Jacques and Séverine continued to meet every other week on Thursdays and Saturdays. One night Séverine happened to mention that her husband carried a revolver. Although Roubaud never came out as far as the engine shed, the thought of the revolver worried them. It added a sense of danger to their nocturnal excursions and made them seem all the more romantic. There was one place they were particularly fond of, a little alleyway behind the Sauvagnats’ house which, because it ran between two rows of huge coal stacks, made it look like the main street of some strange city, lined with big, square palaces built of black marble.2 It was completely hidden from view, and at the far end there was a little tool-shed with a pile of empty sacks inside it, which would have provided them with something soft to lie on. One Saturday, a sudden shower of rain had driven them inside the shed to take shelter. Séverine remained standing, offering him only her lips, in kiss after kiss. She kissed him unashamedly, greedily, holding her lips to his, seeking to tell him that she loved him. When Jacques, inflamed with passion, attempted to take her, she drew back with tears in her eyes, uttering the same repeated plea - why did he wish to make her unhappy? Their love for each other seemed so beautiful; sex was so sordid. Although she had been defiled at the age of sixteen by a lecherous old man whose grizzly spectre still haunted her, and then, after her marriage, had been subjected to the brutal appetites of her husband, she had retained a childlike innocence and virginal purity, a charmingly naive sense of modesty. What so attracted her to Jacques was his gentleness and compliance; when his hands were tempted to stray, she simply enclosed them in hers, and he desisted. For the first time in her life she was in love. She did not give herself, for she knew that if she yielded to him now, as she had yielded to the two others, her love would be ruined. Unconsciously, she wanted this happiness to continue for ever; she longed to be young again, as she was before she had been abused, to be like a girl of fifteen, with a sweetheart she could kiss freely and in secret. Jacques for his part, except in moments when his passions were roused, was undemanding, happily savouring this voluptuous deferment of pleasure. Like her, he seemed to have rediscovered his youth and for the very first time in his life to be in love, something which until now had always filled him with horror. If he was docile, withdrawing his hands the moment she guided them away from her, it was because underlying his love for her there remained a vague fear, a nameless dread, that this love might unleash his old compulsion to kill. Séverine, who had committed murder herself, seemed the very embodiment of his worst dreams come true. But every day he grew more confident that he was cured; he had held her in his arms for hours on end, he had pressed his mouth to hers, drinking in her very soul, without awakening the savage urge to dominate and kill her. Yet he remained uncertain. It was good to wait, to allow love to unite them when the moment came, and their resistance had faded away in each other’s arms. And so these joyful encounters continued. They seized every opportunity they could to meet, and walk together in the dark between the huge, black coal stacks that loomed out of the night around them.
One night in July, in order to reach Le Havre on time at five past eleven, Jacques had had to work La Lison hard. The stifling heat seemed to have made her lazy. A storm had been following the train all the way from Rouen, running alongside them on their left up the Seine valley, with great, blinding flashes of lightning. Jacques kept looking anxiously over his shoulder; he had arranged to meet Séverine that night and he was worried that if the storm broke it would prevent her from leaving her apartment. Having successfully reached Le Havre ahead of the storm, he was becoming impatient with the passengers, who seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time getting off the train.
Roubaud was on night duty and was standing on the platform.
‘You’re in a hurry to get to bed,’ he said, laughing. ‘Sleep well!’
‘Thanks!’ Jacques replied.
Jacques backed the train on to a siding, gave a blast on the whistle and moved off towards the engine shed. The huge folding doors stood open, and La Lison disappeared inside. The shed was a sort of covered gallery some seventy metres long with two tracks running through it, capable of housing six locomotives. Inside, it was very dark, with four gas lamps that gave hardly any light and seemed to make it darker still, by casting long, flickering shadows. From time to time great flashes of lightning could be seen through the skylights and the windows high up on both walls, revealing, as if in the light of a huge fire, the cracks in the brickwork, the beams covered in soot and the general woebegone air of neglect and disrepair. Two other locomotives were already in the shed, cold and asleep.
Pecqueux immediately began to put the fire out, raking it vigorously and sending a shower of burning cinders into the ash-pit below.
‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get something to eat. Are you coming?’
Jacques made no answer. Although he was in a hurry, he didn’t want to leave La Lison before the fire had been dropped and the boiler drained. It was a regular routine and, being a man who took his job seriously, he never departed from it. When he had time, he didn’t leave until he had thoroughly inspected the locomotive and properly wiped it down, with the sort of care one might spend on grooming a favourite horse.
The water from the boiler gushed into the ash-pit. Only when his work was finished did Jacques answer Pecqueux.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s be off!’
He was interrupted by a violent clap of thunder. The windows were so clearly silhouetted against the fiery sky that you could have counted the broken panes of glass, and there were plenty of them. Along the left-hand side of the shed stood a row of vices used for repair work. A piece of sheet metal propped up against them resounded with a mighty clang, like a bell being struck. A great crack had appeared in the framework of the old roof.
‘Bloody hell!’ was all Pecqueux could say.
Jacques raised his hands in despair. There was nothing more they could do, especially as the rain was now pouring in torrents on to the shed. The storm threatened to smash the windows in the roof. There must have been broken panes of glass up there too because rain was falling on La Lison in great splashes. A howling gale blew in through the open doors, and it seemed as if the shell of the old building was about to be lifted off the ground.
Pecqueux had been getting the engine ready for its next shift.
‘There we are,’ he said. ‘We’ll be able to see things better tomorrow. That’ll do for now.’ Then, remembering that he still felt hungry, he said: ‘Let’s go and eat. It’s raining too much to walk back to our rooms.’
The canteen adjoined the engine shed, whereas the house which the Company rented as a dormitory for drivers and firemen staying overnight in Le Havre was some distance away in the Rue François-Mazeline. In weather like this, they would have been soaked to the skin by the time they got there.
Jacques resigned himself to accompanying Pecqueux, who had picked up the driver’s little food box, as if trying to save him the trouble of having to carry it. In fact, he knew that the box still contained two slices of cold veal, some bread and a bottle that had hardly been started, and it was the thought of this food that was making him feel hungry. The rain was heavier than ever. Yet another clap of thunder shook the building. The two men walked through the little door on the left of the shed, which led to the canteen. La Lison was already cooling down. They left her on her own in the dark, with the lightning flashing all around her and great splashes of rain water running down her back. Water trickled from a nearby tap which had not been properly turned off, forming a pool that ran down between her wheels into the ash-pit.
Before going into the canteen, Jacques wanted to clean himself up. One of the rooms was always provided with hot water and hand bowls. He fished a bar of soap out of his basket and washed his hands and face, which were black after the journey. He had taken the precaution of bringing a change of clothing with him, as all drivers are advised to do, so he had something clean to wear. In fact, when he arriv
ed at Le Havre on a night that he was going to meet Séverine, he always changed into clean clothes in order to look his best. Pecqueux was already in the canteen, having only bothered to wash the end of his nose and his fingertips.
The canteen consisted simply of a little, bare room, painted yellow, with a stove for heating food on and a table that was fixed to the floor and had a zinc top which served as a tablecloth. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were two benches. The men had to bring their own food, which they ate off a sheet of paper with the end of a knife. The room was lit by one large window.
‘What a downpour!’ exclaimed Jacques, standing at the window.
Pecqueux had sat down on one of the benches at the table.
‘Aren’t you eating, then?’ he asked.
‘You carry on,’ answered Jacques. ‘I’m not hungry. Eat the rest of the bread and meat if you want it.’
Pecqueux didn’t need to be asked twice. He attacked the veal and downed the rest of the bottle. These little windfalls often came his way because Jacques was such a small eater. Pecqueux had a dog-like devotion to his driver, and he liked him all the more for giving him his leftovers. After a pause, he spoke again, his mouth full: ‘Who cares about the rain! We got here safely! If it goes on raining, mind you, I’ll be going next door.’
He laughed. It was no secret between them. Pecqueux had had to tell Jacques about his affair with Philomène Sauvagnat so that he wouldn’t wonder where he’d got to every time he went to see her. She lived in her brother’s house on the ground floor next to the kitchen; he only had to tap on the shutters and she would open the window so that he could climb in. What could be easier! People said that all the engine men at Le Havre knew the routine. But now, it seemed, Pecqueux was all the company she needed.
‘Bloody hell!’ muttered Jacques under his breath, as, after a brief respite, the rain began to fall again more heavily than ever.
Pecqueux was brandishing the last piece of meat on the end of his knife. He laughed pleasantly.
‘Had you got something planned for tonight?’ he said. ‘I tell you what, they can’t accuse you and me of wearing the beds out in the Rue François-Mazeline, can they?’
Jacques turned quickly away from the window.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ said Pecqueux, ‘ever since the spring, you’ve been like me. You’re never in till two or three in the morning.’
He must know something, he thought. Perhaps he had seen them together. The dormitory had two beds in each room, so that driver and fireman could sleep next to each other. The Company liked to encourage a sense of camaraderie between men whose work inevitably brought them so close together. So it was hardly surprising that Pecqueux had noticed his driver’s sleeping habits becoming somewhat erratic, when previously they had been perfectly normal.
‘I get headaches,’ answered Jacques, saying the first thing that came to mind. ‘It does me good to go for a walk at night.’
Pecqueux was quick to reassure him.
‘I was only pulling your leg,’ he said. ‘You’re free to do as you please ... But don’t forget, if ever you’ve got a problem, don’t hesitate to say. That’s what I’m there for; any time you want.’
Without a word more he took hold of Jacques’s hand and squeezed it firmly, as a gesture of his unswerving loyalty. He screwed up the greasy piece of paper that the meat had been wrapped in, threw it away and put the empty bottle back in the food box, performing all these little chores like a dutiful manservant, trained to keep things looking neat and tidy. The rain continued to fall, although the thunder had stopped.
