 Section 6 of L'Assemoire. Jeves had taken up her basket again. She did not rise from her seat, however, but held the basket on her knees, with a vacant look in her eyes, and lost in thought, as though the young workman's words had awakened within her far-off thoughts of existence. And she said again, slowly, and without any apparent change of manner, Mon Dieu, I am not ambitious. I don't ask for much. My desire is to work in peace, always to have bread to eat, and a decent place to sleep in, you know. With a bed, a table, and two chairs, nothing more. If I can, I'd like to raise my children to be good citizens. Also, I'd like not to be beaten up, if I ever again live with a man. It's not my idea of amusement. She pondered, thinking if there was anything else she wanted, but there wasn't anything of importance. Then, after a moment, she went on. Yes, when one reaches the end, one might wish to die in one's bed. For myself, having trudged through life, I should like to die in my bed, in my own home. And she rose from her seat. Coupeau, who cordially approved her wishes, was already standing up, anxious about the time, but they did not leave yet. Gervais was curious enough to go to the far end of the room for a look at the big still behind the oak railing. It was chugging away in a little glassed-in courtyard. Coupeau explained its workings to her, pointing at the different parts of the machinery, showing her the trickling of the small stream of limpid alcohol. Not a single gay puff of steam was coming forth from the endless coils. The breathing could barely be heard. It sounded muffled, as if from underground. It was like a somber worker, performing dark deeds in the bright daylight, strong but silent. My boots, accompanied by his two comrades, came to lean on the railing until they could get a place at the bar. He laughed, looking at the machine. Don't ever do, that's clever. There's enough stuff in his big belly to last for weeks. He wouldn't mind if they just fixed the end of the tube in his mouth, so he could feel the fiery spirits flowing down to his heels like a river, and feel better than the tiny sips doled out by Père Colomb. These two comrades laughed with him, saying that my boots was quite a guy after all. The huge still continued to trickle forth its alcoholic sweat. Eventually it would invade the bar, flow out along the outer boulevards, and inundate the immense expanse of Paris. Jervais stepped back, shivering. She tried to smile as she said, It's foolish, but that still and the liquor gives me the creeps. Then returning to the idea she nursed of a perfect happiness, she resumed, Now, ain't I right? It's much the nicest, isn't it, to have plenty of work, bread to eat, a home of one's own, and to be able to bring up one's children, and to die in one's bed? And never to be beaten, added Coupot Gailly. But I would never beat you, if you would only try me, Madame Jervais. If no cause for fear, I don't drink, and then I love you too much. Madame, shall I be marriage? I'll get you divorced, and make you my wife. He was speaking low, whispering at the back of her neck, while she made her way through the crowd of men where Bars could help before her. She kept shaking her head, no, yet she turned around to smile at him, apparently happy to know that he never drank. Yes, certainly, she would say yes to him, except she had already sworn to herself never to start up with another man. Suddenly they reached the door and went out. When they left, L'Assoumois was packed to the door, spilling its hubbub of rough voices and its heavy smell of vitriol into the street. My boots could be heard railing at Père Colombe, calling him a scoundrel and accusing him of only half filling his glass. He didn't have to come in here, he'd never come back. He suggested to his comrade a place near the Barrière Saint-Denis, where he drank good stuff straight. Ah, c'est Jervais, when they reached the sidewalk. You can breathe out here. Good-bye, Monsieur Coupot, and thank you. I must hurry now. He seized her hand as she started along the boulevard, insisting, Take a walk with me, along Rue de la Goudeur. It's not much farther for you. I've got to see my sister before going back to work. We'll keep each other company. In the end, Jervais agreed, and they walked beside each other along the Rue de Poissonnier, although she did not take his arm. He told her about his family. His mother, an old vest-maker, now had to do housekeeping, because her eyesight was poor. Her birthday was the third of last month, and she was sixty-two. He was the youngest. One of his sisters, a widow of thirty-six, worked in a flower-shop, and lived in the Batignolle section, on Rue de Moine. The other sister was thirty years old now. She had married a dead-pan chain-maker named Lourieux. That's where he was going now. They lived in a big tenement on the left side. He ate with them in the evenings. It saved a bit for all of them. But he had been invited out this evening, and he was going to tell her not to expect him. Jervais, who was listening to him, suddenly interrupted him to ask, with a smile. "'So you're called Yon Cassis, Monsieur Coupeau?' "'Ah,' replied he. "'It's a nickname my mates have given me, because I generally drink Cassis when they force me to accompany them to the wine-shop. It's no worse to be called Yon Cassis than my boots, is it?' "'Of course not. Yon Cassis isn't a knuckling-name,' observed the young woman, and she questioned him about his work. He was still working there, behind the octroy wall at the new hospital. Ah, there was no want of work. He would not be finished there for a year at least. There were yards and yards of gutters.' "'You know,' said he, "'I can see the Hotel Bronqueur when I'm up there. Yesterday you were at the window, and I waved my arms. But you didn't notice me.' They'd already gone about a hundred paces along the rue de la Couteur when he stood still, and, raising his eyes, said, "'That's the house. I was born farther on, at number twenty-two. But this house is, all the same, a fine block of masonry. It's as big as a barrack inside.' Jeveils looked up, examining the façade. On the street side the tenement had five stories, each with fifteen windows, whose black shutters with their broken slats gave an air of desolation to the wide expanse of wool. Four shops occupied the ground floor. To the right of the entrance a large, greasy hash-house, and to the left a coal-dealer, a notion-seller, and an umbrella-merchant. The building appeared even larger than it was because it had on each side a small, low building which seemed to lean against it for support. This immense, squared-off building was outlined against the sky. Its unplacid side-walls were as bare as prison-walls, except for rows of roughly jutting stones which suggested jaws full of decayed teeth yawning vagantly. Jeveils was gazing at the entrance with interest. The high, arched doorway rose to the second floor and opened onto a deep porch at the end of which could be seen the pale daylight of a courtyard. This entrance-way was paved like the street, and down the centre flowed a streamlet of pink-stained water. Come in, said Coupon, no one will eat you. Jeveils wanted to wait for him in the street, however she could not resist going through the porch as far as the congerges roamed on the right, and there on the threshold she raised her eyes. Inside the building was six storeys high with four identical plain walls enclosing the broad central court. The drab walls were corroded by yellowish spots and streaked by drippings from the roof-gutters. The walls went straight up to the eaves with no moulding or ornament, except the angles on the drain-pipes at each floor. Here the sink-drains added their stains. The glass window-pains resembled murky water. Mattresses of checkered blue-ticking were hanging out of several windows to air. Clothes-lines stretched from other windows with family-washing hanging to dry. On a third-floor line was a baby's diaper still implanted with filth. This crowded tenement was bursting at the seams, spilling out poverty and misery through every crevice. Each of the four walls had, at ground level, a narrow entrance, placid without a trace of woodwork. This opened into a vestibule, containing a dirt-encrusted staircase which spiralled upward. They were each labelled with one of the first four letters of the alphabet painted on the wall. Several large workshops with weather-blackened skylights were scattered about the court. Near the congerger's room was the dying establishment responsible for the pink streamlet. Puddles of water infested the courtyard, along with wood-shavings and coal-sinders. Gras and weeds grew between the paving-stones. The unforgiving sunlight seemed to cut the court into two parts. On the shady side was a dripping water-tap, with three small hens scratching for worms with their filth-smeared claws. Gervais slowly gazed about, lowering her glance from the sixth floor to the paving-stones, then raising it again, surprised at the vastness, feeling as it were in the midst of a living organ, in the very heart of a city, and interested in the house, as though it were a giant before her. Is madame seeking for any one? called out the inquisitive congerge, emerging from her room. The young woman explained that she was waiting for a friend. She returned to the street. Then, as Coupeau did not come, she went back to the courtyard, seized with the desire to take another look. She did not think the house ugly. Among the rags hanging from the windows she discovered various cheerful touches, a wall-flower blooming in a pot, a cage of chirp and canneries, shaving glasses shining like stars in the depth of the shadow. A carpenter was singing in his workshop, accompanied by the whining of his plane. The blacksmith's hammers were ringing rhythmically. In contrast to the apparent wretched poverty, at nearly every open window appeared the begrimmed faces of laughing children. Women with peaceful faces could be seen bent over their sewing. The rooms were empty of men who had gone back to work after lunch. The whole tenement was tranquil, except for the sounds from the workshops below, which served as a sort of lullaby that went on, unceasingly, always the same. The only thing she did not like was the courtyard's dampness. She would want rooms at the rear on the sunny side. Chavez took a few more steps into the courtyard, inhaling the characteristic odor of the slums, comprised of dust and rotten garbage. But the sharp odor of the waste water from the dye shop was strong, and Chavez thought it smelled better here than at the Hotel Bon Coeur. She chose a window for herself, the one at the far left with a small window-box planted with scarlet runners. I'm afraid I've kept you waiting rather a long time, said Coupot, whom she suddenly heard close beside her. They always make an awful fuss whenever I don't dine with them, and it was worse than ever today as my sister had bought some veal. And as Chavez had slightly started with surprise, he continued glancing around in his turn. You were looking at the house. It's always all lead from the top to the bottom. There are three hundred lodges, I think. If I had any furniture, I would have secured a small room. One would be comfortable here, don't you think so? Yes, one would be comfortable, meant Chavez. In our street at Plazance, there weren't near so many people. Look, that's pretty, that window up on the fifth floor with the scarlet runners. The zinc worker's obstinate desire made him ask her once more whether she would or she wouldn't. They could rent a place here as soon as they found a bed. She hurried out the arched entrance way, asking him not to start that subject again. There was as much chance of this building collapsing as there was of her sleeping under the same blanket with him. Still, when Coupeau left her in front of Madame Foucounier's shop, he was allowed to hold her hand for a moment. For a month the young woman and the zinc worker were the best of friends. He admired her courage when he beheld her half killing herself with work, keeping her children tidy and clean, and yet finding time at night to do a little sewing. Often other women were hopelessly messy, forever nibbling or gating about, but she wasn't like them at all. She was much too serious. Then she would laugh and modestly defend herself. It was her misfortune that she had not always been good, having