บทที่ บทที่ 32 · 第32章

On that Sunday, ever since eight o'clock, Souvarine had been sitting

alone in the parlour of the Avantage, at his accustomed place, with

his head against the wall. Not a single collier knew where to get two

sous for a drink, and never had the bars had fewer customers. So Madame

Rasseneur, motionless at the counter, preserved an irritated silence;

while Rasseneur, standing before the iron fireplace, seemed to be

gazing with a reflective air at the brown smoke from the coal.

Suddenly, in this heavy silence of an over-heated room, three light

quick blows struck against one of the window-panes made Souvarine turn

his head. He rose, for he recognized the signal which Étienne had

already used several times before, in order to call him, when he saw

him from without, smoking his cigarette at an empty table. But before

the engine-man could reach the door, Rasseneur had opened it, and,

recognizing the man who stood there in the light from the window, he

said to him:

"Are you afraid that I shall sell you? You can talk better here than on

the road."

Étienne entered. Madame Rasseneur politely offered him a glass, which

he refused, with a gesture. The innkeeper added:

"I guessed long ago where you hide yourself. If I was a spy, as your

friends say, I should have sent the police after you a week ago."

"There is no need for you to defend yourself," replied the young man.

"I know that you have never eaten that sort of bread. People may have

different ideas and esteem each other all the same."

And there was silence once more. Souvarine had gone back to his chair,

with his back to the wall and his eyes fixed on the smoke from his

cigarette, but his feverish fingers were moving restlessly, and he ran

them over his knees, seeking the warm fur of Poland, who was absent

this evening; it was an unconscious discomfort, something that was

lacking, he could not exactly say what.

Seated on the other side of the table, Étienne at last said:

"To-morrow work begins again at the Voreux. The Belgians have come with

little Négrel."

"Yes, they landed them at nightfall," muttered Rasseneur, who remained

standing. "As long as they don't kill each other after all!"

Then raising his voice:

"No, you know, I don't want to begin our disputes over again, but this

will end badly if you hold out any longer. Why, your story is just like

that of your International. I met Pluchart the day before yesterday, at

Lille, where I went on business. It's going wrong, that machine of his."

He gave details. The association, after having conquered the workers

of the whole world, in an outburst of propaganda which had left the

middle class still shuddering, was now being devoured and slowly

destroyed by an internal struggle between vanities and ambitions.

Since the anarchists had triumphed in it, chasing out the earlier

evolutionists, everything was breaking up; the original aim, the reform

of the wage-system, was lost in the midst of the squabbling of sects;

the scientific framework was disorganized by the hatred of discipline.

And already it was possible to foresee the final miscarriage of this

general revolt which for a moment had threatened to carry away in a

breath the old rotten society.

"Pluchart is ill over it," Rasseneur went on. "And he has no voice at

all now. All the same, he talks on in spite of everything and wants to

go to Paris. And he told me three times over that our strike was done

for."

Étienne with his eyes on the ground let him talk on without

interruption. The evening before he had chatted with some mates, and he

felt that breaths of spite and suspicion were passing over him, those

first breaths of unpopularity which forerun defeat. And he remained

gloomy, he would not confess dejection in the presence of a man who had

foretold to him that the crowd would hoot him in his turn on the day

when they had to avenge themselves for a miscalculation.

"No doubt the strike is done for, I know that as well as Pluchart," he

said. "But we foresaw that. We accepted this strike against our wishes,

we didn't count on finishing up with the Company. Only one gets carried

away, one begins to expect things, and when it turns out badly one

forgets that one ought to have expected that, instead of lamenting and

quarrelling as if it were a catastrophe tumbled down from heaven."

"Then if you think the game's lost," asked Rasseneur, "why don't you

make the mates listen to reason?"

The young man looked at him fixedly.

"Listen! enough of this. You have your ideas, I have mine. I came in

here to show you that I feel esteem for you in spite of everything.

But I still think that if we come to grief over this trouble, our

starved carcasses will do more for the people's cause than all your

common-sense politics. Ah! if one of those bloody soldiers would just

put a bullet in my heart, that would be a fine way of ending!"

His eyes were moist, as in this cry there broke out the secret desire

of the vanquished, the refuge in which he desired to lose his torment

for ever.

"Well said!" declared Madame Rasseneur, casting on her husband a look

which was full of all the contempt of her radical opinions.

