Germinal - Emile Zola [168]
‘What’s happening, Father?’
Lucie, the elder, was already twenty-two, tall, dark, with a regal air; while Jeanne, the younger one and just nineteen, was short, with golden hair and an easy grace.
‘Nothing serious,’ he replied in order to reassure them. ‘Some troublemakers kicking up a fuss over at the mine, apparently. I’m off to see what’s going on.’
But they would not hear of it and insisted that he must have something to warm his stomach before he left. He would only come back ill otherwise, with his digestion ruined as usual. He endeavoured to say no and that as God was his witness he simply did not have the time.
‘Now look,’ said Jeanne eventually, wrapping herself round his neck. ‘You’ll just have a little glass of rum and a biscuit or two. Or else I’ll hang on to you like this and you’ll have to take me with you.’
He had to give in, declaring that he would surely choke on the biscuits. Already they were on their way downstairs ahead of him, each with her own candlestick. Below, in the dining-room, they hurried to wait on him, one pouring the rum, the other running to the pantry for a packet of biscuits. Having lost their mother when they were very young, they had brought themselves up, rather badly it must be said, since their father spoiled them. The elder girl dreamed constantly of singing on the stage, while the younger one was mad about painting, with a boldness of taste which set her apart. But when serious business difficulties had obliged them to cut back on their style of living, these two apparently extravagant girls had suddenly blossomed into thoroughly sensible and resourceful housekeepers who could spot the merest discrepant centime in the household accounts. And now, for all that they lived the part of bohemian spinsters, they managed the domestic budget, watched every last penny, haggled with the tradesmen, endlessly refurbished their wardrobes, and ultimately managed to lend an air of decent respectability to the worsening financial straits in which they lived.
‘Eat, Papa,’ Lucie insisted.
Then, noticing how quickly he seemed preoccupied again as he sat there with a silent and gloomy expression, she became alarmed once more.
‘Is it serious, then? Judging by your face, it must be…Why don’t we stay here with you? They can manage without us at that lunch today.’
She was referring to an outing which had been planned for the coming morning. Mme Hennebeau was to fetch Cécile from the Grégoires’ in her carriage; after that she would come and collect Lucie and Jeanne, and then they were all going to Marchiennes to have lunch at Les Forges as guests of the manager’s wife. It would be a chance to visit the workshops and to see the blast-furnaces and the coke-ovens.
‘Of course we’ll stay,’ declared Jeanne in her turn.
But he became cross.
‘What sort of an idea is that! I tell you there’s nothing to worry about…Kindly do me the pleasure of tucking yourselves up in bed again. And then you will dress and be ready at nine o’clock as planned.’
He kissed them and hurried away. The sound of his boots on the frozen ground could be heard disappearing across the garden.
Jeanne carefully replaced the cork in the bottle of rum, while Lucie locked the biscuits away. The dining-room had the clean and tidy look of a place where the fare is frugal. And they both took advantage of this early-morning visit to check that nothing had been left lying around from the night before. A napkin had been forgotten, so the servant would be scolded. Finally they went back upstairs to bed.
As he took a short cut along the narrow paths of his kitchen-garden, Deneulin was thinking about the danger to his fortune, his Montsou denier, the million francs he had realized and dreamed of increasing tenfold, and which was now in such grave peril. It had been one long tale of bad luck: the unforeseen and enormously expensive repair programme, the ruinous running costs, and now this disastrous industrial crisis just when he was beginning to make a profit. If the strike went ahead, he would be finished.