you all that. But still, we must have the dossier, and pay for it, since payment is demanded."
I shook my head: "Suppose I were a poor woman, should I have to do without it?"
"Of course not.... But your dossier is enormous. It contains 4000 documents, and 15,000 pages. Think of it! At 150 words a page, it means two million and a quarter words. They want 1800 francs for it (£72)."
"Can you not plead without it?"
"I could, certainly; I have been present at the whole of your Instruction, and therefore know all about the case.... But one never can tell, the Prosecution might spring some surprise upon us, at the eleventh hour; we might not be prepared for it, however absurd or fantastic it might be.... It would be better if we could study the dossier in its entirety, and acquaint ourselves with the exact replies of all the witnesses to the questions M. Hamard, M. Leydet, and M. André put."
"Very well, then; I will defend myself, alone, without the dossier, and without you, and my innocence shall triumph."
The next day, Marthe came and entreated me to buy the dossier, saying that I had no right to take any risks. She even threatened to buy it herself for me, if I did not alter my decision. I had to yield, and entrusted my solicitor with the care of "purchasing the documents of my own case," adding that I wished him to "try and obtain a reduction."
My solicitor obtained the dossier after much haggling, for £48, instead of £72, and I knew then that another unlawful act had been committed... by the Law!
It was the middle of summer now. It was light soon after three in our cell, and Juliette pinned a blanket across our window so that we might sleep a little longer. I still did much sewing for the Sisters, but devoted several hours a day to the study of the voluminous and amazing dossier. Twice, and sometimes three times a week, my counsel came, and we "worked" together.
I discovered many remarkable things in the dossier. I discovered, for instance, that ninety-nine per cent. of the persons whom I knew intimately, receiving them again and again at my house, and seeing them or communicating with them as often as two or three times a week—and this until a few days before the crime—had declared in their evidence that they hardly knew me at all!
One gentleman, a bright and thoroughly useless nonentity, who had known me for several years, and whom for the sake of his charming young wife, I had greatly helped in his career, stated that he had only met me once or twice... forgetting that I had possessed, and still possess, a few scores of his letters in which he beseeched me to help him out of his difficulties, and to intercede in his favour with this or that Minister of State! An aged lady, who ruled over a political Salon—whose chief aim in life was nothing more nor less than the overthrow of the Republic, and who invited me, though I never accepted, to secret meetings where political plots were hatched, and who, manifesting the greatest affection for me and my daughter, came constantly to my house—after declaring in her evidence that in February 1908, she "was present at a dinner given by Mme. Steinheil, where she met M. Dujardin-Beaumetz (Under-Secretary for Fine-Arts), Count and Countess d'Arlon, the wife of an ex-Minister... altogether some fifteen guests of incontestable morality." She went on to say that she had visited me, at the d'Arlons, after the crime, when I told her what had happened on the fatal night.... "She looked very upset and a prey to a kind of hallucination, which made her jump from one topic of conversation to another. To sum up, I had for the first time, the impression that Mme. Steinheil had not been quite sincere with me, that she had wanted to use to her advantage the position I hold in Society, and I mentally decided to have nothing more to do with her!"
But perhaps the most "curious" document in the dossier was the evidence given by the wife of a well-known banker, who stated: "At a reception, three years ago (1906)... I heard Mme. Steinheil. I congratulated her, in the usual terms.... I visited her husband's exhibition of paintings. Mme. Steinheil then came to one of my receptions and promised to sing at one of my "musicals." A few days later I invited her; she came with her husband, sang, and was applauded. As I could not consider her as a professional singer, I went to the Impasse Ronsin and bought one of her husband's paintings.... I only saw Mme. Japy once, that was at the only 'at home' which I attended at the Steinheils'. This sums up the relations my husband and I had with the Steinheils, except a mere visit of condolence we paid to her, at Bellevue, after the crime."
(Dossier Cote 3138)
The true facts about those relations are these: this lady during the three years of our acquaintance came to most of my receptions, and stayed frequently from three o'clock till past eight. She used my salon as a means of making and cultivating acquaintances who might be useful to herself and her husband. People prominent in politics, art, or society did not attend her receptions, and she frequently sought my help in her desire to alter this. She brought all her friends to my house, called on me with her husband, not only in Paris but at Bellevue, where she came not just once, for a "mere visit of condolence," but a dozen or fifteen times without being invited, and week after week she sent me charming letters, all beginning with the words, "My darling Nell,"—a name she had given me for some reason unknown to me—not every day, but almost!
As for the close friends who coolly declared they had never met me at all, their names would make a long list!... I have forgiven them all. Friends in need are rare indeed; and was a woman ever in greater need—of sympathy—than I was during those terrible months that followed the crime! Well, I would rather that "devoted" friends ignored me than slandered me, as so many did, alas....
As a matter of fact, the only people who did have a kind or just word to say about me were not Society people, or wealthy or "prominent" personages, but old servants whom I had nursed when they were ill, and poor artists—men and women—who were not ashamed to say that I had helped them.
The dossier, indeed, proved a mine of psychological information. It revealed in their true light the character of scores of people whom I had trusted, helped, and liked, and it showed up vividly a side of Parisian Society which it is perhaps best to ignore.
I experienced another surprise when I found that several persons whom I had never met, and had never heard of, gave evidence about me—most damaging evidence, of course.
The most "dramatic" discovery I made in the dossier was that of Comte de Balincourt's career. The following document, especially, gave me one of the greatest shocks I ever experienced:
"Paris, December 9th, 1909. Report:
"According to my instructions, I called on the 3rd inst. on M. Sébille, Principal Commissary of the Sûreté Générale at the Ministry of the Interior. This magistrate pointed out to our chief the interest there might be in consulting a dossier which M. Sébille possesses about Comte de Balincourt, whose name has been mentioned in connection with the Steinheil affair.
"M. Sébille first of all made it known that, at the beginning of December 1907, he had been concerned with de Balincourt. The latter had been marked out to him as the instigator of a burglary which was to take place at that time to the detriment of Mme. de Brossard, a lady of independent means, 23 Rue de l'Orangerie, at Versailles.
"This burglary was to be committed in circumstances which are related in the dossier which M. Sébille allowed me to consult.
"The facts are these:
"D. H. J. H. Emmanuel Testu, Count de Balincourt, born on August 4th, 1873, was married at Versailles in December 1901.... A divorce was pronounced against him in January 1907. It is said that while he was married, Count de Balincourt made long stays at his wife's grandmother's, Mme. de Brossard, at Versailles. He knew that she had large sums of money in her safe. Needy, and having recourse to expedients, de Balincourt planned the burglary mentioned above.
"He told his friend P. L. F. Delpit—who styled himself a man 'of independent means'—about the scheme. At that time, de Balincourt and Delpit resided together at Neuilly. It would appear that Delpit, who mixes with criminal people, took upon himself the task of recruiting the individuals capable of successfully carrying out that 'operation.'
"Whilst he was being carefully shadowed by M. Sébille's inspectors, Delpit was followed to the haunts of professional thieves... (two of these haunts are here quoted). It was thus ascertained that Delpit had conferred with criminal individuals, the identity of a few of whom was established:
"(1) A man nicknamed Baptistin, aged 30... who has the reputation of being a dangerous criminal.... (2) Langon, Marius, nicknamed 'the Gypsy.'... He is mentioned as possessing a special pneumatic tool for boring metal.... Five sentences have been passed on him, including one of five years' imprisonment.... (3) Goirand, aged 30... twice condemned.... (4) Fontaine, Gustave, aged 30.... (5) Monstet de Fonpeyrine, born in 1877, at Santiago de Cuba, conjurer, arrested in November last for robberies in Paris hotels.
"Whilst these individuals were being shadowed by the Sûreté Générale, it was found that Fontaine drove to Versailles in a motor-car, and he was seen at night trying skeleton keys in the lock of the door of Mme. de Brossard's mansion.
"It is not known whether some indiscretions were committed; at any rate, these individuals ceased to meet in their haunts, and abandoned their plans.
"Finally, during the shadowing of Count de Balincourt, one of the inspectors saw him go to the Impasse Ronsin No. 6, and from there, by the Underground to the station of 'Les Couronnes,' where he (de Balincourt) had an appointment with the above-mentioned individuals....
"...At any rate, the fact seems sufficiently established that the initial steps of the burglary that had been planned were carried out, since skeleton keys were tried by Fontaine, on the door of Mme. Brossard (grandmother of de B.'s wife).
"As regards de Balincourt and Delpit, both these individuals are mentioned in the general report concerning the Steinheil affair. There are 'dossiers' about both of them in the archive of the Sûreté in reference to burglaries; and further, there are photographs of both of them at the 'Service of Judicial Identification.'
"(Signed) Inspector Dechet."
(Dossier Cote 1069)
And this Count de Balincourt I received, alas, several times at my house and once at Bellevue, in circumstances which I have described!
No power on earth could induce me even to suggest that M. de Balincourt and his friend knew anything about the Impasse Ronsin murder, or were in any way connected with it. I foolishly accused Couillard and Wolff, and have bitterly regretted it ever since, but I have often thought what a fortunate thing it was for me that I was not acquainted with those details of M. de Balincourt's life, after the crime and before my arrest. For, in the morbid state of agitation in which I was, and in my pardonable eagerness to discover the murderers, I should no doubt have made my own case worse by accusing, not only my valet and the son of my cook, but also M. de Balincourt, especially as he had gained access to my house in a rather strange manner, had deceived me about his address, had done his utmost to gain M. Steinheil's confidence, and knew about the Faure documents.
As it was, I had strong suspicions against him, and they became even stronger, and surely, after what I read in M. de Balincourt's dossier, and have partly quoted, the reader will perhaps grant that, although I had no "real" or "absolute" cause to suspect the man, I had some reason to... let us say, distrust him.
I must add, however, that in another of Inspector Dechet's reports I read that: "It has been impossible to ascertain what persons M. de Balincourt went about with in May 1908.... The only friend he was known to have at the time was Delpit, who lived with him. It is useful to mention that M. de Balincourt has always asserted that he had made the acquaintance of Mme. Steinheil towards February 15th (1908).... It appears doubtful therefore that at the time when this individual (M. de B.) was being shadowed by the Sûreté Générale in December 1907, he could have been seen going to No. 6 Impasse Ronsin.
"The Inspector:
"(Signed) Dechet."
(Dossier Cote 1089)
M. de Balincourt was several times interrogated, and among other things, he stated: "On Saturday, May 30, 1908, I returned at about 8 P.M. to the pavilion where I reside with my friend Delpit (at Courbevoie, a suburb of Paris).... We dined at 11.30; we parted and went each of us to his rooms. The next day, May 31st, I rose late and joined my father at the Neuilly Church, as I did every Sunday. At about one o'clock I was back home and lunched with my family and Delpit. I spent the afternoon in my garden, and only went out at seven o'clock to buy the journal La Presse, with Delpit, at the station. After we had deplored our losses, for we had put some money on a horse which had not won, my attention was drawn to a heading announcing the murder of the members of the Steinheil family. As I read the article I was dumfounded and absolutely distracted. We were surprised, Delpit and I, that Mme. Steinheil had been spared by the murderers, but I was the first to recognise that circumstances must have favoured her....
"(Signed) Hamard.
Comte de Balincourt."
(Dossier Cote 1087)
I must also add that it is stated in the Dossier Cote 1089, that it was not while the gang of thieves previously referred to were being shadowed that one of them "was seen going to Versailles to try the skeleton-keys" but that "the fact was revealed by an indicateur whose name the Sûreté Générale could not divulge."
I made many other strange discoveries in that most extraordinary of dossiers. Indeed, it not only contains the absolute proofs of my innocence, throws much light on Parisian life, and gives an insight into the psychology of at least two or three "spheres" of Society, but it also holds a serious condemnation of a number of judicial methods, so palpably unjust that it seems incredible that they should be allowed to exist in a land, which by universal consent ranks foremost, not only in the realms of Art and Science, but also in the domain of Intellectuality, noble aspirations, and idealism.
The dossier fills 15,000 pages; it is therefore impossible to quote it in full.... I have, however, submitted to the reader its most essential parts; but before concluding this rapid review of the surprises that dossier held in store for me, I should like to mention one or two more episodes:
I had a lady friend, who was then about fifty, and whom I had known intimately for nearly fifteen years. This lady knew my life and my affairs as thoroughly as I knew hers. She came constantly to the Impasse Ronsin with her husband, a man of about seventy, and her cousin, a barrister of repute, and also to Vert-Logis, at Bellevue, with that cousin. We corresponded regularly, in the most affectionate of terms. That she should have virulently criticised my conduct, that she should have made such acid statements as these: "Mme. Steinheil was most familiar and very quickly familiar with everybody, with men as well as with women; she called gentlemen 'my friend, my great friend,' and ladies 'my dear, my darling!'... She gave me the impression of being jealous of her lady-friends' wealth. She lied constantly about anything and everything.... I saw her less and less.... I had heard ugly rumours about her conduct...." (Dossier, Cote 3058)—all this I can realise and forgive: it is so human, so typical of a certain class of Society and a certain type of woman.... Besides, I was in prison at the time; I could not answer or contradict statements. My "friend" was quite safe.
