It is too difficult to think nobly when one thinks only of earning a living. –Rousseau.
"I need to know, Dussart," Feuilly said. "I've given you as much time as I can, but if we wait any longer to make our move, it will be too late."
Dussart sighed, clutching the cup of cheap wine Feuilly had bought him. "I—you're certain about committing to this, then."
"I've been certain since you all started to join me in thinking about it." Feuilly had a sip from his own cup—he could hardly justify spending the money, really, but one had to purchase the right to sit and talk in a café, and Dussart had looked like he'd needed a drink. "Has a day gone by these past three weeks that somebody hasn't gotten docked for a mistake they fixed with a mere stroke of a brush, for a moment's hesitance returning from noon break, or for a look that the foreman thought was out of line? Add that to the fact that they're giving us such awful paint to work with now and faulting us when either quality or speed gets sacrificed because of it…"
"Yeah." Dussart's eyes drifted closed. "I know what you've been saying—we've practically taken an informal, unannounced cut in wages. And it's true; the paint they've started giving us just can't be used the same as the better stuff they used to buy. There's no way not to get your wages slashed when they're expecting the same pace and the same good work. But that doesn't mean I can make it without those wages, cut or not."
Feuilly inclined his head, his voice tired. "I know—but most of us are barely making it now, Dussart. Can you join us on strike for just three days? We've put together a small fund to support those who need it." (He had sold one of his few books to contribute to that fund, he reflected with a tinge of sorrow...if the strike was unsuccessful, he might not replace it for months or even a year.) "We're all in the same boat here, and we're just trying to get some justice for everybody. The more united we are, the more chance we have of making ourselves heard."
"All in the same boat?" Shaking his head, Dussart sighed. "Look, I don't mean to be making excuses, because what you're doing is brave and all—noble, even; I know how much more you gave to that strike fund than any of us others did. But you haven't got a family. I've a wife and four kids, one just born two months ago, and my old mother who'll probably be dead within the month. And…"
"And?" Feuilly prompted, eyebrows contracted in concern.
"…and we're being evicted. No rent money. Gotta move." He shrugged helplessly. "Yeah, we're at less than full wages for the same work, and yeah, it's not fair, but I can't just refuse to earn right now and chase some dream of getting the best possible work conditions."
"No." He ran a hand over his face. "No, you can't. –D'you have a place to go?" He could hardly imagine fitting eight people in his flat, but there were few limits on what one could do if one had to.
"We're going to my wife's brother's for now. It's not close to work and not a part of town I like to have the kids in, but what can you do? It's that or the streets."
Feuilly nodded. "You do what you have to."
"And you leave the grand thoughts to those who can afford them." Dussart finished his drink and let out a deep, frustrated sigh. "You've got enough of the men striking with you that they'll probably close down shop anyway—but at least I know that if they win out, I don't risk losing my position."
"They can't sack all of us!" Feuilly argued.
"No, but they can still sack anybody they like," Dussart countered wearily. "How do you know it won't be you?"
"It would be me, if anyone." Feuilly ran a hand through his hair. "Because that letter about why we're striking and the terms we want—I'm the one writing it. Everyone's signing, but they'll be able to match my signature with the handwriting."
Dussart lifted his eyebrows. "I thought Plouvier was going to write it? After all you've done to organize this—"
"He didn't want to, in the end. And I know I can do it, and I don't much mind—" He felt Dussart's gaze on him. "What?"
He shook his head, standing up to go. "You really aren't content to leave the grand thoughts alone, are you? Feuilly, you'll come to no good that way—it's too difficult when you're trying to earn a living."
"Rousseau said something similar."
"Rousseau?"
"The philosopher. 'It is too difficult to think nobly when one thinks only of earning a living.'" He quoted quietly, not without bitterness. "'To be able, to dare to speak great truths, one must not depend on their success.' And…sometimes I do wonder if it's better left up to others, to bourgeois students who risk nothing by trying to stand up for us—after all, why should you have to choose between a chance of fairness at work, and whether or not your family eats, and sleeps indoors? And yet I cannot leave it." Feuilly shook his head. "Now that a strike has been chosen, I depend on its success to keep my position, but how can I let that keep me from speaking great truths, from thinking of the best possible world and acting towards it?"
Dussart stared at him a moment. "…I have to go. Get back to the family."
Feuilly got up. "Of course. –We'll do what we can for you from the strike fund if they don't let you work while most of us are gone."
His eyes widened. "But that's for—"
"It's for us. The workers. The ones who need it, whether they strike or not." He put a hand on Dussart's shoulder as they left the café together. "Because we all understand: sometimes it is too difficult to think nobly, when one must think of earning a living."