An automobile stopped near the house. My younger sister and my brother entered the room.

"My daughter?"

"Courage. She will come... but we cannot find her; we don't know where she is. Chabrier is not at the Impa.s.se Ronsin either... the house is shut up...."

I rose and said: "Then, _I_ will find her. I start at once!" They compelled me to sit down: "You cannot go out, you are too weak and you will be followed; you will come to grief...."

I read in their faces what they meant. In spite of my acquittal, people still hated me.--I heard afterwards that whilst the verdict was greeted with shouts of triumph in the Court, where people had learned to know me and had realised my innocence, the crowd outside the Palace of Justice, when they heard of my acquittal, grew angry and shouted "Death!" and "Guillotine!"--and I understood that the absence of my daughter at the close of the trial, the fact that she had not joined her mother, was interpreted as a sign of my guilt. "If Mme. Steinheil were really innocent, her daughter would have rushed into her arms. Instead of that, Marthe avoids her mother, therefore that mother is a criminal!"... How many times I have heard that terrible piece of "logic"!

I beseeched my brother and my sister to find Marthe, and they promised to help me. Then, the "photographer" and his wife said they would search for Marthe and bring her to me....

The Press succeeded in discovering my retreat, and on the Sunday evening Dr. Raffegeau said to me: "I'll take you, in a roundabout way, through the park, to my house, and from there we'll go to the house of my colleague."

I dined at the house of the Mignons with their three charming and beautiful children, a boy of about ten, a girl of nine or eight, and an adorable little girl of three, who all began calling me "auntie," and were all so caressing and affectionate that I forgot my sorrow a little.

The next day Maitre Aubin came with a large bag full of letters and telegrams for me, and he, too, promised to find my daughter. Drs.

Raffegeau and Mignon nursed me with great devotion. Mme. Seyrig returned to say that Marthe had no doubt gone to the country, and that it was impossible to trace her. It suddenly occurred to me that she had probably been taken to Nogent-sur-Seine, near Troyes, to the country seat of the B's. (The latter are not "members of the family," but are considered as such. A son of M. B. married a daughter of one of M.

Steinheil's sisters.)

I was ill, in bed, wringing my hands in despair, for I had thought that after my acquittal all would be bright and happy, and I now found out my sad mistake--when Dr. Raffegeau came in with Mme. Mignon, who said: "A lady, your elder sister, has just arrived. She wants to see you. She is in tears, and keeps repeating: 'My poor Meg! How I long to be with her!

How she must suffer!'... She is in full mourning, and says she comes from Beaucourt, where she prayed on her--and your--mother's tomb. She has beseeched me to speak to you; she must see you.... What am I to do?"...

I replied: "No, no... I cannot believe my sister, Mme. Herr, would come.... We are not on very good terms.... Perhaps that woman is sent by some newspaper?"...

"Oh, no," said Dr. Raffegeau. "She has been saying: 'I dread the Press, I hope I have not been followed.' She looks so alarmed and grieved. She asks if your hair has turned white, whether you are very ill... she seems very concerned. I really believe she is your sister.... She wants to see you alone."

"Never!" I exclaimed. "I refuse to be left alone, Doctor... Mme. Mignon must remain with me."...

Mme. Mignon's baby-daughter was sitting on my bed. The door opened and my "sister" was ushered in. She wore a wide cloak; a thick veil fell over her face. She rushed to me and wailed: "Oh, my poor Meg, my poor darling!" and kissed me.... I did not recognise the voice of Mme. Herr, yet I said: "It is you, Juliette?..."

"Yes, dear; I have come.... I couldn't remain away from you any longer."...

I tore my "sister's" veil from her head and saw the face of a woman whom I had never seen before. "Madame," I cried, "you are not my sister! What are you doing here? Leave this room at once!"

The little girl on my bed was frightened; Madame Mignon was staring in amazement.

The woman turned to her and said in deeply grieved tones: "How terrible!

Meg is so ill she cannot recognise her own sister! She has lost her reason!"... Then, bending over my bed, she whispered to me: "Not a word!

Be calm.... I am sent by the _Matin_; I am bringing you a fortune....

Only listen to me."...

"The _Matin_!... Have they not done me enough harm yet! Go, Madame....

Mme. Mignon, please show this woman out."...

The impostor played her part well. She sobbed, looked pitifully at me, and kept saying as she withdrew: "My poor sister! How terrible! She has gone mad!"... It appears that she continued her lamentations until the moment she stepped into the motor-car that had brought her, and so convincing was her simulated grief that Mme. Mignon, who accompanied her to the door, asked me, when she came back, if I were sure that the lady was not my sister!

A long report of that brief "interview" appeared, of course, in the _Matin_ the next morning. The article was laudatory and almost kind....

The author had probably some conscience left. And the _Matin_ took care to explain that the sensational interview had been brought to them.

Dr. Raffegeau, after this, had to arrange a sham removal. Some one was dressed in my clothes and taken away in an automobile to make the spying journalists believe that I left the house.... And after that I had some peace.

Maitre Aubin came frequently, carrying hundreds of letters and telegrams for me from all parts of the world. Several contained the worst possible threats and insults, and many were fantastic offers by music-hall managers--from every part of France and Europe, from the United States and South America! Some writers stated that they had a sketch or a play ready, and asked me to play the part of the heroine (a woman accused of murder, of course!), and others asked me merely to "show" myself for ten minutes on the stage. There were scores of proposals that I should sing, and offers from cinematograph and talking-machine firms. A number of unknown authors asked me to sign their books with my name: it would sell the books at once, and they would let me have a fair proportion of the profits.... And there were dozens of offers of marriage; from the inevitable Russian "prince," the Peruvian mine-owner, and the great Spanish n.o.bleman--poor, but with so many famous ancestors, to the equally inevitable American magnate and the romantic youth--of any country--anxious to devote his life to avenging me....

There were letters of hotel proprietors in various lands explaining the great benefit which my health would derive from a stay in their establishments; price-lists from wine-merchants, patent-medicine makers and travelling agencies who swore that their wines, their drugs or a journey would be my salvation. There were letters from autograph-hunters; letters asking me to allow the writer to give my name to some product he manufactured: a soap, a potato-peeler, a varnish, a patent food, a scent... two letters written in Latin verse, and one in Greek iambics!...

But the overwhelming majority came from persons who had followed my case and expressed their heartfelt sympathy. They were in a dozen different languages, but chiefly in French, English, and German. Of the letters that reached me, I have kept a few score. They include several kind messages signed by groups of officers and non-commissioned officers, by a whole "cla.s.s" of students, by all the employees of a firm, a bank or a factory: letters from clergymen quoting the Bible, and from priests quoting the "Imitation"; letters from old men and women, and letters from mere children.... A little girl wrote from Manchester: "My parents don't know of this letter, but when I am grown up--in six years--I will come to you and comfort you, and I will play the piano for you, for I have heard that you are fond of music...." From Kansas City, U. S. A., came a long message of congratulations signed by a large number of workmen; a similar one reached me from Rome and another from Moscow.

Many letters and telegrams came from people in the Beaucourt district who had known me or my father and mother; and there came many messages like the following, which is dated "Paris, November 14th, 1909": "Madame, we are sitting in a cafe, the whole family gathered, and we read that you are free. We are only simple people and can only say that we breathe again.... The jury has recognised your innocence, at last. We salute you, Madame, for your pluck, and we feel how terribly you have suffered. We are all so happy for you and your dear daughter! Signed: A family of honest people."

I thank all those friends, far and near. Their messages, French and foreign, no doubt helped me to bear my heavy cross.

Maitre Aubin came often to see me and naturally we talked of what was now "the past."... With him I wrote a letter of apology to Mr.

Burlingham. I had also many affairs to settle with Maitre Jousselin, my devoted solicitor.

The "photographer" who had promised to find my daughter told me that he was on her tracks and would bring her to me. He suggested that a portrait of mine, taken now, would be a happy surprise for Marthe, and begged me to sit for my portrait, at the window, in Mme. Mignon's room....

The next day--I was in bed, by order of Dr. Raffegeau--when I was told, at about 4 P.M. that Marthe was there!

The doctor said: "I would have liked you to see your daughter alone, but M. Chabrier who is with her as well as Mme. Seyrig, has told me and my wife, in a most offensive tone: 'Mlle. Marthe shall see her mother only in _my_ presence, otherwise she will not see her at all.'"

I said that under such conditions I would rather not see my child, and that M. Chabrier had no authority whatever over her.... My mind was in a whirl.... Dr. Raffegeau begged me to admit M. Chabrier and take no notice.

I heard slow weary steps on the staircase.... Was Marthe ill?... She entered, pale, haggard, almost unrecognisable, the poor darling. My sister held her on one side; M. Chabrier on the other. Marthe was led to my bed, and then I saw in her face a strange expression which I had never before seen there. I stretched out my arms to her, but, pulled back by M. Chabrier, she retreated from me.... I lost all courage, all strength, all hope....

"What is the matter?... You are coming back to me, Marthe?"

My child tried to speak.

"She is ill, she cannot talk..." said Mme. Seyrig. "She has come to tell you.... Tell her yourself, Marthe... Try."...

"Yes," I said, "tell me yourself... everything... the whole truth."...

Marthe turned her tear-bedimmed eyes on M. Chabrier, who was standing near my bed facing her, and then in a hardly audible voice, she said, as though she were trying to repeat a lesson: "After all that has happened... you understand."... She stopped, muttered "I am stifling,"

caught her breath and added: "I have come to say good-bye to you for ever."...

For nearly two years I have heard those words, day after day, night after night, echoing in my mind, but at the time when they were spoken, I did not realise all that they meant.

"Are you going into a convent, then?" I asked.

"No."

"Where are you going to?"

"I cannot tell you."

"But it cannot be, Marthe.... I will not let you go."

"She is her own mistress," said some one. "She must forget you as you must try to forget her."