windows, blocking the view and hemming them in like a prison wall, instead of infuriating them as it used to do, seemed to have a calming effect and added to the sense of perfect repose, peace and tranquillity which enveloped them. At least they couldn’t be seen by the neighbours and they didn’t have nosey people constantly peering in at them. Their only cause for complaint, now that spring had come, was the stifling heat and the dazzling reflections that came off the cladding of the station roof when it was heated by the early-morning sun. After the dreadful trauma that for nearly two months had kept them in a state of constant trepidation, they were blissfully happy to be free from care. They just wanted to stay where they were, to exist, without feeling afraid or worried sick. Never had Roubaud displayed such commitment and dedication to his job. During the weeks he was on day shift, he would be down on the platform by five in the morning, would not return for a meal until ten, would be back at work by eleven and would then continue without a break until five in the evening - a full eleven hours on duty. During the weeks he was on night shift, he would be on duty from five in the evening to five in the morning without even taking a break for a meal at home, snatching a bite to eat in his office. It was a demanding workload. Yet he shouldered it without complaint and seemed even to enjoy it. He overlooked nothing, insisting on inspecting and doing things himself, as if by working himself to a standstill he had found a way of forgetting, a way of once more living a normal, balanced existence. Séverine for her part found herself more often than not on her own, a widow one week in two, and during the other week only seeing her husband for lunch and dinner. She seemed to develop an obsession for housework. Previously she had sat about doing needlework; she hated housework and had left it to Madame Simon, an old lady who came in every day from nine till midday. But now that she felt happier to be at home and was sure that they would be staying there, she had an irresistible urge to do the cleaning and make things tidy. She would only sit down when everything had been seen to. Both she and her husband were sleeping well. On the rare occasions they had a chance to speak to each other, over meals, or on the nights they slept together, the murder was never mentioned. The whole thing seemed to be dead and buried.
For Séverine, life once more became very pleasant. She left the housework to Madame Simon and resumed her life of idleness, like a young lady of leisure whose sole purpose in life was to sit making delicate embroideries. Her present piece of handiwork was an embroidered bedspread, an endless undertaking that might have lasted her a lifetime. She rose quite late, happy to remain in bed on her own, lulled by the departure and arrival of trains which marked the passing hours as precisely as a clock. In the early days of her marriage, the noises from the station had disturbed her - engines blowing their whistles, turntables being slammed into position, rumblings and sudden vibrations like earthquakes that made her shake, along with all the furniture. But gradually she had grown accustomed to it; the station with all its noise and bustle had become a part of her life, and now she liked it. Its clamour and activity brought her a strange peace of mind. She would wander from one room to another until it was time for lunch, chatting with her cleaner and doing nothing. She would then spend the whole afternoon sitting in front of the dining-room window, her needlework more often than not lying untouched on her lap, happy to be left undisturbed. The weeks when her husband returned to bed in the early morning and lay snoring until evening were the weeks that Séverine looked forward to most, weeks when she could live as she used to do before she was married, with the bed to herself, and doing just as she pleased all day long. She hardly ever went out; all she saw of Le Havre was the smoke from the factories near by, great black clouds