 Author's Preface and Introduction of La Samoir. La Samoir-Macarre series will be composed of about twenty different novels. Ever since 1869 the general plan has been traced, and I have been following it with extreme rigor. The Samoir came at its time. I wrote it, as I shall write the others, without deviating for a second from my straight line. That is what constitutes my strength. I have a goal towards which I am advancing. When the Assomoir appeared in a newspaper, it was attacked with unexampled brutality, denounced, accused of every crime. Is it very necessary to explain here, in a few lines, my intentions as a writer? I have sought to picture the fatal downfall of the family of work-people, in the pestilential surroundings of our Fobourg. After drunkenness and idleness come the loosening of family ties, the filth engendered by progressive forgetfulness of all upright sentiments, and then as denouement, shame and death. It is simply a lesson in morality. The Assomoir is certainly the most chaste of my works. Often have I had to point to sores far more frightful. The style alone has shocked. Anger has been aroused by the words. My crime consists in having had the literary curiosity of gathering together and running through a highly worked mould the language of the people. Ah, the style therein lies the great crime. Yet dictionaries of this language exist. Men of Lettuce study it and enjoy its piquancy, and the unpremeditatedness and the strength of its conceptions. It is a treat for burrowing grammarians. Nevertheless no one has perceived that my wish was to produce a purely philological work, which I believe to be of keen historical and social interest. I do not seek to defend myself, though. My work will defend me. It is a work of truth, the first novel of the people which does not lie, and which possesses the odour of the people. And one must not conclude that all the lower classes are bad. For my characters are not bad. They are only ignorant, and spoilt by the surroundings of rough work and misery amidst which they live. Only it is necessary to read my novels, to understand them, to see them clearly as a whole, before entertaining the grotesque and odious judgments formed beforehand, which is circulating about my person and my works. Ah, if only it were known how my friends laugh at the amazing legend which serves to amuse the crowd. If it were only known that the blood-drinker, the ferocious novelist, is a worthy citizen, a man of study and of art, living discreetly in his corner, and whose sole ambition is to leave behind him a work as vast and lifelike as he can. I contradict no story. I work, and I leave to time, and to the good faith of the public, the task of unerthing me from beneath the heap of nonsense and abuse that has been piled up. Émile Zola Notes upon the Asomroir by Sr. Edmondo de Amici Once in a railway carriage, I saw a Frenchman, who was reading a book very attentively, exhibit from time to time signs of surprise. Suddenly, while I was trying to discover the title upon the cover, he exclaimed, Oh, this is disgusting, and put the volume into his valise in the most contemptuous manner. He remained for some moments lost in thought. Then reopened the valise, took up the book again, and began reading. He might have finished a couple of pages when he suddenly burst out into a hearty laugh, and turning to his companion said, Ah, my dear friend, here is the most marvellous description of a wedding dinner. Then he resumed his reading, showing plainly that he was enjoying it intensely. The book was the Asomroir, and that which happened to the Frenchman when perusing it, occurs to all who take up the novels of Zola for the first time. You must conquer the first feeling of repugnance. Then, whatever may be the final judgment pronounced upon the writer, you are glad to have read his works, and you arrive at the conclusion that you ought to have read them. The first effect produced, particularly after the perusal of other works, is similar to that experienced on coming out of a close and heated theatre, when one feels the first whiff of fresh air in one's face with a keen sense of pleasure, even if bring with it an odor not altogether agreeable. After reading Zola's novels, it seems as though in all others, even in the truest, there were a veil between the reader and the things described, and there is present to our minds the same difference as exists between the representations of human faces on canvas, and the reflections of the same faces in a mirror. It is like finding truth for the first time. Certainly it is that no matter how strong you may be, and whether or not you have le nez solide, like Chervais at the hospital, sometimes you spring back as if from a sudden whiff of foul air. But even at these points, as at almost every page, though we may violently protest, this is too much. There is a devil in us which laughs and frolics and enjoys himself hugely over our discomforture. You feel the same pleasure that you would in hearing a very blunt man talk, even if he were thoroughly vulgar. A man who expresses, as Othello says, his worst ideas in his worst language, who describes what he sees, repeats what he hears, says what he thinks and tells what he is without regard for anyone's feelings, and just as if he were talking to himself, ala bonheur. From the very first lines, you know with whom you are dealing. Delicate persons withdraw, that is an understood thing. Zola does not conceal or embellish anything, either sentiments, thoughts, conversations, acts or places. He is at once a judicious romancer, a surgeon, a casuist, a physiologist, and an expert chancellor of the Exchequer, who thus raises every veil, putting his hands into everything and calling a spade a spade. Not heeding, but rather being greatly surprised at your astonishment. Morally he unveils in his characters those deepest feelings which are generally profound secrets, tremblingly whispered through the grating of the confessional. Materially he makes us aware of every odour, every flavour, and every contact. In language he scarcely refrains from those few unspeakable words which naughty boys stealthily seek for in the dictionary. No one has ever gone further in this extreme, and you really do not know whether you ought most to admire his talent or his courage. Among the myriads of characters in novels whom we remember, Zola's remain crowded on one side, and are the boldest and most tangible of all. We have not only seen them pass and heard them talk, but have jostled against them, felt their breath, and become conscious of the odour of their flesh and their garments. We have seen the blood circulating beneath their skins, knowing what positions they sleep, what they eat, how they dress and undress. We understand the difference between their temperaments and ours, their most secret appetites, the most passionate anger of their language, their gestures, their grimaces, the spots on their linen, the dirt in their nails, etc. And with characters he also imprints upon our mind places, because he looks at everything with the keen glance which embraces all, and which lets nothing escape. In a room already drawn and painted the light is moved, and he interrupts the story to tell us whether it glides upon what the ray of the flame falls in its new position, and how the legs of a chair and the hinges of a door gleam in a dark corner. From the description of a shop he makes us understand that it has just struck twelve or lacks nearly an hour of sunset. He notes all the shadows, all the spots on the sun, all the shades of colour which succeed each other from hour to hour upon the wall, and presents everything with such marvellous distinctness that five years after reading we remember the appearance the upholstery presented about five o'clock in the evening when the curtains had been drawn. And the effect this appearance produced upon the mind of a person seated in the corner of that particular room. He never forgets anything and gives life to everything. There is nothing before which his omnipotent pencil stops, neither soiled linen, the manners of drunken men, unclean flesh, or decayed bodies. Among all these things, in all these places, the air of which we breathe, and in which we see and touch everything, moves a varied crowd of women corrupt to the marrow, foul-mouthed shopkeepers, cunning bankers, naivish priests, prostitutes, dandies, ruffians, and human scum of every kind and shape, among which appears sometimes, like a rara awis, a good man. Amongst them all they do a little of everything, swaying to and fro between the prisoner's dock and the hospital, the pawn's shop and the tavern, amidst all the passions and brutish taste, sunken the mire up to the chin, in a thick and heavy atmosphere, belly freshened from time to time by the breath of a lovely affection, and stirred alternately by plebeian sickness and the heart-rending cries of the famished and the dying. Despite all this, it may be resolutely affirmed that Emile Zola is a moral writer. He is one of the most moral novelists of Fran, and it is really astonishing how anyone can doubt this. He makes us note the smell of vice, not its perfume. His nude figures are those of the anatomical table, which do not inspire the slightest immoral thought. There is not one of his books, not even the crudest, that does not leave in the soul pure, firm and immutable aversion or scorn for the base passions of which he treats. Brutally, pitilessly, and without hypocrisy, he strips vice naked and holds it up to ridicule, standing so far off from it that he does not graze it with his garments. Forced by his hand it is vice itself that says, detest me and pass by. His novels he himself says are really morals in action. The scandal which comes from them is only for the eyes and ears, and that he holds back as a man from the mire in which his pen is dipped, so does he as a writer keep completely aloof from the characters which he has created. There is perhaps no other modern author who conceals himself more skillfully in his works. After reading all his novels one cannot understand who or what he is. He is a profound observer, a powerful painter and a wonderful writer, strong without respect for mankind, brusque, resolute, bold, rather ill-humoured and little given to benevolence. But you know nothing more of him. Only that, although you do not see his entire face through the pages of his books, you catch a glimpse of his forehead, scored with a straight and deep furrow, and you fancy that he must have seen at no great distance a large portion of the misery and vice which he describes. And he seems to be a man who, having been offended by the world, revenges himself by tearing from her her mask, and exhibiting her for the first time as she really is, for the most part odious and disgusting. A thorough conviction guides and strengthens him that he ought to speak and describe the truth at any risk or any cost, just as it is, boldly, entirely, and without any concealment. Strength is the pre-eminent gift of Zola, and anyone wishing to describe him must say in the first place he is powerful. Every one of his novels is anchored toward the force, an enormous weight which he raises from the ground whilst doing all that in him lies to conceal the effort. After reading the last page one is forced to exclaim, ah, what a hand, like those three sops in the Assamoir, when speaking of the Marquis, who had thrown three ruffians to the ground without even taking his gloves off. And the sudden appearance of this novelist in his shirt sleeves, with his hairy chest and rough voice, who in the most impudent manner and in the open street, says everything to everybody. In the midst of the crowd of novelists in black suits, well-educated and smiling, who say a thousand obscene things in a decent fashion in those little romances, coulures de roses, which are written for boudoir and the stage, is in truth an event in literature. Herein lies his greatest merit. He has flung into the air with one kick all the toilet articles of literature, and has washed with a daubless dishcloth the bedisoned face of truth. The publication of the Assamoir was originally commenced in the bien public, but was left off half finished, so many were the protests launched against this horror by the subscribers. Then it was printed in a literary journal, and before it was finished those hot polemics commenced, which became so furious after the publication of the work in a volume, and which will be remembered among the fiercest literary battles of the present day. These polemics gave a powerful impulse to the success of the novel, and it was a noisy, enormous and incredible success. It had been years since so much had been heard about any book. For a long time Paris talked of nothing but the Assamoir. One heard it loudly discussed in the cafes, theatres, reading rooms, and even in the shops, and this by its fanatical admirers, who were more in number than its fitter adversaries. The unheard of brutality of the novel seemed a challenge, a slap at Paris, a calamity against the French people, and they called the book a dirty thing to be handled in the tongs, a monstrous abortion, and a galley offence, and held against the author all the abuse that was possible, from the name of the enemy of his country, to that of literary sewer, without choosing their words. The theatrical revue, after the end of the year, represented him in the attire of a garbage-gatherer who goes about collecting filth for the hawk in the streets of Paris. It was no longer criticism, he said, it was downright slaughter. They denied his talent, originality, style, and even grammar. There were even those who would not discuss him, and they came very near to personal challenges in the streets. And the most extravagantly odious rumours were circulated respecting him. He was spoken of as a bundle of vice, a half-brute, a man without heart, like Glancier, a beast like salted mass, and an ugly individual, like his father, Bazouge, the mute. But meanwhile, editions of the Assomware succeeded editions. The dispassionate gastronomist said in a low voice that the novel was a masterpiece, the Parisian populace, read it largely because they found in it their boulevard, vivette, and shop life, indelibly depicted with new colours and touches of the brush, in comparison with which all others seemed feeble, and the most enraged critics were obliged to recognise the fact that in those pages which had been such a target, there was something that eternally blunted the points of their arrows. The great success of the Assomware made Zola's other novels sought after, and one may safely affirm that he became celebrated then. Through my friend Parodi, I had the honour of meeting Zola and of passing several hours with him. In speaking of the Assomware, he said, The writing of this work was a torture to me. It is the book which has cost me the most trouble in putting together the small details upon which it rests. I intended writing a novel on alcohol, I didn't know anything further. I had collected a number of notes on the effects of the abuse of alcohol. I had determined to make a brute die the kind of death that Coupeau does. I did not know, however, who would be the victim. Before even looking for him, I went to the hospital of Saint Anne to study sickness and death like a physician. Then I assigned to Gérfers the occupation of a laundress, and instantly thought of that description of a real wash-house in which I had myself passed many hours. Then, without knowing anything of Gougers, who my next imagined, I thought of making use of the recollections of the workshop of an ironmonger and blacksmith, where I had passed half-holidays at a time when I was a boy. In the same way, before having woven the thread of my romance, I had already prepared the description of a dinner in the Gérfers's shop and of the visit to the Museum of the Louvre. I had already studied my types of working men, the Assomboire of Old Colombe, the shops, the Hotel Bon Coeur, everything in fact. When all that remained was disposed of, I commenced to occupy myself with that which was to happen, and reasoned thus while writing it. Gérfers comes to Paris with Lantier, a lover. What will follow? Lantier is a mauvais sujet, so he leaves her. Then, when he credited, I came to a standstill here and could not go on for several days. After some delay, I took another step. Gérfers, thus abandoned, it is natural that she should marry again. She does so, and marries the zinc worker in Goupau. This is the man who is to die at Saint Anne. But here I was stopped again. In order to put the personages and scenes which I had in my head in their respective places, and to give some sort of a framework to the novel, I needed one more fact, one only, that would connect the two preceding ones. These three facts would be sufficient, the rest was all found, prepared and written out in my mind. But I could not get hold of this third fact. I passed several days quite worried and discontented, when suddenly one morning I was seized with an idea. Lanthier finds Gérfers again, makes friends with Goupau, installs himself in the house, and then a family of three is established, such as I have often seen, and a ruin follows. I breathe again, the novel is completed. Saying this, Sola opened a box, took out a roll of manuscript and placed it before me. It contained the first studies of the Assomboire on so many fly leaves. On the first leaves was a sketch of the characters, notes about the person, temperament and character. I found the miroir caractéristique of Gérfers, Goupau, Bama, Goupau, Laureuil, the Bache, Gougé and Madame Leurat. All of them were there, the notes seemed like those of the registrar of a court, written in laconic and free language like that of the novel, and interpolated with short remarks such as born like this, educated in this manner, he will conduct himself in this way. In one place was written, what else can a rascal of this kind do? Among others I was struck with a sketch of Lanthier, composed of nothing but a list of adjectives, each one stronger than the other, such as Lanthier, sensuel, brutal, egoiste, palisson. In some parts was written, you such and such a one, someone known to the author, all written in large clear characters and in perfect order. Then I saw sketches of places scarcely outlined but as accurate as the drawing of an engineer. There were a number of them, as Samoir was drawn, the streets of the quarter in which the plot was laid with the corners and signs of the shops, the zigzag which Hervès took to avoid the creditors, the Sunday escapades of Nanna, the peregrinations of the set of topos from Bastrag to Bastrag and from Boussagneur to Boussagneur. The hospital and slaughterhouse, between which on that terrible evening came was the poor ironing woman when maddened by hunger. The great house of Naresco was traced minutely all the upper story, the landings, windows, the den of the mute, for the bruised hole, all those dark passages in which one could hear un souffle de crevaison, those walls which resounded like empty vaults, those doors through which were heard the music of blows and the cries of Miersh dying from hunger. Even the plan of Hervès's shop, room by room, with indications of beds and tables and some places erased and corrected, one could see that Zola had amused himself by the hour, quite forgetting perhaps the story, so buried was he in his fiction, as if it were a true record. With regard to the title of the work, it may be mentioned that Les Samoirs was the name given derisively to a tavern at Belleville, which subsequently became noted under that designation. It was then adopted by the proprietor and has since become the slang term for those low drinking-horns, where the common people imbibe adulterated spirits which shorten their existence. The term as Samoir literally means a loaded bludgeon, or that weapon ironically termed a life preserver, in short anything that will fell, stun or kill. And according to Monsieur Alfred Delvaux, the author of a French slang dictionary, it is a curious fact that Russian robbers reverse the metaphor and nickname a bludgeon champagne. It is scarcely necessary to point out that the loaded bludgeon in the hands of a ruffian and the pernicious spirits dispensed at establishments of the above-mentioned character produce a light result. End of authors' note and introduction. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelnair Surrey. CHAPTER I Chevese had waited up for Laurentier until two in the morning, then shivering from having remained in a thin loose jacket exposed to the fresh air at the window, she had thrown herself across the bed drowsy, feverish, and her cheeks bathed in tears. For a week passed on leaving the two-headed calf where they took their meals, he had sent her home with the children and never reappeared himself until late at night, alleging that he had been in search of work. That evening, while watching for his return, she thought she had seen him entering the dancing hall of the Grand Balcony, the ten blazing windows of which lighted up with a glare of a conflagration the dark expanse of the exterior boulevards. And five or six paces behind him she had caught sight of little Adele, a burnisher, who dined at the same restaurant, swinging her hands as if she had just quitted his arm not to pass together under the dazzling light of the globes at the door. When, towards five o'clock, Gervais awoke stiff and sore, she broke forth into sobs. L'entier had not returned. For the first time he had slept away from home. She remained seated on the edge of the bed under the strip of faded chints which hung from the rod fastened to the ceiling by a piece of string, and slowly with her eyes veiled by tears she glanced around the wretched lodging, furnished with a walnut chest of drawers minus one drawer, three rush-bottom chairs, and a little greasy table on which stood a broken water jug. There had been added for the children an iron bedstead which prevented anyone getting to the chest of drawers and filled two-thirds of the room. Gervais's and L'entier's trunk wide open in one corner displayed its emptiness, and a man's old hat right at the bottom almost buried beneath some dirty shirts and socks. Whilst against the walls above the articles of furniture hung a shawl full of holes and a pair of trousers begrimed with mud, the last rags which the dealers in second-hand clothes declined to buy. In the centre of the mantelpiece lying between two odd zinc candlesticks was a bundle of pink porn tickets. It was the best room of the hotel, the first floor room, looking onto the boulevard. The two children were sleeping side-by-side with their heads on the same pillow. Claude aged eight years was breathing quietly with his little hands thrown outside the coverlet, while Etienne, only four years old, was smiling with one arm round his brother's neck, and bare-footed, without thinking to again put on the old shoes that had fallen on the floor, she resumed her position at the window, her eyes searching the pavements in the distance. The hotel was situated on the boulevard de la chapelle to the left of the barrière Poissonnière. It was a building of two stories high, painted a red of the colour of wine-dregs up to the second floor and with shutters all rotted by the rain. Over a lamp with starred panes of glass one could manage to read between the two windows the words Hotel Bancourt, kept by Mosulier, painted in big yellow letters, several pieces of which the mouldering of the plaster had carried away. The lamp, preventing her seeing, Gervais raised herself on tiptoe, still holding the handkerchief to her lips. She looked to the right towards the boulevard Roche-soie, where groups of butchers in aprons smeared with blood were hanging about in front of the slaughterhouses, and the fresh breeze warfed it occasionally a stench of slaughtered beasts. Looking to the left she scanned along avenue but ended nearly in front of her, where the white mass of the La Ribousière hospital was then in course of construction. Slowly from one end of the horizon to the other she followed the octoire war, behind which she sometimes heard during night-time the streaks of persons being murdered, and she searchingly looked into the remote angles, the dark corners black with humidity and filth, fearing to discern their laudier's body stabbed to death. She looked to the endless grey wall that surrounded the city with its belt of desolation. When she raised her eyes higher she became aware of a bright burst of sunlight. The dull hum of the city's awakening already filled the air. Graining her neck to look at the Poissonnier gate, she remained for a time watching the constant stream of men, horses, and carts which flooded down from the heights of Montmartre and La Chapelle, gathering between the two-squat octoire lodges. It was like a herd of plodding cattle, an endless throng widened by sudden stoppages into eddies that spilled off the sidewalks into the street, a steady procession of labourers on their way back to work with tools slung over their back and a loaf of bread under their arm. This human inundation kept pouring down into Paris to be constantly swallowed up. Gervais leaned further out at the risk of falling when she thought she'd recognized Launtier amongst the throng. She pressed the handkerchief tighter against her mouth as though to push back the pain within her. The sound of a young and cheerful voice caused her to leave the window. So the old man isn't here, Madame Launtier. Why, no, Monsieur Coupeau, she replied, trying to smile. Coupeau, a zinc worker who occupied a ten-frank room on the top floor, having seen the door unlocked, had walked in, as friends will do. You know, he continued, I'm now working over there in the hospital. Oh, what beautiful Mayweather, isn't it? The air is rather sharp this morning. And he looked at Gervais' face red with weeping. When he saw that the bed had not been slept in, he shook his head gently. Then he went to the children's couch where they were sleeping, looking as rosy as cherubs, and lowering his voice he said, Come, the old man's not been home, has he? Oh, don't worry yourself, Madame Launtier. He's very much occupied with politics. When they were voting for Eugène Saulte the other day, he was acting almost crazy. He has very likely spent the night with some friends, black-guarding, crappulous, born apart. No, no, she murmured with an effort. You don't think that. I know where Launtier is. You see, we have our little troubles, like the rest of the world. Coupeau winked his eye to indicate that he was not a dupe of this falsehood, and he went off after offering to fetch her milk, if she did not care to go out. She was a good and courageous woman, and might count upon him on any day of trouble. As soon as he was gone, Gervais again returned to the window. At the barriere, the tramp of the drove still continued in the morning air, locksmiths in short blue blouses, masons in white jackets, house painters in overcoats over long smocks. From a distance the crowd looked like a chalky smear of neutral hue, composed chiefly of faded blue and dingy gray. When one of the workers occasionally stopped to light his pipe, the others kept plodding past him, without sparing a laugh or a word to a comrade. With cheeks gray as clay, their eyes were continuously drawn towards Paris, which were swallowing them one by one. At both corners of the rue des Poissonnières, however, some of the men slackened their pace as they near the doors of the two wine dealers who were taking down their shutters, and before entering they stood on the edge of the pavement, looking sideways over Paris, with no strength in their arms and already inclined for a day of idleness. Inside various groups were already buying rounds of drinks, or just standing around forgetting their troubles, crowding up the place, coughing, spitting, clearing their throats with sip after sip. Gervais was watching Père Colombe's wine-shop to the left of the street, where she thought she had seen Launtier, when a stout woman, bare-headed and wearing an apron, called to her from the middle of the roadway. "'Aim, Madame Launtier, you're up very early,' Gervais leaned out. "'Why, it's you, Madame Bosch. Oh, I've got a lot of work to-day. Yes, things don't do themselves, do they?' The conversation continued between roadway and window. Madame Bosch was concierge of the building where the two-headed carp was on the ground floor. Gervais had waited for Launtier more than once in the concierge's lodge, so as not to be alone at table with all the men who ate at the restaurant. Madame Bosch was going to a tailor who was late in mending an overcoat for her husband. She mentioned one of her tenants had come in with a woman the night before and kept everyone awake past three in the morning. She looked at Gervais with intense curiosity. "'Is M. Launtier there still in bed?' she asked abruptly. "'Yes, he's asleep,' replied Gervais, who could not avoid blushing. Madame Bosch saw the tears come into her eyes and, satisfied no doubt, she turned to go, declaring men to be a cursed lazy-set. As she went off she called back. "'It's this morning you go to the wash-house, isn't it? I've something to wash, too. I'll keep you a place next to me, and we can chat together.' Then, as if moved with a sudden pity, she added, "'Oh, my poor little thing. You'd far better not remain there. You'll take home. You look blue with cold.' Gervais still obstinately remained at the window during two mortal hours till eight o'clock. Now all the shops had opened. Only a few workmen were still hurrying along. The working girls now filled the boulevard. Metal polishes, milliners, flower-sellers, shivering in their thin clothing. In small groups they chatted gaily, laughing and glancing here and there. Occasionally there would be one girl by herself, thin, pale, serious-faced, picking her way along the city wall among the puddles and the filth. After the working girls the office clerks came past, breathing upon their chilled fingers and munching penny-rolls. Some of them are gaunt young fellows in ill-fitting suits. Their tired eyes still fogged from sleep. Others are older men, stooped and tottering, with faces pale and drawn from long hours of office work and glancing nervously at their watches for fear of arriving late. In time the boulevard settled into their usual morning quiet. Old folk came out to stroll in the sun, tired young mothers in bedraggled skirts, cuddled babies in their arms, or sat on a bench to change diapers. Children run, squealing and laughing, pushing and shoving. Ben Gervais felt herself choking, dizzy with anguish. All hope's gone. It seemed to her that everything was ended, even time itself, and that Laundier would return no more. Her eyes vacantly wandered from the old slaughterhouse, foul with butchery and with stench to the new White Hospital, which, through the yawning openings of its ranges of windows, disclosed their naked wards where death was preparing to mow. In front of her, on the other side of the octoire wall, the bright heavens dazzled her with a rising sun, which rose higher and higher over the vast awakening city. The young woman was seated on a chair, no longer crying, and with her hands abandoned on her lap, when Laundier quietly entered the room. It's you, it's you, she cried, raising to throw herself upon his neck. Yeah, it's me, what of it, he replied. You're not going to begin any of your nonsense, I hope." He had pushed her aside then, with a gesture of ill-humour he threw his black-felt hat to the chest of drawers. He was a young fellow of twenty-six years of age, short and very dark with a handsome figure and slight moustache, which his hand was always mechanically twirling. He wore a workman's overalls and an all-soiled overcoat, which he had belted tightly at the waist, and he spoke with a strong promissile accent. Gervais, who had fallen back on her chair, gently complained in short sentences, I've not had a wink of sleep, I feared some harm had happened to you. Where have you been? Where did you spend the night? For heaven's sake, don't do it again, or I shall go crazy. Tell me, your guts, where have you been? Where I have business, of course. He returned, shrugging his shoulders. At eight o'clock I was at La Glacière with my friend, who was to start a hat factory. We sat talking late, so I preferred to sleep there. Now, you know I don't like being spied upon, so just shut up. The young woman recommenced sobbing. The loud voices and the rough movements of Lontier, who upset the chairs, had awakened the children. They sat up in bed, half-naked, disentangling their hair with their tiny hands, and hearing their mother weep, they uttered terrible screams, crying also with their scarcely open eyes. That is the music, shouted Lontier furiously. I'll warn you, I'll take my hook, and it will be for good this time. You will shut up, and good morning I'll return to the place I've just come from." He had already taken his hat from off the chest of drawers, but you vase through herself before him, stammering, no, no. And she hushed the little one's tears with her caresses, smoothed their hair, and soothed them with soft words. The children, suddenly quieted, laughing on their pillow, amused themselves by punching each other. The father, however, without even taking off his boots, had thrown himself on the bed, looking worn out, his face bearing signs of having been up all night. He did not go to sleep. He lay with his eyes wide open, looking round the room. That's a mess here, he muttered, and, after observing Jovey's a moment he malignantly added, don't you even wash yourself now? Jovey's was twenty-two tall and slim with fine features, but she had already begun to show the strain of her hard life. She seemed to have aged ten years from the hours of agonized weeping. Launchier's mean remarks made her mad. You're not fair, she said spiritedly. You well know I do all I can. It's not my fault that we find ourselves here. I would like to see you with two children in a room where there's not even a stove to heat some water. When we arrived in Paris, instead of squandering your money, you should have made a home for us at once, as you promised. Listen, Launchier exploded. You crack them up with me. It doesn't become you to sneer at it now. Apparently not listening, Jovey's went on with her own thought. If we work hard, we can get out of this hole we're in. Launchier, the laundress or Runeuve will start me on Monday. If you work with your friend from La Glacier, in six months we'll be doing well. We'll have enough at Easton-Clois and a place we can call our own. But we'll have to stick with it and work hard." Launchier turned over towards the wall, looking greatly bored. Then Jovey's lost her temper. Yes, that's it. I know the love of work doesn't trouble you much. You're bursting with fond of being dressed like a gentleman. You don't think me nice enough, do you, now that you've made me pawn all my dresses. Now listen, August, I didn't intend to speak of it. I would have waited a bit longer, but I know where you spent the night. I saw you enter the Grand Balcony with that trollopadel. Ah, you choose them well. She's a nice one, she is. She does well to put on the airs of a princess. She's been the ridicule of every man who frequents the restaurant. At a bound, Launchier sprung from the bed. His eyes had become as black as ink in his pale face. With this little man rage-blue like a tempest. Yes, yes, of every man who frequents the restaurant, repeated the young woman. Madame Bosch intends to give them notice, she and her long stick of a sister, because they've always a string of men after them on the staircase. Launchier raised his fists. Then, resisting the desire of striking her, he seized hold of her by the arms, violently, and sent her sprawling upon the bed of the children, who recommenced crying. And he lay down again, mumbling, like a man resolving on something that he previously hesitated to do. You don't know what you've done, Gervais. You've made a big mistake, you'll see. End of first part of chapter one. Recording by David Lazarus. Section two of Laçmoire. 