Germinal - Emile Zola [203]
‘Ladies, please, ladies, please don’t hurt me!’
But then she gave a hoarse cry: cold hands had closed round her throat. It was Bonnemort. The crowd had pushed her up against him, and he had then seized hold of her. He appeared giddy with hunger and somehow dazed and bewildered after all his long years of poverty. It was as if he had now suddenly awoken from half a century’s submissiveness, although it was impossible to tell what particular upsurge of rancour had brought this about. Having in the course of his life saved some dozen comrades from death, risking his own skin amid the firedamp and the rock-falls, he was now responding to inner promptings which he could not have described, to the simple need to do what he was doing, to his fascination with this young girl’s white neck. And since this was one of the days when he had temporarily lost his power of speech, he tightened his grip like some old, sick animal and seemed to ruminate his memories.
‘No! No!’ the women screamed. ‘Her knickers! Take her knickers off!’
Inside the house, as soon as they realized what was happening, Négrel and M. Hennebeau had bravely opened the front door to rush to Cécile’s aid. But the crowd was now pressing up against the garden railing, and it was no longer easy to get out. There was a struggle, and the Grégoires appeared at the top of the steps with a look of horror on their faces.
‘Leave her alone, Grandpa! It’s the girl from La Piolaine!’ La Maheude shouted, having recognized Cécile when another woman tore her veil.
Étienne for his part was shocked to see them taking out their thirst for vengeance on a mere child, and he did everything he could to get the mob to back off. In a moment of inspiration he started brandishing the axe that he had torn from Levaque’s hands.
‘Come on, for God’s sake, let’s get Maigrat!…He’s got bread. Let’s smash his shop!’
Whereupon he hit the door of the shop with a random swing of his axe. Some comrades followed his lead, Levaque, Maheu and a few others. But the women were not to be denied. Cécile had escaped the clutches of Bonnemort only to fall into the hands of La Brûlé. Led by Jeanlin, Lydie and Bébert were down on all fours crawling between the skirts to get a glimpse of the young lady’s bottom. Cécile was being tugged this way and that and already her clothes were beginning to split when a man on horseback appeared, urging his mount on and using his whip on anyone who was slow to get out of his way.
‘So, you dirty rabble. Now you want to whip our daughters, do you?’
It was Deneulin, arriving for his dinner engagement. In an instant he had jumped down on to the road and grabbed Cécile by the waist. With his other hand he manœuvred his horse with exceptional skill and strength and used it as a living wedge to drive a path through the crowd, which recoiled from its flying hooves. At the railings the battle was still going on. Nevertheless he managed to get past, crushing various limbs as he did so. Amid the oaths and the fisticuffs this unexpected assistance brought deliverance to Négrel and M. Hennebeau, who had been in considerable danger. And as the young man finally took the unconscious Cécile inside, Deneulin, who was shielding the manager with his large body, was hit by a stone as he reached the top of the steps, and the force of it nearly dislocated his shoulder.
‘That’s right!’ he cried. ‘You’ve wrecked my machinery, so why not break my bones while you’re at it!’
He promptly shut the door. A volley of stones rained against the wood.
‘They’ve gone mad!’ he continued. ‘Another couple of seconds and they’d have split my skull open, like cracking a nut…There’s really no talking to them now. They’ve lost their senses, the only thing for it is brute force.’
In the drawing-room the Grégoires were in tears as they watched Cécile recover from her faint. She was unharmed, not even a scratch: only her little veil had been lost. But their dismay increased when they found their cook Mélanie standing in front of them recounting how the mob had demolished La Piolaine.