Germinal | Page 8

to elbow, from one end to the
other; and no fact of family life remained hidden, even from the
youngsters. A heavy step had tramped up the staircase; then there was a
kind of soft fall, followed by a sigh of satisfaction. "Good!" said
Catherine. "Levaque has gone down, and here is Bouteloup come to
join the Levaque woman." Jeanlin grinned; even Alzire's eyes shone.
Every morning they made fun of the household of three next door, a
pikeman who lodged a worker in the cutting, an arrangement which
gave the woman two men, one by night, the other by day. "Philoméne
is coughing," began Catherine again, after listening. She was speaking
of the eldest Levaque, a big girl of nineteen, and the mistress of
Zacharie, by whom she had already had two children; her chest was so
delicate that she was only a sifter at the pit, never having been able to
work below. "Pooh! Philoméne!" replied Zacharie, "she cares a lot,
she's asleep. It's hoggish to sleep till six." He was putting on his
breeches when an idea occurred to him, and he opened the window.
Outside in the darkness the settlement was awaking, lights were
dawning one by one between the laths of the shutters. And there was
another dispute: he leant out to watch if he could not see, coming out of
Pierron's opposite, the captain of the Voreux, who was accused of
sleeping with the Pierron woman, while his sister called to him that
since the day before the husband had taken day duty at the pit-eye, and
that certainly Dansaert could not have slept there that night. Whilst the

air entered in icy whiffs, both of them, becoming angry, maintained the
truth of their own information, until cries and tears broke out. It was
Éstelle, in her cradle, vexed by the cold. Maheu woke up suddenly.
What had he got in his bones, then? Here he was going to sleep again
like a good-for-nothing. And he swore so vigorously that the children
became still. Zacharie and Jeanlin finished washing with slow
weariness. Alzire, with her large, open eyes, continually stared. The
two youngsters, Lénore and Henri, in each other's arms, had not stirred,
breathing in the same quiet way in spite of the noise. "Catherine, give
me the candle," called out Maheu. She finished buttoning her jacket,
and carried the candle into the closet, leaving her brothers to look for
their clothes by what light came through the door. Her father jumped
out of bed. She did not stop, but went downstairs in her coarse woollen
stockings, feeling her way, and lighted another candle in the parlour, to
prepare the coffee. All the sabots of the family were beneath the
sideboard. "Will you be still, vermin?" began Maheu, again,
exasperated by Éstelle's cries which still went on. He was short, like old
Bonnemort, and resembled him, with his strong head, his flat, livid face,
beneath yellow hair cut very short. The child screamed more than ever,
frightened by those great knotted arms which were held above her.
"Leave her alone; you know that she won't be still," said his wife,
stretching herself in the middle of the bed. She also had just awakened
and was complaining how disgusting it was never to be able to finish
the night. Could they not go away quietly? Buried in the clothes she
only showed her long face with large features of a heavy beauty,
already disfigured at thirty-nine by her life of wretchedness and the
seven children she had borne. With her eyes on the ceiling she spoke
slowly, while her man dressed himself. They both ceased to hear the
little one, who was strangling herself with screaming. "Eh? You know I
haven't a penny and this is only Monday: still six days before the
fortnight's out. This can't go on. You, all of you, only bring in nine
francs. How do you expect me to go on? We are ten in the house." "Oh!
nine francs!" exclaimed Maheu. "I and Zacharie three: that makes six,
Catherine and the father, two: that makes four: four and six, ten, and
Jeanlin one, that makes eleven." "Yes, eleven, but there are Sundays
and the off-days. Never more than nine, you know." He did not reply,
being occupied in looking on the ground for his leather belt. Then he

said, on getting up: "Mustn't complain. I am sound all the same. There's
more than one at forty-two who are put to the patching." "Maybe, old
man, but that does not give us bread. Where am I to get it from, eh?
Have you got nothing?" "I've got two coppers." "Keep them for a
half-pint. Good Lord! where am I to get it from? Six days! it will never
end. We owe sixty