L'ASSOMMOIR

By Emile Zola

CHAPTER I

GERVAISE

Gervaise had waited and watched for Lantier until two in the morning. Then chilled and shivering, she turned from the window and threwherself across the bed, where she fell into a feverish doze with hercheeks wet with tears. For the last week when they came out of theVeau a Deux Tetes, where they ate, he had sent her off to bed with thechildren and had not appeared until late into the night and alwayswith a story that he had been looking for work. 

This very night, while she was watching for his return, she fanciedshe saw him enter the ballroom of the Grand-Balcon, whose ten windowsblazing with lights illuminated, as with a sheet of fire, the blacklines of the outer boulevards. She caught a glimpse of Adele, a prettybrunette who dined at their restaurant and who was walking a few stepsbehind him, with her hands swinging as if she had just dropped hisarm, rather than pass before the bright light of the globes over thedoor in his company. 

When Gervaise awoke about five o'clock, stiff and sore, she burst intowild sobs, for Lantier had not come in. For the first time he hadslept out. She sat on the edge of the bed, half shrouded in the canopyof faded chintz that hung from the arrow fastened to the ceiling by astring. Slowly, with her eyes suffused with tears, she looked aroundthis miserable _chambre garnie_, whose furniture consisted of achestnut bureau of which one drawer was absent, three straw chairsand a greasy table on which was a broken-handled pitcher. 

Another bedstead--an iron one--had been brought in for the children. This stood in front of the bureau and filled up two thirds of theroom. 

A trunk belonging to Gervaise and Lantier stood in the corner wideopen, showing its empty sides, while at the bottom a man's old hat layamong soiled shirts and hose. Along the walls and on the backs of thechairs hung a ragged shawl, a pair of muddy pantaloons and a dress ortwo--all too bad for the old-clothes man to buy. In the middle of themantel between two mismated tin candlesticks was a bundle of pawntickets from the Mont-de-Piete. These tickets were of a delicate shadeof rose. 

The room was the best in the hotel--the first floor looking out on theboulevard. 

Meanwhile side by side on the same pillow the two children lay calmlysleeping. Claude, who was eight years old, was breathing calmly andregularly with his little hands outside of the coverings, whileEtienne, only four, smiled with one arm under his brother's neck. 

When their mother's eyes fell on them she had a new paroxysm of sobsand pressed her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle them. Then withbare feet, not stopping to put on her slippers which had fallen off, she ran to the window out of which she leaned as she had done half thenight and inspected the sidewalks as far as she could see. 

The hotel was on the Boulevard de la Chapelle, at the left of theBarriere Poissonniers. It was a two-story building, painted a deep redup to the first floor, and had disjointed weather-stained blinds. 

Above a lantern with glass sides was a sign between the two windows:

HOTEL BONCOEUR

KEPT BY

MARSOULLIER

in large yellow letters, partially obliterated by the dampness. Gervaise, who was prevented by the lantern from seeing as she desired, leaned out still farther, with her handkerchief on her lips. Shelooked to the right toward the Boulevard de Rochechoumart, wheregroups of butchers stood with their bloody frocks before theirestablishments, and the fresh breeze brought in whiffs, a stronganimal smell--the smell of slaughtered cattle. 

She looked to the left, following the ribbonlike avenue, past theHospital de Lariboisiere, then building. Slowly, from one end to theother of the horizon, did she follow the wall, from behind which inthe nightime she had heard strange groans and cries, as if some fellmurder were being perpetrated. She looked at it with horror, as if insome dark corner--dark with dampness and filth--she should distinguishLantier--Lantier lying dead with his throat cut. 

When she gazed beyond this gray and interminable wall she saw a greatlight, a golden mist waving and shimmering with the dawn of a newParisian day. But it was to the Barriere Poissonniers that her eyespersistently returned, watching dully the uninterrupted flow of menand cattle, wagons and sheep, which came down from Montmartre andfrom La Chapelle. There were scattered flocks dashed like waves onthe sidewalk by some sudden detention and an endless succession oflaborers going to their work with their tools over their shouldersand their loaves of bread under their arms. 

Suddenly Gervaise thought she distinguished Lantier amid this crowd, and she leaned eagerly forward at the risk of falling from the window. With a fresh pang of disappointment she pressed her handkerchief toher lips to restrain her sobs. 

A fresh, youthful voice caused her to turn around. 

"Lantier has not come in then?"

"No, Monsieur Coupeau, " she answered, trying to smile. 

The speaker was a tinsmith who occupied a tiny room at the top of thehouse. His bag of tools was over his shoulder; he had seen the key inthe door and entered with the familiarity of a friend. 

"You know, " he continued, "that I am working nowadays at the hospital. What a May this is! The air positively stings one this morning. "

As he spoke he looked closely at Gervaise; he saw her eyes were redwith tears and then, glancing at the bed, discovered that it had notbeen disturbed. He shook his head and, going toward the couch wherethe children lay with their rosy cherub faces, he said in a lowervoice:

"You think your husband ought to have been with you, madame. But don'tbe troubled; he is busy with politics. He went on like a mad man theother day when they were voting for Eugene Sue. Perhaps he passed thenight with his friends abusing that reprobate Bonaparte. "

"No, no, " she murmured with an effort. "You think nothing of that kind. I know where Lantier is only too well. We have our sorrows like therest of the world!"

Coupeau gave a knowing wink and departed, having offered to bring hersome milk if she did not care to go out; she was a good woman, he toldher and might count on him any time when she was in trouble. 

As soon as Gervaise was alone she returned to the window. 

From the Barriere the lowing of the cattle and the bleating of thesheep still came on the keen, fresh morning air. Among the crowd sherecognized the locksmiths by their blue frocks, the masons by theirwhite overalls, the painters by their coats, from under which hungtheir blouses. This crowd was cheerless. All of neutral tints--graysand blues predominating, with never a dash of color. Occasionally aworkman stopped and lighted his pipe, while his companions passed on. There was no laughing, no talking, but they strode on steadily withcadaverous faces toward that Paris which quickly swallowed them up. 

At the two corners of La Rue des Poissonniers were two wineshops, where the shutters had just been taken down. Here some of the workmenlingered, crowding into the shop, spitting, coughing and drinkingglasses of brandy and water. Gervaise was watching the place on theleft of the street, where she thought she had seen Lantier go in, whena stout woman, bareheaded and wearing a large apron, called to herfrom the pavement, "You are up early, Madame Lantier!"

Gervaise leaned out. 

"Ah, is it you, Madame Boche! Yes, I am up early, for I have much todo today. "

"Is that so? Well, things don't get done by themselves, that's sure!"

And a conversation ensued between the window and the sidewalk. MmeBoche was the concierge of the house wherein the restaurant Veau aDeux Tetes occupied the _rez-de-chaussee_. 

Many times Gervaise had waited for Lantier in the room of this womanrather than face the men who were eating. The concierge said she hadjust been round the corner to arouse a lazy fellow who had promised todo some work and then went on to speak of one of her lodgers who hadcome in the night before with some woman and had made such a noisethat every one was disturbed until after three o'clock. 

As she gabbled, however, she examined Gervaise with considerablecuriosity and seemed, in fact, to have come out under the window forthat express purpose. 

"Is Monsieur Lantier still asleep?" she asked suddenly. 

"Yes, he is asleep, " answered Gervaise with flushing cheeks. 

Madame saw the tears come to her eyes and, satisfied with herdiscovery, was turning away when she suddenly stopped and called out:

"You are going to the lavatory this morning, are you not? All rightthen, I have some things to wash, and I will keep a place for you nextto me, and we can have a little talk!"

Then as if moved by sudden compassion, she added:

"Poor child, don't stay at that window any longer. You are purple withcold and will surely make yourself sick!"

But Gervaise did not move. She remained in the same spot for twomortal hours, until the clock struck eight. The shops were nowall open. The procession in blouses had long ceased, and only anoccasional one hurried along. At the wineshops, however, there wasthe same crowd of men drinking, spitting and coughing. The workmen inthe street had given place to the workwomen. Milliners' apprentices, florists, burnishers, who with thin shawls drawn closely around themcame in bands of three or four, talking eagerly, with gay laughsand quick glances. Occasionally one solitary figure was seen, apale-faced, serious woman, who walked rapidly, neither looking tothe right nor to the left. 

Then came the clerks, blowing on their fingers to warm them, eating aroll as they walked; young men, lean and tall, with clothing they hadoutgrown and with eyes heavy with sleep; old men, who moved along withmeasured steps, occasionally pulling out their watches, but able, frommany years' practice, to time their movements almost to a second. 

The boulevards at last were comparatively quiet. The inhabitants weresunning themselves. Women with untidy hair and soiled petticoats werenursing their babies in the open air, and an occasional dirty-facedbrat fell into the gutter or rolled over with shrieks of pain or joy. 

Gervaise felt faint and ill; all hope was gone. It seemed to her thatall was over and that Lantier would come no more. She looked from thedingy slaughterhouses, black with their dirt and loathsome odor, on tothe new and staring hospital and into the rooms consecrated to diseaseand death. As yet the windows were not in, and there was nothing toimpede her view of the large, empty wards. The sun shone directly inher face and blinded her. 

She was sitting on a chair with her arms dropping drearily at her sidebut not weeping, when Lantier quietly opened the door and walked in. 

"You have come!" she cried, ready to throw herself on his neck. 

"Yes, I have come, " he answered, "and what of it? Don't begin anyof your nonsense now!" And he pushed her aside. Then with an angrygesture he tossed his felt hat on the bureau. 

He was a small, dark fellow, handsome and well made, with a delicatemustache which he twisted in his fingers mechanically as he spoke. He wore an old coat, buttoned tightly at the waist, and spoke witha strongly marked Provencal accent. 

Gervaise had dropped upon her chair again and uttered disjointedphrases of lamentation. 

"I have not closed my eyes--I thought you were killed! Where have youbeen all night? I feel as if I were going mad! Tell me, Auguste, wherehave you been?"

"Oh, I had business, " he answered with an indifferent shrug of hisshoulders. "At eight o'clock I had an engagement with that friend, you know, who is thinking of starting a manufactory of hats. I wasdetained, and I preferred stopping there. But you know I don't liketo be watched and catechized. Just let me alone, will you?"

His wife began to sob. Their voices and Lantier's noisy movements ashe pushed the chairs about woke the children. They started up, halfnaked with tumbled hair, and hearing their mother cry, they followedher example, rending the air with their shrieks. 

"Well, this is lovely music!" cried Lantier furiously. "I warn you, if you don't all stop, that out of this door I go, and you won't seeme again in a hurry! Will you hold your tongue? Good-by then; I'llgo back where I came from. "

He snatched up his hat, but Gervaise rushed toward him, crying:

"No! No!"

And she soothed the children and stifled their cries with kisses andlaid them tenderly back in their bed, and they were soon happy andmerrily playing together. Meanwhile the father, not even taking offhis boots, threw himself on the bed with a weary air. His face waswhite from exhaustion and a sleepless night; he did not close hiseyes but looked around the room. 

"A nice-looking place, this!" he muttered. 

Then examining Gervaise, he said half aloud and half to himself:

"So! You have given up washing yourself, it seems!"

Gervaise was only twenty-two. She was tall and slender with delicatefeatures, already worn by hardships and anxieties. With her hairuncombed and shoes down at the heel, shivering in her white sack, onwhich was much dust and many stains from the furniture and wall whereit had hung, she looked at least ten years older from the hours ofsuspense and tears she had passed. 

Lantier's word startled her from her resignation and timidity. 

"Are you not ashamed?" she said with considerable animation. "You knowvery well that I do all I can. It is not my fault that we came here. I should like to see you with two children in a place where you can'tget a drop of hot water. We ought as soon as we reached Paris to havesettled ourselves at once in a home; that was what you promised. "

"Pshaw, " he muttered; "You had as much good as I had out of oursavings. You ate the fatted calf with me--and it is not worth whileto make a row about it now!"

She did not heed his word but continued:

"There is no need of giving up either. I saw Madame Fauconnier, thelaundress in La Rue Neuve. She will take me Monday. If you go in withyour friend we shall be afloat again in six months. We must find somekind of a hole where we can live cheaply while we work. That is thething to do now. Work! Work!"

Lantier turned his face to the wall with a shrug of disgust whichenraged his wife, who resumed:

"Yes, I know very well that you don't like to work. You would like towear fine clothes and walk about the streets all day. You don't likemy looks since you took all my dresses to the pawnbrokers. No, no, Auguste, I did not intend to speak to you about it, but I know verywell where you spent the night. I saw you go into the Grand-Balconwith that streetwalker Adele. You have made a charming choice. Shewears fine clothes and is clean. Yes, and she has reason to be, certainly; there is not a man in that restaurant who does not knowher far better than an honest girl should be known!"

Lantier leaped from the bed. His eyes were as black as night and hisface deadly pale. 

"Yes, " repeated his wife, "I mean what I say. Madame Boche will notkeep her or her sister in the house any longer, because there arealways a crowd of men hanging on the staircase. "

Lantier lifted both fists, and then conquering a violent desire tobeat her, he seized her in his arms, shook her violently and threw heron the bed where the children were. They at once began to cry againwhile he stood for a moment, and then, with the air of a man whofinally takes a resolution in regard to which he has hesitated, hesaid:

"You do not know what you have done, Gervaise. You are wrong--as youwill soon discover. "

For a moment the voices of the children filled the room. Their mother, lying on their narrow couch, held them both in her arms and said overand over again in a monotonous voice:

"If you were not here, my poor darlings! If you were not here! If youwere not here!"

Lantier was lying flat on his back with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was not listening; his attention was concentrated on some fixedidea. He remained in this way for an hour and more, not sleeping, inspite of his evident and intense fatigue. When he turned and, leaningon his elbow, looked about the room again, he found that Gervaise hadarranged the chamber and made the children's bed. They were washedand dressed. He watched her as she swept the room and dusted thefurniture. 

The room was very dreary still, however, with its smoke-stainedceiling and paper discolored by dampness and three chairs anddilapidated bureau, whose greasy surface no dusting could clean. Then while she washed herself and arranged her hair before the smallmirror, he seemed to examine her arms and shoulders, as if institutinga comparison between herself and someone else. And he smiled adisdainful little smile. 

Gervaise was slightly, very slightly, lame, but her lameness wasperceptible, only on such days as she was very tired. This morning, so weary was she from the watches of the night, that she could hardlywalk without support. 

A profound silence reigned in the room; they did not speak to eachother. He seemed to be waiting for something. She, adopting anunconcerned air, seemed to be in haste. 

She made up a bundle of soiled linen that had been thrown into acorner behind the trunk, and then he spoke:

"What are you doing? Are you going out?"

At first she did not reply. Then when he angrily repeated the questionshe answered:

"Certainly I am. I am going to wash all these things. The childrencannot live in dirt. "

He threw two or three handkerchiefs toward her, and after another longsilence he said:

"Have you any money?"

She quickly rose to her feet and turned toward him; in her hand sheheld some of the soiled clothes. 

"Money! Where should I get money unless I had stolen it? You know verywell that day before yesterday you got three francs on my black skirt. We have breakfasted twice on that, and money goes fast. No, I have nomoney. I have four sous for the lavatory. I cannot make money likeother women we know. "

He did not reply to this allusion but rose from the bed and passed inreview the ragged garments hung around the room. He ended by takingdown the pantaloons and the shawl and, opening the bureau, took out asack and two chemises. All these he made into a bundle, which he threwat Gervaise. 

"Take them, " he said, "and make haste back from the pawnbroker's. "

"Would you not like me to take the children?" she asked. "Heavens! Ifpawnbrokers would only make loans on children, what a good thing itwould be!"

She went to the Mont-de-Piete, and when she returned a half-hour latershe laid a silver five-franc piece on the mantelshelf and placed theticket with the others between the two candlesticks. 

"This is what they gave me, " she said coldly. "I wanted six francs, but they would not give them. They always keep on the safe side there, and yet there is always a crowd. "

Lantier did not at once take up the money. He had sent her to theMont-de-Piete that he might not leave her without food or money, butwhen he caught sight of part of a ham wrapped in paper on the tablewith half a loaf of bread he slipped the silver piece into his vestpocket. 

"I did not dare go to the milk woman, " explained Gervaise, "becausewe owe her for eight days. But I shall be back early. You can get somebread and some chops and have them ready. Don't forget the wine too. "

He made no reply. Peace seemed to be made, but when Gervaise went tothe trunk to take out some of Lantier's clothing he called out:

"No--let that alone. "

"What do you mean?" she said, turning round in surprise. "You can'twear these things again until they are washed! Why shall I not takethem?"

And she looked at him with some anxiety. He angrily tore the thingsfrom her hands and threw them back into the trunk. 

"Confound you!" he muttered. "Will you never learn to obey? When I saya thing I mean it--"

"But why?" she repeated, turning very pale and seized with a terriblesuspicion. "You do not need these shirts; you are not going away. Whyshould I not take them?"

He hesitated a moment, uneasy under the earnest gaze she fixed uponhim. "Why? Why? Because, " he said, "I am sick of hearing you say thatyou wash and mend for me. Attend to your own affairs, and I willattend to mine. "

She entreated him, defended herself from the charge of ever havingcomplained, but he shut the trunk with a loud bang and then sat downupon it, repeating that he was master at least of his own clothing. Then to escape from her eyes, he threw himself again on the bed, saying he was sleepy and that she made his head ache, and finallyslept or pretended to do so. 

Gervaise hesitated; she was tempted to give up her plan of going tothe lavatory and thought she would sit down to her sewing. But at lastshe was reassured by Lantier's regular breathing; she took her soapand her ball of bluing and, going to the children, who were playingon the floor with some old corks, she said in a low voice:

"Be very good and keep quiet. Papa is sleeping. "

When she left the room there was not a sound except the stifledlaughter of the little ones. It was then after ten, and the sun wasshining brightly in at the window. 

Gervaise, on reaching the boulevard, turned to the left and followedthe Rue de la Goutte-d'Or. As she passed Mme Fauconnier's shop shenodded to the woman. The lavatory, whither she went, was in the middleof this street, just where it begins to ascend. Over a large lowbuilding towered three enormous reservoirs for water, huge cylindersof zinc strongly made, and in the rear was the drying room, anapartment with a very high ceiling and surrounded by blinds throughwhich the air passed. On the right of the reservoirs a steam enginelet off regular puffs of white smoke. Gervaise, habituated apparentlyto puddles, did not lift her skirts but threaded her way through thepart of _eau de Javelle_ which encumbered the doorway. She knewthe mistress of the establishment, a delicate woman who sat in acabinet with glass doors, surrounded by soap and bluing and packagesof bicarbonate of soda. 

As Gervaise passed the desk she asked for her brush and beater, whichshe had left to be taken care of after her last wash. Then havingtaken her number, she went in. It was an immense shed, as it were, with a low ceiling--the beams and rafters unconcealed--and lighted bylarge windows, through which the daylight streamed. A light gray mistor steam pervaded the room, which was filled with a smell of soapsudsand _eau de Javelle_ combined. Along the central aisle were tubson either side, and two rows of women with their arms bare to theshoulders and their skirts tucked up stood showing their coloredstockings and stout laced shoes. 

They rubbed and pounded furiously, straightening themselvesoccasionally to utter a sentence and then applying themselves againto their task, with the steam and perspiration pouring down their redfaces. There was a constant rush of water from the faucets, a greatsplashing as the clothes were rinsed and pounding and banging of thebeaters, while amid all this noise the steam engine in the corner keptup its regular puffing. 

Gervaise went slowly up the aisle, looking to the right and the left. She carried her bundle under her arm and limped more than usual, asshe was pushed and jarred by the energy of the women about her. 

"Here! This way, my dear, " cried Mme Boche, and when the young womanhad joined her at the very end where she stood, the concierge, withoutstopping her furious rubbing, began to talk in a steady fashion. 

"Yes, this is your place. I have kept it for you. I have not much todo. Boche is never hard on his linen, and you, too, do not seem tohave much. Your package is quite small. We shall finish by noon, andthen we can get something to eat. I used to give my clothes to a womanin La Rue Pelat, but bless my heart, she washed and pounded them allaway, and I made up my mind to wash myself. It is clear gain, you see, and costs only the soap. "

Gervaise opened her bundle and sorted the clothes, laying aside allthe colored pieces, and when Mme Boche advised her to try a littlesoda she shook her head. 

"No, no!" she said. "I know all about it!"

"You know?" answered Boche curiously. "You have washed then in yourown place before you came here?"

Gervaise, with her sleeves rolled up, showing her pretty, fair arms, was soaping a child's shirt. She rubbed it and turned it, soaped andrubbed it again. Before she answered she took up her beater and beganto use it, accenting each phrase or rather punctuating them with herregular blows. 

"Yes, yes, washed--I should think I had! Ever since I was ten yearsold. We went to the riverside, where I came from. It was much nicerthan here. I wish you could see it--a pretty corner under the treesby the running water. Do you know Plassans? Near Marseilles?"

"You are a strong one, anyhow!" cried Mme Boche, astonished at therapidity and strength of the woman. "Your arms are slender, but theyare like iron. "

The conversation continued until all the linen was well beaten andyet whole! Gervaise then took each piece separately, rinsed it, thenrubbed it with soap and brushed it. That is to say, she held the clothfirmly with one hand and with the other moved the short brush fromher, pushing along a dirty foam which fell off into the water below. 

As she brushed they talked. 

"No, we are not married, " said Gervaise. "I do not intend to lie aboutit. Lantier is not so nice that a woman need be very anxious to behis wife. If it were not for the children! I was fourteen and he waseighteen when the first one was born. The other child did not come forfour years. I was not happy at home. Papa Macquart, for the meresttrifle, would beat me. I might have married, I suppose. "

She dried her hands, which were red under the white soapsuds. 

"The water is very hard in Paris, " she said. 

Mme Boche had finished her work long before, but she continued todabble in the water merely as an excuse to hear this story, which fortwo weeks had excited her curiosity. Her mouth was open, and her eyeswere shining with satisfaction at having guessed so well. 

"Oh yes, just as I knew, " she said to herself, "but the little womantalks too much! I was sure, though, there had been a quarrel. "

Then aloud:

"He is not good to you then?"

"He was very good to me once, " answered Gervaise, "but since we cameto Paris he has changed. His mother died last year and left him aboutseventeen hundred francs. He wished to come to Paris, and as FatherMacquart was in the habit of hitting me in the face without anywarning, I said I would come, too, which we did, with the twochildren. I meant to be a fine laundress, and he was to continue withhis trade as a hatter. We might have been very happy. But, you see, Lantier is extravagant; he likes expensive things and thinks of hisamusement before anything else. He is not good for much, anyhow!

"We arrived at the Hotel Montmartre. We had dinners and carriages, suppers and theaters, a watch for him, a silk dress for me--for he isnot selfish when he has money. You can easily imagine, therefore, atthe end of two months we were cleaned out. Then it was that we cameto Hotel Boncoeur and that this life began. " She checked herself witha strange choking in the throat. Tears gathered in her eyes. Shefinished brushing her linen. 

"I must get my scalding water, " she murmured. 

But Mme Boche, much annoyed at this sudden interruption to thelong-desired confidence, called the boy. 

"Charles, " she said, "it would be very good of you if you would bringa pail of hot water to Madame Lantier, as she is in a great hurry. "The boy brought a bucketful, and Gervaise paid him a sou. It was a soufor each bucket. She turned the hot water into her tub and soaked herlinen once more and rubbed it with her hands while the steam hoveredround her blonde head like a cloud. 

"Here, take some of this, " said the concierge as she emptied into thewater that Gervaise was using the remains of a package of bicarbonateof soda. She offered her also some _eau de Javelle_, but theyoung woman refused. It was only good, she said, for grease spotsand wine stains. 

"I thought him somewhat dissipated, " said Mme Boche, referring toLantier without naming him. 

Gervaise, leaning over her tub and her arms up to the elbows in thesoapsuds, nodded in acquiescence. 

"Yes, " continued the concierge, "I have seen many little things. "But she started back as Gervaise turned round with a pale face andquivering lips. 

"Oh, I know nothing, " she continued. "He likes to laugh--that isall--and those two girls who are with us, you know, Adele andVirginie, like to laugh too, so they have their little jokes together, but that is all there is of it, I am sure. "

The young woman, with the perspiration standing on her brow andher arms still dripping, looked her full in the face with earnest, inquiring eyes. 

Then the concierge became excited and struck her breast, exclaiming:

"I tell you I know nothing whatever, nothing more than I tell you!"

Then she added in a gentle voice, "But he has honest eyes, my dear. He will marry you, child; I promise that he will marry you!"

Gervaise dried her forehead with her damp hand and shook her head. The two women were silent for a moment; around them, too, it was veryquiet. The clock struck eleven. Many of the women were seated swingingtheir feet, drinking their wine and eating their sausages, sandwichedbetween slices of bread. An occasional economical housewife hurriedin with a small bundle under her arm, and a few sounds of the pounderwere still heard at intervals; sentences were smothered in the fullmouths, or a laugh was uttered, ending in a gurgling sound as the winewas swallowed, while the great machine puffed steadily on. Not oneof the women, however, heard it; it was like the very respiration ofthe lavatory--the eager breath that drove up among the rafters thefloating vapor that filled the room. 

The heat gradually became intolerable. The sun shone in on the leftthrough the high windows, imparting to the vapor opaline tints--thepalest rose and tender blue, fading into soft grays. When the womenbegan to grumble the boy Charles went from one window to the other, drawing down the heavy linen shades. Then he crossed to the otherside, the shady side, and opened the blinds. There was a generalexclamation of joy--a formidable explosion of gaiety. 

All this time Gervaise was going on with her task and had justcompleted the washing of her colored pieces, which she threw over atrestle to drip; soon small pools of blue water stood on the floor. Then she began to rinse the garments in cold water which ran from aspigot near by. 

"You have nearly finished, " said Mme Boche. "I am waiting to help youwring them. "

"Oh, you are very good! It is not necessary though!" answered theyoung woman as she swashed the garments through the clear water. "IfI had sheets I would not refuse your offer, however. "

Nevertheless, she accepted the aid of the concierge. They took up abrown woolen skirt, badly faded, from which poured out a yellow streamas the two women wrung it together. 

Suddenly Mme Boche cried out:

"Look! There comes big Virginie! She is actually coming here to washher rags tied up in a handkerchief. "

Gervaise looked up quickly. Virginie was a woman about her own age, larger and taller than herself, a brunette and pretty in spite of theelongated oval of her face. She wore an old black dress with flouncesand a red ribbon at her throat. Her hair was carefully arranged andmassed in a blue chenille net. 

She hesitated a moment in the center aisle and half shut her eyes, as if looking for something or somebody, but when she distinguishedGervaise she went toward her with a haughty, insolent air andsupercilious smile and finally established herself only a shortdistance from her. 

"That is a new notion!" muttered Mme Boche in a low voice. "She wasnever known before to rub out even a pair of cuffs. She is a lazycreature, I do assure you. She never sews the buttons on her boots. She is just like her sister, that minx of an Adele, who stays awayfrom the shop two days out of three. What is she rubbing now? A skirt, is it? It is dirty enough, I am sure!"

It was clear that Mme Boche wished to please Gervaise. The truth wasshe often took coffee with Adele and Virginie when the two sisterswere in funds. Gervaise did not reply but worked faster than before. She was now preparing her bluing water in a small tub standing onthree legs. She dipped in her pieces, shook them about in the coloredwater, which was almost a lake in hue, and then, wringing them, sheshook them out and threw them lightly over the high wooden bars. 

While she did this she kept her back well turned on big Virginie. Butshe felt that the girl was looking at her, and she heard an occasionalderisive sniff. Virginie, in fact, seemed to have come there toprovoke her, and when Gervaise turned around the two women fixed theireyes on each other. 

"Let her be, " murmured Mme Boche. "She is not the one, now I tellyou!"

At this moment, as Gervaise was shaking her last piece of linen, sheheard laughing and talking at the door of the lavatory. 

"Two children are here asking for their mother!" cried Charles. 

All the women looked around, and Gervaise recognized Claude andEtienne. As soon as they saw her they ran toward her, splashingthrough the puddle's, their untied shoes half off and Claude, theeldest, dragging his little brother by the hand. 

The women as they passed uttered kindly exclamations of pity, forthe children were evidently frightened. They clutched their mother'sskirts and buried their pretty blond heads. 

"Did Papa send you?" asked Gervaise. 

But as she stooped to tie Etienne's shoes she saw on Claude's fingerthe key of her room with its copper tag and number. 

"Did you bring the key?" she exclaimed in great surprise. "And why, pray?"

The child looked down on the key hanging on his finger, which he hadapparently forgotten. This seemed to remind him of something, and hesaid in a clear, shrill voice:

"Papa is gone!"

"He went to buy your breakfast, did he not? And he told you to comeand look for me here, I suppose?"

Claude looked at his brother and hesitated. Then he exclaimed:

"Papa has gone, I say. He jumped from the bed, put his things inhis trunk, and then he carried his trunk downstairs and put it ona carriage. We saw him--he has gone!"

Gervaise was kneeling, tying the boy's shoe. She rose slowly with avery white face and with her hands pressed to either temple, as if shewere afraid of her head cracking open. She could say nothing but thesame words over and over again:

"Great God! Great God! Great God!"

Mme Boche, in her turn, interrogated the child eagerly, for she wascharmed at finding herself an actor, as it were, in this drama. 

"Tell us all about it, my dear. He locked the door, did he? And thenhe told you to bring the key here?" And then, lowering her voice, shewhispered in the child's ear:

"Was there a lady in the carriage?" she asked. 

The child looked troubled for a moment but speedily began his storyagain with a triumphant air. 

"He jumped off the bed, put his things in the trunk, and he wentaway. "

Then as Mme Boche made no attempt to detain him, he drew his brotherto the faucet, where the two amused themselves in making the waterrun. 

Gervaise could not weep. She felt as if she were stifling. She coveredher face with her hands and turned toward the wall. A sharp, nervoustrembling shook her from head to foot. An occasional sobbing sigh or, rather, gasp escaped from her lips, while she pressed her clenchedhands more tightly on her eyes, as if to increase the darkness of theabyss in which she felt herself to have fallen. 

"Come! Come, my child!" muttered Mme Boche. 

"If you knew! If you only knew all!" answered Gervaise. "Only thisvery morning he made me carry my shawl and my chemises to theMont-de-Piete, and that was the money he had for the carriage. "

And the tears rushed to her eyes. The recollection of her visit to thepawnbroker's, of her hasty return with the money in her hand, seemedto let loose the sobs that strangled her and was the one drop toomuch. Tears streamed from her eyes and poured down her face. She didnot think of wiping them away. 

"Be reasonable, child! Be quiet, " whispered Mme Boche. "They are alllooking at you. Is it possible you can care so much for any man? Youlove him still, although such a little while ago you pretended you didnot care for him, and you cry as if your heart would break! Oh lord, what fools we women are!"

Then in a maternal tone she added:

"And such a pretty little woman as you are too. But now I may aswell tell you the whole, I suppose? Well then, you remember whenI was talking to you from the sidewalk and you were at your window?I knew then that it was Lantier who came in with Adele. I did not seehis face, but I knew his coat, and Boche watched and saw him comedownstairs this morning. But he was with Adele, you understand. Thereis another person who comes to see Virginie twice a week. "

She stopped for a moment to take breath and then went on in a lowertone still. 

"Take care! She is laughing at you--the heartless little cat! I betall her washing is a sham. She has seen her sister and Lantier welloff and then came here to find out how you would take it. "

Gervaise took her hands down from her face and looked around. Whenshe saw Virginie talking and laughing with two or three women a wildtempest of rage shook her from head to foot. She stooped with her armsextended, as if feeling for something, and moved along slowly for astep or two, then snatched up a bucket of soapsuds and threw it atVirginie. 

"You devil! Be off with you!" cried Virginie, starting back. Only herfeet were wet. 

All the women in the lavatory hurried to the scene of action. Theyjumped up on the benches, some with a piece of bread in their hands, others with a bit of soap, and a circle of spectators was soon formed. 

"Yes, she is a devil!" repeated Virginie. "What has got into thefool?" Gervaise stood motionless, her face convulsed and lips apart. The other continued:

"She got tired of the country, it seems, but she left one leg behindher, at all events. "

The women laughed, and big Virginie, elated at her success, went onin a louder and more triumphant tone:

"Come a little nearer, and I will soon settle you. You had better haveremained in the country. It is lucky for you that your dirty soapsudsonly went on my feet, for I would have taken you over my knees andgiven you a good spanking if one drop had gone in my face. What isthe matter with her, anyway?" And big Virginie addressed her audience:"Make her tell what I have done to her! Say! Fool, what harm have Iever done to you?"

"You had best not talk so much, " answered Gervaise almost inaudibly;"you know very well where my husband was seen yesterday. Now be quietor harm will come to you. I will strangle you--quick as a wink. "

"Her husband, she says! Her husband! The lady's husband! As if alooking thing like that had a husband! Is it my fault if he hasdeserted her? Does she think I have stolen him? Anyway, he was muchtoo good for her. But tell me, some of you, was his name on hiscollar? Madame has lost her husband! She will pay a good reward, I am sure, to anyone who will carry him back!"

The women all laughed. Gervaise, in a low, concentrated voice, repeated:

"You know very well--you know very well! Your sister--yes, I willstrangle your sister!"

"Oh yes, I understand, " answered Virginie. "Strangle her if youchoose. What do I care? And what are you staring at me for? Can'tI wash my clothes in peace? Come, I am sick of this stuff. Let mealone!"

Big Virginie turned away, and after five or six angry blows with herbeater she began again:

"Yes, it is my sister, and the two adore each other. You should seethem bill and coo together. He has left you with these dirty-facedimps, and you left three others behind you with three fathers! It wasyour dear Lantier who told us all that. Ah, he had had quite enoughof you--he said so!"

"Miserable fool!" cried Gervaise, white with anger. 

She turned and mechanically looked around on the floor; seeingnothing, however, but the small tub of bluing water, she threw thatin Virginie's face. 

"She has spoiled my dress!" cried Virginie, whose shoulder and onehand were dyed a deep blue. "You just wait a moment!" she added asshe, in her turn, snatched up a tub and dashed its contents atGervaise. Then ensued a most formidable battle. The two women ran upand down the room in eager haste, looking for full tubs, which theyquickly flung in the faces of each other, and each deluge was heraldedand accompanied by a shout. 

"Is that enough? Will that cool you off?" cried Gervaise. 

And from Virginie:

"Take that! It is good to have a bath once in your life!"

Finally the tubs and pails were all empty, and the two women began todraw water from the faucets. They continued their mutual abuse whilethe water was running, and presently it was Virginie who receiveda bucketful in her face. The water ran down her back and over herskirts. She was stunned and bewildered, when suddenly there cameanother in her left ear, knocking her head nearly off her shoulders;her comb fell and with it her abundant hair. 

Gervaise was attacked about her legs. Her shoes were filled withwater, and she was drenched above her knees. Presently the two womenwere deluged from head to foot; their garments stuck to them, and theydripped like umbrellas which had been out in a heavy shower. 

"What fun!" said one of the laundresses as she looked on at a safedistance. 

The whole lavatory were immensely amused, and the women applaudedas if at a theater. The floor was covered an inch deep with water, through which the termagants splashed. Suddenly Virginie discovereda bucket of scalding water standing a little apart; she caught it andthrew it upon Gervaise. There was an exclamation of horror from thelookers-on. Gervaise escaped with only one foot slightly burned, butexasperated by the pain, she threw a tub with all her strength at thelegs of her opponent. Virginie fell to the ground. 

"She has broken her leg!" cried one of the spectators. 

"She deserved it, " answered another, "for the tall one tried to scaldher!"

"She was right, after all, if the blonde had taken away her man!"

Mme Boche rent the air with her exclamations, waving her armsfrantically high above her head. She had taken the precaution to placeherself behind a rampart of tubs, with Claude and Etienne clinging toher skirts, weeping and sobbing in a paroxysm of terror and keeping upa cry of "Mamma! Mamma!" When she saw Virginie prostrate on the groundshe rushed to Gervaise and tried to pull her away. 

"Come with me!" she urged. "Do be sensible. You are growing so angrythat the Lord only knows what the end of all this will be!"

But Gervaise pushed her aside, and the old woman again took refugebehind the tubs with the children. Virginie made a spring at thethroat of her adversary and actually tried to strangle her. Gervaiseshook her off and snatched at the long braid hanging from the girl'shead and pulled it as if she hoped to wrench it off, and the headwith it. 

The battle began again, this time silent and wordless and literallytooth and nail. Their extended hands with fingers stiffly crooked, caught wildly at all in their way, scratching and tearing. The redribbon and the chenille net worn by the brunette were torn off; thewaist of her dress was ripped from throat to belt and showed thewhite skin on the shoulder. 

Gervaise had lost a sleeve, and her chemise was torn to her waist. Strips of clothing lay in every direction. It was Gervaise who wasfirst wounded. Three long scratches from her mouth to her throatbled profusely, and she fought with her eyes shut lest she should beblinded. As yet Virginia showed no wound. Suddenly Gervaise seizedone of her earrings--pear-shaped, of yellow glass--she tore it outand brought blood. 

"They will kill each other! Separate them, " cried several voices. 

The women gathered around the combatants; the spectators were dividedinto two parties--some exciting and encouraging Gervaise and Virginieas if they had been dogs fighting, while others, more timid, trembled, turned away their heads and said they were faint and sick. A generalbattle threatened to take place, such was the excitement. 

Mme Boche called to the boy in charge:

"Charles! Charles! Where on earth can he be?"

Finally she discovered him, calmly looking on with his arms folded. Hewas a tall youth with a big neck. He was laughing and hugely enjoyingthe scene. It would be a capital joke, he thought, if the women toreeach other's clothes to rags and if they should be compelled to finishtheir fight in a state of nudity. 

"Are you there then?" cried Mme Boche when she saw him. "Come and helpus separate them, or you can do it yourself. "

"No, thank you, " he answered quietly. "I don't propose to have my owneyes scratched out! I am not here for that. Let them alone! It will dothem no harm to let a little of their hot blood out!"

Mme Boche declared she would summon the police, but to this themistress of the lavatory, the delicate-looking woman with weak eyes, strenuously objected. 

"No, no, I will not. It would injure my house!" she said over and overagain. 

Both women lay on the ground. Suddenly Virginie struggled up to herknees. She had got possession of one of the beaters, which shebrandished. Her voice was hoarse and low as she muttered:

"This will be as good for you as for your dirty linen!"

Gervaise, in her turn, snatched another beater, which she held like aclub. Her voice also was hoarse and low. 

"I will beat your skin, " she muttered, "as I would my coarse towels. "

They knelt in front of each other in utter silence for at least aminute, with hair streaming, eyes glaring and distended nostrils. Theyeach drew a long breath. 

Gervaise struck the first blow with her beater full on the shouldersof her adversary and then threw herself over on the side to escapeVirginie's weapon, which touched her on the hip. 

Thus started, they struck each other as laundresses strike theirlinen, in measured cadence. 

The women about them ceased to laugh; many went away, saying they werefaint. Those who remained watched the scene with a cruel light intheir eyes. Mme Boche had taken Claude and Etienne to the other end ofthe room, whence came the dreary sound of their sobs which were heardthrough the dull blows of the beaters. 

Suddenly Gervaise uttered a shriek. Virginie had struck her just abovethe elbow on her bare arm, and the flesh began to swell at once. Sherushed at Virginie; her face was so terrible that the spectatorsthought she meant to kill her. 

"Enough! Enough!" they cried. 

With almost superhuman strength she seized Virginie by the waist, benther forward with her face to the brick floor and, notwithstanding herstruggles, lifted her skirts and showed the white and naked skin. Thenshe brought her beater down as she had formerly done at Plassans underthe trees on the riverside, where her employer had washed the linen ofthe garrison. 

Each blow of the beater fell on the soft flesh with a dull thud, leaving a scarlet mark. 

"Oh! Oh!" murmured Charles with his eyes nearly starting from hishead. 

The women were laughing again by this time, but soon the cry beganagain of "Enough! Enough!"

Gervaise did not even hear. She seemed entirely absorbed, as if shewere fulfilling an appointed task, and she talked with strange, wildgaiety, recalling one of the rhymes of her childhood:

 _"Pan! Pan! Margot au lavoir, Pan! Pan! a coups de battoir; Pan! Pan! va laver son coeur, Pan! Pan! tout noir de douleur_

"Take that for yourself and that for your sister and this for Lantier. And now I shall begin all over again. That is for Lantier--that foryour sister--and this for yourself!

 _"Pan! Pan! Margot au lavoir! Pan! Pan! a coups de battoir. "_

They tore Virginie from her hands. The tall brunette, weeping andsobbing, scarlet with shame, rushed out of the room, leaving Gervaisemistress of the field, who calmly arranged her dress somewhat and, as her arm was stiff, begged Mme Boche to lift her bundle of linenon her shoulder. 

While the old woman obeyed she dilated on her emotions during thescene that had just taken place. 

"You ought to go to a doctor and see if something is not broken. I heard a queer sound, " she said. 

But Gervaise did not seem to hear her and paid no attention either tothe women who crowded around her with congratulations. She hastenedto the door where her children awaited her. 

"Two hours!" said the mistress of the establishment, already installedin her glass cabinet. "Two hours and two sous!"

Gervaise mechanically laid down the two sous, and then, limpingpainfully under the weight of the wet linen which was slung over hershoulder and dripped as she moved, with her injured arm and bleedingcheek, she went away, dragging after her with her naked arm thestill-sobbing and tear-stained Etienne and Claude. 

Behind her the lavatory resumed its wonted busy air, a little gayerthan usual from the excitement of the morning. The women had eatentheir bread and drunk their wine, and they splashed the water and usedtheir beaters with more energy than usual as they recalled the blowsdealt by Gervaise. They talked from alley to alley, leaning over theirtubs. Words and laughs were lost in the sound of running water. Thesteam and mist were golden in the sun that came in through holes inthe curtain. The odor of soapsuds grew stronger and stronger. 

When Gervaise entered the alley which led to the Hotel Boncoeur hertears choked her. It was a long, dark, narrow alley, with a gutteron one side close to the wall, and the loathsome smell brought to hermind the recollection of having passed through there with Lantiera fortnight previous. 

And what had that fortnight been? A succession of quarrels anddissensions, the remembrance of which would be forevermore a regretand bitterness. 

Her room was empty, filled with the glowing sunlight from the openwindow. This golden light rendered more apparent the blackened ceilingand the walls with the shabby, dilapidated paper. There was not anarticle beyond the furniture left in the room, except a woman's fichuthat seemed to have caught on a nail near the chimney. The children'sbed was pulled out into the center of the room; the bureau drawerswere wide open, displaying their emptiness. Lantier had washed and hadused the last of the pomade--two cents' worth on the back of a playingcard--the dirty water in which he had washed still stood in the basin. He had forgotten nothing; the corner hitherto occupied by his trunknow seemed to Gervaise a vast desert. Even the small mirror was gone. With a presentiment of evil she turned hastily to the chimney. Yes, she was right, Lantier had carried away the tickets. The pink paperswere no longer between the candlesticks!

She threw her bundle of linen into a chair and stood looking first atone thing and then at another in a dull agony that no tears came torelieve. 

She had but one sou in the world. She heard a merry laugh from herboys who, already consoled, were at the window. She went toward themand, laying a hand on each of their heads, looked out on that sceneon which her weary eyes had dwelt so long that same morning. 

Yes, it was on that street that she and her children would soon bethrown, and she turned her hopeless, despairing eyes toward the outerboulevards--looking from right to left, lingering at the twoextremities, seized by a feeling of terror, as if her lifethenceforward was to be spent between a slaughterhouse and a hospital. 

CHAPTER II

GERVAISE AND COUPEAU

Three weeks later, about half-past eleven one fine sunny morning, Gervaise and Coupeau, the tinworker, were eating some brandied fruitat the Assommoir. 

Coupeau, who was smoking outside, had seen her as she crossed thestreet with her linen and compelled her to enter. Her huge basketwas on the floor, back of the little table where they sat. 

Father Colombe's Tavern, known as the Assommoir, was on the cornersof the Rue des Poissonniers and of the Boulevard de Rochechouart. The sign bore the one single word in long, blue letters:

DISTILLATION

And this word stretched from one end to the other. On either side ofthe door stood tall oleanders in small casks, their leaves coveredthick with dust. The enormous counter with its rows of glasses, itsfountain and its pewter measures was on the left of the door, and thehuge room was ornamented by gigantic casks painted bright yellow andhighly varnished, hooped with shining copper. On high shelves werebottles of liquors and jars of fruits; all sorts of flasks standing inorder concealed the wall and repeated their pale green or deep crimsontints in the great mirror behind the counter. 

The great feature of the house, however, was the distilling apparatuswhich stood at the back of the room behind an oak railing on which thetipsy workmen leaned as they stupidly watched the still with its longneck and serpentine tubes descending to subterranean regions--a verydevil's kitchen. 

At this early hour the Assommoir was nearly empty. A stout man in hisshirt sleeves--Father Colombe himself--was serving a little girl notmore than twelve years old with four cents' worth of liquor in a cup. 

The sun streamed in at the door and lay on the floor, which was blackwhere the men had spat as they smoked. And from the counter, from thecasks, from all the room, rose an alcoholic emanation which seemed tointoxicate the very particles of dust floating in the sunshine. 

In the meantime Coupeau rolled a new cigarette. He was very neat andclean, wearing a blouse and a little blue cloth cap and showing hiswhite teeth as he smiled. 

The lower jaw was somewhat prominent and the nose slightly flat; hehad fine brown eyes and the face of a happy child and good-naturedanimal. His hair was thick and curly. His complexion was delicatestill, for he was only twenty-six. Opposite him sat Gervaise in ablack gown, leaning slightly forward, finishing her fruit, which sheheld by the stem. 

They were near the street, at the first of the four tables arrangedin front of the counter. When Coupeau had lighted his cigar he placedboth elbows on the table and looked at the woman without speaking. Her pretty face had that day something of the delicate transparencyof fine porcelain. 

Then continuing something which they apparently had been previouslydiscussing, he said in a low voice:

"Then you say no, do you? Absolutely no?"

"Of course. No it must be, Monsieur Coupeau, " answered Gervaise witha smile. "Surely you do not intend to begin that again here! Youpromised to be reasonable too. Had I known, I should certainly haverefused your treat. "

He did not speak but gazed at her more intently than before withtender boldness. He looked at her soft eyes and dewy lips, pale at thecorners but half parted, allowing one to see the rich crimson within. 

She returned his look with a kind and affectionate smile. Finally shesaid:

"You should not think of such a thing. It is folly! I am an old woman. I have a boy eight years old. What should we do together?"

"Much as other people do, I suppose!" answered Coupeau with a wink. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"You know nothing about it, Monsieur Coupeau, but I have had someexperience. I have two mouths in the house, and they have excellentappetites. How am I to bring up my children if I trifle away my time?Then, too, my misfortune has taught me one great lesson, which is thatthe less I have to do with men, the better!"

She then proceeded to explain all her reasons, calmly and withoutanger. It was easy to see that her words were the result of graveconsideration. 

Coupeau listened quietly, saying only at intervals:

"You are hurting my feelings. Yes, hurting my feelings. "

"Yes, I see that, " she answered, "and I am really very sorry for you. If I had any idea of leading a different life from that which I followtoday it might as well be with you as with another. You have the lookof a good-natured man. But what is the use? I have now been withMadame Fauconnier for a fortnight. The children are going to school, and I am very happy, for I have plenty to do. Don't you see, therefore, that it is best for us to remain as we are?"

And she stooped to pick up her basket. 

"You are keeping me here to talk, " she said, "and they are waiting forme at my employer's. You will find some other woman, Monsieur Coupeau, far prettier than I, who will not have two children to bring up!"

He looked at the clock and made her sit down again. 

"Wait!" he cried. "It is still thirty-five minutes of eleven. I havetwenty-five minutes still, and don't be afraid of my familiarity, forthe table is between us! Do you dislike me so very much that you can'tstay and talk with me for five minutes?"

She put down her basket, unwilling to seem disobliging, and theytalked for some time in a friendly sort of way. She had breakfastedbefore she left home, and he had swallowed his soup in the greatesthaste and laid in wait for her as she came out. Gervaise, as shelistened to him, watched from the windows--between the bottles ofbrandied fruit--the movement of the crowd in the street, which atthis hour--that of the Parisian breakfast--was unusually lively. Workmen hurried into the baker's and, coming out with a loaf undertheir arms, they went into the Veau a Deux Tetes, three doors higherup, to breakfast at six sous. Next the baker's was a shop where friedpotatoes and mussels with parsley were sold. A constant succession ofshopgirls carried off paper parcels of fried potatoes and cups filledwith mussels, and others bought bunches of radishes. When Gervaiseleaned a little more toward the window she saw still another shop, also crowded, from which issued a steady stream of children holdingin their hands, wrapped in paper, a breaded cutlet or a sausage, still warm. 

A group formed around the door of the Assommoir. 

"Say, Bibi-la-Grillade, " asked a voice, "will you stand a drink allaround?"

Five workmen went in, and the same voice said:

"Father Colombe, be honest now. Give us honest glasses, and nonutshells, if you please. "

Presently three more workmen entered together, and finally a crowdof blouses passed in between the dusty oleanders. 

"You have no business to ask such questions, " said Gervaise toCoupeau; "of course I loved him. But after the manner in which hedeserted me--"

They were speaking of Lantier. Gervaise had never seen him again;she supposed him to be living with Virginie's sister, with a friendwho was about to start a manufactory for hats. 

At first she thought of committing suicide, of drowning herself, but she had grown more reasonable and had really begun to trust thatthings were all for the best. With Lantier she felt sure she nevercould have done justice to the children, so extravagant were hishabits. 

He might come, of course, and see Claude and Etienne. She would notshow him the door; only so far as she herself was concerned, he hadbest not lay his finger on her. And she uttered these words in a toneof determination, like a woman whose plan of life is clearly defined, while Coupeau, who was by no means inclined to give her up lightly, teased and questioned her in regard to Lantier with none too muchdelicacy, it is true, but his teeth were so white and his face somerry that the woman could not take offense. "Did you beat him?"he asked finally. "Oh, you are none too amiable. You beat peoplesometimes, I have heard. "

She laughed gaily. 

Yes, it was true she had whipped that great Virginie. That day shecould have strangled someone with a glad heart. And she laughed again, because Coupeau told her that Virginie, in her humiliation, had leftthe _Quartier_. 

Gervaise's face, as she laughed, however, had a certain childishsweetness. She extended her slender, dimpled hands, declaring shewould not hurt a fly. All she knew of blows was that she had receiveda good many in her life. Then she began to talk of Plassans and of heryouth. She had never been indiscreet, nor was she fond of men. Whenshe had fallen in with Lantier she was only fourteen, and she regardedhim as her husband. Her only fault, she declared, was that she was tooamiable and allowed people to impose on her and that she got fond ofpeople too easily; were she to love another man, she should wish andexpect to live quietly and comfortably with him always, without anynonsense. 

And when Coupeau slyly asked her if she called her dear childrennonsense she gave him a little slap and said that she, of course, was much like other women. But women were not like men, after all;they had their homes to take care of and keep clean; she was likeher mother, who had been a slave to her brutal father for more thantwenty years!

"My very lameness--" she continued. 

"Your lameness?" interrupted Coupeau gallantly. "Why, it is almostnothing. No one would ever notice it!"

She shook her head. She knew very well that it was very evident, andat forty it would be far worse, but she said softly, with a faintsmile, "You have a strange taste, to fall in love with a lame woman!"

He, with his elbows on the table, still coaxed and entreated, but shecontinued to shake her head in the negative. She listened with hereyes fixed on the street, seemingly fascinated by the surging crowd. 

The shops were being swept; the last frying pan of potatoes was takenfrom the stove; the pork merchant washed the plates his customers hadused and put his place in order. Groups of mechanics were hurrying outfrom all the workshops, laughing and pushing each other like so manyschoolboys, making a great scuffling on the sidewalk with theirhobnailed shoes; while some, with their hands in their pockets, smoked in a meditative fashion, looking up at the sun and winkingprodigiously. The sidewalks were crowded and the crowd constantlyadded to by men who poured from the open door--men in blouses andfrocks, old jackets and coats, which showed all their defects inthe clear morning light. 

The bells of the various manufactories were ringing loudly, but theworkmen did not hurry. They deliberately lighted their pipes and thenwith rounded shoulders slouched along, dragging their feet after them. 

Gervaise mechanically watched a group of three, one man much tallerthan the other two, who seemed to be hesitating as to what they shoulddo next. Finally they came directly to the Assommoir. 

"I know them, " said Coupeau, "or rather I know the tall one. It isMes-Bottes, a comrade of mine. "

The Assommoir was now crowded with boisterous men. Two glasses rangwith the energy with which they brought down their fists on thecounter. They stood in rows, with their hands crossed over theirstomachs or folded behind their backs, waiting their turn to beserved by Father Colombe. 

"Hallo!" cried Mes-Bottes, giving Coupeau a rough slap on theshoulders. "How fine you have got to be with your cigarettes andyour linen shirt bosom! Who is your friend that pays for all this?I should like to make her acquaintance. "

"Don't be so silly!" returned Coupeau angrily. 

But the other gave a knowing wink. 

"Ah, I understand. 'A word to the wise--'" And he turned round witha fearful lurch to look at Gervaise, who shuddered and recoiled. Thetobacco smoke, the odor of humanity added to this air heavy withalcohol, was oppressive, and she choked a little and coughed. 

"Ah, what an awful thing it is to drink!" she said in a whisper to herfriend, to whom she then went on to say how years before she had drunkanisette with her mother at Plassans and how it had made her so verysick that ever since that day she had never been able to endure eventhe smell of liquors. 

"You see, " she added as she held up her glass, "I have eaten, thefruit, but I left the brandy, for it would make me ill. "

Coupeau also failed to understand how a man could swallow glasses ofbrandy and water, one after the other. Brandied fruit, now and again, was not bad. As to absinthe and similar abominations, he never touchedthem--not he, indeed. His comrades might laugh at him as much as theypleased; he always remained on the other side of the door when theycame in to swallow perdition like that. 

His father, who was a tinworker like himself, had fallen one day fromthe roof of No. 25, in La Rue Coquenaud, and this recollection hadmade him very prudent ever since. As for himself, when he passedthrough that street and saw the place he would sooner drink the waterin the gutter than swallow a drop at the wineshop. He concluded withthe sentence:

"You see, in my trade a man needs a clear head and steady legs. "

Gervaise had taken up her basket; she had not risen from her chair, however, but held it on her knees with a dreary look in her eyes, asif the words of the young mechanic had awakened in her mind strangethoughts of a possible future. 

She answered in a low, hesitating tone, without any apparentconnection:

"Heaven knows I am not ambitious. I do not ask for much in this world. My idea would be to live a quiet life and always have enough to eat--aclean place to live in--with a comfortable bed, a table and a chair ortwo. Yes, I would like to bring my children up in that way and seethem good and industrious. I should not like to run the risk of beingbeaten--no, that would not please me at all!"

She hesitated, as if to find something else to say, and then resumed:

"Yes, and at the end I should wish to die in my bed in my own home!"

She pushed back her chair and rose. Coupeau argued with her vehementlyand then gave an uneasy glance at the clock. They did not, however, depart at once. She wished to look at the still and stood for someminutes gazing with curiosity at the great copper machine. Thetinworker, who had followed her, explained to her how the thingworked, pointing out with his finger the various parts of the machine, and showed the enormous retort whence fell the clear stream ofalcohol. The still, with its intricate and endless coils of wire andpipes, had a dreary aspect. Not a breath escaped from it, and hardlya sound was heard. It was like some night task performed in daylightby a melancholy, silent workman. 

In the meantime Mes-Bottes, accompanied by his two comrades, hadlounged to the oak railing and leaned there until there was a cornerof the counter free. He laughed a tipsy laugh as he stood with hiseyes fixed on the machine. 

"By thunder!" he muttered. "That is a jolly little thing!"

He went on to say that it held enough to keep their throats fresh fora week. As for himself, he would like to hold the end of that pipebetween his teeth, and he would like to feel that liquor run down histhroat in a steady stream until it reached his heels. 

The still did its work slowly but surely. There was not a glimmer onits surface--no firelight reflected in its clean-colored sides. Theliquor dropped steadily and suggested a persevering stream which wouldgradually invade the room, spread over the streets and boulevard andfinally deluge and inundate Paris itself. 

Gervaise shuddered and drew back. She tried to smile, but her lipsquivered as she murmured:

"It frightens me--that machine! It makes me feel cold to see thatconstant drip. "

Then returning to the idea which had struck her as the acme of humanhappiness, she said:

"Say, do you not think that would be very nice? To work and haveplenty to eat, to have a little home all to oneself, to bring upchildren and then die in one's bed?"

"And not be beaten, " added Coupeau gaily. "But I will promise neverto beat you, Madame Gervaise, if you will agree to what I ask. I willpromise also never to drink, because I love you too much! Come now, say yes. "

He lowered his voice and spoke with his lips close to her throat, while she, holding her basket in front of her, was making a paththrough the crowd of men. 

But she did not say no or shake her head as she had done. She glancedup at him with a half-tender smile and seemed to rejoice in theassurance he gave that he did not drink. 

It was clear that she would have said yes if she had not sworn neverto have anything more to do with men. 

Finally they reached the door and went out of the place, leaving itcrowded to overflowing. The fumes of alcohol and the tipsy voices ofthe men carousing went out into the street with them. 

Mes-Bottes was heard accusing Father Colombe of cheating by notfilling his glasses more than half full, and he proposed to hiscomrades to go in future to another place, where they could domuch better and get more for their money. 

"Ah, " said Gervaise, drawing a long breath when they stood on thesidewalk, "here one can breathe again. Good-by, Monsieur Coupeau, and many thanks for your politeness. I must hasten now!"

She moved on, but he took her hand and held it fast. 

"Go a little way with me. It will not be much farther for you. I must stop at my sister's before I go back to the shop. "

She yielded to his entreaties, and they walked slowly on together. He told her about his family. His mother, a tailoress, was thehousekeeper. Twice she had been obliged to give up her work on accountof trouble with her eyes. She was sixty-two on the third of the lastmonth. He was the youngest child. One of his sisters, Mme Lerat, a widow, thirty-six years old, was a flower maker and lived atBatignolles, in La Rue Des Moines. The other, who was thirty, hadmarried a chainmaker--a man by the name of Lorilleux. It was to theirrooms that he was now going. They lived in that great house on theleft. He ate his dinner every night with them; it was an economy forthem all. But he wanted to tell them now not to expect him that night, as he was invited to dine with a friend. 

Gervaise interrupted him suddenly:

"Did I hear your friend call you Cadet-Cassis?"

"Yes. That is a name they have given me, because when they drag meinto a wineshop it is cassis I always take. I had as lief be calledCadet-Cassis as Mes-Bottes, any time. "

"I do not think Cadet-Cassis so very bad, " answered Gervaise, and sheasked him about his work. How long should he be employed on the newhospital?

"Oh, " he answered, "there was never any lack of work. " He had alwaysmore than he could do. He should remain in that shop at least a year, for he had yards and yards of gutters to make. 

"Do you know, " he said, "when I am up there I can see the HotelBoncoeur. Yesterday you were at the window, and I waved my hand, but you did not see me. "

They by this time had turned into La Rue de la Goutte-d'Or. He stoppedand looked up. 

"There is the house, " he said, "and I was born only a few doorsfarther off. It is an enormous place. "

Gervaise looked up and down the façade. It was indeed enormous. Thehouse was of five stories, with fifteen windows on each floor. Theblinds were black and with many of the slats broken, which gave anindescribable air of ruin and desolation to the place. Four shopsoccupied the _rez-de-chaussee_. On the right of the door was alarge room, occupied as a cookshop. On the left was a charcoal vender, a thread-and-needle shop and an establishment for the manufacture ofumbrellas. 

The house appeared all the higher for the reason that on either sidewere two low buildings, squeezed close to it, and stood square, likea block of granite roughly hewn, against the blue sky. Totally withoutornament, the house grimly suggested a prison. 

Gervaise looked at the entrance, an immense doorway which rose to theheight of the second story and made a deep passage, at the end ofwhich was a large courtyard. In the center of this doorway, which waspaved like the street, ran a gutter full of pale rose-colored water. 

"Come up, " said Coupeau; "they won't eat you. "

Gervaise preferred to wait for him in the street, but she consentedto go as far as the room of the concierge, which was within the porch, on the left. 

When she had reached this place she again looked up. 

Within there were six floors, instead of five, and four regularfacades surrounded the vast square of the courtyard. The walls weregray, covered with patches of leprous yellow, stained by the drippingfrom the slate-covered roof. The wall had not even a molding to breakits dull uniformity--only the gutters ran across it. The windows hadneither shutters nor blinds but showed the panes of glass which weregreenish and full of bubbles. Some were open, and from them hungchecked mattresses and sheets to air. Lines were stretched in frontof others, on which the family wash was hung to dry--men's shirts, women's chemises and children's breeches! There was a look as if thedwellers under that roof found their quarters too small and wereoozing out at every crack and aperture. 

For the convenience of each facade there was a narrow, high doorway, from which a damp passage led to the rear, where were four staircaseswith iron railings. These each had one of the first four letters ofthe alphabet painted at the side. 

The _rez-de-chaussee_ was divided into enormous workshops and litby windows black with dust. The forge of a locksmith blazed in one;from another came the sound of a carpenter's plane, while near thedoorway a pink stream from a dyeing establishment poured into thegutter. Pools of stagnant water stood in the courtyard, all litteredwith shavings and fragments of charcoal. A few pale tufts of grassstruggled up between the flat stones, and the whole courtyard waslit but dimly. 

In the shade near the water faucet three small hens were peckingwith the vain hope of finding a worm, and Gervaise looked about her, amazed at the enormous place which seemed like a little world and asinterested in the house as if it were a living creature. 

"Are you looking for anyone?" asked the concierge, coming to her doorconsiderably puzzled. 

But the young woman explained that she was waiting for a friend andthen turned back toward the street. As Coupeau still delayed, shereturned to the courtyard, finding in it a strange fascination. 

The house did not strike her as especially ugly. At some of thewindows were plants--a wallflower blooming in a pot--a caged canary, who uttered an occasional warble, and several shaving mirrors caughtthe light and shone like stars. 

A cabinetmaker sang, accompanied by the regular whistling soundsof his plane, while from the locksmith's quarters came a clatterof hammers struck in cadence. 

At almost all the open windows the laughing, dirty faces of merrychildren were seen, and women sat with their calm faces in profile, bending over their work. It was the quiet time--after the morninglabors were over and the men were gone to their work and the housewas comparatively quiet, disturbed only by the sounds of the varioustrades. The same refrain repeated hour after hour has a soothingeffect, Gervaise thought. 

To be sure, the courtyard was a little damp. Were she to live there, she should certainly prefer a room on the sunny side. 

She went in several steps and breathed that heavy odor of the homes ofthe poor--an odor of old dust, of rancid dirt and grease--but as theacridity of the smells from the dyehouse predominated, she decided itto be far better than the Hotel Boncoeur. 

She selected a window--a window in the corner on the left, where therewas a small box planted with scarlet beans, whose slender tendrilswere beginning to wind round a little arbor of strings. 

"I have made you wait too long, I am afraid, " said Coupeau, whom shesuddenly heard at her side. "They make a great fuss when I do not dinethere, and she did not like it today, especially as my sister hadbought veal. You are looking at this house, " he continued. "Think ofit--it is always lit from top to bottom. There are a hundred lodgersin it. If I had any furniture I would have had a room in it long ago. It would be very nice here, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, " murmured Gervaise, "very nice indeed. At Plassans there werenot so many people in one whole street. Look up at that window on thefifth floor--the window, I mean, where those beans are growing. Seehow pretty that is!"

He, with his usual recklessness, declared he would hire that roomfor her, and they would live there together. 

She turned away with a laugh and begged him not to talk any morenonsense. The house might stand or fall--they would never have a roomin it together. 

But Coupeau, all the same, was not reproved when he held her handlonger than was necessary in bidding her farewell when they reachedMme Fauconnier's laundry. 

For another month the kindly intercourse between Gervaise and Coupeaucontinued on much the same footing. He thought her wonderfullycourageous, declared she was killing herself with hard work all dayand sitting up half the night to sew for the children. She was notlike the women he had known; she took life too seriously, by far!

She laughed and defended herself modestly. Unfortunately, she said, she had not always been discreet. She alluded to her first confinementwhen she was not more than fourteen and to the bottles of anisette shehad emptied with her mother, but she had learned much from experience, she said. He was mistaken, however, in thinking she was perseveringand strong. She was, on the contrary, very weak and too easilyinfluenced, as she had discovered to her cost. Her dream had alwaysbeen to live in a respectable way among respectable people, becausebad company knocks the life out of a woman. She trembled when shethought of the future and said she was like a sou thrown up in theair, falling, heads up or down, according to chance, on the muddypavement. All she had seen, the bad example spread before her childisheyes, had given her valuable lessons. But Coupeau laughed at thesegloomy notions and brought back her courage by attempting to put hisarm around her waist. She slapped his hands, and he cried out that"for a weak woman, she managed to hurt a fellow considerably!"

As for himself, he was always as merry as a grig, and no fool, either. He parted his hair carefully on one side, wore pretty cravats andpatent-leather shoes on Sunday and was as saucy as only a fineParisian workman can be. 

They were of mutual use to each other at the Hotel Boncoeur. Coupeauwent for her milk, did many little errands for her and carried homeher linen to her customers and often took the children out to walk. Gervaise, to return these courtesies, went up to the tiny room wherehe slept and in his absence looked over his clothes, sewed on buttonsand mended his garments. They grew to be very good and cordialfriends. He was to her a constant source of amusement. She listenedto the songs he sang and to their slang and nonsense, which as yethad for her much of the charm of novelty. But he began to grow uneasy, and his smiles were less frequent. He asked her whenever they met thesame question, "When shall it be?"

She answered invariably with a jest but passed her days in a fireof indelicate allusions, however, which did not bring a flush toher cheek. So long as he was not rough and brutal, she objected tonothing, but one day she was very angry when he, in trying to steala kiss, tore out a lock of her hair. 

About the last of June Coupeau became absolutely morose, and Gervaisewas so much disturbed by certain glances he gave her that she fairlybarricaded her door at night. Finally one Tuesday evening, when he hadsulked from the previous Sunday, he came to her door at eleven in theevening. At first she refused to open it, but his voice was so gentle, so sad even, that she pulled away the barrier she had pushed againstthe door for her better protection. When he came in she was startledand thought him ill; he was so deadly pale and his eyes were sobright. No, he was not ill, he said, but things could not go onlike this; he could not sleep. 

"Listen, Madame Gervaise, " he exclaimed with tears in his eyes and astrange choking sensation in his throat. "We must be married at once. That is all there is to be said about it. "

Gervaise was astonished and very grave. 

"Oh, Monsieur Coupeau, I never dreamed of this, as you know very well, and you must not take such a step lightly. "

But he continued to insist; he was certainly fully determined. He hadcome down to her then, without waiting until morning, merely becausehe needed a good sleep. As soon as she said yes he would leave her. But he would not go until he heard that word. 

"I cannot say yes in such a hurry, " remonstrated Gervaise. "I do notchoose to run the risk of your telling me at some future day thatI led you into this. You are making a great mistake, I assure you. Suppose you should not see me for a week--you would forget meentirely. Men sometimes marry for a fancy and in twenty-four hourswould gladly take it all back. Sit down here and let us talk alittle. "

They sat in that dingy room lit only by one candle, which they forgotto snuff, and discussed the expediency of their marriage until aftermidnight, speaking very low, lest they should disturb the children, who were asleep with weir heads on the same pillow. 

And Gervaise pointed them out to Coupeau. That was an odd sort ofdowry to carry a man, surely! How could she venture to go to him withsuch encumbrances? Then, too, she was troubled about another thing. People would laugh at him. Her story was known; her lover had beenseen, and there would be no end of talk if she should marry now. 

To all these good and excellent reasons Coupeau answered with a shrugof his shoulders. What did he care for talk and gossip? He nevermeddled with the affairs of others; why should they meddle with his?

Yes, she had children, to be sure, and he would look out for them withher. He had never seen a woman in his life who was so good and socourageous and patient. Besides, that had nothing to do with it! Hadshe been ugly and lazy, with a dozen dirty children, he would havewanted her and only her. 

"Yes, " he continued, tapping her on the knee, "you are the woman Iwant, and none other. You have nothing to say against that, Isuppose?"

Gervaise melted by degrees. Her resolution forsook her, and a weaknessof her heart and her senses overwhelmed her in the face of this brutalpassion. She ventured only a timid objection or two. Her hands layloosely folded on her knees, while her face was very gentle and sweet. 

Through the open window came the soft air of a fair June night; thecandle flickered in the wind; from the street came the sobs of achild, the child of a drunken man who was lying just in front of thedoor in the street. From a long distance the breeze brought the notesof a violin playing at a restaurant for some late marriage festival--adelicate strain it was, too, clear and sweet as musical glasses. 

Coupeau, seeing that the young woman had exhausted all her arguments, snatched her hands and drew her toward him. She was in one of thosemoods which she so much distrusted, when she could refuse no oneanything. But the young man did not understand this, and he contentedhimself with simply holding her hands closely in his. 

"You say yes, do you not?" he asked. 

"How you tease, " she replied. "You wish it--well then, yes. Heavengrant that the day will not come when you will be sorry for it. "

He started up, lifting her from her feet, and kissed her loudly. Heglanced at the children. 

"Hush!" he said. "We must not wake the boys. Good night. "

And he went out of the room. Gervaise, trembling from head to foot, sat for a full hour on the side of her bed without undressing. She wasprofoundly touched and thought Coupeau very honest and very kind. Thetipsy man in the street uttered a groan like that of a wild beast, andthe notes of the violin had ceased. 

The next evening Coupeau urged Gervaise to go with him to call on hissister. But the young woman shrank with ardent fear from this visit tothe Lorilleuxs'. She saw perfectly well that her lover stood in dreadof these people. 

He was in no way dependent on this sister, who was not the eldesteither. Mother Coupeau would gladly give her consent, for she hadnever been known to contradict her son. In the family, however, theLorilleuxs were supposed to earn ten francs per day, and this gavethem great weight. Coupeau would never venture to marry unless theyagreed to accept his wife. 

"I have told them about you, " he said. "Gervaise--good heavens, whata baby you are! Come there tonight with me; you will find my sistera little stiff, and Lorilleux is none too amiable. The truth is theyare much vexed, because, you see, if I marry I shall no longer dinewith them--and that is their great economy. But that makes no odds;they won't put you out of doors. Do what I ask, for it is absolutelynecessary. "

These words frightened Gervaise nearly out of her wits. One Saturdayevening, however, she consented. Coupeau came for her at half-pasteight. She was all ready, wearing a black dress, a shawl with printedpalm leaves in yellow and a white cap with fluted ruffles. She hadsaved seven francs for the shawl and two francs fifty centimes forthe cap; the dress was an old one, cleaned and made over. 

"They expect you, " said Coupeau as they walked along the street, "andthey have become accustomed to the idea of seeing me married. They arereally quite amiable tonight. Then, too, if you have never seen a goldchain made you will be much amused in watching it. They have an orderfor Monday. "

"And have they gold in these rooms?" asked Gervaise. 

"I should say so! It is on the walls, on the floors--everywhere!"

By this time they had reached the door and had entered the courtyard. The Lorilleuxs lived on the sixth floor--staircase B. Coupeau told herwith a laugh to keep tight hold of the iron railing and not let it go. 

She looked up, half shutting her eyes, and gasped as she saw theheight to which the staircase wound. The last gas burner, higher up, looked like a star trembling in a black sky, while two others onalternate floors cast long, slanting rays down the interminablestairs. 

"Aha!" cried the young man as they stopped a moment on the secondlanding. "I smell onion soup; somebody has evidently been eating onionsoup about here, and it smells good too. "

It is true. Staircase B, dirty and greasy, both steps and railing withplastering knocked off and showing the laths beneath, was permeatedwith the smell of cooking. From each landing ran narrow corridors, and on either side were half-open doors painted yellow and black, withfinger marks about the lock and handles, and through the open windowcame the damp, disgusting smell of sinks and sewers mingling with theodor of onions. 

Up to the sixth floor came the noises from the_rez-de-chaussee_--the rattling of dishes being washed, thescraping of saucepans, and all that sort of thing. On one floorGervaise saw through an open door on which were the words DESIGNER ANDDRAUGHTSMAN in large letters two men seated at a table covered with avarnished cloth; they were disputing violently amid thick clouds ofsmoke from their pipes. The second and third floors were the quietest. Here through the open doors came the sound of a cradle rocking, thewail of a baby, a woman's voice, the rattle of a spoon against a cup. On one door she read a placard, MME GAUDRON, CARDER; on the next, M. MADINIER, MANUFACTURER OF BOXES. 

On the fourth there was a great quarrel going on--blows andoaths--which did not prevent the neighbors opposite from playing cardswith their door wide open for the benefit of the air. When Gervaisereached the fifth floor she was out of breath. Such innumerable stairswere a novelty to her. These winding railings made her dizzy. Onefamily had taken possession of the landing; the father was washingplates in a small earthen pan near the sink, while the mother wasscrubbing the baby before putting it to sleep. Coupeau laughingly badeGervaise keep up her courage, and at last they reached the top, andshe looked around to see whence came the clear, shrill voice whichshe had heard above all other sounds ever since her foot touched thefirst stair. It was a little old woman who sang as she worked, and herwork was dressing dolls at three cents apiece. Gervaise clung to therailing, all out of breath, and looked down into the depths below--thegas burner now looked like a star at the bottom of a deep well. Thesmells, the turbulent life of this great house, seemed to rush overher in one tremendous gust. She gasped and turned pale. 

"We have not got there yet, " said Coupeau; "we have much fartherto go. " And he turned to the left and then to the right again. Thecorridor stretched out before them, faintly lit by an occasional gasburner; a succession of doors, like those of a prison or a convent, continued to appear, nearly all wide open, showing the sordidinteriors. Finally they reached a corridor that was entirely dark. 

"Here we are, " said the tinworker. "Isn't it a journey? Look outfor three steps. Hold onto the wall. "

And Gervaise moved cautiously for ten paces or more. She counted thethree steps, and then Coupeau pushed open a door without knocking. A bright light streamed forth. They went in. 

It was a long, narrow apartment, almost like a prolongation of thecorridor; a woolen curtain, faded and spotted, drawn on one side, divided the room in two. 

One compartment, the first, contained a bed pushed under the cornerof the mansard roof; a stove, still warm from the cooking of thedinner; two chairs, a table and a wardrobe. To place this last pieceof furniture where it stood, between the bed and the door, hadnecessitated sawing away a portion of the ceiling. 

The second compartment was the workshop. At the back, a tiny forgewith bellows; on the right, a vice screwed against the wall underan _etagere_, where were iron tools piled up; on the left, in frontof the window, was a small table covered with pincers, magnifyingglasses, tiny scales and shears--all dirty and greasy. 

"We have come!" cried Coupeau, going as far as the woolen curtain. 

But he was not answered immediately. 

Gervaise, much agitated by the idea that she was entering a placefilled with gold, stood behind her friend and did not know whetherto speak or retreat. 

The bright light which came from a lamp and also from a brazier ofcharcoal in the forge added to her trouble. She saw Mme Lorilleux, a small, dark woman, agile and strong, drawing with all the vigorof her arms--assisted by a pair of pincers--a thread of black metal, which she passed through the holes of a drawplate held by the vice. Before the desk or table in front of the window sat Lorilleux, asshort as his wife, but with broader shoulders. He was managing a tinypair of pincers and doing some work so delicate that it was almostimperceptible. It was he who first looked up and lifted his head withits scanty yellow hair. His face was the color of old wax, was longand had an expression of physical suffering. 

"Ah, it is you, is it? Well! Well! But we are in a hurry, youunderstand. We have an order to fill. Don't come into the workroom. Remain in the chamber. " And he returned to his work; his face wasreflected in a ball filled with water, through which the lamp senton his work a circle of the brightest possible light. 

"Find chairs for yourselves, " cried Mme Lorilleux. "This is the lady, I suppose. Very well! Very well!"

She rolled up her wire and carried it to the forge, and then shefanned the coals a little to quicken the heat. 

Coupeau found two chairs and made Gervaise seat herself near thecurtain. The room was so narrow that he could not sit beside her, sohe placed his chair a little behind and leaned over her to give herthe information he deemed desirable. 

Gervaise, astonished by the strange reception given her by thesepeople and uncomfortable under their sidelong glances, had a buzzingin her ears which prevented her from hearing what was said. 

She thought the woman very old looking for her thirty years and alsoextremely untidy, with her hair tumbling over her shoulders and herdirty camisole. 

The husband, not more than a year older, seemed to Gervaise reallyan old man with thin, compressed lips and bowed figure. He was in hisshirt sleeves, and his naked feet were thrust into slippers down atthe heel. 

She was infinitely astonished at the smallness of the atelier, at theblackened walls and at the terrible heat. 

Tiny drops bedewed the waxed forehead of Lorilleux himself, while MmeLorilleux threw off her sack and stood in bare arms and chemise halfslipped off. 

"And the gold?" asked Gervaise softly. 

Her eager eyes searched the corners, hoping to discover amid all thedirt something of the splendor of which she had dreamed. 

But Coupeau laughed. 

"Gold?" he said. "Look! Here it is--and here--and here again, at yourfeet. "

He pointed in succession to the fine thread with which his sister wasbusy and at another package of wire hung against the wall near thevice; then falling down on his hands and knees, he gathered up fromthe floor, on the tip of his moistened finger, several tiny speckswhich looked like needle points. 

Gervaise cried out, "That surely is not gold! That black metal whichlooks precisely like iron!"

Her lover laughed and explained to her the details of the manufacturein which his brother-in-law was engaged. The wire was furnished themin coils, just as it hung against the wall, and then they were obligedto heat and reheat it half a dozen times during their manipulations, lest it should break. Considerable strength and a vast deal of skillwere needed, and his sister had both. He had seen her draw out thegold until it was like a hair. She would never let her husband do itbecause he always had a cough. 

All this time Lorilleux was watching Gervaise stealthily, and aftera violent fit of coughing he said with an air as if he were speakingto himself:

"I make columns. "

"Yes, " said Coupeau in an explanatory voice, "there are four differentkinds of chains, and his style is called a column. "

Lorilleux uttered a little grunt of satisfaction, all the time atwork, with the tiny pincers held between very dirty nails. 

"Look here, Cadet-Cassis, " he said. "This very morning I made a littlecalculation. I began my work when I was only twelve years old. Howmany yards do you think I have made up to this day?"

He lifted his pale face. 

"Eight thousand! Do you understand? Eight thousand! Enough to twistaround the necks of all the women in this _Quartier_. "

Gervaise returned to her chair, entirely disenchanted. She thought itwas all very ugly and uninteresting. She smiled in order to gratifythe Lorilleuxs, but she was annoyed and troubled at the profoundsilence they preserved in regard to her marriage, on account of whichshe had called there that evening. These people treated her as if shewere simply a spectator whose curiosity had induced Coupeau to bringher to see their work. 

They began to talk; it was about the lodgers in the house. MmeLorilleux asked her brother if he had not heard those Benard peoplequarreling as he came upstairs. She said the husband always came hometipsy. Then she spoke of the designer, who was overwhelmed with debts, always smoking and always quarreling. The landlord was going to turnout the Coquets, who owed three quarters now and who would put theirfurnace out on the landing, which was very dangerous. Mlle Remanjon, as she was going downstairs with a bundle of dolls, was just in timeto rescue one of the children from being burned alive. 

Gervaise was beginning to find the place unendurable. The heat wassuffocating; the door could not be opened, because the slightest draftgave Lorilleux a cold. As they ignored the marriage question utterly, she pulled her lover's sleeve to signify her wish to depart. Heunderstood and was himself annoyed at this affectation of silence. 

"We are going, " he said coldly, "We do not care to interrupt yourwork any longer. "

He lingered a moment, hoping for a word or an allusion. Suddenly hedecided to begin the subject himself. 

"We rely on you, Lorilleux. You will be my wife's witness, " he said. 

The man lifted his head in affected surprise, while his wife stoodstill in the center of the workshop. 

"Are you in earnest?" he murmured, and then continued as ifsoliloquizing, "It is hard to know when this confounded Cadet-Cassisis in earnest. "

"We have no advice to give, " interrupted his wife. "It is a foolishnotion, this marrying, and it never succeeds. Never--no--never. "

She drawled out these last words, examining Gervaise from head to footas she spoke. 

"My brother is free to do as he pleases, of course, " she continued. "Of course his family would have liked--But then people always plan, and things turn out so different. Of course it is none of my business. Had he brought me the lowest of the low, I should have said, 'Marryher and let us live in peace!' He was very comfortable with us, nevertheless. He has considerable flesh on his bones and does not lookas if he had been starved. His soup was always ready to the minute. Tell me, Lorilleux, don't you think that my brother's friend lookslike Therese--you know whom I mean--that woman opposite, who died ofconsumption?"

"She certainly does, " answered the chainmaker contemplatively. 

"And you have two children, madame? I said to my brother I could notunderstand how he could marry a woman with two children. You must notbe angry if I think of his interests; it is only natural. You do notlook very strong. Say, Lorilleux, don't you think that Madame looksdelicate?"

This courteous pair made no allusion to her lameness, but Gervaisefelt it to be in their minds. She sat stiff and still before them, herthin shawl with its yellow palm leaves wrapped closely about her, andanswered in monosyllables, as if before her judges. Coupeau, realizingher sufferings, cried out:

"This is all nonsense you are talking! What I want to know is if theday will suit you, July twenty-ninth. "

"One day is the same as another to us, " answered his sister severely. "Lorilleux can do as he pleases in regard to being your witness. Ionly ask for peace. "

Gervaise, in her embarrassment, had been pushing about with her feetsome of the rubbish on the floor; then fearing she had done some harm, she stooped to ascertain. Lorilleux hastily approached her with a lampand looked at her fingers with evident suspicion. 

"Take care, " he said. "Those small bits of gold stick to the shoessometimes and are carried off without your knowing it. "

This was a matter of some importance, of course, for his employersweighed what they entrusted to him. He showed the hare's-foot withwhich he brushed the particles of gold from the table and the skinspread on his knees to receive them. Twice each week the shop wascarefully brushed; all the rubbish was kept and burned, and the asheswere examined, where were found each month twenty-five or thirtyfrancs of gold. 

Mme Lorilleux did not take her eyes from the shoes of her guest. 

"If Mademoiselle would be so kind, " she murmured with an amiablesmile, "and would just look at her soles herself. There is no causefor offense, I am sure!"

Gervaise, indignant and scarlet, reseated herself and held up hershoes for examination. Coupeau opened the door with a gay good night, and she followed him into the corridor after a word or two of politefarewell. 

The Lorilleuxs turned to their work at the end of their room wherethe tiny forge still glittered. The woman with her chemise slipped offher shoulder which was red with the reflection from the brazier, wasdrawing out another wire, the muscles in her throat swelling with herexertions. 

The husband, stooping under the green light of the ball of water, wasagain busy with his pincers, not stopping even to wipe the sweat fromhis brow. 

When Gervaise emerged from the narrow corridors on the sixth landingshe said with tears in her eyes:

"This certainly does not promise very well!"

Coupeau shook his head angrily. Lorilleux should pay for this evening!Was there ever such a miser? To care if one carried off three grainsof gold in the dust on one's shoes. All the stories his sister toldwere pure fictions and malice. His sister never meant him to marry;his eating with them saved her at least four sous daily. But he didnot care whether they appeared on the twenty-ninth of July or not;he could get along without them perfectly well. 

But Gervaise, as she descended the staircase, felt her heart swellwith pain and fear. She did not like the strange shadows on the dimlylit stairs. From behind the doors, now closed, came the heavybreathing of sleepers who had gone to their beds on rising from thetable. A faint laugh was heard from one room, while a slender threadof light filtered through the keyhole of the old lady who was stillbusy with her dolls, cutting out the gauze dresses with squeakingscissors. A child was crying on the next floor, and the smell fromthe sinks was worse than ever and seemed something tangible amid thissilent darkness. Then in the courtyard, while Coupeau pulled the cord, Gervaise turned and examined the house once more. It seemed enormousas it stood black against the moonless sky. The gray facades rose talland spectral; the windows were all shut. No clothes fluttered in thebreeze; there was literally not the smallest look of life, except inthe few windows that were still lighted. From the damp corner of thecourtyard came the drip-drip of the fountain. Suddenly it seemed toGervaise as if the house were striding toward her and would crush herto the earth. A moment later she smiled at her foolish fancy. 

"Take care!" cried Coupeau. 

And as she passed out of the courtyard she was compelled to jump overa little sea which had run from the dyer's. This time the water wasblue, as blue as the summer sky, and the reflection of the lampscarried by the concierge was like the stars themselves. 

CHAPTER III

A MARRIAGE OF THE PEOPLE

Gervaise did not care for any great wedding. Why should they spendtheir money so foolishly? Then, too, she felt a little ashamed anddid not care to parade their marriage before the whole _Quartier_. But Coupeau objected. It would never do not to have somefestivities--a little drive and a supper, perhaps, at a restaurant;he would ask for nothing more. He vowed that no one should drink toomuch and finally obtained the young woman's consent and organized apicnic at five francs per head at the Moulin d'Argent, Boulevard dela Chapelle. He was a small wine merchant who had a garden back ofhis restaurant. He made out a list. Among others appeared the names oftwo of his comrades, Bibi-la-Grillade and Mes-Bottes. It was true thatMes-Bottes crooked his elbow, but he was so deliciously funny that hewas always invited to picnics. Gervaise said she, in her turn, wouldbring her employer, Mme Fauconnier--all told, there would be fifteenat the table. That was quite enough. 

Now as Coupeau was literally penniless, he borrowed fifty francs fromhis employer. He first bought his wedding ring; it cost twelve francsout of the shop, but his brother-in-law purchased it for him for nineat the factory. He then ordered an overcoat, pantaloons and vestfrom a tailor to whom he paid twenty-five francs on account. Hispatent-leather shoes and his bolivar could last awhile longer. Thenhe put aside his ten francs for the picnic, which was what he andGervaise must pay, and they had precisely six francs remaining, theprice of a Mass at the altar of the poor. He had no liking for thoseblack frocks, and it broke his heart to give these beloved francsto them. But a marriage without a Mass, he had heard, was reallyno marriage at all. 

He went to the church to see if he could not drive a better bargain, and for an hour he fought with a stout little priest in a dirtysoutane who, finally declaring that God could never bless such aunion, agreed that the Mass should cost only five francs. Thus Coupeauhad twenty sous in hand with which to begin the world!

Gervaise, in her turn, had made her preparations, had worked lateinto the night and laid aside thirty francs. She had set her hearton a silk mantelet marked thirteen francs, which she had seen in ashopwindow. She paid for it and bought for ten francs from the husbandof a laundress who had died in Mme Fauconnier's house a delaine dressof a deep blue, which she made over entirely. With the seven francsthat remained she bought a rose for her cap, a pair of white cottongloves and shoes for Claude. Fortunately both the boys had niceblouses. She worked for four days mending and making; there was nota hole or a rip in anything. At last the evening before the importantday arrived; Gervaise and Coupeau sat together and talked, happy thatmatters were so nearly concluded. Their arrangements were all made. They were to go to the mayor's office--the two sisters of Coupeaudeclared they would remain at home, their presence not being necessarythere. Then Mother Coupeau began to weep, saying she wished to goearly and hide in a corner, and they promised to take her. 

The hour fixed for the party to assemble at the Moulin d'Argent wasone o'clock sharp. From then they were to seek an appetite on thePlaine-St-Denis and return by rail. Saturday morning, as he dressed, Coupeau thought with some anxiety of his scanty funds; he supposedhe ought to offer a glass of wine and a slice of ham to his witnesseswhile waiting for dinner; unexpected expenses might arise; no, it wasclear that twenty sous was not enough. He consequently, after takingClaude and Etienne to Mlle Boche, who promised to appear with them atdinner, ran to his brother-in-law and borrowed ten francs; he did itwith reluctance, and the words stuck in his throat, for he halfexpected a refusal. Lorilleux grumbled and growled but finally lentthe money. But Coupeau heard his sister mutter under her breath, "That is a good beginning. "

The civil marriage was fixed for half-past ten. The day was clear andthe sun intensely hot. In order not to excite observation the bridalpair, the mother and the four witnesses, separated--Gervaise walkedin front, having the arm of Lorilleux, while M. Madinier gave histo Mamma Coupeau; on the opposite sidewalk were Coupeau, Boche andBibi-la-Grillade. These three wore black frock coats and walked withtheir arms dangling from their rounded shoulders. Boche wore yellowpantaloons. Bibi-la-Grillade's coat was buttoned to the chin, as hehad no vest, and a wisp of a cravat was tied around his neck. 

M. Madinier was the only one who wore a dress coat, a superb coatwith square tails, and people stared as he passed with the stout MammaCoupeau in a green shawl and black bonnet with black ribbons. Gervaisewas very sweet and gentle, wearing her blue dress and her trim littlesilk mantle. She listened graciously to Lorilleux, who, in spite ofthe warmth of the day, was nearly lost in the ample folds of a looseovercoat. Occasionally she would turn her head and glance across thestreet with a little smile at Coupeau, who was none too comfortablein his new clothes. They reached the mayor's office a half-hour tooearly, and their turn was not reached until nearly eleven. They sat inthe corner of the office, stiff and uneasy, pushing back their chairsa little out of politeness each time one of the clerks passed them, and when the magistrate appeared they all rose respectfully. They werebidden to sit down again, which they did, and were the spectators ofthree marriages--the brides in white and the bridesmaids in pink andblue, quite fine and stylish. 

When their own turn came Bibi-la-Grillade had disappeared, and Bochehunted him up in the square, where he had gone to smoke a pipe. Allthe forms were so quickly completed that the party looked at eachother in dismay, feeling as if they had been defrauded of half theceremony. Gervaise listened with tears in her eyes, and the old ladywept audibly. 

Then they turned to the register and wrote their names in big, crookedletters--all but the newly made husband, who, not being able to write, contented himself with making a cross. 

Then the clerk handed the certificate to Coupeau. He, admonished bya touch of his wife's elbow, presented him with five sous. 

It was quite a long walk from the mayor's office to the church. Themen stopped midway to take a glass of beer, and Gervaise and MammaCoupeau drank some cassis with water. There was not a particle ofshade, for the sun was directly above their heads. The beadle awaitedthem in the empty church; he hurried them toward a small chapel, asking them indignantly if they were not ashamed to mock at religionby coming so late. A priest came toward them with an ashen face, faintwith hunger, preceded by a boy in a dirty surplice. He hurried throughthe service, gabbling the Latin phrases with sidelong glances at thebridal party. The bride and bridegroom knelt before the altar inconsiderable embarrassment, not knowing when it was necessary to kneeland when to stand and not always understanding the gestures made bythe clerk. 

The witnesses thought it more convenient to stand all the time, whileMamma Coupeau, overcome by her tears again, shed them on a prayer bookwhich she had borrowed from a neighbor. 

It was high noon. The last Mass was said, and the church was noisywith the movements of the sacristans, who were putting the chairs intheir places. The center altar was being prepared for some fete, forthe hammers were heard as the decorations were being nailed up. And inthe choking dust raised by the broom of the man who was sweeping thecorner of the small altar the priest laid his cold and withered handon the heads of Gervaise and Coupeau with a sulky air, as if he wereuniting them as a mere matter of business or to occupy the timebetween the two Masses. 

When the signatures were again affixed to the register in the vestryand the party stood outside in the sunshine, they had a sensation asif they had been driven at full speed and were glad to rest. 

"I feel as if I had been at the dentist's. We had no time to cry outbefore it was all over!"

"Yes, " muttered Lorilleux, "they take less than five minutes to dowhat can't be undone in all one's life! Poor Cadet-Cassis!"

Gervaise kissed her new mother with tears in her eyes but with smilinglips. She answered the old woman gently:

"Do not be afraid. I will do my best to make him happy. If things turnout ill it shall not be my fault. "

The party went at once to the Moulin d'Argent. Coupeau now walked withhis wife some little distance in advance of the others. They whisperedand laughed together and seemed to see neither the people nor thehouses nor anything that was going on about them. 

At the restaurant Coupeau ordered at once some bread and ham; thenseeing that Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade were really hungry, he orderedmore wine and more meat. His mother could eat nothing, and Gervaise, who was dying of thirst, drank glass after glass of water barelyreddened with wine. 

"This is my affair, " said Coupeau, going to the counter where he paidfour francs, five sous. 

The guests began to arrive. Mme Fauconnier, stout and handsome, wasthe first. She wore a percale gown, ecru ground with bright figures, a rose-colored cravat and a bonnet laden with flowers. Then came MlleRemanjon in her scanty black dress, which seemed so entirely a partof herself that it was doubtful if she laid it aside at night. TheGaudron household followed. The husband, enormously stout, looked asif his vest would burst at the least movement, and his wife, who wasnearly as huge as himself, was dressed in a delicate shade of violetwhich added to her apparent size. 

"Ah, " cried Mme Lerat as she entered, "we are going to have atremendous shower!" And she bade them all look out the windowto see how black the clouds were. 

Mme Lerat, Coupeau's eldest sister, was a tall, thin woman, verymasculine in appearance and talking through her nose, wearing apuce-colored dress that was much too loose for her. It was profuselytrimmed with fringe, which made her look like a lean dog just comingout of the water. She brandished an umbrella as she talked, as if ithad been a walking stick. As she kissed Gervaise she said:

"You have no idea how the wind blows, and it is as hot as a blastfrom a furnace!"

Everybody at once declared they had felt the storm coming all themorning. Three days of extreme heat, someone said, always ended ina gust. 

"It will blow over, " said Coupeau with an air of confidence, "butI wish my sister would come, all the same. "

Mme Lorilleux, in fact, was very late. Mme Lerat had called for her, but she had not then begun to dress. "And, " said the widow in herbrother's ear, "you never saw anything like the temper she was in!"

They waited another half-hour. The sky was growing blacker andblacker. Clouds of dust were rising along the street, and down camethe rain. And it was in the first shower that Mme Lorilleux arrived, out of temper and out of breath, struggling with her umbrella, whichshe could not close. 

"I had ten minds, " she exclaimed, "to turn back. I wanted you to waituntil next Saturday. I knew it would rain today--I was certain of it!"

Coupeau tried to calm her, but she quickly snubbed him. Was it he, shewould like to know, who was to pay for her dress if it were spoiled?

She wore black silk, so tight that the buttonholes were burst out, andit showed white on the shoulders, --while the skirt was so scant thatshe could not take a long step. 

The other women, however, looked at her silk with envy. 

She took no notice of Gervaise, who sat by the side of hermother-in-law. She called to Lorilleux and with his aid carefullywiped every drop of rain from her dress with her handkerchief. 

Meanwhile the shower ceased abruptly, but the storm was evidently notover, for sharp flashes of lightning darted through the black clouds. 

Suddenly the rain poured down again. The men stood in front of thedoor with their hands in their pockets, dismally contemplating thescene. The women crouched together with their hands over their eyes. They were in such terror they could not talk; when the thunder washeard farther off they all plucked up their spirits and becameimpatient, but a fine rain was falling that looked interminable. 

"What are we to do?" cried Mme Lorilleux crossly. 

Then Mlle Remanjon timidly observed that the sun perhaps would soonbe out, and they might yet go into the country; upon this there wasone general shout of derision. 

"Nice walking it would be! And how pleasant the grass would be to situpon!"

Something must be done, however, to get rid of the time until dinner. Bibi-la-Grillade proposed cards; Mme Lerat suggested storytelling. To each proposition a thousand objections were offered. Finally whenLorilleux proposed that the party should visit the tomb of Abelardand Heloise his wife's indignation burst forth. 

She had dressed in her best only to be drenched in the rain and tospend the day in a wineshop, it seemed! She had had enough of thewhole thing and she would go home. Coupeau and Lorilleux held thedoor, she exclaiming violently:

"Let me go; I tell you I will go!"

Her husband having induced her to listen to reason, Coupeau went toGervaise, who was calmly conversing with her mother-in-law and MmeFauconnier. 

"Have you nothing to propose?" he asked, not venturing to add any termof endearment. 

"No, " she said with a smile, "but I am ready to do anything you wish. I am very well suited as I am. "

Her face was indeed as sunny as a morning in May. She spoke toeveryone kindly and sympathetically. During the storm she had satwith her eyes riveted on the clouds, as if by the light of thoselurid flashes she was reading the solemn book of the future. 

M. Madinier had proposed nothing; he stood leaning against the counterwith a pompous air; he spat upon the ground, wiped his mouth with theback of his hand and rolled his eyes about. 

"We could go to the Musee du Louvre, I suppose, " and he smoothed hischin while awaiting the effect of this proposition. 

"There are antiquities there--statues, pictures, lots of things. Itis very instructive. Have any of you been there?" he asked. 

They all looked at each other. Gervaise had never even heard of theplace, nor had Mme Fauconnier nor Boche. Coupeau thought he had beenthere one Sunday, but he was not sure, but Mme Lorilleux, on whomMadinier's air of importance had produced a profound impression, approved of the idea. The day was wasted anyway; therefore, if alittle instruction could be got it would be well to try it. Asthe rain was still falling, they borrowed old umbrellas of everyimaginable hue from the establishment and started forth for theMusee du Louvre. 

There were twelve of them, and they walked in couples, Mme Lorilleuxwith Madinier, to whom she grumbled all the way. 

"We know nothing about her, " she said, "not even where he picked herup. My husband has already lent them ten francs, and whoever heard ofa bride without a single relation? She said she had a sister in Paris. Where is she today, I should like to know!"

She checked herself and pointed to Gervaise, whose lameness was veryperceptible as she descended the hill. 

"Just look at her!" she muttered. "Wooden legs!"

This epithet was heard by Mme Fauconnier, who took up the cudgels forGervaise who, she said, was as neat as a pin and worked like a tiger. 

The wedding party, coming out of La Rue St-Denis, crossed theboulevard under their umbrellas amid the pouring rain, driving hereand there among the carriages. The drivers, as they pulled up theirhorses, shouted to them to look out, with an oath. On the gray andmuddy sidewalk the procession was very conspicuous--the blue dress ofthe bride, the canary-colored breeches of one of the men, Madinier'ssquare-tailed coat--all gave a carnivallike air to the group. But itwas the hats of the party that were the most amusing, for they wereof all heights, sizes and styles. The shopkeepers on the boulevardcrowded to their windows to enjoy the drollery of the sight. The wedding procession, quite undisturbed by the observation itexcited, went gaily on. They stopped for a moment on the Place desVictoire--the bride's shoestring was untied--she fastened it at thefoot of the statue of Louis XIV, her friends waiting as she did so. 

Finally they reached the Louvre. Here Madinier politely askedpermission to take the head of the party; the place was so large, he said, that it was a very easy thing to lose oneself; he knew theprettiest rooms and the things best worth seeing, because he hadoften been there with an artist, a very intelligent fellow, fromwhom a great manufacturer of pasteboard boxes bought pictures. 

The party entered the museum of Assyrian antiquities. They shiveredand walked about, examining the colossal statues, the gods in blackmarble, strange beasts and monstrosities, half cats and half women. This was not amusing, and an inscription in Phoenician charactersappalled them. Who on earth had ever read such stuff as that? Itwas meaningless nonsense!

But Madinier shouted to them from the stairs, "Come on! That isnothing! Much more interesting things up here, I assure you!"

The severe nudity of the great staircase cast a gloom over theirspirits; an usher in livery added to their awe, and it was with greatrespect and on the tips of their toes they entered the French gallery. 

How many statues! How many pictures! They wished they had all themoney they had cost. 

In the Gallerie d'Apollon the floor excited their admiration; it wassmooth as glass; even the feet of the sofas were reflected in it. Madinier bade them look at the ceiling and at its many beauties ofdecoration, but they said they dared not look up. Then before enteringthe Salon Carre he pointed to the window and said:

"That is the balcony where Charles IX fired on the people!"

With a magnificent gesture he ordered his party to stand still in thecenter of the Salon Carre. 

"There are only chefs-d'oeuvres here, " he whispered as solemnly as ifhe had been in a church. 

They walked around the salon. Gervaise asked the meaning of one ofthe pictures, the _Noces de Cana_; Coupeau stopped before _LaJoconde_, declaring that it was like one of his aunts. 

Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade snickered and pushed each other at thesight of the nude female figures, and the Gaudrons, husband and wife, stood open-mouthed and deeply touched before Murillo's Virgin. 

When they had been once around the room Madinier, who was quiteattentive to Mme Lorilleux on account of her silk gown, proposedthey should do it over again; it was well worth it, he said. 

He never hesitated in replying to any question which she addressedto him in her thirst for information, and when she stopped beforeTitian's Mistress, whose yellow hair struck her as like her own, hetold her it was a mistress of Henri IV, who was the heroine of a playthen running at the Ambigu. 

The wedding party finally entered the long gallery devoted to theItalian and Flemish schools of art. The pictures were all meaninglessto them, and their heads were beginning to ache. They felt a thrillof interest, however, in the copyists with their easels, who paintedwithout being disturbed by spectators. The artists scattered throughthe rooms had heard that a primitive wedding party was making a tourof the Louvre and hurried with laughing faces to enjoy the scene, while the weary bride and bridegroom, accompanied by their friends, clumsily moved about over the shining, resounding floors much likecattle let loose and with quite as keen an appreciation of themarvelous beauties about them. 

The women vowed their backs were broken standing so long, andMadinier, declaring he knew the way, said they would leave after hehad shown them a certain room to which he could go with his eyes shut. But he was very much mistaken. Salon succeeded to salon, and finallythe party went up a flight of stairs and found themselves amongcannons and other instruments of war. Madinier, unwilling to confessthat he had lost himself, wandered distractedly about, declaring thatthe doors had been changed. The party began to feel that they werethere for life, when suddenly to their great joy they heard the cryof the janitors resounding from room to room. 

"Time to close the doors!"

They meekly followed one of them, and when they were outside theyuttered a sigh of relief as they put up their umbrellas once more, but one and all affected great pleasure at having been to the Louvre. 

The clock struck four. There were two hours to dispose of beforedinner. The women would have liked to rest, but the men were moreenergetic and proposed another walk, during which so tremendous ashower fell that umbrellas were useless and dresses were irretrievablyruined. Then M. Madinier suggested that they should ascend the columnon the Place Vendome. 

