Like a child, I busied myself with the window strap. It was at that
moment that I noticed the small white plate affixed to the door:
+-------------+
| P. 3.33. C. |
+-------------+
P. 3.33 was the number of the car, and C the number of the section.
But P. C. were also the initials of my name. And, as I have not yet
introduced myself to the reader, I take this opportunity of telling
him (or her) that my name is Patrick Cooper, of London, son of Daniel
Cooper and Co., Ltd., insurance brokers, (_and Co._ being quite a
negligible quantity, while _Ltd._ is not).
I suppose that music and superstition must be of a very near
relationship. Even now, although I am no longer a musician, but a
Lance-Corporal (all honour to me!) my superstition survives. For
instance: I am a passionate hunter of rats. Well, whenever I miss one,
you may be sure that the next lot of bacon we get is bad.
Therefore it will be admitted that the discovery of my initials on the
plate of the carriage door could not but fill me with a certain awe.
Yet, not with awe alone! Also with curiosity. What was the meaning of
3.33?
I spent a few minutes over this highly interesting riddle, until
another thought came, namely: If I were not soon to engage in
conversation with the Comtesse, I should have spent my backsheesh in
vain.
I looked at my watch. It was half-past three, which meant that I had
already lost fifty minutes. All right! The figures 3.33 were to have
a meaning. If in three minutes, at 3.33, nothing happened, _I would
talk_. The weather might afford quite a suitable topic, if not new nor
in any way sensational, so at least not at all offensive. I accordingly
prepared myself. Two minutes.--One minute and a half.--One minute.--A
half minute....
The Westinghouse brake underneath the car made itself heard with a
grating, harsh shriek, there was a shock that ran through the train,
and at 3.33 exactly the Comtesse was pitched from her seat into my
arms, while one of my bags came to the floor and the train to a sudden
halt. In the next second, however, a terrific dash made it move
backwards, and we were both thrown from my seat into her's.
"What is it?" asked the fair one, after we had struggled out of our
mutual embrace.
Outside many people began to cry all at once and hurried footsteps were
heard.
"There is something wrong," answered I.
There was, indeed. On that particular spot the line, for some technical
reason, was only single tracked, and railway smashes were therefore not
altogether avoidable.
The Comtesse wanted to alight at once, but I held her back.
"What for?" I asked. "Are you not all right here? The worst is over. If
there is anything to be seen, it must be most unpleasant."
She settled down again in her seat. Her fright had apparently been
great, to judge from her paleness and from the way she looked, wide
eyed, at me. Out of the bag which had tumbled down from the net, I took
a flask of brandy and a little goblet.
"Drink this," I said, offering her a few drops.
She accepted, and then:
"How phlegmatic you English are!" said she. "Look at these people...."
The excitement outside was incredible. Strange voices were heard.
Passengers and railway servants were running up and down in a most
foolish and useless fashion. Two gentlemen were shouting at each other;
they were in a hot discussion about what was to be done. One woman
was kneeling and praying hysterically at the foot of a telegraph post
which she probably was mistaking for a way-side cross. And everybody
was talking, crying. It was all the more ridiculous, as there had, in
fact, happened nothing of importance. Both engines and the luggage vans
were badly damaged, but nobody was injured. If I want to imagine, what
it means nowadays when I read: "Austrians defeated"--I have only to
remember this scene of panic and disorder, and I know at once.
Nothing, so to say, had happened; but the men, having all lost their
presence of mind, behaved like sheep, looking to each other, appealing
for help, while most of the women were weeping, pallid, with cadaverous
lips.
In England everybody would have been quiet, perhaps a little annoyed,
perhaps amused, but in any case not a bit frightened. That was why the
Comtesse had called me phlegmatic. I hoped that it was my calmness
which had made her guess my English nationality: I was too proud of my
German to suspect that my pronounciation had betrayed me.
Anyhow, the ice was broken, and we were now chatting comfortably.
Slowly the excitement of the other passengers subsided and a period
of silence followed. People went back into their carriages. Even
the little conductor had disappeared; he was walking to the next
signal-box, where he would telephone for help. The wait seemed
interminable.
The Comtesse began to fidget.
"You still look a little pale," said I. "Do you feel well?"
She nodded meekly.
"But not entirely well? You feel tired? You have got a headache?"
"No, no!" she protested smilingly.
"I see. You want a little more brandy."
"No, no," she repeated.
But I was not satisfied. She seemed distressed.
"You are anxious about your luggage. Do you want me to go and see?"
"I have no luggage."
"You have no luggage?"
"No."
I was surprised. For she had brought none into the car either. Still,
that was no business of mine.
"Can't I do anything for you?"
"You may tell me the time."
"It is a quarter past four."
"And since when are we here?"