The Beast Within - Emile Zola [185]
Strangled cries filled the air, but they went unheard and were carried away on the breeze.
‘Help me! Kill me! I can’t stand the pain! Kill me! Please kill me!’
Amid the deafening noise and blinding smoke, the doors of the undamaged carriages had begun to open, and crowds of passengers were leaping in panic from the train. They fell in a heap on to the railway line, got to their feet and started kicking and punching each other in order to disentangle themselves. As soon as they felt solid ground beneath their feet and saw open countryside in front of them, they made off as fast as their legs would carry them, leaping over the hedge and running across the fields, intent on one thing only — to get out of danger, to get as far away as possible. Women and men alike ran screaming into the woods.
Séverine, having been trodden underfoot, her hair undone and her dress torn to shreds, eventually managed to free herself. Without a thought for her own safety she ran along the train towards the hissing locomotive. Suddenly she came face to face with Pecqueux.
‘Jacques! Jacques!’ she cried. ‘Is he safe?’
The fireman had miraculously come to no harm; he hadn’t even sprained an ankle. He too was running towards the engine, feeling sick at the thought of his driver lying beneath the wreckage. The two men had worked on the footplate together for so long, driving their train through storm and tempest! And now their locomotive, their poor locomotive, the much-loved lady in their menage à trois, lay on her back, a complete wreck, breathing her last!
‘I jumped off,’ he stammered. ‘I don’t know anything! Come on, we must get there quick!’
As they ran forward they bumped into Flore. She had seen them coming. She was standing in the same place as before, astonished at what she had accomplished. This massacre was of her making! She had done it! And she had done it well! Her only feeling was of a need fulfilled. She felt no remorse for the suffering she had caused; it didn’t affect her. But when she recognized Séverine, her eyes opened wide, and an expression of intense pain darkened her face. How could it be that this woman was still alive when Jacques was certainly dead! She had murdered her love. She had driven a knife into her own heart. In her torment she suddenly realized the enormity of her crime. She had done this! She had killed Jacques! She had killed all these people! She let out a great scream and ran madly up and down, wringing her hands.
‘Jacques! Oh, Jacques!’ she cried. ‘He’s under there! I saw him! He was thrown backwards! Jacques! Jacques!’
The noise from the engine had begun to subside. All that came from her now was a pathetic, dying wheeze that grew steadily weaker and above which could be heard the cries of the injured, getting louder and louder. Thick smoke still blew everywhere,