Monomaniac (La bête humaine) — Section 23

M.

Camy-Lamotte did not reply.

It was a fact that the scandal would finally be buried, by allowing the examining-magistrate to proceed with his system, the memory of the President would be freed from an abominable taint, and the Empire would benefit by this noisy rehabilitation of one of its creatures.

Besides, as this Roubaud acknowledged himself guilty, what mattered it for the purpose of justice whether he was condemned for one version or the other?

It was true that there remained Cabuche; but, if this man had nothing to do with the first murder, he appeared to be really the author of the second.

Then justice itself was but a final illusion!

Is not the idea of wishing to be just a snare, when truth is clouded in such dense obscurity?

It would be much better to be wise, and prop up this society on the wane, that threatened ruin.

"That is so, is it not?"

inquired M. Denizet.

"You did not find this letter?"

Again M. Camy-Lamotte raised his eyes to him; and, being himself master of the position, he took on his own conscience the remorse that had disturbed the Emperor, and quietly answered: "I found absolutely nothing."

Then, all smiles and with great affability, he showered congratulations on the examining-magistrate.

Barely a slight pleat at the corners of his mouth indicated an expression of invincible irony.

Never had an inquiry been conducted with so much penetration; and it was decided in the proper quarter that he should be summoned to Paris as counsellor after the vacation.

And in this manner M. Camy-Lamotte conducted his visitor to the landing.

"You alone have seen clearly through the whole business," said he, in conclusion; "and your perspicacity is really admirable.

From the moment truth speaks, nothing can stop it, neither personal interest, nor even State-policy.

Proceed.

Let the case take its course, whatever the consequences may be."

"That is absolutely the duty of the magistracy," added M. Denizet, who bowed and took his departure beaming with delight.

When M. Camy-Lamotte was alone, he first of all lighted a candle; then he went and took the note, written by Séverine, from the drawer where he had placed it.

The candle was burning very high.

He unfolded the letter, wishing to read the two lines; and the remembrance came back to him of this delicate criminal with blue eyes, who had formerly stirred him with such tender sympathy.

Now she was dead, and he saw her again in tragedy.

Who knew the secret she must have carried away with her?

Certainly truth and justice were illusions!

And as he approached the letter to the flame and it caught alight, he felt very sad, as if he had the presentiment of misfortune.

What was the good of destroying this proof, of loading his conscience with this action if the Empire was destined to be swept away, like the pinch of black ash fallen from his fingers?

M.

Denizet concluded the inquiry in less than a week.

He found the Western Railway Company extremely willing to give him assistance.

All the papers he desired, as well as all the evidence likely to be useful, were placed at his disposal; for the company, also, had the keenest desire to see the end of this deplorable scandal connected with one of its staff which, ascending through the complicated machinery of its organisation, had threatened to disturb even its board of directors.

It became necessary to remove the mortified limb with all speed.

And so, M. Dabadie, Moulin, and others from Havre again filed through the room of the examining-magistrate, giving the most disastrous details in regard to the bad conduct of Roubaud; next came M. Bessière, the station-master at Barentin, as well as several of the servants of the company at Rouen, whose evidence proved of decisive importance, in respect to the first murder; then, M. Vandorpe, the station-master at Paris, Misard, the signalman, and the headguard, Henri Dauvergne--the two last being particularly affirmative concerning the complacent conjugal easiness of the accused.

Henri, whom Séverine had looked after at La Croix-de-Maufras, even ventured to relate that one night while still weak he believed he heard Roubaud and Cabuche concerting together under the window.

This went a long way towards explaining matters, and upset the system of the two accused, who pretended they were unknown to one another.

The entire staff of the company raised a cry of reprobation.

Everyone pitied the unfortunate victims, that poor young woman for whose shortcomings there was so much excuse; that upright old gentleman, whose memory was now cleared of the ugly stories which had been circulated respecting him.

But it was in the Grandmorin family, particularly, that this new trial had aroused the passions again, and if M. Denizet still met with powerful support from this quarter, he had to struggle to maintain the integrity of his system.

The Lachesnayes chaunted victory, for, exasperated at the legacy of La Croix-de-Maufras, bleeding with avarice, they had never ceased insisting on the guilt of Roubaud.

So when the case came to the surface again, the only thing they saw in it was an opportunity to attack the will; and as there existed but one way of obtaining the revocation of the legacy, that of depriving Séverine under a judgment of forfeiture by reason of ingratitude, they accepted, in part, the version of Roubaud; namely, that his wife was an accomplice who had assisted him to kill the President, although not out of vengeance for an imaginary infamy, but for the purpose of robbing him.

The examining-magistrate therefore entered into a conflict with them, particularly with Berthe, who showed herself very bitter against her old friend, the murdered woman, whom she charged abominably; while he defended her with heat, flying into a temper when anyone touched his masterpiece--that edifice of logic, so well erected, as he proudly said himself, that if one piece were removed it would all tumble down.

In this connection a very lively scene occurred in his private room, between the Lachesnayes and Madame Bonnehon.

The latter, who, on the former occasion, had supported the Roubauds, had found herself compelled to abandon the husband; but she continued to stand up for his wife, by reason of a sort of tender complicity, being very tolerant in regard to beauty and matters of the heart, and she was quite agitated with this tragic romance bespattered with blood.

She spoke out very plainly, and was full of disdain for money.

Was her niece not ashamed to return to this question of the legacy?

To pronounce Séverine guilty would be to accept the pretended confession of Roubaud in its entirety, and taint the memory of the President afresh.

Had not the inquiry so ingeniously established the truth, it would have been necessary to invent it, for the honour of the family.

And she spoke rather bitterly about Rouennais society, which made such a fuss anent the matter; that society she no longer reigned over now that age had come, and she was losing even her opulent blonde beauty of a goddess of ripe years.

Yes; again on the previous evening, at the house of Madame Leboucq, the wife of the counsellor, that tall, elegant brunette who had dethroned her, the guests whispered broad anecdotes together: the adventure of Louisette, and everything public malignity could invent.

At this moment, M. Denizet intervened to inform her that M. Leboucq would sit as assessor at the coming assizes, and the Lachesnayes, who felt uneasy, held their tongues with an air of giving in.

But Madame Bonnehon allayed their alarm, remarking that she was certain justice would be done; the assizes would be presided over by her old friend M. Desbazeilles, whose rheumatism only permitted him the recollection of the past, in the matter of gallantry; and the second assessor would be M. Chaumette, the father of the young substitute who was under her protection.

She therefore had no anxiety, although a melancholy smile played on her lips when she mentioned this gentleman, whose son had latterly been noticed as a visitor at the house of Madame Leboucq, where she herself had sent him, so that there might be no impediment to his future.

When the famous trial at last began, the rumour of approaching war and the agitation that spread all over France, prevented a good deal of the reverberation that the proceedings would otherwise have occasioned.

Rouen, nevertheless, was for three days in a high state of fever.

A

regular crush occurred at the entrance to the court, and the reserved seats were invaded by ladies of the town.

Never had the ancient palace of the Dukes of Normandy accommodated such an affluence of people since it had been fitted up as a Palace of Justice.

The trial took place in the last days of June.

The afternoons were warm and sunny, and the bright light lit up the ten stained-glass windows, bathing in luminosity the oak woodwork, the white stone crucifix, which stood out at the end of the room against the red hangings sprinkled with bees, as well as the celebrated ceiling of the time of Louis XII.

with its carved squares gilded in very old and softly toned gold.

The public were already stifling before the proceedings commenced.

Women stood on tiptoe to see the various incriminating articles lying spread out on the table: the watch belonging to Grandmorin, the blood-stained night-dress of Séverine, and the knife that had served for the two murders.

The gentleman defending Cabuche, an advocate from Paris, was also a centre of interest.

In the jury-box sat twelve stout and grave Rouennais buttoned up in their frock-coats.

And when the judges entered, there was so much pushing among the public who were standing, that the President at once had to threaten that he would have the court cleared.

At last the case was called on, and the jury sworn.

Reading over the names of the witnesses caused another stir among the crowd who were burning with curiosity.

At those of Madame Bonnehon and M. de Lachesnaye the heads swayed from side to side; but Jacques particularly impassioned the ladies, who followed him with their eyes.

As soon as the accused were brought in, each between two gendarmes, the public never ceased looking at them; and, criticising their appearance, found that they both looked low and ferocious, like a couple of bandits.

Roubaud, in his dark jacket, with a necktie arranged after the manner of a person neglectful of his appearance, caused surprise by his prematurely old manner, and his stupid-looking face bursting with fat.

As to Cabuche, he was as everyone expected to find him.

Wearing a long blue blouse he seemed the very type of an assassin, with enormous fists, and a carnivorous jaw.

Just one of those fellows whom you would not care to knock up against at the corner of a wood on a dark night.

The examination of the prisoner confirmed this bad impression, and some of his replies aroused violent murmurs.

To all the questions addressed to him by the President, Cabuche answered that he did not know.

He did not know how it was that the watch had got to his hut, he did not know why he had allowed the real assassin to run away.

He persevered in his story of this mysterious unknown, whose flight he had heard in the impenetrable darkness.

Questioned as to his bestial passion for his unfortunate victim, he began stammering in such a sudden, violent fit of anger, that the two gendarmes seized him by the arms.

No, no; he did not love her, he did not want her; all these tales were falsehoods.

The mere thought would have been an infamy--she who was a lady, whereas he had been in prison and lived like a savage!

Then, when he became calm, he fell into doleful silence, confining himself to monosyllables, indifferent to the verdict and sentence that might ensue.

Roubaud, in the same way, kept to what the accusation called his system.

He related how and why he had killed Grandmorin, and denied all participation in the murder of his wife; but he did so in broken and almost incoherent phrases, with sudden failures of memory, and with eyes so troubled, and a voice so thick, that at times he seemed to search for and invent the details.

But as the President urged him on, pointing out the absurdities in his narrative, he ended by shrugging his shoulders and refused to answer.

What was the use of speaking the truth, since lies were logic?

This attitude of aggressive disdain for the bench did him the utmost injury.

Everyone also observed the profound unconcern of the two accused for one another, which seemed to be a proof that they had come to an understanding beforehand, and carried it out with extraordinary strength of will.

They pretended they were strangers, and even accused each other, solely for the purpose of embarrassing the bench.

When the examination of the two prisoners came to an end the case was already tried, so cleverly had the President put his questions.

Roubaud and Cabuche had fallen head over ears into the traps set for them, whilst appearing to deliver themselves up.

A few witnesses of no importance were also heard on that day.

Towards five o'clock the heat had become so unbearable that two ladies fainted.

Great sensation was caused on the morrow by the examination of certain other witnesses.

Madame Bonnehon had a genuine success of superiority and tact.

The members of the staff of the railway company, M. Vandorpe, M.

Bessière, M. Dabadie, and particularly M. Cauche were listened to with interest.

The commissary of police proved extremely prolix, relating how he knew Roubaud very well from having frequently played a game with him at the Café du Commerce.

Henri Dauvergne repeated his overwhelming testimony respecting his conviction of having, in his feverish drowsiness, overheard the two prisoners concerting together in low voices.

Questioned as to Séverine, he displayed great discretion giving it to be understood that he had been in love with her, but finding she had a sweetheart, he had loyally effaced himself.

So when this same sweetheart, Jacques Lantier, at length came forward, a buzz ascended from the crowd.

Some people stood up to get a better view of him, and even the jury bestirred themselves in a movement of deep attention.

Jacques, who was very calm, leant with both hands on the iron bar in front of him in the attitude he usually took when driving his engine.

His appearance in court, which should have troubled him profoundly, left him absolute lucidity of mind.

It seemed as if the case did not concern him in any way.

He was about to give his testimony as a stranger and an innocent man.

Since the crime he had not felt a single shiver, nor did he even think of these matters, which were banished from his recollection.

His organs were in a state of equilibrium, and his health was perfect.

Here again, at this bar, he experienced neither remorse nor scruple, being absolutely unconscious.

He immediately cast a clear glance at Roubaud and Cabuche.

He knew the first to be guilty, but he gave him a slight nod, without reflecting that everybody was aware at present that he had been the sweetheart of his wife.

Then, he smiled at the other, the innocent man, whose place in the dock he should have occupied: a good brute at the bottom, in spite of his look of a bandit, a strapping fellow whom he had seen at work, and whose hand he had grasped.

Jacques gave his evidence with perfect ease, answering in short, clear sentences the questions that were put to him by the President, who, after interrogating him at length about his intimacy with the victim, made him relate his departure from La Croix-de-Maufras a few hours before the murder: how he had gone to take the train at Barentin and how he had slept at Rouen.

Cabuche and Roubaud listened to him, confirming his answers by their attitude.

At this moment, an unspeakable feeling of sadness took possession of these three men.

Deathlike silence reigned in the room, and the jury experienced an emotion occasioned they knew not by what, which caused a lump to rise in their throats.

It was truth that was passing mute.

In reply to a question of the President, who desired to know what Jacques thought of the unknown figure, who, according to the story of the quarryman, had vanished in the obscurity, he contented himself by shaking his head, as if he did not wish to overload a prisoner.

An incident then occurred which completely upset the public.

Tears welled in the eyes of Jacques, and overflowing, trickled down his cheeks.

Séverine, as he had already seen her once before, had just risen up before him--that wretched, murdered woman, whose image he had carried away with him, with her blue eyes, immoderately wide open, and her black hair standing on end on her forehead like a helmet of terror.

He still adored her, and seized with immense pity, he wept abundant tears, unconscious of his crime, forgetful of being amidst this crowd.

Some of the ladies, affected by this display of tenderness, began to sob.

The grief of the sweetheart, while the husband remained unmoved, was considered extremely touching.

The President, having inquired of the defence whether they desired to ask the witness any questions, the advocates thanked him and answered No; while the prisoners, whose countenances bore a doltish expression, followed Jacques with their eyes, as he returned to his seat amidst the general sympathy of the public.

The third day of the trial was entirely taken up by the address of the Imperial Procurator, and the pleadings of the advocates on behalf of the accused.

First of all the President delivered his summing-up of the case, in the course of which, under an appearance of absolute impartiality, the charge of the prosecution was aggravated.

The Imperial Procurator, who followed, did not seem to be in the enjoyment of all his powers.

He usually displayed more conviction, a deeper eloquence.

This was attributed to the heat, which was really most oppressive.

The advocate from Paris, who pleaded for Cabuche, on the contrary, afforded great pleasure without convincing his hearers; while the eminent member of the Rouen bar, who defended Roubaud, also made the most he could of a bad case.

The Imperial Procurator, who felt fatigued, did not even reply.

When the jury retired to their room it was only six o'clock.

Broad daylight still entered the court by the six windows, and a final ray lit up the arms of the towns of Normandy, decorating the imposts.

A

loud sound of voices rose to the old gilded ceiling, and the swaying of an impatient crowd shook the iron grating that separated the reserved seats from the public standing up.

But silence was restored as soon as the jury returned.

The verdict, which was guilty, admitted extenuating circumstances; and the two men were sentenced to hard labour for life.

The result caused great surprise.

The public streamed out of court in a tumult, and a few shrill whistles were heard as at the theatre.

That same evening throughout Rouen the sentence gave rise to endless comments.

According to general opinion, it was a blow for Madame Bonnehon and the Lachesnayes.

Nothing short of a death sentence, it appeared, would have satisfied the family; and adverse interests must certainly have made themselves felt.

People already spoke in an undertone of Madame Leboucq, three or four of whose faithful slaves were on the jury.

No doubt there had been nothing incorrect in the attitude of her husband as assessor; and yet an impression seemed to prevail, that neither M. Chaumette, the other assessor, nor even M. Desbazeilles, the President, felt themselves such absolute masters of the proceedings as they would have wished.

Perhaps it was simply that the jury full of scruples, in according extenuating circumstances, had ceded to that uneasy feeling of doubt that had for a moment swept through the room--the silent flight of melancholy truth.

After all, the case remained a triumph for M. Denizet, the examining-magistrate, whose masterpiece nothing could impair.

The family lost a good deal of sympathy when a rumour got abroad that M. de Lachesnayes, contrary to all idea of jurisprudence, spoke of bringing an action in revocation, in spite of the death of the donee, to regain possession of La Croix-de-Maufras, which caused astonishment considering he was a judge.

On leaving the law courts, Jacques was joined by Philomène, who had remained as witness, and who now took possession of him.

He would only resume duty on the morrow, and he invited her to dinner at the inn near the station, where he pretended he had passed the night of the crime.

He did not intend to sleep there, being absolutely obliged to return to Paris by the 12. 50 train in the morning.

"What do you think," said she, as she proceeded on his arm towards the inn, "I could swear that I met one of our acquaintances just now!

Yes, Pecqueux, who told me, again and again the other day, that he would not put his foot in Rouen for the case.

At one time I turned round, and a man, whose back only I could see, slipped into the middle of the crowd."

The driver, with a shrug of the shoulders, interrupted her: "Pecqueux is in Paris, on the spree," said he; "only too delighted at the holiday that my absence from duty procures him."

"That may be possible," she answered.

"But, nevertheless, let us be on our guard, for he is a most abominable brute when he is in a rage."

She pressed against him, adding with a glance behind her: "And do you know the man who is following us?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Do not bother about him.

Perhaps he wants to ask me something."

It was Misard, who had in fact been following them at a distance from the Rue des Juifs.

He had given his evidence in his usual drowsy manner; and had remained hovering around Jacques, unable to make up his mind to put a question to him, which was visibly on his lips.

When the couple disappeared in the inn, he entered in his turn, and called for a glass of wine.

"Hullo!

Is that you, Misard?"

exclaimed the driver.

"And how are you getting on with your new wife?

All right?"

"Yes, yes," grumbled the signalman.

"Ah!

the wretch, she took me in.

Eh?

I told you about that when I was here on the last occasion."

This story amused Jacques immensely.

The woman Ducloux, the former servant of dubious antecedents whom Misard had taken as gatekeeper, had soon perceived, on noticing him rummaging in the corners, that he must be searching for a hoard, hidden by the defunct; and to make him marry her, she had conceived the ingenious idea of giving him to understand by sudden reticences and little laughs that she had found it herself.

First of all he was on the point of strangling her; then, reflecting that the 1,000 frcs.

would again escape him, if he were to suppress her like the other, before he had them, he became very flattering and amiable.

But she repelled him.

She would not allow him to touch her.

No, no; when she became his wife he should have both her and the money.

And when he had married her, she simply laughed at him, remarking that he was a great stupid to believe everything that was told him.

The beauty of the whole business, was that when she heard all about it, she caught the fever from him, and henceforth sought for the money in his company, being quite as much enraged as himself to find it.

Ah!

those undiscoverable 1,000 frcs.

, they would certainly ferret them out one of these days, now that they were two!

And they sought, sought.

"So you have no news?"

inquired Jacques, in a bantering tone.

"But does not Ducloux assist you?"

Misard fixed his eyes on him, and at last said what he had been wanting to say.

"If you know where they are," he exclaimed, "tell me."

But the driver became angry.

"I know nothing at all," he replied.

"Aunt Phasie did not give me anything.

