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THE MONOMANIAC
(_LA BÊTE HUMAINE_)
By ÉMILE ZOLA
Translated and Edited, with a Preface
By EDWARD VIZETELLY
London
HUTCHINSON & CO
Paternoster Row. 1901
_All rights reserved._
[Illustration: "SÉVERINE UTTERED AN INVOLUNTARY CRY, AND ROUBAUD TURNED
ROUND, TERRIFIED." _p._ 196.]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
PREFACE
This striking work, now published for the first time in England, but a
hundred thousand copies whereof have been sold in France, is one of the
most powerful novels that M. Émile Zola has written. It will be doubly
interesting to English readers, because for them it forms a missing
link in the famous Rougon-Macquart series.
The student of Zola literature will remember in the _Assommoir_ that
"handsome Lantier whose heartlessness was to cost Gervaise so many
tears." Jacques Lantier, the chief character in this _Bête Humaine_,
this _Human Animal_ which I have ventured to call the _Monomaniac_, is
one of their children. It is he who is the monomaniac. His monomania
consists in an irresistible prurience for murder, and his victims
must be women, just like that baneful criminal who was performing his
hideous exploits in the streets of the city of London in utter defiance
of the police, about the time M. Zola sat down to pen this remarkable
novel, and from whom, maybe, he partly took the idea.
Every woman this Jacques Lantier falls in love with, nay, every girl
from whom he culls a kiss, or whose bare shoulders or throat he happens
to catch a glimpse of, he feels an indomitable craving to slaughter!
And this abominable thirst is, it appears, nothing less than an
irresistible desire to avenge certain wrongs of which he has lost the
exact account, that have been handed down to him, through the males of
his line, since that distant age when prehistoric man found shelter in
the depths of caverns.
Around this peculiar being, who in other respects is like any ordinary
mortal, M. Émile Zola has grouped some very carefully studied
characters. All are drawn with a firm, masterly hand; all live and
breathe. Madame Lebleu, caught with her ear to the keyhole, is worthy
of Dickens. So is Aunt Phasie, who has engaged in a desperate underhand
struggle with her wretch of a husband about a miserable hoard of £40
which he wants to lay hands on. The idea of the jeering smile on her
lips, which seem to be repeating to him, "Search! search!" as she lies
a corpse on her bed in the dim light of a tallow candle, is inimitable.
The unconscious Séverine is but one of thousands of pretty Frenchwomen
tripping along the asphalt at this hour, utterly unable to distinguish
between right and wrong, who are ready to do anything, to sell
themselves body and soul for a little ease, a few smart frocks, and
some dainty linen. The warrior girl Flore, who thrashes the males, is a
grand conception.
But the gem of the whole bunch is that obstinate, narrow-minded,
self-sufficient examining-magistrate, M. Denizet; and in dealing with
this character, the author lays bare all the abominable system of
French criminal procedure. Recently this was modified to the extent
of allowing the accused party to have the assistance of counsel while
undergoing the torture of repeated searching cross-examinations at
the hands of his tormentor. But in the days of which M. Émile Zola is
writing, the prisoner enjoyed no such protection. He stood alone in the
room with the examining-magistrate and his registrar, and while the
former craftily laid traps for him to fall into, the latter carefully
took down his replies to the incriminating questions addressed to him.
It positively makes one shudder to think how many innocent men must
have been sent to the guillotine, or to penal servitude for life,
like poor Cabuche, during the length of years this atrocious practice
remained in full vigour!
The English reader, accustomed to open, even-handed justice for one and
all alike, and unfamiliar with the ways that prevail in France, will
start with amazement and incredulity at the idea of shelving criminal
cases to avoid scandal involving persons in high position. But such is
by no means an uncommon proceeding on the other side of the straits.
Georges Ohnet introduces a similar incident into his novel _Le Droit de
l'Enfant_.
M. Émile Zola has made most of his books a study of some particular
sphere of life in France. In this instance he introduces his readers
to the railway and railway servants. They are all there, from the
station-master to the porter, and all are depicted with so skilful a
hand that anyone who has travelled among our neighbours must recognise
them.
By frequent runs on an express engine between Paris and Havre, and
vice versâ, the author has mastered all the complicated mechanism of
the locomotive; and we see his trains vividly as in reality, starting
from the termini, gliding along the lofty embankments, through the
deep cuttings, plunging into and bursting from the tunnels amidst the
deafening riot of their hundred wheels, while the dumpy habitation of
the gatekeeper, Misard, totters on its frail foundations as they fly by
in a hurricane blast.
The story teems with incident from start to finish. Each chapter is a
drama in itself. To name but a few of the exciting events that are
dealt with: there is a murder in a railway carriage; an appalling
railway accident; a desperate fight between driver and fireman on the
foot-plate of a locomotive, which ends in both going over the side
to be cut to pieces, while the long train of cattle-trucks, under no
control, crammed full of inebriated soldiers on their way to the war,
who are yelling patriotic songs, dashes along, full steam, straight
ahead, with a big fire just made up, onward; to stop, no one knows
where.
This is certainly one of the best and most dramatic novels that M.
Émile Zola has ever penned; and I feel lively pleasure at having
the good fortune to be able, with the assistance of my enterprising
publishers, to present it to the English reading public.
EDWARD VIZETELLY.
SURBITON,
_August_ 20, 1901.
THE MONOMANIAC
CHAPTER I
Roubaud, on entering the room, placed the loaf, the pâté, and the
bottle of white wine on the table. But Mother Victoire, before going
down to her post in the morning, had crammed the stove with such a
quantity of cinders that the heat was stifling, and the assistant
station-master, having opened a window, leant out on the rail in front
of it.
This occurred in the Impasse d'Amsterdam, in the last house on the
right, a lofty dwelling, where the Western Railway Company lodged some
of their staff. The window on the fifth floor, at the angle of the
mansarded roof, looked on to the station, that broad trench cutting
into the Quartier de l'Europe, to abruptly open up the view, and which
the grey mid-February sky, of a grey that was damp and warm, penetrated
by the sun, seemed to make still wider on that particular afternoon.
Opposite, in the sunny haze, the houses in the Rue de Rome became
confused, fading lightly into distance. On the left gaped the gigantic
porches of the iron marquees, with their smoky glass. That of the main
lines on which the eye looked down, appeared immense. It was separated
from those of Argenteuil, Versailles, and the Ceinture railway, which
were smaller, by the buildings set apart for the post-office, and for
heating water to fill the foot-warmers. To the right the trench was
severed by the diamond pattern ironwork of the Pont de l'Europe, but it
came into sight again, and could be followed as far as the Batignolles
tunnel.
And below the window itself, occupying all the vast space, the three
double lines that issued from the bridge deviated, spreading out like
a fan, whose innumerable metal branches ran on to disappear beneath
the span roofs of the marquees. In front of the arches stood the three
boxes of the pointsmen, with their small, bare gardens. Amidst the
confused background of carriages and engines encumbering the rails, a
great red signal formed a spot in the pale daylight.
Roubaud was interested for a few minutes, comparing what he saw with
his own station at Havre. Each time he came like this, to pass a day at
Paris, and found accommodation in the room of Mother Victoire, love of
his trade got the better of him. The arrival of the train from Mantes
had animated the platforms under the marquee of the main lines; and his
eyes followed the shunting engine, a small tender-engine with three
low wheels coupled together, which began briskly bustling to and fro,
branching off the train, dragging away the carriages to drive them on
to the shunting lines. Another engine, a powerful one this, an express
engine, with two great devouring wheels, stood still alone, sending
from its chimney a quantity of black smoke, which ascended straight,
and very slowly, through the calm air.
But all the attention of Roubaud was centred on the 3.25 train for
Caen, already full of passengers and awaiting its locomotive, which
he could not see, for it had stopped on the other side of the Pont de
l'Europe. He could only hear it asking for permission to advance, with
slight, hurried whistles, like a person becoming impatient. An order
resounded. The locomotive responded by one short whistle to indicate
that it had understood. Then, before moving, came a brief silence. The
exhaust pipes were opened, and the steam went hissing on a level with
the ground in a deafening jet.
He then noticed this white cloud bursting from the bridge in volume,
whirling about like snowy fleece flying through the ironwork. A whole
corner of the expanse became whitened, while the smoke from the other
engine expanded its black veil. From behind the bridge could be heard
the prolonged, muffled sounds of the horn, mingled with the shouting of
orders and the shocks of turning-tables. All at once the air was rent,
and he distinguished in the background a train from Versailles, and a
train from Auteuil, one up and one down, crossing each other.
As Roubaud was about to quit the window, a voice calling him by name
made him lean out. Below, on the fourth floor balcony, he recognised
a young man about thirty years of age, named Henri Dauvergne, a
headguard, who resided there with his father, deputy station-master for
the main lines, and his two sisters, Claire and Sophie, a couple of
charming blondes, one eighteen and the other twenty, who looked after
the housekeeping with the 6,000 frcs. of the two men, amidst a constant
stream of gaiety. The elder one would be heard laughing, while the
younger sang, and a cage full of exotic birds rivalled one another in
roulades.
"By Jove, Monsieur Roubaud! so you are in Paris, then? Ah! yes, about
your affair with the sub-prefect!"
The assistant station-master, leaning on the rail again, explained
that he had to leave Havre that morning by the 6.40 express. He had
been summoned to Paris by the traffic-manager, who had been giving him
a serious lecture. He considered himself lucky in not having lost his
post.
"And madam?" Henri inquired.
Madame had wished to come also, to make some purchases. Her husband was
waiting for her there, in that room which Mother Victoire placed at
their service whenever they came to Paris. It was there that they loved
to lunch, tranquil and alone, while the worthy woman was detained
downstairs at her post. On that particular day they had eaten a roll
at Mantes, wishing to get their errands over first of all. But three
o'clock had struck, and he was dying with hunger.
Henri, to be amiable, put one more question:
"And are you going to pass the night in Paris?"
No, no! Both were returning to Havre in the evening by the 6.30
express. Ah! holidays, indeed! They brought you up to give you your
dose, and off, back again at once!
The two looked at one another for a moment, tossing their heads, but
they could no longer hear themselves speak; a devil-possessed piano
had just broken into sonorous notes. The two sisters must have been
thumping on it together, laughing louder than ever, and exciting the
exotic birds. Then the young man gained by the merriment, said good-bye
to withdraw into the apartment; and the assistant station-master,
left alone, remained a moment with his eyes on the balcony whence
ascended all this youthful gaiety. Then, looking up, he perceived the
locomotive, whose driver had shut off the exhaust pipes and which the
pointsman switched on to the train for Caen. The last flakes of white
steam were lost amid the heavy whirling cloud of smoke soiling the sky.
And Roubaud also returned into his room.
Standing before the cuckoo clock pointing to 3.20, he gave a gesture
of despair. What on earth was keeping Séverine so long? When she
once entered a shop, she could never leave it. To stay his famishing
hunger he thought of laying the table. He was familiar with this
large apartment lighted by two windows, which served as bedroom,
dining-room, and kitchen; and with its walnut furniture, its bed draped
in Turkey-red material, its sideboard, its round table, and Norman
wardrobe.
From the sideboard he took napkins, plates, knives and forks, and two
glasses. Everything was extremely clean, and he felt as much pleased to
perform this little household duty, as if he had been a child playing
at dining. The whiteness of the linen delighted him, and, being very
much in love with his wife, he smiled to himself at the idea of the
peal of laughter she would give on opening the door. But when he had
placed the pâté on a plate, and set the bottle of white wine beside it,
he became uneasy and looked about him. Then he quickly drew a couple of
small parcels from his pockets which he had forgotten--a little box of
sardines and some Gruyère cheese.
The half hour struck. Roubaud strode up and down with an ear attentive
to the staircase, turning round at the least sound. Passing before the
looking-glass as he waited with nothing to do, he stopped and gazed at
himself. He did not appear to be growing old. Although getting on for
forty, the bright reddishness of his curly hair had not diminished.
His fair beard, also verging on red, which he wore full, had remained
thick. Of medium height, but extremely vigorous, he felt pleased with
his appearance, satisfied with his rather flat head, and low forehead,
his thick neck, his round, ruddy face lit up by a pair of large,
sparkling eyes. His eyebrows joined, clouding his forehead with the bar
of jealousy.
There was a sound of footsteps. Roubaud ran and set the door ajar;
but it was a woman who sold newspapers in the station, returning to
her lodging hard by. He came back and examined a box made of shells
standing on the sideboard. He knew that box very well, a present from
Séverine to Mother Victoire, her wet-nurse. And this trifling object
sufficed to recall all the story of his marriage, which had taken place
almost three years previously.
Born in the south of France at Plassans, he had a carter for father. He
had quitted the army with the stripes of a sergeant-major, and for a
long time had been general porter at the station at Mantes. He had then
been promoted head-porter at Barentin, and it was there that he had
first seen his dear wife, when she came from Doinville in company with
Mademoiselle Berthe, the daughter of President Grandmorin.
Séverine Aubry was nothing more than the younger daughter of a
gardener, who had died in the service of the Grandmorins; but the
President, her godfather and guardian, had taken such a fancy to her,
making her the playmate of his own daughter, sending them both to the
same school at Rouen, and, moreover, she possessed such an innate air
of superiority herself, that Roubaud for a long time, had been content
to admire her at a distance, with the passion of a workman freed from
some of his rough edge, for a dainty jewel that he considered precious.
