Germinal (64 page)

Étienne had now risen to his feet with calm resolve.

‘Look, you're getting on my nerves…Yes, you are an informer, and your money must mean you've betrayed us again. And the very thought of even touching your toady skin turns
my stomach. But no matter! I'm your man. It's high time one of us sorted the other out.'

Chaval clenched his fists.

‘Christ, it doesn't half take a lot to get you going, you cowardly bugger!…Just you, then? Fine. Well, I can tell you, you're going to pay for all those filthy things they did to me!'

Stretching her arms out imploringly, Catherine stepped between them, but they had no difficulty in moving her aside, for she could sense the inevitability of this fight, and slowly she backed away of her own accord. She stood silently against the wall, so paralysed with anxiety that she did not even tremble, and stared wide-eyed at these two men who were going to kill each other on account of her.

Mme Rasseneur calmly removed the glasses from the counter in case they got broken. Then she sat down again on her bench, demonstrating a discreet lack of interest in the proceedings. But it was Rasseneur's view that two former comrades simply could not be allowed to beat the life out of each other like this, and he persistently attempted to intervene. Souvarine had to grab him by the shoulder and lead him back to the table, saying:

‘It's none of your business…Even two's a crowd for them, so let the fittest survive.'

Without waiting to be attacked, Chaval was already punching the air. He was the taller of the two, an ungainly figure, and using both arms he made furious slashing movements in the direction of Étienne's face, as if he were wielding a pair of sabres. And he kept on talking, playing to the gallery and working himself up even further by unleashing a stream of insults:

‘Right, you little pimp, let's see if we can shove that nose of yours somewhere where the sun don't shine!…Mmm, and I think we'll just rearrange that tarty little pretty-boy mouth of yours, too! Then we'll see if the bitches still come running after you!'

But Étienne, clenching his teeth and drawing himself up to his full, diminutive height, was fighting like a boxer, using his fists to protect his face and chest; and he waited for his openings, jabbing away fiercely as though his arms were tightly coiled springs.

At first they did each other little harm. The violent windmill action of the one and the cool waiting game of the other both served to prolong the encounter. A chair was knocked over, and their heavy shoes crunched on the white sand strewn over the flagstone floor. But eventually the two men were winded and could be heard gasping for breath, while their red faces began to swell as though there were braziers inside and the flames could be seen through the bright holes that were their eyes.

‘Take that!' screamed Chaval. ‘Bull's eye!'

And, indeed, like a flail launched at an angle, his fist had caught his opponent's shoulder. Étienne stifled a groan of pain, and the only sound was a dull thud as his muscles absorbed the bruising blow. And he responded with a straight punch to the chest, which would have floored the other man if he hadn't been leaping about like a goat. All the same the punch caught him on his left side, and so hard that he staggered and had to catch his breath. When he felt his arms grow limp with the pain, he flew into a rage and started lashing out with his feet like an animal, trying to rip Étienne's stomach open with his heel.

‘And that one's for your guts!' he spluttered in a choking voice. ‘It's time your innards were pulled.'

Étienne dodged the kick and was so outraged by this infringement of the rules of fair combat that he broke his silence:

‘Shut your mouth, you brute! And no kicking, for Christ's sake, or I'll get a chair and knock your brains out!'

The fight now grew fiercer. Rasseneur was sickened and would again have tried to intervene if his wife had not dissuaded him with a stern look: surely two customers were entitled to settle their differences here? So he had merely placed himself in front of the fireplace, for fear they might topple in. With his usual calm air Souvarine had rolled himself a cigarette, but he omitted to light it. Catherine was still standing motionless against the wall: only her hands had moved, rising unbidden to her waist, where they had writhed and begun to tear at her dress in recurrent spasms of nervous anxiety. It took her all her strength not to cry out, not to be the death of one man by proclaiming her preference for the other, though in fact she was so distraught that she no longer knew which one that might be.

Chaval soon grew weary, and he was now drenched in sweat and hitting out at random. Despite his anger Étienne kept up his guard and parried most of the punches, although some did get through. His ear was split, and Chaval's nail had gouged out a piece of his neck, which smarted so much that he, too, started cursing and swearing as he tried to land one of his direct blows to the chest. Once again Chaval leaped out of the way; but he had bent forward in the process, and Étienne's fist hit him in the face, flattening his nose and closing an eye. Blood spurted from his nostrils at once, and the eye swelled up and turned blue. Blinded by this red stream and dazed by the blow to his skull, the wretched man was wildly beating the air when another punch straight to the chest finished him off. There was a cracking sound, and he fell backwards on to the floor with a heavy thud like a sack of plaster dumped off a cart.

Étienne waited.

‘Get up. We can start again if you want.'

Chaval made no reply, but after lying there dazed for a few seconds he began to stir and to stretch his limbs. He struggled painfully to his knees, where he paused bent double for a moment while his hand rummaged in his pocket on some invisible errand. Then, as he got to his feet, he lunged forward again, and a wild cry burst from his bulging throat.

But Catherine had seen: and in spite of herself she screamed, from the heart, surprising even herself as though she had just admitted a preference she didn't even know she had.

‘Watch out! He's got his knife!'

Étienne had only just had time to ward off the first thrust with his arm. His woollen jersey was cut by the thick blade, one of those blades that are attached to a boxwood handle by a copper ferrule. Already he had grabbed hold of Chaval's wrist, and a fierce struggle ensued, with Étienne thinking that he would be lost if he let go, and his opponent jerking his arm away repeatedly in order to break free and strike again. Slowly the weapon was coming lower and lower, their straining limbs were beginning to give out, and twice Étienne felt the cold touch of steel against his skin; but with one last, supreme effort he squeezed Chaval's wrist so hard that the knife fell from his open hand.
Both men flung themselves to the ground at once, and it was Étienne who reached it first and now brandished it in his turn. He had Chaval pinned to the floor beneath his knee, and he was threatening to slit his throat.

‘Right, you cheating bastard, you've had it this time!'

Within him he sensed a terrible prompting, blotting out all else. It surged up from his entrails and pounded inside his skull, a sudden, crazed desire to kill, a desperate thirst for blood. Never before had he had such a strong attack as this. And yet he wasn't drunk. And as he struggled to resist this hereditary evil, he shook violently like some maniacal lover trembling on the brink of rape. At length he managed to control himself and tossed the knife behind him, spluttering in a hoarse voice:

‘Get up. And bugger off.'

This time Rasseneur had rushed forward, but without trying too hard to come between them in case he should get hit by mistake. He didn't want anyone getting killed on his premises, and he became so angry that his wife, standing at the counter, told him that he always did get roused too quick. Souvarine, who had almost got the knife in his legs, was now finally getting round to lighting his cigarette. Was that it? Catherine continued to stare in stupefaction at the two men, both of them still alive.

‘Bugger off!' Étienne said again. ‘Go on, or I really will finish you off!'

Chaval rose to his feet and with the back of his hand wiped away the blood that was still pouring from his nose; and then, his chin spattered with blood, his eye blackened, he sloped off in sullen fury at his defeat. Automatically Catherine made to follow him. Then he drew himself up, and his hatred poured out in a torrent of obscene abuse.

‘Oh no you don't. Oh no! If it's him you want, then fucking sleep with him, you filthy slut! And don't you set foot in my house again either, if you want to live!'

He slammed the door after him. A heavy silence fell in the warm room, where the only sound was the gentle puttering of the coal. On the floor all that remained were the upturned chair and a spattering of blood, which was gradually soaking into the sand.

After they left Rasseneur's, Étienne and Catherine walked along in silence. It was beginning to thaw, a slow, chilly thaw that dirtied the snow without really melting it. In the ghostly pale sky the full moon could be glimpsed behind large clouds that were being swept along by a gale, high above them, like black rags; down below there was not a breath of wind, and all that could be heard was the water dripping from the roofs and the gentle thud as another lump of whiteness slid to the ground.

Étienne felt awkward with this female companion he had suddenly acquired, and in his embarrassment he could think of nothing to say. The idea of taking her into hiding with him at Réquillart seemed ridiculous. He had wanted to escort her home to her parents in the village; but she had refused with a look of absolute terror: no, no, anything rather than become a burden to them, especially after abandoning them in such a despicable way! Since then neither of them had spoken, and they trudged along at random down paths that were becoming rivers of mud. At first they had headed towards Le Voreux; then they turned right and passed between the spoil-heap and the canal.

‘But you've got to sleep somewhere,' Étienne said eventually. ‘I mean, if I had a room of my own, I'd gladly take you with me…'

But in a moment of curious shyness he stopped short. He remembered their previous passionate desire for each other, and their hesitations and the sense of embarrassement that had got in the way. Did this mean he still wanted her, then, that he should feel awkward like this and sense his heart warming with renewed attraction? The memory of her slapping him at Gaston-Marie now excited him instead of making him resentful. And to his surprise it suddenly seemed perfectly natural and feasible that he should take her with him to Réquillart.

‘Come on, you decide. Where do you want me to take you? Do you really still hate me so much that you won't go with me?'

She was slowly following him, but her clogs kept slipping on
the ruts and she found it difficult to keep up. Without looking up, she muttered:

‘I've got enough troubles as it is, for God's sake, I don't need any more. Where would be the good if I did what you're asking? I've got a man, and you've got someone too.'

She meant La Mouquette. She thought he was going with her because that had been the rumour for the past fortnight; and when he swore to Catherine that he wasn't, she just shook her head, recalling the evening she'd seen them kissing each other on the mouth.

‘It's a shame, isn't it, all this stupid nonsense?' he said softly, stopping for a moment. ‘We could have got on so well together!'

She gave a little shiver and answered him:

‘Oh, there's nothing to be sorry about. You're not missing much. If you only knew what a useless specimen I am. I hardly weigh more than a tuppenny tub of butter, and I think the way I'm made I'll never be a proper woman!'

And she continued to speak freely, accusing herself for the long delay in the onset of her puberty as though it were her own fault. Even though she had had a man it diminished her, it meant she was still no more than a girl. At least there's some excuse when you can actually have a baby.

‘My poor little thing,' Étienne said softly, suddenly feeling great pity for her.

They were standing at the bottom of the spoil-heap, hidden in the shadow cast by the enormous mound. An inkblack cloud was just then passing in front of the moon; they couldn't even see their faces any more, but their breath mingled and their mouths sought each other out for the kiss they had so tormentedly longed for all these months past. But suddenly the moon appeared again, and above them, on top of the rocks that were white with moonlight, they saw the outline of the sentry standing stiffly to attention. And so, still without ever having kissed, they drew back, parted by their modesty of old, which was a mixture of angry resentment, physical reserve and a great deal of friendship. Slowly they resumed their walking, up to their ankles in slush.

‘So your mind's made up? You don't want to?' asked Étienne.

‘No,' she said. ‘You after Chaval? Then somebody else after you?…No, the whole thing disgusts me. Anyway, I get no pleasure out of it, so what's the point?'

They fell silent and walked on a hundred paces without exchanging a further word.

‘Do you at least know where you're going?' he continued. ‘I can't just leave you out here alone on a night like this.'

She replied simply:

‘I'm going home. Chaval is my man, and it's the only place I have to sleep.'

‘But he'll beat the daylights out of you!'

There was silence again. She had merely shrugged in resignation. He would beat her, and when he had tired of beating her, then he would stop. But wasn't that better than roaming the streets like a beggar? Besides, she was getting used to the beatings, and she told herself by way of consolation that eight out of ten girls ended up no better off than she was. And if he married her some day, well, that would actually be quite decent of him.

Étienne and Catherine had automatically headed in the direction of Montsou, and as they drew nearer, their silences grew longer and longer. Already it was as if they had never been together. Étienne could think of nothing that might make her change her mind, even though it pained him deeply to see her go back to Chaval. His heart was breaking, but he had little better to offer her himself: a life of poverty, a life on the run, perhaps even no future at all if a soldier's bullet should blow his brains out. Perhaps it was wiser after all to endure the suffering one was used to rather than swap it for another kind. And so, with his eyes fixed on the ground, he escorted her home to her man; and he offered no protest when she stopped on the main road at the corner by the Company yards, twenty metres short of Piquette's bar, and said: