The scene shifted to the bedroom at La Croix-de-Maufras, the room hung
in red damask, with the two high windows looking on the railway line
a few yards away. From the bedstead--an old four-poster facing the
windows--the trains could be seen passing. And not an object had been
removed, not a piece of furniture disturbed for years.
Séverine had the wounded Jacques, who was unconscious, carried up to
this apartment; while Henri Dauvergne was left in a smaller bedroom
on the ground floor. For herself, she kept a room close to the one
occupied by Jacques, and only separated from it by the landing. A
couple of hours sufficed to make everything sufficiently comfortable,
for the house had remained fully set up, and even linen was stowed away
in the cupboards. Séverine, with an apron over her gown, found herself
transformed into a lady nurse. She had simply telegraphed to Roubaud
not to expect her, as she would no doubt remain at the house a short
time, attending to the wounded she had put up there.
On the following day, the doctor announced that he thought he could
answer for Jacques, indeed he hoped to put him on his feet again in a
week; his case proved a perfect miracle, for he had barely received
some slight internal injury. But the doctor insisted on the greatest
care being taken of him, and on absolute rest. So when the invalid
opened his eyes Séverine, who watched over him as over a child, begged
him to be good and to obey her in everything. Still very weak, he
promised with a nod.
He was in possession of all his faculties. He recognised the room which
she had described on the night of her confession. He was lying on the
bed. There were the windows through which, without even raising his
head, he could see the trains flash past, suddenly shaking the whole
house. And he felt by the surroundings, that this house was just as he
had so often seen it, when he went by on his engine. He saw it again
now in his mind, set down aslant beside the line, in its distress and
abandonment, with its closed shutters. The aspect had become more
lamentable and dubious, since it had been for sale, with the immense
board adding to the melancholy appearance of the garden overgrown with
briars. He recalled the frightful sadness he had felt each time he
passed the place, the uneasiness with which it haunted him as if it
stood at this spot to be the calamity of his existence. And now, as he
lay so weak in this room, he seemed to understand it all, there could
be no other solution to the matter--he was assuredly going to die there.
As soon as Séverine perceived he was in a condition to understand her,
she hastened to set his mind at ease in regard to a subject which she
fancied might be worrying him, whispering in his ear as she drew up the
bedclothes:
"You need not be anxious. I emptied your pockets, and took the watch."
He gazed at her with wide open eyes, making an effort to remember.
"The watch! Ah! yes! the watch," he murmured.
"They might have searched you," she resumed. "And I have hidden it
among my own things. Don't be afraid."
He thanked her with a pressure of the hand. Turning his head, he caught
sight of the knife lying on the table. This had also been found in one
of his pockets, but there was no need to conceal it, for it was just
like many another knife.
The following day, Jacques already found himself stronger, and began
to hope he would not die there. He experienced real pleasure when he
noticed the presence of Cabuche, who did all he could to make himself
useful, and was at great pains to avoid making a noise on the floor
with his heavy, giant-like tread. The quarryman had not quitted
Séverine since the accident, and it seemed as if he also was under the
influence of an ardent desire to show his devotedness. He abandoned
his own occupation, and came every morning to assist in the housework,
serving her with canine-like fidelity, and with eyes ever fixed on her
own. As he remarked: she was a splendid woman, in spite of her slim
appearance. One might well do something for her, considering she did
so much for others. And the two sweethearts became so accustomed to
him that they did not trouble if he happened to surprise them talking
affectionately to one another, or even kissing, when he chanced to pass
discreetly through the apartment, making as little as he could of his
burly frame.
What astonished Jacques was the frequent absence of Séverine from the
room. On the first day, in obedience to the orders of the doctor,
she had said nothing about Henri being below, feeling that the idea
of absolute solitude would act as a sort of soothing draught on her
patient.
"We are alone here, are we not?" he inquired.
"Yes, my darling, alone, all alone," she answered. "You can sleep in
peace."
But she disappeared at every moment, and the next day he overheard
footsteps and whispering on the ground floor. Then, on the following
day, he distinguished a lot of stifled merriment, bursts of clear
laughter, two fresh, youthful voices that never ceased.
"What is it? Who is there?" he asked. "So we are not alone?"
"Well, no, my darling," she replied. "Down below, just under your room,
is another injured man to whom I have given hospitality."
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Who is it?"
"Henri, you know, the headguard!" said she.
"Henri! Ah!" he exclaimed again.
"And this morning," she continued, "his two sisters arrived. It is they
that you hear; they laugh at everything. As he is much better they are
going back again to-night, on account of their father who cannot do
without them; and Henri is to remain two or three days longer to get
quite well. Just fancy, he leapt from the train without breaking a
single bone; only he was like an idiot; but his reason has returned."
Jacques made no remark, but he fixed such a penetrating look on her,
that she added:
"You understand, eh? If he was not there, people might gossip about us
two. So long as I am not alone with you, my husband can say nothing and
I have a good pretext for remaining here. You understand?"
"Yes, yes," he replied; "that is all right."
And Jacques, until evening, listened to the laughter of the little
Dauvergnes, which he recollected having heard in Paris, ascending in
the same manner from the lower floor into the room where Séverine had
made her confession to him. With darkness came silence, and he could
only distinguish the light footsteps of Séverine going from him to
the other wounded man. The door below closed, and the house fell into
profound silence. Feeling thirsty, he had to knock twice on the floor
with a chair for her to come up to him. When she arrived, she was all
smiles and very assiduous, explaining that she could not get away
before because it was necessary to keep a compress of cold water on the
head of Henri.
On the fourth day, Jacques was able to get up, and pass a couple of
hours in an armchair before the window. By bending forward a little
he could see the strip of garden inclosed by a low wall and invaded
by briars with their pale bloom, a slice of which had been taken by
the railway. And he remembered the night when he stood on tiptoe to
look over the wall. He again saw the rather large piece of ground
at the back of the house shut in by a hedge only, the hedge he had
gone through to run up against Flore seated at the entrance to the
dilapidated greenhouse, cutting up stolen cord with scissors. Ah! that
abominable night full of the terror of his complaint! That Flore, with
the tall, supple stature of a fair warrior woman, her flaming eyes
fixed straight on his, was ever present since the recollection of it
all returned to him more and more distinctly.
