The Beast Within - Emile Zola [40]
Roubaud turned away from the window. There was a dark, determined look in his eyes. It was as if the approaching night had forced its way inside him. He had decided; his plan was made. The light was fading fast; he looked at the cuckoo clock to see the time.
‘Twenty past five,’ he said aloud.
He was amazed. One hour! Even less than that! So much had happened! It seemed as though they had been in that room, locked in mortal combat, for weeks.
‘Twenty past five,’ he repeated. ‘We still have time.’
Séverine did not dare ask him what he was going to do. She watched him anxiously as he felt inside the cupboard, eventually taking out a sheet of writing paper, a small bottle of ink and a pen.
‘You’re going to write a letter,’ he said.
‘Who to?’ she asked.
‘To him,’ he replied. ‘Come and sit down.’
She instinctively backed away from the chair, even though she still wasn’t sure what he wanted her to do. But he pulled her forwards and sat her down at the table with such force that she dared not move.
‘Write this,’ he said. “‘Take the 6.30 express this evening and make sure you’re not seen until we get to Rouen.”’
She had the pen in her hand, but her hand was shaking. A wave of fear ran through her at the premonition of unknown horrors that these few simple words evoked. She raised her eyes from the table and looked at him, imploringly.
‘What are you going to do?’ she said. ‘Tell me, love! I beg you!’
‘Write!’ he said. ‘Write!’
His voice was harsh, inexorable. He looked her straight in the eyes, calmly and quietly, but so purposefully that she felt crushed, reduced to nothing.
‘You’ll see what I’m going to do,’ he said. ‘You’ll see because you’re going to do it with me. It’s something we can share. Something that will keep us together. Something no one can ever take away from us.’
He terrified her. She drew back.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I want to know. I’m not writing anything until I know.’
Without saying a word, he took hold of her hand, a child’s hand, small, fragile; he gripped it as if in a vice, with a grip of iron, until she felt her hand was about to break. A violent pain ran through her as if his very will were boring its way into her flesh. She let out a cry. Something seemed to snap inside her; she had surrendered herself to him. This passive, sweet-natured, innocent woman could do nothing but obey. The instrument of love had become the instrument of death.
‘Write!’ he said. ‘Write!’
She wrote. Her hand hurt terribly, and she could hardly direct the pen.
‘Good,’ he said, when he had the letter in his hands. ‘It’s just right. I’m going out for a bit. You can tidy up here while I’m gone and get our things ready. I’ll be back for you later.’
He was now perfectly calm. He stood in front of the mirror and straightened his tie. Then he put on his hat and left. She heard him turn the door key twice and take it from the lock. It was getting darker and darker. She remained seated at the table, listening to the sounds from outside. From the room next door, where the woman from the newspaper kiosk lived, there came a continuous, low whining — a dog, no doubt, that she had forgotten to let out. In the room downstairs, the piano had stopped playing. All that could now be heard was the cheerful clatter of saucepans and dinner plates; the two young housewives were busy in their kitchen, Claire preparing a mutton stew and Sophie getting a salad ready. Séverine sat there exhausted, listening to their happy laughter, her heart aching, as the darkness gathered around her.
At a quarter past six sharp, the locomotive for the Le Havre express emerged from beneath the Pont de l’Europe, backed to its train and was coupled up. Because of the unusual amount of traffic there was not room to bring the train in under the covered roof of the mainline station, and it was waiting under the open sky alongside