The Beast Within - Emile Zola [87]
Monsieur Denizet was still waiting for an answer.
‘Did the man have a full beard like Monsieur Roubaud?’
‘Monsieur, I really cannot say,’ Jacques replied in all honesty. ‘The train was travelling so quickly. I don’t know what I saw. I can’t swear to anything.’
But Monsieur Denizet was insistent; he wanted to rule out any suspicion attaching to Roubaud. He plied both Roubaud and Jacques with further questions. From Roubaud he succeeded in extracting a full description of the murderer-tall, well built, no beard, and dressed in working clothes - the exact opposite of himself. From Jacques he obtained only non-committal grunts, the effect of which was to substantiate Roubaud’s description. The magistrate was now feeling more confident again in his previous line of inquiry; he was on the right track, and the description of the murderer that Roubaud had just provided was so accurate that his surmise was rapidly becoming a certainty. The Roubauds had been wrongfully suspected of the crime, but thanks to their overwhelming testimony, the real criminal would now be sent to the guillotine.
When they had signed their statements, the magistrate directed Jacques and the Roubauds into the adjoining room.
‘Would you please wait in here,’ he said. ‘I shall require you again presently.’
He immediately ordered the prisoner to be brought in. He was so pleased with himself that he even ventured a smile at his clerk.
‘Laurent,’ he said, ‘we’ve got him!’
The door opened and two constables appeared, escorting a tall young man of twenty-five or thirty. At a sign from the magistrate they withdrew, leaving Cabuche standing in front of him, with no idea why he was there, and bristling with animosity, like an animal caught in a trap. He had powerful shoulders and huge fists, fair hair and remarkably white skin. Apart from a few wisps of light brown hair around his chin, he had no beard. His coarse features and low forehead suggested that he was a violent man of limited intelligence, a man governed by the impulse of the moment; but his broad mouth and rather flat nose reminded one of a faithful dog, and betokened a person who needed to be looked after and cared for. He had been unceremoniously arrested in his hovel in the early hours of the morning and dragged out of the forest. He could make no sense of the accusations that were being made against him, and this had infuriated him. Standing before the magistrate, flustered, his clothes torn, Cabuche had the look of a man who had already been found guilty, the shifty, devious look which a spell in prison leaves on even the most innocent. Night was beginning to fall and the room had grown dark, so dark that Cabuche was hidden in shadow. Suddenly the usher came in carrying a big lamp with a large round globe. The glare fell full on Cabuche’s face. He stood there motionless, exposed.
Monsieur Denizet sat looking at him intently with his big, bright eyes and drooping eyelids, saying nothing. Silence was the first weapon in his armoury, the first test of his power, before he unleashed the devilish onslaught of tricks, traps and moral blackmail that was to come. This man was guilty, and any ploy that would determine his guilt was permissible. The only right left to him was the right to admit his crime.
The questioning began; at first very slowly.
‘Do you know what crime you stand accused of?’
‘No one’s told