The Beast Within - Emile Zola [183]
Misard had run back to his position as fast as he could. He was screaming and waving his hands in the air, in a desperate attempt to warn the train and get it to stop. Cabuche had heard the wheels of the train hammering on the track and the horses neighing with fright and he too rushed out of the house, shouting at the top of his voice to get the animals to move forward. But Flore, who had by now jumped clear, held him back, which saved his life. Cabuche imagined that she hadn’t been able to control the horses, and that it was they who had dragged her forward on to the line. He thought that he was to blame and sobbed uncontrollably, choking with fear and desperation. Flore, however, remained motionless, standing upright, staring, her eyes ablaze, watching intently. Just as the front of the locomotive was about to hit the blocks of stone, when it was perhaps only a metre away, in one split second she clearly saw Jacques, with his hand on the reversing wheel. He turned round, and their eyes met in a look that seemed to Flore never-ending.
That morning Jacques had greeted Séverine with a smile as she came down to the platform at Le Havre to catch the express, which she did every week. Why let his troubles ruin his whole life? Why not enjoy the good days, when he had the chance? Perhaps everything would come right in the end. He was determined to enjoy today at least and had been thinking of how they might spend their time together; perhaps he could take her to lunch in a restaurant. So when she had pulled a long face because there wasn’t a first-class carriage at the front of the train and she would have to sit further back, away from him, he had tried to cheer her up by giving her a bright smile. They would still arrive together in Paris and could make up for being separated when they got there. He was in such good spirits, in fact, that, as he leaned out to watch her get into a compartment at the far end of the train, he even had a dig at Henri Dauvergne, the principal guard, who he knew had his eye on her. The previous week, Jacques had had the impression that Dauvergne was being more forward than usual and that Séverine, in need of some distraction that might take her mind off the wretched situation she found herself in, had begun to encourage him. Roubaud had already said that something like this would happen - that she would end up sleeping with Dauvergne, not because she was attracted to him but because she fancied doing something different. Jacques asked Dauvergne who he’d been blowing kisses to the night before from behind one of the elm trees in the station forecourt. Pecqueux, who was shovelling coal on to the fire and getting La Lison ready to leave, roared with laughter.
From Le Havre to Barentin the express had travelled at its usual speed, with no undue incident. It was Henri who first spotted the wagon across the line from his lookout post in the guard’s van as the train came out of the cutting. The guard’s van, at the front of the train, was full of luggage, for the train was carrying a shipload of passengers who had disembarked from a liner the night before. The guard was standing at his desk in what little space was left, sorting out his paperwork, surrounded by piles of trunks and suitcases that swayed backwards and forwards with the motion of the train. His little bottle of ink, suspended from a nail, swung constantly to and fro. Every time the train stopped and luggage was unloaded, the guard had to spend four or five minutes filling in forms. Two passengers had just got off at Barentin; he had finished putting his papers in order and had climbed up to sit at his lookout, glancing quickly along the line in both directions as he always did. When he wasn’t otherwise engaged,