Then followed four years of hard work. In the neighborhood, Gervaise
and Coupeau had the reputation of being a happy couple, living in
retirement without quarrels, and taking a short walk regularly every
Sunday in the direction of St. Ouen. The wife worked twelve hours a day
at Madame Fauconnier’s, and still found means to keep their lodging as
clean and bright as a new coined sou and to prepare the meals for all
her little family, morning and evening. The husband never got drunk,
brought his wages home every fortnight, and smoked a pipe at his window
in the evening, to get a breath of fresh air before going to bed. They
were frequently alluded to on account of their nice, pleasant ways; and
as between them they earned close upon nine francs a day, it was
reckoned that they were able to put by a good deal of money.
However, during their first months together they had to struggle hard
to get by. Their wedding had left them owing two hundred francs. Also,
they detested the Hotel Boncoeur as they didn’t like the other
occupants. Their dream was to have a home of their own with their own
furniture. They were always figuring how much they would need and
decided three hundred and fifty francs at least, in order to be able to
buy little items that came up later.
They were in despair at ever being able to collect such a large sum
when a lucky chance came their way. An old gentleman at Plassans
offered to take the older boy, Claude, and send him to an academy down
there. The old man, who loved art, had previously been much impressed
by Claude’s sketches. Claude had already begun to cost them quite a
bit. Now, with only Etienne to support, they were able to accumulate
the money in a little over seven months. One day they were finally able
to buy their own furniture from a second-hand dealer on Rue Belhomme.
Their hearts filled with happiness, they celebrated by walking home
along the exterior Boulevards.
They had purchased a bed, a night table, a chest of drawers with a
marble top, a wardrobe, a round table covered with oilcloth, and six
chairs. All were of dark mahogany. They also bought blankets, linen,
and kitchen utensils that were scarcely used. It meant settling down
and giving themselves a status in life as property owners, as persons
to be respected.
For two months past they had been busy seeking some new apartments. At
first they wanted above everything to hire these in the big house of
the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or. But there was not a single room to let
there; so that they had to relinquish their old dream. To tell the
truth, Gervaise was rather glad in her heart; the neighborhood of the
Lorilleux almost door to door, frightened her immensely. Then, they
looked about elsewhere. Coupeau, very properly did not wish to be far
from Madame Fauconnier’s so that Gervaise could easily run home at any
hour of the day. And at length they met with exactly what suited them,
a large room with a small closet and a kitchen, in the Rue Neuve de la
Goutte-d’Or, almost opposite the laundress’s. This was in a small
two-story building with a very steep staircase. There were two
apartments on the second floor, one to the left, the other to the
right, The ground floor was occupied by a man who rented out carriages,
which filled the sheds in the large stable yard by the street.
Gervaise was delighted with this as it made her feel she was back in a
country town. With no close neighbors there would be no gossip to worry
about in this little corner. It reminded her of a small lane outside
the ramparts of Plassans. She could even see her own window while
ironing at the laundry by just tilting her head to the side.
They took possession of their new abode at the April quarter. Gervaise
was then eight months advanced. But she showed great courage, saying
with a laugh that the baby helped her as she worked; she felt its
influence growing within her and giving her strength. Ah, well! She
just laughed at Coupeau whenever he wanted her to lie down and rest
herself! She would take to her bed when the labor pains came. That
would be quite soon enough as with another mouth to feed, they would
have to work harder than ever.
She made their new place bright and shiny before helping her husband
install the furniture. She loved the furniture, polishing it and
becoming almost heart-broken at the slightest scratch. Any time she
knocked into the furniture while cleaning she would stop with a sudden
shock as though she had hurt herself.
The chest of drawers was especially dear to her. She thought it
handsome, sturdy and most respectable-looking. The dream that she
hadn’t dared to mention was to get a clock and put it right in the
middle of the marble top. It would make a splendid effect. She probably
would have bought one right away except for the expected baby.
The couple were thoroughly enchanted with their new home. Etienne’s bed
occupied the small closet, where there was still room to put another
child’s crib. The kitchen was a very tiny affair and as dark as night,
but by leaving the door wide open, one could just manage to see;
besides, Gervaise had not to cook meals for thirty people, all she
wanted was room to make her soup. As for the large room, it was their
pride. The first thing in the morning, they drew the curtains of the
alcove, white calico curtains; and the room was thus transformed into a
dining-room, with the table in the centre, and the wardrobe and chest
of drawers facing each other.
They stopped up the chimney since it burned as much as fifteen sous of
coal a day. A small cast-iron stove on the marble hearth gave them
enough warmth on cold days for only seven sous. Coupeau had also done
his best to decorate the walls. There was a large engraving showing a
marshal of France on horseback with a baton in his hand. Family
photographs were arranged in two rows on top of the chest of drawers on
each side of an old holy-water basin in which they kept matches. Busts
of Pascal and Beranger were on top of the wardrobe. It was really a
handsome room.
“Guess how much we pay here?” Gervaise would ask of every visitor she
had.
And whenever they guessed too high a sum, she triumphed and delighted
at being so well suited for such a little money, cried:
“One hundred and fifty francs, not a sou more! Isn’t it almost like
having it for nothing!”
The street, Rue Neuve de la Goutte d’Or, played an important part in
their contentment. Gervaise’s whole life was there, as she traveled
back and forth endlessly between her home and Madame Fauconnier’s
laundry. Coupeau now went down every evening and stood on the doorstep
to smoke his pipe. The poorly-paved street rose steeply and had no
sidewalks. Toward Rue de la Goutte d’Or there were some gloomy shops
with dirty windows. There were shoemakers, coopers, a run-down grocery,
and a bankrupt cafe whose closed shutters were covered with posters. In
the opposite direction, toward Paris, four-story buildings blocked the
sky. Their ground floor shops were all occupied by laundries with one
exception—a green-painted store front typical of a small-town
hair-dresser. Its shop windows were full of variously colored flasks.
It lighted up this drab corner with the gay brightness of its copper
bowls which were always shining.
The most pleasant part of the street was in between, where the
buildings were fewer and lower, letting in more sunlight. The carriage
sheds, the plant which manufactured soda water, and the wash-house
opposite made a wide expanse of quietness. The muffled voices of the
washerwomen and the rhythmic puffing of the steam engine seemed to
deepen the almost religious silence. Open fields and narrow lanes
vanishing between dark walls gave it the air of a country village.
Coupeau, always amused by the infrequent pedestrians having to jump
over the continuous streams of soapy water, said it reminded him of a
country town where his uncle had taken him when he was five years old.
Gervaise’s greatest joy was a tree growing in the courtyard to the left
of their window, an acacia that stretched out a single branch and yet,
with its meager foliage, lent charm to the entire street.
It was on the last day of April that Gervaise was confined. The pains
came on in the afternoon, towards four o’clock, as she was ironing a
pair of curtains at Madame Fauconnier’s. She would not go home at once,
but remained there wriggling about on a chair, and continuing her
ironing every time the pain allowed her to do so; the curtains were
wanted quickly and she obstinately made a point of finishing them.
