Germinal (43 page)

The journey back to the village was a sorry affair. When the women returned home empty-handed, the men looked at them and then lowered their eyes. That was that: the day would end without so much as a spoonful of soup, and thereafter the days stretched into icy darkness without a single glimmer of hope. They had chosen this path themselves, and no one spoke of surrender. Such an extreme of poverty simply hardened their resistance, like cornered animals silently resolved to die at the bottom of their lairs rather than come out. Who would have dared be the first to talk of giving in? They had all promised their comrades to stick together, and stick together they would, just like they did down the pit when somebody was trapped under a rock-fall. It was what you did, and there was nowhere better than the pit for learning how to put up with things: you could manage without food for a week if you'd been swallowing fire and water since the age of twelve. And in this way their commitment to each other was accompanied by a sense of military pride, the self-respect of men who were proud of their job and who vied for the honour of self-sacrifice in their daily struggle to stay alive.

In the Maheu household that evening was a terrible one. They sat in silence round the dying fire, a smoking heap of their last remaining cinders. Having emptied the mattresses handful by handful, they had finally decided two days ago to sell the cuckoo clock for three francs; and the room seemed bare and dead without its familiar ticking. The only superfluous item left was the pink cardboard box in the middle of the dresser, a present from Maheu which La Maheude treasured as though it were a jewel. The two good chairs had already gone, and old Bonnemort and the children squeezed together on a mouldy old bench which they had brought in from the garden. The pale twilight seemed to add to the cold.

‘What's to be done?' La Maheude kept saying, squatting beside the stove.

Étienne, standing, was looking at the pictures of the Emperor and Empress stuck to the wall. He would have torn them down long ago if the family had not wanted to keep them for decoration. And so he muttered between clenched teeth:

‘It's odd to think that we wouldn't get a penny out of those two useless individuals, but here they are watching us as we die.'

‘Why don't I pawn the box?' La Maheude continued after some hesitation, looking pale as she said it.

Maheu, perched on the edge of the table, legs dangling and head bowed, immediately sat up:

‘No, I won't have it.'

La Maheude struggled to her feet and began to walk round the room. How in God's name had it come to this? Not a crumb of bread in the dresser, nothing left to sell, and not the semblance of a notion how they could lay their hands on a loaf of bread! And a fire that was about to go out! She vented her anger on Alzire, whom she had that morning sent to look for cinders on the spoil-heap and who had returned empty-handed, saying that the Company had forbidden any further scavenging. What the hell did they care what the Company said? As if it were robbing anyone if they picked up tiny, forgotten pieces of coal. The little girl tearfully explained that a man had threatened to hit her, and then she promised to go back the next day even if she did get beaten.

‘And what about that brat Jeanlin?' cried his mother. ‘Where the hell is he, I'd like to know? He was supposed to be bringing us back some leaves. At least we could have grazed like the rest of the animals! You wait, I bet he doesn't come home. He didn't last night either. I don't know what he's up to, but that little devil always seems to be well enough fed.'

‘Perhaps he collects money on the road.'

She at once started shaking her fists, beside herself with rage.

‘If I thought that!…My children begging! I'd rather kill them, and myself afterwards.'

Maheu had resumed his slumped posture on the edge of the table. Lénore and Henri, astonished that they weren't eating, began to moan; while old Bonnemort sat in silence, resignedly rolling his tongue round his mouth trying to stave off the pangs
of hunger. Nobody spoke now, numbed by this further deterioration in their fortunes, with Grandpa coughing up black phlegm and troubled once more by his old rheumatic pains, which were turning into dropsy; with Father asthmatic, and his knees swollen with fluid retention; and with Mother and the little ones afflicted by congenital scrofula and anaemia. No doubt it
was
the fault of their jobs, and they only complained about it when lack of food actually started killing people (and they were beginning to drop like flies in the village). But they really did have to find something for supper. The question was: how? and, God help them, where?

Then, as the room filled with the gathering gloom of twilight, Étienne reluctantly made up his mind and said with a heavy heart:

‘Wait here. There's somewhere I can try.'

