The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [91]
“Yes, yes,” declared Logre, standing up to appear taller and shaking the paneling with the excited motion of his hump. “Everything will be leveled to the ground. Remember, I said it first. Then we will decide what to do.”
Robine waved his beard in agreement. His silence seemed to imply delight whenever violent revolution was proposed. His eyes showed a soft glow at the mention of the word guillotine. He half closed them as though staring off at the machine itself and was filled with a pleasant feeling from this sight; then he would rub his chin against the knob of his cane and purr with contentment.
“However,” Florent pointed out, taking his turn, his voice still revealing a hint of sadness, “if you cut down the tree, you have to save some seed. Personally, I think the tree should be spared in order to graft new shoots. The political revolution has already happened. Today we have to think of the laborer, the worker. Our movement must be a social movement. I challenge you to embrace the demands of the people. The people are weary. They want their share.”
These words thrilled Alexandre. His face beaming, he confirmed that it was true. The people were weary.
“And we too will have our share,” declared Lacaille, in a more threatening tone. “All revolutions advance the middle class. We've had enough of that. The next one is going to be for us.”
Now there was no more consensus. Gavard offered to divide up his property, but Logre declined, swearing that he had no interest in money. Then Charvet gradually got control of the bedlam, until his was the only voice heard.
“The self-interest of the different social classes is the great strength of tyranny,” he said. “The selfishness of the people is wrong. If you work with us, you will get your share. But why should I fight for the workers if the workers won't fight for me? That's not the question. It will take ten years of revolutionary government to accustom a country like France to the ways of liberty.”
“All the more reason,” said Clémence bluntly, “why the workingman is not ready and needs to be directed.”
She seldom spoke. This tall, serious girl, lost among all those men, had a professorial way of listening to political discussion. She leaned against the partition, sipping her grog, studying the speakers with a furrowed brow and enlarged nostrils, using them to silently indicate her approval or disapproval, demonstrating that she understood and held opinions on everything. Occasionally she would roll a cigarette, blowing thin streams of smoke from the corners of her mouth while intensifying her scrutiny of the debate. It was as though she were judging the debate and would award a prize to the winner after it was over. She believed in keeping her place as a woman, holding back her opinions and not growing agitated when the men did. But now and then she would let a word or two escape to “drive home the nail,” as Gavard liked to say. In her heart, she believed herself to be far ahead of the men. She had no respect for any of them, accept Robine, and she would watch his silence with her large black eyes.
Neither Florent nor any of the others paid any special attention to Clémence. To them she was one of the boys, and they shook her hand so roughly it nearly dislocated her arm. One evening Florent was present at one of the chronic settling of accounts between Charvet and her. They lived together with a mutual understanding, each controlling their own earnings and responsible for their own expenses. That way, they said, no one owed anything and they were not slaves. Rent, food, laundry, entertainment, everything was written down and added up. On this particular night, after checking the accounts, Clémence proved to Charvet that he still owed five francs. Then she handed him the ten he wanted to borrow and said, “Make a note that you now owe me fifteen. You can pay me back on the fifth, when you get paid for teaching little Léhudier.”
When it came time to pay Rose for the drinks, each would pull out a few