Monomaniac (La bête humaine) — Section 9

When Séverine reached the Rue Cardinet at twenty minutes to three, to keep her appointment with Jacques, she found herself before her time.

He occupied a small room right at the top of a great house, to which he only ascended at night for the purpose of sleeping.

And he slept out twice a week, on the two nights he passed at Havre, between the evening and morning express.

On that particular day, however, drenched with rain, broken down with fatigue, he had gone there and thrown himself on his bed.

So that Séverine would perhaps have waited for him in vain, had not a quarrel in an adjoining apartment, a husband brutalising his shrieking wife, awakened him.

He had washed and dressed in a very bad humour, having recognised her below, on the pavement, while looking out of his garret window.

"So it's you at last!"

she exclaimed, when she saw him issue from the front door.

"I was afraid I had misunderstood.

You really did tell me at the corner of the Rue Saussure----" And without awaiting his answer, raising her eyes to the house, she remarked: "So it's there you live?"

Without telling her, he had made the appointment before his own door, because the depôt where they had to go together, was opposite.

But her question worried him.

He imagined she was going to take advantage of their good fellowship, to ask him to let her see his room, which was so simply furnished, and in such disorder, that he felt ashamed of it.

"Oh!

I don't live there!"

he replied; "I perch.

Let us be quick, I am afraid the chief may have already gone out!"

And so it happened, for when they presented themselves at the small house which the latter occupied behind the depôt, within the station walls, they did not find him.

In vain they went from shed to shed, everywhere they were told to return at about half-past four, if they wished to be sure of catching him at the repairing workshops.

"Very well, we will return," said Séverine.

Then, when she was again outside, alone in the company of Jacques, she remarked: "If you are free, perhaps you will not mind if I remain and wait with you?"

He could not refuse; and, moreover, notwithstanding the gloomy anxiety she caused, she exercised such a great and ever-increasing charm over him, that the sullen attitude he had made up his mind to observe, vanished at her sweet glances.

This one, with her long, tender, timid face, must love like a faithful hound, whom one would not even have the courage to thrash.

"Of course I shall not leave you," he answered, in a less surly tone;

"only we have more than an hour to get through.

Would you like to go to a café?"

She smiled, delighted to find him more cordial.

Vivaciously she protested: "Oh!

no, no; I don't want to shut myself up!

I prefer walking on your arm through the streets, anywhere you like."

And gracefully she took his arm of her own accord.

Now that he was free from the dirt of the journey, she thought him superior-looking, in his attire of a clerk in easy circumstances, and with his gentlemanly bearing, enhanced by a look of independent pride, due to his life in the open air and the daily habit of facing danger.

She had never noticed so distinctly that he was handsome, with his regular, round countenance, and his black moustache on a white skin.

His fleeting eyes, those eyes studded with golden sparks, which turned away from her, alone continued to cause her distrust.

If he avoided looking her straight in the face, was it because he would not bind himself to anything, because he wished to retain his freedom to act as he pleased, even against her?

From that moment, in her uncertainty as to his intentions, shuddering each time she thought of that study in the Rue du Rocher where her life lay in the balance, she had but one aim--to feel that this man, who gave her his arm, belonged to her entirely; to obtain, that when she raised her head, his eyes should look deeply into her own.

Then he would be her property.

She did not love him; she did not even think of such a thing.

She was simply doing her utmost to make him her creature, so that she need fear him no more.

They walked for a few minutes without speaking, amid the continual stream of passers-by who obstruct this populous quarter.

Ever and anon they were compelled to leave the pavement; they crossed the road among the vehicles.

Then they found themselves at the Square des Batignolles, which is almost deserted at this time of year.

The sky, cleansed by the deluge of the morning, wore a tint of very soft blue, and the lilac-bushes were budding in the gentle March sun.

"Shall we go into the garden?"

inquired Séverine.

"All this crowd makes me giddy."

Jacques had intended entering the enclosure of his own accord, unconscious of his desire to have her more to himself, far from the multitude of people.

"As you like," said he.

"Let us go in."

Slowly they continued walking beside the grass, between the leafless trees.

A few women were out with babies in long clothes, and persons were hurrying across the garden to make a short cut.

Jacques and Séverine took the brook at a stride, and ascended among the rocks.

Then, retracing their steps, not knowing where to go, they passed through a cluster of pines, whose lasting dark green foliage shone in the sun.

And there, in this solitary corner, stood a bench hidden from view.

They sat down, without even consulting one another this time, as if they had agreed to come to that spot.

"It is lovely weather," she remarked after a silence.

"Yes," he replied; "the sun has made its appearance again."

But their thoughts were elsewhere.

He, who fled women, had been reflecting on the events that had drawn him to this one.

She sat there, touching him, threatening to invade his existence, and he experienced endless surprise.

Since the last examination at Rouen, he no longer had any doubt.

This woman was an accomplice in the murder at La Croix-de-Maufras.

How was it?

As the result of what circumstances?

Urged to the crime by what passion, or what interest?

He had asked himself these questions, without being able to answer them clearly.

Nevertheless, he had ended by arranging a version: the husband, avaricious and violent, yearned to get possession of the legacy;

perhaps he feared the will might be altered to their disadvantage;

perhaps he wished to attach his wife to him by a sanguinary bond.

And he clung to this version.

The obscure parts of it interested him without him seeking to elucidate them.

The idea that it was his duty to unbosom himself to justice, had also haunted him.

It was this idea, indeed, that had been engaging his attention since he had found himself seated on that bench close to Séverine, so close that he could feel the warmth of her form against his own.

"It's astonishing," he resumed, "to be able to remain out of doors like this, in the month of March, just as in summer."

"Oh!"

said she, "as soon as the sun ascends, it is delightful!"

And, on her side, she reflected that this man would have been an idiot, had he not guessed them the culprits.

They had been too eager to force themselves on him, and at this very moment she continued to press too close to him.

And so, in the silence broken by empty phrases, she followed his reflections.

Their eyes had met.

She had just read in his, that he had come to the point of inquiring of himself whether it was not she whom he had seen, weighing with all her weight on the legs of the victim, like a dark bundle.

What could she do?

what could she say, to bind him to her by an inseverable bond?

"This morning," she remarked, "it was very cold at Havre."

"Without taking into account," said he, "all the rain that fell."

At that instant, Séverine had an abrupt inspiration.

She did not reason, she did not think the matter over; it came to her like an instinctive impulsion from the obscure depths of her intelligence and heart.

Had she thought about it, she would have said nothing.

She simply felt the idea was good, and that by speaking she would conquer him.

Gently she took his hand.

She looked at him.

The cluster of green trees hid them from the pedestrians in the neighbouring streets.

They only heard a distant rumble of vehicles that came deadened to this sunny solitude of the square.

Alone, at the bend of the path, a child played in silence, filling a small pail with sand with a wooden spade.

Without wavering in her idea, with all her soul, and in a low voice she put this question to him: "You believe me guilty?"

He slightly trembled, and looked into her eyes.

"Yes," he answered, in the same low, unsteady tone.

Then she pressed his hand, which she had retained, in a tighter clasp.

But she did not continue speaking at once.

She felt their feverish warmth mingling in one.

"You are mistaken," she resumed; "I am not guilty."

She did not say this to convince him, but simply to warn him that she must be innocent in the eyes of others.

It was the avowal of the woman who says no, desiring it to be no, in spite of all, and always.

"I am not guilty," she added.

"You will not continue to pain me by believing I am guilty?"

And she was very happy to see his eyes gazing deeply into her own.

Without doubt what she had just said, was equivalent to selling herself to him, for she gave herself away, and later on, if he claimed her, she could not refuse.

But the bond was tied between them, and could not be severed.

She absolutely defied him to speak now.

He belonged to her, as she belonged to him.

The avowal had united them.

"You will not cause me any more pain?"

she asked.

"You believe me?"

"Yes, I believe you," he replied, smiling.

What need was there to force her to talk brutally of this frightful event?

Later on, she would tell him all about it, if she wished to do so.

This way of tranquillising herself by confessing to him, without saying anything, touched him deeply, as a proof of infinite tenderness.

She was so confiding, so fragile, with her gentle blue eyes.

She appeared to him so womanly, devoted to man, ever ready to submit to him so as to be happy.

And what delighted him above all else, while their hands remained joined and their eyes never parted, was to find himself free from his disorder, the frightful shiver that agitated him when beside a woman.

Could he love this one, without killing her?

"You know I am your friend, and that you have naught to fear from me," he murmured in her ear.

"I do not want to know your business.

It shall be as you please, you understand.

Make any use of me you like."

He had approached so close to her face that he felt her warm breath in his moustache.

That morning, even, he would have trembled at such a thing, in the wild terror of an attack.

What could be passing within him, that he barely felt a thrill, attended by the pleasant lassitude of convalescence?

