Part 20

As he spoke, Souvarine became terrible. An ecstasy lifted him from his chair, a mystic flame shone from his pale eyes, and his delicate hands clutched the edge of the table as if to break it. The other looked at him in fear, thinking of the stories of which he had received a vague confidence: charged mines beneath the tsar's palaces, police chiefs cut down with knives like wild boars, a mistress of his, the only woman he had loved, hanged at Moscow one rainy morning, while he, in the crowd, kissed her with his eyes for the last time.

--No! no! murmured Étienne, with a broad gesture that swept away those abominable visions, we are not there yet, with us. Murder, arson, never! It is monstrous, it is unjust, all the comrades would rise to strangle the guilty one!

And then, he still did not understand; his race refused the dark dream of this extermination of the world, mown like a field of rye, close to the ground. Then, what would one do, how would the peoples defend themselves? He demanded an answer.

--Tell me your program. We want to know where we are going, we others.

Then Souvarine concluded peacefully, with his drowned and lost gaze:

--All reasonings upon the future are criminal, because they prevent pure destruction and hinder the march of the revolution.

This made Étienne laugh, despite the cold that the answer had breathed upon his flesh. Besides, he willingly confessed that there was some good in these ideas, whose frightful simplicity attracted him. Only, it would be giving the game too easily to Rasseneur, if such things were told to the comrades. It was a matter of being practical.

The widow Désir proposed that they lunch. They accepted, and passed into the cabaret room, which a movable partition separated from the dance hall during the week. When they had finished their omelet and cheese, the engine-man wished to leave; and, as the other detained him:

--What is the use? to hear you say useless nonsense!... I have seen enough. Good night!

He went off with his gentle and obstinate air, a cigarette at his lips.

Étienne's uneasiness grew. It was one o'clock; decidedly Pluchart was breaking his word. Toward half past one, the delegates began to appear, and he had to receive them, for he wished to oversee the entries, for fear the Company might send its usual spies. He examined each invitation letter, scrutinized the people; many, moreover, entered without a letter, it sufficed that he knew them, for the door to be opened to them. As two o'clock struck, he saw Rasseneur arrive, who finished his pipe at the counter, chatting without haste. This mocking calm completed his irritation, all the more since jokers had come, simply for the fun, Zacharie, Mouquet, others still: those cared nothing for the strike, found it funny to do nothing; and, seated at table, spending their last two sous on a mug, they sniggered, they mocked the comrades, the convinced ones, who were going to swallow their tongues from boredom.

Another quarter of an hour passed. Impatience rose in the room. Then, Étienne, in despair, made a gesture of resolution. And he was deciding to enter, when the widow Désir, stretching her head outside, cried:

--But here he is, your gentleman!

It was Pluchart, indeed. He arrived by carriage, drawn by a broken-winded horse. At once he jumped onto the pavement, slim, handsome, with a square head too large, having beneath his black cloth overcoat the Sunday best of a well-to-do workman. For five years he had not struck a file, and he took care of himself, combed himself especially with correctness, vain of his platform successes; but he kept a stiffness of limbs, the nails of his broad hands did not grow back, eaten by the iron. Very active, he served his ambition, beating the province without rest, for the placing of his ideas.

--Ah! do not blame me! said he, anticipating questions and reproaches. Yesterday, lecture at Preuilly in the morning, meeting in the evening at Valençay. Today, lunch at Marchiennes, with Sauvagnat... Finally, I could take a carriage. I am exhausted, you hear my voice. But it does not matter, I shall speak all the same.

He was on the threshold of the Bon-Joyeux, when he thought better of it.

--Good Lord! and the cards I forget! We would be in a fine fix!

He went back to the carriage, which the coachman was putting up, and drew from the boot a small black wooden case, which he carried under his arm.

Étienne, radiant, walked in his shadow, while Rasseneur, dismayed, dared not offer him his hand. The other was already shaking it, and he said barely a rapid word about the letter: what a queer idea! why not hold this meeting? one should always hold a meeting, when one could. The widow Désir offered him something to take, but he refused. Useless! he spoke without drinking. Only, he was in a hurry, because, in the evening, he counted on pushing on to Joiselle, where he wanted to confer with Legoujeux. Then all entered in a body into the dance hall. Maheu and Levaque, who arrived late, followed these gentlemen. And the door was locked, to be among themselves, which made the jokers snigger louder, Zacharie having cried to Mouquet that they were perhaps going to well plant a child on them all, in there.

A hundred miners waited on the benches, in the enclosed air of the room, where the warm odors of the last ball rose from the floor. Whisperings ran, heads turned, while the newcomers sat in the empty places. They looked at the gentleman from Lille, the black overcoat caused surprise and uneasiness.

