the iron marquee of the station, to resume duty. It was still pitch
dark; but the wind, blowing from the sea, had increased, and drove
along the haze, smothering the hills which extend from Sainte-Adresse
to Tourneville; while westward, above the offing, appeared a bright
opening, a strip of sky, where shone the last stars. The gas-lamps
under the marquee were still alight, but looking pale in the damp
chill of this matutinal hour. Shunters were engaged in making-up the
first train for Montivilliers, under the orders of the assistant
station-master on night duty. The doors of the waiting-rooms had not
yet been opened, and the platforms stretched forward, deserted, in this
drowsy awakening of the station.

As Roubaud left his apartments, upstairs, over the waiting-rooms, he
found Madame Lebleu, the wife of the cashier, standing motionless
in the middle of the central corridor, on which the lodgings of the
members of the staff opened. For weeks past this lady had been in the
habit of getting up during the night to watch Mademoiselle Guichon,
the office-keeper, whom she suspected of carrying on an intrigue with
M. Dabadie, the station-master. As a matter of fact, she had never
surprised the least thing, not a shadow, not a breath. And, again on
this particular morning, she had quickly returned to her own quarters,
taking no news back with her, save the expression of her astonishment
at what she had caught sight of in the rooms occupied by the Roubauds,
during the two or three seconds the husband had required to open and
shut the door. There she had seen the beautiful Séverine, who was in
the habit of lying abed until nine o'clock in the morning, standing
up in the dining-room dressed, combed, and booted. And she had roused
Lebleu to tell him of this extraordinary occurrence.

On the previous night they sat up until the arrival of the Paris
express at 11.05, burning to learn what had become of the affair with
the sub-prefect. But they were unable to read anything in the attitude
of the Roubauds, who returned with faces wearing their everyday
expression; and in vain did they listen until midnight: not a sound
came from the rooms occupied by their neighbours, who must have gone
to bed at once, and fallen fast asleep. Their journey could certainly
not have been attended with a good result, otherwise Séverine would
not have risen at such an early hour. The cashier having inquired how
she looked, his wife had been at pains to describe her: very stiff,
very pale, with her great blue eyes appearing so bright against her
black hair; she was standing quite still, and had the aspect of a
somnambulist. But they would find out all about it in the course of the
day.

Down below, Roubaud found his colleague Moulin, who had been on duty
during the night; and as he took over the service, Moulin walked along
with him for a minute or two, posting him up in the few small events
that had occurred since the previous evening: some vagrants had been
surprised as they were effecting an entrance into the cloakroom; three
porters had been reprimanded for indiscipline; a coupling-hook had
just broken while the Montivilliers train was being made-up. Roubaud
listened in silence, and with calm countenance. He was only a trifle
pale, due no doubt to a remainder of fatigue, which was also visible
in his heavy eyes. When his colleague ceased speaking, he still seemed
to look at him inquiringly, as if he expected something more. But what
he had heard was all, and he bent his head, gazing for an instant on
the ground.

As the two men walked along the platform they reached the end of the
corrugated iron roofing, and on the right stood a coach-house where the
carriages in constant use remained, such as came in one day, and served
to make up the trains on the morrow. Roubaud raised his head, and was
looking fixedly at a first-class carriage with a coupé, bearing the
No. 293, which as it happened a gas-lamp lit up with its vacillating
glimmer, when Moulin remarked:

"Ah! I forgot----"

The pale face of the other coloured, and he was unable to restrain a
slight movement.

"I forgot," repeated Moulin; "that carriage must not leave. Do not put
it on the 6.40 express this morning."

A short silence ensued before Roubaud, in a very natural voice said:

"Indeed! Why is that?"

"Because," replied Moulin, "a coupé has been booked for the express of
this evening. We are not sure that one will come in during the day, so
we may just as well keep this one."

"Certainly," replied Roubaud, staring at his colleague.

But he was absorbed by another thought, and all at once, flying into a
rage, he exclaimed:

"It's disgusting! Just see how those fellows do the cleaning! That
carriage looks as if it had the accumulated dust of a week on it."

"Ah!" resumed Moulin. "When trains arrive after eleven o'clock at
night, there is no fear of the men giving the coaches a brush up. It's
as much as they will do to cast a glance inside of them. The other
night, they overlooked a passenger asleep on one of the seats, and he
only awoke the next morning."

Then, stifling a yawn, he said he was going up to bed. But as he went
off, an abrupt feeling of curiosity brought him back.

"By the way, what about your affair with the sub-prefect?" he inquired.
"It's all settled, I suppose?"

"Yes, yes," answered Roubaud. "I made a very good journey. I'm quite
satisfied."

"Well, so much the better. And bear in mind that the 293 does not
start," replied the other.

When Roubaud found himself alone on the platform, he slowly went back
towards the Montivilliers train, which was ready. The doors of the
waiting-rooms were open, and some passengers appeared: a few sportsmen
with their dogs, and two or three families of shop-keepers, taking
advantage of the Sunday--only a few people altogether. But when that
train had gone, the first of the day, Roubaud had not much time to
lose. He immediately had to make up the 5.40 slow train for Rouen and
Paris.

At this early hour not many servants of the company were about; and the
work of the assistant station-master on duty, was complicated by all
sorts of details. When he had superintended the making-up of the train,
consisting in each carriage being taken from the coach-house and placed
on a truck, which a gang of men pushed along under the marquee, he had
to run off to the main building, to give a glance at the ticket office,
and the luggage booking department. A quarrel breaking out between
some soldiers and one of the staff, necessitated his intervention. For
half an hour, in the icy draughts, amid the shivering public, his eyes
still heavy with sleep, and in the ill-humour of a man jostled at every
moment in the obscurity, he hurried hither and thither without a moment
to himself. Then, when the departure of the slow train had cleared the
station, he hastened to the box of the pointsman, to make sure that
all was right in that quarter. For the through train from Paris, which
was behind time, was coming in. He returned to the platform to see the
stream of passengers leave the carriages, give up their tickets, and
crowd into the omnibuses from the hotels, which in those days entered
the station, to wait under the marquee, where they were separated
from the line by a mere paling. And then, only, did he find leisure
to breathe for a moment, the station having again become silent and
deserted.

Six o'clock struck. Roubaud sauntered out of the main building; and,
beyond, with space before him, he raised his head and inhaled the
fresh air, watching day at last breaking. The wind from the offing had
completely driven away the mist. It was the clear morning of a fine
day. He looked northward, in the direction of Ingouville, as far as the
trees of the cemetery, standing out in a violescent line against the
whitening sky. Then, turning towards the south and west, he observed a
final flight of light white clouds floating slowly along in a squadron
across the sea; while the entire east, the immense opening formed by
the mouth of the Seine, began to be embraced in approaching sunrise.

In a casual way, he removed his cap, embroidered with silver, as
if to refresh his forehead in the sharp, pure air. This outlook to
which he was accustomed, this vast flat sweep of dependencies of the
station--the arrival on the left, then the engine depôt, to the right
the departure, a regular little town--seemed to appease him, to bring
him back to the calmness of his daily occupations which were ever the
same. Factory chimneys were smoking above the wall of the Rue Charles
Lafitte; and enormous heaps of coal could be seen following the line
of the Vauban basin. A hum already began to rise from the other docks.
The whistling of the goods trains, the awakening of the town, the briny
smell of the sea wafted by the wind, made him think of the fête of the
day, of this vessel they were about to launch, and around which the
crowd would be crushing.

Roubaud, returning inside the station, found the gang of shunters
commencing to make up the 6.40 express; and thinking the men were
putting No. 293 on the truck, all the calm that the fresh morning air
had brought him, disappeared in a sudden burst of anger. With an oath
he shouted:

"Not that carriage! Leave it alone! It is not to go till to-night."

The foreman of the gang explained to him that they were merely pushing
the carriage along, to take another from behind it. But, deafened by
his own passion, which was out of all proportion, he did not hear.

"You clumsy idiots!" he exclaimed; "when you are told to leave the
thing alone, do so!"

Having at length been made to understand, he continued, furious,
turning his wrath against the inconvenience of the station, where
it was not even possible to turn a carriage round. In fact, the
station, one of the first built on the line, was not equal to modern
requirements. It was unworthy of Havre, with its old timber coach-house
glazed with small panes of glass, and its dismal, naked buildings full
of cracks.

"It's a disgrace. I can't comprehend why the company has not knocked it
all down."

The shunters looked at him, surprised to hear him speak so freely, he
who was generally so well disciplined. Perceiving their attitude, he
all at once ceased his remarks, and, silent and stiff, continued to
watch the manœuvres. A line of discontent furrowed his low forehead,
while his round, coloured face, bristling with the reddish beard, took
an expression of intensely strong will.

From that moment, Roubaud was in possession of all his equanimity. He
gave active attention to the express, busying himself with every detail
connected with it. The couplings appearing to him to be badly attached,
he insisted on having them screwed up before his eyes. A mother and
two daughters, on terms of intimacy with his wife, wanted him to seat
them in the compartment for ladies only. Then, before whistling to give
the signal to start, he again made sure that the train was in perfect
trim; and he stood watching it, as it moved away, with that clear gaze
of a man whose least carelessness might involve the loss of human lives.

He had at once to cross the line, to be present at the arrival of a
train from Rouen, which was just entering the station. There he met a
man from the Post Office, with whom he every day exchanged news. This
was a short rest for him in his busy early hours, and as no immediate
duty required his attention, he had time to draw breath. On this
morning, as was his habit, he rolled a cigarette, and chatted gaily.
Day had broadened, and the gas-lamps under the marquee, had just been
extinguished; but the glazing of this extension of the station was so
bad, that the light continued gloomy. Outside, the vast stretch of
sky on which the building opened, was already ablaze with a fire of
sun-rays; while the entire view became rosy, and the smallest objects
stood out crisp, in this pure air of a fine winter morning.

M. Dabadie, the station-master, usually came down from his rooms at
eight o'clock, when the assistant station-master went to him to make
his report. The former was a handsome man, very dark, neat in his
attire, with the bearing of a commercial magnate engrossed in business.
Indeed, he willingly left the passenger department of the station to
his assistants, so that he might give particular attention to the
movement in the docks, to the enormous transit of merchandise; and he
was in constant contact with the high commerce of Havre, and of the
entire world. To-day he came late. Roubaud had already pushed the door
of his office ajar twice, without finding him. On the table lay his
letters, which had not even been opened. Among them Roubaud had just
noticed a telegram. Then, as if drawn to the spot by fascination, he
had been unable to leave the threshold, returning, in spite of himself,
to cast rapid glances at the table.

At last, at ten minutes past eight, M. Dabadie appeared. Roubaud seated
himself without speaking, to allow him to open the telegram. But the
chief was in no hurry. Wishing to be pleasant with his subordinate,
whom he esteemed, he said:

"I suppose all went well in Paris?"

"Yes, sir, I thank you," replied Roubaud.

He had ended by opening the telegram; but he did not read it. He
continued smiling at his assistant, whose voice thickened in the
violent effort he was making to get the better of a nervous twitch
contracting his chin.

"We are very pleased to keep you here," said the station-master.

"And I, sir, am very glad to remain with you," answered Roubaud.

Then, as M. Dabadie made up his mind to run his eye over the telegram,
Roubaud, who felt a slight perspiration moistening his face, watched
him. But the agitation which he expected to see on the countenance of
his chief, did not appear. The latter placidly continued perusing the
telegram, which he eventually threw back on the table. No doubt it had
to do with a simple detail connected with the service. He at once began
to open his letters, while his assistant, in accordance with daily
custom, made his verbal report on the events of the night and morning.
Only, on this occasion, Roubaud hesitated, and had to think before he
could recall what his colleague had told him about the vagrants caught
in the cloakroom. A few more words were exchanged, and when the two
deputy chiefs of the docks and slow train departments came in, also to
make their reports, the station-master dismissed Roubaud by a gesture.
The newcomers brought another telegram, which one of the staff had
just handed them on the platform.

"You can go," said M. Dabadie to Roubaud, seeing he had stopped at the
door.

But the latter waited with fixed, expectant eyes; and he only went away
when the small piece of paper had fallen on the table, put aside with
the same indifferent gesture as before. For a few moments, he wandered
under the marquee, feeling perplexed and dizzy. The clock pointed to
8.35. The next departure was the slow train at 9.50. He usually took
advantage of this hour of rest, to stroll round the station, and he
now walked about for a few minutes without knowing where his feet were
taking him. Then, as he raised his head, and found himself opposite the
carriage numbered 293, he abruptly turned aside in the direction of the
engine-house, although he had nothing to attend to in that quarter. The
sun was now rising on the horizon, filling the air with golden dust.
But he no longer enjoyed the fine morning. He hastened along as if very
much occupied, endeavouring to overcome the uneasiness caused by the
suspense.

All at once a voice stopped him.

"Good morning, M. Roubaud! Did you see my wife?"

It was Pecqueux, the fireman, a great, thin fellow of three-and-forty,
with big bones, and a face tanned by fire and smoke. His grey eyes,
under a low forehead, his great mouth, set in a prominent jaw, had the
constant, jovial expression of a man addicted to merry-making.

"What! Is that you?" said Roubaud, stopping astonished. "Ah! yes. Your
engine met with an accident. I forgot. And so you're not going off
again until to-night? Twenty-four hours' holiday. Good business, eh?"

