Never had Jacques felt the cold cut through him like this. His face was pricked by thousands of icy needles, and he felt as if it were covered in blood. He had lost all sensation in his hands; they were stiff with cold and, to his dismay, so numb that he could no longer feel the reversing wheel that he was holding. When he reached up to sound the whistle, his arm hung heavily from his shoulder like the arm of a dead man. His stomach heaved; he could not tell whether his legs were continuing to support him or not as he was flung violently backwards and forwards by the continual lurching of the engine. He was overcome with fatigue, and the cold was beginning to affect his brain; he had the frightening sensation of not knowing whether he was really there or not, whether this was him driving the engine, for he was operating the reversing wheel automatically and simply gazing at the falling pressure gauge as if he were in a trance. All the old stories about drivers having hallucinations kept going through his head. Was that a fallen tree across the track in front of him? Was there a red flag waving from the top of that bush? Were those not detonators he could hear repeatedly going off above the noise of the wheels? He could no longer tell; he kept telling himself he should stop but he simply lacked the will-power to do so. This agony of mind lasted several minutes. He suddenly caught sight of Pecqueux, who had once again fallen asleep over the toolbox, worn out by the cold like himself. It made him so angry that for a moment he felt almost warm again.
‘You useless bastard!’ he screamed.
Jacques was normally very tolerant of his companion’s drunken habits, but he started kicking him to wake him up and didn’t desist until he was on his feet. Pecqueux, still in a daze, merely grunted and picked up his shovel.
‘All right, all right,’ he said, ‘I’m seeing to it!’
When he had mended the fire, the pressure rose again, and in the nick of time, for La Lison had just entered a cutting where there was more than a metre of snow to get through. Jacques was trying to get the maximum effort from her and she was shaking all over. For a moment she appeared to lose strength and seemed about to grind to a halt, like a ship caught on a sandbank. What was adding to her burden was the heavy layer of snow that had gradually accumulated on the carriage roofs. The dark line of carriages was being drawn along through the snow, with a white blanket stretched over them, and where the snow had melted and run down the sides of La Lison’s boiler it looked as though she wore a black cloak trimmed with ermine. Once again, despite the great weight she was pulling, she managed to free herself and get through. Round a wide bend, high on an embankment, the train could still be seen, like a piece of dark ribbon, steadily making its way through this fairytale world of dazzling whiteness.
Further ahead, however, lay more cuttings. Jacques and Pecqeuex had felt La Lison beginning to struggle. They steeled themselves against the cold, standing at their post, determined to brave things out to the bitter end. Once again the engine began to lose speed. She had run between two banks of snow. Slowly but surely she came to a halt. It seemed as if she were stuck in glue, with all her wheels seized up, held fast and gasping for breath. She had stopped moving. It was all over. The snow held her powerless in its grip.
‘That’s it!’ cursed Jacques. ‘We’ve had it!’
He stood at the controls, his hand on the reversing wheel, trying every device he knew to see if the obstruction would give way. La Lison coughed and choked in vain; eventually Jacques closed the regulator and swore out loud. He was furious.
The principal guard leaned out of the door of his van and, seeing Pecqueux on the footplate, called out, ‘That’s that! We’re stuck!’
He jumped down into the snow, which came up to his knees, and walked up to the engine. The three men discussed the situation.
‘The only thing we can do,’ Jacques said finally, ‘is to try and dig her out. Fortunately we’ve got some shovels. Get the other guard. Between the four of us we should be able to free the wheels.’
They called to the other guard at the back of the train, who had already got down from his van. He struggled through the snow towards them, sometimes sinking right into it. The passengers were beginning to get worried. The train had stopped in the middle of nowhere, with empty wastes of snow all around them. They could hear loud voices, discussing what was to be done, and they saw the guard staggering along beside the train. They started to lower their windows. People were shouting and asking questions in an ever-increasing chorus of confusion.
‘Where are we? Why have we stopped? What’s wrong? Has there been an accident?’
The guard felt he needed to offer some reassurance. As he walked along the train, the podgy, red face of the Englishwoman appeared at one of the carriage windows, flanked by those of her two charming daughters.
‘I trust we’re in no danger, monsieur,’ she said, with a pronounced accent.
‘Not at all, madame,’ he replied. ‘A bit of snow, that’s all. We shall be on our way again shortly.’
The window was pulled up again amidst the girls’ happy chatter, that melodious symphony of English syllables that trip so lightly from the lips of children. The two girls were laughing; they found the whole thing highly amusing.
Further along the train the elderly gentleman was beckoning him, with his pretty, dark-haired young wife peering timidly through the window behind him.
‘This is outrageous!’ he was saying. ‘Why wasn’t something done about it? I’ve travelled all the way from London and I have important business to attend to in Paris this morning. I warn you that I shall hold the Company responsible for any delay!’
‘Monsieur, we shall be off again in a few minutes,’ was all the guard could find to say.
The cold was terrible, and the snow was blowing into the carriages. The heads disappeared and the windows were drawn up. But inside the closed carriages, the disturbance continued; it was clear from the buzz of voices that people were uneasy. Only two windows remained open; leaning out of them, three compartments apart, two passengers were talking to each other, an American of about forty and a young man from Le Havre, both of them very interested in the snow-clearing operation.
