The following day, a Sunday, five o'clock in the morning had just
struck from all the belfries of Havre, when Roubaud came down under
the iron marquee of the station, to resume duty. It was still pitch
dark; but the wind, blowing from the sea, had increased, and drove
along the haze, smothering the hills which extend from Sainte-Adresse
to Tourneville; while westward, above the offing, appeared a bright
opening, a strip of sky, where shone the last stars. The gas-lamps
under the marquee were still alight, but looking pale in the damp
chill of this matutinal hour. Shunters were engaged in making-up the
first train for Montivilliers, under the orders of the assistant
station-master on night duty. The doors of the waiting-rooms had not
yet been opened, and the platforms stretched forward, deserted, in this
drowsy awakening of the station.
As Roubaud left his apartments, upstairs, over the waiting-rooms, he
found Madame Lebleu, the wife of the cashier, standing motionless
in the middle of the central corridor, on which the lodgings of the
members of the staff opened. For weeks past this lady had been in the
habit of getting up during the night to watch Mademoiselle Guichon,
the office-keeper, whom she suspected of carrying on an intrigue with
M. Dabadie, the station-master. As a matter of fact, she had never
surprised the least thing, not a shadow, not a breath. And, again on
this particular morning, she had quickly returned to her own quarters,
taking no news back with her, save the expression of her astonishment
at what she had caught sight of in the rooms occupied by the Roubauds,
during the two or three seconds the husband had required to open and
shut the door. There she had seen the beautiful Séverine, who was in
the habit of lying abed until nine o'clock in the morning, standing
up in the dining-room dressed, combed, and booted. And she had roused
Lebleu to tell him of this extraordinary occurrence.
On the previous night they sat up until the arrival of the Paris
express at 11.05, burning to learn what had become of the affair with
the sub-prefect. But they were unable to read anything in the attitude
of the Roubauds, who returned with faces wearing their everyday
expression; and in vain did they listen until midnight: not a sound
came from the rooms occupied by their neighbours, who must have gone
to bed at once, and fallen fast asleep. Their journey could certainly
not have been attended with a good result, otherwise Séverine would
not have risen at such an early hour. The cashier having inquired how
she looked, his wife had been at pains to describe her: very stiff,
very pale, with her great blue eyes appearing so bright against her
black hair; she was standing quite still, and had the aspect of a
somnambulist. But they would find out all about it in the course of the
day.
Down below, Roubaud found his colleague Moulin, who had been on duty
during the night; and as he took over the service, Moulin walked along
with him for a minute or two, posting him up in the few small events
that had occurred since the previous evening: some vagrants had been
surprised as they were effecting an entrance into the cloakroom; three
porters had been reprimanded for indiscipline; a coupling-hook had
just broken while the Montivilliers train was being made-up. Roubaud
listened in silence, and with calm countenance. He was only a trifle
pale, due no doubt to a remainder of fatigue, which was also visible
in his heavy eyes. When his colleague ceased speaking, he still seemed
to look at him inquiringly, as if he expected something more. But what
he had heard was all, and he bent his head, gazing for an instant on
the ground.
As the two men walked along the platform they reached the end of the
corrugated iron roofing, and on the right stood a coach-house where the
carriages in constant use remained, such as came in one day, and served
to make up the trains on the morrow. Roubaud raised his head, and was
looking fixedly at a first-class carriage with a coupé, bearing the
No. 293, which as it happened a gas-lamp lit up with its vacillating
glimmer, when Moulin remarked:
"Ah! I forgot----"
The pale face of the other coloured, and he was unable to restrain a
slight movement.
"I forgot," repeated Moulin; "that carriage must not leave. Do not put
it on the 6.40 express this morning."
A short silence ensued before Roubaud, in a very natural voice said:
"Indeed! Why is that?"
"Because," replied Moulin, "a coupé has been booked for the express of
this evening. We are not sure that one will come in during the day, so
we may just as well keep this one."
"Certainly," replied Roubaud, staring at his colleague.
But he was absorbed by another thought, and all at once, flying into a
rage, he exclaimed:
"It's disgusting! Just see how those fellows do the cleaning! That
carriage looks as if it had the accumulated dust of a week on it."
"Ah!" resumed Moulin. "When trains arrive after eleven o'clock at
night, there is no fear of the men giving the coaches a brush up. It's
as much as they will do to cast a glance inside of them. The other
night, they overlooked a passenger asleep on one of the seats, and he
only awoke the next morning."
Then, stifling a yawn, he said he was going up to bed. But as he went
off, an abrupt feeling of curiosity brought him back.
"By the way, what about your affair with the sub-prefect?" he inquired.
"It's all settled, I suppose?"
"Yes, yes," answered Roubaud. "I made a very good journey. I'm quite
satisfied."
"Well, so much the better. And bear in mind that the 293 does not
start," replied the other.
When Roubaud found himself alone on the platform, he slowly went back
towards the Montivilliers train, which was ready. The doors of the
waiting-rooms were open, and some passengers appeared: a few sportsmen
with their dogs, and two or three families of shop-keepers, taking
advantage of the Sunday--only a few people altogether. But when that
train had gone, the first of the day, Roubaud had not much time to
lose. He immediately had to make up the 5.40 slow train for Rouen and
Paris.
