The Beast Within

I

Entering the room, Roubaud placed the pound bread, the pâté and the bottle of white wine on the table. But the morning, before going down to her post, Mother Victoire must have covered the fire of her stove with such dust that the heat was suffocating. And the deputy station master, having opened a window, leaned on it.

It was Impasse d’Amsterdam, in the last house on the right, a high house where the West Company housed some of its employees. The window, on the fifth floor, at the angle of the mansard roof which turned back, looked out on the station, this wide trench piercing the quarter of Europe, a whole abrupt unfolding of the horizon, which seemed to enlarge still further this afternoon. noon, a gray sky in the middle of February, a humid and warm gray, crossed by sun.

Opposite, under this dusting of rays, the houses in the rue de Rome blurred, faded away, light. On the left, the marquees of the covered halls opened their giant porches, with smoky windows, that of the main lines, immense, where the eye plunged, and that the post office and the boiler house separated from the others, smaller, those of ’Argenteuil, Versailles and the Belt; while the Pont de l’Europe, on the right, cut with its iron star the trench, which one could see reappearing and spinning beyond it, as far as the Batignolles tunnel. And, at the bottom of the window itself, occupying the whole vast field, the three double tracks which came out of the bridge, ramified, drew apart in a fan whose metal branches, multiplied, innumerable, were going to be lost under the awnings. The three switchman posts, in front of the arches, showed their little bare gardens. In the confused erasure of wagons and machines cluttering up the rails, a large red signal stained the pale daylight.

For a moment, Roubaud was interested, comparing, thinking of his station in Le Havre. Each time he came to spend a day in Paris in this way, and went to see Mother Victoire, he was resumed in the profession. Under the marchioness of the main lines, the arrival of a train from Mantes had animated the platforms; and he followed the machine with his eyes, machine-tender, with three low and coupled wheels, which began to disconnect the train, needy alert, taking and driving back the wagons on the storage tracks. A different machine, powerful one, a machine to express, to two large devouring wheels, parked alone, let go by his fireplace a big black smoke, straight upright, very slowly in the still air. But all his attention was taken by the three-twenty-five train, bound for Caen, already full of its travelers, and which was waiting for its machine. He did not see the latter, stopped beyond the Pont de l’Europe; he only heard her asking for the way, with light, hurried whistles, person that impatience wins. An order was shouted, she answered with a short blow that she understood. Then, before starting, there was silence, the traps were opened, the steam hissed at ground level, in a deafening jet. And then he saw overflowing from the bridge this whiteness which abounded, swirling like a blanket of snow, soaring through the iron frames. A whole corner of the space was white with it, as the heightened fumes of the other machine widened their black veil. Behind, were muffled prolonged sounds of horns, cries of command, shocks of turntables. A tear occurred, he distinguished, at the bottom, a train from Versailles and a train from Auteuil, one going up, the other going down, crossing each other.

As Roubaud was about to leave the window, a voice calling out his name made him lean over. And he recognized, below, on the terrace of the fourth, a young man of about thirty, Henri Dauvergne, chief conductor, who lived there in the company of his father, deputy chief of the main lines, and his sisters, Claire and Sophie, two adorable blondes of eighteen and twenty, leading the household with the two men’s six thousand francs, in the midst of a continual burst of gaiety. We could hear the elder laughing, while the younger sang, and a cage, full of island birds, competed in rolls.

—Here! Monsieur Roubaud, are you in Paris then? … Ah! yes, for your business with the sub-prefect!

Again leaning on his elbows, the deputy station master explained that he had to leave Le Havre that very morning by the six-forty express. An order from the head of operations called him to Paris, he had just been lectured on importance. Happy again not to have left his place.

—And madam? asked Henri.

Madame had wanted to come, too, for some shopping. Her husband was waiting for her there, in this room, to which Mother Victoire gave them the key, on each of their trips, and where they liked to have lunch, quiet and alone, while the good woman was detained downstairs, at her health post. That day, they had eaten a bun in Mantes, wanting to get rid of their groceries first. But three o’clock had struck, he was dying of hunger.

Henri, to be amiable, asked one more question:

And you sleep in Paris?

No no! they both returned to Havre in the evening by the six-thirty express. Ah well! yes, vacation! We only disturbed you to flank you your package, and immediately to the niche!

For a moment the two employees looked at each other, nodding their heads. But they couldn’t hear each other, a frenzied piano was coming to burst into sound notes. The two sisters had to hit it together, laughing louder, exciting the birds of the islands. Then the young man, who was in his turn cheerful, bowed and entered the apartment; and the sous-chef alone remained for a moment with his eyes on the terrace, whence all that youthful gaiety rose. Then, looking up, he saw the machine which had closed its traps, and which the switchman was sending on the train to Caen. The last flakes of white vapor were lost among the great swirls of black smoke, soiling the sky. And he, too, returned to the bedroom.

In front of the cuckoo clock which marked twenty past three, Roubaud had a desperate gesture. What the devil could Séverine linger on like this? She never left it when she was in a store. To overcome the hunger that plowed his stomach, he had the idea of setting the table. The large room, with two windows, was familiar to him, serving at the same time as bedroom, dining room and kitchen, with its walnut furniture, its bed draped in red cotton, its dresser, its round table., his Norman wardrobe. He took napkins, plates, forks and knives, two glasses from the sideboard. It was all extremely clean, and he amused himself by the housework, as if he had played at a dinner party, happy the whiteness of the linen, very much in love with his wife, himself laughing at the good, fresh laugh which she was about to burst out when he opened the door. But, when he had placed the pâté on a plate, and placed the bottle of white wine next to it, he was worried, looked around. Then, quickly, he drew from his pockets two forgotten packages, a small tin of sardines and some Gruyere cheese.

Half-past struck. Roubaud walked up and down, turning his ear towards the stairs at the slightest noise. In his idle wait, passing in front of the mirror, he stopped, looked at himself. He was not growing old, he was approaching forty, without the fiery red of his curly hair having paled. His beard, that he wore whole, remained thick, she too, of a sun-blond. And, of medium height, but of extraordinary vigor, he liked himself, satisfied with his slightly flat head, the low forehead, the thick neck, his round and sanguine face, lit by two large lively eyes… His eyebrows met, brushing his forehead with the jealous bar. As he had married a woman fifteen years younger than himself, these frequent glances, given to the mirrors, reassured him.

There was a sound of footsteps, Roubaud ran to open the door a crack. But it was a newsagent from the station, returning to her house next door. He returned, took an interest in a box of seashells, on the buffet. He knew her well, this box, a gift from Séverine to mother Victoire, her nurse. And this little object was enough, the whole story of her marriage was unfolding. Already three years soon. Born in the South, in Plassans, to a father who was a carter, left the service with the stripes of sergeant-major, a long time mixed postman at the station of Mantes, he had passed postman chief at that of Barentin; and it was there that he had known her, his dear wife, when she came from Doinville to take the train, in the company of Mademoiselle Berthe, the daughter of President Grandmorin. Séverine Aubry was only the youngest of a gardener, who died in the service of the Grandmorins; but the president, her godfather and her tutor, spoiled her so much, making her the companion of his daughter, sending them both to the same boarding school in Rouen, and she herself had such a native distinction that Roubaud had long been content with the desired distance, with the passion of a worker sided for a delicate gem, he considered precious. There was the only novel of his existence. He would have married her penniless, for the joy of having her, and when he had finally emboldened himself, the realization had exceeded the dream: in addition to Séverine and a dowry of ten thousand francs, the president, today in retired, a member of the board of directors of the West Company, had given him his protection. The day after the wedding, he had passed sous-chef at Le Havre station. He undoubtedly had for him his notes of good employee, solid in his post, punctual, honest, of a narrow mind, but very straightforward, all sorts of excellent qualities which could explain the prompt reception given to his request and the rapidity. of his advancement. He preferred to believe that he owed everything to his wife. He adored her.

When he opened the can of sardines, Roubaud decidedly lost patience. The meeting was for three o’clock. Where could she be? She wouldn’t tell him that buying a pair of boots and six shirts took a day. And, as he passed the mirror again, he saw himself, his eyebrows raised, his forehead cut with a hard line. He never suspected her in Le Havre. In Paris, he imagined all kinds of dangers, tricks, mistakes. A stream of blood rose to his head, his former crewman’s fists clenched, as in the days when he was pushing wagons. He became again the brute unconscious of his strength, he would have crushed it, in a surge of blind fury.

Séverine pushed open the door, seemed very fresh, very happy.

—It’s me… huh? you must have believed I was lost.

In the glow of her twenty-five years, she looked tall, thin and very supple, yet plump with small bones. She was not pretty at first, with a long face, a strong mouth, lighted by admirable teeth. But, looking at her, she seduced by the charm, the strangeness of her large blue eyes, under her thick black hair.

And, as her husband, without replying, continued to examine her, with the troubled and vacillating gaze she knew well, she added:

—Oh! I ran… Imagine, impossible to have an omnibus. So, not wanting to spend the money on a car, I ran… Look how hot I am.

Come on, he said violently, you won’t make me believe that you come from Le Bon Marché.

But immediately, with the kindness of a child, she threw herself on his neck, placing her pretty little chubby hand on his mouth:-

Naughty, naughty, shut up! … You know very well. that I love you.

Such sincerity went out of his whole person, he felt her remain so candid, so upright, that he hugged her madly in his arms. His suspicions always ended like this. She abandoned herself, loving to be cuddled. He covered her with kisses, which she did not return; and that was even his obscure anxiety, that great, passive child, of a filial affection, in which the lover did not wake up.

—So, you robbed the Bon Marché?

—Oh! Yes. I’ll tell you… But first let’s eat. What I’m hungry! … Ah! listen, i have a little present. Say: My little gift.

She was laughing in his face, up close. She had put her right hand in her pocket, where she held an object, which she did not take out.

—Say quickly: My little gift.

He laughed too, like a good man. He made up his mind.

—My little gift.

It was a knife she had just bought him to replace one he had lost and had been crying for two weeks ago. He exclaimed, found it superb, this beautiful new knife, with its ivory handle and shiny blade. All of he was going to use it. She was delighted with his joy; and, jokingly, she received a penny so that their friendship might not be cut off.

Let’s eat, let’s eat, she repeated. No no! please do n’t close yet. I’m so hot!

She had joined him at the window, she remained there a few seconds, leaning on his shoulder, looking out over the vast field of the station. For the moment, the smoke had gone, the copper disc of the sun descended in the mist, behind the houses in the rue de Rome. Below, a shunting machine was bringing the train from Mantes fully formed, which was due to leave at four twenty-five. She pushed him back along the quay, under the marquise, was unhitched. At the back, in the hangar of the Belt, the shock of buffers announced the unexpected coupling of cars that were added. And, alone, in the middle of the rails, with its mechanic and its driver, black with the dust of the journey, a heavy omnibus train machine remained motionless, as if tired and out of breath, with no other vapor than a thin stream emerging from a valve… She was waiting for the way to be opened for her to return to the Batignolles depot. A red signal clicked, faded. She left.

—Are they cheerful, these little Dauvergne! said Roubaud, leaving the window. Do you hear them banging on their piano? … Earlier, I saw Henri, who gave me tributes.

—At table, to table! cried Severine.

And she threw herself on the sardines, she devoured. Ah! small loaf of Mantes was far! It intoxicated her when she came to Paris. She was thrilled with the happiness of having run the sidewalks, she kept a fever from her purchases at Bon Marché. Suddenly, every spring, she was spending her winter savings there, preferring to buy everything there, saying she was saving her trip there. So, without losing a bite, she did not dry up. A little confused, blushing, she finally dropped the total amount she had spent, more than three hundred francs.

—File! said Roubaud, seized, you are doing well, you, for the wife of a sous-chef! … But you only had to take six shirts and a pair of boots?

—Oh! my friend, unique occasions! … A little silk with delicious stripes! a hat of taste, a dream! ready- made petticoats with embroidered frills! And all that for nothing, I would have paid double in Le Havre… They’ll send me, you’ll see!

He had decided to laugh, she was so pretty, in her joy, with her look of pleading confusion. And then, it was so charming, this improvised dinette, at the back of this room where they were alone, much better than in the restaurant. She, who usually drank water, let herself go, emptied her glass of white wine, without knowing. The tin of sardines was finished, they started the pâté with the beautiful new knife. It was a triumph, he cut so well.

—And you, let’s see, your business? she asked. You make me chat, you don’t tell me how it ended, for the sub-prefect.

So he recounted in detail how the COO had received him. Oh! a head wash in order! He had defended himself, had told the real truth, how this little tired sub-prefect had persisted in getting his dog into a first car, when there was a second car, reserved for hunters and their animals, and the quarrel that followed, and the words we exchanged. In short, the chief agreed with him for wanting to enforce the instructions; but the terrible thing was the word he himself confessed : You will not always be the masters! He was suspected of being a Republican. The discussions which had just marked the opening of the 1869 session, and the dull fear of the next general election, made the government skeptical. So we would certainly have moved it without the good recommendation of President Grandmorin. He still had to sign the letter of apology, advised and written by the latter.

Severine interrupted him, shouting:

—Hey? Was I right to write to him and pay him a visit with you this morning, before you went to receive your soap… I knew he would get us out of the woods.

Yes, he loves you very much, continued Roubaud, and he has a long arm in the Company… So see what the point of being a good employee is. Ah! I was not spared the praise: not much initiative, but conduct, obedience, courage, in short everything! Well, my dear, if you had not been my wife, and if Grandmorin had not pleaded my case, out of friendship for you, I was doomed, I was sent to penance, at the bottom of some small station.

She was staring fixedly at the void, she murmured, as if speaking to herself:

—Oh! certainly, he’s a man with a long arm.

There was a silence, and she remained with her eyes widened, lost in the distance, stopping to eat. No doubt she recalled the days of her childhood, over there, at the castle of Doinville, four leagues from Rouen. She had never known her mother. When her father, the gardener Aubry, had died, she was entering her thirteenth year; and it was at this time that the president, already widowed, had kept her near his daughter Berthe, under the supervision of her sister, Madame Bonnehon, the wife of a manufacturer, also a widow, to whom the castle now belonged. ’hui. Berthe, two years older, married six months later, had married M. de Lachesnaye, councilor at the court of Rouen, a small, dry and yellow man. The previous year, the president was still at the head of this court, in his country, when he had retired, after a magnificent career. Born in 1804, substitute for Digne the day after 1830, then in Fontainebleau, then in Paris, then prosecutor in Troyes, general counsel in Rennes, finally first president in Rouen. Rich in several millions, he had been part of the general council since 1855, he had been appointed commander of the Legion of Honor on the very day of his retirement. And, as far as she could remember, she saw him as he still was, stocky and solid, early white, golden white of old blond, brush hair, collar of beard cut short, without mustaches, with a square face that the eyes of a hard blue and the nose big made it harsh. He was rough at first, he made everything around him tremble.

Roubaud had to raise his voice, repeating twice:-

Well, what are you thinking?

She flinched, had a little shiver, as if surprised and shaken with fear.

—But nothing.

—You no longer eat, are you no longer hungry?

—Oh! if… You’ll see.

Séverine, having emptied her glass of white wine, finished the slice of pâté she had on her plate. But there was an alert: they had finished the one pound bread, not a bite left to eat the cheese. There were cries, then laughter, when, upsetting everything, they discovered, at the back of Mother Victoire’s sideboard, a piece of stale bread. Although the window was open, it continued to get hot, and the young woman, who had the stove behind her, was hardly cooling off, more rosy and more excited by the unexpectedness of this chatty lunch in this room. About mother Victoire, Roubaud had come back to Grandmorin: another one, that one, who owed him a great candle! Seduced girl whose child was dead, nurse of Séverine who had just cost her mother her life, more late wife of a chauffeur of the Company, she lived badly, in Paris, of a little sewing, her husband eating everything, when the meeting of his milk-child had renewed the bonds of formerly, by making her also a protege of the president; and, today, he had obtained a post for her in the sanitation department, the guard of luxury cabinets, the ladies’ side, which is the best. The Company only gave her a hundred francs a year, but she made nearly fourteen, with the receipts, without counting the accommodation, this room where she was even heated. Finally, a very pleasant situation. And Roubaud calculated that if Pecqueux, the husband, had brought his two thousand eight hundred francs for a driver, both for the bonuses and for the fixed, instead of hitchhiking at both ends of the line, the household would have collected more than four thousand francs, double what he, deputy station master, earned at Le Havre.

No doubt, he concluded, not all women would like to run the cabinets. But there is no such thing as a stupid job.

However, their great hunger had subsided, and they only ate with a languid air, cutting the cheese into small pieces, to make the feast last. Their words were also slow.

By the way, he cried, I forgot to ask you… Why did you refuse the president to go and spend two or three days at Doinville?