Souvarine, with a vague gaze, feeling about with his nervous hands, did

not appear to hear. His fair girlish face, with the thin nose and small

pointed teeth, seemed to be growing savage in some mystic dream full

of bloody visions. And he began to dream aloud, replying to a remark

of Rasseneur's about the International which had been let fall in the

course of the conversation.

"They are all cowards; there is only one man who can make their machine

into a terrible instrument of destruction. It requires will, and none

of them have will; and that's why the revolution will miscarry once

more."

He went on in a voice of disgust, lamenting the imbecility of men,

while the other two were disturbed by these somnambulistic confidences

made in the darkness. In Russia there was nothing going on well, and

he was in despair over the news he had received. His old companions

were all turning to the politicians; the famous Nihilists who made

Europe tremble--sons of village priests, of the lower middle class,

of tradesmen--could not rise above the idea of national liberation,

and seemed to believe that the world would be delivered--when they had

killed their despot. As soon as he spoke to them of razing society

to the ground like a ripe harvest--as soon as he even pronounced the

infantile word "republic"--he felt that he was misunderstood and a

disturber, henceforth unclassed, enrolled among the lost leaders of

cosmopolitan revolution. His patriotic heart struggled, however, and it

was with painful bitterness that he repeated his favourite expression:

"Foolery! They'll never get out of it with their foolery."

Then, lowering his voice still more, in a few bitter words he described

his old dream of fraternity. He had renounced his rank and his fortune;

he had gone among workmen, only in the hope of seeing at last the

foundation of a new society of labour in common. All the sous in his

pockets had long gone to the urchins of the settlement; he had been

as tender as a brother with the colliers, smiling at their suspicion,

winning them over by his quiet workmanlike ways and his dislike of

chattering. But decidedly the fusion had not taken place; he remained

a stranger, with his contempt of all bonds, his desire to keep himself

free of all petty vanities and enjoyments. And since this morning

he had been especially exasperated by reading an incident in the

newspapers.

His voice changed, his eyes grew bright, he fixed them on Étienne,

directly addressing him:

"Now, do you understand that? These hatworkers at Marseilles who have

won the great lottery prize of a hundred thousand francs have gone off

at once and invested it, declaring that they are going to live without

doing anything! Yes, that is your idea, all of you French workmen; you

want to unearth a treasure in order to devour it alone afterwards in

some lazy, selfish corner. You may cry out as much as you like against

the rich, you haven't got courage enough to give back to the poor the

money that luck brings you. You will never be worthy of happiness as

long as you own anything, and your hatred of the bourgeois proceeds

solely from an angry desire to be bourgeois yourselves in their place."

Rasseneur burst out laughing. The idea that the two Marseilles workmen

ought to renounce the big prize seemed to him absurd. But Souvarine

grew pale; his face changed and became terrible in one of those

religious rages which exterminate nations. He cried:

"You will all be mown down, overthrown, cast on the dung-heap.

Someone will be born who will annihilate your race of cowards and

pleasure-seekers. And look here! you see my hands; if my hands were

able they would take up the earth, like that, and shake it until it was

smashed to fragments, and you were all buried beneath the rubbish."

"Well said," declared Madame Rasseneur, with her polite and convinced

air.

There was silence again. Then Étienne spoke once more of the Borinage

men. He questioned Souvarine concerning the steps that had been taken

at the Voreux. But the engine-man was still preoccupied, and scarcely

replied. He only knew that cartridges would be distributed to the

soldiers who were guarding the pit; and the nervous restlessness of his

fingers over his knees increased to such an extent that, at last, he

became conscious of what was lacking--the soft and soothing fur of the

tame rabbit.

"Where is Poland, then?" he asked.

The innkeeper laughed again as he looked at his wife. After an awkward

silence he made up his mind:

"Poland? She is in the pot."

Since her adventure with Jeanlin, the pregnant rabbit, no doubt

wounded, had only brought forth dead young ones; and to avoid feeding a

useless mouth they had resigned themselves that very day to serve her

up with potatoes.

"Yes, you ate one of her legs this evening. Eh! You licked your fingers

after it!"

Souvarine had not understood at first. Then he became very pale, and

his face contracted with nausea; while, in spite of his stoicism, two

large tears were swelling beneath his eyelids.

But no one had time to notice this emotion, for the door had opened

roughly and Chaval had appeared, pushing Catherine before him.

