บทที่ บทที่ 8 · AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

The following Saturday Coupeau, who had not been home to dinner, came

in with Lantier about ten o'clock. They had been eating pigs' feet at

a restaurant at Montmarte.

"Don't scold, wife," said Coupeau; "we have not been drinking, you

see; we can walk perfectly straight." And he went on to say how they

had met each other quite by accident in the street and how Lantier had

refused to drink with him, saying that when a man had married a nice

little woman he had no business to throw away his money in that way.

Gervaise listened with a faint smile; she had no idea of scolding. Oh

no, it was not worth the trouble, but she was much agitated at seeing

the two men together so soon again, and with trembling hands she

knotted up her loosened hair.

Her workwomen had been gone some time. Nana and Mamma Coupeau were in

bed, and Gervaise, who was just closing her shutters when her husband

appeared, brought out some glasses and the remains of a bottle of

brandy. Lantier did not sit down and avoided addressing her directly.

When she served him, however, he exclaimed:

"A drop, madame; a mere drop!"

Coupeau looked at them for a moment and then expressed his mind fully.

They were no fools, he said, nor were they children. The past was the

past. If people kept up their enmities for nine or ten years no one

would have a soul to speak to soon. As for himself, he was made

differently. He knew they were honest people, and he was sure he

could trust them.

"Of course," murmured Gervaise, hardly knowing what she said, "of

course."

"I regard her as a sister," said Lantier, "only as a sister."

"Give us your hand on that," cried Coupeau, "and let us be good

friends in the future. After all, a good heart is better than gold,

and I estimate friendship as above all price."

And he gave himself a little tap on his breast and looked about for

applause, as if he had uttered rather a noble sentiment.

Then the three silently drank their brandy. Gervaise looked at Lantier

and saw him for the first time, for on the night of the fete she had

seen him, as it were, through a glass, darkly.

He had grown very stout, and his arms and legs very heavy. But his

face was still handsome, although somewhat bloated by liquor and good

living. He was dressed with care and did not look any older than his

years. He was thirty-five. He wore gray pantaloons and a dark blue

frock coat, like any gentleman, and had a watch and a chain on which

hung a ring--a souvenir, apparently.

"I must go," he said presently.

He was at the door when Coupeau recalled him to say that he must never

pass without coming in to say, "How do you do?"

Meanwhile Gervaise, who had disappeared, returned, pushing Etienne

before her. The boy was half asleep but smiled as he rubbed his eyes.

When he saw Lantier he stared and looked uneasily from him to Coupeau.

"Do you know this gentleman?" said his mother.

The child looked away and did not answer, but when his mother repeated

the question he made a little sign that he remembered him. Lantier,

grave and silent, stood still. When Etienne went toward him he stooped

and kissed the child, who did not look at him but burst into tears,

and when he was violently reproached by Coupeau he rushed away.

"It is excitement," said his mother, who was herself very pale.

"He is usually very good and very obedient," said Coupeau. "I have

brought him up well, as you will find out. He will soon get used to

you. He must learn something of life, you see, and will understand one

of these days that people must forget and forgive, and I would cut off

my head sooner than prevent a father from seeing his child!"

He then proposed to finish the bottle of brandy. They all three drank

together again. Lantier was quite undisturbed, and before he left he

insisted on aiding Coupeau to shut up the shop. Then as he dusted his

hands with his handkerchief he wished them a careless good night.

"Sleep well. I am going to try and catch the omnibus. I will see you

soon again."

Lantier kept his word and was seen from that time very often in the

shop. He came only when Coupeau was home and asked for him before he

crossed the threshold. Then seated near the window, always wearing

a frock coat, fresh linen and carefully shaved, he kept up a

conversation like a man who had seen something of the world. By

degrees Coupeau learned something of his life. For the last eight

years he had been at the head of a hat manufactory, and when he was

asked why he had given it up he said vaguely that he was not satisfied

with his partner; he was a rascal, and so on.

But his former position still imparted to him a certain air of

importance. He said, also, that he was on the point of concluding

an important matter--that certain business houses were in process of

establishing themselves, the management of which would be virtually

in his hands. In the meantime he had absolutely not one thing to do

but to walk about with his hands in his pockets.

Any day he pleased, however, he could start again. He had only to

decide on some house. Coupeau did not altogether believe this tale

and insisted that he must be doing something which he did not choose

to tell; otherwise how did he live?

The truth was that Lantier, excessively talkative in regard to other

people's affairs, was very reticent about his own. He lied quite as

often as he spoke the truth and would never tell where he resided.

He said he was never at home, so it was of no use for anyone to come

and see him.

"I am very careful," he said, "in making an engagement. I do not

choose to bind myself to a man and find, when it is too late, that

he intends to make a slave of me. I went one Monday to Champion at

Monrouge. That evening Champion began a political discussion. He and I

differed entirely, and on Tuesday I threw up the situation. You can't

blame me, I am sure, for not being willing to sell my soul and my

convictions for seven francs per day!"

It was now November. Lantier occasionally brought a bunch of violets

to Gervaise. By degrees his visits became more frequent. He seemed

determined to fascinate the whole house, even the _Quartier_, and

he began by ingratiating himself with Clemence and Mme Putois, showing

them both the greatest possible attention.

These two women adored him at the end of a month. Mme Boche, whom he

flattered by calling on her in her loge, had all sorts of pleasant

things to say about him.

As to the Lorilleuxs, they were furious when they found out who he was

and declared that it was a sin and a disgrace for Gervaise to bring

him into her house. But one fine day Lantier bearded them in their

den and ordered a chain made for a lady of his acquaintance and made

himself so agreeable that they begged him to sit down and kept him an

hour. After this visit they expressed their astonishment that a man so

distinguished could ever have seen anything in Wooden Legs to admire.

