Chương Chương 10 · DISASTERS AND CHANGES

. DISASTERS AND CHANGES

The new lodging of the Coupeaus was next that of the Bijards. Almost

opposite their door was a closet under the stairs which went up to

the roof--a mere hole without light or ventilation, where Father Bru

slept.

A chamber and a small room, about as large as one's hand, were all the

Coupeaus had now. Nana's little bed stood in the small room, the door

of which had to be left open at night, lest the child should stifle.

When it came to the final move Gervaise felt that she could not

separate from the commode which she had spent so much time in

polishing when first married and insisted on its going to their new

quarters, where it was much in the way and stopped up half the window,

and when Gervaise wished to look out into the court she had not room

for her elbows.

The first few days she spent in tears. She felt smothered and cramped;

after having had so much room to move about in it seemed to her that

she was smothering. It was only at the window she could breathe. The

courtyard was not a place calculated to inspire cheerful thoughts.

Opposite her was the window which years before had elicited her

admiration, where every successive summer scarlet beans had grown to

a fabulous height on slender strings. Her room was on the shady side,

and a pot of mignonette would die in a week on her sill.

No, life had not been what she hoped, and it was all very hard to

bear.

Instead of flowers to solace her declining years she would have but

thorns. One day as she was looking down into the court she had the

strangest feeling imaginable. She seemed to see herself standing just

near the loge of the concierge, looking up at the house and examining

it for the first time.

This glimpse of the past made her feel faint. It was at least thirteen

years since she had first seen this huge building--this world within

a world. The court had not changed. The facade was simply more dingy.

The same clothes seemed to be hanging at the windows to dry. Below

there were the shavings from the cabinetmaker's shop, and the gutter

glittered with blue water, as blue and soft in tone as the water she

remembered.

But she--alas, how changed was she! She no longer looked up to the

sky. She was no longer hopeful, courageous and ambitious. She was

living under the very roof in crowded discomfort, where never a ray

of sunshine could reach her, and her tears fell fast in utter

discouragement.

Nevertheless, when Gervaise became accustomed to her new surroundings

she grew more content. The pieces of furniture she had sold to

Virginie had facilitated her installation. When the fine weather came

Coupeau had an opportunity of going into the country to work. He went

and lived three months without drinking--cured for the time being by

the fresh, pure air. It does a man sometimes an infinite deal of good

to be taken away from all his old haunts and from Parisian streets,

which always seem to exhale a smell of brandy and of wine.

He came back as fresh as a rose, and he brought four hundred francs

with which he paid the Poissons the amount for which they had become

security as well as several other small but pressing debts. Gervaise

had now two or three streets open to her again, which for some time

she had not dared to enter.

She now went out to iron by the day and had gone back to her old

mistress, Mme Fauconnier, who was a kindhearted creature and ready

to do anything for anyone who flattered her adroitly.

With diligence and economy Gervaise could have managed to live

comfortably and pay all her debts, but this prospect did not charm her

particularly. She suffered acutely in seeing the Poissons in her old

shop. She was by no means of a jealous or envious disposition, but

it was not agreeable to her to hear the admiration expressed for her

successors by her husband's sisters. To hear them one would suppose

that never had so beautiful a shop been seen before. They spoke of

the filthy condition of the place when Virginie moved in--who had

paid, they declared, thirty francs for cleaning it.

Virginie, after some hesitation, had decided on a small stock of

groceries--sugar, tea and coffee, also bonbons and chocolate. Lantier

had advised these because he said the profit on them was immense. The

shop was repainted, and shelves and cases were put in, and a counter

with scales such as are seen at confectioners'. The little inheritance

that Poisson held in reserve was seriously encroached upon. But

Virginie was triumphant, for she had her way, and the Lorilleuxs

did not spare Gervaise the description of a case or a jar.

It was said in the street that Lantier had deserted Gervaise,

that she gave him no peace running after him, but this was not true,

for he went and came to her apartment as he pleased. Scandal was

connecting his name and Virginie's. They said Virginie had taken the

clearstarcher's lover as well as her shop! The Lorilleuxs talked of

nothing when Gervaise was present but Lantier, Virginie and the shop.

Fortunately Gervaise was not inclined to jealousy, and Lantier's

infidelities had hitherto left her undisturbed, but she did not accept

this new affair with equal tranquillity. She colored or turned pale

as she heard these allusions, but she would not allow a word to pass

her lips, as she was fully determined never to gratify her enemies

by allowing them to see her discomfiture; but a dispute was heard by

the neighbors about this time between herself and Lantier, who went

angrily away and was not seen by anyone in the Coupeau quarters for

more than a fortnight.

Coupeau behaved very oddly. This blind and complacent husband, who

had closed his eyes to all that was going on at home, was filled with

virtuous indignation at Lantier's indifference. Then Coupeau went so

far as to tease Gervaise in regard to this desertion of her lovers.

She had had bad luck, he said, with hatters and blacksmiths--why did

she not try a mason?

He said this as if it were a joke, but Gervaise had a firm conviction

that he was in deadly earnest. A man who is tipsy from one year's end

to the next is not apt to be fastidious, and there are husbands who at

twenty are very jealous and at thirty have grown very complacent under

the influence of constant tippling.

Lantier preserved an attitude of calm indifference. He kept the peace

between the Poissons and the Coupeaus. Thanks to him, Virginie and

Gervaise affected for each other the most tender regard. He ruled the

brunette as he had ruled the blonde, and he would swallow her shop as

he had that of Gervaise.

It was in June of this year that Nana partook of her first Communion.

She was about thirteen, slender and tall as an asparagus plant, and

her air and manner were the height of impertinence and audacity.

She had been sent away from the catechism class the year before on

account of her bad conduct. And if the curé did not make a similar

objection this year it was because he feared she would never come

again and that his refusal would launch on the Parisian _pave_

another castaway.

Nana danced with joy at the mere thought of what the Lorilleuxs--as

her godparents--had promised, while Mme Lerat gave the veil and cup,

Virginie the purse and Lantier a prayer book, so that the Coupeaus

looked forward to the day without anxiety.

The Poissons--probably through Lantier's advice--selected this

occasion for their housewarming. They invited the Coupeaus and the

Boche family, as Pauline made her first Communion on that day, as

well as Nana.

The evening before, while Nana stood in an ecstasy of delight before

her presents, her father came in in an abominable condition. His

virtuous resolutions had yielded to the air of Paris; he had fallen

into evil ways again, and he now assailed his wife and child with the

vilest epithets, which did not seem to shock Nana, for they could fall

from her tongue on occasion with facile glibness.

"I want my soup," cried Coupeau, "and you two fools are chattering

over those fal-lals! I tell you, I will sit on them if I am not waited

upon, and quickly too."

Gervaise answered impatiently, but Nana, who thought it better taste

just then--all things considered--to receive with meekness all her

father's abuse, dropped her eyes and did not reply.

"Take that rubbish away!" he cried with growing impatience. "Put it

out of my sight or I will tear it to bits."

Nana did not seem to hear him. She took up the tulle cap and asked her

mother what it cost, and when Coupeau tried to snatch the cap Gervaise

pushed him away.

"Let the child alone!" she said. "She is doing no harm!"

Then her husband went into a perfect rage:

"Mother and daughter," he cried, "a nice pair they make. I understand

very well what all this row is for: it is merely to show yourself in a

new gown. I will put you in a bag and tie it close round your throat,

and you will see if the curé likes that!"

Nana turned like lightning to protect her treasures. She looked her

father full in the face, and, forgetting the lessons taught her by

her priest, she said in a low, concentrated voice:

"Beast!" That was all.

After Coupeau had eaten his soup he fell asleep and in the morning

woke quite amiable. He admired his daughter and said she looked quite

like a young lady in her white robe. Then he added with a sentimental

air that a father on such days was naturally proud of his child.

When they were ready to go to the church and Nana met Pauline in

the corridor, she examined the latter from head to foot and smiled

condescendingly on seeing that Pauline had not a particle of chic.

The two families started off together, Nana and Pauline in front,

each with her prayer book in one hand and with the other holding down

her veil, which swelled in the wind like a sail. They did not speak

to each other but keenly enjoyed seeing the shopkeepers run to their

doors to see them, keeping their eyes cast down devoutly but their

ears wide open to any compliment they might hear.

Nana's two aunts walked side by side, exchanging their opinions

in regard to Gervaise, whom they stigmatized as an irreligious

ne'er-do-well whose child would never have gone to the Holy

Communion if it had depended on her.

At the church Coupeau wept all the time. It was very silly, he knew,

but he could not help it. The voice of the curé was pathetic; the

little girls looked like white-robed angels; the organ thrilled him,

and the incense gratified his senses. There was one especial anthem

which touched him deeply. He was not the only person who wept, he

was glad to see, and when the ceremony was over he left the church

feeling that it was the happiest day of his life. But an hour later

he quarreled with Lorilleux in a wineshop because the latter was so

hardhearted.

The housewarming at the Poissons' that night was very gay. Lantier

sat between Gervaise and Virginie and was equally civil and attentive

to both. Opposite was Poisson with his calm, impassive face, a look

he had cultivated since he began his career as a police officer.

But the queens of the fete were the two little girls, Nana and

Pauline, who sat very erect lest they should crush and deface their

pretty white dresses. At dessert there was a serious discussion in

regard to the future of the children. Mme Boche said that Pauline

would at once enter a certain manufactory, where she would receive

five or six francs per week. Gervaise had not decided yet, for Nana

had shown no especial leaning in any direction. She had a good deal

of taste, but she was butter-fingered and careless.

"I should make a florist of her," said Mme Lerat. "It is clean work

and pretty work too."

Whereupon ensued a warm discussion. The men were especially careful

of their language out of deference to the little girls, but Mme Lerat

would not accept the lesson: she flattered herself she could say what

she pleased in such a way that it could not offend the most fastidious

ears.

Women, she declared, who followed her trade were more virtuous than

others. They rarely made a slip.

"I have no objection to your trade," interrupted Gervaise. "If Nana

likes to make flowers let her do so. Say, Nana, would you like it?"

The little girl did not look up from her plate, into which she was

dipping a crust of bread. She smiled faintly as she replied:

"Yes, Mamma; if you desire it I have no objection."

The decision was instantly made, and Coupeau wished his sister to

take her the very next day to the place where she herself worked,

Rue du Caire, and the circle talked gravely of the duties of life.

Boche said that Pauline and Nana were now women, since they had been

to Communion, and they ought to be serious and learn to cook and to

mend. They alluded to their future marriages, their homes and their

children, and the girls touched each other under the table, giggled

and grew very red. Lantier asked them if they did not have little

husbands already, and Nana blushingly confessed that she loved Victor

Fauconnier and never meant to marry anyone else.

Mme Lorilleux said to Mme Boche on their way home:

"Nana is our goddaughter now, but if she goes into that flower

business, in six months she will be on the _pave_, and we will

have nothing to do with her."

Gervaise told Boche that she thought the shop admirably arranged. She

had looked forward to an evening of torture and was surprised that

she had not experienced a pang.

Nana, as she undressed, asked her mother if the girl on the next

floor, who had been married the week before, wore a dress of muslin

like hers.

But this was the last bright day in that household. Two years passed

away, and their prospects grew darker and their demoralization and

degradation more evident. They went without food and without fire,

but never without brandy.

They found it almost impossible to meet their rent, and a certain

January came when they had not a penny, and Father Boche ordered

them to leave.

It was frightfully cold, with a sharp wind blowing from the north.

M. Marescot appeared in a warm overcoat and his hands encased in warm

woolen gloves and told them they must go, even if they slept in the

gutter. The whole house was oppressed with woe, and a dreary sound of

lamentation arose from most of the rooms, for half the tenants were

behindhand. Gervaise sold her bed and paid the rent. Nana made nothing

as yet, and Gervaise had so fallen off in her work that Mme Fauconnier

had reduced her wages. She was irregular in her hours and often

absented herself from the shop for several days together but was none

the less vexed to discover that her old employee, Mme Putois, had been

placed above her. Naturally at the end of the week Gervaise had little

money coming to her.

As to Coupeau, if he worked he brought no money home, and his wife had

ceased to count upon it. Sometimes he declared he had lost it through

a hole in his pocket or it had been stolen, but after a while he

ceased to make any excuses.

But if he had no cash in his pockets it was because he had spent it

all in drink. Mme Boche advised Gervaise to watch for him at the door

of the place where he was employed and get his wages from him before

he had spent them all, but this did no good, as Coupeau was warned

by his friends and escaped by a rear door.

The Coupeaus were entirely to blame for their misfortunes, but this

is just what people will never admit. It is always ill luck or the

cruelty of God or anything, in short, save the legitimate result

of their own vices.

Gervaise now quarreled with her husband incessantly. The warmth of

affection of husband and wife, of parents for their children and

children for their parents had fled and left them all shivering,

each apart from the other.

All three, Coupeau, Gervaise and Nana, watched each other with eyes

of baleful hate. It seemed as if some spring had broken--the great

mainspring that binds families together.

Gervaise did not shudder when she saw her husband lying drunk in the

gutter. She would not have pushed him in, to be sure, but if he were

out of the way it would be a good thing for everybody. She even went

so far as to say one day in a fit of rage that she would be glad to

see him brought home on a shutter. Of what good was he to any human

being? He ate and he drank and he slept. His child learned to hate

him, and she read the accidents in the papers with the feelings of

an unnatural daughter. What a pity it was that her father had not

been the man who was killed when that omnibus tipped over!

In addition to her own sorrows and privations, Gervaise, whose

heart was not yet altogether hard, was condemned to hear now of the

sufferings of others. The corner of the house in which she lived

seemed to be consecrated to those who were as poor as herself. No

smell of cooking filled the air, which, on the contrary, was laden

with the shrill cries of hungry children, heavy with the sighs of

weary, heartbroken mothers and with the oaths of drunken husbands

and fathers.

Gervaise pitied Father Bru from the bottom of her heart; he lay the

greater part of the time rolled up in the straw in his den under the

staircase leading to the roof. When two or three days elapsed without

his showing himself someone opened the door and looked in to see if

he were still alive.

Yes, he was living; that is, he was not dead. When Gervaise had bread

she always remembered him. If she had learned to hate men because

of her husband her heart was still tender toward animals, and Father

Bru seemed like one to her. She regarded him as a faithful old dog.

Her heart was heavy within her whenever she thought of him, alone,

abandoned by God and man, dying by inches or drying, rather, as an

orange dries on the chimney piece.

Gervaise was also troubled by the vicinity of the undertaker

Bazonge--a wooden partition alone separated their rooms. When he came

in at night she could hear him throw down his glazed hat, which fell

with a dull thud, like a shovelful of clay, on the table. The black

cloak hung against the wall rustled like the wings of some huge

bird of prey. She could hear his every movement, and she spent most

of her time listening to him with morbid horror, while he--all

unconscious--hummed his vulgar songs and tipsily staggered to his

bed, under which the poor woman's sick fancy pictured a dead body

concealed.

She had read in some paper a dismal tale of some undertaker who took

home with him coffin after coffin--children's coffins--in order to

make one trip to the cemetery suffice. When she heard his step the

whole corridor was pervaded to her senses with the odor of dead

humanity.

She would as lief have resided at Pere-Lachaise and watched the moles

at their work. The man terrified her; his incessant laughter dismayed

her. She talked of moving but at the same time was reluctant to do

so, for there was a strange fascination about Bazonge after all. Had

he not told her once that he would come for her and lay her down to

sleep in the shadow of waving branches, where she would know neither

hunger nor toil?

She wished she could try it for a month. And she thought how delicious

it would be in midwinter, just at the time her quarter's rent was due.

But, alas, this was not possible! The rest and the sleep must be

eternal; this thought chilled her, and her longing for death faded

away before the unrelenting severity of the bonds exacted by Mother

Earth.

One night she was sick and feverish, and instead of throwing herself

out of the window as she was tempted to do, she rapped on the

partition and called loudly:

"Father Bazonge! Father Bazonge!"

The undertaker was kicking off his slippers, singing a vulgar song

as he did so.

"What is the matter?" he answered.

But at his voice Gervaise awoke as from a nightmare. What had she

done? Had she really tapped? she asked herself, and she recoiled from

his side of the wall in chill horror. It seemed to her that she felt

the undertaker's hands on her head. No! No! She was not ready. She

told herself that she had not intended to call him. It was her elbow

that had knocked the wall accidentally, and she shivered from head

to foot at the idea of being carried away in this man's arms.

"What is the matter?" repeated Bazonge. "Can I serve you in any way,

madame?"

"No! No! It is nothing!" answered the laundress in a choked voice.

"I am very much obliged."

While the undertaker slept she lay wide awake, holding her breath and

not daring to move, lest he should think she called him again.

She said to herself that under no circumstances would she ever appeal

to him for assistance, and she said this over and over again with the

vain hope of reassuring herself, for she was by no means at ease in

her mind.

Gervaise had before her a noble example of courage and fortitude in

the Bijard family. Little Lalie, that tiny child--about as big as

a pinch of salt--swept and kept her room like wax; she watched over

the two younger children with all the care and patience of a mother.

This she had done since her father had kicked her mother to death.

She had entirely assumed that mother's place, even to receiving the

blows which had fallen formerly on that poor woman. It seemed to be a

necessity of his nature that when he came home drunk he must have some

woman to abuse. Lalie was too small, he grumbled; one blow of his fist

covered her whole face, and her skin was so delicate that the marks of

his five fingers would remain on her cheek for days!

He would fly at her like a wolf at a poor little kitten for the merest

trifle. Lalie never answered, never rebelled and never complained.

She merely tried to shield her face and suppressed all shrieks, lest

the neighbors should come; her pride could not endure that. When her

father was tired kicking her about the room she lay where he left her

until she had strength to rise, and then she went steadily about her

work, washing the children and making her soup, sweeping and dusting

until everything was clean. It was a part of her plan of life to be

beaten every day.

Gervaise had conceived a strong affection for this little neighbor.

