Monomaniac (La bête humaine) — Section 8

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 foot-plate, waiting to go to the engine-house; while Pecqueux wiped the brasswork 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 depôt 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.

"Is that right?"

she resumed, smiling, with her sweet, caressing look, overcoming her surprise and slight repugnance at finding him so dirty, barely recognisable.

"Is that right?

I shall rely on your being there."

And, as she raised herself a little higher, resting her gloved hand on one of the iron handles, Pecqueux obligingly interfered: "Take care, you will dirty yourself," said he.

Then Jacques had to answer, and he did so in a surly tone.

"Yes, Rue Cardinet, unless I get drowned in this abominable rain.

What horrid weather!"

She felt touched at his wretched appearance, and added, as if he had suffered solely for her: "Oh!

what a dreadful state you are in!

And I was so comfortable.

I was thinking of you, you know; and that deluge of rain quite distressed me.

I felt very pleased at the idea that you were bringing me up this morning, and would take me back to-night, by the express."

But this familiarity, so tender and so nice, only seemed to trouble him the more.

He appeared relieved when a voice shouted, "Back!"

Promptly he blew the whistle, while the fireman made a sign to the young woman to stand back.

"At three o'clock!"

"Yes; at three o'clock!"

And as the locomotive moved along, Séverine left the platform, the last of the passengers.

Outside, in the Rue d'Amsterdam, as she was about to open her umbrella, she was glad to find it had ceased raining.

She walked down to the Place du Havre, where she stood reflecting for an instant, and at last decided that it would be best to lunch at once.

It was twenty-five minutes past eleven.

She stepped into a little restaurant at the corner of the Rue Saint Lazare, where she ordered a couple of fried eggs and a cutlet.

Then, whilst eating very slowly, she fell into reflections that had been haunting her for weeks, her face pale and cloudy, and bereft of its docile, seductive smile.

It was on the previous evening, two days after their examination at Rouen, that Roubaud, judging it dangerous to wait, had resolved to send her on a visit to M. Camy-Lamotte, not at the Ministry, but at his private residence, Rue du Rocher, where he occupied a house close to that of the late President Grandmorin.

She knew she would find him there at one o'clock, and she did not hurry.

She was preparing what she should say, endeavouring to foresee what he would answer, so as not to get troubled at anything that might transpire.

The evening before, a new cause of anxiety had hastened her journey.

They had learnt, from gossip at the station, that Madame Lebleu and Philomène were relating everywhere that the company was going to dismiss Roubaud, who was considered involved.

And the worst of it was that M. Dabadie, who had been questioned point blank, had not answered no, which gave considerable weight to the news.

From that moment it became urgent that she should hurry off to Paris to plead their cause, and particularly to solicit the protection of the powerful personage in question, as on former occasions she had sought that of the President.

But, apart from this request, which anyhow would serve to explain her visit, there was a more imperative motive--a burning and insatiable hankering to know, that hankering which drives the criminal to give himself away rather than remain ignorant.

The uncertainty was killing them, now that they felt themselves discovered, since Jacques had told them of the suspicion which the judicial authorities seemed to entertain of there being an accomplice.

They were lost in conjectures: had the letter been found, the facts established?

Hour by hour they expected a search would be made at their lodgings, that they would be arrested; and their burden became so heavy, the least occurrence in their surroundings assumed an air of such alarming menace, that in the end they preferred the catastrophe to this constant apprehension, to have a certainty and no longer suffer.

When Séverine had finished her cutlet, she was so absorbed that she awoke almost with a start to reality, astonished to find herself in a public room.

Everything seemed bitter.

Her food stuck in her throat, and she had no heart to take coffee.

Although she had eaten slowly, it was barely a quarter past twelve, when she left the restaurant.

Another three-quarters of an hour to kill!

She who adored Paris, who was so fond of rambling through the streets, freely, on the rare occasions when she visited the capital, now felt lost, timid, and was full of impatience to have done with the place and hide herself.

The pavements were already drying; a warm wind was driving away the last clouds.

Taking the Rue Tronchet, she found herself at the flower-market of the Madeleine, one of those March markets, all abloom with primroses and azaleas, in the dull days of expiring winter.

She sauntered for half an hour, amidst this premature spring, resuming her vague reflections, thinking of Jacques as an enemy whom she must disarm.

It seemed to her that she had paid her visit to the Rue du Rocher, that all had gone well in that quarter, that the only thing remaining was to ensure the silence of this man; and this was a complicated undertaking that bewildered her, and set her head labouring at romantic plans.

But these caused her no worry, no terror; on the contrary she experienced a sweet, soothing feeling.

Then, abruptly, she saw the time by a clock at a kiosk: ten minutes past one.

She had not yet performed her errand;

and, harshly recalled to the agony of reality, she hastened in the direction of the Rue du Rocher.

The residence of M. Camy-Lamotte was at the corner of this street and the Rue de Naples, and Séverine had to pass by the house of Grandmorin, which stood silent, tenantless, and with closed shutters.

Raising her eyes, she hurried on.

She recollected her last visit.

The great house towered up, terrible, before her, and when a little further on, she instinctively turned round, to look behind, like a person pursued by the shouts of a crowd, she was startled to perceive M. Denizet, the examining-magistrate at Rouen, who was also coming up the street, on the opposite side of the way.

The thrill she experienced brought her to a standstill.

Had he noticed her casting a glance at the house?

He was walking along quietly, and she allowed him to get ahead of her, following him in great trouble.

She received another shock when she saw him ring at the corner of the Rue de Naples, at the residence of M. Camy-Lamotte.

She felt terrified.

She would never dare enter now.

She turned on her heel, cut through the Rue d'Edimbourg, and descended as far as the Pont de l'Europe.

It was not until then, that she felt herself secure.

And, quite distracted, not knowing where to go nor what to do, she leant motionless against one of the balustrades, gazing below, across the iron sheds, at the vast station, where the trains were constantly performing evolutions.

She followed them with her anxious eyes.

She thought the magistrate must assuredly have gone to see M. Camy-Lamotte on this business, that the two men were talking about her, and that her fate was being settled at that very minute.

Then, in despair, she was tormented by the desire to cast herself at once under a train rather than return to the Rue du Rocher.

Just then a train was issuing from beneath the iron marquee of the main lines.

She watched it coming and pass below her, puffing in her face a tepid cloud of white steam.

Then the stupid uselessness of her journey, the frightful anguish she would carry away with her, should she fail to have the energy to go and find out something certain, were impressed on her mind with such vigour, that she gave herself five minutes to gain courage.

Engines were whistling.

Her eyes followed a small one, branching off a train that served the environs; and, then looking up towards the left, she recognised above the courtyard of the small parcels department, at the very top of the house in the Impasse d'Amsterdam, the window of Mother Victoire--that window on whose rail she again saw herself leaning with her husband, before the abominable scene that had caused their calamity.

This brought home to her the danger of her position with such a keen pang of pain, that she suddenly felt ready to encounter anything, to put an end to the business.

The blasts of the horn, and the prolonged rumbling noise deafened her, while thick smoke flying over the great, clear, Parisian sky, barred the horizon.

And she again took the road to the Rue du Rocher, wending her way with the feelings of a person going to commit suicide, stepping out with precipitation, in sudden fear lest she might find no one there.

When Séverine had touched the bell a renewed feeling of terror turned her icy cold.

But a footman, after taking her name, had already offered her a seat in an antechamber; and through the doors, gently set ajar, she very distinctly heard the lively conversation of two voices.

Then followed profound and absolute silence.

She could distinguish naught but the dull throbbing of her temples.

And she said to herself that the magistrate must still be in conference, and that she would no doubt be kept waiting a long time; and this idea of waiting seemed intolerable.

All at once, she met with a surprise; the footman came to her, and showed her in.

The magistrate had certainly not gone.

She conjectured he was there, hidden behind a door.

She found herself in a large study, with black furniture, a thick carpet, and heavy door-hangings, so severe and so completely closed, that not a sound from the outside could penetrate within.

Nevertheless, there were some flowers, some pale roses in a bronze corbeil, and this indicated a sort of concealed grace, a taste for amiable life beneath all this severity.

The master of the house was on his feet, very correctly attired in a frock-coat; he also looked severe with his pinched face, which his greyish whiskers rendered slightly fuller.

But he had all the elegance of a former beau who had remained slim, and a demeanour that one felt would be pleasant, freed from the stiffness that his official position made him assume.

In the subdued light of the apartment, he looked very tall.

Séverine, on entering, felt oppressed by the close atmosphere caused by the hangings, and she saw no one but M. Camy-Lamotte, who watched her approach.

He made no motion to invite her to be seated, and he was careful not to open his mouth the first, waiting for her to explain the motive of her visit.

This prolonged the silence.

But, as the result of a violent reaction, she all at once found she was mistress of herself in the peril, and remained very calm, and very prudent.

"Sir," said she, "you will excuse me if I make so bold as to come and solicit your goodwill.

You are aware of the irreparable loss I have suffered, and, abandoned as I now am, I have had the courage to think of you to defend us, to continue to give us a little of the same support as your friend, my deeply regretted protector."

M.

Camy-Lamotte was then obliged to wave his hand to a seat, for she had spoken in a strain that was perfect, without exaggerated humility or grief, with the innate art of feminine hypocrisy; but he still maintained silence.

He had himself sat down, still waiting.

Seeing she must explain, she continued: "Allow me to refresh your memory by reminding you that I have had the honour of seeing you at Doinville.

Ah!

those were happy days for me!

At present, bad times have come, and I have no one but you, sir.

I implore you, in the name of him we have lost, you who were his intimate friend, to complete his good work, to take his place beside us."

He listened, he looked at her, and all his suspicions were wavering;

she seemed so natural, so charming in her expressions of regret and supplication.

It had struck him that the letter he had found among the papers of Grandmorin, those two unsigned lines, could only have come from her, whom he knew to be intimate with the President, and just now the mere mention of her visit had completely convinced him.

He had only interrupted his interview with the magistrate, to confirm his conviction.

But how could he think her guilty seeing her as she appeared--so quiet and so sweet?

He wished to set his mind at rest.

And while maintaining an air of severity, he said: "Tell me what it is all about, madam.

I remember perfectly.

I shall only be too happy to be of use to you, if there is no impediment."

Séverine then related, very plainly, that her husband was threatened with dismissal.

They were very jealous of him on account of his merit, and of the high patronage which hitherto had covered him.

Now, thinking him without support, they hoped to triumph, and redoubled their efforts.

Nevertheless, she mentioned no names.

She spoke in measured terms in spite of the imminent peril.

For her to have decided on making the journey to Paris, she must have been convinced of the necessity of acting as rapidly as possible.

Perhaps to-morrow it would be no longer time; it was immediately that she required help and succour.

She related all this with such an abundance of logical facts, and good reasons, that it seemed to him really impossible that she should have taken the trouble to come up with any other object.

M.

Camy-Lamotte studied her even to the slight, almost imperceptible quiver of her lips, and he struck the first blow.

"But why should the company dismiss your husband?

They have nothing grave to reproach him with," said he.

Neither did her eyes leave him.

She sat watching the faintest lines on his face, wondering if he had found the letter; and, notwithstanding the apparent innocence of the question, she abruptly became convinced that the letter was there, in one of the pieces of furniture in that study.

He knew all about it, for he had set a trap for her, anxious to learn whether she would dare mention the real reasons for his dismissal.

Moreover, he had too forcibly accentuated his tone, and she felt herself probed to the innermost recesses of her being, by his sparkless eyes of a worn-out man.

Bravely she advanced to the peril.

"Dear me, sir!"

she said; "it sounds very monstrous, but they suspected us of killing our benefactor, on account of that unfortunate will.