This idea that she had killed a fellow creature, which had now become a certainty, made her appear different in his eyes--greater, a person apart.

Perhaps she had not merely assisted, but had also struck.

He felt convinced of it, without the slightest proof.

And, henceforth, she seemed sacred to him, beyond all reasoning.

Both of them now chatted gaily, as a couple just met, with whom love is commencing.

"You should give me your other hand," said he, "for me to warm it."

"Oh!

no, not here," she protested.

"We might be seen."

"Who by, as we are alone?"

he inquired.

"And, besides, there would be no harm in it," he added.

She laughed frankly in her joy at being saved.

She did not love this man, she thought she was quite sure of that; and, indeed, if she had involved herself, she was already thinking of a way out of the difficulty.

He looked nice; he would not torment her; everything could be arranged beautifully.

"We are comrades, that's settled," said she; "and neither my husband nor anyone else shall interfere.

Now, let go of my hand, and do not keep on staring at me like that, because you will spoil your eyes!"

But he detained her delicate fingers between his own, and very lowly he stammered: "You know I love you."

Sharply she freed herself with a slight jerk; and, standing before the bench, where he remained seated, she exclaimed: "What nonsense, indeed!

Conduct yourself properly; someone is coming!"

A wet-nurse appeared, with her baby asleep in her arms.

Then a young girl passed along in a great hurry.

The sun was sinking, disappearing on the horizon in a violescent mist, and its rays vanished from the grass, dying away in golden dust beside the green patch of pines.

A

sudden pause came in the continual rumble of vehicles.

Five o'clock was heard striking at a neighbouring clock.

"Good heavens!"

exclaimed Séverine.

"Five o'clock, and I have an appointment in the Rue du Rocher!"

Her joy departed, back came the agony of the unknown awaiting her there, and she remembered she was not yet saved.

She turned quite pale, and her lip quivered.

"But you have to see the chief of the depôt," said Jacques.

"It cannot be helped!"

she replied; "I must pay him a visit another time.

Listen, my friend, I will not keep you any longer.

Let me go quickly on my errand.

And thanks again, thanks from the bottom of my heart."

She squeezed his hand, and hurried off.

"By-and-bye at the train," he called after her.

"Yes, by-and-bye," she answered.

She was already walking rapidly away, and soon disappeared among the clusters of shrubs; whilst he proceeded leisurely, in the direction of the Rue Cardinet.

M.

Camy-Lamotte had just had a long interview in his study, with the traffic-manager of the Western Railway Company.

Summoned under pretext of some other business, the latter had ended by admitting that the company felt very much annoyed at this Grandmorin case.

First of all, came the complaints of the newspapers, in regard to the little security enjoyed by first-class passengers.

Then all the staff were mixed up in the drama.

Several of their servants were suspected, without counting this Roubaud, who appeared the most involved, and who might be arrested at any moment.

The rumours of the irregular mode of life of the President, who had a seat on the board of directors, seemed to bespatter the whole board.

And it was thus that the presumed crime of an insignificant assistant station-master, attributed to some shady, low, and nauseous intrigue, threatened to disorganise the management of an important railway enterprise.

The shock had even been felt in higher places.

It had gained the Ministry, menaced the State at a moment of political uneasiness.

It was a critical time, when the slightest effervescence might hasten the downfall of the Empire.

So when M. Camy-Lamotte heard from his visitor, that the company had that morning decided to dismiss Roubaud, he energetically opposed the measure.

No!

no!

nothing could be more clumsy!

The rumpus in the press would increase, should the writers take it into their heads to set up the assistant station-master as a political victim.

Everything would be rent from top to bottom, and heaven only knew what unpleasant revelations would be made about one and another!

The scandal had lasted too long, and must be put an end to at once.

And the traffic-manager, convinced, had undertaken to maintain Roubaud in his post, and not even to remove him from Havre.

It would soon be seen that there were no disreputable people on their staff.

It was all over.

The matter would be shelved.

When Séverine, out of breath, her heart beating violently, found herself once more in the severe study in the Rue du Rocher, before M.

Camy-Lamotte, the latter contemplated her an instant in silence, interested at the extraordinary effort she made to appear calm.

He certainly felt sympathy for this delicate criminal with the soft blue eyes.

"Well, madam----" he began.

And he paused to enjoy her anxiety a few seconds longer.

But her look was so profound, he felt her casting herself before him in such a burning desire to learn her fate that he had pity.

"Well, madam," he resumed, "I've seen the traffic-manager, and have persuaded him not to dismiss your husband.

The matter is settled."

Then, in the flood of joy that overwhelmed her, she broke down.

Her eyes were full of tears; but she answered nothing.

She only smiled.

He repeated what he had said, laying stress on the phrase, to convey to her all its significance: "The matter is settled; you can return in tranquillity to Havre!"

She heard well enough: he meant to say that they would not be arrested, that they were pardoned.

It was not merely the position maintained, it was the horrible drama forgotten, buried.

With an instinctive caressing movement, like a pretty, domestic animal that thanks and fawns, she bent over his hands, kissed them, kept them pressed to her cheeks.

And this time, very much troubled himself at the tender charm of her gratitude, he did not withdraw them.

"Only," he continued, trying to resume his severity, "do not forget, and behave properly."

"Oh!

sir!"

she exclaimed.

In the desire to have them both at his mercy, he alluded to the letter.

"Remember that the papers remain there, and that at the least fault, the matter will be brought up again.

Above all, advise your husband not to meddle in politics.

On that point we shall be pitiless.

I know he has already given cause for complaint; they spoke to me of an annoying quarrel with the sub-prefect.

It seems that he passes for a republican, which is detestable, is it not?

Let him behave himself, or we shall simply suppress him."

She was standing up, anxious now to be outside, to give room to the joy she felt stifling her.

"Sir," she answered, "we shall obey you; we will do as you please; no matter when, nor where.

You have only to command."

He began to smile again, in his weary way, with just a tinge of that disdain of a man who has taken a long draught at the cup of all things, and drained it dry.

He opened the door of his study to her.

On the landing, she turned round twice, and with her visage beaming, thanked him again.

Once in the Rue du Rocher, Séverine walked along without giving a thought to where she was going.

All at once, she perceived she was ascending the street to no purpose.

Turning round, she descended the slope, crossed the road with no object, at the risk of being knocked down.

She felt she wanted to move about, to gesticulate, to shout.

She already understood why they had been pardoned, and she caught herself saying: "Of course!

They are afraid; there is no fear of them stirring up the business.

I was a great fool to give myself all that torture.

It was evident they would do nothing.

Ah!

what luck!

Saved, saved for good this time!

But no matter, I mean to frighten my husband, so as to make him keep quiet.

Saved, saved!

What luck!"

As she turned into the Rue St. Lazare, she saw by a clock at the shop of a jeweller, that it wanted twenty minutes to six.

"By Jove!

I'll stand myself a good dinner.

I have time," said she to herself.

Opposite the station she picked out the most luxurious-looking restaurant; and, seated alone at a small table, with snow-white cloth, against the undraped plate-glass window, intensely amused at the movement in the street, she ordered a nice meal: oysters, filets-de-sole, and the wing of a roast fowl.

She was well entitled to make up for a bad lunch.

She ate with a first rate appetite, found the bread, made of the finest flour--the pain-de-gruau--exquisite; and she had some beignets soufflés prepared for her, by way of sweets.

Then, when she had taken her coffee, she hurried off, for she had only a few minutes left to catch the express.

Jacques, on leaving her, after paying a visit to his room to put on his working-garments, had at once made his way to the depôt, where, as a rule, he never showed himself until half an hour before the departure of his locomotive.

He had got into the habit of relying on Pecqueux to inspect the engine, notwithstanding that the latter was in drink two days out of three.

But on that particular evening, in his tender emotion, he unconsciously felt a scruple.

He wished to make sure, with his own eyes, that all the parts of the engine were in thorough working order; and the more so, as in the morning, on the way from Havre, he fancied he had noticed an increased expenditure of strength, for less work.

Among the other locomotives at rest in the vast engine-house, into which daylight penetrated through tall, dusty windows, the one driven by Jacques was already at the head of a line, and destined to leave the first.

A fireman belonging to the depôt, had just made up the fire, and red-hot cinders were falling below into the ash-pit.

It was one of those express engines with double axle-trees coupled together, of delicate elegance, and gigantic build; with its great, light wheels united by steel arms, its broad chest, its elongated and mighty loins, conceived with all that logic and all that certainty, which make up the sovereign beauty of these metal beings--precision with strength.

Like the other locomotives of the Western Company, this one bore the name of a railway-station as well as a number, that of Lison, a town in lower Normandy.

But Jacques, in affection, had turned the word into a woman's name, by setting the feminine article before it--La Lison, as he called it with caressing gentleness.

And, in truth, he fondly loved his engine, which he had driven for four years.

He had been on others, some docile, some jibbers, some courageous, and some lazy.

He was well aware that each had its peculiar character, and that some were not worth much.

So that if he was fond of this one, it was because it possessed rare qualities, being gentle, obedient, easy to set in motion, and gifted with even and lasting speed, thanks to its good vaporisation.

Some pretended that if this locomotive started off so easily, it was due to its excellent tyres, and particularly to the perfect regulation of its slide-valves; and that if a large quantity of steam could be produced with little fuel, it was owing to the quality of the copper in the tubes, and to the satisfactory arrangement of the boiler.

But he knew there was something else; for other engines, built identically in the same way, put together with the same care, displayed none of the qualities of this one.

There was the soul, so to say, to be taken into account, the mystery of the fabrication, that peculiar something which the hazard of the hammer gives to the metal, which the skill of the fitter conveys to the various pieces--the personality of the engine, its life.

So he loved La Lison, which started quickly and stopped sharp, like a vigorous and docile steed; he loved it because, apart from his fixed wages, it earned him cash, thanks to the gratuities on the consumption of fuel.

Its excellent vaporisation effected, indeed, considerable economy in coal.

It merited but one reproach, that of requiring too much oil.

The cylinders, particularly, devoured unreasonable quantities of this liquid.

They had a constant appetite which nothing could appease.

In vain had he sought to moderate it.

The engine lost breath at once.

Its constitution required all this nourishment.

Ultimately, he had made up his mind to tolerate the gluttonous passion, just as the eyes are closed to a vice in people, who, in other respects, are full of qualities.

Whilst the fire roared, and La Lison was gradually getting up steam, Jacques walked round and round the engine, inspecting it in all its parts, endeavouring to discover why, in the morning, it should have put away more oil than usual.

And he found nothing amiss.

The locomotive was bright and clean, presenting that delightful appearance which indicates the good, tender care of the driver.

He could be seen wiping, and furbishing the metal incessantly, particularly at the end of a journey, in the same manner as smoking steeds are whisked down after a long run.

He rubbed it vigorously, taking advantage of its being warm, to remove stains and foam more perfectly.

He never played tricks with his locomotive, but kept it at an even pace, avoiding getting late, which would necessitate disagreeable leaps of speed.

And the two had gone on so well together, that not once in four years had he lodged a complaint in the register at the depôt, where drivers book their requests for repairs--the bad drivers, drunkards or idlers, who are ever at variance with their engines.

But truly, on this particular evening, he had the consumption of oil at heart; and there was also another feeling, something vague and profound, which he had not hitherto experienced--anxiety, distrust, as if he could not rely on his engine, and wanted to make sure that it was not going to behave badly on the journey.

Pecqueux was not there, and when he at length appeared, with flushed countenance, after lunching with a friend, Jacques flew into a rage.

Habitually the two men agreed very well, in that long companionship, extending from one end of the line to the other, jolted side by side, silent, united by the same labour and the same dangers.

Although Jacques was the junior of the other man by more than a decade, he showed himself paternal for his fireman, shielding his vices, allowing him to sleep for an hour when too far gone in drink; and the latter repaid him for this kindness with canine devotedness.

Apart from his drunkenness, he was an excellent workman, thoroughly broken to his calling.

It must be said, that he also loved La Lison, which sufficed for a good understanding between the two.

And Pecqueux, taken aback at being so roughly welcomed, looked at Jacques with increased surprise, when he heard him grumbling his doubts about the engine.

"What is the matter?

Why, it goes beautifully!"

said the fireman.

"No, no," answered Jacques; "I am uneasy."

And, notwithstanding each part of the locomotive being in good condition, he continued to toss his head.

He turned the handles, assured himself that the safety-valve worked well, got on to the frame-plate, and attended to the grease-boxes of the cylinders himself;

while the fireman wiped the dome, where a few slight traces of rust remained.

Nothing was wrong with the sand-rod.

All this should have set his mind at ease.

The fact was, that La Lison no longer stood alone in his heart.

Another tenderness was growing there for that slim, and very fragile creature, whom he continued to see beside him on the bench in the garden of the square.

A girl so gentle, so caressing, so weak in character, and who needed love and protection.

Never, when some involuntary cause had put him behind time, and he had sent his engine along at a speed of sixty miles an hour, never had he thought of the danger the passengers might be incurring.

And, now, the mere idea of taking this woman back to Havre, this woman whom he almost detested in the morning, whom he brought up with annoyance, caused him great anxiety, and made him dread an accident, in which he imagined her wounded by his fault, and dying in his arms.