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 David Lazarus. Laçmoire by Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Second part of chapter one. For an instant, the children continued sobbing. Their mother, who remained bending over the bed, held them both in her embrace, and kept repeating the same words in a monotonous tone of voice. Ah, if it weren't for you, my poor little ones, if it weren't for you, if it weren't for you. Stretched out quietly, his eyes raised to the faded strip of chints, lontier no longer listened, but seemed to be buried in a fixed idea. He remained thus for nearly an hour without giving way to sleep, in which weighed his eyelids down. He finally turned towards Gervais. His voice set hard in determination. She had gotten the children up and dressed, and had almost finished cleaning the room. The room looked as always dark and depressing with its sooty black ceiling and paper peeling from the damp walls. The dilapidated furniture was also streaked and dirty, despite frequent dustings. Gervais devouring her grief, trying to assume a look of indifference, hurried over her work. Lontier watched as she tidied her hair in front of the small mirror, hanging near the window. While she washed herself, he looked at her bare arms and shoulders. He seemed to be making comparisons in his mind as his lips formed a grimace. Gervais limped with her right leg, though it was scarcely noticeable, except when she was tired. Today exhausted from remaining awake all night, she was supporting herself against the wall and dragging her leg. Neither one spoke. They had nothing more to say. Lontier seemed to be waiting while Gervais kept busy and tried to keep her countenance expressionless. Finally, while she was making a bundle of the dirty clothes thrown in the corner behind the trunk, he had length opened his lips and asked, What are you doing there? Where are you going? She did not answer at first, then, when he furiously repeated his questions, she made up her mind and said, I suppose you can see for yourself I'm going to wash all this. The children can't live in filth. He let her pick up two or three handkerchiefs, and after a fresh pause, he resumed. Have you got any money? At these words, she stood up and looked him full in the face of the children's dirty clothes which she held in her hand. Money? And where do you think I can have stolen any? You know well enough that I got three francs the day before yesterday on my black skirt. We've lunched twice off it, and money goes quick at the pork butchers. Now you may be quite sure I've no money. I've four sews for the wash-house. I don't have an extra income like some women. He let this illusion pass. He moved off the bed and was passing in review the few rags hanging about the room. He ended by taking up the pair of trousers and the shore and searching the drawers. He added two chemise and a woman's loose jacket to the parcel. Then he threw the whole bundle into Gervais's arms, saying, Here, go and pop this. Don't you want me to go pop the children as well, are she? Yeah. If they lent on children, it would be prudent. She went to the pawn place, however, when she returned at the end of half an hour she laid a hundred sous-pices on the mantel shelf and added the ticket to the others between the two candlesticks. That's what they gave me, said she. I wanted six francs, but I couldn't manage it. Oh, they'll never ruin themselves, and there's always such a crowd there. Laundier did not pick up the five franc piece directly. He would rather that she got the change so as to leave her some of it. But he decided to slip it into his waistcoat pocket when he noticed a small piece of ham wrapped up in paper and the remains of a loaf on the chest of drawers. I didn't dare go to the milk-womans because we owe her a week, explained Gervais, but I shall be back early. You can get some bread and some chops while I'm away, and then we'll have lunch. Bring also a bottle of wine. He did not say no. Their quarrel seemed to be forgotten. The young woman was completing her bundle of dirty clothes, but when she went to take Laundier's shirts and socks from the bottom of the trunk, he called to her to leave them alone. Leave my things to you here. I don't want them touched. What is it you don't want touched, she asked, rising up. I suppose you don't mean to put these filthy things on again, do you? They must be washed. The young woman's handsome face now so rigid that it seemed nothing could ever soften it. He angrily grabbed his things from her and threw them back into the trunk, saying, Just obey me for once, I tell you. I won't have them touched. But why, she asked, turning pale, a terrible suspicion crossing her mind, you don't need your shirts now, you're not going away. What can it matter to you if I take them? He hesitated for an instance, by the piercing glance she fixed upon him. Why, why, stammered he, because you go and tell everyone that you keep me, that you wash, and men, well, it worries me. There, attend your own business, and I'll attend to mine. Wash your women, don't work for dogs. She's supplicated, she protested, she had never complained, but he roughly closed the trunk and sat down upon it, saying, He could surely do as he liked with what belonged to him. Then, to escape from the inquiring look she leveled at him, he went and laid down on the bed again, saying that he was sleepy, and requested her not to make his headache with any more of her row. This time, indeed, he seemed to fall asleep. Gervais, for a while, remained undecided. She was tempted to kick the bundle of dirty clothes on one side and to sit down and soar. But Lantier's regular breathing ended by reassuring her. She took the ball of blue and the piece of soap remaining from her last washing, and, going up to the little ones who were quietly playing with some old corks in front of the window, she kissed them and said in a low voice, Be very good, don't make any noise. Puppas asleep. When she left the room, Claude's and Etienne's gentle laughter alone disturbed the great silence beneath the blackened ceiling. It was ten o'clock, a ray of sunshine entered by the half-open window. On the boulevard, Gervais turned to the left and followed the rue nerve de la goutte-d'or. As she passed Madame Faussonnier's shop, she slightly bowed her head. The wash house she was bound for was situated towards the middle of the street, at the part where the roadway commenced to ascend. The rounded, great contours of the three large zinc wash tanks studied with rivets rose above the flat-roofed building. Behind them was the drying room, a high second story closed in on all sides by narrow slatted lattices so that the air could circulate freely and through which laundry could be seen hanging on brass wires. The steam engine's smokestack exhaled puffs of white smoke to the right of the water tanks. Gervais was used to puddles and did not bother to tuck her skirts up before making her way through the doorway, which was cluttered with jars of bleaching water. She was already acquainted with the mistress of the wash house, a delicate little woman with red inflamed eyes who sat in a small glazed closet with account books in front of her, bars of soap on shelves, bowls of blue in glass bottles, and pounds of soda done up in packets. And as she passed, she asked for her beetle and her scouring brush, which she had left to be taken care of the last time she had done her washing there. Then after obtaining her number, she entered the wash house. It was an immense shed with large clear windows and a flat ceiling, showing the beams supported on cast-iron pillars. Pale rays of light passed through the hot steam, which remained suspended like a milky fog. Smoke rose from certain corners, spreading about and covering the recesses with a bluish veil. A heavy moisture hung around, impregnated with a soapy odour, a damp and sippid smell, continuous though at moments overpowered by the more potent fumes of the chemicals. Along the washing places on either side of the central alley were rows of women with their arms and necks, and skirts tucked up, showing coloured stockings and heavy lace-up shoes. They were beating furiously, laughing, leaning back to court, a word in the midst of the din, or stooping over their tubs, all of them brutal, ungainly, foul of speech and soaked as though by a shower with their flesh red and reeking. All around the women continuously flowed a river from hot water buckets, emptied with a sudden splash, cold water faucets left dripping, soap suds spattering, and the dripping from rinsed laundry which was hung up. It splashed their feet and drained away across the sloping flagstones. The din of the shouting and the rhythmic beating was joined by the patter of steady dripping. It was slightly muffled by the moisture-soaked ceiling. Meanwhile the steam engine could be heard as it puffed and snorted ceaselessly while cloaked in its white mist. The dancing vibration of its flywheel seemed to regulate the volume of the noisy turbulence. Chavez passed slowly along the alley, looking to the right and left, carrying her laundry bundle under one arm, with one hip thrust high and limping more than usual. She was jostled by several women in the hubbub. This way, my dear, cried Madame Bosch in her loud voice. Then when the young woman had joined her at the very end on the left, the concierge who was furiously rubbing a dirty sock began to talk incessantly without leaving off her work. Put your things there. I've got your place. Oh, I shan't belong over what I've got. Bosch scarcely dirties his things at all, and you won't belong either, will you? Your bundle's quite a little one. Before twelve o'clock we shall have finished and we can go off to lunch. I used to send my things to a laundress in the Rue Poulay, but she destroyed everything with her chlorine and her brushes, so now I do the washing myself. It's so much saved. Today you should have put those shirts to soak. Those little rascals of children, oh, my word! One would think their bodies were covered with soot. Gervais, having undone her bundle, was spreading out the little one's shirts, and as Madame Bosch advised her to take a pailful of lye, she answered, Oh, no, warm water will do, I'm used to it. She had sorted her laundry with several colored pieces to one side, then after filling her tub with four pails of cold water from the tap behind her, she plunged her pile of whites into it. You're used to it, repeated Madame Bosch. You were a washerwoman in your native place, weren't you, my dear? Gervais, with her sleeves pushed back, displayed the graceful arms of a young blonde, as yet scarcely reddened at the elbows, and started scrubbing her laundry. She spread a shirt out on the narrow rubbing board and was water-bleached and eroded by years of use. She rubbed soap into the shirt, turned it over, and soaped the other side. Before replying to Madame Bosch she grasped her beetle and began to pound away so that her shouted phrases were punctuated with loud and rhythmic thumps. Yes, yes, a washerwoman, when