The train did not reach the Paris terminus before 10.40 at night. There
had been a stoppage of twenty minutes at Rouen to give the passengers
time to dine; and Séverine had hastened to telegraph to her husband
that she would only return to Havre by the express on the following
night.
As they left Mantes, Pecqueux had an idea. Mother Victoire, his wife,
had been at the hospital for a week, laid up with a severely sprained
ankle occasioned by a fall; and, as he could find a bed at the house
of some friends, he desired to offer their room to Madame Roubaud. She
would be much more comfortable than at a hotel in the neighbourhood,
and could remain there until the following night as if she were at
home. And, when she approached the locomotive, among the swarm of
passengers who at last left the carriages under the marquee, Jacques
advised her to accept, at the same time holding out to her the key
which the fireman had given him. But Séverine hesitated.
"No, no," said she, "I've a cousin. She will make me up a bed."
Jacques looked at her so earnestly that she ended by taking the key;
while he, bending forward, whispered: "Wait for me."
Séverine had only to take a few steps up the Rue d'Amsterdam, and turn
into the Impasse, or Blind Alley of the same name. But the snow was so
slippery that she had to walk very cautiously. She had the good fortune
to find the door of the house still open, and ascended the staircase
without even being seen by the portress, who was deep in a game of
dominoes with a neighbour. On the fifth floor she opened the door and
closed it so softly that certainly none of the neighbours could suspect
her there. Crossing the landing on the floor below, she had very
distinctly heard laughter and singing at the Dauvergnes; doubtless one
of the small receptions of the two sisters, who invited their friends
to musical evenings once a week.
And now that Séverine had closed the door, and found herself in the
oppressive darkness of the room, she could still distinguish the sound
of the lively gaiety of all this youth coming through the boards. For
a moment the obscurity seemed to her complete; and she started when
the cuckoo clock, amidst the gloom, began to ring out eleven with deep
strokes--a sound she recognised. Then her eyes became accustomed to
the dimness of the apartment. The two windows stood out in two pale
squares, lighting the ceiling with the reflex of the snow. She was
already beginning to find her way about, seeking for the matches on the
sideboard in a corner where she recollected having seen them. But she
had more difficulty in finding a candle. At last she discovered the
end of one at the back of a drawer; and having put a lucifer to it the
room was lit up. At once she cast a rapid, anxious glance around, as if
to make sure that she was quite alone. She recognised everything: the
round table where she had lunched with her husband; the bed draped with
red cotton material, beside which he had knocked her down with a blow
from his fist. It was there sure enough, nothing had been changed in
the room during her absence of six months.
Séverine slowly removed her hat. But, as she was also about to set
aside her cloak, she shivered. It was as cold as ice in this room. In a
small box near the stove, were coal and firewood. Immediately, without
taking off her wraps, she began to light the fire. This occupation
amused her, serving as a diversion from the uneasiness she had at
first experienced. When the stove began to draw, she busied herself
with other household duties, arranging the chairs as it pleased her to
see them, looking out clean sheets, and making the bed again, which
caused her a deal of trouble, as it was unusually wide. She felt
annoyed to find nothing to eat or drink in the sideboard. Doubtless
Pecqueux had made a clean sweep of everything during the three days he
had been master there. It was the same in regard to the light, there
being only this single bit of candle.
And now, feeling very warm and lively, she stood in the middle of the
room glancing round to make sure that everything was in order. Then,
just as she was beginning to feel astonished that Jacques had not yet
arrived, a whistle drew her to one of the windows. It was the 11.20
through train to Havre that was leaving. Below, the vast expanse, the
trench extending from the station to the Batignolles tunnel, appeared
one sheet of snow where naught could be distinguished save the fan
of metals with its black branches. The engines and carriages on the
sidings formed white heaps, looking as if they rested beneath coverings
of ermine. And between the immaculate glass of the great marquees and
the ironwork of the Pont de l'Europe bordered with frets, the houses
in the Rue de Rome opposite, in spite of the darkness, could be seen
jumbled together in a tint of dirty yellow.
The through train for Havre went along, crawling and sombre, its front
lamp boring the obscurity with a bright flame; and Séverine watched it
vanish under the bridge, reddening the snow with its three back lights.
On turning from the window she gave another brief shiver--was she
really quite alone? She seemed to feel a warm breath heating the back
of her neck, a brutal blow grazing her skin through her clothes. Her
widely opened eyes again looked round. No, no one.
What could Jacques be after, to remain so long as this? Another ten
minutes passed. A slight scraping, a sound of finger-nails scratching
against wood, alarmed her. Then she understood, and hastened to open
the door. It was Jacques with a bottle of Malaga and a cake.
In an outburst of tenderness she threw her arms round his neck,
rippling with laughter.
"Oh! you pet of a man to have thought to bring something," she
exclaimed.
But he quickly silenced her.
"Hush! hush!" he whispered.
And she, fancying he might be pursued by the portress, lowered her
voice. No; as he was about to ring, he had the luck to see the door
open to let out a lady and her daughter, who had no doubt come down
from the Dauvergnes; and he had been able to come up unperceived. Only
there, on the landing, through the door standing ajar, he had just
caught sight of the newsvendor woman who was finishing a little washing
in a basin.
"Let us make as little noise as possible," said he. "Speak low."
Séverine replied by squeezing him passionately in her arms and covering
his face with silent kisses. This game of mystery, speaking no louder
than a whisper, diverted her.
"Yes, yes," she said; "you shall see: we will be as quiet as two little
mice."
She took all kinds of precautions in laying the table: two plates, two
glasses, two knives, stopping with a desire to burst out laughing when
one article, set down too hastily, rang against another.
Jacques, who was watching her, also became amused.
"I thought you would be hungry," said he in a low voice.
"Why, I am famished!" she answered. "We dined so badly at Rouen!"
"Well, then, let me run down and fetch a fowl," he suggested.
"Ah! no," said she; "the portress might not let you come up again! No,
no, the cake will do."
They immediately seated themselves side by side, almost on the
same chair; and the cake was divided and eaten amid the frolics of
sweethearts. She said she was thirsty, and swallowed two glasses of
Malaga, one after the other, which flushed her cheeks. The stove,
reddening behind their backs, thrilled them with warmth. But, as he was
kissing her on the neck too loudly, she, in her turn, stopped him.
"Hush! hush!" she whispered.
She made him a sign to listen; and, in the silence, they distinguished
a swaying movement to the accompaniment of music, ascending from the
Dauvergnes; these young ladies had just arranged a hop. Hard by, the
newsvendor was throwing the soapy water from her basin down the sink
on the landing. She shut her door. The dancing downstairs had for a
moment ceased; and outside, beneath the window, nothing could be heard
but a dull rumble, stifled by the snow--the departure of a train, which
seemed weeping with low whistles.
"An Auteuil train," murmured Jacques. "Ten minutes to twelve."
She made no answer, being absorbed by thoughts of the past, in her
fever of happiness, living over again the hours she had passed there
with her husband. Was this not the bygone lunch continuing with the
cake, eaten on the same table, amid the same sounds? She became more
and more excited, recollections flowed fast upon her. Never had she
experienced such a burning necessity to tell her sweetheart everything,
to deliver herself up to him completely. She felt, as it were, the
physical desire to do so. It seemed to her that she would belong to
him more absolutely were she to make her confession in his ear. Past
events came vividly to her mind. Her husband was there. She turned her
head, imagining she had just seen his short, hirsute hand pass over
her shoulder to grasp the knife.
"Hullo! the candle is going out," said Jacques.
She shrugged her shoulders, as if to say she did not care. Then,
stifling a laugh, she whispered:
"I've been good, eh?"
"Oh! yes!" he answered. "No one has heard us. We've been exactly like
two little mice."
They said no more. The room was in darkness. Barely could the pale
squares of glass be distinguished at the two windows; but on the
ceiling appeared a ray from the stove, forming a round crimson spot.
Both gazed at it with wide open eyes. The music had ceased. There came
a slamming of doors; and then all the house fell into the peacefulness
of heavy slumber. The train from Caen, arriving below, shook the
turn-tables with dull shocks that barely reached them, so far did they
seem away.
And now, Séverine again felt the desire to make her confession. She
had been tormented by this feeling for weeks. The round spot on the
ceiling increased in size, appearing to spread out like a spurt of
blood. She had a fit of hallucination by looking at it. The objects
round the bedstead took voices, relating the story aloud. She felt the
words rising to her lips in the nervous wave passing through her frame.
How delightful it would be to have nothing hidden, to confide in him
entirely!
"You know, darling----" she began.
Jacques, who had also been steadily watching the red spot, understood
what she was about to say. He had observed her increasing uneasiness in
regard to this obscure, hideous subject which was present in both their
minds, although they never alluded to it. Hitherto he had prevented
her speaking, dreading the precursory shiver of his former complaint,
trembling lest their affection might suffer if they were to talk of
blood together. But, on this occasion, he did not feel the strength to
bend his head, and seal her lips with a kiss. He thought it settled,
that she would say all. And so, he was relieved of his anxiety, when,
appearing to become troubled, she hesitated, then shrank back, and
observed:
"You know, darling, my husband suspects we are in love with one
another."
At the last second, in spite of herself, it was the recollection of
what had passed the night before at Havre, that came to her lips,
instead of the confession.
"Oh! Do you think so?" he murmured incredulous. "He seems so nice. He
gave me his hand again this morning."
"I assure you he knows," she replied. "I have the proof."
Séverine paused. Then, after a quivering meditation, she exclaimed:
"Oh! I hate him! I hate him!"
Jacques was surprised. He had no ill-feeling against Roubaud.
"Indeed! Why is that?" he inquired "He does not interfere with us!"
Without replying, she repeated:
"I hate him! The mere idea of his being beside me is a torture. Ah! If
I could, I would run away, I would remain with you!"
Jacques pressed her to him. Then, after another pause, she resumed:
"But you do not know, darling----"
The confession was on her lips again, fatally, inevitably. And this
time he felt certain that nothing in the world would delay it. Not
a sound could be heard in the house. The newsvendor even must have
been in deep slumber. Outside, Paris covered with snow was wrapped in
silence. Not a rumble of a vehicle could be heard in the streets. The
last train for Havre, which had left at twenty minutes after midnight,
seemed to have borne away the final vestige of life in the station. The
stove had ceased roaring. The fire burning to ashes, gave fresh vigour
to the red spot circling on the ceiling like a terrified eye. It was so
warm that a heavy, stifling mist seemed to weigh down on them.
"Darling, you do not know----" she repeated.
Then he also spoke, unable to restrain himself any longer:
"Yes, yes, I know," said he.
"No; you may think you do, but you cannot know," she answered.
"I know that he did it for the legacy," he retorted.
She made a movement, and gave an involuntary little nervous laugh.
"Ah! bosh; the legacy!" she remarked.
And, in a very low voice, so low that a moth grazing the window panes,
would have made a louder sound, she related her childhood at the
house of the sister of President Grandmorin. Gaining courage as she
proceeded, she continued in her low tone:
"Just fancy, it was here in this room, last February. You recollect,
at the time when he had his quarrel with the sub-prefect. We had
lunched very nicely--just as we have supped now--there, on that table.
Naturally, he knew nothing, I had not gone out of my way to relate
the story. But all of a sudden, about a ring, an old present, about
nothing, I know not how it occurred, he understood everything. Ah! my
darling! No, no; you cannot imagine how he treated me!"
After a shudder, she resumed:
"With a blow from his fist, he knocked me to the ground. And then he
dragged me along by the hair. Next he raised his heel above my face,
as if he would crush it. No; as long as I live, I shall never forget
that! After this came more blows, to force me to answer his questions.
No doubt he loved me. He must have been very much pained when he heard
all he made me tell him; and I confess that it would have been more
straightforward on my part to have warned him before our marriage.
Only, you must understand that this intrigue was old and forgotten. No
one but a positive savage would have become so mad with jealousy. You,
yourself, my darling, will you cease to love me on account of what you
now know?"
Jacques had not moved. He sat inert, reflecting. He felt very much
surprised. Never had he a suspicion of such a story. How everything
became complicated, when the will sufficed to account for the crime!
But he preferred that matters should be as they were. The certainty
that the couple had not killed for money, relieved him of a feeling of
contempt.
"I! cease to love you. Why?" he inquired. "I do not care a fig about
your past. It does not concern me."
After a silence, he added:
"And then, what about the old man?"
In a very low tone, with an effort of all her being, she confessed.
"Yes; we killed him," she answered. "He made me write to the President
to leave by the express, at the same time as we did, and not to show
himself until he reached Rouen. I remained trembling in my corner,
distracted at the thought of the woe into which we were plunging.
Opposite me sat a woman in black, who said nothing, and who gave me
a great fright. I could not even look at her. I imagined she could
distinctly read in our brains what was passing there, that she knew
very well what we meant to do. It was thus that the two hours were
spent from Paris to Rouen. I did not utter one word. I did not move,
but closed my eyes to make believe I was asleep. I felt him beside
me, motionless also; and what terrified me was my knowledge of the
terrible things that were rolling in his head, without being able to
make an exact guess of what he had resolved to do. Ah! what a journey,
with that whirling flood of thoughts, amidst the whistling of the
locomotive, and the jolting, and the thunder of the wheels!"
"But, as you were not in the same compartment, how were you able to
kill him?" inquired Jacques.
"Wait a minute, and you will understand," answered Séverine. "It was
all arranged by my husband; but if the plan proved successful, it was
entirely due to chance. There was a stoppage of ten minutes at Rouen.
We got down, and he compelled me to walk with him to the coupé occupied
by the President, like persons who were stretching their legs. And
there, seeing M. Grandmorin at the door, he affected surprise, as if
unaware of his being in the train. On the platform there was a crush, a
stream of people forced their way into the second-class carriages all
going to Havre, where there was to be a fête on the morrow.
"When they began to close the doors, the President invited us into
his compartment. I hesitated, mentioning our valise; but he cried out
that there was no fear of anyone taking it, and that we could return
to our carriage at Barentin, as he would be getting down there. At one
moment my husband, who was anxious, seemed as if he wanted to run and
fetch the valise; but at that same minute, the guard whistled, and
Roubaud, making up his mind, pushed me into the coupé, got in after me,
closed the door, and put up the glass. How it happened that we were not
perceived, I have never been able to comprehend! A number of persons
were running, the railway officials appeared to lose their heads,
finally not a single witness came forward who had seen anything. At
last, the train slowly left the station."
She paused a few seconds, unconsciously living the scene over again,
and then resumed:
"Ah! during the first moments in that coupé, as I felt the ground
flying beneath me, I was quite dizzy. At the commencement, I thought
of nothing but our valise: how were we to recover it? And would it
not betray us if we left it where it was? The whole thing seemed to
me stupid, devoid of reason, like a murder dreamed of by a child,
under the influence of nightmare, which anyone must be mad to think of
putting into execution. We should be arrested next day, and convicted.
But I sought to calm myself with the reflection that my husband would
shrink from the crime, that it would not take place, that it could
not. And yet, at the mere sight of him chatting with the President,
I understood that his resolution remained as immutable as it was
ferocious.
"Still, he was quite calm. He even talked merrily after his usual
manner; and it must have been in his intelligible look alone, which
ever and anon rested on me, that I read his obstinate determination. He
meant to kill him a mile farther on, perhaps two, at the exact place
he had settled in his mind, and as to which I was in ignorance. This
was certain. One could even see it glittering in the tranquil glances
which he cast upon the other who presently would be no more. I said
nothing, feeling a violent interior trepidation, which I exerted myself
to conceal by smiling when either of them looked at me. How was it that
I never even thought of preventing all this? It was only later on, when
I sought to understand my attitude, that I felt astonished I did not
run to the door and shout out, or that I did not pull the alarm bell.
At that time I was as if paralysed, I felt myself radically powerless.
When I only think that I have not the courage to bleed a fowl! Oh! what
I suffered on that hideous night! Oh! the frightful horror that howled
within me!"
"But tell me," said Jacques, "did you help him to kill the old fellow?"
"I was in a corner," she continued without answering. "My husband sat
between me and the President, who occupied the other corner. They
chatted together about the forthcoming elections. From time to time I
noticed my husband bend forward, and cast a glance outside to find out
where we were, as if impatient. Each time he acted thus, I followed
his eyes, and also ascertained how far we had travelled. The night was
not very dark, the black masses of trees could be seen filing past with
furious rapidity. And there was always that thunder of wheels, such as
I had never heard before, a frightful tumult of enraged and moaning
voices, a lugubrious wail of animals howling at death! The train flew
along at full speed. Suddenly there came flashes of light, and the
reverberating echo of the locomotive and carriages passing betwixt the
buildings of a station. We were at Maromme, already two leagues and a
half from Rouen. Malaunay would be next, and then Barentin.
"Where would the thing happen? Did he intend waiting until the last
minute? I was no longer conscious of time or distances. I abandoned
myself like the stone that falls, to this deafening downfall in the
gloom, when, on passing through Malaunay, I all at once understood: the
deed would be done in the tunnel, less than a mile farther on. I turned
towards my husband. Our eyes met: yes; in the tunnel. Two minutes
more. The train flew along. We passed the Dieppe embranchment, where
I noticed the pointsman at his post. At this spot are some hills, and
there I imagined I could distinctly see men with their arms raised,
loading us with imprecations. Then, the engine gave a long whistle. We
were at the entrance to the tunnel. And when the train plunged into it,
oh! how that low-vaulted roof resounded! You know, those sounds of an
upheaval of iron, similar to a hammer striking on an anvil, and which
I, in this second or two of craziness, transformed into the rumble of
thunder."
She shivered, and broke off to say, in a voice that had changed, and
was almost merry:
"Isn't it stupid, eh! darling, to still feel the cold in the marrow
of one's bones? And yet, I'm warm enough. Besides, you know there is
nothing whatever to fear. The case is shelved, without counting that
the bigwigs connected with the government are even less anxious than
ourselves to throw light on it. Oh! I saw through it all, and am quite
at ease!"
Then she added, without seeking to conceal her merriment:
"As for you, you can boast of having given us a rare fright! But tell
me, I have often wondered--what was it you actually did see?"
"What I told the magistrate, nothing more," he answered. "One man
murdering another. You two behaved so strangely with me that you
aroused my suspicions. At one moment I seemed to recognise your
husband. It was only later on though, that I became absolutely
certain----"
She gaily interrupted him:
"Yes, in the square. The day when I told you no. Do you remember?
The first time we were alone in Paris together. How peculiar it was!
I told you it was not us, and knew perfectly well that you thought
the contrary. It was as if I had told you all about it, was it not?
Oh! darling, I have often thought of that conversation, and I really
believe it is since that day I love you."
After a pause, she resumed the story of the crime:
"The train flew through the tunnel, which is very long. It takes three
minutes to reach the end, as you know. To me it seemed like an hour.
The President had ceased talking, in consequence of the deafening
clatter of clashing iron. And my husband at this last moment must have
lost courage, for he still remained motionless. Only, in the dancing
light of the lamp, I noticed his ears become violet. Was he going to
wait until we were again in the open country? The crime seemed to me so
fatally inevitable, that, henceforth, I had but one desire: to be no
longer subjected to this torture of waiting, to have it all over. Why
on earth did he not kill him, as the thing had to be done? I would have
taken the knife and settled the matter myself, I was so exasperated
with fear and suffering. He looked at me. No doubt he read my thoughts
on my face. For all of a sudden, he fell upon the President, who had
turned to glance through the glass at the door, grasping him by the
shoulders.
"M. Grandmorin, in a scare, instinctively shook himself free, and
stretched out his arm towards the alarm knob just above his head. He
managed to graze it, but was seized again by my husband, and thrown
down on the seat with such violence that he found himself doubled up.
His open mouth uttered frantic yells, in stupefaction and terror, which
were drowned in the uproar of the train; while I heard my husband
distinctly repeating the word: Beast! beast! beast! in a passionate
hiss. But the noise subsided, the train left the tunnel, the pale
country appeared once more with the dark trees filing past. I had
remained stiffened in my corner, pressing against the back of the coupé
as far off as possible.
"How long did the struggle last? Barely a few seconds. And yet it
seemed to me it would never end, that all the passengers were now
listening to the cries, that the trees saw us. My husband, holding
the open knife in his hand, could not strike the blow, being driven
back, staggering on the floor of the carriage, by the kicks of his
victim. He almost fell to his knees; and the train flew on, carrying us
along full speed; while the locomotive whistled as we approached the
level-crossing at La Croix-de-Maufras.
"Without me being able to recall afterwards how the thing occurred,
I know it was then that I threw myself on the legs of the struggling
man. Yes, I let myself fall like a bundle, crushing his two lower limbs
with all my weight, so that he was unable to move them any more. And
if I saw nothing, I felt it all: the shock of the knife in the throat,
the long quivering of the body, and then death, which came with three
hiccups, with a sound like the running-down of a broken clock. Oh!
that quivering fit of agony! I still feel the echo of it in my limbs!"
Jacques, eager for details, wanted to interrupt her with questions. But
she was now in a hurry to finish.
"No; wait," said she. "As I rose from my seat we flashed past La
Croix-de-Maufras. I distinctly perceived the front of the house with
the shutters closed, and then the box of the gatekeeper. Another three
miles, five minutes at the most, before reaching Barentin. The corpse
was doubled-up on the seat, the blood running from it forming a large
pool. And my husband, standing erect, besotted as if with drink,
reeling in the swaying of the train, gazed on his victim as he wiped
the knife with his pocket handkerchief. This lasted a minute, without
either of us doing anything for our safety. If we kept this corpse with
us, if we remained there, everything perhaps would be discovered when
the train stopped at Barentin.
"But my husband had put the knife in his pocket. He seemed to wake
up. I saw him search the clothes of the dead man, take his watch, his
money, all he could find; and, opening the door, he did his utmost to
thrust the body out on the line without taking it in his arms, being
afraid of the blood. 'Assist me,' said he; 'push at the same time as I
do!' I did not even attempt to try, my limbs were without feeling. With
an oath he repeated, 'Will you push with me?'
"The head, which had gone out first, hung down to the step; while the
trunk, rolled into a ball, would not pass. And the train flew on. At
last, in response to a stronger effort, the corpse turned over, and
disappeared amidst the thunder of the wheels. 'Ah! the beast; so it is
all over!' said my husband. Then, picking up the rug, he threw that
out as well. There were now only us two standing before the pool of
blood on the seat, where we dare not sit down. The open door continued
beating backward and forward; and broken down and bewildered as I was,
I did not at first understand what my husband was doing, when I saw
him get out, and in his turn disappear.
"But he returned. 'Come, quick, follow me,' said he, 'unless you
want them to cut our heads off!' I did not move. He became impatient.
'Come on,' he repeated with an oath, 'our compartment is empty.' Our
compartment empty! Then he had been there? Was he quite certain that
the woman in black, who did not speak, whom one could not see, was he
quite certain that she had not remained in a corner? 'If you don't
come, I'll throw you on the line like the other one!' he threatened. He
had entered the carriage, and pushed me as a brute, half mad. I found
myself outside on the step, with my two hands clinging to the brass
rail. Leaving the coupé after me, he carefully closed the door. 'Go on,
go on!' said he. But I did not dare. I stood there, borne along in the
whirling flight of the train, beaten by the wind which was blowing a
gale. My hair came unbound, and I thought my stiffened fingers would
lose their hold on the rail. 'Go on!' he exclaimed with another oath.
He continued pushing me, and I had to advance, hand over hand, keeping
close to the carriages, with my skirt and petticoats blowing about and
embarrassing the action of my lower limbs. Already, in the distance,
after a curve, one could see the lights of the Barentin station. The
engine began to whistle. 'Go on!' repeated my husband still swearing at
me.
"Oh! that infernal riot, that violent vacillation amidst which I
walked! It seemed as if I had been caught in a storm that swept me
along like a straw, to cast me against a wall. The country flew behind
my back, the trees followed me in a furious gallop, turning over and
over, twisted, each uttering a short moan as it passed. When I came
to the end of the carriage, and had to take a stride to reach the
footboard of the next, and grasp the other rod, I stopped, having lost
all courage. Never should I have the strength to do it. 'Go on,' said
my husband, accompanying the words with his usual imprecation. He was
behind, he gave me a push, and I closed my eyes. I know not how it was
I continued to advance. Possibly by the force of instinct, as an animal
who has planted his claws into something, and means not to fall. How
was it, too, that nobody saw us? We passed before three carriages, one
of which was a second-class carriage, completely crammed. I remember
seeing the heads of the passengers ranged in a line, in the light
of the lamp. I believe I should recognise them if I were to meet
them one of these days. There was a stout man with red whiskers, and
I particularly recollect two young girls who were leaning forward
laughing.
"'Go on! Go on!' exclaimed my husband with two frightful oaths. And
I hardly remember what followed. The lights at Barentin were drawing
near, the locomotive whistled. My last sensation was one of being
dragged along, carried anyhow, caught up by the hair. My husband must
have grasped hold of me, opened the door over my shoulder, and thrown
me into the compartment. I was reclining breathless and half fainting
in a corner when we stopped; and, without making a movement, I heard my
husband exchange a few words with the station-master. Then, when the
train went on again, he sank down on the seat, exhausted also. Between
Barentin and Havre neither of us said a word. Oh! I hate him! I hate
him, for all those abominations he made me suffer!"
"And so you sank down on his legs, and felt him dying?" inquired
Jacques.
The unknown was being revealed to him. A ferocious wave ascended from
his inside, filling his head with a crimson vision. His curiosity about
the murder returned.
"And then, the knife, you felt the knife go in?" he continued.
"Yes, with a thud," she answered.
"Ah! a thud," said he, "not a rip; you are sure of that?"
"No, no," she replied; "nothing but a shock."
"And then, he quivered, eh?" he suggested.
"Yes; he gave three twitches from top to toe, and they lasted so long
that I even felt them in his feet," she said.
"And those twitches stiffened him, did they not?" he persisted.
"Yes," she answered. "The first was very long, the other two weaker."
"And then he died?" he continued. "And what effect did it have on you,
when you felt him expire under the knife?"
"On me? Oh! I don't know," she said.
"You don't know! Why tell stories?" he asked her. "Describe to me,
describe to me your feeling, quite frankly. Was it pain?"
"No, no, not pain," said she.
"Pleasure?" he inquired.
"Pleasure!" she answered, "Ah! no, not pleasure!"
"What then, my love?" he urged. "I implore you to tell me all. If you
only knew----Tell me what one feels."
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "How is it possible to describe it? It
is frightful. You are borne away. Oh! so far, so far! I lived longer in
that one minute than in all my previous life."
The crimson reflex had disappeared from the ceiling, and the fire
had died out. The room became cooler in the intense cold outside.
Not a sound ascended from Paris, padded with snow. For a moment, the
newsvendor in the adjoining room, could be heard snoring, and then the
whole house subsided into complete silence. Séverine had succumbed to
invincible slumber. The cuckoo clock had just struck three.
Jacques was unable to close his eyes, which a hand, invisible in the
obscurity, seemed to keep open. He could now distinguish nothing in the
room. Every object had disappeared, stove, furniture, and walls. He had
to turn round to find the two pale squares of windows, which appeared
motionless and faint as in a dream. Notwithstanding his excessive
fatigue, prodigious cerebral activity kept him in a thrill, ceaselessly
unwinding the same coil of ideas. Each time that, by an effort of will,
he fancied himself slipping off to sleep, the same haunting pictures
began filing by again, awakening the same sensations.
And the scene unfolded thus, with mechanical regularity, while his
fixed, wide-open eyes became clouded, was that of the murder, detail
by detail. It kept returning again and again, identically the same,
gaining hold on him, driving him crazy. The knife entering the throat
with a thud, the body giving three long twitches, life ebbing away in a
flood of warm blood--a crimson flood which he fancied he felt coursing
over his hands. Twenty, thirty times, the knife went in, and the body
quivered. Oh! if he could but deal a blow like that, satisfy his long
craving, learn what one experiences, become acquainted with that minute
which is longer than a lifetime!
In spite of his effort to sleep, the invisible fingers kept his eyes
open; and in the darkness the murder scene reappeared in all its
sanguinary traits. Then, he ceased the struggle and remained a prey to
the stubborn vision. He could hear within him the unfettered labour
of the brain, the rumble of the whole machine. It came from long ago,
from his youth. And yet he had fancied himself cured, for this desire
to kill had been dead for months; but, since the story of that crime
had been told him just now, he had never felt the feeling so intensely.
An intolerable warmth ran up his spine, and at the back of the neck he
felt a pricking, as if red-hot needles were boring into him. He became
afraid of his hands, and imprisoned them under him, as if he dreaded
some abomination on their part, some act that he was determined not to
allow them to commit.
Each time the cuckoo clock struck, Jacques counted the strokes. Four
o'clock, five o'clock, six o'clock. He longed for daylight, in the
hope that dawn would dispel this nightmare. And now, he turned towards
the windows, watching the panes of glass. But he could see naught save
the vague reflex of the snow. At a quarter to five he had heard the
through train arrive from Havre, with a delay of only forty minutes
which proved that the line must be clear. And it was not until after
seven that he saw the window panes slowly becoming milky white. At
length the darkness in the apartment disappeared, to give place to an
uncertain glimmer, in which the furniture looked as if floating. The
stove, the cupboard, the sideboard reappeared. He was still unable to
close his lids. His eyes seemed determined to see.
All of a sudden, before it even became sufficiently light for him to
distinguish the object, he had guessed that the knife he had used to
cut the cake the previous night lay on the table. He now saw nothing
but this knife, a small pointed weapon. And as day grew, all the clear
rays from the two windows centred upon this thin blade. In terror of
what his hands might do, he thrust them farther under him, for he could
feel that they were agitated, in open revolt, more powerful than his
own will. Would they cease to belong to him, those hands that came
from another, bequeathed to him by some ancestor of the days when man
strangled animals in the woods?
So as not to see the knife, Jacques turned towards Séverine, who was
sleeping very calmly in her intense fatigue, with the even respiration
of a child. Her mass of unbound, black hair made her a sombre pillow,
and spread over her shoulders. Beneath her chin, her throat appeared
amidst the curls, a throat of cream-like delicacy, faintly tinted with
rose. He gazed at her, as if he did not know her. And yet he adored
her, carrying her image along with him, impressed on his mind, wherever
he went. She was ever in his thoughts, even when he was driving his
engine; and so much so, that on one occasion, when he awoke to
reality, as from a dream, it was to find himself going at full speed
past a station, in defiance of the signals.
But, at the sight of that white throat, he was overcome by a sudden,
inexorable fascination; and, with a feeling of horror, of which he
still had conscience, he felt the imperious necessity rising within
him to take the knife from the table and bury it up to the handle in
the flesh of this woman. He heard the thud of the blade entering the
throat, he saw the body quake with three spasms, then stiffen in the
death agony amidst a crimson flood.
In the struggle to free himself from these haunting thoughts, he
every second lost a little of his will. It seemed to be succumbing
to the fixed idea, to be reaching that extremity when a man yields,
vanquished, to the impulse of instinct. Everything went wrong. His
revolted hands, overcoming his effort to conceal them, became unclasped
of themselves, and escaped. He then understood that, henceforth, he
was not their master, and that they would go, and brutally satisfy
themselves if he continued gazing at Séverine.
Although it was now broad daylight, the room appeared to him to be full
of reddish smoke, as if it was a dawn of icy fog, drowning everything.
He shivered with fever. He had taken the knife, and concealed it up his
sleeve, certain of killing one woman, the first he should meet on the
pavement outside, when a crumpling of linen, a prolonged sigh, made him
turn pale and stop riveted beside the table. It was Séverine waking up.
He felt convinced that if he approached her, with that knife in his
sleeve, if he only saw her again, in all her delicate beauty, there
would be an end to that will which kept him firmly standing there close
to her. In spite of himself, his hand would rise and bury the knife in
her neck. Distracted, he opened the door, and fled.
It was eight o'clock when Jacques found himself on the pavement of the
Rue d'Amsterdam. The snow had not yet been removed, and the footsteps
of the few passers-by could barely be heard. He immediately caught
sight of an old woman, but, as she happened to be turning the corner of
the Rue de Londres, he did not follow her. Being among men he walked
down towards the Place du Havre, grasping the handle of the knife,
whose blade disappeared up his sleeve. As a girl about fourteen left a
house opposite, he crossed the road, but only reached the other side to
see her enter the shop of a baker next door. His impatience was such
that he could not wait, but sought farther on, continuing to descend
the street.
Since he had quitted the room with this knife, it was no longer he who
acted, but the other one, him whom he had so frequently felt stirring
in the depths of his being, that unknown party who dated back so very
far, who was burning with the hereditary thirst for murder. He had
killed in days of yore, he wanted to kill again.
And the objects around Jacques were only things in a dream, for he
saw them in the light of his fixed idea. His everyday life was as if
abolished. He strode along like a somnambulist, without memory of the
past, without forethought for the future, a slave to his necessity. His
personality was absent from the body, which took its own direction.
Two women who brushed by, as they advanced ahead of him, caused him to
hasten his step; and he had caught them up, when a man stopped them.
All three stood laughing and chatting together. This man being in his
way, he began following another woman who went by, looking feeble and
gloomy, and presenting a poverty-stricken appearance in her thin shawl.
She advanced with short steps, on her way, no doubt, to some execrated
task, that was hard and meanly remunerated, for she did not hurry, and
her face looked despairingly sad.
Nor did he hurry, now that he had found a victim, but waited to select
a spot where he could strike her at ease. Probably she perceived him
following her, as her eyes turned towards him in unutterable distress,
astonished that anybody could wish to have anything to say to her.
She had already led him to the middle of the Rue du Havre, where she
turned round twice more, each time preventing him plunging the knife,
which he drew from his sleeve, into her throat--her eyes looked so full
of misery, and so supplicating! He would strike her down over there,
as she stepped from the pavement. But, he abruptly turned aside, in
pursuit of another woman coming the opposite way. And he acted thus
without reason, without will, simply because she happened to be passing
at that minute.
Jacques followed her towards the station. This young woman was very
lively, and walked with sonorous tread. She looked adorably pretty.
She could be no more than twenty, and was plump and fair, with lovely,
merry eyes that laughed at life. Apparently in a great hurry, she did
not even notice that a man was following her, but briskly ascended
the flight of steps in the Cour du Havre into the grand hall, along
which she almost ran in her haste to reach the ticket-office of the
Ceinture line. And as she there asked for a first-class ticket to
Auteuil, Jacques took the same. He then accompanied her through the
waiting-rooms, on to the platform, and seated himself beside her in the
compartment she selected. The train at once started.
"I have plenty of time," thought he; "I'll kill her in a tunnel."
But opposite them, an elderly lady, the only other person there, had
just recognised the young woman.
"What! Is it you?" she exclaimed. "Where are you off to so early?"
The other laughed heartily with a comical gesture of despair.
"Only fancy," said she, "one cannot go anywhere without meeting
somebody one knows! I hope you will not betray me. To-morrow is the
birthday of my husband; and, as soon as he went away to business,
I set out on my errand. I am going to Auteuil to find a florist who
has an orchid which my husband has set his mind on. A surprise, you
understand."
The elderly lady nodded her head up and down with tender benevolence.
"And how is the baby?" she inquired.
"The baby?" answered the young mother. "Oh! she is going on
beautifully. You know I weaned her a week ago. You should see
her eating her pap. We are all remarkably well. It is perfectly
disgraceful."
She laughed louder than ever, displaying the white teeth between her
ruby lips. And Jacques, who had seated himself on her right, his knife
in his fist, hidden under his leg, said to himself that he was in a
first-rate position to deal the blow. He had only to raise his arm,
and turn half round, to have her within reach. But in the Batignolles
tunnel, the thought of something she wore round her neck stopped him.
"There is a knot which will inconvenience me," he reflected. "I want to
be quite sure."
The two ladies continued chatting gaily together.
"So I see you are happy," remarked the older one.
"Happy? Ah! if I could only tell you to what extent," replied the
other. "Two years ago I was nobody at all. You remember, there was no
amusement at the home of my aunt; and I was without a sou of dowry.
When he used to call, I trembled, I had become so fond of him. He was
so handsome, so wealthy. And he is mine, my husband, and we have baby
between us. I assure you it is too delightful!"
Jacques, in examining the knot of the scarf, perceived a big gold
locket underneath, attached to a black velvet band; and he calculated
how he would proceed.
"I will grasp her by the neck," thought he, "with my left hand, and
thrust aside the locket as I put her head back to have the throat free."
The train stopped, and went on again every few minutes, the stations
being so close together. Short tunnels followed one another at
Courcelles and Neuilly. Presently would do, one minute would be
sufficient.
"Did you go to the seaside last summer?" inquired the old lady.
"Yes," answered the other, "to Brittany, for six weeks, in an
out-of-the-way corner, a perfect paradise. Then we passed September in
Poitou, at the seat of my father-in-law, who owns extensive woods down
there."
"And you are going to the south for the winter?" said the old lady.
"Yes," answered the younger one, "we shall be at Cannes about the 15th.
The house is taken. A delightful bit of garden facing the sea. We have
sent someone down to prepare the place. Neither of us fear the cold,
but then, the sun is so nice! We shall be back in March. Next year we
intend to remain in Paris. After two years, when baby is big, we mean
to travel. I hardly know what afterwards. It is one constant holiday!"
She was so overflowing with felicity, that yielding to a feeling of
expansion, she turned towards Jacques, towards this unknown individual
to smile at him. In making this movement the knot of her scarf was
displaced, carrying the locket away with it, and revealing the rosy
neck with a slight dimple gilded by the shadow.
The fingers of Jacques clutched the handle of the knife, at the same
time as he formed an irrevocable resolution.
"That is the spot where I will deal the blow," said he to himself.
"Yes, in the tunnel before reaching Passy."
But, at the Trocadero station, a member of the staff got in, who,
knowing Jacques, began to talk about a theft of coal that had been
brought home to a driver and his fireman. From that moment everything
became confused. Later on he was never able to establish the facts,
exactly. The laughter continued in such a beam of happiness that he
felt as if penetrated and appeased by it. Perhaps he went as far as
Auteuil with the two ladies, only he had no recollection of seeing them
leave the carriage.
In the end he found himself beside the Seine, without knowing how he
came there. But he had the distinct remembrance of casting the knife,
which had remained in his hand, with the blade up his sleeve, from the
top of the bank into the river. Then he hardly knew what occurred,
being half silly, absent from his being, which the other one had also
left along with the knife. He must have wandered about for hours
through streets and squares, wherever his body chanced to take him.
People and houses filed past very faintly. Doubtless, he had gone in
somewhere to get food at the end of a room full of customers, for he
clearly recalled the white plates. He had also the firm impression that
he saw a red broadside on the shutters of a shop. And then, all sank
into a black chasm, to nothingness, where there was neither time nor
space, where he lay inert, perhaps since centuries.
When Jacques came to himself, he was in his little room in the Rue
Cardinet. He had fallen across his bed in his clothes. Instinct had
taken him there, just as a lame dog drags himself to his kennel, or
his hole. He remembered neither going upstairs, nor going to sleep. He
awoke from heavy slumber, scared to suddenly regain self-possession,
as if after a long fainting fit. Perhaps he had slept three hours,
perhaps three days. All at once his memory returned: the confession
Séverine had made of the murder, and his departure like a feline animal
in search of blood. He had been beside himself, but he now had full
command of his faculties, and felt astounded at what had taken place
against his will. Then the recollection of the young woman awaiting
him, made him leap to his feet at a bound. He looked at his watch,
and saw it was already four o'clock; and, with a clear head, very
calm, as if after a copious bleeding, he hastened back to the Impasse
d'Amsterdam.
Séverine had been wrapped in profound slumber until noon. Then,
waking up, surprised not to see Jacques there, she had lit the fire,
and, dying of inanition, had made up her mind, at about two o'clock,
to run down and get something to eat at a neighbouring restaurant.
When Jacques appeared she had just come up again, after going on a few
errands.
"Oh! my darling!" she exclaimed, as he entered the room; "I was most
anxious!"
And she hung round his neck, looking into his eyes, quite close.
"What has happened?" she added inquiringly.
He placidly removed her fears, without feeling in the least troubled.
"Oh! nothing," he replied, "a nasty job. When they once get hold of
you, they will never let you go."
Then, Séverine, lowering her voice, became very humble and fondling.
"Only think," said she, "I fancied,--oh! an ugly thought, that caused
me a great deal of pain!--Yes, I fancied to myself that perhaps after
the confession I made, you would have nothing more to do with me; and I
imagined you had gone, never, never to return!"
Tears filled her eyes, and she burst into sobs, pressing him
distractedly in her arms.
"Ah! my darling," she continued, "if you only knew how I yearn for
kindness! Love me, love me fondly, because, you see, it is only your
love that can make me forget. Now that I have told you all my trouble,
you must not leave me. Oh! I implore you!"
Jacques felt penetrated by this tenderness. An invincible relaxation
softened him little by little, and he stammered out:
"No, no, I love you, do not be afraid."
And quite overcome, he also wept, in face of the fatality of that
abominable evil which had again taken hold of him, and of which he
would never be cured. It was shame, and despair without limit.
"Love me, love me fondly, also," he continued. "Oh! with all your
strength, for I have as great a need of love as you."
She shuddered, and wished to know more.
"If you are in grief, you must confide in me," said she.
"No, no," he replied, "not grief, things that do not exist, moments of
sadness that make me horribly unhappy, without it being even possible
to speak of them."
They strained one another, mingling their frightfully melancholy
trouble. It was infinite suffering without any possible oblivion, and
without pardon. They wept, and upon them they felt the blind force of
life, made up of struggles and death.
"Come," said Jacques, disengaging himself, "it is time to think of
leaving! To-night you will be at Havre!"
Séverine, with clouded brow and vacant eyes, murmured after a silence:
"If I were only free, if my husband were no longer there. Ah! how soon
we should forget!"
He gave a violent gesture, and thinking aloud, he muttered:
"Still we cannot kill him!"
She gazed at him fixedly, and he started, astonished at what he had
said, for such an idea had never entered his mind. But as he wished to
kill someone, why not kill this embarrassing man? And, as he left her
to run to the depôt, she again clasped him in her arms, and smothered
him with kisses.
"Oh! my darling," she repeated, "love me fondly. I will love you, more
and more. We shall be happy, you will see."