Bab Bab 5 · AMBITIOUS DREAMS

. She wished to open a small establishment herself and

hire apprentices in her turn. She hesitated, naturally, to take the

definite steps and said they would look around for a shop that would

answer their purpose; their money in the savings bank was quietly

rolling up. She had bought her clock, the object of her ambition; it

was to be paid for in a year--so much each month. It was a wonderful

clock, rosewood with fluted columns and gilt moldings and pendulum.

She kept her bankbook under the glass shade, and often when she was

thinking of her shop she stood with her eyes fixed on the clock, as

if she were waiting for some especial and solemn moment.

The Coupeaus and the Goujets now went out on Sundays together. It was

an orderly party with a dinner at some quiet restaurant. The men drank

a glass or two of wine and came home with the ladies and counted up

and settled the expenditures of the day before they separated.

The Lorilleuxs were bitterly jealous of these new friends of their

brother's. They declared it had a very queer look to see him and his

wife always with strangers rather than with his own family, and Mme

Lorilleux began to say hateful things again of Gervaise. Mme Lerat,

on the contrary, took her part, while Mamma Coupeau tried to please

everyone.

The day that Nana--which was the pet name given to the little

girl--was three years old Coupeau, on coming in, found his wife in

a state of great excitement. She refused to give any explanation,

saying, in fact, there really was nothing the matter, but she finally

became so abstracted that she stood still with the plates in her hand

as she laid the table for dinner, and her husband insisted on an

explanation.

"If you must know," she said, "that little shop in La Rue de la

Goutte-d'Or is vacant. I heard so only an hour ago, and it struck

me all of a heap!"

It was a very nice shop in the very house of which they had so often

thought. There was the shop itself--a back room--and two others. They

were small, to be sure, but convenient and well arranged; only she

thought it dear--five hundred francs.

"You asked the price then?"

"Yes, I asked it just out of curiosity," she answered with an air of

indifference, "but it is too dear, decidedly too dear. It would be

unwise, I think, to take it."

But she could talk of nothing else the whole evening. She drew the

plan of the rooms on the margin of a newspaper, and as she talked she

measured the furniture, as if they were to move the next day. Then

Coupeau, seeing her great desire to have the place, declared he would

see the owner the next morning, for it was possible he would take less

than five hundred francs, but how would she like to live so near his

sister, whom she detested?

Gervaise was displeased at this and said she detested no one and even

defended the Lorilleuxs, declaring they were not so bad, after all.

And when Coupeau was asleep her busy brain was at work arranging the

rooms which as yet they had not decided to hire.

The next day when she was alone she lifted the shade from the clock

and opened her bankbook. Just to think that her shop and future

prosperity lay between those dirty leaves!

Before going to her work she consulted Mme Goujet, who approved of the

plan. With a husband like hers, who never drank, she could not fail

of success. At noon she called on her sister-in-law to ask her advice,

for she did not wish to have the air of concealing anything from the

family.

Mme Lorilleux was confounded. What, did Wooden Legs think of having

an establishment of her own? And with an envious heart she stammered

out that it would be very well, certainly, but when she had recovered

herself a little she began to talk of the dampness of the courtyard

and of the darkness of the _rez-de-chaussee_. Oh yes, it was a

capital place for rheumatism, but of course if her mind was made up

anything she could say would make no difference.

That night Gervaise told her husband that if he had thrown any

obstacles in the way of her taking the shop she believed she should

have fallen sick and died, so great was her longing. But before they

came to any decision they must see if a diminution of the rent could

be obtained.

"We can go tomorrow if you say so," was her husband's reply; "you can

call for me at six o'clock."

Coupeau was then completing the roof of a three-storied house and

was laying the very last sheets of zinc. It was May and a cloudless

evening. The sun was low in the horizon, and against the blue sky the

figure of Coupeau was clearly defined as he cut his zinc as quietly

as a tailor might have cut out a pair of breeches in his workshop. His

assistant, a lad of seventeen, was blowing up the furnace with a pair

of bellows, and at each puff a great cloud of sparks arose.

"Put in the irons, Zidore!" shouted Coupeau.

The boy thrust the irons among the coals which showed only a dull pink

in the sunlight and then went to work again with his bellows. Coupeau

took up his last sheet of zinc. It was to be placed on the edge of the

roof, near the gutter. Just at that spot the roof was very steep. The

man walked along in his list slippers much as if he had been at home,

whistling a popular melody. He allowed himself to slip a little and

caught at the chimney, calling to Zidore as he did so:

"Why in thunder don't you bring the irons? What are you staring at?"

But Zidore, quite undisturbed, continued to stare at a cloud of heavy

black smoke that was rising in the direction of Grenelle. He wondered

if it were a fire, but he crawled with the irons toward Coupeau, who

began to solder the zinc, supporting himself on the point of one foot

or by one finger, not rashly, but with calm deliberation and perfect

coolness. He knew what he could do and never lost his head. His pipe

was in his mouth, and he would occasionally turn to spit down into

the street below.

"Hallo, Madame Boche!" he cried as he suddenly caught sight of his

old friend crossing the street. "How are you today?"

She looked up, laughed, and a brisk conversation ensued between the

roof and the street. She stood with her hands under her apron and her

face turned up, while he, with one arm round a flue, leaned over the

side of the house.

"Have you seen my wife?" he asked.

"No indeed; is she anywhere round?"

"She is coming for me. Is everyone well with you?"

