Pecqueux was nowhere to be seen. When he eventually turned up, his speech slurred after a meal with one of his mates, Jacques lost his temper. Normally the two men got on very well together, having worked side by side for many years, travelling from one end of the line to the other, flung together on the footplate, silently going about their work, united in a common task, braving the same dangers. Although he was more than ten years younger than Pecqueux, Jacques took a fatherly interest in his fireman, making allowances for his failings and letting him take an hour’s nap when he had had too much to drink. Pecqueux returned these favours with a dog-like devotion to his driver; he was a first-rate workman and despite his heavy drinking he was highly skilled at his job. What was more, he too was very attached to La Lison, which made for a good understanding between them. The two of them and the locomotive made a happy threesome, and there were hardly ever any arguments. So Pecqueux was taken aback to receive such a rough welcome and even more surprised to hear Jacques muttering doubts about the engine.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘She goes like a dream.’
‘No,’ said Jacques, ‘there’s something not right.’
Even though everything appeared to be working as it should, he continued to shake his head. He tested the controls and checked that the safety-valve was working properly. He climbed up on to the running-plate and filled the cylinder lubricators. Pecqueux cleaned the dome, where there remained a few slight traces of rust. The sand boxes7 were working normally. There should have been no cause for concern. The real trouble was that La Lison was no longer the only pull on Jacques’s heart strings; another love had implanted itself - a slim, fragile little creature, whom he still saw sitting beside him on the park bench, pleading to be helped, so in need of love and protection. Never before, even when some unforeseen incident had made him lose time and he had driven the locomotive at speeds of eighty kilometres an hour, had it occurred to him that he might be putting his passengers at risk. But now, the mere thought of driving back to Le Havre with Séverine on the train worried him. Only that morning he had wanted nothing to do with her; she had irritated him. Now he was frightened there might be an accident; he imagined her wounded because of him, and dying in his arms. On him depended the safety of the woman he loved. La Lison had better behave herself if she was to stay in his good books.
It struck six. Jacques and Pecqueux climbed up on to the little steel connecting plate between the engine and tender. At a nod from his driver, Pecqueux opened the cylinder drain cocks, and a cloud of white steam filled the dark engine shed. As the driver eased open the regulator, La Lison moved out of the shed and whistled to be given the road. Almost immediately it was given the all clear and ran into the Batignolles tunnel. At the Pont de l’Europe it had to wait; at the appointed time the signalman allowed it to back up to the 6.30 express, and two shunters ensured that it was firmly attached to the train.
The train was ready to leave; there were only five minutes left. Jacques leaned out, puzzled not to see Séverine amongst the crowd of passengers. He was sure she wouldn’t get on the train without first coming to see him. Eventually she appeared; she was late and almost running. She walked the whole length of the train, not stopping until she had reached the locomotive. Her face was flushed with excitement and she looked so happy.
She stood on tiptoe on her tiny feet, looking up at him and laughing.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Here I am.’
Jacques too began to laugh, happy to see her there.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘you made it.’
She raised herself higher so that she could speak to him more quietly.
‘My dear friend,’ she said, ‘I’m so happy, so very happy. This has been my lucky day. I’ve got everything I could have wished for.’
He knew exactly what she meant and he was very pleased for her. As she ran back to get on the train she turned round and added as a joke: ‘Hey! Make sure you don’t run us off the rails!’
‘Never fear!’ he called back jovially. ‘I’ll be very careful.’
The carriage doors were already being slammed to, and Séverine only just had time to get on board. The guard waved his flag, Jacques gave a short blast on the whistle and opened the regulator. The train pulled out of the station. It was just as it had been on that tragic evening in February, the same time of day, the same hustle and bustle on the platform, the same sounds, the same smoke from the engine. But this time it was still daylight, a pleasant sunny evening, soft and gentle. Séverine opened the carriage window and looked out.
On the footplate, Jacques, warmly dressed in woollen trousers and smock,8 and wearing a pair of goggles with felt eye protectors fastened at the back of his head beneath his cap, kept a careful eye on the road ahead. He stood on the right-hand side of the cab, leaning out of the window to get a better view, constantly shaken by the vibration of the locomotive, which he hardly seemed to notice. He had his right hand on the reversing wheel,9 like a pilot at the helm of his ship, gradually turning it by degrees in order to increase or decrease the speed of the train, while with his left hand he kept tugging at the whistle, for the way out of Paris is awkward to negotiate. He sounded the whistle at level-crossings, stations, tunnels and sharp curves. In the distance he saw a signal shining red in the fading light. He gave a long blast on the whistle to ask for the road, and the train thundered past. From time to time he glanced at the pressure gauge, turning the injector10 on whenever the pressure reached ten kilogrammes. But his eyes quickly returned to the line ahead, looking out for anything that might hinder their progress, with such concentration that he saw nothing else and was not even aware of the wind that blew into his face like a gale. The pressure gauge dropped; Jacques lifted the ratchet on the firebox door and opened it. Pecqueux, from long familiarity, understood what had to be done. With his hammer he broke up coal from the tender and shovelled it evenly over the full width of the grate. They could feel the scorching heat from the fire burning their legs. Then, the firebox door was shut again, and the cold air returned.
It was getting dark, and Jacques needed to be even more vigilant. Rarely had he known La Lison respond so well. She was his to command, and he rode her as he willed, in total mastery. Not once did he relax his hold on her, treating her like a tamed animal that needs to be handled with caution. Behind him in the train, hurtling along at full speed, he pictured the delicate figure of Séverine, smiling happily and confidently entrusting herself to his care. The thought sent a slight shudder through him, and he gripped the reversing wheel more tightly. He peered intently into the gathering darkness, on the look-out for signals at red. Once past the junctions at Asnières and Colombes, he breathed more easily. Everything went well as far as Mantes; the line was dead level, and it was an easy run for the train. Beyond Mantes the engine had to be driven harder in order to climb a fairly steep incline for nearly half a league. Then, without any easing up, he ran her down through the Rolleboise tunnel, a gentle descent of two kilometres, which she covered in scarcely three minutes. There remained only one further tunnel - Roule, near Gaillon - before they reached Sotteville, a notorious station that needed to be approached with the utmost care, due to the great number of sidings, the continual shunting operations and the constant movement of trains. Every ounce of his energy was concentrated in his eyes, which were fixed on the track ahead, and his hand, which controlled the locomotive. La Lison rushed through Sotteville with her whistle shrieking, leaving behind her a long trail of smoke. She didn’t stop until she reached Rouen. After a brief rest, she set off again, more slowly, climbing the incline up to Malaunay.
The moon had risen, very clear, casting a pale light on the surrounding countryside; despite the speed at which the train was travelling, Jacques could make out small bushes growing beside the railway line and the individual stones used to surface the roads. As they came out of the tunnel at Malaunay, Jacques looked quickly to his right, having noticed a shadow cast across the line by a tall tree, and recog
nized in a tangle of undergrowth the lonely spot from which he had seen the murder. The countryside rushed past, wild and bare - a continual succession of hills and dark, tree-filled valleys, a desolate wasteland. At La Croix-de-Maufras, Jacques saw the house, standing at an angle to the railway line, with the moon motionless in the sky above it, its shutters, as always, closed, the whole place abandoned and forlorn, cheerless and forbidding. He didn’t know why, but once again, and this time more than ever before, he felt his heart grow chill, as if the place boded him some misfortune.
Seconds later, another image assailed his eyes - Flore, leaning against the level-crossing gate next to the Misards’ house. Nowadays, she was there every time he made this journey, waiting, looking out for him. She stood perfectly still, simply turning her head so that she could follow him for a moment or two longer as the train whisked him past her. All Jacques saw was a tall, dark shadow outlined against the night sky and a glimpse of golden hair shining in the pale light of the moon.
Jacques worked La Lison hard up the Motteville incline and then allowed her to coast along the level section through Bolbec before a final burst of speed over the three leagues between Saint-Romain and Harfleur, down the steepest gradient on the line, a stretch which locomotives charge over, like horses galloping madly for the stable when they sense they are near home. By the time the train reached Le Havre, Jacques was exhausted. Séverine got down from her carriage, but before going up to her apartment, she ran along the platform under the station roof, amidst all the smoke and noise of the train’s arrival, went up to Jacques and said sweetly, ‘Thank you, Jacques. See you tomorrow.’
VI
A month went by. Calm had returned to the Roubauds’ apartment above the waiting rooms on the first floor of the station building. For the Roubauds, for their neighbours along the corridor and for everyone employed at the station, life had begun to return to its old monotonous pattern, measured by the clock and the repetitive sameness of the daily routine. It seemed that nothing violent or out of the ordinary had ever happened.
The scandal and rumours surrounding the Grandmorin affair were quietly being forgotten. The trial was to be postponed indefinitely, because the law seemed incapable of identifying the criminal. Cabuche had been detained for a further fortnight, at which point Monsieur Denizet, the examining magistrate, had dismissed the charge against him on grounds of insufficient evidence. The murder became a subject of romanticized fantasy - centred on a mysterious and elusive killer, a devotee of crime, in all places at the same time, blamed for every murder that was perpetrated, and who vanished in a puff of smoke the minute the police arrived on the scene. Occasional jokes about the mythical assassin continued to appear in the opposition newspapers, all of which were now devoting their energies to the forthcoming general elections. The general state of political tension and the harsh measures being taken by the local prefects provided them with a daily supply of other material to get their teeth into. They lost interest in the Grandmorin affair. It had ceased to be a matter of public concern. It was no longer even talked about.
What finally restored calm to the Roubauds’ household was the fact that the legal complications, which the implementation of President Grandmorin’s will had threatened to raise, had been successfully ironed out. At the insistence of Madame Bonnehon, the Lachesnayes had eventually agreed not to contest the will. It risked reawakening the scandal, and there was no guarantee that their objection would be upheld. Consequently, the Roubauds had received their legacy and for the last week had been the owners of La Croix-de-Maufras. The house and garden were valued at about forty thousand francs. They had immediately decided to sell it. It was a place associated with murder and debauchery and it haunted them like a nightmare. They would never have dared sleep there for fear of ghosts from the past. They had decided to sell it as it stood, with the furniture intact, without having it repaired and without even sweeping up the dust. Thinking that it would fetch very little at a public auction, there being few people likely to want a house in such an out-of-the-way spot, they had decided to wait until someone showed any interest and had simply fixed a large notice on the front of the house which could be read from the passing trains. The announcement in large letters ‘Abandoned House for Sale’ merely emphasized the desolate character of the place, with its shutters closed and the garden overrun by brambles. Roubaud wanted nothing to do with the house; he refused to go near it. So, as certain arrangements needed to be made, one afternoon, Séverine went there herself. She left the keys with the Misards, with instructions to show prospective buyers over the property, should there be any. Anyone wanting to do so could have moved in immediately; there was even linen in the cupboards.
The Roubauds’ worries were over. They lived each day in quiet expectation of the next. Sooner or later the house would be sold. They would invest the money, and their difficulties would be at an end. In fact, they forgot all about it, happy to remain in the three rooms they were living in - the dining room, which opened directly on to the corridor, the large bedroom to the right and the tiny, airless kitchen to the left. Even the station roof, sloping up in front of their windows, blocking the view and hemming them in like a prison wall, instead of infuriating them as it used to do, seemed to have a calming effect and added to the sense of perfect repose, peace and tranquillity which enveloped them. At least they couldn’t be seen by the neighbours and they didn’t have nosey people constantly peering in at them. Their only cause for complaint, now that spring had come, was the stifling heat and the dazzling reflections that came off the cladding of the station roof when it was heated by the early-morning sun. After the dreadful trauma that for nearly two months had kept them in a state of constant trepidation, they were blissfully happy to be free from care. They just wanted to stay where they were, to exist, without feeling afraid or worried sick. Never had Roubaud displayed such commitment and dedication to his job. During the weeks he was on day shift, he would be down on the platform by five in the morning, would not return for a meal until ten, would be back at work by eleven and would then continue without a break until five in the evening - a full eleven hours on duty. During the weeks he was on night shift, he would be on duty from five in the evening to five in the morning without even taking a break for a meal at home, snatching a bite to eat in his office. It was a demanding workload. Yet he shouldered it without complaint and seemed even to enjoy it. He overlooked nothing, insisting on inspecting and doing things himself, as if by working himself to a standstill he had found a way of forgetting, a way of once more living a normal, balanced existence. Séverine for her part found herself more often than not on her own, a widow one week in two, and during the other week only seeing her husband for lunch and dinner. She seemed to develop an obsession for housework. Previously she had sat about doing needlework; she hated housework and had left it to Madame Simon, an old lady who came in every day from nine till midday. But now that she felt happier to be at home and was sure that they would be staying there, she had an irresistible urge to do the cleaning and make things tidy. She would only sit down when everything had been seen to. Both she and her husband were sleeping well. On the rare occasions they had a chance to speak to each other, over meals, or on the nights they slept together, the murder was never mentioned. The whole thing seemed to be dead and buried.
For Séverine, life once more became very pleasant. She left the housework to Madame Simon and resumed her life of idleness, like a young lady of leisure whose sole purpose in life was to sit making delicate embroideries. Her present piece of handiwork was an embroidered bedspread, an endless undertaking that might have lasted her a lifetime. She rose quite late, happy to remain in bed on her own, lulled by the departure and arrival of trains which marked the passing hours as precisely as a clock. In the early days of her marriage, the noises from the station had disturbed her - engines blowing their whistles, turntables being slammed into position, rumblings and sudden vibrations like earthquakes that made her shake, along with all the
furniture. But gradually she had grown accustomed to it; the station with all its noise and bustle had become a part of her life, and now she liked it. Its clamour and activity brought her a strange peace of mind. She would wander from one room to another until it was time for lunch, chatting with her cleaner and doing nothing. She would then spend the whole afternoon sitting in front of the dining-room window, her needlework more often than not lying untouched on her lap, happy to be left undisturbed. The weeks when her husband returned to bed in the early morning and lay snoring until evening were the weeks that Séverine looked forward to most, weeks when she could live as she used to do before she was married, with the bed to herself, and doing just as she pleased all day long. She hardly ever went out; all she saw of Le Havre was the smoke from the factories near by, great black clouds swirling up into the sky above the zinc-clad ridge of the station roof, which shut off the horizon a few metres in front of her. Beyond this immovable wall lay the town; she sensed its presence constantly. But her irritation at not being able to see it gradually softened. She had put five or six pots of wallflowers and verbena in the valley of the station roof1 and she tended them with care; they provided her with a little garden and brought a touch of colour into her life of solitude. Sometimes she spoke of herself as a recluse living in the depths of a wood. Whenever he had nothing else to do, Roubaud would climb out through the window on his own, walk along the valley to the end of the station roof, clamber up to the ridge and sit looking down at the Cours Napoléon. He would take out his pipe and sit smoking, high up in the sky, with the town spread out beneath him - the docks with their forest of tall masts and the wide open sea, pale green, stretching to the ends of the earth.