第 四 章 · A HAPPY HOME

. A HAPPY HOME

Four years of hard and incessant toil followed this day. Gervaise and

Coupeau were wise and prudent. They worked hard and took a little

relaxation on Sundays. The wife worked twelve hours of the twenty-four

with Mme Fauconnier and yet found time to keep her own home like

waxwork. The husband was never known to be tipsy but brought home his

wages and smoked his pipe at his own window at night before going to

bed. They were the bright and shining lights, the good example of the

whole _Quartier_, and as they made jointly about nine francs per

day, it was easy to see they were putting by money.

But in the first few months of their married life they were obliged to

trim their sails closely and had some trouble to make both ends meet.

They took a great dislike to the Hotel Boncœur. They longed for a

home of their own with their own furniture. They estimated the cost

over and over again and decided that for three hundred and fifty

francs they could venture, but they had little hope of saving such a

sum in less than two years, when a stroke of good luck befell them.

An old gentleman in Plassans sent for Claude to place him at school.

He was a very eccentric old gentleman, fond of pictures and art.

Claude was a great expense to his mother, and when Etienne alone was

at home they saved the three hundred and fifty francs in seven months.

The day they purchased their furniture they took a long and happy walk

together, for it was an important step they had taken--important not

only in their own eyes but in those of the people around them.

For two months they had been looking for an apartment. They wished,

of all things, to take one in the old house where Mme Lorilleux

lived, but there was not one single room to be rented, and they were

compelled to relinquish the idea. Gervaise was reconciled to this more

easily, since she did not care to be thrown in any closer contact with

the Lorilleuxs. They looked further. It was essential that Gervaise

should be near her friend and employer Mme Fauconnier, and they

finally succeeded in their search and were indeed in wonderful luck,

for they obtained a large room with a kitchen and tiny bedroom just

opposite the establishment of the laundress. It was a small house,

two stories, with one steep staircase, and was divided into two

lodgings--the one on the right, the other on the left, while the

lower floor was occupied by a carriage maker.

Gervaise was delighted. It seemed to her that she was once more in the

country--no neighbors, no gossip, no interference--and from the place

where she stood and ironed all day at Mme Fauconnier's she could see

the windows of her own room.

They moved in the month of April. Gervaise was then near her

confinement, but it was she who cleaned and put in order her new home.

Every penny as of consequence, she said with pride, now that they

would soon have another other mouth to feed. She rubbed her furniture,

which was of old mahogany, good, but secondhand, until it shone like

glass and was quite brokenhearted when she discovered a scratch. She

held her breath if she knocked it when sweeping. The commode was her

especial pride; it was so dignified and stately. Her pet dream, which,

however, she kept to herself, was someday to have a clock to put

in the center of the marble slab. If there had not been a baby in

prospect she would have purchased this much-coveted article at once,

but she sighed and dismissed the thought.

Etienne's bed was placed in the tiny room, almost a closet, and there

was room for the cradle by its side. The kitchen was about as big as

one's hand and very dark, but by leaving the door open one could see

pretty well, and as Gervaise had no big dinners to get she managed

comfortably. The large room was her pride. In the morning the white

curtains of the alcove were drawn, and the bedroom was transformed

into a lovely dining room, with its table in the middle, the commode

and a wardrobe opposite each other. A tiny stove kept them warm in

cold weather for seven sous per day.

Coupeau ornamented the walls with several engravings--one of a marshal

of France on a spirited steed, with his baton in his hand. Above the

commode were the photographs of the family, arranged in two lines,

with an antique china _benitier_ between. On the corners of the

commode a bust of Pascal faced another of Beranger--one grave, the

other smiling. It was, indeed, a fair and pleasant home.

"How much do you think we pay here?" Gervaise would ask of each new

visitor.

And when too high an estimate was given she was charmed.

"One hundred and fifty francs--not a penny more," she would exclaim.

"Is it not wonderful?"

No small portion of the woman's satisfaction arose from an acacia

which grew in her courtyard, one of whose branches crossed her window,

and the scanty foliage was a whole wilderness to her.

Her baby was born one afternoon. She would not allow her husband to be

sent for, and when he came gaily into the room he was welcomed by his

pale wife, who whispered to him as he stooped over her:

"My dear, it is a girl."

"All right!" said the tinworker, jesting to hide his real emotion.

"I ordered a girl. You always do just what I want!"

He took up the child.

"Let us have a good look at you, young lady! The down on the top of

your head is pretty black, I think. Now you must never squall but be

as good and reasonable always as your papa and mamma."

Gervaise, with a faint smile and sad eyes, looked at her daughter. She

shook her head. She would have preferred a boy, because boys run less

risks in a place like Paris. The nurse took the baby from the father's

hands and told Gervaise she must not talk. Coupeau said he must go and

tell his mother and sister the news, but he was famished and must eat

something first. His wife was greatly disturbed at seeing him wait

upon himself, and she tossed about a little and complained that she

could not make him comfortable.

"You must be quiet," said the nurse again.

"It is lucky you are here, or she would be up and cutting my bread

for me," said Coupeau.

He finally set forth to announce the news to his family and returned

in an hour with them all.

The Lorilleuxs, under the influence of the prosperity of their brother

and his wife, had become extremely amiable toward them and only lifted

their eyebrows in a significant sort of way, as much as to say that

they could tell something if they pleased.

"You must not talk, you understand," said Coupeau, "but they would

come and take a peep at you, and I am going to make them some coffee."