"Yes, all well, thanks. I am going to a butcher near here who sells

cheaper than up our way."

They raised their voices because a carriage was passing, and this

brought to a neighboring window a little old woman, who stood in

breathless horror, expecting to see the man fall from the roof in

another minute.

"Well, good night," cried Mme Boche. "I must not detain you from your

work."

Coupeau turned and took the iron Zidore held out to him. At the same

moment Mme Boche saw Gervaise coming toward her with little Nana

trotting at her side. She looked up to the roof to tell Coupeau, but

Gervaise closed her lips with an energetic signal, and then as she

reached the old concierge she said in a low voice that she was always

in deadly terror that her husband would fall. She never dared look at

him when he was in such places.

"It is not very agreeable, I admit," answered Mme Boche. "My man is

a tailor, and I am spared all this."

"At first," continued Gervaise, "I had not a moment's peace. I saw

him in my dreams on a litter, but now I have got accustomed to it

somewhat."

She looked up, keeping Nana behind her skirts, lest the child should

call out and startle her father, who was at that moment on the extreme

edge. She saw the soldering iron and the tiny flame that rose as he

carefully passed it along the edges of the zinc. Gervaise, pale with

suspense and fear, raised her hands mechanically with a gesture of

supplication. Coupeau ascended the steep roof with a slow step, then

glancing down, he beheld his wife.

"You are watching me, are you?" he cried gaily. "Ah, Madame Boche, is

she not a silly one? She was afraid to speak to me. Wait ten minutes,

will you?"

The two women stood on the sidewalk, having as much as they could do

to restrain Nana, who insisted on fishing in the gutter.

The old woman still stood at the window, looking up at the roof and

waiting.

"Just see her," said Mme Boche. "What is she looking at?"

Coupeau was heard lustily singing; with the aid of a pair of compasses

he had drawn some lines and now proceeded to cut a large fan; this he

adroitly, with his tools, folded into the shape of a pointed mushroom.

Zidore was again heating the irons. The sun was setting just behind

the house, and the whole western sky was flushed with rose, fading

to a soft violet, and against this sky the figures of the two men,

immeasurably exaggerated, stood clearly out, as well as the strange

form of the zinc which Coupeau was then manipulating.

"Zidore! The irons!"

But Zidore was not to be seen. His master, with an oath, shouted down

the scuttle window which was open near by and finally discovered him

two houses off. The boy was taking a walk, apparently, with his scanty

blond hair blowing all about his head.

"Do you think you are in the country?" cried Coupeau in a fury. "You

are another Beranger, perhaps--composing verses! Will you have the

kindness to give me my irons? Whoever heard the like? Give me my

irons, I say!"

The irons hissed as he applied them, and he called to Gervaise:

"I am coming!"

The chimney to which he had fitted this cap was in the center of the

roof. Gervaise stood watching him, soothed by his calm self-possession.

Nana clapped her little hands.

"Papa! Papa!" she cried. "Look!"

The father turned; his foot slipped; he rolled down the roof slowly,

unable to catch at anything.

"Good God!" he said in a choked voice, and he fell; his body turned

over twice and crashed into the middle of the street with the dull

thud of a bundle of wet linen.

Gervaise stood still. A shriek was frozen on her lips. Mme Boche

snatched Nana in her arms and hid her head that she might not see,

and the little old woman opposite, who seemed to have waited for this

scene in the drama, quietly closed her windows.

Four men bore Coupeau to a druggist's at the corner, where he lay for

an hour while a litter was sent for from the Hospital Lariboisière.

He was breathing still, but that was all. Gervaise knelt at his side,

hysterically sobbing. Every minute or two, in spite of the prohibition

of the druggist, she touched him to see if he were still warm. When

the litter arrived and they spoke of the hospital, she started up,

saying violently:

"No--no! Not to the hospital--to our own home."

In vain did they tell her that the expenses would be very great if

she nursed him at home.

"No--no!" she said. "I will show them the way. He is my husband,

is he not? And I will take care of him myself."

And Coupeau was carried home, and as the litter was borne through the

_Quartier_ the women crowded together and extolled Gervaise. She

was a little lame, to be sure, but she was very energetic, and she

would save her man.

Mme Boche took Nana home and then went about among her friends to tell

the story with interminable details.

"I saw him fall," she said. "It was all because of the child; he was

going to speak to her, when down he went. Good lord! I trust I may

never see such another sight."

For a week Coupeau's life hung on a thread. His family and his friends

expected to see him die from one hour to another. The physician, an

experienced physician whose every visit cost five francs, talked of

a lesion, and that word was in itself very terrifying to all but

Gervaise, who, pale from her vigils but calm and resolute, shrugged

her shoulders and would not allow herself to be discouraged. Her man's

leg was broken; that she knew very well, "but he need not die for

that!" And she watched at his side night and day, forgetting her

children and her home and everything but him.

On the ninth day, when the physician told her he would recover,

she dropped, half fainting, on a chair, and at night she slept for

a couple of hours with her head on the foot of his bed.

This accident to Coupeau brought all his family about him. His mother

spent the nights there, but she slept in her chair quite comfortably.

Mme Lerat came in every evening after work was over to make inquiries.

The Lorilleuxs at first came three or four times each day and brought

an armchair for Gervaise, but soon quarrels and discussions arose as

to the proper way of nursing the invalid, and Mme Lorilleux lost her

temper and declared that had Gervaise stayed at home and not gone to

pester her husband when he was at work the accident would not have

happened.

When she saw Coupeau out of danger Gervaise allowed his family to

approach him as they saw fit. His convalescence would be a matter of

months. This again was a ground of indignation for Mme Lorilleux.

"What nonsense it was," she said, "for Gervaise to take him home! Had

he gone to the hospital he would have recovered as quickly again."

And then she made a calculation of what these four months would cost:

First, there was the time lost, then the physician, the medicines,

the wines and finally the meat for beef tea. Yes, it would be a pretty

sum, to be sure! If they got through it on their savings they would

do well, but she believed that the end would be that they would find

themselves head over heels in debt, and they need expect no assistance

from his family, for none of them was rich enough to pay for sickness

at home!

One evening Mme Lorilleux was malicious enough to say:

"And your shop, when do you take it? The concierge is waiting to know

what you mean to do."

Gervaise gasped. She had utterly forgotten the shop. She saw the

delight of these people when they believed that this plan was given

up, and from that day they never lost an occasion of twitting her on

her dream that had toppled over like a house of cards, and she grew

morbid and fancied they were pleased at the accident to their brother

which had prevented the realization of their plans.

She tried to laugh and to show them she did not grudge the money that

had been expended in the restoration of her husband's health. She did

not withdraw all her savings from the bank at once, for she had a

vague hope that some miracle would intervene which would render the

sacrifice unnecessary.

Was it not a great comfort, she said to herself and to her enemies,

for as such she had begun to regard the Lorilleuxs, that she had this

money now to turn to in this emergency?

Her neighbors next door had been very kind and thoughtful to Gervaise

all through her trouble and the illness of her husband.

Mme Goujet never went out without coming to inquire if there was

anything she could do, any commission she could execute. She brought

innumerable bowls of soup and, even when Gervaise was particularly

busy, washed her dishes for her. Goujet filled her buckets every

morning with fresh water, and this was an economy of at least two

sous, and in the evening came to sit with Coupeau. He did not say

much, but his companionship cheered and comforted the invalid. He

was tender and compassionate and was thrilled by the sweetness of

Gervaise's voice when she spoke to her husband. Never had he seen such

a brave, good woman; he did not believe she sat in her chair fifteen

minutes in the whole day. She was never tired, never out of temper,

and the young man grew very fond of the poor woman as he watched her.

His mother had found a wife for him. A girl whose trade was the same

as her own, a lace mender, and as he did not wish to go contrary to

her desires he consented that the marriage should take place in

September.

But when Gervaise spoke of his future he shook his head.

"All women are not like you, Madame Coupeau," he said. "If they were

I should like ten wives."

At the end of two months Coupeau was on his feet again and could

move--with difficulty, of course--as far as the window, where he sat

with his leg on a chair. The poor fellow was sadly shaken by his

accident. He was no philosopher, and he swore from morning until

night. He said he knew every crack in the ceiling. When he was

installed in his armchair it was little better. How long, he asked

impatiently, was he expected to sit there swathed like a mummy? And

he cursed his ill luck. His accident was a cursed shame. If his head

had been disturbed by drink it would have been different, but he was

always sober, and this was the result. He saw no sense in the whole

thing!

"My father," he said, "broke his neck. I don't say he deserved it,

but I do say there was a reason for it. But I had not drunk a drop,

and yet over I went, just because I spoke to my child! If there be

a Father in heaven, as they say, who watches over us all, I must say

He manages things strangely enough sometimes!"

And as his strength returned his trade grew strangely distasteful to

him. It was a miserable business, he said, roaming along gutters like

a cat. In his opinion there should be a law which should compel every

houseowner to tin his own roof. He wished he knew some other trade he

could follow, something that was less dangerous.

For two months more Coupeau walked with a crutch and after a while

was able to get into the street and then to the outer boulevard, where

he sat on a bench in the sun. His gaiety returned; he laughed again

and enjoyed doing nothing. For the first time in his life he felt

thoroughly lazy, and indolence seemed to have taken possession of his

whole being. When he got rid of his crutches he sauntered about and

watched the buildings which were in the process of construction in the

vicinity, and he jested with the men and indulged himself in a general

abuse of work. Of course he intended to begin again as soon as he

was quite well, but at present the mere thought made him feel ill,

he said.

In the afternoons Coupeau often went to his sister's apartment;

she expressed a great deal of compassion for him and showed every

attention. When he was first married he had escaped from her

influence, thanks to his affection for his wife and hers for him.

Now he fell under her thumb again; they brought him back by declaring

that he lived in mortal terror of his wife. But the Lorilleuxs were

too wise to disparage her openly; on the contrary, they praised her

extravagantly, and he told his wife that they adored her and begged

her, in her turn, to be just to them.

The first quarrel in their home arose on the subject of Etienne.

Coupeau had been with his sister. He came in late and found the

children fretting for their dinner. He cuffed Etienne's ears, bade him

hold his tongue and scolded for an hour. He was sure he did not know

why he let that boy stay in the house; he was none of his; until that

day he had accepted the child as a matter of course.

Three days after this he gave the boy a kick, and it was not long

before the child, when he heard him coming, ran into the Goujets',

where there was always a corner at the table for him.

Gervaise had long since resumed her work. She no longer lifted the

globe of her clock to take out her bankbook; her savings were all

gone, and it was necessary to count the sous pretty closely, for there

were four mouths to feed, and they were all dependent on the work of

her two hands. When anyone found fault with Coupeau and blamed him

she always took his part.

"Think how much he has suffered," she said with tears in her eyes.

"Think of the shock to his nerves! Who can wonder that he is a little

sour? Wait awhile, though, until he is perfectly well, and you will

see that his temper will be as sweet as it ever was."

And if anyone ventured to observe that he seemed quite well and that

he ought to go to work she would exclaim:

"No indeed, not yet. It would never do." She did not want him down in

his bed again. She knew what the doctor had said, and she every day

begged him to take his own time. She even slipped a little silver,

into his vest pocket. All this Coupeau accepted as a matter of course.

He complained of all sorts of pains and aches to gain a little longer

period of indolence and at the end of six months had begun to look

upon himself as a confirmed invalid.

He almost daily dropped into a wineshop with a friend; it was a place

where he could chat a little, and where was the harm? Besides, whoever

heard of a glass of wine killing a man? But he swore to himself that

he would never touch anything but wine--not a drop of brandy should

pass his lips. Wine was good for one--prolonged one's life, aided

digestion--but brandy was a very different matter. Notwithstanding all

these wise resolutions, it came to pass more than once that he came

in, after visiting a dozen different cabarets, decidedly tipsy. On

these occasions Gervaise locked her doors and declared she was ill,

to prevent the Goujets from seeing her husband.

The poor woman was growing very sad. Every night and morning she

passed the shop for which she had so ardently longed. She made her

calculations over and over again until her brain was dizzy. Two

hundred and fifty francs for rent, one hundred and fifty for moving

and the apparatus she needed, one hundred francs to keep things going

until business began to come in. No, it could not be done under five

hundred francs.

She said nothing of this to anyone, deterred only by the fear of

seeming to regret the money she had spent for her husband during his

illness. She was pale and dispirited at the thought that she must work

five years at least before she could save that much money.

One evening Gervaise was alone. Goujet entered, took a chair in

silence and looked at her as he smoked his pipe. He seemed to be

revolving something in his mind. Suddenly he took his pipe from his

mouth.

"Madame Gervaise," he said, "will you allow me to lend you the money

you require?"

She was kneeling at a drawer, laying some towels in a neat pile. She

started up, red with surprise. He had seen her standing that very

morning for a good ten minutes, looking at the shop, so absorbed that

she had not seen him pass.

She refused his offer, however. No, she could never borrow money when

she did not know how she could return it, and when he insisted she

replied:

"But your marriage? This is the money you have saved for that."

"Don't worry on that account," he said with a heightened color. "I

shall not marry. It was an idea of my mother's, and I prefer to lend

you the money."

They looked away from each other. Their friendship had a certain

element of tenderness which each silently recognized.

Gervaise accepted finally and went with Goujet to see his mother, whom

he had informed of his intentions. They found her somewhat sad, with

her serene, pale face bent over her work. She did not wish to thwart

her son, but she no longer approved of the plan, and she told Gervaise

why. With kind frankness she pointed out to her that Coupeau had

fallen into evil habits and was living on her labors and would in

all probability continue to do so. The truth was that Mme Goujet

had not forgiven Coupeau for refusing to read during all his long

convalescence; this and many other things had alienated her and her

son from him, but they had in no degree lost their interest in

Gervaise.

Finally it was agreed she should have five hundred francs and should

return the money by paying each month twenty francs on account.

"Well, well!" cried Coupeau as he heard of this financial transaction.

"We are in luck. There is no danger with us, to be sure, but if he

were dealing with knaves he might never see hide or hair of his cash

again!"

The next day the shop was taken, and Gervaise ran about with such

a light heart that there was a rumor that she had been cured of her

lameness by an operation.

CHAPTER 5. AMBITIOUS DREAMS

The Boche couple, on the first of April, moved also and took the loge

of the great house in the Rue de la Goutte-d'Or. Things had turned out

very nicely for Gervaise who, having always got on very comfortably

with the concierge in the house in Rue Neuve, dreaded lest she should

fall into the power of some tyrant who would quarrel over every drop

of water that was spilled and a thousand other trifles like that. But

with Mme Boche all would go smoothly.

The day the lease was to be signed and Gervaise stood in her new home

her heart swelled with joy. She was finally to live in that house like

a small town, with its intersecting corridors instead of streets.

She felt a strange timidity--a dread of failure--when she found

herself face to face with her enterprise. The struggle for bread was a

terrible and an increasing one, and it seemed to her for a moment that

she had been guilty of a wild, foolhardy act, like throwing herself

into the jaws of a machine, for the planes in the cabinetmaker's shop

and the hammers in the locksmith's were dimly grasped by her as a part

of a great whole.

The water that ran past the door that day from the dyer's was pale

green. She smiled as she stepped over it, accepting this color as a

happy augury. She, with her husband, entered the loge, where Mme Boche

and the owner of the building, M. Marescot, were talking on business.

Gervaise, with a thrill of pain, heard Boche advise the landlord to

turn out the dressmaker on the third floor who was behindhand with her

rent. She wondered if she would ever be turned out and then wondered

again at the attitude assumed by these Boche people, who did not seem

to have ever seen her before. They had eyes and ears only for the

landlord, who shook hands with his new tenants but, when they spoke

of repairs, professed to be in such haste that morning that it would

be necessary to postpone the discussion. They reminded him of certain

verbal promises he had made, and finally he consented to examine the

premises.

