Germinal by Émile Zola

from the varnished pine dresser, the furniture consisted of a table and chairs, also in pine. Stuck to the walls were a number of garish prints, portraits of the Emperor and Empress 7 as provided by the Company, as well as various soldiers and saints, heavily daubed with gold, which all looked crude and out of place in the brightbareness of the room. The only other forms of decoration were a pink box made of cardboard that sat on the dresser and the cuckoo clock with its multicoloured dial, whose loud ticking seemed to fill the empty reaches of the ceiling. Beside the door to the staircase another door led down to the cellar. Despite the cleanliness, an aroma of fried onion left over from the night before hung in the stuffy, fetid air that was already heavy with the acrid smell of coal.
    In front of the open dresser Catherine was pondering. All that was left was the remains of a loaf, plenty of cottage cheese and a mere sliver of butter; and it was her job to produce sandwiches for all four of them. Having eventually made up her mind, she sliced the bread, covered one slice with cheese and smeared another with butter and then pressed them together: this was their ‘piece’, 8 the double slice of bread and butter that they took with them to the mine each morning. Soon the four ‘pieces’ were lined up on the table, the size of each having been gradated with rigorous fairness, from the thick one for Maheu down to the small one for Jeanlin.
    Though she seemed completely absorbed in her domestic tasks, Catherine must nevertheless have been mulling over what Zacharie had said about the overman and La Pierronne because she opened the front door slightly and peeped out. It was still windy. Up and down the streets, along the low façades, lights were constantly appearing and disappearing, as candles were lit in one house or blown out in another; and one could hear the faint stir of people waking to a new day. Already there was the sound of doors being shut, and the shadowy outlines of workers could be seen filing off into the night. But what was she thinking of standing here getting cold like this? Pierron was bound to be asleep still, he wasn’t due to start his shift till six o’clock! And yet she waited, watching the house on the other side of the gardens. The door opened, and her interest quickened. But it must have been the Pierrons’ daughter, Lydie, leaving for the pit.
    The whistle of steam made her turn round. She shut the door and rushed across the room: the kettle was boiling over and putting out the fire. There was no coffee left, so she had to makedo with pouring the water over last night’s grounds; then she added some brown sugar to the pot. At that moment her father and two brothers came downstairs.
    â€˜God!’ said Zacharie, having sniffed his bowl of coffee. ‘That’s hardly going to put hairs on our chest, is it!’
    Maheu shrugged resignedly.
    â€˜Pah! It’s hot, it’ll do fine.’
    Jeanlin had gathered up the crumbs from the bread and put them in his bowl, where they made a kind of sop. Having drunk some coffee, Catherine emptied the remainder of the pot into their tin flasks. The four of them stood there in the dim light of the smoking candle and hurried to finish.
    â€˜Come on, then. Are we all ready?’ said her father. ‘Anyone would think we were the idle rich, standing about like this.’
    But a voice could be heard coming from the staircase, where they’d left the door open. It was La Maheude, shouting:
    â€˜Take all the bread. I’ve still got a bit of vermicelli left for the children.’
    â€˜Yes, all right!’ Catherine answered.
    She had damped down the fire again and left the remains of some soup in a pan wedged up against the corner of the grate: it would be warm for her grandfather to eat when he came home at six. They each grabbed their clogs from under the dresser, slung the cord of their flask over their