I was ten, that's twelve years ago, we used to go to the river. It smelled nicer there than it does here. Ah, you should have seen. There was a nook under the trees with clear running water. You know, at Plaça. Don't you know Plaça? It's near Marseille. Oh, how you go at it, exclaimed Madame Bosch, amazed at the strength of her blows. Oh, you could flatten out a piece of iron with your little lady-like arms. The conversation continued in a very high volume. At times the concierge, not catching what she had said, was obliged to lean forward. All the linen was beaten and with a will. Gervais plunged into the tab again and then took it out once more, each article separately, to rub it over with soap a second time and brush it. With one hand she held the article firmly on the plank, with the other which grasped the short couch-gross brush she extracted from the linen a dirty lather which fell in long drips. Then in the slight noise of the brush the two women drew together and conversed in a more intimate way. No, we're not married, resumed Gervais. I don't hide it. Laudier he isn't so nice for anyone to care to be his wife. If it weren't for the children I was fourteen and he was eighteen when we had our first one. That happened in the usual way, you know how it is. I wasn't happy at home. Old man Macarver would kick me and he felt like it for no reason at all. I had to have some fun outside. We might have been married but I forget why our parents wouldn't consent. She shook her hands which were growing red in the white suds. The waters awfully hard in Paris. Madame Bosch was now washing only very slowly. She kept leaving off making her work last as long as she could so as to remain there to listen to that story which her curiosity hadn't been hankering to know for a fortnight past. Her mouth was half open in the midst of her big fat face. Her eyes, which were almost at the top of her head, were gleaming. She was thinking with the satisfaction of having guessed right. That's it. The little one gossips too much. There's been a row. Then she observed out loud. He isn't nice, then. Don't mention it, replied Gervais. He used to behave very well in the country but since we've been in Paris he's been unbearable. I must tell you that his mother died last year and left him some money about seventeen hundred francs. He would come to Paris so as old Macarre was forever knocking me about without warning I consented to come away with him. We made the journey with two children. He was to set me up as a launderess and work himself at his trade of a hatter. We should have been very happy but you see Laundier's ambition and Spenthrift, a fellow who only thinks of amusing himself, in short, he's not worth much. On arriving we went to the Hotel Montmartre in the Rue Montmartre and then there were dinners and cabs in the theatre, a watch for himself and a silk dress for me. For he's not unkind when he's got the money. He went in for everything and it's so well that at the end at two months we were cleaned out. It was then that we came to live at the Hotel Montmartre and that this horrible life began. She interrupted herself. A lump had suddenly risen in her throat and she could scarcely restrain her tears. She had finished brushing the things. I must go and fetch my hot water, she murmured. But Madame Bosch greatly disappointed at this break-off and the disclosures called to the Wash House boy who was passing, my little Charles, kindly get Madame a pail of hot water, she's in a hurry. End of second part of chapter one Recording by David Lazarus Section 3 of La Samoire This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David Lazarus La Samoire by Emile Zola translated by Ernest A. Visitelli Third part of chapter one The youth took the bucket and brought it back filled. Gervais paid him. It was a soothe a pailful. She poured the hot water into the tub and soaked the things a last time with her hands, leaning over them in a mass of steam, which deposited small beads of grey vapor in her light hair. Here, put some soda in it. I've got some by me," said the concierge obligingly. And she emptied into Gervais's tub what remained of a bag of soda which she had brought with her. She also offered her some of the chemical water, but the young woman declined it. It was only good for grease and wine stains. I think he's rather a loose fellow, resumed Madame Bosch, returning to lingerie but without naming him. Gervais bent almost double. Her hands all shriveled and thrust in amongst the clothes merely tossed her head. Yes, yes," continued the other. I have noticed several little things. But she suddenly interrupted herself as Gervais jumped up with a pale face and staring wildly at her. Then she exclaimed, Oh, no, no, I don't think anything. He likes to laugh a bit, I think that's all. For instance, you know the two girls who lodge at my place, Adele and Virginie. Well, he larks about with them, but he just flirts for sport. The young woman standing before her, her face covered with perspiration, the water dripping from her arms continued to stare at her with a fixed and penetrating look. The cosy edge got excited, giving herself a blow on the chest and pledging her word of honour, she cried, I know nothing, I mean it when I say so. Then, calming herself, she added in her gentle voice as if speaking to a person on whom loud protestations would have no effect. I think he has a frank look about the eyes. He'll marry you, my dear, I'm sure of it. Gervais wiped her forehead with a wet hand, shaking her head again. She pulled another garment out of the water, both of them kept silent for a moment. The wash-house was quieting down, for or eleven o'clock had struck. Half of the washer-women were perched on the edge of their tubs, eating sausages between slices of bread and drinking from open bottles of wine. Only housewives who had come to launder small bundles of family linen were hurrying to finish. Occasional beatle-blows could still be heard amid the chewed laughter and gossip half choked by the greedy chewing of jaw-bones. The steam engine never stopped. Its vibrant snorting voice seemed to fill the entire hall, though not one of the women even heard it. It was like the breathing of the wash-house, its hot breath collecting under the ceiling rafters in an eternal floating mist. The heat was becoming intolerable. Through the tall windows on the left, sunlight was streaming in, touching the steamy vapors with opalescent tints of soft pinks and grayish blues. Chars went from window to window letting down the heavy canvas awnings, then he crossed to the shady side to open the ventilators. He was applauded by cries and hand-claping and a rough sort of gaiety spread around. Soon even the last of the beatle pounding stopped. With full mouths the washer-women could only make gestures. It became so quiet that the grating sound of the fireman shoveling coal into the engine's firebox could be heard at regular intervals from far at the other end. Gervais was washing her colored things in the hot water thick with lather, which she had kept for that purpose. When she finished she drew a trestle towards her and hung across it all the different articles, the drippings from which made bluish puddles on the floor and she commenced rinsing. Behind her the cold water tap was set running into a vast tub fixed on the ground and across which were two wooden bars whereon to lay the clothes. High up in the air were two other bars for the things to finish dripping on. We're almost finished and not a bad job, said Madame Bosch. I'll wait and help you ring all that. Oh, it's not worthwhile. I much obliged, though, replied the young woman who was kneading with her hands and sowsing the colored things in some clean water. If I had any sheets it would be another thing. But she had, however, to accept the concierge's assistance. They were ringing between them one at each end a woollen skirt of a washed-out chestnut color from which dripped a yellowish water when Madame Bosch exclaimed, Oh, why, this tall versionee! Why is she coming at a washed when all her wardrobe is an honor would go into a pocket-hanker-chief? Gervais joked her head up. Virginie was a girl of her own age, taller than she was, dark and pretty in spite of her face being rather long and narrow. She had on an old black dress with flounces and a red ribbon round her neck, and her hair was done up carefully, the chignon being enclosed in a blue silk net. She stood an instant in the middle of the central alley screwing up her eyes as though seeking someone. Then when she caught sight of Gervais, she passed close to her erect insolent and with her swinging-gate and took a place in the same row five tubs away from her. Oh, there's a freak for you, continued Madame Bosch in a lower tone of voice. She never does any laundry, not even a pair of cuffs. A seamstress who doesn't even sew on a loose button. She's just like her sister, the brass burnisher, the hussy Adele, who stays away from her job when she's out of three. Nobody knows who their folks are or how they make a living, though if I wanted to talk, what on earth is she scrubbing there? A filthy petticoat. Her wager had seen some lovely sights, that petticoat. Madame Bosch was evidently trying to make herself agreeable to Gervais. The truth was, she often took a cup of coffee with Adele and Virginie when the girls had any money. Gervais did not bother, but hurried over her work with feverish hands. She had just prepared her blue and a little tub that stood on three legs. She dipped in the linen things and shook them an instant at the bottom of the colored water, the reflection of which had a pinky tinge, and after ringing them lightly, she spread them out on the wooden bars up above. During the time she was occupied with this work, she made a point of turning her back on Virginie, but she heard her side-long glances. Virginie appeared only to have come there to provoke her. At one moment Gervais, having turned around, they both stared into each other's faces. I'll leave her alone, whispered Madame Bosch. You're not going to pull each other's hair out, I hope. When I tell you there's nothing to it, it isn't her, Renia. At this moment, as the young woman was hanging up the last article of clothing, there was a laughter at the door of the wash-house. Here are two brats who want their mamas, cried Charles. All the women lent forward. Gervais recognized Claude and Etienne. As soon as they caught sight of her, they ran to her through the puddles, the heels of their unlaced shoes resounding on the flagstones. Claude the eldest held his little brother by the hand. The women, as they passed the muttered little exclamations of affection as they noticed their frightened little smiling faces, and they stood there in front of their mother without leaving go of each other's hands and holding their fair heads erect. That's Papa sent you, asked Gervais. But as she stooped to tie the laces of Etienne's shoes, she saw the key of their room on one of Claude's fingers with a brass number hanging from it. Why, you've brought the key, she said, greatly surprised. Well, what's that for? The child seeing the key which he had forgotten his finger appeared to recollect and exclaimed in his clear voice, Papa's gone away. Well, he's gone to buy the lunch and told you to come here to fetch me. Claude looked at his brother, hesitated no longer recollecting, then he resumed all in a breath. Papa's gone away, he jumped off the bed, he put all his things in the trunk, he carried the trunk down to a cab. He's gone away. Gervais, who was squatting down, slowly posed to her feet, her face ghastly pale. She put her hands to her cheeks and temples as though she felt her head was breaking and she could find only these words which she kept repeating twenty times in the same tone of voice. Oh, good