L\'Assommoir

E >> Emile Zola >> L\'Assommoir

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The Lorilleuxs turned to their work at the end of their room where
the tiny forge still glittered. The woman with her chemise slipped off
her shoulder which was red with the reflection from the brazier, was
drawing out another wire, the muscles in her throat swelling with her
exertions.

The husband, stooping under the green light of the ball of water, was
again busy with his pincers, not stopping even to wipe the sweat from
his brow.

When Gervaise emerged from the narrow corridors on the sixth landing
she said with tears in her eyes:

"This certainly does not promise very well!"

Coupeau shook his head angrily. Lorilleux should pay for this evening!
Was there ever such a miser? To care if one carried off three grains
of gold in the dust on one's shoes. All the stories his sister told
were pure fictions and malice. His sister never meant him to marry;
his eating with them saved her at least four sous daily. But he did
not care whether they appeared on the twenty-ninth of July or not;
he could get along without them perfectly well.

But Gervaise, as she descended the staircase, felt her heart swell
with pain and fear. She did not like the strange shadows on the dimly
lit stairs. From behind the doors, now closed, came the heavy
breathing of sleepers who had gone to their beds on rising from the
table. A faint laugh was heard from one room, while a slender thread
of light filtered through the keyhole of the old lady who was still
busy with her dolls, cutting out the gauze dresses with squeaking
scissors. A child was crying on the next floor, and the smell from
the sinks was worse than ever and seemed something tangible amid this
silent darkness. Then in the courtyard, while Coupeau pulled the cord,
Gervaise turned and examined the house once more. It seemed enormous
as it stood black against the moonless sky. The gray facades rose tall
and spectral; the windows were all shut. No clothes fluttered in the
breeze; there was literally not the smallest look of life, except in
the few windows that were still lighted. From the damp corner of the
courtyard came the drip-drip of the fountain. Suddenly it seemed to
Gervaise as if the house were striding toward her and would crush her
to the earth. A moment later she smiled at her foolish fancy.

"Take care!" cried Coupeau.

And as she passed out of the courtyard she was compelled to jump over
a little sea which had run from the dyer's. This time the water was
blue, as blue as the summer sky, and the reflection of the lamps
carried by the concierge was like the stars themselves.

CHAPTER III

A MARRIAGE OF THE PEOPLE

Gervaise did not care for any great wedding. Why should they spend
their money so foolishly? Then, too, she felt a little ashamed and
did not care to parade their marriage before the whole _Quartier_.
But Coupeau objected. It would never do not to have some
festivities--a little drive and a supper, perhaps, at a restaurant;
he would ask for nothing more. He vowed that no one should drink too
much and finally obtained the young woman's consent and organized a
picnic at five francs per head at the Moulin d'Argent, Boulevard de
la Chapelle. He was a small wine merchant who had a garden back of
his restaurant. He made out a list. Among others appeared the names of
two of his comrades, Bibi-la-Grillade and Mes-Bottes. It was true that
Mes-Bottes crooked his elbow, but he was so deliciously funny that he
was always invited to picnics. Gervaise said she, in her turn, would
bring her employer, Mme Fauconnier--all told, there would be fifteen
at the table. That was quite enough.

Now as Coupeau was literally penniless, he borrowed fifty francs from
his employer. He first bought his wedding ring; it cost twelve francs
out of the shop, but his brother-in-law purchased it for him for nine
at the factory. He then ordered an overcoat, pantaloons and vest
from a tailor to whom he paid twenty-five francs on account. His
patent-leather shoes and his bolivar could last awhile longer. Then
he put aside his ten francs for the picnic, which was what he and
Gervaise must pay, and they had precisely six francs remaining, the
price of a Mass at the altar of the poor. He had no liking for those
black frocks, and it broke his heart to give these beloved francs
to them. But a marriage without a Mass, he had heard, was really
no marriage at all.

He went to the church to see if he could not drive a better bargain,
and for an hour he fought with a stout little priest in a dirty
soutane who, finally declaring that God could never bless such a
union, agreed that the Mass should cost only five francs. Thus Coupeau
had twenty sous in hand with which to begin the world!

Gervaise, in her turn, had made her preparations, had worked late
into the night and laid aside thirty francs. She had set her heart
on a silk mantelet marked thirteen francs, which she had seen in a
shopwindow. She paid for it and bought for ten francs from the husband
of a laundress who had died in Mme Fauconnier's house a delaine dress
of a deep blue, which she made over entirely. With the seven francs
that remained she bought a rose for her cap, a pair of white cotton
gloves and shoes for Claude. Fortunately both the boys had nice
blouses. She worked for four days mending and making; there was not
a hole or a rip in anything. At last the evening before the important
day arrived; Gervaise and Coupeau sat together and talked, happy that
matters were so nearly concluded. Their arrangements were all made.
They were to go to the mayor's office--the two sisters of Coupeau
declared they would remain at home, their presence not being necessary
there. Then Mother Coupeau began to weep, saying she wished to go
early and hide in a corner, and they promised to take her.

The hour fixed for the party to assemble at the Moulin d'Argent was
one o'clock sharp. From then they were to seek an appetite on the
Plaine-St-Denis and return by rail. Saturday morning, as he dressed,
Coupeau thought with some anxiety of his scanty funds; he supposed
he ought to offer a glass of wine and a slice of ham to his witnesses
while waiting for dinner; unexpected expenses might arise; no, it was
clear that twenty sous was not enough. He consequently, after taking
Claude and Etienne to Mlle Boche, who promised to appear with them at
dinner, ran to his brother-in-law and borrowed ten francs; he did it
with reluctance, and the words stuck in his throat, for he half
expected a refusal. Lorilleux grumbled and growled but finally lent
the money. But Coupeau heard his sister mutter under her breath,
"That is a good beginning."

The civil marriage was fixed for half-past ten. The day was clear and
the sun intensely hot. In order not to excite observation the bridal
pair, the mother and the four witnesses, separated--Gervaise walked
in front, having the arm of Lorilleux, while M. Madinier gave his
to Mamma Coupeau; on the opposite sidewalk were Coupeau, Boche and
Bibi-la-Grillade. These three wore black frock coats and walked with
their arms dangling from their rounded shoulders. Boche wore yellow
pantaloons. Bibi-la-Grillade's coat was buttoned to the chin, as he
had no vest, and a wisp of a cravat was tied around his neck.

M. Madinier was the only one who wore a dress coat, a superb coat
with square tails, and people stared as he passed with the stout Mamma
Coupeau in a green shawl and black bonnet with black ribbons. Gervaise
was very sweet and gentle, wearing her blue dress and her trim little
silk mantle. She listened graciously to Lorilleux, who, in spite of
the warmth of the day, was nearly lost in the ample folds of a loose
overcoat. Occasionally she would turn her head and glance across the
street with a little smile at Coupeau, who was none too comfortable
in his new clothes. They reached the mayor's office a half-hour too
early, and their turn was not reached until nearly eleven. They sat in
the corner of the office, stiff and uneasy, pushing back their chairs
a little out of politeness each time one of the clerks passed them,
and when the magistrate appeared they all rose respectfully. They were
bidden to sit down again, which they did, and were the spectators of
three marriages--the brides in white and the bridesmaids in pink and
blue, quite fine and stylish.

When their own turn came Bibi-la-Grillade had disappeared, and Boche
hunted him up in the square, where he had gone to smoke a pipe. All
the forms were so quickly completed that the party looked at each
other in dismay, feeling as if they had been defrauded of half the
ceremony. Gervaise listened with tears in her eyes, and the old lady
wept audibly.

Then they turned to the register and wrote their names in big, crooked
letters--all but the newly made husband, who, not being able to write,
contented himself with making a cross.

Then the clerk handed the certificate to Coupeau. He, admonished by
a touch of his wife's elbow, presented him with five sous.

It was quite a long walk from the mayor's office to the church. The
men stopped midway to take a glass of beer, and Gervaise and Mamma
Coupeau drank some cassis with water. There was not a particle of
shade, for the sun was directly above their heads. The beadle awaited
them in the empty church; he hurried them toward a small chapel,
asking them indignantly if they were not ashamed to mock at religion
by coming so late. A priest came toward them with an ashen face, faint
with hunger, preceded by a boy in a dirty surplice. He hurried through
the service, gabbling the Latin phrases with sidelong glances at the
bridal party. The bride and bridegroom knelt before the altar in
considerable embarrassment, not knowing when it was necessary to kneel
and when to stand and not always understanding the gestures made by
the clerk.

The witnesses thought it more convenient to stand all the time, while
Mamma Coupeau, overcome by her tears again, shed them on a prayer book
which she had borrowed from a neighbor.

