The Beast Within - Emile Zola [99]
‘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