L'Assommoir, Émile Zola [book series to read .TXT] 📗

in the passage that she experienced the sudden relief of people who ring a dentist’s bell.

“Come in!” cried the chainmaker in a sour voice.

How warm and nice it was inside. The forge was blazing, its white flame lighting up the narrow workroom, whilst Madame Lorilleux set a coil of gold wire to heat. Lorilleux, in front of his worktable, was perspiring with the warmth as he soldered the links of a chain together. And it smelt nice. Some cabbage soup was simmering on the stove, exhaling a steam which turned Gervaise’s heart topsy-turvy, and almost made her faint.

“Ah! it’s you,” growled Madame Lorilleux, without even asking her to sit down. “What do you want?”

Gervaise did not answer for a moment. She had recently been on fairly good terms with the Lorilleuxs, but she saw Boche sitting by the stove. He seemed very much at home, telling funny stories.

“What do you want?” repeated Lorilleux.

“You haven’t seen Coupeau?” Gervaise finally stammered at last. “I thought he was here.”

The chainmakers and the concierge sneered. No, for certain, they hadn’t seen Coupeau. They didn’t stand treat often enough to interest Coupeau. Gervaise made an effort and resumed, stuttering:

“It’s because he promised to come home. Yes, he’s to bring me some money. And as I have absolute need of something—”

Silence followed. Madame Lorilleux was roughly fanning the fire of the stove; Lorilleux had lowered his nose over the bit of chain between his fingers, while Boche continued laughing, puffing out his face till it looked like the full moon.

“If I only had ten sous,” muttered Gervaise, in a low voice.

The silence persisted.

“Couldn’t you lend me ten sous? Oh! I would return them to you this evening!”

Madame Lorilleux turned round and stared at her. Here was a wheedler trying to get round them. To-day she asked them for ten sous, to-morrow it would be for twenty, and there would be no reason to stop. No, indeed; it would be a warm day in winter if they lent her anything.

“But, my dear,” cried Madame Lorilleux. “You know very well that we haven’t any money! Look! There’s the lining of my pocket. You can search us. If we could, it would be with a willing heart, of course.”

“The heart’s always there,” growled Lorilleux. “Only when one can’t, one can’t.”

Gervaise looked very humble and nodded her head approvingly. However, she did not take herself off. She squinted at the gold, at the gold tied together hanging on the walls, at the gold wire the wife was drawing out with all the strength of her little arms, at the gold links lying in a heap under the husband’s knotty fingers. And she thought that the least bit of this ugly black metal would suffice to buy her a good dinner. The workroom was as dirty as ever, full of old iron, coal dust and sticky oil stains, half wiped away; but now, as Gervaise saw it, it seemed resplendent with treasure, like a money changer’s shop. And so she ventured to repeat softly: “I would return them to you, return them without fail. Ten sous wouldn’t inconvenience you.”

Her heart was swelling with the effort she made not to own that she had had nothing to eat since the day before. Then she felt her legs give way. She was frightened that she might burst into tears, and she still stammered:

“It would be kind of you! You don’t know. Yes, I’m reduced to that, good Lord—reduced to that!”

Thereupon the Lorilleuxs pursed their lips and exchanged covert glances. So Clump-clump was begging now! Well, the fall was complete. But they did not care for that kind of thing by any means. If they had known, they would have barricaded the door, for people should always be on their guard against beggars—folks who make their way into apartments under a pretext and carry precious objects away with them; and especially so in this place, as there was something worth while stealing. One might lay one’s fingers no matter where, and carry off thirty or forty francs by merely closing the hands. They had felt suspicious several times already on noticing how strange Gervaise looked when she stuck herself in front of the gold. This time, however, they meant to watch her. And as she approached nearer, with her feet on the board, the chainmaker roughly called out, without giving any further answer to her question: “Look out, pest—take care; you’ll be carrying some scraps of gold away on the soles of your shoes. One would think you had greased them on purpose to make the gold stick to them.”

Gervaise slowly drew back. For a moment she leant against a rack, and seeing that Madame Lorilleux was looking at her hands, she opened them and showed them, saying softly, without the least anger, like a fallen women who accepts anything:

“I have taken nothing; you can look.”

And then she went off, because the strong smell of the cabbage soup and the warmth of the workroom made her feel too ill.

Ah! the Lorilleuxs did not detain her. Good riddance; just see if they opened the door to her again. They had seen enough of her face. They didn’t want other people’s misery in their rooms, especially when that misery was so well deserved. They reveled in their selfish delight at being seated so cozily in a warm room, with a dainty soup cooking. Boche also stretched himself, puffing with his cheeks still more and more, so much, indeed, that his laugh really became indecent. They were all nicely revenged on Clump-clump, for her former manners, her blue shop, her spreads, and all the rest. It had all worked out just as it should, proving where a love of showing-off would get you.

“So that is the style now? Begging for ten sous,” cried Madame Lorilleux as soon as Gervaise had gone. “Wait a bit; I’ll lend her ten sous, and no mistake, to go and get drunk with.”

Gervaise shuffled along the passage in her slippers, bending her back and feeling heavy. On reaching her door she did not open it—her room frightened her. It would be better to walk about, she would learn patience. As she passed by she stretched out her neck, peering into Pere Bru’s kennel under the stairs. There, for instance, was another one who must have a fine appetite, for he had breakfasted and dined by heart during the last three days. However, he wasn’t at home, there was only his hole, and Gervaise felt somewhat jealous, thinking that perhaps he had been invited somewhere. Then, as she reached the Bijards’ she heard Lalie moaning, and, as the key was in the lock as usual, she opened the door and went in.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

The room was very clean. One could see that Lalie had carefully swept it, and arranged everything during the morning. Misery might blow into the room as much as it liked, carry off the chattels and spread all the dirt and refuse about. Lalie, however, came behind and tidied everything, imparting, at least, some appearance of comfort within. She might not be rich, but you realized that there was a housewife in the place. That afternoon her two little ones, Henriette and Jules, had found some old pictures which they were cutting out in a corner. But Gervaise was greatly surprised to see Lalie herself in bed, looking very pale, with the sheet drawn up to her chin. In bed, indeed, then she must be seriously ill!

“What is the matter with you?” inquired Gervaise, feeling anxious.

Lalie no longer groaned. She slowly raised her white eyelids, and tried to compel her lips to smile, although they were convulsed by a shudder.

“There’s nothing the matter with me,” she whispered very softly. “Really nothing at all.”

Then, closing her eyes again, she added with an effort:

“I made myself too tired during the last few days, and so I’m doing the idle; I’m nursing myself, as you see.”

But her childish face, streaked with livid stains, assumed such an expression of anguish that Gervaise, forgetting her own agony, joined her hands and fell on her knees near the bed. For the last month she had seen the girl clinging to the walls for support when she went about, bent double indeed, by a cough which seemed to presage a coffin. Now the poor child could not even cough. She had a hiccough and drops of blood oozed from the corners of her mouth.

“It’s not my fault if I hardly feel strong,” she murmured, as if relieved. “I’ve tired myself to-day, trying to put things to rights. It’s pretty tidy, isn’t it? And I wanted to clean the windows as well, but my legs failed me. How stupid! However, when one has finished one can go to bed.”

She paused, then said, “Pray, see if my little ones are not cutting themselves with the scissors.”

And then she relapsed into silence, trembling and listening to a heavy footfall which was approaching up the stairs. Suddenly father Bijard brutally opened the door. As usual he was far gone, and his eyes shone with the furious madness imparted by the vitriol he had swallowed. When he perceived Lalie in bed, he tapped on his thighs with a sneer, and took the whip from where it hung.

“Ah! by blazes, that’s too much,” he growled, “we’ll soon have a laugh. So the cows lie down on their straw at noon now! Are you poking fun at me, you lazy beggar? Come, quick now, up you get!”

And he cracked the whip over the bed. But the child beggingly replied:

“Pray, papa, don’t—don’t strike me. I swear to you you will regret it. Don’t strike!”

“Will you jump up?” he roared still louder, “or else I’ll tickle your ribs! Jump up, you little hound!”

Then she softly said, “I can’t—do you understand? I’m going to die.”

Gervaise had sprung upon Bijard and torn the whip away from him. He stood bewildered in front of the bed. What was the dirty brat talking about? Do girls die so young without even having been ill? Some excuse to get sugar out of him no doubt. Ah! he’d make inquiries, and if she lied, let her look out!

“You will see, it’s the truth,” she continued. “As long as I could I avoided worrying you; but be kind now, and bid me good-bye, papa.”

Bijard wriggled his nose as if he fancied she was deceiving him. And yet it was true she had a singular look, the serious mien of a grown up person. The breath of death which passed through the room in some measure sobered him. He gazed around like a man awakened from a long sleep, saw the room so tidy, the two children clean, playing and laughing. And then he sank on to a chair stammering, “Our little mother, our little mother.”

Those were the only words he could find to say, and yet they were very tender ones to Lalie, who had never been much spoiled. She consoled her father. What especially worried her was to go off like this without having completely brought up the little ones. He would take care of them, would he not? With her dying breath she told him how they ought to be cared for and kept clean. But stultified, with the fumes of drink seizing hold of him again, he wagged his head, watching her with an uncertain stare as she was dying. All kind of things were touched in him, but he could find no more to say and he was too utterly burnt with liquor to shed a tear.

“Listen,” resumed Lalie, after a pause. “We owe four francs and seven sous to the baker; you must pay that. Madame Gaudron borrowed an