It was not by reason of baccarat losses, duels, matrimonial disputes, nor because of the aches of indigestion nor of the indefinable miseries of neurasthenia, worries and ailments common enough in French Vanity Fair—it was not, I say, for any of these reasons that fashionable and financial Paris, sporting and theatrical Paris, certain worldly lights of literary and artistic Paris, and the extravagant, feverish demi-monde of Paris, woke up on the morning of the 3rd November[5] in an exceedingly bad temper. Nor yet was their displeasure occasioned by the weather—London weather—all fog, damp and gloom. The fact was, at noon was to begin the first sitting of the great Steinheil trial, to which the above-mentioned ornaments of le Tout Paris had been excitedly looking forward for many a month. All that time they had been worrying, agitating, intriguing to obtain the official yellow ticket that would entitle them to behold with their own eyes—O, dramatic, thrilling spectacle—the “Tragic Widow’s” entrance into the dock, and to hear with their own ears—O palpitating, overwhelming experience—the secret history of an essentially Parisian cause cÉlÈbre. The trial would be the event of the autumn season, a function no self-respecting mondain, mondaine or demi-mondaine could afford to miss. And so, as the accommodation in the Court of Assizes is limited, the campaign to secure cards of admission became ardent, fierce, and then (as the sensational day of the 3rd November approached) delirious. Off, by footmen, chauffeurs, special messengers, went scented little notes to judges and famous lawyers, and to deputies, senators and ministers, imploring those distinguished personages to “remember” the writer when the hour arrived for the precious yellow tickets to be distributed. “Mon cher ami,” wrote Madame la Comtesse de la Tour, “if you forget me I shall never, never forgive you.” Then, with a blot or two, and in a primitive, scrawling handwriting, Mademoiselle Giselle de Perle of the half-world: “Mon vieux gros, I count upon you for the trial. If you fail me, your little blonde Pauline will show her claws. And the claws of this blonde child can be terrible.” (It is shocking to think that blonde Giselle de Perle should be on such familiar terms with gentlemen in high places; but as a matter of fact she and her sisters play a very important rÔle in the life of the Amazing City.) As for stout, diamond-covered Baronne Goldstein (wife of old bald-headed Goldstein of the Bourse), she invited judges and deputies to rich, elaborate dinners, at which the oldest, the mellowest, the most comforting wines from her cellars were produced; and when M. le Juge and M. le DÉputÉ had been rendered genial and benevolent by those rare, warming vintages, she led them into a corner of Goldstein’s vast gilded salon, and there besought them, while breathing heavily under her breastplate of diamonds, to procure for her “just one little yellow ticket.” Naturally, all these State officials replied with a bow: “I will do my best. Need I say that it is my dearest desire to oblige you?” And our ornaments of le Tout Paris were satisfied; already regarded that ticket of tickets as being safe and sound in their possession. When October dawned, Madame la Comtesse, lively Pauline Boum and stout Baronne Goldstein ordered striking dresses and huge, complicated hats for the Steinheil cause cÉlÈbre. In their respective salons, over their “five o’clock’s” of pale tea, sugared cakes, and crystal glasses of port, malaga and madeira, they excitedly described how they had driven to the tranquil, ivy-covered villa in the Impasse Ronsin where Madame Steinheil’s husband and mother had been assassinated on the night of the 30th-31st May eighteen months ago. And how, after that expedition, they had proceeded to beautiful Bellevue, seven miles out of Paris, to stare at that other villa, the “Vert Logis,” where the “Tragic Widow” received her lovers. How they gossiped, too, over the intrigue between the accused woman and the late President FÉlix Faure; and what fun they made of certain high State dignitaries who were said to be in a state of “panic” because they had been habituÉs of the Steinheil villas! “I would not miss the trial for the largest and finest diamond in the world,” declared these ladies. “It will be extraordinary, overwhelming, supreme,” exclaimed the male guests at these tea-and-madeira afternoon parties. “We shall still be discussing it this time next year.”

Suddenly, however, consternation, indignation, fury, hysteria, in le Tout Paris. In an official decree, M. de Valles, the judge appointed to preside over the Steinheil “debates,” intimated that all those scented notes had been written, all those elaborate dinners had been given, all those striking dresses and complicated hats had been ordered, and tried on I don’t know how many times—in vain. “I have,” stated M. de Valles, “received over 25,000 applications for tickets of admission, and every one of them I have refused. Only the diplomatic corps, the Bar, and a certain number of French and foreign journalists will be admitted. Let it be clearly understood that this decision of mine is irrevocable.” Gracious powers, the commotion! Le Tout Paris protested, raged, until it wore itself out with anger and hysteria. “I have made thousands of enemies. Even my wife’s friends refuse to speak to me,” said M. de Valles to an interviewer. True to his word, the judge remained inexorable. Passionate letters to him remained unanswered; to all visitors he was invisible. Hence the exceedingly bad temper of le Tout Paris on that foggy, gloomy morning of the 3rd of November. And thus for the first time on record the heroine of an essentially Parisian cause cÉlÈbre entered the dock of the dim, oblong, oak-panelled Court of Assizes, secure from the laughter, the mockery, and the opera-glasses of French Vanity Fair.

An extraordinary woman, Madame Steinheil. Imagine Sarah Bernhardt in some supremely tragical rÔle—pathetic, threatening; tender, violent; despairing, tearful; wrecked with indignation, suffering and exhaustion, and you will gain an idea of the “Tragic Widow’s” demeanour during the ten days’ dramatic trial. Her voice, like the incomparable Sarah’s, was now melodious and persuasive, then hoarse, bitter, frenzied; when she wept, it subsided into a moan or a broken whisper. Never even in Paris (where a widow’s weeds are perhaps excessively lugubrious) have I seen deeper mourning: heavy crape bands round the accused woman’s black dress, stiff crape bows in the widow’s cap, a deep crape border to the handkerchief which she clenched tightly, convulsively, in her black-gloved hand. Then, under her eyes, dark, dark shadows, which turned green as the trial tragically wore on. Her face, deadly pale, but for the hectic spot burning fiercely in each cheek. Her eyes, blue. Her hair, dark brown. Her ears, small and delicate; her mouth, sensitive, tremulous, eloquent. Her only coquetterie, the low, square-cut opening in the neck of her dress.

Wistfully, wretchedly, she glanced around the court, after M. de Valles, the presiding judge, had given her permission to sit down. Then her eyes fell upon a grim table placed immediately beneath the Bench: and she shuddered. It was grim because it contained the piÈces À conviction—the alpenstock found near the late M. Steinheil’s body, the coil of rope with which he and his mother-in-law had been strangled, the famous bottle of brandy with the innumerable finger-prints, the wadding lying on the floor by the side of Madame Japy’s bed. Then, M. de Valles, in his rasping voice, asked the “Tragic Widow” the usual preliminary questions concerning her parentage, domicile and age. Almost inaudibly, Madame Steinheil replied. And the trial began.

Unfortunately, I have neither the space nor the time at my disposal to render even a tolerably satisfactory account of this overwhelming cause cÉlÈbre. “Impressions” are all I can offer, mixed up with brief descriptions of what the French journalist calls “incidents in court”; and even these “impressions” and “incidents” must necessarily be compressed and disconnected. For the slightness of my recital, I beg the indulgence of my readers.

“Messieurs les JurÉs, I swear I am innocent. Messieurs les JurÉs, I adored my mother. Messieurs les JurÉs, do not believe the abominable things the President is saying about me,” was the “Tragic Widow’s” first passionate outburst. Then, turning round upon M. de Valles: “You are treating me atrociously.”

“I am treating you as you deserve,” was the reply.

For the first two days, M. de Valles assumed the office of public prosecutor, or rather of high inquisitor—and the “Tragic Widow” was on the rack. The judge in the black-and-red robes sneered, stormed, threatened, bullied; and turned constantly to the jury with a shrug of the shoulders as though to say: “She denies everything. She has never told anything but lies, and now she is lying again.” Over again and again he brutally accused Madame Steinheil of having assassinated her mother, but never did the accused woman fail to leap up from her chair with the cry: “I adored my mother. Messieurs les JurÉs, I swear I adored her.” Another shrug of M. de Valles’ shoulders, and another cynical smile at the jury, when Madame Steinheil spoke of her devotion to her eighteen-year-old daughter. “I love her, and she loves me more fondly than ever—because she believes in my innocence. She has written me the tenderest letters and has visited me constantly in prison. She helped to make the black dress I am wearing.” And further gestures expressive of impatient incredulity on the part of M. de Valles when the “Tragic Widow” shrieked: “Yes; I have been a bad woman. Yes; I have been an immoral woman. Yes; I made false, wicked accusations against Remy Couillard and Alexandre Wolff. But I am not an assassin, a fiend. And only a fiend could murder her mother.” Here the shriek stopped. For some moments the “Tragic Widow” cried bitterly. Then, in Sarah Bernhardt’s melodious voice, she thus addressed the jury: “Gentlemen, I am deeply repentant for all the wrong I have done. Please realise that I was mad—that I was being tortured—when I made those false, atrocious accusations. I was being tortured by the examining magistrate and by the journalists who invaded my villa and refused to leave it until they had obtained sensational ‘copy’ for their papers. These journalists told me that nobody believed in my story, and that I had better tell a new one. They said my villa was surrounded by a hostile mob, come there to lynch me. It was they who suggested that I should accuse Alexandre Wolff and Remy Couillard. They tortured me until they made me say what they liked. It was no doubt splendid material for their papers: but the result was disastrous for me. Do you know, gentlemen of the jury, that it was actually in a motor car belonging to the Matin that I was driven to the St Lazare prison?” And the “Tragic Widow” collapsed in her chair, covered her face with her hand, sobbed convulsively. At this point the two or three hundred barristers in court murmured compassionately: and M. de Valles called them to order by rapping his paper-cutter on his massive silver inkstand. (M. de Valles, by the way, was for ever rapping his paper-cutter, for ever wiping his brow with a huge handkerchief, for ever sinking back in his handsome, comfortable fauteuil, and then suddenly darting forward to hurl some savage remark at the accused.) Irritated by the compassionate demonstration of the barristers, unmoved by the shaking and sobbing of the black-dressed woman in the dock, M. de Valles pointed to the grim table containing the piÈces de conviction, and cried: “Look at that horrible table, and confess; and shed real, not crocodile, tears. You have stated that on the night of the crime you were bound down and gagged by three men in black robes and by a red-headed woman, who entered your room with a dark lantern and then—after they had bound and gagged you, and after you yourself had lost consciousness—assassinated poor M. Steinheil and the unfortunate Madame Japy. Nobody believes you; your story is a tissue of falsehoods. It was you who, with the help of accomplices, murdered your husband and your mother.”

But let us not be too hard upon M. de Valles for his savage treatment of Madame Steinheil. He had considerately protected her from the cruel curiosity and impertinence of le Tout Paris; and then it was his legitimate rÔle to attempt by continuous ruthless bullying to extract a confession from his pale-faced, exhausted martyr. For in France the word “judge,” as we understand it, is a misnomer. The French judge is the real public prosecutor, the chief cross-examiner; save for the jury, he would be all-powerful. But as the twelve men “good and true” are chosen from the justice-loving French people at large, M. le Juge’s drastic, brutal insinuations and accusations cannot alone bring about a condemnation. It is for the jury to decide. It remains with the jury to condemn. And at one o’clock in the morning of the 14th November the jurors in the Steinheil cause cÉlÈbre—workmen, mechanics, petits commerÇants—demonstrated their inherent love and sense of justice by——

But I am anticipating events. Let us return to the crowded, stifling Court of Assizes; and then take a stroll in the marble corridors of the Paris Law Courts, where, throughout the Steinheil trial, wooden barriers barred the way to all those not provided with the precious yellow ticket; and where groups of policemen, and of Municipal and Republican Guards were discussing—like every other soul in Paris—this incomprehensible, amazing cause cÉlÈbre.

A change in M. de Valles on the third day of the trial. Respecting her tears, refraining from shrugging his shoulders at her repeated protestations of innocence, the judge treated the “Tragic Widow” as a human being; even with courtesy and compassion. This metamorphosis was due, I believe, to a hint received from high quarters, where (so I have since been assured) the strong protests of the Paris correspondents of the English and American newspapers against the French judicial system, had made an impression. But in the opinion of Henri Rochefort, Madame Steinheil’s savage assailant in the columns of the Nationalist Patrie, the “judge had been bought.” With his gaunt, yellow face, tumbled white hair, angry grey eyes, the ruthless old journalist and agitator was the most conspicuous figure in the press-box. To his colleagues and to the barristers around him, he also accused Madame Steinheil of having murdered the late FÉlix Faure. “She was in the pay of the Dreyfusards,” he said, in his hoarse voice, “and the Dreyfusards knew that so long as Faure lived there would be no revision. So they commissioned the woman Steinheil, his mistress, to assassinate him.” After which he sucked lozenges (fierce old Rochefort is always and always sucking lozenges in order to ease the hoarseness in his throat), and next proceeded to begin his article for the Patrie, in which he referred to Madame Steinheil as the “Black Panther”! I fancy, too, that it was Rochefort’s bold design to magnetise—even to mesmerise—the jury! At all events, when not writing or accusing, he kept his angry grey eyes fixed hard on the foreman. A good thing the “Tragic Widow” could not see him from her seat in the dock. Henri Rochefort’s gaunt yellow face, when lit up luridly with hatred and vindictiveness, is enough to make anyone falter and quail.

But as M. de Valles was calm, Madame Steinheil felt more at ease; and, apart from occasional tears and comparatively few outbursts, the “Tragic Widow” remained composed during the six long, stifling afternoons occupied by the evidence of the eighty-seven witnesses. Of these, of course, I can take only the most important. Let us begin with Mr Burlingham, an American painter and journalist, aged twenty-eight.

Poor, poor Mr Burlingham! It will be remembered that Madame Steinheil described the assassins of her husband and mother as three men in black robes, and a red-headed woman. Well, just because Mr Burlingham had hired a black robe from a costumier’s for a fancy-dress ball a few nights before the murder, he was suspected, shadowed and worried by the detective police. One day the police stationed Madame Steinheil outside his door, and when he sauntered out and walked off, the “Tragic Widow” exclaimed: “Yes, that is one of the assassins. I recognise him by his red beard.” But as on the night of the murder Mr Burlingham was far away in Switzerland with two friends on a walking-tour, he had no difficulty in establishing a decisive alibi. Nevertheless, Mr Burlingham became notorious. His photographs appeared in the newspapers. He was followed here, there and everywhere by Yellow Reporters: who described him as the “enigmatic Burlingham,” and the “sinister Burlingham”—and yet Mr Burlingham, with his light red beard, gentle green eyes, low voice and kindly expression is, in reality, the simplest and mildest-looking mortal that ever breathed. What humiliations, what indignities, nevertheless, had Mr Burlingham to endure! His landlord gave him notice, his tradespeople ceased calling for orders; when out walking in the neighbourhood he inhabited, concierges exclaimed: “There goes the famous Burlingham,” while little boys cried: “Here comes the sinister Burlingham.” Once, after calling on a friend who was out, he left his name with the concierge—and the concierge, panic-stricken, fled her lodge, and, rushing into the next house, breathlessly told her neighbour that she had seen the “terrible Burlingham.” In fact, an intolerable time of it for mild, simple Mr Burlingham.

“I have narrowly escaped the guillotine,” were his first words to the judge; and the Court laughed. The American should have engaged an interpreter: his French and his accent were deplorable. “This Steinheil affair is not clear,” he continued, naÏvely, and everyone shook with delight. “I am very sorry you have been so badly treated,” said M. de Valles, “but you fell under suspicion because you had eccentric habits, and mixed with eccentric people.” M. de Valles’ idea of “eccentric” habits and “eccentric” people was in itself eccentric. For Mr Burlingham’s friends and associates during his sojourn in Paris have been painters, sculptors, and journalists of talent and honourable standing. As for his habits, they have been those of a firm believer in the “simple life.” Sandals for Mr Burlingham; no hat; terrific walking-tours. Then a diet of rice, grapes and nuts. (In the buffet of the Law Courts Mr Burlingham, when invited to take a “drink,” ordered grapes: he consumed I don’t know how many bunches a day, to the stupefaction of the waiters and customers.) Well, after having received apologies from the judge, Mr Burlingham received those of counsel for the defence and the prosecution. “Excuses are scarcely enough,” replied the witness; “I should like to say something about the French judicial system.” At which, M. de Valles, rapping his paper-cutter, sternly requested simple, unfortunate Mr Burlingham to “retire.”

Murmurs, exclamations, excitement in court when M. Marcel Hutin, of the Echo de Paris, and MM. LabruyÈre and Barby, of the Matin—the three journalists who bullied and “tortured” Madame Steinheil in the Impasse Ronsin Villa on the night previous to her arrest—strode up to the short wooden bar that takes the place, in France, of a witness-box.

No confusion, no shame about them; and yet their conduct in the drawing-room of the Steinheil villa twelve months ago was despicable. Calmly they admitted having advised the “Tragic Widow” to “tell a new story,” as no one in Paris believed in her account of how the double crime had been committed. They also admitted having lied to the wretched woman, when they had told her that the villa was surrounded by a hostile mob, “come there to lynch her.” Madame Steinheil, they continued, was exhausted, out of her mind. She called for strychnine, with which to poison herself. Downstairs in the kitchen the cook, Mariette Wolff, was discovered on her knees, striving to cut open the tube of the gas-stove—to asphyxiate herself. The cook then produced a revolver, and cried: “Here is the only means of salvation.” Later on, tea was served in the drawing-room. M. Marcel Hutin and his two colleagues continued to browbeat Madame Steinheil. One of the Yellow Reporters cried: “I shall not leave this house until I know the truth.” Mariette Wolff entered the drawing-room and tried to soothe her mistress. And——

“So you tortured Madame Steinheil in her drawing-room. You drank her tea. You were her guests, she was your hostess,” interrupted M. de Valles, scathingly, indignantly. The “Tragic Widow,” leaning forward on the ledge of the dock, looked gratefully, thankfully, at the judge. The three Yellow Reporters strode out of court, each of them provoking angry exclamations from the barristers as they importantly passed by.

And then, the cook—Mariette Wolff, who had been in Madame Steinheil’s service for over twenty years; and who, according to the Yellow Press, “possessed all the secrets of the palpitating Steinheil Mystery.” Henri Rochefort, M. Arthur Meyer (director of the Gaulois, very Jewish in appearance, but a strong Anti-Semite and an ardent Catholic in politics), Madame SÉverine (the famous woman journalist), four very charming lady barristers, all their male confrÈres—everyone, in fact, sprang up excitedly when Mariette made her long-expected appearance. She has since been described as a peasant out of one of Zola’s novels, and as “the double of Balzac’s fiendish Cousine Bette.” She has also been termed “a fury,” and “a rat” and “a monster.” For my part, when first I saw her through the open door of the witness-room, sipping a steaming grog and chatting and laughing with her son Alexandre, I summed her up as the French double of a typical English charwoman. She was wearing a battered black bonnet and a seedy black dress, and came to me more as a Dickensonian than a Zolaesque or a Balzacien character. But Mariette, happily drinking grog, and Mariette, facing a jury and judge, are two very different persons. In court, Madame Steinheil’s ex-cook was defiant, vindictive, violent. As she defended her former mistress, her beady, black eyes flashed, her chin and nose almost met—her yellow, knotted hand beat the air. Yes, she was a “fury”; yes—to use the French journalist’s pet epithet—she looked “sinister.” And, oh dear me, her abuse of the Yellow Reporters! Mariette’s crude language cannot be reproduced here. It became particularly strong when she related how she had ordered MM. Hutin, Barby and LabruyÈre out of the Impasse Ronsin Villa. It grew even stronger when she denied their allegations that she intended first of all to asphyxiate herself, and then to blow out her brains. She denied everything. “My mistress is innocent,” she cried. “She accused my son Alexandre of being a murderer, but it was those —— journalists who made her do that, and I forgive her: and so does Alexandre.” True, Alexandre Wolff, a horse-dealer’s assistant, with huge red hands and a neck like a bullock’s, told M. de Valles he bore Madame Steinheil “no grudge.” And the “Tragic Widow,” leaning forward, murmured melodiously: “Thank you, Alexandre.”

Full of incoherencies, contradictions, was the evidence of Remy Couillard, the late M. Steinheil’s valet, into whose pocket-book the “Tragic Widow” had placed the incriminating pearl. “I bear her no grudge,” blurted out the young man. “I beg your pardon, Remy,” said Madame Steinheil, always melodiously, when the valet (attired, since he was accomplishing his “military service,” in a cavalry uniform) withdrew. But, a moment later, she fell back in her chair, closed her eyes; and the black-gloved hands in her lap twitched convulsively, madly.

M. Borderel had stepped forward to give evidence: M. Borderel, the lover Madame Steinheil had declared twelve months ago to the examining magistrate to be the one and only man she had ever truly loved.

A hush in court as the middle-aged, red-eyed, broken-down widower from the beautiful country of the Ardennes, related the history of his intrigue with the “Tragic Widow.”

It will be remembered that the strongest point for the prosecution was that Madame Steinheil had murdered her husband in order to be free to marry “the rich chÂtelain, M. Borderel.” In a slow, solemn voice, M. Borderel stated: “Yes; Madame Steinheil did mention marriage to me, but I said it was impossible. I adored my late wife, I adore my children, and I felt I could not give them a step-mother; and Madame Steinheil fully understood that my decision was irrevocable. Therefore the assumption of the prosecution that Madame Steinheil murdered her husband in order to become my wife, is unwarrantable.” Here M. Borderel broke down. “I loved her. I was a widower. I was free. In becoming her lover, I behaved no more wrongly than thousands of my fellow-countrymen. It is a base lie that I ever suspected her of being guilty of that awful murder. On the morning after the crime, I was full of the deepest pity for her; and when she was accused in the newspapers I passionately told everyone she was innocent.” Up sprang MaÎtre Aubin, counsel for the defence, with the cry: “Do you still believe her innocent?” And loudly, vigorously, whole-heartedly rang forth the answer: “With all my soul, with all my heart, upon my conscience.”

Even M. de Valles was moved by M. Borderel’s emotion, sorrow, chivalry. The disclosure of the “rich chÂtelain’s” liaison with the “Tragic Widow” caused such a scandal in the Ardennes that M. Borderel had to sell his estate; and he, too, has been persecuted continuously by Yellow photographers and journalists. Equally chivalrous was the evidence of Comte d’Arlon (to whose house Madame Steinheil was removed after the night of the murder), of M. Martin (a State official), and of other gentlemen who had been (platonic) friends of the “Tragic Widow.” Then, more chivalry from M. Pouce, an officer in the detective police. “I have been one of the detectives in charge of the Steinheil affair,” he cried. “But I have always believed in the innocence of Madame Steinheil. Had she told me she was guilty, I should not have believed her. She is innocent.” And finally, exuberant, fantastic chivalry on the part of a young man named RenÉ Collard: who, to the stupefaction of the Court, walked up to the Bench and cried: “Madame Steinheil is innocent. I myself am the red-headed woman who helped to commit the double murder.” M. de Valles then wiped his brow with his huge handkerchief, rapped on the silver inkstand with his paper-cutter, and cried: “Silence”—for the Court was buzzing with excitement. Hesitatingly RenÉ Collard (aged perhaps nineteen) related that he had disguised himself as a woman, bought a red wig, broken his way into the Steinheil villa (in the company of two friends), sacked the place, bound and gagged Madame Steinheil, strangled her husband, suffocated her mother. “Take this young man away,” said M. de Valles to a municipal guard, “and lock him up.” Two nights in prison brought young RenÉ Collard to his senses. He had seen Madame Steinheil’s photographs in the papers, had fallen in love with her: had resolved to save her at the risk of being guillotined by the awful M. Deibler! Said the examining magistrate: “Little idiot, I shall now send you home in the charge of a policeman, who will deliver you over to your parents.” And so, amorous, over-chivalrous young RenÉ Collard was conducted back to a dull, bourgeois flat in the Avenue Clichy, where his father and mother, after calling him a “villain,” a “criminal,” and a “monster,” took him into their arms, and hugged him, and called him “the best and most adorable of sons”; and then sent out AmÉlie, the only servant, to fetch a cream cake and a bottle of sweet champagne with which to celebrate the return home of the “wicked” but “adorable” Master RenÉ.

And now, half-past ten o’clock at night on Saturday, the 13th of November.—I have passed over the address to the jury of M. Trouard-Riolle, the Public Prosecutor—a mere repetition of the judge’s savage cross-examination of the “Tragic Widow” on the first two days of the trial; and I have also passed over MaÎtre Aubin’s long, eloquent speech for the defence. And the last scenes I have now to describe rise up so vividly before me, that I adopt the present tense.

The jury have retired to an upstairs room to consider their verdict. Madame Steinheil, watched by municipal guards, is waiting—deadly pale, green shadows under her blue eyes, exhausted, a wreck—in the “Chambre des AccusÉs.” And in the stifling Court of Assizes, and in the cold marble corridors of the Palais de Justice, barristers, journalists and a few ornaments of le Tout Paris (who, somehow or other, have at last obtained admittance to the Law Courts) are frantically speculating upon the fate of Madame Steinheil. Most barristers say: “There are no proofs whatsoever. Therefore, acquittal.” The Tout Paris cries: “She should be imprisoned for life.” (And here, in yet another parenthesis, let us suggest that the Tout Paris’ mocking, vindictive attitude towards Madame Steinheil is provoked by malevolent jealousy. Madame la Comtesse, lively Pauline Boum, stout Baronne Goldstein cannot forgive the “Tragic Widow” for having been une femme ultra-chic—the favourite of the late President FÉlix Faure. Yet, as we all know in Paris, the life of these ladies is very far from exemplary. How terrifically would our great, kindly, satirical Thackeray have laid bare the true causes of the bitter hostility directed against the “Tragic Widow” by French Vanity Fair!)

Eleven o’clock; half-past eleven; midnight. Twice, so we hear, have M. de Valles and counsel for the prosecution and the defence been summoned to the jurors’ room, to explain certain “points.” The Tout Paris, and Henri Rochefort, are jubilant. “When the jury sends for the judge it usually means a conviction,” croaks Rochefort, rubbing his hands, and still sucking his impotent lozenges. We hear, too, that a crowd of thousands has assembled in front of the Palais de Justice; that the boulevards are wild with excitement, and——

“The judge has been summoned a third time to the jurors’ room,” we are told at twenty minutes past twelve.

“Five years’ imprisonment at least,” chuckle the ladies and fatuous gentlemen of le Tout Paris.

“Ten years—fifteen—twenty, I hope. She was in the pay of the Dreyfusards, and killed FÉlix Faure,” mutters Rochefort.

“The Court enters; the Court enters,” cry the ushers and the municipal guards, at half-past twelve.

As the jury files into the box, barristers and journalists mount their benches, and, upon those rickety supports, sway to and fro. “Silence,” shouts M. de Valles, rapping his paper-cutter for the last time. His question to the foreman of the jury is inaudible. But the reply rings out firmly, vigorously:

“Before God and man, upon my honour and conscience, the verdict on every count of the indictment is: Not Guilty.”

For a few seconds, silence. Then a shrill cry (from one of the brown-haired, blue-eyed, very charming lady barristers) of “Acquitted!” And after that, enthusiastic uproar. Rocking and swaying to and fro on their rickety benches, the barristers applaud, cheer, fling their black kÉpis into the air. Up, too, go the caps of their fascinating, brown-haired colleagues, as they cry: “Bravo.” More shouts and bravoes from the journalists. (One of them—an Englishman—cheers so frantically that half-an-hour later his voice is as hoarse as Henri Rochefort’s.) And so the din continues, increases, until the demonstrators suddenly perceive the dock is empty. Again, for a second or two, silence, followed by exclamations of astonishment, alarm. M. de Valles, the two assistant judges, and the jurors lean forward. MaÎtre Aubin looks anxious. Where is the “Tragic Widow”? Is she ill? Is she——? But at last the small door at the back of the dock opens, and Madame Steinheil, livid, held by either arm by a municipal guard, staggers forward. She has not yet heard the verdict, but the renewed wild cheering (which drowns the judge’s voice as he addresses her) tells her what it is. Dazed, half-fainting in the doorway, she looks around the Court. For the first time throughout the ten days’ trial she smiles—heavens, the relief, the gratitude, the softness of that smile! And then amidst shouts of “Vive Madame Steinheil,” and of “Vive la Justice,” the “Tragic Widow” falls unconscious into the arms of the Gardes Municipaux and is carried out backwards through the narrow doorway of the dock.

Paris, too, demonstrates excitedly. Cheers are given by the vast crowd assembled outside the Law Courts for Madame Steinheil, MaÎtre Aubin and the jury. M. Trouard-Riolle, the public prosecutor, leaves the Palais de Justice by a side door, followed by Henri Rochefort, yellower than ever in the face, his eyes blazing with vindictive fury. Almost encircling the Palais are the 60 and 90 h.p. motors of the Yellow Reporters, still bent on pursuing and persecuting the “Tragic Widow.” But she evades them; passes what remains of the night in the Hotel Terminus; speeds off in an automobile to a doctor’s private nursing-home at VÉsinet next morning.

Acquitted, yes; but by no means rehabilitated, far less left in peace. Outside the nursing-home at VÉsinet, behold rows of motor cars, packs of Yellow Reporters and photographers. A din in this usually tranquil country place; a din, too, outside the Impasse Ronsin Villa, and in front of the Bellevue Villa, where inquisitive Parisians jest, and laugh, and point and stare at the shuttered windows. Over those “five o’clock’s” of pale tea, port and sugared cakes, le Tout Paris declares that Madame Steinheil was acquitted by order of the Government. In the Patrie, Henri Rochefort still calls her the “Black Panther,” and, alluding once again to the death of FÉlix Faure, bids President FalliÈres to beware of her. And on the boulevards, swarms of camelots thrust under one’s eyes “picture post cards” of Mariette Wolff; of huge, bloated Alexandre; of mild Mr Burlingham; of chivalrous Count d’Arlon; of M. Borderel; of Mademoiselle Marthe Steinheil; and of the “Tragic Widow.”

And the bourgeoisie?

“Acquitted, yes; but the Impasse Ronsin crime, committed eighteen months ago, remains a mystery,” says a Parisian angrily to me. “The trial has elucidated nothing: but it has cost enormous sums.” And then, as he is a thrifty, rather parsimonious little bourgeois, the speaker adds indignantly: “As Madame Steinheil has won, it is the Treasury, in other words the unfortunate taxpayer, myself, for instance, who will have to put his hand in his pocket, and settle the bill.”