then?”
The lander turned and saw Philoméne coming out of the screening shed. He thought he understood.
“Very well, if it’s that. Then I go ahead.”
“Yes, I’ll catch you up.”
As he went away, Mouquet met his father, old Mouque, who was also coming out of the Voreux. The two men simply wished each other good evening, the son taking the main road while the father went along by the canal.
Zacharie was already pushing Philoméne in spite of her resistance into the same solitary path. She was in a hurry another time; and the two wrangled like old housemates. There was no fun in only seeing one another out of doors, especially in winter, when the earth is moist and there are no wheatfields to lie in.
“No, no, it’s not that,” he whispered impatiently. “I’ve something to say to you.” He led her gently with his arm round her waist. Then, when they were in the shadow of the pit-bank, he asked if she had any money.
“What for?” she demanded.
Then he became confused, spoke of a debt of two francs which had reduced his family to despair.
“Hold your tongue! I’ve seen Mouquet; you’re going again to the Volcan with him, where those dirty singer-women are.”
He defended himself, struck his chest, gave his word of honour. Then, as she shrugged her shoulders, he said suddenly:
“Come with us if it will amuse you. You see that you don’t put me out. What do I want to do with the singers? Will you come?”
“And the little one?” she replied. “How can one stir with a child that’s always screaming? Let me go back, I guess they’re not getting on at the house.”
But he held her and entreated. See! it was only not to look foolish before Mouquet to whom he had promised. A man could not go to bed every evening like the fowls. She was overcome, and pulled up the skirt of her gown; with her nail she cut the thread and drew out some half-franc pieces from a corner of the hem. For fear of being robbed by her mother she hid there the profit of the overtime work she did at the pit.
“I’ve got five, you see,” she said, “I’ll give you three. Only you must swear that you’ll make your mother decide to let us marry. We’ve had enough of this life in the open air. And mother reproaches me for every mouthful I eat. Swear first.”
She spoke with the soft voice of a big, delicate girl, without passion, simply tired of her life. He swore, exclaimed that it was a sacred promise; then, when he had got the three pieces, he kissed her, tickled her, made her laugh, and would have pushed things to an extreme in this corner of the pit-bank, which was the winter chamber of their household, if she had not again refused, saying that it would not give her any pleasure. She went back to the settlement alone, while he cut across the fields to rejoin his companion.
Étienne had followed them mechanically, from afar, without understanding, regarding it as a simple rendezvous. The girls were precocious in the pits; and he recalled the Lille work-girls whom he had waited for behind the factories, those bands of girls, corrupted at fourteen, in the abandonment of their wretchedness. But another meeting surprised him more. He stopped.
At the bottom of the pit-bank, in a hollow into which some large stones had slipped, little Jeanlin was violently snubbing Lydie and Bébert, seated one at his right, the other at his left.
“What do you say? Eh? I’ll slap each of you if you want more. Who thought of it first, eh?”
In fact, Jeanlin had had an idea. After having roamed about in the meadows, along the canal, for an hour, gathering dandelions with the two others, it had occurred to him, before this pile of salad, that they would never eat all that at home; and instead of going back to the settlement he had gone to Montsou, keeping Bébert to watch, and making Lydie ring at the houses and offer the dandelions. He was experienced enough to know that, as he said, girls could sell what they liked. In the ardour of business, the entire pile had disappeared; but the girl had gained eleven sous. And now, with empty hands, the three were dividing the profits.
“That’s not fair!” Bébert declared. “Must divide into three. If you keep seven sous we shall only have two each.”
“What? not fair!” replied Jeanlin furiously. “I gathered more first of all.”
The other usually submitted with timid admiration and a credulity which always made him the dupe. Though older and stronger, he even allowed himself to be struck. But this time the sight of all that money excited him to rebellion.
“He’s robbing us, Lydie, isn’t he? If he doesn’t share, we’ll tell his mother.”
Jeanlin at once thrust his fist beneath the other’s nose. “Say that again! I’ll go and say at your house that you sold my mother’s salad. And then, you silly beast, how can I divide eleven sous into three? Just try and see, if you’re so clever. Here are your two sous each. Just look sharp and take them, or I’ll put them in my pocket.”
Bébert was vanquished,and accepted the two sous. Lydie, who was trembling, had said nothing, for with Jeanlin she experienced the fear and the tenderness of a little beaten woman. When he held out the two sous to her she advanced her hand with a submissive laugh. But he suddenly changed his mind.
“Eh! what will you do with all that? Your mother will nab them, sure enough, if you don’t know how to hide them from her. I’d better keep them for you. When you want money you can ask me for it.”
And the nine sous disappeared. To shut her mouth he had put his arms around her laughingly and was rolling with her over the pit-bank. She was his little wife, and in the dark corners they used to try together the love which they heard and saw in their homes behind partitions, through the cracks of doors. They knew everything, but they were able to do nothing, being too young, fumbling and playing for hours at the games of vicious puppies. He called that playing at papa and mama; and when he chased her she ran away and let herself be caught with the delicious trembling of instinct, often angry, but always yielding, in the expectation of something which never came.
As Bébert was not admitted to these games and received a cuffing whenever he wanted to touch Lydie, he was always constrained, agitated by anger and uneasiness when the other two were amusing themselves, which they did not hesitate to do in his presence. His one idea, therefore, was to frighten them and disturb them, calling out that someone could see them.
“It’s all up! There’s a man looking.”
This time he told the truth; it was Étienne, who had decided to continue his walk. The children jumped up and ran away, and he passed by round the bank, following the canal, amused at the terror of these little rascals. No doubt it was too early at their age, but they saw and heard so much that one would have to tie them up to restrain them. Yet Étienne became sad.
A hundred paces farther on he came across more couples. He had arrived at Réquillart, and there, around the old ruined mine, all the girls of Montsou prowled about with their lovers. It was the common rendezvous, the remote and deserted spot to which the putters came to get their first child when they dared not risk the shed. The broken palings opened to every one the old yard, now become a nondescript piece of ground, obstructed by the ruins of the two sheds which had fallen in, and by the skeletons of the large buttresses which were still standing. Derelict trains were lying about, and piles of old rotting
