"'My dear Meg,—I hope that you are better.... My husband has been foolish enough to place money in real estate.... I am sorry to trouble you when you are ill, but I think that you will not hesitate, you who saved Julien, to save us. I don't know how I shall go on. I feel I shall be ill if Henri has not those 20,000 francs.'...
"The money was sent to Mme. Seyrig....
"Here is a recent letter from Mme. Japy to her daughter:
"'My Darling little Meg,—How you must need a less tiring life, my dear child, and how I should love to see you have the strength to give up other people, and to think a little more of yourself and of the care which your health absolutely demands. Try to learn, my adored one, to think of yourself, and to forget wanting always to please others....'
"What does the Prosecution think of this? This woman, always so devoted—nay, too devoted—who knew her? Ignoring the reality, welcoming the most terribly untruthful rumours, never hesitating before inexcusable calumnies, and carried away by the frenzy of writing... journalists have printed the statement that 'Mme. Steinheil detested, abominated her mother.'... I have read and re-read this atrocious libel! And I, who knew the horror of it, have remained silent; yes, during that long Instruction I have allowed the mud to flow, I said nothing. I didn't protest, not even by a gesture, because, not to speak of the professional rule which imposed silence on me, I knew that a solemn hour would come when at last I should have the right to speak to you—the joy to speak to you and to convince you. And it is for such a woman that the penalty of death is tacitly, implicitly, evasively demanded. The penalty of death! What supreme irony! Perhaps you think that the Prosecution wanted to put it on one side by talking to you of the prisoner rather as an accomplice than as the chief author of the crime. Don't be misled: an affirmative verdict on either of these questions means death. Death? But, Monsieur l'Avocat-General, if you had proposed it to the jury, every one in this Court would have revolted....
"To return to this unfortunate and tortured woman. Opinion, which has been misled, has raised a barrier between Mme. Steinheil and the poor and humble. Well, let this barrier be broken down. The prisoner was only too anxious to assist them. Who says so? Marie Boucard, who was her maid for ten years, declared at the Instruction on December 12th, 1908: 'Mme. Steinheil was devoted to the poor.' A former valet, Duclerc, stated: 'She was extremely kind to her servants and all those around her, rendered services to all, and nursed the poor of the district!... In Cote 3040 it is said that: 'Of her old dresses she made with her own hands clothes which were sent afterwards to a charity organisation in Beaucourt.'
"... In the painter's studio the able Mme. Steinheil is ever active. Are costumes needed for her husband's models? As an expert needlewoman she cuts and sews, and under her deft fingers the various materials soon become doublets and hose in the Henry IV. or Louis XIII. style. She works without respite. Sometimes she replaces a model, and for long hours she sits for her husband. Sometimes when a painting has to be completed she handles the brushes, for she is an able artist.... She is the useful collaborator who is ever assisting and completing her husband—that timid, easily depressed, and weak-willed husband....
"But what you wish to know is not only whether the husband was helped as an artist—although that has some importance—but also, and above all, whether as a man and a husband he was abandoned, left aside, and despised. You have heard on this point Mme. Steinheil's two brothers-in-law, M. Geoffroy, and Monsieur Bonnot.... You have at once felt that those witnesses, bitter and hostile, spoke with animosity, and violently took part against their sister-in-law. It was they who stated that she took no care whatever of her husband and left him for three or four months at a time: 'To go on one knows where,' taking no interest whatever in his life or his health. Every word an inaccuracy! It was Mme. Steinheil who bought everything for the house, and even her husband's clothes. That three or four months' journey? It was only an absence of a few weeks in 1907, when Mme. Steinheil went to England with her daughter and the Buisson family. 'To go no one knows where!' Could any words be more misleading? When people don't know, they should remain silent. Messieurs Geoffroy et Bonnot! The way of living and the health of her husband were indifferent to her? True, Steinheil lived as he pleased, but it cannot possibly be said that until his last hour he wasn't cared for by his wife. Doctor Acheray has strongly denied the statements of the brother-in-law, and M. Courtois-Suffit himself told you that at the end of 1907 he was summoned by Mme. Steinheil to examine M. Steinheil.... As for Mme. Buisson, a witness who surely cannot be called partial, she stated that: 'Mme. Steinheil was extremely kind and attentive to her husband, and cared about his health, seeing to it that he followed the diet prescribed for him.'
"... When Mme. Steinheil sang, it was an unforgettable delight. Oh! those hours of artistic beauty which have vanished!... The emotion, the genius of the composer possessed her, overwhelmed her—and carried away by her temperament, she was moved to tears, to anguish.... The guests have lost her salon. They have hardly turned the corner of the street, and she has hardly dried her tears before the poor nervous woman buries her head in her hands and thinks. Of what? Of her power? Of the magnetism of her voice? Her success must make her believe that people are easily conquered by her! Alas! However great her fascination, it is really she, after all, who is dominated by mysterious and invisible forces. How easily it is when one sees how quickly she is self-hypnotised, to realise how easily others may hypnotise her.... Is it possible then that this woman, who has been represented as so strong, was after all but a toy of men and events!
"... The Indictment said to Mme. Steinheil: 'You wanted to get rid of your husband in order to marry M. Bdl.' And M. Bdl. replied: 'There was no thought in me of marrying again, and these are the reasons why: I had a daughter of twelve, and I wish to bring her up before thinking of marriage—and even then it isn't certain that I should have thought of it. Besides, I had absolutely decided not to give a step-mother to my daughter, aged eighteen, who might marry soon....'
"... I wished M. Bdl. to let you hear the whole truth, and M. Bdl., asked by me in this Court whether he had given Mme. Steinheil reasons to hope that he would marry her, told you that she could not possibly have conceived any. I pressed the question, and he was firm in his reply: 'Mme. Steinheil on this matter of marriage did not and could not have had any illusion.'
"... Let us then put aside the so-called motive of the crime.
"... The accusation of matricide has been abandoned; the prosecution rightly feared your common sense; but, for a whole year public opinion believed her guilty because the newspapers printed these atrocious words, borrowed from the Instruction: 'She hated her mother.' And now that the unfortunate Mme. Steinheil, represented as an unnatural daughter, has been despised and loathed; now that, under the cover of this monstrous accusation of matricide, has grown up that other accusation, that of the murder of her husband, your conviction and your sense of justice, Monsieur l'Avocat Général, make a curtsey to her and depart. It is all very well for you, but it isn't enough for her. No, it is not enough for this poor woman, yesterday accused of two murders, to be accused to-day of one only—and I may say that later on, when people think over this trial, they will pity her profoundly, and feel indignant at the accumulation of errors against her....
... "Ceasing to regard Mme. Japy as a 'victim,' the Advocate-General has imagined her as a 'witness.'... I have my own version, quite a new one, concerning the death of Mme. Japy, the Advocate-General gravely declares. I have studied, I have searched, and doubted; then, finally, I have reached an explanation, a version....
... "And here is this strange version: the husband alone was to die; his death was premeditated. He was to be killed by two persons—the accomplice, Alexandre Wolff perhaps, but more likely Mariette Wolff.... As for Mme. Japy, she was to live to see, and later on be a 'witness' who would confirm the breaking in of the murderers. Only, by forcing a gag into her mouth, the aggressors acted too brutally; they only aimed at a 'sham,' but they went as far as reality—that is, suffocation, asphyxia. Instead of a living witness: a corpse.
... "Why have I called this version a strange one? Merely because it supposes that the criminals wanted to let Mme. Japy live. Now, investigations show that, on the contrary, the death of Mme. Japy was a decided thing, and that almost certainly the murderers began by killing her. In order to kill her, the miscreants did not only force into her mouth a large gag with such violence that one false tooth, pushed back into the throat, was broken; they strangled her with a cord fastened twice round her neck. Thus with this death, wilfully caused by strangulation, it is impossible to speak of a 'witness' whom Mme. Steinheil and her accomplice needed for their scheme. And then would not Mme. Steinheil really have been compromising and giving herself away if she had thus prepared, as it were, the evidence of her mother against Mariette or her son? But the Advocate-General means that Mme. Japy would have remained silent! But in that case, instead of a 'witness,' she would have become an accomplice herself. As you see, gentlemen of the jury, this version is but one more fable to add to all the fables in this affair. And would you like to know whence it comes? It is very simple. There is a newspaper, the Matin, of which we must speak here without complacency or fear. It was in the Matin, Monsieur l'Avocat General, that you found this gruesome remark: 'My mother, the was the alibi.' A pitiful joke that you have twisted in a different but no more successful form. For in the Matin this sentence, 'My mother, that was the alibi,' meant that Mme. Steinheil, in order not to have been accused of having killed her husband, had thought it necessary to kill her mother. Nothing more or less! Only, the Matin was too precise. It stated that Mme. Steinheil had made that statement to some one who, to relieve her conscience, had rushed to the newspaper's office. It was easy to annihilate that tale. I went to the prison and showed the Matin article to Mme. Steinheil. Without hesitation she wrote at once to Judge André, asking to be confronted with the person who it was said had heard the confession. Then came a difficulty: it was impossible to find that person; she had vanished into space."...
My counsel proceeded to refute the theory of the Prosecution, who stated that there were no burglars, because entrance had not been forced into the house, because no weapons had been brought in from outside... and for other reasons which have already been discussed at length such as: No jewels stolen, no money taken, no real disorder, &c.
Maître Aubin had no difficulty in showing that the burglars needed no skeleton keys since the doors were open. They had placed a ladder near a window of the kitchen, but finding that the kitchen door was open, they entered that way. As for the statement that no "instruments of the crime" were brought in from outside, how did the prosecution know that? All that was known was that the murderers used cords and wadding gags. It was proved that the cord with which M. Steinheil was strangled came from the kitchen cupboard, open, and opposite the door. But the cords with which Mme. Japy was strangled and Mme. Steinheil bound did not come from the house. As for the gags, what could be more natural than that the murderers would use some of the wadding which they found in my mother's room.
My counsel's next task was to answer the statements that there had been no serious binding, no gag in my mouth, and that I had never been seriously ill.
Concerning the last point I may mention that it was chiefly based on the statement made by Mlle. Vogler, who from June 5th to July 5th, 1908, nursed me first at the d'Arlon's and afterwards at my Bellevue villa. Although I was kept alive by sea-water and morphia injections, this nurse did not hesitate to state that my illness was "pure comedy," that my temperature was always normal, and further that "every night at the same hour—between midnight and 1 A.M. Mme. Steinheil used to jump out of bed and wail: 'I am afraid.' Her eyes were dry. I felt her pulse and found it as steady as my own."
(Dossier Cote 3225-3250)
My counsel merely remarked: "One cannot think of everything: Mlle. Vogler forgot this letter sent by her to Mme. Steinheil.
"Friday, November 6th.
"Dear Madam,—What martyrdom you are still enduring! Have they not made you suffer enough! This morning I read in the Matin of the dreadful day you spent at Boulogne. How you must suffer when you think of that awful day of torture. If, however, it is ever necessary to prove how much you have suffered through fever and what horrible nights of delirium you went through, don't forget that I am at your disposal to testify to it. I follow your affair daily. How glad I should be for your sake if the murderers were found. If you have enemies, dear Madame, remember that there are also persons who share your sorrow. Accept, dear Madame, all my wishes for a speedy recovery and my sincere greetings.
"Your Nurse,
"Marguerite."
This letter was written on November 6th, 1908. The evidence from which I have quoted was given before M. André on December 8th, 1908, and on January 18th, 1909. I was in prison at the time, and Mlle. Vogler evidently feared no contradiction....
I must in all fairness add here that this most important letter was handed, at the time of the trial, by M. de Labruyère to my counsel, and it does him great credit.
M. de Labruyère happened to be with me when the letter reached me, and, having read it, he realised its importance and asked for it, saying he would have it published in the Matin. This was never done, and later, when I asked M. de Labruyère to return the letter to me, he was unable to find it. He discovered it, however, in time, and, as I have just stated, loyally handed it to Maître Aubin at my trial.
Three more brief quotations from Maître Aubin's speech:
"... Ah, how many errors and shufflings would have been avoided if this fact, ascertained by Dr. Balthazard had been better interpreted: The mother was killed first and the husband afterwards; they both left their beds of their own free will, and the husband was undoubtedly strangled whilst he went to the assistance of his mother-in-law.
"How in such circumstances, can one imagine that Mme. Steinheil is guilty? If she had premeditated committing the crime alone or with an accomplice, would she not have been on the watch in those bed-rooms where she could have easily moved about without arousing suspicions? Would she not have acted with perfidy and trickery in order to deal death or to have death dealt, so that it might be the more certain and the more rapid? Would she not have gone treacherously to the bed of her mother or of her husband in order to make sure that they were asleep and to take advantage of the fact?... But they were both killed, not only when awake, but when out of their beds? Well, then, I say that according to this it is impossible to eliminate the miscreants, for, cannot you see that if Mme. Steinheil were guilty of the murder of her husband alone, as it is said to-day, or of the murder of her husband and mother as it was thought before, they would not have gone to meet death, but rather death would have come to them."
| I. | MY COUNSEL, MAITRE A. AUBIN |
| II. | THE JUDGE, M. DE VALLES |
| III. | THE ADVOCATE-GENERAL, M. TROUARD RIOLLE |
| Sketches by Mme. Steinheil | |
Maître Aubin then fully explained the all-importance of the "stolen black gowns," and the part certain journalists had played in the Impasse Ronsin affair. His last words referred to my love for my Marthe.
"... I call to my side this pure and noble child; I want her close to me, stretching her arms appealingly towards you and defending her mother! These two unfortunate beings, how many tears they have already shed, how many tears they will still shed! Ah, gentlemen of the jury, give them the means to console one another and to forget together... whilst blessing your justice."
My counsel has ceased speaking. There is a moment of silence, and that silence drags me out of my torpor. I raised my head with a last effort, and I see hundreds of eager faces all turned towards the judge... M. de Valles is now speaking. I can hardly hear, but from a few words: "did the prisoner... on May 30th-31st, 1908... murder...." I realise that he is reading to the jury the question to which they will have to reply.
I do not understand, I do not know... the Judge rises, the jurors file out... I am sobbing, sobbing....
I am carried away from the dock. The cooler air in the guards' room refreshes me. I am made to drink some tea and all kinds of men stand before me speaking words of encouragement... I have been told that I laughed and chatted.... Everything is possible....
I remember that the guards handed me post-card after post-card of myself—begging me to sign them. I could hardly hold the pen, and the number of cards was endless. Poor soldiers; they had been good to me in their own simple way, and they said that they could get quite a deal of money for cards with my autograph.... How happy they all looked.
Everybody says I shall be acquitted in a moment. Doctor Socquet tells me: "When the jury give their verdict, I will listen and then rush to you. If you see me, that'll mean that you are acquitted; if I don't come, well, you will know. If things go wrong, I shall not have the courage to come."
Some one tells me that it is eleven o'clock. The jury has been away fifteen minutes already. Fifteen minutes, and they have not yet found that I am innocent. How is it possible?
A bell rings.
I rise as if electrified.... And then some one tells me that the jury have summoned the President and Maître Aubin. They want to be enlightened on some point.... The guards were whispering, and suddenly an unspeakable terror seizes me. They have talked aloud and cheerfully until now; they do not want me to hear the dreadful truth....
A quarter past eleven. Half-past eleven. A quarter to twelve. Midnight.... Still nothing!
Will this martyrdom never end? What right has any one to make me suffer so? And where is Marthe, my own child. If she were only here, perhaps I could bear this agony.... How she must suffer, if she knows....
More people enter the guards' room. The two old ushers, who have seen many, many such trials, come to see me. One hails from my own province, the other acts at night as maître d'hôtel and has seen me at many important dinners. One of them mutters in my ear: "Madame, don't you worry about anything. I am used to all this. Those jurors are all right; as sure as I stand here you will be acquitted, they can't help knowing that you are innocent.... Look here! The minute the verdict is known, I'll come to the door there and say, 'Hoo!' Then raise your head, enter bravely in the dock, for the last time and show them all who you are."
Then I hear two men discussing in the corridor: "I tell you," says one of them, "that she is done for. If the jury wanted to acquit her, they would not summon the President, and the whole thing would have been over long ago!"
A guard tells me: "It's no longer the 13th of November now, but the 14th. There's luck for you!" and he hands me a few more cards to sign....
A quarter past twelve.... Half-past twelve. The bell again.
No, the time has not yet come. The jurors want more explanations. This second shock has a merciful effect. It takes out of me the last spark of vitality. Everything is blank. I wait for hours, for days, now, for I no longer know what I am waiting for. There is a small crowd around me, and they all say, "Courage, have courage." Of course, I have courage. I have had courage for the past eighteen months; what does anything matter!
A quarter to one.... One o'clock.... A quarter past one. Now I feel it. Something is going to happen!...
The bell rings twice.
I see Doctor Socquet, quite pale; I hear some one cry, "Hoo!" and then I hear the most terrible, the most awe-inspiring, the most maddening storm I have ever heard.... I realised afterwards that what I heard at that unforgettable moment were the screams of enthusiasm and the frantic applause of hundreds of people who had heard the verdict: I was acquitted.... But I did not know. How could I understand anything!...
Guards rushed to me and carried me to the Court. The light dazzled me, and the storm rose again, more overwhelming than before. I vaguely saw hundreds of hands raised towards me... I saw hundreds of radiant faces shouting: "Bravo... Bravo... Acquitted... Acquitted...." Still I didn't understand. I took those cries for threats, and believed all those hands wanted to seize me, to tear me to pieces.... And then I looked at the jury, and among all those faces I saw one smiling, and then at last, I understood, and fell back.
Alas, alas. The one face in the world I had so longed to see was not there....
A room.... People are pressing my hand, kissing it, and I see tears in many eyes... and I hear the words, repeated over and over again: "What a trial. What a trial...."
A triumph! Good God!... Marthe is not there.
Never mind what happened afterwards. Doctor Socquet helped me once more, and others too. There were discussions, endless discussions as to how I was to be smuggled away. And there were journalists clambering for my "impressions...." I asked for my daughter to every one... then I begged to be taken home, but was told it was impossible.... The daughter of the Director of the Dépôt most generously consented to "escape" in a motor-car, and thus to "draw" the journalists, whilst in another motor-car I was taken, with Maître Steinhardt, and I believe a Press photographer, to a hotel I have been told that I was extremely bright and gay on the way.... At the hotel, I was told to sit whilst my photograph was being taken, hurriedly, and then I lay on a bed for a short time.... Early in the morning I was taken by motor-car to a nursing home at Le Vésinet, and on the way, I was bright and gay again, and I was photographed again!
I have heard that the photographer was well paid for his work, and that he even sold for a substantial sum a series of articles—to the Matin, of course—about that drive from the Palace of Justice to the Terminus Hotel, and the drive from the Terminus Hotel to Le Vésinet, in which he described at length and in fluent and sensational style, all the bright and gay things he imagined I had said and done....
But why, God of Mercy, was not my Marthe near me?
The reader must wonder, as I have long done myself, what exactly took place during the two hundred minutes that the jury deliberated.
In a quite indirect way, which, for obvious reasons I cannot divulge here, I have been able to ascertain the details of the long-drawn deliberation. These details are irrefutable:
An overwhelming majority of the jurors had decided that I was guilty, but the two or three who were in favour of an acquittal fought so strongly that long discussions ensued.
When the foreman rang the bell to summon the President, it was to ask questions about the murder of Mme. Japy, for the majority was of opinion that I had strangled not only my husband, but had also done my mother to death!... And this although the Advocate General himself, in his speech for the Prosecution, had withdrawn the charge of matricide.
Another discussion ensued, and one or two jurors wavered. Then, after an hour, the President, M. Trouard-Riolle and Maître Aubin were once more summoned about the eventual wording of the verdict. After a fierce discussion, in which the stolen black gowns were the chief subject, my innocence appeared evident to one or two more jurors, and finally there were seven for an acquittal and five for a conviction. And thus I was acquitted after being for so long, without knowing it, so near to... the scaffold!
CHAPTER XXXI
AFTER THE VERDICT
THE nursing home to which I had been taken was that of Dr. Raffegeau and Dr. Mignon. My sister, Mme. Seyrig, had been there as a patient during a period of complete nervous prostration.
In despair and anguish, I asked Dr. Raffegeau where my daughter was, but he could not tell me, alas; he merely said: "Your brother-in-law telegraphed to me asking that I should reserve a room for you here where you would be able to recover. I am going to put you up in a pretty little pavilion, in the park of my establishment, and my wife and Mme. Mignon will keep you company."
"But Marthe?..."
"She will no doubt be here soon...."
I spent that Sunday sitting at the window, watching the road and waiting for my daughter. Who was keeping her away from me? How she must be suffering, and how I suffered!... The noise of every motor-car that passed made my heart beat faster and more painfully, but Marthe did not come.
An automobile stopped near the house. My younger sister and my brother entered the room.
"My daughter?"
"Courage. She will come... but we cannot find her; we don't know where she is. Chabrier is not at the Impasse Ronsin either... the house is shut up...."
I rose and said: "Then, I will find her. I start at once!" They compelled me to sit down: "You cannot go out, you are too weak and you will be followed; you will come to grief...."
