Kabanata Kabanata 11 · 第11章

At Rasseneur's, after having eaten his soup, Étienne went back into

the small chamber beneath the roof and facing the Voreux, which he was

to occupy, and fell on to his bed dressed as he was, overcome with

fatigue. In two days he had not slept four hours. When he awoke in the

twilight he was dazed for a moment, not recognizing his surroundings;

and he felt such uneasiness and his head was so heavy that he rose,

painfully, with the idea of getting some fresh air before having his

dinner and going to bed for the night.

Outside, the weather was becoming milder: the sooty sky was growing

copper-coloured, laden with one of those warm rains of the Nord, the

approach of which one feels by the moist warmth of the air, and the

night was coming on in great mists which drowned the distant landscape

of the plain. Over this immense sea of reddish earth the low sky seemed

to melt into black dust, without a breath of wind now to animate the

darkness. It was the wan and deathly melancholy of a funeral.

Étienne walked straight ahead at random, with no other aim but to shake

off his fever. When he passed before the Voreux, already growing gloomy

at the bottom of its hole and with no lantern yet shining from it, he

stopped a moment to watch the departure of the day-workers. No doubt

six o'clock had struck; landers, porters from the pit-eye, and grooms

were going away in bands, mixed with the vague and laughing figures of

the screening girls in the shade.

At first it was Brulé and her son-in-law, Pierron. She was abusing him

because he had not supported her in a quarrel with an overseer over her

reckoning of stones.

"Get along! damned good-for-nothing! Do you call yourself a man to

lower yourself like that before one of these beasts who devour us?"

Pierron followed her peacefully, without replying. At last he said:

"I suppose I ought to jump on the boss? Thanks for showing me how to

get into a mess!"

"Bend your backside to him, then," she shouted. "By God! if my daughter

had listened to me! It's not enough for them to kill the father.

Perhaps you'd like me to say 'thank you.' No, I'll have their skins

first!"

Their voices were lost. Étienne saw her disappear, with her eagle nose,

her flying white hair, her long, lean arms that gesticulated furiously.

But the conversation of two young people behind caused him to listen.

He had recognized Zacharie, who was waiting there, and who had just

been addressed by his friend Mouquet.

"Are you here?" said the latter. "We will have something to eat, and

then off to the Volcan."

"Directly. I've something to attend to."

"What, then?"

The lander turned and saw Philoméne coming out of the screening-shed.

He thought he understood.

"Very well, if it's that. Then I go ahead."

"Yes, I'll catch you up."

As he went away, Mouquet met his father, old Mouque, who was also

coming out of the Voreux. The two men simply wished each other good

evening, the son taking the main road while the father went along by

the canal.

Zacharie was already pushing Philoméne in spite of her resistance into

the same solitary path. She was in a hurry, another time; and the two

wrangled like old housemates. There was no fun in only seeing one

another out of doors, especially in winter, when the earth is moist and

there are no wheatfields to lie in.

"No, no, it's not that," he whispered impatiently. "I've something to

say to you." He led her gently with his arm round her waist. Then, when

they were in the shadow of the pit-bank, he asked if she had any money.

"What for?" she demanded.

Then he became confused, spoke of a debt of two francs which had

reduced his family to despair.

"Hold your tongue! I've seen Mouquet; you're going again to the Volcan

with him, where those dirty singer-women are."

He defended himself, struck his chest, gave his word of honour. Then,

as she shrugged her shoulders, he said suddenly:

"Come with us if it will amuse you. You see that you don't put me out.

What do I want to do with the singers? Will you come?"

"And the little one?" she replied. "How can one stir with a child

that's always screaming? Let me go back, I guess they're not getting on

at the house."

But he held her and entreated. See! it was only not to look foolish

before Mouquet to whom he had promised. A man could not go to bed every

evening like the fowls. She was overcome, and pulled up the skirt of

her gown; with her nail she cut the thread and drew out some half-franc

pieces from a corner of the hem. For fear of being robbed by her mother

she hid there the profit of the overtime work she did at the pit.

"I've got five, you see," she said, "I'll give you three. Only you must

swear that you'll make your mother decide to let us marry. We've had

enough of this life in the open air. And mother reproaches me for every

mouthful I eat. Swear first."

She spoke with the soft voice of a big, delicate girl, without passion,

simply tired of her life. He swore, exclaimed that it was a sacred

promise; then, when he had got the three pieces, he kissed her, tickled

her, made her laugh, and would have pushed things to an extreme in

this corner of the pit-bank, which was the winter chamber of their

household, if she had not again refused, saying that it would not give

her any pleasure. She went back to the settlement alone, while he cut

across the fields to rejoin his companion.

Étienne had followed them mechanically, from afar, without

understanding, regarding it as a simple rendezvous. The girls were

precocious in the pits; and he recalled the Lille work-girls whom he

had waited for behind the factories, those bands of girls, corrupted at

fourteen, in the abandonment of their wretchedness. But another meeting

surprised him more. He stopped.

At the bottom of the pit-bank, in a hollow into which some large stones

had slipped, little Jeanlin was violently snubbing Lydie and Bébert,

seated one at his right, the other at his left.

"What do you say? Eh? I'll slap each of you if you want more. Who

thought of it first, eh?"

In fact, Jeanlin had had an idea. After having roamed about in the

meadows, along the canal, for an hour, gathering dandelions with the

two others, it had occurred to him, before this pile of salad, that

they would never eat all that at home; and instead of going back to the

settlement he had gone to Montsou, keeping Bébert to watch, and making

Lydie ring at the houses and offer the dandelions. He was experienced

enough to know that, as he said, girls could sell what they liked.

In the ardour of business, the entire pile had disappeared; but the

girl had gained eleven sous. And now, with empty hands, the three were

dividing the profits.

"That's not fair!" Bébert declared. "Must divide into three. If you

keep seven sous we shall only have two each."

"What? not fair!" replied Jeanlin furiously. "I gathered more first of

all."

The other usually submitted with timid admiration and a credulity which

always made him the dupe. Though older and stronger, he even allowed

himself to be struck. But this time the sight of all that money excited

him to rebellion.

"He's robbing us, Lydie, isn't he? If he doesn't share, we'll tell his

mother."

Jeanlin at once thrust his fist beneath the other's nose.

"Say that again! I'll go and say at your house that you sold my

mother's salad. And then, you silly beast, how can I divide eleven

sous into three? Just try and see, if you're so clever. Here are your

two sous each. Just look sharp and take them, or I'll put them in my

pocket."

Bébert was vanquished and accepted the two sous. Lydie, who was

trembling, had said nothing, for with Jeanlin she experienced the fear

and the tenderness of a little beaten woman. When he held out the two

sous to her she advanced her hand with a submissive laugh. But he

suddenly changed his mind.

"Eh! what will you do with all that? Your mother will nab them, sure

enough, if you don't know how to hide them from her. I'd better keep

them for you. When you want money you can ask me for it."

And the nine sous disappeared. To shut her mouth he had put his arms

around her laughingly and was rolling with her over the pit-bank. She

was his little wife, and in the dark corners they used to try together

the love which they heard and saw in their homes behind partitions,

through the cracks of doors. They knew everything, but they were able

to do nothing, being too young, fumbling and playing for hours at the

games of vicious puppies. He called that playing at papa and mama; and

when he chased her she ran away and let herself be caught with the

delicious trembling of instinct, often angry, but always yielding, in

the expectation of something which never came.

As Bébert was not admitted to these games and received a cuffing

whenever he wanted to touch Lydie, he was always constrained, agitated

by anger and uneasiness when the other two were amusing themselves,

which they did not hesitate to do in his presence. His one idea,

therefore, was to frighten them and disturb them, calling out that

someone could see them.

"It's all up! There's a man looking."

This time he told the truth; it was Étienne, who had decided to

continue his walk. The children jumped up and ran away, and he passed

by round the bank, following the canal, amused at the terror of these

little rascals. No doubt it was too early at their age, but they saw

and heard so much that one would have to tie them up to restrain them.

Yet Étienne became sad.

A hundred paces farther on he came across more couples. He had arrived

at Réquillart, and there, around the old ruined mine, all the girls of

Montsou prowled about with their lovers. It was the common rendezvous,

the remote and deserted spot to which the putters came to get their

first child when they dared not risk the shed. The broken palings

opened to every one the old yard, now become a nondescript piece of

ground, obstructed by the ruins of the two sheds which had fallen

in, and by the skeletons of the large buttresses which were still

standing. Derelict trams were lying about, and piles of old rotting

wood, while a dense vegetation was reconquering this corner of ground,

displaying itself in thick grass, and springing up in young trees that

were already vigorous. Every girl found herself at home here; there

were concealed holes for all; their lovers placed them over beams,

behind the timber, in the trams; they even lay elbow to elbow without

troubling about their neighbours. And it seemed that around this

extinguished engine, near this shaft weary of disgorging coal, there

was a revenge of creation in the free love which, beneath the lash of

instinct, planted children in the bellies of these girls who were yet

hardly women.

Yet a caretaker lived there, old Mouque, to whom the Company had given

up, almost beneath the destroyed tower, two rooms which were constantly

threatened by destruction from the expected fall of the last walls.

He had even been obliged to shore up a part of the roof, and he lived

there very comfortably with his family, he and Mouquet in one room,

Mouquette in the other. As the windows no longer possessed a single

pane, he had decided to close them by nailing up boards; one could

not see well, but it was warm. For the rest, this caretaker cared for

nothing: he went to look after his horses at the Voreux, and never

troubled himself about the ruins of Réquillart, of which the shaft

only was preserved, in order to serve as a chimney for a fire which

ventilated the neighbouring pit.

It was thus that Father Mouque was ending his old age in the midst of

love. Ever since she was ten Mouquette had been lying about in all the

corners of the ruins, not as a timid and still green little urchin

like Lydie, but as a girl who was already big, and a mate for bearded

lads. The father had nothing to say, for she was considerate, and

never introduced a lover into the house. Then he was used to this sort

of accident. When he went to the Voreux, when he came back, whenever

he came out of his hole, he could scarcely put a foot down without

treading on a couple in the grass; and it was worse if he wanted to

gather wood to heat his soup or look for burdocks for his rabbit at

the other end of the enclosure. Then he saw one by one the voluptuous

noses of all the girls of Montsou rising up around him, while he had

to be careful not to knock against the limbs stretched out level with

the paths. Besides, these meetings had gradually ceased to disturb

either him who was simply taking care not to stumble, or the girls whom

he allowed to finish their affairs, going away with discreet little

steps like a worthy man who was at peace with the ways of nature. Only

just as they now knew him he at last also knew them, as one knows the

rascally magpies who become corrupted in the pear-trees in the garden.

Ah! youth! youth! how it goes on, how wild it is! Sometimes he wagged

his chin with silent regret, turning away from the noisy wantons who

were breathing too loudly in the darkness. Only one thing put him out

of temper: two lovers had acquired the bad habit of embracing outside

his wall. It was not that it prevented him from sleeping, but they

leaned against the wall so heavily that at last they damaged it.

Every evening old Mouque received a visit from his friend, Father

Bonnemort, who regularly before dinner took the same walk. The two old

men spoke little, scarcely exchanging ten words during the half-hour

that they spent together. But it cheered them thus to think over the

days of old, to chew their recollections over again without need to

talk of them. At Réquillart they sat on a beam side by side, saying a

word and then sinking into their dreams, with faces bent towards the

earth. No doubt they were becoming young again. Around them lovers

were turning over their sweethearts; there was a murmur of kisses and

laughter; the warm odour of the girls arose in the freshness of the

trodden grass. It was now forty-three years since Father Bonnemort had

taken his wife behind the pit; she was a putter, so slight that he had

placed her on a tram to embrace her at ease. Ah! those were fine days.

And the two old men, shaking their heads, at last left each other,

often without saying good night.

That evening, however, as Étienne arrived, Father Bonnemort, who was

getting up from the beam to return to the settlement, said to Mouque:

"Good night, old man. I say, you knew Roussie?"

Mouque was silent for a moment, rocked his shoulders; then, returning

to the house:

"Good night, good night, old man."

Étienne came and sat on the beam, in his turn. His sadness was

increasing, though he could not tell why. The old man, whose

disappearing back he watched, recalled his arrival in the morning,

and the flood of words which the piercing wind had dragged from his

silence. What wretchedness! And all these girls, worn out with fatigue,

who were still stupid enough in the evening to fabricate little ones,

to yield flesh for labour and suffering! It would never come to an end

if they were always filling themselves with starvelings. Would it not

be better if they were to shut up their bellies, and press their thighs

together, as at the approach of misfortune? Perhaps these gloomy ideas

only stirred confusedly in him because he was alone, while all the

others at this hour were going about taking their pleasure in couples.

The mild weather stifled him a little, occasional drops of rain fell on

his feverish hands. Yes, they all came to it; it was something stronger

than reason.

Just then, as Étienne remained seated motionless in the shadow, a

couple who came down from Montsou rustled against him without seeing

him as they entered the uneven Réquillart ground. The girl, certainly a

virgin, was struggling and resisting with low whispered supplications,

while the lad in silence was pushing her towards the darkness of a

corner of the shed, still upright, under which there were piles of

old mouldy rope. It was Catherine and big Chaval. But Étienne had not

recognized them in passing, and his eyes followed them; he was watching

for the end of the story, touched by a sensuality which changed the

course of his thoughts. Why should he interfere? When girls refuse it

is because they like first to be forced.

On leaving the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante Catherine had gone

to Montsou along the road. From the age of ten, since she had earned

her living at the pit, she went about the country alone in the complete

liberty of the colliers' families; and if no man had possessed her at

fifteen it was owing to the tardy awakening of her puberty, the crisis

of which had not yet arrived. When she was in front of the Company's

Yards she crossed the road and entered a laundress's where she was

certain to find Mouquette; for the latter stayed there from morning

till night, among women who treated each other with coffee all round.

But she was disappointed; Mouquette had just then been regaling them in

her turn so thoroughly that she was not able to lend the half-franc she

had promised. To console her they vainly offered a glass of hot coffee.

She was not even willing that her companion should borrow from another

woman. An idea of economy had come to her, a sort of superstitious

fear, the certainty that that ribbon would bring her bad luck if she

were to buy it now.

She hastened to regain the road to the settlement, and had reached the

last houses of Montsou when a man at the door of the Piquette Estaminet

called her:

"Eh! Catherine! where are you off to so quick?"

It was lanky Chaval. She was vexed, not because he displeased her, but

because she was not inclined to joke.

"Come in and have a drink. A little glass of sweet, won't you?"

She refused politely; the night was coming on, they were expecting her

at home. He had advanced, and was entreating her in a low voice in the

middle of the road. It had been his idea for a long time to persuade

her to come up to the room which he occupied on the first story of the

Estaminet Piquette, a fine room for a household, with a large bed. Did

he frighten her, that she always refused? She laughed good-naturedly,

and said that she would come up some day when children didn't grow.

Then, one thing leading to another, she told him, without knowing how,

about the blue ribbon which she had not been able to buy.

"But I'll pay for it," he exclaimed.

She blushed, feeling that it would be best to refuse again, but

possessed by a strong desire to have the ribbon. The idea of a loan

came back to her, and at last she accepted on condition that she should

return to him what he spent on her. They began to joke again: it was

agreed that if she did not sleep with him she should return him the

money. But there was another difficulty when he talked of going to

Maigrat's.

"No, not Maigrat's; mother won't let me."

"Why? is there any need to say where one goes? He has the best ribbons

in Montsou."

When Maigrat saw lanky Chaval and Catherine coming to his shop like two

lovers who are buying their engagement gifts, he became very red, and

exhibited his pieces of blue ribbon with the rage of a man who is being

made fun of. Then, when he had served the young people, he planted

himself at the door to watch them disappear in the twilight; and when

his wife came to ask him a question in a timid voice, he fell on her,

abusing her, and exclaiming that he would make them repent some day,

the filthy creatures, who had no gratitude, when they ought all to be

on the ground licking his feet.

Lanky Chaval accompanied Catherine along the road. He walked beside

her, swinging his arms; only he pushed her by the hip, conducting her

without seeming to do so. She suddenly perceived that he had made her

leave the pavement and that they were taking the narrow Réquillart

road. But she had no time to be angry; his arm was already round her

waist, and he was dazing her with a constant caress of words. How

stupid she was to be afraid! Did he want to hurt such a little darling,

who was as soft as silk, so tender that he could have devoured her?

And he breathed behind her ear, in her neck, so that a shudder passed

over the skin of her whole body. She felt stifled, and had nothing to

reply. It was true that he seemed to love her. On Saturday evenings,

after having blown out the candle, she had asked herself what would

happen if he were to take her in this way; then, on going to sleep,

she had dreamed that she would no longer refuse, quite overcome by

pleasure. Why, then, at the same idea to-day did she feel repugnance

and something like regret? While he was tickling her neck with his

moustache so softly that she closed her eyes, the shadow of another

man, of the lad she had seen that morning, passed over the darkness of

her closed eyelids.

Catherine suddenly looked around her. Chaval had conducted her into the

ruins of Réquillart and she recoiled, shuddering, from the darkness of

the fallen shed.

"Oh! no! oh, no!" she murmured, "please let me go!" The fear of the

male had taken hold of her, that fear which stiffens the muscles in

an impulse of defence, even when girls are willing, and feel the

conquering approach of man. Her virginity which had nothing to learn

took fright as at a threatening blow, a wound of which she feared the

unknown pain.

"No, no! I don't want to! I tell you that I am too young. It's true!

Another time, when I am quite grown up."

He growled in a low voice:

"Stupid! There's nothing to fear. What does that matter?"

