The Drinking Den (42 page)

In the midst of this general disintegration, Coupeau prospered. The
confounded old soak was in fine form. He was getting positively fat on a diet of vino and vitriol. He ate a lot and made fun of that beanpole Lorilleux who said that drink killed people, and would answer him by tapping his belly, his skin stretched over the fat, as taut as a drum. He would perform a concert on it, for vespers after an evening's drinking, with drum rolls and thumpings that would have made a tooth-puller's fortune in the fairground. But Lorilleux, annoyed because he had no stomach, said that it was unhealthy yellow fat. No matter. Coupeau drank still more, for the sake of his health. His greying hair would flare up in the wind like a glass of lighted brandy. His drunkard's face with its monkey's jaw was now seasoned with shades of winey blue. And he was as joyfully childish as ever, brushing his wife aside if she tried to tell him about her problems. Should a man have to stoop to bother about such irritations? If there was no bread in the larder, it wasn't his problem. He had to have his grub morning and evening, and he didn't mind where it came from. When he spent weeks without working, he became still more demanding. Meanwhile, he was still slapping Lantier on the back in a friendly fashion. Of course, he knew nothing of his wife's misconduct; at any rate, people like the Boches and the Poissons swore by heaven that he didn't suspect a thing and that it would be a terrible disaster if he ever found out. But his own sister, Mme Lerat, would shake her head and say that she knew some husbands who didn't mind. One night, Gervaise herself, coming back from the hatter's, had felt her blood run cold when, in the darkness, she got a slap on the backside; but in the end she managed to talk herself round into believing that she had knocked herself against the bedstead. Honestly, the situation was too frightful: surely her husband wouldn't amuse himself by playing tricks on her.

Lantier, too, was not wasting away. He took good care of himself, measuring his belly by the belt on his trousers, constantly afraid that he might have to tighten or loosen the buckle: he considered himself just right and, out of vanity, wanted to avoid either putting on weight or losing it. This made him fussy about his food, because he would weigh up every dish according to its effect on his waistline. Even when there was not a
sou
in the house, he had to have eggs, cutlets and other things that were nourishing, but light. Since he had started to share
the boss with her husband, he considered he had an entirely equal share in the household, he would pick up any twenty-
sou
pieces lying around, had Gervaise at his beck and call, grumbled, yelled and seemed even more at ease than the roofer. In short, it was a home with two masters; and the second-hand master was the cleverer, the one who dragged the blanket over to his side of the bed and took first choice in everything: wife, board and all the rest. He was plucking the Coupeaus, wasn't he? And he didn't mind who knew it! Nana was his pet still, because he liked nice little girls; but he paid less and less attention to Etienne, because boys, in his view, should learn to manage for themselves. He always seemed to be there when someone came looking for Coupeau, in his slippers and shirtsleeves, emerging from the back of the shop with the bored look of a husband being disturbed; and he would answer for Coupeau – it was all the same, according to him.

It was not a whole lot of laughs for Gervaise, living between the two of these gentlemen. She had no complaints about her health, thank God, though she was also putting on weight. But it was often too much for her, having these two men on her back, to look after and keep happy. God only knows, one husband is enough trouble. The worst thing was that they got on so well, the sly dogs! They never argued, but grinned across the table at one another after dinner, in the evening, leaning on their elbows; and they would be snuggling up to each other all day long, like a couple of pampered pleasure-loving cats. On days when they did come home in a bad mood, she was the butt of them both. Go on! Thump the animal! She had a broad back, and it cemented their friendship to bawl her out together. Heaven help her if she tried to protest! At the beginning, when one of them yelled, she would silently plead with the other out of the corner of her eye, to elicit a word of support. The trouble was, it hardly ever worked. Nowadays she took it as it came and bent her heavy shoulders, realizing that they enjoyed kicking her about, because she was so round, a real football. Coupeau, who was very foul-mouthed, called her atrocious names, while Lantier, on the other hand, picked on her silliness, with outlandish words that no one uses, which was even more hurtful. Fortunately, one can get used to anything: the two men's insults and unfairness eventually ran off her smooth skin like water off an oiled cloth. By the
end she even preferred it when they were angry, because on the occasions when they were being nice, they were more of a pain, constantly making demands and not letting her iron a single bonnet in peace. At such times, they asked for little snacks, wanted salt, or no salt; she had to say, ‘yessir, nossir', pet them one after the other and wrap them each up in cottonwool. After a week, she was aching from head to foot and staring wildly, like a mad thing. It can wear a woman out in no time, that sort of work.

