"And since when are we here?"
I named the foreshadowed moment:
"3.33."
"Three-quarters of an hour!" she cried. "But we will arrive in Vienna at an impossible hour."
She looked alarmed.
At last, after what appeared an endless delay, but what was in reality only another half-hour, an engine arrived, and both trains tied together were drawn into the next station. There followed a lot of manœuvring; the train which had run into our's had first to be removed, and then the two engines, of which only the wheels were still in a possible state. The luggage van was replaced and the luggage repacked. And, finally, at nearly six o'clock, we resumed our journey at a breakneck speed.
The young lady seemed rather oppressed, probably by visions of some more terrific accidents. Each time, when there was a switch, the jolting caused by transferring the carriage from one line of rails to another seemed to send a thrill of fear through her frame. Nevertheless, she proved a very willing and agreeable talker. Perhaps was she too nervous to keep silent, for I had to inform her of the time every quarter of an hour. But she did not tell me why; whether somebody was awaiting her, or whether there was some particular reason for her to dread her late arrival. Nor did I learn anything about her. She remained clad in mystery. After several hours' conversation I did not know any more of her than when I had seen her first. On the other hand, she knew all about me and, as a matter of fact, I suppose that it was I who did most of the talking. I tried thus, by showing my confidence, to win hers. But in vain.
At last we reached Vienna. We were full three hours late. As she had told me about the difficulty of getting a cab, I asked her whether I might not go and fetch her one.
"Yes! She would be pleased!"