been with a man when only fourteen. Then too she had often helped her mother empty a bottle of anisette. But she had learned a few things from experience. He was wrong to think of her as strong-willed. Her willpower was very weak. She had always let herself be pushed into things because she didn't want to hurt someone's feelings. Her one hope now was to live among decent people, for living among bad people was like being hit over the head. It cracked your skull. Whenever she thought of the future she shivered. Everything she had seen in life so far, especially when a child, had given her lessons to remember. Kupo, however, chaffed her about her gloomy thoughts and brought back all her courage by trying to pinch her hips. She pushed him away from her and slapped his hands, whilst he called out laughingly that for a weak woman she was not a very easy capture. He who always joked about everything did not trouble himself regarding the future. One day followed another, that was all. There would always be somewhere to sleep and a bite to eat. The neighbourhood seemed decent enough to him, except for a gang of drunkards that ought to be cleaned out of the gutters. Kupo was not a bad sort of fellow. He sometimes had really sensible things to say. He was something of a dandy with his Parisian working man's gift for banter, a regular gift of gab, and besides he was attractive. They had ended by rendering each other all sorts of services at the Hotel Bunker. Kupo fetched her milk, ran her errands, carried her bundles of clothes. Often of an evening, as he got home first from work, he took the children for a walk on the exterior boulevard. Gervais, in return for his polite attentions, would go up into the narrow room at the top of the house where he slept and see to his clothes, sowing buttons on his blue linen trousers and mending his linen jackets. A great familiarity existed between them. She was never bored when he was around. The gay songs he sang amused her, and so did his continuous banter of jokes and jibes characteristic of the Paris streets, this being still new to her. END OF SECOND PART OF CHAPTER TWO SECTION SEVEN OF LA SEMOIRE 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 Anna Simon. La Samoire by Émile Zola, translated by Ernest A. Visitey. THIRD PART OF CHAPTER TWO On Coupot's side, this continual familiarity inflamed him more and more until it began to seriously bother him. He began to feel tense and uneasy. He continued with his foolish talk, never failing to ask her, when will it be? She understood what he meant and teased him. He would then come to visit her carrying his bedroom slippers as if he were moving in. She joked about it and continued calmly without blushing at the illusions with which he was always surrounding her. She stood for anything from him, as long as he didn't get rough. She only got angry once when he pulled a strand of her hair while trying to force a kiss from her. Towards the end of June, Coupot lost his lightliness. He became most peculiar. Gervais, feeling uneasy at some of his glances, barricaded herself in at night. Then, after having sulked ever since the Sunday, he suddenly came on the Tuesday night about eleven o'clock and knocked at her room. She would not open to him. But his voice was so gentle and so trembling that she ended by removing the chest of drawers she'd pushed against the door. When he entered, she thought he was ill. He looked so pale, his eyes were so red, and the veins on his face were all swollen. And he stood there, stuttering and shaking his head. No, no, he was not ill. He'd been crying for two hours upstairs in his room. He wept like a child, biting his pillow so as not to be heard by the neighbours. For three nights past he'd been unable to sleep. It could not go on like that. Listen, Madame Gervais, said he, with his swelling in his throat and on the point of bursting out crying again. We must end this, mustn't we? We'll go and get married. It's what I want. I've quite made up my mind. Gervais showed great surprise. She was very grave. Oh, Monsieur Coupot, Mermetchi. Whatever are you thinking of? You know, I've never asked you for that. I didn't care about it. That was all. Oh, no, no. It's serious now. Think of what you're saying. I beg of you. But he continued to shake his head with an air of unalterable resolution. He had already thought it all over. He had come down because he wanted to have a good night. She wasn't going to send him back to weep again, he supposed. As soon as she'd said yes, he would no longer bother her, and she could go quietly to bed. He only wanted to hear her say yes. They could talk it over on the morrow. But I suddenly can't say yes just like that, resumed Gervais. I don't want you to be able to accuse me later on of having incited you to do a foolish thing. You shouldn't be so insistent, Monsieur Coupot. You can't really be sure that you're in love with me. If you didn't see me for a week, it might fade away. Sometimes men get married, and then there's day after day, stretching out into an entire lifetime, and they get pretty well bored by it all. Sit down there. I'm willing to talk it over at once. Then, until one in the morning, in the dark room, and by the faint light of a smoky tello candle, which they forgot to snuff, they talked of their marriage, lowering their voices so as not to wake the two children, Claude and Etienne, who were sleeping, both hats on the same pillow. Gervais kept pointing out to the children to Goupot, what a funny kind of dowry they were. She really shouldn't burden him with them. Besides, what would the neighbours say? She'd feel ashamed for him because everyone knew about the story of her life and her lover. They wouldn't think it decent if they saw them getting married barely two months later. Goupot replied by shrugging his shoulders. He didn't care about the neighbours. He never bothered about their affairs. So there was l'entier before him. Well, so what? What's so bad about that? She hadn't been constantly bringing men upstairs, as some women did, even rich ladies. The children would grow up. They'd raise them right. Never had he known before such a woman, such sound character, so good-hearted. Anyway, she could have been anything, a street-walker, ugly, lazy and good for nothing, with a whole gang of dirty kids, and so what? He wanted her. Yes, I want you, he repeated, bringing his hand down on his knee with a continuous hammering. You understand? I want you. There's nothing to be said to that, is there? Little by little, Gervais gave way. Her emotions began to take control when faced with his encompassing desire. Still, with her hands in her lap and her face suffused with a soft sweetness, she hesitantly offered objections. From outside, through the half-open window, a lovely June night breathed in puffs of sultry air, disturbing the candle with its long wick, gleaming red like a glowing coal. In the deep silence of the sleeping neighbourhood, the only sound was the infantile weeping of a drunkard lying in the middle of the street. Far away, in the back room of some restaurant, a violin was playing a dance tune for some late party. Coupeau was silent. Then, knowing she had no more arguments, he smiled, took hold of her hands, and pulled her toward him. She was in one of those moments of weakness she so greatly mistrusted, persuaded at last, too emotionally stirred to refuse anything or to hurt anyone's feelings. Coupeau didn't realise that she was giving way. He held her wrists so tightly as to almost crush them. Together, they breathed a long sigh, and to both of them meant a partial satisfaction of their desire. You'll say yes, won't you? asked he. How you worry me, she murmured. You wish it? Well then, yes. Ah, we're perhaps doing a very foolish thing. He jumped up, and, seizing her round the waist, kissed her roughly on the face at random. Then, at this caress, coarser noise, he became anxious and went softly and looked at Claude and Etienne. Hush, we must be careful, said he in a whisper, and not wake the children. Goodbye till tomorrow. And he went back to his room. Jervais, all in a tremble, remained seated on the edge of her bed, without thinking of undressing herself for nearly an hour. She was touched. She felt that Coupeau was very honourable, for at one moment she had really thought it was all over, and that he would forget her. The drunkard below, under the window, was now hoarsely uttering the plaintive cry of some lost animal. The violin, in the distance, had left off its saucy tune, and was now silent. During the following days, Coupeau sought to get Jervais to call some evening on a cistern in the rue de la Goudeur, but the young woman, who was very timid, showed a great dread of this visit to the Lorieux. She knew that Coupeau had a lingering fear of that household, even though he certainly wasn't dependent on his sister, who wasn't even the oldest of the family. Mama Coupeau would certainly give her consent at once, and she never refused her only son anything. The thing was that the Lorieux were supposed to be earning ten francs a day or more, and that gave them a certain authority. Coupeau would never dare to get married unless his wife was acceptable to them. I have spoken to them of you. They know our plans. Explain to Jervais. Come now. What a child you are! Let's call on them this evening. I've warned you, haven't I? You'll find my sister rather stiff. Lorieux, too, isn't always very amiable. In reality, they are greatly annoyed because if I marry I shall no longer take my meals with them, and it'll be an economy the less. But that doesn't matter. They won't turn you out. Do this for me. It's absolutely necessary. These words only frightened Jervais the more. Once had at the evening, however, she gave in. Coupeau came for her at half-past eight. She had dressed herself in a black dress, a crepe shawl with yellow palms, and a white cap trimmed with a little cheap lace. During the six weeks she had been working, she had saved the seven francs for the shawl, and the two and a half francs for the cap. The dress was an old one cleaned and made up afresh. They're expecting you, said Coupeau to her, as they went round by their Rue de Poissonnier. Oh, they're beginning to get used to the idea of my being married. They seem nice indeed, tonight. And you know, if you've never seen gold chains made, it'll amuse you to watch them. They just happen to have a pressing order for Monday. They've got gold in their room, asked Jervais. I should think so. There's some on the walls, on the floor, in fact, everywhere. They had passed the arched doorway and crossed the courtyard. The Laurieus lived on the sixth floor, staircase B. Coupeau laughingly told her to hold the handrail tight and not to leave go of it. She looked up and blinked her eyes as she pierced a tall, hollow tower of the staircase, lighted by three guest jets, one on every second landing. The last one, right up at the top, looked like a star twinkling in a black sky. While the other two cast long flashes of light, of fantastic shapes, among the interminable windings of the stairs. By Jove said the zinc worker as he reached the first floor, smiling. There's a strong smell of onion soup. Someone's having onion soup, I'm sure. Staircase B, with its gray, dirty steps and handrail, its scratched walls and chipped plaster, was full of strong kitchen odours. Long corridors, echoing with noise, led away from each landing. Doors painted yellow, gaped open, smeared black around the ledge from dirty hands. A sink on each landing gave forth a fetid humidity, adding its stench to the sharp flavour of the cooking of onions. From the basement, all the way to the sixth floor, you could hear dishes clattering, saucepans being rinsed, pots being scraped and scarred. On the first floor, Gervais saw a half-open door with the word designer written on it in large letters. Inside, were two men sitting by a table, the dishes cleared away from its oil-cloth cover, arguing furiously amid a cloud of pipe smoke. The second and third floors were quieter, and through cracks in the woodwork, only such sounds filtered as the rhythm of a cradle rocking, the stifled crying of a child, a woman's voice sounding like the dull murmur of running water with no words distinct. Gervais read the various signs on the doors, giving the names of the occupants. Madame Gaudron, wool-carder, and Monsieur Madigny, cardboard boxes. There