At first he had not opened his lips respecting the accident, and no one
about him alluded to it, out of prudence. But every detail came back to
him, and he pieced it all together again. He thought of nothing else,
and his mind was so continuously occupied with the subject, that now,
at the window, his sole occupation consisted in looking for traces of
the collision, in watching for the actors in the catastrophe. How was
it that he did not see Flore there at her post as gatekeeper with her
flag in her fist? He dared not ask the question, and this increased the
uneasiness he felt in this lugubrious dwelling, which seemed to him to
be peopled with spectres.
Nevertheless, one morning, when Cabuche was there assisting Séverine,
he ended by making up his mind.
"And where is Flore?" he inquired. "Is she ill?"
The quarryman, taken unawares, misunderstood a gesture the young woman
made, and, thinking she was telling him to speak out, he answered:
"Poor Flore is dead."
Jacques looked at them shuddering, and it then became necessary to tell
him all. Together they related to him the suicide of the young girl,
how she had been cut in two in the tunnel. The burial of the mother had
been delayed until the evening, so that her daughter might be carried
away at the same time; and they now slept side by side in the little
cemetery at Doinville, where they had gone to join the first who had
made the journey, the younger sister, that gentle but unfortunate
Louisette. Three miserable creatures among those who fall on the road,
who are crushed and disappear, as if swept away by the terrible blast
of those passing trains.
"Dead! great God!" repeated Jacques very lowly. "My poor Aunt Phasie,
and Flore, and Louisette!"
At the last name, Cabuche, who was assisting Séverine to push the bed,
instinctively raised his eyes to her, troubled at the recollection of
his tender feelings for another in presence of the budding passion
which he felt had gained him; he, a soft-hearted creature of limited
intelligence, was without defence, like an affectionate dog who is
conquered by the first caress. But Séverine who knew all about his
tragic love episode remained grave, looking at him with sympathetic
eyes, so that he felt very much touched; and his hand having
unintentionally grazed her hand, as he was passing her the pillows, he
felt like suffocating, and it was in a stammering voice that he replied
to the next question Jacques put to him.
"Did they accuse her, then, of causing the accident?" asked the latter.
"Oh! no, no! Only it was her fault, you understand?" answered Cabuche.
In disjointed sentences he related all he knew. For his own part, he
had seen nothing as he was in the house when the horses moved on to
drag the stone dray across the line. This, indeed, was what caused him
silent remorse. The judicial gentlemen had harshly reproached him with
leaving his team. The frightful misfortune would not have occurred had
he remained with them. The inquiry, therefore, resulted in showing that
there had been simple negligence on the part of Flore; and as she had
punished herself atrociously, nothing further was done. The company did
not even remove Misard, who, with his air of humility and deference,
had got out of the scrape by accusing the dead girl: she always did
as she liked; he had to leave his box at every minute to close the
gate. The company, for their part, were compelled to recognise that on
this particular morning he had performed his duty perfectly. And, in
the interval that would elapse before he married again, they had just
authorised him to take as gatekeeper an old woman of the neighbourhood,
named Ducloux, formerly a servant at an inn, who lived on money she had
economised in her younger days.
When Cabuche left the room, Jacques detained Séverine by a glance. He
looked extremely pale.
"You know very well that it was Flore who pulled on the horses, and
barred the line with the blocks of stone," said he.
Séverine in her turn grew pallid.
"Darling, what on earth are you saying?" she answered. "You are getting
feverish; you must go to bed again."
"No, no, I am not wandering. Do you hear? I saw her, as I see you," he
continued. "She held the cattle, and with her firm fist, prevented the
dray advancing."
On hearing this, Séverine, losing her legs, sank down on a chair
opposite him.
"Good heavens! good heavens!" she exclaimed. "It strikes terror into
one. It is monstrous. I shall never be able to get any sleep."
"Of course," he resumed, "the thing is clear. She attempted to kill
us both in the general slaughter. She had been making me advances for
a long time, and she was jealous. Coupled with this, she was half off
her head, and had all manner of rum ideas. Only think such a number
of murders at one stroke--quite a multitude plunged in gore! Ah! the
wretch!"
His eyes grew wide open, a nervous twitch drew down his lip, and he
held his tongue. They remained looking at one another for fully a
minute without speaking. Then, tearing himself from the abominable
vision that had risen up between them, he continued in a lower tone:
"Ah! she is dead! So that is why her ghost is here! Since I recovered
consciousness she seems to be always present. Again this morning, I
turned round thinking her at the head of my bed. Still she is dead, and
we are alive. Let us hope she will not avenge herself now!"
Séverine shuddered.
"Hold your tongue, hold your tongue!" said she. "You will drive me
crazy."
She left the room, and he heard her go downstairs to the other invalid.
Jacques, who had remained at the window, was again lost in the
contemplation of the line, of the small habitation of the gatekeeper,
with its great well, of the signal-box, that wooden hut where Misard
seemed to be dozing over his regular, monotonous work. Jacques became
absorbed by these things now for hours, as if poring over some problem
he could not solve, and the solution of which, nevertheless, concerned
his safety.
He never felt tired of watching Misard, that puny creature, gentle
and pallid, everlastingly disturbed by a nasty little cough, who had
poisoned his wife, who had got the better of that strapping woman, like
a rodent insect obstinately pursuing its passion. He could certainly
not have had any other idea in his head for years, day and night,
during the twelve interminable hours he remained on duty. At each
electric tinkle, announcing a train, he blew the horn; then, when the
train had passed and he had blocked the line, he pressed an electric
knob to warn the next signalman of its arrival, afterwards touching a
second knob to open the line at the preceding signal-box. These simple
mechanical movements had, in the end, entered into his vegetative life,
as bodily habits.
Untutored and obtuse he never read anything, but between the calls
of his apparatus remained with his arms hanging down beside him, and
his eyes gazing vaguely into space. Being almost always seated in
his box, he had no other diversion than that of dawdling as long
as possible over his lunch. When this was finished he fell into his
doltishness again with a skull quite empty, without a thought; and he
was particularly tormented with terrible drowsiness, sometimes sleeping
with his eyes open. At night-time, if he wished to avoid giving way to
this irresistible torpor, he had to get up and walk with unsteady legs
like a drunken man. And it was thus that the struggle with his wife,
that secret combat as to who should have the concealed 1,000 frcs.
after the death of the other, must for months and months have been the
sole reflection in the benumbed brain of this solitary being.
When he blew his horn; when he manœuvred his signals, watching in
automatic fashion over the safety of so many lives, he thought of the
poison; and when he waited with idle arms, his eyes moving from side to
side with sleep, he still thought of it. Of nothing did he think but
that: he would kill her, he would search, it was he who would have the
money.
At present, Jacques was astonished to find Misard had not changed. It
was possible then to kill without any trouble, and life continue as
before. After the feverishness, attending the first rummages for the
money-bag, he had just resumed his usual indifference, the cunning,
gentle manner of a feeble being who shunned a shock. As a matter of
fact, he might well have put an end to his wife, but she triumphed
notwithstanding; for he was beaten. He had turned the house upside down
without discovering anything, not a centime; and his looks alone, those
anxious ferreting looks, revealed on his sallow countenance how busy
was his mind.
Everlastingly he saw the wide open eyes of the dead woman, the hideous
smile on her lips which seemed to repeat: "Search! search!" He sought.
He could not give his brain one minute of rest now. It worked, worked
incessantly in quest of the spot where the treasure was buried,
thinking over the possible hiding-places, rejecting those where he
had already rummaged, bursting into feverish excitement as soon as
he imagined a new one; and then, burning with such haste, that he
abandoned everything to run off there to no purpose. This, in the end,
became an intolerable torment, an avenging torture, a sort of cerebral
insomnia which kept him awake, stupid and reflecting in spite of
himself, in the tic-tac of the pendulum of his fixed idea.
When he blew his horn, once for the down-trains, twice for the up
trains, he sought; when he answered the ringing, when he pressed the
knobs of his apparatus, closing, opening the line, he sought. He
sought, sought, bewilderingly, ceaselessly. In the daytime, during the
long period of waiting, heavy with idleness; at night, tormented with
sleep as if exiled to the other end of the world, in the silence of the
great black country. And the woman Ducloux, who at present looked after
the gate, actuated by the desire to become his wife, showed him every
possible attention, and was alarmed to see that he never closed his
eyes.
One night, Jacques, who began to take a few steps in his room, had got
up and approaching the window, saw a lantern moving to and fro at the
house of Misard: assuredly the man was searching. But the following
night, the convalescent being again on the look out, was astounded to
recognise a great dark form, which proved none other than Cabuche,
who was standing in the road beneath the window of the adjoining
room where Séverine slept. And this sight, without him being able to
understand why it should be so, instead of irritating him, filled him
with commiseration and sadness: another unfortunate fellow, this great
brute, planted there like a bewildered faithful animal.
In truth, Séverine, who was so slim and not handsome, when examined
in detail, must possess a very powerful charm with her raven hair and
deep blue eyes for even savages, giants of limited intelligence, to
be so smitten with her as to pass the night at her door, like little
trembling youths! He recalled certain things that he had noticed: the
eagerness of the quarryman to assist her, and the look of servility
with which he offered his help. Yes, Cabuche was certainly in love with
her. And Jacques, having kept his eye on him, the next day noticed
him furtively pick up a hair-pin that had fallen from her hair as she
made the bed, and keep it in his closed hand so as not to restore it.
Jacques thought of his own torment, of all he had suffered through his
love, of all the trouble and fright returning with health.
Two more days passed. The week was coming to an end, and the injured
men, as the doctor had foreseen, would be able to resume duty. One
morning, the driver being at the window, saw a brand new engine pass
with his fireman Pecqueux, who greeted him with his hand as if calling
him. But he was in no hurry, an awakening of passion detained him
there, a sort of anxious expectation as to what would happen next.
That same day, in the lower part of the house, he again heard fresh
youthful laughter, a gaiety of grown up girls, filling the sad
habitation with all the racket of a ladies' school in the playground.
He recognised the voices of the little Dauvergnes, but he did not say
a word on the subject to Séverine who absented herself nearly the
entire day, unable to remain with him for five minutes at a time. In
the evening, the house having fallen into deathlike silence, and as
Séverine, looking grave and slightly pale, loitered in his room, he
looked at her fixedly, and remarked inquiringly:
"So he has gone? His sisters have taken him away?"
She briefly answered:
"Yes."
"And we are at last alone, quite alone?" he continued.
"Yes, quite alone," said she. "To-morrow we shall have to quit one
another. I shall return to Havre. We have been camping long enough in
this desert."
He continued looking at her in a smiling but constrained manner, and at
length made up his mind to speak.
"You are sorry he has gone, eh?" he inquired.
And as she started and wished to protest, he interrupted her:
"I am not seeking a quarrel with you," he said. "You know well enough
that I am not jealous. One day you told me to kill you if you were
unfaithful to me, did you not? I do not look like a man who is going
to kill his sweetheart. But really you were always below, it was
impossible to have you to myself for a minute. It recalled to my mind
a remark your husband one day made, that you would be as likely as
not to listen to that young fellow without taking any pleasure in the
experiment, simply to begin something new."
She ceased defending herself, and slowly repeated, twice over:
"To begin something new, to begin something new."
Then, in an outburst of irresistible frankness, she continued:
"Well, listen, what you say is true. We two can tell one another
everything. We are bound closely enough together. This man has pursued
me for months. And, when I found him below, he spoke to me again. He
repeated that he loved me to distraction, and in a manner so thoroughly
imbued with gratitude for the care I had taken of him, with such gentle
tenderness, that, it is true, I for a moment dreamed of loving him
also, of beginning something new, something better, something very
sweet. Yes, something without pleasure perhaps, but which would have
given me calm----"
She paused, and hesitated, before continuing:
"For the road in front of us two," she resumed, "is now barred. We
shall advance no further. Our dream of leaving France, the hope of
wealth and happiness over there in America, all the felicity that
depended on you, is impossible, because you were unable to do the
thing. Oh! I am not making you any reproach! It is better that it
was not done; but I want to make you understand that with you I have
nothing to hope for; to-morrow will be like yesterday, the same
annoyances, the same torments."
He allowed her to speak, and only questioned her when he saw her silent.
"So that is why you gave way to the other?" he suggested.
She had taken a few steps in the room, and returning, she shrugged her
shoulders.
"No, I did not give way to him," said she. "I tell you so, simply;
and I am sure you believe me, because henceforth there is no reason
why we should lie to one another. He kissed my hand, but he did not
kiss my lips, and that I swear. He expects to meet me at Paris later
on because, seeing him so miserable, I did not wish to drive him to
despair."
She was right. Jacques believed her. He saw she was not telling
untruths. And his old feeling of anguish began again, in the rekindling
flame of their passion, that frightful trouble of the growing mania, at
the thought that he was now shut up alone with her, far from the world.
Wishing to escape, he exclaimed:
"But then, the other one! For there is another one! This Cabuche!"
Abruptly turning round, she went back to him, and said:
"Ah! So you noticed him! So you know that, too! Yes, it is a fact.
There is also this one. I cannot imagine what has come to them
all. Cabuche has never said a word to me. But I can see he is
beside himself, when he observes us kissing; and when I address you
affectionately, he goes off to whimper in out-of-the-way corners. And
then he robs me of all sorts of things, my own private belongings.
Gloves and even pocket-handkerchiefs disappear, and he carries them
over there to his cavern as if they were treasures. Only you need not
imagine that I am likely to fall in love with this savage. He is too
coarse, he would frighten me to death. Moreover, his love is passive.
No, no, when those great brutes are timid, they die of love, without
seeking to gratify their passion. You might leave me a month in his
keeping, and he would not touch me with the tips of his fingers, no
more than he touched Louisette, I can answer for that now."
At this remembrance, they looked at one another, and silence
ensued. Past events came to their minds: their meeting before the
examining-magistrate at Rouen; then their first trip to Paris, so full
of charm; and their love-making at Havre, and all that followed, good
and terrible. She drew nearer to him, coming so close that he felt the
warmth of her breath.
"No, no," she resumed; "still less with that one than with the other.
With nobody in fact do you understand. And do you want to know why? Ah!
I feel it at this hour! I am sure I make no mistake: it is because you
have taken entire possession of me; there is no other word. Yes, taken,
as one takes an object with both hands and walks off with it. Before I
knew you I belonged to no one. I am now yours and shall remain yours,
even against your own wish, even if I do not desire to do so myself. I
cannot explain this to you; it was to that end that we met. Ah! it is
you alone that I love! I can love no one but you!"
She put forward her arms to have him to herself, to rest her head on
his shoulder, her mouth on his lips. But he grasped her hands, he held
her back aghast, terrified at the sensation of the old shiver ascending
his limbs, with the blood beating on his brain. Then came the buzzing
in the ears, the strokes of a hammer, the clamour of a multitude, as
in his former severe attacks. For some time past he had been almost
unable to kiss her in broad daylight or even by the flame of a candle,
in terror lest he should go mad if he saw her. And a lamp stood there
lighting them both up brilliantly. If he trembled as he did, if he
felt himself going crazy, it must be because he perceived the white
rotundity of her bosom through her open dressing-gown.
"Our existence may well be barred," she continued. "Let it be! Although
I can hope for nothing more from you; although I know that to-morrow
will bring us the same worries and the same torments, I do not care; I
have nothing to do but to let my life drag along and suffer with you.
We shall return to Havre, and things may go on as they will, so long as
I have an hour in your company from time to time."
Jacques, in the fury of madness, excited by her caresses, and having
no weapon, had already stretched out both his hands to strangle her,
when she, turning round, extinguished the lamp of her own accord. Then,
seating herself, she said:
"Oh! my darling, if you could only have done it, how happy we should
have been over there! No, no, I am not asking you to do what you cannot
do; only I'm so sorry our dream has not been realised. I was afraid
just now; I do not know how it is, but it seems as if something menaces
me. It is no doubt childishness, but at every moment I turn round as
though something was there ready to strike me; and I have only you, my
darling, to defend me. All my joy depends on you. It is for you alone
that I live."
Without answering he strained her to him, putting into this pressure
what he did not say: his emotion, his sincere desire to be good to her,
the violent love she had never ceased to inspire in him. And yet he had
again wanted to kill her that very night; for if she had not turned
round and extinguished the lamp he would have strangled her. That was
certain; never would he be cured. The attacks came back by the hazard
of circumstances without him even being able to discover or discuss the
causes. Thus, why did he wish to kill her on that night, when he found
her faithful, and imbued with a more expansive and confiding passion?
Was it because the more she loved him, the more he wished to make her
his, even to destroying her in the terrifying gloom of male egotism?
Did he want to have possession of her dead as the earth?
"Tell me, my darling," she murmured, "why am I afraid? Do you know of
anything threatening me?"
"No, no," answered Jacques; "rest assured that there is nothing
threatening you."
"But at moments," said she, "all my body is in a tremble. Behind me
lurks a constant danger which I do not see, but which I feel very
distinctly. How is it that I am afraid?"
"No, no," he repeated, "there is no cause for alarm. I love you, and
will allow no one to do you any harm. See how nice it is to be as we
are, one in body and soul!"
A delicious silence followed, which was broken by Séverine.
"Ah! my darling," she resumed, in her low, caressing whisper, "if we
could only always be as we are now. You know we would sell this house,
and set out with the money to join your friend in America, who is
still expecting you. I never pass a day without making plans for our
life over there. But you cannot do it I know. If I speak to you on the
subject, it is not to annoy you, it is because it comes from my heart
in spite of myself."
Jacques abruptly took the same decision he had so often taken before:
to kill Roubaud in order that he might not kill her. On this occasion,
as previously, he fancied he possessed the absolutely firm will to do
so.
"I could not before," he murmured in response, "but I might be able to
now. Did I not make you a promise that I would?"
