GERMINAL
With suppliant arms Catherine advanced between them. But they had no need to repel her; she felt the necessity of the battle, and slowly drew back of her own accord. Standing against the wall, she remained silent, so paralysed with anguish that she no longer shivered, her large eyes gazing at these two men who were going to kill each other over her.
Madame Rasseneur simply removed the glasses from the counter for fear that they might be broken. Then she sat down again on the bench, without showing any improper curiosity. But the two old mates could not be left to murder each other like this. Rasseneur persisted in interfering, and Souvarine had to take him by the shoulder and lead him back to the table, saying:
"It doesn't concern you. There is one of them too many, and the strongest must live."
Without waiting for the attack, Chaval's fists were already dealing blows at space. He was the taller of the two, and his blows swung about aiming at the face, with furious cutting movements of both arms one after the other, as though he were manœuvring a couple of sabres. And he went on talking, playing to the gallery with volleys of abuse, which served to excite him.
"Ah! you damned devil, I'll have your nose! I'll do for your bloody nose! Just let me get at your chops, you whore's looking-glass; I'll make a hash for the bloody swine, and then we shall see if the strumpets will run after you!"
In silence, and with clenched teeth, Étienne gathered up his small figure, according to the rules of the game, protecting his chest and face by both fists; and he watched and drove them out like a spring with terrible straight blows.
At first they did each other little damage. The whirling and blustering blows of the one, the cool watchfulness of the other prolonged the struggle. A chair was overthrown; their panting respiration was heard, while their faces became red and swollen as from an interior fire which flamed out from the clear holes of their eyes.
"Played!" yelled Chaval; "trumps on your carcass!"
In fact his fist, like a flail working along a slope, had belaboured his adversary's shoulder. Étienne kept back a groan of pain, and there was only a soft sound, the low bruising of the muscles. He replied by a straight blow in the chest, which
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