But it appears that at the same time—early in 1909—this lady spoke about certain anonymous letters and about poisoned chocolates, which she thought I had sent her!
I can imagine the sensation in her drawing-room, and the success of her "at homes." The Steinheil affair was the one topic of conversation everywhere, and here was a hostess who had known that wicked woman, the "Tragic Widow," the "Red Widow," for many, many years! And she had something new to say, something amazingly sensational: she had once received a box of poisoned chocolates from the woman who was accused of having murdered her husband and her mother!...
I can see the ladies forgetting their tea and their petit-fours, pressing eagerly round my "friend" and saying, in hushed tones: "Not really!... You don't mean to say that.... But what a monster that creature must have been.... And to think she was here, in this very room.... My poor dear. ... No, no, we shall not mention this to any one. You can rely on us. But what a dreadful secret!"...
The next day, of course, all the newspapers devoted columns to it.
The mystery ceased to be a mystery: Mme. Steinheil had poisoned the victims and afterwards strangled them, when they were quite defenceless! It was quite clear! The riddle was solved, at last!
Once again, Public Opinion was aroused against me. And from these people who read the newspapers, whose minds were daily being incensed against me—to such an extent, I have heard since, that it was not safe for any one to take my part, even in a salon!—from that enraged Public, twelve men were to be chosen, a few months later, to decide my fate!
I need hardly say that there was not one atom of truth in that atrocious story. In her evidence given before M. André, on January 12th, 1909, my "friend" stated: "Three or four years ago, I received two or three anonymous letters, teasing rather than nasty. I supposed they came from Mme. Steinheil, but I never spoke to her about them. On the occasion of the New Year, at that same period, a box of chocolates, badly packed, was left with my concierge for me. Without tasting them or giving any to any one, not even my dog, I sent those chocolates to the Municipal Laboratory to be analysed. I was told that the chocolates were absolutely harmless. I had taken the whole thing as a joke, which I attributed to the author of the anonymous letters, that is, to Mme. Steinheil. Since then I have found that those chocolates had been sent me by Doctor C."
(Dossier Cote 3058)
A thorough inquiry was made, and its results form a report dated February 9th, 1909, addressed to M. Hamard by Inspector Laurent, in which it is stated that:
"... She (Mme. D.) lost or destroyed the written reply sent by the Laboratory, but remembers that it said the chocolates were harmless.... Dr. C. stated that two or three years ago he had sent to Mme. D. a box of chocolates, but that he had forgotten to send his card with it, so that the lady heard of the origin of the chocolates only when he himself asked her if she had received them. The lady never told him they were 'bad.'
"Inquiries made by the Municipal Laboratory about those chocolates, yielded no results. No traces can be found that Mme. D. ever sent chocolates to be analysed, either in her own name or in any other name at her address."
(Dossier Cote 3060)
In this way was yet another "story," most damaging to my cause, told, spread, universally discussed—and finally proved to be entirely false! Once more I was vindicated, but once more... incalculable harm had been done me.
This fantastic story of the "poisoned chocolates" had a sequel, whether direct or indirect, I cannot tell. At any rate, shortly afterwards, the body of M. Steinheil was exhumed. In December 1908, that of my mother had been exhumed, and now, my husband's remains were once more examined, so that a search might be made for any traces of narcotic or poison.
Dr. Courtois-Suffit, had made a thorough "medical" examination, immediately after the crime, but ten months later, Dr. Balthazard was requested by M. André to make a second autopsy!
Although M. Steinheil was buried in the family vault at L'Hay, Marthe's consent was not even asked for the exhumation. The tomb was, as it were, broken into, and the body of her father removed to be examined once more. (Yet another unlawful act committed by the law!) She—and I—only heard of the exhumation several days after it had taken place. I can hardly believe that such an arbitrary and scandalous act could have been committed in any other civilised country.
The conclusion of Dr. Balthazard's lengthy and most painstaking report was that "toxicological examination of the viscera... did not reveal any traces of narcotic or stupefactive.'"
There was no mention whatever of poison. In this same and final report, Dr. Balthazard went on to say that: "Finally, M. Steinheil died without a struggle, from strangulation by a cord; it appears that he died at the spot where he was found... (away from his bed, on the threshold of the bath-room). Secondly, Mme. Japy died of suffocation owing to the introduction of a voluminous gag of wadding into her mouth; before she was dead, a cord was tightened round her neck; Mme. Japy appears to have died on her bed at the very place where her body was found. There were no traces of violence to indicate that she struggled against an aggressor...."
In Cote 197, I read with interest the statements made by M. Rousseau, a mechanic at the large printing works in the Impasse Ronsin—which employ some two thousand men and women.
"About three weeks before the crime, I noticed in the Impasse Ronsin, at noon, or 1 P.M., three men and a woman near the wall of the Steinheils' house; they were talking together.... The woman rang at the gate. Some one came and spoke to her for a few moments. Meanwhile, the three men walked a little away from the gate, but remained on that side of the Impasse." After describing the four persons (the three men wore "black felt artists' hats," and the "woman wore a shawl in the Italian style"), M. Rousseau declared that he "saw those people again several times, near the gate of my house," and that he was struck by "their hesitating attitude."
A "M. Godefroy, also employed at the printing works... remembered having seen those individuals in the Impasse Ronsin...."
I was also surprised to find that in this colossal dossier many persons gave evidence who had only met me once or twice, whilst close friends whom I had known for years were not questioned about me. Thus the dossier contained no mention of Bonnat or Massenet, of M. Viollet-le-Duc, of M. Delalande—French Consul-General in Naples and recently in London—who had known me from the days when I was only fourteen; of M. Sadi-Carnot, son of the late President; of M. Duteil d'Ozanne, Chief of the Secretariat of the "Legion of Honour"; and many other prominent men. Not one of the generals, admirals, statesmen, politicians, and important officials who knew me well, were consulted, nor, of course, President Tassard, President Petit, or any of the numberless magistrates with whom, and with whose wives, I was on terms of close friendship.
Whilst working on the dossier I became less despondent, and regained some of the strength I had lost. Reading those documents aroused not only my indignation, but also my will. I would not be condemned; I would fight the Prosecution and win; I would say all I knew, happen what might.... But my counsel begged me to let him conduct my defence, and warned me, now that my trial was approaching, as he had warned me before the Instruction. "If you attack any one, you are lost," he would say; "be calm, answer questions, and let me do everything at your trial."
When would that trial take place? When should I be free? I kept asking those two questions of Maître Aubin, who, alas! could give me no definite answer.
The summer had passed; the autumn had come. Through the iron bars of my window I saw the leaves fall one by one from the trees in the yard, and the prison and the sky were again grey and dreary, as on that November day, a year before, when I awoke to find myself for the first time in a prison cell. I knew every one in the prison now, and every stone. I knew every cat and many of the pigeons, which I had named.
Marthe came three times a week. The Sisters were more attentive and devoted than ever. Pastor Arboux and the Catholic Chaplain visited me as regularly as ever, and Juliette did her utmost to make my life more bearable; but the end of a journey is always the most trying part to body and mind, and then I was not sure, in spite of my absolute innocence, that the end of my terrible journey was at hand. I had been treated with such injustice, and, as I knew only too well, opinion was so much against me, that at times I imagined that I should be found guilty. But I argued with Sister Léonide, or Juliette, or... myself, and Hope sprang eternal in my frozen heart.
| Photo by Claude Harris, London |
| OBJECTS I USED IN PRISON |
| Slippers made by myself. |
| Penny looking-glass—only kind allowed by the prison authorities. |
| Blunt knife. Salt Cellar. Jug. Basin. |
| Coffee Strainer—made by myself with fire-wood sticks, some linen and wire taken from my hat. |
| Breadbasket—made by myself with paper. |
I had now been over eleven months in prison. November had come, with its dull skies and monotonous rains. My cell was dark again, and damper than ever. Juliette "read" the cards five, eight, ten times a day for me, and told me every time that my innocence would appear to all, and that I should be triumphantly acquitted.... It is wonderful what cards can say, or be made to say.