After having made himself drunk with beer and bluster in all the

public-houses of Montsou, the idea had occurred to him to go to the

Avantage to show his old friends that he was not afraid. As he came in,

he said to his mistress:

"By God! I tell you you shall drink a glass in here; I'll break the

jaws of the first man who looks askance at me!"

Catherine, moved at the sight of Étienne, had become very pale. When

Chaval in his turn perceived him, he grinned in his evil fashion.

"Two glasses, Madame Rasseneur! We're wetting the new start of work."

Without a word she poured out, as a woman who never refused her beer to

any one. There was silence, and neither the landlord nor the two others

stirred from their places.

"I know people who've said that I was a spy," Chaval went on

swaggeringly, "and I'm waiting for them just to say it again to my

face, so that we can have a bit of explanation."

No one replied, and the men turned their heads and gazed vaguely at the

walls.

"There are some who sham, and there are some who don't sham," he went

on louder. "I've nothing to hide. I've left Deneulin's dirty shop,

and to-morrow I'm going down to the Voreux with a dozen Belgians, who

have been given me to lead because I'm held in esteem; and if any one

doesn't like that, he can just say so, and we'll talk it over."

Then, as the same contemptuous silence greeted his provocations, he

turned furiously on Catherine.

"Will you drink, by God? Drink with me to the confusion of all the

dirty beasts who refuse to work."

She drank, but with so trembling a hand that the two glasses struck

together with a tinkling sound. He had now pulled out of his pocket a

handful of silver, which he exhibited with drunken ostentation, saying

that he had earned that with his sweat, and that he defied the shammers

to show ten sous. The attitude of his mates exasperated him, and he

began to come to direct insults.

"Then it is at night that the moles come out? The police have to go to

sleep before we meet the brigands."

Étienne had risen, very calm and resolute.

"Listen! You annoy me. Yes, you are a spy; your money still stinks of

some treachery. You've sold yourself, and it disgusts me to touch your

skin. No matter; I'm your man. It is quite time that one of us did for

the other."

Chaval clenched his fists.

"Come along, then, cowardly dog! I must call you so to warm you up.

You all alone--I'm quite willing; and you shall pay for all the bloody

tricks that have been played on me."

With suppliant arms Catherine advanced between them. But they had no

need to repel her; she felt the necessity of the battle, and slowly

drew back of her own accord. Standing against the wall, she remained

silent, so paralysed with anguish that she no longer shivered, her

large eyes gazing at these two men who were going to kill each other

over her.

Madame Rasseneur simply removed the glasses from the counter for fear

that they might be broken. Then she sat down again on the bench,

without showing any improper curiosity. But two old mates could

not be left to murder each other like this. Rasseneur persisted in

interfering, and Souvarine had to take him by the shoulder and lead him

back to the table, saying:

"It doesn't concern you. There is one of them too many, and the

strongest must live."

Without waiting for the attack, Chaval's fists were already dealing

blows at space. He was the taller of the two, and his blows swung about

aiming at the face, with furious cutting movements of both arms one

after the other, as though he were handling a couple of sabres. And he

went on talking, playing to the gallery with volleys of abuse, which

served to excite him.

"Ah! you damned devil, I'll have your nose! I'll do for your bloody

nose! Just let me get at your chops, you whore's looking-glass;

I'll make a hash for the bloody swine, and then we shall see if the

strumpets will run after you!"

In silence, and with clenched teeth, Étienne gathered up his small

figure, according to the rules of the game, protecting his chest and

face by both fists; and he watched and let them fly like springs

released, with terrible straight blows.

At first they did each other little damage. The whirling and blustering

blows of the one, the cool watchfulness of the other, prolonged the

struggle. A chair was overthrown; their heavy boots crushed the white

sand scattered on the floor. But at last they were out of breath, their

panting respiration was heard, while their faces became red and swollen

as from an interior fire which flamed out from the clear holes of their

eyes.

"Played!" yelled Chaval; "trumps on your carcass!"

In fact his fist, working like a flail, had struck his adversary's

shoulder. Étienne restrained a groan of pain and the only sound that

was heard was the dull bruising of the muscles. Étienne replied with

a straight blow to Chaval's chest, which would have knocked him out,

had he had not saved himself by one of his constant goat-like leaps.

The blow, however, caught him on the left flank with such effect that

he tottered, momentarily winded. He became furious on feeling his arm

grow limp with pain, and kicked out like a wild beast, aiming at his

adversary's belly with his heel.

"Have at your guts!" he stammered in a choked voice. "I'll pull them

out and unwind them for you!"

Étienne avoided the blow, so indignant at this infraction of the laws

of fair fighting that he broke silence.

"Hold your tongue, brute! And no feet, by God! or I take a chair and

bash you with it!"

Then the struggle became serious. Rasseneur was disgusted, and would

again have interfered, but a severe look from his wife held him back:

had not two customers a right to settle an affair in the house?

He simply placed himself before the fireplace, for fear lest they

should tumble over into it. Souvarine, in his quiet way, had rolled a

cigarette, but he forgot to light it. Catherine was motionless against

the wall; only her hands had unconsciously risen to her waist, and with

constant fidgeting movements were twisting and tearing at the stuff of

her dress. She was striving as hard as possible not to cry out, and so,

perhaps, kill one of them by declaring her preference; but she was,

too, so distracted that she did not even know which she preferred.

Chaval, who was bathed in sweat and striking at random, soon became

exhausted. In spite of his anger, Étienne continued to cover himself,

parrying nearly all the blows, a few of which grazed him. His ear was

split, a finger nail had torn away a piece of his neck, and this so

smarted that he swore in his turn as he drove out one of his terrible

straight blows. Once more Chaval saved his chest by a leap, but he had

lowered himself, and the fist reached his face, smashing his nose and

crushing one eye. Immediately a jet of blood came from his nostrils,

and his eye became swollen and bluish. Blinded by this red flood, and

dazed by the shock to his skull, the wretch was beating the air with

his arms at random, when another blow, striking him at last full in the

chest, finished him. There was a crunching sound; he fell on his back

with a heavy thud, as when a sack of plaster is emptied.

Étienne waited.

"Get up! if you want some more, we'll begin again."

Without replying, Chaval, after a few minutes' stupefaction, moved

on the ground and stretched his limbs. He picked himself up with

difficulty, resting for a moment curled up on his knees, doing

something with his hand in the bottom of his pocket which could not be

observed. Then, when he was up, he rushed forward again, his throat

swelling with a savage yell.

But Catherine had seen; and in spite of herself a loud cry came from

her heart, astonishing her like the avowal of a preference she had

herself been ignorant of:

"Take care! he's got his knife!"

Étienne had only time to parry the first blow with his arm. His woollen

jacket was cut by the thick blade, one of those blades fastened by a

copper ferrule into a boxwood handle. He had already seized Chaval's

wrist, and a terrible struggle began; for he felt that he would be lost

if he let go, while the other shook his arm in the effort to free it

and strike. The weapon was gradually lowered as their stiffened limbs

grew fatigued. Étienne twice felt the cold sensation of the steel

against his skin; and he had to make a supreme effort, so crushing the

other's wrist that the knife slipped from his hand. Both of them had

fallen to the earth, and it was Étienne who snatched it up, brandishing

it in his turn. He held Chaval down beneath his knee and threatened to

slit his throat open.

"Ah, traitor! by God! you've got it coming to you now!"

He felt an awful voice within, deafening him. It arose from his bowels

and was beating in his head like a hammer, a sudden mania of murder, a

need to taste blood. Never before had the crisis so shaken him. He was

not drunk, however, and he struggled against the hereditary disease

with the despairing shudder of a man who is mad with lust and struggles

on the verge of rape. At last he conquered himself; he threw the knife

behind him, stammering in a hoarse voice:

"Get up--off you go!"

This time Rasseneur had rushed forward, but without quite daring to

venture between them, for fear of catching a nasty blow. He did not

want any one to be murdered in his house, and was so angry that his

wife, sitting erect at the counter, remarked to him that he always

cried out too soon. Souvarine, who had nearly caught the knife in his

legs, decided to light his cigarette. Was it, then, all over? Catherine

was looking on stupidly at the two men, who were unexpectedly both

living.

"Off you go!" repeated Étienne. "Off you go, or I'll do for you!"

Chaval arose, and with the back of his hand wiped away the blood which

continued to flow from his nose; with jaw smeared red and bruised

eye, he went away trailing his feet, furious at his defeat. Catherine

mechanically followed him. Then he turned round, and his hatred broke

out in a flood of filth.

"No, no! since you want him, sleep with him, dirty jade! and don't put

your bloody feet in my place again if you value your skin!"

He violently banged the door. There was deep silence in the warm room,

the low crackling of the coal was alone heard. On the ground there only

remained the overturned chair and a rain of blood which the sand on the

floor was drinking up.