Part 40

At Réquillart, the Hennebeaus waited a long time for the Grégoires, in the company of Négrel. The latter, having come up from the pit, was giving details: they hoped to communicate that very evening with the prisoners; but they would certainly only bring up corpses, for the deathly silence continued. Behind the engineer, the Maheude, seated on the beam, listened, quite pale, when the Levaque arrived to tell her of the fine stroke of her old man. And she had only a great gesture of impatience and irritation. Yet, she followed her.

Madame Hennebeau was fainting. What an abomination! that poor Cécile, so gay that day, so full of life an hour earlier! Hennebeau had to take his wife into old Mouque's hovel for a moment. With his clumsy hands, he was unclasping her, troubled by the musky odor exhaled from her opened bodice. And, as, streaming with tears, she clasped Négrel, dismayed at this death which cut short the marriage, the husband watched them lament together, freed from an anxiety. This misfortune arranged everything; he preferred to keep his nephew, in fear of his coachman.

V

At the bottom of the shaft, the abandoned wretches howled with terror. Now, the water was up to their bellies. The noise of the torrent stunned them, the last falls of the tubbing made them believe in a supreme cracking of the world; and what finished by maddening them were the neighings of the horses shut in the stable, a death-cry, terrible, unforgettable, of an animal being slaughtered.

Mouque had let go of Bataille. The old horse was there, trembling, his eye dilated and fixed on that water which kept rising. Rapidly, the landing-stage was filling, they saw the greenish flood swell, in the red glow of the three lamps, still burning under the vault. And, suddenly, when he felt that ice soak his hide, he set off at all fours, in a furious gallop, plunged in and was lost at the end of one of the haulage galleries.

Then it was every man for himself, the men followed the beast.

--Nothing more to do here! cried Mouque. We must try by Réquillart.

This idea that they might get out by the old neighboring pit, if they reached it before the passage was cut off, now carried them away. The twenty jostled one another in single file, holding their lamps in the air, so the water would not extinguish them. Happily, the gallery rose with an imperceptible slope; they went for two hundred meters, fighting the flood, without being gained upon further. Sleepy beliefs awoke in those distraught souls; they invoked the earth, it was the earth taking revenge, thus letting loose the blood of the vein, because an artery had been severed in her. An old man stammered forgotten prayers, bending his thumbs outward, to appease the evil spirits of the mine.

But, at the first crossways, a disagreement broke out. The groom wanted to go left, others swore they would shorten the way by taking the right. A minute was lost.

--Eh! leave your skin there, what do I care! brutally cried Chaval. Me, I'm off that way.

He took the right, two comrades followed him. The others continued to gallop behind father Mouque, who had grown up at the bottom of Réquillart. Yet, he himself hesitated, did not know which way to turn. Heads were wandering, the old hands no longer recognized the ways, whose skein seemed tangled before them. At each bifurcation, an uncertainty stopped them short, and yet they had to decide.

Étienne ran last, held back by Catherine, whom fatigue and fear paralyzed. He would have gone right, with Chaval, for he believed him on the right road; but he had let her go, resigned to remain at the bottom. Besides, the rout continued, comrades had yet drawn off to their side, they were no more than seven behind old Mouque.

--Hang on to my neck, I'll carry you, said Étienne to the young girl, seeing her weaken.

--No, leave me, she murmured, I can't anymore, I'd rather die at once.

They lagged, fifty meters to the rear, and he was lifting her despite her resistance, when the gallery suddenly blocked: an enormous block collapsing and separating them from the others. The flooding was already soaking the rocks, cave-ins were happening on all sides. They had to retrace their steps. Then, they no longer knew in what direction they were walking. It was over, they had to abandon the idea of going up by Réquillart. Their only hope was to reach the upper workings, where perhaps they would be delivered, if the waters lowered.

Étienne at last recognized the Guillaume vein.

--Good! he said, I know where we are. God damn! we were on the true path; but go to the devil now!... Listen, let's go straight, we'll climb by the chimney.

The flood beat their chests, they walked very slowly. As long as they had light, they would not despair; and they blew out one of the lamps, to save its oil, with the thought of pouring it into the other. They were reaching the chimney, when a noise behind them made them turn. Were those the comrades, barred in their turn, coming back? A breath roared in the distance, they could not explain this storm drawing near, in a splashing of foam. And they cried out, when they saw a gigantic mass, whitish, issue from the shadow and struggle to rejoin them, between the too narrow timbering, where it was crushed.

It was Bataille. On leaving the landing, he had galloped along the black galleries, distractedly. He seemed to know his way, in that underground city he had inhabited for eleven years; and his eyes saw clear, in the depth of the eternal night where he had lived. He galloped, he galloped, bending his head, gathering his feet, shooting along those thin bowels of the earth, filled by his great body. The streets succeeded one another, the crossways opened their fork, without his hesitating. Where was he going? yonder perhaps, to that vision of his youth, to the mill where he was born, on the bank of the Scarpe, to the confused memory of the sun, burning in the air like a big lamp. He wanted to live, his beast's memory awoke, the wish to breathe again the air of the plains pushed him straight before him, until he had discovered the hole, the exit under the warm sky, in the light. And a revolt carried away his old resignation, this pit was assassinating him, after having blinded him. The water that pursued him whipped his thighs, bit his croup. But, as he plunged deeper, the galleries grew narrower, lowering the roof, swelling the wall. He galloped nonetheless, he flayed himself, left on the timbering shreds of his limbs. On all sides, the mine seemed to close upon him, to take him and stifle him.

Then, as he arrived near them, Étienne and Catherine saw him choking between the rocks. He had stumbled, he had broken his two forelegs. With a last effort, he dragged himself some meters; but his flanks would no longer pass, he remained enveloped, trussed by the earth. And his bleeding head stretched out, still sought a cleft, with his big troubled eyes. The water was rapidly covering him, he began to neigh, with the prolonged, atrocious rattle, wherewith the other horses had already died, in the stable. It was a frightful agony, this old beast, smashed, immobilized, struggling at that depth, far from day. His cry of distress ceased not, the flood drowned his mane, which pushed it more raucous, from his stretched and wide-open mouth. There was a last snort, the dull noise of a barrel filling. Then a great silence fell.

--Ah! my God! take me away, sobbed Catherine. Ah! my God! I am afraid, I do not want to die... Take me away! take me away!

She had seen death. The collapsed shaft, the flooded pit, nothing had breathed in her face this dread, this clamor of Bataille agonizing. And she still heard it, her ears buzzed with it, all her flesh shivered with it.

--Take me away! take me away!

Étienne had seized her and was carrying her. Besides, it was high time, they climbed into the chimney, soaked to the shoulders. He had to help her, for she no longer had the strength to cling to the timber. Three times, he thought she was slipping from him, falling into the deep sea whose tide roared behind them. However, they could breathe a few minutes, when they met the first level, still free. The water reappeared, they had to haul themselves up again. And, for hours, this ascent continued, the flood drove them from level to level, forced them ever to rise. In the sixth, a respite fevered them with hope, it seemed to them the level remained stationary. But a stronger rise declared itself, they had to climb to the seventh, then to the eighth. Only one remained, and when they were there, they anxiously watched each centimeter the water gained. If it did not stop, were they then to die, like the old horse, crushed against the roof, the throat filled by the flood?

Cave-ins rang out at every instant. The whole mine was shaken, of too slender bowels, bursting from the enormous flow that gorged it. At the ends of the galleries, the driven-back air amassed, compressed, departed in formidable explosions, among the split rocks and the overturned grounds. It was the terrifying uproar of inner cataclysms, a corner of the ancient battle, when the deluges turned the earth, abyssing the mountains under the plains.

And Catherine, shaken, stunned by this continual falling-in, joined her hands, stammered the same words, without rest:

--I do not want to die... I do not want to die...

To reassure her, Étienne swore the water no longer moved. Their flight had lasted well six hours, they would come down to their rescue. And he said six hours without knowing, the exact notion of time escaped them. In reality, a whole day had already elapsed, in their ascent through the Guillaume vein.

Wet, shivering, they settled. She undressed without shame, to wring her clothes; then, she put on the breeches and jacket again, which finished drying on her. As she was barefoot, he, who had his clogs, forced her to take them. They could wait now, they had lowered the lamp's wick, keeping only a faint night-light glimmer. But cramps tore their stomachs, both perceived they were dying of hunger. Until then, they had not felt themselves alive. At the moment of the catastrophe, they had not breakfasted, and they had just found their slices of bread, swollen by the water, changed to soup. She had to grow angry for him to consent to accept his share. As soon as she had eaten, she fell asleep from weariness, on the cold earth. He, burned with sleeplessness, watched her, the forehead between the hands, the eyes fixed.

How many hours passed thus? He could not have said. What he knew was that, before him, through the hole of the chimney, he had seen reappear the black and moving flood, the beast whose back swelled ceaselessly to reach them. At first, there was only a thin line, a supple serpent that lengthened; then, that widened into a crawling, writhing spine; and soon they were overtaken, the feet of the sleeping young girl were soaked. Anxious, he hesitated to wake her. Was it not cruel to draw her from this rest, from the annihilated ignorance that perhaps rocked her in a dream of open air and life in the sun? Where to flee, besides? And he searched, and he recalled that the inclined plane, established in this part of the vein, communicated, end to end, with the plane serving the upper landing. It was an outlet. He let her sleep yet, as long as possible, watching the flood gain, waiting until it drove them out. At last, he gently lifted her, and she gave a great shudder.

--Ah! my God! it is true!... It begins again, my God!

She remembered, she cried, to find again the near death.

--No, calm yourself, he murmured. We can pass, I swear to you.

To reach the inclined plane, they had to walk bent double, again wet to the shoulders. And the ascent recommenced, more dangerous, by this wholly timbered hole, a hundred meters long. At first, they wanted to pull the cable, to fix one of the tubs below; for if the other had descended, during their climb, it would have crushed them. But nothing moved, an obstacle had jammed the mechanism. They risked it, not daring to use that cable which hindered them, tearing their nails against the smooth frames. He, came last, held her by the skull, when she slipped, the hands bloody. Suddenly, they knocked against splinters of beam, which barred the plane. Earth had slipped, a cave-in prevented going higher. By good fortune, a door opened there, and they emerged into a level.

Before them, the gleam of a lamp stupefied them. A man cried to them furiously:

--More fools as stupid as me!

They recognized Chaval, who found himself blocked by the cave-in, whose earth filled the inclined plane; and the two comrades, gone with him, had even remained on the way, the head split. He, wounded at the elbow, had had the courage to go back on his knees to take their lamps and search them, to steal their bread. As he was escaping, a last falling-in, behind his back, had blocked the gallery.

At once, he swore to himself not to share his provisions with those people coming out of the earth. He would have brained them. Then, he recognized them in his turn, and his anger fell, he began to laugh, with a laugh of evil joy.

--Ah! it's you, Catherine! You broke your nose, and you wanted to rejoin your man. Good! good! we're going to dance together.

He affected not to see Étienne. The latter, upset by the meeting, had made a gesture to protect the hauler, who pressed against him. Yet, they had to accept the situation. He simply asked the comrade, as if they had parted good friends an hour earlier:

--Have you looked below? We can't pass by the workings then?

Chaval sneered always.

--Ah! indeed! by the workings! They've caved in too, we're between two walls, a real mouse-trap... But you can go back by the plane, if you're a good diver.

Indeed, the water was rising, you heard it lap. The retreat was already cut off. And he was right, it was a mouse-trap, a bit of gallery that considerable subsidences obstructed behind and before. Not one outlet, all three were walled in.

--So, you stay? added Chaval mockingly. Go on, that's what you'll do best, and if you leave me in peace, I won't even speak to you. There's still room here for two men... We'll soon see which croaks first, unless they come, which seems difficult to me.

The young man resumed:

--If we tapped, perhaps they'd hear us.

--I'm tired of tapping... Here! try yourself with this stone.

Étienne picked up the piece of sandstone, which the other had already crumbled, and he beat against the vein, at the end, the miners' call, the prolonged roll wherewith endangered workmen signal their presence. Then, he glued his ear, to listen. Twenty times, he persisted. No noise answered.

During this time, Chaval affected to make his little household coldly. First, he ranged his three lamps against the wall: only one burned, the others would serve later. Next, he placed on a piece of the timbering the two slices of bread he still had. That was the cupboard, he would last two days with that, if reasonable. He turned, saying:

--You know, Catherine, there'll be half for you, when you're too hungry.

The young girl was silent. It crowned her misfortune, to find herself between these two men.

And the awful life began. Neither Chaval nor Étienne opened the mouth, seated on the ground, some steps apart. On the first's remark, the second extinguished his lamp, a useless luxury of light; then, they fell back into their silence. Catherine had lain near the young man, uneasy at the looks her former sweetheart threw her. The hours flowed, you heard the little murmur of the water ceaselessly rising; while, from time to time, deep shocks, distant resoundings, announced the last settlements of the mine. When the lamp emptied and they had to open another, to light it, the fear of firedamp agitated them an instant; but they preferred to blow up at once, than to last in the darkness; and nothing blew up, there was no firedamp. They had stretched out again, the hours began to flow once more.

A noise moved Étienne and Catherine, who raised the head. Chaval was deciding to eat: he had cut half a slice, he chewed slowly, so as not to be tempted to swallow all. They, whom hunger tortured, looked at him.

--Truly, you refuse? he said to the hauler, with his provoking air. You're wrong.

She had lowered the eyes, fearing to yield, the stomach torn by such a cramp, that tears swelled her lids. But she understood what he asked; already, in the morning, he had breathed on her neck; he was taken again with one of his old furies of desire, on seeing her near the other. The looks wherewith he called her had a flame she knew well, the flame of his jealous crises, when he fell on her with his fists, accusing her of abominations with her mother's lodger. And she did not want to, she trembled, at returning to him, to throw these two men one upon the other, in this narrow cellar where they agonized. Good God! could one not finish in good friendship!

Étienne would have died of inanition, rather than beg Chaval a mouthful of bread. Silence grew heavy, an eternity again seemed to prolong itself, with the slowness of the monotonous minutes, which passed one by one, without hope. It was a day they had been shut together. The second lamp paled, they lit the third.

Chaval started his other slice, and he grunted:

--Come then, stupid!

Catherine gave a shudder. To leave her free, Étienne had turned away. Then, as she did not move, he said to her in a low voice:

--Go, my child.

The tears she stifled streamed then. She wept long, not even finding the strength to rise, no longer knowing if she was hungry, suffering a pain that held her through all the body. He, had stood up, went and came, beat vainly the miners' call, enraged at this remainder of life they forced him to live there, stuck to the rival he execrated. Not even room enough to die far from one another! As soon as he had made ten steps, he had to come back and knock against that man. And she, the sad girl, whom they disputed even in the earth! She would be to the last living, that man would steal her from him again, if he went first. It would not end, the hours followed the hours, the revolting promiscuity worsened, with the poisoning of breaths, the filth of needs satisfied in common. Twice, he rushed at the rocks, as to open them with his fists.

A new day was ending, and Chaval had sat near Catherine, sharing with her his last half-slice. She chewed the mouthfuls painfully, he made her pay each with a caress, in his obstinacy of a jealous man who would not die without having her again, before the other. Exhausted, she abandoned herself. But, when he tried to take her, she complained.

