The Drinking Den (55 page)

Perhaps that evening Coupeau would bring some money home. He said that he was working. Anything's possible, isn't it? And Gervaise, though she'd been caught many times already, had reached the stage where she was counting on that money. As for herself, after all sorts of problems, she couldn't find as much as a dishcloth to wash in the neighbourhood; even one old lady whose housework she had been doing had shown her the door, accusing her of drinking her liqueurs. No one wanted her anywhere, she was done for; and, when it came down to it, that was all right by her, because she had fallen to the point where she would rather die than lift a finger. If Coupeau did bring back his wages, though, they would eat something hot. And, meanwhile, since midday had not yet chimed, she was flat out on her mattress, because one feels the cold and hunger less when one is lying down.

Gervaise called it a mattress, but in reality it was not more than a heap of straw in a corner. Little by little, the bedding had drifted away
to the second-hand shops. To start with, on days of need, she had unpicked the mattress so that she could remove handfuls of wool, which she took out in her apron, to sell it for ten
sous
a pound in the Rue Belhomme. Then, when the mattress was empty, she got thirty
sous
for the material one morning to buy coffee. The pillows followed, then the bolster. What remained was the wood from the bedstead, which she could not put under her arms, because of the Boches, who would have roused the whole house if they had seen the landlord's surety vanishing through the door. One evening, however, with Coupeau's help, she waited until the Boches were having dinner, and calmly removed the bed bit by bit: the sides, the headboard and the frame. On the ten francs from this operation they dined for three days. Wasn't a straw mattress enough? Even the material from this went the same way as the other; and in the end they had managed to devour all the bedding – and get indigestion eating bread after fasting for twenty-four hours. You could sweep the straw into a heap with a broom, the mattress was always turned and it was no dirtier than anything else.

Gervaise, fully clothed, was crouched on her pile of straw like a gundog, with her hands underneath her tattered skirt to keep warm. That day, she was thinking, huddled up with wide-open eyes, and her thoughts were not jolly. Oh, no, damn it! They couldn't go on living like this, with nothing to eat! She no longer felt hunger; but she had a lead weight in her stomach and her head felt empty. Of course, there was nothing much to make her merry as she looked around the room. It was a real kennel now, where even those hussies who parade around the streets in fur coats would not be seen dead in. Her pale eyes looked around the bare walls. The pawnbroker had long since taken everything. All that remained was the chest of drawers, the table and one chair; and even then the marble and the drawers from the chest of drawers had followed down the same road as the bed. A fire could not have demolished the place better, the little knick-knacks had faded away, starting with the ticker, a twelve-franc watch, and the family photographs, a dealer having bought the frames off her – a very co-operative dealer to whom she had taken a saucepan, an iron and a comb in exchange for five
sous
, three
sous
or two
sous
, as it may be; in any case enough to go home with a piece of bread. Now nothing was
left except an old, broken candle-snuffer, which the dealer had refused to take for a
sou
. But if there had been anyone to sell the rubbish to, or the dust and the grime, she would instantly have opened shop, because the room was in a dreadful state. She could see nothing but spiders' webs in the corners, and spiders' webs may be good for healing cuts but no tradesman yet has ever bought any. So, turning her head, giving up any hope of finding something to sell, she curled up a little more on her straw, preferring to look out of the window at the sky, heavy with snow on this gloomy day that chilled the marrow of her bones.