It was high noon. The last Mass was said, and the church was noisy
with the movements of the sacristans, who were putting the chairs in
their places. The center altar was being prepared for some fete, for
the hammers were heard as the decorations were being nailed up. And in
the choking dust raised by the broom of the man who was sweeping the
corner of the small altar the priest laid his cold and withered hand
on the heads of Gervaise and Coupeau with a sulky air, as if he were
uniting them as a mere matter of business or to occupy the time
between the two Masses.

When the signatures were again affixed to the register in the vestry
and the party stood outside in the sunshine, they had a sensation as
if they had been driven at full speed and were glad to rest.

"I feel as if I had been at the dentist's. We had no time to cry out
before it was all over!"

"Yes," muttered Lorilleux, "they take less than five minutes to do
what can't be undone in all one's life! Poor Cadet-Cassis!"

Gervaise kissed her new mother with tears in her eyes but with smiling
lips. She answered the old woman gently:

"Do not be afraid. I will do my best to make him happy. If things turn
out ill it shall not be my fault."

The party went at once to the Moulin d'Argent. Coupeau now walked with
his wife some little distance in advance of the others. They whispered
and laughed together and seemed to see neither the people nor the
houses nor anything that was going on about them.

At the restaurant Coupeau ordered at once some bread and ham; then
seeing that Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade were really hungry, he ordered
more wine and more meat. His mother could eat nothing, and Gervaise,
who was dying of thirst, drank glass after glass of water barely
reddened with wine.

"This is my affair," said Coupeau, going to the counter where he paid
four francs, five sous.

The guests began to arrive. Mme Fauconnier, stout and handsome, was
the first. She wore a percale gown, ecru ground with bright figures,
a rose-colored cravat and a bonnet laden with flowers. Then came Mlle
Remanjon in her scanty black dress, which seemed so entirely a part
of herself that it was doubtful if she laid it aside at night. The
Gaudron household followed. The husband, enormously stout, looked as
if his vest would burst at the least movement, and his wife, who was
nearly as huge as himself, was dressed in a delicate shade of violet
which added to her apparent size.

"Ah," cried Mme Lerat as she entered, "we are going to have a
tremendous shower!" And she bade them all look out the window
to see how black the clouds were.

Mme Lerat, Coupeau's eldest sister, was a tall, thin woman, very
masculine in appearance and talking through her nose, wearing a
puce-colored dress that was much too loose for her. It was profusely
trimmed with fringe, which made her look like a lean dog just coming
out of the water. She brandished an umbrella as she talked, as if it
had been a walking stick. As she kissed Gervaise she said:

"You have no idea how the wind blows, and it is as hot as a blast
from a furnace!"

Everybody at once declared they had felt the storm coming all the
morning. Three days of extreme heat, someone said, always ended in
a gust.

"It will blow over," said Coupeau with an air of confidence, "but
I wish my sister would come, all the same."

Mme Lorilleux, in fact, was very late. Mme Lerat had called for her,
but she had not then begun to dress. "And," said the widow in her
brother's ear, "you never saw anything like the temper she was in!"

They waited another half-hour. The sky was growing blacker and
blacker. Clouds of dust were rising along the street, and down came
the rain. And it was in the first shower that Mme Lorilleux arrived,
out of temper and out of breath, struggling with her umbrella, which
she could not close.

"I had ten minds," she exclaimed, "to turn back. I wanted you to wait
until next Saturday. I knew it would rain today--I was certain of it!"

Coupeau tried to calm her, but she quickly snubbed him. Was it he, she
would like to know, who was to pay for her dress if it were spoiled?

She wore black silk, so tight that the buttonholes were burst out, and
it showed white on the shoulders,--while the skirt was so scant that
she could not take a long step.

The other women, however, looked at her silk with envy.

She took no notice of Gervaise, who sat by the side of her
mother-in-law. She called to Lorilleux and with his aid carefully
wiped every drop of rain from her dress with her handkerchief.

Meanwhile the shower ceased abruptly, but the storm was evidently not
over, for sharp flashes of lightning darted through the black clouds.

Suddenly the rain poured down again. The men stood in front of the
door with their hands in their pockets, dismally contemplating the
scene. The women crouched together with their hands over their eyes.
They were in such terror they could not talk; when the thunder was
heard farther off they all plucked up their spirits and became
impatient, but a fine rain was falling that looked interminable.

"What are we to do?" cried Mme Lorilleux crossly.

Then Mlle Remanjon timidly observed that the sun perhaps would soon
be out, and they might yet go into the country; upon this there was
one general shout of derision.

"Nice walking it would be! And how pleasant the grass would be to sit
upon!"

Something must be done, however, to get rid of the time until dinner.
Bibi-la-Grillade proposed cards; Mme Lerat suggested storytelling.
To each proposition a thousand objections were offered. Finally when
Lorilleux proposed that the party should visit the tomb of Abelard
and Heloise his wife's indignation burst forth.

She had dressed in her best only to be drenched in the rain and to
spend the day in a wineshop, it seemed! She had had enough of the
whole thing and she would go home. Coupeau and Lorilleux held the
door, she exclaiming violently:

"Let me go; I tell you I will go!"

Her husband having induced her to listen to reason, Coupeau went to
Gervaise, who was calmly conversing with her mother-in-law and Mme
Fauconnier.

"Have you nothing to propose?" he asked, not venturing to add any term
of endearment.

"No," she said with a smile, "but I am ready to do anything you wish.
I am very well suited as I am."

Her face was indeed as sunny as a morning in May. She spoke to
everyone kindly and sympathetically. During the storm she had sat
with her eyes riveted on the clouds, as if by the light of those
lurid flashes she was reading the solemn book of the future.

M. Madinier had proposed nothing; he stood leaning against the counter
with a pompous air; he spat upon the ground, wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand and rolled his eyes about.

"We could go to the Musee du Louvre, I suppose," and he smoothed his
chin while awaiting the effect of this proposition.

"There are antiquities there--statues, pictures, lots of things. It
is very instructive. Have any of you been there?" he asked.

They all looked at each other. Gervaise had never even heard of the
place, nor had Mme Fauconnier nor Boche. Coupeau thought he had been
there one Sunday, but he was not sure, but Mme Lorilleux, on whom
Madinier's air of importance had produced a profound impression,
approved of the idea. The day was wasted anyway; therefore, if a
little instruction could be got it would be well to try it. As
the rain was still falling, they borrowed old umbrellas of every
imaginable hue from the establishment and started forth for the
Musee du Louvre.

There were twelve of them, and they walked in couples, Mme Lorilleux
with Madinier, to whom she grumbled all the way.

"We know nothing about her," she said, "not even where he picked her
up. My husband has already lent them ten francs, and whoever heard of
a bride without a single relation? She said she had a sister in Paris.
Where is she today, I should like to know!"

She checked herself and pointed to Gervaise, whose lameness was very
perceptible as she descended the hill.

"Just look at her!" she muttered. "Wooden legs!"

This epithet was heard by Mme Fauconnier, who took up the cudgels for
Gervaise who, she said, was as neat as a pin and worked like a tiger.

The wedding party, coming out of La Rue St-Denis, crossed the
boulevard under their umbrellas amid the pouring rain, driving here
and there among the carriages. The drivers, as they pulled up their
horses, shouted to them to look out, with an oath. On the gray and
muddy sidewalk the procession was very conspicuous--the blue dress of
the bride, the canary-colored breeches of one of the men, Madinier's
square-tailed coat--all gave a carnivallike air to the group. But it
was the hats of the party that were the most amusing, for they were
of all heights, sizes and styles. The shopkeepers on the boulevard
crowded to their windows to enjoy the drollery of the sight.
The wedding procession, quite undisturbed by the observation it
excited, went gaily on. They stopped for a moment on the Place des
Victoire--the bride's shoestring was untied--she fastened it at the
foot of the statue of Louis XIV, her friends waiting as she did so.

Finally they reached the Louvre. Here Madinier politely asked
permission to take the head of the party; the place was so large,
he said, that it was a very easy thing to lose oneself; he knew the
prettiest rooms and the things best worth seeing, because he had
often been there with an artist, a very intelligent fellow, from
whom a great manufacturer of pasteboard boxes bought pictures.

The party entered the museum of Assyrian antiquities. They shivered
and walked about, examining the colossal statues, the gods in black
marble, strange beasts and monstrosities, half cats and half women.
This was not amusing, and an inscription in Phoenician characters
appalled them. Who on earth had ever read such stuff as that? It
was meaningless nonsense!

