Gervaise’s saint’s day fell on the 19th of June. On such occasions, the
Coupeaus always made a grand display; they feasted till they were as
round as balls, and their stomachs were filled for the rest of the
week. There was a complete clear out of all the money they had. The
moment there were a few sous in the house they went in gorging. They
invented saints for those days which the almanac had not provided with
any, just for the sake of giving themselves a pretext for gormandizing.
Virginie highly commended Gervaise for stuffing herself with all sorts
of savory dishes. When one has a husband who turns all he can lay hands
on into drink, it’s good to line one’s stomach well, and not to let
everything go off in liquids. Since the money would disappear anyway,
surely it was better to pay it to the butcher. Gervaise used that
excuse to justify overeating, saying it was Coupeau’s fault if they
could no longer save a sou. She had grown considerably fatter, and she
limped more than before because her leg, now swollen with fat, seemed
to be getting gradually shorter.
That year they talked about her saint’s day a good month beforehand.
They thought of dishes and smacked their lips in advance. All the shop
had a confounded longing to junket. They wanted a merry-making of the
right sort—something out of the ordinary and highly successful. One
does not have so many opportunities for enjoyment. What most troubled
the laundress was to decide whom to invite; she wished to have twelve
persons at table, no more, no less. She, her husband, mother Coupeau,
and Madame Lerat, already made four members of the family. She would
also have the Goujets and the Poissons. Originally, she had decided not
to invite her workwomen, Madame Putois and Clemence, so as not to make
them too familiar; but as the projected feast was being constantly
spoken of in their presence, and their mouths watered, she ended by
telling them to come. Four and four, eight, and two are ten. Then,
wishing particularly to have twelve, she became reconciled with the
Lorilleuxs, who for some time past had been hovering around her; at
least it was agreed that the Lorilleuxs should come to dinner, and that
peace should be made with glasses in hand. You really shouldn’t keep
family quarrels going forever. When the Boches heard that a
reconciliation was planned, they also sought to make up with Gervaise,
and so they had to be invited to the dinner too. That would make
fourteen, not counting the children. Never before had she given such a
large dinner and the thought frightened and excited her at the same
time.
The saint’s day happened to fall on a Monday. It was a piece of luck.
Gervaise counted on the Sunday afternoon to begin the cooking. On the
Saturday, whilst the workwomen hurried with their work, there was a
long discussion in the shop with the view of finally deciding upon what
the feast should consist of. For three weeks past one thing alone had
been chosen—a fat roast goose. There was a gluttonous look on every
face whenever it was mentioned. The goose was even already bought.
Mother Coupeau went and fetched it to let Clemence and Madame Putois
feel its weight. And they uttered all kinds of exclamations; it looked
such an enormous bird, with its rough skin all swelled out with yellow
fat.
“Before that there will be the pot-au-feu,” said Gervaise, “the soup
and just a small piece of boiled beef, it’s always good. Then we must
have something in the way of a stew.”
Tall Clemence suggested rabbit, but they were always having that,
everyone was sick of it. Gervaise wanted something more distinguished.
Madame Putois having spoken of stewed veal, they looked at one another
with broad smiles. It was a real idea, nothing would make a better
impression than a veal stew.
“And after that,” resumed Gervaise, “we must have some other dish with
a sauce.”
Mother Coupeau proposed fish. But the others made a grimace, as they
banged down their irons. None of them liked fish; it was not a bit
satisfying; and besides that it was full of bones. Squint-eyed
Augustine, having dared to observe that she liked skate, Clemence shut
her mouth for her with a good sound clout. At length the mistress
thought of stewed pig’s back and potatoes, which restored the smiles to
every countenance. Then Virginie entered like a puff of wind, with a
strange look on her face.
“You’ve come just at the right time!” exclaimed Gervaise. “Mother
Coupeau, do show her the bird.”
And mother Coupeau went a second time and fetched the goose, which
Virginie had to take in her hands. She uttered no end of exclamations.
By Jove! It was heavy! But she soon laid it down on the work-table,
between a petticoat and a bundle of shirts. Her thoughts were
elsewhere. She dragged Gervaise into the back-room.
“I say, little one,” murmured she rapidly, “I’ve come to warn you.
You’ll never guess who I just met at the corner of the street. Lantier,
my dear! He’s hovering about on the watch; so I hastened here at once.
It frightened me on your account, you know.”
The laundress turned quite pale. What could the wretched man want with
her? Coming, too, like that, just in the midst of the preparations for
the feast. She had never had any luck; she could not even be allowed to
enjoy herself quietly. But Virginie replied that she was very foolish
to put herself out about it like that. Why! If Lantier dared to follow
her about, all she had to do was to call a policeman and have him
locked up. In the month since her husband had been appointed a
policeman, Virginie had assumed rather lordly manners and talked of
arresting everybody. She began to raise her voice, saying that she
wished some passer-by would pinch her bottom so that she could take the
fresh fellow to the police station herself and turn him over to her
husband. Gervaise signaled her to be quiet since the workwomen were
listening and led the way back into the shop, reopening the discussion
about the dinner.
“Now, don’t we need a vegetable?”
“Why not peas with bacon?” said Virginie. “I like nothing better.”
“Yes, peas with bacon.” The others approved. Augustine was so
enthusiastic that she jabbed the poker into the stove harder than ever.
By three o’clock on the morrow, Sunday, mother Coupeau had lighted
their two stoves and also a third one of earthenware which they had
borrowed from the Boches. At half-past three the pot-au-feu was boiling
away in an enormous earthenware pot lent by the eating-house keeper
next door, the family pot having been found too small. They had decided
to cook the veal and the pig’s back the night before, since both of
those dishes are better when reheated. But the cream sauce for the veal
would not be prepared until just before sitting down for the feast.
There was still plenty of work left for Monday: the soup, the peas with
bacon, the roast goose. The inner room was lit by three fires. Butter
was sizzling in the pans and emitting a sharp odor of burnt flour.
Mother Coupeau and Gervaise, with white aprons tied on, were bustling
all around, cleaning parsley, dashing for salt and pepper, turning the
meat. They had sent Coupeau away so as not to have him underfoot, but
they still had plenty of people looking in throughout the afternoon.
The luscious smells from the kitchen had spread through the entire
building so that neighboring ladies came into the shop on various
pretexts, very curious to see what was being cooked.
Virginie put in an appearance towards five o’clock. She had again seen
Lantier; really, it was impossible to go down the street now without
meeting him. Madame Boche also had just caught sight of him standing at
the corner of the pavement with his head thrust forward in an
uncommonly sly manner. Then Gervaise who had at that moment intended
going for a sou’s worth of burnt onions for the pot-au-feu, began to
tremble from head to foot and did not dare leave the house; the more
so, as the concierge and the dressmaker put her into a terrible fright
by relating horrible stories of men waiting for women with knives and
pistols hidden beneath their overcoats. Well, yes! one reads of such
things every day in the newspapers. When one of those scoundrels gets
his monkey up on discovering an old love leading a happy life he
becomes capable of everything. Virginie obligingly offered to run and
fetch the burnt onions. Women should always help one another, they
could not let that little thing be murdered. When she returned she said
that Lantier was no longer there; he had probably gone off on finding
he was discovered. In spite of that thought, he was the subject of
conversation around the saucepans until night-time. When Madame Boche
advised her to inform Coupeau, Gervaise became really terrified, and
implored her not to say a word about it. Oh, yes, wouldn’t that be a
nice situation! Her husband must have become suspicious already because
for the last few days, at night, he would swear to himself and bang the
wall with his fists. The mere thought that the two men might destroy
each other because of her made her shudder. She knew that Coupeau was
jealous enough to attack Lantier with his shears.
While the four of them had been deep in contemplating this drama, the
saucepans on the banked coals of the stoves had been quietly simmering.
When mother Coupeau lifted the lids, the veal and the pig’s back were
discreetly bubbling. The pot-au-feu was steadily steaming with
snore-like sounds. Eventually each of them dipped a piece of bread into
the soup to taste the bouillon.
At length Monday arrived. Now that Gervaise was going to have fourteen
persons at table, she began to fear that she would not be able to find
room for them all. She decided that they should dine in the shop; and
the first thing in the morning she took measurements so as to settle
which way she should place the table. After that they had to remove all
the clothes and take the ironing-table to pieces; the top of this laid
on to some shorter trestles was to be the dining-table. But just in the
midst of all this moving a customer appeared and made a scene because
she had been waiting for her washing ever since the Friday; they were
humbugging her, she would have her things at once. Then Gervaise tried
to excuse herself and lied boldly; it was not her fault, she was
cleaning out her shop, the workmen would not be there till the morrow;
and she pacified her customer and got rid of her by promising to busy
herself with her things at the earliest possible moment. Then, as soon
as the woman had left, she showed her temper. Really, if you listened
to all your customers, you’d never have time to eat. You could work
yourself to death like a dog on a leash! Well! No matter who came in
to-day, even if they offered one hundred thousand francs, she wouldn’t
touch an iron on this Monday, because it was her turn to enjoy herself.
