The Beast Within - Emile Zola [171]
Her lips parted, and, as if speaking her thoughts aloud, she said in a barely audible whisper, ‘He came back from the station earlier on. I had no idea why. Then I saw him take his revolver. He’d forgotten it. He’ll be going to look for prowlers, I know he will.’
They walked a little further. After a while, Jacques broke the silence.
‘Some intruders got in here last night and stole some lead. He’ll be coming to check. I know he will.’
A shiver ran down her spine. Neither of them spoke. They walked on slowly. She began to wonder, was it really the knife she had felt in his pocket? She kissed him twice, pressing herself against him to see if she could feel the knife again, but she could not be certain. She kissed him a third time and placed her hand on his pocket. Yes, it was the knife. Jacques understood and drew her towards him, burying her head in his chest and whispering in her ear, ‘We’ll wait for him to come. You will be free.’
The murder had been decided. They walked on, but their feet no longer seemed to touch the ground; it was as if they were being borne along by some force beyond themselves. Their senses had suddenly become more acute, their sense of touch especially. It hurt them to hold hands. The least touch of their lips felt like the sharp scratch of a fingernail. Their ears were filled with sounds which earlier they had hardly heard — the distant hissing and clanking of locomotives, bumps and bangs, and footsteps walking past in the dark. They could see things in the night, black shapes, as if a cloud had been lifted from their eyes. A bat flew past, and they were able to follow it as it turned and darted in the sky. They stopped beside one of the coal stacks, motionless, straining their eyes and ears, every muscle of their bodies tense and alert. They spoke in whispers.
‘Did you hear that?’ she said. ‘It was a cry for help.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s a carriage being shunted.’
‘On our left! There’s someone there. I can hear footsteps.’
‘No, it’s the rats in the coal.’
The minutes went by. Suddenly she squeezed his arm.
‘It’s him!’ she whispered.
‘Where? I can’t see.’
‘He’s just walked round the goods shed. He’s coming towards us. Look! That’s his shadow on the wall.’
‘Are you sure it’s him? Is he on his own?’
‘Yes, he’s on his own.’
The moment had come. She threw herself into his arms and pressed her burning lips to his in a long, passionate kiss. She wanted to give herself to him with all her heart. How she loved him! How she detested Roubaud! If she had dared, she would have killed him twenty times and saved him the horror of it. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t have the strength. It needed the firm hand of a man. And now, in this one enduring kiss, she wished to breathe her resolution into him and to promise him that she was his, totally, to have as his own, body and soul. A train whistled in the distance, sending its mournful cry across the night. From somewhere far away came the regular, insistent thud of a giant steam-hammer. The fog from the sea drifted across the sky like an army in disarray. Tattered wisps of cloud obscured the lights from the station. When at last she removed her lips from his, she no longer belonged to herself; she felt she had given herself entirely to him.
He took out the knife and snapped it open. No sooner had he done so than he swore under his breath.
‘Damn it!’ he said. ‘He’s gone the other way. We can’t do it.’
The shadow on the wall had come within fifty paces of them, had turned to the left and was now walking away with the steady, unhurried gait of the night watchman quietly doing his rounds.
Séverine gave Jacques a push.
‘Go on!’ she said.
The two of them moved forward, Jacques in front and Séverine behind him. They followed their prey, taking care to make no noise. At one point, as Roubaud went round the corner of the repair shops, they lost sight of him. They cut