Germinal - Emile Zola [152]
As she was passing the church, she saw a shadowy figure hurrying away. In a moment of hope she quickened her step, for she had recognized Father Joire, the parish priest in Montsou, who came each Sunday to say Mass in the village chapel: he must have had something to see to in the vestry. He scurried past, head bowed, with that air of a plump and kindly man whose only wish is to live in peace with everyone about him. No doubt he had run his errand at night for fear of compromising himself among the miners. Not that it mattered. It was said that he had just been promoted, and even that he had already shown his successor round, a thin man with eyes like burning embers.
‘Father, Father,’ La Maheude gasped.
But he did not stop.
‘Good-night, my dear, good-night.’
She found herself standing outside her own house. Her legs would carry her no further, and so she went in.
Nobody had moved. Maheu was still sitting slumped forward on the edge of the table. Old Bonnemort and the children were huddled together on the bench, trying to keep each other warm. Not a word had been exchanged, and the candle had burned so low that soon there would be no more light. As they heard the door open, the children looked round; but when they saw that their mother had brought nothing back with her, they stared at the floor once more, choking back a strong desire to cry in case they got scolded. La Maheude sank down into her former place beside the non-existent fire. No one asked her how she had got on, and the silence continued. Everyone had understood, and they saw no point in tiring themselves with talk. So now they waited in complete dejection, drained of courage, waiting on the one last chance that Étienne might have found something, somewhere. The minutes went by, and eventually they gave up hoping even for that.
When Étienne did reappear, he was carrying a dozen cold potatoes wrapped up in a cloth.
‘This is all I could find,’ he said.
At La Mouquette’s they were short of bread too: this was her dinner, and she had insisted on wrapping it in a cloth for him, kissing him passionately as she did so.
‘No, thanks,’ he said to La Maheude, when she offered him his share. ‘I had something earlier.’
He was lying, and he watched despondently as the children attacked the food. Maheu and La Maheude held back also, to leave more for them; but the old man greedily devoured all he could. They even had to retrieve a potato for Alzire.
Then Étienne announced that he had news. Goaded by the strikers’ obstinacy, the Company was talking of firing the miners responsible. Clearly it wanted war. And there was a still more serious rumour going round about the Company claiming to have persuaded a large number of workers to go back to work: tomorrow La Victoire and Feutry-Cantel would be at full strength, and there was even talk of a third of the men going back at Madeleine and Mirou. The Maheus were beside themselves.
‘God Almighty!’ Maheu exclaimed. ‘If there are traitors, then we must deal with them!’
Now standing, he gave vent to his pain and fury:
‘Tomorrow night, in the forest!…Since we’re not allowed to meet in the Jolly Fellow, we’ll use the forest as our local.’
His cry had roused old Bonnemort, who was sleepy after all his eating. It was the old rallying cry, and the forest was where the miners of old used to plot their resistance to the King’s soldiers.
‘Yes, yes, Vandame! If that’s where you’re going, you can count me in!’
La Maheude gestured vehemently.
‘We’ll all go. There has to be an end to this injustice and treachery.’
Étienne decided that notice would be given in all the mining villages of a meeting to be held the following night. But by now the fire had gone out, as it had earlier at the Levaques’, and the candle suddenly guttered into darkness. There was no more coal and no more paraffin, and so they had to feel their way up to bed in the biting cold. The little ones were crying.
VI
Jeanlin was better now and able to walk again,