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.