CHAPTER XVII

THE THRONE-ROOM

At the end of October--on the 25th, I believe--we left Bellevue, Marthe and I, and returned to Paris, to the house in the Impasse Ronsin. The chief alterations were completed, but there was still a great deal to do in the way of decoration, plumbing, and so on, and the workmen came every day.

I had been told the only way to stimulate investigations was to let the Press take the matter in hand.... But before I did that I wished to make one more attempt at interesting the law in the Impasse Ronsin case.

I called on the _Procureur de la République_, who was then M. Monnier, at the Palace of Justice. Marthe accompanied me, and was present at the interview, which I will relate with _absolute_ accuracy. M. Monnier, a very small man, with an expressionless face, and eyes that seemed to avoid meeting the eyes of those who addressed him, asked me what I wished.

"I have come," I began, "to entreat you to give orders for the various clues not to be abandoned, but followed up with the utmost vigour...."

The _Procureur_ seemed quite surprised. Then, without hesitation, and in a lordly and lazy tone which clearly meant, "This affair does not interest me in the least," he replied: "Madame, we are following up some clues.... There's the Noretti clue--a friend of Mr. Burlingham--for instance.... That person is in Nice.... If you want us to go on with that clue it would be better for you to go to Nice yourself... and pay your expenses, of course...."

I started and said: "What! I should pay to assist the law in tracing the murderers!... Why! I have spent enough money as it is.... Even when I was asked to go to Boulogne for that examination--which you know I might have refused to go through, because of the state of my health--I had to pay about one hundred francs out of my own pocket for the motor-ambulance which took me!"...

The _Procureur_ then said: "I should not mention Boulogne, if I were you.... Do you know that I prevented your arrest that day?"...

I could hardly believe what I heard. His cold hard words and tone stung me into revolt, and I exclaimed: "I wish I had been arrested. There was and there is nothing against me. You would have had to release me almost immediately. I should have been vindicated, and all attacks would have ceased.... You know there exists nothing against me!"...

"That's just why I prevented your arrest, Madame."

What could I reply to that. I shrugged my shoulders and waited. The _Procureur_ pursued: "Really, why don't you keep quiet.... I fail to see what you expect of life!... You have your daughter, you have still a few friends.... What more do you want!... Also I read in the _New York Herald_ that you are going to let part of your house--to wealthy Americans, I presume?"...

"Do you waste your time, then, reading 'apartment' advertisements, _Monsieur le Procureur_?" I remarked.... "As a matter of fact, I am trying to let part of my house, but I have found no tenant yet.... There are other people I am more anxious to find: the murderers.... Public rumours, as you are well aware, give out that I am the guilty person, and this must cease. The law must do its duty...."

Once again M. Monnier's eyebrows went up in surprise. He sighed, and then, looking not at me but at my daughter, he replied, in the same hopelessly slow and bored tone: "We do our very best, Madame, I assure you.... I can only say you have the affection of your daughter, a few friends, a pretty house, enough to live upon.... What more do you want?... Really, really, you should never expect too much of life."

Indignant, I arose and, followed by Marthe, I walked to the door. There I turned and retorted: "No, I am not satisfied. I do expect more of life--above all, more justice. My daughter's life, my own, are being ruined because you don't care to find the murderers. I shall go on trying to trace them, even though the law, for some reason that I ignore, is not inclined to search for them. You cannot deny, sir, that certain clues have not been followed up as rapidly and as thoroughly as they should have been."

Thereupon I left the room with my daughter.

