by Emile Zola
Then came an endless stream of questions. He wanted to know everything, down to the very last detail. He used words that sank below the level of decency and he asked her things that broke the bounds of all modesty. She kept her mouth tightly closed, answering him with a mere nod or shake of the head, thinking that perhaps it might make it easier for both of them once the story was out. But for him every new revelation intensified his suffering. If she had taken a lover and had a normal affair, the images that now came to torment him would have disturbed him less. But this was something unnatural; it curdled his mind and drove the poisoned blade of jealousy twisting and turning deep inside him. Life was no longer possible; the awful truth would be with him for ever.
A loud sob came from his throat: ‘Good God! It can’t be true! No! It’s not possible! It can’t be true!’
He shook her violently.
‘Why did you marry me, you bitch? Why did you lie to me, damn you? There are women locked up in prison with less on their conscience than you! You hated me, didn’t you? You never loved me, did you? Why did you marry me? Tell me!’
She waved a hand vaguely. How could she answer him? Just then she hardly knew anything.
She had been happy to marry him at the time and she had hoped it would enable her to get away from Grandmorin. There were all sorts of things that you didn’t particularly want to do, but that you did all the same, because they seemed the most sensible at the time. No, she didn’t love him. What she refrained from telling him, though, was that, had it not been for this business with Grandmorin, she would never have agreed to marry him at all.
‘He wanted to fix you up with a husband, didn’t he? And he found a right mug! He wanted to set things up so that he could carry on seeing you! And he has carried on seeing you, hasn’t he? You’ve been there twice. That’s what he wanted you for, wasn’t it?’
Once again she nodded.
‘And that’s why he was inviting you again this time, wasn’t it? You’d have gone on seeing him for ever, you dirty bitch! For ever and ever! I’ll strangle you!’
His hands were already clenched and reaching out to grab her by the throat. At last she managed to find her voice.
‘You’re not being fair,’ she said. ‘I was the one who said I didn’t want to go. It was you who kept on trying to make me — remember? I had to get annoyed with you to make you shut up. I’ve had enough of him. It’s over. Couldn’t you see? It’s finished. I never want anything more to do with him! Never!’
He sensed she was telling the truth, but it gave him no comfort. What had taken place between this man and her could not be altered. It remained, like a dagger planted in his chest, a searing pain that would not go away. He was powerless to undo what had been done, and it was an agony to him. He had still not taken his hands from her. He put his face up to hers, peering into her eyes as if mesmerized, drawn like an insect to probe the truth of her confession from the blood that pulsed through the tiny blue veins. He spoke quietly, as someone in a dream, someone obsessed.
‘At La Croix-de-Maufras! The red bedroom! I remember it. The window looks out on to the railway. The bed’s directly opposite. That’s where he ... No wonder he says he’s going to leave the place to you. You’ve earned it! He got a good bargain, putting your savings into the bank for you and giving you a dowry! A judge, worth millions! So respected! So learned! So high up! I’m not surprised he managed to turn a few heads! But what if it turned out he was your father?16 Tell me that.’
With an almighty effort Séverine pulled herself to her feet and, despite the pitifully bruised and battered condition she was in, angrily pushed Roubaud away from her.
‘Never!’ she shouted angrily. ‘Never say that! Beat me! Kill me! Do what you like with me! But never say that; it’s a lie!’
Roubaud still held on to her by one hand.
‘You must know something about it,’ he said. ‘You’re only getting so worked up because you think it might be true.’
She pulled her hand away from him and as she did so he felt the ring, the little snake with the ruby head that by now he had completely forgotten about. He tore it from her finger and in a renewed access of fury crushed it with his heel on the floor. He then walked up and down the room, saying nothing, stunned. Séverine collapsed on to the edge of the bed and sat watching him with big, frightened eyes. The terrible silence continued.
Roubaud’s fury had not abated; there would be a brief lull, but each time it came flooding back stronger than ever, as if he were drunk — wave upon wave of anger sweeping through him, making his head reel and leaving him dazed. He was no longer himself. He lashed out wildly at the air around him and lurched blindly about the room, the plaything of the violent storm that assailed him. He was driven by a single overriding need; he must appease the beast that raged within him. It was a physical need, urgent and imperious, like a craving for revenge which racked his body and would allow him no respite until it was sated.
As he paced the length of the room he beat his fists against his head, crying desperately, ‘What am I to do? What am I to do?’
He might have killed her there and then. But he hadn’t, and now the moment had gone. His cowardice at not killing her tormented him even more, for cowardice it was, and he knew it. He still desired her, the bitch; and that was why he hadn’t strangled her. But he couldn’t keep her now. So what was he to do? Send her packing? Throw her out on to the street and tell her never to come back? He realized he couldn’t do even that, and a new wave of revulsion swept over him, a feeling of awful sickness. What could he do? Was he simply to accept what she had told him, go back with her to Le Havre and carry on living the quiet life they’d had before, as if nothing had happened? It was impossible! He would rather he were dead! He would rather they were both dead! Why wait longer?
He was so overcome with the horror of it all that he was shouting louder and louder, like a man who had lost his senses, ‘What am I to do?’
Séverine sat watching him from the bed, her eyes wide with amazement. To her he had never been anything more than a friend, but she had loved him with all the steady, affectionate love that a friend can give. Seeing him now so distraught, she found herself beginning to pity him. She might have forgiven him the abuse and even the beating; but it was the sheer ferocity of his reaction that she could not understand. It left her feeling bewildered. She was by nature a docile, passive person. She was still only a girl when she had submitted to the gratification of an old man’s desire; later she had agreed to be married so that everything might be sorted out. She failed to understand how anyone could be so insanely jealous over little misdeeds that she now regretted with all her heart. There was not an ounce of vice in her; she had not known what it was to be sexually aroused. Despite all that had happened she had remained chaste, and retained some of the blissful naivety of a child. She now watched her husband pacing backwards and forwards and turning furiously about the room, as she might have watched a wolf, or some creature of a different species. What had got into him? She had never seen such anger in a man. What terrified her was the sense of an animal nature, something she had dimly perceived on previous occasions during the three years of their marriage, now unleashed, driven wild and ready to pounce. What could she say to him to prevent some awful catastrophe?
Each time he walked back across the room, he came to the foot of the bed and stood facing her. She waited for him as he came towards her. At last she plucked up her courage and spoke:
‘Love, listen to me ...’
But he didn’t hear her. He kept pacing the room, like a wisp of straw blown about in a gale.
‘What am I to do? What am I to do?’
Eventually she managed to seize his wrist and made him stand still for a moment.
‘Listen to me, love,’ she pleaded. ‘I was the one who didn’t want to go to Doinville. I would never have gone there again. Never! You’re the one I love.’
She spoke softly, trying to calm his temper, drawing him towards her
and raising her lips so that he might kiss her. He had fallen on to the bed beside her but he suddenly pushed her away, horrified.
‘So now you want to make love, you bitch! A moment ago you didn’t fancy it; you didn’t want me. And now you do, just so you can say you’ve got me back again! You think I can’t resist it, don’t you! Just because I’m a man! I’d sooner burn in hell! I’d sooner burn in hell, I tell you, than make love to the likes of you!’
He shuddered. The thought of possessing her, the thought of their two bodies falling together on to the bed seared into his brain. From somewhere in the troubled darkness of his flesh, from deep down amidst the stirrings of his wounded desire, there came the sudden, irresistible urge to kill.
‘I must kill him,’ he said. ‘I can’t sleep with you again, until I’ve killed him, do you hear. I must kill him! Kill him! Kill him!’
His voice became louder and louder. He stood up, saying it again and again. He felt himself grown in stature; it was as if, by simply repeating the words to himself, he had regained his composure and strengthened his resolve. Without a word he walked slowly over to the table and looked down at the knife, its blade open, shining. He picked it up mechanically, closed it and put it into his pocket. He stood there, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, a faraway look in his eyes, lost in thought. It would not be easy. Two deep lines furrowed his brow as he pondered the difficulties that lay ahead. To help himself think more clearly, he walked over to the window, opened it and stood with his face to the cool evening air. His wife had got up from the bed and had come to stand behind him. A new fear had taken hold of her. She did not dare speak to him and she waited, looking out at the broad sweep of sky and trying to guess what desperate schemes were taking shape inside his head.
As night began to fall, the distant houses stood out as dark silhouettes; a purplish mist settled over the huge expanse of the railway station below them. The deep cutting that led out towards Batignolles lay sunk beneath swirling clouds of ash which drifted up between the girders of the Pont de l’Europe. From the sky above Paris a last pale glimmer of daylight fell on to the glass roofs of the great train sheds. Inside the station all was shrouded in dark. Along the platforms, little points of light pierced the gloom as the gas lamps were lit. A beam of light shone from the headlamp of the train for Dieppe, crammed with passengers, all its doors closed, waiting for the traffic manager to give the right-away. There was a problem in getting the train off on time; the starting signal still showed red. The train had to be held in the station while a small locomotive came to clear some carriages that had accidentally come adrift in a shunting operation. In the gathering darkness, an endless stream of trains picked its way through the intricate network of lines between rows of carriages that stood waiting in the sidings. A train left for Argenteuil, followed by another for Saint-Germain. A train arrived from Cherbourg — a very long train. Signals were continually changing, engines blew their whistles, shunters sounded their horns; everywhere you looked there were lights — red lights, green lights, amber lights, white lights — a scene of utter confusion in the lurid glow of the departing day. It seemed that the trains were all going to collide with each other, but they found their way through, sometimes running close together side by side and then going their separate ways, all with the same smooth, snake-like movement, before they disappeared from view in the gathering darkness. The train for Dieppe was finally given the all clear; it blew its whistle and began to move out of the station. A few spots of rain had begun to fall; it was going to be a wet night.
Roubaud turned away from the window. There was a dark, determined look in his eyes. It was as if the approaching night had forced its way inside him. He had decided; his plan was made. The light was fading fast; he looked at the cuckoo clock to see the time.
‘Twenty past five,’ he said aloud.
He was amazed. One hour! Even less than that! So much had happened! It seemed as though they had been in that room, locked in mortal combat, for weeks.
‘Twenty past five,’ he repeated. ‘We still have time.’
Séverine did not dare ask him what he was going to do. She watched him anxiously as he felt inside the cupboard, eventually taking out a sheet of writing paper, a small bottle of ink and a pen.
‘You’re going to write a letter,’ he said.
‘Who to?’ she asked.
‘To him,’ he replied. ‘Come and sit down.’
She instinctively backed away from the chair, even though she still wasn’t sure what he wanted her to do. But he pulled her forwards and sat her down at the table with such force that she dared not move.
‘Write this,’ he said. “‘Take the 6.30 express this evening and make sure you’re not seen until we get to Rouen.”’
She had the pen in her hand, but her hand was shaking. A wave of fear ran through her at the premonition of unknown horrors that these few simple words evoked. She raised her eyes from the table and looked at him, imploringly.
‘What are you going to do?’ she said. ‘Tell me, love! I beg you!’
‘Write!’ he said. ‘Write!’
His voice was harsh, inexorable. He looked her straight in the eyes, calmly and quietly, but so purposefully that she felt crushed, reduced to nothing.
‘You’ll see what I’m going to do,’ he said. ‘You’ll see because you’re going to do it with me. It’s something we can share. Something that will keep us together. Something no one can ever take away from us.’
He terrified her. She drew back.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I want to know. I’m not writing anything until I know.’
Without saying a word, he took hold of her hand, a child’s hand, small, fragile; he gripped it as if in a vice, with a grip of iron, until she felt her hand was about to break. A violent pain ran through her as if his very will were boring its way into her flesh. She let out a cry. Something seemed to snap inside her; she had surrendered herself to him. This passive, sweet-natured, innocent woman could do nothing but obey. The instrument of love had become the instrument of death.
‘Write!’ he said. ‘Write!’
She wrote. Her hand hurt terribly, and she could hardly direct the pen.
‘Good,’ he said, when he had the letter in his hands. ‘It’s just right. I’m going out for a bit. You can tidy up here while I’m gone and get our things ready. I’ll be back for you later.’
