Séverine was waking up.
‘What is it, darling? Do you have to go so soon?’
He didn’t answer her or look at her, hoping she would go back to sleep.
‘Where are you going to, darling?’
‘I won’t be long,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to the station. Go back to sleep.’
She was still very drowsy and had closed her eyes again.
‘I’m so tired,’ she murmured. ‘So tired. Come and kiss me before you go, darling.’
Jacques did not move. He knew that he only had to turn round with the knife in his hand and take one look at her lying naked in bed, with her hair undone, so delicate, so pretty, and the will-power that restrained him would collapse. His hand would rise of its own accord and plunge the knife into her throat.
‘Kiss me, darling ...’
Her voice faded to a whisper; she murmured that she loved him and fell quietly back to sleep. In desperation, he opened the door and fled.
It was eight o‘clock when Jacques found himself outside in the Rue d’Amsterdam. The snow had not yet been cleared away; the footsteps of the few people that were about could scarcely be heard. He immediately spotted an old woman, but she disappeared round a corner into the Rue de Londres. He didn’t follow her. He almost bumped into two men as he walked down towards the Place du Havre, clutching the knife, with the blade hidden up his sleeve. A girl of about fourteen emerged from a house on the other side of the street, and he crossed over towards her, only to see her disappear into a baker’s shop next door. He was too impatient to wait for her to come out and continued his search further on down the street. From the minute he had left the room with the knife in his hand he had become a different person, another being, a creature he had often felt stirring within him, a strange visitor from the distant past, consumed by an inborn desire to kill. It had killed before and it wanted to kill again. Everything around him appeared to Jacques as if in a dream; he had only one thought in his mind. He must kill. His normal day-to-day life no longer existed; he moved through the streets like a sleepwalker, with no recollection of the past and no sense of the future, driven by this one overriding obsession. He had become an automaton. He was no longer himself. Two women brushed past him as they came up from behind. He quickened his step and had just caught them up when they stopped to talk to a man. The three of them stood laughing and chatting. Once again he had been thwarted. Another woman walked past, and he followed her. She was dark-skinned and looked ill. She wore a thin shawl and was obviously very poor; she walked slowly, on her way to some thankless, underpaid job, no doubt; she was certainly in no rush to get there. She looked desperately sad. Jacques had chosen his victim and walked after her. He was in no hurry. He was looking for a place where it would be easy to attack her. She must have noticed that she was being followed because she turned and looked at him, with a look of unspeakable sadness, amazed that anyone should want anything from her. He followed her along the Rue du Havre. Twice she turned to look at him, making him hold back as he was taking his knife out to stab her. She had such a pathetic, pleading look in her eyes. He decided he would wait until she stepped off the pavement a little further on. That was where he would strike. Then suddenly he turned round and began to follow another woman, who was walking in the opposite direction. There was no reason why; it was not something he chose to do. She simply happened to be walking past at the time.
He followed her back towards the station. She walked quickly, with little, short steps, her shoes tapping on the pavement; she was extremely pretty, twenty years old at the most, very shapely, with blonde hair and beautiful bright eyes that seemed to have a permanent smile in them. She didn’t even notice that someone was following her. She must have been in a hurry because she ran up the steps from the Cour du Havre into the main hall, dashed over to the booking office for the circle line and hurriedly ordered a first-class ticket to Auteuil. Jacques did likewise and followed her through the waiting rooms and out on to the platform to her compartment. He got in and sat beside her. The train left at once.
‘I’ve got plenty of time,’ he thought. ‘I’ll kill her in the tunnel.’
Sitting opposite them, however, was an old lady, the only other passenger in the compartment. She recognized the young woman.
‘Why, fancy seeing you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where are you off to so early?’
The young woman raised her hands in a gesture of mock despair.
‘You can’t do anything without running into someone, can you?’ she said with a laugh. ‘I hope you won’t give me away ... It’s my husband’s birthday tomorrow. I waited for him to leave for the office and caught the first train I could. I’m going to Auteuil. There’s a market garden there where he saw an orchid that he really wanted ... I’m going to buy it for him as a surprise.’
The old lady nodded approvingly.
‘And how’s the little baby?’ she asked.
‘She’s a joy! I weaned her last week. You should see her eat her soup! In fact we’re all very well. It’s scandalous!’
She laughed again, more loudly, showing her white teeth between her blood-red lips. Jacques was sitting on her right, holding the knife hidden against his leg. He was in just the right position to stab her, he thought to himself. All he had to do was raise his arm and turn towards her; it would be perfect. But as the train ran into the Batignolles tunnel he thought of her bonnet-strings. They’re tied under her chin, he thought. They’ll get in the way. I want to be certain.
The two women chatted happily away to each other.
‘I can see you’re very happy.’
‘Happy! I’ve never felt happier! It’s like a dream come true! Two years ago I was nothing. Do you remember? It was so dull living with my aunt, and I didn’t have a penny to my name. When he came to see me my heart would be all of a flutter. I was so in love with him. He was so handsome and so rich ... And now he’s mine! He’s my husband! And we’ve got our little baby! I can’t believe it!’
Jacques was carefully inspecting the way her bonnet-strings were tied. He saw that beneath the knot she wore a large gold medallion on a black neckband. He worked out what he was going to do.
‘I’ll grab her by the neck with my left hand and turn her head round so that the medallion’s not in the way,’ he thought to himself. ‘Then I can get at her throat.’
The train was constantly stopping and starting. They had passed through two short tunnels, at Courcelles and at Neuilly. Any minute now! It would not take more than a second!
‘Did you go to the seaside this summer?’ the old lady asked.
‘Yes, we spent six weeks in Brittany, miles from anywhere. It was heaven! Then during September we stayed at my father-in-law’s in Poitou; he owns a lot of woodland down there.’
‘And aren’t you going to the Midi for winter?’
‘Yes, we’ll be at Cannes from the fifteenth ... The house is already booked. It’s got a really lovely garden facing the sea. We’ve sent someone on ahead to get things ready ... It’s not that we don’t like the cold, but it’s so nice to be in the sun ... We shall be back in March. Next year we’re going to stay in Paris. In a couple of years’ time, when baby’s grown up, we’ll do some travelling. I don’t know, life seems one long holiday!’8
She seemed to be brimming over with happiness, so happy in fact that she turned towards Jacques, a man she had never met, and smiled at him. As she did so, the bow on her bonnet-strings shifted, the medallion slipped to one side, and he saw her neck, rosy pink, with a little hollow at its base that formed a patch of golden shadow.
Jacques’s fingers tightened on the handle of the knife; he had made his decision.
‘That’s where I’ll do it,’ he thought to himself. ‘In the tunnel, just before Passy! We’re nearly there!’
But when the train stopped at Trocadéro, a railway employee who knew him got into the compartment and started telling him about an engine driver and his fireman who had been convicted of stealing coal.
Everything started to become confused; later, Jacques was never able to piece together exactly what happened. The woman sitting next to him had carried on laughing, radiating such happiness that it worked its way into him and calmed him down. Perhaps he had stayed on the train with the two women until it reached Auteuil, but he couldn’t recall them getting off. He ended up finding himself walking along the Seine, but how he got there he didn’t know. What he did remember very clearly was standing on the bank of the river and throwing away the knife, which he had kept tucked inside his sleeve. After that he could remember nothing. His mind was a blank; he was totally empty. The creature that had taken hold of him was no more; it had gone when he threw away the knife. He must have carried on walking for hours, following streets, crossing squares, going wherever his legs took him. People and houses slipped past him like ghosts. He must have gone somewhere to eat; he recalled a room crowded with people, and white plates on the tables. He also retained a vivid image of a red poster in an empty shop window. After that, all he was aware of was a black abyss, a void, in which there was neither time nor space, and where, for centuries perhaps, he had lain unconscious.
When he came to, Jacques found himself back in his little room in the Rue Cardinet, slumped across his bed, fully dressed. He had found his way there by instinct, like an exhausted dog dragging itself back to its kennel. He could not remember climbing the stairs or going to sleep. When he woke up, it came as a shock to suddenly find himself in possession of his senses again, as if emerging from a coma. Had he slept for three hours or three days? Then it all came back to him; he had spent the night with Séverine, she had told him about the murder, and he had rushed out like a beast of prey in search of blood. He had taken leave of his senses but was now beginning to come back to himself. He was horrified to think of the things he had done and to know that he had been powerless to prevent them. He suddenly remembered that Séverine was still waiting for him. He leaped to his feet and looked at his watch; it was already four o‘clock. His mind felt empty, and he was now perfectly calm, as if his blood had been drained from him. He hurried back to the Impasse d’Amsterdam.
Séverine had slept soundly until midday. When she woke up she was surprised to find that Jacques was no longer there. She relit the stove, finally got dressed and at about two o’clock, dying of starvation, decided to go down and have something to eat in a nearby restaurant. When Jacques arrived she had just got back from doing some shopping.
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I was so worried!’
She flung her arms round his neck and looked him in the eyes.
‘Where on earth have you been?’
He was exhausted and felt cold to the touch. He calmly reassured her that there was nothing wrong.
‘I had to do some work on the engine,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t get out of it. Sometimes they expect you to work all the hours God sends!’
She spoke quietly; there was a pleading, apologetic note in her voice.
‘Do you know what I thought?’ she said. ‘It was awful! I couldn’t bear it! ... I thought that, after what I told you, perhaps you didn’t want me any more ... And I thought that you’d left me and that you’d never come back ... ever!’
She could no longer hold back her tears. She clung to him desperately, weeping on his shoulder.
‘Oh my darling!’ she said. ‘If only you knew how much I need someone to love me! Love me! Be kind to me! Only your love can make me forget! Now that I’ve told you all my troubles, promise you will never leave me! I beg you!’
Jacques was overcome by this heartfelt plea. He felt himself gradually beginning to soften.
‘No,’ he murmured, ‘I won’t leave you. I love you. Never fear!’
It was too much for him, and he wept. He thought of the evil thing that once more possessed him; it was inescapable, he would never be cured. All that lay ahead of him was an endless night of shame and despair.
‘Love me too!’ he said. ‘Be kind to me! Love me with all your heart! I need your love as much as you need mine.’
She started. What did he mean?
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘if you have troubles, you must tell me about them.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘not troubles. They’re things that don’t exist. I get depressed, and it makes me feel very unhappy. I can’t talk about it.’
They drowned their sadness in an embrace. There would be no end to their suffering; what had happened could be neither forgotten nor forgiven. They wept in each other’s arms; they were victims of the blind forces of life - unending strife and death.
‘Come on,’ said Jacques as he released her, ‘it’s time we thought of leaving ... Tonight you’ll be in Le Havre.’
A dark look came into Séverine’s eyes. She gazed into the distance, saying nothing.
‘If only I were free!’ she murmured. ‘If only I didn’t have my husband! It would be so much easier to forget!’
Jacques raised his hands in a gesture of frustration and, as if thinking aloud, said, ‘But we can’t kill him, can we!’
Séverine stared at him. Jacques gave a start, amazed at what he had just said; the thought had never entered his head until that moment. But if he wished to kill someone, why not kill Roubaud, the man who stood in their way? As he was leaving her to go back to the engine sheds, she once more took him in her arms and covered him with kisses.
‘Oh, my darling!’ she said. ‘Love me for ever! I’ll love you more and more ... We shall be happy, you’ll see!’
IX
For the next few days back in Le Havre, Jacques and Séverine were extremely careful. They were worried. If Roubaud knew what was going on between them, he would probably be keeping an eye on them, looking for an opportunity to catch them out, so that he could wreak some terrible revenge. They remembered the jealous rages he had before and the sheer brutality of this man who had worked in the shunting yards and who let fly with his fists at the least suspicion. He had become taciturn and lethargic and he had a permanently worried look in his eyes. They were convinced he was planning some nasty trick, setting a trap so that he could discover their secret. So for the next month they were constantly on the alert and only ever saw each other when they had made absolutely sure it was safe.
But Roubaud was spending less and less time at home. Perhaps he only went away in order to come back unexpectedly and catch them in each other’s arms. But this never happened. On the contrary, he stayed away longer and longer, to the point that he was hardly ever there, disappearing the minute he was free and returning just in time to begin his shift. When he was on duty during the day, he would come back at ten o‘clock, eat his breakfast in five minutes and then not reappear until half past eleven. When his colleague came down to take over at five o’clock, he would rush off straight away and sometimes be out all night. It was as much as he did to come back for a few hours’ sleep. When he was working at night, it was the same. He finished work at five in the morning, but must have gone somewhere else to eat and sleep, because he didn’t come back home till five in the evening. Despite this chaotic regime, he had continued to turn up punctually for work, like a model employee, always on time, even though he was sometimes so exhausted he could hardly stand on his feet. None the less, he had gone about his business and performed his duties conscientiously. Recently, however, there had been a few lapses. Twice already, the other assistant stationmaster, Moulin, had had to wait an hour for him to arrive, and one morning, decent fellow that he was, hearing that he hadn’t reappeared after breakfast, he had even come down and stood in for him, so that he wouldn’t get into trouble. Roubaud’s job was beginning to suffer the effects of the dissipated life he was leading. During the day, he was no longer the energetic man he used to be, personally inspecting every train that arrived or departed, noting everything down in his report to the stationmaster, making sure everyone was working hard and working hard himself. At night he just fell fast asleep in his armchair in his office. Even when he was awake he appeared to be half asle
ep, wandering up and down the platform with his hands behind his back, giving orders in a monotone and totally unconcerned whether anyone carried them out or not. If he managed to get things done, it was by sheer force of habit, although on one occasion his negligence led to a collision, when a passenger train was accidentally run into a siding. His colleagues merely joked about it, saying he shouldn’t spend so much time womanizing!
The truth was that Roubaud was now virtually living in the little back room upstairs at the Café du Commerce. It had gradually become a veritable gambling den. People said there were women there every night; in fact there was only ever one woman there, the mistress of a retired sea captain, who was at least forty years old, an incurable gambler herself, and totally sexless. The only appetite Roubaud satisfied when he visited the Café du Commerce was his melancholy passion for cards. It had started shortly after the murder, through a chance game of piquet; since then it had grown into an irresistible habit, providing release from all his cares and complete oblivion. It had taken such a hold on him that his desire for women, which had previously been insatiable, was now totally dead. It held him completely in its grip, providing the only distraction that afforded him any pleasure. His need to forget came not from any feelings of remorse over the murder, but from the break-up of his marriage; his life had been ruined, and this was his one consolation, a form of happy self-indulgence which numbed his senses and which he could enjoy alone. His passion had now taken over his whole life and it was destroying him. Alcohol could not have provided him with such pleasure and freedom from care or made the time go by more swiftly. He had even stopped caring about life itself, yet he had the impression he was living life to the full. It was as though he were somewhere else, cut off; none of the things that used to irritate him so intensely now seemed to affect him at all. Apart from feeling tired as a result of his late nights, he was really quite well; he was even putting on weight, growing rather fat and flabby in fact. His eyes had lost their sparkle and seemed always to be half asleep. When he did come home, he just lounged around and showed absolutely no interest in anything.