That night Coupeau went on a spree. Next day, Gervaise received ten
francs from her son Etienne, who was a mechanic on some railway. The
youngster sent her a few francs from time to time, knowing that they
were not very well off at home. She made some soup, and ate it all
alone, for that scoundrel Coupeau did not return on the morrow. On
Monday he was still absent, and on Tuesday also. The whole week went
by. Ah, it would be good luck if some woman took him in.
On Sunday Gervaise received a printed document. It was to inform her
that her husband was dying at the Sainte-Anne asylum.
Gervaise did not disturb herself. He knew the way; he could very well
get home from the asylum by himself. They had cured him there so often
that they could once more do him the sorry service of putting him on
his pins again. Had she not heard that very morning that for the week
before Coupeau had been seen as round as a ball, rolling about
Belleville from one dram shop to another in the company of My-Boots.
Exactly so; and it was My-Boots, too, who stood treat. He must have
hooked his missus’s stocking with all the savings gained at very hard
work. It wasn’t clean money they had used, but money that could infect
them with any manner of vile diseases. Well, anyway, they hadn’t
thought to invite her for a drink. If you wanted to drink by yourself,
you could croak by yourself.
However, on Monday, as Gervaise had a nice little meal planned for the
evening, the remains of some beans and a pint of wine, she pretended to
herself that a walk would give her an appetite. The letter from the
asylum which she had left lying on the bureau bothered her. The snow
had melted, the day was mild and grey and on the whole fine, with just
a slight keenness in the air which was invigorating. She started at
noon, for her walk was a long one. She had to cross Paris and her bad
leg always slowed her. With that the streets were crowded; but the
people amused her; she reached her destination very pleasantly. When
she had given her name, she was told a most astounding story to the
effect that Coupeau had been fished out of the Seine close to the
Pont-Neuf. He had jumped over the parapet, under the impression that a
bearded man was barring his way. A fine jump, was it not? And as for
finding out how Coupeau got to be on the Pont-Neuf, that was a matter
he could not even explain himself.
One of the keepers escorted Gervaise. She was ascending a staircase,
when she heard howlings which made her shiver to her very bones.
“He’s playing a nice music, isn’t he?” observed the keeper.
“Who is?” asked she.
“Why, your old man! He’s been yelling like that ever since the day
before yesterday; and he dances, you’ll just see.”
_Mon Dieu!_ what a sight! She stood as one transfixed. The cell was
padded from the floor to the ceiling. On the floor there were two straw
mats, one piled on top of the other; and in a corner were spread a
mattress and a bolster, nothing more. Inside there Coupeau was dancing
and yelling, his blouse in tatters and his limbs beating the air. He
wore the mask of one about to die. What a breakdown! He bumped up
against the window, then retired backwards, beating time with his arms
and shaking his hands as though he were trying to wrench them off and
fling them in somebody’s face. One meets with buffoons in low dancing
places who imitate the delirium tremens, only they imitate it badly.
One must see this drunkard’s dance if one wishes to know what it is
like when gone through in earnest. The song also has its merits, a
continuous yell worthy of carnival-time, a mouth wide open uttering the
same hoarse trombone notes for hours together. Coupeau had the howl of
a beast with a crushed paw. Strike up, music! Gentlemen, choose your
partners!
“_Mon Dieu!_ what is the matter with him? What is the matter with him?”
repeated Gervaise, seized with fear.
A house surgeon, a big fair fellow with a rosy countenance, and wearing
a white apron, was quietly sitting taking notes. The case was a curious
one; the doctor did not leave the patient.
“Stay a while if you like,” said he to the laundress; “but keep quiet.
Try and speak to him, he will not recognise you.”
Coupeau indeed did not even appear to see his wife. She had only had a
bad view of him on entering, he was wriggling about so much. When she
looked him full in the face, she stood aghast. _Mon Dieu!_ was it
possible he had a countenance like that, his eyes full of blood and his
lips covered with scabs? She would certainly never have known him. To
begin with, he was making too many grimaces, without saying why, his
mouth suddenly out of all shape, his nose curled up, his cheeks drawn
in, a perfect animal’s muzzle. His skin was so hot the air steamed
around him; and his hide was as though varnished, covered with a heavy
sweat which trickled off him. In his mad dance, one could see all the
same that he was not at his ease, his head was heavy and his limbs
ached.