My first remark applied, as the reader has no doubt guessed, to the "stolen gowns." Who could deny that had something been done _at once_, there would have been a great chance of tracing and arresting the criminals? I do not say that it would have been an easy matter to watch every person connected with the Hebrew Theatre, or to find out all who were sufficiently conversant with the ways of the theatre to have been likely to steal the three gowns and the cloak which a few hours later were worn by the three men and the red-haired woman! But, whether an easy or a difficult task, it ought at least to have been attempted--and _at once_. The crime took place on May 30th-31st, 1908; the two cards which led to the discovery that three gowns and one cloak had been stolen from the Hebrew Theatre, were found in the Underground on the next day, May 31st. Only on the 10th of June were M. Guilbert, and Mlle. Rallet, M. Goldstein, M. Feinberg and others connected with the Hebrew Theatre interrogated.... After that, nothing was done--except following the Burlingham and Noretti clues which were an indirect outcome of the affair of the stolen gowns--although one would think that any normal mind would have thought that those stolen gowns held the key to the whole mystery! It was only _after_ my arrest, in December 1908, and during the early months of 1909, that, obviously in the hope of destroying the importance of the "stolen gowns" affair, the various witnesses connected with it were re-examined!... But what was the use of these investigations, seven to ten months _after_ the discovery of the theft--a discovery which exhibited beyond a shadow of doubt that my account of the tragedy was accurate? The three men and the red-haired woman were, of course, by that time out of reach.

Here let me quote some remarks made by Maître Antony Aubin at the trial, on the subject of the law's unpardonable lack of enterprise in the matter of the stolen gowns: "What I regret is that, during the first days which followed the crime, the police did not make full investigations--by order of the judge in charge of the murder case--among those chorists of all nationalities in this cosmopolitan group. What I regret is that this group, the most international one conceivable--and therefore the most elusive was not carefully 'sifted,' what I regret is that these nomads were allowed, during the first days of June, to scatter themselves abroad without interference. What I regret above all is that after so slight a search--nay, no search at all, at a time when the mystery could have been cleared up, the unfortunate woman was mercilessly tortured.... How she is to be pitied, this poor woman, borne down under the weight of so many suspicions when _thorough_ and _immediate_ investigations might have led to the discovery of those who murdered her husband and her mother. Had it then been forgotten that, not only did she give an exact description of the stolen costumes, but that she had even mentioned the foreign accent of one of the assassins and the Italian accent of the woman! Now, go and try, throughout the world, to trace the wretches!"

And Maître Aubin, with relentless logic, added: "It would be rash to assert that the criminals should not have been looked for outside the staff of the Hebrew Theatre. Could they not have been amongst the group of fifteen to twenty persons--artists' models, Montmartre types--who, according to Mlle. Rallet, were at Guilbert's on the day when the costumes were hired, on May 27th? Could not the order given that day have been overheard, the messenger followed on the Saturday to the theatre, where you (gentlemen of the jury) know how robbery, undeniably the preface to the crime, was easy for any one. And could not this 'any one' be found amongst the mixed crowd, chiefly composed of foreigners, attending the performances at the Hebrew Theatre?"

After the interview with M. Monnier, the Attorney-General, I returned home, to the Impasse Ronsin, with Marthe. For many hours I turned the problem over and over in my mind, and all the time I heard the words of the _Procureur_: "You have your daughter, a few friends, a nice house... what more do you want!"... Oh, that attitude of bored superiority and indifference! Oh, the condescending _blasé_, supercilious manner in which I had been told: "We do our very best, I assure you!"...

Meanwhile, life was made quite unbearable to both Marthe and me. Insulting letters reached me day after day. Certain journals had begun to tear away the almost transparent veil which so far had covered their attacks of me, and the murderers were at large, undisturbed!... I should hardly have been worthy to be called human if I had not been in a state of rebellion against this intolerable position.

I had gone from Bellevue to see M. Hamard, but nothing had come from the visit, and after my interview with M. Monnier, I went once more to the head of the Criminal Investigation Department. Marthe was with me. The darling insisted on following me everywhere, for two reasons which may seem contradictory, but which nevertheless often go together: first, because she dreaded to be alone, and was frightened to the verge of collapse whenever I was away from her; and secondly, because she wanted to give me courage.

M. Hamard seemed very much annoyed at seeing me, although he did not make me wait. M. Chabrier, a cousin of my husband, had joined my daughter and me, but they both had to remain in another room, for M. Hamard received me alone. I explained to him the object of my visit, urged him to give up half-hearted methods, and to see that no efforts were spared in the search of the murderers. And I insisted on the importance of the "Underground cards" clue.

M. Hamard spoke the same words as the _Procureur_: "Madame, I assure you that we do our best...." He added a few, vague, common-place remarks, but concluded in a different tone, and with genuine sincerity. "I will look for the murderers until I find them!"

In spite of this last remark, I got a clear impression that the _Affaire de l'Impasse Ronsin_, as I had been told, was _classée_.

On the way home I remained silent, but as we entered the garden, I took my daughter in my arms, and said: "Marthe, I will fight to the end, come what may. I owe it to you, to your father and your grandmother, and to myself." She gave me a long kiss, and big tears rolled down her cheeks as she whispered: "You are right, maman, the murderers will be found, and... Pierre, perhaps, will come back to me!" She had not yet quite forgotten him....

During the last days of October, I saw M. Marcel Hutin, who had often told me that the Press was almighty, and that he placed himself at my disposal. If the newspapers took up my case, the assassins would soon fall into the hands of the police. I believed him. I would at that time have believed any one who promised to help me to get at the truth. Marthe, my few remaining friends, every member of my family, inspectors--all advised me to go on with the case.... My mind was irrevocably made up.

With M. Hutin's assistance, I wrote a letter to his newspaper, the _Echo de Paris_. In that letter, which was published on October 31st, 1908, I mentioned the lukewarmness and lethargy of those in charge of the case, and solemnly asserted my intention of continuing investigations, and avenging the dead. The letter created a deep sensation, and was everywhere reproduced. My house was assailed by journalists; I was in the hands of the Press.

* * * * *

On the day when the letter appeared, we went, Marthe and I, to the cemetery at L'Hay, a little village in the neighbourhood of Paris, where M. Steinheil was buried. Together we arranged the tomb, and decorated it with flowers, and--prayed....

* * * * *

When we reached the Impasse in the afternoon, we found it invaded by a score of journalists, who rushed to us and overwhelmed me with questions... but I firmly declared that I had nothing to add, for the present, to what I had said in my letter to the _Echo de Paris_.

Shortly afterwards, Marthe and I went by train to Breteuil, where my brother Julien lived. We arrived there in the evening and had a long conversation about the mystery. Like so many others, Julien thought a campaign in the newspapers the only means of getting at the truth. "Tell them what you know, what you think. Let them assist you in the search for the murderers.... In less than a month our mother and your husband will be avenged, and you will be triumphantly vindicated of all these vile insinuations...."

Poor Julien--and poor me. In less than a month, I was... in prison!

The next morning--All Saints' Day--we ran through the newspapers--my brother, Marthe, and I... and were astounded. In every one of them whole columns were devoted to the murder mystery, to my letter published in the _Echo de Paris_. Some approved; others criticised. Some praised my courage; others made it clear that they considered this daring, reckless move of mine a sign of my guilt! One journal--one which always knows everything--probably irritated because my letter, re-opening the case, as it were, had appeared elsewhere, described my visit to the cemetery at L'Hay, and did not hesitate to say that I had driven there in a closed carriage with drawn blinds, like a guilty person.... As a matter of fact, as the weather was splendid, and I thought that the country air would do both Marthe and me much good, we had driven to the cemetery in an open carriage.

Is it difficult to realise the harm such an untruthful comment in a newspaper, read by hundreds of thousands of persons, did to my case?

Marthe sobbed; my brother was furious, and I, profoundly hurt, wondered what to do.

"Go and see Maître Aubin," Julien suggested, "and the sooner the better...."

Marthe and I returned to Paris. I called on Maître Aubin, who I found was reading the newspapers.

"I am bewildered," he began. "Why did you not tell me you were writing to M. Hutin?"...

"I was told that the Press would help me.... My conscience is clear. I fear nothing, and no one. We will succeed...."

"I have no doubt about it," said Maître Aubin.

"Until now, I have refused to talk to journalists, but in future I will reply to all their questions, if only they will help me. And if certain papers attack me, or publish false statements, you will have to put a stop to it. The die is cast; I will go to the end of this mystery, and reach the truth."

Maître Aubin was somewhat bewildered. At the same time I could see that he was glad to find me so determined.

Shortly afterwards I went to the Palace of Justice to see M. Leydet and M. Grandjean the _Procureur's Substitut_. Maître Aubin had written to them that, dissatisfied with the apparent sluggishness and indifference with which the Impasse Ronsin case had been conducted, I had decided to take him, Aubin, as _avocat-conseil_.

I entreated M. Grandjean to see things as they were: "Try to understand my position," I said. "You are a friend of M. Buisson. You know exactly what my circumstances are, and you, M. Leydet, have known me for years.... Are you not both aware that the marriage of my daughter to M. Buisson's son will be broken off unless we get at the truth? M. Buisson, like every one else, is convinced that the affair has been abandoned.... _You_ can deny this... if it is wrong; you can declare that the detectives are at work... if they are! You know that I am innocent. Well, say so; do something.... It is your duty."

M. Grandjean, instead of replying to my question, stammered: "But, Madame, it is appalling.... You have raised the newspapers; things are in such a state that we cannot leave the Palace without being pestered and mobbed by an army of reporters. Life for us has become an inferno...."

"And what of _my_ life?" I exclaimed.

M. Grandjean did not seem to hear, and pursued: "The clues are now being followed not only by our inspectors, but by the journalists, who take it upon themselves to act as detectives!"...

I interrupted again: "That is what you hate; what frightens you.... You are fully aware that you attached no importance to a great deal of information I gave you on various suspicious persons who came to the Impasse Ronsin, a few weeks before the crime, and about other facts and clues. If you, at the time, did make a move in any direction, it was because the attitude of the newspapers forced you to do so.... But it is too late now, after five or six months, to ask for alibis from those whom you suspect.... You shrug your shoulders. You look upon the matter in the same way as your chief.... I am more and more convinced that the case has been given up; I am even led to believe that it was given up very shortly after the crime! Well then, M. Grandjean, if you refuse to do what I have asked, I shall take the newspapers into my confidence, and they will help me...."

Then, turning to M. Leydet, I added: "Will you kindly draw up a document by which Maître Aubin becomes my _avocat-conseil_?"

M. Leydet, deeply moved, exclaimed: "I beg you to reflect, to wait... before putting this affront on us.... I have spared no effort.... I am an honest man...."

"I know that, M. Leydet," I replied. "But you have one great fault: you are a friend of mine. It would have been better for the public if the judge in charge of this case had been some one I did not know at all. I have been told that there was some thought of arresting me after your examination at Boulogne. If you had anything to do with preventing my arrest, I am sorry, for you would have had to release me at once, and then public opinion, satisfied that there was no case against me whatever, would have taken my part instead of accusing me."

The paper making Maître Aubin my _avocat-conseil_ was duly signed.

* * * * *

A new life began for me, a life of indescribable activity, of feverish, unending rushing to and fro, a nerve-racking life of hopes and fears, of constant surprise and anxieties.... I received every day from fifty to eighty visits from journalists belonging not only to the Parisian, but to provincial and foreign newspapers as well. Each had his clue and his theory; each had made some startling discovery and wanted my views on it, each told me that his journal was the only one which was really on my side, and each craved exclusive information.... I received them in a house crowded with workmen who every few minutes came to ask for instructions! Shoals of letters and telegrams reached me, from journalists who assured me of their devotion, or wanted an immediate reply to an "all-important" question. Anonymous letters came in greater numbers than ever, some threatening my life and others denouncing Couillard, Wolff, or Balincourt--as usual. And there were letters from relations and acquaintances who spurred me on--as if I needed it!--and assured me the murderers would be found, that the newspapers would discover them, no matter what it cost to do so. Yet other letters, thrown over my garden wall, and anonymous of course, dotted the lawns and hung in the trees!... And I read them all eagerly....

Journalists arrived at the house as early as half-past seven in the morning. Some called three or four times a day, and before returning home late at night they would call once more to hear if anything had happened that they would still have time to telephone before the papers went to press.... I was most grateful to them all, for they were working for me, and probably many of them were not responsible for the attacks against me in the journals to which they belonged. "I supply facts, Madame," one confessed to me, "but they are turned into anything that suits the editor or his employers."