was a fight in progress on the fourth floor, a stomping of feet that shook the floor, furniture banged around, a racket of curses and blows. But this did not bother the neighbour's opposite, who were playing cards with their door opened wide to admit more air. When Gervais reached the fifth floor, she had to stop to take a breath. She was not used to going up so high. That wall for ever turning, the glimpses she had of the lodgings following each other, made her head ache. Anyway, there was a family almost blocking the landing, the father washing the dishes over a small earthenware stove near the sink, and the mother sitting with her back to the stair-rail and cleaning the baby before putting it to bed. Coupeau kept urging Gervais along, and they finally reached the sixth floor. He encouraged her with a smile. They had arrived. She had been hearing a voice all the way up from the bottom, and she was gazing up with, wondering where it could be coming from, a voice so clear and piercing that it had dominated all the other sounds. It came from a little old woman in an attic room, who sang while putting dresses on cheap dolls. When a tall girl came by with a pail of water, and entered a nearby apartment, Gervais saw a tumbled bed on which a man was sprawled, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. As the door closed behind her, Gervais saw the hand-written card. Mademoiselle Clémence, ironing. Larch had finally made it to the top, her legs wary and her breath short. Gervais leaned over the railing to look down. Now it was the gaslight on the first floor, which seemed a distant star at the bottom of a narrow well, six stories deep. All the odours and all the murmurings of the immense variety of life within the tenement came up to her in one stifling breath that flushed her face as she hazarded a worried glance down into the gulf below. We're not there yet, said Coupeau. Oh, it's quite a journey. He had gone down a long corridor on the left. He turned twice, the first time also to the left, the second time to the right. The corridor still continued branching off, narrowing between walls full of crevices with plaster peeling off, and lighted at distant intervals by a slender guest jet. And the doors, all alike, succeeded each other the same as the doors of a prison or a convent, and nearly all open, continued to display homes of misery and work, which the hot June evening filled with a reddish mist. At length they reached a small passage in complete darkness. We're here, resumed the zinc worker. Be careful, keep to the wall, there are three steps. And Gervais carefully took another ten steps in the obscurity. She stumbled, and then counted the three steps. But at the end of the passage, Coupeau had opened the door without knocking. A brilliant light spread over the tiled floor. They entered. It was a narrow apartment, and seemed as if it were the continuation of the corridor. A faded wooden curtain, raised up just then by a string, divided the place in two. The first part contained a bedstead pushed beneath an angle of the attic ceiling, a cast iron stove still warm from the cooking of the dinner, two chairs, a table, and a wardrobe, the corners of which had had to be sawn off to make it fit in between the door and the bedstead. The second part was fitted up as a workshop. At the end a narrow forge with its bellows, to the right a vise fixed to the wall beneath some shelves on which pieces of old iron lace scattered, to the left near the window a small workman's bench, encumbered with greasy and very dirty pliers, shears, and microscopical sores, all very dirty and grimy. It's us, cried Coupeau, advancing as far as the wooden curtain. End of second part of chapter 2. Section 8 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 Anna Simon. La Samoire by Émile Zola, translated by Ernest A. Visitey. Fourth part of chapter 2. But no one answered at first. Javes, deeply affected, moved especially by the thought that she was about to enter a place full of gold, stood behind the zinc-worker, stammering and venturing upon knots of her head by way of bone. The brilliant light, a lamp burning on the bench, a brazier full of coals flaring in the forge, increased her confusion still more. She ended, however, by distinguishing Madame Laurieux. Little, red-head, and tolerably strong, pulling with all strength of her short arms and with the assistance of a big pair of pincers, a thread of black metal which she passed through the holes of a draw-plate fixed to the vise. Seated in front of the bench, Laurieux, quite a small of stature, but more slender in the shoulders, worked with the tips of his pliers with the vivacity of a monkey, at a labour so minute that it was impossible to follow it between his scraggy fingers. It was the husband who first raised his head, a head with scanty locks, the face with the yellow tinge of old wax, long and with an ailing expression. Ah, Jew, well, well, murmurty. We're in a hurry, you know. Don't come into the work-room. You'd be in our way. Stay in the bedroom. And he resumed his minute task, his face again in the reflection of a glass globe full of green-coloured water, through which the lamp shed a circle of bright light over his work. Take the chairs, called out Madame Laurieux in her turn. It's that lady, isn't it? Very well, very well. She had rolled the wire and she carried it to the forge, and then, reviving the fire of the brazier with a large wooden fan, she proceeded to temper the wire before passing it through the last holes of the draw-plate. Coupeau moved the chairs forward and seated Gervais by the curtain. The room was so narrow that he could not sit beside her, so he sat behind her, leaning over her shoulder to explain the work in progress. Gervais was intimidated by this strange reception and felt uneasy. She had a buzzing in her ears and couldn't hear clearly. She thought the wife looked older than her thirty years, and not very neat, with her hair in a pigtail dangling down the back of her loosely worn wrapper. The husband, who was only a year older, appeared already an old man with mean, thin lips as he sat there working in his shirt sleeves, with his bare feet thrust into down at the heels' slippers. Gervais was dismayed by the smallness of the shop, the grimy walls, the rustiness of the tools, and the black suit spread all over what looked like the odds and ends of his scrap-iron, peddler's wares. And the gold, asked Gervais in a low voice. Her anxious glances searched the corners and sold amongst all that filth for the resplendence she had dreamt of, but Coupeau burst out laughing. Gold, said he, why, there's some, there's some more, and there's some at your feet. He pointed successfully to the fine wire at which his sister was working, and to another roll of wire, similar to the ordinary iron wire, hanging against the wall close to the vice. Then, going down on all fours, he picked up, beneath the wooden screen which covered the tiled floor of the workroom, a piece of waste, a tiny fragment resembling the point of a rusty needle. But Gervais protested, that couldn't be gold, that blackish piece of metal as ugly as iron? He had to bite into the piece, and show her the gleaming notch made by his teeth. Then he continued his explanations. The employers provided the gold wire, already alloyed. The craftsmen first pulled it through the draw-plate to obtain the correct size, being careful to anneal it five or six times to keep it from breaking. It required a steady, strong hand, and plenty of practice. His sister would not let her husband touch the wire drawing, since he was subject to cuffing spells. She had strong arms for it. He had seen her draw gold to the finest of her hair. L'oreau, seized with a fit of cuffing, almost doubled up on his stool. In the midst of the paroxysm, he spoke, and sat in a choking voice, still without looking at Gervais, as though he was merely mentioning the thing to himself. I am making the herringbone chain. Coupeau urged Gervais to get up. She might draw nearer and see. The chainmaker consented with a grunt. He wound the wire prepared by his wife round a mandrel, a very thin steel rod. Then he sawed gently, cutting the wire the whole length of the mandrel, each turn forming a link, which he soldiered. The links were laid on a large piece of charcoal. He wetted them with a drop of borax, taken from the bottom of a broken glass beside him, and he made them red-hot at the lamp beneath the horizontal flame produced by the blowpipe. Then, when it soldered about a hundred links, he returned once more to his minute work, propping his hands against the edge of the chevillee, a small piece of board which the friction of his hands had polished. He bent each link almost double with the pliers, squeezed one end close, inserted it in the last link already in place, and then, with the aid of a point, opened out again the end he had squeezed, and he did this with a continuous regularity, the links joining each other so rapidly, that the chain gradually grew beneath Jervais' gris, without her being able to follow or well understand how it was done. That's the herringbone chain, said Coupeau. There's also the long link, the cable, the plain ring, and the spiral. But that's the herringbone. L'oreeu only makes the herringbone chain. The letter chuckled with satisfaction. He exclaimed as he continued squeezing the links, invisible between his black fingernails. Listen to me, young cassies. I was making a calculation this morning. I commenced work when I was twelve years old, you know. Well, can you guess how long a herringbone chain I must have made up till today? He raised his pale face and blinked his red eyelids. Twenty-six thousand feet, do you hear? Two leagues. That's something. A herringbone chain, two leagues long. Hits enough to twist round the necks of all the women of the neighborhood. And, you know, it's still increasing. I hope to make it long enough to reach from Paris to Versailles. Jervais had returned to her seat, disenchanted, and thinking everything very ugly. She smiled to be polite to the l'oreeu's. The complete silence about her marriage bothered her. It was the sole reason for her having come. The l'oreeu's were treating her as some stranger brought in by Coupeau. When a conversation finally did get started, it concerned the building's tenants. Madame l'oreeu asked her husband if he had heard the people on the fourth floor having a fight. They fought every day. The husband usually came home drunk, and the wife had her faults too, yelling in the filthiest language. Then they spoke with a designer on the first floor, an uppity show-off, with a mound of debts, always smoking, always arguing loudly with his friends. Monsieur Madignier's cardboard business was barely surviving. He had let two girl workers go yesterday. The business ate up all his money, leaving his children to run around in rags. And that Madame Coudron was pregnant again. This was almost indecent at her age. The landlord was going to evict the coquettes on the fifth floor. They owed nine months rent, and besides they insisted on lighting their stove out on the landing. Last Saturday, the old lady on the sixth floor, Mademoiselle Rémonjoux, had arrived just in time to save the linger-load child from being badly burned. Mademoiselle Clémence, one who took an ironing, well, she lived life as she pleased. She was so kind to animals though, and had such a good heart that you couldn't say anything against her. It was a pity, a fine girl like her, the company she kept. She'd been walking the streets before long. Look, here's one, said L'oreu to his wife, giving her the piece of chain he'd been working on since his lunch. You can trim it. And he added, with the persistence of a man who does not easily relinquish a joke. Another four feet and a half. That brings me nearer to Versailles. Madame L'oreu, after tempering it again, trimmed it by passing it through the regulating draw plate. Then she put it in a little copper saucepan with a long handle, full of lye water, and placed it over the fire of the forge. Gervais, again pushed forward by Coupeau, had to follow this last operation. When the chain was thoroughly cleansed, it appeared a dull red colour. It was finished, and ready to be delivered. They're always delivered like that in their rough state, the zinc worker explained. The polishes rubbed them afterwards with cloths. Gervais felt her