Still deep in thought, he walked across the room and opened the door to where Monsieur Denizet had been waiting. Monsieur Denizet had been eavesdropping on their conversation.
‘Just as I said!’ he exclaimed, as he re-entered the room. ‘We were wrong to suspect the Roubauds. It is quite plain that the only thing she was bothered about was preventing her husband being dismissed. She didn’t say a single incriminating word.’
The Secretary-General made no answer. He stood looking at the magistrate as he continued to turn things over in his mind. He thought of all the men in law courts up and down the country whose future, by virtue of being in control of appointments, he held in his hands. It amazed him to think what worthy men they were despite their pitiful salaries, how intelligent they were despite the stultifying demands of their profession. Whether he was clever or not, the man standing in front of him, peering at him through half-closed eyes, was certainly very tenacious when he thought he had got hold of the truth.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you still think that this Cabuche is the murderer?’
The question took Monsieur Denizet by surprise.
‘Indeed I do!’ he answered. ‘The evidence is overwhelming. I’ve been through all of it with you and I can safely say that it’s a classic case; there’s not a single thing missing. I’ve done everything I can to ascertain whether he had an accomplice in the compartment, a woman as you gave me to understand. That seemed to tally with the statement of an engine driver, a man who caught a glimpse of the murder actually being committed. Of course, I questioned him thoroughly, but he was unable to confirm what he had originally said. He actually identified the travelling rug as being the black shape he had mentioned ... Yes, I’m quite certain that Cabuche was the murderer. All the more so because, if we can’t prove it was him, we can’t prove it was anybody!’
The Secretary-General had been waiting to tell him about the written evidence that was in his possession, but now that he knew that Séverine was guilty, he was even less keen than before to establish the truth. Why upset the examining magistrate’s mistaken conclusions if the true line of inquiry was going to lead to even more trouble. It all needed careful consideration.
‘Well,’ he continued with a weary smile, ‘I dare say you’re right. I only asked you to come and see me because there are a number of important matters we need to discuss. This is a very special case and it has now become a serious political issue, as I am sure you realize. We may therefore be obliged to consider what is in the government’s best interests ... Tell me honestly, do your inquiries lead you to believe that this girl, Cabuche’s mistress, was raped?’
Monsieur Denizet was astute enough to realize where the question was leading; he pursed his lips and half closed his eyes.
‘I think the President had certainly treated her badly,’ he said, ‘and that is bound to come out at the trial. What’s more, she wasn’t the only one. If the defence is entrusted to an opposition lawyer, you can be sure that the President’s name will be well and truly dragged through the mud; up in Rouen, stories of his amorous pursuits are in plentiful supply.’
This Denizet was no fool, especially when for a moment he put professional ethics to one side and stopped thinking of himself as some supreme being, all-knowing and all-powerful. He obviously understood perfectly well why he had been invited to see the Secretary-General in private rather than at the Ministry of Justice.
‘In fact,’ he concluded, seeing that Monsieur Camy-Lamotte didn’t seem in the least surprised by what he had said, ‘we are likely to end up with some pretty sordid business on our hands.’
Monsieur Camy-Lamotte merely nodded. He was trying to work out what would happen if, instead of Cabuche, it was the Roubauds who were put on trial. One thing was certain; Roubaud would tell everything - how his wife had also been violated when she was a young girl, the subsequent adultery, the jealous rage which had driven him to commit murder. Moreover, it would no longer be the trial of a domestic servant and a criminal who had already served time; Roubaud was respectably employed and he was married, to a very attractive woman. People would start asking all sorts of questions about middle-class morality and the sort of people that the railway companies chose to employ. What was more, with a man like President Grandmorin, you never knew what might come to light. How many other unforeseen scandals would they run into? No, the Roubauds might well be guilty, but to put them on trial would be a very messy affair. Monsieur Camy-Lamotte had decided; they must avoid proceeding against the Roubauds at all costs. If anyone was to be prosecuted, he tended to think it should be Cabuche, even though he was innocent.
‘Your theory is very persuasive,’ he finally said to Monsieur Denizet. ‘There is a lot of circumstantial evidence against Cabuche, and he obviously felt he was justified in taking revenge ... What a wretched business this is! I dread to think of the damage it’s going to cause! ... I know that the law must remain indifferent to the consequences of its findings, that it should rise above vested interest ...’
He raised his hand dismissively, and his sentence was left unfinished. The magistrate too remained silent, glumly awaiting the instructions that he knew he was about to be given. If he was allowed to proceed with his own version of events, this singular product of his own intelligence, he was prepared to sacrifice justice to the needs of the government. The Secretary, however, although normally very adept at handling arrangements of this sort, was a little too hasty, coming quickly to the point, like someone used to being obeyed.
‘In short,’ he said, ‘we want the case dismissed ... I would like you to make the necessary arrangements.’
‘I’m afraid, monsieur, that I can no longer do just as I please,’ replied Denizet. ‘It is a matter of professional conscience.’
Monsieur Camy-Lamotte smiled and immediately resumed his official manner.
‘But of course!’ he said, with a display of worldly-wise courtesy that barely disguised his contempt. ‘It is your professional conscience that I am relying on. I leave you to take the decision which your conscience thinks best. I have every confidence that you will weigh the pros and cons fairly, that common sense will prevail and that the public interest will be well served ... You will know better than I that it is sometimes more courageous to overlook a wrong if it enables us to avoid something even worse ... We leave things to your better judgement and your sense of what is right and proper. We would not dream of imposing on your authority; the matter remains entirely within your jurisdiction, as indeed the law stipulates.’ The magistrate relished the unlimited authority that was vested in him, especially when he was allowed to almost abuse it. He listened to everything that the Secretary-General said with a nod of satisfaction.
‘Moreover,’ continued Monsieur Camy-Lamotte, with an unctuousness that verged on the ironic, ‘we know that we can depend on you. Your hard work over the last few years has not gone unnoticed, and I can assure you that, should a position ever become available in Paris, we would have no hesitation in calling upon your services.’
This last remark rather unsettled Denizet. What? If he did what he was being asked to do, was he still not going to get his cherished appointment in Paris?
Monsieur Camy-Lamotte had read his thoughts.
‘The appointment has been decided,’ he added quickly. ‘It is merely a question of time ... However, having already said more than I should, I am delighted to tell you that you have been nominated for the Legion of Honour on August the fifteenth.’
The magistrate thought for a moment. He would have preferred promotion, having calculated that it would mean a rise in salary of about one hundred and sixty-six francs a month. Compared with his present straitened circumstances, he would be able to live more comfortably, buy himself some new clothes, and his housekeeper Mélanie would be better fed and less cantankerous. But the Legion of Honour was not to be sniffed at. He had at least been given an assurance of promotion. Denizet was one of those lawyers who would never go far; he had been brought up to
believe in the value of decent, hard-working dedication to duty. He would never have dreamed he could be bought. But here he was, yielding to temptation, prompted by nothing more than the rather flimsy prospect of advancement and the vague assurance that the ministry would do what it could to help him. The law, after all, was a job like any other, and seeking promotion was a cross that had to be borne; one must learn to bow and scrape to those above one and be ready to do their every bidding.
‘I am most honoured,’ he murmured. ‘Please convey my thanks to the minister.’
He had got up to leave, sensing that it would be embarrassing to continue the conversation further. His face was fixed and expressionless.
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I will continue my investigation bearing your concerns in mind. Obviously, if there is no absolute proof against Cabuche, it will be better to avoid risking the unnecessary scandal of a trial ... he will be released, but will remain under surveillance.’
The Secretary-General politely accompanied him to the door.
‘Monsieur Denizet,’ he said, ‘we place ourselves entirely in your hands. We know that we can count on your infinite tact and your great integrity.’
When he was once again alone, Monsieur Camy-Lamotte, out of sheer curiosity, and knowing that the exercise was now pointless, compared the page that Séverine had written with the unsigned letter he had found amongst the President’s papers. The writing was identical. He folded the letter and put it away carefully. Although he had made no mention of it to the examining magistrate, he still felt that such a vital piece of evidence was worth keeping. In his mind’s eye he pictured Séverine, so frail yet so tough and determined. He shrugged his shoulders with a mixture of admiration and amusement. Ah, these women, he thought to himself, they certainly know how to get their own way!
Séverine reached the Rue Cardinet at twenty to three. She was early for her meeting with Jacques. This was where he lived, in a tiny room right at the top of a tall building, although he hardly ever went there except at night, to sleep. There were also two nights a week when he was away in Le Havre, having driven the evening express from Paris, only returning the next morning. On this occasion, however, being soaked and exhausted, he had gone to his room and gone straight to bed. Séverine might have waited indefinitely had Jacques not been woken up by a row in the next room - a woman screaming and being beaten by her husband. He looked out of his attic window and spotted Séverine on the pavement below. Feeling very disgruntled, he shaved and got dressed.
‘There you are at last!’ she cried, as he emerged on to the street. ‘I thought I must have made a mistake. You did say to meet you at the corner of the Rue Saussure, didn’t you?’
She didn’t wait for him to reply.
‘Is that where you live?’ she said, looking up at the building.
He hadn’t told her, but the reason he had arranged to meet her here was because the engine shed that he was supposed to be taking her to stood almost directly opposite. However, Séverine’s question had rather embarrassed him; he thought that, in an effort to be friendly, she might ask him to show her his room, which was so barely furnished and so untidy that he was ashamed of it.
‘I don’t exactly live here,’ he said, ‘I just come here to roost. Come on, we’ll have to hurry. I think the foreman might already have left.’
Indeed, when they reached the foreman’s little house behind the engine shed inside the station precinct, he was not there. They walked from one end of the engine shed to the other and still could not find him. Everyone they spoke to told them that if they wanted to be sure of catching him, they should come back at four o’clock; he would be in the repair shops.
‘All right,’ said Séverine, ‘we’ll come back.’
When they were outside again and she found herself alone with Jacques, she asked him, ‘If you’re not doing anything, would you mind if I wait with you?’
He could hardly refuse. Besides, even though she made him feel strangely uneasy, he was beginning to find her company increasingly congenial. Every time she looked at him with her soft blue eyes, he felt the bad mood, which he had been quite determined to stay in for the rest of the day, gradually melting away. She looked so gentle, so timid ... she must be very affectionate, he thought, like a faithful dog that you couldn’t bear to hurt.
‘Of course I won’t leave you,’ he said, speaking less sharply. ‘But we have over an hour to kill. Would you like to go to a café ?’
She smiled at him, delighted to hear him at last sounding a little more affable.
‘Oh no,’ she protested, ‘I don’t want to be indoors; I would rather we went for a walk ... in the open air ... wherever you want.’
She gently slipped her arm into his. Now that he was no longer covered in dirt from driving the train, she found him quite handsome. He was wearing a suit, which made him look quite well to do, yet, despite his smart appearance, there was about him a sort of proud independence, a sense of being out in the open air, braving danger day by day. Never before had she noticed how good-looking he was - a round face with regular features, a very dark moustache and white skin. Only his eyes disturbed her. They were flecked with gold, but there was something shifty about them, and he held them constantly averted. Was he refusing to look at her because he didn’t want to become too involved, because he wanted to remain free to do as he chose, perhaps even to denounce her? A shudder ran through her whenever she thought of the Secretary-General’s study in the Rue du Rocher, where her fate was being decided. What would become of her? All she wanted was to feel that the man whose arm she was holding was hers, hers completely; she wanted to be able to raise her head towards him and see him look long and deeply into her eyes. Then she would know that he was hers. It was not that she was in love with him; the thought had not entered her head. She simply wanted to have him under her control, to know that she need no longer fear him.
For a few minutes they walked together without speaking, picking their way through the throng of passers-by, at times even having to step off the pavement and walk in the road amongst the traffic. Eventually they reached the Square des Batignolles. At this time of year it was almost deserted. The sky, washed clean by the morning’s rain, was a beautiful clear blue, and the lilac trees were coming into bloom in the warm March sunshine.
‘Can we get away from the street?’ Séverine suggested. ‘These crowds make me feel giddy.’
Jacques too wanted to find somewhere quieter. Without realizing it, he wanted to have her more to himself, to be away from all these people.
They were walking past the entrance to a little park.4
‘What about here?’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go in.’
They walked slowly down the path along the edge of the lawn, beneath the bare trees. There were a few mothers taking their young children for a walk and people, obviously in a hurry, using the park as a short cut. They crossed the stream and walked up through the rock gardens. They turned to come back, not knowing quite what to do next. They wandered through a clump of pine trees, whose evergreen foliage shone dark green in the sunlight. There happened to be a bench there, in a quiet corner hidden from view. Without exchanging a word, they sat down, seemingly led to this spot by some mutual understanding.
‘What a lovely day it is now,’ she said, in an effort to break the silence.
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘the sun’s come out again.’
But their minds were on other things. Jacques, who normally avoided the company of women, had been pondering the chain of events that had brought him and Séverine together. Here she was, sitting next to him, touching him, threatening to invade his life. How had it happened? Ever since the last interview with the examining magistrate at Rouen, he had absolutely no doubt that she had been an accomplice in the murder at La Croix-de-Maufras. But how had she come to do such a thing? What passion or motive had driven her? He had asked himself again and again, without ever finding any obvious answer. Eventually, he had worked out a possible explana
tion, based on a self-seeking and violent husband who sought to get his hands on the legacy as soon as possible, fearing the will might be changed to their disadvantage and perhaps thinking that his relationship with his wife might be strengthened by a shared act of murder. This was the only explanation that seemed to make any sense; it left many questions unanswered, and they intrigued him, but he hadn’t attempted to pursue them further. He had also been in two minds whether it wasn’t his duty to tell the law what he knew, and it was this that was uppermost in his mind as he sat beside her on the park bench, so close in fact that he could feel the warmth of her thigh against his.
‘It’s amazing to be able to sit outside like this in March,’ he said. ‘It’s like summer.’
‘Yes!’ she replied. ‘The minute the sun comes out you can feel it.’
Séverine, for her part, was thinking that Jacques would have to be unbelievably stupid not to realize that they were guilty. It must have been so obvious how they had tried to win him over; even now, she knew that she was sitting too close to him. In the silences which punctuated their banal conversation, she tried to gauge his thoughts. Their eyes met briefly. She could tell that he was wondering whether the black shape he had seen in the train had indeed been her, pinning down the victim’s legs with all her strength. What could she do, what could she say that would bind him to her irrevocably?
‘It was very cold in Le Havre this morning,’ she said.