Part 37

Then, with his brace, he loosened the screws of the brackets, so that a final push might tear them all out. It was a task of mad recklessness, during which he missed falling twenty times, of making the leap of the hundred and eighty metres that separated him from the bottom. He had to grip the oak guides, the beams along which the cages slid; and, suspended above the void, he travelled along the crossbeams that connected them at intervals, he slipped, sat, leaned back, simply braced on an elbow or a knee, in a tranquil contempt of death. A breath would have plunged him down; three times he caught himself, without a shudder. At first he felt with his hand, then he worked, lighting a match only when he lost his way amid those sticky beams. After loosening the screws, he attacked the pieces themselves; and the peril grew still greater. He had sought the key, the piece that held the others; he wore away at it, bored it, sawed it, thinned it, so that it might lose its resistance; while, through the holes and cracks, the water escaping in thin jets blinded him and soaked him with an icy rain. Two matches went out. All were getting wet; it was night, a bottomless depth of darkness.

From that moment, a rage seized him. The breaths of the invisible intoxicated him, the black horror of that pit beaten by a downpour flung him into a fury of destruction. He wore away at random against the tubbing, striking where he could, with blows of the brace, with blows of the saw, seized by the need to gut it at once above his head. And he put a ferocity into it, as if he were using a knife in the skin of a living being whom he abhorred. He would kill it at last, that evil beast of the Voreux, with its mouth always open, that had swallowed so much human flesh! One heard the bite of his tools, his spine lengthened, he crawled, descended, remounted, still holding on by a miracle, in a continual swaying, a night-bird's flight through the timbers of a belfry.

But he grew calm, displeased with himself. Could one not do things coldly? Without haste, he blew out, he went back into the shaft of the ladders, whose hole he stopped up, replacing the panel he had sawn. It was enough; he did not wish to give warning by too great damage, which would have been attempted at once. The beast had its wound in the belly; one would see if it still lived that evening; and he had signed, the terrified world would know that it had not died a natural death. He took the time to roll the tools methodically in his jacket, he remounted the ladders slowly. Then, when he had come out of the pit unseen, the idea of going to change his clothes did not even occur to him. Three o'clock was striking. He remained planted on the road, he waited.

At the same hour, Étienne, who was not sleeping, was troubled by a slight noise, in the thick night of the room. He distinguished the little breathing of the children, the snores of Bonnemort and Maheude; while, near him, Jeanlin whistled a prolonged note of the flute. No doubt he had dreamed, and he was sinking back, when the noise began again. It was a creaking of the straw mattress, the stifled effort of a person getting up. Then he imagined that Catherine was feeling unwell.

—Say, is that you? what is the matter? he asked in a low voice.

No one answered; only the others' snores continued. For five minutes, nothing moved. Then there was a fresh creaking. And, certain this time that he was not mistaken, he crossed the room, he sent his hands into the darkness, to feel the bed opposite. His surprise was great, on meeting there the young girl sitting up, her breath suspended, awake and on the watch.

—Well! why don't you answer? what are you doing, then?

She ended by saying:

—I am getting up.

—At this hour, you are getting up?

—Yes, I am going back to work at the pit.

Very moved, Étienne had to sit on the edge of the mattress, while Catherine explained her reasons to him. She suffered too much to live thus, idle, feeling the weight upon her of continual looks of reproach; she preferred to run the risk of being jostled there by Chaval; and, if her mother refused her money, when she brought it, well! she was old enough to set herself apart and make her own soup.

—Go away, I am going to dress. And say nothing, won't you? if you want to be kind.

But he remained near her, he had taken her round the waist, in a caress of sorrow and pity. In their shirts, pressed one against the other, they felt the warmth of their naked skin, at the edge of that bed, warm with the sleep of the night. She, at a first movement, had tried to free herself; then, she had begun to weep softly, taking him in turn by the neck, to keep him against her, in a desperate embrace. And they remained without other desire, with the past of their unhappy loves, which they had not been able to satisfy. Was it then forever finished? would they not dare to love one day, now that they were free? A little happiness would have sufficed, to dissipate their shame, that uneasiness which kept them from going together, because of all sorts of ideas, in which they did not read clearly themselves.

—Lie down again, she murmured. I don't want to light up, that would wake mamma... It is time, leave me.

He was not listening, he pressed her distractedly, his heart drowned in an immense sadness. A need of peace, an invincible need to be happy, invaded him; and he saw himself married, in a little clean house, without other ambition than to live and die there, both of them. Bread would content him; even if there were only enough for one, the piece would be for her. What was the good of anything else? was life worth more?

She, however, was unclasping her bare arms.

—I beg you, leave me.

Then, in a surge of his heart, he said to her at the ear:

—Wait, I am going with you.

And he himself wondered at having said that thing. He had sworn not to go down again; whence then came this sudden decision, issued from his lips, without his having thought of it, without his having discussed it an instant? Now, it was in him such calm, so complete a healing of his doubts, that he persisted, like a man saved by chance, and who had at last found the unique door to his torment. Also he refused to hear her, when she grew alarmed, understanding that he was sacrificing himself for her, dreading the evil words with which he would be greeted at the pit. He mocked at everything; the posters promised pardon, and that sufficed.

—I want to work, it is my idea... Let us dress and make no noise.

They dressed in the darkness, with a thousand precautions. She, secretly, had prepared the day before her miner's clothes; he, in the cupboard, took a jacket and a pair of trousers; and they did not wash, for fear of moving the basin. All were sleeping, but they had to cross the narrow passage, where the mother lay. When they set out, ill-luck would have it that they stumbled against a chair. She awoke, she asked, in the drowsiness of sleep:

—Eh? who is it?

Catherine, trembling, had stopped, pressing Étienne's hand violently.

—It is I, do not trouble yourself, said the latter. I am stifling, I am going out to breathe a little.

—Good, good.

And Maheude fell asleep again. Catherine dared not move any more. At last, she went down into the room, she divided a slice of bread which she had kept from a loaf, given by a lady of Montsou. Then, softly, they closed the door, they went away.

Souvarine had remained standing, near the Avantage, at the corner of the road. For half an hour, he had been watching the colliers who were returning to work, confused in the shadow, passing with their deaf tramp of a herd. He counted them, as butchers count the beasts, at the entrance of the slaughterhouse; and he was surprised at their number, he did not foresee, even in his pessimism, that this number of cowards could be so great. The tail lengthened always; he stiffened, very cold, his teeth set, his eyes clear.

But he started. Among those men who defiled, and whose faces he did not distinguish, he had just recognised one, by his gait. He advanced, he stopped him.

—Where are you going?

Étienne, seized, instead of answering, stammered.

—Why! you have not gone yet!

Then he confessed, he was going back to the pit. No doubt he had sworn; only, it was not an existence, to wait with folded arms for things that would perhaps arrive in a hundred years; and, besides, reasons of his own decided him.

Souvarine had listened to him, shuddering. He seized him by a shoulder, he threw him back toward the settlement.

—Go home, I wish it, do you hear!

But, Catherine having approached, he recognised her also. Étienne protested, declared that he left to no one the care of judging his conduct. And the engine-man's eyes went from the young girl to the comrade; while he drew back a step, with a gesture of sudden abandonment. When there was a woman in a man's heart, the man was finished, he could die. Perhaps he saw again, in a rapid vision, yonder, at Moscow, his mistress hanged, that last link of his flesh cut, which had rendered him free of the life of others and of his own. He said simply:

—Go.

Embarrassed, Étienne lingered, sought a word of good friendship, so as not to part thus.

—Then, you are still going?

—Yes.

—Well! give me your hand, old fellow. Good journey and no hard feelings.

The other held out to him a frozen hand. Neither friend, nor woman.

—Farewell for good, this time.

—Yes, farewell.

And Souvarine, motionless in the darkness, followed with his eyes Étienne and Catherine, who were entering the Voreux.

III

At four o'clock, the descent began. Dansaert, installed in person at the marker's office, in the lamp-room, inscribed each workman who presented himself, and had a lamp given him. He took them all, without an observation, holding the promise of the posters. However, when he caught sight of Étienne and Catherine at the wicket, he gave a start, very red, his mouth open to refuse the inscription; then, he contented himself with triumphing, with a mocking air: ah! ah! the strongest of the strong was then on the ground? the Company was then a good thing, that the terrible overthrower of Montsou came back to ask it for bread? Silent, Étienne carried off his lamp and went up to the shaft, with the putter.

But it was there, in the landing-stage, that Catherine feared the evil words of the comrades. Exactly, at the entrance, she recognised Chaval amid some twenty miners, waiting for a cage to be free. He was advancing furiously toward her, when the sight of Étienne stopped him. Then, he affected to sneer, with outrageous shrugs of the shoulders. Very well! he did not care a damn, since the other had occupied the warm place; good riddance! that concerned the gentleman, if he liked leavings; and, under the display of this disdain, he was seized again with a trembling of jealousy, his eyes flamed. Besides, the comrades did not stir, mute, their eyes lowered. They contented themselves with casting an oblique glance at the newcomers; then, cast down and without anger, they began again to gaze fixedly at the mouth of the shaft, their lamp in hand, shivering under the thin cloth of their jacket, in the continual draughts of the great hall.

At last, the cage settled on the bolts, they shouted to them to embark. Catherine and Étienne packed into a tub, where Pierron and two hewers were already. Beside, in the other tub, Chaval was saying to father Mouque, very loud, that the Management was quite wrong not to profit by the occasion to clear the pits of the scoundrels who were rotting them; but the old groom, fallen back into the resignation of his dog's existence, no longer grew angry at the death of his children, answered simply with a gesture of conciliation.

The cage uncoupled, they flew in the dark. No one spoke. Suddenly, when they were two-thirds of the way down, there was a terrible scraping. The irons cracked, the men were thrown one against the other.

—God's name! growled Étienne, are they going to flatten us? We shall end by all staying there, with their damned tubbing. And they say still that they have repaired it!

However, the cage had cleared the obstacle. It was descending now under a storm of rain, so violent, that the workmen listened with uneasiness to that streaming. Had there then declared itself many leaks, in the loosening of the joints?

Pierron, questioned, he who had been working for several days, would not show his fear, which might be considered an attack on the Management; and he answered:

—Oh! no danger! It is always like that. No doubt they have not had time to caulk the joints.

The torrent roared above their heads, they arrived at the bottom, at the last landing, under a veritable waterspout. Not a deputy had had the idea of going up by the ladders, to ascertain. The pump would suffice, the caulkers would examine the joints, the following night. In the galleries, the reorganisation of the work gave enough trouble. Before letting the hewers return to their getting district, the engineer had decided that, during the first five days, all the men should execute certain works of consolidation, of absolute urgency. Falls threatened everywhere, the ways had suffered so much, that it was necessary to repair the timbering over lengths of several hundred metres. Below, they therefore formed teams of ten men, each under the direction of a deputy; then, they set them to work, at the most damaged places. When the descent was finished, they counted that three hundred and twenty-two miners had gone down, about half the number who worked, when the pit was in full exploitation.

Exactly, Chaval completed the team of which Catherine and Étienne formed part; and there was not there a chance, he had hidden himself first behind the comrades, then he had forced the deputy's hand. That team went to clear away, at the end of the north gallery, nearly three kilometres off, a fall which blocked a way of the Eighteen-Inch seam. They attacked the fallen rocks with the pick and the shovel. Étienne, Chaval and five others were clearing, while Catherine, with two trammers, wheeled the earth to the incline. Words were rare, the deputy did not leave them. However, the two sweethearts of the putter were on the point of exchanging slaps. While grumbling that he wanted no more of that stray, the former occupied himself with her, jostled her sneakingly, so well that the new one had threatened him with a thrashing, if he did not leave her alone. Their eyes devoured each other, they had to be separated.

