For awhile, I readily admit, the Matin carried on a vigorous campaign, which was in my favour, since it aimed at the truth, at the solution of the mystery. The articles of M. de Labruyère had undoubtedly much to do with the renewed activity of the police.
Meanwhile, the strain of my abnormal life, the constant excitement and strife around me, the ceaseless questions of journalists and visits of would-be advisers, the accumulation of clues, arguments, and suggestions, lack of sleep, and the almost complete loss of appetite, gradually brought me to a state of physical lassitude and mental agitation that bordered on madness. I still wonder to this day if it was that my distracted, tortured mind did not become unhinged sooner than November 26th (1908), the date of what has been called in this harrowing affair the "Night of the Confession," so easy was it for any one to persuade me into believing or saying anything, anywhere, and at any time.
When I left my house a crowd followed me and sometimes I heard a man or woman shout: "There she is, the murderess!..." Some said: "No, no, leave her alone!" I did not mind, I did not understand.... Nothing mattered. There was but one thought in my mind: "They will soon be found, and Marthe and I will breathe again; we will be allowed to live—like all other human beings...."
Journalists followed me wherever I went. I liked them, I smiled on them, they were helping me, they were working with me, for me and Marthe. I always did my best now to collect my thoughts and answer their questions. M. de Labruyère begged me daily to come to the Matin offices, and I went, half-heartedly, to tell him what he wanted to know. When I did not go he came to fetch me, accompanied me in a motor-car, on my errands, to my notary, to Maître Aubin, and on the way he interrogated me, and wrote down every word I said, and probably much else besides.... Sometimes I was quite normal, but these spells of lucidity were daily growing scarcer....
One day, at the Matin offices, M. de Labruyère telephoned directly to the Minister of Justice to ask him for an "urgent audience" about me. I was surprised, and said so, but he replied airily: "The Minister is an old friend of ours. We do as we please, here, with the Government."
I felt there was something not quite clear in this, and I may say that since the "Night of the Confession" I have been convinced that the direct telephoning to the Minister of Justice was a put-up comedy to impress me with the importance of the Matin—and I said to M. de Labruyère: "I think it far simpler that I should call on the Minister. He is sure to receive me, in the circumstances."
"No, no," came the hasty reply. "Let us arrange it. Let Bunau-Varilla arrange it. You must understand that Ministers must bow their heads before us. Surely you know that we end Cabinets as easily as we make them...."
Thereupon, he once more begged me to meet M. Bunau-Varilla. "He has been rather vexed because you declined to see him.... But I am sure he will at once grant you an audience, if you wish it."
I consented. After all, I might as well see this man with unlimited powers, this Bunau-Varilla who "granted audiences" like a sovereign or a Cabinet Minister.
I went down three steps which led from a vestibule to the "audience-chamber." I found myself in a room of huge proportions, with only a long, seemingly endless table and the chairs around it for furniture. At the further end of the table stood a white-haired man, white-bearded, in evening dress (it was 5 P.M.), erect, solemn, gloomy—but not awe-inspiring. There was something in his attitude that reminded me of the "Statue of the Commander" in Molière's "Don Juan."