Human Beast: The Emile Zola Society Edition

  She was shaking all over. She paused. Then, in a different voice, almost jokingly, she said, ‘Isn’t it silly. I feel chilled to the bone, and yet it’s so lovely and warm in bed with you. I feel so happy! Anyway, I don’t have to worry about it any more; the inquiry has been shelved. The government bigwigs want to keep it quiet as much as we do, I know they do. So I’m not bothered.’

  She laughed out loud and added: ‘Heavens above, Jacques! You gave us a real fright, and no mistake! Tell me, I’ve always wondered about it ... what exactly did you see?’

  ‘What I told the judge,’ he said. ‘No more than that! One man slitting another man’s throat. But you were so nice to me I began to doubt my own mind. At one point I thought I recognized your husband ... but it was only later that I became absolutely certain ...’

  She interrupted him, with a little laugh.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It was in the square in Paris, when you held my hand and said you loved me and I told you we might be seen. Do you remember? It was the first time we were on our own together in Paris ... How strange! I told you it wasn’t us, and all the time I knew perfectly well that you knew it was! It was almost as if I had told you everything. I’ve thought about it so often, darling. I think that was when I first fell in love with you.’

  They hugged each other so tightly that they seemed to melt into each other. Séverine continued: ‘The train ran on through the tunnel ... It’s a very long tunnel; it takes three minutes to get through. It seemed to me that we were in it for an hour ... The President had stopped talking because of the awful noise made by the train. My husband must have lost his nerve at the last minute, because he still made no move. The carriage lamp was swaying backwards and forwards, and all I could see was that his ears were going red ... Was he going to wait until we were out of the tunnel? For me it had now become so inevitable, so certain that I wanted only one thing: I wanted the awful suspense to be over, I wanted it to be over and done with. Why didn’t he kill him, since that was what he had to do? I would have taken the knife and done it myself, I was so terrified and worked up ... He looked at me and must have read my thoughts. Suddenly he threw himself at the President, who had turned towards the window, and grabbed him by the shoulders. The President didn’t know what was happening. He instinctively shook himself free and reached out to pull the communication cord, which was just above his head. He got his hand to it, but Roubaud pulled him back and flung him on to the seat, with such force that he was bent double. His mouth was wide open, screaming in terror and amazement, but his cries were drowned by the noise of the train. I could hear my husband’s voice, hissing with rage and shouting at him repeatedly: “You swine! You swine! You swine!” Suddenly the noise stopped; we were out of the tunnel and in the open countryside with dark trees rushing past the window ... I had remained where I was, rigid, pressing myself against the upholstery, trying to keep as far away as possible. How long did the struggle last? Probably no more than a few seconds, but it seemed to me that it would never end, that all the passengers in the train were listening to the shouts and that the trees were watching us. My husband had his knife open but he couldn’t get near the President. Grandmorin kept kicking him away, and the movement of the train made him lose his balance; he almost fell over. The train was travelling very fast; I heard it whistle as it approached the level-crossing at La Croix-de-Maufras ... That was when I threw myself over his legs to stop him struggling. I can’t remember now how I did it; I just fell on him like a bundle, pinning his legs down with all my weight so that he couldn’t move them. I couldn’t see a thing, but I felt it happen; the knife being thrust into his throat, the body writhing in agony, and his three dying gasps, like a broken clock unwinding. I can still feel that final shudder in my bones!’