But, immediately, on Étienne's proposal, they formed the bureau. He threw out names, the others approved by raising the hand. Pluchart was named president, then they designated as assessors Maheu and Étienne himself. There was a shifting of chairs, the bureau installed itself; and they sought for an instant the president disappeared behind the table, under which he was sliding the case, which he had not let go. When he reappeared, he tapped lightly with his fist to claim attention; then, he began in a hoarse voice:

--Citizens...

A small door opened, he had to stop. It was the widow Désir, who, going around by the kitchen, brought six mugs on a tray.

--Do not disturb yourselves, she murmured. When one speaks, one is thirsty.

Maheu relieved her and Pluchart could continue. He said he was very touched by the good welcome of the workers of Montsou, he excused his delay, speaking of his fatigue and his sick throat. Then, he gave the floor to citizen Rasseneur, who asked for it.

Already, Rasseneur planted himself beside the table, near the mugs. A overturned chair served him as a tribune. He seemed very moved, he coughed before launching at full voice:

--Comrades...

What made his influence over the pit workers was the ease of his speech, the good-nature with which he could talk to them for hours, without ever tiring. He risked no gesture, remained heavy and smiling, drowned them, deafened them, until all cried: "Yes, yes, it is quite true, you are right!" Yet, that day, from the first words, he had felt a sullen opposition. So he advanced prudently. He discussed only the continuation of the strike, he waited to be applauded, before attacking the International. Certainly, honor forbade yielding to the Company's demands; but, what miseries! what terrible future, if one had to persist much longer! And, without declaring for submission, he softened their courage, he showed the corons dying of hunger, he asked on what resources the partisans of resistance counted. Three or four friends tried to approve him, which accentuated the cold silence of the greater number, the disapproval gradually irritated that greeted his sentences. Then, despairing of winning them back, anger prevailed, he predicted misfortunes to them, if they let their heads be turned by provocations coming from abroad. Two thirds had risen, grew angry, wanted to prevent him from saying more, since he insulted them, treating them as children incapable of behaving. And he, drinking mouthfuls of beer one after another, spoke all the same amid the tumult, cried violently that he was surely not born, the fellow who would prevent him from doing his duty!

Pluchart was standing. As he had no bell, he tapped his fist on the table, he repeated in his strangled voice:

--Citizens... citizens...

At last, he obtained a little calm, and the meeting, consulted, withdrew the floor from Rasseneur. The delegates who had represented the pits, in the interview with the manager, led the others, all enraged by hunger, worked upon by new ideas. It was a vote arranged in advance.

--You don't care, you! you eat! howled Levaque, showing his fist to Rasseneur.

Étienne had leaned, behind the president's back, to calm Maheu, very red, put beside himself by this hypocrite's speech.

--Citizens, said Pluchart, permit me to take the floor.

A deep silence fell. He spoke. His voice came out, painful and raucous; but he had grown used to it, always on the road, carrying his laryngitis with his program. Little by little, he swelled it and drew pathetic effects from it. Arms open, accompanying the periods with a swaying of shoulders, he had an eloquence that partook of the sermon, a religious way of letting the ends of phrases fall, whose monotonous rumbling ended by convincing.

And he placed his speech on the grandeur and the benefits of the International, the one he unpacked first, in the localities where he debuted. He explained its aim, the emancipation of the workers; he showed its grandiose structure, at the bottom the commune, higher the province, higher still the nation, and at the very summit humanity. His arms agitated slowly, piled up the stories, raised the immense cathedral of the future world. Then, it was the internal administration: he read the statutes, spoke of the congresses, indicated the growing importance of the work, the broadening of the program, which, starting from the discussion of wages, now attacked the social liquidation, to end with wage-labor. No more nationalities, the workers of the whole world reunited in a common need of justice, sweeping away the bourgeois rot, founding at last the free society, where he who would not work, would not reap! He bellowed, his breath scared the paper flowers, under the smoky ceiling whose crushing beat back the bursts of his voice.

A wave agitated the heads. Some cried:

--That's it!... We are of it!

He, continued. It was the conquest of the world within three years. And he enumerated the conquered peoples. From all sides adhesions rained. Never had nascent religion made so many faithful. Then, when they should be the masters, they would dictate laws to the bosses, they would in turn have the fist on the throat.

--Yes! yes!... It is they who will go down!

With a gesture, he claimed silence. Now, he approached the question of strikes. In principle, he disapproved of them, they were too slow a means, which rather aggravated the worker's sufferings. But, awaiting better, when they became inevitable, one had to resolve upon them, for they had the advantage of disorganizing capital. And, in this case, he showed the International as a providence for the strikers, he cited examples: at Paris, during the bronze-workers' strike, the bosses had granted all at once, seized with terror at the news that the International was sending aid; at London, it had saved the miners of a colliery, by repatriating at its expense a convoy of Belgians, called by the mine owner. It sufficed to adhere, the Companies trembled, the workers entered the great army of labor, decided to die for one another, rather than remain the slaves of capitalist society.