Gervaise drew near to the house surgeon, who was strumming a tune with
the tips of his fingers on the back of his chair.
“Tell me, sir, it’s serious then this time?”
The house surgeon nodded his head without answering.
“Isn’t he jabbering to himself? Eh! don’t you hear? What’s it about?
“About things he sees,” murmured the young man. “Keep quiet, let me
listen.”
Coupeau was speaking in a jerky voice. A glimmer of amusement lit up
his eyes. He looked on the floor, to the right, to the left, and turned
about as though he had been strolling in the Bois de Vincennes,
conversing with himself.
“Ah! that’s nice, that’s grand! There’re cottages, a regular fair. And
some jolly fine music! What a Balthazar’s feast! They’re smashing the
crockery in there. Awfully swell! Now it’s being lit up; red balls in
the air, and it jumps, and it flies! Oh! oh! what a lot of lanterns in
the trees! It’s confoundedly pleasant! There’s water flowing
everywhere, fountains, cascades, water which sings, oh! with the voice
of a chorister. The cascades are grand!”
And he drew himself up, as though the better to hear the delicious song
of the water; he sucked in forcibly, fancying he was drinking the fresh
spray blown from the fountains. But, little by little, his face resumed
an agonized expression. Then he crouched down and flew quicker than
ever around the walls of the cell, uttering vague threats.
“More traps, all that! I thought as much. Silence, you set of
swindlers! Yes, you’re making a fool of me. It’s for that that you’re
drinking and bawling inside there with your viragoes. I’ll demolish
you, you and your cottage! Damnation! Will you leave me in peace?”
He clinched his fists; then he uttered a hoarse cry, stooping as he
ran. And he stuttered, his teeth chattering with fright.
“It’s so that I may kill myself. No, I won’t throw myself in! All that
water means that I’ve no heart. No, I won’t throw myself in!”
The cascades, which fled at his approach, advanced when he retired. And
all of a sudden, he looked stupidly around him, mumbling, in a voice
which was scarcely audible:
“It isn’t possible, they set conjurers against me!”
“I’m off, sir. I’ve got to go. Good-night!” said Gervaise to the house
surgeon. “It upsets me too much; I’ll come again.”
She was quite white. Coupeau was continuing his breakdown from the
window to the mattress and from the mattress to the window, perspiring,
toiling, always beating the same rhythm. Then she hurried away. But
though she scrambled down the stairs, she still heard her husband’s
confounded jig until she reached the bottom. Ah! _Mon Dieu!_ how
pleasant it was out of doors, one could breathe there!
That evening everyone in the tenement was discussing Coupeau’s strange
malady. The Boches invited Gervaise to have a drink with them, even
though they now considered Clump-clump beneath them, in order to hear
all the details. Madame Lorilleux and Madame Poisson were there also.
Boche told of a carpenter he had known who had been a drinker of
absinthe. The man shed his clothes, went out in the street and danced
the polka until he died. That rather struck the ladies as comic, even
though it was very sad.
Gervaise got up in the middle of the room and did an imitation of
Coupeau. Yes, that’s just how it was. Can anyone feature a man doing
that for hours on end? If they didn’t believe they could go see for
themselves.
On getting up the next morning, Gervaise promised herself she would not
return to the Sainte-Anne again. What use would it be? She did not want
to go off her head also. However, every ten minutes, she fell to musing
and became absent-minded. It would be curious though, if he were still
throwing his legs about. When twelve o’clock struck, she could no
longer resist; she started off and did not notice how long the walk
was, her brain was so full of her desire to go and the dread of what
awaited her.
Oh! there was no need for her to ask for news. She heard Coupeau’s song
the moment she reached the foot of the staircase. Just the same tune,
just the same dance. She might have thought herself going up again
after having only been down for a minute. The attendant of the day
before, who was carrying some jugs of tisane along the corridor, winked
his eye as he met her, by way of being amiable.
“Still the same, then?” said she.