But Madinier shouted to them from the stairs, "Come on! That is
nothing! Much more interesting things up here, I assure you!"

The severe nudity of the great staircase cast a gloom over their
spirits; an usher in livery added to their awe, and it was with great
respect and on the tips of their toes they entered the French gallery.

How many statues! How many pictures! They wished they had all the
money they had cost.

In the Gallerie d'Apollon the floor excited their admiration; it was
smooth as glass; even the feet of the sofas were reflected in it.
Madinier bade them look at the ceiling and at its many beauties of
decoration, but they said they dared not look up. Then before entering
the Salon Carre he pointed to the window and said:

"That is the balcony where Charles IX fired on the people!"

With a magnificent gesture he ordered his party to stand still in the
center of the Salon Carre.

"There are only chefs-d'oeuvres here," he whispered as solemnly as if
he had been in a church.

They walked around the salon. Gervaise asked the meaning of one of
the pictures, the _Noces de Cana_; Coupeau stopped before _La
Joconde_, declaring that it was like one of his aunts.

Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade snickered and pushed each other at the
sight of the nude female figures, and the Gaudrons, husband and wife,
stood open-mouthed and deeply touched before Murillo's Virgin.

When they had been once around the room Madinier, who was quite
attentive to Mme Lorilleux on account of her silk gown, proposed
they should do it over again; it was well worth it, he said.

He never hesitated in replying to any question which she addressed
to him in her thirst for information, and when she stopped before
Titian's Mistress, whose yellow hair struck her as like her own, he
told her it was a mistress of Henri IV, who was the heroine of a play
then running at the Ambigu.

The wedding party finally entered the long gallery devoted to the
Italian and Flemish schools of art. The pictures were all meaningless
to them, and their heads were beginning to ache. They felt a thrill
of interest, however, in the copyists with their easels, who painted
without being disturbed by spectators. The artists scattered through
the rooms had heard that a primitive wedding party was making a tour
of the Louvre and hurried with laughing faces to enjoy the scene,
while the weary bride and bridegroom, accompanied by their friends,
clumsily moved about over the shining, resounding floors much like
cattle let loose and with quite as keen an appreciation of the
marvelous beauties about them.

The women vowed their backs were broken standing so long, and
Madinier, declaring he knew the way, said they would leave after he
had shown them a certain room to which he could go with his eyes shut.
But he was very much mistaken. Salon succeeded to salon, and finally
the party went up a flight of stairs and found themselves among
cannons and other instruments of war. Madinier, unwilling to confess
that he had lost himself, wandered distractedly about, declaring that
the doors had been changed. The party began to feel that they were
there for life, when suddenly to their great joy they heard the cry
of the janitors resounding from room to room.

"Time to close the doors!"

They meekly followed one of them, and when they were outside they
uttered a sigh of relief as they put up their umbrellas once more,
but one and all affected great pleasure at having been to the Louvre.

The clock struck four. There were two hours to dispose of before
dinner. The women would have liked to rest, but the men were more
energetic and proposed another walk, during which so tremendous a
shower fell that umbrellas were useless and dresses were irretrievably
ruined. Then M. Madinier suggested that they should ascend the column
on the Place Vendome.

"It is not a bad idea," cried the men. And the procession began the
ascent of the spiral staircase, which Boche said was so old that he
could feel it shake. This terrified the ladies, who uttered little
shrieks, but Coupeau said nothing; his arm was around his wife's
waist, and just as they emerged upon the platform he kissed her.

"Upon my word!" cried Mme Lorilleux, much scandalized.

Madinier again constituted himself master of ceremonies and pointed
out all the monuments, but Mme Fauconnier would not put her foot
outside the little door; she would not look down on that pavement for
all the world, she said, and the party soon tired of this amusement
and descended the stairs. At the foot Madinier wished to pay, but
Coupeau interfered and put into the hand of the guard twenty-four
sous--two for each person. It was now half-past five; they had just
time to get to the restaurant, but Coupeau proposed a glass of
vermouth first, and they entered a cabaret for that purpose.

When they returned to the Moulin d'Argent they found Mme Boche with
the two children, talking to Mamma Coupeau near the table, already
spread and waiting. When Gervaise saw Claude and Etienne she took
them both on her knees and kissed them lovingly.

"Have they been good?" she asked.

"I should think Coupeau would feel rather queer!" said Mme Lorilleux
as she looked on grimly.

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