الفصل الفصل 2 · 第2章

In the middle of the fields of wheat and beetroot, the

Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement slept beneath the black night. One could

vaguely distinguish four immense blocks of small houses, back to back,

barracks or hospital blocks, geometric and parallel, separated by three

large avenues which were divided into gardens of equal size. And over

the desert plain one heard only the moan of squalls through the broken

trellises of the enclosures.

In the Maheus' house, No. 16 in the second block, nothing was stirring.

The single room that occupied the first floor was drowned in a thick

darkness which seemed to overwhelm with its weight the sleep of the

beings whom one felt to be there in a mass, with open mouths, overcome

by weariness. In spite of the keen cold outside, there was a living

heat in the heavy air, that hot stuffiness of even the best kept

bedrooms, the smell of human cattle.

Four o'clock had struck from the clock in the room on the ground floor,

but nothing yet stirred; one heard the piping of slender respirations,

accompanied by two series of sonorous snores. And suddenly Catherine

got up. In her weariness she had, as usual, counted the four strokes

through the floor without the strength to arouse herself completely.

Then, throwing her legs from under the bedclothes, she felt about, at

last struck a match and lighted the candle. But she remained seated,

her head so heavy that it fell back between her shoulders, seeking to

return to the bolster.

Now the candle lighted up the room, a square room with two windows,

and filled with three beds. There could be seen a cupboard, a table,

and two old walnut chairs, whose smoky tone made hard, dark patches

against the walls, which were painted a light yellow. And nothing else,

only clothes hung to nails, a jug placed on the floor, and a red pan

which served as a basin. In the bed on the left, Zacharie, the eldest,

a youth of one-and-twenty, was asleep with his brother Jeanlin, who

had completed his eleventh year; in the right-hand bed two urchins,

Lénore and Henri, the first six years old, the second four, slept in

each other's arms, while Catherine shared the third bed with her sister

Alzire, so small for her nine years that Catherine would not have felt

her near her if it were not for the little invalid's humpback, which

pressed into her side. The glass door was open; one could perceive the

lobby of a landing, a sort of recess in which the father and the mother

occupied a fourth bed, against which they had been obliged to install

the cradle of the latest comer, Estelle, aged scarcely three months.

However, Catherine made a desperate effort. She stretched herself,

she fidgeted her two hands in the red hair which covered her forehead

and neck. Slender for her fifteen years, all that showed of her limbs

outside the narrow sheath of her chemise were her bluish feet, as it

were tattooed with coal, and her slight arms, the milky whiteness of

which contrasted with the sallow tint of her face, already spoilt by

constant washing with black soap. A final yawn opened her rather large

mouth with splendid teeth against the chlorotic pallor of her gums;

while her grey eyes were crying in her fight with sleep, with a look of

painful distress and weariness which seemed to spread over the whole of

her naked body.

But a growl came from the landing, and Maheu's thick voice stammered;

"Devil take it! It's time. Is it you lighting up, Catherine?"

"Yes, father; it has just struck downstairs."

"Quick then, lazy. If you had danced less on Sunday you would have woke

us earlier. A fine lazy life!"

And he went on grumbling, but sleep returned to him also. His

reproaches became confused, and were extinguished in fresh snoring.

The young girl, in her chemise, with her naked feet on the floor, moved

about in the room. As she passed by the bed of Henri and Lénore, she

replaced the coverlet which had slipped down. They did not wake, lost

in the strong sleep of childhood. Alzire, with open eyes, had turned to

take the warm place of her big sister without speaking.

"I say, now, Zacharie--and you, Jeanlin; I say, now!" repeated

Catherine, standing before her two brothers, who were still wallowing

with their noses in the bolster.

She had to seize the elder by the shoulder and shake him; then, while

he was muttering abuse, it came into her head to uncover them by

snatching away the sheet. That seemed funny to her, and she began to

laugh when she saw the two boys struggling with naked legs.

"Stupid, leave me alone," growled Zacharie in ill-temper, sitting up.

"I don't like tricks. Good Lord! Say it's time to get up?"

