My Memoirs Part 24

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Ah! had my beloved father only been alive then! How he would have swept away this army of men who henceforth dogged my steps, hung pitilessly on my heels and hounded me down--and this not because they thought me guilty or innocent, not because they wished to a.s.sist me in finding the murderers--as they one and all proclaimed, in spoken and in written words (I possess all their letters in which I was nave enough to believe)--but because I represented, in this age of sensation, that priceless a.s.set, "good copy." They did not stop to think whether they were ruining me, sapping my health and my reason; it was nothing to them that by causing me for nearly two years what they called, with supreme jubilation, "The most talked of woman in the world," they inevitably paved the way for exaggerations and misrepresentations, and excited public opinion against me, for the world exaggerates what is bad rather than what is good, and scandal and murder have an exciting smack and flavour which n.o.ble qualities can never hope to possess. My intense love for my mother, the help I had given my husband in his work, the long weeks I had spent nursing him, the numberless services I had rendered not only to the needy and the poor, not only to my family and my husband's, but to friends, to important personages even, the difficulties I had surmounted by sheer will-power and devotion, the good side of my life, in short--all that was carefully ignored. Who wanted to hear about such trifles!... No, no, what every man and every woman wanted to find in the papers as soon as he or she got up in the morning and whilst enjoying their breakfast was, "What has _she_ said? What has she done?" And the public had to be catered for according to its taste.

Whether I had said or done nothing of the slightest importance did not matter. Nothing was without importance. The most common-place remark can be turned by a writer who knows his trade into a sensational, exclusive and lengthy article!... And when no journalist could approach me--well... they did not consider themselves beaten by such a trifle as that: they turned, twisted, triturated the statements I had made before--or was supposed to have made--until they could extract some fresh substance, some further sensation, to throw to their hungry readers.

The newspapers which showed themselves my worst and most unjust enemies did not do so at all times; that I readily admit. And there were a few, very few, journals who were impartial and fair to the end, among them the _Liberte_ and the _Temps_. But what is one to think of a country where newspapers are allowed to make almost any statements, whether only partly true, or even not true at all, when _before and even during_ a trial for murder they can, without being interfered with, deliberately rouse public opinion against the accused person; call him or her an a.s.sa.s.sin, discuss, a.n.a.lyse and comment, and make it difficult for a jury, who leaves the court after each sitting and go home and read the papers, to judge according to their conscience, however honest and clear-minded they may be!

During those days of unspeakable grief and pain, whilst I slowly recovered at the d'Arlons, my daughter was with me with her little friend Marguerite Buisson; and several friends came to see and console me, thank heaven!

The police came constantly. M. Pouce, one of the detectives, especially asked me details about the jewels. A list of the stolen ones had to be made, and I sent Marthe to the Impa.s.se Ronsin to fetch all the jewel-cases and whatever jewelry she could find in the secret recess in the dining-room wall, so as to be able to make out the required list. I had already enumerated the stolen jewels on May 31st, but only approximately, of course.

On June 10th, Mariette came from Bellevue with a number of things which I needed, and she also brought a small box containing the three rings given me by my husband, a diamond crescent, and the "new art" ring. I wanted these jewels to be safe in my keeping, for otherwise Marthe might have found them, and knowing about the rings which I said had been stolen, she would have asked questions which it would have been difficult for me to answer without arousing her suspicions about one side of my past life.

Two days later (June 12th) I sent for M. Souloy, the jeweller whom in the old days I had entrusted with the work of making the talisman. I wanted the rings to be altered, not only, of course, because I wanted to give "new" jewels to my daughter, but chiefly now because having given the list of the jewels without, for reasons I have explained, stating that there were duplicates of them, it was indispensable that the rings just brought from Bellevue should be made unrecognisable.

I did not realise at the time the danger of such a move and the serious consequences it might--and did--entail. I had been told that public opinion was against me; I did not quite understand what it meant. It did not occur to me that people could believe I had strangled my mother and my husband. How could such a monstrous idea have come into my head!...

My haunting thought was the love and esteem of my daughter, and, therefore, it was urgent that the jewels should be transformed.

