My Memoirs Part 16

This was partly due to his almost abnormal gift of sympathy and partly to the well-known French readiness to swing round to a new opinion. Boer victories had been hailed with shouts of mad exultation, and English successes with groans of agony and fury, but the French became pro-English the instant King Edward landed in France. There was a dinner at the British Emba.s.sy, and President Loubet and several celebrities, including my friend Bonnat, attended. The Entente Cordiale was already talked of.

King Edward came to France exactly two years later, in May 1905, and for the first time there were cries in Paris of "Vive l'Angleterre" and "Vive le Roi." To shout "Long live the King" is just the sort of thing that Republicans of France love to do!

In March 1906 King Edward came once more to France, incognito this time, and travelling as the Duke of Lancaster. Fallieres had then succeeded Loubet as President of the Republic. That year Paris received visits from a number of Members of Parliament, from members of the London County Council, and from the Lord Mayor, whose gilded coach and portly coachman took the Parisians by storm.... And the Entente Cordiale gradually increased in vitality and sincerity until it became an important factor in the equilibrium of Europe.

During those years the "separation" of Church and State was carried out and afterwards Anti-Clericalism subsided. A mention must also be made of the "Confederation Generale du Travail"--a kind of federation of trade unions--born in January 1908. This C.G.T., a child of Socialism, very soon broke from the parent, cultivated strikes, and showed from the first that its aim is social revolution, though it is not clear what the C.G.T. dictators would do after the social revolution had taken place.

Syndicalism, so far, can hardly be called "popular."

In January 1906 M. Fallieres--simple, solid, and safe--succeeded Loubet as President of the Republic, and the same year Clemenceau, unscrupulous but extremely able and so intensely picturesque, became Prime Minister.

Whatever may be thought of him as a statesman, he, at any rate, did one great thing. He gave France confidence in herself at a critical moment.

That was in November 1908. In 1905 Decla.s.se had had to go because the German Emperor wished it. That was after the "Imperial" landing in Morocco. In November 1908 Clemenceau refused to obey Germany, who had asked for an apology in regard to the Casablanca incident. Ever since that France has seemed to be once more sure of her strength, and, without embarking upon any very great adventure, has shown much firmness and purpose in her foreign policy.

As soon as I was well enough after my illness and shock I threw open the doors of my salon.

I went through a difficult time. The great majority of my acquaintances had read what the papers said, and knowing that my husband and I frequently went to the Elysee, they had no difficulty in guessing who was meant by "Madame S.," or "the wife of the well-known painter."...

Not one of them, of course, was so tactless as to refer to the matter...

but my friends had friends who insisted upon being introduced to me. And so to my receptions there came scores of amiable persons of both s.e.xes, who gazed at me, looked me up and down, and studied me as if I were an object of great curiosity. I had the courage to take no notice whatever of this, and I faced it unflinchingly, although the ordeal was painful; for I knew well enough that these good people had not come with any goodwill towards me in their hearts, but rather to see one whom they looked upon as the latest "fatal woman," as a Delilah or Judith up-to-date. I smiled on them all, as I had in the past, and sang and played to them in the old way.

The ordeal was worse when I went to other houses. When I entered a crowded drawing-room all eyes were turned on me and a sudden hush fell, wrapping me as in my cloak. Then, as host and hostess greeted me, a strange murmur arose and went up and down the room in little gusts, that broke now from this brilliant group of men and women and now from that, and I felt that all this whispering was about me. There were many healthy-minded women and honest men who took my part and defended me, but I soon realised that it was beyond them to convince my enemies, and still less the sceptics and the cynics.... In Paris scepticism and cynicism are a fas.h.i.+onable pose, under which people too often hide the n.o.ble principles and generous thoughts which would more truly express their nature and true characters. I, therefore, determined to conquer one by one, not only my enemies, but also those in whose eyes I could read a poor opinion of me. It was an ardent, almost a t.i.tanic task, but in time I succeeded. And many of those who had spoken lightly of me, or had thought me a "fatal" person, became my most devoted friends.... It was a trying time, but I lived through it and won in the end--thanks, of course, to the fact that not a word of those calumnies was true, and also to my mother's devotion and to my little Marthe's tender love. My mother looked after me in that pretty way that children often have; and, on the other hand, my little daughter, now a tiny mite of eight, was almost maternal in her solicitude for me.

Why was I so anxious to return to my old position among the men and women of Paris?... Because my reputation was at stake. Whether I liked it or not, whether the task was feasible or almost impossible, I had to battle and conquer. And I did conquer. Calumny, the most elusive and dangerous enemy that woman may have to face, was routed... and some six months after the death of President Faure my receptions were more largely attended than ever. I had tested all those who claimed to be my friends, and found they were sincere. In official circles my influence had not waned, and I was able to render service to many as in the past.

My mother had settled down for good in her pretty chalet at Beaucourt, but she frequently came to Paris and stayed either at the house of my younger sister, or with me in the Impa.s.se Ronsin.

My relations with my husband were what they had been for years. We were good comrades, and I did my utmost to make his life a pleasant and comfortable one. I spent much of my time in the studio. He felt much older than his fifty years and needed much coaxing and encouraging to work. His technique as a painter had marvellously improved, but more and more he lacked imagination, and time after time I suggested to him subjects for his pictures, and advised him in matters of "composition"

and "grouping," of backgrounds and atmosphere. Our life, after all, was not abnormal. There are thousands of married couples in Paris who live apart, and yet remain the best of partners and friends....

From 1899 to 1908 my husband painted many portraits--delicate miniatures in oils which were not only works of art, but subtle, psychological studies; although I believe he never realised this himself. Several persons came from Germany to visit the studios and buy pictures, and my husband told me they had been sent by the mysterious foreigner.

But they always came when I was not at home. The pictures disappeared from the studio, however, and I know that my husband had received payment for them. He obviously did not care to talk about these clients, and I was not in the least anxious to find out details about them. I had for many months spared no effort in attempting to solve the mystery of the pearl necklace, and of the "German," but my efforts had been in vain.

In 1906 I hired a villa at Bellevue, a delightful wooded village overlooking the Seine, near Paris. It was M. Ch., my great friend, who had discovered this charming summer residence nestling under the heavy foliage of beautiful old trees....

We are now nearing the tragic time of my life, but before I go into that long story of horror and agony--the murder of my husband and my mother, my struggles to find the murderers, the terrifying scenes at the Impa.s.se Ronsin, my arrest, my life in prison, and my trial--I should like to recall a pretty incident which occurred at Bellevue.... There is nothing wonderful or unusually amusing about it, but perhaps the reader will welcome it as a sustaining draught of pure and fragrant air, before being plunged into the dark abyss of grief and terror where I suffered and struggled for so long.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A LETTER SENT ME BY Ma.s.sENET IN 1907, AND SIGNED

"... Your Devoted, Faithful, Obedient, Respectful and Punctual Accompanist"]

"Vert-Logis" (green cottage), my Bellevue villa, stood at a short distance from the Meudon Observatory, the director of which was M.

Janssen, the famous astronomer. The observatory was surrounded by a vast and splendid park, everywhere enclosed off. Through the bars of one of the gates Marthe and I saw, one fine summer's day, a large field that was one ma.s.s of marguerites. Marthe was longing to gather great bunches of them. We hailed a keeper, who was pa.s.sing by, and asked him whether he would pick some of the flowers for us and pa.s.s them through the gate.... Or perhaps he would open the gate to us for a few minutes?

"Oh! Madame, all that is strictly forbidden," said the man.

"What a pity!"

I must have looked very disappointed, for hesitatingly he said: "Well, perhaps you might come in the morning, say at eight, before there are people about. I'll open the gate and you can gather a few flowers."

The next day Marthe and I returned from the observatory garden with so many flowers that we could hardly carry them.

The old keeper scratched his head, and remarked: "I thought you only wanted a few! You must be really fond of flowers, Madame."

Soon afterwards I met M. Janssen. We had many friends in common, and the savant gave orders that the gates of the park should always be opened to me and allowed me to gather as many of the flowers as I pleased. Then, with a typical courtesy, the aged astronomer--he was then over eighty years old--said to me: "Madame, since you love flowers so well, would you care to see the flowers of heaven?"

I accepted, of course, and one clear night I experienced the unique joy of watching a star through a powerful telescope. With a feeling of rapture and enchantment that was wholly new to me, I saw the star scintillate, change colour, and s.h.i.+ne forth in all the exquisite hues of the rainbow.... And thoughts of the Infinite whirled through my dazzled brain.... I would go to clutch that star, I longed to grasp it; I wanted to know, to understand, the meaning of s.p.a.ce and matter, of Eternity and the Infinite--and of Life.... And on my way home, as I looked up towards the star-studded sky, I was thrilled as I had never been before, and forgetting what the old savant had told me about the endless and intricate calculations which are the chief occupations of the star-gazer ("a living algebraical machine") I felt that the astronomer, who constantly watches mysterious and unconceivably distant worlds in the depths of s.p.a.ce, is devoting his life to the grandest, the most sublime and lofty science of all. And I thought of my father, who so often, at Beaucourt, had talked to me about the stars, the moon-world, the comets, the milky way.... And I recalled those words of Kant, which he more than once quoted to me: "There are two things which ever fill me with new and growing admiration: the moral law within me, and the starry heavens above me."

CHAPTER XI

EVENTS THAT PRECEDED THE CRIME

At the beginning of the year 1908, my little Marthe became engaged to young Pierre Buisson, son of an intimate friend of mine. Shortly afterwards she renounced the Protestant faith and joined the Catholic Church. This suited her somewhat mystical nature. She loved the immensity of cathedrals, the light through stained-gla.s.s windows, the beautiful services, the incense and the little bells, the plain-chant and the vestments of the priests. She loved to be guided; she s.h.i.+rked responsibilities; she liked to be able to enter "her" church at any time of the day and any day. She thought it was "restful" to be a Catholic.

Perhaps religion to her was more a matter of sensations and feelings than of the mind; perhaps more a question of art, poesy and comforting illusion than of thought. Dogma was nothing to her; atmosphere a great deal.... She thought she could pray better in the semi-darkness and immensity of an ancient cathedral than within the plain white walls of a small Protestant temple. She prayed for the man she loved, and he was a Catholic....

I neither opposed nor encouraged this change of religion. Marthe was seventeen, extremely "wise" for her age and never acted rashly. I did not question whether she was right or wrong; I merely asked her carefully to examine her heart and search her conscience, and when later she told me: "Mother, I feel I shall be happier if I become a Catholic,"

I raised no further objection.

In March 1908--about two months before the tragedy, I all but fainted one afternoon in the "Metropolitan" (the Paris Underground). I had not quite recovered from a dangerous illness, and this had been my first outing. I must have looked very pale and ill, for several persons rushed to my a.s.sistance. A gentleman kindly helped me up the staircase leading to the street and offered to accompany me as far as my house, which was only a short distance away. I gladly accepted. The fresh air did me much good. As we neared the Impa.s.se Ronsin he asked: "Do you happen to know M. Steinheil the painter? He lives somewhere near here."

"I am Mme. Steinheil," I replied.

The gentleman asked permission to call and inquire after my health. He handed me his card and I read "Comte de Balincourt."

Before relating all I have to say about M. de Balincourt, I wish to state that I have no intention whatever of accusing him of any complicity.

I shall merely describe the part he played in the lives of my husband and myself a few weeks before the crime, and why my suspicions against him were aroused then; and again when, in prison, I found in the _Dossier_ of my case a number of doc.u.ments concerning M. de Balincourt's life, I did not speak of my suspicions except to my counsel and two or three persons who visited me when I was a prisoner at Saint-Lazare.

Remy Couillard--my man-servant--and Alexandra Wolff--the son of my cook, I did accuse of the murder in circ.u.mstances and for reasons which I will fully explain in due time. The Law found Couillard and Wolff absolutely innocent and I bowed--and bow--to the Law.

But since I have had, at a time, the gravest suspicions against them both and against M. de Balincourt, I must--and will--say why with utmost sincerity, although let it be thoroughly understood that I have long ceased to accuse them of having had any part whatsoever, directly or indirectly, in the mystery of the Impa.s.se Ronsin.

I made grave errors and paid dearly for them. But as in these "Memoirs"

I take the reader into my confidence and disclose my life and my thoughts, it is only right that I should, without hesitation though without any _arriere-pensee_, explain the reasons which led me to believe, for a short time, my man-servant, the son of my cook, and M. de Balincourt to have some part in the tragedy of May 30th-31st, 1908.

The day after our first encounter M. de Balincourt called. After a few polite inquiries he asked to see M. Steinheil. In the studio he examined the pictures, made himself very pleasant, congratulated my husband on his talent, and asked him whether he would paint his portrait in hunting-costume.

M. de Balincourt, hearing that my husband intended shortly to hold an important exhibition of his pictures, said he had had some experience in organising shows of that kind.