The Beast Within (54 page)

By midnight, Flore’s body lay beside her mother’s in the cottage. They had put a mattress on the floor and had lit a new candle between them. Phasie’s head was still turned sideways, and her mouth was still twisted in a horrible grin. Her big, staring eyes now seemed to be looking at her daughter. In the empty silence could be heard the sound of someone breathing heavily; it was Misard, back at his endless task, looking for the hidden money. Now that the service had been restored in both directions, the trains went by at their appointed times — unstoppable, all-powerful, unknowing machines, indifferent to the disasters and crimes that had just occurred. What did it matter that a few nameless people had come to an end beneath their wheels? The dead had been carried away, and the blood had been cleaned up. People were on the move again — towards a bright, new future!

It was the large bedroom at La Croix-de-Maufras, hung with red damask, and with two tall windows looking out on to the railway line a few metres away. From the old four-poster bed facing them you could see the trains go by. For years nothing had been removed from the room; the furniture stood just where it always had done.

Séverine had had Jacques brought up to this room, injured and still unconscious. Henri Dauvergne had been taken to another, smaller bedroom downstairs. Séverine moved into a room close to Jacques’s, just across the landing. It took only an hour or two to settle in and make themselves reasonably comfortable; the house had been kept fully appointed, and there was even fresh linen in the cupboards. Having sent a telegram to Roubaud telling him not to expect her because she would probably be there several days looking after some of the injured, who had been brought to the house, Séverine tied an apron over her dress and set about her nurse’s duties.

By the following day the doctor was feeling more confident about Jacques and expected to have him back on his feet within a week. It was quite miraculous; he had only a few minor internal injuries. Even so, he insisted that he needed careful looking after and that he must be kept absolutely still. So when Jacques opened his eyes, Séverine, who had been sitting at his bedside like a child, begged him to be good and do exactly as she told him. He was still very weak and simply nodded. His mind, however, was perfectly clear, and he recognized the bedroom from Séverine’s description of it on the night she had confessed to him — the red room, in which, at the tender age of sixteen and a half, she had been subjected to Grandmorin’s unwholesome desires. He was lying in Grandmorin’s bed. Those were the windows through which, without even having to raise his head, Grandmorin had watched the trains rush past, shaking the house to its foundations. This house that he was now inside was the house he had so often noticed when he drove past it on his train. He could picture it clearly, standing at an angle to the line, silent and abandoned, its shutters closed, and since it had been put up for sale, looking even more forlorn and neglected, with a huge board outside it adding to the unkempt appearance of the garden, which was overgrown with brambles. He remembered the horrible feeling of sadness that came over him every time he saw it, and the sense of unease it filled him with, as if it had been placed there deliberately, to bring misfortune upon him. Now, as he lay in this room feeling so weak, he thought he understood. It must mean that he had been brought here to die.

As soon as she saw that he was able to understand her, Séverine had done her best to reassure him. As she pulled up the bedclothes, she whispered into his ear:

‘Don’t worry, darling. I’ve emptied your pockets and hidden the watch.’

He looked at her, his eyes wide open, trying to remember.

‘The watch? ... Ah yes, the watch.’

‘They might have looked through your belongings, so I’ve hidden it with some things of mine. There’s nothing to fear.’

He thanked her with a squeeze of the hand. As he turned his head, he caught sight of the knife on the table, which she had also found in one of his pockets. There had been no need to hide that; it was just a knife, like any other.

By the next day, Jacques was already stronger, and beginning to think that perhaps after all he wasn’t going to die there. He was overjoyed when he recognized Cabuche, standing near his bed, tidying things up and clumping round the room on his big, heavy feet. Ever since the accident, Cabuche hadn’t left Séverine’s side. He felt he had to do something to help. He gave up working at the quarry and came every morning to help Séverine with the heavy jobs around the house. He was like a faithful dog; he doted on her. She was a tough woman, even if she was only a ‘little-un’, as he put it. She did so much for others that she deserved to have someone do something for her. Jacques and Séverine got used to him being there. They talked happily together and even exchanged kisses, while Cabuche did his best to avoid disturbing them and tried to make himself as small as possible.

Jacques, however, was surprised that Séverine was away from him so often. The first day, on the doctor’s instructions, she hadn’t told him that Henri was downstairs, realizing that the thought that they were completely alone would have a calming effect on him.

‘Are we alone?’ he asked.

‘Yes, darling, absolutely alone ... relax and go to sleep.’

But she kept constantly disappearing. The next day he heard the sound of footsteps downstairs, and people whispering. The day after that, there were sounds of subdued laughter and hilarity, and the bright, animated voices of two girls talking incessantly.

‘Who’s that downstairs?’ he asked. ‘We’re not alone, are we?’

‘Well, no, we aren’t, darling. There’s another injured man downstairs, just underneath your room. I had to bring him here as well.’

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Henri. You know, the guard.’

‘Henri ... Oh yes!’

‘His sisters have come to see him. It’s them you can hear. They laugh at anything. Henri is much better, so they’re going back tonight. Their father can’t do without them. Henri needs to stay for another two or three days until he’s completely well. Can you believe it? He jumped off the train and he didn’t break a single bone. The only thing wrong was that his mind had gone a complete blank. But he’s more like himself again now.’

Jacques said nothing, fixing his eyes steadily upon her.

‘You do understand, don’t you?’ she added. ‘If he weren’t here, people would start talking about us. So long as I’m not on my own with you, my husband has no cause for complaint. It gives me a good excuse for staying here. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Jacques, ‘that’s fine.’

He lay listening to the laughter of Henri’s two sisters until the evening. He remembered hearing it in Paris, from the floor below, in the room where Séverine had lain in his arms and confessed to him. Eventually quiet returned, and all he could hear was the sound of Séverine’s footsteps as she tripped backwards and forwards between him and her other patient downstairs. The door downstairs would close, and there would be complete silence. Twice, feeling particularly thirsty, he had to bang on the floor with the leg of a chair to summon her upstairs. She came into his room all smiles, fussing over him and explaining that she couldn’t come to him sooner because she had to keep putting cold compresses on Henri’s forehead.

By the fourth day, Jacques was able to get out of bed and spend a couple of hours in an armchair by the window. By leaning forward a little, he could see the narrow garden, cut in two by the railway line, enclosed by a low wall and overgrown with pale-flowered rose bushes. He remembered the night he had stood on tiptoe to look over the wall. He recalled the larger piece of ground at the back of the house, surrounded by only a hedge; he had walked through it and had come across Flore sitting outside the little ruined greenhouse, untangling some stolen twine with a pair of scissors. What a terrible night that had been; what torments he had suffered as a result of his murderous affliction! As he became able to remember things more clearly, he had been obsessed by an image of Flore — tall, athletic and majestic, her eyes ablaze and staring straight into his. At first he hadn’t spoken about the accident, and no one spoke about it in his presence, for fear of upsetting him. But now, the details were all coming back to him. He tried to piece them together; he could think of nothing else. It absorbed him so completely that, as he sat at the window, his sole concern was to look for some clue, to observe those who had been involved in the tragedy. Why did he no longer see Flore standing at her post by the level-crossing, holding her flag? He did not dare ask; the question simply added to the unease inspired in him by this gloomy house, which seemed to be haunted by ghosts from the past.

One morning, however, as Cabuche was standing near him, helping Séverine, he made up his mind.

‘Where’s Flore?’ he asked. ‘Is she ill?’

The question took Cabuche by surprise. Séverine made a sign, but Cabuche, mistakenly thinking that she was telling him to answer, said, ‘Poor Flore, she’s dead!’

Jacques looked at them. He was shaking all over. They had to tell him the whole story. Between them they told him of Flore’s suicide; how she had walked into the tunnel and thrown herself under a train. Her mother’s funeral had been delayed until the evening so that her daughter could be buried at the same time; they had been laid to rest side by side in the little cemetery at Doinville, where they had joined the first victim of this sorry tale, Phasie’s younger daughter, the poor, unfortunate Louisette, who had likewise met a violent end, having been beaten and dragged through the mud. Three pitiful women who had fallen by the wayside, crushed and discarded, like refuse blown away in the fearful blast of the passing trains!

‘Dead! Oh God!’ whispered Jacques. ‘My poor Aunt Phasie, and Flore and Louisette!’

At the mention of Louisette, Cabuche, who was helping Séverine move the bed, raised his eyes instinctively towards her, pained by the sudden recollection of his former love; he was completely besotted by his new-found admiration for Séverine. Being the soft-hearted, simple soul he was, he doted on her like an obedient dog that fawns on its master the minute it is stroked. Séverine knew about his tragic love affair. She gave him a look of sympathy and understanding. Cabuche was deeply touched. As he passed the pillows to her, his hand accidentally brushed against hers. He gasped, and stammered something in reply to Jacques. Jacques had asked him whether Flore had been accused of causing the accident.

