by Emile Zola
She had begun to speak more slowly, with a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes.
‘I remember ... when I was a little girl, the children used to play together in the grounds. If we saw him coming, we’d all run away and hide; even his daughter, Berthe. She was always frightened she’d done something wrong. It didn’t worry me; I just stood where I was. He’d come up to me and I’d stand there, looking up at him, smiling, and he’d give me a pat on the cheek ... Later on, when I was sixteen, whenever Berthe wanted to ask him a favour, it was always me she sent to speak to him. I’d go up to him, look him straight in the face and say what I’d come to say. I could feel his eyes looking right into me. I wasn’t bothered, because I knew he’d say yes to everything I asked for! ... I can see it now ... Doinville! When I close my eyes, it all comes back — every tree in the park, every corridor, every room in the house.’
She fell silent, and sat with her eyes closed. A quiver seemed to run over her hot, flushed face, as she remembered those days gone by, and things she dared not tell him. She remained lost in thought; a little tremor moved across her lips, pulling at the corner of her mouth.
‘He’s certainly been very good to you,’ said Roubaud, lighting his pipe. ‘He brought you up like a young lady, he made sure your little bit of money went straight into a savings account and he even added to it himself when we got married. Apparently, he’s going to leave you something in his will.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Séverine, ‘the house at La Croix-de-Maufras. They built the railway through the grounds. We used to go and spend a week there sometimes. I’m not really counting on it. I dare say the Lachesnayes have made sure he leaves me nothing. Anyway, I don’t want anything. I don’t want him to leave me a thing!’
This was said with such conviction that Roubaud was amazed. He took his pipe from his mouth and stared at her round-eyed.
‘I can’t make you out sometimes,’ he said. ‘Everybody knows the President’s worth millions. What’s wrong with him leaving something to his goddaughter? Who could take exception to that? We’d have it made!’
A thought occurred to him which made him laugh out loud.
‘You’re not frightened people might think you’re his daughter are you? You know what they say about Grandmorin. It doesn’t bear repeating, some of it. He’s certainly no saint! Apparently, even when his wife was alive he managed to have his way with all the maids. He’s a randy old sod. He’ll still jump into bed with the first woman that takes his fancy ... Anyway, what the hell! Even if you are his daughter, who cares!’
Séverine leaped to her feet, red with anger, looking all about her with big blue, frightened eyes, her hair falling across her face in thick black strands.
‘Me, his daughter! How dare you! I won’t have you making jokes like that, do you hear! How could I be his daughter? Do I look like him? I’ve had enough of this; let’s change the subject. I didn’t want to go to Doinville because I didn’t! And that’s all there is to it! I want to go back to Le Havre with you.’
Roubaud nodded and raised his hands to try to calm her down. Why insist if it was going to make her so upset? He smiled. He had never seen her get so worked up. It must have been the wine, he thought. He decided he had better show her he was sorry. He picked up the knife, wiped it carefully and told her a second time how he’d never seen a knife like it. And to show her how razor-sharp it was he began to pare his fingernails with it.
‘It’s already a quarter past four,’ said Séverine, standing in front of the cuckoo clock. ‘I’ve still got some shopping to do ... and we need to be thinking about our train.’
She had still not fully recovered from her outburst and, before tidying things away, she went back over to the window and leaned out. Roubaud put down the knife and his pipe, walked over to her, stood behind her and gently put his arms round her. He held her against him, his chin resting on her shoulder, his head touching hers. Neither of them moved. They just stood there looking.
Down below, the little shunting engines plied tirelessly back and forth like industrious housewives; but for a muffled rattle of wheels and the occasional toot on their whistles, you would hardly know they were there. One of them went by beneath their window and disappeared under the Pont de l’Europe on its way to the marshalling yard with a string of carriages from a Trouville train. As it got beyond the bridge it passed another engine coming in light from the sheds as though out on its own for an afternoon stroll, its brass and metal-work gleaming, bright and eager to be on its way. It came to a halt and gave two short blasts on its whistle to ask for the road. The signalman immediately directed it towards its train, which stood ready assembled under the great roof of the mainline station — the 4.25 for Dieppe. A crowd of passengers milled around the train, looking for their places, barrows laden with luggage clattered along the platform, attendants went from carriage to carriage placing foot-warmers in every compartment. The engine and its tender backed on to the luggage van at the head of the train with a gentle clunk as it made contact. The shunting foreman tightened the screw-coupling. Out towards Batignolles, the sky had darkened. An ashen haze seemed to settle over the vast network of railway lines, hiding the distant buildings from view. In the fading light they could still see the constant coming and going of trains on the suburban and circle lines, and above the brooding mass of the great station roofs, threads of red-coloured smoke drifted like strips of torn paper into the darkening Paris sky.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Leave me alone.’
Without saying a word he had slowly tightened his arms round her, roused by the warmth and closeness of her young body. Her scent excited him and, as she wriggled to free herself, he was filled with desire. He lifted her up and carried her away from the window, pushing it to with his elbows as he turned. He put his mouth to hers, kissing her insistently, and carried her towards the bed.
