The Beast Within - Emile Zola [136]
‘Mother,’ she said as she went in, ‘here’s Madame Roubaud. Would you like to speak to her?’
Phasie lay on her bed; her face was a sickly yellow, and her legs were badly swollen. She was so ill that she hadn’t left her bed for a fortnight. She spent all day long in this dingy room, nearly suffocated by the heat from an iron stove, dwelling continually on the fear that obsessed her, and with nothing to distract her but the shaking of the house every time a train thundered past.
‘Ah, Madame Roubaud,’ she murmured. ‘Yes, of course.’
Flore told her about the accident, and all the people she had brought to the house, who were through there in the kitchen. But Phasie showed no interest.
‘Good! Good!’ she kept repeating, in the same weary voice.
Then she suddenly remembered something and raised her head for a moment.
‘Flore,’ she said, ‘if Madame would like to go and look at her house, you know that the keys are hanging next to the cupboard.’
Séverine shook her head. The thought of going back to La Croix-de-Maufras in all this snow and in such gloomy weather made her shudder. No, there was nothing she especially wanted to see. She would rather stay here and wait in the warm.
‘Do sit down, madame,’ said Flore. ‘It’s much better here than in the kitchen. We shall never have enough bread for all these people. But if you’re hungry, I’m sure I’ll be able to find some for you.’
She had brought up a chair and was doing her best to be pleasant, making an obvious effort to curb her usual rough manner of dealing with people. But she couldn’t take her eyes off Séverine, as if she were trying to read her mind and resolve a question that had been puzzling her for some time. This show of politeness was dictated by a need to get close to her, to stare at her and touch her in order to discover an answer.
Séverine thanked her and sat by the stove, preferring to be left there alone with a sick woman and hoping that Jacques would soon come to find her. Two hours went by. Eventually the heat from the stove made her fall asleep. Suddenly, Flore, who had had to keep answering demands from the kitchen, opened the door and called out gruffly, ‘Come through; she’s in here.’
It was Jacques. He had come with good news. The man who had been sent to Barentin had just returned with a team of helpers - thirty soldiers who had been stationed at likely trouble spots in case of emergency. They were all hard at work with picks and shovels. But it was going to take a long time. They probably wouldn’t be leaving before nightfall.
‘You’ll be all right here,’ he said. ‘Just be patient! You won’t let Madame Roubaud starve, will you, Aunt Phasie?’
On seeing her big boy, as she called him, Phasie had, with great difficulty, sat up in her bed. She looked at him and listened to his voice, suddenly brought back to life and happy again. Jacques came up to her bed.
‘Of course I won’t,’ she declared. ‘Oh, my boy! My big boy! You’re here! It was you who was stuck in the snow! And that silly girl never told me!’
She turned towards her daughter and spoke to her sternly: ‘At least try and be polite. Go and see to those ladies and gentlemen. Look after them. Make sure they don’t all go complaining to the management that we’re a lot of peasants.’
Flore had stood watching Jacques and Séverine. For a moment she hesitated, wondering whether to disobey her mother and stay where she was. But she decided she would discover nothing by remaining; they wouldn’t give themselves away in her mother’s presence. She went out saying nothing, without taking her eyes off them.
‘What’s the matter, Aunt Phasie?’ said Jacques, clearly worried. ‘Aren’t you