"Later, Inspector Dechet having heard that Rossignol might have had something to do with the Affair, it was agreed that when Mme. Steinheil returned—she was then at the seaside (Louvières, in Normandy)—she should be pointed out to me so that I might say whether she was or was not the woman whom I had seen dining with Rossignol, near the Saint-Lazare Station. This was agreed, not only with Inspector Dechet, but also with Chief-Inspector Dol.

"Now, between that time and the time I was able to see Mme. Steinheil this is what happened.

"In August 1908, being in the company of a colleague, I met several times a certain Cavellier, who for a year, a few years ago, was my colleague, though I did not know that he was an Inspector. I believe he is attached, officially at least, to the detective department of the Ministry of the Interior.

"Cavellier has always impressed me as a man who, having discovered—I don't know how—that I had been concerned with Rossignol, was trying to 'bait' me in order to find out what I knew about Rossignol. I have never believed one word of what he told me about Madame Steinheil and Rossignol. I told Chief-Inspector Dol, however, of my conversations with Cavellier. Chief-Inspector Dol gave no more credence than I did to Cavellier's statements.

"In September or October, I went to Bellevue with Inspector Dechet.... I saw Mme. Steinheil. I then found that Mme. Steinheil had far more refined features and a much rounder face than the woman whom I had seen with Rossignol, in April 1908, and further that Mme. Steinheil was far slimmer and not so tall as the other woman. To make quite clear my absolute conviction that Mme. Steinheil and the other woman were not the same person, I told all this to Inspector Dechet, the moment we left Vert-Logis.

"A fortnight later, I told Cavellier, whom I happened to meet, of my conviction. He made no remark.

"Since then I have met Cavellier once or twice, but we never talked again about the Steinheil Affair.

(Signed) Mairet, The Inspector.
André, The Examining Magistrate.
Simon, His Clerk."

(Dossier Cote 918)

[Report.]

Paris, January 5th, 1909.

In the absence of M. Cape, Chief of staff at the Sûreté Générale, M. Sébille, Director of the Investigations Department, declared that M. Sauerwein was unknown as a special Police Commissary, and had never belonged in any capacity whatever to the Sûreté Générale.

(Signed) Inspector Mairey.

(Dossier Cote 920)

And here is the report of the examination, by M. André, of "Cavellier, 31 years old, private detective."

Question. "Do you know Mme. Steinheil by sight? If so, when did you first see her?"

Answer. "I knew her by sight. I met her for the first time in August 1908, at Bellevue, near Vert-Logis. I recognised her with the help of a description which I possessed. I have never spoken to her."

Question. "Do you know Rossignol?"

Answer. "Two or three days after my encounter with Mme. Steinheil, I met him at the Saint-Lazare Station. Mme. Steinheil (whom I then saw for the second time) was there and talked with him and another gentleman. She lunched at Scossa's. During the early days of November 1908, an inquiry which I was making brought me into contact with Rossignol, who was then at Avesnes-le-Comte (in the North of France). I then recognised in Rossignol the unknown man whom I had seen in August talking to Madame Steinheil at the Saint-Lazare Station, and afterwards lunching with her at Scossa's. I could not absolutely identify Rossignol; but I had the impression, although Rossignol seemed to me about 20 livres (sic) lighter, that he was the unknown man I had seen."

Question. "Tell us in what circumstances you came to make investigations about Madame Steinheil and Rossignol?"

Answer. "No, I cannot be positive on the point; besides that is exactly what I have always told to the person for whom I made those investigations."...

(Dossier Cote 923)

MAÎTRE AUBIN grew daily more alarmed at the turn events were taking. He read a number of the anonymous letters I received, went carefully through every newspaper, felt the pulse of the Public, and shook his head in dismay. One morning he said to me: "Go to my friend Goron, the ex-Chief of the Sûreté. He has founded a private agency, and he may be able to assist you. I have the greatest confidence in his ability and his flair."

I followed this advice. M. Goron, a small, smart man, with white hair and moustache, searching eyes, a keen, intelligent expression, received me at once.

I may mention here that I am firmly convinced that, like M. Leydet, M. Hamard, the successor of M. Goron at the Sûreté, always believed in my absolute innocence, and I readily recognise that he treated me not only with the utmost fairness, but with dignified courtesy.... But I felt that, whenever he promised to spare no efforts in the search for the murderers, he was not quite sincere. My impression has ever been that M. Hamard, for reasons which I have never fully fathomed, had his hands tied, as it were....

I was conquered by the evident sincerity and the business-like ways of M. Goron, and without hesitation I told him about the pearl necklace, the documents, and the "mysterious German."

