The Beast Within - Emile Zola [62]
The clocks chimed six. Roubaud wandered out to the end of the platform, beyond the station roof. Standing outside in the open air, he raised his head and looked up at the sky, breathing deeply. Dawn was finally breaking. The wind coming in from the sea had blown away the lingering mist. A beautiful clear morning heralded a fine day. He looked northwards, towards the hills of Ingouville. In the distance he could see the trees in the cemetery standing out purple against the whitening sky. To the south and west a few remaining flecks of thin white cloud hung over the sea, drifting slowly across the sky like a fleet of ships. To the east, with the approaching sunrise, a fiery glow began to spread across the great open space over the mouth of the Seine. For a moment Roubaud forgot that he was on duty and removed his silver-braided cap to cool his brow in the pure morning air. He looked out over the station yard. It was all so familiar. With its profusion of long, low buildings — the unloading bays on the left, then the engine shed, and over to the right the goods depot — it was like a separate little town. It seemed to soothe his nerves and brought his mind back to the unchanging, humdrum routine of the day’s work that lay ahead. Over the wall along the Rue Charles-Lafitte, he could see the smoke rising from the factory chimneys and the huge stacks of coal in the coal-yards beside the Vauban dock. Sounds of activity could be heard from the other docks — goods-trains blowing their whistles, the hum of the city coming to life. With these sounds came the smell of the sea, carried to him on the wind. Roubaud thought of the celebrations for the launch of the new ship, of the crowds that would come thronging to see it.
As he walked back under the station roof, he noticed the men assembling carriages for the 6.40 express. He thought they were trying to attach the 293. The calming effect of the fresh morning air vanished in an instant. In a sudden access of blind rage he screamed, ‘Not that one, damn you! You were told to leave it where it is! That carriage isn’t going out till tonight!’
The foreman endeavoured to explain that they were only moving it forward in order to get at another carriage behind. But Roubaud was so angry that he couldn’t hear what he was saying.
‘You stupid buggers,’ he yelled. ‘You were told not to touch it!’
Eventually he realized what the foreman was trying to tell him. But he was still furious, and launched into a diatribe on the poor design of the station. There wasn’t even room to turn a carriage round! The station, it was true, was one of the first on the line to have been built and it was now totally inadequate. It was unworthy of a fine city like Le Havre. The carriage sheds were old-fashioned and made of wood, the station roof was constructed of wood and zinc, with tiny panes of glass, and the station buildings were dull and dreary, with cracks everywhere.1
‘This place is a disgrace!’ he fulminated. ‘I don’t know why the Company hasn’t knocked the whole bloody lot down!’
The men stared at him in amazement. They had never heard him lose his temper like this; normally when he had to discipline someone, he remained properly spoken. Roubaud noticed their reaction and stopped himself quickly. He stood there, stiff and silent, watching them as they went about their work. Lines of annoyance puckered his forehead; his round, flushed face and vigorous red beard were frozen in a supreme effort of will.
Having regained his composure, Roubaud turned his attention to the express, carefully checking every detail. Some of the couplings seemed loose, and he insisted that someone come and tighten them, while he watched to see that it was done properly. A mother, with her two daughters, a friend of his wife‘s, asked if he would find them a ‘Ladies Only’ compartment. Only when he had again checked that everything was in order did he blow his whistle for the train to leave. He stood for some time, looking after it as it moved out of the station, watching it intently like someone who knows