What a mess they were in! What was the point of getting worked up and racking one's brains? If only she could have had a nap. But she kept thinking about her room, that madhouse. The owner, M. Marescot, had come himself the previous day to tell them that he would have them evicted if they didn't pay the two overdue quarters' rent within a week. So? He would evict them; they would be no worse on the street. Just look at that slob, with his overcoat and his woollen gloves, coming up to talk to them about quarter-days, as though they had a nest-egg hidden away somewhere. Bloody hell! If she had, she would have had a bite to eat instead of tightening her belt! Honestly, the fat old idiot was too much of a bore; as far as she was concerned, he was a real pain in the whatsit. He was just like that animal of hers, Coupeau, who no longer came home without hitting her. He could go to the same place as the landlord. Right now, that place, wherever it was, would need to be pretty big, because she would put everyone there, so much would she love to get rid of everybody and life itself. She was becoming a proper punch-ball. Coupeau had a cudgel that he called his donkey's fan; and he would fan his old woman with it, with terrible blows that left her pouring with sweat; you should have seen him! She was not so gentle herself, biting and scratching. So they would beat each other round the empty room, hitting one another until they had beaten the hunger out of them. In the end, however, she came not to give a damn about the beatings, as about everything else. Coupeau could extend his long weekends to the end of the month, go out boozing for weeks, come home raging drunk and try to rearrange her features, she was so used to it all that she found it a bore, nothing more. And
those were the days when he could vanish up her arse: yes, up her arse, the pig of a man! Up her arse, the Lorilleux, the Boches and the Poissons! Up her arse, the neighbourhood that despised her! All Paris could go there, she would stuff it in with a shove, a gesture of supreme indifference, only too pleased at putting it there, and feeling avenged.

Unfortunately, while one may get used to anything, no one has yet been able to get into the habit of not eating. This was the sole remaining thing that bugged Gervaise. She didn't mind being the lowest of the low, in the depths of the gutter, and seeing people brush themselves down when she passed close to them. Bad behaviour didn't worry her any more, but hunger still twisted her guts. She had said goodbye to treats, that was sure, and would devour whatever she found. Nowadays, a feast was when she could buy, at four
sous
a pound, some offcuts of meat that were tired of hanging around, turning black in a plate at the butcher's; she would put them in a casserole with potatoes and boil them at the bottom of a pan. Or else she would fricassee an ox-heart, licking her lips over this paltry fare. At other times, when she had some wine, she would indulge in dunking some bread in it, a real parrot's soup! Two
sous
' worth of brawn, a bushel of potatoes, a quarter of haricot beans cooked in sauce: these were other treats that she couldn't often afford. She was reduced to eating leftovers from dubious eating-houses, where she could get heaps of fish-bones mixed in with spoiled offcuts of roast meat for one
sou
. She descended even lower, begging a charitable restaurant owner to give her the bread that his customers had left on their plates and making a kind of bread soup from it, after leaving it to simmer for as long as possible on a neighbour's stove. On days when there was nothing, she even went so far as to prowl with the dogs outside the doors of shops before the dustmen came. This was how she sometimes came to eat rich people's food: rotten melons, mackerel that had gone off or cutlets where she had to search the knuckle to see if there were any maggots. Yes, this is how low she had sunk. No doubt sensitive people will be turned off by the idea; but if these sensitive people had had nothing to eat for three days, we should see whether their stomachs were so delicate; they would be down on all fours, eating out of the garbage like their friends. Alas, the death of the poor, their empty guts screaming with hunger, this
need that makes them gnaw like beasts and cram foul things into their mouths, and all this in this great city of Paris, gilded and blazing with light! To think that Gervaise had once had her belly full of fat goose! Now she didn't care a jot for it. One day, when Coupeau stole two bread coupons to resell them and buy drink, she almost killed him with a shovel, desperate with hunger and driven mad by the theft of that scrap of bread.

However, by dint of staring at the dull sky, she had fallen into an uncomfortable little sleep. She was dreaming that this sky full of snow had burst over her, the cold was so severe. Suddenly, she was on her feet, woken with a start by a great shudder of anxiety. My God! Perhaps she was dying! Shivering, chattering, she saw that it was still day. Would the night never come? How long the time seems when you have nothing in your belly! Her stomach too was waking up and torturing her. Letting herself fall on to the chair, her head bent and her hands between her thighs to keep warm, she was already working out what they would eat as soon as Coupeau brought some money: a loaf of bread, a litre of wine and two portions of tripe
à la lyonnaise
. Three o'clock rang on Old Bazouge's cuckoo clock; it was only three. She began to cry then. She would never have the strength to wait until seven. Her whole body swayed, like that of a little girl rocking away some great sorrow, bent double, pressing down on her stomach, so as not to feel it. Oh, it is less painful to bear children than to starve! And, finding no relief, seized with fury, she got up and walked about, hoping to send her hunger back to sleep like a baby being rocked to sleep. For half an hour, she stumbled from one corner of the room to another. Then, suddenly, she stopped, staring ahead. Too bad! Let them say what they would, she would lick their feet if they wanted, but she was going to borrow ten
sous
from the Lorilleux.

