M. Hamard spoke the same words as the Procureur: "Madame, I assure you that we do our best...." He added a few, vague, common-place remarks, but concluded in a different tone, and with genuine sincerity. "I will look for the murderers until I find them!"
In spite of this last remark, I got a clear impression that the Affaire de l'Impasse Ronsin, as I had been told, was classée.
On the way home I remained silent, but as we entered the garden, I took my daughter in my arms, and said: "Marthe, I will fight to the end, come what may. I owe it to you, to your father and your grandmother, and to myself." She gave me a long kiss, and big tears rolled down her cheeks as she whispered: "You are right, maman, the murderers will be found, and... Pierre, perhaps, will come back to me!" She had not yet quite forgotten him....
During the last days of October, I saw M. Marcel Hutin, who had often told me that the Press was almighty, and that he placed himself at my disposal. If the newspapers took up my case, the assassins would soon fall into the hands of the police. I believed him. I would at that time have believed any one who promised to help me to get at the truth. Marthe, my few remaining friends, every member of my family, inspectors—all advised me to go on with the case.... My mind was irrevocably made up.
With M. Hutin's assistance, I wrote a letter to his newspaper, the Echo de Paris. In that letter, which was published on October 31st, 1908, I mentioned the lukewarmness and lethargy of those in charge of the case, and solemnly asserted my intention of continuing investigations, and avenging the dead. The letter created a deep sensation, and was everywhere reproduced. My house was assailed by journalists; I was in the hands of the Press.
On the day when the letter appeared, we went, Marthe and I, to the cemetery at L'Hay, a little village in the neighbourhood of Paris, where M. Steinheil was buried. Together we arranged the tomb, and decorated it with flowers, and—prayed....
When we reached the Impasse in the afternoon, we found it invaded by a score of journalists, who rushed to us and overwhelmed me with questions... but I firmly declared that I had nothing to add, for the present, to what I had said in my letter to the Echo de Paris.
Shortly afterwards, Marthe and I went by train to Breteuil, where my brother Julien lived. We arrived there in the evening and had a long conversation about the mystery. Like so many others, Julien thought a campaign in the newspapers the only means of getting at the truth. "Tell them what you know, what you think. Let them assist you in the search for the murderers.... In less than a month our mother and your husband will be avenged, and you will be triumphantly vindicated of all these vile insinuations...."
Poor Julien—and poor me. In less than a month, I was... in prison!
The next morning—All Saints' Day—we ran through the newspapers—my brother, Marthe, and I... and were astounded. In every one of them whole columns were devoted to the murder mystery, to my letter published in the Echo de Paris. Some approved; others criticised. Some praised my courage; others made it clear that they considered this daring, reckless move of mine a sign of my guilt! One journal—one which always knows everything—probably irritated because my letter, re-opening the case, as it were, had appeared elsewhere, described my visit to the cemetery at L'Hay, and did not hesitate to say that I had driven there in a closed carriage with drawn blinds, like a guilty person.... As a matter of fact, as the weather was splendid, and I thought that the country air would do both Marthe and me much good, we had driven to the cemetery in an open carriage.