Human Beast: The Emile Zola Society Edition

by Emile Zola

  ‘There was a lot of rain, too,’ he replied.

  Séverine had a sudden inspiration. She didn’t stop to reflect or think about it; it came to her instinctively, from somewhere deep within her psyche. Had she stopped to give it thought, she would have said nothing; she simply felt that it was the right thing to do. She could win him over merely by talking to him.

  She gently took his hand in hers and looked at him. They were hidden from passers-by in the nearby street by the green covering of trees. The only sound to be heard was the distant rumble of traffic, reaching them faintly in the sunlit solitude of the park. At the end of the path, a child was silently absorbed in shovelling sand into a little bucket with a spade. Without any change in her voice, but with a sudden intensity of feeling, she quietly asked him, ‘Do you think I am guilty?’

  He shuddered slightly and looked steadily into her eyes.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he answered with the same quiet intensity in his voice as her.

  She had kept his hand in hers and squeezed it more tightly. For a while she remained silent, sensing the two of them being drawn together in a rush of unspoken feeling.

  ‘You are mistaken,’ she said. ‘I am not guilty.’

  This was not so much an attempt to convince Jacques as a plain assertion that in the eyes of the world she must surely be considered innocent. She hoped that by simply and steadfastly denying the truth she could make the truth go away.

  ‘I am not guilty,’ she repeated. ‘Please don’t continue to make me unhappy by thinking that I am.’

  He looked into her eyes long and deeply, and her heart was gladdened.

  She realized that what she had just done was to give herself to him. She had surrendered herself, and if later he claimed her, she would be unable to refuse. But there was now a bond between them, and it was indissoluble. She need no longer worry that he would denounce her; he was hers and she was his. She had confided in him and they were now united.

  ‘Promise me you won’t be unkind; tell me that you believe me.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you,’ he answered with a smile.

  Why force her to go through all the painful details of this sordid affair? She would tell him about it in due course if she felt she needed to. He was deeply touched by the way she had sought to reassure herself, confiding in him whilst admitting nothing; it seemed a sign of great affection. She was so trusting, so vulnerable, with her soft periwinkle-blue eyes! She seemed to be pure womanhood, made for man, ready to submit herself to him in her search for happiness! Above all what pleased him, as they sat holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes, was that she didn’t cause him to feel the dreadful unease, the terrifying sickness that usually came over him in the presence of a woman when he thought of possessing her. With other women he had not even been able to touch them without wanting to sink his teeth into them to satisfy his abominable appetite for slaughter. Was this the woman he could love, and not want to kill?

  ‘Rest assured that I am your friend,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘You have nothing to fear from me. I will not pry into your affairs, I promise you. I will do as you wish. You may make use of me as you choose.’

  His face was now so close to hers that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips. Only that morning, sitting close to a woman like this would have made him tremble with fear, lest one of his dreadful attacks should begin. What was happening to him? He felt perfectly calm and pleasantly weary, like someone recovering from an illness. Now that he knew she had committed murder, she seemed different, more impressive, someone special. Perhaps she wasn’t merely an accomplice but had even done the deed herself. Jacques was convinced she had, although he had no proof. From that moment, as she sat there utterly oblivious of the fearful desire she aroused in him, she became as someone sacred to him, someone beyond the reach of mere reason.

  They were both chatting happily away to each other like a couple who had just met and were beginning to fall in love.

  ‘You should let me take your other hand so that I can warm it in mine,’ he said.

  ‘Not here,’ she answered. ‘Someone might see us.’

  ‘Who’s going to see us here?’ he responded, ‘We’re alone ... Anyway, what harm would it do? That’s not how babies are made.’

  ‘I should hope not too!’ she exclaimed, laughing out loud.

  She was delighted to know that he was now her friend. She didn’t love him; of that she was sure. She may have offered herself to him, but she was already thinking of ways she might refuse him. He seemed a decent sort of chap, someone who wouldn’t give her a lot of trouble; it was all working out very nicely.

