The Beast Within - Emile Zola [208]
That night, as on previous nights, Cabuche had walked through the hedge into the garden and had been waiting beneath Séverine’s window. He knew that she was expecting Roubaud and wasn’t surprised to see a light shining through a gap in one of the shutters. What did surprise him and root him to the spot, however, was the sight of a man rushing down the steps at the front of the house and making off into the fields like some crazed animal. He had disappeared before he had time to set off after him. Cabuche was worried. He stood before the open door, peering into the dark entrance hall, wondering what he should do. What was going on? Should he go in? The dead silence and the complete stillness of the house, even though there was still a light in the room upstairs, made him feel increasingly uneasy.
He finally decided he must go in and groped his way up the stairs. He stopped outside the bedroom door, which also had been left open. From where he stood, he thought he could see a pile of underclothes lying on the floor in a pool of light cast by the lamp. Séverine must have got undressed. He called softly. Suddenly he was frightened; his heart was beating wildly. Then he saw the blood. He immediately knew what had happened. He leaped forward. A terrible, heart-broken cry came from his mouth. Oh God! It was Séverine! Murdered! Flung in pitiful nakedness to the floor! He thought she might still be breathing. He was filled with such despair, such an agony of shame, to see her dying naked in front of him, that he threw his arms around her in a respectful embrace, raised her from the floor and laid her on the bed, drawing up the sheet in order to cover her. As he had lifted her in his arms, in the one and only demonstration of love that he was ever able to offer her, he had got blood on his hands and chest. He was covered in her blood. At the same moment he saw that Roubaud and Misard had entered the room. They too, finding the doors of the house wide open, had decided to climb the stairs. Roubaud was late because he had stopped to talk to the crossing-keeper, and Misard had accompanied him to the house while continuing their conversation. They looked at Cabuche in disbelief. His hands were dripping with blood, like a butcher’s.
‘Just like Grandmorin,’ Misard finally commented, after examining the wound.
Roubaud nodded, without saying anything. He could not take his eyes from Séverine, from the mask of sheer terror which congealed her face, from the black hair tied up over her head, and the blue eyes, staring wildly, beseeching ... ‘Why?’
XII
Three months later, on a warm night in June, Jacques was driving the Le Havre express, which had left Paris at six thirty. His new locomotive, number 608, was fresh from the works. Jacques had been entrusted with running her in — with her ‘initiation’ as he put it. Although he was getting to know the locomotive, she didn’t handle easily; she was awkward and temperamental, like a young horse that has to be broken in before it will accept the harness. He swore at her frequently; he really missed La Lison. He had to watch her very carefully; he could hardly take his hand off the reversing wheel. That night, however, the sky was so beautifully calm that Jacques felt more able to relax and give the locomotive its head. He breathed in the sweet night air. He had never