‘Right,’ said Pecqueux, ‘I’m off. I’ll leave you to your own devices.’
‘It’s still raining,’ said Jacques, ‘I’ll go and stretch out on the camp bed.’
Next door to the engine shed there was a room with some mattresses and loose covers over them, where the men could take a rest without undressing if they were only in Le Havre for a few hours. He watched Pecqueux disappear into the rain in the direction of the Sauvagnats’ house. As soon as he had gone, Jacques ventured out himself and ran across to the rest room. But he didn’t go in. He stood at the entrance with the door wide open, overcome by the stifling heat inside. At the back of the room an engine driver lay on his back, snoring, his mouth wide open.
He waited for a few more minutes. He could not put the meeting with Séverine out of his mind. His frustration at this infuriating storm was gradually giving way to a crazy desire to go to their rendezvous come what may. Even if he no longer expected to find Séverine waiting for him, he would still have the pleasure of being there himself. He felt as if his whole person were being drawn there. He went out into the storm, came to their usual meeting place and followed the dark alleyway between the coal stacks. He could not see in front of him because of the driving rain that cut into his face. He walked down the alleyway as far as the tool-shed, where once before he and Séverine had taken shelter. He thought he would feel less on his own in there.
Inside the shed it was pitch black. As he walked through the door, two arms lightly enfolded him, and he felt two lips being pressed warmly against his. It was Séverine.
‘Good heavens!’ said Jacques. ‘You’re here!’
‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘I saw the storm coming. I ran here before it started to rain. Jacques, you’ve been so long.’
Her voice faded to a sigh. Never before had she abandoned herself to him like this. She lowered herself on to the empty sacks that lay heaped in the corner like a bed. Jacques fell to the ground beside her, held in her embrace. He felt his legs resting across hers. They could not see each other, but their breaths mingled. As if in a trance, they became lost to all sense of time and place. They kissed each other passionately, and their hearts seemed to beat as one.
‘Darling,’ he said, ‘you waited for me ...’
‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘I waited for you. I waited and waited ...’
Immediately, impulsively, Séverine held him tight. She drew him towards her and without a word compelled him to take her. How it happened she did not know. By the time he arrived she had resigned herself to not seeing him. Without stopping to consider or to think what she was doing, she had been carried away by the sheer, unexpected joy of holding him in her arms, by the sudden, irresistible need to be his. It had happened because it had to. The rain fell even more insistently on the shed roof. The ground shook, as the last train from Paris went whistling and clattering into the station.
When Jacques raised himself from her, he was puzzled to hear the sound of falling rain. Where was he? His hand brushed against the handle of a hammer, which he had felt on the floor near him as he lay down beside her. A surge of joy ran through him. Could it be true? He had possessed Séverine and had not taken the hammer to smash her skull. She was his, and there had been no bitter struggle, no instinctive desire to fling her across his back, dead, like some trophy won in battle. No longer did he feel the need to avenge those ancient wrongs done from time immemorial, or sense the accumulated bitterness passed down from man to man since the first infidelity in the dark recesses of some primeval cave. Possessing Séverine was like a magic spell. She had cured him. He saw her as someone different, someone who for all her weakness was capable of violence, someone whose hands were steeped in blood. It was this that had protected her, like a fearsome coat of armour. She had overcome him. He had not dared lay hands on her. When he once more took her in his arms, it was with a feeling of deep indebtedness, and a desire to surrender himself to her totally.
Séverine likewise abandoned herself to him, happy to be released from the doubts which had beset her and which now seemed so pointless. Why had she denied him for so long? She should have yielded to him as she had promised herself she would; it could bring her only pleasure and delight. She knew now that this was what she had always wanted, even when it had seemed so good to wait. She needed to be loved body and soul, with a love that was steadfast
and true. What she had endured, the horrors she had been drawn into, were too terrible for words. Life had treated her cruelly, viciously, dragging her through the mud and drawing her into crime. Her beautiful blue eyes, so innocent and appealing beneath her tragic crown of black hair, had a permanently frightened look about them. In spite of everything, she had remained virgin.3 And now she had given herself for the first time, to a man she adored. She wanted to lose herself in him. She wanted to be his slave. She was his. He could make use of her as he wished.
‘Take me, my darling,’ she begged him. ‘I am yours for ever. I want only what you want.’
‘No, my dearest,’ he answered. ‘It is for you to command. I am here but to love and obey you.’
Hours went by. The rain had stopped falling long since. A great silence hung over the station. All that could be heard was the distant murmur of the sea. They were still in each other’s arms when a shot rang out. They sprang to their feet in alarm. Day was just beginning to break; a patch of pale light whitened the sky above the mouth of the Seine. What was that shot? They should not have stayed so long. It was madness. They had a sudden vision of Roubaud chasing after them with a revolver.