The next morning, Séverine happened to notice a new scratch in one of the pieces at the edge of the parquet. She bent down and saw that it had been lifted. Clearly her husband was still helping himself to the money. She suddenly felt very angry, which surprised her, as normally money matters didn’t bother her. More to the point, she had thought that she too would rather starve than lay hands on money that was tainted. But surely this money belonged to her as much as to him! Why should he make use of it secretly, without even telling her about it? All day long she was tormented by the desire to know for certain whether the money had been taken; she would have lifted the floorboard herself to see, but the thought of feeling around down there on her own sent a shiver down her spine. Perhaps the dead man’s ghost would rise from beneath the floor! The thought terrified her; it was childish, she knew, but she couldn’t bear to stay in the room. She picked up her work and shut herself in her bedroom.
That evening, as the two of them sat silently eating the remains of a stew, it again annoyed her to see his eyes continually wandering towards the corner of the parquet floor where the money was hidden.
‘You’ve taken some more, haven’t you?’ she said suddenly.
He looked up in surprise.
‘Taken some more what?’ he replied.
‘Oh, don’t come the innocent, you know very well what I mean ... I won’t have you taking that money, do you hear! It’s no more yours than mine! It makes me feel ill to know you’re stealing it.’
Roubaud did his best to avoid arguments. The only time they were together was the bare minimum that being married to each other imposed; they spent whole days without exchanging a word, coming and going like two strangers, totally indifferent to each other and leading their own separate lives. He simply shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
But Séverine was angry and wanted to settle this hidden money business once and for all; it had worried her since the day of the murder.
‘I insist on an answer,’ she shouted. ‘I defy you to say you haven’t touched it!’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ he answered.
‘What it’s got to do with me is that it turns my stomach! It frightens me! Today I couldn’t stay in the room. Every time you move that floorboard I have awful dreams, night after night. We never talk about it. So keep away from it! I don’t want to have to think about it!’
He looked at her with big, staring eyes, struggling to find an answer.
‘What’s it got to do with you if I take some of his money? I’m not forcing you to put your hands on it. It’s for me. What I do with it is my business.’
She raised her hand to slap him, but managed to stop herself. It was unbearable. She looked at him in despair; he disgusted her.
‘I don’t understand you,’ she said. ‘You used to be an honest man ... You wouldn’t have stolen a penny from anyone ... I could have forgiven you for what you did; you weren’t in your right mind. You made me lose my head too ... But this money! ... This awful money! You said you wanted nothing to do with it and now you’re stealing it, bit by bit, just for your own amusement! What’s happened to you? How could you sink so low?’
What she said seemed to bring him momentarily to his senses; he was suddenly amazed to realize he had been reduced to stealing money. He could no longer remember how he had managed to lower himself to this or piece together the bits of his life that the murder had undone. He couldn’t understand how this new life, this new person, had come to exist, with his marriage in ruins and his wife estranged from him and despising him. But it was too late; what was done could not be undone. He waved his hands in the air as if to dispel these unpleasant thoughts from his mind.
‘When it’s no fun at home,’ he muttered, ‘you go and get your pleasures somewhere else. As you don’t love me any more ...’
‘No, I certainly don’t love you ...’
He looked at her and thumped the table with his fist; he was purple with rage.
‘Right! You can mind your own damned business then!’ he shouted. ‘Do I stop you enjoying yourself? Do I tell you what you should or shouldn’t do? I don’t know why I put up with you! Any decent-minded bloke would kick you out of the house! Perhaps then I wouldn’t steal!’
She went white. It had often occurred to her that when a jealous husband is so tormented within himself that he turns a blind eye to his wife having a lover, it must indicate some mental gangrene, taking over everything, clouding his judgement and destroying his mind. But she was not going to give in to him; it was not she who was to blame. She was choking with rage.
‘I forbid you to touch that money!’ she screamed.
He had finished eating. He slowly folded his serviette and got up from the table.
‘All right then,’ he sneered, ‘we’ll share it.’
He was already on his knees, about to lift the floorboard. She rushed forward and placed her foot on it.
‘No! No!’ she cried. ‘You know I’d rather die. Don’t open it! I can’t bear to look!’