‘In America, monsieur,’ said the American, ‘everyone gets out and helps with the shovelling.’
‘Oh, this is nothing,’ replied the other. ‘I was caught in the snow twice last year. My job takes me to Paris every week.’
‘Mine takes me there about every three weeks.’
‘What, from New York?’
‘Yes, monsieur, from New York.’5
Jacques was supervising the snow clearing. He caught sight of Séverine looking out of a window in the first carriage. She always travelled in the first carriage in order to be nearer to him. He pleaded to her with his eyes; she understood what he was trying to say and withdrew into the compartment to escape the icy blast that stung her face. The thought of Séverine made Jacques redouble his efforts. Then he noticed that the barrier of snow that had caused them to stop had nothing to do with the wheels, which cut through even the deepest drifts. It was the ash-pan situated between the wheels that had caused the snow to build up, pushing it forward so that it became compacted in great blocks beneath the locomotive. Jacques had an idea.
‘We must remove the ash-pan,’ he said.
At first the guard objected. Jacques was under his orders, and he was reluctant to allow him to tamper with the locomotive. Eventually he allowed himself to be persuaded.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘but on your head be it!’
It was a dreadful job. Jacques and Pecqueux were forced to lie on their backs in melting snow underneath the engine. It took them nearly half an hour. Fortunately there were some spare spanners in the toolbox. Eventually, having several times been nearly crushed and scorched, they succeeded in removing the ash-pan. But they still had to pull it from beneath the engine. They could barely lift it, and it became trapped between the wheels and the cylinders. However, with four of them tugging at it, they managed to drag it clear of the track and placed it at the sid
e of the cutting.6
‘Right! Let’s finish clearing the snow!’ said the guard.
For nearly an hour the train had been at a standstill, and the passengers were becoming increasingly distressed. Carriage windows kept being opened and voices demanded why the train wasn’t moving. People were beginning to panic; there were shouts and tears and a feeling of mounting hysteria.
‘No, we’ve cleared enough,’ Jacques insisted. ‘Get back in and leave it to me.’
Jacques and Pecqueux had climbed back on to the footplate. As soon as the two guards had returned to their vans, Jacques opened the cylinder taps. The deafening jet of hot steam quickly melted the remaining blocks of snow that were still stuck between the rails. He put the engine into reverse and moved the train slowly backwards for about three hundred metres in order to get a good run. He built up a huge fire, raising pressure to beyond the permitted level, and launched La Lison with all her weight, and the full weight of the whole train behind her, into the wall of snow which blocked their way. She hit the snow with a sickening thud, like a woodcutter striking his axe against a tree. Her sturdy cast-iron frame shuddered. Still she could not get through. She came to a stop, with steam gushing from everywhere, shaking from the impact. Jacques had to repeat the operation twice, drawing the train back and then running it into the wall of snow to try to clear a passage. Each time, La Lison braced herself and valiantly charged forward, snorting like an angry giant. Eventually she seemed to recover her breath, flexed her steel muscles for one last effort and finally managed to force her way through. The train followed slowly behind her through the opening between the two walls of snow. She was free!
‘See,’ muttered Pecqueux. ‘She’s not so bad, after all!’
Jacques couldn’t see a thing. He took off his goggles to wipe them. His heart was beating fast, and he no longer felt the cold. Then he remembered that there was another deep cutting ahead, about three hundred metres from La Croix-de-Maufras. The wind would be blowing directly into it, and the snow would be very deep. He had a sudden premonition that this was the reef on which they were destined to founder. He leaned out. In the distance, round one last bend, appeared the cutting, a straight line like a long trench, completely blocked with snow. It was broad daylight. The snow continued to fall. Everything shone white as far as the eye could see.
La Lison proceeded steadily on her way, encountering no further obstacles. As a precaution, Jacques had left the lights burning at both the front and the rear of the train. The white headlamp at the base of the chimney outshone the light of day like the glaring eye of a Cyclops. La Lison was nearing the cutting, her eye wide open and staring ahead. Suddenly she seemed to be breathing in little short gasps, like an unwilling horse. She began to shake violently and lurch from side to side. It was only the firm hand of her driver that kept her moving forward. He kicked open the firebox door for the fireman to see to the fire, and now, in place of the comet’s tail that had blazed out into the night, a wreath of thick, black smoke darkened the pale, wintry sky.
Still La Lison advanced. She was about to enter the cutting. On either side the snow was piled high, and the line ahead had completely disappeared from view. It was like a pool of still water in a stream, with the snow filling it to the very top. In she went, running forward another fifty metres or so, puffing and panting for all she was worth, but getting gradually slower and slower. The snow that she was pushing in front of her formed a barrier that built up and towered above her like an angry wave threatening to engulf her. For a moment it appeared that it was too much for her; that she was beaten. Then, summoning all her strength for one final effort, she broke free and advanced a further thirty metres. But she could do no more. It had been her last, dying gesture. The snow fell back around her in great mounds, burying her wheels, stealing inside her until every moving part was held fast in a grip of ice. She could move no further. Out there in the bitter cold, her life was ebbing away. She stopped breathing. She lay still. She was dead.
‘There!’ said Jacques. ‘That’s as far as we’re going! I knew this would happen!’
His instinct was to reverse the locomotive and try again. But this time La Lison didn’t move. She would go neither backwards nor forwards. She was shut in on all sides, stuck to the ground, inert, lifeless. Behind her, the train too seemed dead, buried up to its doors in the deep layer of snow. And still the snow continued to fall, in long, swirling gusts, even heavier than before. It was like being caught in quicksand, with the engine and carriages slowly sinking from view, already half buried, amidst the icy silence of this vast, snowbound waste. Nothing moved. The snow continued to weave its shroud.
‘Shall we try again?’ shouted the guard, leaning out of his van.
‘We’re buggered!’ was Pecqueux’s only comment.
This time, the situation had become critical. The guard at the rear of the train ran back to lay detonators on the track to protect them from behind. The driver, in desperation, sounded short, repeated blasts on the whistle, a breathless, plaintive cry of distress that rose in the morning air. But it was deadened by the falling snow; the sound didn’t carry. It would probably not even reach Barentin. What was to be done? There were only four of them. They couldn’t possibly clear such an amount of snow on their own. It needed a whole team of men. They would have to go and get help. To make matters worse, the passengers were once again beginning to panic.
A carriage door opened, and the pretty, dark-haired lady jumped down from the train, terrified, thinking there had been an accident. Her husband, the businessman, who was considerably older than her, jumped down after her.
‘I shall write to the minister!’ he shouted. ‘This is disgraceful!’
Carriage windows were being lowered angrily, and from inside the train came the sounds of women crying and men losing their temper. The two little English girls were the only ones who seemed to be enjoying themselves, peering through the window and smiling serenely. As the principal guard attempted to calm everyone down, the younger of the two girls, speaking in French with a slight English accent, asked him, ‘Is this the end of the journey, monsieur?’
Several men had got down from the train, despite the deep snow which came up to their waists. The American once more found himself next to the young man from Le Havre, both of them having walked up to the engine to see what was happening. They stood there, shaking their heads.
‘It’s going to take four or five hours to dig her out of that lot.’
‘Four or five hours at least! And it’ll need about twenty men!’
Jacques had persuaded the principal guard to send the rear guard on to Barentin to ask for help. Neither he nor Pecqueux could leave the locomotive.
The guard set off and was soon out of sight at the far end of the cutting. He had a walk of four kilometres in front of him and probably wouldn’t be back for another two hours. In despair, Jacques jumped down from the footplate and ran towards the first carriage, where he had seen Séverine lowering her window.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve nothing to fear.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ she replied. ‘But I was worried about you.’
Like him, she didn’t raise her voice, lest anyone should hear her. But it was such a joy to speak together that they both felt heartened and smiled at each other. As Jacques turned to go back to the engine, who should he see coming along the top of the cutting but Flore and Misard, followed by two other men whom he didn’t at first recognize. They had heard his distress signal, and Misard, who was off duty at the time, had come to help, accompanied by his two friends, with whom he happened to be having a glass of white wine, the quarryman Cabuche, who was prevented from working by the snow, and the signalman Ozil, who had walked through the tunnel from Malaunay to pay his respects to Flore. Despite her show of indifference towards him, he still had his heart set on her. Flore, being the big strapping girl she was, with the strength and courage of any man, had come along too, out of curiosity. For both he
r and her father this was quite an event; it wasn’t every day that a train stopped outside their front door. They had been living there for five years and had watched the trains go thundering by, in fair weather and in foul, every hour of the day and night. They seemed to rush past them like a gush of wind; not one of them had even slowed down. They watched them fly into the distance and disappear without knowing a thing about them. The whole world passed in front of their house, a crowd of living souls whisked by at high speed, and all they ever saw of them were faces, glimpsed in a flash; sometimes faces they would never see again, sometimes faces they might recognize because they always appeared on a particular day, but all faces without names. And here, in the snow, was a train unloading its passengers at their very door! The natural order had been turned upside down. They looked at all these unknown people who found themselves stranded on the railway line, gazing at them open-eyed, like savages gathering on some far-flung shore to witness a group of shipwrecked Europeans. Through the open doors they could see women wrapped in furs, and there were men walking beside the train in heavy overcoats. The sight of such wealth and luxury, cast adrift on this sea of ice, made them stand and stare in amazement.
Flore did, however, recognize Séverine. She always looked out for Jacques’s train whenever it went by and for some weeks she had noticed the presence of this woman on the Friday-morning express, particularly because she looked out of the window as she approached the level-crossing, to catch a glimpse of her property at La Croix-de-Maufras. Flore’s eyes darkened as she saw her and Jacques whispering to each other.
‘Why! Madame Roubaud!’ exclaimed Misard, also recognizing her and immediately assuming his obsequious manner. ‘What a terrible thing to happen! You can’t stay out here. You must come down to our house.’