CHAPTER XIX

THE PEARL IN THE POCKET-BOOK

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....

M. Goron went straight to the point, in a persuasive though very blunt manner: "I have my views on this mystery, and I will tell you what they are.... I may possibly hurt your feelings, but--I always speak my mind. The Affair is quite clear to me. It is _not_ a 'low crime' (_un crime crapuleux_). The Burlingham clue?... Nonsense, farce, absurdity. The case is more serious. Between ourselves--you have never spoken about your close relations with Félix Faure.... You did wisely; the law doesn't want to know about that portion of your life, however important it may be in connection with the murder.... But my opinion is this: that the murder is a direct sequel to your friendship with the late President. You have been brave and discreet, and I congratulate you. As a matter of fact, you know too many things, and that kind of knowledge is always dangerous.... I know all about your friendship with Félix Faure, of course; I also know that you had nothing to do with his strange death, and I further know that you have nothing to do with the assassination of your mother and your husband. Your husband had too much confidence in various persons who were not worthy of it, and he paid dearly for his grave mistake...."

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.

"Yes, yes," he said. "All this may be interesting. I have a good mind to lend you some of my men. There are workmen in your house just now. Well, my men will disguise themselves as workmen, and they will observe everything and everybody. I have never seen your house. Will you receive me and my son? I will look the place over. My son will assist me. We will come as foreigners who wish to visit the studio...."

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.

When I reached home, I found a journalist waiting for me. He was M. D., an eighteen-year-old reporter. He came frequently and always had extraordinary things to say against Couillard--things which, curiously enough, tallied with the remarks about my valet contained in a large number of the anonymous letters I received. (Couillard was now once more in my service. He had not found a situation as a chauffeur and had returned to me.)

"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?"

I went to Mariette, and asked her about Couillard. The old cook said to me, in her usual rough but not unpleasant manner: "Madame, I don't know anything. He comes from a village.... Are they going to worry Couillard now? Are they going to ask me questions again? I am tired of all journalists, and I am tired of the police."

"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. rubbed his hands: "You see, I was right about Couillard. A letter written by your daughter is found in your valet's pocket-book, that is most suspicious. He surely did not take the letter just for the sake of the stamp, which has been cut off, by the way. He would have destroyed the letter." He hesitated, then, suddenly exclaimed: "That letter was written--and stolen--at the very time you had decided to take up the Affair again. I suppose Couillard wanted to know what you and your daughter intended doing.... Let me go and examine his bag. We may discover something more important and more conclusive." M.D. went up to the attic with Marthe. Couillard was not in the house at the time. I had engaged him again at the end of October, to please my daughter; she thought, very justly, that if Couillard had been unable to find a situation, it was on account of the Impasse Ronsin drama, and owing to the fact that after his examination at Boulogne, there had been rumours of his arrest. Couillard worked in the house all day, but did not sleep there. He had asked me, however, to let him leave his bag in the attic, and he frequently went up there.

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.

All night long I lay awake, and worked myself up against Couillard.... I remembered and re-read the anonymous letters... in which he was stated to be the murderer, or, at any rate, a "man who knew," and others telling me: "What Public Opinion does not understand is why you should have been spared, whilst your husband and your mother were killed." And he was still alive, like myself! I was told over and over again that the murder must have been committed by some one who lived in the house. Well, there were only Couillard and myself besides the victims, in the house. Since it was not I, it must be Couillard!... Then there was the key that he had lost shortly before the fatal night.... Then, he had kept the revolver, instead of handing it back to my husband.... I thought, too, of another crime, the murder of M. Rémy, a banker, a week or so after the Impasse Tragedy. M. Rémy had been killed by his valet, a young man... who was not suspected for a long time, and it suddenly occurred to me that Couillard had been out on Saturday, May 30, in the evening. I had sent him to take a wedding present--the Sèvres vase--to M. Ch.'s daughter.... On his way Couillard had perhaps met his accomplices. During the night he had left his room above the studio, and gone down to receive the other men. The red-haired woman was perhaps his mistress, and he had let her come so that she might get some of the jewels.... Couillard was rather timid and nervous. Perhaps he was the one man who remained motionless, near the door of my room, and whose eyes had looked so frightened.... I did not recognise him because of the black gown, the long felt hat, and the false beard. It must have been a false beard.... How my imagination ran riot, how the most insignificant facts that I had observed began to fit in with the theory with which I became more and more obsessed. Madness had begun. Henceforth, I was almost irresponsible. I had had so many shocks, gone through so many crises, been played with, insulted, threatened, accused, and tortured so relentlessly during the past weeks that I ceased to distinguish between what was right and what was wrong, what good and what bad, what criminal and what legitimate.... I was in the hands of several journalists, who forced my door open when I refused to receive them, who treated my house as their own, and wrote almost anything they pleased about me. So many clues had been taken up and abandoned, that I clung desperately to this one. Yes, Couillard would have to confess, and then it would all be over. I should have the right to live, to breathe, to sleep.... I had no friends.... My beloved Marthe was as ill as I was, and wept day after day. She had lost her father, her grandmother, her fiancé.... Winter had come, with howling winds, chill, driving rain, and days of gloom.... It was dark and it was cold.... An effort, and I should win. Yes, M. D. was right; Couillard was the man. Of course he was the criminal... of course....

