Human Beast: The Emile Zola Society Edition

by Emile Zola

  ‘Has madame finished with the bread?’ she asked bluntly.

  Séverine was annoyed and confused.

  ‘Yes. Thank you. Yes,’ she muttered vaguely.

  Jacques glared at Flore angrily, not knowing quite what to do. His lips moved as if he were about to say something. Then with a furious wave of his hand he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Flore remained standing where she was, tall and proud like an Amazon, her thick blonde hair falling in long tresses about her face. So her suspicions about this lady whom she saw in Jacques’s train every Friday were right. She had been looking for some explanation all the time they had been there, and now she had it; everything had become clear. The man she loved would never love her. He had chosen this other woman, this thin slip of a girl sitting in front of her! Why had she refused herself that night when he had tried to take her by force? She now regretted it so bitterly she could have wept. To her simple way of thinking, it would be her he would be kissing now, if she had given herself to him before this other woman. But what chance did she have now of being alone with him, of flinging her arms round his neck and crying, ‘Take me, I was stupid, I didn’t know!’ She could do nothing about it; she felt herself growing angrier and angrier towards the frail little creature that sat there in front of her, muttering with embarrassment. She could have taken her in her big, brawny arms and crushed her to death like a tiny bird. Why didn’t she? Was it because she didn’t have the courage? She swore that one day she would be avenged. She knew things about her rival that could have landed her in prison. But they had let her go free, like all the other whores who have sold themselves to old men with money and influence. She was consumed with jealousy and could hardly contain her anger. She snatched away the rest of the bread and the remaining pears with neither a please nor a thank you.

  ‘If madame has finished with these, I’ll take them in to the others.’

  It struck three, and then four. Time dragged on and on. Everyone was overcome with weariness and they were getting more and more frustrated. It was now beginning to grow dark again, and a general gloom settled over the snow-covered landscape. The men, who went out every ten minutes or so to see how the work was progressing, came back saying that the engine still seemed to be stuck in the snow. Even the two English girls were crying from tiredness. In a corner of the room, the pretty dark-haired woman had fallen asleep on the shoulder of the young man from Le Havre. Her husband hadn’t even noticed; things had reached such a pass that social conventions were forgotten. The room was getting colder, and people were shivering. Yet it never occurred to anyone to put more wood on the fire. It eventually became so cold that the American left, saying that he would be better off lying on a seat in one of the carriages. Everybody else was beginning to feel the same - they should have stayed on the train; that way at least they wouldn’t have been worried sick, not knowing what was going on. They had to restrain the Englishwoman, who said she was going back to sleep in the train as well. The room was getting darker and darker. Someone placed a candle on a corner of the table to give a little light, but it just seemed to make everyone even more depressed. The situation appeared hopeless.

  Outside, however, the snow-clearing was almost finished. The team of soldiers who had freed the locomotive were sweeping the track clean ahead, while Jacques and Pecqueux once more took up their positions on the footplate.

  Jacques observed that it had finally stopped snowing and began to feel more confident. Ozil the signalman had told him that on the Malaunay side of the tunnel the snow had not fallen so heavily. Jacques asked him about it again.

  ‘When you walked through the tunnel,’ he said, ‘did you have any difficulty getting in or out of it?’

  ‘No,’ said Ozil, ‘I told you. You’ll get through, don’t worry.’

  Cabuche, who, with his enormous strength, had set to and done the work of ten men, was about to walk away. He had always been a shy, timid sort of man, and his latest brush with the law had made him even more so. Jacques called to him.

  ‘Cabuche!’ he said. ‘Do us a favour. Could you pass us our shovels? They’re there, on the bank. We might need them again if we have any more trouble.’

  The quarryman handed him the shovels. Jacques shook his hand warmly to thank him for his help and to assure him that he still had the greatest respect for him.

  ‘You’re a good man!’ he said. ‘One of the best!’

  Cabuche was so touched by this mark of friendship that he had to fight back his tears.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said simply.

  Misard nodded his agreement, pursing his lips in a thin smile. He had accused Cabuche before the examining magistrate but had since made up his differences with him. For some time he had been walking around doing nothing, with his hands in his pockets, looking shiftily all around the train as if he were waiting to see if he might pick up a bit of lost property from underneath it.

  At last, the principal guard and Jacques decided that they should try to get the train restarted. But Pecqueux, who had jumped down on to the track, called out to his driver.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘one of the cylinders has taken a knock.’

  Jacques came down to look, crouching beside the cylinder. He had already examined the engine carefully and had noticed that the cylinder was damaged. While clearing the track, they had discovered that some wooden sleepers, which had been left on the side of the cutting by a gang of platelayers, had slipped down the bank in all the snow and bad weather, and had fallen on to the rails. This must have been partly why the train had come to a stop, for the engine was lodged against them. They could see a long scratch on the cylinder casing, and the piston rod seemed slightly out of line. But there didn’t seem to be anything else wrong, and initially the driver had not been too concerned. However, there was perhaps more serious internal damage; nothing is more delicate than the complex arrangement of a locomotive’s valve gear, the very heart and soul of the engine. Jacques climbed back on to the footplate, blew the whistle and opened the regulator to see if everything was working properly. La Lison took a long time to respond, like someone injured in a fall who is unsteady on their feet. Eventually, with much coughing and hissing, she moved forwards. Slowly and sluggishly her wheels began to turn. She was going to be all right. She would make it. She would get there. But Jacques was shaking his head. He knew her inside out, and now, as he placed his hands on the controls, he sensed that there was something odd, something different. She seemed to have suddenly aged, as if she were succumbing to some fatal illness. It must have been something she had caught in the snow, something that had found its way into her, a chill, like one of those healthy young women who die of pneumonia after coming home from a dance one night in the freezing rain.

  Pecqueux opened the cylinder taps, and Jacques gave one more blast on the whistle. The two guards had got back into the train. Misard, Ozil and Cabuche climbed on to the step of the leading van. The train slowly emerged from the cutting, between the two lines of soldiers who, armed with their shovels, formed a guard of honour on each side of the track. They stopped outside the crossing-keeper’s house in order to pick up the passengers.

  Flore was standing outside. Ozil and Cabuche jumped down and went to stand next to her, while Misard tried to ingratiate himself with the passengers, wishing them well as they came out of his house and gratefully accepting the silver coins they placed in his hand. At last they had been rescued. But it had been a long wait. Everyone was shaking from cold, hunger and exhaustion. The Englishwoman had to carry her two daughters, who were both half asleep. The young man from Le Havre climbed into the same compartment as the pretty, dark-haired woman, who was very weary, so that he could be of assistance to her husband. Looking at all these people splashing around in the mud and trampled snow, it seemed more like a routed army that was boarding the train, pushing and shoving, desperate to find a place, and not in the least bothered about getting themselves dirty. For a brief moment, Aunt Phasie�
�s face appeared at one of the bedroom windows. Her curiosity had got the better of her, and she had dragged herself from her bed to see what was going on. She stood there, pitifully thin, her great sunken eyes peering at this crowd of strangers, these birds of passage from a world that never stood still, these people she would never see again, blown to her door and whisked away as if by a gale.

  Séverine was the last to leave the house. She turned and smiled at Jacques, who leaned out of the engine to see that she reached her compartment safely. Flore had been watching out for them and once again turned pale when she saw the quiet look of affection that passed between them. She suddenly walked away and went to stand beside Ozil. Up until then she had wanted nothing to do with him, but now, it seemed, in her contempt for Séverine, she needed the presence of a man.

