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  ‘No, it was kept in a drawer in my bedside table.’

  ‘Why did you buy it?’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘That’s rather an odd reply. Come, now, tell the truth! Did you plan to kill Bernard Martin?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, her voice shaking, ‘I swear it.’

  ‘Whom did you intend to use it on then? Yourself? Count Monti, who was apparently making you feel jealous? A rival?’

  ‘No, no,’ the accused woman replied, hiding her face in her hands. ‘No more questions! I won’t say anything else. I’ve confessed to everything, everything you wanted me to!’

  ‘Very well, then. We shall proceed to the testimony of the witnesses. Usher, bring in the first witness.’

  A woman walked in; tears were streaming down her sallow face; her glistening eyes looked with terror from the stand to the Judges in their scarlet robes. Outside, the rain kept falling with its steady pattering. One of the journalists was getting bored; he jotted down sentences on the sheet of paper in front of him that could have come straight out of a novel: ‘The wind drew deep sighs from the golden plane trees that lined the Seine.’

  ‘State your full name.’

  ‘Flora Adèle Larivière.’

  ‘State your age.’

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘Your profession?’

  ‘Personal chambermaid to Madame Eysenach.’

  ‘You are not being sworn in, so I am invoking my discretionary powers to question you. When did you first enter the service of the accused?’

  ‘It will be seven years on the 19 January.’

  ‘Tell us what you know of the crime. Your mistress was to celebrate Christmas Eve in the company of Count Monti, was she not?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  ‘Did she tell you what time she would be coming home?’

  ‘She said it would be quite late. She told me I wasn’t to wait up for her.’

  ‘Was that usual? Or did you normally wait up for her?’

  ‘I had been very ill a month earlier and I was still very tired. Madame wasn’t like most mistresses; she looked after her employees. She spoke to me with great kindness: “You wear yourself out too much, my poor Flora. I absolutely forbid you to wait up for me. I’ll get undressed by myself.” ’

  ‘Did she appear quite normal that evening? Was she nervous, agitated?’

  ‘No, just sad. She was often sad. I’d seen her crying more than once.’

  ‘Do you know why she was crying?’

  ‘The Count was making her jealous.’

  ‘Return to what happened that evening.’

  ‘Madame went out and I went to bed; my bedroom is upstairs, separated from Madame’s room by a hallway. I was awakened by the sound of the telephone ringing. I remember that I could just about see light coming through the curtains. It must have been four or five o’clock in the morning. Sometimes Count Monti would call her after she’d come home. Madame probably wanted to be sure he had gone straight home after leaving her. Actually, she would sometimes call him straight back, pretending she wanted to hear his voice one more time. So I heard the phone ringing but no one was answering. That worried me; I could sense something was wrong. I got up and went into the hallway and listened. I heard Madame and a man’s voice and almost immediately afterwards a gunshot.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I was absolutely terrified. I rushed to the bedroom, but then, I don’t know why, I didn’t dare go in. I listened at the door. I couldn’t hear a single sound, not even a whisper, nothing. I opened the door and went in. I’ll never forget it. Madame was sitting on the bed, still fully dressed, in her ermine coat, her evening gown and jewellery. Her face was lit up by a small lamp on her dressing table. She wasn’t crying. She looked pale and frightened. I called out to her, grabbed hold of her arm. “Madame, Madame!” I cried. She seemed not to hear anything. Finally, she looked at me and said, “Flora, I’ve killed him.” The first thing I thought of was that she had killed her lover … that she had quarrelled with the Count and shot him in a moment of madness. I looked around. I was so shaken up and the bedroom was so dimly lit that at first all I saw was a dark shape lying on the ground, as if someone had thrown a pile of clothes on the floor. I switched on the light and saw that the telephone had been knocked to the ground and next to it was the gun. Then I saw there was a man stretched out on the floor. Mother Mary, I leaned down and couldn’t believe my eyes. It wasn’t Count Monti. It was some young man I’d never seen before.’

  ‘You had never seen the victim before? Not at your mistress’s house or anywhere else?’

  ‘Never, Your Honour.’

  ‘The defendant had never mentioned his name in front of you?’

  ‘Never, Your Honour; I’d never heard his name.’

  ‘When you saw the body of the unfortunate young man, what did you do?’

  ‘I thought that he might still be breathing and said so to Madame. She stood up and then knelt down beside me. She raised the head of the … of Bernard Martin … she lifted his head and held it like that for a few moments. She looked at him without saying a word, without moving, and it was true, there was nothing we could do. Blood was dripping out of the corner of his mouth. He looked very young and undernourished; he was thin, with hollow cheeks, and his clothes were wet, as if he’d been outdoors for a long time. It was raining that night. I said, “There’s nothing we can do. He’s dead.” Madame didn’t reply. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. She reached for her evening bag, but kept staring at Bernard Martin. She took a handkerchief out of her bag. She wiped away the blood and froth that was running out of the corner of his mouth. She sighed deeply, then looked at me as if she were coming back to her senses. Then she stood up and said to me, “Call the police, my dear Flora.” When she said “dear” … it … I can’t explain how that felt to me. It was almost as if Madame realised she would be all alone from that moment on and that she considered me almost a friend. I was the one who said, “He was a burglar, wasn’t he?” ’

  ‘And that was what you truly believed, was it?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. I have to tell the truth, don’t I? But I couldn’t believe that Madame, who was so sweet, so kind to everyone, could have killed someone like that without good reason. I thought he was a blackmailer who had threatened her.’

  ‘Your loyalty to your mistress is commendable. Nevertheless, it should not have led you to advise the defendant to tell a childish lie that could only make her situation worse. What did the accused reply?’

  ‘She didn’t. She left the room. She walked into the hallway. She was wringing her hands, like she’s doing now. Then she went to my room and threw herself down on my bed. She didn’t budge from there until the police arrived. It was cold. I wanted to cover her legs with a blanket. I noticed she was asleep. She only woke up when the policemen came in. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Do the members of the jury or the Prosecuting Attorney wish to ask this witness any questions?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Larivière,’ said the Prosecuting Attorney, ‘you have demonstrated a most commendable loyalty and done your utmost to portray the accused as a sweet, kind woman loved by her servants. I do not dispute this. But you have very adeptly avoided any mention of her morals. We shall not discuss her documented affairs, in particular her relationship with a young Englishman, George Canning, killed in action in 1916, or Herbert Lacy, whom the accused met in 1925 when she returned to Paris after a long absence. Nor shall we delve into all her other former affairs. But you have been employed by the defendant since 1928. Have you known her to have any lovers during that time?’

  ‘Count Monti.’

  ‘That is a matter of public knowledge. And apart from Count Monti?’

  ‘There’s been no one since she met the Count; I would swear to it.’

  ‘Of course you would.’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘Let us move on. Before Count Monti, can you be certain that your
mistress had no one else in her life?’

  ‘She never confided in me.’

  ‘I understand. But did you not tell one of your friends that Madame, and I am quoting you word for word here, “must have had very deep feelings for the Count to have stopped chasing men”. Did you say that?’

  ‘Yes, but what I meant …’

  ‘Did you say that: yes or no?’

  ‘Yes. Madame had lovers before the Count, but she was a free woman, a widow with no children.’

  ‘Perhaps. Nevertheless, the defence should not portray the accused as a woman beyond reproach, who had fallen under the spell of a scoundrel. I intend to show, and the gentlemen of the jury will come to see, that Gladys Eysenach was no innocent, and that it would be extraordinary to believe that this young man, Bernard Martin, was capable of frightening her to the point of forcing her to commit murder. The defendant claims she is the victim here. But how do we know that Bernard Martin was not the true victim of this woman? There is an attempt to discredit Bernard Martin, gentlemen of the jury; he is being portrayed as some sort of gigolo, some low-life pimp, while in fact he was a well-behaved, studious young man. No one has the right to cast such vile aspersions on his character! The victim, who was studying for his Bachelor’s Degree, lived in the poorest way in the Latin Quarter, in one small room in a third-rate hostel. After his death, all that was found was the sum of four hundred francs. Inexpensive clothing, no jewellery. Is that, I ask you, the lifestyle of a gigolo, adored by a rich woman whom he obsessively and constantly threatened? How do you know that it was not this woman, a woman empowered by her beauty, her wealth and her social standing, this woman, gentlemen of the jury, whom you see before you, who did not ensnare this young boy in order to corrupt him and then murder him? A high-society courtesan can be even more formidable than others because she is more beautiful, more worldly wise. But let us expose the hypocrisy of glorifying such women while we pour scorn on more common ladies of the night. The Gladys Eysenachs of this world must own their lovers’ souls, and their lives. The accused has deceived Count Monti. She clearly played on the feelings of this noble gentleman, since she had no qualms about betraying him with a complete stranger. She found it amusing to drive Bernard Martin mad. But the game was becoming dangerous. She bought a gun and then, coldly, mercilessly, killed a young man who, had it not been for her, would have been able to continue his studies and grow into a happy adult, a man who might have become – who can say? – a valuable member of society.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Larivière,’ said the Attorney for the Defence, ‘let me ask you something, if you please. Did your mistress love Count Monti? Please reply using your woman’s instincts.’

  ‘She adored him.’

  ‘Thank you. This single word is all the reply needed to respond to the Prosecuting Attorney’s moving eloquence. It is a humble word, but so honest: adored. She adored her lover. She was in love, jealous, and so perhaps in a moment of folly might she not have wished to arouse her fickle lover’s jealousy? Might she not have given in to this young man who was pursuing her? Might she not have regretted it afterwards, feared the scandal, leading her to kill in a moment of madness, a moment she will pay for, and for the rest of her life? Does this not seem simpler, more humane, more logical than attempting to transform this woman – who is, of course, guilty of this crime, I do not deny it, but who is charming and kind – into some sort of fiend or femme fatale from the cinema?’

  The Judge excused the witness. The accused woman seemed overcome by fatigue. Her face, when revealing any emotion at all, showed only a troubled weariness. Her chambermaid smiled shyly at her as she left the courtroom, as if to give her courage, and the defendant began to cry. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, then lowered her eyes and sat totally still.

  Outside, it was still raining. The sky was growing darker. The lights were switched on. Beneath the yellowish glare, the accused woman’s face looked suddenly tragic, ageless; it was motionless; her soul seemed to have sought refuge within her deep-set, beautiful, haunted eyes.

  ‘Usher,’ said the Judge, ‘bring in the next witness.’

  It was stiflingly hot; the young attorneys sitting on the floor, some in the courtroom itself, formed a black carpet.

  ‘Please state your full name,’ said the Judge.

  ‘Aldo de Fieschi, Count Monti.’

  He was a man in his forties, very tall, clean-shaven, with a handsome face and regular features, a harsh mouth, light-grey eyes and long eyelashes.

  A member of the public leaned towards a woman and whispered in her ear, ‘Poor Aldo. Do you know what he said to me the day after the crime? He was crushed, and he’d lost all his coolness and composure. “Ah!, why didn’t she kill me instead?” he said. He’ll never forgive her for causing such shame, such a display of depravity …’

  ‘How do you know? Men are so strange. She undoubtedly slept with that young Bernard Martin to make him jealous. She killed him so that Monti wouldn’t find out. He should be flattered …’

  ‘That’s the defence’s argument.’

  Meanwhile, the Judge was asking the witness: ‘Did you spend the evening of the crime with the defendant?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  ‘You met the accused in 1930?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘You wished to marry her?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  ‘Gladys Eysenach agreed to marry you at first. Then she changed her mind, did she not?’

  ‘Yes, she changed her mind.’

  ‘What were her reasons?’

  ‘Madame Eysenach was reluctant to give up her freedom.’

  ‘And she gave no other reasons?’

  ‘No, she did not.’

  ‘Did you ask her again?’

  ‘Yes, several times.’

  ‘And each time she refused?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Did you have the feeling that, more recently, the accused had a secret lover in her life? Did you fear you might have a rival?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Tell us about the evening before the crime, the last evening that you and the accused spent together.’

  ‘I had gone to collect Madame Eysenach at her house, at about eight-thirty. She seemed quite normal, not nervous or sad. We had dinner at Ciro’s. We spent the rest of the evening at Chez Florence with our mutual friends, the Perciers, and left at about three o’clock in the morning. My car was being repaired that day, so we used Madame Eysenach’s. I took her to her door, then I went home.’

  ‘Did you see her go inside?’

  ‘I was about to get out of the car, naturally, to see her in, but I hadn’t been feeling well all day. I’d kept myself going with aspirin. I started shivering in the car. Madame Eysenach was worried and immediately begged me not to get out. It was freezing that night. I remember it was raining and extremely windy. Nevertheless, I only laughed when she said she was worried about me. The war taught me how to put up with such problems, and many others, without attaching any importance to them. We even had a little fight about it, but jokingly. I wanted to open the door and get out, but Madame Eysenach wouldn’t let me. She pushed my hand away and jumped out on to the pavement. “Take the Count back home,” she called out to the driver. I had just enough time to kiss her hand before the car pulled away.’

  ‘Presumably she had spotted Bernard Martin who was waiting for her?’

  ‘Presumably,’ Count Monti replied curtly.

  ‘And you had no contact with Madame Eysenach until the next day?’

  ‘When I got home, I telephoned her, as we had arranged. No one answered. I thought that Madame Eysenach was already asleep. It was a little after six o’clock when I was awakened by Flora, her chambermaid, who told me the terrible news. She asked me to come at once, not to delay a second, that something dreadful had happened. You can imagine how frightened I was. I quickly got dressed and rushed out of the house.
By the time I got to Madame Eysenach’s, the police had been called. I found the house full of people and the body of the unfortunate young man was already cold.’

  ‘Had you ever seen the victim before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘And you had never heard his name spoken, naturally.’

  ‘Not once.’

  ‘Gentlemen of the jury, do you have any questions to ask this witness? The Prosecuting Attorney? The Attorney for the Defence?’