She treated her like a woman who knew something of life. It must be

admitted that Lalie was large for her years. She was fair and pale,

with solemn eyes for her years and had a delicate mouth. To have heard

her talk one would have thought her thirty. She could make and mend,

and she talked of the children as if she had herself brought them into

the world. She made people laugh sometimes when she talked, but more

often she brought tears to their eyes.

Gervaise did everything she could for her, gave her what she could

and helped the energetic little soul with her work. One day she was

altering a dress of Nana's for her, and when the child tried it on

Gervaise was chilled with horror at seeing her whole back purple and

bruised, the tiny arm bleeding--all the innocent flesh of childhood

martyrized by the brute--her father.

Bazonge might get the coffin ready, she thought, for the little girl

could not bear this long. But Lalie entreated her friend to say

nothing, telling her that her father did not know what he was doing,

that he had been drinking. She forgave him with her whole heart,

for madmen must not be held accountable for their deeds. After that

Gervaise was on the watch whenever she heard Bijard coming up the

stairs. But she never caught him in any act of absolute brutality.

Several times she had found Lalie tied to the foot of the bedstead--an

idea that had entered her father's brain, no one knew why, a whim of

his disordered brain, disordered by liquor, which probably arose from

his wish to tyrannize over the child, even when he was no longer

there.

Lalie sometimes was left there all day and once all night. When

Gervaise insisted on untying her the child entreated her not to touch

the knots, saying that her father would be furious if he found the

knots had been tampered with.

And really, she said with an angelic smile, she needed rest, and the

only thing that troubled her was not to be able to put the room in

order. She could watch the children just as well, and she could think,

so that her time was not entirely lost. When her father let her free,

her sufferings were not over, for it was sometimes more than an hour

before she could stand--before the blood circulated freely in her

stiffened limbs.

Her father had invented another cheerful game. He heated some sous red

hot on the stove and laid them on the chimney piece. He then summoned

Lalie and bade her go buy some bread. The child unsuspiciously took up

the sous, uttered a little shriek and dropped them, shaking her poor

burned fingers.

Then he would go off in a rage. What did she mean by such nonsense?

She had thrown away the money and lost it, and he threatened her with

a hiding if she did not find the money instantly. The poor child

hesitated; he gave her a cuff on the side of the head. With silent

tears streaming down her cheeks she would pick up the sous and toss

them from hand to hand to cool them as she went down the long flights

of stairs.

There was no limit to the strange ingenuity of the man. One afternoon,

for example, Lalie had completed playing with the children. The window

was open, and the air shook the door so that it sounded like gentle

raps.

"It is Mr Wind," said Lalie; "come in, Mr Wind. How are you today?"

And she made a low curtsy to Mr Wind. The children did the same in

high glee, and she was quite radiant with happiness, which was not

often the case.

"Come in, Mr Wind!" she repeated, but the door was pushed open by

a rough hand and Bijard entered. Then a sudden change came over the

scene. The two children crouched in a corner, while Lalie stood in the

center of the floor, frozen stiff with terror, for Bijard held in his

hand a new whip with a long and wicked-looking lash. He laid this whip

on the bed and did not kick either one of the children but smiled in

the most vicious way, showing his two lines of blackened, irregular

teeth. He was very drunk and very noisy.

"What is the matter with you fools? Have you been struck dumb? I heard

you all talking and laughing merrily enough before I came in. Where

are your tongues now? Here! Take off my shoes!"

Lalie, considerably disheartened at not having received her customary

kick, turned very pale as she obeyed. He was sitting on the side of

the bed. He lay down without undressing and watched the child as she

moved about the room. Troubled by this strange conduct, the child

ended by breaking a cup. Then without disturbing himself he took up

the whip and showed it to her.

"Look here, fool," he said grimly: "I bought this for you, and it cost

me fifty sous, but I expect to get a good deal more than fifty sous'

worth of good out of it. With this long lash I need not run about

after you, for I can reach you in every corner of the room. You will

break the cups, will you? Come, now, jump about a little and say good

morning to Mr Wind again!"

He did not even sit up in the bed but, with his head buried in the

pillow, snapped the whip with a noise like that made by a postilion.

The lash curled round Lalie's slender body; she fell to the floor,

but he lashed her again and compelled her to rise.

"This is a very good thing," he said coolly, "and saves my getting

chilled on cold mornings. Yes, I can reach you in that corner--and

in that! Skip now! Skip!"

A light foam was on his lips, and his suffused eyes were starting

from their sockets. Poor little Lalie darted about the room like a

terrified bird, but the lash tingled over her shoulders, coiled around

her slender legs and stung like a viper. She was like an India-rubber

ball bounding from the floor, while her beast of a father laughed

aloud and asked her if she had had enough.

