The Drinking Den

by Emile Zola

  M. Madinier had not yet suggested anything. He was leaning against the counter, with his coat-tails spread wide, preserving his dignity as a boss. He let out a long jet of spit and rolled his large eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘there’s always the museum…’ And he stroked his chin, looking round the assembled party and blinking. ‘They’ve got antiquities, pictures, oil paintings, a whole load of things. It’s very educational. Perhaps you don’t know? It’s something one ought to see, at least once.’

  They all looked at one another inquiringly. No, Gervaise had never been, nor had Mme Fauconnier, or Boche, or any of the others, though Coupeau did think he had been up there one Sunday, but couldn’t remember much about it. They were still trying to make up their minds, when Mme Lorilleux, much impressed by M. Madinier’s air of importance, said that she thought it was a very proper and appropriate suggestion. Since they had given up a day and had got their best clothes on, they might as well go and visit something improving. Everyone agreed. So, since it was still raining a little, they borrowed some umbrellas from the wine merchant – old umbrellas, blue, green and brown, which customers had accidentally left behind – and off they set for the museum.

  The party turned right, heading for the centre of Paris down the Faubourg Saint-Denis. Coupeau and Gervaise once more led the way, running on ahead of the rest. M. Madinier now gave his arm to Mme Lorilleux, since Mme Coupeau had stayed behind at the wine merchant’s because of her legs. Then came Lorilleux and Mme Lerat, Boche and Mme Fauconnier, Bibi-la-Grillade and Mlle Remanjou, with the Gaudrons bringing up the rear. There were twelve of them in all, and once again they formed a fair old line along the pavement.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with us, I assure you,’ Mme Lorilleux was explaining to M. Madinier. ‘We don’t know where he picked her up – or, rather, we know only too well; but it’s not our place to say anything, is it? My husband had to buy the wedding ring. This morning, we were no sooner up than we had to lend them another ten francs, without which nothing would have gone ahead. A bride who doesn’t bring one single relative to her wedding! She claims that she has a sister who is a butcher’s wife in Paris. So why didn’t she invite her, then?’

  She stopped to point to Gervaise, who was limping heavily as she went down the sloping street.

  ‘Look at her! I ask you! Tip-Tap!’

  And the words ‘Tip-Tap’ went round the company. Lorilleux said they should call her that, but Mme Fauconnier leaped to Gervaise’s defence: they shouldn’t make fun of her, she was clean as a new penny and really got down to her work, when she had to. Mme Lerat, who always had some suggestive remark or other when she wanted, called the girl’s leg a ‘love-pin’, adding that a lot of men liked that, without further explanation.

  The party emerged from the Rue Saint-Denis and crossed the boulevard. They halted for a moment before the stream of carriages, then ventured out into the road, which had been changed by the storm into a pool of flowing mud. The rain was falling again, they had just opened their umbrellas and, under the pitiful brollies held up by the men, the women lifted their skirts and the procession spread out in the dirt, extending from one pavement to the other. At this, two louts yelled out, ‘Look, look, carnival time!’ Passers-by gathered and shopkeepers, with an air of amusement, stood on tiptoe behind their windows. In the roar of the crowd, against the wet, grey background of the wide street, the couples walking along shone out as splashes of violent colour: Gervaise in dark blue, Mme Fauconnier’s flower-print dress and Boche’s canary-yellow trousers. That stiffness adopted by people in their Sunday best really did make Coupeau’s shiny frock-coat and M. Madinier’s square-cut jacket look like carnival clothes, while Mme Lorilleux’s fine outfit, the fringed dress of Mme Lerat and Mlle Remanjou’s worn skirts offered a mixture of fashions that gave the whole group the look of poor people done up for an occasion in reach-me-down clothes. But it was chiefly the gentlemen’s hats that caused the hilarity, old hats long preserved, deteriorating in the darkness of the wardrobe, with gloriously comic shapes, tall, expansive or pointed, with amazing brims, flat or turned up, either too wide or too narrow. And the smiles broadened when, bringing up the rear of the parade, was Mme Gaudron, the wool-carder, in her bright-violet dress with a pregnant belly that was enormous on her, thrust far forward. The wedding party, meanwhile, did not quicken its pace, dawdling good-humouredly, pleased at being the object of attention and amused by the quips.

  ‘Look!’ one of the louts cried, pointing to Mme Gaudron. ‘Here comes the bride! My, oh my, she’s got a fine bun in the oven!’

  Everyone burst out laughing. Bibi-la-Grillade turned round to make the point that the kid had hit the nail on the head. The carder laughed louder than anybody, and spread herself even further: there was nothing shameful about it, on the contrary: plenty of the women who were staring as they went past would like to have been in her condition.

  They had started down the Rue de Cléry, after which they took the Rue du Mail. When they arrived at the Place des Victoires, they made a halt. The bride’s left shoelace had come undone and, while she was retying it beneath the statue of Louis XIV, the couples stopped behind her and waited, joking about the fact that she was showing a bit of her calf. At last, after going down the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, they reached the Louvre.6

  M. Madinier politely asked if he could lead the way. It was very large and one could easily get lost. In any case, he knew the best places, because he had often come here with an artist, a very intelligent lad who sold his drawings to a large packaging firm, which bought them to reproduce on boxes. Downstairs, when the party was setting out into the Assyrian Rooms, they gave a little shudder. Oooh! It wasn’t any too warm! The place would make a terrific cellar. And, slowly, two by two, they went forward, heads up, eyes blinking, among the colossal stone figures, the black-marble gods silent in their hieratic rigidity, half cat, half woman, with corpse-like faces, shrunken noses and swollen lips. They found them very ugly; people carved stone much better nowadays. They were amazed by an inscription in Phoenician script: it couldn’t be! Surely no one had ever been able to read that gobblede-gook! But M. Madinier, who had already reached the first landing with Mme Lorilleux, called back to them, his voice echoing under the vaulted ceiling: ‘Come on up! All that stuff is nothing! What you want to see is on the first floor.’

  The starkness of the staircase intimidated them. A magnificent warder in a red waistcoat, his uniform trimmed with gold braid, appeared to be waiting for them at the top of the stairs, and this made them even more anxious. Respectfully, treading as softly as they could, they entered the French galleries.

  Here, without pausing, their eyes filled with the gold of the frames, they followed the succession of little rooms, watching the pictures go past, too many of them to look at properly. One would need an hour in front of each one to understand it. Holy Mary, what a lot of paintings! It was never-ending. And how much could they be worth? Then, at the end, M. Madinier stopped them suddenly in front of The Raft of the Medusa7 and explained what it was about. They all fell silent and stood motionless, enchanted. When they started to walk again, Boche summed up the general feeling: It was crazy!

  In the Apollo Gallery, what amazed everyone most was the floor, a shiny parquet floor as clear as a mirror with the legs of the chairs reflected in it. Mlle Remanjou closed her eyes because she felt it was like walking on water. They yelled to Mme Gaudron to go carefully because of her condition. M. Madinier wanted them to see the gilded mouldings and the paintings on the ceiling, but it gave them a crick in the neck and they couldn’t make anything out. Then, with an expansive gesture before they went into the Salon Carré, he indicated a window and said: ‘Here is the balcony from which Charles IX fired on the people!’8

  At the same time, he was keeping an eye on the tail end of the group. He raised his hand to call a halt, in the middle of the Salon Carré. Here, there were only masterpieces, he murmured, under his breath, as though speaking in a church.
They went round the room. Gervaise asked what was the subject of The Supper at Cana:9 it was silly of them not to write the subjects on the frames. Coupeau stopped in front of the Mona Lisa,10 finding a resemblance with one of his aunts. Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade were giggling, nudging each other as they looked sideways at the naked women: Antiope’s thighs,11 in particular, caused a stir. And, right at the back, the Gaudrons, the husband with his mouth open and the wife resting her hands on her belly, stood gawping, stupefied with emotion, in front of the Virgin, by Murillo.12

  Once they had completed their tour of the Salon Carré, M. Madinier suggested that they go round a second time: it was worth it. Much of his time was taken up with Mme Lorilleux, because of her silk dress, and every time she interrupted him, he answered gravely, with great presence of mind. As she was interested in Titian’s13 mistress, whose yellow hair she considered similar to her own, he said that he much preferred La Belle Ferronnière, one of Henry IV’s mistresses, about whom there had been a play at the Ambigu.14

  Then the party set off down the Long Gallery housing the Italian and Flemish schools. More paintings and still more paintings, saints, men and women, with faces that they didn’t understand, landscapes all blackened, animals that had gone yellow, a chaotic rush of things and people in a violent clash of colours that was starting to give them a real headache. M. Madinier had stopped talking, and slowly led the party, which followed him in file, every neck craning and every eye looking up. Centuries of art passed before their stunned incomprehension: the subtle dryness of the Primitives, the splendours of the Venetians, the everyday life of the Dutch, plump and radiant with light. What interested them most were the copyists, who had set up their easels in front of everyone and were painting away without embarrassment. They were particularly struck by one old lady, at the top of a high ladder, using a large brush across the delicate sky of a vast canvas. At the same time, bit by bit, the news must have spread that a wedding party was visiting the Louvre. Painters hurried along, with broad grins on their faces, while inquisitive people took up their positions in advance on the benches, so that they could follow the procession more conveniently, and the warders, with pursed lips, held back their witticisms. The party, already tired out, losing its respect for the place, dragged its hobnailed boots and tapped its heels on the noisy flooring, with the tramp of a stampeding herd, set loose amid the bare, contemplative cleanliness of the rooms.

  M. Madinier paused for effect. He went straight to Rubens’ Kermesse.15 There, still without saying anything, he merely glanced at the painting, with a suggestive look. The ladies went right up to the painting and then let out a little cry, before turning away, blushing. The men prevented them from leaving and sniggered, looking for the bawdy details.

  ‘Well, I never!’ Boche exclaimed. ‘This one is worth what they paid for it. There’s someone throwing up, and another over there watering the dandelions. And as for this one, boy, oh, boy! Look at him! I must say, they’re a nice lot…’

  The party retraced its steps, going back through the Salon Carré and the Apollo Gallery. Mme Lerat and Mlle Remanjou complained that their legs were dropping off. But the cardboard manufacturer wanted to show Lorilleux the antique jewellery. It was to one side, at the back of a little room, which he said he could find with his eyes shut. But he lost his way, even so, and took them in the wrong direction through seven or eight cold, empty halls, furnished only with austere showcases exhibiting numberless quantities of broken pottery and ugly little statuettes. They started to get cold and felt thoroughly bored. Then, just as they were looking for the way out, they came across the drawings. There followed another mighty excursion: the drawings went on for ever, one room after another, with nothing amusing at all, just scribbled sheets of paper on the walls, behind glass. M. Madinier panicked. Not wanting to confess that he was lost, he headed for some stairs and took the whole party up one floor. Now they had surfaced in the middle of the Maritime Museum and were plunging through models of instruments and canons, relief plans and model ships the size of toys. In the far distance, after walking for a quarter of an hour, they came across another staircase. They went down it and found themselves in the midst of the drawings. At this point the whole party was seized with despair; they ranged randomly through the galleries, still in pairs, in pursuit of M. Madinier, who was wiping his forehead, beside himself with fury against the management, whom he accused of moving the doorways. The wardens and visitors watched them as they went past, full of astonishment. In less than twenty minutes, they were seen back in the Salon Carré, in the French Gallery, and passing the glass cases behind which the little gods of the Orient slept their sleep. They would never again emerge from here. With leaden legs, abandoning all propriety, the party made an enormous din, leaving Mme Gaudron and her belly far behind.

  ‘Closing time! Closing time!’ the wardens cried in thunderous voices.

  They were almost shut in for the night. A warden had to take the head of the party and lead them to one of the doors. Then, in the courtyard, after collecting their umbrellas from the cloakroom, they could breathe again. M. Madinier had recovered his composure. He had been wrong not to turn left: he remembered now; the jewellery was to the left. And the whole lot of them pretended that they were glad to have been there and seen everything.

  Four o’clock struck. They still had two hours to fill before dinner. They decided to go for a walk, to kill time. The ladies were very tired and would rather have liked to have sat down; but, since no one was offering to buy a drink, they set off again, following the riverside. Then, there was another cloudburst, the rain coming down so hard that the ladies’ outfits were ruined in spite of their umbrellas. Mme Lorilleux, whose heart sank at every drop falling on her dress, suggested going to shelter under the Pont Royal. In fact, if they weren’t coming with her, she threatened to go down on her own. And the whole party went under the bridge. They were fine there: now, that’s what you might call a good idea! The ladies spread out their kerchiefs on the paving-stones and settled down, with their legs apart, tearing up the clumps of grass growing between the cobbles and watching the black water as it flowed past, as though they were in the country. The men enjoyed shouting loudly to raise an echo from the arch in front of them. One after the other, Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade cursed the void, yelling into it with all their might: ‘Pig!’, and laughing a great deal when the echo sent the word back to them. Then, when their throats were sore, they took some flat stones and played ducks and drakes. The rain was over, but they were all so comfortable, that none of them now thought about moving on. The Seine carried greasy mats, with old corks and vegetable peelings, a pile of garbage that lingered for a moment in an eddy, in the sinister depths of the water, darkened by the shadow of the arch; while, from the bridge itself, they could hear the passing cabs and omnibuses, the rumble of Paris, though all they could see of the city were its roofs, to right and left, as though from the bottom of a hole. Mlle Remanjou sighed: If there had been leaves on it, she said, it would have reminded her of a stretch of the Marne where she used to go in 1817, with a young man whose loss she still mourned.

  At this, M. Madinier gave the signal for them to depart. They walked through the Tuileries Gardens, weaving their way past a little world of children whose hoops and balls disturbed the neat arrangment of the pairs. Then, while the party, on the Place Vendôme, was looking up at the column,16 M. Madinier had an idea of something to please the ladies: he suggested climbing up inside the column so that they could look down at Paris. This seemed great fun. Yes, yes: they must go up, they would get a good laugh out of it. In any case, it would be interesting for people who had never before got off the ground.

  ‘You don’t think Tip-Tap is going up there, on her pins, I suppose,’ Mme Lorilleux muttered.

  ‘I’m quite happy to give it a try,’ said Mme Lerat. ‘But I don’t want any man behind me!’

  So up they went, the twelve of them, one after the other, in the narrow spiral staircase, stumbling o
n the worn stairs and holding on to the walls. Then, when it became completely dark, there was an outburst of laughter. The women gave little squeaks: the gentlemen were tickling them and pinching their legs. But how silly they were to talk! Better pretend that it was the mice squeaking. In any case, it didn’t go too far: the men knew where to stop, for decency’s sake. Then Boche thought of a joke that everyone repeated: they called Mme Gaudron, as if she had been left behind, and asked if there was room for her belly to go past. If she had got stuck, unable to go in either direction, they would never have been able to escape. And they laughed at the idea of the pregnant woman’s belly with a mighty gust of hilarity that shook the column. Then Boche, now well away, announced that they’d grow old in this chimney-stack: was there no end to it? Were they on their way to heaven? All that time, Coupeau said nothing: he was climbing behind Gervaise, holding her by the waist, and could feel her melting in his arms. When they suddenly came out into the light, he was just kissing her on the neck.

  ‘That’s nice, I must say! Don’t mind us, the pair of you!’ Mme Lorilleux said, in a shocked voice.

  Bibi-la-Grillade seemed furious. He muttered through clenched teeth: ‘You made such a noise that I couldn’t even count the steps!’

  But M. Madinier was already on the platform, pointing out the sights. Mme Fauconnier and Mlle Remanjou were unwilling to emerge from the staircase: the very idea of the pavement, far below, made their blood run cold, so they made do with darting little glances through the doorway. Mme Lerat was more daring; she went all round the narrow walkway, clinging to the bronze dome. Even so, the whole business was quite disturbing, when one thought that all you had to do was put a leg over the edge. Heavens alive, what a drop! The men paled a little as they looked down at the square. You could imagine you were up in the air, quite unsupported. No, seriously, it was enough to chill the blood. And M. Madinier recommended looking up, straight ahead, to the far distance; that would help to prevent vertigo. He went on with his guided tour, pointing out the Invalides, the Pantheon, Notre-Dame, the Tour Saint-Jacques and the heights of Montmartre.17 Then it occurred to Mme Lorilleux to ask if they could see the wine merchant’s where they were going to eat: the Moulin d’Argent on the Boulevard de la Chapelle. So they spent ten minutes searching for it, and even started to quarrel, everyone putting it in a different place. All around them was Paris, a vast greyness tinted blue at the edges, with deep valleys in which roofs swelled and rolled like the sea. The whole of the Right Bank was in shadow beneath a great sheet of copper-coloured clouds; and, from the outer part of this gold-edged cloud, flowed a broad ray of sunshine, which lit the thousands of windows on the Left Bank in a shower of sparks, highlighting this part of the city against a pure, pure sky, washed clean by the storm.