His mind, in the well-being of digestion, had just returned to their morning visit, very near the station, at the hotel in the rue du Rocher; and he had seen himself again in the large, severe cabinet, he could still hear the President telling them that he was leaving for Doinville the next day. Then, as if giving in to a sudden idea, he had offered them to take the six-thirty express that very evening with them, and then to take his goddaughter over there, to her sister, who had been asking for her for a long time… But the young woman had alleged all kinds of reasons, which prevented it, she said.

You know, me, continued Roubaud, "I saw no harm in this small trip. You could have stayed there until Thursday, I would have made arrangements… right? in our position, we need them. It is hardly skillful to refuse their politeness; all the more so as your refusal seemed to cause him real pain… So I did not stop pushing you to accept, until you pulled me by my overcoat. So, I said like you, but without understanding… Huh! why didn’t you want to?

Severine, her eyes flickering, made a gesture of impatience.

—Can I leave you all alone?

—That’s not a reason… Since our marriage in three years, you have been to Doinville twice, to spend a week like this. Nothing prevented you from going there a third.

The young woman’s embarrassment grew, she had turned her head away.

—Finally, that did not tell me. You are not going to force me to do things that I don’t like.

Roubaud opened his arms, as if to declare that he was not forcing her to anything. However, he resumed:-

Here! You are hiding something from me… Last time, would Madame Bonnehon have received you badly?

Oh! no, Madame Bonnehon had always welcomed her very well. She was so nice, tall, strong, with magnificent blond hair, still beautiful despite her fifty-five years! Since her widowhood, and even during her husband’s lifetime, we used to say that she had often had a busy heart. They adored her in Doinville, she made the castle a place of delight, all the society of Rouen came there to visit, especially the magistracy. It was in the magistracy that Madame Bonnehon had had many friends.

So admit it, it was the Lachesnayes who beat you cold.

Doubtless, since her marriage to M. de Lachesnaye, Berthe had ceased to be to her what she once was. She was hardly getting good, poor Berthe, so insignificant, with her red nose. In Rouen, the ladies praised his distinction a lot. Also, a husband like his, ugly, hard, stingy, bad. But no, Berthe had shown herself to be decent with regard to her former comrade, she had no specific reproach to address to him.

So it is the president that you dislike over there?

Severine, who until then had been responding slowly, in an even voice, was resumed with impatience.

—He, what an idea!

And she continued, in short nervous sentences. You could barely see him. He had reserved a pavilion in the park, the door of which opened onto a deserted lane. He was going out, he was coming home, without anyone knowing it. Moreover, her sister never knew exactly the day of her arrival. He took a car in Barentin, had himself driven at night to Doinville, lived days in his pavilion, ignored by all. Ah! it wasn’t him who bothered you there.

I’m telling you about it, because you told me twenty times that, in your childhood, he scared you to death.

—Oh! A big fear! you exaggerate, as always… Of course he hardly laughed. He was looking at you so fixedly with his big eyes that you lowered your head right away. I have seen people get confused, not being able to address a word to him, so much he imposed on them, with his great reputation for severity and wisdom… But me, he never scolded me, I always felt he had a thing for me…

again his voice slowed down, far.

—I remember… When I was a kid and I played with friends, in the aisles, if he ever appeared, everyone was hiding, even his daughter Berthe, who was constantly trembling at being at fault… I was waiting for him, quiet. He was passing by, and seeing me there, smiling, my muzzle raised, he gave me a little pat on the cheek… Later, at sixteen, when Berthe had a favor to obtain from him, it was always me who ’she loaded the request. I spoke, I did not lower my eyes, and I felt his that entered me under the skin. But I didn’t care, I was so sure that he would grant whatever I wanted! … Ah! Yes, remember! Over there, there isn’t a thicket in the park, not a corridor, not a room in the castle, which I cannot evoke by closing my eyes.

She was silent, her eyelids closed; and, on her hot, swollen face, seemed to pass the thrill of those things of old, the things that she did not say. For a moment, she remained like that, with a small flapping of the lips, like an involuntary tic which painfully pulled the corner of her mouth.

He was certainly very good to you, continued Roubaud, who had just lighted his pipe. Not only did he have you raised like a young lady, but he very wisely administered your four under, and he rounded up the sum, at our wedding… Besides he must leave you something, he said it in front of me.

Yes, Séverine murmured, this house in Croix-de-Maufras, this property that the railroad has cut off. Sometimes we would spend a week there… Oh! I hardly count on it, the Lachesnayes have to work on him so that he leaves me nothing. And then, I prefer nothing, nothing!

She had said these last words in such a lively voice that he was surprised, taking his pipe out of his mouth, looking at her with his rounded eyes.

—Are you funny! It is assured that the president has millions, what harm would it be that No one would be surprised, and that would suit our affairs nicely.

Then, an idea that crossed his mind made him laugh.

Are you perhaps not afraid to pass for his daughter? … Because, you know, the president, in spite of his icy air, people whisper stiffly about him. It seems that, even during his wife’s lifetime, all the maids went there. Finally, a fellow who, even today, haunts a woman for you… My God! go, when you are his daughter!

Severine had risen, violently, her face on fire, with the frightened flicker of her blue eyes, under the heavy mass of her black hair.

—His daughter, his daughter! … I don’t want you to joke with that, do you hear! Can I be his daughter? Do I look like him? … And that’s enough, let’s talk about something else. I don’t want to go to Doinville, because I don’t want to, because I prefer to go back to Le Havre with you.

He nodded, he soothed her with a gesture. Candy! as long as it got on his nerves. He was smiling, he had never seen her so nervous. White wine, no doubt. Eager to be forgiven, he picked up the knife again, still ecstatic, wiping it carefully; and, to show that he cut like a razor, he trimmed his nails.

A quarter past four already, Severine murmured, standing in front of the Hello. I still have a few errands… We have to think about our train.

But, as if to finish calming herself down, before putting some order in the room, she went back to lean on the window. He, then, letting go of the knife, dropping his pipe, left the table in his turn, approached her, took her from behind, between his arms, gently. And he held her entwined like that, he had rested his chin on her shoulder, leaning his head against hers. Neither of them moved any more, they watched.

Under them, always, the little maneuvering machines came and went without rest; and you could hardly hear them bustling about, like lively and careful housewives, muffled wheels, discreet whistle. One of them passed, disappeared under the Pont de l’Europe, taking the cars of a train from Trouville to storage, which were disconnected. And over there, beyond the bridge, she brushed past a machine that had come alone from the Depot, like a solitary walker, with its shining brass and steel, cool and cheerful for the journey. The latter had stopped, asking with two short taps the way of the switchman, who almost immediately sent him on his train, fully formed, to the quay under the marquee of the main lines. It was the four-twenty-five train to Dieppe. A flood of travelers was hurrying, we could hear the rolling of carts loaded with luggage, men were pushing one by one the hot water bottles in the cars. But the machine and its tender had approached the lead van with a dull shock, and the foreman was seen to tighten the screw on the drawbar himself. The sky had darkened towards the Batignolles; a twilight ash, drowning the facades, seemed already to fall on the widened range of roads; while, in this effacement, in the distance, the departures and arrivals of the suburbs and the Belt intersect. Beyond the dark tablecloths of the large covered markets, over darkened Paris, reddish, jagged smoke flew away.

—No, no, leave me, Severine whispered.

Little by little, without a word, he had enveloped her in a closer caress, excited by the warmth of this young body, which he thus held in both arms. She intoxicated him with her smell, she finished panicking her desire, arching her back to free herself. With a shake, he lifted it from the window, and closed the windows with his elbow. Her mouth had met hers, he crushed her lips, he carried her to the bed.

No, no, we are not at home, she repeated. I thee pray, not in this room!

She herself was gray, dizzy with food and wine, still vibrating with her feverish run through Paris. This too heated room, this table where dragged the stampede of the cutlery, the unforeseen of the journey which turned partly thin, everything made her bloody, raised her with a shiver. And yet she refused, she resisted, propped up against the wood of the bed, in a frightened revolt, of which she could not have said the cause.

—No, no, I don’t want to.

He, blood on his skin, held back his big brutal hands. He was shaking, he would have broken her.

—Dumb, will we know? We’ll hit the bed again.

Usually, she abandoned herself with complacent docility, at their place in Le Havre, after lunch, when he was on night duty. It seemed no pleasure to her, showed a happy indolence, an affectionate consent to his own pleasure. And what, at this moment, drove him mad was to feel her like he had never had her before, ardent, quivering with sensual passion. The black reflection of her hair darkened her calm periwinkle eyes, her strong mouth bleeding in the soft oval of her face. There was a woman there whom he did not know. Why was she refusing herself?