And out he went. He had remembered La Mouquette. She was sure to have a spare loaf, and she would be only too glad to give it to him. It annoyed him to have go back to Réquillart: she would start kissing his hands again, like some lovesick servant-girl. But a man didn't leave his friends in the lurch, he'd be nice to her again if he had to be.

‘Me too, I'm going to see what I can find,' said La Maheude in turn. ‘This is just ridiculous!'

She opened the door again after Étienne had left and then slammed it behind her, leaving the rest of them sitting silent and motionless in the meagre light of a candle-end which Alzire had just lit. Outside La Maheude paused to consider for a moment and then went into the Levaques' house.

‘You know that loaf I lent you the other day. How about letting me have it back?'

But she stopped, for the sight that met her eyes was not encouraging; and the house reeked of poverty even more than her own did.

La Levaque was staring at her fire, which had gone out, and Levaque was slumped across the table, having gone to sleep there on an empty stomach after some nailers had got him drunk. Bouteloup was leaning against the wall, absent-mindedly rubbing his shoulders against it and with the bewildered look
of a decent fellow who has let other people squander his savings and now finds himself having to tighten his belt.

‘A loaf of bread? Oh, my dear,' La Levaque replied. ‘And there was I about to ask you if I could borrow another one!'

At that moment her husband groaned with pain in his sleep, and she crushed his face into the table.

‘Quiet, you pig! Serves you right if it rots your guts!…Couldn't you have asked a friend for twenty sous instead of getting everyone to buy you a drink?'

And on she went, swearing and cursing and getting things off her chest, surrounded by a filthy home which had been let go for so long that an unbearable stench now rose from its floor. What did she care if the whole world was going to rack and ruin! That vagabond of a son, Bébert, had been gone since morning, and good riddance it would be too, she shouted, if he never came back. Then she said that she was going to bed. At least she'd be warm there. She gave Bouteloup a shove.

‘Come on, look sharp! We're going upstairs!…The fire's gone out, and there's no point lighting the candle just to stare at empty plates…Did you hear me, Louis? I said we're going to bed. We can cuddle up close, which'll be a relief from this cold at any rate…And that drunken bastard can catch his death all on his own down here!'

Once more outside, La Maheude took a short cut directly across the gardens to go and see the Pierrons. The sound of laughter could be heard coming from inside. She knocked on the door, and everything went suddenly quiet. It was at least a minute before anyone came.

‘Oh, it's you!' exclaimed La Pierronne, pretending to be very surprised. ‘I thought it was the doctor.'

Without letting La Maheude get a word in, she motioned towards Pierron, who was sitting in front of a big coal fire, and added:

‘He's not well, I'm afraid, still not well. He looks all right in the face, but it's his stomach that's plaguing him. He has to keep warm, so we're burning everything we've got.'

Pierron did indeed seem to be in fine form; he had a good colour, and there was plenty of flesh on him. He pretended
without success to wheeze like a sick man. In any case La Maheude had noticed a strong smell of rabbit as she came in: but of course they had cleared everything away! There were still crumbs on the table, and right in the middle stood a bottle of wine they had forgotten to remove.

‘Mother has gone to Montsou to try and find some bread,' La Pierronne continued. ‘There's nothing we can do but wait for her to come home.'

But her voice died away as her eyes followed La Maheude's and lit on the bottle. She recovered herself at once and proceeded to tell the story: yes, the people at La Piolaine had brought the wine for her husband, because the doctor had recommended that he drink claret. And she went on about how grateful she was, and what fine people they were, especially the young mistress, who wasn't a bit proud, coming into working folks' homes and distributing her charity in person!

‘Yes,' said La Maheude, ‘I know them.'

It depressed her to think that unto those that have shall be given. It was always the same, and those people from La Piolaine would have given bread to a baker. How had she missed them in the village? Perhaps she might have got something out of them all the same?

‘I just called,' La Maheude admitted finally, ‘to see if your cupboards were as bare as ours…You wouldn't have any vermicelli, would you? I'd let you have it back.'

