The Drinking Den

by Emile Zola

  ‘Auguste, stop it, you’ll wake them up,’ she went on, clasping her hands. ‘Be reasonable. Some other day, somewhere else… Not here, not in front of my daughter.’

  He said nothing, but just smiled; then, slowly, he kissed her ear, as he used to kiss her in the old days, to tease her and excite her. At this, her strength left her, she felt a great humming, a great shudder go through her flesh. Even so, she took one more step; but she had to come back. She couldn’t do it, her repulsion was too great and the smell was such that, had she stayed, she would have been sick in the bed herself. Coupeau, as though lying on a feather mattress, stunned by drink, was sleeping it off, his limbs slack and his face contorted. The whole street might have come in to embrace his wife and he would not have turned a hair.

  ‘Too bad,’ she stammered. ‘It’s his fault. I can’t do it… Oh, my God! Oh, my God! He’s driving me out of my bed. I have nowhere to sleep. Oh, no, I can’t bear it, it’s his fault…’

  She was shivering, not sure what she was doing. And, while Lantier was pushing her into his bedroom, Nana’s face appeared behind one of the panes in the glass door of the little room. She had just woken up and quietly got out of bed, in her nightdress, pale from sleep. She looked at her father, lying in his own vomit; then, with her face pressed to the glass, she stayed, waiting until her mother’s skirt had vanished into the other man’s room, opposite. She was very serious. She had the large eyes of a perverted child, lit up with curious sensuality.

  CHAPTER 9

  That winter, Mother Coupeau nearly passed away in a fit of suffocation. Every year, in December, she could be sure that her asthma would keep her in bed for two or three weeks. She was not a fifteen-year-old any more: she would be seventy-three come St Anthony’s Day.1 What’s more, she was not in good shape, and would be knocked back by the slightest thing, even though she was plump and healthy-looking. The doctor said that she would cough herself to death one of these days, without even time to say, ‘Good-night and goodbye!’

  When she was stuck in bed, Mother Coupeau was a real pain in the neck. Admittedly, there was nothing particularly appealing about the little room where she slept with Nana; there was just enough space for two chairs between the child’s bed and her own. The wallpaper, a faded old grey paper, was hanging off in places. The round skylight, up near the ceiling, gave the room only the pale, dim light of a cellar. Being there would put years on a person, especially one who couldn’t breathe. At nights, at least, when she lay awake, she could listen to the child sleeping and that distracted her. But during the day, since no one kept her company from morning to night, she groaned and wept and kept on repeating the same thing to herself for hours on end, rolling her head around on the pillow:

  ‘My God, how wretched I am! My God, how wretched I am! In prison – yes! They’re leaving me to die in prison!’

  And as soon as someone did come to see her, Virginie or Madame Boche, to ask how she was feeling, she wouldn’t say, but instead recited the litany of her complaints:

  ‘Oh, it’s dear, the bread I eat here! No, it would be easier for me to be among strangers! I’m telling you, I wanted a cup of camomile tea and, do you know, they brought me a whole water jug full of it, as a reproach to me for drinking too much. It’s like Nana; now, that child I brought up myself: she runs off in the morning barefoot and I don’t see her again. Anyone would think I smelled bad. Yet, at night, she sleeps like a top and wouldn’t wake up a single time to ask how I was feeling. In short, I’m just an embarrassment to them; they’re waiting till I breathe my last. Well, it won’t be long now! I don’t have a son any longer, that bitch of a laundress has stolen him from me. She’d beat me, she’d finish me off, if she wasn’t afraid of the law.’

  Gervaise was indeed a little rough on occasions. The whole place was going downhill; tempers were short and people would fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. One morning, when he was nursing a hangover, Coupeau yelled: ‘The old woman says she’s going to die, but she’s not getting on with it!’ The remark was a terrible blow to Mother Coupeau. They reproached her with the amount that she cost and calmly remarked that, without her, there’d be a big saving. The truth was that she didn’t behave as she should, either. For example, when she saw her eldest daughter, Mme Lerat, she complained of poverty and accused her son and daughter-in-law of leaving her to die of hunger – and all so that she could get a twenty-sou piece out of her and spend it on treats. She would also spread the most terrible tales to the Lorilleux about the use made of their ten francs, which she said went to satisfy the laundress’s little whims: new hats, cakes gobbled up secretly in corners – and still worse things that don’t bear repeating. Two or three times she almost had the whole family at each other’s throats. At one moment, she was on one side, then she was on the other. In short, it was a real mess.

  When this crisis reached its peak that winter, one afternoon when Mme Lorilleux and Mme Lerat met at her bedside, Mother Coupeau winked at them, to tell them to bend down. She could hardly speak, but she whispered:

  ‘It’s shocking the goings-on! I heard the two of them last night. Yes, yes, Tip-Tap and the hatter. They were really at it! That Coupeau’s a fine one. Shocking!’

  In short gasps, coughing and spluttering, she told them that her son must have come back dead drunk, the night before. She herself didn’t sleep, so she could hear every sound: Tip-Tap’s bare feet pattering on the floor, Lantier’s hiss as he called her in, the noise of the communicating door being opened gently and all that followed. It must have lasted until daybreak, but she didn’t know the time exactly because, try as she might, she had eventually dozed off.

  ‘The most revolting thing is that Nana must have heard it,’ she went on. ‘Because she was disturbed all night, even though she usually sleeps like a log. She was jumping up and down and turning over and over as though there were burning coals in her bed.’

  The two women did not seem surprised.

  ‘Well, now!’ said Mme Lorilleux. ‘It must have begun on the first day. But if Coupeau doesn’t mind, it’s none of our business. Even so, it’s not exactly a credit to the family.’

  ‘Well, if I was here,’ said Mme Lerat, pursing her lips, ‘I’d put the fear of God into her. I’d scream something – anything: “I can see you!”, perhaps, or: “Police!” A servant girl who works for a doctor told me that, according to her master, this could kill a woman stone dead at a particular moment. And suppose she was struck down, it would be quite right, wouldn’t it? She would have been punished right where she had sinned.’

  Very soon, everyone around and about knew that Gervaise went, every night, to see Lantier. When she talked to the neighbours, Mme Lorilleux was loudly indignant; she felt sorry for her brother, that silly billy whose wife was cuckolding him from top to bottom; and, from what she said, the only reason she still ventured into that shambles was for the sake of her poor mother, who was forced to live amid these disgraceful goings-on. So the whole neighbourhood blamed Gervaise. She must have been the one who seduced the hatter: you could see it in her eyes. Yes, despite all the unpleasant rumours, that sly fellow Lantier remained in people’s good books because he still adopted a gentlemanly manner with everyone, walking along the pavement reading his newspaper, always considerate and gallant with the ladies, never short of sweets and flowers to give them. For heaven’s sake, he was only doing his job as cock of the roost! A man is a man; you can’t expect him to resist a women if she throws herself at him. But there was no excuse for her; she was a disgrace to the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or. And the Lorilleux, being godfather and godmother, lured Nana round to their house, to get all the details. When they questioned her in a roundabout way, the girl assumed the air of a half-wit and quenched the flame in her eyes beneath heavy, hooded eyelids.

  In the midst of all this public indignation, Gervaise carried on quietly, weary and only half awake. At the start, she felt very culpable and dirty; she was disgusted with herself. When she came out of Lantier’s
room, she would wash her hands, wetting a towel and rubbing her shoulders till they were almost raw, as if to scrub away her filth. If Coupeau tried to mess around with her at such times, she would lose her temper and run shivering to the back of the shop; and, conversely, she would not let the hatter touch her, if her husband had just kissed her. She would like to have changed her skin as she changed from one man to the other. But, slowly, she grew accustomed to it. It was too tiring to clean herself up every time. Her laziness made her lax, while her need for happiness led her to derive all that she could from her troubles. She was indulgent towards herself and others, simply trying to arrange things so that no one suffered too much. So what? If her husband and her lover were contented, if the household chugged along in its own sweet way, if there was a pleasant atmosphere from morning to night, if they were all well fed, pleased with life and taking things easy, there was really no reason to complain. Then, after all, she couldn’t be doing anything so very wrong, since it was turning out so well, to everybody’s satisfaction; normally, when one does something wrong, one is punished for it. In this way, her shamelessness became a habit. Now, it all worked as regularly as mealtimes: whenever Coupeau came home drunk, which happened at least every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday in the week, she went to Lantier’s. She shared out her nights. Eventually, when the roofer was merely snoring too loudly, she would leave him fast asleep and carry on sleeping peacefully in the lodger’s bed. Not that she felt more affection for the hatter. No, it was just that he was cleaner, she slept better in his room, it felt like having a bath. In short, she was like one of those cats which like to sleep curled up in a ball on a pile of white linen.

  Mother Coupeau never dared speak about this openly; but, after a row, when the laundress had shaken her up a bit, she hinted at it plainly. She said that she knew some quite stupid men and some pretty loose women – and she used even stronger language, coarse enough for someone who had once been in the tailoring trade. The first few times, Gervaise just stared at her, without answering. Then, while also avoiding any precise reference to the situation, she defended herself, with arguments couched in general terms. When a woman had a drunkard for a husband, a filthy beast who lived in the mire, then it was understandable if such a woman sought cleanliness elsewhere. She went further, giving them to understand that Lantier was her husband as much as Coupeau, and possibly more. Hadn’t she been going with him since she was fourteen? Didn’t she have two children by him? Well, in the circumstances, anything could be forgiven and no one had the right to cast the first stone. She claimed she was only obeying the laws of Nature. And let anybody try to reproach her: she could give as good as she took. There was nothing too pure about the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or! Little Mme Vigouroux was on her back in that coal heap of hers from morning to night. The grocer’s wife, Mme Lehongre, was sleeping with her brother-in-law, a great slobbering brute whom she, Gervaise, wouldn’t have touched with a shovel. The watchmaker across the street, prim and proper gentleman that he was, nearly went to court because of the dreadful things he was up to, sleeping with his own daughter, a shameless hussy who cruised the boulevards. And, with a sweeping gesture that embraced the whole neighbourhood, she said it would take her an hour just to spread out the dirty linen of all these people, the way they slept like brutes, fathers, mothers, children, one on top of the other, wallowing in their own dirt. Oh, she could tell you a few things; there was filth everywhere, seeping into all the houses around and about. Yes, indeed, it was a fine thing, what went on between men and women in this part of Paris, where they were so poor that they had to live one on top of the other. If you were to put the two sexes into a mortar, all you would get out of it would be enough dung to manure the cherry trees on the Plain of Saint-Denis.

  ‘It would be better for them if they didn’t spit in the air, if they don’t want it to fall right back in their eyes,’ she would say, when pushed to the limit. ‘Everyone to her own nest, no? They should let a person live her life as she pleases, if they want to live theirs… I’m not criticizing anyone, as long as I’m not dragged through the dirt by those who spend their own time there, head down.’

  And when, one day, Mother Coupeau came out more openly, she told her through clenched teeth:

  ‘You are in your bed, you take advantage of that… Listen, you’re wrong, you see how kind I am because I’ve never thrown your life back in your face, have I? Oh, it’s a pretty one, I know, with two or three men even while Old Coupeau was still alive… No, don’t cough, I’ve said what I want. I’m just asking you to leave me in peace, that’s all.’

  The old woman nearly suffocated. The following day, when Goujet came to collect his mother’s laundry while Gervaise was out, Mother Coupeau called him in and kept him sitting for a long time at her bedside. She was well aware of the blacksmith’s feelings and had seen him looking gloomy and miserable for some time, because he suspected the awful things that were going on. So, in order to get her own back for the argument of the previous night and get it all off her chest, she bluntly told him the truth, weeping and moaning, as though Gervaise’s misbehaviour was doing harm chiefly to her. When Goujet came out of the room, he had to lean against the wall, overcome with misery. Then, when Gervaise returned, Mother Coupeau shouted out that she was wanted immediately at Mme Goujet’s with the laundry, whether it was ironed or not; and she was so excited that Gervaise realized something was up and guessed the unpleasantness and heartbreak that awaited her.

  Very pale, her limbs already feeling weak, she put the washing in a basket and set out. For years, she had not paid a single sou to the Goujets; the debt still amounted to four hundred and twenty-five francs. Every time, she took the money for the washing, and said that she felt bad about it. It was a source of great shame to her, because she appeared to be taking advantage of the blacksmith’s friendship to fleece him. Coupeau, who had fewer scruples nowadays, said that he must have given her a squeeze when no one was looking, so it served him right. But Gervaise, despite the situation that had arisen with Lantier, found this repellent and asked her husband if he had sunk so low as to want that sort of money. No one was allowed to say anything against Goujet in front of her; her affection for the blacksmith was like a last remaining shred of honour. So, every time she brought washing back to these good people, she felt sick at heart as soon as she set foot on the stairs.

  ‘Ah, it’s you at last,’ Mme Goujet said drily as she opened the door. ‘When I need death, I’ll send you to look for it.’

  Gervaise came in feeling so awkward that she didn’t even dare stammer out an excuse. She was never punctual any more, not arriving on time and even keeping customers waiting a week or so. Gradually, she was letting everything go.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you the whole of this week,’ the lace-maker continued. ‘And, what’s more, you lie to me. You send your girl to tell me some story or other: you’re just doing my washing, it will be sent round to me that very evening, or else there’s been an accident and the bundle has fallen into a bucket of water. And while all this is going on, I’m wasting my time; nothing comes and I worry about what can have happened to it. No, you’re not being reasonable… Anyway, what have you got in that basket? Is it all there for once? Have you brought me that pair of sheets that you’ve been keeping for a whole month and the shirt that got left behind in the last wash?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Gervaise muttered. ‘I’ve brought the shirt, here it is.’

  But Mme Goujet protested that it wasn’t her shirt, she didn’t want it. This was too much! She was being given other people’s laundry! Last week, she had already had two handkerchiefs without her mark. She didn’t like it all, the idea of getting anybody’s old laundry. And, as it happened, she liked her own things.

  ‘And the sheets?’ she went on. ‘They’re lost, aren’t they? Well, my girl, you’ll just have to do something about it, because I want them whatever happens by tomorrow morning, do you hear?’

  There was a silence. What most disturbed Gervai
se was that she could feel the door to Goujet’s room, behind her, half open. She guessed that the blacksmith must be there: how dreadful, that he should be listening to all these reproaches, which she could not answer because they were deserved! She tried to be very compliant and mild, lowering her head and putting the laundry on the bed as quickly as she could. But worse was to come, when Mme Goujet started to look at the items one by one. She picked them up and threw them aside, saying:

  ‘Oh, you’ve certainly lost the knack! One used to be able to compliment you every time, but not now. You’re making a real mess of it… Just look at this shirt-front: you’ve scorched it, the iron has marked it on the folds. And all the buttons are torn off. I don’t know how you manage it, there’s never a single button left on… Now there’s a petticoat I’m not paying for. Can you see? The dirt’s still there, all you’ve done is to spread it around. Thank you very much! If the laundry is not even clean any longer…’

  She paused, counted the items of clothing and exclaimed:

  ‘What! Is this all you’ve brought? I’m missing two pairs of stockings, six towels, a tablecloth, some dusters… You must be joking! I sent word to you that I wanted it, ironed or not. If in one hour your girl isn’t here with the rest, there’ll be bad blood between us, Madame Coupeau, I warn you.’

  At that moment, Goujet coughed in his room. Gervaise gave a slight shudder. My God, to think that she was being spoken to like this, in front of him! She remained standing in the middle of the room, embarrassed, awkward, waiting for the dirty linen. But after finishing her count, Mme Goujet had quietly resumed her place by the window and was darning a lace shawl.