Germinal - Émile Zola (romantic story to read .TXT) 📗

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 anyone. 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 tomorrow 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 anyone 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