  Jacques was eager to know all the details. He wanted to stop and question her. But Séverine preferred to get her story over and done with.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘As I stood up again, the train was running past La Croix-de-Maufras. I distinctly saw the front of the house, all closed up, and then the crossing-keeper’s hut. In another four kilometres, five minutes at the most, we would be at Barentin ... The body was slumped on the seat; the blood was running down into a thick pool on the floor. My husband just stood there, dazed, swaying from side to side with the movement of the train, staring at the body and wiping the knife with his handkerchief. This must have lasted a minute, without either of us giving a thought to how we were going to get out of such a dangerous situation. If we stayed in the compartment with the dead body, we were bound to be discovered when the train stopped at Barentin ... Roubaud had put the knife back in his pocket. Suddenly he seemed to wake up. I saw him going through Grandmorin’s pockets and taking his watch, his money and whatever he could find. He opened the carriage door and tried to push the body out on to the track. He didn’t want to lift it in his arms in case he got blood on his clothes. He was shouting, “Help me! Help me push!” I could hardly do a thing; my whole body felt numb. “For God’s sake, come and help me!” The body was half out of the door, with the head nearly touching the carriage footboard, but the legs were caught up underneath it, and it wouldn’t go through. The train continued on its way. Eventually, after pushing for all we were worth, it tilted forwards and disappeared under the wheels. “That’s the end of him, the swine!” Roubaud said. Then he picked up the travelling rug and threw that out too. Then there were just the two of us, and a great big pool of blood on the seat. We stood looking at it; we didn’t dare go near it. The door was still wide open, banging in the wind. I didn’t understand what was happening at first; I was too shocked, too upset. I saw my husband climb out of the train and disappear from sight. Then he reappeared. He shouted, “Come on, quick! Follow me! It’s our only chance!” I still didn’t move. He was losing his temper.

  ‘ “Come on, for God’s sake!” he said. “Our compartment’s empty. We can go back there.” Our compartment empty! How did he know? Had he been to have a look? What about the woman in black? The one who said nothing and hid herself in the corner! How could he be sure she wasn’t still there? He said, “If you don’t come, I’ll bloody well chuck you out like Grandmorin!” He got back in, grabbed hold of me and started pushing me towards the door like someone gone mad. I found myself outside on the footboard, clinging with both hands to the brass handrail.7 He got out behind me, making sure that the door was shut. “Go on! Go on!” he shouted. But I was too frightened to move. The train was travelling at full speed; the wind was blowing in my face like a hurricane. My hair came undone; my hands were so stiff I thought I was going to let go of the handrail. “Go on, for God’s sake!” He kept pushing me forward; I had to walk along the footboard, passing one hand over the other, clinging to the side of the carriage with my skirts flapping about in the wind and getting caught round my legs. You could already see the lights of Barentin station in the distance, round a bend. The engine started to whistle. “Go on, for God’s sake!” The noise was terrible! Everything was shaking around me. I felt as if I’d been caught in a violent storm, like a wisp of straw blown about in the wind that was going to be smashed against a wall. The countryside was flying past behind me; the trees seemed to be galloping after me like wild horses, twisting and turning, each crying out as we flew past. When I got to the end of the carriage I had to step across to reach the footboard on the next one and catch hold of the other handrail. I couldn’t do it; I didn’t have the courage and I didn’t have the strength. “Go on, for God’s sake!” He was right behind me, pushing me. I shut my eyes and moved forward. I don’t know how I did it; it was pure instinct, like an animal digging its claws in to stop itself falling. How nobody saw us I don’t know. We walked along three carriages, including a second-class one absolutely full of passengers. I remember seeing rows of heads through the carriage windows; I think I would recognize them if I ever saw them again: a fat man with red sideburns, and especially two young girls leaning forward and laughing. “Go on, for God’s sake! Go on f
or God’s sake!” I can’t remember anything more; the lights of Barentin were getting nearer, the engine was blowing its whistle. The last thing I was conscious of was being pulled and dragged along by my hair. My husband must have grabbed hold of me, leaned over my shoulders to open the carriage door and thrown me into the compartment. When the train stopped I was sitting in the corner, gasping for breath, barely conscious. I couldn’t move. I heard my husband exchange a few words with the Barentin stationmaster. The minute the train started again he fell on to the seat, exhausted. We didn’t say another word all the way to Le Havre ... I hate him! I hate him! It was terrible what he put me through! I love you, darling. You make me feel so happy!’

  With the telling of her long tale, Séverine’s desire had slowly mounted, and this cry to Jacques was the sign that in the midst of these awful memories she now longed for her joy to be made complete. Jacques, like her, was burning with desire but he held her back. Her tale had disturbed him.

  ‘Wait!’ he said. ‘Wait a moment! You said you were lying flat across his legs and you felt him die.’

  There were things he had to know. He felt a wave of burning curiosity run through him. His mind was invaded by a sea of red. The murder fascinated him.

  ‘Tell me about the knife. Did you feel it go in?’

  ‘Yes. I felt a thud.’

  ‘Just a thud? Didn’t you feel his neck being slit open?’

  ‘No, it was just a blow.’

  ‘Did he have a convulsion?’

  ‘Yes, he had three. They ran from one end of his body to the other, very slowly. I felt them run right down to his feet.’

  ‘Did they make him go stiff?’

  ‘Yes. The first one was very strong. The other two were weaker.’

  ‘And then he died. How did you feel when you felt him die like that, with his throat slit?’

  ‘How did I feel? I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know? Come on, tell me. I want to know. Tell me honestly, how did you feel? Were you upset?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t upset.’

  ‘Did it give you pleasure?’

  ‘Pleasure! Ah, no, certainly not!’

  ‘What then, love? I beg you! Tell me what it was like ... If only you knew ... Tell me what it feels like.’

  ‘How can you describe a thing like that, for heaven’s sake? It’s awful; you’re just carried away ... completely carried away! I lived more in that minute than in all my previous life put together!’

  Jacques clenched his teeth, muttered something incoherent and took her. Séverine took him also. They possessed each other, finding love in the midst of death, and the same agonizing pleasure as beasts that tear each other apart as they mate. All that could be heard was the heavy sound of their breathing. The circle of red light had gone from the ceiling. The stove went out, and, with the wintry conditions outside, the room began to grow cold. Not a sound rose from the street as Paris lay muffled in snow. There were a few snores from the newspaper seller’s room next door. Then the house sank into a dark, fathomless sleep.

  All this time, Séverine had been lying in Jacques’s arms. He suddenly felt her give in to sleep as if she had been struck down. The journey, the long wait at the Misards and a night of passion had finally taken their toll. She murmured a childlike goodnight and immediately fell fast asleep, breathing peacefully. The cuckoo clock had just struck three.

  For nearly another hour Jacques lay with Séverine across his left arm, which gradually sent it to sleep. But his eyes would not remain closed; unseen fingers seemed to keep opening them again in the dark. By now he couldn’t see a thing in the room; it was pitch black. The stove, the furniture, even the walls - everything had disappeared. He turned his head to look for the two pale window squares, outlined on the wall, faint and dreamlike. Although he was exhausted, his mind would not rest; thoughts came teeming into his head - the same thoughts, returning again and again. Every time he succeeded in putting them from him and was about to fall asleep, the vision returned to haunt him, a succession of images, the same as before, each time more disturbing. The scene that presented itself with such mechanical regularity, as he stared open-eyed into the darkness, was the murder, in all its details. It kept coming back, identical, invading his mind, tormenting him. The knife entered the throat with a thud, the body had three long convulsions, its life drained away in a stream of warm blood, a red stream; he imagined he could feel it running over his hands. Twenty times, thirty times, the knife went in, the body jerked. The images grew bigger and bigger, they seemed to suffocate him, spill over him and banish the night. He longed to kill with a knife, to satisfy his old desire, to know what it feels like and to savour that moment in which one lives more than in a whole lifetime.

