MY MEMOIRS

MY MEMOIRS

BY
MARGUERITE STEINHEIL

ILLUSTRATED

New York
STURGIS & WALTON
COMPANY
1912

Copyright 1912
By STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY
——
Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1912

CHAPTER I
CHILDHOOD

("Monsieur et Madame Edouard Japy have the honour to inform you of the birth of a daughter." Beaucourt, April, 16th, 1869.)

BEAUCOURT is a village in the "Belfort Territory," not far from the Swiss and German frontiers. It was in that village, at the "Château Edouard"—all large mansions in that region are called "châteaux," and the name of the owner is added to the word—that I was born some forty years ago.

Beaucourt and nearly all of the surrounding country belongs to, or is dependent upon, the Japy family, whose vast factories and mills give a living to thousands of workmen.

After a family quarrel, my father, Edouard Japy, had severed his connection with "Japy Bros." some time before my birth. Having resigned his directorship of the Company, he busied himself exclusively with his huge estate, devoting his days to the farm and woods, to his beloved park and the picturesque cascades which he had designed himself, to his flowers and orchards, to his family and to music.

My mother was the daughter of the innkeeper of the Red Lion, the chief inn of Montbéliard in those already distant days. Edouard Japy had married Mlle. Emilie Rau in spite of the opposition of his family, who had declared that such a marriage would be a mésalliance. He had married her—as he often told me when, as a young girl, I became more than his child: his friend and confidante—because "she was very beautiful and very good." My mother had dark eyes, large and very tender, and her raven-black hair, when loosed, streamed down to her feet. She was of a quiet and sunny nature, kind, serene, and smiling. She ignored evil, was exquisitely artless, and never understood a great deal of the realities of life, because she did not see them. She gave away and spent without counting, was indulgent in a manner as touching as it was unconscious, and went through life a simple and happy being, knowing neither great exultation nor deep depression, incapable of sustained effort or serious worry. Edouard adored Emilie, Emilie adored Edouard, and all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds.

The man who was to be my father having decided—and he had both will and charm—that Mlle. Rau should be his wife, managed to have her sent to a boarding-school at Stuttgart, so that she might complete her education. Mlle. Rau was then fourteen years old. Two years later she became Madame Japy. Her husband was then twenty-five.

I do not intend to sketch here the history of the Japys of Beaucourt; but after having given a few details about my parents, I may add a few about my grandparents, if only to satisfy the curiosity of those who believe as much in atavism as in heredity.

The first Japys who "matter" were two brothers, the grandfather and great-uncle of my father. The one, an inventor of genius, at first turned his attention to clocks and then to all kinds of machine tools—screwing, planing, riveting, bolting, boring, and so on. He created; his brother organised. The first had ideas; the second rendered them practical and profitable. I will not say any more about the financier and company-promoter, but the following story about the inventor is well worth telling: He had built for himself a small house, "on stilts," as it were. Below the floor of the large and only room, there was nothing but—air, and then the grass of the meadow. The inventor reached his retreat with the help of a rope ladder, which he withdrew when he had climbed up to his famous "idea-room." There, safe from intrusion, he worked, day after day, and for his meals was satisfied with a little bread and cheese. It was generally dark before he returned to earth and joined his wife, who, I have been told, was strikingly beautiful.

Later, the children of those two brothers, developed the already important undertaking of their fathers, and gradually the firm Japy Frères became what it is to-day, one of the largest and strongest industrial concerns in France.

I was educated by resident governesses and professors. One of the governesses, questioned thirty-five years later, was to declare that at the age of five, I used to lie a good deal but that I succeeded in being forgiven, thanks to my "talents as an actress."

At my trial in the Paris Assize Court, the Public Prosecutor made a great deal out of this evidence, and saw therein a sure sign of my precocious depravity.

Personally, I believe that all normal children tell fibs, more or less, and I am delighted to think that I was a normal little girl. As for my talent as an actress, I have since seen too many little girls of five to believe seriously in it. I smile, and I proceed....

My father looked after my education with charming care. My brother and my sisters were brought up in boarding-schools, but my school was at home, in a large room on the first floor. I still see that light and beautiful room, overlooking our park, the trees of which, alive with birds, were so often the cause of much inattention to my work. I see the two blackboards, the one covered at regular intervals with detested figures and the other written over with words and sentences or the names of places and people. My father, wearing a stern expression, kept entering the room to see "how the little one was getting on," and invariably had some recommendation to make: "Since you are telling her about the Odyssey, make her follow Ulysses' travels on a map," or "I see you are reading the Iliad, pray insist on Andromache, Hector, Achilles, but skip whenever you come to Nestor; he was a fool and a bore."... "Promise to take her to Domrémy if she learns to love Joan of Arc."... "You are studying Napoleon.... Wait one moment, I'll fetch an album of Raffet's drawings for her."... "What, you are drawing in this room, in this weather! Run down into the garden: that's the ideal place where to draw"... and I always thought my father was absolutely right.

There was a large globe in my schoolroom, and quite a library of travel-books. Ah! the tropics, the flowers, the birds! Ah! to see the birds of Paradise in Borneo, or humming-birds in Brazil! To gather orchids in Central Africa or in Queensland... I adore two rivers: the Orinoco and the Brahmaputra, and two mountains: Kilimanjaro and Popocatapetl, because of their extraordinary names! My favourite heroes were Hannibal and—Napoleon, of course.

My father began to teach me the violin when I was four, and the piano and the organ the following year. He had his own ideas on the education of girls, but applied them to me only. When I was a mere child, he taught me to bow, to arrange flowers, and to recognise and appreciate things beautiful, ancient or rare—old furniture, old tapestries, old china, old pewter. He showed me the hall-marks on silver, he made me caress cameos and enamel-work and touch embroideries and old lace reverently. He made me go up and down a staircase ten, twenty times in succession: "You see, darling, any one can go down steps without being ridiculous, but to go up a staircase, that's another matter. Now then, come down—that's it—raise your head—go slowly—like a queen in books of long ago. Look as though you came down from Heaven and had wings, and didn't press upon the carpet!" And he added gaily, "when I go down a staircase, I feel as if I were an emperor descending towards his loving people! You ought to imagine a long train behind you, held by two little eighteenth-century negroes, twenty steps above." And the lessons went on again: "Now walk upstairs. Lightly, lightly, little one! Don't move your arms. Now turn your head round ... Ah! there's a pretty picture! By the way, you must dress your hair in another way. And what is that gold bracelet round your wrist! A flower, that's the only jewel you may wear at present, Mademoiselle!"

He designed my dresses, and later on he insisted that I should learn to make them myself. He gave me a riding-master, a violin teacher and a piano teacher, besides the various governesses who taught me the "other things," but it was with him and through him that I learned the little I have learned. His was a beautiful life, and there sang in my young heart those words which my father often whispered in my ear: "I love you every day more than yesterday and less than to-morrow." I looked upon my father as a kind of marvellously beneficent Deity. Sometimes I heard it said that he was "not practical," but I pitied those who criticised him. If he hated to calculate, that was his own affair, after all! Though warned of the catastrophe which never befell him, he remained cheerful, kind and generous. Our house was known as "La Maison du Bon Dieu." Every one was welcome there, and my father, who was a gourmet, and had a remarkable chef, treated his guests to feasts worthy of Lucullus, and to the best wines in his cellars—under one condition, invariably the same: that they should listen to the concert in the drawing-room, afterwards.

My father kept my mother's whole family, paid the debts of his friends, and did his utmost to assist any one and every one. Whenever he passed through a village round Beaucourt, men, women, and children would appear at the windows or doors of their cottages, and greet him with a sign, a word, or a smile of gratitude. And I used to sit as close to him as possible, in the trap; I was proud and happy and felt like shouting to the good villagers: "You know, he is my daddy!"

Dear father! they were to slander him, too, at my trial. A member of his own family asserted that he was a brute and a drunkard. And when I revolted against such an abominable statement, my counsel tried to appease me. "Don't take any notice," he muttered. "The statement, it seems, has been made to save you at any cost. Being the daughter of a drunkard, you could be considered, to some extent, as irresponsible. It was tactics, not an insult!"

In my memory I can see next to my father the lovable figure of M. Doriand, my parents' "old" and my "great" friend.

M. Doriand was a professor in the Empress's College for girls at Moscow, and his conversation was a rare delight. He came every year to spend his holidays with us. He remained three months at Beaucourt, and during the rest of the year sent us a long letter every week. In the summer, when he was with us, he made me read over again all the lessons I had taken since the previous summer, and he discussed them so wittily and opened up to me such new horizons, retold me history in such a fascinating and personal manner, and managed to render mathematics so interesting, that I never thought of complaining of the unusual way of making me spend my holidays.

Then he painted very well, and gave me lessons in watercolours. He developed in me such a keen taste for art that later on my father decided I should attend an art school.

My "great friend" or my "grandpapa from Russia," as I often called him, had exquisite manners. When, many years later, I became what is called a "woman of the world," and even a Paris "Society Queen," if I may quote a term so often applied to me, I was able to judge the various types of people who composed that Society and their manners, and I realised then that M. Doriand did not belong to his time. He had the exquisite politeness of the "honest" people of the grand siècle. I still see him bowing with easy grace whenever he met my mother, my sisters or me. Never did a vulgar or trivial word pass from his lips. He loved what he called, not "beautiful" French, but "good" French. He had for the most humble the same little attentions and the same gentle and old-time courteousness as for his peers. He addressed his aged sister, who resided near Beaucourt, as he would have a queen, for he believed that nowhere more than in the home were perfect manners and courteous speech more becoming, and that to no one more than to his own people did a man owe respect. He took off his hat when he met the women about the farm, and never kept it on in a shop. He spoke slowly and softly, and cultivated the mot propre (the exact word). It was a joy to hear him, as much to the ear as to the mind. As long as I remained under his influence, I tried to speak as he did; but destiny took me to Paris, where, alas! they speak Parisian, not French.

My grandpapa from Russia seemed to know everything and to be able to do anything. He would, for instance, talk to me for an hour about a tragedy of Voltaire, which he afterwards compared with a tragedy of his beloved Racine; or perhaps a book by some little known Russian author, whom he placed far above the work of many celebrated writers—German, French or English. Then he would suddenly tell me the life of a plant at our feet or the story of the stone on which he sat. Afterwards, we would go to the kitchen, and there he taught me how to prepare some kind of soup or sweet dish à la Russe. When this was over we would go to the music-room and there I had to sing or play to him an air by Mozart, Glück, Lulli, or Rameau. He used to say: "You will play the music of Beethoven and Wagner (he, like my father, had already recognised Wagner's genius) when you are older. One must have suffered and loved to understand these geniuses." He taught me to sculpture, to bind books, to solder....

My father joined us and said: "My dear Doriand, you are monopolising my daughter. You have had her to yourself the whole morning."

"How dare you complain," the other retorted; "you have her the whole of the year."

How delightfully they spoiled me, those two dear souls, and how coquettish they made me! I recall them sitting on an old rustic bench in the large avenue of chestnut-trees. I felt that they were talking about me, and I ran into the house to put on my most becoming dress, and then went out and walked up and down slowly, with a book in my hand, and not too far from them, and knowing all the while that their eyes were following me! There did not seem to be any harm in this, but one day, my mother catching me at my little game, scolded me and my father and his old friend much more.... As a rule, when my dear mother scolded them, my father went to the organ and improvised a war-march and M. Doriand, standing near him, turned imaginary pages. My mother could not help laughing and we guilty three did the same, of course.

I had two sisters, Juliette, the eldest—who, when I was a little girl, became the wife of M. Herr, an engineer then residing in Bayonne, where, later, I met M. Steinheil—and Mimi, younger than I by four years, who was my mother's favourite, just as I was my father's. I had also a brother, Julien, who enlisted in an infantry regiment at Belfort and became there the friend of M. Sheffer, who was to be my fiancé of a few months.

We rose early at Beaucourt. After a quick breakfast and an hour given to recreation in the park, or to the care of my flowers—like my parents, I had a passion for flowers, especially hydrangea and roses—I went to the schoolroom for my lessons. The afternoon was divided between study, games and household duties. In the evening, after dinner, we had music in the large salon, the very one which during the war, the Germans sacked and threw into confusion.... Ah! it was awe-inspiring to hear my father describe their stay at the "castle" and tell us how this splendid drawing-room had been turned by those "Prussians" into a kitchen, the grand piano into a larder and the precious curtains of antique red damask into horse blankets and dish-cloths....

There was always a large number of guests at home. The three-storied house had forty rooms and they were more often occupied than empty. Our evening concerts were my father's great joy. He sat at the organ, the enormous and rubicund Mme. Koger, my piano teacher, settled down at the piano, I took my violin and three or four musicians from Belfort, violinists and 'cellists, completed our little orchestra.

During the winter—and the winter is extremely sharp in that part of France—we used to skate on the Rhone-Rhine Canal, or we went for long rides in a sleigh, on the roads deep in snow. And then, we tobogganned. A "train" of tobogganners was formed at the top of a hill with a "captain" at its head; we rushed at break-neck speed down the hill-side, the train broke up, the toboggans overturned and hurled us into the snow, when a free fight ensued over the responsibility for the accident. I generally triumphed over my cousins, both boys and girls, and was rather proud of it!

Had the examining magistrate in charge of my case known this detail, he would no doubt have come to the conclusion that, since, as a child, I was strong enough to be victorious, with snowballs, over my playmates, it was clear that, as a woman, I must have been strong enough to commit the horrible crimes of which he accused me!

Winter also brought with it an increased number of visits, to the sick and poor, and as my mother never allowed me to give them anything that I had not worked at myself, not a day passed without our devoting at least one or two hours to preparing warm clothes for the needy. As for my father, he had a wonderful knack of saying and doing the right thing whenever he called on the people he looked after, and this made it one of my happiest occupations to accompany him on this round of mercy.

Christmas was a great day to us. The Christmas tree, which my father always uprooted himself—it was almost a ceremony with him—was first lit up for the family, then for the servants and farmhands, and a third time for the poor people who came in crowds from the neighbouring villages, and whom my parents received one after another with a word of welcome and a pleasant personal remark which at once put them at their ease.

On January 1 we paid "morning" calls until 2 P.M. In all the houses where we went, the hosts and hostesses wished to detain my father for "at least an hour," for he was gay and charming, good to look upon and his kindness was proverbial... but he refused: "No, no—I must go, my dear friends; I have still so many visits to pay—for instance, I must call on this rascal here (and he laughingly dealt a blow at a friend close to him) whom I have already passed three times on the road and met in five drawing-rooms this morning. But there you are, I must, mustn't I, you rogue, express my good wishes for a happy New Year to him in his own house—and to think that afterwards I shall meet him again in half a dozen places and that, to cap it all, I will have to go home to receive him, so that he may return my good wishes. Ah! the old traditions!..."

Then came the family dinner, which lasted till the evening and the day ended with... music, of course. While we played, my mother slumbered peacefully in a fine old arm-chair, where once had sat my great-grandmother, the beautiful wife of the inventor.... But we went to bed early, for on the previous night we had hardly slept at all.

In fact, a few minutes before midnight, on December 31, songs rose under the windows of the "castle"—beautiful songs, simple, broad-winged, with words which varied a little from year to year, but with music centuries old, and always the same, for it could not have been improved upon. Then, surrounded by their children and their servants, my parents received the singers on the threshold of their house. The singers shook the snow from their coats and their fur caps, took off their wooden shoes, shook hands with us all, and the feast began. My father distributed among them baskets of apples and walnuts, whole hams, strings of sausages, sacks of potatoes, and Alsatian cakes. And when the good people had gone and their voices could no longer be heard—my father wrapped me up in furs and we went together to look at the snow. And somehow, it always seemed more wonderful and more blue to us on New Year's night. My father told me marvellous tales and I did not feel sleepy at all. But an hour later, assuming a gruff voice, he exclaimed: "What does this mean, Mademoiselle? Still up at three in the morning at your age." When he had gently carried me in his arms to my room, he said: "Go quickly to sleep, 'Puppele' (an Alsatian expression meaning 'little doll'), mother would be angry if she knew."

Mother knew perfectly well, for she had been waiting by the fireside in the dining-room and she never retired without having seen me in my bed and kissed me. But she was not angry on this occasion, and with her sweet, indulgent philosophy she said: "After all, there is but one First of January in the year."

On Sundays we attended service in the Temple of Beaucourt. The district is a Protestant one, a very Protestant one indeed. My first pastor was old M. Cuvier, a descendant of the great naturalist Baron Cuvier, who died in 1832.

He was very handsome and impressive, was Pastor Cuvier, with his mane of white hair and his gleaming eyes under the bushy eyebrows. My father used to tell me that he looked like Liszt, whom he had met on several occasions in Germany and Hungary, and in Paris. The old clergyman was a great orator, and although I did not always understand what he said, I loved to listen to him. He often called on us, and, in order to tease him, my father, a staunch Huguenot but broad-minded and endowed with a sense of humour, made him sit at the table next to the Catholic priest of Beaucourt. At the beginning of the dinner the two men hardly dared look at one another, and could hardly eat, much to my mother's alarm.... M. Cuvier said, "Let us not talk religion," and the priest added, "Nor politics." My father remarked, "You are both quite right"... and forthwith he started eulogising Darwin's theories and explaining to his two guests the law of natural selection and how it was quite evident that "each species was not independently created."... But all ended well, thanks to the good-humour of my father, the smiling grace of my mother, and the excellent wines and liqueurs in our cellars.

Old Pastor Cuvier was very kind to me. He often received me at his house, which stood opposite the wood in our estate. He had in his library all the works of his illustrious ancestor, and writing down the names on a slip of paper, which I have kept through all these years, he made me promise that I would read, when I was grown-up, the "Tableau Elémentaire de l'Histoire Naturelle des Animaux" and the "Règne Animal distribué d'après son Organisation." I promised, of course, but did not keep my promise. May the two Cuviers, the naturalist and the pastor, forgive me!

M. Cuvier was fond of relating some episodes—within my understanding—of the Revolution and the First Empire. He talked about the Terror as though he had lived through those dreadful days, and about Napoleon as though he had known him intimately. We went several times to Montbéliard together to visit the Cuvier Museum there, and he would stand in contemplation before the great man's enormous and very dirty cap. And my pastor would exclaim: "What a head! What a head!"

He so often talked to me about a certain book by Cuvier on elephants that the thought of elephants haunted me and I begged my father to show me one. And so it was that I went, when I was a little girl, to Paris. The elephant I saw there pleased me very much, although I would have liked it to have been more savage; and, in spite of a ride on the back of the great beast, I was somewhat disappointed.

My pastor was very, very old, and his son came to assist him in his work, but both left Beaucourt after a short time. The son, like thousands of Protestants in the Jura and Switzerland at the time, was a Monodist, and believed that Monod, the great preacher and revivalist, was Christ himself.... M. Cuvier died in Switzerland. A new pastor came to Beaucourt, M. Bach, and I became in time the organist of his church and the leader of the choir.

Three times a week the band organised by my father came to rehearse at our house. Chamber-music did not quite satisfy him, and he had founded this band, which numbered forty-five musicians. Ah! those rehearsals. When the weather was fair they took place under the chestnut trees, but if it rained or snowed the "forty-five" and their conductor would gather in the main drawing-room of the "castle," where two hundred people could have been seated comfortably, or in the dining-room, to the pathetic despair of my mother, who would ask my father: "Don't you think, Edouard, that your band is just a little too noisy?" My father kissed her laughingly, flourished the baton, and the rehearsal began.

One of my father's greatest delights, and mine, too, was to travel together. After my fourteenth birthday he took me to Italy, to Germany, and to Switzerland, where we went round the Léman (he forbade me to say Lake of Geneva); and, of course, we continued to pay our periodical visits to Belfort, Nancy and Bâle.

It was in Belfort that I heard an opera for the first time. This was Faust. My father, who was a friend of Gounod, had told me all kinds of things about Gounod's "nice" music, but I was not half as impressed as I thought I should be. Perhaps it was because Faust was too stout, because Valentine sang too loudly as he died, because Mephistopheles was not diabolical enough, and perhaps, too, owing to the fact that Marguerite's spinning-wheel, having been mislaid, had been replaced at the eleventh hour by a—sewing-machine. And to think that they could have found a spinning-wheel in almost any house of the neighbourhood!

It was also at Belfort that I met M. Thiers, with whom my father was well acquainted. This "meeting" took place, I believe, in 1877. I had to hand a huge bouquet to M. Thiers. Every one was calling him "The Liberator and the Saviour of France," and those words so fixed themselves in my mind that I quite forgot the little speech I had learned by heart; and when M. Thiers stepped from his carriage, I handed him the bouquet and said, "There you are, Mr. Saviour" (Monsieur le Sauveur). The little fat and ugly man with the round head, the beady eyes, and the spectacles, took the bouquet, lifted me up and kissed me. Later on he spent an evening at our house, and naturally I asked for a story. Thereupon, describing some wonderful ceremony, he mentioned Napoleon, sixteen horses drawing a funeral car, and a magnificent palace with a golden cupola, near the Seine, in Paris.... And years later, I realised that Thiers had been telling me about the translation of Napoleon's ashes to the Invalids, in the days of King Louis-Philippe, when he was Prime Minister.

We used to go for long walks or rides, my father and I. We both loved to feel the wind in our faces, and we took joy in the smell of the earth, the smell of grass, the voice of the trees. Often he went out without me, but as soon as I was free from my work I went in search of him, fastening the ribbons of my big straw hat as I ran over hill and dale. Instinct led me in the right direction, and in time I found him, and rushing up, rested in his arms, which was ever my way of greeting him. We returned home together, and on the way never failed to admire our favourite old trees, to linger by the lakes we liked best, to gather ferns and foxglove, and to go at least once round the greenhouses.

And we had endless surprises, and we laughed at everything, often for no reason at all. A word, a common thought, the shape of a leaf or of a cloud, sent us into fits of ecstasy or laughter. And my father would kiss me and whisper: "We get on well together, we two, don't we, Puppele;" and I would answer: "I love you, my daddy."

"Quite right, too," he would say. "Try to love me as long as you possibly can. A father like the one you own is worth all the husbands in the world."

What happy days! What a lovely life! How everything smiled on me, how everything seemed good and simple.... Alas! a few years later disenchantment was to begin, bringing in its wake, temptations, weaknesses, struggles and sorrows; and finally the whole fabric of my life was to be brought crashing down in a terrible, "sensational" drama....

I fear that this note of poignant sadness and regret will sound again and again in these pages like a melancholy and distressing leit-motiv.... But how could it be otherwise? How could I fail to realise, in an intensely painful and bitter manner, all that I have lost and all that I have suffered unjustly, when I recall my childhood and my radiant youth, and the days spent in Beaucourt with a mother infinitely loving and a father passionately devoted, and when I compare those years of happiness with the feverish, tangled years that followed and that resulted, after the appalling catastrophe in which I lost my husband and my mother, both foully done to death, in my being tried and imprisoned in Paris on a double charge of murder.

CHAPTER II
YOUTH—MY FATHER'S DEATH—MY MARRIAGE

I MADE my début in society at seventeen. The circle was quite small, for there were Japys and ramifications of the Japys wherever we went, and, of course, as I knew them all, they were nothing new to me. It was only in Belfort that I met people whom I did not know. They were, however, for the most part only passing acquaintances that I made, for my parents guarded their "Puppele" most jealously....

I remember my first ball at Belfort. I wore a very simple gown, made of tulle in three shades of blue, and had a spray of apple-blossom in my hair and another at my waist. My father, taking a seat where he could survey the whole room, said gaily to me: "Meg (an affectionate diminutive for Marguerite), I distrust all these young men. Your entrance has caused a sensation, and all the officers of the garrison are staring at you. I hate it, but, on the other hand, I would have been furious if my daughter had passed unnoticed.... I allow you to dance... with your brother."

Julien was now a second lieutenant, having left the military school of Saint-Maixent, where he had passed brilliantly through his examinations. I admired him very much in his new uniform, and, besides, I had a deep affection for this big brother of mine, who was bright, witty, a little irresponsible, and very much of a mauvais sujet.

During the whole of the evening we danced together, under the amused eyes of my father, who, surrounded by a small crowd of officers of all ranks who were anxious to dance with me, said to them: "Gentlemen, you may sit down by my side. I will not forbid you to look at my daughter and I am even willing to introduce you to her; but she absolutely refuses to dance with any one but her brother, and you know the proverb: 'Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut'" (Woman's will, God's will).

I asked my father later on: "What have you against dancing, and why am I allowed to dance only with my brother? Did you, in your time, dance only with your sister?"

He did not reply directly to my question, but said: "I only care for slow, graceful, stately dances—dances from a distance, such as the minuet, the gavotte, or the pavane, in which the partners only touch fingers."

"But, father," I said, mischievously, "have you never danced modern dances—polka, mazurkas, valses?"

He assumed the expression of a child "caught in the act," and, with head bent down, whispered, as though he were making a confession: "The truth is I have loved, and still love dancing, any dancing, and I have spent whole nights dancing!" Then, raising his head, he added: "Only, you see, when one loves, one is illogical, and you don't know, my 'Puppele,' how I love you."

My mother said that my father's attitude was not fair to me, and that it was not right to close our door, as he seemed to wish to do, to all men under forty. We entertained more than ever, and at our evenings I played and sang... with my father. I saw a new meaning in our love-duets; I was a little intoxicated, my imagination ran loose, I sang with more feeling than I had done before.... And my parents were overwhelmed with suitors for my hand. My father consulted me, although he had quite made up his mind to do as he pleased in the matter. I always said "no," and he exclaimed: "Ah! how right you are.... It is really wonderful what a sensible daughter I have!... When you are twenty we will talk of marriage. Meanwhile, think a little of your father."

"A little!" When I thought of no one but of him! The following year he said the same thing to me, but with a slight alteration: "When you are twenty-one..." And I gently pinched his ear, as Napoleon did to his grenadiers.

And I did listen, the more readily because it would have been impossible for me to have caused this father whom I worshipped the slightest pain.

It was about this time that I noticed that my father, in spite of his good humour, was not so happy as he pretended to be. He had long hours of despondency. Perhaps this was nothing new, but I had not noticed it before. Heedless childhood observes things rather than people. His nature knew revolts and disappointments of which I was dimly aware, although I did not understand them. I believe that, intensely artistic and imaginative as he was, he had formed an ideal which became more and more unattainable. Besides, he was a man of great enthusiasm and strong emotions, a man who put all his force and feeling into everything he did. His joys were ecstatic, his sorrows abysmal. The slightest trouble became, in his sensitive heart, unbearable grief, but on the other hand, music, a gallop over the countryside, the strong, pure light of heaven, a favourite book, a kind word, a colour-scheme ... these things intoxicated him like wine. My mother, calm and sweet, knew no such emotion and was incapable of passion. My father told her that nothing could be great without passion, but she shook her head and said in her quiet way: "I have no temperament. I shall never be an artist or a poet. I like the earth and feel comfortable on it... and please don't be angry with me, mon ami." And with much common sense she would add: "You love to suffer ... that's your trouble."

Sometimes, my father would improvise on the organ in order to forget his troubles and to relieve his sorrow—the worst of all sorrows because it was without cause—and his music was so inexpressibly mournful that it wrung my heart. Or he would strike the ivory keys fiercely, almost viciously, as though he were trying to crush his grief. I always tried to console him and often succeeded.

Between those fits of depression, he was merry as ever, and fairly radiated vitality around him, so much so that I could feel in an empty room whether he had just been there or not.

In the summer-time there was a constant going to and fro of people, and we made up many large parties of relations and friends. Often the officers of the neighbouring garrisons joined us and organised games and rallies (a kind of paper chase on horseback). And at other times we made excursions to the beauty spots of that beautiful part of France, to the Ballon d'Alsace, the Saut du Doubs.... My father and my brother were of course present, and my dogs, two big Danes and two Saint Bernards, followed me everywhere. In the winter, we hunted the boar near Mulhausen.

It was when I was seventeen that I had my first love-affair. As I have stated, my brother's best comrade was M. Sheffer, now, like Julien, a lieutenant at Belfort. I had known M. Sheffer for several years, and he often came to Beaucourt. My parents thought him charming and clever, and I thought the same—gradually there grew between us a kind of poetical intimacy. He wrote verses for me, and I learned them by heart; we read together under an oak-tree or by the cascade in the park, and, one evening, between two songs, Edouard—his name was Edouard, like my father—told me that he loved me.

His mother, a widow, came from Geneva, where she lived, to see us. My parents and I were at once drawn to this modest and gifted lady, with her silvery hair and her smooth pure brow. My father, who had a sincere affection for Lieut. Sheffer, would not make any promises, however, and when I told him that I was fond of "Edouard" he uttered vague words.... But he allowed him to come to see me, and he even promised that we should write to each other, from time to time.

A year later, my father quite unexpectedly told me that I must "try to forget young Sheffer." He could not consent to the marriage.... I was too young, he was too poor.... And the thought that I should marry an officer, who might be called upon, at any moment, to move from one garrison to another, did not please my father. And he concluded, gently: "Believe me, 'Puppele,' it will be wiser to part as soon as possible. You'll soon forget this little idyl. You are still but a babe; your whole life lies before you.... In order that you may forget the more easily, I will send you on a holiday to Bayonne with my son-in-law (M. Heir, my eldest sister's husband, who was then spending a few days at Beaucourt)." I was broken-hearted.

A few days later, I went with my brother-in-law to Lieut. Sheffer, and handed back to him whom I had for a year considered my fiancé, the letters he had sent me, and received in return those I had written to him.

I saw Lieut. Sheffer once again, and it was in the following terms that he described that final meeting, to the examining magistrate in January 1909: "Wishing to see Marguerite once more, I drove to Montbéliard [where the train was to pass that would take M. Herr and me to the South]. I wore civilian clothes and had a marguerite in my button hole.... It is a childish detail, but I haven't forgotten it. I was able to exchange one last glance with her. I never saw her again...."

Thus ended this pretty romance, so tender and so pure, but one which, like every page of the book of my life, like every one of my actions and words, was to be interpreted in an unfavourable way, during my examination and at my trial. My past was searched, pried into, ransacked and misconstrued, and even this naïve and delightful romance, with my first emotions and my first dreams, was not spared, and failed to find grace in the sight of my tormentors. As my counsel declared in court: "They tried to find out, not only whether there had been intimate relations between Mlle. Japy and Lieut. Sheffer, but even whether, such relations being proved, a child was not born, who, having years later become an Apache, committed the double murder of the Impasse Ronsin, and spared his own mother!"

Nothing, however, it need hardly be said, was found against M. Sheffer or myself... except one thing! It appeared that I had once spent six days in Bâle, and this was at once construed into an elopement with M. Sheffer. But exhaustive investigations established the fact that the lieutenant was away at the time attending manœuvres, and it was finally discovered that the elopement to Bâle was nothing more serious than the visit of my mother and myself to the dentist, there being none in Beaucourt!

It was at the Paris Court of Assize, in November 1909, more than twenty years after the end of my short-lived engagement, that I met once more the man who had been the hero of my first love-dream. I was sitting in the dock, on the "bench of infamy," as barristers call it, accused of having murdered my mother and my husband, and Major Sheffer came to the witness's "bar" in the well of the court and told our innocent little romance of long ago.

My dream was broken. Life did not seem worth living.... But youth soon forgets. "We are not even capable of being unhappy a long time," Pascal said.

I spent two months in Bayonne and Biarritz, wrote every week to my parents, and received nearly every day long and delightful letters from my father.

Then, suddenly, I heard that my father had died. While drinking a glass of icy water he had fallen stone dead... of heart failure. It was on November 14th, 1888. I was nineteen years old. I thought I should lose my reason. They put me in the train and I reached Beaucourt, too late, alas, to see once more the beloved face of my father. He had already been laid in his coffin.

My father had been loved by all, and the Beaucourt temple was crowded at his funeral. All the musical societies of the neighbourhood came to pay him a last honour, and, massed together, they played Chopin's funeral march.... My poor mother was so prostrated with grief that she was unable to attend the funeral.... I will not say any more about a day which was one of the most painful in my life.... Besides, I was so numb with grief that my memory of it is blurred.

During the days that followed, everything at home was thrown into such confusion, and the sight of all that my father had touched or loved was so distressing to me, that I begged my mother to let me leave Beaucourt for a while.... She raised her tear-stained face and said pitifully: "And I?" I felt ashamed of my selfishness, and we fell into each other's arms... and, of course, I thought no more of going away....

Mimi, my younger sister, was ill, and I should have fallen ill too, had I not had to nurse her and my mother. When they recovered, I spent whole days in the woods and by the lakes in our estate, in all those hallowed spots where my father and I spent so many unforgettable hours together.

For a year I was unable to take my violin from its case, or to open the piano. Everything was changed, and I felt like a lost soul.

Towards the end of the summer of 1889, I went to Paris with my sisters, to visit the Exhibition. Mme. Herr, who had come to Beaucourt to fetch me, had spoken a great deal to my mother about a great friend of hers, a certain M. Steinheil, a nephew of Meissonier, and I had been asked to go to Bayonne later on with the Herrs.

We stayed six weeks in Paris and as true "Provincials," anxious to see everything, we entered the Exhibition as soon as the gates were thrown open and left it at night only when we found ourselves almost too tired to stand. This lasted for a month, and then it occurred to me that there was something else to see in Paris besides the Exhibition.

I had not been in Paris since the time when I had gone there with my father to see a live elephant, and I drank in the beauties of the capital with avidity, under the happy guidance of a friend who was both an artist and antiquarian.

We went, on a certain Sunday, to a concert, and I heard for the first time Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, of which my father used to say: "If the whole of music were to be destroyed and forgotten, and only one work left, that work ought to be the 'Ninth.'"

When I returned to Beaucourt I found my mother had started on the building of large, sumptuous and extremely expensive greenhouses. We begged her in vain to have the work stopped. My mother loved building, and, as she said herself: "Every human being has his disease. Your father's was loving to suffer. I have the 'stone' disease. I love bricks, cement, sand, stone. To build has become my passion and at my age, you don't get cured of your passions."

A few days later, my mother, somewhat anxious about my health, suggested that I should go to Bayonne with the Herrs, and spend a few weeks in the South.

During the journey, they told me all kinds of wonderful things about M. Steinheil, to whom, they admitted, they had often spoken of me, and who was now in Bayonne, decorating the cathedral there.

At my sister's I was shown the photograph of the painter, a shortish man of at least forty, thin, with small eyes, a dark moustache, and a pointed beard. "No, thank you!" I exclaimed, "I'd never dream of marrying a man like that. Why, I'd look as though I were his daughter!"

I was, however, persuaded to meet him. One day, my sister said to me: "To-morrow, we'll go to Biarritz to have tea with some friends."

"All right," I replied, "while you are with your friends, I will play with my nieces on the sands."

The next day, just as we were going to board the narrow-gauge train which connects Bayonne with Biarritz, I saw my brother-in-law walk up to a small man, clean-shaven save for his moustache, and wearing a frock-coat that was far too long for him. I did not recognise him as the painter of the photographs. The two men came towards me and M. Herr introduced M. Steinheil to me. At that time I was still as frank and as impulsive as a child, and could not help remarking on the artist's changed appearance. Quite confused, he explained: "My beard was getting grey and I decided to shave it—yesterday."

In the train, my sister scolded me. "You have laughed at this poor M. Steinheil, and you have hurt his feelings. He is abnormally shy, but he is a charming fellow, a great artist, and the pupil of his uncle Meissonier whose talent you admire so much."

I rose and walked straight to M. Steinheil: "It appears I have hurt you," I said quite simply. "Please forgive me. You must not be angry. I always say what I think, and after all, what do I care whether you wear a beard or not!"

My sister, in despair, tugged at my skirt, but the painter said: "I admire your sincerity, Mademoiselle. Frank and impulsive people are becoming so rare nowadays."

He didn't please me at all.

I saw M. Steinheil very often after this first, uneventful meeting. And then, one day, I was persuaded to go to the Cathedral to see him at work. His conversation interested me very much, but I could not help teasing him.

I had pictured him wearing a black velvet coat or in ordinary attire, but this is what I saw when I entered the Cathedral: a tiny man lost in a white smock, like a house-painter, holding a gigantic palette, and perched on the top of a huge scaffolding.

I burst out laughing in spite of the solemnity of the place. M. Steinheil wheeled round, saw us, dropped his brushes and his palette, which fell noisily on to the flagstones beneath, came down from the scaffolding at top speed, and, when he reached the ground, greeted me with a number of quick, jerky little bows, all of the same depth, just as I had seen President Carnot bow in Paris a few weeks before. Meanwhile, my little nieces and I were forcing our handkerchiefs in our mouths.

Disconcerted, M. Steinheil took off his smock... and we had a fresh surprise. I thought that underneath that smock he was dressed like any man, but no, he wore a thick knitted brown sweater over his waistcoat, and that sweater reached down to his knees and gave him a most comical appearance.

We went slowly round the Cathedral, and the painter described to me all the frescoes, those that were the work of his father and those he had himself just completed. He spoke about his father with such feeling that, remembering my own father, I became quite serious, and thenceforth listened with keen attention to all that M. Steinheil said.

Afterwards, we examined the stained glass windows. "That is a branch of art," he said, "to which I have devoted many months. My father was master of it, and handed me his secrets. There is, for instance, a certain antique red which he alone knew how to produce—and now I am the only person who knows. It was my father who restored the windows of Strasburg Cathedral and of that Gothic gem, the Sainte Chapelle in Paris." And with obvious joy he added: "The great Ruskin himself wrote about my father's windows in the Sainte Chapelle where the whole story of the Bible is painted: 'So well has M. Steinheil matched the colours that it is not easy to distinguish between the modern glass and the little that still remains of the thirteenth century.'"

I began gradually to be interested in the artist.... He came and dined with my sister and I tried to be more kind to him and promised I would never tease him when he spoke to me on art.... A few days later, M. Steinheil added himself to my list of suitors, which already included two officers, a barrister, a wealthy nobleman, a lecturer, and a stout manufacturer. I felt no affection for any of them, but it was undoubtedly with M. Steinheil that I preferred to talk. We chatted not only of art and of Paris, but of Beaucourt and my mother. He told me the story of his life, of his career.... I heard he had "brought up" his sisters, and soon found that his timidity and reserve did not mean—far from it—a lack of intelligence and generous feelings.

He gave me painting lessons and spent more time at my sister's house than at the Cathedral. He became smarter in his dress: changed his necktie every day and shortened his frock-coat.

I was given to understand that he had intended to leave Bayonne for his home—at No. 6, Impasse Ronsin in Paris—eight days after my arrival. I remained six weeks in Bayonne, and he did not leave the town until the day after my departure. His friends chaffed him about this constantly protracted delay, but he replied with his usual far-away voice: "There is a fold in the cloak of my Saint Martin which is not yet finished." That never-completed fold almost became a proverb afterwards.

I returned to Beaucourt with my brother-in-law, and was overjoyed at being once more near my mother.... Alas, during my absence, she had not only gone on with the building of the great greenhouses, but had started upon a luxurious piggery, large enough for hundreds of pigs, and I heard she had been with an architect to an estate near Mulhausen, where she had inspected the famous model farm of a German prince, an exact replica of which she wanted to have built at Beaucourt.

Twice a week I received painting lessons by post. I sent my work to M. Steinheil, in Paris, and he returned it to me duly corrected and with pages of comment, which I eagerly read. The "Parisian painter," as my mother said, "had already a place in my thoughts."

Then, without warning, his letters ceased... after one in which he had mentioned that he was unwell.

In January 1890, my mother was visited by my aunt, Mme. Octave Japy, who brought a letter from M. Boch, an intimate friend of the Steinheils and the Meissoniers. In his letter M. Boch said, that after having seen how ill Adolphe (Steinheil) was, he had talked with the Steinheil family and had discovered that the painter "had no longer any desire to live," that he was desperately in love with Mlle. Japy, but dared not ask for her hand, as he knew only too well "that she would receive such a proposal with a shout of laughter." M. Boch's letter—which was handed to me—contained warm eulogies of M. Steinheil and ended as follows: "I should be glad to know whether Mlle. Japy might, some day, consent to become the wife of my old friend, or whether he must give up such hopes."

I was moved, but frankly told my mother that I had never seriously thought of M. Steinheil as a husband. Thereupon my aunt offered to go to Paris "to investigate things."

When she returned, she spoke of M. Steinheil, of his house, his position. Then, gaily, she confessed that she had been rather disconcerted when she had arrived at the villa in the Impasse Ronsin. "I found M. Steinheil," she exclaimed, "wearing a blue sweater and... wooden shoes. It was raining and he was about to walk across the garden to the studio of his brother-in-law who makes stained glass.... He was most sympathetic, however.... Of course he is furious that his little secret has been discovered. He loves you with all his heart and says he would do anything to make you happy.... I promised to talk to you and plead in his favour. I have done so."

I had several long talks with my mother and my aunt.... They both declared that happiness was far safer and lasting with a man of mature years than with the average young man.... And then, I wondered what my father would have thought of such a marriage, and it seemed to me that he would have approved of it.... M. Steinheil seemed grave and kind, two qualities which my father thought essential, and he was a talented artist, to which my father would certainly not have objected. Again, he used to tell me that an ideal married life is only possible when the husband and wife can be a good deal together.... Now M. Steinheil being a painter would spend much of his time at home, in his studio.... And then, the prospect of living in Paris appealed to me, as it did to every girl in our distant province. Finally, every one seemed in favour of that marriage....

Gradually, I saw this projected union in a new light; I grew used to the idea that I might become Mme. Steinheil, and at length I consented to meet the painter in Beaucourt.

He arrived a few days later, put up at my grandmother's, called on us every day and made the acquaintance of the whole family. He pleased every one, and his slow, serene and dignified ways, were in such perfect accord with my mother's character that she asked me how I could hesitate to marry such an ideal man. M. Steinheil's timidity was taken as the delightful sign of a deep love.

He was most attentive to me, spoke so convincingly, though without any passion—of the happiness that would be ours, and seemed so desperately anxious to hear me say "yes" after he had proposed, that I had not the heart to say "no."

Our engagement lasted four months, during which we exchanged letters that became longer and more frequent as the weeks passed by. Such noble feelings were expressed in his letters that I grew more and more happy at the thought of becoming the wife of Adolphe Steinheil.

Towards the end of June my fiancé reached Beaucourt with his family, whom I had met in Paris a few weeks before, when I had gone there with my mother to purchase my trousseau. M. Steinheil at once set to work on a portrait of me—a small oil-painting on wood—á la Meissonier, which was never to be completed. I was to discover later on, that my husband seldom went to the end of an idea or a plan, and was possessed of an unconquerable dread of all final decisions.

Our marriage took place in July at the Beaucourt Temple—the dear temple where I had spent so many hours, including the most tragic one of my short life.

M. Steinheil was a Catholic, but had consented to our marriage being celebrated in a Protestant church and had also agreed that our children, if we had any, were to be brought up in the Protestant faith. The Japy family—all staunch Huguenots—had been most strict on this point.

Two days before the wedding, I received the following letter, which is worth mentioning, for it recalls a pretty tradition, which, like most pretty traditions, is on the wane or has already disappeared.

"Beaucourt, July 9, 1890.

"Mademoiselle,—On the occasion of your marriage, we have decided to meet you at the church-door in order to pay to you our compliments, according to custom.

"Pray accept, Mademoiselle, our heartiest good wishes, and believe in our most respectful feelings.

"For the Young People of Beaucourt, and by the request of the Organising Committee.

"Eugene Pommier."

On the day of my marriage, all the youths and maidens in the neighbourhood formed an aisle outside the church, and they held garlands of roses and ribbons to which turtle-doves were lightly attached. As I proceeded I broke the garlands and the flowers dropped on my white dress and were scattered on the ground, and the severed ribbons allowed the doves to escape, one after another, over my head. On the threshold of the church, one of the young men made a pretty speech and then, according to the old tradition stopped M. Steinheil and made him dash a glass to pieces—which is supposed to show that he renounces the joys of bachelordom. Next, the "head" of the delegation delivered a speech in which my future husband was duly told what a great honour Beaucourt conferred upon him in giving him as a bride one of its own demoiselles. Would he please bear this in mind, and also remember that they all relied upon him to make me "infinitely happy."...

The Temple was decorated with foliage and flowers, and the floor was strewn with roses. These, I was told later on, were a present from the poor of the neighbourhood, who had wished to give a surprise—and I was not only surprised, but touched—to "her who had for many years helped her father to relieve their misery," and "who after the death of her beloved father, had done her best to continue his work of mercy." Those roses were indeed the most beautiful wedding-present I received.

The young ladies of Beaucourt sang a chorus. The words had been specially written by a local poet, young and full of excellent intentions, and the music composed by my father, years ago. My pastor, M. Bach, was so eloquent that I burst into sobs like every one else; and as we left the Temple, my husband and I were greeted by the strains of a warlike march played by the Beaucourt band, and we shook hands with the forty-five musicians whom for so many years, I had seen at home, at the rehearsals conducted by my father.

A reception followed, and I saw once more all the dear faces I loved, except, alas, that of my grand-papa from Russia... M. Doriand had been unable to leave Moscow, and I never heard from him or saw him again.

In my mother's brougham, my husband and I drove to the station where we entrained for Besançon, and thence we went on to Italy.

We were to remain there a month, but at the end of ten days, I felt so home-sick and depressed that we returned to Beaucourt, where I ran into my mother's arms and begged her to let me stay with her—for ever. My husband entreated me to come with him to Paris, and I followed him....

CHAPTER III
ARRIVAL IN PARIS. A SEPARATION. MARTHE.
PARISIAN LIFE.

I SHALL never forget that arrival in Paris. It was on a Sunday morning, M. Steinheil had warned his sister when to expect us. He talked awhile with the concierge in the lodge, then joined me in the garden, where I was patiently waiting in the pouring rain, and said: "I am extremely sorry. My sister, I hear, has gone to mass, and she has the keys of the house...."

I spent half an hour in the lodge, distressed by the smell of fried onions which came from the kitchen. At last, Mlle. Marguerite Steinheil returned from church. She wore a morning dress which I would not have allowed my maid to wear. It was 9 A.M., and I felt hungry—in spite of the fried onions—but breakfast was not mentioned. I had a painful impression when I entered the house—my home.... The hall was very dusty; there was no carpet, and nothing was ready for the arrival of a young wife. I asked the way to my bedroom, and burst into tears.

Very tenderly, my husband tried to console me. Then he fetched the wedding-presents sent by his friends, dried my tears with his handkerchief, as one does to a crying child, and I partly forgot my sorrow.

Mlle. Steinheil lived with us. She was very affectionate, in her way, but abnormally old-fashioned. My husband was entirely under her domination and under that of all the other members of his family.

The next day I resolved to re-arrange the drawing-room, which was cold, dreary, and as unattractive as could be. I transformed the curtains, changed the position of the furniture, put flowers everywhere, placed here a bergère, there a pretty chiffonnier, there a Louis Seize arm-chair taken from the furniture which had been sent to me from Beaucourt, and everything I disliked I removed to my husband's vast studio.

Delighted at having arranged the salon to my taste I went and fetched Adolphe to show him what I had done. He was quite upset, and began by telling me: "It is rather awkward, all this furniture you have sent up to my studio, and curiously enough you have taken from the studio the very things I need for my pictures, as backgrounds, as ornaments."

At that moment my sister-in-law entered. She glanced around her, looked at her brother, and then, turning to me: "My dear little girl," she said, with an air of outraged piety, "never, you understand me, never has the furniture in this room been touched since the death of our venerated father." Her tone froze me to the marrow, and somewhat incensed me. At the same time I regretted that I had hurt the feelings of my sister-in-law and upset the backgrounds for my husband's paintings....

I had to put everything back in its place. It was painful. I had succeeded in turning that old, solemn and utterly inhospitable room into a pretty and cosy salon, in which there reigned an attractive harmony of lines and colours. Alas, I had to rehang the paintings by Daubigny, Corot and Meissonier where I had found them, close to the frieze, where it was impossible to enjoy their beauty. I had to replace the pieces of furniture one beside the other along the walls, all in a row, and move back the piano into its dark corner. I had draped it with a marvellous and genuine Doge's gown, made of red velvet, which I had discovered in the studio. I took the gown back to the studio, and had to reinstate in their former places all the horrible things I had triumphantly relegated there. And I had to remove from the salon my pretty Louis XVI. furniture and replace the chairs that had been there, stiff, heavy, ungraceful chairs, with such high seats that one had to climb in order to sit on them, and to jump in order to come down.

With a sad heart I undid all my work. I took away the vases and their flowers, the cushions and embroideries I had strewn here and there to give touches of colour and a little life to this gloomy place. Evening was falling; I wanted to light the gas, but my sister-in-law gently but firmly decreed: "It's still light enough... and gas is expensive."

I sought a refuge in my room, and my husband followed me there. I begged him to allow me at least to furnish and decorate my own room as I pleased. He gladly consented. He was really grieved by what had taken place. "Be patient," he said; "everything will be all right later on. The main thing is not to be in a hurry."

He was forty; I was twenty. He was quiet, indifferent, easily satisfied, compared life to a disagreeable pill which every one must swallow.... My husband's philosophy did not appeal to me in the least.

And yet I loved him and believed in happiness.... And then, there were my mother's letters. She wrote to me almost every day at that time; and later, and until her tragic end, some twenty years after my marriage, not a week elapsed without my receiving from her, when she was not with me, one of those tenderly maternal letters which strengthen the mind, palliate sorrow, and rekindle the flame of hope in one's soul.

After a few days, when I realised that I had not to deal with deliberate opposition, but that, on the contrary, my husband and his sister were anxious to see me happy, although, being old-fashioned, they were in nature, habits and ideas far removed from me, I thought that with a great deal of affection and persuasion I would succeed in improving my husband. But the problem of Mlle. Steinheil looked to me more difficult.

I asked Adolphe: "How long do you think she will remain with us?"

"She has always lived near me," he replied timidly. "But I hope she will marry some day."

This reply made me leap with hope, and I thought: "I will find her a husband." I applied myself to the search with such goodwill that my efforts were crowned with success. Six months after my arrival in Paris, Mlle. Steinheil became the wife of a government official who made her perfectly happy. And when, later, I told her about my little ruse, she saw the humour of it and laughed, and expressed her gratitude in a manner both charming and sincere.

On the very day of her wedding, I celebrated what I called "my victory" by altering everything, not only in the drawing-room, but throughout the house, and turning it at last into the beautiful and comfortable nest I had so long dreamed of.

As a wedding-gift I presented my sister-in-law with the dear old furniture which she had forbidden me to touch, and I also sent her a collection of rococo-clocks and a group of wax flowers under glass shades, which she held sacred. But, as my father had once told me, "Love is illogical," and my sister-in-law carefully removed the dreary furniture, the elaborate clocks and the wax flowers... to the attic of her new home!

I loved my husband, and although I soon found out that his timidity, which I had taken for a lover's diffidence, was really the key-note of his character—that his restraint was weakness, that he had neither ambition nor courage, and that his ideal was tranquillity—I refused to believe that my love, my energy, my vitality, which every one said was contagious, would not in time conquer all obstacles, and that our married life was doomed and happiness impossible. I set to work and did all that an active wife can do for the husband she loves; and my task was the easier because it was the very essence of my nature to spend and devote myself to the service of others, and also because Adolphe, though he lacked will-power, was endowed with many admirable qualities both of the heart and mind.

I reorganised our home, tried to breathe ambition into my husband, cheered him when he was depressed, surrounded him with comfort and assisted him in his work, made the historical costumes which he needed for his models and sat for him myself. But I failed to rouse him from his apathy or to give him the love of effort.... And yet, to whom is effort more necessary than to the artist?

It was indeed pitiful, for Adolphe had genuine talent and could have made a great name for himself. But, besides working hard, he would have had to pay certain visits, take certain steps, and he would leave his studies only to take me to the houses of his friends or to hear me sing.

He often spoke to me about his uncle and master, Meissonier, but had ceased to call on him, after a little family misunderstanding, and Meissonier died without my having seen him.

Certain paintings by my husband looked so much like the work of his celebrated uncle that in America a number of "Steinheils" have been sold as "Meissoniers." Adolphe, like his master, painted miniatures in oil and used much the same kind of "subjects." He told me many anecdotes about his uncle, and here is one of them in his own words; "Meissonier was very small, smaller even than I am, and his diminutive stature was quite a trial to him. He came often to my studios and I believe he liked me chiefly because I am small. He would sit on my stool, examine a picture on which I was working, glance at my model, caress his long white beard and say, 'It's fine... but somehow, I don't see things as you do. There seems to be something wrong with the perspective.... Oh! I have it. I forgot you are so very small. I must stoop in order to see like you. Give me a lower stool....' And he chuckled with glee."

In days gone by Meissonier and Louis Steinheil (my husband's father) had worked and struggled together. Then Geoffrey Dechaume, who was to sculpture so many wonderful statues for Notre-Dame in Paris and the Strasburg Cathedral, joined the two friends, and the trio toiled and lived together in one room. Meissonier married the sister of Louis Steinheil. Louis Steinheil became the father of a large family and devoted his attention chiefly to stained-glass painting, which was then very well paid for—a special branch of art which my husband also took up for a time.

I soon became acquainted with the majority of well-known painters and sculptors in France. Among others, I often visited Bartholdi in his studio. The sculptor of the colossal statue of "Liberty illuminating the World," on Bedloe's Island in New York Harbour, was an old friend of my husband. He was a man of keen intellect and had much originality of thought, but his conceit was as colossal as his famous statue. Showing me once the small model of "Liberty," he said quietly: "The Americans believe that it is Liberty that illumines the world, but, in reality, it is my genius."

I never met a man quite as naturally and unconsciously conceited, excepting perhaps a certain Orientalist, who was as learned as he was celebrated. I remember meeting him once at the Institut. He wore the green uniform and the sword of a member of the Institut, and on his breast there shone a mass of orders. He pointed one out to me with his parchment-like forefinger, "You see this little thing here," he whispered. "There are but three Europeans who have the right to wear it—one emperor, one king and—myself.... I don't attach the slightest importance to it." And, leaving me, he went off to tell exactly the same thing to all who stopped to listen to him.

I met Gounod, who came several times to the Impasse Ronsin, and I sang with the old composer a duet of his of which he was very fond, entitled "D'un cœur qui t'aime." Once he played to me many pages of his "Rédemption," the sacred trilogy which he had dedicated to Queen Victoria. I did not know him very long, for he died in 1893 at Saint Cloud, where, two years later, another great man, Pasteur, was to die.

I also met Ferdinand de Lesseps, le grand Français. He was eighty-seven then and very weak. I never knew a man whose kindness and modesty equalled that of this giant, who had given the world the Suez Canal.

Eleven months after my marriage my daughter was born and I nearly lost my life. The birth of my child was a source of pure delight to me, and I forgot all my worries and bitter disappointments. My happiness, however, was short-lived. For a reason which I will not reveal, and at which I will not even hint, I determined to divorce. I consulted on the matter M. B., my husband's closest friend, a famous barrister and Attorney-General. He advised me to go to Beaucourt with my baby, and not to make an irrevocable decision. Twice a week during the many months I spent at Beaucourt with my mother, I received letters from the Attorney-General, and their burden was always the same: "Come back to Paris and to him. Forgive.... We will all do our best to make your life a happy one. Don't divorce, for your child's sake...." My mother, who was indulgence incarnate and had a holy terror of divorce, gave me similar advice, and one day I returned home, had a long and painful conversation with my husband, in which it was agreed that, for the love of little Marthe, we wouldn't divorce, and would henceforth be "friends," each living in his or her own way. M. Steinheil, later on, said to an intimate friend, who repeated the remark at my trial, "My wife is only a friend to me; she has full liberty, and I don't control her actions...." It was further agreed that when we would have to discuss some matter of importance we would do so in writing. Thanks to this method, no one ever guessed that, although living under one roof, my husband and I were separated. Indeed, this way of discussing by letter had many advantages, and even the most united couples should adopt it. It helps you to avoid bitter, hurtful words, prevents quarrelling, and servants cannot overhear.... Moreover, it often happens that while reading over a letter you have just written, you grow calm and realise the futility and uselessness of what you said. The letter is torn to pieces, and common sense comes, smiling, on the scene....

Notwithstanding the separation, I continued to do all that I could for my husband. I looked after the house and assisted him in his work just as I had done before. But need I say that my dream of love and happiness was hopelessly shattered, and that had it not been for my little Marthe my life would have been almost unbearable.

It has often been said that an unsuitable match or the failure of her conjugal happiness urges any intelligent or sensitive woman on towards adventures and new interests, and leads her to live on illusions. I do not believe that I ever deluded myself with chimeras, except, perhaps, in the days when my father built up around me a real and yet fairy world of ideal joys, but there is no doubt that after I had shaken off the dejection which weighed upon me like a heavy and unbearable cloak, I realised that in order to live at all I would have to occupy my mind, find an outlet for my energy, and seek new interests everywhere. I was quite incapable of dumb resignation. With me, to strive and accomplish has always been a necessity. I clearly saw that I should live only if I lived intensely, ardently, even feverishly, and had more to do every day than I possibly could do. I took a passionate interest in people, in things, in events; I studied music, art, even politics; and my life from that time belonged to my daughter and to society.

Without clearly realising what was taking place in me and in my home, my friends instinctively showed me renewed sympathy, especially M. B., the Attorney-General. He called almost every day, read to me, filled my mind with new ideas, introduced all kinds of interesting people to me, and created around me an atmosphere which, although artificial, had a wonderful fascination, and made me almost forget all that I wanted so much to forget.

My husband and I often spent evenings in his salon, where scores of magistrates and famous barristers gathered. It was there that I met an extremely beautiful and elegant woman, surrounded by an eager circle of admirers, and her husband, who paid me many commonplace compliments. I afterwards met them in many drawing-rooms. The man was M. Trouard Riolle, and was to be, years afterwards, the Public Prosecutor at my trial. He struck me as an extremely well-groomed and boring poseur, who seemed to think that every woman at once fell in love with him, and that directly he was introduced any glance or remark of his would fascinate her. I soon saw that he was an ambitious and scheming man. His wife, the daughter of the head of the Havas Agency, was as wealthy as she was beautiful.

From one drawing-room I went to another, and very soon I knew what is usually called le Tout-Paris.

Among the many able men I met who paid their addresses to me none was more sympathetic to me than M. B., and I was gradually conquered by this Attorney-General's eloquence, his refinement, which reminded me of M. Doriand's exquisite courtesy, his self-control, and his capable and masterly way of dealing with affairs, which contrasted so impressively with the attitude of too many of the men whom I saw around me, lounging lazily and carelessly through life. He was tall and fair, wore side whiskers, and had small, shrewd, and sensuous eyes; he was a witty causeur, on whose words every one hung fascinated. People were anxious to be admitted to his salon, and he was a great favourite, especially with women, for although he was inevitably blasé, he had still that natural and romantic charm which very soon wins a woman to its owner.

I entertained a great deal, gave parties, concerts, dinners. I held a reception once a week, and between two and seven three to four hundred persons would pass through the salons of the villa in the Impasse Ronsin. There came statesmen and diplomatists, famous authors and famous composers, generals and admirals, scientists and officials, business magnates and great financiers, State-councillors, explorers, men with historic names, men who were making names for themselves, and judges, a whole body of judges....

And there were the opera, charity bazaars, visits to the poor of my district, chamber music, private theatricals, hunting, the Salons, the grande semaine, first nights, concerts, receptions at various Embassies and at the Elysée.... And there came every year a stay at Biarritz or on the Riviera, a month or two at the seaside.... And there was my husband's work, and the work I did with him... and music ... and, above all, my daughter, my little Marthe....

CHAPTER IV
MY SALON

MY drawing-room was a room about 60 feet by 80, and 18 feet high. One entered it from the verandah by doors which, when folded back, made one room of the two. At the far end there was a monumental and ancient chimney-piece of carved wood; on either side of it were cabinets filled with cameos, rare china and silver. The furniture was chiefly Louis XV. and XVI. On the left stood an organ and various stringed instruments, and on the right a grand piano. On the walls hung huge seventeenth-century Gobelins illustrating the story of Judith, Ashuerus and Holofernes, and framed with the classic fruit-and-flower border. I need hardly say that palms and flowers were everywhere in evidence. The salon communicated with the dining-room by a wide opening, so that several hundred persons could easily be entertained.

The Parisian life, brilliant and exhausting, strenuous and artificial, was above all intoxicating, and I needed such intoxication.... The wit, the culture, the taste, the flights of fancy of so many men and women around me, their enthusiasms, their sympathy, their conversations, their qualities, and even their defects, became necessary to me.

Life could not be dull with these companions, whatever their ideas and their habits or their hobbies.

There was, for instance, old M. H., a distinguished author and a man of the world, who had lived under three kings, one Emperor, and two Republics, and whom my mother called "a living encyclopædia." He was small, a dandy, whose love of detail in attire would have excited the envy of a D'Orsay or a Brummell. He was as careful of his appearance as a professional beauty, in spite of his age. His curly white hair was extremely well kept. He wore spotless white spats all the year round, and always had a flower in his button-hole: Parma violets in winter and a pale pink carnation in summer. He had one curious mania—he visited cemeteries. We frequently went together to the Père Lachaise and to his favourite Montmartre cemetery.

"The Père Lachaise," he exclaimed, "possesses the tombs of Musset, Balzac, Chopin, La Fontaine, Bizet, of your 'friends' Cuvier and Thiers, and others, but it is too fashionable, too showy.... In Montmartre there is more intimacy: one seems to recall, to see the dear dead better. We have Mürger and Offenbach here, Renan and Gautier, Lannes—which means Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland—and Berlioz and Greuze, Madame, the exquisite Greuze who had a wretched wife, but how beautiful she was!... And they represent what is best in France, those men—heroism and wit, subtle art, deep thought and clear language, logic and method, inspiration and recklessness.... And that is typically French, Madame, or I am an old fool!"

M. H. had known intimately Victor Hugo and Berlioz, "the Victor Hugo of music." But whom had he not known, this artistic and lettered old man! He had met Madame Récamier, a year or two before her death. "She was ill, old, and wagged her head. The Vicomte de Chateaubriand—who had only a few weeks more to live—sat near her in an arm-chair, his knees wrapped in a huge rug. He talked to her about himself. That was ever his favourite topic of conversation. He was, at the same time, wearied of everything and almost of himself. Madame Récamier was still good to look upon and had a noble bearing. The oval of her face was pure and her shoulders had retained their beautiful curve. I was twenty then; she was seventy and nearly blind, and although she spoke very little, I could have loved to spend long hours in the company of this woman who had once held the sceptre of perfect loveliness."

As a child, he had witnessed the first performance of Victor Hugo's Hernani. "We were all frantic.... Mlle. Mars took the part of Doña Sol. I have seen scores of actresses in the rôle since, but none, save Sarah Bernhardt, ever equalled Mlle. Mars in that romantic part...." Old M.H. had been on the best of terms with Mlle. Rachel. "It was a delirious and ... expensive friendship," he explained. "Rachel loved love, and loved gold."

There had been many strange romances in M.H.'s adventurous career, but he had remained an optimist and fondly hugged all his memories; and as he sometimes put it, in his flowery language, after a good dinner: "I have gathered as many roses as possible, Madame, in the gardens of Cypris."

There was the Comte de B. who, like M.H., loved life, but thought that France had lost the secret of the art of living. He had been young in the days of Napoleon the Third and was never tired of describing the dazzling days of the Second Empire. He had known them all: the Duke de Morny, the Duchess de Talleyrand, the Princesse de Metternich, Lafitte the banker, Marie Sasse the opera singer, D'Orsay the dandy, La Païva and other ladies fair and frail. He described fantastic parties, games at lansquenet when fortunes were made, and lost, the expedition to Rome, the Italian campaign, the war in Mexico; and he would rhapsodise delightfully on the beauty of the Empress Eugénie, the fascinations of her Court, and the unparalleled festivities at Saint Cloud and at the "Château," as the Tuileries were then called.

Among the people I received there were frivolous and worthless men who were at the same time witty, refined, and highly cultivated. Paris is the home of paradox. There were, for instance, M.X., an apparently sedate and worthy Minister of State, not without ability, who did not hesitate to disguise himself, even donning wigs and false moustaches, on his nocturnal expeditions to cheap haunts of so-called pleasure; M.T., a famous banker, who had his house so built that he could entertain fifty friends to a bacchanalian orgy without his wife knowing, although she was only on the other side of the wall.

There were women who were fascinating without being either beautiful or clever, and able women whose superior nature, talent, or even genius, it took weeks to realise.

Of the men, some cared only for costly things and extravagant pleasures; others, of a keener sensibility, saw deeper into life, but they too often spoke too little. And now and again there would come to the house a prophet, a self-styled magician, or a real intellectual giant.

Among the hosts of women I knew, there were many whose sole ambition seemed to be of becoming a queen of colifichets, as though their ideal model was Pauline Borghese. I knew two ladies, for instance, one the elderly wife of an eminent magistrate, and the other a wealthy society belle, who spent at least ten out of the fourteen hours during which they were awake in enhancing their beauty... and yet both were indeed beautiful!

A remarkable number of those who came to my house unburdened their hearts to me, whether I wished it or not. I heard dreadful secrets from excited ladies, and also confessions that were merely laughable, although the fair sinners thought otherwise, and seemed to enjoy the artificial atmosphere of danger, adventure, and terror into which they thought they had plunged with sublime recklessness, in order to satisfy their craving for new sensations.

A man of fifty, otherwise sane, clever, and reasonable, once spent three months in besieging my drawing-room, in the hope of finding me alone. At length he asked me, with the greatest secrecy... what he should do in order to become a member of the Cercle de l'Union, the aristocratic club which in former days had been adorned by the presence of the great Talleyrand. I confessed to him in the same trusted and secret tones that I did not move in exalted and exclusive circles! He had no sense of humour, at the time, and proceeded to ask me whether I thought he had any chances of being made a member of the "Jockey." And he kindly informed me that de Morny, Napoleon III.'s "right-hand" man, had belonged to that club.... He left my drawing-room in despair, and a few weeks later, I heard he had become a member of the Nouveau Cercle, the favourite haunt of the jeunesse dorée, and of the Automobile Club de France. Perhaps he thought that two accessible clubs were as good as one exclusive club.

Many foreigners came to the Impasse Ronsin, but I found that the French had the most enthusiasm, spontaneity and originality of thought. My friends said what they meant and meant what they said, and what is more, they had ideas and knew how to think things out and express themselves. I encouraged the explorer to speak of his travels, the officer of the army or of his men, the artist of art, the lawyer to talk of interesting cases, the scientist to describe his latest researches or discoveries.

A white-haired English lady once explained to me, somewhat severely, the meaning of "talking shop." She was bewildered when I ventured to remark that I liked people to talk about what they knew and to keep as much as possible from generalities and commonplace topics. A young attaché of the British Embassy who had introduced the lady to me remarked: "You would hold other views if you lived in England, Madame. The atmosphere there is so different." Just to tease him, and in order to change the conversation, I begged him to give me a definition of that handy expression, "atmosphere." He remained silent, and I thought he acknowledged his defeat. But he cleverly proved to me that I was mistaken and that Englishmen do not give in so readily. While his lady-friend and I were examining some Bartolozzi prints, he glanced at the contents of my music cabinet, found an album of songs which had been sent to me by a friend in London and begged me to play one of them, which he chose himself.

He asked with such charming insistence that I gladly consented to play while he hummed the words. When it was over, he quietly said: "There is a great deal of the atmosphere of England in that song, Madame. You see it often takes a poet and a musician to give certain definitions...."

There came to my house unknown geniuses and famous mediocrities, and I gently urged the former to make use of the latter; there came people who were aggressively biassed and prejudiced, and I gently waged war on them, declaring that impartiality was blindness or weakness, or both; and to those who were hopelessly impartial, I hinted discreetly that a person who has no opinion must lead a very tedious existence.

Among the men and women who visited my villa, there were, inevitably, a few persons who were a trifle fèlé ("cracked"). I have known three young men who wished to create a new religion, and a professor of chemistry who said he would found the United States of Europe "within ten years." That was fifteen years ago. I met a man who had made a vast fortune in the manufacture of combs, and whose palatial country-house was daintily called "Peignefin," in one word (a small-toothed comb). He looked very thoughtful one day, and I asked what ailed him. His reply was superb: "Madame, I have just made up my mind to spend the rest of my life, and my fortune, in searching for the Absolute."

I knew a sportsman who, having been crossed in love, devoted his life to the study of certain minerals, and a gentleman, otherwise sane, who decorated his house from roof to cellar, with the shells of the oysters he had eaten and the corks of the champagne bottles he had emptied, after having scrupulously inscribed on these gastronomic mementoes the dates of the merry feasts they recalled to him!

Three men stand out from this mixed crowd of acquaintances as my faithful and trusted friends—three men wonderfully gifted and yet wonderfully modest, three men with golden hearts and lofty minds: Bonnat, the painter; Massenet, the composer; and Coppée, the poet.

I knew Bonnat for nearly twenty years. He used to sign his letters to me "your old and devoted grand-father," or, more briefly, "Your... Methuselah." The great painter to whom the world owes amongst other masterpieces a powerful "Saint Vincent de Paul," and those gems of psychology, the "Portrait of Renan," and the "Portrait of My Mother," loved classic music, and what is better, understood it. During the twenty years of our friendship only a few times did he fail to attend the concerts given at my house. Like my father he had a special weakness for classic music, and I believe he would have loved to listen to Beethoven's Septett every day of his life. It was M. B., the Attorney-General, who first introduced him to me. I called on M. Bonnat at his house, which had been built by Bernier, the architect of the Opera Comique. On the ground floor were the apartments of his sister and his mother. A monumental staircase decorated with frescoes painted by Puvis de Chavannes led to the artist's rooms, and above, to the studio crowded with old carved wood, magnificent bronzes by Barye, and a number of fine paintings—including one by his beloved Botticelli—on the walls.

Bonnat—above all a portrait painter—had a curious way of working. He hardly worked at his model—directly. He preferred to watch him, or her, in a round hand-mirror which he held in his left hand—the hand which also held the palette. At the back of the studio stood a small cheval-glass, placed in such a position that it reflected the portrait. He watched both images, and... worked. Another curious method of his was to turn the canvas when he retouched this or that detail.

Bonnat worked in silence. He did not think it necessary to make his model talk so as to get at his, or her, "psychology," but was satisfied with painting what he saw. In this, he reminded me of Rodin, the greatest sculptor since Michel-Angelo, whom I once heard say: "The artist cannot improve upon nature, and Life is Beauty."

Bonnat, energetic and wiry, believed in work, work, work—which, by the way, is also Rodin's motto—and achieved wonderful portraits, although I am aware that the pointillists, the cubists, the post-impressionists, and the post-post-impressionists hold other views!

He had "his" arm-chair in my drawing-room, and would sit there for hours, listening to the music or watching my guests, and rarely opening his lips. He was fond of Marthe, always had his pockets full of "surprises" for her, and often took her to his studio, where she loved to gaze at his beautiful collection of butterflies, with which she held long, mysterious conversations.

One day, when I came to sit for my portrait, Marthe, who had taken a long walk with me in the Bois, and whose cheeks, rosy from the outside air, threw into relief her dark brown eyes, sat down on the blue satin gown which I wore in the picture, and which my maid had just brought. Bonnat saw Marthe, and said to her, "Don't move, little one, I must paint you just as you are." In a few seconds, there was a canvas on his easel, his hand held the usual mirror, and—he was at work. In less than an hour, he had painted Marthe, and the likeness was so perfect and speaking, that I cried: "Stop! Don't touch your work. Don't alter or add anything! Not a stroke more!"

Alas, Bonnat persisted in perfecting his work. Then he found that the canvas was not large enough.... Marthe was "cut" across the middle of her skirt.... There was too much "air" above the head, and too little at the sides.... He would have the canvas enlarged.

But when it was returned to him, he did not like the seams, and precipitately painted out the picture.

I came with my mother and Marthe to see my child's masterful portrait and to sit for mine. When we found that the picture had been destroyed, my mother cried with rage; I shed tears of disappointment. And when I told my old friend that he might have kept the bust only, and cut the picture in a suitable oval, he was as sorry as we all were. That day I had not the heart to sit, nor did Bonnat have the heart to paint!

I spent many delightful hours in that studio. Bonnat asked me to decorate and arrange it to my taste, for he knew full well the intense joy I had in handling beautiful or rare things, and how keen was my love of proportion, harmony, and colour-schemes....

The painter, who was my husband's friend as well as mine, was one of the few men aware that we were not as happy as we appeared or pretended to be. He knew that often in Society, masks, more or less transparent, are worn by husbands and wives, and he did his best to give us those joys and interests which add so much to life, especially when the mainspring is broken and the machine has to be kept going as best it can.

Bonnat was kind to all, especially to poor artists. I once spoke to him about a young and unsuccessful painter who believed in his genius and, what is worse, had made another share his delusions; a poor little girl to whom he gave his unknown name and who gave him her love and—several children. I did my utmost to relieve their misery, and then wrote and asked Bonnat to examine the young man's work.

I went to the studio in the Rue Bassano shortly afterwards.

"Well, what is it like?" I asked.

"Nothing in it so far," Bonnat replied. "Why on earth does the fellow paint? The only way of saving him is to make him give up Art and adopt some other profession. Will you send him to me one of these days?"

"He's downstairs, waiting...." And I ran away before my old friend could exclaim his usual "Just like you!"

Bonnat questioned the young painter about his parents and heard that they were farmers. In his entertaining way he spoke of Nature, country-life, the simple life.... "And do you really think," he exclaimed in conclusion, "that if it were not for the Institute, the Council of the Légion d'Honneur, the Ecole des Beaux Arts, of which I am the director, and a score of other Societies and Committees to which I belong, I would remain here one single hour longer. No, sir! And you should consider yourself as a lucky dog. If I were free, as you are, I would go and live in my dear Saint-Jean-de-Luz, near the sea and near the Pyrenees, and breathe, and work.... As for painting, it is a wonderful thing, fascinating, ideal, sublime and all that, and I am rather fond of it myself, but there's no living in it unless you made a name for yourself forty years ago, as I did, for people liked good and beautiful things in those days, and paid for them.... If I were you, I'd paint what I pleased—in my leisure, and adopt some simple profession to earn my living. Ask your father to let you help him on his farm, and if you send me a picture every year and it's good enough, I'll try to get it accepted at the Salon.... By the way, do you care for a good cigar?"

"Rather," said the young painter, who although born in the country had spent several years in Montmartre.

"Well, then, my lad, take this box with you." And Bonnat dismissed him in the blunt manner which he assumed whenever he did a good action.

I saw the young man a few days later, before his departure for the country, where he was to become a prosperous farmer, though he never gave up painting, and he told me, with big tears in his eyes, that he had found in the box, besides the cigars, ten hundred-franc notes, and Bonnat's card with these words, "Good Luck."

"How shall I thank M. Bonnat," he kept repeating, after I had filled him with tea and cakes so that he might recover.

"I'll tell you," I replied. "By, not thanking him at all. He loathes gratitude."

Massenet, the composer of Manon, Thaïs, Sapho, Werther, and so many other delightful operas, did me, for many years, the great honour of calling himself my "respectful, obedient, and faithful accompanist." I always found him whimsical, enthusiastic, mischievous, and fond of jokes. As he entered my salon, at some crowded reception, he would wave aside the valet about to announce his name, and shout in a stentorian voice: "Massenet!"... Once, he added, "Grand officer of the legion of honour, author of a score of operas, member of several academies!" And as soon as he had greeted me and shaken hands with a few friends, he started his favourite sport: pun-making. He had a knack of ending the most serious arguments, even about music, with a bon mot, and I sincerely believe that he enjoyed the successes of his witticisms quite as much as the success of his operas. He said himself: "I am a composer, that's true and I can't help it, but at the same time I love fun and youth, and boys of sixty are incorrigible."

Once, some foreigners called on me, and Massenet begged me to mumble his name when I should introduce him. A little later, he was talking music to the newcomers, and in time mentioned Massenet, whose music he lightly disparaged, with the result that they agreed with him, as he seemed to know all about music, and even went further and declared Massenet's music quite unbearable. Thereupon the composer sat at the piano and played some of his own music as he alone could play it, and Massenet's critics went into ecstasies. "Ah, that's what one may call real music," they said. "Who wrote it?"

"A friend of mine," Massenet replied airily, and he played again, saying when he had concluded, "That was my own."

"It's perfectly sweet. You ought to have your music printed."

"I occasionally do."

"Really! Would you mind repeating your name, we didn't quite catch it!"

"Massenet," and with infinite good grace the composer handed his card, and left the room in order to have his laugh outside.

His letters were most amusing. They were interspersed with bars of music and "sketches" to emphasise or illustrate his meaning. And they invariably contained some welcome remark about his work: "I have just left the Opera Comique. I am quite done up, but the interpretation at this rehearsal was splendid; singers, orchestra, everything. And Calvé! She's divine.... Ah! The fourth act, you will see what she makes of it!..." But long before his letters reached me, Massenet came himself, although "done up," and played to me that fourth act, and made me sing it... under the eyes of my mother and of Marthe, wrapped in ecstasy! Massenet worshipped my daughter and always perched the darling on the top of the piano, where he played.

In order that Marthe might accompany me, he had the charming idea of composing a few songs for me, the accompaniments of which were very simple and easy and without octaves, which were as yet beyond her reach. On the day when she played the first of these "Do not give thy heart," Massenet indulged in an orgy of puns and jokes, which was a sign of perfect contentment.

François Coppée, an old comrade of my husband's and one of my "faithful," as he called himself, lived close to us and often came in to have a chat, to look at the flowers in my "winter garden" or to listen to music.

One day, when Reyer, the composer of Sigurd was present, he remarked that music was not only the most sociological and popular of arts, it was also the easiest. "I could not play a chord, but I feel sure that it is easier to express one's self in music than in written words...."

Reyer decreed: "It is quite as difficult to frame a melody as to frame a sonnet." But Coppée refused to believe it, and going to the piano, he struck a note mightily. "That's a war-cry," he exclaimed; then touched the same note gently, "And that's melancholy," and playing it once more as softly as possible, "And that's reverie: Music is above all wonderful because it is so simple!" It was a mere sally on his part, and Reyer laughed heartily.

Coppée was kind, tender-hearted, and sociable, the very type of the popular and sentimental Parnassien. He spoke in an artless manner, as much like a Christian as a poet, and the modesty of this Academicien, this "immortal" loaded with honours, was delightful.

He found me one evening reading some verses of Heredia. "You are unfaithful to me, dear friend," he said.

"I like all good poets," I replied, "and this one opens wide horizons to me. He seems very far...."

"You are right. I merely try to see what is near me," said Coppée with a smile.

Little Marthe was very proud of the poet, but this did not prevent her from making use of him. She made him gather shells for her, one summer, on a small beach in Normandy, and told him to store them in his large felt hat. It was there that he once took us to a huge rock in a secret hole of which he showed me a large box of cigarettes.

"The doctor strictly forbids me to smoke," he explained, "and my sister (Coppée was a bachelor and lived with his sister, who was the most devoted person one could well conceive) sees to it that the doctor's instructions are carried out. Therefore, I come here secretly to smoke. Life without tobacco, you know...." Then taking me to the other side of the rock, he pointed to the sand which was strewn with hundreds of cigarette ends, and cheerfully exclaimed: "What a cemetery!"

Marthe, who was then seven years old, had often heard that Coppée was a great man, and that all which came from a great man was worth keeping. While we walked on, Coppée and I, she gathered all the cigarette ends, hid them, and the next day, put them in a box which she would not let out of her hands. Coppée, later on questioned her about the precious contents of the box.... He believed, as I did, that it contained sea-shells, and he was very much tickled when she opened the box, and in her little fluty voice, declared: "I too want to have a keepsake from you, and I have it!"

In Paris I often saw Coppée as I passed by the Café des Vosges, his favourite haunt, a few hundred yards away from the Impasse Ronsin. He saluted me, quickly paid the waiter, overtook me, and together we walked to my house, talking of books.

He himself organised a performance at my villa of his Passant, the charming one-act play which had made him famous when he was twenty-seven, and still a clerk in the Ministry of War.

During the Dreyfus affair, in which he took a leading part as one of the founders of the Patrie Française League, I saw him less and less. Meeting him one morning in the gardens of the Luxembourg, I asked him why he neglected me.

"Ah! my friend," he said hesitatingly, "I'd love to call on you as in the past, but the trouble is there are too many Dreyfusards in your salon!"

By an amusing coincidence, Zola called that very day, but he only remained a little while.

"To my great regret, I must go, Madame." And he added in a low, confidential voice: "The fact is there are too many Anti-Dreyfusards here."

The author of the Roujon-Macquarts was manly and brave besides being an able if unsympathetic novelist, but he had, to my knowledge, one little failing: he disliked talent in others, and one weakness: he was a gourmet. Therefore on the two or three occasions when he dined with us, I arranged a menu which Brillat Savarin would have endorsed and took care not to invite any other writer.

Zola lacked in conversation what he lacked in his writing: delicacy, refinement, lightness. He was heavy, ponderous and rather aggressive.

I teased him one day: "How is the chase after human documents going on?" I asked.

"Quite well, Madame. I hunt my quarry everywhere, and all day long. Human documents, slices of life, searching character-studies, that is all there is in literature."

"But what of the writer's personality? Is that of no account whatever?"

"It shouldn't be. I try to eliminate my personality from my books...."

"And don't you succeed?" I asked.

"I have the misfortune of being possessed of a temperament which I cannot altogether get rid of, alas!" came the pompous reply.

Another time, after re-reading "La Terre," I told him "You are a pessimist, M. Zola! You see only one side of life, the ugly and animal side; and but one kind of people... the bad kind. And to cap it all, you exaggerate. You believe yourself a 'realist,' but as a matter of fact, you are an idealist... with an ugly ideal!"

It was very evident that Zola was not pleased. Without relenting, however, I went on: "I have lived in the country for many, many years. I assure you that our peasants round Beaucourt and Belfort bear very little likeness to the brutes you describe. I have loved the peasants...."

"And I, Madame," Zola retorted severely, "I have observed them."

That night, after my guest's departure, I did not go on with "La Terre," but refreshed my mind by reading, for the twentieth time, "Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard" and felt extremely thankful to Anatole France.

I remember an Argentine mine-owner whose ambition was to meet celebrities. He saw Zola and said to me: "What! Is this the man who wrote 'L'Assommoir,' 'Nana,' 'Germinal' ... this little insignificant person! I had fancied him looking somewhat like Beethoven, clean-shaven, with a powerful face, a tremendous brow, glowing eyes and a mane...."

Zola overheard the remark and smiled. He rightly appreciated that kind of indirect compliment.

I happened to meet Zola on a day following one of his defeats at the election of the French Academy. A young man, pallid and very nervous but full of good intentions, said to the great writer as if to console him: "Maître, what does it matter?... After all, not even Pascal or Molière or Balzac was made a member of the Academy."

Zola did not reply, but a little later, when cups of tea and "petits-fours" were being handed round, he began to describe the Morgue in an even more realistic and harrowing manner than in "Thérèse Raquin"!... And as he spoke, his eyes were riveted on the tactless young man, who turned livid and trembled.

Had Zola taken into account the importance of political influence in the Academical elections—as in everything else in France—he would probably have become an "Immortal." At any rate, few writers were even more worthy of a seat under the Coupole.

I spent pleasant hours at the Institute. I was present at the receptions of Anatole France who obtained the seat of M. de Lesseps and of Edmond Rostand, by M. de Voguë, and at a few more of these ceremonies which play such an important part in the literary and social life of Paris. I have always felt a deep sympathy with the récipiendaires, whatever their degree of literary merit. For even though a man may have written books which the world will hasten to forget, that is no reason why he should be compelled to listen in public, and for an hour, to a colleague's eulogies. What an ordeal and excessive cruelty when the récipiendaire happens really to deserve the panegyric!... It is positively painful to the least sensitive onlooker. The ladies, however, suffer the least, for their attention is naturally divided between the speeches and the display of new frocks and hats... an Academical Reception having long been a recognised occasion for the exhibition of the "latest creations."

Pierre Loti once described to me the mixed feelings of a récipiendaire in a way that would have made any nervous writer almost tremble at the thought that the Academy might some day elect him against his will.

Our conversation took place at the wedding of one of my cousins, the bridegroom being a relation of Loti's. The melancholy author of so many evocations, of so many exotic idyls, spoke well, but in a hollow, monotonous voice.

A concert was given after the wedding and a Breton sang several of his pieces: sailor-songs, excessively strong and free.

Loti, the naval officer, and Loti, the author of "Pêcheurs d'Islande," was carried away, and turning to me, he said: "Isn't my friend wonderful! As you listen to him, you can see the swelling ocean, you can feel the sea-breeze in your face...."

"Yes, and you can even taste the brine, smell the musty fish and... feel sea-sick!" I added, for some of the details in the song really gave one qualms.

Loti was not pleased, and to make amends I spoke about those books of his which I preferred, the "Roman d'un Spahi," "Mon Frère Yves," and "Propos d'Exil." And, as we talked, we travelled together to the Far East, and landed on an island in the South Seas, whereupon, using that gift that perhaps he alone among living men possesses, he began to describe the music and colour and even the fragrance of tropical nature with such magical power and subtlety that my senses were dazzled and bewitched....

CHAPTER V
MY SALON (continued)

AMONGST the "faithful," I must not forget to mention Henner, "the great painter of the flesh," as he called himself in one of his rare poetical moments.

Henner was dumpy, coarse-featured, and almost bald; had a shaggy grey beard, and ever-begrimed hands, and wore the shabbiest and greasiest of clothes. And it came as a shock to hear this old man, unspeakably unkempt and slovenly, talk with the worst Alsatian accent about the Beauty of the Nude, and the splendour of woman, which he did in a very matter-of-fact and unpoetical manner. But besides being a great artist, he was kind, honest and simple-hearted, like his old friend Bonnat.

The painter of "Chaste Susanna," "The Magdalene," and "The Levite of the Tribe of Ephraïm," enjoyed nothing better than a good dinner and old Burgundy.

I was a little apprehensive when he called, for the spoilt old child could not help speaking his mind bluntly. I was once begged by an acquaintance to use my influence to make the painter accept an invitation which had been extended to him several times. The aged bachelor, who disliked all functions save good dinners in congenial and familiar surroundings, accepted, after a great deal of coaxing. He arrived late, as usual, and unkempt, as usual. He had broken his stud, after having fidgeted with it for a long time, for there were very evident marks of a struggle in the centre of his shirt front. He saw me at once and instead of going straight to the hostess he rushed up to me and exclaimed: "Why didn't you tell me you were coming too; I should never have hesitated to accept?" Then, turning to the host, he said: "Well, well, and so you are the famous M. H.... who made your fortune years ago by selling shirts. I suppose if I made a sketch of you, you'd pay me with a dozen collars. I am told you own a fine art gallery here. I daresay you got all those modern pictures in exchange for shirts and hosiery, eh?" And he burst out laughing.

The tactless surmise happened to be correct. As a matter of fact, M. H. had once called on my husband and abruptly proposed to supply him for life with shirts and collars in exchange for a certain painting which he fancied. I tried not to be angry. "My husband," I said, "wears only the very best shirts...."

"I quite understand that."

"And he gives them away when he has worn them once...."

M. H. saw his mistake and withdrew the offer.

I never knew Henner to be embarrassed. We treated him like a member of the family, and, one day, wishing to make him understand that his nails were really too grimy, I asked him whether he wished to wash his hands before dinner.

He looked at his nails, understood, and quietly said: "I am in mourning for Alsace and Lorraine."

But if he were never embarrassed, he had embarrassing habits, the worst of which was that of examining the shoulders and arms of ladies in décolleté with unperturbed insistence. And not infrequently he would say: "Allow me, just one second; I want to feel the grain, the quality of your skin." And before the victim had time to move he would press down his hairy and grimy forefinger on her bare arm, or even on her neck.

Withdrawing his fingers, he would pass some such remark as this: "It's really wonderful. I never grow tired of feeling flesh.... It is all made of little dots—blue, white, green, pink, purple, yellow... that is what flesh is."

Countess S., a handsome lady of the Hungarian aristocracy, who had come to Paris on her honeymoon, raved about Henner's art. Meeting him one day in my house, she offered to sit for the painter. Her French was not fluent, and she meant, of course, that Henner should paint her portrait. He readily accepted, for her complexion was milky and transparent, and her hair had that glowing copper tint which he loved so much.

A few days later I met the fair Hungarian Countess.

"How is the portrait?"

"Don't speak about it," she replied. "Your Henner is a wretch. I went to his studio with my husband. Henner said to me quickly: 'Please undress.' Then, as if he were talking to himself, he added: 'Her body stretched on the black velvet of this couch, her hair loose... and a dark background.... It's going to be a masterpiece!' My husband was mad with rage.... At last M. Henner saw his mistake. He had only seen my hair and my complexion, and had not stopped to think whether I were a lady or a model. He apologised profusely, and offered to paint my portrait in any dress I chose, but my husband would not listen to him...."

He made a joke once of which he was very proud. Having been asked who were his favourite composers, he replied: "There are two, and they have the same name. When I want serious music I ask for some Sebastian Bach, and when I want gay music I ask for some Offen-bach!"

Henner adored music. He said so, at least. But music is usually played after dinner, and after dinner, Henner retired to the smoking room in the company of a glass of brandy, and soon went to sleep. The noise of the instruments being tuned woke him up, and he came rushing into the drawing-room shouting: "Bravo, bravo; Ach.... What a nice piece that was." And he added: "And now that I have heard this masterpiece, I must retire. I have had a good dinner, I have heard excellent music, I have met charming people, and I am going away very pleased...." And the dear old man disappeared.

I often compare him to my friend Julius Oppert, the world famous Assyriologist, a bent, thin, old man, with an endless nose, who wore a threadbare coat with numberless pockets, each of which contained one or several manuscripts or books. What a good, dear man he was, and what a character! He was full of sweet little attentions to my daughter, although she never missed an opportunity of playing tricks on the old savant. He had a curious habit of filling the tail-pockets of his coat with sandwiches, and my mischievous Marthe one day put some cream puffs among some sandwiches on a plate. Oppert did not look when, according to his custom, he filled his pocket, and in went the puffs with the sandwiches, with the result that presently the cream was oozing out from his coat-tails, much to Marthe's glee.

Did he guess who was responsible for this little joke! I could not tell.... All I know is that at Christmas that year he sent Marthe, instead of a doll or a toy, a Sanskrit grammar, and on New Year's day, to me, whom he perhaps thought my daughter's accomplice, instead of flowers or marrons-glacés, his huge work on "The People and the Language of the Medes."

Assyriology leads me to mention M. and Mme. Dieulafoy, well known for their excavations at Suse, and their books. Every one knows that Mme. Dieulafoy is one of the three or four women in France who are authorised to wear men's clothes. This brings back an amusing incident to me.

Mme. Dieulafoy was kindly helping me to dress, one evening, for a theatrical performance in her salons. My maid, a country girl quite new to Paris, was nowhere to be found. When I returned home, I asked her why she had left the Dieulafoys' house when she knew I wanted her. She blushed, spluttered, and finally said: "Forgive me, Madame, but I was late, and when I opened the door of your dressing-room, I saw a gentleman at your feet fastening your costume.... So I ran away, feeling that I was not needed at all!"

I laughed at the incident, just as I had laughed a few years before, when, in the Forest of Fontainebleau, I saw a short, white-haired man, wearing a smock, and painting, whom I congratulated. The "man" was Rosa Bonheur, the celebrated animal painter.

Being the wife of a well-known artist, I made the acquaintance not only of sculptors and painters, but of art lovers and collectors, amongst them Chauchard and Groult.

Of Chauchard, the millionaire founder of the Louvre stores, the philanthropist and grand-cross of the Legion of Honour, there is little to say. Camille Groult, on the other hand, was interesting because he had no false pride and really loved his pictures. He had an estate near Paris close to my summer villa, and I often met him. He had made a fortune as a manufacturer of pâtes alimentaires (farinaceous foods) and was proud of it. He was the only man I ever met who could talk romantically of tapioca, rice, spices or sago. I remember how once he told the story of his sago business. It was an epic. He made us—we were a few friends listening to him—travel to Borneo, to Ceram and other isles of the Pacific, described the sago palm and its mature trunks gorged with precious food-starch, the marshy and unhealthy river-banks where the palm grows, the life of the native packers, the price of the gunnybags in which sago travels, the competition between European, Chinese and Eurasian traders and what not.... After that I really did keenly relish Groult's sago-flour and see the romantic side of what I had always considered a prosaic business.

Groult once took my husband and me to his old "hotel" in the Avenue Malakoff, to show us his famous collection, which was quite a favour, for he guarded his pictures jealously and rarely let them be seen.

He showed us not only his pictures, but also his collection of Gobelins, and the way in which he spoke, for instance, of the Birth of Bacchus—a wonderful tapestry copied from a cartoon by Boucher—was a sheer delight. He possessed exquisite "Aubussons" with the most delicate pastel hues, old Chinese porcelains, a collection of snuff-boxes, unique pieces of antique furniture (which he caressed as one caresses a lover), a series of fans, the folds of which were as light as the wings of the rare butterflies in the cabinet hard by. And the paintings....

There was a room the walls of which were covered with works by Watteau; another, the gem of which was the portrait of La Guimard by Fragonard, Boucher's pupil and friend. And there were pastels by La Tour, the portrait of a woman in blue by Nattier, that of Chardin by himself, several Goyas—to say nothing of a whole gallery of Hubert Roberts.

Groult's collection of English masters was almost as wonderful. It contained masterpieces by Gainsborough, Reynolds, Hoppner, Raeburn and Lawrence, and a gallery of Turners, though Turner would perhaps have disowned a number of them. Groult's collection of paintings of the British School was well worth seeing, and, as my husband remarked: "One cannot say as much of that possessed by the Louvre, most of the pictures in which could not have been painted by the master to whom they are attributed. Gainsborough, for instance, is represented at the Louvre by two landscapes in the Italian style, the sight of which would have revolted the painter of Mrs. Siddons, the Blue Boy and Little Miss Haverfield if he had seen them."

To deal at length with all the politicians, functionaries and diplomats I have known is beyond the scope of this book of "Memoirs," the essential portion of which must be that devoted to the mystery of the Impasse Ronsin—the events which preceded and followed the crime, my arrest, my life in prison and my trial.

Besides, very few among those holders of important offices really did "matter" or did achieve anything beyond their ambition—which was, of course, money and promotion, till they could reach no higher in their particular sphere of activity, when their only thought became that of "retaining office"!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I met King Edward VII., then Prince of Wales, several times.

He asked me one day, quite unexpectedly, what I thought of his French. "Your Highness," I replied, "speaks our language unusually well...."

"For one who is not French!"

"For one who is not always in France. But, perhaps, your Highness speaks it too grammatically."

"I see," said the Prince cheerfully, "my French is too perfect to be... perfect."

His power of observation and his memory were amazing. He once recalled every detail about the dress which I had worn at a certain performance at the opera, where I had been seated exactly opposite his box, and then proceeded to describe the diadem of a friend of mine who had sat near me at the same gala performance. He explained that he so much admired the original design that he had had a similar one made for a wedding present. He then spoke of music, knowing how I loved music, and further astounded me by naming, during the conversation, nearly all the items of the programme on that night.

He had a charming sense of humour, and I remember his saying: "In France, I enjoy myself, look round and talk; in Germany, I observe and let others talk; in England... I shan't tell you what I do in England. I should be divulging State Secrets!"...

Among those that at one time or other came frequently to my salon, I must mention Admiral Gervais, whose visit to Kronstadt with the French squadron marked the first stage of what was to become the alliance with Russia, that counterpoise against the Triple Alliance; M. Sadi Carnot, son of the President, and great-grandson of the great Lazare Carnot, the "organizer of victory"; M. Dujardin-Beaumetz, the sympathetic, obliging, and apparently inamovible Under-Secretary of State for Fine Arts, who dined at my house only a month before the tragic night, and my old friend Poubelle, Prefect of the Seine and afterwards Ambassador at Rome, who just before he issued the famous and wise regulation which made it compulsory for every householder to have dust-bins, the contents of which are removed every morning by the city scavengers, sent me a mass of orchids in one of these bins which, as he designed them, are called poubelles by the ever-facetious Parisian to this day. My maid was furious and said it was a gross insult to "Madame" to have sent her flowers in a dust-bin!

Many foreigners came to my house.... I remember a Spanish family—the P. L.—who, dreading the icy winds which blow from the Guadarrama, left Madrid every year to spend the winter in Paris, up north. The mother had a passion for hot chocolate and for "Grand Guignol" thrills... and her eldest daughter never tired of admiring the old gargoyles on Notre Dame which, like Victor Hugo, she called a "symphony in stone." She was bitterly disappointed when, having introduced her to M. Viollet-le-Duc, I told her that it was this gentleman's father who was responsible for a very considerable portion of her beloved mediæval chimeras.

I had several Dutch friends. The ladies dressed simply, though clearly, and were somewhat narrow-minded; and, apparently, their one great care was to be deftig, that is, comme il faut, "good form" with just a touch of culture. They talked constantly of their homes at the Hague or Amsterdam, with such pride and even fire, that I wondered how they could have left Holland at all. I knew some Swiss folk who talked of Eugène Rambert as of a very great poet, and of Secrétan as the Last Metaphysician. I knew Rou-[I think hyphen should be removed]manians who all talked about oil and wheat, who described Sinaïa, Carmen Sylva's summer residence, as the most beautiful mountain-home in the world, and who acquainted me with their country's songs and popular ballads, which have delightful names: Stellele, Sarutatul, Doina, and which took not only me, but my mother and my little Marthe, right out of the world. I received several Germans, whom I learned to know at once, and many English people whom it took months to make out... but it was often worth it.

I met a young Bolivian couple, who before leaving Paris kindly invited me to spend a few days with them, any time I chose, at La Paz... only a five or six weeks' journey. And there was a very distinguished Chinaman who had become my friend because, as he put it; "You are one of the few women who have never stared at me with wonder or curiosity, who have never asked me indiscreet questions, and who have never begged me to sign my name and title in an auto-graph-book... 'and in Chinese, please.'"

As a matter of fact, I never possessed an autograph-book, and that is probably the reason why I have so many letters from great men and "celebrities."

I have been on excellent terms with many Russians, including a young princess, tall, green-eyed, and white-skinned, who had the soft graceful movements of a cat, and smoked cigarettes from morn till night; whose dresses seemed always about to slip off her shoulders and whose favourite poet was Baudelaire... and who, in spite of her many weird and morbid eccentricities, managed to be a most devoted wife, a most loving mother, and a most faithful friend.

What extraordinary people there are amongst the Russians! They seem to have twice as much vitality as the average person, their nerves are always highly strung, and yet never seem to snap; they have a tremendous capacity for work and equally tremendous capacity for wasting time, and are altogether greater "living paradoxes" than the French themselves!

I remember a great Muscovite official, who one evening left the drawing-room to return into the dining-room, where he rapidly emptied not only every bottle and decanter but also the glasses of my forty guests, even those glasses which contained only a few drops of wine. He fell dead drunk, and had to be carried to the garden, where a railway director and the Minister of Public Instruction played the hose on his head.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the drawing-room, and captivating us all by his sober, vivid, and extremely clear-sighted account of the political situation of Europe from the Russian Government's standpoint!

A pretty incident occurred one afternoon at my house, in which another distinguished Russian was concerned. He was my friend, General Eletz, who could be called "the bravest of the brave."

My uncle, General Japy, often said to him in his blunt manner: "What a pity you are a Russian. You are the very kind of officer we like in the French Army!" General Eletz had written a book on the "Hussars of the Imperial Guard," and he had hardly been in the room a few minutes, before there entered the French General de Chalandar, who had written on the "Hussards de Chamboran." Now, each had sent the other a copy of his book, and so the two had become great friends, by post, but this was their first meeting.

The two men stood face to face, both very tall and athletic.

"General de Chalandar, General Eletz," I said, introducing them.

"What... Hussar of the Guard?" asked the one.

"What... Hussar of Chamboran?" asked the other, and the two delighted giants shook hands for fully ten minutes in the most ardent and energetic manner.... Then suddenly, General Eletz turned pale, staggered, and collapsed. My mother and I attended to him, and when he had sufficiently recovered, he drove away, without telling us the cause of his collapse.

I found it out afterwards. He had stopped a runaway horse half an hour before calling on me, and had been dragged along for some distance. His shoulders and his knees had been badly injured, but he had promised to come, and after brushing off the dust, he came.... But the ten minutes hand-shaking had been too much for him.

Of all these foreigners, my sympathy went out, above all, to the Russians, because I found them brave, intelligent, and kind; to the Americans on account of their straightforwardness, and their delightful disregard of conventionalities; and to the English, because of their healthy minds and their stolidity, which was often refreshing and soothing to me in my restless life.

For over fifteen years, then, from my marriage to the fatal date of May 30th-31st, 1908, I experienced that peculiar sensation which you cannot easily do without when once you have known it, the sensation which comes from being always surrounded by many people, from having near you scores of friends (and a few enemies too), day after day, until solitude becomes unthinkable—as distant and fanciful a notion as that of life on a desert isle—from hearing every day something fresh or unexpected, from constantly renewing your little stock of knowledge, the sensation of unending giving and taking.

Whether you wish it or not, you wear your mind, your nerves, your heart and your vitality; and you receive in return thoughts, suggestions, ideas, and often genuine sympathy. You belong less and less to yourself and more and more to others, to what is called le monde.... Sometimes you receive less than you give, and you return home exhausted from a soirée at which you have talked, struggled, conquered, advised, persuaded, consoled—and also sung and played, and listened; and if you are not too tired to think about it all, you say to yourself: I am the dupe, not only of life, but of my own heart. I wear myself away for others, and when I come back and cry out to my heart for admittance, I find that I cannot enter and be alone with myself. You must be selfish to live happily—or even to live—at all....

But the next day, after all too short a night, how eagerly you take up and open the letters the maid brings you—often a whole tray full of them—and how your heart thrills once more to the world as you read....

Three invitations to dinner... and one of them says, "Please bring some songs with you, the great So and So will accompany you."... A lady friend begs me to come to tea that very afternoon, she needs my advice, something dreadful has happened.... A member of my family, a functionary, has lost his temper; will I see his Minister and save him.... Mme. Z. gambled and lost... heavily; what is she to do?... My dear mother feels lonely. Will I come to Beaucourt for a few days?... Marthe's governess is ill; will I find some one to replace her for a week or two?... I am reminded that there is a reception at the English Embassy, I must not forget to come.... My friend Mustel relies on me to come and listen to his new organ, an orchestra, a marvel.... The Duchess of Y. is impatiently waiting for those fifty children's dresses I said I would send for her "ouvroir."... My dressmaker will come at four.... Mme. C. writes she'll call at two to take me to the Geographical Society, where her husband, who has recently returned from a perilous expedition, will lecture. She'll never forgive me if I don't come.... And here are letters from poor people I know.... A mother's appeal for her starving children, an old workman who has lost his job... he hails from Beaucourt, and years ago worked on my father's estate.... Two poor girls to whom I often give some sewing to do, are dangerously ill.... And there is the rehearsal of an oratorio at the Temple, and a sale of old silver which I have promised to attend with the newly-married Countess de M. who knows nothing about old silver, and wants to learn, because her husband collects.... And here comes my darling Marthe: "Mother, do spend the whole day with your little girl... please!"...

How I would love to!

What a life! I feel like the owner and captain of a ship. I have built it; I have launched it on unknown seas, and have started upon an expedition to the land of Nowhere.... Society-life has no object since it has itself as object.... And yet I feel I cannot desert my ship, if only because I sometimes pick up a shipwrecked sister or a drowning brother, and because I have lost my bearings....

What a life! You sigh, you complain, and then comes the reaction.... I have wasted a precious half-hour dreaming, lamenting. "Quick! Clotilde! my tailor-made dress, the navy-blue one, my toque and a pair of gloves. It is already ten o'clock. I shall never manage to do all I must do to-day!"

Of course, they are not real duties these "Society" duties but you do them more or less conscientiously and always with energy—for you are in a hurry! And meanwhile you neglect the other duties, the real ones, including the duties to yourself.... That is Parisian life. And when you have tasted its exquisite poison you cannot do without it, no more than a "Society queen" (Oh! the emptiness of such a title) can do without elegance, chocolates, scent, cosmetics, compliments, and other indispensable things!

I have been criticised because I sometimes received men and women whose standard of morality was not of the highest.... But in Paris, if you were to receive only paragons of virtue, you would indeed, receive very few people.... Yes, there came to my house men whose talk went a little further than I could have wished, and ladies whose minds were not so pure as the transparent gems they wore in profusion.... There came to the villa in the Impasse Ronsin people who were ingeniously romantic, wickedly childish and recklessly unconventional; but whatever their moral shortcomings, they were never dull. And that is a great deal.

And what pleasant and brilliant conversations, even when the causeurs were too short-sighted or too far-sighted in their views. Thus I had friends who wished all music was destroyed and forgotten except the works of Richard Strauss, others who would have given their lives for Maeterlinck, and quite a number of men who wanted to save France (there is an amazing number of people in France who believe that the country is irretrievably lost unless their advice is followed). All these persons may have been rather foolish, but they never bored; their ideas were often wrong but never absurd.... And there always happened to be present some one who made them agree—with themselves.

I have been further criticised for "doing everything myself." "Everything" is an exaggeration, but I certainly did a great deal in my house, and I am proud of it. At Beaucourt my father made me do as many things as possible in our home, although he was wealthy. I then made at least half my dresses and hats, and fulfilled a thousand and one household duties. I thought my father was right, and marriage did not change my views on the matter.

Should I have given up my salons and my receptions, the pleasant and interesting relations with men and women of the world, with men of talent and men of genius, just because my husband and I had not an unlimited account at the bank? Should I have deprived myself of those intellectual and artistic joys which add so much to life because I could not entertain as lavishly as did some of my wealthier friends?

Yes, I helped with the household work in the morning, and when I thought that a room would be improved by changing the position of a piece of furniture, I helped the servants to move it.... I may here mention that all this was carefully noted, after my arrest, and the examining magistrate, M. André made the following argument in all seriousness: "A woman who is strong enough to assist in moving a cupboard or a sideboard is strong enough to strangle one or two persons with her own hands."...

Although I loved that "mundane" life, it was not on account of its "brilliant" side, but because I found there satisfactions of the mind which to some extent made up for my unfortunate married life, and also because I was able to make some use of my numberless acquaintances—those especially who held high office—to help in their careers my husband's relatives or mine, or any friend.

But there were hours of bitter dejection, when it seemed to me that of the crowd of people I knew who proclaimed themselves my devoted friends, there were not ten men and women on whom I could absolutely rely and who fully deserved the beautiful name of "friend"; hours when the compliments with which I was overwhelmed rang formal and untrue, when sympathy was hypocrisy or calculation; hours when I loathed the artificiality of Parisian life!...

I sought then a refuge in long conversations with my husband in his studio, where I helped him in his work, and in the tender love of my mother. Or I pressed my little Marthe to my heart and a fierce craving would seize me to flee with her to Beaucourt, to beautiful Beaucourt, the home of my happy youth, and lead there a modest, normal life with my child! But Paris does not let go of its victims....

CHAPTER VI
FÉLIX FAURE

BEYOND the hours of depression and the every-day troubles that fall to the lot of all human beings: disappointed dreams, thwarted ambitions, shattered illusions, financial cares and family worries, there happened nothing particularly eventful in my life until the day when I became the friend and confidante of Félix Faure, elected President of the Republic in January 1895.

The political and other events of general interest which took place in France during the years immediately preceding that date, may be summed up in a few words.

After the Panama scandal and the vanishing of the "two hundred and fifty million francs," cabinets were formed and cabinets fell with symptomatic and alarming rapidity. For instance, in January 1898, Ribot becomes Premier, but already in March Dupuy succeeds him. The general election reveals nothing... except the nation's apathy. The election of fifty Socialists as deputies, however, is worth noting. Later Casimir Périer becomes Prime Minister. He has a revered name, is capable, and he is wealthy, but his Ministry does not last six months, and in May 1894, Dupuy returns to power. The next month an Italian anarchist murders President Carnot, the noblest of men and an able statesman, worthy grandson of the victor of Wattignies, of Lazare Carnot, the "Organiser of Victory." Four days later, the Congress sitting at Versailles, elects Casimir Périer to the highest office in the Republic, but in January 1905, tired of being slandered, fettered, and insulted, and for private reasons, too, Casimir Périer resigns and Félix Faure becomes President.

He had rapidly reached the supreme rank. Under-Secretary for the Colonies from 1882 to 1885 in Jules Ferry's Cabinet, he was elected vice-president of the Chamber in 1893, became Minister for the Navy in 1894, and President of the Republic in 1895.

That very year he received the Lord Mayor of London, Sir Joseph Renals, and the following year, in October, the Czar and the Czaritza. I attended the gala performance at the Opera, the laying of the first stone of the Alexander III. bridge, which was to illustrate in stone and bronze the Franco-Russian Alliance, and even went to Châlons to see the military review held there. I had left Beaucourt for the purpose of attending these ceremonies in the company of an important official. The Czar struck me as more unassuming than the President, and the rather pathetic beauty of the Empress of all the Russians made a deep impression upon me. France went Russia mad, and Félix Faure became extremely popular.

The Alliance which had been marked by the visit of a French squadron commanded by Admiral Gervais to Kronstadt (1891), the mission of General Boisdeffre to St. Petersburg in the following year, and the visit of the Russian Admiral Avelan to Toulon and Paris in 1893, was to become a fait accompli during the return visit of Félix Faure to the Czar in August 1897.

Three months before this momentous visit there occurred in Paris the terrible catastrophe of the Bazar de la Charité which claimed some hundred and fifty victims. I miraculously escaped death that day. I was one of the ladies in charge of the buffet, and was serving tea, when I felt suddenly unwell, so much so that, reluctantly, I had to leave the Bazaar. The carriage in which I drove home had hardly turned the corner of the Rue Jean Goujon when the fire broke out.

My mother arrived at my house in a state of mad terror, for she had accompanied me a few hours before as far as the doors of the Bazaar, and when she had heard of the fire, had feared that I was one of the victims. I was safe but, alas, lost my dear friends in the catastrophe.

A few weeks later the second jubilee of Queen Victoria was celebrated, and with a few English friends staying in Paris, I attended the great garden-party given at the British Embassy by Sir Edmund Monson. Mme. Faure and her daughter, M. Hanotaux, Minister of Foreign Affairs, and the whole literary, artistic, and political élite of France were present.

I heartily congratulated an eminent English personage on the splendour of the reception and the atmosphere of pleasant mirth which permeated the Embassy.

"Of course, Madame," he remarked, "the Embassy has not always this bright animation! But you must not believe that we English are as sedate and stolid and gloomy as some people say. And I may inform you, by the way, that this house was once the residence of the notorious Pauline Borghese, whose only ambition was to be pretty and to... to be loved." He then told us a number of lively anecdotes about the ravishing sister of Napoleon—and concluded; "Don't you think there is something piquant in the fact that the Ambassador of stern and solemn Old England lives in a house which once belonged to a famous crowned courtesan!"

On July 14th—the day of the fête nationale—the usual review took place at Longchamps, and I took my six-year-old daughter to see "the soldiers," but, instead of watching them, she kept staring at the Rajah of Kapurthala, who was close to us, and asking endless questions which brought smiles to the lips of all those who overheard her, but embarrassed me very much.

I spent the rest of July and the whole month of August in the Alps, with my husband, who had to work "on the spot," for a vast "panorama of the Alpine Club," which was intended for the Exhibition of 1900. The Alpine manœuvres were in progress at the beginning of August, and President Faure, who had been to Valence and Orange, came to witness them. Just before a sham fight by the Chasseurs Alpins near the Vanoise Pass, my husband took up a position whence he could survey the coming scene, and I, further down and camera in hand, was preparing to take snap-shots from the top of a rock, when I heard some voices. There, below me, was a group of men, and one of them, wearing a red shirt, a brown suit, yellowish gaiters, and a white béret, looked up at me and said something I could not hear. I believe he asked whether he should stop to be photographed. I failed to recognise the President of the Republic and his suite. But shortly afterwards an officer came to ask whether M. and Mme. Steinheil would lunch with the President. I declined, thinking the invitation too sudden and too formal, but my husband accepted and told me he would ask the President for permission to paint the forthcoming "distribution of decorations" at La Traversette.

Needless to say, I had met the President before. For several years I had regularly attended functions at the Elysée, and had made the acquaintance of Félix Faure, as I had made that of Carnot and of Casimir Périer. I had even spoken at length with him on two or three occasions when he was Minister for the Navy.

That same day, in the village which at the time was my husband's headquarters, I saw the President once more. A group of little girls, wearing the quaint old dresses of Savoy, were offering flowers to him.... Félix Faure saw me, bowed deeply, and afterwards there came an invitation to dinner—which I declined. The next morning yet another invitation came, this time to lunch, near Bourg Saint-Maurice, at the redoubt which overlooks the Petit Saint Bernard. My husband accepted, but I declined again, under the first pretext that occurred to me.... The truth was that I was far too busy collecting native buckles, bracelets and crosses, the wooden birds in which the Savoy peasants keep salt, and all the headdresses I could buy, to care to lunch with the "first magistrate" in the land and his suite! I much preferred the milk, cheese, and brown bread of the mountaineers to all the dainties and wines of the presidential table. When at night my husband returned with his companions—a judge and a mayor—I was told the President repeatedly alluded to my absence. My husband made his sketches of the distribution by President Faure of "decorations" to Alpine soldiers at La Traversette, and joined me again. The Chief of the State left for Annecy and Paris, and later, while my husband and I were leading the simple life in the mountains of Savoy, the President was in Russia with the Czar, enjoying the banquets given in his honour at Kronstadt, St. Petersburg and Peterhof.

My husband's painting of the Traversette scene included, of course, portraits of the various members of the President's suite and they—ministers and officers—came during the autumn to the studio in the Impasse Ronsin to sit for their portraits. The President gave a sitting to M. Steinheil at the Elysée. An exchange of letters followed. Félix Faure was anxious to see the "historic" painting, and I was told that he wished to visit our house, which had been described to him by his entourage, in which I numbered several friends. I was overwhelmed with invitations to the Elysée.... At the beginning of 1898 the picture was completed, and the President called one morning to see it.

My uncle, General Japy, was with my husband and me to receive him. My garden was one huge bouquet, and as soon as he had entered, with General Bailloud and a young officer, the President expressed his delight. Marthe offered him a sheaf of flowers that was almost as big as herself, but absolutely refused to be kissed. Her obstinacy amused Félix Faure, who asked:

"What is the toy you like best?"

"A doll."

"What is your name?"

"Marthe."

"Well, little Marthe, I will give instructions for a perfect doll with a complete trousseau to be made and sent to you, exactly the same as I am sending to the Czar's daughter."

"Thank you," said Marthe quietly, but nevertheless refused to be kissed.

Félix Faure admired the drawing-room and the "winter-garden," examined closely as a connoisseur a few pieces of antique furniture, and then stopping near the piano: "Ah! It is no fun to be a President," he sighed. "I am deprived of music.... Of course the band of the Republican Guard plays at the dinner-parties at the Elysée, and there is the Opera, and... the Marseillaise, wherever I go, but I seldom, if ever, hear the music I love, chamber music, or a simple song, sung at the piano!"

He told me that he had heard about the musical parties at my house, and that his friend Massenet was also my friend, and finally asked whether I would sing, just for once, at the Elysée.

"No, M. le President," I replied. "I don't believe I could sing there.... It seems to me that everything official is necessarily inartistic, and I should not care to sing in surroundings that were uncongenial."

He walked to my husband's studio. The President was delighted with the picture.

"Do you know," he asked me, "that they are singing a song on the boulevards about the white béret I wore at the Alpine manœuvres?"

"I suppose they are comparing it to Henri IV.'s famous white plume, M. le President," a young officer suggested.

"No,... I wish they did.... There's nothing historical about the song. Still, it is an advertisement, and even Presidents need réclame.... It is a very caustic but still very jolly song."

Marthe exclaimed: "Please sing it to me!"

"I will if you will give me that kiss!"

Marthe ran away.

The President looked at the pictures in the studio. He paused before a small painting by my husband, representing a woman of Bourg Saint-Maurice, wearing the pretty mediæval cap still in use in certain parts of Savoy. It is like a round helmet of brilliantly coloured material, with a point above the forehead. The hair tightly plaited is twisted round with black tape, which forms part of the helmet (a three hours' process which the women at Bourg Saint-Maurice told me they only went through twice a month), and from that strange but becoming headgear hangs a loose chain made of black and golden beads.

Félix Faure was so delighted with this little portrait that he insisted on buying it.... Needless to say, it was gladly offered to him as a souvenir of his brief stay in the Alps.

He then insisted on inviting my husband and me to lunch at the Elysée.... "And don't refuse, this time," he added, turning to me.

From that day flowers and invitations rained upon me from the Elysée.

A month or two afterwards, the vernissage (opening day) of the Salon, which the President of the Republic attends each year, took place, and Félix Faure was present with Méline, the Premier, Hanotaux, Minister of Foreign Affairs, and a large array of prominent functionaries. My friend Bonnat, Director of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts and "Painter of Presidents," conducted Félix Faure through the rooms.

Suddenly, Bonnat came to me and said gaily: "The President has been asking for you ever since he arrived here. I believe he is fond of you, as we all are, even I, your dear 'Methuselah!' Please come and meet him; I have left him with your husband; they are both expecting you."

I gave him a gentle tap with my catalogue; he ran back to fulfil his official duties, and five minutes later, the Army, in the shape of a colonel, came to fetch me.

"I am delighted," said Félix Faure, "to be at last able to congratulate you, Madame."

"You forget I did not paint the picture," I said in a low voice.

"The State," he went on, "desires to acquire it."

"You forget the picture belongs to my husband."

"You know most painters, Madame; will you consent to act as my guide?"

"Yes, with M. Bonnat's indispensable assistance."

I took the President quickly past the works of famous painters—those loaded with honours and wealth—and made him stop before the paintings of little-known and talented artists who needed—and deserved—recognition; and I had the satisfaction of seeing Félix Faure and a few members of his suite make a note of the names of certain young but promising painters....

"I am taking advantage of your kindness, Madame, but I am the President of the Republic, and I am sure you are a patriot.... You hail from the Eastern frontier?..."

"My birth-place is only half an hour from Alsace... but one may be a patriot without being attached to the Republic, M. le President. Who knows but that I am a Bonapartist?"

Félix Faure promptly replied: "I should understand if there were still a Bonaparte!"

We parted, and with a few close friends, I went round the various rooms. Just as I was about to leave, M. Roujon, Director at the Ministry of Fine Arts, rushed towards me....

"The President," he began breathlessly.

"What! Again the President."

"Yes, still the President, Madame.... He has requested me to tell you that he doesn't wish the State to buy your husband's picture. He has acquired it for himself."

Aggravated, I went to Bonnat, who had already heard the news.

"You can do nothing," he said. "How can you prevent the President from ranking above the State... in such a matter!"

I appreciated Félix Faure's kindly intentions, but thought his methods rather too impulsive and embarrassing.

My husband wrote to the President to thank him. We called on him several times at the Elysée, and a warm friendship formed.

One afternoon, I had a long conversation with Félix Faure, in his study. We had often talked of art, music, travel and politics, but never going much beyond the surface of things.... This time, he was extremely earnest and spoke to me about the hopeless political situation in France and the ever increasing difficulties he had to face. He spoke about the general elections which had just taken place.... The Socialists had polled an extraordinary number of votes; the Radical deputies elected exceeded the Moderates in number.... A new party had risen: the Nationalists. What these meant was not quite clear but they certainly meant mischief. Every one was dissatisfied.... Anarchy was rampant.... The Chambre was an incoherent assembly and there was the Dreyfus Affair to tackle.... Thank Heaven, the elections had shown that the Republican majority was against Dreyfus and his supporters.... But trouble was brewing.

"I know all this," I said, "but how can I help you? I am not a Cabinet Minister!"

"Quite so... but I am sure you could help me a great deal, if only to discover the truth...." he remarked seriously, then, changing his tone he added whimsically: "Do you know I have heard a great deal about you, of late? It appears that you have unusual powers of persuasion. In the various Ministries, when I wish to secure this or that post for a protégé, I am invariably told that it has already been promised to one of your friends. Your candidates pass before mine...."

We talked about his career and about my life.... Then he took me round the place. He showed me the hall where Napoleon had held receptions and the room where he had last slept in Paris after the battle of Waterloo, the "Hall of Sovereigns" where Napoleon had abdicated and where Queen Victoria had stayed in 1855.

After walking round the gardens we returned to the President's study.

Thenceforth, I met him almost every day, either in the Bois de Boulogne, where he rode in the morning, or at the Elysée. He would telephone to me at any hour of the day. There was always something to do, some one to sound. Félix Faure had fullest confidence in me and I went, for him, when he could not go himself, to the sittings of the Chamber of Deputies or of the Senate, to certain receptions and parties. He was surrounded by enemies, and he knew it. He made use of my intuition, of my knowledge of people. I met him after all the Cabinet Councils, and he told me what had been discussed and decided.

A new life began for me; my rôle of confidante had its difficulties and even its dangers, but it had a wonderful fascination. My salon was now more crowded than ever before. Invitations were showered upon me both from quarters friendly with the Government and from quarters in league with the Opposition. My "friends" were legion, and my enemies—you cannot possess influence or power without making enemies—were greater flatterers than the others.

Then, there were men who tried to persuade me of this, that or the other, so that I should in my turn persuade the President, and those who laid traps for me, men whose entreaties were disguised threats, who tried to know what I knew, and who did not seem to realise that their very attitude revealed quite plainly their shameless scheme....

How often I was able to warn the President in time against a dangerous mistake. How often I prevented him from appointing to some responsible position a man who perhaps had an interesting career behind him, and a stainless reputation, but under whose mask of impassiveness I had been able to detect a man without scruples or principles, an arriviste, ready to sell everything and even himself to achieve his ambition.... No man is inscrutable to a woman, especially when that woman is devoted to one whom she has decided to help, and when she is supposed to care for nothing more essential than music, flowers, dress, or success.

And I hasten to add that I sided no more with one party than with another.

At the time when the whole French nation was divided into two parties, there were among my best friends, among the men whom I most respected and admired, staunch Dreyfusards and also staunch anti-Dreyfusards.

I believed then, as I believe to-day, in tolerance, liberty, and legality. I never took part in one single political discussion, not even in my own drawing-room. What I heard I remembered, and when I thought that a piece of what I would call "psychological information" could assist the President I retold it to him.

It goes without saying that I was very much sought after, if only because I had some influence in most ministries and at the Elysée. And it was a source of real joy to me to be able to render services to so many people who seemed to need them. I remember, for instance, a Minister, who after some unlucky speculations had so many debts, just at the time when one Cabinet fell, that he was lost unless he obtained a portfolio—and the salary attached to it—in the next. His friends implored me to intercede with the President on his behalf.

"He has rendered poor services as a Minister," said Félix Faure when I approached him, "but I will see that he is appointed to a post for which he is better suited, although I am sure he is not worth bothering about. The post will be less conspicuous, but quite as lucrative... and that seems to be the great point."

Need I add that the ex-Minister became my enemy afterwards? The greater the services, as a rule, the greater the ingratitude.

The number of incidents of all kinds—strange, tragic, heroic, harrowing, comical, or revolting—which I witnessed during the year 1898, is truly amazing. I recall a leader of society, a noblewoman, who sacrificed her fortune, her reputation, and her happiness for the sake of a man implicated in the Dreyfus affair, in whom she had absolute faith, and who made a political blunder that plunged him into a tragedy for which he certainly was only indirectly responsible. I remember a prominent and really able citizen who, in a moment of patriotic frenzy, made such a fool of himself that he and all his family, for whose sake he made a daring but absurd move, was crushed under that almighty and often unjust power—Ridicule. I recall a pigmy, in size and brains, who through sheer luck and a sly use of his opportunities, became famous for a while, and made a fortune out of other men's thoughts. And I could tell the abject story of a personage of very high standing in whom Félix Faure had complete confidence. Somehow I distrusted that man, and succeeded in preventing the President from accepting his statements as "gospel" truth at a time when, owing to the electional atmosphere of the political world, the slightest errors of judgment became unpardonable faults, and even treachery.... After the death of the President, and in most unexpected circumstances, I found out that the exalted personage had had, for years, as mistress, a woman who was a spy in the service of the German Embassy. He was that woman's tool, but she loved him, and when he forsook her, Fate brought her to me, in search of a living. I discovered the whole truth about her and her friend, and realised then, and only then, how well-inspired I had been when I warned Félix Faure against the man.

It would be only too easy to quote scores of such facts, but the others, however vaguely I might describe them would still be too transparent, and I do not write these Memoirs out of spite, ill-feeling, or revenge against any one. In this chapter I merely wish to convey some idea of the part I played in President Faure's life.

Félix Faure, having noticed that some of my letters did not reach him, we agreed that in the future when we were unable to meet freely, and when we had some important communication to make to one another, our letters would be sealed with white wax in "urgent," and with blue wax in all other cases; also that my valet would take my messages to the President, and his messages would be handed to the same man, summoned by a private telephone call.

I entered the Elysée—whither a private detective, who had been selected by the President himself, always accompanied me—by a small door in the gardens, at the corner of the Rue du Colisée and the Avenue des Champs Elysées, and through the grounds to the small "blue salon," where the President awaited me for "our task."

That task, as the reader may have already guessed, was the "Memoirs" of the President.

Félix Faure, who, in spite of the many things that satisfied his self-esteem—the brilliant side of his exalted function, the relative importance of it, and, above all, the fact that it placed him on an equal footing with kings and emperors—was looking forward to the end of his septennat and was anxious to explain some day his conduct in the political and diplomatic events in which he had been and was so intimately concerned. These "Memoirs" were to form a secret history of France since the Franco-Prussian War. To these "Memoirs" I was contributing a mass of notes and comments throwing some light on certain personalities, on certain facts. Sometimes we worked apart, sometimes together, and more than once I spent a whole afternoon examining and classifying documents whilst the President in the next room was granting audiences.

We wrote the "Memoirs" on foolscap which I brought myself, for the President knew that his stationery was counted!

Everything went into these "Memoirs," which were already assuming bulky proportions: the evolution of the internal and the foreign policy of France; the Franco-Russian Alliance; the secret story of the Dreyfus Affair; the schemes of the various Pretenders to the throne of France. There were details on financial problems, colonial expansion, armaments, electoral systems, Administration, the Army and the Navy....

Certainly, if a general and critical survey, conscientious, impartial, sober, and packed with first-hand information of all the events that made the history of the Third Republic, were worth writing—and how can one deny it?—then Félix Faure did well to spend daily long hours of his time, and of mine, in writing his "Memoirs," though had they been published, say, within ten or fifteen years a great number of so-called "prominent" men would have had to disappear in order to escape the scorn of the whole world as well as the execration of their own people.

The "Memoirs" were locked up in an iron box, which was opened only when new material had to be added to the great mass already collected. Then, one day, the President begged me to take these important and secret documents home with me for safety. The iron box was left in his study, and partly filled with blank sheets—for the box might be shaken! I took the contents home, little by little and day by day, until the box was empty.

Many times it seemed to me that I was being shadowed, but my faithful "agent" watched over me, and I was able to store all the papers safely away in my house. Félix Faure had told me to keep them (and had given me a letter which said so) and to have them published if I thought fit in the case of his death, for, as he said more than once to me: "I sometimes fear I shall end like Carnot...."

The President had a very high notion of his office, but frequently complained of his limited powers.

"And yet," I once told him, "you appoint your Ministers, the nomination of all officials rests with you, and you control the Army and the Navy...."

"Yes, but to what extent?... You say I control the Navy! But I know for a fact that nearly all the powder in the magazines of our battleships is defective, that the armour-plating of those battleships has not the thickness that was ordered—which, of course, means thousands of pounds to the swindlers!—and that the boilers are almost worthless!... I have lost my temper and more than once come down on them all like a ton of bricks, but things have not been altered. A President is but a figure-head! And yet you know with what passion I love the Navy. I was born at Le Hâvre, I have always loved all that concerns the sea, and when I entered Parliament my great ambition was to become Minister of the Navy.... Even now the Navy is one of my chief interests—my 'hobby,' if you like to call it so; and there is my note-paper with the initials 'F.F.' entwined by a symbolic anchor...."

He loved to talk of naval matters. "I share Delcassé's views," he said once (the conversation took place on the day when he heard that one of our ships had been wrecked on the coast of Madagascar). "England is the great enemy, because England is the great naval power and is so close to our shores and our harbours. Unless we make friends with England, we must find the best way to harass her, in case of war. And I can see nothing better than reviving the old right of privateering and building small but extremely fast craft, large enough to carry a great deal of fuel, so as to be able to remain a long time at sea without replenishing their bunkers. We must be able to destroy the commerce of England, to starve her. To avoid important naval engagements and vanquish the enemy in numberless skirmishes, that should be our aim. We have neither the means nor the ability England possesses of building extensively and rapidly."

"But privateering," I suggested, remembering my father's long chat on what he rightly called "the most fascinating period of French history," "was a total failure during the Revolution and the Napoleonic wars."

"Quite so," said Félix Faure; "but as my friend Admiral Fournier says, the only way to make France powerful from a naval standpoint is to supply her with an unique fleet, as regards efficiency and number, of torpedo-boats, destroyers, and submarines."

The President was quite enthusiastic about the Navy. He would explain to me for a whole hour that ships spent far too much time in harbour, that gun-practice was far too limited; he would quote off-hand the gunnery records of certain British and American battleships. And at the end of his talk he would telephone to Lockroy, the Minister of the Navy, and beg him to investigate this or that point, or perhaps suggest that he or some member of his staff should visit this or that station or dockyard.

Félix Faure was less a statesman than a business man. He greatly admired the way in which the English managed their Colonies: "Theirs pay; ours don't. We laugh, alas! at the ideas and customs of the natives. Why don't we imitate the English or the Dutch? But there, we never had any respect for other people's notions or convictions."

The various evils he complained of all came from the same source: politicians in France are not the élite of the nation. The best brains, the most able men do not care for politics, and have no ambition to be in office.

The Alliance with Russia, the first move towards which had been made under President Carnot, but for which Faure had done so much, was, naturally enough, a cause of much gratification to him. He would explain at length the utility of the Alliance, and he did so with the gusto of a business man who has made a wonderful deal, and who, in order to flatter his self-esteem, keeps on finding fresh indications, direct or indirect, of the importance of his bargain.

"Napoleon," he would say, for instance, "was never so powerful as when he was allied to Alexander the First. Again, one may safely assert that France, in 1815, would have been dismembered had it not been for Alexander. Sixty years later it was his nephew, Alexander II., who saved France from a German invasion five years after the Franco-Prussian War.

"And who knew but that that disastrous war might not have been avoided had Napoleon III. not ignored the friendly advances of Gortschakoff!" More than once President Faure showed strong leanings towards a rapprochement with England ... before the Fashoda affair, and this was chiefly due to the influence of the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII.), for whom he felt the greatest personal regard, and whose diplomatic ability he much admired. What would President Faure have said had he lived a few years longer, and seen that, in spite of the Fashoda incident and in spite of the aggressively anglophobic attitude of France during the Boer War, King Edward VII. succeeded, by reason of his charming manner, his diplomacy (so subtle and yet so simple), and his sincere love for France, in making the whole French people extend to England the warm sympathy they felt for him.

CHAPTER VII
THE DREYFUS AFFAIR—FASHODA

IT was during the Presidency of Félix Faure that the chief phase of the Dreyfus affair, and that the Fashoda "incident" took place.

Captain Alfred Dreyfus, accused of having sold military secrets to Germany, was sentenced and degraded in January 1895. Shortly afterwards the officer was conveyed to Devil's Island, north of the Guiana coast.

It was in 1896 that the head of the Intelligence Department of the War Office, Colonel Picquart—whom I had often met at the Elysée—declared that the bordereau (the famous covering letter containing a list of documents which Dreyfus had been accused of communicating to Germany) had been written by Major Esterhazy. Colonel Picquart was replaced in his delicate post by Colonel Henry. In 1897, Senator Scheurer-Kestner attempted to have the Dreyfus case reopened, but President Faure objected strongly, and Méline, then Prime Minister, declared that the Dreyfus affair was classée (ended for good and all).

From that time a bitter war between Dreyfusards and anti-Dreyfusards was raged, and the most scurrilous slanders, the worst insults, became weapons of almost universal use. My salon was neutral ground, but I was soon unable to prevent these impassioned duels of words, in which there showed hardly a sign of tolerance or of human sympathy. And these constant duels took place between men who had been the closest friends all their lives, between brothers, between husband and wife, between father and son.... I gently pushed the worst disputants away into the conservatory, but the noise of their quarrels—the word discussion would be totally inadequate—reached the drawing-room where a few friends and I tried to play, as an antidote to the raging storm, a page of calm and pure music, by Haydn or Mozart!

To give an example of the strange happenings during that troubled period, I may mention the case of Mme. Z., the wife of an eminent judge, and the high priestess of a famous salon where one met everybody and anybody, the aristocratic "Faubourg Saint-Germain," and also ladies fair and frail such as a certain Mlle. Chichette, whose claim to immortality was based on the fact that she had been the first Parisienne to display on her corsage a tiny tortoise, set with precious stones and—alive.

Mme. Z., who was a rabid Dreyfusard—her husband, of course, being a rabid Anti-Dreyfusard—wore deep mourning during all the time Dreyfus was a prisoner, and appeared in a gaudy blue gown on the day of his liberation. Her mourning had at last come to an end.... It is only fair to add that mourning weeds suited her fair hair. There are limits to the noblest heroism.

Major Esterhazy, who had been arrested, was acquitted by the court-martial. Zola, whose famous letter "I accuse..." had appeared January 13th, 1898, in the Aurore—a journal founded by Clémenceau—was condemned the next month, but the sentence was quashed by the Cour de Cassation (court of supreme appeal), which ordered a new trial. Colonel Picquart was arrested for having made himself an earnest defender of a condemned officer.

Zola went to England, and only returned to France to witness the relative cause he had so ardently supported. Zola died in 1902.

I will now briefly state what I know of the event that took place in France from June 1898 (after the general elections), to February 16th, 1899, the date of Félix Faure's death. It was during that stormy period that I assisted President Faure in gathering documents and writing his memoirs. As I have stated, all his papers were, week after week, carefully put away in my house, and the reader will perhaps agree, when I come to deal with the mysterious murder in the Impasse Ronsin, that those papers had some connection with the murder.

In June, Félix Faure began to wonder whether Captain Marchand had reached Fashoda. When Minister for the Colonies, Delcassé had decided and organised the mission of M. Liotard to the Upper Ubanghi. M. Liotard and M. Cureau had successfully fulfilled their mission and had reached the western end of the Bahr-el-Ghazal. Early in 1897 Captain Marchand had left Brazzaville in the French Congo to join the Liotard Mission, but his orders were to reach the Bahr-el-Ghazal and to go up the White Nile as far as Fashoda, which he was to occupy. The scheme was a vast and well-conceived one. If it were successfully carried out France would possess a transcontinental African Empire reaching from Senegal to the Gulf of Aden, from the Atlantic to the Red Sea. President Faure went further; he already "saw" a trans-Saharan railroad crossing that immense Empire, and France so powerful in the region of the Upper Nile that she could regain some, perhaps even the greater part, of the influence she had lost in 1882 when Egypt was occupied by the English; France having declined to co-operate in suppressing the anti-Turkish and anti-European rebellion.

The time was opportune. The Egyptian frontier had been set back as far north as Wadi-Halfa. The Bahr-el-Ghazal was in the hands of the Khalifa and the Dervishes. Belgium coveted that rich province as much as France. It would belong to whoever settled there first.... And Marchand had almost reached Fashoda. Perhaps he was there already with his few white companions and his Senegalese soldiers. At any rate, his family had received from him viâ the Congo.

The Captain had completed half of his mission, and had started down the Sueh, a tributary of the White Nile, on the boat which the "mission" had carried in sections right in the heart of Africa.

"But what if Marchand has lost most of his men during his long and difficult journey?" I ask the President. The reply comes readily: "At Fashoda, a French expedition, which includes a number of Abyssinian soldiers lent by the Emperor Menelik, will join Marchand with ammunition and provisions."

On June 15th, the Méline Cabinet resigns. The President asks Méline to form a new Cabinet.... Méline tried, but failed. Next Ribot, the able and learned statesman, who has been Premier twice before, is requested to form a Ministry. He refuses. Sarrien, in his turn, declines to attempt the difficult task.... The President now turns to Peytral, who sets to work.... The days go by. Méline and his colleagues resigned on the 15th. It is now the 25th... and still no Cabinet. The horizon is dark with threatening clouds. There is chaos everywhere.... What is needed, say some, is a Ministry of Concentration; others prefer a Cabinet of Conciliation.... Labels have a great importance in France.

On the 26th, Peytral informs the President of—his failure. Brisson, the gloomy and aged President of the Chamber of Deputies (he was born 1835) is now called by Faure.... At last, on the 28th, France possesses a Cabinet once more. Brisson is Premier and Minister of the Interior; Cavaignac, who is as strongly against a revision of the Dreyfus case as the President himself, is Minister of War, and the wily, secretive and bold Delcassé succeeds Hanotaux at the Foreign Office.

Meanwhile the Marquis de Beauchamp has arrived in Paris. He is back from Abyssinia, where, alas, he has been unable to join Captain Marchand. His men were exhausted and had run short of supplies. Where exactly is Marchand? When shall we hear from him?

On July 7th, I attended the sitting of the Chamber of Deputies. Cavaignac—whom I often met at the Elysée, and at the house of M. Bw., an intimate friend of my husband's, asserts vehemently that there is no doubt whatever about Dreyfus's guilt.

On the 12th, Hamard, Chief of the Sûreté (Criminal Investigation Department) arrests Major Esterhazy and his friend, Mme. Pays.

On the 17th, a letter from Zola to Brisson is published. The letter may be summed up in these words: France is in a hopeless way, and no Ministry will last so long as the Dreyfus affair is not legally dealt with. The President tells me: "If the affair is reopened, we shall never see the end of it; a revision would bring chaos and perhaps even civil war in its wake. Dreyfus was found guilty. If we are firm all this agitation in his favour will subside; order will be restored, and France will breathe again."

Félix Faure meant well, but lacked foresight.

July 27th, my friend Laferrière is appointed Governor-General of Algeria and replaces Lépine.... The epidemic of duels is raging through Paris.... M. de Pressensé, of the Temps, the poet Bouchor and others return their Legion of Honour to the Council of the Order because Zola has been struck off the list of Members of the Order.... The Duke of Orleans proclaims everywhere the guilt of Dreyfus and his love for the army.... Esterhazy and his lady friend are released!...

On August 14th, the President goes to Havre, where he intends to spend a few weeks. I have a villa there, where I stay with my mother and my younger sister. A naval review is held... in my honour, I am told. The President is with his suite and Lockroy, the very active Minister of the Marine, on board the Cassini. I am with Mlle. Lucie Faure on a steamer. We all spend very happy days at Havre. We make charming excursions; there are parties, concerts, a ball at the town hall.... There is one cloud, however.... Clémenceau publishes a letter sent some time ago to him by General Billot, Minister of War in the Méline Cabinet, in which the General declares Dreyfus is guilty, but that General Mercier—president of the court-martial which tried Dreyfus, bungled matters....

"Clémenceau," says the President, "is the most dangerous man in the land, and, what is worse, he knows it. I thought we should have some peace when he ceased to be a deputy, five years ago... but ever since then he has made himself a champion of Dreyfus and founded l'Aurore, and I see I am mistaken.... His pen is as sharp as his tongue."

An event far more serious, far more fraught with consequences than the most vehement attack of Clémenceau, takes place at the end of the month—the arrest of Colonel Henry, who confesses that he forged the fresh proofs of Dreyfus's guilt, which, in July, Cavaignac submitted to the Chamber.

The news of Colonel Henry's arrest and incarceration in the fortress on Mount Valerien, outside Paris, reached the President on August 30th, in the evening. The next day we hear that Colonel has committed suicide. Cavaignac, the Minister of War, resigns. The President, at his "villa de la côte," has a long conversation on the telephone with the Premier....

The blow is terrible... and in spite of his fortitude and of his optimism—Félix Faure was the luckiest and most fortunate of men—the President feels its full force. It unsettles, it crushes him. He keeps repeating, "Everything is changed!" He is disgusted and indignant. "How can I get at the truth, the real truth. I have had under my very eyes, and more than once, absolute proofs of Dreyfus's guilt. And now it appears that some of those proofs, at any rate, were forged. I can trust no one. Everywhere I stumble against contradictions, reticences, suspicious schemes, double-dealing, deceit. It is impossible to reach the truth in this maze, which is daily becoming vaster and more complicated. I feel desperate and ashamed. There is but one thing for me to do; I must resign the Presidency."

The next day he invites me, with my sister and his great friend Prince P. to a sea-trip. When far from shore he takes me aside: "It is all over, my dear friend. Even after this suicide of Henry, contradictory reports are made to me. It seems impossible to get at the entire truth. I am standing on a quagmire. Every one seems to shield some one else, or himself!

"There are supplies and coal on this vessel for many days. We are going to cruise for a week or so. Let those who are responsible for the present state of affairs extricate themselves as best they can from the disgraceful position in which they have placed themselves—and me.... When I return, I shall resign.... Honest men will understand me!"

The President is blind with anger, and will listen to no advice. Prince P. and I, greatly alarmed, spent two hours in pacifying him, in showing him what an unspeakable scandal such a move would mean. A President cannot disappear for a week.... I show him the terrible consequences to the Government, to Order and Authority, and to himself, it would entail; the cowardice of such an action.... Finally, the President yields and gives the order to return to harbour. I breathe once more, but my alarm has been great.

On September 3rd, the President has another long conversation with the Prime Minister, on the telephone, and early on the 4th he leaves for Paris, where, at the station, Delcassé, who ever keeps a cool head, and General Zurlinden, Governor of Paris, are waiting for him. At the Elysée he is joined by Brisson; President and Premier discuss together the difficult situation created by the confession and suicide of Colonel Henry.

September 5th, 6th, 7th. Momentous news from the Sudan. The victory of Omdurman! Kitchener's army (25,000 men—one-third of whom are English) has won a decisive victory over the Khalifa; the British flag flies at Khartum... and Khartum is only a few hundred miles from Fashoda, where, no doubt, Marchand is entrenched! How rapidly events have succeeded one another. In April, near the Atbara, the Sirdar had put the Dervishes to flight.... Then the railways which kept bringing up reinforcements from Cairo, was pushed on across the Atbara.... On September 1st Omdurman had been bombarded; on the 2nd the Khalifa's army cut to pieces, most of his enemies killed.... On the 4th, the Sirdar had reached Khartum.... And now the crisis is nearing. What are Kitchener's orders? If Captain Marchand is at Fashoda, and Kitchener hears of it, what will he do?...

September 7th, Félix Faure tells me he has asked General Zurlinden to be War Minister. The post is undoubtedly the most difficult in the Cabinet, but the General bravely accepts. He is convinced of Dreyfus's guilt, and as he says: "The confession of Colonel Henry and all the suspicions and equivocal manœuvres of a number of Anti-Dreyfusards do not prove that the Court Martial, in 1895, condemned an innocent man." Félix Faure nevertheless realises that the Government will have soon to decide for or against the "Revision," and I express the hope, much to his amazement, that they will decide in favour of it. It seems the only legal way to settle the question.

September the 10th, the Empress of Austria has been murdered! After sending a message of condolence to the Emperor Francis-Joseph, the President and I talk for a long time about the Fashoda problem. The other day we wondered: Would Kitchener go further South than Khartum? Now we know.

He has left Khartum and gone up the White Nile, with four gun-boats, some artillery, Sudanese troops, and Highlanders.

September 12th, doubt is no longer possible; Marchand is at Fashoda! It appears that shortly before the battle of Omdurman, the Khalifa heard of the presence of "white men" at Fashoda. The boat he sent there was riddled with bullets and returned northward. The President is highly elated. The occupation of Fashoda gives France a basis whereon to deal with the Egyptian question. Still, the Sirdar is strong and Marchand is not get-at-able....

There has been six hours of Cabinet-Council to-day. Internal affairs are growing worse every day, and there are bitter disagreements among the various Ministers.

Brisson and Sarrien are in favour of the "Revision"; but the mere mention of the word "revision" sends General Zurlinden mad with fury.

Meanwhile, the war between the various parties to whom the defence of Dreyfus or the fight against him and his supporters is a mere political pretext, a means and not an end, is daily increasing in fierceness. What a nightmare!

September 14th and 15th. A brief respite. I have followed the President to Moulins. My mother is with me. She has never witnessed military manœuvres before. I make the acquaintance of several foreign officers. General de Négrier is Director of the Manœuvres. The Duke of Connaught is present.

September 16th. The Press in France and England is already devoting long columns to Fashoda. The President has had several consultations with Delcassé and is very confident.

"And why not?" he asks. "In the Anglo-Italian agreement of '91, the Upper-Nile Valley is not even mentioned, the Khedive had nothing to do with the Anglo-Belgian arrangement of '94; Nubar Pasha abandoned the Sudan; England declared she had nothing to do there; besides, did not England promise to evacuate Egypt after the Khedive had been restored to power!... If we have taken Fashoda, we have taken it not from England or Egypt but from the Dervishes. The British Government is reasonable and not impulsive.... Lord Salisbury who is at the same time Premier and Foreign Secretary is a statesman who would not act arbitrarily, I believe.... Sir Herbert Kitchener served in the French Army during the war with Germany; he is known for his great self-control and will do nothing rash.... And then, the Duke of Connaught, at the Manœuvres, has been extremely courteous and pleasant, and the crowd enthusiastically cheered the son of Queen Victoria.... All will be well."

September 17th. General Zurlinden has sent his resignation to Brisson this morning. He is already replaced. General Chanoine becomes War Minister.

At the afternoon sitting of the Cabinet Council, the appointment of a "Commission de Révision" has been decided upon. Whilst Félix Faure explains all this to me, we hear shouting outside the Elysée.... I have a number of guests to dinner at home and must rush away. I do not leave the Elysée as usual through the garden and "my" little door, but by the main entrance to see what is happening. Merely a crowd shouting "Vive Brisson" or "A bas Brisson."

On the nineteenth, at an early hour, the telephone bell rings. It is the President.

"Did you read the Temps last night?" he asks.

"No. I had a holiday.... I played hide and seek with Marthe who would not go to bed, much to the amusement of my mother who has just come from Beaucourt to spend a few days with my sister and me. What was there in the Temps?"

"Listen. It said exactly what I think about Fashoda. We will consider any act threatening Marchand—that is, the flag which he guards—as carrying with it all the consequences usual in such incidents."

"Splendid!"

"No, have you read the manifesto of the Pretender?"

"Which one?"

"The Duke of Orleans."

"No, but I suppose he tells all Frenchmen that their most sacred rights are being trampled on, that the army is being ruined, and that France can rely on him. Is that it?"

"Yes.... You don't take him seriously?..."

"Do you?"

September 21st. The "Commission de Révision" meets. Colonel Picquart accused of forgery—he, of all men!—appears before his judges.

September 25th. At last! News from the Sudan. The Sirdar is back in Khartum from Fashoda, where he met Marchand. There has evidently been no conflict. Diplomacy will now take the matter in hand. "We have no Talleyrand," says the President, "but we have Delcassé, and he possesses both subtlety and audacity, besides a good amount of useful cynicism and sound judgment. And he is as cool-headed as he is cautious."

September 27th. After the Cabinet Council, the President tells me that yesterday Sir Edmund Monson, the British Ambassador, read to Delcassé a message from the Sirdar. It appears that the latter reached Fashoda eight days ago. Marchand has been there since July 10th with a few companions and some 120 Senegalese. From other sources come further details. Kitchener congratulated Captain Marchand on his great journey, then requested him to haul down the French flag. Marchand refused, of course, to comply with such a demand without instructions from his Government. The Sirdar quietly left him and hoisted the British flag and the Egyptian flag, side by side, south of Marchand's fortified camp. Then he returned to Khartum, leaving a strong garrison at Fashoda, in charge of a colonel.

"All we can do now," says the President, "is to await Marchand's report.... The trouble is if it comes through the Bahr-el-Ghazal and the Congo, months will elapse before it reaches us. Meanwhile Delcassé is communicating with Sir Edmund Monson. We stand firm. We will not evacuate Fashoda, come what may!"

October 1st-7th. A number of English newspapers have already sent France an ultimatum, but the English Government is calmer, so far. A most amazing event is the publication in England of a blue-book on the Fashoda question, at a time when the negotiations have already begun, but the President informs me that "Delcassé has found a very simple counter-move; we will publish a yellow-book in reply," and he adds: "The letters which Delcassé and the British Ambassador exchange already show that war is brewing.... But whatever England's hostility—and it is clear that England does not wish to negotiate until Marchand has evacuated Fashoda—we will not yield."

"And what about Marchand?"

"Delcassé has suggested that Marchand's report be sent viâ Khartum and Cairo. It will soon reach Paris that way.... By the way, I dine with Count Witte to-morrow, the 8th, at Rambouillet...."

October 10th. "Well, any result?" I ask the President.

"No. Witte spoke little about Russia. But he said France should avoid all wars, just now, and above all, a war with England; and I knew what he meant. However, we shall see whether Russia will assist us or not...."

Baratier, Marchand's companion, is on his way to Cairo with the famous report.

Fashoda does not monopolise public attention. The Dreyfus dispute waxes hotter than ever. Most of the newspapers contain nothing but scurrility and abuse. Some deliberately confuse the Fashoda affair and the Dreyfus affair.... Rochefort writes in the Intransigeant: "I should not be surprised if the English took advantage of the cowardice of our Government in order to seize Devil's Isle and free the traitor Dreyfus, whom they love so much!"

The air of Paris is thick with ominous symptoms. The various "parties" which battle together employ the same despicable methods, use the same vocabulary, a vocabulary wherein the word "traitor" is almost mild and courteous compared with some of the expressions used. There is a general orgy of vile abuse, in which Dreyfusards and Anti-Dreyfusards alike join hysterically. Alas! That worthy men—the so-called "intellectuals" and those just and clear-headed persons who advocate Revision because the law has been transgressed—are so few and far between.

October 16th. Félix Faure, during the last week, has been unusually mysterious in his ways. I know what he calls his "great scheme," but I have hardly thought him to be quite in earnest about it. Judging by his character I thought he would reconnoitre before attempting to achieve his aim. He has completely failed at the outset and he now admits it. Convinced that the French nation as a whole is thoroughly tired of the Dreyfus agitation, and that the hopelessly perturbed state of the country is a national calamity, he thought the only remedy to be a kind of coup d'état. His plan is, or rather was, this: With the assistance of the army—for he would obtain, or rely upon, the support of many prominent generals—Félix Faure wanted to make the Presidency independent of the Parliament, and establish a military Government.... A bold scheme, but one which was doomed to failure, for Félix Faure has not the necessary qualities, and there is no Augereau amongst his military friends, the present Parliament is quite unlike the Corps Legislatif of 1797, and the army cannot be compared in any way with the omnipotent soldiery of Bonaparte's days.

Indiscretions have been committed, and certain journals here and abroad are mentioning the coup, but they dismiss it as a further tale to be added to the abnormal mass of political legends, exaggerations, and gossip, which for a year past has been growing up in the overheated atmosphere that is stifling France.

And this is perhaps the best thing that could possibly happen. A coup d'état is only excusable when it succeeds.

An aged and intimate friend comes to the President and comforts him: "You are a foolhardy patriot; you mean and you meant well, and your scheme was not selfish like the plots which the 'Pretenders' are daily hatching. There is one consolation for you at least: there is no man capable of a coup d'état just now. The Duke of Orleans has the poorest of advisers, and Prince Victor has no confidence in himself!"

October 20th. Count Muravieff has been in Paris during the past few days. The Count had a long conversation with Delcassé three days ago, and dined with the President last night. Russia, it appears, thinks that war would be against the interests of France. "If there is to be a war between France and England, we cannot rely on Russia. The Government in St. Petersburg thinks that we should be ill-advised in allowing ourselves to be dragged into an absurd war with England, especially over that Sudanese swamp, Fashoda...." Moreover, Count Muravieff tactfully hinted at the lukewarmness of France towards Russia. "To-day," he remarked cheerfully, and at the same time pointedly, "Russia has only two zealous friends in France: yourself and M. Delcassé."

And it was Muravieff, the Russian Foreign Secretary, and Hanotaux, French Minister of Foreign Affairs, who before Félix Faure signed the Franco-Russian Alliance in St. Petersburg on August 24th last year!

"And how are the negotiations with England proceeding?" I ask.

"They are practically at a standstill. England will discuss nothing more until Marchand has left Fashoda.... Meanwhile, feverish activity prevails in our dockyards; our fleet is coaling and being supplied with everything necessary. Our admirals have secret instructions. We are preparing to face all contingencies. Lockroy, the Minister for the Navy, is wonderfully busy...."

A large map of the world is unfolded on the President's table. He irritably wipes out the pencil mark he made a few days ago at the spot on the Indian border where he thought Russia might perhaps attack India. There are other blue marks on either side of the Channel, in the Mediterranean, in Africa.... For a long time we bend over the map and talk. But as the probabilities become clearer, more tangible, as it were, I realise that we are almost forgetting Fashoda, and Marchand on whom our attention should be riveted. What can be done for him? How can France go to his assistance? And would a war be worth while for the sake of that spot in Africa? Is a war ever worth while? What benefits would France derive from a war with England? And would France win? Where? How?...

I beg the President to see things in their right proportions, and I advise him to avoid war. War or no war does not depend upon him, of course, but there are so many ways of precipitating events, of rousing public feeling... and so many ways of smoothing matters out and of calming a nation....

October 21st. Delcassé has received an abridged report from Marchand cabled by Captain Baratier, his brave companion across Africa, who has reached Cairo from Khartum....

October 23rd. A mounted municipal guardsman brings me a large envelope from the President. It is a copy of Punch, the famous London satirical journal. On the cover, Félix Faure has written: "Ma chère amie, please look at this shameful insult to France on the Fashoda question." I open the paper and see a cartoon by Sir John Tenniel. Yes, it makes one's blood boil. I reply to the President: "You are right. It is vulgar and despicable. The French are refined and witty; the English are blunt and have merely what they call a 'sense of humour.' Count Muravieff told you that an African swamp is not worth a war; I wish to add: 'Still less a cartoon.'"

The cartoon was indeed unbearably insolent and unworthy of an enlightened nation.... But a year later, when England was at war with the Boers, to whom the French spontaneously—and emphatically—gave their sympathy, our artists produced cartoons in which Queen Victoria was treated in an equally improper manner. This only proves that the most civilised and refined nation in the world sometimes forgets the most elementary notions of breeding, and fails to see that one degrades himself when he tries to degrade his enemies.

October 25th. Delcassé's Yellow Book has appeared. It contains most of the documents relating to the Fashoda, or rather the "White Nile" problem, from December 1897, to October 1898. It reveals beyond argument the truly remarkable powers of Delcassé as a shrewd yet "direct" diplomatist.

The tension between England and France is at breaking-point. Sir Edmund has sent, in the name of the British Government, what amounts to an ultimatum. The President says: "We may give up Fashoda, but we must have an outlet on the Nile. If there can be no longer any question of conquest, we must at least be enabled to facilitate our 'pénétration commerciale.'... Surely, some kind of compromise is possible."

In the afternoon I go to the Chambre des Députés. A storm is brewing. As I reach the Palais Bourbon by the Boulevard Saint Germain I can see, and hear, on the Place de la Concorde, an immense, and howling, crowd.

The sitting cannot be considered as an historic one, but it certainly is noisy and sensational. Déroulède opens fire. Déroulède, who has more than once been called a modern Don Quixote, is an eminently sympathetic figure. One likes him because, first of all... he is typically French—a brave soldier, a poet, an ardent patriot, and a delightful madman to boot. He is by nature unable to do anything quietly. He would be a leader of men if he were not anxious to write a patriotic and popular epic, and he would be a great poet if he were not so keen on saving the country. He has been one of the very first advocates of an alliance with Russia, he has assisted the cause of Boulanger; he was elected a deputy at the elections last May. It seems hardly necessary to add that he is a Nationalist and a staunch Anti-Dreyfusard.

Déroulède speaks, and what he says may be reduced to these words: The Government is... rotten.

And now comes the turn of Chanoine, the Minister of War. He may be a first-class general, but he certainly is a third-rate orator and politician. In a stern manner, with a knitted brow and a sweeping gesture, he asserts that he has the same opinion as his predecessor in the Dreyfus case. The House applauds.... Then, he adds, with a wonderful instinct for doing the wrong thing: "I resign!"

The Prime Minister, the unfortunate and exhausted Brisson, declares that the "Government wishes to deliberate...." He returns with his colleagues—less Chanoine, of course—and tells the Chambre that a provisional War Minister will be appointed. A general discussion ensues.... Two-thirds of the House are obviously hostile to the Government. Brisson asks for the usual but often dangerous vote of confidence. The majority is against it and... the Cabinet falls.

I rush to the Elysée and give Félix Faure my impressions of an eventful sitting.... He tells me that General Chanoine, after announcing his resignation in the Chambre, came to hand it to him.

"Of course, I refused to receive him. He might at least have known that he should have sent in his resignation to the Prime Minister.... Between ourselves, I am rather pleased to be rid of Brisson. He makes an excellent President of the Chambre, for he is impartial, impressive and venerable, but as a Premier, or even as a Minister, he is quite hopeless, in spite of his integrity and his general knowledge of politics.... So here I am, looking once more for a man able to form a Cabinet. Four months ago I was doing the identical thing. To-morrow I shall summon the President and Vice-Presidents of the Chambre and the Senate. In any case I shall retain Delcassé for the portfolio of Foreign Affairs. We must at least have one man who knows his business in the Cabinet."

The mention of Delcassé inevitably leads back to Fashoda.

"The Sénégal has reached Marseilles, the President tells me. Sir Herbert Kitchener and Captain Baratier are on board!"

October 27th. "What about Baratier... and Marchand?" I ask Félix Faure.

"Baratier is closeted with Delcassé. Marchand will leave Fashoda for Cairo, where he will await the instructions of the Government. England is more impatient than ever."

October 28th-30th. The game is up.... Monson's attitude and words leave no room for hope of a conciliatory settlement.... Unless, of course, we evacuate Fashoda....

I have never seen Félix Faure so bitterly dejected. That vast African Empire was one of his most cherished dreams....

France will lose none of her prestige, but it is clear that she will give way.... Silently, we put together various documents, and work at the "Memoirs."

Dupuy, once a professor of philosophy, who has twice before been Prime Minister, has consented to form a Cabinet. De Freycinet, a civilian, becomes Minister of War. Dupuy is strongly in favour of the "Revision."... And Dupuy was Prime Minister when Dreyfus was condemned! Fate has strange whims.

November 1st-4th. Marchand has reached Cairo from Fashoda, Baratier has reached Cairo from Paris. France has "officially" given up Fashoda. The long-drawn-out crisis, during which war with England has been so near, is at an end.... The humiliation brings tears to Félix Faure's eyes.... "And yet, it was inevitable that we should yield. Our fleet is too inefficient, the White Nile is too far, our position at Fashoda was untenable, alas.... Delcassé has acted wisely. War is averted... are you satisfied?"

"You know I am; but I cannot help thinking of Marchand and his brave companions. What must be their feelings!"

November 12th. Marchand and Baratier leave Cairo for Fashoda. From there, they will go south to Sobat, and then travel eastward, through Abyssinia, to Jibuti, whence they will sail for France. At least, the humiliation of retreating through Egypt will be spared them. The relations between England and France are gradually becoming more normal. Monson and Delcassé met three days ago... after a separation which had lasted nearly two weeks!

November 15-30. The attention of France is entirely focussed on the Dreyfus affair and the Picquart trial. How General Zurlinden can seriously accuse the Colonel of being a forger and a traitor passes my understanding.

December 7th. Last night Sir Edmund Monson spoke at the Annual Banquet of the British Chamber of Commerce, held at the Hotel Continental.

Just as I am reading a report of the speech, the insolence of which is phenomenal, the President telephones:

"Have you ever heard of anything more arrogant, more improper, than Monson's speech? The Fashoda incident is closed, but because the Government intend organising some schools in the Sudan, Monson gives it an impudent lesson, and tells our Ministers what they must do.... And that... on French soil, in Paris! And he is an Ambassador!..."

"Yes, the Marquis of Dufferin was a different man."

We then talked about the political situation. Félix Faure still repudiates the thought of "Revision," though far less strongly than before the Henry tragedy.

In the evening we meet at the Opéra Comique. 'A spectacle de gala is given, as this was the opening night of the new building (the former Opéra Comique had been burned down several years before). The programme entirely devoted to French music, includes one act of Gounod's "Mireille," one of "Carmen," and one of Massenet's "Manon."

December 15th-31st. The news has come that Marchand left Fashoda on the eleventh. So the last scene of that poignant drama has been played....

The "Revision" is being discussed in the Chamber. The Cour de Cassation has telegraphed to a magistrate at Cayenne a list of questions which he is to put to Dreyfus.

January 1st, 1899-February 10th. The President puts in order a number of documents and notes relating to the Dreyfus and Fashoda affairs and sends them to me. I am laid up with peritonitis. My mother is staying with me. The Beaucourt estate was sold nearly two years ago, and she came to live in Paris, but I have had a villa built for my mother, close to the old home, and when I am better she will go back there and live once more in her dear Beaucourt. The President telephones to me two or three times a day.

Delcassé, on January 23rd, makes a remarkable speech in the Chamber on the Fashoda affair, in which he accepted full responsibility for all that took place, explaining that the Marchand "Mission" was the direct outcome of the Liotard expedition which he had himself organised when Minister of the colonies. The chief points of the speech are: Marchand started on his mission long before the Anglo-Egyptian army entered upon the conquest of the Sudan—France years before had made it clear that she did not recognise the "White Nile" valley as being in the sphere of British influence—France could not expose her fleet, army and prestige, in what would appear to the majority of nations as an "inexplicable adventure."

At the beginning of February, my younger sister marries. I am still very weak, but manage to attend the wedding. A day or two afterwards, I drive to the Elysée, where I remain a few minutes with Félix Faure. He shows me a letter from the Czar which Prince Urusoff handed to him an hour ago, and two paintings representing the arrival of the President at Kronstadt, also sent by the Russian Emperor.

The Dreyfus affair is proceeding in the same more or less illegal manner. The great struggle, however, is no longer between Dreyfusards and Anti-Dreyfusards, but between the Republic and the enemies of the Republic, between Radicals and Socialists on the one hand, and the "reactionaries, Royalists" and "Anti-Semites" on the other. All kinds of leagues are springing up. Early in January, François Coppée with Brunetière, the editor of La Revue des Deux Mondes, and others, found the Patrie Française league, which staunchly upholds the Army against all Dreyfusards.... There are constant rumours of military plots....

Here may be briefly stated the end of the Dreyfus affair. Brisson had remitted the case to the Cour de Cassation—which comprises three divisions (criminal court, civil court, and court of petitions). But when it became known that the criminal division which had charge of the appeal had found that there had been a gross miscarriage of justice, and would decide in favour of Revision, Dupuy proposed and made the Chamber accept a law by which the momentous decision was to be left to the three divisions. This was, of course, in the hope that in the whole court a majority would be found against Dreyfus.

February 10th, 1899. (President Faure died February 16th). The Cour de Cassation decided for a fresh trial by court-martial. Dupuy resigned (June). Dreyfus was brought back from Devil's Isle, was tried at Rennes, found guilty but with "extenuating circumstances," sentenced to ten years' imprisonment and recommended to mercy. A fantastic verdict. Captain Dreyfus was pardoned, set free and at last fully rehabilitated after having suffered so long for crimes evidently committed by others.

The Affaire Dreyfus was used by all parties to achieve their particular aims. Some used it to wage war against Semitism, some war against the Republic, others against Socialism, others against the Army, and yet others against Clericalism.... Hundreds of men found in it a way of achieving notoriety, or of satisfying their private ambitions. Thousands fished in troubled waters. The Duke of Orleans, heir to King Louis-Philippe, inundated the country with manifestoes, and Prince Victor Napoleon, with the faithful Marquis de Girardin, tried to work up some Bonapartist enthusiasm. Perhaps the strangest phenomenon of all in that strange time was the Anti-Dreyfusard attitude of the Jewish élite.... As for President Faure, it can only be said that he was absolutely sincere in his conviction of Dreyfus's guilt, in his belief that the court-martial which condemned the Captain had passed judgment according to their conscience, and had not exceeded their rights, and finally that France would be much worse for a "Revision" of the case. Events proved that he was wrong and that France is able to recover from blows and agitation which would cripple other nations less endowed with vitality, elasticity, and idealism.

The Dreyfus affair was President Faure's "nightmare," the Fashoda incident his "shattered dream." Before closing this chapter, the only one in the book dealing with politics, I must mention the treaty with Lord Salisbury wherein were defined the English and the French "sphere of influence" in the Niger region, and in which France gave up the Nile (March 1899).

And now, as I have reviewed the chief episodes of the Fashoda affair, a few words may be deemed necessary about the man who piloted the vessel of French Foreign Policy during that dangerous crisis, and who since then has revealed himself, on many other occasions, as a very able diplomatist and organiser.

Delcassé was Minister for Foreign Affairs for seven years, from 1898 till 1905—a momentous period in the history of modern France. In the most difficult and dangerous circumstances, Delcassé was always cool and collected, and no one could ever "read" this little dark, round-eyed man, with a moustache bristling out on either side like a cat's whiskers, who makes few gestures, never loses his temper, forces his interrogators to ask their question twice, and speaks only when he chooses... which is seldom. Félix Faure, who fully appreciated his great merits, used to say: "He is too trenchant and too secretive for my taste. His coolness is highly provoking. I cordially dislike him, and I am aware that he is not very fond of me; but I have the utmost confidence in his judgment, although this man of mystery is too much of an autocratic ruler. When he speaks in the Chamber, the deputies listen to him in religious silence, and he is the Minister who is questioned least. He has succeeded in making it generally understood that he does the right thing, in his own way, and that he must be left alone. He guides the destiny of the country, and he is—almost—the only one to know when France is on the brink of war.... But I cannot deny that he is a born diplomatist. Had Talleyrand or Metternich brought him up he would no doubt be rather more refined in manner and method, and have learned a little more subtlety, but I do not think he would have acquired much more authority or ability."

When, in 1905, he fell, because the German Emperor, who had just been dazzling Tangiers with Imperial pomp, and making France uneasy about the Moroccan problem, demanded the resignation of the one man whom he feared in France—the one man who did not fear him—no insult was spared Delcassé, who had rendered so many services to the country, had worked for the development of our colonies and the improvement of our navy, and had restored France to her rightful place in European diplomacy. Delcassé was now considered as a bellicose maniac who had twice humiliated the nation, at Fashoda, and in Morocco.

When, however, Delcassé became Minister of the Navy, his return to power was hailed with as much satisfaction as his fall. His pleasure at being back in office must have been heightened by his sense of humour, which is great.

CHAPTER VIII
THE MYSTERIOUS PEARL NECKLACE—THE
DEATH OF FÉLIX FAURE

PRESIDENT FAURE, during the summer of 1898, presented me with a pearl necklace, which afterwards played such a strange part in my life that I will relate the story of the gift and of what followed, with as many details as my memory can recall, for probably the necklace, as well as the President's papers, had something to do with the mysterious tragedy of the Impasse Ronsin.

On several occasions the President expressed the wish that I should accept a token of his warm friendship. He had already given me a brooch, made by Lalique, in the three French colours—a cornflower, a marguerite, and a poppy—and a comb by Lalique, which was a work of art, but so heavy that I seldom wore it. Félix Faure said one day: "Since that comb is of no use to you, you must allow me to offer you some pearls. I know a certain pearl necklace which is unique, and by purchasing it I shall be rendering a friend a very great service. You must promise to accept it, if only for that reason!"

The President gave me no further information about the necklace or his friend. Two or three days afterwards I was dining at the Elysée. Bonnat was among the President's guests, also M. Le Gall, "general secretary of the Elysée," and Major Lamy, a distinguished officer who was about to start on a dangerous mission in Africa. After dinner, I sang a number of songs, accompanying myself at the piano. Whilst turning the pages of the music, Félix Faure again mentioned the "surprise" he had in store for me. The next day, Major Lamy, whom I knew well, and who had often called on me, came to bid me good-bye. He was leaving France.... He carried a large bouquet, which he said the President begged me to accept. I undid the white wrapper, and found, amongst the orchids, a green jewel-case lined with white satin, and containing a large gold box. I had some trouble in unfastening the lid, and when at last it came open, the "surprise" fell on the floor; it was a marvellous necklace of five rows of pearls.

After Lamy had gone I wrote to the President that I could on no account accept such a sumptuous gift, and although the next day, when I called on him at the Elysée, he beseeched me with almost painful insistence to keep the pearls, I said I would return the necklace on my next visit to the Elysée.

Two days later the President sent for me. He was pale and perturbed, and restlessly paced his study.... It was clear that he had something of the highest importance to tell me, but could not make up his mind to speak. At last he began: "I am more distressed than you can imagine,... Something dreadful has happened.... It is about that necklace. I bought it from a friend, a man of the highest rank. I wished to help him out of a difficulty, and now I hear that, against my will, I am mixed up in a scandal which, if it were disclosed, would utterly ruin me.... I should have instantly to resign and even to leave the country. It is a most complicated and unheard-of affair. And yet, I bought the pearls to oblige that friend, who, of course, was no more aware than myself of the sudden complications which have arisen. He has been deceived... and I am lost if anything leaks out. I can tell you nothing more. I have not the right to discuss this terrible affair. No one must even know of it.... I entreat you to keep the necklace in your house. No one can ever suspect that you possess it. But you must not wear it at present, or show it to any one.... Has any of your friends or a member of your family seen it?"

"No... for as you know, I decided to return it to you; I could not wear it; it is too valuable. People would wonder where it came from.... Besides, there are not many such necklaces in the world. The pearls are so perfect and large...."

"Has any one asked you any questions?"

"Yes.... After a dinner yesterday, M. B., the Attorney-General, asked me casually if it were true that 'I had been presented with a £20,000 necklace.'... The figure startled me, also the fact that M. B. should have heard about the pearls. But I replied that I was not young enough to listen to fairy tales, and the Attorney-General remarked: 'I thought the tale was not true.'... And now," I added, "I shall drive home and return the pearls to you. I intended to do so in any case, but after what you have just told me, it is impossible for me to keep them an hour longer. I only wish I had brought them with me."

Félix Faure turned ghastly pale: "Do you wish to ruin me? Must I be dragged into a scandal that may lead to calamities such as I cannot even bear to think of? I beseech you to keep them. You risk absolutely nothing. When I am no longer President things may alter in time, and I may find a way out of the difficulty.... The pearls are yours, keep them, but if you ever wish to get rid of them, sell them one by one...."

"You frighten me.... Can I not know the story of the necklace?"

"It is impossible. Don't ask me any questions...."

I was angry. I longed to know the truth. I wanted to know who had laid a trap for the President and his friend "of the highest rank." I suggested that the necklace had belonged to some lady, who, in need of a large sum of money, had sold it, and that her husband, an important personage, noticing the disappearance of the pearls had threatened to make a scandal....

The President smiled bitterly...: "Would that that were the truth! For in that case, I should have at once told you everything, asked you for the pearls, and returned them to the lady.... And you would have allowed me to replace the necklace by some other jewel.... No, alas, it is not that. The friend in question is a man.... And the secret is his more than it is mine."

"Perhaps," I went on, "the necklace was stolen! The important personage, your friend, acquired it without knowing that. Then he gambled, lost heavily, and sold the pearls to you? Perhaps they are blackmailing him...!"

"No, no.... In that case, too, the simplest thing would be to hand back the pearls...."

"Is it a royal jewel?" I asked. "Would the scandal be a diplomatic one?..."

Félix Faure replied: "You are utterly wrong, and I swear that I cannot, must not, tell you the truth.... I am a man of the world and ever since I discovered what I did, I have been looking for a way out of this unspeakable catastrophe that threatens my friend, myself, and... others, perhaps others, if the story of the necklace becomes known. There is but one way of avoiding all trouble, you must keep these pearls."

"And if I refuse?"

The President looked me straight in the eyes. His lips were trembling and his face was distorted. "For God's sake, don't do that!" he said.

His distress was so evident that I ceased to question him. For an hour I tried to forget the necklace, and I sorted various papers that might be useful for the "Memoirs." Before leaving the Elysée, however, I could not refrain from talking once more about the pearls.

"I cannot solve this problem, and it irritates me beyond expression. I know you are incapable of anything dishonest, and I am sure you would never drag me into anything that might harm me. Still, why could you not entrust the necklace to some one else?"

"Because I trust no one else as much as I do you."

"Why not hide it here?"

"It might be found."

"Why not destroy it, bury it, throw it in the Seine?"...

"I might be seen. Any one doing such a thing might be seen. Besides, why throw away a small fortune, when in a few months' time the storm may have blown over, matters may have been adjusted in some miraculous way, and you can wear the necklace, or sell it. I have paid for it; it is yours now. There is nothing irregular.... Only, it so happened that there would be a great scandal—even something worse than scandal—if it were known that I, President of the Republic, and the 'personage' I have told you of, were concerned in this necklace affair, though only in a perfectly innocent manner. And now, I beg you, do please let the pearls rest in safety in your house, and if you can, never mention them to me again until I am able to tell you that all danger is over."

All this was spoken with such earnestness and gravity that I gave up trying to solve the mystery... that day.

Many and many a time afterwards, I asked the President if he would take the necklace from me. I told him what anxiety it caused me, not so much on account of its value as because of the mystery attached to it.... But his reply was ever the same: "Forget that necklace. It is yours. If you have any friendship for me, don't speak to me about it.... You run no risks whatever.... All will soon be well...."

Shortly after the President's death I found out that that was not so.

During the morning of February 16th, 1899, M. Le Gall, "general secretary" at the Elysée, telephoned to me to say that the President was most anxious to see me. I replied that I would call the next day, because I was not very well, and, besides, I had promised Bonnat to sit for my portrait, during the afternoon. Bonnat had given up all his appointments in order to get on with the portrait which, owing to my illness, had not been touched for many weeks. I did not intend to call at the Elysée afterwards, because sitting to a painter is rather fatiguing, especially when one has only just recovered from a serious illness.

I lunched at home. Just as I was about to sit at the table the telephone bell rang, and I was told that the President himself wished to speak to me. Would I kindly hang on? A few seconds after I heard the voice of Félix Faure: "I must see you at all costs to-day; I wish to hand you something.... I don't feel quite myself.... By the way, I have noticed, these past few days, that you were quite right in your suspicions. Some one has been rummaging amongst my private papers. It is essential that you should fetch those I have had to write without you lately."

He stopped to catch his breath, and then continued: "I thought you looked very pale when you last came here.... But if you can manage to sit for your portrait at Bonnat's, you ought to try to give me a few minutes."

I replied: "If I don't feel too tired I will come, just for a moment, to take the papers you talk about and to beseech you to look more seriously after your health. You, too, looked quite out of sorts at the Elysée...."

His voice was different from his usual voice; it was weak, lacked clearness. I told him so, and he remarked: "You are right; this affaire is killing me. I have more enemies than ever before, and then, during your absence, I have lived too well, perhaps...."

He seemed to hesitate, and finally repeated: "Do come this afternoon, I entreat you...."

After lunch I went to Bonnat. During the afternoon the telephone bell rang, and I was told that the President absolutely insisted that I should call on him soon without fail.... I am sure he must have been at the Elysée at the time, and I cannot see, therefore, how the President could have become suddenly ill at the house of a friend, that afternoon, and have been hurriedly driven back to the Elysée in a landau, as certain papers declared afterwards. At any rate, if Félix Faure went out that afternoon, he never told me, when I met him....

After the sitting I felt tired, and made up my mind not to go to the Elysée. Outside, however, I remembered the insistence of the President and drove to the Palace. I entered by the door in the Rue du Colisée. I saw the President standing at the open window near the little waiting-room. Blondel, his private secretary, was with him. I was very much struck by the President's pallor. It was not dark yet; it must have been about five o'clock.

As soon as I entered, he said to me, whilst Blondel politely withdrew: "There is something wrong with me. Ah! why have you not been around me all these days? I have lost control of myself.... I am so tired of all these intrigues and hopeless complications in the Dreyfus case. I have tried to forget my worries, and have been taking a great deal of that drug... which I ought never to touch. I have done so even this afternoon."

He seemed to conceal something from me, probably a visit which he dared not confess to me.

The blue petit salon, where he usually received me, and where we always wrote his memoirs, was in the hands of the decorators. So he took me to a room where I had never been before, close to M. Le Gall's study. To my great surprise, M. Le Gall was not in, but the faithful Blondel was sitting in the study. The door leading to it was open, for the President complained that he could not breathe easily, and wanted as much air as possible. I was not too alarmed, for, though unusually pale, the President did not look worse than I had seen him look on other occasions, a few hours after he had been indulging in that favourite—and dangerous—drug of his.

"I really must look after my health," he said, "and give up this 'poison.'... And then, I must try to be fit for the great ball we are so soon to have here."

I asked him how he had used his time that day, and he told me that he had received a few important personages... and also a lady friend who had done her utmost to influence him in regard to the Dreyfus affair. I knew her well, and the President had told me more than once that this lady was most anxious that her husband should become a Minister.

Suddenly the President exclaimed: "I am stifling.... I feel dizzy." I called Blondel. After a while the President said: "It will be all right.... I shall be all right in a minute."

Blondel and I helped him to walk to the door of his study. The President looked a little better now. Turning to me he said: "The trouble is over; I am going to rest a little.... I'll take no more of that wretched drug, I promise you—I swear it.... Make yourself beautiful for the ball; I have sent you the tickets you asked for. I'll telephone to you to-morrow morning. Promise me to come to-morrow morning to the Bois with Marthe if the weather is as splendid as it is to-day." Then, seeing I was not carrying the bundle of documents he had asked me to take home, he added: "Don't forget the parcel... au revoir...."

Thereupon he entered his study, unassisted.

I walked to the little waiting-room with Blondel and took the parcel of papers. Blondel accompanied me to the door. But as I did not wish the President to remain alone on account of his ill-health, and because M. Le Gall was not there, I said to Blondel: "Don't trouble to let me out. I will leave the Elysée by the main door. Please hurry back to the President, for he seems far from well. It would be wise, perhaps, to send for a doctor...."

I left the Palace by the main gate in the Rue Saint Honoré. As soon as I was outside I realised that I was being shadowed as I had been so often before. But my faithful "agent" was there. I walked along the Avenue Marigny, reached the Champs Elysée, and called a fiacre. It was about six o'clock when I reached the Impasse Ronsin.

Towards midnight (I had been in bed for some time), I was awakened by the bell of the telephone in my room. It was M. Bordelongue, a director in the Ministry of Postes et Telegraphes, and an old friend.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

And then I heard the news, the dreadful news: "The President is dead."

I could not believe what I heard. "It's impossible," I exclaimed. "I saw him to-day. He was tired, weak, upset, but there seemed to be nothing particularly wrong with his health." I asked Bordelongue all kinds of questions, but he merely replied: "Nothing is known. They say the President died of an apoplectic stroke."

The next morning at six o'clock I was told that my faithful "agent" wished to see me on a matter of importance. This "agent" did not belong to the Sûreté, or to the Ministry of the Interior, but was a private detective who had been specially selected and appointed by Félix Faure to keep guard over me wherever I went, and see that no harm befell me. (It should be remembered that during the Dreyfus affair Paris was in such a state of blind excitement and mad passion that in order to know the doings of certain persons, detectives were everywhere engaged. Indeed, before Félix Faure's mysterious death, France lived in conditions which reminded one to some extent of those that prevailed in Venice in the dreaded days of the Council of Ten.)

I guessed what the man came about, so I hastily dressed and met him.

"Ah! Madame, I see you know the news.... There's some mystery in the President's death. They say he died of congestion of the brain, but I hear his agony lasted several hours. Madame Faure and her daughter only came at the last moment.... I am myself being shadowed, and it will be better if I do not call again.... But you know my address and if at any time I can be of some use to you I beseech you to apply to me."

The man was deeply moved, and so was I. I had lost my best friend; he had lost a good master.... I never saw him again except on one occasion. That was ten years later, a few days after the murder of my husband and my mother. I was lying dangerously ill in bed at Count d'Arlon's house, when a card was brought to me with a name which I did not know, and I was about to refuse to see the person who had sent up the card when I recognised the handwriting of a few hastily scribbled words which begged me to receive the writer. The "agent" of Félix Faure's days entered my room, but I almost failed to recognise him, so cleverly had he disguised himself.

"Forgive me for intruding, Madame," he muttered, "but I thought it was my duty to tell you this. As soon as you are well enough to travel, leave Paris. Go anywhere in the country and try to forget the awful tragedy. At any rate, move not a finger, whatever happens. Somehow, I think the murderers will never be found. I daresay you will have no peace until they are arrested. But I beseech you to do nothing ... for, whatever you may do, those who killed your mother and your husband will not be arrested. The death of M. Steinheil and Mme. Japy will remain as mysterious as that of President Faure."

CHAPTER IX
AFTER PRESIDENT FAURE'S DEATH: THE
DOCUMENTS—THE NECKLACE

I HAD been seriously ill for six weeks and had only just recovered when the death of Félix Faure occurred. The shock caused a relapse, and I was unable to attend the President's funeral, which took place on Thursday, February 23rd.

I had lost a great friend, and France a great patriot. It was said that President Faure was a lighthearted optimist, that he had no control worth speaking of over the various political parties striving around him, and finally that he was a mere figure-head, a chief of State, but not a statesman—an ornamental President rather than a man of great ideas or a man of action.

It cannot be denied that Félix Faure was astoundingly fortunate and that when he saw that things always "went well" with him, he became almost irritatingly self-confident and was perhaps inclined to be fastidious in the performance of his Presidential duties. He loved pageantry, and he revelled in the pomp and circumstance of his office, especially when he came in close contest with a King or an Emperor. He looked the part of "The First Magistrate of the Country" to perfection, being tall, handsome, refined in manner, and dignified to the verge of aloofness. But he had many worthy qualities: he was endowed with much common sense—a quality which too many lacked in France during the time of the Affaire Dreyfus—and he was an ardent—a zealous, patriot. He had a rare gift of sympathy, and there can be no doubt that he considerably increased the prestige of France during his Presidency, in spite of his inexplicable attitude in the Dreyfus affair, in spite of the Fashoda humiliation, and in spite of Zola's letter, "I accuse," and the fierce attacks of Clémenceau, Reinach, Jaurès, and many others. He had more enemies than any President ever had, including Declassé, himself another staunch Dreyfusard, in whose talents as a diplomatist he had such confidence. Félix Faure had bitter enemies not only in the Cabinets which succeeded one another with such "eloquent" rapidity during his Presidency, but even in his own entourage at the Elysée.

He loved the army. He had fought bravely during the war with Germany; he believed in the absolute righteousness of the court-martial which tried Dreyfus, and he did his utmost to prevent a "Revision" of the trial. He was a downright honest and sincere man, and believed he was working for the greatness of the country he loved so ardently.

Human malignity knows no limit or pity. Less than twenty-four hours after the death of the President, a number of newspapers coolly suggested that Félix Faure had been poisoned by a certain Protestant friend of his, a Mme. S. Others said by an actress whose name began with S, and others by a Jewish lady. But they mostly pointed to me as the murderess of Félix Faure, although in very cautious and veiled terms, and without ever giving my name. I had called at the Elysée during the afternoon of February 16th. The whole tragedy seemed quite clear... to certain people. I had been appointed by some secret committee of Dreyfusards, on account of the President's sympathy for me, to "suppress" the man who was supposed to be the great stumbling block in the way of the "Revision." Being ill and worn, I had no inclination to read the newspapers during those days, and might always have ignored those shameless rumours, but hundreds of kind souls sent me the cuttings containing the venomous allusions, and at the same time, shoals of anonymous letters reached me, in which assassin, poisoner, Lucretia, and Brinvilliers were perhaps the least cruel and offensive epithets hurled at me. Certain writers declared that if I had not killed the President, at least I knew when he died and who had killed him, and that dire calamities would befall me unless I revealed the name. A few letters mentioned the papers of Félix Faure, and said that if I knew where they were and could obtain possession of them, I ought to publish them, because their publication would serve the purposes of the Anti-Dreyfusards to which party I no doubt belonged, since my great friend the President had never shown any sympathy with the champions of the "traitor." Other letters entreated me to serve the Dreyfusards by burning such documents as might compromise their cause, whilst others, also originating from Dreyfusards, suggested that I should hand the papers to "So-and-so," who would examine them and decide which ought to be published.... And each letter ended with vile threats if I did not follow the anonymous writer's advice!...

In those painful hours, the trust and sympathy of a number of friends, Bonnat the chief amongst them, helped me to overcome the shame which oppressed me. I received tactful messages of sincere sympathy from hundreds of persons who had been revolted by this infamous press campaign. There also came a charming letter from Mlle. Lucie Faure, to whom I had sent my condolences on the death of her beloved father, at the same time promising to assist her, as in the past, in her charitable works, especially the "Fraternal Legion of the Children of France."

But all these messages of sympathy did not put an end to the insinuations in certain journals. The very horror of them gave me strength. I forgot my physical sufferings and went from one magistrate to another among my acquaintances. All told me that since my name was not mentioned it would be impossible to prosecute the offending papers, and that since the letters I received were anonymous, and written either in capitals or with the left hand, it would be most difficult to trace those who had sent them to me. True, one newspaper had mentioned the "wife of a painter," but there were scores of married painters whose name began with the letter S. The only wise policy was for me to ignore all insults and threats. The absurd rumours would soon die out, and the anonymous letters would soon cease to reach me. Besides it was, all of it, simply an indirect result of the Dreyfus agitation which aroused the worst passions and caused some men to stop at nothing.

I consulted M. P., a "State Councillor," and an old friend of mine about the documents. Should I keep them, send them to Mme. Faure, or destroy them?

M. P. hesitated, and at last replied: "If the papers were in my possession and had been entrusted to me by the late President, I do not think I should venture to destroy them. They might be useful.... But I should certainly hide them in a safe place at home.... By the way, who, besides me, knows that you wrote those memoirs with the President, and that they are in your possession?"

"It is difficult to answer. There are a few persons who saw Félix Faure writing with me at the Elysée, and on a few occasions I have been followed when leaving the Palace with a bundle of papers under my arm...."

"Evidently some indiscretion has been committed. But I should not take any notice. The President was perfectly free to write the more or less 'secret' story of the Third Republic, and with whomsoever he chose. He was at liberty to entrust those papers to your care or to give them to you, and you are fully entitled to keep them.... At any rate, I should keep them if I were you."

The next morning my valet came to say that M. Blondel (Félix Faure's private secretary) wished to see me. I had just received a further batch of anonymous letters and felt greatly depressed. M. Blondel, who had been so devoted to the President and so kind to me, tried to calm me, and then said: "Let me tell you what happened after your departure from the Elysée on the fatal day, and give the President's final message to you.... The President sat in his study and felt much better. I sent, however, as I had promised you, for a doctor.... There was one at the Elysée. He came, and found the President very weak, but not, he thought, in any danger. After the doctor had left the room, the President, to my intense surprise, said: 'If I feel worse, or if, as Dr. Potain has often warned me, I die suddenly, I want you to see that the talisman, which she gave me and which I always wear, be handed back to Mme. Steinheil.' Shortly afterwards he began to feel bad again, and a priest was sent for. It was then about seven o'clock, I think. After he had received the priest he handed me the talisman and whispered: 'I think I am lost.... Let all those who cared for me forgive my enemies as I forgive them myself....' Other doctors came; then Mme. Faure and her daughters.... Forgive me if I give you no more details. It would be too painful for you—and for me."

I had designed the talisman myself at the request of Félix Faure. It was a gold locket bearing the initials F. F. upon a diamond anchor, and was set with tiny pearls, rubies and sapphires to recall the tricolour. The word engraved upon the anchor, a friendly term, was in Russian, because the President liked everything that recalled his visit to St. Petersburg and the Alliance with Russia.

Having placed the locket in a drawer, I returned to M. Blondel and said: "Tell me the truth. You know what tragic rumours were abroad in Paris like wild-fire, soon after the death of the President. How is it then, that, if there was any suspicion of foul play, there was no autopsy? The Journal Officiel said: 'The President of the Republic died yesterday at 10 P.M., struck down with apoplexie foudroyante.' How could you reconcile that official statement of sudden death with what you have just told me; at seven o'clock the President already thought himself dying and sent for a priest. Why was there no autopsy?..."

"Because it was the wish of Mme. Faure, and the Premier himself agreed."

M. Blondel was deeply moved, and I shared his emotion. I realised that he could not say anything more, or had nothing more to say.... And we parted....

The mystery of Félix Faure's death thus remained unsolved. I have more than once tried to solve it, but in vain. My opinion, however, is this: The President, as he himself admitted on the last time I saw him, had taken, or was given, that afternoon, and long before my flying visit to him, a large dose of his dangerous "remedy." He had often been warned that it might one day prove fatal—and it did.

It is a terrible thing to have to say, but when, a few months after the murder of my husband and my mother, I was arrested and imprisoned, the infamous accusations against me concerning the President's death were again circulated. When my counsel told me so I insisted upon a full inquiry into the matter, and M. Albanel, the judge, was appointed.... He made the fullest possible investigations and, I need hardly add, I was completely exonerated.

On the evening of the day after the funeral of President Faure, my husband came into my room, and closed the door carefully. He was trembling and pale. "You know," he began, "that we agreed, years ago, that, although living under the same roof, you and I should be entirely free to act as we pleased. We further agreed to discuss all matters of importance by letter.... But this time, I must speak to you. Something terrible has happened to-day, and we must talk about it and see how to save ourselves from disaster.... A man called on me and was with me for two hours in the studio.... Now, tell me, is it true that you possess a mass of important papers written by the late President, and is it true that you possess a most valuable pearl necklace? I know that Félix Faure presented you with a comb and a brooch, but what of those pearls? And what is the truth about the documents?"

I remained silent. My husband went on:

"The man, who talks French with a strong German accent, states that a number of times he saw you leave the Elysée with bundles of papers in your hands. On one occasion the President accompanied you to the garden-door, and before closing it said to you: 'Be careful with the documents.' As for the necklace, he has given me an exact description of it, he has told me the number of the pearls, their size and weight.... He says he must and will have the documents and the necklace, but he wants the necklace first. He knows its origin and history. If you keep it, you and I and Marthe will be ruined, he says. All kinds of dangers are threatening us. He knows the scandal in which Félix Faure was unwittingly involved, and says you must know that the matter is of the greatest gravity. If you give up the necklace, no harm will befall us, and the horrible insinuations in the newspapers will at once cease. Otherwise our position will become untenable.... He has said enough to make me realise that he speaks the truth. The man is no impostor. Indeed, the whole affair is so dreadful that if you don't hand me the pearls, I give you my word of honour that I shall commit suicide!"

I was dumfounded. Still, I managed to say: "That German is a rogue. He has discovered some facts about the friendship between the late President and me, and he wants to blackmail us... and obtain the necklace, the documents, which may be turned into money, and everything we possess."

"No," my husband replied, "he is not anxious to blackmail us, if he can obtain what he wants otherwise. As a matter of fact he is willing to buy the pearls row by row, or even pearl by pearl. But he demanded that the necklace shall never be shown or mentioned. He does not want it to be recognised, and therefore will buy at once a number of the pearls and the clasp. But the necklace must be unstrung."

"It is all very strange," I said. "The whole affair sounds like blackmail and at the same time the man seems anxious to shield some one...."

"Yes, it is strange.... But if you don't yield to him to-morrow, and hand him at least some of the pearls and swear that he shall have the others, in time, he will do his worst, and I know enough to realise what the worst would be.... Now, what do you decide?"

I did not hesitate very long. I remembered the President's fear when he besought me to keep the necklace. Also I had had but little peace since those fatal pearls were in my possession....

"I will talk to the man myself, and hand him some of the pearls...."

"You will not see him. He came this morning only because he knew you were ill in bed; otherwise he would have made some appointment with me.... He will be here to-morrow. What shall I tell him?"

I fetched the necklace, unstrung the pearls—selected ten amongst the largest—and handed my husband the others.

"Do as you please with these," I said. "And tell that German that I shall keep these ten pearls.... Some day I may want the money that they will fetch."

The next day I heard that the man "allowed" me to keep the ten pearls, but first my husband had to swear in my name that if I ever decided to sell them, it should be to him, the German. One out of the five rows of pearls was "sold" to that mysterious individual, and the veiled libels in the newspapers ceased as if by enchantment!

Was it mere coincidence, or had the man really some power? Or had that scandalous press campaign been more or less directly his own work? Had he used it to intimidate me?

At any rate, the enigmatical German kept his promises. My husband, who had an abject fear of him, kept the pearls in his studio, and the German, who came every three or four months, insisted on seeing the pearls and then bought a few of them. He always managed to call when I was not at home, but once or twice I saw him leave the villa in the Impasse just as I entered it. He was small and dark, and had a very Jewish nose. It was winter when I saw him, and the collar of his overcoat was turned up to his ears. It was quite evident that he did not wish his face to be seen.

My husband corresponded secretly with the man, and sold, through the latter's agency, a number of pictures to various persons in Germany. The whole matter was so strange that I repeatedly attempted to drag from my husband all that he knew. I had an impression that he was aware of the origin of the necklace, and that there were some clauses in his compact with the man of which he had not acquainted me. But whenever I mentioned the German he at once ran away and shut himself up in his studio.

Two or three years after the death of Félix Faure I looked into the drawer in which the pearls were kept and found they had all gone, except, of course, the ten which I had put aside.

A few days later my husband said to me: "The 'German' has been again. His attitude has changed for the worse. He now demands the ten large pearls you have kept, and also the papers of President Faure."

I refused point blank. The pearls I kept in reserve, for some unforeseen emergency. As for the documents, I would sooner have burned them, in spite of their importance and of the memories attached to them, than hand them to that German who might have used them for Heaven knew what dangerous purpose.

"What did he say when you gave him my reply?" I asked my husband after the man had called.

"He said he could afford to wait... but he would gain his ends, 'in time.'"

A few weeks later, having finished some work I had been doing on a historical costume which my husband needed for a painting, representing a sixteenth-century nobleman reading by a window—the picture was intended for the salon—I went up to the studio. An old Italian model, a man called Giganti, was there.

"Monsieur went out for a while, and told me to wait for him, Madame.... He seemed rather upset...."

"What about?"

"Oh! He said he had lost a 'political paper.'..."

It then occurred to me that during the past few days my husband had been somewhat strange and embarrassed in his manner. We had a conversation about the "political paper," and he finally admitted that he "had mislaid a letter of President Faure...."

"I can guess what has happened," I said. "That man came again and demanded from you a proof that the documents were still in our possession. You had to show them to him, and one dropped... which the man promptly seized, no doubt, and as the letters are numbered you discovered when examining them that one had disappeared. Those papers are not safe in your studio. Give them back to me."

He readily consented, and I hid it in the "secret" drawer of my writing-table, after having carefully looked through the documents and found that none was missing, except the "mislaid" letter, which was, however, written in a cypher known only to the President and myself.

During the years that followed, the mysterious foreigner continued to call, and, as the reader will learn, did so until a few weeks before the murder of my husband and my mother in 1908. I am inclined to believe that the necklace was a crown jewel which, by a series of strange events, came into the possession of President Faure. That the "German" should have spent so much time in exacting the pearls seems strange, but it has occurred to me that the man was playing a double game, blackmailing not only us—I doubt if M. Steinheil was ever paid for the pearls—but also the personage who was so anxious to recover them. By giving them up a few at a time, he naturally kept that personage longer in his power.

As for the way in which the necklace came into the President's possession, I take it that some foreign... Prince, with whom perhaps, for political reasons, he ought not to have been on intimate terms, had very probably lost heavily to him at a secret gambling party. Félix Faure was paid with the necklace instead of in cash, owing to the temporary financial embarrassment of his illustrious friend. The latter then, to his horror, found out the origin of the necklace and that it had been stolen—for it seemed to me that there had probably been a robbery. If the truth had leaked out, both the President and his friend would have been involved in a scandal of such far-reaching political consequences that perhaps a war might have resulted. In their consternation, they agreed to deny all knowledge of the necklace, hence the agitation of the President, who had already given me the pearls and who two days later begged me to hide them and on no account to wear them.

The "foreigner" was probably a professional blackmailer, and when he found that nothing more was to be done with the pearls and that his livelihood from that source was gone, sought to turn to his advantage the knowledge which he had gained from my husband (always too ready to give his confidence to any one who posed as his friend) of Félix Faure's documents.

I earnestly hope that some day the mystery will be solved. My theory may then be found wanting in certain particulars, but I believe that, on the whole, it will seem, to the reader, the most plausible.

CHAPTER X
1899-1908

M. ÉMILE LOUBET, President of the Senate, followed Félix Faure as President of the Republic on February 18th, 1899. As every one knows, stones were showered upon the new President as he passed on his way from Versailles, where the "Congress" had elected him, to the station where he entrained for Paris. He was called "Panama the First"—though he had had nothing to do with the Panama frauds—insulted and besmirched as few men have been. I was only a few yards from M. Loubet at the Auteuil Steeplechase Meeting (June), when young Baron Christiani smashed the top hat of the President and almost hit with his stick the wife of the Italian Ambassador, Countess Tornielli. But M. Loubet never flinched, and he weathered the storm till it abated. Some have called this cowardice; I would rather call it heroism—of a kind.

Besides the highly important and final developments in the Dreyfus affair—which have been summed up in another chapter—and its truly amazing epilogue, that is, the complete and rapid way in which France recovered from the terrible crisis and emerged serene and vigorous, there happened little worth referring to during the year 1899. There were, however, a few amazing interludes. The poet Déroulède seized the bridle of the horse of General Roget, a staunch Anti-Dreyfusard, on the day of President Faure's funeral, and ordered him to march with his troops on to the Elysée—another coup that failed. Déroulède was arrested, but the Court of Assize acquitted him on May 31st. There were many comical conspiracies and many comical trials of conspirators; there were constant riots in Paris and elsewhere, all more noisy than alarming; there were thousands of Socialists with red button-holes in search of Royalists with white button-holes... and they never met. And there was the farce of the "Fort" Chabrol (a house in the Rue Chabrol, where the Anti-Semitic League had offices), which garrisoned by Jules Guérin, the secretary of the League, and a few friends, held five thousand soldiers at bay for nearly two months. Guérin and other heroes of the fort, and also Déroulède, were tried by the Senate transformed into "High Court," and were sentenced to ten years' banishment....

Afterwards things gradually quieted down. Dupuy had fallen and Waldeck-Rousseau had succeeded him as Premier. He was an able barrister and authoritive statesman who had held office in the strenuous days of Gambetta and Jules Ferry.

In May 1900, however, there was one more amusing incident. At the Paris Municipal Elections a huge majority of Nationalists and "Anti-Semites" were returned.... But then Paris was ever "in the opposition" and Parisians have ever been frondeurs.

The 1900 Exhibition brilliantly terminated the century. La Belle France, who was thoroughly tired of riots, "leagues," and agitations, had once more become quite peaceful and "respectable," as befitted a lady who was about to receive a number of sovereigns (including the Czar and his Empress, who came in 1901).

France is logical, although fond of Paradox—and practical—although, hasty, violent, quixotic, and ever in search of the truth.... And France respects Authority, although she tries to call herself socialistic, whereas she is merely democratic.

King Edward VII. came to France at the beginning of May 1908, that is, not quite a year after the end of the Boer War, and he was greeted in such a way that he might have been entitled to say: "I am the most popular man in France."

This was partly due to his almost abnormal gift of sympathy and partly to the well-known French readiness to swing round to a new opinion. Boer victories had been hailed with shouts of mad exultation, and English successes with groans of agony and fury, but the French became pro-English the instant King Edward landed in France. There was a dinner at the British Embassy, and President Loubet and several celebrities, including my friend Bonnat, attended. The Entente Cordiale was already talked of.

King Edward came to France exactly two years later, in May 1905, and for the first time there were cries in Paris of "Vive l'Angleterre" and "Vive le Roi." To shout "Long live the King" is just the sort of thing that Republicans of France love to do!

In March 1906 King Edward came once more to France, incognito this time, and travelling as the Duke of Lancaster. Fallières had then succeeded Loubet as President of the Republic. That year Paris received visits from a number of Members of Parliament, from members of the London County Council, and from the Lord Mayor, whose gilded coach and portly coachman took the Parisians by storm.... And the Entente Cordiale gradually increased in vitality and sincerity until it became an important factor in the equilibrium of Europe.

During those years the "separation" of Church and State was carried out and afterwards Anti-Clericalism subsided. A mention must also be made of the "Confédération Générale du Travail"—a kind of federation of trade unions—born in January 1908. This C.G.T., a child of Socialism, very soon broke from the parent, cultivated strikes, and showed from the first that its aim is social revolution, though it is not clear what the C.G.T. dictators would do after the social revolution had taken place. Syndicalism, so far, can hardly be called "popular."

In January 1906 M. Fallières—simple, solid, and safe—succeeded Loubet as President of the Republic, and the same year Clémenceau, unscrupulous but extremely able and so intensely picturesque, became Prime Minister. Whatever may be thought of him as a statesman, he, at any rate, did one great thing. He gave France confidence in herself at a critical moment. That was in November 1908. In 1905 Declassé had had to go because the German Emperor wished it. That was after the "Imperial" landing in Morocco. In November 1908 Clémenceau refused to obey Germany, who had asked for an apology in regard to the Casablanca incident. Ever since that France has seemed to be once more sure of her strength, and, without embarking upon any very great adventure, has shown much firmness and purpose in her foreign policy.

As soon as I was well enough after my illness and shock I threw open the doors of my salon.

I went through a difficult time. The great majority of my acquaintances had read what the papers said, and knowing that my husband and I frequently went to the Elysée, they had no difficulty in guessing who was meant by "Madame S.," or "the wife of the well-known painter."... Not one of them, of course, was so tactless as to refer to the matter... but my friends had friends who insisted upon being introduced to me. And so to my receptions there came scores of amiable persons of both sexes, who gazed at me, looked me up and down, and studied me as if I were an object of great curiosity. I had the courage to take no notice whatever of this, and I faced it unflinchingly, although the ordeal was painful; for I knew well enough that these good people had not come with any goodwill towards me in their hearts, but rather to see one whom they looked upon as the latest "fatal woman," as a Delilah or Judith up-to-date. I smiled on them all, as I had in the past, and sang and played to them in the old way.

The ordeal was worse when I went to other houses. When I entered a crowded drawing-room all eyes were turned on me and a sudden hush fell, wrapping me as in my cloak. Then, as host and hostess greeted me, a strange murmur arose and went up and down the room in little gusts, that broke now from this brilliant group of men and women and now from that, and I felt that all this whispering was about me. There were many healthy-minded women and honest men who took my part and defended me, but I soon realised that it was beyond them to convince my enemies, and still less the sceptics and the cynics.... In Paris scepticism and cynicism are a fashionable pose, under which people too often hide the noble principles and generous thoughts which would more truly express their nature and true characters. I, therefore, determined to conquer one by one, not only my enemies, but also those in whose eyes I could read a poor opinion of me. It was an ardent, almost a titanic task, but in time I succeeded. And many of those who had spoken lightly of me, or had thought me a "fatal" person, became my most devoted friends.... It was a trying time, but I lived through it and won in the end—thanks, of course, to the fact that not a word of those calumnies was true, and also to my mother's devotion and to my little Marthe's tender love. My mother looked after me in that pretty way that children often have; and, on the other hand, my little daughter, now a tiny mite of eight, was almost maternal in her solicitude for me.

Why was I so anxious to return to my old position among the men and women of Paris?... Because my reputation was at stake. Whether I liked it or not, whether the task was feasible or almost impossible, I had to battle and conquer. And I did conquer. Calumny, the most elusive and dangerous enemy that woman may have to face, was routed... and some six months after the death of President Faure my receptions were more largely attended than ever. I had tested all those who claimed to be my friends, and found they were sincere. In official circles my influence had not waned, and I was able to render service to many as in the past.

My mother had settled down for good in her pretty châlet at Beaucourt, but she frequently came to Paris and stayed either at the house of my younger sister, or with me in the Impasse Ronsin.

My relations with my husband were what they had been for years. We were good comrades, and I did my utmost to make his life a pleasant and comfortable one. I spent much of my time in the studio. He felt much older than his fifty years and needed much coaxing and encouraging to work. His technique as a painter had marvellously improved, but more and more he lacked imagination, and time after time I suggested to him subjects for his pictures, and advised him in matters of "composition" and "grouping," of backgrounds and atmosphere. Our life, after all, was not abnormal. There are thousands of married couples in Paris who live apart, and yet remain the best of partners and friends....

From 1899 to 1908 my husband painted many portraits—delicate miniatures in oils which were not only works of art, but subtle, psychological studies; although I believe he never realised this himself. Several persons came from Germany to visit the studios and buy pictures, and my husband told me they had been sent by the mysterious foreigner.

But they always came when I was not at home. The pictures disappeared from the studio, however, and I know that my husband had received payment for them. He obviously did not care to talk about these clients, and I was not in the least anxious to find out details about them. I had for many months spared no effort in attempting to solve the mystery of the pearl necklace, and of the "German," but my efforts had been in vain.

In 1906 I hired a villa at Bellevue, a delightful wooded village overlooking the Seine, near Paris. It was M. Ch., my great friend, who had discovered this charming summer residence nestling under the heavy foliage of beautiful old trees....

We are now nearing the tragic time of my life, but before I go into that long story of horror and agony—the murder of my husband and my mother, my struggles to find the murderers, the terrifying scenes at the Impasse Ronsin, my arrest, my life in prison, and my trial—I should like to recall a pretty incident which occurred at Bellevue.... There is nothing wonderful or unusually amusing about it, but perhaps the reader will welcome it as a sustaining draught of pure and fragrant air, before being plunged into the dark abyss of grief and terror where I suffered and struggled for so long.

"Vert-Logis" (green cottage), my Bellevue villa, stood at a short distance from the Meudon Observatory, the director of which was M. Janssen, the famous astronomer. The observatory was surrounded by a vast and splendid park, everywhere enclosed off. Through the bars of one of the gates Marthe and I saw, one fine summer's day, a large field that was one mass of marguerites. Marthe was longing to gather great bunches of them. We hailed a keeper, who was passing by, and asked him whether he would pick some of the flowers for us and pass them through the gate.... Or perhaps he would open the gate to us for a few minutes?

"Oh! Madame, all that is strictly forbidden," said the man.

"What a pity!"

I must have looked very disappointed, for hesitatingly he said: "Well, perhaps you might come in the morning, say at eight, before there are people about. I'll open the gate and you can gather a few flowers."

The next day Marthe and I returned from the observatory garden with so many flowers that we could hardly carry them.

The old keeper scratched his head, and remarked: "I thought you only wanted a few! You must be really fond of flowers, Madame."

Soon afterwards I met M. Janssen. We had many friends in common, and the savant gave orders that the gates of the park should always be opened to me and allowed me to gather as many of the flowers as I pleased. Then, with a typical courtesy, the aged astronomer—he was then over eighty years old—said to me: "Madame, since you love flowers so well, would you care to see the flowers of heaven?"

I accepted, of course, and one clear night I experienced the unique joy of watching a star through a powerful telescope. With a feeling of rapture and enchantment that was wholly new to me, I saw the star scintillate, change colour, and shine forth in all the exquisite hues of the rainbow.... And thoughts of the Infinite whirled through my dazzled brain.... I would go to clutch that star, I longed to grasp it; I wanted to know, to understand, the meaning of space and matter, of Eternity and the Infinite—and of Life.... And on my way home, as I looked up towards the star-studded sky, I was thrilled as I had never been before, and forgetting what the old savant had told me about the endless and intricate calculations which are the chief occupations of the star-gazer ("a living algebraical machine") I felt that the astronomer, who constantly watches mysterious and unconceivably distant worlds in the depths of space, is devoting his life to the grandest, the most sublime and lofty science of all. And I thought of my father, who so often, at Beaucourt, had talked to me about the stars, the moon-world, the comets, the milky way.... And I recalled those words of Kant, which he more than once quoted to me: "There are two things which ever fill me with new and growing admiration: the moral law within me, and the starry heavens above me."

CHAPTER XI
EVENTS THAT PRECEDED THE CRIME

AT the beginning of the year 1908, my little Marthe became engaged to young Pierre Buisson, son of an intimate friend of mine. Shortly afterwards she renounced the Protestant faith and joined the Catholic Church. This suited her somewhat mystical nature. She loved the immensity of cathedrals, the light through stained-glass windows, the beautiful services, the incense and the little bells, the plain-chant and the vestments of the priests. She loved to be guided; she shirked responsibilities; she liked to be able to enter "her" church at any time of the day and any day. She thought it was "restful" to be a Catholic. Perhaps religion to her was more a matter of sensations and feelings than of the mind; perhaps more a question of art, poesy and comforting illusion than of thought. Dogma was nothing to her; atmosphere a great deal.... She thought she could pray better in the semi-darkness and immensity of an ancient cathedral than within the plain white walls of a small Protestant temple. She prayed for the man she loved, and he was a Catholic....

I neither opposed nor encouraged this change of religion. Marthe was seventeen, extremely "wise" for her age and never acted rashly. I did not question whether she was right or wrong; I merely asked her carefully to examine her heart and search her conscience, and when later she told me: "Mother, I feel I shall be happier if I become a Catholic," I raised no further objection.

In March 1908—about two months before the tragedy, I all but fainted one afternoon in the "Metropolitan" (the Paris Underground). I had not quite recovered from a dangerous illness, and this had been my first outing. I must have looked very pale and ill, for several persons rushed to my assistance. A gentleman kindly helped me up the staircase leading to the street and offered to accompany me as far as my house, which was only a short distance away. I gladly accepted. The fresh air did me much good. As we neared the Impasse Ronsin he asked: "Do you happen to know M. Steinheil the painter? He lives somewhere near here."

"I am Mme. Steinheil," I replied.

The gentleman asked permission to call and inquire after my health. He handed me his card and I read "Comte de Balincourt."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Before relating all I have to say about M. de Balincourt, I wish to state that I have no intention whatever of accusing him of any complicity.

I shall merely describe the part he played in the lives of my husband and myself a few weeks before the crime, and why my suspicions against him were aroused then; and again when, in prison, I found in the Dossier of my case a number of documents concerning M. de Balincourt's life, I did not speak of my suspicions except to my counsel and two or three persons who visited me when I was a prisoner at Saint-Lazare.

Rémy Couillard—my man-servant—and Alexandra Wolff—the son of my cook, I did accuse of the murder in circumstances and for reasons which I will fully explain in due time. The Law found Couillard and Wolff absolutely innocent and I bowed—and bow—to the Law.

But since I have had, at a time, the gravest suspicions against them both and against M. de Balincourt, I must—and will—say why with utmost sincerity, although let it be thoroughly understood that I have long ceased to accuse them of having had any part whatsoever, directly or indirectly, in the mystery of the Impasse Ronsin.

I made grave errors and paid dearly for them. But as in these "Memoirs" I take the reader into my confidence and disclose my life and my thoughts, it is only right that I should, without hesitation though without any arrière-pensée, explain the reasons which led me to believe, for a short time, my man-servant, the son of my cook, and M. de Balincourt to have some part in the tragedy of May 30th-31st, 1908.

The day after our first encounter M. de Balincourt called. After a few polite inquiries he asked to see M. Steinheil. In the studio he examined the pictures, made himself very pleasant, congratulated my husband on his talent, and asked him whether he would paint his portrait in hunting-costume.

M. de Balincourt, hearing that my husband intended shortly to hold an important exhibition of his pictures, said he had had some experience in organising shows of that kind.

"My paintings will probably be exhibited at the 'Georges Petit Gallery,'" said M. Steinheil.

"It will be expensive," M. de Balincourt suggested. "Why not have the exhibition here, in this vast studio. When I was organising an exhibition some time ago I made some notes, which I have kept, about art-collectors and lists of addresses of people likely to buy paintings. I could help you a great deal. We could fit up the studio specially for that exhibition. I am sure it would be a great success."

He came three days later, and again offered to assist us: "I shall require no payment...." he added, "but perhaps M. Steinheil will charge me less for my portrait."

Shortly afterwards the Count came to sit. He proved full of life and energy—"the very man to push the sale of my pictures when the show takes place," said my husband. At first M. de Balincourt came only to sit for his portrait, but soon he arrived in time for lunch, and remained until after tea-time. I began to be a trifle suspicious, but my husband, who talked a great deal with him, warmly took his part.

One day I overheard a few words of conversation between them, in which, to my intense surprise, the word "documents" and the name "Félix Faure" occurred several times.

I was somewhat alarmed, for a month or so before, the mysterious and dreaded "German" had once more appeared on the scene, and afterwards my husband had told me that he again demanded the ten large pearls and also the famous papers and memoirs. I refused to part with them and said: "Tell the man that I have burnt them."

This strange conversation between my husband and M. de Balincourt, who had only known us a few days, puzzled and irritated me a great deal, and after the Count's departure I asked Adolphe for an explanation. He merely replied that I was mistaken....

M. de Balincourt came more and more frequently, and ingratiated himself with the Buisson family, who were almost constantly with us. He was, above all, on good terms with my husband. I need hardly say that he was extremely attentive to me, and as I was most anxious to find out what was in his mind, and of what it was that he talked with my husband, I pretended to be pleased with his praise and flattery.

M. de Balincourt called on me one evening at Bellevue. Before his arrival I had had a brief conversation with Mariette Wolff, my old cook, who had been in my service, first as an occasional help, and afterwards as cook, for many years.

I had noticed that, in Paris, the Count often went to the kitchen.... Mariette seemed to know a great deal about him, and I asked her how it was.

"Well, Madame," she said, "M. de Balincourt often comes into the kitchen to have his boots cleaned, and also the hunting knife he wears for the portrait which Monsieur is painting. He is very chatty and communicative. I hear that he divorced his wife two years ago, and that he takes a great interest in racing. You know my son, Alexandre, often goes to race meetings. The Count and Alexandre know one another...."

M. de Balincourt arrived and I encouraged him to tell me all about himself. He described his adventurous life to me, his worries, the various "crises" he had gone through, his family affairs. He told me that he had taken an active part in revictualling the famous Fort Chabrol in 1899, and that he often gambled and lost....

He drank wine freely, and talked and talked....

"If you are so often in financial difficulties," I asked, "how are you able to give my husband a commission for a portrait?"

"Oh! I always manage to get out of trouble. Nothing worries me... I have tried my hand at many games, including little political side-games...."

Now was the moment to find out what his conversation with my husband had been about. M. de Balincourt told me that M. Steinheil had talked to him about Félix Faure and the talisman. "He even showed me a very interesting letter written by the late President, on the margin of which there were several notes in your handwriting...."

"You lie," I cried boldly, for I wanted to force him to tell me more....

For a moment M. de Balincourt was taken aback, but he soon pulled himself together, and began to give me such details that it was impossible to doubt his word. "Your husband," he concluded, "tells me everything.... For instance, he told me only yesterday that he does not like to leave the house because he fears burglars; he has received many letters, the contents of which he keeps secret.... He also said the house had been broken into on one occasion...." (That was quite correct.)

It became clearer and clearer that my husband was concealing something from me. I had a further proof of this several months after the tragedy, when Couillard confessed to the examining magistrate that his master had kept up a secret correspondence, and that he, Couillard, had received orders from M. Steinheil, even on May 30th (that is a few hours before the murders were committed) to hide any letter that might come for him under the cloth on the hall-table, and that, above all, Madame must not know anything about them. Two mysterious messages did come by express, and Couillard concealed them as he had been told. These two letters were never traced. Who knows but that if they had been found they might have given some useful clue as to the authors of the murders?

After my conversation with M. de Balincourt I remained at Bellevue for a few days. A mystery yet unsolved is merely irritating, but a mystery which you feel others are determined to prevent you from solving—although you know you must—has a disastrous effect upon the spirit. It is possible to face open danger without flinching, but the bravest of hearts quails before an indefinite peril lurking in the dark and likely to reveal itself you cannot tell when. Imagination inevitably runs amuck and pictures the worst of horrors with a distracting facility.

I spent miserable days at Bellevue, wondering what to do. Sometimes I thought that my anxieties were childish and unfounded, but at other moments, danger seemed as near and real that I half believed that I should touch it if I put out my hand. It was there before me, though I could not see it and could not give a name to it. I thought of President Faure's necklace, of the documents, of the mysterious "German," of my husband's reticence and also of his sudden and inconceivable bursts of confidence in total strangers.... He was nearly sixty now, and on several occasions I had heard him speak to certain of his models as he would have to old and intimate friends. He was both imprudent and nervous, easy-going and suspicious.... What was there at the bottom of this relation with that German? Why were those secret meetings with my husband so carefully arranged that not once had I been able to come face to face with him! Why was not one single letter of his shown to me? And why would my husband never give me any details about his transactions and his conversations with the man?

And now M. de Balincourt had gained M. Steinheil's confidence. He had gained mine, too, but not for long, for, after I had seen him two or three times, I read through him!

I had so little to go by that in spite of every effort to concentrate my whole mind on it I could not solve the problem, and at last gave up all hope of doing so. I was in despair. Years ago I had dismissed the whole matter from my thoughts, but now the mystery had returned with renewed perils. It held me in its tentacles, and I felt that not only was I threatened by it, but also my mother, my husband and my only child, whose lives were so intimately bound up in mine.

Thank Heaven, my little Marthe was with me, and we took long walks with her fiancé and his parents in the Meudon Park. And in the evening we played and sang together....

One morning my husband, whom I had asked to join me at Bellevue, telephoned from Paris, where he had remained to put the finishing touches to a number of paintings destined for the proposed exhibition of his works. He informed me that a very wealthy foreigner had called to order a small portrait of President Fallières, which he wanted for a magnificent album containing drawings by great painters and also a few bars of music by celebrated composers.... He knew a great number of prominent Germans who were coming to Paris for the Horse Show, and whom he would bring to the studio....

"I cannot come to Bellevue," my husband concluded, "for I must do this portrait at once. The foreign gentleman says he is to be received at the Elysée very soon, and he wants to ask the President to sign his name at the foot of my picture.... I should, of course, paint the portrait from a photograph which the gentleman has brought...."

To me all this sounded suspicious, and I told my husband so. "I don't like the idea of President Fallières' autograph under your drawing.... Why don't you tell this wealthy collector to apply to our friend Bonnat?"

The telephone worked indifferently that day, and I could not quite catch the meaning of my husband's reply, so I said: "Please refuse to draw that portrait. At any rate, let the matter stand over for a day or two. Find some pretext and come to see me here."

He came.... The Buisson family were present when he explained to me that the foreigner was quite reliable and that he had promised to bring to the studio two German Princes....

I asked him whether the wealthy foreigner was a German, and he replied in the affirmative. Then, reading a question in my eyes, he said hastily: "No, no... he is not the same man as the German you are thinking of!"

My husband spoke so well of the stranger that I felt almost ashamed of being so suspicious.

He returned to Paris and I remained with my daughter and the Buissons at Bellevue; but, try as I might, I could not keep the mysterious German out of my thoughts, and, becoming anxious about the safety of the Félix Faure documents, I returned to Paris twenty-four hours after my husband had left Bellevue.

At lunch my husband said: "I really must finish that portrait to-day, for this evening a messenger from the 'Grand Hotel' will come to fetch it. So please see that no one disturbs me this afternoon. The gentleman who ordered the Fallières portrait is dining to-night with the German Princes I told you about, and with several other personages, and he wishes to show the picture to them all."

He then asked me several times whether I would go out or remain at home, and it was quite clear that, for some reason which I could not guess, he was most anxious that I should not be in that afternoon. I had a presentiment that it would be better for me to remain at home, and that by doing so I might, perhaps, find out something about this strange commission.

Besides, my dressmaker was there, and I was expecting a few friends. My time was, therefore, fully occupied, and I did not go up to my husband's studio.

In the evening, at about seven-thirty, I told Rémy Couillard to have dinner served. He said: "... Monsieur is not ready.... He is upstairs with the gentleman who brought a large photograph of the President. (Couillard had himself opened the parcel for his master.) The gentleman called this afternoon, and he is still in the studio."

"When did he come?"

"At tea-time, Madame."

I went up to the dressmaker, who was still at work.

"Oh! Monsieur Steinheil was looking for you a little time ago, to show you the portrait of M. Fallières. I saw it—it is very nice...."

It was clear that my husband had come down to find where I was, so that he might let the "foreigner" out of the house without my seeing him.

I was about to go up the stairs leading to the studio when I heard steps coming down in the dark. I was at the door of the sewing-room in the corridor on the first floor. To my intense surprise I saw a man lift the tapestry shutting off the corridor from the landing. The man walked straight on, my husband following him. When he saw me, the man exclaimed in French, but with a pronounced German accent: "Oh! excuse me, Mademoiselle."

"No, no," said my husband, "that is not my daughter, but my wife."

"You are not on the ground floor, Sir," I said coldly, "but on the first floor where the private apartments are."

(It had struck me that he seemed to know his way to the corridor, and perhaps to the boudoir where the documents were kept. The tapestry hid the entrance to the passage so well that it could not possibly occur to any one not familiar with the topography of the house to raise the heavy drapery—in the thought that it led to the hall—for it looked for all the world as if it were hung against the wall of the landing.)

"Ach!" said the German, apologetically... "I have made a mistake. As a matter of fact, I passed through here this morning when M. Steinheil wanted to show me some old bibelots and prints in a small sitting-room you have up here... I came here quite accidentally, and we were going down, your husband and I...."

He stammered and looked most embarrassed. "It is really most extraordinary," I said to him in German, "that you should have found your way in here, especially in the dark. There is a light in the hall, whilst there is none in the staircase at present." Then, as I wished to see this person in a full light, for the passage where we stood was only faintly lit by the light coming from the sewing-room, I added: "If you are fond of old prints, I can show you some downstairs."

I ran and told Couillard to turn the lights on in the drawing-room.

When I was, at last, able to see the man clearly, I was amazed and disgusted. The "wealthy foreigner" was a small man of about fifty with a long Jewish nose, with scanty hair and moustache that were dyed black, small beady eyes, sly and shifty, and a sallow complexion. His dress-suit was shabby and even greasy. The shirtfront was not clean and was adorned with two large paste-diamond studs. The man's ill-shaped hands wanted washing and were certainly not the hands of a gentleman. His whole figure inspired me with repulsion, even with fear.

"It appears," I told him, "that to-night you are attending an important dinner with some princes to whom you wish to show the portrait of Fallières which my husband made for you.... Could I see that portrait?"

The Jew brought out an album of medium size, from which he took a portrait which my husband had drawn of Fallières. As he replaced it in the album I could see that there were other drawings at which he evidently did not want me to look. The haste with which he shut up the album aroused my suspicions once more.

"Still," I remarked, "I cannot understand why you asked M. Steinheil for a portrait of the President. M. Steinheil seldom paints portraits. Like Meissonier, his master, his speciality is miniatures in oils, representing historic scenes, and genre pictures. You should have gone to M. Bonnat, who is the official painter of Presidents."

The man's looks grew almost threatening, and something of a snarl came into his voice: "You forget, Madame, that your husband has painted President Faure!"

"Quite so, but the picture you are referring to could hardly be called a portrait. The right thing to ask M. Steinheil for your album of celebrities would have been a sketch for a stained-glass window, a study of some medieval personage or a seigneur of the Renaissance period...."

The German collected himself. "Perhaps you are right, Madame.... At any rate, I am very thankful to M. Steinheil, and I will try to repay him for this portrait by bringing here some rich clients."

"But," I exclaimed, "I suppose you have paid for the portrait of M. Fallières?"

A quick questioning glance passed between my husband and the Jew. "It is quite all right," said the former.... "I promised this gentleman to do the drawing free of charge, for he will sell a number of my paintings to his friends, and will help us with the forthcoming exhibition of my works. He has taken a whole pack of invitation cards and will send them to the right kind of people."

On the piano stood the box with the comb which President Faure had given me. Wishing to find out whether this strange man knew it, I said: "Since you are fond of beautiful things, what do you think of this?"

The man took the comb and said: "Yes, this is one of the finest works of art Lalique has ever turned out.... You sometimes wore this comb in years gone by, in the days when Félix Faure was President!"

The tone in which the last words were spoken told me more than the words themselves. I left the drawing-room followed by the Jew, who hastily left the house.

"That man," I said to my husband when we were alone, "is the mysterious German of whom you have often spoken to me, the man you have met every few months for the past nine years, the man who first came here shortly after the death of President Faure, the man who 'bought' the pearls and wanted the documents!..."

My husband at first tried to deny, but soon admitted the truth of what I said. However, he kept absolutely silent when I entreated him to give me some details about the man, to tell me the truth at last, to explain the secret of this Fallières portrait and of this "wealthy foreigner," who did not pay for what he ordered, who knew his way about our house even in the dark, and who dined with princes in a shabby shotted coat!

And here, let the reader allow me to state, that I fully realised—and still realise—that had I not consented to keep the necklace for Félix Faure's sake, all these troubles would probably never have occurred. But what woman would have acted otherwise than I did, after the words the President had spoken? And on the other hand is it not evident that, had my husband fully taken me into his confidence as regards that enigmatical personage whom he called "the German Jew" (his nationality may have been anything, but he was undoubtedly a Jew, and spoke German most fluently), matters might have taken another course, and many terrible anxieties have been spared us?

That very night, fearing for the safety of the documents, I took them from the writing-table in my boudoir, and made, with a newspaper and large envelopes, a dummy parcel of papers, as like the genuine one as possible. On the top I wrote as I had written on the real parcel, my name and these words: "Private papers. To be burnt after my death." The dummy was fastened and sealed in exactly the same way and, as in the model, one could see here and there, when the wrapper was torn, corners of large envelopes, duplicates of those in which I had enclosed Félix Faure's papers and the Memoirs which we had partly written in collaboration. The dummy I put in the drawer where the genuine documents had been, and these latter I hid in a place of safety the next day.

The reader may wonder why I was so anxious to keep these papers. I can only say that they reminded me of a most interesting portion of my life, that they contained most enlightening information on many events of national and international importance.... And perhaps there was in me that vague, well-nigh unconscious and yet unconquerable sentiment which makes you loth to part with anything that, you have kept for a long time, for if you live long enough with things, they become, as it were, part and parcel of your existence.

My husband's exhibition was drawing near the date of opening. As the days passed by we saw less and less of M. de Balincourt, although he had so faithfully promised to come and help in the organisation. Several telegrams sent to him by my husband remained unanswered. It then occurred to me to invite him to dinner, together with the Buissons and Count and Countess d'Arlon. We received a note from M. de Balincourt explaining that he had been ill, and away on a journey, but that he accepted the invitation. He arrived at 8.30—an hour late. "You take many liberties with old French politeness," I said to him. "Neither my guests nor I have been used to such treatment. How is it that the three messages my husband sent you to the three different addresses you gave him have all remained unanswered?..."

"There must be some mistake..."

"I agree with you. No, listen, M. de Balincourt. Last Sunday some friends came to take me with them for a motor drive and lunch in the country. They were M. V.—the motor manufacturer—and his wife, whom you met here once. I was told that you called on the V.s afterwards. They wrote to you, but the letter was returned with the mention 'name unknown at this address.' Your life does not concern us, but you might at least give us your proper address! Hearing this from the V.s, I suggested that we should drive to the various addresses you had given my husband. We had the greatest difficulty in discovering the first one. We went to Boulogne (near Paris) and were directed to a narrow, evil-smelling, cut-throat place where rag-and bone-pickers lived. I thought we had made a mistake, and we were about to turn back when M. V. knocked at the worm-eaten door of the house. An evil-looking man appeared, and answered our inquiries: 'M. de Balincourt?... I don't know him, but I believe he sometimes has letters addressed here, and a friend of his, a M. Delpit, has asked us to send his letters on to an address which I will give you, if you like.'

"M. and Mme. V., who were as nonplussed as I was myself, which is saying a great deal, proposed that we should drive to that address. There, our suspicions became greater than ever, for we found ourselves in a worse place than the first. An old woman said: 'M. de Balincourt? He lives yonder, in that house.' We went there and made fresh inquiries. At last a man in tatters shouts from a window: 'He has just left'... I need hardly tell you that we all had the impression that you were there."

M. de Balincourt turned very pale and stammered: "That was not my address... a friend of mine, a very poor artist, lives there.... He forwards my letters to me."

After dinner he apologised profusely, gave me all kinds of possible explanations, talked to my husband before me about the "exhibition," and later addressed a great number of invitation cards... to show his goodwill.

A week elapsed, and M. de Balincourt did not appear. I organised everything myself. I decided to hold the exhibition in the vast "winter garden."

On the opening day, April 7th, 1908, some five hundred persons called, including several Ministers and scores of prominent officials. During the afternoon M. de Balincourt arrived. He came every day while the exhibition lasted, and had long chats with M. Steinheil, through whom, I noticed, he contrived to get introduced to as many important persons as possible. He had a small note-book, in which he jotted down the pictures that were sold and the prices. Several times I saw suspicious-looking characters enter the house. They had invitation cards. Once or twice, in order to test whether my suspicions were well founded or not, I walked straight up to these strange intruders and said severely: "I am sorry; the room is full. We cannot admit any more people." And they at once withdrew without a word.

On the last day of the show I spoke my mind to M. de Balincourt. And I never saw him again, except at my trial, where he gave evidence.

CHAPTER XII
MAY 1908

IN April I made the acquaintance of M. Bdl.... through a common friend, the Director of the Paris Mont de Piété. Mr. Bdl. was a widower with several children, and although his residence was in the Ardennes, he frequently came to Paris. We met at a time when I was greatly depressed, and also vaguely alarmed. I felt myself surrounded by invisible dangers, and life had become almost unbearable. M. Bdl. was a strong, straightforward, very intelligent and very refined man. He had a great regard for me, and we became intimate friends. Afterwards, however, he showed himself to be so violent and domineering that our acquaintance came very soon to an end, although we parted in the best of terms, and occasionally wrote to each other. I should not even have mentioned this episode of my life, if it were not that M. Bdl. played a relatively important part in that long and complex drama called the "Steinheil Affair," on account of certain declarations which I am supposed to have made on the so-called "night of the confession" (November 26th, 1908), a "confession" which was greatly responsible for my arrest.

On May 18th, I went to Bellevue, to settle down there, as I did every spring. My mother, who was at Beaucourt, wrote saying that she would come to Paris. I no longer have that letter, but the letter which I sent to my mother in reply was found, and is here reproduced. Its importance will not escape the reader, after I state that I was accused of having enticed my mother to my house in Paris in order to murder her together with my husband! As for the reason which it was supposed had led me to murder my mother it was as follows: If I killed my husband only, I might be suspected of the crime, for I was not on very good terms with him, and probably I wished to be free to marry some wealthy and more congenial man. But, if I also killed my mother, then (according to the logic with which the prosecution kindly credited me), I should not be suspected, for people would say: she might have murdered her husband, but she would never have murdered her mother. Therefore, since both were murdered, she cannot be guilty.

My letter to my mother, dated May 21st, 1908, runs as follows:

"Darling,—I will then await you at the station, on Tuesday. Let me know the hour of your arrival, for I shall come straight from the country (Bellevue) to the station (in Paris). I have invited 'Ju' (my elder sister, Mme. Herr) and Madon (one of her daughters) to dinner on Tuesday night, and we shall all work hard to make things pleasant for you during your stay in Paris (meaning, of course, Paris and Bellevue), so that we may all enjoy one another's company as much as possible! Don't tire yourself too much in this terrible heat! How many things we shall have to tell each other! I have written to Dennery, to urge him to do something for Jules (my brother). I clasp you to my heart.

Your little,
Meg."

My mother changed her mind—because she did not feel well—and wired she would come on the Friday evening (May 29th) instead of on the Tuesday (May 26th).

The incidents which took place from the moment of my mother's arrival in Paris, till the fatal night—that is, from Friday evening, May 29th, till the night of May 30th-31st (1908)—must here be described at length. If they do not throw much light on the crime itself, they will, at any rate, allow the reader to judge whether any sane mind could have found in them reasons for suspecting me of being the criminal!

I quote from the dossier of my case, questions asked by M. André, the examining magistrate (in December 1908, and January to March 1909), and the replies I made.

... "My mother informed me that she would come on the Friday, May 29th, she suffered greatly from articular rheumatism in her legs. At any rate, it was agreed between us that she should put up at my house, that she should sleep there, from the very first night after her arrival."

Question. "Oh! these points are in absolute contradiction to the declaration made by Mme. Herr [my elder sister, who for many years now had been residing in Paris] on June 22nd, 1908. From that, it appears that Mme. Herr, at the end of May, received two letters from your mother; one in which your mother told her of her arrival and added that she would spend the night at her (Mme. Herr's) house, the other wherein she said that you 'claimed' your mother, and that, for that reason, she would put up at your house, on her arrival."

Answer. "I am not at all surprised. My mother may very well have written that.... She may have wanted my sister to believe that I 'claimed' her, so that my sister might not reproach her for putting up with me, thus giving me the preference.... I did not claim, and had no need to 'claim' my mother, that time, since it had already been agreed upon at the beginning of May that she would stay with me.... My mother was to stay until the Sunday, 31st, or the Monday, June 1st. She was coming over to help me in making applications on my brother's behalf.... 'She spent the night of Friday (29th) and Saturday (30th) at the Impasse Ronsin, for our intention was to start together the next morning on a round of calls with the object of assisting my brother. That night my mother slept, as she always did, in my room. In the house, there also slept my husband and Rémy Couillard."

In reply to a Question. "There were three keys to the gate of the door separating the small garden from the Impasse Ronsin. One was in the hands of my husband; Mariette (the cook) had the second, and Rémy Couillard (the valet) had the third. Three months before the murder, Couillard lost his key. Two months before the murder I asked my husband to have the lock of the gate changed, for I feared that some one might enter at night. After the murder I had doubts concerning Couillard, on account of that lost key.... I several times begged my husband to have the lock changed, and Mariette did the same, but he would not consent. He said it meant nothing at all, that thieves that wanted to enter would do so in spite of a locked gate.... I even remember that at Bellevue on May 21st, and in the presence of Count and Countess d'Arlon, M. Maillard, and M. Boeswilwald, I again asked my husband about that lock, pointed out his carelessness, and reminded him of my anxieties."

Question. "How is it that, being so nervous on the matter, and being aware of M. Steinheil's lack of initiative, you did not have the lock changed yourself?"

Answer. "I didn't—I yielded to my husband's remark that thieves were not hindered by a locked gate...."

In reply to a Question. "On the eighteenth of May I went to Bellevue intending to stay there for at least a month. In 1906 and 1907 I had similar stays there. In May 1908, I settled down at Bellevue with the two youngest of the six children of the Buissons, and with Marthe. The only servant there was Mariette. M. Buisson and his son Pierre (the fiancé of Marthe) were in Paris, but came frequently, of course. My husband spent part of his time in Paris, and part of his time at Bellevue. He slept sometimes in Paris, but when he came to sleep at 'Vert-Logis' (the name of our Bellevue villa), he usually let me know by telephone.... Before settling down at Vert-Logis, we concealed in a secret place in the dining-room (a hole in the wall hidden by furniture) the silver plate and also certain jewels...."

In reply to a Question. "To enter the house from the garden there are two doors, one opening on to the butler's pantry, the other on to the verandah. Both these doors were always locked at night, but in order to allow any of us who might come home late to enter, the key of the one door was not left in the lock. The key of the pantry door was then left on a small stand, and that of the main door on a table in the verandah. The one who entered last when he—or she—knew that every one was at home, would leave the key in the door."

In reply to a Question. "After May 18th, my husband slept at Bellevue, or in Paris according to his work. He spent two or three nights a week at the Impasse Ronsin. On such occasions Rémy Couillard slept in his usual room, near the entrance to the attic, above the studio (third floor). But when my husband slept at Vert-Logis, the valet slept in the verandah, on a couch. He had a revolver, which on such occasions my husband handed to him. When my husband returned to the Impasse, Couillard returned the revolver to him—I could not assert that it was regularly returned, for I was at Bellevue at the time, but I have every reason to believe it was, for I have always seen a revolver on my husband's table, whenever he slept in Paris."

In reply to a Question. "I did not go once to Paris between May 18th and Friday, May 29th. I was kept at Bellevue looking after the little Buissons, who were unwell and whom I nursed. I went to Paris on Friday, May 29th, only on account of my mother's arrival. On the previous day, my husband had lunched with us at Bellevue, and had spent the rest of the day and the night there. He told us that day, that Couillard, who was extremely nervous, had replaced 'Dick,' our watch-dog which, as in other years, had come with us to Bellevue, by a dog called 'Turk,' which belonged to M. and Mme. Geoffroy (daughter and son-in-law of Mariette, my cook). My husband said he was furious about it, because the dog had ruined, with its paws, the sketch for a stained-glass window he had just completed. And he added: 'To-morrow morning I shall send that dog back!' On the Friday, May 29th, early in the morning, my husband returned to Paris together with Marthe, who had to attend a lecture that morning, and who was to lunch with her father and, I believe, with Pierre Buisson, at the Impasse Ronsin. It was agreed that I should await Marthe's return before leaving Bellevue to go and meet my mother at the station in Paris. During my absence, Marthe would watch over the little Buissons whom I did not wish to be left alone. During the afternoon, after I had given the children their tea, Marthe returned to Vert-Logis. As had been arranged, Pierre Buisson had come with her, and was to spend the night there, so that the children should be less lonely in the night. My husband was to spend the night in Paris, as he did not wish to let my mother and me be left alone in town. On that Friday, I reached Paris (Montparnasse Station) towards 5 P.M., and went straight, by the Underground, to the Gare de l'Est, where my mother was due at six." When I left Bellevue (the journey to Paris takes twenty minutes by rail) I wore three rings.... (Later on, I will fully explain what has been called "the mystery of the jewels," of which so much was made against me.)

The programme for that evening and the following day was this: My mother was to spend the night at the Impasse Ronsin. My sister, Mme. Herr, would dine with us—but she did not come to the station, and afterwards I heard she was unable to come. At the station, therefore, I was alone to receive my mother. It had been arranged that even in the case of my sister and her family dining on the Saturday evening with us, my mother, my husband, and I would go afterwards to Bellevue to join Marthe and her friends; unless, of course, my mother's state of health would not allow it. On the Friday evening—or the Saturday morning—I received a note from my sister saying she could not come to lunch or to dinner, that she was going to a concert on the Saturday evening, but that she relied on my mother calling on her in the afternoon.

"On the Friday, May 29th, as soon as my mother and I reached home, I told Couillard to return the Geoffreys their dog, and scolded him for having borrowed it without permission, and also because the dog, by ruining one of M. Steinheil's drawings, had made the latter lose a whole week's work."

Question. "Why such haste in returning that dog?"

(The judge's idea was quite obvious. Convinced that I was guilty, even before he ever examined me, he thought the fact that I had got rid of the dog a proof of my guilt. I had, "of course," done it in order that the dog might not bark at my accomplices or bark while the murders were being committed!)

Answer. "My husband had told me the day before that the dog would have to go the moment he reached home, and Couillard had not yet returned the dog to its owners."

Question. "What witnesses have you to prove that your husband wished to get rid of the dog at once?"

Answer. "I believe Marthe and Mariette the cook heard my husband make the remark."

Question. "Why deprive your house so soon of a watch-dog when it was deprived of its usual guardian—the dog, Dick?"

Answer. "What importance did it have?... As a matter of fact, Turk hardly barked and was useless; besides, not belonging to the house, the dog was up to all kinds of mischief."

Question. "How can one admit that Couillard, in order to be protected, should borrow a dog that did not bark?"

Answer. "I don't know.... All I can say is that Couillard, just as he was about to take the dog back to the Geoffroys, told me that his idea in having the dog with him was that he would feel less lonely and more safe with 'something living' near him."

Question. "How did you know that the dog did not bark?"

Answer. "Madame Geoffroy, the daughter of my cook, frequently came to the house, accompanied by her dog, and I noticed that it never barked."

Question. "A number of your statements on this point contradict those you made on June 20th (less than a month after the murder). From the latter, it appears that Couillard borrowed the dog with M. Steinheil's permission, and that it was after M. Steinheil himself had ordered him to return the dog to its owners that the valet did so on the Friday evening."

Answer. "The statement you have just read to me I made when I was still seriously ill, so ill indeed that I had not the strength to listen to the reading of my statements after I had made them. Besides, what contradiction is there between the declarations I have just made and those I made then?"

Question. "From the statements of Rémy Couillard on May 31st (a few hours after the murder) to the commissary of police, it appears that the dog was returned to the Geoffroys, not on the day you say (Friday) but only on the following day, Saturday, May 30th."

Answer. "I can only say that it was on Friday evening that I told Couillard to return the dog."

In reply to a Question. "It was later on, after investigations had been made, that I learned that my husband had on Saturday, May 30th, withdrawn £40 from the Crédit Lyonnais. I did not hear of the fact at the time, but I am certain that my husband must have gone in the afternoon [Banks in France do not close at 1 P.M., as in England, on Saturdays], for when I left the Impasse Ronsin at about 11.30 to go to lunch with Marthe and the Buissons at Bellevue, my husband had not left the house. I also heard, after the police investigations had been made, that my husband had paid a few bills, including the bill of the carpenter."

Question. "Besides what may have remained of the £40, what amount of money do you think there was in the house?"

Answer. "On that day, there must have been in the writing-table of the boudoir, about £300." (Here I explained how that money was there, and where it had come from.)

Question. "But, on November 26th, 1908, you said there was about £120 in that desk?"

Answer. "On the 26th November, 1908" (I beg the reader carefully to remember that date, for it is one of the most dramatic in my eventful life), "I was out of my mind, and was not responsible for what I did or said, and forgot for a moment the £200 in a separate envelope."

Question. "Are you sure that envelope with the £200 ever existed?"

Answer. "It did exist. My husband was chairman of the 'Boulogne Ceramics Co.' Early in 1908 he told me that it would shortly ask for an increase of capital—an appeal which I knew he, and also M. Buisson and his brother would answer. I don't know when my husband intended to pay the money in, but he had told me he would contribute £200. At any rate, I had not yet given my consent, for I had my doubts about the prospects of the company." (Here I may add that the examining magistrate himself informed me that M. Buisson and his brother had made their payments to the company in June.)

In reply to a Question. "On the Saturday morning, early, (Saturday, May 30th, 1908), finding my mother very tired and being somewhat anxious about her health, I sent for Dr. Acheray, who prescribed for her, ordered her to stay in bed, and strictly forbade her to go out. After the doctor's departure, my mother absolutely insisted on calling, in the afternoon, on Mme. Herr and on making another call, about which she gave me no explanations. It was agreed between us that I should lunch at Bellevue and that when I returned at 5 or 6 P.M., we should see whether her state of health would allow her to travel to Bellevue, or she would have to remain at the Impasse Ronsin. I left the house at about 11.30 A.M. to take the train to Bellevue."

Question. "Then you did not make the call or calls you had planned to make, in your brother's interests?"

Answer. "No. My mother's indifferent health did not allow her to come with me and we had postponed these visits till the following Monday."

Question. "What were those steps you were to take?"

Answer. "M. Dennery, Secretary to the Under-Secretary of State for 'Postes et Telegraphes' protected my brother, and it was on him that my mother and I intended to call."

In reply to a Question. "My mother having said she would spend most of the afternoon with Mme. Herr, I only returned to the Impasse Ronsin towards 5.30 P.M. My mother was at home and so was my husband. My mother was lying down on the sofa in the verandah; she suffered a great deal in her legs. She told me she had been to my sister's and that going up and coming down the stairs had been most trying.... My mother still hoped, however, to be able to travel with us to Bellevue. 'We will put off our decision till after dinner,' she said, 'I will see how I feel then, and find whether I can go to Bellevue or not.' Had my mother felt better later on, we would have caught the 8.30 P.M. train. My mother told me some details about her visit to my sister. She said they had talked together about a marriage planned for my brother Julien."

In reply to a Question. "I had reached Bellevue that day towards noon. I lunched at Vert-Logis with the children, and then went for a drive through the woods with them. After the children's tea, I went with Marthe to the Bellevue station. I reached the Gare Montparnasse at about 5.30 P.M. and on foot I went straight home (a ten minutes' walk). On the way I called at the druggist's for my mother's medicine and also at Potin's (the grocer's stores)."

Question. "At what time that day did you telephone to M. Bdl.?"

Answer. "At ten in the morning. I 'phoned to him from my room, where my mother was lying in bed, and she heard what I said. M. Bdl. and I had parted in the middle of May, but I occasionally wrote or telephoned to him. I began by telling M. Bdl. that I was quite well, but that my mother (whom he knew) was ill. I remember that I could not hear a word of what M. Bdl. said, and finally I broke out laughing and put the receiver back in its place."

In reply to a Question. "It was only after dinner, at about 8 P.M. that I asked my mother if she felt well enough to go to Bellevue... I had to ask her, in order to know whether I should ask M. Buisson to go and sleep there or not."

Question. "Thus, you had warned M. Buisson that he might have to go to Bellevue and spend the night there?"

Answer. "Yes. This is what happened. Whilst I was at Vert-Logis, M. Buisson telephoned to me after lunch at about 1.30 or 2 P.M., just as I was about to go for a drive with the children. He wanted to ask me how his children were. Afterwards I told him that my mother—of whose arrival he had heard on the previous day—was not well, and did not know whether she would be able to come to Bellevue to sleep; and I asked him if, in case she would not come, he would mind running down to Bellevue and spending the night with his little children. He replied he would come to Bellevue at about 10.30 P.M. in any case, whether we could or could not be there ourselves. I had told my daughter during the afternoon that if we came to Bellevue in the evening I would warn her on the telephone. As a matter of fact, I considered it as unlikely, owing to my mother's health."

(Quoted from Dossier, Cote 3213-3218.)

CHAPTER XIII
THE FATAL NIGHT

CONTINUING my story, I shall still quote the more important passages from the evidence I gave to M. André concerning the fatal night of May 30th-31st, 1908, and various facts more or less connected with the murder. That will enable the reader to see clearly how it all happened, but also, incidentally, to get some idea of the methods of a French examining magistrate.

Question. "Since your last interrogation, a number of letters have been handed to us: twenty-four letters from your mother to your brother Julien, dated from January 4th, 1908, to May 30th, 1908. Those letters, on the whole, tally with your statements, especially as regards your illness at the beginning of 1908, the plans for your brother's marriage, and the intention to help him by calling on M. Dennery, and the fact that you called in Dr. Acheray to see your mother on the morning of May 30th. On the other hand, they contain remarks which contradict certain of your statements. For instance, on May 19th your mother wrote to your brother that during her forthcoming stay in Paris she would put up at M. Herr's, but the following day she mentioned that you had written and 'phoned to her, with the result that she would put up at your house for one night at least. This proves that your mother only decided to put up at the house in the Impasse Ronsin after you had pressed her?"

Answer. "I can only tell you that when my mother was staying with me, at the beginning of May, it was agreed between us that she would put up at my house when she returned to Paris later on. Towards May 20th she wrote to me that she felt very ill, and at the same time gave me to understand that, yielding to Mme. Herr's wishes, she would put up at her house. I told her that if she came to me I would nurse her and that she would be attended by an excellent doctor—M. Acheray, who lived almost next door to us. I added that matters would be easier as regarded the call on M. Dennery if she were staying with me. I very much wanted to have my mother at home because at my sister's house she would have to climb five flights of stairs, and, further, because I wished Dr. Acheray to examine her, as he knew her well, having on other occasions acted as her doctor."

Question. "In any case, there is a most striking coincidence here. It is just about May 18th—that is, at the time when you settled down at Bellevue with the young Buissons, who seem to need your permanent presence at the time when your Paris home is disorganised—that you compel your mother to promise to stay with you during the forthcoming visit!"

Answer. "The Buisson children were not so ill that I had to be constantly near them at Vert-Logis. The main object in having them at Bellevue was that they should enjoy the fresh air of the country; and when I was away my daughter was perfectly capable of looking after them. As for my Paris home, how could it be 'disorganised' when my husband, my daughter and myself were there frequently!"

In reply to a Question. "When, on the Saturday, May 30th, I returned from Bellevue, I stopped, as I have said, at the chemist's to fetch the various medicines Dr. Acheray had prescribed for my mother. At Potin's I bought a lobster, a pot of mayonnaise sauce, some cakes and some fruit. Then I walked straight home. My husband and I ate lobster, but my mother ate only a bit of it; she preferred coffee and milk and a slice of buttered toast. At Vert-Logis that evening my daughter Marthe was alone with the two little Buissons and Mariette, the old cook. The children usually went to bed at nine, and Mariette, as a rule, retired afterwards. But that night she had of course to await M. Buisson's arrival.

"At the Impasse Ronsin we dined that day at 7.30. Before dinner my mother and I had had a long chat about family affairs and plans, whilst my husband remained in his studio. The dinner was merry. My husband was unusually cheerful and content. He talked about various schemes to improve matters at the Boulogne Ceramics Company, and said he would go to Italy to copy some old faience. My husband drank some wine and water. After dinner none of us took any liqueurs. I went round the garden with my husband, and then we joined my mother, who was resting in the verandah. She suffered more and more in her legs; I took her shoes and stockings off and rubbed her with some vaseline. Towards 9 P.M. we all three went upstairs to bed. Before that, my husband had locked the doors—or rather the door, for he had only to close the verandah door. The door of the pantry, which it was the valet's duty to close, must, I suppose, have been closed by Couillard after we had retired. At the time when we went upstairs Couillard was washing up.

"According to the rule in force whenever we were at home, and which he had observed the previous night, Couillard was to sleep in his room on the third floor, near the attic. I supposed that, also according to custom, he had already handed back the revolver to my husband on the previous day (May 29th). But, after the drama, during the judicial investigation, I found that Couillard had not returned the revolver, for when questioned by M. Hamard (Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department) about the revolver, he, in my sight, took it from the pocket of his blue apron. I had told M. Hamard that my husband usually kept his revolver by him in his room, in the drawer of his bedside table, and it was because M. Hamard had been unable to find it that he had been led to ask Couillard some questions about it."

In reply to a Question. "I don't know at what time Rémy Couillard went to bed on the 30th May. That night my husband occupied his own bedroom. I was in my daughter's room, for I had given my bedroom to my mother so that she might be more comfortable, my daughter's bed being smaller than mine and my mother a little stout. Besides, whenever my mother stayed with us she occupied my bedroom. She slept in my daughter's room only when I was seriously ill in bed—in 1907 and 1908."

In reply to a Question. "On May 30th, my mother herself placed my rings, as we went to bed, in her room (my bed-room). I had taken them off downstairs on the verandah, when I rubbed my mother with vaseline. Just as we went upstairs, my husband told Couillard to bring up some 'grogs.'"

Question. "Was it a habit in your house to take 'grogs' at night?"

Answer. "No, it was not a habit. When I was tired, I took some hot water with rum, and in the evening of May 30th I was very tired. After dinner, when we chatted on the verandah, I had said I would drink a hot 'grog' before going to bed, and my husband and my mother said they would do the same. That was why my husband or I told Couillard to bring up some hot water, sugar, the bottle of rum, and three glasses. Why didn't we drink the 'grogs' downstairs? Because I wanted my mother to take hers while in bed. Rémy Couillard came up with a tray which he placed on a small table in the bath-room, and then he withdrew. When Rémy brought the tray, I was in the bath-room; my mother was in her room and already in bed. My husband was in his room, but not yet in bed. I called him. He put water and sugar in two glasses and I poured out the rum. Then my husband and I went together to my mother. She drank a little and placed the glass back on her bedside table. Before taking the 'grog' to my mother, I tasted the one my husband had prepared for himself. I thought it was too strong, and my husband added some hot water."

Question. "It was you who wanted a 'grog,' and now I find that no 'grog' was prepared for you, and of your husband's grog you only had a sip!"

(My counsel explained to me afterwards that the judge's idea was that I had put poison or some sleeping draught in those two grogs!)

Answer. "I intended preparing mine a little later, just as I was about to get into bed, so as to drink it quite hot. As a matter of fact, when I was in bed, I called my husband and he brought me my grog. He made me drink, then placed the glass—I don't remember where.

"After my mother had emptied her glass, I had sat down on her bed and we had chatted for a quarter of an hour. But as she and I were very tired and sleepy, I went to my room, and I was in bed when my husband brought me the grog."

Question. "Couillard has stated that your husband was already in bed when he brought up the tray. He saw that through the door of your husband's room, which was open."

Answer. "Couillard made a mistake. Besides, how could he have seen my husband in bed! There was no light in my husband's room."

Question. "There was a light in the bath-room where the valet placed the tray, and since the door of the bedroom was open, that bedroom must have been light enough."

Answer. "No, for the gas in the bath-room was only half turned on."

In reply to a Question. "At the end of my chat with my mother, I kissed her and said: 'Till to-morrow!' And when my husband brought me the grog, I bade him good-night and asked him to leave the door open, so that, if my mother felt ill during the night, she might easily be heard by us, I was dead tired and went to sleep almost at once."

Question. "Describe what you know of the crime."

Answer. "I started up out of my sleep, and felt something on my face. I then heard a man's voice saying: 'Tell us where your parents' money is....' Now, before I go any further, I would like to say that I cannot promise you to describe that terrible night in exactly the same words as I used when I described it on May 31st, a few hours after the crime.... I pulled the cloth off my head and face. There was a light in the room, and I saw three men and a woman: a dark man standing near me; a dark man by the door of the boudoir; a red-bearded man on the other side, that is, near the mantelpiece, and a red-haired woman near my bed.

"They repeated: 'Where is your parents' money?' Frightened, trembling, and seeing that the woman was pointing a revolver at my right temple, I said 'There'... and pointed to the boudoir; the woman remained near me, still holding the revolver against my head, and with her other hand she held my arm tightly.... I was terrified... I heard my mother cry out to me 'Meg, Meg!'... That gave me a little courage. Then the woman said, 'Come on, girl, be good. Tell us where the jewels are.' I was afraid to say they were in my mother's room (really my room), in the drawer of the wardrobe.... I said to them all 'Don't kill me! Say you won't kill any one....' Then they bound me and put a cloth on my face.... And that is all. I don't remember anything else...."

Question. "Have you really no other recollections?"

Answer. "I remember the appearance of those people. They had lanterns.... The man near the chimney had one, also the man near my bed. The man near the door of the boudoir held a revolver.... After they had bound me to the bed, one man climbed on me, stood on my body, and hurt me terribly. I could not cry because I was already gagged. They bound my hands.... At a certain moment, I don't remember when, I heard the twelve strokes of midnight.... I say midnight, but it was perhaps eleven o'clock. There were many, many strokes, that is all I can say. It was the big grandfather's clock in the hall... on the ground floor."

Question. "And that is all?"

Answer. "I can tell you what those people were like. The man near me had a long black beard. He was very pale, had dark eyes and a big nose. The man near the boudoir was also very dark, and his eyes were terrible. The one with the red beard looked rather stupid, bewildered, scared.... As for the red-haired woman, she was fearfully ugly, had black eyes, frizzy hair and a wicked mouth."

Question. "Is that all?"

Answer. "That is all I remember now."

Question. "What else?"

Answer. "Oh! their clothes, of course! They all wore long black gowns, even the woman. M. Hamard asked me if they wore smocks or ecclesiastical habits, gaberdines. I said the sleeves were flat, and the gowns were long, straight, all one piece, as it were. I saw no collars, no hands, only those black gaberdines... and then, the light of their lanterns dazzled me, and there were all those looking-glasses in the room, Marthe's room... and it all went so rapidly... I also received a blow on my head. It came from the side where the woman stood, but I could not tell if it was the woman that struck the blow.... I also heard a voice say: 'Finish her off!' They spoke.... One man said: 'No, leave the girl (la petite) alone. It was the woman who wanted to kill me.'"

Question. "Which of the men was it who spared you?"

Answer. "I don't know. My head was covered at the time. The man had a foreign accent. He had spoken before.... It was the man who had said: 'Tell us where your parents' money is.'"

In reply to a Question. "I felt them seize both my hands. They fastened them above and behind my head to the bars of the bed.... They bound my hands, separately, that is, my arms apart.... I felt a rope round my neck and there was a cloth on my head. They also bound my feet. I did not feel them bind me round the body; it was later on that I heard I had been bound round the body."

Question. "Did the ropes with which your hands were tied hurt you?"

Answer.. "My hands were not tightly bound. They did not hurt me mch."

Question. "Did the rope round the neck hurt?"

Answer. "No... I don't know. I was terrified. I thought that I had been blinded, that I was dead, that it was all over...."

Question. "Did the ropes round your feet hurt you?"

Answer. "Yes, very much. But I did not feel it at the time. It was only when I came back to my senses several times, and that was terrible."

In reply to a Question. "They gagged me with cottonwool, but I don't remember at what precise moment. The cottonwool was forced down my mouth. It nearly choked me and I thought I was dying. When I came back to my senses, I had an awful sensation of agony. I was stifling... I moved my arms, but felt that by doing so I was strangling myself; I felt that when I moved my arms either to the right or to the left, they acted upon the rope round my neck and I felt then a terrible pressure on my throat.... But when I did not move at all, the rope round my neck did not hurt. The cottonwool made breathing almost impossible. So I began to push it forward with my tongue. It was very difficult to remove the gag... I moved my tongue; I moved my jaw... I turned and twisted the cottonwool in my mouth and it was a long time before I could remove it. I even think I had not got rid of it all when the ropes were cut. The ropes round my hands were cut by Rémy Couillard, I believe. Whilst I moved the wadding with my tongue, my mouth was quite dry... I breathed as best I could.... No, I don't know whether I breathed with my nose only. I cannot remember things quite clearly. I came back to my senses several times, but it was only at daybreak, when I recovered a little, that I was able to remove the gag...."

Question. "When you moved your head, you say that those movements tightened the rope round your neck?"

Answer. "I felt I was strangling myself; but I tried to be brave.... I also tried to free my hands, but found it was impossible, for when I moved them the ropes tightened round my neck.... I did not know if the men were still there.... My mind was in a whirl.... But I had courage, for they had said they would not kill any one."

Question. "At what moment?"

Answer. "When they asked where the jewels were I had beseeched them to kill no one."

Question. "And they said they would not kill any one?"

Answer. "No, they didn't reply; but as they did not kill me I thought they had spared the lives of the others. I had heard no noise, and I did not think that either my husband or my mother was dead. I thought they had been gagged and bound like myself.... I called them I don't know how many times. They did not answer, and I waited for some one to come, and I was almost mad.... When did I call them? I don't know.... As soon as I could breathe, as soon as I began to realise that I was there, that I was alive... I had no strength left... I called as best I could...."

Question. "How did Rémy Couillard come to you in the morning?"

Answer. "I don't remember having called him.... When I saw him I was afraid of him.... When I saw him come near my bed I thought he was going to strangle me, and I don't remember having talked to him.... All I remember is that I saw him go to the window and shout 'Au voleur!' ('Thief, thief!')."

Question. "In what way do you suppose people might have entered your house on the night of May 30th-31st, 1908?"

Answer. "I suppose they entered by the gate in the Impasse, perhaps with the key which Couillard had lost. Then they must have passed through the pantry door. I suppose so, as I have since been told that that door had not been locked that night (for when M. Lecoq, a neighbour, heard Couillard's cries in the morning and came to the rescue, he had only to push that door to enter the house!); or perhaps they passed through the little kitchen window, for Couillard stated—and this also I heard later on—that he merely pulled that window to, without closing it, a thing he should never have done.... I have also been struck by the fact that a ladder was seen against the kitchen. None of us had seen that ladder there on May 30th."

Question. "Explain to us why there were hardly any traces of acts of violence on the bodies of the victims—that is, of your mother and your husband?"

Answer. "I cannot tell... I heard no struggle, no noise, that night...."

Question. "How do you explain that your husband was found with his legs bent under his thighs, in a kneeling position, and his arms stretched along his body, and that your mother had her arms resting on her breast—that is, in an attitude quite contrary to an attitude of defence?"

Answer. "How can I explain all this?... So much the better if they have not suffered too much...."

Question. "How do you explain that you were not made to share the fate of your mother and your husband?"

Answer. "Ah! I cannot understand that. In any case, I regret with all my heart that I was not killed.... My mother did not suffer much, it appears.... But I have been through constant agonies; and then there was that awful night of the tragedy, when I felt I was dying.... And all the time I was wondering what had happened to my mother and my husband.... Perhaps those people thought I would pull on the ropes and strangle myself... I don't know...."

Question. "How do you explain the fact that they could spare you when you were a dangerous witness—one who would be the more formidable, more implacable and relentless because the victims were your own mother and husband?"

Answer. "I don't know that they wanted me to live.... The way they had bound me meant death to me at the slightest movement. It needed a woman with my strong will—I was thinking of my Marthe—and also with my good health, to stand what I went through and live...."

Question. "On May 31st, at 6 A.M., Rémy Couillard saw that you were bound, but the ropes were tied in so indifferent a manner that they left on your wrists and ankles only superficial marks, marks that were not lasting. It was also found that the rope round your neck was rather loose."

Answer. "There is nothing extraordinary in the fact, since I did not move...."

oted from Dossier, Cote 3239.)

In reply to a Question. "Marthe had wished to send a little present to Lucie Ch.—on the occasion of her marriage which took place at the beginning of June (1908) (Lucie was the daughter of M. Ch., who had been for several years my most intimate friend). During the evening of May 30th (a few hours before the crime) either before or after dinner, I sent Couillard to M. Cher., with a card of Marthe's and a little Sèvres vase which I had in the cabinet of the drawing-room. I went upstairs to my room and packed the vase in some cottonwool. As a rule, I kept cottonwool in a small cabinet opposite the bed. I used all the cottonwool, then finding there was not enough to wrap up the vase properly, I fetched some more which was in a large boxroom on the same first floor. I had a great deal of cottonwool at home, on account of the fancy-work I did, especially small cushions...."

Question. "What was that cottonwool which on May 31st was found on the floor in the room where you were in bed?"

Answer. "I don't know.... I saw no cottonwool that morning. I only saw many people around me. In any case, there was no cottonwool in my room when I went to bed...."

In reply to a Question. "On the evening of May 30th, I don't remember who served out the soup, whether it was Couillard or myself.... Usually it was Couillard who did so."

Question. "In his report, Dr. Balthazard (the Home Office medical expert) has demonstrated that the gag was taken from the sheet of cottonwool which was found near the mantelpiece, in the room where you spent the night!"

Answer. "I have nothing to say on that point. It was only long after the drama that I was told that some cottonwool had been found in the room."

Question. "Dr. Balthazard further demonstrated by 'physical' and chemical processes, that the gag could not have been in your mouth not even for a few seconds, for it contained no traces of saliva!"

Answer. "Then the gag which Dr. Balthazard examined was not the one which had been so long in my mouth."

(Quoted from Dossier, Cotes 3308-3310.)

(And here I would quote a passage from the speech made by my counsel, Maître Antony Aubin, at my trial):

"In order to demonstrate that Mme. Steinheil was never gagged at all and that she lies, this is the argument used: There never was in Mme. Steinheil's room but one piece of cottonwool that might have been a gag, the piece that was on the pillow, on the right side of it. Now this gag was at once put under seal, on the spot, without any possible mistake. Handed later on to Dr. Balthazard, he found that it had never been wetted with saliva; therefore, the 'gag' on the pillow had never been in Mme. Steinheil's mouth.

"But an important question now arises. How many pieces of cottonwool were placed under seal, on the Sunday morning (May 31st)? Four. There was cottonwool everywhere, so much so that some one present remarked: 'One seems to walk on cottonwool.'

"Seal number one containing the gag 'which the criminals forced into Mme. Steinheil's mouth,' for those were the words written on the label attached to it—was put together without it being known by whom it (the gag) was picked up, who handed it to the Police Commissary, without its identity being ascertained if only by a question asked of Mme. Steinheil. No precaution was taken, there was no supervision—so that it is impossible to say whether the piece of cottonwool, placed under the seal, as 'having been forced into Mme. Steinheil's mouth,' is really the one which had been seen on her pillow, and which she herself pointed out.

"To demonstrate that the piece of cottonwool from the pillow and the one examined by Dr. Balthazard are not the same one is easy enough.

"The gag, which was seen by one or two witnesses near the pillow, was also seen by three or four other witnesses in various places—on the floor, on a chiffonier, on a small table! The gag wanders about. But how can one wonder that, in the excitement which upset everybody—and everything—some mistake as to all those pieces of cottonwool occurred?

"There is another point. In what terms do the witnesses describe the wandering gag? As a gag made of one single piece (pear-shaped), as big as the fist. If then the one examined by the expert contains one single piece and answers to the description given, one will be able to admit that this gag, pear-shaped, and in one piece, is really the piece of wadding found on the pillow. But Doctor Balthazard himself described the piece of cottonwool he examined as follows: 'This gag is made of two pieces, one rectangular, the other triangular and almost equilateral.'

"How disastrous for the Prosecution.... Besides, gentlemen, if the whole thing had been a sham, Mme. Steinheil, knowing of course the difference in appearance between dry cottonwool and moistened cottonwool, would not have failed to wet it, if only for a few seconds, especially as it was she who drew attention to the gag!"

CHAPTER XIV
AFTER THE MURDER

I NEED hardly say that on Sunday, May 31st, I was in a terrible state of mind, and even on the verge of utter collapse.

At 6 A.M., it appears, Rémy Couillard came down, saw what had happened, went to the window and cried for help, and M. Lecoq, a neighbour, then joined him. Then the police came, also Dr. Acheray, and many others....

I was in bed, after that night of horror and what I had gone through. I could hardly move or breathe. Everything seemed to whirl around me, and yet I had two thoughts. One was: "What had happened to my mother and my husband, and how are they?" (I did not know, of course, that they had both been strangled.) Couillard—so I heard afterwards—after untying the ropes which held me to the bed, had gone with M. Lecoq to the other rooms, and seen the bodies of my husband and my mother, but they had said nothing to me about it.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I hereafter quote the evidence given by this M. Lecoq, so that the reader may be present, as it were, at the discovery of the crime.

This day, June 23rd, 1908, before us, Leydet, examining magistrate... has appeared, Lecoq, Maurice—twenty six years old—an engineer residing in the Impasse Ronsin, No. 6—who has stated:

On Sunday, May 31st, a little before 6 A.M., I heard shouts of "Thief! Thief!... My mistress is ill...." I hastily left my room which overlooks the yard of M. Bonnot's house. Rapidly I passed through a gate, which is never closed (separating the Bonnot and the Steinheil grounds) and entered the garden of the Steinheil villa. I cut across the lawn, and went and stood under the window from which Couillard was crying for help. He shouted, "Come, be quick!" I tried in vain to open the doors of the verandah and the drawing-room, which opened on to the garden. Finding I could not enter, I returned to the place under the window, and Couillard said to me: "Open the street door and pass through the kitchen." I went to the door in the Impasse Ronsin, and opened it by lifting up the lower latch. Then I walked to the pantry door, which I opened by merely turning the knob. I went through the hall, where I noticed nothing unusual, then walked up to the first floor. At the end of the staircase I saw the door of Mme. Steinheil's room, whom I had never seen, although she is a neighbour of mine. She was on her bed. At the same time Couillard left the window and went near the bed.

Mme. Steinheil then exclaimed: "We are saved, my poor Rémy!" and the latter said: "Look at my poor mistress...." Mme. Steinheil was in a state of extreme agitation, and kept swinging her arms one way and another. Her wrists and her head were free.... There were cords round her neck, not tight, and over her nightshirt. Her feet were still strongly fastened to the rails of the bed, but the cords did not press very tightly on the articulations. Rémy and I undid the cords (Couillard had before undone the other cords), and then Mme. Steinheil, panting, with haggard eyes, said in broken words—and she had several times the vision of the scenes which she was describing—that she had been assailed and ill-treated by three men and a horrible woman who took her for her daughter, and who had asked for her money. She also said that the woman wanted her to be killed. She said she suffered from her head, and wailed: "My head, my head, they have struck me." I touched her hair, but found no wound. Mme. Steinheil also said: "My husband... why does he not come?" I replied to calm her, "He is in the next room." Later, she asked for her daughter. She was a prey to constant terror, and all the time she lived through the scene of the night. Several times she cried: "I am afraid, I am afraid...." And when I told her: "Don't fear anything, I am here; I will go for assistance," she kept saying, "I don't fear you, but oh! that fierce woman, and those men, and those two lanterns." I left her for a short while, to go and find out what had happened in the house. The door of M. Steinheil's room was open, and I saw the body of a man, wearing only a shirt, in the space between two rooms (M. Steinheil's room and the bath-room). I returned to Mme. Steinheil's room, and taking the valet aside, I said to him: "There is a dead man, who is he?" Overwhelmed, Couillard replied: "It is perhaps my master." Since then, Couillard has told me that when he went through the rooms he had passed over the body of his master without noticing it was a corpse. I then returned to that body, and Couillard followed me at a distance. I bent forward, and placing my hand on his thigh, I found it was icy cold. I at once undid the cord round the neck, however, whilst realising that M. Steinheil had ceased to live. I then returned to Mme. Steinheil who had remained alone during those brief moments. A little later I took Couillard aside. He was all the time walking up and down the room, as if he were mad, and did nothing, although his mistress was asking, with great insistence, for Dr. Acheray.

I asked Rémy: "How many are you in the house?" He replied: "Three, without counting me." I then said: "Where is the third person?" He pointed to the door opposite that of M. Steinheil's room, and said: "There!" I found that the door was locked and that I could not open it. When I had asked for the way into the room, Couillard pointed, with a vague gesture to the end of the corridor; he was quite distracted, and a sudden suspicion flashed through my mind. I took him by the arms, and looking him straight in the eyes, said: "You must come with me." Couillard, who did not realise my suspicions, showed that he was quite ready to follow me, and my suspicions vanished entirely. At that moment there arrived, at the top of the staircase, the first policeman, and M. Geoffroy (son-in-law of Mariette Wolff, my cook—and a neighbour). I rapidly told the policeman all I knew, and together we walked to the end of the corridor. The policeman opened the door indicated by Couillard, and from the threshold we saw the body of Mme. Japy lying across her bed in the position where you (M. Leydet) found it.

Then other persons arrived. I remained some time near Mme. Steinheil, who was still in a state of great agitation, but whose terror was gradually diminishing. Doctor Puech arrived on the scene, but Mme. Steinheil asked for her own doctor, M. Acheray, whom Couillard had now gone to fetch.

Question. "What impression did Mme. Steinheil, whom you had never seen before, make on you as regards her age?"

Answer. "I had two strong impressions. When I entered the room where Mme. Steinheil was lying I thought I stood before a young lady of about twenty: but when she talked about her husband and her daughter and when I observed her more closely she appeared to me as a woman of twenty-six. I don't know the Steinheils, and did not even know their names."

Signed Lecoq
Leydet.
(Dossier, Cote 71.)

In spite of this statement—and although it must seem evident to any one that if, after such a night of terror and agony, M. Lecoq took me for a girl of twenty, the murderers, who saw me in a dimmer light and when I was quietly resting, may easily have taken me for my daughter—the Prosecution declared (I quote from the Indictment itself) that: "She thought she was spared because the assassins, taking her for Marthe, took pity on her youth. Such a confusion is most unlikely, for Mme. Steinheil could not be taken for a young lady barely seventeen."

While the reader has still fresh in his—or her—mind the details of the crime, I will give all explanations on the matter of the "binding," as I have given those about the "gag."

The Indictment said: "The inquiries of medical experts have revealed quite early the contradictions and lies of Mme. Steinheil. She claimed that a cord had been fastened round her neck—but there were no traces of it." Elsewhere the same extraordinary Indictment declares: "Mme. Steinheil did her best to make the law believe that she had really been bound; but the traces left by the cords disappeared too rapidly to allow any one to believe in her statement."

How was I bound?

M. Lecoq declared that the cords round my feet were "securely fastened" to the bed. Couillard stated that "the cord went round the feet seven or eight times," and also that "the wrists were fastened over one another to the rails of the top of the bed, the arms being raised above and behind the head." (Dossier, Cote 3257.) Couillard further stated "the head was held by a cord fastened to the railings of the bed." True, on another occasion Couillard declared he "had unfastened the cords by pulling on one end, as one undoes the knot of bootlaces." But on the morning of May 31st he made some statements to one of the policemen, M. Debacq, who declared afterwards: "The valet told me and my colleagues that he had found his mistress entirely secured with cords, and that he had cut the cords with which she was bound." The expert, Doctor Balthazard, made a special report in which he asserted that one of the cords had a knot of a kind called "galley-knot" (nœud de galère) which it is most difficult to make and which is only used in certain professions (sailors, horse-dealers, &c.). Dr. Courtois-Suffit mentioned "grooves on the feet and hands, corresponding to the diameter of the cords." Dr. Lefevre, who had made the remark, so dangerous to my cause: "It is all a sham" (c'est de la frime), explained at my trial what he had exactly meant. His idea was that the way I had been bound could not be a source of great pain to me. Dr. Acheray found on my wrists and ankles "very clear and marked traces." In his report, dated June 23rd, 1908, Dr. Lefevre stated: "I found on the wrists and the ankles parallel lineal ecchymoses."

Finally, as regards the cord round my neck which the prosecution said left no traces and was quite loose, I will merely say that I myself stated that "the cord did not hurt when I did not move my head," and further that it was wound round my neck over the cloth which covered my head. When that cloth, which formed a kind of pad at the neck, was removed, the cord of course slipped down and became loose.

As I have stated, my first thoughts on that dreadful morning of May 31st, 1908, was for my mother and my husband.

My next thought was: What has been stolen during the night?—for, I repeat it, I could not guess that a murder had been committed.

Here I must hasten to state a most important point in the events of that fatal night....

One of the men of black gaberdines, the dark, tall man who stood near my bed when I was started out of my sleep, the only man who spoke—he had, or pretended to have, a foreign accent—the man who had asked for the money when he came near me a second time (for I had been left alone at one time with the horrible red-haired woman who pointed a revolver at my head), that man, after the woman had said: "Now then, girl, tell us where the jewels are," asked me in a peremptory tone. "And where are the pearls and the papers?" And I thought the man knew who I was, although from his first question ("Where is your parents' money?") it was clear he took me for my daughter. I was more terrified than ever. I thought of the mysterious German, of my husband's reticence, and also of his indiscretions.... The man knew I had those pearls, and knew about the documents!

When asked where the money was, I had pointed to the boudoir, close to the room where my mother slept. Afterwards the red-haired woman asked me where the jewels were. As I have stated before, quoting from the evidence I gave seven months after the murder to M. André, examining magistrate, "I dreaded to say that the jewels were in my mother's room (that is, in my bedroom, where my mother slept), and that they were in the drawer of the wardrobe...." But, fearing to be killed, I said it, adding: "Don't kill me, and promise to kill no one." When the tall, dark man, with the foreign accent, asked me about "the pearls and the papers:" I said the pearls were with the other jewels, and the papers in the secret drawer of the desk....

I was told, later on, that the drawers, on May 31st, were found in a state of great disorder, and that all the jewel-cases were empty. Three rings had been stolen, and a diamond crescent, and a few other jewels. The pearls had also disappeared from the case in which I kept them. I found this out when all the cases were shown to me.

(As for the talisman, the gold locket which the President had worn, it was in the drawer of a cupboard in the studio, and was not stolen.)

As I have already stated, after the conversation with M. de Balincourt about my husband's indiscretion, I had removed the "papers" from the drawer of the writing-table in the boudoir, where I had so long kept them, and had put them in a place of safety.

The money, the jewels, and the pearls disappeared that night, and also the documents. Not the genuine bundle, of course, but the dummy, on which I had written: "Private papers. To be burned after my death."

Early in the morning, the police-commissary of the district, M. Bouchotte, asked me all kinds of questions. I replied to them all, but I did not speak the whole truth: I said that I had been asked for the money and the jewels, but I did not add that I had further been asked for the pearls and the papers.

Why I did not must have already occurred to the reader.

I knew that my real friends had always refused to believe in anything that had been said against me as regards my past life and my private affairs. And I did not want them to alter their views about me, and know that I had not been faithful to my husband. And above all, there was Marthe, my only child, my beloved daughter! She was engaged to Pierre Buisson. If I mentioned the pearls and the documents, the truth about my "friendship" with the late President Félix Faure was sure to be discovered and disclosed, not only to my friends who had always taken my part, but even to my own child, and to her betrothed. There would be a terrible scandal, my daughter's marriage would be broken off.... Although I was at the time almost out of my mind, after the pain I had endured, and the terror of the night, I fully realised the danger of mentioning the pearls and the documents, and so I held my tongue.

Not only the police-commissary, but M. Leydet, the examining magistrate, and other officials came that morning and asked a number of questions.

I was pleased—if one can be pleased in such tragic circumstances!—to see that M. Leydet was the judge in charge of the case. I had known him for several years; he was a great friend of both my husband and myself and came frequently to the house. I made up my mind that I would tell him the whole truth, if the three men and the red-haired woman could not be traced.

But for the moment I was haunted by thoughts of my mother and my husband, and ill though I was, I would go to them and attend to them. I had repeatedly asked how they were, and I had been told they were "better."

It was during the afternoon that the horrible news that they had both been murdered was gradually broken to me. My whole being reeled under this overwhelming blow. I wanted to rush to my dear dead, to look upon them, guard them, close their eyes—but they would not let me.... They said I was too weak, too ill.... They said it was impossible.... (Several weeks later, I heard that the two bodies had been taken to the Morgue for the autopsy during the morning of May 31st).... And all the time, I had to reply to endless questions.... They wanted to know what had been taken, and so I asked that the drawers and all the jewel-cases should be brought to me. Detectives brought them in and put them on my bed. I then saw that all the jewels which President Faure had given me had been stolen, and the pearls too.... M. Leydet seeing how upset I was, did his best to calm me.... I said to him: "There is a secret recess in the drawing-room wall, behind the dresser.... If you will bring to me what you find in there, I shall be better able to tell you what has been stolen during the night...."

I besought M. Leydet to send for my daughter, who was at Bellevue. I thought: "As this has no importance, what does it matter whether the jewels are found or not? I need my daughter and she needs me to give her courage after the awful shock of losing her father and her grandmother. She worshipped them both...." Alas! how ill the poor darling looked when she arrived in the evening with the Buissons. (Mariette had come from Bellevue in the morning, having been summoned by Dr. Acheray. She had left Marthe with the Buissons, and it was they who broke the dreadful news to the child during the afternoon.)

It was Dr. Acheray who told me that Marthe had come, and at the same time he said there was a motor-ambulance downstairs to take me away.... He did not want me to stay in the house where the ghastly murders had been committed. "You must go," he said, "and stay with the Buissons" (in Paris).

"If you will not let me see my mother and my husband," I replied, "allow me at least the consolation of remaining near them".... I insisted so much that the ambulance was sent back, and my poor little Marthe, after spending some time with me, went away—with M. Buisson, I believe.

I passed a terrible night.... I longed to sleep, to forget the harrowing drama, if only for an hour, but I could not. And minute after minute hundreds of thoughts flashed through my mind.... I lived through the fatal night again and again; I thought of the dead, of my daughter, of the future.... And then I wondered who were the three men in black gaberdines and soft felt hats? Who was the red-haired woman? Why had they killed my mother and my husband? Why had I been spared?... I thought of the mysterious "German," of his threatening look... he knew his way about the house.... And a key had been lost.... I thought of many officials who hated me because I knew their secrets. I thought of the documents which one of the men had demanded.... Perhaps they had killed my husband before awaking me?... Not my mother, for she had cried "Meg, Meg!"... I had heard her.... Sometimes, it seemed to me that the fatal night had only been a nightmare? Nothing had happened. I was mad, I imagined things.... Of course, my husband was now quietly sleeping in his room, and if I called my mother she would hear and come to me at once.... And then, the acute pain from the blow I had received on the head, and feeling that there had been ropes round my neck, my feet, my hands, and wadding in my mouth, that I had been bound and gagged.... And once more I lived through the night of terror, and it was worse than before, for I knew now that my husband and my mother had been killed....

Later, I was told that Dr. Acheray, M. Buisson and his wife, and the elder M. Boeswilwald had attended me during that night of agony. I heard that the doctor had to give me morphia injections two or three times, and that I was very near to death....

On the Monday, thanks to my doctor's care and devotion, I came back to life, as it were.... And I can frankly say that I have regretted it since, more than once.

Many people visited the house. A magistrate came to "affix the seals." Detectives and policemen came... and journalists.... I was still so ill, however, that the doctor insisted that I should be taken to some nursing home or to the house of friends. Count and Countess d'Arlon offered me their hospitality, and so did M. and Mme. Buisson. I accepted the offer of the d'Arlons, who, unlike the Buissons, had no children.

Letters and telegrams of condolence arrived in piles, from every part of France and from people in every walk of life. This I only knew because I was told. I had not the strength to read the messages.

On June 2nd I was told that my mother's body had been removed to a Protestant, and my husband's to a Catholic, church. (They dared not tell me the bodies were at the Morgue.) It was then, and only then, that I yielded to the pressing entreaties of the d'Arlons. I was taken to their house in an ambulance. It was terrible to me to leave that house where less than forty-eight hours before I had been chatting with my husband about our summer.... In the garden I saw the rose-trees laden with white roses, which my mother had so much admired only two days ago!...

In the Impasse there was an immense crowd, and another near the Ecole Militaire, near which the d'Arlons lived. The crowd were hostile. What did it mean?... I could not understand.... Again I thought of the documents, of the pearls.... Mme. Buisson, who was with me in the ambulance, trembled with fear.... Later I was told that we had been escorted by detectives, to protect me!...

At last I arrived at the d'Arlons. Marthe was there. She was so very tender and affectionate, and I realised that she knew nothing about my life, about Félix Faure.... There was no semblance of reproach in her pure little face, no question in her big brown eyes.... I breathed again.

On the Wednesday (June 3rd), Dr. Acheray, finding I was worse, ordered a nurse. He also told me that I should soon be interrogated by M. Hamard and M. Leydet. "Tell them everything you know," he recommended; "the public seems to suspect you...."

I spent hours of torture. I wondered what I should say. I had already been asked about the jewels that had disappeared on the night of May 30th-31st. Was I to speak of those given me by M. B., the Attorney-General, and years later by President Faure (which had been stolen), and most of which were exactly copied from those my husband had given me, but set with more valuable stones?... But if I did, my reputation would be ruined in the eyes of my daughter, who worshipped her mother and who was engaged to be married, and of many friends who believed implicitly in me.... No, no, since the jewels had been stolen I would describe them without saying whence they came, and I would alter the duplicates I had at Bellevue.