The entire morning was spent in completing the purchases. Three times
Gervaise went out and returned laden like a mule. But just as she was
going to order wine she noticed that she had not sufficient money left.
She could easily have got it on credit; only she could not be without
money in the house, on account of the thousand little expenses that one
is liable to forget. And mother Coupeau and she had lamented together
in the back-room as they reckoned that they required at least twenty
francs. How could they obtain them, those four pieces of a hundred sous
each? Mother Coupeau who had at one time done the charring for a little
actress of the Theatre des Batignolles, was the first to suggest the
pawn-shop. Gervaise laughed with relief. How stupid she was not to have
thought of it! She quickly folded her black silk dress upon a towel
which she then pinned together. Then she hid the bundle under mother
Coupeau’s apron, telling her to keep it very flat against her stomach,
on account of the neighbors who had no need to know; and she went and
watched at the door to see that the old woman was not followed. But the
latter had only gone as far as the charcoal dealer’s when she called
her back.
“Mamma! Mamma!”
She made her return to the shop, and taking her wedding-ring off her
finger said:
“Here, put this with it. We shall get all the more.”
When mother Coupeau brought her twenty-five francs, she danced for joy.
She would order an extra six bottles of wine, sealed wine to drink with
the roast. The Lorilleuxs would be crushed.
For a fortnight past it had been the Coupeaus’ dream to crush the
Lorilleuxs. Was it not true that those sly ones, the man and his wife,
a truly pretty couple, shut themselves up whenever they had anything
nice to eat as though they had stolen it? Yes, they covered up the
window with a blanket to hide the light and make believe that they were
already asleep in bed. This stopped anyone from coming up, and so the
Lorilleuxs could stuff everything down, just the two of them. They were
even careful the next day not to throw the bones into the garbage so
that no one would know what they had eaten. Madame Lorilleux would walk
to the end of the street to toss them into a sewer opening. One morning
Gervaise surprised her emptying a basket of oyster shells there. Oh,
those penny-pinchers were never open-handed, and all their mean
contrivances came from their desire to appear to be poor. Well, we’d
show them, we’d prove to them that we weren’t mean.
Gervaise would have laid her table in the street, had she been able to,
just for the sake of inviting each passer-by. Money was not invented
that it should be allowed to grow moldy, was it? It is pretty when it
shines all new in the sunshine. She resembled them so little now, that
on the days when she had twenty sous she arranged things to let people
think that she had forty.
Mother Coupeau and Gervaise talked of the Lorilleuxs whilst they laid
the cloth about three o’clock. They had hung some big curtains at the
windows; but as it was very warm the door was left open and the whole
street passed in front of the little table. The two women did not place
a decanter, or a bottle, or a salt-cellar, without trying to arrange
them in such a way as to annoy the Lorilleuxs. They had arranged their
seats so as to give them a full view of the superbly laid cloth, and
they had reserved the best crockery for them, well knowing that the
porcelain plates would create a great effect.
“No, no, mamma,” cried Gervaise; “don’t give them those napkins! I’ve
two damask ones.”
“Ah, good!” murmured the old woman; “that’ll break their hearts, that’s
certain.”
And they smiled to each other as they stood up on either side of that
big white table on which the fourteen knives and forks, placed all
round, caused them to swell with pride. It had the appearance of the
altar of some chapel in the middle of the shop.
“That’s because they’re so stingy themselves!” resumed Gervaise. “You
know they lied last month when the woman went about everywhere saying
that she had lost a piece of gold chain as she was taking the work
home. The idea! There’s no fear of her ever losing anything! It was
simply a way of making themselves out very poor and of not giving you
your five francs.”
“As yet I’ve only seen my five francs twice,” said mother Coupeau.
“I’ll bet next month they’ll concoct some other story. That explains
why they cover their window up when they have a rabbit to eat. Don’t
you see? One would have the right to say to them: ‘As you can afford a
rabbit you can certainly give five francs to your mother!’ Oh! they’re
just rotten! What would have become of you if I hadn’t taken you to
live with us?”
Mother Coupeau slowly shook her head. That day she was all against the
Lorilleuxs, because of the great feast the Coupeaus were giving. She
loved cooking, the little gossipings round the saucepans, the place
turned topsy-turvy by the revels of saints’ days. Besides she generally
got on pretty well with Gervaise. On other days when they plagued one
another as happens in all families, the old woman grumbled saying she
was wretchedly unfortunate in thus being at her daughter-in-law’s
mercy. In point of fact she probably had some affection for Madame
Lorilleux who after all was her daughter.
“Ah!” continued Gervaise, “you wouldn’t be so fat, would you, if you
were living with them? And no coffee, no snuff, no little luxuries of
any sort! Tell me, would they have given you two mattresses to your
bed?”
“No, that’s very certain,” replied mother Coupeau. “When they arrive I
shall place myself so as to have a good view of the door to see the
faces they’ll make.”
Thinking of the faces they would make gave them pleasure ahead of time.
However, they couldn’t remain standing there admiring the table. The
Coupeaus had lunched very late on just a bite or two, because the
stoves were already in use, and because they did not want to dirty any
dishes needed for the evening. By four o’clock the two women were
working very hard. The huge goose was being cooked on a spit.
Squint-eyed Augustine was sitting on a low bench solemnly basting the
goose with a long-handled spoon. Gervaise was busy with the peas with
bacon. Mother Coupeau, kept spinning around, a bit confused, waiting
for the right time to begin reheating the pork and the veal.
Towards five o’clock the guests began to arrive. First of all came the
two workwomen, Clemence and Madame Putois, both in their Sunday best,
the former in blue, the latter in black; Clemence carried a geranium,
Madame Putois a heliotrope, and Gervaise, whose hands were just then
smothered with flour, had to kiss each of them on both cheeks with her
arms behind her back. Then following close upon their heels entered
Virginie dressed like a lady in a printed muslin costume with a sash
and a bonnet though she had only a few steps to come. She brought a pot
of red carnations. She took the laundress in her big arms and squeezed
her tight. At length Boche appeared with a pot of pansies and Madame
Boche with a pot of mignonette; then came Madame Lerat with a
balm-mint, the pot of which had dirtied her violet merino dress. All
these people kissed each other and gathered together in the back-room
in the midst of the three stoves and the roasting apparatus, which gave
out a stifling heat. The noise from the saucepans drowned the voices. A
dress catching in the Dutch oven caused quite an emotion. The smell of
roast goose was so strong that it made their mouths water. And Gervaise
was very pleasant, thanking everyone for their flowers without however
letting that interfere with her preparing the thickening for the stewed
veal at the bottom of a soup plate. She had placed the pots in the shop
at one end of the table without removing the white paper that was round
them. A sweet scent of flowers mingled with the odor of cooking.
“Do you want any assistance?” asked Virginie. “Just fancy, you’ve been
three days preparing all this feast and it will be gobbled up in no
time.”
“Well, you know,” replied Gervaise, “it wouldn’t prepare itself. No,
don’t dirty your hands. You see everything’s ready. There’s only the
soup to warm.”
Then they all made themselves comfortable. The ladies laid their shawls
and their caps on the bed and pinned up their skirts so as not to soil
them. Boche sent his wife back to the concierge’s lodge until time to
eat and had cornered Clemence in a corner trying to find out if she was
ticklish. She was gasping for breath, as the mere thought of being
tickled sent shivers through her. So as not to bother the cooks, the
other ladies had gone into the shop and were standing against the wall
facing the table. They were talking through the door though, and as
they could not hear very well, they were continually invading the
back-room and crowding around Gervaise, who would forget what she was
doing to answer them.
There were a few stories which brought sly laughter. When Virginie
mentioned that she hadn’t eaten for two days in order to have more room
for today’s feast, tall Clemence said that she had cleaned herself out
that morning with an enema like the English do. Then Boche suggested a
way of digesting the food quickly by squeezing oneself after each
course, another English custom. After all, when you were invited to
dinner, wasn’t it polite to eat as much as you could? Veal and pork and
goose are placed out for the cats to eat. The hostess didn’t need to
worry a bit, they were going to clean their plates so thoroughly that
she wouldn’t have to wash them.
All of them kept coming to smell the air above the saucepans and the
roaster. The ladies began to act like young girls, scurrying from room
to room and pushing each other.
Just as they were all jumping about and shouting by way of amusement,
Goujet appeared. He was so timid he scarcely dared enter, but stood
still, holding a tall white rose-tree in his arms, a magnificent plant
with a stem that reached to his face and entangled the flowers in his
beard. Gervaise ran to him, her cheeks burning from the heat of the
stoves. But he did not know how to get rid of his pot; and when she had
taken it from his hands he stammered, not daring to kiss her. It was
she who was obliged to stand on tip-toe and place her cheek against his
lips; he was so agitated that even then he kissed her roughly on the
eye almost blinding her. They both stood trembling.
“Oh! Monsieur Goujet, it’s too lovely!” said she, placing the rose-tree
beside the other flowers which it overtopped with the whole of its tuft
of foliage.
“Not at all, not at all!” repeated he, unable to say anything else.
Then, after sighing deeply, he slightly recovered himself and stated
that she was not to expect his mother; she was suffering from an attack
of sciatica. Gervaise was greatly grieved; she talked of putting a
piece of the goose on one side as she particularly wished Madame Goujet
to have a taste of the bird. No one else was expected. Coupeau was no
doubt strolling about in the neighborhood with Poisson whom he had
called for directly after his lunch; they would be home directly, they
had promised to be back punctually at six. Then as the soup was almost
ready, Gervaise called to Madame Lerat, saying that she thought it was
time to go and fetch the Lorilleuxs. Madame Lerat became at once very
grave; it was she who had conducted all the negotiations and who had
settled how everything should pass between the two families. She put
her cap and shawl on again and went upstairs very stiffly in her
skirts, looking very stately. Down below the laundress continued to
stir her vermicelli soup without saying a word. The guests suddenly
became serious and solemnly waited.
It was Madame Lerat who appeared first. She had gone round by the
street so as to give more pomp to the reconciliation. She held the
shop-door wide open whilst Madame Lorilleux, wearing a silk dress,
stopped at the threshold. All the guests had risen from their seats;
Gervaise went forward and kissing her sister-in-law as had been agreed,
said:
“Come in. It’s all over, isn’t it? We’ll both be nice to each other.”
And Madame Lorilleux replied:
“I shall be only too happy if we’re so always.”
When she had entered Lorilleux also stopped at the threshold and he
likewise waited to be embraced before penetrating into the shop.
Neither the one nor the other had brought a bouquet. They had decided
not to do so as they thought it would look too much like giving way to
Clump-clump if they carried flowers with them the first time they set
foot in her home. Gervaise called to Augustine to bring two bottles of
wine. Then, filling some glasses on a corner of the table, she called
everyone to her. And each took a glass and drank to the good friendship
of the family. There was a pause whilst the guests were drinking, the
ladies raising their elbows and emptying their glasses to the last
drop.
“Nothing is better before soup,” declared Boche, smacking his lips.
Mother Coupeau had placed herself opposite the door to see the faces
the Lorilleuxs would make. She pulled Gervaise by the skirt and dragged
her into the back-room. And as they both leant over the soup they
conversed rapidly in a low voice.
“Huh! What a sight!” said the old woman. “You couldn’t see them; but I
was watching. When she caught sight of the table her face twisted
around like that, the corners of her mouth almost touched her eyes; and
as for him, it nearly choked him, he coughed and coughed. Now just look
at them over there; they’ve no saliva left in their mouths, they’re
chewing their lips.”
“It’s quite painful to see people as jealous as that,” murmured
Gervaise.
Really the Lorilleuxs had a funny look about them. No one of course
likes to be crushed; in families especially when the one succeeds, the
others do not like it; that is only natural. Only one keeps it in, one
does not make an exhibition of oneself. Well! The Lorilleuxs could not
keep it in. It was more than a match for them. They squinted—their
mouths were all on one side. In short it was so apparent that the other
guests looked at them, and asked them if they were unwell. Never would
they be able to stomach this table with its fourteen place-settings,
its white linen table cloth, its slices of bread cut in advance, all in
the style of a first-class restaurant. Mme. Lorilleux went around the
table, surreptitiously fingering the table cloth, tortured by the
thought that it was a new one.
“Everything’s ready!” cried Gervaise as she reappeared with a smile,
her arms bare and her little fair curls blowing over her temples.
“If the boss would only come,” resumed the laundress, “we might begin.”
“Ah, well!” said Madame Lorilleux, “the soup will be cold by then.
Coupeau always forgets. You shouldn’t have let him go off.”
It was already half-past six. Everything was burning now; the goose
would be overdone. Then Gervaise, feeling quite dejected, talked of
sending someone to all the wineshops in the neighborhood to find
Coupeau. And as Goujet offered to go, she decided to accompany him.
Virginie, anxious about her husband went also. The three of them,
bareheaded, quite blocked up the pavement. The blacksmith who wore his
frock-coat, had Gervaise on his left arm and Virginie on his right; he
was doing the two-handled basket as he said; and it seemed to them such
a funny thing to say that they stopped, unable to move their legs for
laughing. They looked at themselves in the pork-butcher’s glass and
laughed more than ever. Beside Goujet, all in black, the two women
looked like two speckled hens—the dressmaker in her muslin costume,
sprinkled with pink flowers, the laundress in her white cambric dress
with blue spots, her wrists bare, and wearing round her neck a little
grey silk scarf tied in a bow. People turned round to see them pass,
looking so fresh and lively, dressed in their Sunday best on a week day
and jostling the crowd which hung about the Rue des Poissonniers, on
that warm June evening. But it was not a question of amusing
themselves. They went straight to the door of each wineshop, looked in
and sought amongst the people standing before the counter. Had that
animal Coupeau gone to the Arc de Triomphe to get his dram? They had
already done the upper part of the street, looking in at all the likely
places; at the “Little Civet,” renowned for its preserved plums; at old
mother Baquet’s, who sold Orleans wine at eight sous; at the
“Butterfly,” the coachmen’s house of call, gentlemen who were not easy
to please. But no Coupeau. Then as they were going down towards the
Boulevard, Gervaise uttered a faint cry on passing the eating-house at
the corner kept by Francois.
“What’s the matter?” asked Goujet.
The laundress no longer laughed. She was very pale, and laboring under
so great an emotion that she had almost fallen. Virginie understood it
all as she caught a sight of Lantier seated at one of Francois’s tables
quietly dining. The two women dragged the blacksmith along.
“My ankle twisted,” said Gervaise as soon as she was able to speak.
At length they discovered Coupeau and Poisson at the bottom of the
street inside Pere Colombe’s l’Assommoir. They were standing up in the
midst of a number of men; Coupeau, in a grey blouse, was shouting with
furious gestures and banging his fists down on the counter. Poisson,
not on duty that day and buttoned up in an old brown coat, was
listening to him in a dull sort of way and without uttering a word,
bristling his carroty moustaches and beard the while. Goujet left the
women on the edge of the pavement, and went and laid his hand on the
zinc-worker’s shoulder. But when the latter caught sight of Gervaise
and Virginie outside he grew angry. Why was he badgered with such
females as those? Petticoats had taken to tracking him about now! Well!
He declined to stir, they could go and eat their beastly dinner all by
themselves. To quiet him Goujet was obliged to accept a drop of
something; and even then Coupeau took a fiendish delight in dawdling a
good five minutes at the counter. When he at length came out he said to
his wife:
“I don’t like this. It’s my business where I go. Do you understand?”
She did not answer. She was all in a tremble. She must have said
something about Lantier to Virginie, for the latter pushed her husband
and Goujet ahead, telling them to walk in front. The two women got on
each side of Coupeau to keep him occupied and prevent him seeing
Lantier. He wasn’t really drunk, being more intoxicated from shouting
than from drinking. Since they seemed to want to stay on the left side,
to tease them, he crossed over to the other side of the street.
Worried, they ran after him and tried to block his view of the door of
Francois’s. But Coupeau must have known that Lantier was there.
Gervaise almost went out of her senses on hearing him grunt:
“Yes, my duck, there’s a young fellow of our acquaintance inside there!
You mustn’t take me for a ninny. Don’t let me catch you gallivanting
about again with your side glances!”
And he made use of some very coarse expressions. It was not him that
she had come to look for with her bare elbows and her mealy mouth; it
was her old beau. Then he was suddenly seized with a mad rage against
Lantier. Ah! the brigand! Ah! the filthy hound! One or the other of
them would have to be left on the pavement, emptied of his guts like a
rabbit. Lantier, however, did not appear to notice what was going on
and continued slowly eating some veal and sorrel. A crowd began to
form. Virginie led Coupeau away and he calmed down at once as soon as
he had turned the corner of the street. All the same they returned to
the shop far less lively than when they left it.
The guests were standing round the table with very long faces. The
zinc-worker shook hands with them, showing himself off before the
ladies. Gervaise, feeling rather depressed, spoke in a low voice as she
directed them to their places. But she suddenly noticed that, as Madame
Goujet had not come, a seat would remain empty—the one next to Madame
Lorilleux.
“We are thirteen!” said she, deeply affected, seeing in that a fresh
omen of the misfortune with which she had felt herself threatened for
some time past.
The ladies already seated rose up looking anxious and annoyed. Madame
Putois offered to retire because according to her it was not a matter
to laugh about; besides she would not touch a thing, the food would do
her no good. As to Boche, he chuckled. He would sooner be thirteen than
fourteen; the portions would be larger, that was all.
“Wait!” resumed Gervaise. “I can manage it.”
And going out on to the pavement she called Pere Bru who was just then
crossing the roadway. The old workman entered, stooping and stiff and
his face without expression.
“Seat yourself there, my good fellow,” said the laundress. “You won’t
mind eating with us, will you?”
He simply nodded his head. He was willing; he did not mind.
“As well him as another,” continued she, lowering her voice. “He
doesn’t often eat his fill. He will at least enjoy himself once more.
We shall feel no remorse in stuffing ourselves now.”
This touched Goujet so deeply that his eyes filled with tears. The
others were also moved by compassion and said that it would bring them
all good luck. However, Madame Lorilleux seemed unhappy at having the
old man next to her. She cast glances of disgust at his work-roughened
hands and his faded, patched smock, and drew away from him.
Pere Bru sat with his head bowed, waiting. He was bothered by the
napkin that was on the plate before him. Finally he lifted it off and
placed it gently on the edge of the table, not thinking to spread it
over his knees.
Now at last Gervaise served the vermicelli soup; the guests were taking
up their spoons when Virginie remarked that Coupeau had disappeared. He
had perhaps returned to Pere Colombe’s. This time the company got
angry. So much the worse! One would not run after him; he could stay in
the street if he was not hungry; and as the spoons touched the bottom
of the plates, Coupeau reappeared with two pots of flowers, one under
each arm, a stock and a balsam. They all clapped their hands. He
gallantly placed the pots, one on the right, the other on the left of
Gervaise’s glass; then bending over and kissing her, he said:
“I had forgotten you, my lamb. But in spite of that, we love each other
all the same, especially on such a day as this.”
“Monsieur Coupeau’s very nice this evening,” murmured Clemence in
Boche’s ear. “He’s just got what he required, sufficient to make him
amiable.”
The good behavior of the master of the house restored the gaiety of the
proceedings, which at one moment had been compromised. Gervaise, once
more at her ease, was all smiles again. The guests finished their soup.
Then the bottles circulated and they drank their first glass of wine,
just a drop pure, to wash down the vermicelli. One could hear the
children quarrelling in the next room. There were Etienne, Pauline,
Nana and little Victor Fauconnier. It had been decided to lay a table
for the four of them, and they had been told to be very good. That
squint-eyed Augustine who had to look after the stoves was to eat off
her knees.
“Mamma! Mamma!” suddenly screamed Nana, “Augustine is dipping her bread
in the Dutch oven!”
The laundress hastened there and caught the squint-eyed one in the act
of burning her throat in her attempts to swallow without loss of time a
slice of bread soaked in boiling goose fat. She boxed her ears when the
young monkey called out that it was not true. When, after the boiled
beef, the stewed veal appeared, served in a salad-bowl, as they did not
have a dish large enough, the party greeted it with a laugh.
“It’s becoming serious,” declared Poisson, who seldom spoke.
It was half-past seven. They had closed the shop door, so as not to be
spied upon by the whole neighborhood; the little clockmaker opposite
especially was opening his eyes to their full size and seemed to take
the pieces from their mouths with such a gluttonous look that it almost
prevented them from eating. The curtains hung before the windows
admitted a great white uniform light which bathed the entire table with
its symmetrical arrangement of knives and forks and its pots of flowers
enveloped in tall collars of white paper; and this pale fading light,
this slowly approaching dusk, gave to the party somewhat of an air of
distinction. Virginie looked round the closed apartment hung with
muslin and with a happy criticism declared it to be very cozy. Whenever
a cart passed in the street the glasses jingled together on the table
cloth and the ladies were obliged to shout out as loud as the men. But
there was not much conversation; they all behaved very respectably and
were very attentive to each other. Coupeau alone wore a blouse, because
as he said one need not stand on ceremony with friends and besides
which the blouse was the workman’s garb of honor. The ladies, laced up
in their bodices, wore their hair in plaits greasy with pomatum in
which the daylight was reflected; whilst the gentlemen, sitting at a
distance from the table, swelled out their chests and kept their elbows
wide apart for fear of staining their frock coats.
Ah! thunder! What a hole they were making in the stewed veal! If they
spoke little, they were chewing in earnest. The salad-bowl was becoming
emptier and emptier with a spoon stuck in the midst of the thick
sauce—a good yellow sauce which quivered like a jelly. They fished
pieces of veal out of it and seemed as though they would never come to
the end; the salad-bowl journeyed from hand to hand and faces bent over
it as forks picked out the mushrooms. The long loaves standing against
the wall behind the guests appeared to melt away. Between the mouthfuls
one could hear the sound of glasses being replaced on the table. The
sauce was a trifle too salty. It required four bottles of wine to drown
that blessed stewed veal, which went down like cream, but which
afterwards lit up a regular conflagration in one’s stomach. And before
one had time to take a breath, the pig’s back, in the middle of a deep
dish surrounded by big round potatoes, arrived in the midst of a cloud
of smoke. There was one general cry. By Jove! It was just the thing!
Everyone liked it. They would do it justice; and they followed the dish
with a side glance as they wiped their knives on their bread so as to
be in readiness. Then as soon as they were helped they nudged one
another and spoke with their mouths full. It was just like butter!
Something sweet and solid which one could feel run through one’s guts
right down into one’s boots. The potatoes were like sugar. It was not a
bit salty; only, just on account of the potatoes, it required a wetting
every few minutes. Four more bottles were placed on the table. The
plates were wiped so clean that they also served for the green peas and
bacon. Oh! vegetables were of no consequence. They playfully gulped
them down in spoonfuls. The best part of the dish was the small pieces
of bacon just nicely grilled and smelling like horse’s hoof. Two
bottles were sufficient for them.
“Mamma! Mamma!” called out Nana suddenly, “Augustine’s putting her
fingers in my plate!”
“Don’t bother me! give her a slap!” replied Gervaise, in the act of
stuffing herself with green peas.
At the children’s table in the back-room, Nana was playing the role of
lady of the house, sitting next to Victor and putting her brother
Etienne beside Pauline so they could play house, pretending they were
two married couples. Nana had served her guests very politely at first,
but now she had given way to her passion for grilled bacon, trying to
keep every piece for herself. While Augustine was prowling around the
children’s table, she would grab the bits of bacon under the pretext of
dividing them amongst the children. Nana was so furious that she bit
Augustine on the wrist.
“Ah! you know,” murmured Augustine, “I’ll tell your mother that after
the veal you asked Victor to kiss you.”
But all became quiet again as Gervaise and mother Coupeau came in to
get the goose. The guests at the big table were leaning back in their
chairs taking a breather. The men had unbuttoned their waistcoats, the
ladies were wiping their faces with their napkins. The repast was, so
to say, interrupted; only one or two persons, unable to keep their jaws
still, continued to swallow large mouthfuls of bread, without even
knowing that they were doing so. The others were waiting and allowing
their food to settle while waiting for the main course. Night was
slowly coming on; a dirty ashy grey light was gathering behind the
curtains. When Augustine brought two lamps and placed one at each end
of the table, the general disorder became apparent in the bright
glare—the greasy forks and plates, the table cloth stained with wine
and covered with crumbs. A strong stifling odor pervaded the room.
Certain warm fumes, however, attracted all the noses in the direction
of the kitchen.
“Can I help you?” cried Virginie.
