Gervaise did not want to have a wedding-party! What was the use of
spending money? Besides, she still felt somewhat ashamed; it seemed to
her quite unnecessary to parade the marriage before the whole
neighborhood. But Coupeau cried out at that. One could not be married
without having a feed. He did not care a button for the people of the
neighborhood! Nothing elaborate, just a short walk and a rabbit ragout
in the first eating-house they fancied. No music with dessert. Just a
glass or two and then back home.
The zinc-worker, chaffing and joking, at length got the young woman to
consent by promising her that there should be no larks. He would keep
his eye on the glasses, to prevent sunstrokes. Then he organized a sort
of picnic at five francs a head, at the “Silver Windmill,” kept by
Auguste, on the Boulevard de la Chapelle. It was a small cafe with
moderate charges and had a dancing place in the rear, beneath the three
acacias in the courtyard. They would be very comfortable on the first
floor. During the next ten days, he got hold of guests in the house
where his sister lived in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or—Monsieur Madinier,
Mademoiselle Remanjou, Madame Gaudron and her husband. He even ended by
getting Gervaise to consent to the presence of two of his
comrades—Bibi-the-Smoker and My-Boots. No doubt My-Boots was a boozer;
but then he had such a fantastic appetite that he was always asked to
join those sort of gatherings, just for the sight of the caterer’s mug
when he beheld that bottomless pit swallowing his twelve pounds of
bread. The young woman on her side, promised to bring her employer
Madame Fauconnier and the Boches, some very agreeable people. On
counting, they found there would be fifteen to sit down to table, which
was quite enough. When there are too many, they always wind up by
quarrelling.
Coupeau however, had no money. Without wishing to show off, he intended
to behave handsomely. He borrowed fifty francs of his employer. Out of
that, he first of all purchased the wedding-ring—a twelve franc gold
wedding-ring, which Lorilleux procured for him at the wholesale price
of nine francs. He then bought himself a frock coat, a pair of trousers
and a waistcoat at a tailor’s in the Rue Myrrha, to whom he gave merely
twenty-five francs on account; his patent leather shoes and his hat
were still good enough. When he had put by the ten francs for his and
Gervaise’s share of the feast—the two children not being charged for—he
had exactly six francs left—the price of a low mass at the altar of the
poor. He had no liking for those black crows, the priests. It would
gripe him to pay his last six francs to keep their whistles wet;
however, a marriage without a mass wasn’t a real marriage at all.
Going to the church himself, he bargained for a whole hour with a
little old priest in a dirty cassock who was as sharp at dealing as a
push-cart peddler. Coupeau felt like boxing his ears. For a joke, he
asked the priest if he didn’t have a second-hand mass that would do for
a modest young couple. The priest, mumbling that God would take small
pleasure in blessing their union, finally let him have his mass for
five francs. Well after all, that meant twenty sous saved.
Gervaise also wanted to look decent. As soon as the marriage was
settled, she made her arrangements, worked extra time in the evenings,
and managed to put thirty francs on one side. She had a great longing
for a little silk mantle marked thirteen francs in the Rue du Faubourg
Poissonniere. She treated herself to it, and then bought for ten francs
off the husband of a washerwoman who had died in Madame Fauconnier’s
house a blue woolen dress, which she altered to fit herself. With the
seven francs remaining she procured a pair of cotton gloves, a rose for
her cap, and some shoes for Claude, her eldest boy. Fortunately the
youngsters’ blouses were passable. She spent four nights cleaning
everything, and mending the smallest holes in her stockings and
chemise.
On Friday night, the eve of the great day, Gervaise and Coupeau had
still a good deal of running about to do up till eleven o’clock, after
returning home from work. Then before separating for the night they
spent an hour together in the young woman’s room, happy at being about
to be released from their awkward position. In spite of the fact that
they had originally resolved not to put themselves out to impress the
neighbors, they had ended by taking it seriously and working themselves
till they were weary. By the time they said “Good-night,” they were
almost asleep on their feet. They breathed a great sigh of relief now
that everything was ready.
Coupeau’s witnesses were to be Monsieur Madinier and Bibi-the-Smoker.
They were counting on Lorilleux and Boche for Gervaise’s witnesses.
They were to go quietly to the mayor’s office and the church, just the
six of them, without a whole procession of people trailing behind them.
The bridegroom’s two sisters had even declared that they would stay
home, their presence not being necessary. Coupeau’s mother, however,
had sobbed and wailed, threatening to go ahead of them and hide herself
in some corner of the church, until they had promised to take her
along. The meeting of the guests was set for one o’clock at the Silver
Windmill. From there, they would go to Saint-Denis, going out by
railroad and returning on foot along the highway in order to work up an
appetite. The party promised to be quite all right.
Saturday morning, while getting dressed, Coupeau felt a qualm of
uneasiness in view of the single franc in his pocket. He began to think
that it was a matter of ordinary courtesy to offer a glass of wine and
a slice of ham to the witnesses while awaiting dinner. Also, there
might be unforeseen expenses. So, after taking Claude and Etienne to
stay with Madame Boche, who was to bring them to the dinner later that
afternoon, he hurried over to the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or to borrow ten
francs from Lorilleux. Having to do that griped him immensely as he
could guess the attitude his brother-in-law would take. The latter did
grumble a bit, but ended by lending him two five-franc pieces. However,
Coupeau overheard his sister muttering under her breath, “This is a
fine beginning.”
The ceremony at the mayor’s was to take place at half-past ten. It was
beautiful weather—a magnificent sun seemed to roast the streets. So as
not to be stared at the bride and bridegroom, the old mother, and the
four witnesses separated into two bands. Gervaise walked in front with
Lorilleux, who gave her his arm; whilst Monsieur Madinier followed with
mother Coupeau. Then, twenty steps behind on the opposite side of the
way, came Coupeau, Boche, and Bibi-the-Smoker. These three were in
black frock coats, walking erect and swinging their arms. Boche’s
trousers were bright yellow. Bibi-the-Smoker didn’t have a waistcoat so
he was buttoned up to the neck with only a bit of his cravat showing.
The only one in a full dress suit was Monsieur Madinier and passers-by
gazed at this well-dressed gentleman escorting the huge bulk of mother
Coupeau in her green shawl and black bonnet with red ribbons.
Gervaise looked very gay and sweet in her dress of vivid blue and with
her new silk mantle fitted tightly to her shoulders. She listened
politely to the sneering remarks of Lorilleux, who seemed buried in the
depths of the immense overcoat he was wearing. From time to time,
Gervaise would turn her head a little to smile brightly at Coupeau, who
was rather uncomfortable under the hot sun in his new clothes.
Though they walked very slowly, they arrived at the mayor’s quite half
an hour too soon. And as the mayor was late, their turn was not reached
till close upon eleven o’clock. They sat down on some chairs and waited
in a corner of the apartment, looking by turns at the high ceiling and
bare walls, talking low, and over-politely pushing back their chairs
each time that one of the attendants passed. Yet among themselves they
called the mayor a sluggard, saying he must be visiting his blonde to
get a massage for his gout, or that maybe he’d swallowed his official
sash.
However, when the mayor did put in his appearance, they rose
respectfully in his honor. They were asked to sit down again and they
had to wait through three other marriages. The hall was crowded with
the three bourgeois wedding parties: brides all in white, little girls
with carefully curled hair, bridesmaids wearing wide sashes, an endless
procession of ladies and gentlemen dressed in their best and looking
very stylish.
When at length they were called, they almost missed being married
altogether, Bibi-the-Smoker having disappeared. Boche discovered him
outside smoking his pipe. Well! They were a nice lot inside there to
humbug people about like that, just because one hadn’t yellow kid
gloves to shove under their noses! And the various formalities—the
reading of the Code, the different questions to be put, the signing of
all the documents—were all got through so rapidly that they looked at
each other with an idea that they had been robbed of a good half of the
ceremony. Gervaise, dizzy, her heart full, pressed her handkerchief to
her lips. Mother Coupeau wept bitterly. All had signed the register,
writing their names in big struggling letters with the exception of the
bridegroom, who not being able to write, had put his cross. They each
gave four sous for the poor. When an attendant handed Coupeau the
marriage certificate, the latter, prompted by Gervaise who nudged his
elbow, handed him another five sous.
It was a fair walk from the mayor’s office in the town hall to the
church. The men stopped along the way to have a beer. Mother Coupeau
and Gervaise took cassis with water. Then they had to trudge along the
long street where the sun glared straight down without the relief of
shade.
When they arrived at the church they were hurried along and asked if
they came so late in order to make a mockery of religion. A priest came
forward, his face pale and resentful from having to delay his lunch. An
altar boy in a soiled surplice ran before him.
The mass went very fast, with the priest turning, bowing his head,
spreading out his arms, making all the ritual gestures in haste while
casting sidelong glances at the group. Gervaise and Coupeau, before the
altar, were embarrassed, not knowing when they should kneel or rise or
seat themselves, expecting some indication from the attendant. The
witnesses, not knowing what was proper, remained standing during the
ceremony. Mother Coupeau was weeping again and shedding her tears into
the missal she had borrowed from a neighbor.
Meanwhile, the noon chimes had sounded and the church began to fill
with noise from the shuffling feet of sacristans and the clatter of
chairs being put back in place. The high altar was apparently being
prepared for some special ceremony.
Thus, in the depths of this obscure chapel, amid the floating dust, the
surly priest placed his withered hands on the bared heads of Gervaise
and Coupeau, blessing their union amid a hubbub like that of moving
day. The wedding party signed another registry, this time in the
sacristy, and then found themselves out in the bright sunlight before
the church doors where they stood for a moment, breathless and confused
from having been carried along at such a break-neck speed.
“Voila!” said Coupeau with an embarrassed laugh. “Well, it sure didn’t
take long. They shove it at you so; it’s like being at the painless
dentist’s who doesn’t give you time to cry out. Here you get a painless
wedding!”
“Yes, it’s a quick job,” Lorilleux smirked. “In five minutes you’re
tied together for the rest of your life. You poor Young Cassis, you’ve
had it.”
The four witnesses whacked Coupeau on the shoulders as he arched his
back against the friendly blows. Meanwhile Gervaise was hugging and
kissing mother Coupeau, her eyes moist, a smile lighting her face. She
replied reassuringly to the old woman’s sobbing: “Don’t worry, I’ll do
my best. I want so much to have a happy life. If it doesn’t work out it
won’t be my fault. Anyhow, it’s done now. It’s up to us to get along
together and do the best we can for each other.”
After that they went straight to the Silver Windmill. Coupeau had taken
his wife’s arm. They walked quickly, laughing as though carried away,
quite two hundred steps ahead of the others, without noticing the
houses or the passers-by, or the vehicles. The deafening noises of the
faubourg sounded like bells in their ears. When they reached the
wineshop, Coupeau at once ordered two bottles of wine, some bread and
some slices of ham, to be served in the little glazed closet on the
ground floor, without plates or table cloth, simply to have a snack.
Then, noticing that Boche and Bibi-the-Smoker seemed to be very hungry,
he had a third bottle brought, as well as a slab of brie cheese. Mother
Coupeau was not hungry, being too choked up to be able to eat. Gervaise
found herself very thirsty, and drank several large glasses of water
with a small amount of wine added.
“I’ll settle for this,” said Coupeau, going at once to the bar, where
he paid four francs and five sous.
It was now one o’clock and the other guests began to arrive. Madame
Fauconnier, a fat woman, still good looking, first put in an
appearance; she wore a chintz dress with a flowery pattern, a pink tie
and a cap over-trimmed with flowers. Next came Mademoiselle Remanjou,
looking very thin in the eternal black dress which she seemed to keep
on even when she went to bed; and the two Gaudrons—the husband, like
some heavy animal and almost bursting his brown jacket at the slightest
movement, the wife, an enormous woman, whose figure indicated evident
signs of an approaching maternity and whose stiff violet colored skirt
still more increased her rotundity. Coupeau explained that they were
not to wait for My-Boots; his comrade would join the party on the Route
de Saint-Denis.
“Well!” exclaimed Madame Lerat as she entered, “it’ll pour in torrents
soon! That’ll be pleasant!”
And she called everyone to the door of the wineshop to see the clouds
as black as ink which were rising rapidly to the south of Paris. Madame
Lerat, eldest of the Coupeaus, was a tall, gaunt woman who talked
through her nose. She was unattractively dressed in a puce-colored robe
that hung loosely on her and had such long dangling fringes that they
made her look like a skinny poodle coming out of the water. She
brandished her umbrella like a club. After greeting Gervaise, she said,
“You’ve no idea. The heat in the street is like a slap on the face.
You’d think someone was throwing fire at you.”
Everyone agreed that they knew the storm was coming. It was in the air.
Monsieur Madinier said that he had seen it as they were coming out of
the church. Lorilleux mentioned that his corns were aching and he
hadn’t been able to sleep since three in the morning. A storm was due.
It had been much too hot for three days in a row.
“Well, maybe it will just be a little mist,” Coupeau said several
times, standing at the door and anxiously studying the sky. “Now we
have to wait only for my sister. We’ll start as soon as she arrives.”
Madame Lorilleux was late. Madame Lerat had stopped by so they could
come together, but found her only beginning to get dressed. The two
sisters had argued. The widow whispered in her brother’s ear, “I left
her flat! She’s in a dreadful mood. You’ll see.”
And the wedding party had to wait another quarter of an hour, walking
about the wineshop, elbowed and jostled in the midst of the men who
entered to drink a glass of wine at the bar. Now and again Boche, or
Madame Fauconnier, or Bibi-the-Smoker left the others and went to the
edge of the pavement, looking up at the sky. The storm was not passing
over at all; a darkness was coming on and puffs of wind, sweeping along
the ground, raised little clouds of white dust. At the first clap of
thunder, Mademoiselle Remanjou made the sign of the cross. All the
glances were anxiously directed to the clock over the looking-glass; it
was twenty minutes to two.
“Here it goes!” cried Coupeau. “It’s the angels who’re weeping.”
A gush of rain swept the pavement, along which some women flew, holding
down their skirts with both hands. And it was in the midst of this
first shower that Madame Lorilleux at length arrived, furious and out
of breath, and struggling on the threshold with her umbrella that would
not close.
“Did any one ever see such a thing?” she exclaimed. “It caught me just
at the door. I felt inclined to go upstairs again and take my things
off. I should have been wise had I done so. Ah! it’s a pretty wedding!
I said how it would be. I wanted to put it off till next Saturday; and
it rains because they wouldn’t listen to me! So much the better, so
much the better! I wish the sky would burst!”
Coupeau tried to pacify her without success. He wouldn’t have to pay
for her dress if it was spoilt! She had on a black silk dress in which
she was nearly choking, the bodice, too tight fitting, was almost
bursting the button-holes, and was cutting her across the shoulders;
while the skirt only allowed her to take very short steps in walking.
However, the ladies present were all staring at her, quite overcome by
her costume.
She appeared not to notice Gervaise, who was sitting beside mother
Coupeau. She asked her husband for his handkerchief. Then she went into
a corner and very carefully wiped off the raindrops that had fallen on
her silk dress.
