have seen what we should have done at Vandame in our mine!”
M. Grégoire finished his chocolate without haste. He replied peacefully:
“Never! You know that I don’t want to speculate. I live quietly, and it would be too foolish to worry my head over business affairs. And as for Montsou, it may continue to go down, we shall always get our living out of it. It doesn’t do to be so diabolically greedy! Then, listen, it is you who will bite your fingers one day, for Montsou will rise again and Cécile’s grandchildren will still get their white bread out of it.”
Deneulin listened with a constrained smile.
“Then,” he murmured, “if I were to ask you to put a hundred thousand francs in my affair you would refuse?”
But seeing the Grégoires’ disturbed faces he regretted having gone so far; he put off his idea of a loan, reserving it until the case was desperate.
“Oh! I have not got to that! it is a joke. Good heavens! perhaps you are right; the money that other people earn for you is the best to fatten on.”
They changed the conversation. Cécile spoke again of her cousins, whose tastes interested, while at the same time they shocked her. Madame Grégoire promised to take her daughter to see those dear little ones on the first fine day. M. Grégoire, however, with a distracted air, did not follow the conversation. He added aloud:
“If I were in your place I wouldn’t persist any more; I would treat with Montsou. They want it, and you will get your money back.”
He alluded to an old hatred which existed between the concession of Montsou and that of Vandame. In spite of the latter’s slight importance, its powerful neighbour was enraged at seeing, enclosed within its own sixty-seven communes, this square league which did not belong to it, and after having vainly tried to kill it had plotted to buy it at a low price when in a failing condition. The war continued without truce. Each party stopped its galleries at two hundred metres from the other; it was a duel to the last drop of blood, although the managers and engineers maintained polite relations with each other.
Deneulin’s eyes had flamed up.
“Never!” he cried, in his turn. “Montsou shall never have Vandame as long as I am alive. I dined on Thursday at Hennebeau’s, and I saw him fluttering around me. Last autumn, when the big men came to the administration building, they made me all sorts of advances. Yes, yes, I know them — those marquises, and dukes, and generals, and ministers! Brigands who would take away even your shirt at the corner of a wood.”
He could not cease. Besides, M. Grégoire did not defend the administration of Montsou — the six stewards established by the treaty of 1760, who governed the Company despotically, and the five survivors of whom on every death chose the new member among the powerful and rich shareholders. The opinion of the owner of Piolaine, with his reasonable ideas, was that these gentlemen were sometimes rather immoderate in their exaggerated love of money.
Mélanie had come to clear away the table. Outside the dogs were again barking, and Honorine was going to the door, when Cécile, who was stifled by heat and food, left the table.
“No, never mind! it must be for my lesson.”
Deneulin had also risen. He watched the young girl go out, and asked, smiling:
“Well! and the marriage with little Négrel?”
“Nothing has been settled,” said Madame Grégroire; “it is only an idea. We must reflect.”
“No doubt!” he went on, with a gay laugh. “I believe that the nephew and the aunt — What baffles me is that Madame Hennebeau should throw herself so on Cécile’s neck.”
But M. Grégoire was indignant. So distinguished a lady, and fourteen years older than the young man! It was monstrous; he did not like joking on such subjects. Deneulin, still laughing, shook hands with him and left.
“Not yet,” said Cécile, coming back. “It is that woman with the two children. You know, mamma, the miner’s wife whom we met. Are they to come in here?”
They hesitated. Were they very dirty? No, not very; and they would leave their sabots in the porch. Already the father and mother had stretched themselves out in the depths of their large easy-chairs. They were digesting there. The fear of change of air decided them.
“Let them come in, Honorine.”
Then Maheude and her little ones entered, frozen and hungry, seized by fright on finding themselves in this room, which was so warm and smelled so nicely of the brioche.
Chapter 2
THE room remained shut up and the shutters had allowed gradual streaks of daylight to form a fan on the ceiling. The confined air stupefied them so that they continued their night’s slumber: Lénore and Henri in each other’s arms, Alzire with her head back, lying on her hump; while Father Bonnemort, having the bed of Zacharie and Jeanlin to himself, snored with open mouth. No sound came from the closet where Maheude had gone to sleep again while suckling Estelle, her breast hanging to one side, the child lying across her belly, stuffed with milk, overcome also and stifling in the soft flesh of the bosom.
The clock below struck six. Along the front of the settlement one heard the sound of doors, then the clatter of sabots along the pavements; the screening women were going to the pit. And silence again fell until seven o’clock. Then shutters were drawn back, yawns and coughs were heard through the walls. For a long time a coffee-mill scraped, but no one awoke in the room.
Suddenly a sound of blows and shouts, far away, made Alzire sit up. She was conscious of the time, and ran barefooted to shake her mother.
“Mother, mother, it is late! you have to go out. Take care, you are crushing Estelle.”
And she saved the child, half-stifled beneath the enormous mass of the breasts.
“Good gracious!” stammered Maheude, rubbing her eyes, “I’m so knocked up I could sleep all day. Dress Lénore and Henri, I’ll take them with me; and you can take care of Estelle; I don’t want to drag her along for fear of hurting her, this dog’s weather.”
She hastily washed herself and put on an old blue skirt, her cleanest, and a loose jacket of grey wool in which she had made two patches the evening before.
“And the soup! Good gracious!” she muttered again.
When her mother had gone down, upsetting everything, Alzire went back into the room taking with her Estelle, who had begun screaming. But she was used to the little one’s rages; at eight she had all a woman’s tender cunning in soothing and amusing her. She gently placed her in her still warm bed, and put her to sleep again, giving her a finger to suck. It was time, for now another disturbance broke out, and she had to make peace between Lénore and Henri, who at last awoke. These children could never get on together; it was only when they were asleep that they put their arms round one another’s necks. The girl, who was six years old, as soon as she was awake set on the boy, her junior by two years, who received her blows without returning them. Both of them had the same kind of head, which was too large for them, as if blown out, with disorderly yellow hair. Alzire had to pull her sister by the legs, threatening to take the skin off her bottom. Then there was stamping over the washing, and over every garment that she put on to them. The shutters remained closed so as not to disturb Father Bonnemort’s sleep. He went on snoring amid the children’s frightful clatter.
“It’s ready. Are you coming, up there?” shouted Maheude.
She had put back the blinds, and stirred up the fire, adding some coal to it. Her hope was that the old man had not swallowed all the soup. But she found the saucepan dry, and cooked a handful of vermicelli which she had been keeping for three days in reserve. They could swallow it with water, without butter, as there could not be any remaining from the day before, and she