“Oh! still the same!” he replied without stopping.
She entered the room, but she remained near the door, because there
were some people with Coupeau. The fair, rosy house surgeon was
standing up, having given his chair to a bald old gentleman who was
decorated and had a pointed face like a weasel. He was no doubt the
head doctor, for his glance was as sharp and piercing as a gimlet. All
the dealers in sudden death have a glance like that.
No, really, it was not a pretty sight; and Gervaise, all in a tremble,
asked herself why she had returned. To think that the evening before
they accused her at the Boches’ of exaggerating the picture! Now she
saw better how Coupeau set about it, his eyes wide open looking into
space, and she would never forget it. She overheard a few words between
the house surgeon and the head doctor. The former was giving some
details of the night: her husband had talked and thrown himself about,
that was what it amounted to. Then the bald-headed old gentleman, who
was not very polite by the way, at length appeared to become aware of
her presence; and when the house surgeon had informed him that she was
the patient’s wife, he began to question her in the harsh manner of a
commissary of the police.
“Did this man’s father drink?”
“Yes, sir; just a little like everyone. He killed himself by falling
from a roof one day when he was tipsy.”
“Did his mother drink?”
“Well! sir, like everyone else, you know; a drop here, a drop there.
Oh! the family is very respectable! There was a brother who died very
young in convulsions.”
The doctor looked at her with his piercing eye. He resumed in his rough
voice:
“And you, you drink too, don’t you?”
Gervaise stammered, protested, and placed her hand upon her heart, as
though to take her solemn oath.
“You drink! Take care; see where drink leads to. One day or other you
will die thus.”
Then she remained close to the wall. The doctor had turned his back to
her. He squatted down, without troubling himself as to whether his
overcoat trailed in the dust of the matting; for a long while he
studied Coupeau’s trembling, waiting for its reappearance, following it
with his glance. That day the legs were going in their turn, the
trembling had descended from the hands to the feet; a regular puppet
with his strings being pulled, throwing his limbs about, whilst the
trunk of his body remained as stiff as a piece of wood. The disease
progressed little by little. It was like a musical box beneath the
skin; it started off every three or four seconds and rolled along for
an instant; then it stopped and then it started off again, just the
same as the little shiver which shakes stray dogs in winter, when cold
and standing in some doorway for protection. Already the middle of the
body and the shoulders quivered like water on the point of boiling. It
was a funny demolition all the same, going off wriggling like a girl
being tickled.
Coupeau, meanwhile, was complaining in a hollow voice. He seemed to
suffer a great deal more than the day before. His broken murmurs
disclosed all sorts of ailments. Thousands of pins were pricking him.
He felt something heavy all about his body; some cold, wet animal was
crawling over his thighs and digging its fangs into his flesh. Then
there were other animals sticking to his shoulders, tearing his back
with their claws.
“I’m thirsty, oh! I’m thirsty!” groaned he continually.
The house surgeon handed him a little lemonade from a small shelf;
Coupeau seized the mug in both hands and greedily took a mouthful,
spilling half the liquid over himself; but he spat it out at once with
furious disgust, exclaiming:
“Damnation! It’s brandy!”
Then, on a sign from the doctor, the house surgeon tried to make him
drink some water without leaving go of the bottle. This time he
swallowed the mouthful, yelling as though he had swallowed fire.
“It’s brandy; damnation! It’s brandy!”
Since the night before, everything he had had to drink was brandy. It
redoubled his thirst and he could no longer drink, because everything
burnt him. They had brought him some broth, but they were evidently
trying to poison him, for the broth smelt of vitriol. The bread was
sour and moldy. There was nothing but poison around him. The cell stank
of sulphur. He even accused persons of rubbing matches under his nose
to infect him.
All on a sudden he exclaimed:
“Oh! the rats, there’re the rats now!”