I went round to all the Parisian newspaper offices and spoke my mind, and I thought that after this things would improve, and that fair and truthful statements would be the rule in the future.

In the evening, when I returned home exhausted, I was dumbfounded when M. Chabrier (a cousin of my husband and a post-office sorter, to whom I had let an apartment in my house) told me: "Don't be too angry with the _Matin_. Two of the journalists on the staff, M. de Labruyère and M. Barby, are waiting to see you. They have been here the whole afternoon. Be calm.... I believe they are well-disposed, they will help you.... Don't turn them out...."

I entered the house with Marthe. The table was laid for us in the dining-room. I found these two men seated and waiting. I told them that since I had said I would not be back till the evening, they should not have presumed to spend the afternoon in my house, especially as the journal to which they belonged was my bitterest foe. M. de Labruyère, extolled the _Matin_, explained that it was only a matter of misunderstanding, that M. Bunau-Varilla (the proprietor of the _Matin_) was extremely sorry.... He showed me a letter of M. Marcel Hutin of the _Echo de Paris_, in which the latter begged me to receive his friend and advised me not to decline the assistance of the _Matin_.

I was rather surprised, for it is unusual for Parisian journalists on the staff of rival newspapers to help one another in what they call a "big story." True, M. de Labruyère and M. Hutin were great friends, but I had seen so many instances of fierce rivalry amongst journalists during the past few days, that I could hardly believe what I read.

At the time, however, I had full confidence in M. Hutin, who was on excellent terms with a sculptor friend of mine, and, turning to the two journalists, I said: "I am quite ready to believe in the goodwill of the _Matin_. I shall continue reading the articles on my case which appear in its columns, and shall judge from them whether that goodwill is genuine."

M. de Labruyère then said: "Madame, M. Bunau-Varilla places at your disposal as much money as you may want to follow all the clues that you may suggest, and if you disbelieve me, please ask for an audience from M. Bunau-Varilla."

Although I was tired out and in no mood to laugh, I could not help smiling at the pompous, yet hushed tone of M. de Labruyère, when he mentioned "an audience" with his almighty chief.

"I will think of it later on," I replied. "I wish first of all to see how the _Matin_ will deal with the Impasse Ronsin affair and with me."

M. de Labruyère was about to leave when I was suddenly startled by the flare and click of a flash-light. M. Barby had taken a flash-light photograph of my daughter and myself. I was angry, but the wary M. de Labruyère explained: "Believe me, Madame, nothing could be more useful to your cause than the publication in our journal of a photograph of you and Mdlle. Steinheil quietly dining together in this house where the crime took place. People will think: if Mme. Steinheil can eat in the place where her husband and her mother were murdered, then she must be innocent." I shrugged my shoulders, and bade the two journalists good-bye.

For awhile, I readily admit, the _Matin_ carried on a vigorous campaign, which was in my favour, since it aimed at the truth, at the solution of the mystery. The articles of M. de Labruyère had undoubtedly much to do with the renewed activity of the police.

Meanwhile, the strain of my abnormal life, the constant excitement and strife around me, the ceaseless questions of journalists and visits of would-be advisers, the accumulation of clues, arguments, and suggestions, lack of sleep, and the almost complete loss of appetite, gradually brought me to a state of physical lassitude and mental agitation that bordered on madness. I still wonder to this day if it was that my distracted, tortured mind did not become unhinged sooner than November 26th (1908), the date of what has been called in this harrowing affair the "Night of the Confession," so easy was it for any one to persuade me into believing or saying anything, anywhere, and at any time.

When I left my house a crowd followed me and sometimes I heard a man or woman shout: "There she is, the murderess!..." Some said: "No, no, leave her alone!" I did not mind, I did not understand.... Nothing mattered. There was but one thought in my mind: "_They_ will soon be found, and Marthe and I will breathe again; we will be allowed to live--like all other human beings...."

