The Beast Within - Emile Zola [102]
He shuddered slightly and looked steadily into her eyes.
‘Yes, I do,’ he answered with the same quiet intensity in his voice as her.
She had kept his hand in hers and squeezed it more tightly. For a while she remained silent, sensing the two of them being drawn together in a rush of unspoken feeling.
‘You are mistaken,’ she said. ‘I am not guilty.’
This was not so much an attempt to convince Jacques as a plain assertion that in the eyes of the world she must surely be considered innocent. She hoped that by simply and steadfastly denying the truth she could make the truth go away.
‘I am not guilty,’ she repeated. ‘Please don’t continue to make me unhappy by thinking that I am.’
He looked into her eyes long and deeply, and her heart was gladdened.
She realized that what she had just done was to give herself to him. She had surrendered herself, and if later he claimed her, she would be unable to refuse. But there was now a bond between them, and it was indissoluble. She need no longer worry that he would denounce her; he was hers and she was his. She had confided in him and they were now united.
‘Promise me you won’t be unkind; tell me that you believe me.’
‘Yes, I believe you,’ he answered with a smile.
Why force her to go through all the painful details of this sordid affair? She would tell him about it in due course if she felt she needed to. He was deeply touched by the way she had sought to reassure herself, confiding in him whilst admitting nothing; it seemed a sign of great affection. She was so trusting, so vulnerable, with her soft periwinkle-blue eyes! She seemed to be pure womanhood, made for man, ready to submit herself to him in her search for happiness! Above all what pleased him, as they sat holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes, was that she didn’t cause him to feel the dreadful unease, the terrifying sickness that usually came over him in the presence of a woman when he thought of possessing her. With other women he had not even been able to touch them without wanting to sink his teeth into them to satisfy his abominable appetite for slaughter. Was this the woman he could love, and not want to kill?
‘Rest assured that I am your friend,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘You have nothing to fear from me. I will not pry into your affairs, I promise you. I will do as you wish. You may make use of me as you choose.’
His face was now so close to hers that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips. Only that morning, sitting close to a woman like this would have made him tremble with fear, lest one of his dreadful attacks should begin. What was happening to him? He felt perfectly calm and pleasantly weary, like someone recovering from an illness. Now that he knew she had committed murder, she seemed different, more impressive, someone special. Perhaps she wasn’t merely an accomplice but had even done the deed herself. Jacques was convinced she had, although he had no proof. From that moment, as she sat there utterly oblivious of the fearful desire she aroused in him, she became as someone sacred to him, someone beyond the reach of mere reason.
They were both chatting happily away to each other like a couple who had just met and were beginning to fall in love.
‘You should let me take your other hand so that I can warm it in mine,’ he said.
‘Not here,’ she answered. ‘Someone might see us.’
‘Who’s going to see us here?’ he responded, ‘We’re alone ... Anyway, what harm would it do? That’s not how babies are made.’
‘I should hope not too!’ she exclaimed, laughing out loud.
She was delighted to know that he was now her friend. She didn’t love him; of that she was sure. She may have offered herself to him, but she was already thinking of ways she might refuse him. He seemed a decent sort of chap, someone who wouldn’t give her a lot of trouble; it was all