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think … I said to him, “Well, my pal, you’re doing all right for yourself,” you know, the kind of thing you say when something like that happens. He laughed. He had a very harsh look on his face as he laughed. I even thought: “Now there’s a woman who’s going to get it … one day …” ’
    ‘He was the one who “got it”, as you put it. What did he say then?’
    ‘He recited Athalie’s dream to me, Your Honour.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘My mother Jezebel appeared before me …’
    ‘That is quite a chastisement,’ said the Judge, looking at Gladys Eysenach.
    She was listening to Slotis with intense attention; her delicate nostrils were flaring; her bright eyes stared; a sly, cruel expression appeared on her beautiful, ravaged face, an expression that was the stock image of a murderer. The members of the public watching felt even more confident that they had the right to judge her.
    ‘Did the witness see Bernard Martin on the eve of his death?’
    ‘Yes. He was completely drunk.’
    ‘Did he normally drink?’
    ‘Rarely, and he could usually hold his liquor, but that night he was completely depressed. He was very upset about the death of one of his former mistresses, Laurette, Laure Pellegrain, who had lived with him until last November. She had tuberculosis. She died in Switzerland.’
    ‘Did you know about this woman?’ the Judge asked Gladys.
    ‘Yes,’ she replied with difficulty.
    ‘And the money that you gave to your young lover went to this woman, did it not?’
    ‘It’s possible.’
    ‘Look at her,’ a man in the courtroom whispered in his neighbour’s ear, ‘look at the defendant. She must have suffered a lot because of that Bernard Martin. Sometimes when they talk about him, a look of hatred spreads across her face. But apart from that, she doesn’t look like a woman who has killed someone.’
    A young blonde with milky white skin and wisps of hair peeking out from under her black hat stepped into the witness box, folding her large red hands in front of her. Her name, Eugenie Wildchild, made the public laugh; even she seemed amused when she heard it.
    The Judge banged the table with the paperknife he was holding. ‘It is not appropriate to laugh,’ he said. ‘This is not some sort of show.’
    ‘I’m only laughing because I’m nervous.’
    ‘Well, compose yourself and answer the questions. You are employed by Madame Dumont, owner of the building on the rue des Fossés-Saint-Jacques where the victimresided. Do you recognise the defendant as the person who visited Bernard Martin on several occasions?’
    ‘Yes, Your Honour,’ the girl replied, ‘I recognise her.’
    ‘Did you see her often?’
    ‘Do you think that, in student lodgings, you remember all the women who come? But her, I noticed her particularly, because she wasn’t like the others; she had beautiful clothes and wore a fox stole. But I don’t remember whether she came three, four or five times. It was something like that …’
    ‘Did Bernard Martin ever confide in you?’
    ‘Him? Really!’
    ‘He doesn’t seem to have left you with a very nice impression.’
    ‘He was an odd boy. He wasn’t a bad lot, but he was different from the others. Sometimes he would work all night long and then sleep all day. I’ve seen him go days on end without eating anything except the oranges that Madame Laure brought for him. He was affectionate to her. He loved her.’
    ‘Did she seem jealous of the accused? Did you ever hear them argue?’
    ‘Never. He was very worried about Madame Laure’s health. She had a problem with her chest. That’s what she died from in Switzerland a month after she went away.’
    ‘And did you ever overhear any conversations, secrets, requests for money, perhaps, between Bernard Martin and the defendant?’
    ‘Never. She never stayed long when she came. What I do remember, for example, what I noticed several times when I went into the room after she’d gone, was that thebed was still