The Beast Within - Emile Zola [57]
‘A man on the track,’ he said, turning pale. ‘Where?’
Misard had been about to explain that he was on his way back with two eels that he had found caught on his ground-lines and that he wanted to get home as quickly as possible to hide them. But why bother telling all this to Jacques?
‘It’s up there,’ he said, gesticulating vaguely. ‘Five hundred metres perhaps... You need a light to see properly.’
Just then Jacques heard a noise from upstairs. He was so on edge that it made him jump out of his skin.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Misard. ‘It’s only Flore.’
Jacques heard the sound of bare feet walking over the tiled floor. She must have been waiting for him to come back. The door had been left ajar, and she had come to listen.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jacques. ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’
‘That’s what it looked like to me,’ Misard replied. ‘We’ll soon find out. We’ll take the lamp.’
‘What do you think happened to him?’ said Jacques. ‘Was it an accident?’
‘Probably,’ said Misard. ‘Some chap who’s got himself run over, or maybe someone who’s jumped out of a train.’
Jacques shuddered.
‘Come on!’ he said. ‘Hurry up.’
Never had Jacques felt driven by such an all-consuming need to know what had happened. Once outside, Misard, totally unperturbed, walked along the track, swinging his lamp, which cast a little pool of light on the railway lines. Jacques ran on ahead, irritated that Misard would walk no faster. It was like a physical urge, the sort of burning desire that compels lovers to quicken their step as the hour of their appointed assignation draws near. He dreaded what he might find, yet he ran towards it, straining every muscle in his body. When he reached the spot, nearly tripping over a dark shape that lay in a heap beside the down line, he stopped short, rooted to the ground, and a shiver ran from the tips of his toes to the nape of his neck. He could see nothing clearly, and such was his frustration that he began to swear at his companion, who was still dawdling along some thirty paces behind.
‘For God’s sake,’ he yelled, ‘hurry up! If he’s still alive we might be able to save him!’
Misard came ambling towards him, still in no great hurry. He held up the lamp so that he could see the body.
‘He’s had it,’ he said.
The man, whoever it was, had probably fallen from a carriage. He had landed on his stomach, face down, no more than fifty centimetres from the track. All that could be seen of his head was a mass of white hair. His legs were spread apart. His right arm lay on the ground as though it had been torn off, whilst his left arm was pinned under his chest. He was very well dressed, wearing a large blue overcoat, a pair of stylish boots and an expensive shirt. The body bore no signs of having been run over, but his neck had bled profusely, and there were bloodstains on his shirt collar.
‘He wasn’t short of a penny or two,’ said Misard calmly, after a cursory examination of the body. ‘Looks as if someone had it in for him!’
He turned towards Jacques, who was standing there open-mouthed.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ he said. ‘It’s against the law. You stay here and keep an eye on him. I’ll run down to Barentin and tell the stationmaster.’
He raised his lamp to look at the kilometre post.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Number 153, exactly!’
He placed the lamp on the ground next to the body and sauntered off down the line.
Jacques was left on his own. He stood looking at the lifeless body slumped on the ground in front of him. He could still not see it clearly; the light from the lamp was too dim. His thoughts were racing inside his head; the excitement that had made