At this early hour not many servants of the company were about; and the
work of the assistant station-master on duty, was complicated by all
sorts of details. When he had superintended the making-up of the train,
consisting in each carriage being taken from the coach-house and placed
on a truck, which a gang of men pushed along under the marquee, he had
to run off to the main building, to give a glance at the ticket office,
and the luggage booking department. A quarrel breaking out between
some soldiers and one of the staff, necessitated his intervention. For
half an hour, in the icy draughts, amid the shivering public, his eyes
still heavy with sleep, and in the ill-humour of a man jostled at every
moment in the obscurity, he hurried hither and thither without a moment
to himself. Then, when the departure of the slow train had cleared the
station, he hastened to the box of the pointsman, to make sure that
all was right in that quarter. For the through train from Paris, which
was behind time, was coming in. He returned to the platform to see the
stream of passengers leave the carriages, give up their tickets, and
crowd into the omnibuses from the hotels, which in those days entered
the station, to wait under the marquee, where they were separated
from the line by a mere paling. And then, only, did he find leisure
to breathe for a moment, the station having again become silent and
deserted.
Six o'clock struck. Roubaud sauntered out of the main building; and,
beyond, with space before him, he raised his head and inhaled the
fresh air, watching day at last breaking. The wind from the offing had
completely driven away the mist. It was the clear morning of a fine
day. He looked northward, in the direction of Ingouville, as far as the
trees of the cemetery, standing out in a violescent line against the
whitening sky. Then, turning towards the south and west, he observed a
final flight of light white clouds floating slowly along in a squadron
across the sea; while the entire east, the immense opening formed by
the mouth of the Seine, began to be embraced in approaching sunrise.
In a casual way, he removed his cap, embroidered with silver, as
if to refresh his forehead in the sharp, pure air. This outlook to
which he was accustomed, this vast flat sweep of dependencies of the
station--the arrival on the left, then the engine depôt, to the right
the departure, a regular little town--seemed to appease him, to bring
him back to the calmness of his daily occupations which were ever the
same. Factory chimneys were smoking above the wall of the Rue Charles
Lafitte; and enormous heaps of coal could be seen following the line
of the Vauban basin. A hum already began to rise from the other docks.
The whistling of the goods trains, the awakening of the town, the briny
smell of the sea wafted by the wind, made him think of the fête of the
day, of this vessel they were about to launch, and around which the
crowd would be crushing.
Roubaud, returning inside the station, found the gang of shunters
commencing to make up the 6.40 express; and thinking the men were
putting No. 293 on the truck, all the calm that the fresh morning air
had brought him, disappeared in a sudden burst of anger. With an oath
he shouted:
"Not that carriage! Leave it alone! It is not to go till to-night."
The foreman of the gang explained to him that they were merely pushing
the carriage along, to take another from behind it. But, deafened by
his own passion, which was out of all proportion, he did not hear.
"You clumsy idiots!" he exclaimed; "when you are told to leave the
thing alone, do so!"
Having at length been made to understand, he continued, furious,
turning his wrath against the inconvenience of the station, where
it was not even possible to turn a carriage round. In fact, the
station, one of the first built on the line, was not equal to modern
requirements. It was unworthy of Havre, with its old timber coach-house
glazed with small panes of glass, and its dismal, naked buildings full
of cracks.
"It's a disgrace. I can't comprehend why the company has not knocked it
all down."
The shunters looked at him, surprised to hear him speak so freely, he
who was generally so well disciplined. Perceiving their attitude, he
all at once ceased his remarks, and, silent and stiff, continued to
watch the manœuvres. A line of discontent furrowed his low forehead,
while his round, coloured face, bristling with the reddish beard, took
an expression of intensely strong will.
From that moment, Roubaud was in possession of all his equanimity. He
gave active attention to the express, busying himself with every detail
connected with it. The couplings appearing to him to be badly attached,
he insisted on having them screwed up before his eyes. A mother and
two daughters, on terms of intimacy with his wife, wanted him to seat
them in the compartment for ladies only. Then, before whistling to give
the signal to start, he again made sure that the train was in perfect
trim; and he stood watching it, as it moved away, with that clear gaze
of a man whose least carelessness might involve the loss of human lives.
He had at once to cross the line, to be present at the arrival of a
train from Rouen, which was just entering the station. There he met a
man from the Post Office, with whom he every day exchanged news. This
was a short rest for him in his busy early hours, and as no immediate
duty required his attention, he had time to draw breath. On this
morning, as was his habit, he rolled a cigarette, and chatted gaily.
Day had broadened, and the gas-lamps under the marquee, had just been
extinguished; but the glazing of this extension of the station was so
bad, that the light continued gloomy. Outside, the vast stretch of
sky on which the building opened, was already ablaze with a fire of
sun-rays; while the entire view became rosy, and the smallest objects
stood out crisp, in this pure air of a fine winter morning.
M. Dabadie, the station-master, usually came down from his rooms at
eight o'clock, when the assistant station-master went to him to make
his report. The former was a handsome man, very dark, neat in his
attire, with the bearing of a commercial magnate engrossed in business.
Indeed, he willingly left the passenger department of the station to
his assistants, so that he might give particular attention to the
movement in the docks, to the enormous transit of merchandise; and he
was in constant contact with the high commerce of Havre, and of the
entire world. To-day he came late. Roubaud had already pushed the door
of his office ajar twice, without finding him. On the table lay his
letters, which had not even been opened. Among them Roubaud had just
noticed a telegram. Then, as if drawn to the spot by fascination, he
had been unable to leave the threshold, returning, in spite of himself,
to cast rapid glances at the table.
At last, at ten minutes past eight, M. Dabadie appeared. Roubaud seated
himself without speaking, to allow him to open the telegram. But the
chief was in no hurry. Wishing to be pleasant with his subordinate,
whom he esteemed, he said:
"I suppose all went well in Paris?"