We had no difficulty in proving our innocence, only there always remains something of these abominable accusations, and the company no doubt fears the scandal."

He was again surprised, thrown off his guard, by this frankness, particularly by the sincerity of her accent.

Besides, having at first glance considered her face merely passable, he began to find her extremely seductive, with the complacent submissiveness of her blue eyes, set off by the energy of her raven hair.

She was really very charming, very refined, and he allowed the smile of an amateur of feminine charms, no longer interested in such matters, to mingle with the grand, cold manner of the functionary who had such a disagreeable affair on his hands.

But Séverine, with the bravado of the woman who feels her strength, had the imprudence to add: "Persons like ourselves do not kill for money.

There would have been some other motive, and there was none."

He looked at her, and saw the corners of her mouth quiver.

It was she.

Thenceforth his conviction was absolute.

And she understood, immediately, that she had given herself up, at the way in which he had ceased to smile, and at his nervously pinched chin.

She felt like fainting, as if all her being was abandoning her.

Nevertheless, she remained on her chair, her bust straight.

She heard her voice continuing to converse in the same even tone, uttering the words it was necessary to say.

The conversation pursued its course; but, henceforth, neither had anything further to learn.

He had the letter.

It was she who had written it.

"Madam," he at last resumed, "I do not refuse to intercede with the company, if you are really worthy of interest.

It so happens that I am expecting the traffic-manager this afternoon, on some other business.

Only, I shall require a few notes.

Look here, just write me down the name, the age, the record of service, of your husband; briefly, all that is necessary to post me up in regard to your position."

And he pushed a small occasional-table towards her, ceasing to look at her, so as not to frighten her too much.

She shuddered.

He wanted a page of her handwriting, in order to compare it with the letter.

For a moment she despairingly sought a pretext, resolved not to write.

Then she reflected: what was the good of that, as he knew?

It would be easy to obtain a few lines she had penned.

Without any visible discomposure, in the simplest manner in the world, she wrote down what he asked her for; while he, standing up behind her, recognised the writing perfectly, although taller and less shaky than that in the note.

And he ended by thinking this slim little woman very brave.

He smiled again, now she was unable to see him, with that smile of the man who is no longer touched by anything, save the charm, and whom experience in everything has made insouciant.

After all, it was not worth the trouble to be just.

He only watched over the decorative part of the régime he served.

"Very well, madam," said he, "give me this.

I will make inquiries; I will do the best I can."

"I am very much obliged to you, sir," she answered.

"So you will see that my husband is maintained in his position?

I may consider the affair arranged?"

"Ah!

no, indeed!"

he exclaimed; "I bind myself to nothing.

I shall have to see, to think the matter over."

In fact he was hesitating.

He did not know what course he would follow in regard to the couple.

And she was in anguish, since she felt herself at his mercy: this hesitation, this alternative of being saved or ruined by him, without being able to guess the reasons that would influence him in his decision, drove her crazy.

"Oh!

sir!

think how tormented we are!

You will not let me leave without a certainty," she pleaded.

"Indeed, madam, I can do nothing.

You must wait," said he.

He led her to the door.

She was going away in despair, beside herself, on the point of confessing everything, openly, feeling the immediate necessity of forcing him to say distinctly what he intended doing with them.

To remain a minute longer, hoping to find a subterfuge, she exclaimed: "Ah!

I forgot!

I wished to ask your advice about that wretched will.

Do you think we ought to refuse the legacy?"

"The law is on your side," he prudently answered.

"It is a matter of appreciation, and of circumstances."

She was on the threshold of the door, and she made a final effort.

"Sir," said she, "do not allow me to leave thus!

Tell me if I may hope."

With a gesture of abandonment, she had seized his hand.

He drew it away.

But she looked at him with her beautiful eyes so ardent with prayer, that he was stirred.

"Very well, then, return here at five o'clock.

Perhaps I may have something to tell you."

She went off.

She quitted the house in still greater agony than on entering it.

