When the celebrated trial finally began, its impact on the general public was considerably lessened by rumours of imminent war and by the general state of nervousness that was affecting the whole of France. Even so, in Rouen there were three days of feverish excitement, with crowds jostling outside the doors and all the reserved seats taken by fashionable ladies of the town.
5
Never, since being converted into a court of law, had the old palace of the Dukes of Normandy seen such an influx of people. It was towards the end of June. The afternoons were warm and sunny. The sunlight streamed through the ten stained-glass windows, illuminating the oak panels, the white stone crucifix standing at the far end of the hall against a background of red tapestry embroidered with Napoleonic bees,
6
and the famous ceiling which dated from the time of Louis XII, with its wooden compartments carved and picked out in a soft-coloured antique gold. Even before the hearing began, it was so hot that people could hardly breathe. Some of the women were standing on tiptoe to look at the table of exhibits that would be used in the trial — Grandmorin’s watch, Séverine’s blood-stained nightdress and the knife used for both murders. A lawyer had come from Paris to act as Cabuche’s defence and he too was the focus of much attention. The jury consisted of twelve citizens of Rouen, sitting in a row, dressed formally in black frock-coats and looking very stiff and serious. When the court entered there was such a disturbance in the public standing area that the presiding judge immediately had to threaten to clear the hall.
At last the hearing began, and the jury was sworn in. A fresh wave of excitement ran round the courtroom as the witnesses were summoned. At the names of Madame Bonnehon and Monsieur de Lachesnaye, all heads turned to look. But it was Jacques especially who caught the attention of the ladies; they could not take their eyes off him. When the accused were brought in, each escorted by two police officers, everyone glued their eyes on them and began to exchange opinions. They found them frightening and uncouth, obvious criminals. Roubaud in his dark-coloured jacket and with his tie loosely knotted, like someone who was no longer concerned about his appearance, seemed surprisingly old; his face was bloated, and he looked bewildered. As for Cabuche, he was exactly as everyone had imagined he would be. He was dressed in a long blue smock and he looked every inch the murderer, with enormous fists and carnivorous jaws, not the sort of person you would want to meet on a dark night. When he was questioned, this unfavourable impression was quickly confirmed; some of his answers were greeted with gasps of disbelief. To every question from the presiding judge, he replied that he didn’t know. He didn’t know how the watch came to be in his house. He didn’t know why he had let the real murderer get away. He stuck to his story about the strange man he claimed to have heard running off into the night. When questioned about his bestial passion for the unfortunate victim, he became incoherent and flew into such a violent rage that the two police officers had to hold him by the arms. It was all lies. He didn’t love her. He hadn’t desired her. It was indecent to even think of such a thing. She was a lady, whereas he had been to prison and lived like an animal! After a while he calmed down and resumed his sullen silence, only answering in monosyllables, apparently indifferent to the sentence that hung over his head. Similarly Roubaud stuck to what the prosecution referred to as his ‘story’, describing how and why he had killed Grandmorin and denying that he had had any part in the murder of his wife. He spoke in short, broken sentences that were almost unintelligible and kept having sudden lapses of memory. He had such a vague look in his eyes and his voice was so indistinct that it seemed at times as if he had forgotten what he wanted to say and was simply making things up. The judge persevered, pointing out to him the inconsistencies in his explanation. Eventually Roubaud shrugged his shoulders and refused to answer any more questions; what was the point of telling the truth when the court preferred to hear falsehoods? This display of wilful contempt for justice only made things worse for him. It was also noticed that the two accused remained completely uninterested in each other throughout the examination, a sure sign of some previous agreement between them, a cunning plan which they were determined to follow to the bitter end. They pretended not to know each other and even made accusations against each other in order to confuse the court. By the time the questioning was completed the verdict was a foregone conclusion, so skilfully had the judge conducted his examination, causing Roubaud and Cabuche to fall into every trap he had set them and making it appear that they had condemned themselves. On the same day, a few other minor witnesses were heard. By five o’clock the heat had become so insufferable that two ladies fainted.
The next day there was great excitement as further witnesses were called. Madame Bonnehon was a model of tact and refinement. Everyone listened with interest to the employees from the Railway Company, Monsieur Vandorpe, Monsieur Bessière, Monsieur Dabadie and especially Monsieur Cauche, who gave a long-winded account of how well he knew Roubaud, having frequently played cards with him at the Café du Commerce. Henri Dauvergne repeated his damning allegation that, although he was very drowsy and still feeling ill as a result of his accident, he was fairly certain he had heard the voices of the two accused whispering together outside his window. When asked about Séverine, he chose his words very carefully, giving them to understand that he had been in love with her, but, knowing that she had promised herself to another man, he had felt duty bound to stand aside. When this other man, Jacques Lantier, was finally summoned, a buzz ran round the courtroom, people stood up to get a better look, and even the members of the jury seemed to become suddenly more attentive. Jacques had very calmly placed his hands on the rail of the witness-box, leaning forward in the same way as when he stood at the controls of his locomotive. Having to appear in court should have been deeply upsetting for him, but his mind remained perfectly clear and lucid, as if the whole affair had absolutely nothing to do with him. The evidence he was about to give came as from an outsider, a completely innocent party. Since the crime, he had not felt the slightest emotion. He hadn’t given the murder a thought and had wiped it from his memory. His body felt perfectly relaxed, fit and healthy. As he stood at the rail of the witness-box he sensed neither remorse nor regret; his conscience was clear. He looked innocently at Roubaud and Cabuche. He knew that Roubaud was guilty. He gave him a quick nod, a little sign of acknowledgement, without stopping to think that everyone in the courtroom now knew about his affair with Roubaud’s wife. He smiled at Cabuche, whom he knew to be innocent and whose place in the dock should have been assigned to him. He looked a rough customer, but really there was nothing wrong with him; he had seen how hard he worked and he had shaken hands with him. Jacques remained perfectly composed as he gave his evidence, answering the judge clearly and precisely. Having questioned him at length about his liaison with the victim, the judge asked him to describe how he had left La Croix-de-Maufras a few hours before the murder, taken a train at Barentin and spent the night in Rouen. Roubaud and Cabuche listened as he answered, and their reactions appeared to confirm the truth of what he said. The three men looked at each other, and a feeling of unspeakable sadness passed between them. A deathly silence filled the hall. The members of the jury sensed that the moment was crucial, that the truth was at that minute passing unspoken before them. The judge asked Jacques what he thought of Cabuche’s story of someone running away into the night. Jacques simply shook his head, as if he had no desire to make things worse for the man who stood accused. Then something happened which took everyone completely by surprise. Tears appeared in Jacques’s eyes and began to run down his cheeks. He had suddenly had a vision of Séverine, as he had seen her once before, the image he had carried away with him as she lay dead on the floor, with her blue eyes staring, wide open, and her dark hair swept up above her head like some hideous garland of terror. He still loved her and was overcome with sorrow. He wept bitterly for her, apparently unaware of his crime, forgetting where he was and all the people who were watching him. Some of the ladies were overcome by this display of emotion and were moved to tears; they found the spectacle of this broken-hearted lover altogether touching. The husband, they noticed, remained dry-eyed. The judge asked the defence whether they had any further questions to put to the witness; they thanked him and declined. The two prisoners watched dumbfounded as Jacques went back to his seat amidst murmurs of sympathy.
The third day of the hearing was entirely taken up by the Public Prosecutor’s indictment and by speeches from counsellors for the defence. The presiding judge began by giving his summing-up, taking care to appear completely impartial yet at the same time emphasizing the charges brought by the prosecution. Then it was the turn of the Public Prosecutor. He didn’t appear to be at his best; normally he spoke with more conviction and less empty verbiage. People put it down to the heat; it really was unbearable. On the other hand the lawyer from Paris who was representing Cabuche was most entertaining, though not at all convincing. Roubaud’s defence was led by a distinguished member of the Rouen bar, who did the best he could with a very weak case. The Public Prosecutor was feeling tired and didn’t even deign to respond. When the jury retired to consider its verdict, it was only six o’clock, and daylight still entered the hall through the ten stained-glass windows. A last ray of sunshine lit up the coats of arms of the towns of Normandy which adorned the mullions. A hum of voices rose to the ancient gilded ceiling, and people pressed themselves expectantly against the iron grill which separated the reserved seats from the standing public. When the jury returned and the court was reconvened a religious hush once again fell over the hall. The verdict made allowance for extenuating circumstances, and the two men were sentenced to hard labour for life. This was not at all what people had been expecting, and the announcement was greeted with noisy protests and catcalls, as if it were a theatre.
That evening the sentence was discussed endlessly all over Rouen. The general view was that it represented a slap in the face for Madame Bonnehon and the Lachesnayes. Nothing short of the death penalty, it seems, would have satisfied Grandmorin’s family. There had obviously been pressure from some other quarter. The name of Madame Leboucq was being whispered; three or four of the jury were known to be close friends of hers. Her husband had no doubt performed his duties as assessor quite correctly, but people seemed to think that neither the second assessor, Monsieur Chaumette, nor even the presiding judge, Monsieur Desbazeilles, had been as fully in control of proceedings as they would have wished. Perhaps it was simply that the jury, in making allowance for extenuating circumstances, had had second thoughts, yielding to that awkward moment of doubt, when the melancholy truth had passed silently through the courtroom. None the less, the case was still seen as a triumph for the examining magistrate, Monsieur Denizet; nothing could detract from the masterly way he had handled the investigation, and the Grandmorin family lost much of the sympathy they still had when it was rumoured that Monsieur de Lachesnaye, in order to get his hands on La Croix-de-Maufras, had announced, contrary to legal advice, that despite the death of the legatee, he was going to instigate proceedings to have the bequest annulled, which, coming from a judge, was astonishing.
As he walked out of the courtroom, Jacques was greeted by Philomène, who had also been summoned as a witness. She wouldn’t let him go, clinging on to him, trying to get him to spend the night with her in Rouen. He didn’t have to start work again till the next day and he was quite willing to take her for a meal at the inn near the station, where he had supposedly slept on the night of the murder, but he was not going to sleep with her; he needed to be back in Paris the next day and was catching the night train at ten to one in the morning.
‘Do you know what,’ she said as she walked on his arm towards the hotel, ‘I could have sworn I just saw someone we both know. It was Pecqueux, I’m sure. He was telling me the other day that he couldn’t care less about the trial and that he wouldn’t be seen dead in Rouen ... When I turned round he ran off into the crowd ... I only saw his back ...’
Jacques interrupted her with a shrug of the shoulders.
‘Pecqueux is in Paris,’ he said, ‘having a good time. He’s enjoying himself while I’m off work.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Philomène, ‘but you can’t be too careful. He can be a real swine when he gets annoyed.’
She leaned against him, looking over her shoulder.
‘Who’s that following us?’ she asked. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes,’ said Jacques, ‘stop worrying. He probably wants to ask me something.’
It was Misard, who had been following them at a distance ever since they had left the Rue des Juifs. He had given evidence too, although he had seemed half-asleep. He had hung around Jacques, trying to make up his mind to ask him something, some question that was clearly bothering him. When he saw them go into the inn, he followed them and ordered a glass of wine.
‘Well, if it isn’t Misard!’ exclaimed Jacques. ‘How are you getting on with your new wife?’
‘Don’t talk to me about her,’ he grumbled. ‘She’s been leading me a real dance! I told you about it the last time we were here.’
Jacques found it highly amusing. Old Madame Ducloux, the one-time barmaid of easy virtue, whom Misard had taken on to look after the crossing, had watched him searching through the house and had quickly realized that he must be looking for money that his deceased wife had hidden away. In order to get him to marry her, she had hit upon the bright idea of letting him think, by way of veiled hints and knowing smirks, that she had found it. At first he had nearly strangled her, but then, realizing that, if he did away with her before getting his hands on the money, as he had done with his wife, the whereabouts of the thousand francs would remain a mystery, he had tried to be nice to her and show her he loved her. But she would have none of it; she wouldn’t even let him touch her. When he married her he would have everything he wanted, she said — her and the money too. And so he had married her. But afterwards, she just laughed at him and said he was a fool if he believed everything people told him. The best of it was that, having found out about the money, she too became obsessed with it, and she started looking for it as frantically as him. Sooner or later that hidden money would be theirs. Now that there were two of them they were sure to find it! And so the search continued.