Human Beast: The Emile Zola Society Edition

  Flore had a sudden, instinctive urge to get away. Her heart was beating fast. She wanted to be free and on her own, free to think and do as she pleased. She had never needed anyone to tell her what she should or should not do. Why wait around now to be pestered with questions, and maybe arrested? She knew that, apart from the crime she had committed, she had neglected her duty and would be held responsible. But while Jacques was still there, she could not tear herself away.

  Séverine had asked Pecqueux several times to fetch them a stretcher. Eventually he found one, and came back with a friend to help carry Jacques away. The doctor had persuaded Séverine to look after Henri as well; he seemed to be suffering from concussion and was very confused. Pecqueux promised to come back for him after he had taken Jacques.

  As Séverine leaned forward to unbutton Jacques’s collar, which was too tight, she kissed his eyelids in front of everyone, encouraging him to be brave as he was being carried away.

  ‘Have no fear!’ she said. ‘We are going to be happy.’

  He smiled at her and returned her kiss. For Flore, this was the end of any hope she might still have had; it tore her away from Jacques for ever. She felt as if she too had been mortally wounded and that her blood was draining from her in great waves. As soon as Jacques had been taken away, she turned and ran. As she passed in front of the cottage, she caught sight through the window of the room where her mother lay dead, with the candle still burning next to the body, a pale glow against the broad light of day. The dead woman had been left there on her own since the accident first happened, her head half turned, her eyes wide open, her lips twisted into a fixed grin, as if she had been watching all these unknown people meet their violent end.

  Flore ran on. When she reached the bend in the Doinville road she turned to her left and plunged into the undergrowth. She knew this countryside like the back of her hand; if the police were sent on her tail she could defy anyone to catch her. She stopped running and walked more slowly, making for a hiding place she often came to when she was feeling out of sorts — a little cavity hewn out of the rock above the railway tunnel. She looked up at the sky and saw from the sun’s position that it was midday. Once inside the hole, she stretched herself out on the bare rock, lying motionless, her hands clasped behind her head, thinking. An awful feeling of emptiness came over her — a sensation of being already dead, which gradually numbed her whole body. It had nothing to do with regret at having pointlessly killed so many people; regret and disgust were feelings she had to forcibly remind herself of. What she realized, however, and now knew for certain, was that Jacques had seen her restraining the horses. She could tell by the way he had shrunk away from her; she filled him with horror and revulsion, as if he had been looking into the eye of a hideous monster. He would never forget. She had failed to take his life and she must now make sure she did not fail when it came to taking her own. She must kill herself, and very soon. All her hopes were gone. As she lay there thinking it through and becoming calmer in her mind, she realized that there was absolutely no alternative. The only thing that stopped her jumping to her feet and looking for some implement, with which she might dispatch herself there and then, was a feeling of exhaustion, a feeling of utter fatigue. And yet, as she succumbed to the invincible drowsiness that began to take hold of her, there rose from deep within her a love of life, a need to be happy, a final dream, now that she had left Jacques and Séverine free to be happy together, of finding happiness herself. Why not wait until nightfall and seek help from Ozil? He loved her and would protect her. Her mind began to drift and become filled with pleasant fantasies; she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When she woke up, night had fallen, and it was completely dark. Not realizing where she was, she felt around her. As she touched the bare rock on which she lay, she suddenly remembered. It came to her like a bolt of lightning. There was no escaping it; she knew that she must die. For a moment her resolve had weakened and she had been tempted to think that life was still possible; but all such thoughts had vanished along with her fatigue. Death was the only answer. She could not live with so much blood on her hands, her heart torn from her, abhorred by the one man she had wanted and who now belonged to another. While she still had the strength to do it, she must die.

  Flore stood up and climbed out of the hole in the rock. She had no hesitation; she knew instinctively where she must go. Once more she looked up at the sky; the stars told her it was almost nine o’clock. As she came towards the railway a train sped past on the down line. She seemed pleased. Her plan was going to work. The down line had obviously been cleared; the other must still be blocked, as there didn’t yet seem to be any trains passing in that direction. She followed a hedge. All around, the countryside lay silent and deserted. There was no hurry; there wouldn’t be another train until the express from Paris, which wasn’t due until nine twenty-five. She continued to follow the hedge, walking slowly and calmly through the darkness, as if out on one of her habitual solitary excursions. Before reaching the tunnel, however, she climbed over the hedge and, still walking at the same leisurely pace, proceeded along the railway line itself, towards the oncoming express. She had to be careful to avoid being seen by the watchman, as when she used to visit Ozil at the other end of the tunnel. Once inside the tunnel, she continued walking forwards, further and further into the darkness. It was not the same as the week before; she was no longer frightened of turning round and losing her sense of direction, there was not the usual feeling of crazy excitement pounding inside her head, the feeling of being deafened, with the tunnel closing in around her, and of losing all sense of time and place. But this no longer mattered to her. She didn’t ask why she was doing this. She wasn’t thinking at all. She had but one resolve. She must keep walking, walking ahead, until the train came, and then, when she saw its headlamp shining in the darkness, she must continue walking, straight towards it.

  What surprised her, however, was that she seemed to have been walking for hours. How long in coming was the death she craved! For a moment, the thought that it might never come, that she might continue to walk on and on, endlessly, began to disturb her. Her feet were aching. Would she be obliged to rest, and wait for death to come to her as she lay across the rails? No, it would be unworthy! She must keep walking to the very end. She must walk to her death like the proud, unconquered woman she was! Far away in the distance, she saw the headlamp of the express, like a single, tiny star, twinkling in the darkness of the sky. Her strength returned, and she continued forward. The train had not yet reached the tunnel. There was no sound of it coming; there was simply a tiny, bright light, gradually getting bigger. She drew herself up to her full height, like a graceful statue, and advanced steadily, with long firm strides, as if to greet a friend as she came towards her.8 The train had entered the tunnel; the noise was coming nearer, shaking the ground like an approaching hurricane. The star was now a huge eye, growing bigger and bigger and seeming to leap from its dark socket. For some unexplained reason, perhaps simply so that she should take nothing with her when she died, she emptied her pockets, and without pausing in her heroic progress, placed her belongings beside the track — a handkerchief, a bunch of keys, a piece of string and two knives. She took the headscarf from round her neck, unfastened her blouse and let it hang from her shoulders. The eye had become a fiery blaze, like the open mouth of a furnace belching out flames; she could feel the monster’s hot, steaming breath, and the sound of thunder grew louder and louder. She continued to walk forwards, her eyes fixed on the approaching conflagration, drawn towards it like a moth attracted by a candle in the dark. At the final, terrible moment of impact, the final embrace, she stood straight and tall, as if in a last gesture of defiance and revolt she wished to seize hold of this colossus and strike it to the ground. Her head struck the headlamp and it went out.

  It was more than an hour later when they came to retrieve the body. The driver had seen the tall, pale figure walking towards the train, like a strange, frightening app
arition illuminated by the shaft of brilliant light from the headlamp. When the lamp had suddenly gone out, the train was plunged into total darkness as it roared through the tunnel. The driver had shuddered as he sensed death passing by. As the train left the tunnel he had tried to shout to the watchman, but it was only when it reached Barentin that he was able to report that someone had been run over. He was certain that it was a woman. Pieces of matted hair and flesh were still stuck to the broken glass of the headlamp. When the search party found the body, they were amazed at how white it was, as white as marble. It was lying across the up line, where it had been flung by the force of the impact. The head was a terrible mess, but the rest of the body was without a mark. It was half naked and remarkably beautiful — strong and unblemished. The men quietly covered the body. They had recognized her. She must have killed herself in desperation, to escape the awful responsibility she carried on her shoulders.

  By midnight, Flore’s body lay beside her mother’s in the cottage. They had put a mattress on the floor and had lit a new candle between them. Phasie’s head was still turned sideways, and her mouth was still twisted in a horrible grin. Her big, staring eyes now seemed to be looking at her daughter. In the empty silence could be heard the sound of someone breathing heavily; it was Misard, back at his endless task, looking for the hidden money. Now that the service had been restored in both directions, the trains went by at their appointed times — unstoppable, all-powerful, unknowing machines, indifferent to the disasters and crimes that had just occurred. What did it matter that a few nameless people had come to an end beneath their wheels? The dead had been carried away, and the blood had been cleaned up. People were on the move again — towards a bright, new future!

  XI

  It was the large bedroom at La Croix-de-Maufras, hung with red damask, and with two tall windows looking out on to the railway line a few metres away. From the old four-poster bed facing them you could see the trains go by. For years nothing had been removed from the room; the furniture stood just where it always had done.

  Séverine had had Jacques brought up to this room, injured and still unconscious. Henri Dauvergne had been taken to another, smaller bedroom downstairs. Séverine moved into a room close to Jacques’s, just across the landing. It took only an hour or two to settle in and make themselves reasonably comfortable; the house had been kept fully appointed, and there was even fresh linen in the cupboards. Having sent a telegram to Roubaud telling him not to expect her because she would probably be there several days looking after some of the injured, who had been brought to the house, Séverine tied an apron over her dress and set about her nurse’s duties.

  By the following day the doctor was feeling more confident about Jacques and expected to have him back on his feet within a week. It was quite miraculous; he had only a few minor internal injuries. Even so, he insisted that he needed careful looking after and that he must be kept absolutely still. So when Jacques opened his eyes, Séverine, who had been sitting at his bedside like a child, begged him to be good and do exactly as she told him. He was still very weak and simply nodded. His mind, however, was perfectly clear, and he recognized the bedroom from Séverine’s description of it on the night she had confessed to him — the red room, in which, at the tender age of sixteen and a half, she had been subjected to Grandmorin’s unwholesome desires. He was lying in Grandmorin’s bed. Those were the windows through which, without even having to raise his head, Grandmorin had watched the trains rush past, shaking the house to its foundations. This house that he was now inside was the house he had so often noticed when he drove past it on his train. He could picture it clearly, standing at an angle to the line, silent and abandoned, its shutters closed, and since it had been put up for sale, looking even more forlorn and neglected, with a huge board outside it adding to the unkempt appearance of the garden, which was overgrown with brambles. He remembered the horrible feeling of sadness that came over him every time he saw it, and the sense of unease it filled him with, as if it had been placed there deliberately, to bring misfortune upon him. Now, as he lay in this room feeling so weak, he thought he understood. It must mean that he had been brought here to die.