courage failing her. The heat, more and more intense, was suffocating her. They kept the door shut, because L'oreu caught cold from the least draught. Then, as they still did not speak of the marriage, she wanted to go away and gently pulled Coupeau's jacket. He understood. Besides, he also was beginning to feel ill at ease and vexed at their effectation of silence. Well, we're off, said he. We mustn't keep you from your work. He moved about for a moment, waiting, hoping for a word or some illusion or other. At length he decided to broach the septic himself. I say, L'oreu, we're counting on you to be my wife's witness. The chain-maker pretended, with a chuckle, to be greatly surprised, whilst his wife, leaving her draw-plates, placed herself in the middle of the work-room. So it's serious, then, murmured he. That confounded young Cassis, one never knows whether he's joking or not. Ah, yes, madame's, the person involved, said the wife in her turn, as she stared rudely at Gervais. Mon Dieu, we've no advice to give you, we haven't. It's a funny idea to go and get married all the same. Anyhow, it's your own wish. When it doesn't succeed, one's only got one's self to blame, that's all. And it doesn't often succeed, not often, not often. She uttered these last words slower and slower, and, shaking her head, she looked from the young woman's face to her hands, and then to her feet, as though she had wished to undress her, and see the very pores of her skin. She must have found her better than she expected. My brother is perfectly free, she continued more stiffly. No doubt the family might have wished, when always makes projects. But things take such funny turns. For myself, I don't want to have any unpleasantness. Had he brought us the lowest of the low, I should merely have said, Marry her and go to Blazes. He was not badly off, though, here with us. He's fat enough, one can very well see he didn't fast much, and he always found his soup hot right on time. I say, Lorie, don't you think madame's like Thérèse? You know who I mean, that woman who used to live opposite, and who died of consumption? Yes, there is a certain resemblance, replied the chainmaker. And you've got two children, madame. Now, I must admit, I said to my brother, I can't understand how you can want to marry a woman who's got two children. You mustn't be offended if I consult his interests. It's only natural. You don't look strong, either. Don't you think, Lorie, that madame doesn't look very strong? No, no, she's not strong. They did not mention her leg, but Gervais understood by their side glances and the curling of their lips that they were alluding to it. She stood before them, wrapped in her thin shawl with the yellow palms, replying in monosyllables as though in the presence of her judges. Coupeau, seeing she was suffering, ended by exclaiming, All that's nothing to do with it. What you are talking about isn't important. The wedding will take place on Saturday, July 29th. I calculated it by the almanac. Is it settled? Does it suit you? Oh, it's all the same to us, said his sister. There was no necessity to consult us. Haishan prevent Lorieau being witness. I only want peace and quiet. Gervais, hanging her head, not knowing what to do with herself, had put the toe of her boot through one of the openings in the wooden screen which covered the tiled floor of the workroom. Then, afraid of having disturbed something when she had withdrawn it, she stooped down and felt about with her hand. Lorieau hastily brought the lamp and he examined her fingers suspiciously. He must be careful, said he. The tiny bits of gold stick to the shoes and get carried away without one knowing it. It was all to do with business. The employers didn't allow a single speck for waste. He showed her the rabbit's foot he used to brush off any flax of gold left on the cheviere and the leather he kept on his lap to catch any gold that fell. Twice weekly the shop was swept out carefully, the sweepings collected and burned and the ashes sifted. This recovered up to twenty-five or thirty francs worth of gold a month. Madame Lorieau could not take her eyes from Gervais's shoes. There is no reason to get angry, murmured she with an amiable smile. But perhaps madame would not mind looking at the soles of her shoes. And Gervais, turning very red, sat down again, and holding up her feet, showed that there was nothing clinging to them. Couple had opened the door, exclaiming, Good night, in an abrupt tone of voice. He called to her from the corridor. Then she in her turn went off, after stammering a few polite words. She hoped to see them again, and that they would all agree well together. Both of the Lorieau had already gone back to their work at the far end of their dark hall of a workroom. Madame Lorieau, her skin reflecting the red glow from the bed of coals, was drawing on another wire, each effort swelling her neck, and making the strained muscles stand out like taut cords. Her husband, hunched over beneath the greenish gleam of the globe, was starting another length of chain, twisting each link with his pliers, pressing it on one side, inserting it into the next link above, opening it again with a pointed tool, continuously, mechanically, not wasting a motion, even to wipe the sweat from his face. When Jervais emerged from the corridor onto the landing, she could not help saying, with tears in her eyes, that doesn't promise much happiness. Coupeau shook his head furiously. He would get even with Lorieau for that evening. Had anyone ever seen such a miserly fellow, to think that they were going to walk off with two or three grains of his gold dust, all the fuss they made was from pure avarice. His sister thought perhaps that he would never marry, so as to enable her to economize for Sioux on her dinner every day. However, it would take place all the same on July 29th. He did not care a hang for them. Nevertheless, Jervais still felt depressed. Turmented by a foolish fearfulness, she peered anxiously into every dark shadow along the stair-rail as she descended. It was dark and deserted at this hour, lit only by a single gas-jet on the second floor. In the shadowy death of the dark pit it gave a spot of brightness, even with its flame turned so low. It was now silent behind the closed doors. The wary labourers had gone to sleep after eating. However, there was a soft laugh from Mademoiselle Clémence's room, and a ray of light shunned through the keyhole of Mademoiselle Rémonjoux's door. She was still busy cutting out dresses for the dolls. Downstairs at Madame Caudron's, a child was crying. The sinks on the landings smelled more offensive than ever in the midst of the darkness and stillness. In the courtyard, Jervais turned back for a last look at the tenement as Coupeau called out to the congeage. The building seemed to have grown larger and had a moonless sky. The drip of water from the faucet sounded loud in the quiet. Jervais felt that the building was threatening to suffocate her, and a chill went through her body. It was a childish fear, and she smiled at it a moment later. Watch your step, warned Coupeau. To get to the entrance, Jervais had to jump over a white puddle that had drained from the dye shop. The puddle was blue now, the deep blue of a summer sky. The reflections from the night light of the congeage sparkled in it like stars. Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Martin Geeson La Samoire by Emile Zola translated by Ernest A. Visitelli Chapter 3 Jervais did not want to have a wedding party. What was the use of spending money? Besides, she still felt somewhat ashamed. It seemed to her quite unnecessary to parade the marriage before the whole neighbourhood. But Coupeau cried out at that. One could not be married without having a feed. He did not care a button for the people of the neighbourhood. Nothing elaborates, just a short walk and a rabbit ragout in the first eating-house they fancied. No music could desert, just a glass or two, and then back home. The zinc worker, chaffing and joking, at length, got the young woman to consent by promising her that there should be no larks. He would keep his eye on the glasses to prevent sun-strokes. Then he organised a sort of picnic at five francs ahead at the Silver Windmill, kept by Auguste on the Boulevard La Chapelle. It was a small café with moderate charges, and had a dancing-place in the rear, beneath the three acacias in the courtyard. They would be very comfortable on the first floor. During the next ten days he got hold of guests in the house where his sister lived, in the Rue de la Goutte d'Orre, Monsieur Madignier, Mademoiselle Romanjou, Madame Goudron, and her husband. He even ended by getting Gervais to consent to the presence of two of his comrades, Bibi the Smoker and My Boots. No doubt My Boots was a boozer, but then he had such a fantastic appetite that he was always asked to join these sort of gatherings. Just for the sight of the caterer's mug when he beheld that bottomless pit swallowing his twelve pounds of bread. The young woman on her side promised to bring her employer, Madame Poulconnier, and the Bosch, some very agreeable people. On counting they found there would be fifteen to sit down to table, which was quite enough. When there are too many they always wind up by quarrelling. Couple, however, had no money. Without wishing to show off, he intended to behave handsomely. He borrowed fifty francs of his employer. Out of that he first of all purchased the wedding ring, a twelve-franc gold wedding ring, which Laurie Yeer procured for him at the wholesale price of nine francs. He then bought himself a frock coat, a pair of trousers, and a waistcoat at a tailor's in the Rue Mirage, to whom he gave merely twenty-five francs on account. His patent leather shoes and his heart were still good enough. When he had put by the ten francs for his and Gervais's share of the feast, the two children not being charged for, he had exactly six francs left, the price of a low mass at the altar of the poor. He had no liking for those black crows, the priests. It would gripe him to pay his last six francs to keep their whistles wet. However, a marriage without a mass wasn't a real marriage at all. Going to the church himself, he bargained for a whole hour with a little old priest in a dirty cassock who was as sharp at dealing as a push cart peddler. Cooper felt like boxing his ears. For a joke, he asked the priest if he didn't have a second hand mass that would do for a modest young couple. The priest, mumbling that God would take small pleasure in blessing their union, finally let him have his mass for five francs. Well, after all, that meant twenty sous saved. Gervais also wanted to look decent. As soon as the marriage was settled, she made her arrangements, worked extra time in the evenings, and managed to put thirty francs on one side. She had a great longing for a little silk mantle marked thirteen francs in the Rue du Faubourg Poissonnière. She treated herself to it, and then bought for ten francs of the husband of a washerwoman who had died in Madame Fouquanier's house a blue woolen dress, which she altered to fit herself. With the seven francs remaining, she procured a pair of cotton gloves, a rose for her cat, and some shoes for Claude, her eldest boy. Fortunately, the youngsters' blouses were passable. She spent four nights cleaning everything, and mending the smallest holes in her stockings and chemise. On Friday night, the eve of the great day, Gervais and Coupeau had still a good deal of running about to do up till eleven o'clock after returning home from work. Then, before separating for the night, they spent an hour together in the young woman's room, happy at being about to be released from their awkward position. In spite of the fact that they had originally resolved not to put themselves out to impress the neighbours, they had ended by taking it seriously, and working themselves till they were weary. By the time they said good night, they were almost asleep on their feet. They breathed a great sigh of relief now that everything was ready. Coupeau's witnesses were to be Monsieur Madigny and Bibi the Smoker. They were counting on Laurier and Bosch for Gervais's witnesses. They were to go quietly to the mayor's office and the church, just the six of them, without a whole procession of people trailing behind them. The bridegroom's two sisters had even declared that they would stay home, their presence not being necessary. Coupeau's mother, however, had sobbed and wailed, threatening to go ahead of them and hide herself in some corner of the church, until they had promised to take her along. The meeting of the guests was set for one o'clock at the silver windmill. From there they would go to Saint-Denis, going out by railroad and returning on foot along the highway, in order to work up an appetite. The party promised to be quite all right. Saturday morning, while getting dressed, Coupeau felt a quarm of uneasiness in view of the single franc in his pocket. He began to think that it was a matter of ordinary courtesy to offer a glass of wine and a slice of ham to the witnesses while awaiting dinner. Also, there might be unforeseen expenses. So, after taking Claude and Etienne to stay with madame Bosch, who was to bring them to the dinner later that afternoon, he hurried over to the Rue de la Goutte d'Or to borrow ten francs from L'Oréal. Having to do that, griped him immensely, as he could guess the attitude his brother-in-law would take. The latter did grumble a bit, but ended by lending him two five franc pieces. However, Coupeau overheard his sister muttering under her breath. This is a fine beginning. The ceremony at the maire's was to take place at half-past ten. It was beautiful weather. The magnificent sun seemed to roast the streets. So as not to be stared at, the bride and bridegroom, the old mother and the four witnesses, separated into two bands. Gervais walked in front with L'Oréal, who gave her his arm. Whilst Monsieur Madignier followed with Mother Coupeau. Then, twenty steps behind, on the opposite side of the way, came Coupeau, Bosch, and Bibi the Smoker. These three were in black frock coats, walking erect and swinging their arms. Bosch's trousers were bright yellow. Bibi the Smoker didn't have a waistcoat, so he was buttoned up to the neck, with only a bit of his cravat showing. The only one in a full dress suit was Monsieur Madignier, and passes by gazed at this well-dressed gentleman escorting the huge bulk of Mother Coupeau in her green shawl and black bonnets with red ribbons. Gervais looked very gay and sweet in her dress of vivid blue, and with her new silk mantle fitted tightly to her shoulders. She listened politely to the sneering remarks of L'Oréal, who seemed buried in the depths of the immense overcoat he was wearing. From time to time, Gervais would turn her head a little to smile brightly at Coupeau, who was rather uncomfortable under the hot sun in his new clothes. Though they walked very slowly, they arrived at the mares quite half an hour too soon, and as the mares was late, their turn was not reached till close upon eleven o'clock. They sat down on some chairs and waited in a corner of the apartment, looking by turns at the high ceiling and bare walls, talking low and over politely pushing back their chairs each time that one of the attendants passed. Yet among themselves they called the mares sluggard, saying he must be visiting his blonde to get a massage for his gout, or that maybe he'd swallowed his official sash. However, when the mares did put in his appearance, they rose respectfully in his honour. They were asked to sit down again, and they had to wait through three other marriages. The hall was crowded with the three bourgeois wedding parties, brides all in white, little girls with carefully curled hair, bridesmaids wearing wide sashes, an endless procession of ladies and gentlemen dressed in their best and looking very stylish. When at length they were called, they almost missed being married altogether. V.B. the smoker having disappeared, Bosch discovered him outside smoking his pipe. There were a nice lot inside there to humbug people about like that, just because one hadn't yellow kid gloves to shove under their noses. And the various formalities, the reading of the code, the different questions to be put, the signing of all the documents, were all got through so rapidly that they looked at each other up with an idea that they'd been robbed of a good half of the ceremony. Chávez, diddy, her heart full, pressed her handkerchief to her lips. Mother Coupeau wept bitterly. All had signed the register, writing their names in big struggling letters, with the exception of the bridegroom, who not being able to write had put his cross. They each gave four sews for the poor. When an attendant handed Coupeau the marriage certificate, the latter prompted by Chávez, who nudged his elbow, handed him another five sews. It was a fair walk from the mayor's office in the town hall to the church. The men stopped along the way to have a beer. Mother Coupeau and Chávez took cassis with water. Then they had to trudge along the long street where the sun glared down without the relief of shade. When they arrived at the church, they were hurried along and asked if they came so late in order to make a mockery of religion. A priest came forward, his face pale and resentful from having to delay his lunch. An altar boy in a soiled surplus ran before him. The mass went very fast, with the priest turning, bowing his head, spreading out his arms, making all the ritual gestures in haste while casting side-long glances at the group. Chávez and Coupeau, before the altar, were embarrassed, not knowing when they should kneel or rise or seat themselves, expecting some indication from the attendant. The witnesses, not knowing what was proper, remained standing during the ceremony. Mother Coupeau was weeping again, shedding her tears into the missile she had borrowed from a neighbour. Meanwhile the noon chimes had sounded, and the church began to fill with noise from the shuffling feet of sacristans and the clatter of chairs being put back in place. The high altar was apparently being prepared for some special ceremony. Thus in the depths of this obscure chapel, amid the floating dust, the surly priest placed his withered hands on the bared heads of Chávez and Coupeau, blessing their union amid a hubbub like that of moving day. The wedding party signed another registry, this time in the sacristy, and then found themselves out in the bright sunlight before the church doors, where they stood for a moment, breathless and confused from having been carried along at such breakneck speed. Voila! said Coupeau with an embarrassed laugh. But it sure didn't take long. They shabbit at you so. It's like being at the painless dentist who doesn't give you time to cry out. Here you get a painless wedding. Yet it's a quick job, not a year smirked. In five minutes you're tied together for the rest of your life. You poor young cassis, you've had it. The four witnesses whacked Coupeau on the shoulders as he arched his back against the friendly blows. Meanwhile Chávez was hugging and kissing Mother Coupeau, her eyes moist, a smile lighting her face. She replied reassuringly to the old woman sobbing, Don't worry, I'll do my best. I want so much to have a happy life. If it doesn't work out, it won't be my fault. Anyhow it's done now. It's up to us to get along together and do the best we can for each other. After that they went straight to the silver windmill. Coupeau had taken his wife's arm. They walked quickly, laughing as though carried away, quite two hundred steps ahead of the others, without noticing the houses or the passes by or the vehicles. The deafening noises of the forebore sounded like bells in their ears. When they reached the wine shop, Coupeau at once ordered two bottles of wine, some bread and some slices of ham to be served in the little glazed closet on the ground floor, without plates or tablecloth, simply to have a snack. Then noticing that Dush and Bee Bee the Smoker seemed to be very hungry, he had a third bottle brought, as well as a slab of brie cheese. Mother Coupeau was not hungry, being too choked up to be able to eat. Chavez found herself very thirsty, and drank several large glasses of water with a small amount of wine added. I'll settle for this, said Coupeau, going at once to the bar, where he paid four francs and five sous. It was now one o'clock, and the other guests began to arrive. Madame Fourconnier, a fat woman, still good-looking, first put in an appearance. She wore a chint dress with a flowery pattern, a pink tie, and a cap over-trimmed with flowers. Next came Mademoiselle Hamonjou, looking very thin in the eternal black dress, which she seemed to keep on even when she went to bed. And the two Godrons, the husband, like some heavy animal, and almost bursting his brown jacket at the slightest movement. The wife, an enormous woman, whose figure indicated evident signs of an approaching maternity, and whose stiff violet-colored skirt still more increased her rotundity. Coupeau explained that they were not to wait for my boots. His comrade would join the party on the route to Saint-Denis. Well, explained Madame Lechard, as she entered, it'll pour in torrent soon. That'll be pleasant. End of first part of Chapter 3. Chapter 10 of L'Assomboire This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. L'Assomboire by Emile Zola Translated by Ernest A. Visatelli Second part of Chapter 3. And she called everyone to the door of the wine-shop to see the clouds as black as ink, which were rising rapidly to the south of Paris. Madame Lechard, eldest of the Coupeau, was a tall gaunt woman who talks through her nose. She was unattractively dressed in a puce-coloured robe that hung loosely on her, and had such long dangling fringes that they made her look like a skinny poodle coming out of the water. She brandished her umbrella like a club. After greeting Gilles, she said, You've no idea the heat in the street is like a slap on the face. You'd think someone was throwing fire at you. Everyone agreed that they knew the storm was coming. It was in the air. Monsieur Madignier said that he had seen it as they were coming out of the church. L'horrieu mentioned that his corns were aching, and that he hadn't been able to sleep since three in the morning. The storm was due. They've been much too hot for three days in a row. Well, maybe it would just be a little missed, Coupeau said several times, standing at the door and anxiously studying the sky. Now we have to wait only for my sister, or start as soon as she arrives. Madame L'horrieu was late. Madame L'horrieu had stopped by so that they could come together, but found her only beginning to get dressed. The two sisters had argued. The widow whispered in her brother's ear, I left her flat. She's in a dreadful mood, you'll see. And the wedding party had to wait another quarter of an hour, walking about the wine-shop, elbowed and jostled in the midst of the men who entered to drink a glass of wine at the bar. Now and again, Bosch, or Madame Fauconnier, or Bibi the Smoker, left the others and went to the edge of the pavement, looking up at the sky. Storm was not passing over at all. A darkness was coming on, and puffs of wind sweeping along the ground raised little clouds of white dust. At the first clap of thunder, Mademoiselle Romangeux made the sign of the cross. All the glances were anxiously directed to the clock over the looking glass. It was twenty minutes to two. Here it goes, cried Coupeau. It's the angels who are weeping. The gush of rain swept the pavement, along which some women flew, holding down their skirts with both hands. And it was in the midst of this first shower that Mademoisille at length arrived, furious and out of breath, and struggling on the threshold with her umbrella that would not close. Did anyone ever see such a thing? she exclaimed. It caught me just at the door. I felt inclined to go upstairs again and take my things off. I should have been wise had I done so. Ah, it's a pretty wedding. I said how it would be. I wanted to put it off till next Saturday, and it rains because they wouldn't listen to me. So much the better, so much the better, I wish the sky would burst. Coupeau tried to pacify her without success. He wouldn't have to pay for her dress if it was spoiled. She had on a black silk dress in which she was nearly choking. The bodice, too tight fitting, was almost bursting the buttonholes, and was cutting her across the shoulders. While the skirt only allowed her to take very short steps in walking. However, the ladies present were all staring at her, quite overcome by her costume. She appeared not to notice Charvers, who was sitting beside Mother Coupeau. She asked her husband