‘No, not here,’ she pleaded. ‘Not in this room, please, it’s not ours.
Séverine was a bit tipsy; she was feeling the effects of the food and the wine and had still not recovered from her mad dash across Paris. The heat from the stove, the table left uncleared, the unexpected journey from Le Havre and a private dinner party all to themselves ... She felt her heart beat faster, and a thrill of excitement ran through her. She must take a grip on herself. She must not give in. She sat on the bed, pressing her back against the wooden headboard. He frightened her, but, without fully knowing why, she was determined to resist him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to.’
He took his hands from her-strong, dangerous hands. His face was flushed, and he was shaking. He could have murdered her.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘Who’s to know? We can easily put the bed straight again.’
At home in Le Havre when he was on night duty, she would normally be quite willing to go to bed with him in the afternoon after they’d had their lunch. She never seemed to get much pleasure from it herself, but she had been happy to comply, if it gave him pleasure. What frustrated him now was that he sensed something different in her, something he had never known before — she was burning, passionate, sensual. She looked at him steadily. The shadow of her dark, shiny hair fell over her clear blue eyes; her lips, full and red, seemed like an open wound in the rounded softness of her face. This was a woman who was strange to him. Why would she not give herself?
‘Tell me why not. We’ve got time.’
An inexplicable anguish had taken hold of her. Her mind was torn. Nothing seemed certain any more, and she felt a stranger even to herself. She let out a cry of genuine pain, which made him desist.
‘Please, please,’ she begged. ‘Leave me alone. I can’t explain it. Just the thought of it makes me feel sick. It wouldn’t be right.’
They had both collapsed on to the edge of the bed. He rubbed his hand across his face, as if trying to wipe away the red flush that burned his skin. Seeing that he was now more settled, she leaned towards him and gently gave him a big kiss on the cheek to pr
ove that she still loved him. They sat there, saying nothing, trying to regain their composure. He had taken her left hand in his and was running his fingers over an old gold ring in the form of a snake with a little ruby for its head. She wore it on the same finger as her wedding ring. She had worn it there ever since he had known her.
‘My little snake,’ she said dreamily, thinking that he was looking at the ring and that she ought to speak to him. ‘He gave me that for my sixteenth birthday at La Croix-de-Maufras.’
Roubaud looked up in surprise.
‘Who did? The President?’
As her husband’s eyes met hers, Séverine seemed to wake up with a start. She felt a chill run across her cheeks. She tried to answer him, but no words came. She remained speechless, as if paralysed.
‘You always told me that ring came from your mother,’ he said.
She might still have saved the situation. The word could be retrieved. It was a momentary aberration. All she had to do was make a joke of it; pretend it was a slip of the tongue. But obstinacy got the better of her. Reason seemed to desert her.
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I never told you it came from my mother.’
Roubaud stared at her. His face went pale.
‘What do you mean, you never told me it came from your mother? You’ve told me twenty times or more! I’ve no objection to the President giving you a ring; he’s given you lots of things. But why hide it from me? Why tell lies about it and say it was from your mother?’
‘Darling, I tell you I never said anything about it being from my mother; you must have imagined it.’
She knew it was stupid to persist. She was just making things worse for herself. He could read her like a book. If only she could start again, take back what she had just said. But it was too late. She felt as though she were dissolving in front of him. Written across her face was a tacit admission of guilt. The pallor had spread from her cheeks to her whole face, and a nervous twitch played in the corner of her lips. Roubaud was fearsome. His face had turned bright red, as if he were about to burst a blood vessel. He grabbed her by the wrists and thrust his face into hers, trying to read from the fear and panic in her eyes what it was she refused to tell him.
‘Good God!’ he muttered. ‘I don’t believe it!’
She was terrified. She knew he was going to hit her. She ducked her head and covered her face with her arm. It was so paltry, so trifling, almost nothing — a little fib about her ring. She had completely forgotten about it. One careless word, and the cat was out of the bag! It had taken no more than a second! He flung her across the bed, punching her wildly with both fists. In three years of marriage he had never once laid a finger on her and now he was attacking her like a wild beast, blind, demented. His hands struck her again and again, big brawny hands — hands which once had hauled railway wagons.
‘You bitch!’ he yelled. ‘You dirty bitch! You slept with him, didn’t you! You slept with him! ... Slept with him! ... Slept with him!’
In his fury, each time he said it, he punched her harder and harder as if he were trying to pound the words into her body.
‘You’re just an old man’s cast-off! You lousy bitch! You slept with him! ... Admit it ... You slept with him!’
He was so beside himself with rage that he was choking. He could no longer speak; all that came from his mouth were incoherent gasps of breath. He became aware of her voice as she cringed beneath the assault. ‘No!’ she was shouting, ‘I didn’t sleep with him.’ How could she possibly convince him? All she could do was deny it, or he would kill her. But hearing her continue to lie to him simply angered him all the more.
‘Admit you slept with him,’ he cried.
‘No! No!’ she wept.
He had seized hold of her again and had lifted her up from the bed to stop her rolling over on to the cover to hide her face. He forced her to look at him.
‘Admit you slept with him.’
She managed to escape his grasp and get away from him. She ran for the door, but he was after her like a shot. He raised his fist to strike her again. He pushed her towards the table and landed her a single, savage blow that sent her reeling to the floor. He flung himself down beside her and grabbed her by the hair to pin her down. They lay on the floor, face to face, without moving. In the dreadful silence that ensued came the sounds of singing and laughter from the room below. The Dauvergne girls were playing the piano and obviously enjoying themselves. Fortunately it had drowned the noise of the fight. Claire was singing children’s nursery rhymes and Sophie was accompanying her on the piano with great gusto.
‘Admit you slept with him!’
She was too frightened to go on denying it. She said nothing.
‘Admit it! Admit you slept with him, damn you, or I’ll slit your throat!’
She knew he meant it; she could tell from the look in his eyes. As she fell down, she had noticed the knife. It was lying on the table, open. She had seen the glint of the blade and she thought he was trying to reach it. She no longer had the courage to face up to him. She was beyond caring — about herself or about anything. She just wanted to get it over and done with.
‘All right then, it’s true. I did. Now let me go.’
What happened next was dreadful. The admission, which he had been trying with such violence to force from her, left him feeling stunned. It was impossible, monstrous. He could conceive of nothing more disgusting. He seized her head and banged it against the leg of the table. She struggled to get away from him but he dragged her across the floor by her hair, scattering chairs all round the room. Every time she tried to stand up he struck her with his fist and sent her flying to the floor. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. His teeth were clenched; he was like a crazed animal, demented. They crashed against the table and nearly overturned the stove. There were smears of blood and strands of hair stuck to the corner of the sideboard. They staggered back towards the bed, gasping for breath, dazed and sickened by the force of his onslaught. They were both exhausted, he from striking her and she from the beating he had inflicted. Séverine lay slumped on the floor. Roubaud crouched behind her, still holding her by the shoulders. The blood pounded in their ears. From below rose the sound of music and the girls’ happy laughter.
Roubaud pulled Séverine from the floor and propped her against the side of the bed. He knelt in front of her, still holding her down. Then, when he was at last able to speak, came a barrage of questions. His desire to know the truth was insatiable. He was no longer beating her, but this was another form of torture.
‘So you slept with him, you bitch! Say it! You slept with him! An old man like him! How old were you? Tell me! I bet you were no more than a girl. A little schoolgirl.’
She suddenly burst into tears and could not speak for crying.
‘Tell me, damn you! I bet you weren’t even ten when he started playing around with you. The dirty sod! That’s why he had you brought up out there at Doinville. Just so he could have his way with you, the bastard! Tell me, damn you, or I’ll start again!’
Tears were streaming down her face. She couldn’t speak. He raised his hand and struck her again, making her head spin. Still she did not answer him. Three times he struck her, each time repeating the same question.
‘How old were you, you bitch? Tell me! How old were you?’
She was too weak to resist. She felt as if the life were draining from her. He could have clawed her heart out with his clumsy, workman’s fingers. And still the questions came. She told him everything, so overcome with shame and terror that she spoke in a barely audible whisper. Roubaud, inflamed with jealousy, grew angrier and angrier as each painful chapter in the story unfolded. He wanted to know everything. He made her repeatedly go back over what she had already said, down to the last detail, in order to make sure he had got all the facts. He knelt in front of her with his ear pressed to the poor girl’s lips, listening in horror as the confession continued. All the time he held his fist raised above her, ready to strike her again a
t the least thing she refused to tell him.
Once again he heard the story of the years at Doinville — when she had first gone there as a child, and later when she was a young girl. Where had it happened? In the woods in the great park? In a corner of some dark passageway in the château? The President had obviously already had his eyes on her when he asked her to stay there after his gardener died and had her brought up with his own daughter. It must have started when the children used to run away in the middle of a game if they saw him coming, while she waited behind, with her pretty little face looking up at him and smiling, so that he could give her a pat on the cheek as he walked past. And later on, if she wasn’t frightened to go and ask him favours and always managed to get what she wanted, perhaps it was because she knew she could twist him round her little finger, whilst he, who was so strict and formal with other people, fed her the same blandishments he used to seduce all his servants. It was revolting. An old lecher, getting her to give him kisses as if he were her grand-father, watching her grow out of childhood, placing his hand on her, getting bolder every time he touched her, not able to wait until she had grown up!
Roubaud was breathless.
‘How old were you? Tell me! How old were you?’
‘Sixteen and a half.’
‘You’re a liar!’
Why should she lie, for goodness’ sake? She shrugged her shoulders. She was beyond caring and she was sick with fatigue.
‘Where were you, the first time it happened?’
‘At La Croix-de-Maufras.’
For a moment he said nothing. A sickly look crept into his eyes as he next began to speak.
‘Tell me what he did to you.’
She remained silent. He raised his fist.
‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ she said.
‘Tell me even so,’ he said. ‘He couldn’t manage it, could he?’ She nodded. He was right; he couldn’t manage it.