He then said, quite simply: "Exactly. I had guessed something of the sort. The Impasse Ronsin affair is not unique of its kind. There is nothing absolutely new in it. I believe that what took place is this. Some man or men—who did it for the money the documents might represent, or out of fanfaronade or some kind of morbidness—heard that you possessed most interesting papers. They managed to become close friends of your husband. They found out, somehow, that the house would be empty that day, since you had decided to go to Bellevue. You know the rest."

I told M. Goron about the letters I was constantly receiving.

I consented, of course. M. Goron came to the Impasse Ronsin the next day and examined everything with his son. Before going he said to me: "Persevere in your endeavours to solve the problem, but take care of yourself. Leave the Press alone. Tell the journalists you are exhausted, done for.... You are in a terrible state; you will lose your reason, if you go on with this kind of life. I have known even the strongest men come to such a state, in their desire to work out a murder mystery that the Law had given up, that they have had to be put in an asylum, or they have been seeing the murderers everywhere. I could quote to you the example of two men, both of superior intellect, who committed two dreadful crimes, convinced that they were killing the assassins they had so long been searching for; one of them is a convict now; the other died in prison—he was one of my friends—and all the members of his family were ruined and disgraced.... Look here, I will give you some sound advice: Think of your daughter. Go with her to Bellevue or to the Riviera, where it is bright and sunny. Try to forget. Send me all the letters you receive, even those from the people you trust, from your friends.... Everybody seems to have an influence over you.... That is bad, bad."...

"No," I said. "I must fight to the end. You will see I shall win yet, and the whole world will know...."

He interrupted me: "Leave the world alone. Think of yourself, think of your child, and let me act for you. You are in a fever, your eyes have an unhealthy glow, you look worn out. At this rate, in a week's time you will be seriously ill. If I were your doctor, I should lock you up for a time in a nursing home.... Meanwhile, I will send you some of my men who will carry out my instructions. But promise me to do nothing, and to go away and rest soon, very soon!..."

I promised, and shook M. Goron warmly by the hand. Then I went home, very much pacified and fully determined to follow his excellent advice.

"Madame," explained the young journalist; "you can go and tell M. Hamard about Couillard. I know all about him!"

I was truly amazed at the number of people I met who dramatically declared to me that they knew all about me and every one else!... Still I listened to M. D. intently, as he gave me extraordinary information about Couillard, his family, his past, his habits and what not.

"To be quite on the safe side," M. D. concluded, "I would like to know the name of Couillard's birth-place. I want to know why he left his village to come to Paris.... Did you know, Madame, that your valet, who you told me said he had never been in Paris and could not find his way about, had been in Paris for two years as a navvy!"

I was amazed. "You must be mistaken!" I exclaimed, but the journalist gave me all kinds of convincing details, and I began to remember the denunciations in the anonymous letters.... A few untruths spoken by my valet did not prove that he was a murderer, but I was not in a normal state of mind, and M. D. spoke with such passion that I began to think he was right. I had been in the past months so often swung from clue to clue that I was ready to admit almost everything. He told me about the private life of Couillard, gave me details about his "friends."... "He probably possesses an 'identity-card,' I should very much like to see it. But if we ask him for it, he will guess something if he is guilty or if he knows things about the murder which he does not dare to say.... How could we arrange to get at the information I need, without alarming him?"

"Mariette," I said. "Do you know the name of Couillard's village, yes or no. I am told it is essential to know it."

"Ah! Well, if that's all you ask, it is a simple matter. His overcoat is here. You will find the name you want in one of his pockets, in his pocket-book."

I returned to M. D. and said: "I don't know what to do. What you want is in Couillard's coat."

"What does it matter, Madame? There is no harm in examining his pocket-book. All I need, after all, is an address."

Mariette brought the pocket-book. M. D. opened it, found in it the address he wanted, when, suddenly, I noticed in the pocket-book an envelope with Marthe's handwriting, and addressed to her fiancé, Pierre Buisson. My daughter, who was present, took the letter and exclaimed: "Mother, that is the letter I wrote to Pierre on the eve of All Saints' Day!"

"What! Has Couillard kept the letter all this time!"

M.D. returned and said: "The bag is locked, and so I cannot open it. But we are nearing the solution of the mystery!"

When the young journalist had gone, I had a long conversation with my daughter. Marthe was amazed. She could not believe what she had seen. She had always had the greatest confidence in Couillard. We both tried to find out why he had stolen that letter. It could not have been for the sake of a penny stamp! What was the real reason, then?... (Later another stolen letter was found, in Couillard's bag this time, a letter written by me to an old friend, Mlle. Lefèvre.)

Since that dreadful month of November 1908, I have fully realised my mistake. I asked my former valet's forgiveness at my trial, as I have already stated, and I do so now, unhesitatingly, in these Memoirs. Moreover, I have gladly offered him, recently, some financial compensation. I did a dreadful thing when I accused him without proofs of his guilt. But the reader should try to bear in mind the state I was in—a state of mind which made me see as proofs the untruths he had told me about his past, and the letters he had stolen.

The next morning there came more letters, still more letters, and Couillard's name was mentioned in most of them....

He was greatly surprised: "Of course," he explained, "there may be nothing in it, but it certainly looks suspicious. Your valet will have to be carefully watched. Now, don't do anything without the Chief of the Sûreté. Write to Hamard about this new development or send some one to him. Ask for two inspectors, who will witness the discovery of the letter in the pocket-book. Do everything to-day. Couillard might destroy the letter, if he suspected anything."

"And if M. Hamard attaches no importance to the discovery, and refuses?"

"He will not refuse."

I returned home in a taxi. M. Chabrier—a cousin of my late husband—was there, and after lunch I sent him to M. Hamard.

M. Chabrier was soon back, and told me that M. Hamard's reply was, that "the facts complained of against Couillard were no doubt contrary to honesty, but not to a punishable misdemeanour...."

(Dossier, Cote 1)

My friend the Countess de Toulgoët and her son, Marthe and M. Barby of the Matin, were with me, and we all started to discuss the situation.

I remembered the words of M. Goron: "Do everything to-day." He was right. There was no time to waste. Couillard might escape. I had firmly believed that M. Hamard would see the gravity of the stolen-letter incident, and now I was told that he attached no importance to it! It was necessary to act at once, to open the pocket-book of Couillard before witnesses, and to see what his attitude would be....

I will quote M. Barby's own description to M. Leydet, the examining magistrate, of the scene which took place (on Friday November 20th, 1908).

"Rémy Couillard was then called in. I asked him if he would accept a situation as chauffeur, and whether he could show me his licence. He replied that his licence was in his pocket-book. But, as had been agreed, Mlle. Steinheil went to Mariette's room, fetched the pocket-book, and handed it to Couillard. I rose and watched the valet while he fingered various documents and looked for the licence. Seeing a black-bordered letter, I said to him: 'What's this? Are you in mourning?' Without replying, Couillard went on looking for the licence.... Madame Steinheil then said: 'That is one of our letters.' She took the pocket-book from Couillard's hands, placed it on the table, and drew out her daughter's black-bordered letter. Couillard, obviously perturbed, said (in answer to a question) that he had found the letter on the edge of a table. Mme. Steinheil then drew from the portfolio the envelope addressed to M. Pierre Buisson; that envelope was open and had been deprived of its stamp.

"Couillard lost all self-control. Mme. Steinheil asked him why he had stolen the letter, and what excuse he had to make.

"Panting and with his face distorted, Rémy Couillard cried 'I am caught!... I will talk only when I am before M. Hamard....'

"I then said to M. Chabrier that after this scene, the only thing for him to do was to return with the pocket-book to M. Hamard. I also told him to call first, at the Matin, to fetch M. de Labruyère, so that they might go together to the Sûreté...."

(Dossier Cote 43)

As I recalled that dialogue, I could not imagine that it merely referred to Couillard's bag, but found in it new grounds for my suspicions.

I had Couillard's pocket-book in my hand. I took from a drawer a pearl which came from the "new-art" ring I have already mentioned, wrapped it in tissue paper, and slipped it into the pocket-book.

I will now continue quoting from the evidence given by M. Barby.

"... Whilst M. Chabrier was carrying out his mission, Couillard remained seated in the dining-room, and did not utter a word. After a time, he said he wished to write a letter. I told Mariette to bring some note-paper, and he started writing. I saw that his letter began with the words: 'My dear mother....' and the first lines expressed regrets. When he had finished, and just as he was about to place his letter in an envelope, I told him: 'You read Mlle. Steinheil's letter; why should I not read yours?' He hastily put the letter in his pocket and remarked that I was not an examining magistrate, but only a journalist.

"Couillard remained in the dining-room until M. Chabrier's return. It was then about 8 P.M....."

(Dossier Cote 48)

What M. Chabrier had done can best be described in his own words (evidence given before M. Leydet and M. Hamard on November 21st, 1908, the day after the incident here related). "... Having placed the pocket-book in the pocket of my overcoat, I went to the Matin offices.