Toward eight o'clock, Dansaert passed to cast an eye on the work. He seemed of an execrable humour, he flew into a passion against the deputy: nothing was going right, the timber asked to be replaced as they went along, was such work damned? And he departed, announcing that he would return with the engineer. He had been expecting Négrel since the morning, without understanding the cause of this delay.

Another hour passed. The deputy had stopped the clearing, to employ all his men in propping the roof. Even the putter and the two trammers no longer wheeled, prepared and brought the pieces of timbering. In that end of gallery, the team found itself as at the outposts, lost at an extremity of the mine, without communication henceforth with the other districts. Three or four times, strange noises, distant gallops did indeed turn the workers' heads: what was it then? one would have said that the ways were emptying, that the comrades were already coming up, and at a running pace. But the rumour was lost in the deep silence, they began again to wedge the timber, stunned by the great blows of the hammer. At last, they took up the clearing, the wheeling recommenced.

At the first trip, Catherine, frightened, came back saying that there was no one left at the incline.

—I called, no one answered. All have cleared off.

The stupefaction was such, that the ten men threw down their tools to gallop. This idea, of being abandoned, alone at the bottom of the pit, so far from the landing, maddened them. They had kept only their lamp, they ran in single file, the men, the children, the putter; and the deputy himself lost his head, threw calls, more and more frightened at the silence, at that desert of galleries which stretched endlessly. What was happening, that not a soul was met? What accident could have carried off thus the comrades? Their terror grew from the uncertainty of the danger, from that threat which they felt there, without knowing it.

At last, as they approached the landing, a torrent barred the road. They had at once water up to the knees; and they could no longer run, they cleft painfully the flood, with the thought that a minute of delay would be death.

—God's name! it is the tubbing that has burst, cried Étienne. I said well that we should stay there!

Since the descent, Pierron, very uneasy, saw increasing the deluge which fell from the shaft. While embarking the tubs with two others, he lifted his head, his face soaked with the great drops, his ears buzzing with the roar of the tempest, up there. But he trembled above all, when he perceived that, beneath him, the sump, the deep bougnou of ten metres, was filling: already, the water sprang from the flooring, overflowed on the cast-iron flags; and it was a proof that the pump no longer sufficed to exhaust the leaks. He heard it puff, with a hiccup of fatigue. Then, he warned Dansaert, who swore with anger, answering that they must wait for the engineer. Twice, he came back to the charge, without drawing from him other than exasperated shrugs. Well! the water was rising, what could he do about it?

Mouque appeared with Bataille, whom he was taking to the haulage; and he had to hold him with both hands, the old sleepy horse had suddenly reared, his head stretched toward the shaft, neighing at death.

—What now, philosopher? what worries you?... Ah! it is because it rains. Come along, that is no business of yours.

But the beast shivered in all his coat, he dragged him by force to the haulage.

Almost at the same instant, as Mouque and Bataille disappeared at the end of a gallery, a cracking took place in the air, followed by a prolonged uproar of falling. It was a piece of the tubbing which detached itself, which fell from a hundred and eighty metres, rebounding against the walls. Pierron and the other loaders could get clear, the oak plank only crushed an empty tub. At the same time, a pack of water, the flood bursting from a broken dyke, streamed. Dansaert wished to go up to see; but he was still speaking, when a second piece came down. And, before the threatening catastrophe, affrighted, he hesitated no longer, he gave the order for the ascent, sent deputies to warn the men, in the districts.

Then began a frightful stampede. From each gallery, files of workmen arrived at a gallop, threw themselves at the assault of the cages. They crushed each other, they killed each other to be brought up at once. Some, who had had the idea of taking the shaft of the ladders, came down again crying that the passage there was already blocked. It was the dread of all, after each departure of a cage: that one had just passed, but who knew if the next would still pass, amid the obstacles with which the shaft was obstructing itself? Above, the break-up must continue, one heard a series of dull detonations, the timber which was splitting, which was bursting in the continual and growing rumble of the downpour. A cage soon was out of use, stove in, no longer sliding between the guides, broken no doubt. The other scraped so much, that the cable was surely going to snap. And there remained a hundred men to get out, all were gasping, clinging, bloodstained, drowned. Two were killed by falls of planks. A third, who had gripped the cage, fell back from fifty metres and disappeared in the bougnou.

Dansaert, however, tried to put order. Armed with a rivelaine, he threatened to open the skull of the first who should not obey; and he wished to range them in file, he cried that the loaders should come out last, after packing the comrades. He was not listened to, he had prevented Pierron, cowardly and pale, from slipping away among the first. At each departure, he had to thrust him aside with a slap. But he himself chattered his teeth, a minute more, and he was engulfed: all was bursting up there, it was an overflowing river, a murderous rain of timber. Some workmen were still running up, when, mad with fear, he jumped into a tub, leaving Pierron to jump in behind him. The cage went up.

At this moment, the team of Étienne and Chaval emerged into the landing. They saw the cage disappear, they precipitated themselves; but they had to fall back, under the final collapse of the tubbing: the shaft was blocking itself, the cage would not come down again. Catherine sobbed, Chaval choked with crying oaths. They were about twenty, would these pig of chiefs abandon them thus? Father Mouque, who had brought back Bataille, without haste, still held him by the bridle, both stupefied, the old man and the beast, before the rapid rise of the flooding. The water already mounted to the thighs. Étienne mute, his teeth set, lifted Catherine between his arms. And the twenty howled, the face in the air, the twenty persisted, imbecile, in looking at the shaft, that caved hole which spat a river, and whence no succour could any more come to them.

By daylight, Dansaert, on landing, perceived Négrel who was running up. Madame Hennebeau, by a fatality, had, that morning, at the leap from the bed, kept him to turn over catalogues, for the purchase of the basket. It was ten o'clock.

—Well! what is happening then? he cried from afar.

—The pit is lost, answered the head-deputy.

And he told the catastrophe, stammering, while the engineer, incredulous, shrugged his shoulders: come now! did a tubbing demolish itself like that? They exaggerated, it must be seen.

—No one is left at the bottom, is there?

Dansaert was confused. No, no one. He hoped it at least. However, some workmen might have lingered.

—But, dog's name! said Négrel, why did you come out, then? Does one abandon one's men!

At once, he gave the order to count the lamps. In the morning, they had distributed three hundred and twenty-two; and they found only two hundred and fifty-five; only, several workmen avowed that theirs had remained down there, fallen from their hand, in the stampedes of the panic. They tried to proceed to a roll-call, it was impossible to establish an exact number: some miners had fled, others no longer heard their name. No one agreed on the missing comrades. They were perhaps twenty, perhaps forty. And, alone, a certainty was making itself for the engineer: there were men at the bottom, one distinguished their howling, in the noise of the waters, through the fallen timbers, when one leaned over the mouth of the shaft.

Négrel's first care was to send for M. Hennebeau and to wish to close the pit. But it was already too late, the colliers who had galloped to the settlement of the Two-Hundred-and-Forty, as pursued by the crackings of the tubbing, had just terrified the families; and bands of women, of old men, of little ones, were coming down at a run, shaken with cries and sobs. They had to be repulsed, a cordon of overseers was charged to hold them, for they would have hindered the manoeuvres. Many of the workmen come up from the shaft remained there, stupid, without thinking to change their clothes, held by a fascination of fear, in face of that frightful hole where they had nearly stayed. The women, distracted around them, supplicated them, questioned them, asked the names. Was this one among them? and that one? and that other? They did not know, they stammered, they had great shivers and gestures of madmen, gestures which thrust away an abominable vision, always present. The crowd increased rapidly, a lamentation rose from the roads. And, up there, on the pit-bank, in Bonnemort's cabin, there was, seated on the ground, a man, Souvarine, who had not moved away, and who was looking.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”