There were black balls that were changing into rats. These filthy
animals got fatter and fatter, then they jumped onto the mattress and
disappeared. There was also a monkey which came out of the wall, and
went back into the wall, and which approached so near him each time,
that he drew back through fear of having his nose bitten off. Suddenly
there was another change, the walls were probably cutting capers, for
he yelled out, choking with terror and rage:
“That’s it, gee up! Shake me, I don’t care! Gee up! Tumble down! Yes,
ring the bells, you black crows! Play the organ to prevent my calling
the police. They’ve put a bomb behind the wall, the lousy scoundrels! I
can hear it, it snorts, they’re going to blow us up! Fire! Damnation,
fire! There’s a cry of fire! There it blazes. Oh, it’s getting lighter,
lighter! All the sky’s burning, red fires, green fires, yellow fires.
Hi! Help! Fire!”
His cries became lost in a rattle. He now only mumbled disconnected
words, foaming at the mouth, his chin wet with saliva. The doctor
rubbed his nose with his finger, a movement no doubt habitual with him
in the presence of serious cases. He turned to the house surgeon, and
asked him in a low voice:
“And the temperature, still the hundred degrees, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
The doctor pursed his lips. He continued there another two minutes, his
eyes fixed on Coupeau. Then he shrugged his shoulders, adding:
“The same treatment, broth, milk, lemonade, and the potion of extract
of quinine. Do not leave him, and call me if necessary.”
He went out and Gervaise followed him, to ask him if there was any
hope. But he walked so stiffly along the corridor, that she did not
dare approach him. She stood rooted there a minute, hesitating whether
to return and look at her husband. The time she had already passed had
been far from pleasant. As she again heard him calling out that the
lemonade smelt of brandy, she hurried away, having had enough of the
performance. In the streets, the galloping of the horses and the noise
of the vehicles made her fancy that all the inmates of Saint-Anne were
at her heels. And that the doctor had threatened her! Really, she
already thought she had the complaint.
In the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or the Boches and the others were naturally
awaiting her. The moment she appeared they called her into the
concierge’s room. Well! was old Coupeau still in the land of the
living? _Mon Dieu!_ yes, he still lived. Boche seemed amazed and
confounded; he had bet a bottle that old Coupeau would not last till
the evening. What! He still lived! And they all exhibited their
astonishment, and slapped their thighs. There was a fellow who lasted!
Madame Lorilleux reckoned up the hours; thirty-six hours and
twenty-four hours, sixty hours. _Sacre Dieu!_ already sixty hours that
he had been doing the jig and screaming! Such a feat of strength had
never been seen before. But Boche, who was upset that he had lost the
bet, questioned Gervaise with an air of doubt, asking her if she was
quite sure he had not filed off behind her back. Oh! no, he had no
desire to, he jumped about too much. Then Boche, still doubting, begged
her to show them again a little how he was acting, just so they could
see. Yes, yes, a little more! The request was general! The company told
her she would be very kind if she would oblige, for just then two
neighbors happened to be there who had not been present the day before,
and who had come down purposely to see the performance. The concierge
called to everybody to make room, they cleared the centre of the
apartment, pushing one another with their elbows, and quivering with
curiosity. Gervaise, however, hung down her head. Really, she was
afraid it might upset her. Desirous though of showing that she did not
refuse for the sake of being pressed, she tried two or three little
leaps; but she became quite queer, and stopped; on her word of honor,
she was not equal to it! There was a murmur of disappointment; it was a
pity, she imitated it perfectly. However, she could not do it, it was
no use insisting! And when Virginie left to return to her shop, they
forgot all about old Coupeau and began to gossip about the Poissons and
their home, a real mess now. The day before, the bailiffs had been; the
policeman was about to lose his place; as for Lantier, he was now
making up to the daughter of the restaurant keeper next door, a fine
woman, who talked of setting up as a tripe-seller. Ah! it was amusing,
everyone already beheld a tripe-seller occupying the shop; after the
sweets should come something substantial. And that blind Poisson! How
could a man whose profession required him to be so smart fail to see
what was going on in his own home? They stopped talking suddenly when
they noticed that Gervaise was off in a corner by herself imitating
Coupeau. Her hands and feet were jerking. Yes, they couldn’t ask for a
better performance! Then Gervaise started as if waking from a dream and
hurried away calling out good-night to everyone.
On the morrow, the Boches saw her start off at twelve, the same as on
the two previous days. They wished her a pleasant afternoon. That day
the corridor at Sainte-Anne positively shook with Coupeau’s yells and
kicks. She had not left the stairs when she heard him yelling:
“What a lot of bugs!—Come this way again that I may squash you!—Ah!
they want to kill me! ah! the bugs!—I’m a bigger swell than the lot of
you! Clear out, damnation! Clear out.”
For a moment she stood panting before the door. Was he then fighting
against an army? When she entered, the performance had increased and
was embellished even more than on previous occasions. Coupeau was a
raving madman, the same as one sees at the Charenton mad-house! He was
throwing himself about in the center of the cell, slamming his fists
everywhere, on himself, on the walls, on the floor, and stumbling about
punching empty space. He wanted to open the window, and he hid himself,
defended himself, called, answered, produced all this uproar without
the least assistance, in the exasperated way of a man beset by a mob of
people. Then Gervaise understood that he fancied he was on a roof,
laying down sheets of zinc. He imitated the bellows with his mouth, he
moved the iron about in the fire and knelt down so as to pass his thumb
along the edges of the mat, thinking that he was soldering it. Yes, his
handicraft returned to him at the moment of croaking; and if he yelled
so loud, if he fought on his roof, it was because ugly scoundrels were
preventing him doing his work properly. On all the neighboring roofs
were villains mocking and tormenting him. Besides that, the jokers were
letting troops of rats loose about his legs. Ah! the filthy beasts, he
saw them always! Though he kept crushing them, bringing his foot down
with all his strength, fresh hordes of them continued passing, until
they quite covered the roof. And there were spiders there too! He
roughly pressed his trousers against his thigh to squash some big
spiders which had crept up his leg. _Mon Dieu!_ he would never finish
his day’s work, they wanted to destroy him, his employer would send him
to prison. Then, whilst making haste, he suddenly imagined he had a
steam-engine in his stomach; with his mouth wide open, he puffed out
the smoke, a dense smoke which filled the cell and found an outlet by
the window; and, bending forward, still puffing, he looked outside of
the cloud of smoke as it unrolled and ascended to the sky, where it hid
the sun.
“Look!” cried he, “there’s the band of the Chaussee Clignancourt,
disguised as bears with drums, putting on a show.”
He remained crouching before the window, as though he had been watching
a procession in a street, from some rooftop.
“There’s the cavalcade, lions and panthers making grimaces—there’s
brats dressed up as dogs and cats—there’s tall Clemence, with her wig
full of feathers. Ah! _Mon Dieu!_ she’s turning head over heels; she’s
showed everything—you’d better run, Duckie. Hey, the cops, leave her
alone!—just you leave her alone—don’t shoot! Don’t shoot—”
His voice rose, hoarse and terrified and he stooped down quickly,
saying that the police and the military were below, men who were aiming
at him with rifles. In the wall he saw the barrel of a pistol emerging,
pointed at his breast. They had dragged the girl away.
“Don’t shoot! _Mon Dieu!_ Don’t shoot!”
Then, the buildings were tumbling down, he imitated the cracking of a
whole neighborhood collapsing; and all disappeared, all flew off. But
he had no time to take breath, other pictures passed with extraordinary
rapidity. A furious desire to speak filled his mouth full of words
which he uttered without any connection, and with a gurgling sound in
his throat. He continued to raise his voice, louder and louder.
“Hallow, it’s you? Good-day! No jokes! Don’t make me nuzzle your hair.”
And he passed his hand before his face, he blew to send the hairs away.
The house surgeon questioned him.
“Who is it you see?”
“My wife, of course!”
He was looking at the wall, with his back to Gervaise. The latter had a
rare fright, and she examined the wall, to see if she also could catch
sight of herself there. He continued talking.
“Now, you know, none of your wheedling—I won’t be tied down! You are
pretty, you have got a fine dress. Where did you get the money for it,
you cow? You’ve been at a party, camel! Wait a bit and I’ll do for you!
Ah! you’re hiding your boy friend behind your skirts. Who is it? Stoop
down that I may see. Damnation, it’s him again!”
With a terrible leap, he went head first against the wall; but the
padding softened the blow. One only heard his body rebounding onto the
matting, where the shock had sent him.
