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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The
Monomaniac (La bête humaine)
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Monomaniac (La bête humaine)

Author: Émile Zola

Translator: Edward Vizetelly

Release date: April 23, 2018 [eBook #57038]

Most recently updated: November 22, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Clare Graham & Marc D'Hooghe at Free

Literature
(Images generously made available by the Internet
Archive.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

MONOMANIAC (LA BÊTE HUMAINE) ***
THE MONOMANIAC
(LA BÊTE HUMAINE)
 By ÉMILE ZOLA
Translated and Edited, with a Preface
By EDWARD VIZETELLY

London
HUTCHINSON & CO
Paternoster Row. 1901
"Séverine uttered an involuntary cry, and Roubaud turned
round, terrified." p. 196.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
 Page
PREFACE v
CHAPTER I 1
CHAPTER II 32
CHAPTER III 66
CHAPTER IV 95
CHAPTER V 132
CHAPTER VI 168
CHAPTER VII 198
CHAPTER VIII 233
CHAPTER IX 261
CHAPTER X 299
CHAPTER XI 338
CHAPTER XII 370

PREFACE

This striking work, now published for the first time in England, but a
hundred thousand copies whereof have been sold in France, is one
of the most powerful novels that M. Émile Zola has written. It will be
doubly interesting to English readers, because for them it forms a
missing link in the famous Rougon-Macquart series.
The student of Zola literature will remember in the Assommoir that
"handsome Lantier whose heartlessness was to cost Gervaise so
many tears." Jacques Lantier, the chief character in this Bête
Humaine, this Human Animal which I have ventured to call the
Monomaniac, is one of their children. It is he who is the
monomaniac. His monomania consists in an irresistible prurience for
murder, and his victims must be women, just like that baneful
criminal who was performing his hideous exploits in the streets of
the city of London in utter defiance of the police, about the time M.
Zola sat down to pen this remarkable novel, and from whom,
maybe, he partly took the idea.
Every woman this Jacques Lantier falls in love with, nay, every girl
from whom he culls a kiss, or whose bare shoulders or throat he
happens to catch a glimpse of, he feels an indomitable craving to
slaughter! And this abominable thirst is, it appears, nothing less than
an irresistible desire to avenge certain wrongs of which he has lost
the exact account, that have been handed down to him, through the
males of his line, since that distant age when prehistoric man found
shelter in the depths of caverns.
Around this peculiar being, who in other respects is like any ordinary
mortal, M. Émile Zola has grouped some very carefully studied
characters. All are drawn with a firm, masterly hand; all live and
breathe. Madame Lebleu, caught with her ear to the keyhole, is
worthy of Dickens. So is Aunt Phasie, who has engaged in a
desperate underhand struggle with her wretch of a husband about a
miserable hoard of £40 which he wants to lay hands on. The idea of
the jeering smile on her lips, which seem to be repeating to him,
"Search! search!" as she lies a corpse on her bed in the dim light of
a tallow candle, is inimitable.
The unconscious Séverine is but one of thousands of pretty
Frenchwomen tripping along the asphalt at this hour, utterly unable
to distinguish between right and wrong, who are ready to do
anything, to sell themselves body and soul for a little ease, a few
smart frocks, and some dainty linen. The warrior girl Flore, who
thrashes the males, is a grand conception.
But the gem of the whole bunch is that obstinate, narrow-minded,
self-sufficient examining-magistrate, M. Denizet; and in dealing with
this character, the author lays bare all the abominable system of
French criminal procedure. Recently this was modified to the extent
of allowing the accused party to have the assistance of counsel while
undergoing the torture of repeated searching cross-examinations at
the hands of his tormentor. But in the days of which M. Émile Zola is
writing, the prisoner enjoyed no such protection. He stood alone in
the room with the examining-magistrate and his registrar, and while
the former craftily laid traps for him to fall into, the latter carefully
took down his replies to the incriminating questions addressed to
him. It positively makes one shudder to think how many innocent
men must have been sent to the guillotine, or to penal servitude for
life, like poor Cabuche, during the length of years this atrocious
practice remained in full vigour!
The English reader, accustomed to open, even-handed justice for
one and all alike, and unfamiliar with the ways that prevail in France,
will start with amazement and incredulity at the idea of shelving
criminal cases to avoid scandal involving persons in high position.
But such is by no means an uncommon proceeding on the other side
of the straits. Georges Ohnet introduces a similar incident into his
novel Le Droit de l'Enfant.
M. Émile Zola has made most of his books a study of some particular
sphere of life in France. In this instance he introduces his readers to
the railway and railway servants. They are all there, from the
station-master to the porter, and all are depicted with so skilful a
hand that anyone who has travelled among our neighbours must
recognise them.
By frequent runs on an express engine between Paris and Havre,
and vice versâ, the author has mastered all the complicated
mechanism of the locomotive; and we see his trains vividly as in
reality, starting from the termini, gliding along the lofty
embankments, through the deep cuttings, plunging into and bursting
from the tunnels amidst the deafening riot of their hundred wheels,
while the dumpy habitation of the gatekeeper, Misard, totters on its
frail foundations as they fly by in a hurricane blast.
The story teems with incident from start to finish. Each chapter is a
drama in itself. To name but a few of the exciting events that are
dealt with: there is a murder in a railway carriage; an appalling
railway accident; a desperate fight between driver and fireman on
the foot-plate of a locomotive, which ends in both going over the
side to be cut to pieces, while the long train of cattle-trucks, under
no control, crammed full of inebriated soldiers on their way to the
war, who are yelling patriotic songs, dashes along, full steam,
straight ahead, with a big fire just made up, onward; to stop, no one
knows where.
This is certainly one of the best and most dramatic novels that M.
Émile Zola has ever penned; and I feel lively pleasure at having the
good fortune to be able, with the assistance of my enterprising
publishers, to present it to the English reading public.

Edward Vizetelly.

Surbiton,
August 20, 1901.

THE MONOMANIAC

CHAPTER I

Roubaud, on entering the room, placed the loaf, the pâté, and the
bottle of white wine on the table. But Mother Victoire, before going
down to her post in the morning, had crammed the stove with such
a quantity of cinders that the heat was stifling, and the assistant
station-master, having opened a window, leant out on the rail in
front of it.
This occurred in the Impasse d'Amsterdam, in the last house on the
right, a lofty dwelling, where the Western Railway Company lodged
some of their staff. The window on the fifth floor, at the angle of the
mansarded roof, looked on to the station, that broad trench cutting
into the Quartier de l'Europe, to abruptly open up the view, and
which the grey mid-February sky, of a grey that was damp and
warm, penetrated by the sun, seemed to make still wider on that
particular afternoon.
Opposite, in the sunny haze, the houses in the Rue de Rome became
confused, fading lightly into distance. On the left gaped the gigantic
porches of the iron marquees, with their smoky glass. That of the
main lines on which the eye looked down, appeared immense. It
was separated from those of Argenteuil, Versailles, and the Ceinture
railway, which were smaller, by the buildings set apart for the post-
office, and for heating water to fill the foot-warmers. To the right the
trench was severed by the diamond pattern ironwork of the Pont de
l'Europe, but it came into sight again, and could be followed as far
as the Batignolles tunnel.
And below the window itself, occupying all the vast space, the three
double lines that issued from the bridge deviated, spreading out like
a fan, whose innumerable metal branches ran on to disappear
beneath the span roofs of the marquees. In front of the arches
stood the three boxes of the pointsmen, with their small, bare
gardens. Amidst the confused background of carriages and engines
encumbering the rails, a great red signal formed a spot in the pale
daylight.
Roubaud was interested for a few minutes, comparing what he saw
with his own station at Havre. Each time he came like this, to pass a
day at Paris, and found accommodation in the room of Mother
Victoire, love of his trade got the better of him. The arrival of the
train from Mantes had animated the platforms under the marquee of
the main lines; and his eyes followed the shunting engine, a small
tender-engine with three low wheels coupled together, which began
briskly bustling to and fro, branching off the train, dragging away the
carriages to drive them on to the shunting lines. Another engine, a
powerful one this, an express engine, with two great devouring
wheels, stood still alone, sending from its chimney a quantity of
black smoke, which ascended straight, and very slowly, through the
calm air.
But all the attention of Roubaud was centred on the 3.25 train for
Caen, already full of passengers and awaiting its locomotive, which
he could not see, for it had stopped on the other side of the Pont de
l'Europe. He could only hear it asking for permission to advance,
with slight, hurried whistles, like a person becoming impatient. An
order resounded. The locomotive responded by one short whistle to
indicate that it had understood. Then, before moving, came a brief
silence. The exhaust pipes were opened, and the steam went hissing
on a level with the ground in a deafening jet.
He then noticed this white cloud bursting from the bridge in volume,
whirling about like snowy fleece flying through the ironwork. A whole
corner of the expanse became whitened, while the smoke from the
other engine expanded its black veil. From behind the bridge could
be heard the prolonged, muffled sounds of the horn, mingled with
the shouting of orders and the shocks of turning-tables. All at once
the air was rent, and he distinguished in the background a train from
Versailles, and a train from Auteuil, one up and one down, crossing
each other.
As Roubaud was about to quit the window, a voice calling him by
name made him lean out. Below, on the fourth floor balcony, he
recognised a young man about thirty years of age, named Henri
Dauvergne, a headguard, who resided there with his father, deputy
station-master for the main lines, and his two sisters, Claire and
Sophie, a couple of charming blondes, one eighteen and the other
twenty, who looked after the housekeeping with the 6,000 frcs. of
the two men, amidst a constant stream of gaiety. The elder one
would be heard laughing, while the younger sang, and a cage full of
exotic birds rivalled one another in roulades.
"By Jove, Monsieur Roubaud! so you are in Paris, then? Ah! yes,
about your affair with the sub-prefect!"
The assistant station-master, leaning on the rail again, explained that
he had to leave Havre that morning by the 6.40 express. He had
been summoned to Paris by the traffic-manager, who had been
giving him a serious lecture. He considered himself lucky in not
having lost his post.
"And madam?" Henri inquired.
Madame had wished to come also, to make some purchases. Her
husband was waiting for her there, in that room which Mother
Victoire placed at their service whenever they came to Paris. It was
there that they loved to lunch, tranquil and alone, while the worthy
woman was detained downstairs at her post. On that particular day
they had eaten a roll at Mantes, wishing to get their errands over
first of all. But three o'clock had struck, and he was dying with
hunger.
Henri, to be amiable, put one more question:
"And are you going to pass the night in Paris?"
No, no! Both were returning to Havre in the evening by the 6.30
express. Ah! holidays, indeed! They brought you up to give you your
dose, and off, back again at once!
The two looked at one another for a moment, tossing their heads,
but they could no longer hear themselves speak; a devil-possessed
piano had just broken into sonorous notes. The two sisters must
have been thumping on it together, laughing louder than ever, and
exciting the exotic birds. Then the young man gained by the
merriment, said good-bye to withdraw into the apartment; and the
assistant station-master, left alone, remained a moment with his
eyes on the balcony whence ascended all this youthful gaiety. Then,
looking up, he perceived the locomotive, whose driver had shut off
the exhaust pipes and which the pointsman switched on to the train
for Caen. The last flakes of white steam were lost amid the heavy
whirling cloud of smoke soiling the sky. And Roubaud also returned
into his room.
Standing before the cuckoo clock pointing to 3.20, he gave a gesture
of despair. What on earth was keeping Séverine so long? When she
once entered a shop, she could never leave it. To stay his famishing
hunger he thought of laying the table. He was familiar with this large
apartment lighted by two windows, which served as bedroom,
dining-room, and kitchen; and with its walnut furniture, its bed
draped in Turkey-red material, its sideboard, its round table, and
Norman wardrobe.
From the sideboard he took napkins, plates, knives and forks, and
two glasses. Everything was extremely clean, and he felt as much
pleased to perform this little household duty, as if he had been a
child playing at dining. The whiteness of the linen delighted him,
and, being very much in love with his wife, he smiled to himself at
the idea of the peal of laughter she would give on opening the door.
But when he had placed the pâté on a plate, and set the bottle of
white wine beside it, he became uneasy and looked about him. Then
he quickly drew a couple of small parcels from his pockets which he
had forgotten—a little box of sardines and some Gruyère cheese.
The half hour struck. Roubaud strode up and down with an ear
attentive to the staircase, turning round at the least sound. Passing
before the looking-glass as he waited with nothing to do, he stopped
and gazed at himself. He did not appear to be growing old. Although
getting on for forty, the bright reddishness of his curly hair had not
diminished. His fair beard, also verging on red, which he wore full,
had remained thick. Of medium height, but extremely vigorous, he
felt pleased with his appearance, satisfied with his rather flat head,
and low forehead, his thick neck, his round, ruddy face lit up by a
pair of large, sparkling eyes. His eyebrows joined, clouding his
forehead with the bar of jealousy.
There was a sound of footsteps. Roubaud ran and set the door ajar;
but it was a woman who sold newspapers in the station, returning to
her lodging hard by. He came back and examined a box made of
shells standing on the sideboard. He knew that box very well, a
present from Séverine to Mother Victoire, her wet-nurse. And this
trifling object sufficed to recall all the story of his marriage, which
had taken place almost three years previously.
Born in the south of France at Plassans, he had a carter for father.
He had quitted the army with the stripes of a sergeant-major, and
for a long time had been general porter at the station at Mantes. He
had then been promoted head-porter at Barentin, and it was there
that he had first seen his dear wife, when she came from Doinville in
company with Mademoiselle Berthe, the daughter of President
Grandmorin.
Séverine Aubry was nothing more than the younger daughter of a
gardener, who had died in the service of the Grandmorins; but the
President, her godfather and guardian, had taken such a fancy to
her, making her the playmate of his own daughter, sending them
both to the same school at Rouen, and, moreover, she possessed
such an innate air of superiority herself, that Roubaud for a long
time, had been content to admire her at a distance, with the passion
of a workman freed from some of his rough edge, for a dainty jewel
that he considered precious.
This was the sole romance of his existence. He would have wedded
the girl without a sou, for the joy of calling her his own; and when
he had been so bold as to ask her hand, the realisation of his hopes
had surpassed his dream. Apart from Séverine and a marriage
portion of 10,000 frcs., the President, now pensioned off, a member
of the Board of Directors of the Western Railway Company, had
extended to him his protection. Almost immediately after the
wedding he had become assistant station-master at Havre. No doubt
he had good notes to his credit—firm at his post, punctual, honest,
of limited intelligence, but very straightforward,—all excellent
qualities that might explain the prompt attention given to his request
and his rapid promotion. But he preferred to believe that he owed
everything to his wife whom he adored.
When Roubaud had opened the box of sardines he positively lost
patience. It had been agreed that they should meet there at three
o'clock. Where could she be? She would not have the audacity to tell
him that it required a whole day to purchase a pair of boots, and a
few articles of linen. And as he again passed before the looking-
glass, he perceived his eyebrows on end, and his forehead furrowed
with a harsh line. Never had he suspected her at Havre. In Paris he
pictured to himself all sorts of danger, deceit, and levity. The blood
rushed to his head, his fists of a former porter were clenched, as in
the days when he shunted the carriages. He became the brute
again, unconscious of his strength. He would have crushed her in an
outburst of blind fury.
Séverine pushed open the door, and presented herself quite fresh
and joyful.
"Here I am! Eh! you must have fancied me lost," she exclaimed.
In the lustre of her five-and-twenty years she looked tall, slim, and
very supple, but she was plump, notwithstanding her small bones. At
first sight she did not appear pretty, with her long face, and large
mouth set with beautiful teeth. But on observing her more closely,
she fascinated one by her charm, by the peculiarity of her blue eyes,
crowned with an abundance of raven hair.
And as her husband, without answering, continued to examine her
with the troubled, vacillating look she knew so well, she added:
"Oh! I walked very fast. Just imagine, it was impossible to get an
omnibus. Then, as I did not want to spend money on a cab, I
walked as fast as I could. See how hot I am!"
"Look here," said he violently, "you will not make me believe you
come from the Bon Marché."
But immediately, in the delightful manner of a child, she threw
herself on his neck, closing his mouth with her pretty little plump
hand.
"Oh! you wicked creature! you wicked creature!" she exclaimed;
"hold your tongue; you know I love you."
She was so full of sincerity, he felt her still so candid, so
straightforward, that he pressed her passionately in his arms. His
suspicions always ended thus. She abandoned herself to him, loving
to be petted. He covered her with kisses, which she did not return;
and it was this that caused him a sort of vague uneasiness. This
great, passive child, full of filial affection, had not yet awakened to
love.
"So you ransacked the Bon Marché?" said he.
"Oh! yes. I'll tell you all about it," she replied. "But, first of all, let us
eat. You cannot imagine how hungry I am! Ah! listen! I've a little
present. Repeat, 'Where is my little present?'"
And she laughed quite close to his face. She had thrust her right
hand in her pocket, where she held an object she did not take out of
it.
"Say quick, 'Where is my little present?'" she continued.
He also was laughing, like a good-natured man, and did as she
asked him.
"Where is my little present?" he inquired. She had bought him a
knife to replace one he had lost, and which he had been regretting
for the past fortnight. He uttered an exclamation of delight,
pronouncing this beautiful new knife superb, with its ivory handle
and shining blade. He wanted to use it at once. She was charmed at
his joy, and, in fun, made him give her a sou, so that their friendship
might not be severed.
"To lunch, to lunch!" she repeated. "No, no!" she exclaimed, as he
was about to shut the window; "don't close it yet, I beg of you! I am
too warm!"
She joined him at the window, and remained there a few seconds,
leaning on his shoulder, gazing at the vast expanse of the station.
For the moment the smoke had disappeared. The copper-coloured
disc of the sun descended in the haze behind the houses in the Rue
de Rome. At their feet a shunting engine was bringing along the
Mantes train, all made up, which was to leave at 4.25. The engine
drove it back beside the platform under the marquee, and was
unhooked. In the background, beneath the span-roof of the Ceinture
line, the shocks of buffers announced the unforeseen coupling-on of
extra carriages. And alone, in the middle of the network of rails, with
driver and fireman blackened with the dust of the journey, the heavy
engine of some slow train stood motionless, as if weary and
breathless, with merely a thin thread of steam issuing from a valve.
It was waiting for the line to be opened to return to the depôt at
Batignolles. A red signal clacked, disappeared, and the locomotive
went off.
"How gay those little Dauvergnes are!" remarked Roubaud. "Do you
hear them thumping on their piano? I saw Henri just now, and he
asked me to give you his compliments."
"To table, to table!" exclaimed Séverine.
And she fell upon the sardines with a hearty appetite, having eaten
nothing since she bought the roll at Mantes. Her visits to Paris
always made her excited. She was quivering with pleasure at her run
through the streets, and still enraptured with her purchases at the
Bon Marché. Each spring she spent all her winter savings at one
stroke, preferring to purchase everything at the capital, and thus
economise the cost of the journey, as she said. Without losing a
mouthful, she never paused in her chatter. A trifle confused, and
blushing, she ended by letting out the total of the sum she had
spent, more than 300 frcs.
"The deuce!" remarked Roubaud, startled; "you get yourself up well
for the wife of an assistant station-master! But I thought you were
only going to buy a little linen and a pair of boots."
"Oh! my dear! but I have got such bargains. A piece of silk with such
lovely stripes! A hat, in exquisite taste, something to dream of!
Ready-made petticoats with embroidered flounces! And all this for
next to nothing. I should have paid double at Havre. They are going
to send the parcel, and you'll see!"
She looked so pretty in her delight, with her confused air of
supplication, that he resolved to laugh. And besides, this little
scratch dinner was so charming in this room where they were all
alone, and much more comfortable than at a restaurant. She, who
usually drank water, threw off restraint, and swallowed her glass of
white wine without knowing what she was about. The box of
sardines being empty, they attacked the pâté with the beautiful new
knife. It cut so admirably that it was a perfect triumph.
"And you—what about your affair?" she inquired. "You make me
chatter, and you don't tell me how your matter with the sub-prefect
ended."
Thereupon he related in detail how he had been treated by the
traffic-manager. Oh! he had received a thorough good wigging! He
had defended himself, he had told the truth. He had related how this
little whipper-snapper of a sub-prefect had insisted on getting into a
first-class carriage with his dog, when there was a second-class
carriage reserved for sportsmen and their animals, and had given an
account of the quarrel that had resulted, and the words that had
been exchanged. In short, the manager had said he was right to
have insisted on the regulations being complied with; but the bad
part of the business was that sentence which he confessed having
uttered: "You others will not always be the masters!" He was
suspected of being a republican. The discussions that had just
marked the opening of the session of 1869, and the secret alarm
about the forthcoming elections, had made the government
distrustful. And had not President Grandmorin spoken warmly in his
favour, he would certainly have been removed from his post. As it
was, he had been compelled to sign the letter of apology which the
latter had advised should be sent, and had drawn up himself.
"Ah! you see!" broke in Séverine. "Wasn't I right to drop him a line,
and pay him a visit along with you, this morning, before you went to
receive your wigging? I knew he would get us out of the trouble."
"Yes, he is very fond of you," resumed Roubaud, "and is all powerful
in the company. What is the use of being a good servant? Ah! the
manager did not stint me of praise: slow to take the initiative, but of
good conduct, obedient, courageous, briefly, all sorts of qualities!
Well, my dear, if you had not been my wife, and if Grandmorin had
not pleaded my cause out of friendship for you, it would have been
all up with me. I should have been sent to do penance at some
small station."
She was staring fixedly into space, and murmured, as if speaking to
herself:
"Oh! certainly, he is a man with great influence."
There was a silence, and she sat with her eyes wide open and lost in
thought. She had ceased eating. No doubt she was thinking of the
days of her childhood, far away, at the Château of Doinville, four
leagues from Rouen. She had never known her mother. When her
father, the gardener Aubry died, she was commencing her thirteenth
year; and it was at this period that the President, already a widower,
had placed her with his daughter Berthe in charge of his sister,
Madame Bonnehon, herself the widow of a manufacturer, from
whom she had inherited the château.
Berthe, who was two years older than Séverine, had been wedded
six months after the marriage of the latter with Roubaud, to M. de
Lachesnaye, a little, shrivelled-up, sallow-complexioned man, judge
at the Rouen Court of Appeal. In the preceding year President
Grandmorin was still at the head of this court at Rouen, which was
his own part of the country, when he retired on a pension, after a
brilliant career.
Born in 1804, substitute at Digne on the morrow of the events in
1830, then at Fontainebleau, then at Paris, he had afterwards filled
the posts of procurator at Troyes; advocate-general at Rennes; and
finally, first president at Rouen. A multi-millionaire, he had been
member of the County Council since 1855, and on the same day as
he retired, he had been made Commander of the Legion of Honour.
As far back as she could recollect, she remembered him just as he
was now—thick-set and strong, prematurely grey, but the golden
grey of one formerly fair; his hair cut Brutus fashion, his beard
clipped short, no moustache, a square face, which eyes of a hard
blue and a big nose rendered severe. He was harsh on being
approached, and made everyone about him tremble.
Séverine was so absorbed that Roubaud had to raise his voice,
repeating twice over:
"Well, what are you thinking about?"
She started, gave a little shudder, as if surprised, and trembled with
alarm.
"Oh! of nothing!" she answered.
"But you are not eating. Have you lost your appetite?" he inquired.
"Oh! no; you'll see," she replied.
Séverine, having emptied her glass of white wine, finished the slice
of pâté on her plate. But there was a cry of alarm. They had eaten
the small loaf; not a mouthful remained for the cheese. They
clamoured, then laughed, and finally, after disturbing everything,
found a piece of stale bread at the back of the sideboard cupboard
of Mother Victoire.
Although the window was open, it continued very warm, and the
young woman, seated with her back to the stove, could not get
refreshed; and she had become more rosy and excited, by the
unforeseen talkative lunch in this room.
Speaking of Mother Victoire, Roubaud had returned to Grandmorin;
there was another who owed him a famous debt of gratitude. The
mother of a child who had died, she became wet-nurse to Séverine,
whose birth had sent her mamma into the grave. Later on, as wife of
a fireman of the company, who spent all he earned in drink, she was
leading a wretched existence in Paris by the aid of a little sewing,
when, happening to meet her foster-daughter, the former intimacy
had been renewed, while the President, at the same time, took her
under his protection. He had now obtained for her the post of
attendant at the lavatory for ladies. The company gave her no more
than 100 frcs., but she made nearly 1,400 frcs. out of the gratuities,
without counting the lodging, this room where they were lunching,
and her coals. Indeed, she had a most comfortable post. And
Roubaud calculated that if Pecqueux, the husband, had brought
home the 2,800 frcs. which he earned as fireman, wages and
gratuities together, instead of running riot at both ends of the line,
they would have had between them more than 4,000 frcs. a year,
double what he received as assistant station-master at Havre.
In the meanwhile, their sharp hunger had become appeased, and
they dawdled over the rest of the meal, cutting the cheese into small
pieces to make the feast last longer. Conversation also flagged.
"By the way," said he, "why did you decline the invitation of the
President to go to Doinville for two or three days?"
In the comfort of a good digestion, he had just been running over in
his mind, the incidents of their visit in the morning to the mansion in
the Rue du Rocher, quite close to the station; he had seen himself
again in the large, stern study, and he again heard the President
telling them that he was leaving on the morrow for Doinville. Then,
as if acting on a sudden impulse, the latter had suggested taking the
6.30 express with them that evening, and conducting his god-
daughter on a visit to his sister, who had been wanting to see her for
a long time. But the young woman had given all kinds of reasons
which prevented her, she said, from accepting the invitation.
"For my part," he remarked, "I saw no inconvenience in this little
trip. You might have remained there till Thursday. I should have
been able to manage without you; don't you think so? We have need
of them in our position. It is rather silly to show indifference to their
politeness, and the more so as your refusal seemed to cause him
real pain. And that was why I never ceased pressing you to accept,
until you tugged at my coat; and then I spoke as you did, but
without understanding what it meant. Eh! why wouldn't you go?"
Séverine, with restless eyes, gave a gesture of impatience.
"How could I leave you all alone?" she exclaimed.
"That isn't a reason," he replied. "During the three years we have
been married, you have paid two visits of a week to Doinville. There
was nothing to prevent you going there a third time."
The young woman, more and more uneasy, turned away her head.
"Well, I didn't care about it," said she. "You don't want to force me
to do things that displease me."
Roubaud opened his arms, as if to say that he had no intention of
forcing her to do anything. Nevertheless, he resumed:
"Look here, you are hiding something. Did Madame Bonnehon
receive you badly the last time you went there?"
Oh! no; Madame Bonnehon had always welcomed her with great
kindness, she was so amiable. Tall, and well developed, with
magnificent light hair, she still remained beautiful, notwithstanding
her fifty-five years. Gossip had it that since her widowhood, and
even during the lifetime of her husband, her heart had frequently
been occupied. They adored her at Doinville, where she made the
château a perfect paradise. All Rouen society visited there,
particularly the magistracy; and it was among this body that
Madame Bonnehon had met with a great many friends.
"Then own that it was the Lachesnayes who gave you the cold
shoulder," continued Roubaud.
It was true that since Berthe had married M. de Lachesnaye, she
had not been on the same terms with Séverine as before. This poor
Berthe, who looked so insignificant with her red nose, was certainly
not improving in character. The ladies at Rouen extolled her noble
bearing in no mean measure. But a husband such as she had, ugly,
harsh, and miserly, seemed likely to communicate his bad qualities
to his wife, and make her ill-natured. Still, Séverine had nothing in
particular to reproach her with. Berthe had been agreeable to her
former companion.
"Then it's the President who displeases you down there," remarked
Roubaud.
Séverine, who had been answering slowly and in an even tone,
became impatient again.
"He! What an idea!" she exclaimed.
And she continued in short, nervous phrases. They barely caught
sight of him. He had reserved to himself a pavilion in the park,
having a door opening on a deserted lane. He went out and came in
without anybody knowing anything about his movements. His sister
never even knew positively on what day he arrived. He took a
vehicle at Barentin, and drove over by night to Doinville, where he
remained for days together in his pavilion, ignored by everyone. Ah!
it was not he who troubled them down there.
"I only mention it," said Roubaud, "because you have told me, over
and over again, that in your childhood, he frightened you out of your
senses."
"Oh! frightened me out of my senses!" she replied. "You exaggerate,
as usual. It is a fact that he rarely laughed. He stared at you so with
his great eyes, that he made you hang your head at once. I have
seen persons confused, to the point of being unable to say a word to
him, so deeply were they impressed by his great reputation for
severity and wisdom. But as for me, I was never scolded by him. I
always felt he had a weakness for me."
Once more her speech became slow, and her eyes were lost in
space.
"I remember," she resumed, "when I was a little girl, and happened
to be having a game with playmates on the paths, that if he chanced
to appear, everyone ran into hiding, even his daughter Berthe, who
was always trembling with fear lest she should be caught doing
something wrong. For my part, I calmly awaited him. He came
along, and seeing me there, smiling and looking up, gave me a pat
on the cheek. Later on, at sixteen, whenever Berthe wished to
obtain some favour from him, she always entrusted me with the
mission of asking it. I spoke. I never looked down, and I felt his eyes
penetrating me. But I did not care a fig, I was so sure he would
grant whatever I wanted. Ah! yes; I remember it all. There is not a
piece of brushwood in the park, not a corridor, nor a room in the
château that I cannot see, when I close my eyes."
She ceased speaking, and lowered her lids. The thrill of incidents of
former days seemed to pass over her warm, puffy face. She
remained thus for a few moments, with a slight beating of the lips,
something like a nervous twitch, that drew down the corner of her
mouth as if she were in pain.
"He has certainly been very good to you," said Roubaud, who had
just lit his pipe. "Not only did he bring you up like a young lady, but
he very shrewdly invested the little money you had, and increased it
when we were married, without counting what he is going to leave
you. He said in my presence that he had mentioned you in his will."
"Ah! yes!" murmured Séverine, "that house at La Croix-de-Maufras,
the property the railway cut in two. We used to go there,
occasionally, for a week. Oh! I don't much count on that. The
Lachesnayes must be at work to prevent him leaving me anything.
And, besides, I would rather have nothing—nothing at all!"
She had uttered these last words in such a sharp tone, that he was
astonished, and, taking his pipe from his mouth, he stared at her
with rounded eyes.
"How funny you are!" said he. "Everyone knows that the President is
worth millions. What harm would there be in him putting his god-
daughter in his will? No one would be surprised, and it would be all
right for us."
"Well, I've had enough of the subject," answered Séverine; "let us
talk about something else. I will not go to Doinville because I will
not, because I prefer to return with you to Havre."
He tossed his head, and appeased her with a motion of the hand.
Very good, very good! As the subject annoyed her, he would say no
more about it. He smiled. Never had he seen her so nervous. No
doubt it was the white wine. Anxious to be forgiven, he took up the
knife, went into another fit of ecstasy about it, and carefully wiped
the blade. To show that it cut like a razor, he began to trim his nails
with it.
"Already a quarter past four," murmured Séverine, standing before
the cuckoo clock. "I have a few more errands to do. We must think
about our train."
But, as if to get quite calm before making the room tidy, she went to
the window and leant out of it. Then he, leaving his knife, leaving
his pipe, also rose from the table, and, approaching her, took her
gently from behind in his arms; and holding her enlaced, placed his
chin on her shoulder, pressing his head against her own. Neither
moved, but remained gazing at the scene below them.
The small shunting engines went and came without intermission.
Similar to sharp and prudent housewives, the activity of their
movements could barely be heard as they glided along with muffled
wheels and a discreet whistle. One of them ran past, and
disappeared under the Pont de l'Europe, dragging the carriages of a
Trouville train to the coach-house. Over there, beyond the bridge, it
brushed by a locomotive that had come alone from the depôt, like a
solitary pedestrian, with its shimmering brass and steel, fresh and
smart for the journey. This engine was standing still, and with a
couple of short whistles appealed to the pointsman to open the line.
Almost immediately he switched it on to its train, which stood ready
made up, beside the platform, under the marquee of the main lines.
This was the 4.25 train for Dieppe. A stream of passengers hurried
forward. One heard the roll of the trucks loaded with luggage, and
the porters pushing the foot-warmers, one by one, into the
compartments. The engine and tender had reached the first luggage
van with a hollow clash, and the head-porter could then be seen
tightening the screw of the spreader. The sky had become cloudy in
the direction of Batignolles. An ashen crepuscule, effacing the
façades, seemed to be already falling on the outspread fan of
railway lines; and, in this dim light, one saw in the distance, the
constant departure and arrival of trains on the Banlieue and Ceinture
lines. Beyond the great sheet of span-roofing of the station, shreds
of reddish smoke flew over darkened Paris.
Séverine and Roubaud had remained some minutes at the open
window without speaking. He had taken her left hand, and was
playing with an old gold ring, a golden serpent with a small ruby
head, which she wore on the same finger as her wedding-ring. He
had always seen it there.
"My little serpent," she murmured, in an involuntary dreamy voice,
thinking he was looking at the ring, and feeling an imperative
necessity to speak. "He made me a present of it at La Croix-de-
Maufras when I was sixteen."
Roubaud raised his head in surprise.
"Who was that?" he inquired. "The President?"
As the eyes of her husband rested on her own, she awoke, with an
abrupt shock, to a sense of reality. She felt a little chill turn her
cheeks icy cold. She wished to answer, when, choked by a sort of
paralysis, she could say nothing.
"But," he continued, "you always told me it was your mother who
left you that ring."
Even at this second, she could have annulled the sentence she had
thoughtlessly let slip. She had only to laugh, to play the madcap.
But, losing her self-command, unconscious of the gravity of what
she was doing, she obstinately maintained her statement.
"I never told you, my dear," she replied, "that my mother left me
that ring."
Thereupon, Roubaud, also turning pale, stared at her threateningly.
"What do you mean," he retorted, "by saying you never told me so?
Why, you've told it me twenty times over! There's no harm in the
President giving you a ring. He has made you other presents of
much greater value. But what need was there to hide it from me?
Why lie, in speaking of your mother?"
"I never mentioned my mother, my darling," she persisted. "You are
mistaken."
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