By degrees, therefore, people had become accustomed to seeing him and

no longer expressed their horror or amazement. Goujet was the only one

who was disturbed. If Lantier came in while he was there he at once

departed and avoided all intercourse with him.

Gervaise was very unhappy. She was conscious of a returning

inclination for Lantier, and she was afraid of herself and of him.

She thought of him constantly; he had taken entire possession of her

imagination. But she grew calmer as days passed on, finding that he

never tried to see her alone and that he rarely looked at her and

never laid the tip of his finger on her.

Virginie, who seemed to read her through and through, asked her what

she feared. Was there ever a man more respectful?

But out of mischief or worse, the woman contrived to get the two into

a corner one day and then led the conversation into a most dangerous

direction. Lantier, in reply to some question, said in measured tones

that his heart was dead, that he lived now only for his son. He never

thought of Claude, who was away. He embraced Etienne every night but

soon forgot he was in the room and amused himself with Clemence.

Then Gervaise began to realize that the past was dead. Lantier had

brought back to her the memory of Plassans and the Hotel Boncœur.

But this faded away again, and, seeing him constantly, the past was

absorbed in the present. She shook off these memories almost with

disgust. Yes, it was all over, and should he ever dare to allude to

former years she would complain to her husband.

She began again to think of Goujet almost unconsciously.

One morning Clemence said that the night before she had seen Lantier

walking with a woman who had his arm. Yes, he was coming up La Rue

Notre-Dame de Lorette; the woman was a blonde and no better than she

should be. Clemence added that she had followed them until the woman

reached a house where she went in. Lantier waited in the street until

there was a window opened, which was evidently a signal, for he went

into the house at once.

Gervaise was ironing a white dress; she smiled slightly and said that

she believed a Provencal was always crazy after women, and at night

when Lantier appeared she was quite amused at Clemence, who at once

attacked him. He seemed to be, on the whole, rather pleased that he

had been seen. The person was an old friend, he said, one whom he had

not seen for some time--a very stylish woman, in fact--and he told

Clemence to smell of his handkerchief on which his friend had put some

of the perfume she used. Just then Etienne came in, and his father

became very grave and said that he was in jest--that his heart was

dead.

Gervaise nodded approval of this sentiment, but she did not speak.

When spring came Lantier began to talk of moving into that

neighborhood. He wanted a furnished, clean room. Mme Boche and

Gervaise tried to find one for him. But they did not meet with any

success. He was altogether too fastidious in his requirements. Every

evening at the Coupeaus' he wished he could find people like

themselves who would take a lodger.

"You are very comfortable here, I am sure," he would say regularly.

Finally one night when he had uttered this phrase, as usual, Coupeau

cried out:

"If you like this place so much why don't you stay here? We can make

room for you."

And he explained that the linen room could be so arranged that it

would be very comfortable, and Etienne could sleep on a mattress in

the corner.

"No, no," said Lantier; "it would trouble you too much. I know that

you have the most generous heart in the world, but I cannot impose

upon you. Your room would be a passageway to mine, and that would not

be agreeable to any of us."

"Nonsense," said Coupeau. "Have we no invention? There are two

windows; can't one be cut down to the floor and used as a door? In

that case you would enter from the court and not through the shop.

You would be by yourself, and we by ourselves."

There was a long silence, broken finally by Lantier.

"If this could be done," he said, "I should like it, but I am afraid

you would find yourselves too crowded."

He did not look at Gervaise as he spoke, but it was clear that he was

only waiting for a word from her. She did not like the plan at all;

not that the thought of Lantier living under their roof disturbed her,

but she had no idea where she could put the linen as it came in to be

washed and again when it was rough-dry.

But Coupeau was enchanted with the plan. The rent, he said, had always

been heavy to carry, and now they would gain twenty francs per month.

It was not dear for him, and it would help them decidedly. He told his

wife that she could have two great boxes made in which all the linen

of the _Quartier_ could be piled.

Gervaise still hesitated, questioning Mamma Coupeau with her eyes.

Lantier had long since propitiated the old lady by bringing her

gumdrops for her cough.

"If we could arrange it I am sure--" said Gervaise hesitatingly.

"You are too kind," remonstrated Lantier. "I really feel that it would

be an intrusion."

Coupeau flamed out. Why did she not speak up, he should like to know?

Instead of stammering and behaving like a fool?

"Etienne! Etienne!" he shouted.

The boy was asleep with his head on the table. He started up.

"Listen to me. Say to this gentleman, 'I wish it.' Say just those

words and nothing more."

"I wish it!" stammered Etienne, half asleep.

Everybody laughed. But Lantier almost instantly resumed his solemn

air. He pressed Coupeau's hand cordially.

"I accept your proposition," he said. "It is a most friendly one,

and I thank you in my name and in that of my child."

The next morning Marescot, the owner of the house, happening to call,

Gervaise spoke to him of the matter. At first he absolutely refused

and was as disturbed and angry as if she had asked him to build on a

wing for her especial accommodation. Then after a minute examination

of the premises he ended by giving his consent, only on condition,

however, that he should not be required to pay any portion of the

expense, and the Coupeaus signed a paper, agreeing to put everything

into its original condition at the expiration of their lease.

That same evening Coupeau brought in a mason, a painter and a

carpenter, all friends and boon companions of his, who would do this

little job at night, after their day's work was over.

The cutting of the door, the painting and the cleaning would come to

about one hundred francs, and Coupeau agreed to pay them as fast as

his tenant paid him.

The next question was how to furnish the room? Gervaise left Mamma

Coupeau's wardrobe in it. She added a table and two chairs from her

own room. She was compelled to buy a bed and dressing table and divers

other things, which amounted to one hundred and thirty francs. This

she must pay for ten francs each month. So that for nearly a year they

could derive no benefit from their new lodger.

It was early in June that Lantier took possession of his new quarters.

Coupeau had offered the night before to help him with his trunk in

order to avoid the thirty sous for a fiacre. But the other seemed

embarrassed and said his trunk was heavy, and it seemed as if he

preferred to keep it a secret even now where he resided.

He came about three o'clock. Coupeau was not there, and Gervaise,

standing at her shop door, turned white as she recognized the trunk

on the fiacre. It was their old one with which they had traveled from

Plassans. Now it was banged and battered and strapped with cords.

She saw it brought in as she had often seen it in her dreams, and she

vaguely wondered if it were the same fiacre which had taken him and

Adele away. Boche welcomed Lantier cordially. Gervaise stood by in

silent bewilderment, watching them place the trunk in her lodger's

room. Then hardly knowing what she said, she murmured:

"We must take a glass of wine together----"

Lantier, who was busy untying the cords on his trunk, did not look up,

and she added:

"You will join us, Monsieur Boche!"

And she went for some wine and glasses. At that moment she caught

sight of Poisson passing the door. She gave him a nod and a wink which

he perfectly understood: it meant, when he was on duty, that he was

offered a glass of wine. He went round by the courtyard in order not

to be seen. Lantier never saw him without some joke in regard to his

political convictions, which, however, had not prevented the men from

becoming excellent friends.

To one of these jests Boche now replied:

"Did you know," he said, "that when the emperor was in London he was a

policeman, and his special duty was to carry all the intoxicated women

to the station house?"

Gervaise had filled three glasses on the table. She did not care

for any wine; she was sick at heart as she stood looking at Lantier

kneeling on the floor by the side of the trunk. She was wild to know

what it contained. She remembered that in one corner was a pile of

stockings, a shirt or two and an old hat. Were those things still

there? Was she to be confronted with those tattered relics of the

past?

Lantier did not lift the lid, however; he rose and, going to the

table, held his glass high in his hands.

"To your health, madame!" he said.

And Poisson and Boche drank with him.

Gervaise filled their glasses again. The three men wiped their lips

with the backs of their hands.

Then Lantier opened his trunk. It was filled with a hodgepodge of

papers, books, old clothes and bundles of linen. He pulled out a

saucepan, then a pair of boots, followed by a bust of Ledru Rollin

with a broken nose, then an embroidered shirt and a pair of ragged

pantaloons, and Gervaise perceived a mingled and odious smell of

tobacco, leather and dust.

No, the old hat was not in the left corner; in its place was a pin

cushion, the gift of some woman. All at once the strange anxiety with

which she had watched the opening of this trunk disappeared, and in

its place came an intense sadness as she followed each article with

her eyes as Lantier took them out and wondered which belonged to her

time and which to the days when another woman filled his life.

"Look here, Poisson," cried Lantier, pulling out a small book. It

was a scurrilous attack on the emperor, printed at Brussels, entitled

_The Amours of Napoleon III_.

Poisson was aghast. He found no words with which to defend the

emperor. It was in a book--of course, therefore, it was true. Lantier,

with a laugh of triumph, turned away and began to pile up his books

and papers, grumbling a little that there were no shelves on which

to put them. Gervaise promised to buy some for him. He owned Louis

Blanc's _Histoire de Dix Ans_, all but the first volume, which he

had never had, Lamartine's _Les Girondins_, _The Mysteries of

Paris_ and _The Wandering Jew_, by Eugène Sue, without counting

a pile of incendiary volumes which he had picked up at bookstalls.

His old newspapers he regarded with especial respect. He had collected

them with care for years: whenever he had read an article at a cafe

of which he approved, he bought the journal and preserved it. He

consequently had an enormous quantity, of all dates and names, tied

together without order or sequence.

He laid them all in a corner of the room, saying as he did so:

"If people would study those sheets and adopt the ideas therein,

society would be far better organized than it now is. Your emperor

and all his minions would come down a bit on the ladder--"

Here he was interrupted by Poisson, whose red imperial and mustache

irradiated his pale face.

"And the army," he said, "what would you do with that?"

Lantier became very much excited.

"The army!" he cried. "I would scatter it to the four winds of

heaven! I want the military system of the country abolished! I want

the abolition of titles and monopolies! I want salaries equalized!

I want liberty for everyone. Divorces, too--"

"Yes; divorces, of course," interposed Boche. "That is needed in the

cause of morality."

Poisson threw back his head, ready for an argument, but Gervaise,

who did not like discussions, interfered. She had recovered from the

torpor into which she had been plunged by the sight of this trunk, and

she asked the men to take another glass. Lantier was suddenly subdued

and drank his wine, but Boche looked at Poisson uneasily.

"All this talk is between ourselves, is it not?" he said to the

policeman.

Poisson did not allow him to finish: he laid his hand on his heart

and declared that he was no spy. Their words went in at one ear and

out at another. He had forgotten them already.

Coupeau by this time appeared, and more wine was sent for. But Poisson

dared linger no longer, and, stiff and haughty, he departed through

the courtyard.

From the very first Lantier was made thoroughly at home. Lantier had

his separate room, private entrance and key. But he went through the

shop almost always. The accumulation of linen disturbed Gervaise, for

her husband never arranged the boxes he had promised, and she was

obliged to stow it away in all sorts of places, under the bed and in

the corner. She did not like making up Etienne's mattress late at

night either.