I knew the dossier by heart now in spite of its two million words. But the opening day of the trial, although every second brought me nearer to it, seemed to become more hopelessly distant. I sat on my rush chair by the open window and tried to take an interest in what I saw, although I knew it all so well. The drizzling rain drifted in through the wire trellis and the iron bars, and cooled my burning forehead. I pressed my hands flat against the trellis to cool them too, and sometimes, in a gust of frenzy at the thought of my imprisonment, I convulsively clutched both the bars and the trellis, and shook and shook them as if I thought I could shake them to pieces.
I heard that my trial was to begin at the Assize Court on Wednesday, November 3rd (1909), at noon.
Towards the end of October I had had a long talk with my daughter, and we had agreed that it would be better for me—and her—if she did not come again to Saint-Lazare. Her visits gave me life, but at the same time we could not help talking about the impending and momentous trial. Marthe wept bitterly, and the sight of her tears made me lose the courage and strength I so much needed to enable me to face the terrible ordeal.
"I will come at the end of your trial to see you acquitted, mother!" had been the last words of my beloved daughter.
I had long talks with my counsel. He urged me to be calm and discreet. Above all, he entreated me not to mention any "new" fact, and not to speak of President Faure or the judges I had known intimately; in short, he repeated what he had said to me before the Instruction.
I promised everything. I had the greatest confidence in my counsel, and he had sworn to me that I should be acquitted if only I did as he told me. I threatened, however, to break all my promises if there were women at my trial. I was thinking chiefly of one woman, the wife of a most prominent personage—at the time—the very woman who had visited President Faure shortly before my arrival at the Elysée on that fatal February 16th, 1899. I could not bear the idea that she might be in the court, smiling sarcastically at my misfortune and my shame—she free, powerful, perhaps even respected, and I a prisoner accused of murder!... Let not the reader think that there was or could be a question of jealousy between that woman and me. She hated me in those days when President Faure honoured me not only with his friendship but with his confidence, and she had hated me ever since. For my own part, I had not worried over her, but I had warned the President time after time against her, for it was she who had urged him to adopt that dangerous remedy from the abuse of which I have no doubt he died.... I thought of other women, too: "friends," who after seeing me for fifteen years in my salon now find it "amusing" to watch me in a Court of Assize.... Ah! Let not the reader speak of Spite, Jealousy, or Malice! I had but one thought: to be acquitted, to escape from that Inferno, and to be once more near my child. But I needed all my reason and all my strength for that trial, and I felt that if around me I saw women laugh at my misery, my grief would be greater, the trial more painful, victory more difficult to achieve!...
Did Maître Aubin take some steps or not? I cannot say, nor do I wish to know. But I was shown, shortly before the opening of the trial, a cutting from Le Temps, I believe, which stated that M. de Valles would not allow any ladies to be present at the Steinheil trial.
On Sunday, October 31, my counsel remained with me most of the day, giving me his final words of advice and warning.
Personally, I did not know any longer what to do, or say, or think. I was exhausted, bewildered, worn, a prey to a thousand and one conflicting thoughts and emotions. For eighteen months my life had been a martyrdom; no sorrow, no pain, no insult, no trial had been spared me, and now I longed for peace, for sleep, for oblivion. Nothing else mattered.
On Monday, November 1, I was told that I should be sent for the next day at 2 P.M. and taken to the Palace of Justice. Several of the Sisters remained a long time in my cell. Pastor Arboux called and prayed with me. The old chaplain, M. Doumergue, played the organ in the chapel, then he came to my cell and gave me his blessing.... I could not sleep during the night, and poor Juliette, with her usual kindness, remained, hour after hour, seated near my bed, talking to me, cheering me, comforting me....
The next morning—Tuesday, November 2—Sister Léonide brought me my hat, cloak and gloves; and the Sisters came once more to say that they had prayed for me and to ask me to trust in the Almighty: I would be acquitted, they all knew it; my innocence would be victoriously revealed. They could hardly speak, and I was so moved that words failed me when I tried to thank them all....
A clock struck two, I had been ready since noon. No one came. Three o'clock, four, five, six, eight, ten o'clock! Still no one.... Then Sister Léonide entered my cell and said: "You will not go to-day; they will come and fetch you to-morrow at five in the morning, my poor child!"
I had been walking up and down my cell for over ten hours! Sister Léonide compelled me to eat a little. I went to bed, assisted by Juliette, and I fell asleep and dreamed of Marthe.
Sister Léonide awoke me at 4 A.M., for, at five, I would be sent for.... And my trial was to begin at noon! I felt very tired and sleepy. Juliette kissed me good-bye. Sister Léonide asked me to remember Saint-Lazare—and her—sometimes, and she too gave me a blessing. Then, after a look round the cell where I had been imprisoned for nearly a year, and a last hand-shake with Juliette, I walked out into the "Boulevard of the Cells" and followed Sister Léonide. That the prisoners might not know of my departure, the gong was not rung. I walked as in a trance. But all the time, I thought of my arrival at Saint-Lazare a year before! A year!... I had spent a year within the walls of a prison!...
It was cold, very cold, and the silence was awe-inspiring. I thanked Sister Léonide for all that she had done for me, but there must have been more gratitude in my eyes than in my words.... Then, I was led to a carriage and driven to the Dépôt before I fully realised that I had left Saint-Lazare—probably for ever!
On the way, I looked at Paris, that vast city which for me had lost its meaning.... I counted the lamp-posts we passed, watched the few people I saw, threw a glance at the Seine, the waters of which seemed to be made of molten lead, cold and motionless. A fine drizzle struck my face through my mourning veil as I stepped out of the carriage and entered the Dépôt....
There, the Sister Superior with the beautiful and pathetic face was awaiting me. She begged me to lie down on the bed in the cell, and I gladly obeyed, but at 8.30 A.M., I felt so restless that I rose and paced my cage. The aged Sister of Mercy came, and I heard that hundreds of poor wretches had spent the night outside the Palace of Justice in order to sell their "seats" to persons anxious to be present at my trial. I was told afterwards that such "seats" fetched from twenty-five to one hundred francs (£1 to £4), and that a few morbid amateurs of sensational spectacles paid as much as £10 and even £15 for the privilege of standing at the back of the court in the small and overcrowded "public" enclosure, to watch a woman struggling to prove her innocence.
I was asked to be "quite ready" by 11 A.M. I was ready in every way, except mentally, for as the hour drew near when I would appear before my judges, I felt my strength ebb from me. It all seemed so useless, so utterly absurd, to be innocent and yet to have to prove one's innocence, to fight for one's life!...
Some one—the Director at the Dépôt perhaps—told me I should need all the presence of mind, all the will and all the power of arguing at my command, and I heard to my unspeakable disgust that recently—yes, before my trial—the Matin had published in extenso the text of the Indictment against me!
CHAPTER XXIX
THE TRIAL
I WAS at last taken to the guards' room, close to the Court of Assize. Whilst I sat in a corner I heard a municipal guard say to another: "Look at her dress! The papers are wrong!"
Later, I discovered the meaning of this remark. It appears that some well-intentioned newspaper had informed its readers that I had had a wonderful mourning-dress made by Worth or Paquin especially for the trial! As a matter of fact, I wore the very dress and the same toque in which I had arrived at Saint-Lazare a year before!
I also heard that, apart from judges, jurymen, witnesses, officials of the court, barristers, representatives of the press, and a very limited attendance of the public at the back of the Court (the law stipulates that trials must be public), no one would be allowed to be present.
A number of persons came to give me all kinds of contradictory advice. "Don't be haughty," said one, "for that would displease the jury"; "Don't look depressed or ashamed, for that would suggest guilt," said another; one barrister recommended me not to look "unnatural," and some one else urged me not to look "natural, for an innocent woman accused of murder could not possibly look herself at her trial!" M. Desmoulin said: "I'll be present at the trial and remain to the end, not far from you. Your agony is nearing its end. Be brave, and, above all, do as your counsel tells you, and change or add nothing to your previous statements." Dr. Socquet—whom I had never seen before, but who was most devoted and useful to me all through that harrowing trial—gave me a soothing potion to drink. Meanwhile the guards smoked their pipes and their cigarettes, and watched me—a few in a suspicious and disagreeable manner, but most of them with kindness and sympathy.
I could hear a great buzz of excitement coming from the Court: the noise of hundreds of feet and hundreds of voices, exclamations, bursts of laughter even—exactly like the buzz one hears at a theatre, on a first night, before the curtain goes up. My heart beat within me like a heavy hammer. My head throbbed with pain and fever as if it would burst, and my hands and feet were icy cold.
