Germinal - Emile Zola [269]
‘You mustn’t mind his manners,’ La Levaque said obligingly. ‘Appears he’s a bit cracked in the head. He’s not said a word for the past fortnight.’
But Bonnemort began to shake as a rasping sound seemed to rise up from the depths of his stomach, and he spat a thick, black gob of phlegm into the plate. The ash was saturated, a black sludge where he had heaved up all the coal-dust that had ever passed down his throat. Again he was still. He never moved now, except every once in a while like this to spit.
Unnerved and physically disgusted, the Grégoires attempted nevertheless to find a few friendly and encouraging words to say.
‘So, my good man,’ said Papa. ‘Got a bit of a cold, have you?’
Bonnemort continued to stare straight ahead of him at the wall, and again there was a heavy silence.
‘They ought to make you a cup of tea,’ said Mamma.
He just sat there not saying a word.
‘But wait, Papa,’ Cécile said softly. ‘People did say he was ill. We ought to have realized…’
She stopped, thoroughly embarrassed. Having set a dish of stew and two bottles of wine down on the table, she was untying the second parcel and lifting out an enormous pair of shoes. This was the gift they had intended for the grandfather; and, holding a shoe in each hand, she stared in dismay at the swollen feet of this man who would never walk again.
‘A bit late, eh, old chap?’ M. Grégoire went on, trying to ease the situation. ‘Not to worry. They’ll always come in useful somehow.’
Bonnemort heard nothing and said nothing, and his face wore a terrifying expression of cold, hard stone.
Cécile then gingerly put the shoes down beside the wall. But despite her best efforts the hobnails clattered on the floor; and the enormous shoes sat there looking completely out of place in the room
‘Oh, don’t wait for him to say ‘‘thank you’’!’ cried La Levaque, who had shot a glance of deepest envy at the shoes. ‘You might as well give a pair of spectacles to a duck. Begging your pardon!’
And on she went, trying to lure the Grégoires into her own house in the hope of touching their hearts with its prospect. Eventually she thought of a pretext and began to sing the praises of Henri and Lénore, saying what nice, sweet children they were, and how intelligent too, and how they replied like little angels whenever anyone asked them a question. They would be able to tell Monsieur and Madame anything they wished to know.
‘Do you want to come next door for a moment, my dear?’ M. Grégoire asked Cécile, glad of the chance to leave.
‘Yes, I’ll be along presently.’
Cécile remained alone with Bonnemort. She had stayed behind out of trembling fascination because she thought she recognized the old man. But where had she seen this pale, square, coal-stained face before? Suddenly she remembered. She saw herself once more surrounded by a screaming crowd of people and felt the cold hands closing round her neck. Yes, it was him, it was the same man, and she looked down at the hands resting on his knees, the hands of someone who had spent his entire working life squatting on his knees and whose whole strength was in his wrists, wrists that were still firm and strong despite his age. Bonnemort had been showing gradual signs of coming back to life, and he now noticed Cécile and began to examine her with his usual gaping expression. His cheeks flushed, and a nervous tic began to pull at his mouth, from which dribbled a thin trickle of black saliva. They faced each other, as though irresistibly drawn together, she in her bloom, plump and fresh-cheeked from the long hours of idleness and the sated well-being of her sort, he swollen with liquid and as pitifully hideous as some broken-down animal, just one in a long line of men destroyed