The Drinking Den (43 page)

January had come: filthy weather, wet and cold. Mother Coupeau, who had been coughing and spluttering throughout December, had to take to her bed again after Epiphany. This was expected: it came to her every winter like an annuity. But this winter they were saying around her that she would only be leaving her room feet first, this time. And, indeed, fat and plump as she was, she did have a nasty graveyard rattle in the throat, one dead eye and half her face twisted. Of course, her children would not have finished her off, but she had been hanging around so long, getting in the way, that in their hearts they looked forward to her death as a deliverance for everyone. She'd be much better off herself, wouldn't she, now that she'd had her innings? And when your time is up, there's nothing to regret. They had called the doctor once and he didn't even bother to come back. They gave her herb teas, so as not to abandon her entirely, and every hour went in to see if she was still alive. If she tried to speak, she choked; but with her one good eye, bright and clear, she would stare hard at them. There were a lot of things in that eye: regret for her lost youth, sadness at seeing her family in such a hurry to get rid of her and anger against that little hussy Nana, who no longer cared if she was seen going, in her nightshirt, to listen at the glass door.

One Monday evening, Coupeau came back drunk. Since his mother's life had been in danger, he had been constantly in a maudlin state. When he was in bed and snoring determinedly, Gervaise walked round the house for a bit longer. She used to keep watch over Mother Coupeau for part of the night. In any event, Nana showed plenty of courage, continuing to sleep next to the old woman and saying that if she heard her die, she would let everybody know. That particular night, since the child was sleeping and the sick woman appeared to be dozing peacefully, the laundress eventually gave in to Lantier who was calling from his room, telling her that she ought to come and get a bit of rest. They just kept one candle alight, on the floor next to the cupboard. But at around three in the morning, Gervaise suddenly leaped out of bed, shivering and overcome with anxiety. She thought she had felt a
cold breath of air pass over her. The candle had burned right down, so she groped around in the dark, putting on her skirt, her hands shivering. Only when she got into the little box-room, after bumping into the furniture, was she able to light a lamp. In the midst of the heavy silence of night, only the roofer's snores sounded two deep notes. Nana, lying on her back, was breathing gently through her puffy lips. Then, lowering the lamp and making the huge shadows dance, Gervaise threw its light on Mother Coupeau's face and saw that it was absolutely white, with the head slumping on her shoulder and the eyes open. Mother Coupeau was dead.

Quietly, without crying out, but cautious and icy cold, the laundress went back to Lantier's room. He had gone back to sleep. She leaned over him and murmured:

‘It's all over, she's dead.'

At first, heavy with sleep and only half awake, he growled:

‘Leave me alone and go back to bed. There's nothing we can do, if she's dead.'

Then he propped himself up on one elbow and asked:

‘What's the time?'

‘Three o'clock.'

‘Three o'clock! Why don't you go back to bed. You'll catch cold. We'll see about it in the morning.'

But she wasn't listening, she was getting fully dressed. At this, he pulled the blankets over his head and turned to the wall, muttering about women and their silly ideas. Was there any rush to go telling everybody that they had a death in the house? It was not a joyful occasion in the middle of the night and it infuriated him to have his sleep ruined by such depressing thoughts. As for Gervaise, she took all her things back into her own bedroom, even her hairpins, and then sat down there, sobbing freely now that she was not afraid of being caught in the hatter's room. Underneath, she was very fond of Mother Coupeau and was grieved by her death, though in the first moment she had felt only fear and annoyance, seeing that she had picked such a bad time to depart. And she wept all alone, loudly, in the silence, while the roofer went on snoring, oblivious to it all. She had called and shaken him, then decided to leave him in peace, thinking it would
just be another problem if he were to wake up. When she went back to look at the body, she found Nana sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. The girl understood what had happened and craned her neck to see her grandmother, with that perverse curiosity of hers; and she said nothing, but shivered a little, astonished and satisfied by the sight of this death that she had been promising herself for the past two days, like some naughtiness, that children are not allowed to see or know about. At the sight of this white mask, thin and drawn by the last gasp for life, her young cat's eyes grew wide and she had that shiver down her spine that kept her glued behind the glass door when she went to spy on things that are not meant for little brats to hear.

‘Come on, now, get up,' her mother whispered. ‘I don't want you to stay here.'

She got out of bed regretfully, turning her head so that she could keep on staring at the dead woman. Gervaise didn't know what to do with her or where to put her until morning. She was making up her mind to get her dressed, when Lantier, in trousers and slippers, came in. He couldn't get back to sleep and was slightly ashamed of his behaviour, so that settled it.

‘Let her sleep in my bed,' he muttered. ‘There'll be room.'

Nana looked up at her mother and Lantier wide-eyed, with that innocently stupid look that she adopted on New Year's Day when people gave her chocolates. Naturally, she needed no urging; she trotted off in her nightgown, with her bare feet scarcely touching the floor and slid like a viper into the bed, which was still warm; and there she lay, stretched out, sinking into the mattress so that her slender body hardly made any impression on the blanket. Every time her mother came in, she saw those two eyes shining in a silent face, not sleeping or moving, but very red and apparently thinking hard about things.

Meanwhile, Lantier had been helping Gervaise to dress Mother Coupeau; and it was no mean task, because the body certainly weighed its full weight. No one would have thought that the old woman was so plump and so white. They put on stockings, a white petticoat, a bodice and cap – in short, her best linen. Coupeau was still snoring, on two notes, one deep, falling, the other sharp and rising: it was like church music, for the Good Friday service. When the corpse was dressed and
neatly stretched out on her bed, Lantier poured himself a glass of wine, to help him recover, because he was feeling a bit queasy. Gervaise hunted around in the cupboard looking for a little copper crucifix, which she had brought from Plassans; then she remembered that Mother Coupeau herself must have sold it. They lit the stove and spent the rest of the night half asleep on chairs, finishing off the bottle of wine that Lantier had started, grumpy and sulking, as if it was their fault.

At about seven o'clock, before sunrise, Coupeau finally woke up. When he learned what had happened, he at first remained dry-eyed, stammering, having some vague idea that they were playing a trick on him. Then he threw himself on the floor, prostrating himself in front of the dead woman, kissing her, weeping like a baby with such large tears that he made the sheet wet when he wiped his cheeks on it. Gervaise was sobbing again, very moved by her husband's grief and reconciled with him; yes, underneath it all he was better than she had thought. His despair was partly occasioned by a dreadful headache. He ran his fingers through his hair and had the foul taste of a hangover in his mouth; he was still a little tipsy, despite his ten hours of sleep. And he lamented, with clenched fists. God in heaven, the poor mother whom he loved so much had left him! Oh, what a terrible headache he had, it was killing him! It was like having burning coals on your head; and now they wanted to wrench his heart out as well! No, fate was cruel to pursue a man in such a way.

‘Come, come, old chap, bear up,' said Lantier, helping him to his feet. ‘You must pull yourself together.'

He poured him out a glass of wine, but Coupeau refused to drink it.

‘What's wrong with me? There's copper in my belly. It's Mother: when I saw her, I got this taste of copper… Oh, Mother! My God! Mother, Mother…'

And he started to cry like a child again. Eventually, he did drink the glass of wine, to put out the fire in his chest. Lantier soon left them, with the excuse of going to inform the family and going round to the town hall to register the death. He needed some air. Consequently, he was in no hurry to get back, smoking a cigarette or two and enjoying
the sharp cold of the morning air. When he left Mme Lerat's, he slipped into a
crémerie
in the Batignolles to have a hot cup of coffee, and stayed there, thinking, for a whole hour.

Meanwhile, by nine, the family had gathered in the shop, the shutters of which were left shut. Lorilleux did not shed a tear; as it happened he had an urgent job on and went back upstairs almost immediately after hanging around for a moment or two with a suitably mournful face. Mme Lorilleux and Mme Lerat had embraced the Coupeaus and were dabbing little tears from their eyes. But Mme Lorilleux had no sooner cast a rapid glance over the dead woman than she raised her voice to announce that it was senseless: one never left a lighted lamp beside a dead body; you should use a candle; so Nana was sent out to buy a bundle of candles, large ones. Bless me! If you went and died at Tip-Tap's, she would give you an odd send-off! What a ninny, not even knowing how to deal with a corpse! Hadn't she ever buried anyone before? Mme Lerat had to go round to the neighbours' to borrow a crucifix; she came back with one that was too big, a black wooden cross with a painted cardboard Christ nailed to it, which covered the whole of Mother Coupeau's chest and seemed to be crushing her with its weight. After that, they went to look for holy water, but no one had any, so it was Nana again who went to the church to fetch some in a bottle. In a trice, the little box-room was transformed: a candle was burning on a little table, beside a glass of holy water with a sprig of box fluttering in it. Now, if anyone came, at least it would be decent. And they set out the chairs in a circle in the shop, for the guests.

Lantier did not return until eleven o'clock. He had been to get some information from the undertaker's.

‘The coffin is twelve francs,' he said. ‘If you want a mass, that will cost ten francs more. Finally, you have the hearse, which varies according to the trappings…'

‘Oh, there's no need for that,' Mme Lorilleux muttered, turning round in surprise and with an anxious look. ‘We won't bring Mama back, will we? We must cut our coat according to our cloth.'

‘Of course, I agree,' said the hatter. ‘I just got the figures to give you some idea… Tell me what you want, after lunch, and I'll go and order it.'

They were talking softly, in the half-light that filtered into the room through the shutters. The door of the box-room was wide open and, out of this gaping hole, flowed the heavy silence of death. The laughter of children rose up from the courtyard and a group of them was dancing round in the pale winter sunlight. Suddenly, Nana's voice could be heard; she had run away from the Boches where they had sent her and was giving orders in her shrill tones. The children's heels clattered against the paving-stones and a chant rang out, its words dispersing like a flock of squawking birds: