Germinal - Emile Zola [198]
M. Hennebeau was standing at the window when Hippolyte came in to close the shutters, in case any windows were broken by stones. He closed all the others on the ground floor to the same end and then went up to the first floor, from where a squeaking of handles could be heard and the sound of shutters being banged to one by one. Unfortunately the bay window in the basement kitchen could not be similarly protected, which was a cause for some concern given the glowing red coals burning beneath the saucepans and the spit.
Wanting to observe what was going on, M. Hennebeau made his way up to the second floor and, without thinking, into Paul’s bedroom: being on the left-hand side of the house, it was the best place because it afforded a clear view down the road as far as the Company yards. And there he stood, behind the shutters, overlooking the crowd. But once again his attention was caught by the state of the room: the wash-stand had been tidied and cleaned, and the bed was now cold, its crisp sheets neatly tucked in. All the rage he had felt that afternoon and the furious row he had conducted in total silence inside his own head had now given way to an immense fatigue. His whole being was like this room, cooler, swept clean of the morning’s filth, and restored to its usual state of propriety. Why cause a scandal? Had anything changed between them? His wife had simply taken one more lover, and it barely made matters worse that she should have chosen him from among the family; indeed perhaps it was even better that she had, for it preserved appearances. How pathetic he had been, he thought, remembering his wild fit of jealousy. How ridiculous he had been, pounding the bed with his fists like that! He had already put up with one man, so why not this one too! It would mean only that he despised her that little bit more. It all left a bitter taste in his mouth, the terrible pointlessness of everything, the endless pain and suffering of living, the shame at himself for still adoring and wanting the woman in the midst of this filth, which he was doing nothing to prevent.
Beneath the window, the shouting rang out with renewed violence.
‘We want bread! We want bread!’
‘Fools!’ M. Hennebeau muttered between clenched teeth.
He could hear them shouting abuse about his fat salary and his fat belly, calling him a dirty pig who never did a day’s work and who ate himself sick on fine food while the workers were being starved to death. The women had seen the kitchen, and a storm of curses was unleashed by the sight of pheasants roasting and by the rich aroma of sauces that tormented their empty stomachs. Oh, those bourgeois scum! One day they’d stuff ’em with champagne and truffles till their guts burst!
‘We want bread! We want bread!’
‘You fools!’ M. Hennebeau said again. ‘I suppose you think I’m happy!’
He was filled with anger at these people who did not understand. He would gladly have swapped his fat salary just to have their thick skin and their unproblematic sex. If only he could sit them down at his table and let them gorge themselves on pheasant while he went off to fornicate behind the hedges, screwing girls and not giving a damn who had screwed them before him. He would have given everything, his education, his security, his life of luxury, his managerial powers, if he could just, for one single day, have been the lowliest among his own employees, master of his own flesh and enough of a boor to beat his wife and pleasure himself with the woman next door. And he wished, too, that he was starving to death, that his own belly was empty and writhed with the kind of cramp that makes your head spin: perhaps that way he could have put an end to his own interminable misery. Oh to live like an animal, to have no possessions, to roam the cornfields with the ugliest, dirtiest putter, and to wish for nothing else!
‘We want bread! We want bread!’
Then he lost his temper and burst out furiously above the din:
‘Bread! Do you think that’s all that matters, you fools?’
He had all the bread he could eat, but that