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

I went to M. Goron, the ex-chief of the _Sûreté_, in whose judgment I had the greatest confidence, and told him all about the discovery of the stolen letter.

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).

"... At the request of Mme. Steinheil, the Countess de Toulgoët, her son, M. Chabrier and I consented to be witnesses. It was agreed that Couillard would be told there was a situation as chauffeur offered him, and that we would get him to reproduce his licence. We went first to see whether the letter was still in his pocket-book: Couillard's overcoat was in Mariette's room. The pocket-book was found and examined; the letter was still there....

"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)

To me in my abnormal, almost morbid state of mind, those words: "I am caught!... I will talk only before M. Hamard!" came as a revelation. Couillard was livid and sank into his chair like a man who had been found out or who had given up fighting.... "I am caught!" That was a confession obviously! At last the truth would come out. I did not think Couillard guilty, but felt sure that he knew a great deal about the murder, and now he would have to speak.... Then suddenly a thought occurred to me: Would Couillard speak? M. Hamard had declared to M. Chabrier that he did not consider the stealing of a letter a serious offence.... If Couillard was to speak, to confess what he knew, something more was needed than the stolen letter.... Whilst the others discussed the "next move," I went into my room. I was frantic with excitement and thought: What shall I do to make him speak? I could not see then that those words, "I am caught," might have had no meaning and merely refer to the stealing of the stamp, and I kept muttering: "I am caught! I am caught!... What does he mean by that!" And I recalled a conversation between Couillard and Alexandre Wolff a few days before. Mariette was away at the time and I was able to enter the pantry, when I heard the two men talking together. (Alexandre Wolff had come to see his mother and had remained to dinner.) Wolff was saying: "You fool, why did you not do as I told you? Have you taken it away from the attic?" And Couillard replied, "She won't give me the key; it is not difficult to get in." Thereupon I heard Mariette returning, and I withdrew.

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.

Now, I thought, they will arrest him. He will be frightened, and if he knows anything, as I am sure he does, he will make a confession. If he is really quite innocent, I will tell my friend M. Leydet that I placed the pearl in the pocket-book, and I will explain why. After that I returned to the dining-room, and handed the pocket-book to M. Chabrier, who put it in his pocket and walked away.

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....

"The third person said the pearl was worth £16, but, seeing that it was pierced at both ends, he remarked the value might be about £10....

"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.

The next morning, I went to the _Sûreté_, and asked for a detective to accompany me to the Rue de la Boëtie. It was Inspector Dechet who came, and together we went to M. Gaillard, the jeweller who had made, from a sketch by the donor and with a pearl brought from Dufayel's, the "new-art" ring given me by M. Ch. M. Gaillard was able to find in his books the exact description of the ring, the weight and shape of the pearl, &c.... I told him that the pearl found in my valet's pocket-book (he had, of course read about this incident which was dealt with in all the newspapers) was the one in the "new-art" ring.

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.

At my request, a search was made in Couillard's rooms and also one in my own house. I wanted to know whether Couillard had concealed anything in the attic or elsewhere. The Press and Public Opinion were very much roused against Couillard, and I anxiously awaited the reports which inspectors brought me of the progress of my former valet's examination. I heard that he had spoken about a woman who had called on my husband on Friday, May 29th--two days before the crime. Couillard was at the kitchen window when the bell rang, and was about to go and open the door when he saw M. Steinheil hurry out into the garden and have a brief conversation at the gate with a woman. I was also told that Couillard had made this strange statement: "Alexandra Wolff knows more about the whole affair than I do!" To me all this appeared of paramount importance. Couillard would soon make a clean breast of everything. Victory was at hand at last--and with it peace. At the same time I thought of Alexandre Wolff. The son of my cook was on most friendly terms with my valet.... I remembered that shortly after the crime, Wolff had been much better dressed and, as some one remarked, "rolled in money." He was tall and very strong, knew the house well.... Was he one of those men in the black gowns? Through his mother he could know everything about our movements.... I wondered.

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.

The two went up, up.... I heard them open the door of the attic and enter.... How long they remained there I could not tell.... I shook with fear and cold; the blood throbbed painfully through in my temples.... I heard them again and jumped up. They came down, stopped on the second floor at the entrance of the studio, and went in there.... I ran out in the garden to see whether there was any light in the studio. There was none. They evidently held their candle quite low, and away from the windows. I rushed back to the foot of the staircase. They came down. Just as I was about to go back to my room, so as not to be seen, I heard Wolff say ill-temperedly to his mother: "I tell you that three are missing," and Mariette replied: "Well, I can't help that!..." Wolff then said: "Now that he is locked up, we shan't know anything. Ah! Why couldn't she leave things alone: everything was quiet. Why could not you shut her mouth!... But be careful. She is wide awake. I saw that the other evening when I had dinner here. She was kind as usual, but her eyes were not the same...." They had stopped on the first-floor landing.... I feared that I should not have the strength to reach my room, but I managed somehow to get there. Marthe was sleeping peacefully. The night-light fell on the letters scattered about the table, and cast a soft glow on my daughter's face. The sight of her gave me courage. I looked at the clock. It was 12.40 A.M. I went back to the dining-room window, and saw Mariette and her son creep noiselessly through the hall. I ran to the door and, hearing no noise, went two or three steps into the hall. I then heard the voice of Mariette saying: "Give me a light.... I can't see." The voice came from the staircase leading to the cellar, and the door at the top of the staircase was ajar. What were they doing there?... I hid again, and soon the two came up.

Alexandre Wolff looked wild.... "Hush!" said Mariette, and they went to the _concierge's_ lodge, through the kitchen. (Mariette acted at that time as cook and doorkeeper.) The doors were closed, and I could hear nothing. I waited. The hall being almost entirely of glass, I could not help seeing Wolff leaving the house. My feelings during all this time may be surmised. At last I saw the door of the lodge open, and then Wolff walked stealthily to the gate, opened it, and disappeared. I went back to my room to see Marthe. She had slept soundly. I looked at the clock; it was 1.30 _A.M._ I wondered what I should do. For the first time I was afraid of Mariette, who had always been the most devoted servant any one could wish to have, in spite of her rather blunt ways. Mme. Chabrier was upstairs, in her little apartment. Should I go up and ask her for assistance?... I hesitated, then made up my mind. I lit a candle and went straight to the lodge. The opening on to the garden, near the gate into the street, was still open. I found Mariette sitting near her bed in a state of stupor. She started when she saw me, and she seemed at once to realise that my feelings towards her were changed.

"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?..."

"And then... Mariette? It is for you to explain to me what you did with your son in the attic, in the studio, and then in the cellar.... Answer me."

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!...

At the same time, I was trembling with fear, and wondering.... At daybreak, I fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion, but was soon awakened by the banging of the doors. I went out to see what the matter was.

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 attic was a vast one, and encumbered with boxes, furniture, models' costumes and what not.... I went up to watch the detectives at work. I wondered what had happened during the night, when Mariette and her son had been there! Those words: "There are three missing...." haunted me. I was care-worn and ill. I had not slept for forty-eight hours and I had gone through a thousand maddening anxieties.... I wanted the men to find something.... It seemed to me that they were not keen enough, that they did not search as thoroughly as they should.... I rushed to my room, took a tiny diamond in a box, rushed back to the attic, and dropped it in the dust. Yes! that was a good idea. They would renew their efforts, now.... I called their attention to the glittering speck, and one of the detectives picked up the small diamond. M. Hamard, who was present, quickly pocketed the stone, and remarked: "We will have to find out whether it is a real diamond or mere paste."

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....

In the middle of the night--it must have been 1.30 A.M.--the door-bell rang persistently. I rose, and dressed hastily, Mariette was already at the gate. "Who is it?" I cried; "what is it?" There were half a dozen journalists outside, who wanted to know if it were true that I had committed suicide! Mariette shouted, "No, of course not! Go away!" and banged the wicket to. That night again I was unable to sleep. I thought that I could not live through another day such as I had just passed, another night such as was now slowly dragging away. I was convinced that I had reached the limit of human endurance, but events were to prove to me, very soon--within the next twenty-four hours in fact!--that I was wrong. My calvary had only begun.... There is perhaps no limit to the human capacity for suffering, physically and mentally.

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?

An inspector had called and told me during the afternoon that Couillard had said that M. Steinheil, on the Saturday, May 30th, less than twelve hours before the crime, had told him that he expected some important letters, and had ordered him to hide them under the table-cover in the hall, when they came. Two messages had come, and Couillard had hidden them as he had been told.... These were important facts. It was not yet time to go to M. Hamard and tell him the truth about the pearl.... Couillard was making new and highly interesting statements, and might know and say much more.... If Couillard was quite innocent, and knew absolutely nothing that could throw some light on the crime, it was wicked of me to leave him in prison when, by stating that I had placed the pearl in his pocket-book merely in order to make the valet speak, he would have been at once set free. But at that time I did sincerely believe that he was not quite innocent, and was convinced that at any moment I might hear that he had revealed the great secret and the names of the assassins. And, therefore, I waited still a little longer....