Applause interrupted him. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, while refusing a mug that Maheu passed him. When he wanted to resume, new applause cut off his speech.

--It is done! he said rapidly to Étienne. They have had enough... Quick! the cards!

He had plunged under the table, he reappeared with the small black wooden case.

--Citizens, he cried, dominating the noise, here are the membership cards. Let your delegates approach, I shall hand them over, and they will distribute them... Later, all will be settled.

Rasseneur sprang forward, protested again. On his side, Étienne agitated, having to pronounce a speech. An extreme confusion followed. Levaque threw his fists forward, as if to fight. Standing, Maheu spoke, without one being able to distinguish a single word. In this redoubling of tumult, a dust rose from the floor, the flying dust of old balls, poisoning the air with the strong odor of the herscheuses and the galibots.

Suddenly, the small door opened, the widow Désir filled it with her belly and her throat, saying in a thundering voice:

--Do shut up, good God!... Here are the gendarmes!

It was the commissioner of the district who arrived, a bit late, to draw up a report and dissolve the meeting. Four gendarmes accompanied him. For five minutes, the widow had amused them at the door, answering that she was at home, that one had well the right to gather friends. But they had jostled her, and she ran to warn her children.

--Must slip out this way, she resumed. There is a dirty gendarme guarding the yard. It does not matter, my little woodshed opens on the alley... Do hurry up!

Already, the commissioner knocked with his fists; and, as no one opened, he threatened to break down the door. A spy must have spoken, for he cried that the meeting was illegal, a great number of miners being there without invitation letter.

In the room, the trouble increased. One could not flee thus, one had not even voted, neither for adherence, nor for the continuation of the strike. All persisted in speaking at once. Finally, the president had the idea of a vote by acclamation. Arms were raised, the delegates declared in haste that they adhered in the name of the absent comrades. And it was thus that the ten thousand colliers of Montsou became members of the International.

Meanwhile, the scatter began. Protecting the retreat, the widow Désir had gone to lean against the door, which the gendarmes' butt-ends shook in her back. The miners straddled the benches, escaped in file, by the kitchen and the woodshed. Rasseneur disappeared among the first, and Levaque followed him, forgetful of his insults, dreaming of being offered a mug, to recover. Étienne, after seizing the small case, waited with Pluchart and Maheu, who held it an honor to leave last. As they were leaving, the lock gave way, the commissioner found himself face to face with the widow, whose throat and belly still made barricade.

--It advances you much, to break everything at my place! said she. You see well that there is no one.

The commissioner, a slow man, whom dramas bored, simply threatened to take her to prison. And he went off to make his report, he took back his four gendarmes, under the sniggers of Zacharie and Mouquet, who, seized with admiration before the good joke of the comrades, cared nothing for armed force.

Outside, in the alley, Étienne, encumbered with the case, galloped, followed by the others. The sudden thought of Pierron came to him, he asked why he had not been seen; and Maheu, while running, answered that he was sick: a complaisant sickness, the fear of compromising himself. They wanted to detain Pluchart; but, without stopping, he declared that he left at once for Joiselle, where Legoujeux awaited orders. Then, they cried him good voyage, they did not slacken the run, heels in the air, all launched across Montsou. Words were exchanged, broken by the panting of chests. Étienne and Maheu laughed with confidence, certain now of triumph: when the International should have sent aid, it would be the Company that would beg them to resume work. And, in this rush of hope, in this gallop of heavy shoes sounding on the road pavement, there was something else still, something darkened and fierce, a violence whose wind was going to fever the corons, at the four corners of the land.

V

Another fortnight passed. It was the first days of January, in cold mists that numbed the immense plain. And misery had worsened still, the corons agonized hour by hour, under the growing famine. Four thousand francs, sent from London, by the International, had not given three days of bread. Then, nothing had come. This great dead hope cast down their courage. On whom to count now, since their brothers themselves abandoned them? They felt lost in the midst of the hard winter, isolated from the world.

On Tuesday, all resource failed, at the coron des Deux-Cent-Quarante. Étienne had multiplied himself with the delegates: they opened new subscriptions, in the neighboring towns, and as far as Paris; they made collections, they organized lectures. These efforts came to little, the opinion, which had been moved at first, became indifferent, since the strike dragged on, very calm, without passionate dramas. Scarcely meager alms sufficed to sustain the poorest families. The others lived by pawning the clothes, by selling piece by piece the household. Everything went to the junk dealers, the wool of the mattresses, the kitchen utensils, furniture even. For an instant, one had thought oneself saved, the small retailers of Montsou, killed by Maigrat, had offered credits, to try to take back the clientele from him; and, during a week, Verdonck the grocer, the two bakers Carouble and Smelten, did indeed keep shop open; but their advances were exhausting, the three stopped. Bailiffs rejoiced at it, there resulted only a crushing of debts, which was to weigh long on the miners. No more credit anywhere, not another old saucepan to sell, one could lie down in a corner and die like mangy dogs.

