Part 34

For another quarter of an hour he reflected, still ravaged by the same struggle, his eyes fixed on that wick which was burning. But there was a sputtering, the wick drowned, and all fell back into darkness. He was seized again with a shiver; he would have slapped Jeanlin, to stop him from snoring so loudly. The nearness of the child became so unbearable to him that he fled, tormented by a need for open air, hurrying through the galleries and up the shaft, as if he had heard a shadow panting at his heels.

Above, amid the ruins of Réquillart, Étienne was at last able to breathe freely. Since he dared not kill, it was for him to die; and this idea of death, which had already brushed his mind, was born again, sank into his head like a final hope. To die game, to die for the revolution—that would end everything, settle his account, good or bad, and keep him from thinking any more. If the comrades attacked the Borains, he would be in the front rank; he might well have the luck to catch a bad blow. It was with a firmer step that he went back to prowl around the Voreux. Two o'clock was striking; a loud noise of voices came from the porters' room, where the post guarding the pit was camped. The disappearance of the sentinel had just thrown this post into confusion; they had gone to wake the captain, and after a careful examination of the place had ended by believing in a desertion. And, on the watch in the shadow, Étienne remembered that republican captain of whom the little soldier had spoken. Who knew if he might not be persuaded to go over to the people? The troops would present arms, and that might be the signal for the massacre of the bourgeois. A new dream carried him away; he thought no more of dying; he remained for hours, his feet in the mud, the thaw's drizzle on his shoulders, feverish with the hope of a still possible victory.

Until five o'clock he watched for the Borains. Then he noticed that the Company had had the cunning to lodge them at the Voreux. The descent was beginning; the few strikers from the Two Hundred and Forty settlement, posted as scouts, hesitated to warn the comrades. It was he who told them of the trick, and they set off running, while he waited behind the spoil heap, on the towing path. Six o'clock struck; the earthy sky was paling, lit by a reddish dawn, when Abbé Ranvier emerged from a footpath, his cassock hitched up over his thin legs. Every Monday he went to say a morning mass at the chapel of a convent, on the other side of the pit.

'Good day, my friend,' he cried in a loud voice, after scrutinizing the young man with his flame-like eyes.

But Étienne did not answer. In the distance, between the trestles of the Voreux, he had just seen a woman pass, and he had rushed forward, seized with uneasiness, for he thought he recognized Catherine.

Since midnight Catherine had been beating the thaw on the roads. Chaval, on coming home and finding her in bed, had set her on her feet with a blow of his fist. He shouted at her to go out the door at once if she did not want to go out the window; and, weeping, scarcely dressed, bruised by kicks on her legs, she had had to go down, pushed out by a final slap. This brutal separation dazed her; she had sat down on a stone post, looking at the house, always waiting for him to call her back; for it was not possible—he was watching her, he would tell her to come up again when he saw her shivering thus, abandoned, with no one to take her in.

Then, after two hours, she made up her mind, dying of cold in that immobility of a dog thrown into the street. She left Montsou, turned back, dared neither call from the pavement nor tap at the door. At last she went off along the paving, on the straight high road, with the idea of going to the settlement, to her parents. But when she got there, such shame seized her that she galloped along the gardens, fearing to be recognized by someone, despite the heavy sleep behind the closed shutters. And thenceforth she wandered, startled at the least noise, trembling lest she be picked up and taken, like a tramp, to that public house at Marchiennes whose threat had haunted her like a nightmare for months. Twice she blundered against the Voreux, was frightened by the loud voices of the post, ran breathless, with backward glances to see if she were not being followed. The lane of Réquillart was always full of drunk men; yet she went back there, in the vague hope of meeting him whom she had repulsed a few hours earlier.

Chaval was to go down that morning; and this thought brought Catherine back toward the pit, though she felt the uselessness of speaking to him: it was over between them. They no longer worked at Jean-Bart; he had sworn to strangle her if she took up work again at the Voreux, where he feared being compromised by her. Then what to do? go elsewhere, starve, yield under the blows of every man who passed? She dragged herself along, staggered amid the ruts, her legs broken, mud-caked to the spine. The thaw was now rolling along the paths in a river of mire; she was drowning in it, walking ever on, not daring to seek a stone to sit upon.