She feebly remonstrated.
"No; do not promise, I implore you," said she. "It makes us sick
afterwards, when you have lost courage. And then it is horrible. It
must not be done. No, no! It must not be done."
"Yes," answered Jacques, "it must, on the contrary as you know. It is
because it is necessary that I shall find strength to do it, I wanted
to speak to you on the subject, and we will talk about it now, as we
are here alone, and so quiet that one could hear a pin drop."
She had already become resigned, and she was sighing, her heart
swelling, beating with violent throbs.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" she murmured. "So long as the thing was not to be,
I wanted it done. But now that it becomes serious I shall not be able
to exist."
This weighty resolution caused another silence. Around them they felt
the desert, the desolation of the savage district. Suddenly she resumed
her low murmur:
"We must have him here. Yes, I could send for him on some pretext;
which, I do not know. We can settle that later on. Then you will be
waiting for him in concealment, do you see? And the thing will go on by
itself, for we are sure not to be disturbed here. That is what we must
do, eh?"
With docility he answered:
"Yes, yes."
But she, lost in reflection, weighed every detail; and little by
little, as the plan developed in her head, she discussed and improved
it.
"Only, my darling," she went on, "it would be foolish not to take
our precautions. If we are to be arrested on the morrow, I prefer
to remain as we are. Look here, I have read this somewhere, I have
forgotten where, in a novel for sure: the best thing would be to make
believe that he committed suicide. For some time back he has been very
peculiar, not quite right in his head, and so gloomy that no one would
be surprised to suddenly learn that he came here and killed himself.
But then, we must arrange matters in such a way that the idea of
suicide will seem probable. Is it not so?"
"Without a doubt," he replied.
After a pause, Séverine, who had been thinking, resumed:
"Eh! Something to hide the trace. I say, here is an idea that has just
struck me! Supposing he got that knife in his throat, we should only
have to carry him together over there and lay him across the line. Do
you understand? We could place him with his neck on a rail, so that he
would be decapitated by the first train that passed. After that they
could make their investigations. With his head and neck crushed, there
would no longer be a hole, nothing! Do you agree? Answer!"
"Yes, I agree," said he; "it is capital."
Both became animated. She was almost gay, and quite proud of her
faculty of imagination.
"But, my darling," she continued, "I have just been thinking, there
is something more. If you remain here with me, the suggestion of
suicide will certainly be viewed with suspicion. You must go away. Do
you understand? You will leave to-morrow, openly, in the presence of
Cabuche and Misard, so that the fact of your departure may be well
established. You will take the train at Barentin, and leave it at
Rouen, on some pretence or other; then, as soon as it is dark, you will
return, and I will let you in the back way. It is only four leagues,
and you can be here in less than three hours. This time everything is
settled, and, if you like, it is agreed."
"Yes," he answered; "I am willing, and it is agreed."
It was now he who reflected, and there came a long silence. All at
once, she broke out:
"Yes; but what about the pretext for bringing him here? In any case,
he could only take the eight o'clock at night train, after coming off
duty, and would not get here before ten o'clock, which is all the
better. Hi! that person who wishes to see the house, with a view to
purchasing it, of whom Misard spoke to me, and who is coming the day
after to-morrow morning! That will do. I will send my husband a wire
the first thing, to say his presence is absolutely necessary. He will
be here to-morrow night. You will leave in the afternoon, and will be
able to get back before he arrives. It will be dark, no moon, nothing
to interfere with us. Everything dovetails in perfectly."
"Yes," said he approvingly, "perfectly."
When they at last went to sleep, it was not daylight, but a streak of
dawn began to whiten the gloom that had hidden them from one another,
as if both had been wrapped in a black mantle. He slept like a top
until ten o'clock, without a dream; and, when he opened his eyes, he
was alone. Séverine was dressing in her own apartment, on the other
side of the landing. A sheet of clear sun entered through the window
of the room occupied by Jacques, showing up the red curtains of the
bedstead, the red paper on the walls, all that red with which the
place was flaming; while the house tottered in the thunder of a train
that had just sped past. It must have been this train that awakened
him. Bedazzled by the glare of light, he looked at the sun, at the
streaming crimson surroundings amidst which he found himself; then he
recollected: the matter was settled, it was the next night that he
would kill, when this great sun had disappeared.
The day passed as had been arranged by Séverine and Jacques. Before
breakfast, she requested Misard to take the telegram for her husband to
Doinville; and at about three o'clock, as Cabuche was there, Jacques
openly made his preparations for departure. As he was leaving to catch
the 4.15 train from Barentin, Cabuche, having nothing to do, feeling
himself drawn to the other by his secret passion, happy to find in
the sweetheart something in common with the woman he was in love with
himself, accompanied the driver to the station. Jacques reached Rouen
at 4.40, and, getting down, found accommodation at a small inn near
the railway kept by a woman from the same neighbourhood as himself. He
spoke of looking up his comrades on the morrow, before proceeding to
Paris to resume duty. But he said he felt very tired, having presumed
too much on his strength; and, at six o'clock, he went off to bed, in
a room he had taken on the ground floor, which had a window opening
on a deserted alley. Ten minutes later, he was on the road to La
Croix-de-Maufras, having got out of this window without being seen, and
taken good care to close the shutters, so as to be able to secretly
return the same way.
It was not until a quarter after nine that Jacques found himself before
the solitary house standing aslant beside the line, in the distress
of its abandonment. The night was very dark, not a glimmer could be
distinguished on the hermetically closed front. And Jacques again felt
that painful blow in his heart, that feeling of frightful sadness which
seemed like the presentiment of the evil that awaited him there.
As had been arranged with Séverine, he threw three small pebbles
against a shutter of the red room; then he went to the back of the
house where a door at last silently opened. Having closed it behind
him, he followed the light footsteps that went feeling their way up the
staircase. But when he reached the bedroom, and by the light of a large
lamp burning on the corner of a table perceived the bed in disorder,
the clothes of the young woman thrown on a chair, and herself in a
dressing-gown, with her volume of hair arranged for the night, coiled
on the top of her head, leaving her neck bare, he stood motionless with
surprise.
"What!" he exclaimed; "you had gone to bed?"
"Of course," she answered, "that is much better. An idea struck me. You
see, when he arrives and I go down, as I am to open the door to him, he
will have still less cause to be distrustful. I shall tell him I have
a headache. Misard already knows I am not well. And this will permit
me to affirm that I never left this room when they find him to-morrow,
down there, on the line."
But Jacques shuddered, and lost his temper.
"No, no," said he, "dress yourself. You must be up. You cannot remain
as you are."
She was astonished, and began to laugh.
"But why, my darling?" she inquired. "Do not be anxious, I can assure
you I do not feel at all cold. Just see how warm I am!"
She advanced towards him in a caressing manner, to take him by the
shoulders, and in raising her arms displayed her bosom through the
dressing-gown she had neglected to fasten, and the night-dress that had
come undone. But as he drew back, in increasing irritation, she became
docile.
"Do not be angry," said she, "I will get between the sheets again, and
then you will have no reason to be afraid that I shall catch cold."
When she was in bed, with the clothes up to her chin, he seemed more
calm. And she continued talking quietly, explaining how she had
arranged everything in her head.
"As soon as he knocks," she said, "I shall go down and open the door.
First of all, I had the idea of letting him come up here, where you
would be in waiting for him. But to get his body below again, would
have caused complications; and, besides, this room has a parquetry
floor, whereas the vestibule is tiled, and I shall easily be able
to wash it if there should be any spots. Just before you came, as
I was undressing, I thought of a novel I had read, in which the
author relates that one man to kill another stripped himself. Do you
understand? A wash afterwards, and the clothes are free from any spots.
What do you say? Supposing we were to do the same?"
He looked at her in bewilderment. But she had her gentle face, her
clear eyes of a little girl, and was simply thinking of arranging the
plan perfectly, in order to ensure success. All this passed through his
head. But her suggestion, the idea of being bespattered with the blood
of the murder, brought on his abominable shiver which shook him to the
bones.
"No, no!" he answered. "Do you wish us to act like savages? Why not
devour his heart as well? How you must hate him!"
Her face suddenly became clouded. This remark took her from her
thoughts of prudent preparation, to reveal to her the horror of the
deed. Her eyes filled with tears, and she said:
"I have suffered too much for the last few months, to have much
affection for him. I have repeated a hundred times over: anything
rather than remain another week with this man. But you are right. It is
frightful to come to that, we really must want to be happy together.
Anyhow, we will go down without a light. You will stand behind the
door, and when I have opened, and he has come in, you will do what you
like. If I interfere, it is only to help you; it is so that you may not
have all the trouble yourself. I am arranging the thing as well as I
can."
He went to the table where he saw the knife, the weapon that had
already been used by the husband, and which she had evidently placed
there, so that he might strike him in his turn with it. The wide open
blade shone beneath the lamp. Jacques took it up and examined it. She
watched him, but said nothing. As he held the weapon in his hand there
was no need to speak to him about it. And she only opened her lips when
he had laid it down again on the table.
"Listen, my darling," she continued, "I am not urging you on to it, am
I? There is still time. Go away, if you do not feel you can do it."
But he became obstinate, and with a violent gesture exclaimed:
"Do you take me for a coward? This time it is settled. I have sworn."
At that moment, the house was set rocking by the thunder of a train,
which passed like a thunderbolt, and so close to the room that it
seemed to go through it in its roar, and Jacques added:
"There is his train. The through train to Paris. He got down at
Barentin, and will be here in half an hour."
Neither Jacques nor Séverine made any further remark for some time.
In their minds they saw this man advancing through the night along
the narrow paths. Jacques had begun to walk up and down the room, as
if counting the steps of the other whom each stride brought a little
nearer. Another, another; and, at the last one, he would be in ambush
behind the vestibule door, and would drive the knife into his neck the
moment he entered. Séverine, still with the bedclothes up to her chin,
lying on her back, with her great eyes motionless, watched him going
and coming, her mind lulled by the cadence of his walk, which reached
her like the echo of distant footsteps over there. They came without
pause, one after the other, and nothing would now stop them. When the
sufficient number had been taken, she would spring out of bed, and go
down to open the door, with bare feet and without a light. "Is it you,
my dear? Come in, I went to bed!" she would say. And he would not even
answer. He would sink down in the obscurity with his throat gashed open.
Again a train went by. One on the down-line this time, the slow train
which passed La Croix-de-Maufras five minutes after the other. Jacques
stopped in his walk, surprised. Only five minutes had expired! How long
the half hour would be! He experienced the necessity of keeping on the
move, and resumed striding from one end of the room to the other. He
began to feel anxious, and was already communing with himself: would he
be able to do it? He was familiar with the progress of the phenomenon
within him, from having followed it on more than ten different
occasions; first of all a certainty, an absolute resolution to kill;
then a weight in the hollow of the chest, a chill in feet and hands;
and all at once the loss of vigour, the impotence of the will to act
upon the muscles which had become inert.
In order to gain energy by reasoning, he repeated what he had said
to himself so often: it was his interest to suppress this man--the
fortune awaiting him in America, the possession of the woman he loved.
The worst of it was, that on finding the latter so scantily clothed a
few moments before, he verily believed the enterprise would again come
to naught; for, as soon as the old shiver returned, he ceased to have
command over himself. For an instant he had trembled in presence of the
temptation which became too great: she offering herself, and the open
knife lying there. But now he felt strong, girded for the effort. He
could do it. And he continued waiting for the man, striding up and down
the apartment from door to window, passing at each turn beside the bed
which he would not look at.
Séverine continued to lie still in that bed. With her head motionless
on the pillow, she now watched him come and go in a seesaw motion of
the eyes. She also felt anxious, agitated with the fear that this night
his courage again would fail him. Polish off this business and begin
anew, that was all she wanted. She was entirely for the one who held
her, and heartless for the other whom she had never cared for. They
were getting rid of him because he was in the way. Nothing could be
more natural; and she had to reflect, to be touched by the abomination
of the crime. As soon as the vision of blood and the horrible
complications disappeared, she resumed her smiling serenity with her
innocent, tender, and docile face.
Nevertheless, she, who thought she knew Jacques, was astonished at
what she observed. He had his round head of a handsome young man, his
curly hair, his coal black moustache, his brown eyes sparkling with
gold; but his lower jaw advanced so prominently, with a sort of biting
expression, that it disfigured him. He had just now looked at her as
he passed, as if in spite of himself; and the brilliancy of his eyes
became deadened with a ruddy cloud, while at the same time he started
backward in a recoil of all his frame.
Why did he avoid her? Could it be because he was losing his
courage, once more? Latterly, ignorant of the constant danger of
death threatening her while in his company, she had attributed her
instinctive fright, for which there was no apparent cause, to the
presentiment of an approaching rupture. The conviction abruptly took
firm hold of her, that if presently he found himself unable to strike,
he would flee never to return. After that she made up her mind that he
would kill, and that she would know how to give him strength, should he
need it.
At this moment another train passed: an interminably long goods train,
whose extensive string of trucks seemed to be rolling on for ever in
the oppressive silence that reigned in the apartment. And, leaning on
her elbow, she waited until this tempestuous disturbance became lost in
the depth of the slumbering country.
"Another quarter of an hour," said Jacques, aloud. "He has passed
Bécourt Wood and is half-way. Ah! how long it is to wait!"
But, as he returned towards the window, he found Séverine standing in
front of the bed.
"Suppose we go down with the lamp?" she suggested. "You can see the
spot where you will place yourself. I will show you how I shall open
the door, and the movement you will have to make."
He drew back, trembling.
"No, no!" he exclaimed. "No lamp!"
"But just listen," she continued, "we will hide it afterwards. You see
we must form an idea of the position."
"No, no!" he repeated. "Get into bed again."
Instead of obeying, she advanced towards him with the invincible,
despotic smile of the woman who knows herself to be all powerful.
When she held him in her arms, he would give way, he would do as she
desired; and she continued talking in a caressing voice to conquer him.
"Come, my darling," she said, "what is the matter with you? One would
think you were afraid of me. As soon as I approach you seem to avoid
me. But if you only knew how much I need to lean on you at this time,
to feel you there, that we are absolutely of the same mind for ever and
ever. Do you understand?"
She at last made him retreat with his back to the table, and he
could not flee further. He looked at her in the bright light of the
lamp. Never had he seen her as she was then, with the front of her
night-dress in disorder, and her hair coiled up so high that her neck
was quite bare. He was choking, struggling, already in a fury, quite
giddy with the flood of blood that rushed to his head, at the same
moment as the abominable shiver fell upon him. And he remembered that
the knife was there behind him, on the table. He instinctively felt it
there, he had only to stretch out his hand.
By an effort he still managed to stammer:
"Go back to bed, I implore you."
But she continued to approach until she came close to him.
"Kiss me," she exclaimed, "kiss me with all the love you feel for me!
That will give us courage. Ah! yes, courage, we are in need of it! We
must love in a different way to others, stronger than others to do what
we are about to do. Kiss me with all your heart, with all your soul!"
He no longer breathed. He felt as if he was being strangled. The
clamour of a multitude in his brain prevented him from hearing; while
biting fire behind the ears burnt holes in his head, gained his arms,
his legs, drove him from his own body, in the frantic rush of that
other one--the invading brute. His hands were about to escape from his
control in the frenzy excited by this feminine semi-nudity. The bare
bosom pressing against his clothes, the neck so white, so delicate,
extended in irresistible temptation, at last plunged him into a state
of furious giddiness, over-powering, tearing away, annihilating his
will.
"Kiss me, my darling," she repeated, "while we have still a minute
left. He will be here, you know. He might knock from one moment to
another, now, if he has walked quick. As you will not go downstairs to
arrange matters beforehand, do not fail to bear this in mind: I shall
let him in. You will be behind the door; and do not wait, do it at
once! Oh! at once, to get it over! I love you so fondly, we shall be so
happy! He is nothing but a wicked man, who makes me suffer, and who is
the sole obstacle to our happiness. Kiss me, oh! so hard, so hard! Kiss
me as if you were going to devour me, so that nothing may remain of me
beyond yourself!"
Jacques, feeling behind him with his right hand, had secured the
knife without turning round. And for a moment he remained in the same
position tightening his grasp on the weapon. Could the feeling that had
come over him be a return of that thirst to avenge those very ancient
offences, the exact recollection of which escaped him, that rancour
amassed from male to male since the first deception in the depths of
the caverns? He fixed his wild eyes on Séverine. He now only required
to lay her dead on her back, like a prey torn from others. The gate of
terror opened on the dark sexual chasm. Love, even unto death. Destroy,
to have more absolute possession.
"Kiss me, kiss me!" she pleaded.
She presented her submissive face in imploring tenderness, displaying
her bare neck at the part where it voluptuously met the bosom. And he,
seeing her white skin as in a burst of flame, raised his fist armed
with the knife. But she perceived the flash of the blade and started
back, gaping in surprise and terror.
"Jacques, Jacques!" she cried; "me? Good God! Why?"
With set teeth and answering not a word, he pursued her. A brief
struggle brought her again beside the bed. She shrank from him,
haggard, without defence, her night-dress in shreds.
"Why? good God! Why?" she continued asking.
His fist came down, and the knife stuck the inquiry in her throat.
In striking, he twisted the blade round in a frightful compulsion of
the hand which satisfied itself. It was the same blow as President
Grandmorin had received, inflicted at the same place, and with the same
fury. Did she shriek? He never knew. The Paris express flew by at this
moment with such violence and rapidity that it shook the floor; and
Séverine was dead, as if struck down in this tempestuous blast.
Jacques, standing motionless, now looked at her, stretched at his feet
before the bed. The riot of the train was dying away in the distance
as he gazed upon her in the oppressive silence of the red bedroom.
On the ground, amidst those red hangings, those red curtains, she
bled profusely. A crimson stream trickled down between her breasts,
spreading over the abdomen to one of the lower limbs, whence it fell
in great drops upon the floor. Her night-dress, rent half asunder, was
drenched with it. He could never have believed she had so much blood.
