 L'entier only returned at eleven o'clock. He had been to the undertakers of information. The coffin is twelve francs, said he. If you desire a mass, it will be ten francs more. Then there's the hearse, which is charged for according to the ornaments. Oh, it's quite unnecessary to be fancy, murmured Madame Laurier, raising her head in a surprised and anxious manner. We can't bring murmur out to life again, can we? One must do according to one's means. Of course, that's just what I think, resumed the Hutter. I merely ask the prices to guide you. Tell me what you desire, and after lunch I will give the orders." They were talking in lowered voices. Only a dim light came from the room to the cracks and the shutters. The door to the little room stood half-open, and from it came the deep silence of death. Children's laughter echoed in the courtyard. Suddenly they heard the voice of Nana, who had escaped from the bosses, to whom she had been sent. She was giving commands in her shrill voice, and the children were singing a song about a donkey. Chavez waited until it was quiet to say, We're not rich, certainly, but all the same we wish to act decently. If Mother Coupo has left us nothing, it's no reason for pitching her into the ground like a dog. No, we must have a mass and a hearse with a few ornaments. And who will pay for them, violently inquired Madame Laurier, not we who lost some money last week, and you either, as you're stumped, are you ought, however, to see where it has led you, this trying to impress people? Coupo, when consulted, mumbled something with a gesture of profound indifference, and then fell asleep again on his chair. Madame Laurier said she would pay her share. She was of Chavez's opinion. They should do things decently. Then the two of them fell to making calculations on a piece of paper. In all, it would amount to about ninety francs, because they decided, after a long discussion, to have a hearse ornamented with a narrow scallop. The three, including the laundress, will give thirty francs each. It won't ruin us. But Madame Laurier broke out in a fury. Well, I refuse. Yes, I refuse. It's not for the thirty francs. I'd give a hundred thousand if I had them, and if it would bring them out alive again. Only, I don't like vain people. You've got a shop. You only dream of showing off before the neighbourhood. We don't fall in with it. We don't. We don't try to make ourselves out what we're not. Oh, you can manage it to please yourself. No one asks you for anything, Chavez ended by answering. Even though I should have to sell myself, I shall not have anything to reproach myself with. I fed Mother Coupo without your help, and I can certainly bury her without your help also. I already once before gave you a bit of my mind. I pick up stray cats. I'm not likely to leave your mother in the Maya. Then Madame Laurier burst into tears, and Lentier had to prevent her from leaving. The argument became so noisy that Madame Lourier felt she had to go quietly into the little room and glance tearfully at the dead mother, as though fearing to find her awake and listening. Just at this moment the girls playing in the courtyard led by Nana began singing again. Mondeur, how those children grate on one's nerves with their singing, said Chavez, all upset and on the point of sobbing with impatience and sadness. Turning to the hatter, she said, do please make them leave off and send Nana back to the concierges with a kick. Madame Lourier and Madame Laurier went away to eat lunch, promising to return. The Coupos sat down to eat a bite without much appetite, feeling hesitant even to amount raising a fork. After lunch Lentier went to the undertaker again with the ninety francs. Thirty had come from Madame Lourier and Chavez had to run with her hair all loose to borrow sixty francs from Gougé. Several of the neighbours called in the afternoon, mainly out of curiosity. They went into the little room to make the sign of the cross and sprinkle some holy water with the boxwood sprig. Then they sat in the shop and talked endlessly about the departed. Madame Moselle Romangeau had noticed that her right eye was still open. Madame Goudron maintained that she had a fine complexion for her age. Madame Fourconier kept repeating that she had seen her having coffee only three days earlier. Towards evening the Coupos were beginning to have had enough of it. It was too great an affliction for a family to have to keep a corpse so long a time. The government ought to have made a new law on the subject, all through another evening, another night, and another morning. No, it would never come to an end. When one no longer weeps, grief turns to irritation. Is it not so? One would end by misbehaving oneself. Mother Coupo, dumb and stiff in the depths of the narrow chamber, was spreading more and more over the lodging and becoming heavy enough to crush the people in it. And the family, in spite of itself, gradually fell into the ordinary mode of life and lost some portion of its respect. You must have a mouthful with us, said Jeves de Madame Laura and Madame lawyer, when they returned. We're too sad. We must keep together. They laid the cloth on the work-table. Each one on, seeing the plates, thought of the feastings they had had on it. Lentier had returned, lawyer came down. A pastry-cooker just brought a meat pie for the laundry-dress was too upset to attend to any cooking. As they were taking their seeds, Bosch came by to say, M. Maraško asked to be admitted, and the landlord appeared, looking very grave, and wearing a broad decoration to his frock-coat. He bowed in silence and went straight to the little room where he knelt down. All the family, leaving the table, stood up, greatly impressed. M. Maraško, having finished his devotions, passed into the shop and said to the Coupo, I have come for the two-quarters-rent that's over to you. Are you prepared to pay? No, sir. Not quite. Stammered Gervais greatly put out at hearing this mention before the lawyers. You see, with the misfortune which has fallen upon us. No doubt, but every one has their troubles, resumed the landlord, spreading out his immense fingers which indicated the former workman. I am very sorry, but I cannot wait any longer. If I am not paid by the morning after to-morrow, I shall be obliged to have you put out. Gervais struck dumb, imploringly clasped her hands, her eyes full of tears. With an energetic shake of his big bony head he gave her to understand that supplications were useless. Besides, the respect due to the dead forbade all discussion. He discreetly retired, walking backwards, a thousand pardons for having disturbed you, Permity. The morning after to-morrow did not forget. And as on withdrawing, he again passed before the little room. He saluted the corpse at last time through the wide-open door by devoutly bending his knee. They began eating, and gobbled the food down very quickly so as not to be seen to be enjoying it, only slowing down when they reached the dessert. Occasionally, Gervais or one of the sisters would get up, still holding her napkin to look into the small room. They made plenty of strong coffee to keep them awake through the night. The poissons arrived about eight and were invited for coffee. Then Lantier, who had been watching Gervais's face, seemed to seize an opportunity that he had been waiting for ever since the morning. In speaking of the indecency of landlords who entered houses of mourning to demand their money, he said, he said, Jesuit, the beast with his air of officiating at a mass. But in your place I'd just chuck up the shop altogether. Gervais, quite worn out, and feeling weak and nervous, gave way and replied, Yes, I shall certainly not wait for the bailiffs. It's more than I can bear. More than I can bear. The lawyers, delighted at the idea that Clump-Clump would no longer have a shop, approved the plan immensely. One could hardly conceive the great cost a shop was. If she only earned three francs working for others, she at least had no expenses. She did not risk losing large sums of money. They repeated this argument to Coupeau, urging him on. He drank a great deal and remained in a continuous fit of sensibility, weeping all day by himself in his plate. As the lawn-dress seemed to be allowing herself to be convinced, Lantier looked at the poissons and winked. And Tolle Viertini intervened, making herself most amiable. You know, we might arrange the matter between us. I would relieve you of the rest of the lease and settle your matter with the landlord. In short, you would not be worried nearly so much. No thanks, declared Gervais, shaking herself as though she felt her shudder pass over her. I'll work. I've got my two arms, thank heaven, to help me out of my difficulties. We can talk about it some other time. The hat I hasten to put in. It's scarcely the thing to do so this evening. Some other time. In the morning, for instance. At this moment, Madame Loura, who had gone into the little room, uttered a faint cry. She had had a fright because she had found the candle burnt out. They all busied themselves in lighting another. They shook their heads, saying that it was not a good sign when the light went out beside a corpse. The wake commenced. Coupeau had gone to lie down, not to sleep, said he, but to think, and five minutes afterwards he was snoring. When they sent Nana off to sleep at the bosses, she cried. She had been looking forward ever since the morning to being nice and warm in her good friend Lancier's big bed. The Poisson stayed till midnight. Some hot wine had been made in a salad bowl because coffee affected the lady's nerves too much. The conversation became tenderly effusive. Virginie talked of the country. She would like to be buried at the corner of a wood with wild flowers on her grave. Madame Loura had already put by in her wardrobe the sheet for her shroud, and she kept it perfumed with a bunch of lavender. She wished always to have a nice smell under her nose when she would be eating the dandelions by the roots. Then, with no sort of transition, the policeman related that he had rested a fine girl that morning who had been stealing from a pork butcher's shop on undressing her. The comracy of police had found ten sausages hanging round her body. And Madame Loura, having remarked with a look of disgust that she would not eat any of those sausages, the party burst into a gentle laugh. The wake became livelier, though not ceasing to preserve appearances. But just as they were finishing the hot wine, a peculiar noise, a dull trickling sound, issued from the little room. All raised their heads and looked at each other. It's nothing, said Lantier quietly, lowering his voice, which is emptying. The explanation caused the others to nod their heads in a reassured way, and they replaced their glasses on the table. When the Poissons left for home, Lantier left also, saying he would sleep with a friend and leave his bed for the ladies in case they wanted to take turns napping. L'oreal went upstairs to bed. Gervais and the two sisters arranged themselves by the stove where they huddled together close to the warmth, talking quietly. Coopo was still snoring. Madame L'oreal was complaining that she didn't have a black dress and asked Gervais about the black skirt they had given mother Coopo on her saint's day. Gervais went to look for it. Madame L'oreal then wanted some of the old linen and mentioned the bed, the wardrobe, and the two chairs that she looked around for other odds and ends. Madame L'oreal had to serve as a peacemaker when the quarrel nearly broke out. She pointed out that as the Coopos had cared for their mother they deserved to keep the few things she had left. And they were all dozing round the stove. The night seemed terribly long to them. Now and again they shook themselves, drank some coffee, and stretched their necks in the direction of the little room, where the candle which was not to be snuffed was burning with a dull red flame, flickering them all because of the black soot on the wick. Towards morning they shivered in spite of the great heat of the stove. Anguish and the fatigue of having talked too much was stifling them, whilst their mouths were apart and their eyes ached. Madame L'oreal threw herself on Lantie's bed and snored as loud as a man, whilst the other two, their heads falling forward and almost touching their knees, slept before the fire. At daybreak a shudder awoke them. Mother Coopo's candle had again gone out, and as in the obscurity the dull trickling sound recommended, Madame L'oreal gave the explanation of it anew in a loud voice, so as to reassure herself. She's emptying, repeated she, lighting another candle. The funeral was to take place at half-past ten. A nice morning to add to the night