Day broke. Catherine had just recognized the back of Chaval turning cautiously around the spoil heap, when she caught sight of Lydie and Bébert, poking their noses out of their hiding place under the woodpile. They had spent the night there on the watch, not daring to go home, from the moment Jeanlin's order was to wait for him; and while the latter, at Réquillart, was sleeping off the drunkenness of his murder, the two children had taken each other by the arms, to keep warm. The wind whistled between the chestnut and oak poles; they curled up as in an abandoned woodcutter's hut. Lydie dared not say aloud her sufferings as a little beaten woman, any more than Bébert found the courage to complain of the slaps with which the captain was swelling his cheeks; but at last the latter abused it too much, risking their bones in mad prowling, then refusing all sharing; and their hearts rose in revolt; they had ended by kissing each other, despite his order, reckoning to receive a box on the ear from the invisible one, as he threatened them. The box not coming, they continued to kiss each other softly, without the idea of anything else, putting into that caress their long thwarted passion, all that was in them of martyred and tender. The whole night they had thus warmed themselves, so happy at the bottom of that lost hole, that they did not remember ever being more so, even at Sainte-Barbe, when they ate fritters and drank wine.

A sudden blare of bugle made Catherine start. She raised herself; she saw the post of the Voreux taking arms. Étienne was arriving at a run; Bébert and Lydie had sprung with a bound from their hiding place. And yonder, under the growing daylight, a band of men and women were coming down from the settlement, with great gestures of anger.

V

All the openings of the Voreux had just been closed; and the sixty soldiers, arms at rest, barred the only door left free, that which led to the receiving room, by a narrow staircase where opened the porters' room and the barrack. The captain had aligned them in two ranks against the brick wall, so that they could not be attacked from behind.

At first the band of miners come down from the settlement kept its distance. They were at most thirty, conferring in violent and confused words.

La Maheude, arrived first, her hair loose under a handkerchief tied in haste, Estelle asleep on her arm, repeated in a feverish voice:

'Let no one enter and let no one leave! We must catch them all in there!'

Maheu approved, when old Mouque, just then, arrived from Réquillart. They tried to stop him passing. But he struggled, saying his horses were eating their oats all the same and didn't care a damn for the revolution. Besides, there was a dead horse; they were waiting for him to get it out. Étienne freed the old groom, whom the soldiers let go up to the shaft. And a quarter of an hour later, as the band of strikers, gradually swollen, became threatening, a wide door reopened at ground level; men appeared, hauling the dead beast, a lamentable bundle, still tight in its rope net, which they abandoned amid the pools of melted snow. The stupefaction was such that they were not prevented from re-entering and barricading the door anew. All had recognized the horse by its head folded back and stiff against its flank. Whispers ran.

'It's Trompette, isn't it? It's Trompette.'

It was Trompette indeed. Since his descent he had never been able to acclimatize. He remained gloomy, with no taste for work, as if tortured by regret for the light. In vain Bataille, the dean of the mine, rubbed him amicably with his ribs, nibbled his neck, to give him a little of the resignation of his ten years below. These caresses redoubled his melancholy; his coat shivered under the confidences of the comrade grown old in darkness; and both, each time they met and shook themselves together, seemed to lament—the old one at no longer remembering, the young one at being unable to forget. In the stable, neighbors at the manger, they lived head low, blowing into each other's nostrils, exchanging their continual dream of day, of visions of green grass, white roads, yellow lights, to infinity. Then, when Trompette, soaked in sweat, had agonized on his litter, Bataille had begun to sniff him desperately, with short snufflings like sobs. He felt him growing cold; the mine was taking his last joy, that friend fallen from above, fresh with good smells, who reminded him of his youth in the open air. And he had broken his halter, neighing with fear, when he noticed the other no longer moved.

Mouque, moreover, had been warning the head porter for a week. But who cared about a sick horse at such a time! These gentlemen did not much like moving horses. Now, however, they had to decide to get him out. The day before, the groom had spent an hour with two men, tying up Trompette. They harnessed Bataille to bring him to the shaft. Slowly the old horse pulled, dragging the dead comrade through a gallery so narrow he had to jerk, risking flaying him; and, exhausted, he shook his head, listening to the long brushing of that mass bound for the knacker's. At the landing, when they had unharnessed him, he followed with his morose eye the preparations for the hoist: the body pushed onto sleepers above the sump, the net attached under a cage. At last the loaders rang for the meat; he lifted his neck to watch him leave, at first gently, then at once drowned in darkness, flown forever up that black hole. And he remained neck stretched, his wavering beast's memory perhaps recalling things of the earth. But it was over; the comrade would see nothing more; he himself would be thus tied in a pitiful packet, the day he came up that way. His legs began to tremble; the open air coming from distant countrysides stifled him; and he was like one drunk, as he heavily re-entered the stable.

On the pit bank the colliers remained gloomy before Trompette's corpse. A woman said half aloud:

'Another man—he goes down if he wants to!'

But a new flood was arriving from the settlement, and Levaque, marching at the head, followed by La Levaque and Bouteloup, cried:

'Death to the Borains! No strangers among us! Death! Death!'

