The Beast Within - Emile Zola [50]
Once outside, Jacques was surprised to discover how soft the night air felt. Perhaps there was more rain on the way. A milky white cloud had spread itself across the entire sky, and the full moon, hidden behind it out of sight, filled the heavens with a reddish glow. He could see the countryside clearly; the nearby fields, the hills and the trees stood out black in the uniformly pale light of the moon, no brighter than a night-light. He wandered round the little vegetable garden and then thought he would go for a walk towards Doinville, as the road was less steep in that direction. He was about to set off when he caught sight of the house standing on its own on the other side of the railway track. He opened the wicket gate beside the level-crossing, the main gate being already shut for the night, and crossed the railway line. The house was one he recognized; he had looked at it from the lurching footplate of his locomotive every time he drove the train past. For some reason it haunted him; he had a vague notion that it was somehow connected with his own life. He had the same feelings each time — initially a kind of fear that it might no longer be there, and then a strange uneasiness when he discovered that it still was. Never had he seen either the doors or the windows open. The only thing he had managed to find out about it was that it belonged to President Grandmorin. He was seized by an irresistible desire to take a closer look, to see what he might discover.
For some time he stood in the road, facing the railings. He then took a few paces back and stood on tiptoe to try to get a better view. Where the railway cut through the garden, it had left only a narrow strip of ground with a wall round it in front of the steps to the main door. At the back of the house, however, there was a larger piece of ground, surrounded by a simple hedge. The whole place had a dismal, forsaken appearance, standing there abandoned, in the misty red glow from the night sky. He felt a shiver run through him and he was about to turn away when he noticed a gap in the hedge. Telling himself that he had nothing to fear, he stepped through. He felt his heart beating. Suddenly, as he came round a small, tumbledown greenhouse, he saw a shadowy figure crouching by the door. He stopped quickly.
‘What are you doing here?’ he exclaimed with astonishment.
It was Flore.
‘You can see what I’m doing,’ she said, trying to make her voice sound calm, for his appearance had taken her by surprise.
‘I’m helping myself to this twine. It’s all been left here to rot; it’s no use to anyone. I use it in the garden, so I come and take what I want.’
She had a big pair of scissors in her hand and was sitting on the ground, untangling lengths of twine and cutting it when it got caught in a knot.
‘Doesn’t the owner come here any more?’ asked Jacques.
She laughed.
‘The President’s hardly likely to show his face round here,’ she said, ‘after what happened to Louisette! So I’m taking his twine.’
Jacques was silent for a while, recalling the sad tale of Louisette’s death. He frowned.
‘Do you believe what Louisette said?’ he asked. ‘That Grandmorin tried to rape her, and she got hurt when it turned nasty?’
Flore suddenly became angry.
‘Louisette never lied,’ she protested. ‘Nor Cabuche either! Cabuche is my friend.’
‘I bet he’s your lover, too,’ said Jacques.
‘You’d be scraping the barrel if you had him as a lover,’ she said. ‘He’s my friend. I haven’t got any lovers and I don’t want any.’
She raised her head defiantly. Her thick blonde hair fell down over her face. Her lithe, muscular body exuded a sense of wild, wilful independence. She had acquired something of a reputation locally. There