and the day before. Chavez, though without a sue, said she would have given a hundred francs to anyone who would have come and taken Mother Coopo away three hours sooner. No, one may love people, but they are too great a weight when they are dead, and the more one has loved them the sooner one would like to be rid of their bodies. The morning of a funeral is, fortunately, full of diversions. One has all sorts of preparations to make. To begin with, they lunched. Then it happened to be old Bazouge, the undertaker's helper, who lived on the sixth floor, who brought the coffin in the sack of bran. He was never sober, the worthy fellow. At eight o'clock that day he was still lively from the booze of the day before. This is for here, isn't it? asked he, and he laid down the coffin, which creaked like a new-box. But as he was throwing the sack of bran on one side, he stood with a look of amazement in his eyes, his mouth open wide, on beholding Chavez before him. Beg pardon, excuse me, I've made a mistake, stammerty. I was told it was for you. He had already taken up the sack again, and the lawn-dress was obliged to call to him. Leave it alone, it's for here. Ah, Mondieu, now I understand, resumed he, slapping his thigh. It's for the old lady. Chavez had turned quite pale. Old Bazouge had brought the coffin for her. By way of apology he tried to be gallant and continued, I'm not to blame, am I? It was said yesterday that somebody on the ground floor had passed away, and then I thought, you know, in our business these things enter by one ear, and go out the other, all the same my compliments to you as late as possible, eh, that's best, though life isn't always amusing, ah, by no means. Chapter 9. Recorded by Alex Foster in Nottingham, England in May 2009. www.alexfoster.me.uk. Chapter 9. As Chavez listened to him, she drew back, afraid he would grab her and take her away in the box. She remembered the time before when he had told her he knew of women who would thank him to come and get them. While she wasn't ready yet, Mondieu. The thought sent chills down her spine. Her life may have been bitter, but she wasn't ready to give it up yet. No, she would starve for years first. He's abominably drunk, vermin, she, with an air of disgust mingled with dread. They at least oughtn't to send us tip-lers. We pay dear enough. Then he became insolent and jeered. See here, little woman, it's only put off until another time. I'm entirely at your service, remember? You've only got to make me a sign. I'm the lady's consola, and don't spit on old Bazouge, because he's held in his arms finer ones than you, who let themselves be tucked in without a murmur, very pleased to continue their bye-bye in the dark. Hold your tongue, old Bazouge, said lawyer, severely. Having hastened to the spot on hearing the noise, such jokes are highly improper. If we complained about you, you could get the sack. Come be off, as you have no respect for principles. Bazouge moved away, but one could hear him stuttering as he dragged along the pavement. Well, what? Principles? There's no such thing as principles. There's no such thing as principles. There's only common decency. At length, ten o'clock struck. The hearse was late. There were already several people in the shop, friends and neighbours. Monsieur Madignier, my boots, Madame Gaudran, Madame Moselle Romangeau, and, every minute, a man's or a woman's head was thrust out of the gaping opening of the door between the closed shutters to see if that creeping hearse was in sight. The family, altogether in the back room, was shaking hands. Short pauses occurred, interrupted by rapid whisperings, a tiresome and feverish waiting with sudden rushes of skirts. Madame Laureaux, who had forgotten her handkerchief, or else Madame Lera, who was trying to borrow a prayer-book. Everyone, non-arriving, beheld the open coffin in the centre of the little room before the bed, and in spite of oneself, each stood covertly studying it, calculating that plump Mother Coupeau would never fit into it. They all looked at each other with this thought in their eyes, though without communicating it. But there was a slight pushing at the front door. Monsieur Madigny, extending his arm, came and said in a low, grave voice, here they are. It was not the hearse, though. Four helpers entered hastily and single file with their red faces, their hands all lumpy, like persons in the habit of moving heavy things, and their rusty black clothes worn and frayed from constant rubbing against coffins. Old Bazouge walked first, very drunk and very proper. As soon as he was at work he found his equilibrium. They did not utter a word, but slightly bowed their heads, already weighing Mother Coupeau with a glance. And they did not dawdle. The poor old woman was packed in in the time one takes to sneeze. A young fellow with a squint, the smallest of the men, poured the bran into the coffin and spread it out. The tall and thin one spread the winding sheet over the bran, then two at the feet and two at the head. All four took hold of the body and lifted it. Mother Coupeau was in the box, but it was a tight fit. She touched on every side. The undertaker's helpers were now standing up and waiting. The little one with a squint took the coffin lid by way of inviting the family to bid their last farewell, while Bazouge had filled his mouth with nails and was holding the hammer in readiness. Then Coupeau, his two sisters and chevets, threw themselves on their knees and kissed the mamar who was going away, weeping bitterly, the hot tears falling and streaming down the stiff face now cold as ice. There was a prolonged sound of sobbing. The lid was placed on an old Bazouge knock the nails in with the style of a packer, two blows for each, and they none of them could hear any longer their own weeping in that din, which resembled the noise of furniture being repaired. It was over. The time for starting had arrived. What a fuss to make at such a time, said Madame Lawyer to her husband, as she caught sight of the hearse before the door. The hearse was creating quite a revolution in the neighbourhood. The tripe-seller called to the grosser's man, the little clock-maker came out on the pavement, the neighbours lent out of their windows, and all these people talked about the scallop with its white cotton fringe. Ah, the Coupeau's would have done better to have paid their debts. But as the Lawyer's said, when one is proud it shows itself everywhere and in spite of everything. It's shameful, Chevez was saying at the same moment, speaking of the chain-maker and his wife, to think that those skin-flints have not even brought a bunch of violets for their mother. The Lawyer, true enough, had come empty-handed. Madame Lawyer had given a wreath of artificial flowers, and a wreath of immortelle and a bouquet bought by the Coupeau's were also placed on the coffin. The undertaker's helpers had to give a mighty heave to lift the coffin and carry it to the hearse. It was some time before the procession was formed. Coupeau and Lawyer, in frock coats and with their hats in their hands, were chief mourners. The first in his emotion, which two glasses of white wine early in the morning had helped to sustain, clung to his brother-in-law's arm, with no strength in his legs and a violent headache. Then followed the other men, Monsieur Medigny, very grave and all-in-black, my boots, wearing a great coat over his blouse, Bosch, whose yellow trousers produced the effect of a patard, l'entier, goudron, bibi the smoker, poisson, and others. The ladies came next. In the first row, Madame Lawyer, dragging the deceased skirt which she had altered, Madame Laura, hiding under a shawl her hastily got-up mourning, a gown with lilac trimmings, and following them, Virginie, Madame Goudron, Madame Foucaugnier, Madame Waselle Romangeau, and the rest. When the hearse started and slowly descended the roue de la goutte d'or amidst signs of the cross and heads bared, the four helpers took the lead, two in front, the two others on the right and left. Gervais had remained behind to close the shop. She left Nana with Madame Bosch, and ran to rejoin the procession, whilst the child, firmly held by the concierge under the porch, watched with a deeply interested gaze her grandmother disappear at the end of the street in that beautiful carriage. At the moment when Gervais caught up with the procession, Gougier arrived from another direction. He nodded to her so sympathetically that she was reminded of how unhappy she was, and began to cry again as Gougier took his place with the men. The ceremony at the church was soon got through. The mass dragged a little, though, because the priest was very old. My boots and BB the smoker preferred to remain outside on account of the collection. Monsieur Madigny studied the priests all the while and communicated his observations to Lancie. These jokers, though so glib with their Latin, did not even know a word of what they were saying. They buried a person just in the same way that they would have baptised or married him without the least feeling in their heart. Happily, the cemetery was not far off, the little cemetery of La Chapelle, a bit of a garden which opened onto the rue Marquardet. The procession arrived disbanded with stampings of feet and everyone talking of his own affairs. The hard earth resounded, and many would have liked to have moved about to keep themselves warm. The gaping hole beside which the coffin was laid was already frozen over and looked white and stony like a plaster quarry, and the followers, grouped round little heaps of gravel, did not find it pleasant standing in such piercing cold whilst looking at a hole likewise bored them. At length a priest in a surplus came out of a little cottage. He shivered, and one could see his steaming breath at each day profundus that he uttered. At the final sign of the cross he bolted off without the least desire to go through the service again. The sexton took his shovel, but on account of the frost he was only able to detach large lumps of earth which beat a fine tune down below, a regular bombardment of the coffin, an unfiltered of artillery sufficient to make one think the wood was splitting. One may be a cynic. Nevertheless, that sort of music soon upsets one stomach. The weeping recommenced. They moved off. They even got outside, but they still heard the detonations. My boots blowing on his fingers uttered an observation aloud. Tarnère de Dieu! Poor mother Coupeau won't feel very warm. Ladies and gentlemen said the zinc worker to the few friends who remained in the street with the family, will you permit us to offer you some refreshments? He led the way to a wine shop in the Rue Marcalde, the arrival at the cemetery. Gervais remaining outside called Gougé, who was moving off again after nodding to her. Why didn't he accept a glass of wine? He was in a hurry. He was going back to the workshop. And they looked at each other without speaking. I must ask your pardon for troubling you about the sixty francs at length, murmur the laundress. I was half-crazy. I thought of you. Oh, don't mention it. You're fully forgiven. Interrupted the blacksmith. And you know I am quite at your service if any misfortune should overtake you. But don't say anything to Mama, because she has her ideas and I don't wish to cause her annoyance. She gazed at him. He seemed to her such a good man and sad-looking and so handsome. She was on the verge of accepting his former proposal to go away with him and find happiness together somewhere else. Then an evil thought came to her. It was the idea of borrowing the six-months-back rent from him. She trembled and resumed in a caressing tone of voice. We're still friends, aren't we? He shook his head as he answered. Yes, we'll always be friends. It's just that, you know, all is over between us. And he went off with long strides leading Gévesbe-Wildard, listening to his last words which rang in her ears with the clang of a big bell. On entering the wine-shop all she seemed to hear was a hollow voice within her which said, All is over. Well, all is over. There is nothing more for me to do if all is over. Sitting down she swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese and emptied a glass full of wine which she found before her. The wine-shop was a single, long room with a low ceiling occupied by two large tables on which loaves of bread, large chunks of brie, cheese, and bottles of wine were set out. They ate informally without a tablecloth. Near the stove at the back the undertaker's helpers were finishing their lunch. And here, exclaimed Monsieur Madigny, we each have our time. The old folks make room for the young ones. Your lodging will seem very empty to you now when you go home. Oh, my brother is