The Beast Within - Emile Zola [76]
The Roubauds had arrived as early as half past one, even though their appointment was not until two o’clock. They had come directly from Le Havre, stopping only to snatch some lunch in a little restaurant in the Grande-Rue. They were both dressed in black, he in a frock-coat and she in a long, elegant silk dress, and both displayed the air of subdued solemnity that betokens the loss of a close relative. Severine had sat down to wait on one of the benches, saying nothing and not moving. Roubaud paced slowly up and down in front of her with his hands behind his back. Each time he walked past her, their eyes met, and, although they did not speak, their anxiety drifted like a dark shadow across their faces. They had been delighted to receive the legacy of La Croix-de-Maufras, but it had also revived their fears. The President’s family, and his daughter in particular, had been incensed by the large number of strange bequests contained in the will, amounting to virtually half of the entire estate, and they were now talking of contesting it. Madame de Lachesnaye, prompted by her husband, had been especially critical of her former friend Séverine, about whom she harboured the most serious misgivings. Added to this was the thought that the investigation might reveal some piece of incriminating evidence. Initially, the possibility had never occurred to him, but for Roubaud it had now become a constant nagging fear. There was the letter that he had made his wife write to Grandmorin to persuade him to take the 6.30 express from Paris. If Grandmorin hadn’t destroyed it, it would eventually be found, and the handwriting might be recognized. Fortunately, the days had gone by, and nothing had happened; the letter must have been torn up. None the less, the new summons to appear before the examining magistrate had brought the Roubauds out into a cold sweat, even though the ostensible reason for their presence was as beneficiaries of the will and as witnesses in the eventual trial.
A clock struck two. The next person to arrive was Jacques Lantier. He had come from Paris. Immediately, Roubaud went up to him, extending his hand in a gesture of friendly greeting.
‘So you’ve been roped in too!’ he said. ‘What a wretched business this is! Will there be no end to it? It seems to be dragging on for ever!’
Jacques caught sight of Séverine, sitting motionless on the bench in front of him, and stopped short. During the last three weeks, on the days when Lantier had been driving the train to Le Havre, Roubaud had gone out of his way to be friendly to him. On one occasion he had even insisted that he come and have lunch. In the presence of a young woman like Séverine, Jacques had immediately felt the stirrings of his old malady and a growing sense of panic. Was this yet another woman he would be driven to desire? He had only to glimpse the circle of lighter skin above the opening of her dress, and his heart had begun to beat, his hands had begun to tingle. He had resolved that in future he must keep away from her.
‘What are people saying about this in Paris?’ continued Roubaud. ‘Nothing new, I suppose. No one knows anything, of course. No one ever will. Come and say hello to my wife.’
He took him by the arm. Jacques had no alternative; he went up to Séverine and greeted her, while she sat there, feeling embarrassed and smiling at him like a frightened child. Jacques endeavoured to make polite conversation. Roubaud and Séverine looked at him intently, not taking their eyes off him for a minute, as if they were trying to read beyond his thoughts and probe those corners of the mind that he himself preferred to ignore. Why was he so distant? Why did he seem to want to