"It is not a bad idea, " cried the men. And the procession began theascent of the spiral staircase, which Boche said was so old that hecould feel it shake. This terrified the ladies, who uttered littleshrieks, but Coupeau said nothing; his arm was around his wife'swaist, and just as they emerged upon the platform he kissed her. 

"Upon my word!" cried Mme Lorilleux, much scandalized. 

Madinier again constituted himself master of ceremonies and pointedout all the monuments, but Mme Fauconnier would not put her footoutside the little door; she would not look down on that pavement forall the world, she said, and the party soon tired of this amusementand descended the stairs. At the foot Madinier wished to pay, butCoupeau interfered and put into the hand of the guard twenty-foursous--two for each person. It was now half-past five; they had justtime to get to the restaurant, but Coupeau proposed a glass ofvermouth first, and they entered a cabaret for that purpose. 

When they returned to the Moulin d'Argent they found Mme Boche withthe two children, talking to Mamma Coupeau near the table, alreadyspread and waiting. When Gervaise saw Claude and Etienne she tookthem both on her knees and kissed them lovingly. 

"Have they been good?" she asked. 

"I should think Coupeau would feel rather queer!" said Mme Lorilleuxas she looked on grimly. 

Gervaise had been calm and smiling all day, but she had quietlywatched her husband with the Lorilleuxs. She thought Coupeau wasafraid of his sister--cowardly, in fact. The evening previous he hadsaid he did not care a sou for their opinion on any subject and thatthey had the tongues of vipers, but now he was with them, he was likea whipped hound, hung on their words and anticipated their wishes. This troubled his wife, for it augured ill, she thought, for theirfuture happiness. 

"We won't wait any longer for Mes-Bottes, " cried Coupeau. "We are allhere but him, and his scent is good! Surely he can't be waiting for usstill at St-Denis!"

The guests, in good spirits once more, took their seats with a greatclatter of chairs. 

Gervaise was between Lorilleux and Madinier, and Coupeau between MmeFauconnier and his sister Mme Lorilleux. The others seated themselves. 

"No one has asked a blessing, " said Boche as the ladies pulled thetablecloth well over their skirts to protect them from spots. 

But Mme Lorilleux frowned at this poor jest. The vermicelli soup, which was cold and greasy, was eaten with noisy haste. Two_garcons_ served them, wearing aprons of a very doubtful whiteand greasy vests. 

Through the four windows, open on the courtyard and its acacias, streamed the light, soft and warm, after the storm. The trees, bathedin the setting sun, imparted a cool, green tinge to the dingy room, and the shadows of the waving branches and quivering leaves dancedover the cloth. 

There were two fly-specked mirrors at either end of the room, whichindefinitely lengthened the table spread with thick china. Every timethe _garcons_ opened the door into the kitchen there came a strongsmell of burning fat. 

"Don't let us all talk at once!" said Boche as a dead silence fell onthe room, broken by the abrupt entrance of Mes-Bottes. 

"You are nice people!" he exclaimed. "I have been waiting for youuntil I am wet through and have a fishpond in each pocket. "

This struck the circle as the height of wit, and they all laughedwhile he ordered the _garcon_ to and fro. He devoured three plates ofsoup and enormous slices of bread. The head of the establishment cameand looked in in considerable anxiety; a laugh ran around the room. Mes-Bottes recalled to their memories a day when he had eaten twelvehard-boiled eggs and drunk twelve glasses of wine while the clock wasstriking twelve. 

There was a brief silence. A waiter placed on the table a rabbit stewin a deep dish. Coupeau turned round. 

"Say, boy, is that a gutter rabbit? It mews still. "

And the low mewing of a cat seemed, indeed, to come from the dish. This delicate joke was perpetrated by Coupeau in the throat, withoutthe smallest movement of his lips. This feat always met with suchsuccess that he never ordered a meal anywhere without a rabbit stew. The ladies wiped their eyes with their napkins because they laughedso much. 

Mme Fauconnier begged for the head--she adored the head--and Bocheasked especially for onions. 

Mme Lerat compressed her lips and said morosely:

"Of course. I might have known that!"

Mme Lerat was a hard-working woman. No man had ever put his nosewithin her door since her widowhood, and yet her instincts werethoroughly bad; every word uttered by others bore to her ears a doublemeaning, a coarse allusion sometimes so deeply veiled that no one butherself could grasp its meaning. 

Boche leaned over her with a sensual smile and entreated anexplanation. She shook her head. 

"Of course, " she repeated. "Onions! I knew it!"

Everybody was talking now, each of his own trade. Madinier declaredthat boxmaking was an art, and he cited the New Year bonbon boxes aswonders of luxury. Lorilleux talked of his chains, of their delicacyand beauty. He said that in former times jewelers wore swords at theirsides. Coupeau described a weathercock made by one of his comrades outof tin. Mme Lerat showed Bibi-la-Grillade how a rose stem was made byrolling the handle of her knife between her bony fingers, and MmeFauconnier complained loudly of one of her apprentices who the nightbefore had badly scorched a pair of linen sheets. 

"It is no use to talk!" cried Lorilleux, striking his fist on thetable. "Gold is gold!"

A profound silence followed the utterance of this truism, amid whicharose from the other end of the table the piping tones of MlleRemanjon's voice as she said:

"And then I sew on the skirt. I stick a pin in the head to hold onthe cap, and it is done. They sell for three cents. "

She was describing her dolls to Mes-Bottes, whose jaws workedsteadily, like machinery. 

He did not listen, but he nodded at intervals, with his eyes fixedon the _garcons_ to see that they carried away no dishes that werenot emptied. 

There had been veal cutlets and string beans served. As a _roti, _two lean chickens on a bed of water cresses were brought in. The roomwas growing very warm; the sun was lingering on the tops of theacacias, but the room was growing dark. The men threw off their coatsand ate in their shirt sleeves. 

"Mme Boche, " cried Gervaise, "please don't let those children eatso much. "

But Mme Coupeau interposed and declared that for once in a while alittle fit of indigestion would do them no harm. 

Mme Boche accused her husband of holding Mme Lerat's hand under thetable. 

Madinier talked politics. He was a Republican, and Bibi-la-Grilladeand himself were soon in a hot discussion. 

"Who cares, " cried Coupeau, "whether we have a king, an emperor ora president, so long as we earn our five francs per day!"

Lorilleux shook his head. He was born on the same day as the Comte deChambord, September 29, 1820, and this coincidence dwelt in his mind. He seemed to feel that there was a certain connection between thereturn of the king to France and his own personal fortunes. He didnot say distinctly what he expected, but it was clear that it wassomething very agreeable. 

The dessert was now on the table--a floating island flanked by twoplates of cheese and two of fruit. The floating island was a greatsuccess. Mes-Bottes ate all the cheese and called for more bread. Andthen as some of the custard was left in the dish, he pulled it towardhim and ate it as if it had been soup. 

"How extraordinary!" said Madinier, filled with admiration. 

The men rose to light their pipes and, as they passed Mes-Bottes, asked him how he felt. 

Bibi-la-Grillade lifted him from the floor, chair and all. 

"Zounds!" he cried. "The fellow's weight has doubled!"

Coupeau declared his friend had only just begun his night's work, that he would eat bread until dawn. The waiters, pale with fright, disappeared. Boche went downstairs on a tour of inspection andstated that the establishment was in a state of confusion, that theproprietor, in consternation, had sent out to all the bakers in theneighborhood, that the house, in fact, had an utterly ruined aspect. 

"I should not like to take you to board, " said Mme Gaudron. 

"Let us have a punch, " cried Mes-Bottes. 

But Coupeau, seeing his wife's troubled face, interfered and said noone should drink anything more. They had all had enough. 

This declaration met with the approval of some of the party, but theothers sided with Mes-Bottes. 

"Those who are thirsty are thirsty, " he said. "No one need drink thatdoes not wish to do so, I am sure. " And he added with a wink, "Therewill be all the more for those who do!"

Then Coupeau said they would settle the account, and his friend coulddo as he pleased afterward. 

Alas! Mes-Bottes could produce only three francs; he had changed hisfive-franc piece, and the remainder had melted away somehow on theroad from St-Denis. He handed over the three francs, and Coupeau, greatly indignant, borrowed the other two from his brother-in-law, who gave the money secretly, being afraid of his wife. 

M. Madinier had taken a plate. The ladies each laid down their fivefrancs quietly and timidly, and then the men retreated to the otherend of the room and counted up the amount, and each man added to hissubscription five sous for the _garcon_. 

But when M. Madinier sent for the proprietor the little assembly wereshocked at hearing him say that this was not all; there were "extras. "

As this was received with exclamations of rage, he went intoexplanations. He had furnished twenty-five liters of wine instead oftwenty, as he agreed. The floating island was an addition, on seeingthat the dessert was somewhat scanty, whereupon ensued a formidablequarrel. Coupeau declared he would not pay a sou of the extras. 

"There is your money, " he said; "take it, and never again will oneof us step a foot under your roof!"

"I want six francs more, " muttered the man. 

The women gathered about in great indignation; not a centime wouldthey give, they declared. 

Mme Fauconnier had had a wretched dinner; she said she could have hada better one at home for forty sous. Such arrangements always turnedout badly, and Mme Gaudron declared aloud that if people wanted theirfriends at their weddings they usually invited them out and out. 

Gervaise took refuge with her mother-in-law in a distant window, feeling heartily ashamed of the whole scene. 

M. Madinier went downstairs with the man, and low mutterings of thestorm reached the party. At the end of a half-hour he reappeared, having yielded to the extent of paying three francs, but no one wassatisfied, and they all began a discussion in regard to the extras. 

The evening was spoiled, as was Mme Lerat's dress; there was no endto the chapter of accidents. 

"I know, " cried Mme Lorilleux, "that the _garcon_ spilled gravyfrom the chickens down my back. " She twisted and turned herselfbefore the mirror until she succeeded in finding the spot. 

"Yes, I knew it, " she cried, "and he shall pay for it, as true asI live. I wish I had remained at home!"

She left in a rage, and Lorilleux at her heels. 

When Coupeau saw her go he was in actual consternation, and Gervaisesaw that it was best to make a move at once. Mme Boche had agreed tokeep the children with her for a day or two. 

Coupeau and his wife hurried out in the hope of overtaking MmeLorilleux which they soon did. Lorilleux, with the kindly desireof making all smooth said:

"We will go to your door with you. "

"Your door, indeed!" cried his wife, and then pleasantly went on toexpress her surprise that they did not postpone their marriage untilthey had saved enough to buy a little furniture and move away fromthat hole up under the roof. 

"But I have given up that room, " said her brother. "We shall havethe one Gervaise occupies; it is larger. "

Mme Lorilleux forgot herself; she wheeled around suddenly. 

"What!" she exclaimed. "You are going to live in Wooden Legs' room?"

Gervaise turned pale. This name she now heard for the first time, and it was like a slap in the face. She heard much more in hersister-in-law's exclamation than met the ear. That room to whichallusion was made was the one where she had lived with Lantier for awhole month, where she had wept such bitter tears, but Coupeau did notunderstand that; he was only wounded by the name applied to his wife. 

"It is hardly wise of you, " he said sullenly, "to nickname peopleafter that fashion, as perhaps you are not aware of what you arecalled in your _Quartier_. Cow's-Tail is not a very nice name, but they have given it to you on account of your hair. Why shouldwe not keep that room? It is a very good one. "

Mme Lorilleux would not answer. Her dignity was sadly disturbed atbeing called Cow's-Tail. 

They walked on in silence until they reached the Hotel Boncoeur, andjust as Coupeau gave the two women a push toward each other and badethem kiss and be friends, a man who wished to pass them on the rightgave a violent lurch to the left and came between them. 

"Look out!" cried Lorilleux. "It is Father Bazonge. He is pretty fulltonight. "

Gervaise, in great terror, flew toward the door. Father Bazonge wasa man of fifty; his clothes were covered with mud where he had fallenin the street. 

"You need not be afraid, " continued Lorilleux; "he will do you noharm. He is a neighbor of ours--the third room on the left in ourcorridor. "

But Father Bazonge was talking to Gervaise. "I am not going to eatyou, little one, " he said. "I have drunk too much, I know very well, but when the work is done the machinery should be greased a littlenow and then. "

Gervaise retreated farther into the doorway and with difficulty keptback a sob. She nervously entreated Coupeau to take the man away. 

Bazonge staggered off, muttering as he did so:

"You won't mind it so much one of these days, my dear. I knowsomething about women. They make a great fuss, but they get usedto it all the same. "

CHAPTER IV

A HAPPY HOME

Four years of hard and incessant toil followed this day. Gervaise andCoupeau were wise and prudent. They worked hard and took a littlerelaxation on Sundays. The wife worked twelve hours of the twenty-fourwith Mme Fauconnier and yet found time to keep her own home likewaxwork. The husband was never known to be tipsy but brought home hiswages and smoked his pipe at his own window at night before going tobed. They were the bright and shining lights, the good example of thewhole _Quartier_, and as they made jointly about nine francs perday, it was easy to see they were putting by money. 

But in the first few months of their married life they were obliged totrim their sails closely and had some trouble to make both ends meet. They took a great dislike to the Hotel Boncoeur. They longed for ahome of their own with their own furniture. They estimated the costover and over again and decided that for three hundred and fiftyfrancs they could venture, but they had little hope of saving such asum in less than two years, when a stroke of good luck befell them. 

An old gentleman in Plassans sent for Claude to place him at school. He was a very eccentric old gentleman, fond of pictures and art. Claude was a great expense to his mother, and when Etienne alone wasat home they saved the three hundred and fifty francs in seven months. The day they purchased their furniture they took a long and happy walktogether, for it was an important step they had taken--important notonly in their own eyes but in those of the people around them. 

For two months they had been looking for an apartment. They wished, of all things, to take one in the old house where Mme Lorilleuxlived, but there was not one single room to be rented, and they werecompelled to relinquish the idea. Gervaise was reconciled to this moreeasily, since she did not care to be thrown in any closer contact withthe Lorilleuxs. They looked further. It was essential that Gervaiseshould be near her friend and employer Mme Fauconnier, and theyfinally succeeded in their search and were indeed in wonderful luck, for they obtained a large room with a kitchen and tiny bedroom justopposite the establishment of the laundress. It was a small house, two stories, with one steep staircase, and was divided into twolodgings--the one on the right, the other on the left, while thelower floor was occupied by a carriage maker. 

Gervaise was delighted. It seemed to her that she was once more in thecountry--no neighbors, no gossip, no interference--and from the placewhere she stood and ironed all day at Mme Fauconnier's she could seethe windows of her own room. 

They moved in the month of April. Gervaise was then near herconfinement, but it was she who cleaned and put in order her new home. Every penny as of consequence, she said with pride, now that theywould soon have another other mouth to feed. She rubbed her furniture, which was of old mahogany, good, but secondhand, until it shone likeglass and was quite brokenhearted when she discovered a scratch. Sheheld her breath if she knocked it when sweeping. The commode was herespecial pride; it was so dignified and stately. Her pet dream, which, however, she kept to herself, was someday to have a clock to putin the center of the marble slab. If there had not been a baby inprospect she would have purchased this much-coveted article at once, but she sighed and dismissed the thought. 

Etienne's bed was placed in the tiny room, almost a closet, and therewas room for the cradle by its side. The kitchen was about as big asone's hand and very dark, but by leaving the door open one could seepretty well, and as Gervaise had no big dinners to get she managedcomfortably. The large room was her pride. In the morning the whitecurtains of the alcove were drawn, and the bedroom was transformedinto a lovely dining room, with its table in the middle, the commodeand a wardrobe opposite each other. A tiny stove kept them warm incold weather for seven sous per day. 

Coupeau ornamented the walls with several engravings--one of a marshalof France on a spirited steed, with his baton in his hand. Above thecommode were the photographs of the family, arranged in two lines, with an antique china _benitier_ between. On the corners of thecommode a bust of Pascal faced another of Beranger--one grave, theother smiling. It was, indeed, a fair and pleasant home. 

"How much do you think we pay here?" Gervaise would ask of each newvisitor. 

And when too high an estimate was given she was charmed. 

"One hundred and fifty francs--not a penny more, " she would exclaim. "Is it not wonderful?"

No small portion of the woman's satisfaction arose from an acaciawhich grew in her courtyard, one of whose branches crossed her window, and the scanty foliage was a whole wilderness to her. 

Her baby was born one afternoon. She would not allow her husband to besent for, and when he came gaily into the room he was welcomed by hispale wife, who whispered to him as he stooped over her:

"My dear, it is a girl. "

"All right!" said the tinworker, jesting to hide his real emotion. "I ordered a girl. You always do just what I want!"

He took up the child. 

"Let us have a good look at you, young lady! The down on the top ofyour head is pretty black, I think. Now you must never squall but beas good and reasonable always as your papa and mamma. "

Gervaise, with a faint smile and sad eyes, looked at her daughter. Sheshook her head. She would have preferred a boy, because boys run lessrisks in a place like Paris. The nurse took the baby from the father'shands and told Gervaise she must not talk. Coupeau said he must go andtell his mother and sister the news, but he was famished and must eatsomething first. His wife was greatly disturbed at seeing him waitupon himself, and she tossed about a little and complained that shecould not make him comfortable. 

"You must be quiet, " said the nurse again. 

"It is lucky you are here, or she would be up and cutting my breadfor me, " said Coupeau. 

He finally set forth to announce the news to his family and returnedin an hour with them all. 

The Lorilleuxs, under the influence of the prosperity of their brotherand his wife, had become extremely amiable toward them and only liftedtheir eyebrows in a significant sort of way, as much as to say thatthey could tell something if they pleased. 

"You must not talk, you understand, " said Coupeau, "but they wouldcome and take a peep at you, and I am going to make them some coffee. "

He disappeared into the kitchen, and the women discussed the size ofthe baby and whom it resembled. Meanwhile Coupeau was heard banginground in the kitchen, and his wife nervously called out to him andtold him where the things were that he wanted, but her husband rosesuperior to all difficulties and soon appeared with the smokingcoffeepot, and they all seated themselves around the table, except thenurse, who drank a cup standing and then departed; all was going well, and she was not needed. If she was wanted in the morning they couldsend for her. 

Gervaise lay with a faint smile on her lips. She only half heard whatwas said by those about her. She had no strength to speak; it seemedto her that she was dead. She heard the word baptism. Coupeau saw nonecessity for the ceremony and was quite sure, too, that the childwould take cold. In his opinion, the less one had to do with priests, the better. His mother was horrified and called him a heathen, whilethe Lorilleuxs claimed to be religious people also. 

"It had better be on Sunday, " said his sister in a decided tone, andGervaise consented with a little nod. Everybody kissed her and thenthe baby, addressing it with tender epithets, as if it couldunderstand, and departed. 

When Coupeau was alone with his wife he took her hand and held itwhile he finished his pipe. 

"I could not help their coming, " he said, "but I am sure they havegiven you the headache. " And the rough, clumsy man kissed his wifetenderly, moved by a great pity for all she had borne for his sake. 

And Gervaise was very happy. She told him so and said her only anxietynow was to be on her feet again as soon as possible, for they hadanother mouth to feed. He soothed her and asked if she could not trusthim to look out for their little one. 

In the morning when he went to his work he sent Mme Boche to spend theday with his wife, who at night told him she never could consent tolie still any longer and see a stranger going about her room, and thenext day she was up and would not be taken care of again. She had notime for such nonsense! She said it would do for rich women but notfor her, and in another week she was at Mme Fauconnier's again atwork. 

Mme Lorilleux, who was the baby's godmother, appeared on Saturdayevening with a cap and baptismal robe, which she had bought cheapbecause they had lost their first freshness. The next day Lorilleux, as godfather, gave Gervaise six pounds of sugar. They flatteredthemselves they knew how to do things properly and that evening, atthe supper given by Coupeau, did not appear empty-handed. Lorilleuxcame with a couple of bottles of wine under each arm, and his wifebrought a large custard which was a specialty of a certain restaurant. 

Yes, they knew how to do things, these people, but they also likedto tell of what they did, and they told everyone they saw in the nextmonth that they had spent twenty francs, which came to the ears ofGervaise, who was none too well pleased. 

It was at this supper that Gervaise became acquainted with herneighbors on the other side of the house. These were Mme Goujet, awidow, and her son. Up to this time they had exchanged a good morningwhen they met on the stairs or in the street, but as Mme Goujet hadrendered some small services on the first day of her illness, Gervaiseinvited them on the occasion of the baptism. 

These people were from the _Department du Nond_. The motherrepaired laces, while the son, a blacksmith by trade, worked ina factory. 

They had lived in their present apartment for five years. Beneath thepeaceful calm of their lives lay a great sorrow. Goujet, the husbandand father, had killed a man in a fit of furious intoxicationand then, while in prison, had choked himself with his pockethandkerchief. His widow and child left Lille after this and came toParis, with the weight of this tragedy on their hearts and heads, andfaced the future with indomitable courage and sweet patience. Perhapsthey were overproud and reserved, for they held themselves alooffrom those about them. Mme Goujet always wore mourning, and her pale, serene face was encircled with nunlike bands of white. Goujet was acolossus of twenty-three with a clear, fresh complexion and honesteyes. At the manufactory he went by the name of the Gueule-d'Or onaccount of his beautiful blond beard. 

Gervaise took a great fancy to these people and when she first enteredtheir apartment and was charmed with the exquisite cleanliness of allshe saw. Mme Goujet opened the door into her son's room to show itto her. It was as pretty and white as the chamber of a young girl. A narrow iron bed, white curtains and quilt, a dressing table andbookshelves made up the furniture. A few colored engravings werepinned against the wall, and Mme Goujet said that her son was a gooddeal of a boy still--he liked to look at pictures rather than read. Gervaise sat for an hour with her neighbor, watching her at work withher cushion, its numberless pins and the pretty lace. 

The more she saw of her new friends the better Gervaise liked them. They were frugal but not parsimonious. They were the admiration ofthe neighborhood. Goujet was never seen with a hole or a spot on hisgarments. He was very polite to all but a little diffident, in spiteof his height and broad shoulders. The girls in the street were muchamused to see him look away when they met him; he did not fancy theirways--their forward boldness and loud laughs. One day he came hometipsy. His mother uttered no word of reproach but brought out apicture of his father which was piously preserved in her wardrobe. Andafter that lesson Goujet drank no more liquor, though he conceived nohatred for wine. 

On Sunday he went out with his mother, who was his idol. He went toher with all his troubles and with all his joys, as he had done whenlittle. 

At first he took no interest in Gervaise, but after a while he beganto like her and treated her like a sister, with abrupt familiarity. 

Cadet-Cassis, who was a thorough Parisian, thought Gueule-d'Or verystupid. What was the sense of turning away from all the pretty girlshe met in the street? But this did not prevent the two young fellowsfrom liking each other very heartily. 

For three years the lives of these people flowed tranquilly onwithout an event. Gervaise had been elevated in the laundry whereshe worked, had higher wages and decided to place Etienne at school. Notwithstanding all her expenses of the household, they were able tosave twenty and thirty francs each month. When these savings amountedto six hundred francs Gervaise could not rest, so tormented was she byambitious dreams. She wished to open a small establishment herself andhire apprentices in her turn. She hesitated, naturally, to take thedefinite steps and said they would look around for a shop that wouldanswer their purpose; their money in the savings bank was quietlyrolling up. She had bought her clock, the object of her ambition; itwas to be paid for in a year--so much each month. It was a wonderfulclock, rosewood with fluted columns and gilt moldings and pendulum. She kept her bankbook under the glass shade, and often when she wasthinking of her shop she stood with her eyes fixed on the clock, asif she were waiting for some especial and solemn moment. 

The Coupeaus and the Goujets now went out on Sundays together. It wasan orderly party with a dinner at some quiet restaurant. The men dranka glass or two of wine and came home with the ladies and counted upand settled the expenditures of the day before they separated. The Lorilleuxs were bitterly jealous of these new friends of theirbrother's. They declared it had a very queer look to see him and hiswife always with strangers rather than with his own family, and MmeLorilleux began to say hateful things again of Gervaise. Mme Lerat, on the contrary, took her part, while Mamma Coupeau tried to pleaseeveryone. 

The day that Nana--which was the pet name given to the littlegirl--was three years old Coupeau, on coming in, found his wife ina state of great excitement. She refused to give any explanation, saying, in fact, there really was nothing the matter, but she finallybecame so abstracted that she stood still with the plates in her handas she laid the table for dinner, and her husband insisted on anexplanation. 

"If you must know, " she said, "that little shop in La Rue de laGoutte-d'Or is vacant. I heard so only an hour ago, and it struckme all of a heap!"

It was a very nice shop in the very house of which they had so oftenthought. There was the shop itself--a back room--and two others. Theywere small, to be sure, but convenient and well arranged; only shethought it dear--five hundred francs. 

"You asked the price then?"

"Yes, I asked it just out of curiosity, " she answered with an air ofindifference, "but it is too dear, decidedly too dear. It would beunwise, I think, to take it. "

But she could talk of nothing else the whole evening. She drew theplan of the rooms on the margin of a newspaper, and as she talked shemeasured the furniture, as if they were to move the next day. ThenCoupeau, seeing her great desire to have the place, declared he wouldsee the owner the next morning, for it was possible he would take lessthan five hundred francs, but how would she like to live so near hissister, whom she detested?

Gervaise was displeased at this and said she detested no one and evendefended the Lorilleuxs, declaring they were not so bad, after all. And when Coupeau was asleep her busy brain was at work arranging therooms which as yet they had not decided to hire. 

The next day when she was alone she lifted the shade from the clockand opened her bankbook. Just to think that her shop and futureprosperity lay between those dirty leaves!

Before going to her work she consulted Mme Goujet, who approved of theplan. With a husband like hers, who never drank, she could not failof success. At noon she called on her sister-in-law to ask her advice, for she did not wish to have the air of concealing anything from thefamily. 

Mme Lorilleux was confounded. What, did Wooden Legs think of havingan establishment of her own? And with an envious heart she stammeredout that it would be very well, certainly, but when she had recoveredherself a little she began to talk of the dampness of the courtyardand of the darkness of the _rez-de-chaussee_. Oh yes, it was acapital place for rheumatism, but of course if her mind was made upanything she could say would make no difference. 

That night Gervaise told her husband that if he had thrown anyobstacles in the way of her taking the shop she believed she shouldhave fallen sick and died, so great was her longing. But before theycame to any decision they must see if a diminution of the rent couldbe obtained. 

"We can go tomorrow if you say so, " was her husband's reply; "you cancall for me at six o'clock. "

Coupeau was then completing the roof of a three-storied house andwas laying the very last sheets of zinc. It was May and a cloudlessevening. The sun was low in the horizon, and against the blue sky thefigure of Coupeau was clearly defined as he cut his zinc as quietlyas a tailor might have cut out a pair of breeches in his workshop. Hisassistant, a lad of seventeen, was blowing up the furnace with a pairof bellows, and at each puff a great cloud of sparks arose. 

"Put in the irons, Zidore!" shouted Coupeau. 

The boy thrust the irons among the coals which showed only a dull pinkin the sunlight and then went to work again with his bellows. Coupeautook up his last sheet of zinc. It was to be placed on the edge of theroof, near the gutter. Just at that spot the roof was very steep. Theman walked along in his list slippers much as if he had been at home, whistling a popular melody. He allowed himself to slip a little andcaught at the chimney, calling to Zidore as he did so:

"Why in thunder don't you bring the irons? What are you staring at?"

But Zidore, quite undisturbed, continued to stare at a cloud of heavyblack smoke that was rising in the direction of Grenelle. He wonderedif it were a fire, but he crawled with the irons toward Coupeau, whobegan to solder the zinc, supporting himself on the point of one footor by one finger, not rashly, but with calm deliberation and perfectcoolness. He knew what he could do and never lost his head. His pipewas in his mouth, and he would occasionally turn to spit down intothe street below. 

"Hallo, Madame Boche!" he cried as he suddenly caught sight of hisold friend crossing the street. "How are you today?"

She looked up, laughed, and a brisk conversation ensued between theroof and the street. She stood with her hands under her apron and herface turned up, while he, with one arm round a flue, leaned over theside of the house. 

"Have you seen my wife?" he asked. 

"No indeed; is she anywhere round?"

"She is coming for me. Is everyone well with you?"

"Yes, all well, thanks. I am going to a butcher near here who sellscheaper than up our way. "

They raised their voices because a carriage was passing, and thisbrought to a neighboring window a little old woman, who stood inbreathless horror, expecting to see the man fall from the roof inanother minute. 

"Well, good night, " cried Mme Boche. "I must not detain you from yourwork. "

Coupeau turned and took the iron Zidore held out to him. At the samemoment Mme Boche saw Gervaise coming toward her with little Nanatrotting at her side. She looked up to the roof to tell Coupeau, butGervaise closed her lips with an energetic signal, and then as shereached the old concierge she said in a low voice that she was alwaysin deadly terror that her husband would fall. She never dared look athim when he was in such places. 

"It is not very agreeable, I admit, " answered Mme Boche. "My man isa tailor, and I am spared all this. "

"At first, " continued Gervaise, "I had not a moment's peace. I sawhim in my dreams on a litter, but now I have got accustomed to itsomewhat. "

She looked up, keeping Nana behind her skirts, lest the child shouldcall out and startle her father, who was at that moment on the extremeedge. She saw the soldering iron and the tiny flame that rose as hecarefully passed it along the edges of the zinc. Gervaise, pale withsuspense and fear, raised her hands mechanically with a gesture ofsupplication. Coupeau ascended the steep roof with a slow step, thenglancing down, he beheld his wife. 

"You are watching me, are you?" he cried gaily. "Ah, Madame Boche, isshe not a silly one? She was afraid to speak to me. Wait ten minutes, will you?"

The two women stood on the sidewalk, having as much as they could doto restrain Nana, who insisted on fishing in the gutter. 

The old woman still stood at the window, looking up at the roof andwaiting. 

"Just see her, " said Mme Boche. "What is she looking at?"

Coupeau was heard lustily singing; with the aid of a pair of compasseshe had drawn some lines and now proceeded to cut a large fan; this headroitly, with his tools, folded into the shape of a pointed mushroom. Zidore was again heating the irons. The sun was setting just behindthe house, and the whole western sky was flushed with rose, fadingto a soft violet, and against this sky the figures of the two men, immeasurably exaggerated, stood clearly out, as well as the strangeform of the zinc which Coupeau was then manipulating. 

"Zidore! The irons!"

But Zidore was not to be seen. His master, with an oath, shouted downthe scuttle window which was open near by and finally discovered himtwo houses off. The boy was taking a walk, apparently, with his scantyblond hair blowing all about his head. 

"Do you think you are in the country?" cried Coupeau in a fury. "Youare another Beranger, perhaps--composing verses! Will you have thekindness to give me my irons? Whoever heard the like? Give me myirons, I say!"

The irons hissed as he applied them, and he called to Gervaise:

"I am coming!"

The chimney to which he had fitted this cap was in the center of theroof. Gervaise stood watching him, soothed by his calm self-possession. Nana clapped her little hands. 

"Papa! Papa!" she cried. "Look!"

The father turned; his foot slipped; he rolled down the roof slowly, unable to catch at anything. 

"Good God!" he said in a choked voice, and he fell; his body turnedover twice and crashed into the middle of the street with the dullthud of a bundle of wet linen. 

Gervaise stood still. A shriek was frozen on her lips. Mme Bochesnatched Nana in her arms and hid her head that she might not see, and the little old woman opposite, who seemed to have waited for thisscene in the drama, quietly closed her windows. 

Four men bore Coupeau to a druggist's at the corner, where he lay foran hour while a litter was sent for from the Hospital Lariboisiere. He was breathing still, but that was all. Gervaise knelt at his side, hysterically sobbing. Every minute or two, in spite of the prohibitionof the druggist, she touched him to see if he were still warm. Whenthe litter arrived and they spoke of the hospital, she started up, saying violently:

"No--no! Not to the hospital--to our own home. "

In vain did they tell her that the expenses would be very great ifshe nursed him at home. 

"No--no!" she said. "I will show them the way. He is my husband, is he not? And I will take care of him myself. "

And Coupeau was carried home, and as the litter was borne through the_Quartier_ the women crowded together and extolled Gervaise. Shewas a little lame, to be sure, but she was very energetic, and shewould save her man. 

Mme Boche took Nana home and then went about among her friends to tellthe story with interminable details. 

"I saw him fall, " she said. "It was all because of the child; he wasgoing to speak to her, when down he went. Good lord! I trust I maynever see such another sight. "

For a week Coupeau's life hung on a thread. His family and his friendsexpected to see him die from one hour to another. The physician, anexperienced physician whose every visit cost five francs, talked ofa lesion, and that word was in itself very terrifying to all butGervaise, who, pale from her vigils but calm and resolute, shruggedher shoulders and would not allow herself to be discouraged. Her man'sleg was broken; that she knew very well, "but he need not die forthat!" And she watched at his side night and day, forgetting herchildren and her home and everything but him. 

On the ninth day, when the physician told her he would recover, she dropped, half fainting, on a chair, and at night she slept fora couple of hours with her head on the foot of his bed. 

This accident to Coupeau brought all his family about him. His motherspent the nights there, but she slept in her chair quite comfortably. Mme Lerat came in every evening after work was over to make inquiries. 

The Lorilleuxs at first came three or four times each day and broughtan armchair for Gervaise, but soon quarrels and discussions arose asto the proper way of nursing the invalid, and Mme Lorilleux lost hertemper and declared that had Gervaise stayed at home and not gone topester her husband when he was at work the accident would not havehappened. 

When she saw Coupeau out of danger Gervaise allowed his family toapproach him as they saw fit. His convalescence would be a matter ofmonths. This again was a ground of indignation for Mme Lorilleux. 

"What nonsense it was, " she said, "for Gervaise to take him home! Hadhe gone to the hospital he would have recovered as quickly again. "

And then she made a calculation of what these four months would cost:First, there was the time lost, then the physician, the medicines, the wines and finally the meat for beef tea. Yes, it would be a prettysum, to be sure! If they got through it on their savings they woulddo well, but she believed that the end would be that they would findthemselves head over heels in debt, and they need expect no assistancefrom his family, for none of them was rich enough to pay for sicknessat home!

One evening Mme Lorilleux was malicious enough to say:

"And your shop, when do you take it? The concierge is waiting to knowwhat you mean to do. "

Gervaise gasped. She had utterly forgotten the shop. She saw thedelight of these people when they believed that this plan was givenup, and from that day they never lost an occasion of twitting her onher dream that had toppled over like a house of cards, and she grewmorbid and fancied they were pleased at the accident to their brotherwhich had prevented the realization of their plans. 

She tried to laugh and to show them she did not grudge the money thathad been expended in the restoration of her husband's health. She didnot withdraw all her savings from the bank at once, for she had avague hope that some miracle would intervene which would render thesacrifice unnecessary. 

Was it not a great comfort, she said to herself and to her enemies, for as such she had begun to regard the Lorilleuxs, that she had thismoney now to turn to in this emergency?

Her neighbors next door had been very kind and thoughtful to Gervaiseall through her trouble and the illness of her husband. 

Mme Goujet never went out without coming to inquire if there wasanything she could do, any commission she could execute. She broughtinnumerable bowls of soup and, even when Gervaise was particularlybusy, washed her dishes for her. Goujet filled her buckets everymorning with fresh water, and this was an economy of at least twosous, and in the evening came to sit with Coupeau. He did not saymuch, but his companionship cheered and comforted the invalid. Hewas tender and compassionate and was thrilled by the sweetness ofGervaise's voice when she spoke to her husband. Never had he seen sucha brave, good woman; he did not believe she sat in her chair fifteenminutes in the whole day. She was never tired, never out of temper, and the young man grew very fond of the poor woman as he watched her. 

His mother had found a wife for him. A girl whose trade was the sameas her own, a lace mender, and as he did not wish to go contrary toher desires he consented that the marriage should take place inSeptember. 

But when Gervaise spoke of his future he shook his head. 

"All women are not like you, Madame Coupeau, " he said. "If they wereI should like ten wives. "

At the end of two months Coupeau was on his feet again and couldmove--with difficulty, of course--as far as the window, where he satwith his leg on a chair. The poor fellow was sadly shaken by hisaccident. He was no philosopher, and he swore from morning untilnight. He said he knew every crack in the ceiling. When he wasinstalled in his armchair it was little better. How long, he askedimpatiently, was he expected to sit there swathed like a mummy? Andhe cursed his ill luck. His accident was a cursed shame. If his headhad been disturbed by drink it would have been different, but he wasalways sober, and this was the result. He saw no sense in the wholething!

"My father, " he said, "broke his neck. I don't say he deserved it, but I do say there was a reason for it. But I had not drunk a drop, and yet over I went, just because I spoke to my child! If there bea Father in heaven, as they say, who watches over us all, I must sayHe manages things strangely enough sometimes!"

And as his strength returned his trade grew strangely distasteful tohim. It was a miserable business, he said, roaming along gutters likea cat. In his opinion there should be a law which should compel everyhouseowner to tin his own roof. He wished he knew some other trade hecould follow, something that was less dangerous. 

For two months more Coupeau walked with a crutch and after a whilewas able to get into the street and then to the outer boulevard, wherehe sat on a bench in the sun. His gaiety returned; he laughed againand enjoyed doing nothing. For the first time in his life he feltthoroughly lazy, and indolence seemed to have taken possession of hiswhole being. When he got rid of his crutches he sauntered about andwatched the buildings which were in the process of construction in thevicinity, and he jested with the men and indulged himself in a generalabuse of work. Of course he intended to begin again as soon as hewas quite well, but at present the mere thought made him feel ill, he said. 

In the afternoons Coupeau often went to his sister's apartment;she expressed a great deal of compassion for him and showed everyattention. When he was first married he had escaped from herinfluence, thanks to his affection for his wife and hers for him. Now he fell under her thumb again; they brought him back by declaringthat he lived in mortal terror of his wife. But the Lorilleuxs weretoo wise to disparage her openly; on the contrary, they praised herextravagantly, and he told his wife that they adored her and beggedher, in her turn, to be just to them. 

The first quarrel in their home arose on the subject of Etienne. Coupeau had been with his sister. He came in late and found thechildren fretting for their dinner. He cuffed Etienne's ears, bade himhold his tongue and scolded for an hour. He was sure he did not knowwhy he let that boy stay in the house; he was none of his; until thatday he had accepted the child as a matter of course. 

Three days after this he gave the boy a kick, and it was not longbefore the child, when he heard him coming, ran into the Goujets', where there was always a corner at the table for him. 

Gervaise had long since resumed her work. She no longer lifted theglobe of her clock to take out her bankbook; her savings were allgone, and it was necessary to count the sous pretty closely, for therewere four mouths to feed, and they were all dependent on the work ofher two hands. When anyone found fault with Coupeau and blamed himshe always took his part. 

"Think how much he has suffered, " she said with tears in her eyes. "Think of the shock to his nerves! Who can wonder that he is a littlesour? Wait awhile, though, until he is perfectly well, and you willsee that his temper will be as sweet as it ever was. "

And if anyone ventured to observe that he seemed quite well and thathe ought to go to work she would exclaim:

"No indeed, not yet. It would never do. " She did not want him down inhis bed again. She knew what the doctor had said, and she every daybegged him to take his own time. She even slipped a little silver, into his vest pocket. All this Coupeau accepted as a matter of course. He complained of all sorts of pains and aches to gain a little longerperiod of indolence and at the end of six months had begun to lookupon himself as a confirmed invalid. 

He almost daily dropped into a wineshop with a friend; it was a placewhere he could chat a little, and where was the harm? Besides, whoeverheard of a glass of wine killing a man? But he swore to himself thathe would never touch anything but wine--not a drop of brandy shouldpass his lips. Wine was good for one--prolonged one's life, aideddigestion--but brandy was a very different matter. Notwithstanding allthese wise resolutions, it came to pass more than once that he camein, after visiting a dozen different cabarets, decidedly tipsy. Onthese occasions Gervaise locked her doors and declared she was ill, to prevent the Goujets from seeing her husband. 

The poor woman was growing very sad. Every night and morning shepassed the shop for which she had so ardently longed. She made hercalculations over and over again until her brain was dizzy. Twohundred and fifty francs for rent, one hundred and fifty for movingand the apparatus she needed, one hundred francs to keep things goinguntil business began to come in. No, it could not be done under fivehundred francs. 

She said nothing of this to anyone, deterred only by the fear ofseeming to regret the money she had spent for her husband during hisillness. She was pale and dispirited at the thought that she must workfive years at least before she could save that much money. 

One evening Gervaise was alone. Goujet entered, took a chair insilence and looked at her as he smoked his pipe. He seemed to berevolving something in his mind. Suddenly he took his pipe from hismouth. 

"Madame Gervaise, " he said, "will you allow me to lend you the moneyyou require?"

She was kneeling at a drawer, laying some towels in a neat pile. Shestarted up, red with surprise. He had seen her standing that verymorning for a good ten minutes, looking at the shop, so absorbed thatshe had not seen him pass. 

She refused his offer, however. No, she could never borrow money whenshe did not know how she could return it, and when he insisted shereplied:

"But your marriage? This is the money you have saved for that. "

"Don't worry on that account, " he said with a heightened color. "Ishall not marry. It was an idea of my mother's, and I prefer to lendyou the money. "

They looked away from each other. Their friendship had a certainelement of tenderness which each silently recognized. 

Gervaise accepted finally and went with Goujet to see his mother, whomhe had informed of his intentions. They found her somewhat sad, withher serene, pale face bent over her work. She did not wish to thwarther son, but she no longer approved of the plan, and she told Gervaisewhy. With kind frankness she pointed out to her that Coupeau hadfallen into evil habits and was living on her labors and would inall probability continue to do so. The truth was that Mme Goujethad not forgiven Coupeau for refusing to read during all his longconvalescence; this and many other things had alienated her and herson from him, but they had in no degree lost their interest inGervaise. 

Finally it was agreed she should have five hundred francs and shouldreturn the money by paying each month twenty francs on account. 

"Well, well!" cried Coupeau as he heard of this financial transaction. "We are in luck. There is no danger with us, to be sure, but if hewere dealing with knaves he might never see hide or hair of his cashagain!"

The next day the shop was taken, and Gervaise ran about with sucha light heart that there was a rumor that she had been cured of herlameness by an operation. 

CHAPTER V

AMBITIOUS DREAMS

The Boche couple, on the first of April, moved also and took the logeof the great house in the Rue de la Goutte-d'Or. Things had turned outvery nicely for Gervaise who, having always got on very comfortablywith the concierge in the house in Rue Neuve, dreaded lest she shouldfall into the power of some tyrant who would quarrel over every dropof water that was spilled and a thousand other trifles like that. Butwith Mme Boche all would go smoothly. 

The day the lease was to be signed and Gervaise stood in her new homeher heart swelled with joy. She was finally to live in that house likea small town, with its intersecting corridors instead of streets. 

She felt a strange timidity--a dread of failure--when she foundherself face to face with her enterprise. The struggle for bread was aterrible and an increasing one, and it seemed to her for a moment thatshe had been guilty of a wild, foolhardy act, like throwing herselfinto the jaws of a machine, for the planes in the cabinetmaker's shopand the hammers in the locksmith's were dimly grasped by her as a partof a great whole. 

The water that ran past the door that day from the dyer's was palegreen. She smiled as she stepped over it, accepting this color as ahappy augury. She, with her husband, entered the loge, where Mme Bocheand the owner of the building, M. Marescot, were talking on business. 

Gervaise, with a thrill of pain, heard Boche advise the landlord toturn out the dressmaker on the third floor who was behindhand with herrent. She wondered if she would ever be turned out and then wonderedagain at the attitude assumed by these Boche people, who did not seemto have ever seen her before. They had eyes and ears only for thelandlord, who shook hands with his new tenants but, when they spokeof repairs, professed to be in such haste that morning that it wouldbe necessary to postpone the discussion. They reminded him of certainverbal promises he had made, and finally he consented to examine thepremises. 

The shop stood with its four bare walls and blackened ceiling. Thetenant who had been there had taken away his own counters and cases. A furious discussion took place. M. Marescot said it was for themto embellish the shop. 

"That may be, " said Gervaise gently, "but surely you cannot callputting on a fresh paper, instead of this that hangs in strips, anembellishment. Whitening the curbing, too, comes under, the head ofnecessary repairs. " She only required these two things. 

Finally Marescot, with a desperate air, plunged his hands deep in hispockets, shrugged his shoulders and gave his consent to the repairs onthe ceiling and to the paper, on condition that she would pay for halfthe paper, and then he hurried away. 

When he had departed Boche clapped Coupeau on the shoulder. "You maythank me for that!" he cried and then went on to say that he was thereal master of the house, that he settled the whole business of theestablishment, and it was a nod and look from him that had influencedM. Marescot. That evening Gervaise, considering themselves in debt toBoche, sent him some wine. 

In four days the shop should have been ready for them, but the repairshung on for three weeks. At first they intended simply to have thepaint scrubbed, but it was so shabby and worn that Gervaise repaintedat her own expense. Coupeau went every morning, not to work, but toinspect operations, and Boche dropped the vest or pantaloons on whichhe was working and gave the benefit of his advice, and the two menspent the whole day smoking and spitting and arguing over each strokeof the brush. Some days the painters did not appear at all; on othersthey came and walked off in an hour's time, not to return again. 

Poor Gervaise wrung her hands in despair. But finally, after two daysof energetic labor, the whole thing was done, and the men walked offwith their ladders, singing lustily. 

Then came the moving, and finally Gervaise called herself settled inher new home and was pleased as a child. As she came up the streetshe could see her sign afar off:

 CLEARSTARCHER

 LACES AND EMBROIDERIES DONE UP WITH ESPECIAL CARE

The first word was painted in large yellow letters on a pale blueground. 

In the recessed window shut in at the back by muslin curtains laymen's shirts, delicate handkerchiefs and cuffs; all these were onblue paper, and Gervaise was charmed. When she entered the door allwas blue there; the paper represented a golden trellis and bluemorning-glories. In the center was a huge table draped withblue-bordered cretonne to hide the trestles. 

Gervaise seated herself and looked round, happy in the cleanliness ofall about her. Her first glance, however, was directed to her stove, a sort of furnace whereon ten irons could be heated at once. It was asource of constant anxiety lest her little apprentice should fill ittoo full of coal and so injure it. 

Behind the shop was her bedroom and her kitchen, from which a dooropened into the court. Nana's bed stood in a little room at the right, and Etienne was compelled to share his with the baskets of soiledclothes. It was all very well, except that the place was very dampand that it was dark by three o'clock in the afternoon in winter. 

The new shop created a great excitement in the neighborhood. Somepeople declared that the Coupeaus were on the road to ruin; theyhad, in fact, spent the whole five hundred francs and were penniless, contrary to their intentions. The morning that Gervaise first tookdown her shutters she had only six francs in the world, but she wasnot troubled, and at the end of a week she told her husband after twohours of abstruse calculations that they had taken in enough to covertheir expenses. 

The Lorilleuxs were in a state of rage, and one morning when theapprentice was emptying, on the sly, a bowl of starch which she hadburned in making, just as Mme Lorilleux was passing, she rushed in andaccused her sister-in-law of insulting her. After this all friendlyrelations were at an end. 

"It all looks very strange to me, " sniffed Mme Lorilleux. "I can'ttell where the money comes from, but I have my suspicions. " And shewent on to intimate that Gervaise and Goujet were altogether toointimate. This was the groundwork of many fables; she said Wooden Legswas so mild and sweet that she had deceived her to the extent thatshe had consented to become Nana's godmother, which had been no smallexpense, but now things were very different. If Gervaise were dyingand asked her for a glass of water she would not give it. She couldnot stand such people. As to Nana, it was different; they wouldalways receive her. The child, of course, was not responsible for hermother's crimes. Coupeau should take a more decided stand and not putup with his wife's vile conduct. 

Boche and his wife sat in judgment on the quarrel and gave as theiropinion that the Lorilleuxs were much to blame. They were goodtenants, of course. They paid regularly. "But, " added Mme Boche, "Inever could abide jealousy. They are mean people and were never knownto offer a glass of wine to a friend. "

Mother Coupeau visited her son and daughter successive days, listenedto the tales of each and said never a word in reply. 

Gervaise lived a busy life and took no notice of all this foolishgossip and strife. She greeted her friends with a smile from the doorof her shop, where she went for a breath of fresh air. All the peoplein the neighborhood liked her and would have called her a great beautybut for her lameness. She was twenty-eight and had grown plump. Shemoved more slowly, and when she took a chair to wait for her ironsto heat she rose with reluctance. She was growing fond of goodliving--that she herself admitted--but she did not regard it as afault. She worked hard and had a right to good food. Why should shelive on potato parings? Sometimes she worked all night when she hada great deal of work on hand. 

She did the washing for the whole house and for some Parisian ladiesand had several apprentices, besides two laundresses. She was makingmoney hand over fist, and her good luck would have turned a wiser headthan her own. But hers was not turned; she was gentle and sweet andhated no one except her sister-in-law. She judged everybody kindly, particularly after she had eaten a good breakfast. When people calledher good she laughed. Why should she not be good? She had seen all herdreams realized. She remembered what she once said--that she wanted towork hard, have plenty to eat, a home to herself, where she couldbring up her children, not be beaten and die in her bed! As to dyingin her bed, she added she wanted that still, but she would put it offas long as possible, "if you please!" It was to Coupeau himself thatGervaise was especially sweet. Never a cross or an impatient word hadhe heard from her lips, and no one had ever known her complain of himbehind his back. He had finally resumed his trade, and as the shopwhere he worked was at the other end of Paris, she gave him everymorning forty sous for his breakfast, his wine and tobacco. Two daysout of six, however, Coupeau would meet a friend, drink up his fortysous and return to breakfast. Once, indeed, he sent a note, sayingthat his account at the cabaret exceeded his forty sous. He was inpledge, as it were; would his wife send the money? She laughed andshrugged her shoulders. Where was the harm in her husband's amusinghimself a little? A woman must give a man a long rope if she wishedto live in peace and comfort. It was not far from words to blows--sheknew that very well. 

The hot weather had come. One afternoon in June the ten irons wereheating on the stove; the door was open into the street, but not abreath of air came in. 

"What a melting day!" said Gervaise, who was stooping over a greatbowl of starch. She had rolled up her sleeves and taken off her sackand stood in her chemise and white skirt; the soft hair in her neckwas curling on her white throat. She dipped each cuff in the starch, the fronts of the shirts and the whole of the skirts. Then she rolledup the pieces tightly and placed them neatly in a square basket afterhaving sprinkled with clear water all those portions which were notstarched. 

"This basket is for you, Madame Putois, " she said, "and you will haveto hurry, for they dry so fast in this weather. "

Mine Putois was a thin little woman who looked cool and comfortablein her tightly buttoned dress. She had not taken her cap off but stoodat the table, moving her irons to and fro with the regularity of anautomaton. Suddenly she exclaimed:

"Put on your sack, Clemence; there are three men looking in, and Idon't like such things. "

Clemence grumbled and growled. What did she care what she liked? Shecould not and would not roast to suit anybody. 

"Clemence, put on your sack, " said Gervaise. "Madame Putois isright--it is not proper. "

Clemence muttered but obeyed and consoled herself by giving theapprentice, who was ironing hose and towels by her side, a littlepush. Gervaise had a cap belonging to Mme Boche in her hand and wasironing the crown with a round ball, when a tall, bony woman came in. She was a laundress. 

