Germinal - Emile Zola [105]
‘You’re right there!’ she would cry. ‘If the cause is just, they can cut off my right arm if they want…And it would be a just cause, I can tell you, if it was our turn to enjoy life for once.’
Then Maheu risked a show of enthusiasm:
‘God Almighty! I may not be rich but I’d give a fair bit to be able to see all that before I die…Then we’d see the fur fly! Eh? How long will it take, do you think? And how are we to go about it?’
Étienne would begin talking again. The old society was falling apart, it couldn’t last more than a few months now, he roundly declared. As to how they were to go about it, he was less specific and quoted various things he had read, undaunted by these ignorant people and launching himself into explanations before losing the thread himself. He drew on every political system there was, each one sweetened by the certainty of easy victory and the prospect of a universal embrace that would put an end to class division – apart from a few awkward types among the factory-owners and the bourgeois, who might have to be brought to their senses. The Maheus listened with the air of people who understood, nodding their approval and accepting these miraculous solutions with the blind faith of new converts, like members of the early Christian Church calmly awaiting the emergence of the perfect society from the dunghill of the ancient world. Little Alzire caught a word here and there and pictured happiness as a lovely warm house where children played and ate as much as they liked. Catherine, her head propped on her hand, just sat staring at Étienne, and when he stopped, she shivered slightly and looked pale, as though she had suddenly caught a chill.
But then La Maheude would catch sight of the clock:
‘It’s gone nine. Really to goodness! We’ll never get up in the morning.’
And the Maheus left the table, feeling sick at heart, despairing. It was as though they had momentarily been rich and had now suddenly fallen once more into the mire. Old Bonnemort, leaving for the pit, would mutter crossly that such talk never made a man’s soup taste any better; while the rest of them went up to bed, one by one, now noticing the damp walls and the foul, stale air. Upstairs Catherine was the last to get into bed, and after she had blown out the candle, with the rest of the village in silent slumber, Étienne could hear her tossing and turning before she finally fell asleep.
Often neighbours would join them during these talking sessions – Levaque, who got excited at the thought of sharing wealth, or Pierron, whom caution sent home again the moment they started attacking the Company. Occasionally Zacharie would drop by for a while; but politics bored him, and he preferred to go down to the Advantage for a beer. As for Chaval, he would up the stakes and start baying for blood. He spent an hour at the Maheus’ almost every evening, and his keen attendance bespoke a secret jealousy, the fear of losing Catherine. Though he was already tiring of her, the girl had become dear to him ever since there had been a man sleeping next to her each night, a man who could have her.
Étienne’s influence was growing, and he was gradually revolutionizing the village. His was a propaganda by stealth, which became more and more effective as he slowly rose in people’s esteem. La Maheude, though filled with the scepticism of a prudent housewife, nevertheless treated him with a certain deference as a young man who paid his rent on time, neither drank nor gambled, and always had his nose in a book; and among the women in the neighbourhood she created a reputation for him as an educated lad, a reputation which they took advantage of by asking him to write their letters for them. He became a sort of