Read Online The Beast Within by Ãmile Zola - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ãmile Zola
Ads: Link
railway line. It is set at an angle and so close to the track that it shakes whenever a train goes by.
Once seen, it stays imprinted on the memory for ever. Everyone notices it as the train speeds past, but no one knows its history — why it remains locked up, why it stands abandoned, like a ship in distress, its grey shutters closed and slowly turning green from the gales that blow in from the west. It is a desolate place, and the house seems to add to its desolation, standing on its own, cut off from all human habitation.
The only other dwelling near by is the level-crossing keeper’s cottage, standing where the road turns a bend and crosses the railway on its way to Doinville five kilometres away. It is a single-storey building, its walls full of cracks, its roof tiles eaten away by moss, and crouching like a destitute beggar in the garden that surrounds it. The garden, used for growing vegetables, is enclosed by a thick hedge and contains a large well, as tall as the house itself. The level-crossing is situated half-way between the two stations of Malaunay and Barentin, exactly four kilometres from each of them. It is very rarely used; the gate is old and falling apart and is only ever opened for wagons coming down from the quarries at Bécourt, half a league away in the forest. One cannot imagine a place more remote, more cut off from civilization. It is separated from Malaunay by a long tunnel, and the only way to Barentin is along an overgrown footpath that follows the railway line. Visitors are few and far between.
On this particular evening, sultry and overcast, a traveller, who had just got off a train from Le Havre at Barentin, was striding along the path to La Croix-de-Maufras as night was beginning to fall. The countryside at this point is a succession of hills and valleys, like waves at sea. The railway crosses them by a series of cuttings and embankments, but on either side of the line, the continual rise and fall of the terrain makes travelling by road extremely difficult; as a result this terribly lonely place feels even lonelier still. The colourless fields stand bare and neglected; the hilltops are covered with clumps of trees, and streams overhung with willow run down the narrow valleys. Outcrops of bare chalk lie strewn across the landscape, and the hills stretch away into the distance, sterile, and as silent and empty as the grave. 2 The traveller, a strong, athletic-looking young man, quickened his step as though he wanted to escape the gloomy approach of night in so desolate a place.
In the gate-keeper’s garden a girl stood drawing water at the well. She was eighteen years old, tall, fair-haired and strongly built; she had a large mouth, big green eyes, a low forehead and a thick head of hair. She was not a pretty girl; she had strong, broad hips and the muscular arms of a man. As soon as she spotted the traveller walking along the path, she put down her bucket and ran over to the gate in the hedge.
‘Why, it’s Jacques!’ she cried.
He looked up. He was just twenty-six. Like her, he was tall; a dark, handsome young man with a round face and regular features, but with a rather pronounced jaw. He had thick, curly hair and a big, curly moustache, so black that by contrast his face seemed quite pale. He might have been taken for a gentleman, looking at his delicate complexion and his carefully shaven cheeks. His hands, however, bore the tell-tale signs of his job — small, delicate hands, but stained yellow with grease, which came from driving a locomotive.
‘Hello, Flore,’ he said simply.
Suddenly, the lustre had gone from his big dark eyes. A red mist swam before them; they had become pale and strangely disturbed. His eyelids flickered. He looked away. He had suddenly become embarrassed and ill at ease. His whole body had instinctively recoiled from her.
She stood in front of him without moving, looking straight at him. She had noticed before how he tried to hide the sudden,
Once seen, it stays imprinted on the memory for ever. Everyone notices it as the train speeds past, but no one knows its history — why it remains locked up, why it stands abandoned, like a ship in distress, its grey shutters closed and slowly turning green from the gales that blow in from the west. It is a desolate place, and the house seems to add to its desolation, standing on its own, cut off from all human habitation.
The only other dwelling near by is the level-crossing keeper’s cottage, standing where the road turns a bend and crosses the railway on its way to Doinville five kilometres away. It is a single-storey building, its walls full of cracks, its roof tiles eaten away by moss, and crouching like a destitute beggar in the garden that surrounds it. The garden, used for growing vegetables, is enclosed by a thick hedge and contains a large well, as tall as the house itself. The level-crossing is situated half-way between the two stations of Malaunay and Barentin, exactly four kilometres from each of them. It is very rarely used; the gate is old and falling apart and is only ever opened for wagons coming down from the quarries at Bécourt, half a league away in the forest. One cannot imagine a place more remote, more cut off from civilization. It is separated from Malaunay by a long tunnel, and the only way to Barentin is along an overgrown footpath that follows the railway line. Visitors are few and far between.
On this particular evening, sultry and overcast, a traveller, who had just got off a train from Le Havre at Barentin, was striding along the path to La Croix-de-Maufras as night was beginning to fall. The countryside at this point is a succession of hills and valleys, like waves at sea. The railway crosses them by a series of cuttings and embankments, but on either side of the line, the continual rise and fall of the terrain makes travelling by road extremely difficult; as a result this terribly lonely place feels even lonelier still. The colourless fields stand bare and neglected; the hilltops are covered with clumps of trees, and streams overhung with willow run down the narrow valleys. Outcrops of bare chalk lie strewn across the landscape, and the hills stretch away into the distance, sterile, and as silent and empty as the grave. 2 The traveller, a strong, athletic-looking young man, quickened his step as though he wanted to escape the gloomy approach of night in so desolate a place.
In the gate-keeper’s garden a girl stood drawing water at the well. She was eighteen years old, tall, fair-haired and strongly built; she had a large mouth, big green eyes, a low forehead and a thick head of hair. She was not a pretty girl; she had strong, broad hips and the muscular arms of a man. As soon as she spotted the traveller walking along the path, she put down her bucket and ran over to the gate in the hedge.
‘Why, it’s Jacques!’ she cried.
He looked up. He was just twenty-six. Like her, he was tall; a dark, handsome young man with a round face and regular features, but with a rather pronounced jaw. He had thick, curly hair and a big, curly moustache, so black that by contrast his face seemed quite pale. He might have been taken for a gentleman, looking at his delicate complexion and his carefully shaven cheeks. His hands, however, bore the tell-tale signs of his job — small, delicate hands, but stained yellow with grease, which came from driving a locomotive.
‘Hello, Flore,’ he said simply.
Suddenly, the lustre had gone from his big dark eyes. A red mist swam before them; they had become pale and strangely disturbed. His eyelids flickered. He looked away. He had suddenly become embarrassed and ill at ease. His whole body had instinctively recoiled from her.
She stood in front of him without moving, looking straight at him. She had noticed before how he tried to hide the sudden,
Similar Books
