The Beast Within - Emile Zola [181]
Flore only worked during daylight hours, so she didn’t leave the bedroom until twelve minutes past six, for the stopping train to Paris. At six o’clock Misard had also gone to relieve his colleague, who had been on night duty. When Flore heard him sound his horn, she came and took up her position in front of the gate, holding her flag. She watched the train as it went by.
‘Another two hours!’ she said to herself.
Her mother had no further need of anyone, and the thought of going back into the bedroom sickened her. It was all over; she had kissed her mother goodbye and could now dispose of her own life and of everyone else’s. Usually between trains she would wander off on her own, but this morning something seemed to be holding her back. She remained at her position near the gate, sitting on a bench, a simple plank beside the line. The sun was rising over the distant horizon, shedding its golden warmth into the pure air like a shower of rain. She did not move, content to sit there, bathed in the sun’s gentle radiance, with the open countryside all around her, quivering with the approach of spring. For a while she watched Misard in his wooden hut on the other side of the line; he was visibly agitated, and quite unlike his usual sleepy self. He kept darting in and out of his hut, fiddling with the controls on his receiver and continually looking towards the house as if his mind were still there, looking for the money. But she soon forgot about him, and after a while she was no longer aware that he was there. She was waiting for something, concentrating, silent and tense, her eyes fixed on the railway line in the distance, towards Barentin. Out of that shimmering haze of sunlight would appear the vision that her wild eyes so eagerly anticipated.
The minutes went by. Flore did not move. Eventually, at seven fifty-five, when Misard sounded two blasts on his horn for the stopping train from Le Havre on the up line, she got to her feet, closed the gate and stood in front of it, holding her flag. The train went by, shaking the ground beneath it, and quickly vanished into the distance; she heard it plunge into the tunnel, and the noise suddenly stopped. She didn’t return to her bench but remained standing where she was, once more starting to count the minutes. If, in ten minutes’ time, no goods train had been signalled, she would run down through the cutting and take up a rail. She remained very calm, feeling only a certain tightness in her chest, as if the enormity of what she was about to do bore down upon her. But the thought that Jacques and Séverine were coming nearer and nearer and that, unless she stopped them, they would once again rush past her towards their lovers’ tryst strengthened her resolve as the moment approached. Her mind was made up; there would be no turning back. The decision was beyond recall. Like the wolf lashing out with its claws, she was blind and deaf to persuasion. All she saw, in her selfish desire for revenge, were two mutilated bodies. The other passengers didn’t enter her head — the nameless crowd of travellers that had been passing her window every day for years. She didn’t know them. There would be deaths and there would be bloodshed. Perhaps the sun would hide its face in shame. Its warmth and brightness had begun to irritate her.
Two minutes more, one minute more, and she would be on her way. As she turned to go, she heard the sound of a wagon trundling down the road from Brécourt. It’s someone from the quarry, she thought. They’ll want to get across. I’ll have to open the gate and stop for a chat. I’ll be stuck here. I’ll miss my chance. Without giving it a further thought, she turned and ran, leaving her post unattended. The driver and his wagon would have to fend for themselves. But she heard the crack of a whip in the still morning air and a voice cheerfully calling her name. It was Cabuche. She stopped