This was the sole romance of his existence. He would have wedded the
girl without a sou, for the joy of calling her his own; and when he
had been so bold as to ask her hand, the realisation of his hopes
had surpassed his dream. Apart from Séverine and a marriage portion
of 10,000 frcs., the President, now pensioned off, a member of the
Board of Directors of the Western Railway Company, had extended to him
his protection. Almost immediately after the wedding he had become
assistant station-master at Havre. No doubt he had good notes to his
credit--firm at his post, punctual, honest, of limited intelligence,
but very straightforward,--all excellent qualities that might explain
the prompt attention given to his request and his rapid promotion. But
he preferred to believe that he owed everything to his wife whom he
adored.
When Roubaud had opened the box of sardines he positively lost
patience. It had been agreed that they should meet there at three
o'clock. Where could she be? She would not have the audacity to tell
him that it required a whole day to purchase a pair of boots, and a few
articles of linen. And as he again passed before the looking-glass, he
perceived his eyebrows on end, and his forehead furrowed with a harsh
line. Never had he suspected her at Havre. In Paris he pictured to
himself all sorts of danger, deceit, and levity. The blood rushed to
his head, his fists of a former porter were clenched, as in the days
when he shunted the carriages. He became the brute again, unconscious
of his strength. He would have crushed her in an outburst of blind fury.
Séverine pushed open the door, and presented herself quite fresh and
joyful.
"Here I am! Eh! you must have fancied me lost," she exclaimed.
In the lustre of her five-and-twenty years she looked tall, slim, and
very supple, but she was plump, notwithstanding her small bones. At
first sight she did not appear pretty, with her long face, and large
mouth set with beautiful teeth. But on observing her more closely,
she fascinated one by her charm, by the peculiarity of her blue eyes,
crowned with an abundance of raven hair.
And as her husband, without answering, continued to examine her with
the troubled, vacillating look she knew so well, she added:
"Oh! I walked very fast. Just imagine, it was impossible to get an
omnibus. Then, as I did not want to spend money on a cab, I walked as
fast as I could. See how hot I am!"
"Look here," said he violently, "you will not make me believe you come
from the Bon Marché."
But immediately, in the delightful manner of a child, she threw herself
on his neck, closing his mouth with her pretty little plump hand.
"Oh! you wicked creature! you wicked creature!" she exclaimed; "hold
your tongue; you know I love you."
She was so full of sincerity, he felt her still so candid, so
straightforward, that he pressed her passionately in his arms. His
suspicions always ended thus. She abandoned herself to him, loving to
be petted. He covered her with kisses, which she did not return; and
it was this that caused him a sort of vague uneasiness. This great,
passive child, full of filial affection, had not yet awakened to love.
"So you ransacked the Bon Marché?" said he.
"Oh! yes. I'll tell you all about it," she replied. "But, first of all,
let us eat. You cannot imagine how hungry I am! Ah! listen! I've a
little present. Repeat, 'Where is my little present?'"
And she laughed quite close to his face. She had thrust her right hand
in her pocket, where she held an object she did not take out of it.
"Say quick, 'Where is my little present?'" she continued.
He also was laughing, like a good-natured man, and did as she asked him.
"Where is my little present?" he inquired. She had bought him a knife
to replace one he had lost, and which he had been regretting for the
past fortnight. He uttered an exclamation of delight, pronouncing this
beautiful new knife superb, with its ivory handle and shining blade. He
wanted to use it at once. She was charmed at his joy, and, in fun, made
him give her a sou, so that their friendship might not be severed.
"To lunch, to lunch!" she repeated. "No, no!" she exclaimed, as he was
about to shut the window; "don't close it yet, I beg of you! I am too
warm!"
She joined him at the window, and remained there a few seconds, leaning
on his shoulder, gazing at the vast expanse of the station. For the
moment the smoke had disappeared. The copper-coloured disc of the
sun descended in the haze behind the houses in the Rue de Rome. At
their feet a shunting engine was bringing along the Mantes train, all
made up, which was to leave at 4.25. The engine drove it back beside
the platform under the marquee, and was unhooked. In the background,
beneath the span-roof of the Ceinture line, the shocks of buffers
announced the unforeseen coupling-on of extra carriages. And alone, in
the middle of the network of rails, with driver and fireman blackened
with the dust of the journey, the heavy engine of some slow train stood
motionless, as if weary and breathless, with merely a thin thread of
steam issuing from a valve. It was waiting for the line to be opened to
return to the depôt at Batignolles. A red signal clacked, disappeared,
and the locomotive went off.
"How gay those little Dauvergnes are!" remarked Roubaud. "Do you hear
them thumping on their piano? I saw Henri just now, and he asked me to
give you his compliments."
"To table, to table!" exclaimed Séverine.
And she fell upon the sardines with a hearty appetite, having eaten
nothing since she bought the roll at Mantes. Her visits to Paris always
made her excited. She was quivering with pleasure at her run through
the streets, and still enraptured with her purchases at the Bon Marché.
Each spring she spent all her winter savings at one stroke, preferring
to purchase everything at the capital, and thus economise the cost of
the journey, as she said. Without losing a mouthful, she never paused
in her chatter. A trifle confused, and blushing, she ended by letting
out the total of the sum she had spent, more than 300 frcs.
"The deuce!" remarked Roubaud, startled; "you get yourself up well for
the wife of an assistant station-master! But I thought you were only
going to buy a little linen and a pair of boots."
"Oh! my dear! but I have got such bargains. A piece of silk with such
lovely stripes! A hat, in exquisite taste, something to dream of!
Ready-made petticoats with embroidered flounces! And all this for next
to nothing. I should have paid double at Havre. They are going to send
the parcel, and you'll see!"
She looked so pretty in her delight, with her confused air of
supplication, that he resolved to laugh. And besides, this little
scratch dinner was so charming in this room where they were all alone,
and much more comfortable than at a restaurant. She, who usually
drank water, threw off restraint, and swallowed her glass of white
wine without knowing what she was about. The box of sardines being
empty, they attacked the pâté with the beautiful new knife. It cut so
admirably that it was a perfect triumph.
"And you--what about your affair?" she inquired. "You make me chatter,
and you don't tell me how your matter with the sub-prefect ended."
Thereupon he related in detail how he had been treated by the
traffic-manager. Oh! he had received a thorough good wigging! He had
defended himself, he had told the truth. He had related how this
little whipper-snapper of a sub-prefect had insisted on getting into
a first-class carriage with his dog, when there was a second-class
carriage reserved for sportsmen and their animals, and had given an
account of the quarrel that had resulted, and the words that had
been exchanged. In short, the manager had said he was right to have
insisted on the regulations being complied with; but the bad part of
the business was that sentence which he confessed having uttered: "You
others will not always be the masters!" He was suspected of being a
republican. The discussions that had just marked the opening of the
session of 1869, and the secret alarm about the forthcoming elections,
had made the government distrustful. And had not President Grandmorin
spoken warmly in his favour, he would certainly have been removed
from his post. As it was, he had been compelled to sign the letter of
apology which the latter had advised should be sent, and had drawn up
himself.