for his handkerchief. Then she went into a corner, and very carefully wiped the raindrops that had fallen on her silk dress. The shower had abruptly ceased. The darkness increased. It was almost like night. A livid night, rented times by large flashes of lightning. BB the smoker said, laughingly, that it would certainly rain priests. Then the storm burst forth with extreme violence. For half an hour the rain came down in bucketsful, and the thunder rumbled unceasingly. The men standing up before the door contemplated the gray veil of the downpour. The swollen gutters, the flashes of water caused by the rain beating into the puddles. The women, feeling frightened, had sat down again, holding their hands before their eyes. They no longer conversed, they were too upset. A jest Bosch made about the thunder, saying that Saint Peter was sneezing up there, failed to raise a smile. But when the thunder-claps became less frequent, and gradually died away in the distance, the wedding-guests began to get impatient, enraged against the storm, cursing and shaking their fists at the clouds. A fine and interminable rain now poured down from the sky, which had become an ashy gray. It passed to a clock, cried Madame Lorayeux. We can't stop here forever. Mademoiselle Romanjoux, having suggested going into the country all the same, even though they went no farther than the moat of the fortifications, the others scouted the idea. The roads would be in a nice state, one would not even be able to sit down on the grass. Besides, it did not seem to be all over yet, there might perhaps be another downpour. Couple, who had been watching a workman, completely soaked, yet quietly walking along in the rain, murmured, if that animal my boots is waiting for us on the roof of Saint Denis, he won't catch a sunstroke. That made some of them laugh, but the general ill humour increased. It was becoming ludicrous. They must decide on something, unless they plan to sit there staring at each other until time for dinner. So for the next quarter of an hour, while the persistent rain continued, they tried to think of what to do. Bibi the Smoker suggested that they play cards. Gosh, slyly suggesting a most amusing game, the game of true confessions. Madame Gaudran thought of going to eat onion tarts on the Chaucerclignan Cour. Madame Lorra wanted to hear some stories. Gaudran said he wasn't a bit put out and thought they were quite well off where they were, out of the downpour. He suggested sitting down to dinner immediately. There was a discussion after each proposal. Some said that this would put everybody to sleep, or that that would make people think they were stupid. Lorra hier had to get his word in. He finally suggested a walk along the outer boulevard to Père La Chère's cemetery. They gifted the tomb of Eloise and Abelard. Madame Lorra hier exploded, no longer able to control herself. She was leaving, she was, where they tried to make fun of her. She got all dressed up and came out in the rain, and for what, to be wasting time in a wine shop. No, she'd had enough of this wedding party. No, she'd had enough of this wedding party. She'd rather be in her own home. Coupeau and Lorra hier had to get between her and the door to keep her from leaving. She kept telling them, Get out of my way, I'm leaving, I tell you. Lorra hier finally succeeded in calming her down. Coupeau went over to Gervais, who had been sitting quietly in a corner with Mother Coupeau and Madame Foucaignet. You haven't suggested anything, he said to her. Oh, whatever they want, she replied, laughing, I don't mind. We can go out or stay here. She seemed aglow with contentment. She had spoken to each guest as they arrived. She spoke sensibly in her soft voice, not getting into any disagreements. During the downpour she had sat with her eyes wide open, watching the lightning as though she could see the future in the sudden flashes. Monsieur Madignier had up to this time not proposed anything. He was leaning against the bar with the tails of his dressed coat thrust apart, while he fully maintained the important air of an employer. He kept on expectorating and rolled his big eyes about. Mondeur, said he, we might go to the museum. And he stroked his chin as he blinkingly consulted the other members of the party. There are antiquities, pictures, paintings, a whole heap of things. It is very instructive. Perhaps you have never been there. Oh, it is quite worth seeing, at least once in a while. They looked at each other interrogatively. No, Gervais had never been. Madame Foucaignet, neither, nor Bache, nor the others. Coupeau thought he had been one Sunday, but he was not sure. They hesitated, however, when Madame Laurier, greatly impressed by Monsieur Madignier's importance, thought the suggestion a very worthy and respectable one. As they were wasting the day and were all dressed up, they might as well go somewhere for their own instruction. Everyone approved. Then, as it still rained a little, they borrowed some umbrellas from the proprietor of the wine shop. Old blue, green and brown umbrellas, forgotten by different customers, and started off to the museum. The wedding party turned to the right and descended into Paris along the Faux-Bourg Saint-Denis. Coupeau and Gervais again took the lead, almost running and keeping a good distance in front of the others. Monsieur Madignier now gave his arm to Madame Laurier, but Coupeau having remained behind in the wine shop on account of her old legs. Then came Laurier and Madame Laurier, Bosch and Madame Foucaignet, Bibi the Smoker and Mademoiselle Romanjou, and finally the two Gaudron. They were twelve and made a pretty long procession on the pavement. I swear to you, we had nothing to do with it, Madame Laurier explained to Monsieur Madignier. We don't even know how they met, or we know only too well, but that's not for us to discuss. My husband even had to buy the wedding ring. We were scarcely out of bed this morning when he had to lend them ten francs, and not a member of her family at the wedding. What kind of bride is that? She says she had a sister in Paris who works for a pork butcher. Why didn't she invite her? She stopped to point at Chalvez, who was limping awkwardly because of the slope of the pavement. Just look at her, clump-clump. Clump-clump ran through the wedding procession, Laurier laughed under his breath and said they ought to call her that. But Madame Fouconier stood up for Chalvez. They shouldn't make fun of her. She was as neat as a pin, and did a good job when there was washing to be done. When the wedding procession came out of the four walks down the knee, they had to cross the boulevard. The street had been transformed into a morass of sticky mud by the storm. It had started to pour again, and they had opened the assorted umbrellas. The women picked their way carefully through the mud, holding their skirts high as the men held the sorry-looking umbrellas over their heads. The procession stretched out the width of the street. It's a masquerade, yelled two street urchins. People turned to stare. These couples parading across the boulevard added a splash of vivid colour against the damp background. It was a parade of a strange medley of styles, showing fancy used clothing, such as constitute the luxury of the poor. The gentleman's hats caused the most merriment. Old hats preserved for years in dark and dusty cupboards, in a variety of comical forms. Tall ones, flattened ones, sharply peaked ones. Hats with extraordinary brims, curled black or flat, too narrow or too wide. Then, at the very end, Madame Goudron came along with her bright dress over her bulging belly, and caused the smiles of the audience to grow even wider. The procession made no effort to hasten its progress. They were, in fact, rather pleased to attract so much attention and admiration. Look, here comes the bride! One of the urchins shouted, pointing to Madame Goudron. Oh, isn't it too bad she must have swallowed something? The entire wedding procession burst into laughter. P.B. the smoker turned around and laughed. Madame Goudron laughed the most of all. She wasn't ashamed, as she thought more than one of the women watching had looked at her with envy. They turned into the rue de Clérée. Then they took the rue du Mai. On reaching the Place des Victoires there was a hold. The bride's left shoelace had come undone, and as she tidied up again at the foot of the statue of Louis Quator, the couples pressed behind her, waiting and joking about the bit of cough of her leg that she displayed. At length, after passing down the rue Croix des Petits Champs, they reached the Louvre. M. Madignay politely asked to be their chichérone. It was a big place, and they might lose themselves, besides he knew the best parts because he had often come there with an artist, a very intelligent fellow from whom a large dealer bought designs to put on his cardboard boxes. Down below, when the wedding party entered the Assyrian Museum, a slight shiver passed through it. The juice! It was not at all warm there. The hall would have made a capital cellar. And the couples slowly advanced, their chins raised, their eyes blinking between the gigantic stone figures, the black marble gods, dumb in their hieratic rigidity, and the monstrous beasts, half cats and half women, the death-like faces, attenuated noses, and swollen lips. They thought all these things very ugly. The stone carvings of the present day were a great deal better. An inscription in Phoenician characters amazed them. No one could possibly ever have read that scroll. But Monsieur Madignier, already up on the first landing with Madame Laurier, called to them, shouting beneath the vaulted ceiling. Come along! There are nothing all those things. The things to see are on the first floor. End of second part of Chapter 3. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 11 of La Samoire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geeson. La Samoire by Émile Zola translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Third part of Chapter 3. The severe barrenness of the staircase made them very grave. An attendance superbly attired in a red waistcoat and a coat trimmed with gold lace, who seemed to be awaiting them on the landing, increased their emotion. It was of great respect and treading as softly as possible that they entered the French gallery. Then, without stopping, their eyes occupied with the gilding of the frames, they followed the string of little rooms glancing at the passing pictures, too numerous to be seen properly. It would have required an hour before each if they had wanted to understand it. What a number of pictures! There was no end to them. They must be worth a mint of money. Right at the end, M. Madignier suddenly ordered a halt opposite the raft of the Medusa, and he explained the subject to them. All deeply impressed and motionless, they uttered not a word. When they started off again, Bache expressed the general feeling, saying it was marvellous. In the Apollo gallery, the inlaid flooring especially astonished the party, a shining floor as clear as a mirror, and which reflected the legs of the seats. Mademoiselle Romanjoux kept her eyes closed because she could not help thinking that she was walking on water. They called to M. Gaudran to be careful how she trod on account of her condition. M. Madignier wanted to show them the gilding and paintings of the ceiling, but it nearly broke their necks to look up above, and they could distinguish nothing. Then, before entering the square salon, he pointed to a window saying, that's the balcony from which Charles IX fired on the people. He looked back to make sure the party was following. In the middle of the salon carré, he held up his hand. There are only masterpieces here, he said in a subdued voice as though in church. They went all around the room. Gervais wanted to know about the wedding at Cana. Coupeau paused to stare at the Mona Lisa, saying that she reminded him of one of his aunts. Bache and Bibi the smoker snickered at the nudes, pointing them out to each other and winking. The Gaudran looked at the Virgin of Maurillo. He, with his mouth open, she with her hands folded on her belly. When they had been all around the salon, M. Madignier wished them to go round it again. It was so worthwhile. He was very attentive to M. Laurier because of her silk dress, and each time that she questioned him, he answered her gravely