As Roubaud was leaving his apartment in the upper part of the station above the waiting rooms, whom should he meet but Madame Lebleu, the cashier’s wife, standing in the central corridor that gave access to the employees’ lodgings. For weeks now Madame Lebleu had been getting up in the middle of the night to snoop on Mademoiselle Guichon, who worked in the office and whom she suspected of having an affair with the stationmaster, Monsieur Dabadie. Not that she had ever seen anything; there was not the slightest bit of evidence, nothing at all. That morning she was just about to dodge back into her room, when Roubaud opened his door. In the three seconds or so that it took Roubaud to open and close it again, she was surprised to catch sight of his wife, the delectable Séverine, standing in the dining room, already fully dressed, with her hair done and her shoes on. Usually she lazed about in bed till nine in the morning. Madame Lebleu had immediately woken her husband up to impart this extraordinary piece of news. The evening before, they had both stayed up waiting for the Paris express to arrive at five past eleven, itching to find out what had happened about Roubaud’s clash with the Sub-Prefect. But there was nothing they could glean from just looking at them; they had seemed their usual selves. They had stayed up till midnight, straining their ears, but to no avail; there was not a sound from their neighbours. They must have gone to bed straight away and fallen into a deep sleep. The trip to Paris had obviously not gone well. Why else would Séverine have got up so early? Lebleu asked how Séverine appeared, and his wife tried to describe her; she seemed stiff and pale, her big blue eyes looked very bright under her dark hair, and she was standing completely still, like someone who was still asleep. No doubt they would find out all about it later on in the day.
When he got down to the station, Roubaud went to find his colleague Moulin, who had been on night duty. Moulin walked along the platform with him, passing the time of day and bringing him up to date with what had been happening while he had been away. A gang of prowlers had been caught trying to break into the left-luggage office, three shunters had been disciplined for misconduct, and a coupling had just broken while they were making up the train for Montivilliers. Roubaud listened calmly and quietly. Moulin thought he looked a little pale; no doubt he was still tired — he had rings under his eyes. Moulin obviously had nothing more to tell him, but Roubaud continued to look at him inquiringly, as if expecting to hear something else. But that was it. Roubaud lowered his head and looked at the ground.
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 he have a minute to breathe.
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 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 departures until the 9.50 stopping train. Usually he used the hour’s breathing space to do an inspection tour of the station, but this morning he drifted from place to place without knowing where his legs were taking him. Looking up, he found himself once more in front of carriage number 293. He turned on his heels and walked away towards the engine shed, even though there was nothing there that required his attention. The sun had now risen above the horizon, filling the air with a gold-coloured haze. But the fine weather was of no concern to Roubaud; he quickened his step and tried to appear busy, in an effort to put the awful suspense from his mind.
A voice behind him caused him to stop and turn: ‘Monsieur Roubaud! Good morning! Did you see my wife when you were in Paris?’
It was Pecqueux, the fireman, a tall chap, forty-three years old, very thin, with strong bony arms, his face scorched by fire and smoke from his engine. He had grey eyes, a low forehead, a large mouth and a prominent chin. He always seemed to be grinning, like someone who was permanently tipsy.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ said Roubaud, taken by surprise. ‘I’d forgotten. They told me in Paris about the engine being repaired. Back on duty tonight, I suppose? A day off! You lucky devil!’
‘I am indeed!’ answered Pecqueux. He was still slightly drunk after a binge the night before.
Pecqueux had been born in a village just outside Rouen and had joined the Company while still a lad, as a fitter’s mate. By the time he was thirty, he had had enough of working in the repair shop and started training as a fireman, hoping eventually to become a driver. He then married Victoire, who came from the same village as him. The years went by. Pecqueux had still not become a driver. In fact he never did; he was too disorganized and he always looked a mess. All he seemed interested in was getting drunk and chasing after women. He’d have been given the sack twenty times over had not President Grandmorin put in a good word for him. But he was a very likeable chap and good at his job, which made up for his other failings and led people to turn a blind eye to them. When he was drunk, however, he was a liability; he became an animal, capable of anything.
‘Did you see my wife?’ he asked again, grinning from ear to ear.
‘We certainly did,’ answered
Roubaud. ‘We even had lunch in your room. You have a good wife there, Pecqueux. You should try to see more of her.’
Pecqueux seemed to find this hilarious.
‘Try to see more of her!’ he chortled. ‘Come off it, it’s her as wants me to see more of other women!’
What he said was true. Victoire was two years older than him. She had grown fat and had lost interest in sex. She secretly put five-franc coins in his pocket so that he could procure his delights elsewhere; it had never bothered her that he cavorted with other women and preferred to spend half his life in brothels. But things had now settled into a more regular routine. Pecqueux had two women, one at each end of the line — his wife in Paris, when he needed to spend a night there, and another woman in Le Havre, when he had a few hours to kill between trains. Victoire was careful with her money and lived frugally. She was fully aware of what her husband got up to, yet still looked after him like a mother. She often said that she would hate him to feel embarrassed when he was with his other woman; she even got his underwear ready for him whenever he went to Le Havre. She couldn’t bear to think she might be accused of not looking after ‘their man’.
‘I still think you’re not being very nice to her,’ continued Roubaud. ‘My wife adores Victoire; she was her foster-mother. She thinks you’re being unkind.’
Roubaud was about to say more when he saw a tall, thin woman emerge from the little hut by which they were standing. It was Philomène Sauvagnat, the shed foreman’s sister. Philomène was the other woman that Pecqueux had been seeing in Le Havre for the past year. The two of them must have been in the hut chatting when Pecqueux had come out and called to Roubaud. Philomène still looked young, despite the fact that she was thirty-two; she was tall, bony and flat-chested, and her skin bore the unmistakable signs of a life of profligacy. Her head seemed to lunge forward, with big blazing eyes, like a racehorse straining at the leash. It was said that she drank. All the men at the station had at one time or another called to pay her their respects in the house near the engine shed, which she shared with her brother and which she allowed to get into the most dreadful state of neglect. Her brother came from the Auvergne. He was one of those men who always got his own way — very strict on discipline and highly thought of by his employers. But his sister was an embarrassment to him. At one point he had even been threatened with the sack. It was only thanks to him that the Company kept Philomène on; he himself let her live in the house out of family loyalty. Even so, whenever he caught her there with a man, he would beat her black and blue and leave her lying on the floor half dead. But Philomène and Pecqueux were just right for each other; he was someone she could get on with — a rough, happy-go-lucky chap who didn’t take life too seriously. Pecqueux went round joking about it, telling everyone he’d never need another woman in his life. He’d traded in his fat wife for a thin one! But Séverine, who was strongly attached to Victoire, found it very insulting and had told Philomène in no uncertain terms what she thought of her. She now avoided her as much as possible. She wouldn’t even say hello to her.