"M. de Labruyère joined me, and together we went to the Sûreté where we were both received by M. Hamard. I placed the pocket-book on his table, but he refused to take possession of it or to take any steps against Couillard without formal instructions from you (M. Leydet).

"I replaced the pocket-book—which had not been opened—in my overcoat, and I went to your Cabinet. You were not in, so I left a note, and afterwards, went with M. de Labruyère, to the Matin offices. Then, for the first time, the pocket-book was opened; its contents were examined by M. de Labruyère, myself, and a third person (on the staff of the Matin), and the tissue paper with the pearl, was found by M. de Labruyère....

"Everything was replaced in the pocket-book and with it I returned to the Impasse Ronsin...."

(Dossier Cote 24 and 11)

M. Barby's description of the scene on the afternoon (evidence given before M. Leydet, on November 24, 1908) concluded as follows:

"Madame Steinheil was called outside the dining-room by M. Chabrier. Shortly afterwards, she returned and said: 'Couillard, you may go. You can ask M. Leydet for your pocket-book to-morrow.'

"Couillard rose, and when Mme. Steinheil asked him if he had any excuses to make, he replied: 'If I have anything to tell you, I shall say it only before M. Hamard or M. Leydet.'

"(After Couillard's departure) M. Chabrier told us: 'We found a pearl worth a few hundred francs in Couillard's pocket-book, at the Matin.'

"Then, before Mme. Steinheil, before Mme. de Toulgoët and her son, before M. Chabrier and myself, the pocket-book was opened, and the pearl produced. I took it and handed it to Mme. Steinheil who said: 'It is a pearl from one of my stolen rings!'

"We were all greatly excited. I advised Mme. Steinheil to go at once to the Police Commissary... and accompanied by Mlle. Marthe and M. Chabrier, she drove there with me in my motor-car...."

(Dossier Cote 43.)

The Police Commissary was not in, and I said: "The simplest thing to do is to go straight to M. Hamard."

That very night, detectives arrested Couillard.

In spite of the whirl and confusion of my thoughts, I realised to some extent during the night, when I had rested a little, the gravity of what I had done. I decided to gather all possible proofs that the ring from which the pearl had been taken had not been stolen, proofs which I would reveal as soon as Couillard had made some sort of confession.

Later, I saw M. Souloy. "Have you still in your possession," I asked him, "the mounting of the 'new-art' ring I asked you, in June last, to alter? You set the pearl on a new ring, but have you kept the old mounting?"

"No, Madame, it was melted down with the gold of the other jewels you asked me to alter."

"I regret this," I said, "for it might have been useful to me. You see, we may perhaps at any moment have to go to M. Hamard and give some explanation about that ring."

I knew now that I could prove at any time that the pearl could not have been stolen on the night of May 30th-31st, 1908. All I had to do now was to await events and hear whether Couillard had made a confession.

The Matin asked me for a design of the "new-art" ring. I gave the address of M. Gaillard, and the design was published.

Then, one night, a day or two after the arrest of Couillard, an incident took place which filled me with new suspicions and fears. Each hour, indeed, brought its shocks and alarms that completely unhinged my mind, and, as if some cruel demon drove me, I rushed, blind and unheeding, to my doom.

I was sitting in my room (which was on the ground floor now that the alterations had been made in the house), and reading, once more, the letters against Couillard and Wolff.

It was late, and I supposed that everybody was in bed. Suddenly, I saw a point of light moving through the hall towards the staircase. (My room was separated from the hall by the dining-room, which had large windows opening upon it, and as there was as yet no door to my room—the workmen not having completed their work—but merely a piece of tapestry which was drawn aside at the time, I could see from my room through the dining-room windows, any light moving in the hall.) I was astonished: I walked stealthily to the dining-room window and saw Mariette and her son. What were they doing there at this late hour? It was about midnight.... They went upstairs as softly as possible. I had not yet undressed and I followed. When I reached the foot of the staircase, I heard Mariette tell Alexandre: "Don't make the least noise." I tried to follow them upstairs, but my legs shook under me, and I remained on the lower steps.

"What are you doing there, at this time of night?" I asked her. "I have just heard the gate of the Impasse being shut. Has some one gone out, then? And why is your door wide open? What is happening?..."

"Nothing, Madame, I opened the door to have more air.... I don't feel well.... All these stories, these new investigations.... I don't like them. Everything will go wrong. Couillard will perhaps give us no end of trouble. Who knows!... He will perhaps accuse me or my son.... Ah! I can swear to you that if they touch my son... you know me.... I shan't be afraid of any one!"

She had a terrifying appearance, the old Mariette, with her eyes that flashed angrily, her threatening jaw, and her big clenched fists. She rose, came close to me, and said: "Well, and what about you? Why aren't you in bed at this time?"

I was afraid, but summoning what little strength was left in me, I said: "Because I have been awake...."

"Since when?"

"For over two hours; since eleven o'clock.... Why do you look so frightened?"

Mariette came still closer to me, until her face almost touched mine. I had not even hinted that I had seen her and her son, and yet she said suspiciously and threateningly: "Well, and then?..."

She stared at me, hesitated, and then replied: "What did I do in the attic?... That's no business of yours. I am free to do as I please. There are things of mine in the attic. If I like, I can give things to my son to take with him, can't I?"

"No, Mariette, your son has taken nothing with him. He carried no parcel when I saw him go... or else, what he took must have been very small."

She seized my hands: "Look here, Madame, I have had enough of all this. Leave me alone. I am not in a mood to give explanations. You had better return to Marthe and go to bed.... Do you hear?"

Her attitude and her tone frightened me so much that I hurried away. I spent the rest of the night on a chair, watching over Marthe, listening to every noise. I seriously thought of calling M. Hamard's attention to the events of that night, but Mariette had been an exemplary servant for many, many years. I suspected her son, who, I had been told, was extremely violent and had had several encounters with the police, but I could not believe that old Mariette had had anything to do with the crime. And I thought of her daughter and her son-in-law, Mme. and M. Geoffrey, who had both always been most devoted. The wife constantly came to my house to do odd jobs, and the husband was ever ready to help. They kept the house when we were away on a holiday, and I could rely on them implicitly.... If I accused Mariette and her son in any way, they would all suffer, alas!... I thought, too, that possibly there was nothing evil in that midnight visit to the attic and the cellar. Perhaps, after all, Mariette had wished to have a private conversation with her son, and had wanted to show or give him various things of hers.... Perhaps her angry attitude towards me could be explained by the fact that she feared lest I should suspect her son, as I had done Couillard. Perhaps she was as distracted as I was myself, and almost irresponsible for what she did or said!...

M. Hamard had arrived with a whole troop of detectives to carry out investigations throughout my house. The workmen came as usual, and also a small crowd of journalists. Mariette was furious, and swore like a trooper.

Suddenly, a man rushed in through the gate. He came to me and said: "I hear that M. Hamard, the Chief of the Sûreté, is here. Please Mademoiselle, tell him I absolutely must speak to him!"

"Well, and what have you to tell him?" said M. Hamard. He turned to me, and whispered: "You see, people still take you for your daughter!" Then, addressing the man, whose name was Wagner, he added: "You can talk before this lady. She is Mme. Steinheil herself, and I am M. Hamard."

He waved the journalists away, for all had, of course, eagerly pressed around us. The man then breathlessly declared that he could give most valuable information about Alexandre Wolff; that Wolff, on the day after the crime, had a great deal of money in his possession.... M. Hamard asked me to leave him alone with the man; and I withdrew.

For practically the whole of the day, the detectives searched the house. They examined everything in Mariette's lodge, searched the cellar, and also the attic. I helped them. I felt sure that they would discover something that would lead to the complete solution of the problem which was driving me crazy. But the detectives found nothing, and I grew desperate.

The detectives left the house at the end of the afternoon. The journalists were at liberty to come in now, and they did come in! Fifty or sixty of them. They scampered in like wild beasts! They asked questions of every one in the house. Even those I had thought ponderous and dignified lost all control of themselves.... A shower of questions rained upon me. "Write anything you please," I said wearily, "but do leave me alone, I must sleep, I must forget all this...." I locked myself up in a room and snatched an hour's sleep, and it was Marthe's turn to watch over her mother....

A noise like the voice of an angry sea roused me. I went to the garden gate, and through the small wicket I saw a great crowd of men and women—women especially—who howled fearfully. Marthe held my hand and trembled. "Mother, mother, what is it?" she kept asking. A sedate English—or American—journalist, who was with us at the time, said, "Don't pay any attention, Madame. Leave this gate. Some side with you, but others loathe you—and neither the one nor the other knows why." And he added in a murmur, "The great enemy of reason, the Multitude...." Words spoken at a dramatic moment often engrave themselves on the mind, and that last sentence often came back to me. I have since found that the journalist was quoting Sir Thomas Brown.

