by Emile Zola
Unfortunately, as autumn approached, the situation deteriorated further. Lantier claimed to be slimming and became more morose day by day. He moaned about everything, grumbled about the potato soup, or a ratatouille that he couldn’t eat, he said, without getting a belly-ache. The slightest little bickering now would finish with a full-scale row, each one accusing the others of causing the ruin of the business; and it was the devil’s own job to patch things up so that they could all go to bed and get a bit of shut-eye. When the bran runs out the donkeys start fighting, right? Lantier sensed the way things were going and was exasperated at the idea that the business was already in ruins and so thoroughly cleaned out that he could see the day coming when he would have to pick up his hat and move on, to get his bed and board elsewhere. He had grown accustomed to his nest, where everyone pampered him and he had his little ways; it was a real land of plenty, the like of which he would not find again. Well, you can’t have your cake and eat it. When it came down to it, he was turning his anger against his belly, because that’s where the business had gone. This is not what he said, however: he blamed the other two for letting it go to ruin in only two years. The Coupeaus were certainly not a sturdy pair; and he shouted at Gervaise for squandering the money. God Almighty! What would become of him? His friends were abandoning him just as he was on the point of concluding a terrific deal: a salary of six thousand francs in a factory, which would set them all up comfortably.
One evening in December they dined on air. There was not a bean left. Lantier, in a very black mood, went out early, walking the streets in search of another pad, where the scent of cooking would put a smile on his face. He spent some hours thinking about it, beside the stove. Then, suddenly, he revealed a deep liking for the Poissons. He stopped teasing the constable by calling him Badingue and even went so far as to agree that the Emperor might be a decent sort after all. In particular, he seemed to appreciate Virginie, a very able woman, he said, and one who would make a good job of managing things. He was quite plainly sucking up to them; you might even believe that he wanted to move in with them. But what his devious little mind was plotting was far more complicated than that. Virginie had told him that she wanted to go into business, with some kind of shop or other, so he fawned around her, saying what a splendid idea it was. Yes, she was made to be a tradesperson: tall and active, with a pleasant manner… Oh, she could earn whatever she liked! Since she had had the money ready for some time, inherited from an aunt, she had every reason to give up the four dresses that she knocked together every season and set up in business. He gave some examples of people who were making a fortune, like the fruiterer on the corner, and a little woman who sold china on the outer boulevard. The moment was just right: you could sell the sweepings from the counter. Even so, Virginie hesitated, looking for a shop to rent, because she didn’t want to leave the neighbourhood. At this, Lantier took her into a corner and talked very quietly to her for ten minutes. He appeared to be urging her to some course of action and she wasn’t saying no; she seemed to be authorizing him to go ahead. It was like a secret between them, with winks and brief words, a dark plot that could be sensed even in their handshakes. From then on, the hatter would eat his dry bread and keep a sharp eye on the Coupeaus; he had become very talkative again, driving them mad with his constant whinging. He would obligingly tell Gervaise all about the squalor in which she spent her life from morning to night. Good heavens! He wasn’t doing it for his own sake! He would starve to death with his friends whenever they wanted. But it was only sensible to take stock of the situation as it really was. They owed at least five hundred francs in the neighbourhood: to the baker, the coal merchant, the grocer and the rest. Moreover, they were two quarters behind on the rent, which was another two hundred and fifty francs. The landlord, M. Marescot, was even talking about evicting them if they didn’t pay before the 1st of January. Finally, the pawnbroker had everything: they had cleaned the place out so thoroughly that there wasn’t even another three francs’ worth of knick-knacks to give him. There were the nails in the walls, but nothing more, apart from two books worth three sous. Gervaise, stunned and drained of all strength by these calculations, would bang her fists on the table and howl like an animal. One evening she shouted:
‘I’m leaving here tomorrow! I’d rather put a lock on the door and sleep on the pavement than go on living in such misery!’
‘It would be more sensible,’ Lantier said, slyly, ‘to transfer the lease, if you could find anyone… If the two of you have made up your minds to give up the shop – ’
She interrupted him, yelling even louder:
‘Right now, at once! It would be good riddance!’
At this, the hatter began to speak in very practical terms. By transferring the lease, they would no doubt get the new tenant to stand guarantor for the two quarters that were late; and he even ventured to mention the Poissons, reminding her that Virginie was looking for premises. Perhaps the laundry would suit her? Now he remembered having heard her say that she wanted one just like it. However, the laundress, on hearing the name of Virginie, had suddenly recovered her composure. They would see. In a fit of temper, one might easily talk about getting rid of one’s home, but it was not such a simple matter when you came down to it.
