Germinal - Emile Zola [151]
Once more outside, La Maheude took a short cut directly across the gardens to go and see the Pierrons. The sound of laughter could be heard coming from inside. She knocked on the door, and everything went suddenly quiet. It was at least a minute before anyone came.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ exclaimed La Pierronne, pretending to be very surprised. ‘I thought it was the doctor.’
Without letting La Maheude get a word in, she motioned towards Pierron, who was sitting in front of a big coal fire, and added:
‘He’s not well, I’m afraid, still not well. He looks all right in the face, but it’s his stomach that’s plaguing him. He has to keep warm, so we’re burning everything we’ve got.’
Pierron did indeed seem to be in fine form; he had a good colour, and there was plenty of flesh on him. He pretended without success to wheeze like a sick man. In any case La Maheude had noticed a strong smell of rabbit as she came in: but of course they had cleared everything away! There were still crumbs on the table, and right in the middle stood a bottle of wine they had forgotten to remove.
‘Mother has gone to Montsou to try and find some bread,’ La Pierronne continued. ‘There’s nothing we can do but wait for her to come home.’
But her voice died away as her eyes followed La Maheude’s and lit on the bottle. She recovered herself at once and proceeded to tell the story: yes, the people at La Piolaine had brought the wine for her husband, because the doctor had recommended that he drink claret. And she went on about how grateful she was, and what fine people they were, especially the young mistress, who wasn’t a bit proud, coming into working folks’ homes and distributing her charity in person!
‘Yes,’ said La Maheude, ‘I know them.’
It depressed her to think that unto those that have shall be given. It was always the same, and those people from La Piolaine would have given bread to a baker. How had she missed them in the village? Perhaps she might have got something out of them all the same?
‘I just called,’ La Maheude admitted finally, ‘to see if your cupboards were as bare as ours…You wouldn’t have any vermicelli, would you? I’d let you have it back.’
La Pierronne voiced loud despair.
‘Not a thing, my dear. Not even a grain of semolina…And Mother’s not back yet, so that must mean she’s had no luck. We’ll be going to bed hungry tonight.’
At that moment a sound of crying could be heard coming from the cellar, and La Pierronne banged on the door angrily with her fist. It was Lydie. The little trollop had been gallivanting about the place all day, and she’d locked her up to punish her for not coming home till five. There was nothing to be done with her now, she was always disappearing off like that.
Meanwhile La Maheude just stood there, unable to tear herself away. The penetrating warmth of the fire felt so good that it almost hurt, and the thought that people had been eating here made her stomach feel even more empty. Obviously they had sent the old woman off and then locked up the girl so that the pair of them could feast on the rabbit. Ah, indeed, there was no denying: when a woman strayed, it brought good fortune on her home!
‘Good-night,’ she said abruptly.
Night had fallen outside, and the cloud-decked moon shed a strange light over the earth. Instead of going back across the gardens, La Maheude went the long way round, sick at heart and unable to face going home. But there was no sign of life coming from the line of houses, and every door spoke of famine and empty stomachs. What was the use of knocking? This was the village of Misery For All. After weeks of starvation even the reek of onion had disappeared, that pungent aroma which meant that one could smell the village from far away in the countryside. Now there was just a smell of old cellars, of dank holes where nothing lives. Vague sounds died away, stifled sobs and curses that faded on the air; and in the deepening silence one could sense the approach of famine’s rest, the slumber of exhausted