Mme. Chabrier, who had gone out early in the afternoon, had the greatest difficulty in reaching the house, and so had the messengers and the postman, who brought shoals of letters which I read more eagerly than before.... At last, late in the evening, policemen cleared the Impasse Ronsin and the storm died away. We sat down to dinner, Marthe and I, but couldn't eat....

I thought of Couillard. What was he doing? Saying? Were my suspicions, were all the anonymous letters, quite wrong? Would he confess? Had he anything to confess?

EARLY in the morning, journalists came as usual to "find out the latest," and as usual they followed the workmen into the house.

At 10 A.M. detectives arrived to continue their searching, and once more, I hoped that they would make some discovery that would lead to "the truth." Mariette was in a state of frenzy and said to me, the moment she saw me: "The crowd is against you. Couillard is arrested. They will arrest my son and me, next, I bet. You're going to tell the Sûreté what happened the other night, when you saw me and Alexandre.... Let all this fuss be stopped.... Life isn't worth living.... Send the police away from here. They are driving me mad with their endless investigations. If all this goes on much longer, I don't know what may happen. At any rate, I shan't stop at anything! After all, if there is any one who knows something about the murder, it must be M. Bdl."

Mariette knew of my brief friendship with M. Bdl, and was fully aware that my relations with him had long ceased, but, for some reason, she wanted to intimidate me, and she hurled that name at me as a weapon, for she realised how anxious I was that Marthe should not know about that indiscretion.

There was a constant buzzing in my ears, my whole body was on fire, as it were, and it seemed to me as if my heart, which beat so terribly fast, would suddenly stop.... I looked at Mariette, and with all the resolution I could summon, I said to her: "I shall go to the end of this affair. I shall speak all the truth, I shall say all I know."...

Mariette was no longer listening. She held her poor head and mumbled: "I must get drunk, drunk... that's the only thing to do." I pitied her and walked away.

M. Hamard arrived, saw his men, and then came to me and said: "We can find nothing.... True, many months have elapsed since the murder.... By the way, M. Leydet would like to see you at the Palace of Justice. Inspector Pouce will come here and accompany you.... The crowd is rather hostile."

"Very well, M. Hamard," I replied.

At that very moment, a whole band of journalists literally burst into the house.... Some of them actually entered through the windows on the ground floor. They surrounded me, and such was the babel they made that I could hear only fragments of sentences: "Have you heard.... A jeweller has said that... there is an incident... Couillard... the ring...." Flashlight explosions startled me at every moment.... A thousand questions were hurled at me.... One journalist on the staff of the Gaulois asked to photograph my hand because there was a "ring-story" coming out....

I was ill and I was bewildered. There have been many days in my life when shock has followed shock and emotion emotion, as if some pitiless fate were trying to crush me, but that day, November 25, 1908, was undoubtedly the most painful, the most harrowing in my whole existence.

After the journalists had gone, I tried to draw up an inventory of the silver, furniture, and linen in the apartments I wished to let, but the pen shook in my hand and I had to give up the attempt.

Lunch-time came. It was impossible for me to eat. I had lost all appetite, and besides, journalists once more invaded the house. Why did I not barricade my door? For the simple reason that the workmen, who were now nearing the end of their task, came and went constantly. Some brought rolls of wall-paper; others took away boards, ladders, tools.... And whenever the gate was open to a workman, one or several reporters would rush in behind him. Besides, I have no doubt that had everything been barricaded against them, they would have jumped over the wall, as I had seen at least one do....

Inspector Pouce came and said to me: "Take your jewels with you; they will be wanted."

I fetched them, and with the inspector drove to the Palace of Justice in a taxi. On the way I noticed that Inspector Pouce looked extremely sad. I told him so.

"Oh, Madame," he said, "if I were in your place, I should probably have lost my reason long ago. How those who, thinking they were doing the right thing, urged you to seek the assistance of the Press, and to make fresh endeavours to trace the murderers, must regret it now that they realise what martyrdom you have endured... a martyrdom which has not yet come to an end."

I listened to Inspector Pouce, but did not understand him. I was too numb and broken. How I should have loved to sleep.... I said so to my companion. My head felt so heavy.... I almost fell asleep in the taxi.

I did not reply, but went alone into M. Leydet's Cabinet. Through an open door, I saw him, in the next room, walking up and down.

He came in and bowed to me, as usual, but I noticed he was extremely pale.

"Bring in Couillard," M. Leydet ordered, "his counsel, M. Bouin, the jewel-expert, M. Gaillard, and M. Souloy."

When they had all come and sat down, M. Leydet, in a voice that shook with emotion, explained to me that M. Souloy had made a statement....