A voice suddenly said, close to me: "Come, Madame."
I rose automatically and, between two municipal guardsmen, walked along a short passage. A door was opened before me. I stepped into the Court of Assize and entered the dock. There were guards near me and behind me. Absolute silence reigned. Everything was dark... so dark. I shuddered. Then I heard voices just before and a little below me: my three counsel were there standing by their bench, talking to me, encouraging me. I threw my veil back over my hat and shoulders and tried to listen to Maître Aubin and his secretaries. Gradually I grew used to the surroundings. When I raised my head—it seemed ages, but was probably a few seconds only after I had entered the dock—I saw, first of all, a group of men wrapped in shadow—the jury—in a dock similar to mine, just opposite me under large windows through which filtered the dismal light of a rainy November day. I felt the light on my face. Near the jury, at a kind of desk, was seated a man in a red robe, whom I knew well: M. Trouard-Riolle, the Advocate-General, with a hawklike face, a bald scalp, a receding forehead, a thin long nose, ferrety eyes behind a pince-nez, a double chin, and a fat neck, knitted brows and sneering lips under a narrow close-cropped moustache.... Between the jury and me was the well of the Court, a wide space, empty save for a semi-circular bar, held on three uprights—the witness-bar—and a table on which I saw the "exhibits": gags of wadding, an alpenstock, the brandy bottle, coils of cord too....
On the right, at a few yards from me, on a platform, sits M. de Valles, with a judge on either side of him. All three wear red robes. M. de Valles toys with an ivory paper knife. Before him is placed the huge dossier of my case, that extraordinary dossier which I know by heart. In the shadow, behind the three judges' arm-chairs are a number of persons, "guests of honour," I presume. On the left of the dock are scores of barristers in their black gowns and white rabats, including one or two women-barristers. Behind them, tightly pressed together, a small army of journalists, and at the other end of the Court, behind a wooden partition, the public: "les cent veinards" (the "hundred lucky ones"), as I was told later on, those privileged few were called who had bought the right to stand there, from the poor wretches who spent night and day outside the Palace of Justice to sell their place to the highest bidder, shortly before noon (at which time the doors were thrown open and just one hundred "members of the public" admitted).
I have no clear recollection of what took place at first. I only remember a mass of faces floating, as it were, on a dark ocean of black gowns and clothes. The only touches of colour were the white scarves of the barristers and the scarlet gowns of the judges.
I seemed to have no strength left, and yet never had I so much needed physical and moral strength.
A clerk read aloud, in a monotonous voice, the terrible indictment. I knew it by heart... and so perhaps did everybody else, since it had been published....
Meanwhile I watched the jury. So these were the men who would, in a few days, decide whether I had or not murdered my husband and my mother.... I wondered what they thought and who was who—for a list of their names and occupations had been shown me the day before. It included four "proprietors," two mechanics, one bricklayer, one baker, two commercial clerks, one cook and one musician....
I looked at the heavy decorated ceiling with the sunk panels adorned with the sword and scales of Justice; and my eyes wandered to the wall behind M. de Valles and the two other judges....
Years ago, I had visited this Court of Assize to admire my friend Bonnat's great "Christ" on that wall, but the Christ was no longer there. It had been removed after the Law separating Church and State had been passed!
Suddenly, I heard M. de Valles' voice ordering me to rise....
The duel began.
I made a supreme effort to stop my distracted mind from whirling round and round. I had been twelve months in prison; I had been for seventeen months a prey to every conceivable emotion, and had gone through such harrowing and nerve-racking experiences that every doctor who had seen me failed to understand how it was that I had not lost my reason; and now, after over five hundred days of continuous mental and physical martyrdom, I had to fight the greatest battle of my existence.
M. de Valles kept his promise: he asked me at first a number of almost indifferent questions about my childhood and my youth, and I had time to collect myself to some extent.... But soon, very soon, the remarks I heard were so revolting that I reeled under them. I had to deny, for instance, that my father—whom, by now, the reader must have learned to know and to love—was a drunkard, and to declare that my conduct was irreproachable and could not have caused his death as was hinted.... Relentlessly, mercilessly, questions were asked me about my relations with Lieut. Sheffer, at Beaucourt! I fought desperately, and then, worn out by my own efforts, I almost collapsed, and could not help sobbing....