going to give notice, said Madame Lorient very quickly, that shop's ruined. They had been working upon Kupo. Everyone was urging him to give up the lease. Madame Laura herself, who had been on very good terms with Lentier and Virginie for some time past, and who was tickled with the idea that they were a trifle smitten with each other, talked of bankruptcy and prison, putting on the most terrified heirs, and suddenly the zinc-worker, already overdosed with liquor, flew into a passion his emotion turned to fury. "'Listen,' cried he, poking his nose in his wife's face, "'I intend that you shall listen to me. Your confounded head will always have its own way, but this time I intend to have mine, I warn you.' "'Ah, well,' said Lentier, one never yet brought at a reason by fair words, it was a mallet to drive it into her head.' For a time they both went on at her. Meanwhile the brie was quickly disappearing, and the wine-bottles were pouring like fountains. Gervais began to weaken under this persistent pounding. She answered nothing, but hurried herself, her mouth ever full, as though she had been very hungry. When they got tired, she gently raised her head and said, "'That's enough, isn't it? I don't care a straw for the shop. I want no more of it. Do you understand? It can go to the juice. All is over.' Then they ordered some more bread and cheese and talk business. The Poissons took the rest of the lease, and agreed to be answerable for the two-quarters rent over due. Bosch moreover pompously agreed to the arrangement in the landlord's name. He even then and there let a lodging to the coupos, the vacant one on the sixth floor, in the same passage as the lawyer's apartment. As for Lantier, well, he would like to keep his room if it did not inconvenience the Poissons. The policeman bowed. It did not inconvenience him at all. Friends always get on together in spite of any difference in their political ideas. And Lantier, without mixing himself up in any more in the matter, like a man who has at length settled his little business, helped himself to an enormous slice of bread and cheese. He leant back in his chair and ate devoutly his blood tingling beneath his skin, his whole body burning with a sly joy, and he blinked his eyes to peep first at Gervais and then at Virginie. Hi! Old Bazouge called Coupo. Come and have a drink. We're not proud. We're all workers. The four undertakers' helpers who had started to leave came back to raise glasses with the group. They thought that the lady had weighed quite a bit, and they had certainly earned a glass of wine. Old Bazouge gazed steadily at Gervais without saying a word. It made her feel uneasy, though, and she got up and left the men who were beginning to show signs of being drunk. Coupo began to sob again, saying he was feeling very sad. That evening when Gervais found herself at home again, she remained in a stupefied state on a chair. It seemed to her that the rooms were immense and deserted. Really, it would be a good riddance. But it was certainly not only Mother Coupo that she had left at the bottom of the hole in the little garden of the Rue Maccaday. She missed too many things, most likely a part of her life, and her shop and her pride of being an employer and other feelings besides which she had buried on that day. Yes, the walls were bare and her heart also. It was a complete clear-out, a tumble into the pit, and she felt too tired. She would pick herself up again later on if she could. At ten o'clock when undressing, Nanna cried and stamped. She wanted to sleep in Mother Coupo's bed. Her mother tried to frighten her, but the child was too precocious. Corpses only filled her with her great curiosity, so that, for the sake of peace, she was allowed to lie down in Mother Coupo's place. She liked big beds, the chit. She spread herself out and rolled about. She slept uncommonly well that night in the warm and pleasant featherbed. Recording by Martin Geeson. La Samoire by Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Chapter 10. The Coupo's new lodging was on the sixth floor, staircase B. After passing Mademoiselle Hamonjou's door, you took the corridor to the left, and then turned again further along. The first door was for the apartment of the Bijard, almost opposite in an airless corner under a small staircase leading to the roof, was where Père Prus slept. Two doors further was Bazouge's room, and the Coupos were opposite him, overlooking the court, with one room and a closet. There were only two more doors along the corridor before reaching that of the L'Hoyeux at the far end. A room and a closet, no more. The Coupos perched there now, and the room was scarcely larger than one's hand, and they had to do everything in there, eat, sleep, and all the rest. Nanna's bed just squeezed into the closet. She had to dress in her father and mother's room, and her door was kept open at night-time so that she should not be suffocated. There was so little space that Chauffeur's had left many things in the shop for the poisson. A bed, a table, and four chairs completely filled their new apartment, but she didn't have the courage to part with her old bureau, and so it blocked off half the window. This made the room dark and gloomy, especially since one shutter was stuck shut. Chauffeur's was now so fat that there wasn't room for her in the limited window space, and she had to lean sideways and crane her neck if she wanted to see the courtyard. During the first few days, the laundress would continually sit down and cry. It seemed to her too hard not being able to move about in her home after having been used to so much room. She felt stifled. She remained at the window for hours, squeezed between the wall and the drawers, and getting a stiff neck. It was only there that she could breathe freely. However, the courtyard inspired rather melancholy thoughts. Opposite her on the sunny side, she would see that same window she had dreamed about long ago, where the spring brought scarlet vines. Her own room was on the shady side, where pots of mignonette died within a week. Oh, this wasn't at all the sort of life she had dreamed of. She had to wallow in filth instead of having flowers all about her. On leaning out one day, Chauffeur had experienced a peculiar sensation. She fancied she beheld herself down below near the concierge's room under the porch, her nose in the air, and examining the house for the first time. And this leap, 13 years backwards, caused her heart to throb. The courtyard was a little dingier, and the walls more stained. Otherwise, it hadn't changed much. But she herself felt terribly changed and worn. To begin with, she was no longer below her face raised to heaven, feeling content and courageous, and aspiring to a handsome lodging. She was right up under the roof, among the most wretched, in the dirtiest hole, the part that never received a ray of sunshine. And that explained her tears. She could scarcely feel enchanted with her fate. However, when Chauffeur had grown somewhat used to it, the early days of the little family in their new home did not pass off so badly. The winter was almost over, and the trifle of money received for the furniture sold to Virginie helped to make things comfortable. Then with the fine weather came a piece of luck. Coupeau was engaged to work in the country at a temp, and he was there for nearly three months without once getting drunk, cured for a time by the fresh air. One has no idea what a quench it is to the tipless thirst to leave Paris, where the very streets are full of the fumes of wine and brandy. On his return, he was as fresh as a rose, and he brought back in his pocket 400 francs, with which they paid the two overdue quarters rent at the shop that the Poisson had become answerable for, and also the most pressing of their little debts in the neighbourhood. Chauffeur's thus opened two or three streets, through which she had not passed for a long time. She had naturally become an ironer again. Madame Folconier was quite good-hearted if you flattered her a bit, and she was happy to take Chauffeur's back, even paying her the same three francs a day as her best worker. This was out of respect for her former status as an employer. The households seemed to be getting on well, and Chauffeur's looked forward to the day when all the debts would be paid. Hard work and economy would solve all their money troubles. Unfortunately, she dreamed of this in the warm satisfaction of the large sum earned by her husband. Soon she said that the good things never lasted, and took things as they came. What the Coupos most suffered from at that time was seeing the Poissons stalling themselves at their former shop. They were not naturally of a particularly jealous disposition, but people aggravated them by purposely expressing amazement in their presence at the embellishments of their successors. The Boschers and the Loireurs especially never tired. According to them, no one had ever seen so beautiful a shop. They were also continually mentioning the filthy state in which the Poissons had found the premises, saying that it had cost 30 francs for the cleaning alone. After much deliberation, the Orchiniers decided to open a shop specializing in candies, chocolate, coffee, and tea. Laundier had advised this, saying there was much money to be made from such delicacies. The shop was stylishly painted black with yellow stripes. Three carpenters worked for eight days on the interior, putting up shelves, display cases, and counters. Poisson's small inheritance must have been almost completely used, but Virchini was ecstatic. The Loireurs and the Boschers made sure that Chávez did not miss a single improvement and chuckled to themselves while watching her expression. There was also a question of a man beneath all this. It is reported that Laundier had broken off with Chávez. The neighbourhood declared that it was quite right. In short, it gave a moral tone to the street. And all the honour of the separation was accorded to the crafty Hatter on whom all the ladies continued to doubt. Some said that she was still crazy about him, and he had to slap her to make her leave him alone. Of course, no one told the actual truth. It was too simple and not interesting enough. Actually, Laundier climbed to the sixth floor to see her whenever he felt the impulse. Mademoiselle Romanjou had often seen him coming out of the cupos at odd hours. The situation was even more complicated by neighbourhood gossip linking Laundier and Virchini. The neighbours were a bit too hasty in this also. He had not even reached the stage of buttock pinching with her. Still, the Loireurs delighted in talking sympathetically to Chávez about the affair between Laundier and Virchini. The bosses maintained they had never seen a more handsome couple. The odd thing in all this was that the Rue de la Goutte d'Arc seemed to have no objection to this new arrangement which everyone thought was progressing nicely. Those who had been so harsh to Chávez were now quite lenient towards Virchini. Chávez had previously heard numerous reports about Laundier's affairs with all sorts of girls on the street and they had bothered her so little that she hadn't even felt enough resentment to break off the affair. However, this new intrigue with Virchini wasn't quite so easy to accept because she was sure that the two of them were just out to spite her. She hid her resentment, though, to avoid giving any satisfaction to her enemies. Mademoiselle Romanjou thought that Chávez had words with Laundier over this because one afternoon she heard the sound of a slap. There was certainly a quarrel because Laundier stopped speaking to Chávez for a couple of weeks. But then he was the first one to make up and things seemed to go along the same as before. Cupeau found all this most amusing. The complacent husband who had been blind to his own situation laughed heartily at Poisson's predicament. Then Cupeau even teased Chávez. Her lovers always dropped her. First the blacksmith and now the hat maker. The trouble was that she got involved with undependable trades. She should take up with a mason, a good solid man. He said such things as if he were joking. But they upset Chávez because his small gray eyes seemed to be boring right into her. On evenings when Cupeau became bored being alone with his wife up in their tiny hole under the roof he would go down for Laundier and invite him up. He thought their dump was too dreary without Laundier's company so he patched things up between Chávez and Laundier whenever they had a falling out. In the midst of all this Laundier put on the most consequential airs. He showed himself both paternal and dignified. On three successive occasions he had prevented a quarrel between the Cupeaus and the