• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1334 0

that a moment’s absent-mindedness may cost human lives. As soon as it had gone, he had to walk across the line to see in a train from Rouen, which was just arriving. One of the mail-sorters on the train was a friend of Roubaud’s, and he always enjoyed having a chat with him. For Roubaud it was a quarter-of-an-hour’s break in a busy morning, a moment when nothing needed doing urgently and he could take a breather. That morning as usual he rolled a cigarette, and the two men exchanged pleasantries. It was now quite light. The gas lamps under the station roof had just been extinguished. The roof was so poorly glazed that the station remained in shadow, but the stretch of sky visible beyond it was already ablaze with radiant sunlight. A rosy hue adorned the distant horizon, each detail of which stood out sharply in the clear air of a fine winter’s morning.

Usually at eight o’clock, Monsieur Dabadie, the stationmaster, came down to his office, and his assistant went to report to him. Monsieur Dabadie was a handsome man with strikingly dark hair. He was always smartly dressed and had the self-assured demeanour of a successful businessman, with little time for anything but the next contract to be signed. He took little interest in the running of the passenger station, concentrating instead on the dock traffic and the enormous transhipments of cargo that passed through the goods yard. He was in constant touch with major companies in Le Havre and all over the world. This morning he was late. Twice already Roubaud had looked round the door of his office and found no one there. The mail lay unopened on his desk. Roubaud had noticed a telegram among the letters and had not been able to walk away, involuntarily turning back, as if drawn by a magnet, to look at the table again.

Eventually, at ten past eight, Monsieur Dabadie arrived. Roubaud sat down and waited, saying nothing, allowing him time to open the telegram. The stationmaster, however, seemed to be in no hurry and sat chatting amicably with his assistant. He had a high opinion of Roubaud.

‘I assume everything went well in Paris,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir, thank you,’ said Roubaud.

Monsieur Dabadie had opened the telegram, but instead of reading it he continued to look at Roubaud. Roubaud’s voice had become very quiet, and he was desperately trying to control a nervous twitch in the corner of his mouth.

‘We are most pleased that you will be staying with us,’ said Monsieur Dabadie.

‘I’m very pleased to be staying too,’ Roubaud answered.

Monsieur Dabadie turned his attention to the telegram. Roubaud watched him as he read it. He felt beads of perspiration breaking out on his face. He was expecting some sort of reaction, but nothing happened. The stationmaster quietly finished reading the telegram and tossed it on to his desk. It must have been about some minor administrative matter. Monsieur Dabadie proceeded to open the rest of his mail while Roubaud, in the usual way, delivered his report for that morning and the previous night. Today, however, he found himself having to stop and think, in order to remember what his colleague had told him about prowlers trying to break into the left-luggage office. Roubaud finished his report, and the stationmaster indicated with a wave of his hand that he could go back to his work. He was on the point of leaving when two of the yard foremen came in, one from the docks and the other from the goods yard. They had come, like Roubaud, to make their reports, and brought with them another telegram, which had just been handed to them on the platform.

‘You needn’t wait,’ said Monsieur Dabadie to Roubaud, noticing that he was still hovering near the door.

But Roubaud couldn’t bring himself to leave and stayed watching with big, round eyes. It was only when the little slip of paper had been tossed on to the table with the same lack of concern as the previous one that he turned and went. For a while he wandered about on the platform. His mind was in a whirl; he felt dazed. The station clock now registered eight thirty-five; there were no more scheduled