Part 21

Étienne and the delegates hesitated to risk a step, without knowing the intentions of the Company. Dansaert, whom they questioned, avoided answering: certainly, the misunderstanding was deplored, everything in the world would be done to bring about an agreement; but he gave no details. They finally decided that they would go to see Mr. Hennebeau, to put reason on their side; for they did not want to be accused later of having refused the Company an occasion to acknowledge its wrongs. Only, they swore to yield on nothing, to maintain nonetheless their conditions, which were the only just ones.

The interview took place on Tuesday morning, the day the settlement sank into black misery. It was less cordial than the first. Maheu spoke again, explained that the comrades were sending them to ask if the gentlemen had anything new to tell them. At first, Mr. Hennebeau affected surprise: no order had reached him, things could not change, so long as the miners persisted in their detestable revolt; and this authoritative stiffness produced the most unfortunate effect, to such a point that, if the delegates had come with conciliatory intentions, the way they were received would have been enough to make them dig in their heels further. Then, the manager deigned to seek common ground for mutual concessions: thus, the workers would accept payment for timbering separately, while the Company would raise that payment by the two centimes it was accused of pocketing. Besides, he added that he was making the offer on his own responsibility, that nothing was settled, but that he flattered himself he could obtain this concession in Paris. But the delegates refused and repeated their demands: the maintenance of the old system, with a rise of five centimes per tub. Then, he admitted he could settle at once, he pressed them to accept, in the name of their wives and little ones dying of hunger. And, eyes to the ground, hard-headed, they said no, always no, with a fierce toss. They parted brusquely. Mr. Hennebeau slammed the doors. Étienne, Maheu and the others went off, stamping their heavy heels on the pavement, in the mute rage of defeated men pushed to the limit.

Towards two o'clock, the women of the settlement tried, on their side, a step towards Maigrat. There was no other hope left, to soften this man, to wring from him another week of credit. It was an idea of la Maheude, who often counted too much on people's good hearts. She decided la Brûlé and la Levaque to accompany her; as for la Pierronne, she excused herself, she said she could not leave Pierron, whose illness would not finish healing. Other women joined the band, they were a good twenty of them. When the bourgeois of Montsou saw them arrive, taking the width of the road, somber and wretched, they shook their heads in anxiety. Doors closed, a lady hid her silverware. They were met thus for the first time, and nothing was a worse sign: ordinarily, all went to ruin, when women thus beat the paths. At Maigrat's, there was a violent scene. At first, he had let them in, snickering, pretending to believe they had come to pay their debts: that was nice, to have agreed, to bring the money all at once. Then, as soon as la Maheude had spoken, he affected to fly into a rage. Were they making fun of people? More credit again, they dreamed then of ruining him? No, not another potato, not another crumb of bread! And he sent them back to the grocer Verdonck, to the bakers Carouble and Smelten, since they were dealing with them now. The women listened with an air of fearful humility, apologized, watched in his eyes whether he was softening. He began again with his jokes, he offered his shop to la Brûlé, if she would take him for a lover. Such cowardice held them all, that they laughed at it; and la Levaque topped it, declared she was willing, she. But he was at once gross, he pushed them towards the door. As they insisted, supplicating, he brutalized one of them. The others, on the sidewalk, called him a sellout, while la Maheude, both arms in the air in a surge of vengeful indignation, called down death, crying that such a man did not deserve to eat.

The return to the settlement was lugubrious. When the women came home empty-handed, the men looked at them, then lowered their heads. It was over, the day would end without a spoonful of soup; and the other days stretched out in a frozen shadow, where no hope shone. They had wanted it thus, none spoke of giving in. This excess of misery made them dig in all the more, mute, like trapped beasts, resolved to die at the bottom of their hole, rather than come out of it. Who would have dared speak first of submission? they had sworn with the comrades to hold all together, and all would hold, as they held in the pit, when one of them was under a cave-in. It was owed, they were up there at a good school for learning resignation; one could tighten the belly for a week, when one had swallowed fire and water since the age of twelve; and their devotion was thus doubled with a soldier's pride, the pride of men fond of their trade, having taken from their daily struggle against death a boastfulness of sacrifice.

At the Maheus', the evening was awful. All were silent, seated before the dying fire, where the last pot of potato peelings smoked. After having emptied the mattresses handful by handful, they had decided the day before yesterday to sell the cuckoo clock for three francs; and the room seemed bare and dead, since the familiar tick-tock no longer filled it with its sound. Now, in the middle of the sideboard, there remained no other luxury than the pink cardboard box, an old gift from Maheu, to which la Maheude clung like a jewel. The two good chairs were gone, father Bonnemort and the children huddled on an old mossy bench, brought in from the garden. And the livid twilight that fell seemed to increase the cold.

--What to do? repeated la Maheude, crouched in the corner of the stove.

Étienne, standing, looked at the portraits of the emperor and empress, pasted against the wall. He would have torn them down long ago, if not for the family who defended them, for ornament. So he murmured, teeth clenched:

--And to think we haven't two cents from those bastards who watch us starve!

--If I took the box? resumed the woman, very pale, after a hesitation.

Maheu, seated on the edge of the table, legs dangling and head on his chest, had straightened up.

--No, I won't have it!

Painfully, la Maheude rose and made the round of the room. Was it God possible, to be reduced to such misery! the sideboard without a crumb, nothing more to sell, not even an idea for getting a loaf! And the fire about to go out! She flew at Alzire, whom she had sent in the morning for cinders, on the slag heap, and who had come back empty-handed, saying the Company forbade gleaning. Didn't they not give a damn for the Company? as if one was stealing from anyone, gathering lost bits of coal! The little girl, in despair, told how a man had threatened her with a slap; then, she promised to go back tomorrow, and to let herself be beaten.

--And that bugger Jeanlin? cried the mother, where is he again, I ask you?... He was to bring salad: we could at least have browsed on it like beasts! You'll see he won't come home. Yesterday already, he slept out. I don't know what he's trafficking, but the rogue always looks belly-full.

--Maybe, said Étienne, he picks up pennies on the road.

At that, she brandished both fists, beside herself.

--If I knew that!... My children beg! I'd rather kill them and kill myself after.

Maheu, again, had slumped on the edge of the table. Lénore and Henri, surprised they were not eating, began to whimper; while old Bonnemort, silent, philosophically rolled his tongue in his mouth, to cheat his hunger. No one spoke more, all grew numb under this worsening of their ills, the grandfather coughing, spitting black, taken again with rheumatisms turning to dropsy, the father asthmatic, knees swollen with water, the mother and the little ones afflicted with hereditary scrofula and anemia. No doubt, the trade wanted that; one only complained when lack of food finished the world; and already they were dropping like flies, in the settlement. Yet they had to find supper. What to do, where to go, good God?

Then, in the twilight whose dreary sadness ever more darkened the room, Étienne, who had hesitated a moment, decided, heart broken.

--Wait for me, he said. I'm going to see somewhere.

And he went out. The idea of la Mouquette had come to him. She must have a loaf and would give it willingly. It angered him, to be thus forced to go back to Réquillart: this girl would kiss his hands, with her air of loving servant; but one didn't drop friends in trouble, he would be nice to her still, if need be.

--Me too, I'm going to see, said in turn la Maheude. It's too stupid.

She reopened the door behind the young man and shut it violently, leaving the others immobile and mute, in the thin light of a candle end that Alzire had just lit. Outside, a short reflection stopped her. Then, she went into the Levaques'.

--Say, I lent you a loaf, the other day. If you'd give it back.

But she broke off, what she saw was hardly encouraging; and the house smelled of more misery than her own.

La Levaque, eyes fixed, looked at her dead fire, while Levaque, drunk by nail-makers, empty stomach, slept on the table. Leaning against the wall, Bouteloup mechanically rubbed his shoulders, with the bewilderment of a good fool, whose savings have been eaten, and who wonders at having to tighten his belly.

--A loaf, ah! my dear, answered la Levaque. Me who wanted to borrow another from you!

Then, as her husband groaned with pain in his sleep, she crushed his face against the table.

--Shut up, pig! So much the better, if it burns your guts!... Instead of getting yourself treated to drinks, couldn't you have asked twenty sous from a friend?

She went on, swearing, relieving herself, in the filth of the household, abandoned so long already, that an unbearable odor rose from the floor. All could crack, she didn't give a damn! Her son, that rogue Bébert, had also disappeared since morning, and she cried it would be a famous relief, if he never came back. Then, she said she was going to bed. At least, she would be warm. She shoved Bouteloup.

--Come on, up! let's go up... The fire is dead, no need to light the candle to see the empty plates... Are you coming at last, Louis? I tell you we're going to bed. We huddle, that eases... And may that god-damned drunkard croak here of cold alone!

When she found herself outside, la Maheude cut resolutely through the gardens, to go to the Pierrons'. Laughter was heard. She knocked, and there was a sudden silence. It took a full minute to open to her.

--Why! it's you, cried la Pierronne affecting a lively surprise. I thought it was the doctor.

Without letting her speak, she went on, she showed Pierron seated before a great coal fire.

--Ah! he's not well, he's still not well. The face looks good, it's in the belly it troubles him. So, he needs heat, we burn all we have.