I was dumbfounded. I did not mind the fact that M. Souloy had made a statement, evidently about the pearl. What upset me was the fact that he had done so too soon, before Couillard had made a full confession of all he knew. "So, that is what you have done, M. Souloy," I exclaimed. "And this after I had called on you and told you we should have to go to M. Hamard, one day."...

"Madame," said the jeweller, "my conscience..."

I suddenly found myself unable to think clearly, unable to realise things.... M. Souloy had made the talisman years ago.... He knew me well. Surely he could not believe me capable of a wicked action. Why had he come spontaneously to M. Leydet to "make a statement." Did he take me for a criminal? What did it all mean?...

M. Leydet and the others gave all kinds of explanations. I was unable to follow them.... Then, M. Leydet said to me: "You had two 'new-art' rings, had you not? One stolen by Couillard and the other handed to M. Souloy?"

I could have replied just the word "Yes," and Couillard was lost, but although everything was blurred in my mind, I saw that it would be criminal to do such a thing, and that whatever Couillard might have done, I had no right to tell falsehoods, and I replied, "no, only one."

M. Leydet looked at me, with almost haggard eyes, I repeated, "Only one."

"But do you realise the gravity of what you are saying?"

After Couillard's arrest, M. Sauerwein, no doubt in order to make me forget his insults and his fantastic accusations in connection with the Rossignol "clue," had come to tell me, "I know the jeweller who bought the jewels stolen on the night of the murder. He is a receiver of stolen goods.... I must not tell you his name.... He has a wife and children. He is afraid of being lynched, if he were discovered.... But he is in my power...." And I was mad enough to believe M. Sauerwein.

When I saw M. Souloy's clerk, I felt sure he was the man M. Sauerwein had spoken of. I thought that he could be employed and at the same time be a "receiver." For several hours I was questioned, but I replied in a vague manner....

Later, I felt so faint that Maître Aubin was called in.... M. Leydet watched me in a strange manner, and said many things which I did not understand.... And then, with Maître Aubin, I left the room. He asked me to meet him the next morning; he wanted to have a serious talk with me, and afterwards we could call together on M. Leydet.

"Why not talk things over to-night?" I suggested.

"No, no; I am not free now."

Had Maître Aubin been "free" that night, I should probably not have been a prisoner the next day. Then he added, "Above all, don't receive a single journalist."

But when I went home with Marthe, who had come to fetch me, it was in the company of a journalist, and in the house I found two more, one belonging to the Gaulois, and the other to the Petit Journal, who had been waiting for me!

Both, however, were extremely polite, and when I told them that I was dead beat, and that I would perhaps see them the next morning, they bowed and walked away.

I sank into an arm-chair. Marthe, near me, sobbed. She said she had been told at the Palace of Justice that I would be arrested.... It was heartrending to see her tears.

At about nine o'clock, just as I was about to return to my room, for, even on the day after the crime, I had not felt so utterly broken down, Mariette came to say that M. Barby had arrived. The Matin again! Then M. Hutin, of the Echo de Paris, entered the room.

Before I could utter a single word M. Hutin exclaimed angrily, almost coarsely, just as if he had every right to invade my home and speak to me as he pleased: "Ah! that's the way you go on! And I was stupid enough to take up your case! So you have been making a fool of me! What have you been up to, eh?... The black gowns: that's a fable! Your jewels: none have been stolen! The money: there was none! You will have to tell me the truth...."

"Leave this house," I said; "I haven't the strength to argue with you."...

He gave a wicked little laugh, and went on, "Everybody is against you now. It is not Couillard they should have arrested. It is your lover..."

My lover! I thought of M. Bdl., whom I had not seen for months, and I said to myself, "What! they are going to arrest him! What is the matter?... What do they want?"...

The door was flung open. M. de Labruyère rushed in. He gesticulated frantically, and looked even more angry and threatening than M. Hutin....

"You are a wretch, nothing but a wretch," he began. "It's dreadful. Couillard is innocent; he never stole the pearl."...

I interrupted him. "Have pity on me. I have not slept for four days. Leave me in peace. I have nothing to tell to either of you. I am ill, can't you see I am ill?"

I listened to all this, but I did not understand. I listened so intently that every word spoken that night left an indelible mark in my mind. Had I understood, I would have realised that they were recklessly lying in order to wrench from me a confession, which I could not make since I was innocent, and that, however ill and distracted I was, I ought somehow to have summoned up enough authority to have made them leave the house.