Oh! I know that all the troubles which ensued, that all the complications and accusations about "the jewels" would have been avoided if only I had said on the morning after the crime: "They have stolen my mother's jewels--eleven in number." But no, I spoke the truth, never realising until afterwards how involved and even dangerous matters would become--I had spoken the truth. I said, after seeing the empty cases: "They stole my jewels...." As I have explained, I did not know then that murder had been committed. I thought the men in black gowns and the red-haired woman had only come to steal; and it was no pleasant surprise to find that these had disappeared, besides my mother's eleven jewels, seven jewels of mine including three rings worth at least 60 each, and a splendid diamond crescent worth quite 400.

M. Souloy came. I was ill, so ill that the doctors kept giving me sea-water injections, but there was no time to lose. I handed M. Souloy the jewels that Mariette had brought from Bellevue, and instructed him to use the stones to make some rings for my daughter.

"I will, Madame," said M. Souloy. "Only, you understand that the alterations will be shown in my books."

"Why, of course," I replied. "When I am better, I intend going to my villa at Bellevue, and when the jewels are in their new form and ready, you can send them to me there."

I talked frequently with those around me about the mysterious tragedy.

Some suggested that M. de Balincourt might possibly know who the culprits were; others told me that my valet probably knew a great deal more than I thought about the fatal night. I heard all kinds of arguments.... But I merely said: "If you have any proofs, if you are convinced of this one's or that one's partic.i.p.ation in the crime, go and say so to the police...." Would that I had always been so circ.u.mspect!

Pierre Buisson came every day, but was not allowed to see Marthe, and my poor child was bitterly grieved.... It was clear that the Buissons, however devoted to me, were annoyed by my increasing notoriety--and how could I blame them, although I certainly was not to blame for that notoriety--and thought it wise that the engagement between their son and my daughter should not be insisted upon until the murderers were arrested, and the "Impa.s.se Ronsin Mystery" solved and forgotten.

This separation, though merely temporary, was a new source of grief to me; I had lost my mother whom I adored, my husband who had been a good friend for nearly twenty years and for whom Marthe had a profound affection, several newspapers were publishing articles on the "Murder Mystery" which were full of almost transparent accusations against me.... And now I had to watch my only child, my little Marthe, suffer in her love, that pure and charming romance of hers, which reminded me of my own short-lived engagement to Lieutenant Sheffer, in dear Beaucourt, when I was Marthe's age!...

I begged Dr. Acheray to take me to Bellevue. It seemed to me that there, in the country, away from Paris and alone with my daughter, I should suffer less.... He agreed, and in the middle of June, that is, a fortnight after the crime, I was taken in an ambulance to Vert-Logis.

There I stayed with Marthe, a nurse, and Mariette Wolff, the old cook.

At my request, two detectives lived and slept at Vert-Logis. I was frightened, not without good reason, and wanted to feel protected. Also, I wished those men to observe every one who came to see me. It might prove useful....

Mariette loathed the police, and did not hesitate to say so. I myself did not like to have those men in the house, but I thought that Marthe and I were safer while they lived with us.

Meanwhile, the house in the Impa.s.se Ronsin was in the care of the _concierges_, and two detectives.

Every day, although I was far from well and still needed sea-water injections, the detectives at work on the mystery came to me for further information.

I did not feel happier at Bellevue. There can be no question of any degree of happiness when one lives through such days as those I went through at the time, but I certainly felt very hopeful, and I will now say why.

CHAPTER XV

THE BLACK GOWNS

"An extraordinary event has taken place, a series of facts have been discovered, every one of them of such importance in the 'Impa.s.se Ronsin Affair,' that the mystery is bound very soon to be cleared, and the three men in the black gowns and the red-haired woman you saw that night will be found and arrested.... We hold the clue of clues!"

These words were spoken to me at Bellevue on June 19th, 1908, three weeks after the crime, by one of the inspectors who almost daily called on me.

"What have you discovered, M. Pouce," I eagerly asked.

"I cannot, I must not tell you now. All I can say is that it is about the black gowns worn by the murderers...."

"Have they been found? Have their owners been traced?..." I was frantic with excitement.

"Madame, I am not allowed to speak on the matter. But I can tell you this: Your troubles will soon cease and the murderers will be in our hands.... Don't ask me any more questions. I cannot answer them. And now will you kindly look at this photograph, and tell me if you see any one there who reminds you... of some one."

The photograph represented a group of three persons: two men and a woman. I seemed to recognise one of the men, a bearded person with sharp shaped features and keen eyes.

"There is a striking likeness," I said, "between this man and the red-bearded individual who on the night of May 30th-31st, stood near the door of the corridor, in the room, and who never spoke."

M. Pouce showed his delight: "We are on the right track, madame," he said in tones of great satisfaction. "I thought that was one of the men." And once more he repeated: "We shall run the murderers down."

Inspector Pouce was mistaken and so was I--as I realised months afterwards--the bearded man of the photograph was not one of the murderers. He was Mr. Burlingham, an American journalist, and I will deal in another chapter with the story of this false scent.

It was several weeks after the day when Inspector Pouce showed me the photograph, that I learned all about the "extraordinary facts" which he had not been at liberty to reveal to me before, the facts which had made him a.s.sert that "the mystery would soon be unravelled."

When the reader has heard what those facts were he will not fail to admit that Inspector Pouce was right to call them "extraordinary"; they were indeed more than that; they were conclusive. Here they are:

_On Sunday_, _May 31st_, 1908, at about 10 P.M. a _controleur_ of the Paris _Metropolitain_ (Underground) called Villemant, picked up in a carriage of that railway two doc.u.ments which had some connection the one with the other.

One was a visiting card bearing the name of Mme. Mazeline, on which were written the address of two wig-makers and of a _theatrical costumier called Guilbert_, and a card of invitation to the exhibition of M.

Steinheil's paintings, in the Impa.s.se Ronsin. The two were together on the floor of the compartment, and had undoubtedly been lost by the same individual.

M. Villemant also stated that the seat where he had found the two doc.u.ments "had just been left by a young man, wearing a smock; that he appeared to be intoxicated, that he was playing with gold pieces, in his purse, and that the carriage was a 'first-cla.s.s' one!"

_Now, on May 30th, 1908, six hours before the murder, three black gowns and a long black cloak similar in all ways to those worn by the three men and the red-haired woman, which I had fully described, were stolen from the "Hebrew Theatre" in Paris, and it was from the very M.

Guilbert whose name and address were scribbled on the card found in the Underground together with the invitation card to M. Steinheil's exhibition, that the three black gowns and the long black cloak had been hired by the "Hebrew Theatre!_"

Why was I not told about all these important facts at once? Why did I only hear of them weeks and weeks after they had taken place?... That pa.s.ses my understanding.

I grant that they could not be disclosed to the newspapers, for though the Press is often very useful to the police--in giving the description, for instance, or publishing the portrait of some wanted person--it must be admitted that the publication of a clue which can be followed to a successful issue only if the criminals are unaware of what is going forward, is likely to defeat the object of the police.

Why this sensational discovery of the theft of the gaberdines, a few hours before the murder, was not revealed to the newspapers, although many published attacks--veiled and indirect but none the less transparent--against me, such a revelation would of course have proved my absolute innocence beyond all doubt. It seems to me an unpardonable act of cruelty not to have informed me of this most essential development in the mystery of the Impa.s.se Ronsin. It might have been necessary to swear me to secrecy, but was it not enough, in order to ensure my complete discretion, to tell me that the clue would lose all its value if I were in the least indiscreet! It might be objected that the conduct of the police was no business of mine. But my circ.u.mstances were unusual. Many newspapers were publishing articles which more or less roused public opinion against me. My narrative of the fatal night made thousands shrug their shoulders. It was "incredible" that men would disguise themselves in the manner I had described... I had "invented"

this "fantastic account"... and so forth. Now, the discovery of the theft--a few hours before the crime--of three black gowns which tallied in every way with that which I had given of the costumes worn by the murderers, completely vindicated me. And if the police did not wish to inform the public of this startling fact, they ought at least to have informed _me_, if only to give me the courage to withstand the dreadful insinuations of certain journals; to bear with equanimity the ordeal of all those suspicions in which I felt myself more and more enveloped. For then I should have felt that the time would soon come when it would be no longer against the interests of the public to let the whole world know that I had spoken the truth, to acquaint the public with the discovery of the theft at the Hebrew Theatre, and thus to proclaim my innocence and put an end to all attacks and suspicions.

Of the two cards so miraculously found by the Underground _controleur_ and handed by him to the police, one, as I have stated, was a card of invitation to my husband's exhibition, and the other bore the name of a certain Mme. Mazeline, and the addresses of two wig-makers and that of M. Guilbert, a theatrical costumier.