  The principal guard signalled to the driver, and La Lison replied with a mournful screech on her whistle. This time, Jacques had no intention of stopping until they got to Rouen. It was six o‘clock; night had fallen and the white landscape was now shrouded in darkness. A last ghostly flicker of light drifted over the snow, revealing the desolation wrought by the storm. And there, dimly visible in the gathering gloom, stood the house at La Croix-de-Maufras, at an angle to the railway line, looking even more dilapidated than ever, black against the snow, with its ‘For Sale’ board nailed to the closed shutters.

  VIII

  The train didn’t reach Paris until ten forty that night. They had stopped at Rouen for twenty minutes to allow the passengers to get something to eat. Séverine had immediately telegraphed her husband to let him know that she would not be getting back to Le Havre until the following evening. A whole night with Jacques! The first they had ever spent together in a room of their own, free to do as they chose without fear of being disturbed!

  As the train was leaving Mantes, Pecqueux had had an idea. Madame Victoire had been in hospital for a week, having fallen and seriously twisted her ankle. He knew another little place in Paris where he could spend the night, as he put it jokingly, so, if she wanted to, Madame Roubaud could stay in his own room. It would be much better than a room in a hotel; she could stay until the following evening and come and go as she pleased. Jacques immediately saw the practical advantages of the idea, especially as he hadn’t known where to take Séverine. She came up to the locomotive as the crowd of passengers was finally leaving the platform, and Jacques advised her to accept the proposal, offering her the key which Pecqueux had already given him. She hesitated and seemed confused. She was clearly embarrassed by the cheeky smirk on Pecqueux’s face; he must have known everything.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I have a cousin in Paris. I can sleep on her floor.’

  ‘It’ll be much better at my place,’ said Pecqueux, teasing her. ‘There’s a lovely soft bed, big enough for four!’

  Jacques had such a pleading look in his eye that she took the key. He leaned towards her and whispered, ‘Wait for me.’

  Séverine only needed to go a little way along the Rue d’Amsterdam and turn into the impasse, but it was so slippery underfoot that she had to walk very carefully. Fortunately the door on to the street was still open, and she was able to go up the stairs without being seen by the concierge, who was engrossed in a game of dominoes with a friend from next door. She reached the fourth floor1 and let herself in, closing the door behind her very quietly so that none of the neighbours could guess she was there. As she crossed the third-floor landing she had distinctly heard sounds of singing and laughter coming from the Dauvergnes’ apartment; no doubt the two sisters were having one of their little weekly get-togethers, when they invited their friends round to play music. Séverine closed the door and stood in the darkness, with the sounds of youthful merriment coming up through the floor from below. At first she couldn’t see a thing; suddenly, in the pitch black, the cuckoo clock began to strike eleven. It made her jump. She recognized the sound of the chimes, deep and resonant.2 As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she made out the shape of the two windows, two pale squares casting their light on the ceiling with the reflection from the snow. Having got her bearings, she felt on the sideboard for the matches. She remembered having seen them there before. It was not so easy to find a candle, but eventually she came across an old stub at the bottom of a drawer. She lit it, and the room filled with light. She glanced nervously around her as if to make sure there was no one else in the room. Everything was just as it was before - the round table at which she and her husband had eaten lunch, the bed with the red quilt draped across it where he had struck her to the ground. It was all there; nothing in the room had changed since her visit ten months earlier.

  Séverine slowly removed her hat. She was about to take off her coat when she began to shiver. The room was freezing cold. Beside the stove there was a little box with some coal and firewood in it. She decided that before undressing further she would light the fire. She was glad to have something to do; it made her feel less uneasy. These preparations for a night of love and the thought that soon they would be lying warm in each other’s arms made her heart quicken with a sense of joy and excitement. They had dreamed for so long of a night such as this, without ever daring to hope that their dream might some day come true. As the stove began to roar she set about making other things ready; she arranged the chairs as she wanted them, looked out some clean sheets, and remade the bed, which was not easy as the bed was indeed very large. Her only disappointment was that she could find nothing in the sideboard to eat or drink. Presumably, if Pecqueux had had to fend for himself for the last three days, he had even eaten the crumbs from the floor! All she had found to light the room was a burned-out stub of candle! She consoled herself with the thought that once they were in bed it wouldn’t matter if it was dark. All this activity had made her feel very hot. She stood in the middle of the room, looking round it to make sure that everything was ready.

