CHAPTER XXIX

THE TRIAL

I was at last taken to the guards' room, close to the Court of Assize. Whilst I sat in a corner I heard a municipal guard say to another: "Look at her dress! The papers are wrong!"

Later, I discovered the meaning of this remark. It appears that some well-intentioned newspaper had informed its readers that I had had a wonderful mourning-dress made by Worth or Paquin especially for the trial! As a matter of fact, I wore the very dress and the same toque in which I had arrived at Saint-Lazare a year before!

I also heard that, apart from judges, jurymen, witnesses, officials of the court, barristers, representatives of the press, and a very limited attendance of the public at the back of the Court (the law stipulates that trials must be public), no one would be allowed to be present.

A number of persons came to give me all kinds of contradictory advice. "Don't be haughty," said one, "for that would displease the jury"; "Don't look depressed or ashamed, for that would suggest guilt," said another; one barrister recommended me not to look "unnatural," and some one else urged me not to look "natural, for an innocent woman accused of murder could not possibly look herself at her trial!" M. Desmoulin said: "I'll be present at the trial and remain to the end, not far from you. Your agony is nearing its end. Be brave, and, above all, do as your counsel tells you, and change or add nothing to your previous statements." Dr. Socquet--whom I had never seen before, but who was most devoted and useful to me all through that harrowing trial--gave me a soothing potion to drink. Meanwhile the guards smoked their pipes and their cigarettes, and watched me--a few in a suspicious and disagreeable manner, but most of them with kindness and sympathy.

I could hear a great buzz of excitement coming from the Court: the noise of hundreds of feet and hundreds of voices, exclamations, bursts of laughter even--exactly like the buzz one hears at a theatre, on a first night, before the curtain goes up. My heart beat within me like a heavy hammer. My head throbbed with pain and fever as if it would burst, and my hands and feet were icy cold.

A voice suddenly said, close to me: "Come, Madame."

I rose automatically and, between two municipal guardsmen, walked along a short passage. A door was opened before me. I stepped into the Court of Assize and entered the dock. There were guards near me and behind me. Absolute silence reigned. Everything was dark... so dark. I shuddered. Then I heard voices just before and a little below me: my three counsel were there standing by their bench, talking to me, encouraging me. I threw my veil back over my hat and shoulders and tried to listen to Maître Aubin and his secretaries. Gradually I grew used to the surroundings. When I raised my head--it seemed ages, but was probably a few seconds only after I had entered the dock--I saw, first of all, a group of men wrapped in shadow--the jury--in a dock similar to mine, just opposite me under large windows through which filtered the dismal light of a rainy November day. I felt the light on my face. Near the jury, at a kind of desk, was seated a man in a red robe, whom I knew well: M. Trouard-Riolle, the Advocate-General, with a hawklike face, a bald scalp, a receding forehead, a thin long nose, ferrety eyes behind a pince-nez, a double chin, and a fat neck, knitted brows and sneering lips under a narrow close-cropped moustache.... Between the jury and me was the well of the Court, a wide space, empty save for a semi-circular bar, held on three uprights--the witness-bar--and a table on which I saw the "exhibits": gags of wadding, an alpenstock, the brandy bottle, coils of cord too....

On the right, at a few yards from me, on a platform, sits M. de Valles, with a judge on either side of him. All three wear red robes. M. de Valles toys with an ivory paper knife. Before him is placed the huge dossier of my case, that extraordinary dossier which I know by heart. In the shadow, behind the three judges' arm-chairs are a number of persons, "guests of honour," I presume. On the left of the dock are scores of barristers in their black gowns and white rabats, including one or two women-barristers. Behind them, tightly pressed together, a small army of journalists, and at the other end of the Court, behind a wooden partition, the public: "_les cent veinards_" (the "hundred lucky ones"), as I was told later on, those privileged few were called who had bought the right to stand there, from the poor wretches who spent night and day outside the Palace of Justice to sell their place to the highest bidder, shortly before noon (at which time the doors were thrown open and just one hundred "members of the public" admitted).

I have no clear recollection of what took place at first. I only remember a mass of faces floating, as it were, on a dark ocean of black gowns and clothes. The only touches of colour were the white scarves of the barristers and the scarlet gowns of the judges.

I seemed to have no strength left, and yet never had I so much needed physical and moral strength.

A clerk read aloud, in a monotonous voice, the terrible indictment. I knew it by heart... and so perhaps did everybody else, since it had been published....

