And never had she been better able to do so than on
that splendid night, amid the profound quietude of the earth's slumber.
It had left Monval, it was turning beside the brickworks, it was skirting
St. George's fields. In another two minutes it would be at Janville. Then
all at once its white light shone out beyond the poplar trees of Le
Mesnil Rouge, and the panting of the engine grew louder, like that of
some giant racer drawing near. On that side the plain spread far away
into a dark, unknown region, beneath the star-spangled sky, which on the
very horizon showed a ruddy reflection like that of some brasier, the
reflection of nocturnal Paris, blazing and smoking in the darkness like a
volcano.
Marianne sprang to her feet. The train stopped at Janville, and then its
rumble rose again, grew fainter, and died away in the direction of
Vieux-Bourg. But she no longer paid attention to it. She now had eyes and
ears only for the road which wound like a pale ribbon between the dark
patches of corn. Her husband did not take ten minutes to cover the
thousand yards and more which separated the station from the little
bridge. And, as a rule, she perceived and recognized him far off; but on
that particular night, such was the deep silence that she could
distinguish his footfall on the echoing road long before his dark, slim
figure showed against the pale ground.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113