  ‘Good!’ she said. ‘We are friends. That’s just a matter between you and me. No one else, not even my husband, need know about it. And now I think you should perhaps let go of my hand and stop staring at me. You’ll wear your eyes out.’

  But he continued to hold her hand, her delicate fingers entwined in his.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered softly into her ear.

  She pulled her hand away quickly and stood up. Jacques remained seated on the bench.

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ she said. ‘Behave yourself, there’s somebody coming.’

  A nursemaid was coming along the path towards them with a baby asleep in her arms. A young girl walked past, clearly in a hurry. The sun was beginning to sink, slipping beneath the horizon in a purplish haze; its rays gradually receded from the lawns and faded in a cloud of gold over the green tops of the pine trees. A sudden lull seemed to interrupt the continuous rumble of traffic. A nearby clock struck five.

  ‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed Séverine. ‘It’s five o’clock. I’m supposed to be seeing someone in the Rue du Rocher.’

  Her joy quickly faded. Once again the agony of not knowing returned as she remembered that she was still not out of danger. She went very pale, and her lips trembled.

  ‘What about the foreman you wanted to see at the engine shed?’ said Jacques, standing up and offering her his arm.

  ‘It can’t be helped,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to see him some other time. Look, Jacques, you don’t need to stay with me; I can go on my own. What I have to do won’t take me long. Thank you for looking after me. It really was very good of you.’

  She shook his hand and rushed off.

  ‘I’ll see you on the train,’ she called.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he shouted back.

  She hurried away and disappeared between the trees in the square. Jacques wandered slowly back towards the Rue Cardinet.

  Monsieur Camy-Lamotte had been having a long conversation with the General Manager of the Western Railway Company. He had originally been called there to discuss some other matter but had spent most of the time remonstrating with the Secretary-General about how much damage the Grandmorin affair was doing to the Company’s reputation. There had been complaints in the newspapers about the lack of security for passengers who were travelling first class. In addition, the affair now implicated nearly every member of his staff, several of whom were actually suspected of being involved, not to mention this Roubaud character, who had more to answer for than most and who might be arrested at any moment. To make matters worse, there were all sorts of unpleasant rumours circulating about the President’s private life and, because he had been on the board of directors, it reflected badly on the entire management. The end result was that a supposed crime by one insignificant assistant stationmaster, who no doubt had some sordid personal grudge to settle, was spreading upwards through the whole organization and upsetting the entire operational system of a major railway company, including its board of directors. In fact, the repercussions of the affair went even further. It affected the ministry and threatened the state. These were uncertain times, politically. They had reached a critical juncture in which the whole social structure was at risk; the least sign of infection could precipitate its collapse. Monsieur Camy-Lamotte realized this only too well, which was why, when the General Manager had announced
that the Company had that morning decided to dismiss Roubaud, he had resolutely opposed the idea. No, he had insisted, that could prove awkward. The press would be up in arms if it thought that we were trying to make Roubaud a political scapegoat. Everything could fall apart. God knew what other unsavoury revelations might come to light! The scandal had gone on too long. They needed to put an end to all the gossip as soon as possible. The General Manager was eventually persuaded and undertook to keep Roubaud on, even allowing him to remain at Le Havre. It would be made clear that there was no blame attached to anyone. The problem had been dealt with, and the inquiry would be shelved.

  When Séverine once again found herself in Monsieur Camy-Lamotte’s austerely furnished study, she was out of breath, and her heart was beating rapidly. The Secretary-General looked at her for a moment in silence, fascinated by the extraordinary effort she was making to appear calm. Yes, he thought to himself, she was most attractive, this shy little criminal with her bright blue eyes!

  ‘Well, madame ...’ he began.

  He paused in order to savour her anxiety for a second or two more. But she looked at him so earnestly, so beseechingly, so desperately anxious to know, that he took pity on her.

  ‘Well, madame, I have spoken to the General Manager and have arranged for your husband to keep his job at Le Havre. Everything has been settled.’

  She felt a wave of joy surge through her and she almost fainted. Her eyes filled with tears, and she was unable to speak. She stood there smiling.

  ‘Everything has been settled,’ Monsieur Camy-Lamotte repeated, deliberately emphasizing his words in order to make sure she understood exactly what he meant. ‘You may return to Le Havre with your mind at rest.’

  Séverine had understood his meaning perfectly; he was telling her that they would not be arrested, that they were pardoned. He wasn’t simply talking about her husband keeping his job, he was telling her that the whole dreadful business was forgotten, dead and buried. With an instinctive gesture of gratitude, like a contented cat that rubs itself round its owner’s legs, she put her face to his hands, kissed them and held them to her cheeks. He allowed his hands to rest in hers; he felt quite touched by such a charming and tender display of feeling.

  ‘I don’t need to remind you that you have both been very lucky,’ he continued, attempting to resume an air of formality. ‘You must ensure that in future you give us no further cause for complaint.’

  ‘Of course, monsieur,’ she replied.

  He wanted her to know that he still held them both at his mercy and that the letter remained in his possession.

  ‘Remember that everything is on file,’ he emphasized. ‘If either of you puts a foot wrong, the whole case can be reopened ... In particular I suggest that you advise your husband to stop meddling in politics. If there were any further trouble on that front we would be quite ruthless. I know that he has had to be warned about it once before; I was told he had an unfortunate argument with the Sub-Prefect. It is also no secret that he has republican sympathies, which is appalling ... Either he behaves himself or we get rid of him; it is as simple as that. Do I make myself clear?’

  She was on her feet and eager to be outside, hardly able to contain the sheer joy that was almost choking her.

  ‘Monsieur, we shall do as you say; we shall do as you please ... No matter when, no matter where, you have only to say the word and I am yours.’

  A weary smile played on his lips, a smile of faint contempt, the smile of a man who had drunk long and deep at the fount of human depravity.

  ‘I shall not take advantage, madame,’ he assured her. ‘That is not my way.’

  He went over to the door and opened it for her. As she walked down the landing she turned twice to look at him, her face radiant with gratitude.

  Outside in the Rue du Rocher, Séverine was beside herself with excitement. Realizing that she was walking up the street in the wrong direction, she walked back down it, crossed the road for no reason and was nearly run over. She needed to be on the move, to wave her arms about, to shout out loud. The reason why they had been let off was beginning to dawn on her.

  ‘Why, of course,’ she said to herself, ‘it’s they who are frightened. They’re not going to give us any trouble; it’s too risky. What a fool I’ve been to get so worked up about it! It’s so obvious ... This is my lucky day! I’m saved! It’s all over! When I get back I’ll give my husband the fright of his life. He won’t dare open his mouth for weeks ... I’m saved! Thank heavens! I’m saved!’

  As she came out into the Rue Saint-Lazare she saw a clock in a jeweller’s shop window which said twenty to six.

  ‘There’s plenty of time before the train leaves,’ she said to herself. ‘I’m going to buy myself a nice meal.’

  Outside the station she chose the most expensive-looking restaurant. She installed herself at a table for one with a spotless white tablecloth in front of the plate glass window and sat watching the activity on the street outside. She ordered herself a choice meal of oysters, fillet of sole and roast wing of chicken. At least it made up for her dreadful lunch. She ate with relish. The pain de gruau was exquisite, and to finish she treated herself to a plate of beignets soufflés.5By the time she had drunk her coffee she had only a few minutes left to catch the train. She quickly made her way towards the station.

  Upon leaving her, Jacques had returned to his room to change into his working clothes and had then gone back to the engine shed. Normally he arrived there only half an hour before his locomotive was due to leave. He had come to rely on his fireman, Pecqueux, to get the engine ready, even though he was more often than not drunk. Today, however, perhaps because of the emotional state he was in, he felt he needed to check for himself that everything was in proper working order, particularly as on the way down from Le Havre he had sensed that the engine was not working as efficiently as it should have been.

