Germinal - Emile Zola [82]
And this was how old Mouque came to be living out his days surrounded by young love. From the age of ten La Mouquette had been having sex in every corner of the ruins, not, like Lydie, as a timid and unripe little urchin-child, but as a girl who had filled out and was ready for boys with beards. There was nothing her father could say or do about it, for she always showed him proper respect and never asked any of her boyfriends into the house. Anyway, he was used to such things. Whether he was on his way out to Le Voreux or coming home again, the moment he ventured out of his lair he was always tripping over some couple hidden in the grass. Even worse, whenever he wanted to fetch some wood to cook his soup or pick some burdock for his rabbit over on the far side of the mine, there all the girls of Montsou would be, popping their pretty little noses up out of the grass, and he had to be careful where he trod so as not to step on any of the legs stretched out across the path. But gradually such encounters had ceased to trouble either party, neither himself, who simply tried to make sure that he didn’t trip over, nor the girls themselves, whom he left to get on with the business in hand as he tiptoed discreetly away like a good fellow who has no quarrel with the workings of nature. Except that just as they had now got to know him, so too he had come to recognize them, the way one recognizes amorous magpies disporting in the pear trees in the garden. Oh, these youngsters! They were always at it, they simply never stopped! Sometimes he shook his head in silent regret as he turned away from the noisy trollops panting loudly in the dark. Only one thing actually annoyed him: a particular pair of lovers had acquired the unfortunate habit of embracing against the outside wall of his room. Not that it kept him awake at night or anything of that sort; it was just that they pushed so hard that they were gradually damaging the wall.
Every evening old Mouque was visited by his friend Bonnemort, who would regularly take the same walk before dinner. The two old codgers barely spoke and rarely exchanged more than a dozen words during the half-hour they spent in each other’s company. But it cheered them up to be together like this, to reflect on past times and turn things over in their minds without ever feeling the need to talk about them. At Réquillart they would sit on a beam, side by side, utter a word or two, and then off they went, nose to the ground, thinking old thoughts and dreaming old dreams. No doubt it made them feel young again. All around them the lads were lifting young lasses’ skirts, there was kissing and whispering and laughing, and the warm aroma of girls rose in the air, mingling with the cool scent of crushed grass. It was behind this pit, forty-three years ago, that old Bonnemort had first had his wife, such a skinny little putter that he had been able to pick her up and sit her on a tub so as to kiss her more easily. Ah, those were the days! And the two old men would shake their heads and finally take their leave, often without even saying goodbye.
That particular evening, however, as Étienne arrived, Bonnemort was just getting up from the beam to return to the village and saying to Mouque:
‘Good-night, my old friend…Incidentally, did you ever know that girl they called La Roussie?’
Mouque was silent for a moment, then shrugged; and as he went back into his house, he simply said:
‘Good-night, my old friend, good-night.’
Étienne came and sat on the beam. He felt even sadder now, without knowing quite why. The sight of the old fellow