On that particular Friday, the travellers who were to take the 6.40
express from Havre, awoke with an exclamation of surprise; snow had
been falling since midnight, so thickly and in such large flakes, that
the streets were a foot deep in it.
La Lison, attached to a train of seven carriages, three second and four
first class, was already puffing and smoking under the span roof. When
Jacques and Pecqueux arrived at the depôt at about half-past five to
get the engine ready, they uttered a growl of anxiety at the sight of
this persistent snow rending the black sky. And now, at their post,
they awaited the sound of the whistle, with eyes gazing far ahead
beyond the gaping porch of the marquee, watching the silent, endless
fall of flakes draping the obscurity in livid hue.
The driver murmured:
"The devil take me if you can see a signal!"
"We may think ourselves lucky if we can get along," said the fireman.
Roubaud was on the platform with his lantern, having returned at the
precise minute to resume his service. At moments his heavy eyelids
closed with fatigue, without him ceasing his supervision. Jacques
having inquired whether he knew anything as to the state of the line,
he had just approached and pressed his hand, answering that as yet he
had received no telegram; and as Séverine came down, wrapped in an
ample cloak, he led her to a first class compartment and assisted her
in. No doubt he caught sight of the anxious look of tenderness that the
two sweethearts exchanged; but he did not even trouble to tell his
wife that it was imprudent to set out in such weather, and that she
would do better to postpone her journey.
Passengers arrived, muffled up, loaded with travelling-bags, and there
was quite a crush in the terrible morning cold. The snow did not even
melt on the shoes of the travellers. The carriage doors were closed
as soon as the people were in the compartments where they barricaded
themselves; and the platform, badly lit by the uncertain glimmer of a
few gas-burners, became deserted. The light of the locomotive, attached
to the base of the chimney, alone burnt brightly like a huge eye
dilating its sheet of fire far into the obscurity.
Roubaud raised his lantern to give the signal of departure. The
headguard blew his whistle, and Jacques answered, after opening the
regulator and revolving the reversing-wheel. They started. For a
minute the assistant station-master tranquilly gazed after the train
disappearing in the tempest.
"Attention!" said Jacques to Pecqueux. "No joking to-day!"
He had not failed to remark that his companion seemed also worn out
with fatigue. Assuredly the consequence of some spree on the previous
night.
"Oh! no fear, no fear!" stammered the fireman.
As soon as they left the span roofing of the station, they were in the
snow. The wind, blowing from the east, caught the locomotive in front,
beating against it in violent gusts. The two men in the cab did not
suffer much at first, clothed as they were in thick woollen garments,
with their eyes protected by spectacles. But the light on the engine,
usually so brilliant at night, seemed swallowed up in the thick fall of
snow. Instead of the metal way being illuminated three or four hundred
yards ahead, it came into evidence in a sort of milky fog. The various
objects could only be distinguished when the locomotive was quite close
to them, and then they appeared indistinct, as in a dream.
The anxiety of the driver was complete when he recognised, on reaching
the first signal-post, that he would certainly be unable, as he had
feared, to see the red lights barring the lines at the regulation
distances. From that moment he advanced with extreme prudence, but
without it being possible for him to slacken speed, for the wind
offered extraordinary resistance, and delay would have been as
dangerous as a too rapid advance.
As far as Harfleur, La Lison went along at a good and well-sustained
pace. The layer of snow that had fallen did not as yet trouble Jacques,
for, at the most, there were two feet on the line, and the snow-blade
could easily clear away four. All his anxiety was to maintain the
speed, well aware that the real merit of a driver, after temperance,
and esteem for his engine, consisted in advancing in an uniform way,
without jolting, and at the highest pressure possible.
Indeed, his only defect lay in his obstinacy not to stop. He disobeyed
the signals, always thinking he would have time to master La Lison;
and so he now and again over-shot the mark, crushing the crackers,
the "corns" as they are termed, and, on two occasions, this habit had
caused him to be suspended for a week. But now, in the great danger in
which he felt himself, the thought that Séverine was there, that he
was entrusted with her dear life, increased his strength of character
tenfold; and he maintained his determination to be cautious all the way
to Paris, all along that double metal line, bristling with obstacles
that he must overcome.
Standing on the sheet of iron connecting the engine with the tender,
continually jolted by their oscillation, Jacques, notwithstanding the
snow, leant over the side, on the right, to get a better view. For he
could distinguish nothing through the cab window clouded with water;
and he remained with his face exposed to the gusts of wind, his skin
pricked as with thousands of needles, and so pinched with cold that it
seemed like being slashed with razors. Ever and anon he withdrew to
take breath; he removed his spectacles and wiped them; then he resumed
his former position facing the hurricane, his eyes fixed, in the
expectation of seeing red lights; and so absorbed was he in his anxiety
to find them, that on two occasions he fell a prey to the hallucination
that crimson sparks were boring the white curtain of snow fluttering
before him.
But, on a sudden, in the darkness, he felt a presentiment that
his fireman was no longer there. Only a small lantern lit up
the steam-gauge, so that the eyes of the driver might not be
inconvenienced; and, on the enamelled face of the manometer, which
preserved its clear lustre, he noticed the trembling blue hand rapidly
retreating. The fire was going down. The fireman had just stretched
himself on the chest, vanquished by fatigue.
"Infernal rake!" exclaimed Jacques, shaking him in a rage.
Pecqueux rose, excusing himself in an unintelligible growl. He could
hardly stand; but, by force of habit, he at once went to his fire,
hammer in hand, breaking the coal, spreading it evenly on the bars with
the shovel. Then he swept up with the broom. And while the door of the
fire-box remained open, a reflex from the furnace, like the flaming
tail of a comet extending to the rear of the train, had set fire to the
snow which fell across it in great golden drops.
After Harfleur began the big ascent, ten miles long, which extends to
Saint-Romain--the steepest on the line. And the driver stood to the
engine, full of attention, anticipating that La Lison would have to
make a famous effort to ascend this hill, already hard to climb in
fine weather. With his hand on the reversing-wheel, he watched the
telegraph poles fly by, endeavouring to form an idea of the speed.
This decreased considerably. La Lison was puffing, while the scraping
of the snow-blade indicated growing resistance. He opened the door
of the fire-box with the toe of his boot. The fireman, half asleep,
understood, and added more fuel to the embers, so as to increase the
pressure.
The door was now becoming red-hot, lighting up the legs of both of
them with a violet gleam. But neither felt the scorching heat in the
current of icy air that enveloped them. The fireman, at a sign from
his chief, had just raised the rod of the ash-pan which added to the
draught. The hand of the manometer at present marked ten atmospheres,
and La Lison was exerting all the power it possessed. At one moment,
perceiving the water in the steam-gauge sink, the driver had to turn
the injection-cock, although by doing so he diminished the pressure.
Nevertheless, it rose again, the engine snorted and spat like an animal
over-ridden, making jumps and efforts fit to convey the idea that it
would suddenly crack some of its component pieces. And he treated La
Lison roughly, like a woman who has grown old and lost her strength,
ceasing to feel the same tenderness for it as formerly.
"The lazy thing will never get to the top," said he between his set
teeth--he who never uttered a word on the journey.
Pecqueux, in his drowsiness, looked at him in astonishment. What had
he got now against La Lison? Was it not still the same brave, obedient
locomotive, starting so readily that it was a pleasure to set it in
motion; and gifted with such excellent vaporisation that it economised
a tenth part of its coal between Paris and Havre? When an engine had
slide valves like this one, so perfectly regulated, cutting the steam
so miraculously, they could overlook all imperfections, as in the case
of a capricious, but steady and economical housewife. No doubt La Lison
took too much grease, but what of that? They would grease it, and there
was an end of the matter.
Just at that moment, Jacques, in exasperation, repeated:
"It'll never reach the top, unless it's greased!"
And he did what he had not done thrice in his life. He took the oil-can
to grease the engine as it went along. Climbing over the rail, he got
on the frame-plate beside the boiler, which he followed to the end.
It was a most perilous undertaking. His feet slipped on the narrow
strip of iron, wet with snow. He was blinded, and the terrible wind
threatened to sweep him away like a straw.
La Lison, with this man clinging to its side, continued its panting
course in the darkness, cutting for itself a deep trench in the immense
white sheet covering the ground. The engine shook him, but bore him
along. On attaining the cross-piece in front, he held on to the rail
with one hand, and, stooping down before the oil-box of the cylinder on
the right, experienced the greatest difficulty in filling it. Then he
had to go round to the other side, like a crawling insect, to grease
the cylinder on the left. And when he got back to his post, he was
exhausted and deadly pale, having felt himself face to face with death.
"Vile brute!" he murmured.
Pecqueux had recovered, in a measure, from his drowsiness, and pulled
himself together. He, too, was at his post, watching the line on the
left. On ordinary occasions he had good eyes, better than those of his
chief, but in this storm everything had disappeared. They, to whom
each mile of the metal way was so familiar, could barely recognise the
places they passed. The line had disappeared in the snow, the hedges,
the houses, even, seemed about to follow suit. Around them was naught
but a deserted and boundless expanse, where La Lison seemed to be
careering at will, in a fit of madness.
Never had these two men felt so keenly the fraternal bond uniting them
as on this advancing engine, let loose amidst all kinds of danger,
where they were more alone, more abandoned by the world, than if locked
up in a room by themselves; and where, moreover, they had the grievous,
the crushing responsibility of the human lives they were dragging
after them.
The snow continued falling thicker than ever. They were still
ascending, when the fireman, in his turn, fancied he perceived the
glint of a red light in the distance and told his chief. But already he
had lost it. His eyes must have been dreaming, as he sometimes said.
And the driver, who had seen nothing, remained with a beating heart,
troubled at this hallucination of another, and losing confidence in
himself.
What he imagined he distinguished beyond the myriads of pale flakes
were immense black forms, enormous masses, like gigantic pieces of the
night, which seemed to displace themselves and come before the engine.
Could these be landslips, mountains barring the line against which
the train was about to crush? Then, affrighted, he pulled the rod of
the whistle, and whistled long, despairingly; and this lamentation
went slowly and lugubriously through the storm. Then he was astonished
to find that he had whistled at the right moment, for the train was
passing the station of Saint-Romain at express speed, and he had
thought it two miles away.
La Lison, having got over the terrible ascent, began rolling on more at
ease, and Jacques had time to breathe. Between Saint-Romain and Bolbec
the line makes an imperceptible rise, so that all would, no doubt, be
well until the other side of the plateau. While he was at Beuzeville,
during the three minutes' stoppage, he nevertheless called the
station-master, whom he perceived on the platform, wishing to convey
to him his anxiety about this snow, which continued getting deeper and
deeper: he would never be able to reach Rouen; the best thing would be
to put on another engine, while he was at a depôt, where locomotives
were always ready. But the station-master answered that he had no
orders, and that he did not feel disposed to take the responsibility of
such a measure on himself. All he offered to do was to give five or
six wooden shovels to clear the line in case of need; and Pecqueux took
the shovels, which he placed in a corner of the tender.
On the plateau, La Lison, as Jacques had foreseen, continued to advance
at a good speed, and without too much trouble. Nevertheless, it tired.
At every minute the driver had to make a sign and open the fire-box,
so that the fireman might put on coal. And each time he did so, above
the mournful train, standing out in black upon all this whiteness and
covered with a winding sheet of snow, flamed the dazzling tail of the
comet, boring into the night.
At three-quarters of an hour past seven, day was breaking; but the
wan dawn could hardly be discerned in the immense whitish whirlwind
filling space within the entire horizon. This uncertain light, by which
nothing could as yet be distinguished, increased the anxiety of the two
men, who, with eyes watering, notwithstanding their spectacles, did
their utmost to pierce the distance. The driver, without letting go
the reversing-wheel never quitted the rod of the whistle. He sounded
it almost continuously, by prudence, giving a shriek of distress that
penetrated like a wail to the depths of this desert of snow.
They passed Bolbec, and then Yvetot, without difficulty. But at
Motteville, Jacques made inquiries of the assistant station-master
for precise information as to the state of the line. No train had yet
arrived, and a telegram that had been received merely stated that the
slow train from Paris was blocked at Rouen in safety. And La Lison went
on again, descending at her heavy and weary gait the ten miles or so of
gentle slope to Barentin.
Daylight now began to appear, but very dimly; and it seemed as if
this livid glimmer came from the snow itself which fell more densely,
confused and cold, overwhelming the earth with the refuse of the sky.
As day grew, the violence of the wind redoubled, and the snowflakes
were driven along in balls. At every moment the fireman had to take
his shovel to clear the coal at the back of the tender between the
partitions of the water-tank.
The country, to right and left, so absolutely defied recognition,
that the two men felt as if they were being borne along in a dream.
The vast flat fields, the rich pastures enclosed in green hedges, the
apple orchards were naught but a white sea, barely swelling with choppy
waves, a pallid, quivering expanse where everything became white.
And the driver erect, with his hand on the reversing-wheel, his face
lacerated by the gusts of wind, began to suffer terribly from cold.
When the train stopped at Barentin, M. Bessière, the station-master,
himself approached the engine, to warn Jacques that a considerable
accumulation of snow had been signalled in the vicinity of La
Croix-de-Maufras.
"I believe it is still possible to pass," he added; "but it will not be
without difficulty."
Thereupon, the young man flew into a passion, and with an oath
exclaimed:
"I said as much at Beuzeville! Why couldn't they put on a second
locomotive? We shall be in a nice mess now!"
The headguard had just left his van, and he became angry as well. He
was frozen in his box, and declared that he could not distinguish a
signal from a telegraph pole. It was a regular groping journey in all
this white.
"Anyhow, you are warned," said M. Bessière.
In the meantime the passengers were astonished at this prolonged
stoppage, amid the complete silence enveloping the station, without a
shout from any of the staff, or the banging of a door. A few windows
were lowered, and heads appeared: a very stout lady with a couple of
charming, fair young girls, no doubt her daughters, all three English
for certain; and, further on, a very pretty dark, young woman, who was
made to draw in her head by an elderly gentleman; while two men, one
young and the other old, chatted from one carriage to the other, with
their bodies half out of the windows.
But as Jacques cast a glance behind him, he perceived only Séverine,
who was also looking out and gazing anxiously in his direction. Ah!
the dear creature, how uneasy she must be, and what a heartburn he
experienced knowing her there, so near and yet so far away in all this
danger!
"Come! Be off!" concluded the station-master. "It is no use frightening
the people."
He gave the signal himself. The headguard, who had got into his van,
whistled; and once more La Lison went off, after answering with a long
wail of complaint.
Jacques at once felt that the state of the line had changed. It was
no longer the plain, the eternal unfolding of the thick sheet of
snow, through which the engine ran along, like a steam-boat, leaving
a trail behind her. They were entering the uneven country of hills
and dales, whose enormous undulation extended as far as Malaunay,
breaking up the ground into heaps; and here the snow had collected in
an unequal manner. In places the line proved free, while in others it
was blocked by drifts of considerable magnitude. The wind that swept
the embankments filled up the cuttings; and thus there was a continual
succession of obstacles to be overcome: bits of clear line blocked
by absolute ramparts. It was now broad daylight, and the devastated
country, those narrow gorges, those steep slopes, resembled in their
white coating, the desolation of an ocean of ice remaining motionless
in the storm.
Never had Jacques felt so penetrated by the cold. His face seemed
bleeding from the stinging flagellation of the snow; and he had lost
consciousness of his hands, which were so benumbed and so bereft of
sensibility, that he shuddered on perceiving he could not feel the
touch of the reversing-wheel. When he raised his elbow to pull the rod
of the whistle, his arm weighed on the shoulder as if dead. He could
not have affirmed that his legs still carried him, amid the constant
shocks of oscillation that tore his inside. Great fatigue had gained
him, along with the cold, whose icy chill was attaining his head. He
began to doubt whether he existed, whether he was still driving, for he
already only turned the wheel in a mechanical way; and, half silly, he
watched the manometer going back.
All kinds of hallucinations passed through his head. Was not that a
felled tree, over there, lying across the line? Had he not caught
sight of a red flag flying above that hedge? Were not crackers going
off every minute amidst the clatter of the wheels? He could not have
answered. He repeated to himself that he ought to stop, and he lacked
the firmness of will to do so. This crisis tortured him for a few
minutes; then, abruptly, the sight of Pecqueux, who had fallen asleep
again on the chest, overcome by the cold from which he was suffering
himself, threw him into such a frightful rage that it seemed to bring
him warmth.
"Ah! the abominable brute!" he exclaimed.
And he, who was usually so lenient for the vices of this drunkard,
kicked him until he awoke, and was on his feet. Pecqueux, benumbed with
cold, grumbled as he grasped the shovel:
"That'll do, that'll do; I'm going there!"
With the fire made up, the pressure rose; and it was time, for La Lison
had just entered a cutting where it had to cleave through four feet of
snow. It advanced with an energetic effort, vibrating in every part.
For an instant it showed signs of exhaustion, and seemed as if about to
stand still, like a vessel that has touched a sandbank. What increased
the weight it had to draw was the snow, which had accumulated in a
heavy layer on the roofs of the carriages.
They continued thus, seaming the whiteness with a dark line, with this
white sheet spread over them; while the engine itself had only borders
of ermine draping its sombre sides, where the snowflakes melted to
run off in rain. Once more it extricated itself, notwithstanding the
weight, and passed on. At the top of an embankment, that made a great
curve, the train could still be seen advancing without difficulty, like
a strip of shadow lost in some fairyland sparkling with whiteness.
But, farther on, the cuttings began again; and Jacques and Pecqueux,
who had felt La Lison touch, stiffened themselves against the cold,
erect at their posts, which even, were they dying, they could not
desert. Once more the engine lost speed; it had got between two talus,
and the stoppage came slowly and without a shock. It seemed as if glued
there, exhausted; as though all its wheels were clogged, tighter and
tighter. It ceased moving, the end had come; the snow held the engine
powerless.
"It's all up!" growled Jacques with an oath.
He remained a few seconds longer at his post, his hand on the wheel,
opening everything to see if the obstacle would yield. Then, hearing La
Lison spitting and snorting in vain, he shut the regulator, and, in his
fury, swore worse than ever.
The headguard leant out from the door of his van, and Pecqueux, turning
round, shouted to him:
"It's all up! We're stuck!"
Briskly the guard sprang into the snow, which reached to his knees. He
approached, and the three men consulted together.
"The only thing we can do is to try and dig it out," said the driver
at last. "Fortunately, we have some shovels. Call the second guard at
the end of the train, and between us four we shall be able to clear the
wheels."
They gave a sign to the other guard behind, who had also left his van.
He made his way to them with great difficulty, getting at times half
buried in the snow.
But this stoppage in the open country, amid this pallid solitude,
this clear sound of voices discussing what must be done, the guard
floundering along beside the train with laborious strides had made the
passengers uneasy. The windows went down; the people called out and
questioned one another; a regular confusion ensued--vague, as yet, but
becoming more pronounced.
"Where are we? Why have they stopped? What is the matter? Good heavens!
is there an accident?"
The guard found it necessary to allay the alarm; and just as he
advanced to the carriages, the English lady, whose fat red face was
flanked by the charming countenances of her daughters, inquired with a
strong accent:
"Guard, is there any danger?"
"No, no, madam," he replied. "It's only a little snow. We shall be
going on at once."
And the window went up again amid the bright twittering of the young
girls--that music of English syllables which is so sparkling on rosy
lips. Both were laughing, very much amused.
But the elderly gentleman, who was farther on, also called the guard,
while his young wife risked her pretty dark head behind him.
"How was it that no precautions were taken? It is unbearable. I am
returning from London. My business requires my presence in Paris this
morning, and I warn you that I shall make the company responsible for
any delay."
"We shall be going on again in three minutes, sir," said the guard.
The cold was terrible; the snow entered the carriages, driving in the
heads and bringing up the windows. But the agitation continued within
the closed vehicles, where everyone was disturbed by a low hum of
anxiety. A couple of windows alone remained down; and two travellers
leaning out, three compartments away from each other, were talking.
One was an American some forty years of age, and the other a young
gentleman from Havre. Both were very much interested in the task of
clearing away the snow.
