"No, no," said she, "I've a cousin. She will make me up a bed."
Jacques looked at her so earnestly that she ended by taking the key; while he, bending forward, whispered: "Wait for me."
Séverine had only to take a few steps up the Rue d'Amsterdam, and turn into the Impasse, or Blind Alley of the same name. But the snow was so slippery that she had to walk very cautiously. She had the good fortune to find the door of the house still open, and ascended the staircase without even being seen by the portress, who was deep in a game of dominoes with a neighbour. On the fifth floor she opened the door and closed it so softly that certainly none of the neighbours could suspect her there. Crossing the landing on the floor below, she had very distinctly heard laughter and singing at the Dauvergnes; doubtless one of the small receptions of the two sisters, who invited their friends to musical evenings once a week.
And now that Séverine had closed the door, and found herself in the oppressive darkness of the room, she could still distinguish the sound of the lively gaiety of all this youth coming through the boards. For a moment the obscurity seemed to her complete; and she started when the cuckoo clock, amidst the gloom, began to ring out eleven with deep strokes—a sound she recognised. Then her eyes became accustomed to the dimness of the apartment. The two windows stood out in two pale squares, lighting the ceiling with the reflex of the snow. She was already beginning to find her way about, seeking for the matches on the sideboard in a corner where she recollected having seen them. But she had more difficulty in finding a candle. At last she discovered the end of one at the back of a drawer; and having put a lucifer to it the room was lit up. At once she cast a rapid, anxious glance around, as if to make sure that she was quite alone. She recognised everything: the round table where she had lunched with her husband; the bed draped with red cotton material, beside which he had knocked her down with a blow from his fist. It was there sure enough, nothing had been changed in the room during her absence of six months.
Séverine slowly removed her hat. But, as she was also about to set aside her cloak, she shivered. It was as cold as ice in this room. In a small box near the stove, were coal and firewood. Immediately, without taking off her wraps, she began to light the fire. This occupation amused her, serving as a diversion from the uneasiness she had at first experienced. When the stove began to draw, she busied herself with other household duties, arranging the chairs as it pleased her to see them, looking out clean sheets, and making the bed again, which caused her a deal of trouble, as it was unusually wide. She felt annoyed to find nothing to eat or drink in the sideboard. Doubtless Pecqueux had made a clean sweep of everything during the three days he had been master there. It was the same in regard to the light, there being only this single bit of candle.
And now, feeling very warm and lively, she stood in the middle of the room glancing round to make sure that everything was in order. Then, just as she was beginning to feel astonished that Jacques had not yet arrived, a whistle drew her to one of the windows. It was the 11.20 through train to Havre that was leaving. Below, the vast expanse, the trench extending from the station to the Batignolles tunnel, appeared one sheet of snow where naught could be distinguished save the fan of metals with its black branches. The engines and carriages on the sidings formed white heaps, looking as if they rested beneath coverings of ermine. And between the immaculate glass of the great marquees and the ironwork of the Pont de l'Europe bordered with frets, the houses in the Rue de Rome opposite, in spite of the darkness, could be seen jumbled together in a tint of dirty yellow.
The through train for Havre went along, crawling and sombre, its front lamp boring the obscurity with a bright flame; and Séverine watched it vanish under the bridge, reddening the snow with its three back lights. On turning from the window she gave another brief shiver—was she really quite alone? She seemed to feel a warm breath heating the back of her neck, a brutal blow grazing her skin through her clothes. Her widely opened eyes again looked round. No, no one.
What could Jacques be after, to remain so long as this? Another ten minutes passed. A slight scraping, a sound of finger-nails scratching against wood, alarmed her. Then she understood, and hastened to open the door. It was Jacques with a bottle of Malaga and a cake.
In an outburst of tenderness she threw her arms round his neck, rippling with laughter.
"Oh! you pet of a man to have thought to bring something," she exclaimed.