Germinal (23 page)

She was drying him now, patting away with a rag at the last obstinate patches of moisture. Maheu, happy and without a thought for the morrow, gave a loud laugh and grabbed her in his arms.

‘Let go of me, you brute! You're all wet, you're soaking me…But I just hope Maigrat hasn't got the wrong idea – '

She was about to tell him about Catherine but stopped. Why bother Father with it? They'd never hear the end of it if she did.

‘What wrong idea?' he asked.

‘The idea he can rip us off, of course. Catherine had better have a careful look at the bill.'

He grabbed hold of her again, and this time he didn't let go. His bath always ended like this: her rough scrubbing would excite him, and when she towelled him down it made the hair on his arms and chest tingle. Moreover, as for all the comrades in the village, it was their ‘playtime', the hour of the day when more babies than enough were started into life. For at night there was always family present. Roguishly he pushed her towards the table: couldn't a fellow enjoy his one good moment in the day,
what he called ‘having his pudding' – and a pudding that didn't cost anything! She in turn struggled playfully to escape, wriggling her waist and bust in vain.

‘Stop being so silly, for heaven's sake…And with Estelle sitting there looking at us! Wait till I turn her round!'

When he had got off her, Maheu simply pulled on some dry trousers. Once he was clean and had had his bit of fun with his wife, he liked to leave his chest bare like this for a while. On his skin, which was as white as that of an anaemic girl, the cuts and scratches made by the coal had left what looked like tattoos –‘graft marks' the miners call them – and he seemed proud of them as he displayed his broad torso and thick arms, which gleamed like blue-veined marble. In summer all the miners sat out on their doorsteps like this. Even now, despite the damp weather, he went out for a moment and shouted some ribald remark to a similarly bare-chested comrade on the other side of the gardens. Other men came out also. And the children playing on the pavements looked up and laughed with them, joining in the general joy as all this tired workmen's flesh was given its airing.

While he drank his coffee, having still not put on his shirt, Maheu told his wife how angry the engineer had been about the timbering. He felt relaxed now, all tension gone, and he listened with approving nods to the wise advice being given by La Maheude, who always showed great good sense in matters of this kind. She was forever repeating that there was nothing to be gained by confronting the Company head on. Then she told him about Mme Hennebeau's visit. Though they said nothing, it made them both feel proud.

‘Is it all right to come down?' Catherine asked from the top of the stairs.

‘Yes, yes, your father's drying off now.'

The girl was dressed in her Sunday best, an old, dark-blue poplin dress that was faded and worn at the pleats. She was wearing a bonnet of simple black tulle.

‘Goodness! You're all dressed up…Where are you off to?'

‘I'm going into Montsou to buy a ribbon for my bonnet…I took the old one out, it was filthy.'

‘Have you got some money?'

‘No, but La Mouquette's promised to lend me ten sous.'

Her mother let her go. But when she reached the door, she called to her.

‘By the way, don't buy your ribbon at Maigrat's…He'll only rip you off, and anyway he'll think we've got money to burn.'

Her father, who had squatted down in front of the fire to dry his neck and armpits more quickly, merely added:

‘And don't be still wandering the streets after dark.'

That afternoon Maheu worked in his garden. He had already sown his potatoes, beans and peas; and he began to put in some cabbage and lettuce plants that he had heeled in the day before. This little patch of garden provided them with all the vegetables they needed, except for potatoes, of which there were never enough. He was good at gardening as it happened and even managed to grow artichokes, which his neighbours regarded as showing off. While he was preparing his bed, Levaque had chosen that moment to come and smoke his pipe in his own patch, and he was now inspecting the romaine lettuce which Bouteloup had planted that morning; for if it hadn't been for the lodger's determination with the spade, there would have been nothing but nettles growing there. And so they began to chat across the trellis fence. Refreshed and invigorated after beating his wife, Levaque tried unsuccessfully to drag Maheu off to Rasseneur's. Come on, one pint wouldn't do him any harm, would it? They could have a game of skittles, wander round with the comrades for a bit, and then come home for their dinner. This was what people generally did after work, and no doubt there wasn't any harm in it, but Maheu stubbornly refused: if he didn't get his lettuce plants in, they'd have withered by the next day. In fact he was being good: he didn't want to ask his wife for a single sou out of what she had left of the hundred she'd borrowed.

The clock was striking five when La Pierronne came to see if it was Jeanlin that her Lydie had gone off with. Levaque told her that something of the sort must have happened for Bébert, too, had vanished: those little rascals were always up to no good
together. Once Maheu had told them about the dandelion salad and set their minds at rest, he and his comrade began to chaff La Pierronne with crude joviality. She was cross but made no effort to leave, secretly aroused by their dirty talk, which had her clutching her stomach and screaming back at them. Help arrived in the form of a skinny-looking woman whose angry splutterings made her sound like a clucking hen. Other women, standing in their doorways at a safe distance, made a show of being scandalized. School was out now and there were small children everywhere, swarms of little creatures screaming and fighting and rolling on the ground; while their fathers, at least those who were not off drinking, gathered in groups of three or four, squatting on their heels as though they were still down the mine, and smoking their pipes in the shelter of a wall as they exchanged a desultory word. La Pierronne departed in high dudgeon when Levaque asked to see if her thighs were nice and firm, and he decided to go to Rasseneur's on his own while Maheu got on with his planting.

It was rapidly getting dark and La Maheude lit the lamp, annoyed that neither her daughter nor the boys were back yet. She could have bet on it: they never did manage all to be there for the one meal when they could have sat down and eaten together. On top of which she was still waiting for the dandelions. What could that little rascal possibly be picking at this hour when it was pitch dark! A salad would go so well with the vegetable stew she had simmering on the stove, a mixture of potatoes, leeks and sorrel chopped up and then cooked with fried onion! The whole house reeked of this fried onion, which is a pleasant smell at first but soon turns rancid. Its foul odour penetrates the brickwork of the miners' houses to such an extent that the strong stench of this pauper cuisine announces their existence from far off in the countryside.

Once it was dark, Maheu came in from the garden and immediately slumped down on to a chair with his head against the wall. As soon as he sat down like this each evening, he fell asleep. The cuckoo clock was striking seven. Henri and Lénore had just broken a plate, having insisted on giving Alzire a hand setting the table, when old Bonnemort arrived back first, in a
hurry to have his dinner before returning to the pit. So La Maheude woke Maheu:

‘Oh well, let's eat anyway…They're old enough to find their own way home. But it's a shame about the salad!'

At Rasseneur's Étienne had eaten some soup and then gone up to the tiny room he was to occupy in the attic, overlooking Le Voreux, where he fell exhausted on to the bed still fully dressed. In two days he had had less than four hours' sleep. When he woke up at dusk, he was momentarily at a loss, unable to remember where he was; and he felt so groggy and ill that he struggled to his feet with the intention of getting some fresh air before having dinner and going to bed for the night.

Outside the weather was becoming much milder: the sooty sky was turning copper and threatening one of the long, steady downpours that are so common in this part of northern France and which can always be predicted from the warm moisture in the air. Night was falling, and great swathes of murk were enveloping the remoter reaches of the plain. The lowering sky seemed to be dissolving into black dust over this immense sea of reddish earth, and not a single breath of wind stirred the darkness at this hour. It was like the scene of some drab and sorry burial.

Étienne simply walked, at random and with no other aim than to clear his head. When he passed Le Voreux, already sunk in darkness at the bottom of its hollow and as yet unlit by a single lantern, he paused a moment to watch the day shift coming out. It was presumably six o'clock because stonemen, onsetters and stablemen were heading off in small groups and mingling with the blurred shapes of the women from the screening-shed, who were laughing in the gloom.

First came La Brûlé and her son-in-law Pierron. She was having a row with him because he hadn't stood up for her during an argument with a supervisor over her tally of stones.

‘Bloody wimp! God! Call yourself a man, do you, crawling to those bastards like that? They'll have us all for breakfast, they will.'

Pierron was calmly following her, making no reply. Eventually he said:

‘So I should have jumped the boss, should I? Thanks. A great way to get myself into trouble.'

‘Show him your backside, then!' she shouted. ‘Christ Almighty! If only that daughter of mine had listened to me!…As if it wasn't enough that they killed her father for me, now you want me to thank them too. Well, not me. I'll have their guts for bloody garters.'

Their voices died away. Étienne watched her depart, with her hooked nose and her straggling white hair and her long, skinny arms that were gesticulating furiously. But behind him the sound of two young voices caught his ear. He had recognized Zacharie, who had been waiting there and had now been joined by his friend Mouquet.

‘Are you coming?' asked the latter. ‘We're just going to get something to eat and then head for the Volcano.'

‘Maybe later. I'm busy.'

‘How do you mean?'

Mouquet turned and saw Philomène coming out of the screening-shed. He thought he understood.

‘Oh, I see, that's it…Well, I'm off then.'

‘Yes, all right. I'll catch up with you later.'

As he departed, Mouquet ran into his father, old Mouque, who was also coming out of Le Voreux; and the two men exchanged a simple ‘hallo' before the son took the main road and the father made off along the canal.

Zacharie was already pushing a reluctant Philomène towards the same deserted towpath. No, she was in a hurry, some other time; and they quarrelled, as though they'd been married for years. It wasn't much fun only ever seeing each other out of doors like this, especially in the winter when the ground's wet and there's no corn to lie on.

‘No, it's not a case of that,' he muttered impatiently. ‘I've got something to tell you.'

He put his arm round her waist and led her gently forward. When they had reached the shadow of the spoil-heap, he asked if she had any money on her.

‘What for?' she demanded.

Then he started mumbling something about owing two francs and how upset his family was going to be.

‘Stop right there!…I saw Mouquet. You're off to the Volcano again, and those filthy women that sing there.'

He protested his innocence, hand on heart, word of honour. When she merely shrugged, he said abruptly:

‘Why not come with us, if you like…It wouldn't worry me. What would I be doing with any singers anyway?…How about it?'

‘And the little one?' she replied. ‘How can I go anywhere with a kid screaming all the time?…It's time I went home. I expect they can't hear themselves think by now.'

But he stopped her, begged her. Please, he'd promised Mouquet and he'd only look a fool if he didn't go. A man can't just go home every evening like some roosting hen. Admitting defeat, she lifted the flap of her jacket, broke a thread with her nail and took some fifty-centimes coins from a corner of the hem. She was afraid of being robbed by her mother, and so this was where she hid the money she earned by doing overtime at the pit.

‘Look, I've got five,' she said. ‘You can have three if you want…Only you've got to promise me that you'll try and persuade your mother to let us get married. I've had enough of this outdoor life! And what's more, Mum keeps blaming me for having so many mouths to feed…So come on, promise me first. Promise.'

She spoke in the listless voice of a gangling, sickly girl who felt no passion and was simply weary of living. He for his part promised faithfully, loudly giving her his word as God was his witness. Once he had the three coins in his hand, he kissed her and tickled her and made her laugh, and he would have gone the whole way, here in this little corner of the spoil-heap which served as the winter bedroom of their domestic bliss, but she said no, it would give her no pleasure. And she returned to the village alone while he took a short cut across the fields to rejoin his comrade.

Étienne had followed them absent-mindedly at a distance, not realizing at first and thinking that this was an innocent meeting. They grew up quickly, these mining girls; and he remembered the ones back in Lille and how he used to wait for them behind the factories, whole gangs of them, already corrupted at the age of fourteen by living in the kind of destitution that makes people simply let themselves go.

But another encounter surprised him even more, and he stopped in his tracks. There at the bottom of the spoil-heap, in a space between some large rocks that had rolled down, was little Jeanlin giving a furious telling-off to Lydie and Bébert seated either side of him.