But without speaking more he had seized her firmly and pushed her

beneath the shed. And she fell on her back on the old ropes; she ceased

to protest, yielding to the male before her time, with that hereditary

submission which from childhood had thrown down in the open air all the

girls of her race. Her frightened stammering grew faint, and only the

ardent breath of the man was heard.

Étienne, however, had listened without moving. Another who was taking

the leap! And now that he had seen the comedy he got up, overcome

by uneasiness, by a kind of jealous excitement in which there was a

touch of anger. He no longer restrained himself; he stepped over the

beams, for those two were too much occupied now to be disturbed. He was

surprised, therefore, when he had gone a hundred paces along the path,

to find that they were already standing up, and that they appeared,

like himself, to be returning to the settlement. The man again had

his arm round the girl's waist, and was squeezing her, with an air of

gratitude, still speaking in her neck; and it was she who seemed in a

hurry, anxious to return quickly, and annoyed at the delay.

Then Étienne was tormented by the desire to see their faces. It was

foolish, and he hastened his steps, so as not to yield to it; but

his feet slackened of their own accord, and at the first lamppost he

concealed himself in the shade. He was petrified by horror when he

recognized Catherine and lanky Chaval. He hesitated at first: was it

indeed she, that young girl in the coarse blue dress, with that bonnet?

Was that the urchin whom he had seen in breeches, with her head in

the canvas cap? That was why she could pass so near him without his

recognizing her. But he no longer doubted; he had seen her eyes again,

with their greenish limpidity of spring water, so clear and so deep.

What a wench! And he experienced a furious desire to avenge himself on

her with contempt, without any motive. Besides, he did not like her as

a girl: she was frightful.

Catherine and Chaval had passed him slowly. They did not know that they

were watched. He held her to kiss her behind the ear, and she began

to slacken her steps beneath his caresses, which made her laugh. Left

behind, Étienne was obliged to follow them, irritated because they

barred the road and because in spite of himself he had to witness these

things which exasperated him. It was true, then, what she had sworn to

him in the morning: she was not any one's mistress; and he, who had not

believed her, who had deprived himself of her in order not to act like

the other! and who had let her be taken beneath his nose, pushing his

stupidity so far as to be dirtily amused at seeing them! It made him

mad! he clenched his hands, he could have devoured that man in one of

those impulses to kill in which he saw everything red.

The walk lasted for half an hour. When Chaval and Catherine approached

the Voreux they slackened their pace still more; they stopped twice

beside the canal, three times along the pit-bank, very cheerful now and

occupied with little tender games. Étienne was obliged to stop also

when they stopped, for fear of being perceived. He endeavoured to feel

nothing but a brutal regret: that would teach him to treat girls with

consideration through being well brought up! Then, after passing the

Voreux, and at last free to go and dine at Rasseneur's, he continued

to follow them, accompanying them to the settlement, where he remained

standing in the shade for a quarter of an hour, waiting until Chaval

left Catherine to enter her home. And when he was quite sure that they

were no longer together, he set off walking afresh, going very far

along the Marchiennes road, stamping, and thinking of nothing, too

stifled and too sad to shut himself up in a room.

It was not until an hour later, towards nine o'clock, that Étienne

again passed the settlement, saying to himself that he must eat and

sleep, if he was to be up again at four o'clock in the morning. The

village was already asleep, and looked quite black in the night. Not a

gleam shone from the closed shutters, the house fronts slept, with the

heavy sleep of snoring barracks. Only a cat escaped through the empty

gardens. It was the end of the day, the collapse of workers falling

from the table to the bed, overcome with weariness and food.

At Rasseneur's, in the lighted room, an engine-man and two day-workers

were drinking. But before going in Étienne stopped to throw one last

glance into the darkness. He saw again the same black immensity as in

the morning when he had arrived in the wind. Before him the Voreux was

crouching, with its air of an evil beast, its dimness pricked with a

few lantern lights. The three braziers of the bank were burning in the

air, like bloody moons, now and then showing the vast silhouettes of

Father Bonnemort and his yellow horse. And beyond, in the flat plain,

shade had submerged everything, Montsou, Marchiennes, the forest of

Vandame, the immense sea of beetroot and of wheat, in which there only

shone, like distant lighthouses, the blue fires of the blast furnaces,

and the red fires of the coke ovens. Gradually the night came on, the

rain was now falling slowly, continuously, burying this void in its

monotonous streaming. Only one voice was still heard, the thick, slow

respiration of the pumping engine, breathing both by day and by night.

PART THREE