Yes, Coupeau and Lantier were wearing her away, that was it. They were burning her at both ends, as they say about candles. Of course, the roofer had no education, but the hatter had too much, or rather he had an education like an unkempt person has a white shirt with stains on it. One night, she dreamed that she was on the brink of a well; Coupeau was shoving her with his fist, while Lantier was tickling her back to make her jump more quickly. That's how her life was. Oh, she was getting plenty of help, so it was not surprising if she let herself go. The neighbours were hardly fair to blame her for the bad habits she was picking up, because the trouble was not of her making. At times, when she thought about it, a shudder ran through her. Then she would think that things could, after all, be worse. For example, it was better to have two men than to lose both arms. And she considered her situation to be natural, like that of so many others; she tried to get what happiness she could out of it. The thing that proved it was all getting cosy and friendly was that she didn't dislike Coupeau any more than she did Lantier. In a play she had been to at the Théâtre de la Gaieté, she once saw this slut who hated her husband so much that she poisoned him, for the sake of her lover; and this made Gervaise angry, because she felt nothing like that in her own heart. Wasn't it more sensible to live together, the three of them, in harmony? No, no, she didn't need any of that nonsense, which stirred things up; already, life was no joking matter. In short, in spite of their debts and the threat of poverty, she would have told you she would be quite calm and contented, if only the roofer and the hatter roughed her up and bawled her out less often.

Unfortunately, as autumn approached, the situation deteriorated further. Lantier claimed to be slimming and became more morose day
by day. He moaned about everything, grumbled about the potato soup, or a ratatouille that he couldn't eat, he said, without getting a belly-ache. The slightest little bickering now would finish with a full-scale row, each one accusing the others of causing the ruin of the business; and it was the devil's own job to patch things up so that they could all go to bed and get a bit of shut-eye. When the bran runs out the donkeys start fighting, right? Lantier sensed the way things were going and was exasperated at the idea that the business was already in ruins and so thoroughly cleaned out that he could see the day coming when he would have to pick up his hat and move on, to get his bed and board elsewhere. He had grown accustomed to his nest, where everyone pampered him and he had his little ways; it was a real land of plenty, the like of which he would not find again. Well, you can't have your cake and eat it. When it came down to it, he was turning his anger against his belly, because that's where the business had gone. This is not what he said, however: he blamed the other two for letting it go to ruin in only two years. The Coupeaus were certainly not a sturdy pair; and he shouted at Gervaise for squandering the money. God Almighty! What would become of him? His friends were abandoning him just as he was on the point of concluding a terrific deal: a salary of six thousand francs in a factory, which would set them all up comfortably.

