II

It was not a desire to economize that had prompted Mr. Planchet to buy a third-class ticket.

But he had to devote as much capital as possible to putting his boule system into practice.

Besides, when carriages of every class are crowded, as they were that Saturday afternoon, you are just as comfortable in a third-class corridor as in a first-class one.

The suspension springs of new railway carriages are always excellent.

In third class, you even have the advantage of being more firmly wedged in and better protected against jolts by passengers packed more tightly together.

In that respect, Mr. Planchet was ideally placed: to his right sat a magnificently ample woman in her prime, and to his left an equally obese man in a cap, who every minute produced the peaceful roar of a man clearing his throat to spit.

Like all people whose throats are perpetually congested, this large man had eyes full of dreams.

The train left at five in the afternoon.

It was due to reach Bront-les-Eaux at nine in the evening and “had no dining car.”

Mr. Planchet, who loved eating on trains, had brought a tongue sandwich and two bars of chocolate.

He intended to eat it all around dinnertime.

But the last factories of the suburbs had scarcely been reached when he had already started his meal.

He was a young man with a hearty appetite who could not remain within reach of a tongue sandwich for very long.

Once his provisions were exhausted, he had to find something to do: watch for the kilometer markers as they went by and time the train’s speed, without a watch with a second hand, mind you, but by counting seconds through the rhythmic tapping of his lower teeth against his upper teeth.

Unfortunately, many of the kilometer posts escape your notice, either because they hide as you pass or because some idiotic freight train comes the other way and blocks your view at precisely the wrong moment.

There was little point trying to catch the names of the little stations the expresses raced past without stopping; snubbed in this fashion, the stations took their revenge by jealously guarding their anonymity.

By about seven in the evening, the tongue sandwich and chocolate having been rapidly digested thanks to his upright posture, the traveler found a fresh diversion in the pangs of hunger.

Now, as we have already noted (page 17 of the railway timetable, note 24), there was no dining car on Train 71, and the express was not due to stop before Bront-les-Eaux…

Fortunately, Providence was keeping watch: a minor collision had occurred at a station of middling importance a quarter of an hour before the train came through.

The proud express was able to stop at this station, so unworthy of its distinction, and Mr. Planchet was able to refresh himself with a bitter glass of beer and two dusty brioches left over from the previous day.

He took no pleasure in this hurried snack, not because the food was poor, but because he could think of nothing but the disastrous delay, which would bring him to Bront-les-Eaux after the casino and the boule tables had closed.

And that, indeed, was what happened.

It was five minutes past midnight when they pulled into Bront station.

A mocking moon illuminated their disappointment.

The hotel, which Planchet had located that afternoon in a guidebook to the area, stood eight hundred meters from the station.

Most of the porters had gone off to their well-earned beds.

Only two octogenarians remained on the platforms, apparently needing no sleep, and their help had already been claimed by passengers quicker off the mark.

No coach bearing the name of the Hôtel du Berri was waiting outside the station.

Suitcase in hand, Planchet set off along a tree-lined avenue.

From time to time, he set his suitcase on the ground, sat on it, and found little pleasure in the clear evening air.