You do not mean to accuse me of stealing, I suppose?"

"Oh!

She gave you nothing that is certain," he answered.

"You see I am ill, and if you know where they are, tell me."

"Go to blazes!"

retorted Jacques; "and mind I do not say too much.

Just take a look in the salt-box to see if they are there."

Misard continued looking at him with pallid face and burning eyes.

Then came a sudden flash of enlightenment.

"In the salt-box?"

he remarked.

"By Jove that is an idea!

Underneath the drawer there is a place where I have not looked."

Hastily settling for his glass of wine, he ran off to the railway station, to see if he could catch the 7. 10 train.

And yonder in the little low habitation he sought eternally.

In the evening after dinner, while waiting for the 12. 50 train, Philomène insisted on taking Jacques for a walk down the dark alleys, and out into the adjoining country.

The atmosphere was extremely heavy--a hot, moonless July night, that filled her bosom with heavy sighs.

On two occasions she fancied she heard footsteps behind them, but on turning round could perceive no one, owing to the dense obscurity.

Jacques suffered considerably from this oppressive heat.

Notwithstanding his tranquil equilibrium of mind and the perfect health that he enjoyed since the murder, he had just experienced at table a return of that distant uneasiness, each time that this woman grazed him with her wandering hands.

This was no doubt due to fatigue, to enervation caused by the heavy atmosphere.

The anguish now returned more keenly and was full of secret terror.

And yet was he not thoroughly cured?

Nevertheless, his excitement became such that in dread of an attack, he would have disengaged his arm had not the darkness surrounding him removed his fears; for never, even on days when he felt the effects of his complaint the most sharply, would he have struck without seeing.

All at once, as they came to a grassy slope beside a solitary pathway and sat down, the monstrous craving began again.

He flew into a fit of madness, and at first searched in the grass for a weapon, for a stone, to smash her head.

Then he sprang to his feet, and was already fleeing in distraction, when he heard a male voice uttering oaths, and making a great disturbance.

"Ah!

you strumpet!"

shouted Pecqueux.

"I have waited to the end; I wanted to make sure!"

"It is false," answered Philomène.

"Let me go!"

"Ah!

It is false!"

said Pecqueux.

"He may run, the other one.

I know who he is, and shall be able to come up with him.

Look there, dare to say again that it is not true!"

Jacques tore along in the darkness, not fleeing from Pecqueux whom he had just recognised, but running away from himself, mad with grief.

Eh!

what!

one murder had not sufficed!

He was not satiated with the blood of Séverine as he had thought, even in the morning.

He was now beginning again.

Another, and then another, and then still another!

A

few weeks of torpor after being thoroughly gorged, and his frightful craving returned.

He required the flesh of women then, without end, to satisfy him.

It was now no longer necessary to set eyes on this element of seduction, the mere sensation of feeling the glow of a woman sufficed.

This put a stop to all enjoyment in life.

Before him was nothing but the dark night, through which he fled, and boundless despair.

A few days passed, Jacques had resumed his duty, avoiding his comrades, relapsing into his former anxious unsociableness.

War had just been declared after some stormy scenes in the Chamber; and there had already been a little fight at the outposts, attended by a satisfactory result it was said.

For a week past, the departure of troops had overwhelmed the servants of the railway companies with fatigue.

The regular service had become upset through the long delays occasioned by the frequent extra trains; without counting that the best drivers had been requisitioned to hasten the concentration of troops.

And it was thus that Jacques, one night at Havre, had to drive an enormously long train of eighteen trucks absolutely crammed with soldiers, instead of his usual express.

On that night, Pecqueux arrived at the depôt very drunk.

The day after he had surprised Philomène and Jacques, he had accompanied the latter on the engine 608 as fireman; and since then, although he made no allusion to the matter, he was gloomy and seemed as if he dared not look his chief in the face.

But the latter found him more and more rebellious, refusing to obey, and greeting every order he received with a surly growl.

As a result, they had entirely ceased speaking to one another.

This moving plate, this little bridge which formerly bore them along in unity, was naught at this hour but the narrow, dangerous platform on which their rivalry clashed.

The hatred was increasing, they were on the verge of devouring one another on these few square feet as they flew onward full speed, and from which the slightest shock would precipitate them.

On this particular night, Jacques, seeing Pecqueux drunk, felt distrustful; for he knew him to be too artful to get angry when sober; wine alone released the inner brute.

The train which should have left at six o'clock was delayed.

It was already dark when they entrained the soldiers into cattle-trucks like sheep.

Planks had simply been nailed across the vehicles in form of benches, and the men were packed there by squads, cramming the trucks beyond measure; so that while some were seated one upon another a few stood up, so jammed together that they could not move a limb.

On reaching Paris another train was in readiness to take them to the Rhine.

They were already weighed down with fatigue in the confusion of departure.

But as brandy had been distributed among them, and many had visited drinking-places in the vicinity of the station, they were full of heated and brutal gaiety, very red in the face, and with eyes starting from their heads.

As soon as the train moved out of the station, they began to sing.

Jacques immediately gazed at the sky, where storm-clouds hid the stars.

The night would be very dark, not a breath of wind stirred the burning air, and the wind of the advance, generally so fresh, proved tepid.

In the sombre outlook ahead, appeared no other lights than the bright sparks of the signals.

He increased the pressure to ascend the long slope from Harfleur to Saint Romain.

In spite of the study he had made of the engine No. 608 for some weeks, he had not yet got it perfectly in hand.

It was too new, and its caprice, its errors of youth astonished him.

On that night the locomotive proved particularly restive, whimsical, ready to fly away if only a few more pieces of coal than necessary, were placed on the bars.

And so, with his hand on the reversing-wheel, he watched the fire, becoming more and more anxious at the behaviour of his fireman.

The small lamp, lighting the water-level in the gauge-glass, left the foot-plate in a penumbra, which the red-hot door of the fire-box rendered violescent.

He distinguished Pecqueux indistinctly, but on two occasions he had felt a sensation in the legs like the graze of fingers being exercised to grip him there.

Doubtless this was nothing more than the clumsiness of a drunkard, for above the riot of the train he could hear Pecqueux sneering very loudly, breaking his coal with exaggerated blows of the hammer, and knocking with his shovel.

Each minute he opened the door of the fire-box, flinging fuel on the bars in unreasonable quantities.

"Enough!"

shouted Jacques.

The other, pretending not to understand, continued throwing in shovel upon shovel of coal; and as the driver grasped him by the arm, he turned round threateningly, having at last brought on the quarrel he had been seeking, in the increasing fury of his drunkenness.

"If you touch me I shall strike!"

yelled Pecqueux.

"It amuses me to go quick!"

The train was now rolling along full speed across the plain from Bolbec to Motteville, and was to go at one stretch to Paris without stopping, save at the places indicated to take in water.

The enormous mass, the eighteen trucks loaded, crammed with human cattle, crossed the dark country in a ceaseless roar; and these men who were being carted along to be massacred sang, sang at the pitch of their voices, making such a clamour that it could be heard above the riot of the wheels.

Jacques closed the door of the fire-box with his foot.

Then, manœuvring the injector, he still restrained himself.

"There is too big a fire," said he.

"Go to sleep if you are drunk!"

Pecqueux immediately opened the door again, and obstinately threw on more coal, as if he wanted to blow up the engine.

This was rebellion, orders disregarded, exasperated passion that took no further heed of all these human lives.

And Jacques, having leant over to lower the rod of the ash-pan himself, so as to at least lessen the draught, the fireman abruptly caught him round the body, and tried to push him, to throw him on the line with a violent jerk.

"You blackguard!"

exclaimed Jacques.

"So that is your game, is it?

And then you would say that I tumbled over!

You artful brute!"

He clung to the side of the tender, and both slid down.