The Beast Within - Emile Zola [29]
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s eat! No, please don’t close the window, leave it open for a bit, I’m so hot.’
She had walked over to the window where he was standing. She rested her head on his shoulder and stood for a while looking down at the station, sprawled out beneath them. The smoke had cleared for a moment, and the copper disc of the sun was sinking into the mist behind the houses in the Rue de Rome. A shunting engine was bringing in the train for Mantes. It had already been assembled and was due to leave at four twenty-five. The engine pushed the carriages up the platform under the station roof and was uncoupled. From the circle-line station, away to their left, came the clunk of buffers, as last-minute extra carriages were attached to the trains. Standing on its own on one of the middle tracks, its driver and fireman black with coal dust after the journey, a heavy locomotive which had just brought in a stopping train was waiting for the road back to the Batignolles engine shed. It waited patiently, as if tired and out of breath, a trickle of steam leaking from one of its valves. A red signal dropped with a clatter, and the engine moved off.
‘They certainly know how to enjoy themselves, those two Dauvergne girls!’ said Roubaud, as he came away from the window. ‘Just listen to them at that piano! I saw Henri a bit earlier. He asked to be remembered to you.’
‘Come on, let’s eat,’ said Séverine.
She helped herself to the sardines and started to eat hungrily. That sandwich at Mantes seemed ages ago. Coming to Paris always seemed to go to her head. She loved walking around the streets and she was itching to tell him what she had bought at the Bon Marché. Every spring she would spend all the money she had saved during the winter in one fell swoop. She preferred to buy everything in one go, she said; it worked out cheaper and made it worth the train journey. She couldn’t stop talking, hardly even pausing to swallow her food. Eventually, blushing, and looking a bit shamefaced, she told him how much she had spent ... Over three hundred francs!
Roubaud was amazed.
‘Good heavens!’ he said. ‘You must be the best-dressed stationmaster’s wife in the country! You told me you were only going to get a few blouses and a pair of boots!’
‘But darling, there were some real bargains! A silk scarf with the most beautiful stripes you’ve ever seen! And a gorgeous hat; a dream! Petticoats, ready-made, with embroidered trims round the edges! For next to nothing! I’d have had to pay twice the price in Le Havre. Anyway, I’ve arranged to have them sent on, so you’ll see.’
Roubaud couldn’t help laughing; she was so pretty, she seemed so happy, and she had such a pleading, apologetic look in her eyes. He loved these cosy little lunches, with just the two of them in a room all to themselves. It was so much nicer than going to a restaurant. Normally, Séverine drank only water. But today she was enjoying herself and drank a whole glass of white wine without giving it a thought. They finished the tin of sardines and started on the pate. Roubaud used his new knife to serve it. It was perfect; it cut beautifully.
‘So what about you?’ she asked. ‘Here’s me chattering away, and you haven’t told me how you’ve got on. What’s happening about the Sub-Prefect?’
Roubaud told her about his meeting with the traffic manager. He’d been given a real dressing down. He’d stood up for himself, of course, and told him what had really happened; how that stupid, toffee-nosed Sub-Prefect had insisted on taking his dog into a first-class compartment, even though there was a second-class carriage specially reserved for huntsmen and their hounds, and how they’d had an argument and ended up exchanging angry words. The manager said that he had been perfectly within his rights to insist on the regulations. The real problem