Bab Bab 7 · A BIRTHDAY FÊTE

. A BIRTHDAY FÊTE

The nineteenth of June was the clearstarcher's birthday. There was

always an excuse for a fete in the Coupeau mansion; saints were

invented to serve as a pretext for idleness and festivities. Virginie

highly commended Gervaise for living luxuriously. What was the use

of her husband drinking up everything? Why should she save for her

husband to spend at all the wineshops in the neighborhood? And

Gervaise accepted this excuse. She was growing very indolent and

much stouter, while her lameness had perceptibly increased.

For a whole month they discussed the preparation for this fete; they

talked over dishes and licked their lips. They must have something out

of the common way. Gervaise was much troubled as to whom she should

invite. She wanted exactly twelve at table, not one more or one less.

She, her husband, her mother-in-law and Mme Lerat were four. The

Goujets and Poissons were four more. At first she thought she would

not ask her two women, Mme Putois and Clemence, lest it should make

them too familiar, but as the entertainment was constantly under

discussion before them she ended by inviting them too. Thus there were

ten; she must have two more. She decided on a reconciliation with the

Lorilleuxs, who had extended the olive branch several times lately.

Family quarrels were bad things, she said. When the Boche people heard

of this they showed several little courtesies to Gervaise, who felt

obliged to urge them to come also. This made fourteen without counting

the children. She had never had a dinner like this, and she was both

triumphant and terrified.

The nineteenth fell on a Monday, and Gervaise thought it very

fortunate, as she could begin her cooking on Sunday afternoon. On

Saturday, while the women hurried through their work, there was an

endless discussion as to what the dishes should be. In the last three

weeks only one thing had been definitely decided upon--a roast goose

stuffed with onions. The goose had been purchased, and Mme Coupeau

brought it in that Mme Putois might guess its weight. The thing looked

enormous, and the fat seemed to burst from its yellow skin.

"Soup before that, of course," said Gervaise, "and we must have

another dish."

Clemence proposed rabbits, but Gervaise wanted something more

distinguished. Mme Putois suggested a _blanquette du veau_.

That was a new idea. Veal was always good too. Then Mme Coupeau made

an allusion to fish, which no one seconded. Evidently fish was not

in favor. Gervaise proposed a sparerib of pork and potatoes, which

brightened all their faces, just as Virginie came in like a whirlwind.

"You are just in season. Mamma Coupeau, show her the goose," cried

Gervaise.

Virginie admired it, guessed the weight and laid it down on the

ironing table between an embroidered skirt and a pile of shirts. She

was evidently thinking of something else. She soon led Gervaise into

the back shop.

"I have come to warn you," she said quickly. "I just met Lantier

at the very end of this street, and I am sure he followed me, and

I naturally felt alarmed on your account, my dear."

Gervaise turned very pale. What did he want of her? And why on earth

should he worry her now amid all the busy preparations for the fete?

It seemed as if she never in her life had set her heart on anything

that she was not disappointed. Why was it that she could never have

a minute's peace?

But Virginie declared that she would look out for her. If Lantier

followed her she would certainly give him over to the police. Her

husband had been in office now for a month, and Virginie was very

dictatorial and aggressive and talked of arresting everyone who

displeased her. She raised her voice as she spoke, but Gervaise

implored her to be cautious, because her women could hear every word.

They went back to the front shop, and she was the first to speak.

"We have said nothing of vegetables," she said quietly.

"Peas, with a bit of pork," said Virginie authoritatively.

This was agreed upon with enthusiasm.

The next day at three Mamma Coupeau lighted the two furnaces belonging

to the house and a third one borrowed from Mme Boche, and at half-past

three the soup was gently simmering in a large pot lent by the

restaurant at the corner. They had decided to cook the veal and the

pork the day previous, as those two dishes could be warmed up so well,

and would leave for Monday only the goose to roast and the vegetables.

The back shop was ruddy with the glow from the three furnaces--sauces

were bubbling with a strong smell of browned flour. Mamma Coupeau

and Gervaise, each with large white aprons, were washing celery and

running hither and thither with pepper and salt or hurriedly turning

the veal with flat wooden sticks made for the purpose. They had told

Coupeau pleasantly that his room was better than his company, but they

had plenty of people there that afternoon. The smell of the cooking

found its way out into the street and up through the house, and the

neighbors, impelled by curiosity, came down on all sorts of pretexts,

merely to discover what was going on.

About five Virginie made her appearance. She had seen Lantier twice.

Indeed, it was impossible nowadays to enter the street and not see

him. Mme Boche, too, had spoken to him on the corner below. Then

Gervaise, who was on the point of going for a sou's worth of fried

onions to season her soup, shuddered from head to foot and said she

would not go out ever again. The concierge and Virginie added to her

terror by a succession of stories of men who lay in wait for women,

with knives and pistols hidden in their coats.

Such things were read every day in the papers! When such a scamp as

Lantier found a woman happy and comfortable, he was always wretched

until he had made her so too. Virginie said she would go for the

onions. "Women," she observed sententiously, "should protect each

other, as well as serve each other, in such matters." When she

returned she reported that Lantier was no longer there. The

conversation around the stove that evening never once drifted from

that subject. Mme Boche said that she, under similar circumstances,

should tell her husband, but Gervaise was horror-struck at this and

begged her never to breathe one single word about it. Besides, she

fancied her husband had caught a glimpse of Lantier from something he

had muttered amid a volley of oaths two or three nights before. She

was filled with dread lest these two men should meet. She knew Coupeau

so well that she had long since discovered that he was still jealous

of Lantier, and while the four women discussed the imminent danger of

a terrible tragedy the sauces and the meats hissed and simmered on the

furnaces, and they ended by each taking a cup of soup to discover what

improvement was desirable.

Monday arrived. Now that Gervaise had invited fourteen to dine, she

began to be afraid there would not be room and finally decided to lay

the table in the shop. She was uncertain how to place the table, which

was the ironing table on trestles. In the midst of the hubbub and

confusion a customer arrived and made a scene because her linen had

not come home on the Friday previous. She insisted on having every

piece that moment--clean or dirty, ironed or rough-dry.

Then Gervaise, to excuse herself, told a lie with wonderful

_sang-froid_. It was not her fault. She was cleaning her rooms. Her

women would be at work again the next day, and she got rid of her

customer, who went away soothed by the promise that her wash would

be sent to her early the following morning.

But Gervaise lost her temper, which was not a common thing with

her, and as soon as the woman's back was turned called her by an

opprobrious name and declared that if she did as people wished she

could not take time to eat and vowed she would not have an iron heated

that day or the next in her establishment. No! Not if the Grand Turk

himself should come and entreat her on his knees to do up a collar

for him. She meant to enjoy herself a little occasionally!

The entire morning was consumed in making purchases. Three times did

Gervaise go out and come in, laden with bundles. But when she went the

fourth time for the wine she discovered that she had not money enough.

She could have got the wine on credit, but she could not be without

money in the house, for a thousand little unexpected expenses arise

at such times, and she and her mother-in-law racked their brains

to know what they should do to get the twenty francs they considered

necessary. Mme Coupeau, who had once been housekeeper for an actress,

was the first to speak of the Mont-de-Piete. Gervaise laughed gaily.

"To be sure! Why had she not thought of it before?"

She folded her black silk dress and pinned it in a napkin; then she

hid the bundle under her mother-in-law's apron and bade her keep it

very flat, lest the neighbors, who were so terribly inquisitive,

should find it out, and then she watched the old woman from the door

to see that no one followed her.

But when Mamma Coupeau had gone a few steps Gervaise called her back

into the shop and, taking her wedding ring from her finger, said:

"Take this, too, for we shall need all the money we can get today."

And when the old woman came back with twenty-five francs she clapped

her hands with joy. She ordered six bottles of wine with seals to

drink with the roast. The Lorilleuxs would be green with envy. For a

fortnight this had been her idea, to crush the Lorilleuxs, who were

never known to ask a friend to their table; who, on the contrary,

locked their doors when they had anything special to eat. Gervaise

wanted to give her a lesson and would have liked to offer the

strangers who passed her door a seat at her table. Money was a very

good thing and mighty pretty to look at, but it was good for nothing

but to spend.

Mamma Coupeau and Gervaise began to lay their table at three o'clock.

They had hung curtains before the windows, but as the day was warm the

door into the street was open. The two women did not put on a plate

or salt spoon without the avowed intention of worrying the Lorilleuxs.

They had given them seats where the table could be seen to the best

advantage, and they placed before them the real china plates.

"No, no, Mamma," cried Gervaise, "not those napkins. I have two which

are real damask."

"Well! Well! I declare!" murmured the old woman. "What will they say

to all this?"

And they smiled as they stood at opposite sides of this long table

with its glossy white cloth and its places for fourteen carefully

laid. They worshiped there as if it had been a chapel erected in the

middle of the shop.

"How false they are!" said Gervaise. "Do you remember how she declared

she had lost a piece of one of the chains when she was carrying them

home? That was only to get out of giving you your five francs."

"Which I have never had from them but just twice," muttered the old

woman.

"I will wager that next month they will invent another tale. That is

one reason why they lock their doors when they have a rabbit. They

think people might say, 'If you can eat rabbits you can give five

francs to your mother!' How mean they are! What do they think would

have become of you if I had not asked you to come and live here?"

Her mother-in-law shook her head. She was rather severe in her

judgment of the Lorilleuxs that day, inasmuch as she was influenced

by the gorgeous entertainment given by the Coupeaus. She liked the

excitement; she liked to cook. She generally lived pretty well with

Gervaise, but on those days which occur in all households, when the

dinner was scanty and unsatisfactory, she called herself a most

unhappy woman, left to the mercy of a daughter-in-law. In the depths

of her heart she still loved Mme Lorilleux; she was her eldest child.

"You certainly would have weighed some pounds less with her,"

continued Gervaise. "No coffee, no tobacco, no sweets. And do you

imagine that they would have put two mattresses on your bed?"

"No indeed," answered the old woman, "but I wish to see them when

they first come in--just to see how they look!"

At four o'clock the goose was roasted, and Augustine, seated on a

little footstool, was given a long-handled spoon and bidden to watch

and baste it every few minutes. Gervaise was busy with the peas, and

Mamma Coupeau, with her head a little confused, was waiting until it

was time to heat the veal and the pork. At five the guests began to

arrive. Clemence and Mme Putois, gorgeous to behold in their Sunday

rig, were the first.

Clemence wore a blue dress and had some geraniums in her hand; Madame

was in black, with a bunch of heliotrope. Gervaise, whose hands were

covered with flour, put them behind her back, came forward and kissed

them cordially.

After them came Virginie in scarf and hat, though she had only to

cross the street; she wore a printed muslin and was as imposing as

any lady in the land. She brought a pot of red carnations and put

both her arms around her friend and kissed her.

The offering brought by Boche was a pot of pansies, and his wife's was

mignonette; Mme Lerat's, a lemon verbena. The three furnaces filled

the room with an overpowering heat, and the frying potatoes drowned

their voices. Gervaise was very sweet and smiling, thanking everyone

for the flowers, at the same time making the dressing for the salad.

The perfume of the flowers was perceived above all the smell of

cooking.

"Can't I help you?" said Virginie. "It is a shame to have you work so

hard for three days on all these things that we shall gobble up in no

time."

"No indeed," answered Gervaise; "I am nearly through."

The ladies covered the bed with their shawls and bonnets and then went

into the shop that they might be out of the way and talked through the

open door with much noise and loud laughing.

At this moment Goujet appeared and stood timidly on the threshold with

a tall white rosebush in his arms whose flowers brushed against his

yellow beard. Gervaise ran toward him with her cheeks reddened by her

furnaces. She took the plant, crying:

"How beautiful!"

He dared not kiss her, and she was compelled to offer her cheek to

him, and both were embarrassed. He told her in a confused way that his

mother was ill with sciatica and could not come. Gervaise was greatly

disappointed, but she had no time to say much just then: she was

beginning to be anxious about Coupeau--he ought to be in--then, too,

where were the Lorilleuxs? She called Mme Lerat, who had arranged the

reconciliation, and bade her go and see.

