He took out the knife and snapped it open. No sooner had he done so than he swore under his breath.
‘Damn it!’ he said. ‘He’s gone the other way. We can’t do it.’
The shadow on the wall had come within fifty paces of them, had turned to the left and was now walking away with the steady, unhurried gait of the night watchman quietly doing his rounds.
Séverine gave Jacques a push.
‘Go on!’ she said.
The two of them moved forward, Jacques in front and Séverine behind him. They followed their prey, taking care to make no noise. At one point, as Roubaud went round the corner of the repair shops, they lost sight of him. They cut across a siding and spotted him again, twenty paces in front of them. They hid against every wall they came to, so that he wouldn’t see them. One false step would have given them away.
‘We’re not going to catch him,’ Jacques muttered. ‘If he gets to the signal box, we’ve lost him.’
Séverine kept whispering encouragement.
‘Come on!’ she said. ‘Come on!’
Although he was out in the dark, in a huge empty railway yard at the dead of night, Jacques’s mind was made up as firmly as if he were quietly lying in wait in a corner of some secluded alleyway. He moved forward quickly but cautiously. His heart was beating fast; he kept telling himself that this murder was perfectly justified, that it was a sensible and legitimate act that had been carefully thought through and properly decided. He was simply exercising a right — the right to live in fact, since Roubaud’s death was a prerequisite for his own survival. All he had to do was stab him with the knife and his happiness was assured.
‘We’re not going to catch him, we’re not going to catch him,’ he repeated furiously, as he saw the shadow move towards the signal box. ‘We’ve had it. He’s going to get away.’
Suddenly, Séverine placed her hand on his arm and held him close. She was trembling.
‘Look!’ she said. ‘He’s coming back!’
Roubaud had turned to the right and was coming towards them. If he had any inkling that there had been somebody behind him waiting to pounce on him, it didn’t seem to affect him; he continued calmly on his way, carefully making sure that all was in order, and in no hurry to leave until his inspection was complete.
Jacques and Séverine remained standing where they were, without moving. As chance would have it, they had stopped near the edge of one of the coal stacks. They leaned against it, pressing their backs to the wall of coal, as if trying to melt into it and lose themselves in its inky blackness. They hardly dared breathe.
Jacques watched Roubaud as he came towards them. He was now no more than thirty metres away, and every step brought him nearer, like the steady, inexorable pendulum of fate. Another twenty steps, another ten steps, and Roubaud would be in front of him; he would raise his arm thus and plant the knife in his neck, twisting it backwards and forwards to silence his screams. The seconds seemed unending; his head was teeming with so many thoughts that he had lost all sense of time. One by one, his reasons for murdering Roubaud passed through his mind yet again. He saw the murder clearly; he understood both its cause and its consequences. Roubaud was now only five steps away. Jacques’s resolve was stretched to breaking point, but he held firm. He had made up his mind to kill and he knew why he was going to do it.
Roubaud was within two steps of him. One step more and ... Suddenly Jacques’s courage abandoned him; his determination collapsed. He couldn’t do it. How could he kill a defenceless man? Reasoning alone could never impel someone to murder; something more was needed — the killer instinct, the will to seize the prey, the hunger, the passion maybe, to tear it limb from limb. Conscience was probably no more than a vague assortment of ideas instilled by the slow workings of a centuries-old tradition of justice. Even so, he knew he didn’t have the right to kill, and no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he felt that it was not a right he could assume.
Roubaud walked past, quite undisturbed. His elbow brushed against them as they stood pressing themselves to the stack of coal. If either of them had as much as breathed, Roubaud would have spotted them, but they stood there like corpses. Jacques did not raise his arm and he did not plant the knife in Roubaud’s neck. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the night; nothing moved. Roubaud was already ten steps away from them, and they remained motionless, pressed against the coal stack, not daring to breath, terrified of the man who, alone and defenceless, had just calmly walked past them.