Besides, perhaps after all it was only a colic; it would never do to be
frightened by a bit of a stomach-ache. But as she was talking of
starting on some shirts, she became quite pale. She was obliged to
leave the work-shop, and cross the street doubled in two, holding on to
the walls. One of the workwomen offered to accompany her; she declined,
but begged her to go instead for the midwife, close by, in the Rue de
la Charbonniere. This was only a false alarm; there was no need to make
a fuss. She would be like that no doubt all through the night. It was
not going to prevent her getting Coupeau’s dinner ready as soon as she
was indoors; then she might perhaps lie down on the bed a little, but
without undressing. On the staircase she was seized with such a violent
pain, that she was obliged to sit down on one of the stairs; and she
pressed her two fists against her mouth to prevent herself from crying
out, for she would have been ashamed to have been found there by any
man, had one come up. The pain passed away; she was able to open her
door, feeling relieved, and thinking that she had decidedly been
mistaken. That evening she was going to make a stew with some neck
chops. All went well while she peeled the potatoes. The chops were
cooking in a saucepan when the pains returned. She mixed the gravy as
she stamped about in front of the stove, almost blinded with her tears.
If she was going to give birth, that was no reason why Coupeau should
be kept without his dinner. At length the stew began to simmer on a
fire covered with cinders. She went into the other room, and thought
she would have time to lay the cloth at one end of the table. But she
was obliged to put down the bottle of wine very quickly; she no longer
had strength to reach the bed; she fell prostrate, and she had more
pains on a mat on the floor. When the midwife arrived, a quarter of an
hour later, she found mother and baby lying there on the floor.
The zinc-worker was still employed at the hospital. Gervaise would not
have him disturbed. When he came home at seven o’clock, he found her in
bed, well covered up, looking very pale on the pillow, and the child
crying, swathed in a shawl at its mother’s feet.
“Ah, my poor wife!” said Coupeau, kissing Gervaise. “And I was joking
only an hour ago, whilst you were crying with pain! I say, you don’t
make much fuss about it—the time to sneeze and it’s all over.”
She smiled faintly; then she murmured: “It’s a girl.”
“Right!” the zinc-worker replied, joking so as to enliven her, “I
ordered a girl! Well, now I’ve got what I wanted! You do everything I
wish!” And, taking the child up in his arms, he continued: “Let’s have
a look at you, miss! You’ve got a very black little mug. It’ll get
whiter, never fear. You must be good, never run about the streets, and
grow up sensible like your papa and mamma.”
Gervaise looked at her daughter very seriously, with wide open eyes,
slowly overshadowed with sadness, for she would rather have had a boy.
Boys can talk care of themselves and don’t have to run such risks on
the streets of Paris as girls do. The midwife took the infant from
Coupeau. She forbade Gervaise to do any talking; it was bad enough
there was so much noise around her.
Then the zinc-worker said that he must tell the news to mother Coupeau
and the Lorilleuxs, but he was dying with hunger, he must first of all
have his dinner. It was a great worry to the invalid to see him have to
wait on himself, run to the kitchen for the stew, eat it out of a soup
plate, and not be able to find the bread. In spite of being told not to
do so, she bewailed her condition, and fidgeted about in her bed. It
was stupid of her not to have managed to set the cloth, the pains had
laid her on her back like a blow from a bludgeon. Her poor old man
would not think it kind of her to be nursing herself up there whilst he
was dining so badly. At least were the potatoes cooked enough? She no
longer remembered whether she had put salt in them.
“Keep quiet!” cried the midwife.
“Ah! if only you could stop her from wearing herself out!” said Coupeau
with his mouth full. “If you were not here, I’d bet she’d get up to cut
my bread. Keep on your back, you big goose! You mustn’t move about,
otherwise it’ll be a fortnight before you’ll be able to stand on your
legs. Your stew’s very good. Madame will eat some with me, won’t you,
Madame?”
The midwife declined; but she was willing to accept a glass of wine,
because it had upset her, said she to find the poor woman with the baby
on the mat. Coupeau at length went off to tell the news to his
relations. Half an hour later he returned with all of them, mother
Coupeau, the Lorilleuxs, and Madame Lerat, whom he had met at the
latter’s.
“I’ve brought you the whole gang!” cried Coupeau. “It can’t be helped!
They wanted to see you. Don’t open your mouth, it’s forbidden. They’ll
stop here and look at you without ceremony, you know. As for me, I’m
going to make them some coffee, and of the right sort!”
He disappeared into the kitchen. Mother Coupeau after kissing Gervaise,
became amazed at the child’s size. The two other women also kissed the
invalid on her cheeks. And all three, standing before the bed,
commented with divers exclamations on the details of the confinement—a
most remarkable confinement, just like having a tooth pulled, nothing
more.
Madame Lerat examined the baby all over, declared she was well formed,
even added that she could grow up into an attractive woman. Noticing
that the head had been squeezed into a point on top, she kneaded it
gently despite the infant’s cries, trying to round it a bit. Madame
Lorilleux grabbed the baby from her; that could be enough to give the
poor little thing all sorts of vicious tendencies, meddling with it
like that while her skull was still soft. She then tried to figure out
who the baby resembled. This almost led to a quarrel. Lorilleux,
peering over the women’s shoulders, insisted that the little girl
didn’t look the least bit like Coupeau. Well, maybe a little around the
nose, nothing more. She was her mother all over again, with big eyes
like hers. Certainly there were no eyes like that in the Coupeau
family.
Coupeau, however, had failed to reappear. One could hear him in the
kitchen struggling with the grate and the coffee-pot. Gervaise was
worrying herself frightfully; it was not the proper thing for a man to
make coffee; and she called and told him what to do, without listening
to the midwife’s energetic “hush!”
“Here we are!” said Coupeau, entering with the coffee-pot in his hand.
“Didn’t I just have a bother with it! It all went wrong on purpose! Now
we’ll drink out of glasses, won’t we? Because you know, the cups are
still at the shop.”
They seated themselves around the table, and the zinc-worker insisted
on pouring out the coffee himself. It smelt very strong, it was none of
that weak stuff. When the midwife had sipped hers up, she went off;
everything was going on nicely, she was not required. If the young
woman did not pass a good night they were to send for her on the
morrow. She was scarcely down the staircase, when Madame Lorilleux
called her a glutton and a good-for-nothing. She put four lumps of
sugar in her coffee, and charged fifteen francs for leaving you with
your baby all by yourself. But Coupeau took her part; he would
willingly fork out the fifteen francs. After all those sort of women
spent their youth in studying, they were right to charge a good price.
It was then Lorilleux who got into a quarrel with Madame Lerat by
maintaining that, in order to have a son, the head of the bed should be
turned to the north. She shrugged her shoulders at such nonsense,
offering another formula which consisted in hiding under the mattress,
without letting your wife know, a handful of fresh nettles picked in
bright sunlight.
The table had been pushed over close to the bed. Until ten o’clock
Gervaise lay there, smiling although she was only half awake. She was
becoming more and more weary, her head turned sideways on the pillow.
