The Beast Within - Emile Zola [166]
Ever since Flore had seen them kissing, on the day of the blizzard, Jacques had warned Séverine to be wary of her. He now knew the fierce, naive passion she had harboured for him since her youth, and he sensed she was jealous, smarting like a jilted lover, seething with unbridled, murderous resentment. What was more, he suspected she knew things. He remembered her mentioning the President having an affair with a young girl that nobody knew about, and that he had married her off. If she knew that, she must surely have guessed who killed him; she probably intended to speak or write to someone, to take her revenge by denouncing her. But days and weeks went by, and nothing happened; the only time he ever saw her was at her position beside the railway line, standing stiffly to attention, holding her flag. As soon as she spotted the train approaching in the distance, Jacques felt her eyes burning into him. She could see him despite the smoke; her eyes seemed to latch on to him and follow him, as the train sped past with a deafening roar. She inspected the carriages as they went by, from the first to the last, peering into them, looking, searching. And every time, she saw her sitting there, the woman who had stolen the man she loved and whom she now knew travelled on the train every Friday. She was always leaning forwards, as if there were something she must see; it was the merest inclination of the head, but enough for Flore to spot her. The glances of the two women crossed like swords, and the train had gone, carrying with it her only chance of happiness. Flore was left standing at her post, feeling angry and frustrated. Every time the train went past, she seemed to Jacques to grow taller. It worried him that she had done nothing, and he wondered what scheme was being hatched in the mind of this dark, menacing figure as it stood motionless beside the railway line whenever he passed.
There was also another railway employee who bothered them — Henri Dauvergne, the guard. He had been assigned to the Friday express, and his politeness towards Séverine was becoming embarrassing. He had realized she was having an affair with the train driver and told himself that his turn would perhaps come later. Roubaud would make jokes about it if he was on morning duty when the train left Le Havre. The reasons for Dauvergne’s behaviour were patently obvious; he would reserve a whole compartment just for her, help her into the train and check the foot-warmer. Once even, Roubaud was chatting quietly with Jacques, when he winked in the direction of Dauvergne, who was engaged in his usual little game, as if to ask Jacques how he managed to put up with it. Whenever they argued, Roubaud would baldly accuse his wife of sleeping with both of them. For a while Séverine imagined that Jacques thought so too, and that that was what was making him unhappy. One day she burst into tears, protesting her innocence and telling him to kill her if ever she was unfaithful to him. Jacques had turned very pale and had made a joke about it, kissing her and telling her that he knew she had done nothing wrong and that he hoped he would never kill anyone.
During the first few evenings in March the weather was dreadful, and they weren’t able to meet. The trips to Paris and their few hours of freedom there no longer satisfied Séverine. She felt a growing need to have Jacques to herself, all to herself, to live together with him day and night, and never leave him. Her loathing for her husband increased; his mere presence made her feel sick with nervous irritation. It was becoming unbearable. This gentle woman, previously so loving and compliant, now lost her temper the minute she had anything to do with her husband and flew into a rage if he made the least attempt to prevent her doing what she wanted. Her clear blue eyes seemed to take on the dark colouring of her hair. She became totally intractable, accusing