The shop stood with its four bare walls and blackened ceiling. The

tenant who had been there had taken away his own counters and cases.

A furious discussion took place. M. Marescot said it was for them

to embellish the shop.

"That may be," said Gervaise gently, "but surely you cannot call

putting on a fresh paper, instead of this that hangs in strips, an

embellishment. Whitening the curbing, too, comes under, the head of

necessary repairs." She only required these two things.

Finally Marescot, with a desperate air, plunged his hands deep in his

pockets, shrugged his shoulders and gave his consent to the repairs on

the ceiling and to the paper, on condition that she would pay for half

the paper, and then he hurried away.

When he had departed Boche clapped Coupeau on the shoulder. "You may

thank me for that!" he cried and then went on to say that he was the

real master of the house, that he settled the whole business of the

establishment, and it was a nod and look from him that had influenced

M. Marescot. That evening Gervaise, considering themselves in debt to

Boche, sent him some wine.

In four days the shop should have been ready for them, but the repairs

hung on for three weeks. At first they intended simply to have the

paint scrubbed, but it was so shabby and worn that Gervaise repainted

at her own expense. Coupeau went every morning, not to work, but to

inspect operations, and Boche dropped the vest or pantaloons on which

he was working and gave the benefit of his advice, and the two men

spent the whole day smoking and spitting and arguing over each stroke

of the brush. Some days the painters did not appear at all; on others

they came and walked off in an hour's time, not to return again.

Poor Gervaise wrung her hands in despair. But finally, after two days

of energetic labor, the whole thing was done, and the men walked off

with their ladders, singing lustily.

Then came the moving, and finally Gervaise called herself settled in

her new home and was pleased as a child. As she came up the street

she could see her sign afar off:

CLEAR STARCHER

LACES AND EMBROIDERIES

DONE UP WITH ESPECIAL CARE

The two first words were painted in large yellow letters on a pale blue

ground.

In the recessed window shut in at the back by muslin curtains lay

men's shirts, delicate handkerchiefs and cuffs; all these were on

blue paper, and Gervaise was charmed. When she entered the door all

was blue there; the paper represented a golden trellis and blue

morning-glories. In the center was a huge table draped with

blue-bordered cretonne to hide the trestles.

Gervaise seated herself and looked round, happy in the cleanliness of

all about her. Her first glance, however, was directed to her stove,

a sort of furnace whereon ten irons could be heated at once. It was a

source of constant anxiety lest her little apprentice should fill it

too full of coal and so injure it.

Behind the shop was her bedroom and her kitchen, from which a door

opened into the court. Nana's bed stood in a little room at the right,

and Etienne was compelled to share his with the baskets of soiled

clothes. It was all very well, except that the place was very damp

and that it was dark by three o'clock in the afternoon in winter.

The new shop created a great excitement in the neighborhood. Some

people declared that the Coupeaus were on the road to ruin; they

had, in fact, spent the whole five hundred francs and were penniless,

contrary to their intentions. The morning that Gervaise first took

down her shutters she had only six francs in the world, but she was

not troubled, and at the end of a week she told her husband after two

hours of abstruse calculations that they had taken in enough to cover

their expenses.

The Lorilleuxs were in a state of rage, and one morning when the

apprentice was emptying, on the sly, a bowl of starch which she had

burned in making, just as Mme Lorilleux was passing, she rushed in and

accused her sister-in-law of insulting her. After this all friendly

relations were at an end.

"It all looks very strange to me," sniffed Mme Lorilleux. "I can't

tell where the money comes from, but I have my suspicions." And she

went on to intimate that Gervaise and Goujet were altogether too

intimate. This was the groundwork of many fables; she said Wooden Legs

was so mild and sweet that she had deceived her to the extent that

she had consented to become Nana's godmother, which had been no small

expense, but now things were very different. If Gervaise were dying

and asked her for a glass of water she would not give it. She could

not stand such people. As to Nana, it was different; they would

always receive her. The child, of course, was not responsible for her

mother's crimes. Coupeau should take a more decided stand and not put

up with his wife's vile conduct.

Boche and his wife sat in judgment on the quarrel and gave as their

opinion that the Lorilleuxs were much to blame. They were good

tenants, of course. They paid regularly. "But," added Mme Boche, "I

never could abide jealousy. They are mean people and were never known

to offer a glass of wine to a friend."

Mother Coupeau visited her son and daughter successive days, listened

to the tales of each and said never a word in reply.

Gervaise lived a busy life and took no notice of all this foolish

gossip and strife. She greeted her friends with a smile from the door

of her shop, where she went for a breath of fresh air. All the people

in the neighborhood liked her and would have called her a great beauty

but for her lameness. She was twenty-eight and had grown plump. She

moved more slowly, and when she took a chair to wait for her irons

to heat she rose with reluctance. She was growing fond of good

living--that she herself admitted--but she did not regard it as a

fault. She worked hard and had a right to good food. Why should she

live on potato parings? Sometimes she worked all night when she had

a great deal of work on hand.