—Say why? We have the time.

Then, in inexplicable anguish, in a debate in which she did not seem to judge things clearly, as if she had ignored herself too, she gave a cry of real pain, which made him keep still.

—No, no, I beg of you, leave me! … I don’t know, it’s strangling me, just the idea, at the moment… it wouldn’t be good.

Both had fallen sitting on the edge of the bed. He ran his hand over his face, as if to remove the cooking that was burning him. Seeing him become wise again, she, kind, leaned over, gave him a big kiss on the cheek, wanting to show him that she liked him all the same. For a moment they stayed like that, without speaking, to recover. He had taken her left hand again and was playing with an old gold ring, a golden serpent with a small ruby head, which she wore on the same finger as her wedding ring. He had always known her there.

—My little snake, said Severine in an involuntary dreamy voice, believing that he was looking at the ring and feeling the urgent need to speak. It was at Croix-de-Maufras that he gave me a present for my sixteenth birthday.

Roubaud raised his head, surprised.

—Who? President?

When her husband’s eyes rested on hers, she suddenly woke up. She felt a little cold freeze her cheeks. She wanted to answer, and found nothing, strangled by the sort of paralysis that was seizing her.

But, he continued, you always told me that it was your mother who left it with you, this ring.

Still at this second, in forgetting everything. It would have been enough for him to laugh, to play dizzy. But she persisted, no longer owning herself, unconscious.

—Never, my darling, I told you that my mother left me this ring.

Suddenly, Roubaud stared at her, turning pale too.

—How? Or What? you never told me that? You told me twenty times! … There is nothing wrong with the president giving you a ring. He gave you something else… But why did you hide it from me? why did you lie, talking about your mother?

—I did not mention my mother, my darling, you are wrong.

It was stupid, this stubbornness. She saw that she was getting lost, that wanted to come back, to swallow his words; but it was too late, she felt his features decompose, the admission out in spite of herself from all her person. The cold of her cheeks had invaded her whole face, a nervous tic was drawing her lips. And he, terrifying, suddenly red again, as if he thought the blood was going to burst his veins, had seized her wrists, was looking at her closely, in order to better follow, in the frightened dismay of his eyes, what she did not say out loud.

—For God Sake! he stammered, for God’s sake!

She was scared, lowered her face to hide it under her arm, guessing the punch. A fact, small, miserable, insignificant, forgetting a lie about this ring, had just brought the evidence, in a few words exchanged. And it had only taken a minute. He threw her across the bed with a jerk, he pounded her with both fists at random. In three years, he hadn’t given her a flick, and he was slaughtering her, blind, drunk, in the outburst of a brute, of the man with the big hands, who had once pushed wagons.

—Name of God of bitch! you slept with! … slept with! … slept with!

He was enraged at these repeated words, he slaughtered his fists every time he uttered them, as if to make them enter his flesh.

—The rest of an old man, goddamn bitch! … lying with! … lying with!

Her voice was choked with such anger that she hissed and never came out. Only then did he hear that, slackening under the blows, she said no. She could not find any other defense, she denied that he did not kill her. And this cry, this stubbornness in lying, finished driving him mad.

—Admit that you slept with him.

—No! no!

He had taken her back, he supported her in his arms, preventing her from falling face down on the blanket, like a poor being in hiding. He forced her to look at him.

—Admit that you slept with him.

But, letting herself slip, she escaped, she wanted to run towards the door. With a bound he was on top of her again, his fist in the air; and, furiously, suddenly, near the table, he knocked him down. He had thrown himself at her side, he had grabbed her by the hair, to nail her to the ground. For a moment, they stayed like that on the ground, face to face, without moving. And, in the terrifying silence, we heard the songs and laughter of the Dauvergne girls rise up, whose piano raged, fortunately, below, muffling the noises of struggle. It was Claire who sang little girls’ rounds, while Sophie accompanied her with all her arms.

—Admit that you slept with him.

She no longer dared to say no, she did not answer.

—Admit that you slept with, for God’s sake! or I’ll kill you!

He would have killed her, she could see it clearly in his eyes. As she fell, she saw the