In winter time, in that wing of the house, among the poverty-stricken, people were constantly borrowing ten
sous
, or twenty – little favours that these starvelings did for one another. However, one would rather die than approach the Lorilleux, because they were known to be too tight-fisted. In knocking on their door, Gervaise was exhibiting remarkable courage. She was so afraid that, in the corridor, she felt the sudden relief that people experience as they ring the dentist's bell.

‘Come in,' said the chain-maker, in his sharp voice.

How comfortable it was in there! The forge was blazing, lighting up the narrow workshop with its white flame, while Mme Lorilleux was putting a coil of gold wire to heat on it. Lorilleux, sitting at his workbench, was so hot that he was sweating as he soldered the links of a chain with his blowpipe. And it smelled good, too, with some cabbage soup simmering on the stove, giving out a steam that turned Gervaise's stomach and made her feel faint.

‘Oh, it's you,' grumbled Mme Lorilleux, without even asking her to sit down. ‘What do you want?'

Gervaise did not reply. She was not on too bad terms with the Lorilleux that week, but the request for the ten
sous
stuck in her throat, because she had just seen Boche, blatantly sitting by the stove, there for a gossip. He had a look that suggested he didn't give a damn for anyone, that brute! He was laughing like an arsehole, his mouth round and his cheeks so puffed out that they hid his nose – a real arsehole, in fact!

‘What do you want?' Lorilleux repeated.

‘Have you seen Coupeau?' Gervaise stammered out eventually. ‘I thought he was here.'

The chain-makers and the concierge giggled. No, of course they hadn't seen Coupeau. They didn't give out enough glasses of spirits for Coupeau to start dropping in just like that. Gervaise made an effort and carried on, still stammering:

‘Well, he promised me he'd come back… Yes, he's meant to be bringing me some money… And since there's something I really need… '

There was an oppressive silence. Mme Lorilleux fanned the iron on the forge roughly, while Lorilleux had bent his head over the end of the chain, which was running out between his fingers, and Boche still had his mooning laugh, his mouth forming such a round hole that you wanted to stick your finger into it, just to see.

‘If I just had ten
sous,'
Gervaise said in a low voice.

The silence was unbroken.

‘Couldn't you lend me ten
sous?
I could give them back this evening… '

Mme Lorilleux turned round and stared at her. Here was some cadger trying to squeeze them. Today, she would have ten
sous;
tomorrow it would be twenty and there would be no reason to stop there. No, thank you, we'll have none of that. When the sun shines at midnight, perhaps.

‘But, my dear girl,' she said, ‘you know quite well that we don't have any money. Look, there's the lining of my pocket. You can search us. Otherwise, we'd do it willingly, of course.'

‘The heart is willing,' Lorilleux said. ‘But if we can't, we can't.'

Gervaise nodded, very humbly. However, she did not leave, she looked at the gold out of the corner of her eye – at the coils of gold hanging from the wall, the string of gold that the woman was drawing out of the drawplate with all the strength of her little arms, the gold links piled up under the husband's gnarled fingers. And she thought that just one scrap of this ugly, blackish metal would have been enough to buy her a good dinner. That day, even though the workshop was dirty, with its old irons, its coal-dust and its grime of spilled oil, she saw it blazing with wealth, like a money-changer's shop. And that was why she dared to repeat, softly:

‘I'll give it back to you, of course I will… Ten
sous:
it wouldn't hurt you.'

Her heart was bursting with the effort of holding back her confession that she had not eaten since the day before. Then she felt her legs giving way and was afraid of bursting into tears as she stammered once more: