The Beast Within - Emile Zola [220]
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 prison 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