Later, I discovered the meaning of this remark. It appears that some well-intentioned newspaper had informed its readers that I had had a wonderful mourning-dress made by Worth or Paquin especially for the trial! As a matter of fact, I wore the very dress and the same toque in which I had arrived at Saint-Lazare a year before!

I also heard that, apart from judges, jurymen, witnesses, officials of the court, barristers, representatives of the press, and a very limited attendance of the public at the back of the Court (the law stipulates that trials must be public), no one would be allowed to be present.

A number of persons came to give me all kinds of contradictory advice.

"Don't be haughty," said one, "for that would displease the jury"; "Don't look depressed or ashamed, for that would suggest guilt," said another; one barrister recommended me not to look "unnatural," and some one else urged me not to look "natural, for an innocent woman accused of murder could not possibly look herself at her trial!" M. Desmoulin said: "I'll be present at the trial and remain to the end, not far from you.

Your agony is nearing its end. Be brave, and, above all, do as your counsel tells you, and change or add nothing to your previous statements." Dr. Socquet--whom I had never seen before, but who was most devoted and useful to me all through that harrowing trial--gave me a soothing potion to drink. Meanwhile the guards smoked their pipes and their cigarettes, and watched me--a few in a suspicious and disagreeable manner, but most of them with kindness and sympathy.

I could hear a great buzz of excitement coming from the Court: the noise of hundreds of feet and hundreds of voices, exclamations, bursts of laughter even--exactly like the buzz one hears at a theatre, on a first night, before the curtain goes up. My heart beat within me like a heavy hammer. My head throbbed with pain and fever as if it would burst, and my hands and feet were icy cold.

A voice suddenly said, close to me: "Come, Madame."

I rose automatically and, between two munic.i.p.al guardsmen, walked along a short pa.s.sage. A door was opened before me. I stepped into the Court of a.s.size and entered the dock. There were guards near me and behind me.

Absolute silence reigned. Everything was dark... so dark. I shuddered.

Then I heard voices just before and a little below me: my three counsel were there standing by their bench, talking to me, encouraging me. I threw my veil back over my hat and shoulders and tried to listen to Maitre Aubin and his secretaries. Gradually I grew used to the surroundings. When I raised my head--it seemed ages, but was probably a few seconds only after I had entered the dock--I saw, first of all, a group of men wrapped in shadow--the jury--in a dock similar to mine, just opposite me under large windows through which filtered the dismal light of a rainy November day. I felt the light on my face. Near the jury, at a kind of desk, was seated a man in a red robe, whom I knew well: M. Trouard-Riolle, the Advocate-General, with a hawklike face, a bald scalp, a receding forehead, a thin long nose, ferrety eyes behind a pince-nez, a double chin, and a fat neck, knitted brows and sneering lips under a narrow close-cropped moustache.... Between the jury and me was the well of the Court, a wide s.p.a.ce, empty save for a semi-circular bar, held on three uprights--the witness-bar--and a table on which I saw the "exhibits": gags of wadding, an alpenstock, the brandy bottle, coils of cord too....

On the right, at a few yards from me, on a platform, sits M. de Valles, with a judge on either side of him. All three wear red robes. M. de Valles toys with an ivory paper knife. Before him is placed the huge dossier of my case, that extraordinary dossier which I know by heart. In the shadow, behind the three judges' arm-chairs are a number of persons, "guests of honour," I presume. On the left of the dock are scores of barristers in their black gowns and white rabats, including one or two women-barristers. Behind them, tightly pressed together, a small army of journalists, and at the other end of the Court, behind a wooden part.i.tion, the public: "_les cent veinards_" (the "hundred lucky ones"), as I was told later on, those privileged few were called who had bought the right to stand there, from the poor wretches who spent night and day outside the Palace of Justice to sell their place to the highest bidder, shortly before noon (at which time the doors were thrown open and just one hundred "members of the public" admitted).

I have no clear recollection of what took place at first. I only remember a ma.s.s of faces floating, as it were, on a dark ocean of black gowns and clothes. The only touches of colour were the white scarves of the barristers and the scarlet gowns of the judges.

I seemed to have no strength left, and yet never had I so much needed physical and moral strength.

A clerk read aloud, in a monotonous voice, the terrible indictment. I knew it by heart... and so perhaps did everybody else, since it had been published....

Meanwhile I watched the jury. So these were the men who would, in a few days, decide whether I had or not murdered my husband and my mother....

I wondered what they thought and who was who--for a list of their names and occupations had been shown me the day before. It included four "proprietors," two mechanics, one bricklayer, one baker, two commercial clerks, one cook and one musician....

I looked at the heavy decorated ceiling with the sunk panels adorned with the sword and scales of Justice; and my eyes wandered to the wall behind M. de Valles and the two other judges....

Years ago, I had visited this Court of a.s.size to admire my friend Bonnat's great "Christ" on that wall, but the Christ was no longer there. It had been removed after the Law separating Church and State had been pa.s.sed!

Suddenly, I heard M. de Valles' voice ordering me to rise....

The duel began.

I made a supreme effort to stop my distracted mind from whirling round and round. I had been twelve months in prison; I had been for seventeen months a prey to every conceivable emotion, and had gone through such harrowing and nerve-racking experiences that every doctor who had seen me failed to understand how it was that I had not lost my reason; and now, after over five hundred days of continuous mental and physical martyrdom, I had to fight the greatest battle of my existence.

M. de Valles kept his promise: he asked me at first a number of almost indifferent questions about my childhood and my youth, and I had time to collect myself to some extent.... But soon, very soon, the remarks I heard were so revolting that I reeled under them. I had to deny, for instance, that my father--whom, by now, the reader must have learned to know and to love--was a drunkard, and to declare that my conduct was irreproachable and could not have caused his death as was hinted....

Relentlessly, mercilessly, questions were asked me about my relations with Lieut. Sheffer, at Beaucourt! I fought desperately, and then, worn out by my own efforts, I almost collapsed, and could not help sobbing....

An allusion was made to President Faure. I remembered my counsel's entreaties, and when the Judge suggested that I should not conceal anything, and that I should have no fear in mentioning names, however exalted, I merely replied: "No, Monsieur le President, the man we are thinking of is dead, and I will let the dead rest in peace."

M. de Valles spoke about my reticences, and my many contradictory statements, and from a report of the trial I find that I replied: "For hours at the time there were journalists near me, who declared that I was lost unless I gave up 'my old system of defence' and 'made fresh statements.' Everybody made different suggestions to me; I ceased to be a woman and became almost a maniac. But would any woman in my circ.u.mstances have done otherwise? I swear upon the head of my own daughter, that my first statement about the three men in black gowns, and the red-haired woman, is the truth."

"Come back to the point," said the judge. "You talk about too many things at the same time. Be methodical in your replies."

"Methodical!... How can I speak as you would have me speak? At first I thought I was accused of having lied, but for months I have known I was accused of having murdered both my husband, whom I respected, and my mother, whom I loved. And before such an accusation, you quietly ask me to be methodical. I say things as they come to my mind. I speak with my very heart, and there can be no question of my method!"...

Then I was interrogated about my "intrigues." The final questions of the Judge at that first hearing referred to the last days of May 1908, and it was clear that he wished to form his own opinion about the suggestion that I had enticed my mother to stay at my house--in order to kill her as well as my husband....

My examination by the Judge took up the first three days of my trial.

Each hearing started at about noon, and ended between 5.30 and 6 P.M. I may here state the essential points of the French procedure in such cases.

After the reading of the Indictment by the Clerk of the Court, the President interrogates the prisoner. After that, he examines the various witnesses, who are then cross-examined by the Advocate-General, or Public Prosecutor, and by the Counsel for the Defence, both however, being only allowed to ask questions of the witnesses through the President. After the witnesses have been examined and cross-examined (this cross-examination being, as a rule, very brief), the Advocate-General makes his speech, in which he asks generally for the maximum punishment. Then the Counsel for the Defence speaks, at length, and afterwards the Judge asks the prisoner if he, or she, has any statement to make. He then tells the jury the question to which they are requested to reply, and without any summing up by the Judge (or _resume_, as it used to be called in France, when it was part of the proceedings, until suppressed because it was found to be seldom impartial!) the jury retire and deliberate. When the foreman returns, followed by the eleven jurors, he stands up and renders the verdict "before G.o.d and before men," and the Judge, after rapidly consulting with his two colleagues, orders the prisoner to be brought in, and p.r.o.nounces sentence.

At the second hearing--on Thursday, November 4th, 1909--M. de Valles dealt with the night of May 30th-31st, 1908. I repeated publicly the statements I had made to M. Bouchotte, the Police-commissary, and to Judge Leydet, a few hours after the crime; and to Judge Andre, eight months later. M. de Valles, however, instead of raising objections, instead of dismissing my "story" of the crime as a fable, and describing the men in dark gowns as "black ghosts," was satisfied with questioning me about certain reticences and contradictions of mine, and firmly, yet fairly, endeavoured to throw as much light as possible on the baffling mystery.

Still, the occasion was so intensely dramatic, there was such a terrible keenness in the jurors' eyes, such bitter scorn on M. Trouard-Riolle's lips, such strong emotions swayed the whole court, and such an ominous hush fell over the vast hall where so many people had been tried for their lives and sentenced to death, year after year, that cold perspiration streamed from my forehead as I spoke, as I shouted the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as I cried out that I was innocent.... I lived through the fatal night once more, and all the time I saw my darling Marthe before me, standing in the centre of the well, waiting for me, confidently waiting to see her mother rehabilitated, acquitted, free.... The effort was superhuman and poignant... and when I had finished speaking, explaining, struggling, I sank on to my bench, and the two guards at my side rose and whispered: "The sitting is adjourned; come outside, and rest, Madame." I could hardly tear my hands from the wooden part.i.tion of the dock on which they were fiercely clutched....

Doctor Socquet came to my a.s.sistance in the guards' room, where I had been taken, and half an hour later a bell rang. I returned to the Court, and the duel began once more. It had lasted only a short while, when suddenly a letter was brought in to my counsel, who, after perusing it, handed it to the President.

M. de Valles read the letter aloud: "To Maitre Aubin: As I can no longer bear the weight of my crime, I have come to declare to you that I was an accomplice in the murder of M. Steinheil. It was I who played the part of the red-haired woman. I have the wig with me.--Jean Lefevre."

A young man with long dark hair, and a sallow complexion, and wearing a shabby grey suit, was brought in and guided to the witnesses' bar. In a dazed, hesitating manner, he declared that his name was Lefevre, that he was twenty-one.... I eagerly looked at him, but he did not remind me of any one I had seen on the night of the crime.

In answer to questions put to him by the President, he replied:

"I wrote that letter because I was an accomplice of the a.s.sa.s.sin. I was dressed as a woman, and wore this red wig. We burnt the gowns in the forest of Montmorency.... My friend is dead.... I dressed as a woman in a dark street. My friend had a key.... I was like a madman, and followed my friend, who said there was money.... We went upstairs with electric pocket-lamps. I remained near the door of Mme. Steinheil's room. My friend asked her where the money and the jewels were.... He disappeared and came back.... Then we rushed down-stairs. Outside he told me that he had found 8000 francs (310). My friend went away without giving me anything...."

It was clear that the young man was either a lunatic or a strange impostor.

My examination was continued. There was a long argument about the ink-stains found on the carpet and on my knee, and about the way in which I was bound....

Tortured by the necessity of having to reply--satisfactorily--to searching questions which to me, innocent as I was, seemed useless and incomprehensible, rendered quite ill by the long and gruesome discussion about the fatal night, I once more sank back, exhausted, on my bench, and burst into a violent fit of weeping.... And that was only the end of the second hearing of my trial which my counsel told me was to last at least ten days!

Directly he had taken his seat the next day (Friday, November 5th), the President turned to the jury, and said: "I owe you an explanation, gentlemen, about the stupid incident which made us waste so much valuable time yesterday. The young man whom you saw is not called Lefevre; his real name is Rene Collard. He made up his mind to see Mme.

Steinheil. I thought I had taken all possible precautions to guard the doors, but I had forgotten this extraordinary means of invasion. It has been found that Collard wrote to M. Hamard, to M. Andre.... This young man longed to see Mme. Steinheil. The incident is now closed."

After this, my ordeal began again.

The President questioned me about the "grandfather"-clock, in the hall, which stopped at 12.12 on the night of the crime. After mentioning that I said I had heard my mother cry: "Meg, Meg..." just after the last stroke of the hour, he expressed his surprise that the murderers could have killed two persons, gagged and bound a third, and ransacked drawers--in twelve minutes.

I could have replied that possibly my husband had been murdered before I heard my mother cry, that the murderers, as they left the house, might have put the clock back, that they acted, no doubt, as quickly as possible, especially if, as I have always been convinced, they came to steal, not to kill.... But I had only one thought: I, Marguerite Steinheil-j.a.py, am accused of murder!

And I kept repeating: "It is horrible! I have killed neither my husband nor my mother." The President grew impatient, and I remembered crying out: "Ah! you don't want me to protest. You don't want me to shout my innocence. But what would be _your_ att.i.tude if _you_ were accused of having murdered your wife and your father? I protest, not against you, Monsieur de Valles, but against the Law."

I apologised the next day to the President for this outburst, and I may here state that since I have read the full report of that terrible trial, of which, alas, I was the heroine, I have been struck even more than at the trial itself--when I was too ill and too distraught to see things in quite their proper light--by the absolute impartiality of M.

de Valles. He paid a tribute to my disinterestedness, to my activity and qualities as a housewife, and when, later on, Couillard gave evidence, he declared that he would not ask my valet to give his opinion about me, adding: "I do not see the necessity of repeating the mere gossip and twaddle of the servants' hall."

Only once did M. de Valles really deviate from his usual fair and irreproachable att.i.tude: he was questioning me about placing the pearl in Couillard's pocket-book, and finding my answers were not satisfactory, finding that I hesitated and sobbed, he exclaimed: "I thought so!" Then turning to the jury, he added: "Gentlemen, watch this clever woman. She collapses whenever I ask a question that she cannot answer--watch her faint! The fainting scene is coming!" As a matter of fact, I faltered and sobbed many, many times, but not once did I faint.

There were many fierce encounters between the President and me during that third hearing, especially about the famous pearl, and I can do no better than quote from a report of the trial:

"MADAME S. I had my suspicions against Couillard. He had stolen a letter which my daughter had sent to her fiance, I was told dreadful things about him. Also, I had almost lost my mind. I had no peace. I thought Couillard knew something, and in order to make him speak, I placed the pearl in his pocket-book."

"The Judge interrupts the prisoner, but she clamours entreatingly: 'Gentlemen of the jury, hear me, hear me!'