"Good business!" repeated the other, not yet recovered from his
libations of the previous evening.

Born at a village near Rouen, he had entered the service of the company
quite young, as engine-fitter. Then, at thirty, tired of the workshop,
he had wanted to be a fireman so as to become driver. It was then that
he married Victoire, who belonged to the same village as himself. But
years went by, and he continued fireman. He would never become driver
now, being of bad conduct, careless in dress and mode of life, a
drunkard, and a runner after petticoats. He would have been dismissed
twenty times over, had it not been for the protection of President
Grandmorin, and had not his superiors become accustomed to his vices,
for which he condoned by his good humour, and his experience as an
old workman. He only gave cause for alarm when under the influence of
drink, for he then became a real brute, capable of any violence.

"Did you see my wife?" he inquired again, with a broad grin.

"Yes, indeed," answered the assistant station-master; "we saw her.
We even had a very nice lunch in your room. Ah! you've a good wife,
Pecqueux; and it's wrong of you to be unfaithful to her."

He gave a broader grin than before.

"Oh! how can you say such a thing?" he exclaimed. "It's she who wants
me to enjoy myself!"

This was true. Victoire, who was two years his senior, and who had
grown enormously stout, was in the habit of slipping five-franc pieces
into his pocket, so that he might amuse himself when away. She had
never suffered much from his infidelity; and, now, their mode of life
was settled. He had two wives, one at each end of the line. Victoire,
who knew everything, accepted the position, and even went so far as to
mend his linen, in order that the other one might not be able to say
that she allowed their husband to go about in rags and tatters.

"No matter," resumed Roubaud, "it's not at all nice on your part. My
wife, who is very fond of her foster-mother, wants to scold you."

But he held his tongue, on seeing a tall, lean woman come from a shed
beside which they were standing. She proved to be Philomène Sauvagnat,
sister of the chief of the depôt, and the second Madame Pecqueux. The
couple must have been talking together in the shed, when Pecqueux came
out to call to the assistant station-master. Philomène still looked
young in spite of her two-and-thirty years, but was raw-boned, with a
flat chest, a long head, and flaming eyes. She had the reputation of
drinking. Her occupation consisted in keeping house for her brother,
who lived in a cottage near the engine-depôt, which she very much
neglected. They came from Auvergne, and the brother, an obstinate man
and a strict disciplinarian, greatly esteemed by his superiors, had met
with the utmost vexation on account of this sister, even to the point
of being threatened with dismissal. And, if the company bore with her,
now, on his account, he only kept her with him because of the family
tie. But this did not prevent him belabouring her so severely with
blows whenever he caught her at fault, that he frequently left her half
dead on the floor. She had commenced an intrigue with Pecqueux about
a year before; but it was only Séverine, who had fallen out with her,
thinking it due to Mother Victoire for her to do so. Having already
been in the habit of avoiding her as much as possible, from a feeling
of innate pride, she had subsequently ceased to greet her.

"Well, Pecqueux, I shall see you again, later on!" said Philomène
saucily. "I'll leave you now, as M. Roubaud has a moral lecture to read
you, on behalf of his wife."

Pecqueux, who was a good-natured fellow, continued laughing.

"No, no, stay," he answered. "He's only joking."

"I can't," retorted Philomène. "I must run and take these two eggs from
my hens, to Madame Lebleu, to whom I promised them."

She had purposely let fly this name, being aware of the secret
rivalry between the wife of the cashier, and the wife of the assistant
station-master, affecting to be on the best of terms with the former,
so as to enrage the other. But she remained, nevertheless, becoming all
at once interested, when she heard the fireman inquiring for news of
the affair with the sub-prefect.

"So it's all settled; and you're very glad of it, are you not, M.
Roubaud?" inquired Pecqueux.

"Very pleased indeed," answered the assistant station-master.

Pecqueux gave a cunning wink.

"Oh! you had no need to be anxious," said he, "because when one has
a big-wig behind one, eh? You know who I mean. My wife also is very
grateful to him."

The assistant station-master interrupted this allusion to President
Grandmorin, by abruptly remarking:

"And so you only leave to-night?"

"Yes," answered the other; "the repairs to La Lison will soon be
finished. They're completing the adjustment of the connecting-rod. And
I'm waiting for my driver, who has gone for an airing. Do you know him,
Jacques Lantier? He comes from the same neighbourhood as yourself."

Roubaud did not answer for an instant, but stood there as if
absent-minded. Then, recovering himself with a start, he exclaimed:

"Eh! Jacques Lantier, the driver? Of course I know him! Oh! you
understand, enough to say good-day and good-night. It was here that
we came across one another, for he is my junior, and I never saw him
down there at Plassans. Last autumn he did my wife a little service, in
the form of an errand to some cousins at Dieppe. He's a capable young
fellow, according to all I hear."

He spoke at random, with abundance of verbosity. All at once he went
off with the remark:

"Good day, Pecqueux. I've got to take a look round here."

It was only then that Philomène moved away at her long stride; while
Pecqueux, standing motionless, with his hands thrust into his pockets,
laughing at ease at his laziness on this bright morning, was astonished
to see the assistant station-master rapidly returning, after limiting
his inspection to circumambulating the shed. He had not been long
taking his look round. What on earth could he have come to spy out?

Nine o'clock was on the point of striking, as Roubaud returned under
the marquee. He walked to the end, near the parcel office, where he
gave a look, without appearing to find what he sought; and then,
impatiently, strode back again, peering inquiringly at the offices of
the different departments, one after the other. The station, at this
hour, was quiet and deserted. He alone wandered about, more and more
enervated at this peacefulness, in the torment of a man menaced with a
catastrophe, who at last ardently hopes for it to come. His composure
was exhausted. He found it impossible to remain for a minute in the
same place. Now his eyes never quitted the clock. Nine, five minutes
past. As a rule he only went up to his rooms for the knife-and-fork
breakfast at ten, after the departure of the 9.50 train. But all at
once the thought struck him that Séverine must also be waiting there in
expectancy; and he proceeded to join her.

In the corridor, Madame Lebleu, at this precise moment, was opening
the door to Philomène, who had run round in neighbourly fashion, with
untidy hair, and held a couple of eggs in her hand. They remained on
the threshold, so that Roubaud had to enter his apartment before their
eyes. He had his key, and was as quick as he could be. Notwithstanding,
in the rapid opening and closing of the door, they perceived Séverine,
seated on a chair in the dining-room, with her hands idle, her
profile pale, and her body motionless. And Madame Lebleu, dragging
in Philomène and closing her own door, related that she had already
seen Séverine in the same state, in the early part of the morning.
No doubt the business with the sub-prefect was taking a bad turn.
But no; and Philomène explained that she had hastened to make a call
because she had news; and she repeated what she had just heard the
assistant station-master say himself. The two women were then lost
in conjectures. It was the same at each of their meetings--gossiping
without end.

"They've had their hair combed, my dear," said Madame Lebleu. "I'd
stake my life on it. They're tottering on their pedestals."

"Ah! my dear lady," answered Philomène, "if we could only be rid of
them!"

The rivalry between the Lebleus and the Roubauds, which had become
more and more envenomed, simply arose from a question of apartments.
All the first floor of the main station building, served to lodge
members of the staff; and the central corridor, a regular corridor of
a second-rate hotel, painted yellow, lighted from above, separated
the floor in two, with lines of brown doors to right and left. Only
the windows of the apartments on the right, looked on the courtyard
facing the entrance, which was planted with old elms, and above these
an admirable view spread out in the direction of Ingouville; while the
apartments on the left, with semicircular, squatty windows, opened
right on the marquee of the station, whose high slanting roof of zinc
and dirty glass barred the horizon from view. Nothing could be more gay
than the one side, with the constant animation in the courtyard, the
verdure of the trees, the broad expanse of country; nothing more dismal
than the other, where it was almost impossible to see, and where the
sky was shut out as in a prison.

On the front, resided the station-master, the assistant station-master
Moulin, and the Lebleus; on the back, the Roubauds and Mademoiselle
Guichon, the office-keeper, without counting three rooms reserved to
inspectors who made occasional visits. It was an established fact that
the two assistant station-masters had always lodged side by side. If
the Lebleus were there, it was due to an act of politeness on the part
of the gentleman who had been succeeded by Roubaud, and who, being a
widower without children, had thought proper to show Madame Lebleu
the courtesy of giving up his apartments to her. But should not this
lodging have gone to the Roubauds? Was it fair to relegate them to the
back of the building, when they had the right to be on the front? So
long as the two households had lived in harmony, Séverine had given way
to her neighbour, her senior by twenty years, who, moreover, was in bad
health, being so stout that she was constantly troubled with fits of
choking. War had only been declared, since the day Philomène set the
two women at variance, by her abominable tongue.

"You know," resumed the latter, "that they are quite capable of having
taken advantage of their trip to Paris, to ask for your ejectment. I am
told that they have written a long letter to the manager, setting forth
their claim."

Madame Lebleu was suffocating.

"The wretches!" she exclaimed. "And I am sure they have been doing
their best to get the office-keeper on their side. For the past
fortnight she has hardly greeted me. There is another one who is no
better than she should be! But I'm watching her."

She lowered her voice to say that Mademoiselle Guichon must be carrying
on an intrigue with the station-master. Their doors faced one another.
It was M. Dabadie, a widower, and the father of a grown-up daughter
still at school, who had brought this thirty-year-old blonde to the
station. Already faded, she was silent, slim, and supple as a serpent.
She must have been a sort of governess. And it was impossible to catch
her, so noiselessly did she glide along through the narrowest apertures.

"Oh! I shall succeed in finding it out," continued Madame Lebleu. "I
will not be ridden down. We are here, and here we remain. All worthy
people are on our side. Is it not so, my dear?"

Indeed, all the station was impassioned with this battle of the
lodgings. The corridor, particularly, was torn asunder by it. It was
only the assistant station-master Moulin, satisfied at being on the
front, who did not take much interest in the matter. He was married
to a little, timid, delicate woman, whom nobody ever saw, but who
presented him with a baby every twenty months.

"Anyhow," concluded Philomène, "if they are tottering on their
pedestals, this shock will not bring them down. Be on your guard, for
they know someone of great influence."

She still held her two eggs, and she presented them, eggs laid that
same morning, which she had just taken from under her hens, and the old
lady was effusive in thanks.

"Oh! how kind of you!" said she. "You are spoiling me, I declare. Come
and have a chat more frequently. You know that my husband is always in
his counting-house; and I have a tedious time of it, riveted here on
account of my poor legs! What would become of me, if those wretches
were to take away my view?"

Then, as she accompanied her, and opened the door, she placed a finger
on her lips.

"Hush! Let us listen," said she.

Both of them remained standing in the corridor for five full minutes,
holding their breath, without a movement. They bent their heads, with
ears turned towards the dining-room of the Roubauds; but not a sound
came from that direction. Deathlike silence reigned within. And, in
fear of being surprised, they at last separated, giving each other a
nod, without pronouncing a word. While one went off on tiptoe, the
other closed her door so gently, that the catch could hardly be heard
entering the socket.

At 9.20 Roubaud was again below under the marquee superintending the
making-up of the 9.50 slow train; and, in spite of all his efforts
to keep calm, he gesticulated more than ever, stamping his feet, and
turning round at every moment to examine the platform from one end to
the other. But nothing came, and his hands trembled with impatience.

Then, abruptly, as he was looking behind him, and searching again all
over the station, he heard a telegraph boy, out of breath, close to
him, saying:

"Monsieur Roubaud, do you know where the station-master, and the
commissary of police are? I have got telegrams for them, and have been
running after them for the last ten minutes."

He turned round with such a stiffening of all his being, that not a
muscle of his face moved. His eyes were fixed on the two telegrams
which the lad held in his hand. And this time, from the excited look of
the latter, he felt convinced that the catastrophe had come at last.

"Monsieur Dabadie passed by here a short time ago," said he tranquilly.

And never had he felt himself so cool, with an intelligence so bright,
prepared for the defence from head to foot.

"Look!" he resumed; "here is Monsieur Dabadie coming towards us."

In fact, the station-master was returning from the goods train
department. As soon as he had run his eye over the telegram, he
exclaimed:

"There has been a murder on the line. The inspector at Rouen telegraphs
to me to that effect."

"What?" inquired Roubaud; "a murder among our staff?"

"No, no," answered the station-master. "The murder of a passenger in a
coupé. The body was thrown out almost at the exit from the tunnel of
Malaunay at post 153. And the victim is one of our directors, President
Grandmorin."

The assistant station-master immediately exclaimed:

"The President! Ah! my poor wife, what a terrible blow it will be for
her!"

The tone was so natural, so pitiful, that it for a moment arrested the
attention of M. Dabadie.

"Ah! true enough!" said he; "you knew him. Such a worthy man, was he
not?"

Then, turning to the other telegram addressed to the commissary of
police, he added:

"This must be from the examining-magistrate, no doubt for some
formality. And, as it is only 9.25, Monsieur Cauche is not yet here,
naturally. Let someone run to the Café du Commerce, on the Cours
Napoléon. He will be found there for certain."

Five minutes later M. Cauche arrived, brought to the scene by a porter.
Formerly an officer, he looked upon the post he occupied as a sinecure,
and never put in an appearance at the station before ten o'clock, when
he strolled about for a moment or two, and returned to the café. This
drama, which had burst upon him between a couple of games at piquet,
had first of all astonished him, for the matters that passed through
his hands were not, as a rule, very grave. But the telegram came from
the examining-magistrate at Rouen; and, if it arrived twelve hours
after the discovery of the body, it was because this magistrate had
first of all telegraphed to the station-master at Paris, to ascertain
under what circumstances the victim had set out on his journey. Having
found out the number of the train, and that of the carriage, he had
only then sent orders to the commissary of police to examine the coupé
in carriage 293 if it still happened to be at Havre. The ill-humour
that M. Cauche displayed at having been disturbed needlessly, as he
had at first fancied, at once gave place to an attitude of extreme
importance, proportionate to the exceptional gravity that the affair
began to assume.

"But," he exclaimed, suddenly becoming anxious, in fear lest the
inquiry might escape him, "the carriage will no longer be here, it must
have gone back this morning."

It was Roubaud who reassured him in his calm manner.

"No, no, excuse me," he broke in. "There was a coupé booked for this
evening. The carriage is there in the coach-house."

And he led the way to the building, followed by the commissary and the
station-master. In the meanwhile, the news must have spread, for the
porters, slyly leaving their work, also followed; while clerks made
their appearance on the thresholds of the offices of the different
departments, and ended by approaching one by one. A small crowd had
soon assembled.

As they came to the carriage, M. Dabadie remarked:

"But the coaches were examined last night. If any traces had remained,
it would have been mentioned in the report."

"We shall soon see," said M. Cauche.

Opening the door, he went up into the coupé. And, forgetting himself,
he immediately exclaimed with an oath:

"It looks as if they had been bleeding a pig here!"

A little thrill of horror ran through all who were present, and a
number of necks were craned forward. M. Dabadie was one of the first
who wished to see. He drew himself up on the step; while behind him,
Roubaud, to do like the others, also craned his neck.

The inside of the coupé displayed no disorder. The windows had remained
closed, and everything seemed in its proper place. Only, a frightful
stench escaped by the open door; and there, in the middle of one of the
cushions, a pool of blood had coagulated, a pool so deep, and so large,
that a stream had sprung from it, as from a source, and had poured over
on the carpet. Clots of blood remained sticking to the cloth. And there
was nothing else, nothing but this nauseous gore.

M. Dabadie flew into a rage.

"Where are the men who looked into the carriages last night? Bring them
here!"

It so happened that they were there, and they advanced, spluttering
excuses: how was it possible to see at night time? Nevertheless, they
had passed their hands everywhere. They vowed they had felt nothing on
the previous night.

In the meanwhile, M. Cauche, who remained standing up in the
compartment, was taking pencil notes for his report. He called Roubaud,
with whom he was familiar, being in the habit of smoking cigarettes
with him along the platform, in moments of leisure.

"Roubaud," said he, "just come up here, you will be able to help me."

And when the assistant station-master had stepped over the blood on the
carpet, so as not to tread in it, the commissary added:

"Look under the other cushion, to see if anything has slipped down
there."

Roubaud raised the cushion, feeling with prudent hands, and looks that
simply denoted curiosity.

"There is nothing," said he.

But a spot on the padded cloth at the back of the seat, attracted his
attention; and he pointed it out to the commissary. Was it not the mark
of a finger covered with blood? No; they both came to the conclusion
that it was some blood which had spurted there. The crowd had drawn
nearer, to watch this inspection of the coupé, sniffing the crime,
pressing behind the station-master, who, with the repugnance of a
refined man, remained on the step.

Suddenly the latter remarked:

"But, I say, Roubaud, you were in the train, were you not? You returned
last night by the express. You can, perhaps, give us some information?"

"Yes, indeed," exclaimed the commissary, "that is true. Did you notice
anything?"

Roubaud, for two or three seconds, remained silent. At this moment, he
was bending down examining the carpet. But he rose, almost at once,
answering in his natural voice, which was a trifle thick:

"Certainly, certainly, I will tell you. My wife was with me. But if
what I am going to say is to figure in the report, I should like her to
come down, so as to control my recollection by her own."

M. Cauche thought this very reasonable, and Pecqueux, who had just
arrived, offered to go and fetch Madame Roubaud. He started off with
great strides, and for a moment there was a pause. Philomène, who
had joined the crowd with the firemen, followed him with her eyes,
irritated that he should undertake this errand. But, perceiving Madame
Lebleu hurrying along as fast as her poor swollen legs would carry her,
she hastened forward to assist her; and the two women raised their
hands to heaven, uttering passionate exclamations at the discovery of
such an abominable crime. Although absolutely no details were known,
as yet, all kinds of versions of what had occurred, circulated around
them, accompanied by excited gestures and looks. Philomène, whose voice
could be heard above the hum of the crowd, affirmed, on her word of
honour, that Madame Roubaud had seen the murderer, although she had no
authority whatever for the statement. And when the latter appeared,
accompanied by Pecqueux, there was general silence.

"Just look at her!" murmured Madame Lebleu. "Would anyone take her for
the wife of an assistant station-master, with her airs of a princess?
This morning, before daybreak, she was already as she is now, combed
and laced, as if she were going out on a visit."

Séverine advanced with short, regular steps. She had to walk along the
whole length of the platform, facing the eyes watching her approach.
But she did not break down. She simply pressed her handkerchief to her
eyelids, in the great grief she had just experienced at learning the
name of the victim. Attired in a very elegantly fashioned black woollen
gown, she seemed to be wearing mourning for her protector. Her heavy,
dark hair shone in the sun, for she had come down in such a hurry that
she had not found time, in spite of the cold, to put anything on her
head. Her gentle blue eyes, full of anguish, and bathed in tears, gave
her a most touching appearance.

"She may well cry," said Philomène in an undertone. "They are done for,
now that their guardian-angel has been killed."

When Séverine was there, in the middle of all the people, before the
open door of the coupé, M. Cauche and Roubaud got out; and the latter
immediately began to relate what he knew. Addressing his wife, he said:

"Yesterday morning, my dear, as soon as we arrived at Paris we went to
see Monsieur Grandmorin. And it was about a quarter past eleven. That
is right, is it not?"

He looked fixedly at her, and she, in a docile tone, repeated:

"Yes, a quarter past eleven."

But her eyes had fallen on the cushion black with blood. She had a
spasm, and her bosom heaved with heavy sobs. The station-master, who
felt distressed, intervened with much concern:

"If you are unable to bear the sight, madam----We quite understand your
grief----"

"Oh! just a few words," interrupted the commissary; "and we will then
have madam conducted home again."

Roubaud hastened to continue:

"It was at this visit that Monsieur Grandmorin, after talking of
various matters, informed us that he was going next day to Doinville,
on a visit to his sister. I still see him seated at his writing-table.
I was here, my wife there. That is right, my dear, is it not? He told
us he would be leaving on the morrow."

"Yes, on the morrow," said she.

M. Cauche, who continued taking rapid pencil notes, raised his head:

"How is that, on the morrow," he inquired, "considering he left the
same evening?"

"Wait a moment," replied the assistant station-master. "When he heard
we were returning that night, he had an idea of taking the express with
us, if my wife would accompany him to Doinville, to stay a few days
with his sister, as had happened before. But my wife, having a great
deal to do here, refused. That is so, you refused?"

"Yes, I refused," answered Séverine.

"Then he was very kind," continued her husband. "He had been
interesting himself on my behalf. He accompanied us to the door of his
study. Did he not, my dear?"

"Yes, as far as the door," said Séverine.

"We left in the evening," resumed Roubaud. "Before seating ourselves
in our compartment, I had a chat with Monsieur Vandorpe, the
station-master. And I saw nothing at all. I was very much annoyed,
because I thought we should be alone, and I found a lady in a corner
whom I had not noticed; and the more so, as two other persons, a
married couple, got in at the last moment. So far as Rouen, nothing
worthy of note occurred. I noticed nothing. But at Rouen, as we left
the train to stretch our legs, what was our surprise to see Monsieur
Grandmorin standing up at the door of a coupé, three or four carriages
away from our compartment. 'What, Mr. President,' said I, 'so you left
after all? Ah! well, we had no idea we were travelling with you!' And
he explained that he had received a telegram. They whistled, and we
jumped into our compartment, which, by the way, we found empty, all our
travelling companions having got out at Rouen, and we were not sorry.
That is absolutely all, my dear, is it not?"

"Yes, that is absolutely all," she repeated.

This story, simple though it appeared, produced a strong impression
on the audience. All awaited the key to the enigma with gaping
countenances. The commissary ceasing to write, gave expression to the
general astonishment by inquiring:

"And you are sure no one was inside the coupé, along with Monsieur
Grandmorin?"

"Oh! as to that, absolutely certain!"

A shudder ran through the crowd. This mystery which required solving
inspired the onlookers with fear, and sent a chill down the backs of
everyone there. If the passenger was alone, by whom could he have been
murdered and thrown from the coupé, three leagues from there, before
the train stopped again?

Silence was broken by the unpleasant voice of Philomène:

"It is all the same strange," said she.

And Roubaud, feeling himself being stared at, looked at her, tossing
his chin, as if to say that he also considered the matter strange.
Beside her, he perceived Pecqueux and Madame Lebleu, tossing their
heads as well. All eyes were turned towards him. The crowd awaited
something more, sought on his body for a forgotten detail that would
throw light on the matter. There was no accusation in these ardently
inquisitive looks; and yet, he fancied he noticed a vague suspicion
arising, that doubt which the smallest fact sometimes transforms into a
certainty.

"Extraordinary," murmured M. Cauche.

"Quite extraordinary," assented M. Dabadie.

Then Roubaud made up his mind.

"What I am, moreover, quite certain of," he continued, "is that the
express which runs from Rouen to Barentin without stopping, went
along at the regulation speed, and that I noticed nothing abnormal.
I mention this, because, as we were alone, I let down the window to
smoke a cigarette, and glancing outside several times, had a perfect
knowledge of every sound of the train. At Barentin, noticing my
successor, the station-master, Monsieur Bessière, on the platform, I
called to him, and we exchanged a few words, as he stood on the step,
and shook hands. That is so, my dear, is it not? The question can be
put to Monsieur Bessière, and he will answer, Yes."

Séverine, still motionless and pale, her delicate face plunged in
grief, once more confirmed the statement of her husband.

"Yes, that is correct," said she.

From this moment any accusation was out of the question, if the
Roubauds, having returned to their compartment at Rouen, had been
greeted, sitting there, by a friend at Barentin. The shadow of
suspicion which the assistant station-master had noticed in the eyes of
the bystanders, vanished, while the general astonishment increased. The
case was assuming a more and more mysterious aspect.

"Come," said the commissary, "are you quite positive that nobody could
have entered the coupé at Rouen, after you left Monsieur Grandmorin?"

Roubaud had evidently not foreseen this question. For the first time,
he became confused, having no doubt got to the end of his ready
answers. He looked at his wife, hesitating.

"Oh! no!" said he; "I do not think so. They were shutting the doors;
they had whistled. We only just had time to reach our carriage. And,
besides, the coupé was reserved, nobody could get in there, I fancy----"

But the blue eyes of his wife opened wider, and grew so large, that he
was afraid to be positive.

"After all," he continued, "I don't know. Yes. Perhaps someone did get
into the coupé. There was a regular crush----"

As he continued talking, his voice became distinct again, and a new
story began to take shape.

"The crowd, you know, was enormous," he said, "on account of the fêtes
at Havre. We were obliged to resist an assault on our own compartment
by second and even third-class passengers. Apart from this, the station
was badly lighted, one could see next to nothing. People were pushing
about in a clamorous multitude, just as the train was starting. Yes,
indeed, it is quite possible that someone, not knowing where to find a
seat, or, may be, taking advantage of the confusion, actually did force
his way into the coupé, at the last second."

And, turning to his wife, he remarked:

"Eh! my dear, that is what must have happened?"

Séverine, looking broken down, with her handkerchief pressed to her
swollen eyes, answered:

"That is what happened, certainly."

The clue was now given. The commissary of police and the
station-master, without expressing an opinion, exchanged a look of
intelligence. The seething crowd swayed to and fro, feeling the inquiry
at an end. All were burning to communicate their thoughts; and various
conjectures immediately found vent, everyone having his own idea. For a
few moments, the business of the station had been at a standstill. The
entire staff were there, all their attention taken up by this drama;
and it was with general surprise that the 9.38 train was observed
coming in, under the marquee. The porters ran to meet it, the carriage
doors were opened, and the flood of passengers streamed out. But almost
all the lookers-on had remained round the commissary, who, with the
scruple of a methodical man, paid a final visit to the gory coupé.

At this moment, Pecqueux, engaged in gesticulating between Madame
Lebleu and Philomène, caught sight of his driver, Jacques Lantier,
who, having just left the train, was standing motionless, watching
the gathering from a distance. He beckoned to him urgently. At first,
Jacques did not move; but, afterwards, making up his mind to go, he
advanced slowly forward.

"What's it all about?" he inquired of his fireman.

