Germinal - Emile Zola [110]
‘Must you read so loud?’ the cashier shouted across. ‘We can’t hear ourselves think.’
Étienne ignored the remark and went on reading. His voice was shaking, and when he had finished they all continued to stare at the notice. The old miner and his younger companion both seemed to be waiting for something, but then they left, with the air of broken men.
‘God Almighty!’ Maheu muttered.
He and Étienne had sat down. Gazing at the floor, deep in thought, they did the sums in their heads, as people continued to file past the yellow notice. What did the Company take them for? The timbering would never allow them to recoup the ten centimes lost on each tub. They’d make eight at most, so the Company was robbing them of two centimes, not to mention the time it would take them to make a proper job of the timbering. So that’s what they were up to, a disguised reduction in pay. The Company was saving money by taking it from the miners’ pockets.
‘God Al-bloody-mighty!’ Maheu repeated, looking up again. ‘We’d be bloody daft to accept!’
But by now the cashier’s window was free, so he stepped up to get his pay. Only the team leaders collected pay, which they then distributed among their team, to save time.
‘Maheu and associates,’ said the clerk, ‘the Filonnière seam, coal-face number seven.’
He checked his lists, which were compiled from the notebooks in which the deputies recorded the number of tubs per team per day. Then he said again:
‘Maheu and associates, the Filonnière seam, coal-face number seven…One hundred and thirty-five francs.’
The cashier paid him.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Maheu stammered in disbelief. ‘Are you sure there hasn’t been some mistake?’
He looked at the paltry sum where it lay, and his blood ran cold. Yes, he had expected his pay to be low, but it couldn’t be that low, or else he hadn’t counted right. Once Zacharie, Étienne and Chaval’s replacement had each had their share, he’d be left with no more than fifty francs for himself, his father, Catherine and Jeanlin.
‘No, no, there’s no mistake,’ the official replied. ‘Two Sundays and four days’ lay-off have to be deducted, which leaves you nine days’ work.’
Maheu made the calculation, totting up the figures under his breath: nine days meant roughly thirty francs for himself, eighteen for Catherine and nine for Jeanlin. Old Bonnemort was due pay for only three days. Even so, if you added on the ninety francs for Zacharie and the other two, it surely all came to more.
‘And don’t forget the fines,’ the clerk concluded. ‘Twenty francs off for defective timbering.’
Maheu gestured in despair. Twenty francs’ worth of fines, and four days laid off! So it was right. To think that he’d once collected up to a hundred and fifty for a fortnight’s work, when old Bonnemort was still working and before Zacharie had left home.
‘Do you want it or not?’ the clerk shouted impatiently. ‘You can see there are people waiting…If you don’t want it, you’ve only got to say.’
As Maheu’s large, trembling hand reached out for the money, the official stopped him.
‘Wait, your name’s down here. Toussaint Maheu, isn’t it?…The Company Secretary wants to see you. You can go in now, he’s free.’
Bewildered, Maheu found himself in an office full of old mahogany furniture and drapes of faded green cord. For five minutes he listened to the Company Secretary, a tall, pale man, who remained seated and spoke to him over the piles of papers on his desk. But the pounding in Maheu’s ears prevented him from hearing properly. He vaguely grasped that it was about his father, whose retirement pension of a hundred and fifty francs – due to anyone over fifty with forty years’ service – was coming up for assessment. Then the Company Secretary’s voice seemed to harden.