She did the washing for the whole house and for some Parisian ladies

and had several apprentices, besides two laundresses. She was making

money hand over fist, and her good luck would have turned a wiser head

than her own. But hers was not turned; she was gentle and sweet and

hated no one except her sister-in-law. She judged everybody kindly,

particularly after she had eaten a good breakfast. When people called

her good she laughed. Why should she not be good? She had seen all her

dreams realized. She remembered what she once said--that she wanted to

work hard, have plenty to eat, a home to herself, where she could

bring up her children, not be beaten and die in her bed! As to dying

in her bed, she added she wanted that still, but she would put it off

as long as possible, "if you please!" It was to Coupeau himself that

Gervaise was especially sweet. Never a cross or an impatient word had

he heard from her lips, and no one had ever known her complain of him

behind his back. He had finally resumed his trade, and as the shop

where he worked was at the other end of Paris, she gave him every

morning forty sous for his breakfast, his wine and tobacco. Two days

out of six, however, Coupeau would meet a friend, drink up his forty

sous and return to breakfast. Once, indeed, he sent a note, saying

that his account at the cabaret exceeded his forty sous. He was in

pledge, as it were; would his wife send the money? She laughed and

shrugged her shoulders. Where was the harm in her husband's amusing

himself a little? A woman must give a man a long rope if she wished

to live in peace and comfort. It was not far from words to blows--she

knew that very well.

The hot weather had come. One afternoon in June the ten irons were

heating on the stove; the door was open into the street, but not a

breath of air came in.

"What a melting day!" said Gervaise, who was stooping over a great

bowl of starch. She had rolled up her sleeves and taken off her sack

and stood in her chemise and white skirt; the soft hair in her neck

was curling on her white throat. She dipped each cuff in the starch,

the fronts of the shirts and the whole of the skirts. Then she rolled

up the pieces tightly and placed them neatly in a square basket after

having sprinkled with clear water all those portions which were not

starched.

"This basket is for you, Madame Putois," she said, "and you will have

to hurry, for they dry so fast in this weather."

Mine Putois was a thin little woman who looked cool and comfortable

in her tightly buttoned dress. She had not taken her cap off but stood

at the table, moving her irons to and fro with the regularity of an

automaton. Suddenly she exclaimed:

"Put on your sack, Clemence; there are three men looking in, and I

don't like such things."

Clemence grumbled and growled. What did she care what she liked? She

could not and would not roast to suit anybody.

"Clemence, put on your sack," said Gervaise. "Madame Putois is

right--it is not proper."

Clemence muttered but obeyed and consoled herself by giving the

apprentice, who was ironing hose and towels by her side, a little

push. Gervaise had a cap belonging to Mme Boche in her hand and was

ironing the crown with a round ball, when a tall, bony woman came in.

She was a laundress.

"You have come too soon, Madame Bijard!" cried Gervaise. "I said

tonight. It is very inconvenient for me to attend to you at this

hour." At the same time, however, Gervaise amiably laid down her work

and went for the dirty clothes, which she piled up in the back shop.

It took the two women nearly an hour to sort them and mark them with

a stitch of colored cotton.

At this moment Coupeau entered.

"By Jove!" he said. "The sun beats down on one's head like a hammer."

He caught at the table to sustain himself; he had been drinking; a

spider web had caught in his dark hair, where many a white thread

was apparent. His under jaw dropped a little, and his smile was good

natured but silly.

Gervaise asked her husband if he had seen the Lorilleuxs in rather

a severe tone; when he said no she smiled at him without a word of

reproach.

"You had best go and lie down," she said pleasantly. "We are very

busy, and you are in our way. Did I say thirty-two handkerchiefs,

Madame Bijard? Here are two more; that makes thirty-four."

But Coupeau was not sleepy, and he preferred to remain where he was.

Gervaise called Clemence and bade her to count the linen while she

made out the list. She glanced at each piece as she wrote. She knew

many of them by the color. That pillow slip belonged to Mme Boche

because it was stained with the pomade she always used, and so on

through the whole. Gervaise was seated with these piles of soiled

linen about her. Augustine, whose great delight was to fill up the

stove, had done so now, and it was red hot. Coupeau leaned toward

Gervaise.

"Kiss me," he said. "You are a good woman."

As he spoke he gave a sudden lurch and fell among the skirts.

"Do take care," said Gervaise impatiently. "You will get them all

mixed again." And she gave him a little push with her foot, whereat

all the other women cried out.

"He is not like most men," said Mme Putois; "they generally wish to

beat you when they come in like this."

Gervaise already regretted her momentary vexation and assisted her

husband to his feet and then turned her cheek to him with a smile,

but he put his arm round her and kissed her neck. She pushed him

aside with a laugh.

"You ought to be ashamed!" she said but yielded to his embrace, and

the long kiss they exchanged before these people, amid the sickening

odor of the soiled linen and the alcoholic fumes of his breath, was

the first downward step in the slow descent of their degradation.

Mme Bijard tied up the linen and staggered off under their weight

while Gervaise turned back to finish her cap. Alas! The stove and the

irons were alike red hot; she must wait a quarter of an hour before

she could touch the irons, and Gervaise covered the fire with a couple

of shovelfuls of cinders. She then hung a sheet before the window to

keep out the sun. Coupeau took a place in the corner, refusing to

budge an inch, and his wife and all her assistants went to work on

each side of the square table. Each woman had at her right a flat

brick on which to set her iron. In the center of the table a dish of

water with a rag and a brush in it and also a bunch of tall lilies

in a broken jar.

Mme Putois had attacked the basket of linen prepared by Gervaise, and

Augustine was ironing her towels, with her nose in the air, deeply

interested in a fly that was buzzing about. As to Clemence, she was

polishing off her thirty-fifth shirt; as she boasted of this great

feat Coupeau staggered toward her.

"Madame," she called, "please keep him away; he will bother me, and

I shall scorch my shirt."

"Let her be," said Gervaise without any especial energy. "We are in

a great hurry today!"

Well, that was not his fault; he did not mean to touch the girl;

he only wanted to see what she was about.

"Really," said his wife, looking up from her fluting iron, "I think

you had best go to bed."

He began to talk again.

"You need not make such a fuss, Clemence; it is only because these

women are here, and--"

But he could say no more; Gervaise quietly laid one hand on his mouth

and the other on his shoulder and pushed him toward his room. He

struggled a little and with a silly laugh asked if Clemence was not

coming too.

Gervaise undressed her husband and tucked him up in bed as if he had

been a child and then returned to her fluting irons in time to still

a grand dispute that was going on about an iron that had not been

properly cleaned.

In the profound silence that followed her appearance she could hear

her husband's thick voice:

"What a silly wife I've got! The idea of putting me to bed in broad

daylight!"

Suddenly he began to snore, and Gervaise uttered a sigh of relief.

She used her fluting iron for a minute and then said quietly:

"There is no need of being offended by anything a man does when he

is in this state. He is not an accountable being. He did not intend

to insult you. Clemence, you know what a tipsy man is--he respects

neither father nor mother."

She uttered these words in an indifferent, matter-of-fact way, not in

the least disturbed that he had forgotten the respect due to her and

to her roof and really seeing no harm in his conduct.

The work now went steadily on, and Gervaise calculated they would

be finished by eleven o'clock. The heat was intense; the smell of

charcoal deadened the air, while the branch of white lilies slowly

faded and filled the room with their sweetness.

The day after all this Coupeau had a frightful headache and did not

rise until late, too late to go to his work. About noon he began to

feel better, and toward evening was quite himself. His wife gave him

some silver and told him to go out and take the air, which meant with

him taking some wine.

One glass washed down another, but he came home as gay as a lark and

quite disgusted with the men he had seen who were drinking themselves

to death.

"Where is your lover?" he said to his wife as he entered the shop.

This was his favorite joke. "I never see him nowadays and must hunt

him up."

He meant Goujet, who came but rarely, lest the gossips in the

neighborhood should take it upon themselves to gabble. Once in about

ten days he made his appearance in the evening and installed himself

in a corner in the back shop with his pipe. He rarely spoke but

laughed at all Gervaise said.

On Saturday evenings the establishment was kept open half the night. A

lamp hung from the ceiling with the light thrown down by a shade. The

shutters were put up at the usual time, but as the nights were very

warm the door was left open, and as the hours wore on the women pulled

their jackets open a little more at the throat, and he sat in his

corner and looked on as if he were at a theater.

The silence of the street was broken by a passing carriage. Two

o'clock struck--no longer a sound from outside. At half-past two a

man hurried past the door, carrying with him a vision of flying arms,

piles of white linen and a glow of yellow light.

Goujet, wishing to save Etienne from Coupeau's rough treatment, had

taken him to the place where he was employed to blow the bellows, with

the prospect of becoming an apprentice as soon as he was old enough,

and Etienne thus became another tie between the clearstarcher and the

blacksmith.

All their little world laughed and told Gervaise that her friend

worshiped the very ground she trod upon. She colored and looked like

a girl of sixteen.

"Dear boy," she said to herself, "I know he loves me, but never has

he said or will he say a word of the kind to me!" And she was proud

of being loved in this way. When she was disturbed about anything her

first thought was to go to him. When by chance they were left alone

together they were never disturbed by wondering if their friendship

verged on love. There was no harm in such affection.

Nana was now six years old and a most troublesome little sprite. Her

mother took her every morning to a school in the Rue Polonceau, to

a certain Mlle Josse. Here she did all manner of mischief. She put

ashes into the teacher's snuffbox, pinned the skirts of her companions

together. Twice the young lady was sent home in disgrace and then

taken back again for the sake of the six francs each month. As soon as

school hours were over Nana revenged herself for the hours of enforced

quiet she had passed by making the most frightful din in the courtyard

and the shop.

She found able allies in Pauline and Victor Boche. The whole great

house resounded with the most extraordinary noises--the thumps of

children falling downstairs, little feet tearing up one staircase

and down another and bursting out on the sidewalk like a band of

pilfering, impudent sparrows.

Mme Gaudron alone had nine--dirty, unwashed and unkempt, their

stockings hanging over their shoes and the slits in their garments

showing the white skin beneath. Another woman on the fifth floor had

seven, and they came out in twos and threes from all the rooms. Nana

reigned over this band, among which there were some half grown and

others mere infants. Her prime ministers were Pauline and Victor;

to them she delegated a little of her authority while she played

mamma, undressed the youngest only to dress them again, cuffed them

and punished them at her own sweet will and with the most fantastic

disposition. The band pranced and waded through the gutter that ran

from the dyehouse and emerged with blue or green legs. Nana decorated

herself and the others with shavings from the cabinetmaker's, which

they stole from under the very noses of the workmen.

The courtyard belonged to all of these children, apparently, and

resounded with the clatter of their heels. Sometimes this courtyard,

however, was not enough for them, and they spread in every direction

to the infinite disgust of Mme Boche, who grumbled all in vain. Boche

declared that the children of the poor were as plentiful as mushrooms

on a dung heap, and his wife threatened them with her broom.

One day there was a terrible scene. Nana had invented a beautiful

game. She had stolen a wooden shoe belonging to Mme Boche; she bored

a hole in it and put in a string, by which she could draw it like a

cart. Victor filled it with apple parings, and they started forth in

a procession, Nana drawing the shoe in front, followed by the whole

flock, little and big, an imp about the height of a cigar box at the

end. They all sang a melancholy ditty full of "ahs" and "ohs." Nana

declared this to be always the custom at funerals.

"What on earth are they doing now?" murmured Mme Boche suspiciously,

and then she came to the door and peered out.

"Good heavens!" she cried. "It is my shoe they have got."

She slapped Nana, cuffed Pauline and shook Victor. Gervaise was

filling a bucket at the fountain, and when she saw Nana with her nose

bleeding she rushed toward the concierge and asked how she dared

strike her child.

The concierge replied that anyone who had a child like that had

best keep her under lock and key. The end of this was, of course,

a complete break between the old friends.

But, in fact, the quarrel had been growing for a month. Gervaise,

generous by nature and knowing the tastes of the Boche people, was

in the habit of making them constant presents--oranges, a little

hot soup, a cake or something of the kind. One evening, knowing that

the concierge would sell her soul for a good salad, she took her

the remains of a dish of beets and chicory. The next day she was

dumfounded at hearing from Mlle Remanjon how Mme Boche had thrown the

salad away, saying that she was not yet reduced to eating the leavings

of other people! From that day forth Gervaise sent her nothing more.

The Boches had learned to look on her little offerings as their right,

and they now felt themselves to be robbed by the Coupeaus.

It was not long before Gervaise realized she had made a mistake, for

when she was one day late with her October rent Mme Boche complained

to the proprietor, who came blustering to her shop with his hat on.

Of course, too, the Lorilleuxs extended the right hand of fellowship

at once to the Boche people.

There came a day, however, when Gervaise found it necessary to call on

the Lorilleuxs. It was on Mamma Coupeau's account, who was sixty-seven

years old, nearly blind and helpless. They must all unite in doing

something for her now. Gervaise thought it a burning shame that a

woman of her age, with three well-to-do children, should be allowed

for a moment to regard herself as friendless and forsaken. And as her

husband refused to speak to his sister, Gervaise said she would.

She entered the room like a whirlwind, without knocking. Everything

was just as it was on that night when she had been received by them

in a fashion which she had never forgotten or forgiven. "I have come,"

cried Gervaise, "and I dare say you wish to know why, particularly

as we are at daggers drawn. Well then, I have come on Mamma Coupeau's

account. I have come to ask if we are to allow her to beg her bread

from door to door----"

"Indeed!" said Mme Lorilleux with a sneer, and she turned away.

But Lorilleux lifted his pale face.

"What do you mean?" he asked, and as he had understood perfectly,

he went on:

"What is this cry of poverty about? The old lady ate her dinner with

us yesterday. We do all we can for her, I am sure. We have not the

mines of Peru within our reach, but if she thinks she is to run to

and fro between our houses she is much mistaken. I, for one, have no

liking for spies." He then added as he took up his microscope, "When

the rest of you agree to give five francs per month toward her support

we will do the same." Gervaise was calmer now; these people always

chilled the very marrow in her bones, and she went on to explain her

views. Five francs were not enough for each of the old lady's children

to pay. She could not live on fifteen francs per month.

"And why not?" cried Lorilleux. "She ought to do so. She can see well

enough to find the best bits in a dish before her, and she can do

something toward her own maintenance." If he had the means to indulge

such laziness he should not consider it his duty to do so, he added.

Then Gervaise grew angry again. She looked at her sister-in-law and

saw her face set in vindictive firmness.

"Keep your money," she cried. "I will take care of your mother. I

found a starving cat in the street the other night and took it in. I

can take in your mother too. She shall want for nothing. Good heavens,

what people!"

Mme Lorilleux snatched up a saucepan.

"Clear out," she said hoarsely. "I will never give one sou--no, not

one sou--toward her keep. I understand you! You will make my mother

work for you like a slave and put my five francs in your pocket! Not

if I know it, madame! And if she goes to live under your roof I will

never see her again. Be off with you, I say!"

"What a monster!" cried Gervaise as she shut the door with a bang. On

the very next day Mme Coupeau came to her. A large bed was put in the

room where Nana slept. The moving did not take long, for the old lady

had only this bed, a wardrobe, table and two chairs. The table was

sold and the chairs new-seated, and the old lady the evening of her

arrival washed the dishes and swept up the room, glad to make herself

useful. Mme Lerat had amused herself by quarreling with her sister,

to whom she had expressed her admiration of the generosity evinced

by Gervaise, and when she saw that Mme Lorilleux was intensely

exasperated she declared she had never seen such eyes in anybody's

head as those of the clearstarcher. She really believed one might

light paper at them. This declaration naturally led to bitter words,

and the sisters parted, swearing they would never see each other

again, and since then Mme Lerat had spent most of her evenings at

her brother's.

Three years passed away. There were reconciliations and new quarrels.

Gervaise continued to be liked by her neighbors; she paid her bills

regularly and was a good customer. When she went out she received

cordial greetings on all sides, and she was more fond of going out in

these days than of yore. She liked to stand at the corners and chat.

She liked to loiter with her arms full of bundles at a neighbor's

window and hear a little gossip.