The shower had abruptly ceased. The darkness increased, it was almost
like night—a livid night rent at times by large flashes of lightning.
Bibi-the-Smoker said laughingly that it would certainly rain priests.
Then the storm burst forth with extreme violence. For half an hour the
rain came down in bucketsful, and the thunder rumbled unceasingly. The
men standing up before the door contemplated the grey veil of the
downpour, the swollen gutters, the splashes of water caused by the rain
beating into the puddles. The women, feeling frightened, had sat down
again, holding their hands before their eyes. They no longer conversed,
they were too upset. A jest Boche made about the thunder, saying that
St. Peter was sneezing up there, failed to raise a smile. But, when the
thunder-claps became less frequent and gradually died away in the
distance, the wedding guests began to get impatient, enraged against
the storm, cursing and shaking their fists at the clouds. A fine and
interminable rain now poured down from the sky which had become an ashy
grey.
“It’s past two o’clock,” cried Madame Lorilleux. “We can’t stop here
for ever.”
Mademoiselle Remanjou, having suggested going into the country all the
same, even though they went no farther than the moat of the
fortifications, the others scouted the idea: the roads would be in a
nice state, one would not even be able to sit down on the grass;
besides, it did not seem to be all over yet, there might perhaps be
another downpour. Coupeau, who had been watching a workman, completely
soaked, yet quietly walking along in the rain, murmured:
“If that animal My-Boots is waiting for us on the Route de Saint-Denis,
he won’t catch a sunstroke.”
That made some of them laugh; but the general ill-humor increased. It
was becoming ludicrous. They must decide on something unless they
planned to sit there, staring at each other, until time for dinner. So
for the next quarter of an hour, while the persistent rain continued,
they tried to think of what to do. Bibi-the-Smoker suggested that they
play cards. Boche slyly suggesting a most amusing game, the game of
true confessions. Madame Gaudron thought of going to eat onion tarts on
the Chaussee Clignancourt. Madame Lerat wanted to hear some stories.
Gaudron said he wasn’t a bit put out and thought they were quite well
off where they were, out of the downpour. He suggested sitting down to
dinner immediately.
There was a discussion after each proposal. Some said that this would
put everybody to sleep or that that would make people think they were
stupid. Lorilleux had to get his word in. He finally suggested a walk
along the outer Boulevards to Pere Lachaise cemetery. They could visit
the tomb of Heloise and Abelard. Madame Lorilleux exploded, no longer
able to control herself. She was leaving, she was. Were they trying to
make fun of her? She got all dressed up and came out in the rain. And
for what? To be wasting time in a wineshop. No, she had had enough of
this wedding party. She’d rather be in her own home. Coupeau and
Lorilleux had to get between her and the door to keep her from leaving.
She kept telling them, “Get out of my way! I am leaving, I tell you!”
Lorilleux finally succeeded in calming her down. Coupeau went over to
Gervaise, who had been sitting quietly in a corner with mother Coupeau
and Madame Fauconnier.
“You haven’t suggested anything,” he said to her.
“Oh! Whatever they want,” she replied, laughing. “I don’t mind. We can
go out or stay here.”
She seemed aglow with contentment. She had spoken to each guest as they
arrived. She spoke sensibly, in her soft voice, not getting into any
disagreements. During the downpour, she had sat with her eyes wide
open, watching the lightning as though she could see the future in the
sudden flashes.
Monsieur Madinier had up to this time not proposed anything. He was
leaning against the bar, with the tails of his dress coat thrust apart,
while he fully maintained the important air of an employer. He kept on
expectorating, and rolled his big eyes about.
“_Mon Dieu_!” said he, “we might go to the Museum.”
And he stroked his chin, as he blinkingly consulted the other members
of the party.
“There are antiquities, pictures, paintings, a whole heap of things. It
is very instructive. Perhaps you have never been there. Oh! it is quite
worth seeing at least once in a while.”
They looked at each other interrogatively. No, Gervaise had never been;
Madame Fauconnier neither, nor Boche, nor the others. Coupeau thought
he had been one Sunday, but he was not sure. They hesitated, however,
when Madame Lorilleux, greatly impressed by Monsieur Madinier’s
importance, thought the suggestion a very worthy and respectable one.
As they were wasting the day, and were all dressed up, they might as
well go somewhere for their own instruction. Everyone approved. Then,
as it still rained a little, they borrowed some umbrellas from the
proprietor of the wineshop, old blue, green, and brown umbrellas,
forgotten by different customers, and started off to the Museum.
The wedding party turned to the right, and descended into Paris along
the Faubourg Saint-Denis. Coupeau and Gervaise again took the lead,
almost running and keeping a good distance in front of the others.
Monsieur Madinier now gave his arm to Madame Lorilleux, mother Coupeau
having remained behind in the wineshop on account of her old legs. Then
came Lorilleux and Madame Lerat, Boche and Madame Fauconnier,
Bibi-the-Smoker and Mademoiselle Remanjou, and finally the two
Gaudrons. They were twelve and made a pretty long procession on the
pavement.
“I swear to you, we had nothing to do with it,” Madame Lorilleux
explained to Monsieur Madinier. “We don’t even know how they met, or,
we know only too well, but that’s not for us to discuss. My husband
even had to buy the wedding ring. We were scarcely out of bed this
morning when he had to lend them ten francs. And, not a member of her
family at her wedding, what kind of bride is that? She says she has a
sister in Paris who works for a pork butcher. Why didn’t she invite
her?” She stopped to point at Gervaise, who was limping awkwardly
because of the slope of the pavement. “Just look at her. Clump-clump.”
“Clump-clump” ran through the wedding procession. Lorilleux laughed
under his breath, and said they ought to call her that, but Madame
Fauconnier stood up for Gervaise. They shouldn’t make fun of her; she
was neat as a pin and did a good job when there was washing to be done.
When the wedding procession came out of the Faubourg Saint-Denis, they
had to cross the boulevard. The street had been transformed into a
morass of sticky mud by the storm. It had started to pour again and
they had opened the assorted umbrellas. The women picked their way
carefully through the mud, holding their skirts high as the men held
the sorry-looking umbrellas over their heads. The procession stretched
out the width of the street.
“It’s a masquerade!” yelled two street urchins.
People turned to stare. These couples parading across the boulevard
added a splash of vivid color against the damp background. It was a
parade of a strange medley of styles showing fancy used clothing such
as constitute the luxury of the poor. The gentlemen’s hats caused the
most merriment, old hats preserved for years in dark and dusty
cupboards, in a variety of comical forms: tall ones, flattened ones,
sharply peaked ones, hats with extraordinary brims, curled back or
flat, too narrow or too wide. Then at the very end, Madame Gaudron came
along with her bright dress over her bulging belly and caused the
smiles of the audience to grow even wider. The procession made no
effort to hasten its progress. They were, in fact, rather pleased to
attract so much attention and admiration.
“Look! Here comes the bride!” one of the urchins shouted, pointing to
Madame Gaudron. “Oh! Isn’t it too bad! She must have swallowed
something!”
The entire wedding procession burst into laughter. Bibi-the-Smoker
turned around and laughed. Madame Gaudron laughed the most of all. She
wasn’t ashamed as she thought more than one of the women watching had
looked at her with envy.
They turned into the Rue de Clery. Then they took the Rue du Mail. On
reaching the Place des Victoires, there was a halt. The bride’s left
shoe lace had come undone, and as she tied it up again at the foot of
the statue of Louis XIV., the couples pressed behind her waiting, and
joking about the bit of calf of her leg that she displayed. At length,
after passing down the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, they reached the
Louvre.
Monsieur Madinier politely asked to be their cicerone. It was a big
place, and they might lose themselves; besides, he knew the best parts,
because he had often come there with an artist, a very intelligent
fellow from whom a large dealer bought designs to put on his cardboard
boxes. Down below, when the wedding party entered the Assyrian Museum,
a slight shiver passed through it. The deuce! It was not at all warm
there; the hall would have made a capital cellar. And the couples
slowly advanced, their chins raised, their eyes blinking, between the
gigantic stone figures, the black marble gods, dumb in their hieratic
rigidity, and the monstrous beasts, half cats and half women, with
death-like faces, attenuated noses, and swollen lips. They thought all
these things very ugly. The stone carvings of the present day were a
great deal better. An inscription in Phoenician characters amazed them.
No one could possibly have ever read that scrawl. But Monsieur
Madinier, already up on the first landing with Madame Lorilleux, called
to them, shouting beneath the vaulted ceiling:
“Come along! They’re nothing, all those things! The things to see are
on the first floor!”
The severe barrenness of the staircase made them very grave. An
attendant, superbly attired in a red waistcoat and a coat trimmed with
gold lace, who seemed to be awaiting them on the landing, increased
their emotion. It was with great respect, and treading as softly as
possible, that they entered the French Gallery.
Then, without stopping, their eyes occupied with the gilding of the
frames, they followed the string of little rooms, glancing at the
passing pictures too numerous to be seen properly. It would have
required an hour before each, if they had wanted to understand it. What
a number of pictures! There was no end to them. They must be worth a
mint of money. Right at the end, Monsieur Madinier suddenly ordered a
halt opposite the “Raft of the Medusa” and he explained the subject to
them. All deeply impressed and motionless, they uttered not a word.
When they started off again, Boche expressed the general feeling,
saying it was marvellous.
In the Apollo Gallery, the inlaid flooring especially astonished the
party—a shining floor, as clear as a mirror, and which reflected the
legs of the seats. Mademoiselle Remanjou kept her eyes closed, because
she could not help thinking that she was walking on water. They called
to Madame Gaudron to be careful how she trod on account of her
condition. Monsieur Madinier wanted to show them the gilding and
paintings of the ceiling; but it nearly broke their necks to look up
above, and they could distinguish nothing. Then, before entering the
Square Salon, he pointed to a window, saying:
“That’s the balcony from which Charles IX. fired on the people.”
He looked back to make sure the party was following. In the middle of
the Salon Carre, he held up his hand. “There are only masterpieces
here,” he said, in a subdued voice, as though in church. They went all
around the room. Gervaise wanted to know about “The Wedding at Cana.”
Coupeau paused to stare at the “Mona Lisa,” saying that she reminded
him of one of his aunts. Boche and Bibi-the-Smoker snickered at the
nudes, pointing them out to each other and winking. The Gaudrons looked
at the “Virgin” of Murillo, he with his mouth open, she with her hands
folded on her belly.
When they had been all around the Salon, Monsieur Madinier wished them
to go round it again, it was so worth while. He was very attentive to
Madame Lorilleux, because of her silk dress; and each time that she
questioned him he answered her gravely, with great assurance. She was
curious about “Titian’s Mistress” because the yellow hair resembled her
own. He told her it was “La Belle Ferronniere,” a mistress of Henry IV.
about whom there had been a play at the Ambigu.
Then the wedding party invaded the long gallery occupied by the Italian
and Flemish schools. More paintings, always paintings, saints, men and
women, with faces which some of them could understand, landscapes that
were all black, animals turned yellow, a medley of people and things,
the great mixture of the colors of which was beginning to give them all
violent headaches. Monsieur Madinier no longer talked as he slowly
headed the procession, which followed him in good order, with stretched
necks and upcast eyes. Centuries of art passed before their bewildered
ignorance, the fine sharpness of the early masters, the splendors of
the Venetians, the vigorous life, beautiful with light, of the Dutch
painters. But what interested them most were the artists who were
copying, with their easels planted amongst the people, painting away
unrestrainedly; an old lady, mounted on a pair of high steps, working a
big brush over the delicate sky of an immense painting, struck them as
something most peculiar.
Slowly the word must have gone around that a wedding party was visiting
the Louvre. Several painters came over with big smiles. Some visitors
were so curious that they went to sit on benches ahead of the group in
order to be comfortable while they watched them pass in review. Museum
guards bit back comments. The wedding party was now quite weary and
beginning to drag their feet.
Monsieur Madinier was reserving himself to give more effect to a
surprise that he had in store. He went straight to the “Kermesse” of
Rubens; but still he said nothing. He contented himself with directing
the others’ attention to the picture by a sprightly glance. The ladies
uttered faint cries the moment they brought their noses close to the
painting. Then, blushing deeply they turned away their heads. The men
though kept them there, cracking jokes, and seeking for the coarser
details.
“Just look!” exclaimed Boche, “it’s worth the money. There’s one
spewing, and another, he’s watering the dandelions; and that one—oh!
that one. Ah, well! They’re a nice clean lot, they are!”
“Let us be off,” said Monsieur Madinier, delighted with his success.
“There is nothing more to see here.”
They retraced their steps, passing again through the Salon Carre and
the Apollo Gallery. Madame Lerat and Mademoiselle Remanjou complained,
declaring that their legs could scarcely bear them. But the cardboard
box manufacturer wanted to show Lorilleux the old jewelry. It was close
by in a little room which he could find with his eyes shut. However, he
made a mistake and led the wedding party astray through seven or eight
cold, deserted rooms, only ornamented with severe looking-glass cases,
containing numberless broken pots and hideous little figures.
While looking for an exit they stumbled into the collection of
drawings. It was immense. Through room after room they saw nothing
interesting, just scribblings on paper that filled all the cases and
covered the walls. They thought there was no end to these drawings.
Monsieur Madinier, losing his head, not willing to admit that he did
not know his way, ascended a flight of stairs, making the wedding party
mount to the next floor. This time they traversed the Naval Museum,
among models of instruments and cannons, plans in relief, and vessels
as tiny as playthings. After going a long way, and walking for a
quarter of an hour, the party came upon another staircase; and, having
descended this, found itself once more surrounded by the drawings. Then
despair took possession of them as they wandered at random through long
halls, following Monsieur Madinier, who was furious and mopping the
sweat from his forehead. He accused the government of having moved the
doors around. Museum guards and visitors looked on with astonishment as
the procession, still in a column of couples, passed by. They passed
again through the Salon Carre, the French Gallery and then along the
cases where minor Eastern divinities slumbered peacefully. It seemed
they would never find their way out. They were getting tired and made a
lot of noise.
“Closing time! Closing time!” called out the attendants, in a loud tone
of voice.
And the wedding party was nearly locked in. An attendant was obliged to
place himself at the head of it, and conduct it to a door. Then in the
courtyard of the Louvre, when it had recovered its umbrellas from the
cloakroom, it breathed again. Monsieur Madinier regained his assurance.
He had made a mistake in not turning to the left, now he recollected
that the jewelry was to the left. The whole party pretended to be very
pleased at having seen all they had.
Four o’clock was striking. There were still two hours to be employed
before the dinner time, so it was decided they should take a stroll,
just to occupy the interval. The ladies, who were very tired, would
have preferred to sit down; but, as no one offered any refreshments,
they started off, following the line of quays. There they encountered
another shower and so sharp a one that in spite of the umbrellas, the
ladies’ dresses began to get wet. Madame Lorilleux, her heart sinking
within her each time a drop fell upon her black silk, proposed that
they should shelter themselves under the Pont-Royal; besides if the
others did not accompany her, she threatened to go all by herself. And
the procession marched under one of the arches of the bridge. They were
very comfortable there. It was, most decidedly a capital idea! The
ladies, spreading their handkerchiefs over the paving-stones, sat down
with their knees wide apart, and pulled out the blades of grass that
grew between the stones with both hands, whilst they watched the dark
flowing water as though they were in the country. The men amused
themselves with calling out very loud, so as to awaken the echoes of
the arch. Boche and Bibi-the-Smoker shouted insults into the air at the
top of their voices, one after the other. They laughed uproariously
when the echo threw the insults back at them. When their throats were
hoarse from shouting, they made a game of skipping flat stones on the
surface of the Seine.
The shower had ceased but the whole party felt so comfortable that no
one thought of moving away. The Seine was flowing by, an oily sheet
carrying bottle corks, vegetable peelings, and other refuse that
sometimes collected in temporary whirlpools moving along with the
turbulent water. Endless traffic rumbled on the bridge overhead, the
noisy bustle of Paris, of which they could glimpse only the rooftops to
the left and right, as though they were in the bottom of a deep pit.
Mademoiselle Remanjou sighed; if the leaves had been out this would
have reminded her of a bend of the Marne where she used to go with a
young man. It still made her cry to think of him.
At last, Monsieur Madinier gave the signal for departure. They passed
through the Tuileries gardens, in the midst of a little community of
children, whose hoops and balls upset the good order of the couples.
Then as the wedding party on arriving at the Place Vendome looked up at
the column, Monsieur Madinier gallantly offered to treat the ladies to
a view from the top. His suggestion was considered extremely amusing.
Yes, yes, they would go up; it would give them something to laugh about
for a long time. Besides, it would be full of interest for those
persons who had never been higher than a cow pasture.
“Do you think Clump-clump will venture inside there with her leg all
out of place?” murmured Madame Lorilleux.
“I’ll go up with pleasure,” said Madame Lerat, “but I won’t have any
men walking behind me.”
And the whole party ascended. In the narrow space afforded by the
spiral staircase, the twelve persons crawled up one after the other,
stumbling against the worn steps, and clinging to the walls. Then, when
the obscurity became complete, they almost split their sides with
laughing. The ladies screamed when the gentlemen pinched their legs.
But they were weren’t stupid enough to say anything! The proper plan is
to think that it is the mice nibbling at them. It wasn’t very serious;
the men knew when to stop.
Boche thought of a joke and everyone took it up. They called down to
Madame Gaudron to ask her if she could squeeze her belly through. Just
think! If she should get stuck there, she would completely block the
passage, and how would they ever get out? They laughed so at the jokes
about her belly that the column itself vibrated. Boche was now quite
carried away and declared that they were growing old climbing up this
chimney pipe. Was it ever coming to an end, or did it go right up to
heaven? He tried to frighten the ladies by telling them the structure
was shaking.
Coupeau, meanwhile, said nothing. He was behind Gervaise, with his arm
around her waist, and felt that she was everything perfect to him. When
they suddenly emerged again into the daylight, he was just in the act
of kissing her on the cheek.
“Well! You’re a nice couple; you don’t stand on ceremony,” said Madame
Lorilleux with a scandalized air.
Bibi-the-Smoker pretended to be furious. He muttered between his teeth.
“You made such a noise together! I wasn’t even able to count the
steps.”
But Monsieur Madinier was already up on the platform, pointing out the
different monuments. Neither Madame Fauconnier nor Mademoiselle
Remanjou would on any consideration leave the staircase. The thought of
the pavement below made their blood curdle, and they contented
themselves with glancing out of the little door. Madame Lerat, who was
bolder, went round the narrow terrace, keeping close to the bronze
dome; but, _mon Dieu_, it gave one a rude emotion to think that one
only had to slip off. The men were a little paler than usual as they
stared down at the square below. You would think you were up in
mid-air, detached from everything. No, it wasn’t fun, it froze your
very insides.
Monsieur Madinier told them to raise their eyes and look straight into
the distance to avoid feeling dizzy. He went on pointing out the
Invalides, the Pantheon, Notre Dame and the Montmartre hill. Madame
Lorilleux asked if they could see the place where they were to have
dinner, the Silver Windmill on the Boulevard de la Chapelle. For ten
minutes they tried to see it, even arguing about it. Everyone had their
own idea where it was.
“It wasn’t worth while coming up here to bite each other’s noses off,”
said Boche, angrily as he turned to descend the staircase.
The wedding party went down, unspeaking and sulky, awakening no other
sound beyond that of shoes clanking on the stone steps. When it reached
the bottom, Monsieur Madinier wished to pay; but Coupeau would not
permit him, and hastened to place twenty-four sous into the keeper’s
hand, two sous for each person. So they returned by the Boulevards and
the Faubourg du Poissonniers. Coupeau, however, considered that their
outing could not end like that. He bundled them all into a wineshop
where they took some vermouth.
The repast was ordered for six o’clock. At the Silver Windmill, they
had been waiting for the wedding party for a good twenty minutes.
Madame Boche, who had got a lady living in the same house to attend to
her duties for the evening, was conversing with mother Coupeau in the
first floor room, in front of the table, which was all laid out; and
the two youngsters, Claude and Etienne, whom she had brought with her,
were playing about beneath the table and amongst the chairs. When
Gervaise, on entering caught sight of the little ones, whom she had not
seen all the day, she took them on her knees, and caressed and kissed
them.
“Have they been good?” asked she of Madame Boche. “I hope they haven’t
worried you too much.”
And as the latter related the things the little rascals had done during
the afternoon, and which would make one die with laughing, the mother
again took them up and pressed them to her breast, seized with an
overpowering outburst of maternal affection.
“It’s not very pleasant for Coupeau, all the same,” Madame Lorilleux
was saying to the other ladies, at the end of the room.
Gervaise had kept her smiling peacefulness from the morning, but after
the long walk she appeared almost sad at times as she watched her
husband and the Lorilleuxs in a thoughtful way. She had the feeling
that Coupeau was a little afraid of his sister. The evening before, he
had been talking big, swearing he would put them in their places if
they didn’t behave. However, she could see that in their presence he
was hanging on their words, worrying when he thought they might be
displeased. This gave the young bride some cause for worry about the
future.
They were now only waiting for My-Boots, who had not yet put in an
appearance.
“Oh! blow him!” cried Coupeau, “let’s begin. You’ll see, he’ll soon
turn up, he’s got a hollow nose, he can scent the grub from afar. I say
he must be amusing himself, if he’s still standing like a post on the
Route de Saint-Denis!”
Then the wedding party, feeling very lively, sat down making a great
noise with the chairs. Gervaise was between Lorilleux and Monsieur
Madinier, and Coupeau between Madame Fauconnier and Madame Lorilleux.
The other guests seated themselves where they liked, because it always
ended with jealousies and quarrels, when one settled their places for
them. Boche glided to a seat beside Madame Lerat. Bibi-the-Smoker had
for neighbors Mademoiselle Remanjou and Madame Gaudron. As for Madame
Boche and mother Coupeau, they were right at the end of the table,
looking after the children, cutting up their meat and giving them
something to drink, but not much wine.
“Does nobody say grace?” asked Boche, whilst the ladies arranged their
skirts under the table-cloth, so as not to get them stained.