  He became more and more breathless. Perhaps it was simply the weight of Séverine on his arm that was preventing him from sleeping. He gently freed himself from her and, without waking her, placed her beside him. Immediately he felt more at ease and began to breathe more freely, thinking that at last he was about to drop off to sleep. But once again those unseen fingers opened his eyelids; in the darkness he saw the murder re-enacted, in all its gory detail. The knife went in; the body jerked. Streaks of blood stained the night; the wound in the throat gaped wide open, like an axe mark in a tree. He gave up the struggle and lay on his back; the nightmare must run its course. He could hear the wheels of his mind turning. His brain groaned in its effort to make sense of the thoughts that assailed him. They came from far back, from his childhood. He had thought he was cured. For months, ever since he had first possessed Séverine, there had been no sign of his old craving; and now, after listening to this tale of murder, whispered into his ear as she lay naked against him, their bodies intertwined, it had returned, more intense than ever. He moved away from her so that she was not touching him; the least contact with her flesh sent a fire running through him. He felt a terrible burning along his back, as if the mattress he lay on had become a bed of coals. There was a pricking sensation in his neck, like red-hot needles. He tried putting his hands outside the bedclothes, but they quickly became frozen and made him shiver. His hands frightened him; he drew them back under the bedclothes and clasped them together across his stomach, finally sliding them under his buttocks to pin them down, as if he were afraid they might do something awful, something he had no wish to do but did all the same.

  Every time the cuckoo clock struck the hour, Jacques counted. Four o‘clock, five o’clock, six o’clock. He longed for day to come; he hoped that the dawn might chase this nightmare away. Again he turned towards the windows, peering at the glass for the first sign of daylight. But all he could see was the pale reflection of the snow. At a quarter to five he had heard the train arrive from Le Havre. It was only forty minutes late; the line was obviously clear again. It was not until after seven that he saw the windows begin to whiten, and a pale milky glimmer slowly filtered into the room. At last the light returned; a strange half-light in which the furniture seemed to be floating. The stove reappeared, then the cupboard and the sideboard. He could still not close his eyes; in fact they ached from trying to see in the dark. Suddenly, even before it was completely light and before he could actually see it, he sensed, on the table beside him, the presence of the knife he had used to cut the cake the night before. And now, this knife was all he could see, a little knife with a pointed blade. As it grew lighter, all the light coming in through the two windows was reflected in that one small blade. He was so frightened of his hands that he thrust them further beneath him; he could feel them growing restless, defying him, asserting their will. Were these hands his own? He must have inherited them from someone else. They must have been passed down by some remote ancestor from the days when men strangled wild beasts in the forest!

  In order not to see the knife, Jacques turned over towards Séverine. She was sleeping peacefully, utterly exhausted, breathing like a child. Her thick, black hair was undone and fell down over her shoulders like a dark pillow
. Between the strands of hair, under her chin, he saw her throat, delicate, milky white with just a trace of pink. He looked at her as though she were a stranger. Yet he adored her; he carried her image with him wherever he went and never stopped desiring her, even when he was driving his train. So much so that one day he had woken up as if from a dream to find himself driving at full speed through a station with the signals at red. He could not take his eyes away from her white throat; he was seized with a sudden, irresistible fascination. He was still fully aware of what was happening and to his horror he felt himself being compelled to take the knife from the table and plunge it to the hilt into this woman’s flesh. He heard the thud of the blade as it went in; he saw the body jerk three times and then go stiff as the blood flowed from the wound. He tried desperately to put the nightmare from his mind, but with every second that passed his resolve was weakening, as if it were being drowned by this one obsession and driven towards that distant shore where one accepts defeat and surrenders to instinct. Everything became a blur; his hands had defiantly overcome his attempt to hide them and had freed themselves. He realized only too well that he was no longer in control of them and that if he continued to gaze at Séverine they would have their way and kill her. With one final effort he threw himself out of the bed and fell rolling on the floor like someone who was drunk. He picked himself up, but his feet got caught in the clothes that Séverine had left lying there, and he nearly fell down again. He lurched about, desperately looking for his own clothes. His one thought was to get dressed, take the knife and go and kill some other woman out in the street. The urge was too strong to resist; he had to kill someone. But he couldn’t find his trousers; he had them in his hand three times before realizing what they were. He had great difficulty trying to put his shoes on. Although it was now broad daylight, the room seemed to be filled with a red mist, like dawn on a cold, foggy morning, when everything appears hazy. He was shaking uncontrollably. He had finally managed to get dressed. He had taken the knife and hidden it up his sleeve, determined to go out and kill the first woman he met in the street, when he heard a movement from the bed and a long drawn-out sigh. He stood by the table, rooted to the spot, his face turning white.