There were four small tables in our cell--three feet by one and a half--and Sister Leonide on a day when I was more profoundly dejected than usual gave them names to try to make me laugh: the _drawing-room table_ (also called _dressing-table_) on which stood the mimosa in its ink-bottle and the photographs of my daughter and my mother; the _dining-room table_ used for our meals; the _library table_ on which we wrote our letters and the _work-table_ for our sewing. Marthe once brought me some material to repair a petticoat, but there was more than necessary, and with the extra material I made a cover for the drawing-room table; and Sister Leonide occasionally gave us some sheets of white or brown paper to lay on the "dining-room" table.

After each meal we opened the window, whatever the weather might be, and gave crumbs of bread to the sparrows and the pigeons. When for some reason or other, we were late in doing so, the birds would knock at the window with their beaks through the wire-trellis.

At night, besides the c.o.c.kroaches, there were the cats to prevent one from sleeping. Saint-Lazare is so infested with rats that scores of cats are kept to destroy them. Moreover, almost every Sister has a cat as a companion.

In the evening before the cells were locked and bolted for the night--after the prisoners had emptied their basins and filled their jugs with water--one or the other of the Sisters, and sometimes two or three of them, came to spend five minutes, at most, with me.... I looked forward all day to those five minutes.

After that, I used to go to the end of the Boulevard of the Cells, to watch the Sisters go to evening prayer. I loved those Sisters. Their life was like that of the prisoners; they lived in similar cells, ate the same food, were insulted by the women just as I and others were, but they remained quite unruffled and patient.... The mere sight of them did me good.

I watched the night procession through the bars of the gate.... The _abbe_ came first, followed by the Sister Superior and then all the Sisters.... They went in single file, their heads bent down, their arms hanging by their sides, slowly, silently. The only noise was the soft jingling of the bunches of keys hanging from their waists, of their large ebony crosses, and of the beads of their rosaries....

In the shadow I could not see their black gowns; I only saw their white cornettes, which looked like the white wings of birds, and under each cornette there was a serene face, beautiful because the eyes were pure and the soul was filled with charity and the love of G.o.d.

Sixty Sisters pa.s.sed thus, and as they went by the heavy iron gate through which I was watching, each Sister raised her head and faintly, divinely smiled at me as if to say: "I will pray for you in the chapel...."

I forgot my misery; I forgot that I was accused of murder;... I returned to my cell and from behind the bars of my open window, I listened to the songs and prayers.... Then I lit my candle, went to bed and read a page of the Bible....

Firmin, afterwards, would talk with me. We whispered.... But sometimes we forgot, and spoke too loudly... and in the night we heard the voice of the Sister on duty in the Boulevard of the Cells, saying slowly, monotonously: "Silence... silence... silence...."

CHAPTER XXV.

THE "INSTRUCTION"

From December 5th, 1907, to March 13th, 1909, my "Instruction" took place in the Palace of Justice, in the Cabinet of M. Andre, the Examining Magistrate.... I am not superst.i.tious, but I state for the sake of those interested in such coincidences, that the cell to which I was taken after my arrest was cell No. 13, that my _Instruction_ lasted 13 weeks, that my final interrogatory took place on March 13, and that the jury returned to decide my fate on November 13 (1909).

As I have already explained, what is called the "Instruction" in France is the preliminary but exhaustive, definite inquiry into a crime.

Before my first appearance at the Palace of Justice, Maitre Aubin came to Saint-Lazare.

"The _Instruction_ will begin to-day, Madame. Summon to your a.s.sistance all the courage you possess. Andre is no genius; but he is a relentless, pertinacious judge who will do his utmost to make you contradict yourself and draw terrible conclusions against you from those contradictions. You are innocent, but he will make you feel that you are guilty; every hesitation, every slip, however unconscious or unimportant, every reticence will become formidable weapons in his hands. Don't accuse any one--Couillard or Wolff, or Balincourt. Even though he examines your private life--and he is sure to do that--don't mention your 'friendship' with M. B., the Attorney-General, or your intimacy with President Faure. They would only irritate him. Besides, if you did, he would only change the subject of 'conversation.' You must forget that you have received in your Salon, Ministers of State and Diplomatists, eminent politicians and eminent judges, even though you are asked who came to your house. Just reply to Andre's question and nothing else. Say merely 'Yes,' or 'No,' whenever possible, for he will twist your replies as often as he can do it 'legally,' into something damaging to your case. I know that he is absolutely convinced that you are guilty and he will do his best to make even you believe it! It is scandalous, infamous, and everything else you like to call it, Madame, but I can't help it!"

I was bewildered!

Marthe came that same morning to give me courage, and also Pastor Arboux, Sur Leonide and one or two other Sisters accompanied me, on my way to the prison door, as far as they could, and they, too, spoke many kind words to me.

Downstairs, under the porch, I saw three of the inspectors I knew so well, waiting for me. I was told to enter a taxi. One of the inspectors sat near the driver and the other two men inside with me. They were armed with revolvers, and looked anxiously through the windows.... They feared the crowd, but our journey was uneventful.

"Have you discovered anything?" I asked them. "Have you found any new clue? Are you on the tracks of the murderers, at last?..."

"Alas, no, Madame."

"Will the _Instruction_ be very long?"

"Most likely it will. Ah! that judge! He is making all kinds of investigations. He sends us to all kinds of places. We don't get a rest.