Mme Lerat put on her hat and shawl with excessive care and departed.

A solemn hush of expectation pervaded the room.

Mme Lerat presently reappeared. She had come round by the street to

give a more ceremonious aspect to the affair. She held the door open

while Mme Lorilleux, in a silk dress, stood on the threshold. All the

guests rose, and Gervaise went forward to meet her sister and kissed

her, as had been agreed upon.

"Come in! Come in!" she said. "We are friends again."

"And I hope for always," answered her sister-in-law severely.

After she was ushered in the same program had to be followed out with

her husband. Neither of the two brought any flowers. They had refused

to do so, saying that it would look as if they were bowing down to

Wooden Legs. Gervaise summoned Augustine and bade her bring some wine

and then filled glasses for all the party, and each drank the health

of the family.

"It is a good thing before soup," muttered Boche.

Mamma Coupeau drew Gervaise into the next room.

"Did you see her?" she said eagerly. "I was watching her, and when she

saw the table her face was as long as my arm, and now she is gnawing

her lips; she is so mad!"

It was true the Lorilleuxs could not stand that table with its white

linen, its shining glass and square piece of bread at each place. It

was like a restaurant on the boulevard, and Mme Lorilleux felt of the

cloth stealthily to ascertain if it were new.

"We are all ready," cried Gervaise, reappearing and pulling down her

sleeves over her white arms.

"Where can Coupeau be?" she continued.

"He is always late! He always forgets!" muttered his sister. Gervaise

was in despair. Everything would be spoiled. She proposed that someone

should go out and look for him. Goujet offered to go, and she said she

would accompany him. Virginie followed, all three bareheaded. Everyone

looked at them, so gay and fresh on a week-day. Virginie in her pink

muslin and Gervaise in a white cambric with blue spots and a gray silk

handkerchief knotted round her throat. They went to one wineshop after

another, but no Coupeau. Suddenly, as they went toward the boulevard,

his wife uttered an exclamation.

"What is the matter?" asked Goujet.

The clearstarcher was very pale and so much agitated that she could

hardly stand. Virginie knew at once and, leaning over her, looked in

at the restaurant and saw Lantier quietly dining.

"I turned my foot," said Gervaise when she could speak. Finally at the

Assommoir they found Coupeau and Poisson. They were standing in the

center of an excited crowd. Coupeau, in a gray blouse, was quarreling

with someone, and Poisson, who was not on duty that day, was listening

quietly, his red mustache and imperial giving him, however, quite a

formidable aspect.

Goujet left the women outside and, going in, placed his hand on

Coupeau's shoulder, who, when he saw his wife and Virginie, fell

into a great rage.

No, he would not move! He would not stand being followed about by

women in this way! They might go home and eat their rubbishy dinner

themselves! He did not want any of it!

To appease him Goujet was compelled to drink with him, and finally

he persuaded him to go with him. But when he was outside he said to

Gervaise:

"I am not going home; you need not think it!"

She did not reply. She was trembling from head to foot. She had been

speaking of Lantier to Virginie and begged the other to go on in

front, while the two women walked on either side of Coupeau to prevent

him from seeing Lantier as they passed the open window where he sat

eating his dinner.

But Coupeau knew that Lantier was there, for he said:

"There's a fellow I know, and you know him too!"

He then went on to accuse her, with many a coarse word, of coming out

to look, not for him, but for her old lover, and then all at once he

poured out a torrent of abuse upon Lantier, who, however, never looked

up or appeared to hear it.

Virginie at last coaxed Coupeau on, whose rage disappeared when they

turned the corner of the street. They returned to the shop, however,

in a very different mood from the one in which they had left it and

found the guests, with very long faces, awaiting them.

Coupeau shook hands with the ladies in succession, with difficulty

keeping his feet as he did so, and Gervaise, in a choked voice, begged

them to take their seats. But suddenly she perceived that Mme Goujet

not having come, there was an empty seat next to Mme Lorilleux.

