23 The peasants of ancient Egypt.
Chapter Four: A Father Andson
the process, the ascending and descending saw and the mechanism that gently guides wood toward it, after which it is cut into boards. Walking over to his factory, Père Sorel bellowed for Julien; there was no response. All he could see were his older sons, giantlike fellows who, armed with heavy axes, were squaring up fir-tree trunks, then lugging them to the saw. Completely occupied with following exactly the black line drawn on the wood, with each swing of the axe they would pare away enormous chips. They could not hear their father's voice. Sorel went into the shed and looked in vain for his youngest son, in the spot next to the saw where he was supposed to be. He found him, finally, five or six feet higher up, sitting on one of the roof beams. Instead of carefully watching over the working of the machinery, Julien was reading. For old Sorel, nothing could have been more objectionable; he might have forgiven Julien his small size, hardly suited for hard labor, and utterly unlike his older brothers, but he himself could not read, and this mania for reading was repulsive to him. He called Julien two or three times, without being heard. More even than the noise of the saw, the young man's intense focus on his book blocked out his father's terrible voice. At last, despite his age, Sorel jumped onto the tree trunk being fed into the saw, and from there got up to the roof beam. A violent blow sent Julien's book flying into the running water; a second blow, just as powerful, struck the young man on top of his head, making him lose his balance. He was about to drop some twelve or fifteen feet, right onto the machine's moving levers, which would have beaten him to a pulp, but his father grabbed him with his left hand, even as he fell. "Well, lazybones! You're always reading your damned books—and you're supposed to be in charge of the saw? Read them tonight, when you're wasting time with the parish priest— fine, fine!" Stunned by the force of the blow, and bloodied all over, Julien went back to his official post, on the platform next to the saw. There were tears in his eyes, less from the physical pain than for the loss of his book, which he dearly loved. "Get down here, you pig, so I can talk to you." The noise of the machine was loud enough to keep Julien from hearing the command. His father, who had already jumped down, had no interest in climbing back up, so he went to fetch a long stick used for cracking nuts and smacked his son on the shoulder. Julien's feet had barely touched the ground when old Sorel began shoving him roughly along, in the direction of the house. "God only knows what he's going to do to me!" the young man said to himself. As they proceeded, he looked sadly at the stream into which his book had fallen: it was the one he loved best in the world, Memories of Napoleon on Saint-Helena.24 His cheeks were purple, his eyes cast down. He was a small young man, eighteen or nineteen years old, not appearing very strong, with irregular but delicate features and an aquiline nose. His large black eyes, which at peaceful moments indicated thought and passion, were at the moment sparkling with wild hatred. His dark chestnut hair, worn very long, covered much of his forehead and, when he was angry, gave him a wicked look. Among the innumerable varieties of the human face, there may well be none more striking. His slender, compact form was more indicative of light quickness than of power and energy. Even when very young, his extremely thoughtful air and his pallor had convinced his father he would not