The Beast Within - Emile Zola [107]
It struck six. Jacques and Pecqueux climbed up on to the little steel connecting plate between the engine and tender. At a nod from his driver, Pecqueux opened the cylinder drain cocks, and a cloud of white steam filled the dark engine shed. As the driver eased open the regulator, La Lison moved out of the shed and whistled to be given the road. Almost immediately it was given the all clear and ran into the Batignolles tunnel. At the Pont de l’Europe it had to wait; at the appointed time the signalman allowed it to back up to the 6.30 express, and two shunters ensured that it was firmly attached to the train.
The train was ready to leave; there were only five minutes left. Jacques leaned out, puzzled not to see Séverine amongst the crowd of passengers. He was sure she wouldn’t get on the train without first coming to see him. Eventually she appeared; she was late and almost running. She walked the whole length of the train, not stopping until she had reached the locomotive. Her face was flushed with excitement and she looked so happy.
She stood on tiptoe on her tiny feet, looking up at him and laughing.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Here I am.’
Jacques too began to laugh, happy to see her there.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘you made it.’
She raised herself higher so that she could speak to him more quietly.
‘My dear friend,’ she said, ‘I’m so happy, so very happy. This has been my lucky day. I’ve got everything I could have wished for.’
He knew exactly what she meant and he was very pleased for her. As she ran back to get on the train she turned round and added as a joke: ‘Hey! Make sure you don’t run us off the rails!’
‘Never fear!’ he called back jovially. ‘I’ll be very careful.’
The carriage doors were already being slammed to, and Séverine only just had time to get on board. The guard waved his flag, Jacques gave a short blast on the whistle and opened the regulator. The train pulled out of the station. It was just as it had been on that tragic evening in February, the same time of day, the same hustle and bustle on the platform, the same sounds, the same smoke from the engine. But this time it was still daylight, a pleasant sunny evening, soft and gentle. Séverine opened the carriage window and looked out.
On the footplate, Jacques, warmly dressed in woollen trousers and smock,8 and wearing a pair of goggles with felt eye protectors fastened at the back of his head beneath his cap, kept a careful eye on the road ahead. He stood on the right-hand side of the cab, leaning out of the window to get a better view, constantly shaken by the vibration of the locomotive, which he hardly seemed to notice. He had his right hand on the reversing wheel,9 like a pilot at the helm of his ship, gradually turning it by degrees in order to increase or decrease the speed of the train, while with his left hand he kept tugging at the whistle, for the way out of Paris is awkward to negotiate. He sounded the whistle at level-crossings, stations, tunnels and sharp curves. In the distance he saw a signal shining red in the fading light. He gave a long blast on the whistle to ask for the road, and the train thundered past. From time to time he glanced at the pressure gauge, turning the injector10 on whenever the pressure reached ten kilogrammes. But his eyes quickly returned to the line ahead, looking out for anything that might hinder their progress, with such concentration that he saw nothing else and was not even aware of the wind that blew into his face