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

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