with great assurance. She was curious about Titian's mistress, because the yellow hair resembled her own. He told her it was La Belle Ferronnière, a mistress of Henry IV, about whom there had been a play at the Ambigu. Then the wedding party invaded the long gallery, occupied by the Italian and Flemish schools. More paintings, always paintings, saints, men and women, with faces which some of them could understand, landscapes that were all black, animals turned yellow, a medley of people and things, the great mixture of the colours, which is beginning to give them all violent headaches. M. Madignier no longer talked as he slowly headed the procession, which followed him in good order, with stretched necks and upcast eyes. Centuries of art passed before their bewildered ignorance, the fine sharpness of the early masters, the splendours of the Venetians, the vigorous life beautiful with light of the Dutch painters. But what interested them most were the artists who were copying, for their easels planted amongst the people, painting away unrestrainedly. An old lady mounted on a pair of high steps, working a big brush over the delicate sky of an immense painting struck them as something most peculiar. Slowly the word must have gone around that a wedding party was visiting the Louvre. Several painters came over with big smiles. Some visitors were so curious that they went to sit on benches ahead of the group in order to be comfortable while they watched them pass in review. Museum guards bit back comments. The wedding party was now quite weary and beginning to drag their feet. M. Madignier was reserving himself to give more effect to a surprise that he had in store. He went straight to the calmessa of Rubens, but he said nothing. He contented himself with directing the other's attention to the picture by a sprightly glance. The ladies uttered a faint cry as the moment they brought their noses close to the painting, then blushing deeply they turned away their heads. The men, though, kept in their cracking jokes and seeking for the coarser details. Just look, exclaimed Gush, it's worth the money. There's one spewing and another is watering the dandelions. And that one, oh that one, oh well, they're a nice clean lot they are. Let's just be off, said M. Madignier, delighted with his success. There is nothing more to see here. They retraced their steps passing again to the Salon Carré and the Apollo Gallery. M. Lorra and M. El-Romanchou complained, declaring that their legs could scarcely bear them. But the cardboard box manufacturer wanted to show Lorrier the old jewellery. It was close by in a little room which he could find with his eyes shut. However, he made a mistake and led the wedding party astray through seven or eight cold, deserted rooms, only ornamented with severe looking-glass cases, containing numberless broken pots and hideous little figures. While looking for an exit, they stumbled into the collection of drawings. It was immense. Through room after room, they saw nothing interesting, just scribblings on paper that filled all the cases and covered the walls. They thought there was no end to these drawings. M. Madignier, losing his head, not willing to admit that he did not know his way, ascended a flight of stairs, making the wedding party mount to the next floor. This time they traversed the Naval Museum, among models of instruments and cannons, plans in relief, and vessels as tiny as playthings. After going a long way and walking for a quarter of an hour, the party came upon another staircase, and having descended this found itself once more surrounded by the drawings. Then despair took possession of them, as they wandered at random through long halls following M. Madignier, who was furious and mopping the sweat from his forehead. He accused the government of having moved the doors around. Museum guards and visitors looked on with astonishment, as the procession, still in a column of couples, passed by. They passed again through the Sanon Carré, the French gallery, and then along the cases where minor Eastern divinities slumbered peacefully. It seemed they would never find their way out. They were getting tired and made a lot of noise. Closing time, closing time, called out the attendants in a loud turn of voice. And the wedding party was nearly locked in. An attendant was obliged to place himself at the head of it and conduct it to a door. Then, in the courtyard of the Louvre, when it had recovered its umbrellas from the cloakroom, it breathed again. M. Madignier regained his assurance. He had made a mistake in not turning to the left. Now he recollected that the jewellery was to the left. The whole party pretended to be very pleased at having seen all they had. Four o'clock was striking. They were still two hours to be employed before the dinner time, so it was decided that they should take a stroll, just to occupy the interval. The ladies, who were very tired, would have preferred to sit down, but as no one offered any refreshments, they started off following the line of keys. There they encountered another shower, and so sharper one that in spite of the umbrellas, the ladies' dresses began to get wet. M. Laurier, her heart sinking within her each time a drop fell upon her black silk, proposed that they should shelter themselves under the Pont Royale. Besides, if the others did not accompany her, she threatened to go all by herself, and the procession marched under one of the arches of the bridge. They were very comfortable there. It was most decidedly a capital idea. The ladies, spreading their handkerchiefs over the paving stones, sat down with their knees wide apart, and pulled out the blades of grass that grew between the stones, with both hands, whilst they watched the dark flowing water, as though they were in the country. The men amused themselves, calling out very loud, so as to awaken the echoes of the arch. Bosch and Bebe the Smoker shouted insults into the air at the top of their voices, one after the other. They laughed up prauriously when the echo threw the insults back at them. When their throats were hoarse from shouting, they made a game of skipping flat stones on the surface of the Seine. The shower had ceased, but the whole party felt so comfortable that no one thought of moving away. The Seine was flowing by, an oily sheet carrying bottle corks, vegetable peelings, and other refuse, that sometimes collected in temporary whirlpools, moving along with the turbulent water. Endless traffic rumbled on the bridge overhead. The noisy bustle of Paris, of which they could glimpse only the rooftops to the left and right, as though they were in the bottom of a deep pit. Mademoiselle romanjou sighed. If the leaves had been out, this would have reminded her of a bend of the man where she used to go with a young man. It still made her cry to think of him. At last Monsieur Madignier gave the signal for departure. They passed through the Tuileries Gardens, in the midst of a little community of children, whose hoops and balls upset the good order of the couples. Then, as the wedding party on arriving at the class fondome looked up at the column, Monsieur Madignier gallantly offered to treat the ladies to a view from the top. His suggestion was considered extremely amusing. Yes, yes, they would go up. It would give them something to laugh about for a long time. Besides, it would be full of interest for those persons who had never been higher than a cow pasture. Do you think clump-clump will venture inside there with a leg all out of place, madame mademoiselle? I'll go up with pleasure, said madame l'horreur, but I won't have any men walking behind me, and the whole party ascended. In the narrow space afforded by the spiral staircase, the twelve persons crawled up one after the other, stumbling against the worn steps, and clinging to the walls. Then, when the obscurity became complete, they almost split their sides with laughing. The ladies screamed when the gentlemen pinched their legs. But they weren't stupid enough to say anything. The proper plan is to think that it is the mice nibbling at them. It wasn't very serious. The men knew when to stop. Busch thought of a joke, and everyone took it up. They called down to madame Godrand to ask her if she could squeeze her belly through. Just think, if she should get stuck there, she would completely block the passage, and how would they ever get out? They laughed so at the jokes about her belly, that the column itself vibrated. Busch was now quite carried away, and declared that they were growing old, climbing up this chimney pipe. Was it ever coming to an end, or did it go right up to heaven? He tried to frighten the ladies by telling them the structure was shaking. Kupo, meanwhile, said nothing. He was behind Charvers, with his arm around her waist, and felt that she was everything perfect to him. When they suddenly emerged again to the daylight, he was just in the act of kissing her on the cheek. Well, you're a nice couple, you don't stand on ceremony, said madame Dorilleaux, with a scandalised air. Bibi the smoker pretended to be furious. He muttered between his teeth. He must have been very angry. He made such a noise together, I wasn't even able to count the steps. But Monsieur Madignier was already up on the platform, pointing out the different monuments. Now, the Madame Foucaignier, Nourmademoiselle Romanjoux, would on any consideration leave the staircase. The door to the pavement below made their blood curdle, and they contented themselves with glancing out of the little door. Madame Loha, who was bolder, went round the narrow terrace, keeping close to the bronze dome. But, mon dieu, it gave one a rude emotion to think that one only had to slip off. The men were a little paler than usual, as they stared down at the square below. You would think you were up in mid-air, detached from everything. No, it wasn't fun, and it froze you very inside. Monsieur Madignier told them to raise their eyes, and look straight into the distance to avoid feeling dizzy. He went on pointing out the Invalide, the Panthéon, Nourmadem and the Montmartre Hill. Madame Loha asked if they could see the place where they were to have dinner, the silver windmill on the Boulevard de la Chapelle. For ten minutes they tried to see it, even arguing about it. Everyone had their own idea where it was. It wasn't worthwhile coming up here to bite each other's noses off, said Bush, angrily as he turned to descend the staircase. The wedding party went down, unspeaking and sulky, awakening no other sound beyond that of shoes clanking on the stone steps. When it reached the bottom, Monsieur Madignier wished to pay, but Coupeau would not permit him, and hastened to place twenty-four sews into the keeper's hand, two sews for each person. So they returned by the Boulevard on the Fauxbordier Poissonnier. Coupeau, however, considered that their outing could not end like that. He bundled them all into a wine shop, where they took some verma. End of third part of chapter three. Recording by Martin Geithon in Hazelnair Surrey. Section 12 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 Geithon. La Samoire by Emile Zola, translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Fourth part of chapter three. The repast was ordered for six o'clock. At the Silver Windmill, they'd been waiting for the wedding party for a good twenty minutes. Madame Bosch, who had got a lady living in the same house to attend to her duties for the evening, was conversing with Mother Coupeau in the first-floor room in front of the table, which was all laid out. And the two youngsters, Claude and Etienne, whom she had brought with her, were playing about beneath the table and amongst the chairs. When Gérard's, on entering court's side of the little ones, whom she had not seen all the day, she took them on her knees and caressed and kissed them. Have they been good? asked she of Madame Bosch. I hope they haven't worried you too much. And as the latter related the things the little rascals had done during the afternoon and which would make one die with laughing, the mother again took them up and pressed them to her breast, seized with an overpowering outburst of maternal affection. It's not very pleasant for Coupeau, all the same, Madame Laurier was saying to the other ladies at the end of the room. Chavers had kept her smiling peacefulness from the morning, but after the long walk she appeared almost sad at times as she watched her husband and the lawyers in a thoughtful way. She had the feeling that Coupeau was a little afraid of his sisters the evening before he'd been talking big, swearing he would put them in their places if they didn't behave. However, she could see that in their presence he was hanging on their words, worrying when he thought they might be displeased. This gave the young bride some cause for worry about the future. They were now only waiting for my boots who had not yet put in an appearance. I'll blow him, cried Coupeau, let's begin. You'll see, he'll turn up, he's got a hollow nose, he can scent the grub from afar. I say he must be amusing himself if he's still standing like a post on the root of sand and e. Then the wedding party, feeling very lively, sat down making a great noise with the chairs. Chavers was between Laurier and Monsieur Madignier and Coupeau between Madame Fouconnier and Madame Laurier. The other guests seated themselves where they liked, because it always ended with jealousies and quarrels when one settled their places for them. Bosch glided to a seat beside Madame Laurier. Bibi the smoker had for neighbours Mademoiselle Ramonjoux and Madame Gaudron. As for Madame Bosch and Mother Coupeau, they were right at the end of the table looking after the children, cutting up their meat and giving them something to drink, but not much wine. Does nobody say grace? asked Bosch whilst the ladies arranged their skirts under the table cloth, so as not to get them stained. But Madame Laurier paid no attention to such pleasantries. The vermicelli soup, which was nearly cold, was gulped down very quickly, their lips making a hissing noise against the spoons. Two waiters served at table, dressed in little greasy jackets and not over clean white aprons. By the four open windows overlooking the acacias of the courtyard, they entered the clear light of the close of a stormy day, but the atmosphere purified thereby, though without sufficiently cooling it. The light reflected from the humid corner of trees, tinged the haze filled room with green, and made leaf shadows dance along the table cloth, from which came a vague aroma of dampness and mildew. Two large mirrors, one at each end of the room, seemed to stretch out the table. The heavy crockery with which it was set was beginning to turn yellow, and the cutlery was scratched and grime with grease. Each time a waiter came through the swinging doors from the kitchen, a whiff of odorous burnt lard came with him. Don't talk all at once, said Bosch, as everyone remained silent with his nose in his plate. They were drinking the first glass of wine, as their eyes followed two meat pies, which the waiters were handing round, when my boots entered the room. Well, you're a scurvy lot, you people, said he. I've been wearing my pins out for three hours waiting on that road, and a jondam even came and asked me for my papers. It isn't right to play such dirty tricks on a friend. You might at least have sent me word by a commissionaire. Ah, no, you know, joking apart, it's too bad. And with all that, it rained so hard that I got my pockets full of water. On a bright, you might still catch enough fishing them for a meal. The others wriggled with laughter. That animal, my boots, was just a bit on. He had certainly already stowed away his two quarts of wine, merely to prevent his being bothered by all that frog's liquor with which the storm had deluged his limbs. Hello, Count Legger Mutton, said Coupeau. Just go and sit yourself there beside Madame Gaudran. You see, you were expected. Oh, he did not mind. He would soon catch the others up. And he asked for three helpings of soup, platefuls of vermicelli, in which he soaked enormous slices of bread. Then, when they had attacked the meat pies, he became the profound admiration of everyone at the table. How he stowed it away. The bewildered waiters helped each other to pass him bread, thin slices which he swallowed as a mouthful. He ended by losing his temper. He insisted on having a loaf placed on the table beside him. The landlord, very anxious, came for a moment and looked in at the door. The party which was expecting him again wriggled with laughter. It seemed to upset the caterer. What a rum card he was that my boots. One day, he had eaten a dozen hard boiled eggs and drank a dozen glasses of wine while the clock was striking 12. There are not many who can do that. And Mademoiselle Ramonchoux, deeply moved, watched my boots chew while Monsieur Madignier, seeking for a word to express his almost respectful astonishment, declared that such a capacity was extraordinary. There was a brief silence. A waiter had just placed on the table a ragout of rabbits in a vast dish as deep as a salad bowl. Coupeau, who liked fun, started another joke. I say, waiter, that rabbit's from the house tops, it's still mues. And in fact, a faint mew perfectly imitated seemed to issue from the dish. It was Coupeau who did that with his throat, without opening his lips. A talent which at all parties met with decided success, so much so that he never ordered a dinner abroad without having a rabbit's ragout. After that, he purred. The ladies pressed their napkins to their mouths to try and stop their laughter. Madame Fourconnier asked for a head. She only liked that part. Mademoiselle Ramonchoux had a weakness for the slices of bacon. And as Bosch said, he preferred the little onions when they were nicely broiled. Madame Lechah screwed up her lips and murmured, I can understand that. She was a dried up stick, living recloisted life of a hard-working woman imprisoned within her daily routine, who had never had a man stick his nose into her room since the death of her husband. Yet she had an obsession with double meanings and indecent illusions that were sometimes so far off the mark that only she understood them. As Bosch leaned towards her and in a whisper asked for an explanation, she resumed, little onions, why, of course, that's quite enough, I think. The general conversation was becoming grave. Each one was talking of his trade. Monsieur Madignier raved about the cardboard business. There were some real artists. For an example, he mentioned Christmas gift boxes, of which he'd seen samples that were marvels of splendour. Laurier sneered at this. He was extremely vain because of working with gold, feeling that he gave a sort of sheen to his fingers and his whole personality. In olden times, Jewelers wore swords like gentlemen. He often cited the case of Bernard Palissy, even though he really knew nothing about him. Coupeau told of a masterpiece of a weather vane made by one of his fellow workers, which included a Greek column, a sheaf of wheat, a basket of fruit, and a flag. All beautifully worked out of nothing but strips of zinc shaped and soldered together. Madame Laurent showed Bibi the smoker how to make a rose by rolling the handle of her knife between her bony fingers. All the while, their voices had been rising louder and louder, competing for attention. Shrill comments by Madame Fouconier were heard. She complained about the girls who worked for her, especially a little apprentice who was nothing but a tart, and badly scorched some sheets the evening before. You may talk, Laurier cried, banging his fist down on the table, but gold is gold. And in the midst of the silence caused by the statement of this fact, the only sound heard was Mademoiselle Romanjoux's shrill voice continuing. Then I turn up the skirt and stitch it inside. I stick a pin in the head to keep the cap on, and that's all. And they are sold for thirteen sous apiece. She was explaining how she dressed her dolls to my boots, whose jaws were working slowly like grindstones. It did not listen, though he kept nodding his head, but looked after the waiters to prevent them removing any of the dishes he had not cleaned out. They had now finished a veal stew with green beans. The roast was brought in, two scrawny chickens resting on a bed of watercress, which was limp from the warming oven. Outside, only the higher branches of the acacias were touched by the setting sun. Inside, the greenish reflected light was thickened by wisps of steam rising from the table, now messy with spilled wine and gravy and the debris of the dinner. Along the wall were dirty dishes and empty bottles, which the waiters had piled there like a heap of refuse. It was so hot that the men took off their jackets and continued eating in their shirts' sleeves. Madam Bosch, please don't spread their butter so thick, said Gervais, who spoke but little, and who was watching Claude and Etienne from a distance. She got up from her seat and went and talked for a minute while standing behind the little one's chair. Children did not reason they would eat all day long without refusing a single thing, and then she herself helped them do some chicken, a little of the breast. But Mother Coupeau said they might, just for once in a while, risk an attack of indigestion. Madam Bosch, in a low voice, accused Bosch of caressing Madame Lechard's knees. Oh, he was a sly one, but he was getting a little too gay. She had certainly seen his hand disappear if he did it again, drat him. She wouldn't hesitate throwing a pitcher of water over his head. In the partial silence, M. Madignier was talking politics. Their law of May 31st is an abominable one. Now you must reside in a place for two years. Three millions of citizens are struck off the voting list. I've been told that Bonaparte is in reality very much annoyed for he loves the people. He has given them proofs. He was a republican, but he admired the prince on account of his uncle, a man the like of whom would never be seen again. Bebe the smoker flew into a passion. He had worked at the Elysée. He had seen Bonaparte just as he saw my boots in front of him over there. Well, that muff of a president was just like a jackass, that was all. It was said that he was going to travel about in the direction of Leuroport. It would be a precious good riddance of bad rubbish if he fell into some hole and broke his neck. But as the discussion was becoming too heated, Coupreau had to interfere. Oh, well, how simple you all are to quarrel about politics. Politics are all humbug. Do such things exist for us? Let there be anyone as king. It won't prevent me earning my five million dollars. I'm not going to give up. It won't prevent me earning my five francs a day and eating and sleeping. Isn't that so? No, it's too stupid to argue about. Laurier shook his head. He was born on the same day as the Count of Chambord, the 29th of September, 1820. He was greatly struck with this coincidence, indulging himself in a vague dream in which he established a connection between the king's return to France and his own private fortunes. He never said exactly what he was expecting, but he led people to suppose that when that time arrived, something extraordinarily agreeable would happen to him. So whenever he had a wish too great to be gratified, he would put it off to another time when the king came back. Besides, observed he, I saw the Count de Chambord one evening. Every face was turned towards him. It's quite true. The stout man in an overcoat with a good nature there. I was at Pequigno as one of my friends who deals in furniture at the Grand Rue de la Chapelle. The Count de Chambord had forgotten his umbrella there the day before. So he came in and just simply said like this, will you please return my umbrella? Well, yes, it was him. Pequigno gave me his word of honour it was. Not one of the guests suggested the smallest doubt. They had now arrived at dessert, and the waiters were clearing the table with much clattering of dishes. Madame Loire, who up to then had been very gentile, very much the lady, suddenly let fly with a curse. One of the waiters had spilled something wet down her neck while removing a dish. This time her silk dress would be stained for sure. Monsieur Madignier had to examine her back, but he swore there was nothing to be seen. Two platters of cheese, two dishes of fruit, and a floating island pudding of frosted eggs in a deep salad bowl had now been placed along the middle of the table. The pudding caused a moment of respectful attention, even though the overdone egg whites had flattened on the yellow custard. It was unexpected and seemed very fancy. End of fourth part of chapter three. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey.