The Beast Within - Emile Zola [56]
He saw the black mouth of the tunnel light up, like the open door of a blazing furnace. The train shot out of the tunnel with a deafening roar, the dazzling beam from the big round eye of the headlamp cutting through the landscape and lighting up the rails ahead like twin strips of flame. The locomotive came and went like a flash of lightning, followed by a long string of carriages, a procession of little square windows, brightly lit, and compartments full of passengers, all rushing past at such speed that it was impossible to be sure afterwards what the eye had actually seen. Even so, for one split-second through the brilliantly lit windows of a reserved compartment, Jacques distinctly saw a man holding another man down on the carriage seat and thrusting a knife into his throat. There was also another dark shape, possibly a third person, possibly some bags that had fallen off the luggage rack, pinning the struggling victim down by his legs. The train shot past him and was already disappearing in the direction of La Croix-de-Maufras. All that could be seen in the darkness was the red triangle formed by its three tail lamps.
Jacques remained fixed to the spot, gazing at the train as the noise faded into the dead stillness of the countryside. Had his eyes deceived him? Now the train had gone, he couldn’t be sure. The image had come and gone in a flash; he couldn’t believe he had really seen it. He couldn’t recall a single detail of the appearance of the two people involved in the scene. The dark shape was probably a travelling rug that had fallen over the victim’s body, but at first what he thought he had seen was a face, a delicate face with a fair complexion and long, thick hair. It was all so confused and fleeting, like something seen in a dream. For a brief moment the face came back to him; then it vanished completely. He must have imagined it. The whole thing left him feeling numb; it seemed so incredible. He concluded that his mind must be playing tricks on him after the awful shock he had just had.
Jacques walked on aimlessly for nearly another hour, trying to make sense of the confused thoughts that turned in his mind. Although he was exhausted, he was beginning to feel more composed; he felt very cold inside, and his panic had left him. Without intending to, he ended up walking back towards La Croix-de-Maufras. He found himself outside the gate-keeper’s cottage, but decided that, rather than go inside, he would sleep in the little lean-to shed, built on to one of the end walls. Then he noticed a slit of light under the door. Without thinking, he pushed it open. As he stood in the doorway a strange sight greeted his eyes.
Misard was in the corner of the room. He had moved the butter pot to one side and he was on all fours, with a lighted lamp beside him on the floor. He was tapping the wall with his knuckles, looking for something. The sound of the door opening made him sit up, but otherwise he didn’t appear in the least concerned.
‘I was looking for some matches,’ he said simply. ‘I dropped them here somewhere.’
He put the butter pot back in its place.
‘I came to get my lamp,’ he added, ‘because I saw someone lying on the track when I was coming back just now. I think he must be dead.’
When Jacques first opened the door, his immediate thought was that he