Jacques returned late in the night. He was not drunk, as Marianne
feared he would be; but he was highly excited and talked of nothing
less than setting fire to the factory they had quitted the evening
before.
Next day he was no calmer. He was hardly at home all day. In the
evening, Marianne, looking out of window, saw that something was in the
air. The workmen were gathered in knots in the street, or walking about
and talking together excitedly. On the following day Jacques did what
he had never before done, made "Saint Monday." On Tuesday he returned
to the factory, but it was with all the pains in the world and with
prayers and tears that Marianne was able to induce him to do so.
"We are going to keep on till the end of the week," he said, when he
returned home at night. And, sure enough, on Friday night he came back
with a triumphant air, and threw his bag of tools into a corner of the
room.
"It's done!" he said.
"What is done?" cried Marianne, in alarm.
"The factory, from to-night, is picketed."
"Picketed!"
"Yes, every hand forbidden to enter it: the first of ours who enters
the gates will be a dead man!"
"By what right?"
"Because we've come out on strike!"
"On strike!" repeated Marianne, shuddering at that terrific word. "Then
you are not going to work--will have no more wages to receive; but what
is to become of us, then? How are we to live?"
"Oh! don't worry yourself about that," replied the blacksmith, feeling
a little uneasy in spite of his words; "we have funds, we shall all get
two francs a day."
"Two francs--and four children!"
"You have some savings?"
"And when they are gone?"
"Oh, don't bother me!--so long as the workman gets his rights. We've
had enough of this miserable existence."
"Miserable on what you have been earning?" said Marianne. "Look about
you. In this very house, on the first floor, there is a family: the
husband alone works, and has a salary of only eighteen hundred francs a
year."
"_Only_ eighteen hundred!"
"That's five francs a day, and you earn double that."
"I suppose that is so--when you count it up."
"Well, these people have three children, and when they go out they are
dressed like princes."
"Yes, but they don't eat."
"You mean they don't _drink_. Well, they find the means for going out
on Sundays, for going once or twice a year to the theatre, to receive
friends--in short, they appear to be at ease, and make no complaint as
to their condition."
"What!" cried the blacksmith, bringing down his clenched fist
heavily on the table, "do you compare me with a paper-scratcher?
Are such things as him men at all? He has not even a trade! A
paper-scratcher!--a pack of useless idlers the whole lot of them--as
bad as tradesmen and the rest of the bloodsuckers!"
[Illustration: "AT THE CABARET."]
Marianne saw that he had no other answer to give. For some time he was
no longer himself. He did not get exactly drunk, but he was constantly
in a state that was half-way towards intoxication, and a mere nothing
roused his anger. It was still worse some days later, and if the wife
was resigned, the mother asked herself in terror, whether it was
possible for her to continue to live with him. He did no work, and
his days were spent at the cabaret, sometimes part of his nights. He,
formerly so kind and tender to his wife, regarded her with nothing but
savage looks; and as to his children, of whom he had been so fond, he
ceased to notice them even.
Marianne cried when she was alone, for it was the future which, more
than all, terrified her. There was no more money coming in, and her
little savings, so painfully amassed, were, day by day, dwindling.
She had been obliged to sell a railway share, a tiny piece of paper
of which she had been so proud. Linen, clothes, all took the same
road; the handsome gilt clock had to be sold, the commode--even the
children's playthings and books, one day, when they were hungry.
It must be told, too, that she herself earned nothing. Not only had
work been brought to a standstill since the outset of that detestable
strike: people who had, before that, employed her, now shut their doors
in her face.
"We don't give work to the wife of a striker," they said.
She had swallowed her tears and had felt a movement of anger. Was it
her fault that it had happened? More than all, was it the fault of her
poor little ones, who, if the present state of things continued, would
become destitute? No; but it was a contest--war between classes. What
a frightful misfortune that men could not come to an understanding and
help, rather than hate and fight, each other!