"Is it Pierre, your fiance, who demands this?" I asked.
Marthe eagerly seized this pretext. The horrible scene was as painful to her as to me.
"Yes... It is for Pierre."...
"He is going to marry you, after all, if you don"t see me again, is that it?"... I was in tears now.... I added: "Marthe, if you wish it, _I_ will enter a convent. All I long for is your happiness."...
My child looked at me and it was clear that she longed to rush into my arms....
"We had better go now," said some one. Marthe bent forward to kiss me.
"Good-bye," I said. "You have always been my all in all... Remember, if ever you are abandoned by everybody, or unhappy, that you will still and always have your _maman_."
I fell back on the bed. When I recovered consciousness Mme. Mignon and her dear children were around me, but _my_ child had gone away, and for nearly two years, in spite of letters and entreaties, she never came to me.
Recently, my daughter joined me, at last, of her own free will, after craving my forgiveness--as if it had been necessary! She is living with me and the young Italian painter whose wife she became, in Paris, long after her engagement to the young Buisson had been broken off. For many weeks, we have spoken of the past and I know the truth now, the whole truth about that farewell meeting and those endless months of separation which all but cost me my life, and which made my child the most miserable of beings.
I will quote my daughter"s own words, taken from a long letter which she sent me during the summer of 1911--and at a time when I had given up all hope of ever seeing her again, alas--when she became once more my own Marthe:
"...At the end of October, after we agreed that I should no longer visit you at Saint-Lazare, I was taken to Nogent by the B"s. I was kept in strict seclusion, was never allowed to go out or to read a newspaper. I knew nothing of what was going on at your trial, and yet, how I longed to know! All the time, I was being told the most horrible things about you, and given to understand that I should be ruined in every way if I ever saw you again. I was not well, we two had gone through so much, beloved mother, and all that I heard hurt me, and influenced me, though I did not believe it, of course. On Sunday morning, November 14th, Marie-Louise, my dear friend (a daughter of the B"s) rushed into my room and shouted: "Your mother is acquitted!" We both cried with joy for a long, long time. M. B., who always came from Sat.u.r.day to Monday, said nothing. I have sometimes heard him take your part.... But some one else said furiously: "The wretched woman; they have let her off. I wish she had been sentenced and guillotined!" I rushed to my room and sobbed bitterly.
"At about midnight, I and Marie-Louise heard the bell ring repeatedly.
We dressed and went downstairs. Mme. B. looked through a window and said: "The station "bus is there. It is Chabrier."
"Edouard (Chabrier) came in. He had seen Aubin in the morning and also "the family"--all the uncles and aunts (on the Steinheil side). He said to me: "Your mother is a wretch; I have heard she threatens to kill everybody unless you go to her!"... I was happy, for I longed so much to be with you.... There was a long discussion to decide whether I should be _allowed_ to see you! Then Edouard drew a paper from his pocket and said: "Copy this, just as it is, sign, and put the date. It is a letter to the Attorney-General, asking for protection. Your mother threatens all of us, even you." Every one read the letter which I understood had been drawn up by "the family" in Paris. I was ordered to copy it. The worst calamities would befall me and them all, if I didn"t. I obeyed but was so upset that I dated the letter "September" instead of "November."
Edouard pocketed the letter, which, he said, he intended sending to the Attorney-General, through Uncle L. (a magistrate and brother-in-law of M. Steinheil) and I was allowed to go to bed. It was nearly perhaps on account of the wrong date, perhaps because it was all a trick to frighten me and make me believe that you were really threatening people"s lives! You can understand, _maman_, in what state I was. I did believe much of what I was told, and began to think you had lost your reason, and really wanted to harm us all. Forgive me.
"The next morning, Edouard left for Paris. In the evening M. B.
unexpectedly arrived, and said to me: "Aunt Mimi (Mme. Seyrig) came to me in Paris to ask where you were. I had to admit that you were with us, and I have promised to let you go and see your mother."
"I was taken to Paris to the B."s house and thence to Uncle L., where a family council was held. The uncles and aunts and their children were there.... They warned me against you, terrorised me to such an extent, that I asked that I might not see you at all. I was so frightened and so ill. They made me swear to tell you that I would never see you again.
"If she insists," they said, "tell her you are "emanc.i.p.ated" and she has no right over you. You cannot be too severe with your mother, she wants to kill us all. We are all lost unless you talk to her. But make it clear to her that it is all over between you."
"I saw Aunt Mimi, who told me you were going on the stage, and that the "honour of the family" would be ruined. The next day she went to Le Vesinet by motor, and M. Chabrier followed by train; we got out at Le Pecq in order to escape the journalists, and walked to Le Vesinet. On the way M. Chabrier kept telling me what I was to tell you. I felt more dead than alive when I entered your room.... You know the rest, my poor darling _maman_.
"Afterwards I was taken back to Nogent, where for days I remained in bed, ill and miserable."...
During the days that followed my daughter"s departure I was kept alive only by the devoted care of Dr. Raffegeau and Dr. Mignon, and by the tender devotion of their wives.
Some one said to me: "Your daughter is a Catholic; the priests have taken her from you." I at once thought of becoming a Catholic myself. My conversion would perhaps mean that my child would return to me. I summoned the Catholic priest of Le Vesinet, and had a long talk with him; but very honestly he told me: "Do not become a Catholic without absolute convictions. As for your daughter, I can only say that no priest has the right to take her away from you."
I had many conversations with my counsel. He and others gave me to understand that I should be happier and safer abroad than in France.
Gradually I grew used to the idea of going to England. I had a few friends there. England was a land of liberty and order. Perhaps I should find there the rest my body so much needed, and the peace for which my mind was thirsting....
Maitre Aubin introduced M. Jacques Dhur, the well-known writer and journalist, to me--a sincere, forcible, fearless man, and it was agreed that I should write a few brief chapters telling of my long calvary....
The money would be most useful to me. M. Dhur a.s.sisted me. The articles were for the _Journal_, but for some reason they were not published.
At the beginning of December (1909) I was ready to go to England. Dr.
Mignon, on account of my very indifferent health, had offered to accompany me to London, where he would place me under the care of a doctor whom he knew. I bade good-bye to Dr. Raffegeau and his wife, then to Mme. Mignon and her charming children, who had all been so admirably devoted to me.
At night--I was to take the 9 P.M. train for Charing Cross--I drove to Paris in a motor-car with M. Dhur and Dr. Mignon. They took me to a fashionable restaurant where we were met by one or two of M. Dhur"s colleagues. I was bewildered.... I had not been in a restaurant for over a year and a half. We sat at a table in a small room decorated with orchids and roses. These friends wished to lessen the feelings of sadness which they knew must hang over one who was about to go into exile.
"In order that the waiters may not guess who you are, and to avoid the restaurant being besieged, we will suppose that you are Mme.---- the air-woman," said one; and gaily they began asking me questions about my impressions in the air, the motor I preferred, the make of my aeroplane propeller.
We went to the Gare du Nord. I was tired, nervous and so sad.... I was about to leave Paris, where I had lived twenty years, Paris, which I loved in spite of all that I had suffered there.... I went to buy a newspaper but saw my name in a large heading, and hurried away. M. Dhur told me: "Be careful; I believe there are two English journalists in the train." A whistle blew; hands grasped mine; the train started, and we went into the night....
On the way, the shrewd English newspaper-men spoke to Dr. Mignon and very politely asked for the privilege of a brief interview with me, and said the journal to which they belonged was ready to pay anything for a series of articles signed by me. Dr. Mignon said he could not allow them to speak to me.
On the Channel boat, I felt more despondent than ever. It was cold, the wind was so keen, and the sh.o.r.es of France were disappearing.
The train stopped in London at a station before Charing Cross, and one of the English journalists rushed in and said: "Madame, I know there are scores of photographers and newspaper people awaiting you at Charing Cross. Believe me, you had better step out here." It was true, and it was kind, but, alas, before Dr. Mignon and I--we were both rather numb and bewildered--could follow this good advice, the train started again.
I had hardly set my foot on the platform at Charing Cross when flashlight explosions resounded all around me and some forty journalists pressed eagerly, violently even, about me. Some spoke French--they were the London correspondents of Parisian newspapers; others spoke English or in broken French. I pushed Dr. Mignon into a cab and jumped in after him. Motor-cars followed us. I said to the driver: "Hotel... Find!...."
It was now about 6 A.M. We tried to get rooms at one hotel but were turned away on account of the journalists. We tried another, were again refused; then yet another. The journalists still followed. Desperate, I walked up to them and begged for pity.
I s.n.a.t.c.hed two hours rest and then I had to leave the hotel. The manager was courteous and generously allowed Dr. Mignon and me one hour more, and said he would help us to hoodwink the Press. A friend of my counsel, an English solicitor, was summoned to my a.s.sistance by telephone. He came and I left with him whilst the Doctor made his exit by another door after making an appointment. Alas, we were seen and followed, and it was by sheer luck, owing to a block in the traffic, that I was able to elude my pursuers.
What a day! We drove and then walked. Rain poured down. It was dark when at last Dr. Mignon found us.
We walked through narrow, ill-lit streets and reached a small boarding-house kept by a German, where I was well received. I was tired, dispirited, ill. Our luggage had been left at the station. I dined with Dr. Mignon at the D."s, where, after spending two nights at the German boarding-house, I stayed for a few weeks until I found a small house for myself.
Three or four days after my arrival in London and when I had somewhat recovered from so many successive shocks, Dr. Mignon returned to France.
My life in England can be briefly described. I found a few trusty English friends who were not aware of my ident.i.ty at first, but who, when I disclosed it, became only the more devoted. I found the rest and the peace of mind I so sorely needed.... I made my little home as beautiful as I could, and found in music, in reading, and in long walks about the country the relaxation and consolation without which I could not have lived. I have learned to love England and the English. Perhaps as regards conversation, enthusiasm, imagination and artistic inclination I have found my few English friends--both men and women--somewhat different from the people who flocked to my Parisian salon. But I have found them far superior in other and more important qualities. They are perhaps less unconventional, less brilliant and witty, but they are more reliable and trustworthy; less versatile and a.s.similative, but more genuine, earnest and steady.
Towards the end of December, the furniture at the Impa.s.se Ronsin was sold, at my request, after I had ordered part of it to be sent to England. I had before written to my daughter offering her to keep everything she desired. The letter, however, was _never_ shown to her, and, later on, I discovered why. As a matter of fact, not a single one of the numerous letters I sent to my child was ever handed to her.
Certain newspapers seized the opportunity of that sale to attack me once more as "an ign.o.ble mother, ruining her child." When I saw, however, the list of the few things that had been sold, I thought that Marthe must have kept a great many things, and felt somewhat relieved. At the same time, I received from the person who represented me in Paris at the sale, a note: "Please hand back to Mme. Steinheil the enclosed letter, which no doubt comes from her. I shall likewise return anything she may send me, as I wish to have nothing to do with her. Signed: Chabrier."
In March 1910 I had to go to Paris to settle various business matters, and I remained there three days with my hair powdered to change my appearance. I saw my solicitor and settled various matters with him. I wrote to my daughter beseeching her to meet me a few hours before my departure, at Maitre Aubin"s. There, I found that Marthe had not come...
and I also found, outside, a number of journalists and photographers who had been warned of my arrival by a kind soul.
I was broken-hearted at not seeing my child. I remained for many hours at my counsel"s, and, at night, managed to hoodwink the journalists and to reach the Gare du Nord, where I entrained for London.
I was desperate. I wrote a long letter to Marthe. M. Chabrier read it, told my daughter that it contained threats and _compelled her to write and sign the following letter, from a copy he himself prepared_:
Paris, _March 12th, 1910_.
Maitre J. has handed me a letter from you to which I must reply telling you for the last time what you refuse to understand. The irrevocable decision I have taken of not seeing you again has not been dictated to me by any one. I have no advisers. My conduct and my actions arise solely from my conscience. I cannot forget the long sufferings and the ruin of my poor father, and I think that certain cruel recollections can break certain bonds. You refuse the only proof of disinterestedness I had asked you--the gift of the house in the Impa.s.se Ronsin, and you accuse my imaginary adviser of that refusal, and then you offer me your help to bear the difficulties of life, a life which you created for me by your will and acts, a life very painful and sad and for ever broken.
I repeat that I have taken my decision alone. You will never see me again. I must even ask you not to write to me any more, for there can be nothing between us except the absolute silence which separates two beings who ignore one another for ever.
"M. STEINHEIL."
It was of course easy for me to see at once that this ungrammatical and absurd letter had _not_ been written by my daughter! She had not, thank Heaven, that kind of style, and I readily guessed who was the instigator of the letter. But I did not pay much attention to all this; I only saw that Marthe was in need, and although she had refused--or rather, I had been told she had refused--everything I so gladly offered her, I went to the French Consul-General in London and signed a paper by which I renounced the ownership of my Paris house and made it over to my daughter.
A month later, being terribly anxious about her, so anxious indeed that I once more fell seriously ill and had to be visited three times a day by a doctor, for several weeks, I persuaded a devoted friend to go to Paris and talk to my daughter. My friend went to the Impa.s.se Ronsin and was received by M. Chabrier, who said he was very sorry but Mlle. Marthe was away in the country. My friend insisted, explained the gravity of my illness and begged for my daughter"s address. It was in vain.