The Beast Within - Emile Zola [35]
She knew it was stupid to persist. She was just making things worse for herself. He could read her like a book. If only she could start again, take back what she had just said. But it was too late. She felt as though she were dissolving in front of him. Written across her face was a tacit admission of guilt. The pallor had spread from her cheeks to her whole face, and a nervous twitch played in the corner of her lips. Roubaud was fearsome. His face had turned bright red, as if he were about to burst a blood vessel. He grabbed her by the wrists and thrust his face into hers, trying to read from the fear and panic in her eyes what it was she refused to tell him.
‘Good God!’ he muttered. ‘I don’t believe it!’
She was terrified. She knew he was going to hit her. She ducked her head and covered her face with her arm. It was so paltry, so trifling, almost nothing — a little fib about her ring. She had completely forgotten about it. One careless word, and the cat was out of the bag! It had taken no more than a second! He flung her across the bed, punching her wildly with both fists. In three years of marriage he had never once laid a finger on her and now he was attacking her like a wild beast, blind, demented. His hands struck her again and again, big brawny hands — hands which once had hauled railway wagons.
‘You bitch!’ he yelled. ‘You dirty bitch! You slept with him, didn’t you! You slept with him! ... Slept with him! ... Slept with him!’
In his fury, each time he said it, he punched her harder and harder as if he were trying to pound the words into her body.
‘You’re just an old man’s cast-off! You lousy bitch! You slept with him! ... Admit it ... You slept with him!’
He was so beside himself with rage that he was choking. He could no longer speak; all that came from his mouth were incoherent gasps of breath. He became aware of her voice as she cringed beneath the assault. ‘No!’ she was shouting, ‘I didn’t sleep with him.’ How could she possibly convince him? All she could do was deny it, or he would kill her. But hearing her continue to lie to him simply angered him all the more.
‘Admit you slept with him,’ he cried.
‘No! No!’ she wept.
He had seized hold of her again and had lifted her up from the bed to stop her rolling over on to the cover to hide her face. He forced her to look at him.
‘Admit you slept with him.’
She managed to escape his grasp and get away from him. She ran for the door, but he was after her like a shot. He raised his fist to strike her again. He pushed her towards the table and landed her a single, savage blow that sent her reeling to the floor. He flung himself down beside her and grabbed her by the hair to pin her down. They lay on the floor, face to face, without moving. In the dreadful silence that ensued came the sounds of singing and laughter from the room below. The Dauvergne girls were playing the piano and obviously enjoying themselves. Fortunately it had drowned the noise of the fight. Claire was singing children’s nursery rhymes and Sophie was accompanying her on the piano with great gusto.
‘Admit you slept with him!’
She was too frightened to go on denying it. She said nothing.
‘Admit it! Admit you slept with him, damn you, or I’ll slit your throat!’
She knew he meant it; she could tell from the look in his eyes. As she fell down, she had noticed the knife. It was lying on the table, open. She had seen the glint of the blade and she thought he was trying to reach it. She no longer had the courage to face up to him. She was beyond caring — about herself or about anything. She just wanted to get it over and done with.
‘All right then, it’s true. I did. Now let me go.’
What happened next was dreadful. The admission, which he had been trying with such violence to force from her, left him feeling stunned. It was impossible, monstrous. He could conceive of nothing more disgusting. He seized her head and banged it against the leg of the table. She struggled to get away from him but he dragged her across the floor by her hair, scattering chairs all round