Human Beast: The Emile Zola Society Edition

by Emile Zola

  Séverine finished eating her chop. She had been deep in thought and woke up with a start to find herself sitting in a restaurant. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. She couldn’t swallow her food. She didn’t even want any coffee. She had eaten slowly, but it was still barely a quarter past twelve when she left the restaurant. She had another three-quarters of an hour to kill! Usually, when she came to Paris, she loved being in the city and walking around the streets. But today she felt lost and frightened, wishing she had done what she had come to do, and that she could run away and hide. The pavement was by now almost dry. A warm breeze blew away the last of the clouds. She walked down the Rue Tronchet and arrived at the flower market on the Place de la Madeleine. It was a typical March flower market, with primroses and azaleas in full bloom, flaunting their colour in the pale light of a late-winter afternoon. For half an hour Séverine walked round the market, surrounded by this precocious flowering of spring, lost in her thoughts. Jacques was an enemy whom she must disarm. She had spoken with Monsieur Camy-Lamotte, and everything had gone well. All she needed to do was persuade Jacques to remain silent. It would not be easy. She began to imagine all manner of romantic scenarios and discovered that, far from increasing her fatigue and anxiety, it had a pleasantly soothing effect. Suddenly she noticed the time, on a clock in one of the market stalls - ten past one! It brought her back to reality with a jolt. She had achieved nothing. She hurried off towards the Rue du Rocher.

  Monsieur Camy-Lamotte’s house stood at the corner of the Rue du Rocher and the Rue de Naples. In order to get to it, Séverine had to walk past Grandmorin’s house, standing silent and empty, with its shutters closed. She glanced up at it and quickened her step. She remembered the last time she had come there. There it still stood, tall and sinister. A little further on, she stopped to look behind her, like someone pursued by an angry mob, and she caught sight of Monsieur Denizet, the examining magistrate from Rouen, walking on the opposite side of the street. His presence startled her. Had he seen her looking at Grandmorin’s house? He seemed quite unconcerned. She allowed him to walk past her, following behind him in a state of trepidation. It came as an even greater shock when she saw him ring the doorbell of Monsieur Camy-Lamotte’s house at the corner of the Rue de Naples.

  She fell into a panic. How could she go and see him now? She rushed back down the street, turned into the Rue d‘Edimbourg and came to the Pont de l’Europe. Only then did she feel able to pause for a moment. Not knowing where to go or what to do, she stood, motionless, leaning against the balustrade, looking down through the iron girders at the vast open space of the station below. Trains were continually coming and going; she watched them with fear in her eyes. She was convinced that the magistrate had gone to see Monsieur Camy-Lamotte in order to discuss the inquiry, and that at this very moment the two men were talking about her and deciding her fate. In a fit of despair, she felt she would rather throw herself there and then under a train than return to the Rue du Rocher. A train was emerging from under the roof of the mainline station; she watched it approach and pass beneath her, blowing a warm cloud of steam into her face. She knew that if she didn’t muster the energy to put an end to their uncertainty, her trip would have been a foolish waste of time and she would return home in an unbearable agony of mind. She decided she would wait five minutes more in order to regain her nerve. She could hear locomotives whistling below her. She watched a little shunting engine moving a suburban train out of a siding. She looked up to her left, over the parcels delivery bay, and spotted the window of Madame Victoire’s room, at the top of the house in the Impasse d’Amsterdam, the window she had leaned out of with her husband before the terrible scene which had brought them to this desperate situation. It reminded her so forcibly of the danger she was in that she suddenly felt ready to face anything, if it would put an end to her misery. The sound of the shunters’ horns reverberated in her ears. Trains rumbled interminably under the bridge beneath her. Clouds of thick smoke obscured the horizon as they rose into the clear Paris skies. She began to walk back to the Rue du Rocher, like a person intent on suicide, quickening her step for fear she might find no one in.

  As she pulled the doorbell, a fresh wave of panic ran through her, but a manservant took her name, quickly ushered her into an anteroom and invited her to take a seat. The doors had been left slightly ajar, and through them she distinctly heard the sound of two voices engaged in heated conversation. There then came a long silence, during which all she was conscious of was a steady drumming in her temples. She concluded that the examining magistrate was still with Monsieur Camy-Lamotte, and that she would probably be kept waiting for a long time. It was more than she could bear. Suddenly, however, much to her surprise, the manservant summoned her, and she was conducted into the Secretary-General’s study. She was sure that Denizet had not left; she sensed he was still there, hidden behind a door.

  The Secretary-General’s study was a large room with dark furniture, a thick carpet and heavy door-curtains. It felt very austere and enclosed. No sound reached it from outside. There was, however, a bronze vase containing a few pale roses, which suggested that behind this severe façade there lay a hidden gentility, a taste for the finer things in life. The master of the house stood waiting to receive her, dressed formally in a frock-coat and looking as austere as his surroundings. He had a rather pinched face, filled out somewhat by his greying side-whiskers. He still had about him something of the stylish young beau he had been in his youth. He looked slim and distinguished, but one sensed a kindly nature beneath the cultivated stiffness of his official manner. The subdued light of the room made him appear very tall.