Poisson. The good understanding between the two families formed a part of his contentment. Thanks to the tender though firm glances with which he watched over Chávez and Vierginie they always pretended to entertain a great friendship for each other. He reigned over both Blonde and Brunette with the tranquility of a pasha and fattened on his cunning. The rogue was still digesting the Cupeaus when he already began to devour the Poisson. How it did not inconvenience him much as soon as one shop was swallowed he started on a second. It was only men of his sort who ever have any luck. It was in June of that year that Naná was confirmed. She was then nearly thirteen years old as tall as an asparagus chute run to seed and had a bold impudent air about her. The year before she had been sent away from the catechism class on account of her bad behaviour, and the priest had only allowed her to join it this time through fear of losing her altogether and of casting one more heathen onto the street. Naná danced for joy as she thought of the white dress. The lauriers, being godfather and godmother, had promised to provide it and took care to let everyone in the house know of their present. Madame Le Ra was to give the veil and the cap, Virginie the purse, and Lantier the prayer-book, so that the Cupeaus looked forward to the ceremony without any great anxiety. Even the Poisson, wishing to give a housewarming, chose this occasion, no doubt on the Hatter's advice. They invited the Cupeaus and the Bâche, whose little girl was also going to be confirmed. They provided a leg of mutton and trimmings for the evening in question. It so happened that on the evening before, Cupeaus returned home in a most abominable condition, just as Naná was lost in admiration before the presence spread out on the top of the chest of drawers. The Paris atmosphere was getting the better of him again, and he fell foul of his wife and child with drunken arguments and disgusting language which no one should have uttered at such a time. Naná herself was beginning to get hold of some very bad expressions in the midst of the filthy conversations she was continually hearing. On the days when there was a row, she would often call her mother an old camel and a cow. Where's my food? yelled the zinc worker. I want my soup, you couple of jades. There's females for you, always thinking of finery. I'll sit on the gugos, you know, if I don't get my soup. He's unbearable when he's drunk, murmured Chavers out of patience, and turning towards him she exclaimed, it's warming up, don't bother us. Naná was being modest because she thought it nice on such a day. She continued to look at the presence on the chest of drawers, effectively lowering her eyelids and pretending not to understand her father's naughty words. But the zinc worker was an awful plague on the nights when he'd had too much. Poking his face right against her neck, he said, I'll give you white dresses. So the finery tickles your fancy, they excite your imagination. Just you cut away from there you ugly little brat. Move your hands about, bundle them all into a drawer. Naná with bowed head did not answer a word. She had taken up the little tool cap and was asking her mother how much it cost. And as Kupo thrust out his hand to seize hold of the cap, it was Chavers who pushed him aside, exclaiming, do leave the child alone, she's very good, she's doing no harm. Then the zinc worker let out in real earnest. Ah, the Viragos, the mother and daughter, they make the pair. It's a nice thing to go to church just to leer at the men. Dare to say it isn't true, you little slattern. I'll dress you in a sack just to disgust you, you and your priests. I don't want you to be taught anything worse than you know already. Monde Dieu, just listen to me, both of you. At this Naná turned round in a fury while Chavers had to spread out her arms to protect the things which Kupo talked of tearing. The child looked her father straight in the face. Then forgetting the modest bearing inculcated by her confessor, she said, clinching her teeth, pig. As soon as the zinc worker had had his soup, he went off to sleep. On the morrow he woke in a very good humour. He still felt a little of the booze of the day before, but only just sufficient to make him amiable. He assisted at the dressing of the child, deeply affected by the white dress, and finding that a mere nothing gave the little vermin quite the look of a young lady. The two families started off together for the church. Naná and Pauline walked first, their prayer books in their hands, and holding down their veils on account of the wind. They did not speak, but were bursting with delight at seeing people come to their shop doors, and they smiled primly and devoutly, every time they heard anyone say as they passed that they looked very nice. Madame Bosch and Madame Lochilleur lagged behind, because they were interchanging their ideas about clump-clump, a gobble-all whose daughter would never have been confirmed if the relations had not found everything for her. Yes, everything, even a new chemise, out of respect for the Holy Altar. Madame Lochilleur was rather concerned about the dress, calling Naná a dirty thing, every time the child got dust on her skirt, by brushing against the storefronts. At church, Cooper wept all the time. It was stupid, but he could not help it. It affected him to see the priest holding out his arms, and all the little girls looking like angels pass before him, clasping their hands. And the music of the organ stirred up his stomach, and the pleasant smell of the incense forced him to sniff, the same as though someone had thrust a bouquet of flowers into his face. In short, he saw everything cerulean, his heart was touched. Anyway, other sensitive souls around him were wetting their handkerchiefs, this was a beautiful day, the most beautiful of his life. After leaving the church, Cooper went for a drink with Laurier, who had remained dry-eyed. End of first part of chapter 10. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 45 of La Samoire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geeson. La Samoire by Émile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Second part of chapter 10. That evening the Poisson's housewarming was very lively. Friendship reigned without a hitch, from one end of the feast to the other. When bad times arrive, one thus comes in for some pleasant evenings, hours during which sworn enemies love each other. L'entier, with chervères on his left and virgini on his right, was most amiable to both of them, labishing little tender caresses, like a cock who desires peace in his paltry yard. But the queens of the feast were the two little ones, Nanna and Pauline, who had been allowed to keep on their things. They sat bolt upright through fear of spilling anything on their white dresses, and at every mouthful they were told to hold up their chins so as to swallow cleanly. Nanna greatly bored by all this fuss, ended by slobbering her wine over the body of her dress, so it was taken off and the stains were at once washed out in a glass of water. Then at dessert the children's future careers were gravely discussed. Madame Basch had decided that Pauline would enter a shop to learn how to punch designs on gold and silver. That paid five or six francs a day. Chervères didn't know yet because Nanna had never indicated any preference. In your place, said Madame Lech, I would bring up Nanna as an artificial flower-maker. It is a pleasant and clean employment. Flower-makers, muttered laurier, every one of them might as well walk the streets. Well, what about me? objected Madame Lech percing her lips. You're certainly not very polite. I assure you that I don't lie down for anyone who whistles. Then all the rest joined together in hushing her. Madame Lech. Oh, Madame Lech. By side glances they reminded her of the two girls, fresh from communion, who were burying their noses in their glasses to keep from roughing out loud. The men had been very careful for propriety's sake to use only suitable language, but Madame Lech refused to follow their example. She flattered herself on her command of language, as she had often been complimented on the way she could say anything before children without any offence to decency. Just you listen, there are some very fine women among the flower-makers, she insisted. They're just like other women, and they show good taste when they choose to commit a sin. Mon Dieu, interrupted Chervères, I've no dislike for artificial flower-making, only it must please Nanna. That's all I care about. One should never thought children on the question of a vocation. Come, Nanna, don't be stupid, tell me now, would you like to make flowers? The child was leaning over her plate, gathering up the cake-crumbs with her wet finger, which she afterwards sucked. She did not hurry herself, she grinned in her vicious way. Why, yes, Mama, I should like to, she ended by declaring. Then the matter was at once settled. Coupeau was quite willing that Madame Lech should take the child with her on the morrow to the place where she worked, in the Rue du Caire. And they all talked very gravely of the duties of life. Bosch said that Nanna and Pauline were women now that they had partaken of communion. Poisson added that for the future they ought to know how to cook, men socks, and look after a house. Something was even said of their marrying, and of the children they would someday have. The youngsters listened, laughing to themselves, elated by the thought of being women. What pleased them the most was when Lantier teased them, asking if they didn't already have little husbands. Nanna eventually admitted that she cared a great deal for Victor Fouconier, son of her mother's employer. Ah, well, said Madame Laurier to the Bosch, as they were all leaving. She's our goddaughter, but as they're going to put her into artificial flower making, we don't wish to have anything more to do with her. Just one more for the boulevards. She'll be leading them a merry chase before six months are over. Ongoing up to bed, the coupos agreed that everything had passed off well, and that the Poisson were not at all bad people. Chavez even considered the shop was nicely got up. She was surprised to discover that it hadn't pained her at all to spend an evening there. While Nanna was getting ready for bed, she contemplated her white dress, and asked her mother if the young lady on the third floor had had one like it, when she was married last month. This was their last happy day, two years passed by, during which they sank deeper and deeper. The winters were especially hard for them. If they had bread to eat during the fine weather, the rain and cold came accompanied by famine, by drubbings before the empty cupboard, and by dinner hours with nothing to eat in the little Siberia of their larder. Villainous December brought numbing freezing spells and the black misery of cold and dampness. The first winter they occasionally had a fire, choosing to keep warm rather than to eat. But the second winter the stove stood mute with its rust, adding a chill to the room, standing there like a cast-iron gravestone. And what took the life out of their limbs, what above all utterly crushed them, was the rent. Oh, the January quarter, when there was not a radish in the house, and old Bush came up with the bill. It was like a bitter storm, a regular tempest from the north. Monsieur Marisco then arrived the following Saturday, wrapped up in a good warm overcoat, his big hands hidden in woollen gloves. And he was forever talking of turning them out, whilst the snow continued to fall outside, as though it were preparing a bed for them on the pavement with white sheets. To have paid the quarter's rent, they would have sold their very flesh. It was the rent which emptied the larder and the stove. No doubt the coupons had only themselves to blame. Life may be a hard fight, but one always pulls through when one is orderly and economical. Witness the loyer who had paid their rent to the day, the money folded up in bits of dirty paper. But they it is true led a life of starved spiders, which would disgust one with hard work. Now now has yet earned nothing at flower-making. She even cost a good deal for her keep. At Madame Folconier's, Gervais was beginning to be looked down upon. She was no longer so expert. She bungled her work to such an extent that the mistress had reduced her wages to two francs a day. The price paid to the clumsiest bungler. But she was still proud, reminding every one of her former status as boss of her own shop. When Madame Folconier hired Madame Poutois, Gervais was so annoyed at having to work beside her former employee that she stayed away for two weeks. As for Coupeau, he did perhaps work, but in that case he certainly made a present of his labour to the government, for since the time he returned from a tent, Gervais had never seen the colour of his money. She no longer looked in his hands when he came home on paydays. He arrived, swinging his arms, his pockets empty, and often without his handkerchief. Well, yes, he had lost his rag, or else some rascally comrade had sneaked it. At first he always fibbed. There was a donation to charity, or some money slipped through the hole in his pocket, or he paid off some imaginary debts. Later he didn't even bother to make up anything. He had nothing left because it had all gone into his stomach. Madame Bush suggested to Gervais that she go to wait for him at the shop exit. This rarely worked though, because Coupeau's comrades would warn him and the money would disappear into his shoe or someone else's pocket. Yes, it was their own fault if every season found them lower and lower. But that's the sort of thing one never tells oneself, especially when one is down in the mire. They accused their bad luck. They pretended that fate was against them. Their home had become a regular shambles where they wrangled the whole day long. However, they had not yet come to blows, with the exception of a few impulsive smacks, which somehow flew about at the height of their quarrels. The saddest part of the business was that they had opened the cage of affection. All their better feelings had taken flights like so many canaries. The genial warmth of father, mother and child, when united together and wrapped up in each other, deserted them and left them shivering, each in his or her own corner. All three, Coupeau, Gervais and Nanna, were always in the most abominable tempers, biting each other's noses off for nothing at all, their eyes full of hatred. And it seemed as though something had broken the mainspring of the family, the mechanism which, with happy people, causes hearts to beat in unison. Ah, it was certain Gervais was no longer moved as she used to be when she saw Coupeau at the edge of a roof, forty or fifty feet above the pavement. She would not have pushed him off herself, but if he had fallen accidentally, in truth it would have freed the earth of one who was a but little account. The days when they were more especially at enmity, she would ask him why he didn't come back on a stretcher. She was awaiting it, it would be her good luck they were bringing back to her. What use was he, that drunkard, to make her weep, to devour all she possessed, to drive her to sin? Well, men so useless as he should be thrown as quickly as possible into the hole, and the polka of deliverance be danced over them. And when the mother said, kill him, the daughter responded, knock him on the head. Now now I read all of the reports of accidents in the newspapers, and made reflections that were unnatural for a girl. Her father had such good luck, an omnibus had knocked him down without even sobering him, would the beggar never croak? In the midst of her own poverty, Chauvers suffered even more, because other families around her were also starving to death. Their corner of the tenement housed the most wretched. There was not a family that ate every day. Chauvers felt the most pity for Père Prue, in his cubbyhole under the staircase, where he hibernated. Sometimes he stayed on his bed of straw without moving for days. Even hunger no longer drove him out, since there was no use taking a walk, when no one would invite him to dinner. Whenever he didn't show his face for several days, the neighbours would push open his door to see if his troubles were over. No, he was still alive, just barely. Even death seemed to have neglected him. Whenever Chauvers had any bread, she gave him the crusts. Even when she hated all men, because of her husband, she still felt sincerely sorry for Père Prue, the poor old man. They were letting him starve to death, because he could no longer hold tools in his hand. The laundress also suffered a great deal from the close neighbourhood of Bazouge, the undertaker's helper. A simple partition and a very thin one separated the two rooms. He could not put his fingers down his throat without her hearing it. As soon as he came home of an evening, she listened in spite of herself to everything he did. His black leather hat laid with a dull thud on the chest of drawers, like a shovel full of earth. The black cloak hung up and rustling against the walls, like the wings of some night-bird. All the black togery flung into the middle of the room, and filling it with the trappings of mourning. She heard him stamping about, felt anxious at the least movement, and was quite startled if he knocked against the furniture or rattled any of his crockery. This confounded drunkard was her preoccupation. Filling her with a secret fear mingled with the desire to know. He jolly, his belly full every day, his head all upside down, coughed, spat, sang mother Godichand, made use of many dirty expressions, and fought with the four walls before finding his bedstead. And she remained quite pale, wondering what he could be doing in there. She imagined the most atrocious things. She got into her head that he must have brought a corpse home, and was stowing it away under his bedstead. Well, the newspapers had related something of the kind, at undertaker's helper who collected the coffins of little children at his home, so as to save himself trouble, and to make only one journey to the cemetery. For certain, directly Bazouge arrived, a smell of death seemed to permeate the partition. One might have thought oneself lodging against the Père La Cher's cemetery in the midst of the kingdom of moles. He was frightful, the animal continually laughing all by himself, as though his profession enlivened him. Even when he had finished his rumpus, and had laid himself on his back, he snored in a manner so extraordinary, that it caused the laundress to hold her breath. For hours she listened tentatively, with an idea that funerals were passing through her neighbour's room. The worst was that, in spite of her terrors, something incited Jarvez to put her ear to the wall. The better to find out what was taking place. Bazouge had the same effect on her as handsome men have on good women. They would like to touch them. Well, if fear had not kept her back, Jarvez would have liked to have handled death, to see what it was like. She became so peculiar at times, holding her breath, listening attentively, expecting to unravel the secret through one of Bazouge's movements, that Cooper would ask her with a chuckle if she had a fancy for that grave digger next door. She got angry and talked of moving. The close proximity of this neighbour was so distasteful to her. And yet, in spite of herself, as soon as the old chap arrived, smelling like a cemetery, she became wrapped again in her reflections with the excited and timorous air of a wife thinking of passing a knife through the marriage contract. Had he not twice offered to pack her up and carry her off with him to some place where the enjoyment of sleep is so great, that in a moment one forgets all one's wretchedness. Perhaps it was really very pleasant. Little by little, the temptation to taste it became stronger. She would have liked to have tried it for a fortnight or a month. Oh, to sleep a month, especially in winter, the month when the rent became due, when the troubles of life were killing her. But it was not possible. One must sleep forever if one commences to sleep for an hour. And the thought of this froze her. Her desire for death departed before the eternal and stern friendship which the earth demanded. End of second part of chapter 10. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 46 of La Samoire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. La Samoire by Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. However, one evening in January, she knocked with both her fists against the partition. She had passed a frightful week, hustled by everyone, without a sue and utterly discouraged. That evening she was not at all well. She shivered with fever and seemed to see flames dancing about her. Then instead of throwing herself out of the window, as she had at one moment thought of doing, she sat to knocking and calling. Old Bazouge! Old Bazouge! The undertaker's helper was taking off his shoes and singing there were three lovely girls. He had probably had a good day, for he seemed even more maudlin than usual. Old Bazouge! Old Bazouge! Repeated Gervais raising her voice. Did he not hear her then? She was ready to give herself at once. He might come and take her on his neck and carry her off to the place where he carried his other women, the poor and the rich whom he consoled. It pained her to hear his song. There were three lovely girls, because she discerned in it the disdain of a man with too many sweethearts. What is it? What is it? Stuttered Bazouge! Who's unwell? We're coming, little woman. But the sound of this husky voice awoke Chavez as though from a nightmare, and the feeling of horror ascended from her knees to her shoulders at the thought of seeing herself lugged along in the old fellow's arms, all stiff and her face as white as a china plate. Well, is there no one there now? Resumed Bazouge in silence. Wait a bit, we're always ready to oblige the ladies. It's nothing, nothing! said the laundress at length in a choking voice. I don't require anything, thanks. She remained anxious, listening to old Bazouge grumbling himself to sleep, afraid to stir for fear he would think he heard her knocking again. In her corner of misery in the midst of her cares and the cares of others, Chavez had, however, a beautiful example of courage in the home of her neighbours, the Bijard. Little Lali, only eight years old and no larger than a sparrow, took care of the household as competently as a grown person. The job was not an easy one because she had two little tots, her brother Jul and her sister Henriette, age three and five, to watch all day long while sweeping and cleaning. Ever since Bijard had killed his wife with a kick in the stomach, Lali had become the little mother of them all. Without saying a word and of her own accord, she filled the place of one who had gone, to the extent that her brute of a father, no doubt to complete the resemblance, now belabored the daughter as he had formally belabored the mother. Whenever he came home drunk, he required a woman to massacre. He did not even notice that Lali was quite little. He would not have beaten some old trollop harder. Little Lali, so thin it made you cry, took it all without a word of complaint in her beautiful patient eyes. Never would she revolt. She bent her neck to protect her face and stifle her sobs, so as not to alarm the neighbours. When her father got tired of kicking her, she would rest a bit until she got her strength back and then resume her work. It was part of her job, being beaten daily. Chávez entertained a great friendship for her little neighbour. She treated her as an equal, as a grown-up woman of experience. It must be said that Lali had a pale and serious look with the expression of an old girl. One might have thought her thirty on hearing her speak. She knew very well how to buy things and mend the clothes, attend to the home. And she spoke of the children as though she had already gone through two or three nurseries in her time. It made people smile to hear her talk thus at eight years old, and then a lump would rise in their throats, and they would hurry away so as not to burst out crying. Chávez drew the child towards her as much as she could, gave her all she could spare of food and old clothing. One day she tried one of Nana's old dresses on her. She almost choked with anger on seeing her back covered with bruises. The skin off her elbow, which was still bleeding, and all her innocent flesh martyred and sticking to her bones. Well, old Bazouche could get a box ready if she would not last long at that rate. But the child had begged the laundress not to say a word. She would not have her father bothered on her account. She took his part, affirming that he would not have been so wicked if it had not been for the drink. He was mad he did not know what he did. Oh, she forgave him, because one ought to forgive mad men everything. From that time Chávez watched and prepared to interfere directly she heard Bijard coming up the stairs. But on most of the occasions she only caught some whack for her trouble. When she entered their room in the daytime she often found Lalis tied to the foot of the iron bedstead. It was an idea of the locksmiths before going out to tie her legs and her body with some stout rope, without anyone being able to find out why. A mere whim of a brain diseased