CHAPTER XIV

AFTER THE MURDER

I need hardly say that on Sunday, May 31st, I was in a terrible state of mind, and even on the verge of utter collapse.

At 6 A.M., it appears, Rémy Couillard came down, saw what had happened, went to the window and cried for help, and M. Lecoq, a neighbour, then joined him. Then the police came, also Dr. Acheray, and many others....

I was in bed, after that night of horror and what I had gone through. I could hardly move or breathe. Everything seemed to whirl around me, and yet I had two thoughts. One was: "What had happened to my mother and my husband, and how are they?" (I did not know, of course, that they had both been strangled.) Couillard--so I heard afterwards--after untying the ropes which held me to the bed, had gone with M. Lecoq to the other rooms, and seen the bodies of my husband and my mother, but they had said nothing to me about it.

* * * * *

I hereafter quote the evidence given by this M. Lecoq, so that the reader may be present, as it were, at the discovery of the crime.

This day, June 23rd, 1908, before us, Leydet, examining magistrate... has appeared, Lecoq, Maurice--twenty six years old--an engineer residing in the Impasse Ronsin, No. 6--who has stated:

On Sunday, May 31st, a little before 6 A.M., I heard shouts of "Thief! Thief!... My mistress is ill...." I hastily left my room which overlooks the yard of M. Bonnot's house. Rapidly I passed through a gate, which is never closed (separating the Bonnot and the Steinheil grounds) and entered the garden of the Steinheil villa. I cut across the lawn, and went and stood under the window from which Couillard was crying for help. He shouted, "Come, be quick!" I tried in vain to open the doors of the verandah and the drawing-room, which opened on to the garden. Finding I could not enter, I returned to the place under the window, and Couillard said to me: "Open the street door and pass through the kitchen." I went to the door in the Impasse Ronsin, and opened it by lifting up the lower latch. Then I walked to the pantry door, which I opened by merely turning the knob. I went through the hall, where I noticed nothing unusual, then walked up to the first floor. At the end of the staircase I saw the door of Mme. Steinheil's room, whom I had never seen, although she is a neighbour of mine. She was on her bed. At the same time Couillard left the window and went near the bed.

Mme. Steinheil then exclaimed: "We are saved, my poor Rémy!" and the latter said: "Look at my poor mistress...." Mme. Steinheil was in a state of extreme agitation, and kept swinging her arms one way and another. Her wrists and her head were free.... There were cords round her neck, not tight, and over her nightshirt. Her feet were still strongly fastened to the rails of the bed, but the cords did not press very tightly on the articulations. Rémy and I undid the cords (Couillard had before undone the other cords), and then Mme. Steinheil, panting, with haggard eyes, said in broken words--and she had several times the vision of the scenes which she was describing--that she had been assailed and ill-treated by three men and a horrible woman who took her for her daughter, and who had asked for her money. She also said that the woman wanted her to be killed. She said she suffered from her head, and wailed: "My head, my head, they have struck me." I touched her hair, but found no wound. Mme. Steinheil also said: "My husband... why does he not come?" I replied to calm her, "He is in the next room." Later, she asked for her daughter. She was a prey to constant terror, and all the time she lived through the scene of the night. Several times she cried: "I am afraid, I am afraid...." And when I told her: "Don't fear anything, I am here; I will go for assistance," she kept saying, "I don't fear you, but oh! that fierce woman, and those men, and those two lanterns." I left her for a short while, to go and find out what had happened in the house. The door of M. Steinheil's room was open, and I saw the body of a man, wearing only a shirt, in the space between two rooms (M. Steinheil's room and the bath-room). I returned to Mme. Steinheil's room, and taking the valet aside, I said to him: "There is a dead man, who is he?" Overwhelmed, Couillard replied: "It is perhaps my master." Since then, Couillard has told me that when he went through the rooms he had passed over the body of his master without noticing it was a corpse. I then returned to that body, and Couillard followed me at a distance. I bent forward, and placing my hand on his thigh, I found it was icy cold. I at once undid the cord round the neck, however, whilst realising that M. Steinheil had ceased to live. I then returned to Mme. Steinheil who had remained alone during those brief moments. A little later I took Couillard aside. He was all the time walking up and down the room, as if he were mad, and did nothing, although his mistress was asking, with great insistence, for Dr. Acheray.

