Des gares réelles aux gares fictives :

bref panorama de 1890 à 1930 à travers quelques œuvres

anglaises, belges et françaises.

Suzanne Vanweddingen

Department of Civil, Environmental & Geomatic Engineering

University College of London

Avant de s’interroger sur la place de la gare dans la fiction, il convient de saisir

l’importance du monde ferroviaire dans la réalité. L’apparition du train et son expansion

ont bouleversé l’Europe, et chaque pays a dû et su s’adapter à ce nouveau mode de

transport qui apporte avec lui la promesse d’un avenir placé sous le signe du progrès. Le

développement ferroviaire a transformé l’espace, principalement celui des villes, qui se

sont retrouvées confrontées à une réorganisation de leur centre névralgique. Dans les

grandes villes, surtout, l’établissement du réseau ferré et des bâtiments nécessaires,

comme la gare, a conduit ingénieurs et architectes à développer un plan destiné à

intégrer et parfois imposer le chemin de fer dans le paysage urbain. Le chemin de fer

envahit donc l’espace. Dans le même temps sa construction concerne de nombreuses

professions et est source d’emploi. L’organisation qui entoure le chemin de fer est

équivalente à celle des mines, de même que la hiérarchie. Le fait que l’infrastructure soit

installée dans la ville ne signifie pas forcément que ceux qui y vivent – comme les

cheminots – y soient totalement intégrés puisqu’ils en sont séparés par leur

environnement, exclusivement ferroviaire. Petit à petit, le chemin de fer devient une

société presque indépendante de la société traditionnelle, avec le développement d’une

police, et même d’une poste ferroviaires...

L’espace ferroviaire de fiction

L’espace ferroviaire de fiction s’inspire de la connaissance qu’en ont les auteurs

ou leur volonté de le représenter comme un reflet de celui qu’ils voient réellement,

rappelant en cela le procédé pictural. La peinture a en effet permis d’immortaliser le

chemin de fer, les peintres jouant le rôle de photographes quand cette technologie en

était encore à ses balbutiements. Les auteurs jouent sur l’apparence qui permet

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d’identifier le chemin de fer dans les textes. Les lecteurs ont alors un point de repère

aussi visuel que s’il s’agissait d’un tableau, quand bien même l’auteur se permettrait

quelques libertés sur les détails techniques. La peinture et l’écriture sont liées dans une

même recherche de la représentation fidèle à la réalité connue des artistes, qu’ils soient

peintres ou écrivains.

En 1877, Monet obtient de la Compagnie de l’Ouest l’autorisation de pouvoir installer

son chevalet dans la gare Saint-Lazare :

He was doggedly painting the departing locomotives. He wanted to show how they looked as

they moved through the hot air that shimmered around them1.

L’effort de Monet pour peindre une scène tirée du réel se retrouve dans ses tableaux

jusque dans la précision du détail. Cependant, le peintre ajoute son savoir-faire et

transforme cette réalité tangible en une autre réalité, moins tangible. Si l’espace est

reconnaissable, ce n’est cependant plus tout à fait le même. Il devient statique du fait

de l’action de la peinture qui immobilise ce qu’elle représente, quand bien même

décrirait-elle le mouvement.

Parti de son réel, Monet apporte une note presque onirique dans son choix de

mettre la vapeur en peinture. Celle-ci est le symbole du passage entre ce que le

peintre voit et ce qu’il choisit de représenter. La vapeur peut dissimuler les objets

ou les transformer. De la même façon l’artiste peut dissimuler certains aspects du

réel ou les transformer. L’écrivain a en commun avec le peintre qu’il peut utiliser ce

même procédé. Et le cas d’Emile Zola est presque similaire à celui de Monet dont il a

vu les œuvres lors de l’exposition impressionniste de 1877.

Comme Monet, Zola a été sur le terrain, il passe même dix ans à préparer son

roman ferroviaire. Et ses descriptions ont en commun avec le peintre ce rapport à la

réalité. Celle qu’ils reproduisent pour en faire un espace imaginaire.

Dans La Bête Humaine, on retrouve par exemple une description qui fait écho au

travail de Monet, et on imagine volontiers Zola décrivant un lieu précis :

En face, sous ce poudroiement de rayons, les maisons de la rue de Rome se brouillaient,

s'effaçaient, légères. A gauche, les marquises des halles couvertes ouvraient leurs porches

géants, aux vitrages enfumés, celle des grandes lignes, immense, où l'œil plongeait. (…) Les

trois postes d'aiguilleur, en avant des arches, montraient leurs petits jardins nus. Dans

1 LE ROUX Hugues, « Silhouettes parisiennes. L’exposition de Claude Monet », Gil Blas, 3 mars 1889, p.1-2, cité par CARTER Ian, Railways and culture in Britain, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2001, p.119.« Il peignait les locomotives au départ avec acharnement. Il voulait montrer à quoi elles ressemblaient lorsqu’elles se déplaçaient dans l’air chaud qui chatoyait autour d’elles. »

2

l'effacement confus des wagons et des machines encombrant les rails, un grand signal rouge

tachait le jour pâle2.

La description de Zola fait écho aux tableaux de Monet sur le chemin de fer. La vapeur

dont se sert le peintre pour transformer le cadre est présente également chez l’auteur

chez qui « les maisons (…) se brouillaient, s’effaçaient, légères ». Les vitrages sont

enfumés, signe que la vapeur des tableaux de Monet s’est étendue à la Bête Humaine.

Mais si Monet choisit de représenter une vision du monde ferroviaire proche de celle qui

est son quotidien, Zola inscrit le chemin de fer dans une organisation en marge de la

société, où la moindre intrusion est source de conflit. Le mode de pensée des acteurs du

monde ferroviaire ne peut être compris que par les cheminots, ou ceux qui sont

suffisamment proches d’eux. L’auteur rend compte d’une société imbriquée dans une

autre et les relations entre les deux sont sinon conflictuelles, du moins très difficiles. Il

oppose deux visions du monde : l’un vu par les cheminots, l’autre par ceux qui ne font

pas partie du chemin de fer. Le cadre ferroviaire sert de point de départ à cette double

vision du monde et permet de rattacher l’œuvre à une littérature ferroviaire où

ferroviaire renvoie à l’espace principal du texte, à savoir le chemin de fer au sens large.

Au sein de cette littérature se trouvent des auteurs pour la plupart anglais qui ont fait

du chemin de fer le cadre principal de nombreux de leurs textes. On peut citer parmi eux

Freeman Wills Croft, le spécialiste des crimes ferroviaire, ou encore Victor L.

Whitechurch, qui a inventé le premier détective ferroviaire. Freeman Wills Croft a fait de

sa fascination son métier, et utilise ses connaissances ferroviaires pour ses récits.

Freeman Wills Crofts’ fictions live in a controlled, predictable, engineered world where

trains run to time, positivist applied science is the royal route to knowledge and every

problem has only one solution3.

L’aspect technique retient l’attention, d’autant plus que toutes les précisions dans ses

textes sont « combined with properly employed technical knowledge (codified in

Molesworth, time tables and Bradshaw) »4. Crofts transfère son monde réel dans son

univers de fiction. Dans son cas, les limites qu’il rencontre sont celles fournies par son

imagination, c'est-à-dire l’intrigue qui se greffe sur le cadre réaliste. Mais le fait que ses

2 ZOLA Emile, La Bête Humaine [1890], Paris, L.G.F., 1988, p.13-14.3 CARTER Ian, Railways and culture in Britain, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2001, p.182. « Les fictions de Freeman Wills Croft évoluent dans un monde contrôlé, prévisible, et technique dans lequel les trains sont à l’heure, la science appliquée est la voie royale vers la connaissance, et chaque problème n’a qu’une seule solution. »4 Ibid., p.182.« combinées à une connaissance technique (codifiée dans le Moleworth, les horaires et le Bradshaw) employée convenablement. »

3

textes sonnent aussi juste dans la description du chemin de fer5 renforce cette

distinction entre deux sociétés, celle liée au chemin de fer étant intégrée à la société

classique. Victor Whitechurch, un membre du clergé fasciné par le chemin de fer en fait

également l’un de ses thèmes de prédilection. Si le monde ferroviaire décrit par

Whitechurch est plausible, il ne possède pas l’exacte précision de Crofts, et reste dans

l’amateurisme, même si la critique lui reconnaît une certaine valeur technique.

Cependant, ses textes permettent de mettre en évidence une séparation de forme entre

le monde ferroviaire et la société reprise de la réalité. La description, aussi imparfaite

soit-elle, permettrait donc principalement de décrire une atmosphère ferroviaire

derrière sa société ainsi que l’espace en général.

Composition générale du monde ferroviaire

Pris dans son sens d’ensemble constitué d’un espace et de ceux qui en font partie,

l’espace ferroviaire regroupe différents lieux clefs permettant d’identifier le cadre dans

les textes. Cependant, la société ferroviaire qui s’est développée dans la société

traditionnelle forme une unité close avec ce qui la constitue, posant ainsi la question de

savoir comment s’organise cette société, si elle est renfermée sur elle-même ou si elle

admet des ouvertures sur le monde.

Traditionnellement, on parle de société ferroviaire afin de bien montrer que la

structure de cet ensemble ressemble à celle d’une société traditionnelle. Les compagnies

ferroviaires emploient un grand nombre de personnel, développent des infrastructures,

des logements pour les cheminots, ce qui transforme l’espace ferroviaire en lieu de vie

ainsi que le montre Emile Zola en décrivant le quotidien des cheminots et de leur famille.

Appartenir au monde ferroviaire, c’est faire partie d’une société en marge, mais incluse

dans la société.

5 A ce sujet, nous renvoyons au chapitre 7 de CARTER Ian, Railways and culture in Britain, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2001, p.179 à 181.

4

Les cheminots sont au service des voyageurs tout en ayant le sentiment d’être des

privilégiés car ils ont accès à la connaissance. A la fin du XIXème siècle, travailler pour

une compagnie ferroviaire est un honneur, et un conducteur de train a un salaire élevé,

ce qui montre l’importance du chemin de fer dans la société, tout en créant un système

de classes à l’intérieur même de la société ferroviaire, à l’image de la société

traditionnelle. L’espace ferroviaire est clos, car il n’accepte pas les étrangers et qu’il a sa

propre hiérarchie, mais il est aussi ouvert puisque les voyageurs ont un droit d’accès.