Étienne would have sold his flesh. He had abandoned his salary, he had gone to Marchiennes to pawn his trousers and his cloth overcoat, happy to still make the Maheus' pot boil. Only, the boots remained to him, he kept them to have solid feet, he said. His despair was that the strike had come too soon, when the provident fund had not had time to fill. He saw in it the sole cause of the disaster, for the workers would surely triumph over the bosses, the day they found in savings the money necessary to resistance. And he remembered Souvarine's words, accusing the Company of pushing to the strike, to destroy the first funds of the chest.

The sight of the coron, of these poor people without bread and without fire, overturned him. He preferred to go out, to tire himself in distant walks. One evening, as he was returning and passed near Réquillart, he had glimpsed, at the edge of the road, an old woman fainting. Doubtless, she was dying of inanition; and, after having raised her, he began to hail a girl, whom he saw on the other side of the fence.

--Why! it is you, said he, recognizing Mouquette. Help me, then, she should drink something.

Mouquette, moved to tears, went back quickly to her home, into the ramshackle hovel her father had made for himself amid the rubble. She came out at once with gin and a loaf. The gin revived the old woman, who, without speaking, bit into the bread, greedily. She was the mother of a miner, she lived in a coron, toward Cougny, and she had fallen there, on returning from Joiselle, where she had vainly tried to borrow ten sous from a sister. When she had eaten, she went off, dizzy.

Étienne had remained in the waste ground of Réquillart, whose collapsed sheds disappeared under the brambles.

--Well! won't you come in for a small glass? asked him Mouquette gaily.

And, as he hesitated:

--Then, you are still afraid of me?

He followed her, won over by her laugh. This bread she had given with such great heart, softened him. She would not receive him in the father's room, she took him to her own room, where she at once poured two small glasses of gin. This room was very clean, he complimented her on it. Besides, the family did not seem to lack for anything: the father continued his stable-boy service, at the Voreux; and she, for story of not living with arms crossed, had turned washerwoman, which brought her thirty sous a day. One may well romp with the men, one is not the lazier for that.

--Say? she murmured all at once, coming to take him gently by the waist, why will you not love me?

He could not help but laugh, he too, so much had she launched that with a coaxing air.

--But I love you well, he answered.

--No, no, not as I want... You know that I am dying of desire for it. Say? it would please me so!

It was true, she had been asking him for six months. He still looked at her, clinging to him, embracing him with her two shivering arms, her face raised in such supplication of love, that he was very touched by it. Her big round face had nothing beautiful, with her yellowed complexion, eaten by coal; but her eyes shone with a flame, there came from her skin a charm, a trembling of desire, that rendered her rosy and all young. Then, before this gift so humble, so ardent, he dared no longer refuse.

--Oh! you will? she stammered, ravished, oh! you will?

And she gave herself in an awkwardness and a fainting of a virgin, as if it were the first time, and that she had never known a man. Then, when he left her, it was she who overflowed with gratitude: she said thank you, she kissed his hands.

Étienne remained a bit ashamed of this good fortune. One did not boast of having had Mouquette. On leaving, he swore to himself not to begin again. And he kept her a friendly memory nevertheless, she was a brave girl.

When he returned to the coron, moreover, serious things he learned made him forget the adventure. The rumor ran that the Company would perhaps consent to a concession, if the delegates attempted a new step near the manager. At least, some foremen had spread this rumor. The truth was that, in the engaged struggle, the mine suffered more still than the miners. On both sides, obstinacy piled up ruins: while labor starved to death, capital destroyed itself. Each day of stoppage carried away hundreds of thousands of francs. Every machine that stops is a dead machine. The equipment and the material deteriorated, the immobilized money melted, like water drunk by sand. Since the weak stock of coal was exhausting on the pit-banks, the clientele spoke of addressing itself to Belgium; and there was there, for the future, a threat. But what especially frightened the Company, what it carefully hid, were the growing damages, in the galleries and the workings. The foremen did not suffice for the repairs, the timbers broke on all sides, cave-ins occurred each hour. Soon, the disasters had become such, that they must necessarily require long months of repair, before the cutting could be resumed. Already, stories ran the country: at Crèvecoeur, three hundred meters of track had collapsed in a block, blocking the access to the Five-Paumes vein; at Madeleine, the Maugrétout vein was crumbling and filling with water. The Management refused to admit it, when, suddenly, two accidents, one upon the other, had forced it to confess. One morning, near the Piolaine, the ground was found split above the north gallery of Mirou, caved in the day before; and, the next day, it was an internal settling of the Voreux that shook a whole corner of the faubourg, to the point that two houses nearly disappeared.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”