 Section 35 of La Samoie. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. La Samoie by Emile Zola, translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Chapter 8. You certainly would not be in our way, as your raise ended by saying. We could so arrange things. No, no, thanks, repeated the Hatter. You're too kind, it would be asking too much. Kupo could no longer restrain himself. Was he going to continue making objections when they told him it was freely offered? He would be obliging them. There, did he understand? Then an excited tone of voice, he yelled, a chien, a chien. The young strid fallen asleep on the table. He raised his head with a start. Listen, tell him that you wish it. Yes, that gentleman there. Tell him as loud as you can. I wish it. I wish it. Stuttered a chien. His voice thick with sleep. Everyone laughed. But Lancia resumed his grave and impressive air. He squeezed Kupo's hand across the table, as he said, I accept. It's all in good fellowship on both sides, is it not? Yes, I accept for the child's sake. The next day when the landlord, Monsieur Machesco, came to spend an hour with the bosses, Chavez mentioned the matter to him. He refused angrily at first. Then after a careful inspection of the premises, particularly gazing upward to verify that the upper floors would not be weakened, he finally granted permission. On condition there would be no expense to him. He had the Kupo sign of paper saying they would restore everything to its original state on the expiration of the lease. Kupo brought in some friends of his that very evening, a mason, a carpenter and a painter. They would do this job in the evenings as a favour to him. Still, installing the door and cleaning up the room cost over one hundred francs, not counting the wine that kept the work going. Kupo told his friends he'd pay them something later, out of the rent from his tenant. Then the furniture for the room had to be sorted out. Chavez left Mother Kupo's wardrobe where it was, and added a table and two chairs taken from her own room. She had to buy a washing stand and a bed with mattress and bed clothes, costing one hundred and thirty francs, which she was to pay off at ten francs a month. Although Lancia's twenty francs would be used to pay off these debts for ten months, there would be a nice little profit later. It was during the early days of June that the Hatter moved in. The day before, Kupo had offered to go with him and fetch his box to save him the thirty sous for a cab. But the other became quite embarrassed, saying that the box was too heavy, as though he wished up to the last moment to hide the place where he lodged. He arrived in the afternoon towards three o'clock. Kupo did not happen to be in, and Chavez, standing at the shop door, became quite pale on recognising the box outside the cab. It was their old box, the one with which they had journeyed from Placence, all scratched and broken now and held together by cords. She saw it return as she had often dreamt it would, and it needed no great stretch of imagination to believe that the same cab, that cab in which that strumpet of a burnisher had played her such a foul trick, had brought the box back again. Meanwhile, Bush was giving Lancia a helping hand. The laundress followed them in silence and feeling rather dazed. When they had deposited their burden in the middle of the room, she said for the sake of saying something. Well, that's a good thing finished, isn't it? Then pulling herself together, seeing that Lancia, busy and undoing the cords, was not even looking at her, she added, Monsieur Bush, you must have a drink. And she went and fetched a quart of wine and some glasses. Just then Poisson passed along the pavement in uniform. She signalled to him, winking her eye and smiling. The policeman understood perfectly. When he was on duty and anyone winked their eye to him, it meant a glass of wine. He would even walk for hours up and down before the laundry waiting for a wink. Then so as not to be seen, he would pass through the courtyard and toss off the liquor in secret. Ah, ah, said Lancia when he saw him enter. It's you, Badang. He called him Badang for a joke, just to show how little he cared for the emperor. Poisson put up with it in his stiff way, without one knowing whether it really annoyed him or not. Besides, the two men, though, separated by their political convictions, had become very good friends. You know that the emperor was once a policeman in London, said Bush in his turn. Yes, on my word, he used to take the drunken women to the station house. Chavez had filled three glasses on the table. She would not drink herself. She felt too sick at heart, but she stood there longing to see what the box contained and watching Lancia remove the last cords. Before raising the lid, Lancia took his glass and clinked it with the others. Good health! Same to you, replied Bush and Poisson. The laundress filled the glasses again. The three men wiped their lips on the backs of their hands, and at last the hatter opened the box. It was full of a jumble of newspapers, books, old clothes, and underlinning bundles. He took out, successively, a saucepan, a pair of boots, a bust of Le Trurollin with the nose broken, an embroidered shirt, and a pair of working trousers. Chavez could smell the odour of tobacco, and that of a man whose linen wasn't too clean, one who took care only of the outside of what people could see. The old hat was no longer in the left corner. There was a pin cushion she did not recognise, doubtless of present from some woman. She became calmer, but felt a vague sadness as she continued to watch the objects that appeared, wondering if they were from her time or from the time of others. I say, Badanque, do you know this? Resumed Lancia. He thrust under his nose a little book printed at Brussels. The amours of Napoleon III illustrated with engravings. It related, among other anecdotes, how the emperor had seduced a girl of 13, the daughter of a cook, and the picture represented Napoleon III bare-legged and also wearing the grand ribbon of the Legion of Honor, assuing a little girl who was trying to escape his lust. Ah, that's it exactly! exclaimed Bosch, whose slyly ridiculous instincts felt flattered by the sight. It always happens like that. Poisson was seized with consternation, and he could not find a word to say in the emperor's defence. It was in a book, so he could not deny it. Then Lancia, continuing to push the picture under his nose in a jeering way, he extended his arms and exclaimed, Well, so what? Lancia didn't reply. He busied himself, arranging his books and newspapers on a shelf in the wardrobe. He seemed upset not to have a small bookshelf over his table, so Gervais promised to get him one. He had the history of ten years by Louis Blanc, except for the first volume, La Martinse de Girondin in installments, The Mysteries of Paris, and The Wandering Jew by Eugène Su, and a quantity of book clits on philosophic and humanitarian subjects picked up from used book dealers. His newspapers were his prized possessions, a collection made over a number of years. Whenever he read an article in a cafe that seemed to him to agree with his own ideas, he would buy that newspaper and keep it. He had an enormous bundle of them, papers of every date and every title, piled up in no discernable order. He patted them and said to the other two, You see that? No one else can boast of having anything to match it. You can't imagine all that's in there. I mean, if they put into practice only half the ideas, it would clean up the social order overnight. That would be good medicine for your emperor and all his stool pigeons. The policeman's red mustache and beard began to bristle on his pale face, and he interrupted. And the army tell me, what are you going to do about that? Lantier flew into a passion. He banged his fists down on the newspapers as he yelled. I require the suppression of militarism, the fraternity of peoples. I require the abolition of privileges of titles and of monopolies. I require the equality of salaries, the division of benefits, the glorification of the protectorate, all liberties to hear, all of them, and divorce. Yes, yes, divorce for morality, insisted Bosch. Poisson had assumed a majestic heir. Yet if I won't have your liberties, I'm free to refuse them, he answered. Lantier was choking with passion. If you don't want them, he replied. No, you're not free at all. If you don't want them, I'll send you off to Devil's Island. Yes, Devil's Island with your emperor and all the rats of his crew. They always quarrelled us every time they met. Chauvet, who did not like arguments, usually interfered. She roused herself from the torpor into which the sight of the box full of the stale perfume of her past love had plunged her, and she drew the three men's attention to the glasses. Ah, yes, said Lantier, becoming suddenly calm and taking his glass. Good health! Good health! replied Bosch and Poisson, clinking glasses with him. Bosch, however, was moving nervously about, troubled by an anxiety as he looked at the policeman out of the corner of his eye. All this between ourselves, say, Monsieur Poisson, murmured he at length. We say and show you the things to show off. But Poisson did not let him finish. He placed his hand upon his heart, as though to explain, that all remained buried there. He certainly did not go spying about on his friends. Coupeau arriving, they emptied a second court. Then the policeman went off by way of the courtyard and resumed his stiff and measured tread along the pavement. At the beginning of the new arrangement, the entire routine of the establishment was considerably upset. Lantier had his own separate room, with his own entrance and his own key. However, since they had decided not to close off the door between the rooms, he usually came and went through the shop. Besides, the dirty clothes were an inconvenience to Chauvet, because her husband never made the case he had promised, and she had to tuck the dirty laundry into any odd corner she could find. They usually ended up under the bed, and this was not very pleasant on warm summer nights. She also found it a nuisance having to make up Etienne's bed every evening in the shop. When her employees worked late, the lad had to sleep in a chair until they finished. Cougier had mentioned sending Etienne to Lille, where a machinist in you was looking for apprentices. As the boy was unhappy at home, and eager to be out on his own, Chauvet seriously considered the proposal. Her only fear was that Lantier would refuse. Since he had come to live with them solely to be near his son, surely he wouldn't want to lose him only two weeks after he moved in. However, he approved wholeheartedly when she timidly broached the matter to him. He said that young men needed to see a bit of the country. The morning that Etienne left, Lantier made a speech to him, kissed him, and ended by saying, never forget that a working man is not a slave, and that whoever is not a working man is a lazy drone. The household was now able to get into the new routine. Chauvet became accustomed to having dirty laundry lying all around. Lantier was forever talking of important business deals. Sometimes he went out wearing fresh linen and neatly combed. He would stay out all night, and on his return, pretend that he was completely exhausted because he'd been discussing very serious matters. Actually, he was merely taking life easy. He usually slept until 10. In the afternoons, he would take a walk if the weather was nice. If it was raining, he would sit in the shop reading his newspaper. This atmosphere suited him. He always felt at his ease with women and enjoyed listening to them. Lantier first took his meals at François on the corner of the Rue des Poissonniers. But of the seven days in the week, he dined with the coupos on three or four, so much so as he ended by offering to board with them and to pay them 15 francs every Saturday. From that time, he scarcely ever left the house, but made himself completely at home there. Morning to night, he was in the shop, even giving orders and attending to customers. Lantier didn't like the wine from François, so he persuaded Chávez to buy her wine from Vigourau, the coal dealer. Then he decided that Coup de Louvre's bread was not baked to his satisfaction, so he sent Augustine to the Viennese bakery on the François Poissonnier for their bread. He changed from the grocer Le Angre that kept the butcher, Fat Chowl, because of his political opinions. After a month, he wanted all the cooking done with olive oil. Clémence joked that with the Provençal, like him you could never wash out the oil stains. He wanted his omelettes fried on both sides as hard as pancakes. He supervised Mother Coupre's cooking, wanting his steaks cooked like shoe leather and with garlic on everything. He got angry if she put herbs in the salad. They're just weeds and some of them might be poisonous, he declared. His favourite soup was made with overboiled vermicelli. He would pour in half a bottle of olive oil. Only he and Gervais could eat this soup, the others being too used to Parisian cooking. Little by little, Lantier