He disappeared into the kitchen, and the women discussed the size of

the baby and whom it resembled. Meanwhile Coupeau was heard banging

round in the kitchen, and his wife nervously called out to him and

told him where the things were that he wanted, but her husband rose

superior to all difficulties and soon appeared with the smoking

coffeepot, and they all seated themselves around the table, except the

nurse, who drank a cup standing and then departed; all was going well,

and she was not needed. If she was wanted in the morning they could

send for her.

Gervaise lay with a faint smile on her lips. She only half heard what

was said by those about her. She had no strength to speak; it seemed

to her that she was dead. She heard the word baptism. Coupeau saw no

necessity for the ceremony and was quite sure, too, that the child

would take cold. In his opinion, the less one had to do with priests,

the better. His mother was horrified and called him a heathen, while

the Lorilleuxs claimed to be religious people also.

"It had better be on Sunday," said his sister in a decided tone, and

Gervaise consented with a little nod. Everybody kissed her and then

the baby, addressing it with tender epithets, as if it could

understand, and departed.

When Coupeau was alone with his wife he took her hand and held it

while he finished his pipe.

"I could not help their coming," he said, "but I am sure they have

given you the headache." And the rough, clumsy man kissed his wife

tenderly, moved by a great pity for all she had borne for his sake.

And Gervaise was very happy. She told him so and said her only anxiety

now was to be on her feet again as soon as possible, for they had

another mouth to feed. He soothed her and asked if she could not trust

him to look out for their little one.

In the morning when he went to his work he sent Mme Boche to spend the

day with his wife, who at night told him she never could consent to

lie still any longer and see a stranger going about her room, and the

next day she was up and would not be taken care of again. She had no

time for such nonsense! She said it would do for rich women but not

for her, and in another week she was at Mme Fauconnier's again at

work.

Mme Lorilleux, who was the baby's godmother, appeared on Saturday

evening with a cap and baptismal robe, which she had bought cheap

because they had lost their first freshness. The next day Lorilleux,

as godfather, gave Gervaise six pounds of sugar. They flattered

themselves they knew how to do things properly and that evening, at

the supper given by Coupeau, did not appear empty-handed. Lorilleux

came with a couple of bottles of wine under each arm, and his wife

brought a large custard which was a specialty of a certain restaurant.

Yes, they knew how to do things, these people, but they also liked

to tell of what they did, and they told everyone they saw in the next

month that they had spent twenty francs, which came to the ears of

Gervaise, who was none too well pleased.

It was at this supper that Gervaise became acquainted with her

neighbors on the other side of the house. These were Mme Goujet, a

widow, and her son. Up to this time they had exchanged a good morning

when they met on the stairs or in the street, but as Mme Goujet had

rendered some small services on the first day of her illness, Gervaise

invited them on the occasion of the baptism.

These people were from the _Department du Nond_. The mother

repaired laces, while the son, a blacksmith by trade, worked in

a factory.

They had lived in their present apartment for five years. Beneath the

peaceful calm of their lives lay a great sorrow. Goujet, the husband

and father, had killed a man in a fit of furious intoxication

and then, while in prison, had choked himself with his pocket

handkerchief. His widow and child left Lille after this and came to

Paris, with the weight of this tragedy on their hearts and heads, and

faced the future with indomitable courage and sweet patience. Perhaps

they were overproud and reserved, for they held themselves aloof

from those about them. Mme Goujet always wore mourning, and her pale,

serene face was encircled with nunlike bands of white. Goujet was a

colossus of twenty-three with a clear, fresh complexion and honest

eyes. At the manufactory he went by the name of the Gueule-d'Or on

account of his beautiful blond beard.

Gervaise took a great fancy to these people and when she first entered

their apartment and was charmed with the exquisite cleanliness of all

she saw. Mme Goujet opened the door into her son's room to show it

to her. It was as pretty and white as the chamber of a young girl.

A narrow iron bed, white curtains and quilt, a dressing table and

bookshelves made up the furniture. A few colored engravings were

pinned against the wall, and Mme Goujet said that her son was a good

deal of a boy still--he liked to look at pictures rather than read.

Gervaise sat for an hour with her neighbor, watching her at work with

her cushion, its numberless pins and the pretty lace.

The more she saw of her new friends the better Gervaise liked them.

They were frugal but not parsimonious. They were the admiration of

the neighborhood. Goujet was never seen with a hole or a spot on his

garments. He was very polite to all but a little diffident, in spite

of his height and broad shoulders. The girls in the street were much

amused to see him look away when they met him; he did not fancy their

ways--their forward boldness and loud laughs. One day he came home

tipsy. His mother uttered no word of reproach but brought out a

picture of his father which was piously preserved in her wardrobe. And

after that lesson Goujet drank no more liquor, though he conceived no

hatred for wine.

On Sunday he went out with his mother, who was his idol. He went to

her with all his troubles and with all his joys, as he had done when

little.

At first he took no interest in Gervaise, but after a while he began

to like her and treated her like a sister, with abrupt familiarity.

Cadet-Cassis, who was a thorough Parisian, thought Gueule-d'Or very

stupid. What was the sense of turning away from all the pretty girls

he met in the street? But this did not prevent the two young fellows

from liking each other very heartily.

For three years the lives of these people flowed tranquilly on

without an event. Gervaise had been elevated in the laundry where

she worked, had higher wages and decided to place Etienne at school.

Notwithstanding all her expenses of the household, they were able to

save twenty and thirty francs each month. When these savings amounted

to six hundred francs Gervaise could not rest, so tormented was she by