Kabanata Kabanata 12 · POVERTY AND DEGRADATION

. POVERTY AND DEGRADATION

The weather was intensely cold about the middle of January. Gervaise

had not been able to pay her rent, due on the first. She had little

or no work and consequently no food to speak of. The sky was dark and

gloomy and the air heavy with the coming of a storm. Gervaise thought

it barely possible that her husband might come in with a little money.

After all, everything is possible, and he had said that he would work.

Gervaise after a little, by dint of dwelling on this thought, had come

to consider it a certainty. Yes, Coupeau would bring home some money,

and they would have a good, hot, comfortable dinner. As to herself,

she had given up trying to get work, for no one would have her. This

did not much trouble her, however, for she had arrived at that point

when the mere exertion of moving had become intolerable to her. She

now lay stretched on the bed, for she was warmer there.

Gervaise called it a bed. In reality it was only a pile of straw

in the corner, for she had sold her bed and all her furniture. She

occasionally swept the straw together with a broom, and, after all,

it was neither dustier nor dirtier than everything else in the place.

On this straw, therefore, Gervaise now lay with her eyes wide open.

How long, she wondered, could people live without eating? She was not

hungry, but there was a strange weight at the pit of her stomach. Her

haggard eyes wandered about the room in search of anything she could

sell. She vaguely wished someone would buy the spider webs which hung

in all the corners. She knew them to be very good for cuts, but she

doubted if they had any market value.

Tired of this contemplation, she got up and took her one chair to

the window and looked out into the dingy courtyard.

Her landlord had been there that day and declared he would wait only

one week for his money, and if it were not forthcoming he would turn

them into the street. It drove her wild to see him stand in his heavy

overcoat and tell her so coldly that he would pack her off at once.

She hated him with a vindictive hatred, as she did her fool of a

husband and the Lorilleuxs and Poissons. In fact, she hated everyone

on that especial day.

Unfortunately people can't live without eating, and before the woman's

famished eyes floated visions of food. Not of dainty little dishes.

She had long since ceased to care for those and ate all she could get

without being in the least fastidious in regard to its quality. When

she had a little money she bought a bullock's heart or a bit of cheese

or some beans, and sometimes she begged from a restaurant and made

a sort of panada of the crusts they gave her, which she cooked on a

neighbor's stove. She was quite willing to dispute with a dog for a

bone. Once the thought of such things would have disgusted her, but

at that time she did not--for three days in succession--go without a

morsel of food. She remembered how last week Coupeau had stolen a half

loaf of bread and sold it, or rather exchanged it, for liquor.

She sat at the window, looking at the pale sky, and finally fell

asleep. She dreamed that she was out in a snowstorm and could not find

her way home. She awoke with a start and saw that night was coming on.

How long the days are when one's stomach is empty! She waited for

Coupeau and the relief he would bring.

The clock struck in the next room. Could it be possible? Was it only

three? Then she began to cry. How could she ever wait until seven?

After another half-hour of suspense she started up. Yes, they might

say what they pleased, but she, at least, would try to borrow ten

sous from the Lorilleuxs.

There was a continual borrowing of small sums in this corridor during

the winter, but no matter what was the emergency no one ever dreamed

of applying to the Lorilleuxs. Gervaise summoned all her courage and

rapped at the door.

"Come in!" cried a sharp voice.

How good it was there! Warm and bright with the glow of the forge. And

Gervaise smelled the soup, too, and it made her feel faint and sick.

"Ah, it is you, is it?" said Mme Lorilleux. "What do you want?"

Gervaise hesitated. The application for ten sous stuck in her throat,

because she saw Boche seated by the stove.

"What do you want?" asked Lorilleux, in his turn.

"Have you seen Coupeau?" stammered Gervaise. "I thought he was here."

His sister answered with a sneer that they rarely saw Coupeau. They

were not rich enough to offer him as many glasses of wine as he wanted

in these days.

Gervaise stammered out a disconnected sentence.

He had promised to come home. She needed food; she needed money.

A profound silence followed. Mme Lorilleux fanned her fire, and her

husband bent more closely over his work, while Boche smiled with an

expectant air.

"If I could have ten sous," murmured Gervaise.

The silence continued.

"If you would lend them to me," said Gervaise, "I would give them back

in the morning."

Mme Lorilleux turned and looked her full in the face, thinking to

herself that if she yielded once the next day it would be twenty sous,

and who could tell where it would stop?

"But, my dear," she cried, "you know we have no money and no prospect

of any; otherwise, of course, we would oblige you."

"Certainly," said Lorilleux, "the heart is willing, but the pockets

are empty."

Gervaise bowed her head, but she did not leave instantly. She looked

at the gold wire on which her sister-in-law was working and at that in

the hands of Lorilleux and thought that it would take a mere scrap to

give her a good dinner. On that day the room was very dirty and filled

with charcoal dust, but she saw it resplendent with riches like the

shop of a money-changer, and she said once more in a low, soft voice:

"I will bring back the ten sous. I will, indeed!" Tears were in her

eyes, but she was determined not to say that she had eaten nothing

for twenty-four hours.

"I can't tell you how much I need it," she continued.

The husband and wife exchanged a look. Wooden Legs begging at their

door! Well! Well! Who would have thought it? Why had they not known it

was she when they rashly called out, "Come in?" Really, they could not

allow such people to cross their threshold; there was too much that

was valuable in the room. They had several times distrusted Gervaise;

she looked about so queerly, and now they would not take their eyes

off her.

Gervaise went toward Lorilleux as she spoke.

"Take care!" he said roughly. "You will carry off some of the

particles of gold on the soles of your shoes. It looks really as

if you had greased them!"

Gervaise drew back. She leaned against the _etagere_ for a moment

and, seeing that her sister-in-law's eyes were fixed on her hands,

she opened them and said in a gentle, weary voice--the voice of a

woman who had ceased to struggle:

"I have taken nothing. You can look for yourself."

And she went away; the warmth of the place and the smell of the soup

were unbearable.

The Lorilleuxs shrugged their shoulders as the door closed. They

hoped they had seen the last of her face. She had brought all her

misfortunes on her own head, and she had, therefore, no right to

expect any assistance from them. Boche joined in these animadversions,

and all three considered themselves avenged for the blue shop and all

the rest.

"I know her!" said Mme Lorilleux. "If I had lent her the ten sous she

wanted she would have spent it in liquor."

Gervaise crawled down the corridor with slipshod shoes and slouching

shoulders, but at her door she hesitated; she could not go in: she was

afraid. She would walk up and down a little--that would keep her warm.

As she passed she looked in at Father Bru, but to her surprise he was

not there, and she asked herself with a pang of jealousy if anyone

could possibly have asked him out to dine. When she reached the

Bijards' she heard a groan. She went in.

"What is the matter?" she said.

The room was very clean and in perfect order. Lalie that very morning

had swept and arranged everything. In vain did the cold blast of

poverty blow through that chamber and bring with it dirt and disorder.

Lalie was always there; she cleaned and scrubbed and gave to

everything a look of gentility. There was little money but much

cleanliness within those four walls.

The two children were cutting out pictures in a corner, but Lalie was

in bed, lying very straight and pale, with the sheet pulled over her

chin.

"What is the matter?" asked Gervaise anxiously.

Lalie slowly lifted her white lids and tried to speak.

"Nothing," she said faintly; "nothing, I assure you!" Then as her eyes

closed she added:

"I am only a little lazy and am taking my ease."

But her face bore the traces of such frightful agony that Gervaise

fell on her knees by the side of the bed. She knew that the child

had had a cough for a month, and she saw the blood trickling from

the corners of her mouth.

"It is not my fault," Lalie murmured. "I thought I was strong enough,

and I washed the floor. I could not finish the windows though.

Everything but those are clean. But I was so tired that I was obliged

to lie down----"

She interrupted herself to say:

"Please see that my children are not cutting themselves with the

scissors."

She started at the sound of a heavy step on the stairs. Her father

noisily pushed open the door. As usual he had drunk too much, and

in his eyes blazed the lurid flames kindled by alcohol.

When he saw Lalie lying down he walked to the corner and took up the

long whip, from which he slowly unwound the lash.

"This is a good joke!" he said. "The idea of your daring to go to bed

at this hour. Come, up with you!"

He snapped the whip over the bed, and the child murmured softly:

"Do not strike me, Papa. I am sure you will be sorry if you do. Do not

strike me!"

"Up with you!" he cried. "Up with you!"

Then she answered faintly:

"I cannot, for I am dying."

Gervaise had snatched the whip from Bijard, who stood with his under

jaw dropped, glaring at his daughter. What could the little fool mean?

Whoever heard of a child dying like that when she had not even been

sick? Oh, she was lying!

"You will see that I am telling you the truth," she replied. "I did

not tell you as long as I could help it. Be kind to me now, Papa, and

say good-by as if you loved me."

Bijard passed his hand over his eyes. She did look very strangely--her

face was that of a grown woman. The presence of death in that cramped

room sobered him suddenly. He looked around with the air of a man who

had been suddenly awakened from a dream. He saw the two little ones

clean and happy and the room neat and orderly.

He fell into a chair.

"Dear little mother!" he murmured. "Dear little mother!"

This was all he said, but it was very sweet to Lalie, who had never

been spoiled by overpraise. She comforted him. She told him how

grieved she was to go away and leave him before she had entirely

brought up her children. He would watch over them, would he not? And

in her dying voice she gave him some little details in regard to their

clothes. He--the alcohol having regained its power--listened with

round eyes of wonder.

After a long silence Lalie spoke again:

"We owe four francs and seven sous to the baker. He must be paid.

Madame Goudron has an iron that belongs to us; you must not forget it.

This evening I was not able to make the soup, but there are bread and

cold potatoes."

As long as she breathed the poor little mite continued to be the

mother of the family. She died because her breast was too small to

contain so great a heart, and that he lost this precious treasure

was entirely her father's fault. He, wretched creature, had kicked

her mother to death and now, just as surely, murdered his daughter.

Gervaise tried to keep back her tears. She held Lalie's hands, and

as the bedclothes slipped away she rearranged them. In doing so she

caught a glimpse of the poor little figure. The sight might have drawn

tears from a stone. Lalie wore only a tiny chemise over her bruised

and bleeding flesh; marks of a lash striped her sides; a livid spot

was on her right arm, and from head to foot she was one bruise.

Gervaise was paralyzed at the sight. She wondered, if there were a God

above, how He could have allowed the child to stagger under so heavy

a cross.

"Madame Coupeau," murmured the child, trying to draw the sheet over

her. She was ashamed, ashamed for her father.

Gervaise could not stay there. The child was fast sinking. Her eyes

were fixed on her little ones, who sat in the corner, still cutting

out their pictures. The room was growing dark, and Gervaise fled from

it. Ah, what an awful thing life was! And how gladly would she throw

herself under the wheels of an omnibus, if that might end it!

Almost unconsciously Gervaise took her way to the shop where her

husband worked or, rather, pretended to work. She would wait for him

and get the money before he had a chance to spend it.

It was a very cold corner where she stood. The sounds of the carriages

and footsteps were strangely muffled by reason of the fast-falling

snow. Gervaise stamped her feet to keep them from freezing. The people

who passed offered few distractions, for they hurried by with their

coat collars turned up to their ears. But Gervaise saw several women

watching the door of the factory quite as anxiously as herself--they

were wives who, like herself, probably wished to get hold of a portion

of their husbands' wages. She did not know them, but it required no

introduction to understand their business.

The door of the factory remained firmly shut for some time. Then it

opened to allow the egress of one workman; then two, three, followed,

but these were probably those who, well behaved, took their wages home

to their wives, for they neither retreated nor started when they saw

the little crowd. One woman fell on a pale little fellow and, plunging

her hand into his pocket, carried off every sou of her husband's

earnings, while he, left without enough to pay for a pint of wine,

went off down the street almost weeping.

Some other men appeared, and one turned back to warn a comrade, who

came gamely and fearlessly out, having put his silver pieces in his

shoes. In vain did his wife look for them in his pockets; in vain

did she scold and coax--he had no money, he declared.

Then came another noisy group, elbowing each other in their haste to

reach a cabaret, where they could drink away their week's wages. These

fellows were followed by some shabby men who were swearing under their

breath at the trifle they had received, having been tipsy and absent

more than half the week.

But the saddest sight of all was the grief of a meek little woman in

black, whose husband, a tall, good-looking fellow, pushed her roughly

aside and walked off down the street with his boon companions, leaving

her to go home alone, which she did, weeping her very heart out as she

went.

Gervaise still stood watching the entrance. Where was Coupeau? She

asked some of the men, who teased her by declaring that he had just

gone by the back door. She saw by this time that Coupeau had lied to

her, that he had not been at work that day. She also saw that there

was no dinner for her. There was not a shadow of hope--nothing but

hunger and darkness and cold.

She toiled up La Rue des Poissonniers when she suddenly heard

Coupeau's voice and, glancing in at the window of a wineshop, she

saw him drinking with Mes-Bottes, who had had the luck to marry

the previous summer a woman with some money. He was now, therefore,

well clothed and fed and altogether a happy mortal and had Coupeau's

admiration. Gervaise laid her hands on her husband's shoulders as

he left the cabaret.

"I am hungry," she said softly.

"Hungry, are you? Well then, eat your fist and keep the other for

tomorrow."

"Shall I steal a loaf of bread?" she asked in a dull, dreary tone.

Mes-Bottes smoothed his chin and said in a conciliatory voice:

"No, no! Don't do that; it is against the law. But if a woman

manages----"

Coupeau interrupted him with a coarse laugh.

Yes, a woman, if she had any sense, could always get along, and it

was her own fault if she starved.

And the two men walked on toward the outer boulevard. Gervaise

followed them. Again she said:

"I am hungry. You know I have had nothing to eat. You must find me

something."

He did not answer, and she repeated her words in a tone of agony.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, turning upon her furiously. "What can I do?

I have nothing. Be off with you, unless you want to be beaten."

He lifted his fist; she recoiled and said with set teeth:

"Very well then; I will go and find some man who has a sou."

Coupeau pretended to consider this an excellent joke. Yes of course

she could make a conquest; by gaslight she was still passably

goodlooking. If she succeeded he advised her to dine at the Capucin,

where there was very good eating.

She turned away with livid lips; he called after her:

"Bring some dessert with you, for I love cake. And perhaps you can

induce your friend to give me an old coat, for I swear it is cold

tonight."

Gervaise, with this infernal mirth ringing in her ears, hurried down

the street. She was determined to take this desperate step. She had

only a choice between that and theft, and she considered that she

had a right to dispose of herself as she pleased. The question of

right and wrong did not present itself very clearly to her eyes.

"When one is starving is hardly the time," she said to herself, "to

philosophize." She walked slowly up and down the boulevard. This part

of Paris was crowded now with new buildings, between whose sculptured

facades ran narrow lanes leading to haunts of squalid misery, which

were cheek by jowl with splendor and wealth.

It seemed strange to Gervaise that among this crowd who elbowed her

there was not one good Christian to divine her situation and slip some

sous into her hand. Her head was dizzy, and her limbs would hardly

bear her weight. At this hour ladies with hats and well-dressed

gentlemen who lived in these fine new houses were mingled with the

people--with the men and women whose faces were pale and sickly from

the vitiated air of the workshops in which they passed their lives.

Another day of toil was over, but the days came too often and were

too long. One hardly had time to turn over in one's sleep when the

everlasting grind began again.

Gervaise went with the crowd. No one looked at her, for the men were

all hurrying home to their dinner. Suddenly she looked up and beheld

the Hotel Boncœur. It was empty, the shutters and doors covered with

placards and the whole facade weather-stained and decaying. It was

there in that hotel that the seeds of her present life had been sown.

She stood still and looked up at the window of the room she had

occupied and recalled her youth passed with Lantier and the manner

in which he had left her. But she was young then and soon recovered

from the blow. That was twenty years ago, and now what was she?

The sight of the place made her sick, and she turned toward

Montmartre. She passed crowds of workwomen with little parcels in

their hands and children who had been sent to the baker's, carrying

four-pound loaves of bread as tall as themselves, which looked like

shining brown dolls.

By degrees the crowd dispersed, and Gervaise was almost alone.

Everyone was at dinner. She thought how delicious it would be to lie

down and never rise again--to feel that all toil was over. And this

was the end of her life! Gervaise, amid the pangs of hunger, thought

of some of the fete days she had known and remembered that she had not

always been miserable. Once she was pretty, fair and fresh. She had

been a kind and admired mistress in her shop. Gentlemen came to it

only to see her, and she vaguely wondered where all this youth and

this beauty had fled.

Again she looked up; she had reached the abattoirs, which were now

being torn down; the fronts were taken away, showing the dark holes

within, the very stones of which reeked with blood. Farther on was