One evening in December they dined on air. There was not a bean left. Lantier, in a very black mood, went out early, walking the streets in search of another pad, where the scent of cooking would put a smile on his face. He spent some hours thinking about it, beside the stove. Then, suddenly, he revealed a deep liking for the Poissons. He stopped teasing the constable by calling him Badingue and even went so far as to agree that the Emperor might be a decent sort after all. In particular, he seemed to appreciate Virginie, a very able woman, he said, and one who would make a good job of managing things. He was quite plainly sucking up to them; you might even believe that he wanted to move in with them. But what his devious little mind was plotting was far more complicated than that. Virginie had told him that she wanted to go into business, with some kind of shop or other, so he fawned around her, saying what a splendid idea it was. Yes, she was made to be a
tradesperson: tall and active, with a pleasant manner… Oh, she could earn whatever she liked! Since she had had the money ready for some time, inherited from an aunt, she had every reason to give up the four dresses that she knocked together every season and set up in business. He gave some examples of people who were making a fortune, like the fruiterer on the corner, and a little woman who sold china on the outer boulevard. The moment was just right: you could sell the sweepings from the counter. Even so, Virginie hesitated, looking for a shop to rent, because she didn't want to leave the neighbourhood. At this, Lantier took her into a corner and talked very quietly to her for ten minutes. He appeared to be urging her to some course of action and she wasn't saying no; she seemed to be authorizing him to go ahead. It was like a secret between them, with winks and brief words, a dark plot that could be sensed even in their handshakes. From then on, the hatter would eat his dry bread and keep a sharp eye on the Coupeaus; he had become very talkative again, driving them mad with his constant whinging. He would obligingly tell Gervaise all about the squalor in which she spent her life from morning to night. Good heavens! He wasn't doing it for his own sake! He would starve to death with his friends whenever they wanted. But it was only sensible to take stock of the situation as it really was. They owed at least five hundred francs in the neighbourhood: to the baker, the coal merchant, the grocer and the rest. Moreover, they were two quarters behind on the rent, which was another two hundred and fifty francs. The landlord, M. Marescot, was even talking about evicting them if they didn't pay before the 1st of January. Finally, the pawnbroker had everything: they had cleaned the place out so thoroughly that there wasn't even another three francs' worth of knick-knacks to give him. There were the nails in the walls, but nothing more, apart from two books worth three
sous
. Gervaise, stunned and drained of all strength by these calculations, would bang her fists on the table and howl like an animal. One evening she shouted:

‘I'm leaving here tomorrow! I'd rather put a lock on the door and sleep on the pavement than go on living in such misery!'

‘It would be more sensible,' Lantier said, slyly, ‘to transfer the lease, if you could find anyone… If the two of you have made up your minds to give up the shop – '

She interrupted him, yelling even louder:

‘Right now, at once! It would be good riddance!'

At this, the hatter began to speak in very practical terms. By transferring the lease, they would no doubt get the new tenant to stand guarantor for the two quarters that were late; and he even ventured to mention the Poissons, reminding her that Virginie was looking for premises. Perhaps the laundry would suit her? Now he remembered having heard her say that she wanted one just like it. However, the laundress, on hearing the name of Virginie, had suddenly recovered her composure. They would see. In a fit of temper, one might easily talk about getting rid of one's home, but it was not such a simple matter when you came down to it.

Even though Lantier picked up the theme in the days that followed, Gervaise replied that she had been lower than this and had pulled back. It would be a lot of use, wouldn't it, to give up the shop! She would have no source of income then. What she would do, instead, was to take back her workers and build up a new clientele. She said this to answer the hatter's argument, which was that she was flat out, crushed by her debts and with no hope of clambering back. But he was careless enough to mention Virginie again and at that she dug her heels in. No, no, never! She had always doubted Virginie's goodwill and if Virginie wanted the shop it was in order to humiliate her. She might perhaps have handed it over to the first person in the street, but not to that great hypocrite who had surely been waiting for years to see her brought down. Oh, that explained everything! Now she understood why there was a yellow light in that creature's cat's eyes. Yes: Virginie had not forgotten the good hiding she had given her in the wash-house and had kept her resentment quietly simmering. Well, she would be wise to keep her beating under wraps if she didn't want another – and she could be getting her arse primed because it would not be long in coming. At first Lantier, confronted by this torrent of abuse, told Gervaise off, calling her a blockhead, gossip-monger and Lady Muck. He even went so far as to call Coupeau himself a bumpkin, telling him that he didn't know how to make his wife respect a friend. Then, realizing that anger would spoil everything, he swore that he would no longer get involved in other people's affairs, because no one ever
thanked you for it. From then on, he seemed to have stopped arguing in favour of transferring the lease, while waiting for an opportunity to bring the matter up again and make the laundress's mind up for her.