‘Monsieur,’ asked the Attorney for the Defence, ‘would you please tell the court if it is true that the accused displayed jealousy over your attentions to one of her friends, as has been said? Did she ever make those kinds of remarks to you?’
‘I don’t remember,’ replied Count Monti.
‘Try to think back, would you?’
‘Actually,’ the witness finally said, ‘Madame Eysenach has been jealous and irritable; recently, that is …’
‘Yes,’ said the Attorney for the Defence, barely concealing his triumph, ‘since before the time when she first met Bernard Martin? Would that not be consistent with what I have just been attempting to demonstrate to the jury: this lonely, misunderstood woman, seeking some meagre consolation, some crumbs of love from a stranger after being deceived and scorned by the man she adored?’
‘I never stopped caring for her,’ said the Count, his large, delicate hands nervously gripping the edge of the witness box.
‘Never? Really?’
‘I had the utmost affection for Madame Eysenach; my greatest desire was to marry her, to make a home with her. She did not want the same thing. It cannot be held against me if I occasionally indulged in completely innocent attentions for which the defence seems to wish to reproach me!’
‘Quite so,’ said the Judge, turning towards the accused. ‘It was up to you to lead an honourable life, but you clearly preferred the thrill of danger and adventure in your love life, didn’t you?’
She didn’t reply. Everyone could see she was shaking.
The Attorney for the Defence continued questioning Count Monti: ‘Is it possible, Sir, that you – you, whom this unfortunate woman loved – might substantiate the claim that a poor woman, weak and in love, might be turned into a depraved, mad creature? Who more than you should show her compassion? If she had felt that you were sincere in your affection, might that not have saved her? Ah,’ he said, ever so slightly raising his famous voice with its golden tones, ‘ah, you are forcing me to go into embarrassing detail, sir. I detest doing so, but nevertheless … I do ask you to forgive me, sir, but I am going to have to be brutally honest. Regarding your financial situation, Count Monti: were you not going through a difficult time when you first met Madame Eysenach?’
In the press section, the journalists were taking notes: ‘Disturbance in the court. The Judge calls for an adjournment. When court resumes, the witness states …’
‘The truth is that my family, which is wealthier in property than in money, has never had an income to match its social standing. Nevertheless, I do not believe you could find anyone in either Italy or Paris who could honestly accuse me of having run up debts or lived in an extravagant manner. To me, Madame Eysenach’s considerable wealth was less important than her attractiveness and personal qualities. I did not consider her wealth as an obstacle to our marriage since, once married, I hoped to set myself up in a suitable and highly successful business. I was offering my fiancée a family name that would allow her to forget my relative lack of money. It is strange that I am being reproached for this financial embarrassment which, sadly, in a noble Roman family, is normally of no surprise to anyone …’
‘The court defers’, said the Judge, ‘to the witness’s excellent explanation. You may step down, sir. Usher, bring in the next witness.’
A very beautiful woman entered the witness box, wearing a luxurious fox coat. She was slim with pale skin and angular features; a short black veil fell over her eyes. She slowly took off her long black gloves in order to be sworn in.
‘State your full name.’
‘Jeannine Marie Suzanne Percier.’
‘State your age.’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Address.’
‘8 rue de la Faisanderie.’
‘Profession.’
‘None.’
‘You have been summoned as a witness, Madame, as the fourth member of the party at dinner on the evening of the crime and also as a close friend of the accused. Is that correct?’
‘Gladys Eysenach was a very close friend of mine, that is true. I was terribly fond of her. I still feel deep sympathy for her and, naturally, immense pity …’
She turned to look at the defendant and smiled at her, as if prompting her to smile back, to show some gratitude for her kindness. Gladys Eysenach raised her head with difficulty and stared at the witness; her mouth tightened slightly with bitterness. For a moment the two women locked eyes, then the accused woman shivered and wrapped the collar of her coat round her tighter and hid her face.
‘Were you privy to the details of your friend’s love life?’
‘Good Lord, Your Honour, you must know what female friendship is like? Of course we talk a lot … We recommend dressmakers to each other, we go out together, but it is rare that we confide in each other. I knew about the relationship between Gladys and Count Monti as everyone did. But whether there was anyone apart from Count Monti I couldn’t say, at least, not for sure …’
‘Do you know why your friend continued stubbornly to refuse Count Monti’s offer of marriage?’
‘I imagine’, said Jeannine Percier, shrugging her shoulders slightly, ‘that she was determined to keep her freedom; it was something she valued highly, judging from the way she used it.’
‘Can you be more precise, Madame?’
‘I don’t want to say anything bad – Heaven forbid – I’m only telling you what everyone knew. Gladys was excessively flirtatious. She enjoyed nothing more than compliments, adoration, but that’s not a crime.’
‘Quite so, just so long as it stops there.’
‘My husband and I had the greatest friendship for Count Monti and we often warned him about a marriage which, in my humble opinion, might have made both of them unhappy.’
‘And yet their relationship was a happy one?’
‘It seemed to be. But poor Gladys was painfully and excessively jealous. She was also highly emotional underneath a very sweet exterior. When I heard about the horrible crime, I was not surprised. It always seemed to me that there was something deeply tragic within Gladys. She was … mysterious … She was unreasonably demanding. She required men to be faithful to her in a way that is no longer customary, unfortunately! She expected a kind of devotion that was justified by her beauty, of course, but as for her age … She refused to accept these things. She couldn’t admit that her lover’s passion had cooled, that he was still extremely fond of her, of course, but that it was perhaps time for her to be more indulgent, more tolerant … And since her own emotions were very intense, all these things influenced her personality and made her moody and irritable.’
‘Can you tell us about the night before the crime, the Christmas Eve dinner that was to end so tragically?’
‘My husband and I met Gladys and the Count at Ciro’s, where we all had dinner. We decided to go on to Chez Florence to round off the evening. The rest of the night was uneventful. We drank champagne, danced and left in the early hours of the morning. That’s all.’
‘Did the accused seem nervous, anxious?’
‘She seemed excessively nervous and anxious that night, Your Honour. Every time Count Monti looked at another woman, oh, sometimes perfectly innocently, every time he made some banal compliment to the woman sitting next to him, the poor thing turned white and started trembling. It was pitiful, I can tell you. I would have liked to reassure her, but how could I? I remember I gave her a big hug, from the bottom of my heart when we said goodbye, and I hoped she could feel my sympathy. I’m happy that I gave in to that spontaneous show of affection, now that I can imagine what the poor woman has had to endure since then.’
‘Did you ever see Bernard Martin at the defendant’s home?’
‘Never, Your Honour.’
‘Did you ever hear his name spoken?’
‘Never.’
‘Have you knowledge of any other similar relationships, either directly from the accused woman herself or from a third party? I see you are hesitating
. Do not forget that you are under oath.’
‘Really,’ said Jeannine Percier, nervously twisting her long gloves, ‘I don’t know what to say …’
‘Just tell the truth, Madame, that’s all. Would you prefer me to ask you questions? You stated that you were not surprised at the crime, that something was bound to happen, that Madame Eysenach was fated, sooner or later, to fall prey to some scoundrel or other. I am quoting your very own words.’
‘If that’s what I said in my statement, it’s because it is true.’
‘Would you please be more precise, Madame? You are here to enlighten the court.’
‘When I said that, I have to admit I was thinking about a … a house on the rue Balzac that the unfortunate woman had a weakness to visit often.’
‘Are you saying it was a bordello?’
‘Yes. I don’t think it’s right to hide from the court those meetings which, however strange and abnormal they are, might shed some light on the pathological side of the personality of my poor dear friend.’
The Judge looked at Gladys Eysenach. ‘Is this true?’
‘Yes,’ she replied wearily.
The Judge slowly raised his arms in their large, scarlet sleeves. ‘What sort of shameful pleasure were you seeking in such a place? You are still beautiful, in a relationship with a nobleman: whatever possessed you to sleep with strangers? You are even rich, so do not have the excuse that you needed the money, a situation that, sadly, is the undoing of many women. You have nothing to say?’
‘I can’t say it’s not true,’ the accused woman said softly.
‘Has the witness finished her testimony?’
‘Yes, Your Honour. May I be allowed to beg the jury for clemency on behalf of this unfortunate woman?’
‘That is the role of the defence, not yours,’ said the Judge, smiling almost imperceptibly. ‘You may step down, Madame.’
She left the witness box and other witnesses came and went. They were not very important people: the concierge of the building where the accused lived, her chauffeur. They gave their testimony in an awkward, comical way, but all of them were clearly trying to do everything in their power to paint a good picture of Gladys Eysenach. Then came the doctors, some spoke of the accused woman’s mental state, ‘nervous, excitable, but sound of mind and responsible for her actions’; others described the body of the victim.
The crowd was tired and there was a constant subdued hum of noise: certain words, certain gestures that the witnesses made, a word, a twitch, an inflexion of the voice, caused the courtroom to resound with low, anxious laughter.
‘Bring in the next witness.’
He was an elderly man with pale, almost transparent skin and white hair; at the corners of his long, delicate mouth were the fine lines of weariness that betray physical decline. When she saw him, the accused woman let out a sad little sigh; then she leaned forward to look at him more closely.
She was crying now; she looked old and tired, thoroughly ashamed, defeated …
‘State your full name.’
‘Claude-Patrice Beauchamp.’
‘Your age?’
‘Seventy-one.’
‘Address?’
‘28 boulevard du Mail, Vevey, Switzerland.’
‘Profession?’
‘No profession.’
‘You must speak louder so that the gentlemen of the jury can hear you. Are you able to do that?’
The witness nodded, then said softly, forcing himself to speak as clearly as possible, ‘Yes, Your Honour. Please forgive me. I am old and not well.’
‘Would you like to sit down?’
He refused.
‘You are a close relative of the defendant, her only living relative, in fact, are you not?’
‘Gladys Eysenach’s maiden name was Burnera. I was married to Teresa Burnera. My wife’s father and Gladys Eysenach’s father were brothers, wealthy shipowners from Montevideo. Salvador Burnera, my cousin’s father, was an exceedingly intelligent and sophisticated man. Unfortunately, he and his wife were separated and my cousin was raised by her mother who was, in my opinion, a person with a rather difficult, unstable character. She had broken off all contact with her close relatives. My wife met her cousin for the first time during a visit to Aixles-Bains; Gladys Eysenach was still almost a child at the time … My wife invited her to come and spend the summer with us in London, where we lived then.’
‘How long ago was that?’
The witness did not reply. He looked at the accused woman with pity; her face seemed haggard and drained beneath the bright lights. She sadly lowered her eyes.
‘It was a long time ago,’ he said, sighing. ‘I can’t remember …’
‘Can you tell the gentlemen of the jury about the accused woman’s character at that time?’
‘She was sweet and happy then. Eager for compliments. She liked being courted more than anything.’
‘Did you continue to see her?’
‘Occasionally. She had married Richard Eysenach. She travelled constantly. Whenever she was in Paris, I always made a point of going to see her to pay my respects. But I was rarely in Paris. My wife’s health was delicate and we lived in Switzerland for several months of the year. But my son, Olivier, was often a guest at the Eysenachs’ house. In 1914, a few months before the death of poor little Marie-Thérèse (my cousin’s daughter), I was passing through Antibes. We saw each other there. Then I went back to Vevey. My son was killed in the war. I settled in Vevey for good because the climate suited me. I didn’t see my cousin again.’
‘You are seeing her today for the first time in twenty years?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘You have been called as a witness in this painful case because a letter addressed to you was found in the defendant’s home. We have that letter here. It will be read to the gentlemen of the jury.’
The accused woman lowered her head and heard her letter read out:
Please come and help me … Don’t be surprised that I am appealing to you … I imagine you’ve forgotten all about me?… But I have no one else in the world. Everyone else is dead. I am so alone. Sometimes I feel as if I have been buried alive, in a pit of loneliness. You alone can remember the woman I used to be. I am ashamed, desperately ashamed, but I want to have the courage to ask your help, you and only you, because you once loved me …
‘This letter was stamped and addressed to you in Switzerland, but it was never posted.’
‘And I deeply regret that,’ Beauchamp said quietly.
‘I wish the defendant to tell me if she wrote this with the intention of confiding in her relative.’
She stood up with difficulty and nodded. ‘Yes …’
‘Did you wish to tell him about Bernard Martin? Share your concerns with him over this relationship? Ask his advice? It is regrettable that you did not follow through with your initial plan …’
‘Perhaps,’ she replied, slowly shrugging her shoulders.
‘Will the witness please tell us whether the accused wrote him any letters in recent months?’
‘Never. The last letter I received from her was the one she wrote telling me of her daughter’s death.’
‘In your opinion, was the defendant capable of an act of violence?’
‘No, Your Honour.’
‘Very well. Thank you.’
He left. Other witnesses were shown into the box. Gladys looked up now and again, as if she were trying to find the face of a friend in the crowd. The very people whose curiosity had been so painful to her a few hours earlier now looked away; they were already weary, morose, indifferent. The crowd was beginning to feel the excitement and tiredness that comes at the end of a trial. Through a badly closed door, waves of noise from the corridor occasionally reached the courtroom, like the sea washing against a little island. The members of the public coldly examined the trembling, pale, haggard face of the accused, like people looking at a wild animal, imprisoned behind the bars of its cage: savage but confined, i
ts teeth and nails pulled out, panting, half dead …
There were sniggers, shrugs of the shoulder, muffled exclamations. Everyone was whispering: ‘How disappointing … People said she was so beautiful but she looks like an old woman …’
‘Come on, be fair. I’d like to see what you’d look like after being held in custody for months, wearing no make-up at all, not to mention the remorse she must be feeling …’
‘Thanks very much!’
‘She’s attractive; that’s undeniable … She’s slim … Look at how beautiful her hands are … Hands that committed murder …’
‘Still, it isn’t very common for rich people to commit murder.’
‘She’s proof …’
In the very back row of the standing gallery a woman sighed. ‘Imagine cheating on a lover like Count Monti …’
The witnesses now being heard were people who had known Bernard Martin, but the indifferent crowd was barely listening any more. In this trial, only the accused woman was exciting; the victim was no more than a vague ghost. The apathetic public learned that Bernard Martin was born in Beix (Alpes-Maritimes) on 13 April 1915, and that the names of his mother and father were not known. Later in his life he had been legally acknowledged as the son of Martial Martin, a butler, who cohabited with Berthe Souprosse, a cook. Both had been in the service of the Dukes de Joux, who had provided them with an income until they died, Martial Martin in 1919 and Berthe Souprosse in 1932. Berthe seemed genuinely to have loved little Bernard. She had raised him attentively and in a manner that was quite above her station. The boy had been awarded a scholarship to the Lycée Louis-le-Grand.
A statement from one of Bernard Martin’s former teachers was read out to the court: ‘ “A gloomy, bitter, silent character. Exceptionally intelligent, with some indication of a genius in the making, or at least the kind of tenacity and deep, insightful patience which, when focused on a specific topic, appears as genius.”
‘This is an extract from my personal notes that date from the time when the poor child was reaching adolescence. I can add, now that I have searched my memory, that these gifts of patience and foresight were most often employed in the quest for vain amusement. Bernard Martin’s only passion seemed to be to solve some current problem, whatever it might have been, and once he had done so, he immediately lost interest in the work or the game he had managed to master. When he was a young boy, he learned English in three months, all by himself, using only a dictionary, as the result of a bet with one of his classmates. Having reached a certain level of competence in the language, he suddenly stopped studying it and never again said a single word in English. A born mathematician, one of the best in my class, he was accepted at university, as I had predicted, doubtlessly still motivated by the same perverse curiosity and keen ambition that I found he had at the age of twelve. It was very difficult to influence him. He was the kind of boy who could not be improved by mixing with the right people, or corrupted by a bad crowd. He seemed to live according to his own laws and to obey only his own code of conduct.
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