THE THRONE-ROOM
At the end of October--on the 25th, I believe--we left Bellevue, Marthe
and I, and returned to Paris, to the house in the Impasse Ronsin. The
chief alterations were completed, but there was still a great deal to do
in the way of decoration, plumbing, and so on, and the workmen came
every day.
I had been told the only way to stimulate investigations was to let the
Press take the matter in hand.... But before I did that I wished to make
one more attempt at interesting the law in the Impasse Ronsin case.
I called on the _Procureur de la République_, who was then M. Monnier,
at the Palace of Justice. Marthe accompanied me, and was present at the
interview, which I will relate with _absolute_ accuracy. M. Monnier, a
very small man, with an expressionless face, and eyes that seemed to
avoid meeting the eyes of those who addressed him, asked me what I
wished.
"I have come," I began, "to entreat you to give orders for the various
clues not to be abandoned, but followed up with the utmost vigour...."
The _Procureur_ seemed quite surprised. Then, without hesitation, and in
a lordly and lazy tone which clearly meant, "This affair does not
interest me in the least," he replied: "Madame, we are following up some
clues.... There's the Noretti clue--a friend of Mr. Burlingham--for
instance.... That person is in Nice.... If you want us to go on with
that clue it would be better for you to go to Nice yourself... and pay
your expenses, of course...."
I started and said: "What! I should pay to assist the law in tracing
the murderers!... Why! I have spent enough money as it is.... Even when
I was asked to go to Boulogne for that examination--which you know I
might have refused to go through, because of the state of my health--I
had to pay about one hundred francs out of my own pocket for the
motor-ambulance which took me!"...
The _Procureur_ then said: "I should not mention Boulogne, if I were
you.... Do you know that I prevented your arrest that day?"...
I could hardly believe what I heard. His cold hard words and tone stung
me into revolt, and I exclaimed: "I wish I had been arrested. There was
and there is nothing against me. You would have had to release me almost
immediately. I should have been vindicated, and all attacks would have
ceased.... You know there exists nothing against me!"...
"That's just why I prevented your arrest, Madame."
What could I reply to that. I shrugged my shoulders and waited. The
_Procureur_ pursued: "Really, why don't you keep quiet.... I fail to see
what you expect of life!... You have your daughter, you have still a few
friends.... What more do you want!... Also I read in the _New York
Herald_ that you are going to let part of your house--to wealthy
Americans, I presume?"...
"Do you waste your time, then, reading 'apartment' advertisements,
_Monsieur le Procureur_?" I remarked.... "As a matter of fact, I am
trying to let part of my house, but I have found no tenant yet.... There
are other people I am more anxious to find: the murderers.... Public
rumours, as you are well aware, give out that I am the guilty person,
and this must cease. The law must do its duty...."
Once again M. Monnier's eyebrows went up in surprise. He sighed, and
then, looking not at me but at my daughter, he replied, in the same
hopelessly slow and bored tone: "We do our very best, Madame, I assure
you.... I can only say you have the affection of your daughter, a few
friends, a pretty house, enough to live upon.... What more do you
want?... Really, really, you should never expect too much of life."
Indignant, I arose and, followed by Marthe, I walked to the door. There
I turned and retorted: "No, I am not satisfied. I do expect more of
life--above all, more justice. My daughter's life, my own, are being
ruined because you don't care to find the murderers. I shall go on
trying to trace them, even though the law, for some reason that I
ignore, is not inclined to search for them. You cannot deny, sir, that
certain clues have not been followed up as rapidly and as thoroughly as
they should have been."
Thereupon I left the room with my daughter.
My first remark applied, as the reader has no doubt guessed, to the
"stolen gowns." Who could deny that had something been done _at once_,
there would have been a great chance of tracing and arresting the
criminals? I do not say that it would have been an easy matter to watch
every person connected with the Hebrew Theatre, or to find out all who
were sufficiently conversant with the ways of the theatre to have been
likely to steal the three gowns and the cloak which a few hours later
were worn by the three men and the red-haired woman! But, whether an
easy or a difficult task, it ought at least to have been attempted--and
_at once_. The crime took place on May 30th-31st, 1908; the two cards
which led to the discovery that three gowns and one cloak had been
stolen from the Hebrew Theatre, were found in the Underground on the
next day, May 31st. Only on the 10th of June were M. Guilbert, and Mlle.
Rallet, M. Goldstein, M. Feinberg and others connected with the Hebrew
Theatre interrogated.... After that, nothing was done--except following
the Burlingham and Noretti clues which were an indirect outcome of the
affair of the stolen gowns--although one would think that any normal
mind would have thought that those stolen gowns held the key to the
whole mystery! It was only _after_ my arrest, in December 1908, and
during the early months of 1909, that, obviously in the hope of
destroying the importance of the "stolen gowns" affair, the various
witnesses connected with it were re-examined!... But what was the use of
these investigations, seven to ten months _after_ the discovery of the
theft--a discovery which exhibited beyond a shadow of doubt that my
account of the tragedy was accurate? The three men and the red-haired
woman were, of course, by that time out of reach.
Here let me quote some remarks made by Maître Antony Aubin at the trial,
on the subject of the law's unpardonable lack of enterprise in the
matter of the stolen gowns: "What I regret is that, during the first
days which followed the crime, the police did not make full
investigations--by order of the judge in charge of the murder
case--among those chorists of all nationalities in this cosmopolitan
group. What I regret is that this group, the most international one
conceivable--and therefore the most elusive was not carefully 'sifted,'
what I regret is that these nomads were allowed, during the first days
of June, to scatter themselves abroad without interference. What I
regret above all is that after so slight a search--nay, no search at
all, at a time when the mystery could have been cleared up, the
unfortunate woman was mercilessly tortured.... How she is to be pitied,
this poor woman, borne down under the weight of so many suspicions when
_thorough_ and _immediate_ investigations might have led to the
discovery of those who murdered her husband and her mother. Had it then
been forgotten that, not only did she give an exact description of the
stolen costumes, but that she had even mentioned the foreign accent of
one of the assassins and the Italian accent of the woman! Now, go and
try, throughout the world, to trace the wretches!"
And Maître Aubin, with relentless logic, added: "It would be rash to
assert that the criminals should not have been looked for outside the
staff of the Hebrew Theatre. Could they not have been amongst the group
of fifteen to twenty persons--artists' models, Montmartre types--who,
according to Mlle. Rallet, were at Guilbert's on the day when the
costumes were hired, on May 27th? Could not the order given that day
have been overheard, the messenger followed on the Saturday to the
theatre, where you (gentlemen of the jury) know how robbery, undeniably
the preface to the crime, was easy for any one. And could not this 'any
one' be found amongst the mixed crowd, chiefly composed of foreigners,
attending the performances at the Hebrew Theatre?"
[Illustration: A VIEW OF THE HOUSE IN THE IMPASSE RONSIN
The ten-foot windows of the studio only visible]
After the interview with M. Monnier, the Attorney-General, I returned
home, to the Impasse Ronsin, with Marthe. For many hours I turned the
problem over and over in my mind, and all the time I heard the words of
the _Procureur_: "You have your daughter, a few friends, a nice house...
what more do you want!"... Oh, that attitude of bored superiority and
indifference! Oh, the condescending _blasé_, supercilious manner in
which I had been told: "We do our very best, I assure you!"...
Meanwhile, life was made quite unbearable to both Marthe and me.
Insulting letters reached me day after day. Certain journals had begun
to tear away the almost transparent veil which so far had covered their
attacks of me, and the murderers were at large, undisturbed!... I should
hardly have been worthy to be called human if I had not been in a state
of rebellion against this intolerable position.
I had gone from Bellevue to see M. Hamard, but nothing had come from the
visit, and after my interview with M. Monnier, I went once more to the
head of the Criminal Investigation Department. Marthe was with me. The
darling insisted on following me everywhere, for two reasons which may
seem contradictory, but which nevertheless often go together: first,
because she dreaded to be alone, and was frightened to the verge of
collapse whenever I was away from her; and secondly, because she wanted
to give me courage.
M. Hamard seemed very much annoyed at seeing me, although he did not
make me wait. M. Chabrier, a cousin of my husband, had joined my
daughter and me, but they both had to remain in another room, for M.
Hamard received me alone. I explained to him the object of my visit,
urged him to give up half-hearted methods, and to see that no efforts
were spared in the search of the murderers. And I insisted on the
importance of the "Underground cards" clue.
M. Hamard spoke the same words as the _Procureur_: "Madame, I assure you
that we do our best...." He added a few, vague, common-place remarks,
but concluded in a different tone, and with genuine sincerity. "I will
look for the murderers until I find them!"
In spite of this last remark, I got a clear impression that the _Affaire
de l'Impasse Ronsin_, as I had been told, was _classée_.
On the way home I remained silent, but as we entered the garden, I took
my daughter in my arms, and said: "Marthe, I will fight to the end, come
what may. I owe it to you, to your father and your grandmother, and to
myself." She gave me a long kiss, and big tears rolled down her cheeks
as she whispered: "You are right, maman, the murderers will be found,
and... Pierre, perhaps, will come back to me!" She had not yet quite
forgotten him....
During the last days of October, I saw M. Marcel Hutin, who had often
told me that the Press was almighty, and that he placed himself at my
disposal. If the newspapers took up my case, the assassins would soon
fall into the hands of the police. I believed him. I would at that time
have believed any one who promised to help me to get at the truth.
Marthe, my few remaining friends, every member of my family,
inspectors--all advised me to go on with the case.... My mind was
irrevocably made up.
With M. Hutin's assistance, I wrote a letter to his newspaper, the _Echo
de Paris_. In that letter, which was published on October 31st, 1908, I
mentioned the lukewarmness and lethargy of those in charge of the case,
and solemnly asserted my intention of continuing investigations, and
avenging the dead. The letter created a deep sensation, and was
everywhere reproduced. My house was assailed by journalists; I was in
the hands of the Press.
* * * * *
On the day when the letter appeared, we went, Marthe and I, to the
cemetery at L'Hay, a little village in the neighbourhood of Paris, where
M. Steinheil was buried. Together we arranged the tomb, and decorated it
with flowers, and--prayed....
* * * * *
When we reached the Impasse in the afternoon, we found it invaded by a
score of journalists, who rushed to us and overwhelmed me with
questions... but I firmly declared that I had nothing to add, for the
present, to what I had said in my letter to the _Echo de Paris_.
Shortly afterwards, Marthe and I went by train to Breteuil, where my
brother Julien lived. We arrived there in the evening and had a long
conversation about the mystery. Like so many others, Julien thought a
campaign in the newspapers the only means of getting at the truth. "Tell
them what you know, what you think. Let them assist you in the search
for the murderers.... In less than a month our mother and your husband
will be avenged, and you will be triumphantly vindicated of all these
vile insinuations...."
Poor Julien--and poor me. In less than a month, I was... in prison!
The next morning--All Saints' Day--we ran through the newspapers--my
brother, Marthe, and I... and were astounded. In every one of them whole
columns were devoted to the murder mystery, to my letter published in
the _Echo de Paris_. Some approved; others criticised. Some praised my
courage; others made it clear that they considered this daring, reckless
move of mine a sign of my guilt! One journal--one which always knows
everything--probably irritated because my letter, re-opening the case,
as it were, had appeared elsewhere, described my visit to the cemetery
at L'Hay, and did not hesitate to say that I had driven there in a
closed carriage with drawn blinds, like a guilty person.... As a matter
of fact, as the weather was splendid, and I thought that the country air
would do both Marthe and me much good, we had driven to the cemetery in
an open carriage.
Is it difficult to realise the harm such an untruthful comment in a
newspaper, read by hundreds of thousands of persons, did to my case?
Marthe sobbed; my brother was furious, and I, profoundly hurt, wondered
what to do.
"Go and see Maître Aubin," Julien suggested, "and the sooner the
better...."
Marthe and I returned to Paris. I called on Maître Aubin, who I found
was reading the newspapers.
"I am bewildered," he began. "Why did you not tell me you were writing
to M. Hutin?"...
"I was told that the Press would help me.... My conscience is clear. I
fear nothing, and no one. We will succeed...."
"I have no doubt about it," said Maître Aubin.
"Until now, I have refused to talk to journalists, but in future I will
reply to all their questions, if only they will help me. And if certain
papers attack me, or publish false statements, you will have to put a
stop to it. The die is cast; I will go to the end of this mystery, and
reach the truth."
Maître Aubin was somewhat bewildered. At the same time I could see that
he was glad to find me so determined.
Shortly afterwards I went to the Palace of Justice to see M. Leydet and
M. Grandjean the _Procureur's Substitut_. Maître Aubin had written to
them that, dissatisfied with the apparent sluggishness and indifference
with which the Impasse Ronsin case had been conducted, I had decided to
take him, Aubin, as _avocat-conseil_.
I entreated M. Grandjean to see things as they were: "Try to understand
my position," I said. "You are a friend of M. Buisson. You know exactly
what my circumstances are, and you, M. Leydet, have known me for
years.... Are you not both aware that the marriage of my daughter to M.
Buisson's son will be broken off unless we get at the truth? M. Buisson,
like every one else, is convinced that the affair has been abandoned....
_You_ can deny this... if it is wrong; you can declare that the
detectives are at work... if they are! You know that I am innocent.
Well, say so; do something.... It is your duty."
M. Grandjean, instead of replying to my question, stammered: "But,
Madame, it is appalling.... You have raised the newspapers; things are
in such a state that we cannot leave the Palace without being pestered
and mobbed by an army of reporters. Life for us has become an
inferno...."
"And what of _my_ life?" I exclaimed.
M. Grandjean did not seem to hear, and pursued: "The clues are now being
followed not only by our inspectors, but by the journalists, who take
it upon themselves to act as detectives!"...
I interrupted again: "That is what you hate; what frightens you.... You
are fully aware that you attached no importance to a great deal of
information I gave you on various suspicious persons who came to the
Impasse Ronsin, a few weeks before the crime, and about other facts and
clues. If you, at the time, did make a move in any direction, it was
because the attitude of the newspapers forced you to do so.... But it is
too late now, after five or six months, to ask for alibis from those
whom you suspect.... You shrug your shoulders. You look upon the matter
in the same way as your chief.... I am more and more convinced that the
case has been given up; I am even led to believe that it was given up
very shortly after the crime! Well then, M. Grandjean, if you refuse to
do what I have asked, I shall take the newspapers into my confidence,
and they will help me...."
Then, turning to M. Leydet, I added: "Will you kindly draw up a document
by which Maître Aubin becomes my _avocat-conseil_?"
M. Leydet, deeply moved, exclaimed: "I beg you to reflect, to wait...
before putting this affront on us.... I have spared no effort.... I am
an honest man...."
"I know that, M. Leydet," I replied. "But you have one great fault: you
are a friend of mine. It would have been better for the public if the
judge in charge of this case had been some one I did not know at all. I
have been told that there was some thought of arresting me after your
examination at Boulogne. If you had anything to do with preventing my
arrest, I am sorry, for you would have had to release me at once, and
then public opinion, satisfied that there was no case against me
whatever, would have taken my part instead of accusing me."
The paper making Maître Aubin my _avocat-conseil_ was duly signed.
* * * * *
A new life began for me, a life of indescribable activity, of feverish,
unending rushing to and fro, a nerve-racking life of hopes and fears,
of constant surprise and anxieties.... I received every day from fifty
to eighty visits from journalists belonging not only to the Parisian,
but to provincial and foreign newspapers as well. Each had his clue and
his theory; each had made some startling discovery and wanted my views
on it, each told me that his journal was the only one which was really
on my side, and each craved exclusive information.... I received them in
a house crowded with workmen who every few minutes came to ask for
instructions! Shoals of letters and telegrams reached me, from
journalists who assured me of their devotion, or wanted an immediate
reply to an "all-important" question. Anonymous letters came in greater
numbers than ever, some threatening my life and others denouncing
Couillard, Wolff, or Balincourt--as usual. And there were letters from
relations and acquaintances who spurred me on--as if I needed it!--and
assured me the murderers would be found, that the newspapers would
discover them, no matter what it cost to do so. Yet other letters,
thrown over my garden wall, and anonymous of course, dotted the lawns
and hung in the trees!... And I read them all eagerly....
Journalists arrived at the house as early as half-past seven in the
morning. Some called three or four times a day, and before returning
home late at night they would call once more to hear if anything had
happened that they would still have time to telephone before the papers
went to press.... I was most grateful to them all, for they were working
for me, and probably many of them were not responsible for the attacks
against me in the journals to which they belonged. "I supply facts,
Madame," one confessed to me, "but they are turned into anything that
suits the editor or his employers."
I went round to all the Parisian newspaper offices and spoke my mind,
and I thought that after this things would improve, and that fair and
truthful statements would be the rule in the future.
In the evening, when I returned home exhausted, I was dumbfounded when
M. Chabrier (a cousin of my husband and a post-office sorter, to whom I
had let an apartment in my house) told me: "Don't be too angry with the
_Matin_. Two of the journalists on the staff, M. de Labruyère and M.
Barby, are waiting to see you. They have been here the whole afternoon.
Be calm.... I believe they are well-disposed, they will help you....
Don't turn them out...."
I entered the house with Marthe. The table was laid for us in the
dining-room. I found these two men seated and waiting. I told them that
since I had said I would not be back till the evening, they should not
have presumed to spend the afternoon in my house, especially as the
journal to which they belonged was my bitterest foe. M. de Labruyère,
extolled the _Matin_, explained that it was only a matter of
misunderstanding, that M. Bunau-Varilla (the proprietor of the _Matin_)
was extremely sorry.... He showed me a letter of M. Marcel Hutin of the
_Echo de Paris_, in which the latter begged me to receive his friend and
advised me not to decline the assistance of the _Matin_.
I was rather surprised, for it is unusual for Parisian journalists on
the staff of rival newspapers to help one another in what they call a
"big story." True, M. de Labruyère and M. Hutin were great friends, but
I had seen so many instances of fierce rivalry amongst journalists
during the past few days, that I could hardly believe what I read.
At the time, however, I had full confidence in M. Hutin, who was on
excellent terms with a sculptor friend of mine, and, turning to the two
journalists, I said: "I am quite ready to believe in the goodwill of the
_Matin_. I shall continue reading the articles on my case which appear
in its columns, and shall judge from them whether that goodwill is
genuine."
M. de Labruyère then said: "Madame, M. Bunau-Varilla places at your
disposal as much money as you may want to follow all the clues that you
may suggest, and if you disbelieve me, please ask for an audience from
M. Bunau-Varilla."
Although I was tired out and in no mood to laugh, I could not help
smiling at the pompous, yet hushed tone of M. de Labruyère, when he
mentioned "an audience" with his almighty chief.
"I will think of it later on," I replied. "I wish first of all to see
how the _Matin_ will deal with the Impasse Ronsin affair and with me."
M. de Labruyère was about to leave when I was suddenly startled by the
flare and click of a flash-light. M. Barby had taken a flash-light
photograph of my daughter and myself. I was angry, but the wary M. de
Labruyère explained: "Believe me, Madame, nothing could be more useful
to your cause than the publication in our journal of a photograph of you
and Mdlle. Steinheil quietly dining together in this house where the
crime took place. People will think: if Mme. Steinheil can eat in the
place where her husband and her mother were murdered, then she must be
innocent." I shrugged my shoulders, and bade the two journalists
good-bye.
For awhile, I readily admit, the _Matin_ carried on a vigorous campaign,
which was in my favour, since it aimed at the truth, at the solution of
the mystery. The articles of M. de Labruyère had undoubtedly much to do
with the renewed activity of the police.
Meanwhile, the strain of my abnormal life, the constant excitement and
strife around me, the ceaseless questions of journalists and visits of
would-be advisers, the accumulation of clues, arguments, and
suggestions, lack of sleep, and the almost complete loss of appetite,
gradually brought me to a state of physical lassitude and mental
agitation that bordered on madness. I still wonder to this day if it was
that my distracted, tortured mind did not become unhinged sooner than
November 26th (1908), the date of what has been called in this harrowing
affair the "Night of the Confession," so easy was it for any one to
persuade me into believing or saying anything, anywhere, and at any
time.
When I left my house a crowd followed me and sometimes I heard a man or
woman shout: "There she is, the murderess!..." Some said: "No, no, leave
her alone!" I did not mind, I did not understand.... Nothing mattered.
There was but one thought in my mind: "_They_ will soon be found, and
Marthe and I will breathe again; we will be allowed to live--like all
other human beings...."
Journalists followed me wherever I went. I liked them, I smiled on
them, they were helping me, they were working with me, for me and
Marthe. I always did my best now to collect my thoughts and answer their
questions. M. de Labruyère begged me daily to come to the _Matin_
offices, and I went, half-heartedly, to tell him what he wanted to know.
When I did not go he came to fetch me, accompanied me in a motor-car, on
my errands, to my notary, to Maître Aubin, and on the way he
interrogated me, and wrote down every word I said, and probably much
else besides.... Sometimes I was quite normal, but these spells of
lucidity were daily growing scarcer....
One day, at the _Matin_ offices, M. de Labruyère telephoned directly to
the Minister of Justice to ask him for an "urgent audience" about me. I
was surprised, and said so, but he replied airily: "The Minister is an
old friend of ours. We do as we please, here, with the Government."
I felt there was something not quite clear in this, and I may say that
since the "Night of the Confession" I have been convinced that the
direct telephoning to the Minister of Justice was a put-up comedy to
impress me with the importance of the _Matin_--and I said to M. de
Labruyère: "I think it far simpler that I should call on the Minister.
He is sure to receive me, in the circumstances."
"No, no," came the hasty reply. "Let _us_ arrange it. Let Bunau-Varilla
arrange it. You must understand that Ministers must bow their heads
before us. Surely you know that we end Cabinets as easily as we make
them...."
Thereupon, he once more begged me to meet M. Bunau-Varilla. "He has been
rather vexed because you declined to see him.... But I am sure he will
at once grant you an audience, if you wish it."
I consented. After all, I might as well see this man with unlimited
powers, this Bunau-Varilla who "granted audiences" like a sovereign or a
Cabinet Minister.
I went down three steps which led from a vestibule to the
"audience-chamber." I found myself in a room of huge proportions, with
only a long, seemingly endless table and the chairs around it for
furniture. At the further end of the table stood a white-haired man,
white-bearded, in evening dress (it was 5 P.M.), erect, solemn,
gloomy--but not awe-inspiring. There was something in his attitude that
reminded me of the "Statue of the Commander" in Molière's "Don Juan."
We were alone. There was a long moment of silence. M. Bunau-Varilla
watched me with very keen eyes, and then remembering that I was a lady,
he pointed to a chair, with a would-be royal gesture, and uttered a few
words of welcome in an icy tone.
"I have just heard from M. de Labruyère," I said, "that you are sorry
not to have seen me before, but I have been attacked, defended,
re-attacked and re-defended by your journal, and before coming to you I
wished to find out what your final attitude was to be."
"The _Matin_, Madame," he replied, less icily, "is entirely at your
disposal. As you are no doubt aware, I am the master of public opinion.
I change it as I please, I play with it.... Your letter to the _Echo de
Paris_ proved to me that you are a woman with brains and character; it
pleased me. But I wish to tell you that I know a great deal about you
and your past life--more, indeed, than you suppose, and I must tell you
at once quite frankly that if you wish to find in me a real
defender--which I am anxious to be--I shall expect greater frankness
from you, fuller details--even confessions--about all you know that
might help us to trace the murderers."
As he spoke he looked me intently in the eyes, as if to intimidate me. I
thought, of course, that he was alluding to Félix Faure, to his death,
to all that I knew about the President and other prominent men, but
later I found out he had something else on his mind--the Rossignol
affair, with which I will deal in the next chapter.
In my turn I looked him straight in the eyes, and replied firmly:
"Monsieur Bunau-Varilla, if you expect great frankness of me, I expect
the same of you. You have just spoken as if you knew things which you
really do not know, but are anxious to know. Why are you not
plain-spoken and sincere, why don't you tell me what you do know; or
think you know?"
In the tone which Napoleon must have used when he congratulated one of
his generals, after a brilliant move on a battle-field, M. Bunau-Varilla
condescended to say: "Your firmness pleases me." Then he added, very
gently and soothingly: "But you are only a woman, and, in spite of your
courage, you need guidance. Let the _Matin_ be your guide. If you place
yourself in our hands you need fear nothing, and you are bound to reach
the goal you have in view."
Finding that the interview had lasted long enough, I rose, bowed
slightly, and left the Throne-Room.