The Beast Within - Emile Zola [61]
The two men had now reached the far end of the platform awning. On the right was a carriage shed which housed the carriages in service that had arrived the day before and would be used to make up the trains for the following day. As Roubaud looked up, his eye was caught by a first-class carriage with a coupé compartment. He could read the number in the flickering light of an adjacent gas lamp; it was number 293.
‘Ah, that reminds me...’ said Moulin suddenly.
A flush of colour ran across Roubaud’s pale features. He gave a start.
‘That reminds me,’ Moulin continued. ‘That carriage mustn’t leave the station, so make sure it’s not put on the 6.40 express this morning.’
Roubaud paused a moment.
‘Oh, why not?’ he asked, trying to make his voice sound natural.
‘Because someone’s reserved a coupé for the express this evening,’ Moulin answered. ‘We don’t know whether there’ll be another coming in today, so we’d better hang on to this one.’
Roubaud continued to gaze at the carriage.
‘I suppose so,’ he answered. His mind was on other things.
‘It’s a disgrace how those buggers do the cleaning,’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘That carriage doesn’t look as if it’s been touched for a week!’
‘I know,’ said Moulin. ‘When a train gets in after eleven, the last thing they want to do is start getting the mops and dusters out! You’re lucky if they even bother to check that the train’s empty! The other day they left someone fast asleep on the seat, and he didn’t wake up till the next morning!’
Moulin stifled a yawn and said he was off to bed. He was about to leave when he suddenly remembered something.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘what happened about your brush with the Sub-Prefect? Did you get it sorted out?’
‘Yes,’ said Roubaud. ‘It all went well. Everything’s fine.’
‘Glad to hear it!’ said Moulin. ‘Don’t forget, the 293 must stay here.’
Left alone, Roubaud sauntered back towards the Montivilliers train, which now stood ready to leave. The waiting-room doors had been opened, and passengers were beginning to make their way on to the platform — a few men, off for a day’s hunting with their dogs, and the odd shopkeeper and his family taking advantage of the Sunday off. It was very quiet, really. Once the first train of the day had left, Roubaud had no time to waste. His first task was to see that the 5.45 stopping train to Rouen and Paris was assembled. At this early hour there were not many staff on duty, and the assistant stationmaster had a lot to attend to. He supervised the shunting of the carriages, each of them hauled from the carriage shed by a gang of men, manoeuvred on to the turntable and pushed back into the station. He then dashed down to the booking hall to issue tickets and register luggage. He had to settle an argument between a group of soldiers and one of the station staff. Icy winds blew in every direction, and passengers stood around on the platform, shivering. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, and all these people, milling around impatiently in the dark, began to annoy him. For half an hour Roubaud was here, there and everywhere; he didn’t have a minute to think about himself. Once the stopping train had pulled out of the station and the platform was cleared, he ran down to the signalman’s box to make sure that everything was all right there. Another train was due in, the through train from Paris, and it was running late. He came back to the station to make sure that everyone got off the train safely and waited until the passengers had handed in their tickets and piled into the hotel conveyances, which in those days came to wait inside the station itself, separated from the trains by nothing more than a makeshift fence. Only then, when the station was again quiet and deserted, did