She no longer had the energy to venture a remark or a gesture. It
seemed to her that she was dead, a very sweet death, from the depths of
which she was happy to observe the others still in the land of the
living. The thin cries of her baby daughter rose above the hum of heavy
voices that were discussing a recent murder on Rue du Bon Puits, at the
other end of La Chapelle.
Then, as the visitors were thinking of leaving, they spoke of the
christening. The Lorilleux had promised to be godfather and godmother;
they looked very glum over the matter. However, if they had not been
asked to stand they would have felt rather peculiar. Coupeau did not
see any need for christening the little one; it certainly would not
procure her an income of ten thousand francs, and besides she might
catch a cold from it. The less one had to do with priests the better.
But mother Coupeau called him a heathen. The Lorilleux, without going
and eating consecrated bread in church, plumed themselves on their
religious sentiments.
“It shall be next Sunday, if you like,” said the chainmaker.
And Gervaise having consented by a nod, everyone kissed her and told
her to take good care of herself. They also wished the baby good-bye.
Each one went and leant over the little trembling body with smiles and
loving words as though she were able to understand. They called her
Nana, the pet name for Anna, which was her godmother’s name.
“Good night, Nana. Come be a good girl, Nana.”
When they had at length gone off, Coupeau drew his chair close up to
the bed and finished his pipe, holding Gervaise’s hand in his. He
smoked slowly, deeply affected and uttering sentences between the
puffs.
“Well, old woman, they’ve made your head ache, haven’t they? You see I
couldn’t prevent them coming. After all, it shows their friendship. But
we’re better alone, aren’t we? I wanted to be alone like this with you.
It has seemed such a long evening to me! Poor little thing, she’s had a
lot to go through! Those shrimps, when they come out into the world,
have no idea of the pain they cause. It must really almost be like
being split in two. Where does it hurt the most, that I may kiss it and
make it well?”
He had carefully slid one of his big hands under her back, and now he
drew her toward him, bending over to kiss her stomach through the
covers, touched by a rough man’s compassion for the suffering of a
woman in childbirth. He inquired if he was hurting her. Gervaise felt
very happy, and answered him that it didn’t hurt any more at all. She
was only worried about getting up as soon as possible, because there
was no time to lie about now. He assured her that he’d be responsible
for earning the money for the new little one. He would be a real bum if
he abandoned her and the little rascal. The way he figured it, what
really counted was bringing her up properly. Wasn’t that so?
Coupeau did not sleep much that night. He covered up the fire in the
stove. Every hour he had to get up to give the baby spoonfuls of
lukewarm sugar and water. That did not prevent his going off to his
work in the morning as usual. He even took advantage of his lunch-hour
to make a declaration of the birth at the mayor’s. During this time
Madame Boche, who had been informed of the event, had hastened to go
and pass the day with Gervaise. But the latter, after ten hours of
sleep, bewailed her position, saying that she already felt pains all
over her through having been so long in bed. She would become quite ill
if they did not let her get up. In the evening, when Coupeau returned
home, she told him all her worries; no doubt she had confidence in
Madame Boche, only it put her beside herself to see a stranger
installed in her room, opening the drawers, and touching her things.
On the morrow the concierge, on returning from some errand, found her
up, dressed, sweeping and getting her husband’s dinner ready; and it
was impossible to persuade her to go to bed again. They were trying to
make a fool of her perhaps! It was all very well for ladies to pretend
to be unable to move. When one was not rich one had no time for that
sort of thing. Three days after her confinement she was ironing
petticoats at Madame Fauconnier’s, banging her irons and all in a
perspiration from the great heat of the stove.
On the Saturday evening, Madame Lorilleux brought her presents for her
godchild—a cup that cost thirty-five sous, and a christening dress,
plaited and trimmed with some cheap lace, which she had got for six
francs, because it was slightly soiled. On the morrow, Lorilleux, as
godfather, gave the mother six pounds of sugar. They certainly did
things properly! At the baptism supper which took place at the Coupeaus
that evening, they did not come empty-handed. Lorilleux carried a
bottle of fine wine under each arm and his wife brought a large custard
pie from a famous pastry shop on Chaussee Clignancourt. But the
Lorilleuxs made sure that the entire neighborhood knew they had spent
twenty francs. As soon as Gervaise learned of their gossiping, furious,
she stopped giving them credit for generosity.
It was at the christening feast that the Coupeaus ended by becoming
intimately acquainted with their neighbors on the opposite side of the
landing. The other lodging in the little house was occupied by two
persons, mother and son, the Goujets as they were called. Until then
the two families had merely nodded to each other on the stairs and in
the street, nothing more; the Coupeaus thought their neighbors seemed
rather bearish. Then the mother, having carried up a pail of water for
Gervaise on the morrow of her confinement, the latter had thought it
the proper thing to invite them to the feast, more especially as she
considered them very respectable people. And naturally, they there
became well acquainted with each other.
The Goujets came from the Departement du Nord. The mother mended lace;
the son, a blacksmith, worked at an iron bolt factory. They had lived
in their lodging for five years. Behind the quiet peacefulness of their
life, a long standing sorrow was hidden. Goujet the father, one day
when furiously drunk at Lille, had beaten a comrade to death with an
iron bar and had afterwards strangled himself in prison with his
handkerchief. The widow and child, who had come to Paris after their
misfortune, always felt the tragedy hanging over their heads, and
atoned for it by a strict honesty and an unvarying gentleness and
courage. They had a certain amount of pride in their attitude and
regarded themselves as better than other people.
Madame Goujet, dressed in black as usual, her forehead framed in a
nun’s hood, had a pale, calm, matronly face, as if the whiteness of the
lace and the delicate work of her fingers had cast a glow of serenity
over her. Goujet was twenty-three years old, huge, magnificently built,
with deep blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and the strength of Hercules. His
comrades at the shop called him “Golden Mouth” because of his handsome
blonde beard.
Gervaise at once felt a great friendship for these people. When she
entered their home for the first time, she was amazed at the
cleanliness of the lodging. There was no denying it, one might blow
about the place without raising a grain of dust; and the tiled floor
shone like a mirror. Madame Goujet made her enter her son’s room, just
to see it. It was pretty and white like the room of a young girl; an
iron bedstead with muslin curtains, a table, a washstand, and a narrow
bookcase hanging against the wall. Then there were pictures all over
the place, figures cut out, colored engravings nailed up with four
tacks, and portraits of all kinds of persons taken from the illustrated
papers.
Madame Goujet said with a smile that her son was a big baby. He found
that reading in the evening put him to sleep, so he amused himself
looking at pictures. Gervaise spent an hour with her neighbor without
noticing the passing of time. Madame Goujet had gone to sit by the
window and work on her lace. Gervaise was fascinated by the hundreds of
pins that held the lace, and she felt happy to be there, breathing in
the good clean atmosphere of this home where such a delicate task
enforced a sort of meditative silence.
The Goujets were worth visiting. They worked long hours, and placed
more than a quarter of their fortnight’s earnings in the savings-bank.
In the neighborhood everyone nodded to them, everyone talked of their
savings. Goujet never had a hole in his clothes, always went out in a
clean short blue blouse, without a stain. He was very polite, and even
a trifle timid, in spite of his broad shoulders. The washerwomen at the
end of the street laughed to see him hold down his head when he passed
them. He did not like their oaths, and thought it disgusting that women
should be constantly uttering foul words. One day, however, he came
home tipsy. Then Madame Goujet, for sole reproach, held his father’s
portrait before him, a daub of a painting hidden away at the bottom of
a drawer; and, ever since that lesson, Goujet never drank more than was
good for him, without however, any hatred of wine, for wine is
necessary to the workman. On Sundays he walked out with his mother, who
took hold of his arm. He would generally conduct her to Vincennes; at
other times they would go to the theatre. His mother remained his
passion. He still spoke to her as though he were a little child.
Square-headed, his skin toughened by the wielding of the heavy hammer,
he somewhat resembled the larger animals: dull of intellect, though
good-natured all the same.
In the early days of their acquaintance, Gervaise embarrassed him
immensely. Then in a few weeks he became accustomed to her. He watched
for her that he might carry up her parcels, treated her as a sister,
with an abrupt familiarity, and cut out pictures for her. One morning,
however, having opened her door without knocking, he beheld her half
undressed, washing her neck; and, for a week, he did not dare to look
her in the face, so much so that he ended by making her blush herself.
Young Cassis, with the casual wit of a born Parisian, called Golden
Mouth a dolt. It was all right not to get drunk all the time or chase
women, but still, a man must be a man, or else he might as well wear
skirts. Coupeau teased him in front of Gervaise, accusing him of making
up to all the women in the neighborhood. Goujet vigorously defended
himself against the charge.
But this didn’t prevent the two workingmen from becoming best of
friends. They went off to work together in the mornings and sometimes
had a glass of beer together on the way home.
It eventually came about that Golden Mouth could render a service to
Young Cassis, one of those favors that is remembered forever.
It was the second of December. The zinc-worker decided, just for the
fun of it, to go into the city and watch the rioting. He didn’t really
care about the Republic, or Napoleon or anything like that, but he
liked the smell of gunpowder and the sound of the rifles firing. He
would have been arrested as a rioter if the blacksmith hadn’t turned up
at the barricade at just that moment and helped him escape. Goujet was
very serious as they walked back up the Rue du Faubourg Poissonniere.
He was interested in politics and believed in the Republic. But he had
never fired a gun because the common people were getting tired of
fighting battles for the middle classes who always seemed to get the
benefit of them.
As they reached the top of the slope of the Rue du Faubourg
Poissonniere, Goujet turned to look back at Paris and the mobs. After
all, some day people would be sorry that they just stood by and did
nothing. Coupeau laughed at this, saying you would be pretty stupid to
risk your neck just to preserve the twenty-five francs a day for the
lazybones in the Legislative Assembly. That evening the Coupeaus
invited the Goujets to dinner. After desert Young Cassis and Golden
Mouth kissed each other on the cheek. Their lives were joined till
death.
For three years the existence of the two families went on, on either
side of the landing, without an event. Gervaise was able to take care
of her daughter and still work most of the week. She was now a skilled
worker on fine laundry and earned up to three francs a day. She decided
to put Etienne, now nearly eight, into a small boarding-school on Rue
de Chartres for five francs a week. Despite the expenses for the two
children, they were able to save twenty or thirty francs each month.
Once they had six hundred francs saved, Gervaise often lay awake
thinking of her ambitious dream: she wanted to rent a small shop, hire
workers, and go into the laundry business herself. If this effort
worked, they would have a steady income from savings in twenty years.
They could retire and live in the country.
Yet she hesitated, saying she was looking for the right shop. She was
giving herself time to think it over. Their savings were safe in the
bank, and growing larger. So, in three years’ time she had only
fulfilled one of her dreams—she had bought a clock. But even this
clock, made of rosewood with twined columns and a pendulum of gilded
brass, was being paid for in installments of twenty-two sous each
Monday for a year. She got upset if Coupeau tried to wind it; she liked
to be the only one to lift off the glass dome. It was under the glass
dome, behind the clock, that she hid her bank book. Sometimes, when she
was dreaming of her shop, she would stare fixedly at the clock, lost in
thought.
The Coupeaus went out nearly every Sunday with the Goujets. They were
pleasant little excursions, sometimes to have some fried fish at
Saint-Ouen, at others a rabbit at Vincennes, in the garden of some
eating-house keeper without any grand display. The men drank sufficient
to quench their thirst, and returned home as right as nine-pins, giving
their arms to the ladies. In the evening before going to bed, the two
families made up accounts and each paid half the expenses; and there
was never the least quarrel about a sou more or less.
The Lorilleuxs became jealous of the Goujets. It seemed strange to them
to see Young Cassis and Clump-clump going places all the time with
strangers instead of their own relations. But, that’s the way it was;
some folks didn’t care a bit about their family. Now that they had
saved a few sous, they thought they were really somebody. Madame
Lorilleux was much annoyed to see her brother getting away from her
influence and begin to continually run down Gervaise to everyone. On
the other hand, Madame Lerat took the young wife’s side. Mother Coupeau
tried to get along with everybody. She only wanted to be welcomed by
all three of her children. Now that her eyesight was getting dimmer and
dimmer she only had one regular house cleaning job but she was able to
pick up some small jobs now and again.
On the day on which Nana was three years old, Coupeau, on returning
home in the evening, found Gervaise quite upset. She refused to talk
about it; there was nothing at all the matter with her, she said. But,
as she had the table all wrong, standing still with the plates in her
hands, absorbed in deep reflection, her husband insisted upon knowing
what was the matter.
“Well, it is this,” she ended by saying, “the little draper’s shop in
the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or, is to let. I saw it only an hour ago, when
going to buy some cotton. It gave me quite a turn.”
It was a very decent shop, and in that big house where they dreamed of
living in former days. There was the shop, a back room, and two other
rooms to the right and left; in short, just what they required. The
rooms were rather small, but well placed. Only, she considered they
wanted too much; the landlord talked of five hundred francs.
“So you’ve been over the place, and asked the price?” said Coupeau.
“Oh! you know, only out of curiosity!” replied she, affecting an air of
indifference. “One looks about, and goes in wherever there’s a bill
up—that doesn’t bind one to anything. But that shop is altogether too
dear. Besides, it would perhaps be foolish of me to set up in
business.”
However, after dinner, she again referred to the draper’s shop. She
drew a plan of the place on the margin of a newspaper. And, little by
little, she talked it over, measuring the corners, and arranging the
rooms, as though she were going to move all her furniture in there on
the morrow. Then Coupeau advised her to take it, seeing how she wanted
to do so; she would certainly never find anything decent under five
hundred francs; besides they might perhaps get a reduction. He knew
only one objection to it and that was living in the same house as the
Lorilleux, whom she could not bear.
Gervaise declared that she wasn’t mad at anybody. So much did she want
her own shop that she even spoke up for the Lorilleuxs, saying that
they weren’t mean at heart and that she would be able to get along just
fine with them. When they went to bed, Coupeau fell asleep immediately,
but she stayed awake, planning how she could arrange the new place even
though she hadn’t yet made up her mind completely.
On the morrow, when she was alone, she could not resist removing the
glass cover from the clock, and taking a peep at the savings-bank book.
To think that her shop was there, in those dirty pages, covered with
ugly writing! Before going off to her work, she consulted Madame
Goujet, who highly approved her project of setting up in business for
herself; with a husband like hers, a good fellow who did not drink, she
was certain of getting on, and of not having her earnings squandered.
At the luncheon hour Gervaise even called on the Lorilleuxs to ask
their advice; she did not wish to appear to be doing anything unknown
to the family. Madame Lorilleux was struck all of a heap. What!
Clump-clump was going in for a shop now! And her heart bursting with
envy, she stammered, and tried to pretend to be pleased: no doubt the
shop was a convenient one—Gervaise was right in taking it. However,
when she had somewhat recovered, she and her husband talked of the
dampness of the courtyard, of the poor light of the rooms on the ground
floor. Oh! it was a good place for rheumatism. Yet, if she had made up
her mind to take it, their observations, of course, would not make her
alter her decision.
That evening Gervaise frankly owned with a laugh that she would have
fallen ill if she had been prevented from having the shop.
Nevertheless, before saying “it’s done!” she wished to take Coupeau to
see the place, and try and obtain a reduction in the rent.
“Very well, then, to-morrow, if you like,” said her husband. “You can
come and fetch me towards six o’clock at the house where I’m working,
in the Rue de la Nation, and we’ll call in at the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or
on our way home.”
Coupeau was then finishing the roofing of a new three-storied house. It
so happened that on that day he was to fix the last sheets of zinc. As
the roof was almost flat, he had set up his bench on it, a wide shutter
supported on two trestles. A beautiful May sun was setting, giving a
golden hue to the chimney-pots. And, right up at the top, against the
clear sky, the workman was quietly cutting up his zinc with a big pair
of shears, leaning over the bench, and looking like a tailor in his
shop cutting out a pair of trousers. Close to the wall of the next
house, his boy, a youngster of seventeen, thin and fair, was keeping
the fire of the chafing dish blazing by the aid of an enormous pair of
bellows, each puff of which raised a cloud of sparks.
“Hi! Zidore, put in the irons!” cried Coupeau.
The boy stuck the soldering irons into the midst of the charcoal, which
looked a pale rose color in the daylight. Then he resumed blowing.
Coupeau held the last sheet of zinc. It had to be placed at the edge of
the roof, close to the gutter-pipe; there was an abrupt slant there,
and the gaping void of the street opened beneath. The zinc-worker, just
as though in his own home, wearing his list-shoes, advanced, dragging
his feet, and whistling the air, “Oh! the little lambs.” Arrived in
front of the opening, he let himself down, and then, supporting himself
with one knee against the masonry of a chimney-stack, remained half-way
out over the pavement below. One of his legs dangled. When he leant
back to call that young viper, Zidore, he held on to a corner of the
masonry, on account of the street beneath him.
“You confounded dawdler! Give me the irons! It’s no use looking up in
the air, you skinny beggar! The larks won’t tumble into your mouth
already cooked!”
But Zidore did not hurry himself. He was interested in the neighboring
roofs, and in a cloud of smoke which rose from the other side of Paris,
close to Grenelle; it was very likely a fire. However, he came and laid
down on his stomach, his head over the opening, and he passed the irons
to Coupeau. Then the latter commenced to solder the sheet. He squatted,
he stretched, always managing to balance himself, sometimes seated on
one side, at other times standing on the tip of one foot, often only
holding on by a finger. He had a confounded assurance, the devil’s own
cheek, familiar with danger, and braving it. It knew him. It was the
street that was afraid, not he. As he kept his pipe in his mouth, he
turned round every now and then to spit onto the pavement.
“Look, there’s Madame Boche,” he suddenly exclaimed and called down to
her. “Hi! Madame Boche.”
He had just caught sight of the concierge crossing the road. She raised
her head and recognised him, and a conversation ensued between them.
She hid her hands under her apron, her nose elevated in the air. He,
standing up now, his left arm passed round a chimney-pot, leant over.
“Have you seen my wife?” asked he.
“No, I haven’t,” replied the concierge. “Is she around here?”
“She’s coming to fetch me. And are they all well at home?”
“Why, yes, thanks; I’m the most ill, as you see. I’m going to the
Chaussee Clignancourt to buy a small leg of mutton. The butcher near
the Moulin-Rouge only charges sixteen sous.”
They raised their voices, because a vehicle was passing. In the wide,
deserted Rue de la Nation, their words, shouted out with all their
might, had only caused a little old woman to come to her window; and
this little old woman remained there leaning out, giving herself the
treat of a grand emotion by watching that man on the roof over the way,
as though she expected to see him fall, from one minute to another.
“Well! Good evening,” cried Madame Boche. “I won’t disturb you.”
Coupeau turned round, and took back the iron that Zidore was holding
for him. But just as the concierge was moving off, she caught sight of
Gervaise on the other side of the way, holding Nana by the hand. She
was already raising her head to tell the zinc-worker, when the young
woman closed her mouth by an energetic gesture, and, in a low voice, so
as not to be heard up there, she told her of her fear: she was afraid,
by showing herself suddenly, of giving her husband a shock which might
make him lose his balance. During the four years, she had only been
once to fetch him at his work. That day was the second time. She could
not witness it, her blood turned cold when she beheld her old man
between heaven and earth, in places where even the sparrows would not
venture.
“No doubt, it’s not pleasant,” murmured Madame Boche. “My husband’s a
tailor, so I have none of these terrors.”
“If you only knew, in the early days,” said Gervaise again, “I had
frights from morning till night. I was always seeing him on a
stretcher, with his head smashed. Now, I don’t think of it so much. One
gets used to everything. Bread must be earned. All the same, it’s a
precious dear loaf, for one risks one’s bones more than is fair.”
And she left off speaking, hiding Nana in her skirt, fearing a cry from
the little one. Very pale, she looked up in spite of herself. At that
moment Coupeau was soldering the extreme edge of the sheet close to the
gutter; he slid down as far as possible, but without being able to
reach the edge. Then, he risked himself with those slow movements
peculiar to workmen. For an instant he was immediately over the
pavement, no long holding on, all absorbed in his work; and, from
below, one could see the little white flame of the solder frizzling up
beneath the carefully wielded iron. Gervaise, speechless, her throat
contracted with anguish, had clasped her hands together, and held them
up in mechanical gesture of prayer. But she breathed freely as Coupeau
got up and returned back along the roof, without hurrying himself, and
taking the time to spit once more into the street.
“Ah! ah! so you’ve been playing the spy on me!” cried he, gaily, on
beholding her. “She’s been making a stupid of herself, eh, Madame
Boche? She wouldn’t call to me. Wait a bit, I shall have finished in
ten minutes.”
