Germinal - Emile Zola [150]
‘And what about that brat Jeanlin?’ cried his mother. ‘Where the hell is he, I’d like to know? He was supposed to be bringing us back some leaves. At least we could have grazed like the rest of the animals! You wait, I bet he doesn’t come home. He didn’t last night either. I don’t know what he’s up to, but that little devil always seems to be well enough fed.’
‘Perhaps he collects money on the road.’
She at once started shaking her fists, beside herself with rage.
‘If I thought that!…My children begging! I’d rather kill them, and myself afterwards.’
Maheu had resumed his slumped posture on the edge of the table. Lénore and Henri, astonished that they weren’t eating, began to moan; while old Bonnemort sat in silence, resignedly rolling his tongue round his mouth trying to stave off the pangs of hunger. Nobody spoke now, numbed by this further deterioration in their fortunes, with Grandpa coughing up black phlegm and troubled once more by his old rheumatic pains, which were turning into dropsy; with Father asthmatic, and his knees swollen with fluid retention; and with Mother and the little ones afflicted by congenital scrofula and anaemia. No doubt it was the fault of their jobs, and they only complained about it when lack of food actually started killing people (and they were beginning to drop like flies in the village). But they really did have to find something for supper. The question was: how? and, God help them, where?
Then, as the room filled with the gathering gloom of twilight, Étienne reluctantly made up his mind and said with a heavy heart:
‘Wait here. There’s somewhere I can try.’
And out he went. He had remembered La Mouquette. She was sure to have a spare loaf, and she would be only too glad to give it to him. It annoyed him to have go back to Réquillart: she would start kissing his hands again, like some lovesick servant-girl. But a man didn’t leave his friends in the lurch, he’d be nice to her again if he had to be.
‘Me too, I’m going to see what I can find,’ said La Maheude in turn. ‘This is just ridiculous!’
She opened the door again after Étienne had left and then slammed it behind her, leaving the rest of them sitting silent and motionless in the meagre light of a candle-end which Alzire had just lit. Outside La Maheude paused to consider for a moment and then went into the Levaques’ house.
‘You know that loaf I lent you the other day. How about letting me have it back?’
But she stopped, for the sight that met her eyes was not encouraging; and the house reeked of poverty even more than her own did.
La Levaque was staring at her fire, which had gone out, and Levaque was slumped across the table, having gone to sleep there on an empty stomach after some nailers had got him drunk. Bouteloup was leaning against the wall, absent-mindedly rubbing his shoulders against it and with the bewildered look of a decent fellow who has let other people squander his savings and now finds himself having to tighten his belt.
‘A loaf of bread? Oh, my dear,’ La Levaque replied. ‘And there was I about to ask you if I could borrow another one!’
At that moment her husband groaned with pain in his sleep, and she crushed his face into the table.
‘Quiet, you pig! Serves you right if it rots your guts!…Couldn’t you have asked a friend for twenty sous instead of getting everyone to buy you a drink?’
And on she went, swearing and cursing and getting things off her chest, surrounded by a filthy home which had been let go for so long that an unbearable stench now rose from its floor. What did she care if the whole world was going to rack and ruin! That vagabond of a son, Bébert, had been gone since morning, and good riddance it would be too, she shouted, if he never came back. Then she said that she was going to bed. At least she’d be warm there. She gave Bouteloup a shove.
‘Come on, look sharp! We’re going upstairs!…The fire’s gone out, and there’s no point lighting the candle just to stare at empty plates…Did you hear me, Louis? I said we’re going to bed. We can cuddle up close, which’ll be a relief from