The Drinking Den

by Emile Zola

  ‘I know that your mother holds it against me,’ Gervaise went on, softly. ‘Don’t deny it. We owe you so much money!’

  But, at this, he grew quite stern, to make her be quiet, and shook her hand until she thought it would break. He didn’t want her to mention the money. Then he paused, and finally stammered out:

  ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking for a long time of suggesting something to you. You aren’t happy. My mother is certain that things are going badly for you.’

  He stopped, needing to draw breath.

  ‘Well, we ought to go off together.’

  She looked at him, not at first clearly understanding this brusque declaration of a love about which he had never spoken a word before.

  ‘How do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he went on, hanging his head. ‘We shall go away and live somewhere, in Belgium if you like. It’s almost my country, Belgium. With both of us working, we’ll soon be comfortably off.’

  She blushed deeply. If he had pulled her to him to kiss her, she would have been less ashamed. What an odd fellow he was, suggesting an elopement, of the kind that goes on in novels or in high society. Well, indeed! All around, she saw working men courting married women, but they didn’t even take them as far as Saint-Denis. They did it on the spot and no two ways about it.

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Goujet, Monsieur Goujet…’ she murmured, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘There it is: we would just be the two of us,’ he continued. ‘Other people make it hard for me, do you see? When I have a liking for someone, I can’t see that person with others around.’

  But now she had recovered her senses and was turning him down, being very sensible about it.

  ‘Monsieur Goujet, it can’t be. It would be very wrong… I’m a married woman, aren’t I? I have children… I know very well that you like me and that I’m hurting you, but we would both feel guilty about it, we wouldn’t be happy… I, too, am very fond of you: I feel too much for you to let myself do anything foolish. And this would be foolish, of course it would… No, don’t you see, it’s better for us to stay as we are. We respect one another, we both feel the same about things. That’s important; it has helped me more than once. In our situation, when you do the right thing, you are fully rewarded for it.’

  He nodded as he listened. He thought she was right, he couldn’t deny it. Suddenly, in broad daylight, he took her in his arms, crushed her against him and gave her a burning kiss on the neck, as though he wanted to eat her up. Then he let her go, not asking for anything more and not speaking about their love again. She shook herself, but was not angry, feeling that both of them had earned that small moment of pleasure.

  Meanwhile, the blacksmith, a great shudder going through him from head to toe, moved away from her so as not to give in to the temptation to seize her again; and he went along on his knees, not knowing what to do with his hands, except to pick dandelions and throw them from a distance into her basket. There were some splendid yellow dandelions there among the scorched grass. This game amused him and, little by little, calmed him down. With his fingers, stiff from the hammer, he gently broke off the flowers and threw them one after another, his good-natured eyes laughing when he got one into the basket. The laundress was leaning back against the dead tree, merry and relaxed, raising her voice so that she could be heard over the loud panting of the sawmill. When they left the patch of waste ground, side by side, they were speaking about Etienne, who was very happy in Lille. And her basket was full of dandelions.

  In her heart of hearts, Gervaise did not feel as strong as she pretended where Lantier was concerned. Certainly, she was determined not to let him touch her, even with the tip of his finger; but she was afraid, if he should touch her, of giving way to her old cowardice, the weakness that would overtake her, a willingness to do things just to please someone. However, Lantier did not try again. More than once, he found himself alone with her, but did nothing. He seemed nowadays to be interested in the tripe-seller, a very well-preserved woman of forty-five. Gervaise told Goujet about the tripe-seller, to reassure him. And when Virginie and Mme Lerat sang the hatter’s praises, she told them that he could very well manage without their admiration, since all the women in the neighbourhood had a crush on him.

  Coupeau would go around telling everyone that Lantier was a friend, a real friend. People could gossip about them, he knew what he knew and didn’t give a damn for their cackling, when right and decency were on his side. On Sundays, when all three of them went out together, he made his wife and the hatter walk in front of him, arm in arm, just to show everybody, and he kept an eye open, ready to give a good thumping to anyone who dared to make fun of them. Admittedly, he found Lantier a bit stuck-up, accusing him of turning up his nose at cheap liquor and teasing him because he could read and because he spoke like a lawyer. That apart, he pronounced him a really decent sort, a regular guy; you wouldn’t find two to match him in the whole of La Chapelle. In short, they understood one another, they were made to suit. A man’s friendship is more reliable than a woman’s love.

  One thing must be said: Coupeau and Lantier would go off together on the most almighty binges. Lantier was now borrowing money from Gervaise, ten francs here, twenty francs there, when he sniffed out any money in the house, still on account of his big business deals. These were the days when he would lead Coupeau astray, say something about an errand which would take some time, and go off with him. Then, sitting face to face at the back of a nearby restaurant, they would stuff their faces with dishes that you can’t get at home, washed down with good wine. The roofer would have preferred more homely little banquets, but he was impressed by the hatter’s aristocratic tastes, the way he found the names of exotic sauces on the menu. You couldn’t imagine anyone more self-indulgent or harder to please. It seems all the men are like that in the South. In this way, he didn’t want anything that would overheat you, he argued over the effect on his health of every hash and fry-up, and sent back the meat if he thought there was too much salt or pepper on it. It was even worse with draughts: he was terrified of them and would bawl everyone out if a door was left ajar. In addition, he was a mean devil, leaving two sous for the waiter after a meal costing seven or eight francs. In spite of that, they all bowed and scraped to him and knew him well along the outer boulevards from Batignolles to Belleville. They would go to the Grande Rue des Batignolles to eat tripe à la mode de Caen, which was served up on little burners. Beneath the hill of Montmartre, they discovered the best oysters in the district, at the Ville de Bar-le-Duc. When they ventured to the top of the Butte, as far as the Moulin de la Galette, they could get a sautéd rabbit. In the Rue des Martyrs, the speciality at the Lilas was calf’s head, while on the Chaussée Clignancourt, the restaurants of the Lion d’Or and Deux Marronniers offered lip-smacking sautéd kidneys. But they usually turned left, towards Belleville, where they had a table reserved for them at the Vendanges de Bourgogne, the Cadran Blue and the Capucin, thoroughly reputable places where you could ask for anything with your eyes shut. These were furtive outings, which they would refer to obliquely the next morning, as they nibbled at Gervaise’s potatoes. One day, when they were in an arbour at the Moulin de la Galette, Lantier even brought a woman. Coupeau left them together over the dessert.

  Naturally, one cannot go living it up like that and work. So, from the moment the hatter moved in, the roofer, who was already taking a lot of time off, got to the point where he no longer picked up a tool. When he did get himself taken on again, because he was sick of hanging around in his slippers, his friend caught up with him at the building site, teased him to death when he found him dangling on the end of his knotted rope like a smoked ham and shouted to him to come down and have a drink. That was it: the roofer gave up his job and went on a blinder that lasted for days and weeks. Oh, there were some epic blinders! There was a pub crawl that took in every bar in the neighbourhood, with the morning hangover slept off until noon, then replaced the same evening, with round afte
r round of fire-water trailing off into the night, like the Chinese lanterns at a party, until the last candle was extinguished with the last glass! That bastard Lantier never went on until the end; he let the other one get tanked up, then left him and went back home smiling in his usual friendly way. He took his liquor decently so that you couldn’t tell he was drunk. When you knew him well, then you could see, but only from the narrowing of his eyes and his more predatory manner with women. Coupeau, on the other hand, became revolting; he could no longer drink without getting into a disgraceful state.

  So, early in November, Coupeau went on a spree that ended in an unpleasant way, and not only for him. He had just found a job. This time, Lantier was full of goodwill, preaching the virtues of work, since work ennobles man. On the first morning, he even got up with the lark, wanting to accompany his friend to the site, quite seriously, honouring in him a working man worthy of the name. But as they came up to the Petite Civette just as it was opening, they went in for a plum brandy, just one, for no other reason than to drink together to their firm resolve to mend their ways. Across from the counter, sitting on a bench with his back to the wall, was Bibi-la-Grillade, smoking his pipe with a sullen air.

  ‘Look at that! Bibi’s in a black mood,’ said Coupeau. ‘Are you down in the dumps, old man?’

  ‘No, no,’ their friend replied, spreading his arms. ‘It’s the bosses who are getting me down. I left mine yesterday. They’re all bastards, the whole lousy lot of them.’

  So Bibi-la-Grillade accepted a brandy. He must have been there, on his bench, waiting for someone to buy him a drink. Meanwhile, Lantier was sticking up for bosses; things were sometimes very hard for them: he knew all about it, having been in business himself. Workers were a fine bunch – always slacking, not caring about the job and leaving you right in the middle of an order, only to reappear when their money was all gone. Why, he had had one little guy from Picardy whose mania was for riding around in cabs, so, as soon as he got his wages, he would hire cabs for days on end. Was that the way that a working man should behave? Then, suddenly, Lantier also turned against the bosses. Oh, he could see how things were, he spoke his mind to everyone. And bosses were a rotten lot when it came down to it, shameless exploiters, people eaters. Thank God, he could sleep easy, his conscience was clear, because he had always been a friend to his men, preferring that to making millions as others did.

  ‘Let’s go then, my boy,’ he said to Coupeau. ‘We must be sensible or we’ll be late.’

  Bibi-la-Grillade, his arms swinging, came out with them. Outside, dawn was just breaking, giving a faint light that was dirtied by the muddy reflection from the street. It had rained the evening before, and the weather was very mild. The gaslights had just been turned out; the Rue des Poissonniers, where shreds of darkness lingered still, crushed between the buildings, was filling with the dull footsteps of the workmen trudging down towards Paris.

  Coupeau, with his roofer’s bag slung over his shoulder, walked along with the swaggering style of a lad full of energy, just for once. He turned round and asked:

  ‘Bibi, would you like them to take you on? The boss told me to bring a mate if I could.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Bibi-la-Gillade. ‘I’m on sick leave. Why not ask Mes-Bottes, he was looking for a place yesterday… Wait, he must surely be in there.’

  And, as they reached the bottom of the street, they saw Mes-Bottes in Old Colombe’s. Early though it was, the drinking den was blazing with light, its shutters raised and the gas lit. Lantier stayed at the door, telling Coupeau that he had better hurry, because they had exactly ten minutes.

  ‘What! You’re going to that slave-driver Bourguignon!’ Mes-Bottes exclaimed, when the roofer asked him. ‘It’ll be a while before you catch me in that place again! Oh, no! I’d rather lick my lips until next year… I tell you, mate, you won’t stick it three days!’

  ‘Seriously, it’s a rotten place?’ Coupeau asked anxiously.

  ‘Oh, as bad as it gets! You can’t move. The guy’s on your back the whole time. And, on top of that, the way they behave! His old lady calls you a drunkard, you’re not allowed to spit in the shop… I sent them packing the first evening, I tell you.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to be warned! I won’t let myself be had by that lot! I’ll go and try it out this morning, but if the boss gets on my nerves, I’ll pick him up and plant him down on his old lady, see what I mean? I’ll stick the two of them together like a couple of flat-fish.’

  The roofer shook his comrade’s hand, to thank him for the information, and was just leaving when Mes-Bottes hit the roof. God in heaven! Was Bourguignon going to stop them having a little drink? Were men no longer men, then? The ugly bastard could wait for five minutes, couldn’t he? And Lantier came in to accept a glass, the four workmen standing at the counter. Meanwhile, Mes-Bottes, with his worn shoes, his grimy smock and his cap flat on the top of his head, was shouting loudly and rolling his eyes as if the drinking den belonged to him. He had just been proclaimed Emperor of Drunks and King of Hogs for having eaten a salad of live beetles and bitten a dead cat.

  ‘Now then, you Borgia,7 you!’ he yelled at Old Colombe. ‘Give me some top-quality yellow asses’ piss.’

  When Old Colombe, pale and unruffled in his blue sweater, filled the four glasses, the customers knocked them back, bottoms up, so as not to let the drink get stale.

  ‘It certainly does a power of good as it goes down,’ Bibi-la-Grillade muttered.

  But that devil Mes-Bottes was telling a funny story. On Friday he had been so drunk that his friends had stuck his pipe in his mug with a handful of plaster. If he had been anyone else, it could have done for him, but he swaggered around, glorying in it.

  ‘Won’t these gentlemen have another?’ asked Old Colombe in his oily voice.

  ‘Yes, give us the same again,’ said Lantier. ‘It’s my round.’

  Now they started to talk about women. The previous Sunday, Bibi-la-Grillade had taken the old girl to Montrouge to an aunt’s. Coupeau asked if anyone knew what had happened to ‘East India Packet’, a laundress from Chaillot,8 well known around the place. They were on the point of drinking, when Mes-Bottes yelled out loudly to Goujet and Lorilleux who were just going past. They came as far as the door, but refused to come in. The blacksmith did not feel like drinking anything, while the chain-maker, grey-faced and shivering, had his hands tightly clasped on the gold chains in his pocket, which he was taking back, so he coughed and said no thank you, explaining that a single drop of spirits would knock him out.

  ‘Look at these hypocrites,’ Mes-Bottes grumbled. ‘I bet they go knocking it back when no one’s looking.’

  Then, after having a sniff at his glass, he turned on Old Colombe.

  ‘You old swindler! You changed the bottle! You can’t fool me with your fake brandy, you know!’

  Day had broken and the drinking den was lit by a gloomy light. The owner put out the gas lamps. But Coupeau apologized for his brother-in-law, who couldn’t drink: after all, he shouldn’t be blamed for that. He even supported Goujet, since he was lucky that he never got thirsty. And he was talking of going off to work, when Lantier, putting on his most haughty air of a man of the world, taught him a lesson: before sliding off, one ought to pay for one’s round. You didn’t leave your friends like a sissy, even when duty called.

  ‘How long is he going to keep getting on our nerves with this talk about his work!’ Mes-Bottes exclaimed.

  ‘So, is it this gentleman’s round?’ Old Colombe asked Coupeau.

  He paid his turn. But when it came to Bibi-la-Grillade, he leaned over and whispered in the Colombe’s ear; but the landlord shook his head slowly. Mes-Bottes realized what was going on and started to swear at the skinflint. What! Did a twerp like that dare to behave badly towards one of his friends? All publicans would put a drink on the slate for you! Did they come into a joint like this to be insulted? The landlord remained calm, leaning on his large fists against the counter and saying politel
y, over and over:

  ‘Why don’t you lend the gentleman some money; that would be simpler.’

  ‘God in heaven, yes!’ Mes-Bottes yelled. ‘Yes, I’ll lend him some. There, Bibi, throw the money in his face, the cheat.’

  After that, really getting into his stride and irritated by the sack that Coupeau still had slung over his shoulder, he turned to the roofer and said:

  ‘You look like a nursemaid. Put the baby down. It’s giving you a hunched back.’

  Coupeau hesitated for a moment, then, quietly, as though he had made up his mind after careful consideration, he put his sack down, saying:

  ‘It’s too late, now. I’ll go to Bourguignon’s after dinner. I’ll tell them my old lady had a belly-ache. Listen, Colombe, I’ll leave my tools under this bench and pick them up at lunch-time.’

  Lantier nodded approval of this arrangement. Of course, one has to work; but on the other hand when you’re among friends, good manners take precedence over everything. The idea of having a real old binge had gradually excited and filled all four of them. Their hands were heavy and they looked questioningly at one another. And, since they now had five hours to idle away, they were suddenly seized with a violent feeling of joy, clapping one another on the back and shouting terms of endearment into each other’s faces. Coupeau in particular was so relieved and rejuvenated that he was calling the rest of them ‘My old mate, my old buddy!’. They had one more round, then went on to the Puce qui Renifle, a little cabaret, which had a billiard table. The hatter made a face at first, because it wasn’t a very decent joint: the hooch cost a franc a litre, or ten sous for a half-litre in two glasses; and the regulars had left so much crap on the billiard table that the balls stuck to it. But once they had started the game, Lantier, who was a genius with the cue, recovered his good grace and his good humour, puffing out his chest and swinging his hips every time he scored a cannon.