All that remained to do was to fix the top of the chimney—a mere
nothing. The laundress and the concierge waited on the pavement,
discussing the neighborhood, and giving an eye to Nana, to prevent her
from dabbling in the gutter, where she wanted to look for little
fishes; and the two women kept glancing up at the roof, smiling and
nodding their heads, as though to imply that they were not losing
patience. The old woman opposite had not left her window, had continued
watching the man, and waiting.
“Whatever can she have to look at, that old she-goat?” said Madame
Boche. “What a mug she has!”
One could hear the loud voice of the zinc-worker up above singing, “Ah!
it’s nice to gather strawberries!” Bending over his bench, he was now
artistically cutting out his zinc. With his compasses he traced a line,
and he detached a large fan-shaped piece with the aid of a pair of
curved shears; then he lightly bent this fan with his hammer into the
form of a pointed mushroom. Zidore was again blowing the charcoal in
the chafing-dish. The sun was setting behind the house in a brilliant
rosy light, which was gradually becoming paler, and turning to a
delicate lilac. And, at this quiet hour of the day, right up against
the sky, the silhouettes of the two workmen, looking inordinately
large, with the dark line of the bench, and the strange profile of the
bellows, stood out from the limpid back-ground of the atmosphere.
When the chimney-top was got into shape, Coupeau called out: “Zidore!
The irons!”
But Zidore had disappeared. The zinc-worker swore, and looked about for
him, even calling him through the open skylight of the loft. At length
he discovered him on a neighboring roof, two houses off. The young
rogue was taking a walk, exploring the environs, his fair scanty locks
blowing in the breeze, his eyes blinking as they beheld the immensity
of Paris.
“I say, lazy bones! Do you think you’re having a day in the country?”
asked Coupeau, in a rage. “You’re like Monsieur Beranger, composing
verses, perhaps! Will you give me those irons! Did any one ever see
such a thing! Strolling about on the house-tops! Why not bring your
sweetheart at once, and tell her of your love? Will you give me those
irons? You confounded little shirker!”
He finished his soldering, and called to Gervaise: “There, it’s done.
I’m coming down.”
The chimney-pot to which he had to fix the flue was in the middle of
the roof. Gervaise, who was no longer uneasy, continued to smile as she
followed his movements. Nana, amused all on a sudden by the view of her
father, clapped her little hands. She had seated herself on the
pavement to see the better up there.
“Papa! Papa!” called she with all her might. “Papa! Just look!”
The zinc-worker wished to lean forward, but his foot slipped. Then
suddenly, stupidly, like a cat with its legs entangled, he rolled and
descended the slight slope of the roof without being able to grab hold
of anything.
“_Mon Dieu_,” he cried in a choked voice.
And he fell. His body described a gentle curve, turned twice over on
itself, and came smashing into the middle of the street with the dull
thud of a bundle of clothes thrown from on high.
Gervaise, stupefied, her throat rent by one great cry, stood holding up
her arms. Some passers-by hastened to the spot; a crowd soon formed.
Madame Boche, utterly upset, her knees bending under her, took Nana in
her arms, to hide her head and prevent her seeing. Meanwhile, the
little old woman opposite quietly closed her window, as though
satisfied.
Four men ended by carrying Coupeau into a chemist’s, at the corner of
the Rue des Poissonniers; and he remained there on a blanket, in the
middle of the shop, whilst they sent to the Lariboisiere Hospital for a
stretcher. He was still breathing.
Gervaise, sobbing, was kneeling on the floor beside him, her face
smudged with tears, stunned and unseeing. Her hands would reach to feel
her husband’s limbs with the utmost gentleness. Then she would draw
back as she had been warned not to touch him. But a few seconds later
she would touch him to assure herself that he was still warm, feeling
somehow that she was helping him.
When the stretcher at length arrived, and they talked of starting for
the hospital, she got up, saying violently:
“No, no, not to the hospital! We live in the Rue Neuve de la
Goutte-d’Or.”
It was useless for them to explain to her that the illness would cost
her a great deal of money, if she took her husband home. She
obstinately repeated:
“Rue Neuve de la Goutte-d’Or; I will show you the house. What can it
matter to you? I’ve got money. He’s my husband, isn’t he? He’s mine,
and I want him at home.”
And they had to take Coupeau to his own home. When the stretcher was
carried through the crowd which was crushing up against the chemist’s
shop, the women of the neighborhood were excitedly talking of Gervaise.
She limped, the dolt, but all the same she had some pluck. She would be
sure to save her old man; whilst at the hospital the doctors let the
patients die who were very bad, so as not to have the bother of trying
to cure them. Madame Boche, after taking Nana home with her, returned,
and gave her account of the accident, with interminable details, and
still feeling agitated with the emotion she had passed through.
“I was going to buy a leg of mutton; I was there, I saw him fall,”
repeated she. “It was all through the little one; he turned to look at
her, and bang! Ah! good heavens! I never want to see such a sight
again. However, I must be off to get my leg of mutton.”
For a week Coupeau was very bad. The family, the neighbors, everyone,
expected to see him turn for the worse at any moment. The doctor—a very
expensive doctor, who charged five francs for each visit—apprehended
internal injuries, and these words filled everyone with fear. It was
said in the neighborhood that the zinc-worker’s heart had been injured
by the shock. Gervaise alone, looking pale through her nights of
watching, serious and resolute, shrugged her shoulders. Her old man’s
right leg was broken, everyone knew that; it would be set for him, and
that was all. As for the rest, the injured heart, that was nothing. She
knew how to restore a heart with ceaseless care. She was certain of
getting him well and displayed magnificent faith. She stayed close by
him and caressed him gently during the long bouts of fever without a
moment of doubt. She was on her feet continuously for a whole week,
completely absorbed by her determination to save him. She forgot the
street outside, the entire city, and even her own children. On the
ninth day, the doctor finally said that Coupeau would live. Gervaise
collapsed into a chair, her body limp from fatigue. That night she
consented to sleep for two hours with her head against the foot of the
bed.
Coupeau’s accident had created quite a commotion in the family. Mother
Coupeau passed the nights with Gervaise; but as early as nine o’clock
she fell asleep on a chair. Every evening, on returning from work,
Madame Lerat went a long round out of her way to inquire how her
brother was getting on. At first the Lorilleuxs had called two or three
times a day, offering to sit up and watch, and even bringing an
easy-chair for Gervaise. Then it was not long before there were
disputes as to the proper way to nurse invalids. Madame Lorilleux said
that she had saved enough people’s lives to know how to go about it.
She accused the young wife of pushing her aside, of driving her away
from her own brother’s bed. Certainly that Clump-clump ought to be
concerned about Coupeau’s getting well, for if she hadn’t gone to Rue
de la Nation to disturb him at his job, he would never had fallen.
Only, the way she was taking care of him, she would certainly finish
him.
When Gervaise saw that Coupeau was out of danger, she ceased guarding
his bedside with so much jealous fierceness. Now, they could no longer
kill him, and she let people approach without mistrust. The family
invaded the room. The convalescence would be a very long one; the
doctor had talked of four months. Then, during the long hours the
zinc-worker slept, the Lorilleux talked of Gervaise as of a fool. She
hadn’t done any good by having her husband at home. At the hospital
they would have cured him twice as quickly. Lorilleux would have liked
to have been ill, to have caught no matter what, just to show her that
he did not hesitate for a moment to go to Lariboisiere. Madame
Lorilleux knew a lady who had just come from there. Well! She had had
chicken to eat morning and night.
Again and again the two of them went over their estimate of how much
four months of convalescence would cost; workdays lost, the doctor and
the medicines, and afterward good wine and fresh meat. If the Coupeaus
only used up their small savings, they would be very lucky indeed. They
would probably have to go into debt. Well, that was to be expected and
it was their business. They had no right to expect any help from the
family, which couldn’t afford the luxury of keeping an invalid at home.
It was just Clump-clump’s bad luck, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t she have
done as others did and let her man be taken to hospital? This just
showed how stuck up she was.
One evening Madame Lorilleux had the spitefulness to ask Gervaise
suddenly:
“Well! And your shop, when are you going to take it?”
“Yes,” chuckled Lorilleux, “the landlord’s still waiting for you.”
Gervaise was astonished. She had completely forgotten the shop; but she
saw the wicked joy of those people, at the thought that she would no
longer be able to take it, and she was bursting with anger. From that
evening, in fact, they watched for every opportunity to twit her about
her hopeless dream. When any one spoke of some impossible wish, they
would say that it might be realized on the day that Gervaise started in
business, in a beautiful shop opening onto the street. And behind her
back they would laugh fit to split their sides. She did not like to
think such an unkind thing, but, really, the Lorilleuxs now seemed to
be very pleased at Coupeau’s accident, as it prevented her setting up
as a laundress in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or.
Then she also wished to laugh, and show them how willingly she parted
with the money for the sake of curing her husband. Each time she took
the savings-bank book from beneath the glass clock-tower in their
presence, she would say gaily:
“I’m going out; I’m going to rent my shop.”
She had not been willing to withdraw the money all at once. She took it
out a hundred francs at a time, so as not to keep such a pile of gold
and silver in her drawer; then, too, she vaguely hoped for some
miracle, some sudden recovery, which would enable them not to part with
the entire sum. At each journey to the savings-bank, on her return
home, she added up on a piece of paper the money they had still left
there. It was merely for the sake of order. Their bank account might be
getting smaller all the time, yet she went on with her quiet smile and
common-sense attitude, keeping the account straight. It was a
consolation to be able to use this money for such a good purpose, to
have had it when faced with their misfortune.
While Coupeau was bed-ridden the Goujets were very kind to Gervaise.
Madame Goujet was always ready to assist. She never went to shop
without stopping to ask Gervaise if there was anything she needed,
sugar or butter or salt. She always brought over hot bouillon on the
evenings she cooked _pot au feu_. Sometimes, when Gervaise seemed to
have too much to do, Madame Goujet helped her do the dishes, or cleaned
the kitchen herself. Goujet took her water pails every morning and
filled them at the tap on Rue des Poissonniers, saving her two sous a
day. After dinner, if no family came to visit, the Goujets would come
over to visit with the Coupeaus.
Until ten o’clock, the blacksmith would smoke his pipe and watch
Gervaise busy with her invalid. He would not speak ten words the entire
evening. He was moved to pity by the sight of her pouring Coupeau’s tea
and medicine into a cup, or stirring the sugar in it very carefully so
as to make no sound with the spoon. It stirred him deeply when she
would lean over Coupeau and speak in her soft voice. Never before had
he known such a fine woman. Her limp increased the credit due her for
wearing herself out doing things for her husband all day long. She
never sat down for ten minutes, not even to eat. She was always running
to the chemist’s. And then she would still keep the house clean, not
even a speck of dust. She never complained, no matter how exhausted she
became. Goujet developed a very deep affection for Gervaise in this
atmosphere of unselfish devotion.
One day he said to the invalid, “Well, old man, now you’re patched up
again! I wasn’t worried about you. Your wife works miracles.”
Goujet was supposed to be getting married. His mother had found a
suitable girl, a lace-mender like herself, whom she was urging him to
marry. He had agreed so as not to hurt her feelings and the wedding had
been set for early September. Money had long since been saved to set
them up in housekeeping. However, when Gervaise referred to his coming
marriage, he shook his head, saying, “Not every woman is like you,
Madame Coupeau. If all women were like you, I’d marry ten of them.”
At the end of two months, Coupeau was able to get up. He did not go
far, only from the bed to the window, and even then Gervaise had to
support him. There he would sit down in the easy-chair the Lorilleuxs
had brought, with his right leg stretched out on a stool. This joker,
who used to laugh at the people who slipped down on frosty days, felt
greatly put out by his accident. He had no philosophy. He had spent
those two months in bed, in cursing, and in worrying the people about
him. It was not an existence, really, to pass one’s life on one’s back,
with a pin all tied up and as stiff as a sausage. Ah, he certainly knew
the ceiling by heart; there was a crack, at the corner of the alcove,
that he could have drawn with his eyes shut. Then, when he was made
comfortable in the easy-chair, it was another grievance. Would he be
fixed there for long, just like a mummy?
Nobody ever passed along the street, so it was no fun to watch.
Besides, it stank of bleach water all day. No, he was just growing old;
he’d have given ten years of his life just to go see how the
fortifications were getting along. He kept going on about his fate. It
wasn’t right, what had happened to him. A good worker like him, not a
loafer or a drunkard, he could have understood in that case.
“Papa Coupeau,” said he, “broke his neck one day that he’d been
boozing. I can’t say that it was deserved, but anyhow it was
explainable. I had had nothing since my lunch, was perfectly quiet, and
without a drop of liquor in my body; and yet I came to grief just
because I wanted to turn round to smile at Nana! Don’t you think that’s
too much? If there is a providence, it certainly arranges things in a
very peculiar manner. I, for one, shall never believe in it.”
And when at last he was able to use his legs, he retained a secret
grudge against work. It was a handicraft full of misfortunes to pass
one’s days, like the cats, on the roofs of the houses. The employers
were no fools! They sent you to your death—being far too cowardly to
venture themselves on a ladder—and stopped at home in safety at their
fire-sides without caring a hang for the poorer classes; and he got to
the point of saying that everyone ought to fix the zinc himself on his
own house. _Mon Dieu_! It was the only fair way to do it! If you don’t
want the rain to come in, do the work yourself. He regretted he hadn’t
learned another trade, something more pleasant, something less
dangerous, maybe cabinetmaking. It was really his father’s fault. Lots
of fathers have the foolish habit of shoving their sons into their own
line of work.
For another two months Coupeau hobbled about on crutches. He had first
of all managed to get as far as the street, and smoke his pipe in front
of the door. Then he had managed to reach the exterior Boulevard,
dragging himself along in the sunshine, and remaining for hours on one
of the seats. Gaiety returned to him; his infernal tongue got sharper
in these long hours of idleness. And with the pleasure of living, he
gained there a delight in doing nothing, an indolent feeling took
possession of his limbs, and his muscles gradually glided into a very
sweet slumber. It was the slow victory of laziness, which took
advantage of his convalescence to obtain possession of his body and
unnerve him with its tickling. He regained his health, as thorough a
banterer as before, thinking life beautiful, and not seeing why it
should not last for ever.
As soon as he could get about without the crutches, he made longer
walks, often visiting construction jobs to see old comrades. He would
stand with his arms folded, sneering and shaking his head, ridiculing
the workers slaving at the job, stretching out his leg to show them
what you got for wearing yourself out. Being able to stand about and
mock others while they were working satisfied his spite against hard
work. No doubt he’d have to go back to it, but he’d put it off as long
as possible. He had a reason now to be lazy. Besides, it seemed good to
him to loaf around like a bum!
On the afternoons when Coupeau felt dull, he would call on the
Lorilleuxs. The latter would pity him immensely, and attract him with
all sorts of amiable attentions. During the first years following his
marriage, he had avoided them, thanks to Gervaise’s influence. Now they
regained their sway over him by twitting him about being afraid of his
wife. He was no man, that was evident! The Lorilleuxs, however, showed
great discretion, and were loud in their praise of the laundress’s good
qualities. Coupeau, without as yet coming to wrangling, swore to the
latter that his sister adored her, and requested that she would behave
more amiably to her. The first quarrel which the couple had occurred
one evening on account of Etienne. The zinc-worker had passed the
afternoon with the Lorilleuxs. On arriving home, as the dinner was not
quite ready, and the children were whining for their soup, he suddenly
turned upon Etienne, and boxed his ears soundly. And during an hour he
did not cease to grumble; the brat was not his; he did not know why he
allowed him to be in the place; he would end by turning him out into
the street. Up till then he had tolerated the youngster without all
that fuss. On the morrow he talked of his dignity. Three days after, he
kept kicking the little fellow, morning and evening, so much so that
the child, whenever he heard him coming, bolted into the Goujets’ where
the old lace-mender kept a corner of the table clear for him to do his
lessons.
Gervaise had for some time past, returned to work. She no longer had
the trouble of looking under the glass cover of the clock; all the
savings were gone; and she had to work hard, work for four, for there
were four to feed now. She alone maintained them. Whenever she heard
people pitying her, she at once found excuses for Coupeau. Recollect!
He had suffered so much; it was not surprising if his disposition had
soured! But it would pass off when his health returned. And if any one
hinted that Coupeau seemed all right again, that he could very well
return to work, she protested: No, no; not yet! She did not want to see
him take to his bed again. They would allow her to know best what the
doctor said, perhaps! It was she who prevented him returning to work,
telling him every morning to take his time and not to force himself.
She even slipped twenty sou pieces into his waistcoat pocket. Coupeau
accepted this as something perfectly natural. He was always complaining
of aches and pains so that she would coddle him. At the end of six
months he was still convalescing.
Now, whenever he went to watch others working, he was always ready to
join his comrades in downing a shot. It wasn’t so bad, after all. They
had their fun, and they never stayed more than five minutes. That
couldn’t hurt anybody. Only a hypocrite would say he went in because he
wanted a drink. No wonder they had laughed at him in the past. A glass
of wine never hurt anybody. He only drank wine though, never brandy.
Wine never made you sick, didn’t get you drunk, and helped you to live
longer. Soon though, several times, after a day of idleness in going
from one building job to another, he came home half drunk. On those
occasions Gervaise pretended to have a terrible headache and kept their
door closed so that the Goujets wouldn’t hear Coupeau’s drunken
babblings.
Little by little, the young woman lost her cheerfulness. Morning and
evening she went to the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or to look at the shop,
which was still to be let; and she would hide herself as though she
were committing some childish prank unworthy of a grown-up person. This
shop was beginning to turn her brain. At night-time, when the light was
out she experienced the charm of some forbidden pleasure by thinking of
it with her eyes open. She again made her calculations; two hundred and
fifty francs for the rent, one hundred and fifty francs for utensils
and moving, one hundred francs in hand to keep them going for a
fortnight—in all five hundred francs at the very lowest figure. If she
was not continually thinking of it aloud, it was for fear she should be
suspected of regretting the savings swallowed up by Coupeau’s illness.
She often became quite pale, having almost allowed her desire to escape
her and catching back her words, quite confused as though she had been
thinking of something wicked. Now they would have to work for four or
five years before they would succeed in saving such a sum. Her regret
was at not being able to start in business at once; she would have
earned all the home required, without counting on Coupeau, letting him
take months to get into the way of work again; she would no longer have
been uneasy, but certain of the future and free from the secret fears
which sometimes seized her when he returned home very gay and singing,
and relating some joke of that animal My-Boots, whom he had treated to
a drink.
One evening, Gervaise being at home alone, Goujet entered, and did not
hurry off again, according to his habit. He seated himself, and smoked
as he watched her. He probably had something very serious to say; he
thought it over, let it ripen without being able to put it into
suitable words. At length, after a long silence, he appeared to make up
his mind, and took his pipe out of his mouth to say all in a breath:
“Madame Gervaise, will you allow me to lend you some money?”
She was leaning over an open drawer, looking for some dish-cloths. She
got up, her face very red. He must have seen her then, in the morning,
standing in ecstacy before the shop for close upon ten minutes. He was
smiling in an embarrassed way, as though he had made some insulting
proposal. But she hastily refused. Never would she accept money from
any one without knowing when she would be able to return it. Then also
it was a question of too large an amount. And as he insisted, in a
frightened manner, she ended by exclaiming:
“But your marriage? I certainly can’t take the money you’ve been saving
for your marriage!”
“Oh, don’t let that bother you,” he replied, turning red in his turn.
“I’m not going to be married now. That was just an idea, you know.
Really, I would much sooner lend you the money.”
Then they both held down their heads. There was something very pleasant
between them to which they did not give expression. And Gervaise
accepted. Goujet had told his mother. They crossed the landing, and
went to see her at once. The lace-mender was very grave, and looked
rather sad as she bent her face over her tambour-frame. She would not
thwart her son, but she no longer approved Gervaise’s project; and she
plainly told her why. Coupeau was going to the bad; Coupeau would
swallow up her shop. She especially could not forgive the zinc-worker
for having refused to learn to read during his convalescence. The
blacksmith had offered to teach him, but the other had sent him to the
right about, saying that learning made people get thin. This had almost
caused a quarrel between the two workmen; each went his own way. Madame
Goujet, however, seeing her big boy’s beseeching glances, behaved very
kindly to Gervaise. It was settled that they would lend their neighbors
five hundred francs; the latter were to repay the amount by
installments of twenty francs a month; it would last as long as it
lasted.
“I say, the blacksmith’s sweet on you,” exclaimed Coupeau, laughing,
when he heard what had taken place. “Oh, I’m quite easy; he’s too big a
muff. We’ll pay him back his money. But, really, if he had to deal with
some people, he’d find himself pretty well duped.”
On the morrow the Coupeaus took the shop. All day long, Gervaise was
running from Rue Neuve de la Goutte-d’Or. When the neighbors beheld her
pass thus, nimble and delighted to the extent that she no longer
limped, they said she must have undergone some operation.