But what retained him there, haunted, was the abominable look of terror
that the face of this pretty, gentle, docile woman took in death. The
black hair stood on end as a helmet of horror, dark as night. The blue
eyes, immeasurably wide open, were still inquiring, aghast, terrified
at the mystery. Why? why had he murdered her? And she had just been
reduced to nothing, carried off in the fatality of murder, a creature
irresponsible, whom life had rolled from vice into blood, and who
had remained tender and innocent notwithstanding, for she had never
understood.
Jacques was astonished. He heard the sniffing of animals, the grunting
of wild boars, the roaring of lions; and he became calm, it was
himself breathing. At last! at last! he had gratified his thirst--he
had killed! Yes; he had done that. He felt elevated by ungovernable
joy, by intense delight at the full satisfaction of his everlasting
desire. He experienced surprising pride, an aggrandisement of his male
sovereignty. He had slaughtered the woman. He possessed her as he had
so long desired to possess her, entirely to the point of destroying
her. She had ceased to belong, she never would belong any more to
anybody. And a bitter recollection recurred to him, that of the other
murdered victim, the corpse of President Grandmorin which he had seen
on that terrible night five hundred yards from the house. This delicate
body before him, so white, striped with red, was the same human shred,
the broken puppet, the limp rag that a knife makes of a creature.
Yes, that was it. He had killed, and he had this thing on the ground.
She had just been hurled down like the other; but on her back, the left
arm doubled under her right side, twisted, half-torn from her shoulder.
Was it not on the night when the body of the President was found that
with heart beating fit to burst, he had sworn to dare in his turn, in
a prurience for murder which exasperated him like a concupiscence at
the sight of the slaughtered man? Ah! if he could only have the pluck,
satisfy himself, drive in the knife! This had germinated and developed
within him obscurely. For a year, not an hour had gone by without him
having advanced towards the inevitable result. Even with his arms about
the neck of this woman, and amidst her kisses, the secret work was
approaching its termination; and the two murders had become united. Did
not the one show the logic of the other?
The clatter of a house falling down, a jolting of the floor drew
Jacques from his gaping contemplation of the dead woman. Were the doors
flying into splinters? Had people arrived to arrest him? He looked
around, but only to find dull, silent solitude. Ah! yes; another train!
But the man who would be knocking at the door below, the man whom
he wished to kill! He had completely forgotten him. If he regretted
nothing, he already judged himself an idiot. What! what had happened?
The woman he loved, who loved him passionately, was lying on the floor
with her throat cut; while the husband, the obstacle to his happiness,
was still alive, and still advancing step by step in the obscurity.
He had been unable to wait for this man, who for months had been so
sparing of the scruples of his education, and of the ideas of humanity
slowly acquired and transmitted; with contempt for his own interest, he
had just been carried away by the heredity of violence, by that craving
to commit murder, which in the primitive forests threw animal upon
animal.
Does anyone kill as the result of reasoning? People only kill by an
impulse of blood and nerves--the necessity to live, the joy of being
strong. He now merely experienced the lassitude of one satiated.
Then he became scared and endeavoured to understand, but without
finding anything else than astonishment and the bitter sadness of the
irreparable as a result of his gratified passion.
The sight of the unfortunate creature, who still gazed at him with her
look of terrified interrogation, became atrocious. Wishing to turn away
his eyes, he abruptly felt the sensation of another white form rising
up at the foot of the bed. Could this be the double of the murdered
woman? Then he recognised Flore. She had already returned, while he had
the fever after the accident. Doubtless she was triumphant, at this
moment, at being avenged.
He turned icy cold with terror. He asked himself what he could be
thinking of, to loiter thus in this room. He had killed, he was gorged,
satiated, intoxicated with the dreadful wine of crime. Stumbling
against the knife which had remained on the ground, he fled, rolling
down the stairs. He opened the front door giving on the perron, as
if the small one would not have been sufficiently wide, and dashed
out into the pitch-dark night where his furious gallop became lost.
He never turned round. The dubious-looking house, set down aslant at
the edge of the line, remained open and desolate behind him, in its
abandonment of death.
Cabuche, that night as on the others, had found his way through the
hedge, and was prowling under the window of Séverine. He knew very
well that Roubaud was expected, and was not astonished at the light
filtering through a chink in one of the shutters. But this man bounding
from the top of the steps, this frantic gallop like that of an animal
tearing away into the country, struck him dumbfounded with surprise. It
was already too late to pursue the fugitive, and the quarryman remained
bewildered, full of uneasiness and hesitation before the open door,
gaping upon the black hole formed by the vestibule. What had occurred?
Should he enter? The heavy silence, the absolute stillness while the
lamp continued burning in the upper room, gave him pangs of anguish.
At last, making up his mind, he groped his way upstairs. Before the
door of the red bedroom, which had also been left open, he stopped.
In the placid light, he seemed to perceive in the distance a heap of
petticoats lying at the foot of the bedstead. No doubt Séverine was
undressed. He called gently to her, feeling alarmed, while his veins
began throbbing violently. Then he caught sight of the blood, and
understood. With a terrible cry that came from his lacerated heart, he
sprang forward. Great God! It was she, assassinated, struck down there
in her pitiful nudity. He thought her still rattling, and felt such
despair, such painful shame at seeing her quite nude in her agony; that
he lifted her in a fraternal transport, in his open arms, and, placing
her on the bed, drew the sheet over her.
But in this clasp, the only tenderness between them, he covered his
chest and both his hands with blood. He was streaming with her gore;
and at this moment he saw that Roubaud and Misard were there. Finding
all the doors open, they also had just decided to come upstairs. The
husband arrived late, having stopped to talk with the gatekeeper, who
had then accompanied him, continuing the conversation on the way.
Both, in stupefaction, turned their eyes on Cabuche, whose hands were
dripping with blood like those of a butcher.
"The same stroke as for the President," said Misard at last, while he
examined the wound.
Roubaud wagged his head up and down without answering, unable to take
his eyes off Séverine, off that look of abominable terror, with the
hair standing on end above the forehead, and the blue eyes immeasurably
wide open, inquiring: Why?