But Madame Lorilleux paid no attention to such pleasantries. The
vermicelli soup, which was nearly cold, was gulped down very quickly,
their lips making a hissing noise against the spoons. Two waiters
served at table, dressed in little greasy jackets and not over-clean
white aprons. By the four open windows overlooking the acacias of the
courtyard there entered the clear light of the close of a stormy day,
with the atmosphere purified thereby though without sufficiently
cooling it. The light reflected from the humid corner of trees tinged
the haze-filled room with green and made leaf shadows dance along the
table-cloth, from which came a vague aroma of dampness and mildew.
Two large mirrors, one at each end of the room, seemed to stretch out
the table. The heavy crockery with which it was set was beginning to
turn yellow and the cutlery was scratched and grimed with grease. Each
time a waiter came through the swinging doors from the kitchen a whiff
of odorous burnt lard came with him.
“Don’t all talk at once,” said Boche, as everyone remained silent with
his nose in his plate.
They were drinking the first glass of wine as their eyes followed two
meat pies which the waiters were handing round when My-Boots entered
the room.
“Well, you’re a scurvy lot, you people!” said he. “I’ve been wearing my
pins out for three hours waiting on that road, and a gendarme even came
and asked me for my papers. It isn’t right to play such dirty tricks on
a friend! You might at least have sent me word by a commissionaire. Ah!
no, you know, joking apart, it’s too bad. And with all that, it rained
so hard that I got my pickets full of water. Honor bright, you might
still catch enough fish in ’em for a meal.”
The others wriggled with laughter. That animal My-Boots was just a bit
on; he had certainly already stowed away his two quarts of wine, merely
to prevent his being bothered by all that frog’s liquor with which the
storm had deluged his limbs.
“Hallo! Count Leg-of-Mutton!” said Coupeau, “just go and sit yourself
there, beside Madame Gaudron. You see you were expected.”
Oh, he did not mind, he would soon catch the others up; and he asked
for three helpings of soup, platefuls of vermicelli, in which he soaked
enormous slices of bread. Then, when they had attacked the meat pies,
he became the profound admiration of everyone at the table. How he
stowed it away! The bewildered waiters helped each other to pass him
bread, thin slices which he swallowed at a mouthful. He ended by losing
his temper; he insisted on having a loaf placed on the table beside
him. The landlord, very anxious, came for a moment and looked in at the
door. The party, which was expecting him, again wriggled with laughter.
It seemed to upset the caterer. What a rum card he was that My-Boots!
One day he had eaten a dozen hard-boiled eggs and drank a dozen glasses
of wine while the clock was striking twelve! There are not many who can
do that. And Mademoiselle Remanjou, deeply moved, watched My-Boots chew
whilst Monsieur Madinier, seeking for a word to express his almost
respectful astonishment, declared that such a capacity was
extraordinary.
There was a brief silence. A waiter had just placed on the table a
ragout of rabbits in a vast dish as deep as a salad-bowl. Coupeau, who
liked fun, started another joke.
“I say, waiter, that rabbit’s from the housetops. It still mews.”
And in fact, a faint mew perfectly imitated seemed to issue from the
dish. It was Coupeau who did that with his throat, without opening his
lips; a talent which at all parties, met with decided success, so much
so that he never ordered a dinner abroad without having a rabbit
ragout. After that he purred. The ladies pressed their napkins to their
mouths to try and stop their laughter. Madame Fauconnier asked for a
head, she only liked that part. Mademoiselle Remanjou had a weakness
for the slices of bacon. And as Boche said he preferred the little
onions when they were nicely broiled, Madame Lerat screwed up her lips,
and murmured:
“I can understand that.”
She was a dried up stick, living the cloistered life of a hard-working
woman imprisoned within her daily routine, who had never had a man
stick his nose into her room since the death of her husband; yet she
had an obsession with double meanings and indecent allusions that were
sometimes so far off the mark that only she understood them.
As Boche leaned toward her and, in a whisper, asked for an explanation,
she resumed:
“Little onions, why of course. That’s quite enough, I think.”
The general conversation was becoming grave. Each one was talking of
his trade. Monsieur Madinier raved about the cardboard business. There
were some real artists. For an example, he mentioned Christmas gift
boxes, of which he’d seen samples that were marvels of splendor.
Lorilleux sneered at this; he was extremely vain because of working
with gold, feeling that it gave a sort of sheen to his fingers and his
whole personality. “In olden times jewelers wore swords like
gentlemen.” He often cited the case of Bernard Palissy, even though he
really knew nothing about him.
Coupeau told of a masterpiece of a weather vane made by one of his
fellow workers which included a Greek column, a sheaf of wheat, a
basket of fruit, and a flag, all beautifully worked out of nothing but
strips of zinc shaped and soldered together.
Madame Lerat showed Bibi-the-Smoker how to make a rose by rolling the
handle of her knife between her bony fingers.
All the while, their voices had been rising louder and louder,
competing for attention. Shrill comments by Madame Fauconnier were
heard. She complained about the girls who worked for her, especially a
little apprentice who was nothing but a tart and had badly scorched
some sheets the evening before.
“You may talk,” Lorilleux cried, banging his fist down on the table,
“but gold is gold.”
And, in the midst of the silence caused by the statement of this fact,
the only sound heard was Mademoiselle Remanjou’s shrill voice
continuing:
“Then I turn up the skirt and stitch it inside. I stick a pin in the
head to keep the cap on, and that’s all; and they are sold for thirteen
sous a piece.”
She was explaining how she dressed her dolls to My-Boots, whose jaws
were working slowly like grindstones. He did not listen, though he kept
nodding his head, but looked after the waiters to prevent them removing
any of the dishes he had not cleaned out. They had now finished a veal
stew with green beans. The roast was brought in, two scrawny chickens
resting on a bed of water cress which was limp from the warming oven.
Outside, only the higher branches of the acacias were touched by the
setting sun. Inside, the greenish reflected light was thickened by
wisps of steam rising from the table, now messy with spilled wine and
gravy and the debris of the dinner. Along the wall were dirty dishes
and empty bottles which the waiters had piled there like a heap of
refuse. It was so hot that the men took off their jackets and continued
eating in their shirt sleeves.
“Madame Boche, please don’t spread their butter so thick,” said
Gervaise, who spoke but little, and who was watching Claude and Etienne
from a distance.
She got up from her seat, and went and talked for a minute while
standing behind the little ones’ chairs. Children did not reason; they
would eat all day long without refusing a single thing; and then she
herself helped them to some chicken, a little of the breast. But mother
Coupeau said they might, just for once in a while, risk an attack of
indigestion. Madame Boche, in a low voice accused Boche of caressing
Madame Lerat’s knees. Oh, he was a sly one, but he was getting a little
too gay. She had certainly seen his hand disappear. If he did it again,
drat him! she wouldn’t hesitate throwing a pitcher of water over his
head.
In the partial silence, Monsieur Madinier was talking politics. “Their
law of May 31, is an abominable one. Now you must reside in a place for
two years. Three millions of citizens are struck off the voting lists.
I’ve been told that Bonaparte is, in reality, very much annoyed for he
loves the people; he has given them proofs.”
He was a republican; but he admired the prince on account of his uncle,
a man the like of whom would never be seen again. Bibi-the-Smoker flew
into a passion. He had worked at the Elysee; he had seen Bonaparte just
as he saw My-Boots in front of him over there. Well that muff of a
president was just like a jackass, that was all! It was said that he
was going to travel about in the direction of Lyons; it would be a
precious good riddance of bad rubbish if he fell into some hole and
broke his neck. But, as the discussion was becoming too heated, Coupeau
had to interfere.
“Ah, well! How simple you all are to quarrel about politics. Politics
are all humbug! Do such things exist for us? Let there be any one as
king, it won’t prevent me earning my five francs a day, and eating and
sleeping; isn’t that so? No, it’s too stupid to argue about!”
Lorilleux shook his head. He was born on the same day as the Count of
Chambord, the 29th of September, 1820. He was greatly struck with this
coincidence, indulging himself in a vague dream, in which he
established a connection between the king’s return to France and his
own private fortunes. He never said exactly what he was expecting, but
he led people to suppose that when that time arrived something
extraordinarily agreeable would happen to him. So whenever he had a
wish too great to be gratified, he would put it off to another time,
when the king came back.
“Besides,” observed he, “I saw the Count de Chambord one evening.”
Every face was turned towards him.
“It’s quite true. A stout man, in an overcoat, and with a good-natured
air. I was at Pequignot’s, one of my friends who deals in furniture in
the Grand Rue de la Chapelle. The Count of Chambord had forgotten his
umbrella there the day before; so he came in, and just simply said,
like this: ‘Will you please return me my umbrella?’ Well, yes, it was
him; Pequignot gave me his word of honor it was.”
Not one of the guests suggested the smallest doubt. They had now
arrived at dessert and the waiters were clearing the table with much
clattering of dishes. Madame Lorilleux, who up to then had been very
genteel, very much the lady, suddenly let fly with a curse. One of the
waiters had spilled something wet down her neck while removing a dish.
This time her silk dress would be stained for sure. Monsieur Madinier
had to examine her back, but he swore there was nothing to be seen.
Two platters of cheese, two dishes of fruit, and a floating island
pudding of frosted eggs in a deep salad-bowl had now been placed along
the middle of the table. The pudding caused a moment of respectful
attention even though the overdone egg whites had flattened on the
yellow custard. It was unexpected and seemed very fancy.
My-Boots was still eating. He had asked for another loaf. He finished
what there was of the cheese; and, as there was some cream left, he had
the salad-bowl passed to him, into which he sliced some large pieces of
bread as though for a soup.
“The gentleman is really remarkable,” said Monsieur Madinier, again
giving way to his admiration.
Then the men rose to get their pipes. They stood for a moment behind
My-Boots, patting him on the back, and asking him if he was feeling
better. Bibi-the-Smoker lifted him up in his chair; but _tonnerre de
Dieu!_ the animal had doubled in weight. Coupeau joked that My-Boots
was only getting started, that now he was going to settle down and
really eat for the rest of the night. The waiters were startled and
quickly vanished from sight.
Boche, who had gone downstairs for a moment, came up to report the
proprietor’s reaction. He was standing behind his bar, pale as death.
His wife, dreadfully upset, was wondering if any bakeries were still
open. Even the cat seemed deep in despair. This was as funny as could
be, really worth the price of the dinner. It was impossible to have a
proper dinner party without My-Boots, the bottomless pit. The other men
eyed him with a brooding jealousy as they puffed on their pipes.
Indeed, to be able to eat so much, you had to be very solidly built!
“I wouldn’t care to be obliged to support you,” said Madame Gaudron.
“Ah, no; you may take my word for that!”
“I say, little mother, no jokes,” replied My-Boots, casting a side
glance at his neighbor’s rotund figure. “You’ve swallowed more than I
have.”
The others applauded, shouting “Bravo!”—it was well answered. It was
now pitch dark outside, three gas-jets were flaring in the room,
diffusing dim rays in the midst of the tobacco-smoke. The waiters,
after serving the coffee and the brandy, had removed the last piles of
dirty plates. Down below, beneath the three acacias, dancing had
commenced, a cornet-a-piston and two fiddles playing very loud, and
mingling in the warm night air with the rather hoarse laughter of
women.
“We must have a punch!” cried My-Boots; “two quarts of brandy, lots of
lemon, and a little sugar.”
But Coupeau, seeing the anxious look on Gervaise’s face in front of
him, got up from the table, declaring that there should be no more
drink. They had emptied twenty-five quarts, a quart and a half to each
person, counting the children as grown-up people; that was already too
much. They had had a feed together in good fellowship, and without
ceremony, because they esteemed each other, and wished to celebrate the
event of the day amongst themselves. Everything had been very nice;
they had had lots of fun. It wouldn’t do to get cockeyed drunk now, out
of respect to the ladies. That was all he had to say, they had come
together to toast a marriage and they had done so.
Coupeau delivered the little speech with convincing sincerity and
punctuated each phrase by placing his hand on his heart. He won
whole-hearted approval from Lorilleux and Monsieur Madinier; but the
other four men, especially My-Boots, were already well lit and sneered.
They declared in hoarse drunken voices that they were thirsty and
wanted drinks.
“Those who’re thirsty are thirsty, and those who aren’t thirsty aren’t
thirsty,” remarked My-Boots. “Therefore, we’ll order the punch. No one
need take offence. The aristocrats can drink sugar-and-water.”
And as the zinc-worker commenced another sermon, the other, who had
risen on his legs, gave himself a slap, exclaiming:
“Come, let’s have no more of that, my boy! Waiter, two quarts of your
aged stuff!”
So Coupeau said very well, only they would settle for the dinner at
once. It would prevent any disputes. The well-behaved people did not
want to pay for the drunkards; and it just happened that My-Boots,
after searching in his pockets for a long time, could only produce
three francs and seven sous. Well, why had they made him wait all that
time on the Route de Saint-Denis? He could not let himself be drowned
and so he had broken into his five-franc piece. It was the fault of the
others, that was all! He ended by giving the three francs, keeping the
seven sous for the morrow’s tobacco. Coupeau, who was furious, would
have knocked him over had not Gervaise, greatly frightened, pulled him
by his coat, and begged him to keep cool. He decided to borrow the two
francs of Lorilleux, who after refusing them, lent them on the sly, for
his wife would never have consented to his doing so.
Monsieur Madinier went round with a plate. The spinster and the ladies
who were alone—Madame Lerat, Madame Fauconnier, Mademoiselle
Remanjou—discreetly placed their five-franc pieces in it first. Then
the gentlemen went to the other end of the room, and made up the
accounts. They were fifteen; it amounted therefore to seventy-five
francs. When the seventy-five francs were in the plate, each man added
five sous for the waiters. It took a quarter of an hour of laborious
calculations before everything was settled to the general satisfaction.
But when Monsieur Madinier, who wished to deal direct with the
landlord, had got him to step up, the whole party became lost in
astonishment on hearing him say with a smile that there was still
something due to him. There were some extras; and, as the word “extras”
was greeted with angry exclamations, he entered into
details:—Twenty-five quarts of wine, instead of twenty, the number
agreed upon beforehand; the frosted eggs, which he had added, as the
dessert was rather scanty; finally, a quarter of a bottle of rum,
served with the coffee, in case any one preferred rum. Then a
formidable quarrel ensued. Coupeau, who was appealed to, protested
against everything; he had never mentioned twenty quarts; as for the
frosted eggs, they were included in the dessert, so much the worse for
the landlord if he choose to add them without being asked to do so.
There remained the rum, a mere nothing, just a mode of increasing the
bill by putting on the table spirits that no one thought anything
about.
“It was on the tray with the coffee,” he cried; “therefore it goes with
the coffee. Go to the deuce! Take your money, and never again will we
set foot in your den!”
“It’s six francs more,” repeated the landlord. “Pay me my six francs;
and with all that I haven’t counted the four loaves that gentleman
ate!”