Meanwhile I watched the jury. So these were the men who would, in a few days, decide whether I had or not murdered my husband and my mother.... I wondered what they thought and who was who--for a list of their names and occupations had been shown me the day before. It included four "proprietors," two mechanics, one bricklayer, one baker, two commercial clerks, one cook and one musician....

I looked at the heavy decorated ceiling with the sunk panels adorned with the sword and scales of Justice; and my eyes wandered to the wall behind M. de Valles and the two other judges....

Years ago, I had visited this Court of Assize to admire my friend Bonnat's great "Christ" on that wall, but the Christ was no longer there. It had been removed after the Law separating Church and State had been passed!

Suddenly, I heard M. de Valles' voice ordering me to rise....

The duel began.

I made a supreme effort to stop my distracted mind from whirling round and round. I had been twelve months in prison; I had been for seventeen months a prey to every conceivable emotion, and had gone through such harrowing and nerve-racking experiences that every doctor who had seen me failed to understand how it was that I had not lost my reason; and now, after over five hundred days of continuous mental and physical martyrdom, I had to fight the greatest battle of my existence.

M. de Valles kept his promise: he asked me at first a number of almost indifferent questions about my childhood and my youth, and I had time to collect myself to some extent.... But soon, very soon, the remarks I heard were so revolting that I reeled under them. I had to deny, for instance, that my father--whom, by now, the reader must have learned to know and to love--was a drunkard, and to declare that my conduct was irreproachable and could not have caused his death as was hinted.... Relentlessly, mercilessly, questions were asked me about my relations with Lieut. Sheffer, at Beaucourt! I fought desperately, and then, worn out by my own efforts, I almost collapsed, and could not help sobbing....

An allusion was made to President Faure. I remembered my counsel's entreaties, and when the Judge suggested that I should not conceal anything, and that I should have no fear in mentioning names, however exalted, I merely replied: "No, Monsieur le President, the man we are thinking of is dead, and I will let the dead rest in peace."

M. de Valles spoke about my reticences, and my many contradictory statements, and from a report of the trial I find that I replied: "For hours at the time there were journalists near me, who declared that I was lost unless I gave up 'my old system of defence' and 'made fresh statements.' Everybody made different suggestions to me; I ceased to be a woman and became almost a maniac. But would any woman in my circumstances have done otherwise? I swear upon the head of my own daughter, that my first statement about the three men in black gowns, and the red-haired woman, is the truth."

"Come back to the point," said the judge. "You talk about too many things at the same time. Be methodical in your replies."

"Methodical!... How can I speak as you would have me speak? At first I thought I was accused of having lied, but for months I have known I was accused of having murdered both my husband, whom I respected, and my mother, whom I loved. And before such an accusation, you quietly ask me to be methodical. I say things as they come to my mind. I speak with my very heart, and there can be no question of my method!"...

Then I was interrogated about my "intrigues." The final questions of the Judge at that first hearing referred to the last days of May 1908, and it was clear that he wished to form his own opinion about the suggestion that I had enticed my mother to stay at my house--in order to kill her as well as my husband....

* * * * *

My examination by the Judge took up the first three days of my trial. Each hearing started at about noon, and ended between 5.30 and 6 P.M. I may here state the essential points of the French procedure in such cases.

After the reading of the Indictment by the Clerk of the Court, the President interrogates the prisoner. After that, he examines the various witnesses, who are then cross-examined by the Advocate-General, or Public Prosecutor, and by the Counsel for the Defence, both however, being only allowed to ask questions of the witnesses through the President. After the witnesses have been examined and cross-examined (this cross-examination being, as a rule, very brief), the Advocate-General makes his speech, in which he asks generally for the maximum punishment. Then the Counsel for the Defence speaks, at length, and afterwards the Judge asks the prisoner if he, or she, has any statement to make. He then tells the jury the question to which they are requested to reply, and without any summing up by the Judge (or _résumé_, as it used to be called in France, when it was part of the proceedings, until suppressed because it was found to be seldom impartial!) the jury retire and deliberate. When the foreman returns, followed by the eleven jurors, he stands up and renders the verdict "before God and before men," and the Judge, after rapidly consulting with his two colleagues, orders the prisoner to be brought in, and pronounces sentence.

At the second hearing--on Thursday, November 4th, 1909--M. de Valles dealt with the night of May 30th-31st, 1908. I repeated publicly the statements I had made to M. Bouchotte, the Police-commissary, and to Judge Leydet, a few hours after the crime; and to Judge André, eight months later. M. de Valles, however, instead of raising objections, instead of dismissing my "story" of the crime as a fable, and describing the men in dark gowns as "black ghosts," was satisfied with questioning me about certain reticences and contradictions of mine, and firmly, yet fairly, endeavoured to throw as much light as possible on the baffling mystery.

Still, the occasion was so intensely dramatic, there was such a terrible keenness in the jurors' eyes, such bitter scorn on M. Trouard-Riolle's lips, such strong emotions swayed the whole court, and such an ominous hush fell over the vast hall where so many people had been tried for their lives and sentenced to death, year after year, that cold perspiration streamed from my forehead as I spoke, as I shouted the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as I cried out that I was innocent.... I lived through the fatal night once more, and all the time I saw my darling Marthe before me, standing in the centre of the well, waiting for me, confidently waiting to see her mother rehabilitated, acquitted, free.... The effort was superhuman and poignant... and when I had finished speaking, explaining, struggling, I sank on to my bench, and the two guards at my side rose and whispered: "The sitting is adjourned; come outside, and rest, Madame." I could hardly tear my hands from the wooden partition of the dock on which they were fiercely clutched....

Doctor Socquet came to my assistance in the guards' room, where I had been taken, and half an hour later a bell rang. I returned to the Court, and the duel began once more. It had lasted only a short while, when suddenly a letter was brought in to my counsel, who, after perusing it, handed it to the President.

M. de Valles read the letter aloud: "To Maître Aubin: As I can no longer bear the weight of my crime, I have come to declare to you that I was an accomplice in the murder of M. Steinheil. It was I who played the part of the red-haired woman. I have the wig with me.--Jean Lefèvre."

A young man with long dark hair, and a sallow complexion, and wearing a shabby grey suit, was brought in and guided to the witnesses' bar. In a dazed, hesitating manner, he declared that his name was Lefèvre, that he was twenty-one.... I eagerly looked at him, but he did not remind me of any one I had seen on the night of the crime.

In answer to questions put to him by the President, he replied:

"I wrote that letter because I was an accomplice of the assassin. I was dressed as a woman, and wore this red wig. We burnt the gowns in the forest of Montmorency.... My friend is dead.... I dressed as a woman in a dark street. My friend had a key.... I was like a madman, and followed my friend, who said there was money.... We went upstairs with electric pocket-lamps. I remained near the door of Mme. Steinheil's room. My friend asked her where the money and the jewels were.... He disappeared and came back.... Then we rushed down-stairs. Outside he told me that he had found 8000 francs (£310). My friend went away without giving me anything...."

It was clear that the young man was either a lunatic or a strange impostor.

My examination was continued. There was a long argument about the ink-stains found on the carpet and on my knee, and about the way in which I was bound....

Tortured by the necessity of having to reply--satisfactorily--to searching questions which to me, innocent as I was, seemed useless and incomprehensible, rendered quite ill by the long and gruesome discussion about the fatal night, I once more sank back, exhausted, on my bench, and burst into a violent fit of weeping.... And that was only the end of the second hearing of my trial which my counsel told me was to last at least ten days!

Directly he had taken his seat the next day (Friday, November 5th), the President turned to the jury, and said: "I owe you an explanation, gentlemen, about the stupid incident which made us waste so much valuable time yesterday. The young man whom you saw is not called Lefèvre; his real name is René Collard. He made up his mind to see Mme. Steinheil. I thought I had taken all possible precautions to guard the doors, but I had forgotten this extraordinary means of invasion. It has been found that Collard wrote to M. Hamard, to M. André.... This young man longed to see Mme. Steinheil. The incident is now closed."

After this, my ordeal began again.

The President questioned me about the "grandfather"-clock, in the hall, which stopped at 12.12 on the night of the crime. After mentioning that I said I had heard my mother cry: "Meg, Meg..." just after the last stroke of the hour, he expressed his surprise that the murderers could have killed two persons, gagged and bound a third, and ransacked drawers--in twelve minutes.

I could have replied that possibly my husband had been murdered before I heard my mother cry, that the murderers, as they left the house, might have put the clock back, that they acted, no doubt, as quickly as possible, especially if, as I have always been convinced, they came to steal, not to kill.... But I had only one thought: I, Marguerite Steinheil-Japy, am accused of murder!

And I kept repeating: "It is horrible! I have killed neither my husband nor my mother." The President grew impatient, and I remembered crying out: "Ah! you don't want me to protest. You don't want me to shout my innocence. But what would be _your_ attitude if _you_ were accused of having murdered your wife and your father? I protest, not against you, Monsieur de Valles, but against the Law."

