Human Beast: The Emile Zola Society Edition

by Emile Zola

  A thought suddenly occurred to him.

  ‘Monsieur Roubaud,’ he said. ‘Weren’t you on the train last night? You came back on the express, didn’t you? You might be able to give us some information.’

  ‘Why yes!’ exclaimed Monsieur Cauche. ‘Was there anything you noticed?’

  For a moment or two Roubaud made no reply; he was stooping to look at the carpet. He quickly straightened himself and, in his usual rather gruff voice, answered:

  ‘Yes there was. I’ll tell you what I can... My wife was with me too, by the way. In fact, if this has to go in your report, I would like her to be present too, to make sure her account matches mine.’

  Monsieur Cauche said that this seemed a very reasonable request. Pecqueux, who had just arrived on the scene, offered to go and look for her and hurried off immediately. There was nothing to do but wait. Philomène, who had arrived at the same time as Pecqueux, was not at all pleased to see him so eager to offer his assistance, but, catching sight of Madame Lebleu hurrying towards them as fast as her poor swollen legs would carry her, she ran over to give her a helping hand. The two women raised their hands to the heavens and uttered cries of amazement, thrilled by the discovery of such a heinous crime. Although nothing about the murder was yet known, various accounts of what had happened were already circulating amongst the crowd, accompanied by looks of horror and much arm waving. Above the general murmur of voices, Philomène herself could be heard declaring on her honour, although it was she who had just invented it, that Madame Roubaud had seen the murderer. At that moment Madame Roubaud herself appeared, accompanied by Pecqueux. Everyone became silent.

  ‘Look at her!’ hissed Madame Lebleu. ‘I ask you! Just because she’s married to an assistant stationmaster, she thinks she’s a queen! She was like that first thing this morning; I saw her in her room — hair done and all dolled up! Anyone would think she was going out visiting!’

  Séverine walked down the platform, careful not to hurry; it was a long platform, and all eyes were on her as she moved towards them. She managed to stay calm, discreetly applying her handkerchief to her eyes to show how upset she was at just learning who it was that had been murdered. She wore a black woollen dress and looked very elegant, as if in mourning for the man who had been her life-long guardian. Her thick black hair shone radiantly in the morning sunlight; despite the cold, she hadn’t stopped to put on a hat. Her sorrowful blue eyes were brimming with tears. It was all very touching.

  ‘I’m not surprised she’s upset,’ whispered Philomène. ‘Now they haven’t got his lordship to look after them, they’re done for!’

  Severine made her way through the crowd towards the open door of the coupe. Monsieur Cauche and Roubaud climbed out of the carriage, and Roubaud immediately began to tell him what he knew.

  ‘We went to see Monsieur Grandmorin yesterday morning, as soon as we got to Paris, didn’t we, my dear? It was about a quarter past eleven, wasn’t it?’

  He looked her straight in the eyes and she said quietly, ‘Yes, a quarter past eleven.’

  She suddenly caught sight of the carriage seat covered in blood. A shudder ran through her, and she began to sob bitterly. The stationmaster, feeling sorry for her, quickly interposed.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘we fully understand how deeply distressing this must be for you. If you find it too much, perhaps ...’

  ‘It will only take a minute or two,’ Monsieur Cauche interrupted. ‘And then we’ll get someone to accompany Madame back to her apartment.’

  Roubaud promptly resumed what he was saying: ‘We talked about various things, and then Monsieur Grandmorin suddenly said that he was planning to go to Doinville the next day to visit his sister. I can see him now, sitting at his desk. I was standing here, and my wife was standing there ... Yes, he said he intended to leave the next day. Is that not so, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, the next day.’

  Monsieur Cauche, who was jotting down notes with his pencil, looked up.

  ‘The next day?’ he queried. ‘But surely he left the same evening!’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Roubaud. ‘He knew that we were leaving in the evening, and at one point he suggested he might travel with us on the express. He thought my wife might like to go to Doinville with him and spend a few days there with his sister, as she has done before. But my wife had too much to do here in Le Havre, so she declined the invitation. That’s right, isn’t it, my dear? You declined the invitation.’

  ‘Yes, I declined the invitation.’

  ‘He was very nice about it,’ continued Roubaud. ‘And that seemed to be the end of the matter. We then talked about some business of mine, and he showed us out. Is that not so, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, he showed us out.’

  ‘We left in the evening. Just before we got into the train I had a chat with Monsieur Vandorpe, the stationmaster. I didn’t notice anything unusual. I was rather irritated because I thought we had a compartment to ourselves, but I hadn’t noticed a woman who was sitting in one of the window seats. Then two more people got in at the last minute, a married couple. That irritated me even more. Everything seemed perfectly normal all the way to Rouen. I didn’t see anything. At Rouen we got out to stretch our legs. You can imagine our surprise when we saw Monsieur Grandmorin standing by the door of a coupé, three or four carriages down from our own. “Why, Monsieur Grandmorin!” I said. “So you left this evening after all! We didn’t expect to be travelling with you.” He explained that he had received a telegram ... The guard blew his whistle, and we jumped back into our compartment. It was empty, by the way. Much to our relief, the other passengers had got off at Rouen! So there you are! That’s about it, isn’t it, my dear?’

  ‘Yes,’ Severine whispered, ‘that’s about it.’

  This seemingly unremarkable tale of events made a deep impression on the crowd of bystanders. Everyone listened spell-bound, expecting to pick up some clue to the murder. The safety officer replaced his pencil in his pocket. He was as puzzled as everyone else.

  ‘Are you quite sure there was no one else in the coupé with Monsieur Grandmorin?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite sure,’ Roubaud replied.

  A shudder ran through the crowd. Something inexplicable had happened and it was very frightening; everyone sensed a shiver run down their spine. If the passenger had been alone in the compartment at Rouen, who could have killed him and thrown him out of the carriage ten miles further on, before the train had stopped at another station?

  In the general hush, Philom&ne could be heard making her usual scathing comments.

  ‘Very peculiar, if you ask me!’ she was saying.

  Sensing that her remarks were directed at him, Roubaud looked at her and nodded, as if to say that he found it peculiar too. He noticed Pecqueux and Madame Lebleu standing next to her, both of them nodding their agreement. The eyes of everyone were turned towards him; they were all waiting for something more, some detail that he might have forgotten, which would shed light on the mystery. They were not accusing him, but they all eyed him with such intense curiosity that he detected the first faint glimmerings of disbelief, the sort of vague suspicion that needs only one tiny detail to make it a certainty.

  ‘Extraordinary!’ murmured Monsieur Cauche.

  ‘Quite extraordinary!’ added Monsieur Dabadie.

  Roubaud decided he must say something.

  ‘One thing I’m certain of,’ he said, ‘is that the train was travelling at its normal speed. It runs non-stop from Rouen to Barentin, and I didn’t notice anything unusual ... I only know because we were on our own in the compartment and I had opened the window to smoke a cigarette. I could see outside and I could hear the sound of the train. I even spotted Monsieur Bessière on the platform at Barentin; he took over from me as stationmaster there. I called him over, and we had a few words together; he stood on the step and shook hands with me. Is that not so, my dear? Anyway, you can ask him; Monsieur Bessière will tell you himself.’

  Séverine did not
move. She stood there, looking pale and grief-stricken. Once again she confirmed what her husband had just said: ‘Yes, Monsieur Bessière will tell you himself.’

  For a moment all doubts were dispelled; the Roubauds had got back into their own compartment at Rouen and a friend had stood on the carriage-step and said hello to them at Barentin. The suspicious looks that Roubaud thought he had seen in the crowd had vanished. But everyone was becoming more and more confused; the mystery had deepened.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure that no one could have got into the coupé after you had left Monsieur Grandmorin?’ the safety officer asked.

  Roubaud had clearly not foreseen this question, and for the first time he appeared flummoxed; presumably he had no ready-made answer. He looked at his wife and hesitated.

  ‘It is most unlikely,’ he said. ‘The doors were being closed and the guard was blowing his whistle. We only just had time to get back into our carriage. Besides, the coupé was reserved; I assume no one was allowed into it ...’

  He noticed his wife looking at him hard, her big blue eyes open wide. He decided it would be better to sound less positive.

  ‘But don’t really know,’ he continued. ‘Yes, perhaps someone could have got in ... There was such a crush on the platform ...’

  As he spoke his voice became more assured; a new and better version of the story was taking shape in his mind.

  ‘Yes, there was such a crowd on the platform,’ he continued. ‘All going to Le Havre for the celebrations, I suppose. There were second-class passengers and even third-class passengers trying to get into our compartment ... And of course the station is not very well lit; you can’t see a thing. The train was about to leave, and everyone was pushing and shouting; it was a mad scramble ... Yes, I dare say it was possible for someone to force his way into the coupé at the last minute, someone who couldn’t find a seat and thought no one would notice in all the confusion.’

  He paused a moment.

  ‘Yes, that’s what must have happened, mustn’t it, my dear?’

  Séverine looked exhausted; she held her handkerchief to her face to hide the bruising round her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s what happened, I’m sure it did.’

  The mystery seemed to be solved. The safety officer and the stationmaster looked at each other in agreement without saying a word. The crowd had begun to grow restless; everyone sensed that the questioning was now over, and they were all itching to go off and talk about it. Theories abounded, and everyone had their own version of events. For a while the usual business of the station had been suspended as everyone had left their work and come over to find out about the murder. It came as quite a surprise when the 9.38 train pulled in alongside the platform. Everyone scurried back to their jobs; the carriage doors opened, and streams of passengers poured from the train. The more curious dallied behind, standing in a group round the safety officer, who, determined to do his job thoroughly, had gone to take a final look at the bloodstained coupé. Pecqueux, standing between Madame Lebleu and Philomène, caught sight of his driver, Jacques Lantier, who had just got off the train and stood looking at the little group of people at the far end of the platform. He waved to him frantically, but Jacques remained where he was. Eventually he decided to come over to them, walking very slowly.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked Pecqueux.

  He knew perfectly well what had happened and listened with only half an ear to the news of the murder and the different explanations of how it had been done. He felt surprised and strangely disturbed to find himself suddenly plunged into a murder inquiry and standing in front of the same coupé he had seen only the night before, rushing at full speed through the night. He craned his neck and looked at the patch of dried blood on the cushion. Straight away he was back at the scene of the murder; he saw the body lying beside the track with its throat slit open. As he turned his eyes away he caught sight of Roubaud and Séverine; Pecqueux was still explaining what had happened and how the Roubauds had come to be involved, catching the same train from Paris as the victim, and being the last people to speak to him on the platform at Rouen. Jacques had met Roubaud; they sometimes stopped to have a chat when he was in charge of the express. He had occasionally seen his wife too, at a distance, but had deliberately kept clear of her, as he did of other women, knowing the fearful effect they had on him. But as he looked at Séverine, tearful and so dreadfully pale, with such a frightened look in her big, gentle, blue eyes, and her hair falling thick and dark around her face, he found her very appealing. He could not take his eyes off her. He became lost in thought; how was it, he wondered, that he and the Roubauds came to be standing there together beside this carriage, the scene of a crime, they having returned from Paris the night before, and he just that minute arriving from Barentin?

  ‘Yes, yes, I know!’ he suddenly exclaimed, interrupting Pecqueux. ‘I was there myself, last night, just outside the tunnel, as the train went past, and I thought I saw something.’

  Everyone gasped in astonishment and they all crowded round him. No one was more astonished than Jacques himself; he was shaking, utterly taken aback and confused by what he had just said. Why had he spoken when he had solemnly sworn to himself that he would say nothing? He had so many reasons to remain silent! Yet the words had come unbidden from his lips as he was looking at Séverine. Séverine suddenly took her handkerchief from her face and stared at Jacques, her big, tearful eyes opening wider and wider.

  The safety officer walked quickly over to Jacques.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘What did you see?’

  Jacques told him what he had seen - the brightly lit coupé hurtling through the night, the shapes of two men, one on his back, the other holding a knife. Séverine could not take her eyes from him as he spoke. Roubaud stood beside his wife, gazing intently at Jacques and listening to every word.

  ‘Would you recognize the murderer?’ inquired the safety officer.

  ‘No, I don’t think I would,’ said Jacques.

  ‘Was he wearing a coat or working clothes?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell. The train must have been doing eighty kilometres an hour!’

  Séverine glanced involuntarily at Roubaud; he needed to say something.

  ‘Quite!’ he intervened. ‘You’d need good eyesight to see anything at that speed.’

  ‘Even so,’ Monsieur Cauche concluded, ‘it’s a vital piece of evidence. The examining magistrate will help you to clarify your statements. Monsieur Lantier and Monsieur Roubaud, may I take your full names, please, so that you can be called as witnesses?’

  And that was that. The little group of bystanders drifted away, and the station returned to its normal business. Roubaud had to dash off to see to the 9.50 stopping train, which was already half full of passengers. He shook hands with Jacques, more firmly than usual. Madame Lebleu, Pecqueux and Philomène walked away whispering to each other, leaving Jacques alone with Séverine. He felt obliged to accompany her back along the platform to the staff stairway; he could think of nothing to say but felt drawn towards her, as if a common bond had just been established between them.

  It was going to be a fine day. The sun had risen in the clear blue sky and driven away the morning mists. A breeze blew in from the sea over the incoming tide, bringing with it a whiff of fresh, salt sea air. As Jacques said goodbye to Séverine, he once again found himself captivated by her big blue eyes, looking at him, as before, so gently, so frightened, so appealing.

  Someone blew a whistle. It was Roubaud, giving the right-away. The engine driver sounded a long whistle in reply. The 9.50 moved out of the station, gathered speed and vanished into the distance in a golden cloud of sunshine.

  IV

  It was the second week in March. Monsieur Denizet, the examining magistrate,1 had recalled a number of key witnesses in the Grandmorin case to his office in the Rouen law courts.

  For three weeks now, the murder had been on everyone’s lips. In Rouen, people found it unbelievable. In Paris t
here was talk of nothing else. The opposition newspapers2 were quick to seize on it as ammunition in their hard-fought campaign against the government. Political discussion was dominated by the approaching general elections, and the atmosphere was very tense. There had recently been a number of stormy debates in Parliament, one in which there had been violent objections to ratifying the powers of two deputies who held official positions in the Emperor’s personal entourage,3 and another involving a fierce attack on the financial administration of the Prefect of the Seine4 and a call for the election of a municipal council. The Grandmorin affair had come at just the right moment to fuel this unrest. The most amazing stories were circulating. Every morning the newspapers were full of speculation that was very damaging to the government. They claimed that the victim of the murder, a regular visitor at the Tuileries Palace,5 a former magistrate, a Grand Commander of the Legion of Honour, a man worth millions, had been addicted to the worst kinds of debauchery. On top of this, because the investigation had so far got nowhere, they also accused the police and the judiciary of complacency and joked about the mythical murderer who was still at large. The fact that there was more than a grain of truth in these allegations made them all the more difficult to refute.

  Monsieur Denizet was well aware of the great responsibility he carried on his shoulders, but he was also very excited by the affair. He was a man of ambition and had eagerly awaited an opportunity like this that would allow him to demonstrate the singular qualities of intelligence and energy on which he prided himself. He was the son of a prosperous cattle farmer in Normandy. He had studied law at Caen, entering the profession relatively late in life. As a result of his peasant upbringing and his father’s untimely bankruptcy, promotion had been slow. He had been deputy prosecutor at Bernay, Dieppe and Le Havre, but had had to wait a further ten years before being appointed as public prosecutor at Pont-Audemer. He was then transferred, as deputy prosecutor, to Rouen, and had served as examining magistrate there for the last eighteen months. Now, however, he was over fifty. He had no private income, and his meagre salary hardly sufficed to cover his most immediate needs, so he had had to continue to work as a poorly paid magistrate in order to earn a living - the sort of job which none but the mediocre would happily resign themselves to, and which anyone worth their salt would suffer only as an irksome prelude to something more lucrative. Monsieur Denizet was actually very intelligent and extremely sharp-witted, an honourable man, who took pleasure in doing the job he did and rather relished the authority vested in him, as he sat in judgement with absolute power to acquit or to condemn. The one thing that tempered his passion for justice was his longing for promotion. There was nothing he desired more than to receive a decoration and to be transferred to Paris, which was why, after the first day of the hearings, when he had insisted that his sole concern was to establish the truth, he now proceeded more circumspectly, alert to the many hazards that might spell the end of his career.