by Emile Zola
‘I’ll see you later, Pecqueux,’ Philomène called out rudely. ‘I’m not hanging around here, listening to Monsieur Roubaud giving you a lecture from his missus!’
But Pecqueux seemed to find it all very amusing.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘He’s only joking.’
‘I promised I’d take a couple of eggs round to Madame Lebleu,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you later!’
She had mentioned Madame Lebleu quite deliberately, knowing the secret rivalry that existed between the cashier’s wife and Séverine, and wanting to annoy Séverine by making it appear that she was well in with Madame Lebleu. Even so, when she heard Pecqueux ask Roubaud about his tussle with the Sub-Prefect, her ears pricked up and she stayed to listen.
‘I hear it’s been sorted out,’ said Pecqueux. ‘You must be very pleased, Monsieur Roubaud.’
‘Very pleased,’ answered Roubaud.
Pecqueux gave him a knowing wink.
‘You didn’t need to worry though, did you?’ he said. ‘When you’ve got the big guns on your side, eh! You know who I mean ... My wife’s got a lot to thank him for too.’
Roubaud couldn’t bear to listen to these allusions to Grandmorin and quickly interrupted.
‘So you’re not leaving till tonight?’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ Pecqueux answered. ‘The engine’s nearly ready. They’ve just finished adjusting the coupling-rod. I’m still waiting for my driver; he went away for the day. You know him, don’t you? Jacques Lantier. He comes from your neck of the woods.’
Roubaud made no answer; he was lost in thought — miles away. He came to with a start: ‘Who did you say? Jacques Lantier? Yes, I know Lantier. Only to say hello to, mind you. I didn’t know him in Plassans. He was younger than me. The first time I met him was here, in Le Havre. He did a little job for my wife last autumn; he took something over to two cousins of hers in Dieppe. He’s a good driver, they tell me.’
Roubaud was saying whatever came into his head. He suddenly walked away.
‘Cheerio, Pecqueux,’ he said. ‘There’s something I need to see to.’
When Roubaud had gone, Philomène decided to leave too, walking away with long, loping strides. Pecqueux remained standing where he was, his hands in his pockets, delighted at having nothing to do on such a fine morning. Suddenly, much to his surprise, Roubaud reappeared round the side of the hut. Whatever it was he’d needed to see to had not taken him very long. What had he come to spy on, Pecqueux wondered.
It was almost nine o‘clock as Roubaud made his way back under the platform roof. He walked to the far end of the platform, stopped outside the parcels office, looked all around him without apparently finding what he was looking for, then walked smartly back in the same direction that he had just come, quickly casting his eye over each of the station offices as he passed in front of them. At this time of day the station was quiet and deserted. The only person about was Roubaud himself. This inactivity was making him more and more edgy, like someone dreading a catastrophe who ends up wishing it would just happen. He was losing his grip on himself. He couldn’t stand still. He kept looking at the clock. Nine o’clock. Five past nine. Normally it was ten o’clock, after the 9.50 train had left, when Roubaud went up to his apartment for some lunch. He thought of Séverine. She must have been there waiting anxiously like him. He could wait no longer. He turned and mounted the stairs.
At precisely the same moment as Roubaud walked into the corridor, Madame Lebleu opened her door to Philomène, who had just called on her neighbour, with her hair all over the place, bringing her two eggs. The two women remained standing at the doorway, and Roubaud had to enter his room watched intently by both of them. He had his key ready and was very quick. Even so, in the instant that the door opened and closed, they saw Séverine sitting on a chair in the dining room, her hands resting on the table, her face as white as a sheet, motionless. Madame Lebleu pulled Philomène into her room and shut the door. She told her that she had seen Séverine looking exactly the same earlier that morning. They must be in trouble over that business with the Sub-Prefect. No, it had been sorted out, Philomène said. She had called round to bring her the news. Philomène then told Madame Lebleu what she had just heard Roubaud saying himself. They both launched into endless speculations on what might have happened. Every time they met, it was the same — a never-ending stream of idle gossip.
‘They’ve been given a telling off, you mark my words, my dear. They’re in deep trouble, you see if I’m not right!’
‘Let’s hope we’ll soon see the back of them, then...’
The increasingly venomous rivalry between the Lebleus and the Roubauds sprang from a simple question of accommodation. The first floor of the station building above the waiting rooms was used as lodgings for the staff. The floor was divided into two by a central corridor, like the corridor in a hotel, painted cream, with lights in the ceiling, and brown doors facing each other on either side. The apartments on the right of the corridor had windows looking out over the station forecourt, which was surrounded by old elm trees, with a wonderful view of the Ingouville hills in the distance. The apartments on the left of the corridor had low, arched windows looking directly on to the station roof, which rose steeply in front of them, blotting out the horizon with its zinc cladding and panes of dirty glass. The apartments on the right were a delight to live in, looking out on to the constant bustle of the station yard, the green trees and the open countryside beyond. The apartments on the left were a misery, with scarcely enough light to see by and the sky hemmed in as if by prison walls. At the front lived the stationmaster, the other assistant stationmaster, Moulin, and the Lebleus. At the rear lived the Roubauds and Mademoiselle Guichon, the office secretary. There were also three rooms which were kept empty for visiting inspectors. It had always been Company policy to provide the two assistant stationmasters with apartments next door to each other. How the Lebleus came to occupy an apartment at the front was due to an act of generosity on the part of a previous assistant stationmaster, Roubaud’s predecessor. He was a widower with no children and thought it would be a nice gesture to offer his apartment to Madame Lebleu. But the Roubauds felt that the apartment should have reverted to them. It wasn’t right that they should be forced to live at the rear when they were entitled to live at the front. As long as the two families had managed to avoid arguments, Séverine had remained polite to her neighbour, who was twenty years older than her and not in the best of health, so fat in fact that she was constantly short of breath. The trouble began when they lost their temper with each other, as a result of Philomène’s malicious scandal-mongering.
‘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 an
d 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 trying to find them for the last ten minutes.’
Roubaud turned round. His body had gone stiff; not a muscle in his face moved. His eyes caught sight of the two telegrams that the operator clutched in his hand. From the note of panic in the young man’s voice, he knew that this was what he had been waiting for. The moment of crisis had arrived.
‘I saw Monsieur Dabadie going that way, a short while ago,’ he said calmly.
Never had he felt so cool and collected, so lucid, so ready to defend himself, so confident.
‘Look!’ he said. ‘Here comes Monsieur Dabadie, now!’
The stationmaster was on his way back from the goods depot. He quickly ran his eyes over the telegram.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘There’s been a murder! This is a telegram from the inspector at Rouen.’
‘What?’ said Roubaud. ‘Who’s been murdered? One of our staff?’
‘No,’ said the stationmaster. ‘It was a passenger, travelling in a coupé ... the body was thrown out of the train at the end of the Malaunay tunnel, by the 153 kilometre post. It seems that it was one of our Company directors... President Grandmorin.’
Roubaud knew that he must express some surprise.
‘President Grandmorin!’ he exclaimed. ‘My poor wife will be devastated!’
The comment sounded so unforced and heartfelt that Monsieur Dabadie paused a moment and looked at him.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you knew him, didn’t you? He was a very kind man, wasn’t he?’
Then, turning his attention to the second telegram, addressed to the safety officer, he continued:
‘I imagine this will be from the examining magistrate; I dare-say there will be forms to fill in ... It’s only twenty-five past nine... I don’t suppose Monsieur Cauche is here yet, is he! Get someone to run over to the Café du Commerce on the Cours Napoléon; that’s where he’ll be. Tell him we need him here now!’
Monsieur Cauche arrived on the scene five minutes later, having been dragged from the café by one of the porters. He was a retired army officer and regarded his job as an extension of his retirement. He never turned up before ten o’clock; he would take a five-minute stroll round the station and then head straight for the café. He was in the middle of a game of piquet3 when the amazing news was brought to him. It took him a moment or two to register just how serious it was; normally he was asked to deal with more mundane matters. The telegram was indeed from the examining magistrate at Rouen. The fact that it had arrived twelve hours after the body had been discovered was because the magistrate had first telegraphed the stationmaster in Paris to ascertain what travelling arrangements the passenger had made. Only when he had verified the number of the train and the carriage had he issued the authorization for the safety officer to inspect the coupé compartment in carriage number 293, if it was still at Le Havre. Straight away Monsieur Cauche’s bad temper at having been disturbed for something he imagined was of no importance evaporated, and he assumed an air of great authority, appropriate to the extreme gravity of the situation.
‘Oh, my goodness me!’ he said, suddenly realizing that he might already have lost his chance to inspect the carriage. ‘It won’t be here; it will have left this morning.’
Roubaud, seemingly undisturbed, told him not to worry.
‘Begging your pardon,’ he said, ‘it hasn’t left. It’s still here. There was a coupé reserved for tonight. It’s in the carriage shed.’
Roubaud led the way, the safety officer and the stationmaster following him. The news must have spread. The men in the yard had stopped what they were doing and had wandered quietly over behind them. All along the platform, office doors opened, and people came out to look, eventually walking across in ones and twos to where they stood. Before long there was quite a gathering.
As they reached the carriage Monsieur Dabadie commented: ‘The train was inspected by the cleaners last night; surely, if there had been anything unusual, they would have mentioned it in their report.’
‘We shall see,’ said Monsieur Cauche.
He opened the door and climbed into the coupé. No sooner was he inside than they heard him let out a series of oaths and exclamations.
‘Bloody hell!’ he yelled, barely able to control himself. ‘It looks as if someone has bled a pig in here!’
A murmur of horror ran through the crowd; people craned their necks to see. Monsieur Dabadie was the first to step forward, standing on the carriage step to look inside. Roubaud stood behind him, straining his neck to make it appear that he was as curious as everyone else.
Nothing had been disturbed inside the coupé; the windows remained closed, and everything was in its proper place. But a foul smell issued from the open door, and there was a dark patch of congealed blood on one of the seat-cushions. The blood had formed a pool so broad and deep that a stream had trickled on to the floor carpet, like water from a spring. It had fallen in splashes all over the seat covers; there was blood everywhere. It was sickening.
Monsieur Dabadie was furious.
‘Who were the men responsible for cleaning this carriage last night?’ he shouted. ‘I want them here, immediately!’
They were in fact already there. They shuffled forward, muttering excuses... they hadn’t been able to see properly in the dark, they’d felt in all the compartments, they swore they hadn’t noticed a smell the night before.
Monsieur Cauche remained inside the carriage, scribbling notes for his report. He called down to Roubaud. Roubaud was a friend of his; the two men often took a stroll along the platform and had a smoke together when there was not much to do.
‘Monsieur Roubaud,’ he c
alled, ‘would you come up and give me a hand, please?’
Roubaud stepped over the bloodstain on the carpet, careful not to tread on it.
‘Have a look under the other cushion,’ said Monsieur Cauche. ‘Something might have slipped down behind it.’
Roubaud lifted the cushion, feeling carefully with his hands and quickly looking underneath it. There was nothing there. But he noticed a mark on the upholstery on the back of the seat. He pointed it out to Monsieur Cauche; perhaps it was a bloodstained fingerprint.4 They both inspected it carefully and finally agreed that it was just another splash of blood. The crowd of onlookers, sensing that a crime had been committed, had edged closer to watch the investigation. They were all pushing forward behind the stationmaster, who, being a sensitive sort of man and easily upset, had refrained from entering the compartment and was still standing on the carriage step.