I apologised the next day to the President for this outburst, and I may here state that since I have read the full report of that terrible trial, of which, alas, I was the heroine, I have been struck even more than at the trial itself--when I was too ill and too distraught to see things in quite their proper light--by the absolute impartiality of M. de Valles. He paid a tribute to my disinterestedness, to my activity and qualities as a housewife, and when, later on, Couillard gave evidence, he declared that he would not ask my valet to give his opinion about me, adding: "I do not see the necessity of repeating the mere gossip and twaddle of the servants' hall."

Only once did M. de Valles really deviate from his usual fair and irreproachable attitude: he was questioning me about placing the pearl in Couillard's pocket-book, and finding my answers were not satisfactory, finding that I hesitated and sobbed, he exclaimed: "I thought so!" Then turning to the jury, he added: "Gentlemen, watch this clever woman. She collapses whenever I ask a question that she cannot answer--watch her faint! The fainting scene is coming!" As a matter of fact, I faltered and sobbed many, many times, but not once did I faint.

There were many fierce encounters between the President and me during that third hearing, especially about the famous pearl, and I can do no better than quote from a report of the trial:

"MADAME S. I had my suspicions against Couillard. He had stolen a letter which my daughter had sent to her fiancé, I was told dreadful things about him. Also, I had almost lost my mind. I had no peace. I thought Couillard knew something, and in order to make him speak, I placed the pearl in his pocket-book."

"The Judge interrupts the prisoner, but she clamours entreatingly: 'Gentlemen of the jury, hear me, hear me!'

"She is sobbing as she speaks, and holds her head between her hands as if she feared that it would bunt with the pain that she is enduring. 'If Couillard is not guilty and can say nothing, I thought, I will confess to having placed the pearl in the pocket-book and he will be released. Besides, when the letter was found on him, he exclaimed: "I am caught. I shall not speak except before the judge." Was not this suspicious, and was it not natural that in my anxiety to discover the murderers, I should jump hastily to conclusions? I am speaking the truth; I fear nothing.'

"THE PRESIDENT. 'You had no right to act as you did.'

"MADAME S. 'Does not the law use similar methods? I know something about it.'

"THE PRESIDENT. 'I forbid you to insult the Law. You are here in Court.'... (General uproar; M. Trouard-Riolle, M. de Valles and Maître Aubin all speak at the same time.)

"MADAME S. 'I know, I tell you I know. Examining magistrates torture their prisoners, whether there exist proofs of their guilt or not, and are ready to do anything to tear a confession from their victims.'

"THE PRESIDENT. 'You are speaking foolishly, Madame. For the honour of the Law, I protest.'

"MADAME S. 'I have spoken the truth. I ought to know something about examining magistrates....'"

Then the Advocate-General attacked me, and said that I was lying. My counsel jumped up and shouted excitedly: "Sir, I forbid you to insult my client!" There was another uproar, and when it had subsided, I explained at length why I had accused Couillard and Wolff....

A few moments afterwards, the hearing came to an end, and I found myself in my little cell at the _Dépôt_, surrounded by the kind Sisters of _Marie Joseph_ and their _cornettes_ and wimples, and their long pale-blue veils.

M. Desmoulin came to see me, and also Pastor Arboux, who, alas! through some inconceivable injustice, was not allowed to be present in Court! One of the Sisters gave me a special potion to soothe my nerves and to help me to sleep. But at about 2 A.M. batches of street women were brought in, and their cries, their insults to the Sisters, awoke me as I lay restless, sleepless, on my straw-bed, for the rest of the night, thinking of Marthe and wondering when the end of this terrible nightmare would come. I wrote to my counsel, giving him further explanations, beseeching him to say this or that.... And then I went to the chapel of the Sisters. Not far from this pretty little chapel were the cells in which Bailly, Danton, Camille Desmoulins, Madame Roland, and other great figures of the Revolution had awaited execution.

With the fifth hearing--on Saturday, November 7th--began the examination of the various witnesses. The first on the list was Rémy Couillard, my former valet. He walked quickly to the witness bar, a spare figure, with slit-like eyes, a long nose, hollow cheeks, hair cut very short, large awkward hands, and wearing the uniform of a dragoon--for he was serving his term in the army now.

Couillard took the oath amid an impressive silence--for, as I had been told, he was generally considered as the "pivot of the accusation." He began to tell quickly, the story of how he heard me, on May 30th, 1908, at 5.45 A.M., cry "Rémy, Rémy!" and how he found me bound on the bed in my daughter's room. To every one's amazement, my former valet made statements entirely different from those he made on the morning after the night of the crime. He said, for instance, that he had first undone the cords binding my feet to the bed-posts, and then those with which my wrists were secured; that a blanket and a sheet covered me entirely; that my hands were placed "over one another and resting on the stomach," and that there was no rope round my body....

Maître Aubin, of course, reminded Couillard that he had stated, on May 31st, 1908, that my clothes had slipped up round my neck, that my hands were tied behind and above my head to the bed-posts, that a rope was passed over my body and under the bed, and that after he had first of all undone the cords fastening the wrists, he had with M. Lecoq's assistance undone those round my feet.

Intense excitement prevailed in Court, as Couillard swore he had just spoken the truth, and as my counsel read to him the document written on the morning after the crime under Couillard's dictation, as it were, and _signed_ by him.

These complete contradictions in my former valet's statements were naturally most favourable to me.

Indeed, it is not the least strange fact about that extraordinary trial, which was crowded with incidents, that the evidence given by most of the "witnesses for the Prosecution" was so obviously malicious and partial or clashed to such an extent with evidence previously given by these witnesses that it greatly told in my favour and proved my innocence, whilst, on the other hand, a number of so-called "witnesses for the defence" in their anxiety to serve me, went too far, and by their exaggerations, rather harmed than helped my cause!

As for Rémy Couillard, he had been five days in Prison because I had accused him and had placed a pearl in his pocket-book. I owed him a public apology, and I made it in all sincerity. "I know how I wronged you. You hate me, but I have suffered terribly. I repeat I regret what I did to you. Forgive me." My former valet turned to me and replied: "It's all right, Madame, I have nothing against you."...

After the written evidence of M. Lecoq had been read--for this engineer who had first heard Couillard's calls for help, was then travelling in America--there walked to the witnesses' bar, M. Albert Bonnot, a painter of nearly sixty, who in 1880 had married one of M. Steinheil's sisters. His studio was only separated from our garden by a small wall.

M. Bonnot explained that at one time his wife and he had been on affectionate terms with me, until some ten years before, when they severed their relations, but he remained the friend and collaborator of his brother-in-law. He then went on to state that "M. Steinheil, a few months before the crime, was profoundly depressed," and added that "when her husband was ill, Mme. Steinheil never looked after him but went away, anywhere, for three or four months at a time."

This was more than I could stand and, jumping up, under the sting of this false accusation obviously uttered to ruin me in the eyes of the jury, I exclaimed vehemently: "When my husband was ill, _Monsieur_, I nursed him with a devotion to which doctors and others will no doubt pay a tribute in this court, when the time comes."

M. Bonnot continued: "I saw my poor brother-in-law kneeling and his head hanging back. He was cold and stiff.... His clothes were neatly folded on a chair. Everything was in perfect order. There was no blood and no traces of steps.... I also saw the body of Mme. Japy. Then I left the place."

THE PRESIDENT. "You saw those two corpses and left without going to Mme. Steinheil?"

M. BONNOT. "I disliked her."

M. Bonnot forgot to say to the Judge that on that very day (May 31st, 1908), he had angrily exclaimed, in the veranda before a number of witnesses--who all repeated it to me: "There's no mistake about it; that wretched woman upstairs did the deed!" M. Buisson, M. Boeswilwald and several other persons who heard this shameful remark were so disgusted, that, losing their temper, they threatened to throw M. Bonnot bodily out of the house.

The next witness was M. Adolphe Geoffroy, a sculptor, who had also married a sister of M. Steinheil. He too made a bitter attack on me.

That painful hearing, during which I had been insulted by members of my late husband's own family, ended with the depositions of M. Bertillon, the world-famous anthropometrical expert, who declared that it had been impossible to identify several of the finger-prints on the brandy-bottle, and of Dr. Lefèvre who denied having ever said, "It is all a sham," concerning the way in which I was bound, but that he thought I had been securely bound.

After the hearing had been adjourned, barristers, doctors, officers, and guards eagerly pressed around me and congratulated me. "It is going splendidly; you'll win; there's nothing against you; the Prosecution will never recover from the blows it has received."... They all seemed to speak about some wrestling bout or boxing match.... I could not understand. To me it seemed so obvious that the Prosecution could not help realising the truth: my complete innocence.... And at the same time I thought of M. André, who, months ago, had heard the same evidence, and yet had not hesitated one second to conclude that I was guilty of having murdered my husband and my mother! And the awful thought entered my head that possibly the jury would share in his blindness, and that, in spite of my evident innocence, I would be condemned to death... or to lifelong imprisonment!...

I shuddered, hastily thanked all these unknown friends, all these sympathisers around me, and hastened to my cell, where the Sister Superior joined me and comforted me.

The Director of the _Dépôt_ also stayed a short time in my dreary cell and spoke very kindly to me, and later I listened to the Sisters singing in the chapel of the _Conciergerie_, just as I had listened for a whole year, night after night, to the Sisters at Saint-Lazare.

The next morning, as every morning, came Pastor Arboux. Afterwards I saw the Sister Superior, but most of that endless Sunday I was left alone and walked about in one of the yards... in order to warm myself, the cell being bitterly cold.

The next day, Monday, November 8th, after M. Arboux's visit, I went to the chapel as usual, until I was told that "my" two guards were waiting for me.

When the Judge and his colleagues entered after the usher had shouted "_La Cour, Messieurs_" (The Court, Gentlemen!), everybody rose and then sat down again, but I remained standing--and I did so all through the trial--in order to hear M. de Valles tell me: "Sit down, _Madame_." That one word "Madame," instead of the word "Accused," usual in such cases, was a source of great joy to me. It almost reconciled me with the world and with my terrible position.

"Madame," only a little word, but it seemed to show that in the eyes of my Judge I was not yet found guilty, that the dreadful accusation had not yet been proved, and that to him at least I was still a woman--and a lady.... And day after day I waited for those welcome, refreshing words, "_Asseyez vous, Madame_."

A number of witnesses came and gave evidence, including my doctor, M. Acheray, who contradicted himself once or twice, and thus roused the anger of the Advocate-General, who exclaimed: "You are constantly contradicting yourself. It is really amazing, and (here, a wild gesture)... you can go!"

A great uproar ensued; there were exclamations of protest, and M. Trouard-Riolle, turning to the public, cried with a sneer: "I do as I please, and laugh at your comments!" which remark only increased the uproar....

I wondered how it would all end. What did it all mean? Everybody was talking at the same time; I could hear and see men speak excitedly and even laugh. Why those personal discussions between the prosecution and witnesses?... And all the time I was enduring an unspeakable agony, which increased with each hearing. Did everybody then, except myself, forget that I was accused of a ghastly murder?...

I wept.... And then doctors and experts succeeded one another at the witnesses' bar.... It was horrible to listen to those gruesome details.... Dr. Courtois-Suffit declared that he believed my mother had been killed before my husband, and that there was more than one murderer. Dr. Augier stated that he utterly failed to find any trace of poison or narcotic in the bodies of the victims, and Dr. Balthazard made a lengthy lecture about the autopsy, the spots found on the carpet, the cotton wool gags and what not.... It was all technical, so far-fetched, so useless, that I tried not to listen, and for once my eyes wandered to the left of the Court, where barristers, journalists and the public were densely packed.

I saw M. Renouard, M. Scott, M. Sem and other artists making sketches, and various photographers furtively taking snapshots. There was M. Claretie, Director of the _Théâtre Français_; M. Bernstein, the well-known playwright; M. Paul Adam, the gifted author.... I saw several of the Inspectors who, for months, had followed clues and done their best to assist me.... I saw the white-haired Rochefort, the famous journalist whose inexhaustible fund of combativeness was allowed, decade after decade, to attack anybody and everybody. In the days of Napoleon III he was attacking M. de Morny and the Imperial Government in the _Figaro_; later, he attacked the Republic. He had been a frenzied Boulangist and a frenzied Anti-Dreyfusard; now he was a frenzied Anti-Steinheilist, if I may invent this word. _Day after day, during my trial_, he published an article against me. Later, I saw some of these articles, and found they were written in the most abusive, rankling and savage style. There was hardly an insult that was not hurled at me in those exasperated--and exasperating--onslaughts, and the irrepressible "Rochefort," the Marquis of Rochefort-Luçay, after exhausting his usual vocabulary of scorn, defamation and scurrility, found a wonderful name for me, an elegant, refined, picturesque name, which he repeated in all his articles; he called me "the Black Panther"!...

After the hearing--and between the brief adjournments which the Judge granted when I was too exhausted or too ill--batches of letters were handed me.... Among them were love-letters, including daily messages from an important personage in the Court, and an "ardent admirer."... The bitter irony of it all!...

I was so excited and demoralised that the next day, finding that I was being once more tortured with questions, to which I had already answered again and again, I exclaimed: "Do not exasperate me any more.... So far, I have shown complete discretion, but if I am driven to it, I shall cease to be discrete!" My counsel jumped up from his bench in front of me and beseeched me to be calm, I even think he threatened to leave the court if I talked that way again.... Poor Maître Aubin! How glad he must have been when the trial was over!...

At that sixth hearing, a number of minor witnesses were heard; M. Souloy, the jeweller, from whose evidence the fact stood out that of the twelve jewels belonging to me and the eleven belonging to my mother, eighteen were never found; M. Boin who admitted that in some cases, at least, I possessed double sets of identical jewels; M. and Mme. Chabrier, and others.... But the chief depositions were those of M. Hutin and M. de Labruyère of "Night of the Confession" fame!

M. de Labruyère spoke in a doleful way, but M. Hutin made an attempt at cheap humour. He said, for instance: "Madame Steinheil was in a terrible state of depression--so was I," and "One may be a journalist and still be a man, especially in the presence of a woman."

After he had politely bowed in my direction, M. de Labruyère gave evidence and made a narrative of the "Night of the Confession" which was transferred, as it were, from M. Hutin's speech, and of course he denied that he or his colleague had in the least bullied me.

I may state here that the whole "audience"--excepting, naturally, the magistrates--gave vent to unmistakable expressions of indignation at the conduct of certain "enterprising" journalists in my case.

The next day, my cook, Mariette Wolff, was called to the witnesses' bar. It is said that one cannot easily describe the persons one knows best, and I will therefore quote the word-sketch of Mariette made by a writer present at the trial, and the résumé of her evidence.

"Mariette looks an old peasant woman from one of Balzac's novels. She is small and round. Her few grey hairs are brushed back from her wrinkled forehead. Her nose is strong, and her eyes are terrible--but when she wants to, she can soften their expression. There is hardly any interval between the nose and the stubborn little chin, which reminds one of a dried-up crabapple. She gives one an extraordinary impression of strength, shrewdness, and obstinacy. One can clearly see that she will not say more than she wants, and that no power on earth can make her speak against her will. She wears an old black dress, a piece of fur, and a modest black bonnet. Quite firmly, she takes up her position at the witnesses' bar, and raising her big yellow hands, she takes the oath in a gruff voice, without a shade of hesitation or nervousness.

"Mme. Steinheil, on whose features the long hours of the trial are telling, follows the movement of her former cook with great intentness....

"In answer to the President's questions, Mariette declares that she was born in 1854, and has been a widow for over fifteen years. She first knew the Steinheils sixteen years ago.

"THE PRESIDENT. 'Was Mme. Steinheil on good terms with your children?'

"'Yes; she knew them all.'

"M. de Valles begins to ask Mariette a number of insidious questions, but the old woman is wonderfully sharp. She has a knack of not committing herself which causes amusement and admiration.

"It is quite obvious from the outset that she will do her utmost to shield her former mistress.

"'Mme. Steinheil was a good housewife, wasn't she?' asks the President gently.

"'Yes, M. le President.'

"'And she helped you with the work?'

"'She did.'

"'Even with the heavy work?'

"'Yes.'

"'And she was strong, wasn't she? She could raise pieces of furniture, couldn't she?'

"But the old woman had seen the trap. She realises--as well as we all do--in spite of her apparent simplicity, that the Judge, if she replies to this question in the affirmative, will deduce that a person who can displace heavy furniture would have strength enough to strangle some one and drag a dead body about. Mariette quietly replied: 'My mistress did what she could, like anybody else.'

"M. de Valles nibbles his paper-cutter, raises his eyebrows, and sighs.

"His interrogatory now deals with the _Vert-Logis_, the Steinheils' villa at Bellevue, near Paris. 'Mme. Steinheil had many lovers,' he says. Maître Aubin rectifies: 'Many visitors you mean.'

"THE PRESIDENT. 'Mme. Wolff, I want you to tell the jury whether you remember having heard Mme. Steinheil exclaim shortly after the murder: "At last, I am free!" You have admitted it during the inquiry.'

"'She was ill at the time and she certainly did not mean that she rejoiced at being a widow. Women say a lot of things when they are ill. She probably meant that she was glad her nurse had left the room, for she cared little for her.'

"Mariette never commits herself. She reminds one forcibly of the Norman peasant who being asked for his opinion on the apple crop replied: 'You can't say there are apples, because there are no apples, but you can't say there are no apples, because there are apples.'

"The President continues his interrogations: 'Did Mme. Steinheil love her husband? You ought to know, for no one knows more about people than their servants.'

"'Servants see everything but should say nothing.'

"'It has been established that Mme. Steinheil once sent her husband to his studio....'

"'Well, what does that prove? Even the most devoted of wives lose their temper at times....'

"'Did Mme. Steinheil love her mother?'

"'When Mme. Japy came, she was welcomed...."

"'Then how do you explain that Mme. Steinheil once said: "Mother again"?'

"'Even the best of daughters can say a thing like that.'

"'Mme. Steinheil sent you some time after the crime to Vert-Logis to fetch a little box which we believed contained her jewels. What was there in that box?'

"'I don't know. Servants are not supposed to know what such parcels contain.'

"'You are a model servant,' says the President ironically.

"'I am not a model, thank you.'

"'Did you take your mistress' dressing-gown to the dyers after the crime?'

"'I don't remember. It is possible'....

"'Did you know anything about the tapestries which disappeared from the studio on the night of the crime?'

"'I have never seen them.'

"'Then you are in contradiction with Mme. Steinheil?'

"'I have nothing to do with the studio; I very seldom venture in... I am a cook and my place is in the kitchen.'

"The President then asks very quickly, in order to catch her, a number of questions about the facts which immediately preceded and followed the eventful night, but it is a case of amnesia... Mariette remembers nothing. 'After all those horrors,' she says, 'our minds have become blanks.'

"The President now deals with what happened on the other fatal night, the 'Night of the Confession.'

"'What happened on November 25th, in the evening?'

"Three journalists who were continually pestering us, Messrs. de Labruyère, Hutin and Barby, arrived at seven-thirty. Madame only came at nine.'...

"'Did you listen at the door? Witnesses have asserted it.'

"'It is false. Let them come and say it to me.' Mariette is quite angry.

"'When your mistress went to bed, you had a long talk with her?'

"'Is not that natural? The poor woman, she looked like a corpse; she asked me for strychnine. She wanted to die and I kept on repeating: "It's all right... be calm." And then, when I saw M. Barby listening behind, I told him: "You have no business here. Clear out."'

"Mariette uses the strongest expression in the French language to order a rapid exit. She speaks so vehemently, and, it must be added, convincingly, that every one in the Court is impressed. Once more there is a general murmur of disapproval at the conduct of certain journalists."

* * * * *

M. de Balincourt made a brief appearance. He stammered a few words, and went away.

M. Bdl. was the next witness, and disclosed that he had never entertained the idea of marrying. He concluded his evidence with the words: "I am convinced of Mme. Steinheil's absolute innocence." He was followed at the witnesses' bar by one of his friends, M. Martin, who, after stating that there had never been any question of marriage between M. Bdl. and me, turned towards me and said: "Madame, you have been shockingly abandoned by all, but you have my full esteem."

_Thursday, November 11._ The trial enters upon its final stage. A few witnesses come and give evidence, all of them favourable to me.... One of them, Inspector Pouce, bravely exclaims: "If Mme. Steinheil had told me she was guilty, I would not have believed her."...

Then there enters a man with military bearing, whom I can hardly recognise, but whose voice, when he takes the oath, sends a thrill through my broken frame. I recognise him now.... It is Sheffer, the friend of my youth, my _fiancé_ for a few months, my first love... over twenty years ago!... Tears come into my eyes, and I hide my head between my hands....

Beaucourt!... My beloved father.... The avenue of chestnut trees... our meetings... our charming, innocent idyll....

M. Sheffer, softly, sadly, tells the story of our beautiful, our sweet romance.... I was eighteen then, and the happiest girl on earth, with a devoted mother and the best of all fathers.... And the young lieutenant loved me, and I loved him.... Life was beautiful, and the future smiled on me....

And there stands my fiancé.... I have not seen him for over twenty years. He stands there at the bar. I can feel his eyes resting on me in a kindly way, from time to time, as he recalls the past.... "She was a charming young girl, refined, modest, artistically inclined.... She worshipped her father and her mother.... Marguerite is incapable of having committed the monstrous crime imputed to her...." My God! My God! And I am that Marguerite Japy, and I sit in a prisoner's dock, and I am being tried for murder.... Is there no justice in this world! How much longer shall I be wrongly accused? How much longer am I to suffer? Has my martyrdom not lasted enough, then....

M. Sheffer ceases speaking.... I hear him turn round to leave the Court. I raise my head, and our eyes meet.... There is tender pity in his eyes; there are tears in mine.... Oh! when will it all end?

The worst is coming. The Advocate-General rises, and throws back his red sleeves. The most tragic hour has come.... What horrible accusations will he make? What punishment will he ask for the crime I have never committed!...