GERMINAL
was too great; and he spoke of the workshops that were closing, the workers who were going away. During the last month he had given more than six pounds of bread a day. He had heard the day before, that M. Deneulin, the owner of a neighbouring pit, could scarcely keep going. He had also received a letter from Lille full of disturbing details.
“You know,” he whispered, “it comes from that person you saw here one evening.”
But he was interrupted. His wife entered in her turn, a tall woman, lean and keen, with a long nose and violet cheeks. She was a much more radical politician than her husband.
“Pluchart’s letter,” she said. “Ah! if that fellow was master things would soon go better.”
Étienne had been listening for a moment; he understood and became excited over these ideas of misery and revenge. This name, suddenly uttered, caused him to start. He said aloud, as if in spite of himself:
“I know him—Pluchart.”
They looked at him. He had to add:
“Yes, I am an engine-man: he was my foreman at Lille. A capable man. I have often talked with him.”
Rasseneur examined him afresh; and there was a rapid change on his face, a sudden sympathy. At last he said to his wife:
“It’s Maheu who brings me this gentleman, one of his putters, to see if there is a room for him upstairs, and if we can give him credit for a fortnight.”
Then the matter was settled in four words. There was a room; the lodger had left that morning. And the inn-keeper, who was very excited, talked more freely, repeating that he only asked possibilities from the masters, without demanding, like so many others, things that were too hard to get. His wife shrugged her shoulders and demanded justice, absolutely.
“Good evening,” interrupted Maheu. “All that won’t prevent from going down, and as long as they go there will by people working themselves to death. Look how fresh you are, these three years that you’ve been out of it.”
"Yes, I'm very much better," declared Rasseneur, complacently.
Étienne went as far as the door, thanking the miner, who
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