by Emile Zola
From that day, Séverine’s dream changed. Roubaud had died in an accident, and she was leaving with Jacques for America. They were married, they had sold La Croix-de-Maufras and they were now rich. All their fears were behind them. They were leaving France to start a new life together, hand in hand. In America, all those things she wanted to forget would no longer exist; she would be able to believe she was starting life all over again. She had made mistakes in the past, but would now set out to do only what brought her happiness. Jacques would easily find a job, and she could find something to do herself. They would make money and no doubt have children. It would be a new life of prosperity and good fortune. As soon as she was on her own, lying in bed in the morning or doing her needlework during the day, she would dream her dream, changing it, embellishing it, constantly adding to its delights and finally imagining herself happier and better off than anyone in the world. Previously she had ventured out very little, but now she loved to go and watch the liners as they sailed away over the sea. She would walk down to the jetty, lean against the wall and watch the smoke from the ships until it merged with the clouds on the horizon. She became two separate persons, imagining herself standing on the deck with Jacques, already far away from France, on her way to the paradise of her dreams.
One evening towards the middle of March, Jacques, having risked coming to visit her in her apartment, informed her that he had just brought one of his old friends at the Technical College down from Paris in the train. He was leaving for New York to promote a new invention — a machine for making buttons. He needed a partner, a trained mechanic; he’d offered to take Jacques with him. It was a fine opportunity; all it needed was about thirty thousand francs investing in it, and he’d probably make millions. Jacques told her all this simply by way of conversation. Naturally he’d said no, although he admitted it was very tempting; it’s hard to turn down the chance of a fortune when one comes along.
Séverine stood listening to him, with a faraway look in her eyes; it seemed like her dream, about to come true.
‘Ah!’ she murmured. ‘We could leave tomorrow...’
Jacques looked up in surprise.
‘What do you mean, “We could leave tomorrow”?’ he asked.
‘We could leave tomorrow,’ she said, ‘if he were dead.’
She didn’t mention Roubaud by name, but it was clear from the look she gave whom she had in mind. Jacques knew what she was thinking and raised his hands in the air, as much as to say that, unfortunately, he wasn’t dead.
‘We could leave,’ she continued, speaking slowly and seriously. ‘We’d be so happy in America! I could get the thirty thousand francs by selling La Croix-de-Maufras, and there’d be enough left over to buy a house for ourselves. You’d do really well for yourself. I’d make us a nice cosy home where we could love each other to our hearts’ content. It would be good. It would be so good!’ Then she added in a whisper: ‘Far away from these horrible memories! Each day would be a new beginning!’
Jacques felt a wave of delight run through him; their hands met and remained instinctively clasped together. Neither of them spoke; they were both lost in their dream. Séverine was the first to break the silence.
‘I think you should go and see your friend again before he leaves,’ she said. ‘You could ask him not to take a partner until he’s spoken to you.’
Again Jacques was amazed.
‘What would be the point of that?’ he asked.
‘You never know,’ she said. ‘The other day, when the train hit him... one second later and I’d have been a free woman! You’re alive one minute and dead the next!’
She looked steadily into his eyes.
‘If only he were dead!’ she said again.
‘You’re not asking me to kill him, are you?’ he said, trying to make a joke of it.
She assured him three times that she wasn’t, but each time her eyes betrayed her. They were the eyes of a woman in love, a woman at the unforgiving mercy of her own passion. Roubaud had killed someone else, so why shouldn’t he be killed himself? The thought came to her suddenly, as if it were the logical solution, the natural conclusion. Kill him and go and live somewhere else! What could be simpler? Once he was dead, it would all be over. She could start her life again. No sooner had the thought occurred to her than she could see no other possible alternative. In an instant she had made up her mind; there could be no turning back. Yet she still sat gently shaking her head, denying it, lacking the courage to admit to her murderous thoughts.
Jacques stood, leaning against the sideboard, still trying to make light of what she had said. But he had seen the knife, which had been left lying there.
‘If you want me to kill him,’ he said, ‘you’d better give me the knife. I’ve already got the watch! I’ll have quite a little collection!’
He pretended to laugh.
‘Take the knife,’ she said in all seriousness.
Jacques put the knife into his pocket, trying to keep up the pretence, and kissed her.
‘I’ll wish you goodnight, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and see my friend straight away and tell him to wait. Meet me round the back of the Sauvagnats on Saturday if it’s not raining, all right? Don’t worry, we’re not going to kill anyone. I’m only joking.’
Late as it was, Jacques walked down to the harbour and found the hotel where his friend who was leaving the next day had said he would be staying. He told him that he might be coming into some money and that he should be able to give him a definite answer in a fortnight. As he made his way back along the dark streets towards the station, he paused to think about what he had just done. It surprised him. If he imagined himself married to Séverine and using her money, did it mean he had already resolved to kill Roubaud? Surely not! He had decided nothing; it was simply a wise precaution, in case he did decide. But the thought of Séverine came back to him, squeezing his hand in hers, her eyes looking into his and saying yes, when with her mouth she denied it. She obviously wanted him to kill Roubaud. His mind was in turmoil. What was he to do?
He went back to his room in the Rue François-Mazeline and lay on his bed, with Pecqueux snoring in the other bed beside him. He could not sleep; the thought of murdering Roubaud kept turning over in his mind. He pictured how the deed might be done, trying to imagine how everything would eventually work out. He went over it again and again, weighing the pros and cons; in the end, when he considered it coolly and dispassionately, everything seemed to suggest it was the right thing to do. Roubaud was the one obstacle standing in the way of his happiness. Once Roubaud was out of the way, he could marry Séverine, whom he adored. He would no longer have to see her secretly; she would be his, his alone, for ever. There was also the money to consider — a small fortune. He could give up his exhausting job and become the owner of a company; his friends said that mechanics in America were paid big money. He saw his new existence unfolding like a dream — he had a wife who was passionately in love with him, he would be earning millions in next to no time, life was full of opportunities, and there was no limit to what he might achieve. It was everything he could wish for. And to make this dream come true, all he had to do was get rid of one man — like the plant or the animal that stood in the way and that had to be crushed underfoot. Roubaud was no use to anybody; he had grown fat and sluggish. Whatever energy he once had was now consumed by his mindless addiction to gambling. Why spare him? Nothing, absolutely nothing, argued in his favour. He stood condemned. However you looked at it, it was in everyone’s best interest that he should die. To delay would be both foolish and cowardly.
Jacques had been lying on his stomach because his back felt hot. Suddenly he turned over. A thought had entered his head, previously only vaguely perceived but now so sharp that it felt like the point of a knife inside his skull. He had wanted to kill since he was a child and had suffered agonies as a result of this grim obsession. So why not kill Roubaud? Perhaps he might once and for all slake his thirst for murder on this one chosen victim.
He would not only be doing something useful, he would also be cured. Cured! God, if only he could be free of this desire to kill, if only he could possess Séverine without that fearful awakening of the primitive male bent on slaughter! He broke out into a sweat; he saw himself with the knife in his hand, plunging it into Roubaud’s throat as Roubaud had done to the President, and feeling the satisfaction and relief as the blood ran over his hands. He would kill him; he had decided. He would be cured, he would have the wife he adored and his future would be assured. If he had to kill, and someone had to be killed, he would kill Roubaud. He would at least know why he was doing it; it made sense logically and it was in his own best interests.
Having taken his decision and as it had just struck three, Jacques tried to sleep. He was about to drop off when a violent shock made him come to and sit up in his bed gasping for breath. Good God! What right had he to kill Roubaud? If a fly annoyed him he would squash it with his hand. Once he had nearly tripped over a cat and had kicked it from under his feet and broken its back; he hadn’t meant to, it’s true. But Roubaud was a man like himself. Jacques had to rethink all his arguments in order to persuade himself of his right to murder — the right of the strong to destroy the weak who get in their way.4 It was he whom Roubaud’s wife loved, and she wanted to be free to marry him and give him her inheritance. He was simply removing the obstacle that stood in their way. When two wolves meet in the forest in search of a mate, the stronger dispatches the weaker with a single snap of its jaws. In ancient times, when men lived in caves like the wolves, the most sought-after woman belonged to the member of the tribe who could win her by slaying his rivals. This was the law of life, and it had to be obeyed, whatever moral scruples had since been invented to keep men living together.5 Gradually Jacques came to feel that his right to murder Roubaud was beyond question, and his resolve grew stronger; tomorrow he would choose the place and time, and plan how to do it. It would probably be best to stab him at night in the station when he was on his rounds, so that it would look as if he had been killed while trying to apprehend a gang of intruders. He knew a good spot behind the coal stacks, if Roubaud could be lured there. Although he had been trying to get to sleep, Jacques was now wide awake, rehearsing the scene in his mind, wondering where he would place himself, how he would strike the blow so that he would be killed outright. As he thought the whole thing through detail by detail, slowly but surely his reluctance to do the deed returned; an instinctive refusal swept through him. No, he couldn’t do it! It was monstrous, impracticable, impossible! The civilized man in him revolted — everything he had been brought up to believe, the indelible print of all he had been so carefully taught. It was wrong to kill. He and generations before him had been weaned on this idea. The minute he sought reasons to justify it, the voice of his education and moral conscience rejected the idea of murder as something repulsive. He could understand someone killing because they had to, or because they had lost control. But to commit deliberate, premeditated murder, in order to get something he wanted... no, he could never do it!
It was almost daybreak when Jacques finally managed to get to sleep, but his sleep was so fitful that the agonizing debate continued to reverberate in his head. The next few days were the unhappiest of his life. He avoided seeing Séverine. He had sent a message telling her not to meet him on Saturday, for he was frightened what might happen if he looked into her eyes. On the Monday, however, he had to see her, and as he feared, her big blue eyes, so gentle, so serious, filled him with anguish. She made no attempt to persuade him; not a word, not a gesture. But her eyes said it all, asking him, begging him. It was impossible to avoid their look of impatience and reproach. Every time he turned towards her, her eyes gazed into his, astonished that he should hesitate when his future happiness was at stake. When he left her, he kissed her, taking her suddenly in his arms to assure her that his mind was made up. And so it was... until he reached the bottom of the stairs, when all his doubts returned. When he saw her again two days later, he was pale and confused; he had an uneasy, furtive look in his eye, like a coward, loath to do what he knows he should. She burst into tears, weeping on his shoulder. She said nothing, but it was clear that she was terribly unhappy. Jacques was distraught and filled with self-loathing. He had to decide, once and for all.
‘I’ll see you on Thursday, in the usual place,’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’
Thursday came. It was a very dark night — overcast, with not a star in the sky, and a fog coming in from the sea, deadening all sound. As usual, Jacques was the first to arrive and waited behind the Sauvagnats’ house, looking out for Séverine. But it was so dark and she approached so softly that he didn’t see her coming. He was startled by her touch. He took her in his arms, but she could feel that he was trembling.
‘Did I frighten you?’ she whispered.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I was expecting you. Let’s walk this way; we won’t be seen.’
They wandered out across the railway yard, holding each other gently by the waist. On this side of the engine shed, there were very few gas lamps, and in certain dark corners there were none at all. They could see the station lights glittering in the distance, like sparks from a fire.
They walked on without speaking. Séverine rested her head on his shoulder, looking up from time to time to kiss him on the chin. Jacques responded by inclining his head towards hers and kissing her on the forehead just below her hair. They heard the distant church bells solemnly strike one o’clock. They did not speak, for in their close embrace they could divine each other’s thoughts. They were thinking of Roubaud. He had become an obsession; whenever they were together now, they thought of nothing else. Why waste words going over it again and again when what was needed was action? As she raised herself towards him to receive his kiss, she felt the knife in his trouser pocket. Had he decided?
Her lips parted, and, as if speaking her thoughts aloud, she said in a barely audible whisper, ‘He came back from the station earlier on. I had no idea why. Then I saw him take his revolver. He’d forgotten it. He’ll be going to look for prowlers, I know he will.’
They walked a little further. After a while, Jacques broke the silence.
‘Some intruders got in here last night and stole some lead. He’ll be coming to check. I know he will.’
A shiver ran down her spine. Neither of them spoke. They walked on slowly. She began to wonder, was it really the knife she had felt in his pocket? She kissed him twice, pressing herself against him to see if she could feel the knife again, but she could not be certain. She kissed him a third time and placed her hand on his pocket. Yes, it was the knife. Jacques understood and drew her towards him, burying her head in his chest and whispering in her ear, ‘We’ll wait for him to come. You will be free.’
The murder had been decided. They walked on, but their feet no longer seemed to touch the ground; it was as if they were being borne along by some force beyond themselves. Their senses had suddenly become more acute, their sense of touch especially. It hurt them to hold hands. The least touch of their lips felt like the sharp scratch of a fingernail. Their ears were filled with sounds which earlier they had hardly heard — the distant hissing and clanking of locomotives, bumps and bangs, and footsteps walking past in the dark. They could see things in the night, black shapes, as if a cloud had been lifted from their eyes. A bat flew past, and they were able to follow it as it turned and darted in the sky. They stopped beside one of the coal stacks, motionless, straining their eyes and ears, every muscle of their bodies tense and alert. They spoke in whispers.
‘Did you hear that?’ she said. ‘It was a cry for help.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s a carriage being shunted.’
‘On our left! There’s someone there. I can hear footsteps.’
‘No, it’s the rats in the coal.’
The minutes went by. Suddenly she squeezed his arm.
‘It’s him!’ she whispered.
‘Where? I can’t see.’
‘He’s just walked round the goods shed. He’s coming towards us. Look! That’s his shadow on the wall.’
‘Are you sure it’s him? Is he on his own?’
‘Yes, he’s on his own.’
The moment had come. She threw herself into his arms and pressed her burning lips to his in a long, passionate kiss. She wanted to give herself to him with all her heart. How she loved him! How she detested Roubaud! If she had dared, she would have killed him twenty times and saved him the horror of it. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t have the strength. It needed the firm hand of a man. And now, in this one enduring kiss, she wished to breathe her resolution into him and to promise him that she was his, totally, to have as his own, body and soul. A train whistled in the distance, sending its mournful cry across the night. From somewhere far away came the regular, insistent thud of a giant steam-hammer. The fog from the sea drifted across the sky like an army in disarray. Tattered wisps of cloud obscured the lights from the station. When at last she removed her lips from his, she no longer belonged to herself; she felt she had given herself entirely to him.
