“The comet—the floods—Chantecler, have been too much for Monsieur,” sighs the concierge.
XI
AU COURS D’ASSISES. PARIS AND MADAME STEINHEIL
It was not by reason of baccarat losses, duels, matrimonial disputes, nor because of the aches of indigestion nor of the indefinable miseries of neurasthenia, worries and ailments common enough in French Vanity Fair—it was not, I say, for any of these reasons that fashionable and financial Paris, sporting and theatrical Paris, certain worldly lights of literary and artistic Paris, and the extravagant, feverish demi-monde of Paris, woke up on the morning of the 3rd November[5] in an exceedingly bad temper. Nor yet was their displeasure occasioned by the weather—London weather—all fog, damp and gloom. The fact was, at noon was to begin the first sitting of the great Steinheil trial, to which the above-mentioned ornaments of le Tout Paris had been excitedly looking forward for many a month. All that time they had been worrying, agitating, intriguing to obtain the official yellow ticket that would entitle them to behold with their own eyes—O, dramatic, thrilling spectacle—the “Tragic Widow’s” entrance into the dock, and to hear with their own ears—O palpitating, overwhelming experience—the secret history of an essentially Parisian cause célèbre. The trial would be the event of the autumn season, a function no self-respecting mondain, mondaine or demi-mondaine could afford to miss. And so, as the accommodation in the Court of Assizes is limited, the campaign to secure cards of admission became ardent, fierce, and then (as the sensational day of the 3rd November approached) delirious. Off, by footmen, chauffeurs, special messengers, went scented little notes to judges and famous lawyers, and to deputies, senators and ministers, imploring those distinguished personages to “remember” the writer when the hour arrived for the precious yellow tickets to be distributed. “Mon cher ami,” wrote Madame la Comtesse de la Tour, “if you forget me I shall never, never forgive you.” Then, with a blot or two, and in a primitive, scrawling handwriting, Mademoiselle Giselle de Perle of the half-world: “Mon vieux gros, I count upon you for the trial. If you fail me, your little blonde Pauline will show her claws. And the claws of this blonde child can be terrible.” (It is shocking to think that blonde Giselle de Perle should be on such familiar terms with gentlemen in high places; but as a matter of fact she and her sisters play a very important rôle in the life of the Amazing City.) As for stout, diamond-covered Baronne Goldstein (wife of old bald-headed Goldstein of the Bourse), she invited judges and deputies to rich, elaborate dinners, at which the oldest, the mellowest, the most comforting wines from her cellars were produced; and when M. le Juge and M. le Député had been rendered genial and benevolent by those rare, warming vintages, she led them into a corner of Goldstein’s vast gilded salon, and there besought them, while breathing heavily under her breastplate of diamonds, to procure for her “just one little yellow ticket.” Naturally, all these State officials replied with a bow: “I will do my best. Need I say that it is my dearest desire to oblige you?” And our ornaments of le Tout Paris were satisfied; already regarded that ticket of tickets as being safe and sound in their possession. When October dawned, Madame la Comtesse, lively Pauline Boum and stout Baronne Goldstein ordered striking dresses and huge, complicated hats for the Steinheil cause célèbre. In their respective salons, over their “five o’clock’s” of pale tea, sugared cakes, and crystal glasses of port, malaga and madeira, they excitedly described how they had driven to the tranquil, ivy-covered villa in the Impasse Ronsin where Madame Steinheil’s husband and mother had been assassinated on the night of the 30th-31st May eighteen months ago. And how, after that expedition, they had proceeded to beautiful Bellevue, seven miles out of Paris, to stare at that other villa, the “Vert Logis,” where the “Tragic Widow” received her lovers. How they gossiped, too, over the intrigue between the accused woman and the late President Félix Faure; and what fun they made of certain high State dignitaries who were said to be in a state of “panic” because they had been habitués of the Steinheil villas! “I would not miss the trial for the largest and finest diamond in the world,” declared these ladies. “It will be extraordinary, overwhelming, supreme,” exclaimed the male guests at these tea-and-madeira afternoon parties. “We shall still be discussing it this time next year.”
Suddenly, however, consternation, indignation, fury, hysteria, in le Tout Paris. In an official decree, M. de Valles, the judge appointed to preside over the Steinheil “debates,” intimated that all those scented notes had been written, all those elaborate dinners had been given, all those striking dresses and complicated hats had been ordered, and tried on I don’t know how many times—in vain. “I have,” stated M. de Valles, “received over 25,000 applications for tickets of admission, and every one of them I have refused. Only the diplomatic corps, the Bar, and a certain number of French and foreign journalists will be admitted. Let it be clearly understood that this decision of mine is irrevocable.” Gracious powers, the commotion! Le Tout Paris protested, raged, until it wore itself out with anger and hysteria. “I have made thousands of enemies. Even my wife’s friends refuse to speak to me,” said M. de Valles to an interviewer. True to his word, the judge remained inexorable. Passionate letters to him remained unanswered; to all visitors he was invisible. Hence the exceedingly bad temper of le Tout Paris on that foggy, gloomy morning of the 3rd of November. And thus for the first time on record the heroine of an essentially Parisian cause célèbre entered the dock of the dim, oblong, oak-panelled Court of Assizes, secure from the laughter, the mockery, and the opera-glasses of French Vanity Fair.
An extraordinary woman, Madame Steinheil. Imagine Sarah Bernhardt in some supremely tragical rôle—pathetic, threatening; tender, violent; despairing, tearful; wrecked with indignation, suffering and exhaustion, and you will gain an idea of the “Tragic Widow’s” demeanour during the ten days’ dramatic trial. Her voice, like the incomparable Sarah’s, was now melodious and persuasive, then hoarse, bitter, frenzied; when she wept, it subsided into a moan or a broken whisper. Never even in Paris (where a widow’s weeds are perhaps excessively lugubrious) have I seen deeper mourning: heavy crape bands round the accused woman’s black dress, stiff crape bows in the widow’s cap, a deep crape border to the handkerchief which she clenched tightly, convulsively, in her black-gloved hand. Then, under her eyes, dark, dark shadows, which turned green as the trial tragically wore on. Her face, deadly pale, but for the hectic spot burning fiercely in each cheek. Her eyes, blue. Her hair, dark brown. Her ears, small and delicate; her mouth, sensitive, tremulous, eloquent. Her only coquetterie, the low, square-cut opening in the neck of her dress.
Wistfully, wretchedly, she glanced around the court, after M. de Valles, the presiding judge, had given her permission to sit down. Then her eyes fell upon a grim table placed immediately beneath the Bench: and she shuddered. It was grim because it contained the pièces à conviction—the alpenstock found near the late M. Steinheil’s body, the coil of rope with which he and his mother-in-law had been strangled, the famous bottle of brandy with the innumerable finger-prints, the wadding lying on the floor by the side of Madame Japy’s bed. Then, M. de Valles, in his rasping voice, asked the “Tragic Widow” the usual preliminary questions concerning her parentage, domicile and age. Almost inaudibly, Madame Steinheil replied. And the trial began.
Unfortunately, I have neither the space nor the time at my disposal to render even a tolerably satisfactory account of this overwhelming cause célèbre. “Impressions” are all I can offer, mixed up with brief descriptions of what the French journalist calls “incidents in court”; and even these “impressions” and “incidents” must necessarily be compressed and disconnected. For the slightness of my recital, I beg the indulgence of my readers.
“Messieurs les Jurés, I swear I am innocent. Messieurs les Jurés, I adored my mother. Messieurs les Jurés, do not believe the abominable things the President is saying about me,” was the “Tragic Widow’s” first passionate outburst. Then, turning round upon M. de Valles: “You are treating me atrociously.”