heavens! Oh, good heavens! Oh, good heavens! Madame Bosch, however, also questioned the child, quite delighted at the chance of hearing the whole story. Now, come, little one, you must tell us what happened. It was he who locked the door and who told you to bring the key, wasn't it? And lowering her voice, she whispered in Claude's ear, was there a lady in the cab? The child again got confused, then he recommenced his story in a triumphant manner. He jumped off the bed, he put all his things in the trunk, he's gone away. Then, when Madame Bosch let him go, he drew his brother in front turning on the water. Gervais was unable to cry. She was choking, leaning back against her tub, her face still buried in her hands. Brief shudders rocked her body and she wailed out long sighs while pressing her hands tighter against her eyes as though abandoning herself to the blackness of desolation, a dark, deep pit into which she seemed to be falling. Ah, come, my dear! Pull yourself together! Mum had Madame Bosch. If only you knew, if only you knew, said she at length very faintly, he sent me this morning to pawn my shawl and my chemise to pay for that cab. And she burst out crying, the memory of the events of that morning and of her trip to the porn place tore from her the sobs that had been choking her throat. The abominable trip to the porn place was the thing that hurt most in all her sorrow and despair. Tears were streaming down her face, but she didn't think of using her handkerchief. Now, don't be reasonable. Do be quiet. Everyone's looking at you. Madame Bosch, who hovered around her, kept repeating, How can you worry yourself so much on account of a man? You loved him, then, all the same, did you, my poor darling? A little while ago you were saying all sorts of things against him, and now you're crying for him Oh, deep me how silly we all are. Then she became quite maternal. A pretty little woman like you, can it be possible? One may tell you everything now, I suppose. Well, you recollect when I passed under your window I already had my suspicions. Just fancy last night when Del came home I heard a man's footsteps with her. So I thought I'd see who it was. I looked up the staircase, the fella was already on the second landing, but I certainly recognized Monsieur Lantier's overcoat. Bosch, who was on the watch this morning, saw him tranquilly nod adieu. He was with a dell. You know, Virginie has a situation now where she goes twice a week. Only it's highly imprudent all the same, for they've only one room and an alcove, and I can't very well say where Virginie managed to sleep. She interrupted herself an instant turned around and then resumed subduing her loud voice. She's laughing at you seeing you cry, the heartless thing over there. I'd state my life that her washings all are pretence. She's packed off the other two, and she's come here so as to tell them how you take it. Gervais removed her hands from her face and looked. When she beheld Virginie in front of her, a miss three or four women speaking low and staring at her, she was seized with a mad rage. Her arms in front of her, searching the ground, she stumbled forward a few paces, trembling all over. She found a bucket full of water, grabbed it with both hands, and emptied it at Virginie. That a virage, yelled tall Virginie. She had stepped back, and her boots alone got wet. The other women who, for some minutes past, had all been greatly upset by Gervais's jostled each other in their anxiety to see the fight. Some who were finishing their lunch got on top of their tubs, others hastened forward, their hands smothered with soap. A ring was formed. Da, da, virage, oh, repeated tall Virginie. What's the matter with her? She's mad. Gervais standing on the defensive, her chin thrust out, her features convulsed said nothing, not having yet acquired the Paris gift of street gab. The other continued, Get out. This girl's tired of wallowing about in the country. She wasn't 12 years old when the soldiers were at her. She even lost her legs serving her country. That leg's rotting off. The lookers on burst out laughing, Virginie seeing her success advanced a couple of steps, drawing herself up to her full height and yelling louder than ever. Here come a bit nearer, just to see how I'll settle you. Don't you come annoying us here. Do I even know her, the Hussie? Da, she wetted me. I'd have pretty soon shown her battle as you'd have seen. Let her just say what I've ever done to her. Speak you, Vixen. What's been done to you? Don't talk so much, Stammer Gervais. You know well enough. Someone saw my husband last night and, and shut up, because if you don't almost certainly let her hangle you. Oh, her husband, Da, that's a good one. As if cripples like her had husbands. If he left you, it's not my fault. Surely you don't think I've stolen him, do you? He was much too good for you and you made him sick. Did you keep him on a leash? Has anyone here seen her husband? There's a reward. The laughter burst forth again. Gervais contented herself with continually murmuring in a low tone of voice. You know well enough. You know well enough. It's your sister. I'll strangle her, your sister. Oh, yes. Go and try it on with my sister. Resume Virginie sneeringly. Ah, it's my sister. That's very likely. My sister looks a trifle different to you, but what's that to me? Can't one come and wash one's clothes in peace now? Ah, just dry up. Do you hear? Because I've had enough of it. But it was she who returned to the attack after giving five or six strokes with her beetle. Intoxicated by the insult she had been giving utterance to and worked up into a passion, she left off and recommended, again speaking in this way three times. Well, yes, it's my sister. There now does that satisfy you? They adore each other. You should just give them bill and coup. And he's left you with your children, those pretty kids with scabs all over their faces. You got one of them from a gendarm, didn't you? And you let three others die because you didn't want to pay excess baggage on your journey. It's your laundier who told us that. Ah, he's been telling some fine things. He's had enough of you. End of third part of chapter one. Recording by David Lazarus. Section four of La Samoa. 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 David Lazarus. La Samoa by Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest Avisatelli. Fourth part of chapter one. But it was she who returned to the attack after giving five or six strokes with her beetle intoxicated by the insult she had given utterance to and worked up into a passion she left off and recommended again, speaking in this way three times. Well, yes. It's my sister. There now does that satisfy you? Oh, they adore each other. You should see them bill and coo. And he's left you with your children. Those pretty kids with scabs all over their faces. You got one of them from a gendarm, didn't you? And you let three others die because you didn't want to pay excess baggage on your journey. It's your laundier who told us that. Ah, he's been telling some fine things. He'd had enough of you. You dirty jade, you dirty jade, you dirty jade. Yelge of A's besides herself and again seized with a furious trembling she turned around looking once more about the ground and only observing the little tub she seized hold of it by the legs and flung the whole of the bluing at Virginie's face. The beast, she spalled my dress, cried the latter, whose shoulder was sopping wet and whose left hand was dripping blue. Just wade you wedge. In her turn she seized a bucket and emptied it over Gervais. Then a formidable battle began. They both ran along the rows of tubs seized hold of the pales that were full and returned to dash the contents at each other's heads. And each deluge was accompanied by a volley of words. Gervais herself answered now, There you scum you got at that time. It'll help to cool you. Ah, the carrion. That's for your filth, wash yourself for once in your life. Yes, yes, I'll wash the salt out of you, you cod. Another one, brush your teeth, fix yourself up for the post tonight at the corner of Rue Bellom. They ended by having to refill the buckets at the water taps, continuing to insult each other the while. The initial bucketfuls were so poorly aimed as to scarcely reach their targets. But they soon began to splash each other in earnest. Virginie was the first to receive a bucketful in the face. The water ran down, soaking her back and front. She was still staggering when another quarter from the side, hitting her left ear and drenching her chignon, which then came unwound into a limp, bedraggled string of hair. Gervais was first hit in the legs. One pale filled her shoes full of water and splashed up to her thighs. Two more wet her, even higher. Soon both of them were soaked from top to bottom, and it was impossible to count the hits. Their clothes were plastered to their bodies and they looked shrunken. Water was dripping everywhere, as from umbrellas in a rainstorm. They looked jolly funny, said the horse's voice of one of the women. Everyone in the wash house was highly focused. A good space was left to the combatants, as nobody cared to get splashed. Applauses and jokes circulated in the midst of the sloose-like noise of the buckets emptied in rapid succession. On the floor the puddles were running, one into another, and the two women were wading in them up to their ankles. Virginie, however, who had been meditating a treacherous move, suddenly seized hold of a pale of lie which one of her neighbors had left to it. The same cry arose from all. Everyone thought that Gervais were scolded, but only her left foot had been slightly touched and, exasperated by the pain she seized a bucket without troubling herself to fill it this time, and threw it with all her might at the legs of Virginie who fell to the ground. All the women spoke together. She's broken one of her limbs. Well, the other tried to cook her. She's right after all the blonde one if her man's been taken from her. Madame Borsche held up her arms to heaven, uttering all sorts of exclamations. She had prudently retreated out of the way between two tubs, and the children, Claude and Etienne, crying, choking, terrified, clung to her dress with the continuous cry of Mama, Mama, broken by their sobs. When she saw Virginie fall, she hastened forward and tried to pull Gervais away by her skirt, repeating the while. Now come now, go home, be reasonable. Oh, my word, it's quite upset me. Never was such a butchery scene before. But she had to draw back and seek refuge again between the two tubs with the children. Virginie had just flown at Gervais' throat. She squeezed around the neck, trying to strangle her. The latter freed herself with a violent jerk, and in her turn hung on to the other's hair, as those children had to pull her head off. The battle was silently resumed without a cry, without an insult. They did not seize each other around the body. They attacked each other's faces with open hands and clawing fingers, pinching, scratching whatever they caught, hold off. The tall dark girls, red ribbon, and blue silk hair net, were torn off. The body of her dress, giving away at the neck, displayed a large portion of her shoulder, whilst the blonde half of her sleeve gone from her loose white jacket, without her knowing how, had a rent in her underlenin which exposed to view the naked line of her waist. Shreds of stuff flew in all directions. It was from Gervais that the first blood was drawn, three long scratches from the mouth to the chin, and she sought to protect her eyes, shutting them at every grab the other made, for fear of having them torn out. No blood showed on Virginie yet. Gervais aimed at her ears, maddened at not being able to reach them. At length she succeeded in seizing hold of one of the earrings, an