"You have come too soon, Madame Bijard!" cried Gervaise. "I saidtonight. It is very inconvenient for me to attend to you at thishour. " At the same time, however, Gervaise amiably laid down her workand went for the dirty clothes, which she piled up in the back shop. It took the two women nearly an hour to sort them and mark them witha stitch of colored cotton. 

At this moment Coupeau entered. 

"By Jove!" he said. "The sun beats down on one's head like a hammer. "He caught at the table to sustain himself; he had been drinking; aspider web had caught in his dark hair, where many a white threadwas apparent. His under jaw dropped a little, and his smile was goodnatured but silly. 

Gervaise asked her husband if he had seen the Lorilleuxs in rathera severe tone; when he said no she smiled at him without a word ofreproach. 

"You had best go and lie down, " she said pleasantly. "We are verybusy, and you are in our way. Did I say thirty-two handkerchiefs, Madame Bijard? Here are two more; that makes thirty-four. "

But Coupeau was not sleepy, and he preferred to remain where he was. Gervaise called Clemence and bade her to count the linen while shemade out the list. She glanced at each piece as she wrote. She knewmany of them by the color. That pillow slip belonged to Mme Bochebecause it was stained with the pomade she always used, and so onthrough the whole. Gervaise was seated with these piles of soiledlinen about her. Augustine, whose great delight was to fill up thestove, had done so now, and it was red hot. Coupeau leaned towardGervaise. 

"Kiss me, " he said. "You are a good woman. "

As he spoke he gave a sudden lurch and fell among the skirts. 

"Do take care, " said Gervaise impatiently. "You will get them allmixed again. " And she gave him a little push with her foot, whereatall the other women cried out. 

"He is not like most men, " said Mme Putois; "they generally wish tobeat you when they come in like this. "

Gervaise already regretted her momentary vexation and assisted herhusband to his feet and then turned her cheek to him with a smile, but he put his arm round her and kissed her neck. She pushed himaside with a laugh. 

"You ought to be ashamed!" she said but yielded to his embrace, andthe long kiss they exchanged before these people, amid the sickeningodor of the soiled linen and the alcoholic fumes of his breath, wasthe first downward step in the slow descent of their degradation. 

Mme Bijard tied up the linen and staggered off under their weightwhile Gervaise turned back to finish her cap. Alas! The stove and theirons were alike red hot; she must wait a quarter of an hour beforeshe could touch the irons, and Gervaise covered the fire with a coupleof shovelfuls of cinders. She then hung a sheet before the window tokeep out the sun. Coupeau took a place in the corner, refusing tobudge an inch, and his wife and all her assistants went to work oneach side of the square table. Each woman had at her right a flatbrick on which to set her iron. In the center of the table a dish ofwater with a rag and a brush in it and also a bunch of tall liliesin a broken jar. 

Mme Putois had attacked the basket of linen prepared by Gervaise, andAugustine was ironing her towels, with her nose in the air, deeplyinterested in a fly that was buzzing about. As to Clemence, she waspolishing off her thirty-fifth shirt; as she boasted of this greatfeat Coupeau staggered toward her. 

"Madame, " she called, "please keep him away; he will bother me, andI shall scorch my shirt. "

"Let her be, " said Gervaise without any especial energy. "We are ina great hurry today!"

Well, that was not his fault; he did not mean to touch the girl;he only wanted to see what she was about. 

"Really, " said his wife, looking up from her fluting iron, "I thinkyou had best go to bed. "

He began to talk again. 

"You need not make such a fuss, Clemence; it is only because thesewomen are here, and--"

But he could say no more; Gervaise quietly laid one hand on his mouthand the other on his shoulder and pushed him toward his room. Hestruggled a little and with a silly laugh asked if Clemence was notcoming too. 

Gervaise undressed her husband and tucked him up in bed as if he hadbeen a child and then returned to her fluting irons in time to stilla grand dispute that was going on about an iron that had not beenproperly cleaned. 

In the profound silence that followed her appearance she could hearher husband's thick voice:

"What a silly wife I've got! The idea of putting me to bed in broaddaylight!"

Suddenly he began to snore, and Gervaise uttered a sigh of relief. She used her fluting iron for a minute and then said quietly:

"There is no need of being offended by anything a man does when heis in this state. He is not an accountable being. He did not intendto insult you. Clemence, you know what a tipsy man is--he respectsneither father nor mother. "

She uttered these words in an indifferent, matter-of-fact way, not inthe least disturbed that he had forgotten the respect due to her andto her roof and really seeing no harm in his conduct. 

The work now went steadily on, and Gervaise calculated they wouldbe finished by eleven o'clock. The heat was intense; the smell ofcharcoal deadened the air, while the branch of white lilies slowlyfaded and filled the room with their sweetness. 

The day after all this Coupeau had a frightful headache and did notrise until late, too late to go to his work. About noon he began tofeel better, and toward evening was quite himself. His wife gave himsome silver and told him to go out and take the air, which meant withhim taking some wine. 

One glass washed down another, but he came home as gay as a lark andquite disgusted with the men he had seen who were drinking themselvesto death. 

"Where is your lover?" he said to his wife as he entered the shop. This was his favorite joke. "I never see him nowadays and must hunthim up. "

He meant Goujet, who came but rarely, lest the gossips in theneighborhood should take it upon themselves to gabble. Once in aboutten days he made his appearance in the evening and installed himselfin a corner in the back shop with his pipe. He rarely spoke butlaughed at all Gervaise said. 

On Saturday evenings the establishment was kept open half the night. Alamp hung from the ceiling with the light thrown down by a shade. Theshutters were put up at the usual time, but as the nights were verywarm the door was left open, and as the hours wore on the women pulledtheir jackets open a little more at the throat, and he sat in hiscorner and looked on as if he were at a theater. 

The silence of the street was broken by a passing carriage. Twoo'clock struck--no longer a sound from outside. At half-past two aman hurried past the door, carrying with him a vision of flying arms, piles of white linen and a glow of yellow light. 

Goujet, wishing to save Etienne from Coupeau's rough treatment, hadtaken him to the place where he was employed to blow the bellows, withthe prospect of becoming an apprentice as soon as he was old enough, and Etienne thus became another tie between the clearstarcher and theblacksmith. 

All their little world laughed and told Gervaise that her friendworshiped the very ground she trod upon. She colored and looked likea girl of sixteen. 

"Dear boy, " she said to herself, "I know he loves me, but never hashe said or will he say a word of the kind to me!" And she was proudof being loved in this way. When she was disturbed about anything herfirst thought was to go to him. When by chance they were left alonetogether they were never disturbed by wondering if their friendshipverged on love. There was no harm in such affection. 

Nana was now six years old and a most troublesome little sprite. Hermother took her every morning to a school in the Rue Polonceau, toa certain Mlle Josse. Here she did all manner of mischief. She putashes into the teacher's snuffbox, pinned the skirts of her companionstogether. Twice the young lady was sent home in disgrace and thentaken back again for the sake of the six francs each month. As soon asschool hours were over Nana revenged herself for the hours of enforcedquiet she had passed by making the most frightful din in the courtyardand the shop. 

She found able allies in Pauline and Victor Boche. The whole greathouse resounded with the most extraordinary noises--the thumps ofchildren falling downstairs, little feet tearing up one staircaseand down another and bursting out on the sidewalk like a band ofpilfering, impudent sparrows. 

Mme Gaudron alone had nine--dirty, unwashed and unkempt, theirstockings hanging over their shoes and the slits in their garmentsshowing the white skin beneath. Another woman on the fifth floor hadseven, and they came out in twos and threes from all the rooms. Nanareigned over this band, among which there were some half grown andothers mere infants. Her prime ministers were Pauline and Victor;to them she delegated a little of her authority while she playedmamma, undressed the youngest only to dress them again, cuffed themand punished them at her own sweet will and with the most fantasticdisposition. The band pranced and waded through the gutter that ranfrom the dyehouse and emerged with blue or green legs. Nana decoratedherself and the others with shavings from the cabinetmaker's, whichthey stole from under the very noses of the workmen. 

The courtyard belonged to all of these children, apparently, andresounded with the clatter of their heels. Sometimes this courtyard, however, was not enough for them, and they spread in every directionto the infinite disgust of Mme Boche, who grumbled all in vain. Bochedeclared that the children of the poor were as plentiful as mushroomson a dung heap, and his wife threatened them with her broom. 

One day there was a terrible scene. Nana had invented a beautifulgame. She had stolen a wooden shoe belonging to Mme Boche; she boreda hole in it and put in a string, by which she could draw it like acart. Victor filled it with apple parings, and they started forth ina procession, Nana drawing the shoe in front, followed by the wholeflock, little and big, an imp about the height of a cigar box at theend. They all sang a melancholy ditty full of "ahs" and "ohs. " Nanadeclared this to be always the custom at funerals. 

"What on earth are they doing now?" murmured Mme Boche suspiciously, and then she came to the door and peered out. 

"Good heavens!" she cried. "It is my shoe they have got. "

She slapped Nana, cuffed Pauline and shook Victor. Gervaise wasfilling a bucket at the fountain, and when she saw Nana with her nosebleeding she rushed toward the concierge and asked how she daredstrike her child. 

The concierge replied that anyone who had a child like that hadbest keep her under lock and key. The end of this was, of course, a complete break between the old friends. 

But, in fact, the quarrel had been growing for a month. Gervaise, generous by nature and knowing the tastes of the Boche people, wasin the habit of making them constant presents--oranges, a littlehot soup, a cake or something of the kind. One evening, knowing thatthe concierge would sell her soul for a good salad, she took herthe remains of a dish of beets and chicory. The next day she wasdumfounded at hearing from Mlle Remanjon how Mme Boche had thrown thesalad away, saying that she was not yet reduced to eating the leavingsof other people! From that day forth Gervaise sent her nothing more. The Boches had learned to look on her little offerings as their right, and they now felt themselves to be robbed by the Coupeaus. 

It was not long before Gervaise realized she had made a mistake, forwhen she was one day late with her October rent Mme Boche complainedto the proprietor, who came blustering to her shop with his hat on. Of course, too, the Lorilleuxs extended the right hand of fellowshipat once to the Boche people. 

There came a day, however, when Gervaise found it necessary to call onthe Lorilleuxs. It was on Mamma Coupeau's account, who was sixty-sevenyears old, nearly blind and helpless. They must all unite in doingsomething for her now. Gervaise thought it a burning shame that awoman of her age, with three well-to-do children, should be allowedfor a moment to regard herself as friendless and forsaken. And as herhusband refused to speak to his sister, Gervaise said she would. 

She entered the room like a whirlwind, without knocking. Everythingwas just as it was on that night when she had been received by themin a fashion which she had never forgotten or forgiven. "I have come, "cried Gervaise, "and I dare say you wish to know why, particularlyas we are at daggers drawn. Well then, I have come on Mamma Coupeau'saccount. I have come to ask if we are to allow her to beg her breadfrom door to door----"

"Indeed!" said Mme Lorilleux with a sneer, and she turned away. 

But Lorilleux lifted his pale face. 

"What do you mean?" he asked, and as he had understood perfectly, he went on:

"What is this cry of poverty about? The old lady ate her dinner withus yesterday. We do all we can for her, I am sure. We have not themines of Peru within our reach, but if she thinks she is to run toand fro between our houses she is much mistaken. I, for one, have noliking for spies. " He then added as he took up his microscope, "Whenthe rest of you agree to give five francs per month toward her supportwe will do the same. " Gervaise was calmer now; these people alwayschilled the very marrow in her bones, and she went on to explain herviews. Five francs were not enough for each of the old lady's childrento pay. She could not live on fifteen francs per month. 

"And why not?" cried Lorilleux. "She ought to do so. She can see wellenough to find the best bits in a dish before her, and she can dosomething toward her own maintenance. " If he had the means to indulgesuch laziness he should not consider it his duty to do so, he added. 

Then Gervaise grew angry again. She looked at her sister-in-law andsaw her face set in vindictive firmness. 

"Keep your money, " she cried. "I will take care of your mother. Ifound a starving cat in the street the other night and took it in. Ican take in your mother too. She shall want for nothing. Good heavens, what people!"

Mme Lorilleux snatched up a saucepan. 

"Clear out, " she said hoarsely. "I will never give one sou--no, notone sou--toward her keep. I understand you! You will make my motherwork for you like a slave and put my five francs in your pocket! Notif I know it, madame! And if she goes to live under your roof I willnever see her again. Be off with you, I say!"

"What a monster!" cried Gervaise as she shut the door with a bang. Onthe very next day Mme Coupeau came to her. A large bed was put in theroom where Nana slept. The moving did not take long, for the old ladyhad only this bed, a wardrobe, table and two chairs. The table wassold and the chairs new-seated, and the old lady the evening of herarrival washed the dishes and swept up the room, glad to make herselfuseful. Mme Lerat had amused herself by quarreling with her sister, to whom she had expressed her admiration of the generosity evincedby Gervaise, and when she saw that Mme Lorilleux was intenselyexasperated she declared she had never seen such eyes in anybody'shead as those of the clearstarcher. She really believed one mightlight paper at them. This declaration naturally led to bitter words, and the sisters parted, swearing they would never see each otheragain, and since then Mme Lerat had spent most of her evenings ather brother's. 

Three years passed away. There were reconciliations and new quarrels. Gervaise continued to be liked by her neighbors; she paid her billsregularly and was a good customer. When she went out she receivedcordial greetings on all sides, and she was more fond of going out inthese days than of yore. She liked to stand at the corners and chat. She liked to loiter with her arms full of bundles at a neighbor'swindow and hear a little gossip. 

CHAPTER VI

GOUJET AT HIS FORGE

One autumnal afternoon Gervaise, who had been to carry a basket ofclothes home to a customer who lived a good way off, found herself inLa Rue des Poissonniers just as it was growing dark. It had rained inthe morning, and the air was close and warm. She was tired with herwalk and felt a great desire for something good to eat. Just then shelifted her eyes and, seeing the name of the street, she took it intoher head that she would call on Goujet at his forge. But she would askfor Etienne, she said to herself. She did not know the number, but shecould find it, she thought. She wandered along and stood bewildered, looking toward Montmartre; all at once she heard the measured click ofhammers and concluded that she had stumbled on the place at last. Shedid not know where the entrance to the building was, but she caught agleam of a red light in the distance; she walked toward it and was metby a workman. 

"Is it here, sir, " she said timidly, "that my child--a little boy, that is to say--works? A little boy by the name of Etienne?"

"Etienne! Etienne!" repeated the man, swaying from side to side. Thewind brought from him to her an intolerable smell of brandy, whichcaused Gervaise to draw back and say timidly:

"Is it here that Monsieur Goujet works?"

"Ah, Goujet, yes. If it is Goujet you wish to see go to the left. "

Gervaise obeyed his instructions and found herself in a large roomwith the forge at the farther end. She spoke to the first man she saw, when suddenly the whole room was one blaze of light. The bellows hadsent up leaping flames which lit every crevice and corner of the dustyold building, and Gervaise recognized Goujet before the forge with twoother men. She went toward him. 

"Madame Gervaise!" he exclaimed in surprise, his face radiant withjoy, and then seeing his companions laugh and wink, he pushed Etiennetoward his mother. "You came to see your boy, " he said; "he does hisduty like a hero. 

"I am glad of it, " she answered, "but what an awful place this is toget at!"

And she described her journey, as she called it, and then asked whyno one seemed to know Etienne there. 

"Because, " said the blacksmith, "he is called Zou Zou here, as hishair is cut short as a Zouave's. "

This visit paid by Gervaise to the forge was only the first of manyothers. She often went on Saturdays when she carried the clean linento Mme Goujet, who still resided in the same house as before. Thefirst year Gervaise had paid them twenty francs each month, or ratherthe difference between the amount of their washing, seven or eightfrancs, and the twenty which she agreed upon. In this way she had paidhalf the money she had borrowed, when one quarter day, not knowingto whom to turn, as she had not been able to collect her billspunctually, she ran to the Goujets' and borrowed the amount of herrent from them. Twice since she had asked a similar favor, so that theamount of her indebtedness now stood at four hundred and twenty-fivefrancs. 

Now she no longer paid any cash but did their washing. It was not thatshe worked less hard or that her business was falling off. Quite thecontrary; but money had a way of melting away in her hands, and shewas content nowadays if she could only make both ends meet. What wasthe use of fussing, she thought? If she could manage to live that wasall that was necessary. She was growing quite stout withal. 

Mme Goujet was always kind to Gervaise, not because of any fear oflosing her money, but because she really loved her and was afraid ofher going wrong in some way. 

The Saturday after the first visit paid by Gervaise to the forge wasalso the first of the month. When she reached Mme Goujet's her basketwas so heavy that she panted for two good minutes before she couldspeak. Every one knows how heavy shirts and such things are. 

"Have you brought everything?" asked Mme Goujet, who was very exactingon this point. She insisted on every piece being returned each week. Another thing she exacted was that the clothes should be brought backalways on the same day and hour. 

"Everything is here, " answered Gervaise with a smile. "You know Inever leave anything behind. "

"That is true, " replied the elder woman. "You have many faults, mydear, but not that one yet. "

And while the laundress emptied her basket, laying the linen onthe bed, Mme Goujet paid her many compliments. She never burned herclothes or ironed off the buttons or tore them, but she did use atrifle too much bluing and made her shirts too stiff. 

"Feel, " she said; "it is like pasteboard. My son never complains, but I know he does not like them so. "

"And they shall not be so again, " said Gervaise. "No one ever touchesany of your things but myself, and I would do them over ten timesrather than see you dissatisfied. "

She colored as she spoke. 

"I have no intention of disparaging your work, " answered Mme Goujet. "I never saw anyone who did up laces and embroideries as you do, andthe fluting is simply perfect; the only trouble is a little too muchstarch, my dear. Goujet does not care to look like a fine gentleman. "

She took up her book and drew a pen through the pieces as she spoke. Everything was there. She brought out the bundle of soiled clothes. Gervaise put them in her basket and hesitated. 

"Madame Goujet, " she said at last, "if you do not mind I should liketo have the money for this week's wash. "

The account this month was larger than usual, ten francs and over. Mme Goujet looked at her gravely. 

"My child, " she said slowly, "it shall be as you wish. I do not refuseto give you the money if you desire it; only this is not the way toget out of debt. I say this with no unkindness, you understand. Onlyyou must take care. "

Gervaise, with downcast eyes, received the lesson meekly. She neededthe ten francs to complete the amount due the coal merchant, she said. 

But her friend heard this with a stern countenance and told hershe should reduce her expenses, but she did not add that she, too, intended to do the same and that in future she should do her washingherself, as she had formerly done, if she were to be out of pocketthus. 

When Gervaise was on the staircase her heart was light, for she caredlittle for the reproof now that she had the ten francs in her hand;she was becoming accustomed to paying one debt by contracting another. 

Midway on the stairs she met a tall woman coming up with a freshmackerel in her hand, and behold! it was Virginie, the girl whom shehad whipped in the lavatory. The two looked each other full in theface. Gervaise instinctively closed her eyes, for she thought the girlwould slap her in the face with the mackerel. But, no; Virginie gave aconstrained smile. Then the laundress, whose huge basket filled up thestairway and who did not choose to be outdone in politeness, said:

"I beg your pardon--"

"Pray don't apologize, " answered Virginie in a stately fashion. 

And they stood and talked for a few minutes with not the smallestallusion, however, to the past. 

Virginie, then about twenty-nine, was really a magnificent-lookingwoman, head well set on her shoulders and a long, oval face crowned bybands of glossy black hair. She told her history in a few brief words. She was married. Had married the previous spring a cabinetmaker whohad given up his trade and was hoping to obtain a position on thepolice force. She had just been out to buy this mackerel for him. 

"He adores them, " she said, "and we women spoil our husbands, I think. But come up. We are standing in a draft here. "

When Gervaise had, in her turn, told her story and added that Virginiewas living in the very rooms where she had lived and where her childwas born, Virginie became still more urgent that she should go up. "Itis always pleasant to see a place where one has been happy, " she said. She herself had been living on the other side of the water but had gottired of it and had moved into these rooms only two weeks ago. She wasnot settled yet. Her name was Mme Poisson. 

"And mine, " said Gervaise, "is Coupeau. "

Gervaise was a little suspicious of all this courtesy. Might not someterrible revenge be hidden under it all? And she determined to be wellon her guard. But as Virginie was so polite just now she must bepolite in her turn. 

Poisson, the husband, was a man of thirty-five with a mustache andimperial; he was seated at a table near the window, making littleboxes. His only tools were a penknife, a tiny saw and a gluepot; hewas executing the most wonderful and delicate carving, however. Henever sold his work but made presents of it to his friends. It amusedhim while he was awaiting his appointment. 

Poisson rose and bowed politely to Gervaise, whom his wife called anold friend. But he did not speak, his conversational powers not beinghis strong point. He cast a plaintive glance at the mackerel, however, from time to time. Gervaise looked around the room and described herfurniture and where it had stood. How strange it was, after losingsight of each other so long, that they should occupy the sameapartment! Virginie entered into new details. He had a smallinheritance from his aunt, and she herself sewed a little, made adress now and then. At the end of a half-hour Gervaise rose to depart;Virginie went to the head of the stairs with her, and there bothhesitated. Gervaise fancied that Virginie wished to say somethingabout Lantier and Adele, but they separated without touching on thesedisagreeable topics. 

This was the beginning of a great friendship. In another week Virginiecould not pass the shop without going in, and sometimes she remainedfor two or three hours. At first Gervaise was very uncomfortable;she thought every time Virginie opened her lips that she would hearLantier's name. Lantier was in her mind all the time she was with MmePoisson. It was a stupid thing to do, after all, for what on earthdid she care what had become of Lantier or of Adele? But she was, nonetheless, curious to know something about them. 

Winter had come, the fourth winter that the Coupeaus had spent in LaRue de la Goutte-d'Or. This year December and January were especiallysevere, and after New Year's the snow lay three weeks in the streetwithout melting. There was plenty of work for Gervaise, and her shopwas delightfully warm and singularly quiet, for the carriages madeno noise in the snow-covered streets. The laughs and shouts of thechildren were almost the only sounds; they had made a long slide andenjoyed themselves hugely. 

Gervaise took especial pleasure in her coffee at noon. Her apprenticeshad no reason to complain, for it was hot and strong and unadulteratedby chicory. On the morning of Twelfth-day the clock had struck twelveand then half past, and the coffee was not ready. Gervaise was ironingsome muslin curtains. Clemence, with a frightful cold, was, as usual, at work on a man's shirt. Mme Putois was ironing a skirt on a board, with a cloth laid on the floor to prevent the skirt from being soiled. Mamma Coupeau brought in the coffee, and as each one of the women tooka cup with a sigh of enjoyment the street door opened and Virginiecame in with a rush of cold air. 

"Heavens!" she cried. "It is awful! My ears are cut off!"

"You have come just in time for a cup of hot coffee, " said Gervaisecordially. 

"And I shall be only too glad to have it!" answered Virginie with ashiver. She had been waiting at the grocer's, she said, until she waschilled through and through. The heat of that room was delicious, andthen she stirred her coffee and said she liked the damp, sweet smellof the freshly ironed linen. She and Mamma Coupeau were the only oneswho had chairs; the others sat on wooden footstools, so low that theyseemed to be on the floor. Virginie suddenly stooped down to herhostess and said with a smile:

"Do you remember that day at the lavatory?"

Gervaise colored; she could not answer. This was just what she hadbeen dreading. In a moment she felt sure she would hear Lantier'sname. She knew it was coming. Virginie drew nearer to her. Theapprentices lingered over their coffee and told each other as theylooked stupidly into the street what they would do if they had anincome of ten thousand francs. Virginie changed her seat and tooka footstool by the side of Gervaise, who felt weak and cowardly andhelpless to change the conversation or to stave off what was coming. She breathlessly awaited the next words, her heart big with an emotionwhich she would not acknowledge to herself. 

"I do not wish to give you any pain, " said Virginie blandly. "Twentytimes the words have been on my lips, but I hesitated. Pray don'tthink I bear you any malice. "

She tipped up her cup and drank the last drop of her coffee. Gervaise, with her heart in her mouth, waited in a dull agony of suspense, asking herself if Virginie could have forgiven the insult in thelavatory. There was a glitter in the woman's eyes she did not like. 

"You had an excuse, " Virginie added as she placed her cup on thetable. "You had been abominably treated. I should have killedsomeone. " And then, dropping her little-affected tone, she continuedmore rapidly:

"They were not happy, I assure you, not at all happy. They lived in adirty street, where the mud was up to their knees. I went to breakfastwith them two days after he left you and found them in the height ofa quarrel. You know that Adele is a wretch. She is my sister, to besure, but she is a wretch all the same. As to Lantier--well, you knowhim, so I need not describe him. But for a yes or a no he would nothesitate to thresh any woman that lives. Oh, they had a beautifultime! Their quarrels were heard all over the neighborhood. One daythe police were sent for, they made such a hubbub. "

She talked on and on, telling things that were enough to make the hairstand up on one's head. Gervaise listened, as pale as death, with anervous trembling of her lips which might have been taken for a smile. For seven years she had never heard Lantier's name, and she wouldnot have believed that she could have felt any such overwhelmingagitation. She could no longer be jealous of Adele, but she smiledgrimly as she thought of the blows she had received in her turn fromLantier, and she would have listened for hours to all that Virginiahad to tell, but she did not ask a question for some time. Finallyshe said:

"And do they still live in that same place?"

"No indeed! But I have not told you all yet. They separated a weekago. "

"Separated!" exclaimed the clearstarcher. 

"Who is separated?" asked Clemence, interrupting her conversationwith Mamma Coupeau. 

"No one, " said Virginie, "or at least no one whom you know. "

As she spoke she looked at Gervaise and seemed to take a positivedelight in disturbing her still more. She suddenly asked her whatshe would do or say if Lantier should suddenly make his appearance, for men were so strange; no one could ever tell what they would do. Lantier was quite capable of returning to his old love. Then Gervaiseinterrupted her and rose to the occasion. She answered with gravedignity that she was married now and that if Lantier should appearshe would ask him to leave. There could never be anything more betweenthem, not even the most distant acquaintance. 

"I know very well, " she said, "that Etienne belongs to him, and ifLantier desires to see his son I shall place no obstacle in his way. But as to myself, Madame Poisson, he shall never touch my littlefinger again! It is finished. "

As she uttered these last words she traced a cross in the air to sealher oath, and as if desirous to put an end to the conversation, shecalled out to her women:

"Do you think the ironing will be done today if you sit still? Towork! To work!"

The women did not move; they were lulled to apathy by the heat, andGervaise herself found it very difficult to resume her labors. Hercurtains had dried in all this time, and some coffee had been spilledon them, and she must wash out the spots. 

"Au revoir!" said Virginie. "I came out to buy a half pound of cheese. Poisson will think I am frozen to death!"

The better part of the day was now gone, and it was this way everyday, for the shop was the refuge and haunt of all the chilly peoplein the neighborhood. Gervaise liked the reputation of having themost comfortable room in the _Quartier_, and she held her receptions, as the Lorilleux and Boche clique said, with a sniff of disdain. Shewould, in fact, have liked to bring in the very poor whom she sawshivering outside. She became very friendly toward a journeymanpainter, an old man of seventy, who lived in a loft of the house, where he shivered with cold and hunger. He had lost his three sonsin the Crimea, and for two years his hand had been so cramped byrheumatism that he could not hold a brush. 

Whenever Gervaise saw Father Bru she called him in, made a place forhim near the stove and gave him some bread and cheese. Father Bru, with his white beard and his face wrinkled like an old apple, satin silent content for hours at a time, enjoying the warmth and thecrackling of the coke. 

"What are you thinking about?" Gervaise would say gaily. 

"Of nothing--of all sorts of things, " he would reply with a dazed air. 

The workwomen laughed and thought it a good joke to ask if he were inlove. He paid little heed to them but relapsed into silent thought. 

From this time Virginie often spoke to Gervaise of Lantier, and oneday she said she had just met him. But as the clearstarcher made noreply Virginie then said no more. But on the next day she returned tothe subject and told her that he had talked long and tenderly of her. Gervaise was much troubled by these whispered conversations in thecorner of her shop. The name of Lantier made her faint and sick atheart. She believed herself to be an honest woman. She meant, in everyway, to do right and to shun the wrong, because she felt that only indoing so could she be happy. She did not think much of Coupeau becauseshe was conscious of no shortcomings toward him. But she thought ofher friend at the forge, and it seemed to her that this return of herinterest in Lantier, faint and undecided as it was, was an infidelityto Goujet and to that tender friendship which had become so veryprecious to her. Her heart was much troubled in these days. She dwelton that time when her first lover left her. She imagined another daywhen, quitting Adele, he might return to her--with that old familiartrunk. 

When she went into the street it was with a spasm of terror. Shefancied that every step behind her was Lantier's. She dared notlook around lest his hand should glide about her waist. He mightbe watching for her at any time. He might come to her door in theafternoon, and this idea brought a cold sweat to her forehead, becausehe would certainly kiss her on her ear as he had often teased her bydoing in the years gone by. It was this kiss she dreaded. Its dullreverberation deafened her to all outside sounds, and she could hearonly the beatings of her own heart. When these terrors assailed herthe forge was her only asylum, from whence she returned smiling andserene, feeling that Goujet, whose sonorous hammer had put all herbad dreams to flight, would protect her always. 

What a happy season this was after all! The clearstarcher alwayscarried a certain basket of clothes to her customer each week, becauseit gave her a pretext for going into the forge, as it was on herway. As soon as she turned the corner of the street in which it wassituated she felt as lighthearted as if she were going to the country. The black charcoal dust in the road, the black smoke rising slowlyfrom the chimneys, interested and pleased her as much as a mossy paththrough the woods. Afar off the forge was red even at midday, andher heart danced in time with the hammers. Goujet was expecting herand making more noise than usual, that she might hear him at a greatdistance. She gave Etienne a light tap on his cheek and sat quietlywatching these two--this man and boy, who were so dear to her--for anhour without speaking. When the sparks touched her tender skin sherather enjoyed the sensation. He, in his turn, was fully aware ofthe happiness she felt in being there, and he reserved the work whichrequired skill for the time when she could look on in wonder andadmiration. It was an idyl that they were unconsciously enacting allthat spring, and when Gervaise returned to her home it was in a spiritof sweet content. 

By degrees her unreasonable fears of Lantier were conquered. Coupeauwas behaving very badly at this time, and one evening as she passedthe Assommoir she was certain she saw him drinking with Mes-Bottes. She hurried on lest she should seem to be watching him. But as shehastened she looked over her shoulder. Yes, it was Coupeau who wastossing down a glass of liquor with an air as if it were no newthing. He had lied to her then; he did drink brandy. She was in utterdespair, and all her old horror of brandy returned. Wine she couldhave forgiven--wine was good for a working man--liquor, on thecontrary, was his ruin and took from him all desire for the food thatnourished and gave him strength for his daily toil. Why did not thegovernment interfere and prevent the manufacture of such perniciousthings?

When she reached her home she found the whole house in confusion. Heremployees had left their work and were in the courtyard. She askedwhat the matter was. 

"It is Father Bijard beating his wife; he is as drunk as a fool, andhe drove her up the stairs to her room, where he is murdering her. Just listen!"

Gervaise flew up the stairs. She was very fond of Mme Bijard, who washer laundress and whose courage and industry she greatly admired. Onthe sixth floor a little crowd was assembled. Mme Boche stood at anopen door. 

"Have done!" she cried. "Have done, or the police will be summoned. "

No one dared enter the room, because Bijard was well known to be likea madman when he was tipsy. He was rarely thoroughly sober, and on theoccasional days when he condescended to work he always had a bottleof brandy at his side. He rarely ate anything, and if a match had beentouched to his mouth he would have taken fire like a torch. 

"Would you let her be killed?" exclaimed Gervaise, trembling from headto foot, and she entered the attic room, which was very clean and verybare, for the man had sold the very sheets off the bed to satisfy hismad passion for drink. In this terrible struggle for life the tablehad been thrown over, and the two chairs also. On the floor lay thepoor woman with her skirts drenched as she had come from the washtub, her hair streaming over her bloody face, uttering low groans at eachkick the brute gave her. 

The neighbors whispered to each other that she had refused to givehim the money she had earned that day. Boche called up the staircaseto his wife:

"Come down, I say; let him kill her if he will. It will only make onefool the less in the world!"

Father Bru followed Gervaise into the room, and the two expostulatedwith the madman. But he turned toward them, pale and threatening;a white foam glistened on his lips, and in his faded eyes there was amurderous expression. He grasped Father Bru by the shoulder and threwhim over the table and shook Gervaise until her teeth chattered andthen returned to his wife, who lay motionless, with her mouth wideopen and her eyes closed; and during this frightful scene littleLalie, four years old, was in the corner, looking on at the murderof her mother. The child's arms were round her sister Henriette, a baby who had just been weaned. She stood with a sad, solemn faceand serious, melancholy eyes but shed no tears. 

When Bijard slipped and fell Gervaise and Father Bru helped the poorcreature to her feet, who then burst into sobs. Lalie went to herside, but she did not cry, for the child was already habituated tosuch scenes. And as Gervaise went down the stairs she was haunted bythe strange look of resignation and courage in Lalie's eyes; it wasan expression belonging to maturity and experience rather than tochildhood. 

"Your husband is on the other side of the street, " said Clemenceas soon as she saw Gervaise; "he is as tipsy as possible!"

Coupeau reeled in, breaking a square of glass with his shoulder ashe missed the doorway. He was not tipsy but drunk, with his teeth setfirmly together and a pinched expression about the nose. And Gervaiseinstantly knew that it was the liquor of the Assommoir which hadvitiated his blood. She tried to smile and coaxed him to go to bed. But he shook her off and as he passed her gave her a blow. 

He was just like the other--the beast upstairs who was now snoring, tired out by beating his wife. She was chilled to the heart anddesperate. Were all men alike? She thought of Lantier and of herhusband and wondered if there was no happiness in the world. 

CHAPTER VII

A BIRTHDAY FETE

The nineteenth of June was the clearstarcher's birthday. There wasalways an excuse for a fete in the Coupeau mansion; saints wereinvented to serve as a pretext for idleness and festivities. Virginiehighly commended Gervaise for living luxuriously. What was the useof her husband drinking up everything? Why should she save for herhusband to spend at all the wineshops in the neighborhood? AndGervaise accepted this excuse. She was growing very indolent andmuch stouter, while her lameness had perceptibly increased. 

For a whole month they discussed the preparation for this fete; theytalked over dishes and licked their lips. They must have something outof the common way. Gervaise was much troubled as to whom she shouldinvite. She wanted exactly twelve at table, not one more or one less. She, her husband, her mother-in-law and Mme Lerat were four. TheGoujets and Poissons were four more. At first she thought she wouldnot ask her two women, Mme Putois and Clemence, lest it should makethem too familiar, but as the entertainment was constantly underdiscussion before them she ended by inviting them too. Thus there wereten; she must have two more. She decided on a reconciliation with theLorilleuxs, who had extended the olive branch several times lately. Family quarrels were bad things, she said. When the Boche people heardof this they showed several little courtesies to Gervaise, who feltobliged to urge them to come also. This made fourteen without countingthe children. She had never had a dinner like this, and she was bothtriumphant and terrified. 

The nineteenth fell on a Monday, and Gervaise thought it veryfortunate, as she could begin her cooking on Sunday afternoon. OnSaturday, while the women hurried through their work, there was anendless discussion as to what the dishes should be. In the last threeweeks only one thing had been definitely decided upon--a roast goosestuffed with onions. The goose had been purchased, and Mme Coupeaubrought it in that Mme Putois might guess its weight. The thing lookedenormous, and the fat seemed to burst from its yellow skin. 

"Soup before that, of course, " said Gervaise, "and we must haveanother dish. "

Clemence proposed rabbits, but Gervaise wanted something moredistinguished. Mme Putois suggested a _blanquette du veau_. 

That was a new idea. Veal was always good too. Then Mme Coupeau madean allusion to fish, which no one seconded. Evidently fish was notin favor. Gervaise proposed a sparerib of pork and potatoes, whichbrightened all their faces, just as Virginie came in like a whirlwind. 

"You are just in season. Mamma Coupeau, show her the goose, " criedGervaise. 

Virginie admired it, guessed the weight and laid it down on theironing table between an embroidered skirt and a pile of shirts. Shewas evidently thinking of something else. She soon led Gervaise intothe back shop. 

"I have come to warn you, " she said quickly. "I just met Lantierat the very end of this street, and I am sure he followed me, andI naturally felt alarmed on your account, my dear. "

Gervaise turned very pale. What did he want of her? And why on earthshould he worry her now amid all the busy preparations for the fete?It seemed as if she never in her life had set her heart on anythingthat she was not disappointed. Why was it that she could never havea minute's peace?

But Virginie declared that she would look out for her. If Lantierfollowed her she would certainly give him over to the police. Herhusband had been in office now for a month, and Virginie was verydictatorial and aggressive and talked of arresting everyone whodispleased her. She raised her voice as she spoke, but Gervaiseimplored her to be cautious, because her women could hear every word. They went back to the front shop, and she was the first to speak. 

"We have said nothing of vegetables, " she said quietly. 

"Peas, with a bit of pork, " said Virginie authoritatively. 

This was agreed upon with enthusiasm. 

The next day at three Mamma Coupeau lighted the two furnaces belongingto the house and a third one borrowed from Mme Boche, and at half-pastthree the soup was gently simmering in a large pot lent by therestaurant at the corner. They had decided to cook the veal and thepork the day previous, as those two dishes could be warmed up so well, and would leave for Monday only the goose to roast and the vegetables. The back shop was ruddy with the glow from the three furnaces--sauceswere bubbling with a strong smell of browned flour. Mamma Coupeauand Gervaise, each with large white aprons, were washing celery andrunning hither and thither with pepper and salt or hurriedly turningthe veal with flat wooden sticks made for the purpose. They had toldCoupeau pleasantly that his room was better than his company, but theyhad plenty of people there that afternoon. The smell of the cookingfound its way out into the street and up through the house, and theneighbors, impelled by curiosity, came down on all sorts of pretexts, merely to discover what was going on. 

About five Virginie made her appearance. She had seen Lantier twice. Indeed, it was impossible nowadays to enter the street and not seehim. Mme Boche, too, had spoken to him on the corner below. ThenGervaise, who was on the point of going for a sou's worth of friedonions to season her soup, shuddered from head to foot and said shewould not go out ever again. The concierge and Virginie added to herterror by a succession of stories of men who lay in wait for women, with knives and pistols hidden in their coats. 

Such things were read every day in the papers! When such a scamp asLantier found a woman happy and comfortable, he was always wretcheduntil he had made her so too. Virginie said she would go for theonions. "Women, " she observed sententiously, "should protect eachother, as well as serve each other, in such matters. " When shereturned she reported that Lantier was no longer there. Theconversation around the stove that evening never once drifted fromthat subject. Mme Boche said that she, under similar circumstances, should tell her husband, but Gervaise was horror-struck at this andbegged her never to breathe one single word about it. Besides, shefancied her husband had caught a glimpse of Lantier from something hehad muttered amid a volley of oaths two or three nights before. Shewas filled with dread lest these two men should meet. She knew Coupeauso well that she had long since discovered that he was still jealousof Lantier, and while the four women discussed the imminent danger ofa terrible tragedy the sauces and the meats hissed and simmered on thefurnaces, and they ended by each taking a cup of soup to discover whatimprovement was desirable. 

Monday arrived. Now that Gervaise had invited fourteen to dine, shebegan to be afraid there would not be room and finally decided to laythe table in the shop. She was uncertain how to place the table, whichwas the ironing table on trestles. In the midst of the hubbub andconfusion a customer arrived and made a scene because her linen hadnot come home on the Friday previous. She insisted on having everypiece that moment--clean or dirty, ironed or rough-dry. 

Then Gervaise, to excuse herself, told a lie with wonderful_sang-froid_. It was not her fault. She was cleaning her rooms. Herwomen would be at work again the next day, and she got rid of hercustomer, who went away soothed by the promise that her wash wouldbe sent to her early the following morning. 

But Gervaise lost her temper, which was not a common thing withher, and as soon as the woman's back was turned called her by anopprobrious name and declared that if she did as people wished shecould not take time to eat and vowed she would not have an iron heatedthat day or the next in her establishment. No! Not if the Grand Turkhimself should come and entreat her on his knees to do up a collarfor him. She meant to enjoy herself a little occasionally!

The entire morning was consumed in making purchases. Three times didGervaise go out and come in, laden with bundles. But when she went thefourth time for the wine she discovered that she had not money enough. She could have got the wine on credit, but she could not be withoutmoney in the house, for a thousand little unexpected expenses ariseat such times, and she and her mother-in-law racked their brainsto know what they should do to get the twenty francs they considerednecessary. Mme Coupeau, who had once been housekeeper for an actress, was the first to speak of the Mont-de-Piete. Gervaise laughed gaily. 

"To be sure! Why had she not thought of it before?"

She folded her black silk dress and pinned it in a napkin; then shehid the bundle under her mother-in-law's apron and bade her keep itvery flat, lest the neighbors, who were so terribly inquisitive, should find it out, and then she watched the old woman from the doorto see that no one followed her. 

But when Mamma Coupeau had gone a few steps Gervaise called her backinto the shop and, taking her wedding ring from her finger, said:

"Take this, too, for we shall need all the money we can get today. "

And when the old woman came back with twenty-five francs she clappedher hands with joy. She ordered six bottles of wine with seals todrink with the roast. The Lorilleuxs would be green with envy. For afortnight this had been her idea, to crush the Lorilleuxs, who werenever known to ask a friend to their table; who, on the contrary, locked their doors when they had anything special to eat. Gervaisewanted to give her a lesson and would have liked to offer thestrangers who passed her door a seat at her table. Money was a verygood thing and mighty pretty to look at, but it was good for nothingbut to spend. 

Mamma Coupeau and Gervaise began to lay their table at three o'clock. They had hung curtains before the windows, but as the day was warm thedoor into the street was open. The two women did not put on a plateor salt spoon without the avowed intention of worrying the Lorilleuxs. They had given them seats where the table could be seen to the bestadvantage, and they placed before them the real china plates. 

"No, no, Mamma, " cried Gervaise, "not those napkins. I have two whichare real damask. "

"Well! Well! I declare!" murmured the old woman. "What will they sayto all this?"

And they smiled as they stood at opposite sides of this long tablewith its glossy white cloth and its places for fourteen carefullylaid. They worshiped there as if it had been a chapel erected in themiddle of the shop. 

"How false they are!" said Gervaise. "Do you remember how she declaredshe had lost a piece of one of the chains when she was carrying themhome? That was only to get out of giving you your five francs. "

"Which I have never had from them but just twice, " muttered the oldwoman. 

"I will wager that next month they will invent another tale. That isone reason why they lock their doors when they have a rabbit. Theythink people might say, 'If you can eat rabbits you can give fivefrancs to your mother!' How mean they are! What do they think wouldhave become of you if I had not asked you to come and live here?"

Her mother-in-law shook her head. She was rather severe in herjudgment of the Lorilleuxs that day, inasmuch as she was influencedby the gorgeous entertainment given by the Coupeaus. She liked theexcitement; she liked to cook. She generally lived pretty well withGervaise, but on those days which occur in all households, when thedinner was scanty and unsatisfactory, she called herself a mostunhappy woman, left to the mercy of a daughter-in-law. In the depthsof her heart she still loved Mme Lorilleux; she was her eldest child. 

"You certainly would have weighed some pounds less with her, "continued Gervaise. "No coffee, no tobacco, no sweets. And do youimagine that they would have put two mattresses on your bed?"

"No indeed, " answered the old woman, "but I wish to see them whenthey first come in--just to see how they look!"

At four o'clock the goose was roasted, and Augustine, seated on alittle footstool, was given a long-handled spoon and bidden to watchand baste it every few minutes. Gervaise was busy with the peas, andMamma Coupeau, with her head a little confused, was waiting until itwas time to heat the veal and the pork. At five the guests began toarrive. Clemence and Mme Putois, gorgeous to behold in their Sundayrig, were the first. 

Clemence wore a blue dress and had some geraniums in her hand; Madamewas in black, with a bunch of heliotrope. Gervaise, whose hands werecovered with flour, put them behind her back, came forward and kissedthem cordially. 

After them came Virginie in scarf and hat, though she had only tocross the street; she wore a printed muslin and was as imposing asany lady in the land. She brought a pot of red carnations and putboth her arms around her friend and kissed her. 

The offering brought by Boche was a pot of pansies, and his wife's wasmignonette; Mme Lerat's, a lemon verbena. The three furnaces filledthe room with an overpowering heat, and the frying potatoes drownedtheir voices. Gervaise was very sweet and smiling, thanking everyonefor the flowers, at the same time making the dressing for the salad. The perfume of the flowers was perceived above all the smell ofcooking. 

"Can't I help you?" said Virginie. "It is a shame to have you work sohard for three days on all these things that we shall gobble up in notime. "

"No indeed, " answered Gervaise; "I am nearly through. "

The ladies covered the bed with their shawls and bonnets and then wentinto the shop that they might be out of the way and talked through theopen door with much noise and loud laughing. 

At this moment Goujet appeared and stood timidly on the threshold witha tall white rosebush in his arms whose flowers brushed against hisyellow beard. Gervaise ran toward him with her cheeks reddened by herfurnaces. She took the plant, crying:

"How beautiful!"

He dared not kiss her, and she was compelled to offer her cheek tohim, and both were embarrassed. He told her in a confused way that hismother was ill with sciatica and could not come. Gervaise was greatlydisappointed, but she had no time to say much just then: she wasbeginning to be anxious about Coupeau--he ought to be in--then, too, where were the Lorilleuxs? She called Mme Lerat, who had arranged thereconciliation, and bade her go and see. 

Mme Lerat put on her hat and shawl with excessive care and departed. A solemn hush of expectation pervaded the room. 

Mme Lerat presently reappeared. She had come round by the street togive a more ceremonious aspect to the affair. She held the door openwhile Mme Lorilleux, in a silk dress, stood on the threshold. All theguests rose, and Gervaise went forward to meet her sister and kissedher, as had been agreed upon. 

"Come in! Come in!" she said. "We are friends again. "

"And I hope for always, " answered her sister-in-law severely. 

After she was ushered in the same program had to be followed out withher husband. Neither of the two brought any flowers. They had refusedto do so, saying that it would look as if they were bowing down toWooden Legs. Gervaise summoned Augustine and bade her bring some wineand then filled glasses for all the party, and each drank the healthof the family. 

"It is a good thing before soup, " muttered Boche. 

Mamma Coupeau drew Gervaise into the next room. 

"Did you see her?" she said eagerly. "I was watching her, and when shesaw the table her face was as long as my arm, and now she is gnawingher lips; she is so mad!"

It was true the Lorilleuxs could not stand that table with its whitelinen, its shining glass and square piece of bread at each place. Itwas like a restaurant on the boulevard, and Mme Lorilleux felt of thecloth stealthily to ascertain if it were new. 

"We are all ready, " cried Gervaise, reappearing and pulling down hersleeves over her white arms. 

"Where can Coupeau be?" she continued. 

"He is always late! He always forgets!" muttered his sister. Gervaisewas in despair. Everything would be spoiled. She proposed that someoneshould go out and look for him. Goujet offered to go, and she said shewould accompany him. Virginie followed, all three bareheaded. Everyonelooked at them, so gay and fresh on a week-day. Virginie in her pinkmuslin and Gervaise in a white cambric with blue spots and a gray silkhandkerchief knotted round her throat. They went to one wineshop afteranother, but no Coupeau. Suddenly, as they went toward the boulevard, his wife uttered an exclamation. 

"What is the matter?" asked Goujet. 

The clearstarcher was very pale and so much agitated that she couldhardly stand. Virginie knew at once and, leaning over her, looked inat the restaurant and saw Lantier quietly dining. 

"I turned my foot, " said Gervaise when she could speak. Finally at theAssommoir they found Coupeau and Poisson. They were standing in thecenter of an excited crowd. Coupeau, in a gray blouse, was quarrelingwith someone, and Poisson, who was not on duty that day, was listeningquietly, his red mustache and imperial giving him, however, quite aformidable aspect. 

Goujet left the women outside and, going in, placed his hand onCoupeau's shoulder, who, when he saw his wife and Virginie, fellinto a great rage. 

No, he would not move! He would not stand being followed about bywomen in this way! They might go home and eat their rubbishy dinnerthemselves! He did not want any of it!

To appease him Goujet was compelled to drink with him, and finallyhe persuaded him to go with him. But when he was outside he said toGervaise:

"I am not going home; you need not think it!"

She did not reply. She was trembling from head to foot. She had beenspeaking of Lantier to Virginie and begged the other to go on infront, while the two women walked on either side of Coupeau to preventhim from seeing Lantier as they passed the open window where he sateating his dinner. 

But Coupeau knew that Lantier was there, for he said:

"There's a fellow I know, and you know him too!"

He then went on to accuse her, with many a coarse word, of coming outto look, not for him, but for her old lover, and then all at once hepoured out a torrent of abuse upon Lantier, who, however, never lookedup or appeared to hear it. 

Virginie at last coaxed Coupeau on, whose rage disappeared when theyturned the corner of the street. They returned to the shop, however, in a very different mood from the one in which they had left it andfound the guests, with very long faces, awaiting them. 

Coupeau shook hands with the ladies in succession, with difficultykeeping his feet as he did so, and Gervaise, in a choked voice, beggedthem to take their seats. But suddenly she perceived that Mme Goujetnot having come, there was an empty seat next to Mme Lorilleux. 

"We are thirteen, " she said, much disturbed, as she fancied this to bean additional proof of the misfortune which for some time she had feltto be hanging over them. 

The ladies, who were seated, started up. Mme Putois offered to leavebecause, she said, no one should fly in the face of Destiny; besides, she was not hungry. As to Boche, he laughed, and said it was allnonsense. 

"Wait!" cried Gervaise. "I will arrange it. "

And rushing out on the sidewalk, she called to Father Bru, who wascrossing the street, and the old man followed her into the room. 

"Sit there, " said the clearstarcher. "You are willing to dine withus, are you not?"

He nodded acquiescence. 

"He will do as well as another, " she continued in a low voice. "Herarely, if ever, had as much as he wanted to eat, and it will be apleasure to us to see him enjoy his dinner. "

Goujet's eyes were damp, so much was he touched by the kind way inwhich Gervaise spoke, and the others felt that it would bring themgood luck. Mme Lorilleux was the only one who seemed displeased. Shedrew her skirts away and looked down with disgusted mien upon thepatched blouse at her side. 

Gervaise served the soup, and the guests were just lifting theirspoons to their mouths when Virginie noticed that Coupeau haddisappeared. He had probably returned to the more congenial society atthe Assommoir, and someone said he might stay in the street; certainlyno one would go after him, but just as they had swallowed the soupCoupeau appeared bearing two pots, one under each arm--a balsam anda wallflower. All the guests clapped their hands. He placed them oneither side of Gervaise and, kissing her, he said:

"I forgot you, my dear, but all the same I loved you very much. "

"Monsieur Coupeau is very amiable tonight; he has taken just enoughto make him good natured, " whispered one of the guests. 

This little act on the part of the host brought back the smiles to thefaces around the table. The wine began to circulate, and the voices ofthe children were heard in the next room. Etienne, Nana, Pauline andlittle Victor Fauconnier were installed at a small table and were toldto be very good. 

When the _blanquette du veau_ was served the guests were moved toenthusiasm. It was now half-past seven. The door of the shop was shutto keep out inquisitive eyes, and curtains hung before the windows. The veal was a great success; the sauce was delicious and themushrooms extraordinarily good. Then came the sparerib of pork. Of course all these good things demanded a large amount of wine. 

In the next room at the children's table Nana was playing the mistressof the household. She was seated at the head of the table and for awhile was quite dignified, but her natural gluttony made her forgether good manners when she saw Augustine stealing the peas from theplate, and she slapped the girl vehemently. 

"Take care, mademoiselle, " said Augustine sulkily, "or I will tellyour mother that I heard you ask Victor to kiss you. "

Now was the time for the goose. Two lamps were placed on the table, one at each end, and the disorder was very apparent: the cloth wasstained and spotted. Gervaise left the table to reappear presently, bearing the goose in triumph. Lorilleux and his wife exchanged a lookof dismay. 

"Who will cut it?" said the clearstarcher. "No, not I. It is too bigfor me to manage!"

Coupeau said he could do it. After all, it was a simple thingenough--he should just tear it to pieces. 

There was a cry of dismay. 

Mme Lerat had an inspiration. 

"Monsieur Poisson is the man, " she said; "of course he understands theuse of arms. " And she handed the sergeant the carving knife. Poissonmade a stiff inclination of his whole body and drew the dish towardhim and went to work in a slow, methodical fashion. As he thrust hisknife into the breast Lorilleux was seized with momentary patriotism, and he exclaimed:

"If it were only a Cossack!"

At last the goose was carved and distributed, and the whole partyate as if they were just beginning their dinner. Presently there wasa grand outcry about the heat, and Coupeau opened the door into thestreet. Gervaise devoured large slices of the breast, hardly speaking, but a little ashamed of her own gluttony in the presence of Goujet. She never forgot old Bru, however, and gave him the choicest morsels, which he swallowed unconsciously, his palate having long since lostthe power of distinguishing flavors. Mamma Coupeau picked a bone withher two remaining teeth. 

And the wine! Good heavens, how much they drank! A pile of emptybottles stood in the corner. When Mme Putois asked for water Coupeauhimself removed the carafes from the table. No one should drink water, he declared, in his house--did she want to swallow frogs and livethings?--and he filled up all the glasses. Hypocrites might talk asmuch as they pleased; the juice of the grape was a mighty good thingand a famous invention!

The guests all laughed and approved; working people must have theirwine, they said, and Father Noah had planted the vine for themespecially. Wine gave courage and strength for work; and if it chancedthat a man sometimes took a drop too much, in the end it did him noharm, and life looked brighter to him for a time. Goujet himself, whowas usually so prudent and abstemious, was becoming a little excited. Boche was growing red, and the Lorilleux pair very pale, while Poissonassumed a solemn and severe aspect. The men were all more or lesstipsy, and the ladies--well, the less we say of the ladies, thebetter. 

Suddenly Gervaise remembered the six bottles of sealed wine she hadomitted to serve with the goose as she had intended. She produced themamid much applause. The glasses were filled anew, and Poisson roseand proposed the health of their hostess. 

"And fifty more birthdays!" cried Virginie. 

"No, no, " answered Gervaise with a smile that had a touch of sadnessin it. "I do not care to live to be very old. There comes a time whenone is glad to go!"

A little crowd had collected outside and smiled at the scene, andthe smell of the goose pervaded the whole street. The clerks in thegrocery opposite licked their lips and said it was good and curiouslyestimated the amount of wine that had been consumed. 

None of the guests were annoyed by being the subjects of observation, although they were fully aware of it and, in fact, rather enjoyed it. Coupeau, catching sight of a familiar face, held up a bottle, which, being accepted with a nod, he sent it out with a glass. Thisestablished a sort of fraternity with the street. 

In the next room the children were unmanageable. They had takenpossession of a saucepan and were drumming on it with spoons. MammaCoupeau and Father Bru were talking earnestly. The old man wasspeaking of his two sons who had died in the Crimea. Ah, had theybut lived, he would have had bread to eat in his old age!

Mme Coupeau, whose tongue was a little thick, said:

"Yes, but one has a good deal of unhappiness with children. Many anhour have I wept on account of mine. "

Father Bru hardly heard what she said but talked on, half to himself. 

"I can't get any work to do. I am too old. When I ask for any peoplelaugh and ask if it was I who blacked Henri Quatre's boots. Last yearI earned thirty sous by painting a bridge. I had to lie on my backall the time, close to the water, and since then I have coughedincessantly. " He looked down at his poor stiff hands and added, "I know I am good for nothing. I wish I was by the side of my boys. It is a great pity that one can't kill one's self when one beginsto grow old. "

"Really, " said Lorilleux, "I cannot see why the government does notdo something for people in your condition. Men who are disabled--"

"But workmen are not soldiers, " interrupted Poisson, who consideredit his duty to espouse the cause of the government. "It is foolishto expect them to do impossibilities. "

The dessert was served. In the center was a pyramid of spongecakein the form of a temple with melonlike sides, and on the top was anartificial rose with a butterfly of silver paper hovering over it, held by a gilt wire. Two drops of gum in the heart of the rose stoodfor dew. On the left was a deep plate with a bit of cheese, and on theother side of the pyramid was a dish of strawberries, which had beensugared and carefully crushed. 

In the salad dish there were a few leaves of lettuce left. 

"Madame Boche, " said Gervaise courteously, "pray eat these. I knowhow fond you are of salad. "

The concierge shook her head. There were limits even to hercapacities, and she looked at the lettuce with regret. Clemence toldhow she had once eaten three quarts of water cresses at her breakfast. Mme Putois declared that she enjoyed lettuce with a pinch of salt andno dressing, and as they talked the ladies emptied the salad bowl. 

None of the guests were dismayed at the dessert, although they hadeaten so enormously. They had the night before them too; there was noneed of haste. The men lit their pipes and drank more wine while theywatched Gervaise cut the cake. Poisson, who prided himself on hisknowledge of the habits of good society, rose and took the rose fromthe top and presented it to the hostess amid the loud applause of thewhole party. She fastened it just over her heart, and the butterflyfluttered at every movement. A song was proposed--comic songs were aspecialty with Boche--and the whole party joined in the chorus. Themen kept time with their heels and the women with their knives ontheir glasses. The windows of the shop jarred with the noise. Virginiehad disappeared twice, and the third time, when she came back, shesaid to Gervaise:

"My dear, he is still at the restaurant and pretends to be readinghis paper. I fear he is meditating some mischief. "

She spoke of Lantier. She had been out to see if he were anywherein the vicinity. Gervaise became very grave. 

"Is he tipsy?" she asked. 

"No indeed, and that is what troubled me. Why on earth should he staythere so long if he is not drinking? My heart is in my mouth; I am soafraid something will happen. "

The clearstarcher begged her to say no more. Mme Putois started upand began a fierce piratical song, standing stiff and erect in herblack dress, her pale face surrounded by her black lace cap, andgesticulating violently. Poisson nodded approval. He had been to sea, and he knew all about it. 

Gervaise, assisted by her mother-in-law, now poured out the coffee. Her guests insisted on a song from her, declaring that it was herturn. She refused. Her face was disturbed and pale, so much so thatshe was asked if the goose disagreed with her. 

Finally she began to sing a plaintive melody all about dreams andrest. Her eyelids half closed as she ended, and she peered out intothe darkness. Then followed a barcarole from Mme Boche and a romancefrom Lorilleux, in which figured perfumes of Araby, ivory throats, ebony hair, kisses, moonlight and guitars! Clemence followed witha song which recalled the country with its descriptions of birdsand flowers. Virginie brought down the house with her imitation ofa vivandiere, standing with her hand on her hip and a wineglass inher hand, which she emptied down her throat as she finished. 

But the grand success of the evening was Goujet, who sang in hisrich bass the _"Adieux d'Abd-et-Kader. "_ The words issued from hisyellow beard like the call of a trumpet and thrilled everyone aroundthe table. 

Virginie whispered to Gervaise:

"I have just seen Lantier pass the door. Good heavens! There he isagain, standing still and looking in. "

Gervaise caught her breath and timidly turned around. The crowd hadincreased, attracted by the songs. There were soldiers and shopkeepersand three little girls, five or six years old, holding each other bythe hand, grave and silent, struck with wonder and admiration. 

Lantier was directly in front of the door. Gervaise met his eyes andfelt the very marrow of her bones chilled; she could not move handor foot. 

Coupeau called for more wine, and Clemence helped herself to morestrawberries. The singing ceased, and the conversation turned upona woman who had hanged herself the day before in the next street. 

It was now Mme Lerat's turn to amuse the company, but she needed tomake certain preparations. 

She dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of water and appliedit to her temples because she was too warm. Then she asked for ateaspoonful of brandy and wiped her lips. 

"I will sing _'L'Enfant du Bon Dieu, '_" she said pompously. 

She stood up, with her square shoulders like those of a man, andbegan:

 _"L'Enfant perdu que sa mere abandonne, Troue toujours un asile au Saint lieu, Dieu qui le voit, le defend de son trone, L'Enfant perdu, c'est L'Enfant du bon Dieu. "_

She raised her eyes to heaven and placed one hand on her heart; hervoice was not without a certain sympathetic quality, and Gervaise, already quivering with emotion caused by the knowledge of Lantier'spresence, could no longer restrain her tears. It seemed to her thatshe was the deserted child whom _le bon Dieu_ had taken under Hiscare. Clemence, who was quite tipsy, burst into loud sobs. The ladiestook out their handkerchiefs and pressed them to their eyes, ratherproud of their tenderness of heart. 

The men felt it their duty to respect the feeling shown by the womenand were, in fact, somewhat touched themselves. The wine had softenedtheir hearts apparently. 

Gervaise and Virginie watched the shadows outside. Mme Boche, in herturn, now caught a glimpse of Lantier and uttered an exclamation asshe wiped away her fast-falling tears. The three women exchangedterrified, anxious glances. 

"Good heavens!" muttered Virginie. "Suppose Coupeau should turnaround. There would be a murder, I am convinced. " And the earnestnessof their fixed eyes became so apparent that finally he said:

"What are you staring at?"

And leaning forward, he, too, saw Lantier. 

"This is too much, " he muttered, "the dirty ruffian! It is too much, and I won't have it!"

As he started to his feet with an oath, Gervaise put her hand on hisarm imploringly. 

"Put down that knife, " she said, "and do not go out, I entreat ofyou. "

Virginie took away the knife that Coupeau had snatched from the table, but she could not prevent him from going into the street. The otherguests saw nothing, so entirely absorbed were they in the touchingwords which Mme Lerat was still singing. 

Gervaise sat with her hands clasped convulsively, breathless withfear, expecting to hear a cry of rage from the street and see one ofthe two men fall to the ground. Virginie and Mme Boche had somethingof the same feeling. Coupeau had been so overcome by the fresh airthat when he rushed forward to take Lantier by the collar he missedhis footing and found himself seated quietly in the gutter. 

Lantier moved aside a little without taking his hands from hispockets. 

Coupeau staggered to his feet again, and a violent quarrel commenced. Gervaise pressed her hands over her eyes; suddenly all was quiet, andshe opened her eyes again and looked out. 

To her intense astonishment she saw Lantier and her husband talkingin a quiet, friendly manner. 

Gervaise exchanged a look with Mme Boche and Virginie. What did thismean?

As the women watched them the two men began to walk up and down infront of the shop. They were talking earnestly. Coupeau seemed to beurging something, and Lantier refusing. Finally Coupeau took Lantier'sarm and almost dragged him toward the shop. 

"I tell you, you must!" he cried. "You shall drink a glass of winewith us. Men will be men all the world over. My wife and I know thatperfectly well. "

Mme Lerat had finished her song and seated herself with the air ofbeing utterly exhausted. She asked for a glass of wine. When she sangthat song, she said, she was always torn to pieces, and it left hernerves in a terrible state. 

Lantier had been placed at the table by Coupeau and was eating apiece of cake, leisurely dipping it into his glass of wine. Withthe exception of Mme Boche and Virginie, no one knew him. 

The Lorilleuxs looked at him with some suspicion, which, however, was very far from the mark. An awkward silence followed, broken byCoupeau, who said simply:

"He is a friend of ours!"

And turning to his wife, he added:

"Can't you move round a little? Perhaps there is a cup of hot coffee!"

Gervaise looked from one to the other. She was literally dazed. Whenher husband first appeared with her former lover she had clasped herhands over her forehead with that instinctive gesture with which ina great storm one waits for the approach of the thunderclap. 

It did not seem possible that the walls would not fall and crush themall. Then seeing the two men calmly seated together, it all at onceseemed perfectly natural to her. She was tired of thinking about itand preferred to accept it. Why, after all, should she worry? No oneelse did. Everyone seemed to be satisfied; why should not she be also?

The children had fallen asleep in the back room, Pauline with her headon Etienne's shoulder. Gervaise started as her eyes fell on her boy. She was shocked at the thought of his father sitting there eating cakewithout showing the least desire to see his child. She longed toawaken him and show him to Lantier. And then again she had a feelingof passing wonder at the manner in which things settled themselvesin this world. 

She would not disturb the serenity of matters now, so she broughtin the coffeepot and poured out a cup for Lantier, who received itwithout even looking up at her as he murmured his thanks. 

"Now it is my turn to sing!" shouted Coupeau. 

His song was one familiar to them all and even to the street, for thelittle crowd at the door joined in the chorus. The guests within wereall more or less tipsy, and there was so much noise that the policemenran to quell a riot, but when they saw Poisson they bowed respectfullyand passed on. 

No one of the party ever knew how or at what hour the festivitiesterminated. It must have been very late, for there was not a humanbeing in the street when they departed. They vaguely remembered havingjoined hands and danced around the table. Gervaise remembered thatLantier was the last to leave, that he passed her as she stood in thedoorway. She felt a breath on her cheek, but whether it was his or thenight air she could not tell. 

Mme Lerat had refused to return to Batignolles so late, and a mattresswas laid on the floor in the shop near the table. She slept there amidthe debris of the feast, and a neighbor's cat profited by an openwindow to establish herself by her side, where she crunched the bonesof the goose all night between her fine, sharp teeth. 

CHAPTER VIII

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

The following Saturday Coupeau, who had not been home to dinner, camein with Lantier about ten o'clock. They had been eating pigs' feet ata restaurant at Montmarte. 

"Don't scold, wife, " said Coupeau; "we have not been drinking, yousee; we can walk perfectly straight. " And he went on to say how theyhad met each other quite by accident in the street and how Lantier hadrefused to drink with him, saying that when a man had married a nicelittle woman he had no business to throw away his money in that way. Gervaise listened with a faint smile; she had no idea of scolding. Ohno, it was not worth the trouble, but she was much agitated at seeingthe two men together so soon again, and with trembling hands sheknotted up her loosened hair. 

Her workwomen had been gone some time. Nana and Mamma Coupeau were inbed, and Gervaise, who was just closing her shutters when her husbandappeared, brought out some glasses and the remains of a bottle ofbrandy. Lantier did not sit down and avoided addressing her directly. 

When she served him, however, he exclaimed:

"A drop, madame; a mere drop!"

Coupeau looked at them for a moment and then expressed his mind fully. They were no fools, he said, nor were they children. The past was thepast. If people kept up their enmities for nine or ten years no onewould have a soul to speak to soon. As for himself, he was madedifferently. He knew they were honest people, and he was sure hecould trust them. 

"Of course, " murmured Gervaise, hardly knowing what she said, "ofcourse. "

"I regard her as a sister, " said Lantier, "only as a sister. "

"Give us your hand on that, " cried Coupeau, "and let us be goodfriends in the future. After all, a good heart is better than gold, and I estimate friendship as above all price. "

And he gave himself a little tap on his breast and looked about forapplause, as if he had uttered rather a noble sentiment. 

Then the three silently drank their brandy. Gervaise looked at Lantierand saw him for the first time, for on the night of the fete she hadseen him, as it were, through a glass, darkly. 

He had grown very stout, and his arms and legs very heavy. But hisface was still handsome, although somewhat bloated by liquor and goodliving. He was dressed with care and did not look any older than hisyears. He was thirty-five. He wore gray pantaloons and a dark bluefrock coat, like any gentleman, and had a watch and a chain on whichhung a ring--a souvenir, apparently. 

"I must go, " he said presently. 

He was at the door when Coupeau recalled him to say that he must neverpass without coming in to say, "How do you do?"

Meanwhile Gervaise, who had disappeared, returned, pushing Etiennebefore her. The boy was half asleep but smiled as he rubbed his eyes. When he saw Lantier he stared and looked uneasily from him to Coupeau. 

"Do you know this gentleman?" said his mother. 

The child looked away and did not answer, but when his mother repeatedthe question he made a little sign that he remembered him. Lantier, grave and silent, stood still. When Etienne went toward him he stoopedand kissed the child, who did not look at him but burst into tears, and when he was violently reproached by Coupeau he rushed away. 

"It is excitement, " said his mother, who was herself very pale. 

"He is usually very good and very obedient, " said Coupeau. "I havebrought him up well, as you will find out. He will soon get used toyou. He must learn something of life, you see, and will understand oneof these days that people must forget and forgive, and I would cut offmy head sooner than prevent a father from seeing his child!"

He then proposed to finish the bottle of brandy. They all three dranktogether again. Lantier was quite undisturbed, and before he left heinsisted on aiding Coupeau to shut up the shop. Then as he dusted hishands with his handkerchief he wished them a careless good night. 

"Sleep well. I am going to try and catch the omnibus. I will see yousoon again. "

Lantier kept his word and was seen from that time very often in theshop. He came only when Coupeau was home and asked for him before hecrossed the threshold. Then seated near the window, always wearinga frock coat, fresh linen and carefully shaved, he kept up aconversation like a man who had seen something of the world. Bydegrees Coupeau learned something of his life. For the last eightyears he had been at the head of a hat manufactory, and when he wasasked why he had given it up he said vaguely that he was not satisfiedwith his partner; he was a rascal, and so on. 

But his former position still imparted to him a certain air ofimportance. He said, also, that he was on the point of concludingan important matter--that certain business houses were in process ofestablishing themselves, the management of which would be virtuallyin his hands. In the meantime he had absolutely not one thing to dobut to walk about with his hands in his pockets. 

Any day he pleased, however, he could start again. He had only todecide on some house. Coupeau did not altogether believe this taleand insisted that he must be doing something which he did not chooseto tell; otherwise how did he live?

The truth was that Lantier, excessively talkative in regard to otherpeople's affairs, was very reticent about his own. He lied quite asoften as he spoke the truth and would never tell where he resided. He said he was never at home, so it was of no use for anyone to comeand see him. 

"I am very careful, " he said, "in making an engagement. I do notchoose to bind myself to a man and find, when it is too late, thathe intends to make a slave of me. I went one Monday to Champion atMonrouge. That evening Champion began a political discussion. He and Idiffered entirely, and on Tuesday I threw up the situation. You can'tblame me, I am sure, for not being willing to sell my soul and myconvictions for seven francs per day!"

It was now November. Lantier occasionally brought a bunch of violetsto Gervaise. By degrees his visits became more frequent. He seemeddetermined to fascinate the whole house, even the _Quartier_, andhe began by ingratiating himself with Clemence and Mme Putois, showingthem both the greatest possible attention. 

These two women adored him at the end of a month. Mme Boche, whom heflattered by calling on her in her loge, had all sorts of pleasantthings to say about him. 

As to the Lorilleuxs, they were furious when they found out who he wasand declared that it was a sin and a disgrace for Gervaise to bringhim into her house. But one fine day Lantier bearded them in theirden and ordered a chain made for a lady of his acquaintance and madehimself so agreeable that they begged him to sit down and kept him anhour. After this visit they expressed their astonishment that a man sodistinguished could ever have seen anything in Wooden Legs to admire. By degrees, therefore, people had become accustomed to seeing him andno longer expressed their horror or amazement. Goujet was the only onewho was disturbed. If Lantier came in while he was there he at oncedeparted and avoided all intercourse with him. 

Gervaise was very unhappy. She was conscious of a returninginclination for Lantier, and she was afraid of herself and of him. She thought of him constantly; he had taken entire possession of herimagination. But she grew calmer as days passed on, finding that henever tried to see her alone and that he rarely looked at her andnever laid the tip of his finger on her. 

Virginie, who seemed to read her through and through, asked her whatshe feared. Was there ever a man more respectful?

But out of mischief or worse, the woman contrived to get the two intoa corner one day and then led the conversation into a most dangerousdirection. Lantier, in reply to some question, said in measured tonesthat his heart was dead, that he lived now only for his son. He neverthought of Claude, who was away. He embraced Etienne every night butsoon forgot he was in the room and amused himself with Clemence. 

Then Gervaise began to realize that the past was dead. Lantier hadbrought back to her the memory of Plassans and the Hotel Boncoeur. But this faded away again, and, seeing him constantly, the past wasabsorbed in the present. She shook off these memories almost withdisgust. Yes, it was all over, and should he ever dare to allude toformer years she would complain to her husband. 

She began again to think of Goujet almost unconsciously. 

One morning Clemence said that the night before she had seen Lantierwalking with a woman who had his arm. Yes, he was coming up La RueNotre-Dame de Lorette; the woman was a blonde and no better than sheshould be. Clemence added that she had followed them until the womanreached a house where she went in. Lantier waited in the street untilthere was a window opened, which was evidently a signal, for he wentinto the house at once. 

Gervaise was ironing a white dress; she smiled slightly and said thatshe believed a Provencal was always crazy after women, and at nightwhen Lantier appeared she was quite amused at Clemence, who at onceattacked him. He seemed to be, on the whole, rather pleased that hehad been seen. The person was an old friend, he said, one whom he hadnot seen for some time--a very stylish woman, in fact--and he toldClemence to smell of his handkerchief on which his friend had put someof the perfume she used. Just then Etienne came in, and his fatherbecame very grave and said that he was in jest--that his heart wasdead. 

Gervaise nodded approval of this sentiment, but she did not speak. 

When spring came Lantier began to talk of moving into thatneighborhood. He wanted a furnished, clean room. Mme Boche andGervaise tried to find one for him. But they did not meet with anysuccess. He was altogether too fastidious in his requirements. Everyevening at the Coupeaus' he wished he could find people likethemselves who would take a lodger. 

"You are very comfortable here, I am sure, " he would say regularly. 

Finally one night when he had uttered this phrase, as usual, Coupeaucried out:

"If you like this place so much why don't you stay here? We can makeroom for you. "

And he explained that the linen room could be so arranged that itwould be very comfortable, and Etienne could sleep on a mattress inthe corner. 

"No, no, " said Lantier; "it would trouble you too much. I know thatyou have the most generous heart in the world, but I cannot imposeupon you. Your room would be a passageway to mine, and that would notbe agreeable to any of us. "

"Nonsense, " said Coupeau. "Have we no invention? There are twowindows; can't one be cut down to the floor and used as a door? Inthat case you would enter from the court and not through the shop. You would be by yourself, and we by ourselves. "

There was a long silence, broken finally by Lantier. 

"If this could be done, " he said, "I should like it, but I am afraidyou would find yourselves too crowded. "

He did not look at Gervaise as he spoke, but it was clear that he wasonly waiting for a word from her. She did not like the plan at all;not that the thought of Lantier living under their roof disturbed her, but she had no idea where she could put the linen as it came in to bewashed and again when it was rough-dry. 

But Coupeau was enchanted with the plan. The rent, he said, had alwaysbeen heavy to carry, and now they would gain twenty francs per month. It was not dear for him, and it would help them decidedly. He told hiswife that she could have two great boxes made in which all the linenof the _Quartier_ could be piled. 

Gervaise still hesitated, questioning Mamma Coupeau with her eyes. Lantier had long since propitiated the old lady by bringing hergumdrops for her cough. 

"If we could arrange it I am sure--" said Gervaise hesitatingly. 

"You are too kind, " remonstrated Lantier. "I really feel that it wouldbe an intrusion. "

Coupeau flamed out. Why did she not speak up, he should like to know?Instead of stammering and behaving like a fool?

"Etienne! Etienne!" he shouted. 

The boy was asleep with his head on the table. He started up. 

"Listen to me. Say to this gentleman, 'I wish it. ' Say just thosewords and nothing more. "

"I wish it!" stammered Etienne, half asleep. 

Everybody laughed. But Lantier almost instantly resumed his solemnair. He pressed Coupeau's hand cordially. 

"I accept your proposition, " he said. "It is a most friendly one, and I thank you in my name and in that of my child. "

The next morning Marescot, the owner of the house, happening to call, Gervaise spoke to him of the matter. At first he absolutely refusedand was as disturbed and angry as if she had asked him to build on awing for her especial accommodation. Then after a minute examinationof the premises he ended by giving his consent, only on condition, however, that he should not be required to pay any portion of theexpense, and the Coupeaus signed a paper, agreeing to put everythinginto its original condition at the expiration of their lease. 

That same evening Coupeau brought in a mason, a painter and acarpenter, all friends and boon companions of his, who would do thislittle job at night, after their day's work was over. 

The cutting of the door, the painting and the cleaning would come toabout one hundred francs, and Coupeau agreed to pay them as fast ashis tenant paid him. 

The next question was how to furnish the room? Gervaise left MammaCoupeau's wardrobe in it. She added a table and two chairs from herown room. She was compelled to buy a bed and dressing table and diversother things, which amounted to one hundred and thirty francs. Thisshe must pay for ten francs each month. So that for nearly a year theycould derive no benefit from their new lodger. 

It was early in June that Lantier took possession of his new quarters. Coupeau had offered the night before to help him with his trunk inorder to avoid the thirty sous for a fiacre. But the other seemedembarrassed and said his trunk was heavy, and it seemed as if hepreferred to keep it a secret even now where he resided. 

He came about three o'clock. Coupeau was not there, and Gervaise, standing at her shop door, turned white as she recognized the trunkon the fiacre. It was their old one with which they had traveled fromPlassans. Now it was banged and battered and strapped with cords. 

She saw it brought in as she had often seen it in her dreams, and shevaguely wondered if it were the same fiacre which had taken him andAdele away. Boche welcomed Lantier cordially. Gervaise stood by insilent bewilderment, watching them place the trunk in her lodger'sroom. Then hardly knowing what she said, she murmured:

"We must take a glass of wine together----"

Lantier, who was busy untying the cords on his trunk, did not look up, and she added:

"You will join us, Monsieur Boche!"

And she went for some wine and glasses. At that moment she caughtsight of Poisson passing the door. She gave him a nod and a wink whichhe perfectly understood: it meant, when he was on duty, that he wasoffered a glass of wine. He went round by the courtyard in order notto be seen. Lantier never saw him without some joke in regard to hispolitical convictions, which, however, had not prevented the men frombecoming excellent friends. 

To one of these jests Boche now replied:

"Did you know, " he said, "that when the emperor was in London he was apoliceman, and his special duty was to carry all the intoxicated womento the station house?"

Gervaise had filled three glasses on the table. She did not carefor any wine; she was sick at heart as she stood looking at Lantierkneeling on the floor by the side of the trunk. She was wild to knowwhat it contained. She remembered that in one corner was a pile ofstockings, a shirt or two and an old hat. Were those things stillthere? Was she to be confronted with those tattered relics of thepast?

Lantier did not lift the lid, however; he rose and, going to thetable, held his glass high in his hands. 

"To your health, madame!" he said. 

And Poisson and Boche drank with him. 

Gervaise filled their glasses again. The three men wiped their lipswith the backs of their hands. 

Then Lantier opened his trunk. It was filled with a hodgepodge ofpapers, books, old clothes and bundles of linen. He pulled out asaucepan, then a pair of boots, followed by a bust of Ledru Rollinwith a broken nose, then an embroidered shirt and a pair of raggedpantaloons, and Gervaise perceived a mingled and odious smell oftobacco, leather and dust. 

No, the old hat was not in the left corner; in its place was a pincushion, the gift of some woman. All at once the strange anxiety withwhich she had watched the opening of this trunk disappeared, and inits place came an intense sadness as she followed each article withher eyes as Lantier took them out and wondered which belonged to hertime and which to the days when another woman filled his life. 

"Look here, Poisson, " cried Lantier, pulling out a small book. Itwas a scurrilous attack on the emperor, printed at Brussels, entitled_The Amours of Napoleon III_. 

Poisson was aghast. He found no words with which to defend theemperor. It was in a book--of course, therefore, it was true. Lantier, with a laugh of triumph, turned away and began to pile up his booksand papers, grumbling a little that there were no shelves on whichto put them. Gervaise promised to buy some for him. He owned LouisBlanc's _Histoire de Dix Ans_, all but the first volume, which hehad never had, Lamartine's _Les Girondins_, _The Mysteries ofParis_ and _The Wandering Jew_, by Eugene Sue, without countinga pile of incendiary volumes which he had picked up at bookstalls. His old newspapers he regarded with especial respect. He had collectedthem with care for years: whenever he had read an article at a cafeof which he approved, he bought the journal and preserved it. Heconsequently had an enormous quantity, of all dates and names, tiedtogether without order or sequence. 

He laid them all in a corner of the room, saying as he did so:

"If people would study those sheets and adopt the ideas therein, society would be far better organized than it now is. Your emperorand all his minions would come down a bit on the ladder--"

Here he was interrupted by Poisson, whose red imperial and mustacheirradiated his pale face. 

"And the army, " he said, "what would you do with that?"

Lantier became very much excited. 

"The army!" he cried. "I would scatter it to the four winds ofheaven! I want the military system of the country abolished! I wantthe abolition of titles and monopolies! I want salaries equalized!I want liberty for everyone. Divorces, too--"

"Yes; divorces, of course, " interposed Boche. "That is needed in thecause of morality. "

Poisson threw back his head, ready for an argument, but Gervaise, who did not like discussions, interfered. She had recovered from thetorpor into which she had been plunged by the sight of this trunk, andshe asked the men to take another glass. Lantier was suddenly subduedand drank his wine, but Boche looked at Poisson uneasily. 

"All this talk is between ourselves, is it not?" he said to thepoliceman. 

Poisson did not allow him to finish: he laid his hand on his heartand declared that he was no spy. Their words went in at one ear andout at another. He had forgotten them already. 

Coupeau by this time appeared, and more wine was sent for. But Poissondared linger no longer, and, stiff and haughty, he departed throughthe courtyard. 

From the very first Lantier was made thoroughly at home. Lantier hadhis separate room, private entrance and key. But he went through theshop almost always. The accumulation of linen disturbed Gervaise, forher husband never arranged the boxes he had promised, and she wasobliged to stow it away in all sorts of places, under the bed and inthe corner. She did not like making up Etienne's mattress late atnight either. 

Goujet had spoken of sending the child to Lille to his own old master, who wanted apprentices. The plan pleased her, particularly as theboy, who was not very happy at home, was impatient to become his ownmaster. But she dared not ask Lantier, who had come there to liveostensibly to be near his son. She felt, therefore, that it was hardlya good plan to send the boy away within a couple of weeks after hisfather's arrival. 

When, however, she did make up her mind to approach the subject heexpressed warm approval of the idea, saying that youths were farbetter in the country than in Paris. 

Finally it was decided that Etienne should go, and when the morningof his departure arrived Lantier read his son a long lecture and thensent him off, and the house settled down into new habits. 

Gervaise became accustomed to seeing the dirty linen lying about andto seeing Lantier coming in and going out. He still talked with animportant air of his business operations. He went out daily, dressedwith the utmost care and came home, declaring that he was worn outwith the discussions in which he had been engaged and which involvedthe gravest and most important interests. 

He rose about ten o'clock, took a walk if the day pleased him, and ifit rained he sat in the shop and read his paper. He liked to be there. It was his delight to live surrounded by a circle of worshiping women, and he basked indolently in the warmth and atmosphere of ease andcomfort, which characterized the place. 

At first Lantier took his meals at the restaurant at the corner, butafter a while he dined three or four times a week with the Coupeausand finally requested permission to board with them and agreed to paythem fifteen francs each Saturday. Thus he was regularly installed andwas one of the family. He was seen in his shirt sleeves in the shopevery morning, attending to any little matters or receiving ordersfrom the customers. He induced Gervaise to leave her own wine merchantand go to a friend of his own. Then he found fault with the bread andsent Augustine to the Vienna bakery in a distant _faubourg_. Hechanged the grocer but kept the butcher on account of his politicalopinions. 

At the end of a month he had instituted a change in the cuisine. Everything was cooked in oil: being a Provencal, that was what headored. He made the omelets himself, which were as tough as leather. He superintended Mamma Coupeau and insisted that the beefsteaks shouldbe thoroughly cooked, until they were like the soles of an old shoe. He watched the salad to see that nothing went in which he did notlike. His favorite dish was vermicelli, into which he poured halfa bottle of oil. This he and Gervaise ate together, for the others, being Parisians, could not be induced to taste it. 

By degrees Lantier attended to all those affairs which fall to theshare of the master of the house and to various details of theirbusiness, in addition. He insisted that if the five francs which theLorilleux people had agreed to pay toward the support of Mamma Coupeauwas not forthcoming they should go to law about it. In fact, tenfrancs was what they ought to pay. He himself would go and see if hecould not make them agree to that. He went up at once and asked themin such a way that he returned in triumph with the ten francs. AndMme Lerat, too, did the same at his representation. Mamma Coupeaucould have kissed Lantier's hands, who played the part, besides, ofan arbiter in the quarrels between the old woman and Gervaise. 

The latter, as was natural, sometimes lost patience with the oldwoman, who retreated to her bed to weep. He would bluster about andask if they were simpletons, to amuse people with their disagreements, and finally induced them to kiss and be friends once more. 

He expressed his mind freely in regard to Nana also. In his opinionshe was brought up very badly, and here he was quite right, for whenher father cuffed her her mother upheld her, and when, in her turn, the mother reproved, the father made a scene. 

Nana was delighted at this and felt herself free to do much as shepleased. 

She had started a new game at the farriery opposite. She spent entiredays swinging on the shafts of the wagons. She concealed herself, withher troop of followers, at the back of the dark court, redly lit bythe forge, and then would make sudden rushes with screams and whoops, followed by every child in the neighborhood, reminding one of a flockof martins or sparrows. 

Lantier was the only one whose scoldings had any effect. She listenedto him graciously. This child of ten years of age, precocious andvicious, coquetted with him as if she had been a grown woman. Hefinally assumed the care of her education. He taught her to danceand to talk slang!

Thus a year passed away. The whole neighborhood supposed Lantier tobe a man of means--otherwise how did the Coupeaus live as they did?Gervaise, to be sure, still made money, but she supported two men whodid nothing, and the shop, of course, did not make enough for that. The truth was that Lantier had never paid one sou, either for boardor lodging. He said he would let it run on, and when it amounted toa good sum he would pay it all at once. 

After that Gervaise never dared to ask him for a centime. She gotbread, wine and meat on credit; bills were running up everywhere, fortheir expenditures amounted to three and four francs every day. Shehad never paid anything, even a trifle on account, to the man fromwhom she had bought her furniture or to Coupeau's three friends whohad done the work in Lantier's room. The tradespeople were beginningto grumble and treated her with less politeness. 

But she seemed to be insensible to this; she chose the most expensivethings, having thrown economy to the winds, since she had given uppaying for things at once. She always intended, however, to payeventually and had a vague notion of earning hundreds of francs dailyin some extraordinary way by which she could pay all these people. 

About the middle of summer Clemence departed, for there was not enoughwork for two women; she had waited for her money for some weeks. Lantier and Coupeau were quite undisturbed, however. They were in thebest of spirits and seemed to be growing fat over the ruined business. 

In the _Quartier_ there was a vast deal of gossip. Everybodywondered as to the terms on which Lantier and Gervaise now stood. TheLorilleuxs viciously declared that Gervaise would be glad enough toresume her old relations with Lantier but that he would have nothingto do with her, for she had grown old and ugly. The Boche peopletook a different view, but while everyone declared that the wholearrangement was a most improper one, they finally accepted it asquite a matter of course and altogether natural. 

It is quite possible there were other homes which were quite as opento invidious remarks within a stone's throw, but these Coupeaus, astheir neighbors said, were good, kind people. Lantier was especiallyingratiating. It was decided, therefore, to let things go their ownway undisturbed. 

Gervaise lived quietly indifferent to, and possibly entirelyunsuspicious of, all these scandals. By and by it came to pass thather husband's own people looked on her as utterly heartless. Mme Leratmade her appearance every evening, and she treated Lantier as if hewere utterly irresistible, into whose arms any and every woman wouldbe only too glad to fall. An actual league seemed to be formingagainst Gervaise: all the women insisted on giving her a lover. 

But she saw none of these fascinations in him. He had changed, unquestionably, and the external changes were all in his favor. Hewore a frock coat and had acquired a certain polish. But she who knewhim so well looked down into his soul through his eyes and shudderedat much she saw there. She could not understand what others saw in himto admire. And she said so one day to Virginie. Then Mme Lerat andVirginie vied with each other in the stories they told of Clemence andhimself--what they did and said whenever her back was turned--and nowthey were sure, since she had left the establishment, that he wentregularly to see her. 

"Well, what of it?" asked Gervaise, her voice trembling. "What haveI to do with that?"

But she looked into Virginie's dark brown eyes, which were speckedwith gold and emitted sparks as do those of cats. But the woman puton a stupid look as she answered:

"Why, nothing, of course; only I should think you would advise himnot to have anything to do with such a person. "

Lantier was gradually changing his manner to Gervaise. Now when heshook hands with her he held her fingers longer than was necessary. He watched her incessantly and fixed his bold eyes upon her. He leanedover her so closely that she felt his breath on her cheek. But oneevening, being alone with her, he caught her in both arms. At thatmoment Goujet entered. Gervaise wrenched herself free, and the threeexchanged a few words as if nothing had happened. Goujet was very paleand seemed embarrassed, supposing that he had intruded upon them andthat she had pushed Lantier aside only because she did not choose tobe embraced in public. 

The next day Gervaise was miserable, unhappy and restless. She couldnot iron a handkerchief. She wanted to see Goujet and tell him justwhat had happened, but ever since Etienne had gone to Lille she hadgiven up going to the forge, as she was quite unable to face theknowing winks with which his comrades received her. But this day shedetermined to go, and, taking an empty basket on her arms, she startedoff, pretending that she was going with skirts to some customers inLa Rue des Portes-Blanches. 

Goujet seemed to be expecting her, for she met him loitering on thecorner. 

"Ah, " he said with a wan smile, "you are going home, I presume?"

He hardly knew what he was saying, and they both turned towardMontmartre without another word. They merely wished to go away fromthe forge. They passed several manufactories and soon found themselveswith an open field before them. A goat was tethered near by andbleating as it browsed, and a dead tree was crumbling away in thehot sun. 

"One might almost think oneself in the country, " murmured Gervaise. 

They took a seat under the dead tree. The clearstarcher set the basketdown at her feet. Before them stretched the heights of Montmartre, with its rows of yellow and gray houses amid clumps of trees, andwhen they threw back their heads a little they saw the whole skyabove, clear and cloudless, but the sunlight dazzled them, and theylooked over to the misty outlines of the _faubourg_ and watched thesmoke rising from tall chimneys in regular puffs, indicating themachinery which impelled it. These great sighs seemed to relievetheir own oppressed breasts. 

"Yes, " said Gervaise after a long silence. "I have been on a longwalk, and I came out--"

She stopped. After having been so eager for an explanation she foundherself unable to speak and overwhelmed with shame. She knew that heas well as herself had come to that place with the wish and intentionof speaking on one especial subject, and yet neither of them dared toallude to it. The occurrence of the previous evening weighed on boththeir souls. 

Then with a heart torn with anguish and with tears in her eyes, shetold him of the death of Mme Bijard, who had breathed her last thatmorning after suffering unheard-of agonies. 

"It was caused by a kick of Bijard's, " she said in her low, softvoice; "some internal injury. For three days she has sufferedfrightfully. Why are not such men punished? I suppose, though, if thelaw undertook to punish all the wretches who kill their wives that itwould have too much to do. After all, one kick more or less: what doesit matter in the end? And this poor creature, in her desire to saveher husband from the scaffold, declared she had fallen over a tub. "

Goujet did not speak. He sat pulling up the tufts of grass. 

"It is not a fortnight, " continued Gervaise, "since she weaned herlast baby, and here is that child Lalie left to take care of twomites. She is not eight years old but as quiet and sensible as ifshe were a grown woman, and her father kicks and strikes her too. Poor little soul! There are some persons in this world who seemborn to suffer. "

Goujet looked at her and then said suddenly, with trembling lips:

"You made me suffer yesterday. "

Gervaise clasped her hands imploringly, and he continued:

"I knew of course how it must end; only you should not have allowed meto think--"

He could not finish. She started up, seeing what his convictions were. She cried out:

"You are wrong! I swear to you that you are wrong! He was going tokiss me, but his lips did not touch me, and it is the very first timethat he made the attempt. Believe me, for I swear--on all that I holdmost sacred--that I am telling you the truth. "

But the blacksmith shook his head. He knew that women did not alwaystell the truth on such points. Gervaise then became very grave. 

"You know me well, " she said; "you know that I am no liar. I againrepeat that Lantier and I are friends. We shall never be anythingmore, for if that should ever come to pass I should regard myselfas the vilest of the vile and should be unworthy of the friendshipof a man like yourself. " Her face was so honest, her eyes were soclear and frank, that he could do no less than believe her. Once morehe breathed freely. He held her hand for the first time. Both weresilent. White clouds sailed slowly above their heads with the majestyof swans. The goat looked at them and bleated piteously, eager to bereleased, and they stood hand in hand on that bleak slope with tearsin their eyes. 

"Your mother likes me no longer, " said Gervaise in a low voice. "Donot say no; how can it be otherwise? We owe you so much money. "

He roughly shook her arm in his eagerness to check the words on herlips; he would not hear her. He tried to speak, but his throat wastoo dry; he choked a little and then he burst out:

"Listen to me, " he cried; "I have long wished to say something to you. You are not happy. My mother says things are all going wrong with you, and, " he hesitated, "we must go away together and at once. "

She looked at him, not understanding him but impressed by this abruptdeclaration of a love from him, who had never before opened his lipsin regard to it. 

"What do you mean?" she said. 

"I mean, " he answered without looking in her face, "that we two cango away and live in Belgium. It is almost the same to me as home, andboth of us could get work and live comfortably. "

The color came to her face, which she would have hidden on hisshoulder to hide her shame and confusion. He was a strange fellow topropose an elopement. It was like a book and like the things she heardof in high society. She had often seen and known of the workmen abouther making love to married women, but they did not think of runningaway with them. 

"Ah, Monsieur Goujet!" she murmured, but she could say no more. 

"Yes, " he said, "we two would live all by ourselves. "

But as her self-possession returned she refused with firmness. 

"It is impossible, " she said, "and it would be very wrong. I ammarried and I have children. I know that you are fond of me, and Ilove you too much to allow you to commit any such folly as you aretalking of, and this would be an enormous folly. No; we must live onas we are. We respect each other now. Let us continue to do so. Thatis a great deal and will help us over many a roughness in our paths. And when we try to do right we are sure of a reward. "

He shook his head as he listened to her, but he felt she was right. Suddenly he snatched her in his arms and kissed her furiously once andthen dropped her and turned abruptly away. She was not angry, but thelocksmith trembled from head to foot. He began to gather some of thewild daisies, not knowing what to do with his hands, and tossed theminto her empty basket. This occupation amused him and tranquillizedhim. He broke off the head of the flowers and, when he missed hismark and they fell short of the basket, laughed aloud. 

Gervaise sat with her back against the tree, happy and calm. And whenshe set forth on her walk home her basket was full of daisies, andshe was talking of Etienne. 

In reality Gervaise was more afraid of Lantier than she was willingto admit even to herself. She was fully determined never to allowthe smallest familiarity, but she was afraid that she might yieldto his persuasions, for she well knew the weakness and amiability ofher nature and how hard it was for her to persist in any oppositionto anyone. 

Lantier, however, did not put this determination on her part tothe test. He was often alone with her now and was always quiet andrespectful. Coupeau declared to everyone that Lantier was a truefriend. There was no nonsense about him; he could be relied uponalways and in all emergencies. And he trusted him thoroughly, hedeclared. When they went out together--the three--on Sundays he badehis wife and Lantier walk arm in arm, while he mounted guard behind, ready to cuff the ears of anyone who ventured on a disrespectfulglance, a sneer or a wink. 

He laughed good-naturedly before Lantier's face, told him he put ona great many airs with his coats and his books, but he liked him inspite of them. They understood each other, he said, and a man's likingfor another man is more solid and enduring than his love for a woman. 

Coupeau and Lantier made the money fly. Lantier was continuallyborrowing money from Gervaise--ten francs, twenty francs--wheneverhe knew there was money in the house. It was always because he was inpressing need for some business matter. But still on those same dayshe took Coupeau off with him and at some distant restaurant orderedand devoured such dishes as they could not obtain at home, and thesedishes were washed down by bottle after bottle of wine. 

Coupeau would have preferred to get tipsy without the food, but hewas impressed by the elegance and experience of his friend, who foundon the carte so many extraordinary sauces. He had never seen a manlike him, he declared, so dainty and so difficult. He wondered if allsoutherners were the same as he watched him discussing the dishes withthe waiter and sending away a dish that was too salty or had too muchpepper. 

Neither could he endure a draft: his skin was all blue if a door wasleft open, and he made no end of a row until it was closed again. 

Lantier was not wasteful in certain ways, for he never gave a_garcon_ more than two sous after he had served a meal that costsome seven or eight francs. 

They never alluded to these dinners the next morning at their simplebreakfast with Gervaise. Naturally people cannot frolic and work, too, and since Lantier had become a member of his household Coupeau hadnever lifted a tool. He knew every drinking shop for miles around andwould sit and guzzle deep into the night, not always pleased to findhimself deserted by Lantier, who never was known to be overcome byliquor. 

About the first of November Coupeau turned over a new leaf; hedeclared he was going to work the next day, and Lantier thereuponpreached a little sermon, declaring that labor ennobled man, andin the morning arose before it was light to accompany his friend tothe shop, as a mark of the respect he felt. But when they reached awineshop on the corner they entered to take a glass merely to cementgood resolutions. 

Near the counter they beheld Bibi-la-Grillade smoking his pipe witha sulky air. 

"What is the matter, Bibi?" cried Coupeau. 

"Nothing, " answered his comrade, "except that I got my walking ticketyesterday. Perdition seize all masters!" he added fiercely. 

And Bibi accepted a glass of liquor. Lantier defended the masters. They were not so bad after all; then, too, how were the men to getalong without them? "To be sure, " continued Lantier, "I manage prettywell, for I don't have much to do with them myself!"

"Come, my boy, " he added, turning to Coupeau; "we shall be late ifwe don't look out. "

Bibi went out with them. Day was just breaking, gray and cloudy. Ithad rained the night before and was damp and warm. The street lampshad just been extinguished. There was one continued tramp of men goingto their work. 

Coupeau, with his bag of tools on his shoulder, shuffled along; hisfootsteps had long since lost their ring. 

"Bibi, " he said, "come with me; the master told me to bring a comradeif I pleased. "

"It won't be me then, " answered Bibi. "I wash my hands of them all. No more masters for me, I tell you! But I dare say Mes-Bottes wouldbe glad of the offer. "

And as they reached the Assommoir they saw Mes-Bottes within. Notwithstanding the fact that it was daylight, the gas was blazingin the Assommoir. Lantier remained outside and told Coupeau to makehaste, as they had only ten minutes. 

"Do you think I will work for your master?" cried Mes-Bottes. "He isthe greatest tyrant in the kingdom. No, I should rather suck my thumbsfor a year. You won't stay there, old man! No, you won't stay therethree days, now I tell you!"

"Are you in earnest?" asked Coupeau uneasily. 

"Yes, I am in earnest. You can't speak--you can't move. Your noseis held close to the grindstone all the time. He watches you everymoment. If you drink a drop he says you are tipsy and makes no endof a row!"

"Thanks for the warning. I will try this one day, and if the masterbothers me I will just tell him what I think of him and turn on myheel and walk out. "

Coupeau shook his comrade's hand and turned to depart, much to thedisgust of Mes-Bottes, who angrily asked if the master could not waitfive minutes. He could not go until he had taken a drink. Lantierentered to join in, and Mes-Bottes stood there with his hat on theback of his head, shabby, dirty and staggering, ordering FatherColombe to pour out the glasses and not to cheat. 

At that moment Goujet and Lorilleux were seen going by. Mes-Bottesshouted to them to come in, but they both refused--Goujet saying hewanted nothing, and the other, as he hugged a little box of goldchains close to his heart, that he was in a hurry. 

"Milksops!" muttered Mes-Bottes. "They had best pass their lives inthe corner by the fire!"

Returning to the counter, he renewed his attack on Father Colombe, whom he accused of adulterating his liquors. 

It was now bright daylight, and the proprietor of the Assommoir beganto extinguish the lights. Coupeau made excuses for his brother-in-law, who, he said, could never drink; it was not his fault, poor fellow!He approved, too, of Goujet, declaring that it was a good thing neverto be thirsty. Again he made a move to depart and go to his work whenLantier, with his dictatorial air, reminded him that he had not paidhis score and that he could not go off in that way, even if it wereto his duty. 

"I am sick of the words 'work' and 'duty, '" muttered Mes-Bottes. 

They all paid for their drinks with the exception of Bibi-la-Grillade, who stooped toward the ear of Father Colombe and whispered a fewwords. The latter shook his head, whereupon Mes-Bottes burst into atorrent of invectives, but Colombe stood in impassive silence, andwhen there was a lull in the storm he said:

"Let your friends pay for you then--that is a very simple thing todo. "

By this time Mes-Bottes was what is properly called howling drunk, andas he staggered away from the counter he struck the bag of tools whichCoupeau had over his shoulder. 

"You look like a peddler with his pack or a humpback. Put it down!"

Coupeau hesitated a moment, and then slowly and deliberately, as if hehad arrived at a decision after mature deliberation, he laid his bagon the ground. 

"It is too late to go this morning. I will wait until after breakfastnow. I will tell him my wife was sick. Listen, Father Colombe, I willleave my bag of tools under this bench and come for them thisafternoon. "

Lantier assented to this arrangement. Of course work was a good thing, but friends and good company were better; and the four men stood, first on one foot and then on the other, for more than an hour, andthen they had another drink all round. After that a game of billiardswas proposed, and they went noisily down the street to the nearestbilliard room, which did not happen to please the fastidious Lantier, who, however, soon recovered his good humor under the effect of theadmiration excited in the minds of his friends by his play, whichwas really very extraordinary. 

When the hour arrived for breakfast Coupeau had an idea. 

"Let us go and find Bec Sali. I know where he works. We will make himbreakfast with us. "

The idea was received with applause. The party started forth. A finedrizzling rain was now falling, but they were too warm within to mindthis light sprinkling on their shoulders. 

Coupeau took them to a factory where his friend worked and at the doorgave two sous to a small boy to go up and find Bec Sali and to tellhim that his wife was very sick and had sent for him. 

Bec Sali quickly appeared, not in the least disturbed, as he suspecteda joke. 

"Aha!" he said as he saw his friend. "I knew it!" They went to arestaurant and ordered a famous repast of pigs' feet, and they satand sucked the bones and talked about their various employers. 

"Will you believe, " said Bec Sali, "that mine has had the brass tohang up a bell? Does he think we are slaves to run when he rings it?Never was he so mistaken--"

"I am obliged to leave you!" said Coupeau, rising at last with animportant air. "I promised my wife to go to work today, and I leaveyou with the greatest reluctance. "

The others protested and entreated, but he seemed so decided that theyall accompanied him to the Assommoir to get his tools. He pulled outthe bag from under the bench and laid it at his feet while they alltook another drink. The clock struck one, and Coupeau kicked his bagunder the bench again. He would go tomorrow to the factory; one dayreally did not make much difference. 

The rain had ceased, and one of the men proposed a little walk on theboulevards to stretch their legs. The air seemed to stupefy them, andthey loitered along with their arms swinging at their sides, withoutexchanging a word. When they reached the wineshop on the corner of LaRue des Poissonniers they turned in mechanically. Lantier led the wayinto a small room divided from the public one by windows only. Thisroom was much affected by Lantier, who thought it more stylish by farthan the public one. He called for a newspaper, spread it out andexamined it with a heavy frown. Coupeau and Mes-Bottes played a gameof cards, while wine and glasses occupied the center of the table. 

"What is the news?" asked Bibi. 

Lantier did not reply instantly, but presently, as the others emptiedtheir glasses, he began to read aloud an account of a frightfulmurder, to which they listened with eager interest. Then ensued a hotdiscussion and argument as to the probable motives for the murder. 

By this time the wine was exhausted, and they called for more. Aboutfive all except Lantier were in a state of beastly intoxication, andhe found them so disgusting that, as usual, he made his escape withouthis comrades noticing his defection. 

Lantier walked about a little and then, when he felt all right, wenthome and told Gervaise that her husband was with his friends. Coupeaudid not make his appearance for two days. Rumors were brought in thathe had been seen in one place and then in another, and always alone. His comrades had apparently deserted him. Gervaise shrugged hershoulders with a resigned air. 

"Good heavens!" she said. "What a way to live!" She never thought ofhunting him up. Indeed, on the afternoon of the third day, when shesaw him through the window of a wineshop, she turned back and wouldnot pass the door. She sat up for him, however, and listened for hisstep or the sound of his hand fumbling at the lock. 

The next morning he came in, only to begin the same thing at nightagain. This went on for a week, and at last Gervaise went to theAssommoir to make inquiries. Yes, he had been there a number of times, but no one knew where he was just then. Gervaise picked up the bagof tools and carried them home. 

Lantier, seeing that Gervaise was out of spirits, proposed that sheshould go with him to a cafe concert. She refused at first, beingin no mood for laughing; otherwise she would have consented, forLantier's proposal seemed to be prompted by the purest friendliness. He seemed really sorry for her trouble and, indeed, assumed anabsolutely paternal air. 

Coupeau had never stayed away like this before, and she continuallyfound herself going to the door and looking up and down the street. She could not keep to her work but wandered restlessly from placeto place. Had Coupeau broken a limb? Had he fallen into the water?She did not think she could care so very much if he were killed, ifthis uncertainty were over, if she only knew what she had to expect. But it was very trying to live in this suspense. 

Finally when the gas was lit and Lantier renewed his proposition ofthe cafe she consented. After all, why should she not go? Why shouldshe refuse all pleasures because her husband chose to behave in thisdisgraceful way? If he would not come in she would go out. 

They hurried through their dinner, and as she went out with Lantierat eight o'clock Gervaise begged Nana and Mamma Coupeau to go to bedearly. The shop was closed, and she gave the key to Mme Boche, tellingher that if Coupeau came in it would be as well to look out for thelights. 

Lantier stood whistling while she gave these directions. Gervaisewore her silk dress, and she smiled as they walked down the streetin alternate shadow and light from the shopwindows. 

The cafe concert was on the Boulevard de Rochechoumart. It had oncebeen a cafe and had had a concert room built on of rough planks. 

Over the door was a row of glass globes brilliantly illuminated. Long placards, nailed on wood, were standing quite out in the streetby the side of the gutter. 

"Here we are!" said Lantier. "Mademoiselle Amanda makes her debuttonight. "

Bibi-la-Grillade was reading the placard. Bibi had a black eye, as ifhe had been fighting. 

"Hallo!" cried Lantier. "How are you? Where is Coupeau? Have you losthim?"

"Yes, since yesterday. We had a little fight with a waiter at Baquets. He wanted us to pay twice for what we had, and somehow Coupeau and Igot separated, and I have not seen him since. "

And Bibi gave a great yawn. He was in a disgraceful state ofintoxication. He looked as if he had been rolling in the gutter. 

"And you know nothing of my husband?" asked Gervaise. 

"No, nothing. I think, though, he went off with a coachman. "

Lantier and Gervaise passed a very agreeable evening at the cafeconcert, and when the doors were closed at eleven they went home in asauntering sort of fashion. They were in no hurry, and the night wasfair, though a little cool. Lantier hummed the air which Amanda hadsung, and Gervaise added the chorus. The room had been excessivelywarm, and she had drunk several glasses of wine. 

She expressed a great deal of indignation at Mlle Amanda's costume. How did she dare face all those men, dressed like that? But her skinwas beautiful, certainly, and she listened with considerable curiosityto all that Lantier could tell her about the woman. 

"Everybody is asleep, " said Gervaise after she had rung the bellthree times. 

The door was finally opened, but there was no light. She knocked atthe door of the Boche quarters and asked for her key. 

The sleepy concierge muttered some unintelligible words, from whichGervaise finally gathered that Coupeau had been brought in by Poissonand that the key was in the door. 

Gervaise stood aghast at the disgusting sight that met her eyes asshe entered the room where Coupeau lay wallowing on the floor. 

She shuddered and turned away. This sight annihilated every ray ofsentiment remaining in her heart. 

"What am I to do?" she said piteously. "I can't stay here!"

Lantier snatched her hand. 

"Gervaise, " he said, "listen to me. "

But she understood him and drew hastily back. 

"No, no! Leave me, Auguste. I can manage. "

But Lantier would not obey her. He put his arm around her waist andpointed to her husband as he lay snoring, with his mouth wide open. 

"Leave me!" said Gervaise, imploringly, and she pointed to the roomwhere her mother-in-law and Nana slept. 

"You will wake them!" she said. "You would not shame me before mychild? Pray go!"

He said no more but slowly and softly kissed her on her ear, ashe had so often teased her by doing in those old days. Gervaiseshivered, and her blood was stirred to madness in her veins. 

"What does that beast care?" she thought. "It is his fault, " shemurmured; "all his fault. He sends me from his room!"

And as Lantier drew her toward his door Nana's face appeared fora moment at the window which lit her little cabinet. 

The mother did not see the child, who stood in her nightdress, palewith sleep. She looked at her father as he lay and then watched hermother disappear in Lantier's room. She was perfectly grave, butin her eyes burned the sensual curiosity of premature vice. 

CHAPTER IX

CLOUDS IN THE HORIZON

That winter Mamma Coupeau was very ill with an asthmatic attack, which she always expected in the month of December. 

The poor woman suffered much, and the depression of her spirits wasnaturally very great. It must be confessed that there was nothing verygay in the aspect of the room where she slept. Between her bed andthat of the little girl there was just room for a chair. The paperhung in strips from the wall. Through a round window near the ceilingcame a dreary gray light. There was little ventilation in the room, which made it especially unfit for the old woman, who at night, whenNana was there and she could hear her breathe, did not complain, butwhen left alone during the day, moaned incessantly, rolling her headabout on her pillow. 

"Ah, " she said, "how unhappy I am! It is the same as a prison. I wishI were dead!"

And as soon as a visitor came in--Virginie or Mme Boche--she pouredout her grievances. "I should not suffer so much among strangers. I should like sometimes a cup of tisane, but I can't get it; andNana--that child whom I have raised from the cradle--disappears in themorning and never shows her face until night, when she sleeps rightthrough and never once asks me how I am or if she can do anything forme. It will soon be over, and I really believe this clearstarcherwould smother me herself--if she were not afraid of the law!"

Gervaise, it is true, was not as gentle and sweet as she had been. Everything seemed to be going wrong with her, and she had lost heartand patience together. Mamma Coupeau had overheard her saying thatshe was really a great burden. This naturally cut her to the heart, and when she saw her eldest daughter, Mme Lerat, she wept piteouslyand declared that she was being starved to death, and when thesecomplaints drew from her daughter's pocket a little silver, sheexpended it in dainties. 

She told the most preposterous tales to Mme Lerat about Gervaise--ofher new finery and of cakes and delicacies eaten in the corner andmany other things of infinitely more consequence. Then in a littlewhile she turned against the Lorilleuxs and talked of them in the mostbitter manner. At the height of her illness it so happened that hertwo daughters met one afternoon at her bedside. Their mother made amotion to them to come closer. Then she went on to tell them, betweenparoxysms of coughing, that her son came home dead drunk the nightbefore and that she was absolutely certain that Gervaise spent thenight in Lantier's room. "It is all the more disgusting, " she added, "because I am certain that Nana heard what was going on quite as wellas I did. "

The two women did not appear either shocked or surprised. 

"It is none of our business, " said Mme Lorilleux. "If Coupeau does notchoose to take any notice of her conduct it is not for us to do so. "

All the neighborhood were soon informed of the condition of things byher two sisters-in-law, who declared they entered her doors only ontheir mother's account, who, poor thing, was compelled to live amidthese abominations. 

Everyone accused Gervaise now of having perverted poor Lantier. "Menwill be men, " they said; "surely you can't expect them to turn a coldshoulder to women who throw themselves at their heads. She has nopossible excuse; she is a disgrace to the whole street!"

The Lorilleuxs invited Nana to dinner that they might question her, but as soon as they began the child looked absolutely stupid, andthey could extort nothing from her. 

Amid this sudden and fierce indignation Gervaise lived--indifferent, dull and stupid. At first she loathed herself, and if Coupeau laidhis hand on her she shivered and ran away from him. But by degreesshe became accustomed to it. Her indolence had become excessive, and she only wished to be quiet and comfortable. 

After all, she asked herself, why should she care? If her loverand her husband were satisfied, why should she not be too? Sothe household went on much as usual to all appearance. In reality, whenever Coupeau came in tipsy, she left and went to Lantier's roomto sleep. She was not led there by passion or affection; it was simplythat it was more comfortable. She was very like a cat in her choiceof soft, clean places. 

Mamma Coupeau never dared to speak out openly to the clearstarcher, but after a dispute she was unsparing in her hints and allusions. Thefirst time Gervaise fixed her eyes on her and heard all she had to sayin profound silence. Then without seeming to speak of herself, shetook occasion to say not long afterward that when a woman was marriedto a man who was drinking himself to death a woman was very much tobe pitied and by no means to blame if she looked for consolationelsewhere. 

Another time, when taunted by the old woman, she went still furtherand declared that Lantier was as much her husband as was Coupeau--thathe was the father of two of her children. She talked a little twaddleabout the laws of nature, and a shrewd observer would have seen thatshe--parrotlike--was repeating the words that some other person hadput into her mouth. Besides, what were her neighbors doing all abouther? They were not so extremely respectable that they had the rightto attack her. And then she took house after house and showed hermother-in-law that while apparently so deaf to gossip she yet knewall that was going on about her. Yes, she knew--and now seemed togloat over that which once had shocked and revolted her. 

"It is none of my business, I admit, " she cried; "let each personlive as he pleases, according to his own light, and let everybodyelse alone. "

One day when Mamma Coupeau spoke out more clearly she said withcompressed lips:

"Now look here, you are flat on your back and you take advantage ofthat fact. I have never said a word to you about your own life, butI know it all the same--and it was atrocious! That is all! I am notgoing into particulars, but remember, you had best not sit injudgment on me!"

The old woman was nearly suffocated with rage and her cough. 

The next day Goujet came for his mother's wash while Gervaise wasout. Mamma Coupeau called him into her room and kept him for an hour. She read the young man's heart; she knew that his suspicions madehim miserable. And in revenge for something that had displeasedher she told him the truth with many sighs and tears, as if herdaughter-in-law's infamous conduct was a bitter blow to her. 

When Goujet left her room he was deadly pale and looked ten yearsolder than when he went in. The old woman had, too, the additionalpleasure of telling Gervaise on her return that Mme Goujet had sentword that her linen must be returned to her at once, ironed orunironed. And she was so animated and comparatively amiable thatGervaise scented the truth and knew instinctively what she had doneand what she was to expect with Goujet. Pale and trembling, she piledthe linen neatly in a basket and set forth to see Mme Goujet. Yearshad passed since she had paid her friends one penny. The debt stillstood at four hundred and twenty-five francs. Each time she took themoney for her washing she spoke of being pressed just at that time. It was a great mortification for her. 

Coupeau was, however, less scrupulous and said with a laugh that ifshe kissed her friend occasionally in the corner it would keep thingsstraight and pay him well. Then Gervaise, with eyes blazing withindignation, would ask if he really meant that. Had he fallen so low?Nor should he speak of Goujet in that way in her presence. 

Every time she took home the linen of these former friends sheascended the stairs with a sick heart. 

"Ah, it is you, is it?" said Mme Goujet coldly as she opened the door. Gervaise entered with some hesitation; she did not dare attempt toexcuse herself. She was no longer punctual to the hour or theday--everything about her was becoming perfectly disorderly. 

"For one whole week, " resumed the lace mender, "you have kept mewaiting. You have told me falsehood after falsehood. You have sentyour apprentice to tell me that there was an accident--something hadbeen spilled on the shirts, they would come the next day, and so on. I have been unnecessarily annoyed and worried, besides losing muchtime. There is no sense in it! Now what have you brought home? Arethe shirts here which you have had for a month and the skirt whichwas missing last week?"

"Yes, " said Gervaise, almost inaudibly; "yes, the skirt is here. Look at it!"

But Mme Goujet cried out in indignation. 

That skirt did not belong to her, and she would not have it. This wasthe crowning touch, if her things were to be changed in this way. Shedid not like other people's things. 

"And the shirts? Where are they? Lost, I suppose. Very well, settle itas you please, but these shirts I must have tomorrow morning!"

There was a long silence. Gervaise was much disturbed by seeing thatthe door of Goujet's room was wide open. He was there, she was sure, and listening to all these reproaches which she knew to be deservedand to which she could not reply. She was very quiet and submissiveand laid the linen on the bed as quickly as possible. 

Mme Goujet began to examine the pieces. 

"Well! Well!" she said. "No one can praise your washing nowadays. There is not a piece here that is not dirtied by the iron. Look atthis shirt: it is scorched, and the buttons are fairly torn off by theroot. Everything comes back--that comes at all, I should say--with thebuttons off. Look at that sack: the dirt is all in it. No, no, I can'tpay for such washing as this!"

She stopped talking--while she counted the pieces. Then she exclaimed:

"Two pairs of stockings, six towels and one napkin are missing fromthis week. You are laughing at me, it seems. Now, just understand, I tell you to bring back all you have, ironed or not ironed. If inan hour your woman is not here with the rest I have done with you, Madame Coupeau!"

At this moment Goujet coughed. Gervaise started. How could she bearbeing treated in this way before him? And she stood confused andsilent, waiting for the soiled clothes. 

Mme Goujet had taken her place and her work by the window. 

"And the linen?" said Gervaise timidly. 

"Many thanks, " said the old woman. "There is nothing this week. "

Gervaise turned pale; it was clear that Mme Goujet meant to take awayher custom from her. She sank into a chair. She made no attempt atexcuses; she only asked a question. 

"Is Monsieur Goujet ill?"

"He is not well; at least he has just come in and is lying down torest a little. "

Mme Goujet spoke very slowly, almost solemnly, her pale face encircledby her white cap, and wearing, as usual, her plain black dress. 

And she explained that they were obliged to economize very closely. In future she herself would do their washing. Of course Gervaise mustknow that this would not be necessary had she and her husband paidtheir debt to her son. But of course they would submit; they wouldnever think of going to law about it. While she spoke of the debt herneedle moved rapidly to and fro in the delicate meshes of her work. 

"But, " continued Mme Goujet, "if you were to deny yourself a littleand be careful and prudent, you could soon discharge your debt to us;you live too well; you spend too freely. Were you to give us only tenfrancs each month--"

She was interrupted by her son, who called impatiently, "Mother! Comehere, will you?"

When she returned she changed the conversation. Her son hadundoubtedly begged her to say no more about this money to Gervaise. Inspite of her evident determination to avoid this subject, she returnedto it again in about ten minutes. She knew from the beginning justwhat would happen. She had said so at the time, and all had turned outprecisely as she had prophesied. The tinworker had drunk up the shopand had left his wife to bear the load by herself. If her son hadtaken her advice he would never have lent the money. His marriagehad fallen through, and he had lost his spirits. She grew very angryas she spoke and finally accused Gervaise openly of having, with herhusband, deliberately conspired to cheat her simplehearted son. 

"Many women, " she exclaimed, "played the parts of hypocrites andprudes for years and were found out at the last!"

"Mother! Mother!" called Goujet peremptorily. 

She rose and when she returned said:

"Go in; he wants to see you. "

Gervaise obeyed, leaving the door open behind her. She found the roomsweet and fresh looking, like that of a young girl, with its simplepictures and white curtains. 

Goujet, crushed by what he had heard from Mamma Coupeau, lay at fulllength on the bed with pale face and haggard eyes. 

"Listen!" he said. "You must not mind my mother's words; she does notunderstand. You do not owe me anything. "

He staggered to his feet and stood leaning against the bed and lookingat her. 

"Are you ill?" she said nervously. 

"No, not ill, " he answered, "but sick at heart. Sick when I rememberwhat you said and see the truth. Leave me. I cannot bear to look atyou. "

And he waved her away, not angrily, but with great decision. She wentout without a word, for she had nothing to say. In the next room shetook up her basket and stood still a moment; Mme Goujet did not lookup, but she said:

"Remember, I want my linen at once, and when that is all sent backto me we will settle the account. "

"Yes, " answered Gervaise. And she closed the door, leaving behind herall that sweet odor and cleanliness on which she had once placed sohigh a value. She returned to the shop with her head bowed down andlooking neither to the right nor the left. 

Mother Coupeau was sitting by the fire, having left her bed for thefirst time. Gervaise said nothing to her--not a word of reproach orcongratulation. She felt deadly tired; all her bones ached, as if shehad been beaten. She thought life very hard and wished that it wereover for her. 

Gervaise soon grew to care for nothing but her three meals per day. The shop ran itself; one by one her customers left her. Gervaiseshrugged her shoulders half indifferently, half insolently; everybodycould leave her, she said: she could always get work. But she wasmistaken, and soon it became necessary for her to dismiss Mme Putois, keeping no assistant except Augustine, who seemed to grow more andmore stupid as time went on. Ruin was fast approaching. Naturally, asindolence and poverty increased, so did lack of cleanliness. No onewould ever have known that pretty blue shop in which Gervaise hadformerly taken such pride. The windows were unwashed and covered withthe mud scattered by the passing carriages. Within it was still moreforlorn: the dampness of the steaming linen had ruined the paper;everything was covered with dust; the stove, which once had been keptso bright, was broken and battered. The long ironing table was coveredwith wine stains and grease, looking as if it had served a wholegarrison. The atmosphere was loaded with a smell of cooking and ofsour starch. But Gervaise was unconscious of it. She did not noticethe torn and untidy paper and, having ceased to pay any attention topersonal cleanliness, was hardly likely to spend her time in scrubbingthe greasy floors. She allowed the dust to accumulate over everythingand never lifted a finger to remove it. Her own comfort andtranquillity were now her first considerations. 

Her debts were increasing, but they had ceased to give her anyuneasiness. She was no longer honest or straightforward. She did notcare whether she ever paid or not, so long as she got what she wanted. When one shop refused her more credit she opened an account nextdoor. She owed something in every shop in the whole _Quartier_. Shedared not pass the grocer or the baker in her own street and wascompelled to make a lengthy circuit each time she went out. Thetradespeople muttered and grumbled, and some went so far as to callher a thief and a swindler. 

One evening the man who had sold her the furniture for Lantier's roomcame in with ugly threats. 

Such scenes were unquestionably disagreeable. She trembled for an hourafter them, but they never took away her appetite. 

It was very stupid of these people, after all, she said to Lantier. How could she pay them if she had no money? And where could she getmoney? She closed her eyes to the inevitable and would not think ofthe future. Mamma Coupeau was well again, but the household had beendisorganized for more than a year. In summer there was more workbrought to the shop--white skirts and cambric dresses. There wereups and downs, therefore: days when there was nothing in the housefor supper and others when the table was loaded. 

Mamma Coupeau was seen almost daily, going out with a bundle under herapron and returning without it and with a radiant face, for the oldwoman liked the excitement of going to the Mont-de-Piete. 

Gervaise was gradually emptying the house--linen and clothes, toolsand furniture. In the beginning she took advantage of a good weekto take out what she had pawned the week before, but after a whileshe ceased to do that and sold her tickets. There was only one thingwhich cost her a pang, and that was selling her clock. She had swornshe would not touch it, not unless she was dying of hunger, andwhen at last she saw her mother-in-law carry it away she droppedinto a chair and wept like a baby. But when the old woman came backwith twenty-five francs and she found she had five francs more thanwas demanded by the pressing debt which had caused her to make thesacrifice, she was consoled and sent out at once for four sous' worthof brandy. When these two women were on good terms they often dranka glass together, sitting at the corner of the ironing table. 

Mamma Coupeau had a wonderful talent for bringing a glass in thepocket of her apron without spilling a drop. She did not care to havethe neighbors know, but, in good truth, the neighbors knew very welland laughed and sneered as the old woman went in and out. 

This, as was natural and right, increased the prejudice againstGervaise. Everyone said that things could not go on much longer;the end was near. 

Amid all this ruin Coupeau thrived surprisingly. Bad liquor seemedto affect him agreeably. His appetite was good in spite of the amounthe drank, and he was growing stout. Lantier, however, shook his head, declaring that it was not honest flesh and that he was bloated. ButCoupeau drank all the more after this statement and was rarely or eversober. There began to be a strange bluish tone in his complexion. Hisspirits never flagged. He laughed at his wife when she told him ofher embarrassments. What did he care, so long as she provided him withfood to eat? And the longer he was idle, the more exacting he becamein regard to this food. 

He was ignorant of his wife's infidelity, at least, so all his friendsdeclared. They believed, moreover, that were he to discover it therewould be great trouble. But Mme Lerat, his own sister, shook her headdoubtfully, averring that she was not so sure of his ignorance. 

Lantier was also in good health and spirits, neither too stout nortoo thin. He wished to remain just where he was, for he was thoroughlywell satisfied with himself, and this made him critical in regard tohis food, as he had made a study of the things he should eat and thosehe should avoid for the preservation of his figure. Even when therewas not a cent he asked for eggs and cutlets: nourishing and lightthings were what he required, he said. He ruled Gervaise with a rod ofiron, grumbled and found fault far more than Coupeau ever did. It wasa house with two masters, one of whom, cleverer by far than the other, took the best of everything. He skimmed the Coupeaus, as it were, andkept all the cream for himself. He was fond of Nana because he likedgirls better than boys. He troubled himself little about Etienne. 

When people came and asked for Coupeau it was Lantier who appearedin his shirt sleeves with the air of the man of the house who isneedlessly disturbed. He answered for Coupeau, said it was one andthe same thing. 

Gervaise did not find this life always smooth and agreeable. She hadno reason to complain of her health. She had become very stout. Butit was hard work to provide for and please these two men. When theycame in, furious and out of temper, it was on her that they wreakedtheir rage. Coupeau abused her frightfully and called her by thecoarsest epithets. Lantier, on the contrary, was more select in hisphraseology, but his words cut her quite as deeply. Fortunately peoplebecome accustomed to almost everything in this world, and Gervaisesoon ceased to care for the reproaches and injustice of these two men. She even preferred to have them out of temper with her, for then theylet her alone in some degree; but when they were in a good humor theywere all the time at her heels, and she could not find a leisuremoment even to iron a cap, so constant were the demands they made uponher. They wanted her to do this and do that, to cook little dishes forthem and wait upon them by inches. 

One night she dreamed she was at the bottom of a well. Coupeau waspushing her down with his fists, and Lantier was tickling her to makeher jump out quicker. And this, she thought, was a very fair pictureof her life! She said that the people of the _Quartier_ were veryunjust, after all, when they reproached her for the way of life intowhich she had fallen. It was not her fault. It was not she who haddone it, and a little shiver ran over her as she reflected thatperhaps the worst was not yet. 

The utter deterioration of her nature was shown by the fact that shedetested neither her husband nor Lantier. In a play at the Gaite shehad seen a woman hate her husband and poison him for the sake of herlover. This she thought very strange and unnatural. Why could thethree not have lived together peaceably? It would have been muchmore reasonable!

In spite of her debts, in spite of the shifts to which her increasingpoverty condemned her, Gervaise would have considered herself quitewell off, but for the exacting selfishness of Lantier and Coupeau. 

Toward autumn Lantier became more and more disgusted, declared hehad nothing to live on but potato parings and that his health wassuffering. He was enraged at seeing the house so thoroughly clearedout, and he felt that the day was not far off when he must take hishat and depart. He had become accustomed to his den, and he hated toleave it. He was thoroughly provoked that the extravagant habits ofGervaise necessitated this sacrifice on his part. Why could she nothave shown more sense? He was sure he didn't know what would becomeof them. Could they have struggled on six months longer, he couldhave concluded an affair which would have enabled him to supportthe whole family in comfort. 

One day it came to pass that there was not a mouthful in the house, not even a radish. Lantier sat by the stove in somber discontent. Finally he started up and went to call on the Poissons, to whom hesuddenly became friendly to a degree. He no longer taunted the policeofficer but condescended to admit that the emperor was a good fellowafter all. He showed himself especially civil to Virginie, whom heconsidered a clever woman and well able to steer her bark throughstormy seas. 

Virginie one day happened to say in his presence that she should liketo establish herself in some business. He approved the plan and paidher a succession of adroit compliments on her capabilities and citedthe example of several women he knew who had made or were making theirfortunes in this way. 

Virginie had the money, an inheritance from an aunt, but shehesitated, for she did not wish to leave the _Quartier_ and shedid not know of any shop she could have. Then Lantier led her intoa corner and whispered to her for ten minutes; he seemed to bepersuading her to something. They continued to talk together inthis way at intervals for several days, seeming to have some secretunderstanding. 

Lantier all this time was fretting and scolding at the Coupeaus, asking Gervaise what on earth she intended to do, begging her tolook things fairly in the face. She owed five or six hundred francsto the tradespeople about her. She was behindhand with her rent, andMarescot, the landlord, threatened to turn her out if they did not paybefore the first of January. 

The Mont-de-Piete had taken everything; there was literally nothingbut the nails in the walls left. What did she mean to do?

Gervaise listened to all this at first listlessly, but she grew angryat last and cried out:

"Look here! I will go away tomorrow and leave the key in the door. I had rather sleep in the gutter than live in this way!"

"And I can't say that it would not be a wise thing for you to do!"answered Lantier insidiously. "I might possibly assist you to findsomeone to take the lease off your hands whenever you really concludeto leave the shop. "

"I am ready to leave it at once!" cried Gervaise violently. "I amsick and tired of it. "

Then Lantier became serious and businesslike. He spoke openly ofVirginie, who, he said, was looking for a shop; in fact, he nowremembered having heard her say that she would like just such aone as this. 

But Gervaise shrank back and grew strangely calm at this name ofVirginie. 

She would see, she said; on the whole, she must have time to think. People said a great many things when they were angry, which onreflection were found not to be advisable. 

Lantier rang the changes on this subject for a week, but Gervaise saidshe had decided to employ some woman and go to work again, and if shewere not able to get back her old customers she could try for newones. She said this merely to show Lantier that she was not so utterlydowncast and crushed as he had seemed to take for granted was thecase. 

He was reckless enough to drop the name of Virginie once more, and sheturned upon him in a rage. 

"No, no, never!" She had always distrusted Virginie, and if she wantedthe shop it was only to humiliate her. Any other woman might have it, but not this hypocrite, who had been waiting for years to gloat overher downfall. No, she understood now only too well the meaning of theyellow sparks in her cat's eyes. It was clear to her that Virginie hadnever forgotten the scene in the lavatory, and if she did not look outthere would be a repetition of it. 

Lantier stood aghast at this anger and this torrent of words, butpresently he plucked up courage and bade her hold her tongue and toldher she should not talk of his friends in that way. As for himself, hewas sick and tired of other people's affairs; in future he would letthem all take care of themselves, without a word of counsel from him. 

January arrived, cold and damp. Mamma Coupeau took to her bed witha violent cold which she expected each year at this time. But thoseabout her said she would never leave the house again, except feetfirst. 

Her children had learned to look forward to her death as a happydeliverance for all. The physician who came once was not sent foragain. A little tisane was given her from time to time that she mightnot feel herself utterly neglected. She was just alive; that was all. It now became a mere question of time with her, but her brain wasclear still, and in the expression of her eyes there were many thingsto be read--sorrow at seeing no sorrow in those she left behind herand anger against Nana, who was utterly indifferent to her. 

One Monday evening Coupeau came in as tipsy as usual and threwhimself on the bed, all dressed. Gervaise intended to remain withher mother-in-law part of the night, but Nana was very brave andsaid she would hear if her grandmother moved and wanted anything. 

About half-past three Gervaise woke with a start; it seemed to herthat a cold blast had swept through the room. Her candle had burneddown, and she nastily wrapped a shawl around her with trembling handsand hurried into the next room. Nana was sleeping quietly, and hergrandmother was dead in the bed at her side. 

Gervaise went to Lantier and waked him. 

"She is dead, " she said. 

"Well, what of it?" he muttered, half asleep. "Why don't you go tosleep?"

She turned away in silence while he grumbled at her coming to disturbhim by the intelligence of a death in the house. 

Gervaise dressed herself, not without tears, for she really loved thecross old woman whose son lay in the heavy slumbers of intoxication. 

When she went back to the room she found Nana sitting up and rubbingher eyes. The child realized what had come to pass and tremblednervously in the face of this death of which she had thought much inthe last two days, as of something which was hidden from children. 

"Get up!" said her mother in a low voice. "I do not wish you to stayhere. "

The child slipped from her bed slowly and regretfully, with her eyesfixed on the dead body of her grandmother. 

Gervaise did not know what to do with her or where to send her. Atthis moment Lantier appeared at the door. He had dressed himself, impelled by a little shame at his own conduct. 

"Let the child go into my room, " he said, "and I will help you. "

Nana looked first at her mother and then at Lantier and then trottedwith her little bare feet into the next room and slipped into the bedthat was still warm. 

She lay there wide awake with blazing cheeks and eyes and seemed tobe absorbed in thought. 

While Lantier and Gervaise were silently occupied with the deadCoupeau lay and snored. 

Gervaise hunted in a bureau to find a little crucifix which she hadbrought from Plassans, when she suddenly remembered that Mamma Coupeauhad sold it. They each took a glass of wine and sat by the stove untildaybreak. 

About seven o'clock Coupeau woke. When he heard what had happened hedeclared they were jesting. But when he saw the body he fell on hisknees and wept like a baby. Gervaise was touched by these tears andfound her heart softer toward her husband than it had been for manya long year. 

"Courage, old friend!" said Lantier, pouring out a glass of wine ashe spoke. 

Coupeau took some wine, but he continued to weep, and Lantier went offunder pretext of informing the family, but he did not hurry. He walkedalong slowly, smoking a cigar, and after he had been to Mme Lerat's hestopped in at a _cremerie_ to take a cup of coffee, and there hesat for an hour or more in deep thought. 

By nine o'clock the family were assembled in the shop, whose shuttershad not been taken down. Lorilleux only remained for a few moments andthen went back to his shop. Mme Lorilleux shed a few tears and thensent Nana to buy a pound of candles. 

"How like Gervaise!" she murmured. "She can do nothing in a properway!"

Mme Lerat went about among the neighbors to borrow a crucifix. Shebrought one so large that when it was laid on the breast of MammaCoupeau the weight seemed to crush her. 

Then someone said something about holy water, so Nana was sent to thechurch with a bottle. The room assumed a new aspect. On a small tableburned a candle, near it a glass of holy water in which was a branchof box. 

"Everything is in order, " murmured the sisters; "people can come nowas soon as they please. "

Lantier made his appearance about eleven. He had been to makeinquiries in regard to funeral expenses. 

"The coffin, " he said, "is twelve francs, and if you want a Mass, tenfrancs more. A hearse is paid for according to its ornaments. "

"You must remember, " said Mme Lorilleux with compressed lips, "thatMamma must be buried according to her purse. "

"Precisely!" answered Lantier. "I only tell you this as your guide. Decide what you want, and after breakfast I will go and attend toit all. "

He spoke in a low voice, oppressed by the presence of the dead. Thechildren were laughing in the courtyard and Nana singing loudly. 

Gervaise said gently:

"We are not rich, to be sure, but we wish to do what she would haveliked. If Mamma Coupeau has left us nothing it was not her fault andno reason why we should bury her as if she were a dog. No, there mustbe a Mass and a hearse. "

"And who will pay for it?" asked Mme Lorilleux. "We can't, for welost much money last week, and I am quite sure you would find ithard work!"

Coupeau, when he was consulted, shrugged his shoulders with a gestureof profound indifference. Mme Lerat said she would pay her share. 

"There are three of us, " said Gervaise after a long calculation; "ifwe each pay thirty francs we can do it with decency. "

But Mme Lorilleux burst out furiously:

"I will never consent to such folly. It is not that I care for themoney, but I disapprove of the ostentation. You can do as you please. "

"Very well, " replied Gervaise, "I will. I have taken care of yourmother while she was living; I can bury her now that she is dead. "

Then Mme Lorilleux fell to crying, and Lantier had great troublein preventing her from going away at once, and the quarrel grew soviolent that Mme Lerat hastily closed the door of the room wherethe dead woman lay, as if she feared the noise would waken her. The children's voices rose shrill in the air with Nana's perpetual"Tra-la-la" above all the rest. 

"Heavens, how wearisome those children are with their songs, " saidLantier. "Tell them to be quiet, and make Nana come in and sit down. "

Gervaise obeyed these dictatorial orders while her sisters-in-law wenthome to breakfast, while the Coupeaus tried to eat, but they were madeuncomfortable by the presence of death in their crowded quarters. Thedetails of their daily life were disarranged. 

Gervaise went to Goujet and borrowed sixty francs, which, added tothirty from Mme Lerat, would pay the expenses of the funeral. Inthe afternoon several persons came in and looked at the dead woman, crossing themselves as they did so and shaking holy water over thebody with the branch of box. They then took their seats in the shopand talked of the poor thing and of her many virtues. One said shehad talked with her only three days before, and another asked ifit were not possible it was a trance. 

By evening the Coupeaus felt it was more than they could bear. It was a mistake to keep a body so long. One has, after all, onlyso many tears to shed, and that done, grief turns to worry. MammaCoupeau--stiff and cold--was a terrible weight on them all. Theygradually lost the sense of oppression, however, and spoke louder. 

After a while M. Marescot appeared. He went to the inner room andknelt at the side of the corpse. He was very religious, they saw. He made a sign of the cross in the air and dipped the branch intothe holy water and sprinkled the body. M. Marescot, having finishedhis devotions, passed out into the shop and said to Coupeau:

"I came for the two quarters that are due. Have you got the moneyfor me?"

"No sir, not entirely, " said Gervaise, coming forward, excessivelyannoyed at this scene taking place in the presence of hersisters-in-law. "You see, this trouble came upon us--"

"Undoubtedly, " answered her landlord; "but we all of us have ourtroubles. I cannot wait any longer. I really must have the money. If I am not paid by tomorrow I shall most assuredly take immediatemeasures to turn you out. "

Gervaise clasped her hands imploringly, but he shook his head, saying that discussion was useless; besides, just then it wouldbe a disrespect to the dead. 

"A thousand pardons!" he said as he went out. "But remember thatI must have the money tomorrow. "

And as he passed the open door of the lighted room he saluted thecorpse with another genuflection. 

After he had gone the ladies gathered around the stove, where a greatpot of coffee stood, enough to keep them all awake for the wholenight. The Poissons arrived about eight o'clock; then Lantier, carefully watching Gervaise, began to speak of the disgraceful actcommitted by the landlord in coming to a house to collect money atsuch a time. 

"He is a thorough hypocrite, " continued Lantier, "and were I in MadameCoupeau's place, I would walk off and leave his house on his hands. "

Gervaise heard but did not seem to heed. 

The Lorilleuxs, delighted at the idea that she would lose her shop, declared that Lantier's idea was an excellent one. They gave Coupeaua push and repeated it to him. 

Gervaise seemed to be disposed to yield, and then Virginie spoke inthe blandest of tones. 

"I will take the lease off your hands, " she said, "and will arrangethe back rent with your landlord. "

"No, no! Thank you, " cried Gervaise, shaking off the lethargy in whichshe had been wrapped. "I can manage this matter and I can work. No, no, I say. "

Lantier interposed and said soothingly:

"Never mind! We will talk of it another time--tomorrow, possibly. "

The family were to sit up all night. Nana cried vociferously when shewas sent into the Boche quarters to sleep; the Poissons remained untilmidnight. Virginia began to talk of the country: she would like to beburied under a tree with flowers and grass on her grave. Mme Leratsaid that in her wardrobe--folded up in lavender--was the linen sheetin which her body was to be wrapped. 

When the Poissons went away Lantier accompanied them in order, he said, to leave his bed for the ladies, who could take turns insleeping there. But the ladies preferred to remain together aboutthe stove. 

Mme Lorilleux said she had no black dress, and it was too bad that shemust buy one, for they were sadly pinched just at this time. And sheasked Gervaise if she was sure that her mother had not a black skirtwhich would do, one that had been given her on her birthday. Gervaisewent for the skirt. Yes, it would do if it were taken in at the waist. 

Then Mme Lorilleux looked at the bed and the wardrobe and asked ifthere was nothing else belonging to her mother. 

Here Mme Lerat interfered. The Coupeaus, she said, had taken care ofher mother, and they were entitled to all the trifles she had left. The night seemed endless. They drank coffee and went by turns to lookat the body, lying silent and calm under the flickering light of thecandle. 

The interment was to take place at half-past ten, but Gervaise wouldgladly have given a hundred francs, if she had had them, to anyone whowould have taken Mamma Coupeau away three hours before the time fixed. 

"Ah, " she said to herself, "it is no use to disguise the fact: peopleare very much in the way after they are dead, no matter how much youhave loved them!"

Father Bazonge, who was never known to be sober, appeared with thecoffin and the pall. When he saw Gervaise he stood with his eyesstarting from his head. 

"I beg you pardon, " he said, "but I thought it was for you, " and hewas turning to go away. 

"Leave the coffin!" cried Gervaise, growing very pale. Bazonge beganto apologize:

"I heard them talking yesterday, but I did not pay much attention. Icongratulate you that you are still alive. Though why I do, I do notknow, for life is not such a very agreeable thing. "

Gervaise listened with a shiver of horror and a morbid dread that hewould take her away and shut her up in his box and bury her. She hadonce heard him say that he knew a woman who would be only too thankfulif he would do exactly that. 

"He is horribly drunk, " she murmured in a tone of mingled disgust andterror. 

"It will come for you another time, " he said with a laugh; "you haveonly to make me a little sign. I am a great consolation to womensometimes, and you need not sneer at poor Father Bazonge, for he hasheld many a fine lady in his arms, and they made no complaint whenhe laid them down to sleep in the shade of the evergreens. "

"Do hold your tongue, " said Lorilleux; "this is no time for such talk. Be off with you!"

The clock struck ten. The friends and neighbors had assembled in theshop while the family were in the back room, nervous and feverish withsuspense. 

Four men appeared--the undertaker, Bazonge and his three assistantsplaced the body in the coffin. Bazonge held the screws in his mouthand waited for the family to take their last farewell. 

Then Coupeau, his two sisters and Gervaise kissed their mother, and their tears fell fast on her cold face. The lid was put on andfastened down. 

The hearse was at the door to the great edification of thetradespeople of the neighborhood, who said under their breath thatthe Coupeaus had best pay their debts. 

"It is shameful, " Gervaise was saying at the same moment, speakingof the Lorilleuxs. "These people have not even brought a bouquet ofviolets for their mother. "

It was true they had come empty-handed, while Mme Lerat had broughta wreath of artificial flowers which was laid on the bier. 

Coupeau and Lorilleux, with their hats in their hands, walked at thehead of the procession of men. After them followed the ladies, headedby Mme Lorilleux in her black skirt, wrenched from the dead, hersister trying to cover a purple dress with a large black shawl. 

Gervaise had lingered behind to close the shop and give Nana into thecharge of Mme Boche and then ran to overtake the procession, while thelittle girl stood with the concierge, profoundly interested in seeingher grandmother carried in that beautiful carriage. 

Just as Gervaise joined the procession Goujet came up a side streetand saluted her with a slight bow and with a faint sweet smile. Thetears rushed to her eyes. She did not weep for Mamma Coupeau butrather for herself, but her sisters-in-law looked at her as if shewere the greatest hypocrite in the world. 

At the church the ceremony was of short duration. The Mass draggeda little because the priest was very old. 

The cemetery was not far off, and the cortege soon reached it. Apriest came out of a house near by and shivered as he saw his breathrise with each _De Profundis_ he uttered. 

The coffin was lowered, and as the frozen earth fell upon it moretears were shed, accompanied, however, by sigh of relief. 

The procession dispersed outside the gates of the cemetery, and atthe very first cabaret Coupeau turned in, leaving Gervaise alone onthe sidewalk. She beckoned to Goujet, who was turning the corner. 

"I want to speak to you, " she said timidly. "I want to tell you howashamed I am for coming to you again to borrow money, but I was atmy wit's end. "

"I am always glad to be of use to you, " answered the blacksmith. "Butpray never allude to the matter before my mother, for I do not wishto trouble her. She and I think differently on many subjects. "

She looked at him sadly and earnestly. Through her mind flitted avague regret that she had not done as he desired, that she had notgone away with him somewhere. Then a vile temptation assailed her. She trembled. 

"You are not angry now?" she said entreatingly. 

"No, not angry, but still heartsick. All is over between us nowand forever. " And he walked off with long strides, leaving Gervaisestunned by his words. 

"All is over between us!" she kept saying to herself. "And what moreis there for me then in life?"

She sat down in her empty, desolate room and drank a large tumblerof wine. When the others came in she looked up suddenly and said toVirginie gently:

"If you want the shop, take it!"

Virginie and her husband jumped at this and sent for the concierge, who consented to the arrangement on condition that the new tenantswould become security for the two quarters then due. 

This was agreed upon. The Coupeaus would take a room on the sixthfloor near the Lorilleuxs. Lantier said politely that if it would notbe disagreeable to the Poissons he should like much to retain hispresent quarters. 

The policeman bowed stiffly but with every intention of being cordialand said he decidedly approved of the idea. 

Then Lantier withdrew from the discussion entirely, watching Gervaiseand Virginie out of the corners of his eyes. 

That evening when Gervaise was alone again she felt utterly exhausted. The place looked twice its usual size. It seemed to her that inleaving Mamma Coupeau in the quiet cemetery she had also left muchthat was precious to her, a portion of her own life, her pride in hershop, her hopes and her energy. These were not all, either, that shehad buried that day. Her heart was as bare and empty as her walls andher home. She was too weary to try and analyze her sensations butmoved about as if in a dream. 

At ten o'clock, when Nana was undressed, she wept, begging that shemight be allowed to sleep in her grandmother's bed. Her mother vaguelywondered that the child was not afraid and allowed her to do as shepleased. 

Nana was not timid by nature, and only her curiosity, not her fears, had been excited by the events of the last three days, and she curledherself up with delight in the soft, warm feather bed. 

CHAPTER X

DISASTERS AND CHANGES

The new lodging of the Coupeaus was next that of the Bijards. Almostopposite their door was a closet under the stairs which went up tothe roof--a mere hole without light or ventilation, where Father Bruslept. 

A chamber and a small room, about as large as one's hand, were all theCoupeaus had now. Nana's little bed stood in the small room, the doorof which had to be left open at night, lest the child should stifle. 

When it came to the final move Gervaise felt that she could notseparate from the commode which she had spent so much time inpolishing when first married and insisted on its going to their newquarters, where it was much in the way and stopped up half the window, and when Gervaise wished to look out into the court she had not roomfor her elbows. 

The first few days she spent in tears. She felt smothered and cramped;after having had so much room to move about in it seemed to her thatshe was smothering. It was only at the window she could breathe. Thecourtyard was not a place calculated to inspire cheerful thoughts. Opposite her was the window which years before had elicited heradmiration, where every successive summer scarlet beans had grown toa fabulous height on slender strings. Her room was on the shady side, and a pot of mignonette would die in a week on her sill. 

No, life had not been what she hoped, and it was all very hard tobear. 

Instead of flowers to solace her declining years she would have butthorns. One day as she was looking down into the court she had thestrangest feeling imaginable. She seemed to see herself standing justnear the loge of the concierge, looking up at the house and examiningit for the first time. 

This glimpse of the past made her feel faint. It was at least thirteenyears since she had first seen this huge building--this world withina world. The court had not changed. The facade was simply more dingy. The same clothes seemed to be hanging at the windows to dry. Belowthere were the shavings from the cabinetmaker's shop, and the gutterglittered with blue water, as blue and soft in tone as the water sheremembered. 

But she--alas, how changed was she! She no longer looked up to thesky. She was no longer hopeful, courageous and ambitious. She wasliving under the very roof in crowded discomfort, where never a rayof sunshine could reach her, and her tears fell fast in utterdiscouragement. 

Nevertheless, when Gervaise became accustomed to her new surroundingsshe grew more content. The pieces of furniture she had sold toVirginie had facilitated her installation. When the fine weather cameCoupeau had an opportunity of going into the country to work. He wentand lived three months without drinking--cured for the time being bythe fresh, pure air. It does a man sometimes an infinite deal of goodto be taken away from all his old haunts and from Parisian streets, which always seem to exhale a smell of brandy and of wine. 

He came back as fresh as a rose, and he brought four hundred francswith which he paid the Poissons the amount for which they had becomesecurity as well as several other small but pressing debts. Gervaisehad now two or three streets open to her again, which for some timeshe had not dared to enter. 

She now went out to iron by the day and had gone back to her oldmistress, Mme Fauconnier, who was a kindhearted creature and readyto do anything for anyone who flattered her adroitly. 

With diligence and economy Gervaise could have managed to livecomfortably and pay all her debts, but this prospect did not charm herparticularly. She suffered acutely in seeing the Poissons in her oldshop. She was by no means of a jealous or envious disposition, butit was not agreeable to her to hear the admiration expressed for hersuccessors by her husband's sisters. To hear them one would supposethat never had so beautiful a shop been seen before. They spoke ofthe filthy condition of the place when Virginie moved in--who hadpaid, they declared, thirty francs for cleaning it. 

Virginie, after some hesitation, had decided on a small stock ofgroceries--sugar, tea and coffee, also bonbons and chocolate. Lantierhad advised these because he said the profit on them was immense. Theshop was repainted, and shelves and cases were put in, and a counterwith scales such as are seen at confectioners'. The little inheritancethat Poisson held in reserve was seriously encroached upon. ButVirginie was triumphant, for she had her way, and the Lorilleuxsdid not spare Gervaise the description of a case or a jar. 

It was said in the street that Lantier had deserted Gervaise, that she gave him no peace running after him, but this was not true, for he went and came to her apartment as he pleased. Scandal wasconnecting his name and Virginie's. They said Virginie had taken theclearstarcher's lover as well as her shop! The Lorilleuxs talked ofnothing when Gervaise was present but Lantier, Virginie and the shop. Fortunately Gervaise was not inclined to jealousy, and Lantier'sinfidelities had hitherto left her undisturbed, but she did not acceptthis new affair with equal tranquillity. She colored or turned paleas she heard these allusions, but she would not allow a word to passher lips, as she was fully determined never to gratify her enemiesby allowing them to see her discomfiture; but a dispute was heard bythe neighbors about this time between herself and Lantier, who wentangrily away and was not seen by anyone in the Coupeau quarters formore than a fortnight. 

Coupeau behaved very oddly. This blind and complacent husband, whohad closed his eyes to all that was going on at home, was filled withvirtuous indignation at Lantier's indifference. Then Coupeau went sofar as to tease Gervaise in regard to this desertion of her lovers. She had had bad luck, he said, with hatters and blacksmiths--why didshe not try a mason?

He said this as if it were a joke, but Gervaise had a firm convictionthat he was in deadly earnest. A man who is tipsy from one year's endto the next is not apt to be fastidious, and there are husbands who attwenty are very jealous and at thirty have grown very complacent underthe influence of constant tippling. 

Lantier preserved an attitude of calm indifference. He kept the peacebetween the Poissons and the Coupeaus. Thanks to him, Virginie andGervaise affected for each other the most tender regard. He ruled thebrunette as he had ruled the blonde, and he would swallow her shop ashe had that of Gervaise. 

It was in June of this year that Nana partook of her first Communion. She was about thirteen, slender and tall as an asparagus plant, andher air and manner were the height of impertinence and audacity. 

She had been sent away from the catechism class the year before onaccount of her bad conduct. And if the cure did not make a similarobjection this year it was because he feared she would never comeagain and that his refusal would launch on the Parisian _pave_another castaway. 

Nana danced with joy at the mere thought of what the Lorilleuxs--asher godparents--had promised, while Mme Lerat gave the veil and cup, Virginie the purse and Lantier a prayer book, so that the Coupeauslooked forward to the day without anxiety. 

The Poissons--probably through Lantier's advice--selected thisoccasion for their housewarming. They invited the Coupeaus and theBoche family, as Pauline made her first Communion on that day, aswell as Nana. 

The evening before, while Nana stood in an ecstasy of delight beforeher presents, her father came in in an abominable condition. Hisvirtuous resolutions had yielded to the air of Paris; he had falleninto evil ways again, and he now assailed his wife and child with thevilest epithets, which did not seem to shock Nana, for they could fallfrom her tongue on occasion with facile glibness. 

"I want my soup, " cried Coupeau, "and you two fools are chatteringover those fal-lals! I tell you, I will sit on them if I am not waitedupon, and quickly too. "

Gervaise answered impatiently, but Nana, who thought it better tastejust then--all things considered--to receive with meekness all herfather's abuse, dropped her eyes and did not reply. 

"Take that rubbish away!" he cried with growing impatience. "Put itout of my sight or I will tear it to bits. "

Nana did not seem to hear him. She took up the tulle cap and asked hermother what it cost, and when Coupeau tried to snatch the cap Gervaisepushed him away. 

"Let the child alone!" she said. "She is doing no harm!"

Then her husband went into a perfect rage:

"Mother and daughter, " he cried, "a nice pair they make. I understandvery well what all this row is for: it is merely to show yourself in anew gown. I will put you in a bag and tie it close round your throat, and you will see if the cure likes that!"

Nana turned like lightning to protect her treasures. She looked herfather full in the face, and, forgetting the lessons taught her byher priest, she said in a low, concentrated voice:

"Beast!" That was all. 

After Coupeau had eaten his soup he fell asleep and in the morningwoke quite amiable. He admired his daughter and said she looked quitelike a young lady in her white robe. Then he added with a sentimentalair that a father on such days was naturally proud of his child. When they were ready to go to the church and Nana met Pauline inthe corridor, she examined the latter from head to foot and smiledcondescendingly on seeing that Pauline had not a particle of chic. 

The two families started off together, Nana and Pauline in front, each with her prayer book in one hand and with the other holding downher veil, which swelled in the wind like a sail. They did not speakto each other but keenly enjoyed seeing the shopkeepers run to theirdoors to see them, keeping their eyes cast down devoutly but theirears wide open to any compliment they might hear. 

Nana's two aunts walked side by side, exchanging their opinionsin regard to Gervaise, whom they stigmatized as an irreligiousne'er-do-well whose child would never have gone to the HolyCommunion if it had depended on her. 

At the church Coupeau wept all the time. It was very silly, he knew, but he could not help it. The voice of the cure was pathetic; thelittle girls looked like white-robed angels; the organ thrilled him, and the incense gratified his senses. There was one especial anthemwhich touched him deeply. He was not the only person who wept, hewas glad to see, and when the ceremony was over he left the churchfeeling that it was the happiest day of his life. But an hour laterhe quarreled with Lorilleux in a wineshop because the latter was sohardhearted. 

The housewarming at the Poissons' that night was very gay. Lantiersat between Gervaise and Virginie and was equally civil and attentiveto both. Opposite was Poisson with his calm, impassive face, a lookhe had cultivated since he began his career as a police officer. 

But the queens of the fete were the two little girls, Nana andPauline, who sat very erect lest they should crush and deface theirpretty white dresses. At dessert there was a serious discussion inregard to the future of the children. Mme Boche said that Paulinewould at once enter a certain manufactory, where she would receivefive or six francs per week. Gervaise had not decided yet, for Nanahad shown no especial leaning in any direction. She had a good dealof taste, but she was butter-fingered and careless. 

"I should make a florist of her, " said Mme Lerat. "It is clean workand pretty work too. "

Whereupon ensued a warm discussion. The men were especially carefulof their language out of deference to the little girls, but Mme Leratwould not accept the lesson: she flattered herself she could say whatshe pleased in such a way that it could not offend the most fastidiousears. 

Women, she declared, who followed her trade were more virtuous thanothers. They rarely made a slip. 

"I have no objection to your trade, " interrupted Gervaise. "If Nanalikes to make flowers let her do so. Say, Nana, would you like it?"

The little girl did not look up from her plate, into which she wasdipping a crust of bread. She smiled faintly as she replied:

"Yes, Mamma; if you desire it I have no objection. "

The decision was instantly made, and Coupeau wished his sister totake her the very next day to the place where she herself worked, Rue du Caire, and the circle talked gravely of the duties of life. Boche said that Pauline and Nana were now women, since they had beento Communion, and they ought to be serious and learn to cook and tomend. They alluded to their future marriages, their homes and theirchildren, and the girls touched each other under the table, giggledand grew very red. Lantier asked them if they did not have littlehusbands already, and Nana blushingly confessed that she loved VictorFauconnier and never meant to marry anyone else. 

Mme Lorilleux said to Mme Boche on their way home:

"Nana is our goddaughter now, but if she goes into that flowerbusiness, in six months she will be on the _pave_, and we willhave nothing to do with her. "

Gervaise told Boche that she thought the shop admirably arranged. Shehad looked forward to an evening of torture and was surprised thatshe had not experienced a pang. 

Nana, as she undressed, asked her mother if the girl on the nextfloor, who had been married the week before, wore a dress of muslinlike hers. 

But this was the last bright day in that household. Two years passedaway, and their prospects grew darker and their demoralization anddegradation more evident. They went without food and without fire, but never without brandy. 

They found it almost impossible to meet their rent, and a certainJanuary came when they had not a penny, and Father Boche orderedthem to leave. 

It was frightfully cold, with a sharp wind blowing from the north. 

M. Marescot appeared in a warm overcoat and his hands encased in warmwoolen gloves and told them they must go, even if they slept in thegutter. The whole house was oppressed with woe, and a dreary sound oflamentation arose from most of the rooms, for half the tenants werebehindhand. Gervaise sold her bed and paid the rent. Nana made nothingas yet, and Gervaise had so fallen off in her work that Mme Fauconnierhad reduced her wages. She was irregular in her hours and oftenabsented herself from the shop for several days together but was nonethe less vexed to discover that her old employee, Mme Putois, had beenplaced above her. Naturally at the end of the week Gervaise had littlemoney coming to her. 

As to Coupeau, if he worked he brought no money home, and his wife hadceased to count upon it. Sometimes he declared he had lost it througha hole in his pocket or it had been stolen, but after a while heceased to make any excuses. 

But if he had no cash in his pockets it was because he had spent itall in drink. Mme Boche advised Gervaise to watch for him at the doorof the place where he was employed and get his wages from him beforehe had spent them all, but this did no good, as Coupeau was warnedby his friends and escaped by a rear door. 

The Coupeaus were entirely to blame for their misfortunes, but thisis just what people will never admit. It is always ill luck or thecruelty of God or anything, in short, save the legitimate resultof their own vices. 

Gervaise now quarreled with her husband incessantly. The warmth ofaffection of husband and wife, of parents for their children andchildren for their parents had fled and left them all shivering, each apart from the other. 

All three, Coupeau, Gervaise and Nana, watched each other with eyesof baleful hate. It seemed as if some spring had broken--the greatmainspring that binds families together. 

Gervaise did not shudder when she saw her husband lying drunk in thegutter. She would not have pushed him in, to be sure, but if he wereout of the way it would be a good thing for everybody. She even wentso far as to say one day in a fit of rage that she would be glad tosee him brought home on a shutter. Of what good was he to any humanbeing? He ate and he drank and he slept. His child learned to hatehim, and she read the accidents in the papers with the feelings ofan unnatural daughter. What a pity it was that her father had notbeen the man who was killed when that omnibus tipped over!

In addition to her own sorrows and privations, Gervaise, whoseheart was not yet altogether hard, was condemned to hear now of thesufferings of others. The corner of the house in which she livedseemed to be consecrated to those who were as poor as herself. Nosmell of cooking filled the air, which, on the contrary, was ladenwith the shrill cries of hungry children, heavy with the sighs ofweary, heartbroken mothers and with the oaths of drunken husbandsand fathers. 

Gervaise pitied Father Bru from the bottom of her heart; he lay thegreater part of the time rolled up in the straw in his den under thestaircase leading to the roof. When two or three days elapsed withouthis showing himself someone opened the door and looked in to see ifhe were still alive. 

Yes, he was living; that is, he was not dead. When Gervaise had breadshe always remembered him. If she had learned to hate men becauseof her husband her heart was still tender toward animals, and FatherBru seemed like one to her. She regarded him as a faithful old dog. Her heart was heavy within her whenever she thought of him, alone, abandoned by God and man, dying by inches or drying, rather, as anorange dries on the chimney piece. 

Gervaise was also troubled by the vicinity of the undertakerBazonge--a wooden partition alone separated their rooms. When he camein at night she could hear him throw down his glazed hat, which fellwith a dull thud, like a shovelful of clay, on the table. The blackcloak hung against the wall rustled like the wings of some hugebird of prey. She could hear his every movement, and she spent mostof her time listening to him with morbid horror, while he--allunconscious--hummed his vulgar songs and tipsily staggered to hisbed, under which the poor woman's sick fancy pictured a dead bodyconcealed. 

She had read in some paper a dismal tale of some undertaker who tookhome with him coffin after coffin--children's coffins--in order tomake one trip to the cemetery suffice. When she heard his step thewhole corridor was pervaded to her senses with the odor of deadhumanity. 

She would as lief have resided at Pere-Lachaise and watched the molesat their work. The man terrified her; his incessant laughter dismayedher. She talked of moving but at the same time was reluctant to doso, for there was a strange fascination about Bazonge after all. Hadhe not told her once that he would come for her and lay her down tosleep in the shadow of waving branches, where she would know neitherhunger nor toil?

She wished she could try it for a month. And she thought how deliciousit would be in midwinter, just at the time her quarter's rent was due. But, alas, this was not possible! The rest and the sleep must beeternal; this thought chilled her, and her longing for death fadedaway before the unrelenting severity of the bonds exacted by MotherEarth. 

One night she was sick and feverish, and instead of throwing herselfout of the window as she was tempted to do, she rapped on thepartition and called loudly:

"Father Bazonge! Father Bazonge!"

The undertaker was kicking off his slippers, singing a vulgar songas he did so. 

"What is the matter?" he answered. 

But at his voice Gervaise awoke as from a nightmare. What had shedone? Had she really tapped? she asked herself, and she recoiled fromhis side of the wall in chill horror. It seemed to her that she feltthe undertaker's hands on her head. No! No! She was not ready. Shetold herself that she had not intended to call him. It was her elbowthat had knocked the wall accidentally, and she shivered from headto foot at the idea of being carried away in this man's arms. 

"What is the matter?" repeated Bazonge. "Can I serve you in any way, madame?"

"No! No! It is nothing!" answered the laundress in a choked voice. "I am very much obliged. "

While the undertaker slept she lay wide awake, holding her breath andnot daring to move, lest he should think she called him again. 

She said to herself that under no circumstances would she ever appealto him for assistance, and she said this over and over again with thevain hope of reassuring herself, for she was by no means at ease inher mind. 

Gervaise had before her a noble example of courage and fortitude inthe Bijard family. Little Lalie, that tiny child--about as big asa pinch of salt--swept and kept her room like wax; she watched overthe two younger children with all the care and patience of a mother. This she had done since her father had kicked her mother to death. She had entirely assumed that mother's place, even to receiving theblows which had fallen formerly on that poor woman. It seemed to be anecessity of his nature that when he came home drunk he must have somewoman to abuse. Lalie was too small, he grumbled; one blow of his fistcovered her whole face, and her skin was so delicate that the marks ofhis five fingers would remain on her cheek for days!

He would fly at her like a wolf at a poor little kitten for the meresttrifle. Lalie never answered, never rebelled and never complained. She merely tried to shield her face and suppressed all shrieks, lestthe neighbors should come; her pride could not endure that. When herfather was tired kicking her about the room she lay where he left heruntil she had strength to rise, and then she went steadily about herwork, washing the children and making her soup, sweeping and dustinguntil everything was clean. It was a part of her plan of life to bebeaten every day. 

Gervaise had conceived a strong affection for this little neighbor. She treated her like a woman who knew something of life. It must beadmitted that Lalie was large for her years. She was fair and pale, with solemn eyes for her years and had a delicate mouth. To have heardher talk one would have thought her thirty. She could make and mend, and she talked of the children as if she had herself brought them intothe world. She made people laugh sometimes when she talked, but moreoften she brought tears to their eyes. 

Gervaise did everything she could for her, gave her what she couldand helped the energetic little soul with her work. One day she wasaltering a dress of Nana's for her, and when the child tried it onGervaise was chilled with horror at seeing her whole back purple andbruised, the tiny arm bleeding--all the innocent flesh of childhoodmartyrized by the brute--her father. 

Bazonge might get the coffin ready, she thought, for the little girlcould not bear this long. But Lalie entreated her friend to saynothing, telling her that her father did not know what he was doing, that he had been drinking. She forgave him with her whole heart, for madmen must not be held accountable for their deeds. After thatGervaise was on the watch whenever she heard Bijard coming up thestairs. But she never caught him in any act of absolute brutality. Several times she had found Lalie tied to the foot of the bedstead--anidea that had entered her father's brain, no one knew why, a whim ofhis disordered brain, disordered by liquor, which probably arose fromhis wish to tyrannize over the child, even when he was no longerthere. 

Lalie sometimes was left there all day and once all night. WhenGervaise insisted on untying her the child entreated her not to touchthe knots, saying that her father would be furious if he found theknots had been tampered with. 

And really, she said with an angelic smile, she needed rest, and theonly thing that troubled her was not to be able to put the room inorder. She could watch the children just as well, and she could think, so that her time was not entirely lost. When her father let her free, her sufferings were not over, for it was sometimes more than an hourbefore she could stand--before the blood circulated freely in herstiffened limbs. 

Her father had invented another cheerful game. He heated some sous redhot on the stove and laid them on the chimney piece. He then summonedLalie and bade her go buy some bread. The child unsuspiciously took upthe sous, uttered a little shriek and dropped them, shaking her poorburned fingers. 

Then he would go off in a rage. What did she mean by such nonsense?She had thrown away the money and lost it, and he threatened her witha hiding if she did not find the money instantly. The poor childhesitated; he gave her a cuff on the side of the head. With silenttears streaming down her cheeks she would pick up the sous and tossthem from hand to hand to cool them as she went down the long flightsof stairs. 

There was no limit to the strange ingenuity of the man. One afternoon, for example, Lalie had completed playing with the children. The windowwas open, and the air shook the door so that it sounded like gentleraps. 

"It is Mr Wind, " said Lalie; "come in, Mr Wind. How are you today?"

And she made a low curtsy to Mr Wind. The children did the same inhigh glee, and she was quite radiant with happiness, which was notoften the case. 

"Come in, Mr Wind!" she repeated, but the door was pushed open bya rough hand and Bijard entered. Then a sudden change came over thescene. The two children crouched in a corner, while Lalie stood in thecenter of the floor, frozen stiff with terror, for Bijard held in hishand a new whip with a long and wicked-looking lash. He laid this whipon the bed and did not kick either one of the children but smiled inthe most vicious way, showing his two lines of blackened, irregularteeth. He was very drunk and very noisy. 

"What is the matter with you fools? Have you been struck dumb? I heardyou all talking and laughing merrily enough before I came in. Whereare your tongues now? Here! Take off my shoes!"

Lalie, considerably disheartened at not having received her customarykick, turned very pale as she obeyed. He was sitting on the side ofthe bed. He lay down without undressing and watched the child as shemoved about the room. Troubled by this strange conduct, the childended by breaking a cup. Then without disturbing himself he took upthe whip and showed it to her. 

"Look here, fool, " he said grimly: "I bought this for you, and it costme fifty sous, but I expect to get a good deal more than fifty sous'worth of good out of it. With this long lash I need not run aboutafter you, for I can reach you in every corner of the room. You willbreak the cups, will you? Come, now, jump about a little and say goodmorning to Mr Wind again!"

He did not even sit up in the bed but, with his head buried in thepillow, snapped the whip with a noise like that made by a postilion. The lash curled round Lalie's slender body; she fell to the floor, but he lashed her again and compelled her to rise. 

"This is a very good thing, " he said coolly, "and saves my gettingchilled on cold mornings. Yes, I can reach you in that corner--andin that! Skip now! Skip!"

A light foam was on his lips, and his suffused eyes were startingfrom their sockets. Poor little Lalie darted about the room like aterrified bird, but the lash tingled over her shoulders, coiled aroundher slender legs and stung like a viper. She was like an India-rubberball bounding from the floor, while her beast of a father laughedaloud and asked her if she had had enough. 

The door opened and Gervaise entered. She had heard the noise. Shestood aghast at the scene and then was seized with noble rage. 

"Let her be!" she cried. "I will go myself and summon the police. "

Bijard growled like an animal who is disturbed over his prey. 

"Why do you meddle?" he exclaimed. "What business is it of yours?"

And with another adroit movement he cut Lalie across the face. Theblood gushed from her lip. Gervaise snatched a chair and flew at thebrute, but the little girl held her skirts and said it did not hurtmuch; it would be over soon, and she washed the blood away, speakinggently to the frightened children. 

When Gervaise thought of Lalie she was ashamed to complain. She wishedshe had the courage of this child. She knew that she had lived on drybread for weeks and that she was so weak she could hardly stand, andthe tears came to the woman's eyes as she saw the precocious mite whohad known nothing of the innocent happiness of her years. And Gervaisetook this slender creature for example, whose eyes alone told thestory of her misery and hardships, for in the Coupeau family thevitriol of the Assommoir was doing its work of destruction. Gervaisehad seen a whip. Gervaise had learned to dread it, and this dreadinspired her with tenderest pity for Lalie. Coupeau had lost theflesh and the bloated look which had been his, and he was thin andemaciated. His complexion was gradually acquiring a leaden hue. Hisappetite was utterly gone. It was with difficulty that he swalloweda mouthful of bread. His stomach turned against all solid food, buthe took his brandy every day. This was his meat as well as his drink, and he touched nothing else. 

When he crawled out of his bed in the morning he stood for a goodfifteen minutes, coughing and spitting out a bitter liquid that rosein his throat and choked him. 

He did not feel any better until he had taken what he called "a gooddrink, " and later in the day his strength returned. He felt strangeprickings in the skin of his hands and feet. But lately his limbshad grown heavy. This pricking sensation gave place to the mostexcruciating cramps, which he did not find very amusing. He rarelylaughed now but often stopped short and stood still on the sidewalk, troubled by a strange buzzing in his ears and by flashes of lightbefore his eyes. Everything looked yellow to him; the houses seemed tobe moving away from him. At other times, when the sun was full on hisback, he shivered as if a stream of ice water had been poured downbetween his shoulders. But the thing he liked the least about himselfwas a nervous trembling in his hands, the right hand especially. 

Had he become an old woman then? he asked himself with sudden fury. He tried with all his strength to lift his glass and command hisnerves enough to hold it steady. But the glass had a regular tremulousmovement from right to left and left to right again, in spite of allhis efforts. 

Then he emptied it down his throat, saying that when he had swalloweda dozen more he would be all right and as steady as a monument. Gervaise told him, on the contrary, that he must leave off drinkingif he wished to leave off trembling. 

He grew very angry and drank quarts in his eagerness to test thequestion, finally declaring that it was the passing omnibusses thatjarred the house and shook his hand. 

In March Coupeau came in one night drenched to the skin. He had beencaught out in a shower. That night he could not sleep for coughing. In the morning he had a high fever, and the physician who was sentfor advised Gervaise to send him at once to the hospital. 

And Gervaise made no objection; once she had refused to trust herhusband to these people, but now she consigned him to their tendermercies without a regret; in fact, she regarded it as a mercy. 

Nevertheless, when the litter came she turned very pale and, if shehad had even ten francs in her pocket, would have kept him at home. She walked to the hospital by the side of the litter and went intothe ward where he was placed. The room looked to her like a miniaturePere-Lachaise, with its rows of beds on either side and its path downthe middle. She went slowly away, and in the street she turned andlooked up. How well she remembered when Coupeau was at work on thosegutters, cheerily singing in the morning air! He did not drink inthose days, and she, at her window in the Hotel Boncoeur, hadwatched his athletic form against the sky, and both had waved theirhandkerchiefs. Yes, Coupeau had worked more than a year on thishospital, little thinking that he was preparing a place for himself. Now he was no longer on the roof--he had built a dismal nest within. Good God, was she and the once-happy wife and mother one and the same?How long ago those days seemed!

The next day when Gervaise went to make inquiries she found the bedempty. A sister explained that her husband had been taken to theasylum of Sainte-Anne, because the night before he had suddenly becomeunmanageable from delirium and had uttered such terrible howls that itdisturbed the inmates of all the beds in that ward. It was the alcoholin his system, she said, which attacked his nerves now, when he was soreduced by the inflammation on his lungs that he could not resist it. 

The clearstarcher went home, but how or by what route she never knew. Her husband was mad--she heard these words reverberating through herbrain. Life was growing very strange. Nana simply said that he must, of course, be left at the asylum, for he might murder them both. 

On Sunday only could Gervaise go to Sainte-Anne. It was a longdistance off. Fortunately there was an omnibus which went very near. She got out at La Rue Sante and bought two oranges that she might notgo quite empty-handed. 

But when she went in, to her astonishment she found Coupeau sittingup. He welcomed her gaily. 

"You are better!" she exclaimed. 

"Yes, nearly well, " he replied, and they talked together awhile, andshe gave him the oranges, which pleased and touched him, for he was adifferent man now that he drank tisane instead of liquor. She did notdare allude to his delirium, but he spoke of it himself. 

"Yes, " he said, "I was in a pretty state! I saw rats running all overthe floor and the walls, and you were calling me, and I saw all sortsof horrible things! But I am all right now. Once in a while I have abad dream, but everybody does, I suppose. "

Gervaise remained with him until night. When the house surgeon madehis rounds at six o'clock he told him to hold out his hands. Theyscarcely trembled--an almost imperceptible motion of the tips of hisfingers was all. But as the room grew darker Coupeau became restless. Two or three times he sat up and peered into the remote corners. 

Suddenly he stretched out his arms and seemed to crush some creatureon the wall. 

"What is it?" asked Gervaise, terribly frightened. 

"Rats!" he said quietly. "Only rats!"

After a long silence he seemed to be dropping off to sleep, withdisconnected sentences falling from his lips. 

"Dirty beasts! Look out, one is under your skirts!" He pulled thecovering hastily over his head, as if to protect himself against thecreature he saw. 

Then starting up in mad terror, he screamed aloud. A nurse ran to thebed, and Gervaise was sent away, mute with horror at this scene. 

But when on the following Sunday she went again to the hospital, Coupeau was really well. All his dreams had vanished. He slept likea child, ten hours without lifting a finger. His wife, therefore, wasallowed to take him away. The house surgeon gave him a few words ofadvice before he left, assuring him if he continued to drink he wouldbe a dead man in three months. All depended on himself. He could liveat home just as he had lived at Sainte-Anne's and must forget thatsuch things as wine and brandy existed. 

"He is right, " said Gervaise as they took their seats in the omnibus. 

"Of course he is right, " answered her husband. But after a moment'ssilence he added:

"But then, you know, a drop of brandy now and then never hurts a man:it aids digestion. "

That very evening he took a tiny drop and for a week was verymoderate; he had no desire, he said, to end his days at Bicetre. But he was soon off his guard, and one day his little drop ended ina full glass, to be followed by a second, and so on. At the end ofa fortnight he had fallen back in the old rut. 

Gervaise did her best, but, after all, what can a wife do in suchcircumstances?

She had been so startled by the scene at the asylum that she hadfully determined to begin a regular life again and hoped that he wouldassist her and do the same himself. But now she saw that there wasno hope, that even the knowledge of the inevitable results could notrestrain her husband now. 

Then the hell on earth began again; hopeless and intolerant, Nanaasked indignantly why he had not remained in the asylum. All the moneyshe made, she said, should be spent in brandy for her father, for thesooner it was ended, the better for them all. 

Gervaise blazed out one day when he lamented his marriage and told himthat it was for her to curse the day when she first saw him. He mustremember that she had refused him over and over again. The scene wasa frightful one and one unexampled in the Coupeau annals. 

Gervaise, now utterly discouraged, grew more indolent every day. Herroom was rarely swept. The Lorilleuxs said they could not enter it, itwas so dirty. They talked all day long over their work of the downfallof Wooden Legs. They gloated over her poverty and her rags. 

"Well! Well!" they murmured. "A great change has indeed come to thatbeautiful blonde who was so fine in her blue shop. "

Gervaise suspected their comments on her and her acts to be mostunkind, but she determined to have no open quarrel. It was for herinterest to speak to them when they met, but that was all theintercourse between them. 

On Saturday Coupeau had told his wife he would take her to the circus;he had earned a little money and insisted on indulging himself. Nanawas obliged to stay late at the place where she worked and would sleepwith her aunt Mme Lerat. 

Seven o'clock came, but no Coupeau. Her husband was drinking with hiscomrades probably. She had washed a cap and mended an old gown withthe hope of being presentable. About nine o'clock, in a towering rage, she sallied forth on an empty stomach to find Coupeau. 

"Are you looking for your husband?" said Mme Boche. "He is at theAssommoir. Boche has just seen him there. "

Gervaise muttered her thanks and went with rapid steps to theAssommoir. 

A fine rain was falling. The gas in the tavern was blazing brightly, lighting up the mirrors, the bottles and glasses. She stood at thewindow and looked in. He was sitting at a table with his comrades. The atmosphere was thick with smoke, and he looked stupefied andhalf asleep. 

She shivered and wondered why she should stay there and, so thinking, turned away, only to come back twice to look again. 

The water lay on the uneven sidewalk in pools, reflecting all thelights from the Assommoir. Finally she determined on a bold step: sheopened the door and deliberately walked up to her husband. After all, why should she not ask him why he had not kept his promise of takingher to the circus? At any rate, she would not stay out there in therain and melt away like a cake of soap. 

"She is crazy!" said Coupeau when he saw her. "I tell you, she iscrazy!"

He and all his friends shrieked with laughter, but no one condescendedto say what it was that was so very droll. Gervaise stood still, alittle bewildered by this unexpected reception. Coupeau was so amiablethat she said:

"Come, you know it is not too late to see something. "

"Sit down a minute, " said her husband, not moving from his seat. 

Gervaise saw she could not stand there among all those men, so sheaccepted the offered chair. She looked at the glasses, whose contentsglittered like gold. She looked at these dirty, shabby men and at theothers crowding around the counter. It was very warm, and the pipesmoke thickened the air. 

Gervaise felt as if she were choking; her eyes smarted, and her headwas heavy with the fumes of alcohol. She turned around and saw thestill, the machine that created drunkards. That evening the copperwas dull and glittered only in one round spot. The shadows of theapparatus on the wall behind were strange and weird--creatures withtails, monsters opening gigantic jaws as if to swallow the wholeworld. 

"What will you take to drink?" said Coupeau. 

"Nothing, " answered his wife. "You know I have had no dinner!"

"You need it all the more then! Have a drop of something!"

As she hesitated Mes-Bottes said gallantly:

"The lady would like something sweet like herself. "

"I like men, " she answered angrily, "who do not get tipsy and talklike fools! I like men who keep their promises!"

Her husband laughed. 

"You had better drink your share, " he said, "for the devil a bit ofa circus will you see tonight. "

She looked at him fixedly. A heavy frown contracted her eyebrows. Sheanswered slowly:

"You are right; it is a good idea. We can drink up the moneytogether. "

Bibi brought her a glass of anisette. As she sipped it she rememberedall at once the brandied fruit she had eaten in the same place withCoupeau when he was courting her. That day she had left the brandy andtook only the fruit, and now she was sitting there drinking liqueur. 

But the anisette was good. When her glass was empty she refusedanother, and yet she was not satisfied. 

She looked around at the infernal machine behind her--a machine thatshould have been buried ten fathoms deep in the sea. Nevertheless, ithad for her a strange fascination, and she longed to quench her thirstwith that liquid fire. 

"What is that you have in your glasses?" she asked. 

"That, my dear, " answered her husband, "is Father Colombe's ownespecial brew. Taste it. "

And when a glass of the vitriol was brought to her Coupeau bade herswallow it down, saying it was good for her. 

After she had drunk this glass Gervaise was no longer conscious of thehunger that had tormented her. Coupeau told her they could go to thecircus another time, and she felt she had best stay where she was. Itdid not rain in the Assommoir, and she had come to look upon the sceneas rather amusing. She was comfortable and sleepy. She took a thirdglass and then put her head on her folded arms, supporting them on thetable, and listened to her husband and his friends as they talked. 

Behind her the still was at work with constant drip-drip, and she felta mad desire to grapple with it as with some dangerous beast and tearout its heart. She seemed to feel herself caught in those copper fangsand fancied that those coils of pipe were wound around her own body, slowly but surely crushing out her life. 

The whole room danced before her eyes, for Gervaise was now in thecondition which had so often excited her pity and indignation withothers. She vaguely heard a quarrel arise and a crash of chairs andtables, and then Father Colombe promptly turned everyone into thestreet. 

It was still raining and a cold, sharp wind blowing. Gervaise lostCoupeau, found him and then lost him again. She wanted to go home, but she could not find her way. At the corner of the street she tookher seat by the side of the gutter, thinking herself at her washtub. Finally she got home and endeavored to walk straight past the doorof the concierge, within whose room she was vaguely conscious ofthe Poissons and Lorilleuxs holding up their hands in disgust ather condition. 

She never knew how she got up those six flights of stairs. But whenshe turned into her own corridor little Lalie ran toward her withloving, extended arms. 

"Dear Madame Gervaise, " she cried, "Papa has not come in; pleasecome and see my children. They are sleeping so sweetly!"

But when she looked up in the face of the clearstarcher she recoiled, trembling from head to foot. She knew only too well that alcoholicsmell, those wandering eyes and convulsed lips. 

Then as Gervaise staggered past her without speaking the child's armsfell at her side, and she looked after her friend with sad and solemneyes. 

CHAPTER XI

LITTLE NANA

Nana was growing fast--fair, fresh and dimpled--her skin velvety, likea peach, and eyes so bright that men often asked her if they might notlight their pipes at them. Her mass of blonde hair--the color of ripewheat--looked around her temples as if it were powdered with gold. She had a quaint little trick of sticking out the tip of her tonguebetween her white teeth, and this habit, for some reason, exasperatedher mother. 

She was very fond of finery and very coquettish. In this house, wherebread was not always to be got, it was difficult for her to indulgeher caprices in the matter of costume, but she did wonders. Shebrought home odds and ends of ribbons from the shop where she workedand made them up into bows and knots with which she ornamented herdirty dresses. She was not overparticular in washing her feet, butshe wore her boots so tight that she suffered martyrdom in honor ofSt Crispin, and if anyone asked her what the matter was when the painflushed her face suddenly, she always and promptly laid it to thescore of the colic. 

Summer was the season of her triumphs. In a calico dress that costfive or six francs she was as fresh and sweet as a spring morning andmade the dull street radiant with her youth and her beauty. She wentby the name of "The Little Chicken. " One gown, in particular, suitedher to perfection. It was white with rose-colored dots, withouttrimming of any kind. The skirt was short and showed her feet. Thesleeves were very wide and displayed her arms to the elbows. Sheturned the neck away and fastened it with pins--in a corner in thecorridor, dreading her father's jests--to exhibit her pretty roundedthroat. A rose-colored ribbon, knotted in the rippling masses of herhair, completed her toilet. She was a charming combination of childand woman. 

Sundays at this period of her life were her days for coquetting withthe public. She looked forward to them all the week through with alonging for liberty and fresh air. 

Early in the morning she began her preparations and stood for hours inher chemise before the bit of broken mirror nailed by the window, andas everyone could see her, her mother would be very much vexed and askhow long she intended to show herself in that way. 

But she, quite undisturbed, went on fastening down the little curls onher forehead with a little sugar and water and then sewed the buttonson her boots or took a stitch or two in her frock, barefooted all thistime and with her chemise slipping off her rounded shoulders. 

Her father declared he would exhibit her as the "Wild Girl, " at twosous a head. 

She was very lovely in this scanty costume, the color flushing hercheeks in her indignation at her father's sometimes coarse remarks. She did not dare answer him, however, but bit off her thread in silentrage. After breakfast she went down to the courtyard. The house waswrapped in Sunday quiet; the workshops on the lower floor were closed. Through some of the open windows the tables were seen laid fordinners, the families being on the fortifications "getting anappetite. "

Five or six girls--Nana, Pauline and others--lingered in the courtyardfor a time and then took flight altogether into the streets and thenceto the outer boulevards. They walked in a line, filling up the wholesidewalk, with ribbons fluttering in their uncovered hair. 

They managed to see everybody and everything through their downcastlids. The streets were their native heath, as it were, for they hadgrown up in them. 

Nana walked in the center and gave her arm to Pauline, and as theywere the oldest and tallest of the band, they gave the law to theothers and decided where they should go for the day and what theyshould do. 

Nana and Pauline were deep ones. They did nothing withoutpremeditation. If they ran it was to show their slender ankles, andwhen they stopped and panted for breath it was sure to be at the sideof some youths--young workmen of their acquaintance--who smoked intheir faces as they talked. Nana had her favorite, whom she alwayssaw at a great distance--Victor Fauconnier--and Pauline adored ayoung cabinetmaker, who gave her apples. 

Toward sunset the great pleasure of the day began. A band ofmountebanks would spread a well-worn carpet, and a circle was formedto look on. Nana and Pauline were always in the thickest of thecrowd, their pretty fresh dresses crushed between dirty blouses, butinsensible to the mingled odors of dust and alcohol, tobacco and dirt. They heard vile language; it did not disturb them; it was their owntongue--they heard little else. They listened to it with a smile, their delicate cheeks unflushed. 

The only thing that disturbed them was the appearance of theirfathers, particularly if these fathers seemed to have been drinking. They kept a good lookout for this disaster. 

"Look!" cried Pauline. "Your father is coming, Nana. "

Then the girl would crouch on her knees and bid the others standclose around her, and when he had passed on after an inquiring lookshe would jump up and they would all utter peals of laughter. 

But one day Nana was kicked home by her father, and Boche draggedPauline away by her ear. 

The girls would ordinarily return to the courtyard in the twilight andestablish themselves there with the air of not having been away, andeach invented a story with which to greet their questioning parents. Nana now received forty sous per day at the place where she had beenapprenticed. The Coupeaus would not allow her to change, because shewas there under the supervision of her aunt, Mme Lerat, who had beenemployed for many years in the same establishment. 

The girl went off at an early hour in her little black dress, whichwas too short and too tight for her, and Mme Lerat was bidden, whenever she was after her time, to inform Gervaise, who allowed herjust twenty minutes, which was quite long enough. But she was oftenseven or eight minutes late, and she spent her whole day coaxing heraunt not to tell her mother. Mme Lerat, who was fond of the girl andunderstood the follies of youth, did not tell, but at the same timeshe read Nana many a long sermon on her follies and talked of her ownresponsibility and of the dangers a young girl ran in Paris. 

"You must tell me everything, " she said. "I am too indulgent to you, and if evil should come of it I should throw myself into the Seine. Understand me, my little kitten; if a man should speak to you you mustpromise to tell me every word he says. Will you swear to do this?"

Nana laughed an equivocal little laugh. Oh yes, she would promise. Butmen never spoke to her; she walked too fast for that. What could theysay to her? And she explained her irregularity in coming--her five orten minutes delay--with an innocent little air. She had stopped at awindow to look at pictures or she had stopped to talk to Pauline. Heraunt might follow her if she did not believe her. 

"Oh, I will watch her. You need not be afraid!" said the widow to herbrother. "I will answer for her, as I would for myself!"

The place where the aunt and niece worked side by side was a largeroom with a long table down the center. Shelves against the wall werepiled with boxes and bundles--all covered with a thick coating ofdust. The gas had blackened the ceiling. The two windows were so largethat the women, seated at the table, could see all that was going onin the street below. 

Mme Lerat was the first to make her appearance in the morning, but inanother fifteen minutes all the others were there. One morning in JulyNana came in last, which, however, was the usual case. 

"I shall be glad when I have a carriage!" she said as she ran to thewindow without even taking off her hat--a shabby little straw. 

"What are you looking at?" asked her aunt suspiciously. "Did yourfather come with you?"

"No indeed, " answered Nana carelessly; "nor am I looking at anything. It is awfully warm, and of all things in the world, I hate to be in ahurry. "

The morning was indeed frightfully hot. The workwomen had closed theblinds, leaving a crack, however, through which they could inspect thestreet, and they took their seats on each side of the table--Mme Leratat the farther end. There were eight girls, four on either side, eachwith her little pot of glue, her pincers and other tools; heaps ofwires of different lengths and sizes lay on the table, spools ofcotton and of different-colored papers, petals and leaves cut out ofsilk, velvet and satin. In the center, in a goblet, one of the girlshad placed a two-sou bouquet, --which was slowly withering in the heat. 

"Did you know, " said Leonie as she picked up a rose leaf with herpincers, "how wretched poor Caroline is with that fellow who usedto call for her regularly every night?"

Before anyone could answer Leonie added:

"Hush! Here comes Madame. "

And in sailed Mme Titreville, a tall, thin woman, who usually remainedbelow in the shop. Her employees stood in dread terror of her, as shewas never known to smile. She went from one to another, finding faultwith all; she ordered one woman to pull a marguerite to pieces andmake it over and then went out as stiffly and silently as she hadcome in. 

"Houp! Houp!" said Nana under her breath, and a giggle ran round thetable. 

"Really, young ladies, " said Mme Lerat, "you will compel me to severemeasures. "

But no one was listening, and no one feared her. She was verytolerant. They could say what they pleased, provided they put itin decent language. 

Nana was certainly in a good school! Her instincts, to be sure, were vicious, but these instincts were fostered and developed inthis place, as is too often the case when a crowd of girls areherded together. It was the story of a basket of apples, the goodones spoiled by those that were already rotten. If two girls werewhispering in a corner, ten to one they were telling some story thatcould not be told aloud. 

Nana was not yet thoroughly perverted, but the curiosity which hadbeen her distinguishing characteristic as a child had not desertedher, and she scarcely took her eyes from a girl by the name of Lisa, about whom strange stories were told. 

"How warm it is!" she exclaimed, suddenly rising and pushing open theblinds. Leonie saw a man standing on the sidewalk opposite. 

"Who is that old fellow?" she said. "He has been there a full quarterof an hour. "

"Some fool who has nothing better to do, I suppose, " said Mme Lerat. "Nana, will you come back to your work? I have told you that youshould not go to that window. "

Nana took up her violets, and they all began to watch this man. He waswell dressed, about fifty, pale and grave. For a full hour he watchedthe windows. 

"Look!" said Leonie. "He has an eyeglass. Oh, he is very chic. He iswaiting for Augustine. " But Augustine sharply answered that she didnot like the old man. 

"You make a great mistake then, " said Mme Lerat with her equivocalsmile. 

Nana listened to the conversation which followed--reveling inindecency--as much at home in it as a fish is in water. All the timeher fingers were busy at work. She wound her violet stems and fastenedin the leaves with a slender strip of green paper. A drop of gum--andthen behold a bunch of delicate fresh verdure which would fascinateany lady. Her fingers were especially deft by nature. No instructioncould have imparted this quality. 

The gentleman had gone away, and the workshop settled down into quietonce more. When the bell rang for twelve Nana started up and said shewould go out and execute any commissions. Leonie sent for two sous'worth of shrimp, Augustine for some fried potatoes, Sophie for asausage and Lisa for a bunch of radishes. As she was going out, heraunt said quietly:

"I will go with you. I want something. "

Lo, in the lane running up by the shop was the mysterious stranger. Nana turned very red, and her aunt drew her arm within her own andhurried her along. 

So then he had come for her! Was not this pretty behavior for a girlof her age? And Mme Lerat asked question after question, but Nana knewnothing of him, she declared, though he had followed her for fivedays. 

Mme Lerat looked at the man out of the corners of her eyes. "You musttell me everything, " she said. 

While they talked they went from shop to shop, and their arms grewfull of small packages, but they hurried back, still talking of thegentleman. 

"It may be a good thing, " said Mme Lerat, "if his intentions are onlyhonorable. "

The workwomen ate their breakfast on their knees; they were in nohurry, either, to return to their work, when suddenly Leonie uttereda low hiss, and like magic each girl was busy. Mme Titreville enteredthe room and again made her rounds. 

Mme Lerat did not allow her niece after this day to set foot on thestreet without her. Nana at first was inclined to rebel, but, on thewhole, it rather flattered her vanity to be guarded like a treasure. They had discovered that the man who followed her with suchpersistency was a manufacturer of buttons, and one night the auntwent directly up to him and told him that he was behaving in a mostimproper manner. He bowed and, turning on his heel, departed--notangrily, by any means--and the next day he did as usual. 

One day, however, he deliberately walked between the aunt and theniece and said something to Nana in a low voice. This frightened MmeLerat, who went at once to her brother and told him the whole story, whereupon he flew into a violent rage, shook the girl until her teethchattered and talked to her as if she were the vilest of the vile. 

"Let her be!" said Gervaise with all a woman's sense. "Let her be!Don't you see that you are putting all sorts of things into her head?"

And it was quite true; he had put ideas into her head and had taughther some things she did not know before, which was very astonishing. One morning he saw her with something in a paper. It was _poudre deriz_, which, with a most perverted taste, she was plastering uponher delicate skin. He rubbed the whole of the powder into her hairuntil she looked like a miller's daughter. Another time she came inwith red ribbons to retrim her old hat; he asked her furiously whereshe got them. 

Whenever he saw her with a bit of finery her father flew at her withinsulting suspicion and angry violence. She defended herself and hersmall possessions with equal violence. One day he snatched from hera little cornelian heart and ground it to dust under his heel. 

She stood looking on, white and stern; for two years she had longedfor this heart. She said to herself that she would not bear suchtreatment long. Coupeau occasionally realized that he had made amistake, but the mischief was done. 

He went every morning with Nana to the shop door and waited outsidefor five minutes to be sure that she had gone in. But one morning, having stopped to talk with a friend on the corner for some time, hesaw her come out again and vanish like a flash around the corner. Shehad gone up two flights higher than the room where she worked and hadsat down on the stairs until she thought him well out of the way. 

When he went to Mme Lerat she told him that she washed her hands ofthe whole business; she had done all she could, and now he must takecare of his daughter himself. She advised him to marry the girl atonce or she would do worse. 

All the people in the neighborhood knew Nana's admirer by sight. Hehad been in the courtyard several times, and once he had been seenon the stairs. 

The Lorilleuxs threatened to move away if this sort of thing went on, and Mme Boche expressed great pity for this poor gentleman whom thisscamp of a girl was leading by the nose. 

At first Nana thought the whole thing a great joke, but at the end ofa month she began to be afraid of him. Often when she stopped beforethe jeweler's he would suddenly appear at her side and ask her whatshe wanted. 

She did not care so much for jewelry or ornaments as she did for manyother things. Sometimes as the mud was spattered over her from thewheels of a carriage she grew faint and sick with envious longingsto be better dressed, to go to the theater, to have a pretty room allto herself. She longed to see another side of life, to know somethingof its pleasures. The stranger invariably appeared at these moments, but she always turned and fled, so great was her horror of him. 

But when winter came existence became well-nigh intolerable. Eachevening Nana was beaten, and when her father was tired of thisamusement her mother scolded. They rarely had anything to eat andwere always cold. If the girl bought some trifling article of dressit was taken from her. 

No! This life could not last. She no longer cared for her father. Hehad thoroughly disgusted her, and now her mother drank too. Gervaisewent to the Assommoir nightly--for her husband, she said--and remainedthere. When Nana saw her mother sometimes as she passed the window, seated among a crowd of men, she turned livid with rage, because youthhas little patience with the vice of intemperance. It was a drearylife for her--a comfortless home and a drunken father and mother. Asaint on earth could not have remained there; that she knew very well, and she said she would make her escape some fine day, and then perhapsher parents would be sorry and would admit that they had pushed herout of the nest. 

One Saturday Nana, coming in, found her mother and father in adeplorable condition--Coupeau lying across the bed and Gervaisesitting in a chair, swaying to and fro. She had forgotten the dinner, and one untrimmed candle lighted the dismal scene. 

"Is that you, girl?" stammered Gervaise. "Well, your father willsettle with you!"

Nana did not reply. She looked around the cheerless room, at thecold stove, at her parents. She did not step across the threshold. She turned and went away. 

And she did not come back! The next day when her father and motherwere sober, they each reproached the other for Nana's flight. 

This was really a terrible blow to Gervaise, who had no longer thesmallest motive for self-control, and she abandoned herself at onceto a wild orgy that lasted three days. Coupeau gave his daughter upand smoked his pipe quietly. Occasionally, however, when eating hisdinner, he would snatch up a knife and wave it wildly in the air, crying out that he was dishonored and then, laying it down assuddenly, resumed eating his soup. 

In this great house, whence each month a girl or two took flight, thisincident astonished no one. The Lorilleuxs were rather triumphant atthe success of their prophecy. Lantier defended Nana. 

"Of course, " he said, "she has done wrong, but bless my heart, whatwould you have? A girl as pretty as that could not live all her daysin such poverty!"

"You know nothing about it!" cried Mme Lorilleux one evening when theywere all assembled in the room of the concierge. "Wooden Legs sold herdaughter out and out. I know it! I have positive proof of what I say. The time that the old gentleman was seen on the stairs he was going topay the money. Nana and he were seen together at the Ambigu the othernight! I tell you, I know it!"

They finished their coffee. This tale might or might not be true; itwas not improbable, at all events. And after this it was circulatedand generally believed in the _Quartier_ that Gervaise had soldher daughter. 

The clearstarcher, meanwhile, was going from bad to worse. She hadbeen dismissed from Mme Fauconnier's and in the last few weeks hadworked for eight laundresses, one after the other--dismissed fromall for her untidiness. 

As she seemed to have lost all skill in ironing, she went out by theday to wash and by degrees was entrusted with only the roughest work. This hard labor did not tend to beautify her either. She continued togrow stouter and stouter in spite of her scanty food and hard labor. 

Her womanly pride and vanity had all departed. Lantier never seemedto see her when they met by chance, and she hardly noticed that theliaison which had stretched along for so many years had ended in amutual disenchantment. 

Lantier had done wisely, so far as he was concerned, in counselingVirginie to open the kind of shop she had. He adored sweets and couldhave lived on pralines and gumdrops, sugarplums and chocolate. 

Sugared almonds were his especial delight. For a year his principalfood was bonbons. He opened all the jars, boxes and drawers when hewas left alone in the shop; and often, with five or six personsstanding around, he would take off the cover of a jar on the counterand put in his hand and crunch down an almond. The cover was not puton again, and the jar was soon empty. It was a habit of his, they allsaid; besides, he was subject to a tickling in his throat!

He talked a great deal to Poisson of an invention of his which wasworth a fortune--an umbrella and hat in one; that is to say, a hatwhich, at the first drops of a shower, would expand into an umbrella. 

Lantier suggested to Virginie that she should have Gervaise come inonce each week to wash the floors, shop and the rooms. This she didand received thirty sous each time. Gervaise appeared on Saturdaymornings with her bucket and brush, without seeming to suffer a singlepang at doing this menial work in the house where she had lived asmistress. 

One Saturday Gervaise had hard work. It had rained for three days, andall the mud of the streets seemed to have been brought into the shop. Virginie stood behind the counter with collar and cuffs trimmed withlace. Near her on a low chair lounged Lantier, and he was, as usual, eating candy. 

"Really, Madame Coupeau, " cried Virginie, "can't you do better thanthat? You have left all the dirt in the corners. Don't you see? Obligeme by doing that over again. "

Gervaise obeyed. She went back to the corner and scrubbed it again. She was on her hands and knees, with her sleeves rolled up over herarms. Her old skirt clung close to her stout form, and the sweatpoured down her face. 

"The more elbow grease she uses, the more she shines, " said Lantiersententiously with his mouth full. 

Virginie, leaning back in her chair with the air of a princess, followed the progress of the work with half-closed eyes. 

"A little more to the right. Remember, those spots must all be takenout. Last Saturday, you know, I was not pleased. "

And then Lantier and Virginie fell into a conversation, while Gervaisecrawled along the floor in the dirt at their feet. 

Mme Poisson enjoyed this, for her cat's eyes sparkled with maliciousjoy, and she glanced at Lantier with a smile. At last she was avengedfor that mortification at the lavatory, which had for years weighedheavy on her soul. 

"By the way, " said Lantier, addressing himself to Gervaise, "I sawNana last night. "

Gervaise started to her feet with her brush in her hand. 

"Yes, I was coming down La Rue des Martyrs. In front of me was a younggirl on the arm of an old gentleman. As I passed I glanced at her faceand assure you that it was Nana. She was well dressed and lookedhappy. "

"Ah!" said Gervaise in a low, dull voice. 

Lantier, who had finished one jar, now began another. 

"What a girl that is!" he continued. "Imagine that she made me a signto follow with the most perfect self-possession. She got rid of herold gentleman in a cafe and beckoned me to the door. She asked me totell her about everybody. "

"Ah!" repeated Gervaise. 

She stood waiting. Surely this was not all. Her daughter must havesent her some especial message. Lantier ate his sugarplums. 

"I would not have looked at her, " said Virginie. "I sincerely trust, if I should meet her, that she would not speak to me for, really, it would mortify me beyond expression. I am sorry for you, MadameGervaise, but the truth is that Poisson arrests every day a dozenjust such girls. "

Gervaise said nothing; her eyes were fixed on vacancy. She shook herhead slowly, as if in reply to her own thoughts. 

"Pray make haste, " exclaimed Virginie fretfully. "I do not care tohave this scrubbing going on until midnight. "

Gervaise returned to her work. With her two hands clasped around thehandle of the brush she pushed the water before her toward the door. After this she had only to rinse the floor after sweeping the dirtywater into the gutter. 

When all was accomplished she stood before the counter waiting forher money. When Virginie tossed it toward her she did not take it upinstantly. 

"Then she said nothing else?" Gervaise asked. 

"She?" Lantier exclaimed. "Who is she? Ah yes, I remember. Nana! No, she said nothing more. "

And Gervaise went away with her thirty sous in her hand, her skirtsdripping and her shoes leaving the mark of their broad soles on thesidewalk. 

In the _Quartier_ all the women who drank like her took her partand declared she had been driven to intemperance by her daughter'smisconduct. She, too, began to believe this herself and assumed attimes a tragic air and wished she were dead. Unquestionably she hadsuffered from Nana's departure. A mother does not like to feel thather daughter will leave her for the first person who asks her to doso. 

But she was too thoroughly demoralized to care long, and soon she hadbut one idea: that Nana belonged to her. Had she not a right to herown property?

She roamed the streets day after day, night after night, hoping tosee the girl. That year half the _Quartier_ was being demolished. Allone side of the Rue des Poissonniers lay flat on the ground. Lantierand Poisson disputed day after day on these demolitions. The onedeclared that the emperor wanted to build palaces and drive the lowerclasses out of Paris, while Poisson, white with rage, said the emperorwould pull down the whole of Paris merely to give work to the people. 

Gervaise did not like the improvements, either, or the changes inthe dingy _Quartier_, to which she was accustomed. It was, in fact, a little hard for her to see all these embellishments just when shewas going downhill so fast over the piles of brick and mortar, whileshe was wandering about in search of Nana. 

She heard of her daughter several times. There are always plenty ofpeople to tell you things you do not care to hear. She was told thatNana had left her elderly friend for the sake of some young fellow. 

She heard, too, that Nana had been seen at a ball in the Grand Salon, Rue de la Chapelle, and Coupeau and she began to frequent all theseplaces, one after another, whenever they had the money to spend. 

But at the end of a month they had forgotten Nana and went for theirown pleasure. They sat for hours with their elbows on a table, whichshook with the movements of the dancers, amused by the sight. 

One November night they entered the Grand Salon, as much to get warmas anything else. Outside it was hailing, and the rooms were naturallycrowded. They could not find a table, and they stood waiting untilthey could establish themselves. Coupeau was directly in the mouth ofthe passage, and a young man in a frock coat was thrown against him. The youth uttered an exclamation of disgust as he began to dust offhis coat with his handkerchief. The blouse worn by Coupeau wasassuredly none of the cleanest. 

"Look here, my good fellow, " cried Coupeau angrily, "those airsare very unnecessary. I would have you to know that the blouse ofa workingman can do your coat no harm if it has touched it!"

The young man turned around and looked at Coupeau from head to foot. 

"Learn, " continued the angry workman, "that the blouse is the onlywear for a man!"

Gervaise endeavored to calm her husband, who, however, tapped hisragged breast and repeated loudly:

"The only wear for a man, I tell you!"

The youth slipped away and was lost in the crowd. 

Coupeau tried to find him, but it was quite impossible; the crowd wastoo great. The orchestra was playing a quadrille, and the dancers werebringing up the dust from the floor in great clouds, which obscuredthe gas. 

"Look!" said Gervaise suddenly. 

"What is it?"

"Look at that velvet bonnet!"

Quite at the left there was a velvet bonnet, black with plumes, only too suggestive of a hearse. They watched these nodding plumesbreathlessly. 

"Do you not know that hair?" murmured Gervaise hoarsely. "I am sureit is she!"