She left her chair and passed into the inner room. All the women
followed one by one. They surrounded the Dutch oven, and watched with
profound interest as Gervaise and mother Coupeau tried to pull the bird
out. Then a clamor arose, in the midst of which one could distinguish
the shrill voices and the joyful leaps of the children. And there was a
triumphal entry. Gervaise carried the goose, her arms stiff, and her
perspiring face expanded in one broad silent laugh; the women walked
behind her, laughing in the same way; whilst Nana, right at the end,
raised herself up to see, her eyes open to their full extent. When the
enormous golden goose, streaming with gravy, was on the table, they did
not attack it at once. It was a wonder, a respectful wonderment, which
for a moment left everyone speechless. They drew one another’s
attention to it with winks and nods of the head. Golly! What a bird!
“That one didn’t get fat by licking the walls, I’ll bet!” said Boche.
Then they entered into details respecting the bird. Gervaise gave the
facts. It was the best she could get at the poulterer’s in the Faubourg
Poissonniers; it weighed twelve and a half pounds on the scales at the
charcoal-dealer’s; they had burnt nearly half a bushel of charcoal in
cooking it, and it had given three bowls full of drippings.
Virginie interrupted her to boast of having seen it before it was
cooked. “You could have eaten it just as it was,” she said, “its skin
was so fine, like the skin of a blonde.” All the men laughed at this,
smacking their lips. Lorilleux and Madame Lorilleux sniffed
disdainfully, almost choking with rage to see such a goose on
Clump-clump’s table.
“Well! We can’t eat it whole,” the laundress observed. “Who’ll cut it
up? No, no, not me! It’s too big; I’m afraid of it.”
Coupeau offered his services. _Mon Dieu!_ it was very simple. You
caught hold of the limbs, and pulled them off; the pieces were good all
the same. But the others protested; they forcibly took possession of
the large kitchen knife which the zinc-worker already held in his hand,
saying that whenever he carved he made a regular graveyard of the
platter. Finally, Madame Lerat suggested in a friendly tone:
“Listen, it should be Monsieur Poisson; yes, Monsieur Poisson.”
But, as the others did not appear to understand, she added in a more
flattering manner still:
“Why, yes, of course, it should be Monsieur Poisson, who’s accustomed
to the use of arms.”
And she passed the kitchen knife to the policeman. All round the table
they laughed with pleasure and approval. Poisson bowed his head with
military stiffness, and moved the goose before him. When he thrust the
knife into the goose, which cracked, Lorilleux was seized with an
outburst of patriotism.
“Ah! if it was a Cossack!” he cried.
“Have you ever fought with Cossacks, Monsieur Poisson?” asked Madame
Boche.
“No, but I have with Bedouins,” replied the policeman, who was cutting
off a wing. “There are no more Cossacks.”
A great silence ensued. Necks were stretched out as every eye followed
the knife. Poisson was preparing a surprise. Suddenly he gave a last
cut; the hind-quarter of the bird came off and stood up on end, rump in
the air, making a bishop’s mitre. Then admiration burst forth. None
were so agreeable in company as retired soldiers.
The policeman allowed several minutes for the company to admire the
bishop’s mitre and then finished cutting the slices and arranging them
on the platter. The carving of the goose was now complete.
When the ladies complained that they were getting rather warm, Coupeau
opened the door to the street and the gaiety continued against the
background of cabs rattling down the street and pedestrians bustling
along the pavement. The goose was attacked furiously by the rested
jaws. Boche remarked that just having to wait and watch the goose being
carved had been enough to make the veal and pork slide down to his
ankles.
Then ensued a famous tuck-in; that is to say, not one of the party
recollected ever having before run the risk of such a stomach-ache.
Gervaise, looking enormous, her elbows on the table, ate great pieces
of breast, without uttering a word, for fear of losing a mouthful, and
merely felt slightly ashamed and annoyed at exhibiting herself thus, as
gluttonous as a cat before Goujet. Goujet, however, was too busy
stuffing himself to notice that she was all red with eating. Besides,
in spite of her greediness, she remained so nice and good! She did not
speak, but she troubled herself every minute to look after Pere Bru,
and place some dainty bit on his plate. It was even touching to see
this glutton take a piece of wing almost from her mouth to give it to
the old fellow, who did not appear to be very particular, and who
swallowed everything with bowed head, almost besotted from having
gobbled so much after he had forgotten the taste of bread. The
Lorilleuxs expended their rage on the roast goose; they ate enough to
last them three days; they would have stowed away the dish, the table,
the very shop, if they could have ruined Clump-clump by doing so. All
the ladies had wanted a piece of the breast, traditionally the ladies’
portion. Madame Lerat, Madame Boche, Madame Putois, were all picking
bones; whilst mother Coupeau, who adored the neck, was tearing off the
flesh with her two last teeth. Virginie liked the skin when it was
nicely browned, and the other guests gallantly passed their skin to
her; so much so, that Poisson looked at his wife severely, and bade her
stop, because she had had enough as it was. Once already, she had been
a fortnight in bed, with her stomach swollen out, through having eaten
too much roast goose. But Coupeau got angry and helped Virginie to the
upper part of a leg, saying that, by Jove’s thunder! if she did not
pick it, she wasn’t a proper woman. Had roast goose ever done harm to
anybody? On the contrary, it cured all complaints of the spleen. One
could eat it without bread, like dessert. He could go on swallowing it
all night without being the least bit inconvenienced; and, just to show
off, he stuffed a whole drum-stick into his mouth. Meanwhile, Clemence
had got to the end of the rump, and was sucking it with her lips,
whilst she wriggled with laughter on her chair because Boche was
whispering all sorts of smutty things to her. Ah, by Jove! Yes, there
was a dinner! When one’s at it, one’s at it, you know; and if one only
has the chance now and then, one would be precious stupid not to stuff
oneself up to one’s ears. Really, one could see their sides puff out by
degrees. They were cracking in their skins, the blessed gormandizers!
With their mouths open, their chins besmeared with grease, they had
such bloated red faces that one would have said they were bursting with
prosperity.
As for the wine, well, that was flowing as freely around the table as
water flows in the Seine. It was like a brook overflowing after a
rainstorm when the soil is parched. Coupeau raised the bottle high when
pouring to see the red jet foam in the glass. Whenever he emptied a
bottle, he would turn it upside down and shake it. One more dead
solder! In a corner of the laundry the pile of dead soldiers grew
larger and larger, a veritable cemetery of bottles onto which other
debris from the table was tossed.
Coupeau became indignant when Madame Putois asked for water. He took
all the water pitchers from the table. Do respectable citizens ever
drink water? Did she want to grow frogs in her stomach?
Many glasses were emptied at one gulp. You could hear the liquid
gurgling its way down the throats like rainwater in a drainpipe after a
storm. One might say it was raining wine. _Mon Dieu!_ the juice of the
grape was a remarkable invention. Surely the workingman couldn’t get
along without his wine. Papa Noah must have planted his grapevine for
the benefit of zinc-workers, tailors and blacksmiths. It brightened you
up and refreshed you after a hard day’s work.
Coupeau was in a high mood. He proclaimed that all the ladies present
were very cute, and jingled the three sous in his pocket as if they had
been five-franc pieces.
Even Goujet, who was ordinarily very sober, had taken plenty of wine.
Boche’s eyes were narrowing, those of Lorilleux were paling, and
Poisson was developing expressions of stern severity on his soldierly
face. All the men were as drunk as lords and the ladies had reached a
certain point also, feeling so warm that they had to loosen their
clothes. Only Clemence carried this a bit too far.
Suddenly Gervaise recollected the six sealed bottles of wine. She had
forgotten to put them on the table with the goose; she fetched them,
and all the glasses were filled. Then Poisson rose, and holding his
glass in the air, said:
“I drink to the health of the missus.”
All of them stood up, making a great noise with their chairs as they
moved. Holding out their arms, they clinked glasses in the midst of an
immense uproar.
“Here’s to this day fifty years hence!” cried Virginie.
“No, no,” replied Gervaise, deeply moved and smiling; “I shall be too
old. Ah! a day comes when one’s glad to go.”
Through the door, which was wide open, the neighborhood was looking on
and taking part in the festivities. Passers-by stopped in the broad ray
of light which shone over the pavement, and laughed heartily at seeing
all these people stuffing away so jovially.
The aroma from the roasted goose brought joy to the whole street. The
clerks on the sidewalk opposite thought they could almost taste the
bird. Others came out frequently to stand in front of their shops,
sniffing the air and licking their lips. The little jeweler was unable
to work, dizzy from having counted so many bottles. He seemed to have
lost his head among his merry little cuckoo clocks.