  As soon as she saw that he was able to understand her, Séverine had done her best to reassure him. As she pulled up the bedclothes, she whispered into his ear:

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. I’ve emptied your pockets and hidden the watch.’

  He looked at her, his eyes wide open, trying to remember.

  ‘The watch? ... Ah yes, the watch.’

  ‘They might have looked through your belongings, so I’ve hidden it with some things of mine. There’s nothing to fear.’

  He thanked her with a squeeze of the hand. As he turned his head, he caught sight of the knife on the table, which she had also found in one of his pockets. There had been no need to hide that; it was just a knife, like any other.

  By the next day, Jacques was already stronger, and beginning to think that perhaps after all he wasn’t going to die there. He was overjoyed when he recognized Cabuche, standing near his bed, tidying things up and clumping round the room on his big, heavy feet. Ever since the accident, Cabuche hadn’t left Séverine’s side. He felt he had to do something to help. He gave up working at the quarry and came every morning to help Séverine with the heavy jobs around the house. He was like a faithful dog; he doted on her. She was a tough woman, even if she was only a ‘little-un’, as he put it. She did so much for others that she deserved to have someone do something for her. Jacques and Séverine got used to him being there. They talked happily together and even exchanged kisses, while Cabuche did his best to avoid disturbing them and tried to make himself as small as possible.

  Jacques, however, was surprised that Séverine was away from him so often. The first day, on the doctor’s instructions, she hadn’t told him that Henri was downstairs, realizing that the thought that they were completely alone would have a calming effect on him.

  ‘Are we alone?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, darling, absolutely alone ... relax and go to sleep.’

  But she kept constantly disappearing. The next day he heard the sound of footsteps downstairs, and people whispering. The day after that, there were sounds of subdued laughter and hilarity, and the bright, animated voices of two girls talking incessantly.

  ‘Who’s that downstairs?’ he asked. ‘We’re not alone, are we?’

  ‘Well, no, we aren’t, darling. There’s another injured man downstairs, just underneath your room. I had to bring him here as well.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Henri. You know, the guard.’

  ‘Henri ... Oh yes!’

  ‘His sisters have come to see him. It’s them you can hear. They laugh at anything. Henri is much better, so they’re going back tonight. Their father can’t do without them. Henri needs to stay for another two or three days until he’s completely well. Can you believe it? He jumped off the train and he didn’t break a single bone. The only thing wrong was that his mind had gone a complete blank. But he’s more like himself again now.’

  Jacques said nothing, fixing his eyes steadily upon her.

  ‘You do understand, don’t you?’ she added. ‘If he weren’t here, people would start talking about us. So long as I’m not on my own with you, my husband has no cause for complaint. It gives me a good excuse for staying here. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jacques, ‘that’s fine.’

  He lay listening to the laughter of Henri’s two sisters until the evening. He remembered hearing it in Paris, from the floor below, in the room where Séverine had lain in his arms and confessed to him. Eventually quiet returned, and all he could hear was the sound of Séverine’s footsteps as she tripped backwards and forwards between him and her other patient downstairs. The door downstairs would close, and there would be complete silence. Twice, feeling particularly thirsty, he had to bang on the floor with the leg of a chair to summon her upstairs. She came into his room all smiles,
fussing over him and explaining that she couldn’t come to him sooner because she had to keep putting cold compresses on Henri’s forehead.

  By the fourth day, Jacques was able to get out of bed and spend a couple of hours in an armchair by the window. By leaning forward a little, he could see the narrow garden, cut in two by the railway line, enclosed by a low wall and overgrown with pale-flowered rose bushes. He remembered the night he had stood on tiptoe to look over the wall. He recalled the larger piece of ground at the back of the house, surrounded by only a hedge; he had walked through it and had come across Flore sitting outside the little ruined greenhouse, untangling some stolen twine with a pair of scissors. What a terrible night that had been; what torments he had suffered as a result of his murderous affliction! As he became able to remember things more clearly, he had been obsessed by an image of Flore — tall, athletic and majestic, her eyes ablaze and staring straight into his. At first he hadn’t spoken about the accident, and no one spoke about it in his presence, for fear of upsetting him. But now, the details were all coming back to him. He tried to piece them together; he could think of nothing else. It absorbed him so completely that, as he sat at the window, his sole concern was to look for some clue, to observe those who had been involved in the tragedy. Why did he no longer see Flore standing at her post by the level-crossing, holding her flag? He did not dare ask; the question simply added to the unease inspired in him by this gloomy house, which seemed to be haunted by ghosts from the past.