Germinal by Émile Zola (reading books for 5 year olds .TXT) 📕

us something, hasn’t he? Very well. He must return it before getting a wife to hang on him. What will become of us, eh, if our children begin at once to work for others? Might as well die!”

However, she grew calm.

“I’m speaking in a general way; we shall see later. It is fine and strong, your coffee; you make it proper.”

And after a quarter of an hour spent over other stories, she ran off, exclaiming that the men’s soup was not yet made. Outside, the children were going back to school; a few women were showing themselves at their doors, looking at Madame Hennebeau, who, with lifted finger, was explaining the settlement to her guests. This visit began to stir up the village. The earth-cutting man stopped digging for a moment, and two disturbed fowls took fright in the gardens.

As Maheude returned, she ran against the Levaque woman who had come out to stop Dr. Vanderhaghen, a doctor of the Company, a small hurried man, overwhelmed by work, who gave his advice as he walked.

“Sir,” she said, “I can’t sleep; I feel ill everywhere. I must tell you about it.”

He spoke to them all familiarly, and replied without stopping:

“Just leave me alone; you drink too much coffee.”

“And my husband, sir,” said Maheude in her turn, “you must come and see him. He always has those pains in his legs.”

“It is you who take too much out of him. Just leave me alone!”

The two women were left to gaze at the doctor’s retreating back.

“Come in, then,” said the Levaque woman, when she had exchanged a despairing shrug with her neighbour. “You know, there is something new. And you will take a little coffee. It is quite fresh.”

Maheude refused, but without energy. Well! a drop, at all events, not to disoblige. And she entered.

The room was black with dirt, the floor and the walls spotted with grease, the sideboard and the table sticky with filth; and the stink of a badly kept house took you by the throat. Near the fire, with his elbows on the table and his nose in his plate, Bouteloup, a broad stout placid man, still young for thirty-five, was finishing the remains of his boiled beef, while standing in front of him, little Achille, Philoméne’s firstborn, who was already in his third year, was looking at him in the silent, supplicating way of a gluttonous animal. The lodger, very kind behind his big brown beard, from time to time stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth.

“Wait till I sugar it,” said the Levaque woman, putting some brown sugar beforehand into the coffeepot.

Six years older than he was, she was hideous and worn out, with her bosom hanging on her belly, and her belly on her thighs, with a flattened muzzle, and greyish hair always uncombed. He had taken her naturally, without choosing, the same as he did his soup in which he found hairs, or his bed of which the sheets lasted for three months. She was part of the lodging; the husband liked repeating that good reckonings make good friends.

“I was going to tell you,” she went on, “that Pierronne was seen yesterday prowling about on the Bas-de-Soie side. The gentleman you know of was waiting for her behind Rasseneur’s, and they went off together along the canal. Eh! that’s nice, isn’t it? A married woman!”

“Gracious!” said Maheude; “Pierron, before marrying her, used to give the captain rabbits; now it costs him less to lend his wife.”

Bouteloup began to laugh enormously, and threw a fragment of sauced bread into Achille’s mouth. The two women went on relieving themselves with regard to Pierronne⁠—a flirt, no prettier than anyone else, but always occupied in looking after every freckle of her skin, in washing herself, and putting on pomade. Anyhow, it was the husband’s affair, if he liked that sort of thing. There were men so ambitious that they would wipe the masters’ behinds to hear them say thank you. And they were only interrupted by the arrival of a neighbour bringing in a little urchin of nine months, Désirée, Philoméne’s youngest; Philoméne, taking her breakfast at the screening-shed, had arranged that they should bring her little one down there, where she suckled it, seated for a moment in the coal.

“I can’t leave mine for a moment, she screams directly,” said Maheude, looking at Estelle, who was asleep in her arms.

But she did not succeed in avoiding the domestic affair which she had read in the other’s eyes.

“I say, now we ought to get that settled.”

At first the two mothers, without need for talking about it, had agreed not to conclude the marriage. If Zacharie’s mother wished to get her son’s wages as long as possible, Philoméne’s mother was enraged at the idea of abandoning her daughter’s wages. There was no hurry; the second mother had even preferred to keep the little one, as long as there was only one; but when it began to grow and eat and another one came, she found that she was losing, and furiously pushed on the marriage, like a woman who does not care to throw away her money.

“Zacharie has drawn his lot,” she went on, “and there’s nothing in the way. When shall it be?”

“Wait till the fine weather,” replied Maheude, constrainedly. “They are a nuisance, these affairs! As if they couldn’t wait to be married before going together! My word! I would strangle Catherine if I knew that she had done that.”

The other woman shrugged her shoulders.

“Let be! she’ll do like the others.”

Bouteloup, with the tranquillity of a man who is at home, searched about on the dresser for bread. Vegetables for Levaque’s soup, potatoes and leeks, lay about on a corner of the table, half-peeled, taken up and dropped a dozen times in the midst of continual gossiping. The woman was about to go on with them again when she dropped them anew and planted herself before the window.

“What’s that there? Why, there’s Madame Hennebeau with some people. They