The door opened and Gervaise entered. She had heard the noise. She

stood aghast at the scene and then was seized with noble rage.

"Let her be!" she cried. "I will go myself and summon the police."

Bijard growled like an animal who is disturbed over his prey.

"Why do you meddle?" he exclaimed. "What business is it of yours?"

And with another adroit movement he cut Lalie across the face. The

blood gushed from her lip. Gervaise snatched a chair and flew at the

brute, but the little girl held her skirts and said it did not hurt

much; it would be over soon, and she washed the blood away, speaking

gently to the frightened children.

When Gervaise thought of Lalie she was ashamed to complain. She wished

she had the courage of this child. She knew that she had lived on dry

bread for weeks and that she was so weak she could hardly stand, and

the tears came to the woman's eyes as she saw the precocious mite who

had known nothing of the innocent happiness of her years. And Gervaise

took this slender creature for example, whose eyes alone told the

story of her misery and hardships, for in the Coupeau family the

vitriol of the Assommoir was doing its work of destruction. Gervaise

had seen a whip. Gervaise had learned to dread it, and this dread

inspired her with tenderest pity for Lalie. Coupeau had lost the

flesh and the bloated look which had been his, and he was thin and

emaciated. His complexion was gradually acquiring a leaden hue. His

appetite was utterly gone. It was with difficulty that he swallowed

a mouthful of bread. His stomach turned against all solid food, but

he took his brandy every day. This was his meat as well as his drink,

and he touched nothing else.

When he crawled out of his bed in the morning he stood for a good

fifteen minutes, coughing and spitting out a bitter liquid that rose

in his throat and choked him.

He did not feel any better until he had taken what he called "a good

drink," and later in the day his strength returned. He felt strange

prickings in the skin of his hands and feet. But lately his limbs

had grown heavy. This pricking sensation gave place to the most

excruciating cramps, which he did not find very amusing. He rarely

laughed now but often stopped short and stood still on the sidewalk,

troubled by a strange buzzing in his ears and by flashes of light

before his eyes. Everything looked yellow to him; the houses seemed to

be moving away from him. At other times, when the sun was full on his

back, he shivered as if a stream of ice water had been poured down

between his shoulders. But the thing he liked the least about himself

was a nervous trembling in his hands, the right hand especially.

Had he become an old woman then? he asked himself with sudden fury.

He tried with all his strength to lift his glass and command his

nerves enough to hold it steady. But the glass had a regular tremulous

movement from right to left and left to right again, in spite of all

his efforts.

Then he emptied it down his throat, saying that when he had swallowed

a dozen more he would be all right and as steady as a monument.

Gervaise told him, on the contrary, that he must leave off drinking

if he wished to leave off trembling.

He grew very angry and drank quarts in his eagerness to test the

question, finally declaring that it was the passing omnibusses that

jarred the house and shook his hand.

In March Coupeau came in one night drenched to the skin. He had been

caught out in a shower. That night he could not sleep for coughing.

In the morning he had a high fever, and the physician who was sent

for advised Gervaise to send him at once to the hospital.

And Gervaise made no objection; once she had refused to trust her

husband to these people, but now she consigned him to their tender

mercies without a regret; in fact, she regarded it as a mercy.

Nevertheless, when the litter came she turned very pale and, if she

had had even ten francs in her pocket, would have kept him at home.

She walked to the hospital by the side of the litter and went into

the ward where he was placed. The room looked to her like a miniature

Pere-Lachaise, with its rows of beds on either side and its path down

the middle. She went slowly away, and in the street she turned and

looked up. How well she remembered when Coupeau was at work on those

gutters, cheerily singing in the morning air! He did not drink in

those days, and she, at her window in the Hotel Boncœur, had

watched his athletic form against the sky, and both had waved their

handkerchiefs. Yes, Coupeau had worked more than a year on this

hospital, little thinking that he was preparing a place for himself.

Now he was no longer on the roof--he had built a dismal nest within.

Good God, was she and the once-happy wife and mother one and the same?

How long ago those days seemed!

The next day when Gervaise went to make inquiries she found the bed

empty. A sister explained that her husband had been taken to the

asylum of Sainte-Anne, because the night before he had suddenly become

unmanageable from delirium and had uttered such terrible howls that it

disturbed the inmates of all the beds in that ward. It was the alcohol

in his system, she said, which attacked his nerves now, when he was so

reduced by the inflammation on his lungs that he could not resist it.

The clearstarcher went home, but how or by what route she never knew.

Her husband was mad--she heard these words reverberating through her

brain. Life was growing very strange. Nana simply said that he must,

of course, be left at the asylum, for he might murder them both.