The whole party, pressing forward, surrounded him with furious gestures
and a yelping of voices choking with rage. The women especially threw
aside all reserve, and refused to add another centime. This was some
wedding dinner! Mademoiselle Remanjou vowed she would never again
attend such a party. Madame Fauconnier declared she had had a very
disappointing meal; at home she could have had a finger-licking dish
for only two francs. Madame Gaudron bitterly complained that she had
been shoved down to the worst end of the table next to My-Boots who had
ignored her. These parties never turned out well, one should be more
careful whom one invites. Gervaise had taken refuge with mother Coupeau
near one of the windows, feeling shamed as she realized that all these
recriminations would fall back upon her.
Monsieur Madinier ended by going down with the landlord. One could hear
them arguing below. Then, when half an hour had gone by the cardboard
box manufacturer returned; he had settled the matter by giving three
francs. But the party continued annoyed and exasperated, constantly
returning to the question of the extras. And the uproar increased from
an act of vigor on Madame Boche’s part. She had kept an eye on Boche,
and at length detected him squeezing Madame Lerat round the waist in a
corner. Then, with all her strength, she flung a water pitcher, which
smashed against the wall.
“One can easily see that your husband’s a tailor, madame,” said the
tall widow, with a curl of the lip, full of a double meaning. “He’s a
petticoat specialist, even though I gave him some pretty hard kicks
under the table.”
The harmony of the evening was altogether upset. Everyone became more
and more ill-tempered. Monsieur Madinier suggested some singing, but
Bibi-the-Smoker, who had a fine voice, had disappeared some time
before; and Mademoiselle Remanjou, who was leaning out of the window,
caught sight of him under the acacias, swinging round a big girl who
was bare-headed. The cornet-a-piston and two fiddles were playing “_Le
Marchand de Moutarde_.” The party now began to break up. My-Boots and
the Gaudrons went down to the dance with Boche sneaking along after
them. The twirling couples could be seen from the windows. The night
was still as though exhausted from the heat of the day. A serious
conversation started between Lorilleux and Monsieur Madinier. The
ladies examined their dresses carefully to see if they had been
stained.
Madame Lerat’s fringe looked as though it had been dipped in the
coffee. Madame Fauconnier’s chintz dress was spotted with gravy. Mother
Coupeau’s green shawl, fallen from off a chair, was discovered in a
corner, rolled up and trodden upon. But it was Madame Lorilleux
especially who became more ill-tempered still. She had a stain on the
back of her dress; it was useless for the others to declare that she
had not—she felt it. And, by twisting herself about in front of a
looking-glass, she ended by catching a glimpse of it.
“What did I say?” cried she. “It’s gravy from the fowl. The waiter
shall pay for the dress. I will bring an action against him. Ah! this
is a fit ending to such a day. I should have done better to have stayed
in bed. To begin with, I’m off. I’ve had enough of their wretched
wedding!”
And she left the room in a rage, causing the staircase to shake beneath
her heavy footsteps. Lorilleux ran after her. But all she would consent
to was that she would wait five minutes on the pavement outside, if he
wanted them to go off together. She ought to have left directly after
the storm, as she wished to do. She would make Coupeau sorry for that
day. Coupeau was dismayed when he heard how angry she was. Gervaise
agreed to leave at once to avoid embarrassing him any more.
There was a flurry of quick good-night kisses. Monsieur Madinier was to
escort mother Coupeau home. Madame Boche would take Claude and Etienne
with her for the bridal night. The children were sound asleep on
chairs, stuffed full from the dinner. Just as the bridal couple and
Lorilleux were about to go out the door, a quarrel broke out near the
dance floor between their group and another group. Boche and My-Boots
were kissing a lady and wouldn’t give her up to her escorts, two
soldiers.
It was scarcely eleven o’clock. On the Boulevard de la Chapelle, and in
the entire neighborhood of the Goutte-d’Or, the fortnight’s pay, which
fell due on that Saturday, produced an enormous drunken uproar. Madame
Lorilleux was waiting beneath a gas-lamp about twenty paces from the
Silver Windmill. She took her husband’s arm, and walked on in front
without looking round, at such a rate, that Gervaise and Coupeau got
quite out of breath in trying to keep up with them. Now and again they
stepped off the pavement to leave room for some drunkard who had fallen
there. Lorilleux looked back, endeavoring to make things pleasant.
“We will see you as far as your door,” said he.
But Madame Lorilleux, raising her voice, thought it a funny thing to
spend one’s wedding night in such a filthy hole as the Hotel Boncoeur.
Ought they not to have put their marriage off, and have saved a few
sous to buy some furniture, so as to have had a home of their own on
the first night? Ah! they would be comfortable, right up under the
roof, packed into a little closet, at ten francs a month, where there
was not even the slightest air.
“I’ve given notice, we’re not going to use the room up at the top of
the house,” timidly interposed Coupeau. “We are keeping Gervaise’s
room, which is larger.”
Madame Lorilleux forgot herself. She turned abruptly round.
“That’s worse than all!” cried she. “You’re going to sleep in
Clump-clump’s room.”
Gervaise became quite pale. This nickname, which she received full in
the face for the first time, fell on her like a blow. And she fully
understood it, too, her sister-in-law’s exclamation: the Clump-clump’s
room was the room in which she had lived for a month with Lantier,
where the shreds of her past life still hung about. Coupeau did not
understand this, but merely felt hurt at the harsh nickname.
“You do wrong to christen others,” he replied angrily. “You don’t know
perhaps, that in the neighborhood they call you Cow’s-Tail, because of
your hair. There, that doesn’t please you, does it? Why should we not
keep the room on the first floor? To-night the children won’t sleep
there, and we shall be very comfortable.”
Madame Lorilleux added nothing further, but retired into her dignity,
horribly annoyed at being called Cow’s-Tail. To cheer up Gervaise,
Coupeau squeezed her arm softly. He even succeeded in making her smile
by whispering into her ear that they were setting up housekeeping with
the grand sum of seven sous, three big two-sou pieces and one little
sou, which he jingled in his pocket.
When they reached the Hotel Boncoeur, the two couples wished each other
good-night, with an angry air; and as Coupeau pushed the two women into
each other’s arms, calling them a couple of ninnies, a drunken fellow,
who seemed to want to go to the right, suddenly slipped to the left and
came tumbling between them.
“Why, it’s old Bazouge!” said Lorilleux. “He’s had his fill to-day.”
Gervaise, frightened, squeezed up against the door of the hotel. Old
Bazouge, an undertaker’s helper of some fifty years of age, had his
black trousers all stained with mud, his black cape hooked on to his
shoulder, and his black feather hat knocked in by some tumble he had
taken.
“Don’t be afraid, he’s harmless,” continued Lorilleux. “He’s a neighbor
of ours—the third room in the passage before us. He would find himself
in a nice mess if his people were to see him like this!”
Old Bazouge, however, felt offended at the young woman’s evident
terror.
“Well, what!” hiccoughed he, “we ain’t going to eat any one. I’m as
good as another any day, my little woman. No doubt I’ve had a drop!
When work’s plentiful one must grease the wheels. It’s not you, nor
your friends, who would have carried down the stiff ’un of forty-seven
stone whom I and a pal brought from the fourth floor to the pavement,
and without smashing him too. I like jolly people.”
But Gervaise retreated further into the doorway, seized with a longing
to cry, which spoilt her day of sober-minded joy. She no longer thought
of kissing her sister-in-law, she implored Coupeau to get rid of the
drunkard. Then Bazouge, as he stumbled about, made a gesture of
philosophical disdain.
“That won’t prevent you passing though our hands, my little woman.
You’ll perhaps be glad to do so, one of these days. Yes, I know some
women who’d be much obliged if we did carry them off.”
And, as Lorilleux led him away, he turned around, and stuttered out a
last sentence, between two hiccoughs.
“When you’re dead—listen to this—when you’re dead, it’s for a long,
long time.”