GERMINAL
"There are men down below," said Étienne. "Make them come up."
"Yes, there are men there," said Father Quandieu, "some six dozen; the others were afraid of you evil beggars! But I warn you that not one comes up, or you will have to deal with me!"
Exclamations arose, the men pushed, the women advanced. Quickly coming down from the foot-bridge, the captain now barred the door.
Then Maheu tried to interfere.
"It is our right, old man. How can we make the strike general if we don't force all the mates to be on our side?"
The old man was silent a moment. Evidently his ignorance on the subject of coalition equalled the pikeman's. At last he replied:
"It may be your right, I don't say. But I only know my orders. I am alone here; the men are down till three, and they shall stay there till three."
The last words were lost in hooting. Fists were threateningly advanced, the women deafened him, and their hot breath blew in his face. But he still held out, his head erect, and his beard and hair white as snow; his courage had so swollen his voice that he could be heard distinctly over the tumult.
"By God! you shall not pass! As true as the sun shines, I would rather die than let you touch the cables. Don't push any more, or I'm damned if I don't fling myself down the shaft before you!"
The crowd drew back shuddering and impressed. He went on:
"Where is the beast who does not understand that? I am only a workman like you others. I have been told to guard here, and I'm guarding."
That was as far as Father Quandieu's intelligence went, stiffened by his obstinacy of military duty, his narrow skull, and eyes dimmed by the black melancholy of half a century spent underground. The men looked at him moved, feeling within them an echo of what he said, this military obedience, the sense of fraternity and resignation in danger. He saw that they were hesitating still, and repeated:
"I'm damned if I don't fling myself down the shaft before you!"
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