Germinal - Emile Zola [270]
Ten minutes later, the Grégoires, surprised not to see Cécile, went back to the Maheus’ house, where they let out a terrible scream. Their daughter was lying on the floor, blue in the face, having been strangled. On her neck were red marks that looked as though they had been left by some giant’s fist. Bonnemort, having staggered forward on his paralysed legs, had collapsed beside her, unable to get up again. His fingers were still bent, and he was staring up at them with bulging, imbecilic eyes. He had broken his dish when he fell, spilling the ash, and the black sludge of his phlegm had splashed across the room. But the huge pair of shoes was still sitting there lined up against the wall, untouched.
It never proved possible to establish exactly what had happened. Why had Cécile gone so close to him? How had Bonne-mort, riveted to his chair, been able to grab her by the throat? Clearly, once he had got hold of her, he must have gripped her tight for all he was worth and not let go, toppling over on to the ground with her and stifling her screams until she breathed her last. For not a single sound or cry had been heard through the thin partition separating the two houses. He must have had a sudden fit of madness, an inexplicable urge to murder at the sight of this young girl’s white neck. Such savagery was astonishing on the part of this sick old man who had always been very much the stout fellow following orders like some obedient animal, and never one for the new ideas. What deep sense of grievance, unknown to himself, had slowly festered inside him and risen thus from his gut to his skull? The horror of it was such that people decided he must have acted unconsciously, that it was the crime of an idiot.
Meanwhile the Grégoires were down on their knees, sobbing and choking with grief. Their beloved little girl, this daughter they had wanted for so long and then showered with all their riches, whose bedroom they would creep into to make sure she was asleep, who could never be well enough fed, who was never plump enough! Their life was in ruins, for what was the point of living now that they would have to live without her?
La Levaque was screaming wildly:
‘Oh God, what’s the old bugger gone and done? Who would ever have thought such a thing?…And La Maheude won’t be back till evening. Perhaps I should run and fetch her.’
Overwhelmed by their suffering, the Grégoires made no reply.
‘It would be best, wouldn’t it?…I’ll go now.’
But as she was leaving she caught sight of the shoes. The whole village was in uproar, and a crowd was already forming outside. Somebody might steal them. And anyway there were no men left in the Maheu household to wear them. She quietly removed them. They must be just Bouteloup’s size.
At Réquillart the Hennebeaus waited a long time for the Grégoires, talking to Négrel. He had come up from the mine and was giving them details: they hoped to break through to the trapped miners that evening, but they’d only be bringing out bodies, it was still as silent as the grave down there. La Maheude was sitting behind the engineer on the beam, listening ashen-faced, when La Levaque arrived to tell her about the old man’s remarkable exploit. Her only reaction was a gesture of impatient annoyance. Nevertheless she followed her.
Mme Hennebeau was on the verge of fainting. How perfectly dreadful! That poor little Cécile, who had been so cheerful all day and so full of life but one hour earlier. Hennebeau had to usher her into old Mouque’s shack for a moment. There, with fumbling hands, he loosened her stays, and his head spun with the scent of musk that rose from her open corset. And while she tearfully embraced Négrel, himself appalled by this death which had put an end to his marriage plans, her husband watched them grieving together and felt relieved. This tragedy solved everything, for he would rather keep his nephew than fear that the coachman might be next.
V
At the bottom of the pit-shaft the wretched people who had been left behind were screaming with terror.