Germinal - Emile Zola [98]
‘I’ve got to get the bastard!…Here, Chaval, you and Catherine look after Philomène for me, will you? I’ll be back.’
Now it was Maheu’s turn to buy a round. After all, it wasn’t such a bad thing if the lad wanted to stick up for his sister. But Philomène, who had calmed down when she saw Mouquet arrive, just shook her head. You could be sure the buggers had gone off to the Volcano together.
Come the evening on ducasse days, everyone would end up at the Jolly Fellow. This dance-hall was run by Widow Desire, a stout matron of fifty who was as round as a barrel but still so full of energy that she had six lovers, one for each day of the week, she used to say, and all six at once on Sundays. She referred to the miners as her children in fond remembrance of the river of beer she had poured down them over the past thirty years; and she also liked to boast that no putter ever got pregnant without having first had a spot of slap and tickle at the Jolly Fellow. The place consisted of two rooms: the bar itself, where the counter and tables were, and then, on the same level but through a broad archway, the dance-hall. This was a huge room, with an area of wooden floor-boards in the middle surrounded by brick. The only decoration was provided by garlands of paper flowers strung from opposite corners of the ceiling and joined together in the middle by a wreath of matching flowers. Round the walls ran a line of gilt shields bearing the names of saints, like St Éloi, the patron saint of ironworkers, St Crispin, the patron saint of cobblers, St Barbe, the patron saint of miners, in fact the whole calendar of saints celebrated by tradesmen’s guilds. The ceiling was so low that the three musicians sitting on the stage, itself no bigger than a pulpit, banged their heads on it. To light the room in the evenings four paraffin lamps were hung, one in each corner.
That Sunday there was dancing from five o’clock onwards, when daylight was still streaming through the windows. But it was nearer seven by the time the rooms filled up with people. Outside a storm was gathering: the wind had got up and was stirring large clouds of black dust, which got into everybody’s eyes and sizzled in the frying-pans. Maheu, Étienne and Pierron had come to the Jolly Fellow in search of somewhere to sit and found Chaval dancing with Catherine while Philomène stood watching on her own. Neither Levaque nor Zacharie had reappeared. Since there were no benches round the dance-floor, Catherine came and sat at her father’s table between dances. They called Philomène over, but she said she preferred to stand. The light was fading, the musicians were in full swing, and all that could be seen was a flurry of hips and busts and a general flailing of arms. There was a roar when the four lamps arrived, and suddenly everything was lit up, the red faces, the tumbling hair clinging to wet skin, the swirling skirts fanning the air with the pungent smell of sweating couples. Maheu drew Étienne’s attention to La Mouquette, round and plump like a bladder of lard, who was gyrating wildly in the arms of a tall, thin banksman. She must have decided to make do with someone else.
It was eight o’clock by the time La Maheude finally arrived with Estelle at her breast and her brood of Alzire, Henri and Lénore trailing behind her. She had come straight to the Jolly Fellow, knowing that that was where she would find Maheu. Supper could wait; no one was hungry, their stomachs were either full of coffee or bloated with beer. Other women arrived, and people began to whisper when they saw La Levaque walk in behind La Maheude and accompanied by Bouteloup, who was leading Philomène’s children, Achille and Désirée, by the hand. The two neighbours seemed to be on perfectly friendly terms as the one turned and chatted with the other. On their way over the women had had things out once