“Who is it you see?” repeated the house surgeon.
“The hatter! The hatter!” yelled Coupeau.
And the house surgeon questioning Gervaise, the latter stuttered
without being able to answer, for this scene stirred up within her all
the worries of her life. The zinc-worker thrust out his fists.
“We’ll settle this between us, my lad. It’s full time I did for you!
Ah, you coolly come, with that virago on your arm, to make a fool of me
before everyone. Well! I’m going to throttle you—yes, yes, I! And
without putting any gloves on either! I’ll stop your swaggering. Take
that! And that! And that!”
He hit about in the air viciously. Then a wild rage took possession of
him. Having bumped against the wall in walking backwards, he thought he
was being attacked from behind. He turned round, and fiercely hammered
away at the padding. He sprang about, jumped from one corner to
another, knocked his stomach, his back, his shoulder, rolled over, and
picked himself up again. His bones seemed softened, his flesh had a
sound like damp oakum. He accompanied this pretty game with atrocious
threats, and wild and guttural cries. However the battle must have been
going badly for him, for his breathing became quicker, his eyes were
starting out of his head, and he seemed little by little to be seized
with the cowardice of a child.
“Murder! Murder! Be off with you both. Oh! you brutes, they’re
laughing. There she is on her back, the virago! She must give in, it’s
settled. Ah! the brigand, he’s murdering her! He’s cutting off her leg
with his knife. The other leg’s on the ground, the stomach’s in two,
it’s full of blood. Oh! _Mon Dieu!_ Oh! _Mon Dieu!_”
And, covered with perspiration, his hair standing on end, looking a
frightful object, he retired backwards, violently waving his arms, as
though to send the abominable sight from him. He uttered two
heart-rending wails, and fell flat on his back on the mattress, against
which his heels had caught.
“He’s dead, sir, he’s dead!” said Gervaise, clasping her hands.
The house surgeon had drawn near, and was pulling Coupeau into the
middle of the mattress. No, he was not dead. They had taken his shoes
off. His bare feet hung off the end of the mattress and they were
dancing all by themselves, one beside the other, in time, a little
hurried and regular dance.
Just then the head doctor entered. He had brought two of his
colleagues—one thin, the other fat, and both decorated like himself.
All three stooped down without saying a word, and examined the man all
over; then they rapidly conversed together in a low voice. They had
uncovered Coupeau from his thighs to his shoulders, and by standing on
tiptoe Gervaise could see the naked trunk spread out. Well! it was
complete. The trembling had descended from the arms and ascended from
the legs, and now the trunk itself was getting lively!
“He’s sleeping,” murmured the head doctor.
And he called the two others’ attention to the man’s countenance.
Coupeau, his eyes closed, had little nervous twinges which drew up all
his face. He was more hideous still, thus flattened out, with his jaw
projecting, and his visage deformed like a corpse’s that had suffered
from nightmare; but the doctors, having caught sight of his feet, went
and poked their noses over them, with an air of profound interest. The
feet were still dancing. Though Coupeau slept the feet danced. Oh!
their owner might snore, that did not concern them, they continued
their little occupation without either hurrying or slackening. Regular
mechanical feet, feet which took their pleasure wherever they found it.
Gervaise having seen the doctors place their hands on her old man,
wished to feel him also. She approached gently and laid a hand on his
shoulder, and she kept it there a minute. _Mon Dieu!_ whatever was
taking place inside? It danced down into the very depths of the flesh,
the bones themselves must have been jumping. Quiverings, undulations,
coming from afar, flowed like a river beneath the skin. When she
pressed a little she felt she distinguished the suffering cries of the
marrow. What a fearful thing, something was boring away like a mole! It
must be the rotgut from l’Assommoir that was hacking away inside him.
Well! his entire body had been soaked in it.
The doctors had gone away. At the end of an hour Gervaise, who had
remained with the house surgeon, repeated in a low voice:
“He’s dead, sir; he’s dead!”
But the house surgeon, who was watching the feet, shook his head. The
bare feet, projecting beyond the mattress, still danced on. They were
not particularly clean and the nails were long. Several more hours
passed. All on a sudden they stiffened and became motionless. Then the
house surgeon turned towards Gervaise, saying:
“It’s over now.”
