The Beast Within - Emile Zola [88]
‘Did you know Monsieur Grandmorin?’
‘Only too well,’ Cabuche replied.
‘A girl called Louisette, your mistress, worked as a chambermaid for Madame Bonnehon.’
Cabuche was seized with a fit of rage; he was so angry he saw red.
‘Whoever says that is a bloody liar,’ he shouted. ‘Louisette wasn’t my mistress.’
The magistrate was surprised at the violence of his reaction. He decided to try a different approach.
‘You are a violent man,’ he said. ‘You were sentenced to five years in prison for killing someone in a fight.’
Cabuche lowered his head. The prison sentence was something he was profoundly ashamed of.
‘He hit me first,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, I only did four years. I got a year’s remission.’
‘So,’ continued Monsieur Denizet, ‘you maintain that Louisette was not your mistress?’
Once again Cabuche clenched his fists. Then, in a low, faltering voice he said, ‘Listen, when I came out of prison she was a little girl, not even fourteen. No one wanted to know me; they’d have chucked stones at me if they could. She came to see me in the forest. That’s where we met. She used to talk to me. She was nice to me. So we got to be friends. We went for walks, holding hands. It was nice. It was really nice. She was a growing girl, I know. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I can’t deny it. I loved her. She loved me too. Perhaps we’d have ended up being ... what you said. But they took her away from me and sent her to work for that woman at Doinville. Then one night I came back from the quarry and found her outside my house, out of her mind, exhausted, burning hot, with a sort of fever. She didn’t dare go back to her parents. She’d come to me ... to die! I should’ve gone and slit his throat there and then, the swine!’
The magistrate pursed his lips; he was surprised at the note of sincerity in Cabuche’s voice. He would have to play this close to his chest; it was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘we know the dreadful story that you and this girl cooked up between you. But you can take it from me that Monsieur Grandmorin was just not that sort of person; what you accuse him of is simply not possible.’
‘What d’you mean ... the story we cooked up?’ stammered Cabuche, bewildered, wide-eyed, his hands shaking. ‘It’s them as is lying, and you’re accusing us of being liars!’
‘Yes, we most certainly do. Do not try and come the innocent ... I’ve already spoken to Misard, the man who married your mistress’s mother. I’ll have him testify again in your presence if I need to, and you’ll see what he thinks of your story. Be very careful what you say. We have witnesses and we know the full story. The best thing you can do is to tell the truth.’
This was the magistrate’s usual method of trying to intimidate someone he was cross-examining, even when he knew nothing and had no witnesses.
‘So ... are you denying that you went around openly telling everyone that you were going to slit Monsieur Grandmorin’s throat?’
‘No, I don’t deny it. That’s what I said. And I meant it too. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the bugger!’
This answer took Monsieur Denizet completely by surprise. He had been expecting Cabuche to deny everything outright. Why was he admitting that he had made these threats? What game was he playing? He feared he was perhaps trying to move too quickly. He paused to reflect for a moment, then, looking Cabuche straight in the eye, he suddenly asked him:
‘What did you do on the night of the fourteenth to the fifteenth of February?’
‘I went to bed when it got dark, at about six o’clock ... I wasn’t feeling very well. In fact, my cousin Louis did me a favour and drove a load of stones to Doinville for me.’
‘Yes, your cousin was seen driving the wagon over the railway line at the level-crossing. But when we questioned him, all he could tell us was that he had left you about midday and hadn’t seen you since ... Prove to me that you went to bed at six o’clock.’