Jacques let out a sob of pent-up rage and humiliation.
‘I can’t do it! I can’t do it!’ he cried.
He wanted to take Séverine in his arms, to lean against her, to be forgiven and comforted. But without a word she moved aside. He stretched out his hands towards her, only to feel her skirt slip through his fingers as she silently ran away. He started to run after her but quickly realized that it was pointless. To see her rush off like that was more than he could bear. Was it his weakness that had made her so angry? Did she despise him? He had decided it was better not to follow her, but now that he found himself alone in this vast, deserted railway yard, with the yellow lights of the gas lamps scattered across it like tears, he was seized with despair. He rushed back to his room to bury his head in his pillow and erase all the misery of his life from his mind.
About ten days later, towards the end of March, the Roubauds finally won their battle against the Lebleus. The management approved their request. It had had the full support of Monsieur Dabadie, especially as the missing letter from Lebleu, promising to vacate the apartment should it be required by the new assistant stationmaster, had been discovered by Mademoiselle Guichon while looking through the station’s files for some old bills. Madame Lebleu, in her frustration, made a great song and dance about having to move; the Roubauds were obviously doing their best to ensure her early demise, so she might as well move out straight away and have done with it. For three whole days, while the epoch-making move took place, the corridor was the scene of feverish activity. Even little Madame Moulin, normally so shy and unobtrusive, and hardly ever seen, got herself involved by carrying Séverine’s work-table across to her new apartment. But it was Philomène who was mainly to blame for the ill feeling that was caused. She was there on the first day, bundling things together, moving furniture about, and marching into the apartment at the front even before the tenants had left. It was Philomène who eventually showed Madame Lebleu the door, with the furniture from both apartments still lying jumbled together in the middle of the corridor. Philomène had come to show such an interest in Jacques and everything he did that Pecqueux had begun to grow suspicious. One day when he was in one of his drunken, bullying moods, he had taunted her and asked her if she was sleeping with Jacques, warning her that if he ever caught them together they would both live to regret it. This merely succeeded in increasing her attachment to Jacques all the more. She acted as their self-appointed housemaid, looking after both him and his mistress, in the hope that by serving the two of them she might have something of him for herself. When she had moved out the last chair, the doors were slammed shut. She then noticed that Madame Lebleu had left a stool behind. She opened the door again and flung it across the corridor. And that was that.
Slowly life returned to its old routine. Madame Lebleu sat glued to her armchair by her rheumatism, bored to death, her eyes full of tears because all she could see out of her window was the zinc cladding of the station roof, which shut out the sky. Séverine meanwhile sat at one of the windows at the front, working at her never-ending bed-cover, and looking down at the lively activity of the station forecourt. People and carriages were continually coming and going, the big trees along the pavements were already beginning to turn green with the early spring, and in the distance she could see the wooded slopes of the Ingouville hills, dotted with white summer houses. She was surprised to discover what little pleasure it gave her to finally have her dream come true, to find herself in the apartment she had so je
alously coveted, so light and airy and sunny. Madame Simon, her cleaner, was always grumbling and getting annoyed because things weren’t in their usual place, and this made Séverine herself sometimes wish she had never left the ‘grotty little hovel next door’, as she put it, where at least the dirt didn’t show as much. As for Roubaud, he simply let things take their course; he didn’t even seem to notice that he now lived in a different apartment. He often went to the wrong door and only discovered his mistake when his new key wouldn’t fit the lock. He hardly ever came home now, and his general decline continued. He did show brief signs of a recovery when his political sympathies were rekindled. His ideas had always been rather vague and somewhat lukewarm; but he hadn’t forgotten his argument with the Sub-Prefect, which had nearly cost him his job. The government had been badly shaken by the general elections6 and was going through a terrible crisis. Roubaud was cock-a-hoop and went round telling everyone that Napoleon’s lot wouldn’t be in charge for much longer. His revolutionary comments were overheard by Mademoiselle Guichon, who informed Monsieur Dabadie. Monsieur Dabadie gave Roubaud a friendly warning, and this sufficed to calm him down. Now that the squabbles over accommodation had been settled and people on the corridor were being more friendly towards each other, with Madame Lebleu pining away from distress, why stir things up again over the government and its difficulties? Roubaud simply raised his hands, as much as to say that he couldn’t care less about politics, or anything else for that matter. He grew fatter by the day, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He plodded about his business and turned his back on the world.
Jacques and Séverine were now free to meet as they wished, but their relationship had become more strained. Nothing stood in the way of their happiness; he could come and see her whenever he liked, using the back staircase so that no one would notice him. The apartment was theirs; he could have slept there if he’d had the effrontery to do so. What caused them to feel so ill at ease with each other and created an insuperable barrier between them was the thought of his failure to accomplish the one thing they both wanted, the thing they had agreed upon and which remained undone. Jacques chided himself for his timidity. Each time he came to see Séverine she was more depressed; she had grown sick of this futile waiting. They no longer attempted to kiss; there was no more to be gained from only half belonging to each other. The happiness they sought lay elsewhere — in another world across the sea, where they could marry and lead a new life.
One evening Jacques found Séverine in tears. When she saw him at the door she wept more bitterly and put her head on his shoulder. She had sometimes cried like this before, but he had always managed to take her in his arms and comfort her. Now, however, the closer he held her to him, the more he felt her succumb to a mounting despair. He was distraught. After a while he took her head in his hands, put his face close to hers and, looking into her tear-filled eyes, he pledged himself to do her will. He knew that the reason for her despair was that she was a woman whose sweet, gentle nature prevented her from doing the deed herself.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Wait a little longer. I swear that I will do it. Soon. As soon as I can.’
She fastened her lips on his as if to seal his oath. They came together in a profound kiss, uniting their two bodies as one.
X
Aunt Phasie had suffered a final seizure and had died at nine o‘clock on the Thursday evening. Misard had been waiting at her bedside and had tried to close her eyes, but they remained obstinately open. Her neck had stiffened, with her head tilted slightly over one shoulder as if she were looking round the room, and her lips were drawn back in what appeared to be a sardonic grin. On the corner of a table near her bed there burned a single candle. The trains that had been rushing past the house since nine o’clock, totally unaware of the dead woman who was lying there not yet even cold, made the body momentarily shake in the flickering light of the candle as they went by.
In order to get Flore out of the way, Misard had immediately sent her to Doinville to report the death. She wouldn’t be back before eleven; he had two hours in front of him. First of all, he calmly cut himself a piece of bread; his stomach felt empty because he hadn’t eaten, Aunt Phasie having taken an unconscionably long time to die. He ate standing up, walking backwards and forwards, putting things in their place. Now and then he would be seized by a fit of coughing that bent him double. He was half-dead himself, as thin as a bone, with no strength left in him and the colour gone from his hair. It looked as though his final victory would be very short-lived. But it didn’t worry him. He had destroyed her. She had been a fine, handsome, healthy woman, and he’d eaten her life away, as woodworm eats away oak! There she lay — on her back, finished, reduced to nothing! And he was still alive! A thought suddenly occurred to him; he knelt down and took a pan from under the bed containing some bran-water that had been prepared as an enema. Ever since she had begun to suspect he was trying to kill her, Misard had been putting the rat poison into her enemas rather than mixing it with the salt.1 This was something that had never occurred to her; she should have had more sense. She had taken the poison without knowing it, and this time it had finished her off. Having emptied the pan outside, he came back and mopped down the bedroom floor to remove the stains. Why had she been so stubborn? She had thought she could outwit him! Well, serve her right! When husband and wife are secretly trying to see each other into the grave, you need to keep your eyes open. He chuckled to himself. It amused him to think of her unknowingly imbibing poison through her bottom while being so careful to watch what went into her mouth. Just then an express went by, shaking the house like a rushing wind. Although this was a regular occurrence, Misard jumped and turned towards the window. Ah, yes, he thought, the never-ending stream! All those people! They came from far and wide, all in such a hurry to get wherever it was they were going, and all of them either oblivious or indifferent to anything they trampled underfoot on their way. In the deep silence that settled on the house after the train had gone by, Misard caught sight of the dead woman’s eyes, staring at him, wide open. Their fixed gaze seemed to be watching his every movement, and the corners of her mouth were turned up in a mocking sneer.
Misard, who normally never let things bother him, suddenly found himself feeling annoyed. He could hear her saying to him, ‘Go on, start looking!’ One thing was certain; she hadn’t taken her money with her, and now that she was dead, he would eventually find it. She should have given it to him and not made such a fuss about it; it would have saved him a lot of trouble. The eyes followed him everywhere. ‘Go on,’ she was saying, ‘start looking!’ He had never dared search the bedroom while she had been alive. He glanced round it. He would try the cupboard first. He took the keys from under her pillow, rummaged through the shelves of linen, emptied the two drawers and even took them out to see if there was a hiding place behind them. There was nothing! Next he turned his attention to the bedside table. He removed the marble top and turned it over. Again, nothing! He looked behind the mirror above the mantelpiece, a little mirror bought at a fair and fixed to the wall by two nails. He poked behind it with a flat ruler, but only succeeded in dislodging an accumulation of black fluff. ‘Go on, keep looking!’ In order to avoid the staring eyes that he felt were watching him, he got down on his hands and knees and went round the room tapping the floor with his knuckles, listening for a hollow sound that might indicate a space beneath. Several tiles were loose, and he pulled them up. Nothing! Still nothing! When he got back to his feet, the eyes were still staring at him; he turned round and tried to stare back into the unblinking gaze of the corpse. The corners of her lips had now retracted further, emphasizing her horrible grin. He felt sure she was mocking him. ‘Go on,’ she was saying, ‘keep looking!’ By now he had worked himself up into a frenzy. He went up to her; a vague suspicion had entered his mind. What he was contemplating was nothing short of sacrilege and made him turn even paler than he already was. How could he be sure she had not taken her money with her? Perhaps she h
ad! Shamelessly, he drew back the sheets, undressed her and inspected the bends of her arms and legs. She had told him to keep looking, so he looked. He felt underneath her, behind her neck and the small of her back. He pulled off the bedclothes and thrust his arm full length inside the straw mattress. He found nothing. ‘Keep looking! Keep looking!’ The head had fallen back on to the pillow, which lay where he had left it, and continued to stare at him derisively.
Misard was shaking with anger. As he was trying to rearrange the bed, in walked Flore, having completed her errand in Doinville.
‘It’s arranged for the day after tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Saturday, at eleven.’
She was referring to the funeral. A single glance was enough to tell her what Misard had been spending his energy on while she’d been away. She raised her hands in a gesture of indifference and contempt.
‘Why don’t you just give up?’ she said. ‘You’ll never find it.’
Misard imagined that she too was defying him. He went up to her.
‘She’s given it to you, hasn’t she?’ he muttered between clenched teeth. ‘You know where it is, don’t you?’
Flore merely shrugged her shoulders. The idea that her mother could have given her thousand francs to someone else, even to her, her own daughter, was laughable.
‘Given it to me!’ she said. ‘You must be joking! She’s got rid of it, that’s for sure. It’s out there somewhere, buried in the ground. You’ll just have to keep looking for it.’
With a broad sweep of her hand she indicated the house, the garden with its well, the railway line and the open countryside beyond. The money was out there, buried in a hole, somewhere where no one would ever find it. Misard was beside himself. Once again he began frantically moving furniture about and tapping on the walls, not in the least bothered that Flore was still in the room. She went over to the window.