La Pierronne voiced loud despair.

‘Not a thing, my dear. Not even a grain of semolina…And Mother's not back yet, so that must mean she's had no luck. We'll be going to bed hungry tonight.'

At that moment a sound of crying could be heard coming from the cellar, and La Pierronne banged on the door angrily with her fist. It was Lydie. The little trollop had been gallivanting about the place all day, and she'd locked her up to punish her for not coming home till five. There was nothing to be done with her now, she was always disappearing off like that.

Meanwhile La Maheude just stood there, unable to tear herself away. The penetrating warmth of the fire felt so good that it almost hurt, and the thought that people had been eating here
made her stomach feel even more empty. Obviously they had sent the old woman off and then locked up the girl so that the pair of them could feast on the rabbit. Ah, indeed, there was no denying: when a woman strayed, it brought good fortune on her home!

‘Good-night,' she said abruptly.

Night had fallen outside, and the cloud-decked moon shed a strange light over the earth. Instead of going back across the gardens, La Maheude went the long way round, sick at heart and unable to face going home. But there was no sign of life coming from the line of houses, and every door spoke of famine and empty stomachs. What was the use of knocking? This was the village of Misery For All. After weeks of starvation even the reek of onion had disappeared, that pungent aroma which meant that one could smell the village from far away in the countryside. Now there was just a smell of old cellars, of dank holes where nothing lives. Vague sounds died away, stifled sobs and curses that faded on the air; and in the deepening silence one could sense the approach of famine's rest, the slumber of exhausted bodies sprawled on their beds and racked by the nightmare visions that feed on empty stomachs.

As she was passing the church, she saw a shadowy figure hurrying away. In a moment of hope she quickened her step, for she had recognized Father Joire, the parish priest in Montsou, who came each Sunday to say Mass in the village chapel: he must have had something to see to in the vestry. He scurried past, head bowed, with that air of a plump and kindly man whose only wish is to live in peace with everyone about him. No doubt he had run his errand at night for fear of compromising himself among the miners. Not that it mattered. It was said that he had just been promoted, and even that he had already shown his successor round, a thin man with eyes like burning embers.

‘Father, Father,' La Maheude gasped.

But he did not stop.

‘Good-night, my dear, good-night.'

She found herself standing outside her own house. Her legs would carry her no further, and so she went in.

Nobody had moved. Maheu was still sitting slumped forward on the edge of the table. Old Bonnemort and the children were huddled together on the bench, trying to keep each other warm. Not a word had been exchanged, and the candle had burned so low that soon there would be no more light. As they heard the door open, the children looked round; but when they saw that their mother had brought nothing back with her, they stared at the floor once more, choking back a strong desire to cry in case they got scolded. La Maheude sank down into her former place beside the non-existent fire. No one asked her how she had got on, and the silence continued. Everyone had understood, and they saw no point in tiring themselves with talk. So now they waited in complete dejection, drained of courage, waiting on the one last chance that Étienne might have found something, somewhere. The minutes went by, and eventually they gave up hoping even for that.

When Étienne did reappear, he was carrying a dozen cold potatoes wrapped up in a cloth.

‘This is all I could find,' he said.

At La Mouquette's they were short of bread too: this was her dinner, and she had insisted on wrapping it in a cloth for him, kissing him passionately as she did so.

‘No, thanks,' he said to La Maheude, when she offered him his share. ‘I had something earlier.'

He was lying, and he watched despondently as the children attacked the food. Maheu and La Maheude held back also, to leave more for them; but the old man greedily devoured all he could. They even had to retrieve a potato for Alzire.

Then Étienne announced that he had news. Goaded by the strikers' obstinacy, the Company was talking of firing the miners responsible. Clearly it wanted war. And there was a still more serious rumour going round about the Company claiming to have persuaded a large number of workers to go back to work: tomorrow La Victoire and Feutry-Cantel would be at full strength, and there was even talk of a third of the men going back at Madeleine and Mirou. The Maheus were beside themselves.