The Beast Within (53 page)

After a two-hour wait, help finally arrived. The force of the collision had thrown the carriages to the left, so that the down line could be cleared in only a few hours. A three-coach train had arrived from Rouen, drawn by a requisitioned pilot engine,
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bringing the Prefect’s chief assistant, the Public Prosecutor and a number of engineers and doctors employed by the Company, all looking very serious and businesslike. Monsieur Bessière, the Barentin stationmaster, was already there with a gang of men, attempting to clear the debris. For a remote country spot that was normally so silent and deserted, it was an extraordinary scene of panic and confusion. The passengers who had escaped uninjured had still not recovered from their shock and were in a state of great agitation. Some, terrified at the thought of having to get back into the train, had gone in search of other means of transport. Others, realizing that there wasn’t even a wheelbarrow to be found in this place, began to worry about where they were going to get something to eat or find somewhere to sleep. They all wanted to get to a telegraph office, and several set off on foot towards Barentin, with messages ready prepared. While the officials and the Company staff began their inquiries, the doctors quickly set about tending the injured. Many had fainted and lay in pools of blood. Feeble moans were heard as the doctors used their forceps and needles. Altogether there were fifteen dead and thirty-two seriously injured. The dead had been laid out in a row alongside the hedge, face-upwards, waiting to be identified. They had been left to the Public Prosecutor’s assistant to deal with, a pink-faced, fair-haired little man, who was busily going through their pockets looking for any papers, cards or letters that might allow him to label them with a name and address. A circle of curious bystanders had formed around him; although there wasn’t a house anywhere near by, people had turned up from somewhere or other, to stand and gape — thirty or so men, women and children, who merely got in the way and did nothing to help. Now that the black dust and the cloud of steam and smoke had cleared, the brilliant April sunshine beamed down on the scene of carnage, shedding its soft, entrancing light on the dead and dying, on La Lison, lying on her back, dismembered, and on the mountainous heap of wreckage that the gang of workmen were attempting to clear, like so many ants trying to repair an anthill that had been kicked apart by an inadvertent passer-by.

Jacques was still unconscious. Séverine stopped one of the doctors as he walked past and insisted that he look at him. The doctor examined him, but could find no obvious sign of injury. He feared there might be internal damage, however, because there were traces of blood on his lips. Unable to be more precise, he advised them to take him away and put him to bed as soon as possible, taking care not to jolt him.

As the doctor’s hands were feeling him, Jacques had once again opened his eyes. He gave a little cry of pain. Although still confused, he recognized Séverine and murmured, ‘Take me away! Take me away!’

Flore leaned forward. Turning his head, he recognized her too. A look of fear came into his eyes, like a frightened child. He recoiled from her in horror and turned again towards Séverine.

‘Take me away! Take me away, my darling! Quick!’

Séverine spoke tenderly, lovingly, as if Flore were no longer there, as if she were on her own with him.

‘Darling,’ she said, ‘shall I take you to La Croix-de-Maufras? Would you like that? We would be in our own home.’

Jacques accepted. He was still shaking and kept gazing at Flore.

‘Anywhere you like,’ he said. ‘But be quick!’

Flore stood motionless. Jacques’s look of fear and loathing had made her turn pale. Despite the slaughter of so many unknown, innocent people she had not managed to kill either of them. Séverine had escaped without a scratch and Jacques too would probably now recover. All she had done was to draw them closer, to bring them together, the two of them alone, in this isolated house. She pictured them living there - Jacques getting over his injuries and regaining his strength, while his mistress saw to his every need, rewarded for her trouble by his constant love and affection, the two of them undisturbed and free to live out the honeymoon which this disaster had unexpectedly bestowed upon them. She looked at the dead, whom she had killed to no purpose, and her blood ran cold.

As she surveyed the carnage, she caught sight of Misard and Cabuche, who were being questioned by a group of men — the police no doubt. At the centre of the group stood the Public Prosecutor and the Prefect’s chief assistant; they were trying to establish how the quarryman’s wagon had come to be stuck half-way across the line. Misard was unable to tell them, although he swore that he had not left his post. He claimed that he’d had his back turned while attending to his instruments, and that he knew absolutely nothing. Cabuche was still in a daze and gave them a long, involved story about how he shouldn’t have left the horses unattended, but that he’d wanted to pay his respects to the deceased, and how the horses had moved off on their own and Flore hadn’t been able to stop them. He kept getting confused and starting all over again; no one could understand what he was trying to say.

Flore had a sudden, instinctive urge to get away. Her heart was beating fast. She wanted to be free and on her own, free to think and do as she pleased. She had never needed anyone to tell her what she should or should not do. Why wait around now to be pestered with questions, and maybe arrested? She knew that, apart from the crime she had committed, she had neglected her duty and would be held responsible. But while Jacques was still there, she could not tear herself away.

Séverine had asked Pecqueux several times to fetch them a stretcher. Eventually he found one, and came back with a friend to help carry Jacques away. The doctor had persuaded Séverine to look after Henri as well; he seemed to be suffering from concussion and was very confused. Pecqueux promised to come back for him after he had taken Jacques.

As Séverine leaned forward to unbutton Jacques’s collar, which was too tight, she kissed his eyelids in front of everyone, encouraging him to be brave as he was being carried away.

‘Have no fear!’ she said. ‘We are going to be happy.’

He smiled at her and returned her kiss. For Flore, this was the end of any hope she might still have had; it tore her away from Jacques for ever. She felt as if she too had been mortally wounded and that her blood was draining from her in great waves. As soon as Jacques had been taken away, she turned and ran. As she passed in front of the cottage, she caught sight through the window of the room where her mother lay dead, with the candle still burning next to the body, a pale glow against the broad light of day. The dead woman had been left there on her own since the accident first happened, her head half turned, her eyes wide open, her lips twisted into a fixed grin, as if she had been watching all these unknown people meet their violent end.

Flore ran on. When she reached the bend in the Doinville road she turned to her left and plunged into the undergrowth. She knew this countryside like the back of her hand; if the police were sent on her tail she could defy anyone to catch her. She stopped running and walked more slowly, making for a hiding place she often came to when she was feeling out of sorts — a little cavity hewn out of the rock above the railway tunnel. She looked up at the sky and saw from the sun’s position that it was midday. Once inside the hole, she stretched herself out on the bare rock, lying motionless, her hands clasped behind her head, thinking. An awful feeling of emptiness came over her — a sensation of being already dead, which gradually numbed her whole body. It had nothing to do with regret at having pointlessly killed so many people; regret and disgust were feelings she had to forcibly remind herself of. What she realized, however, and now knew for certain, was that Jacques had seen her restraining the horses. She could tell by the way he had shrunk away from her; she filled him with horror and revulsion, as if he had been looking into the eye of a hideous monster. He would never forget. She had failed to take his life and she must now make sure she did not fail when it came to taking her own. She must kill herself, and very soon. All her hopes were gone. As she lay there thinking it through and becoming calmer in her mind, she realized that there was absolutely no alternative. The only thing that stopped her jumping to her feet and looking for some implement, with which she might dispatch herself there and then, was a feeling of exhaustion, a feeling of utter fatigue. And yet, as she succumbed to the invincible drowsiness that began to take hold of her, there rose from deep within her a love of life, a need to be happy, a final dream, now that she had left Jacques and Séverine free to be happy together, of finding happiness herself. Why not wait until nightfall and seek help from Ozil? He loved her and would protect her. Her mind began to drift and become filled with pleasant fantasies; she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When she woke up, night had fallen, and it was completely dark. Not realizing where she was, she felt around her. As she touched the bare rock on which she lay, she suddenly remembered. It came to her like a bolt of lightning. There was no escaping it; she knew that she must die. For a moment her resolve had weakened and she had been tempted to think that life was still possible; but all such thoughts had vanished along with her fatigue. Death was the only answer. She could not live with so much blood on her hands, her heart torn from her, abhorred by the one man she had wanted and who now belonged to another. While she still had the strength to do it, she must die.

Flore stood up and climbed out of the hole in the rock. She had no hesitation; she knew instinctively where she must go. Once more she looked up at the sky; the stars told her it was almost nine o’clock. As she came towards the railway a train sped past on the down line. She seemed pleased. Her plan was going to work. The down line had obviously been cleared; the other must still be blocked, as there didn’t yet seem to be any trains passing in that direction. She followed a hedge. All around, the countryside lay silent and deserted. There was no hurry; there wouldn’t be another train until the express from Paris, which wasn’t due until nine twenty-five. She continued to follow the hedge, walking slowly and calmly through the darkness, as if out on one of her habitual solitary excursions. Before reaching the tunnel, however, she climbed over the hedge and, still walking at the same leisurely pace, proceeded along the railway line itself, towards the oncoming express. She had to be careful to avoid being seen by the watchman, as when she used to visit Ozil at the other end of the tunnel. Once inside the tunnel, she continued walking forwards, further and further into the darkness. It was not the same as the week before; she was no longer frightened of turning round and losing her sense of direction, there was not the usual feeling of crazy excitement pounding inside her head, the feeling of being deafened, with the tunnel closing in around her, and of losing all sense of time and place. But this no longer mattered to her. She didn’t ask why she was doing this. She wasn’t thinking at all. She had but one resolve. She must keep walking, walking ahead, until the train came, and then, when she saw its headlamp shining in the darkness, she must continue walking, straight towards it.

What surprised her, however, was that she seemed to have been walking for hours. How long in coming was the death she craved! For a moment, the thought that it might never come, that she might continue to walk on and on, endlessly, began to disturb her. Her feet were aching. Would she be obliged to rest, and wait for death to come to her as she lay across the rails? No, it would be unworthy! She must keep walking to the very end. She must walk to her death like the proud, unconquered woman she was! Far away in the distance, she saw the headlamp of the express, like a single, tiny star, twinkling in the darkness of the sky. Her strength returned, and she continued forward. The train had not yet reached the tunnel. There was no sound of it coming; there was simply a tiny, bright light, gradually getting bigger. She drew herself up to her full height, like a graceful statue, and advanced steadily, with long firm strides, as if to greet a friend as she came towards her.
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The train had entered the tunnel; the noise was coming nearer, shaking the ground like an approaching hurricane. The star was now a huge eye, growing bigger and bigger and seeming to leap from its dark socket. For some unexplained reason, perhaps simply so that she should take nothing with her when she died, she emptied her pockets, and without pausing in her heroic progress, placed her belongings beside the track — a handkerchief, a bunch of keys, a piece of string and two knives. She took the headscarf from round her neck, unfastened her blouse and let it hang from her shoulders. The eye had become a fiery blaze, like the open mouth of a furnace belching out flames; she could feel the monster’s hot, steaming breath, and the sound of thunder grew louder and louder. She continued to walk forwards, her eyes fixed on the approaching conflagration, drawn towards it like a moth attracted by a candle in the dark. At the final, terrible moment of impact, the final embrace, she stood straight and tall, as if in a last gesture of defiance and revolt she wished to seize hold of this colossus and strike it to the ground. Her head struck the headlamp and it went out.

It was more than an hour later when they came to retrieve the body. The driver had seen the tall, pale figure walking towards the train, like a strange, frightening apparition illuminated by the shaft of brilliant light from the headlamp. When the lamp had suddenly gone out, the train was plunged into total darkness as it roared through the tunnel. The driver had shuddered as he sensed death passing by. As the train left the tunnel he had tried to shout to the watchman, but it was only when it reached Barentin that he was able to report that someone had been run over. He was certain that it was a woman. Pieces of matted hair and flesh were still stuck to the broken glass of the headlamp. When the search party found the body, they were amazed at how white it was, as white as marble. It was lying across the up line, where it had been flung by the force of the impact. The head was a terrible mess, but the rest of the body was without a mark. It was half naked and remarkably beautiful — strong and unblemished. The men quietly covered the body. They had recognized her. She must have killed herself in desperation, to escape the awful responsibility she carried on her shoulders.