The Beast Within - Emile Zola [33]
This was said with such conviction that Roubaud was amazed. He took his pipe from his mouth and stared at her round-eyed.
‘I can’t make you out sometimes,’ he said. ‘Everybody knows the President’s worth millions. What’s wrong with him leaving something to his goddaughter? Who could take exception to that? We’d have it made!’
A thought occurred to him which made him laugh out loud.
‘You’re not frightened people might think you’re his daughter are you? You know what they say about Grandmorin. It doesn’t bear repeating, some of it. He’s certainly no saint! Apparently, even when his wife was alive he managed to have his way with all the maids. He’s a randy old sod. He’ll still jump into bed with the first woman that takes his fancy ... Anyway, what the hell! Even if you are his daughter, who cares!’
Séverine leaped to her feet, red with anger, looking all about her with big blue, frightened eyes, her hair falling across her face in thick black strands.
‘Me, his daughter! How dare you! I won’t have you making jokes like that, do you hear! How could I be his daughter? Do I look like him? I’ve had enough of this; let’s change the subject. I didn’t want to go to Doinville because I didn’t! And that’s all there is to it! I want to go back to Le Havre with you.’
Roubaud nodded and raised his hands to try to calm her down. Why insist if it was going to make her so upset? He smiled. He had never seen her get so worked up. It must have been the wine, he thought. He decided he had better show her he was sorry. He picked up the knife, wiped it carefully and told her a second time how he’d never seen a knife like it. And to show her how razor-sharp it was he began to pare his fingernails with it.
‘It’s already a quarter past four,’ said Séverine, standing in front of the cuckoo clock. ‘I’ve still got some shopping to do ... and we need to be thinking about our train.’
She had still not fully recovered from her outburst and, before tidying things away, she went back over to the window and leaned out. Roubaud put down the knife and his pipe, walked over to her, stood behind her and gently put his arms round her. He held her against him, his chin resting on her shoulder, his head touching hers. Neither of them moved. They just stood there looking.
Down below, the little shunting engines plied tirelessly back and forth like industrious housewives; but for a muffled rattle of wheels and the occasional toot on their whistles, you would hardly know they were there. One of them went by beneath their window and disappeared under the Pont de l’Europe on its way to the marshalling yard with a string of carriages from a Trouville train. As it got beyond the bridge it passed another engine coming in light from the sheds as though out on its own for an afternoon stroll, its brass and metal-work gleaming, bright and eager to be on its way. It came to a halt and gave two short blasts on its whistle to ask for the road. The signalman immediately directed it towards its train, which stood ready assembled under the great roof of the mainline station — the 4.25 for Dieppe. A crowd of passengers milled around the train, looking for their places, barrows laden with luggage clattered along the platform, attendants went from carriage to carriage placing foot-warmers in every compartment. The engine and its tender backed on to the luggage van at the head of the train with a gentle clunk as it made contact. The shunting foreman tightened the screw-coupling. Out towards Batignolles, the sky had darkened. An ashen haze seemed to settle over the vast network of railway lines, hiding the distant buildings from view. In the fading light they could still see the constant coming and going of trains on the suburban and circle lines, and above the brooding mass of the great station roofs, threads of red-coloured smoke drifted like strips of torn paper into the darkening Paris sky.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Leave me alone.’
Without