"In America everyone would get down and take a shovel," remarked the
former.
"Oh! it is nothing!" answered the other. "I was blocked twice last
year. My business brings me to Paris every week."
"And mine every three weeks, or so."
"What! from New York?"
"Yes; from New York."
It was Jacques who directed the labour. Perceiving Séverine at the door
of the first carriage, where she always took her seat, so as to be
near him, he gave her a look of entreaty; and she, understanding, drew
back out of the icy wind that was stinging her face. Then, with her
occupying his thoughts, he worked away heartily.
But he remarked that the cause of the stoppage, the embedment in the
snow had nothing to do with the wheels, which cut through the deepest
drifts. It was the ash-pan, placed between them, that produced the
obstruction, by driving the snow along, compressing it into enormous
lumps. And he was struck with an idea.
"We must unscrew the ash-pan," said he.
At first the headguard opposed the suggestion. The driver was under his
orders, and he would not give his consent to the engine being touched.
Then, giving way to argument, he said:
"If you take the responsibility, all right!"
Only it was a hard job. Stretched out beneath the engine, with their
backs in the melting snow, Jacques and Pecqueux had to toil for nearly
half an hour. Fortunately they had spare screwdrivers in the toolchest.
At last, at the risk of burning themselves and getting crushed a score
of times over, they managed to take the ash-pan down. But they had not
done with it yet. It was necessary to drag it away. Being an enormous
weight, it got jammed in the wheels and cylinders. Nevertheless, the
four together were able to pull it out, and drag it off the line to the
foot of the embankment.
"Now let us finish clearing away the snow," said the guard.
The train had been close upon an hour in distress, and the alarm of the
passengers had increased. Every minute a glass went down, and a voice
inquired why they did not go on. There was a regular panic, with shouts
and tears, in an increscent crisis of craziness.
"No, no, enough has been cleared away," said Jacques. "Jump up, I'll
see to the rest."
He was once more at his post, along with Pecqueux, and when the two
guards had gained their vans, he turned on the exhaust-tap. The
deafening rush of scalding steam melted the remainder of the snow still
clinging to the line. Then, with his hand on the wheel, he reversed
the engine, and slowly retreated to a distance of about four hundred
yards, to give it a run. And having piled up the fire, and attained a
pressure exceeding what was permitted by the regulations, he sent La
Lison against the wall of snow with all its might and all the weight of
the train it drew.
The locomotive gave a terrific grunt, similar to that of a woodman
driving his axe into a great tree, and it seemed as though all the
powerful ironwork was about to crack. It could not pass yet. It came to
a standstill, smoking and vibrating all over with the shock. Twice the
driver had to repeat the manœuvre, running back, then dashing against
the snow to drive it away. On each occasion, La Lison, girded for the
encounter, struck its chest against the impediment with the furious
respiration of a giant, but to no purpose. At last, regaining breath,
it strained its metal muscles in a supreme effort and passed, while the
train followed ponderously behind, between the two walls of snow ripped
asunder. It was free!
"A good brute, all the same!" growled Pecqueux.
Jacques, half blinded, removed his spectacles and wiped them. His
heart beat hard. He no longer felt the cold. But abruptly he remembered
a deep cutting, some four hundred yards away from La Croix-de-Maufras.
It opened in the direction of the wind, and the snow must have
accumulated there in a considerable quantity. He at once felt certain
that this was the rock, marked out, whereon he would founder. He bent
forward. In the distance, after a final curve, the trench appeared
before him in a straight line, like a long ditch full of snow. It was
broad daylight, and the boundless whiteness sparkled amid the unceasing
fall of snowflakes.
La Lison skimmed along at a medium speed, having encountered no further
obstacle. By precaution, the lanterns had been left burning in front
and behind; and the white light at the base of the chimney shone in
the daylight like a living Cyclopean eye. The engine rolled along,
approaching the cutting, with this eye wide open. Then it seemed to
pant, with the gentle short respiration of an affrighted steed. It
shook with deep thrills, it reared, and was only impelled forward under
the vigorous hand of the driver. The latter had rapidly opened the door
of the fire-box for the fireman to put in coal. And now it was no more
the tail of a comet illuminating the night, it was a plume of thick
black smoke, soiling the great shivering pallidness of the sky.
La Lison advanced. At last it had to enter the cutting. The slopes, to
right and left, were deep in snow; and at the bottom not a vestige of
the line could be seen. It was like the bed of a torrent filled up with
snow from side to side. The locomotive passed in, rolling along for
sixty or seventy yards, with exhausted respiration that grew shorter
and shorter. The snow it pushed forward formed a barrier in front,
which flew about and rose like an ungovernable flood threatening to
engulf it. For a moment it appeared overwhelmed and vanquished. But,
in a final effort, it delivered itself to advance another forty yards.
That was the end, the last pang of death. Lumps of snow fell down
covering the wheels; all the pieces of the mechanism were smothered,
connected with one another by chains of ice. And La Lison stopped
definitely, expiring in the intense cold. Its respiration died away, it
was motionless and dead.
"There, we're done for now," said Jacques. "That is just what I
expected."
He at once wanted to reverse the engine, to try the previous manœuvre
again. But, this time, La Lison did not move. It refused either to go
back or advance, it was blocked everywhere, riveted to the ground,
inert and insensible. Behind, the train, buried in a thick bed reaching
to the doors, also seemed dead. The snow, far from ceasing, fell more
densely than before in prolonged squalls. They were in a drift, where
engine and carriages, already half covered up, would soon disappear
amid the shivering silence of this hoary solitude. Nothing more moved.
The snow was weaving the winding sheet.
"What!" exclaimed the chiefguard, leaning out of his van; "has it begun
again?"
"We're done for!" Pecqueux simply shouted.
This time, indeed, the position proved critical. The guard in the rear
ran and placed fog-signals on the line, to protect the train at the
back; while the driver sounded distractedly, with swift breaks, the
panting, lugubrious whistle of distress. But the snow loading the air,
the sound was lost, and could not even have reached Barentin. What
was to be done? They were but four, and they would never be able to
clear away such an immense mass--a regular gang of labourers would be
necessary. It became imperative to run for assistance. And the worst of
it was that the passengers were again in a panic.
A door opened. The pretty dark lady sprang from her carriage in a
fright, thinking they had met with an accident. Her husband, the
elderly commercial man, followed, exclaiming:
"I shall write to the Minister. It's an outrage!"
Then came the tears of the women, the furious voices of the men, as
they jumped from their compartments, amid the violent shocks of the
lowered windows. The two young English girls, who were at ease and
smiling, alone displayed some gaiety. While the headguard was trying to
calm the crowd, the younger of the two said to him in French, with a
slight Britannic accent:
"So, it is here that we stop, then, guard?"
Several men had got down, notwithstanding the depth of snow in which
their legs entirely disappeared. The American again found himself
beside the young man from Havre, and both made their way to the engine,
to see for themselves. They tossed their heads.
"It will take four or five hours to get us out of that," said one.
"At least," answered the other, "and even then it will require a score
of workmen."
Jacques had just persuaded the headguard to send his companion to
Barentin to ask for help. Neither the driver nor the fireman could
leave the engine.
The man was already far away, they soon lost sight of him at the end
of the cutting. He had three miles to walk, and perhaps would not be
back before two hours. And Jacques, in despair, left his post for an
instant, and ran to the first carriage where he perceived Séverine who
had let down the glass.
"Don't be afraid," said he rapidly; "you have nothing to fear."
She answered in the same tone, avoiding familiarity lest she might be
overheard:
"I'm not afraid; only I've been very uneasy about you."
And this was said so sweetly that both were consoled, and smiled at one
another. But as Jacques turned round, he was surprised to see Flore at
the top of the cutting; then Misard, accompanied by two other men,
whom he failed to recognise at first. They had heard the distress
whistle; and Misard, who was off duty, had hastened to the spot along
with his two companions, whom he had been treating to a morning draught
of white wine. One of these men proved to be Cabuche, thrown out of
work by the snow, and the other Ozil, who had come from Malaunay
through the tunnel, to pay court to Flore, whom he still pursued with
his attentions, in spite of the bad reception he met with. She, out of
curiosity, like a great vagabond girl, brave and strong as a young man,
accompanied them.
For her and her father, this was a great event--an extraordinary
adventure, this train stopping, so to say, at their door. During the
five years they had been living there, at every hour of the day and
night, in fine weather and foul, how many trains had they seen dart by!
All were borne away in the same breath that brought them. Not one had
even slackened speed. They saw them dash ahead, fade in the distance,
disappear, before they had time to learn anything about them. The whole
world filed past; the human multitude carried along full steam, without
them having knowledge of aught else than faces caught sight of in a
flash--faces they were never more to set eyes on, apart from a few that
became familiar to them, through being seen over and over again on
particular days, and to which they could attach no name.
And here, in the snow, a train arrived at their door. The natural order
of things was reversed. They stared to their hearts' content at this
little unknown world of people, whom an accident had cast on the line;
they contemplated them with the rounded eyes of savages, who had sped
to a shore where a number of Europeans had been shipwrecked. Those open
doors revealing ladies wrapped in furs, those men who had got out in
thick overcoats; all this comfortable luxury, stranded amid this sea of
ice, struck them with astonishment.
But Flore had recognised Séverine. She, who watched each time for the
train driven by Jacques, had perceived, during the past few weeks,
the presence of this woman in the express on Friday morning; and the
more readily, as Séverine, on approaching the level crossing, put
her head out of the window to take a glance at her property of La
Croix-de-Maufras. The eyes of Flore clouded as she noticed her talking
in an undertone with the driver.
"Ah! Madame Roubaud!" exclaimed Misard, who had also just recognised
her; and at once assuming his obsequious manner, he continued: "What
dreadful bad luck! But you cannot remain there, you must come to our
house."
Jacques, after pressing the hand of the gateman, supported his
invitation.
"He is right," said he. "We may have to wait here for hours, and you
will be perished to death."
Séverine refused. She was well wrapped up, she said. Then, the four
hundred yards in the snow frightened her a little. Thereupon Flore drew
near, and, looking fixedly at her with her great eyes, ended by saying:
"Come, madam, I will carry you."
And before Séverine had time to accept she had caught her in her arms,
vigorous as those of a young man, and lifted her up like a little
child. She set her down on the other side of the line, at a spot which
had been well-trodden, and where the feet no longer sank into the snow.
Some of the travellers began to laugh, marvelling at the achievement.
What a strapping wench! If they only had a dozen of the same kidney the
train would be free in a couple of hours.
In the meanwhile, the suggestion that Misard had been heard to make,
this house of the gatekeeper, where they could take refuge, find a
fire, and perhaps bread and wine, flew from one carriage to another.
The panic had calmed down when the people understood that they ran no
immediate danger; only the position remained none the less lamentable:
the foot-warmers were becoming cold, it was nine o'clock, and if help
tarried they would be suffering from hunger and thirst. Besides, the
line might remain blocked much longer than was anticipated. Who could
say they would not have to sleep there?
The passengers divided into two camps: those who in despair would not
quit the carriages, and installed themselves as if they were going to
end their days there, wrapped up in their blankets, stretched out in a
peevish frame of mind on the seats; and those who preferred risking the
trip, in the hope of finding more comfortable quarters, and, who above
all, were desirous of escaping from this nightmare of a train stranded
in the snow and being frozen to death. Quite a small party was formed,
the elderly commercial man and his young wife, the English lady and
her two daughters, the young man from Havre, the American, and a dozen
others all ready to set out.
Jacques, in a low voice, had persuaded Séverine to join them, vowing
he would take her news, if he could get away. And as Flore continued
observing them with her clouded eyes, he addressed her gently, like an
old friend:
"All right! It's understood, you will show these ladies and gentlemen
the way. I shall keep Misard and the others. We'll set to work and do
what we can until help arrives."
Cabuche, Ozil, and Misard, in fact, at once caught hold of shovels
to join Pecqueux and the headguard who were already attacking the
snow. The little gang strove to clear the engine, digging round the
wheels and emptying their shovels against the sides of the cutting.
Nobody spoke, nothing could be heard but the sound of their impulsive
labour amid the gloomy oppression of the pallid country. And when the
little troop of passengers were far away, they took a last look at the
train, which remained alone, showing merely a thin black line beneath
the thick layer of white weighing on the top of it. The travellers
remaining behind had closed the doors and put up the glasses. The snow
continued falling, slowly but surely, and with mute obstinacy, burying
engine and carriages.
Flore wanted to take Séverine in her arms again; but the latter
refused, wishing to walk like the others. The four hundred yards were
painful to get over, particularly in the cutting where the people
sank in up to the hips; and on two occasions it became necessary to
go to the rescue of the stout English lady who was half smothered.
Her daughters, who were delighted, continued laughing. The young wife
of the old gentleman, having slipped, consented to take the arm of
the young man from Havre; while her husband ran down France with the
American. On issuing from the cutting walking became easier; the little
band advanced along an embankment in single file, beaten by the wind,
carefully avoiding the edges rendered uncertain and dangerous by the
snow.
At length they arrived, and Flore took them into the kitchen where she
was unable to find a seat for all, as there proved to be quite a score
of them crowding the room, which fortunately was fairly large. The only
thing she could think of was to go and fetch some planks, and rig up a
couple of forms by the aid of the chairs she possessed. She then threw
a faggot on the hearth, and made a gesture to indicate that they must
not ask her for anything more. She had not uttered a word. She remained
erect, gazing at these people with her large greenish eyes, in the
fierce, bold manner of a great blonde savage.
Apart from the face of Séverine, those of the American, and the young
man from Havre alone, were known to her. These she was familiar with
through having frequently noticed them at the windows for months past;
and she examined them, now, just as one studies an insect which, after
buzzing about in the air, has at length settled on something, and which
it was impossible to follow on the wing. They struck her as peculiar.
She had not imagined them exactly thus, having caught but a glimpse of
their features. As to the other people, they seemed to her to belong to
a different race--to be the inhabitants of an unknown land, fallen from
the sky, who brought into her home, right into her kitchen, garments,
customs, and ideas that she had never anticipated finding there.
The English lady confided to the young wife of the commercial gentleman
that she was on her way to join her eldest son, a high functionary in
India; and the young woman joked about the ill-luck she had met with,
on the first occasion she happened to have the caprice to accompany
her husband to London where he went twice a year. All lamented being
blocked in this desert. What were they to do for food, and how were
they going to sleep? What could be done, good heavens!
Flore, who was listening to them motionless, having caught the eyes of
Séverine, seated on a chair before the fire, made her a sign that she
wanted to take her into the adjoining room.
"Mamma," said she as they entered, "it's Madame Roubaud. Wouldn't you
like to have a chat with her?"
Phasie was in bed, her face yellow, her legs swollen; so ill that she
had not been able to get up for a fortnight. And she passed this time
in the poorly furnished room, heated to suffocation by an iron stove,
obstinately pondering over the fixed idea she had got into her head,
without any other amusement than the shock of the trains as they flew
past full speed.
"Ah! Madame Roubaud," she murmured; "very good, very good."
Flore told her of the accident, and spoke to her of the people she had
brought home, and who were there in the kitchen. But such things had
ceased to interest her.
"Very good, very good," she repeated in the same weary voice.
Suddenly she recollected, and raised her head an instant to say:
"If madam would like to see her house, the keys are hanging there, near
the wardrobe."
But Séverine refused. A shiver had come over her at the thought of
going to La Croix-de-Maufras in this snow, in this livid daylight. No,
no, there was nothing she desired to do there. She preferred to remain
where she was, and wait in the warmth.
"Be seated, madam," resumed Flore. "It is more comfortable here than in
the other room; and, besides, we shall never be able to find sufficient
bread for all these people; whereas, if you are hungry, there will
always be a bit for you."
She had handed her a chair, and continued to show herself attentive,
making a visible effort to attenuate her usual rough manner. But her
eyes never quitted the young woman. It seemed as if she wished to
read her; to arrive at a certainty in regard to a particular question
that she had already been asking herself for some time; and, in her
eagerness, she felt a desire to approach her, to stare her out of
countenance, to touch her, so as to know.
Séverine expressed her thanks, and made herself comfortable near the
stove, preferring, indeed, to be alone with the invalid in this room,
where she hoped Jacques would find means to join her. Two hours passed.
Yielding to the oppressive heat, she had fallen asleep, after chatting
about the neighbourhood. Suddenly, Flore, who at every minute had been
summoned to the kitchen, opened the door, saying in her harsh tones:
"Go in, as she is there."
It was Jacques who had escaped with good news. The man sent to Barentin
had just brought back a whole gang, some thirty soldiers, whom the
administration, foreseeing accidents, had dispatched to the threatened
points on the line; and they were all hard at work with pick and
shovel. Only it would be a long job, and the train would, perhaps, not
be able to get off again before evening.
"Anyhow, you are not so badly off," he added; "have patience. And, Aunt
Phasie, you will not let Madame Roubaud starve, will you?"
Phasie, at the sight of her big lad, as she called him, had with
difficulty sat up, and she looked at him, revived and happy, listening
to him talking. When he had drawn near her bed, she replied:
"Of course not, of course not. Ah! my big lad, so there you are. And
so it's you who have got caught in the snow; and that silly girl never
told me so."
Turning to her daughter, she said reproachfully:
"Try and be polite, anyhow. Return to those ladies and gentlemen, show
them some attention, so that they may not tell the company that we are
no better than savages."
Flore remained planted between Jacques and Séverine. She appeared to
hesitate for an instant, asking herself if she should not obstinately
remain there, in spite of her mother. But she reflected that she would
see nothing; the presence of the invalid would prevent any familiarity
between the other two; and she withdrew, after taking a long look at
them.
"What! Aunt Phasie!" exclaimed Jacques sadly; "you have taken to your
bed for good? Then it's serious?"
She drew him towards her, forcing him even to seat himself at the edge
of the mattress; and without troubling any further about the young
woman, who had discreetly moved away, she proceeded to relieve herself
in a very low voice.
"Oh! yes, serious! It's a miracle if you find me alive. I wouldn't
write to you, because such things can't be written. I've had a narrow
escape; but now I am already better, and I believe I shall get over it
again this time."
He examined her, alarmed at the progress of the malady, and found she
had not preserved a vestige of the handsome, healthy woman of former
days.
"Then you still suffer from your cramps and dizziness, my poor Aunt
Phasie?" said he.
She squeezed his hand fit to crush it, continuing in a still lower tone:
"Just fancy, I caught him. You know, that do what I would, I could not
find out how he managed to give me his drug. I didn't drink, I didn't
eat anything he touched, and all the same, every night I had my inside
afire. Well, he mixed it with the salt! One night, I saw him; and I was
in the habit of putting salt on everything in quantities to make the
food healthy!"
Since Jacques had known Séverine, he sometimes pondered in doubt over
this story of slow and obstinate poisoning, as one thinks of the
nightmare. In his turn he tenderly pressed the hands of the invalid,
and sought to calm her.
"Come, is all this possible? To say such things you should really be
quite sure; and, besides, it drags on too long. Ah! it's more likely an
illness that the doctors do not understand!"
"An illness," she resumed, with a sneer; "yes, an illness that he
stuck into me! As for the doctors, you are right; two came here, who
understood nothing, and who were not even of the same mind. I'll never
allow another of such creatures to put a foot in this house again. Do
you hear, he gave it me in the salt. I swear to you I saw him! It's for
my 1,000 frcs., the 1,000 frcs. papa left me. He says to himself, that
when he has done away with me, he'll soon find them. But, as to that,
I defy him. They are in a place where nobody will find them. Never,
never! I may die, but I am at ease on that score. No one will ever have
my 1,000 frcs.!"
"But, Aunt Phasie," answered Jacques, "in your place, if I were so sure
as all that, I should send for the gendarmes."
She made a gesture of repugnance.
"Oh! no, not the gendarmes," said she. "This matter only concerns
us. It is between him and me. I know that he wants to gobble me up;
and naturally I do not wish him to do it. So you see I have only to
defend myself; not to be such a fool as I have been with his salt.
Eh! who would ever have thought it? An abortion like that, a little
whipper-snapper of a man whom one could stuff into one's pocket, and
who, in the long-run, would get the better of a big woman like me, if
one let him have his own way with his teeth like those of a rat."
She was seized with a little shiver, and breathed heavily before she
could conclude.
"No matter," said she at last, "he will be short of his reckoning
again this time. I am getting better. I shall be on my legs before a
fortnight. And he'll have to be very clever to catch me again. Ah! yes,
I shall be curious to see him do it. If he discovers a way to give me
any more of his drug, he will decidedly be the stronger of the two; and
then, so much the worse for me. I shall kick the bucket. But I don't
want to have any meddling between us!"
Jacques thought it must be her illness that caused her brain to be
haunted by these sombre ideas; and, to amuse her, he tried joking,
when, all at once, she began trembling under the bedclothes.
"Here he is," she whispered. "I can feel him coming whenever he
approaches."
And sure enough, Misard entered a few seconds afterwards. She
had become livid, a prey to that indomitable fright which huge
creatures feel in presence of the insect that preys upon them.
For, notwithstanding her obstinate determination to defend herself
single-handed, she felt an increasing terror of him that she would
not confess. Misard cast a sharp look at her and the driver, from
the threshold, and then, gave himself an air of not having noticed
them side by side. With his expressionless eyes, his thin lips, his
mild manner of a puny man, he was already showing great attention to
Séverine.
"I thought madam would perhaps like to take advantage of the
opportunity, to have a look at her property. So I managed to slip away
for a moment. If madam wishes I will accompany her."
And as the young woman still refused, he continued in a doleful voice:
"Madam was perhaps surprised in regard to the fruit. It was all
wormeaten, and was really not worth packing up. Then we had a gale
that did a lot of harm. Ah! it's a pity madam cannot sell the place!
One gentleman came who wanted some repairs done. Anyhow, I am at the
disposal of madam; and madam may be sure that I replace her here, as if
she were here herself."
Then he insisted on giving her bread and pears, pears from his own
garden, which were not wormeaten, and she accepted.
As Misard crossed the kitchen he told the passengers that the work of
clearing away the snow was proceeding, but it would take another four
or five hours. It had struck midday, and there ensued more lamentation,
for all were becoming very hungry. Flore had just declared that she
would not have sufficient bread for everyone. But she had plenty of
wine. She had brought ten quarts up from the cellar, and only a moment
before, had set them in a line on the table.
Then there were not enough glasses, and they had to drink by groups,
the English lady with her two daughters, the old gentleman with his
young wife. The latter had found a zealous, inventful groom in the
young man from Havre, who watched over her well-being. He disappeared
and returned with apples and a loaf which he had found in the
woodhouse. Flore was angry, saying this was bread for her sick mother.
But he had already commenced cutting it up, and handing pieces to the
ladies, beginning with the young wife, who smiled at him amiably,
feeling very much flattered at his attention.
Her husband was not offended; indeed, he no longer paid any attention
to her, being engaged with the American in exalting the commercial
customs of New York. The two English girls had never munched apples
so heartily. Their mother, who felt very weary, was half asleep.
Two ladies were seated on the ground before the hearth, overcome by
waiting. Men who had gone out to smoke, in front of the house to kill a
quarter of an hour, returned perishing and shivering with cold. Little
by little the uneasy feeling increased, partly from hunger having only
been half satisfied and partly from fatigue, augmented by impatience
and absence of all comfort. The scene was assuming the aspect of a
shipwrecked camp, of the desolation of a band of civilised people, cast
by the waves on a desert island.
And as Misard, going backward and forward, left the door open, Aunt
Phasie gazed on the picture from her bed of sickness. So these were the
kind of people whom she had seen flash past, during close upon a year
that she had been dragging herself from her mattress to her chair. It
was now but rarely that she could go on to the siding. She passed her
days and nights alone, riveted there, her eyes on the window, without
any other company than those trains which flew by so swiftly.
She had always complained of this outlandish place, where they never
received a visit; and here was quite a small crowd come from the
unknown. And only to think that among them--among those people in a
hurry to get to their business--not one had the least idea of the thing
that troubled her, of that filth which had been mixed with her salt!
She had taken that device to heart, and she asked herself how it was
possible for a person to be guilty of such cunning rascality without
anybody perceiving it. A sufficient multitude passed by them, thousands
and thousands of people; but they all dashed on, not one would have
imagined that a murder was calmly being committed in this little,
low-roofed dwelling, without any set out. And Aunt Phasie looked at
one after the other of these persons, fallen as it were from the moon,
reflecting that when people have their minds so occupied with other
things, it is not surprising that they should walk into pools of mire,
and not know it.
"Are you going back there?" Misard inquired of Jacques.
"Yes, yes," replied the latter; "I'm coming immediately."
Misard went off closing the door. And Phasie, retaining the young man
by the hand, whispered in his ear:
"If I kick the bucket, you'll see what a face he'll pull when he's
unable to find the cash. That's what amuses me when I think of it. I
shall go off contented all the same."
"And then, Aunt Phasie, it'll be lost for everybody," said Jacques.
"Won't you leave it to your daughter?"
"To Flore? For him to take it from her? Ah! no, for certain. Not even
to you, my big lad, because you also are too stupid, he'd get some of
it. To no one; to the earth, where I shall go and join it!"
She was exhausted, and Jacques, having made her comfortable in bed,
calmed her by embracing her, and promising to return and see her again
shortly. Then, as she seemed to be falling asleep, he passed behind
Séverine, who was still seated near the stove, raising his finger with
a smile to caution her to be prudent. In a pretty, silent movement she
threw back her head offering her lips, and he, bending over, pressed
his mouth to them in a deep discreet kiss. Their eyes closed, and when
the lids rose again it was to find Flore standing in the doorway gazing
at them.
"Has madam done with the bread?" she inquired in a hoarse voice.
Séverine, confused and very much annoyed, stammered out:
"Yes, yes. Thank you."
For an instant Jacques fixed his flaming eyes on the girl. He
hesitated, his lips trembling, as if he wanted to speak. Then, with a
furious, threatening gesture, he made up his mind to leave. The door
was slammed violently behind him.
Flore remained erect, presenting the tall stature of a warrior virgin,
coifed with a heavy helmet of fair hair. So she had not been deceived
by the anguish she had felt each Friday, at the sight of this lady
in the train he drove. She was at last in possession of the absolute
certainty she had been seeking since she held them there together.
The man she was in love with, would never love her. It was this slim
woman, this insignificant creature that he had chosen; and her regret
at having refused him a kiss that night when he had brutally attempted
to take one, touched her so keenly that she would have sobbed. For,
according to her simple reasoning, it would have been she whom he would
have embraced now, had she kissed him before the other. Where could she
find him alone at this hour, to cast herself on his neck and cry, "Take
me, I was stupid, because I did not know!"
But, in her impotence, she felt a rage rising within her against the
frail creature seated there, uneasy and stammering. With one clasp
of her arms, hard as those of a wrestler, she could stifle her like
a little bird. Why did she hesitate to do so? She vowed she would be
revenged, nevertheless, being aware of things connected with this
rival that would send her to prison, she whom they permitted to remain
at liberty; and tortured by jealousy, bursting with anger, she began
clearing away the remainder of the bread and pears with the hasty
movements of a beautiful untamed girl.
"As madam will take no more, I'll give this to the others," said she.
Three o'clock struck, then four o'clock. The time dragged on,
immeasurably long, amidst increasing lassitude and irritation. Here
was livid night returning to the vast expanse of white country. Every
ten minutes the men who went out to see from a distance how the work
was proceeding, returned with the information that the engine did not
appear to be cleared. Even the two English girls began weeping in a
fit of enervation. In a corner, the pretty dark lady had fallen asleep
against the shoulder of the young man from Havre, a circumstance the
elderly husband did not even notice, amid the general abandonment that
had swept away decorum.
The room was becoming cold. Everyone was shivering, and not a soul
thought of throwing some wood on the fire. The American took himself
off, thinking he would feel much more comfortable stretched out on one
of the seats in a carriage. That was now the general idea. Everyone
expressed regret: they should have remained where they were. Anyhow,
had they done so, they would never have been devoured by the anxiety to
learn what was going on there. It was necessary to restrain the English
lady, who also spoke of regaining her compartment, and going to bed
there. When they placed a candle on a corner of the table, to light
the people in this dark kitchen, the feeling of discouragement became
intense, and everyone gave way to dull despair.
The removal of the snow from the line was nevertheless coming to an
end; and while the troop of soldiers, who had set the engine free, were
clearing the metals in front, the driver and fireman had ascended to
their post.
Jacques, observing that the snow had at last ceased, regained
confidence. Ozil, the pointsman, had told him positively, that on the
other side of the tunnel, in the neighbourhood of Malaunay, the state
of the line was much better. But he questioned him again.
"You came through the tunnel on foot, and were able to enter, and issue
from it without any difficulty?" said he.
"When I keep on telling you so," answered the other. "You will get
through, take my word for it."
Cabuche, who had been working with the energy of a good giant, was
already retiring in his timid, shy manner, which his recent difference
with the judicial authorities had only increased; and it became
necessary for Jacques to call to him.
"I say, comrade," he shouted, "hand me those shovels that belong to
us, over there against the slope, so that if we happen to want them we
shall be able to find them again."
And when the quarryman had rendered him this last service he gave him
a hearty shake of the hand, to show him that he felt esteem for him in
spite of all, having seen him at work.
"You are a good fellow, you are," said he.
This mark of friendship agitated Cabuche in an extraordinary manner.
"Thank you," he answered simply, stifling his tears.
Misard, who had made friends with him again, after accusing him before
the examining-magistrate, gave his approval with an inclination of the
head, pinching his lips into a slight smile. He had long since ceased
working, and, with his hands in his pockets, stood gazing at the train
with a bilious look, as if waiting to see whether he would not be able
to pick up something lost between the wheels.
At length, the headguard had just decided with Jacques that an attempt
could be made to go on again, when Pecqueux, who had got down on to the
line, called the driver.
"Come and look!" said he. "One of the cylinders has had a shock."
Jacques, approaching him, also bent down. He had already discovered, on
examining La Lison carefully, that it had received a blow at the place
indicated. In clearing the engine, the workmen had ascertained that
some oak sleepers, left at the bottom of the slope by the platelayers,
had been shifted by the action of the snow and wind, so that they
rested on the rails; and the stoppage, even, must have been partly due
to this obstruction, for the locomotive had run against the sleepers.
They could see the scratch on the box of the cylinder, and the piston
it enclosed seemed slightly bent; but that was all the visible harm,
and the fears of the driver were at first removed. Perhaps there
existed serious interior injuries; nothing is more delicate than the
complicated mechanism of the slide valves, where beats the heart, the
living spirit of the machine.
Jacques got up again, blew the whistle, and opened the regulator to
feel the articulations of La Lison. It took a long time to move, like a
person bruised by a fall, who has difficulty in recovering the use of
his limbs. At last, with a painful puff, it started, gave a few turns
of the wheels still dizzy and ponderous. It would do, it could move,
and would perform the journey. Only Jacques tossed his head, for he,
who knew the locomotive thoroughly, had just felt something singular in
his hand--something that had undergone a change, that had grown old,
that had been touched somewhere with a mortal blow. It must have got
this in the snow, cut to the heart, a death chill, like those strongly
built young women who fall into a decline through having returned home
one night, from a ball, in icy cold rain.
Again Jacques blew the whistle, after Pecqueux had opened the exhaust
pipe. The two guards were at their posts. Mizard, Ozil, and Cabuche,
had got on the footboard of the leading van; and the train slowly
issued from the cutting between the soldiers, armed with their shovels,
who had stood back to right and left along the base of the slopes. Then
it stopped before the house of the gatekeeper to pick up the passengers.
Flore was there, in front. Ozil and Cabuche joined her and remained at
her side; while Misard was now assiduous in his attentions, greeting
the ladies and gentlemen who left his dwelling, and collecting the
silver pieces. So at last the deliverance had come. But they had waited
too long. All these people were shivering with cold, dying of hunger
and exhaustion. The English lady led off her two daughters, who were
half asleep; the young man from Havre got into the same compartment
as the pretty dark lady, who looked very languid, and made himself
most agreeable to the husband. And what with the slush caused by the
trampled-down snow, the pushing, the free and easy manners, anyone
might almost have imagined himself present at the entraining of a troop
in flight, who had lost even the instinct of decent behaviour.
For an instant, Aunt Phasie appeared at the window of her room.
Curiosity had bought her from her mattress, and she had dragged herself
there to see. Her great hollow eyes of sickness watched this unknown
crowd, these passers-by of the world on the move, whom she would never
look on again, who were brought there and borne away by the tempest.
Séverine left the house the last. Turning her head she smiled at
Jacques, who leant over to follow her to her carriage with his eyes.
And Flore, who was on the look-out for them, again turned pale at this
tranquil exchange of tenderness. Abruptly she drew nearer to Ozil, whom
hitherto she had repelled, as if now, in her hatred, she felt the need
of a man.
The headguard gave the signal. La Lison answered with a plaintive
whistle; and Jacques this time started off, not to stop again before
Rouen. It was six o'clock. Night was completing its descent from
the black sky on to the white earth; but a pale, and frightfully
melancholy reflex remained nearly level with the ground, lighting up
the desolation of the ravaged country. And, in this uncertain glimmer,
the house of La Croix-de-Maufras rose up aslant, more dilapidated than
ever, and all black in the midst of the snow, with the notice nailed to
the shut-up front, "For Sale."