--Oh! leave me, you're breaking my bones.

Étienne, shivering, had placed his forehead against the timber, so as not to see. He came back with a bound, distraught.

--Leave her, God damn!

--Does that concern you? said Chaval. She's my wife, she's mine perhaps!

And he took her again, and he squeezed her, in bravado, crushing on her mouth his red mustaches, continuing:

--Leave us in peace, eh! do us the pleasure of seeing yonder if we're there.

But Étienne, the lips white, cried:

--If you don't let her go, I'll strangle you!

Quickly, the other stood up, for he had understood, at the whistling of the voice, that the comrade was going to finish. Death seemed too slow to them, it must be that, at once, one of the two yielded the place. It was the old battle recommencing, in the earth where they would soon sleep side by side; and they had so little space, that they could not brandish their fists without flaying them.

--Beware, growled Chaval. This time, I eat you.

Étienne, at that moment, went mad. His eyes drowned in a red vapor, his throat had congested with a flood of blood. The need to kill seized him, irresistible, a physical need, the sanguine excitation of a mucous membrane that determines a violent fit of coughing. That rose, burst outside his will, under the push of the hereditary lesion. He had grasped, in the wall, a leaf of schist, and he was shaking it, and he tore it out, very wide, very heavy. Then, with both hands, with a tenfold strength, he brought it down on Chaval's skull.

The latter had not time to leap backward. He fell, the face bruised, the skull split. The brain had splashed the roof of the gallery, a purple jet flowed from the wound, like the continuous jet of a spring. At once, there was a pool, where the fuming star of the lamp was reflected. The shadow invaded that walled vault, the body seemed, on the ground, the black hump of a heap of slack.

And, bent, the eye widened, Étienne looked at him. So it was done, he had killed. Confusedly, all his struggles returned to memory, that useless combat against the poison sleeping in his muscles, the alcohol slowly accumulated of his race. Yet, he was drunk only with hunger, the distant drunkenness of the parents had sufficed. His hair stood before the horror of this murder, and despite the revolt of his upbringing, a lightness made his heart beat, the animal joy of an appetite at last satisfied. He had then a pride, the pride of the stronger. The little soldier had appeared to him, the throat pierced by a knife, killed by a child. He too, had killed.

But Catherine, upright, uttered a great cry.

--My God! he is dead!

--You regret him? asked Étienne fierce.

She suffocated, she stammered. Then, staggering, she threw herself into his arms.

--Ah! kill me too, ah! let us die both!

With a clasp, she attached herself to his shoulders, and he clasped her equally, and they hoped they were going to die. But death was not in haste, they unclasped their arms. Then, while she hid her eyes, he dragged the wretch, he threw him into the inclined plane, to remove him from the narrow space where they had still to live. Life would no longer have been possible, with that corpse underfoot. And they were terrified, when they heard him plunge, amid a rebound of foam. The water had then already filled that hole? They perceived it, it overflowed into the gallery.

Then, it was a new struggle. They had lit the last lamp, it was exhausting in lighting the flood, whose regular, obstinate rise did not stop. They had first water at the ankles, then it wet their knees. The level rose, they took refuge at the end, which gave them a respite of some hours. But the flood caught them again, they bathed to the waist. Standing, cornered, the spine stuck to the rock, they watched it grow, always, always. When it reached their mouth, it would be over. The lamp, which they had hung, yellowed the rapid swell of the little waves; it paled, they no longer distinguished but a half-circle diminishing ceaselessly, as eaten by the shadow which seemed to grow with the flux; and, suddenly, the shadow enveloped them, the lamp had just gone out, after spitting its last drop of oil. It was complete night, absolute, that night of the earth they would sleep, without ever reopening their eyes to the light of the sun.

--God damn! swore Étienne hollowly.

Catherine, as if she had felt the darkness seize her, had sheltered against him. She repeated the miners' word, in a low voice:

--Death blows out the lamp.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”