The Drinking Den (44 page)

‘My God, those kids are getting on my nerves with their singing!' Gervaise told Lantier, very upset, about to burst into tears of irritation and sorrow. ‘Why don't you shut them up and take Nana back to the concierge with a kick up the whatsit?'

Mme Lerat and Mme Lorilleux went to have lunch, promising that they would come back later. The Coupeaus sat down at the table to eat some cold meats, but with no appetite, not even daring to clink their forks on the plate. They were very distressed and worn down at having poor Mother Coupeau like a millstone round their necks: she seemed to fill every room. Their lives were turned upside-down and, to begin with, they wandered about looking for things and not finding them, with headaches like hangovers. Lantier immediately went out
again to the undertaker's, with Mme Lerat's thirty francs and sixty that Gervaise had gone to borrow from Goujet, like a madwoman with her hair loose. In the afternoon, a few visitors came, neighbours dying of curiosity, who would turn up sighing and rolling grief-stricken eyes, then head for the little room, where they stared at the dead woman, made the sign of the cross and shook the twig of boxwood dipped in holy water. After that, they would come and sit in the shop where they talked interminably about the dear woman, happily repeating the same words over and over for hours on end. Mlle Remanjou noticed that her right eye had stayed open; Mme Gaudron insisted that she had a fine complexion for someone of her age; and Mme Fauconnier couldn't get over the fact that she had seen her having a cup of coffee three days earlier. True, you could be here one minute, gone the next, and everyone should be ready for it. By late afternoon, the Coupeaus had just about had enough. It was too much of a burden for a family, keeping a body for such a long time. The government should have made a law against it. There was an evening, a whole night and all the next morning still to come! No, it would never end! When the weeping is over, sorrow turns to irritation, doesn't it? They might start to misbehave. Mother Coupeau, stiff and silent at the back of the narrow room, became an increasingly onerous presence, which began to crush everybody in the flat. The family, in spite of itself, resumed its daily routine and lost its feeling of awe.

‘You'll take a bite to eat with us,' Gervaise said to Mme Lerat and Mme Lorilleux when they returned. ‘We're too sad, we should stay together.'

They set out the trestle table. At the sight of the plates, each of them remembered the feasts they had had there. Lantier had come back. Lorilleux came down. A pastry-cook had just brought in a pie because the laundress was too upset to bother with cooking. As they were sitting down, Boche came in to say that M. Marescot was asking to present his condolences. The landlord appeared, looking very solemn, with the wide decoration on his topcoat. He bowed silently, then went directly to the little room and knelt down.

He was very pious. He prayed with the contemplative air of a priest, then made a large sign of the cross in the air as he sprinkled holy water
on the body with the branch of boxwood. The whole family had got up from the table and was standing, very impressed by this. When M. Marescot had concluded his devotions, he came back into the shop and said to the Coupeaus:

‘I've come for the two quarters' rent. Are you in a position to… ?'

‘No, Monsieur, not entirely,' Gervaise stammered, very embarrassed at having this spoken about in front of the Lorilleux. ‘You understand, with the misfortune that has befallen us…'

‘No doubt, but everyone has their troubles,' the landlord replied, extending the huge fingers of a former workman. ‘I'm very sorry, but I cannot wait any longer. If I'm not paid the day after tomorrow, I shall be forced to have you evicted.'

Gervaise clasped her hands, with tears in her eyes, silent and imploring. Briskly shaking his large bony head, he let her know that it was useless to beg. In any event, the respect due to the dead precluded any argument. He withdrew quietly, walking backwards.

‘Forgive me. So sorry to have disturbed you,' he murmured. ‘The day after tomorrow, in the morning, don't forget.'

And, since he had to walk in front of the little room again on his way out, he made a final pious genuflexion towards the body through the wide-open door.

At first, they ate quickly, so as not to appear to be enjoying it. But once they reached the sweet course, they slowed down, overcome by a need for a sense of well-being. From time to time, Gervaise or one of the two sisters got up, with their mouths full, and went to glance into the box-room, without even putting down their napkins; and when she sat down, still finishing what she was eating, the others looked at her to see if everything was in order next door. After a time, they would get up less often and Mother Coupeau was forgotten. They had made a pot of coffee, very strong, so that they could stay awake all night. The Poissons came at eight o'clock. They were offered a drink. At this, Lantier, who had been watching Gervaise's face, seemed to grasp an opportunity for which he had been waiting since that morning. Raising the question of foul landlords who would come into a house in mourning to ask for money, he suddenly said:

‘He's a Jesuit, that bastard, looking like an altar boy! If I were you, I'd dump his shop right there!'

Gervaise, exhausted, weakened and agitated, said without thinking:

‘Yes, naturally, I won't wait for the bailiffs. Oh, I'm sick to death of it, sick to death!'

The Lorilleux, delighted at the idea that Tip-Tap would lose her shop, agreed warmly. You didn't realize what a shop could cost. Even if she was earning only three francs working for someone else, at least she had no expenses; she didn't risk losing a huge amount. They got Coupeau to repeat the same argument, by working on him; he was drinking heavily and keeping himself in a maudlin state, weeping alone into his plate. As the laundress appeared to be giving way, Lantier winked towards the Poissons and tall Virginie stepped in, doing her best to be agreeable.

‘You know, we could come to an agreement. I would take over the lease and settle up with the landlord. All in all, you would be easier in your mind – '

‘No thanks,' Gervaise announced, shaking herself, as though a shudder had gone through her. ‘I know where I can get the rent, if need be. I shall work, I have my two arms, thank God, to help me out!'

‘We'll talk about it later,' the hatter said hastily. ‘This is not a proper time. Later. Tomorrow, for example – '

At that moment, Mme Lerat, who had gone into the little room, gave a slight cry. She had been frightened at finding the candle out, burned right down. Everyone busied about lighting another, and they shook their heads, saying that it was not a good sign when the light went out beside a corpse.

The watch began. Coupeau stretched out, not to sleep, he said, but to have a think. Five minutes later he was snoring. When Nana was sent to sleep at the Boches', she cried: she had been looking forward ever since that morning to being able to sleep in the big warm bed of her good friend Lantier. The Poissons stayed until midnight. Eventually, they made wine punch, French style, in a salad bowl, because the coffee was having too much effect on the ladies' nerves. The conversation veered towards tender confidences. Virginie talked about the
countryside: she would like to be buried at the edge of a wood, with wild flowers on her tomb. Mme Lerat already had her shroud ready in her cupboard and she kept it scented with lavender: she wanted to have a nice smell in her nose while she was pushing up the daisies. Then, abruptly changing the subject, the constable told them how he had arrested a handsome, tall girl that morning after she had been caught stealing in a pork-butcher's shop. When they got her to the station and undressed her, they found ten salamis hanging around her body, back and front. When Mme Lorilleux remarked in disgust that she wouldn't be eating any of that salami, they all started to laugh quietly. The vigil got merrier, while still observing the proprieties. But as they were finishing the punch, an odd noise, like a faint sound of running water, emerged from the little room. They all looked up and exchanged glances.

‘Don't worry,' Lantier said calmly, lowering his voice. ‘She's emptying out.'

This explanation made them nod, as if reassured, and they all put their glasses down on the table.

At length, the Poissons left. Lantier went with them; he was going round to see a friend, he said, so that the ladies could have his bed and take turns in sleeping in it, an hour at a time. Lorilleux went up to bed alone, saying that this was the first time it had happened to him since his wedding. So Gervaise and the two sisters, who had stayed with the sleeping Coupeau, gathered round the stove, on which they kept some hot coffee. There they were, huddled up, bending over, with their hands under their aprons, noses just above the fire, speaking very softly, while all the neighbourhood was silent around them. Mme Lorilleux was complaining that she had no black dress and wished she could avoid buying one, because money was tight, very tight; and she questioned Gervaise to find out if Mother Coupeau hadn't left a black skirt, the skirt that she had been given as a present on her Saint's-day. Gervaise had to go and fetch the skirt. With a pleat at the waist, it might do. But Mme Lorilleux also wanted some old linen, and talked about the bed, the wardrobe and the two chairs, looking round for any knick-knacks that ought to be shared out. There was nearly a row. Mme Lerat soothed things over. She was quite fair: the Coupeaus had
looked after their mother, they had earned the right to her old bits and pieces. At this, all three of them again slumped down over the stove, throwing out the occasional dull remark. The night seemed terribly long. From time to time, they would shake themselves back to life, drink some coffee and poke their heads round the door of the box-room, where the candle, which mustn't be trimmed, was burning with a sad, red flame, made larger by the dark impurities in the wick. Towards morning, they were shivering, despite the heat of the stove. The nervousness and weariness of talking too much was choking them; their tongues were dry and their eyes bloodshot. Mme Lerat threw herself on Lantier's bed and snored like a man, while the other two, their heads falling forward on to their knees, were sleeping in front of the fire. As daybreak came, they were woken up with a start. Mother Coupeau's candle had gone out again; and as the dull running sound started again in the darkness, Mme Lorilleux gave the explanation aloud, for her own satisfaction.

‘She's emptying out,' she repeated, lighting another candle.

The burial was set for half-past ten. A fine morning it would be, coming after the previous night and the day that preceded it! In other words, Gervaise, even though she didn't have a
sou
, would have given a hundred francs to anyone prepared to come and take Mother Coupeau away three hours earlier. No, even though you may be very fond of people, they are too much of a burden when they are dead; you could even say that the more you love them, the more you would like to be quickly rid of them.

Fortunately, the morning of a burial is full of things to take your mind off it. There are all sorts of preparations to be made. Then it happened to be Old Bazouge, the undertaker from the sixth floor, who brought the coffin and the sack of bran. The old boy was never sober. That morning, at eight o'clock, he was still tipsy from a drinking bout the night before.

‘Here we are! It is for here, isn't it?' he said.

And he put down the coffin and there was a creaking sound of new wood.

Then, as he was throwing the sack of bran down next to it, he saw Gervaise in front of him and stood there wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

‘Oh, my, sorry, I've made a mistake,' he stammered. ‘They told me it was for your house.'

He had already retrieved the sack and the laundress had to shout:

‘Leave it, it is for here!'

‘Well, damnation to it, I wish they'd tell me!' he said, slapping his thigh. ‘Now I get it, it's for the old woman.'

Gervaise had gone quite pale: Old Bazouge had brought the coffin for her. He went on, trying to be polite and make his excuses:

‘You see? They told me yesterday that someone had gone on the ground floor. So of course I thought… You know, in our trade, that kind of thing goes in one ear and out through the other… Even so, I congratulate you. No? The later the better, though life's not always such a laugh, is it? I should say!'

She listened to him, shrinking back, afraid that he might seize her in his great, dirty hands and carry her away in his box. Once already, on the day of her wedding, he had told her that he knew women who would thank him if he came to get them. Well, she hadn't reached that point; it sent shivers up her spine. Her life was in ruins, but she was still not ready to leave it. Yes, she would rather spend years dying of hunger than for it all to be over and done with in a second.

‘He's sloshed,' she muttered, disgust mingling with horror. ‘At least, the company shouldn't send winos. They charge enough.'

At this, the undertaker became scornful and insolent.

‘Well, then, my girl, it will have to wait until later. Always at your service, you know. Just say the word. I am the consoler of ladies… And don't you sneer at Old Bazouge, because he's had prettier ones than you in his arms, who have let him see to them without complaining, quite happy to carry on sleeping in the dark.'

‘You be quiet, Bazouge!' Lorilleux said sternly; he had come when he heard voices. ‘It's not decent to joke about that. If anyone complained, you would be sacked. So, away with you, since you have no respect for principles.'

The undertaker went off, but they could hear him for a long time outside muttering: ‘What principles? There are no principles… there are no principles… there is only respectability.'

At last, ten o'clock came. The hearse was late. People were already
gathering in the shop, friends and neighbours, M. Madinier, Mes-Bottes, Mme Gaudron, Mlle Remanjou; and every minute or so, a man or a woman's head would poke out between the closed shutters or through the gaping hole of the door, to see if that lazybones of a hearse was coming. The family, gathering in the back room, exchanged handshakes. There were short silences, broken by rapid bursts of whispering – a nervous, feverish waiting, with brief rustlings of skirts: Mme Lorilleux had forgotten her handkerchief, Mme Lerat wanted to borrow a missal. Each one of them, on arriving, had observed the covered coffin in the middle of the room, in front of the bed; and, in spite of themselves, they all went on glancing sideways at it, reckoning that fat Mother Coupeau would never get in there. They all looked at one another, this same concern in their eyes, without putting it into words. Then there was a flurry around the street door and M. Madinier came in and announced in a grave voice, full of restraint, opening his arms wide: