Little Demon in the City of Light: A True Story of Murder and Mesmerism in Belle Epoque Paris (43 page)

Many in the legal community were relieved that the hypnotism defense had failed. After the trial,
The New York Times
spoke for many in an article headlined “Hypnotism and Murder.”
“What the world has principally to be thankful for,” the paper said, “is that the theory of hypnotic influence was not admitted by the court to be a legitimate defense, and that no precedent for such a defense in murder trials was established.” A different result would have had repercussions around the world. Had the defense prevailed, the paper continued, it
“would have been a sad blow to the cause of justice at the hands of the French court.” Had Gabrielle’s lawyers “succeeded in establishing this defense, a wider door would have been opened for the escape of criminals than that thrown open by the first successful plea of insanity in a murder case. The number of ‘hypnotized’ murderers would have increased alarmingly, and hypnotism would have more crimes to answer for than insanity itself.”

Afterward, the hypnosis defense was tried rarely and to poor effect. Excitement over the Gouffé case in America prompted an accused murderer in Fargo, North Dakota, to consider claiming in 1891 that he was under the hypnotic command of a Minneapolis woman when he killed a grain elevator agent during a robbery. Misled by the news reports on the Bompard trial, the murderer, Joseph Remington, believed Gabrielle got off more lightly than Eyraud because of the effectiveness of her hypnotism plea. The newspapers, reporting that Remington was susceptible to hypnotic influence, noted that
“should this line of defense be adopted, it will probably be the first one of its kind in the United States.” In the end, Remington pleaded guilty and was sentenced to life. In the 1950s, two Dutch criminals robbed a bank and shot two bank officials; one of the culprits claimed he was under the complete hypnotic control of the other. The court sent the dominant criminal to prison and the other to an insane asylum. In 1981, a Ms. Phillips said she killed two federal marshals under the hypnotic command of her husband. The jury found her guilty.

Although Gabrielle did not influence the course of legal history, she nonetheless brought to the forefront French anxieties in the belle époque. She symbolized the gaiety and darkness of the era, its freedom and recklessness, its cleverness and uncertainty. Her decadent life reflected the desires and fears of the French in a changing world on the precipice of the twentieth century.

She also set the stage for future criminal stars and gave the world a taste of what was to come—the tabloid excess, the public fascination with famous murderers, the exploitation of brutal crimes as popular entertainment. She laid down the historical lineage for the twentieth century’s most notorious defendants in sensational murder cases, from Leopold and Loeb to O. J. Simpson to Casey Anthony.

But as the new century wore on, Gabrielle was a celebrity without an audience. She eventually dropped from view, popping up only
occasionally in the press. In 1912, the International News Service reported that she was living on boulevard Saint-Denis in Asnières. She
“is a middle-aged woman now, but there are traces still of her beauty,” the agency reported. “She lives quietly and respectably by her needle, and has a pretty gift for embroidery.”

She lived on through the First World War. By then she had virtually vanished from the public’s consciousness, and her death on December 9, 1920, caused scarcely a ripple.
Le Figaro
noted that she had taken refuge in Hirson on the Belgian border and died there
“in misery.” So obscure had the sensational hypnotic murderess become that
La Presse
titled its obituary:
“An Unnoticed Departure.”

The making of a book is a story itself driven by its own characters and plotline. This one got started about eight years ago when I happened upon an academic article titled “Murder Under Hypnosis” by the scholar Ruth Harris. The article recounted Gabrielle Bompard’s case, with an emphasis on its role in the courtroom of the belle époque. The piece was irresistible. I read it again and again until I finally understood it—and was hooked on this mesmerizing moment in Parisian history. I wanted to know everything I could about Gabrielle, hypnosis, the murder, and the belle époque.

I began researching the case and the era and discovered a trove of material in French archives and libraries and in French journals, newspapers, and books. I’d lived in Paris for four years and must admit with considerable shame that my French language skills are an embarrassment. Here is where the leading character in these acknowledgments enters the story. My wife, Suzanne Allard Levingston, who studied French as a student and had the benefit of a French-Canadian father, stunned me with her aplomb and proficiency when we first moved to Paris—and then again when she began translating mountains of nineteenth-century French-language documents. I did my little part—I was far better at reading French than speaking it, and with a digital dictionary at hand delved into Chief Marie-François Goron’s easy-reading memoirs. Meanwhile, Suzanne sat patiently translating for hours on end. Her work fills two file cabinets and several fat, three-ring binders. Her skills as a researcher were equally remarkable. With a phone call here or a few taps on the computer there, speaking and writing in French, she tracked down vital details from Paris, Lille, Nancy, and Lyon. Her scouring of libraries and databases is responsible for the book’s evocative photographs and illustrations, and her composure
in wrestling down footnote citations helped temper my own mania. Our creation of this book was a partnership in the truest sense, though any errors, omissions, or misperceptions are my fault alone.

This book has been written and rewritten, and even sold and resold. In its first formulation, it was longer, more academic, and a slower read. It found a publisher in 2007 but before it could be released, the American economy began to self-immolate—and my book was tossed onto the flames. In a panic the publisher canceled the contract. Abandonment was a blessing, however, and it allowed the book to evolve in important ways. I was left with a manuscript I didn’t particularly like and the time to reimagine Gabrielle’s story from beginning to end. First I wanted to know Gabrielle better: Who was this tiny woman who caused so much sensation in her day? To probe her inner being, I wrote a one-woman play in which she recounts her life and turmoil. It was produced in the D.C. area and gave me fresh enthusiasm to tackle her tale again in book form. Realizing I’m not an academic but a journalist, I began rewriting Gabrielle’s story with a mind toward producing a popular history—something that would highlight both the wonderful and the bizarre contained in this story and engage a general audience, even one unfamiliar with the period. The making of this book has been filled with elation, exhaustion, frustration, and deep satisfaction, and Suzanne has been right by my side, enjoying and suffering through it all, with unfailing patience, depths of insight and intelligence, and always ready with the net to catch me every time I plummeted in spirit.

The research required a trip to Paris so I could walk the same streets that were once home to Eyraud and Gabrielle and Goron and Gouffé, and dive into archives and libraries and other institutions. I visited the scene of the crime at 3, rue Tronson du Coudray; Gouffé’s home at 13, rue Rougemont; his office at 148, rue Montmartre; the site of the defunct Café Véron on the boulevard Montmartre, where Gouffé had his final aperitif; and other locations along the
grands boulevards.
I walked through the mansion at 217, boulevard Saint-Germain that once belonged to Jean-Martin Charcot, and strolled the grounds of the Salpêtrière Hospital where the famed neurologist reigned. I stood at the site where executions by guillotine used to be held in an area once known as place de la Roquette, just outside the gates of the long-demolished La Roquette Prison.

I am grateful to Gregory Auda and his colleagues Malik Ben-Miloud and Alain Rozenblum at the Archives of the Prefecture of Police for supplying stacks of original French newspaper clippings of the crime and its aftermath. Véronique La Roux-Hugon kindly endured my awful French and pointed me to valuable information on Charcot at the Charcot Library on the campus of the Salpêtrière Hospital. Florence Greffe graciously showed me through the magnificent Academy of Sciences and sent a chill down my spine when she led me into the very room where Charcot defended hypnotism as a valid discipline of science. I am indebted to many others who have helped me understand French science, law, culture, and politics in the nineteenth century, among them Jérôme Sgard at the Institut d’Études Politiques de Paris, commonly known as Sciences Po; Ghislaine Dangé and Thierry Caillier at the Bibliothèque Municipale de Lille; Gérald Andres at the Bibliothèque Municipale de Lyon; Christian Fonnet at the Association pour l’Histoire des Chemins de Fer; and Jean-Claude Farcy.

Linda Hervieux, a tremendous researcher, pored over documents at the Archives de la Seine, digging up crucial police reports, letters, interviews, and testimony. Her careful indexing and translations helped smooth the process, and she cheerfully went back again and again to chase down specific requests.

While this is a work of popular history, I have endeavored to depict historical themes and characters with as much verisimilitude as possible. As a result I have asked several academics to put their eye to my manuscript. I am deeply grateful to Katrin Schultheiss, for her insights overall and on Charcot in particular; to Alexandre Klein, for his thoughts on Jules Liégeois and my usage of certain French phrases; to Brady Brower, for applying his sharp historian’s eye to the manuscript; to Heather Cox Richardson, for her writerly wisdom and astute analysis of the text.

I want to give a special shout-out to my friend Ron Soriano, an American whose fluency in French was astounding, and whose humor and kindness were in abundant supply as he provided eloquent translations for me even while suffering from the undiagnosed early stages of a rare, debilitating brain disease known as Pick’s. His translations in this book will stand as a lasting testament to a man of formidable brain power.

I’d also like to thank Del Wilber, my colleague at
The Washington Post
and a fierce reporter and stylish writer, who combed over the manuscript offering key suggestions and was a welcome e-mail pal on matters literary early in the morning and late at night and on weekends. I’m also grateful to Dennis Drabelle for his superb last-minute editing.

The folks at Doubleday, the publisher who bought my reimagined book, couldn’t have been more kind and helpful. I’m thrilled by publicity manager Todd Doughty’s enthusiasm from the earliest stages, and in awe of Gerry Howard’s fine editing touch—not to mention the humorous and encouraging asides about the characters and storyline he jotted in the margins of the manuscript. His assistants, Hannah Wood, Nathaniel Sufrin, and Jeremy Medina, have helped smooth the production process. Copy editor Karla Eoff made this a much better book than it was before she put her hand to it. My agent, Dan Lazar, has been a steadfast advocate for this project from its first glimmers through all the turmoil to its happy conclusion. I am forever grateful to him for sticking by it and for his steady professionalism.

Which brings me back to my family. I’m saddened that my father, my biggest fan, was only able to read early chapters of the book and didn’t live to see its completion. My mother also passed away during the writing, even as she was eagerly preparing to have me entertain at her book club. It took me so long to finish this book that my kids, Katie and Ben, grew into young adults over the eight years. Katie even headed off to college before its completion. But with her own French proficiency, she will be studying at the Sorbonne in Paris this year and will have the chance, if she so wishes, to track down the steps of the characters who for so long obsessed her father. Thank you, Katie and Ben, for your patience. Though Gabrielle seemed like a delinquent third child in the family, she’s not in the way anymore, and I’m back.

Finally, it’s a cliché but some clichés are borne out by fact: This book could not have been written without my wife, Suzanne, and maybe, just maybe, another trip to Paris will start me on the way toward repayment for all she’s done.