That evening, Séverine had arranged to meet Jacques behind the goods station. When she got back home, after midnight, the thought of the argument earlier that evening came back to her. She went into her bedroom and turned the key twice. Roubaud was on night duty, so she needn’t worry that he might come back home to sleep, as he sometimes did. She lay in bed with the cover wrapped round her and the lamp dimmed. Yet she could not sleep. Why had she refused to share the money? The idea of using it no longer seemed so outrageous. After all, she had accepted the legacy of La Croix-de-Maufras. Why not take the money as well? A shudder ran through her. No! Never! The fact that it was money didn’t bother her; what she couldn’t bring herself to lay her hands on without fear of burning her fingers was money that had been stolen from a corpse, the ill-gotten gains of a murder. On the other hand, she reasoned with herself, beginning to think more calmly, if she did take it, it wouldn’t be in order to spend it, it would be to hide it somewhere else, to bury it in a place known only to her, where it would lie hidden for ever. If she did it now, she would still have saved half of it from the hands of her husband. It would prevent him from taking it all for himself, and he would no longer be able to gamble money that belonged to her. The clock struck three. She bitterly regretted not having agreed to share the money. Gradually an idea began to take shape in her mind, slowly at first and still not very clear. She must get out of bed. She must lift the floorboard. Her husband must not take any more of the money. But the very thought made her feel so cold that she didn’t think she could do it. Yet if she took the money now and kept it herself, Roubaud wouldn’t be able to stop her. It slowly dawned on her that this was her only chance. Her determination gathered strength, rising from deep within her subconscious self, overcoming her resistance, compelling her to act whether she wished it or not. She suddenly leaped out of bed, turned up the wick of the lamp and went into the dining room.
She was no longer shaking. Her fears had left her. She went about her task with the cool, unhurried precision of a sleepwalker. She fetched the poker that he used for lifting the floorboard. It was difficult to see into the hole, so she brought the lamp closer. She leaned forward. The hole was empty! She remained rooted to the spot, horror-stricken, unable to move. When she had gone to meet her lover, Roubaud had evidently returned, intent, as she had been, on taking the money and keeping it himself. The banknotes had all gone; not one was left. She knelt on the floor. Down in the hole she saw a glint of gold between the dusty joists; the watch and chain was all he had left behind. She remained for a moment, white with rage, stiff, half-naked, muttering repeatedly to herself: ‘Thief! Thief! Thief!’
She thrust her hand angrily into the hole and seized the watch, disturbing a big black spider, which ran off over the plaster. She replaced the floorboard with her heel and went back to bed, putting the lamp on the bedside table. When she was warm again, she looked at the watch, which she still held clutched in her hand. She turned it over and examined it carefully. She recognized Grandmorin’s two intertwined initials, engraved on the case. She opened it and read the figures 2516 - the maker’s number. It was a very precious watch, and the police knew its number; it would be dangerous to keep it. But she was so furious that it was the only thing she had managed to retrieve that this didn’t bother her. She even felt she would stop having nightmares now that this corpse had gone from under the floor. At last she would be able to walk about freely in her own house, without feeling frightened. She slipped the watch under her pillow, put out the lamp and fell asleep.
The following day being his day off, Jacques had arranged to wait until Roubaud had gone down to the Café du Commerce as usual and then join her for dinner. They did this occasionally, when they felt it was safe. Séverine told him about the money, shaking as she spoke. She explained how she had found the hiding place empty. She still felt very bitter towards her husband.
‘Thief! Thief! Thief!’ she kept saying.
She went to fetch the watch, and insisted on giving it to him, despite his obvious reluctance to take it.
‘Please, darling,’ she said, ‘no one will ever know you’ve got it. If I keep it here, he’ll take it from me again. I’d rather he flayed me alive! He’s had more than his fair share! I never wanted anything to do with the money. I couldn’t bear to touch it! I wouldn’t have spent a single penny of it. Why should he have it all for himself? I hate him!’
She was in tears, imploring him, begging him. Eventually Jacques took the watch and put it in his waistcoat pocket.
An hour went by. Séverine still sat on his lap, half-dressed, leaning against his shoulder, with her arm draped lazily around his neck. Suddenly, Roubaud walked into the room; he had a key. Séverine leaped to her feet. But it was too late; he had seen them. He stood by the door, apparently unable to move. Jacques remained seated, not knowing what to do. Without even bothering to attempt an explanation, Séverine walked up to him and screamed furiously: ‘Thief! Thief! Thief!’
For a moment Roubaud did nothing. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, which was how he dismissed most things these days, he went over to the bedroom to look for his report-book, which he had forgotten to take with him. Séverine ran into the room after him, shouting: ‘You’ve stolen the money! Go on, deny it if you can! You’ve taken it, haven’t you! All of it! Thief! Thief! Thief!’
Roubaud walked across the room without a word. When he reached the door, he turned round, fixing her in a sullen gaze.
‘Go to hell!’ he muttered.
He went out, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. He didn’t appear to have noticed Jacques sitting there; he didn’t even mention him.
After a long silence, Séverine turned towards Jacques.
‘I don’t believe it!’ she said.
Jacques had not spoken, but he now stood up.
‘He’s finished!’ he declared.
They agreed. At first they were amazed that, having killed one lover, he should put up with another. Then they found themselves despising him; how could a husband be so complacent? When a man reached that stage, he was in a mess; he would end up in the gutter.
From that day on, Séverine and Jacques were free to do as they wanted; they no longer needed to bother about Roubaud. Their main worry now, however, was Madame Lebleu, the nosey woman next door; she was convinced something was going on. When he came to see Séverine, Jacques crept along the corridor as quietly as possible. But to no avail; every time, he saw the door opposite being inched open and an eye watching him through the crack. It was becoming intolerable; he hardly dared come any more. When he did come, Madame Lebleu always knew he was there and would be outside with her ear glued to the door; they couldn’t kiss or even hold a proper conversation. Séverine was so exasperated by this new intrusion into her love life that she once more began to press to have the Lebleus’ apartment transferred to her. Traditionally the apartment had always been assigned to the assistant stationmaster. It was no longer the splendid view that attracted her, with the windows looking out on to the station forecourt and the Ingouville hills; her only reason for wanting it, although she kept this to herself, was that the apartment had a back door opening on to the tradesman’s entrance. Jacques would be able to come and go as he pleased, and Madame Lebleu would be none the wiser. They would at last be free!
It was to prove far from easy, however. This dispute had been the subject of heated debate before; everyone on the corridor knew about it. But things had now come to a head. Madame Lebleu, feeling herself threatened, made no secret of her objections. It would kill her if she was shut up in a dingy room at the back, with only the station roof to look at; it would be like living in a prison cell! How could she be expected to live in a pokey little hole like that, when she was used to a nice, bright room with a fine view, where she could watch all the passengers coming and going? Her legs were so bad she couldn’t get out for a walk; she’d just have to sit looking at a lead roof! They might as well just kill her and have done with it! But no matter how upset she got, in the end she had to admit she was only living there as the result of a favour; the previous assistant stationmaster, Roubaud’s predecessor, had let them have it because he was a bachelor and lived on his own. Her husband had even written a letter undertaking to return it if the new assistant stationmaster wanted it. The letter could no longer be found, and Madame Lebleu denied that it had ever existed. The more untenable her position seemed to be, the more violent and aggressive she became. At one point she tried to get Madame Moulin, the other assistant stationmaster’s wife, on her side by involving her in the quarrel; Madame Moulin, she claimed, had seen Madame Roubaud kissing men on the stairs. Moulin had got very angry. His wife was a quiet, retiring person, whom you hardly ever saw. She had been reduced to tears; she swore she had seen nothing and had said no such thing. For a week the arguments raged from one end of the corridor to the other. Madame Lebleu’s mistake, which was eventually to lead to her downfall, was to annoy Mademoiselle Guichon, the office secretary, by constantly prying into her affairs. Madame Lebleu was convinced that Mademoiselle Guichon spent every evening with the stationmaster. It had become an obsession; she had a pathological desire to catch her out, exacerbated by the fact that she had been spying on her for two years and had discovered absolutely nothing, not a whisper. Yet she was sure they were sleeping together; it drove her mad. It made Mademoiselle Guichon very angry that she could neither leave nor return to her apartment without being watched, and she had asked that Madame Lebleu be moved to the other side of the corridor. That way there would be an apartment between them, they wouldn’t be living opposite each other, and she would no longer have to walk past her door every day. It was becoming obvious that Monsieur Dabadie, the stationmaster, who hitherto had not wanted to get involved in all this arguing, was now beginning to lose sympathy with Monsieur and Madame Lebleu, which did not augur well.