"Ah! you see!" broke in Séverine. "Wasn't I right to drop him a line,
and pay him a visit along with you, this morning, before you went to
receive your wigging? I knew he would get us out of the trouble."
"Yes, he is very fond of you," resumed Roubaud, "and is all powerful
in the company. What is the use of being a good servant? Ah! the
manager did not stint me of praise: slow to take the initiative, but of
good conduct, obedient, courageous, briefly, all sorts of qualities!
Well, my dear, if you had not been my wife, and if Grandmorin had not
pleaded my cause out of friendship for you, it would have been all up
with me. I should have been sent to do penance at some small station."
She was staring fixedly into space, and murmured, as if speaking to
herself:
"Oh! certainly, he is a man with great influence."
There was a silence, and she sat with her eyes wide open and lost in
thought. She had ceased eating. No doubt she was thinking of the days
of her childhood, far away, at the Château of Doinville, four leagues
from Rouen. She had never known her mother. When her father, the
gardener Aubry died, she was commencing her thirteenth year; and it
was at this period that the President, already a widower, had placed
her with his daughter Berthe in charge of his sister, Madame Bonnehon,
herself the widow of a manufacturer, from whom she had inherited the
château.
Berthe, who was two years older than Séverine, had been wedded six
months after the marriage of the latter with Roubaud, to M. de
Lachesnaye, a little, shrivelled-up, sallow-complexioned man, judge at
the Rouen Court of Appeal. In the preceding year President Grandmorin
was still at the head of this court at Rouen, which was his own part of
the country, when he retired on a pension, after a brilliant career.
Born in 1804, substitute at Digne on the morrow of the events in 1830,
then at Fontainebleau, then at Paris, he had afterwards filled the
posts of procurator at Troyes; advocate-general at Rennes; and finally,
first president at Rouen. A multi-millionaire, he had been member of
the County Council since 1855, and on the same day as he retired, he
had been made Commander of the Legion of Honour. As far back as she
could recollect, she remembered him just as he was now--thick-set and
strong, prematurely grey, but the golden grey of one formerly fair;
his hair cut Brutus fashion, his beard clipped short, no moustache, a
square face, which eyes of a hard blue and a big nose rendered severe.
He was harsh on being approached, and made everyone about him tremble.
Séverine was so absorbed that Roubaud had to raise his voice, repeating
twice over:
"Well, what are you thinking about?"
She started, gave a little shudder, as if surprised, and trembled with
alarm.
"Oh! of nothing!" she answered.
"But you are not eating. Have you lost your appetite?" he inquired.
"Oh! no; you'll see," she replied.
Séverine, having emptied her glass of white wine, finished the slice
of pâté on her plate. But there was a cry of alarm. They had eaten the
small loaf; not a mouthful remained for the cheese. They clamoured,
then laughed, and finally, after disturbing everything, found a piece
of stale bread at the back of the sideboard cupboard of Mother Victoire.
Although the window was open, it continued very warm, and the young
woman, seated with her back to the stove, could not get refreshed; and
she had become more rosy and excited, by the unforeseen talkative lunch
in this room.
Speaking of Mother Victoire, Roubaud had returned to Grandmorin; there
was another who owed him a famous debt of gratitude. The mother of a
child who had died, she became wet-nurse to Séverine, whose birth had
sent her mamma into the grave. Later on, as wife of a fireman of the
company, who spent all he earned in drink, she was leading a wretched
existence in Paris by the aid of a little sewing, when, happening to
meet her foster-daughter, the former intimacy had been renewed, while
the President, at the same time, took her under his protection. He had
now obtained for her the post of attendant at the lavatory for ladies.
The company gave her no more than 100 frcs., but she made nearly
1,400 frcs. out of the gratuities, without counting the lodging, this
room where they were lunching, and her coals. Indeed, she had a most
comfortable post. And Roubaud calculated that if Pecqueux, the husband,
had brought home the 2,800 frcs. which he earned as fireman, wages and
gratuities together, instead of running riot at both ends of the line,
they would have had between them more than 4,000 frcs. a year, double
what he received as assistant station-master at Havre.
In the meanwhile, their sharp hunger had become appeased, and they
dawdled over the rest of the meal, cutting the cheese into small pieces
to make the feast last longer. Conversation also flagged.
"By the way," said he, "why did you decline the invitation of the
President to go to Doinville for two or three days?"
In the comfort of a good digestion, he had just been running over in
his mind, the incidents of their visit in the morning to the mansion
in the Rue du Rocher, quite close to the station; he had seen himself
again in the large, stern study, and he again heard the President
telling them that he was leaving on the morrow for Doinville. Then, as
if acting on a sudden impulse, the latter had suggested taking the 6.30
express with them that evening, and conducting his god-daughter on a
visit to his sister, who had been wanting to see her for a long time.
But the young woman had given all kinds of reasons which prevented her,
she said, from accepting the invitation.
"For my part," he remarked, "I saw no inconvenience in this little
trip. You might have remained there till Thursday. I should have
been able to manage without you; don't you think so? We have need
of them in our position. It is rather silly to show indifference to
their politeness, and the more so as your refusal seemed to cause him
real pain. And that was why I never ceased pressing you to accept,
until you tugged at my coat; and then I spoke as you did, but without
understanding what it meant. Eh! why wouldn't you go?"
Séverine, with restless eyes, gave a gesture of impatience.
"How could I leave you all alone?" she exclaimed.
"That isn't a reason," he replied. "During the three years we have been
married, you have paid two visits of a week to Doinville. There was
nothing to prevent you going there a third time."
The young woman, more and more uneasy, turned away her head.
"Well, I didn't care about it," said she. "You don't want to force me
to do things that displease me."
Roubaud opened his arms, as if to say that he had no intention of
forcing her to do anything. Nevertheless, he resumed:
"Look here, you are hiding something. Did Madame Bonnehon receive you
badly the last time you went there?"
Oh! no; Madame Bonnehon had always welcomed her with great kindness,
she was so amiable. Tall, and well developed, with magnificent light
hair, she still remained beautiful, notwithstanding her fifty-five
years. Gossip had it that since her widowhood, and even during the
lifetime of her husband, her heart had frequently been occupied. They
adored her at Doinville, where she made the château a perfect paradise.
All Rouen society visited there, particularly the magistracy; and it
was among this body that Madame Bonnehon had met with a great many
friends.
"Then own that it was the Lachesnayes who gave you the cold shoulder,"
continued Roubaud.
