The Beast Within - Emile Zola [34]
‘No, not here,’ she pleaded. ‘Not in this room, please, it’s not ours.
Séverine was a bit tipsy; she was feeling the effects of the food and the wine and had still not recovered from her mad dash across Paris. The heat from the stove, the table left uncleared, the unexpected journey from Le Havre and a private dinner party all to themselves ... She felt her heart beat faster, and a thrill of excitement ran through her. She must take a grip on herself. She must not give in. She sat on the bed, pressing her back against the wooden headboard. He frightened her, but, without fully knowing why, she was determined to resist him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to.’
He took his hands from her-strong, dangerous hands. His face was flushed, and he was shaking. He could have murdered her.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘Who’s to know? We can easily put the bed straight again.’
At home in Le Havre when he was on night duty, she would normally be quite willing to go to bed with him in the afternoon after they’d had their lunch. She never seemed to get much pleasure from it herself, but she had been happy to comply, if it gave him pleasure. What frustrated him now was that he sensed something different in her, something he had never known before — she was burning, passionate, sensual. She looked at him steadily. The shadow of her dark, shiny hair fell over her clear blue eyes; her lips, full and red, seemed like an open wound in the rounded softness of her face. This was a woman who was strange to him. Why would she not give herself?
‘Tell me why not. We’ve got time.’
An inexplicable anguish had taken hold of her. Her mind was torn. Nothing seemed certain any more, and she felt a stranger even to herself. She let out a cry of genuine pain, which made him desist.
‘Please, please,’ she begged. ‘Leave me alone. I can’t explain it. Just the thought of it makes me feel sick. It wouldn’t be right.’
They had both collapsed on to the edge of the bed. He rubbed his hand across his face, as if trying to wipe away the red flush that burned his skin. Seeing that he was now more settled, she leaned towards him and gently gave him a big kiss on the cheek to prove that she still loved him. They sat there, saying nothing, trying to regain their composure. He had taken her left hand in his and was running his fingers over an old gold ring in the form of a snake with a little ruby for its head. She wore it on the same finger as her wedding ring. She had worn it there ever since he had known her.
‘My little snake,’ she said dreamily, thinking that he was looking at the ring and that she ought to speak to him. ‘He gave me that for my sixteenth birthday at La Croix-de-Maufras.’
Roubaud looked up in surprise.
‘Who did? The President?’
As her husband’s eyes met hers, Séverine seemed to wake up with a start. She felt a chill run across her cheeks. She tried to answer him, but no words came. She remained speechless, as if paralysed.
‘You always told me that ring came from your mother,’ he said.
She might still have saved the situation. The word could be retrieved. It was a momentary aberration. All she had to do was make a joke of it; pretend it was a slip of the tongue. But obstinacy got the better of her. Reason seemed to desert her.
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I never told you it came from my mother.’
Roubaud stared at her. His face went pale.
‘What do you mean, you never told me it came from your mother? You’ve told me twenty times or more! I’ve no objection to the President giving you a ring; he’s given you lots of things. But why hide it from me? Why tell lies about it and say it was from your mother?’
‘Darling, I tell you I never said anything about it being from my mother;