"We are thirteen," she said, much disturbed, as she fancied this to be

an additional proof of the misfortune which for some time she had felt

to be hanging over them.

The ladies, who were seated, started up. Mme Putois offered to leave

because, she said, no one should fly in the face of Destiny; besides,

she was not hungry. As to Boche, he laughed, and said it was all

nonsense.

"Wait!" cried Gervaise. "I will arrange it."

And rushing out on the sidewalk, she called to Father Bru, who was

crossing the street, and the old man followed her into the room.

"Sit there," said the clearstarcher. "You are willing to dine with

us, are you not?"

He nodded acquiescence.

"He will do as well as another," she continued in a low voice. "He

rarely, if ever, had as much as he wanted to eat, and it will be a

pleasure to us to see him enjoy his dinner."

Goujet's eyes were damp, so much was he touched by the kind way in

which Gervaise spoke, and the others felt that it would bring them

good luck. Mme Lorilleux was the only one who seemed displeased. She

drew her skirts away and looked down with disgusted mien upon the

patched blouse at her side.

Gervaise served the soup, and the guests were just lifting their

spoons to their mouths when Virginie noticed that Coupeau had

disappeared. He had probably returned to the more congenial society at

the Assommoir, and someone said he might stay in the street; certainly

no one would go after him, but just as they had swallowed the soup

Coupeau appeared bearing two pots, one under each arm--a balsam and

a wallflower. All the guests clapped their hands. He placed them on

either side of Gervaise and, kissing her, he said:

"I forgot you, my dear, but all the same I loved you very much."

"Monsieur Coupeau is very amiable tonight; he has taken just enough

to make him good natured," whispered one of the guests.

This little act on the part of the host brought back the smiles to the

faces around the table. The wine began to circulate, and the voices of

the children were heard in the next room. Etienne, Nana, Pauline and

little Victor Fauconnier were installed at a small table and were told

to be very good.

When the _blanquette du veau_ was served the guests were moved to

enthusiasm. It was now half-past seven. The door of the shop was shut

to keep out inquisitive eyes, and curtains hung before the windows.

The veal was a great success; the sauce was delicious and the

mushrooms extraordinarily good. Then came the sparerib of pork.

Of course all these good things demanded a large amount of wine.

In the next room at the children's table Nana was playing the mistress

of the household. She was seated at the head of the table and for a

while was quite dignified, but her natural gluttony made her forget

her good manners when she saw Augustine stealing the peas from the

plate, and she slapped the girl vehemently.

"Take care, mademoiselle," said Augustine sulkily, "or I will tell

your mother that I heard you ask Victor to kiss you."

Now was the time for the goose. Two lamps were placed on the table,

one at each end, and the disorder was very apparent: the cloth was

stained and spotted. Gervaise left the table to reappear presently,

bearing the goose in triumph. Lorilleux and his wife exchanged a look

of dismay.

"Who will cut it?" said the clearstarcher. "No, not I. It is too big

for me to manage!"

Coupeau said he could do it. After all, it was a simple thing

enough--he should just tear it to pieces.

There was a cry of dismay.

Mme Lerat had an inspiration.

"Monsieur Poisson is the man," she said; "of course he understands the

use of arms." And she handed the sergeant the carving knife. Poisson

made a stiff inclination of his whole body and drew the dish toward

him and went to work in a slow, methodical fashion. As he thrust his

knife into the breast Lorilleux was seized with momentary patriotism,

and he exclaimed:

"If it were only a Cossack!"

At last the goose was carved and distributed, and the whole party

ate as if they were just beginning their dinner. Presently there was

a grand outcry about the heat, and Coupeau opened the door into the

street. Gervaise devoured large slices of the breast, hardly speaking,

but a little ashamed of her own gluttony in the presence of Goujet.

She never forgot old Bru, however, and gave him the choicest morsels,

which he swallowed unconsciously, his palate having long since lost

the power of distinguishing flavors. Mamma Coupeau picked a bone with

her two remaining teeth.

And the wine! Good heavens, how much they drank! A pile of empty

bottles stood in the corner. When Mme Putois asked for water Coupeau

himself removed the carafes from the table. No one should drink water,

he declared, in his house--did she want to swallow frogs and live

things?--and he filled up all the glasses. Hypocrites might talk as

much as they pleased; the juice of the grape was a mighty good thing

and a famous invention!

The guests all laughed and approved; working people must have their

wine, they said, and Father Noah had planted the vine for them

especially. Wine gave courage and strength for work; and if it chanced

that a man sometimes took a drop too much, in the end it did him no

harm, and life looked brighter to him for a time. Goujet himself, who

was usually so prudent and abstemious, was becoming a little excited.

Boche was growing red, and the Lorilleux pair very pale, while Poisson

assumed a solemn and severe aspect. The men were all more or less

tipsy, and the ladies--well, the less we say of the ladies, the

better.

Suddenly Gervaise remembered the six bottles of sealed wine she had

omitted to serve with the goose as she had intended. She produced them

amid much applause. The glasses were filled anew, and Poisson rose

and proposed the health of their hostess.

"And fifty more birthdays!" cried Virginie.

"No, no," answered Gervaise with a smile that had a touch of sadness

in it. "I do not care to live to be very old. There comes a time when

one is glad to go!"

A little crowd had collected outside and smiled at the scene, and

the smell of the goose pervaded the whole street. The clerks in the

grocery opposite licked their lips and said it was good and curiously

estimated the amount of wine that had been consumed.

None of the guests were annoyed by being the subjects of observation,

although they were fully aware of it and, in fact, rather enjoyed it.

Coupeau, catching sight of a familiar face, held up a bottle, which,

being accepted with a nod, he sent it out with a glass. This

established a sort of fraternity with the street.

In the next room the children were unmanageable. They had taken

possession of a saucepan and were drumming on it with spoons. Mamma

Coupeau and Father Bru were talking earnestly. The old man was

speaking of his two sons who had died in the Crimea. Ah, had they

but lived, he would have had bread to eat in his old age!

Mme Coupeau, whose tongue was a little thick, said:

"Yes, but one has a good deal of unhappiness with children. Many an

hour have I wept on account of mine."

Father Bru hardly heard what she said but talked on, half to himself.

"I can't get any work to do. I am too old. When I ask for any people

laugh and ask if it was I who blacked Henri Quatre's boots. Last year

I earned thirty sous by painting a bridge. I had to lie on my back

all the time, close to the water, and since then I have coughed

incessantly." He looked down at his poor stiff hands and added,

"I know I am good for nothing. I wish I was by the side of my boys.

It is a great pity that one can't kill one's self when one begins

to grow old."

"Really," said Lorilleux, "I cannot see why the government does not

do something for people in your condition. Men who are disabled--"

"But workmen are not soldiers," interrupted Poisson, who considered

it his duty to espouse the cause of the government. "It is foolish

to expect them to do impossibilities."

The dessert was served. In the center was a pyramid of spongecake

in the form of a temple with melonlike sides, and on the top was an

artificial rose with a butterfly of silver paper hovering over it,

held by a gilt wire. Two drops of gum in the heart of the rose stood

for dew. On the left was a deep plate with a bit of cheese, and on the

other side of the pyramid was a dish of strawberries, which had been

sugared and carefully crushed.

In the salad dish there were a few leaves of lettuce left.

"Madame Boche," said Gervaise courteously, "pray eat these. I know

how fond you are of salad."

The concierge shook her head. There were limits even to her

capacities, and she looked at the lettuce with regret. Clemence told

how she had once eaten three quarts of water cresses at her breakfast.

Mme Putois declared that she enjoyed lettuce with a pinch of salt and

no dressing, and as they talked the ladies emptied the salad bowl.

None of the guests were dismayed at the dessert, although they had

eaten so enormously. They had the night before them too; there was no

need of haste. The men lit their pipes and drank more wine while they

watched Gervaise cut the cake. Poisson, who prided himself on his

knowledge of the habits of good society, rose and took the rose from

the top and presented it to the hostess amid the loud applause of the

whole party. She fastened it just over her heart, and the butterfly

fluttered at every movement. A song was proposed--comic songs were a

specialty with Boche--and the whole party joined in the chorus. The

men kept time with their heels and the women with their knives on

their glasses. The windows of the shop jarred with the noise. Virginie

had disappeared twice, and the third time, when she came back, she

said to Gervaise:

"My dear, he is still at the restaurant and pretends to be reading

his paper. I fear he is meditating some mischief."

She spoke of Lantier. She had been out to see if he were anywhere

in the vicinity. Gervaise became very grave.

"Is he tipsy?" she asked.

"No indeed, and that is what troubled me. Why on earth should he stay

there so long if he is not drinking? My heart is in my mouth; I am so

afraid something will happen."

The clearstarcher begged her to say no more. Mme Putois started up

and began a fierce piratical song, standing stiff and erect in her

black dress, her pale face surrounded by her black lace cap, and

gesticulating violently. Poisson nodded approval. He had been to sea,

and he knew all about it.

Gervaise, assisted by her mother-in-law, now poured out the coffee.

Her guests insisted on a song from her, declaring that it was her

turn. She refused. Her face was disturbed and pale, so much so that

she was asked if the goose disagreed with her.

Finally she began to sing a plaintive melody all about dreams and

rest. Her eyelids half closed as she ended, and she peered out into

the darkness. Then followed a barcarole from Mme Boche and a romance

from Lorilleux, in which figured perfumes of Araby, ivory throats,

ebony hair, kisses, moonlight and guitars! Clemence followed with

a song which recalled the country with its descriptions of birds

and flowers. Virginie brought down the house with her imitation of

a vivandiere, standing with her hand on her hip and a wineglass in

her hand, which she emptied down her throat as she finished.

But the grand success of the evening was Goujet, who sang in his

rich bass the _"Adieux d'Abd-et-Kader."_ The words issued from his

yellow beard like the call of a trumpet and thrilled everyone around

the table.

Virginie whispered to Gervaise:

"I have just seen Lantier pass the door. Good heavens! There he is

again, standing still and looking in."

Gervaise caught her breath and timidly turned around. The crowd had

increased, attracted by the songs. There were soldiers and shopkeepers

and three little girls, five or six years old, holding each other by

the hand, grave and silent, struck with wonder and admiration.

Lantier was directly in front of the door. Gervaise met his eyes and

felt the very marrow of her bones chilled; she could not move hand

or foot.

Coupeau called for more wine, and Clemence helped herself to more

strawberries. The singing ceased, and the conversation turned upon

a woman who had hanged herself the day before in the next street.

It was now Mme Lerat's turn to amuse the company, but she needed to

make certain preparations.

She dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of water and applied

it to her temples because she was too warm. Then she asked for a

teaspoonful of brandy and wiped her lips.

"I will sing _'L'Enfant du Bon Dieu,'_" she said pompously.

She stood up, with her square shoulders like those of a man, and

began:

"L'Enfant perdu que sa mere abandonne,

Troue toujours un asile au Saint lieu,

Dieu qui le voit, le defend de son trone,

L'Enfant perdu, c'est L'Enfant du bon Dieu."

She raised her eyes to heaven and placed one hand on her heart; her

voice was not without a certain sympathetic quality, and Gervaise,

already quivering with emotion caused by the knowledge of Lantier's

presence, could no longer restrain her tears. It seemed to her that

she was the deserted child whom _le bon Dieu_ had taken under His

care. Clemence, who was quite tipsy, burst into loud sobs. The ladies

took out their handkerchiefs and pressed them to their eyes, rather

proud of their tenderness of heart.

The men felt it their duty to respect the feeling shown by the women

and were, in fact, somewhat touched themselves. The wine had softened

their hearts apparently.

Gervaise and Virginie watched the shadows outside. Mme Boche, in her

turn, now caught a glimpse of Lantier and uttered an exclamation as

she wiped away her fast-falling tears. The three women exchanged

terrified, anxious glances.

"Good heavens!" muttered Virginie. "Suppose Coupeau should turn

around. There would be a murder, I am convinced." And the earnestness

of their fixed eyes became so apparent that finally he said:

"What are you staring at?"

And leaning forward, he, too, saw Lantier.

"This is too much," he muttered, "the dirty ruffian! It is too much,

and I won't have it!"

As he started to his feet with an oath, Gervaise put her hand on his

arm imploringly.

"Put down that knife," she said, "and do not go out, I entreat of

you."

Virginie took away the knife that Coupeau had snatched from the table,

but she could not prevent him from going into the street. The other

guests saw nothing, so entirely absorbed were they in the touching

words which Mme Lerat was still singing.

Gervaise sat with her hands clasped convulsively, breathless with

fear, expecting to hear a cry of rage from the street and see one of

the two men fall to the ground. Virginie and Mme Boche had something

of the same feeling. Coupeau had been so overcome by the fresh air

that when he rushed forward to take Lantier by the collar he missed

his footing and found himself seated quietly in the gutter.

Lantier moved aside a little without taking his hands from his

pockets.

Coupeau staggered to his feet again, and a violent quarrel commenced.

Gervaise pressed her hands over her eyes; suddenly all was quiet, and

she opened her eyes again and looked out.

To her intense astonishment she saw Lantier and her husband talking

in a quiet, friendly manner.

Gervaise exchanged a look with Mme Boche and Virginie. What did this

mean?

As the women watched them the two men began to walk up and down in

front of the shop. They were talking earnestly. Coupeau seemed to be

urging something, and Lantier refusing. Finally Coupeau took Lantier's

arm and almost dragged him toward the shop.

"I tell you, you must!" he cried. "You shall drink a glass of wine

with us. Men will be men all the world over. My wife and I know that

perfectly well."

Mme Lerat had finished her song and seated herself with the air of

being utterly exhausted. She asked for a glass of wine. When she sang

that song, she said, she was always torn to pieces, and it left her

nerves in a terrible state.

Lantier had been placed at the table by Coupeau and was eating a

piece of cake, leisurely dipping it into his glass of wine. With

the exception of Mme Boche and Virginie, no one knew him.

The Lorilleuxs looked at him with some suspicion, which, however,

was very far from the mark. An awkward silence followed, broken by

Coupeau, who said simply:

"He is a friend of ours!"

And turning to his wife, he added:

"Can't you move round a little? Perhaps there is a cup of hot coffee!"

Gervaise looked from one to the other. She was literally dazed. When

her husband first appeared with her former lover she had clasped her

hands over her forehead with that instinctive gesture with which in

a great storm one waits for the approach of the thunderclap.

It did not seem possible that the walls would not fall and crush them

all. Then seeing the two men calmly seated together, it all at once

seemed perfectly natural to her. She was tired of thinking about it

and preferred to accept it. Why, after all, should she worry? No one

else did. Everyone seemed to be satisfied; why should not she be also?

The children had fallen asleep in the back room, Pauline with her head

on Etienne's shoulder. Gervaise started as her eyes fell on her boy.

She was shocked at the thought of his father sitting there eating cake

without showing the least desire to see his child. She longed to

awaken him and show him to Lantier. And then again she had a feeling

of passing wonder at the manner in which things settled themselves

in this world.

She would not disturb the serenity of matters now, so she brought

in the coffeepot and poured out a cup for Lantier, who received it

without even looking up at her as he murmured his thanks.

"Now it is my turn to sing!" shouted Coupeau.

His song was one familiar to them all and even to the street, for the

little crowd at the door joined in the chorus. The guests within were

all more or less tipsy, and there was so much noise that the policemen

ran to quell a riot, but when they saw Poisson they bowed respectfully

and passed on.

No one of the party ever knew how or at what hour the festivities

terminated. It must have been very late, for there was not a human

being in the street when they departed. They vaguely remembered having

joined hands and danced around the table. Gervaise remembered that

Lantier was the last to leave, that he passed her as she stood in the

doorway. She felt a breath on her cheek, but whether it was his or the

night air she could not tell.

Mme Lerat had refused to return to Batignolles so late, and a mattress

was laid on the floor in the shop near the table. She slept there amid

the debris of the feast, and a neighbor's cat profited by an open

window to establish herself by her side, where she crunched the bones

of the goose all night between her fine, sharp teeth.