I read in their faces what they meant. In spite of my acquittal, people still hated me.—I heard afterwards that whilst the verdict was greeted with shouts of triumph in the Court, where people had learned to know me and had realised my innocence, the crowd outside the Palace of Justice, when they heard of my acquittal, grew angry and shouted "Death!" and "Guillotine!"—and I understood that the absence of my daughter at the close of the trial, the fact that she had not joined her mother, was interpreted as a sign of my guilt. "If Mme. Steinheil were really innocent, her daughter would have rushed into her arms. Instead of that, Marthe avoids her mother, therefore that mother is a criminal!"... How many times I have heard that terrible piece of "logic"!
I beseeched my brother and my sister to find Marthe, and they promised to help me. Then, the "photographer" and his wife said they would search for Marthe and bring her to me....
The Press succeeded in discovering my retreat, and on the Sunday evening Dr. Raffegeau said to me: "I'll take you, in a roundabout way, through the park, to my house, and from there we'll go to the house of my colleague."
I dined at the house of the Mignons with their three charming and beautiful children, a boy of about ten, a girl of nine or eight, and an adorable little girl of three, who all began calling me "auntie," and were all so caressing and affectionate that I forgot my sorrow a little.
The next day Maître Aubin came with a large bag full of letters and telegrams for me, and he, too, promised to find my daughter. Drs. Raffegeau and Mignon nursed me with great devotion. Mme. Seyrig returned to say that Marthe had no doubt gone to the country, and that it was impossible to trace her. It suddenly occurred to me that she had probably been taken to Nogent-sur-Seine, near Troyes, to the country seat of the B's. (The latter are not "members of the family," but are considered as such. A son of M. B. married a daughter of one of M. Steinheil's sisters.)
I was ill, in bed, wringing my hands in despair, for I had thought that after my acquittal all would be bright and happy, and I now found out my sad mistake—when Dr. Raffegeau came in with Mme. Mignon, who said: "A lady, your elder sister, has just arrived. She wants to see you. She is in tears, and keeps repeating: 'My poor Meg! How I long to be with her! How she must suffer!'... She is in full mourning, and says she comes from Beaucourt, where she prayed on her—and your—mother's tomb. She has beseeched me to speak to you; she must see you.... What am I to do?"...
I replied: "No, no... I cannot believe my sister, Mme. Herr, would come.... We are not on very good terms.... Perhaps that woman is sent by some newspaper?"...
"Oh, no," said Dr. Raffegeau. "She has been saying: 'I dread the Press, I hope I have not been followed.' She looks so alarmed and grieved. She asks if your hair has turned white, whether you are very ill... she seems very concerned. I really believe she is your sister.... She wants to see you alone."
"Never!" I exclaimed. "I refuse to be left alone, Doctor... Mme. Mignon must remain with me."...
Mme. Mignon's baby-daughter was sitting on my bed. The door opened and my "sister" was ushered in. She wore a wide cloak; a thick veil fell over her face. She rushed to me and wailed: "Oh, my poor Meg, my poor darling!" and kissed me.... I did not recognise the voice of Mme. Herr, yet I said: "It is you, Juliette?..."
"Yes, dear; I have come.... I couldn't remain away from you any longer."...
I tore my "sister's" veil from her head and saw the face of a woman whom I had never seen before. "Madame," I cried, "you are not my sister! What are you doing here? Leave this room at once!"
The little girl on my bed was frightened; Madame Mignon was staring in amazement.
The woman turned to her and said in deeply grieved tones: "How terrible! Meg is so ill she cannot recognise her own sister! She has lost her reason!"... Then, bending over my bed, she whispered to me: "Not a word! Be calm.... I am sent by the Matin; I am bringing you a fortune.... Only listen to me."...
"The Matin!... Have they not done me enough harm yet! Go, Madame.... Mme. Mignon, please show this woman out."...
The impostor played her part well. She sobbed, looked pitifully at me, and kept saying as she withdrew: "My poor sister! How terrible! She has gone mad!"... It appears that she continued her lamentations until the moment she stepped into the motor-car that had brought her, and so convincing was her simulated grief that Mme. Mignon, who accompanied her to the door, asked me, when she came back, if I were sure that the lady was not my sister!
A long report of that brief "interview" appeared, of course, in the Matin the next morning. The article was laudatory and almost kind.... The author had probably some conscience left. And the Matin took care to explain that the sensational interview had been brought to them.
Dr. Raffegeau, after this, had to arrange a sham removal. Some one was dressed in my clothes and taken away in an automobile to make the spying journalists believe that I left the house.... And after that I had some peace.
Maître Aubin came frequently, carrying hundreds of letters and telegrams for me from all parts of the world. Several contained the worst possible threats and insults, and many were fantastic offers by music-hall managers—from every part of France and Europe, from the United States and South America! Some writers stated that they had a sketch or a play ready, and asked me to play the part of the heroine (a woman accused of murder, of course!), and others asked me merely to "show" myself for ten minutes on the stage. There were scores of proposals that I should sing, and offers from cinematograph and talking-machine firms. A number of unknown authors asked me to sign their books with my name: it would sell the books at once, and they would let me have a fair proportion of the profits.... And there were dozens of offers of marriage; from the inevitable Russian "prince," the Peruvian mine-owner, and the great Spanish nobleman—poor, but with so many famous ancestors, to the equally inevitable American magnate and the romantic youth—of any country—anxious to devote his life to avenging me....
There were letters of hotel proprietors in various lands explaining the great benefit which my health would derive from a stay in their establishments; price-lists from wine-merchants, patent-medicine makers and travelling agencies who swore that their wines, their drugs or a journey would be my salvation. There were letters from autograph-hunters; letters asking me to allow the writer to give my name to some product he manufactured: a soap, a potato-peeler, a varnish, a patent food, a scent... two letters written in Latin verse, and one in Greek iambics!...
But the overwhelming majority came from persons who had followed my case and expressed their heartfelt sympathy. They were in a dozen different languages, but chiefly in French, English, and German. Of the letters that reached me, I have kept a few score. They include several kind messages signed by groups of officers and non-commissioned officers, by a whole "class" of students, by all the employees of a firm, a bank or a factory: letters from clergymen quoting the Bible, and from priests quoting the "Imitation"; letters from old men and women, and letters from mere children.... A little girl wrote from Manchester: "My parents don't know of this letter, but when I am grown up—in six years—I will come to you and comfort you, and I will play the piano for you, for I have heard that you are fond of music...." From Kansas City, U. S. A., came a long message of congratulations signed by a large number of workmen; a similar one reached me from Rome and another from Moscow. Many letters and telegrams came from people in the Beaucourt district who had known me or my father and mother; and there came many messages like the following, which is dated "Paris, November 14th, 1909": "Madame, we are sitting in a café, the whole family gathered, and we read that you are free. We are only simple people and can only say that we breathe again.... The jury has recognised your innocence, at last. We salute you, Madame, for your pluck, and we feel how terribly you have suffered. We are all so happy for you and your dear daughter! Signed: A family of honest people."
I thank all those friends, far and near. Their messages, French and foreign, no doubt helped me to bear my heavy cross.
Maître Aubin came often to see me and naturally we talked of what was now "the past."... With him I wrote a letter of apology to Mr. Burlingham. I had also many affairs to settle with Maître Jousselin, my devoted solicitor.
The "photographer" who had promised to find my daughter told me that he was on her tracks and would bring her to me. He suggested that a portrait of mine, taken now, would be a happy surprise for Marthe, and begged me to sit for my portrait, at the window, in Mme. Mignon's room....
The next day—I was in bed, by order of Dr. Raffegeau—when I was told, at about 4 P.M. that Marthe was there!
The doctor said: "I would have liked you to see your daughter alone, but M. Chabrier who is with her as well as Mme. Seyrig, has told me and my wife, in a most offensive tone: 'Mlle. Marthe shall see her mother only in my presence, otherwise she will not see her at all.'"
I said that under such conditions I would rather not see my child, and that M. Chabrier had no authority whatever over her.... My mind was in a whirl.... Dr. Raffegeau begged me to admit M. Chabrier and take no notice.
I heard slow weary steps on the staircase.... Was Marthe ill?... She entered, pale, haggard, almost unrecognisable, the poor darling. My sister held her on one side; M. Chabrier on the other. Marthe was led to my bed, and then I saw in her face a strange expression which I had never before seen there. I stretched out my arms to her, but, pulled back by M. Chabrier, she retreated from me.... I lost all courage, all strength, all hope....
"What is the matter?... You are coming back to me, Marthe?"
My child tried to speak.
"She is ill, she cannot talk..." said Mme. Seyrig. "She has come to tell you.... Tell her yourself, Marthe... Try."...
"Yes," I said, "tell me yourself... everything... the whole truth."...
Marthe turned her tear-bedimmed eyes on M. Chabrier, who was standing near my bed facing her, and then in a hardly audible voice, she said, as though she were trying to repeat a lesson: "After all that has happened... you understand."... She stopped, muttered "I am stifling," caught her breath and added: "I have come to say good-bye to you for ever."...
For nearly two years I have heard those words, day after day, night after night, echoing in my mind, but at the time when they were spoken, I did not realise all that they meant.
"Are you going into a convent, then?" I asked.
"No."
"Where are you going to?"
"I cannot tell you."
"But it cannot be, Marthe.... I will not let you go."
"She is her own mistress," said some one. "She must forget you as you must try to forget her."
"Is it Pierre, your fiancé, who demands this?" I asked.
Marthe eagerly seized this pretext. The horrible scene was as painful to her as to me.
"Yes... It is for Pierre."...
"He is going to marry you, after all, if you don't see me again, is that it?"... I was in tears now.... I added: "Marthe, if you wish it, I will enter a convent. All I long for is your happiness."...
My child looked at me and it was clear that she longed to rush into my arms....
"We had better go now," said some one. Marthe bent forward to kiss me. "Good-bye," I said. "You have always been my all in all... Remember, if ever you are abandoned by everybody, or unhappy, that you will still and always have your maman."
I fell back on the bed. When I recovered consciousness Mme. Mignon and her dear children were around me, but my child had gone away, and for nearly two years, in spite of letters and entreaties, she never came to me.
Recently, my daughter joined me, at last, of her own free will, after craving my forgiveness—as if it had been necessary! She is living with me and the young Italian painter whose wife she became, in Paris, long after her engagement to the young Buisson had been broken off. For many weeks, we have spoken of the past and I know the truth now, the whole truth about that farewell meeting and those endless months of separation which all but cost me my life, and which made my child the most miserable of beings.
I will quote my daughter's own words, taken from a long letter which she sent me during the summer of 1911—and at a time when I had given up all hope of ever seeing her again, alas—when she became once more my own Marthe:
"...At the end of October, after we agreed that I should no longer visit you at Saint-Lazare, I was taken to Nogent by the B's. I was kept in strict seclusion, was never allowed to go out or to read a newspaper. I knew nothing of what was going on at your trial, and yet, how I longed to know! All the time, I was being told the most horrible things about you, and given to understand that I should be ruined in every way if I ever saw you again. I was not well, we two had gone through so much, beloved mother, and all that I heard hurt me, and influenced me, though I did not believe it, of course. On Sunday morning, November 14th, Marie-Louise, my dear friend (a daughter of the B's) rushed into my room and shouted: 'Your mother is acquitted!' We both cried with joy for a long, long time. M. B., who always came from Saturday to Monday, said nothing. I have sometimes heard him take your part.... But some one else said furiously: 'The wretched woman; they have let her off. I wish she had been sentenced and guillotined!' I rushed to my room and sobbed bitterly.
"At about midnight, I and Marie-Louise heard the bell ring repeatedly. We dressed and went downstairs. Mme. B. looked through a window and said: 'The station 'bus is there. It is Chabrier.'
"Edouard (Chabrier) came in. He had seen Aubin in the morning and also 'the family'—all the uncles and aunts (on the Steinheil side). He said to me: 'Your mother is a wretch; I have heard she threatens to kill everybody unless you go to her!'... I was happy, for I longed so much to be with you.... There was a long discussion to decide whether I should be allowed to see you! Then Edouard drew a paper from his pocket and said: 'Copy this, just as it is, sign, and put the date. It is a letter to the Attorney-General, asking for protection. Your mother threatens all of us, even you.' Every one read the letter which I understood had been drawn up by 'the family' in Paris. I was ordered to copy it. The worst calamities would befall me and them all, if I didn't. I obeyed but was so upset that I dated the letter 'September' instead of 'November.' Edouard pocketed the letter, which, he said, he intended sending to the Attorney-General, through Uncle L. (a magistrate and brother-in-law of M. Steinheil) and I was allowed to go to bed. It was nearly perhaps on account of the wrong date, perhaps because it was all a trick to frighten me and make me believe that you were really threatening people's lives! You can understand, maman, in what state I was. I did believe much of what I was told, and began to think you had lost your reason, and really wanted to harm us all. Forgive me.
"The next morning, Edouard left for Paris. In the evening M. B. unexpectedly arrived, and said to me: 'Aunt Mimi (Mme. Seyrig) came to me in Paris to ask where you were. I had to admit that you were with us, and I have promised to let you go and see your mother.'
"I was taken to Paris to the B.'s house and thence to Uncle L., where a family council was held. The uncles and aunts and their children were there.... They warned me against you, terrorised me to such an extent, that I asked that I might not see you at all. I was so frightened and so ill. They made me swear to tell you that I would never see you again. 'If she insists,' they said, 'tell her you are "emancipated" and she has no right over you. You cannot be too severe with your mother, she wants to kill us all. We are all lost unless you talk to her. But make it clear to her that it is all over between you.'
"I saw Aunt Mimi, who told me you were going on the stage, and that the 'honour of the family' would be ruined. The next day she went to Le Vésinet by motor, and M. Chabrier followed by train; we got out at Le Pecq in order to escape the journalists, and walked to Le Vésinet. On the way M. Chabrier kept telling me what I was to tell you. I felt more dead than alive when I entered your room.... You know the rest, my poor darling maman.
"Afterwards I was taken back to Nogent, where for days I remained in bed, ill and miserable."...