It was true that since Berthe had married M. de Lachesnaye, she had not
been on the same terms with Séverine as before. This poor Berthe, who
looked so insignificant with her red nose, was certainly not improving
in character. The ladies at Rouen extolled her noble bearing in no mean
measure. But a husband such as she had, ugly, harsh, and miserly,
seemed likely to communicate his bad qualities to his wife, and make
her ill-natured. Still, Séverine had nothing in particular to reproach
her with. Berthe had been agreeable to her former companion.
"Then it's the President who displeases you down there," remarked
Roubaud.
Séverine, who had been answering slowly and in an even tone, became
impatient again.
"He! What an idea!" she exclaimed.
And she continued in short, nervous phrases. They barely caught sight
of him. He had reserved to himself a pavilion in the park, having
a door opening on a deserted lane. He went out and came in without
anybody knowing anything about his movements. His sister never even
knew positively on what day he arrived. He took a vehicle at Barentin,
and drove over by night to Doinville, where he remained for days
together in his pavilion, ignored by everyone. Ah! it was not he who
troubled them down there.
"I only mention it," said Roubaud, "because you have told me, over
and over again, that in your childhood, he frightened you out of your
senses."
"Oh! frightened me out of my senses!" she replied. "You exaggerate, as
usual. It is a fact that he rarely laughed. He stared at you so with
his great eyes, that he made you hang your head at once. I have seen
persons confused, to the point of being unable to say a word to him,
so deeply were they impressed by his great reputation for severity and
wisdom. But as for me, I was never scolded by him. I always felt he had
a weakness for me."
Once more her speech became slow, and her eyes were lost in space.
"I remember," she resumed, "when I was a little girl, and happened to
be having a game with playmates on the paths, that if he chanced to
appear, everyone ran into hiding, even his daughter Berthe, who was
always trembling with fear lest she should be caught doing something
wrong. For my part, I calmly awaited him. He came along, and seeing me
there, smiling and looking up, gave me a pat on the cheek. Later on,
at sixteen, whenever Berthe wished to obtain some favour from him, she
always entrusted me with the mission of asking it. I spoke. I never
looked down, and I felt his eyes penetrating me. But I did not care
a fig, I was so sure he would grant whatever I wanted. Ah! yes; I
remember it all. There is not a piece of brushwood in the park, not a
corridor, nor a room in the château that I cannot see, when I close my
eyes."
She ceased speaking, and lowered her lids. The thrill of incidents of
former days seemed to pass over her warm, puffy face. She remained thus
for a few moments, with a slight beating of the lips, something like a
nervous twitch, that drew down the corner of her mouth as if she were
in pain.
"He has certainly been very good to you," said Roubaud, who had just
lit his pipe. "Not only did he bring you up like a young lady, but he
very shrewdly invested the little money you had, and increased it when
we were married, without counting what he is going to leave you. He
said in my presence that he had mentioned you in his will."
"Ah! yes!" murmured Séverine, "that house at La Croix-de-Maufras, the
property the railway cut in two. We used to go there, occasionally, for
a week. Oh! I don't much count on that. The Lachesnayes must be at work
to prevent him leaving me anything. And, besides, I would rather have
nothing--nothing at all!"
She had uttered these last words in such a sharp tone, that he was
astonished, and, taking his pipe from his mouth, he stared at her with
rounded eyes.
"How funny you are!" said he. "Everyone knows that the President
is worth millions. What harm would there be in him putting his
god-daughter in his will? No one would be surprised, and it would be
all right for us."
"Well, I've had enough of the subject," answered Séverine; "let us talk
about something else. I will not go to Doinville because I will not,
because I prefer to return with you to Havre."
He tossed his head, and appeased her with a motion of the hand. Very
good, very good! As the subject annoyed her, he would say no more about
it. He smiled. Never had he seen her so nervous. No doubt it was the
white wine. Anxious to be forgiven, he took up the knife, went into
another fit of ecstasy about it, and carefully wiped the blade. To show
that it cut like a razor, he began to trim his nails with it.
"Already a quarter past four," murmured Séverine, standing before the
cuckoo clock. "I have a few more errands to do. We must think about our
train."
But, as if to get quite calm before making the room tidy, she went to
the window and leant out of it. Then he, leaving his knife, leaving his
pipe, also rose from the table, and, approaching her, took her gently
from behind in his arms; and holding her enlaced, placed his chin on
her shoulder, pressing his head against her own. Neither moved, but
remained gazing at the scene below them.
The small shunting engines went and came without intermission. Similar
to sharp and prudent housewives, the activity of their movements
could barely be heard as they glided along with muffled wheels and
a discreet whistle. One of them ran past, and disappeared under the
Pont de l'Europe, dragging the carriages of a Trouville train to the
coach-house. Over there, beyond the bridge, it brushed by a locomotive
that had come alone from the depôt, like a solitary pedestrian, with
its shimmering brass and steel, fresh and smart for the journey. This
engine was standing still, and with a couple of short whistles appealed
to the pointsman to open the line. Almost immediately he switched it on
to its train, which stood ready made up, beside the platform, under the
marquee of the main lines.
This was the 4.25 train for Dieppe. A stream of passengers hurried
forward. One heard the roll of the trucks loaded with luggage, and the
porters pushing the foot-warmers, one by one, into the compartments.
The engine and tender had reached the first luggage van with a
hollow clash, and the head-porter could then be seen tightening the
screw of the spreader. The sky had become cloudy in the direction of
Batignolles. An ashen crepuscule, effacing the façades, seemed to be
already falling on the outspread fan of railway lines; and, in this dim
light, one saw in the distance, the constant departure and arrival of
trains on the Banlieue and Ceinture lines. Beyond the great sheet of
span-roofing of the station, shreds of reddish smoke flew over darkened
Paris.
Séverine and Roubaud had remained some minutes at the open window
without speaking. He had taken her left hand, and was playing with an
old gold ring, a golden serpent with a small ruby head, which she wore
on the same finger as her wedding-ring. He had always seen it there.
"My little serpent," she murmured, in an involuntary dreamy voice,
thinking he was looking at the ring, and feeling an imperative
necessity to speak. "He made me a present of it at La Croix-de-Maufras
when I was sixteen."
Roubaud raised his head in surprise.
"Who was that?" he inquired. "The President?"
As the eyes of her husband rested on her own, she awoke, with an abrupt
shock, to a sense of reality. She felt a little chill turn her cheeks
icy cold. She wished to answer, when, choked by a sort of paralysis,
she could say nothing.
"But," he continued, "you always told me it was your mother who left
you that ring."
Even at this second, she could have annulled the sentence she had
thoughtlessly let slip. She had only to laugh, to play the madcap. But,
losing her self-command, unconscious of the gravity of what she was
doing, she obstinately maintained her statement.
"I never told you, my dear," she replied, "that my mother left me that
ring."
Thereupon, Roubaud, also turning pale, stared at her threateningly.
"What do you mean," he retorted, "by saying you never told me so? Why,
you've told it me twenty times over! There's no harm in the President
giving you a ring. He has made you other presents of much greater
value. But what need was there to hide it from me? Why lie, in speaking
of your mother?"
"I never mentioned my mother, my darling," she persisted. "You are
mistaken."
This obstinacy was idiotic. She was aware that she was ruining herself,
that he could clearly see through her. And she then wanted to retrieve
her position, to swallow her words. But it was too late. She felt her
features becoming discomposed. Do what she would, the truth burst from
all her being. The chill on her cheeks had spread all over her face,
and a nervous twitch dragged down her lip.
Roubaud looked frightful. He had suddenly become red again, so red
that it seemed as if his veins were about to burst. He had grasped her
by the wrists, looking close into her face so as to be better able to
follow, in the terror-stricken distraction of her eyes, what she dared
not utter aloud. He stammered a great oath, which threw her into a
fright, and, foreseeing a blow, she bowed her head, covering her face
with her arm.
A trifling, wretched, insignificant incident--the failure to recollect
the falsehood she had told about this ring--had just now, in the few
words they had exchanged together, supplied evidence of a matter she
had every desire to conceal. And a minute had sufficed to bring this
about.
With a jerk, he threw her across the bed, and struck her haphazard
with his two fists. In three years he had not given her so much as a
flip, and now he was beating her black and blue, in the brutish fit of
passion of a man with coarse hands, who had formerly shunted railway
carriages.
Uttering another frightful oath, he exclaimed:
"You did something wrong! Something wrong! Something wrong!"
As he repeated the words, his rage increased, and he belaboured her
with his fists, each time he pronounced them, as if to drive them
into her flesh. His voice at last became so thick with anger, that it
hissed, and ceased to be intelligible. It was only then that he heard
her, quite weak from his blows, saying "No." She could imagine no other
defence. She denied the accusation, so that he might not kill her. And
this utterance, this obstinate clinging to the lie, made him completely
furious.
"Confess that you did something wrong," said he.
"No, no!" she answered.
He had caught hold of her again, supporting her in his arms, preventing
her from resuming her position with her face against the bed-covering,
like some poor creature hiding herself. He forced her to look him in
the face.
"Confess that you did something wrong," he repeated.
But, slipping down, she escaped, and tried to gain the door. In a
bound he was upon her again, his fist raised; and furiously, at one
blow, near the table, he felled her. He threw himself beside her, he
seized her by the hair to nail her to the boards. For an instant they
remained thus, on the ground, face to face, without moving. And in the
frightful silence, could be heard, ascending from the floor below, the
singing and laughter of the young Dauvergnes, whose piano, fortunately,
frantically poured forth its notes, stifling the sound of the struggle.
It was Claire singing nursery-rhymes, while Sophie accompanied her with
all her might.
"Confess that you did something wrong," said he.
No longer daring to say no, she remained silent.
"Confess that you did something wrong," he exclaimed with an oath, "or
I'll rip you open!"
He would have killed her; she could see it distinctly in his eyes.
In falling, she had perceived the knife, open on the table, and now
she fancied she saw the flash of the blade again. She thought he was
extending his arm. She was overcome by cowardice, by an abandonment of
herself and everything, a necessity to have done with the matter.
"Well, yes," said she, "it's true. Let me go."
What followed was abominable. This avowal, which he had so violently
exacted, had just come upon him, point blank, like something impossible
and monstrous. It seemed that he could never have imagined such an
infamy. He caught hold of her head, and knocked it against a leg of the
table. She struggled, and he dragged her across the room by the hair,
scattering the chairs.
Each time she made an effort to rise he knocked her back on the floor
by a blow from his fist. And he did this panting, with clenched teeth,
in savage and senseless fury. The table, thrust away, almost upset the
stove. Blood and hair were sticking to a corner of the sideboard. When
they recovered breath, stupefied and reeking with this horror, weary of
striking and of being struck, they had got close to the bed again; she,
still stretched on the floor, he squatting down, holding her by the
shoulders. And they had breathing time. Below, the music continued. The
laughter rippled away, sonorous, and very youthful.
Roubaud, with a jerk, raised Séverine into a sitting posture, setting
her back against the bedstead. Then, still on his knees, weighing down
on her shoulders, he could at last speak. He had ceased beating her; he
tortured her with questions. She wept. She was so upset that she could
not utter a word; and, raising his hand, he half stunned her with a
blow from his palm. Three times, at intervals, receiving no answer, he
slapped her face. Why should she struggle any longer? She was already
half dead. He would have torn out her heart with those horny fingers
of a former workman. And so, the cross-examination proceeded, with the
threatening fist uplifted, ready to strike if she hesitated in her
replies.
All at once he shook her, and inquired with an oath:
"Why did you marry me? Don't you know it was infamous to deceive me in
this manner? There are thieves in prison, who have not half what you
have on their conscience. So you despised me? You were not in love with
me? Eh! why did you marry me?"
She gave a vague gesture. She did not exactly know, now. She was happy
to marry him, hoping to get rid of the other. There are so many things
one would rather not do, and which one does, because they are after
all the wisest. No, she did not love him; and she carefully avoided
telling him that had it not been for this business, never would she
have consented to become his wife.
Séverine, by an effort, had risen to her feet. With a vigour that was
extraordinary in such a weak, vanquished creature, she had thrust
Roubaud from her. And as she freed her hand he felt the ring, the
little golden serpent with the ruby head, forgotten on her finger. He
tore it off, crushed it beneath his heel in another fit of rage. Then
he began striding up and down, from one end of the room to the other,
mute and distracted. She sank down, seated at the edge of the bed,
staring at him with her great fixed eyes. And a terrible silence ensued.
The fury of Roubaud was not calmed. No sooner did it seem to moderate
a little, than it returned at once in great waves of increased
volume, which bore him along in their vertiginous flood. No longer
under self-control, he struck about in space, a victim to all the
gusts of the violent tempest lacerating him, only to awaken to the
imperative necessity of appeasing the howling brute within him. It
was a physical, an immediate necessity, a thirst for vengeance that
wrung his body, and which would leave him no repose until it had been
satisfied.
Without stopping in his walk, he struck his temples with his two fists,
and he stammered out in a voice of anguish:
"What shall I do?"
As he had not killed this woman at once, he would not kill her now.
His cowardice in allowing her to live exasperated his anger, for it
was cowardly. It was because he still cared for her that he had not
strangled her. Nevertheless, he could not keep her with him, after what
he had discovered. Then he would have to drive her out, put her into
the street, never to see her again? And at this thought, a fresh flood
of suffering overwhelmed him. He experienced an execrable feeling of
disgust when he recognised that he would not even do this. What then?
