The Beast Within - Emile Zola [84]
‘Really, Aunt!’ Berthe exclaimed.
Madame Bonnehon shrugged her shoulders; what was the point of lying to the law?
‘Yes, he may have kissed her. Perhaps he tickled her. What’s the harm in that? The reason I’m telling you this is because the story didn’t just come from Cabuche. Louisette was telling lies. She deliberately exaggerated things, so that her lover would look after her, I suppose. Anyway, Cabuche, being the unthinking fool he is, ended up genuinely believing that his mistress had been killed. It sent him crazy; he went round all the bars announcing that if ever he laid hands on Grandmorin he’d bleed him to death like a pig!’
The magistrate, who had thus far remained silent, instantly became keenly interested.
‘Are you sure that is what he said?’ he asked, interrupting Madame Bonnehon. ‘Do you have witnesses to prove it?’
‘My dear sir, there are no end of witnesses. This has been a very sorry business and it has been extremely trying. It was fortunate that my brother’s position placed him above suspicion.’
Madame Bonnehon had realized the new turn that Monsieur Denizet’s inquiry was taking, and it rather worried her. She preferred not to involve herself further by asking more questions. Monsieur Denizet stood up, saying that he did not wish to impose on the family’s good will any longer at such a distressing time, and asked the clerk to read out copies of their statements for the witnesses to sign. The statements were very precisely worded, stripped of anything extraneous or compromising. Madame Bonnehon, pen in hand, cast a glance of grateful acknowledgement at the pale, lean-faced Laurent, whom up until then she had barely noticed.
As the magistrate accompanied her to the door with her nephew and niece, Madame Bonnehon took his hands in hers.
‘I hope we shall meet again very soon,’ she said. ‘You know that you are always most welcome at Doinville. Thank you; you are amongst the last of my faithful friends.’
She gave him a rather wistful smile, as her niece walked stiffly out of the room in front of her with a mere nod of the head.
Left alone, Monsieur Denizet had a moment to gather his thoughts. He stood reflecting on what he had just heard. It was all becoming clear. There had certainly been violence on the part of Grandmorin; his reputation was known. This made the magistrate’s findings somewhat delicate; he reminded himself he must be extra careful, and wait until the advice he was expecting from the ministry had arrived. None the less, he was very pleased with himself. What was more, the murderer was already in custody.
He returned to his desk and rang for the usher.
‘Please call Monsieur Jacques Lantier.’
The Roubauds were still sitting on the bench in the corridor, their faces devoid of expression, as if they had grown tired of waiting and had dropped off to sleep. Now and then their features were disturbed by an involuntary twitch of anxiety. The usher’s voice, summoning Jacques, seemed to wake them up with a start. They watched him intently as he disappeared into the magistrate’s office. They then settled themselves back to resume their wait, pale and silent as before.
The murder had been preying on Jacques’s mind for the last three weeks, making him feel very uneasy, as if this investigation might somehow go against him. There was no reason why it should; he had nothing to reproach himself with, not even the fact that he had said nothing on the night of the murder. Yet, as he entered the magistrate’s office, he felt a distinct shiver of guilt run through him, as if he were the one on trial and were about to be incriminated. He answered the magistrate’s questions cautiously, choosing his words carefully for fear of saying too much. That night, he too had come close to being a murderer, and he was afraid it might show in his eyes. He hated having to appear in a court of law; he found it irritating, and he wished people would stop pestering him with matters that didn’t concern him.
On this occasion, however, Monsieur Denizet’s sole purpose was to ascertain the