On the Night Express
By Frederic Boutet
(1874-1941)
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Translated by
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William L. McPherson
(1865-1930)
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Here is another of Frédéric Boutet's appealing little stories. It
has a war atmosphere. It has a touch of sentiment in it, but of the grave,
delicately refracted, unobtrusive sentiment which gives a distinctive color
to most of Mr. Boutet's work. In this admirable manner he is a master;
and no manner is better adapted than this is to the uses of the sort of war
fiction in which he excels.
He is the laureate, so to speak, not of the fighting men at the front,
but of those who stay behind and wait, but who nevertheless have their
part in the rear and in its emotions and sacrifices. In this story the
element of rear emotion and sacrifice is slight. It is only a background.
But the manner of it is as effective as if it dealt with a mood or a situation
more essentially tragic.
THE train left the station in Paris.
In her corner Agnes gazed fixedly
through the car window at the
streets and houses, fading out in the
twilight. But her tearful eyes saw little
or nothing. She had firmly resolved
not to betray the least lack of courage;
but when, after the excitement of her
departure, she found herself settled in
her place in the compartment, she felt
more keenly than ever how completely
alone in the world she was, and
suffered an attack of uncontrollable
depression, her mind brooding over the
dependent and narrow bread-winning
existence, among absolute strangers,
which would begin for her at the end
of her journey.
But she mastered this fit of weakness
and, after waiting for a few
minutes until her eyes had become dry,
she turned her head toward the interior
of the compartment and sat up very
prim and straight, enveloped in her
travelling cloak and with her veil drawn
close over her face, to which she
sought to impart an expression of gravity,
just as she had studied to suppress
any touches of attractiveness in her
toilet and her coiffure. She was very
young and good looking, and the directress
of the austere school which had
found a place for her had told her that
cultivating attractiveness was by no
means a good habit for a governess.
Her Neighbor
Was a Soldier
Suddenly she noticed that her neighbor
was watching her. He was a
soldier, who just before the train started
had taken the only vacant seat in the
compartment — the one beside her.
Agnes, glancing sidewise, saw that he
had a clean cut, youthful countenance,
with blond hair and beautiful eyes. He
seemed to be shy and looked at her
very furtively. Once their fugitive
glances crossed and both reddened.
They discovered at this moment that
a stout lady who sat opposite them had
fixed her eyes on them in emphatic
disapproval. That caused an instinctive
exchange of looks and established a
bond of sympathy between them. After
the first train stop the stout lady fell
asleep, and it was she who once more
served to break the ice for them, for
she slept with an air of wrathfulness
and in her slumber talked irrelevantly
about her domestic affairs. Agnes and
her neighbor looked at each other with
eyes sparkling with gayety, and five
minutes later they were talking
together, exchanging commonplaces about
the weather, the train, the darkness of
the night and other casual subjects.
He Invited Agnes
To Go With Him
The train halted again. This time
there was to be a stop of ten minutes,
and the young man invited Agnes to go
with him to get something warm at the
station buffet. Taken by surprise, the
young girl declined with dignity. But
he seemed to be so unhappy at the
thought of having offended her that a
moment later she accepted his invitation,
which, moreover, because it had
the air of an adventure, attracted her
greatly. He got out first. Agnes
supported herself on his arm in order to
jump to the footboard, and they ran
together across the platform, delighted,
holding hands like two children. They
returned the same way, in a great rush
cheered and refreshed by the coffee
they had hastily swallowed. They
scaled the footboard and sank breathless
into their seats. They felt as much
like comrades now as if they had known
each other ever since infancy.
Agnes said something gayly about
their just having missed letting the
train start away without them. But
her companion told her, with a
retrospective feeling of alarm which he
tried to conceal, that that would have
been a very serious thing for him. He
explained that he was returning to his
I depot, after a convalescent leave, and
that he had waited until the very last
moment, so that the least delay would
make him exceed the limit of his
furlough. Agnes was much impressed by
the idea that he had risked something
on her account, and she let him understand
as much.
A Furious Rain Beat
Upon the Windows
The train rolled on through the
black night, and now a furious rain
beat upon the windows. The four
other travellers who remained in the
wagon slept. Agnes and her companion,
seated side by side in their corner,
were silent for a while, but an
intimacy very tender — tenderer perhaps
than when they conversed — was
cementing itself between them.
After some minutes the young man
leaned over and said:
"You were very sad when you left
Paris. Why was that?"
She gave a little start, but didn't
answer.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," he
returned in a freezing manner. "I was
very indiscreet; that did not concern
me."
She believed that she detected a little
note of jealousy in his voice. So
she lifted her eyes frankly and told
him why she was unhappy. She was
an orphan. An aged relative had
brought her up, who, after spoiling
her very much, had died four months
before, leaving her alone in the world
and without a cent. So it was necessary
for her to earn a living, and after
a sojourn in a school where they took
in governesses without situations she
had been lucky enough to find a place
in a family in the provinces. She was
going there. And she had wept
because all this seemed cruel, and she
hadn't had time to resign herself to it
But from this on she would be
self-contained and courageous.
He Was Deeply
Moved With Pity
She stopped, almost ready to weep
again. Her companion did not answer
at first. He was deeply moved with
pity and tenderness for this delicate
and courageous girl, fighting single-handed
against a hostile world.
"I, too, believe me, am alone in the
world," he said at last. "Or nearly
alone. I have now left only an old
uncle. But he is eccentric, and I see
little of him. I, too, like you, am alone
— without a claim on any one's affection.
But, no, no, don't cry again" —
He had taken her hand and, bending
over toward her, he whispered words
of consolation which were becoming
words of love, and Agnes, trembling,
forgot, as he did, that they had not
even known each other a few hours
before, and found, as he did, that life
was now taking on a new aspect.
But suddenly a traveller awoke and
asked where they were. The young
man let Agnes's hand drop and looked
out through the door. In his emotion
he had not noticed that the train had
already been standing for a couple of
minutes in a station. All at once his
eyes fell on the name of the place,
printed in letters under the lantern of
a street lamp.
He Knew He Would
Never See Her Again
He leaped up. It was the junction
at which he was to change cars, and
the train was already whistling as a
signal for starting. Thunderstruck, he
grabbed his baggage from the rack
dashed for the door and jumped out
of the train just as it. was getting it
motion. He stumbled, picked himself
up, and at that instant realized that
he knew neither the name nor the
address of the young girl whom he had
just left in a panic, and that she, too
did not know his name or address. He
started after the train, calling out a
the top of his voice. But the car,
against the door of one of the
compartments of which he thought he saw
a face pressed, was already too far
away, and he remained on the
platform, dumfounded and in despair
comprehending that there was no
chance now that he would ever find
her again, and that she would be for
him only a memory, which the train,
as it rolled away, was already projecting
into the past.