"Yes, sir, I thank you," replied Roubaud.
He had ended by opening the telegram; but he did not read it. He
continued smiling at his assistant, whose voice thickened in the
violent effort he was making to get the better of a nervous twitch
contracting his chin.
"We are very pleased to keep you here," said the station-master.
"And I, sir, am very glad to remain with you," answered Roubaud.
Then, as M. Dabadie made up his mind to run his eye over the telegram,
Roubaud, who felt a slight perspiration moistening his face, watched
him. But the agitation which he expected to see on the countenance of
his chief, did not appear. The latter placidly continued perusing the
telegram, which he eventually threw back on the table. No doubt it had
to do with a simple detail connected with the service. He at once began
to open his letters, while his assistant, in accordance with daily
custom, made his verbal report on the events of the night and morning.
Only, on this occasion, Roubaud hesitated, and had to think before he
could recall what his colleague had told him about the vagrants caught
in the cloakroom. A few more words were exchanged, and when the two
deputy chiefs of the docks and slow train departments came in, also to
make their reports, the station-master dismissed Roubaud by a gesture.
The newcomers brought another telegram, which one of the staff had
just handed them on the platform.
"You can go," said M. Dabadie to Roubaud, seeing he had stopped at the
door.
But the latter waited with fixed, expectant eyes; and he only went away
when the small piece of paper had fallen on the table, put aside with
the same indifferent gesture as before. For a few moments, he wandered
under the marquee, feeling perplexed and dizzy. The clock pointed to
8.35. The next departure was the slow train at 9.50. He usually took
advantage of this hour of rest, to stroll round the station, and he
now walked about for a few minutes without knowing where his feet were
taking him. Then, as he raised his head, and found himself opposite the
carriage numbered 293, he abruptly turned aside in the direction of the
engine-house, although he had nothing to attend to in that quarter. The
sun was now rising on the horizon, filling the air with golden dust.
But he no longer enjoyed the fine morning. He hastened along as if very
much occupied, endeavouring to overcome the uneasiness caused by the
suspense.
All at once a voice stopped him.
"Good morning, M. Roubaud! Did you see my wife?"
It was Pecqueux, the fireman, a great, thin fellow of three-and-forty,
with big bones, and a face tanned by fire and smoke. His grey eyes,
under a low forehead, his great mouth, set in a prominent jaw, had the
constant, jovial expression of a man addicted to merry-making.
"What! Is that you?" said Roubaud, stopping astonished. "Ah! yes. Your
engine met with an accident. I forgot. And so you're not going off
again until to-night? Twenty-four hours' holiday. Good business, eh?"
"Good business!" repeated the other, not yet recovered from his
libations of the previous evening.
Born at a village near Rouen, he had entered the service of the company
quite young, as engine-fitter. Then, at thirty, tired of the workshop,
he had wanted to be a fireman so as to become driver. It was then that
he married Victoire, who belonged to the same village as himself. But
years went by, and he continued fireman. He would never become driver
now, being of bad conduct, careless in dress and mode of life, a
drunkard, and a runner after petticoats. He would have been dismissed
twenty times over, had it not been for the protection of President
Grandmorin, and had not his superiors become accustomed to his vices,
for which he condoned by his good humour, and his experience as an
old workman. He only gave cause for alarm when under the influence of
drink, for he then became a real brute, capable of any violence.
"Did you see my wife?" he inquired again, with a broad grin.
"Yes, indeed," answered the assistant station-master; "we saw her.
We even had a very nice lunch in your room. Ah! you've a good wife,
Pecqueux; and it's wrong of you to be unfaithful to her."
He gave a broader grin than before.
"Oh! how can you say such a thing?" he exclaimed. "It's she who wants
me to enjoy myself!"
This was true. Victoire, who was two years his senior, and who had
grown enormously stout, was in the habit of slipping five-franc pieces
into his pocket, so that he might amuse himself when away. She had
never suffered much from his infidelity; and, now, their mode of life
was settled. He had two wives, one at each end of the line. Victoire,
who knew everything, accepted the position, and even went so far as to
mend his linen, in order that the other one might not be able to say
that she allowed their husband to go about in rags and tatters.
"No matter," resumed Roubaud, "it's not at all nice on your part. My
wife, who is very fond of her foster-mother, wants to scold you."
But he held his tongue, on seeing a tall, lean woman come from a shed
beside which they were standing. She proved to be Philomène Sauvagnat,
sister of the chief of the depôt, and the second Madame Pecqueux. The
couple must have been talking together in the shed, when Pecqueux came
out to call to the assistant station-master. Philomène still looked
young in spite of her two-and-thirty years, but was raw-boned, with a
flat chest, a long head, and flaming eyes. She had the reputation of
drinking. Her occupation consisted in keeping house for her brother,
who lived in a cottage near the engine-depôt, which she very much
neglected. They came from Auvergne, and the brother, an obstinate man
and a strict disciplinarian, greatly esteemed by his superiors, had met
with the utmost vexation on account of this sister, even to the point
of being threatened with dismissal. And, if the company bore with her,
now, on his account, he only kept her with him because of the family
tie. But this did not prevent him belabouring her so severely with
blows whenever he caught her at fault, that he frequently left her half
dead on the floor. She had commenced an intrigue with Pecqueux about
a year before; but it was only Séverine, who had fallen out with her,
thinking it due to Mother Victoire for her to do so. Having already
been in the habit of avoiding her as much as possible, from a feeling
of innate pride, she had subsequently ceased to greet her.
"Well, Pecqueux, I shall see you again, later on!" said Philomène
saucily. "I'll leave you now, as M. Roubaud has a moral lecture to read
you, on behalf of his wife."
Pecqueux, who was a good-natured fellow, continued laughing.
"No, no, stay," he answered. "He's only joking."
"I can't," retorted Philomène. "I must run and take these two eggs from
my hens, to Madame Lebleu, to whom I promised them."
She had purposely let fly this name, being aware of the secret
rivalry between the wife of the cashier, and the wife of the assistant
station-master, affecting to be on the best of terms with the former,
so as to enrage the other. But she remained, nevertheless, becoming all
at once interested, when she heard the fireman inquiring for news of
the affair with the sub-prefect.
"So it's all settled; and you're very glad of it, are you not, M.
Roubaud?" inquired Pecqueux.
"Very pleased indeed," answered the assistant station-master.
Pecqueux gave a cunning wink.
"Oh! you had no need to be anxious," said he, "because when one has
a big-wig behind one, eh? You know who I mean. My wife also is very
grateful to him."
The assistant station-master interrupted this allusion to President
Grandmorin, by abruptly remarking:
"And so you only leave to-night?"
"Yes," answered the other; "the repairs to La Lison will soon be
finished. They're completing the adjustment of the connecting-rod. And
I'm waiting for my driver, who has gone for an airing. Do you know him,
Jacques Lantier? He comes from the same neighbourhood as yourself."
Roubaud did not answer for an instant, but stood there as if
absent-minded. Then, recovering himself with a start, he exclaimed:
"Eh! Jacques Lantier, the driver? Of course I know him! Oh! you
understand, enough to say good-day and good-night. It was here that
we came across one another, for he is my junior, and I never saw him
down there at Plassans. Last autumn he did my wife a little service, in
the form of an errand to some cousins at Dieppe. He's a capable young
fellow, according to all I hear."
He spoke at random, with abundance of verbosity. All at once he went
off with the remark:
"Good day, Pecqueux. I've got to take a look round here."
It was only then that Philomène moved away at her long stride; while
Pecqueux, standing motionless, with his hands thrust into his pockets,
laughing at ease at his laziness on this bright morning, was astonished
to see the assistant station-master rapidly returning, after limiting
his inspection to circumambulating the shed. He had not been long
taking his look round. What on earth could he have come to spy out?
Nine o'clock was on the point of striking, as Roubaud returned under
the marquee. He walked to the end, near the parcel office, where he
gave a look, without appearing to find what he sought; and then,
impatiently, strode back again, peering inquiringly at the offices of
the different departments, one after the other. The station, at this
hour, was quiet and deserted. He alone wandered about, more and more
enervated at this peacefulness, in the torment of a man menaced with a
catastrophe, who at last ardently hopes for it to come. His composure
was exhausted. He found it impossible to remain for a minute in the
same place. Now his eyes never quitted the clock. Nine, five minutes
past. As a rule he only went up to his rooms for the knife-and-fork
breakfast at ten, after the departure of the 9.50 train. But all at
once the thought struck him that Séverine must also be waiting there in
expectancy; and he proceeded to join her.
In the corridor, Madame Lebleu, at this precise moment, was opening
the door to Philomène, who had run round in neighbourly fashion, with
untidy hair, and held a couple of eggs in her hand. They remained on
the threshold, so that Roubaud had to enter his apartment before their
eyes. He had his key, and was as quick as he could be. Notwithstanding,
in the rapid opening and closing of the door, they perceived Séverine,
seated on a chair in the dining-room, with her hands idle, her
profile pale, and her body motionless. And Madame Lebleu, dragging
in Philomène and closing her own door, related that she had already
seen Séverine in the same state, in the early part of the morning.
No doubt the business with the sub-prefect was taking a bad turn.
But no; and Philomène explained that she had hastened to make a call
because she had news; and she repeated what she had just heard the
assistant station-master say himself. The two women were then lost
in conjectures. It was the same at each of their meetings--gossiping
without end.
"They've had their hair combed, my dear," said Madame Lebleu. "I'd
stake my life on it. They're tottering on their pedestals."
"Ah! my dear lady," answered Philomène, "if we could only be rid of
them!"
The rivalry between the Lebleus and the Roubauds, which had become
more and more envenomed, simply arose from a question of apartments.
All the first floor of the main station building, served to lodge
members of the staff; and the central corridor, a regular corridor of
a second-rate hotel, painted yellow, lighted from above, separated
the floor in two, with lines of brown doors to right and left. Only
the windows of the apartments on the right, looked on the courtyard
facing the entrance, which was planted with old elms, and above these
an admirable view spread out in the direction of Ingouville; while the
apartments on the left, with semicircular, squatty windows, opened
right on the marquee of the station, whose high slanting roof of zinc
and dirty glass barred the horizon from view. Nothing could be more gay
than the one side, with the constant animation in the courtyard, the
verdure of the trees, the broad expanse of country; nothing more dismal
than the other, where it was almost impossible to see, and where the
sky was shut out as in a prison.
On the front, resided the station-master, the assistant station-master
Moulin, and the Lebleus; on the back, the Roubauds and Mademoiselle
Guichon, the office-keeper, without counting three rooms reserved to
inspectors who made occasional visits. It was an established fact that
the two assistant station-masters had always lodged side by side. If
the Lebleus were there, it was due to an act of politeness on the part
of the gentleman who had been succeeded by Roubaud, and who, being a
widower without children, had thought proper to show Madame Lebleu
the courtesy of giving up his apartments to her. But should not this
lodging have gone to the Roubauds? Was it fair to relegate them to the
back of the building, when they had the right to be on the front? So
long as the two households had lived in harmony, Séverine had given way
to her neighbour, her senior by twenty years, who, moreover, was in bad
health, being so stout that she was constantly troubled with fits of
choking. War had only been declared, since the day Philomène set the
two women at variance, by her abominable tongue.
"You know," resumed the latter, "that they are quite capable of having
taken advantage of their trip to Paris, to ask for your ejectment. I am
told that they have written a long letter to the manager, setting forth
their claim."
Madame Lebleu was suffocating.
"The wretches!" she exclaimed. "And I am sure they have been doing
their best to get the office-keeper on their side. For the past
fortnight she has hardly greeted me. There is another one who is no
better than she should be! But I'm watching her."
She lowered her voice to say that Mademoiselle Guichon must be carrying
on an intrigue with the station-master. Their doors faced one another.
It was M. Dabadie, a widower, and the father of a grown-up daughter
still at school, who had brought this thirty-year-old blonde to the
station. Already faded, she was silent, slim, and supple as a serpent.
She must have been a sort of governess. And it was impossible to catch
her, so noiselessly did she glide along through the narrowest apertures.
"Oh! I shall succeed in finding it out," continued Madame Lebleu. "I
will not be ridden down. We are here, and here we remain. All worthy
people are on our side. Is it not so, my dear?"
Indeed, all the station was impassioned with this battle of the
lodgings. The corridor, particularly, was torn asunder by it. It was
only the assistant station-master Moulin, satisfied at being on the
front, who did not take much interest in the matter. He was married
to a little, timid, delicate woman, whom nobody ever saw, but who
presented him with a baby every twenty months.
"Anyhow," concluded Philomène, "if they are tottering on their
pedestals, this shock will not bring them down. Be on your guard, for
they know someone of great influence."
She still held her two eggs, and she presented them, eggs laid that
same morning, which she had just taken from under her hens, and the old
lady was effusive in thanks.
"Oh! how kind of you!" said she. "You are spoiling me, I declare. Come
and have a chat more frequently. You know that my husband is always in
his counting-house; and I have a tedious time of it, riveted here on
account of my poor legs! What would become of me, if those wretches
were to take away my view?"
Then, as she accompanied her, and opened the door, she placed a finger
on her lips.
"Hush! Let us listen," said she.
Both of them remained standing in the corridor for five full minutes,
holding their breath, without a movement. They bent their heads, with
ears turned towards the dining-room of the Roubauds; but not a sound
came from that direction. Deathlike silence reigned within. And, in
fear of being surprised, they at last separated, giving each other a
nod, without pronouncing a word. While one went off on tiptoe, the
other closed her door so gently, that the catch could hardly be heard
entering the socket.
At 9.20 Roubaud was again below under the marquee superintending the
making-up of the 9.50 slow train; and, in spite of all his efforts
to keep calm, he gesticulated more than ever, stamping his feet, and
turning round at every moment to examine the platform from one end to
the other. But nothing came, and his hands trembled with impatience.
Then, abruptly, as he was looking behind him, and searching again all
over the station, he heard a telegraph boy, out of breath, close to
him, saying:
"Monsieur Roubaud, do you know where the station-master, and the
commissary of police are? I have got telegrams for them, and have been
running after them for the last ten minutes."
He turned round with such a stiffening of all his being, that not a
muscle of his face moved. His eyes were fixed on the two telegrams
which the lad held in his hand. And this time, from the excited look of
the latter, he felt convinced that the catastrophe had come at last.
"Monsieur Dabadie passed by here a short time ago," said he tranquilly.
And never had he felt himself so cool, with an intelligence so bright,
prepared for the defence from head to foot.
"Look!" he resumed; "here is Monsieur Dabadie coming towards us."
In fact, the station-master was returning from the goods train
department. As soon as he had run his eye over the telegram, he
exclaimed:
"There has been a murder on the line. The inspector at Rouen telegraphs
to me to that effect."
"What?" inquired Roubaud; "a murder among our staff?"
"No, no," answered the station-master. "The murder of a passenger in a
coupé. The body was thrown out almost at the exit from the tunnel of
Malaunay at post 153. And the victim is one of our directors, President
Grandmorin."
The assistant station-master immediately exclaimed:
"The President! Ah! my poor wife, what a terrible blow it will be for
her!"
The tone was so natural, so pitiful, that it for a moment arrested the
attention of M. Dabadie.
"Ah! true enough!" said he; "you knew him. Such a worthy man, was he
not?"
Then, turning to the other telegram addressed to the commissary of
police, he added:
"This must be from the examining-magistrate, no doubt for some
formality. And, as it is only 9.25, Monsieur Cauche is not yet here,
naturally. Let someone run to the Café du Commerce, on the Cours
Napoléon. He will be found there for certain."
Five minutes later M. Cauche arrived, brought to the scene by a porter.
Formerly an officer, he looked upon the post he occupied as a sinecure,
and never put in an appearance at the station before ten o'clock, when
he strolled about for a moment or two, and returned to the café. This
drama, which had burst upon him between a couple of games at piquet,
had first of all astonished him, for the matters that passed through
his hands were not, as a rule, very grave. But the telegram came from
the examining-magistrate at Rouen; and, if it arrived twelve hours
after the discovery of the body, it was because this magistrate had
first of all telegraphed to the station-master at Paris, to ascertain
under what circumstances the victim had set out on his journey. Having
found out the number of the train, and that of the carriage, he had
only then sent orders to the commissary of police to examine the coupé
in carriage 293 if it still happened to be at Havre. The ill-humour
that M. Cauche displayed at having been disturbed needlessly, as he
had at first fancied, at once gave place to an attitude of extreme
importance, proportionate to the exceptional gravity that the affair
began to assume.
"But," he exclaimed, suddenly becoming anxious, in fear lest the
inquiry might escape him, "the carriage will no longer be here, it must
have gone back this morning."
It was Roubaud who reassured him in his calm manner.
"No, no, excuse me," he broke in. "There was a coupé booked for this
evening. The carriage is there in the coach-house."
And he led the way to the building, followed by the commissary and the
station-master. In the meanwhile, the news must have spread, for the
porters, slyly leaving their work, also followed; while clerks made
their appearance on the thresholds of the offices of the different
departments, and ended by approaching one by one. A small crowd had
soon assembled.
As they came to the carriage, M. Dabadie remarked:
"But the coaches were examined last night. If any traces had remained,
it would have been mentioned in the report."
"We shall soon see," said M. Cauche.
Opening the door, he went up into the coupé. And, forgetting himself,
he immediately exclaimed with an oath:
"It looks as if they had been bleeding a pig here!"
A little thrill of horror ran through all who were present, and a
number of necks were craned forward. M. Dabadie was one of the first
who wished to see. He drew himself up on the step; while behind him,
Roubaud, to do like the others, also craned his neck.
The inside of the coupé displayed no disorder. The windows had remained
closed, and everything seemed in its proper place. Only, a frightful
stench escaped by the open door; and there, in the middle of one of the
cushions, a pool of blood had coagulated, a pool so deep, and so large,
that a stream had sprung from it, as from a source, and had poured over
on the carpet. Clots of blood remained sticking to the cloth. And there
was nothing else, nothing but this nauseous gore.
M. Dabadie flew into a rage.
"Where are the men who looked into the carriages last night? Bring them
here!"
It so happened that they were there, and they advanced, spluttering
excuses: how was it possible to see at night time? Nevertheless, they
had passed their hands everywhere. They vowed they had felt nothing on
the previous night.
In the meanwhile, M. Cauche, who remained standing up in the
compartment, was taking pencil notes for his report. He called Roubaud,
with whom he was familiar, being in the habit of smoking cigarettes
with him along the platform, in moments of leisure.
"Roubaud," said he, "just come up here, you will be able to help me."
And when the assistant station-master had stepped over the blood on the
carpet, so as not to tread in it, the commissary added:
"Look under the other cushion, to see if anything has slipped down
there."
Roubaud raised the cushion, feeling with prudent hands, and looks that
simply denoted curiosity.
"There is nothing," said he.
But a spot on the padded cloth at the back of the seat, attracted his
attention; and he pointed it out to the commissary. Was it not the mark
of a finger covered with blood? No; they both came to the conclusion
that it was some blood which had spurted there. The crowd had drawn
nearer, to watch this inspection of the coupé, sniffing the crime,
pressing behind the station-master, who, with the repugnance of a
refined man, remained on the step.
Suddenly the latter remarked:
"But, I say, Roubaud, you were in the train, were you not? You returned
last night by the express. You can, perhaps, give us some information?"
"Yes, indeed," exclaimed the commissary, "that is true. Did you notice
anything?"
Roubaud, for two or three seconds, remained silent. At this moment, he
was bending down examining the carpet. But he rose, almost at once,
answering in his natural voice, which was a trifle thick:
"Certainly, certainly, I will tell you. My wife was with me. But if
what I am going to say is to figure in the report, I should like her to
come down, so as to control my recollection by her own."
M. Cauche thought this very reasonable, and Pecqueux, who had just
arrived, offered to go and fetch Madame Roubaud. He started off with
great strides, and for a moment there was a pause. Philomène, who
had joined the crowd with the firemen, followed him with her eyes,
irritated that he should undertake this errand. But, perceiving Madame
Lebleu hurrying along as fast as her poor swollen legs would carry her,
she hastened forward to assist her; and the two women raised their
hands to heaven, uttering passionate exclamations at the discovery of
such an abominable crime. Although absolutely no details were known,
as yet, all kinds of versions of what had occurred, circulated around
them, accompanied by excited gestures and looks. Philomène, whose voice
could be heard above the hum of the crowd, affirmed, on her word of
honour, that Madame Roubaud had seen the murderer, although she had no
authority whatever for the statement. And when the latter appeared,
accompanied by Pecqueux, there was general silence.
"Just look at her!" murmured Madame Lebleu. "Would anyone take her for
the wife of an assistant station-master, with her airs of a princess?
This morning, before daybreak, she was already as she is now, combed
and laced, as if she were going out on a visit."
Séverine advanced with short, regular steps. She had to walk along the
whole length of the platform, facing the eyes watching her approach.
But she did not break down. She simply pressed her handkerchief to her
eyelids, in the great grief she had just experienced at learning the
name of the victim. Attired in a very elegantly fashioned black woollen
gown, she seemed to be wearing mourning for her protector. Her heavy,
dark hair shone in the sun, for she had come down in such a hurry that
she had not found time, in spite of the cold, to put anything on her
head. Her gentle blue eyes, full of anguish, and bathed in tears, gave
her a most touching appearance.
"She may well cry," said Philomène in an undertone. "They are done for,
now that their guardian-angel has been killed."
When Séverine was there, in the middle of all the people, before the
open door of the coupé, M. Cauche and Roubaud got out; and the latter
immediately began to relate what he knew. Addressing his wife, he said:
"Yesterday morning, my dear, as soon as we arrived at Paris we went to
see Monsieur Grandmorin. And it was about a quarter past eleven. That
is right, is it not?"
He looked fixedly at her, and she, in a docile tone, repeated:
"Yes, a quarter past eleven."
But her eyes had fallen on the cushion black with blood. She had a
spasm, and her bosom heaved with heavy sobs. The station-master, who
felt distressed, intervened with much concern:
"If you are unable to bear the sight, madam----We quite understand your
grief----"
"Oh! just a few words," interrupted the commissary; "and we will then
have madam conducted home again."
Roubaud hastened to continue:
"It was at this visit that Monsieur Grandmorin, after talking of
various matters, informed us that he was going next day to Doinville,
on a visit to his sister. I still see him seated at his writing-table.
I was here, my wife there. That is right, my dear, is it not? He told
us he would be leaving on the morrow."
"Yes, on the morrow," said she.
M. Cauche, who continued taking rapid pencil notes, raised his head:
"How is that, on the morrow," he inquired, "considering he left the
same evening?"
"Wait a moment," replied the assistant station-master. "When he heard
we were returning that night, he had an idea of taking the express with
us, if my wife would accompany him to Doinville, to stay a few days
with his sister, as had happened before. But my wife, having a great
deal to do here, refused. That is so, you refused?"
"Yes, I refused," answered Séverine.
"Then he was very kind," continued her husband. "He had been
interesting himself on my behalf. He accompanied us to the door of his
study. Did he not, my dear?"
"Yes, as far as the door," said Séverine.
"We left in the evening," resumed Roubaud. "Before seating ourselves
in our compartment, I had a chat with Monsieur Vandorpe, the
station-master. And I saw nothing at all. I was very much annoyed,
because I thought we should be alone, and I found a lady in a corner
whom I had not noticed; and the more so, as two other persons, a
married couple, got in at the last moment. So far as Rouen, nothing
worthy of note occurred. I noticed nothing. But at Rouen, as we left
the train to stretch our legs, what was our surprise to see Monsieur
Grandmorin standing up at the door of a coupé, three or four carriages
away from our compartment. 'What, Mr. President,' said I, 'so you left
after all? Ah! well, we had no idea we were travelling with you!' And
he explained that he had received a telegram. They whistled, and we
jumped into our compartment, which, by the way, we found empty, all our
travelling companions having got out at Rouen, and we were not sorry.
That is absolutely all, my dear, is it not?"
"Yes, that is absolutely all," she repeated.
This story, simple though it appeared, produced a strong impression
on the audience. All awaited the key to the enigma with gaping
countenances. The commissary ceasing to write, gave expression to the
general astonishment by inquiring:
"And you are sure no one was inside the coupé, along with Monsieur
Grandmorin?"
"Oh! as to that, absolutely certain!"
A shudder ran through the crowd. This mystery which required solving
inspired the onlookers with fear, and sent a chill down the backs of
everyone there. If the passenger was alone, by whom could he have been
murdered and thrown from the coupé, three leagues from there, before
the train stopped again?
Silence was broken by the unpleasant voice of Philomène:
"It is all the same strange," said she.
And Roubaud, feeling himself being stared at, looked at her, tossing
his chin, as if to say that he also considered the matter strange.
Beside her, he perceived Pecqueux and Madame Lebleu, tossing their
heads as well. All eyes were turned towards him. The crowd awaited
something more, sought on his body for a forgotten detail that would
throw light on the matter. There was no accusation in these ardently
inquisitive looks; and yet, he fancied he noticed a vague suspicion
arising, that doubt which the smallest fact sometimes transforms into a
certainty.
"Extraordinary," murmured M. Cauche.
"Quite extraordinary," assented M. Dabadie.
Then Roubaud made up his mind.
"What I am, moreover, quite certain of," he continued, "is that the
express which runs from Rouen to Barentin without stopping, went
along at the regulation speed, and that I noticed nothing abnormal.
I mention this, because, as we were alone, I let down the window to
smoke a cigarette, and glancing outside several times, had a perfect
knowledge of every sound of the train. At Barentin, noticing my
successor, the station-master, Monsieur Bessière, on the platform, I
called to him, and we exchanged a few words, as he stood on the step,
and shook hands. That is so, my dear, is it not? The question can be
put to Monsieur Bessière, and he will answer, Yes."
Séverine, still motionless and pale, her delicate face plunged in
grief, once more confirmed the statement of her husband.
"Yes, that is correct," said she.
From this moment any accusation was out of the question, if the
Roubauds, having returned to their compartment at Rouen, had been
greeted, sitting there, by a friend at Barentin. The shadow of
suspicion which the assistant station-master had noticed in the eyes of
the bystanders, vanished, while the general astonishment increased. The
case was assuming a more and more mysterious aspect.
"Come," said the commissary, "are you quite positive that nobody could
have entered the coupé at Rouen, after you left Monsieur Grandmorin?"
Roubaud had evidently not foreseen this question. For the first time,
he became confused, having no doubt got to the end of his ready
answers. He looked at his wife, hesitating.
"Oh! no!" said he; "I do not think so. They were shutting the doors;
they had whistled. We only just had time to reach our carriage. And,
besides, the coupé was reserved, nobody could get in there, I fancy----"
But the blue eyes of his wife opened wider, and grew so large, that he
was afraid to be positive.
"After all," he continued, "I don't know. Yes. Perhaps someone did get
into the coupé. There was a regular crush----"
As he continued talking, his voice became distinct again, and a new
story began to take shape.
"The crowd, you know, was enormous," he said, "on account of the fêtes
at Havre. We were obliged to resist an assault on our own compartment
by second and even third-class passengers. Apart from this, the station
was badly lighted, one could see next to nothing. People were pushing
about in a clamorous multitude, just as the train was starting. Yes,
indeed, it is quite possible that someone, not knowing where to find a
seat, or, may be, taking advantage of the confusion, actually did force
his way into the coupé, at the last second."
And, turning to his wife, he remarked:
"Eh! my dear, that is what must have happened?"
Séverine, looking broken down, with her handkerchief pressed to her
swollen eyes, answered:
"That is what happened, certainly."
The clue was now given. The commissary of police and the
station-master, without expressing an opinion, exchanged a look of
intelligence. The seething crowd swayed to and fro, feeling the inquiry
at an end. All were burning to communicate their thoughts; and various
conjectures immediately found vent, everyone having his own idea. For a
few moments, the business of the station had been at a standstill. The
entire staff were there, all their attention taken up by this drama;
and it was with general surprise that the 9.38 train was observed
coming in, under the marquee. The porters ran to meet it, the carriage
doors were opened, and the flood of passengers streamed out. But almost
all the lookers-on had remained round the commissary, who, with the
scruple of a methodical man, paid a final visit to the gory coupé.
At this moment, Pecqueux, engaged in gesticulating between Madame
Lebleu and Philomène, caught sight of his driver, Jacques Lantier,
who, having just left the train, was standing motionless, watching
the gathering from a distance. He beckoned to him urgently. At first,
Jacques did not move; but, afterwards, making up his mind to go, he
advanced slowly forward.
"What's it all about?" he inquired of his fireman.
He knew very well, and lent but an inattentive ear to the news of the
murder and the rumours that were current respecting it. What surprised,
and particularly agitated him, was to tumble into the midst of this
inquiry, to again come upon this coupé which he had caught sight of in
the obscurity, launched at full speed. He craned his neck, gazing at
the pool of clotted blood on the cushion; and, once more, he saw the
murder scene, and particularly the corpse, stretched across the line
yonder with its throat open. Then, turning aside his eyes, he noticed
the Roubauds, while Pecqueux continued relating to him the story of
how they were mixed up in the business--their departure from Paris in
the same train as the victim, and the last words they had exchanged
together at Rouen. Jacques knew Roubaud, from having occasionally
pressed his hand since he had been driving the express. As to his wife,
he had caught sight of her in the distance, and he had avoided her,
like the others, in his unhealthy terror. But, at this moment, he was
struck by her, as he observed her weeping and pale, with her gentle,
bewildered blue eyes, beneath the crushing volume of black hair. He
continued to look at her; and, becoming absent, he asked himself, in
surprise, how it was that the Roubauds and he were there? How it was
that events had brought them together, before this carriage steeped in
crime--they who had returned from Paris on the previous evening, he who
had come back from Barentin at that very instant?
"Oh! I know, I know," said he aloud, interrupting the fireman. "I
happened to be there, at the exit from the tunnel, last night, and I
thought I saw something, as the train passed."
This remark caused great excitement, and everybody gathered round
him. Why had he spoken, after formally making up his mind to hold
his tongue? So many excellent reasons prompted him to silence! And
the words had unconsciously left his lips, while he was gazing at
this woman. She had abruptly drawn aside her handkerchief, to fix her
tearful eyes, wide-open, on him.
The commissary of police quickly approached.
"Saw what? What did you see?" he inquired.
And Jacques, with the unswerving look of Séverine upon him, related
what he had seen: the coupé lit up, passing through the night at full
speed, and the fleeting outlines of the two men, one thrown down
backwards, the other with a knife in his hand. Roubaud, standing beside
his wife, listened with his great bright eyes fixed on Jacques.
"So," inquired the commissary, "you would be able to recognise the
murderer?"
"Oh! as to that, no! I do not think so," answered the other.
"Was he wearing a coat, or a blouse?" asked the commissary.
"I can say nothing positively. Just reflect, a train that must have
been going at a speed of sixty miles an hour!"
Séverine, against her will, exchanged a glance with Roubaud, who had
the energy to say:
"True enough! It would require a good pair of eyes."
"No matter," concluded M. Cauche; "this is an important piece of
evidence. The examining-magistrate will assist you to throw light on it
all. Monsieur Lantier and Monsieur Roubaud, give me your exact names
for the summonses."
It was all over. The throng of bystanders dispersed, little by little,
and the business of the station resumed its activity. Roubaud had to
run and attend to the 9.50 slow train, in which passengers were already
taking their seats. He had given Jacques a more vigorous shake of
the hand than usual; and the latter, remaining alone with Séverine,
behind Madame Lebleu, Pecqueux, and Philomène, who went off whispering
together, had considered himself bound to escort the young woman under
the marquee, to the foot of the staircase leading to the lodgings of
the staff, finding nothing to say, and yet forced to remain beside her,
as if a bond had just been fastened between them.
The brightness of day, had now increased. The sun, conqueror of the
morning haze, was ascending in the great expanse of limpid blue
sky; while the sea breeze, gaining strength with the rising tide,
contributed its saline freshness to the atmosphere. And, as Jacques
at last left Séverine, he again encountered those great eyes, whose
terrified and imploring sweetness had so profoundly moved him.
But there came a low whistle. It was Roubaud giving the signal to
start. The engine responded by a prolonged screech, and the 9.50 train
moved off, rolled along more rapidly, and disappeared in the distance,
amid the golden dust of the sun.