The Beast Within - Emile Zola [64]
A voice behind him caused him to stop and turn: ‘Monsieur Roubaud! Good morning! Did you see my wife when you were in Paris?’
It was Pecqueux, the fireman, a tall chap, forty-three years old, very thin, with strong bony arms, his face scorched by fire and smoke from his engine. He had grey eyes, a low forehead, a large mouth and a prominent chin. He always seemed to be grinning, like someone who was permanently tipsy.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ said Roubaud, taken by surprise. ‘I’d forgotten. They told me in Paris about the engine being repaired. Back on duty tonight, I suppose? A day off! You lucky devil!’
‘I am indeed!’ answered Pecqueux. He was still slightly drunk after a binge the night before.
Pecqueux had been born in a village just outside Rouen and had joined the Company while still a lad, as a fitter’s mate. By the time he was thirty, he had had enough of working in the repair shop and started training as a fireman, hoping eventually to become a driver. He then married Victoire, who came from the same village as him. The years went by. Pecqueux had still not become a driver. In fact he never did; he was too disorganized and he always looked a mess. All he seemed interested in was getting drunk and chasing after women. He’d have been given the sack twenty times over had not President Grandmorin put in a good word for him. But he was a very likeable chap and good at his job, which made up for his other failings and led people to turn a blind eye to them. When he was drunk, however, he was a liability; he became an animal, capable of anything.
‘Did you see my wife?’ he asked again, grinning from ear to ear.
‘We certainly did,’ answered Roubaud. ‘We even had lunch in your room. You have a good wife there, Pecqueux. You should try to see more of her.’
Pecqueux seemed to find this hilarious.
‘Try to see more of her!’ he chortled. ‘Come off it, it’s her as wants me to see more of other women!’
What he said was true. Victoire was two years older than him. She had grown fat and had lost interest in sex. She secretly put five-franc coins in his pocket so that he could procure his delights elsewhere; it had never bothered her that he cavorted with other women and preferred to spend half his life in brothels. But things had now settled into a more regular routine. Pecqueux had two women, one at each end of the line — his wife in Paris, when he needed to spend a night there, and another woman in Le Havre, when he had a few hours to kill between trains. Victoire was careful with her money and lived frugally. She was fully aware of what her husband got up to, yet still looked after him like a mother. She often said that she would hate him to feel embarrassed when he was with his other woman; she even got his underwear ready for him whenever he went to Le Havre. She couldn’t bear to think she might be accused of not looking after ‘their man’.
‘I still think you’re not being very nice to her,’ continued Roubaud. ‘My wife adores Victoire; she was her foster-mother. She thinks you’re being unkind.’
Roubaud was about to say more when he saw a tall, thin woman emerge from the little hut by which they were standing. It was Philomène Sauvagnat, the shed foreman’s sister. Philomène was the other woman that Pecqueux had been seeing in Le Havre for the past year. The two of them must have been in the hut chatting when Pecqueux had come out and called to Roubaud. Philomène still looked young,