The Beast Within - Emile Zola [195]
By the fourth day, Jacques was able to get out of bed and spend a couple of hours in an armchair by the window. By leaning forward a little, he could see the narrow garden, cut in two by the railway line, enclosed by a low wall and overgrown with pale-flowered rose bushes. He remembered the night he had stood on tiptoe to look over the wall. He recalled the larger piece of ground at the back of the house, surrounded by only a hedge; he had walked through it and had come across Flore sitting outside the little ruined greenhouse, untangling some stolen twine with a pair of scissors. What a terrible night that had been; what torments he had suffered as a result of his murderous affliction! As he became able to remember things more clearly, he had been obsessed by an image of Flore — tall, athletic and majestic, her eyes ablaze and staring straight into his. At first he hadn’t spoken about the accident, and no one spoke about it in his presence, for fear of upsetting him. But now, the details were all coming back to him. He tried to piece them together; he could think of nothing else. It absorbed him so completely that, as he sat at the window, his sole concern was to look for some clue, to observe those who had been involved in the tragedy. Why did he no longer see Flore standing at her post by the level-crossing, holding her flag? He did not dare ask; the question simply added to the unease inspired in him by this gloomy house, which seemed to be haunted by ghosts from the past.
One morning, however, as Cabuche was standing near him, helping Séverine, he made up his mind.
‘Where’s Flore?’ he asked. ‘Is she ill?’
The question took Cabuche by surprise. Séverine made a sign, but Cabuche, mistakenly thinking that she was telling him to answer, said, ‘Poor Flore, she’s dead!’
Jacques looked at them. He was shaking all over. They had to tell him the whole story. Between them they told him of Flore’s suicide; how she had walked into the tunnel and thrown herself under a train. Her mother’s funeral had been delayed until the evening so that her daughter could be buried at the same time; they had been laid to rest side by side in the little cemetery at Doinville, where they had joined the first victim of this sorry tale, Phasie’s younger daughter, the poor, unfortunate Louisette, who had likewise met a violent end, having been beaten and dragged through the mud. Three pitiful women who had fallen by the wayside, crushed and discarded, like refuse blown away in the fearful blast of the passing trains!
‘Dead! Oh God!’ whispered Jacques. ‘My poor Aunt Phasie, and Flore and Louisette!’
At the mention of Louisette, Cabuche, who was helping Séverine move the bed, raised his eyes instinctively towards her, pained by the sudden recollection of his former love; he was completely besotted by his new-found admiration for Séverine. Being the soft-hearted, simple soul he was, he doted on her like an obedient dog that fawns on its master the minute it is stroked. Séverine knew about his tragic love affair. She gave him a look of sympathy and understanding. Cabuche was deeply touched. As he passed the pillows to her, his hand accidentally brushed against hers. He gasped, and stammered something in reply to Jacques. Jacques had asked him whether Flore had been accused of causing the accident.
‘Oh, no,’ he mumbled. ‘They said she was responsible for it, but...’
Speaking slowly and hesitantly he told him what he knew. He hadn’t seen anything himself. He had been inside the house when the horses moved forward and pulled the wagon across the line. He could never forgive himself. The police officers had given him a severe talking to. Horses should not be left unattended. If he’d stayed with them this terrible accident would never have happened. The inquiry had arrived at the conclusion that it was a case of simple negligence on Flore’s part, and as she had already inflicted such a terrible punishment on herself,