A month passed, and great tranquillity again pervaded the lodging
occupied by the Roubauds, on the first floor of the railway station,
over the waiting-rooms. With them, with their neighbours in the
corridor, with all this little crowd of public servants subjected to an
existence regulated by the clock, life had resumed its monotony. And it
seemed as if nothing violent or abnormal had taken place.
The noisy and scandalous Grandmorin case was quietly being forgotten,
was about to be shelved, owing to the apparent inability of the
authorities to discover the criminal. After Cabuche had been locked
up a fortnight, the examining-magistrate, Denizet, had ordered his
discharge, on the ground that there was not sufficient evidence against
him. And a romantic fable was now being arranged by the police: that of
an unknown murderer on whom it was impossible to lay hands, a criminal
adventurer, who was everywhere at the same time, who was accused of
all the murders, and who vanished in smoke, at the mere sight of the
officers.
It was now only at long intervals that a few jokes about this fabulous
murderer were revived in the opposition press, which became intensely
excited as the general elections drew near. The pressure of the
government, the violence of the prefects, every day furnished other
subjects for indignant articles; and the newspapers were so busy with
these matters that they gave no further attention to the case. It had
ceased to interest the public, who no longer even spoke on the subject.
What had completed the tranquillity of the Roubauds was the happy way
in which the other difficulty, connected with the will of President
Grandmorin, had been smoothed over.
On the advice of Madame Bonnehon, the Lachesnayes had at last consented
to accept the will, partly because they did not wish to revive the
scandal, and also because they were very uncertain as to the result of
an action. And the Roubauds, placed in possession of their legacy, had
for the past week been the owners of La Croix-de-Maufras, house and
garden, estimated to be worth about 40,000 frcs., a matter of £1,600.
They had immediately decided on selling the place, which haunted them
like a nightmare, and on selling it in a lump, with the furniture, just
as it stood, without repairing it, and without even sweeping out the
dust. But, as it would not have fetched anything like its value at an
auction, there being few purchasers who would consent to retire to such
solitude, they had resolved to await an amateur, and had nailed up an
immense board on the front of the house, setting forth that it was for
sale, which could easily be read by persons in the frequent trains that
passed.
This notice in great letters, this desolation to be disposed of, added
to the sadness of the closed shutters, and of the garden invaded with
briars. Roubaud, having absolutely refused to go there, even to take
a look round, and make certain necessary arrangements, Séverine had
paid a visit to the house one afternoon, and had left the keys with the
Misards, telling them to show any possible purchasers who might make
inquiries, over the property. Possession could be arranged in a couple
of hours, for there was even linen in the cupboards.
And from that moment, there being nothing further to trouble the
Roubauds, they passed each day in blissful expectation of the morrow.
The house would end by being sold, they would invest the money, and
everything would go on very well. Besides, they forgot all about
it, living as if they were never going to quit the three rooms they
occupied: the dining-room, with the door opening on the corridor; the
bedroom, fairly large, on the right; the small, stuffy kitchen on the
left.
Even the roofing over the platforms, before their windows, that zinc
slope shutting out the view like the wall of a prison, instead of
exasperating them, as formerly, seemed to bring calm, increasing that
sensation of infinite repose, of recomforting peace, wherein they felt
secure. In any case, the neighbours could not see them, there were
no prying eyes always in front of them peering into their home; and,
spring having set in, they now only complained of the stifling heat, of
the blinding reflex from the zinc, fired by the first rays of the sun.
After that frightful shock, which for two months had caused them to
live in a constant tremble, they enjoyed this reaction of absorbing
insensibility, in perfect bliss. They only desired never to move again,
happy to be simply alive, without trembling and without suffering.
Never had Roubaud been so exact and conscientious. During the week of
day duty, he was on the platform at five in the morning. He did not go
up to breakfast until ten, and came down again an hour later, remaining
there until five in the evening--eleven hours full of work. During the
week of night duty, he had not even the brief rest afforded by a meal
at home, for he supped in his office. He bore this hard servitude with
a sort of satisfaction, seeming to take pleasure in it, entering into
details, wishing to see to everything, to do everything, as if he found
oblivion in fatigue; the return of a well-balanced, normal life.
Séverine, for her part, almost always alone, a widow one week out of
two, and who during the other week, only saw her husband at luncheon
and dinner-time, displayed all the energy of a good housewife. She
had been in the habit of sitting down to embroidery, detesting to
put her hand to household work, which an old woman, called Mother
Simon, came to do, from nine to twelve. But since she had recovered
tranquillity at home, and felt certain of remaining there, she had
been occupied with ideas of cleaning and arranging things; and she now
only seated herself, after rummaging everywhere in the apartment. Both
slept soundly. In their rare conversations at meal-times, as on the
nights which they passed together, they never once alluded to the case,
considering it at an end, and buried.
For Séverine, particularly, life once more became extremely pleasant.
Her idleness returned. Again she abandoned the housework to Mother
Simon, like a young lady brought up for no greater exertion than fine
needlework. She had commenced an interminable task, consisting in
embroidering an entire bedcover, which threatened to occupy her to the
end of her days. She rose rather late, delighted to remain alone in
bed, rocked by the trains leaving and coming in, which told her how the
hours fled, as exactly as if her eyes had been on a clock.
In the early days of her married life, these violent sounds in the
station--the whistling, the shocks of turn-tables, the rolls of
thunder, the abrupt oscillations, like earthquakes, which made both her
and the furniture totter--had driven her half crazy. Then, by degrees,
she had become accustomed to them; the sonorous and vibrating railway
station formed part of her existence; and, now, she liked it, finding
tranquillity in all this bustle and uproar.
Until lunch-time, she went from one room to another, talking to the
charwoman, with her hands idle. Then, she passed the long afternoons,
seated before the dining-room window, with her work generally on her
lap, delighted at doing nothing. During the weeks when her husband
came up at daylight, to go to bed, she heard him snoring until dark;
and these had become her good weeks--those during which she lived
as formerly, before her marriage, having the whole bed to herself,
enjoying her time after rising, as she thought proper, with the entire
day before her, to do as she liked.
She rarely went out. All she could see of Havre, was the smoke of the
neighbouring factories, whose great turbillions of black stained the
sky above the zinc roof, which shut out the view at a few yards from
her eyes.
The city was there, behind this perpetual wall; she always felt its
presence, and her annoyance at being unable to see it had, in the
end, subsided. Five or six pots of wallflowers and verbenas, which
she cultivated in the gutter, gave her a small garden to enliven her
solitude. At times she spoke of herself as of a recluse in the depths
of a wood. Roubaud, in his moments of idleness, would get out of the
window, then, passing to the end of the gutter, would ascend the zinc
slope, seating himself on the top of the gable, overlooking the Cours
Napoléon. There he smoked his pipe, in the open air, towering above the
city that lay spread out at his feet, above the docks planted with tall
masts, and the pale green sea, expanding as far as the eye could roam.
It seemed that the same somnolence had gained the other households,
near the Roubauds. This corridor, where generally whistled such a
terrible gale of gossip, was also wrapt in slumber. When Philomène paid
a visit to Madame Lebleu, barely a slight murmur could be heard. Both
of them, surprised at the turn matters had taken, now spoke of the
assistant station-master with disdainful commiseration, convinced that
his wife, to keep him in his post, had been up to her games at Paris.
He was now a man with a slur upon him, who would never free himself
of certain suspicions. And, as the wife of the cashier felt convinced
that, henceforth, her neighbours would not have the power to take her
lodging from her, she simply treated them with contempt, stiffening
herself when she passed them, and neglecting to bow. This behaviour
even estranged Philomène, who called on her less and less frequently.
She considered her too proud, and no longer found amusement in her
company.
Madame Lebleu, in order to have something to occupy her, continued to
watch the intrigue between Mademoiselle Guichon and the station-master,
M. Dabadie, but without ever surprising them. The almost imperceptible
brush of his felt slippers along the corridor, could alone be heard.
Everything having thus settled down, a month of supreme peacefulness
ensued, similar to the great calm that follows great catastrophes.
But one painful, anxious matter remained, to occasionally worry
the Roubauds. There was a particular part of the parquetry in the
dining-room, whereon their eyes never chanced to rest, without an
uncomfortable feeling again troubling them. This spot was to the
left of the window. There they had taken up and put in place again,
a piece of the pattern in the oak flooring, to hide beneath it the
watch, and the 10,000 frcs. (£400) which they had taken from the body
of Grandmorin, as well as a purse containing about 300 frcs. (£12) in
gold. Roubaud had only drawn the watch and money from the pockets of
the victim, to convey the impression that the motive of the crime was
robbery.
He was not a thief. He would sooner die of hunger within arms' reach of
the treasure, as he said, than profit by a centime, or sell the watch.
The money of this old man, to whom he had dealt out justice--money,
stained with infamy and blood? No! no! it was not clean enough for an
honest man to finger. And he did not even give a thought to the house
at La Croix-de-Maufras, which he had accepted as a present. The act of
plundering the victim, of carrying off those notes in the abomination
of murder, alone revolted him and aroused his conscience to the
pitch of making him start back in fright at the idea of touching the
ill-gotten gain.
Nevertheless, he had not had the courage to burn the notes; and then,
one night, to go and cast watch and purse in the sea. If simple
prudence urged him to act thus, inexorable instinct protested against
the destruction. Unconsciously, he felt respect for such a large sum
of money, and he could never have made up his mind to annihilate
it. At the commencement, on the first night, he had thrust it under
his pillow, considering no other place sufficiently secure. On the
following days, he had exerted his ingenuity to discover hiding-places,
changing them each morning, agitated at the least sound, in fear of the
police arriving with a search-warrant. Never had he displayed so much
imagination.
At last, at the end of artifices, weary of trembling, he one day had
the coolness to take the money and watch, hidden the previous evening
under the parquetry; and, now, for nothing in the world would he put
his hand there. It was like a charnel house, a hole pregnant with
terror and death, where spectres awaited him. He even avoided, when
moving about the room, to place his feet on that part of the floor. The
idea of doing so, caused him an unpleasant sensation, made him fancy he
would receive a slight shock in the legs.
When Séverine sat down before the window in the afternoon, she would
draw back her chair so as not to be exactly over this skeleton which
they kept under their floor. They never spoke of the matter to one
another, endeavouring to think they would get accustomed to it; and,
at length, they became irritable at remembering the thing again, at
feeling it there at every hour, more and more importunate, beneath the
soles of their boots. And this uncomfortable sensation was all the more
singular, as they in no way suffered from the knife, the beautiful
new knife purchased by the wife, and which the husband had stuck into
the throat of the sweetheart. It had been simply washed, and lay in a
drawer. Sometimes Mother Simon used it to cut the bread.
Amidst the peacefulness in which they were living, Roubaud had just
introduced another cause of trouble, which was slowly gaining ground,
by forcing Jacques to visit them. The duties of the engine-driver
brought him three times a week to Havre. On Monday, from 10.35 in
the morning, to 6.20 at night. On Thursday and Saturday, from 11.05
at night, to 6.40 in the morning. And on the first Monday after the
journey Séverine had made to Paris, the assistant station-master
displayed effusive affability towards him.
"Come, comrade," said he, "you cannot refuse to have a snack with
us. The deuce! you were very obliging to my wife, and I owe you some
thanks!"
Twice in a month, Jacques had thus accepted an invitation to lunch.
It seemed that Roubaud, inconvenienced at the long silence that now
prevailed when he met his wife at table, felt a relief as soon as
he could place a guest between them. He at once recalled amusing
anecdotes, chatted and joked.
"Come as often as possible," said he; "you can see you are not in the
way."
One Thursday night, as Jacques, who had washed himself, was thinking of
going off to bed, he met the assistant station-master strolling round
the depôt; and, notwithstanding the late hour, the latter, disinclined
to walk back alone, persuaded the young man to accompany him to the
station. Once there he insisted on taking him to his rooms. Séverine
was still up, and reading. They drank a glass or two together, and
played cards until after midnight.
Henceforth the luncheons on Monday, and the little evening parties
on Thursday and Saturday, became a habit. It was Roubaud, himself,
when the comrade once missed a day, who kept a look-out for him, and
brought him home, reproaching him with his neglect. But he became more
and more gloomy, and it was only in the company of his new friend
that he was really in good spirits. This man, who had first of all so
cruelly alarmed him, whom he should now have held in execration as
the witness--the living vision of things he wished to forget--had, on
the contrary, become necessary to him, perhaps for the simple reason
that he knew what had occurred, and had not spoken. This position took
the form of a powerful bond, a sort of complicity between them. The
assistant station-master had often looked at the other in a knowing
way, pressing his hand with a sudden burst of feeling, and with a
violence that surpassed the simple expression of good fellowship.
But it was particularly at home that Jacques became a source of
diversion. There, Séverine also welcomed him with gaiety, uttering an
exclamation as soon as he entered, like a woman bestirred by a thrill
of pleasure. She put aside everything--her embroidery, her book,
escaping from the gloomy somnolence, in which she passed her time, in a
torrent of words and laughter.
"Ah! how nice of you to have come! I heard the express, and thought of
you," she would say.
When he lunched there, it was a fête. She had already learnt his
tastes, and went out herself for fresh eggs. And she did this in a very
nice way, like a good housewife who welcomes the friend of the family,
without giving him any cause to attribute her actions to aught else
than a desire to be agreeable, and divert herself.
"Come again on Monday, you know," said she. "We shall have cream."
Only, when at the end of the month, he had made himself at home there,
the separation between the Roubauds became more pronounced. Jacques
certainly assisted to bring about this informal divorce by his
presence, which drew them from the gloom into which they had fallen. He
delivered both of them.
Roubaud had no remorse. He had only been afraid of the consequences,
before the case was shelved, and his greatest anxiety had been the
dread of losing his place. At present, he felt no regret. Perhaps,
though, had he to do the business over again, he would not make his
wife take a part in it. Women lose their spirit at once. His wife was
escaping from him, because he had placed on her shoulders, a load too
heavy to bear. He would have remained the master, had he not descended
with her to the terrifying and quarrelsome comradeship of crime.
But this was how things were, and it became imperative to put up with
them; the more so, as he had to make a regular effort, to place himself
again in the same frame of mind, as when, after the confession, he had
considered the murder necessary to his existence. It seemed to him, at
that time, that if he had not killed this man, he would not have been
able to live. At present, his jealous flame having died out, himself
freed from the intolerable burn, assailed by a feeling of torpidity, as
if the blood of his heart had become thickened by all the blood he had
spilt, the necessity for the murder did not appear to him so evident.
He had come to the pass of inquiring of himself, whether killing was
really worth the trouble. This was not repentance; it was at most
a disillusion, the idea that people often do things they would not
own to, in order to become happy, without being any the more so. He,
usually so talkative, fell into prolonged spells of silence, into
confused reflections, from which he issued more gloomy than before.
Every day, now, to avoid remaining face to face with his wife, after
the meals, he went on the roof and seated himself on the gable. There,
in the breeze from the offing, soothing himself in vague dreams, he
smoked his pipe, gazing beyond the city at the steamers disappearing
on the horizon, bound to distant seas.
But one evening, Roubaud felt a revival of that savage jealousy of
former times. He had been to find Jacques at the depôt, and was
bringing him up to his rooms to take a dram, when he met Henri
Dauvergne, the headguard, coming down the staircase. The latter
appeared confused, and explained that he had been to see Madame Roubaud
on an errand confided to him by his sisters. The truth was that for
some time past, he had been running after Séverine, to make love to her.
The assistant station-master violently addressed his wife at the door.
"What did that fellow come up again about?" he roughly inquired. "You
know that he plagues me!"
"But, my dear, it was for a pattern of embroidery," she answered.
"Embroidery, indeed!" he rejoined. "I'll give him embroidery! Do you
think I'm such a fool as not to understand what he comes here for? And
as to you, take care!"
He advanced towards her, his fists clenched, and she stepped back,
white as a sheet, astonished at the violence of this anger, in the
state of calm indifference for one another, in which they lived. But
he was already recovering his self-possession, and, addressing his
companion, he said:
"Whoever heard of such a thing? Fellows who tumble into your home with
the idea that your wife will immediately fall into their arms, and that
the husband, very much flattered, will shut his eyes! It makes my blood
boil. Look here, if such a thing did happen, I would strangle my wife,
oh! on the spot! And this young gentleman had better not show his face
here again, or I'll settle his business for him. Isn't it disgusting?"
Jacques, who felt very uncomfortable at the scene, hardly knew how to
look. Was this exaggerated anger intended for him? Was the husband
giving him a warning? He felt more at ease when the latter gaily
resumed:
"As to you, I know you would very soon fling him out at the door. No
matter. Séverine, bring us something to drink out of. Jacques, touch
glasses with us."
He patted Jacques on the shoulder, and Séverine, who had also
recovered, smiled at the two men. Then they all drank together, and
passed a very pleasant hour.
It was thus that Roubaud brought his wife and comrade together, with an
air of good friendship, and without seeming to think of the possible
consequences. This outburst of jealousy became the very cause of a
closer intimacy, and of a great deal of secret tenderness, strengthened
by outpourings of the heart, between Jacques and Séverine. For, having
seen her again two days after this scene, he expressed his pity that
she should have been the object of such brutal treatment; while she,
with eyes bathed in tears, confessed, with an involuntary overflow of
grief, what little happiness she met with in her home.
