Germinal - Emile Zola [226]
But Catherine had seen: and in spite of herself she screamed, from the heart, surprising even herself as though she had just admitted a preference she didn’t even know she had.
‘Watch out! He’s got his knife!’
Étienne had only just had time to ward off the first thrust with his arm. His woollen jersey was cut by the thick blade, one of those blades that are attached to a boxwood handle by a copper ferrule. Already he had grabbed hold of Chaval’s wrist, and a fierce struggle ensued, with Étienne thinking that he would be lost if he let go, and his opponent jerking his arm away repeatedly in order to break free and strike again. Slowly the weapon was coming lower and lower, their straining limbs were beginning to give out, and twice Étienne felt the cold touch of steel against his skin; but with one last, supreme effort he squeezed Chaval’s wrist so hard that the knife fell from his open hand. Both men flung themselves to the ground at once, and it was Étienne who reached it first and now brandished it in his turn. He had Chaval pinned to the floor beneath his knee, and he was threatening to slit his throat.
‘Right, you cheating bastard, you’ve had it this time!’
Within him he sensed a terrible prompting, blotting out all else. It surged up from his entrails and pounded inside his skull, a sudden, crazed desire to kill, a desperate thirst for blood. Never before had he had such a strong attack as this. And yet he wasn’t drunk. And as he struggled to resist this hereditary evil, he shook violently like some maniacal lover trembling on the brink of rape. At length he managed to control himself and tossed the knife behind him, spluttering in a hoarse voice:
‘Get up. And bugger off.’
This time Rasseneur had rushed forward, but without trying too hard to come between them in case he should get hit by mistake. He didn’t want anyone getting killed on his premises, and he became so angry that his wife, standing at the counter, told him that he always did get roused too quick. Souvarine, who had almost got the knife in his legs, was now finally getting round to lighting his cigarette. Was that it? Catherine continued to stare in stupefaction at the two men, both of them still alive.
‘Bugger off!’ Étienne said again. ‘Go on, or I really will finish you off!’
Chaval rose to his feet and with the back of his hand wiped away the blood that was still pouring from his nose; and then, his chin spattered with blood, his eye blackened, he sloped off in sullen fury at his defeat. Automatically Catherine made to follow him. Then he drew himself up, and his hatred poured out in a torrent of obscene abuse.
‘Oh no you don’t. Oh no! If it’s him you want, then fucking sleep with him, you filthy slut! And don’t you set foot in my house again either, if you want to live!’
He slammed the door after him. A heavy silence fell in the warm room, where the only sound was the gentle puttering of the coal. On the floor all that remained were the upturned chair and a spattering of blood, which was gradually soaking into the sand.
IV
After they left Rasseneur’s, Étienne and Catherine walked along in silence. It was beginning to thaw, a slow, chilly thaw that dirtied the snow without really melting it. In the ghostly pale sky the full moon could be glimpsed behind large clouds that were being swept along by a gale, high above them, like black rags; down below there was not a breath of wind, and all that could be heard was the water dripping from the roofs and the gentle thud as another lump of whiteness slid to the ground.
Étienne felt awkward with this female companion he had suddenly acquired, and in his embarrassment he could think of nothing to say. The idea of taking her into hiding with him at Réquillart seemed ridiculous. He had wanted to escort her home to her parents in the village; but she had refused with a look of absolute terror: no, no, anything rather than become a burden to them, especially after abandoning them in such a despicable way! Since then neither