In one second Coupeau was in the center of the crowd. Yes, it wasNana, and in what a costume! She wore a ragged silk dress, stainedand torn. She had no shawl over her shoulders to conceal the fact thathalf the buttonholes on her dress were burst out. In spite of all hershabbiness the girl was pretty and fresh. Nana, of course, danced onunsuspiciously. Her airs and graces were beyond belief. She curtsiedto the very ground and then in a twinkling threw her foot over herpartner's head. A circle was formed, and she was applaudedvociferously. 

At this moment Coupeau fell on his daughter. 

"Don't try and keep me back, " he said, "for have her I will!"

Nana turned and saw her father and mother. 

Coupeau discovered that his daughter's partner was the young man forwhom he had been looking. Gervaise pushed him aside and walked up toNana and gave her two cuffs on her ears. One sent the plumed hat onthe side; the other left five red marks on that pale cheek. Theorchestra played on. Nana neither wept nor moved. 

The dancers began to grow very angry. They ordered the Coupeau partyto leave the room. 

"Go, " said Gervaise, "and do not attempt to leave us, for so sureas you do you will be given in charge of a policeman. "

The young man had prudently disappeared. 

Nana's old life now began again, for after the girl had slept fortwelve hours on a stretch, she was very gentle and sweet for a week. She wore a plain gown and a simple hat and declared she would liketo work at home. She rose early and took a seat at her table by fiveo'clock the first morning and tried to roll her violet stems, but herfingers had lost their cunning in the six months in which they hadbeen idle. 

Then the gluepot dried up; the petals and the paper were dusty andspotted; the mistress of the establishment came for her tools andmaterials and made more than one scene. Nana relapsed into utterindolence, quarreling with her mother from morning until night. Of course an end must come to this, so one fine evening the girldisappeared. 

The Lorilleuxs, who had been greatly amused by the repentance andreturn of their niece, now nearly died laughing. If she returned againthey would advise the Coupeaus to put her in a cage like a canary. 

The Coupeaus pretended to be rather pleased, but in their hearts theyraged, particularly as they soon learned that Nana was frequently seenin the _Quartier_. Gervaise declared this was done by the girl toannoy them. 

Nana adorned all the balls in the vicinity, and the Coupeaus knew thatthey could lay their hands on her at any time they chose, but they didnot choose and they avoided meeting her. 

But one night, just as they were going to bed, they heard a rap on thedoor. It was Nana, who came to ask as coolly as possible if she couldsleep there. What a state she was in! All rags and dirt. She devoureda crust of dried bread and fell asleep with a part of it in herhand. This continued for some time, the girl coming and going like awill-o'-the-wisp. Weeks and months would elapse without a sign fromher, and then she would reappear without a word to say where shehad been, sometimes in rags and sometimes well dressed. Finally herparents began to take these proceedings as a matter of course. Shemight come in, they said, or stay out, just as she pleased, providedshe kept the door shut. Only one thing exasperated Gervaise now, andthat was when her daughter appeared with a bonnet and feathers anda train. This she would not endure. When Nana came to her it must beas a simple workingwoman! None of this dearly bought finery shouldbe exhibited there, for these trained dresses had created a greatexcitement in the house. 

One day Gervaise reproached her daughter violently for the life sheled and finally, in her rage, took her by the shoulder and shook her. 

"Let me be!" cried the girl. "You are the last person to talk to mein that way. You did as you pleased. Why can't I do the same?"

"What do you mean?" stammered the mother. 

"I have never said anything about it because it was none of mybusiness, but do you think I did not know where you were when myfather lay snoring? Let me alone. It was you who set me the example. "

Gervaise turned away pale and trembling, while Nana composed herselfto sleep again. 

Coupeau's life was a very regular one--that is to say, he did notdrink for six months and then yielded to temptation, which brought himup with a round turn and sent him to Sainte-Anne's. When he came outhe did the same thing, so that in three years he was seven times atSainte-Anne's, and each time he came out the fellow looked more brokenand less able to stand another orgy. 

The poison had penetrated his entire system. He had grown very thin;his cheeks were hollow and his eyes inflamed. Those who knew his ageshuddered as they saw him pass, bent and decrepit as a man of eighty. The trembling of his hands had so increased that some days he wasobliged to use them both in raising his glass to his lips. Thisannoyed him intensely and seemed to be the only symptom of his failinghealth which disturbed him. He sometimes swore violently at theseunruly members and at others sat for hours looking at these flutteringhands as if trying to discover by what strange mechanism they weremoved. And one night Gervaise found him sitting in this way with greattears pouring down his withered cheeks. 

The last summer of his life was especially trying to Coupeau. Hisvoice was entirely changed; he was deaf in one ear, and some days hecould not see and was obliged to feel his way up and downstairs asif he were blind. He suffered from maddening headaches, and suddenpains would dart through his limbs, causing him to snatch at a chairfor support. Sometimes after one of these attacks his arm would beparalyzed for twenty-four hours. 

He would lie in bed with even his head wrapped up, silent andmoody, like some suffering animal. Then came incipient madness andfever--tearing everything to pieces that came in his way--or he wouldweep and moan, declaring that no one loved him, that he was a burdento his wife. One evening when his wife and daughter came in he was notin his bed; in his place lay the bolster carefully tucked in. Theyfound him at last crouched on the floor under the bed, with his teethchattering with cold and fear. He told them he had been attacked byassassins. 

The two women coaxed him back to bed as if he had been a baby. 

Coupeau knew but one remedy for all this, and that was a good stoutmorning dram. His memory had long since fled; his brain had softened. When Nana appeared after an absence of six weeks he thought she hadbeen on an errand around the corner. She met him in the street, too, very often now, without fear, for he passed without recognizing her. One night in the autumn Nana went out, saying she wanted some bakedpears from the fruiterer's. She felt the cold weather coming on, andshe did not care to sit before a cold stove. The winter before shewent out for two sous' worth of tobacco and came back in a month'stime; they thought she would do the same now, but they were mistaken. Winter came and went, as did the spring, and even when June arrivedthey had seen and heard nothing of her. 

She was evidently comfortable somewhere, and the Coupeaus, feelingcertain that she would never return, had sold her bed; it was verymuch in their way, and they could drink up the six francs it brought. 

One morning Virginie called to Gervaise as the latter passed the shopand begged her to come in and help a little, as Lantier had had twofriends to supper the night before, and Gervaise washed the disheswhile Lantier sat in the shop smoking. Presently he said:

"Oh, Gervaise, I saw Nana the other night. "

Virginie, who was behind the counter, opening and shutting drawerafter drawer, with a face that lengthened as she found each empty, shook her fist at him indignantly. 

She had begun to think he saw Nana very often. She did not speak, butMme Lerat, who had just come in, said with a significant look:

"And where did you see her?"

"Oh, in a carriage, " answered Lantier with a laugh. "And I was on thesidewalk. " He turned toward Gervaise and went on:

"Yes, she was in a carriage, dressed beautifully. I did not recognizeher at first, but she kissed her hand to me. Her friend this time mustbe a vicomte at the least. She looked as happy as a queen. "

Gervaise wiped the plate in her hands, rubbing it long and carefully, though it had long since been dry. Virginie, with wrinkled brows, wondered how she could pay two notes which fell due the next day, while Lantier, fat and hearty from the sweets he had devoured, askedhimself if these drawers and jars would be filled up again or if theruin he anticipated was so near at hand that he would be compelledto pull up stakes at once. There was not another praline for him tocrunch, not even a gumdrop. 

When Gervaise went back to her room she found Coupeau sitting on theside of the bed, weeping and moaning. She took a chair near by andlooked at him without speaking. 

"I have news for you, " she said at last. "Your daughter has been seen. She is happy and comfortable. Would that I were in her place!"

Coupeau was looking down on the floor intently. He raised his headand said with an idiotic laugh:

"Do as you please, my dear; don't let me be any hindrance to you. When you are dressed up you are not so bad looking after all. "

CHAPTER XII

POVERTY AND DEGRADATION

The weather was intensely cold about the middle of January. Gervaisehad not been able to pay her rent, due on the first. She had littleor no work and consequently no food to speak of. The sky was dark andgloomy and the air heavy with the coming of a storm. Gervaise thoughtit barely possible that her husband might come in with a little money. After all, everything is possible, and he had said that he would work. Gervaise after a little, by dint of dwelling on this thought, had cometo consider it a certainty. Yes, Coupeau would bring home some money, and they would have a good, hot, comfortable dinner. As to herself, she had given up trying to get work, for no one would have her. Thisdid not much trouble her, however, for she had arrived at that pointwhen the mere exertion of moving had become intolerable to her. Shenow lay stretched on the bed, for she was warmer there. 

Gervaise called it a bed. In reality it was only a pile of strawin the corner, for she had sold her bed and all her furniture. Sheoccasionally swept the straw together with a broom, and, after all, it was neither dustier nor dirtier than everything else in the place. On this straw, therefore, Gervaise now lay with her eyes wide open. How long, she wondered, could people live without eating? She was nothungry, but there was a strange weight at the pit of her stomach. Herhaggard eyes wandered about the room in search of anything she couldsell. She vaguely wished someone would buy the spider webs which hungin all the corners. She knew them to be very good for cuts, but shedoubted if they had any market value. 

Tired of this contemplation, she got up and took her one chair tothe window and looked out into the dingy courtyard. 

Her landlord had been there that day and declared he would wait onlyone week for his money, and if it were not forthcoming he would turnthem into the street. It drove her wild to see him stand in his heavyovercoat and tell her so coldly that he would pack her off at once. She hated him with a vindictive hatred, as she did her fool of ahusband and the Lorilleuxs and Poissons. In fact, she hated everyoneon that especial day. 

Unfortunately people can't live without eating, and before the woman'sfamished eyes floated visions of food. Not of dainty little dishes. She had long since ceased to care for those and ate all she could getwithout being in the least fastidious in regard to its quality. Whenshe had a little money she bought a bullock's heart or a bit of cheeseor some beans, and sometimes she begged from a restaurant and madea sort of panada of the crusts they gave her, which she cooked on aneighbor's stove. She was quite willing to dispute with a dog for abone. Once the thought of such things would have disgusted her, butat that time she did not--for three days in succession--go without amorsel of food. She remembered how last week Coupeau had stolen a halfloaf of bread and sold it, or rather exchanged it, for liquor. 

She sat at the window, looking at the pale sky, and finally fellasleep. She dreamed that she was out in a snowstorm and could not findher way home. She awoke with a start and saw that night was coming on. How long the days are when one's stomach is empty! She waited forCoupeau and the relief he would bring. 

The clock struck in the next room. Could it be possible? Was it onlythree? Then she began to cry. How could she ever wait until seven?After another half-hour of suspense she started up. Yes, they mightsay what they pleased, but she, at least, would try to borrow tensous from the Lorilleuxs. 

There was a continual borrowing of small sums in this corridor duringthe winter, but no matter what was the emergency no one ever dreamedof applying to the Lorilleuxs. Gervaise summoned all her courage andrapped at the door. 

"Come in!" cried a sharp voice. 

How good it was there! Warm and bright with the glow of the forge. AndGervaise smelled the soup, too, and it made her feel faint and sick. 

"Ah, it is you, is it?" said Mme Lorilleux. "What do you want?"

Gervaise hesitated. The application for ten sous stuck in her throat, because she saw Boche seated by the stove. 

"What do you want?" asked Lorilleux, in his turn. 

"Have you seen Coupeau?" stammered Gervaise. "I thought he was here. "

His sister answered with a sneer that they rarely saw Coupeau. Theywere not rich enough to offer him as many glasses of wine as he wantedin these days. 

Gervaise stammered out a disconnected sentence. 

He had promised to come home. She needed food; she needed money. 

A profound silence followed. Mme Lorilleux fanned her fire, and herhusband bent more closely over his work, while Boche smiled with anexpectant air. 

"If I could have ten sous, " murmured Gervaise. 

The silence continued. 

"If you would lend them to me, " said Gervaise, "I would give them backin the morning. "

Mme Lorilleux turned and looked her full in the face, thinking toherself that if she yielded once the next day it would be twenty sous, and who could tell where it would stop?

"But, my dear, " she cried, "you know we have no money and no prospectof any; otherwise, of course, we would oblige you. "

"Certainly, " said Lorilleux, "the heart is willing, but the pocketsare empty. "

Gervaise bowed her head, but she did not leave instantly. She lookedat the gold wire on which her sister-in-law was working and at that inthe hands of Lorilleux and thought that it would take a mere scrap togive her a good dinner. On that day the room was very dirty and filledwith charcoal dust, but she saw it resplendent with riches like theshop of a money-changer, and she said once more in a low, soft voice:

"I will bring back the ten sous. I will, indeed!" Tears were in hereyes, but she was determined not to say that she had eaten nothingfor twenty-four hours. 

"I can't tell you how much I need it, " she continued. 

The husband and wife exchanged a look. Wooden Legs begging at theirdoor! Well! Well! Who would have thought it? Why had they not known itwas she when they rashly called out, "Come in?" Really, they could notallow such people to cross their threshold; there was too much thatwas valuable in the room. They had several times distrusted Gervaise;she looked about so queerly, and now they would not take their eyesoff her. 

Gervaise went toward Lorilleux as she spoke. 

"Take care!" he said roughly. "You will carry off some of theparticles of gold on the soles of your shoes. It looks really asif you had greased them!"

Gervaise drew back. She leaned against the _etagere_ for a momentand, seeing that her sister-in-law's eyes were fixed on her hands, she opened them and said in a gentle, weary voice--the voice of awoman who had ceased to struggle:

"I have taken nothing. You can look for yourself. "

And she went away; the warmth of the place and the smell of the soupwere unbearable. 

The Lorilleuxs shrugged their shoulders as the door closed. Theyhoped they had seen the last of her face. She had brought all hermisfortunes on her own head, and she had, therefore, no right toexpect any assistance from them. Boche joined in these animadversions, and all three considered themselves avenged for the blue shop and allthe rest. 

"I know her!" said Mme Lorilleux. "If I had lent her the ten sous shewanted she would have spent it in liquor. "

Gervaise crawled down the corridor with slipshod shoes and slouchingshoulders, but at her door she hesitated; she could not go in: she wasafraid. She would walk up and down a little--that would keep her warm. As she passed she looked in at Father Bru, but to her surprise he wasnot there, and she asked herself with a pang of jealousy if anyonecould possibly have asked him out to dine. When she reached theBijards' she heard a groan. She went in. 

"What is the matter?" she said. 

The room was very clean and in perfect order. Lalie that very morninghad swept and arranged everything. In vain did the cold blast ofpoverty blow through that chamber and bring with it dirt and disorder. Lalie was always there; she cleaned and scrubbed and gave toeverything a look of gentility. There was little money but muchcleanliness within those four walls. 

The two children were cutting out pictures in a corner, but Lalie wasin bed, lying very straight and pale, with the sheet pulled over herchin. 

"What is the matter?" asked Gervaise anxiously. 

Lalie slowly lifted her white lids and tried to speak. 

"Nothing, " she said faintly; "nothing, I assure you!" Then as her eyesclosed she added:

"I am only a little lazy and am taking my ease. "

But her face bore the traces of such frightful agony that Gervaisefell on her knees by the side of the bed. She knew that the childhad had a cough for a month, and she saw the blood trickling fromthe corners of her mouth. 

"It is not my fault, " Lalie murmured. "I thought I was strong enough, and I washed the floor. I could not finish the windows though. Everything but those are clean. But I was so tired that I was obligedto lie down----"

She interrupted herself to say:

"Please see that my children are not cutting themselves with thescissors. "

She started at the sound of a heavy step on the stairs. Her fathernoisily pushed open the door. As usual he had drunk too much, andin his eyes blazed the lurid flames kindled by alcohol. 

When he saw Lalie lying down he walked to the corner and took up thelong whip, from which he slowly unwound the lash. 

"This is a good joke!" he said. "The idea of your daring to go to bedat this hour. Come, up with you!"

He snapped the whip over the bed, and the child murmured softly:

"Do not strike me, Papa. I am sure you will be sorry if you do. Do notstrike me!"

"Up with you!" he cried. "Up with you!"

Then she answered faintly:

"I cannot, for I am dying. "

Gervaise had snatched the whip from Bijard, who stood with his underjaw dropped, glaring at his daughter. What could the little fool mean?Whoever heard of a child dying like that when she had not even beensick? Oh, she was lying!

"You will see that I am telling you the truth, " she replied. "I didnot tell you as long as I could help it. Be kind to me now, Papa, andsay good-by as if you loved me. "

Bijard passed his hand over his eyes. She did look very strangely--herface was that of a grown woman. The presence of death in that crampedroom sobered him suddenly. He looked around with the air of a man whohad been suddenly awakened from a dream. He saw the two little onesclean and happy and the room neat and orderly. 

He fell into a chair. 

"Dear little mother!" he murmured. "Dear little mother!"

This was all he said, but it was very sweet to Lalie, who had neverbeen spoiled by overpraise. She comforted him. She told him howgrieved she was to go away and leave him before she had entirelybrought up her children. He would watch over them, would he not? Andin her dying voice she gave him some little details in regard to theirclothes. He--the alcohol having regained its power--listened withround eyes of wonder. 

After a long silence Lalie spoke again:

"We owe four francs and seven sous to the baker. He must be paid. Madame Goudron has an iron that belongs to us; you must not forget it. This evening I was not able to make the soup, but there are bread andcold potatoes. "

As long as she breathed the poor little mite continued to be themother of the family. She died because her breast was too small tocontain so great a heart, and that he lost this precious treasurewas entirely her father's fault. He, wretched creature, had kickedher mother to death and now, just as surely, murdered his daughter. 

Gervaise tried to keep back her tears. She held Lalie's hands, andas the bedclothes slipped away she rearranged them. In doing so shecaught a glimpse of the poor little figure. The sight might have drawntears from a stone. Lalie wore only a tiny chemise over her bruisedand bleeding flesh; marks of a lash striped her sides; a livid spotwas on her right arm, and from head to foot she was one bruise. 

Gervaise was paralyzed at the sight. She wondered, if there were a Godabove, how He could have allowed the child to stagger under so heavya cross. 

"Madame Coupeau, " murmured the child, trying to draw the sheet overher. She was ashamed, ashamed for her father. 

Gervaise could not stay there. The child was fast sinking. Her eyeswere fixed on her little ones, who sat in the corner, still cuttingout their pictures. The room was growing dark, and Gervaise fled fromit. Ah, what an awful thing life was! And how gladly would she throwherself under the wheels of an omnibus, if that might end it!

Almost unconsciously Gervaise took her way to the shop where herhusband worked or, rather, pretended to work. She would wait for himand get the money before he had a chance to spend it. 

It was a very cold corner where she stood. The sounds of the carriagesand footsteps were strangely muffled by reason of the fast-fallingsnow. Gervaise stamped her feet to keep them from freezing. The peoplewho passed offered few distractions, for they hurried by with theircoat collars turned up to their ears. But Gervaise saw several womenwatching the door of the factory quite as anxiously as herself--theywere wives who, like herself, probably wished to get hold of a portionof their husbands' wages. She did not know them, but it required nointroduction to understand their business. 

The door of the factory remained firmly shut for some time. Then itopened to allow the egress of one workman; then two, three, followed, but these were probably those who, well behaved, took their wages hometo their wives, for they neither retreated nor started when they sawthe little crowd. One woman fell on a pale little fellow and, plungingher hand into his pocket, carried off every sou of her husband'searnings, while he, left without enough to pay for a pint of wine, went off down the street almost weeping. 

Some other men appeared, and one turned back to warn a comrade, whocame gamely and fearlessly out, having put his silver pieces in hisshoes. In vain did his wife look for them in his pockets; in vaindid she scold and coax--he had no money, he declared. 

Then came another noisy group, elbowing each other in their haste toreach a cabaret, where they could drink away their week's wages. Thesefellows were followed by some shabby men who were swearing under theirbreath at the trifle they had received, having been tipsy and absentmore than half the week. 

But the saddest sight of all was the grief of a meek little woman inblack, whose husband, a tall, good-looking fellow, pushed her roughlyaside and walked off down the street with his boon companions, leavingher to go home alone, which she did, weeping her very heart out as shewent. 

Gervaise still stood watching the entrance. Where was Coupeau? Sheasked some of the men, who teased her by declaring that he had justgone by the back door. She saw by this time that Coupeau had lied toher, that he had not been at work that day. She also saw that therewas no dinner for her. There was not a shadow of hope--nothing buthunger and darkness and cold. 

She toiled up La Rue des Poissonniers when she suddenly heardCoupeau's voice and, glancing in at the window of a wineshop, shesaw him drinking with Mes-Bottes, who had had the luck to marrythe previous summer a woman with some money. He was now, therefore, well clothed and fed and altogether a happy mortal and had Coupeau'sadmiration. Gervaise laid her hands on her husband's shoulders ashe left the cabaret. 

"I am hungry, " she said softly. 

"Hungry, are you? Well then, eat your fist and keep the other fortomorrow. "

"Shall I steal a loaf of bread?" she asked in a dull, dreary tone. 

Mes-Bottes smoothed his chin and said in a conciliatory voice:

"No, no! Don't do that; it is against the law. But if a womanmanages----"

Coupeau interrupted him with a coarse laugh. 

Yes, a woman, if she had any sense, could always get along, and itwas her own fault if she starved. 

And the two men walked on toward the outer boulevard. Gervaisefollowed them. Again she said:

"I am hungry. You know I have had nothing to eat. You must find mesomething. "

He did not answer, and she repeated her words in a tone of agony. 

"Good God!" he exclaimed, turning upon her furiously. "What can I do?I have nothing. Be off with you, unless you want to be beaten. "

He lifted his fist; she recoiled and said with set teeth:

"Very well then; I will go and find some man who has a sou. "

Coupeau pretended to consider this an excellent joke. Yes of courseshe could make a conquest; by gaslight she was still passablygoodlooking. If she succeeded he advised her to dine at the Capucin, where there was very good eating. 

She turned away with livid lips; he called after her:

"Bring some dessert with you, for I love cake. And perhaps you caninduce your friend to give me an old coat, for I swear it is coldtonight. "

Gervaise, with this infernal mirth ringing in her ears, hurried downthe street. She was determined to take this desperate step. She hadonly a choice between that and theft, and she considered that shehad a right to dispose of herself as she pleased. The question ofright and wrong did not present itself very clearly to her eyes. "When one is starving is hardly the time, " she said to herself, "tophilosophize. " She walked slowly up and down the boulevard. This partof Paris was crowded now with new buildings, between whose sculpturedfacades ran narrow lanes leading to haunts of squalid misery, whichwere cheek by jowl with splendor and wealth. 

It seemed strange to Gervaise that among this crowd who elbowed herthere was not one good Christian to divine her situation and slip somesous into her hand. Her head was dizzy, and her limbs would hardlybear her weight. At this hour ladies with hats and well-dressedgentlemen who lived in these fine new houses were mingled with thepeople--with the men and women whose faces were pale and sickly fromthe vitiated air of the workshops in which they passed their lives. Another day of toil was over, but the days came too often and weretoo long. One hardly had time to turn over in one's sleep when theeverlasting grind began again. 

Gervaise went with the crowd. No one looked at her, for the men wereall hurrying home to their dinner. Suddenly she looked up and beheldthe Hotel Boncoeur. It was empty, the shutters and doors covered withplacards and the whole facade weather-stained and decaying. It wasthere in that hotel that the seeds of her present life had been sown. She stood still and looked up at the window of the room she hadoccupied and recalled her youth passed with Lantier and the mannerin which he had left her. But she was young then and soon recoveredfrom the blow. That was twenty years ago, and now what was she?

The sight of the place made her sick, and she turned towardMontmartre. She passed crowds of workwomen with little parcels intheir hands and children who had been sent to the baker's, carryingfour-pound loaves of bread as tall as themselves, which looked likeshining brown dolls. 

By degrees the crowd dispersed, and Gervaise was almost alone. Everyone was at dinner. She thought how delicious it would be to liedown and never rise again--to feel that all toil was over. And thiswas the end of her life! Gervaise, amid the pangs of hunger, thoughtof some of the fete days she had known and remembered that she had notalways been miserable. Once she was pretty, fair and fresh. She hadbeen a kind and admired mistress in her shop. Gentlemen came to itonly to see her, and she vaguely wondered where all this youth andthis beauty had fled. 

Again she looked up; she had reached the abattoirs, which were nowbeing torn down; the fronts were taken away, showing the dark holeswithin, the very stones of which reeked with blood. Farther on wasthe hospital with its high, gray walls, with two wings opening outlike a huge fan. A door in the wall was the terror of the whole_Quartier_--the Door of the Dead, it was called--through whichall the bodies were carried. 

She hurried past this solid oak door and went down to the railroadbridge, under which a train had just passed, leaving in its reara floating cloud of smoke. She wished she were on that train whichwould take her into the country, and she pictured to herself openspaces and the fresh air and expanse of blue sky; perhaps she couldlive a new life there. 

As she thought this her weary eyes began to puzzle out in the dimtwilight the words on a printed handbill pasted on one of the pillarsof the arch. She read one--an advertisement offering fifty francs fora lost dog. Someone must have loved the creature very much. 

Gervaise turned back again. The street lamps were being lit anddefined long lines of streets and avenues. The restaurants were allcrowded, and people were eating and drinking. Before the Assommoirstood a crowd waiting their turn and room within, and as a respectabletradesman passed he said with a shake of the head that many a manwould be drunk that night in Paris. And over this scene hung the darksky, low and clouded. 

Gervaise wished she had a few sous: she would, in that case, have goneinto this place and drunk until she ceased to feel hungry, and throughthe window she watched the still with an angry consciousness that allher misery and all her pain came from that. If she had never toucheda drop of liquor all might have been so different. 

She started from her reverie; this was the hour of which she musttake advantage. Men had dined and were comparatively amiable. Shelooked around her and toward the trees where--under the leaflessbranches--she saw more than one female figure. Gervaise watched them, determined to do what they did. Her heart was in her throat; it seemedto her that she was dreaming a bad dream. 

She stood for some fifteen minutes; none of the men who passed lookedat her. Finally she moved a little and spoke to one who, with hishands in his pockets, was whistling as he walked. 

"Sir, " she said in a low voice, "please listen to me. "

The man looked at her from head to foot and went on whistling louderthan before. 

Gervaise grew bolder. She forgot everything except the pangs ofhunger. The women under the trees walked up and down with theregularity of wild animals in a cage. 

"Sir, " she said again, "please listen. "

But the man went on. She walked toward the Hotel Boncoeur again, past the hospital, which was now brilliantly lit. There she turnedand went back over the same ground--the dismal ground between theslaughterhouses and the place where the sick lay dying. With thesetwo places she seemed to feel bound by some mysterious tie. 

"Sir, please listen!"

She saw her shadow on the ground as she stood near a street lamp. Itwas a grotesque shadow--grotesque because of her ample proportions. Her limp had become, with time and her additional weight, a verydecided deformity, and as she moved the lengthening shadow of herselfseemed to be creeping along the sides of the houses with bows andcurtsies of mock reverence. Never before had she realized the changein herself. She was fascinated by this shadow. It was very droll, shethought, and she wondered if the men did not think so too. 

"Sir, please listen!"

It was growing late. Man after man, in a beastly state ofintoxication, reeled past her; quarrels and disputes filled the air. 

Gervaise walked on, half asleep. She was conscious of little exceptthat she was starving. She wondered where her daughter was and whatshe was eating, but it was too much trouble to think, and she shiveredand crawled on. As she lifted her face she felt the cutting wind, accompanied by the snow, fine and dry, like gravel. The storm hadcome. 

People were hurrying past her, but she saw one man walking slowly. She went toward him. 

"Sir, please listen!"

The man stopped. He did not seem to notice what she said but extendedhis hand and murmured in a low voice:

"Charity, if you please!"

The two looked at each other. Merciful heavens! It was Father Brubegging and Mme Coupeau doing worse. They stood looking at eachother--equals in misery. The aged workman had been trying to make uphis mind all the evening to beg, and the first person he stopped wasa woman as poor as himself! This was indeed the irony of fate. Was itnot a pity to have toiled for fifty years and then to beg his bread?To have been one of the most flourishing laundresses in Paris and thento make her bed in the gutter? They looked at each other once more, and without a word each went their own way through the fast-fallingsnow, which blinded Gervaise as she struggled on, the wind wrappingher thin skirts around her legs so that she could hardly walk. 

Suddenly an absolute whirlwind struck her and bore her breathlessand helpless along--she did not even know in what direction. When atlast she was able to open her eyes she could see nothing through theblinding snow, but she heard a step and saw the outlines of a man'sfigure. She snatched him by the blouse. 

"Sir, " she said, "please listen. "

The man turned. It was Goujet. 

Ah, what had she done to be thus tortured and humiliated? Was God inheaven an angry God always? This was the last dreg of bitterness inher cup. She saw her shadow: her limp, she felt, made her walk like anintoxicated woman, which was indeed hard, when she had not swalloweda drop. 

Goujet looked at her while the snow whitened his yellow beard. 

"Come!" he said. 

And he walked on, she following him. Neither spoke. 

Poor Mme Goujet had died in October of acute rheumatism, and her soncontinued to reside in the same apartment. He had this night beensitting with a sick friend. 

He entered, lit a lamp and turned toward Gervaise, who stood humblyon the threshold. 

"Come in!" he said in a low voice, as if his mother could have heardhim. 

The first room was that of Mme Goujet, which was unchanged since herdeath. Near the window stood her frame, apparently ready for the oldlady. The bed was carefully made, and she could have slept there hadshe returned from the cemetery to spend a night with her son. The roomwas clean, sweet and orderly. 

"Come in, " repeated Goujet. 

Gervaise entered with the air of a woman who is startled at findingherself in a respectable place. He was pale and trembling. Theycrossed his mother's room softly, and when Gervaise stood withinhis own he closed the door. 

It was the same room in which he had lived ever since she knewhim--small and almost virginal in its simplicity. Gervaise dared notmove. 

Goujet snatched her in his arms, but she pushed him away faintly. 

The stove was still hot, and a dish was on the top of it. Gervaiselooked toward it. Goujet understood. He placed the dish on the table, poured her out some wine and cut a slice of bread. 

"Thank you, " she said. "How good you are!"

She trembled to that degree that she could hardly hold her fork. Hunger gave her eyes the fierceness of a famished beast and to herhead the tremulous motion of senility. After eating a potato she burstinto tears but continued to eat, with the tears streaming down hercheeks and her chin quivering. 

"Will you have some more bread?" he asked. She said no; she said yes;she did not know what she said. 

And he stood looking at her in the clear light of the lamp. How oldand shabby she was! The heat was melting the snow on her hair andclothing, and water was dripping from all her garments. Her hair wasvery gray and roughened by the wind. Where was the pretty white throathe so well remembered? He recalled the days when he first knew her, when her skin was so delicate and she stood at her table, brisklymoving the hot irons to and fro. He thought of the time when she hadcome to the forge and of the joy with which he would have welcomedher then to his room. And now she was there!

She finished her bread amid great silent tears and then rose to herfeet. 

Goujet took her hand. 

"I love you, Madame Gervaise; I love you still, " he cried. 

"Do not say that, " she exclaimed, "for it is impossible. "

He leaned toward her. 

"Will you allow me to kiss you?" he asked respectfully. 

She did not know what to say, so great was her emotion. 

He kissed her gravely and solemnly and then pressed his lips uponher gray hair. He had never kissed anyone since his mother's death, and Gervaise was all that remained to him of the past. 

He turned away and, throwing himself on his bed, sobbed aloud. Gervaise could not endure this. She exclaimed:

"I love you, Monsieur Goujet, and I understand. Farewell!"

And she rushed through Mme Goujet's room and then through the streetto her home. The house was all dark, and the arched door into thecourtyard looked like huge, gaping jaws. Could this be the house whereshe once desired to reside? Had she been deaf in those days, not tohave heard that wail of despair which pervaded the place from top tobottom? From the day when she first set her foot within the house shehad steadily gone downhill. 

Yes, it was a frightful way to live--so many people herded together, to become the prey of cholera or vice. She looked at the courtyardand fancied it a cemetery surrounded by high walls. The snow lay whitewithin it. She stepped over the usual stream from the dyer's, butthis time the stream was black and opened for itself a path throughthe white snow. The stream was the color of her thoughts. But sheremembered when both were rosy. 

As she toiled up the six long flights in the darkness she laughedaloud. She recalled her old dream--to work quietly, have plenty toeat, a little home to herself, where she could bring up her children, never to be beaten, and to die in her bed! It was droll how things hadturned out. She worked no more; she had nothing to eat; she lived amiddirt and disorder. Her daughter had gone to the bad, and her husbandbeat her whenever he pleased. As for dying in her bed, she had none. Should she throw herself out of the window and find one on thepavement below?

She had not been unreasonable in her wishes, surely. She had notasked of heaven an income of thirty thousand francs or a carriageand horses. This was a queer world! And then she laughed again asshe remembered that she had once said that after she had worked fortwenty years she would retire into the country. 

Yes, she would go into the country, for she should soon have herlittle green corner in Pere-Lachaise. 

Her poor brain was disturbed. She had bidden an eternal farewell toGoujet. They would never see each other again. All was over betweenthem--love and friendship too. 

As she passed the Bijards' she looked in and saw Lalie lying dead, happy and at peace. It was well with the child. 

"She is lucky, " muttered Gervaise. 

At this moment she saw a gleam of light under the undertaker's door. She threw it wide open with a wild desire that he should take her aswell as Lalie. Bazonge had come in that night more tipsy than usualand had thrown his hat and cloak in the corner, while he lay in themiddle of the floor. 

He started up and called out:

"Shut that door! And don't stand there--it is too cold. What do youwant?"

Then Gervaise, with arms outstretched, not knowing or caring what shesaid, began to entreat him with passionate vehemence:

"Oh, take me!" she cried. "I can bear it no longer. Take me, I imploreyou!"

And she knelt before him, a lurid light blazing in her haggard eyes. 

Father Bazonge, with garments stained by the dust of the cemetery, seemed to her as glorious as the sun. But the old man, yet halfasleep, rubbed his eyes and could not understand her. 

"What are you talking about?" he muttered. 

"Take me, " repeated Gervaise, more earnestly than before. "Do youremember one night when I rapped on the partition? Afterward I saidI did not, but I was stupid then and afraid. But I am not afraid now. Here, take my hands--they are not cold with terror. Take me and putme to sleep, for I have but this one wish now. "

Bazonge, feeling that it was not proper to argue with a lady, said:

"You are right. I have buried three women today, who would each havegiven me a jolly little sum out of gratitude, if they could have puttheir hands in their pockets. But you see, my dear woman, it is notsuch an easy thing you are asking of me. "

"Take me!" cried Gervaise. "Take me! I want to go away!"

"But there is a certain little operation first, you know----" And hepretended to choke and rolled up his eyes. 

Gervaise staggered to her feet. He, too, rejected her and would havenothing to do with her. She crawled into her room and threw herself onher straw. She was sorry she had eaten anything and delayed the workof starvation. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE HOSPITAL

The next day Gervaise received ten francs from her son Etienne, whohad steady work. He occasionally sent her a little money, knowing thatthere was none too much of that commodity in his poor mother's pocket. 

She cooked her dinner and ate it alone, for Coupeau did not appear, nor did she hear a word of his whereabouts for nearly a week. Finallya printed paper was given her which frightened her at first, butshe was soon relieved to find that it simply conveyed to her theinformation that her husband was at Sainte-Anne's again. 

Gervaise was in no way disturbed. Coupeau knew the way back wellenough; he would return in due season. She soon heard that he andMes-Bottes had spent the whole week in dissipation, and she even felta little angry that they had not seen fit to offer her a glass of winewith all their feasting and carousing. 

On Sunday, as Gervaise had a nice little repast ready for the evening, she decided that an excursion would give her an appetite. The letterfrom the asylum stared her in the face and worried her. The snow hadmelted; the sky was gray and soft, and the air was fresh. She startedat noon, as the days were now short and Sainte-Anne's was a longdistance off, but as there were a great many people in the street, she was amused. 

When she reached the hospital she heard a strange story. It seems thatCoupeau--how, no one could say--had escaped from the hospital and hadbeen found under the bridge. He had thrown himself over the parapet, declaring that armed men were driving him with the point of theirbayonets. 

One of the nurses took Gervaise up the stairs. At the head she heardterrific howls which froze the marrow in her bones. 

"It is he!" said the nurse. 

"He? Whom do you mean?"

"I mean your husband. He has gone on like that ever since day beforeyesterday, and he dances all the time too. You will see!"

Ah, what a sight it was! The cell was cushioned from the floor to theceiling, and on the floor were mattresses on which Coupeau danced andhowled in his ragged blouse. The sight was terrific. He threw himselfwildly against the window and then to the other side of the cell, shaking hands as if he wished to break them off and fling themin defiance at the whole world. These wild motions are sometimesimitated, but no one who has not seen the real and terrible sightcan imagine its horror. 

"What is it? What is it?" gasped Gervaise. 

A house surgeon, a fair and rosy youth, was sitting, calmly takingnotes. The case was a peculiar one and had excited a great deal ofattention among the physicians attached to the hospital. 

"You can stay awhile, " he said, "but keep very quiet. He will notrecognize you, however. "

Coupeau, in fact, did not seem to notice his wife, who had not yetseen his face. She went nearer. Was that really he? She never wouldhave known him with his bloodshot eyes and distorted features. Hisskin was so hot that the air was heated around him and was as if itwere varnished--shining and damp with perspiration. He was dancing, it is true, but as if on burning plowshares; not a motion seemed tobe voluntary. 

Gervaise went to the young surgeon, who was beating a tune on theback of his chair. 

"Will he get well, sir?" she said. 

The surgeon shook his head. 

"What is he saying? Hark! He is talking now. "

"Just be quiet, will you?" said the young man. "I wish to listen. "

Coupeau was speaking fast and looking all about, as if he wereexamining the underbrush in the Bois de Vincennes. 

"Where is it now?" he exclaimed and then, straightening himself, he looked off into the distance. 

"It is a fair, " he exclaimed, "and lanterns in the trees, and thewater is running everywhere: fountains, cascades and all sorts ofthings. "

He drew a long breath, as if enjoying the delicious freshness ofthe air. 

By degrees, however, his features contracted again with pain, andhe ran quickly around the wall of his cell. 

"More trickery, " he howled. "I knew it!"

He started back with a hoarse cry; his teeth chattered with terror. 

"No, I will not throw myself over! All that water would drown me!No, I will not!"

"I am going, " said Gervaise to the surgeon. "I cannot stay anothermoment. "

She was very pale. Coupeau kept up his infernal dance while shetottered down the stairs, followed by his hoarse voice. 

How good it was to breathe the fresh air outside!

That evening everyone in the huge house in which Coupeau had livedtalked of his strange disease. The concierge, crazy to hear thedetails, condescended to invite Gervaise to take a glass of cordial, forgetting that he had turned a cold shoulder upon her for many weeks. 

Mme Lorilleux and Mme Poisson were both there also. Boche had heardof a cabinetmaker who had danced the polka until he died. He had drunkabsinthe. 

Gervaise finally, not being able to make them understand herdescription, asked for the table to be moved and there, in the centerof the loge, imitated her husband, making frightful leaps and horriblecontortions. 

"Yes, that was what he did!"

And then everybody said it was not possible that man could keep upsuch violent exercise for even three hours. 

Gervaise told them to go and see if they did not believe her. ButMme Lorilleux declared that nothing would induce her to set footwithin Sainte-Anne's, and Virginie, whose face had grown longer andlonger with each successive week that the shop got deeper into debt, contented herself with murmuring that life was not always gay--infact, in her opinion, it was a pretty dismal thing. As the wine wasfinished, Gervaise bade them all good night. When she was not speakingshe had sat with fixed, distended eyes. Coupeau was before them allthe time. 

The next day she said to herself when she rose that she would never goto the hospital again; she could do no good. But as midday arrived shecould stay away no longer and started forth, without a thought of thelength of the walk, so great were her mingled curiosity and anxiety. 

She was not obliged to ask a question; she heard the frightful soundsat the very foot of the stairs. The keeper, who was carrying a cup oftisane across the corridor, stopped when he saw her. 

"He keeps it up well!" he said. 

She went in but stood at the door, as she saw there were people there. The young surgeon had surrendered his chair to an elderly gentlemanwearing several decorations. He was the chief physician of thehospital, and his eyes were like gimlets. 

Gervaise tried to see Coupeau over the bald head of that gentleman. Her husband was leaping and dancing with undiminished strength. Theperspiration poured more constantly from his brow now; that was all. His feet had worn holes in the mattress with his steady tramp fromwindow to wall. 

Gervaise asked herself why she had come back. She had been accused theevening before of exaggerating the picture, but she had not made itstrong enough. The next time she imitated him she could do it better. She listened to what the physicians were saying: the house surgeonwas giving the details of the night with many words which she did notunderstand, but she gathered that Coupeau had gone on in the same wayall night. Finally he said this was the wife of the patient. Whereforethe surgeon in chief turned and interrogated her with the air of apolice judge. 

"Did this man's father drink?"

"A little, sir. Just as everybody does. He fell from a roof when hehad been drinking and was killed. "

"Did his mother drink?"

"Yes sir--that is, a little now and then. He had a brother who diedin convulsions, but the others are very healthy. "

The surgeon looked at her and said coldly:

"You drink too?"

Gervaise attempted to defend herself and deny the accusation. 

"You drink, " he repeated, "and see to what it leads. Someday youwill be here, and like this. "

She leaned against the wall, utterly overcome. The physician turnedaway. He knelt on the mattress and carefully watched Coupeau; hewished to see if his feet trembled as much as his hands. Hisextremities vibrated as if on wires. The disease was creeping on, and the peculiar shivering seemed to be under the skin--it wouldease for a minute or two and then begin again. The belly and theshoulders trembled like water just on the point of boiling. 

Coupeau seemed to suffer more than the evening before. His complaintswere curious and contradictory. A million pins were pricking him. There was a weight under the skin; a cold, wet animal was crawlingover him. Then there were other creatures on his shoulder. 

"I am thirsty, " he groaned; "so thirsty. "

The house surgeon took a glass of lemonade from a tray and gave it tohim. He seized the glass in both hands, drank one swallow, spillingthe whole of it at the same time. He at once spat it out in disgust. 

"It is brandy!" he exclaimed. 

Then the surgeon, on a sign from his chief, gave him some water, andCoupeau did the same thing. 

"It is brandy!" he cried. "Brandy! Oh, my God!"

For twenty-four hours he had declared that everything he touched tohis lips was brandy, and with tears begged for something else, for itburned his throat, he said. Beef tea was brought to him; he refusedit, saying it smelled of alcohol. He seemed to suffer intense andconstant agony from the poison which he vowed was in the air. He askedwhy people were allowed to rub matches all the time under his nose, to choke him with their vile fumes. 

The physicians watched Coupeau with care and interest. The phantomswhich had hitherto haunted him by night now appeared before him atmidday. He saw spiders' webs hanging from the wall as large as thesails of a man-of-war. Then these webs changed to nets, whose mesheswere constantly contracting only to enlarge again. These nets heldblack balls, and they, too, swelled and shrank. Suddenly he cried out:

"The rats! Oh, the rats!"

The balls had been transformed to rats. The vile beasts found theirway through the meshes of the nets and swarmed over the mattress andthen disappeared as suddenly as they came. 

The rats were followed by a monkey, who went in and came out from thewall, each time so near his face that Coupeau started back in disgust. All this vanished in the twinkling of an eye. He apparently thoughtthe walls were unsteady and about to fall, for he uttered shriek aftershriek of agony. 

"Fire! Fire!" he screamed. "They can't stand long. They are shaking!Fire! Fire! The whole heavens are bright with the light! Help! Help!"

His shrieks ended in a convulsed murmur. He foamed at the mouth. Thesurgeon in chief turned to the assistant. 

"You keep the temperature at forty degrees?" he asked. 

"Yes sir. "

A dead silence ensued. Then the surgeon shrugged his shoulders. 

"Well, continue the same treatment--beef tea, milk, lemonade andquinine as directed. Do not leave him, and send for me if there isany change. "

And he left the room, Gervaise following close at his heels, seekingan opportunity of asking him if there was no hope. But he stalked downthe corridor with so much dignity that she dared not approach him. 

She stood for a moment, undecided whether she should go back toCoupeau or not, but hearing him begin again the lamentable cry forwater:

"Water, not brandy!"

She hurried on, feeling that she could endure no more that day. In thestreets the galloping horses made her start with a strange fear thatall the inmates of Sainte-Anne's were at her heels. She rememberedwhat the physician had said, with what terrors he had threatened her, and she wondered if she already had the disease. 

When she reached the house the concierge and all the others werewaiting and called her into the loge. 

Was Coupeau still alive? they asked. 

Boche seemed quite disturbed at her answer, as he had made a betthat he would not live twenty-four hours. Everyone was astonished. Mme Lorilleux made a mental calculation:

"Sixty hours, " she said. "His strength is extraordinary. "

Then Boche begged Gervaise to show them once more what Coupeau did. 

The demand became general, and it was pointed out to her that sheought not to refuse, for there were two neighbors there who had notseen her representation the night previous and who had come inexpressly to witness it. 

They made a space in the center of the room, and a shiver ofexpectation ran through the little crowd. 

Gervaise was very reluctant. She was really afraid--afraid of makingherself ill. She finally made the attempt but drew back again hastily. 

No, she could not; it was quite impossible. Everyone was disappointed, and Virginie went away. 

Then everyone began to talk of the Poissons. A warrant had beenserved on them the night before. Poisson was to lose his place. As toLantier, he was hovering around a woman who thought of taking the shopand meant to sell hot tripe. Lantier was in luck, as usual. 

As they talked someone caught sight of Gervaise and pointed her out tothe others. She was at the very back of the loge, her feet and handstrembling, imitating Coupeau, in fact. They spoke to her. She staredwildly about, as if awaking from a dream, and then left the room. 

The next day she left the house at noon, as she had done before. Andas she entered Sainte-Anne's she heard the same terrific sounds. 

When she reached the cell she found Coupeau raving mad! He wasfighting in the middle of the cell with invisible enemies. He triedto hide himself; he talked and he answered, as if there were twentypersons. Gervaise watched him with distended eyes. He fancied himselfon a roof, laying down the sheets of zinc. He blew the furnace withhis mouth, and he went down on his knees and made a motion as if hehad soldering irons in his hand. He was troubled by his shoes: itseemed as if he thought they were dangerous. On the next roofs stoodpersons who insulted him by letting quantities of rats loose. Hestamped here and there in his desire to kill them and the spiderstoo! He pulled away his clothing to catch the creatures who, he said, intended to burrow under his skin. In another minute he believedhimself to be a locomotive and puffed and panted. He darted towardthe window and looked down into the street as if he were on a roof. 

"Look!" he said. "There is a traveling circus. I see the lions andthe panthers making faces at me. And there is Clemence. Good God, man, don't fire!"

And he gesticulated to the men who, he said, were pointing their gunsat him. 

He talked incessantly, his voice growing louder and louder, higherand higher. 

"Ah, it is you, is it? But please keep your hair out of my mouth. "

And he passed his hand over his face as if to take away the hair. 

"Who is it?" said the keeper. 

"My wife, of course. "

He looked at the wall, turning his back to Gervaise, who felt verystrange, and looked at the wall to see if she were there! He talkedon. 

"You look very fine. Where did you get that dress? Come here and letme arrange it for you a little. You devil! There he is again!"

And he leaped at the wall, but the soft cushions threw him back. 

"Whom do you see?" asked the young doctor. 

"Lantier! Lantier!"

Gervaise could not endure the eyes of the young man, for the scenebrought back to her so much of her former life. 

Coupeau fancied, as he had been thrown back from the wall in front, that he was now attacked in the rear, and he leaped over the mattresswith the agility of a cat. His respiration grew shorter and shorter, his eyes starting from their sockets. 

"He is killing her!" he shrieked. "Killing her! Just see the blood!"

He fell back against the wall with his hands wide open before him, as if he were repelling the approach of some frightful object. Heuttered two long, low groans and then fell flat on the mattress. 

"He is dead! He is dead!" moaned Gervaise. 

The keeper lifted Coupeau. No, he was not dead; his bare feet quiveredwith a regular motion. The surgeon in chief came in, bringing twocolleagues. The three men stood in grave silence, watching the manfor some time. They uncovered him, and Gervaise saw his shouldersand back. 

The tremulous motion had now taken complete possession of the body aswell as the limbs, and a strange ripple ran just under the skin. 

"He is asleep, " said the surgeon in chief, turning to his colleagues. 

Coupeau's eyes were closed, and his face twitched convulsively. Coupeau might sleep, but his feet did nothing of the kind. 

Gervaise, seeing the doctors lay their hands on Coupeau's body, wished to do the same. She approached softly and placed her handon his shoulder and left it there for a minute. 

What was going on there? A river seemed hurrying on under that skin. It was the liquor of the Assommoir, working like a mole throughmuscle, nerves, bone and marrow. 

The doctors went away, and Gervaise, at the end of another hour, said to the young surgeon:

"He is dead, sir. "

But the surgeon, looking at the feet, said: "No, " for those poor feetwere still dancing. 

Another hour, and yet another passed. Suddenly the feet were stiffand motionless, and the young surgeon turned to Gervaise. 

"He is dead, " he said. 

Death alone had stopped those feet. 

When Gervaise went back she was met at the door by a crowd of peoplewho wished to ask her questions, she thought. 

"He is dead, " she said quietly as she moved on. 

But no one heard her. They had their own tale to tell then. HowPoisson had nearly murdered Lantier. Poisson was a tiger, and he oughtto have seen what was going on long before. And Boche said the womanhad taken the shop and that Lantier was, as usual, in luck again, forhe adored tripe. 

In the meantime Gervaise went directly to Mme Lerat and Mme Lorilleuxand said faintly:

"He is dead--after four days of horror. "

Then the two sisters were in duty bound to pull out theirhandkerchiefs. Their brother had lived a most dissolute life, but then he was their brother. 

Boche shrugged his shoulders and said in an audible voice:

"Pshaw! It is only one drunkard the less!"

After this day Gervaise was not always quite right in her mind, andit was one of the attractions of the house to see her act Coupeau. 

But her representations were often involuntary. She trembled at timesfrom head to foot and uttered little spasmodic cries. She had takenthe disease in a modified form at Sainte-Anne's from looking so longat her husband. But she never became altogether like him in the fewremaining months of her existence. 

She sank lower day by day. As soon as she got a little money fromany source whatever she drank it away at once. Her landlord decidedto turn her out of the room she occupied, and as Father Bru wasdiscovered dead one day in his den under the stairs, M. Marescotallowed her to take possession of his quarters. It was there, therefore, on the old straw bed, that she lay waiting for death tocome. Apparently even Mother Earth would have none of her. She triedseveral times to throw herself out of the window, but death took herby bits, as it were. In fact, no one knew exactly when she died orexactly what she died of. They spoke of cold and hunger. 

But the truth was she died of utter weariness of life, and FatherBazonge came the day she was found dead in her den. 

Under his arm he carried a coffin, and he was very tipsy and as gayas a lark. 

"It is foolish to be in a hurry, because one always gets what onewants finally. I am ready to give you all your good pleasure when yourtime comes. Some want to go, and some want to stay. And here is onewho wanted to go and was kept waiting. "

And when he lifted Gervaise in his great, coarse hands he did ittenderly. And as he laid her gently in her coffin he murmured betweentwo hiccups:

"It is I--my dear, it is I, " said this rough consoler of women. "It isI. Be happy now and sleep quietly, my dear!"

THE END.