Death alone had been able to stop those feet.
When Gervaise got back to the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or she found at the
Boches’ a number of women who were cackling in excited tones. She
thought they were awaiting her to have the latest news, the same as the
other days.
“He’s gone,” said she, quietly, as she pushed open the door, looking
tired out and dull.
But no one listened to her. The whole building was topsy-turvy. Oh! a
most extraordinary story. Poisson had caught his wife with Lantier.
Exact details were not known, because everyone had a different version.
However, he had appeared just when they were not expecting him. Some
further information was given, which the ladies repeated to one another
as they pursed their lips. A sight like that had naturally brought
Poisson out of his shell. He was a regular tiger. This man, who talked
but little and who always seemed to walk with a stick up his back, had
begun to roar and jump about. Then nothing more had been heard. Lantier
had evidently explained things to the husband. Anyhow, it could not
last much longer, and Boche announced that the girl of the restaurant
was for certain going to take the shop for selling tripe. That rogue of
a hatter adored tripe.
On seeing Madame Lorilleux and Madame Lerat arrive, Gervaise repeated,
faintly:
“He’s gone. _Mon Dieu!_ Four days’ dancing and yelling—”
Then the two sisters could not do otherwise than pull out their
handkerchiefs. Their brother had had many faults, but after all he was
their brother. Boche shrugged his shoulders and said, loud enough to be
heard by everyone:
“Bah! It’s a drunkard the less.”
From that day, as Gervaise often got a bit befuddled, one of the
amusements of the house was to see her imitate Coupeau. It was no
longer necessary to press her; she gave the performance gratis, her
hands and feet trembling as she uttered little involuntary shrieks. She
must have caught this habit at Sainte-Anne from watching her husband
too long.
Gervaise lasted in this state several months. She fell lower and lower
still, submitting to the grossest outrages and dying of starvation a
little every day. As soon as she had four sous she drank and pounded on
the walls. She was employed on all the dirty errands of the
neighborhood. Once they even bet her she wouldn’t eat filth, but she
did it in order to earn ten sous. Monsieur Marescot had decided to turn
her out of her room on the sixth floor. But, as Pere Bru had just been
found dead in his cubbyhole under the staircase, the landlord had
allowed her to turn into it. Now she roosted there in the place of Pere
Bru. It was inside there, on some straw, that her teeth chattered,
whilst her stomach was empty and her bones were frozen. The earth would
not have her apparently. She was becoming idiotic. She did not even
think of making an end of herself by jumping out of the sixth floor
window on to the pavement of the courtyard below. Death had to take her
little by little, bit by bit, dragging her thus to the end through the
accursed existence she had made for herself. It was never even exactly
known what she did die of. There was some talk of a cold, but the truth
was she died of privation and of the filth and hardship of her ruined
life. Overeating and dissoluteness killed her, according to the
Lorilleuxs. One morning, as there was a bad smell in the passage, it
was remembered that she had not been seen for two days, and she was
discovered already green in her hole.
It happened to be old Bazouge who came with the pauper’s coffin under
his arm to pack her up. He was again precious drunk that day, but a
jolly fellow all the same, and as lively as a cricket. When he
recognized the customer he had to deal with he uttered several
philosophical reflections, whilst performing his little business.
“Everyone has to go. There’s no occasion for jostling, there’s room for
everyone. And it’s stupid being in a hurry that just slows you up. All
I want to do is to please everybody. Some will, others won’t. What’s
the result? Here’s one who wouldn’t, then she would. So she was made to
wait. Anyhow, it’s all right now, and faith! She’s earned it! Merrily,
just take it easy.”
And when he took hold of Gervaise in his big, dirty hands, he was
seized with emotion, and he gently raised this woman who had had so
great a longing for his attentions. Then, as he laid her out with
paternal care at the bottom of the coffin, he stuttered between two
hiccoughs:
“You know—now listen—it’s me, Bibi-the-Gay, called the ladies’
consoler. There, you’re happy now. Go by-by, my beauty!”
THE END