The Beast Within - Emile Zola [67]
‘When they went down to Paris,’ she had said to Madame Lebleu, ‘I bet they tried to get you kicked out of your flat. I’ve been told they wrote a long letter about it to the Managing Director.’
Madame Lebleu was incensed.
‘It’s outrageous!’ she said. ‘I reckon they’re trying to get that office girl on their side too; she’s hardly spoken to me for a fortnight. And she’s another one! I’m keeping an eye on her...’
She lowered her voice to a whisper and told Philomène how she was certain that Mademoiselle Guichon went into the stationmaster’s room every night. Their two doors were opposite each other. Monsieur Dabadie was a widower and had a grown-up daughter of his own who for most of the time was away at school. It was Monsieur Dabadie who had appointed this thirty-year-old blonde with her quiet ways and her slim figure, although already past her best, gliding smoothly about the office like a snake. She was supposed to have been some sort of schoolteacher. Madame Lebleu had never actually caught her out; she moved about so quietly and she seemed able to disappear through chinks in the wall. On her own she was no danger, but if she was sleeping with the stationmaster her influence could be crucial. The only way Madame Lebleu could have a hold over her was by discovering her secret.
‘Oh, I’ll find out in the end,’ she continued. ‘They’re not going to walk all over me! Here we are and here we stay! All the best people are on our side, aren’t they, my dear?’
Indeed, this dispute over the two apartments had aroused the interest of nearly everyone in the station; for the people living along the corridor especially it was a major talking point. The only person who remained unconcerned was the other assistant stationmaster, Moulin. He was happy living at the front with his timid, little wife, a frail creature whom no one ever saw and who provided him with a child once every twenty months.
‘Anyway,’ said Philomène finally, ‘even if they are in trouble it won’t be the end of them; they know people who can pull strings. So just you watch out!’
She was still holding her two eggs, newly laid that morning by her own chickens. She gave them to Madame Lebleu, who thanked her profusely.
‘Oh, you’re so kind,’ she said. ‘I really don’t deserve it. You must come and see me more often. You know how my husband never leaves the office, and I get so bored, stuck here on my own because of my poor legs. Whatever shall I do if those wicked people steal my nice view from me?’
As she opened the door to see her out, she put her finger to her lips.
‘Sh!’ she whispered. ‘Let’s listen!’
The two women stood in the corridor for a full five minutes, not making a move and holding their breath. They leaned forwards, listening at the door of Roubaud’s dining room. But they couldn’t hear a thing; it was as quiet as the grave. Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, they eventually went their separate ways, bidding each other a final farewell with a silent nod of the head. Philomène walked off along the corridor on tiptoe, and Madame Lebleu went back into her room, closing the door so quietly that the latch made no sound as she slipped it into place.
By twenty past nine, Roubaud was back down on the station platform, supervising the assembly of the 9.50 stopping train. Although he was doing his best to appear calm, he was waving his hands about, moving restlessly from one foot to another and constantly looking round to make sure that the platform was clear. There was nothing happening. His hands were shaking.
Suddenly, as he turned his head to inspect the platform yet again, he heard someone calling his name. It was one of the telegraph operators, running towards him, breathless: ‘Monsieur Roubaud, have you seen the stationmaster or the safety officer?2 I’ve got two telegrams for them; I’ve been