The Kill - Emile Zola [150]
Maxime retreated until his back was to the wall.
“Listen,” he stammered, “She was the one—”
He was about to accuse her in the most cowardly way, to blame the crime on her, to say that she wanted to carry him off, to defend himself in the abject and quivering manner of a child caught misbehaving. But he lacked the strength to go through with it; the words stuck in his throat. Renée remained as rigid as a statue in mute defiance. Then Saccard rapidly surveyed the room, no doubt in search of a weapon. On the corner of the dressing table, among the combs and nail brushes, he spotted the purchase-and-sale agreement, on official stamped paper whose yellow color tinged the marble with its reflection. He looked at the document, then at the guilty pair. And leaning forward a little, he saw that the document was signed. His eyes moved from the open inkwell to the still-damp pen, lying by the base of the candelabra. He stood in front of that signed document and pondered his position.
The silence seemed to deepen, the flames of the candles grew longer, the waltz grew softer as the folds of the draperies wrapped themselves soothingly around it. Saccard gave an imperceptible flick of his shoulders. With a serious look he once again scrutinized his wife and son, as if to wring from their faces an explanation that was nowhere to be found. Then he slowly folded the document and put it in the pocket of his coat. All the color had gone out of his cheeks.
“You did well to sign, my dear,” he said quietly to his wife. “You’ve gained 100,000 francs. I shall give you the money tonight.”
He was almost smiling; only his hands were still trembling. He took a few steps, then added, “It’s stifling in here. Whatever possessed you to come and hatch one of your pranks in this steam bath!”
Then he turned to Maxime, who, surprised by the calmness of his father’s voice, had raised his head again. “Come down with me,” he continued. “I saw you go up and came after you so that you could say good-bye to M. de Mareuil and his daughter.”
The two men went down together, chatting as they went. Renée was left standing alone in the middle of the dressing room, staring at the gaping void at the top of the small staircase into which she had just seen father and son vanish. She could not take her eyes off that void. To her astonishment, they had left quietly and amicably. They had not beaten each other to a pulp. She pricked up her ears and strained to hear whether some horrible struggle had broken out in the stairwell, sending bodies rolling down the stairs. In the tepid shadows nothing could be heard but the sound of dancing—a long lullaby. In the distance she thought she could make out the marquise’s laughter and the clear voice of M. de Saffré. So the drama was over? Her crime—the kisses in the big gray-and-pink bed, the wild nights in the conservatory, all the damnable love that had burned in her for months—had culminated in this insipid, ignoble end. Her husband now knew everything and had not even beaten her. And the silence that enveloped her—a silence in which the endless waltz dragged on—terrified her more than the sound of a murder. She was afraid of this peace, afraid of this soft, discreet dressing room redolent of the odor of love.
She caught sight of herself in the tall mirror of the armoire. She moved closer to it, surprised by her own image, forgetting her husband, forgetting Maxime, wholly preoccupied by the strange woman she beheld before her. Madness was taking hold. Her yellow hair, pinned up around her temples and on the back of her neck, looked to her like a kind of nakedness, an obscenity. The furrow in her brow had deepened to the point where it created a dark streak above her eyes, like the thin blue mark of a whiplash. Who had done this to her? Her husband hadn’t raised a hand. She was stunned by the pallor of her lips, and her myopic eyes looked lifeless. How old she seemed! When she tilted her head forward and saw herself in tights and a light, gauzy blouse, she contemplated her appearance with lowered eyelids and sudden flushes.