The situation had become clear, her fate remained in suspense.

She was threatened with arrest which might take place at once.

How could she keep alive until five o'clock?

Suddenly she thought of Jacques, whom she had forgotten.

He was another who might be her ruin, if they took her in charge!

Although it was barely half-past two, she hastened to ascend the Rue du Rocher, in the direction of the Rue Cardinet.

M.

Camy-Lamotte, left alone, stood before his writing-table.

A familiar figure at the Tuileries, where his functions as chief secretary to the Ministry of Justice, caused him to be summoned almost daily, as powerful as the Minister himself, and even entrusted with more delicate duties, he was aware how irritating and alarming this Grandmorin case proved in high quarters.

The opposition newspapers continued to carry on a noisy campaign; some accusing the police of being so busy with political business, that they had no time to arrest murderers;

the others, probing the life of the President, gave their readers to understand that he belonged to the Court, where the lowest kind of debauchery prevailed; and this campaign really became disastrous, as the time for the elections approached.

And so it had been formally intimated to the chief secretary, that he must bring the business to a termination as rapidly as possible, no matter how.

The Minister, having relieved himself of this delicate affair by passing it on to him, he found himself sole arbiter of the decision to be taken, but on his own responsibility, it is true; a matter that required looking into, for he had no idea of paying for the others, should he prove inexpert.

M.

Camy-Lamotte, still thinking, went and opened the door of the adjoining room where M. Denizet was waiting.

And the latter, who had overheard everything, exclaimed on entering: "What did I say?

It is wrong to suspect those people.

This woman is evidently only thinking of saving her husband from possible dismissal.

She did not utter a single word that could arouse suspicion."

The chief secretary did not answer at once.

All absorbed, his eyes on the magistrate, struck by his heavy, thin-lipped face, he was now thinking of that magistracy, which he held in his hand, as occult chief of its members, and he felt astonished that it was still so worthy in its poverty, so intelligent in its professional torpidity.

But really, this gentleman, however sharp he might fancy himself, with his eyes veiled with thick lids, was tenacious in his conviction, when he thought he had got hold of the truth.

"So," resumed M. Camy-Lamotte, "you persist in believing in the guilt of this Cabuche?"

M.

Denizet started in astonishment.

"Oh!

certainly!"

said he; "everything is against him!

I enumerated the proofs to you.

I may say they are classic, for not one is wanting.

I did not fail to look for an accomplice, a woman in the coupé, as you suggested.

This seemed to agree with the evidence of a driver, a man who caught a glimpse of the murder scene.

But skilfully cross-questioned by me, this man did not persist in his first statement, and he even recognised the travelling-rug, as being the dark bundle he had referred to.

Oh!

yes; Cabuche is certainly the culprit, and the more so, as, if we cannot fix it on him, we have no one else."

Up to then, the chief secretary had delayed bringing the written proof he possessed to the knowledge of the magistrate; and now that he had formed a conviction, he was still less eager to establish the truth.

What was the use of upsetting the false clue of the prosecution, if the real clue was to lead to greater embarrassments?

All this would have to be considered in the first instance.

"Very well," he resumed, with that smile of the worn-out man, "I am willing to admit you are right.

I only sent for you for the purpose of discussing certain grave points.

This is an exceptional case, and it has now become quite political; you feel this, do you not?

We shall therefore, perhaps, find ourselves compelled to act as government men.

Come, frankly, this girl, the sweetheart of Cabuche, was victimised, eh?"

The magistrate gave the pout of a cunning fellow, whilst his eyes became half lost in his lids.

"If you ask me," said he, "I think the President put her in a great fright, and this will assuredly come out at the trial.

Moreover, if the defence is entrusted to a lawyer of the opposition, we may expect a regular avalanche of tiresome tales; for there is no lack of these stories down there, in our part of the country."

This Denizet was not so stupid when free from the routine of the profession, where he soared on high in his unlimited perspicacity and mighty power.

He understood why he had been summoned to the private residence of the chief secretary, in preference to the Ministry of Justice.

"Briefly," concluded he, seeing that M. Camy-Lamotte did not open his mouth, "we shall have a rather nasty business."

The chief secretary confined himself to tossing his head.

He was engaged in calculating the results of the trial of the Roubauds.

It was a dead certainty that if the husband were brought up at the assizes, he would relate all: how his wife had been led astray, she also, when a young girl, and the intrigues that followed, and the jealous rage that had urged him on to murder, without taking into consideration that, in this instance, it was not a question of a domestic and a convicted criminal.

This assistant station-master, married to this pretty woman, would mix up a number of people of independent means, and others connected with the railways, in the business.

Then, who could tell where the affairs of a man like the President would lead them?

They might perhaps fall into unforeseen abominations.

No, decidedly; the case against the Roubauds, the real culprits, was more objectionable than the other.

He had made up his mind; he put it absolutely aside.

If they had to choose between the two, he was in favour of proceeding with the prosecution of the innocent Cabuche.

"I give in to your theory," he at last said to M. Denizet.

"There are, indeed, strong presumptions against the quarryman, if so be he had a legitimate vengeance to satisfy; but all this is very sad, and what a quantity of mud will be thrown about!

Of course I know that justice should remain indifferent to consequences, and that, soaring above the interests----" He concluded his phrase with a gesture, while the magistrate, silent in turn, awaited with gloomy countenance, the orders he felt were coming.

From the moment they accepted his idea of the truth--that creation of his own intelligence, he was ready to sacrifice the idea of justice to the requirements of the government.

But the secretary, notwithstanding his usual dexterity in this kind of transaction, hastened on a little, spoke too rapidly, like a chief in the habit of being obeyed.

"Finally, what is desired is that you should desist from further proceedings," said he.

"Arrange matters so that the case may be shelved."

"Excuse me, sir," answered M. Denizet, "I am no longer master of the case; it rests with my conscience."

At once M. Camy-Lamotte smiled, becoming correct again, with an easy and polite bearing that seemed full of mockery.

"No doubt; and it is to your conscience that I appeal.

I leave you to take the decision it may dictate, convinced that you will equitably weigh both sides, in view of the triumph of healthy doctrines, and public morality.

You know, better than I can tell you, that it is sometimes heroic to accept one evil, rather than fall into another that is worse.

Briefly, one only appeals to you as a good citizen, an upright man.

No one thinks of interfering with your independence, and that is why I repeat that you are absolute master in the matter, as, for that matter, it has been provided by law."

Jealous of this illimited power, particularly when prepared to make a bad use of it, the magistrate welcomed each of these sentences with a nod of satisfaction.

"Besides," continued the other, redoubling his good grace, with an exaggeration that was becoming sarcastic, "we know whom we address.

We have long been watching your efforts; and I may tell you that we should call you without delay to Paris, were there a vacancy."

M.

Denizet made a movement.

What was this?

If he rendered the service required of him, they would not satisfy his great ambition, his dream of a seat at Paris.

But M. Camy-Lamotte, who understood, lost no time in adding: "Your place is marked.

It is a question of time.

Only, as I have commenced to be indiscreet, I am happy to be able to tell you that your name is down for the cross, on the Emperor's next fête-day."

The magistrate reflected a moment.

He would have preferred advancement, for he reckoned that it carried with it an increase of about 166 frcs.

, or £6 16_s.

_, a month in salary.

And, in the decent misery in which he lived, this meant greater comfort, his wardrobe renewed, his servant Mélanie better fed, and in consequence better tempered; but the cross, nevertheless, was worth having.

Then, he had a promise.

And he, who would not have sold himself, nurtured in the tradition of this magistracy, upright and mediocre, he at once yielded to a simple hope, to the vague promise that the administration made to favour him.

The judicial function was nothing more than a trade like others, and he bore along the burden of advancement, in the quality of a humble solicitant, ever ready to bend to the orders of authority.

"I feel very much touched at the honour," he murmured.