Goujet had spoken of sending the child to Lille to his own old master,

who wanted apprentices. The plan pleased her, particularly as the

boy, who was not very happy at home, was impatient to become his own

master. But she dared not ask Lantier, who had come there to live

ostensibly to be near his son. She felt, therefore, that it was hardly

a good plan to send the boy away within a couple of weeks after his

father's arrival.

When, however, she did make up her mind to approach the subject he

expressed warm approval of the idea, saying that youths were far

better in the country than in Paris.

Finally it was decided that Etienne should go, and when the morning

of his departure arrived Lantier read his son a long lecture and then

sent him off, and the house settled down into new habits.

Gervaise became accustomed to seeing the dirty linen lying about and

to seeing Lantier coming in and going out. He still talked with an

important air of his business operations. He went out daily, dressed

with the utmost care and came home, declaring that he was worn out

with the discussions in which he had been engaged and which involved

the gravest and most important interests.

He rose about ten o'clock, took a walk if the day pleased him, and if

it rained he sat in the shop and read his paper. He liked to be there.

It was his delight to live surrounded by a circle of worshiping women,

and he basked indolently in the warmth and atmosphere of ease and

comfort, which characterized the place.

At first Lantier took his meals at the restaurant at the corner, but

after a while he dined three or four times a week with the Coupeaus

and finally requested permission to board with them and agreed to pay

them fifteen francs each Saturday. Thus he was regularly installed and

was one of the family. He was seen in his shirt sleeves in the shop

every morning, attending to any little matters or receiving orders

from the customers. He induced Gervaise to leave her own wine merchant

and go to a friend of his own. Then he found fault with the bread and

sent Augustine to the Vienna bakery in a distant _faubourg_. He

changed the grocer but kept the butcher on account of his political

opinions.

At the end of a month he had instituted a change in the cuisine.

Everything was cooked in oil: being a Provencal, that was what he

adored. He made the omelets himself, which were as tough as leather.

He superintended Mamma Coupeau and insisted that the beefsteaks should

be thoroughly cooked, until they were like the soles of an old shoe.

He watched the salad to see that nothing went in which he did not

like. His favorite dish was vermicelli, into which he poured half

a bottle of oil. This he and Gervaise ate together, for the others,

being Parisians, could not be induced to taste it.

By degrees Lantier attended to all those affairs which fall to the

share of the master of the house and to various details of their

business, in addition. He insisted that if the five francs which the

Lorilleux people had agreed to pay toward the support of Mamma Coupeau

was not forthcoming they should go to law about it. In fact, ten

francs was what they ought to pay. He himself would go and see if he

could not make them agree to that. He went up at once and asked them

in such a way that he returned in triumph with the ten francs. And

Mme Lerat, too, did the same at his representation. Mamma Coupeau

could have kissed Lantier's hands, who played the part, besides, of

an arbiter in the quarrels between the old woman and Gervaise.

The latter, as was natural, sometimes lost patience with the old

woman, who retreated to her bed to weep. He would bluster about and

ask if they were simpletons, to amuse people with their disagreements,

and finally induced them to kiss and be friends once more.

He expressed his mind freely in regard to Nana also. In his opinion

she was brought up very badly, and here he was quite right, for when

her father cuffed her her mother upheld her, and when, in her turn,

the mother reproved, the father made a scene.

Nana was delighted at this and felt herself free to do much as she

pleased.

She had started a new game at the farriery opposite. She spent entire

days swinging on the shafts of the wagons. She concealed herself, with

her troop of followers, at the back of the dark court, redly lit by

the forge, and then would make sudden rushes with screams and whoops,

followed by every child in the neighborhood, reminding one of a flock

of martins or sparrows.

Lantier was the only one whose scoldings had any effect. She listened

to him graciously. This child of ten years of age, precocious and

vicious, coquetted with him as if she had been a grown woman. He

finally assumed the care of her education. He taught her to dance

and to talk slang!

Thus a year passed away. The whole neighborhood supposed Lantier to

be a man of means--otherwise how did the Coupeaus live as they did?

Gervaise, to be sure, still made money, but she supported two men who

did nothing, and the shop, of course, did not make enough for that.

The truth was that Lantier had never paid one sou, either for board

or lodging. He said he would let it run on, and when it amounted to

a good sum he would pay it all at once.

After that Gervaise never dared to ask him for a centime. She got

bread, wine and meat on credit; bills were running up everywhere, for

their expenditures amounted to three and four francs every day. She

had never paid anything, even a trifle on account, to the man from

whom she had bought her furniture or to Coupeau's three friends who

had done the work in Lantier's room. The tradespeople were beginning

to grumble and treated her with less politeness.

But she seemed to be insensible to this; she chose the most expensive

things, having thrown economy to the winds, since she had given up

paying for things at once. She always intended, however, to pay

eventually and had a vague notion of earning hundreds of francs daily

in some extraordinary way by which she could pay all these people.

About the middle of summer Clemence departed, for there was not enough

work for two women; she had waited for her money for some weeks.

Lantier and Coupeau were quite undisturbed, however. They were in the

best of spirits and seemed to be growing fat over the ruined business.

In the _Quartier_ there was a vast deal of gossip. Everybody

wondered as to the terms on which Lantier and Gervaise now stood. The

Lorilleuxs viciously declared that Gervaise would be glad enough to

resume her old relations with Lantier but that he would have nothing

to do with her, for she had grown old and ugly. The Boche people

took a different view, but while everyone declared that the whole

arrangement was a most improper one, they finally accepted it as

quite a matter of course and altogether natural.

It is quite possible there were other homes which were quite as open

to invidious remarks within a stone's throw, but these Coupeaus, as

their neighbors said, were good, kind people. Lantier was especially

ingratiating. It was decided, therefore, to let things go their own

way undisturbed.

Gervaise lived quietly indifferent to, and possibly entirely

unsuspicious of, all these scandals. By and by it came to pass that

her husband's own people looked on her as utterly heartless. Mme Lerat

made her appearance every evening, and she treated Lantier as if he

were utterly irresistible, into whose arms any and every woman would

be only too glad to fall. An actual league seemed to be forming

against Gervaise: all the women insisted on giving her a lover.

But she saw none of these fascinations in him. He had changed,

unquestionably, and the external changes were all in his favor. He

wore a frock coat and had acquired a certain polish. But she who knew

him so well looked down into his soul through his eyes and shuddered

at much she saw there. She could not understand what others saw in him

to admire. And she said so one day to Virginie. Then Mme Lerat and

Virginie vied with each other in the stories they told of Clemence and

himself--what they did and said whenever her back was turned--and now

they were sure, since she had left the establishment, that he went

regularly to see her.

"Well, what of it?" asked Gervaise, her voice trembling. "What have

I to do with that?"

But she looked into Virginie's dark brown eyes, which were specked

with gold and emitted sparks as do those of cats. But the woman put

on a stupid look as she answered:

"Why, nothing, of course; only I should think you would advise him

not to have anything to do with such a person."

Lantier was gradually changing his manner to Gervaise. Now when he

shook hands with her he held her fingers longer than was necessary.

He watched her incessantly and fixed his bold eyes upon her. He leaned

over her so closely that she felt his breath on her cheek. But one

evening, being alone with her, he caught her in both arms. At that

moment Goujet entered. Gervaise wrenched herself free, and the three

exchanged a few words as if nothing had happened. Goujet was very pale

and seemed embarrassed, supposing that he had intruded upon them and

that she had pushed Lantier aside only because she did not choose to

be embraced in public.

The next day Gervaise was miserable, unhappy and restless. She could

not iron a handkerchief. She wanted to see Goujet and tell him just

what had happened, but ever since Etienne had gone to Lille she had

given up going to the forge, as she was quite unable to face the

knowing winks with which his comrades received her. But this day she

determined to go, and, taking an empty basket on her arms, she started

off, pretending that she was going with skirts to some customers in

La Rue des Portes-Blanches.

Goujet seemed to be expecting her, for she met him loitering on the

corner.

"Ah," he said with a wan smile, "you are going home, I presume?"

He hardly knew what he was saying, and they both turned toward

Montmartre without another word. They merely wished to go away from

the forge. They passed several manufactories and soon found themselves

with an open field before them. A goat was tethered near by and

bleating as it browsed, and a dead tree was crumbling away in the

hot sun.

"One might almost think oneself in the country," murmured Gervaise.

They took a seat under the dead tree. The clearstarcher set the basket

down at her feet. Before them stretched the heights of Montmartre,

with its rows of yellow and gray houses amid clumps of trees, and

when they threw back their heads a little they saw the whole sky

above, clear and cloudless, but the sunlight dazzled them, and they

looked over to the misty outlines of the _faubourg_ and watched the

smoke rising from tall chimneys in regular puffs, indicating the

machinery which impelled it. These great sighs seemed to relieve

their own oppressed breasts.

"Yes," said Gervaise after a long silence. "I have been on a long

walk, and I came out--"

She stopped. After having been so eager for an explanation she found

herself unable to speak and overwhelmed with shame. She knew that he

as well as herself had come to that place with the wish and intention

of speaking on one especial subject, and yet neither of them dared to

allude to it. The occurrence of the previous evening weighed on both

their souls.

Then with a heart torn with anguish and with tears in her eyes, she

told him of the death of Mme Bijard, who had breathed her last that

morning after suffering unheard-of agonies.

"It was caused by a kick of Bijard's," she said in her low, soft

voice; "some internal injury. For three days she has suffered

frightfully. Why are not such men punished? I suppose, though, if the

law undertook to punish all the wretches who kill their wives that it

would have too much to do. After all, one kick more or less: what does

it matter in the end? And this poor creature, in her desire to save

her husband from the scaffold, declared she had fallen over a tub."

Goujet did not speak. He sat pulling up the tufts of grass.

"It is not a fortnight," continued Gervaise, "since she weaned her

last baby, and here is that child Lalie left to take care of two

mites. She is not eight years old but as quiet and sensible as if

she were a grown woman, and her father kicks and strikes her too.

Poor little soul! There are some persons in this world who seem

born to suffer."

Goujet looked at her and then said suddenly, with trembling lips:

"You made me suffer yesterday."

Gervaise clasped her hands imploringly, and he continued:

"I knew of course how it must end; only you should not have allowed me

to think--"

He could not finish. She started up, seeing what his convictions were.

She cried out:

"You are wrong! I swear to you that you are wrong! He was going to

kiss me, but his lips did not touch me, and it is the very first time

that he made the attempt. Believe me, for I swear--on all that I hold

most sacred--that I am telling you the truth."

But the blacksmith shook his head. He knew that women did not always

tell the truth on such points. Gervaise then became very grave.

"You know me well," she said; "you know that I am no liar. I again

repeat that Lantier and I are friends. We shall never be anything

more, for if that should ever come to pass I should regard myself

as the vilest of the vile and should be unworthy of the friendship

of a man like yourself." Her face was so honest, her eyes were so

clear and frank, that he could do no less than believe her. Once more

he breathed freely. He held her hand for the first time. Both were

silent. White clouds sailed slowly above their heads with the majesty

of swans. The goat looked at them and bleated piteously, eager to be

released, and they stood hand in hand on that bleak slope with tears

in their eyes.

"Your mother likes me no longer," said Gervaise in a low voice. "Do

not say no; how can it be otherwise? We owe you so much money."

He roughly shook her arm in his eagerness to check the words on her

lips; he would not hear her. He tried to speak, but his throat was

too dry; he choked a little and then he burst out:

"Listen to me," he cried; "I have long wished to say something to you.

You are not happy. My mother says things are all going wrong with you,

and," he hesitated, "we must go away together and at once."

She looked at him, not understanding him but impressed by this abrupt

declaration of a love from him, who had never before opened his lips

in regard to it.

"What do you mean?" she said.

"I mean," he answered without looking in her face, "that we two can

go away and live in Belgium. It is almost the same to me as home, and

both of us could get work and live comfortably."

The color came to her face, which she would have hidden on his

shoulder to hide her shame and confusion. He was a strange fellow to

propose an elopement. It was like a book and like the things she heard

of in high society. She had often seen and known of the workmen about

her making love to married women, but they did not think of running

away with them.

"Ah, Monsieur Goujet!" she murmured, but she could say no more.

"Yes," he said, "we two would live all by ourselves."

But as her self-possession returned she refused with firmness.

"It is impossible," she said, "and it would be very wrong. I am

married and I have children. I know that you are fond of me, and I

love you too much to allow you to commit any such folly as you are

talking of, and this would be an enormous folly. No; we must live on

as we are. We respect each other now. Let us continue to do so. That

is a great deal and will help us over many a roughness in our paths.

And when we try to do right we are sure of a reward."

He shook his head as he listened to her, but he felt she was right.

Suddenly he snatched her in his arms and kissed her furiously once and

then dropped her and turned abruptly away. She was not angry, but the

locksmith trembled from head to foot. He began to gather some of the

wild daisies, not knowing what to do with his hands, and tossed them

into her empty basket. This occupation amused him and tranquillized

him. He broke off the head of the flowers and, when he missed his

mark and they fell short of the basket, laughed aloud.

Gervaise sat with her back against the tree, happy and calm. And when

she set forth on her walk home her basket was full of daisies, and

she was talking of Etienne.

In reality Gervaise was more afraid of Lantier than she was willing

to admit even to herself. She was fully determined never to allow

the smallest familiarity, but she was afraid that she might yield

to his persuasions, for she well knew the weakness and amiability of

her nature and how hard it was for her to persist in any opposition

to anyone.

Lantier, however, did not put this determination on her part to

the test. He was often alone with her now and was always quiet and

respectful. Coupeau declared to everyone that Lantier was a true

friend. There was no nonsense about him; he could be relied upon

always and in all emergencies. And he trusted him thoroughly, he

declared. When they went out together--the three--on Sundays he bade

his wife and Lantier walk arm in arm, while he mounted guard behind,

ready to cuff the ears of anyone who ventured on a disrespectful

glance, a sneer or a wink.

He laughed good-naturedly before Lantier's face, told him he put on

a great many airs with his coats and his books, but he liked him in

spite of them. They understood each other, he said, and a man's liking

for another man is more solid and enduring than his love for a woman.

Coupeau and Lantier made the money fly. Lantier was continually

borrowing money from Gervaise--ten francs, twenty francs--whenever

he knew there was money in the house. It was always because he was in

pressing need for some business matter. But still on those same days

he took Coupeau off with him and at some distant restaurant ordered

and devoured such dishes as they could not obtain at home, and these

dishes were washed down by bottle after bottle of wine.

Coupeau would have preferred to get tipsy without the food, but he

was impressed by the elegance and experience of his friend, who found

on the carte so many extraordinary sauces. He had never seen a man

like him, he declared, so dainty and so difficult. He wondered if all

southerners were the same as he watched him discussing the dishes with

the waiter and sending away a dish that was too salty or had too much

pepper.

Neither could he endure a draft: his skin was all blue if a door was

left open, and he made no end of a row until it was closed again.

Lantier was not wasteful in certain ways, for he never gave a

_garcon_ more than two sous after he had served a meal that cost

some seven or eight francs.

They never alluded to these dinners the next morning at their simple

breakfast with Gervaise. Naturally people cannot frolic and work, too,

and since Lantier had become a member of his household Coupeau had

never lifted a tool. He knew every drinking shop for miles around and

would sit and guzzle deep into the night, not always pleased to find

himself deserted by Lantier, who never was known to be overcome by

liquor.

About the first of November Coupeau turned over a new leaf; he

declared he was going to work the next day, and Lantier thereupon

preached a little sermon, declaring that labor ennobled man, and

in the morning arose before it was light to accompany his friend to

the shop, as a mark of the respect he felt. But when they reached a

wineshop on the corner they entered to take a glass merely to cement

good resolutions.

Near the counter they beheld Bibi-la-Grillade smoking his pipe with

a sulky air.

"What is the matter, Bibi?" cried Coupeau.

"Nothing," answered his comrade, "except that I got my walking ticket

yesterday. Perdition seize all masters!" he added fiercely.

And Bibi accepted a glass of liquor. Lantier defended the masters.

They were not so bad after all; then, too, how were the men to get

along without them? "To be sure," continued Lantier, "I manage pretty

well, for I don't have much to do with them myself!"

"Come, my boy," he added, turning to Coupeau; "we shall be late if

we don't look out."

Bibi went out with them. Day was just breaking, gray and cloudy. It

had rained the night before and was damp and warm. The street lamps

had just been extinguished. There was one continued tramp of men going

to their work.

Coupeau, with his bag of tools on his shoulder, shuffled along; his

footsteps had long since lost their ring.

"Bibi," he said, "come with me; the master told me to bring a comrade

if I pleased."

"It won't be me then," answered Bibi. "I wash my hands of them all.

No more masters for me, I tell you! But I dare say Mes-Bottes would

be glad of the offer."

And as they reached the Assommoir they saw Mes-Bottes within.

Notwithstanding the fact that it was daylight, the gas was blazing

in the Assommoir. Lantier remained outside and told Coupeau to make

haste, as they had only ten minutes.

"Do you think I will work for your master?" cried Mes-Bottes. "He is

the greatest tyrant in the kingdom. No, I should rather suck my thumbs

for a year. You won't stay there, old man! No, you won't stay there

three days, now I tell you!"

"Are you in earnest?" asked Coupeau uneasily.

"Yes, I am in earnest. You can't speak--you can't move. Your nose

is held close to the grindstone all the time. He watches you every

moment. If you drink a drop he says you are tipsy and makes no end

of a row!"

"Thanks for the warning. I will try this one day, and if the master

bothers me I will just tell him what I think of him and turn on my

heel and walk out."

Coupeau shook his comrade's hand and turned to depart, much to the

disgust of Mes-Bottes, who angrily asked if the master could not wait

five minutes. He could not go until he had taken a drink. Lantier

entered to join in, and Mes-Bottes stood there with his hat on the

back of his head, shabby, dirty and staggering, ordering Father

Colombe to pour out the glasses and not to cheat.

At that moment Goujet and Lorilleux were seen going by. Mes-Bottes

shouted to them to come in, but they both refused--Goujet saying he

wanted nothing, and the other, as he hugged a little box of gold

chains close to his heart, that he was in a hurry.

"Milksops!" muttered Mes-Bottes. "They had best pass their lives in

the corner by the fire!"

Returning to the counter, he renewed his attack on Father Colombe,

whom he accused of adulterating his liquors.

It was now bright daylight, and the proprietor of the Assommoir began

to extinguish the lights. Coupeau made excuses for his brother-in-law,

who, he said, could never drink; it was not his fault, poor fellow!

He approved, too, of Goujet, declaring that it was a good thing never

to be thirsty. Again he made a move to depart and go to his work when

Lantier, with his dictatorial air, reminded him that he had not paid

his score and that he could not go off in that way, even if it were

to his duty.

"I am sick of the words 'work' and 'duty,'" muttered Mes-Bottes.

They all paid for their drinks with the exception of Bibi-la-Grillade,

who stooped toward the ear of Father Colombe and whispered a few

words. The latter shook his head, whereupon Mes-Bottes burst into a

torrent of invectives, but Colombe stood in impassive silence, and

when there was a lull in the storm he said:

"Let your friends pay for you then--that is a very simple thing to

do."

By this time Mes-Bottes was what is properly called howling drunk, and

as he staggered away from the counter he struck the bag of tools which

Coupeau had over his shoulder.

"You look like a peddler with his pack or a humpback. Put it down!"

Coupeau hesitated a moment, and then slowly and deliberately, as if he

had arrived at a decision after mature deliberation, he laid his bag

on the ground.

"It is too late to go this morning. I will wait until after breakfast

now. I will tell him my wife was sick. Listen, Father Colombe, I will

leave my bag of tools under this bench and come for them this

afternoon."

Lantier assented to this arrangement. Of course work was a good thing,

but friends and good company were better; and the four men stood,

first on one foot and then on the other, for more than an hour, and

then they had another drink all round. After that a game of billiards

was proposed, and they went noisily down the street to the nearest

billiard room, which did not happen to please the fastidious Lantier,

who, however, soon recovered his good humor under the effect of the

admiration excited in the minds of his friends by his play, which

was really very extraordinary.

When the hour arrived for breakfast Coupeau had an idea.

"Let us go and find Bec Sali. I know where he works. We will make him

breakfast with us."

The idea was received with applause. The party started forth. A fine

drizzling rain was now falling, but they were too warm within to mind

this light sprinkling on their shoulders.

Coupeau took them to a factory where his friend worked and at the door

gave two sous to a small boy to go up and find Bec Sali and to tell

him that his wife was very sick and had sent for him.

Bec Sali quickly appeared, not in the least disturbed, as he suspected

a joke.

"Aha!" he said as he saw his friend. "I knew it!" They went to a

restaurant and ordered a famous repast of pigs' feet, and they sat

and sucked the bones and talked about their various employers.

"Will you believe," said Bec Sali, "that mine has had the brass to

hang up a bell? Does he think we are slaves to run when he rings it?

Never was he so mistaken--"

"I am obliged to leave you!" said Coupeau, rising at last with an

important air. "I promised my wife to go to work today, and I leave

you with the greatest reluctance."

The others protested and entreated, but he seemed so decided that they

all accompanied him to the Assommoir to get his tools. He pulled out

the bag from under the bench and laid it at his feet while they all

took another drink. The clock struck one, and Coupeau kicked his bag

under the bench again. He would go tomorrow to the factory; one day

really did not make much difference.

The rain had ceased, and one of the men proposed a little walk on the

boulevards to stretch their legs. The air seemed to stupefy them, and

they loitered along with their arms swinging at their sides, without

exchanging a word. When they reached the wineshop on the corner of La

Rue des Poissonniers they turned in mechanically. Lantier led the way

into a small room divided from the public one by windows only. This

room was much affected by Lantier, who thought it more stylish by far

than the public one. He called for a newspaper, spread it out and

examined it with a heavy frown. Coupeau and Mes-Bottes played a game

of cards, while wine and glasses occupied the center of the table.

"What is the news?" asked Bibi.

Lantier did not reply instantly, but presently, as the others emptied

their glasses, he began to read aloud an account of a frightful

murder, to which they listened with eager interest. Then ensued a hot

discussion and argument as to the probable motives for the murder.

By this time the wine was exhausted, and they called for more. About

five all except Lantier were in a state of beastly intoxication, and

he found them so disgusting that, as usual, he made his escape without

his comrades noticing his defection.

Lantier walked about a little and then, when he felt all right, went

home and told Gervaise that her husband was with his friends. Coupeau

did not make his appearance for two days. Rumors were brought in that

he had been seen in one place and then in another, and always alone.

His comrades had apparently deserted him. Gervaise shrugged her

shoulders with a resigned air.

"Good heavens!" she said. "What a way to live!" She never thought of

hunting him up. Indeed, on the afternoon of the third day, when she

saw him through the window of a wineshop, she turned back and would

not pass the door. She sat up for him, however, and listened for his

step or the sound of his hand fumbling at the lock.

The next morning he came in, only to begin the same thing at night

again. This went on for a week, and at last Gervaise went to the

Assommoir to make inquiries. Yes, he had been there a number of times,

but no one knew where he was just then. Gervaise picked up the bag

of tools and carried them home.

Lantier, seeing that Gervaise was out of spirits, proposed that she

should go with him to a cafe concert. She refused at first, being

in no mood for laughing; otherwise she would have consented, for

Lantier's proposal seemed to be prompted by the purest friendliness.

He seemed really sorry for her trouble and, indeed, assumed an

absolutely paternal air.

Coupeau had never stayed away like this before, and she continually

found herself going to the door and looking up and down the street.

She could not keep to her work but wandered restlessly from place

to place. Had Coupeau broken a limb? Had he fallen into the water?

She did not think she could care so very much if he were killed, if

this uncertainty were over, if she only knew what she had to expect.

But it was very trying to live in this suspense.

Finally when the gas was lit and Lantier renewed his proposition of

the cafe she consented. After all, why should she not go? Why should

she refuse all pleasures because her husband chose to behave in this

disgraceful way? If he would not come in she would go out.

They hurried through their dinner, and as she went out with Lantier

at eight o'clock Gervaise begged Nana and Mamma Coupeau to go to bed

early. The shop was closed, and she gave the key to Mme Boche, telling

her that if Coupeau came in it would be as well to look out for the

lights.

Lantier stood whistling while she gave these directions. Gervaise

wore her silk dress, and she smiled as they walked down the street

in alternate shadow and light from the shopwindows.

The cafe concert was on the Boulevard de Rochechouart. It had once

been a cafe and had had a concert room built on of rough planks.

Over the door was a row of glass globes brilliantly illuminated.

Long placards, nailed on wood, were standing quite out in the street

by the side of the gutter.

"Here we are!" said Lantier. "Mademoiselle Amanda makes her debut

tonight."

Bibi-la-Grillade was reading the placard. Bibi had a black eye, as if

he had been fighting.

"Hallo!" cried Lantier. "How are you? Where is Coupeau? Have you lost

him?"

"Yes, since yesterday. We had a little fight with a waiter at Baquets.

He wanted us to pay twice for what we had, and somehow Coupeau and I

got separated, and I have not seen him since."

And Bibi gave a great yawn. He was in a disgraceful state of

intoxication. He looked as if he had been rolling in the gutter.

"And you know nothing of my husband?" asked Gervaise.

"No, nothing. I think, though, he went off with a coachman."

Lantier and Gervaise passed a very agreeable evening at the cafe

concert, and when the doors were closed at eleven they went home in a

sauntering sort of fashion. They were in no hurry, and the night was

fair, though a little cool. Lantier hummed the air which Amanda had

sung, and Gervaise added the chorus. The room had been excessively

warm, and she had drunk several glasses of wine.

She expressed a great deal of indignation at Mlle Amanda's costume.

How did she dare face all those men, dressed like that? But her skin

was beautiful, certainly, and she listened with considerable curiosity

to all that Lantier could tell her about the woman.

"Everybody is asleep," said Gervaise after she had rung the bell

three times.

The door was finally opened, but there was no light. She knocked at

the door of the Boche quarters and asked for her key.

The sleepy concierge muttered some unintelligible words, from which

Gervaise finally gathered that Coupeau had been brought in by Poisson

and that the key was in the door.

Gervaise stood aghast at the disgusting sight that met her eyes as

she entered the room where Coupeau lay wallowing on the floor.

She shuddered and turned away. This sight annihilated every ray of

sentiment remaining in her heart.

"What am I to do?" she said piteously. "I can't stay here!"

Lantier snatched her hand.

"Gervaise," he said, "listen to me."

But she understood him and drew hastily back.

"No, no! Leave me, Auguste. I can manage."

But Lantier would not obey her. He put his arm around her waist and

pointed to her husband as he lay snoring, with his mouth wide open.

"Leave me!" said Gervaise, imploringly, and she pointed to the room

where her mother-in-law and Nana slept.

"You will wake them!" she said. "You would not shame me before my

child? Pray go!"

He said no more but slowly and softly kissed her on her ear, as

he had so often teased her by doing in those old days. Gervaise

shivered, and her blood was stirred to madness in her veins.

"What does that beast care?" she thought. "It is his fault," she

murmured; "all his fault. He sends me from his room!"

And as Lantier drew her toward his door Nana's face appeared for

a moment at the window which lit her little cabinet.

The mother did not see the child, who stood in her nightdress, pale

with sleep. She looked at her father as he lay and then watched her

mother disappear in Lantier's room. She was perfectly grave, but

in her eyes burned the sensual curiosity of premature vice.