The Beast Within - Emile Zola [145]
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘there is something I must tell you ...’
Jacques, who had also been staring fixedly at the red patch of light on the ceiling, knew what she was about to say. He could feel her delicate body lying against his. He had sensed the gathering wave within her that was about to break, the guilty secret, the awful truth which both of them thought of but could never speak about. Until now he had persuaded her to say nothing; he was afraid it might bring back his old malady, or that talk of murder would alter their feelings for each other. But this time, lying there so deliciously relaxed in this warm bed with her arms wrapped gently around him, he lacked the energy even to lean over her and silence her with a kiss. The moment had come, he thought. She was about to tell him everything. Having anxiously waited for her to begin, it came as a relief when she seemed to become embarrassed, to hesitate and change her mind.
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘there is something I must tell you ... My husband suspects I am sleeping with you.’
At the last minute, what had sprung to her lips, involuntarily, was not the confession, but the memory of the night before at Le Havre.
‘Do you think so?’ murmured Jacques, incredulously. ‘He seems very friendly to me. He shook hands with me only this morning.’
‘I tell you, he knows everything,’ she said. ‘He will be picturing us, this very minute, in bed, in each other’s arms, making love! I know he will!’
She fell silent, holding him tighter, in an embrace in which passion was tinged with bitterness. She lay there thinking. Suddenly she shuddered.
‘I hate him!’ she said. ‘I hate him!’
Jacques was surprised. He had nothing against Roubaud. He found him very easy to get on with.
‘Why do you hate him?’ he asked. ‘He doesn’t bother us.’
She didn’t answer, simply repeating: ‘I hate him. I hate even feeling him near me. I can’t bear it. If only I could get away from him! If only I could always be with you!’
Jacques was moved by this passionate outburst. He drew her still closer and held her tight, feeling her whole body against his, from her feet to her shoulders. She was his entirely. Once again as she lay enfolded in his arms, and scarcely without removing her lips from his neck, she began to whisper: ‘Darling, there is something you should know ...’
This was the confession. It was inevitable; sooner or later it had to come. This time he realized that nothing in the world would prevent it, for it rose from within her like an uncontrollable desire to be taken and possessed. Not a sound could be heard in the house. Even the newspaper woman must have been fast asleep. Outside, Paris lay covered in snow. There was no sound of wheels; everything was buried and draped in silence. With the departure of the last train for Le Havre, which had left at twenty past twelve, the station seemed to have closed down. The stove had stopped roaring, and the fire had burned through to its last embers, which made the circle of red light on the ceiling even brighter. It stared down at them like a startled eye. The room was so hot that it felt as if a heavy, suffocating fog had descended on to the bed where the couple lay blissfully entwined.
‘Darling, there is something you should know ...’
He answered her. What else could he do?
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know.’
‘No,’ she answered, ‘you might have guessed something, but you don’t know what happened.’
‘I know he did it to get the legacy,’ he said.
She turned over and gave a nervous little laugh.
‘Oh, that!’ she muttered.
Then, very quietly, so quietly that a fly on the window-pane would have made more noise, she began to tell him of the years she had spent as a child at Doinville. She was tempted to lie to him and not tell him about her relationship with Grandmorin, but decided that she should be totally frank and found it a relief, almost a pleasure, to tell him all about it. The confession had begun,