Pierron, indeed, seemed hearty, florid, fat-fleshed. Vainly he puffed, to play the sick man. Besides, la Maheude, on entering, had just scented a strong smell of rabbit: surely they had cleared the plate. Crumbs trailed on the table; and, in the very middle, she noticed a forgotten bottle of wine.

--Mama went to Montsou to try to get a loaf, resumed la Pierronne. We're moping waiting for her.

But her voice choked, she had followed the neighbor's gaze, and she too had fallen on the bottle. At once, she recovered, she told the story: yes, it was wine, the bourgeois of the Piolaine had brought that very bottle for her man, whom the doctor ordered Bordeaux. And she did not stop in thanks, what good bourgeois! the young lady especially, not proud, entering workers' homes, distributing her alms herself!

--I know, said la Maheude, I know them.

Her heart tightened at the thought that good goes always to the less poor. Never failed, those of the Piolaine would carry water to the river. Why had she not seen them in the settlement? Perhaps she might have got something from them after all.

--I had come, then, she admitted at last, to know if you had more fat than us... Have you only vermicelli, to be returned in kind?

La Pierronne despaired loudly.

--Nothing at all, my dear. Not what you'd call a grain of semolina... If mama doesn't come back, it's that she didn't succeed. We're going to bed without supper.

At this moment, sobs came from the cellar, and she flared up, she pounded the door with her fist. It was that runaway Lydie she had locked up, she said, to punish her for not coming home till five, after a whole day of vagabonding. She could no longer be tamed, she kept disappearing.

Meanwhile, la Maheude remained standing, without deciding to leave. This great fire penetrated her with a painful well-being, the thought that they were eating there hollowed her stomach the more. Evidently, they had sent the old woman away and locked up the little one, to gobble their rabbit. Ah! one could say what one liked, when a woman misbehaved, it brought luck to her house!

--Good evening, she said suddenly.

Outside, night had fallen, and the moon, behind clouds, lit the earth with a murky clarity. Instead of recrossing the gardens, la Maheude went around, in despair, not daring to go home. But, along the dead façades, all the doors smelled of famine and rang hollow. What good to knock? it was misery and company. For weeks they had eaten no more, the smell of onion itself was gone, that strong smell which announced the settlement from afar, in the country; now, it had only the smell of old vaults, the dampness of holes where nothing lives. Vague noises were dying, stifled tears, lost oaths; and, in the silence that gradually grew heavy, one heard the sleep of hunger coming, the crushing of bodies flung across beds, under the nightmares of empty bellies.

As she passed before the church, she saw a shadow slip rapidly. A hope made her hasten, for she had recognized the priest of Montsou, Abbé Joire, who said mass on Sundays at the settlement chapel: no doubt he was coming out of the sacristy, where the settling of some affair had called him. Round-backed, he ran with his air of a fat and soft man, desirous of living at peace with all. If he had done his errand at night, it must be to not compromise himself among the miners. They said besides that he had just obtained promotion. Even, he had already walked with his successor, a thin abbé, with red ember eyes.

--Mr. Priest, Mr. Priest, stammered la Maheude.

But he did not stop.

--Good evening, good evening, my good woman.

She found herself before her home. Her legs no longer carried her, and she went in.

No one had moved. Maheu was still on the edge of the table, beaten down. Old Bonnemort and the little ones huddled on the bench, to be less cold. And no one had said a word, only the candle had burned, so short, that the light itself soon would fail them. At the noise of the door, the children turned their heads; but, seeing the mother brought nothing, they went back to looking at the ground, swallowing a big wish to cry, for fear of being scolded. La Maheude had fallen back to her place, near the dying fire. She was not questioned, the silence continued. All had understood, they judged it useless to tire themselves further talking; and it was now a crushed waiting, without courage, the last waiting for the help that Étienne, perhaps, was going to dig up somewhere. The minutes flowed, they ended by no longer counting on it.

When Étienne reappeared, he had, in a cloth, a dozen potatoes, cooked and gone cold.

--That's all I found, he said.

At la Mouquette's, bread was likewise lacking: it was her dinner she had forced into this cloth for him, kissing him with all her heart.

--Thanks, he answered la Maheude who offered him his share. I ate over there.

He lied, he looked with a dark air at the children throwing themselves on the food. The father and mother, too, held back, to leave more; but the old man, greedily, swallowed all. They had to take a potato from him for Alzire.

Then Étienne said he had learned news. The Company, irritated by the stubbornness of the strikers, spoke of returning the booklets to the compromised miners. It wanted war, decidedly. And a graver rumor circulated, it boasted of having decided a great number of workers to go down again: tomorrow, the Victoire and Feutry-Cantel were to be at full strength; even there would be, at Madeleine and Mirou, a third of the men. The Maheus were exasperated.

--God's name! cried the father, if there are traitors, we must settle their account!

And, standing, yielding to the outburst of his suffering:

--Tomorrow evening, in the forest!... Since they keep us from meeting at the Bon-Joyeux, it's in the forest we'll be at home.

This cry had woken old Bonnemort, whom his gluttony was lulling. It was the old rallying cry, the rendezvous where miners of yore went to plot their resistance to the king's soldiers.

--Yes, yes, at Vandame! I'm in, if we go there!

La Maheude made an energetic gesture.

--We'll all go. This will end, these injustices and these treacheries!

Étienne decided that the rendezvous would be given to all the settlements, for tomorrow evening. But the fire was dead, as at the Levaques', and the candle suddenly went out. There was no more coal, no more oil, they had to go to bed groping, in the great cold that pinched the skin. The little ones cried.

VI

Jeanlin, healed, walked now; but his legs were so badly reknit, that he limped on the right and on the left; and one had to see him slip away with a duck's gait, running as fast as before, with his knack of a malicious and thieving beast.

That evening, at twilight, on the road to Réquillart, Jeanlin, accompanied by his inseparables, Bébert and Lydie, kept watch. He had ambushed in a vacant lot, behind a fence, opposite a blind grocery, planted askew at the corner of a path. An old woman, nearly blind, displayed there three or four sacks of lentils and beans, black with dust; and it was an ancient dried cod, hung at the door, speckled with fly droppings, that he coveted with his narrow eyes. Already twice, he had launched Bébert, to go unhook it. But, each time, people had appeared, at the bend of the way. Always bothers, one couldn't do one's business!

A gentleman on horseback came out, and the children flattened at the foot of the fence, recognizing Mr. Hennebeau. Often, one saw him thus along the roads, since the strike, traveling alone amid the revolted settlements, putting a quiet courage in personally assuring himself of the state of the country. And never a stone had whistled past his ears, he met only silent men slow to salute him, he most often came upon lovers, who mocked politics and stuffed themselves with pleasure, in the corners. At the trot of his mare, head straight so as not to disturb anyone, he passed, while his heart swelled with an unsated need, through this gorging of free loves. He perfectly made out the urchins, the little ones on the little one, in a heap. Down to the tots who already amused themselves rubbing their misery! His eyes had moistened, he disappeared, stiff on the saddle, militarily buttoned in his frock coat.

--Damned luck! said Jeanlin, it won't end... Go on, Bébert! pull on the tail!

But two men, again, were coming, and the child choked back another oath, when he heard the voice of his brother Zacharie, busy telling Mouquet how he had discovered a forty-sous piece, sewn in a skirt of his wife. Both snickered with glee, slapping each other on the shoulders. Mouquet had the idea of a big game of trapshooting for tomorrow: they would leave at two from the Avantage, they would go towards Montoire, near Marchiennes. Zacharie accepted. What did they have to bother them with the strike? might as well laugh, since they were doing nothing! And they were turning the corner of the road, when Étienne, coming from the canal, stopped them and began to talk.

--Are they going to sleep here? resumed Jeanlin exasperated. There's night, the old woman takes in her sacks.

Another miner was going down towards Réquillart. Étienne moved off with him; and, as they passed before the fence, the child heard them speak of the forest: the rendezvous had to be put off till tomorrow, for fear of not being able to warn all the settlements in a day.

--Say, he murmured to his two pals, the big machine is for tomorrow. We must be in it. Huh? we'll slip away, in the afternoon.

And, the road finally being clear, he launched Bébert.

--Go on! pull on the tail!... And watch out, the old woman has her broom.

Happily, the night was growing black. Bébert, with a bound, had hung on the cod, whose string broke. He took to his heels, waving it like a kite, followed by the other two, all three galloping. The grocer woman, astonished, came out of her shop, without understanding, without being able to make out this flock losing itself in the shadows.

These vagabonds ended by being the terror of the country. They had invaded it little by little, like a savage horde. At first, they had contented themselves with the floor of the Voreux, tumbling in the coal stock, whence they came out like negroes, playing hide-and-seek among the wood supply, through which they lost themselves, as at the bottom of a virgin forest. Then, they had taken by assault the slag heap, they slid down on their bare behinds, still burning from inner fires, they slipped among the brambles of the old parts, hidden the whole day, busy with quiet little games of naughty mice. And they ever widened their conquests, went to fight bloody among the brick piles, ran the meadows eating without bread all sorts of milky herbs, dug the canal banks to take mud fish they swallowed raw, and pushed further, and traveled kilometers, to the woods of Vandame, under which they stuffed themselves with strawberries in spring, hazelnuts and bilberries in summer. Soon the immense plain belonged to them.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”