Yes, the neighbors were devoured with envy, as Coupeau said. But why
should there be any secret made about the matter? The party, now fairly
launched, was no longer ashamed of being seen at table; on the
contrary, it felt flattered and excited at seeing the crowd gathered
there, gaping with gluttony; it would have liked to have knocked out
the shop-front and dragged the table into the road-way, and there to
have enjoyed the dessert under the very nose of the public, and amidst
the commotion of the thoroughfare. Nothing disgusting was to be seen in
them, was there? Then there was no need to shut themselves in like
selfish people. Coupeau, noticing the little clockmaker looked very
thirsty, held up a bottle; and as the other nodded his head, he carried
him the bottle and a glass. A fraternity was established in the street.
They drank to anyone who passed. They called in any chaps who looked
the right sort. The feast spread, extending from one to another, to the
degree that the entire neighborhood of the Goutte-d’Or sniffed the
grub, and held its stomach, amidst a rumpus worthy of the devil and all
his demons. For some minutes, Madame Vigouroux, the charcoal-dealer,
had been passing to and fro before the door.
“Hi! Madame Vigouroux! Madame Vigouroux!” yelled the party.
She entered with a broad grin on her face, which was washed for once,
and so fat that the body of her dress was bursting. The men liked
pinching her, because they might pinch her all over without ever
encountering a bone. Boche made room for her beside him and reached
slyly under the table to grab her knee. But she, being accustomed to
that sort of thing, quietly tossed off a glass of wine, and related
that all the neighbors were at their windows, and that some of the
people of the house were beginning to get angry.
“Oh, that’s our business,” said Madame Boche. “We’re the concierges,
aren’t we? Well, we’re answerable for good order. Let them come and
complain to us, we’ll receive them in a way they don’t expect.”
In the back-room there had just been a furious fight between Nana and
Augustine, on account of the Dutch oven, which both wanted to scrape
out. For a quarter of an hour, the Dutch oven had rebounded over the
tile floor with the noise of an old saucepan. Nana was now nursing
little Victor, who had a goose-bone in his throat. She pushed her
fingers under his chin, and made him swallow big lumps of sugar by way
of a remedy. That did not prevent her keeping an eye on the big table.
At every minute she came and asked for wine, bread, or meat, for
Etienne and Pauline, she said.
“Here! Burst!” her mother would say to her. “Perhaps you’ll leave us in
peace now!”
The children were scarcely able to swallow any longer, but they
continued to eat all the same, banging their forks down on the table to
the tune of a canticle, in order to excite themselves.
In the midst of the noise, however, a conversation was going on between
Pere Bru and mother Coupeau. The old fellow, who was ghastly pale in
spite of the wine and the food, was talking of his sons who had died in
the Crimea. Ah! if the lads had only lived, he would have had bread to
eat every day. But mother Coupeau, speaking thickly, leant towards him
and said:
“Ah! one has many worries with children! For instance, I appear to be
happy here, don’t I? Well! I cry more often than you think. No, don’t
wish you still had your children.”
Pere Bru shook his head.
“I can’t get work anywhere,” murmured he. “I’m too old. When I enter a
workshop the young fellows joke, and ask me if I polished Henri IV.’s
boots. To-day it’s all over; they won’t have me anywhere. Last year I
could still earn thirty sous a day painting a bridge. I had to lie on
my back with the river flowing under me. I’ve had a bad cough ever
since then. Now, I’m finished.”
He looked at his poor stiff hands and added:
“It’s easy to understand, I’m no longer good for anything. They’re
right; were I in their place I should do the same. You see, the
misfortune is that I’m not dead. Yes, it’s my fault. One should lie
down and croak when one’s no longer able to work.”
“Really,” said Lorilleux, who was listening, “I don’t understand why
the Government doesn’t come to the aid of the invalids of labor. I was
reading that in a newspaper the other day.”
But Poisson thought it his duty to defend the Government.
“Workmen are not soldiers,” declared he. “The Invalides is for
soldiers. You must not ask for what is impossible.”
Dessert was now served. In the centre of the table was a Savoy cake in
the form of a temple, with a dome fluted with melon slices; and this
dome was surmounted by an artificial rose, close to which was a silver
paper butterfly, fluttering at the end of a wire. Two drops of gum in
the centre of the flower imitated dew. Then, to the left, a piece of
cream cheese floated in a deep dish; whilst in another dish to the
right, were piled up some large crushed strawberries, with the juice
running from them. However, there was still some salad left, some large
coss lettuce leaves soaked with oil.
“Come, Madame Boche,” said Gervaise, coaxingly, “a little more salad. I
know how fond you are of it.”
“No, no, thank you! I’ve already had as much as I can manage,” replied
the concierge.
The laundress turning towards Virginie, the latter put her finger in
her mouth, as though to touch the food she had taken.
“Really, I’m full,” murmured she. “There’s no room left. I couldn’t
swallow a mouthful.”
“Oh! but if you tried a little,” resumed Gervaise with a smile. “One
can always find a tiny corner empty. Once doesn’t need to be hungry to
be able to eat salad. You’re surely not going to let this be wasted?”
“You can eat it to-morrow,” said Madame Lerat; “it’s nicer when its
wilted.”
The ladies sighed as they looked regretfully at the salad-bowl.
Clemence related that she had one day eaten three bunches of
watercresses at her lunch. Madame Putois could do more than that, she
would take a coss lettuce and munch it up with some salt just as it was
without separating the leaves. They could all have lived on salad,
would have treated themselves to tubfuls. And, this conversation
aiding, the ladies cleaned out the salad-bowl.
“I could go on all fours in a meadow,” observed the concierge with her
mouth full.
Then they chuckled together as they eyed the dessert. Dessert did not
count. It came rather late but that did not matter; they would nurse it
all the same. When you’re that stuffed, you can’t let yourself be
stopped by strawberries and cake. There was no hurry. They had the
entire night if they wished. So they piled their plates with
strawberries and cream cheese. Meanwhile the men lit their pipes. They
were drinking the ordinary wine while they smoked since the special
wine had been finished. Now they insisted that Gervaise cut the Savoy
cake. Poisson got up and took the rose from the cake and presented it
in his most gallant manner to the hostess amidst applause from the
other guests. She pinned it over her left breast, near the heart. The
silver butterfly fluttered with her every movement.
“Well, look,” exclaimed Lorilleux, who had just made a discovery, “it’s
your work-table that we’re eating off! Ah, well! I daresay it’s never
seen so much work before!”
This malicious joke had a great success. Witty allusions came from all
sides. Clemence could not swallow a spoonful of strawberries without
saying that it was another shirt ironed; Madame Lerat pretended that
the cream cheese smelt of starch; whilst Madame Lorilleux said between
her teeth that it was capital fun to gobble up the money so quickly on
the very boards on which one had had so much trouble to earn it. There
was quite a tempest of shouts and laughter.
But suddenly a loud voice called for silence. It was Boche who,
standing up in an affected and vulgar way, was commencing to sing “The
Volcano of Love, or the Seductive Trooper.”
A thunder of applause greeted the first verse. Yes, yes, they would
sing songs! Everyone in turn. It was more amusing than anything else.
And they all put their elbows on the table or leant back in their
chairs, nodding their heads at the best parts and sipping their wine
when they came to the choruses. That rogue Boche had a special gift for
comic songs. He would almost make the water pitchers laugh when he
imitated the raw recruit with his fingers apart and his hat on the back
of his head. Directly after “The Volcano of Love,” he burst out into
“The Baroness de Follebiche,” one of his greatest successes. When he
reached the third verse he turned towards Clemence and almost murmured
it in a slow and voluptuous tone of voice:
“The baroness had people there,
Her sisters four, oh! rare surprise;
And three were dark, and one was fair;
Between them, eight bewitching eyes.”
Then the whole party, carried away, joined in the chorus. The men beat
time with their heels, whilst the ladies did the same with their knives
against their glasses. All of them singing at the top of their voices:
“By Jingo! who on earth will pay
A drink to the pa—to the pa—pa—?
By Jingo! who on earth will pay
A drink to the pa—to the pa—tro—o—l?”
The panes of glass of the shop-front resounded, the singers’ great
volume of breath agitated the muslin curtains. Whilst all this was
going on, Virginie had already twice disappeared and each time, on
returning, had leant towards Gervaise’s ear to whisper a piece of
information. When she returned the third time, in the midst of the
uproar, she said to her:
“My dear, he’s still at Francois’s; he’s pretending to read the
newspaper. He’s certainly meditating some evil design.”
She was speaking of Lantier. It was him that she had been watching. At
each fresh report Gervaise became more and more grave.
“Is he drunk?” asked she of Virginie.
“No,” replied the tall brunette. “He looks as though he had merely had
what he required. It’s that especially which makes me anxious. Why does
he remain there if he’s had all he wanted? _Mon Dieu!_ I hope nothing
is going to happen!”
The laundress, greatly upset, begged her to leave off. A profound
silence suddenly succeeded the clamor. Madame Putois had just risen and
was about to sing “The Boarding of the Pirate.” The guests, silent and
thoughtful, watched her; even Poisson had laid his pipe down on the
edge of the table the better to listen to her. She stood up to the full
height of her little figure, with a fierce expression about her, though
her face looked quite pale beneath her black cap; she thrust out her
left fist with a satisfied pride as she thundered in a voice bigger
than herself:
“If the pirate audacious
Should o’er the waves chase us,
The buccaneer slaughter,
Accord him no quarter.
To the guns every man,
And with rum fill each can!
While these pests of the seas
Dangle from the cross-trees.”
That was something serious. By Jove! it gave one a fine idea of the
real thing. Poisson, who had been on board ship nodded his head in
approval of the description. One could see too that that song was in
accordance with Madame Putois’s own feeling. Coupeau then told how
Madame Putois, one evening on Rue Poulet, had slapped the face of four
men who sought to attack her virtue.
With the assistance of mother Coupeau, Gervaise was now serving the
coffee, though some of the guests had not yet finished their Savoy
cake. They would not let her sit down again, but shouted that it was
her turn. With a pale face, and looking very ill at ease, she tried to
excuse herself; she seemed so queer that someone inquired whether the
goose had disagreed with her. She finally gave them “Oh! let me
slumber!” in a sweet and feeble voice. When she reached the chorus with
its wish for a sleep filled with beautiful dreams, her eyelids partly
closed and her rapt gaze lost itself in the darkness of the street.
Poisson stood next and with an abrupt bow to the ladies, sang a
drinking song: “The Wines of France.” But his voice wasn’t very musical
and only the final verse, a patriotic one mentioning the tricolor flag,
was a success. Then he raised his glass high, juggled it a moment, and
poured the contents into his open mouth.
Then came a string of ballads; Madame Boche’s barcarolle was all about
Venice and the gondoliers; Madame Lorilleux sang of Seville and the
Andalusians in her bolero; whilst Lorilleux went so far as to allude to
the perfumes of Arabia, in reference to the loves of Fatima the dancer.
Golden horizons were opening up all around the heavily laden table. The
men were smoking their pipes and the women unconsciously smiling with
pleasure. All were dreaming they were far away.
Clemence began to sing softly “Let’s Make a Nest” with a tremolo in her
voice which pleased them greatly for it made them think of the open
country, of songbirds, of dancing beneath an arbor, and of flowers. In
short, it made them think of the Bois de Vincennes when they went there
for a picnic.
But Virginie revived the joking with “My Little Drop of Brandy.” She
imitated a camp follower, with one hand on her hip, the elbow arched to
indicate the little barrel; and with the other hand she poured out the
brandy into space by turning her fist round. She did it so well that
the party then begged mother Coupeau to sing “The Mouse.” The old woman
refused, vowing that she did not know that naughty song. Yet she
started off with the remnants of her broken voice; and her wrinkled
face with its lively little eyes underlined the allusions, the terrors
of Mademoiselle Lise drawing her skirts around her at the sight of a
mouse. All the table laughed; the women could not keep their
countenances, and continued casting bright glances at their neighbors;
it was not indecent after all, there were no coarse words in it. All
during the song Boche was playing mouse up and down the legs of the
lady coal-dealer. Things might have gotten a bit out of line if Goujet,
in response to a glance from Gervaise, had not brought back the
respectful silence with “The Farewell of Abdul-Kader,” which he sang
out loudly in his bass voice. The song rang out from his golden beard
as if from a brass trumpet. All the hearts skipped a beat when he
cried, “Ah, my noble comrade!” referring to the warrior’s black mare.
They burst into applause even before the end.
“Now, Pere Bru, it’s your turn!” said mother Coupeau. “Sing your song.
The old ones are the best any day!”
And everybody turned towards the old man, pressing him and encouraging
him. He, in a state of torpor, with his immovable mask of tanned skin,
looked at them without appearing to understand. They asked him if he
knew the “Five Vowels.” He held down his head; he could not recollect
it; all the songs of the good old days were mixed up in his head. As
they made up their minds to leave him alone, he seemed to remember, and
began to stutter in a cavernous voice:
“Trou la la, trou la la,
Trou la, trou la, trou la la!”
His face assumed an animated expression, this chorus seemed to awake
some far-off gaieties within him, enjoyed by himself alone, as he
listened with a childish delight to his voice which became more and
more hollow.
“Say there, my dear,” Virginie came and whispered in Gervaise’s ear,
“I’ve just been there again, you know. It worried me. Well! Lantier has
disappeared from Francois’s.”
“You didn’t meet him outside?” asked the laundress.
“No, I walked quickly, not as if I was looking for him.”
But Virginie raised her eyes, interrupted herself and heaved a
smothered sigh.
“Ah! _Mon Dieu!_ He’s there, on the pavement opposite; he’s looking
this way.”
Gervaise, quite beside herself, ventured to glance in the direction
indicated. Some persons had collected in the street to hear the party
sing. And Lantier was indeed there in the front row, listening and
coolly looking on. It was rare cheek, everything considered. Gervaise
felt a chill ascend from her legs to her heart, and she no longer dared
to move, whilst old Bru continued:
“Trou la la, trou la la,
Trou la, trou la, trou la la!”
“Very good. Thank you, my ancient one, that’s enough!” said Coupeau.
“Do you know the whole of it? You shall sing it for us another day when
we need something sad.”
This raised a few laughs. The old fellow stopped short, glanced round
the table with his pale eyes and resumed his look of a meditative
animal. Coupeau called for more wine as the coffee was finished.
Clemence was eating strawberries again. With the pause in singing, they
began to talk about a woman who had been found hanging that morning in
the building next door. It was Madame Lerat’s turn, but she required to
prepare herself. She dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of
water and applied it to her temples because she was too hot. Then, she
asked for a thimbleful of brandy, drank it, and slowly wiped her lips.
“The ‘Child of God,’ shall it be?” she murmured, “the ‘Child of God.’”
And, tall and masculine-looking, with her bony nose and her shoulders
as square as a grenadier’s she began:
“The lost child left by its mother alone
Is sure of a home in Heaven above,
God sees and protects it on earth from His throne,
The child that is lost is the child of God’s love.”
Her voice trembled at certain words, and dwelt on them in liquid notes;
she looked out of the corner of her eyes to heaven, whilst her right
hand swung before her chest or pressed against her heart with an
impressive gesture. Then Gervaise, tortured by Lantier’s presence,
could not restrain her tears; it seemed to her that the song was
relating her own suffering, that she was the lost child, abandoned by
its mother, and whom God was going to take under his protection.
Clemence was now very drunk and she burst into loud sobbing and placed
her head down onto the table in an effort to smother her gasps. There
was a hush vibrant with emotion.
The ladies had pulled out their handkerchiefs, and were drying their
eyes, with their heads erect from pride. The men had bowed their heads
and were staring straight before them, blinking back their tears.
Poisson bit off the end of his pipe twice while gulping and gasping.
Boche, with two large tears trickling down his face, wasn’t even
bothering to squeeze the coal-dealer’s knee any longer. All these drunk
revelers were as soft-hearted as lambs. Wasn’t the wine almost coming
out of their eyes? When the refrain began again, they all let
themselves go, blubbering into their plates.
But Gervaise and Virginie could not, in spite of themselves, take their
eyes off the pavement opposite. Madame Boche, in her turn, caught sight
of Lantier and uttered a faint cry without ceasing to besmear her face
with her tears. Then all three had very anxious faces as they exchanged
involuntary signs. _Mon Dieu!_ if Coupeau were to turn round, if
Coupeau caught sight of the other! What a butchery! What carnage! And
they went on to such an extent that the zinc-worker asked them:
“Whatever are you looking at?”
He leant forward and recognized Lantier.
“Damnation! It’s too much,” muttered he. “Ah! the dirty scoundrel—ah!
the dirty scoundrel. No, it’s too much, it must come to an end.”
And as he rose from his seat muttering most atrocious threats,
Gervaise, in a low voice, implored him to keep quiet.
“Listen to me, I implore you. Leave the knife alone. Remain where you
are, don’t do anything dreadful.”
Virginie had to take the knife which he had picked up off the table
from him. But she could not prevent him leaving the shop and going up
to Lantier.
Those around the table saw nothing of this, so involved were they in
weeping over the song as Madame Lerat sang the last verse. It sounded
like a moaning wail of the wind and Madame Putois was so moved that she
spilled her wine over the table. Gervaise remained frozen with fright,
one hand tight against her lips to stifle her sobs. She expected at any
moment to see one of the two men fall unconscious in the street.
As Coupeau rushed toward Lantier, he was so astonished by the fresh air
that he staggered, and Lantier, with his hands in his pockets, merely
took a step to the side. Now the two men were almost shouting at each
other, Coupeau calling the other a lousy pig and threatening to make
sausage of his guts. They were shouting loudly and angrily and waving
their arms violently. Gervaise felt faint and as it continued for a
while, she closed her eyes. Suddenly, she didn’t hear any shouting and
opened her eyes. The two men were chatting amiably together.
Madame Lerat’s voice rose higher and higher, warbling another verse.
Gervaise exchanged a glance with Madame Boche and Virginie. Was it
going to end amicably then? Coupeau and Lantier continued to converse
on the edge of the pavement. They were still abusing each other, but in
a friendly way. As people were staring at them, they ended by strolling
leisurely side by side past the houses, turning round again every ten
yards or so. A very animated conversation was now taking place.
Suddenly Coupeau appeared to become angry again, whilst the other was
refusing something and required to be pressed. And it was the
zinc-worker who pushed Lantier along and who forced him to cross the
street and enter the shop.
“I tell you, you’re quite welcome!” shouted he. “You’ll take a glass of
wine. Men are men, you know. We ought to understand each other.”
Madame Lerat was finishing the last chorus. The ladies were singing all
together as they twisted their handkerchiefs.
“The child that is lost is the child of God’s love.”
The singer was greatly complimented and she resumed her seat affecting
to be quite broken down. She asked for something to drink because she
always put too much feeling into that song and she was constantly
afraid of straining her vocal chords. Everyone at the table now had
their eyes fixed on Lantier who, quietly seated beside Coupeau, was
devouring the last piece of Savoy cake which he dipped in his glass of
wine. With the exception of Virginie and Madame Boche none of the
guests knew him. The Lorilleuxs certainly scented some underhand
business, but not knowing what, they merely assumed their most
conceited air. Goujet, who had noticed Gervaise’s emotion, gave the
newcomer a sour look. As an awkward pause ensued Coupeau simply said:
“A friend of mine.”
And turning to his wife, added:
“Come, stir yourself! Perhaps there’s still some hot coffee left.”
Gervaise, feeling meek and stupid, looked at them one after the other.
At first, when her husband pushed her old lover into the shop, she
buried her head between her hands, the same as she instinctively did on
stormy days at each clap of thunder. She could not believe it possible;
the walls would fall in and crush them all. Then, when she saw the two
sitting together peacefully, she suddenly accepted it as quite natural.
A happy feeling of languor benumbed her, retained her all in a heap at
the edge of the table, with the sole desire of not being bothered. _Mon
Dieu!_ what is the use of putting oneself out when others do not, and
when things arrange themselves to the satisfaction of everybody? She
got up to see if there was any coffee left.
In the back-room the children had fallen asleep. That squint-eyed
Augustine had tyrannized over them all during the dessert, pilfering
their strawberries and frightening them with the most abominable
threats. Now she felt very ill, and was bent double upon a stool, not
uttering a word, her face ghastly pale. Fat Pauline had let her head
fall against Etienne’s shoulder, and he himself was sleeping on the
edge of the table. Nana was seated with Victor on the rug beside the
bedstead, she had passed her arm round his neck and was drawing him
towards her; and, succumbing to drowsiness and with her eyes shut, she
kept repeating in a feeble voice:
“Oh! Mamma, I’m not well; oh! mamma, I’m not well.”
“No wonder!” murmured Augustine, whose head was rolling about on her
shoulders, “they’re drunk; they’ve been singing like grown up persons.”
Gervaise received another blow on beholding Etienne. She felt as though
she would choke when she thought of the youngster’s father being there
in the other room, eating cake, and that he had not even expressed a
desire to kiss the little fellow. She was on the point of rousing
Etienne and of carrying him there in her arms. Then she again felt that
the quiet way in which matters had been arranged was the best. It would
not have been proper to have disturbed the harmony of the end of the
dinner. She returned with the coffee-pot and poured out a glass of
coffee for Lantier, who, by the way, did not appear to take any notice
of her.
“Now, it’s my turn,” stuttered Coupeau, in a thick voice. “You’ve been
keeping the best for the last. Well! I’ll sing you ‘That Piggish
Child.’”
“Yes, yes, ‘That Piggish Child,’” cried everyone.
The uproar was beginning again. Lantier was forgotten. The ladies
prepared their glasses and their knives for accompanying the chorus.
They laughed beforehand, as they looked at the zinc-worker, who
steadied himself on his legs as he put on his most vulgar air.
Mimicking the hoarse voice of an old woman, he sang:
“When out of bed each morn I hop,
I’m always precious queer;
I send him for a little drop
To the drinking-den that’s near.
A good half hour or more he’ll stay,
And that makes me so riled,
He swigs it half upon his way:
What a piggish child!”
And the ladies, striking their glasses, repeated in chorus in the midst
of a formidable gaiety:
“What a piggish child!
What a piggish child!”
Even the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or itself joined in now. The whole
neighborhood was singing “What a piggish child!” The little clockmaker,
the grocery clerks, the tripe woman and the fruit woman all knew the
song and joined in the chorus. The entire street seemed to be getting
drunk on the odors from the Coupeau party. In the reddish haze from the
two lamps, the noise of the party was enough to shut out the rumbling
of the last vehicles in the street. Two policemen rushed over, thinking
there was a riot, but on recognizing Poisson, they saluted him smartly
and went away between the darkened buildings.
Coupeau was now singing this verse:
“On Sundays at Petite Villette,
Whene’er the weather’s fine,
We call on uncle, old Tinette,
Who’s in the dustman line.
To feast upon some cherry stones
The young un’s almost wild,
And rolls amongst the dust and bones,
What a piggish child!
What a piggish child!”
Then the house almost collapsed, such a yell ascended in the calm warm
night air that the shouters applauded themselves, for it was useless
their hoping to be able to bawl any louder.
Not one of the party could ever recollect exactly how the carouse
terminated. It must have been very late, it’s quite certain, for not a
cat was to be seen in the street. Possibly too, they had all joined
hands and danced round the table. But all was submerged in a yellow
mist, in which red faces were jumping about, with mouths slit from ear
to ear. They had probably treated themselves to something stronger than
wine towards the end, and there was a vague suspicion that some one had
played them the trick of putting salt into the glasses. The children
must have undressed and put themselves to bed. On the morrow, Madame
Boche boasted of having treated Boche to a couple of clouts in a
corner, where he was conversing a great deal too close to the
charcoal-dealer; but Boche, who recollected nothing, said she must have
dreamt it. Everyone agreed that it wasn’t very decent the way Clemence
had carried on. She had ended by showing everything she had and then
been so sick that she had completely ruined one of the muslin curtains.
The men had at least the decency to go into the street; Lorilleux and
Poisson, feeling their stomachs upset, had stumblingly glided as far as
the pork-butcher’s shop. It is easy to see when a person has been well
brought up. For instance, the ladies, Madame Putois, Madame Lerat, and
Virginie, indisposed by the heat, had simply gone into the back-room
and taken their stays off; Virginie had even desired to lie on the bed
for a minute, just to obviate any unpleasant effects. Thus the party
had seemed to melt away, some disappearing behind the others, all
accompanying one another, and being lost sight of in the surrounding
darkness, to the accompaniment of a final uproar, a furious quarrel
between the Lorilleuxs, and an obstinate and mournful “trou la la, trou
la la,” of old Bru’s. Gervaise had an idea that Goujet had burst out
sobbing when bidding her good-bye; Coupeau was still singing; and as
for Lantier, he must have remained till the end. At one moment even,
she could still feel a breath against her hair, but she was unable to
say whether it came from Lantier or if it was the warm night air.
Since Madame Lerat didn’t want to return to Les Batignolles at such a
late hour, they took one of the mattresses off the bed and spread it
for her in a corner of the shop, after pushing back the table. She
slept right there amid all the dinner crumbs. All night long, while the
Coupeaus were sleeping, a neighbor’s cat took advantage of an open
window and was crunching the bones of the goose with its sharp teeth,
giving the bird its final resting place.