I asked Rémy: "How many are you in the house?" He replied: "Three, without counting me." I then said: "Where is the third person?" He pointed to the door opposite that of M. Steinheil's room, and said: "There!" I found that the door was locked and that I could not open it. When I had asked for the way into the room, Couillard pointed, with a vague gesture to the end of the corridor; he was quite distracted, and a sudden suspicion flashed through my mind. I took him by the arms, and looking him straight in the eyes, said: "You must come with me." Couillard, who did not realise my suspicions, showed that he was quite ready to follow me, and my suspicions vanished entirely. At that moment there arrived, at the top of the staircase, the first policeman, and M. Geoffroy (son-in-law of Mariette Wolff, my cook--and a neighbour). I rapidly told the policeman all I knew, and together we walked to the end of the corridor. The policeman opened the door indicated by Couillard, and from the threshold we saw the body of Mme. Japy lying across her bed in the position where you (M. Leydet) found it.

Then other persons arrived. I remained some time near Mme. Steinheil, who was still in a state of great agitation, but whose terror was gradually diminishing. Doctor Puech arrived on the scene, but Mme. Steinheil asked for her own doctor, M. Acheray, whom Couillard had now gone to fetch.

_Question._ "What impression did Mme. Steinheil, whom you had never seen before, make on you as regards her age?"

_Answer._ "I had two strong impressions. _When I entered the room where Mme. Steinheil was lying I thought I stood before a young lady of about twenty: but when she talked about her husband and her daughter and when I observed her more closely she appeared to me as a woman of twenty-six._ I don't know the Steinheils, and did not even know their names."

Signed LECOQ LEYDET.

(_Dossier_, Cote 71.)

* * * * *

In spite of this statement--and although it must seem evident to any one that if, after such a night of terror and agony, M. Lecoq took me for a girl of twenty, the murderers, who saw me in a dimmer light and when I was quietly resting, may easily have taken me for my daughter--the Prosecution declared (I quote from the Indictment itself) that: "She thought she was spared because the assassins, taking her for Marthe, took pity on her youth. Such a confusion is most unlikely, for Mme. Steinheil could not be taken for a young lady barely seventeen."

While the reader has still fresh in his--or her--mind the details of the crime, I will give all explanations on the matter of the "binding," as I have given those about the "gag."

The Indictment said: "The inquiries of medical experts have revealed quite early the contradictions and lies of Mme. Steinheil. She claimed that a cord had been fastened round her neck--but there were no traces of it." Elsewhere the same extraordinary Indictment declares: "Mme. Steinheil did her best to make the law believe that she had really been bound; but the traces left by the cords disappeared too rapidly to allow any one to believe in her statement."

How was I bound?

M. Lecoq declared that the cords round my feet were "securely fastened" to the bed. Couillard stated that "the cord went round the feet seven or eight times," and also that "the wrists were fastened over one another to the rails of the top of the bed, the arms being raised above and behind the head." (_Dossier_, Cote 3257.) Couillard further stated "the head was held by a cord fastened to the railings of the bed." True, on another occasion Couillard declared he "had unfastened the cords by pulling on one end, as one undoes the knot of bootlaces." But on the morning of May 31st he made some statements to one of the policemen, M. Debacq, who declared afterwards: "The valet told me and my colleagues that he had found his mistress _entirely secured_ with cords, and that he had _cut_ the cords with which she was bound." The expert, Doctor Balthazard, made a special report in which he asserted that one of the cords had a knot of a kind called "galley-knot" (_noeud de galère_) which it is most difficult to make and which is only used in certain professions (sailors, horse-dealers, &c.). Dr. Courtois-Suffit mentioned "grooves on the feet and hands, corresponding to the diameter of the cords." Dr. Lefevre, who had made the remark, so dangerous to my cause: "It is all a sham" (_c'est de la frime_), explained at my trial what he had exactly meant. His idea was that the way I had been bound could not be a source of great pain to me. Dr. Acheray found on my wrists and ankles "very clear and marked traces." In his report, dated June 23rd, 1908, Dr. Lefevre stated: "I found on the wrists and the ankles parallel lineal ecchymoses."

Finally, as regards the cord round my neck which the prosecution said left no traces and was quite loose, I will merely say that I myself stated that "the cord did not hurt when I did not move my head," and further that it was wound round my neck _over_ the cloth which covered my head. When that cloth, which formed a kind of pad at the neck, was removed, the cord of course slipped down and became loose.

* * * * *

As I have stated, my first thoughts on that dreadful morning of May 31st, 1908, was for my mother and my husband.

My next thought was: What has been stolen during the night?--for, I repeat it, I could not guess that a murder had been committed.

Here I must hasten to state a most important point in the events of that fatal night....

_One of the men of black gaberdines, the dark, tall man who stood near my bed when I was started out of my sleep, the only man who spoke--he had, or pretended to have, a foreign accent--the man who had asked for the money when he came near me a second time_ (for I had been left alone at one time with the horrible red-haired woman who pointed a revolver at my head), _that man, after the woman had said: "Now then, girl, tell us where the jewels are," asked me in a peremptory tone_. "AND WHERE ARE THE PEARLS AND THE PAPERS?" And I thought the man _knew_ who I was, although from his first question ("Where is your parents' money?") it was clear he took me for my daughter. I was more terrified than ever. I thought of the mysterious German, of my husband's reticence, and also of his indiscretions.... The man _knew_ I had those pearls, and knew about the documents!

When asked where the money was, I had pointed to the boudoir, close to the room where my mother slept. Afterwards the red-haired woman asked me where the jewels were. As I have stated before, quoting from the evidence I gave seven months after the murder to M. André, examining magistrate, "I dreaded to say that the jewels were in my mother's room (that is, in _my_ bedroom, where my mother slept), and that they were in the drawer of the wardrobe...." But, fearing to be killed, I said it, adding: "Don't kill me, and promise to kill no one." When the tall, dark man, with the foreign accent, asked me about "the pearls and the papers:" I said the pearls were with the other jewels, and the papers in the secret drawer of the desk....

I was told, later on, that the drawers, on May 31st, were found in a state of great disorder, and that all the jewel-cases were empty. Three rings had been stolen, and a diamond crescent, and a few other jewels. The pearls had also disappeared from the case in which I kept them. I found this out when all the cases were shown to me.

(As for the talisman, the gold locket which the President had worn, it was in the drawer of a cupboard in the studio, and was not stolen.)

As I have already stated, after the conversation with M. de Balincourt about my husband's indiscretion, I had removed the "papers" from the drawer of the writing-table in the boudoir, where I had so long kept them, and had put them in a place of safety.

The money, the jewels, and the pearls disappeared that night, and also the documents. Not the genuine bundle, of course, but the dummy, on which I had written: "Private papers. To be burned after my death."

Early in the morning, the police-commissary of the district, M. Bouchotte, asked me all kinds of questions. I replied to them all, but I did not speak the whole truth: I said that I had been asked for the money and the jewels, but I did not add that I had further been asked for the pearls and the papers.

Why I did not must have already occurred to the reader.

I knew that my real friends had always refused to believe in anything that had been said against me as regards my past life and my private affairs. And I did not want them to alter their views about me, and know that I had not been faithful to my husband. And above all, there was Marthe, my only child, my beloved daughter! She was engaged to Pierre Buisson. If I mentioned the pearls and the documents, the truth about my "friendship" with the late President Félix Faure was sure to be discovered and disclosed, not only to my friends who had always taken my part, but even to my own child, and to her betrothed. There would be a terrible scandal, my daughter's marriage would be broken off.... Although I was at the time almost out of my mind, after the pain I had endured, and the terror of the night, I fully realised the danger of mentioning the pearls and the documents, and so I held my tongue.

Not only the police-commissary, but M. Leydet, the examining magistrate, and other officials came that morning and asked a number of questions.

I was pleased--if one can be pleased in such tragic circumstances!--to see that M. Leydet was the judge in charge of the case. I had known him for several years; he was a great friend of both my husband and myself and came frequently to the house. I made up my mind that I would tell him the whole truth, if the three men and the red-haired woman could not be traced.

But for the moment I was haunted by thoughts of my mother and my husband, and ill though I was, I would go to them and attend to them. I had repeatedly asked how they were, and I had been told they were "better."

It was during the afternoon that the horrible news that they had both been murdered was gradually broken to me. My whole being reeled under this overwhelming blow. I wanted to rush to my dear dead, to look upon them, guard them, close their eyes--but they would not let me.... They said I was too weak, too ill.... They said it was impossible.... (Several weeks later, I heard that the two bodies had been taken to the Morgue for the autopsy during the morning of May 31st).... And all the time, I had to reply to endless questions.... They wanted to know what had been taken, and so I asked that the drawers and all the jewel-cases should be brought to me. Detectives brought them in and put them on my bed. I then saw that all the jewels which President Faure had given me had been stolen, and the pearls too.... M. Leydet seeing how upset I was, did his best to calm me.... I said to him: "There is a secret recess in the drawing-room wall, behind the dresser.... If you will bring to me what you find in there, I shall be better able to tell you what has been stolen during the night...."

I besought M. Leydet to send for my daughter, who was at Bellevue. I thought: "As this has no importance, what does it matter whether the jewels are found or not? I need my daughter and she needs me to give her courage after the awful shock of losing her father and her grandmother. She worshipped them both...." Alas! how ill the poor darling looked when she arrived in the evening with the Buissons. (Mariette had come from Bellevue in the morning, having been summoned by Dr. Acheray. She had left Marthe with the Buissons, and it was they who broke the dreadful news to the child during the afternoon.)

It was Dr. Acheray who told me that Marthe had come, and at the same time he said there was a motor-ambulance downstairs to take me away.... He did not want me to stay in the house where the ghastly murders had been committed. "You must go," he said, "and stay with the Buissons" (in Paris).

"If you will not let me see my mother and my husband," I replied, "allow me at least the consolation of remaining near them".... I insisted so much that the ambulance was sent back, and my poor little Marthe, after spending some time with me, went away--with M. Buisson, I believe.

I passed a terrible night.... I longed to sleep, to forget the harrowing drama, if only for an hour, but I could not. And minute after minute hundreds of thoughts flashed through my mind.... I lived through the fatal night again and again; I thought of the dead, of my daughter, of the future.... And then I wondered who were the three men in black gaberdines and soft felt hats? Who was the red-haired woman? Why had they killed my mother and my husband? Why had I been spared?... I thought of the mysterious "German," of his threatening look... he knew his way about the house.... And a key had been lost.... I thought of many officials who hated me because I knew their secrets. I thought of the documents which one of the men had demanded.... Perhaps they had killed my husband before awaking me?... Not my mother, for she had cried "Meg, Meg!"... I had heard her.... Sometimes, it seemed to me that the fatal night had only been a nightmare? Nothing had happened. I was mad, I imagined things.... Of course, my husband was now quietly sleeping in his room, and if I called my mother she would hear and come to me at once.... And then, the acute pain from the blow I had received on the head, and feeling that there had been ropes round my neck, my feet, my hands, and wadding in my mouth, that I had been bound and gagged.... And once more I lived through the night of terror, and it was worse than before, for I knew now that my husband and my mother had been killed....

Later, I was told that Dr. Acheray, M. Buisson and his wife, and the elder M. Boeswilwald had attended me during that night of agony. I heard that the doctor had to give me morphia injections two or three times, and that I was very near to death....

On the Monday, thanks to my doctor's care and devotion, I came back to life, as it were.... And I can frankly say that I have regretted it since, more than once.

Many people visited the house. A magistrate came to "affix the seals." Detectives and policemen came... and journalists.... I was still so ill, however, that the doctor insisted that I should be taken to some nursing home or to the house of friends. Count and Countess d'Arlon offered me their hospitality, and so did M. and Mme. Buisson. I accepted the offer of the d'Arlons, who, unlike the Buissons, had no children.

Letters and telegrams of condolence arrived in piles, from every part of France and from people in every walk of life. This I only knew because I was told. I had not the strength to read the messages.

On June 2nd I was told that my mother's body had been removed to a Protestant, and my husband's to a Catholic, church. (They dared not tell me the bodies were at the Morgue.) It was then, and only then, that I yielded to the pressing entreaties of the d'Arlons. I was taken to their house in an ambulance. It was terrible to me to leave that house where less than forty-eight hours before I had been chatting with my husband about our summer.... In the garden I saw the rose-trees laden with white roses, which my mother had so much admired only two days ago!...

In the Impasse there was an immense crowd, and another near the _Ecole Militaire_, near which the d'Arlons lived. The crowd were hostile. What did it mean?... I could not understand.... Again I thought of the documents, of the pearls.... Mme. Buisson, who was with me in the ambulance, trembled with fear.... Later I was told that we had been escorted by detectives, to protect me!...

At last I arrived at the d'Arlons. Marthe was there. She was so very tender and affectionate, and I realised that she knew nothing about my life, about Félix Faure.... There was no semblance of reproach in her pure little face, no question in her big brown eyes.... I breathed again.

On the Wednesday (June 3rd), Dr. Acheray, finding I was worse, ordered a nurse. He also told me that I should soon be interrogated by M. Hamard and M. Leydet. "Tell them everything you know," he recommended; "the public seems to suspect you...."

I spent hours of torture. I wondered what I should say. I had already been asked about the jewels that had disappeared on the night of May 30th-31st. Was I to speak of those given me by M. B., the Attorney-General, and years later by President Faure (which had been stolen), and most of which were exactly copied from those my husband had given me, but set with more valuable stones?... But if I did, my reputation would be ruined in the eyes of my daughter, who worshipped her mother and who was engaged to be married, and of many friends who believed implicitly in me.... No, no, since the jewels had been stolen I would describe them without saying whence they came, and I would alter the duplicates I had at Bellevue.

Here a clear explanation becomes necessary, inasmuch as the prosecution tried to prove that _no jewels had been stolen_ and that I was the murderer. The jewel problem (_la question des bijoux_) was perhaps the most complex of all in that mysterious affair; and, although I spoke the whole truth to M. André, who became my examining magistrate after M. Leydet, I was not believed, and there were inevitably such contradictions between the statements I made on the matter at various times that my case became prejudiced. And yet this jewel problem was no problem at all, as the reader will no doubt agree after the following explanation:

Besides the money and the ten large pearls and my mother's jewels, there were stolen on the night of the double murder a diamond crescent, a few minor jewels of no great value, a gold chain and three valuable rings.

The diamond crescent which was stolen had been given me by President Faure, but I had a similar one at Bellevue, given me by my husband, from which it had been copied (only with better stones, as I stated before). I had thus been able in the days of Félix Faure to wear his crescent (worn as a brooch or in the hair) without my husband being able to make remarks. True, the President had given me a brooch with the three colours of France, and a Lalique comb, but he had done so at the beginning of our acquaintance and in the presence of my husband. I may at once say that the comb was in a cabinet in the drawing-room, and was not stolen. The cornflower-marguerite-poppy brooch was stolen, but I did not mention it, because it would have led to questions about my friendship with Félix Faure.

The three rings I possessed in triplicate: Firstly the three given me by my husband; secondly, three exact copies of them given me--two by the Attorney-General, one by the President--and thirdly, three exact copies in paste.

Why this last set? Because at one time of financial difficulties, my husband had asked me to let him pledge the three rings he had given me, and I consented, after he had had those rings cheaply copied in paste, so that our friends might not notice that my rings were gone. For how could I at that time wear the other three real rings without my husband noticing it at once? Afterwards, the pledged rings were redeemed, and so it happened that I possessed, before the night of May 30th-31st, three sets of similar rings.

I may add here that there are hundreds of ladies in Paris--even among the very wealthy--who have paste copies of their jewels, if only for safety's sake.

At Bellevue, I always had the real rings given me by my husband, and the _paste_ ones. I wore the real ones at home and the paste ones when I went out for walks in the woods or on business.

Where were all these rings at the time of the crime? The three _real_ rings (given me by M. B. and Félix Faure) were in the drawer of the wardrobe at my house in the Impasse Ronsin. The three _real_ rings (given me by my husband) were at Vert-Logis. When I left Bellevue to come to Paris and fetch my mother at the station, I had put on the three _false_ rings, leaving the three rings (given me by my husband) at Vert-Logis. When I massaged my mother I took those rings off, and took them upstairs when we retired. Those three false rings were therefore stolen by the murderers, together with the three _real_ rings (given me by friends), the diamond crescent (the President's), a gold chain, and the tricolour brooch.

Fearing the consequences--to my daughter's future and to my reputation--which would follow the discovery that I had received jewels from "friends," I did not mention these, and when I gave the list of what had been stolen, I merely described the rings, without adding that I had possessed three sets of them.

The three rings given me by my husband, I intended to have altered, having some of the stones made up with new by M. Souloy, for Marthe, with whom, I may add, I had several times talked over the matter and discussed designs. For obvious reasons of elementary delicacy, I did not want to use for these presents to my daughter stones taken from the rings given me by "friends."

I also mentioned as having been stolen a "new art" ring (gold and pearl). That was on the morning of May 31st, when, surely after what I had gone through my thoughts would not be quite clear or my statements strictly accurate. I believed that I had worn that ring on the previous day, and that it had been stolen. I said so to M. Bouchotte, who made a note of it. Later, it suddenly occurred to me that I had left the "new art" ring at Bellevue, and that, consequently, if could not have been stolen. But I thought it was a matter of trifling importance, and I did not mention it. Then, at the d'Arlons, Doctor Acheray told me that the public seemed to suspect me! Here was a new dilemma. What was I to do? If I mentioned my mistake about the "new art" ring, people would say: "She alters her statements, she lies...." Fearing that such a simple declaration might lead to more investigations that would reveal certain chapters of my life which I was anxious should not be disclosed, and remembering also that this "new art" ring had been given me by an admirer, whose name would of course become known if I drew attention to that ring, I dared not mention it now. It was a sad mistake, and I paid a heavy penalty for it, just as it was a sad mistake not to state that I possessed duplicates of the three valuable rings.

When, however, I did say, not that I possessed another set of _real_ rings, but that I had had the three rings in paste, and that these had been stolen--(which was absolutely true) the prosecution denied it. According to them, I had never had duplicates in paste of the three valuable rings given me by my husband. I gave the address of the firms where I had bought them and even the dates, but my statements in this matter were not even verified. And yet, it simply meant sending a detective to a jeweller in the Boulevard des Italiens, to another in the Boulevard des Capucines, and to a shop in the Rue de la Paix... that is, in the very heart of Paris. But the prosecution did not fail to send some one to Briançon, in the Alps (where my husband and I had been, as I have told, in 1897) in search of a merchant of alpenstocks, because an alpenstock with the name "Briançon" engraved on it had been found near the body of my husband on May 31st, 1908!

One more fact before leaving, for the present, this important "jewel problem." I had declared that a solid gold chain had been stolen, a "dull gold chain with large links." Now, M. Hamard had found, among other things in the secret recess behind the dresser, in the wall of the dining-room--a recess where I had myself told the police to look--"a chain, yellow metal." The Prosecution hoped to show that this chain was the one which I had said had been stolen. That would have been a material and unexceptional proof that I lied, a proof of my guilt!

On March 11th, 1909, I spent an hour explaining to the examining magistrate that I had possessed two chains, one that had been stolen and one that had been found in the recess. I lost patience.... The expert appointed to assist the law was present, and held the chain. I said to him:

"Since you believe that the chain of yellow metal found in the recess is the same as the 'dull gold chain with large links' mentioned in the list of stolen jewels which I gave, kindly reply to these two questions: Firstly, has the chain which you are holding in your hands 'large links'?"...

"No," said the expert.

"Is it made of gold?"

"I could not tell."

I was almost beside myself with anger when I heard this reply. The expert had written a long report, but had not even troubled to ascertain whether the chain found by M. Hamard in the recess was made of "solid gold" or not.

M. Souloy, who was present, was sent to test the "yellow metal" on a touchstone. I need hardly say that the surprise of all--save myself--was extreme. If the chain were made of gold, then I was lost, and that, of course, was what the judge wanted.... An hour elapsed. Then, M. Souloy returned.

"Well?" asked M. André, the judge.

"The chain is not made of gold. It is merely a gold-plated one."

The judge and the expert looked at one another in dismay, and my examination was proceeded with....

M. Leydet came to the d'Arlons a few days after I had been taken there. He was extremely pale. He seized my hand and said: "Hamard is coming.... It is not the judge in charge of the Impasse Ronsin case who stands before you, but your old friend.... It is dreadful. The whole population is against you.... You must collect yourself, you must be calm... and help us to find the murderers."

I was ill in bed and his words startled me. "Then," I said, "I must tell you everything--everything about the jewels, the papers.... I must tell you about Félix Faure...."

"No, no..." said M. Leydet, "don't speak about that.... We will find the murderers... but not a word about that...."

The door opened, and M. Hamard, head of the Criminal Investigation Department, came in. He had come to the Impasse Ronsin after the murder, but I did not know who he was at the time, so many people had been in my room then. I said to him as I had said to M. Leydet: "I must tell you about my past life, about the President...."

He, too, stopped me there, and said: "Don't speak about that.... We know.... We know.... We promise to find the murderers.... Have courage, we will find them...."

I felt immensely relieved. It was as if a huge weight had been lifted off my breast. I felt full confidence in these two men. I thought: They will find the murderers and they will not speak about the documents and the pearls, about my past life; and Marthe will not look down upon her mother.... I felt that they knew everything. M. Leydet was a friend of M. B., the Attorney-General, and it seemed evident to me that M. Hamard, because of his office, knew all about the life of the late President....

M. Leydet said: "Let us lose no time. I must still tell you this: Engage a counsel--it is always wiser.... Take my friend Aubin; he knows all about the case; he will be useful to you...." (I knew Maître Antony Aubin, and he had attended a few of my receptions.)

Thereupon a detective was ushered into the room. He wore a black gaberdine and a large hat with a turned-down brim. The man walked to and fro before me, and I was asked whether his attire was similar to that worn by the murderers. Then he put on a false beard, and again I was asked what remarks this performance suggested to me.

I said there was a great similarity between the detective's attire and that of the murderers, and gave various details about the gowns and hats of those murderers.

After M. Leydet and M. Hamard had gone, my daughter told me that my friend Mme. Darracq (wife of the motor-car manufacturer) wished to see me. I received her, of course, and she said she had come to beg me take Maître Aubin as counsel. As M. Leydet had just told me the same thing, I said I would.

At the same time I was at a loss to understand why I needed a counsel!

"Oh," said Mme. Darracq, "it is the usual thing. It is for the 'civil' proceedings against the criminals. You need assistance, legal advice."

All this was quite new to me.... Soon afterwards, Maître Aubin arrived, keen, full of life and fire and endowed with an amiable simplicity of character--as I was to find him all through my time of trouble. We had only a brief talk, for I felt very weak, and M. Aubin concluded: "Leydet is a very able magistrate; all will be well." And he added those words which I was to hear, week after week, for months and months: "We will find the murderers. Be patient.... We will find them!"

I remained about a fortnight with Count and Countess d'Arlon. Journalists came to me.... Doctor Acheray, hearing that the _Matin_ "demanded" an interview, and knowing the almost unlimited power of certain newspapers for good--or evil--hastily handed the _Matin_ a letter which I had written to him on the day before the murder, in which I asked him to examine my mother before her departure for Bellevue....

The letter duly appeared in the _Matin_, who, having thus received some exclusive information, had the generosity to publish a "favourable" article!

Ah! had my beloved father only been alive then! How he would have swept away this army of men who henceforth dogged my steps, hung pitilessly on my heels and hounded me down--and this not because they thought me guilty or innocent, not because they wished to assist me in finding the murderers--as they one and all proclaimed, in spoken and in written words (I possess all their letters in which I was naïve enough to believe)--but because I represented, in this age of sensation, that priceless asset, "good copy." They did not stop to think whether they were ruining me, sapping my health and my reason; it was nothing to them that by causing me for nearly two years what they called, with supreme jubilation, "The most talked of woman in the world," they inevitably paved the way for exaggerations and misrepresentations, and excited public opinion against me, for the world exaggerates what is bad rather than what is good, and scandal and murder have an exciting smack and flavour which noble qualities can never hope to possess. My intense love for my mother, the help I had given my husband in his work, the long weeks I had spent nursing him, the numberless services I had rendered not only to the needy and the poor, not only to my family and my husband's, but to friends, to important personages even, the difficulties I had surmounted by sheer will-power and devotion, the good side of my life, in short--all that was carefully ignored. Who wanted to hear about such trifles!... No, no, what every man and every woman wanted to find in the papers as soon as he or she got up in the morning and whilst enjoying their breakfast was, "What has _she_ said? What has she done?" And the public had to be catered for according to its taste. Whether I had said or done nothing of the slightest importance did not matter. Nothing was without importance. The most common-place remark can be turned by a writer who knows his trade into a sensational, exclusive and lengthy article!... And when no journalist could approach me--well... they did not consider themselves beaten by such a trifle as that: they turned, twisted, triturated the statements I had made before--or was supposed to have made--until they could extract some fresh substance, some further sensation, to throw to their hungry readers.

The newspapers which showed themselves my worst and most unjust enemies did not do so at all times; that I readily admit. And there were a few, very few, journals who were impartial and fair to the end, among them the _Liberté_ and the _Temps_. But what is one to think of a country where newspapers are allowed to make almost any statements, whether only partly true, or even not true at all, when _before and even during_ a trial for murder they can, without being interfered with, deliberately rouse public opinion against the accused person; call him or her an assassin, discuss, analyse and comment, and make it difficult for a jury, who leaves the court after each sitting and go home and read the papers, to judge according to their conscience, however honest and clear-minded they may be!

During those days of unspeakable grief and pain, whilst I slowly recovered at the d'Arlons, my daughter was with me with her little friend Marguerite Buisson; and several friends came to see and console me, thank heaven!

The police came constantly. M. Pouce, one of the detectives, especially asked me details about the jewels. A list of the stolen ones had to be made, and I sent Marthe to the Impasse Ronsin to fetch all the jewel-cases and whatever jewelry she could find in the secret recess in the dining-room wall, so as to be able to make out the required list. I had already enumerated the stolen jewels on May 31st, but only approximately, of course.

On June 10th, Mariette came from Bellevue with a number of things which I needed, and she also brought a small box containing the three rings given me by my husband, a diamond crescent, and the "new art" ring. I wanted these jewels to be safe in my keeping, for otherwise Marthe might have found them, and knowing about the rings which I said had been stolen, she would have asked questions which it would have been difficult for me to answer without arousing her suspicions about one side of my past life.

Two days later (June 12th) I sent for M. Souloy, the jeweller whom in the old days I had entrusted with the work of making the talisman. I wanted the rings to be altered, not only, of course, because I wanted to give "new" jewels to my daughter, but chiefly now because having given the list of the jewels without, for reasons I have explained, stating that there were duplicates of them, it was indispensable that the rings just brought from Bellevue should be made unrecognisable.

I did not realise at the time the danger of such a move and the serious consequences it might--and did--entail. I had been told that public opinion was against me; I did not quite understand what it meant. It did not occur to me that people could believe I had strangled my mother and my husband. How could such a monstrous idea have come into my head!... My haunting thought was the love and esteem of my daughter, and, therefore, it was urgent that the jewels should be transformed.

Oh! I know that all the troubles which ensued, that all the complications and accusations about "the jewels" would have been avoided if only I had said on the morning after the crime: "They have stolen my mother's jewels--eleven in number." But no, I spoke the truth, never realising until afterwards how involved and even dangerous matters would become--I had spoken the truth. I said, after seeing the empty cases: "They stole my jewels...." As I have explained, I did not know then that murder had been committed. I thought the men in black gowns and the red-haired woman had only come to steal; and it was no pleasant surprise to find that these had disappeared, besides my mother's eleven jewels, seven jewels of mine including three rings worth at least £60 each, and a splendid diamond crescent worth quite £400.

M. Souloy came. I was ill, so ill that the doctors kept giving me sea-water injections, but there was no time to lose. I handed M. Souloy the jewels that Mariette had brought from Bellevue, and instructed him to use the stones to make some rings for my daughter.

"I will, Madame," said M. Souloy. "Only, you understand that the alterations will be shown in my books."

"Why, of course," I replied. "When I am better, I intend going to my villa at Bellevue, and when the jewels are in their new form and ready, you can send them to me there."

* * * * *

I talked frequently with those around me about the mysterious tragedy. Some suggested that M. de Balincourt might possibly know who the culprits were; others told me that my valet probably knew a great deal more than I thought about the fatal night. I heard all kinds of arguments.... But I merely said: "If you have any proofs, if you are convinced of this one's or that one's participation in the crime, go and say so to the police...." Would that I had always been so circumspect!

Pierre Buisson came every day, but was not allowed to see Marthe, and my poor child was bitterly grieved.... It was clear that the Buissons, however devoted to me, were annoyed by my increasing notoriety--and how could I blame them, although I certainly was not to blame for that notoriety--and thought it wise that the engagement between their son and my daughter should not be insisted upon until the murderers were arrested, and the "Impasse Ronsin Mystery" solved and forgotten.

This separation, though merely temporary, was a new source of grief to me; I had lost my mother whom I adored, my husband who had been a good friend for nearly twenty years and for whom Marthe had a profound affection, several newspapers were publishing articles on the "Murder Mystery" which were full of almost transparent accusations against me.... And now I had to watch my only child, my little Marthe, suffer in her love, that pure and charming romance of hers, which reminded me of my own short-lived engagement to Lieutenant Sheffer, in dear Beaucourt, when I was Marthe's age!...

I begged Dr. Acheray to take me to Bellevue. It seemed to me that there, in the country, away from Paris and alone with my daughter, I should suffer less.... He agreed, and in the middle of June, that is, a fortnight after the crime, I was taken in an ambulance to Vert-Logis. There I stayed with Marthe, a nurse, and Mariette Wolff, the old cook. At my request, two detectives lived and slept at Vert-Logis. I was frightened, not without good reason, and wanted to feel protected. Also, I wished those men to observe every one who came to see me. It might prove useful....

Mariette loathed the police, and did not hesitate to say so. I myself did not like to have those men in the house, but I thought that Marthe and I were safer while they lived with us.

Meanwhile, the house in the Impasse Ronsin was in the care of the _concierges_, and two detectives.

Every day, although I was far from well and still needed sea-water injections, the detectives at work on the mystery came to me for further information.

I did not feel happier at Bellevue. There can be no question of any degree of happiness when one lives through such days as those I went through at the time, but I certainly felt very hopeful, and I will now say why.