The Beast Within - Emile Zola [206]
‘Kiss me, darling,’ she pleaded, ‘while we still have time ... He’ll be here in a moment. If he has walked quickly, he could knock at the door any second now. If you won’t come with me downstairs, remember ... I will open the door. You stand behind it. Don’t hesitate. Do it straight away. Straight away, so that it’s over and done with ... I love you so much! We’re going to be so happy! Roubaud is a wicked man. He’s been cruel to me. He’s the only thing that stands in the way of our happiness ... Kiss me, darling. Kiss me violently. Kiss me as if you were eating me. Kiss me so there’s nothing left of me that is not yours!’
Without turning round, Jacques felt behind him with his right hand and took hold of the knife. For a moment he remained where he was, with the knife clasped in his hand. Was this the return of his desire to avenge ancient wrongs that were lost in the mists of time, the accumulated bitterness that had been passed down from man to man since the first infidelity in some primeval cave? He stared at Séverine, wild-eyed. He had but one desire, to fling her dead over his shoulder like a trophy won in combat. The fearful door that guarded the dark abyss of sexual desire lay open. If she loved him she must die. To possess her fully he must kill her.
‘Kiss me, kiss me ...’ she insisted.
She threw back her head, offering herself to him, gently imploring him, exposing her bare neck above the voluptuous curve of her breasts. At the sight of her white flesh, Jacques, like a fire suddenly bursting into flame, raised the knife to stab her. Séverine saw the glint of the blade and flung herself backwards, with a look of utter astonishment and terror on her face.
‘Jacques, Jacques!’ she screamed. ‘My God! Why me? Why? Why?’
Jacques made no answer. He clenched his teeth and walked towards her. There was a brief struggle and he pulled her back to the bed. She shrank away from him, terrified, defenceless, her nightdress torn open.
‘Oh God! Why?’
He brought down the knife and the question froze on her lips. As he struck her, he had twisted the knife, as if his hand were asserting its own devilish will. It was identical to the way in which Roubaud had stabbed Grandmorin — in exactly the same place and with the same ferocity. Whether she cried out he never knew. Just at that moment the Paris express went by, so fast and with such a commotion that it made the floorboards shake. Séverine lay dead, as if struck down by the passing hurricane.
Jacques stood looking at her, stretched out at his feet beside the bed. The sound of the train vanished in the distance. Still he looked at her, in the empty silence of the red room. Séverine lay on the floor, surrounded by the red wall coverings and the red curtains, bleeding profusely, a red stream running down between her breasts, spreading across her stomach to one of her thighs and dripping in thick blobs on to the floor. Her nightdress, torn apart, was soaked in blood. He would never have thought that she could bleed so much. What caused him to stand staring at her, mesmerized, was the look of unspeakable terror imprinted on the dead face of this once pretty, charming, inoffensive woman. Her black hair, tied up over her head, seemed like some ghastly head-dress, sombre as the night. Her periwinkle-blue eyes, staring at him wide open, questioned him, bewildered, terrified, uncomprehending. Why, why had he killed her? She had been taken away and destroyed, as murder took its inevitable course, an unsuspecting victim whom life had dragged through the mud and drawn into crime, never understanding why it had happened, and despite everything, tender-hearted and innocent to the end.
Jacques stood in amazement. His head rang with the cry of some savage beast, the squealing of a wild boar, the roaring