All were rushing; Étienne had to stop them. He had approached the captain, a tall slim young man of scarcely twenty-eight, with a desperate and resolute face; and he was explaining matters, trying to win him, watching the effect of his words. What was the use of risking a useless massacre? Was not justice on the side of the miners? They were all brothers; they ought to understand each other. At the word republic the captain had made a nervous gesture. He kept a military stiffness; he said abruptly:

'Stand back! Do not force me to do my duty.'

Three times Étienne began again. Behind him the comrades were growling. The rumor ran that M. Hennebeau was at the pit, and they spoke of lowering him by the neck, to see if he would get his coal out himself. But it was a false rumor; there were only Négrel and Dansaert, who both showed themselves an instant at a window of the receiving room: the head porter kept behind, disconcerted since his adventure with Pierronne; while the engineer, bravely, passed over the crowd his little lively eyes, smiling with the mocking contempt with which he enveloped men and things. Hoots arose; they disappeared. And in their place was seen only the blond face of Souvarine. He was exactly on duty; he had not left his engine a single day since the beginning of the strike, no longer speaking, gradually absorbed in a fixed idea, whose steel nail seemed to shine at the bottom of his pale eyes.

'Stand back!' repeated the captain very loud. 'I have nothing to hear. I have the order to guard the shaft; I shall guard it... And do not push upon my men, or I shall know how to make you retreat.'

Despite his firm voice, a growing uneasiness was paling him, at the sight of the ever rising flood of miners. He was to be relieved at noon; but, fearing he could not hold until then, he had just sent a pit boy from the shaft to Montsou, to ask for reinforcements.

Vociferations had answered him.

'Death to the strangers! Death to the Borains!... We want to be masters in our own house!'

Étienne drew back, in despair. It was the end; there was nothing left but to fight and die. And he ceased holding back the comrades; the band rolled up to the little troop. They were near four hundred; the neighboring settlements were emptying, arriving at a run. All threw the same cry; Maheu and Levaque furiously said to the soldiers:

'Go away! We have nothing against you; go away!'

'It's no concern of yours,' resumed La Maheude. 'Leave us to manage our affairs.'

And behind her La Levaque added, more violent:

'Must we eat you to pass? We beg you to clear off!'

Even the shrill voice of Lydie was heard, who had thrust herself into the thick with Bébert, saying on a high note:

'What a lot of soft soldier boys!'

Catherine, a few steps off, looked and listened, her air bewildered by these new violences, amid which ill fortune had her fall. Was she not already suffering too much? what fault had she then committed, that misfortune left her no rest? The evening before still she understood nothing of the strike's angers; she thought that when one has one's share of slaps it is useless to seek more; and at this hour her heart was swelling with a need for hatred; she remembered what Étienne used to tell at the evening gatherings; she tried to hear what he was now saying to the soldiers. He called them comrades; he reminded them that they were of the people too, that they ought to be with the people, against the exploiters of misery.

But there was a long shudder in the crowd, and an old woman burst through. It was La Brûlé, frightful in her leanness, neck and arms bare, come at such a gallop that gray locks blinded her.

'Ah! God damn, here I am!' she stammered, breath cut. 'That sold-out Pierron who had locked me in the cellar!'

And without waiting she fell upon the army, her mouth black, vomiting insult.

'Pack of scoundrels! Pack of blackguards! They lick their superiors' boots; they have courage only against poor folk!'

Then the others joined her; there were volleys of insults. Some still cried: 'Long live the soldiers! Down with the officer to the shaft!' But soon there was only one clamor: 'Down with the red breeches!' These men who had listened, impassive, with immobile and mute face, to the appeals to fraternity, the friendly attempts at enlistment, kept the same passive stiffness under that hail of foul words. Behind them the captain had drawn his sword; and, as the crowd pressed them more and more, threatening to crush them against the wall, he commanded them to cross bayonets. They obeyed; a double row of steel points fell before the strikers' chests.

'Ah! the bastards!' howled La Brûlé, recoiling.

Already all were coming back, in an exalted contempt for death. Women threw themselves forward; La Maheude and La Levaque cried:

'Kill us, kill us then! We want our rights.'

Levaque, at risk of cutting himself, had seized with both hands a bundle of bayonets, three bayonets, which he shook, which he pulled toward him, to wrench them off; and he twisted them, in the tenfold strength of his anger, while Bouteloup, apart, bored at having followed his mate, watched him do it tranquilly.

'Go on, just try,' repeated Maheu, 'go on, if you're good fellows!'

And he opened his jacket, and spread his shirt, displaying his naked breast, his hairy flesh tattooed with coal. He pushed upon the points; he forced them to retreat, terrible in insolence and bravery. One of them had pricked his chest; he was like one mad at it, and strove to make it enter further, to hear his ribs crack.

'Cowards, you dare not... There are ten thousand behind us. Yes, you may kill us; there will be ten thousand more to kill.'

The soldiers' position was becoming critical, for they had received the strict order to use their weapons only in the last extremity. And how prevent those madmen from impaling themselves? On the other hand, space was diminishing; they now found themselves backed against the wall, unable to retreat further. Their little troop, a handful of men, face to face with the rising tide of miners, held firm however, executing with coolness the brief orders given by the captain. The latter, clear-eyed, lips nervously thinned, had but one fear: that of seeing them fly into passion under the insults. Already a young sergeant, a tall thin fellow whose four moustache hairs bristled, was blinking in an alarming way. Near him an old campaigner, his hide tanned by twenty campaigns, had paled when he saw his bayonet twisted like a straw. Another, a recruit no doubt, still smelling of the plough, grew very red each time he heard himself called blackguard and scoundrel. And the violences did not cease: clenched fists, abominable words, shovelfuls of accusations and threats that slapped them in the face. All the force of command was needed to hold them thus, face mute, in the haughty and sad silence of military discipline.

A collision seemed fatal, when behind the troop was seen to issue the porion Richomme, with his white head of a good gendarme, distraught with emotion. He spoke aloud.

'God's name, it's stupid to the end! We can't allow such foolishness.'

And he threw himself between the bayonets and the miners.

'Comrades, listen to me... You know I am an old workman and have never ceased being one of you. Well, God's name! I promise you that if they are not just with you, it will be me who tells the bosses their four truths... But this is too much; it gets nowhere to yell bad words at these brave fellows and want to get your belly pierced.'

They listened, they hesitated. Above, unfortunately, reappeared the sharp profile of little Négrel. He feared no doubt being accused of sending a porion instead of risking himself; and he tried to speak. But his voice was lost in a tumult so frightful that he had to leave the window again, after simply shrugging his shoulders. Richomme, thenceforth, pleaded in vain in his name, repeating that it should pass between comrades: they pushed him back, they suspected him. But he persisted; he remained among them.

'God's name! let them break my head with you, but I won't leave you while you're so stupid!'

Étienne, whom he begged to help him bring them to reason, made a gesture of powerlessness. It was too late; their number now rose above five hundred. And there were not only madmen, come to chase the Borains: curious onlookers stood about, jokers amusing themselves at the battle. In the middle of a group, at some distance, Zacharie and Philomène watched as at a spectacle, so peaceful they had brought the two children, Achille and Désirée. A new flood arrived from Réquillart, in which were Mouquet and La Mouquette: he at once went laughing to tap his friend Zacharie on the shoulder; while she, very inflamed, galloped to the front rank of the hotheads.

Meanwhile, every minute the captain turned toward the Montsou road. The asked reinforcements did not arrive; his sixty men could hold no longer. At last he had the idea of striking the crowd's imagination; he commanded to load rifles before it. The soldiers executed the order, but agitation grew, with bravadoes and mockeries.

'Look! these lazybones, they're off to the target!' the women sneered—La Brûlé, La Levaque and the others.

La Maheude, her throat covered by little Estelle's body, who had woken and was crying, approached so near that the sergeant asked her what she came to do with that poor mite.

'What's it to you?' she answered. 'Shoot at it if you dare.'

The men shook their heads in contempt. None believed they could be shot at.

'There are no balls in their cartridges,' said Levaque.

'Are we Cossacks?' cried Maheu. 'We don't shoot at Frenchmen, God's name!'

Others repeated that when one had done the Crimea campaign one did not fear lead. And all continued to throw themselves on the guns. Had a discharge taken place at that moment, it would have mown the crowd.

In the front rank La Mouquette was choking with fury, thinking that soldiers wanted to pierce the skin of women. She had spat all her foul words at them; she found no insult low enough, when, abruptly, having no more but this deadly offense to bombard in the troop's face, she showed her arse. With both hands she lifted her skirts, thrust out her loins, widened the enormous roundness.

'Here, that's for you! and it's still too clean, pack of bastards!'

She plunged, toppled, turned so each might have his share, took it up again at each push she sent.

'That's for the officer! That's for the sergeant! That's for the military!'

A storm of laughter arose; Bébert and Lydie writhed; Étienne himself, despite his dark expectancy, applauded this insulting nakedness. All, jokers as well as madmen, were now hooting the soldiers, as if they saw them soiled with a splash of filth; and there was only Catherine, apart, standing on old timber, who remained mute, blood at the throat, invaded by that hatred whose warmth she felt rising.

But a scuffle occurred. The captain, to calm his men's nervousness, decided to make prisoners. With a leap La Mouquette escaped, throwing herself between the comrades' legs. Three miners, Levaque and two others, were seized in the thick of the most violent, and kept in sight at the back of the porters' room.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”