The Beast Within - Emile Zola [124]
Amidst all this growing unpleasantness, there was only one day that Séverine looked forward to - Friday. In her quietly determined way, she had invented an excuse for getting away. It was the first thing that came into her head; she had a pain in her knee and needed to see a specialist. So every Friday since October, she had been taking the 6.40 express in the morning, which was always driven by Jacques, and had spent the day with him in Paris, coming back in the evening on the 6.30. Initially she felt obliged to inform her husband how her knee was progressing; some days it felt better and some days it felt worse. But after a while, realizing that he wasn’t even listening, she had simply given up mentioning it. Sometimes she looked at him and wondered whether he knew. How was it possible that someone so fiercely jealous, someone who had demanded bloody retribution and killed in a blind rage, could accept that she had taken a lover? She couldn’t understand it. She thought he must be turning stupid.
It was a bitterly cold December night. Séverine had waited up very late for her husband to come home. The next day was Friday, and she had to be up before dawn to catch the train to Paris. She had got into the habit of getting everything ready beforehand, setting out her clothes so that she could dress the minute she got up. Eventually she went to bed, falling asleep at about one o’clock. Roubaud had still not returned. Already twice before, he had not arrived back until the small hours. He had become totally addicted to his passion for cards and seemed unable to drag himself away from the café, where a little back room had been set aside especially. It had become a veritable gambling den and large sums of money were being wagered at écarté.5 Séverine was quite happy to have the bed to herself; with the bed covers tucked warmly around her, she fell into a deep sleep, dreaming about the delights of the day to come.
It was almost three in the morning when she was woken by a strange noise. She had no idea what it could have been, thought she must have been dreaming and went back to sleep. But then she heard heavy thuds and the sound of wood creaking, as if someone were trying to force open a door. Suddenly there was a loud thump and the sound of something snapping, which made her sit bolt upright in her bed. She was terrified and convinced that someone was trying to break in from the corridor outside. For a whole minute she sat not daring to move, straining her ears to listen. Eventually plucking up her courage, she got out of bed to investigate. She walked noiselessly across the room on her bare feet and quietly inched open the bedroom door. She was wearing only her nightdress; she was so cold that she had turned white and was shivering. The sight which now greeted her eyes in the dining room made her stand rooted to the ground in terror and amazement.
Roubaud was on the floor, lying on his stomach and leaning on his elbows. He had prised open the edge of the parquet floor with a chisel. He had placed a candle beside him, and its light cast a huge shadow on the ceiling. He was leaning over the hole, which ran like a black slit across the parquet floor, peering inside it. His eyes seemed to start from his head. The blood had run to his cheeks and turned them purple; his face was the face of a murderer. Wildly, he thrust his hand under the floorboard, but found nothing. He was shaking with fear and had to bring the candle nearer. There, down in the hole, he saw the purse, the banknotes and the watch.
Séverine let out a cry. Roubaud turned round, terrified. For a moment he didn’t recognize her. He must have thought she was a ghost, standing there in her white nightdress with big frightened eyes.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
He realized that it was Séverine but made no answer, merely grunting in reply. He looked at her. Her presence