He knew very well, and lent but an inattentive ear to the news of the
murder and the rumours that were current respecting it. What surprised,
and particularly agitated him, was to tumble into the midst of this
inquiry, to again come upon this coupé which he had caught sight of in
the obscurity, launched at full speed. He craned his neck, gazing at
the pool of clotted blood on the cushion; and, once more, he saw the
murder scene, and particularly the corpse, stretched across the line
yonder with its throat open. Then, turning aside his eyes, he noticed
the Roubauds, while Pecqueux continued relating to him the story of
how they were mixed up in the business--their departure from Paris in
the same train as the victim, and the last words they had exchanged
together at Rouen. Jacques knew Roubaud, from having occasionally
pressed his hand since he had been driving the express. As to his wife,
he had caught sight of her in the distance, and he had avoided her,
like the others, in his unhealthy terror. But, at this moment, he was
struck by her, as he observed her weeping and pale, with her gentle,
bewildered blue eyes, beneath the crushing volume of black hair. He
continued to look at her; and, becoming absent, he asked himself, in
surprise, how it was that the Roubauds and he were there? How it was
that events had brought them together, before this carriage steeped in
crime--they who had returned from Paris on the previous evening, he who
had come back from Barentin at that very instant?

"Oh! I know, I know," said he aloud, interrupting the fireman. "I
happened to be there, at the exit from the tunnel, last night, and I
thought I saw something, as the train passed."

This remark caused great excitement, and everybody gathered round
him. Why had he spoken, after formally making up his mind to hold
his tongue? So many excellent reasons prompted him to silence! And
the words had unconsciously left his lips, while he was gazing at
this woman. She had abruptly drawn aside her handkerchief, to fix her
tearful eyes, wide-open, on him.

The commissary of police quickly approached.

"Saw what? What did you see?" he inquired.

And Jacques, with the unswerving look of Séverine upon him, related
what he had seen: the coupé lit up, passing through the night at full
speed, and the fleeting outlines of the two men, one thrown down
backwards, the other with a knife in his hand. Roubaud, standing beside
his wife, listened with his great bright eyes fixed on Jacques.

"So," inquired the commissary, "you would be able to recognise the
murderer?"

"Oh! as to that, no! I do not think so," answered the other.

"Was he wearing a coat, or a blouse?" asked the commissary.

"I can say nothing positively. Just reflect, a train that must have
been going at a speed of sixty miles an hour!"

Séverine, against her will, exchanged a glance with Roubaud, who had
the energy to say:

"True enough! It would require a good pair of eyes."

"No matter," concluded M. Cauche; "this is an important piece of
evidence. The examining-magistrate will assist you to throw light on it
all. Monsieur Lantier and Monsieur Roubaud, give me your exact names
for the summonses."

It was all over. The throng of bystanders dispersed, little by little,
and the business of the station resumed its activity. Roubaud had to
run and attend to the 9.50 slow train, in which passengers were already
taking their seats. He had given Jacques a more vigorous shake of
the hand than usual; and the latter, remaining alone with Séverine,
behind Madame Lebleu, Pecqueux, and Philomène, who went off whispering
together, had considered himself bound to escort the young woman under
the marquee, to the foot of the staircase leading to the lodgings of
the staff, finding nothing to say, and yet forced to remain beside her,
as if a bond had just been fastened between them.

The brightness of day, had now increased. The sun, conqueror of the
morning haze, was ascending in the great expanse of limpid blue
sky; while the sea breeze, gaining strength with the rising tide,
contributed its saline freshness to the atmosphere. And, as Jacques
at last left Séverine, he again encountered those great eyes, whose
terrified and imploring sweetness had so profoundly moved him.

But there came a low whistle. It was Roubaud giving the signal to
start. The engine responded by a prolonged screech, and the 9.50 train
moved off, rolled along more rapidly, and disappeared in the distance,
amid the golden dust of the sun.

CHAPTER IV

One day, during the second week in March, M. Denizet, the
examining-magistrate, had again summoned certain important witnesses in
the Grandmorin case, to his chambers at the Rouen Law Courts.

For the last three weeks, this case had been causing enormous
sensation. It had set Rouen upside down; it had impassioned Paris;
and the opposition newspapers, in their violent campaign against the
Empire, had just grasped it as a weapon. The forthcoming general
elections, which occupied the public mind in preference to all other
political events, added keen excitement to the struggle. In the Chamber
there had been some very stormy sittings; one at which the validity of
the powers of two members attached to the Emperor's household, had been
bitterly disputed; and another that had given rise to a most determined
attack on the financial administration of the Prefect of the Seine,
coupled with a demand for the election of a Municipal Council.

The Grandmorin case, coming at an appropriate moment, served to keep
up the agitation. The most extraordinary stories were abroad. Every
morning, the newspapers were full of assumptions injurious for the
Government. On the one hand, the public were given to understand that
the victim--a familiar figure at the Tuileries, formerly on the bench,
Commander of the Legion of Honour, immensely rich--was addicted to
the most frightful debauchery; on the other, the inquiry into the
case, having so far proved fruitless, they began to accuse the police
and legal authorities, of winking at the affair, and joked about the
legendary assassin who could not be found. If there was a good deal of
truth in these attacks, they were all the harder to bear.

M. Denizet was fully alive to his heavy responsibility. He, also,
became impassioned with the case, and the more so as he was ambitious,
and had been burning to have a matter of this importance in his hands,
so as to bring into evidence the high qualities of perspicacity and
energy with which he credited himself.

The son of a large Normandy cattle-breeder, he had studied law at
Caen, but had entered the judicial department of the Government rather
late in life; and, his peasant origin, aggravated by his father's
bankruptcy, had made his promotion slow. Substitute at Bernay, Dieppe,
and Havre, it had taken him ten years to become Imperial Procurator at
Pont-Audemer; then, sent to Rouen as substitute, he had been acting as
examining-magistrate for eighteen months, and was over fifty years of
age.

Without any fortune, a prey to requirements that could not be satisfied
out of his meagre salary, he lived in this ill-remunerated dependence
of the magistracy, only frankly accepted by men of mediocre capacity,
and where the intelligent are eaten up with envy, whilst on the
look-out for an opportunity to sell themselves.

M. Denizet was a man of the most lively intelligence, with a very
penetrating mind. He was even honest, and fond of his profession,
intoxicated with his great power which, in his justice-room, made
him absolute master of the liberty of others. It was his interests
alone that kept his zeal within bounds. He had such a burning desire
to be decorated and transferred to Paris, that, after having at the
commencement of the inquiry, allowed himself to be carried away by his
love of truth, he now proceeded with extreme prudence, perceiving
pitfalls on all sides, which might swallow up his future.

It must be pointed out that M. Denizet had been warned; for, from the
outset of his inquiry, a friend had advised him to look in at the
Ministry of Justice in Paris. He did so, and had a long chat with the
secretary, M. Camy-Lamotte, a very important personage, possessing
considerable power over the gentlemen comprising this branch of the
civil service. It was, moreover, his duty to prepare the list of
promotions, and he was in constant communication with the Tuileries.
He was a handsome man, who had started on his career as substitute,
like his visitor; but through his connections and his wife, he had been
elected deputy, and made grand officer of the Legion of Honour.

The case had come quite naturally into his hands. The Imperial
Procurator at Rouen, disturbed at this shady drama wherein a former
judge figured as victim, had taken the precaution to communicate with
the Minister, who had passed the matter on to the secretary. And here
came a coincidence: M. Camy-Lamotte happened to be a schoolfellow of
President Grandmorin. Younger by a few years, he had been on such terms
of intimacy with him that he knew him thoroughly, even to his vices.
And so, he spoke of his friend's tragic death with profound affliction,
and talked to M. Denizet of nothing but his warm desire to secure the
guilty party. But he did not disguise the fact that they were very much
annoyed at the Tuileries, about the stir the business had occasioned,
which was quite out of proportion to its importance, and he had taken
the liberty to recommend great tact.

In fact, the magistrate had understood that he would do well not to be
in a hurry, and to avoid running any risk unless previously approved.
He had even returned to Rouen with the certainty that the secretary,
on his part, had sent out detectives, wishing to inquire into the case
himself. They wanted to learn the truth, so as to be better able to
hide it, if necessary.

Nevertheless, time passed, and M. Denizet, notwithstanding his efforts
to be patient, became irritated at the jokes of the press. Then the
policeman reappeared, sniffing the scent, like a good hound. He was
carried away by the necessity of finding the real track, for the glory
of being the first to discover it, and reserving his freedom to abandon
it if he received orders to do so. And, whilst awaiting a letter, a
piece of advice, a simple sign from the Ministry which failed to reach
him, he had actively resumed his inquiry.

Not one of the two or three arrests that had been made, could be
maintained. But, suddenly, the opening of the will of President
Grandmorin aroused in M. Denizet a suspicion, which he felt had flashed
through his mind at the first--the possible guilt of the Roubauds.
This will, full of strange legacies, contained one by which Séverine
inherited the house situated at the place called La Croix-de-Maufras.
From that moment, the motive of the crime, sought in vain until then,
became evident--the Roubauds, aware of the legacy, had murdered their
benefactor to gain possession of the property at once. This idea
haunted him the more, as M. Camy-Lamotte had spoken in a peculiar
way of Madame Roubaud, whom he had known formerly at the home of
the President when she was a young girl. Only, how unlikely! how
impossible, materially and morally! Since searching in this direction,
he had at every step, encountered facts that upset his conception of a
classically conducted judicial inquiry. Nothing became clear; the great
central light, the original cause which would illuminate everything,
was wanting.

Another clue existed which M. Denizet had not lost sight of, the one
suggested by Roubaud himself--that of the man who might have got into
the coupé, thanks to the crush, at the moment the train was leaving.
This was the famous legendary murderer who could not be found, and in
reference to whom the opposition newspapers were making such silly fun.
At the outset, every effort had been made to trace this man. At Rouen,
where he had entered the train, at Barentin, where he had left it; but
the result had lacked precision. Some witnesses even denied that it
could have been possible for the reserved coupé to be taken by assault,
others gave the most contradictory information. And this clue seemed
unlikely to lead to anything, when the magistrate, in questioning the
signalman, Misard, came involuntarily upon the dramatic adventure of
Cabuche and Louisette, the young girl who, victimised by the President,
had repaired to the abode of her sweetheart to die.

This information burst on him like a thunderbolt, and at once he
formulated the indictment in his head. It was all there--the threats
of death made by the quarryman against his victim, the deplorable
antecedents of the man, an alibi, clumsily advanced, impossible to
prove. In secrecy, on the previous night, in a moment of energetic
inspiration, he had caused Cabuche to be carried off from the little
house he occupied on the border of the wood, a sort of out-of-the-way
cavern, where those who arrested the man, found a pair of blood-stained
trousers. And, whilst offering resistance to the conviction gaining
on him, whilst determined not to abandon the presumption against the
Roubauds, he exulted at the idea that he alone had been smart enough
to discover the veritable assassin. It was in view of making this a
certainty that, on this specific day, he had summoned to his chambers
several witnesses who had already been heard immediately after the
crime.

The quarters of the examining-magistrate were near the Rue Jeanne
d'Arc, in the old dilapidated building, dabbed against the side of
the ancient palace of the Dukes of Normandy, now transformed into the
Law Courts, which it dishonoured. This large, sad-looking room on the
ground floor was so dark, that in winter it became necessary to light
a lamp at three o'clock in the afternoon. Hung with old, discoloured
green paper, its only furniture were two armchairs, four chairs, the
writing-table of the magistrate, the small table of the registrar;
and, on the frigid-looking mantelpiece, two bronze cups, flanking a
black marble timepiece. Behind the writing-table was a door leading to
a second room, where the magistrate sometimes concealed persons whom
he wished to have at hand; while the entrance door opened direct on a
broad corridor supplied with benches, where witnesses waited.

The Roubauds were there at half-past one, although the subpœnas had
only been made returnable for two o'clock. They came from Havre, and
had taken time to lunch at a little restaurant in the Grande Rue. Both
attired in black, he in a frock coat, she in a silk gown, like a lady,
maintained the rather wearisome and painful gravity of a couple who
had lost a relative. She sat on a bench motionless, without uttering
a word, whilst he, remaining on his feet, his hands behind his back,
strode slowly to and fro before her. But at each turn their eyes met,
and their concealed anxiety then passed like a shadow over their mute
countenances.

Although the Croix-de-Maufras legacy had given them great joy, it had
revived their fears; for the family of the President, particularly his
daughter, indignant at the number of strange donations which amounted
to half the entire fortune, spoke of contesting the will; and Madame
de Lachesnaye, influenced by her husband, showed herself particularly
harsh for her old friend Séverine, whom she loaded with the gravest
suspicions. On the other hand, the idea that there existed a proof,
which Roubaud at first had not thought of, haunted him with constant
dread: the letter which he had compelled his wife to write, so as
to cause Grandmorin to leave, would be found, unless the latter had
destroyed it, and the writing recognised. Fortunately, time passed and
nothing happened; the letter must have been torn up. Nevertheless,
every fresh summons to the presence of the examining-magistrate,
gave them a cold perspiration in their correct attitude of heirs and
witnesses.

Two o'clock struck. Jacques in his turn appeared. He came from Paris.
Roubaud at once advanced, with his hand extended in a very expansive
manner.

"Ah! So they've brought you here as well. What a nuisance this sad
business is. It seems to have no end!"

Jacques, perceiving Séverine, still seated, motionless, had stopped
short. For the past three weeks, every two days, at each of his
journeys to Havre, the assistant station-master had shown him great
affability. On one occasion even, he had to accept an invitation to
lunch; and seated beside the young woman, he felt himself agitated with
his old shivers, and quite upset. Could it be possible that he would
want to slay this one also? His heart throbbed, his hands burnt at
the mere sight of the white muslin at her neck, bordering the rounded
bodice of her gown. And he determined, henceforth, to keep away from
her.

"And what do they say about the case at Paris?" resumed Roubaud.
"Nothing new, eh? Look here, they know nothing; they'll never know
anything. Come and say how do you do to my wife."

He dragged him forward, so that Jacques approached and bowed to
Séverine, who, looking a little confused, smiled with her air of a
timid child. He did his best to chat about commonplace matters, with
the eyes of the husband and wife fixed on him, as if they sought to
read even beyond his own thoughts, in the vague reflections to which
he hesitated to lend his mind. Why was he so cold? Why did he seem to
do his best to avoid them? Was his memory returning? Could it be for
the purpose of confronting them with him, that they had been sent for
again? They sought to bring over this single witness, whom they feared,
to their side, to attach him to them by such firm bonds of fraternity
that he would not have the courage to speak against them.

It was the assistant station-master, tortured by uncertainty, who
brought up the case again.

"So you have no idea as to why they have summoned us? Perhaps there is
something new?"

Jacques gave a shrug of indifference.

"A rumour was abroad just now at the station, when I arrived, that
there had been an arrest," said he.

The Roubauds were astounded, becoming quite agitated and perplexed.
What! An arrest? No one had breathed a word to them on the subject! An
arrest that had been already made, or an arrest about to take place?
They bombarded him with questions, but he knew nothing further.

At that moment, a sound of footsteps, in the corridor, attracted the
attention of Séverine.

"Here come Berthe and her husband," she murmured.

The Lachesnayes passed very stiffly before the Roubauds. The young
woman did not even give her former comrade a look. An usher at once
showed them into the room of the examining-magistrate.

"Oh! dear me! We must have patience," said Roubaud. "We shall be here
for at least two hours. Sit you down."

He had just placed himself on the left of Séverine, and, with a motion
of the hand, invited Jacques to take a seat near her, on the other
side. The driver remained standing a moment longer. Then, as she
looked at him in her gentle, timid manner, he sank down on the bench.
She appeared very frail between the two men. He felt she possessed a
submissive, tender character, and the slight warmth emanating from this
woman, slowly torpified him from tip to toe.

In M. Denizet's room the interrogatories were about to commence. The
inquiry had already supplied matter for an enormous volume of papers,
enclosed in blue wrappers. Every effort had been made to follow the
victim from the time he left Paris. M. Vandorpe, the station-master,
had given evidence as to the departure of the 6.30 express. How
the coach No. 293 had been added on at the last moment; how he had
exchanged a few words with Roubaud, who had got into his compartment
a little before the arrival of President Grandmorin; finally, how the
latter had taken possession of his coupé, where he was certainly alone.

Then, the guard, Henri Dauvergne, questioned as to what had occurred
at Rouen during the ten minutes the train waited, was unable to give
any positive information. He had seen the Roubauds talking in front of
the coupé, and he felt sure they had returned to their compartment, the
door of which had been shut by an inspector; but his recollection was
vague, owing to the confusion caused by the crowd, and the obscurity in
the station. As to giving an opinion whether a man, the famous murderer
who could not be found, would have been able to jump into the coupé
as the train started, he thought such a thing very unlikely, whilst
admitting it was possible; for, to his own knowledge, something similar
had already occurred twice.

Other members of the company's staff at Rouen, on being examined on the
same points, instead of throwing light on the matter, only entangled
it by their contradictory answers. Nevertheless, one thing proved was
the shake of the hand given by Roubaud from inside his compartment
to the station-master at Barentin, who had got on the step. This
station-master, M. Bessière, had formally acknowledged the incident as
exact, and had added that his colleague was alone with his wife, who
was half lying down, and appeared to be tranquilly sleeping.

Moreover, the authorities had gone so far as to search for the
passengers who had quitted Paris in the same compartment as the
Roubauds. The stout lady and gentleman who arrived late, almost at
the last minute, middle-class people from Petit-Couronne, had stated
that having immediately dozed off to sleep, they were unable to say
anything; and, as to the woman in black, who remained silent in her
corner, she had melted away like a shadow. It had been absolutely
impossible to trace her.

Then, there were other witnesses, the small fry who had served to
identify the passengers who left the train that night at Barentin, the
theory being that the murderer must have got out there. The tickets had
been counted, and they had succeeded in recognising all the travellers
except one, and he precisely was a great big fellow, with his head
wrapped up in a blue handkerchief. Some said he wore a coat, and others
a short smock. About this man alone, who had disappeared, vanished
like a dream, there existed three hundred and ten documents, forming a
confused medley, in which the evidence of one person was contradicted
by that of another.

And the record was further complicated by the written evidence of the
legal authorities: the account drawn up by the registrar, whom the
Imperial Procurator and the examining-magistrate had taken to the scene
of the crime, comprising quite a bulky description of the spot, on the
metal way, where the victim was lying; the position of the body, the
attire, the things found in the pockets establishing his identity;
then, the report of the doctor, also conducted there, a document in
which the wound in the throat was described at length in scientific
terms; the only wound, a frightful gash, made with a sharp instrument,
probably a knife.

And there were other reports and documents about the removal of the
body to the hospital at Rouen, the length of time it had remained
there before being delivered to the family. But in this mass of papers
appeared but one or two important points. First of all, nothing had
been found in the pockets, neither the watch, nor a small pocket-book,
which should have contained ten banknotes of a thousand francs each,
a sum due to the sister of President Grandmorin, Madame Bonnehon, and
which she was expecting.

It therefore would have seemed that the motive of the crime was
robbery, had not a ring, set with a large brilliant, remained on the
finger of the victim. This circumstance gave rise to quite a series of
conjectures. Unfortunately the numbers of the banknotes were missing;
but the watch was known. It was a very heavy, keyless watch, with the
monogram of the President on the back, and the number, 2516, of the
manufacturer, inside. Finally, the weapon, the knife the murderer had
used, had occasioned diligent search along the line, among the bushes
in the vicinity, where he might have thrown it; but with no result. The
murderer must have concealed the knife in the same place as the watch
and banknotes. Nothing had been found but the travelling-rug of the
victim, which had been picked up at a hundred yards or so from Barentin
station, where it had been abandoned as a dangerous article; and it
figured among other objects that might assist to convict the culprit.

When the Lachesnayes entered, M. Denizet, erect before his
writing-table, was perusing the examination of one of the first
witnesses, which his registrar had just routed out from among the other
papers. He was a short and rather robust man, clean-shaven, and already
turning grey. His full cheeks, square chin, and big nose, had a sort
of pallid immobility, which was increased by the heavy eyelids half
closing his great light eyes. But all the sagacity, all the adroitness
he believed he possessed, was centred in his mouth--one of those mouths
of an actor that express the feelings of the owner off the stage.
This mouth was extremely active, and at moments, when he became very
sharp, the lips grew thin. It was his sharpness that frequently led
him astray. He was too perspicacious, too cunning with simple, honest
truth. According to the ideal he had formed of his position, the man
occupying it should be an anatomist in morals, endowed with second
sight, extremely witty; and, indeed, he was by no means a fool.

He at once showed himself amiable towards Madame de Lachesnaye, for he
was still a magistrate full of urbanity, frequenting society in Rouen
and its neighbourhood.

"Pray be seated, madam," said he.

And he offered a chair to the young woman, a sickly blonde,
disagreeable in manner, and ugly in her mourning. But he was simply
polite, and even a trifle arrogant, in look, towards M. de Lachesnaye,
who was also fair, with a delicate skin; for this little man--judge at
the Court of Appeal from the age of thirty-six; decorated, thanks to
the influence of his father-in-law, and to the services his father,
also on the bench, had formerly rendered on the High Commissions, at
the time of the Coup d'Etat--represented in his eyes, the judicial
functionary by favour, by wealth, the man of moderate gifts who had
installed himself, certain of making rapid progress through his
relatives and fortune; whereas he, poor, deprived of protective
influence, found himself ever reduced to make way for others. And
so he was not sorry to make this gentleman feel all his power in
this room--the absolute power that he possessed over the liberty
of everyone, to such a point that, by one word, he could transform
a witness into an accused, and immediately have him arrested if it
pleased him to do so.

"Madam," he continued, "you will pardon me, if I am again obliged
to torture you with this painful business. I know that you wish, as
ardently as we do, to see the matter cleared up, and the culprit
expiate his crime."

By a sign he attracted the attention of the registrar, a big,
bilious-looking fellow with a bony face, and the examination commenced.

But M. de Lachesnaye--who, seeing he was not asked to sit down, had
taken a seat of his own accord--at the first questions addressed to
his wife, did his best to put himself in her place. He proceeded to
complain bitterly of the will of his father-in-law. Who had ever
heard of such a thing? So many, and such important legacies, that
they absorbed almost half the fortune, which amounted to 3,700,000
frcs.--about £148,000! And legacies to persons who for the most part
they did not know, to women of all classes! Among them figured even a
little violet-seller, who sat in a doorway in the Rue du Rocher. It was
unacceptable, and he was only waiting for the inquiry into the crime to
be completed, to see if he could not upset this immoral will.

Whilst he complained in this manner, between his set teeth, showing
what a stupid he was, an obstinate provincial, up to his neck in
avarice, M. Denizet watched him with his great light eyes half closed,
and his artful lips assumed an expression of jealous disdain for this
nonentity, who was not satisfied with two millions, and whom, no doubt,
he would one day, see in the supreme purple of a President, thanks to
all this money.

"I think, sir," said he at last, "that you would do wrong. The will
could only be attacked if the total amount of the legacies exceeded
half the fortune, and such is not the case."

Then, turning to his registrar, he remarked:

"I say, Laurent, you are not writing down all this, I hope."

With the suspicion of a smile, the latter set his mind at ease, like a
man who knew his business.

"But, anyhow," resumed M. de Lachesnaye more bitterly, "no one
imagines, I suppose, that I am going to leave La Croix-de-Maufras to
those Roubauds. A present like that to the daughter of a domestic! And
why? for what reason? Besides, if it is proved that they were connected
with the crime----"

M. Denizet returned to the murder.

"Do you really think so?" he inquired.

"Well, if they knew what was in the will, their interest in the death
of our poor father is manifest. Observe, moreover, that they were the
last to speak to him. All this looks very suspicious."

The magistrate, out of patience, disturbed in his new hypothesis,
turned to Berthe.

"And you, madam? Do you think your old comrade capable of such a crime?"

Before answering, she looked at her husband. During their few months
of married life, they had communicated to one another their ill-humour
and want of feeling, which, moreover, had increased. They were becoming
vitiated together. It was he who had set her on to Séverine; and, to
such a point, that to get back the house, she would have had her old
playmate arrested on the spot.

"Well, sir," she ended by saying, "the person you speak about,
displayed very bad tendencies as a child."

"What were they? Do you accuse her of having acted improperly at
Doinville?"

"Oh! no, sir; my father would not have allowed her to remain."

In this sentence the prudery of the respectable middle-class lady,
flared up in virtuous indignation.

"Only," she continued, "when one notices a disposition to be giddy, to
be wild--briefly, many things that I should not have thought possible,
appear to me positive at the present time."

M. Denizet again showed signs of impatience. He was no longer following
up this clue, and whoever continued to do so, became his adversary, and
seemed to him to be putting the certainty of his intelligence in doubt.

"But come!" he exclaimed; "one must yield to reason. People like the
Roubauds would not kill such a man as your father, in order to inherit
sooner; or, at least, there would be indications of them being in a
hurry. I should find traces of this eagerness to possess and enjoy,
elsewhere. No; the motive is insufficient. It is necessary to find
another, and there is nothing. You bring nothing yourselves. Then
establish the facts. Do you not perceive material impossibilities? No
one saw the Roubauds get into the coupé. One of the staff even thinks
he can affirm that they returned to their compartment; and, as they
were certainly there at Barentin, it would be necessary to admit of a
double journey between their carriage and that of the President, who
was separated from them by three coaches, during the few minutes it
required to cover the distance, and while the train was going at full
speed. Does that seem likely? I have questioned drivers and guards.
All replied that long habit, alone, could give sufficient coolness
and energy. In any case, the woman could not have been there. The
husband must have run the risk without her, and to do what? To kill a
protector who had just extricated him from serious embarrassment? No;
decidedly no! The presumption is inadmissible. We must look elsewhere.
Ah! Supposing a man, who got into the train at Rouen, and left it at
the next station, had recently uttered threats of death against the
victim----"

In his enthusiasm, he was coming to his new theory. He was on the point
of saying too much about it, when the door was set ajar to make way for
the head of the usher; but, before the latter could utter a word, a
gloved hand sent the door wide open, and a fair lady, attired in very
elegant mourning, entered the room. She was still handsome at more than
fifty years of age, but displayed the opulent and expansive beauty of a
goddess grown old.

"It is I, my dear magistrate. I am behind time, and you must excuse me.
The roads are very bad; the three leagues from Doinville to Rouen are
as good as six to-day."

M. Denizet had risen gallantly from his seat.

"I trust your health has been good, madam, since Sunday last?" said he.

"Very good. And you, my dear magistrate, have got over the fright my
coachman gave you? The man told me the carriage got almost upset as he
drove you back, before he had gone a couple of miles from the château."