also came to mixing himself up in the affairs of the family. As the lorriers always grumbled at having to part with the five francs for Mother Coupre, he explained that an action could be brought against them. They must think that they had the set of fools to deal with. It was 10 francs a month which they ought to give, and he would go up himself for the 10 francs, so boldly and yet so amably, that the chain-maker never dared refuse them. Madame Lera also gave two five franc pieces now. Mother Coupre could have kissed Lantier's hands. He was moreover the grand arbiter in all the quarrels between the old woman and Gervais. Whenever the laundress, in a moment of impatience, behaved roughly to her mother-in-law, and the latter went and cried on her bed, he hustled them about and made them kiss each other, asking them if they thought themselves amusing with their bad tempers. End of second part of chapter 8 Section 36 of La Samoire This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Martin Giesen La Samoire by Emile Zola, translated by Ernest A. Visitelli Third part of chapter 8 And Nanna too, she was being brought up badly, according to his idea. In that he was right, for whenever the father spanked the child, the mother took her part, and if the mother in her turn boxed her ears, the father made a disturbance. Nanna delighted at seeing her parents abuse each other, and knowing that she was forgiven beforehand was up to all kinds of tricks. Her latest mania was to go and play in the blacksmith shop opposite. She would pass the entire day swinging on the shafts of the carts. She would hide with bands of urchins in the remotest corners of the grey courtyard, lighted up with the red glare of the forge, and suddenly she would reappear, running and shouting, unkempt and dirty and followed by the troop of urchins, as though a sudden clash of the hammers had frightened the ragamuffins away. Lantier alone could scold her, and yet she knew perfectly well how to get over him. This tricky little girl of ten would walk before him like a lady, swinging herself about, and casting side glances at him, her eyes already full of vice. He had ended by undertaking her education. He taught her to dance and to talk patois. A year passed, thus. In the neighbourhood it was thought that Lantier had a private income, for this was the only way to account for the cupo's grand style of living. No doubt Chávez continued to earn money, but now that she had to support two men in doing nothing, the shop certainly could not suffice. More especially as the shop no longer had so good a reputation, customers were leaving, and the work women were tippling from morning till night. The truth was that Lantier paid nothing, neither for rent nor board. During the first months he had paid sums on account. Then he had contented himself with speaking of a large amount he was going to receive, with which later on he would pay off everything in a lump sum. Chávez no longer dared ask him for his centime. She had the bread, the wine, the meat, all on credit. The bills increased everywhere at the rate of three and four francs a day. She had not paid a suit of the furniture dealer, nor to the three comrades, the mason, the carpenter, and the painter. All these people commenced to grumble, and she was no longer greeted with the same politeness at the shops. She was as though intoxicated by a mania for getting into debt. She tried to drown her thoughts, ordered the most expensive things, and gave full freedom to her gluttony now that she no longer paid for anything. She remained with all very honest at heart, dreaming of earning from morning to night hundreds of francs, though she did not exactly know how, to enable her to distribute handfuls of five franc pieces to her tradespeople. In short, she was sinking, and as she sank lower and lower, she talked of extending her business. Instead, she went deeper into debt. Clémence left around the middle of the summer, because there was no longer enough work for two women, and she had not been paid in several weeks. During this impending ruin, Coupeau and Lentier were in effect devouring the shop and growing fat on the ruin of the establishment. At table, they would challenge each other to take more helpings, and slap their rounded stomachs to make more room for dessert. The great subject of conversation in the neighbourhood was as to whether Lentier had really gone back to his old footing with Chauvet. On this point, opinions were divided. According to the laurier, Clampe was doing everything she could to hook Lentier again, but he would no longer have anything to do with her, because she was getting old and faded, and he had plenty of younger girls that were prettier. On the other hand, according to the bosses, Chauvet had gone back to her former mate the very first night, just as soon as poor Coupeau had gone to sleep. The picture was not pretty, but there were a lot of worse things in life, so folks ended by accepting the three summers altogether natural. In fact, they thought them rather nice, since there were never any fights, and the outward decencies remained. Certainly, if you stuck your nose into some of the other neighbourhood households, you could smell far worse things. So watch if they slept together like a nice little family. It never kept the neighbours awake. Besides, everyone was still very much impressed by Lentier's good manners. His charm helped greatly to keep tongues from wagging. Indeed, when the fruit dealer insisted to the tripe seller that there had been no intimacies, the latter appeared to feel that this was really too bad, because it made the Coupeau's less interesting. Chauvet was quite at her ease in this matter, and not much troubled with these thoughts. Things reached the point that she was accused of being heartless. The family did not understand why she continued to bear a grudge against the Hatter. Madame Lorat now came over every evening. She considered Lentier as utterly irresistible, and said that most ladies would be happy to fall into his arms. Madame Bosch declared that her own virtue would not be safe if she were ten years younger. There was a sort of silent conspiracy to push Chauvet into the arms of Lentier, as if all the women around her felt driven to satisfy their own longings by giving her a lover. Chauvet didn't understand this because she no longer found Lentier seductive. Certainly, he had changed for the better. He had gotten a sort of education in the cafes and political meetings, but she knew him well. She could pierce to the depths of his soul, and she found things there that still gave her the shivers. Well, if the others found him so attractive, why didn't they try it themselves? In the end, she suggested this one day to Virginie, who seemed the most eager. Then, to excite Chauvet's Madame Lorat and Virginie, told her of the love of Lentier and tall clements. Yes, she had not noticed anything herself, but as soon as she went out on an errand, the Hatter would bring the work girl into his room. Now, people met them out together. He probably went to see her at her own place. Well, said the laundress, of voice trembling slightly, what can it matter to me? She looked straight into Virginie's eyes. Did this woman still have it in for her? Virginie replied with an air of innocence. It can't matter to you, of course. Only you ought to advise him to break off with that girl, who is sure to cause him some unpleasantness. The worst of it was that Lentier, feeling himself supported by public opinion, changed altogether in his behaviour towards Chauvet. Now, whenever he shook hands with her, he held her fingers for a minute between his own. He tried her with his glance, fixing a bold look upon her, in which she clearly read that he wanted her. If he passed behind her, he dug his knees into her skirt or breathed upon her neck. Yet he waited a while before being rough and openly declaring himself. But one evening, finding himself alone with her, he pushed her before him without a word, and viewed her all trembling against the wall at the back of the shop, and tried to kiss her. It's so chance that Goucher entered just at that moment, then she struggled and escaped. And all three exchanged a few words as though nothing had happened. Goucher, his face deadly pale, looked on the ground, fancing that he had disturbed them, and that she had merely struggled so as not to be kissed before a third party. The next day, Chauvet's moved restlessly about the shop. She was miserable and unable to iron even a single handkerchief. She only wanted to see Goucher and explain to him how Lentier happened to have pinned her against the wall. But since Etienne had gone to Lille, she had hesitated to visit Goucher's forge, where she felt she would be greeted by his fellow workers with secret laughter. This afternoon, however, she yielded to the impulse. She took an empty basket, and went out under the pretext of going for the petticoats of her customer Henri des Portes Blanches. Then when she reached Prima Cadet, she walked very slowly in front of the bolt factory, hoping for a lucky meeting. Goucher must have been hoping to see her, too, for within five minutes he came out as if by chance. You have been on an errand, he said, smiling, and now you're on your way home. Actually, Chauvet's had her back towards Rides Poissonnier. He only said that for something to say. They walked together up toward Montmartre, but without her taking his arm. They wanted to get a bit away from the factory, so as not to seem to be having a rendezvous in front of it. They turned into a vacant lot between a sawmill and a button factory. It was like a small green meadow. There was even a goat tied to a stake. It's strange, remarked Chauvet's. You'd think you were in the country. They went to sit under a dead tree. Chauvet's placed the laundry basket by her feet. Yes, Chauvet said, I had an errand to do, and so I came out. She felt deeply ashamed and was afraid to try to explain, yet she realized that they had come here to discuss it. It remained a troublesome burden. Then all in a rush with tears in her eyes, she told him of the death that morning of Madame Bichard, her washerwoman. She had suffered horrible agonies. Her husband caused it by kicking her in the stomach. She said in a monotone, he must have damaged her insides. Mon Dieu, she was in agony for three days with her stomach all swelled up. Plenty of scoundrels have been sent to the galleys for less than that, but the courts won't concern themselves with the wife-beater, especially since the woman said she had hurt herself falling. She wanted to save him from the scaffold, but she screamed all night long before she died. Gougier clenched his hands and remained silent. She weaned her youngest only two weeks ago, little Jules. Chauvet's went on. That's lucky for the baby. He won't have to suffer. Still, there's the child, Lali, and she has two babies to look after. She isn't eight yet, but she's already sensible. Her father will beat her now even more than before. Gougier gazed at her silently. Then his lips trembling. You hurt me yesterday. Yes, you hurt me badly. Chauvet's turned pale and clasped her hands as he continued. I thought it would happen. He should have told me. He should have trusted me enough to confess what was happening, so as not to leave me thinking that Gougier could not finish the sentence. Chauvet stood up, realizing that he thought she had gone back with Lantier as the neighbors asserted. Stretching her arms towards him, she cried, No, no, I swear to you, he was pushing against me, trying to kiss me, but his face never even touched mine. It's true, and that was the first time he tried. Oh, I swear on my life, on the life of my children. Oh, believe me. Gougier was shaking his head. Chauvet said slowly, Monsieur Gougier, you know me well. You know that I do not lie. On my word of honor, it never happened, and it never will. Do you understand? Never. I'd be the lowest of the low if it ever happened, and I wouldn't deserve the friendship of an honest man like you. She seemed so sincere that he took her hand and made her sit down again. He could breathe freely, his heart rejoiced. This was the first time he had ever held her hand like this. He pressed it in his own, and they both sat quietly for a time. I know your mother doesn't like me, Chauvet said in a low voice. Don't bother to deny it. We are used so much money. He squeezed her hand tightly. He didn't want to talk of money. Finally, he said, I've been thinking of something for a long time. You are not happy where you are. My mother tells me things are getting worse for you. Well, then we can go away together. She didn't understand at first and stared at him, startled by this sudden declaration of a love that he had never mentioned. Finally, she asked, what do you mean? We'll get away from here, he said, looking down at the ground. We'll go and live somewhere else, in Belgium, if you wish. With both of us working, we would soon be very comfortable. Chauvet's flushed. She thought she would have felt less shame if he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. Gougier was an odd fellow, proposing