The Beast Within - Emile Zola [182]
‘What’s up?’ said Cabuche. ‘Having a nap in the sunshine were you? Hurry up! I want to get across before the express comes!’
Flore felt everything collapsing around her. Her plan was ruined. Jacques and Séverine would be in each other’s arms again. She could do nothing to stop them. She slowly opened the gate. It was old and falling apart and squeaked on its rusty iron hinges. She was desperately trying to think of something, some object that she could throw across the rails. She would have lain across the line herself, had she thought her bones were hard enough to make the engine jump the track. Suddenly she caught sight of the wagon, a heavy, low-slung cart laden with two blocks of stone, attached to five strong horses that were having considerable difficulty in pulling it. The stones were just what she needed — two massive lumps of rock, big enough to block the whole line. Her eyes lit up; she had a sudden, mad desire to seize hold of them and place them on the crossing. The gate was wide open and the five horses stood blowing clouds of steam from their nostrils, waiting to move forward.
‘What’s the matter with you this morning?’ called Cabuche. ‘You’re in a funny mood.’
‘My mother died last night,’ she told him, when at last she could bring herself to speak.
Cabuche felt really sorry for her.
‘My poor Flore!’ he said, putting his whip down and taking her hands in his. ‘You said you’d been expecting it for some time. But that doesn’t make it any easier, does it? If she’s in the house I’d like to see her. We could have been friends if it hadn’t been for what happened to Louisette.’
He slowly accompanied her towards the house. As he reached the door he turned to look at his horses. She quickly reassured him.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘They’re not going to move. The express is still a long way off.’
She was lying to him. Above the gentle whisperings of the countryside, her practised ear had heard the train leaving Barentin. In another five minutes it would be there, leaving the cutting, a hundred metres from the level crossing. As Cabuche stood in her mother’s bedroom, deep in thought and moved to tears as he remembered Louisette, Flore remained outside by the window, listening to the steady bark of the engine’s exhaust as the train drew nearer and nearer. Suddenly, she thought of Misard; he must have seen her and he would try to stop her. She turned to look. It was as if something had struck her in the chest; he was not at his post! She found him at the back of the house, digging up the earth round the well. Not for a minute could he give up his crazy search. He must have suddenly decided that that was where the money was. He was completely absorbed in his labours, totally unaware of anything else, digging and digging for all he was worth. Flore needed no further encouragement. Things were falling into place of their own accord. One of the horses started to neigh as the train approached the far end of the cutting, hissing and wheezing like someone running towards them in a hurry.
‘I’ll see to them,’ said Flore. ‘Leave it to me.’
She ran over to them, took the leading horse by the bit and pulled it forward with all the strength she could muster. The horses took the strain. The wagon with its enormous load rocked from side to side but remained where it was. Flore pulled on the harness herself, as if she were an extra horse. The wagon moved forward over the crossing. It was half-way across when the express emerged from the cutting one hundred metres away. In order to stop the wagon and prevent it from clearing the track, Flore seized hold of the harness and, with a superhuman effort that made her limbs crack, she held the horses back. She was an exceptionally strong woman; her feats of strength were legendary — stopping a wagon as it ran down an incline, pushing a cart from in front of an oncoming train. And now there she was, single-handed, holding back five horses in a grip of iron, as they reared and snorted in terror.
It all happened in less than ten seconds. But it seemed