"Oh! merely a jolt. I had forgotten all about it. But pray be seated,
and, as I just now said to Madame de Lachesnaye, pardon me for
awakening your grief with this frightful business."

"Well, as it has to be done----How do you do, Berthe? How do you do,
Lachesnaye?"

It was Madame Bonnehon, the sister of the victim. She had kissed her
niece, and pressed the hand of the husband. The widow, since the age of
thirty, of a manufacturer who had left her a large fortune, and already
wealthy in her own right, having inherited the estate at Doinville in
the division of property between herself and her brother, she had led a
most pleasant existence, full of flirtations. But she was so correct,
and so frank in appearance, that she had remained arbiter in Rouennais
society.

At times, and by taste, she had flirted with members of the bench.
She had been receiving the judicial world, at the château, for the
last five-and-twenty years--all that swarm of functionaries at the
Law Courts whom her carriages brought from Rouen and carried back in
one continual round of festivities. At present, she had not calmed
down; she was credited with displaying maternal tenderness for a young
substitute, son of a judge at the Court of Appeal, M. Chaumette. Whilst
working for the advancement of the son, she showered invitations and
acts of kindness on the father. She had, moreover, preserved an admirer
of the old days, also a judge, and a bachelor, M. Desbazeilles, the
literary glory of the Rouen Court of Appeal, whose cleverly turned
sonnets were on every tongue. For years he had a room at Doinville.
Now, although more than sixty, he still went to dinner there, as an
old comrade, whose rheumatism only permitted him the recollection of
his past gallantry. She thus maintained her regal state by her good
grace, in spite of threatening old age, and no one thought of wresting
it from her. Not before the previous winter had she felt a rival, a
Madame Leboucq, the wife of another judge, whose house began to be much
frequented by members of the bench. This circumstance gave a tinge of
melancholy to her habitually gay life.

"Then, madam, if you will permit me," resumed M. Denizet, "I'll just
ask you a few questions."

The examination of the Lachesnayes was at an end, but he did not send
them away. His cold, mournful apartment was taking the aspect of a
fashionable drawing-room. The phlegmatic registrar again prepared to
write.

"One witness spoke of a telegram your brother is supposed to have
received, summoning him at once to Doinville. We have found no trace of
this wire. Did you happen to write to him, madam?"

Madame Bonnehon, quite at ease, gave her answer as if engaged in a
friendly chat.

"I did not write to my brother," said she, "I was expecting him. I knew
he would be coming, but no date was fixed. He usually came suddenly,
and generally by a night train. As he lodged in a pavilion apart, in
the park, opening on a deserted lane, we never even heard him arrive.
He engaged a trap at Barentin, and only put in an appearance the
following day, sometimes very late, like a neighbour in residence
for a long time, who looked in on a visit. If I expected him on this
occasion, it was because he had to bring me a sum of 10,000 frcs., the
balance of an account we had together. He certainly had the 10,000
frcs. on him. And that is why I have always been of opinion that
whoever killed him, simply did so for the purpose of robbing him."

The magistrate allowed a short silence to follow; then, looking her in
the face, he inquired:

"What do you think of Madame Roubaud and her husband?"

Madame Bonnehon, making a rapid gesture of protestation, exclaimed:

"Ah! no! my dear Monsieur Denizet, you must not allow yourself to be
led astray again, in regard to those worthy people. Séverine was a good
little girl, very gentle, very docile even, and, moreover, delightfully
pretty, which was no disadvantage. It is my opinion, as you seem
anxious for me to repeat what I have already said, that she and her
husband are incapable of a bad action."

He nodded in approbation. He triumphed. And he cast a glance towards
Madame de Lachesnaye. The latter, piqued, took upon herself to
intervene.

"I think you are very easy for them, aunt!" she exclaimed.

"Let be, Berthe," answered the latter; "we shall never agree on this
subject. She was gay, fond of mirth; and quite right too. I am well
aware of what you and your husband think. But really, the question of
interest must have turned your heads, for you to be so astounded at
this legacy of La Croix-de-Maufras from your father to poor Séverine.
He brought her up, he gave her a marriage portion, and it was only
natural he should mention her in his will. Did he not look upon her as
his own daughter? Come! Ah! my dear, money counts for very little in
the matter of happiness!"

She, indeed, having always been very rich, was absolutely
disinterested. Moreover, with the refinement of a beautiful woman who
was very much admired, she affected to think beauty and love the only
things worth living for.

"It was Roubaud who spoke of the telegram," remarked M. de Lachesnaye
drily. "If there was no telegram, the President could not have told him
he had received one. Why did Roubaud lie?"

"But," exclaimed M. Denizet with feeling, "the President may have
invented this story of the telegram, himself, to explain his sudden
departure to the Roubauds! According to their own evidence, he was
only to leave the next day; and, as he was in the same train as they
were, he had to give some explanation, if he did not wish to tell them
the real reason, which we all ignore, for that matter. This is without
importance; it leads to naught."

Another silence ensued. When the magistrate continued, he displayed
much calm and precaution.

"I am now, madam," said he, "about to approach a particularly delicate
matter, and I must beg you to excuse the nature of my questions. No
one respects the memory of your brother more than myself. There were
certain reports, were there not? It was pretended he had irregular
connections."

Madame Bonnehon was smiling again with boundless toleration.

"Oh! my dear sir, consider his age! My brother became a widower early.
I never considered I had the right to interfere with what he thought
fit to do. He therefore lived as he chose, without my meddling with his
existence in any way. What I do know is that he maintained his rank,
and that to the end, he mixed in the best society."

Berthe, choking at the idea that they should talk of her father's
left-handed connections in her presence, had cast down her eyes; whilst
her husband, as uneasy as herself, had moved to the window, turning his
back on the company.

"Excuse me if I persist," said M. Denizet; "but was there not some
story about a young housemaid you had in your service?"

"Oh! yes, Louisette. But, my dear sir, she was a depraved little
creature who, at fourteen, was on terms of intimacy with an ex-convict.
An attempt was made to cause a set out against my brother, in
connection with her death. It was infamous. I'll tell you the whole
story."

No doubt she spoke in good faith. Although she knew all about the
President's habits, and had not been surprised at his tragic death,
she felt the necessity of defending the high position of the family.
Moreover, in regard to this unfortunate business about Louisette, if
she thought him quite capable of having made advances to the young
girl, she was also convinced of her precocious depravity.

"Picture to yourself a tiny thing, oh! so small, so delicate, blonde
and rosy as a little angel, and gentle as well--the gentleness of a
saint, to whom one would have given the sacrament without confession.
Well, before she was fourteen, she became the sweetheart of a sort
of brute, a quarryman, named Cabuche, who had just done five years'
imprisonment for killing a man in a wine-shop. This fellow lived like
a savage on the fringe of Bécourt forest, where his father, who had
died of grief, had left him a hut made of trunks of trees and earth.
There he obstinately worked a part of the abandoned quarries, that
formerly, I believe, supplied half the stone with which Rouen is built.
And it was in this lair that the girl went to join her ruffian, of
whom everyone in the district were so afraid that he lived absolutely
alone, like a leper. Frequently they were met together, roving through
the woods, holding one another by the hand; she so dainty, he huge and
bestial--briefly, a depravity one would hardly have believed possible.
Naturally, I only heard of all this later. I had taken Louisette into
my service almost out of charity, to do a good action. Her family,
those Misards, whom I knew to be poor, were very careful to conceal
from me that they had soundly flogged the child, without being able to
prevent her running off to her Cabuche, as soon as a door stood open.

"My brother had no servants of his own at Doinville. Louisette and
another woman did the housework in the detached pavilion which he
occupied. One morning, when she had gone there alone, she disappeared.
To my mind, she had premeditated her flight long before. Perhaps her
lover awaited her, and carried her off. But the horrifying part of the
business was that five days later, came the report of the death of
Louisette, along with details of a rape, attempted by my brother, under
such monstrous circumstances that the child, out of her mind, had gone
to Cabuche, where she had died of brain fever. What had happened? So
many different versions were put about that it is difficult to say.
For my part, I believe that Louisette, who really died of pernicious
fever, for this was established by a doctor, had been guilty of some
imprudence, such as sleeping out in the open air, or wandering like a
vagabond among the marshes. You, my dear sir, you cannot, yourself,
conceive my brother torturing this mite of a girl. It is odious,
impossible."

M. Denizet had listened to this version of the business without either
approving or disapproving. And Madame Bonnehon experienced some slight
embarrassment in coming to an end. But, making up her mind, she added:

"Of course, I do not mean to say that my brother did not joke with
her. He liked young people. He was very gay, notwithstanding his rigid
exterior. Briefly, let us say he kissed her."

At this word, the Lachesnayes protested in virtuous indignation.

"Oh! aunt, aunt!"

But she shrugged her shoulders. Why should she tell the magistrate
falsehoods?

"He kissed her, tickled her, perhaps. There is no crime in that. And
what makes me admit this, is that the invention does not come from the
quarryman. Louisette must be the falsehood-teller, the vicious creature
who exaggerated things, in order to get her lover to keep her with him,
perhaps. So that the latter, a brute, as I have told you, ended in
good faith by imagining that we had killed his sweetheart. In fact he
was mad with rage, and repeated in all the drinking-places that if the
President fell into his hands, he would bleed him like a pig."

The magistrate, who had been silent up to then, interrupted her sharply.

"He said that? Are there any witnesses to prove it?"

"Oh! my dear sir, you will be able to find as many as you please. In
conclusion, it was a very sad business, and caused us a great deal of
annoyance. Fortunately, the position of my brother placed him beyond
suspicion."

Madame Bonnehon had just discovered the new clue that M. Denizet was
following, and this made her rather anxious. She preferred not to
venture further, by questioning him in her turn. He had risen, and
said he would not take any further advantage of the civility of the
family in their painful position. By his orders, the registrar read
over the examinations of the witnesses, before they signed them. They
were perfectly correct, so thoroughly purged of all unnecessary and
entangling words that Madame Bonnehon, with her pen in her hand, cast
a glance of benevolent surprise at this pallid, bony Laurent, whom she
had not yet looked at.

Then, as the magistrate accompanied her, along with her niece and
nephew-in-law, to the door, she pressed his hands with the remark:

"I shall soon see you again, I hope. You know you are always welcome
at Doinville. And, thanks for coming; you are one of my last faithful
ones."

Her smile became quite melancholy. But her niece, who had walked out
stiffly the first, had only made a slight inclination of her head to
the magistrate.

When they were gone M. Denizet breathed for a moment. He remained
on his feet, thinking. To his mind the matter was becoming clear.
Grandmorin, whose reputation was well known, had certainly acted
improperly. This made the inquiry a delicate matter. He determined to
be more prudent than ever, until the communication he was expecting
from the Ministry reached him. But none the less, he triumphed; anyhow
he held the culprit.

When he had resumed his seat at the writing-table, he rang up the usher.

"Bring me the driver Jacques Lantier," said he.

The Roubauds were still waiting on the bench in the corridor, with
fixed countenances, as if their protracted patience had set them
dozing; but their faces were occasionally disturbed by a nervous
twitch, and the voice of the usher, calling Jacques, seemed to make
them slightly shudder, as they roused themselves. They followed the
driver with expanded eyes, watching him disappear in the room of the
magistrate. Then they fell into their former attitude--paler, and
silent.

For the last three weeks, Jacques had been pursued by the uncomfortable
feeling that all this business might end by turning against him. This
was unreasonable, for there was naught he could reproach himself
with, not even with keeping silent. And yet he entered the room of
the examining-magistrate with that little creeping sensation of a
guilty person, who fears his crime may be discovered, and he defended
himself against the questions that were put to him; he was cautious in
his answers, lest he might say too much. He, also, might have killed;
was this not visible in his eyes? Nothing was so repugnant to him as
these summonses to the justice-room. He experienced a sort of anger
at receiving them, saying he was anxious to be no longer tormented by
matters that did not concern him.

But, on this occasion, M. Denizet only dwelt upon the subject of the
description of the murderer. Jacques, being the single witness who had
caught sight of him, could alone supply precise information. But he did
not depart from what he had said at his first examination. He repeated
that the scene of the murder had been a vision which had barely lasted
a second, a picture that came and went so rapidly that it had remained
as if without form, in the abstract, in his recollection. It was merely
one man slaughtering another, and nothing more. For half an hour, the
judge pestered him with patient persistence, questioning him in every
imaginable sense. Was he a big or a small man? Had he a beard? Did he
wear his hair long or short? What were his clothes like? To what class
of people did he appear to belong? And Jacques, who was uneasy, only
gave vague replies.

"Look here," abruptly inquired M. Denizet, staring him full in the
eyes, "if he were shown to you, would you recognise him?"

He blinked slightly, seized with anguish under the influence of that
piercing gaze, searching in his very brain. His conscience spoke aloud:

"Know him? Yes, perhaps."

But, immediately, his strange fear of unconscious complicity plunged
him into his evasive system again, and he continued:

"But no; I don't think so. I should never dare say positively. Just
reflect! A speed of sixty miles an hour!"

With a gesture of discouragement, the magistrate was about to send him
into the adjoining room to keep him at his disposal, when, changing his
mind, he said:

"Remain here. Sit down."

And, ringing for the usher, he told him to introduce M. and Madame
Roubaud.

As soon as they were at the doorway and saw Jacques, their eyes
lost their brilliancy in a feeling of vacillating anxiety. Had he
spoken? Was he detained so as to be confronted with them? All their
self-assurance vanished at the knowledge that he was there, and it was
in a rather low voice that they began to give their answers. But the
magistrate had simply turned to their first examination. They merely
had to repeat the same sentences, almost identical, whilst M. Denizet
listened with bowed head, without even looking at them. All at once, he
turned to Séverine.

"Madam," said he, "you told the commissary of police at the railway
station, whose report I have here, that you had the idea, that a man
got into the coupé at Rouen, as the train began to move."

She was thunderstruck. Why did he recall that? Was it a snare? Was he
about to compare one answer with another, and so make her contradict
herself? And, with a glance, she consulted her husband who prudently
intervened.

"I do not think my wife was quite so positive, sir," he remarked.

"Excuse me," replied the magistrate, "you suggested the thing was
possible, and madam said, 'That is certainly what happened.' Now,
madam, I want to know whether you had any particular reasons for
speaking as you did?"

She was now completely upset, convinced that if she did not take care,
he would, from one answer to another, bring her to a confession.
Howbeit, she could not remain silent.

"Oh! no, sir!" she exclaimed; "no reason. I merely said that by way of
argument, because, in fact, it is difficult to explain the matter in
any other way."

"Then you did not see the man. You can tell us nothing about him?"

"No, no, sir, nothing!"

M. Denizet seemed to abandon this point in the inquiry. But he at once
returned to it with Roubaud.

"And you? How is it that you did not see the man, if he really got into
the coupé, for, according to your own deposition, you were talking to
the victim when they whistled to send the train off?"

This persistence had the effect of terrifying the assistant
station-master, in his anxiety to decide what course he ought to
take--whether he should set aside his invention about the other man,
or obstinately cling to it. If they had proofs against himself, the
theory concerning the unknown murderer could hardly be maintained,
and might even aggravate his own case. He gained time, until he could
understand what was going on, answering in detail with confused
explanations.

"It is really unfortunate," resumed M. Denizet, "that your recollection
is not more distinct, for you might help us to put an end to suspicions
that have spread to several persons."

This seemed such a direct thrust at Roubaud that he felt an
irresistible desire to establish his own innocence. Imagining himself
discovered, he immediately made up his mind.

"This point is so thoroughly a matter of conscience," said he, "that
one hesitates, you understand; nothing is more natural. Supposing I
were to confess to you that I really believe I saw the man----"

The magistrate gave a gesture of triumph, thinking this commencement of
frankness due to his own ability. He had frequently remarked that he
knew, by experience, what strange difficulty some witnesses found in
divulging what they knew, and he flattered himself he could make this
class of people unburden themselves, in spite of all.

"Go on. How was he? Short, tall, about your own height?"

"Oh! no, no, much taller. At least, that was my sensation, for it was a
simple sensation, an individual I am almost sure I brushed against, as
I ran back to my own carriage."

"Wait a moment," said M. Denizet.

And, turning to Jacques, he inquired:

"The man you caught sight of, with the knife in his hand, was he taller
than Monsieur Roubaud?"

The driver, who was impatient, for he began to be afraid he would not
catch the five o'clock train, raised his eyes and examined Roubaud.
And, it seemed to him, that he had never looked at him before. He was
astonished to find him short, powerful, with a peculiar profile he had
seen elsewhere, perhaps in a dream.

"No," he murmured, "not taller; about the same height."

But the assistant station master vehemently protested.

"Oh! much taller! At least a head."

Jacques fixed his eyes, wide open, upon him. And under the influence
of this look, wherein he read increasing surprise, Roubaud became
agitated, as if to change his own appearance; while his wife also
followed the dull effort of memory expressed by the face of the young
man. Clearly the latter was astonished. First of all, at certain
analogies between Roubaud and the murderer. Then he abruptly became
positive that Roubaud was the assassin, as had been reported. He
now seemed troubled at this discovery, and stood there with gaping
countenance, unable to decide what to do. If he spoke, the couple were
lost. The eyes of Roubaud had met his. They penetrated one another to
their innermost thoughts. There came a silence.

"Then you do not agree?" resumed M. Denizet, addressing Jacques. "If,
in your sight, he appeared shorter, it was no doubt because he was bent
in the struggle with his victim."

He also looked at the two men. It had not occurred to him to make use
of this confrontation; but, by professional instinct, he felt, at this
moment, that truth was flitting away. His confidence was even shaken
in the Cabuche clue. Could it be possible that the Lachesnayes were
right? Could it be possible that the guilty parties, contrary to all
appearance, were this upright employé, and his gentle young wife?

"Did the man wear all his beard, like you?" he inquired of Roubaud.

The latter had the strength to answer in a steady voice:

"All his beard? No, no! I think he had no beard at all."

Jacques understood that the same question was about to be put to him.
What should he say? He could have sworn the man had a full beard. After
all, he was not interested in these people, why not tell the truth?
But as he took his eyes off the husband, he met those of the wife, and
in her look he read such ardent supplication, such an absolute gift of
all her being, that he felt quite overcome. His old shiver came on him.
Did he love her? Was she the one he could love, as one loves for love's
sake, without a monstrous desire for destruction? And, at this moment,
by singular counter-action in his trouble, it seemed to him that his
memory had become obscured. He no longer saw the murderer in Roubaud.
The vision was again vague; he doubted, and to such an extent that he
mortally regretted having spoken.

M. Denizet put the question:

"Had the man a full beard like Monsieur Roubaud?"

And he replied in good faith:

"Sir, in truth, I cannot say. Once more, it was too rapid: I know
nothing. I will affirm nothing."

But M. Denizet proved tenacious, for he wished to clear up the
suspicion cast on the assistant station-master. He plied both Roubaud
and the driver with questions, and ended by getting a complete
description of the murderer from the former: tall, robust, no beard,
attired in a blouse--quite the reverse of his own appearance in every
particular. But the driver only answered in evasive monosyllables,
which imparted strength to the statements of the other. And the
magistrate returned to the conviction he had formed at first. He was on
the right track. The portrait the witness drew of the assassin was so
exact that each new feature added to the certainty. It was the crushing
testimony of this unjustly suspected couple, that would lay the head of
the culprit low.

"Step in there," said he to the Roubauds and Jacques, showing them into
the adjoining room, when they had signed their examinations. "Wait till
I call you."

He immediately gave orders for the prisoner to be brought in, and
he was so delighted, that he went to the length of remarking to his
registrar:

"Laurent, we've got him."

But the door had opened, two gendarmes had appeared bringing in a
great, big fellow between twenty-five and thirty. At a sign from the
magistrate, they withdrew, and Cabuche, bewildered, remained alone
in the centre of the apartment, bristling like a wild beast at bay.
He was a sturdy, thick-necked fellow, with enormous fists, and fair,
with a very white skin. He had hardly any hair on his face, barely a
golden down, curly and silken. The massive features, the low forehead,
indicated the violent character of a being of limited brains, but a
sort of desire to be tenderly submissive was shown in the broad mouth
and square nose, as in those of a good dog.

Seized brutally in his den in the early morning, torn from his forest,
exasperated at accusations which he did not understand, he had already,
with his wild look and rent blouse, all the suspicious air of a
prisoner in the dock--that air of a cunning bandit which the jail gives
to the most honest man. Night was drawing in, the room was dark, and he
had slunk into the shadow, when the usher brought a big lamp, having a
globe without a shade, whose bright light lit up his countenance. Then
he remained uncovered, and motionless.

M. Denizet at once fixed his great, heavy-lidded eyes on him. And he
did not speak. This was the dumb engagement, the preliminary trial of
his power, before entering on the warfare of the savage, the warfare
of stratagem, of snares, of moral torture. This man was the culprit,
everything became lawful against him. He had now no other right than
that of confessing his crime.

The cross-examination commenced very slowly.

"Do you know of what crime you are accused?"

Cabuche, in a voice thick with impotent anger, grumbled:

"No one has told me, but I can easily guess. There has been enough talk
about it!"

"You knew Monsieur Grandmorin?"

"Yes, yes; I knew him, only too well!"

"A girl named Louisette, your sweetheart, went as housemaid to Madame
Bonnehon?"

The quarryman flew into a frightful rage. In his anger, he was ready to
shed blood.

"Those who say that," he exclaimed with an oath, "are liars! Louisette
was not my sweetheart."

The magistrate watched him lose his temper with curiosity. And giving a
turn to the examination, remarked:

"You are very violent. You were sentenced to five years' imprisonment
for killing a man in a quarrel?"

Cabuche hung his head. That sentence was his shame. He murmured:

"He struck first. I only did four years; they let me off one."

"So," resumed M. Denizet, "you pretend that the girl Louisette was not
your sweetheart?"

Again Cabuche clenched his fists. Then in a low, broken voice, he
replied:

"You must know that when I came back from there, she was a child, under
fourteen. At that time everyone fled from me. They would have stoned
me; and she, in the forest, where I was always meeting her, approached
me, and talked; she was so nice--oh! so nice! It was like that we
became friends; we walked about holding each other by the hand. It was
so pleasant--so pleasant in those days. Of course she was growing,
and I thought of her. I can't say the contrary. I was like a madman I
loved her so. She was very fond of me, too, and in the end what you
mean would have happened, but they separated her from me by placing
her at Doinville with this lady. Then, one night, on coming from the
quarry, I found her before my door, half out of her mind, so dreadfully
upset that she was burning with fever. She had not dared return to her
parents; she had come to die at my place. Ah! the pig! I ought to have
run and bled him at once!"

The magistrate pinched his artful lips, astonished at the sincere tone
of the man. Decidedly he would have to play a close game, he had to
deal with a stronger hand than he had thought.

"Yes," said he, "I know all about the frightful story that you and this
girl invented. Only, observe that the whole life of Monsieur Grandmorin
places him above your accusations."

Agitated, his eyes round with astonishment, his hands trembling, the
quarryman stammered:

"What? What did we invent? It's the others who lie, and we are accused
of doing so!"

"Indeed!" observed the examining-magistrate. "Do not try to act the
innocent. I have already questioned Misard, the man who married the
mother of your sweetheart. I will confront him with you if it be
necessary; you will see what he thinks of your tale, and be careful of
your answers. We have witnesses, we know all. You had much better tell
the truth."

These were his usual tactics of intimidation, even when he knew
nothing, and had no witnesses.

"Now, do you deny having shouted out in public, everywhere, that you
would bleed Monsieur Grandmorin?" inquired M. Denizet.

"Ah! as to that, yes, I did say it. And I said it from the bottom of my
heart; for my hand was jolly well itching to do it!" answered Cabuche.

M. Denizet stopped short in surprise, having expected to meet with a
system of complete denial. What! the accused owned up to the threats?
What stratagem did that conceal? Fearing he might have been too hasty,
he collected himself a moment, then, staring Cabuche full in the face,
he abruptly put this question to him:

"What were you doing on the night of the 14th to the 15th of February?"

"I went to bed at dark, about six o'clock," replied the quarryman. "I
was rather unwell, and my cousin Louis did me the service to take a
load of stones to Doinville."

"Yes, your cousin was seen, with the cart, passing over the line at the
level crossing," remarked the magistrate; "but on being questioned, he
could only make one reply, namely, that you left him about noon, and he
did not see you again. Prove to me that you were in bed at six o'clock."

"Look here, that's stupid," protested Cabuche. "I cannot prove that. I
live all alone in a house at the edge of the forest. I was there, I say
so, and nothing more."

Then M. Denizet decided on playing his trump card of assertion, which
was calculated to impose on the party. His face, by a tension of will,
became rigid, whilst his mouth performed the scene.

"I am going to tell you what you did on the night of February 14th,"
said he. "At three o'clock in the afternoon, you took the train for
Rouen, at Barentin, with what object the inquiry has not revealed. You
had the intention of returning by the Paris train, which stops at Rouen
at 9.03; and while on the platform, amid the crowd, you caught sight of
Monsieur Grandmorin in his coupé. Observe that I am willing to admit
there was no laying in wait for the victim, that the idea of the crime
only occurred to you when you saw him. You entered the coupé, thanks
to the crush, and waited until you were in the Malaunay tunnel. But
you miscalculated the time, for the train was issuing from the tunnel
when you dealt the blow. And you threw out the corpse, and you left the
train at Barentin, after having got rid of the travelling-rug as well.
That is what you did."

He watched for the slightest ripple on the rosy face of Cabuche, and
was irritated when the latter, who had been very attentive at first,
ended by bursting into a hearty laugh.

"What's that you're relating?" he exclaimed. "If I'd struck the blow
I'd say so."

Then he quietly added:

"I did not do it, but I ought to have done it. Yes, I'm sorry I didn't."

And that was all M. Denizet could get out of him. In vain did he repeat
his questions, returning ten times to the same points by different
tactics. No; always no! it was not he. He shrugged his shoulders,
saying the idea was stupid. On arresting him they had searched the
hovel, without discovering either weapon, banknotes, or watch. But
they had laid hands on a pair of trousers, soiled with a few drops of
blood--an overwhelming proof.