Then, the tune changed. Intimidation had achieved its aim. I was before the two men, trembling, incapable of defending myself. They could now try another method: the sympathetic. After strong drama, pathos.

"Poor woman, tell us the truth. We are your best, your only friends.... Confess, if not for your sake, then for the sake of your daughter, the unfortunate little Marthe, who is there sobbing, in that room. Speak to us, and you are saved. We are the only people who can save you both! Be quick, be quick. Listen to the mob outside. Can you hear it?"...

I could hear a wild surging in my ears, but I had heard that noise very often of late, when I was ill and worn.... These men were putting me on the rack. What did they want of me? What had I done to be treated in this way?... Had they made up their minds to make me lose my reason completely?...

Then, suddenly, I saw a face through the window of the dining-room.... It was the face of an ugly old woman with wild eyes, and the old woman was shaking her fist at me....

I cried, "Look out! look out! Mariette is there!"...

"All right... never mind," said M. Hutin. "Now, listen to us. You are lost, and not only you but every one in the house unless you confess."

Yes, they were in a hurry: their sensational copy had to go to press in time. I had said nothing yet, and they had still to write what I would say, what they felt sure they would make me say!

M. de Labruyère went on, in a coaxing, pathetic manner, "All we want is to save you, in spite of yourself! I tell you Bunau-Varilla will do anything. We will smuggle you abroad and you will forget all your troubles."...

He came quite close to me and added: "Think of your poor dead mother. She called you 'Meg, Meg...' that night.... Well, Meg, Meg, tell us everything."

I faltered. Everything seemed to turn around me.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked.

M. Hutin seized my hands: "Everything: only, you know, don't talk to us about black gowns. Nobody believes in them; it is of no use insisting any longer upon them. Don't talk about the jewels either, that's played out, too. You had better begin by telling us the truth about that pearl, and also tell us the name of the man who was your 'friend.'..."

I replied: "It was I who put the pearl in Couillard's pocket-book, it was I who put the diamond in the attic; the name of my friend was Bdl."

Mariette was again making signs at the window, and I thought once more of Alexandre Wolff....

The two journalists kept asking me questions. They both spoke at the same time. I had sunk from my chair on to the floor. I would not, I could not, reply.... They grew angry. I fell on to the floor. I besought them to go; they seized me by the wrists and shouted: "Confess, confess!..."

My blood ran cold. I no longer had any capacity for thinking. Those men had killed my mind, my reason. They wanted names, any names.

I spoke, one, two, three names. I said "Salvator" (one of my late husband's models). They were not satisfied! I then said: "It's not Salvator, it's his brother!" That would not do either.... Then I thought of Alexandre Wolff, who had been so much in my mind lately....

"Alexandre Wolff," I cried. "He is the murderer."

This suited them. They began to scribble. They made suggestions as to things that had taken place.... They had evidently (as I realised afterwards) received anonymous letters, like myself.... I replied: "Yes, yes."...

Then, their faces suddenly brightened up. They had won! The most sensational article for many years would appear in a few hours' time under their signature. The greatest day in their career had come!

Then, they felt grateful though in a great hurry, for it was after midnight, and they spoke a few words of encouragement.

"Everything will be all right. We will send you a motor-car. You will go to a hotel, so as to avoid being lynched, you and your daughter. And afterwards you will go abroad, and forget everything." (My daughter heard them speak these words.)

They shook hands with me, in the heartiest manner, and said: "Remember, we are all your friends, your best, your only friends. You can always rely on us. Briand, Bunau-Varilla, will defend you. With such protectors, you are absolutely safe, and your little Marthe too. The law cannot touch you, in these circumstances."...

They went to the door. Then M. Hutin came back. He had forgotten something of considerable importance:

"Whatever happens, don't change anything of what you have told us.... You and your daughter are lost if you do!"...

I could not better compare that "Night of the Confession" than to a terrible nightmare. In a nightmare appear the people one has seen or has been talking about during the preceding hours.... Twice that day, I had been asked about M. Bdl.; twenty times I had been spoken to about Alexandre Wolff. And there were the anonymous letters. I quoted a whole passage of one of those letters, to my tormentors, as in a trance, and that made up part of my "confession." "Wolff had come to steal.... He had threatened to declare that I ordered him to murder my husband and my mother, if I denounced him...." This theory of the crime had been time after time suggested to me in letters. And thus, I spoke about M. Borderel and accused Wolff. And when I saw Mariette at the window making signs to me, I felt sure the letters were right and that Wolff was the murderer....

Perhaps, alas, the poor woman realised that those men were making me say what they pleased, and she trembled for the son she loved.