The Beast Within (40 page)

‘Look,’ he said, ‘one of the cylinders has taken a knock.’

Jacques came down to look, crouching beside the cylinder. He had already examined the engine carefully and had noticed that the cylinder was damaged. While clearing the track, they had discovered that some wooden sleepers, which had been left on the side of the cutting by a gang of platelayers, had slipped down the bank in all the snow and bad weather, and had fallen on to the rails. This must have been partly why the train had come to a stop, for the engine was lodged against them. They could see a long scratch on the cylinder casing, and the piston rod seemed slightly out of line. But there didn’t seem to be anything else wrong, and initially the driver had not been too concerned. However, there was perhaps more serious internal damage; nothing is more delicate than the complex arrangement of a locomotive’s valve gear, the very heart and soul of the engine. Jacques climbed back on to the footplate, blew the whistle and opened the regulator to see if everything was working properly. La Lison took a long time to respond, like someone injured in a fall who is unsteady on their feet. Eventually, with much coughing and hissing, she moved forwards. Slowly and sluggishly her wheels began to turn. She was going to be all right. She would make it. She would get there. But Jacques was shaking his head. He knew her inside out, and now, as he placed his hands on the controls, he sensed that there was something odd, something different. She seemed to have suddenly aged, as if she were succumbing to some fatal illness. It must have been something she had caught in the snow, something that had found its way into her, a chill, like one of those healthy young women who die of pneumonia after coming home from a dance one night in the freezing rain.

Pecqueux opened the cylinder taps, and Jacques gave one more blast on the whistle. The two guards had got back into the train. Misard, Ozil and Cabuche climbed on to the step of the leading van. The train slowly emerged from the cutting, between the two lines of soldiers who, armed with their shovels, formed a guard of honour on each side of the track. They stopped outside the crossing-keeper’s house in order to pick up the passengers.

Flore was standing outside. Ozil and Cabuche jumped down and went to stand next to her, while Misard tried to ingratiate himself with the passengers, wishing them well as they came out of his house and gratefully accepting the silver coins they placed in his hand. At last they had been rescued. But it had been a long wait. Everyone was shaking from cold, hunger and exhaustion. The Englishwoman had to carry her two daughters, who were both half asleep. The young man from Le Havre climbed into the same compartment as the pretty, dark-haired woman, who was very weary, so that he could be of assistance to her husband. Looking at all these people splashing around in the mud and trampled snow, it seemed more like a routed army that was boarding the train, pushing and shoving, desperate to find a place, and not in the least bothered about getting themselves dirty. For a brief moment, Aunt Phasie’s face appeared at one of the bedroom windows. Her curiosity had got the better of her, and she had dragged herself from her bed to see what was going on. She stood there, pitifully thin, her great sunken eyes peering at this crowd of strangers, these birds of passage from a world that never stood still, these people she would never see again, blown to her door and whisked away as if by a gale.

Séverine was the last to leave the house. She turned and smiled at Jacques, who leaned out of the engine to see that she reached her compartment safely. Flore had been watching out for them and once again turned pale when she saw the quiet look of affection that passed between them. She suddenly walked away and went to stand beside Ozil. Up until then she had wanted nothing to do with him, but now, it seemed, in her contempt for Séverine, she needed the presence of a man.

The principal guard signalled to the driver, and
La Lison
replied with a mournful screech on her whistle. This time, Jacques had no intention of stopping until they got to Rouen. It was six o‘clock; night had fallen and the white landscape was now shrouded in darkness. A last ghostly flicker of light drifted over the snow, revealing the desolation wrought by the storm. And there, dimly visible in the gathering gloom, stood the house at La Croix-de-Maufras, at an angle to the railway line, looking even more dilapidated than ever, black against the snow, with its ‘For Sale’ board nailed to the closed shutters.

The train didn’t reach Paris until ten forty that night. They had stopped at Rouen for twenty minutes to allow the passengers to get something to eat. Séverine had immediately telegraphed her husband to let him know that she would not be getting back to Le Havre until the following evening. A whole night with Jacques! The first they had ever spent together in a room of their own, free to do as they chose without fear of being disturbed!

As the train was leaving Mantes, Pecqueux had had an idea. Madame Victoire had been in hospital for a week, having fallen and seriously twisted her ankle. He knew another little place in Paris where he could spend the night, as he put it jokingly, so, if she wanted to, Madame Roubaud could stay in his own room. It would be much better than a room in a hotel; she could stay until the following evening and come and go as she pleased. Jacques immediately saw the practical advantages of the idea, especially as he hadn’t known where to take Séverine. She came up to the locomotive as the crowd of passengers was finally leaving the platform, and Jacques advised her to accept the proposal, offering her the key which Pecqueux had already given him. She hesitated and seemed confused. She was clearly embarrassed by the cheeky smirk on Pecqueux’s face; he must have known everything.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I have a cousin in Paris. I can sleep on her floor.’

‘It’ll be much better at my place,’ said Pecqueux, teasing her. ‘There’s a lovely soft bed, big enough for four!’

Jacques had such a pleading look in his eye that she took the key. He leaned towards her and whispered, ‘Wait for me.’

Séverine only needed to go a little way along the Rue d’Amsterdam and turn into the impasse, but it was so slippery underfoot that she had to walk very carefully. Fortunately the door on to the street was still open, and she was able to go up the stairs without being seen by the concierge, who was engrossed in a game of dominoes with a friend from next door. She reached the fourth floor
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and let herself in, closing the door behind her very quietly so that none of the neighbours could guess she was there. As she crossed the third-floor landing she had distinctly heard sounds of singing and laughter coming from the Dauvergnes’ apartment; no doubt the two sisters were having one of their little weekly get-togethers, when they invited their friends round to play music. Séverine closed the door and stood in the darkness, with the sounds of youthful merriment coming up through the floor from below. At first she couldn’t see a thing; suddenly, in the pitch black, the cuckoo clock began to strike eleven. It made her jump. She recognized the sound of the chimes, deep and resonant.
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As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she made out the shape of the two windows, two pale squares casting their light on the ceiling with the reflection from the snow. Having got her bearings, she felt on the sideboard for the matches. She remembered having seen them there before. It was not so easy to find a candle, but eventually she came across an old stub at the bottom of a drawer. She lit it, and the room filled with light. She glanced nervously around her as if to make sure there was no one else in the room. Everything was just as it was before - the round table at which she and her husband had eaten lunch, the bed with the red quilt draped across it where he had struck her to the ground. It was all there; nothing in the room had changed since her visit ten months earlier.

Séverine slowly removed her hat. She was about to take off her coat when she began to shiver. The room was freezing cold. Beside the stove there was a little box with some coal and firewood in it. She decided that before undressing further she would light the fire. She was glad to have something to do; it made her feel less uneasy. These preparations for a night of love and the thought that soon they would be lying warm in each other’s arms made her heart quicken with a sense of joy and excitement. They had dreamed for so long of a night such as this, without ever daring to hope that their dream might some day come true. As the stove began to roar she set about making other things ready; she arranged the chairs as she wanted them, looked out some clean sheets, and remade the bed, which was not easy as the bed was indeed very large. Her only disappointment was that she could find nothing in the sideboard to eat or drink. Presumably, if Pecqueux had had to fend for himself for the last three days, he had even eaten the crumbs from the floor! All she had found to light the room was a burned-out stub of candle! She consoled herself with the thought that once they were in bed it wouldn’t matter if it was dark. All this activity had made her feel very hot. She stood in the middle of the room, looking round it to make sure that everything was ready.

