Human Beast: The Emile Zola Society Edition

by Emile Zola

  Monsieur Denizet completed his investigation in less than a week. The Western Railway Company was most cooperative, providing him with all the documents and statements he needed; it too was anxious to see the end of a distasteful affair, which had started with one of its employees, had spread to every corner of the company and had come close to unseating its board of directors. The diseased limb needed to be amputated as quickly as possible. Once again the station staff at Rouen filed through the magistrate’s office — Monsieur Dabadie, Moulin and others — all providing damning evidence of Roubaud’s lamentable conduct. They were followed by Monsieur Bessière, the stationmaster at Barentin, and by a number of other employees at Rouen, whose statements were of crucial importance in connection with the first murder. Finally Monsieur Denizet interviewed Monsieur Vandorpe, the stationmaster at Paris, Misard, the man at the section post, and the principal guard, Henri Dauvergne. Both Misard and Dauvergne confirmed that Roubaud had shown little interest in married life. Henri, whom Séverine had looked after at La Croix-de-Maufras, even alleged that one night, while still recovering from the accident, he thought he had heard Roubaud and Cabuche conspiring together outside his window, which explained a great deal and contradicted the assertion of the two accused that they did not know each other. Amongst the staff of the Railway Company there was a general feeling of anger and sorrow for the unfortunate victims — the poor young woman whose marital infidelity now seemed perfectly excusable, and the distinguished old gentleman whose name was now cleared of the ugly rumours that had been circulating about him.

  But the new investigation had also aroused the passions of the Grandmorin family and, although they were quite prepared to help Monsieur Denizet with his inquiries, they made it more difficult for him to proceed with the charges he had in mind. The Lachesnayes were cock-a-hoop; they had always maintained that Roubaud was guilty and, being the self-seeking, greedy pair they were, they resented the bequest of La Croix-de-Maufras to Séverine. When the case was reopened, they saw it as their opportunity to contest the will. The only way of having the legacy rescinded was to disqualify Séverine on the grounds of animosity towards Grandmorin, and so they partially subscribed to Roubaud’s version of events, claiming that his wife had acted as an accomplice to the murder, helping Roubaud to kill Grandmorin, not to avenge some imaginary wrong done to her, but simply to rob him. Monsieur Denizet was forced to take issue with them, and with Berthe in particular, who felt very bitter against Séverine, her former friend, accusing her of every wickedness imaginable. The magistrate defended her character, becoming quite heated and angry the minute he felt there was any threat to his own interpretation of events, to the masterpiece of logical construction, so perfectly assembled, as he himself proudly declared, that the slightest alteration would bring the whole thing tumbling down. At one point, there were heated exchanges between the Lachesnayes and Madame Bonnehon. Madame Bonnehon, who had previously had a high opinion of Roubaud, now had nothing good to say about him. But she still spoke up in favour of his wife, for whom she had a great affection. She had every sympathy for this charming young lady who had fallen in love, and she was overcome by the tragic story of her violent death. She clearly had a complete disregard for money. Her niece should be ashamed of herself, raking up the question of the legacy again! If Séverine were guilty, it would mean that everything in Roubaud’s confession was true, and once again the President’s name would be dragged through the mud. If the truth had not been so ingeniously established by Monsieur Denizet’s investigation, it would have been necessary to invent it in order to preserve the family’s good name. She spoke with some bitterness of social circles in Rouen, where the affair was constantly on everyone’s lips. Now that age was creeping up on her, and the opulent, classically sculpted beauty she had cultivated was beginning to fade, her reign amongst the elite had come to an end. Only the day before, at a reception given by Madame Leboucq, the wife of the Appeal Court judge, the tall, elegant, dark-haired lady who had usurped her position, all sorts of lurid tales were being whispered, including details of Louisette’s misadventure, and any other piece of gossip that the public desire for vilification could fabricate. It was at this point that Monsieur Denizet intervened to inform her that Monsieur Leboucq would be acting as an assessor4 at the forthcoming Assizes. The Lachesnayes looked worried and fell silent; they seemed to have nothing more to say. Madame Bonnehon tried to reassure them. She was sure that justice would be done; the hearing would be presided over by her old friend Monsieur Desbazeilles, who these days, because of his rheumatism, spent most of his time living in the past, and the second assessor was to be Monsieur Chaumette, the father of the young barrister she had taken under her wing. So she was not worried, although as she mentioned the name of Monsieur Chaumette, a wistful smile passed across her lips as she thought of his son, who for some time now was regularly to be seen at Madame Leboucq’s, where she herself had advised him to go so as not to hinder his prospects.

  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 priso
n 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.’