Mariette was again making signs at the window, and I thought once more of Alexandre Wolff....
The two journalists kept asking me questions. They both spoke at the same time. I had sunk from my chair on to the floor. I would not, I could not, reply.... They grew angry. I fell on to the floor. I besought them to go; they seized me by the wrists and shouted: "Confess, confess!..."
Then seeing that I did not speak, M. de Labruyère whispered: "I will tell you the whole truth. I have seen Briand this afternoon. You must speak. But above all, don't say what you have said before. Public Opinion doesn't believe in the story you told. Tell another! Tell us the names of the murderers."
My blood ran cold. I no longer had any capacity for thinking. Those men had killed my mind, my reason. They wanted names, any names.
I spoke, one, two, three names. I said "Salvator" (one of my late husband's models). They were not satisfied! I then said: "It's not Salvator, it's his brother!" That would not do either.... Then I thought of Alexandre Wolff, who had been so much in my mind lately....
"Alexandre Wolff," I cried. "He is the murderer."
This suited them. They began to scribble. They made suggestions as to things that had taken place.... They had evidently (as I realised afterwards) received anonymous letters, like myself.... I replied: "Yes, yes."...
Then, their faces suddenly brightened up. They had won! The most sensational article for many years would appear in a few hours' time under their signature. The greatest day in their career had come!
Then, they felt grateful though in a great hurry, for it was after midnight, and they spoke a few words of encouragement.
"Everything will be all right. We will send you a motor-car. You will go to a hotel, so as to avoid being lynched, you and your daughter. And afterwards you will go abroad, and forget everything." (My daughter heard them speak these words.)