Germinal - Emile Zola [55]
Then, suddenly, Étienne made up his mind. Perhaps he imagined he’d caught another glimpse of Catherine’s bright eyes, up there at the entry to the village. Or perhaps it was the wind of revolt beginning to blow from the direction of Le Voreux. He could not tell. He simply wanted to go down the mine again, to suffer and to struggle; and he thought angrily of those ‘people’ Bonnemort had told him about, and of the squat and sated deity to whom ten thousand starving men and women daily offered up their flesh without ever knowing who or what this god might be.
PART II
I
The Grégoire property, La Piolaine, was to be found two kilometres east of Montsou, on the road to Joiselle. It was a tall, square house of no particular style, dating from the beginning of the previous century. Of the vast estates that had originally belonged to it only some thirty hectares remained, which were surrounded by walls and easy to maintain. The orchard and kitchen garden enjoyed especial renown, since their fruit and vegetables were celebrated as the finest in the region. For the rest, there was no parkland, but a little wood served in its stead. The avenue of old limes, a vault of foliage running three hundred metres from the gate to the front steps, was one of the sights on this bare and empty plain, where the number of large trees to be found between Marchiennes and Beaugnies was sufficiently small to be calculated exactly.
That morning the Grégoires had risen at eight o’clock. Generally they did not stir until one hour later, for they were devoted to sleep; but the storm during the night had left them too restive. After her husband had gone out at once to see if the high wind had caused any damage, Mme Grégoire had simply come down to the kitchen in her slippers and flannel dressing-gown. She was short and plump, and although she was already fifty-eight, she still had a big baby face; and beneath the dazzling whiteness of her hair she wore an expression of wide-eyed surprise.
‘Mélanie,’ she said to the cook, ‘you might perhaps make that brioche this morning, since the dough is ready. Mademoiselle Cécile will not be up for another half-hour yet, and she could have some with her chocolate…It would be a nice surprise for her, don’t you think?’
The cook, a thin, elderly woman who had been with them for thirty years, began to laugh.
‘Yes, indeed, that would be a lovely surprise for her…My stove’s burning nicely, and the oven must be warm by now. And Honorine can give me a hand.’
Honorine was a girl of twenty whom they had taken in as a child and brought up, and she now worked as a housemaid. Apart from these two women, the only other servants were the coachman Francis, who did the heavy work, and a gardener and his wife, who looked after the flowers, the fruit and vegetables, and the farmyard animals. And since the household was run on patriarchal lines in a spirit of gentle informality, this small community lived together on the best of terms.
Mme Grégoire, who had planned the brioche surprise while she was lying in bed, now waited to see the dough placed in the oven. The kitchen was huge, and judging by its extreme cleanliness and the great battery of dishes, saucepans and utensils with which it was filled, it was evidently the most important room in the house. It smelled deliciously of good food. The shelves and cupboards were overflowing with provisions.
‘And make sure it’s nice and golden brown, won’t you?’ Mme Grégoire reminded them as she departed into the dining-room.
Despite the presence of a central-heating system, which warmed the whole house, a coal fire was burning cheerfully in the grate. Otherwise there