Complete Works of Emile Zola (1048 page)

Then, as the magistrate accompanied her, along with her niece and nephew-in-law, to the door, she pressed his hands with the remark:

“I shall soon see you again, I hope. You know you are always welcome at Doinville. And, thanks for coming; you are one of my last faithful ones.”

Her smile became quite melancholy. But her niece, who had walked out stiffly the first, had only made a slight inclination of her head to the magistrate.

When they were gone M. Denizet breathed for a moment. He remained on his feet, thinking. To his mind the matter was becoming clear. Grandmorin, whose reputation was well known, had certainly acted improperly. This made the inquiry a delicate matter. He determined to be more prudent than ever, until the communication he was expecting from the Ministry reached him. But none the less, he triumphed; anyhow he held the culprit.

When he had resumed his seat at the writing-table, he rang up the usher.

“Bring me the driver Jacques Lantier,” said he.

The Roubauds were still waiting on the bench in the corridor, with fixed countenances, as if their protracted patience had set them dozing; but their faces were occasionally disturbed by a nervous twitch, and the voice of the usher, calling Jacques, seemed to make them slightly shudder, as they roused themselves. They followed the driver with expanded eyes, watching him disappear in the room of the magistrate. Then they fell into their former attitude — paler, and silent.

For the last three weeks, Jacques had been pursued by the uncomfortable feeling that all this business might end by turning against him. This was unreasonable, for there was naught he could reproach himself with, not even with keeping silent. And yet he entered the room of the examining-magistrate with that little creeping sensation of a guilty person, who fears his crime may be discovered, and he defended himself against the questions that were put to him; he was cautious in his answers, lest he might say too much. He, also, might have killed; was this not visible in his eyes? Nothing was so repugnant to him as these summonses to the justice-room. He experienced a sort of anger at receiving them, saying he was anxious to be no longer tormented by matters that did not concern him.

But, on this occasion, M. Denizet only dwelt upon the subject of the description of the murderer. Jacques, being the single witness who had caught sight of him, could alone supply precise information. But he did not depart from what he had said at his first examination. He repeated that the scene of the murder had been a vision which had barely lasted a second, a picture that came and went so rapidly that it had remained as if without form, in the abstract, in his recollection. It was merely one man slaughtering another, and nothing more. For half an hour, the judge pestered him with patient persistence, questioning him in every imaginable sense. Was he a big or a small man? Had he a beard? Did he wear his hair long or short? What were his clothes like? To what class of people did he appear to belong? And Jacques, who was uneasy, only gave vague replies.

“Look here,” abruptly inquired M. Denizet, staring him full in the eyes, “if he were shown to you, would you recognise him?”

He blinked slightly, seized with anguish under the influence of that piercing gaze, searching in his very brain. His conscience spoke aloud:

“Know him? Yes, perhaps.”

But, immediately, his strange fear of unconscious complicity plunged him into his evasive system again, and he continued:

“But no; I don’t think so. I should never dare say positively. Just reflect! A speed of sixty miles an hour!”

With a gesture of discouragement, the magistrate was about to send him into the adjoining room to keep him at his disposal, when, changing his mind, he said:

“Remain here. Sit down.”

And, ringing for the usher, he told him to introduce M. and Madame Roubaud.

As soon as they were at the doorway and saw Jacques, their eyes lost their brilliancy in a feeling of vacillating anxiety. Had he spoken? Was he detained so as to be confronted with them? All their self-assurance vanished at the knowledge that he was there, and it was in a rather low voice that they began to give their answers. But the magistrate had simply turned to their first examination. They merely had to repeat the same sentences, almost identical, whilst M. Denizet listened with bowed head, without even looking at them.

All at once, he turned to Séverine.

“Madam,” said he, “you told the commissary of police at the railway station, whose report I have here, that you had the idea, that a man got into the coupé at Rouen, as the train began to move.”

She was thunderstruck. Why did he recall that? Was it a snare? Was he about to compare one answer with another, and so make her contradict herself? And, with a glance, she consulted her husband who prudently intervened.

“I do not think my wife was quite so positive, sir,” he remarked.

“Excuse me,” replied the magistrate, “you suggested the thing was possible, and madam said, ‘That is certainly what happened. Now, madam, I want to know whether you had any particular reasons for speaking as you did?”

She was now completely upset, convinced that if she did not take care, he would, from one answer to another, bring her to a confession. Howbeit, she could not remain silent.

“Oh! no, sir!” she exclaimed; “no reason. I merely said that by way of argument, because, in fact, it is difficult to explain the matter in any other way.”

“Then you did not see the man. You can tell us nothing about him?”

“No, no, sir, nothing!”

M. Denizet seemed to abandon this point in the inquiry. But he at once returned to it with Roubaud.

“And you? How is it that you did not see the man, if he really got into the coupé, for, according to your own deposition, you were talking to the victim when they whistled to send the train off?”

This persistence had the effect of terrifying the assistant station-master, in his anxiety to decide what course he ought to take — whether he should set aside his invention about the other man, or obstinately cling to it If they had proofs against himself, the theory concerning the unknown murderer could hardly be maintained, and might even aggravate his own case. He gained time, until he could understand what was going on, answering in detail with confused explanations.

“It is really unfortunate,” resumed M. Denizet,
“
that your recollection is not more distinct, for you might help us to put an end to suspicions that have spread to several persons.”

This seemed such a direct thrust at Roubaud that he felt an irresistible desire to establish his own innocence. Imagining himself discovered, he immediately made up his mind.

“This point is so thoroughly a matter of conscience,” said he, “that one hesitates, you understand; nothing is more natural. Supposing I were to confess to you that I really believe I saw the man—”

The magistrate gave a gesture of triumph, thinking this commencement of frankness due to his own ability. He had frequently remarked that he knew, by experience, what strange difficulty some witnesses found in divulging what they knew, and he flattered himself he could make this class of people unburden themselves, in spite of all.

“Go on. How was he? Short, tall, about your own height?
”

“Oh! no, no, much taller. At least, that was my sensation, for it was a simple sensation, an individual I am almost sure I brushed against, as I ran back to my own carriage.”

“Wait a moment,” said M. Denizet.

And, turning to Jacques, he inquired:

“The man you caught sight of, with the knife in his hand, was he taller than Monsieur Roubaud?”

The driver, who was impatient, for he began to be afraid he would not catch the five o’clock train, raised his eyes and examined Roubaud. And, it seemed to him, that he had never looked at him before. He was astonished to find him short, powerful, with a peculiar profile he had seen elsewhere, perhaps in a dream.

“No,” he murmured, “not taller; about the same height.” But the assistant station master vehemently protested.

“
Oh! much taller! At least a head.”

Jacques fixed his eyes, wide open, upon him. And under the influence of this look, wherein he read increasing surprise, Roubaud became agitated, as if to change his own appearance; while his wife also followed the dull effort of memory expressed by the face of the young man. Clearly the latter was astonished. First of all, at certain analogies between Roubaud and the murderer. Then he abruptly became positive that Roubaud was the assassin, as had been reported. He now seemed troubled at this discovery, and stood there with gaping countenance, unable to decide what to do. If he spoke, the couple were lost. The eyes of Roubaud had met his. They penetrated one another to their innermost thoughts. There came a silence.

“Then you do not agree?” resumed M. Denizet, addressing Jacques. “If, in your sight, he appeared shorter, it was no doubt because he was bent in the struggle with his victim.”

He also looked at the two men. It had not occurred to him to make use of this confrontation; but, by professional instinct, he felt, at this moment, that truth was flitting away. His confidence was even shaken in the Cabuche clue. Could it be possible that the Lachesnayes were right? Could it be possible that the guilty parties, contrary to all appearance, were this upright employé, and his gentle young wife?

“
Did the man wear all his beard, like you?” he inquired of Roubaud.

The latter had the strength to answer in a steady voice:

“All his beard? No, no! I think he had no beard at all.’ Jacques understood that the same question was about to be put to him. What should he say? He could have sworn the man had a full beard. After all, he was not interested in these people, why not tell the truth? But as he took his eyes off the husband, he met those of the wife, and in her look he read such ardent supplication, such an absolute gift of all her being, that he felt quite overcome. His old shiver came on him. Did he love her? Was she the one he could love, as one loves for love’s sake, without a monstrous desire for destruction? And, at this moment, by singular counteraction in his trouble, it seemed to him that his memory had become obscured. He no longer saw the murderer in Roubaud. The vision was again vague; he doubted, and to such an extent that he mortally regretted having spoken.

M. Denizet put the question:

“Had the man a full beard like Monsieur Roubaud?”

And he replied in good faith:

“Sir, in truth, I cannot say. Once more, it was too rapid: I know nothing. I will affirm nothing.”

But M. Denizet proved tenacious, for he wished to clear up the suspicion cast on the assistant station-master. He plied both Roubaud and the driver with questions, and ended by getting a complete description of the murderer from the former: tall, robust, no beard, attired in a blouse — quite the reverse of his own appearance in every particular. But the driver only answered in evasive monosyllables, which imparted strength to the statements of the other. And the magistrate returned to the conviction he had formed at first. He was on the right track. The portrait the witness drew of the assassin was so exact that each new feature added to the certainty. It was the crushing testimony of this unjustly suspected couple, that would lay the head of the culprit low.

“Step in there,” said he to the Roubauds and Jacques, showing them into the adjoining room, when they had signed their examinations. “Wait till I call you.”

He immediately gave orders for the prisoner to be brought in, and he was so delighted, that he went to the length of remarking to his registrar:

“Laurent, we’ve got him.”

But the door had opened, two gendarmes had appeared bringing in a great, big fellow between twenty-five and thirty. At a sign from the magistrate, they withdrew, and Cabuche, bewildered, remained alone in the centre of the apartment, bristling like a wild beast at bay. He was a sturdy, thicknecked fellow, with enormous fists, and fair, with a very white skin. He had hardly any hair on his face, barely a golden down, curly and silken. The massive features, the low forehead, indicated the violent character of a being of limited brains, but a sort of desire to be tenderly submissive was shown in the broad mouth and square nose, as in those of a good dog.

Seized brutally in his den in the early morning, tom from his forest, exasperated at accusations which he did not understand, he had already, with his wild look and rent blouse, all the suspicious air of a prisoner in the dock — that air of a cunning bandit which the jail gives to the most honest man. Night was drawing in, the room was dark, and he had slunk into the shadow, when the usher brought a big lamp, having a globe without a shade, whose bright light lit up his countenance. Then he remained uncovered, and motionless.

M. Denizet at once fixed his great, heavy-lidded eyes on him. And he did not speak. This was the dumb engagement, the preliminary trial of his power, before entering on the warfare of the savage, the warfare of stratagem, of snares, of moral torture. This man was the culprit, everything became lawful against him. He had now no other right than that of confessing his crime.

The cross-examination commenced very slowly.

“Do you know of what crime you are accused?”

Cabuche, in a voice thick with impotent anger, grumbled:

“No one has told me, but I can easily guess. There has been enough talk about it!”

“You knew Monsieur Grandmorin?”

“Yes, yes; I knew him, only too well!”

“A girl named Louisette, your sweetheart, went as housemaid to Madame Bonnehon?”

The quarryman flew into a frightful rage. In his anger, he was ready to shed blood.

“Those who say that,” he exclaimed with an oath, “are liars! Louisette was not my sweetheart.”

The magistrate watched him lose his temper with curiosity. And giving a turn to the examination, remarked:

“You are very violent You were sentenced to five years’ imprisonment for killing a man in a quarrel?”

Cabuche hung his head. That sentence was his shame. He murmured:

“He struck first. I only did four years; they let me off one.”