Journalists followed me wherever I went. I liked them, I smiled on them, they were helping me, they were working with me, for me and Marthe. I always did my best now to collect my thoughts and answer their questions. M. de Labruyère begged me daily to come to the _Matin_ offices, and I went, half-heartedly, to tell him what he wanted to know. When I did not go he came to fetch me, accompanied me in a motor-car, on my errands, to my notary, to Maître Aubin, and on the way he interrogated me, and wrote down every word I said, and probably much else besides.... Sometimes I was quite normal, but these spells of lucidity were daily growing scarcer....

One day, at the _Matin_ offices, M. de Labruyère telephoned directly to the Minister of Justice to ask him for an "urgent audience" about me. I was surprised, and said so, but he replied airily: "The Minister is an old friend of ours. We do as we please, here, with the Government."

I felt there was something not quite clear in this, and I may say that since the "Night of the Confession" I have been convinced that the direct telephoning to the Minister of Justice was a put-up comedy to impress me with the importance of the _Matin_--and I said to M. de Labruyère: "I think it far simpler that I should call on the Minister. He is sure to receive me, in the circumstances."

"No, no," came the hasty reply. "Let _us_ arrange it. Let Bunau-Varilla arrange it. You must understand that Ministers must bow their heads before us. Surely you know that we end Cabinets as easily as we make them...."

Thereupon, he once more begged me to meet M. Bunau-Varilla. "He has been rather vexed because you declined to see him.... But I am sure he will at once grant you an audience, if you wish it."

I consented. After all, I might as well see this man with unlimited powers, this Bunau-Varilla who "granted audiences" like a sovereign or a Cabinet Minister.

I went down three steps which led from a vestibule to the "audience-chamber." I found myself in a room of huge proportions, with only a long, seemingly endless table and the chairs around it for furniture. At the further end of the table stood a white-haired man, white-bearded, in evening dress (it was 5 P.M.), erect, solemn, gloomy--but not awe-inspiring. There was something in his attitude that reminded me of the "Statue of the Commander" in Molière's "Don Juan."

We were alone. There was a long moment of silence. M. Bunau-Varilla watched me with very keen eyes, and then remembering that I was a lady, he pointed to a chair, with a would-be royal gesture, and uttered a few words of welcome in an icy tone.

"I have just heard from M. de Labruyère," I said, "that you are sorry not to have seen me before, but I have been attacked, defended, re-attacked and re-defended by your journal, and before coming to you I wished to find out what your final attitude was to be."

"The _Matin_, Madame," he replied, less icily, "is entirely at your disposal. As you are no doubt aware, I am the master of public opinion. I change it as I please, I play with it.... Your letter to the _Echo de Paris_ proved to me that you are a woman with brains and character; it pleased me. But I wish to tell you that I know a great deal about you and your past life--more, indeed, than you suppose, and I must tell you at once quite frankly that if you wish to find in me a real defender--which I am anxious to be--I shall expect greater frankness from you, fuller details--even confessions--about all you know that might help us to trace the murderers."

As he spoke he looked me intently in the eyes, as if to intimidate me. I thought, of course, that he was alluding to Félix Faure, to his death, to all that I knew about the President and other prominent men, but later I found out he had something else on his mind--the Rossignol affair, with which I will deal in the next chapter.

In my turn I looked him straight in the eyes, and replied firmly: "Monsieur Bunau-Varilla, if you expect great frankness of me, I expect the same of you. You have just spoken as if you knew things which you really do not know, but are anxious to know. Why are you not plain-spoken and sincere, why don't you tell me what you do know; or think you know?"

In the tone which Napoleon must have used when he congratulated one of his generals, after a brilliant move on a battle-field, M. Bunau-Varilla condescended to say: "Your firmness pleases me." Then he added, very gently and soothingly: "But you are only a woman, and, in spite of your courage, you need guidance. Let the _Matin_ be your guide. If you place yourself in our hands you need fear nothing, and you are bound to reach the goal you have in view."

Finding that the interview had lasted long enough, I rose, bowed slightly, and left the Throne-Room.