La gare

L’un des lieux importants dans le monde ferroviaire, outre le train, est sans

conteste la gare. Elle accueille les passagers, leur permet d’obtenir les titres de

transport, les horaires et toute information nécessaire pour un voyage qu’elle précède,

mais qu’elle termine également. Le voyageur quitte la gare pour monter dans le train,

mais c’est le premier endroit auquel il parvient en arrivant à destination. La gare est

donc le début et la fin pour le monde ferroviaire. Mais la gare reste le lieu intermédiaire

entre la société et le monde ferroviaire. En effet, elle se trouve entre le train 6 et la ville,

formant une frontière entre deux espaces distincts.

Un texte comme « The Lost Special » permet d’avoir un aperçu à la fois des possibilités

du chemin de fer et de la fonction première de la gare, qui n’est autre que l’organisation

6 Entendu dans le sens d’ensemble constitué d’une locomotive et de wagons.

5

SOCIÉTÉ

TRADITIONNELLESOCIÉTÉ

FERROVIAIRE

du voyage. Un certain Louis Caratal accompagné de ce qui se rapproche plus d’un garde

du corps que d’un associé, commande un train spécial pour le mener – le plus

rapidement possible – de Liverpool à Londres. La compagnie organise alors

l’affrètement de ce train :

Mr. Bland struck the electric bell, summoned Mr. Potter Hood, the traffic manager, and had

the matter arranged in five minutes. The train would start in three-quarters of an hour. It

would take that time to insure that the line should be clear. The powerful engine called

Rochdale (…) was attached to two carriages, with a guard’s van behind7.

Conan Doyle ponctue tout son récit de détails techniques concernant le chemin de fer, ce

qui permet de comprendre le fonctionnement d’un trajet ferroviaire, de sa conception à

son arrivée théorique, et aux répercutions de sa disparition dans le cas de cette nouvelle.

Le rôle de la gare de départ ne se limite pas seulement à s’assurer que le train est parti,

mais également à faire le nécessaire en cas de problème, en l’occurrence, quand le train

spécial disparaît :

At a quarter after six considerable surprise and some consternation were caused amongst

the officials at Liverpool by the receipt of a telegram from Manchester to say that it had not yet

arrived8.

A la suite de cette information, c’est la gare de Liverpool qui entame et coordonne les

recherches. La gare devient donc le centre des opérations. Elle est un lieu de

rassemblement des informations, et c’est là que les décisions se mettent en place,

comme on peut le voir par exemple dans « The Case of Oscar Brodski ». Dans cette

longue nouvelle, la découverte d’un cadavre – au préalable écrasé par un train de

marchandise – crée la confusion dans une petite gare. Parallèlement, les deux

protagonistes – ainsi que le meurtrier – y sont rassemblés, arrivés quelques minutes

seulement après que le corps a été déplacé. La gare concentre donc tous les

personnages, du cadavre aux détectives, en passant par le meurtrier et les employés du

chemin de fer qui prennent une part active à l’enquête :

7 DOYLE Arthur Conan, « The Lost Special » [1898], in PATTRICK William, Mysterious Railway stories, London, Star, 1984, p.69. « M. Bland actionna la sonnerie électrique, fit venir M. Potter Hood, le responsable du trafic, et la question fut réglée en cinq minutes. Le train partirait dans trois quarts d’heure. C’était le temps qu’il fallait pour s’assurer que la ligne était dégagée. La puissante locomotive Rochdale (…) était attachée à deux wagons et au fourgon du chef de train. »8 Ibid., p.70.« A six heures et quart, un télégramme de Manchester signalant que le train n’était pas encore passé causa une vive surprise et une certaine consternation à Liverpool. »

6

As we stepped out on to the platform, we became aware that something unusual was

happening or had happened. All the passengers and most of the porters and supernumeraries

were gathered at one end of the station9.

Mais surtout, la gare prolonge l’une des fonctions du train : la rencontre. En effet, Jervis,

le narrateur, et son compagnon rencontrent un troisième personnage – un ami – dans le

train, et ce dernier reconnaît le parapluie de la victime, avant d’identifier le corps.

La gare, tout comme le train, se fond dans le décor, elle est peu ou pas décrite mais

reste néanmoins un élément important de par sa fonction. Elle permet outre de

rassembler les personnages, de devenir un point central où se mettent en place les

opérations, prolongeant ainsi le rôle du train. Certains lieux dans la gare apparaissent

plus souvent dans les textes. C’est le cas de la salle d’attente par exemple, qui, elle aussi,

porte la fonction commune au train et à la gare en elle, puisqu’elle est un lieu de

rencontre. Dans « The Ghost Train », tous les personnages sont réunis dans une salle

d’attente, en attendant que le train suivant arrive. Cette pièce, si elle prolonge le rôle

introductif du train, permet aussi d’intégrer l’événement mystérieux, à savoir l’histoire

du train fantôme auquel les personnages seront confrontés. Dès lors, la gare – en

l’occurrence la salle d’attente – peut servir d’intermédiaire entre une situation normale

et une anomalie.

D’autres textes en revanche font de la salle d’attente un espace de transition qui

provoque la rencontre entre les personnages, puis le récit de l’événement fantastique.

Lorsqu’elle possède cette fonction, la salle d’attente ouvre et clôt souvent le récit. Ainsi,

c’est dans la salle d’attente que Harry, dans « The Wrong Station », commence son récit,

qui concerne également une gare, celle dans laquelle il est arrivé par erreur. La gare

conserve sa fonction première, elle est l’intermédiaire entre le train et la ville. Elle reste

le point géographique qui permet aux passagers de s’orienter, de savoir où ils se

trouvent, et ce, dès que le train s’arrête, puisque les voyageurs peuvent y lire le nom de

la ville. Sans la gare, il est impossible de se repérer, sans son nom, il est impossible de s’y

rendre.

Le quai est l’endroit de la gare, directement en lien avec le train. Il est totalement

indispensable, au point de passer inaperçu dans les textes. Il est nécessaire pour qui veut

monter ou descendre du train, et si son rôle semble évident, il faut cependant lui 9 FREEMAN R. Austin, « The Case of Oscar Brodski » [1912], in MORGAN Bryan, Crime on the Lines, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975, p.62.« Alors que nous descendions sur le quai, nous remarquâmes que quelque chose d’inhabituel se passait, ou c’était passé. Tous les passagers, et la plupart des porteurs et de nombreuses autres personnes étaient rassemblés à l’une des extrémités de la gare. »

7

concéder une importance au sein de la gare. En effet, celui qui se trompe de quai a toutes

les chances d’arriver dans un endroit totalement différent de ce qu’il avait prévu, et de la

même façon, celui qui monte dans un train sans passer par le quai, risque de faire un

étrange voyage. De plus, le quai permet d’en savoir un peu plus sur les passagers et il

donne parfois lieu à des rassemblements ou à des séparations. Chacun des lieux

constitutifs de la gare peut donc représenter sa fonction, tout en conservant des

caractéristiques lui étant propre.

La gare peut aisément se « déconstruire » et rappelle en cela le train – constitué

d’une locomotive, d’un tender et de wagons – dans ce procédé. Comme lui, elle est un

ensemble et peut aller jusqu’à lui emprunter sa fonction, suggérant alors que la finalité

de la société ferroviaire (littéraire) ne se résumerait qu’à celle-ci.

Le monde ferroviaire s’accorde, se complète, et les éléments qui le composent peuvent

se substituer les uns aux autres, pour que la fonction première du train – mener d’un

point à un autre, sans que ce point soit précisément ne défini – soit respectée.

La relation entre les différents événements montre clairement le lien existant entre les

espaces qui constituent le monde ferroviaire, qu’ils soient pris séparément ou dans leur

ensemble. Le monde ferroviaire forme un tout, et, du départ à l’arrivée, le voyage est une

continuité, dont nous pouvons voir qu’elle est renforcée par la présence des rails, qui

guident le train. Le réseau ferroviaire ne s’arrête donc pas simplement au nom d’un lieu

et au moyen d’y parvenir, mais il englobe également tout ce qui se trouve autour,

incluant la gare dans son ensemble.

8

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

BERESFORD J.D., « Lost in the Fog » [1918], in Richard Peyton, The Ghost Now Standing

on Platform One, London, Souvenir Press, 1990.

BURRAGE A.M., « The Wrong Station » [1916], in Richard Peyton, The Ghost Now

Standing on Platform One, London, Souvenir Press, 1990.

CARTER Ian, Railways and Culture in Britain, Manchester, Manchester University Press,

2001.

DOYLE Arthur Conan, « The Lost Special » [1898], in PATTRICK William, Mysterious

Railwy Stories, London, Star, 1984.

FARRERE Claude, « Le Train perdu » [1928], in DE LAET Danny, Histoires de Trains

fantastiques, Paris, Librairie des Champs-Elysées, 1980.

FREEMAN R. Austin, « The Case of Oscar Brodski » [1912], in MORGAN Bryan, Crime on

the Lines, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975.

HAINING Peter, Murder on the Railways, London, Orion, 1996.

HELLENS Franz, « Salles d’attente » [1909], in Réalités fantastiques, Paris, Gallimard,

1966.

RIDLEY Arnold & ALEXANDER Ruth, « The Ghost Train » [1926], in PATTRICK

William, Mysterious Railway Stories, London, Star, 1984.

ZOLA Emile, La Bête Humaine, Paris, L.G.F., 1988.

9

TEXTES

The Lost SpecialArthur Conan Doyle

(1898)

The confession of Herbert de Lernac, now lying under sentence of death at Marseilles, has thrown a light upon one of the most inexplicable crimes of the century--an incident which is, I believe, absolutely unprecedented in the criminal annals of any country: Although there is a reluctance to discuss the matter in official circles, and little information has been given to the Press, there are still indications that the statement of this arch-criminal is corroborated by the facts, and that we have at last found a solution for a most astounding business. As the matter is eight years old, and as its importance was somewhat obscured by a political crisis which was engaging the public attention at the time, it may be as well to state the facts as far as we have been able to ascertain them. They are collated from the Liverpool papers of that date, from the proceedings at the inquest upon John Slater, the engine-driver, and from the records of the London and West Coast Railway Company, which have been courteously put at my disposal. Briefly, they are as follows:

On the 3rd of June, 1890, a gentleman, who gave his name as Monsieur Louis Caratal, desired an interview with Mr. James Bland, the superintendent of the London and West Coast Central Station in Liverpool. He was a small man, middle-aged and dark, with a stoop which was so marked that it suggested some deformity of the spine. He was accompanied by a friend, a man of imposing physique, whose deferential manner and constant attention showed that his position was one of dependence. This friend or companion, whose name did not transpire, was certainly a foreigner, and probably from his swarthy complexion, either a Spaniard or a South American. One peculiarity was observed in him. He carried in his left hand a small black, leather dispatch box, and it was noticed by a sharp- eyed clerk in the Central office that this box was fastened to his wrist by a strap. No importance was attached to the fact at the time, but subsequent events endowed it with some significance. Monsieur Caratal was shown up to Mr. Bland's office, while his companion remained outside.

Monsieur Caratal's business was quickly dispatched. He had arrived that afternoon from Central America. Affairs of the utmost importance demanded that he should be in Paris without the loss of an unnecessary hour. He had missed the London express. A special must be provided. Money was of no importance. Time was everything. If the company would speed him on his way, they might make their own terms.

Mr. Bland struck the electric bell, summoned Mr. Potter Hood, the traffic manager, and had the matter arranged in five minutes. The train would start in three-quarters of an hour. It would take that time to insure that the line should be clear. The powerful engine called Rochdale (No. 247 on the company's register) was attached to two carriages, with a guard's van behind. The first carriage was solely for the purpose of decreasing the inconvenience arising from the oscillation. The second was divided, as usual, into four compartments, a first-class, a first-class smoking, a second-class, and a second-class smoking. The first compartment, which was nearest to the engine, was the one allotted

10

to the travellers. The other three were empty. The guard of the special train was James McPherson, who had been some years in the service of the company. The stoker, William Smith, was a new hand.

Monsieur Caratal, upon leaving the superintendent's office, rejoined his companion, and both of them manifested extreme impatience to be off. Having paid the money asked, which amounted to fifty pounds five shillings, at the usual special rate of five shillings a mile, they demanded to be shown the carriage, and at once took their seats in it, although they were assured that the better part of an hour must elapse before the line could be cleared. In the meantime a singular coincidence had occurred in the office which Monsieur Caratal had just quitted.

A request for a special is not a very uncommon circumstance in a rich commercial centre, but that two should be required upon the same afternoon was most unusual. It so happened, however, that Mr. Bland had hardly dismissed the first traveller before a second entered with a similar request. This was a Mr. Horace Moore, a gentlemanly man of military appearance, who alleged that the sudden serious illness of his wife in London made it absolutely imperative that he should not lose an instant in starting upon the journey. His distress and anxiety were so evident that Mr. Bland did all that was possible to meet his wishes. A second special was out of the question, as the ordinary local service was already somewhat deranged by the first. There was the alternative, however, that Mr. Moore should share the expense of Monsieur Caratal's train, and should travel in the other empty first-class compartment, if Monsieur Caratal objected to having him in the one which he occupied. It was difficult to see any objection to such an arrangement, and yet Monsieur Caratal, upon the suggestion being made to him by Mr. Potter Hood, absolutely refused to consider it for an instant. The train was his, he said, and he would insist upon the exclusive use of it. All argument failed to overcome his ungracious objections, and finally the plan had to be abandoned. Mr. Horace Moore left the station in great distress, after learning that his only course was to take the ordinary slow train which leaves Liverpool at six o'clock. At four thirty-one exactly by the station clock the special train, containing the crippled Monsieur Caratal and his gigantic companion, steamed out of the Liverpool station. The line was at that time clear, and there should have been no stoppage before Manchester.

The trains of the London and West Coast Railway run over the lines of another company as far as this town, which should have been reached by the special rather before six o'clock. At a quarter after six considerable surprise and some consternation were caused amongst the officials at Liverpool by the receipt of a telegram from Manchester to say that it had not yet arrived. An inquiry directed to St. Helens, which is a third of the way between the two cities, elicited the following reply--

"To James Bland, Superintendent, Central L. & W. C., Liverpool.--Special passed here at 4:52, well up to time.--Dowster, St. Helens."

This telegram was received at six-forty. At six-fifty a second message was received from Manchester--

"No sign of special as advised by you."

And then ten minutes later a third, more bewildering--

"Presume some mistake as to proposed running of special. Local train from St. Helens timed to follow it has just arrived and has seen nothing of it. Kindly wire advices.--Manchester."

11

The matter was assuming a most amazing aspect, although in some respects the last telegram was a relief to the authorities at Liverpool. If an accident had occurred to the special, it seemed hardly possible that the local train could have passed down the same line without observing it. And yet, what was the alternative? Where could the train be? Had it possibly been sidetracked for some reason in order to allow the slower train to go past? Such an explanation was possible if some small repair had to be effected. A telegram was dispatched to each of the stations between St. Helens and Manchester, and the superintendent and traffic manager waited in the utmost suspense at the instrument for the series of replies which would enable them to say for certain what had become of the missing train. The answers came back in the order of questions, which was the order of the stations beginning at the St. Helens end--

"Special passed here five o'clock.--Collins Green."

"Special passed here six past five.--Earlstown."

"Special passed here 5:10.--Newton."

"Special passed here 5:20.--Kenyon Junction."

"No special train has passed here.--Barton Moss."

The two officials stared at each other in amazement.

"This is unique in my thirty years of experience," said Mr. Bland.

"Absolutely unprecedented and inexplicable, sir. The special has gone wrong between Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss."

"And yet there is no siding, so far as my memory serves me, between the two stations. The special must have run off the metals."

"But how could the four-fifty parliamentary pass over the same line without observing it?"

"There's no alternative, Mr. Hood. It must be so. Possibly the local train may have observed something which may throw some light upon the matter. We will wire to Manchester for more information, and to Kenyon Junction with instructions that the line be examined instantly as far as Barton Moss." The answer from Manchester came within a few minutes.

"No news of missing special. Driver and guard of slow train positive no accident between Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss. Line quite clear, and no sign of anything unusual.--Manchester."

"That driver and guard will have to go," said Mr. Bland, grimly. "There has been a wreck and they have missed it. The special has obviously run off the metals without disturbing the line--how it could have done so passes my comprehension--but so it must be, and we shall have a wire from Kenyon or Barton Moss presently to say that they have found her at the bottom of an embankment."

But Mr. Bland's prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. Half an hour passed, and then there arrived the following message from the station-master of Kenyon Junction--

"There are no traces of the missing special. It is quite certain that she passed here, and that she did not arrive at Barton Moss. We have detached engine from goods train, and I have myself ridden down the line, but all is clear, and there is no sign of any accident."

Mr. Bland tore his hair in his perplexity.

12

"This is rank lunacy, Hood!" he cried. "Does a train vanish into thin air in England in broad daylight? The thing is preposterous. An engine, a tender, two carriages, a van, five human beings--and all lost on a straight line of railway! Unless we get something positive within the next hour I'll take Inspector Collins, and go down myself."

And then at last something positive did occur. It took the shape of another telegram from Kenyon Junction.

"Regret to report that the dead body of John Slater, driver of the special train, has just been found among the gorse bushes at a point two and a quarter miles from the Junction. Had fallen from his engine, pitched down the embankment, and rolled among the bushes. Injuries to his head, from the fall, appear to be cause of death. Ground has now been carefully examined, and there is no trace of the missing train."

The country was, as has already been stated, in the throes of a political crisis, and the attention of the public was further distracted by the important and sensational developments in Paris, where a huge scandal threatened to destroy the Government and to wreck the reputations of many of the leading men in France. The papers were full of these events, and the singular disappearance of the special train attracted less attention than would have been the case in more peaceful times. The grotesque nature of the event helped to detract from its importance, for the papers were disinclined to believe the facts as reported to them. More than one of the London journals treated the matter as an ingenious hoax, until the coroner's inquest upon the unfortunate driver (an inquest which elicited nothing of importance) convinced them of the tragedy of the incident.

Mr. Bland, accompanied by Inspector Collins, the senior detective officer in the service of the company, went down to Kenyon Junction the same evening, and their research lasted throughout the following day, but was attended with purely negative results. Not only was no trace found of the missing train, but no conjecture could be put forward which could possibly explain the facts. At the same time, Inspector Collins's official report (which lies before me as I write) served to show that the possibilities were more numerous than might have been expected.

"In the stretch of railway between these two points," said he, "the country is dotted with ironworks and collieries. Of these, some are being worked and some have been abandoned. There are no fewer than twelve which have small-gauge lines which run trolly- cars down to the main line. These can, of course, be disregarded. Besides these, however, there are seven which have, or have had, proper lines running down and connecting with points to the main line, so as to convey their produce from the mouth of the mine to the great centres of distribution. In every case these lines are only a few miles in length. Out of the seven, four belong to collieries which are worked out, or at least to shafts which are no longer used. These are the Redgauntlet, Hero, Slough of Despond, and Heartsease mines, the latter having ten years ago been one of the principal mines in Lancashire. These four side lines may be eliminated from our inquiry, for, to prevent possible accidents, the rails nearest to the main line have been taken up, and there is no longer any connection. There remain three other side lines leading--

(a) To the Carnstock Iron Works; (b) To the Big Ben Colliery; (c) To the Perseverance Colliery.

"Of these the Big Ben line is not more than a quarter of a mile long, and ends at a dead wall of coal waiting removal from the mouth of the mine. Nothing had been seen or

13

heard there of any special. The Carnstock Iron Works line was blocked all day upon the 3rd of June by sixteen truckloads of hematite. It is a single line, and nothing could have passed. As to the Perseverance line, it is a large double line, which does a considerable traffic, for the output of the mine is very large. On the 3rd of June this traffic proceeded as usual; hundreds of men including a gang of railway platelayers were working along the two miles and a quarter which constitute the total length of the line, and it is inconceivable that an unexpected train could have come down there without attracting universal attention. It may be remarked in conclusion that this branch line is nearer to St. Helens than the point at which the engine-driver was discovered, so that we have every reason to believe that the train was past that point before misfortune overtook her.

"As to John Slater, there is no clue to be gathered from his appearance or injuries. We can only say that, so far as we can see, he met his end by falling off his engine, though why he fell, or what became of the engine after his fall, is a question upon which I do not feel qualified to offer an opinion." In conclusion, the inspector offered his resignation to the Board, being much nettled by an accusation of incompetence in the London papers.

A month elapsed, during which both the police and the company prosecuted their inquiries without the slightest success. A reward was offered and a pardon promised in case of crime, but they were both unclaimed. Every day the public opened their papers with the conviction that so grotesque a mystery would at last be solved, but week after week passed by, and a solution remained as far off as ever. In broad daylight, upon a June afternoon in the most thickly inhabited portion of England, a train with its occupants had disappeared as completely as if some master of subtle chemistry had volatilized it into gas. Indeed, among the various conjectures which were put forward in the public Press, there were some which seriously asserted that supernatural, or, at least, preternatural, agencies had been at work, and that the deformed Monsieur Caratal was probably a person who was better known under a less polite name. Others fixed upon his swarthy companion as being the author of the mischief, but what it was exactly which he had done could never be clearly formulated in words.

Amongst the many suggestions put forward by various newspapers or private individuals, there were one or two which were feasible enough to attract the attention of the public. One which appeared in The Times, over the signature of an amateur reasoner of some celebrity at that date, attempted to deal with the matter in a critical and semi-scientific manner. An extract must suffice, although the curious can see the whole letter in the issue of the 3rd of July.

"It is one of the elementary principles of practical reasoning," he remarked, "that when the impossible has been eliminated the residuum, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must contain the truth. It is certain that the train left Kenyon Junction. It is certain that it did not reach Barton Moss. It is in the highest degree unlikely, but still possible, that it may have taken one of the seven available side lines. It is obviously impossible for a train to run where there are no rails, and, therefore, we may reduce our improbables to the three open lines, namely the Carnstock Iron Works, the Big Ben, and the Perseverance. Is there a secret society of colliers, an English Camorra, which is capable of destroying both train and passengers? It is improbable, but it is not impossible. I confess that I am unable to suggest any other solution. I should certainly advise the company to direct all their energies towards the observation of those three lines, and of the workmen at the end of them. A careful supervision of the pawnbrokers' shops of the district might possibly bring some suggestive facts to light."

14

The suggestion coming from a recognized authority upon such matters created considerable interest, and a fierce opposition from those who considered such a statement to be a preposterous libel upon an honest and deserving set of men. The only answer to this criticism was a challenge to the objectors to lay any more feasible explanations before the public. In reply to this two others were forthcoming (Times, July 7th and 9th). The first suggested that the train might have run off the metals and be lying submerged in the Lancashire and Staffordshire Canal, which runs parallel to the railway for some hundred of yards. This suggestion was thrown out of court by the published depth of the canal, which was entirely insufficient to conceal so large an object. The second correspondent wrote calling attention to the bag which appeared to be the sole luggage which the travellers had brought with them, and suggesting that some novel explosive of immense and pulverizing power might have been concealed in it. The obvious absurdity, however, of supposing that the whole train might be blown to dust while the metals remained uninjured reduced any such explanation to a farce. The investigation had drifted into this hopeless position when a new and most unexpected incident occurred.

This was nothing less than the receipt by Mrs. McPherson of a letter from her husband, James McPherson, who had been the guard on the missing train. The letter, which was dated July 5th, 1890, was posted from New York and came to hand upon July 14th. Some doubts were expressed as to its genuine character but Mrs. McPherson was positive as to the writing, and the fact that it contained a remittance of a hundred dollars in five-dollar notes was enough in itself to discount the idea of a hoax. No address was given in the letter, which ran in this way:

MY DEAR WIFE,--

"I have been thinking a great deal, and I find it very hard to give you up. The same with Lizzie. I try to fight against it, but it will always come back to me. I send you some money which will change into twenty English pounds. This should be enough to bring both Lizzie and you across the Atlantic, and you will find the Hamburg boats which stop at Southampton very good boats, and cheaper than Liverpool. If you could come here and stop at the Johnston House I would try and send you word how to meet, but things are very difficult with me at present, and I am not very happy, finding it hard to give you both up. So no more at present, from your loving husband,

"James McPherson."

For a time it was confidently anticipated that this letter would lead to the clearing up of the whole matter, the more so as it was ascertained that a passenger who bore a close resemblance to the missing guard had travelled from Southampton under the name of Summers in the Hamburg and New York liner Vistula, which started upon the 7th of June. Mrs. McPherson and her sister Lizzie Dolton went across to New York as directed and stayed for three weeks at the Johnston House, without hearing anything from the missing man. It is probable that some injudicious comments in the Press may have warned him that the police were using them as a bait. However, this may be, it is certain that he neither wrote nor came, and the women were eventually compelled to return to Liverpool.

And so the matter stood, and has continued to stand up to the present year of 1898. Incredible as it may seem, nothing has transpired during these eight years which has

15

shed the least light upon the extraordinary disappearance of the special train which contained Monsieur Caratal and his companion. Careful inquiries into the antecedents of the two travellers have only established the fact that Monsieur Caratal was well known as a financier and political agent in Central America, and that during his voyage to Europe he had betrayed extraordinary anxiety to reach Paris. His companion, whose name was entered upon the passenger lists as Eduardo Gomez, was a man whose record was a violent one, and whose reputation was that of a bravo and a bully. There was evidence to show, however, that he was honestly devoted to the interests of Monsieur Caratal, and that the latter, being a man of puny physique, employed the other as a guard and protector. It may be added that no information came from Paris as to what the objects of Monsieur Caratal's hurried journey may have been. This comprises all the facts of the case up to the publication in the Marseilles papers of the recent confession of Herbert de Lernac, now under sentence of death for the murder of a merchant named Bonvalot. This statement may be literally translated as follows:

"It is not out of mere pride or boasting that I give this information, for, if that were my object, I could tell a dozen actions of mine which are quite as splendid; but I do it in order that certain gentlemen in Paris may understand that I, who am able here to tell about the fate of Monsieur Caratal, can also tell in whose interest and at whose request the deed was done, unless the reprieve which I am awaiting comes to me very quickly. Take warning, messieurs, before it is too late! You know Herbert de Lernac, and you are aware that his deeds are as ready as his words. Hasten then, or you are lost!

"At present I shall mention no names--if you only heard the names, what would you not think!--but I shall merely tell you how cleverly I did it. I was true to my employers then, and no doubt they will be true to me now. I hope so, and until I am convinced that they have betrayed me, these names, which would convulse Europe, shall not be divulged. But on that day . . . well, I say no more!

"In a word, then, there was a famous trial in Paris, in the year 1890, in connection with a monstrous scandal in politics and finance. How monstrous that scandal was can never be known save by such confidential agents as myself. The honour and careers of many of the chief men in France were at stake. You have seen a group of ninepins standing, all so rigid, and prim, and unbending. Then there comes the ball from far away and pop, pop, pop--there are your ninepins on the floor. Well, imagine some of the greatest men in France as these ninepins and then this Monsieur Caratal was the ball which could be seen coming from far away. If he arrived, then it was pop, pop, pop for all of them. It was determined that he should not arrive.

"I do not accuse them all of being conscious of what was to happen. There were, as I have said, great financial as well as political interests at stake, and a syndicate was formed to manage the business. Some subscribed to the syndicate who hardly understood what were its objects. But others understood very well, and they can rely upon it that I have not forgotten their names. They had ample warning that Monsieur Caratal was coming long before he left South America, and they knew that the evidence which he held would certainly mean ruin to all of them. The syndicate had the command of an unlimited amount of money--absolutely unlimited, you understand. They looked round for an agent who was capable of wielding this gigantic power. The man chosen must be inventive, resolute, adaptive--a man in a million. They chose Herbert de Lernac, and I admit that they were right.

"My duties were to choose my subordinates, to use freely the power which money gives,

16

and to make certain that Monsieur Caratal should never arrive in Paris. With characteristic energy I set about my commission within an hour of receiving my instructions, and the steps which I took were the very best for the purpose which could possibly be devised.

"A man whom I could trust was dispatched instantly to South America to travel home with Monsieur Caratal. Had he arrived in time the ship would never have reached Liverpool; but alas! it had already started before my agent could reach it. I fitted out a small armed brig to intercept it, but again I was unfortunate. Like all great organizers I was, however, prepared for failure, and had a series of alternatives prepared, one or the other of which must succeed. You must not underrate the difficulties of my undertaking, or imagine that a mere commonplace assassination would meet the case. We must destroy not only Monsieur Caratal, but Monsieur Caratal's documents, and Monsieur Caratal's companions also, if we had reason to believe that he had communicated his secrets to them. And you must remember that they were on the alert, and keenly suspicious of any such attempt. It was a task which was in every way worthy of me, for I am always most masterful where another would be appalled.

"I was all ready for Monsieur Caratal's reception in Liverpool, and I was the more eager because I had reason to believe that he had made arrangements by which he would have a considerable guard from the moment that he arrived in London. Anything which was to be done must be done between the moment of his setting foot upon the Liverpool quay and that of his arrival at the London and West Coast terminus in London. We prepared six plans, each more elaborate than the last; which plan would be used would depend upon his own movements. Do what he would, we were ready for him. If he had stayed in Liverpool, we were ready. If he took an ordinary train, an express, or a special, all was ready. Everything had been foreseen and provided for.

"You may imagine that I could not do all this myself. What could I know of the English railway lines? But money can procure willing agents all the world over, and I soon had one of the acutest brains in England to assist me. I will mention no names, but it would be unjust to claim all the credit for myself. My English ally was worthy of such an alliance. He knew the London and West Coast line thoroughly, and he had the command of a band of workers who were trustworthy and intelligent. The idea was his, and my own judgement was only required in the details. We bought over several officials, amongst whom the most important was James McPherson, whom we had ascertained to be the guard most likely to be employed upon a special train. Smith, the stoker, was also in our employ. John Slater, the engine-driver, had been approached, but had been found to be obstinate and dangerous, so we desisted. We had no certainty that Monsieur Caratal would take a special, but we thought it very probable, for it was of the utmost importance to him that he should reach Paris without delay. It was for this contingency, therefore, that we made special preparations-- preparations which were complete down to the last detail long before his steamer had sighted the shores of England. You will be amused to learn that there was one of my agents in the pilot-boat which brought that steamer to its moorings.

"The moment that Caratal arrived in Liverpool we knew that he suspected danger and was on his guard. He had brought with him as an escort a dangerous fellow, named Gomez, a man who carried weapons, and was prepared to use them. This fellow carried Caratal's confidential papers for him, and was ready to protect either them or his master. The probability was that Caratal had taken him into his counsel, and that to remove Caratal without removing Gomez would be a mere waste of energy. It was

17

necessary that they should be involved in a common fate, and our plans to that end were much facilitated by their request for a special train. On that special train you will understand that two out of the three servants of the company were really in our employ, at a price which would make them independent for a lifetime. I do not go so far as to say that the English are more honest than any other nation, but I have found them more expensive to buy.

"I have already spoken of my English agent--who is a man with a considerable future before him, unless some complaint of the throat carries him off before his time. He had charge of all arrangements at Liverpool, whilst I was stationed at the inn at Kenyon, where I awaited a cipher signal to act. When the special was arranged for, my agent instantly telegraphed to me and warned me how soon I should have everything ready. He himself under the name of Horace Moore applied immediately for a special also, in the hope that he would be sent down with Monsieur Caratal, which might under certain circumstances have been helpful to us. If, for example, our great coup had failed, it would then have become the duty of my agent to have shot them both and destroyed their papers. Caratal was on his guard, however, and refused to admit any other traveller. My agent then left the station, returned by another entrance, entered the guard's van on the side farthest from the platform, and travelled down with McPherson the guard.

"In the meantime you will be interested to know what my movements were. Everything had been prepared for days before, and only the finishing touches were needed. The side line which we had chosen had once joined the main line, but it had been disconnected. We had only to replace a few rails to connect it once more. These rails had been laid down as far as could be done without danger of attracting attention, and now it was merely a case of completing a juncture with the line, and arranging the points as they had been before. The sleepers had never been removed, and the rails, fish- plates and rivets were all ready, for we had taken them from a siding on the abandoned portion of the line. With my small but competent band of workers, we had everything ready long before the special arrived. When it did arrive, it ran off upon the small side line so easily that the jolting of the points appears to have been entirely unnoticed by the two travellers.

"Our plan had been that Smith, the stoker, should chloroform John Slater, the driver, so that he should vanish with the others. In this respect, and in this respect only, our plans miscarried--I except the criminal folly of McPherson in writing home to his wife. Our stoker did his business so clumsily that Slater in his struggles fell off the engine, and though fortune was with us so far that he broke his neck in the fall, still he remained as a blot upon that which would otherwise have been one of those complete masterpieces which are only to be contemplated in silent admiration. The criminal expert will find in John Slater the one flaw in all our admirable combinations. A man who has had as many triumphs as I can afford to be frank, and I therefore lay my finger upon John Slater, and I proclaim him to be a flaw.

"But now I have got our special train upon the small line two kilometres, or rather more than one mile, in length, which leads, or rather used to lead, to the abandoned Heartsease mine, once one of the largest coal mines in England. You will ask how it is that no one saw the train upon this unused line. I answer that along its entire length it runs through a deep cutting, and that, unless someone had been on the edge of that cutting, he could not have seen it. There WAS someone on the edge of that cutting. I was there. And now I will tell you what I saw.

18

"My assistant had remained at the points in order that he might superintend the switching off of the train. He had four armed men with him, so that if the train ran off the line--we thought it probable, because the points were very rusty--we might still have resources to fall back upon. Having once seen it safely on the side line, he handed over the responsibility to me. I was waiting at a point which overlooks the mouth of the mine, and I was also armed, as were my two companions. Come what might, you see, I was always ready.

"The moment that the train was fairly on the side line, Smith, the stoker, slowed-down the engine, and then, having turned it on to the fullest speed again, he and McPherson, with my English lieutenant, sprang off before it was too late. It may be that it was this slowing-down which first attracted the attention of the travellers, but the train was running at full speed again before their heads appeared at the open window. It makes me smile to think how bewildered they must have been. Picture to yourself your own feelings if, on looking out of your luxurious carriage, you suddenly perceived that the lines upon which you ran were rusted and corroded, red and yellow with disuse and decay! What a catch must have come in their breath as in a second it flashed upon them that it was not Manchester but Death which was waiting for them at the end of that sinister line. But the train was running with frantic speed, rolling and rocking over the rotten line, while the wheels made a frightful screaming sound upon the rusted surface. I was close to them, and could see their faces. Caratal was praying, I think--there was something like a rosary dangling out of his hand. The other roared like a bull who smells the blood of the slaughter-house. He saw us standing on the bank, and he beckoned to us like a madman. Then he tore at his wrist and threw his dispatch-box out of the window in our direction. Of course, his meaning was obvious. Here was the evidence, and they would promise to be silent if their lives were spared. It would have been very agreeable if we could have done so, but business is business. Besides, the train was now as much beyond our controls as theirs.

"He ceased howling when the train rattled round the curve and they saw the black mouth of the mine yawning before them. We had removed the boards which had covered it, and we had cleared the square entrance. The rails had formerly run very close to the shaft for the convenience of loading the coal, and we had only to add two or three lengths of rail in order to lead to the very brink of the shaft. In fact, as the lengths would not quite fit, our line projected about three feet over the edge. We saw the two heads at the window: Caratal below, Gomez above; but they had both been struck silent by what they saw. And yet they could not withdraw their heads. The sight seemed to have paralysed them.

"I had wondered how the train running at a great speed would take the pit into which I had guided it, and I was much interested in watching it. One of my colleagues thought that it would actually jump it, and indeed it was not very far from doing so. Fortunately, however, it fell short, and the buffers of the engine struck the other lip of the shaft with a tremendous crash. The funnel flew off into the air. The tender, carriages, and van were all smashed up into one jumble, which, with the remains of the engine, choked for a minute or so the mouth of the pit. Then something gave way in the middle, and the whole mass of green iron, smoking coals, brass fittings, wheels, wood-work, and cushions all crumbled together and crashed down into the mine. We heard the rattle, rattle, rattle, as the debris struck against the walls, and then, quite a long time afterwards, there came a deep roar as the remains of the train struck the bottom. The boiler may have burst, for a sharp crash came after the roar, and then a dense cloud of

19

steam and smoke swirled up out of the black depths, falling in a spray as thick as rain all round us. Then the vapour shredded off into thin wisps, which floated away in the summer sunshine, and all was quiet again in the Heartsease mine.

"And now, having carried out our plans so successfully, it only remained to leave no trace behind us. Our little band of workers at the other end had already ripped up the rails and disconnected the side line, replacing everything as it had been before. We were equally busy at the mine. The funnel and other fragments were thrown in, the shaft was planked over as it used to be, and the lines which led to it were torn up and taken away. Then, without flurry, but without delay, we all made our way out of the country, most of us to Paris, my English colleague to Manchester, and McPherson to Southampton, whence he emigrated to America. Let the English papers of that date tell how throughly we had done our work, and how completely we had thrown the cleverest of their detectives off our track.

"You will remember that Gomez threw his bag of papers out of the window, and I need not say that I secured that bag and brought them to my employers. It may interest my employers now, however, to learn that out of that bag I took one or two little papers as a souvenir of the occasion. I have no wish to publish these papers; but, still, it is every man for himself in this world, and what else can I do if my friends will not come to my aid when I want them? Messieurs, you may believe that Herbert de Lernac is quite as formidable when he is against you as when he is with you, and that he is not a man to go to the guillotine until he has seen that every one of you is en route for New Caledonia. For your own sake, if not for mine, make haste, Monsieur de----, and General----, and Baron---- (you can fill up the blanks for yourselves as you read this). I promise you that in the next edition there will be no blanks to fill.

"P.S.--As I look over my statement there is only one omission which I can see. It concerns the unfortunate man McPherson, who was foolish enough to write to his wife and to make an appointment with her in New York. It can be imagined that when interests like ours were at stake, we could not leave them to the chance of whether a man in that class of life would or would not give away his secrets to a woman. Having once broken his oath by writing to his wife, we could not trust him any more. We took steps therefore to insure that he should not see his wife. I have sometimes thought that it would be a kindness to write to her and to assure her that there is no impediment to her marrying again."

20

The Wrong StationA.M. Burrage

(1916)

We had been together in the miserable waiting-room at Ixtable Junction nearly a quarter of an hour, and had not spoken for no better reason, perhaps, than that we were Englishmen. The fire was nearly out, and the light of the gas lamp showed signs of following its bad example. A dense fog had thrown the train service into utter confusion. It was not at all a cheerful kind of night.

My companion was a man of fifty, of medium height, rather grey, and certainly not handsome. He was dressed comfortably but not well. His long black overcoat and bowler hat, neither of which was shabby, seemed to make him appear more commonplace than he need have looked. He had big, fishy-looking eyes, and a large, untidy moustache with a pathetic droop to its ends. He had with him a heavy valise. He looked what I afterwards found him to be - a commercial traveller of the not too prosperous kind.

For a long while he sat fidgeting, staring down at his bag, which rested beside him on the floor. Then suddenly he sprang up and crossed the room to examine a map of the line hanging on the opposite wall. He frowned over it for a full minute, his eyes following a moving thumbnail. Then he turned to me.

'It was somewhere between Reading and Plymouth,' he said.'I beg your pardon?''It was somewhere between Reading and Plymouth. Do you know that part well, sir?''Pretty well. Why?'His big, fishy eyes were fixed on me in a stare of pathetic appeal.'If I could only remember the name of that station! If I saw it anywhere, if somebody

said it, I should know it at once. A beautiful name it is. It's always just on the edge of my memory, but I can never quite get it.'

'That's rather awkward,' I said, 'if you want to go there.''I do, sir, I do! I was a fool ever to leave. I ought to have stood up for myself and

refused to go. But she persuaded me. And now I don't suppose I shall ever find that little town again.'

'If there's a station there,' I said, puzzled and amused, 'it must be on the map. But perhaps it's on the Southern Railway.'

'No, the Great Western it was - a train that gets you into Plymouth in about four and a half hours, and lands you there in the small hours of the morning. I know most of the towns along that route, too - Newbury, Westbury, Taunton, Exeter, but it wasn't any of them. I wonder if you know the place I want?' He laughed a little shamefacedly. 'Everybody thinks I'm mad when I tell them.'

'It all sounds very mysterious,' I said. 'I gather that you've been to some place that took your fancy very much, and that you want to go there again, only you dont happen to remember the name of it?'

'That's it,' he said, eagerly. 'I tell you I'd know that name at once directly I saw it or heard it. But it's not on any map. Every time I see a map I go and have a look. It happened about two years ago, and I've been worrying about it all this time.'

My curiosity was by then sufficiently aroused to make me want to hear the whole story. There was nothing of the madman or the romancer about this commonplace little man with his big bag and his air of petty commerce.

'What was your town like?' I asked.He turned his eyes away from me and seemed to think.'Well - I only saw a bit of it, but I'd like to have seen all. There's not such another place

in England - in the whole world, for that matter. I don't mean only because it was pretty,

21

but there was something in the air - I can't very well explain. If you like, I'll tell you just how everything happened. Perhaps you'll laugh. Most people do.'

I promised not to.'Oh, I don't mind. Nineteen people in twenty say there's no such place, tell me I dreamt

it all, but I know I didn't. I do have dreams, of course, but they're never clear like that, and anybody knows the difference between a dream and a fact.'

'I always do,' said I, to give him confidence.`Of course, of course!' He sat down on the yellow bench under the map he had been studying, and looked away from me into the grey embers of the dying fire. 'There's one or two things I ought to explain first of all,' he said. 'I'm not a bit an imaginative sort of man, and I'm not what you'd call poetical. I've been in business ever since I was thirteen, and if I didn't begin with a pretty hard head, I've got one now, I give you my word. Very well! Another thing is I'm a married man with four kids. We've got a nice little home at Willesden. I'm a good father and a good husband, though I say it who shouldn't. The missus and me have been married eighteen years, and we're still pretty fond of each other. Not quite like we were at first, mind you, but only fools 'ud expect that. Still, I'd cut off my hand for her if need be. You take me, sir?'

'Perfectly.''Well, I travel for a big firm of comb manufacturers, and at that time, two years ago, I

was taken off my usual round to work up what we call the Western circuit. That's the whole county of Cornwall and about half Devonshire, beginning with Plymouth. The man on there had been making rather a mess of things - young man without much go and less experience. So they put me on there to buck things up a bit.

'I caught the night express from Paddington, and had the good luck to get a compartment to myself. Plymouth was the first stop, and I tipped the guard to wake me up there if I went to sleep, for I didn't want to find myself at Penzance or Falmouth next morning.

'I read for the best part of an hour, and then began to feel sleepy. We whizzed through a big station, and I looked out and saw that it was Reading. I leaned back and put my feet on the opposite seat. I didn't feel very well. I had a sort of feeling - I can't describe it - that I generally get before a heart attack. I've got a bad heart. It may last me for years yet, or it may carry me off to-night. You can't really tell with these things. I've got to be careful of myself.

'Well, that night I was sure it was going to give me a doing, within an hour or two. However, I'd got some stuff the doctor gave me, and I took the bottle out of my breast-pocket and had a pull at it. Then I dropped off to sleep, which rather surprised me after -wards, for generally I keep awake when I'm feeling queer. And when I woke up I felt better than I'd ever felt before.'

He paused and looked at me. His great ugly eyes were shining with a light that made them almost beautiful.

'I don't mean only better in health. I felt as I used to feel when I was a nipper - a kind of lightness - I'd never felt it since. I swear I could have danced without music, or run, or jumped - that kind of feeling. The train had stopped. "Halloa!" I thought, "this is Plymouth. That guard ought to have called me."''Just as those words were going through my mind the door opened and a railway man put his head into the compartment. He wasn't my guard, but some other, or, perhaps, a porter - I didn't look to see what he was. But he was extraordinary to look at - extraordinary! I've never used the word before when speaking of a man, but he was beautiful. Yes, sir, there's not another word in the language to describe his looks. I'd never seen a man's face like his before. There's one or two pictures of angels in the National Gallery a bit like him, but that's the nearest I've come to seeing his like. And what does he do, but call me by my Christian name.

"'This is your station, Harry," he said, as gravely as you please.'I wasn't a bit offended, only a little surprised.

22

"'What, Plymouth?" says I."'No, not Plymouth."'I looked out, and there was the name of the station on a board, the lovely name I can't

remember. And when I saw it I knew that I must get out. It didn't matter if I missed all my appointments the next day. I had to get out there. And yet - and yet, somehow I didn't want to.

'The porter took hold of me by the arm. "Come on, Harry," he said. "It's a beautiful town, the most beautiful town in all the world."

"'But I've got to go on to Plymouth," I said, making a kind of struggle. "I'll come here later on; I will, really. I don't want to get out here now. Let me go on to Plymouth."

'The man put his mouth close to my ear. His voice was very soft and wheedling, just like a woman's.

"'It's such a lovely town, Harry," he whispered. "Don't be afraid."'Well, I let him lead me out on to the platform, and then I turned round for my bag.

"We don't take luggage here," he said, and it seemed to me at the time perfectly reasonable. I know this sounds just like a dream to you, but it was real - real!

'The porter left me. I don't know if he got on to the train or not, but presently I was all alone on the platform. I lingered for a moment, and then started out to see the town.

'It must have been somewhere round two in the morning, and quite dark. But it wasn't an ordinary darkness, it was a kind of deep blue. And there was a smell of flowers in the air, faint but very refreshing. I don't know where it came from, for I saw no gardens. I walked down a kind of alley, just as you find at the entrance of any ordinary station, into one of the streets of that town.'

He fixed me with his great eyes, held his speech for a moment, and then burst out: -'Oh, my God! That wonderful town!'He relapsed into silence, as if a little ashamed of his emotion. After a pause he went on:

-'It doesn't sound so much to describe - not the place itself. The street was wide, and on

each side was a row of large old houses, with diamond panes to the windows, and top storeys projecting out over the ground floors. There were lights in several of the windows, and they reflected on the pavements so that the diamond panes looked like lattice work of light and shadow. And in most of the houses there was music and singing - wonderful music.

'I said the road was very wide. At one side a stream, lined with poplars, ran between two stone embankments. And little bridges of old red brick spanned the stream every few yards, one bridge to the front door of every house on that side. And the stream tinkled as it ran, for all the world as if somebody was playing the harp. Oh, I can't make you feel what it was like - the old houses, the stream, the bridges, the blue darkness, the scents, the music.

'I saw nobody about but children. Yes, there were children playing in the road at that hour of the morning! They played hide-and-seek behind the bridges and danced and laughed and sang. Such children, believe me! I never cared much for kids, except my own, but I didn't mind them playing around me, and instead of growling at those who caught hold of the skirt of my coat, I turned and patted their heads, and laughed because they were laughing.

'I had not gone far when I came to a house I seemed to know. At least, if I didn't know it, I seemed to know that I ought to go there - that I was expected. I didn't stop to ask questions of myself; I just went up to the door and knocked. And presently a young girl opened it to me.'

He stopped again.'That is the queerest thing of all. This is where everybody laughs, and you'll laugh too. I

was an ugly old devil then, just the same as I am now. No girl had looked at me twice in the last twenty years. I'd got my wife, I'd settled down; it was a long time since I'd thought of girls. But at the sight of her my heart beat like a boy's, and I knew that I knew her, that we had loved each other for God knows how many years.

23

'And I remembered her just as I should remember the name of that town if somebody told it to me, only it was a long memory. It seemed to go back hundreds and hundreds of years. And I loved her with a kind of love I had never felt before - and I knew that she loved me. At the sight of her, something in me changed. I wasn't any longer an ugly, common little man, beginning to grow old. I was young again, and as fine a gentleman as any in the land. I could feel it in my very blood.

'She uttered a little cry, and called me by a name that I knew had once belonged to me, only I'd forgotten it. I've forgotten it again since. I can only remember her look and the tone of her voice. She ran right into my arms and kissed me, and laughed and cried over me, and my brain reeled and reeled with happiness, for I had been waiting for such a long while for that moment to come.

'My wife seemed a long way away, and it didn't seem as if I was being the least unfaithful to her. It seemed as if, in marrying her, I'd done this girl who was clinging to me some little wrong. She had been first, she had come hundreds and hundreds of years before the other woman who lay asleep in our little house at Willesden.

"'Let me come in," I remember saying to the girl who clung to me; and when I said that she began to cry. It was all a mistake, she said, and I would have to go back to the station and catch the next train. I mustn't stop; and she had been waiting for me so long! We must both wait a little longer, and it was such a pity, because now I had had a peep at that town, and seen her, and I shouldn't be happy or contented any more until I came back.

'I said I wasn't going back to catch the next train or any other train, but she said I must. She said the time had not yet come and that somebody had made a mistake. She said that the porter ought to have let me go on to Plymouth - and somehow the word Plymouth sounded queer coming from her.

'I stood there, suddenly very miserable. I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay with her and live in that old house beside the stream, and play with the children, and go on feeling young. And I began to beg of her to let me stop.

'But she wouldn't hear me. She said they'd called me out at the wrong station, and that I must go on to Plymouth, but one day I would come back. And somehow I couldn't argue with her much. I seemed to have no will.'I wish I'd stood up for myself now. I'd found my way there and it didn't seem fair to send me away. But she took me by the hand, and together in silence we went back the way I had come through the bluish night. And those wonderful children played around us as we walked.

'There was a train waiting at the station, and we stood on the platform for a moment and kissed good-bye. She said I must be patient and I would soon come back. She had been patient, too, and she had been waiting for me so long, she whispered. So I got into the train and it started off, and then - then I tried to remember the name of that station, and couldn't.

'After a while I dropped asleep, and when I woke up there was a doctor and two railway men in the compartment, and they were pouring brandy down my throat, and seemed rather surprised to find I was alive. We were at Plymouth now, and it seemed I'd nearly died in my sleep, and only the brandy had pulled me through.

'The doctor said he quite thought I was dead when they fetched him to look at me, and I must say I've never had quite such a bad turn as that before or since. I never travel without something in my pocket now, in case of accidents.'

He paused and in the ensuing silence we heard the sound of an approaching train.'Mine,' he said. 'I'm going on to Charr. Well, that's the story, and whatever you say

won't convince me that it was a dream. What do you make of it?'But I could not tell him what I made of it.

24

Lost in the FogJ.D. Beresford

(1918)

ILondon was smothered in fog, and I expected that my train would be tediously

delayed before we escaped into the free air. I was oppressed by the burden of darkness and the misery of enclosure. All this winter I have longed for the sight of horizons, for the leap of clear spaces and the depth of an open sky. But while my anticipation of delay was proved false, my longings for release remained unsatisfied. The great plain of the Midlands was muffled in a thick white mist. I stared out desperately, but it was as if I tried to peer through a window of frosted glass.

When I alighted from the express at Barnwell Junction, a porter directed me to platform No. 5 for my branch line train to Felthorpe. We were a little late--a quarter of an hour, perhaps--and I felt hurried, impatient, and depressed. I probably took the train from No. 3. The mistake would not have been irreparable, so far as my day's excursion was concerned, if I had not gone to sleep. But I had waked early, and my eyes were strained and tired with the hopeless endeavour to search that still, persistent mist. I woke with a quick sense of dismay as the train slowed into a station.

I let down the window, but I could distinguish nothing familiar in the dim grey masses that loomed like spectres through the cold, white smoke of fog. I opened the door and stood hesitating, afraid to get out, afraid to go on. And then I heard steps, and the sound of a dreary cough waxing invisibly towards me; and the figure of the guard showed suddenly close at hand.

"What station is this?" I asked. "Burden," he said."Are we far from Felthorpe?" I hazarded, conscious, even then, that I was lost. He

came closer still, and peered at me with something in his face that was very like glee. "You're on the wrong line," he said, gloating over my discomfiture. Little drops of moisture shone like milk on the blackness of his beard. "You'll 'ave to go back to Barnwell," he said, as one who delights in judgment.

"How long shall I have to wait?" I asked. He looked at his watch. "Fifty minutes," he said, and immediately quenched my faint relief by adding, "Or should. But it's 'ardly likely she'll be punctual to-day. We're over an hour late now.

The thought seemed to rouse him. Reluctantly--for loth indeed he must have been to relinquish the single pleasure of his shrouded day--he blew a fierce screech on his whistle, and, shouting hoarsely, slammed the door of my empty compartment.

I stood back and watched the blurred line of carriages slip groaning into the unknown. Then I turned and looked up at the board above me.

"Burden," I muttered. "Where in God's name may Burden be?" I found something unutterably sad in the sound of that name.

I felt lonely and pitiable.It was bitterly cold, and the mist was thicker than ever.

III could bear no one. There could be neither porter nor station-master here.

Evidently this station was nothing more than a "Halt," on what I  presently discovered was only a single line. I was alone in the dreadful stillness. The world had ceased to exist for me. And then I stumbled upon the little box of a waiting-room, and in it was a man

25

who crouched over a smouldering fire.When I went in, he looked quickly over his shoulder with the tense alertness of

one who fears an ambush. But when he saw me, his expression changed instantly to relief, and to something that was like appeal.

"What brings you here?" he asked with a weak smile, I was thankful for any companionship, and poured out the tale of my bitter woes. "Ah! you don't know how lucky you are," was my companion's single comment. I scarcely heeded him. "I shall have to give up the idea of getting to Felthorpe to-day," I went on, seeking some consolation for my misery. "It I can only get back to town. . . ."

"That's nothing," he put in with a dreary sigh. "Nothing, nothing at all.""And this infernal train back to Barnwell will probably be hours late," I continued.

He smiled weakly, and rubbed his hands together staring into the dull heart of the fire. "It sounds queer to me, hearing this old talk again," he said thoughtfully. "I'd almost come to believe that the whole world had changed; that it was impossible for life outside to be going on just the same as ever. But of course it is. . . ." He sighed immensely and shook his head. "Of course--in a way--it is," he repeated.

Something in his attitude and the tone of his voice began to pierce my obstinate preoccupation with the disaster of my day's excursion. I had a curious sense of touching some terrible reality beside which my little troubles were but a momentary irritation. I looked at him with a new curiosity, and noticed for the first time that his face was pinched and worn, and that on the further side of his chair lay a pair of roughly fashioned crutches.

"Are you going by my train?" I asked. I felt a new desire to help him. He shook his head. "Oh! no; I just come down here for a little rest," he said. "I shall have to go back presently--as soon as I'm strong enough. They'll find something for me to do." He looked up at me with his pitiful smile as he continued, "But of course you don't understand. You've probably never heard of our trouble in Burden, out there."

I followed the indication of his nod, and could see nothing but the pale sea of fog pressing against the dirty window.

"What's the trouble at Burden?" I asked. He looked up at me with an expression that I could not interpret. It seemed as if he both appealed to me and warned me. "You live in another world," he said. "You'd better keep out of mine--it isn't a good place to live in."

I laughed, like the careless fool I was. "Oh! I'll promise to keep out of it," I said. "Pray God, I'll never come here again."

"Aye, pray God," he repeated, as though the words had some hidden intention. And then he began suddenly:

"It's over two years now since it began. They live right in the middle of the village, you know. It has given them an advantage in lots of ways. We suspected 'em from the beginning--only we went on. We hoped it would be all right. Living on the other side of the street, we thought we were safe, I suppose."

I was about to interrupt him with a question, but his face unexpectedly grew stern and hard. "You see, they cut across Bates's garden," he said quickly, "and turned Bates and his family out of their house; and, as my father said, we couldn't stand that. If the Turtons were going to have a set-to with the Royces at the other end of the village, we might have stood by and seen fair play. The Royces are a big family, and they own all the land that side . . . ."

I inferred that the Turtons were the original aggressors, but he took so much for granted. And before I had time to question him he continued in a low, brooding voice:

26

"But their very first move was against the Franks--by way of Bates's garden, as I've said. And two of Bates's children got killed--and then . . ."

"What?" I interrupted him sharply. "Two of his children? Killed, did you say?""Murdered, practically," he said, and lifted his head and gave a queer, snickering

laugh. "But we've almost forgotten that," he went on. "Why, half the village has been killed or disabled since then."

"But why don't the police interfere?" I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. "We've always been our own police," he explained. "But there is a chap in the next village who has tried to interfere--sent messages and so on to both sides. However, he has kept his family out of it up to now."

My perplexity deepened. The man looked sane enough, and I could not believe that he was deliberately making a fool of me. "But do you honestly mean to tell me," I asked, "that the families in your village are actually fighting and--and killing each other?"

"I suppose it does seem damned impossible to you," he said. "We've got sort of used to it, of course. And we've always been having rows of this kind, more or less. Not so bad as this one, but still, pretty bad some of them. My father remembers . . ."

"But does it go on every day?" I insisted."Lord, yes," he said. "It has got down to a sort of siege now. The Turtons have got

some of the Franks's land, and some of the Royces'; pretty near all little Bates's, and one or two cottagers' at the back as well--a roughish lot those cottagers have always been, fighting among themselves all the time pretty nearly; and some of 'em went in with the Turtons for what they could make out of it. However, the point is now that the Turtons are sticking to what they've got, and we're trying to get 'em off it. But it's a mighty tough job, and we're all dead sick of it." He paused, and then repeated drearily, "Oh! dead sick of it all. Weary to death of it."

"But can't you come to any agreement between yourselves?" I protested."Well, the Turtons have sort of offered terms," he said. "We think they might give

us back our neighbours' land and so on, but . . .""Well?" I prompted him."Well, you can't trust 'em," he explained. "They're land-robbers. They haven't quite

brought it off this time, because the Royces and the Franks and us and one or two others joined hands against em. But if we call it quits over this, we shall have it all over again in a year or two's time. And then it won't be shot-guns; they'll buy rifles."

"Well, you can buy rifles, too," I suggested."Oh! what's the good of that?" he cried out impatiently. "We've got to till the land.

We've got to work--harder now than ever. And how can you work with a rifle in your hand, and looking over your shoulder every minute?"

"But in that case . . ." I began."Oh! we've got to beat 'em," he said doggedly, and cast a regretful glance at the

crutches by his chair. "We've got to teach 'em a lesson, and make our own terms. It won't be easy, I know.

They've always wanted to boss the lot of us, and they've got their knife into my father for getting the best of 'em over the allotments. However, that's an old story."

"But how?" I asked."Oh! we're sure to beat 'em--in time," he said, "and then we'll be able to make

terms. My father says he doesn't want to be bitter about it. He isn't the sort to bear a grudge. But we've got to make it damned impossible that this sort of thing shall ever happen again."

For a few moments we lapsed into silence. Outside the fog seemed to have lifted a

27

little. Through the window I could see the silhouette of a gaunt, bare tree, rough and stark against the milky whiteness that hid the awful distances of Burden. My imagination tried to pierce the shroud of vapour, and picture the horror of hate and murder beyond. Was the mist out there glowing with the horrid richness of blood? Was it possible that one might walk through the veil of cloud and stumble suddenly on something that lay dark and soft across the roadway, in a broad pool astoundingly red in this lost, white world? . . .

And then the vision leapt and vanished. I heard the thin sound of a whistle, and the remote drumming and throbbing of a distant train.

I jumped to my feet. "It's barely an hour late, after all," I said. My companion took no notice. He was gazing with a fixed, cold stare into the dead heart of the fire.

"I suppose I can't help in any way?" I stammered awkwardly. "You're lucky to be out of it. You keep out of it," he said. "You've got your train to catch." And yet I hesitated, even when, with a harsh shriek of impeded wheels, the train scuttered into the little station. Ought I to help? I wondered feebly. But my every desire drew me towards the relief that would bear me back to the world I knew.

IIIAnd now I wonder if that man's story can possibly have been true? Is it

conceivable that out there in the little unknown village--for ever lost to me in a world of white mist--men are fighting and killing each other?Surely it cannot be true?

28

Le Train perduClaude Farrère

(1928)

Tiphaigne Hoff, le chef de gare, agita à bout de bras son fanal, et cria - par habitude - « En arrière, les voyageurs !» tandis que le train 1815, gémissant de tous ses freins serrés, entrait en gare.

Par habitude : car il n'y avait pas un seul voyageur sur le quai. Pas un seul : Tiphaigne Hoff d'un coup d'œil, le constata, non sans regret. « Ces sacrés trains de nuit ! grogna-t-il ; jamais un chat. »

Le train, cependant, avait stoppé. Tiphaigne Hoff, homme méticuleux, vérifia d'abord les signaux de queue, histoire d'être bien sûr que nul wagon ne fût resté à la dérive. Puis il marcha le long des quatre voitures - un petit train ! - du fourgon et du tender. Le fanal, promené au ras du trottoir, éclairait les essieux, les châssis et les attelages. Suivant le chef de gare, l'homme d'équipe frappait chaque roue d'un coup de marteau, pour éprouver le métal au son.