by drink, just for the sake, no doubt of it maintaining his tyranny over the child when he was no longer there. Lalis has stiff as a stake with pins and needles in her legs, remained whole days at the post. She once even passed a night there, Bijard having forgotten to come home. Whenever Chávez carried away by her indignation, talked of unfastening her, she implored her not to disturb the rope, because her father became furious if he did not find the knots tied the same way he had left them. Really it wasn't so bad it gave her a rest. She smiled as she said this, though her legs were swollen and bruised. What upset her most was that she couldn't do her work while tied to the bed. She could watch the children, though, and even did some knitting, so as not to entirely waste the time. The locksmith had thought of another little game, too. He heated soos in the frying pan, then placed them on a corner of the mantelpiece, then he called Lalis and told it to fetch a couple of pounds of bread. The child took up the soos unsuspectingly, uttered a cry and threw them on the ground, shaking her burnt hand. Then he flew into a fury. Who had saddled him with such a piece of carrion? She lost the money now, and he threatened to beat her to a jelly if she did not pick the soos up at once. When the child hesitated, she received the first warning, a clout of such force that it made her see 36 candles. Speechless, and with two big tears in the corners of her eyes, she would pick up the soos and go off, tossing them in the palm of her hand to cool them. No, one could never imagine the ferocious ideas which may sprout from the depths of a drunkard's brain. One afternoon, for instance, Lalis, having made everything tidy, was playing with the children. The window was open, there was a draft, and the wind blowing along the passage gently shook the door. It's Monsieur Artie, the child was saying. Come in, Monsieur Artie, pray have the kindness to walk in. And she curtsied before the door, she bowed to the wind. Henriette and Jules behind her also bowed, delighted with the game, and splitting their sides with laughing, as though being tickled. She was quite rosy at seeing them so heartily amused, and even found some pleasure in it on her own account, which generally only happened to her on the 36th day of each month. Good day, Monsieur Artie, how do you do, Monsieur Artie? But a rough hand pushed open the door, and Bijard entered. Then the scene changed. Henriette and Jules fell down flat against the wall, whilst Lalis terrified remained standing in the very middle of the curtsy. The locksmith held in his hand a big wagon as whip, quite new, with a long white wooden handle and a leather thong, terminating with a bit of whip cord. He placed the whip in the corner against the bed, and did not give the usual kick to the child who was already preparing herself by presenting her back. The chuckle exposed his blackened teeth, and he was very lively, very drunk. His red face lighted up by some idea that amused him immensely. What's that? said he. You're playing the juicer, you confounded young hussy. I could hear you dancing about from downstairs. Now then, come here, nearer and full face. I don't want to sniff you from behind. Am I touching you that you tremble like a massive giblet? Take my shoes off. Lalis turned quite pale again, and amazed at not receiving her usual drubbing, took his shoes off. He had seated himself on the edge of the bed. He lay down with his clothes on and remained with his eyes open, watching the child move about the room. She busied herself with one thing and another, gradually becoming bewildered beneath his glance. Her limbs overcome by such a fright that she ended by breaking a cup. Then without getting off the bed, he took hold of the whip and showed it to her. See, little chicky, look at this. It's a present for you. Yes, it's another fifty soos you've cost me. With this little plaything I shall no longer be obliged to run after you, and it'll be no use you getting into the corners. Will you have a try? Ah, you broke a cup. Now then, gee up, dance away, make your curses to M. R. D. He did not even raise himself, but lay sprawling on his back, his head buried in his pillow, making the big whip crack about the room with the noise of a postillian starting his horses. Then, lowering his arm, he lashed Lalis in the middle of the body, encircling her with the whip and unwinding it again, as though she were a top. She fell and tried to escape on her hands and knees, but lashing her again, he jerked her to her feet. Gee up, gee up, yelled he. It's the donkey race. Nay, it'll be fine of a cold morning in winter. I can lie snug without getting cold, or hurt in my chill-blanes, and catch the calves from a distance. In that corner there, a hit, you hussy. And in that corner, a hit again, and in that one, another hit. Ah, if you crawl under their bed, I'll whack you with their handle. Gee up, you jade, gee up, gee up. A slight foam came to his lips, his yellow eyes were starting from their black orbits. Lalis, maddened, howling, jumped to the four corners of the room, curled herself up on the floor and clung to the walls. But the lash at the end of the big whip caught her everywhere, cracking against her ears with the noise of fireworks, streaking her flesh with burning wheels. A regular dance of the animal being taught its tricks. This poor kitten waltzed. It was a sight. The heels in the air like little girls playing at skipping and crying father. She was all out of breath, rebounding like an old India rubber ball, letting herself be beaten, unable to see or any longer to seek a refuge. And her wolf of a father triumphed, calling her a virago, asking if she'd had enough, and whether she understood sufficiently that she was in future to give up all hope of escaping from him. But Javers suddenly entered the room, attracted by the child's howls. On beholding such a scene, she was seized with a furious indignation. Ah, you brute of a man, cried she. Leave her alone, you brigand. I'll put the police on to you. Bijao growled like an animal, being disturbed and stuttered. Mind your own business a bit, limper. Perhaps you'd like me to put gloves on while I stir her up. It's merely to warm her as you can plainly see, simply to show her that I have a long arm. And he gave a final lash with the whip which caught Lali across the face. The upper lip was cut. The blood flowed. Javers had seized a chair and was about to fall onto the locksmith. But the child held her hands towards her imploringly, saying that it was nothing and that it was all over. She wiped away the blood with the corner of her apron and quieted the babies who were sobbing bitterly as though they had received all the blows. Whenever Javers thought of Lali, she felt she had no right to complain for herself. She wished she had as much patient courage as the little girl who was only eight years old and had to endure more than the rest of the women on their staircase put together. She had seen Lali living on stale bread for months and growing thinner and weaker. Whenever she smuggled some remnants of meat to Lali, it almost broke her heart to see the child weeping silently and nibbling it down only by little bits because her throat was so shrunken. Javers looked on Lali as a model of suffering and forgiveness and tried to learn from her how to suffer in silence. In the Kupo household, the vitriol of Lassomwach was also commencing its ravages. Javers could see the day coming when her husband would get a whip like Bijard to make her dance. End of third part of chapter 10. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelnia Surrey. Section 47 of Lassomwach. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geeson. Lassomwach by Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Fourth part of chapter 10. Yes, Kupo was spinning an evil thread. The time was past when a drink would make him feel good. His unhealthy soft fat of earlier years had melted away and he was beginning to wither and turn a leaden gray. He seemed to have a greenish tint like a corpse putrifying in a pond. He no longer had a taste for food, not even the most beautifully prepared stew. His stomach would turn and his decayed teeth refused to touch it. A pint a day was his daily ration, the only nourishment he could digest. When he awoke in the mornings he sat coughing and spitting up bile for at least a quarter of an hour. It never failed. He might as well have the basin ready. He was never steady on his pins till after his first glass of consolation, a real remedy, the fire of which quarterized his bowels. But during the day his strength returned. At first he would feel a tickling sensation, a sort of pins and needles in his hands and feet. And he would joke relating that someone was having a lark with him, that he was sure his wife put horsehair between the sheets. And his legs would become heavy. The tickling sensation would end by turning into the most abominable cramps which gripped his flesh as though in a vice. That though did not amuse him so much, he no longer laughed. He stopped suddenly on the pavement in a bewildered way with a ringing in his ears and his eyes blinded with sparks. Everything appeared to him to be yellow. The houses danced, and he reeled about for three seconds with the fear of suddenly finding himself sprawling on the ground. At other times when the sun was shining full on his back, he would shiver as though iced water had been poured down his shoulders. What bothered him the most was a slight trembling of both his hands. The right hand especially must have been guilty of some crime. It suffered from so many nightmares. Mondeur, was he then no longer a man? He was becoming an old woman. He furiously strained his muscles. He seized hold of his glass and bet that he would hold it perfectly steady, as with the hand of marble. But in spite of his efforts the glass danced about, jumped to the right, jumped to the left with a hurried and regular trembling movement. Then in the fury he emptied it into his gullet, yelling that he would require dozens like it, and afterwards he undertook to carry a casque without so much as moving a finger. Chervais on the other hand told him to give up drink if he wished to cease trembling, and he laughed at her, emptying quartz until he experienced the sensation again, flying into a rage and accusing the passing omnibuses of shaking up his liquor. In the month of March, Coupeau returned home one evening soaked through. He had come with my boots from Mont Rouge, where they had stuffed themselves full of eel soup, and he had received the full force of the shower all the way from the barrière des Fourneaux to the barrière Poissonnières, a good distance. During the night he was seized with a confounded fit of coughing. He was very flushed, suffering from a violent fever and panting like a broken bellows. When the Bosch's doctor saw him in the morning, and listened against his back, he shook his head, and drew Chervais aside to advise her to have her husband take him to the hospital. Coupeau was suffering from pneumonia. Chervais did not worry herself, who may be sure. At one time she would have been chopped into pieces before entrusting her old man to the sore bones. After the accident in the Rue de la Nation, she had spent their savings in nursing him. But those beautiful sentiments don't last when men take to wallowing in the mire. No, no, she did not intend to make a fuss like that again. They might take him and never bring him back. She would thank them heartily. Yet when the litter arrived, and Coupeau was put into it like an article of furniture, she became all pale and bitter lips. And if she grumbled and still said it was a good job, her heart was no longer in her words. Had she but ten francs in her drawer, she would not have let him go. She accompanied him to the L'Arribatier hospital, saw the nurses put him to bed at the end of a long hall, where the patients in a row looking like corpses raised themselves up and followed with their eyes the comrade who had just been brought in. It was a veritable death chamber. There was a suffocating feverish odour and a chorus of coughing. The long hall gave the impression of a small cemetery with its double row of white beds looking like an isle of marble tombs. When Coupeau remained motionless on his pillow, Gervais left, having nothing to say nor anything in her pocket that could comfort him. Outside she turned to look up at the monumental structure of the hospital, and recalled the days when Coupeau was working there, putting on the zinc roof, perched up high and singing in the sun. He wasn't drinking in those days. She used to watch for him from her window in the Hotel Bon Coeur, and they would both