CHAPTER XXXI

AFTER THE VERDICT

The nursing home to which I had been taken was that of Dr. Raffegeau and Dr. Mignon. My sister, Mme. Seyrig, had been there as a patient during a period of complete nervous prostration.

In despair and anguish, I asked Dr. Raffegeau where my daughter was, but he could not tell me, alas; he merely said: "Your brother-in-law telegraphed to me asking that I should reserve a room for you here where you would be able to recover. I am going to put you up in a pretty little pavilion, in the park of my establishment, and my wife and Mme. Mignon will keep you company."

"But Marthe?..."

"She will no doubt be here soon...."

I spent that Sunday sitting at the window, watching the road and waiting for my daughter. Who was keeping her away from me? How she must be suffering, and how I suffered!... The noise of every motor-car that passed made my heart beat faster and more painfully, but Marthe did not come.

An automobile stopped near the house. My younger sister and my brother entered the room.

"My daughter?"

"Courage. She will come... but we cannot find her; we don't know where she is. Chabrier is not at the Impasse Ronsin either... the house is shut up...."

I rose and said: "Then, _I_ will find her. I start at once!" They compelled me to sit down: "You cannot go out, you are too weak and you will be followed; you will come to grief...."

I read in their faces what they meant. In spite of my acquittal, people still hated me.--I heard afterwards that whilst the verdict was greeted with shouts of triumph in the Court, where people had learned to know me and had realised my innocence, the crowd outside the Palace of Justice, when they heard of my acquittal, grew angry and shouted "Death!" and "Guillotine!"--and I understood that the absence of my daughter at the close of the trial, the fact that she had not joined her mother, was interpreted as a sign of my guilt. "If Mme. Steinheil were really innocent, her daughter would have rushed into her arms. Instead of that, Marthe avoids her mother, therefore that mother is a criminal!"... How many times I have heard that terrible piece of "logic"!

I beseeched my brother and my sister to find Marthe, and they promised to help me. Then, the "photographer" and his wife said they would search for Marthe and bring her to me....

The Press succeeded in discovering my retreat, and on the Sunday evening Dr. Raffegeau said to me: "I'll take you, in a roundabout way, through the park, to my house, and from there we'll go to the house of my colleague."

I dined at the house of the Mignons with their three charming and beautiful children, a boy of about ten, a girl of nine or eight, and an adorable little girl of three, who all began calling me "auntie," and were all so caressing and affectionate that I forgot my sorrow a little.

The next day Maître Aubin came with a large bag full of letters and telegrams for me, and he, too, promised to find my daughter. Drs. Raffegeau and Mignon nursed me with great devotion. Mme. Seyrig returned to say that Marthe had no doubt gone to the country, and that it was impossible to trace her. It suddenly occurred to me that she had probably been taken to Nogent-sur-Seine, near Troyes, to the country seat of the B's. (The latter are not "members of the family," but are considered as such. A son of M. B. married a daughter of one of M. Steinheil's sisters.)

I was ill, in bed, wringing my hands in despair, for I had thought that after my acquittal all would be bright and happy, and I now found out my sad mistake--when Dr. Raffegeau came in with Mme. Mignon, who said: "A lady, your elder sister, has just arrived. She wants to see you. She is in tears, and keeps repeating: 'My poor Meg! How I long to be with her! How she must suffer!'... She is in full mourning, and says she comes from Beaucourt, where she prayed on her--and your--mother's tomb. She has beseeched me to speak to you; she must see you.... What am I to do?"...

I replied: "No, no... I cannot believe my sister, Mme. Herr, would come.... We are not on very good terms.... Perhaps that woman is sent by some newspaper?"...

"Oh, no," said Dr. Raffegeau. "She has been saying: 'I dread the Press, I hope I have not been followed.' She looks so alarmed and grieved. She asks if your hair has turned white, whether you are very ill... she seems very concerned. I really believe she is your sister.... She wants to see you alone."

"Never!" I exclaimed. "I refuse to be left alone, Doctor... Mme. Mignon must remain with me."...

Mme. Mignon's baby-daughter was sitting on my bed. The door opened and my "sister" was ushered in. She wore a wide cloak; a thick veil fell over her face. She rushed to me and wailed: "Oh, my poor Meg, my poor darling!" and kissed me.... I did not recognise the voice of Mme. Herr, yet I said: "It is you, Juliette?..."

"Yes, dear; I have come.... I couldn't remain away from you any longer."...

I tore my "sister's" veil from her head and saw the face of a woman whom I had never seen before. "Madame," I cried, "you are not my sister! What are you doing here? Leave this room at once!"

The little girl on my bed was frightened; Madame Mignon was staring in amazement.

The woman turned to her and said in deeply grieved tones: "How terrible! Meg is so ill she cannot recognise her own sister! She has lost her reason!"... Then, bending over my bed, she whispered to me: "Not a word! Be calm.... I am sent by the _Matin_; I am bringing you a fortune.... Only listen to me."...

"The _Matin_!... Have they not done me enough harm yet! Go, Madame.... Mme. Mignon, please show this woman out."...

The impostor played her part well. She sobbed, looked pitifully at me, and kept saying as she withdrew: "My poor sister! How terrible! She has gone mad!"... It appears that she continued her lamentations until the moment she stepped into the motor-car that had brought her, and so convincing was her simulated grief that Mme. Mignon, who accompanied her to the door, asked me, when she came back, if I were sure that the lady was not my sister!

A long report of that brief "interview" appeared, of course, in the _Matin_ the next morning. The article was laudatory and almost kind.... The author had probably some conscience left. And the _Matin_ took care to explain that the sensational interview had been brought to them.

Dr. Raffegeau, after this, had to arrange a sham removal. Some one was dressed in my clothes and taken away in an automobile to make the spying journalists believe that I left the house.... And after that I had some peace.

* * * * *

Maître Aubin came frequently, carrying hundreds of letters and telegrams for me from all parts of the world. Several contained the worst possible threats and insults, and many were fantastic offers by music-hall managers--from every part of France and Europe, from the United States and South America! Some writers stated that they had a sketch or a play ready, and asked me to play the part of the heroine (a woman accused of murder, of course!), and others asked me merely to "show" myself for ten minutes on the stage. There were scores of proposals that I should sing, and offers from cinematograph and talking-machine firms. A number of unknown authors asked me to sign their books with my name: it would sell the books at once, and they would let me have a fair proportion of the profits.... And there were dozens of offers of marriage; from the inevitable Russian "prince," the Peruvian mine-owner, and the great Spanish nobleman--poor, but with so many famous ancestors, to the equally inevitable American magnate and the romantic youth--of any country--anxious to devote his life to avenging me....

There were letters of hotel proprietors in various lands explaining the great benefit which my health would derive from a stay in their establishments; price-lists from wine-merchants, patent-medicine makers and travelling agencies who swore that their wines, their drugs or a journey would be my salvation. There were letters from autograph-hunters; letters asking me to allow the writer to give my name to some product he manufactured: a soap, a potato-peeler, a varnish, a patent food, a scent... two letters written in Latin verse, and one in Greek iambics!...

But the overwhelming majority came from persons who had followed my case and expressed their heartfelt sympathy. They were in a dozen different languages, but chiefly in French, English, and German. Of the letters that reached me, I have kept a few score. They include several kind messages signed by groups of officers and non-commissioned officers, by a whole "class" of students, by all the employees of a firm, a bank or a factory: letters from clergymen quoting the Bible, and from priests quoting the "Imitation"; letters from old men and women, and letters from mere children.... A little girl wrote from Manchester: "My parents don't know of this letter, but when I am grown up--in six years--I will come to you and comfort you, and I will play the piano for you, for I have heard that you are fond of music...." From Kansas City, U. S. A., came a long message of congratulations signed by a large number of workmen; a similar one reached me from Rome and another from Moscow. Many letters and telegrams came from people in the Beaucourt district who had known me or my father and mother; and there came many messages like the following, which is dated "Paris, November 14th, 1909": "Madame, we are sitting in a café, the whole family gathered, and we read that you are free. We are only simple people and can only say that we breathe again.... The jury has recognised your innocence, at last. We salute you, Madame, for your pluck, and we feel how terribly you have suffered. We are all so happy for you and your dear daughter! Signed: A family of honest people."

I thank all those friends, far and near. Their messages, French and foreign, no doubt helped me to bear my heavy cross.

Maître Aubin came often to see me and naturally we talked of what was now "the past."... With him I wrote a letter of apology to Mr. Burlingham. I had also many affairs to settle with Maître Jousselin, my devoted solicitor.

The "photographer" who had promised to find my daughter told me that he was on her tracks and would bring her to me. He suggested that a portrait of mine, taken now, would be a happy surprise for Marthe, and begged me to sit for my portrait, at the window, in Mme. Mignon's room....

The next day--I was in bed, by order of Dr. Raffegeau--when I was told, at about 4 P.M. that Marthe was there!

The doctor said: "I would have liked you to see your daughter alone, but M. Chabrier who is with her as well as Mme. Seyrig, has told me and my wife, in a most offensive tone: 'Mlle. Marthe shall see her mother only in _my_ presence, otherwise she will not see her at all.'"

I said that under such conditions I would rather not see my child, and that M. Chabrier had no authority whatever over her.... My mind was in a whirl.... Dr. Raffegeau begged me to admit M. Chabrier and take no notice.

I heard slow weary steps on the staircase.... Was Marthe ill?... She entered, pale, haggard, almost unrecognisable, the poor darling. My sister held her on one side; M. Chabrier on the other. Marthe was led to my bed, and then I saw in her face a strange expression which I had never before seen there. I stretched out my arms to her, but, pulled back by M. Chabrier, she retreated from me.... I lost all courage, all strength, all hope....

"What is the matter?... You are coming back to me, Marthe?"

My child tried to speak.

"She is ill, she cannot talk..." said Mme. Seyrig. "She has come to tell you.... Tell her yourself, Marthe... Try."...

"Yes," I said, "tell me yourself... everything... the whole truth."...

Marthe turned her tear-bedimmed eyes on M. Chabrier, who was standing near my bed facing her, and then in a hardly audible voice, she said, as though she were trying to repeat a lesson: "After all that has happened... you understand."... She stopped, muttered "I am stifling," caught her breath and added: "I have come to say good-bye to you for ever."...

For nearly two years I have heard those words, day after day, night after night, echoing in my mind, but at the time when they were spoken, I did not realise all that they meant.

"Are you going into a convent, then?" I asked.

"No."

"Where are you going to?"

"I cannot tell you."

"But it cannot be, Marthe.... I will not let you go."

"She is her own mistress," said some one. "She must forget you as you must try to forget her."

"Is it Pierre, your fiancé, who demands this?" I asked.

Marthe eagerly seized this pretext. The horrible scene was as painful to her as to me.

"Yes... It is for Pierre."...

"He is going to marry you, after all, if you don't see me again, is that it?"... I was in tears now.... I added: "Marthe, if you wish it, _I_ will enter a convent. All I long for is your happiness."...

My child looked at me and it was clear that she longed to rush into my arms....

"We had better go now," said some one. Marthe bent forward to kiss me. "Good-bye," I said. "You have always been my all in all... Remember, if ever you are abandoned by everybody, or unhappy, that you will still and always have your _maman_."

I fell back on the bed. When I recovered consciousness Mme. Mignon and her dear children were around me, but _my_ child had gone away, and for nearly two years, in spite of letters and entreaties, she never came to me.

Recently, my daughter joined me, at last, of her own free will, after craving my forgiveness--as if it had been necessary! She is living with me and the young Italian painter whose wife she became, in Paris, long after her engagement to the young Buisson had been broken off. For many weeks, we have spoken of the past and I know the truth now, the whole truth about that farewell meeting and those endless months of separation which all but cost me my life, and which made my child the most miserable of beings.

I will quote my daughter's own words, taken from a long letter which she sent me during the summer of 1911--and at a time when I had given up all hope of ever seeing her again, alas--when she became once more my own Marthe:

"...At the end of October, after we agreed that I should no longer visit you at Saint-Lazare, I was taken to Nogent by the B's. I was kept in strict seclusion, was never allowed to go out or to read a newspaper. I knew nothing of what was going on at your trial, and yet, how I longed to know! All the time, I was being told the most horrible things about you, and given to understand that I should be ruined in every way if I ever saw you again. I was not well, we two had gone through so much, beloved mother, and all that I heard hurt me, and influenced me, though I did not believe it, of course. On Sunday morning, November 14th, Marie-Louise, my dear friend (a daughter of the B's) rushed into my room and shouted: 'Your mother is acquitted!' We both cried with joy for a long, long time. M. B., who always came from Saturday to Monday, said nothing. I have sometimes heard him take your part.... But some one else said furiously: 'The wretched woman; they have let her off. I wish she had been sentenced and guillotined!' I rushed to my room and sobbed bitterly.

"At about midnight, I and Marie-Louise heard the bell ring repeatedly. We dressed and went downstairs. Mme. B. looked through a window and said: 'The station 'bus is there. It is Chabrier.'

"Edouard (Chabrier) came in. He had seen Aubin in the morning and also 'the family'--all the uncles and aunts (on the Steinheil side). He said to me: 'Your mother is a wretch; I have heard she threatens to kill everybody unless you go to her!'... I was happy, for I longed so much to be with you.... There was a long discussion to decide whether I should be _allowed_ to see you! Then Edouard drew a paper from his pocket and said: 'Copy this, just as it is, sign, and put the date. It is a letter to the Attorney-General, asking for protection. Your mother threatens all of us, even you.' Every one read the letter which I understood had been drawn up by 'the family' in Paris. I was ordered to copy it. The worst calamities would befall me and them all, if I didn't. I obeyed but was so upset that I dated the letter 'September' instead of 'November.' Edouard pocketed the letter, which, he said, he intended sending to the Attorney-General, through Uncle L. (a magistrate and brother-in-law of M. Steinheil) and I was allowed to go to bed. It was nearly perhaps on account of the wrong date, perhaps because it was all a trick to frighten me and make me believe that you were really threatening people's lives! You can understand, _maman_, in what state I was. I did believe much of what I was told, and began to think you had lost your reason, and really wanted to harm us all. Forgive me.

"The next morning, Edouard left for Paris. In the evening M. B. unexpectedly arrived, and said to me: 'Aunt Mimi (Mme. Seyrig) came to me in Paris to ask where you were. I had to admit that you were with us, and I have promised to let you go and see your mother.'

"I was taken to Paris to the B.'s house and thence to Uncle L., where a family council was held. The uncles and aunts and their children were there.... They warned me against you, terrorised me to such an extent, that I asked that I might not see you at all. I was so frightened and so ill. They made me swear to tell you that I would never see you again. 'If she insists,' they said, 'tell her you are "emancipated" and she has no right over you. You cannot be too severe with your mother, she wants to kill us all. We are all lost unless you talk to her. But make it clear to her that it is all over between you.'

"I saw Aunt Mimi, who told me you were going on the stage, and that the 'honour of the family' would be ruined. The next day she went to Le Vésinet by motor, and M. Chabrier followed by train; we got out at Le Pecq in order to escape the journalists, and walked to Le Vésinet. On the way M. Chabrier kept telling me what I was to tell you. I felt more dead than alive when I entered your room.... You know the rest, my poor darling _maman_.

"Afterwards I was taken back to Nogent, where for days I remained in bed, ill and miserable."...

* * * * *

During the days that followed my daughter's departure I was kept alive only by the devoted care of Dr. Raffegeau and Dr. Mignon, and by the tender devotion of their wives.

Some one said to me: "Your daughter is a Catholic; the priests have taken her from you." I at once thought of becoming a Catholic myself. My conversion would perhaps mean that my child would return to me. I summoned the Catholic priest of Le Vésinet, and had a long talk with him; but very honestly he told me: "Do not become a Catholic without absolute convictions. As for your daughter, I can only say that no priest has the right to take her away from you."

I had many conversations with my counsel. He and others gave me to understand that I should be happier and safer abroad than in France. Gradually I grew used to the idea of going to England. I had a few friends there. England was a land of liberty and order. Perhaps I should find there the rest my body so much needed, and the peace for which my mind was thirsting....

Maître Aubin introduced M. Jacques Dhur, the well-known writer and journalist, to me--a sincere, forcible, fearless man, and it was agreed that I should write a few brief chapters telling of my long calvary.... The money would be most useful to me. M. Dhur assisted me. The articles were for the _Journal_, but for some reason they were not published.

At the beginning of December (1909) I was ready to go to England. Dr. Mignon, on account of my very indifferent health, had offered to accompany me to London, where he would place me under the care of a doctor whom he knew. I bade good-bye to Dr. Raffegeau and his wife, then to Mme. Mignon and her charming children, who had all been so admirably devoted to me.

At night--I was to take the 9 P.M. train for Charing Cross--I drove to Paris in a motor-car with M. Dhur and Dr. Mignon. They took me to a fashionable restaurant where we were met by one or two of M. Dhur's colleagues. I was bewildered.... I had not been in a restaurant for over a year and a half. We sat at a table in a small room decorated with orchids and roses. These friends wished to lessen the feelings of sadness which they knew must hang over one who was about to go into exile.

"In order that the waiters may not guess who you are, and to avoid the restaurant being besieged, we will suppose that you are Mme.---- the air-woman," said one; and gaily they began asking me questions about my impressions in the air, the motor I preferred, the make of my aeroplane propeller.

We went to the Gare du Nord. I was tired, nervous and so sad.... I was about to leave Paris, where I had lived twenty years, Paris, which I loved in spite of all that I had suffered there.... I went to buy a newspaper but saw my name in a large heading, and hurried away. M. Dhur told me: "Be careful; I believe there are two English journalists in the train." A whistle blew; hands grasped mine; the train started, and we went into the night....

On the way, the shrewd English newspaper-men spoke to Dr. Mignon and very politely asked for the privilege of a brief interview with me, and said the journal to which they belonged was ready to pay anything for a series of articles signed by me. Dr. Mignon said he could not allow them to speak to me.

On the Channel boat, I felt more despondent than ever. It was cold, the wind was so keen, and the shores of France were disappearing.

The train stopped in London at a station before Charing Cross, and one of the English journalists rushed in and said: "Madame, I know there are scores of photographers and newspaper people awaiting you at Charing Cross. Believe me, you had better step out here." It was true, and it was kind, but, alas, before Dr. Mignon and I--we were both rather numb and bewildered--could follow this good advice, the train started again.

I had hardly set my foot on the platform at Charing Cross when flashlight explosions resounded all around me and some forty journalists pressed eagerly, violently even, about me. Some spoke French--they were the London correspondents of Parisian newspapers; others spoke English or in broken French. I pushed Dr. Mignon into a cab and jumped in after him. Motor-cars followed us. I said to the driver: "Hotel... Find!...."

It was now about 6 A.M. We tried to get rooms at one hotel but were turned away on account of the journalists. We tried another, were again refused; then yet another. The journalists still followed. Desperate, I walked up to them and begged for pity.

I snatched two hours rest and then I had to leave the hotel. The manager was courteous and generously allowed Dr. Mignon and me one hour more, and said he would help us to hoodwink the Press. A friend of my counsel, an English solicitor, was summoned to my assistance by telephone. He came and I left with him whilst the Doctor made his exit by another door after making an appointment. Alas, we were seen and followed, and it was by sheer luck, owing to a block in the traffic, that I was able to elude my pursuers.

What a day! We drove and then walked. Rain poured down. It was dark when at last Dr. Mignon found us.

We walked through narrow, ill-lit streets and reached a small boarding-house kept by a German, where I was well received. I was tired, dispirited, ill. Our luggage had been left at the station. I dined with Dr. Mignon at the D.'s, where, after spending two nights at the German boarding-house, I stayed for a few weeks until I found a small house for myself.

Three or four days after my arrival in London and when I had somewhat recovered from so many successive shocks, Dr. Mignon returned to France.

My life in England can be briefly described. I found a few trusty English friends who were not aware of my identity at first, but who, when I disclosed it, became only the more devoted. I found the rest and the peace of mind I so sorely needed.... I made my little home as beautiful as I could, and found in music, in reading, and in long walks about the country the relaxation and consolation without which I could not have lived. I have learned to love England and the English. Perhaps as regards conversation, enthusiasm, imagination and artistic inclination I have found my few English friends--both men and women--somewhat different from the people who flocked to my Parisian salon. But I have found them far superior in other and more important qualities. They are perhaps less unconventional, less brilliant and witty, but they are more reliable and trustworthy; less versatile and assimilative, but more genuine, earnest and steady.

Towards the end of December, the furniture at the Impasse Ronsin was sold, at my request, after I had ordered part of it to be sent to England. I had before written to my daughter offering her to keep everything she desired. The letter, however, was _never_ shown to her, and, later on, I discovered why. As a matter of fact, not a single one of the numerous letters I sent to my child was ever handed to her.

Certain newspapers seized the opportunity of that sale to attack me once more as "an ignoble mother, ruining her child." When I saw, however, the list of the few things that had been sold, I thought that Marthe must have kept a great many things, and felt somewhat relieved. At the same time, I received from the person who represented me in Paris at the sale, a note: "Please hand back to Mme. Steinheil the enclosed letter, which no doubt comes from her. I shall likewise return anything she may send me, as I wish to have nothing to do with her. Signed: Chabrier."

In March 1910 I had to go to Paris to settle various business matters, and I remained there three days with my hair powdered to change my appearance. I saw my solicitor and settled various matters with him. I wrote to my daughter beseeching her to meet me a few hours before my departure, at Maître Aubin's. There, I found that Marthe had not come... and I also found, outside, a number of journalists and photographers who had been warned of my arrival by a kind soul.

I was broken-hearted at not seeing my child. I remained for many hours at my counsel's, and, at night, managed to hoodwink the journalists and to reach the Gare du Nord, where I entrained for London.

I was desperate. I wrote a long letter to Marthe. M. Chabrier read it, told my daughter that it contained threats and _compelled her to write and sign the following letter, from a copy he himself prepared_:

Paris, _March 12th, 1910_.

Maître J. has handed me a letter from you to which I must reply telling you for the last time what you refuse to understand. The irrevocable decision I have taken of not seeing you again has not been dictated to me by any one. I have no advisers. My conduct and my actions arise solely from my conscience. I cannot forget the long sufferings and the ruin of my poor father, and I think that certain cruel recollections can break certain bonds. You refuse the only proof of disinterestedness I had asked you--the gift of the house in the Impasse Ronsin, and you accuse my imaginary adviser of that refusal, and then you offer me your help to bear the difficulties of life, a life which you created for me by your will and acts, a life very painful and sad and for ever broken. I repeat that I have taken my decision alone. You will never see me again. I must even ask you not to write to me any more, for there can be nothing between us except the absolute silence which separates two beings who ignore one another for ever.

"M. STEINHEIL."

It was of course easy for me to see at once that this ungrammatical and absurd letter had _not_ been written by my daughter! She had not, thank Heaven, that kind of style, and I readily guessed who was the instigator of the letter. But I did not pay much attention to all this; I only saw that Marthe was in need, and although she had refused--or rather, I had been told she had refused--everything I so gladly offered her, I went to the French Consul-General in London and signed a paper by which I renounced the ownership of my Paris house and made it over to my daughter.

A month later, being terribly anxious about her, so anxious indeed that I once more fell seriously ill and had to be visited three times a day by a doctor, for several weeks, I persuaded a devoted friend to go to Paris and talk to my daughter. My friend went to the Impasse Ronsin and was received by M. Chabrier, who said he was very sorry but Mlle. Marthe was away in the country. My friend insisted, explained the gravity of my illness and begged for my daughter's address. It was in vain.

Since then, Marthe has told me that she was in the house that day, that she had insisted upon seeing the person I had sent to her, but that M. Chabrier, in whom she still had the greatest confidence, had locked her up in her room during the interview.

Again I sent letters to Marthe, but still no reply came. I tried to forget my only child, but a mother never forgets. I travelled through Holland, Belgium, Switzerland, Italy--never France--and I recovered, but later despair seized me once more and for the second time in one year, I suffered from severe illness.

_New Year_ 1911. I spent the day writing a long letter to Marthe, and afterwards, I wrote my will, for, in spite of my few devoted friends, in spite of music and good books, life didn't seem worth living--without my daughter--and when one has such thoughts, the end soon comes. In my case I longed to die.

Day after day, week after week, month after month, I waited and waited for news from my daughter.... Once, French newspapers declared that she was about to enter a convent of Carmelites, and later a description of how my daughter took the veil was even published.... Then the whole story was denied. From time to time, a kind-hearted woman in Paris wrote to me words like these: "I saw Mlle. Marthe passing in a street, yesterday... she looked pale but otherwise well...."

Then in June 1911, on a day which I shall never forget--the happiest day of my life since the day when in her childhood, Marthe recovered from a grave illness--I received a letter from my daughter, and it seemed, as I read each word, as though happiness ran through my very blood, as though life had a new meaning, a marvellous, divine, undreamed of, meaning.

She asked to be forgiven. She had been influenced against me; she had been made to dread me. For over a year and a half, she had been a toy in the hands of a few unscrupulous persons, and had been made to suffer endlessly--and yet she had felt almost grateful to these false guardians, because considering herself abandoned by nearly all, and even by me, she was glad to think that at least these two or three persons did not quite treat her as a pariah. My heart bled as I read her long letter and without reading it to the end, I hastened to write to her that I adored her, that I had always adored her, and that whatever happened, she could rely on me.

Afterwards, I received many other letters from Marthe. I read with amazement and despair that she was all alone in the world, alone to fight the great battle of life.... And she so young, so frail!

I read that she had been abjectly deceived, that she had been made to sign all kind of papers, blindly. I read that she had starved, in her own house, although she paid for her board. I read that no sarcasm, no insults had been spared the poor child. She had been advised to enter a convent, and had been told: "That is the wisest thing you could do. You will be happy there; as for the house, you can give it us before you become a nun."... When "the family" saw that Marthe had no leaning towards convent life, they found a would-be husband for her, a young nonentity, who resided in far-away California, and who was staying in Paris at the time.... If she followed him to America, she could still leave the house to her protectors.

But although she was worn and miserable, although she had actually to do the washing-up and clean the house; although she spent fourteen to sixteen hours out of every twenty-four in sewing and embroidering, in order to earn her living; although when she returned a little late at night after running through the streets of Paris to deliver her work, she found only a little chocolate in front of her door--instead of the dinner for which she paid--or _nothing at all_, Marthe, the brave little creature, did not lose heart, and still trusted her so-called guardians. She still allowed herself to be led astray, did not see the truth, or understand why she was prevented from seeing her mother, or even corresponding with her.

The large house in the Impasse Ronsin which, after the murder I had had divided into a number of apartments, was let to various persons--and that was Marthe's chief source of income--but she was not even allowed to see the different contracts and leases. She was merely asked to sign at the foot of documents which she had not even read. Then, when serious difficulties arose, her protectors left her.

It was only when she was near me--when, for instance, I showed her certain documents--that the scales quite fell from her eyes.

Marthe, who had met a young Italian painter called R. del Perugia, was gradually drawn to the young man's straightforward and attractive nature, and both of them soon wrote asking for my consent to their marriage. I granted it, of course.

At the marriage of these two children, in Paris, journalists and photographers again harassed them. There was a free fight on the very steps of the church, and another almost before the altar itself, where snapshotters made a sudden appearance. Two or three persons were knocked down, and Marthe faltered. After the ceremony the poor child had to be comforted by the priests, and smuggled away by them.

I exchanged many letters with Marthe and her young husband, and then they came to spend a few months with me.

Not even the greatest of poets could ever describe my meeting with Marthe, after those months of agony, nor could the greatest composer express in music our feelings of heavenly joy! All that I and Marthe had gone through--and the reader knows by now what those experiences have been--vanished at the moment when we held each other in a fond embrace....