From that moment, they had found a subject of conversation for
themselves alone, a complicity of friendship wherein they ended by
understanding one another at a sign. At each visit, he questioned
her with his eyes, to ascertain if she had met with any fresh cause
for sadness. She answered in the same way, by a simple motion of the
eyelids. Moreover, their hands sought each other behind the back of
the husband. Becoming bolder, they corresponded by long pressures,
relating, at the tips of their warm fingers, the increasing interest
the one took in the smallest incidents connected with the existence of
the other.
Rarely did they have the good fortune to meet for a minute, in the
absence of Roubaud. They always found him there, between them, in that
melancholy dining-room; and they did nothing to escape him, never
having had the thought to make an appointment at some distant corner
of the station. Up to then, it was a matter of real affection between
them; they were led along by keen sympathy, and Roubaud caused them but
slight inconvenience, as a glance, a pressure of the hand, sufficed for
them to comprehend one another.
The first time Jacques whispered in the ear of Séverine, that he
would wait for her on the following Thursday at midnight, behind the
depôt, she revolted, and violently withdrew her hand. It was her week
of liberty, the week when her husband was engaged on night duty. But
she was very much troubled at the thought of leaving her home, to go
and meet this young man so far away, in the darkness of the station
premises. Never had she felt so confused. It resembled the fright of
innocent maids with throbbing hearts. She did not give way at once.
He had to beg and pray of her for more than a fortnight, before
she consented, notwithstanding her own burning desire to take this
nocturnal walk.
It was at the commencement of June. The evenings became intensely hot,
and were but slightly refreshed by the sea breeze. Jacques had already
waited for her three times, always in the hope that she would join
him, notwithstanding her refusal. On this particular night, she had
again said no. The sky was without a moon, and cloudy. Not a star shone
through the dense haze that obscured everything. As he stood watching
in the dark, he perceived her coming along at last, attired in black,
and with silent tread. It was so sombre that she would have brushed
against him without recognising him, had he not caught her in his
arms and given her a kiss. She uttered a little cry, quivering. Then,
laughingly, she left her lips on his. But that was all; she would never
consent to sit down in one of the sheds surrounding them. They walked
about, and chatted in low tones, pressing one to the other.
Just there, was a vast open space, occupied by the depôt and other
buildings, all the land that is shut in by the Rue Verte and the Rue
François-Mazeline, both of which cut the line at level crossings:
a sort of immense piece of waste ground, encumbered with shunting
lines, reservoirs, water-cranes, buildings of all sorts--the two
great engine-houses, the cottage of the Sauvagnats, surrounded by a
tiny kitchen-garden, the workshops, the block where the drivers and
firemen slept. And nothing was more easy than to escape observation,
to lose oneself, as in the thick of a wood, among those deserted lanes
with their inextricable maze of turnings. For an hour, they enjoyed
delicious solitude, relieving their hearts in friendly words stored-up
there so long. For she would only consent to speak of affection. She
had told him, at once, that she would never be his, that it would be
too wicked to tarnish this pure friendship, of which she felt so proud,
being jealous of her own self-esteem. Then he accompanied her to the
Rue Verte, where their lips joined in a long kiss, and she returned
home.
At that same hour, in the office of the assistant station-masters,
Roubaud began to doze in an old leather armchair, which he quitted
twenty times in the course of the night, with aching limbs. Up to nine
o'clock, he had to be present at the arrival and departure of the night
trains. The tidal train engaged his particular attention: there were
the manœuvres, the coupling, the way-bills to be closely scrutinised.
Then, when the Paris express had arrived and had been shunted, he
supped alone in the office at a corner of the table, off a slice of
cold meat between a couple of pieces of bread, which he had brought
down from his lodging. The last arrival, a slow train from Rouen,
steamed in at half past twelve. The platforms then became quite silent.
Only a few lamps remained alight, and the entire station lay at rest,
in this quivering semi-obscurity.
Of all the staff there remained but a couple of foremen, and four or
five porters, under the orders of the assistant station-master. They
slept like tops on the sloping plank platform in the quarters allotted
to them; while Roubaud, obliged to rouse them at the least warning,
could only doze with his ears open. Lest he should succumb to fatigue,
towards daybreak, he set his alarum at five o'clock, at which hour he
had to be on his feet, to be present at the arrival of the Paris train.
But, occasionally, especially recently, he suffered from insomnia, and
turned about in his armchair without being able to close his eyes. Then
he would get up and go out, take a look round, walk as far as the box
of the pointsman, where he chatted an instant. And the vast black sky,
the sovereign peacefulness of the night, ultimately calmed his fever.
In consequence of a struggle with marauders, he had been supplied with
a revolver, which he carried loaded in his pocket. And he often walked
about in this way, up to daybreak, stopping as soon as he perceived
anything moving in the darkness, resuming his walk with a sort of vague
feeling of regret at not having had to make use of his weapon. He felt
relieved when the sky whitened, and drew the great pale phantom of the
station from darkness. Now that day broke as early as three o'clock
he went in, and, throwing himself into his armchair, slept like a
dormouse, until his alarum brought him, with a start, to his feet.
Séverine met Jacques once a fortnight, on Thursday and Saturday. And,
one night, when she had told him about the revolver, they both felt
considerably alarmed. As a matter of fact, Roubaud never went so far
as the depôt. But this circumstance did not divest their walks of
an aspect of danger, which added to their charm. Moreover, they had
found a delightful nook, behind the cottage of the Sauvagnats, a sort
of alley, between some enormous heaps of coal, which formed the only
street in a strange town of great, square, black-marble palaces. There,
they were completely hidden.
This girl, who had killed, was his ideal. His cure seemed to him more
certain every day, because he had fondled her, his lips upon her lips,
absorbing her very soul, without that furious envy having been aroused,
to master her by slaughtering her.
And so these happy meetings followed one upon another. The two
sweethearts never wearied for a moment of seeking one another, of
strolling together in the obscurity, between the great heaps of coal
that deepened the darkness around them.
One night in July, Jacques, to reach Havre at 11.05, the fixed time, had
to urge on La Lison, as if the stifling heat had made the engine idle.
From Rouen, a storm accompanied him on the left, following the valley
of the Seine, with great brilliant flashes; and, from time to time, he
turned round anxiously, for Séverine was to meet him that night. He
feared that if this storm burst too soon, it would prevent her going
out. And so, when he had succeeded in attaining the station before the
rain, he felt impatient with the passengers, who seemed as if they
would never finish leaving the carriages.
Roubaud was on the platform, glued there for the night.
"The deuce!" said he, laughing. "What a hurry you're in to get off to
bed! Pleasant dreams!"
"Thanks," answered Jacques.
After driving back the train, he whistled, and made his way to the
depôt. The flaps of the immense door were open. La Lison penetrated the
engine-house, a sort of gallery with double lines, about sixty yards
long, and built to accommodate six locomotives. Within, it was very
dark. Four gas-burners did not suffice to dispel the obscurity, which
they seemed to deepen into four great moving shadows. But, at moments,
the vivid flashes of lightning, set the glazed roof and the tall
windows to right and left, ablaze; and one then distinguished, as in a
flame of fire, the cracked walls, the timber black with smoke, all the
tumble-down wretchedness of this out-of-date building. Two locomotives
were already there, cold and slumbering.
Pecqueux at once began to put out the fire. He violently raked it, and,
the live coal escaping from the cinder-box, fell into the pit below.
"I'm dying of hunger," said he. "I shall go and have a mouthful. Are
you coming?"
Jacques did not reply. In spite of his hurry, he did not wish to leave
La Lison before the lights had been extinguished, and the boiler
emptied. This was a scruple, the habit of a good driver, wherefrom
he never departed. When he had time, he remained there until he had
examined and wiped everything, with all the care that is taken to groom
a favourite nag.
It was only when the water ran gurgling into the pit, that he exclaimed:
"Hurry on, hurry on!"
A formidable flash of lightning interrupted him. This time, the tall
windows stood out so distinctly against the flaming sky, that the very
numerous broken panes of glass could have been counted. To the left,
a thin sheet of iron, which had remained fixed in one of the vices
serving for the repairs, resounded with the prolonged vibration of a
bell. All the antiquated timber-work of the roof had cracked.
"The devil!" simply said the fireman.
The driver made a gesture of despair. This put an end to his
appointment, and the more so, as a perfect deluge was now pouring down
on the engine-house. The violence of the rain threatened to break the
glazed roof. Up there some of the panes of glass must also have been
broken, for big raindrops were falling on La Lison in clusters. A
violent wind entered by the doors which had been left open, and anyone
might have fancied that the body of the old structure was about to be
swept away.
Pecqueux was getting to the end of his work on the locomotive.
"There!" said he; "we shall be able to see better to-morrow. I have no
need to tidy it up any more to-night."
And, returning to his former idea, he added:
"I must get something to eat. It's raining too hard to go and stick
oneself on one's mattress."
The canteen, indeed, was at hand, against the depôt itself; while the
company had been obliged to rent a house--Rue François-Mazeline--where
beds had been provided for the drivers and firemen who passed the night
at Havre. In such a deluge, they would have got drenched to the skin
before arriving there.
Jacques had to make up his mind to follow Pecqueux, who had taken
the small basket belonging to his chief, to save him the trouble of
carrying it. He knew that this basket still contained two slices of
cold veal, some bread, and a bottle of wine that had hardly been
touched; and it was simply this knowledge that made him feel hungry.
The rain increased. Another clap of thunder had just shaken the
engine-house. When the two men went away on the left, by the small door
leading to the canteen, La Lison was already becoming cold. The engine
slumbered, abandoned, in the obscurity, lit up by the vivid flashes of
lightning, with the heavy drops of rain falling on its flanks. Hard by,
a water-crane, imperfectly turned off, continued dripping, and formed a
pool that ran between the wheels of the locomotive into the pit.
But Jacques wished to wash before entering the canteen. Warm water and
buckets were always to be found in an adjoining room. Drawing a piece
of soap from his basket, he removed the dirt from his travel-begrimed
hands and face; and, as he had taken the precaution to bring a second
lot of clothes with him, in accordance with the advice given to the
drivers, he was able to change his garments from head to foot, as he
was accustomed to do, for that matter, each night on his arrival at
Havre, when he had an appointment with Séverine. Pecqueux was already
waiting in the canteen, having only just dipped the tip of his nose,
and the ends of his fingers, in the water.
This canteen simply consisted of a small, bare room painted yellow,
where there was nothing but a stove to warm the food, and a table fixed
in the ground, and covered with a sheet of zinc, by way of tablecloth.
A couple of forms completed the furniture. The men had to bring their
own victuals, and eat off a piece of paper with the points of their
knives. Light entered the room through a large window.
"What a vile downpour!" exclaimed Jacques, planting himself before the
panes of glass.
Pecqueux had settled himself on a form at the table.
"You are not going to eat then?" he inquired.
"No, mate. Finish my bread and meat, if you care for it. I've no
appetite."
The other, without more ado, fell upon the veal, and emptied the
bottle. He frequently met with similar luck, for his chief was a poor
eater; and he loved him the better, in his canine-like fidelity, for
all the crumbs picked up in this way, behind him. With his mouth full,
he resumed after a silence:
"The rain! What do we care about that, so long as we're under cover?
Only, if it continues, I shall cut you, and be off next door."
He began laughing, for he made no secret of his mode of life; and,
no doubt, had told the driver all about his intrigue with Philomène
Sauvagnat.
Jacques muttered an oath, as he perceived the deluge of rain increase
in violence, after showing signs of abating.
Pecqueux, with the last mouthful of meat at the end of his knife, again
gave a good-humoured laugh.
"You must have something to do then, to-night?" said he. "Well, they
can't reproach us two with wearing out the mattresses, over there, in
the Rue François-Mazeline."
Jacques quickly left the window.
"Why?" he inquired.
"Well, you're just like me. Since the spring, you never turn in till
two or three o'clock in the morning," answered the other.
He seemed to know something. Perhaps he had caught them together.
In each room the bedsteads were in couples: fireman and driver. The
railway authorities sought to bind these men to one another as firmly
as possible, on account of their work, which necessitated such a close
understanding. And so, Jacques was not astonished that the fireman
should have noticed the late hours he kept, particularly as he had
formerly been so regular.
"I suffer from headache," remarked the driver, for want of something
better to say; "and it does me good to walk out at night-time."
But the fireman was already excusing himself.
"Oh! you know," he broke in, "you are free to do as you please. What
I said, was only by way of a joke. And if you should meet with any
trouble one of these days, don't mind coming to me, because I'm ready
to do anything you like."
Without explaining his meaning more clearly, Pecqueux grasped him by
the hand, pressing it fit to crush it, so as to make him understand
that he was at his service, body and soul. Then, crumpling up the
greasy paper which the meat had been in, he threw it away, and placed
the empty bottle in the basket, performing this little service like a
careful servant accustomed to the broom and sponge. And, as the rain
obstinately continued, although the thunder had ceased, he exclaimed:
"Well, I'm off, and leave you to your own business!"
"Oh!" said Jacques, "as there are no signs of it clearing up, I shall
go and lie down on a camp bedstead!"
Beside the depôt was a room with mattresses protected by canvas slips,
where the men rested in their clothes when they had only to wait
three or four hours at Havre. So, as soon as Jacques saw the fireman
disappear in the downpour of rain, he risked it in his turn, and ran
to the drivers' quarters. But he did not lie down. He stood on the
threshold of the wide-open door, stifled by the oppressive heat within,
where another driver, stretched on his back, was snoring with his mouth
wide open.
A few more minutes passed, and Jacques could not make up his mind to
abandon all hope. In his exasperation against this disgusting rain,
he felt an increasing wild desire to gain, in spite of all, the place
where he and Séverine were to meet; so as at least to have the pleasure
of being there himself, even if he no longer expected to find his
sweetheart. With spasmodic precipitation, he at last dashed through
the rain. He reached their favourite corner, and followed the dark
alley formed by the heaps of coal. And, as the sharp rain whipped his
face and blinded him, he went as far as the tool-house, where he and
Séverine had already once found shelter. He seemed to think he would be
less lonely there.
Jacques was entering the dense obscurity of this retreat when a couple
of slender arms entwined him, and a pair of warm lips rested on his
own. Séverine was there.
"Goodness gracious! is it you?" he exclaimed.
"Yes," she answered; "I saw the storm approaching, and ran here before
the rain came down. What a time you have been!"
"You expected me then?"
"Oh! yes. I waited, waited----"
They had seated themselves on a pile of empty sacks, listening to
the pouring rain beating, with increased violence, on the roof. The
last train from Paris, which was just coming in, passed by, roaring,
whistling, rocking the ground. All at once Jacques rose. On seating
himself a few moments before, he had by chance found the handle of a
hammer beneath his hand, and he was now deluged with intense joy. It
was all over then! He had not grasped that hammer and smashed the skull
of his sweetheart. She was his own, without a battle, without that
instinctive craving to fling her lifeless on her back, like a prey torn
from others.
He no longer thirsted to avenge those very ancient offences, whose
exact details escaped his memory, that rancour stored up from male to
male since the first deceptions in the depths of caverns. No. This
girl had cured him, because he saw she was different from the others,
violent in her weakness, reeking with human gore, which encircled her
in a sort of cuirass of horror. She predominated over him, he, who had
never dared do as she had done.
Séverine was also lost in reflections. Her heart had been pining after
love--absolute, constant love; and it was frightful cruelty that these
recent events should have cast her, haggard and anxious, into such
abominations. Fate had dragged her in mire and blood with such violence
that her beautiful blue eyes, though still naïve, had preserved a look
of terror-stricken expansion beneath her tragic crest of raven hair.
"Oh! my darling, carry me off, keep me with you!" she exclaimed; "your
desires shall be mine."
"No, no, my treasure," replied Jacques, who had again seated himself
beside her, "you are mistress. I am only here to love and obey you."
The hours passed. The rain had ceased some time. The station was
plunged in absolute silence, troubled only by a distant and indistinct
moan rising from the sea. Suddenly a pistol-shot brought them to their
feet with a start. Day was about to break. A pale spot whitened the sky
above the mouth of the Seine. What could be the meaning of that shot?
Their imprudence, this folly of remaining together so late, made them,
in swift imagination, picture to themselves the husband pursuing them
with a revolver.
"Don't venture out!" exclaimed Jacques. "Wait! I'll go and see!"
Jacques had prudently advanced to the door, and there, in the dense
darkness that still prevailed, he could hear men advancing at the
double. He recognised the voice of Roubaud, urging forward the
watchmen, shouting to them that the thieves were three in number, that
he had distinctly seen them stealing coal. For some weeks not a night
had passed without hallucinations of the same kind about imaginary
brigands. On this occasion, he had fired haphazard into the gloom.
"Quick! quick!" exclaimed the young man; "let us be off! They will come
and search this place. Run as fast as you can!"
She fell into his arms. They stifled one another, lips to lips. Then
Séverine tripped lightly through the depôt, protected by the high
wall, while he quietly disappeared among the heaps of coal. And it was
only just time, for Roubaud, as he had foreseen, insisted on searching
the tool-house. He vowed the thieves must be there. The lanterns of
the watchmen danced on a level with the ground. There were words, and
in the end they all turned back towards the station, irritated at
this fruitless chase; while Jacques, with his mind at ease, at last
determined to make his way to the Rue François-Mazeline and go to bed.
The meetings between him and Séverine continued throughout the
summer. Nor were they interrupted when the cold weather came at the
commencement of October. She arrived wrapped in an ample cloak, and, to
be screened from the frigid air outside, they barricaded themselves in
the tool-house by means of an iron bar that they had found there. In
this little retreat they were at home. The November hurricanes could
roar, and tear the slates from the roofs, without inconveniencing them.
Jacques no longer had any doubt that he was cured of his frightful
hereditary complaint, for since he had known Séverine he had never been
troubled by thoughts of murder. Occasionally he suddenly remembered
what she had done--that assassination, avowed by her eyes alone, on the
bench in the Batignolles Square; but he had no inclination to learn the
details. She, on the contrary, seemed more and more tormented by the
desire to reveal everything. At times he felt her bursting with her
secret; and, in anxiety, he would at once close her mouth with a kiss,
sealing up the avowal. Why place this stranger between them? Could they
affirm that it would not interfere with their happiness? He suspected
danger, and felt his old shiver return at the bare idea of raking up
this sanguinary story. And she, no doubt, guessed his thoughts.
Roubaud, since the summer, had grown stouter, and in proportion as his
wife recovered her gaiety and the bloom of her twenty years, he grew
older and seemed more overcast. In four months he had greatly changed,
as she often said. He continued to cordially grasp the hand of Jacques,
inviting him to the lodging, never happy but when he had him at his
table. Only this diversion no longer sufficed. He frequently took
himself off as soon as he had swallowed the last mouthful, sometimes
leaving his comrade with his wife, pretending he was stifling, and
required fresh air.
The truth was that he now frequented a small café on the Cours
Napoléon, where he met M. Cauche, the commissary of police attached
to the station. He drank but little, merely a few small glasses of
rum; but he had acquired a taste for gambling, which was turning to a
passion. He only recovered energy, and forgot the past, when the cards
were in his hand, and he found himself engrossed in an interminable
series of games at piquet. M. Cauche, a frightful gambler, had
suggested having something on the game, and they had made the stake
five francs.
From that moment, Roubaud, astonished not to have found himself out
before, was burning with a thirst for gain, with that scorching fever
brought on by money won which ravages a man to the point of making him
stake his position, even his life, on a throw of the dice. So far his
work had not suffered. He escaped as soon as free, returning home at
three or four o'clock in the morning, on nights when he was off duty.
His wife never complained. She only reproached him with coming back
more sullen than before; for he was pursued by extraordinary bad luck,
and ultimately got into debt.
The first quarrel broke out between Séverine and Roubaud one evening.
Without hating him as yet, she had reached the point of enduring him
with difficulty, for she felt that he weighed on her existence. She
would have been so bright, so happy, had he not burdened her with
his presence. She experienced no remorse at deceiving him. Was it
not his own fault? Had he not almost thrust her to the brink of the
precipice? In the slow process of their disunion, to cure themselves
of the uneasiness that upset them, both found consolation after their
own hearts. As he had taken to gambling, she could very well have a
sweetheart.
But what angered her more than anything, what she would not accept
without revolt, was the inconvenience to which they were subjected by
the continual losses of her husband. Since the five-franc pieces of
the family flew to the café on the Cours Napoléon, she at times did
not know how to pay her washerwoman, and was deprived of all sorts of
delicacies and little toilet comforts.
On this particular evening, it was about the purchase of a pair of
boots which she really required, that they began quarrelling. He, on
the point of going out, not finding a knife on the table wherewith to
cut himself a piece of bread, had taken the big knife, the weapon lying
in a drawer of the sideboard. She kept her eyes on him while he refused
the fifteen francs for the boots, not having them, not knowing where to
get them; and she obstinately repeated her demand, forcing him to renew
his refusal, which, little by little, took a tone of exasperation.
All at once she pointed out to him with her finger, the place in the
parquetry where the spectres slumbered, telling him there was money
there, and that she wanted some. He turned very pale, and let go the
knife, which fell into the drawer. At first she thought he was going to
beat her, for he approached her, stammering that the money there might
rot, that he would sooner cut off his hand than touch it again. And
with fists clenched he threatened to knock her down if she dared, in
his absence, to raise the piece of parquetry and steal even a centime.
Never! never! It was dead and buried.
She also had lost her colour, feeling faint at the idea of rummaging in
that place. No; let poverty come, both would die of hunger close by the
treasure. And, in fact, neither of them referred to the subject again,
even on days when more than usually pinched. If they happened to place
a foot on the spot, they felt such a sharp burning pain that they ended
by giving it a wide berth.
Then, other disputes arose, in regard to La Croix-de-Maufras. Why did
they not sell the house? And they mutually accused one another of
having done nothing that should have been done, to hasten the sale.
He always violently refused to attend to the matter, and on the rare
occasions when Séverine wrote to Misard on the subject, it was only to
receive vague replies: no inquiries had been made by anyone, the fruit
had come to nothing, the vegetables would not grow for want of water.
Little by little, the tranquillity that had settled upon the couple
after the crisis, became troubled in this manner, and seemed swept away
in a terrible return of wrath. All the germs of unrest, the hidden
money, the sweetheart introduced on the scene, had developed, parting
them and irritating one against the other. And, in this increasing
agitation, life was about to become a pandemonium.
As if by a fatal counter-shock, everything was going wrong in the
vicinity of the Roubauds. A fresh gust of tittle-tattle and discussions
whistled down the corridor. Philomène had just violently broken off
all connection with Madame Lebleu, in consequence of a calumny of
the latter, who accused the former of selling her a fowl that had
died of sickness. But the real reason of the rupture was the better
understanding that prevailed between Philomène and Séverine. Pecqueux
having one night met Madame Roubaud arm in arm with Jacques, Séverine
at once put aside her former scruples and made advances to the secret
wife of the fireman; and Philomène, very much flattered at this
connection with a lady, who without contestation was considered the
adornment and distinction of the railway station, had just turned
against the wife of the cashier, that old wretch, as she called her,
who was capable of setting mountains at variance.
Philomène now declared that all the fault lay with Madame Lebleu,
telling everybody that the lodging looking on the street belonged to
the Roubauds, and that it was an abomination not to give it them.
Matters, therefore, began to look very bad for Madame Lebleu, and the
more so, as her obstinacy in watching Mademoiselle Guichon, in order
to surprise her with the station-master, threatened also to cause
her serious trouble. She still failed to catch them, but she had the
imprudence to get caught herself, her ear on the alert, stuck to the
keyhole. And M. Dabadie, exasperated at being spied upon in this
manner, had intimated to the assistant station-master, Moulin, that
if Roubaud again claimed the lodging, he was ready to countersign the
letter. Moulin, who, although as a rule, little given to gossip, having
repeated this remark, the lodgers had nearly come to blows, from door
to door, all along the corridor, so high ran the excitement that had
been thus revived.
Amidst these disturbances, which became more and more frequent,
Séverine had but one quiet day in the week, the Friday. In October she
had placidly displayed the audacity to invent a pretext for frequently
running up to Paris, the first that entered her head, a pain in the
knee, which required the attention of a specialist. Each Friday, she
left by the 6.40 express in the morning, which was driven by Jacques,
and after passing the day with him at the capital, returned by the 6.30
express in the evening.
At first, she had thought it only right to give her husband news of her
knee: it was better, it was worse, and so forth. Then, perceiving he
turned a deaf ear to what she said, she had coolly ceased speaking to
him on the subject. But ever and anon she would cast her eyes on him,
wondering whether he knew. How was it that this ferociously jealous
man, who, blinded by blood, had killed a fellow being in an idiotic
rage, how was it that he had reached the point of permitting her to
have a sweetheart? She could not believe it, she simply thought he must
be getting stupid.
One icy cold night in December, Séverine was sitting up very late for
her husband. The next morning, a Friday, she was to take the express
before daybreak; and on such evenings as these, she had the habit of
getting a very nice gown ready, and preparing her other garments, so as
to be rapidly dressed, immediately she jumped out of bed.
At last, she retired to rest, and ended by falling off to sleep about
one o'clock. Roubaud had not returned home. Already, on two occasions,
he had only made his appearance at early dawn, his increasing passion
for play being such that he could not tear himself away from the café,
where a small room at the back was gradually being transformed into a
gambling hell. They now played for high stakes at écarté.
Happy to be alone, in a pleasant frame of mind at the prospect of
a delightful day on the morrow, the young woman slumbered soundly,
in the gentle warmth of the bedclothes. But, as three o'clock was
about to strike, she was awakened by a singular noise. First of all
she did not understand, she fancied she must be dreaming and went to
sleep again. Then came a dull sound, as of someone pushing against
something, followed by cracking of wood, as if somebody was trying to
force open a door. A sharp rent, more violent than the other sounds,
brought her to a sitting posture in bed. She was frightened to death;
someone was certainly trying to burst the lock in the corridor. For a
minute or two she dared not move, but listened with drumming ears. Then
she had the courage to get up, and look. She walked noiselessly across
the room with bare feet, and gently set the door ajar, so chilled with
cold that she turned quite pale, and the sight that met her eyes in the
dining-room, riveted her to the spot in surprise and horror.
Roubaud, grovelling on the ground, raising himself on his elbows, had
just torn away the dreaded piece of parquetry with the assistance of
a chisel. A candle, set down beside him, afforded light while casting
his enormous shadow on the ceiling. And at that moment, with his face
bent over the hole which cut the parquetry with a black slit, he was
peering with dilated eyes within. His cheeks were flushed, and he wore
his assassin-like expression. Brutally he plunged his hand into the
aperture, and, in his trembling agitation, finding nothing, he had to
bring the candle nearer. Then at the bottom of the hole appeared the
purse, notes, and watch.
Séverine uttered an involuntary cry, and Roubaud turned round,
terrified. At first he failed to recognise her, and seeing her there,
all in white, with a look of horror on her countenance, no doubt took
her for a spectre.
"What are you doing there?" she demanded.
Then, understanding, avoiding to answer, he only gave a sullen growl.
But he still looked at her, inconvenienced by her presence, wishing to
send her back to bed. And not a reasonable word came to his lips. He
simply felt inclined to box her ears, as she stood there shivering in
her night-dress.
"So," she continued, "you refuse me a pair of boots, and you take the
money for yourself because you have lost."
This remark at once enraged him. Was she going to spoil his life again,
to set herself in front of his pleasures--this woman whom he no longer
cared for? Again he rummaged in the hole, but only took from it the
purse containing the 300 frcs. in gold. And when he had fixed the piece
of parquetry in its place with his heel, he went and flung these words
in her face, through his set teeth:
"Go to the deuce! I shall act as I choose. Am I asking you what you are
going to do, by-and-by, at Paris?"
Then, with a furious shrug of the shoulders, he returned to the café,
leaving the candle on the floor.
Séverine picked it up, and went back to bed, cold as ice. But, unable
to get to sleep again, she kept the candle alight, waiting, with her
eyes wide open, until the time came for the departure of the express,
and gradually growing burning hot. It was now certain that there had
been a progressive disorganisation, like an infiltration of the crime,
which was decomposing this man, and which had worn out every bond
between them. Roubaud knew.