À la hauteur de la machine, Tiphaigne Hoff s'arrêta pour souhaiter le bonsoir au mécanicien. Et le mécanicien répondit à Tiphaigne Hoff qu'il faisait froid - bougrement.

« Ces sacrés trains de nuit ! » redit le chef sympathique.Et les trois minutes d'arrêt écoulées, il cria, par habitude : « En voiture ! » avant de

donner le coup de sifflet réglementaire. Mais, soudain, il resta bouche bée : il aurait juré, l'instant d'avant, que le quai, d'un bout à l'autre, était désert ; et voilà que deux voyageurs y avaient surgi comme d'une trappe ! Deux voyageurs, un très grand, un très petit, tous deux prêts à monter en wagon.

« En voiture ! » répéta tout de même Tiphaigne Hoff, criant plus fort. Et il s'avança, car ces deux voyageurs ne se hâtaient point.

En vérité, je vous le dis, c'étaient deux drôles de voyageurs ! Tiphaigne Hoff, ahuri déjà de leur apparition subite et un brin mystérieuse, écarquilla les yeux en les voyant de près.

Le petit - très petit - n'avait rien de trop extraordinaire dans la figure, sauf qu'il semblait aussi vieux que le juif errant, et que ses cheveux, longs ä la mode d'il y a cent ans, lui pendaient plus bas que le col. Mais son accoutrement était tout à fait invraisemblable : cela comprenait un baroque pantalon, serré aux genoux comme une culotte, des souliers à boucle, et une sorte d'habit-redingote à boutons d'argent, dont les larges basques bouffaient comme un jupon. Ajoutez un chapeau de castor, bossué si singulièrement qu'on eût dit un tricorne. Et le tout sentait le moisi à suffoquer. Une canne à pomme d'or parachevait la défroque, une canne plus haute que l'homme. Il s'y appuyait en la serrant à deux mains, comme les suisses serrent leur hallebarde.

L'autre voyageur, le grand - très grand - était beaucoup, beaucoup plus étrange encore ; et, le considérant, Tiphaigne Hoff, chef de gare, se sentit gêné et peureux. C'était une longue silhouette tout enveloppée d'un long manteau pareil à une draperie ou à un linceul, lequel manteau traînait à terre et n'avait ni forme ni couleur qu'on pût préciser. Un capuchon - un capuchon ou une cagoule ? - cachait la tête. On ne voyait que deux yeux caves et une barbe blanche de deux pieds. Une main décharnée sortait du manteau, et touchait du bout de ses doigts blafards un bras du diable à bagages, oublié là par l'homme d'équipe - oublié bien mal à propos, pensa plus tard Tiphaigne Hoff.

Oui, oui, c'étaient deux drôles de voyageurs. Mais on n'avait guère le temps d'y penser,

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parce qu'il était l'heure du départ, passée.« En voiture », réitéra Tiphaigne Hoff, énergiquement.Alors, le vieux petit voyageur se décida. Il plia sur les jarrets et sauta, par-dessus le

marchepied, dans le wagon, avec une agilité tout à fait bizarre - cependant que son compagnon, le long voyageur à longue barbe blanche, demeurait encore immobile sur le quai, sa main touchant toujours le diable oublié par l'homme d'équipe.

« Allons, monsieur, montez », dit Tiphaigne Hoff; et il s'approcha pour aider à l'ascension.

Mais le petit vieux, déjà en wagon, cria tout à coup, d'une fantastique voix de fausset qui secoua comme des cordes de cloches tous les nerfs de Tiphaigne Hoff : « Ne le touchez pas, ha, ha, ha ! »

Et Tiphaigne Hoff, effaré, recula de trois sauts. Ce qui fit que l'homme qu'il ne fallait pas toucher monta tout seul, comme il put.

Tiphaigne Hoff se rappela, plus tard, avoir entrevu dans les plis flottants du manteau-linceul quelque chose d'aigu et de bleuâtre qui luisait - comme un fer de faux...

La portière claqua, et Tiphaigne Hoff donna le signal.La machine lança son hululement sinistre ; la vapeur fusa des cylindres ; les pistons

poussèrent les bielles, et le train partit. Hors de la gare, la nuit le mangea : on n'en vit plus rien. Seul, le triangle rouge des trois fanaux d'arrière, réfléchi sur l'acier des rails, scintilla encore une minute. Puis cela même disparut.

Alors, Tiphaigne Hoff chef de gare, lança le signal de cantonnement, puis le remit à l'arrêt, pour couvrir le train parti - comme le prescrit l'article 7 du règlement. Après quoi, il rendit au canton précédent Voie libre, et annonça le train au prochain poste. Tout était en ordre.

Une idée cependant tracassait Tiphaigne Hoff. Il appela le receveur: « Jap ! Où allaient-ils donc, les deux voyageurs de tantôt ? »

« Quels voyageurs, chef ? » « Les deux... le grand et le petit... ceux du train 1815. »« J'ai pas donné de billet pour le train 1815, chef ! J'ai vu personne, ni grand, ni petit... » Tiphaigne Hoff arrondit la bouche. Mais avant qu'il eût fait : « Ho !  », la voix de l'homme

d'équipe ébranla toute la gare. « Chef ! Chef ! Ah bien, par exemple! Chef ! »Tiphaigne Hoff se précipita : « Ne gueulez donc pas comme ça ! Qu'est-ce qui arrive ? » « Chef ! Bon Dieu de bon Dieu ! Seigneur ! Regardez donc ça ? » Ça, c'était le diable à bagages. Tiphaigne Hoff regarda, et, stupide, se tut... Le diable à bagages, honnête et robuste brouette de fer forgé, neuve l'instant d'avant,

n'était plus qu'un débris de ferraille, usé, rongé, rouillé - oh ! rouillé comme s'il eût séjourné cent ans au fond de la mer! Les roues disloquées, les pieds tordus, le châssis en loques, tout se confondait en un décombres couleur de brique. Et un bras entier manquait, celui-là même qu'avait touché l'étrange voyageur à barbe blanche. Là où ce bras avait été, un peu de poussière rougeâtre gisait...

Tiphaigne Hoff, muet, passa sur son front moite une main qui tremblait.Mais soudain, une secousse de tout son être le fit bondir - le fit bondir vers l'appareil de

block: un pressentiment l'avait traversé comme une balle. Et devant l'appareil, il recula, terrifié : il y avait - l'œil- de-bœuf en faisait foi - il y avait plus d'un quart d'heure que le train 1815 était parti, et le guichet supérieur, qu'on manœuvre du poste au-delà, montrait toujours son voyant rouge : Voie occupée.

Le train 1815 n'avait donc pas encore atteint ce poste au-delà, et l'horaire témoignait qu'il eût dû le dépasser dès la neuvième minute !

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Tiphaigne Hoff le cœur comme dans un étau, lança le signal réglementaire : « Dernier train annoncé a-t-il dépassé votre poste ? »

La réponse vint, immédiate : « Dernier train annoncé n'a pas dépassé mon poste. »Derrière le chef de gare, le receveur et l'homme d'équipe, pâles comme linge, lurent la

phrase menaçante.« Il y a détresse », prononça le receveur, parlant bas comme dans une chambre

mortuaire.« Non, non et non ! » cria Tiphaigne Hoff luttant contre sa propre épouvante. « Il n'y a

pas détresse, pas encore, il y a marche lente, voilà tout ... »Mais l'instant d'après, son énergie fauchée, lui-même lançait sur tout le réseau le signal

définitif qui annonce les catastrophes : « Train en détresse sur voie I », quoique le règlement ordonne de ne transmettre ce signal que sur l'ordre écrit du conducteur-chef du train en détresse. Oui. Mais déjà, Tiphaigne Hoff savait bien, était sûr, trop sûr ! que le conducteur-chef du train 1815 n'était plus en état de donner aucun ordre, écrit ou non.

Et l'on attendit dans la terreur.Quinze minutes se traînèrent. La machine de secours envoyée par la grande gare, passa

en sifflant. Quinze autres minutes suivirent.Et alors, une chose prodigieuse, fantastique, inouïe - une chose que chef de gare passé

ou futur n'a vue jamais ni ne verra - survint : le guichet de l'appareil de block pivota, découvrant le voyant blanc : « Voie libre », en même temps que la sonnerie du poste au-delà avertissait: « Machine de secours a dépassé mon poste. »

Vous comprenez ? La machine de secours, lancée sur la voie du train 1815, derrière le train 1815, avait dépassé le poste au-delà, que le train 1815, lui, n'avait pas atteint ! Et la voie était libre ! Ni déraillement ni tamponnement. Rien du tout. Rien du tout. Rien. Simplement ceci, impossible, et pourtant constaté : que le train 1815 n'était ni au-delà, ni en deçà du poste de block, et, par conséquent, qu'il n'y avait plus de train 1815...

Tiphaigne Hoff, chef de gare, ne prononça pas une syllabe. Il alla seulement regarder, très longuement, ce qui restait du diable à bagages. Le débris s'était émietté durant la dernière demi-heure. Il ne restait maintenant qu'un petit tas de rouille.

Personne, jamais, n'a plus ouï parler du train 1815. Le mystère est resté entier. Les recherches ultérieures - au bas des talus, dans la rivière et ailleurs - n'ont fait découvrir nul vestige. Une enquête spéciale, menée dans le plus grand secret, n'a donné aucun résultat.

Tiphaigne Hoff, pourtant, a constaté, lui, que du kilomètre 2304 au kilomètre 2307, les cailloux du ballast, gris naguère, sont aujourd'hui rougeâtres et comme poudrés d'oxyde de fer.

Tiphaigne Hoff a constaté cela. Mais, bien entendu, il n'en a jamais ouvert la bouche à âme qui vive, non plus que des deux voyageurs mystérieux, non plus que du diable disparu, non plus que de rien.

Tiphaigne Hoff ne parle jamais du train 1815. Il ne s'est confié - un jour qu'il était fabuleusement ivre - qu'à moi.

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