Three weeks passed after that, and the strike still continued--the
strike--that is to say, the ruin of the country, discomfort to the
rich, misery to the poor, excitement amongst the masses, alarm
everywhere.
Jacques Houdaille had not reappeared. He knew that a warrant for his
arrest was out against him, and he was not so stupid as to come and
throw himself into the wolf's jaws.
Several of his comrades had been arrested and were awaiting their
trial. What would become of them? Poor fellows! They still held up
their heads behind the bars of their prison.
Their counsel, a tall, thin man, who wished to fatten himself and
become a somebody at the Bar, excited them in their bravado. He quite
well knew what he was about, that glib speaker; in any case, it was
they, poor creatures, who would pay for the broken pottery.
Jacques Houdaille, more fortunate, was still at liberty. But where was
he? How would he escape? Marianne had heard no news of him, and while
awaiting the end of all those misfortunes, she had to live, and that
was hard to do--nothing left, and four mouths to feed.
At last--for a fortnight past, at least--she had obtained work. Some
persons had had pity on her, and had promised to do something for her
children. It had come to be recognised that neither she nor her little
ones were responsible for the faults of the wretched husband.
On the morning of the 24th December some of these charitably-disposed
persons had gone to see her. The next day was a day of rest, and, on
the occasion of the Christmas holidays, had brought for her children
new and warm winter clothing.
For a moment she hesitated to accept these presents, for all her life
she had been able to buy for herself all she needed, and had never
held out her hand. But she was made to see that it was not on her own
account this assistance was being offered to her--that, in any case,
she was in an exceptional position--that her husband had left her and
was not likely soon to return to her; and that it would be, on her
part, an act of unjustifiable pride to condemn her children to suffer,
when it was impossible for her to provide for their needs. She gave in
to those good reasons, and her children were loud in the expression of
their delight.
"That is not all," said one of her visitors. "At Madame Hennetier's,
this evening, there is to be an assemblage of thirty children belonging
to our town; they are to keep Christmas, and you must promise us to
bring your little ones."
Marianne became very pale.
"Madame Hennetier!" she said; "but she is the wife of the principal
manager of the factory where my husband worked!"
"Madame Hennetier knows that, and wishes to give you a proof of her
esteem. Efforts are, at this moment, being made to bring the workmen
back from the misguided step they have taken; there is no concession
which the masters are not prepared to grant, in the hope of putting an
end to this horrible strike, for everybody plainly sees that if the
situation is continued it will result in a great disaster. But, in
this matter of the children's Christmas treat, there is no question of
politics. Christmas begins to-night; there is, we know only too well,
much poverty in the country; in more than one garret to-night there
will be no supper, and to-morrow will find many empty stomachs and many
little shoes unvisited in the night by Santa Claus.
"Madame Hennetier and her sister have both been poor; they know what it
is to want bread, and do not blush to have it known. They have remained
good in their relative prosperity, and they have resolved to give, this
evening, some hours of happy forgetfulness to the poor innocent little
ones about them."
Marianne still shrank from making the surrender asked of her, for many
thoughts had crowded upon her mind while her visitor was speaking.
She said to herself: "My husband would refuse; to him these people
are enemies. Yet--why enemies?" she reflected; "they appear, on the
contrary, to be animated by the best feelings towards him, and to have
but one purpose--to bring him back to calmness and reason."
Then the children were present, listening anxiously; there would be
a beautiful supper, sweetmeats, cakes, a profusion of playthings.
For days past, nothing else had been talked of in the place but this
entertainment. They had been thinking of it, not dreaming that they
would be invited to it.
At last Marianne made up her mind.
"What can I give them instead?--nothing. I have no right to deprive
them of this happiness." And aloud she replied: "I will come, madame."
The children clapped their hands.