  Inside the vast engine shed, black with soot and lit by grimy windows high up in the roof, Jacques’s locomotive, surrounded by other engines standing idle near by, was waiting near the entrance ready to leave. One of the shed firemen had just finished stoking the firebox; red-hot cinders dropped from beneath the engine into the ash-pit below. The engine was a four-coupled express locomotive of imposing yet delicate beauty. Its finely wrought driving wheels were linked by steel coupling-rods. It was a broad-chested, long-limbed, powerful machine,6 yet possessed all the logic and mechanical certainty which constitutes the sovereign beauty of these creatures of shining steel. Precision coupled with strength! Along with the Western Railway Company’s other locomotives, it carried both a number and a name, the name of one of the Company’s stations, Lison, a town in the Cotentin. Jacques affectionately referred to his engine as La Lison, as if it were a woman, because he was so attached to it.

  It was true: he had been driving this locomotive for four years and he had fallen in love with it. He had driven many other locomotives. Some were easy to handle and some were awkward, some worked hard and some were useless. He had come to realize that they all had their own individual characters and that many of them, as might be said of many women, left much to be desired. The fact that he loved La Lison was a sure sign that it possessed all the best qualities he could ever hope to find in a woman. It was gentle and responsive. Thanks to its excellent steaming capacity, it was easy to handle, steady and reliable. When it pulled out of a station so effortlessly, some said it was simply because its wheel tyres gave it a good grip on the rails or because the slide valves had been so finely adjusted. Similarly, they attributed the fact that it steamed so well on so little coal to the quality of the copper in the boiler tubes and the carefully calculated dimensions of the boiler. But Jacques knew that there was more to it than this, because other locomotives of identical construction, which had been assembled with just the same care and attention, displayed none of these qualities. It was something impossible to define, something special about the way it had been built, about the way the metal had been hammered in
to place or the fitter’s hand had lined up the various parts: the locomotive had a personality, a life of its own.

  So Jacques loved La Lison; she responded so willingly to his command. He felt grateful to her as a man might feel grateful to a mettlesome horse that always does as it is bidden. He loved it too because, as well as providing him with his regular wage, it also enabled him to earn a little extra money in fuel payments; in fact it steamed so well that it saved him a great deal on coal. Jacques had only one criticism, which was that it needed too much oiling. The cylinders especially consumed inordinate quantities of oil; they were insatiable. He had tried to reduce it, but the locomotive had quickly run short of breath; it needed oil, it was simply part of its character. Jacques had eventually decided that he would just have to put up with it, as one has to put up with the shortcomings of someone who is in other respects a paragon of virtue. He used to joke about it with his fireman, saying that La Lison was like a beautiful woman; she needed to be kept well lubricated.

  As the fire got hotter and La Lison began to build up pressure, Jacques walked around it examining every moving part and trying to find out why it had consumed more oil than usual that morning. He could find nothing wrong. The locomotive was clean and shiny, sparkling in fact, a clear indication that it was well looked after by its driver. He was always to be seen wiping it down and polishing it. When it had just arrived after a journey he made a point of rubbing it vigorously all over, as one rubs down a horse that is sweating after a long gallop; he found that it was easier to clean off stains and splashes when the engine was warm. He never drove it too hard, trying to maintain steady progress and not get behind time, which would have required sudden, extravagant bursts of speed. He had such a good relationship with his locomotive that never once in four years had he had to enter a fault on the shed register, where drivers listed items that needed repair. Poor drivers, because they were either lazy or drunk, were always complaining about their engines. Today, however, Jacques was seriously concerned about it using such huge amounts of oil. There was something else, too; he couldn’t pin it down but he sensed it very strongly, something he had never felt before, a sort of anxiety or wariness, as if the locomotive couldn’t be altogether trusted, and he needed to make sure that it wasn’t going to let him down on the journey.