  As she entered, Séverine was overwhelmed by the hot, enclosed atmosphere of the room, draped with curtains and wall-hangings. All she was aware of was Monsieur Camy-Lamotte watching her as she walked towards him. He did not invite her to sit down and made a point of not being the first to speak, leaving it to her to explain the reason for her visit. There was a long silence. Séverine was at a loss how to begin. Eventually, taking her courage in both hands, speaking calmly and choosing her words carefully, she said, ‘Monsieur, please excuse my boldness in coming to seek your help. You will be aware of the irreparable loss I have suffered. I feel helpless. I ventured to think that you might assist us; that you might somehow be able to continue the protection that your friend, my guardian, afforded us ... before his untimely death.’

  Monsieur Camy-Lamotte had no alternative but to ask her to sit down. She had spoken eloquently, with no effusive display of humility or grief, but with an instinctive mastery of feminine artifice. He continued to say nothing. He sat down himself and waited for her to continue. Realizing that she was required to say more, Séverine began again.

  ‘You may have forgotten, monsieur,’ she said, ‘but I had the honour of seeing you at Doinville. Ah, what happy times they were! But something terrible has happened, and you are the only one I can turn to. I beg you, monsieur, in the name of the dear friend we have lost, if you truly loved him, do not abandon me. Take his place beside me.’

  Monsieur Camy-Lamotte had watched her carefully as she spoke. She seemed so natural, so charming, as she sat there sadly pleading with him, that his suspicions were unsettled. He had suspected that the note he had found among Grandmorin’s papers - two lines with no signature - had come from her, for he knew that the President had enjoyed her favours. When, a moment before, he was told that she had come to see him, his suspicions seemed to be confirmed. He had interrupted his discussion with the magistrate only in order to ascertain that these suspicions were correct. But how could he possibly think she was guilty, now that she sat there in front of him, so gentle and appealing?

  He needed to get things clear in his mind. Maintaining his grave demeanour, he asked her, ‘Perhaps you could explain, madame ... I remember you at Doinville very well ... there is nothing I would like more than to assist you, if it is within my power to do so.’

  Séverine told him frankly how her hus
band was threatened with dismissal. He had become the object of resentment among his colleagues, due partly to his own success and partly to the fact that he had received help from people in high places. Now that this help was no longer available, people were making even more determined efforts to get rid of him, and they seemed to think they would succeed. She named no names and was careful to remain discreet, despite the real danger that confronted them. It was only because she was convinced she needed to act quickly that she had decided to make the journey to Paris. Tomorrow might be too late; she needed help immediately. Her arguments were so well founded and persuasive that it seemed impossible to Monsieur Camy-Lamotte that there could be any other reason why she had gone to such trouble to come and see him.

  He watched her intently as she spoke, observing the slightest tremor of her lips.

  ‘Why should the Company wish to dismiss your husband?’ he asked her suddenly. ‘Surely he has done nothing seriously wrong.’

  She too had been eyeing him carefully, looking for some flicker of response in the lines of his face, all the time wondering whether he had found the letter. His question had seemed a perfectly innocent one, yet the minute he asked it, she was convinced that the letter was there in the room, in a drawer somewhere. He had read it. He was setting a trap to see if she would dare mention the real reasons for her husband’s dismissal. There was something too pointed about the way he had phrased the question. She felt as if his pale, weary eyes were reading her innermost thoughts.

  Bravely she entered the fray.

  ‘It is outrageous, monsieur,’ she said. ‘Just because of what was in that awful will, people are saying that we killed Monsieur Grandmorin. We proved that we were innocent, but such terrible accusations are not easily forgotten. I imagine the Company is afraid there might be some scandal.’

  Once again Monsieur Camy-Lamotte was surprised and rather taken aback by the frankness of her response and the note of genuine anguish in her voice. What was more, having at first sight found her not particularly attractive, he was beginning to yield to the spell of her gently appealing blue eyes and her luxuriant black hair. He thought of his friend Grandmorin with a mixture of jealousy and admiration. How on earth had an old rake like him, ten years his senior, managed to attract creatures like this till the day he died, when he had already had to abandon such pleasures in order to preserve what little bit of energy he still had left? She was charming; quite delightful in fact. He sat looking at her, stiff and serious - a government minister with an awkward problem on his hands. A smile of wistful longing passed across his lips.

  Séverine, emboldened by the effect she sensed she was having upon him, made the mistake of adding: ‘We are not the sort of people who would kill for money. There would have to have been some other motive ... and there wasn’t.’