M. Andre is killing us!..."

"So much the better!" I replied in my eagerness.

The two inspectors laughed.... That was the first laughter I had heard since Ghirelli and Rosselli had burst into endless laughter because I did not know that the coffee was sold ready prepared.

We reached the _Depot_ near the Sainte Chapelle, the stained windows of which I saw from a distance; and I thought of the day when I took Marthe to that marvellous Gothic jewel to admire her grandfather's work. The inspectors, after wishing me "good luck," entrusted me to the care of the _portier_ who in his turn led me to the Sisters' gate. The _portier_, too, was kind and polite. A man of middle age with clean-cut features and grey hair, he saluted me in the military fashion.... Every time I came to the _Depot_, he had a good word for me, and these little attentions were a source of great comfort to me, who, at Saint-Lazare, heard day after day the foulest and vilest insults.

A Sister took me to a small cell, and locked the door on me. But it was soon opened again, and I heard a voice say, "The Sister Superior." I looked up and was transfixed. I have seen many beautiful women, both in life and in art, but none could have compared in divine loveliness with the woman who entered my cell at that _Depot_. The oval of her face was perfect, her eyes, which seemed like liquid and transparent turquoises, neither blue nor green, were exquisite.... Her voice was the most musical I had ever heard. Her refined and shapely hands were poems of loveliness. But her supreme charm was her expression. It was not of this world; it was too n.o.ble, too lofty, and, above all, too serene....

Later, when we had often spoken together, I begged her, discreetly, hesitatingly, to tell me about herself. She merely said, "I am the Sister Superior of the _Depot_... and I have suffered a great deal in the past...." I never dared ask her another question, but I have often wondered what great lady she was... and to what great sorrow she referred....

My cell at the _Depot_ was even worse than my cell at Saint-Lazare. It was small and low, and had only an air-hole for window; there was a bed, a board fastened into the wall, used as a table, and a three-legged stool held to the floor by a chain.... But when the Sister Superior entered the cell, everything seemed radiant and beautiful.

She coaxed me into eating a little, asked me a few questions about my daughter, and comforted me.

Then the Director of the _Depot_ entered, a tall, well-dressed, stern-faced man, with the look of the officer about him. He, too, compelled me to eat: "The _Instruction_ will exhaust you. You will need a great deal of physical as well as moral strength." After he had gone, the Sister Superior advised me to lie down on the bed until I was sent for, and I did as she told me.

A sister came to fetch me, and led me to a door where two soldiers of the Munic.i.p.al Guard were waiting for me. It was an awful blow to me. I did not mind the inspectors. I knew and liked them, and they had long worked with and for me... but a soldier on either side of me!...

They saluted me, however, and later, when I asked one of them why he always saluted me, a prisoner accused of murder, as he would an officer, he replied: "I don't know myself, I'm sure, Madame... but there, I can't help it."

The two guards took me along a pa.s.sage. We pa.s.sed before a row of cages, inside which were men with horrid faces. They shouted at me through the bars, and the guards told me to hasten.... I learned afterwards that the official name of this pa.s.sage lined with cages is "_La Souriciere_"--the "mouse-trap."

We reached another building. The authorities were so afraid of enterprising journalists that guards had been posted at every door, a precaution, however, which did not prevent a photographer--on the _Matin_ staff, of course--who had climbed up to a carved-stone ledge above a door at the top of a staircase, from taking a snapshot of me as I walked up the steps between the guards!... I confess, however, that I was so frightened for the man's safety in his perilous position, that I forgot to be angry.

I entered a room where I found my three counsel. After a few words of encouragement, Maitre Aubin took me to Judge Andre's Cabinet.

I felt miserable, ashamed, and indignant.

I saw M. Andre. He wore a frock-coat and a black tie. He seemed a man of about fifty, was very stout, with a red, congested face, and a greyish beard. His hair was dark and spare. His eyes seemed to jump about behind the pince-nez, and they seldom looked straight at any one.

"Sit down!" he ordered. His voice was even more vulgar and aggressive than his appearance.

He sat at a long table, with my counsel behind him; opposite him sat his clerk, M. Simon, who wrote down the main questions and answers. I sat at one end of the table, with the two munic.i.p.al guards behind me, and opposite, at the other end of the table, was the window, so that the light struck me straight in the face.

M. Simon, the _greffier_, was middle-aged, slim, and had a shrewd, pleasant face. He was calm, methodical, and kind. How many times, during that bewildering and painful _Instruction_, did he give me a glance of sympathy! How many times did he stealthily wipe away a tear!... How often, when I made a triumphant reply, did he half-mischievously wink at me, like a _gamin de Paris_, as if to say: "You got home all right that time."

Behind me the guards sometimes whispered, after some fierce battle of words between M. Andre and me: "Well done!"... and in their own simple, spontaneous way, they added:... "little woman!"

That "Well done, little woman" of the guards, and the winks of encouragement from the clerk, more than once gave me renewed strength at moments when, worn by my ceaseless efforts, I was about to give up the awful struggle, not in despair, but through sheer physical and mental exhaustion.

M. Andre's first move was a dramatic one, and one which he evidently thought would crush me outright. He handed me a letter--written by myself to my husband, in a rather angry tone--and asked impressively: "Was this written by you?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"To whom was this letter addressed?"