wave their handkerchiefs in greeting. Now, instead of being on the roof like a cheerful sparrow, he was down below. He had built his own place in the hospital where he had come to die. Oh, dear, it all seems so far away now, that time of young love. On the day after the morrow, when Gervais called to obtain news of him, she found the bed empty. A sister of charity told her that they had been obliged to remove her husband to the asylum of Saint Anne, because the day before he had suddenly gone wild. Oh, a total leave-taking of his senses attempts to crack his skull against the wall, howls which prevented the other patients from sleeping. It all came from drink, it seemed. Gervais went home very upset. Well, her husband had gone crazy. What would it be like if he came home? Nanna insisted that they should leave him in the hospital, because he might end by killing both of them. Gervais was not able to go to Saint Anne until Sunday. It was a tremendous journey. Fortunately, the omnibus from the Boulevard Roche-soire de la Glacière passed close to the asylum. She went down the Ride la santé, buying two oranges on her way, so as not to arrive empty-handed. It was another monumental building, with grey courtyards in terminable corridors, and a smell of rank medicaments, which did not exactly inspire liveliness. But when they had admitted her into a cell, she was quite surprised to see Coupeau almost jolly. He was just then seated on the throne, a spotlessly clean wooden case, and they both laughed at her finding him in this position. Well, one knows what an invalid is. He squatted there like a pope, with his cheek of earlier days. Oh, he was better as he could do this. And the pneumonia inquired the laundress. Done for, replied he. They cured it in no time. I still cough a little, but that's all there is left of it. Then at the moment of leaving the throne to get back into his bed, he joked once more. It's lucky you have a strong nose and are not bothered. They laughed louder than ever. At heart they felt joyful. It was by way of showing their contentment, without a host of phrases, that they thus joked together. One must have had to do with patience to know the pleasure one feels at seeing all their functions at work again. When he was back in bed, she gave him the two oranges, and this filled him with emotion. He was becoming quite nice again, ever since he had had nothing but Tizan to drink. She ended by venturing to speak to him about his violent attack, surprised at hearing him reason like in the good old times. Ah yes, said he, joking at his own expense. I talked a precious lot of nonsense. Just fancy I saw rats and ran about on all fours to put a grain of salt under their tails. And you, you'd called to me. Men were trying to kill you. In short, all sorts of stupid things, ghosts in broad daylight. Now I remember it well, my noodle still solid. Now it's over, I dream a bit when I'm asleep. I have nightmares, but everyone has nightmares. Chavez remained with him until the evening. When the house surgeon came at the six o'clock inspection, he made him spread his hands. They hardly trembled at all, scarcely a quiver at the tips of the fingers. However, as night approached, Cooper was little by little seized with uneasiness. He twice sat up in bed looking on the ground, and in the dark corners of the room. Suddenly he thrust out an arm and appeared to crush some vermin against the wall. What is it? asks Chavez, frightened. The rats, the rats, murmured he. Then after a pause, gliding into sleep, he tossed about uttering disconnected phrases. Oh dear, they're tearing my skin. Oh, they're filthy beasts. Keep steady. I'll just skirt right round you. Beware of the dirty bloke behind you. Won't you? She's down, and the scoundrels laugh. Scoundrels, black guards, break in. He dealt blows into space, caught hold of his blanket, and rolled it into a bundle against his chest, as though to protect the latter from the violence of the bearded men whom he beheld. Then an attendant having hastened to the spot, Chavez withdrew, quite frozen by the scene. But when she returned a few days later, she found Cupeau completely cured. Even the nightmares had left him. He could sleep his ten hours right off as peacefully as a child, and without stirring a limb. So his wife was allowed to take him away. The house surgeon gave him the usual good advice on leaving, and advised him to follow it. If he recommended drinking, he would again collapse, and would end by dying. Yes, it solely depended upon himself. He had seen how jolly and healthy one could become if one did not get drunk. While he must continue at home the sensible life he had led at Sant'An, fancy himself under lock and key, and at drum shops no longer existed. The gentleman's right, Saint Chavez in the omnibus which was taking him back to the Rue de la Goudre. Of course he's right, replied Cupeau. Then after thinking a minute, he resumed, Oh, you know, a little glass now and again can't kill a man. It helps the digestion. And that very evening he swallowed a glass of bad spirit just to keep his stomach in order. For eight days he was pretty reasonable. He was a great coward at heart. He had no desire to end his days in the beset Madhouse. But his passion got the better of him. The first little glass led him in spite of himself to a second, to a third, and to a fourth. And at the end of a fortnight he had got back to his old ration, a pint of vitriola day. Chavez, exasperated, could have beaten him to think that she had been stupid enough to dream once more of leading a worthy life just because she had seen him at the asylum in full possession of his good sense. Another joyful hour had flown the last one, no doubt. Ah, now, as nothing could reclaim him, not even the fear of his near death, she swore she would no longer put herself out. The home might be at all its sixes and sevens, she did not care any longer. And she talked also of leaving him. Then hell upon earth recommended, a life sinking deeper into the mire, without a glimmer of hope for something better to follow. Nana, whenever her father clouted her, furiously asked why the brute was not at the hospital. She was awaiting the time when she would be earning money, she would say, to treat him to brandy and make him croak quicker. Chavez, on her side, flew into a passion one day that Cooper was regretting their marriage. Ah, she had brought him her saucy children. Ah, she had got herself picked up from the pavement, weedling him with rosy dreams. Morgia, he had a rare cheek. So many words, so many lies. She hadn't wished to have anything to do with him, that was the truth. He had dragged himself at her feet to make her give way. Whilst she was advising him to think well what he was about. And if it was all to come over again, he would hear how she would just say no. She would soon have an arm cut off. Yes, she'd had a lover before him, but a woman who has had a lover and who is a worker is worth more than a sluggard of a man who sullies his honour and matter his family and all the dram shops. That day, for the first time, the Coupos went in for a general brawl, and they whacked each other so hard that an old umbrella and the broom were broken. Chavez kept her word. She sank lower and lower. She missed going to her work oftener, spent whole days in gossiping, and became as soft as a rag whenever she had a task to perform. If a thing fell from her hands, it might remain on the floor. It was certainly not she who would have stooped to pick it up. She took her ease about everything, and never handled a broom except when the accumulation of filth almost brought her to the ground. The lot of years now made a point of holding something to their noses whenever they passed her room. The stench was poisonous, said they. Those hypocrites slightly lived at the end of the passage, out of the way of all these miseries which filled the corner of the house with whimpering, locking themselves in so as not to have to lend 20 soup pieces. Oh, kind-hearted folks, neighbours awfully obliging. Yes, you may be sure. One had only to knock and ask for a light or a pinch of salt, or a jug of water. One was certain of getting the door banged in one's face. With all that, they had viper's tongues. They protested everywhere that they never occupied themselves with other people. This was true whenever it was a question of assisting a neighbour, but they did so from morning to night. Directly they had a chance of pulling anyone to pieces. With the door bolted and a rug hung up to cover the chinks and the keyhole, they would treat themselves to a spiteful gossip without leaving their gold wire for a moment. The fall of clump-clump in particular kept them purring like pet cats. Completely ruined, not a soo remaining. They smiled gleefully at the small piece of bread she would bring back when she went shopping and kept count of the days when she had nothing at all to eat. And the clothes she wore now, disgusting rags. That's what happened when one tried to live high. Chávez, who had an idea of the way in which they spoke of her, would take her shoes off and place her ear against their door. But the rug over the door prevented her from hearing much. She was heartily sick of them. She continued to speak to them to avoid remarks, though expecting nothing but unpleasantness from such nasty persons, but no longer having strength even to give them as much as they gave her past the insults off as a lot of nonsense. And besides, she only wanted her own pleasure to sit in a heap twirling her thumbs and only moving when it was a question of amusing herself. Nothing more. End of Fourth Part of Chapter 10 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey Section 48 of La Samoire This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geeson La Samoire by Emile Zola translated by Ernest A. Visitali Fifth Part of Chapter 10 One Saturday, Coupo had promised to take her to the circus. It was well worth while disturbing oneself to see ladies galloping along on horses and jumping through paper hoops. Coupo had just finished a fortnight's work. He could well spare a couple of francs, and they had also arranged to dine out, just the two of them, Nanna having to work very late that evening at her employers because of some pressing order. But at seven o'clock, there was no Coupo. At eight o'clock, it was still the same. Gervais was furious. Her drunkard was certainly squandering his earnings with his comrades at the dram shops of the neighbourhood. She had washed a cap, and had been slaving since the morning over the hulls of an old dress wishing to look decent. At last, towards nine o'clock, her stomach empty, her face purple with rage, she decided to go down and look for Coupo. Is it your husband you want, called Madame Bosch on catching sight of Gervais looking very glum? He's at Père Colombe's. Bosch has just been having some cherry brandy with him. Gervais uttered her thanks and stalked stiffly along the pavement with a determination of flying at Coupo's eyes. A fine rain was falling, which made the walk more unpleasant still. But when she reached La Samoire, the fear of receiving the rubbing herself if she badgered her old man suddenly calmed her and made her prudent. The shop was ablaze with the lighted gas, the flames of which were as brilliant as suns, and the bottles and jars illuminated the walls with their coloured glass. She stood there an instant, stretching her neck, her eyes close to the window, looking between two bottles placed there for show. Watching Coupo, who was right at the back, he was sitting with some comrades at a little zinc table, all looking vague and blue in the tobacco smoke. And as one could not hear them yelling, it created a funny effect to see them gesticulating with their chins thrust forward and their eyes staring out of their heads. Good heavens, was it really possible that men could leave their wives and their homes to shut themselves up thus in a hole where they were choking? The rain trickled down her neck. She drew herself up and went off to the exterior boulevard, wrapped in thought and not daring to enter. Ah, well, Coupo would have welcomed her in a pleasant way, he who objected to be spied upon. Besides, it really scarcely seemed to her the proper place for a respectable woman. Twice she went back and stood before the shop window, her eyes again riveted to the glass, annoyed at still beholding those confounded drunkards out of the rain and yelling and drinking. The light of la Samoa was reflected in the puddles on the pavement, which simmered with little bubbles caused by the downpour. At length she thought she was too foolish and pushing open the door, she walked straight up to the table where Coupo was sitting. After all it was her husband she came for, was it not, and she was authorised in doing so, because he had promised to take her to the circus that evening. So much the worth, she had no desire to melt like a cake of soap out on the pavement. Hello, it's you, old woman! exclaimed the zinc worker, half choking with a chuckle. Ah, that's a good joke, isn't it a good joke now? All the company laughed. Charvers remained standing, feeling rather bewildered. Coupo appeared to her to be in a pleasant humour, so she ventured to say, You remember we've somewhere to go, we must hurry, we shall still be in time to see something. I can't get up, I'm glued. Ah, without joking, resumed Coupo who continued laughing. Try just to satisfy yourself, pull my arm with all your strength. Try it, out of the net, tug away up with it. You see it's that louse pair of colombus screwed me to his feet. Charvers had humoured him at this game, and when she let go of his arm, the comrades thought the joke so good that they tumbled up against one another, braying and rubbing their shoulders like donkeys being groomed. The zinc worker's mouth was so wide with laughter that you could see right down his throat. You great nodal, said he at length, you can surely sit down a minute, you're better here than splashing about outside. Well, yes, I didn't come home as I promised, I had business to attend to. Though you may pull a long face, it won't alter matters. Make room, you others. If Madame would accept my knees, she would find them softer than the seat, gallantly said my boots. Charvers, not wishing to attract attention, took a chair and sat down as a short distance from the table. She looked at what the men were drinking, some rot-gut brandy with shon-like gold in the glasses. A little of it had dropped upon the table, and salted mouth, otherwise drink without thirst, dipped his finger in it while conversing, and wrote a woman's name, Urlali, in big letters. She noticed that Bibi the Smoker looked shockingly jaded and thinner than a hundred weight of nails. My boots' nose was in full bloom, a regular purple burgundy dailier. They were all quite dirty, their beard stiff, their smocks ragged and stained, their hands grimy with dirt. Yet they were still quite polite. Charvers noticed a couple of men at the bar. They were so drunk that they were spilling the drink down their chins when they thought they were wetting their whistles. Fat Percolomb was calmly serving round after round. The atmosphere was very warm. The smoke from the pipes ascended in the blinding glare of the gas, amidst which it rolled about like dust, drowning the customers in a gradually thickening mist. And from this cloud there issued a deafening and confused uproar, cracked voices, clinking of glasses, oaths and blows sounding like detonations. So Charvers pulled a very rye face, for such a sight is not funny for a woman, especially when she's not used to it. She was stifling with a smarting sensation in her eyes, and her head already feeling heavy from the alcoholic fumes exhaled by the whole place. Then she suddenly experienced the sensation of something more unpleasant still behind her back. She turned round and beheld the still, the machine which manufactured drunkards working away beneath the glass roof of the narrow courtyard, with the profound trepidation of its hellish cookery. Of an evening the copper parts looked more mournful than ever, lit up only on their rounded surface with one big red glint. And the shadows of the apparatus on the wall at the back formed most abominable figures, bodies with tails, monsters opening their jaws as though to swallow everyone up. Listen mother talk too much, don't make any of your grim maces, cried Coupo, to blazes you know with all wet blankets, what will you drink? Nothing of course, replied the laundress, I haven't dined yet. Well that's all the more reason for having a glass, a drop of something sustains one. But as she still retained her glum expression, my boots again did the galant. Madame probably likes sweet things, murmured he. I like men who don't get drunk, retorted she, getting angry. Yes, I like a fellow who brings home his earnings, and who keeps his word when he makes a promise. Ah, so that's what upsets you, said the zinc worker, without ceasing to chuckle. Yes, you want your share. Then, big goose, why do you refuse a drink? Take it, it's so much to the good. She looked at him fixedly, in a grave manner, a wrinkle marking her forehead with a black line. And she slowly replied, Why, you're right, it's a good idea. That way we can drink up the coin together. BB the smoker rose from his seat to fetch her a glass of anisette. She drew her chair up to the table. Whilst she was sipping her anisette, a recollection suddenly flashed across her mind. She remembered the plum she had taken with cupot near the door in the old days when he was courting her. At that time she used to leave the juice of fruits preserved in brandy. And now here was she going back to the cures. Ah, she knew herself well, she had not two thimblefuls of will. One would only have to have given her a walloping across the back to have made her regularly wallow in drink. The anisette even seemed to be very good, perhaps rather too sweet and slightly sickening. She went on sipping as she listened to salted mouth, otherwise drink without thirst. Tell of his affair with Fatul Ali, a fish peddler and very shrewd at locating him. Even if his comrades tried to hide him, she could usually sniff him out when he was late. Just the night before, she had slapped his face with a flounder to teach him not to neglect going to work. Bebe the smoker and my boots nearly split their sides laughing. They slapped Chavez on the shoulder and she began to laugh also, finding it amusing in spite of herself. They then advised her to follow Eladiz's example and bring an iron with her so as to press cupot's ears on the counters of the wine shops. Oh, well, no thanks, cried Cupo as he turned upside down, the glass his wife had emptied. You pump it out pretty well. Just look, you fellow, she doesn't take long over it. Will Madame take another? asked salted mouth, otherwise drink without thirst. No, she had had enough. Yet she hesitated. The anisette had slightly bothered her stomach. She should have taken straight brandy to settle her digestion. She cast side glances at the drunkard manufacturing machine behind her. That confounded pot, as round as the stomach of a tinker's fat wife, with its nose that was so long and twisted, sent a shiver down her back, a fear mingled with the desire. Yes, one might have thought it the metal pluck of some big wicked woman, of some witch who was discharging drop by drop the fire of her entrails. A fine source of poison, an operation which would have been hidden away in a cellar, it was so brazen and abominable. But all the same she would have liked to have poked her nose inside it, to have sniffed the odour, have tasted the filth, though the skin might have peeled off her burnt tongue like the rind of an orange. What's that you're drinking? asked she slighly of the men, her eyes lighted up by the beautiful golden colour of their glasses. That, our woman, answered Coupa, is Père Colombe's camphor. Don't be silly now, we'll give you a taste. And when they had brought her a glass of the vitriol, the rock-gut, and her jaws had contracted at the first mouthful, the zinc worker resumed slapping his thighs. Ah, it tickles your gullet, drink it off at one go, each glassful cheats the doctor of six francs. At the second glass chervais no longer felt the hunger which had been tormenting her. Now she had made it up with Coupa, she no longer felt angry with him for not having kept his word. They would go to the circus some other day. It was not so funny to see jugglers galloping about on horses. There was no rain inside Père Colombe's, and if the money went in brandy, at least one had it in one's body, one drank it bright and shining like beautiful liquid gold. Ah, here she was ready to send the whole world to blazes. Life was not so pleasant after all, besides it seemed some consolation to her to have her share in squandering the cash. As she was comfortable, why should she not remain? One might have a discharge of artillery, she did not care to budge once she had settled in a heave. She nursed herself in a pleasant warmth, her bodice sticking to her back, overcome by a feeling of comfort which benumbed her limbs. She laughed all to herself, her elbows on the table, a vacant look in her eyes, highly amused by two customers, a fat heavy fellow and a tiny shrimp, seated at a neighbouring table and kissing each other lovingly. Yes, she laughed at the things to see in la somewhere, at Père Colombe's full moon face, a regular bladder of lard, at the customers smoking their short clay pipes, yelling and spitting, and at the big flames of gas which lighted up the looking glasses and the bottles of liqueur. The smell no longer bothered her, on the contrary it tickled her nose, and she thought it very pleasant. Her eyes slightly closed, as she breathed very slowly without the least feeling of suffocation, tasting the enjoyment of the gentle slumber which was overcoming her. Then after her third glass, she let her chin fall on her hands. She now only saw Coupo and his comrades, and she remained nose to nose with them, quite close, her cheeks warmed by their breath, looking at their dirty beards as though she had been counting the hairs. My boots drooled his pipe between his teeth with the dumb and grave air of a dozing ox. Bebe the smoker was telling a story, the manner in which he emptied a bottle at a draught, giving it such a kiss that one instantly saw its bottom. Meanwhile, Sorted Mouse, otherwise drink without thirst, had gone and fetched the Wheel of Fortune from the counter, and was playing with Coupo for drinks. Two hundred, you're lucky, you get high numbers every time. The needle of the wheel grated, and the figure of Fortune, a big red woman placed under glass, turned round and round until it looked like a mere spot in the centre, similar to a wine-stain. Three hundred and fifty, you must have been inside it, you confounded laska! Ah, I shan't play any more. Chavez amused herself with the Wheel of Fortune. She was feeling awfully thirsty and calling my boots, my child. Behind her, the machine for manufacturing drunkards continued working with its murmur of an underground stream, and she despaired of ever stopping it, of exhausting it, filled with a sullen anger against it, feeling a longing to spring upon the big still as upon some animal to kick it with her heels and stave in its belly. Then everything began to seem all mixed up. The machine seemed to be moving itself, and she thought she was being grabbed by its copper claws, and that the underground stream was now flowing over her body. Then the room danced round. The gas-jet seemed to shoot like stars. Chavez was drunk. She had a furious wrangle between salted mouth, otherwise drink without thirst, and that rascal per colombe. There was a thief of a landlord who wanted one to pay for what one had not had, yet one was not at a gangster's hangout. Suddenly there was a scuffling, yells were heard, and tables were upset. It was Per Colombe who was turning the party out, without the least hesitation, and in the twinkling of an eye. On the other side of the door they blaggarded him and called him a scoundrel. It still rained and blew icy cold. Chavez lost Coupo, found him, and then lost him again. She wished to go home. She felt the shops to find her way. This sudden darkness surprised her immensely. At the corner of the Rue des Poissons, she sat down in the gutter, thinking she was at the wash house. The water which flowed along caused her head to swim and made her very ill. At length she arrived. She passed stiffly before the concierge's room, where she perfectly recognized the lawyers and the Poissons seated at the table having dinner, and who made grimaces of disgust on beholding her in that sorry state. She never remembered how she had got up all those flights of stairs. Just as she was turning into the passage at the top, little Lally, who heard her footsteps, hastened to meet her, opening her arms caressingly and saying with a smile, Madam Chavez, papa has not returned. Just come and see my little children sleeping. Ah, they look so pretty. With on beholding the laundress's besotted face, she tremblingly drew back. She was acquainted with that brandy laden breath, those pale eyes, that convulsed mouth. And Chavez stumbled past without uttering a word, whilst the child standing on the threshold of her room followed her with her dark eyes, grave and speechless. End of chapter 10. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey