French fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, French -- Translations into English
This disturbance ends in calming itself. I profit by the lull to put
my nose out of the window. There was not a star there, not even a
tip of the moon, heaven and earth seem to make but one, and in that
intensity of inky blackness, the lanterns winked like eyes of different
colors attached to the metal of the disks. The engineer discharged
his whistle, the engine puffed and vomited its sparks without rest. I
reclose the window and look at my companions. Some were snoring, others
disturbed by the jolting of the box, gurgled and swore in their sleep,
turning over incessantly, searching for room to stretch their legs, to
brace their heads that nodded at every jolt.
By dint of looking at them, I was beginning to get sleepy when the
train stopped short and woke me up. We were at a station; and the
station-master's office flamed like a forge fire in the darkness of
the night. I had one leg numbed, I was shivering with cold, I descend
to warm up a bit. I walk up and down the platform, I go to look at
the engine, which they uncouple, and which they replace by another,
and walking by the office I hear the bills and the tic-tac of the
telegraph. The employee, with back turned to me, was stooping a little
to the right in such a way that from where I was placed, I could see
but the back of his head and the tip of his nose, which shone red and
beaded with sweat, while the rest of his figure disappeared in the
shadow thrown by the screen of a gas-jet.
They invite me to get back into the carriage, and I find my comrades
again, just as I had left them. That time I went to sleep for good. For
how long did my sleep last? I don't know--when a great cry woke me up:
"Paris! Paris!" I made a dash for the doorway. At a distance, against
a band of pale gold, stood out in black the smokestacks of factories
and workshops. We were at Saint-Denis; the news ran from car to car.
Every one was on his feet. The engine quickened its pace. The Gare du
Nord looms up in the distance. We arrive there, we get down, we throw
ourselves at the gates. One part of us succeeds in escaping, the others
are stopped by the employees of the railroad and by the troops; by
force they make us remount into a train that is getting up steam, and
here we are again, off for God knows where!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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