He was lean and ill-made, with a long face and a chin which showed

signs of a sprouting beard, yellow hair, and the anaemic pallor which

belonged to his whole family.

His shirt had rolled up to his belly, and he lowered it, not from

modesty but because he was not warm.

"It has struck downstairs," repeated Catherine; "come! up! father's

angry."

Jeanlin, who had rolled himself up, closed his eyes, saying: "Go and

hang yourself; I'm going to sleep."

She laughed again, the laugh of a good-natured girl. He was so small,

his limbs so thin, with enormous joints, enlarged by scrofula, that she

took him up in her arms. But he kicked about, his apish face, pale and

wrinkled, with its green eyes and great ears, grew pale with the rage

of weakness. He said nothing, he bit her right breast.

"Beastly fellow!" she murmured, keeping back a cry and putting him on

the floor.

Alzire was silent, with the sheet tucked under her chin, but she had

not gone to sleep again. With her intelligent invalid's eyes she

followed her sister and her two brothers, who were now dressing.

Another quarrel broke out around the pan, the boys hustled the young

girl because she was so long washing herself. Shirts flew about: and,

while still half-asleep, they eased themselves without shame, with

the tranquil satisfaction of a litter of puppies that have grown up

together. Catherine was ready first. She put on her miner's breeches,

then her canvas jacket, and fastened the blue cap on her knotted hair;

in these clean Monday clothes she had the appearance of a little man;

nothing remained to indicate her sex except the slight roll of her hips.

"When the old man comes back," said Zacharie, mischievously, "he'll

like to find the bed unmade. You know I shall tell him it's you."

The old man was the grandfather, Bonnemort, who, as he worked during

the night, slept by day, so that the bed was never cold; there was

always someone snoring there. Without replying, Catherine set herself

to arrange the bed-clothes and tuck them in. But during the last

moments sounds had been heard behind the wall in the next house. These

brick buildings, economically put up by the Company, were so thin that

the least breath could be heard through them. The inmates lived there,

elbow to elbow, from one end to the other; and no fact of family life

remained hidden, even from the youngsters. A heavy step had tramped up

the staircase; then there was a kind of soft fall, followed by a sigh

of satisfaction.

"Good!" said Catherine. "Levaque has gone down, and here is Bouteloup

come to join the Levaque woman."

Jeanlin grinned; even Alzire's eyes shone. Every morning they made fun

of the household of three next door, a pikeman who lodged a worker in

the cutting, an arrangement which gave the woman two men, one by night,

the other by day.

"Philoméne is coughing," began Catherine again, after listening.

She was speaking of the eldest Levaque, a big girl of nineteen, and

the mistress of Zacharie, by whom she had already had two children;

her chest was so delicate that she was only a sifter at the pit, never

having been able to work below.

"Pooh! Philoméne!" replied Zacharie, "she cares a lot, she's asleep.

It's hoggish to sleep till six."

He was putting on his breeches when an idea occurred to him, and he

opened the window. Outside in the darkness the settlement was awaking,

lights were dawning one by one between the laths of the shutters. And

there was another dispute: he leant out to watch if he could not see,

coming out of Pierron's opposite, the captain of the Voreux, who was

accused of sleeping with the Pierron woman, while his sister called to

him that since the day before the husband had taken day duty at the

pit-eye, and that certainly Dansaert could not have slept there that

night. Whilst the air entered in icy whiffs, both of them, becoming

angry, maintained the truth of their own information, until cries and

tears broke out. It was Estelle, in her cradle, vexed by the cold.

Maheu woke up suddenly. What had he got in his bones, then? Here

he was going to sleep again like a good-for-nothing. And he swore

so vigorously that the children became still. Zacharie and Jeanlin

finished washing with slow weariness. Alzire, with her large, open

eyes, continually stared. The two youngsters, Lénore and Henri, in each

other's arms, had not stirred, breathing in the same quiet way in spite

of the noise.

"Catherine, give me the candle," called out Maheu.

She finished buttoning her jacket, and carried the candle into the

closet, leaving her brothers to look for their clothes by what light

came through the door. Her father jumped out of bed. She did not stop,

but went downstairs in her coarse woollen stockings, feeling her way,

and lighted another candle in the parlour, to prepare the coffee. All

the sabots of the family were beneath the sideboard.

"Will you be still, vermin?" began Maheu, again, exasperated by

Estelle's cries which still went on.

He was short, like old Bonnemort, and resembled him, with his strong

head, his flat, livid face, beneath yellow hair cut very short. The

child screamed more than ever, frightened by those great knotted arms

which were held above her.

"Leave her alone; you know that she won't be still," said his wife,

stretching herself in the middle of the bed.

She also had just awakened and was complaining how disgusting it was

never to be able to finish the night. Could they not go away quietly?

Buried in the clothes she only showed her long face with large features

of a heavy beauty, already disfigured at thirty-nine by her life of

wretchedness and the seven children she had borne. With her eyes on

the ceiling she spoke slowly, while her man dressed himself. They

both ceased to hear the little one, who was strangling herself with

screaming.

"Eh? You know I haven't a penny and this is only Monday: still six days

before the fortnight's out. This can't go on. You, all of you, only

bring in nine francs. How do you expect me to go on? We are ten in the

house."

"Oh! nine francs!" exclaimed Maheu. "I and Zacharie three: that makes

six, Catherine and the father, two: that makes four: four and six, ten,

and Jeanlin one, that makes eleven."

"Yes, eleven, but there are Sundays and the off-days. Never more than

nine, you know."

He did not reply, being occupied in looking on the ground for his

leather belt. Then he said, on getting up:

"Mustn't complain. I am sound all the same. There's more than one at

forty-two who are put to the patching."

"Maybe, old man, but that does not give us bread. Where am I to get it

from, eh? Have you got nothing?"

"I've got two coppers."

"Keep them for a half-pint. Good Lord! where am I to get it from? Six

days! it will never end. We owe sixty francs to Maigrat, who turned me

out of doors day before yesterday. That won't prevent me from going to

see him again. But if he goes on refusing----"

And Maheude continued in her melancholy voice, without moving her head,

only closing her eyes now and then beneath the dim light of the candle.

She said the cupboard was empty, the little ones asking for bread and

butter, even the coffee was done, and the water caused colic, and

the long days passed in deceiving hunger with boiled cabbage leaves.

Little by little she had been obliged to raise her voice, for Estelle's

screams drowned her words. These cries became unbearable. Maheu seemed

all at once to hear them, and, in a fury, snatched the little one up

from the cradle and threw it on the mother's bed, stammering with rage:

"Here, take her; I'll do for her! Damn the child! It wants for nothing:

it sucks, and it complains louder than all the rest!"

Estelle began, in fact, to suck. Hidden beneath the clothes and soothed

by the warmth of the bed, her cries subsided into the greedy little

sound of her lips.

"Haven't the Piolaine people told you to go and see them?" asked the

father, after a period of silence.

The mother bit her lip with an air of discouraged doubt.

"Yes, they met me; they were carrying clothes for poor children. Yes,

I'll take Lénore and Henri to them this morning. If they only give me a

few pence!"

There was silence again.

Maheu was ready. He remained a moment motionless, then added, in his

hollow voice:

"What is it that you want? Let things be, and see about the soup. It's

no good talking, better be at work down below."

"True enough," replied Maheude. "Blow out the candle: I don't need to

see the colour of my thoughts."

He blew out the candle. Zacharie and Jeanlin were already going down;

he followed them, and the wooden staircase creaked beneath their heavy

feet, clad in wool. Behind them the closet and the room were again

dark. The children slept; even Alzire's eyelids were closed; but the

mother now remained with her eyes open in the darkness, while, pulling

at her breast, the pendent breast of an exhausted woman, Estelle was

purring like a kitten.

Down below, Catherine had at first occupied herself with the fire,

which was burning in the iron grate, flanked by two ovens. The Company

distributed every month, to each family, eight hectolitres of a hard

slaty coal, gathered in the passages. It burnt slowly, and the young

girl, who piled up the fire every night, only had to stir it in the

morning, adding a few fragments of soft coal, carefully picked out.

Then, after having placed a kettle on the grate, she sat down before

the sideboard.

It was a fairly large room, occupying all the ground floor, painted an

apple green, and of Flemish cleanliness, with its flags well washed and

covered with white sand. Besides the sideboard of varnished deal the

furniture consisted of a table and chairs of the same wood. Stuck on to

the walls were some violently-coloured prints, portraits of the Emperor

and the Empress, given by the Company, of soldiers and of saints

speckled with gold, contrasting crudely with the simple nudity of the

room; and there was no other ornament except a box of rose-coloured

pasteboard on the sideboard, and the clock with its daubed face and

loud tick-tack, which seemed to fill the emptiness of the place. Near

the staircase door another door led to the cellar. In spite of the

cleanliness, an odour of cooked onion, shut up since the night before,

poisoned the hot, heavy air, always laden with an acrid flavour of coal.

Catherine, in front of the sideboard, was reflecting. There only

remained the end of a loaf, cheese in fair abundance, but hardly a

morsel of butter; and she had to provide bread and butter for four. At

last she decided, cut the slices, took one and covered it with cheese,

spread another with butter, and stuck them together; that was the

"brick," the bread-and-butter sandwich taken to the pit every morning.

The four bricks were soon on the table, in a row, cut with severe

justice, from the big one for the father down to the little one for

Jeanlin.

Catherine, who appeared absorbed in her household duties, must,

however, have been thinking of the stories told by Zacharie about the

head captain and the Pierron woman, for she half opened the front door

and glanced outside. The wind was still whistling. There were numerous

spots of light on the low fronts of the settlement, from which arose a

vague tremor of awakening. Already doors were being closed, and black

files of workers passed into the night. It was stupid of her to get

cold, since the porter at the pit-eye was certainly asleep, waiting

to take his duties at six. Yet she remained and looked at the house

on the other side of the gardens. The door opened, and her curiosity

was aroused. But it could only be one of the little Pierrons, Lydie,

setting out for the pit.

The hissing sound of steam made her turn. She shut the door, and

hastened back; the water was boiling over, and putting out the fire.

There was no more coffee. She had to be content to add the water to

last night's dregs; then she sugared the coffee-pot with brown sugar.

At that moment her father and two brothers came downstairs.

"Faith!" exclaimed Zacharie, when he had put his nose into his bowl,

"here's something that won't get into our heads."

Maheu shrugged his shoulders with an air of resignation.

"Bah! It's hot! It's good all the same."

Jeanlin had gathered up the fragments of bread and made a sop of them.

After having drunk, Catherine finished by emptying the coffee-pot into

the tin-jacks. All four, standing up in the smoky light of the candle,

swallowed their meals hastily.

"Are we at the end?" said the father; "one would say we were people of

property."

But a voice came from the staircase, of which they had left the door

open. It was Maheude, who called out:

"Take all the bread: I have some vermicelli for the children."

"Yes, yes," replied Catherine.

She had piled up the fire, wedging the pot that held the remains of the

soup into a corner of the grate, so that the grandfather might find

it warm when he came in at six. Each took his sabots from under the

sideboard, passed the strings of his tin over his shoulder and placed

his brick at his back, between shirt and jacket. And they went out, the

men first, the girl, who came last, blowing out the candle and turning

the key. The house became dark again.

"Ah! we're off together," said a man who was closing the door of the

next house.

It was Levaque, with his son Bébert, an urchin of twelve, a great

friend of Jeanlin's. Catherine, in surprise, stifled a laugh in

Zacharie's ear:

"Why! Bouteloup didn't even wait until the husband had gone!"

Now the lights in the settlement were extinguished, and the last door

banged. All again fell asleep; the women and the little ones resuming

their slumber in the midst of wider beds. And from the extinguished

village to the roaring Voreux a slow filing of shadows took place

beneath the squalls, the departure of the colliers to their work,

bending their shoulders and incommoded by their arms, crossed on their

breasts, while the brick behind formed a hump on each back. Clothed

in their thin jackets they shivered with cold, but without hastening,

straggling along the road with the tramp of a flock.