During the days that followed my daughter's departure I was kept alive only by the devoted care of Dr. Raffegeau and Dr. Mignon, and by the tender devotion of their wives.
Some one said to me: "Your daughter is a Catholic; the priests have taken her from you." I at once thought of becoming a Catholic myself. My conversion would perhaps mean that my child would return to me. I summoned the Catholic priest of Le Vésinet, and had a long talk with him; but very honestly he told me: "Do not become a Catholic without absolute convictions. As for your daughter, I can only say that no priest has the right to take her away from you."
I had many conversations with my counsel. He and others gave me to understand that I should be happier and safer abroad than in France. Gradually I grew used to the idea of going to England. I had a few friends there. England was a land of liberty and order. Perhaps I should find there the rest my body so much needed, and the peace for which my mind was thirsting....
Maître Aubin introduced M. Jacques Dhur, the well-known writer and journalist, to me—a sincere, forcible, fearless man, and it was agreed that I should write a few brief chapters telling of my long calvary.... The money would be most useful to me. M. Dhur assisted me. The articles were for the Journal, but for some reason they were not published.
At the beginning of December (1909) I was ready to go to England. Dr. Mignon, on account of my very indifferent health, had offered to accompany me to London, where he would place me under the care of a doctor whom he knew. I bade good-bye to Dr. Raffegeau and his wife, then to Mme. Mignon and her charming children, who had all been so admirably devoted to me.
At night—I was to take the 9 P.M. train for Charing Cross—I drove to Paris in a motor-car with M. Dhur and Dr. Mignon. They took me to a fashionable restaurant where we were met by one or two of M. Dhur's colleagues. I was bewildered. ... I had not been in a restaurant for over a year and a half. We sat at a table in a small room decorated with orchids and roses. These friends wished to lessen the feelings of sadness which they knew must hang over one who was about to go into exile.
"In order that the waiters may not guess who you are, and to avoid the restaurant being besieged, we will suppose that you are Mme.—— the air-woman," said one; and gaily they began asking me questions about my impressions in the air, the motor I preferred, the make of my aeroplane propeller.
We went to the Gare du Nord. I was tired, nervous and so sad.... I was about to leave Paris, where I had lived twenty years, Paris, which I loved in spite of all that I had suffered there.... I went to buy a newspaper but saw my name in a large heading, and hurried away. M. Dhur told me: "Be careful; I believe there are two English journalists in the train." A whistle blew; hands grasped mine; the train started, and we went into the night....
On the way, the shrewd English newspaper-men spoke to Dr. Mignon and very politely asked for the privilege of a brief interview with me, and said the journal to which they belonged was ready to pay anything for a series of articles signed by me. Dr. Mignon said he could not allow them to speak to me.
On the Channel boat, I felt more despondent than ever. It was cold, the wind was so keen, and the shores of France were disappearing.
The train stopped in London at a station before Charing Cross, and one of the English journalists rushed in and said: "Madame, I know there are scores of photographers and newspaper people awaiting you at Charing Cross. Believe me, you had better step out here." It was true, and it was kind, but, alas, before Dr. Mignon and I—we were both rather numb and bewildered—could follow this good advice, the train started again.
I had hardly set my foot on the platform at Charing Cross when flashlight explosions resounded all around me and some forty journalists pressed eagerly, violently even, about me. Some spoke French—they were the London correspondents of Parisian newspapers; others spoke English or in broken French. I pushed Dr. Mignon into a cab and jumped in after him. Motor-cars followed us. I said to the driver: "Hotel... Find!...."
It was now about 6 A.M. We tried to get rooms at one hotel but were turned away on account of the journalists. We tried another, were again refused; then yet another. The journalists still followed. Desperate, I walked up to them and begged for pity.
I snatched two hours rest and then I had to leave the hotel. The manager was courteous and generously allowed Dr. Mignon and me one hour more, and said he would help us to hoodwink the Press. A friend of my counsel, an English solicitor, was summoned to my assistance by telephone. He came and I left with him whilst the Doctor made his exit by another door after making an appointment. Alas, we were seen and followed, and it was by sheer luck, owing to a block in the traffic, that I was able to elude my pursuers.
What a day! We drove and then walked. Rain poured down. It was dark when at last Dr. Mignon found us.
We walked through narrow, ill-lit streets and reached a small boarding-house kept by a German, where I was well received. I was tired, dispirited, ill. Our luggage had been left at the station. I dined with Dr. Mignon at the D.'s, where, after spending two nights at the German boarding-house, I stayed for a few weeks until I found a small house for myself.
Three or four days after my arrival in London and when I had somewhat recovered from so many successive shocks, Dr. Mignon returned to France.
My life in England can be briefly described. I found a few trusty English friends who were not aware of my identity at first, but who, when I disclosed it, became only the more devoted. I found the rest and the peace of mind I so sorely needed.... I made my little home as beautiful as I could, and found in music, in reading, and in long walks about the country the relaxation and consolation without which I could not have lived. I have learned to love England and the English. Perhaps as regards conversation, enthusiasm, imagination and artistic inclination I have found my few English friends—both men and women—somewhat different from the people who flocked to my Parisian salon. But I have found them far superior in other and more important qualities. They are perhaps less unconventional, less brilliant and witty, but they are more reliable and trustworthy; less versatile and assimilative, but more genuine, earnest and steady.
Towards the end of December, the furniture at the Impasse Ronsin was sold, at my request, after I had ordered part of it to be sent to England. I had before written to my daughter offering her to keep everything she desired. The letter, however, was never shown to her, and, later on, I discovered why. As a matter of fact, not a single one of the numerous letters I sent to my child was ever handed to her.
Certain newspapers seized the opportunity of that sale to attack me once more as "an ignoble mother, ruining her child." When I saw, however, the list of the few things that had been sold, I thought that Marthe must have kept a great many things, and felt somewhat relieved. At the same time, I received from the person who represented me in Paris at the sale, a note: "Please hand back to Mme. Steinheil the enclosed letter, which no doubt comes from her. I shall likewise return anything she may send me, as I wish to have nothing to do with her. Signed: Chabrier."
In March 1910 I had to go to Paris to settle various business matters, and I remained there three days with my hair powdered to change my appearance. I saw my solicitor and settled various matters with him. I wrote to my daughter beseeching her to meet me a few hours before my departure, at Maître Aubin's. There, I found that Marthe had not come... and I also found, outside, a number of journalists and photographers who had been warned of my arrival by a kind soul.
I was broken-hearted at not seeing my child. I remained for many hours at my counsel's, and, at night, managed to hoodwink the journalists and to reach the Gare du Nord, where I entrained for London.
I was desperate. I wrote a long letter to Marthe. M. Chabrier read it, told my daughter that it contained threats and compelled her to write and sign the following letter, from a copy he himself prepared:
Paris, March 12th, 1910.
Maître J. has handed me a letter from you to which I must reply telling you for the last time what you refuse to understand. The irrevocable decision I have taken of not seeing you again has not been dictated to me by any one. I have no advisers. My conduct and my actions arise solely from my conscience. I cannot forget the long sufferings and the ruin of my poor father, and I think that certain cruel recollections can break certain bonds. You refuse the only proof of disinterestedness I had asked you—the gift of the house in the Impasse Ronsin, and you accuse my imaginary adviser of that refusal, and then you offer me your help to bear the difficulties of life, a life which you created for me by your will and acts, a life very painful and sad and for ever broken. I repeat that I have taken my decision alone. You will never see me again. I must even ask you not to write to me any more, for there can be nothing between us except the absolute silence which separates two beings who ignore one another for ever.
"M. Steinheil."
It was of course easy for me to see at once that this ungrammatical and absurd letter had not been written by my daughter! She had not, thank Heaven, that kind of style, and I readily guessed who was the instigator of the letter. But I did not pay much attention to all this; I only saw that Marthe was in need, and although she had refused—or rather, I had been told she had refused—everything I so gladly offered her, I went to the French Consul-General in London and signed a paper by which I renounced the ownership of my Paris house and made it over to my daughter.
A month later, being terribly anxious about her, so anxious indeed that I once more fell seriously ill and had to be visited three times a day by a doctor, for several weeks, I persuaded a devoted friend to go to Paris and talk to my daughter. My friend went to the Impasse Ronsin and was received by M. Chabrier, who said he was very sorry but Mlle. Marthe was away in the country. My friend insisted, explained the gravity of my illness and begged for my daughter's address. It was in vain.
Since then, Marthe has told me that she was in the house that day, that she had insisted upon seeing the person I had sent to her, but that M. Chabrier, in whom she still had the greatest confidence, had locked her up in her room during the interview.
Again I sent letters to Marthe, but still no reply came. I tried to forget my only child, but a mother never forgets. I travelled through Holland, Belgium, Switzerland, Italy—never France—and I recovered, but later despair seized me once more and for the second time in one year, I suffered from severe illness.
New Year 1911. I spent the day writing a long letter to Marthe, and afterwards, I wrote my will, for, in spite of my few devoted friends, in spite of music and good books, life didn't seem worth living—without my daughter—and when one has such thoughts, the end soon comes. In my case I longed to die.
Day after day, week after week, month after month, I waited and waited for news from my daughter.... Once, French newspapers declared that she was about to enter a convent of Carmelites, and later a description of how my daughter took the veil was even published.... Then the whole story was denied. From time to time, a kind-hearted woman in Paris wrote to me words like these: "I saw Mlle. Marthe passing in a street, yesterday... she looked pale but otherwise well...."
Then in June 1911, on a day which I shall never forget—the happiest day of my life since the day when in her childhood, Marthe recovered from a grave illness—I received a letter from my daughter, and it seemed, as I read each word, as though happiness ran through my very blood, as though life had a new meaning, a marvellous, divine, undreamed of, meaning.
She asked to be forgiven. She had been influenced against me; she had been made to dread me. For over a year and a half, she had been a toy in the hands of a few unscrupulous persons, and had been made to suffer endlessly—and yet she had felt almost grateful to these false guardians, because considering herself abandoned by nearly all, and even by me, she was glad to think that at least these two or three persons did not quite treat her as a pariah. My heart bled as I read her long letter and without reading it to the end, I hastened to write to her that I adored her, that I had always adored her, and that whatever happened, she could rely on me.
Afterwards, I received many other letters from Marthe. I read with amazement and despair that she was all alone in the world, alone to fight the great battle of life.... And she so young, so frail!
I read that she had been abjectly deceived, that she had been made to sign all kind of papers, blindly. I read that she had starved, in her own house, although she paid for her board. I read that no sarcasm, no insults had been spared the poor child. She had been advised to enter a convent, and had been told: "That is the wisest thing you could do. You will be happy there; as for the house, you can give it us before you become a nun."... When "the family" saw that Marthe had no leaning towards convent life, they found a would-be husband for her, a young nonentity, who resided in far-away California, and who was staying in Paris at the time.... If she followed him to America, she could still leave the house to her protectors.
But although she was worn and miserable, although she had actually to do the washing-up and clean the house; although she spent fourteen to sixteen hours out of every twenty-four in sewing and embroidering, in order to earn her living; although when she returned a little late at night after running through the streets of Paris to deliver her work, she found only a little chocolate in front of her door—instead of the dinner for which she paid—or nothing at all, Marthe, the brave little creature, did not lose heart, and still trusted her so-called guardians. She still allowed herself to be led astray, did not see the truth, or understand why she was prevented from seeing her mother, or even corresponding with her.
The large house in the Impasse Ronsin which, after the murder I had had divided into a number of apartments, was let to various persons—and that was Marthe's chief source of income—but she was not even allowed to see the different contracts and leases. She was merely asked to sign at the foot of documents which she had not even read. Then, when serious difficulties arose, her protectors left her.
It was only when she was near me—when, for instance, I showed her certain documents—that the scales quite fell from her eyes.
Marthe, who had met a young Italian painter called R. del Perugia, was gradually drawn to the young man's straightforward and attractive nature, and both of them soon wrote asking for my consent to their marriage. I granted it, of course.
At the marriage of these two children, in Paris, journalists and photographers again harassed them. There was a free fight on the very steps of the church, and another almost before the altar itself, where snapshotters made a sudden appearance. Two or three persons were knocked down, and Marthe faltered. After the ceremony the poor child had to be comforted by the priests, and smuggled away by them.
I exchanged many letters with Marthe and her young husband, and then they came to spend a few months with me.
Not even the greatest of poets could ever describe my meeting with Marthe, after those months of agony, nor could the greatest composer express in music our feelings of heavenly joy! All that I and Marthe had gone through—and the reader knows by now what those experiences have been—vanished at the moment when we held each other in a fond embrace....
CHAPTER XXXII
CONCLUSION
MY Memoirs have come to an end.
I have tried not to be bitter or revengeful, and it is only when I have had to justify myself or vindicate my daughter that I have mentioned certain facts, certain documents, or certain names; and I have no doubt that the reader will agree with me that I have done this only when it has been absolutely necessary.
I have been asked, time after time, for my theory of the crime. I have turned that terrible problem over and over in my mind ever since the awful night of May 30th-31st, 1908, until at times I have well nigh lost my reason—and I have no theory.
Sometimes, it seems to me that the murderers were models who knew my husband. Sometimes, I think the crime was committed by persons who were in still closer touch with my husband and myself, or with one of us. Sometimes, I fancy that the instigator of the crime was a man who was in love with me. And finally, I sometimes fancy that the drama must have taken place as follows:
A man, a suspicious character, a declassé, hears or discovers that there are important political documents in my house. Perhaps he knows my husband, perhaps he knows me, more or less. He goes to some official—I say official for the lack of a more adequate word—and tells him he can secure certain political papers of much importance, papers that would, if they were divulged, cause much embarrassment, to say the least, to many prominent persons. He wants money, and possibly demands a document that seals the bargain as it were. Being a professional malefactor, he decides to steal something else besides the Faure documents. He knows that I possess pearls and handsome jewels.... Possibly, he is acquainted with the mysterious foreign personage, whom my husband befriended, the Jew, who, perhaps, occasionally attends the performances at the Hebrew Theatre, and knows that baskets of costumes are left unattended in the corridor of that theatre. Being a professional malefactor, he is a coward, and since there may be "some trouble," he decides that he had better not do the work alone. He and his friends to whom he has merely spoken of jewels and money—not of documents, for that he reserves for himself—examine the house; and possibly they are the men whom neighbours have seen lurking in the Impasse Ronsin. They have secured cards of invitation to the exhibition of M. Steinheil's works, and one of them lost his card in the Underground on the day of the crime. That exhibition made it possible for them to enter the house at a time when it was crowded, and when, therefore, their movements would not be observed. Besides, one and possibly two of the gang, know the house well, already.
Plans are carefully laid. We are in May. They have discovered that the Steinheils almost invariably spend the week-ends at Bellevue at this time of the year. It will be quite easy to commit the burglary.
On May 30th one of the gang steals the black gowns from the Hebrew Theatre early in the evening. Towards midnight the three men, carrying bags containing their disguises enter the Impasse. Possibly there are four of them; the fourth remained on watch in the garden. There is also a red-haired woman with them, probably the mistress of one of the miscreants, who decided to accompany her "man" because there might be some trinkets to gather for herself.
They enter the garden—the gate has only to be pushed. They place a ladder against the wall, but one of them finds that the pantry door is not locked. They enter, light their lanterns, and don their disguises, which they have brought in case some one is about who might recognise one, two, or possibly all three of them. They notice an open cupboard, and seize the cord they see there. It may be handy to fasten parcels of stolen goods. Then they stealthily creep upstairs. They probably expect to find the place empty, though I suppose they knew Couillard slept near the attic on the third floor, which explains perhaps why they did not go to the studio, from which they might have been heard. Nor did they ransack the ground-floor, where besides the kitchen, the offices, the winter-garden, and the hall, the only rooms were the dining-room, and the drawing-room. As a rule, people do not keep their valuables in such places, but rather in their bedrooms.
The first room they see as they reach the first floor, is the one in which I am sleeping. For one moment, the men are taken aback; they mistake me for my daughter, in whose room I am resting. I am startled out of my sleep, and a revolver is pointed at me: "Where is the money?..." They have come to steal, not to kill. I point to the boudoir, the door of which is open. They find the money and take it. They return and ask for the jewels. The chief of the gang, who evidently knows me, asks for the documents.... Whilst the others enter the room where my mother is sleeping, the chief ransacks the boudoir, and finds the dummy parcel of documents, reads the words written on it and is satisfied. Meanwhile, the others—possibly soon joined by the chief—ransack the wardrobe in my mother's room. She cries "Meg, Meg," and tries to jump out of bed.... They pick up some wadding and force it into her mouth. She is stifled.... M. Steinheil has heard the noise, rushes out of his bedroom, but as he reaches the threshold of the bath-room, the men, who have heard him, spring on him, and he is strangled.
They have come to steal, not to kill.... They are anxious to escape. As they pass through my poor mother's room they fasten a cord round her neck, to "make sure." Perhaps they did this before murdering my husband. Hastily, they bind me to my bed, and gag me with wadding. One of the men had knocked over the inkstand in the boudoir; the end of his gown dragged through the pool on the floor, and as he came to my room, left a trail of ink behind him.
The woman wants me to be killed, but the chief of the gang says no. Two murders are quite enough.... All the same, they give me a heavy blow on the head. Then they disappear.
The murder is discovered; my husband's card is found in the Underground; the black gowns are missed....
Is it madness to suppose that if this theory is true, the head of the gang saw the official who probably was wildly alarmed, and that he said to him: "If I am arrested, I shall prove by the paper I possess, that I was ordered to get hold of those documents, and the whole world will say that the Impasse Ronsin affair was a political crime"?
The police make investigations, in vain; the case is dropped; but I recklessly take it up again, convinced that the murderers will be found and resolve to find them. The reader knows the rest.
Possibly, I may even say probably, all this is hopelessly wrong, or contains only a small element of truth. Who knows?
I have a few conclusions to draw from the unusual and tragic experiences I have gone through.
I cannot doubt that by now my innocence is established in the eyes of the reader; I even venture to believe that I may have won his, or her, sympathy. In this long statement of facts I have all through based my remarks on documents, and those documents are, of course, undeniable.
But my own vindication and full rehabilitation were not my sole objects. Others have suffered, and are suffering, as I have suffered; others may suffer and will suffer so long as certain methods remain in use in France, so long as certain French prisons remain what they are, and certain examining magistrates are allowed to deal with prisoners as one of them did with me; so long as the procedure at trials for murder remains what it is; lastly, so long as a law making Contempt of Court a grave offence is not passed in the country from which I come, and which I love passionately.
I have described Saint-Lazare: the sooner that dilapidated, insanitary prison, with its poisoned atmosphere—poisoned in every sense of the term—is pulled down, the better.
I have described my Instruction: the sooner such "examinations" become public; the sooner examining magistrates are forbidden to have preconceived ideas about the guilt of the accused persons who are brought before them, and the sooner they are forbidden to threaten, intimidate, bully, and torture them to gain their doubtful ends—the better.
I have described at length my 353 days in prison: the sooner the French law realises that it has no right to keep a human being who is supposed to have or is suspected of having committed a crime, within the four walls of a cell for months and months, awaiting his or her trial—the better.
I have described my eleven days' trial—my eleven days' agony—for after nearly a year in prison a human being is nothing but a lump of suffering flesh and nerves: the sooner the procedure is altered, the sooner the judge's interrogatory —inevitably partial and misleading—is suppressed, the sooner an overwhelmingly more important part is given to the cross-examination of the prisoner and all the witnesses, and the sooner the jury at a trial for murder is kept together and prevented, as it is in England, from having any communication with the outside world—the better.
I have described the amazing part the French Press—or rather a section of it—played in the "Impasse Ronsin affair," how it roused Public Opinion against me, and used the worst conceivable methods of coercion and intimidation, how it made my life and that of my daughter an unendurable martyrdom: the sooner the French Press is forbidden to assume the role of so-called Justice, to publish the most indiscriminating, arbitrary, imaginary, and damaging articles against beings who are merely "accused," and this not only before, but actually during the trial of those beings—the better.
Let the reader ponder, if only for one moment, over these facts, for instance: day after day, during my trial, a number of newspapers published long articles in which I was clearly and emphatically treated as a murderess, as a "Red Widow," as a "Black Panther"! Day by day, the twelve men who were to decide my fate—and indirectly that of my daughter—went home after the hearings in the Court of Assize: they discussed the trial, my attitude, the evidence of the witnesses, the questions asked of me, and the answers I made to those questions, with their wives and their friends; they went to their cafés, where they talked and listened; they read the newspapers, and the next morning, before going into Court they talked and listened again, read the morning papers, and were once more exposed to influences.
I do not for one moment believe that French jurors allow their consciences to be misled in matters of life and death—and I have had a splendid proof of this, since the jury acquitted me—but, is it stretching probabilities to admit that, among the twelve members of a jury, one may be influenced by what he hears or reads, and in his turn influence his colleagues at the solemn pregnant hour, when they are sent to a room to deliberate over the fate of a human being?
That this book may prove useful to others is my most fervent wish.
I have forgiven my enemies, and I trust those whom I have wronged may forgive me.