She was beginning to wonder why Jacques had not yet arrived when the sound of an engine whistle drew her towards one of the windows. It was the 11.20 through train to Le Havre, which was just leaving. Down below, the station approaches and the cutting leading out to the Batignolles tunnel were covered in a vast carpet of snow, with the railway lines fanning out across it like the dark branches of a tree. The engines and carriages standing on the sidings appeared as white lumps, as if they were curled up asleep beneath an ermine blanket. Between the spotless white covering of snow on the glass roof of the two great train sheds and the lace-trimmed girders of the Pont de l’Europe, the houses directly opposite in the Rue de Rome stood out, despite the fact that it was dark, as dirty yellow smears in a vast expanse of white. The train for Le Havre came out of the station, silhouetted darkly against the snow, creeping slowly forward, the light from its headlamp cutting through the night. She watched it disappear under the bridge, its three tail lamps casting a blood-red stain on the snow behind it. She turned back into the room. A shiver ran through her. Was she really alone? She thought she had felt someone breathe on her neck, a hand touching her clumsily through her clothes. She looked around the room a second time, wide-eyed. There was no one.

What was Jacques up to? Why was he taking so long? Another ten minutes went by. Then she heard a faint scratching sound, like fingernails scraping wood. Her heart missed a beat. Suddenly realizing what it was, she ran to open the door. It was Jacques, with a cake and a bottle of Malaga.
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Shaking with laughter, she threw her arms impulsively round his neck.

‘You angel!’ she said. ‘You remembered to bring some food!’

Jacques hurriedly warned her not to talk so loud.

‘Sh! Sh!’ he said.

She lowered her voice, thinking that the concierge might have followed him up the stairs. No, he had been lucky. Just as he was about to ring, the door had opened for a lady and her daughter, just leaving the Dauvergnes’ no doubt. So he had been able to slip upstairs without anyone noticing.
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However, one of the doors across the landing had been left ajar, and he had seen the lady from the newspaper kiosk finishing some washing in a bowl.

‘We mustn’t make any noise,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to talk quietly.’

Her answer was to take him in her arms, hug him closely and silently cover his face with kisses. She loved it when things were all mysterious and she had to speak in low whispers.

‘Don’t worry!’ she said. ‘We’ll be as quiet as two little mice!’

She laid the table as silently as she could - two plates, two glasses, two knives - pausing to stop herself laughing when she put something down too quickly and made a noise.

Jacques sat happily watching her.

‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he whispered.

‘I’m starving,’ she said. ‘The food at Rouen was awful!’

‘Shall I go and see if I can find us a chicken?’ he suggested.

‘No,’ she answered, ‘you might not be able to get back in! The cake will be plenty.’

They sat down, side by side; they were almost sitting on the same chair. They shared the cake between them, huddling close to each other as they ate it. Séverine said she had never felt so thirsty and drank two glasses of Malaga, one after the other, which quickly brought the colour to her cheeks. Behind them, the stove was glowing red; they could feel its warmth. He began to kiss her neck, passionately. She placed her hand on his lips.

‘Sh!’ she whispered. ‘They will hear us.’

She gestured to him to listen. Once more from below came the sound of people dancing, accompanied by someone playing the piano. The Dauvergne sisters were obviously having a party. They heard the newspaper woman from the room next door emptying her bowl of soapy water down the sink on the landing. She went back and closed her door. Downstairs, the dancing stopped for a moment. Outside beneath the window, the sounds were muffled by the snow; all that could be heard was the faint rumble of a departing train and the half-hearted toot-toot of its whistle, like someone crying.

‘A train for Auteuil,’ he murmured. ‘Ten to twelve.’

Then he whispered gently into her ear: ‘Darling, shall we go to bed?’

She didn’t answer him. She had been feeling blissfully happy, when suddenly the past had overtaken her. She found herself reliving the hours she had spent there with her husband. The cake she had just shared with Jacques seemed a continuation of that lunch with Roubaud, eaten at the same table, with the same sounds coming up from the apartment below. Everything in the room awakened the past; memories flooded over her. Never had she felt such a burning need to tell her lover everything, to surrender herself to him completely. It was an almost physical need, inseparable from her sexual desire. It seemed to her that she would belong to him more fully and that she would receive the greatest joy from being his if she could whisper her confession into his ear as she lay in his arms. Everything was coming back to her. Her husband was there in the room. She looked round, thinking she had just seen his hand, with its short, hairy fingers reaching over her shoulder for the knife.