  Monsieur Camy-Lamotte looked at her and saw the corners of her mouth tremble. Yes, she was the murderer! He knew it instantly. Séverine too realized immediately that she had played into his hands; she could tell from the way he stopped smiling and pursed his lips awkwardly. She felt she was about to faint, as if all her energy were ebbing away. She managed to remain sitting upright. Monsieur Camy-Lamotte proceeded with his questions in the same unhurried manner as before, and the conversation continued. But each had already told the other all that they needed to know. The words they exchanged were immaterial. What they were really talking of were the two things that neither of them could mention - he had the letter, and she had written it. This was the message that passed between them, even as they sat there saying nothing.

  ‘Madame,’ the Secretary-General said eventually, ‘I have no objection to interceding with the Company on your behalf if there is a genuine case to answer. As it happens, I am due to see the General Manager this evening on other business. I shall need a few details. Perhaps you would make a note of your husband’s name, age and record of employment, and anything else that might help to clarify the situation.’

  He pushed a little writing desk towards her, carefully averting his eyes so as not to appear intimidating. A shudder ran through her. He wanted a page of her handwriting in order to compare it with the letter. She desperately tried to think of an excuse, determined not to write. But then she asked herself what was the point, since he knew anyway? They could always get hold of a few lines of her writing. Without any sign of emotion, she steadied her nerves, picked up the pen and wrote down what he asked. Monsieur Camy-Lamotte, standing behind her, recognized the writing immediately, although it was more upright and less shaky than that of the letter. He couldn’t help admiring her - a mere slip of a girl, but so brave-hearted! Now that she couldn’t see him, he smiled again - the smile of a man inured by long experience to all but feminine charm. Justice was such a wearisome business! It really wasn’t worth the trouble. His sole concern was the reputation of the government he served.

  ‘Very well, madame,’ he said, ‘you may leave it with me. I will make inquiries and do what I can.’

  ‘I am most grateful, monsieur,’ she replied. ‘May I count on you then to ensure that my husband is not dismissed?’

  ‘I am afraid, madame, that it is not quite as simple as that,’ he answered. ‘I cannot promise anything. We must see what transpires. I need to give it some thought.’

  Monsieur Camy-Lamotte was in something of a quandary, remaining undecided how to proceed with the Roubauds. Séverine, on the other hand, had but one thought in her mind. She knew that she was at his mercy. He had the power to save her or to destroy her. How would he decide?

  ‘Monsieur,’ she pleaded, ‘think how terrible this is for us. Please do not send me away without your assurance that all will be well.’

  ‘I am afraid I must, madame,’ he said. ‘There is nothing more I can do for the present. You must be patient.’

  He led her towards the door. She stood there, distraught and confused, on the point of confessing everything, so desperate was she to know what his intentions were. In an attempt to gain a minute more and find some other way round him, she suddenly exclaimed:

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot! I wanted to ask your advice about this awful will which has caused us so much trouble ... Do you think we should have declined the legacy?’

  ‘The will quite clearly makes the property out to you,’ Monsieur Camy-Lamotte answered circumspectly. ‘It is a mark of appreciation and personal respect.’

  She was still standing in the doorway. She made one last desperate plea.

  ‘Monsieur, I beg you,’ she said. ‘I cannot leave without knowing. Please will you tell me if you can help us?’

  Without thinking, she had seized his hand. Monsieur Camy-Lamotte withdrew it. She continued to gaze at him with her beautiful blue eyes, imploring him. He finally relented.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Come back at five o’clock. Perhaps I will be able to tell you something then.’

  Séverine left the house even more perturbed than when she had arrived. Monsieur Camy-Lamotte now knew what had happened. But her future was still uncertain. At any minute she might find herself arrested. How could she survive until five o’clock? Suddenly she remembered Jacques. She had forgotten all about him. If she were arrested, he was another who might seal her fate. It was still not quite half past two, but she hurried down the Rue du Rocher towards the Rue Cardinet, as if there were not a minute to spare.

  Left alone, Monsieur Camy-Lamotte remained standing in front of his desk. He was highly respected in government circles, and in his capacity as Secretary-General of the Ministry of Justice he was summoned to the Tuileries Palace almost daily. He exercised as much power as the Minister of Justice himself, and it was he who was always entrusted with the more delicate matters. He knew the concern and displeasure that the Grandmorin affair was causing in high places. The opposition newspapers were still running a vociferous campaign, some arguing that the police were so busy protecting politicians that they didn’t have time to arrest murderers,3 others delving into the President’s private life and pre
senting him as an acolyte of that notorious hive of profligacy, the Court! As the elections drew nearer, the campaign was having a disastrous effect. The Secretary-General had been informed that the government wished to see the affair closed as soon as possible, by whatever expedient was necessary, and as the minister had delegated this delicate matter to him, he now had sole responsibility for dealing with it. The decision would be his and his alone. He therefore had to give it careful consideration. He knew that if he made a mistake, he would be the one to pay for it.