It only remained for him to accept the abomination, and to take this
woman back to Havre, there to continue to live quietly together, as if
nothing had occurred. No, no! Death rather. Death for both of them that
very instant! He was stirred with such intense distress that his head
seemed to have gone astray, and he cried out louder than before:
"What shall I do?"
Séverine, from the bed, where she remained seated, continued following
him with her great eyes. She had always felt the calm affection of
a comrade for him, and the excessive grief in which she now saw him
plunged, aroused her pity. The ugly words and blows she would have
excused, if this wild fit of passion had caused her less surprise--a
surprise that she had not yet got over. Passive and docile, she had
consented to her marriage simply from a desire to settle down, and she
was at a loss to understand such an outburst of jealousy about a former
error which she repented.
She watched her husband, going and coming, turning furiously round, as
she would have watched a wolf, or an animal of some other species.
What was the matter with him? There were so many husbands without
anger. The thing that terrified her was to perceive the brute, whose
presence she had suspected for three years, from certain sullen growls,
at this moment unchained, mad and ready to bite. What could she say to
him to avert a misfortune?
At each turn he came near the bed before her. She awaited him there,
and had sufficient courage to address him.
"My dear, listen," said she.
But he heard not. He went back to the other end of the room, like a bit
of straw beaten about in a storm.
"What shall I do? What shall I do?" he continued asking.
At last she seized him by the wrist, and retained him a minute.
"My dear, listen," she said. "You know it was I who refused to go to
Doinville. I should never have gone there again. Never! Never! It is
you I love."
"Look here," he answered, "if I am to live, I must kill the other! I
must kill him!--kill him!"
His voice rose louder. He repeated the word, erect, grown taller, as if
this utterance, in bringing him to a resolution, also brought him calm.
He ceased speaking. He walked slowly to the table, and there, with a
gesture of indifference looked at the knife, whose shimmering blade was
wide open. He closed, and put it in his pocket. Then, with his arms
swinging at his sides, his eyes lost in space, he remained at the same
place thinking. Obstacles that presented themselves to some plan he was
elaborating in his brain, caused two great wrinkles to appear on his
forehead. To get the better of his difficulty, he went and opened the
window, standing before it with his face in the chilly air of twilight.
His wife in another fright stood up behind him; and, not daring to
question him, waited with her face to the expansive sky, endeavouring
to guess what was passing in that hard skull.
In the falling shades of night, the distant houses stood out black,
and a violescent mist clouded the vast site of the station. The deep
cutting seemed as if smothered in dust, particularly in the direction
of Batignolles, and the ironwork of the Pont de l'Europe began to fade
away. Towards Paris a final gleam of daylight whitened the windows
of the great iron marquees, but within they became densely obscure.
Suddenly one saw a glitter of sparks. The men were lighting the
gas-lamps along the platforms. Here a great white spot was formed by
the lantern on the engine of the Dieppe train, crowded with passengers.
The doors of the compartments were already closed, and the driver only
awaited the order of the assistant station-master on duty, to start.
But some hindrance had occurred. The red signal of the pointsman closed
the line, while a small locomotive came and picked up a few carriages,
which a defective manœuvre had left behind.
Trains flew along without intermission, in the increasing darkness,
over the complicated network of rails, threading their way through
lines of carriages standing motionless on sidings. One started for
Argenteuil, another for Saint Germain. A very long train arrived from
Cherbourg. Signals succeeded one another, accompanied by whistles
and blasts of the horn. Lights appeared on every side, one by one:
red, green, yellow, white. There seemed to be a regular confusion at
this troubled hour when day glides into night, and it looked as if a
tremendous smash would ensue. But everything passed on. The trains
brushed by each other, detaching themselves from the entanglement, in
a smooth, creeping motion that could only be perceived indistinctly in
the deep crepuscule. But the red light of the pointsman was effaced,
the Dieppe train blew its whistle, and rolled off. A few drops of rain
began to fall from the wan sky. It was going to be a wet night.
When Roubaud turned round, it was with a face cloudy and obstinate,
as if overcast by the shadow of this night that was drawing in. He had
made up his mind. His plan was formed. In the vanishing darkness, he
looked at the cuckoo clock, and exclaimed aloud:
"Twenty minutes past five!"
He was astounded; one hour, barely one hour, and so much to do! It
seemed to him that they had been devouring one another there for weeks.
"Twenty minutes past five!" he muttered. "We shall have enough time."
Séverine, without daring to ask a question, continued following him
with her anxious eyes. She saw him rummage in the cupboard, and bring
out some notepaper, a small bottle of ink, and a pen.
"What!" she exclaimed. "Are you going to write a letter? To whom?"
"To him. Sit down."
And, as she instinctively drew away from the chair, ignoring as yet
what he was about to exact from her, he brought her back, and weighed
her down so heavily as he seated her at the table, that she remained
there.
"Write this: 'Leave to-night by the 6.30 express, and do not show
yourself before you arrive at Rouen.'"
She held the pen, but her hand trembled. Her fright increased at the
thought of all the unknown gaping before her in those two simple lines.
And she had the courage to raise her head, and say in a pleading tone:
"What are you going to do, my dear? I beg you to tell me."
He only repeated, in his loud, inexorable voice:
"Write, write!"
Then, with his eyes on her eyes, without anger, without ugly words, but
with such obstinacy that she felt the weight crushing and annihilating
her, he answered:
"What I am going to do, you will see, well enough. And listen, what I
am going to do, I mean you to do with me. In that way we shall remain
together. There will be something binding between us."
He terrified her. She drew back again.
"No, no; I want to know!" she exclaimed. "I will not write without
knowing."
Then, ceasing to speak, he took her hand--the small, delicate hand of
a child, and pressed it in his iron fist, with the continuous pressure
of a vice, until he almost crushed it. He was driving his will into her
flesh with the pain. She uttered a cry. All her spirit was broken, all
her will surrendered. Ignorant creature as she had remained, in her
passive gentleness, she could but obey. Instrument of love, instrument
of death.
"Write, write!" he repeated again.
And she wrote painfully, with her poor, sore hand.
"That's all right; you are very good," said he, when he had the letter.
"Now tidy the place up a bit, and get everything ready. I'll come back
and fetch you."
He was quite calm. He arranged the bow of his tie before the
looking-glass, put on his hat, and took himself off. She heard him
double-lock the door, and remove the key. Night was drawing in more
and more. For an instant she remained seated, her ear catching every
sound outside. A continual, low whine came from the adjoining room in
occupation of the newspaper woman: no doubt a little dog forgotten by
its mistress. Below, in the apartment of the Dauvergnes, the piano had
become silent. There was now a merry clatter of stewpans and crockery.