On Sunday only could Gervaise go to Sainte-Anne. It was a long

distance off. Fortunately there was an omnibus which went very near.

She got out at La Rue Sante and bought two oranges that she might not

go quite empty-handed.

But when she went in, to her astonishment she found Coupeau sitting

up. He welcomed her gaily.

"You are better!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, nearly well," he replied, and they talked together awhile, and

she gave him the oranges, which pleased and touched him, for he was a

different man now that he drank tisane instead of liquor. She did not

dare allude to his delirium, but he spoke of it himself.

"Yes," he said, "I was in a pretty state! I saw rats running all over

the floor and the walls, and you were calling me, and I saw all sorts

of horrible things! But I am all right now. Once in a while I have a

bad dream, but everybody does, I suppose."

Gervaise remained with him until night. When the house surgeon made

his rounds at six o'clock he told him to hold out his hands. They

scarcely trembled--an almost imperceptible motion of the tips of his

fingers was all. But as the room grew darker Coupeau became restless.

Two or three times he sat up and peered into the remote corners.

Suddenly he stretched out his arms and seemed to crush some creature

on the wall.

"What is it?" asked Gervaise, terribly frightened.

"Rats!" he said quietly. "Only rats!"

After a long silence he seemed to be dropping off to sleep, with

disconnected sentences falling from his lips.

"Dirty beasts! Look out, one is under your skirts!" He pulled the

covering hastily over his head, as if to protect himself against the

creature he saw.

Then starting up in mad terror, he screamed aloud. A nurse ran to the

bed, and Gervaise was sent away, mute with horror at this scene.

But when on the following Sunday she went again to the hospital,

Coupeau was really well. All his dreams had vanished. He slept like

a child, ten hours without lifting a finger. His wife, therefore, was

allowed to take him away. The house surgeon gave him a few words of

advice before he left, assuring him if he continued to drink he would

be a dead man in three months. All depended on himself. He could live

at home just as he had lived at Sainte-Anne's and must forget that

such things as wine and brandy existed.

"He is right," said Gervaise as they took their seats in the omnibus.

"Of course he is right," answered her husband. But after a moment's

silence he added:

"But then, you know, a drop of brandy now and then never hurts a man:

it aids digestion."

That very evening he took a tiny drop and for a week was very

moderate; he had no desire, he said, to end his days at Bicetre.

But he was soon off his guard, and one day his little drop ended in

a full glass, to be followed by a second, and so on. At the end of

a fortnight he had fallen back in the old rut.

Gervaise did her best, but, after all, what can a wife do in such

circumstances?

She had been so startled by the scene at the asylum that she had

fully determined to begin a regular life again and hoped that he would

assist her and do the same himself. But now she saw that there was

no hope, that even the knowledge of the inevitable results could not

restrain her husband now.

Then the hell on earth began again; hopeless and intolerant, Nana

asked indignantly why he had not remained in the asylum. All the money

she made, she said, should be spent in brandy for her father, for the

sooner it was ended, the better for them all.

Gervaise blazed out one day when he lamented his marriage and told him

that it was for her to curse the day when she first saw him. He must

remember that she had refused him over and over again. The scene was

a frightful one and one unexampled in the Coupeau annals.

Gervaise, now utterly discouraged, grew more indolent every day. Her

room was rarely swept. The Lorilleuxs said they could not enter it, it

was so dirty. They talked all day long over their work of the downfall

of Wooden Legs. They gloated over her poverty and her rags.

"Well! Well!" they murmured. "A great change has indeed come to that

beautiful blonde who was so fine in her blue shop."

Gervaise suspected their comments on her and her acts to be most

unkind, but she determined to have no open quarrel. It was for her

interest to speak to them when they met, but that was all the

intercourse between them.

On Saturday Coupeau had told his wife he would take her to the circus;

he had earned a little money and insisted on indulging himself. Nana

was obliged to stay late at the place where she worked and would sleep

with her aunt Mme Lerat.

Seven o'clock came, but no Coupeau. Her husband was drinking with his

comrades probably. She had washed a cap and mended an old gown with

the hope of being presentable. About nine o'clock, in a towering rage,

she sallied forth on an empty stomach to find Coupeau.

"Are you looking for your husband?" said Mme Boche. "He is at the

Assommoir. Boche has just seen him there."

Gervaise muttered her thanks and went with rapid steps to the

Assommoir.

A fine rain was falling. The gas in the tavern was blazing brightly,

lighting up the mirrors, the bottles and glasses. She stood at the

window and looked in. He was sitting at a table with his comrades.

The atmosphere was thick with smoke, and he looked stupefied and

half asleep.

She shivered and wondered why she should stay there and, so thinking,

turned away, only to come back twice to look again.

The water lay on the uneven sidewalk in pools, reflecting all the

lights from the Assommoir. Finally she determined on a bold step: she

opened the door and deliberately walked up to her husband. After all,

why should she not ask him why he had not kept his promise of taking

her to the circus? At any rate, she would not stay out there in the

rain and melt away like a cake of soap.

"She is crazy!" said Coupeau when he saw her. "I tell you, she is

crazy!"

He and all his friends shrieked with laughter, but no one condescended

to say what it was that was so very droll. Gervaise stood still, a

little bewildered by this unexpected reception. Coupeau was so amiable

that she said:

"Come, you know it is not too late to see something."

"Sit down a minute," said her husband, not moving from his seat.

Gervaise saw she could not stand there among all those men, so she

accepted the offered chair. She looked at the glasses, whose contents

glittered like gold. She looked at these dirty, shabby men and at the

others crowding around the counter. It was very warm, and the pipe

smoke thickened the air.

Gervaise felt as if she were choking; her eyes smarted, and her head

was heavy with the fumes of alcohol. She turned around and saw the

still, the machine that created drunkards. That evening the copper

was dull and glittered only in one round spot. The shadows of the

apparatus on the wall behind were strange and weird--creatures with

tails, monsters opening gigantic jaws as if to swallow the whole

world.

"What will you take to drink?" said Coupeau.

"Nothing," answered his wife. "You know I have had no dinner!"

"You need it all the more then! Have a drop of something!"

As she hesitated Mes-Bottes said gallantly:

"The lady would like something sweet like herself."

"I like men," she answered angrily, "who do not get tipsy and talk

like fools! I like men who keep their promises!"

Her husband laughed.

"You had better drink your share," he said, "for the devil a bit of

a circus will you see tonight."

She looked at him fixedly. A heavy frown contracted her eyebrows. She

answered slowly:

"You are right; it is a good idea. We can drink up the money

together."

Bibi brought her a glass of anisette. As she sipped it she remembered

all at once the brandied fruit she had eaten in the same place with

Coupeau when he was courting her. That day she had left the brandy and

took only the fruit, and now she was sitting there drinking liqueur.

But the anisette was good. When her glass was empty she refused

another, and yet she was not satisfied.

She looked around at the infernal machine behind her--a machine that

should have been buried ten fathoms deep in the sea. Nevertheless, it

had for her a strange fascination, and she longed to quench her thirst

with that liquid fire.

"What is that you have in your glasses?" she asked.

"That, my dear," answered her husband, "is Father Colombe's own

especial brew. Taste it."

And when a glass of the vitriol was brought to her Coupeau bade her

swallow it down, saying it was good for her.

After she had drunk this glass Gervaise was no longer conscious of the

hunger that had tormented her. Coupeau told her they could go to the

circus another time, and she felt she had best stay where she was. It

did not rain in the Assommoir, and she had come to look upon the scene

as rather amusing. She was comfortable and sleepy. She took a third

glass and then put her head on her folded arms, supporting them on the

table, and listened to her husband and his friends as they talked.

Behind her the still was at work with constant drip-drip, and she felt

a mad desire to grapple with it as with some dangerous beast and tear

out its heart. She seemed to feel herself caught in those copper fangs

and fancied that those coils of pipe were wound around her own body,

slowly but surely crushing out her life.

The whole room danced before her eyes, for Gervaise was now in the

condition which had so often excited her pity and indignation with

others. She vaguely heard a quarrel arise and a crash of chairs and

tables, and then Father Colombe promptly turned everyone into the

street.

It was still raining and a cold, sharp wind blowing. Gervaise lost

Coupeau, found him and then lost him again. She wanted to go home,

but she could not find her way. At the corner of the street she took

her seat by the side of the gutter, thinking herself at her washtub.

Finally she got home and endeavored to walk straight past the door

of the concierge, within whose room she was vaguely conscious of

the Poissons and Lorilleuxs holding up their hands in disgust at

her condition.

She never knew how she got up those six flights of stairs. But when

she turned into her own corridor little Lalie ran toward her with

loving, extended arms.

"Dear Madame Gervaise," she cried, "Papa has not come in; please

come and see my children. They are sleeping so sweetly!"

But when she looked up in the face of the clearstarcher she recoiled,

trembling from head to foot. She knew only too well that alcoholic

smell, those wandering eyes and convulsed lips.

Then as Gervaise staggered past her without speaking the child's arms

fell at her side, and she looked after her friend with sad and solemn

eyes.