He was now perfectly calm. He stood in front of the mirror and straightened his tie. Then he put on his hat and left. She heard him turn the door key twice and take it from the lock. It was getting darker and darker. She remained seated at the table, listening to the sounds from outside. From the room next door, where the woman from the newspaper kiosk lived, there came a continuous, low whining — a dog, no doubt, that she had forgotten to let out. In the room downstairs, the piano had stopped playing. All that could now be heard was the cheerful clatter of saucepans and dinner plates; the two young housewives were busy in their kitchen, Claire preparing a mutton stew and Sophie getting a salad ready. Séverine sat there exhausted, listening to their happy laughter, her heart aching, as the darkness gathered around her.
At a quarter past six sharp, the locomotive for the Le Havre express emerged from beneath the Pont de l’Europe, backed to its train and was coupled up. Because of the unusual amount of traffic there was not room to bring the train in under the covered roof of the mainline station, and it was waiting under the open sky alongside the platform, which extended like a narrow jetty out into the inky blackness of the night. A line of gas lamps ran along it like a string of little smoky stars. It had just stopped raining, and there was a cold, damp chill in the air. A mist had gathered. Through it, across the vast, open space beyond, could be seen the little pale lights of the houses in the Rue de Rome. There was a sombre grandeur about it all. Everything was still wet from the rain; here and there a red light pierced the night like a splash of blood; dark shapes loomed out of the mist — locomotives, freight wagons and rows of em
pty carriages waiting in the sidings. From the depths of this lake of darkness there emerged sounds — giant gasps of breath like someone dying of a fever, sudden sharp whistles like the screams of women being violated, the dismal wailing of horns and the rumble of traffic in the nearby streets. Someone was shouting orders to attach another carriage to the train. The locomotive waiting at the head of the express released a great jet of steam from its safety valve, which rose high into the night sky and dispersed as tiny flecks of cloud drifting like white tears across the funereal blackness that draped the heavens.
At twenty past six Roubaud and Séverine appeared on the platform. Séverine had just taken the key back to Madame Victoire on her way past the lavatories next to the waiting rooms. Roubaud was pushing her forward like the typical husband in a hurry whose wife has kept him waiting, he brusque and impatient with his hat pushed back, she holding her hat-veil tightly to her face and walking more hesitantly, as if about to faint with weariness. A stream of passengers was making its way up the platform. The couple joined the crowd and walked along the train looking for an empty first-class compartment. All around them people were hurriedly trying to get things ready for the train to leave; porters were wheeling barrows of luggage up to the luggage van at the front; one of the inspectors was trying to find a compartment for a large family; the assistant traffic manager was checking the couplings, shining his signal lamp down between the carriages to make sure that they were all in place and the screws properly tightened.17 Roubaud eventually found an empty compartment and was about to help Séverine get into it when he was spotted by the stationmaster, Monsieur Vandorpe, who happened to be walking past with his assistant for the mainline section, Monsieur Dauvergne, both of them with their hands behind their backs, watching the preparations for attaching the extra carriage to the train. They exchanged greetings and felt obliged to stop and chat.
The two men were keen to know about Roubaud’s brush with the Sub-Prefect. He assured them that everything had been sorted out and that the matter was now closed. They told him that there had been an accident at Le Havre that morning; it had come through on the telegraph. Apparently one of the locomotives that worked the 6.30 express on Thursdays and Saturdays, a locomotive named La Lison, had broken a coupling-rod just as it was coming into the station. It was being repaired, but the engine driver, Jacques Lantier, who came from the same part of the world as Roubaud, and his fireman, Pecqueux, Madame Victoire’s husband, would both be stuck in Le Havre for the next two days. Séverine stood waiting by the open door of the compartment while her husband affected a show of high spirits, laughing and joking with his two colleagues. Suddenly the train moved backwards several metres with a violent jolt, as the engine reversed the leading carriages on to the one that was being added, carriage number 293. It had a coupé compartment18 that had been individually reserved. Dauvergne’s son, Henri, who was travelling on the train as one of the guards, had recognized Séverine through her veil and had quickly pulled her to one side to stop her being hit by the open door. He smiled and offered a polite apology. He told her that the private compartment was for one of the directors of the railway company, who had ordered it only half an hour before the train was due to leave. For no apparent reason she gave a nervous little laugh. Henri dashed off to see to the train, delighted to have met Séverine; more than once he had thought what a lovely woman she would be to have as a mistress.
