The Beast Within - Emile Zola [133]
‘There!’ said Jacques. ‘That’s as far as we’re going! I knew this would happen!’
His instinct was to reverse the locomotive and try again. But this time La Lison didn’t move. She would go neither backwards nor forwards. She was shut in on all sides, stuck to the ground, inert, lifeless. Behind her, the train too seemed dead, buried up to its doors in the deep layer of snow. And still the snow continued to fall, in long, swirling gusts, even heavier than before. It was like being caught in quicksand, with the engine and carriages slowly sinking from view, already half buried, amidst the icy silence of this vast, snowbound waste. Nothing moved. The snow continued to weave its shroud.
‘Shall we try again?’ shouted the guard, leaning out of his van.
‘We’re buggered!’ was Pecqueux’s only comment.
This time, the situation had become critical. The guard at the rear of the train ran back to lay detonators on the track to protect them from behind. The driver, in desperation, sounded short, repeated blasts on the whistle, a breathless, plaintive cry of distress that rose in the morning air. But it was deadened by the falling snow; the sound didn’t carry. It would probably not even reach Barentin. What was to be done? There were only four of them. They couldn’t possibly clear such an amount of snow on their own. It needed a whole team of men. They would have to go and get help. To make matters worse, the passengers were once again beginning to panic.
A carriage door opened, and the pretty, dark-haired lady jumped down from the train, terrified, thinking there had been an accident. Her husband, the businessman, who was considerably older than her, jumped down after her.
‘I shall write to the minister!’ he shouted. ‘This is disgraceful!’
Carriage windows were being lowered angrily, and from inside the train came the sounds of women crying and men losing their temper. The two little English girls were the only ones who seemed to be enjoying themselves, peering through the window and smiling serenely. As the principal guard attempted to calm everyone down, the younger of the two girls, speaking in French with a slight English accent, asked him, ‘Is this the end of the journey, monsieur?’
Several men had got down from the train, despite the deep snow which came up to their waists. The American once more found himself next to the young man from Le Havre, both of them having walked up to the engine to see what was happening. They stood there, shaking their heads.
‘It’s going to take four or five hours to dig her out of that lot.’
‘Four or five hours at least! And it’ll need about twenty men!’
Jacques had persuaded the principal guard to send the rear guard on to Barentin to ask for help. Neither he nor Pecqueux could leave the locomotive.
The guard set off and was soon out of sight at the far end of the cutting. He had a walk of four kilometres in front of him and probably wouldn’t be back for another two hours. In despair, Jacques jumped down from the footplate and ran towards the first carriage, where he had seen Séverine lowering her window.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve nothing to fear.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ she replied. ‘But I was worried about you.’
Like him, she didn’t raise her voice, lest anyone should hear her. But it was such a joy to speak together that they both felt heartened and smiled at each other. As Jacques turned to go back to the engine, who should he see coming along the top of the cutting but Flore and Misard, followed