Again he began to laugh. That was another pretty yarn! A rabbit,
caught in a noose, had bled down his leg! And it was the magistrate
who, in his unswerving conviction of the guilt of the prisoner, was
losing ground by the display of too much professional astuteness, by
complicating matters, by deposing simple truth. This man of small
brains, incapable of holding his own in an effort of cunning, of
invincible strength when he said no, always no, almost drove him
crazy; for he was positive of the culpability of the man, and each
fresh denial made him the more indignant at what he looked upon as
obstinate perseverance in savagery and lies. He would force him into
contradicting himself.

"So you deny it?" he said.

"Of course I do, because it was not me," said Cabuche. "Had it been,
ah! I should be only too proud, I should say it was me."

M. Denizet abruptly rose, and opened the door of the small adjoining
room. When he had summoned Jacques, he inquired:

"Do you recognise this man?"

"I know him," answered the driver, surprised. "I've seen him formerly
at the Misards."

"No, no," said the magistrate. "Do you recognise him as the man in the
coupé, the murderer?"

At once, Jacques became circumspect. As a matter of fact, he did not
recognise the man. The other seemed to him shorter, darker. He was
about to say so, when it struck him that even this might be going too
far. And he continued evasively.

"I don't know, I can't say; I assure you, sir, that I cannot say."

M. Denizet, without waiting, called the Roubauds in their turn, and put
the same question to them.

"Do you recognise this man?"

Cabuche continued smiling. He was not surprised. He nodded to
Séverine, whom he had known as a young girl when she resided at
La Croix-de-Maufras. But she and her husband had felt a pang, on
perceiving him there. They understood. This was the man taken into
custody, of whom Jacques had spoken, the prisoner who had caused
this fresh examination. And Roubaud was astounded, terrified at the
resemblance of this fellow to the imaginary murderer, whose description
he had invented, the reverse of his own. It was pure chance, but it so
troubled him that he hesitated to reply.

"Come, do you recognise him?" repeated the magistrate.

"Sir," answered Roubaud, "I can only say again that it was a simple
sensation, an individual who brushed against me. Of course this man is
tall, like the other, and he is fair, and has no beard."

"Anyhow, do you recognise him?" asked M. Denizet again.

"I cannot say positively. But there is a resemblance, a good deal of
resemblance, certainly."

This time Cabuche began to swear. He had had enough of these yarns. As
he was not the culprit, he wanted to be off. And the blood flying to
his head, he struck the table with his fists. He became so terrible
that the gendarmes, who were called in, led him away. But in presence
of this violence, of this leap of the beast who dashes forward
when attacked, M. Denizet triumphed. His conviction was now firmly
established, and he allowed this to be seen.

"Did you notice his eyes?" he inquired. "It's by the eyes that I tell
them. Ah! his measure is full. We've got him!"

The Roubauds, remaining motionless, exchanged glances. What now? It
was all over. As justice had the culprit in its grip, they were saved.
They felt a trifle bewildered, their consciences were pricked at the
part events had just compelled them to play. But overwhelmed with joy,
they made short work of their scruples, and they smiled at Jacques.
Considerably relieved, eager for the open air, they were waiting for
the magistrate to dismiss all three of them, when the usher brought him
a letter.

In a moment M. Denizet, oblivious of the three witnesses, was at his
writing-table, perusing the communication. It was the letter from the
Ministry containing the indications he should have had the patience
to await before resuming the inquiry. What he read must have lessened
his feeling of triumph, for his countenance, little by little, became
frigid, and resumed its sad immobility. At a certain moment he raised
his head, to cast a glance sideways at the Roubauds, as if one of the
phrases reminded him of them. The latter, bereft of their brief joy,
once more became a prey to uneasiness, feeling themselves caught again.

Why had he looked at them? Had the three lines of writing--that clumsy
note which haunted them--been found in Paris? Séverine was well
acquainted with M. Camy-Lamotte, having frequently seen him at the
house of the President, and she was aware that he had been entrusted
with the duty of sorting his papers. Roubaud was tortured by the
keenest regret that the idea had not occurred to him to dispatch his
wife to Paris, where she might have paid useful visits, and at the
least made sure of the support of the secretary to the Ministry, in
case the company, annoyed at the nasty rumours in circulation, should
think of dismissing him. Thenceforth, neither of them took their eyes
off the magistrate, and their anxiety increased as they noticed him
become gloomy, visibly disconcerted at this letter which upset all his
good day's work.

At last, M. Denizet left the letter, and for a moment remained
absorbed, his eyes wide open, resting on the Roubauds and Jacques.
Then, submitting to the inevitable, speaking aloud to himself, he
exclaimed:

"Well, we shall see! We shall have to return to all this! You can
withdraw."

But as the three were going out, he could not resist the desire to
learn more, to throw light on the grave point which destroyed his new
theory, although he was recommended to do nothing further, without
previously coming to an understanding with the authorities.

"No; you remain here a minute," said he, addressing the driver. "I've
another question to put to you."

The Roubauds stopped in the corridor. They were free, and yet they
could not go. Something detained them there: the anguish to learn what
was passing in the magistrate's room, the physical impossibility to
depart before ascertaining from Jacques, what the other question was
that had been put to him. They turned and turned, they beat time with
their worn out legs; and they found themselves again side by side, on
the bench where they had already waited for hours. There they sat,
downcast and silent.

When the driver reappeared, Roubaud rose with effort.

"We were waiting for you," said he. "We'll go to the station together.
Well?"

But Jacques turned his head aside, in embarrassment, as if wishing to
avoid the eyes of Séverine which were fixed on him.

"He's all at sea, floundering about," he ended by saying. "Look here,
he is now asking me whether there were not two who did the deed. And,
as at Havre, I spoke of a black mass weighing on the old chap's legs.
He questioned me on the point; he seems to fancy it was only the rug.
Then he sent for it, and I had to express an opinion. Well, now, yes,
when I come to think, perhaps it was the rug."

The Roubauds shuddered. They were on their track; one word from this
man might ruin them. He certainly knew, and he would end by talking.
And all three, the woman between the two men, left the Law Courts in
silence. In the street the assistant station-master observed: "By the
way, comrade, my wife will be obliged to go to Paris, for a day, on
business. It would be very good of you, if you would look after her,
should she be in need of someone."

CHAPTER V

Precisely at 11.15, the advertised time, the signalman at the Pont
de l'Europe, gave the two regulation blows of the horn, to announce
the Havre express, which issued from the Batignolles tunnel. Soon
afterwards the turn-tables rattled, and the train entered the station
with a short whistle, grating on the brakes, smoking, shining, dripping
with the beating rain that had not ceased since leaving Rouen.

The porters had not yet turned the handles of the doors, when one
of them opened, and Séverine sprang lightly to the platform, before
the train had stopped. Her carriage was at the end. To reach the
locomotive, she had to hurry through the swarm of passengers,
embarrassed by children and packages, who had suddenly left the
compartments. Jacques stood there, erect on the foot-plate, waiting to
go to the engine-house; while Pecqueux wiped the brasswork with a cloth.

"So it is understood," said she, on tiptoe. "I will be at the Rue
Cardinet at three o'clock, and you will have the kindness to introduce
me to your chief, so that I may thank him."

This was the pretext imagined by Roubaud: a visit to the head of the
depôt at Batignolles, to thank him for some vague service he had
rendered. In this manner she would find herself confided to the good
friendship of the driver. She could strengthen the bonds, and exert her
influence over him.

But Jacques, black with coal, drenched with water, exhausted by the
struggle against rain and wind, stared at her with his harsh eyes,
without answering. On leaving Havre, he had been unable to refuse the
request of the husband to look after her; and this idea of finding
himself alone in her company upset him, for he now felt that he was
very decidedly falling in love with her.

"Is that right?" she resumed, smiling, with her sweet, caressing look,
overcoming her surprise and slight repugnance at finding him so dirty,
barely recognisable. "Is that right? I shall rely on your being there."

And, as she raised herself a little higher, resting her gloved hand on
one of the iron handles, Pecqueux obligingly interfered:

"Take care, you will dirty yourself," said he.

Then Jacques had to answer, and he did so in a surly tone.

"Yes, Rue Cardinet, unless I get drowned in this abominable rain. What
horrid weather!"

She felt touched at his wretched appearance, and added, as if he had
suffered solely for her:

"Oh! what a dreadful state you are in! And I was so comfortable. I was
thinking of you, you know; and that deluge of rain quite distressed
me. I felt very pleased at the idea that you were bringing me up this
morning, and would take me back to-night, by the express."

But this familiarity, so tender and so nice, only seemed to trouble him
the more. He appeared relieved when a voice shouted, "Back!" Promptly
he blew the whistle, while the fireman made a sign to the young woman
to stand back.

"At three o'clock!"

"Yes; at three o'clock!"

And as the locomotive moved along, Séverine left the platform, the last
of the passengers. Outside, in the Rue d'Amsterdam, as she was about
to open her umbrella, she was glad to find it had ceased raining. She
walked down to the Place du Havre, where she stood reflecting for an
instant, and at last decided that it would be best to lunch at once.
It was twenty-five minutes past eleven. She stepped into a little
restaurant at the corner of the Rue Saint Lazare, where she ordered a
couple of fried eggs and a cutlet. Then, whilst eating very slowly, she
fell into reflections that had been haunting her for weeks, her face
pale and cloudy, and bereft of its docile, seductive smile.

It was on the previous evening, two days after their examination at
Rouen, that Roubaud, judging it dangerous to wait, had resolved to
send her on a visit to M. Camy-Lamotte, not at the Ministry, but at
his private residence, Rue du Rocher, where he occupied a house close
to that of the late President Grandmorin. She knew she would find him
there at one o'clock, and she did not hurry. She was preparing what she
should say, endeavouring to foresee what he would answer, so as not to
get troubled at anything that might transpire.

The evening before, a new cause of anxiety had hastened her journey.
They had learnt, from gossip at the station, that Madame Lebleu and
Philomène were relating everywhere that the company was going to
dismiss Roubaud, who was considered involved. And the worst of it was
that M. Dabadie, who had been questioned point blank, had not answered
no, which gave considerable weight to the news. From that moment it
became urgent that she should hurry off to Paris to plead their cause,
and particularly to solicit the protection of the powerful personage in
question, as on former occasions she had sought that of the President.

But, apart from this request, which anyhow would serve to explain her
visit, there was a more imperative motive--a burning and insatiable
hankering to know, that hankering which drives the criminal to give
himself away rather than remain ignorant. The uncertainty was killing
them, now that they felt themselves discovered, since Jacques had
told them of the suspicion which the judicial authorities seemed to
entertain of there being an accomplice. They were lost in conjectures:
had the letter been found, the facts established? Hour by hour they
expected a search would be made at their lodgings, that they would be
arrested; and their burden became so heavy, the least occurrence in
their surroundings assumed an air of such alarming menace, that in the
end they preferred the catastrophe to this constant apprehension, to
have a certainty and no longer suffer.

When Séverine had finished her cutlet, she was so absorbed that she
awoke almost with a start to reality, astonished to find herself in a
public room. Everything seemed bitter. Her food stuck in her throat,
and she had no heart to take coffee. Although she had eaten slowly, it
was barely a quarter past twelve, when she left the restaurant. Another
three-quarters of an hour to kill! She who adored Paris, who was so
fond of rambling through the streets, freely, on the rare occasions
when she visited the capital, now felt lost, timid, and was full of
impatience to have done with the place and hide herself. The pavements
were already drying; a warm wind was driving away the last clouds.

Taking the Rue Tronchet, she found herself at the flower-market of the
Madeleine, one of those March markets, all abloom with primroses and
azaleas, in the dull days of expiring winter. She sauntered for half
an hour, amidst this premature spring, resuming her vague reflections,
thinking of Jacques as an enemy whom she must disarm. It seemed to
her that she had paid her visit to the Rue du Rocher, that all had
gone well in that quarter, that the only thing remaining was to ensure
the silence of this man; and this was a complicated undertaking that
bewildered her, and set her head labouring at romantic plans. But these
caused her no worry, no terror; on the contrary she experienced a
sweet, soothing feeling. Then, abruptly, she saw the time by a clock
at a kiosk: ten minutes past one. She had not yet performed her errand;
and, harshly recalled to the agony of reality, she hastened in the
direction of the Rue du Rocher.

The residence of M. Camy-Lamotte was at the corner of this street and
the Rue de Naples, and Séverine had to pass by the house of Grandmorin,
which stood silent, tenantless, and with closed shutters. Raising her
eyes, she hurried on. She recollected her last visit. The great house
towered up, terrible, before her, and when a little further on, she
instinctively turned round, to look behind, like a person pursued by
the shouts of a crowd, she was startled to perceive M. Denizet, the
examining-magistrate at Rouen, who was also coming up the street, on
the opposite side of the way. The thrill she experienced brought her
to a standstill. Had he noticed her casting a glance at the house? He
was walking along quietly, and she allowed him to get ahead of her,
following him in great trouble. She received another shock when she saw
him ring at the corner of the Rue de Naples, at the residence of M.
Camy-Lamotte.

She felt terrified. She would never dare enter now. She turned on her
heel, cut through the Rue d'Edimbourg, and descended as far as the
Pont de l'Europe. It was not until then, that she felt herself secure.
And, quite distracted, not knowing where to go nor what to do, she
leant motionless against one of the balustrades, gazing below, across
the iron sheds, at the vast station, where the trains were constantly
performing evolutions. She followed them with her anxious eyes. She