Germinal, Émile Zola [readict .txt] 📗

with the gnawing in his stomach, she went on cheerfully:

“Ah! if you are fastidious! But here, I’ve only bitten on that side. I’ll give you this.”

She had already broken the bread and butter into two pieces. The young man, taking his half, restrained himself from devouring it all at once, and placed his arms on his thighs, so that she should not see how he trembled. With her quiet air of good comradeship she lay beside him, at full length on her stomach, with her chin in one hand, slowly eating with the other. Their lamps, placed between them, lit up their faces.

Catherine looked at him a moment in silence. She must have found him handsome, with his delicate face and black moustache. She vaguely smiled with pleasure.

“Then you are an engine-driver, and they sent you away from your railway. Why?”

“Because I struck my chief.”

She remained stupefied, overwhelmed, with her hereditary ideas of subordination and passive obedience.

“I ought to say that I had been drinking,” he went on, “and when I drink I get mad⁠—I could devour myself, and I could devour other people. Yes; I can’t swallow two small glasses without wanting to kill someone. Then I am ill for two days.”

“You mustn’t drink,” she said, seriously.

“Ah, don’t be afraid. I know myself.”

And he shook his head. He hated brandy with the hatred of the last child of a race of drunkards, who suffered in his flesh from all those ancestors, soaked and driven mad by alcohol to such a point that the least drop had become poison to him.

“It is because of mother that I didn’t like being turned into the street,” he said, after having swallowed a mouthful. “Mother is not happy, and I used to send her a five-franc piece now and then.”

“Where is she, then, your mother?”

“At Paris. Laundress, Rue de la Goutte-d’or.”

There was silence. When he thought of these things a tremor dimmed his dark eyes, the sudden anguish of the injury he brooded over in his fine youthful strength. For a moment he remained with his looks buried in the darkness of the mine; and at that depth, beneath the weight and suffocation of the earth, he saw his childhood again, his mother still beautiful and strong, forsaken by his father, then taken up again after having married another man, living with the two men who ruined her, rolling with them in the gutter in drink and ordure. It was down there, he recalled the street, the details came back to him; the dirty linen in the middle of the shop, the drunken carousals that made the house stink, and the jaw-breaking blows.

“Now,” he began again, in a slow voice, “I haven’t even thirty sous to make her presents with. She will die of misery, sure enough.”

He shrugged his shoulders with despair, and again bit at his bread and butter.

“Will you drink?” asked Catherine, uncorking her tin. “Oh, it’s coffee, it won’t hurt you. One gets dry when one eats like that.”

But he refused; it was quite enough to have taken half her bread. However, she insisted good-naturedly, and said at last:

“Well, I will drink before you since you are so polite. Only you can’t refuse now, it would be rude.”

She held out her tin to him. She had got on to her knees and he saw her quite close to him, lit up by the two lamps. Why had he found her ugly? Now that she was black, her face powdered with fine charcoal, she seemed to him singularly charming. In this face surrounded by shadow, the teeth in the broad mouth shone with whiteness, while the eyes looked large and gleamed with a greenish reflection, like a cat’s eyes. A lock of red hair which had escaped from her cap tickled her ear and made her laugh. She no longer seemed so young, she might be quite fourteen.

“To please you,” he said, drinking and giving her back the tin.

She swallowed a second mouthful and forced him to take one too, wishing to share, she said; and that little tin that went from one mouth to the other amused them. He suddenly asked himself if he should not take her in his arms and kiss her lips. She had large lips of a pale rose colour, made vivid by the coal, which tormented him with increasing desire. But he did not dare, intimidated before her, only having known girls on the streets at Lille of the lowest order, and not realizing how one ought to behave with a work-girl still living with her family.

“You must be about fourteen then?” he asked, after having gone back to his bread. She was astonished, almost angry.

“What? fourteen! But I am fifteen! It’s true I’m not big. Girls don’t grow quick with us.”

He went on questioning her and she told everything without boldness or shame. For the rest she was not ignorant concerning man and woman, although he felt that her body was virginal, with the virginity of a child delayed in her sexual maturity by the environment of bad air and weariness in which she lived. When he spoke of Mouquette, in order to embarrass her, she told some horrible stories in a quiet voice, with much amusement. Ah! she did some fine things! And as he asked if she herself had no lovers, she replied jokingly that she did not wish to vex her mother, but that it must happen some day. Her shoulders were bent. She shivered a little from the coldness of her garments soaked in sweat, with a gentle resigned air, ready to submit to things and men.

“People can find lovers when they all live together, can’t they?”

“Sure enough!”

“And then it doesn’t hurt anyone. One doesn’t tell the priest.”

“Oh! the priest! I don’t care for him! But there is the Black Man.”

“What do you mean, the Black Man?”

“The old miner who comes back into the pit and wrings naughty girls’ necks.”

He looked at her, afraid that she was making fun of