‘Oh, no,’ he mumbled. ‘They said she was responsible for it, but...’

Speaking slowly and hesitantly he told him what he knew. He hadn’t seen anything himself. He had been inside the house when the horses moved forward and pulled the wagon across the line. He could never forgive himself. The police officers had given him a severe talking to. Horses should not be left unattended. If he’d stayed with them this terrible accident would never have happened. The inquiry had arrived at the conclusion that it was a case of simple negligence on Flore’s part, and as she had already inflicted such a terrible punishment on herself, no further action was needed. Nor did they propose to dismiss Misard, who in his usual grovelling, obsequious way had got himself out of difficulties by blaming Flore. She only ever did her job as it suited her. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to leave his post to close the crossing gate. The Railway Company, moreover, could only certify that on that particular morning Misard had performed his duties meticulously and they authorized him, until such time as he chose to remarry, to share his house with an old woman living near by by the name of Ducloux, who would act as the new gate-keeper. Madame Ducloux had at one time worked as a barmaid and now lived off the immoral earnings she had amassed previously.

Cabuche left the room. Jacques motioned to Séverine to remain behind. He was very pale.

‘You know, don’t you,’ he said, ‘that it was Flore who pulled the horses forward and blocked the line with the stones?’

It was Séverine’s turn to go pale.

‘Darling, what are you saying? You’ve got a temperature. You must get back to bed.’

‘It’s not just a bad dream,’ he said. ‘I saw her, do you understand. As plainly as I see you. She had her hand on the horses, holding them back and preventing the wagon from crossing.’

Séverine’s legs gave way and she sank on to a chair in front of him.

‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘It’s terrifying! It’s monstrous! I shall never be able to sleep again.’

‘It’s perfectly clear,’ Jacques went on. ‘She tried to kill us ... both of us ... along with everyone else. She had wanted me for years and she was jealous. What’s more, she was crazy. Her head was full of mad ideas. All those people! Killed just like that! In one huge bloodbath! What a monster!’

His eyes were wide open, and a nervous twitch played on his lips. He fell silent, and they continued to look at each other. A whole minute went by. Then, tearing himself away from the fearful visions that were forming in their minds, he continued in a whisper, ‘If she’s dead, then it’s her ghost that comes to haunt me! Ever since I regained consciousness, she seems always to be there. This morning I thought she was standing by the bed. I turned round to look ... She is dead and we are alive. Let us hope that she won’t take her revenge!’

Séverine shuddered.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ she cried. ‘You’ll drive me mad!’

She went out. Jacques heard her going downstairs to tend to Henri. He remained by the window, once again absorbed in the scene below — the railway line, the gate-keeper’s cottage with its large well, the little wooden section box, where Misard, for all the world as if he were asleep, performed his endless, repetitive tasks. Jacques sat contemplating these things for hours on end, as if he were pondering a problem he could not solve, yet on whose solution his life depended.

He could not take his eyes off Misard — such a pathetic, inoffensive, washed-out looking character, continually racked by a nasty little cough, a man who had poisoned his wife and reduced a fine healthy woman to nothing, like a voracious insect that is driven by only one impulse! For years he must have thought of nothing else, day and night, every minute of the twelve interminable hours he was on duty. Each time the telegraph sounded to announce a train he would blow his horn; then, once the train had passed and he had closed the line behind it, he would press one button to offer it to the next section and another button to free the line to the section it had just left. These were simple mechanical operations that had become an integral part of his dreary vegetable existence, a kind of bodily reflex. He was uneducated and obtuse; he never read anything, but simply sat waiting for the bells to ring, with his arms dangling at his sides and his eyes gazing vacantly into space. He spent nearly all his time sitting in his cabin, with no other distraction than trying to make his lunch last as long as possible. He would then relapse into his stupor, his mind completely blank and not a thought in his head, overcome with insuperable drowsiness and sometimes dropping off to sleep with his eyes wide open. At night, in order to stop himself falling asleep, he would get up and totter about like someone who had had too much to drink. For months on end, the battle with his wife, the silent contest over which of them would have the hidden one thousand francs after the death of the other, must have been the sole preoccupation of this lonely man’s empty mind. When he went out to sound his horn or change the signals, performing the unvaried routine that ensured the safety of so many lives, he was thinking about poison. As he sat in his hut, waiting, with his arms hanging limp and his eyes heavy with sleep, the same thoughts ran through his head. He thought of nothing else; he would kill her, he would look for the money and it would be his.