  She was beginning to wonder why Jacques had not yet arrived when the sound of an engine whistle drew her towards one of the windows. It was the 11.20 through train to Le Havre, which was just leaving. Down below, the station approaches and the cutting leading out to the Batignolles tunnel were covered in a vast carpet of snow, with the railway lines fanning out across it like the dark branches of a tree. The engines and carriages standing on the sidings appeared as white lumps, as if they were curled up asleep beneath an ermine blanket. Between the spotless white covering of snow on the glass roof of the two great train sheds and the lace-trimmed girders of the Pont de l’Europe, the houses directly opposite in the Rue de Rome stood out, despite the fact that it was dark, as dirty yellow smears in a vast expanse of white. The train for Le Havre came out of the station, silhouetted darkly against the snow, creeping slowly forward, the light from its headlamp cutting through the night. She watched it disappear under the bridge, its three tail lamps casting a blood-red stain on the snow behind it. She turned back into the room. A shiver ran through her. Was she really alone? She thought she had felt someone breathe on her neck, a hand touching her clumsily through her clothes. She looked around the room a second time, wide-eyed. There was no one.

  What was Jacques up to? Why was he taking so long? Another ten minutes went by. Then she heard a faint scratching sound, like fingernails scraping wood. Her heart missed a beat. Suddenly realizing what it was, she ran to open the door. It was Jacques, with a cake and a bottle of Malaga.3

  Shaking with laughter, she threw her arms impulsively round his neck.

  ‘You angel!’ she said. ‘You remembered to bring some food!’

  Jacques hurriedly warned her not to talk so loud.

  ‘Sh! Sh!’ he said.

  She lowered her voice, thinking that the concierge might have followed him up the stairs. No, he had been lucky. Just as he was about to ring, the door had opened for a lady and her daughter, just leaving the Dauvergnes’ no doubt. So he had been able to slip upstairs without anyone noticing.4 However, one of the doors across the landing had been left ajar, and he had seen the lad
y from the newspaper kiosk finishing some washing in a bowl.

  ‘We mustn’t make any noise,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to talk quietly.’

  Her answer was to take him in her arms, hug him closely and silently cover his face with kisses. She loved it when things were all mysterious and she had to speak in low whispers.

  ‘Don’t worry!’ she said. ‘We’ll be as quiet as two little mice!’

  She laid the table as silently as she could - two plates, two glasses, two knives - pausing to stop herself laughing when she put something down too quickly and made a noise.

  Jacques sat happily watching her.

  ‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she said. ‘The food at Rouen was awful!’

  ‘Shall I go and see if I can find us a chicken?’ he suggested.

  ‘No,’ she answered, ‘you might not be able to get back in! The cake will be plenty.’

  They sat down, side by side; they were almost sitting on the same chair. They shared the cake between them, huddling close to each other as they ate it. Séverine said she had never felt so thirsty and drank two glasses of Malaga, one after the other, which quickly brought the colour to her cheeks. Behind them, the stove was glowing red; they could feel its warmth. He began to kiss her neck, passionately. She placed her hand on his lips.

  ‘Sh!’ she whispered. ‘They will hear us.’

  She gestured to him to listen. Once more from below came the sound of people dancing, accompanied by someone playing the piano. The Dauvergne sisters were obviously having a party. They heard the newspaper woman from the room next door emptying her bowl of soapy water down the sink on the landing. She went back and closed her door. Downstairs, the dancing stopped for a moment. Outside beneath the window, the sounds were muffled by the snow; all that could be heard was the faint rumble of a departing train and the half-hearted toot-toot of its whistle, like someone crying.