L\'Assommoir

E >> Emile Zola >> L\'Assommoir

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The guests all laughed and approved; working people must have their
wine, they said, and Father Noah had planted the vine for them
especially. Wine gave courage and strength for work; and if it chanced
that a man sometimes took a drop too much, in the end it did him no
harm, and life looked brighter to him for a time. Goujet himself, who
was usually so prudent and abstemious, was becoming a little excited.
Boche was growing red, and the Lorilleux pair very pale, while Poisson
assumed a solemn and severe aspect. The men were all more or less
tipsy, and the ladies--well, the less we say of the ladies, the
better.

Suddenly Gervaise remembered the six bottles of sealed wine she had
omitted to serve with the goose as she had intended. She produced them
amid much applause. The glasses were filled anew, and Poisson rose
and proposed the health of their hostess.

"And fifty more birthdays!" cried Virginie.

"No, no," answered Gervaise with a smile that had a touch of sadness
in it. "I do not care to live to be very old. There comes a time when
one is glad to go!"

A little crowd had collected outside and smiled at the scene, and
the smell of the goose pervaded the whole street. The clerks in the
grocery opposite licked their lips and said it was good and curiously
estimated the amount of wine that had been consumed.

None of the guests were annoyed by being the subjects of observation,
although they were fully aware of it and, in fact, rather enjoyed it.
Coupeau, catching sight of a familiar face, held up a bottle, which,
being accepted with a nod, he sent it out with a glass. This
established a sort of fraternity with the street.

In the next room the children were unmanageable. They had taken
possession of a saucepan and were drumming on it with spoons. Mamma
Coupeau and Father Bru were talking earnestly. The old man was
speaking of his two sons who had died in the Crimea. Ah, had they
but lived, he would have had bread to eat in his old age!

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

"Yes, but one has a good deal of unhappiness with children. Many an
hour have I wept on account of mine."

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

"I can't get any work to do. I am too old. When I ask for any people
laugh and ask if it was I who blacked Henri Quatre's boots. Last year
I earned thirty sous by painting a bridge. I had to lie on my back
all the time, close to the water, and since then I have coughed
incessantly." He looked down at his poor stiff hands and added,
"I know I am good for nothing. I wish I was by the side of my boys.
It is a great pity that one can't kill one's self when one begins
to grow old."

"Really," said Lorilleux, "I cannot see why the government does not
do something for people in your condition. Men who are disabled--"

"But workmen are not soldiers," interrupted Poisson, who considered
it his duty to espouse the cause of the government. "It is foolish
to expect them to do impossibilities."

The dessert was served. In the center was a pyramid of spongecake
in the form of a temple with melonlike sides, and on the top was an
artificial rose with a butterfly of silver paper hovering over it,
held by a gilt wire. Two drops of gum in the heart of the rose stood
for dew. On the left was a deep plate with a bit of cheese, and on the
other side of the pyramid was a dish of strawberries, which had been
sugared and carefully crushed.

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

"Madame Boche," said Gervaise courteously, "pray eat these. I know
how fond you are of salad."

The concierge shook her head. There were limits even to her
capacities, and she looked at the lettuce with regret. Clemence told
how she had once eaten three quarts of water cresses at her breakfast.
Mme Putois declared that she enjoyed lettuce with a pinch of salt and
no dressing, and as they talked the ladies emptied the salad bowl.

None of the guests were dismayed at the dessert, although they had
eaten so enormously. They had the night before them too; there was no
need of haste. The men lit their pipes and drank more wine while they
watched Gervaise cut the cake. Poisson, who prided himself on his
knowledge of the habits of good society, rose and took the rose from
the top and presented it to the hostess amid the loud applause of the
whole party. She fastened it just over her heart, and the butterfly
fluttered at every movement. A song was proposed--comic songs were a
specialty with Boche--and the whole party joined in the chorus. The
men kept time with their heels and the women with their knives on
their glasses. The windows of the shop jarred with the noise. Virginie
had disappeared twice, and the third time, when she came back, she
said to Gervaise:

"My dear, he is still at the restaurant and pretends to be reading
his paper. I fear he is meditating some mischief."

She spoke of Lantier. She had been out to see if he were anywhere
in the vicinity. Gervaise became very grave.

"Is he tipsy?" she asked.

"No indeed, and that is what troubled me. Why on earth should he stay
there so long if he is not drinking? My heart is in my mouth; I am so
afraid something will happen."

The clearstarcher begged her to say no more. Mme Putois started up
and began a fierce piratical song, standing stiff and erect in her
black dress, her pale face surrounded by her black lace cap, and
gesticulating violently. Poisson nodded approval. He had been to sea,
and he knew all about it.

Gervaise, assisted by her mother-in-law, now poured out the coffee.
Her guests insisted on a song from her, declaring that it was her
turn. She refused. Her face was disturbed and pale, so much so that
she was asked if the goose disagreed with her.

Finally she began to sing a plaintive melody all about dreams and
rest. Her eyelids half closed as she ended, and she peered out into
the darkness. Then followed a barcarole from Mme Boche and a romance
from Lorilleux, in which figured perfumes of Araby, ivory throats,
ebony hair, kisses, moonlight and guitars! Clemence followed with
a song which recalled the country with its descriptions of birds
and flowers. Virginie brought down the house with her imitation of
a vivandiere, standing with her hand on her hip and a wineglass in
her hand, which she emptied down her throat as she finished.

But the grand success of the evening was Goujet, who sang in his
rich bass the _"Adieux d'Abd-et-Kader."_ The words issued from his
yellow beard like the call of a trumpet and thrilled everyone around
the table.

Virginie whispered to Gervaise:

"I have just seen Lantier pass the door. Good heavens! There he is
again, standing still and looking in."

Gervaise caught her breath and timidly turned around. The crowd had
increased, attracted by the songs. There were soldiers and shopkeepers
and three little girls, five or six years old, holding each other by
the hand, grave and silent, struck with wonder and admiration.

Lantier was directly in front of the door. Gervaise met his eyes and
felt the very marrow of her bones chilled; she could not move hand
or foot.

Coupeau called for more wine, and Clemence helped herself to more
strawberries. The singing ceased, and the conversation turned upon
a woman who had hanged herself the day before in the next street.

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

She dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of water and applied
it to her temples because she was too warm. Then she asked for a
teaspoonful of brandy and wiped her lips.

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

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

_"L'Enfant perdu que sa mere abandonne,
Troue toujours un asile au Saint lieu,
Dieu qui le voit, le defend de son trone,
L'Enfant perdu, c'est L'Enfant du bon Dieu."_

She raised her eyes to heaven and placed one hand on her heart; her
voice was not without a certain sympathetic quality, and Gervaise,
already quivering with emotion caused by the knowledge of Lantier's
presence, could no longer restrain her tears. It seemed to her that
she was the deserted child whom _le bon Dieu_ had taken under His
care. Clemence, who was quite tipsy, burst into loud sobs. The ladies
took out their handkerchiefs and pressed them to their eyes, rather
proud of their tenderness of heart.

The men felt it their duty to respect the feeling shown by the women
and were, in fact, somewhat touched themselves. The wine had softened
their hearts apparently.

Gervaise and Virginie watched the shadows outside. Mme Boche, in her
turn, now caught a glimpse of Lantier and uttered an exclamation as
she wiped away her fast-falling tears. The three women exchanged
terrified, anxious glances.

"Good heavens!" muttered Virginie. "Suppose Coupeau should turn
around. There would be a murder, I am convinced." And the earnestness
of their fixed eyes became so apparent that finally he said:

"What are you staring at?"

And leaning forward, he, too, saw Lantier.

"This is too much," he muttered, "the dirty ruffian! It is too much,
and I won't have it!"

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

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

Virginie took away the knife that Coupeau had snatched from the table,
but she could not prevent him from going into the street. The other
guests saw nothing, so entirely absorbed were they in the touching
words which Mme Lerat was still singing.

Gervaise sat with her hands clasped convulsively, breathless with
fear, expecting to hear a cry of rage from the street and see one of
the two men fall to the ground. Virginie and Mme Boche had something
of the same feeling. Coupeau had been so overcome by the fresh air
that when he rushed forward to take Lantier by the collar he missed
his footing and found himself seated quietly in the gutter.

Lantier moved aside a little without taking his hands from his
pockets.

Coupeau staggered to his feet again, and a violent quarrel commenced.
Gervaise pressed her hands over her eyes; suddenly all was quiet, and
she opened her eyes again and looked out.

To her intense astonishment she saw Lantier and her husband talking
in a quiet, friendly manner.

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

As the women watched them the two men began to walk up and down in
front of the shop. They were talking earnestly. Coupeau seemed to be
urging something, and Lantier refusing. Finally Coupeau took Lantier's
arm and almost dragged him toward the shop.

"I tell you, you must!" he cried. "You shall drink a glass of wine
with us. Men will be men all the world over. My wife and I know that
perfectly well."

Mme Lerat had finished her song and seated herself with the air of
being utterly exhausted. She asked for a glass of wine. When she sang
that song, she said, she was always torn to pieces, and it left her
nerves in a terrible state.

Lantier had been placed at the table by Coupeau and was eating a
piece of cake, leisurely dipping it into his glass of wine. With
the exception of Mme Boche and Virginie, no one knew him.

The Lorilleuxs looked at him with some suspicion, which, however,
was very far from the mark. An awkward silence followed, broken by
Coupeau, who said simply:

"He is a friend of ours!"

And turning to his wife, he added:

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

Gervaise looked from one to the other. She was literally dazed. When
her husband first appeared with her former lover she had clasped her
hands over her forehead with that instinctive gesture with which in
a great storm one waits for the approach of the thunderclap.

It did not seem possible that the walls would not fall and crush them
all. Then seeing the two men calmly seated together, it all at once
seemed perfectly natural to her. She was tired of thinking about it
and preferred to accept it. Why, after all, should she worry? No one
else did. Everyone seemed to be satisfied; why should not she be also?

The children had fallen asleep in the back room, Pauline with her head
on Etienne's shoulder. Gervaise started as her eyes fell on her boy.
She was shocked at the thought of his father sitting there eating cake
without showing the least desire to see his child. She longed to
awaken him and show him to Lantier. And then again she had a feeling
of passing wonder at the manner in which things settled themselves
in this world.

She would not disturb the serenity of matters now, so she brought
in the coffeepot and poured out a cup for Lantier, who received it
without even looking up at her as he murmured his thanks.

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

His song was one familiar to them all and even to the street, for the
little crowd at the door joined in the chorus. The guests within were
all more or less tipsy, and there was so much noise that the policemen
ran to quell a riot, but when they saw Poisson they bowed respectfully
and passed on.

No one of the party ever knew how or at what hour the festivities
terminated. It must have been very late, for there was not a human
being in the street when they departed. They vaguely remembered having
joined hands and danced around the table. Gervaise remembered that
Lantier was the last to leave, that he passed her as she stood in the
doorway. She felt a breath on her cheek, but whether it was his or the
night air she could not tell.

Mme Lerat had refused to return to Batignolles so late, and a mattress
was laid on the floor in the shop near the table. She slept there amid
the debris of the feast, and a neighbor's cat profited by an open
window to establish herself by her side, where she crunched the bones
of the goose all night between her fine, sharp teeth.

CHAPTER VIII

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 Boncoeur.
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.

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