Complete Works of Emile Zola (1049 page)

“So,” resumed M. Denizet, “you pretend that the girl Louisette was not your sweetheart?”

Again Cabuche clenched his fists. Then in a low, broken voice, he replied:

“You must know that when I came back from there, she was a child, under fourteen. At that time everyone fled from me. They would have stoned me; and she, in the forest, where I was always meeting her, approached me, and talked; she was so nice — oh! so nice! It was like that we became friends; we walked about holding each other by the hand. It was so pleasant — so pleasant in those days. Of course she was growing, and I thought of her. I can’t say the contrary. I was like a madman I loved her so. She was very fond of me, too, and in the end what you mean would have happened, but they separated her from me by placing her at Doinville with this lady. Then, one night, on coming from the quarry, I found her before my door, half out of her mind, so dreadfully upset that she was burning with fever. She had not dared return to her parents; she had come to die at my place. Ah! the pig! I ought to have run and bled him at once!”

The magistrate pinched his artful lips, astonished at the sincere tone of the man. Decidedly he would have to play a close game, he had to deal with a stronger hand than he had thought.

“Yes,” said he, “I know all about the frightful story that you and this girl invented. Only, observe that the whole life of Monsieur Grandmorin places him above your accusations.”

Agitated, his eyes round with astonishment, his hands trembling, the quarryman stammered:

“What? What did we invent? It’s the others who lie, and we are accused of doing so!”

“Indeed!” observed the examining-magistrate. “Do not try to act the innocent. I have already questioned Misard, the man who married the mother of your sweetheart I will confront him with you if it be necessary; you will see what he thinks of your tale, and be careful of your answers. We have witnesses, we know all. You had much better tell the truth.” —

These were his usual tactics of intimidation, even when he knew nothing, and had no witnesses.

“Now, do you deny having shouted out in public, everywhere, that you would bleed Monsieur Grandmorin?” inquired M. Denizet “Ah! as to that, yes, I did say it. And I said it from the bottom of my heart; for my hand was jolly well itching to do it!” answered Cabuche.

M. Denizet stopped short in surprise, having expected to meet with a system of complete denial. What! the accused owned up to the threats? What stratagem did that conceal? Fearing he might have been too hasty, he collected himself a moment, then, staring Cabuche full in the face, he abruptly put this question to him:

“What were you doing on the night of the 14th to the 15th of February?”

“I went to bed at dark, about six o’clock,” replied the quarryman. “I was rather unwell, and my cousin Louis did me the service to take a load of stones to Doinville.”

“Yes, your cousin was seen, with the cart, passing over the line at the level crossing,” remarked the magistrate; “but on being questioned, he could only make one reply, namely, that you left him about noon, and he did not see you again. Prove to me that you were in bed at six o’clock.”

“Look here, that’s stupid,” protested Cabuche. “I cannot prove that I live all alone in a house at the edge of the forest I was there, I say so, and nothing more.”

Then M. Denizet decided on playing his trump card of assertion, which was calculated to impose on the party. His face, by a tension of will, became rigid, whilst his mouth performed the scene.

“I am going to tell you what you did on the night of February 14th,” said he. “At three o’clock in the afternoon, you took the train for Rouen, at Barentin, with what object the inquiry has not revealed. You had the intention of returning by the Paris train, which stops at Rouen at 9.3; and while on the platform, amid the crowd, you caught sight of Monsieur Grandmorin in his coupé. Observe that I am willing to admit there was no laying in wait for the victim, that the idea of the crime only occurred to you when you saw him. You entered the coupé, thanks to the crush, and waited until you were in the Malaunay tunnel. But you miscalculated the time, for the train was issuing from the tunnel when you dealt the blow. And you threw out the corpse, and you left the train at Barentin, after having got rid of the travelling-rug as well. That is what you did.”

He watched for the slightest ripple on the rosy face of Cabuche, and was irritated when the latter, who had been very attentive at first, ended by bursting into a hearty laugh.

“What’s that you’re relating?” he exclaimed. “If I’d struck the blow I’d say so.”

Then he quietly added:

“I did not do it, but I ought to have done it Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t.”

And that was all M. Denizet could get out of him. In vain did he repeat his questions, returning ten times to the same points by different tactics. No; always no! it was not he. He shrugged his shoulders, saying the idea was stupid. On arresting him they had searched the hovel, without discovering either weapon, banknotes, or watch. But they had laid hands on a pair of trousers, soiled with a few drops of blood — an overwhelming proof.

Again he began to laugh. That was another pretty yam! A rabbit, caught in a noose, had bled down his leg! And it was the magistrate who, in his unswerving conviction of the guilt of the prisoner, was losing ground by the display of too much professional astuteness, by complicating matters, by deposing simple truth. This man of small brains, incapable of holding his own in an effort of cunning, of invincible strength when he said no, always no, almost drove him crazy; for he was positive of the culpability of the man, and each fresh denial made him the more indignant at what he looked upon as obstinate perseverance in savagery and lies. He would force him into contradicting himself.

“So you deny it?” he said.

“Of course I do, because it was not me,” said Cabuche. “Had it been, ah! I should be only too proud, I should say it was me.”

M. Denizet abruptly rose, and opened the door of the small adjoining room. When he had summoned Jacques, he inquired:

“Do you recognise this man?”

“I know him,” answered the driver, surprised. “I’ve seen him formerly at the Misards.”

“No, no,” said the magistrate. “Do you recognise him as the man in the coupé, the murderer?”

At once, Jacques became circumspect As a matter of fact, he did not recognise the man. The other seemed to him shorter, darker. He was about to say so, when it struck him that even this might be going too far. And he continued evasively.

“I don’t know, I can’t say; I assure you, sir, that I cannot say.”

M. Denizet, without waiting, called the Roubauds in their turn, and put the same question to them.

“Do you recognise this man?”

Cabuche continued smiling. He was not surprised. He nodded to Séverine, whom he had known as a young girl when she resided at La Croix-de-Maufras. But she and her husband had felt a pang, on perceiving him there. They understood. This was the man taken into custody, of whom Jacques had spoken, the prisoner who had caused this fresh examination. And Roubaud was astounded, terrified at the resemblance of this fellow to the imaginary murderer, whose description he had invented, the reverse of his own. It was pure chance, but it so troubled him that he hesitated to reply.

“Come, do you recognise him?” repeated the magistrate.

“Sir,” answered Roubaud, “I can only say again that it was a simple sensation, an individual who brushed against me. Of course this man is tall, like the other, and he is fair, and has no beard.”

“Anyhow, do you recognise him?” asked M. Denizet again.

“I cannot say positively. But there is a resemblance, a good deal of resemblance, certainly.”

This time Cabuche began to swear. He had had enough of these yarns. As he was not the culprit, he wanted to be off. And the blood flying to his head, he struck the table with his fists. He became so terrible that the gendarmes, who were called in, led him away. But in presence of this violence, of this leap of the beast who dashes forward when attacked, M. Denizet triumphed. His conviction was now firmly established, and he allowed this to be seen.

“Did you notice his eyes?” he inquired. “It’s by the eyes that I tell them. Ah! his measure is full. We’ve got him!”

The Roubauds, remaining motionless, exchanged glances. What now? It was all over. As justice had the culprit in its grip, they were saved. They felt a trifle bewildered, their consciences were pricked at the part events had just compelled them to play. But overwhelmed with joy, they made short work of their scruples, and they smiled at Jacques. Considerably relieved, eager for the open air, they were waiting for the magistrate to dismiss all three of them, when the usher brought him a letter.

In a moment M. Denizet, oblivious of the three witnesses, was at his writing-table, perusing the communication. It was the letter from the Ministry containing the indications he should have had the patience to await before resuming the inquiry. What he read must have lessened his feeling of triumph, for his countenance, little by little, became frigid, and resumed its sad immobility. At a certain moment he raised his head, to cast a glance sideways at the Roubauds, as if one of the phrases reminded him of them. The latter, bereft of their brief joy, once more became a prey to uneasiness, feeling themselves caught again.

Why had he looked at them? Had the three lines of writing — that clumsy note which haunted them — been found in Paris? Séverine was well acquainted with M. Camy-Lamotte, having frequently seen him at the house of the President, and she was aware that he had been entrusted with the duty of sorting his papers. Roubaud was tortured by the keenest regret that the idea had not occurred to him to dispatch his wife to Paris, where she might have paid useful visits, and at the least made sure of the support of the secretary to the Ministry, in case the company, annoyed at the nasty rumours in circulation, should think of dismissing him. Thenceforth, neither of them took their eyes off the magistrate, and their anxiety increased as they noticed him become gloomy, visibly disconcerted at this letter which upset all his good day’s work.

At last, M. Denizet left the letter, and for a moment remained absorbed, his eyes wide open, resting on the Roubauds and Jacques. Then, submitting to the inevitable, speaking aloud to himself, he exclaimed:

“Well, we shall see! We shall have to return to all this! You can withdraw.”

But as the three were going out, he could not resist the desire to learn more, to throw light on the grave point which destroyed his new theory, although he was recommended to do nothing further, without previously coming to an understanding with the authorities.

“No; you remain here a minute,” said he, addressing the driver. “I’ve another question to put to you.”

The Roubauds stopped in the corridor. They were free, and yet they could not go. Something detained them there: the anguish to learn what was passing in the magistrate’s room, the physical impossibility to depart before ascertaining from Jacques, what the other question was that had been put to him. They turned and turned, they beat time with their worn out legs; and they found themselves again side by side, on the bench where they had already waited for hours. There they sat, downcast and silent.

When the driver reappeared, Roubaud rose with effort.

“We were waiting for you,” said he. “We’ll go to the station together. Well?”

But Jacques turned his head aside, in embarrassment, as if wishing to avoid the eyes of Séverine which were fixed on him. “He’s all at sea, floundering about,” he ended by saying.

“
Look here, he is now asking me whether there were not two who did the deed. And, as at Havre, I spoke of a black mass weighing on the old chap’s legs. He questioned me on the point; he seems to fancy it was only the rug. Then he sent for it, and I had to express an opinion. Well, now, yes; when I come to think, perhaps it was the rug.”

The Roubauds shuddered. They were on their track; one word from this man might ruin them. He certainly knew, and he would end by talking. And all three, the woman between the two men, left the Law Courts in silence. In the street the assistant station-master observed:

“By the way, comrade, my wife will be obliged to go to Paris, for a day, on business. It would be very good of you, if you would look after her, should she be in need of someone.”

CHAPTER V

PRECISELY at 11.15, the advertised time, the signalman at the Pont de l’Europe, gave the two regulation blows of the horn, to announce the Havre express, which issued from the Batignolles tunnel. Soon afterwards the turn-tables rattled, and the train entered the station with a short whistle, grating on the brakes, smoking, shining, dripping with the beating rain that had not ceased since leaving Rouen.

The porters had not yet turned the handles of the doors, when one of them opened, and Séverine sprang lightly to the platform, before the train had stopped. Her carriage was at the end. To reach the locomotive, she had to hurry through the swarm of passengers, embarrassed by children and packages, who had suddenly left the compartments. Jacques stood there, erect on the footplate, waiting to go to the engine-house; while Pecqueux wiped the brass work with a cloth.

“So it is understood,” said she, on tiptoe. “I will be at the Rue Cardinet at three o’clock, and you will have the kindness to introduce me to your chief, so that I may thank him.” This was the pretext imagined by Roubaud: a visit to the head of the depot at Batignolles, to thank him for some vague service he had rendered. In this manner she would find herself confided to the good friendship of the driver. She could strengthen the bonds, and exert her influence over him.

But Jacques, black with coal, drenched with water, exhausted by the struggle against rain and wind, stared at her with his harsh eyes, without answering. On leaving Havre, he had been unable to refuse the request of the husband to look after her; and this idea of finding himself alone in her company upset him, for he now felt that he was very decidedly falling in love with her.