Even though Lantier picked up the theme in the days that followed, Gervaise replied that she had been lower than this and had pulled back. It would be a lot of use, wouldn’t it, to give up the shop! She would have no source of income then. What she would do, instead, was to take back her workers and build up a new clientele. She said this to answer the hatter’s argument, which was that she was flat out, crushed by her debts and with no hope of clambering back. But he was careless enough to mention Virginie again and at that she dug her heels in. No, no, never! She had always doubted Virginie’s goodwill and if Virginie wanted the shop it was in order to humiliate her. She might perhaps have handed it over to the first person in the street, but not to that great hypocrite who had surely been waiting for years to see her brought down. Oh, that explained everything! Now she understood why there was a yellow light in that creature’s cat’s eyes. Yes: Virginie had not forgotten the good hiding she had given her in the wash-house and had kept her resentment quietly simmering. Well, she would be wise to keep her beating under wraps if she didn’t want another – and she could be getting her arse primed because it would not be long in coming. At first Lantier, confronted by this torrent of abuse, told Gervaise off, calling her a blockhead, gossip-monger and Lady Muck. He even went so far as to call Coupeau himself a bumpkin, telling him that he didn’t know how to make his wife respect a friend. Then, realizing that anger would spoil everything, he swore that he would no longer get involved in other people’s affairs, because no one ever thanked you for it. From then on, he seemed to have stopped arguing in favour of transferring the lease, while waiting for an opportunity to bring the matter up again and make the laundress’s mind up for her.
January had come: filthy weather, wet and cold. Mother Coupeau, who had been coughing and spluttering throughout December, had to take to her bed again after Epiphany. This was expected: it came to her every winter like an annuity. But this winter they were saying around her that she would only be leaving her room feet first, this time. And, indeed, fat and plump as she was, she did have a nasty graveyard rattle in the throat, one dead eye and half her face twisted. Of course, her children would not have finished her off, but she had been hanging around so long, getting in the way, that in their hearts they looked forward to her death as a deliverance for everyone. She’d be much better off herself, wouldn’t she, now that she’d had her innings? And when your time is up, there’s nothing to regret. They had called the doctor once and he didn’t even bother to come back. They gave her herb teas, so as not to abandon her entirely, and every hour went in to see if she was still alive. If she tried to speak, she choked; but with her one good eye, bright and clear, she would stare hard at them. There were a lot of things in that eye: regret for he
r lost youth, sadness at seeing her family in such a hurry to get rid of her and anger against that little hussy Nana, who no longer cared if she was seen going, in her nightshirt, to listen at the glass door.
One Monday evening, Coupeau came back drunk. Since his mother’s life had been in danger, he had been constantly in a maudlin state. When he was in bed and snoring determinedly, Gervaise walked round the house for a bit longer. She used to keep watch over Mother Coupeau for part of the night. In any event, Nana showed plenty of courage, continuing to sleep next to the old woman and saying that if she heard her die, she would let everybody know. That particular night, since the child was sleeping and the sick woman appeared to be dozing peacefully, the laundress eventually gave in to Lantier who was calling from his room, telling her that she ought to come and get a bit of rest. They just kept one candle alight, on the floor next to the cupboard. But at around three in the morning, Gervaise suddenly leaped out of bed, shivering and overcome with anxiety. She thought she had felt a cold breath of air pass over her. The candle had burned right down, so she groped around in the dark, putting on her skirt, her hands shivering. Only when she got into the little box-room, after bumping into the furniture, was she able to light a lamp. In the midst of the heavy silence of night, only the roofer’s snores sounded two deep notes. Nana, lying on her back, was breathing gently through her puffy lips. Then, lowering the lamp and making the huge shadows dance, Gervaise threw its light on Mother Coupeau’s face and saw that it was absolutely white, with the head slumping on her shoulder and the eyes open. Mother Coupeau was dead.
Quietly, without crying out, but cautious and icy cold, the laundress went back to Lantier’s room. He had gone back to sleep. She leaned over him and murmured:
‘It’s all over, she’s dead.’
At first, heavy with sleep and only half awake, he growled:
‘Leave me alone and go back to bed. There’s nothing we can do, if she’s dead.’
Then he propped himself up on one elbow and asked:
‘What’s the time?’
‘Three o’clock.’
‘Three o’clock! Why don’t you go back to bed. You’ll catch cold. We’ll see about it in the morning.’
But she wasn’t listening, she was getting fully dressed. At this, he pulled the blankets over his head and turned to the wall, muttering about women and their silly ideas. Was there any rush to go telling everybody that they had a death in the house? It was not a joyful occasion in the middle of the night and it infuriated him to have his sleep ruined by such depressing thoughts. As for Gervaise, she took all her things back into her own bedroom, even her hairpins, and then sat down there, sobbing freely now that she was not afraid of being caught in the hatter’s room. Underneath, she was very fond of Mother Coupeau and was grieved by her death, though in the first moment she had felt only fear and annoyance, seeing that she had picked such a bad time to depart. And she wept all alone, loudly, in the silence, while the roofer went on snoring, oblivious to it all. She had called and shaken him, then decided to leave him in peace, thinking it would just be another problem if he were to wake up. When she went back to look at the body, she found Nana sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. The girl understood what had happened and craned her neck to see her grandmother, with that perverse curiosity of hers; and she said nothing, but shivered a little, astonished and satisfied by the sight of this death that she had been promising herself for the past two days, like some naughtiness, that children are not allowed to see or know about. At the sight of this white mask, thin and drawn by the last gasp for life, her young cat’s eyes grew wide and she had that shiver down her spine that kept her glued behind the glass door when she went to spy on things that are not meant for little brats to hear.
‘Come on, now, get up,’ her mother whispered. ‘I don’t want you to stay here.’
She got out of bed regretfully, turning her head so that she could keep on staring at the dead woman. Gervaise didn’t know what to do with her or where to put her until morning. She was making up her mind to get her dressed, when Lantier, in trousers and slippers, came in. He couldn’t get back to sleep and was slightly ashamed of his behaviour, so that settled it.
‘Let her sleep in my bed,’ he muttered. ‘There’ll be room.’
Nana looked up at her mother and Lantier wide-eyed, with that innocently stupid look that she adopted on New Year’s Day when people gave her chocolates. Naturally, she needed no urging; she trotted off in her nightgown, with her bare feet scarcely touching the floor and slid like a viper into the bed, which was still warm; and there she lay, stretched out, sinking into the mattress so that her slender body hardly made any impression on the blanket. Every time her mother came in, she saw those two eyes shining in a silent face, not sleeping or moving, but very red and apparently thinking hard about things.
Meanwhile, Lantier had been helping Gervaise to dress Mother Coupeau; and it was no mean task, because the body certainly weighed its full weight. No one would have thought that the old woman was so plump and so white. They put on stockings, a white petticoat, a bodice and cap – in short, her best linen. Coupeau was still snoring, on two notes, one deep, falling, the other sharp and rising: it was like church music, for the Good Friday service. When the corpse was dressed and neatly stretched out on her bed, Lantier poured himself a glass of wine, to help him recover, because he was feeling a bit queasy. Gervaise hunted around in the cupboard looking for a little copper crucifix, which she had brought from Plassans; then she remembered that Mother Coupeau herself must have sold it. They lit the stove and spent the rest of the night half asleep on chairs, finishing off the bottle of wine that Lantier had started, grumpy and sulking, as if it was their fault.
At about seven o’clock, before sunrise, Coupeau finally woke up. When he learned what had happened, he at first remained dry-eyed, stammering, having some vague idea that they were playing a trick on him. Then he threw himself on the floor, prostrating himself in front of the dead woman, kissing her, weeping like a baby with such large tears that he made the sheet wet when he wiped his cheeks on it. Gervaise was sobbing again, very moved by her husband’s grief and reconciled with him; yes, underneath it all he was better than she had thought. His despair was partly occasioned by a dreadful headache. He ran his fingers through his hair and had the foul taste of a hangover in his mouth; he was still a little tipsy, despite his ten hours of sleep. And he lamented, with clenched fists. God in heaven, the poor mother whom he loved so much had left him! Oh, what a terrible headache he had, it was killing him! It was like having burning coals on your head; and now they wanted to wrench his heart out as well! No, fate was cruel to pursue a man in such a way.
‘Come, come, old chap, bear up,’ said Lantier, helping him to his feet. ‘You must pull yourself together.’
He poured him out a glass of wine, but Coupeau refused to drink it.
‘What’s wrong with me? There’s copper in my belly. It’s Mother: when I saw her, I got this taste of copper… Oh, Mother! My God! Mother, Mother…’
And he started to cry like a child again. Eventually, he did drink the glass of wine, to put out the fire in his chest. Lantier soon left them, with the excuse of going to inform the family and going round to the town hall to register the death. He needed some air. Consequently, he was in no hurry to get back, smoking a cigarette or two and enjoying the sharp cold of the morning air. When he left Mme Lerat’s, he slipped into a crémerie in the Batignolles to have a hot cup of coffee, and stayed there, thinking, for a whole hour.
Meanwhile, by nine, the family had gathered in the shop, the shutters of which were left shut. Lorilleux did not shed a tear; as it happened he had an urgent job on and went back upstairs almost immediately after hanging around for a moment or two with a suitably mournful face. Mme Lorilleux and Mme Lerat had embraced the Coupeaus and were dabbing little tears from their eyes. But Mme Lorilleux had no sooner cast a rapid glance over the dead woman than she raised her voice to announce that it wa
s senseless: one never left a lighted lamp beside a dead body; you should use a candle; so Nana was sent out to buy a bundle of candles, large ones. Bless me! If you went and died at Tip-Tap’s, she would give you an odd send-off! What a ninny, not even knowing how to deal with a corpse! Hadn’t she ever buried anyone before? Mme Lerat had to go round to the neighbours’ to borrow a crucifix; she came back with one that was too big, a black wooden cross with a painted cardboard Christ nailed to it, which covered the whole of Mother Coupeau’s chest and seemed to be crushing her with its weight. After that, they went to look for holy water, but no one had any, so it was Nana again who went to the church to fetch some in a bottle. In a trice, the little box-room was transformed: a candle was burning on a little table, beside a glass of holy water with a sprig of box fluttering in it. Now, if anyone came, at least it would be decent. And they set out the chairs in a circle in the shop, for the guests.
Lantier did not return until eleven o’clock. He had been to get some information from the undertaker’s.
‘The coffin is twelve francs,’ he said. ‘If you want a mass, that will cost ten francs more. Finally, you have the hearse, which varies according to the trappings…’