Germinal - Emile Zola [157]
‘That’s a good-looking knife you’ve got there,’ Étienne commented.
‘It’s a present from Lydie,’ replied Jeanlin, omitting to mention that Lydie had stolen it on his orders from a street-seller in Montsou, outside the Severed Head.
Then, as he carried on scraping, he added proudly:
‘It’s nice, my place, isn’t it?…A bit warmer than it is up there, and it smells a damn sight better, too!’
Étienne had sat down, curious to make the boy talk. His anger had gone, and he was intrigued by this little scoundrel who could show such courage and industry in the pursuit of his vicious ways. And indeed it did feel nice and cosy down here in this hole: it was not too hot, and the temperature remained constant whatever the season, like a warm bath, while the harsh December weather chapped the skin of the poor wretches up above. As time passed, the disused roads lost their noxious gases; the firedamp had gone, and the only smell left was of musty old timbers, a subtle aroma of ether with a sharp hint of clove. Moreover, the wood itself took on a fascinating appearance, like pale-yellow marble fringed with whitish lace and draped in fluffy growths like braids of silk and pearls. Others were covered in fungus. And white moths flew about, and snow-white flies and spiders, a whole population of colourless insects that had never known the sun.
‘Aren’t you ever scared?’ asked Étienne.
Jeanlin looked at him in astonishment.
‘Scared of what? There’s only me here.’
By now the cod had finally been scraped clean. Jeanlin lit a small fire, spread the embers, and began to grill it. Then he cut a loaf into two. It all made for an extremely salty feast, but delicious all the same for hardened stomachs.
Étienne had accepted his portion.
‘Now I see why you’ve been getting fat while the rest of us have been getting thin. But it’s not right, you know, pigging out on your own like this…Don’t you ever think about other people?’
‘Why on earth! It’s not my fault if they’re stupid!’
‘Mind you, you’re right to hide. If your father found out you were stealing, he’d soon sort you out.’
‘And I suppose the bourgeois don’t steal from us! You’re the one who’s always saying they do. When I pinched this bread from Maigrat’s, it was only what he owed us anyway.’
Nonplussed, Étienne fell silent and continued to eat. He looked at Jeanlin and his thin snout-like face, his green eyes and big ears, a degenerate throwback possessed of intuitive intelligence and native cunning who was gradually reverting to his former animal state. The mine had created him and now it had destroyed him by breaking his legs.
‘What about Lydie?’ Étienne began again. ‘Do you bring her down here sometimes?’
Jeanlin laughed scornfully.
‘Her? Not on your life!…Women just talk all the time!’
And he went on laughing, full of enormous contempt for both Lydie and Bébert. Did you ever see such fools! It tickled him hugely to think how easily they swallowed all his nonsense and went home empty-handed while he was down here eating cod in the warm. Then he declared with all the seriousness of a little philosopher:
‘You’re much better off on your own. That way you never fall out with anyone!’
Étienne had finished his bread. He downed a mouthful of gin. For a moment he wondered ungratefully if he was going to repay Jeanlin’s hospitality by hauling him up to the daylight by his ear and telling him never to steal again or else his father would hear about it. But as he surveyed this underground hideaway, he began to have an idea: who knows if one day he might not need it for himself or his comrades, if things started going badly wrong up there above ground? He made the boy swear not to stay out all night again, as he had been doing recently whenever he dropped off to sleep on his hay. Then Étienne took a stump of candle and left first, leaving Jeanlin to tidy his home in peace.
Despite the severe cold, La Mouquette had been waiting anxiously for him, seated on an old beam. When she caught sight of him, she threw her arms round his neck; and it was as though