The two little housekeepers were busy in their kitchen, Claire looking
after a mutton stew, Sophie picking a salad. And Séverine, prostrated,
listened to their laughter in the frightful distress of this falling
night.
At a quarter past six, the locomotive of the Havre express, issuing
from the Pont de l'Europe, was switched on to its train and there
secured. Owing to the metals being occupied, they had been unable to
lodge this train under the marquee of the main lines. It waited in the
open air beside a prolongation of the platform forming a sort of narrow
jetty, in the gloom of an inky sky, where the poorly furnished row of
gas lamps displayed but a line of smoky stars.
A shower had just ceased, leaving behind a trace of icy dampness spread
over this vast uncovered space, which the mist threw back as far as the
pale glimmers on the façades in the Rue de Rome. This immense, dreary
expanse, bathed in water, here and there studded with a gory light,
was broken up by opaque lumps, engines, and solitary carriages, parts
of trains in repose on the shunting lines. And from the depths of this
sheet of darkness came sounds,--giant-like respirations, breathless
with fever, whistles resembling the piercing shrieks of women, distant,
lamentable blasts of horns mingled with a rumble in the adjoining
streets. Orders were shouted out to add on a carriage. The engine of
the express stood motionless, losing by a valve a great jet of steam,
which ascended into all this obscurity to spread into small clouds and
sprinkle the boundless veil of mourning drawn across the sky with white
tears.
At twenty minutes past six, Roubaud and Séverine appeared. She had just
returned the key to Mother Victoire, as she passed by the lavatory,
near the waiting-rooms. And Roubaud, impatient and blunt, his hat on
the back of his head, urged her on, after the fashion of a husband with
no time to lose, who is being delayed by his wife; while she, with her
veil drawn tight over her face, advanced slowly as if broken down with
fatigue.
Joining the flood of passengers streaming along the platform,
they followed the line of carriages, on the look-out for an empty
first-class compartment. The footway became alive with porters
rolling trucks of luggage to the van at the head of the train. An
inspector was busy finding seats for a numerous family, the assistant
station-master on duty, with his signal lantern in his hand, glanced
at the couplings, to see that the spreaders had been properly screwed
up. And Roubaud, having at length found an empty compartment, was
about to assist Séverine to get in, when he perceived M. Vandorpe, the
head-station-master, strolling along in company with M. Dauvergne,
his deputy-chief of the main lines, both watching the manœuvre
connected with the carriage that was being added to the train. Roubaud,
exchanging greetings with them, found it necessary to stop and have a
chat.
First of all they spoke of the business with the sub-prefect, which
had terminated to the satisfaction of everyone. Then the conversation
turned to an accident that had happened in the morning at Havre,
the news having come by telegraph. A locomotive, called La Lison,
which on Thursday and Saturday took the 6.30 express, had broken its
connecting-rod, just as the train entered the station; and the repairs
would give two days' holiday to Jacques Lantier, the driver, who came
from the same part of the country as Roubaud, and to his fireman,
Pecqueux, the husband of Mother Victoire.
Séverine remained standing before the door of the compartment, while
her husband affected great freedom of mind in conversation with these
gentlemen, raising his voice and laughing. But there came a shock, and
the train recoiled a few yards. It was the locomotive, driving back
the first carriages to the one that had just been added on, the No.
293, so as to have a reserved coupé. And Henri Dauvergne, the son, who
accompanied the train as headguard, having recognised Séverine through
her veil, had prevented her from receiving a knock from the wide-open
door, by pulling her away without ceremony. Then, excusing himself,
smiling, very amiable, he explained that the coupé was for one of the
directors of the company, who had sent to ask for it half an hour
before the time for the train to start. She gave a little, senseless
laugh, and he ran off to attend to his work.
The clock marked 6.27. Three minutes more. Roubaud, who was watching
the doors of the waiting-rooms in the distance, while chatting with the
station-master, suddenly left the latter to return to Séverine. But the
carriage having moved back, they had to make their way to the empty
compartment a few paces off. Roubaud pushed his wife along, and with
an effort of the wrist, made her get into the carriage; while she, in
her anxious docility, looked instinctively behind her, to see what was
going on.
A passenger behind time had just arrived, carrying only a rug in his
hand. He had the broad collar of his blue top-coat turned up, and
the rim of his bowler hat brought down so low over his eyebrows that
nothing could be seen of his face, in the vacillating gaslight, but a
bit of white beard. M. Vandorpe and M. Dauvergne advanced and followed
the passenger, notwithstanding his evident desire to avoid being
seen. He only greeted them three carriages further on, when in front
of the reserved coupé, in which he hurriedly took a seat. It was the
President. Séverine, in a tremble, sank down on a seat, her husband
bruised her arm in his grasp, as if in a final act of taking possession
of her, exulting, now that he was certain of doing the thing he had
thought out in his mind.
A minute later the half hour would strike. A newspaper seller
stubbornly offered the evening editions, a few passengers still
strolled along the platform finishing cigarettes. But all took
their seats. The inspectors could be heard coming from both ends
of the train, closing the doors. And Roubaud, who had met with the
disagreeable surprise of perceiving a sombre form occupying a corner
in the compartment which he had thought empty, no doubt a woman in
mourning, who remained mute and motionless, could not restrain an
exclamation of real anger, when the door opened again, and an inspector
pushed in a stout man and a stout woman, who flopped down on a seat,
gasping.
They were about to start. The very fine rain had recommenced, drowning
the vast, dark expanse, which was crossed incessantly by trains
that presented nothing distinguishable but a moving line of small,
bright windows. Green lights had been lit, a few lanterns danced on a
level with the ground; and there was nothing else, nothing but black
immensity, where alone appeared the marquees of the main lines, pale
with a dim reflex of gas. All had disappeared, even the sounds had
become muffled. The roar of the engine, opening its exhaust pipes,
to let out a whirling wave of white steam, alone could be heard. A
cloud ascended, unrolling like the winding-sheet of an apparition, and
divided by dense black smoke springing from some invisible source. The
sky was once more obscured, a volume of soot flew over nocturnal Paris,
ablaze with luminosity.
Then the assistant station-master on duty, raised his lantern for the
engine-driver to inquire if the line was free. Two whistles were heard;
and away, near the box of the pointsman, the red light vanished, to be
succeeded by a white one. The headguard, standing at the door of his
van, awaited the order to start, which he transmitted. The driver gave
a long whistle, and opening the regulator, set the locomotive moving.
They were off. At first the motion was imperceptible, then the train
rolled along. Darting under the Pont de l'Europe, it plunged towards
the Batignolles tunnel. All that could be seen of it were the three
lights behind, the red triangle looking like gaping wounds. For a few
seconds longer, it could be followed in the chilling darkness of night.
Now it flew on its way, and nothing now could stop this train, launched
at full speed. It disappeared.