Complete Works of Emile Zola (1044 page)

“But,” he exclaimed, suddenly becoming anxious, in fear lest the inquiry might escape him, “the carriage will no longer be here, it must have gone back this morning.”

It was Roubaud who reassured him in his calm manner.

“No, no, excuse me,” he broke in. “There was a coupé booked for this evening. The carriage is there in the coachhouse.”

And he led the way to the building, followed by the commissary and the station-master. In the meanwhile, the news must have spread, for the porters, slyly leaving their work, also followed; while clerks made their appearance on the thresholds of the offices of the different departments, and ended by approaching one by one. A small crowd had soon assembled As they came to the carriage, M. Dabadie remarked:

“But the coaches were examined last night. If any traces had remained, it would have been mentioned in the report.”

“We shall soon see,” said M. Cauche.

Opening the door, he went up into the coupé. And, forgetting himself, he immediately exclaimed with an oath:

“It looks as if they had been bleeding a pig here!”

A little thrill of horror ran through all who were present, and a number of necks were craned forward. M. Dabadie was one of the first who wished to see. He drew himself up on the step; while behind him, Roubaud, to do like the others, also craned his neck.

The inside of the coupé displayed no disorder. The windows had remained closed, and everything seemed in its proper place. Only, a frightful stench escaped by the open door; and there, in the middle of one of the cushions, a pool of blood had coagulated, a pool so deep, and so large, that a stream had sprung from it, as from a source, and had poured over on the carpet. Clots of blood remained sticking to the cloth. And there was nothing else, nothing but this nauseous gore.

M. Dabadie flew into a rage.

“Where are the men who looked into the carriages last night? Bring them here!”

It so happened that they were there, and they advanced, splattering excuses: how was it possible to see at night time? Nevertheless, they had passed their hands everywhere. They vowed they had felt nothing on the previous night In the meanwhile, M. Cauche, who remained standing up in the compartment, was taking pencil notes for his report. He called Roubaud, with whom he was familiar, being in the habit of smoking cigarettes with him along the platform, in moments of leisure.

“Roubaud,” said he, “just come up here, you will be able to help me.”

And when the assistant station-master had stepped over the blood on the carpet, so as not to tread in it, the commissary added:

“Look under the other cushion, to see if anything has slipped down there.”

Roubaud raised the cushion, feeling with prudent hands, and looks that simply denoted curiosity.

“There is nothing,” said he.

But a spot on the padded cloth at the back of the seat, attracted his attention; and he pointed it out to the commissary. Was it not the mark of a finger covered with blood? No; they both came to the conclusion that it was some blood which had spurted there. The crowd had drawn nearer, to watch this inspection of the coupé, sniffing the crime, pressing behind the station-master, who, with the repugnance of a refined man, remained on the step. Suddenly the latter remarked:

“But, I say, Roubaud, you were in the train, were you not? You returned last night by the express. You can, perhaps, give us some information?”

“Yes, indeed,” exclaimed the commissary, “that is true. Did you notice anything?”

Roubaud, for two or three seconds, remained silent. At this moment, he was bending down examining the carpet. But he rose, almost at once, answering in his natural voice, which was a trifle thick:

“Certainly, certainly, I will tell you. My wife was with me. But if what I am going to say is to figure in the report, I should like her to come down, so as to control my recollection by her own.”

M. Cauche thought this very reasonable, and Pecqueux, who had just arrived, offered to go and fetch Madame Roubaud. He started off with great strides, and for a moment there was a pause. Philomène, who had joined the crowd with the firemen, followed him with her eyes, irritated that he should undertake this errand. But, perceiving Madame Lebleu hurrying along as fast as her poor swollen legs would carry her, she hastened forward to assist her; and the two women raised their hands to heaven, uttering passionate exclamations at the discovery of such an abominable crime. Although absolutely no details were known, as yet, all kinds of versions of what had occurred, circulated around them, accompanied by excited gestures and looks. Philomène, whose voice could be heard above the hum of the crowd, affirmed, on her word of honour, that Madame Roubaud had seen the murderer, although she had no authority whatever for the statement. And when the latter appeared, accompanied by Pecqueux, there was general silence.

“Just look at her!” murmured Madame Lebleu. “Would anyone take her for the wife of an assistant station-master, with her airs of a princess? This morning, before daybreak, she was already as she is now, combed and laced, as if she were going out on a visit.”

Séverine advanced with short, regular steps. She had to walk along the whole length of the platform, facing the eyes watching her approach. But she did not break down. She simply pressed her handkerchief to her eyelids, in the great grief she had just experienced at learning the name of the victim. Attired in a very elegantly fashioned black woollen gown, she seemed to be wearing mourning for her protector. Her heavy, dark hair shone in the sun, for she had come down in such a hurry that she had not found time, in spite of the cold, to put anything on her head. Her gentle blue eyes, full of anguish, and bathed in tears, gave her a most touching appearance.

“She may well cry,” said Philomène in an undertone. “They are done for, now that their guardian-angel has been killed.”

When Séverine was there, in the middle of all the people, before the open door of the coupé, M. Cauche and Roubaud got out; and the latter immediately began to relate what he knew. Addressing his wife, he said:

“Yesterday morning, my dear, as soon as we arrived at Paris we went to see Monsieur Grandmorin. And it was about a quarter past eleven. That is right, is it not?”

He looked fixedly at her, and she, in a docile tone, repeated:

“Yes, a quarter past eleven.”

But her eyes had fallen on the cushion black with blood. She had a spasm, and her bosom heaved with heavy sobs. The station-master, who felt distressed, intervened with much concern:

“If you are unable to bear the sight, madam — We quite understand your grief—”

“Oh! just a few words,” interrupted the commissary; “and we will then have madam conducted home again.”

Roubaud hastened to continue:

“It was at this visit that Monsieur Grandmorin, after talking of various matters, informed us that he was going next day to Doinville, on a visit to his sister. I still see him seated at his writing-table. I was here, my wife there.

That is right, my dear is it not? He told us he would be leaving on the morrow.”

“Yes, on the morrow,” said she.

M. Cauche, who continued taking rapid pencil notes, raised his head:

“How is that, on the morrow,” he inquired, “considering he left the same evening?”

“Wait a moment,” replied the assistant station-master. “When he heard we were returning that night, he had an idea of taking the express with us, if my wife would accompany him to Doinville, to stay a few days with his sister, as had happened before. But my wife, having a great deal to do here, refused. That is so, you refused?”

“Yes, I refused,” answered Séverine.

“Then he was very kind,” continued her husband. “He had been interesting himself on my behalf. He accompanied us to the door of his study. Did he not, my dear?”

“Yes, as far as the door,” said Séverine.

“We left in the evening,” resumed Roubaud. “Before seating ourselves in our compartment, I had a chat with Monsieur Vandorpe, the station-master. And I saw nothing at all. I was very much annoyed, because I thought we should be alone, and I found a lady in a corner whom I had not noticed; and the more so, as two other persons, a married couple, got in at the last moment. So far as Rouen, nothing worthy of note occurred. I noticed nothing. But at Rouen, as we left the train to stretch our legs, what was our surprise to see Monsieur Grandmorin standing up at the door of a coupé, three or four carriages away from our compartment. ‘What, Mr. President/ said I,’ so you left after all? Ah I well, we had no idea we were travelling with you!’ And he explained that he had received a telegram. They whistled, and we jumped into our compartment, which, by the way, we found empty, all our travelling companions having got out at Rouen, and we were not sorry. That is absolutely all, my dear, is it not?”

“Yes, that is absolutely all,” she repeated.

This story, simple though it appeared, produced a strong impression on the audience. All awaited the key to the enigma with gaping countenances. The commissary ceasing to write, gave expression to the general astonishment by inquiring:

“And you are sure no one was inside the coupé, along with Monsieur Grandmorin?”

“Oh! as to that, absolutely certain!”

A shudder ran through the crowd. This mystery which required solving inspired the onlookers with fear, and sent a chill down the backs of everyone there. If the passenger was alone, by whom could he have been murdered and thrown from the coupé, three leagues from there, before the train stopped again?”

Silence was broken by the unpleasant voice of Philomène:

“It is all the same strange,” said she.

And Roubaud, feeling himself being stared at, looked at her, tossing his chin, as if to say that he also considered the matter strange. Beside her, he perceived Pecqueux and Madame Lebleu, tossing their heads as well. All eyes were turned towards him. The crowd awaited something more, sought on his body for a forgotten detail that would throw light on the matter. There was no accusation in these ardently inquisitive looks; and yet, he fancied he noticed a vague suspicion arising, that doubt which the smallest fact sometimes transforms into a certainty. “Extraordinary,” murmured M. Cauche.

“Quite extraordinary,” assented M. Dabadie.

Then Roubaud made up his mind.

“What I am, moreover, quite certain of,” he continued, “is that the express which runs from Rouen to Barentin without stopping, went along at the regulation speed, and that I noticed nothing abnormal. I mention this, because, as we were alone, I let down the window to smoke a cigarette, and glancing outside several times, had a perfect knowledge of every sound of the train. At Barentin, noticing my successor, the station-master, Monsieur Bessière, on the platform, I called to him, and we exchanged a few words, as he stood on the step, and shook hands. That is so, my dear, is it not? The question can be put to Monsieur Bessière, and he will answer, Yes.”

Séverine, still motionless and pale, her delicate face plunged in grief, once more confirmed the statement of her husband “Yes, that is correct,” said she.

From this moment any accusation was out of the question, if the Roubauds, having returned to their compartment at Rouen, had been greeted, sitting there, by a friend at Barentin. The shadow of suspicion which the assistant station-master had noticed in the eyes of the bystanders, vanished, while the general astonishment increased. The case was assuming a more and more mysterious aspect.

“Come,” said the commissary, “are you quite positive that nobody could have entered the coupé at Rouen, after you left Monsieur Grandmorin?”

Roubaud had evidently not foreseen this question. For the first time, he became confused, having no doubt got to the end of his ready answers. He looked at his wife, hesitating.

“Oh! no!” said he; “I do not think so. They were shutting the doors; they had whistled. We only just had time to reach our carriage. And, besides, the coupé was reserved, nobody could get in there, I fancy—”

But the blue eyes of his wife opened wider, and grew so large, that he was afraid to be positive.

“After all,” he continued, “I don’t know. Yes. Perhaps someone did get into the coupé. There was a regular crush—”

As he continued talking, his voice became distinct again, and a new story began to take shape.

“The crowd, you know, was enormous,” he said, “on account of the fêtes at Havre. We were obliged to resist an assault on our own compartment by second and even third-class passengers. Apart from this, the station was badly lighted, one could see next to nothing. People were pushing about in a clamorous multitude, just as the train was starting. Yes, indeed, it is quite possible that someone, not knowing where to find a seat, or, may be, taking advantage of the confusion, actually did force his way into the coupé, at the last second.”

And, turning to his wife, he remarked:

“Eh! my dear, that is what must have happened?” Séverine, looking broken down, with her handkerchief pressed to her swollen eyes, answered:

“That is what happened, certainly.”

The clue was now given. The commissary of police and the station-master, without expressing an opinion, exchanged a look of intelligence. The seething crowd swayed to and fro, feeling the inquiry at an end. All were burning to communicate their thoughts; and various conjectures immediately found vent, everyone having his own idea. For a few moments, the business of the station had been at a standstill. The entire staff were there, all their attention taken up by this drama; and it was with general surprise that the 9.38 train was observed coming in, under the marquee. The porters ran to meet it, the carriage doors were opened, and the flood of passengers streamed out. But almost all the lookers-on had remained round the commissary, who, with the scruple of a methodical man, paid a final visit to the gory coupé.

At this moment, Pecqueux, engaged in gesticulating between Madame Lebleu and Philomène, caught sight of his driver, Jacques Lantier, who, having just left the train, was standing motionless, watching the gathering from a distance. He beckoned to him urgently. At first, Jacques did not move; but, afterwards, making up his mind to go, he advanced slowly forward.