imitation pair in yellow glass, which she pulled out and slipped the ear, and the blood flowed. They're killing each other, separate them, the fixens exclaimed several voices. The other women had drawn nearer. They formed themselves into two camps. Some were cheering the combatants on, as others were circling and turning their heads away, saying it was making them sick. A large fight nearly broke out between the two camps, as the women called each other names, and brandished their fists threateningly. Three loud slaps rang out. Madame Bosch, meanwhile, was trying to discover the wash-house boy. Charles, Charles, where ever is he got to? And she found him in the front rank, looking on with his arms folded. He was a big fellow with an enormous neck. He was laughing and enjoying the sight of the skin which the two women displayed. The little blonde was as fat as a quail. It would be fun if her chemise burst open. Why, murmured he, blinking his eye, she's got a strawberry birthmark under her arm. What? You there? cried Madame Bosch as she caught sight of him. Just come and help us separate them. You can easily separate them, you can. No, thank you, not if I know it, said he coolly. To get my eye scratch-lock I did the other day, I suppose. I'm not here for that sort of thing. I have enough to do without that. Don't be afraid, little bleeding does him good, it'll soften him. The concierge then talked to fetching the police, but the mistress of the wash-house, the delicate young woman with the red inflamed eyes, would not allow her to do this. She kept saying, no, no, I won't. I'll compromise my establishment. The struggle on the ground continued. All on a sudden, Verginy raised herself up to her knees. She had just got hold of a beetle and held it on high. She had a rattle in her throat and an altered voice. She exclaimed, here's something that'll settle you. Get your dirty linen ready. Jovey's quickly thrust out her hand and also seized a beetle, and held it up like a club, and she had spoken a choking voice. Ah, you want to wash? Let me get hold of your skin that I may beat it into dishcloths. For a moment they remained there on their knees, menacing each other, their hair all over their faces, their breasts heaving, muddy, swelling with rage. They watched one another as they waited and took breath. Jovey's gave the first blow. Her beetle glided off Verginy's shoulder, and she had once threw herself on one with the latter's beetle which grazed her hip. Then, warming to their work, they struck at each other like washer-women beating clothes, roughly and in time. Whenever there was a hit the sound was deadened, so that one might have thought it a blow in a tub full of water. The other women around them no longer laughed. Several had gone off, saying they'd quite upset them. Those who remained stretched out their necks. Their eyes lighted up with a gleam of cruelty, admiring the pluck displayed. Madame Bosch had led Claud and Etienne away, and one could hear at the other end of the building the sound of their sobs mingled with the sonorous shocks of the two beetles. But Jovey suddenly yelled. Verginy had caught her a whack with all her might on her bare arm just above the elbow. A large red mark appeared. The flesh at once began to swell. Then she threw herself upon Verginy and everybody thought she was going to beat her to death. Half enough was cried on all sides. Her face bore such a terrible expression that no one dared approach her. Her strength seemed to have increased tenfold. She seized Verginy round the waist, bent her down, and pressed her face against the flagstones. Raising her beetle, she commenced beating as she used to beat a plaça on the banks of the Veyon, when her mistress washed the clothes of the garrison. The woods seemed to yield to the flesh with a damp sound at each time, but her red wheel marked the white skin. Oh! Oh! exclaimed the boy Charles, opening his eyes to their full extent and gloating over the sight. Laughter again burst forth from the lookers on, but soon the cry, enough, enough, recommenced. Jovey's heard not, neither did she tire. She examined her work, bent over it anxious not to leave a dry place. She wanted to see the whole of that skin beaten, covered with contusions. And she talked, seized with her ferocious gaiety, recalling a washerwoman's song. Bang, bang, Margot at her tub. Bang, bang, beating rubber dub. Bang, bang, tries to wash her heart. Bang, bang, black with grief to part. And then she resumed, that's for you, that's for your sister, that's for Launtier. When you next see them, you can give them that. Attention, I'm going to begin again. That's for Launtier, that's for your sister, that's for you. Bang, bang, Margot at her tub. Bang, bang, beating rubber dub. The others were obliged to drag Virginie away from her. The tall dark girl, her face bathed in tears and purple with shame, picked up her things and hastened away. She was vanquished. Jovey's slipped on the sleeve of her jacket again and farcened up her petticoats. Her arm pained her a good deal and she asked Madame Bosch to place her bundle on her shoulder. The concierge referred to the battle, spoke of her emotions and talked of examining the young woman's person just to see. You may perhaps have something broken. I heard a tremendous blow. But Jovey's wanted to go home. She made no reply to the pitying remarks and noisy ovation of the other women who surrounded her erect in their aprons. When she was laden, she gained the door where the children came to her. Two hours that makes Tussaud said the mistress of the wash house, already back at her post in the glazed closet. Why Tussaud? She no longer understood that she was asked to pay for her place there. Then she gave the Tussaud and, limping very much beneath the weight of the wet clothes on her shoulder, the water dripping off her, her elbow black and blue, her cheek covered with blood, she went off, dragging Claude and Etienne their arms, whilst they trotted along on either side of her, still trembling, and their faces besmeared with their tears. Once she was gone, the wash house resumed its roaring tumult. The washerwomen had eaten their bread and drunk their wine. Their faces were lit up, and their spirits enlivened by the fight between Jovey's and Virginie. The long lines of tubs were a stir again, with a fury of thrashing arms, of craggy profiles, of marionettes with bent backs and slumping shoulders, that twisted and jerked violently, as though on hinges. Conversation went on from one end to the other in loud voices. Laughter and coarse remarks crackled through the ceaseless gurgling of the water. Faucets were sputtering, buckets spilling, rivulets flowing underneath the rows of washboards. Throughout the huge shed, rising wisps of steam reflected a reddish tint pierced here and there by disks of sunlight, golden globes that had leaked through holes in the awnings. The air was stiflingly warm and odorous with soap. Suddenly the whore was filled with a white mist. The huge copper lid of a lie-water kettle was rising mechanically, along a notched shaft, and from the gaping copper hollow within its walls of brick came whirling clouds of vapor. Meanwhile at one side the drying machines were hard at work. Within their cast iron cylinders, bundles of laundry were being rung dry by the centrifugal force of the steam engine, which was still puffing, steaming, jolting the wash house with the ceaseless labor of its iron limbs. When Gervais turned into the entry of the Hotel Bancourt, her tears again mastered her. It was a dark narrow passage with a gutter for the dirty water running alongside the walls, and the stench which she again encountered there caused her to think of the fortnight she had passed in the place with Launtier, a fortnight of misery and quarrels, the recollection of which was now a bitter regret. It seemed to bring her abandonment home to her. Upstairs the room was bare, in spite of the sunshine which entered through the open window. The blaze of light, that kind of dancing golden dust, exposed the lamentable condition of the blackened ceiling and of the walls half denuded of paper all the more. The only thing left hanging in the room was a woman's small neckerchief twisted like a piece of string. The children's bedstead drawn into the middle of the apartment displayed the chest of drawers, the open drawers of which exposed their emptiness. Launtier had washed himself and had used up the last of the permatum, the two sews worth of permatum in a playing-card. The greasy water from his hands filled the basin and he had forgotten nothing. The corner which until then had been filled by the trunk seemed to jouvez an immense empty space. Even the little mirror which hung on the window fastening was gone. When she made this discovery she had her presentiment. She looked on the mantelpiece. Launtier had taken away the porn tickets. The pink bundle was no longer there between the two odd zinc candlesticks. She hung her laundry over the back of the chair and just stood there gazing around at the furniture. She was so dulled and bewildered that she could no longer cry. She had only one sue left. Then hearing Claude and Etienne laughing merrily by the window, their troubles already forgotten, she went to them around them, losing herself for a moment in contemplation of that long grey avenue where that very morning she had watched the awakening of the working population of the immense workshop of Paris. At this hour immense heat was rising from the pavement and from all the furnaces and the factories, setting lighter reflecting oven over the city and beyond the actoir walls. Out upon this very pavement into this furnace blast she had been tossed, alone with her little ones. As she glanced up and down the boulevard, she was seized with a dull dread that her life would be fixed there forever between a slaughterhouse and a hospital. End of chapter 1 Recording by David Lazarus Lebervox.org Recording by Anna Simon Three weeks later, towards half past eleven one beautiful sunshine day Chavez and Coupaud the zinc worker were each partaking of a plum preserved in brandy at La Samoire kept by Père Colombe. Coupaud, who had been smoking a cigarette on the pavement, had prevailed on her to go inside as she returned from taking home a customer's washing and her big square laundress's basket was on the floor beside her behind a little zinc-covered table. Père Colombe's La Samoire was at the corner of Rue de Poissonnier and boulevard de Rachourgarre. The sign in tall blue letters stretching from one end to the other said, distillery. Two dusty oleandres planted in half casques beside the doorway. A long bar with its tin measuring cups was on the left as she entered. The large room was decorated with casques painted a gay yellow, bright with varnish and gleaming with copper taps and hoops. On the shelves above the bar were liquor bottles, jars of fruit preserved in brandy and flasks of all shapes. They completely covered the wall and were reflected in the mirror behind the bar as colourful spots of apple green, pale gold and soft brown. The main feature of the establishment, however, was the distilling apparatus. It was at the rear, behind an oak railing in a glassed-in area. The customers could watch its functioning long-necked stillpots, copper worms disappearing on the ground, a devil's kitchen alluring to drink sudden workmen in search of pleasant dreams. La Samoire was nearly empty at the lunch hour. Père Colombe, a heavy man of 40, was serving a ten-year-old girl who had asked him to place four Sue-worth of brandy into her cup. A shaft of sunlight came through the entrance to warm the floor which was always damp from the smokers spitting. From everything, the casks, the bar, the entire room, a licorice odour arose, an alcoholic aroma which seemed to thicken and befuddle the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Coupeau was making another cigarette. He was very neat in a short blue linen blouse and cap, and was laughing and showing his white teeth. With a projecting underdraw and a slightly snubbed nose he had handsome chestnut eyes and the face of a jolly dog and a thorough good fellow. His coarse curly hairs to direct. His skin still preserved the softness of his 26 years. Opposite to him, Jervais, in a thin black woolen dress and bare-headed was finishing her plum which he held by the stalk between the tips of her fingers. They were close to the street at the first of the four tables placed alongside the barrels facing the bar. When his ink-worker had lit a cigarette he placed his elbows on the table, thrust his face forward and for an instant looked without speaking at the young woman whose pretty fair face had that day the milky transparency of China. Then, alluding to a matter known to themselves alone and already discussed between them he simply asked in a low voice, so it's to be no? You say no? Oh, most decidedly no, Monsieur Coupeau quietly replied Jervais with a smile. I hope you're not going to talk to me about that here. You know you promised me you would be reasonable. Had I known I wouldn't have let you treat me. Coupeau kept silence looking at her intently with a boldness. She sat still at ease and friendly at the end of a brief silence she added, You can't really mean it I'm an old woman I have a big boy eight years old whatever could we two do together? Why? murmured Coupeau, blinking his eyes What the others do, of course get married. She made a gesture of feeling annoyed Ah, do you think it's always pleasant? One can very well see you've never seen much of living. No, Monsieur Coupeau You must think of serious things burdening oneself never leads to anything, you know. I have two miles at home which are never tired of soloing, I can tell you. How do you suppose I can bring up my little ones if I only sit here talking indolently? And listen, besides that my misfortune has been a famous lesson to me. You know I don't care a bit about men now. They won't catch me again for a long while. She spoke with such cool objectivity that it was clear she'd resolved this in her mind, turning it about thoroughly. Coupeau was deeply moved and kept repeating I feel so sorry for you it causes me a great deal of pain. Yes, I know that, resumes she and I am sorry, Monsieur Coupeau but you mustn't take it too hard if I had any idea of enjoying myself mon Dieu I would certainly rather be with you than anyone else you're a good boy and gentle only where's the use as I've no inclination to a wed I've been for the last fortnight now at Madame Foucaigneuse the children go to school, I've work I'm contented, so the best is to remain as we are, isn't it? And she stood down to take her basket. You're making me talk they must be expecting me at the shop you'll easily find someone else prettier than I, Monsieur Coupeau and who won't have two boys to drag about with her. He looked at the clock inserted in the framework of the mirror and made her sit down again, exclaiming don't be in such a hurry it's only eleven thirty-five I've still twenty-five minutes you don't have to be afraid that I shall do anything foolish there's the table between us so you detest me so much that you won't stay and have a little chat with me she put her basket down again so as not to disoblige him and they conversed like good friends she'd eaten her lunch before going out with the laundry she'd made soup and beef hurriedly to be able to wait for her all the while she chatted amiably Gervais kept looking out the window at the activity on the street it was now unusually crowded with the lunchtime rush everywhere were hurried steps swinging arms and pushing elbows some late comers, hungry and angry had been kept extra long at the job rushed across the street into the bakery they emerged with a loaf of bread and went three doors farther to the coffee to gobble down a six-sew meat dish next door to the bakery was a grocer who sold fried potatoes and mussels cooked with parsley a procession of girls went in to get hot potatoes wrapped in paper and cups of steaming mussels other pretty girls bought bunches of radishes by leaning a bit Gervais could see into the sausage shop from which children issued holding a fried chop, a sausage or a piece of hot blood pudding wrapped in greasy paper the street was always slick with black mud even in clear weather a few labourers had already finished their lunch and were strolling aimlessly about their open hands slapping their thighs heavy from eating slow and peaceful amid the hurrying crowd a group formed in front of the door of La Samoire Say, Bibi the Smoker demanded a whore's voice aren't you going to buy us a round of vitial? five labourers came in and stood by the bar ah, here's that thief Père Colombe, the voice continued we want the real old stuff, you know and full-sized glasses too Père Colombe served them as three more labourers entered more blue smocks gathered on the street corner and some pushed their way into the establishment you're foolish you only think of the present Gervais was saying to Coupeau sure I loved him but after the disgusting way in which he left me they were talking of Lanche Gervais had not seen him again she thought he was living with Virginie's sister at La Glacère in the house of that friend who was going to start a head factory she had no thought of running after him she had been so distressed at first that she had thought of drowning herself in the river but now that she had thought about it everything seemed to be for the best Lanche went through money so fast that she probably never could have raised her children properly huh, she'd let him see his children all right if he bothered to come round but as far as she was concerned she didn't want him to touch her not even with his fingertips she told all this to Coupeau just as if her plan of life was well settled meanwhile Coupeau never forgot his desire to possess her he made a jest of everything she said turning it into ribaldry and asking some very direct questions about Lanche she succeeded so gaily and with such a smile that she never thought of being offended so, you're the one who beat him said he at length oh, you're not kind you just go around whipping people she interrupted him with a hearty laugh it was true though she had whipped Virginie's tall carcass she would have delighted in strangling someone on that day she laughed louder than ever when Coupeau told her that Virginie so much cowardice had left the neighbourhood her face however preserved an expression of childish gentleness as she put out her plumb hands insisting she wouldn't even harm a fly she began to tell Coupeau about her childhood at Plaçant she had never cared over much for men they had always bored her she was fourteen when she got involved with Lanche she had thought it was nice because he said he was her husband and she had enjoyed playing a housewife she was too soft-hearted and too weak she always got passionately fond of people who caused her trouble later when she loved a man she wasn't thinking of having fun in the present she was dreaming about being happy and living together forever and as Coupeau with the chuckle spoke of her two children saying they hadn't come from under a bolster she slapped his fingers she added that she was no doubt made on the model of other women women thought of their home and went to bed too tired at night not to go to sleep at once besides, she resembled her mother a stout labouring woman who died at her work and who had served as beast of burden to Old Macarre for more than twenty years her mother's shoulders had been heavy enough to smash through dolls but that didn't prevent her from being soft-hearted and madly attracted to people and if she limped a little she no doubt owed that to the poor woman whom Old Macarre used to be labour with blows her mother had told her about the times when Macarre came home drunk and brutally bruised her she had probably been born with a lame leg as a result of one of those times oh, it's scarcely anything it's hardly perceptible said Coupeau gallantly she shook her head she knew well enough that it could be seen at forty she would look broken in two then she added gently with a slight laugh it's a funny fancy of yours to fall in love with a cripple with his elbows still on the table he thrust his face closer to hers and began complimenting her in rather dubious language as though to intoxicate her with his words but she kept shaking her head new and didn't allow herself to be tempted although she was flooded by the tone of his voice while listening she kept looking out the window seeming to be fascinated by the interesting crowd of people passing the shops were now almost empty the grocer removed his last pan full of fried potatoes from the stove the sausage man arranged the dishes scattered on his counter great bearded workmen were as playful as young boys clumping along in their hop-nailed boots other workmen were smoking staring up into the sky and blinking their eyes factory bells began to ring in the distance but the workers in no hurry relid their pipes in one shop after another they finally decided to return to their jobs but were still dragging their feet Gervais amused herself by watching three workmen a tall fellow and two short ones who turned to look back every few yards they ended by descending the street and came straight to Père Colombe's La Samoire ah well, Mermetchi there's three fellows who don't seem inclined for work why, said Coupeau I know the tall one my boots, a comrade of mine Père Colombe's La Samoire was now full you had to shout to be heard fists often pounded on the bar causing the glasses to clink everyone was standing hands crossed over belly or held behind back the drinking groups crowded close to one another some groups, by the casques had to wait a quarter of an hour before being able to order their drinks of Père Colombe hello it's that aristocrat hisses cried my boots bringing his hand down roughly on Coupeau's shoulder a fine gentleman who smokes paper and wears shirts so we want to do the grand with our sweetheart we stand her little treats shut up don't bother me replied Coupeau greatly annoyed but the other added with a chuckle right you are we know what's what my boy muffs are muffs, that's all he turned his back after leering terribly as he looked at Gervais the letter drew back feeling rather frightened the smoke from the pipes the strong odor of all those men ascended in the air already foul with the fumes of alcohol and she felt a choking sensation in her throat and cuffed slightly what a horrible thing it is to drink such she in a low voice and she related that formally at Plaçance she used to drink anisette with her mother but on one occasion it nearly killed her and that disgusted her with it now she could never touch any liquors you see added she pointing to her glass I've eaten my plum only I must leave the juice because it would make me ill for himself Coupeau couldn't understand how anyone could drink glass after glass of cheap brandy a brandy plum occasionally could not hurt but as for cheap brandy absent and the other strong stuff no, not for him no matter how much his comrades teased him about it he stayed out on the sidewalk when his friends went into low establishments Coupeau's father had smashed his head open one day when he fell from the eaves of number 25 on Rue Coquenaire he was drunk this memory kept Coupeau's entire family from the drink every time Coupeau passed that spot he thought he would rather lick up water from the gutter and accept a free drink in a bar he would always say in our trade you have to have steady legs End of first part of chapter 2