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."...