"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 Impa.s.se 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 att.i.tude 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 doc.u.ment by which Maitre 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 Maitre 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sured 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 Labruyere 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 Labruyere, 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 a.s.sistance 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 Labruyere 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 Labruyere 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 Labruyere, 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 Impa.s.se Ronsin affair and with me."

M. de Labruyere 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 Labruyere 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 Labruyere 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 acc.u.mulation of clues, arguments, and suggestions, lack of sleep, and the almost complete loss of appet.i.te, gradually brought me to a state of physical la.s.situde 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 Labruyere 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 Maitre 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 Labruyere 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 Labruyere: "I think it far simpler that I should call on the Minister.

He is sure to receive me, in the circ.u.mstances."

"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 att.i.tude that reminded me of the "Statue of the Commander" in Moliere'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 Labruyere," 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 att.i.tude 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 Felix 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.

CHAPTER XVIII

M. CHARLES SAUERWEIN AND THE ROSSIGNOL AFFAIR

The next day M. de Labruyere came with a gentleman I had never seen before. "This is M. Charles Sauerwein, who is a relation of yours and who knows you very well...."

M. Sauerwein, whom I did not know at all, interrupted his colleague: "I have often met you in Society, Madame. I married Mlle. K., who is a cousin of yours." He spoke in a tone which very much displeased me.

I told him he was mistaken: "Mlle. K. is not my cousin; she is only a close friend of my sister, Mme. Seyrig."

"Had I not been ill recently," said M. Sauerwein, "I would have called on you sooner to tell you all I know about the so-called mystery of the Impa.s.se Ronsin."

"I have seen many journalists," I said, "but I never saw you before. So you have left the Prince of Monaco, whose orderly officer you were, I have been told. You are now on the staff of the _Matin_.... Will you tell me in what way the Impa.s.se Ronsin mystery interests you?"

M. Sauerwein told me that he had been "pa.s.sionately interested in the Steinheil affair" from the outset, that he had spoken to M.