was shocked, and snatched her hand away from him. It was her week of freedom; her husband was on night duty. But the thought of leaving the apartment and walking through the station in the dark to an assignation with another man scared her. Her mind was filled with doubts she had never experienced before, like an innocent young virgin, her heart all aflutter. At first she declined his offer. Jacques had to keep asking her for nearly a fortnight, before she finally relented, although the thought of this nocturnal rendezvous had made her heart burn with excitement. It was the beginning of June; the nights were very warm and barely cooled by the breeze from the sea. Jacques had already waited for her three times, hoping that she would come to meet him despite her refusal. This evening she had again said no. There was no moon, the sky was overcast and not a single star could be seen through the heavy pall of mist that filled the air. Standing in the shadows, Jacques at last saw her approaching, dressed in black, moving forward without a sound. It was so dark that she might have brushed past him without seeing him, but he caught her in his arms and kissed her. She gave a little cry of surprise. Then, with a laugh, she allowed her lips to remain upon his. Jacques suggested they might sit in one of the nearby sheds, but Séverine refused. They walked on, pressing themselves close to each other, talking in whispers. The engine shed yard occupied the entire area between the Rue Verte and the Rue François-Mazeline, each of which has a level-crossing over the railway line. The place was a vast piece of open ground, filled with sidings, storage tanks, water hydrants and buildings of every type and description - the two great sheds for the locomotives, the Sauvagnats’ little house standing in its tiny vegetable garden, the ramshackle assortment of repair shops and the mess-room for the engine drivers and firemen. In such a tangle of deserted paths and alleyways it was easy for them to wander unseen, to disappear as if into the heart of a wood. For a whole hour they walked together, happy to be alone, exchanging the endearments that they had for so long stored in their hearts. She would not hear him talk of love; she had told him straight away that she could never be his, that she needed above all to regain her self-respect and that it would be wrong to sully a friendship as pure as theirs, a friendship of which she was so proud. He accompanied her as far as the Rue Verte, their lips met once more in a long kiss, and she returned home.
At just about the same time, Roubaud was beginning to nod off to sleep in the old leather armchair in the assistant stationmaster’s office. Twenty times every night he would have to shake himself awake, get up and stretch his legs. Up until nine o‘clock he had to supervise the arrival and departure of the night trains. He also had to see to the fish train, overseeing the shunting operations, checking the couplings and inspecting the delivery notices. Then, when the express from Paris had arrived and had been backed on to a siding, he would sit in his office at a corner of the table and eat his lonely supper - a little cold meat from their evening meal between two slices of bread. The last arrival, a stopping train from Rouen, got in at half past midnight. The deserted platforms then fell silent, only a few gas lamps were left burning, and in the chill of nightfall the whole station fell asleep. The only other staff Roubaud had to help him were two foremen and four or five workmen, who were all snoring their heads off on the mess-room floor, while he, whose job it was to wake them up the minute they were needed, had to sleep with one ear cocked. To prevent weariness from overtaking him before it grew light, he would set his alarm clock for five, when he had to be on his feet to see in the first train from Paris. Sometimes, however, especially of late, he found sleep impossible and he would spend the night tossing and turning restlessly in his armchair. When this happened he would go out and do the rounds,