to elope, just the way it happens in novels. Well, she had seen plenty of working men making up to married women, but they never took them even as far as Saint-Denis. Ah, Monsieur Gougier, she murmured, not knowing what else to say. Don't you see, he said, there would only be the two of us. It annoys me having others around. Having regained her self-possession, however, she refused his proposal. It's impossible, Monsieur Gougier. It would be very wrong. I'm a married woman and I have children. We'd soon regret it. I know you'd care for me, and I care for you also, too much to let you do anything foolish. It's much better to stay just as we are. We have respect for each other, and that's a lot. It's been a comfort to me many times. When people in our situation stay on the straight, it is better in the end. He nodded his head as he listened. He agreed with her, and was unable to offer any arguments. Suddenly, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, crushing her. Then he let her go and said nothing more about their love. She wasn't angry. She felt that they had earned that small moment of pleasure. Gougier now didn't know what to do with his hands, so he went around picking dandelions and tossing them into her basket. This amused him and gradually soothed him. Gervais was becoming relaxed and cheerful. When they finally left the vacant lot, they walked side by side and talked of how much Etienne liked being at Lille. Her basket was full of yellow dandelions. Gervais, at heart, did not feel as courageous when with Lantier, as she said. She was indeed perfectly resolved not to hear his flattery, even with the slightest interest. But she was afraid, if ever he should touch her, of her old cowardice, of that feebleness and gloominess into which she allowed herself to glide just to please people. Lantier, however, did not avow his affection. He several times found himself alone with her and kept quiet. He seemed to think of marrying the tripe cellar, a woman of forty-five and very well preserved. Gervais would talk of the tripe cellar in Gougier's presence, so as to set his mind at ease. She would say to Virginie and Madame Lechat, whenever they were ringing the hatter's praises, that he could very well do without her admiration, because all the women of the neighbourhood were smitten with him. Coupeau went braying about everywhere that Lantier was a friend and a true one. People might jabber about them. He knew what he knew when he did not care a straw for their gossip, for he had respectability on his side. When they all three went out walking on Sundays, he made his wife and the hatter walk arm in arm before him, just by way of swaggering in the street, and he watched the people, quite prepared to administer a drubbing if anyone had ventured on the least joke. It was true that he regarded Lantier as a bit of a high flyer. He accused him of avoiding hard liquor and teased him because he could read and spoke like an educated man. Still, he accepted him as a regular comrade. They were ideally suited to each other, and friendship between men is more substantial than love for a woman. End of third part of chapter eight. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 37 of La Samoire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. La Samoire by Émile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Fourth part of chapter eight. Coupeau and Lantier were forever going out junketing together. Lantier would now borrow money from Gervais, 10 francs, 20 francs at a time, whenever he smelt there was money in the house. Then on those days he would keep Coupeau away from his work, talk of some distant errand and take him with him. Then seated opposite to each other in the corner of some neighbouring eating-house, they would guzzle fancy dishes which one cannot get at home, and wash them down with bottles of expensive wine. The zinc worker would have preferred to booze in a less pretentious place, but he was impressed by the aristocratic tastes of Lantier, who would discover on the bill of fare dishes with the most extraordinary names. It was hard to understand a man so hard to please. Maybe it was from being a southerner. Lantier didn't like anything too rich and argued about every dish, sending back meat that was too salty or too peppery. He hated drafts. If the door was left open, he complained loudly. At the same time he was very stingy, only giving the waiter a tip of two sous for a meal of seven or eight francs. He was treated with respect in spite of that. The pair were well known along the exterior boulevards, from Batignol to Belleville. They would go to the Grand Rue des Batignols to eat tripe cooked in the camp style. At the foot of Montmartre, they obtained the best oysters in the neighbourhood at the town of Barleduc. When they ventured to the top of the height, as far as the galette windmill, they had a stewed rabbit. The lilacs in the Rue des Martirs had a reputation for their calf's head, whilst the restaurant of the golden lion in the two chestnut trees in the Chaucerclignan Cour served the stewed kidneys which made them lick their lips. Usually they went toward Belleville, where they had tables reserved for them at some places of such excellent repute that you could order anything with your eyes closed. These eating sprees were always surreptitious and the next day they would refer to them indirectly while playing with the potatoes served by Gervais. Once, Lancié brought a woman with him to the galette windmill and Coupeau left immediately after dessert. One naturally cannot both guzzle and work so that ever since the Hatter was made one of the family, the zinc worker who was already pretty lazy had got to the point of never touching a tool. When tired of doing nothing, he sometimes let himself be prevailed upon to take a job. Then his comrade would look him up and chaff him unmercifully when he found him hanging to his knotty cord like a smoked ham and he would call him to come down and have a glass of wine and that settled it. The zinc worker would send the job to Blazes and commence a booze which lasted days and weeks. It was a famous booze, a general review of all the dram shops of the neighbourhood. The intoxication of the morning slept off by midday and renewed in the evening. The goes of vitriol succeeded one another, becoming lost in the depths of the night like the Venetian lanterns of an illumination until the last candle disappeared with the last glass. That rogue of a Hatter never kept on to the end, he let the other get elevated, then gave him the slip and returned home smiling in his pleasant way. He could drink a great deal without people noticing it. When one got to know him well, one could only tell it by his half closed eyes and his overbold behaviour to women. The zinc worker on the contrary became quite disgusting and could no longer drink without putting himself into a beastly state. Thus, towards the beginning of November, Kupo went in for a booze which ended in a most dirty manner both for himself and the others. The day before he had been offered a job. This time, Lantje was full of fine sentiments. He lauded work because work ennobles a man. In the morning, he even rose before it was light, for he gravely wished to accompany his friend to the workshop honouring in him the workman really worthy of the name. But when they arrived at the little civet which was just opening, they entered to have a plum in brandy. Only one, merely to drink together to the firm observance of a good resolution. On a bench opposite the counter and with his back against the wall, Bibi the smoker was sitting, smoking with a sulky look on his face. Hello, is Bibi having a snooze? said Kupo. Are you down in the dumps, old bloke? No, no replied the comrade, stretching his arm. The employers who discussed me have sent mine to the right about yesterday. They're all toads and scoundrels. Bibi the smoker accepted a plum. He was no doubt waiting there on that bench for someone to stand him a drink. Lantje, however, took the part of the employers. They often had some very hard times, as he who had been in business himself well knew. The workers were a bad lot for ever getting drunk. They didn't take the work seriously. Sometimes they quit in the middle of a job and only returned when they needed something in their pockets. Then Lantje would switch his attack to the employers. They were nasty exploiters, regular cannibals that he could sleep with a clear conscience, as he had always acted as a friend to his employees. He didn't want to get rich the way others did. Let's be off my boy, he said, speaking to Kupo. We must be going or we should be late. Bibi the smoker followed them, swinging his arms. Outside, the sun was scarcely rising. The pale daylight seemed dirtied by the muddy reflection of the pavement. It had rained the night before and it was very mild. The gas lamps had just been turned out. The Rilé Poissonnier, in which shreds of night rent by the houses still floated, was gradually filling with a dull tramp of the workmen descending towards Paris. Kupo, with his zinc workers bag slung over his shoulder, walked along in the imposing manner of a fellow who feels in good form for a change. He turned round and asked, Bibi, do you want a job? The boss told me to bring a pal if I could. No, thanks, answered Bibi the smoker. I'm purging myself. You should ask my boots. He was looking for something yesterday. Wait a minute, my boots is most likely in there. And as they reached the bottom of the street, they indeed caught sight of my boots inside Père Colombe. In spite of the early hour, La Samoire was flaring, the shutters down, the gas lighted. L'entier stood at the door, telling Kupo to make haste, because they only had ten minutes left. What, you're going to work for that rascal bourguignon, yelled my boots when the zinc worker had spoken to him. You'll never catch me and his hatch again, now I'd rather go till next year with my tongue hanging out of my mouth. But old fellow, you won't stay three days, and it's I who tell you so. Really, now, is it such a dirty hole? asked Kupo anxiously. It's about the dirtiest. You can't move there. The ape's forever on your back. And such queer ways too. A missus who always says you're drunk. A shop where you mustn't spit. I sent them to the right about the first night, you know. Good, now I'm warned. I shan't stop there forever. I'll just go this morning to see what it's like. But if the boss bothers me, I'll catch him up and plant him upon his misses, you know, bang together like two filets of soul. Then Kupo thanked his friend for the useful information and shook his hand. As he was about to leave, my boots cursed angrily. Was that lousy bourguignon going to stop them from having a drink? Weren't they free anymore? He could well wait another five minutes. Lontier came in to share in the round, and they stood together at the counter. My boots, with his smock black with dirt and his cap flattened on his head, had recently been proclaimed king of pigs and drunks, after he had eaten a salad of live beetles and chewed a piece of a dead cat. Say there, old bourger, he called to Père Colombe. Give us some of your yellow stuff. First class mules, wine. And when Père Colombe, pale and quiet in his blue-knitted waistcoat, had filled the four glasses, these gentlemen tossed them off so as not to let the liquor get flat. That does some good when it goes down, murmured Bibi the smoker. The comic my boots had a story to tell. He was so drunk on the Friday that his comrades had stuck his pipe in his mouth with a handful of plaster. Anyone else would have died of it. He merely strutted about and puffed out his chest. Do you gentlemen require anything more? asked Père Colombe in his oily voice. Yes, fill us up again, said l'entier, it's my turn. Now they were talking of women. Bibi the smoker had taken his girl to an aunt's at Mont Rouge on the previous Sunday. Coupeau asked for the news of the Indian male, a washerwoman of Chayu, who was known in the establishment. They were about to drink when my boots loudly called to Gougé and Laurier who were passing by. They came just to the door that would not enter. The blacksmith did not care to take anything. The chain maker, pale and shivering, held in his pocket the gold chain that he was going to deliver. And he coughed and asked them to excuse him, saying that the lease-dropper brandy would make him split his sides. There are hypocrites for you, grunted my boots, I bet they have their drinks on the sly. And when he had poked his nose in his glass he attacked Père Colombe. Vile druggist, you've changed the bottle. You know it's no good trying to palm your cheap stuff off on me. The day had advanced, a doubtful sort of light lit up less somewhere where the landlord was turning out the gas. Coupeau found excuses for his brother-in-law who could not stand to drink, which after all was no crime. He even approved Gougé's behaviour, for it was a real blessing never to be thirsty. And as he talked of going off to his work, Lentier, with his grand air of a gentleman, sharply gave him a lesson. One at least stood one's turn before sneaking off. One should not leave one's friends like a mean blaggard, even when going to do one's duty. Is he kind of badgerous much longer about his work? cried my boots. So this is your turn, sir, asked Père Colombe of Coupeau. The latter paid, but when it came to Beebe the Smoker's turn he whispered to the landlord who refused with the shake of the head. My boots understood and again set to abusing the old Jew Colombe. What a rascal like him dared to behave in that way to a comrade. Everywhere else one could get drink on tick. It was only in such low boozing dens that one was insulted. The landlord remained calm, leaning his big fists on the edge of the counter. He politely said, then the gentleman some money that will be far simpler. Maudier, yes, I'll lend him some, yelled my boots. Here, Beebe, throw this money in his face, the limb of Satan. Then excited and annoyed at seeing Coupeau with his bag slung over his shoulder, he continued speaking to the zinc worker. You look like a wet nurse. Drop your brat. It will give you a hump back. Coupeau hesitated an instant and then quietly as though he had only made up his mind after considerable reflection, he laid his bag on the ground saying, it's too late now. I go to Bourguignon's after lunch. I'll tell him the missus was ill. Listen, Père Colombe, I'll leave my tools under this seat and I'll call for them at 12 o'clock. Maudier gave his blessing to this arrangement with an approving nod. Labour was necessary, yes, but when you're with good friends, courtesy comes first. Now the four had five hours of idleness before them. They were full of noisy merriment. Coupeau was especially relieved. They had another round and then went to a small bar that had a billiard table. At first, Maudier turned up his nose at this establishment because it was rather shabby. So much liquor had been spilled on the billiard table that the balls stuck to it. Once the game got started, though, Lantier recovered his good humour and began to flaunt his extraordinary knack with a cue. When lunchtime came, Coupeau had an idea. He stamped his feet and cried, We must go and fetch Salted Mal. I know where he's working. We'll take him to Mère Louise to have some pettitoes. The idea was greeted with acclamation. Yes, Salted Mal, otherwise drink without thirst, was no doubt in want of some pettitoes. They started off. Coupeau took them to the Boat Factory in Rima Cadet. As they arrived a good half hour before the time the workman came out, the zinc worker gave a youngster two sews to go in and tell Salted Mal that his wife was ill and wanted him at once. The blacksmith made his appearance, waddling in his walk, looking very calm and senting a tuck out. Ah, you jokers, said he, as soon as he caught sight of them hiding in a doorway. I guessed it. Well, what are we going to eat? At Mother Louise, whilst they sucked the little bones of the pettitoes, they again fell to abusing the employers. Salted Mal, otherwise drink without thirst, related that they had a most pressing order to execute at the shop. Ah, the ache was pleasant for the time being. One could be late and he would say nothing. He no doubt considered himself lucky when one turned up at all. To any rate, no boss would dare to throw Salted Mal out the door, because she couldn't find lads of his capacity any more. After the pettitoes they had an omelet. When each of them had emptied his bottle, Merle Louis brought some au vin, wine thick enough to cut with a knife. The party was really warming up. What do you think is the ape's latest idea? cried Salted Mal at dessert. Why, he's been and put up a bell in his shed. A bell! That's good for slaves. Ah, while it can ring today they won't catch me again at the anvil. For five days passed I've been sticking there. I may give myself a rest now. If he deducts anything I'll send him to places. I, said Coupeau, with an air of importance. I'm obliged to leave you. I'm off to work. Yes, I promise my wife. Amuse yourselves. My spirit, you know, remains with my pals. End of fourth part of chapter 8. Recording by Martin Geithen in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 38 of La Samoire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geithen. La Samoire by Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Fifth part of chapter 8. The others chuffed him, but he seemed so decided that they all accompanied him when he talked of going to fetch his tools from Père Colombs. He took his bag from under the seat and laid it on the ground before him whilst they had a final drink. But at one o'clock the party was still standing drinks. Then Coupeau, with the bored gesture, placed the tools back again under the seat. They were in his way. He could not get near the counter without stumbling against them. It was too absurd. He would go to Bourguignon's on the morrow. The other four who were quarrelling about the question of salaries were not at all surprised when the zinc worker, without any explanation, proposed a little stroll on the boulevard just to stretch their legs. They didn't go very far. They seemed to have nothing to say to each other out in the fresh air. Without even consulting each other with so much as a nudge, they slowly and instinctively ascended Derri des Poissonniers, where they went to François's and had a glass of wine out of the bottle. Lentier pushed his comrades inside the private room at the back. It was a narrow place with only one table in it and was separated from the shop by a dull glazed partition. He liked to do his drinking in private rooms, because it seemed more respectable. Didn't they like it here? It was as comfortable as being at home. You could even take a nap here without being embarrassed. He called for the newspaper, spread it out open before him, and looked through it, frowning the while. Coupeau and my boots had commenced a game of piquet. Two bottles of wine and five glasses were scattered about the table. They emptied the glasses. Ben Lentier read out loud. A frightful crime has just spread consternation throughout the commune of Gaillon, the department of Sainte-Marne. A son has killed his father with blows from a spade in order to rob him of thirty sews. They all uttered a cry of horror. There was a fellow whom they would have taken great pleasure in seeing guillotine. No, the guillotine was not enough. He deserved to be cut into little pieces. The story of an infanticide equally aroused their indignation. But the hatter, highly moral, found excuses for the woman, putting all the wrong on the back of her husband. For after all, if some beast of a man had not put the wretched woman into the way of bleak poverty, she could not have drowned it in a water-closet. They were most delighted, though, by the exploits of a marquis, who, coming out of a dance hall at two in the morning, had defended himself against an attack by three black guards on the Boulevard des Invalides. Without taking off his gloves, he had disposed of the first two villains by ramming his head into their stomachs, and then had marched the third one off to the police. What a man! Too bad he was a noble. Listen to this now, continued l'entier. Here's some society news. A marriage is arranged between the eldest daughter of the countess de Bretigny and the young baron de Valenci, aide de campes to his majesty. The wedding trousseau will contain more than three hundred thousand francs worth of lace. What's that to us, interrupted BB the smoker? We don't want to know the colour of her mantle. The girl can have no ender lace. Nevertheless, you'll see the folly of loving. As l'entier seemed about to continue his reading, salted mouth, otherwise, drink without thirst, took the newspaper from him and sat upon it, saying, Ah, no, that's enough. This is all the paper is good for. Meanwhile, my boots, who had been looking at his hand, triumphantly banged his fist down on the table. He scored ninety-three. I've got the revolution, he exalted. You're out of luck, comrade, the others told Cooper. They ordered two fresh bottles. The glasses were filled up again as fast as they were emptied. The booze increased. Towards five o'clock it began to get disgusting, so much so that l'entier kept very quiet, thinking of how to give the others the slip. Brawling and throwing the wine about was no longer his style. Just then, Cooper stood up to make the drunkard sign of the cross. Touching his head, he pronounced Montparnasse, then Menilmont, as he brought his hand to his right shoulder. Bagnolais giving himself a blow in the chest and wound up by saying, stewed rabbit three times as he hit himself in the pit of the stomach. Then the hatter took advantage of the clamour which greeted the performance of this feet and quietly made for the door. His comrades did not even notice his departure. He had already had a pretty good dose, but once outside he shook himself and regained his self-possession, and he quietly made for the shop, where he told Chávez that Cooper was with some friends. Two days passed by. The zinc worker had not returned. He was reeling about the neighbourhood, but no one knew exactly where. Several persons, however, stated that they had seen him at Mother Bacchus, at the butterfly, and at the little old man with a cough. Only some said that he was alone, whilst others affirmed that he was in the company of seven or eight drunkards like himself. Chávez shrugged her shoulders in a resigned sort of way. She just had to get used to it. She never ran about after her old man. She even went out of her way if she caught sight of him inside a wine shop so as not to anger him. And she waited at home till he returned, listening at night-time to hear if he was snoring outside the door. He would sleep on a rubbish heap, or on a seat, or in a piece of waste land, or across a gutter. On the morrow, after having only badly slept off his booze of the day before, he would start off again, knocking at the doors of all the consolation dealers, plunging afresh into a furious wandering in the midst of nips of spirits, glasses of wine, losing his friends and then finding them again, going regular voyages from which he returned in a state of stupor. Seeing the streets dance, the night fall and the day break, without any other thought than to drink and sleep off the effects wherever he happened to be. When in the latter states, the world was ended so far as he was concerned. On the second day, however, Gervais went to Pierre Colombe's la Samoire to find out something about him. He had been there another five times. They were unable to tell her anything more. All she could do was to take away his tools which he had left under a seat. In the evening, Lentier, seeing that the launderers seemed very worried, offered to take her to a musical just by way of passing a pleasant hour or two. She refused at first, for she was in no mood for laughing. Otherwise, she would not have said no, for the latter made the proposal in too straightforward a manner for her to feel any mistrust. He seemed to feel for her in quite a paternal way. Never before had Coupos slept out two nights running, so that in spite of herself she would go every ten minutes to the door with her iron in her hand and look up and down the street to see if her old man was coming. It might be that Coupos had broken a leg or fallen under a wagon and been crushed, and that might be good riddance to bad rubbish. She saw no reason for cherishing in her heart any affection for a filthy character like him, but it was irritating, all the same, to have to wonder every night whether he would come in or not. When it got dark, Lantier again suggested the music hall, and this time she accepted. She decided it would be silly to deny herself a little pleasure when her husband had been out on the town for three days. If he wasn't coming in, then she might as well go out herself, let the entire dump burn up if it felt like it. She might even put a torch to it herself. She was getting tired of the boring monotony of her present life. They ate their dinner quickly. Then when she went off at eight o'clock, arm in arm with the hatter, Gervais told Mother Coupos and Nana to go to bed at once. The shop was shut and the shutters up. She left by the door opening into the courtyard and gave Madame Bosch the key, asking her if her pig of her husband came home to have the kindness to put him to bed. The hatter was waiting for her under the big doorway, a raid in his best, and whistling a tune. She had on her silk dress. They walked slowly along the pavement, keeping close to each other, lighted up by the glare from the shop windows, which showed them smiling and talking together in low voices. The music hall was in the Boulevard de Rochoir. It had originally been a little café, and had been enlarged by means of a kind of wooden shed erected in the courtyard. At the door, a string of glass globes formed a luminous porch. Tall posters pasted on boards stood upon the ground, close to the gutter. Here we are, said Lanthier. Tonight, first appearance of Mademoiselle Amanda, Cereo-Comic. Then he caught sight of Bibi the Smoker, who was also reading the poster. Bibi had a black eye. Some punchy had run up against the day before. Well, where's Coupeau? inquired the hatter, looking about. Have you, then, lost Coupeau? Oh, long ago, since yesterday, replied the other. There was a bit of a free-for-all on leaving Mother Bacquet. I don't care for fisticuffs. We had a row, you know, with Mother Bacquet's pot-boy, because he wanted to make us pay for a court twice over. Then I left. I went and had a bit of a snooze. He was still yawning. He had slept 18 hours at a stretch. He was, moreover, quite sobered with a stupid look on his face, and his jacket smothered with fluff, for he had no doubt tumbled into bed with his clothes on. And you don't know where my husband is, sir? asked the laundress. Well, no, not a bit. It was five o'clock when we left Mother Bacquet, that's all I know about it. Perhaps he went down the street. Yes, a fancy now. I saw him go to the butterfly with a coachman. Oh, how stupid it is. Really, we deserve to be shot. Lantier and Gervais spent a very pleasant evening at the music hall. At eleven o'clock when the place closed, they strolled home without hurrying themselves. The cold was quite sharp. People seemed to be in groups. Some of the girls were giggling in the darkness as their men pressed close to them. Lantier was humming one of Mademoiselle Amanda's songs. Gervais, with her head spinning from too much drink, hummed the refrain with him. It had been very warm at the music hall, and the two drinks she had had, along with all the smoke, had upset her stomach a bit. She had been quite impressed with Mademoiselle Amanda. She wouldn't dare to appear in public wearing so little, but she had to admit the lady had lovely skin. Everyone's asleep, said Gervais, after ringing three times without the bushes opening the door. At length the door opened, but inside the porch it was very dark, and when she knocked at the window of the concierge's room to ask for her key, the concierge, who was half asleep, pulled out some rigmarole, which she could make nothing of at first. She eventually understood that Poisson, the policeman, had brought Coupeau home in a frightful state, and that the key was no doubt in the lock. Her due, murmured Lantier, when they had entered. Whatever has he been up to here, the stench is abominable. There was indeed a most powerful stench. As Gervais went to look for matches, she stepped into something messy. After she succeeded in lighting a candle, a pretty sight met their eyes. Coupeau appeared to have disgorged his very insides. The bed was splattered all over, so was the carpet, and even the bureau had splashes on its sides. Besides that, he had fallen from the bed where Poisson had probably thrown him, and was snoring on the floor in the midst of the filth, like a pig wallowing in the mire, exhaling his foul breath through his open mouth. His grey hair was straggling into the puddle around his head. Oh, the pig, the pig, repeated Gervais indignant and exasperated. He's dirtied everything. Now a dog wouldn't have done that. Even a dead dog is cleaner. They both hesitated to move, not knowing where to place their feet. Coupeau had never before come home and put the bedroom into such a shocking state. The sight was a blow to whatever affection his wife still had for him. Previously she had been forgiving and not seriously offended, even when he had been blind drunk. But this made her sick. It was just too much. She wouldn't have touched Coupeau for the world, and just the thought of this filthy bum touching her caused a repugnant, such as she might have felt, had she been required to sleep beside the corpse of someone who died from a terrible disease. Oh, I must get into that bed, Ms. Mermit, she. I can't go and sleep in the street. I'll crawl into it fort first. She tried to step over the drunkard, but had to catch hold of a corner of the chest of drawers to save herself from slipping in the mess. Coupeau completely blocked the way to the bed. Then Lantier, who laughed to himself on seeing that she certainly could not sleep on her own pillow that night, took hold of her hand, saying in a low and angry voice, Jervais, he is a pig. She understood what he meant and pulled her hand free. She sighed to herself and in her bewilderment addressed him familiarly, as in the old days. No, leave me alone, Auguste. Go to your own bed. I'll manage somehow to lie at the foot of the bed. Come, Jervais, don't be foolish, resumed he. It's too abominable. You can't remain here. Come with me. He won't hear us. What are you afraid of? No, she replied firmly, shaking her head vigorously, and to show that she would remain where she was, she began to take off her clothes, throwing her silk dress over a chair. She was quickly in only her chemise and a petticoat. Well, it was her own bed. She wanted to sleep in her own bed and made two more attempts to reach a clean corner of the bed. Lantier, having no intention of giving up, whispered things to her. What a predicament she was in with a louse of a husband that prevented her from crawling under her own blankets and a low skunk behind her just waiting to take advantage of the situation to possess her again. She begged Lantier to be quiet. Turning toward the small room where Nanna and Mother Kupo slept, she listened anxiously. She could hear only steady breathing. Leave me alone, Auguste, she repeated. You'll wake them. Be sensible. Lantier didn't answer, but just smiled at her. Then he began to kiss her on the ear just as in the old days. Gervais felt like sobbing. Her strength deserted her. She felt a great buzzing in her ears. A violent tremor passed through her. She advanced another step forward and she was again obliged to draw back. It was not possible. The disgust was too great. She felt on the verge of vomiting herself. Kupo overpowered by intoxication, lying as comfortably as they were on a bed of down, was sleeping off his booze without life in his limbs and with his mouth all on one side. The whole street might have entered and laughed at him without a hair of his body moving. Well, I can't help it, she faltered. It's his own fault. Lantier is forcing me out of my own bed and no bed any longer. No, I can't help it. It's his own fault. She was trembling though she scarcely knew what she was doing. While Lantier was urging her into his room, Nanna's face appeared at one of the glass panes in the door of the little room. The young girl, pale from sleep, had awakened and gotten out of bed quietly. She stared at her father lying in his vomit. Then she stood watching until her mother disappeared into Lantier's room. She watched with the intensity and the wide open eyes of a vicious child aflame with curiosity. End of Chapter 8 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmeer Surrey La Saint-moire by Emile Zola translated by Ernest A. Viscelli. Chapter 9 That winter, Mother Coupot nearly went off in one of her coughing fits. Each December she could count on her asthma, keeping her on her back for two and three weeks at a time. She was no longer fifteen. She would be seventy-three on St. Anthony's Day. With that, she was very rickety. Getting a rattling in her throat for nothing at all, though she was plump and stout. The doctor said she would go off coughing, just time enough to say, Good night. The candle's out. When she was in her bed, Mother Coupot became positively unbearable. It is true, though, that the little room in which she slept with Nana was not at all gay. There was barely room for two chairs between the beds. The wallpaper of faded gray hung loose in long strips. The small window near the ceiling let in only a dim light. It was like a cavern. At night, as she lay awake, she could listen to the breathing of the sleeping Nana as a sort of distraction. But in the daytime, as there was no one to keep her company from morning to night, she grumbled and cried and repeated to herself for hours together, as she rolled her head on the pillow. Good heavens, what a miserable creature I am! Good heavens, what a miserable creature I am! They'll leave me to die in prison. Yes, in prison. As soon as anyone called, Virginie or Madame Bosch, to ask after her health, she would not reply directly, but immediately started on her list of complaints. Oh, I pay dearly for the food I eat here. I'd be much better off with strangers. I asked for a cup of tizan, and they brought me an entire pot of hot water. It was a way of saying that I drank too much. I brought Nana up myself, and she scurries away in her bare feet every morning, and I never see her again all day. Then at night, she sleeps so soundly that she never wakes up to ask me if I'm in pain. I'm just a nuisance to them. They're waiting for me to die. That will happen soon enough. I don't even have a son anymore. That laundress has taken him from me. She'd beat me to death if she wasn't afraid of the law. Gervais was indeed rather hasty at times. The place was going to the dogs. Everyone's temper was getting spoiled, and they sent each other to the right about, for the least word. Coupeau, one morning, that he had a hangover exclaimed. The old things always saying she's going to die, and yet she never does. The words struck Mother Coupeau to the heart. They frequently complained of how much she cost them, observing that they would save a lot of money when she was gone. When at her worst that winter, one afternoon, when Madame Laurier and Madame Laura had met at her bedside, Mother Coupeau winked her eye as a signal to them to lean over her. She could scarcely speak. She rather hissed than said in her low voice. It's becoming indecent. I heard them last night. Yes, clump clump, and I had her. And they were kicking up such a row together. Coupeau's too decent for her. And then in related short sentences, coughing and choking between each, that her son had come home dead drunk the night before. Then, as she was not asleep, she was easily able to account for all the noises. Of clump clump's bare feet tripping over the tiled floor. The hissing voice of the hatter calling her. The door between the two rooms gently closed, and the rest. It must have lasted a little daylight. She could not tell the exact time. Because in spite of her efforts, she had ended by falling into a dose. What's the most disgusting is that I might have heard everything, continued she. She was indeed restless all the night. She who usually sleeps so sound. She tossed about and kept turning over, as though there had been some lighted charcoal in her bed. The other two women did not seem at all surprised. Of course, murmured Madame Laurier, it probably began the very first night. But as it pleases Coupeau, with no business to interfere, all the same it is not very respectable. As for me, declared Madame Laurier through clenched teeth, if I had been there, I'd have thrown a fright into them. I'd have shouted something, anything. A doctor's maid told me once that the doctor had told her that a surprise like that, at a certain moment, could strike a woman dead. If she had died right there, that would have been well, wouldn't it? She would have been punished right where she had sinned. It wasn't long until the entire neighbourhood knew that Gervais visited L'entier's room every night. Madame Laurier was loudly indignant, calling her brother a poor fool whose wife had shamed him. And her poor mother forced to live in the midst of such horrors, as the result of the neighbours' blame to Gervais. Yes, she must have led L'entier astray. You could see it in her eyes. In spite of the nasty gossip, L'entier was still liked, because he was always so polite. He always had candy or flowers to give to the ladies. Mon Dieu, men shouldn't be expected to push away women who threw themselves at them. There was no excuse for Gervais. She was a disgrace. The Lauriers used to bring Nana up to their apartment in order to find out more details from her, their godchild. But Nana would put on her expression of innocent stupidity and lower her long silky eyelashes to hide the fire in her eyes as she replied. In the midst of this general indignation, Gervais lived quietly on, feeling tired out and half asleep. At first she considered herself very sinful and felt a disgust for herself. When she left L'entier's room, she would wash her hands and scrub herself as if trying to get rid of an evil stain. If Coupot then tried to joke with her, she would fly into a passion and run and shiveringly dress herself in the farthest corner of the shop. Neither would she allow L'entier near her soon after her husband had kissed her. She would have liked to have changed her skin as she changed men, but she gradually became accustomed to it. Soon it was too much trouble to scrub herself each time. Her thirst for happiness led her to enjoy as much as she could the difficult situation. She had always been disposed to make allowances for herself. So why not for others? She only wanted to avoid causing trouble. As long as the household went along as usual, there was nothing to complain about. Then, after all, she could not be doing anything to make Coupot stop drinking. Matters were arranged so easily to the general satisfaction. One is generally punished if one does what is not right. His disillusionedness had gradually become a habit. Now it was as regular an affair as eating and drinking. Each time Coupot came home drunk, she would go to L'entier's room. This was usually on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. Sometimes on other nights. If Coupot was snoring too loudly, she would leave in the middle of the night. It was not that she cared more for L'entier, but just that she slept better in his room. Mother Coupot never dared speak openly of it, but after a quarrel, when the laundress had bullied her, the old woman was not sparing in her illusions. She would say that she knew men who were precious fools and women who were precious hussies, and she would mutter words far more biting with the sharpness of language pertaining to an old waistcoat maker. The first time this had occurred, Gervais looked at her straight in the face without answering. Then, also avoiding going into detail, she began to defend herself with reasons given in a general sort of way. When a woman had a drunkard for her husband, a pig who lived in filth, that woman was to be excused if she sought for cleanliness elsewhere. Once she pointed out that L'entier was just as much her husband as Coupot was. Hadn't she known him since she was fourteen? And didn't she have children by him? Anyway, she'd like to see anyone make trouble for her. She wasn't the only one around the rue de la goutte d'or. Madame Vigourreux, the cold dealer, had a merry dance from morning to night. Then there was the grocer's wife, Madame L'Angre, with her brother-in-law. Montieu, what a slab of a fellow. He wasn't worth touching with a shovel. Even the neat little clockmaker was said to have carried on with his own daughter, a street walker. Ah, the entire neighborhood. Oh, she knew plenty of dirt. One day, when Mother Coupot was more appointed than usual in her observations, Gervais had replied to her, clenching her teeth. You're confined to your bed, and you take advantage of it. Listen, you're wrong. You see that I behaved nicely to you? For I've never thrown your past life into your teeth. Oh, I know all about it. No, don't cough. I've finished what I had to say. It's only to request you to mind your own business. That's all. The old woman almost choked. On the morrow, Gougé having called about his mother's washing, when Gervais happened to be out. Mother Coupot called him to her and kept him some time seated beside her bed. She knew all about the blacksmith's friendship, and had noticed that for some time past he had looked dismal and wretched from a suspicion of the melancholy things that were taking place. So for the sake of gossiping and out of revenge for the quarrel of the day before, she bluntly told him the truth, weeping and complaining, as though Gervais's wicked behavior did her some special injury. When Gougé quitted the little room, he lint against the wall, almost stifling with grief. Then, when the laundress returned home, Mother Coupot called to her that Madame Gougé required her to go round with her clothes, ironed or not. And she was so animated that Gervais, seeing something was wrong, guessed what had taken place, and had a presentiment of the unpleasantness which awaited her. Very pale, her limbs already trembling, she placed the things in a basket and started off. For years past she had not returned the Gougé's assue of their money. The debt still amounted to 425 francs. She always spoke of her embarrassments and received the money for the washing. It filled her with shame, because she seemed to be taking advantage of the blacksmith's friendship to make a fool of him. Coupot, who had now become less scrupulous, would chuckle and say that Gougé, no doubt, had fooled around with her a bit and had so paid himself. But she, in spite of the relations she had fallen into with Coupot, would indignantly ask her husband if he already wished to eat of that sort of bread. She would not allow anyone to say a word against Gougé and her presence. Her affection for the blacksmith remained like a last shred of her honour. Thus every time she took the washing home to those worthy people, she felt a spasm of her heart, the moment she put a foot on their stairs. Ah, it's you at last, said Madame Gougé sharply, on opening the door to her. When I'm in want of death, I'll send you to fetch him. Gervais entered, greatly embarrassed, not even daring to mutter an excuse. She was no longer punctual, never came at the time arranged, and would keep her customers waiting for days on end. Little by little, she was giving way to a system of thorough disorder. For a week past I've been expecting you, continued the lace-mender. And you tell falsehoods, too. You send your apprentice to me with all sorts of stories. You are then busy with my things. You will deliver them the same evening. Or else you've had an accident. The bundles fallen into a pail of water. Whilst all this is going on, I waste my time. Nothing turns up. And it worries me exceedingly. No, you're most unreasonable. Come, what have you in your basket? Is everything there now? Have you brought me the pair of sheets you've been keeping back for a month past? And the chemise which was missing the last time you brought home the washing? Yes, yes, murmured Gervais, I have the chemise. Here it is. But Madame Gougé cried out. That chemise was not hers. She would have nothing to do with it. Her things were changed now. It was too bad. Only the week before there were two handkerchiefs, which hadn't her mark on them. It was not to her taste to have clothes coming from no one knew where. Besides that, she liked to have her own things. In the sheets, she resumed. They're lost, aren't they? Well, woman, you must see about them, for I insist upon having them tomorrow morning. Do you hear? There was a silence which particularly bothered Gervais when she noticed that the door to Gougé's room was open. If he was in there, it was most annoying that he should hear these just criticisms. She made no reply, meekly bowing her head and placing the laundry on the bed as quickly as possible. Matters became worse when Madame Gougé began to look over the things one by one. She took hold of them and threw them down again, saying, Ah, you don't get them up nearly as well as you used to. One can't compliment you every day now. Yes, you've taken to mucking your work, doing it in a most slovenly way. Just look at this shirt front. It's scorched. There's the mark of the iron on the plates, and the buttons have all been torn off. I don't know how you manage it, but there's never a button left on anything. Oh, now here's a petticoat body, which I shall certainly not pay you for. Look there, the dirt still on it. You've simply smoothed it over. So now the things are not even clean. She stopped, whilst she counted the different articles. Then she exclaimed, What? This is all you've brought? There are two pairs of stockings, six towels, a tablecloth, and several dishcloths short. You're regularly trifling with me, it seems. I sent word that you were to bring me everything, ironed or not. If your apprentice isn't here on the hour with the rest of the things, we shall fall out, Madame Coupot. I warn you. At this moment Gougé coughed in his room. Gervais slightly started, Montieux, how she was treated before him, and she remained standing in the middle of the rooms, embarrassed and confused, and waiting for the dirty clothes. But after making up the account, Madame Gougé had quietly returned to her seat near the window, and resumed the mending of a lace shawl. And the dirty things, timidly inquired the laundress. No thank you, replied the old woman. There will be no laundry this week. Gervais turned pale. She was no longer to have the washing, then she quite lost her head. She was obliged to sit down on a chair, for her legs were giving way under her. She did not attempt to vindicate herself. All that she would find to say was, is Monsieur Gougé ill? Yes, he was not well. He had been obliged to come home, instead of returning to the forge. And he had gone to lie down on his bed to get a rest. Madame Gougé talked gravely, wearing her black dress as usual, and her white face framed in her none-like quaff. The pay at the forge had been cut again. It was now only seven francs a day, because the machines did so much of the work. This forced her to save money every way she could. She would do her own washing from now on. It would naturally have been very helpful if the coupos had been able to return her the money, lint them by her son. But she was not going to set the lawyers on them, as they were unable to pay. As she was talking about the debt, Gervais lowered her eyes in embarrassment. All the same continued the lace maker, by pinching yourselves a little, you could manage to pay it off. For really now, you live very well, and spend a great deal, I'm sure. If you were only to pay off 10 francs a month, she was interrupted by the sound of Gougé's voice, as he called, mama, mama. End of first part of Chapter 9. Section 40 of La Samoire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alex Foster. La Samoire by Émile Zola, translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Second part of Chapter 9. And when she returned to her seat, which was almost immediately, she changed the conversation. The blacksmith had doubtless begged her not to ask Gervais for money, but in spite of herself, she again spoke of the debt at the expiration of five minutes. Oh, she had foreseen long ago what was now happening. Coupo was drinking all that the laundry business brought in, and dragging his wife down with him. Her son would never have loaned the money if he had only listened to her. By now he would have been married, instead of miserably sad, with only unhappiness to look forward to for the rest of his life. She grew quite stern and angry, even accusing Gervais of having schemed with Coupo to take advantage of her foolish son. Yes, some women were able to play the hypocrite for years, but eventually the truth came out. Mama! Mama! again called Gougé, but louder this time. She rose from her seat, and when she returned, she said, as she resumed her lace mending, go in. He wishes to see you. Gervais, all in a tremble, left the door open. This scene filled her with emotion, because it was like an avowal of their affection before Madame Gougé. She again beheld the quiet little chamber with its narrow iron bedstead and papered all over with pictures, the whole looking like the room of some girl of fifteen. Gougé's big body was stretched on the bed. Mother Coupo's disclosures and the things his mother had been saying seemed to have knocked all the life out of his limbs. His eyes were red and swollen. His beautiful yellow beard was still wet. In the first moment of rage he must have punched away at his pillow with his terrible fists, for the ticking was split and the feathers were coming out. Listen, Mama's wrong, he said to the laundress, in a voice that was scarcely audible. You owe me nothing. I won't have it mentioned again. He raised himself up and was looking at her. Big tears at once filled his eyes. Do you suffer, Monsieur Gougé? murmured she. What is the matter with you? Tell me. Nothing. Thanks. I tired myself with too much work yesterday. I will rest a bit. Then, his heart breaking, he could not restrain himself and burst out. Mon Dieu! Ah, mon Dieu! It was never to be. Never. You swore it. And now it is. It is. Ah, it pains me too much. Leave me. And with his hand he gently and imploringly motioned to her to go. She did not draw nearer to the bed. She went off as he requested her to, feeling stupid, unable to say anything to soothe him. When in the other room she took up her basket, but she did not go home, she stood there trying to find something to say. Madame Gougé continued her mending without raising her head. It was she who at length said, Well, good night, send me back my things, and we will settle up afterwards. Yes. It will be best so. Good night. Stammered Gévese. She took a last look around the neatly arranged room and thought, as she shut the door, that she seemed to be leaving some part of her better self behind. She plotted blindly back to the laundry, scarcely knowing where she was going. When Gévese arrived, she found Mother Coupeau out of her bed, sitting on a chair by the stove. Gévese was too tired to scold her. Her bones ached as though she had been beaten, and she was thinking that her life was becoming too hard to bear. Surely a quick death was the only escape from the pain in her heart. After this Gévese became indifferent to everything, with a vague gesture of her hand she would send everybody about their business. At each fresh worry she buried herself deeper in her only pleasure, which was to have her three meals a day. The shop might have collapsed. So long as she was not beneath it, she would have gone off willingly without a chemise to her back. And the little shop was collapsing, not suddenly, but little by little, morning and evening. One by one the customers got angry and sent their washing elsewhere. Monsieur Madignier, Mademoiselle Romanjou, the Bosch themselves had returned to Madame Fouconnier, where they could count on great punctuality. One ends by getting tired of asking for a pair of stockings for three weeks straight and of putting on shirts with grease stains dating from the previous Sunday. Gévese, without losing her bite, wished them a pleasant journey and spoke her mind about them, saying that she was precious glad she would no longer have to poke her nose into their filth. The entire neighbourhood could quit her, that would relieve her of piles of stinking junk and give her less work to do. Now her only customers were those who didn't pay regularly, the street-walkers, and women like Madame Goudron, whose laundry smelled so bad that not one of the laundresses on the roux-nerve would take it. She had to let Madame Poutoir go, leaving only her apprentice, Squintide Augustine, who seemed to grow more stupid as time passed. Frequently there was not even enough work for the two of them, and they sat on stools all afternoon, doing nothing. Whilst idleness and poverty entered, dirtiness naturally entered also. One would never have recognised that beautiful blue shop, the colour of heaven, which had once been Gervais's pride. Its window frames and panes, which were never washed, were covered from top to bottom with the splashes of the passing vehicles. On the brass rods in the windows were displayed three grey rags left by customers who had died in the hospital. An insidey was more pitiable still. The dampness of the clothes hung up at the ceiling to dry had loosened all the wallpaper. The pompadour chints hung in strips like cobwebs covered with dust. The big stove, broken and in holes from rough use of the poker, looked in its corner like the stock-in-trade of a dealer in Old Iron. The work table appeared as though it had been used by a regiment, covered as it was with wine and coffee stains, sticky with jam, greasy from spilled gravy. Gervais was so at ease among it all, that she never even noticed the shop was getting filthy. She became used to it all, just as she got used to wearing torn skirts and no longer washing herself carefully. The disorder was like a warm nest. Her own ease was her sole consideration. She did not care a pin for anything else. The debts, though still increasing, no longer troubled her. Her honesty gradually deserted her. Whether she would be able to pay or not was altogether uncertain, and she preferred not to think about it. When her credit was stopped at one shop, she would open an account at another shop, close by. She was in debt all over the neighbourhood. She owed money every few yards. To take merely the roue de la goutte d'or, she no longer dared pass in front of the grocers, nor the charcoal dealers, nor the greengrocers. And this obliged her wherever she required to be at the wash-house, to go round by the Roudie Poissonnier, which was quite ten minutes out of her way. The tradespeople came and treated her as a swindler. One evening the dealer from whom she had purchased Lantier's furniture made a scene in the street. Scenes like this upset her at the time, but was soon forgotten, and never spoiled her appetite. What a nerve to bother her like that when she had no money to pay. They were all robbers, anyway, and it served them right to have to wait. Well, she'd have to go bankrupt, but she didn't intend to fret about it now. Meanwhile, Mother Coupo had recovered. For another year the household jogged along. During the summer months there was naturally a little more work, the white petticoats, and the cambrick-dresses of the street-walkers of the exterior boulevard. The catastrophe was slowly approaching. The home sank deeper into the mire every week. They were ups and downs, however, days when one had to rub one's stomach before the empty cupboard, and others when one ate veal enough to make one burst. Mother Coupo was forever being seen in the street, hiding bundles under her apron, and strolling in the direction of the porn-palace in the Roudie Poissonnier. She strutted along with the air of her divoutie going to mass. For she did not dislike these errands, haggling about money amused her. This crying up of her wares like a second-hand dealer tickled the old woman's fancy for driving hard bargains. The clerks knew her well and called her Mama Fourfranks, because she always demanded Fourfranks when they offered three, on bundles no bigger than two sews worth of butter. At the start, Chervais took advantage of Goodweeks to get things back from the pawn-shops, only to put them back again the next week. Later she led things go all together, selling her pawn-tickets for cash. One thing alone gave Chervais a pang. It was having to pawn her clock to pay an acceptance for Twentyfranks to a bailiff who came to seize her goods. Until then she had sworn rather to die of hunger than to part with her clock. When Mother Coupo carried it away in a little bonnet-box, she sunk onto a chair without a particle of strength left in her arms, her eyes full of tears, as though a fortune was being torn from her. But when Mother Coupo reappeared with Twenty-fivefranks, the unexpected loan, the Fivefranks' profit consoled her. She had once sent the old woman out again for four sews worth of brandy in a glass, just a toast to Fivefrank peace. The two of them would often have a drop together when they were on good terms with each other. Mother Coupo was very successful at bringing back a full glass hidden in her apron pocket without spilling a drop. Well, the neighbours didn't need to know, did they? But the neighbours knew perfectly well. This turned the neighbourhood even more against Gervais. She was devouring everything. A few more mouthfuls on the place would be swept clean. In the midst of this general demolishment, Coupo continued to prosper. The confounded tipler was as well as he could be. The sour wine and the vitriol positively fanned him. He ate a great deal, and laughed at the stick lawyer who accused Drink of killing people and answered him by slapping himself on the stomach, the skin of which was so stretched by the fat that it resembled the skin of a drum. He would play him a tune on it, the glutton's vespers, with rolls and beats loud enough to have made a quack's fortune. Lawyer, annoyed at not having any fat himself, said that it was soft and unhealthy. Coupo ignored him and went on drinking more and more, saying it was for his health's sake. His hair was beginning to turn grey, and his face to take on the drunkard's hue of purplish wine. He continued to act like a mischievous child. Well, it wasn't his concern if there was nothing about the place to eat. When he went for weeks without work, he became even more difficult. Still, he was always giving Lantier friendly slaps on the back. People swore he had no suspicion at all. Surely something terrible would happen if he ever found out. Madame Laura shook her head at this. His sister said she had known of husbands who didn't mind at all. Lantier wasn't wasting away either. He took great care of himself, measuring his stomach by the waist-board of his trousers, with the constant dread of having to loosen the buckle or draw it tighter, for he considered himself just right, and out of cockatry neither desired to grow fratter nor thinner. That made him hard to please in the matter of food, for he regarded every dish from the point of view of keeping his waist as it was. Even when there was not a zoo in the house, he required eggs, cutlets, light and nourishing things. Since he was sharing the lady of the house, he considered himself to have a half-interest in everything, and would pocket any frank pieces he saw lying about. He kept Gervais running here and there, and seemed more at home than Coupo. Nana was his favourite because he adored pretty little girls, but he paid less and less attention to Etienne, since boys, according to him, ought to know how to take care of themselves. If any one came to see Coupo while he was out, Lentier, in short sleeves and slippers, would come out of the back-room with the bored expression of a husband who was being disturbed, saying he would answer for Coupo as it was all the same. Between these two gentlemen, Gervais had nothing to laugh about. She had nothing to complain of as regard her health, thank goodness, she was growing too fat. But two men to cuddle was often more than she could manage. Ah, mon dieu, one husband is already too much for a woman. The worst was that they got on very well together, the rogues. They never quarrelled, they would chuckle in each other's faces, they sat up an evening after dinner, their elbows on the table. They would rub up against one another all the live-long day, like cats which seek and cultivate their pleasure. The days when they came home in a rage, it was on her that they vented it. Go it, hammer away at the animal! She had a good back. It made them all the better friends when they railed together. And it never did for her to give them tet for tat. In the beginning when one of them yelled at her, she would appeal to the other, but this seldom worked. Coupo had a foul mouth and caught her horrible things. Lentier chose his insults carefully, but they often hurt her more. But one can get used to anything. Soon their nasty remarks and all the wrongs done her by these two men slid off her smooth skin, like water off a duck's back. It was even easier to have them angry, because when they were in good moods, they bothered her too much, never giving her time to get a bonnet ironed. Yes, Coupo and Lentier were wearing her out. The zinc worker, sure enough, lacked education, but the hatter had too much, or at least he had education in the same way that dirty people have a white shirt with uncleannliness underneath it. One night she dreamt that she was on the edge of a wall. Coupo was knocking her into it with a blow of his fists, while Lentier was tickling her in the ribs to make her fall quicker. Well, that resembled her life. It was no surprise if she was becoming slipshod. The neighbours weren't fair in blaming her for the frightful habit she had fallen into. Sometimes a cold shiver ran through her, but things could have been worse, so she tried to make the best of it. Once she had seen a play in which the wife detested her husband and poisoned him for the sake of her lover. Wasn't it more sensible for the three of them to live together in peace? In spite of her debts and poverty, she thought she was quite happy and could live in peace if only Coupo and Lentier would stop yelling at her so much. Towards the autumn, unfortunately, things became worse. Lentier pretended he was getting thinner and pulled a longer face over the matter every day. He grumbled at everything, sniffed at the dishes of potatoes, a mess he could not eat, he would say, without having the colic. The least jangling now turned to quarrels, in which they accused one another of being the cause of all their troubles, and it was a devil of a job to restore harmony before they all retired for the night. Lentier sensed a crisis coming, and it exasperated him to realise that this place was already so thoroughly cleaned out that he could see the day coming when he'd have to take his hat and seek elsewhere for his bed and board. He had become accustomed to this little paradise where he was nicely treated by everybody. He should have blamed himself for eating himself out of house and home, but instead he blamed the coupos for letting themselves be ruined in less than two years. He thought Gervais was too extravagant. What was going to happen to them now? One evening in December they had no dinner at all. There was not a radish left. Lentier, who was very glum, went out early, wandering about in search of some other den where the smell of the kitchen would bring a smile to one's face. He would now remain for hours beside the stove, wrapped in thought. Then suddenly he began to evince a great friendship for the Poisson. He no longer teased the policeman and went even so far as to concede that the Emperor might not be such a bad fellow after all. He seemed to especially admire Virginie. No doubt he was hoping to board with them. Virginie, having acquainted him with her desire to set up in some sort of business, he agreed with everything she said and declared that her idea was a most brilliant one. She was just the person for trade. Tall, engaging, active. Oh, she would make as much as she liked. The capital had been available for some time, thanks to an inheritance from an aunt. Lentier told her of all the shopkeepers who were making fortunes. The time was right for it. You could sell anything these days. Virginie, however, hesitated. She was looking for a shop that was to let. She did not wish to leave the neighbourhood. Then Lentier would take her into corners and converse with her in an undertone for ten minutes at a time. He seemed to be urging her to do something in spite of herself, and she no longer said no, but appeared to authorise him to act. It was a secret between them, with winks and words rapidly exchanged, some mysterious understanding which betrayed itself, even in their handshakeings. From this moment, the hatter would covertly watch the coupos, whilst eating their dry bread, and becoming very talkative again would deafen them with his continual Jeremiah's. All day long, Chavez moved in the midst of that poverty which he so obligingly spread out. Mondeur, he wasn't thinking of himself. He would go on starving with his friends as long as they liked. But look at it with common sense, they owed at least five hundred francs in the neighbourhood. Besides which, they were two-quarters rent behind with the rent, which meant another two hundred and fifty francs. The landlord and Monsieur Marescot even spoke of having them evicted if he did not pay them by the first of January. Finally the porn place had absorbed everything. One could not have got together three francs' worth of odds and ends. The clearance had been so complete. The nails remained in the walls, and that was all, and perhaps there were two pounds of them at three soothes the pound. Chavez, thoroughly entangled in it all, her nerves quite upset by this calculation, would fly into a passion, and bang her fists down upon the table, or else she would end by bursting into tears like a fool. One night she explained, I'll be off to-morrow. I prefer to put the key under the door and to sleep on the pavement rather than to continue to live in such frights. It would be wiser, said Lantier slyly. To get rid of the lease, if you could find someone to take it. When you were both decided to give up the shop, she interrupted him more violently. At once, at once! Ah, it'll be a good riddance. Then the hatter became very practical. On giving up the lease, one could no doubt get the new tenant to be responsible for the two overdue quarters. At the invention to mention de Poisson, and reminded them that Virginie was looking for a shop, theirs would perhaps suit her. He remembered that he had heard her say she longed for one, just like it. But when Virginie's name was mentioned, the laundress suddenly regained her composure. We'll see how things go along. When you're angry, you'll always talk of quitting, but it isn't so easy when you just stop to think about it. During the following days, it was in vain that Lantier harped upon the subject. Chavez replied that she had seen herself worse off and had pulled through. How would she be better off when she no longer had her shop? That would not put bread into their mouths. She would, on the contrary, engage some fresh work women and work up a fresh connection. Lantier made the mistake of mentioning Virginie again. This stirred Chavez into a furious obstinacy. No! Never! She always had her suspicions of what was in Virginie's heart. Virginie only wanted to humiliate her. She would rather turn it over to the first woman to come in from the street than to that hypocrite who had been waiting for years to see her fail. Yes, Virginie still had in mind that fight in the wash-house. Well, she'd be wiser to forget about it unless she wanted another one now. In the face of this flow of angry retorts, Lantier began by attacking Chavez. He called a stupid and stuck-up. He even went so far as to abuse Coupot, accusing him of not knowing how to make his wife respect his friend. Then, realizing that passion would compromise everything, he swore that he would never again interest himself in the affairs of other people, for one always got more kicks than thanks. And indeed, he appeared to have given up all idea of talking them into parting with the least. But he was really watching from the outside. But he was really watching for a favorable opportunity of broaching the subject again and bringing the lawn-dress round to his views. January had now arrived. The weather was wretched, both damp and cold. Mother Coupot, who had coughed and choked all through December, was obliged to take to her bed after twelfth night. It was her annuity which she expected every winter. This winter, though, those around her said she'd never come out of her bedroom except feet first. Indeed, her gasping sounded like a death-rattle. She was still fat, but one eye was blind and one other side of her face was twisted. The doctor made one call and didn't return again. They kept giving her T'sans and going to check on her every hour. She could no longer speak because her breathing was so difficult. One Monday evening, Coupot came home totally drunk. Ever since his mother was in danger, she had lived in a continual state of deep emotion. When he was in bed snoring loudly, Gervais walked about the place for a while. She was in the habit of watching over Mother Coupot during a part of the night. Nana had showed herself very brave, always sleeping beside the old woman, and saying that if she heard her dying, she would wake everyone. Since the invalids seemed to be sleeping peacefully this night, Gervais finally yielded to the appeals of Lanthier to come into his room for a little rest. They only kept a candle alight, standing on the ground behind the wardrobe. But, towards three o'clock, Gervais abruptly jumped out of bed, shivering and oppressed with anguish. She thought she had felt a cold breath pass over her body. The morsel of candle had burnt out. She had tied on her petticoats in the dark, all bewildered and with feverish hands. It was not till she got into the little room, after knocking up against the furniture, that she was able to light a small lamp. In the midst of the oppressive silence of the night, the zinc-worker's snores alone sounded as two grave notes. Nanna, stretched on her back, was breathing gently between her pouting lips, and Gervais, holding down the lamp which caused big shadows to dance about the room, cast the light on Mother Kupo's face, and beheld it all white, the head lying on the shoulder, the eyes wide open. Mother Kupo was dead. Gently, without uttering a cry, icy cold, yet prudent, the lawn-dress returned to Lantier's room. He had gone to sleep again. She bent over him and murmured, Listen, it's all over. She's dead. Heavy with sleep, only half awake, he grunted at first, Leave me alone, get into bed, we can't do any good if she's dead. Then he raised himself on his elbow and asked, What's the time? Three o'clock. Only three o'clock? Get into bed quick, you'll catch cold. His daylight will see what's to be done. But she did not listen to him. She dressed herself completely. Bundling himself in the blankets, Lantier muttered about how stubborn women were. What was the hurry to announce her death in the house? He was irritated at having his sleep spoiled by such gloomy matters. Meanwhile, Gervais had moved her things back into her own room. Then she felt free to sit down and cry, no longer fearful of being caught in Lantier's room. She had been fond of Mother Coupo and felt a deep sorrow at her loss. She sat crying by herself, her sobs loud in the silence. But Coupo never stirred. She had spoken to him and even shaken him, and finally decided to let him sleep. He would be more of a nuisance if he woke up. On returning to the body, she found Nana sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. The child understood, and with her vicious, Urchin's curiosity stretched out her neck to get a better view of her grandmother. She said nothing, but she trembled slightly, surprised and satisfied in the presence of this death, which she had been promising herself for two days past, like some nasty thing hidden away and forbidden to children. And her young cat-like eyes dilated before that white face, all emaciated at the last gasp by the passion of life. She felt that tingling in her back, which she felt behind the glass door when she crept there to spy on what was no concern of chits like her. Come on, get up, said her mother in a low voice, you can't remain here. She regretfully slid out of bed, turning her head round, and not taking her eyes off the corpse. Gévese was much worried about her, not knowing where to put her until daytime. She was about to tell her to dress herself, when Lantier in his trousers and slippers rejoined her. He could not get to sleep again, and was rather ashamed of his behaviour. Then everything was arranged. She can sleep in my bed, remedy, she'll have plenty of room. Nana looked at her mother and Lantier with her big, clear eyes, and put on her stupid air, the same as on New Year's Day, when any one made her a present of a box of chocolate candy. And there was certainly no need for them to hurry her. She trotted off in her night-gown, her bare feet scarcely touching the tiled floor. She glided like a snake into the bed, which was still quite warm, and she lay stretched out and buried in it, her slim body scarcely raising the counterpane. Each time her mother entered the room, she beheld her with her eyes sparkling in her motionless face, not sleeping, not moving, very red with excitement, and appearing to reflect on her own affairs. Lantier assisted Gervais in dressing Mother Coupot, and it was not an easy matter, for the body was heavy. One would never have thought that the old woman was so fat and so white. They put on her stockings, her white petticoat, a short linen jacket, and a white cap, in short the best of her linen. Coupot continued snoring, a high note and a low one, though one sharp, the other flat. One could almost have imagined it to be church music, accompanying the Good Friday ceremonies. When the corpse was dressed and properly laid out on the bed, Lantier poured himself out a glass of wine, for he felt quite upset. Gervais searched the chest of drawers to find a little brass crucifix which she had brought from Placens, but she recollected that Mother Coupot had in all probability sold it herself. They had lighted the stove, and they passed the rest of the night half asleep on chairs, finishing the bottle of wine that had been opened, worried and sulking, as though it was their own fault. Towards seven o'clock, before daylight, Coupot at length awoke. When he learnt his loss, he at first stood still with dry eyes, stuttering and vaguely thinking that they were playing him some joke. Then he threw himself on the ground and went and knelt beside the corpse. He kissed it and wept like a child, with such a copious flow of tears that he quite whetted the sheet with wiping his cheeks. Gervais had recommended sobbing, deeply affected by her husband's grief, and the best of friends with him again. Yes, he was better at heart than she thought he was. Coupot's despair mingled with a violent pain in his head. He passed his fingers through his hair. His mouth was dry like on the morrow of a booze, and he was still a little drunk in spite of his ten hours of sleep. And clenching his fist, he complained aloud. Monde Yoshi was gone now, his poor mother whom he loved so much. Ah! what a headache he had it would settle him. It was like a wig of fire. And now they were tearing out his heart. No, it was not just a fate thus to set itself against one man. Come, cheer up, old fellow, said Lancieu, raising him from the ground. He must pull himself together. He poured him out a glass of wine, but Coupot refused to drink. What's the matter with me? I've got copper in my throat. It's mama. When I saw her, I got a taste of copper in my mouth. Mama, mon Dieu, mama, mama! And he recommended crying like a child. Then he drank the glass of wine, hoping to put out the flame, searing his breast. Lancieu soon left, using the excuse of informing the family and filming the necessary declaration at the town hall. Really, though, he felt the need of fresh air. And so he took his time, smoking cigarettes and enjoying the morning air. When he left Madame Le Rat's house, he went into a dairy-place on Le Batignol for a cup of hot coffee, and remained there an hour, thinking things over. Towards nine o'clock the family were all united in the shop, the shutters of which were kept up. Lawyer did not cry. Moreover, he had some pressing work to attend to, and he returned almost directly to his room, after having stalked about with a face put on for the occasion. Madame Lawyer and Madame Le Rat embraced the coupes, and wiped their eyes, from which a few tears were falling. But Madame Lawyer, after giving a hasty glance around the death chamber, suddenly raised her voice to say that it was unheard of, that one never left a lighted lamp beside a corpse. There should be a candle. And Nana was sent to purchase a packet of tall ones. Ah, well, it made one long to die at clump-clumps, she said. She laid one out in such a fine fashion. What a fool not even to know what to do with a corpse! Had she never buried anyone in her life? Madame Le Rat had to go to the neighbours and borrow a crucifix. She brought one back, which was too big, a cross of black wood with a Christ in painted cardboard, fastened to it, which covered the whole of Mother Coupot's chest, and seemed to crush her under its weight. Then they tried to obtain some holy water, but no one had any, and it was again Nana, who was sent to the church to bring some back in a bottle. In practically no time, the tiny room was presented quite another appearance. On a little table, a candle was burning beside a glassful of holy water, into which a sprig of boxwood was dipped. Now, if anyone came, it would at least look decent. And they arranged the chairs in a circle in the shop for receiving people. End of third part of chapter nine. Recorded by Alex Foster in Nottingham, May 09, www.alexfoster.me.uk