Germinal - Emile Zola [170]
‘Look here,’ he continued, ‘I hope you’re not going to make me regret having trusted you. You know I refused to have a police guard here…Take your time, I’m listening.’
Everybody was silent and embarrassed and began to edge away. At length Chaval spoke up:
‘It’s like this, Monsieur Deneulin. We just can’t go on. We must have five centimes more per tub.’
He was taken aback.
‘What? Five centimes! What’s brought this on? I’m not complaining about your timbering, I’m not trying to impose a new rate like they are at Montsou.’
‘Maybe not, but the Montsou comrades are right all the same. They’re rejecting the timbering rate and demanding an increase of five centimes because it’s just not possible to do the job properly under the present terms…We want an increase of five centimes. Isn’t that right, comrades?’
Various voices expressed their support, and the noise level rose again, accompanied by violent gestures. Gradually everyone gathered round in a tight semicircle.
Deneulin’s eyes blazed, and this man who had a taste for firm government had to clench his fists for fear that he might yield to temptation and grab somebody by the scruff of the neck. He preferred to discuss things, to talk things through sensibly.
‘You want five centimes more, and I agree with you that the job is worth it. But I can’t give it to you. If I were to pay you that, I would simply be ruined…You’ve got to understand that for you to make a living I’ve got to make a living first. And I’ve reached my limit. The slightest increase in operating costs would bankrupt me…Two years ago, if you remember, at the time of the last strike, I conceded. I could still afford to then. But that increase has been ruinous for me all the same, and I’ve been struggling ever since…Today I would rather give the whole thing up at once than not know from one month to the next where I was going to find the money to pay you.’
Faced with this master who was ready to give them such a frank account of his business affairs, Chaval gave an ugly laugh. The others looked at the floor in disbelief, stubbornly refusing to get it into their heads that a boss didn’t automatically make millions off the back of his workers.
Deneulin persisted. He told them about his ongoing battle with Montsou, who were always on the lookout for some way to gobble him up if he should ever fall on hard times. The competition with them was fierce, forcing him to make savings wherever he could, and all the more so because the considerable depth of Jean-Bart added to the cost of extraction, a disadvantage only barely offset by the greater thickness of its seams. He would never have increased their pay at the time of the last strike if it hadn’t been for the need to match Montsou, so as not to lose his workforce. Then he threatened them with the consequences: what a fine outcome it would be for them if they forced him to sell and they ended up under the heel of Montsou! He didn’t rule them like some god in a far-away temple, he wasn’t one of those invisible shareholders who pays managers to fleece the miners for them; he was their employer, and it wasn’t just his own money he was risking, it was his peace of mind, his health, his whole life. Any stoppage would mean the end of him, it was as simple as that, for he had no stock in reserve and yet he had to meet his orders. At the same time he couldn’t let the money invested in equipment stand idle. How was he to meet his commitments? Who was going to pay the interest on the money his friends had entrusted to him? It would mean bankruptcy.
‘So there you have it, my friends!’ he concluded. ‘I wish I could convince you