L'Assommoir: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

A HAPPY HOME

Four years of hard and incessant toil followed this day. Gervaise and
Coupeau were wise and prudent. They worked hard and took a little
relaxation on Sundays. The wife worked twelve hours of the twenty-four
with Mme Fauconnier and yet found time to keep her own home like
waxwork. The husband was never known to be tipsy but brought home his
wages and smoked his pipe at his own window at night before going to
bed. They were the bright and shining lights, the good example of the
whole _Quartier_, and as they made jointly about nine francs per
day, it was easy to see they were putting by money.

But in the first few months of their married life they were obliged to
trim their sails closely and had some trouble to make both ends meet.
They took a great dislike to the Hotel Boncoeur. They longed for a
home of their own with their own furniture. They estimated the cost
over and over again and decided that for three hundred and fifty
francs they could venture, but they had little hope of saving such a
sum in less than two years, when a stroke of good luck befell them.

An old gentleman in Plassans sent for Claude to place him at school.
He was a very eccentric old gentleman, fond of pictures and art.
Claude was a great expense to his mother, and when Etienne alone was
at home they saved the three hundred and fifty francs in seven months.
The day they purchased their furniture they took a long and happy walk
together, for it was an important step they had taken--important not
only in their own eyes but in those of the people around them.

For two months they had been looking for an apartment. They wished,
of all things, to take one in the old house where Mme Lorilleux
lived, but there was not one single room to be rented, and they were
compelled to relinquish the idea. Gervaise was reconciled to this more
easily, since she did not care to be thrown in any closer contact with
the Lorilleuxs. They looked further. It was essential that Gervaise
should be near her friend and employer Mme Fauconnier, and they
finally succeeded in their search and were indeed in wonderful luck,
for they obtained a large room with a kitchen and tiny bedroom just
opposite the establishment of the laundress. It was a small house,
two stories, with one steep staircase, and was divided into two
lodgings--the one on the right, the other on the left, while the
lower floor was occupied by a carriage maker.

Gervaise was delighted. It seemed to her that she was once more in the
country--no neighbors, no gossip, no interference--and from the place
where she stood and ironed all day at Mme Fauconnier's she could see
the windows of her own room.

They moved in the month of April. Gervaise was then near her
confinement, but it was she who cleaned and put in order her new home.
Every penny as of consequence, she said with pride, now that they
would soon have another other mouth to feed. She rubbed her furniture,
which was of old mahogany, good, but secondhand, until it shone like
glass and was quite brokenhearted when she discovered a scratch. She
held her breath if she knocked it when sweeping. The commode was her
especial pride; it was so dignified and stately. Her pet dream, which,
however, she kept to herself, was someday to have a clock to put
in the center of the marble slab. If there had not been a baby in
prospect she would have purchased this much-coveted article at once,
but she sighed and dismissed the thought.

Etienne's bed was placed in the tiny room, almost a closet, and there
was room for the cradle by its side. The kitchen was about as big as
one's hand and very dark, but by leaving the door open one could see
pretty well, and as Gervaise had no big dinners to get she managed
comfortably. The large room was her pride. In the morning the white
curtains of the alcove were drawn, and the bedroom was transformed
into a lovely dining room, with its table in the middle, the commode
and a wardrobe opposite each other. A tiny stove kept them warm in
cold weather for seven sous per day.

Coupeau ornamented the walls with several engravings--one of a marshal
of France on a spirited steed, with his baton in his hand. Above the
commode were the photographs of the family, arranged in two lines,
with an antique china _benitier_ between. On the corners of the
commode a bust of Pascal faced another of Beranger--one grave, the
other smiling. It was, indeed, a fair and pleasant home.

"How much do you think we pay here?" Gervaise would ask of each new
visitor.

And when too high an estimate was given she was charmed.

"One hundred and fifty francs--not a penny more," she would exclaim.
"Is it not wonderful?"

No small portion of the woman's satisfaction arose from an acacia
which grew in her courtyard, one of whose branches crossed her window,
and the scanty foliage was a whole wilderness to her.

Her baby was born one afternoon. She would not allow her husband to be
sent for, and when he came gaily into the room he was welcomed by his
pale wife, who whispered to him as he stooped over her:

"My dear, it is a girl."

"All right!" said the tinworker, jesting to hide his real emotion.
"I ordered a girl. You always do just what I want!"

He took up the child.

"Let us have a good look at you, young lady! The down on the top of
your head is pretty black, I think. Now you must never squall but be
as good and reasonable always as your papa and mamma."

Gervaise, with a faint smile and sad eyes, looked at her daughter. She
shook her head. She would have preferred a boy, because boys run less
risks in a place like Paris. The nurse took the baby from the father's
hands and told Gervaise she must not talk. Coupeau said he must go and
tell his mother and sister the news, but he was famished and must eat
something first. His wife was greatly disturbed at seeing him wait
upon himself, and she tossed about a little and complained that she
could not make him comfortable.

"You must be quiet," said the nurse again.

"It is lucky you are here, or she would be up and cutting my bread
for me," said Coupeau.

He finally set forth to announce the news to his family and returned
in an hour with them all.

The Lorilleuxs, under the influence of the prosperity of their brother
and his wife, had become extremely amiable toward them and only lifted
their eyebrows in a significant sort of way, as much as to say that
they could tell something if they pleased.

"You must not talk, you understand," said Coupeau, "but they would
come and take a peep at you, and I am going to make them some coffee."

He disappeared into the kitchen, and the women discussed the size of
the baby and whom it resembled. Meanwhile Coupeau was heard banging
round in the kitchen, and his wife nervously called out to him and
told him where the things were that he wanted, but her husband rose
superior to all difficulties and soon appeared with the smoking
coffeepot, and they all seated themselves around the table, except the
nurse, who drank a cup standing and then departed; all was going well,
and she was not needed. If she was wanted in the morning they could
send for her.

Gervaise lay with a faint smile on her lips. She only half heard what
was said by those about her. She had no strength to speak; it seemed
to her that she was dead. She heard the word baptism. Coupeau saw no
necessity for the ceremony and was quite sure, too, that the child
would take cold. In his opinion, the less one had to do with priests,
the better. His mother was horrified and called him a heathen, while
the Lorilleuxs claimed to be religious people also.

"It had better be on Sunday," said his sister in a decided tone, and
Gervaise consented with a little nod. Everybody kissed her and then
the baby, addressing it with tender epithets, as if it could
understand, and departed.

When Coupeau was alone with his wife he took her hand and held it
while he finished his pipe.

"I could not help their coming," he said, "but I am sure they have
given you the headache." And the rough, clumsy man kissed his wife
tenderly, moved by a great pity for all she had borne for his sake.

And Gervaise was very happy. She told him so and said her only anxiety
now was to be on her feet again as soon as possible, for they had
another mouth to feed. He soothed her and asked if she could not trust
him to look out for their little one.

In the morning when he went to his work he sent Mme Boche to spend the
day with his wife, who at night told him she never could consent to
lie still any longer and see a stranger going about her room, and the
next day she was up and would not be taken care of again. She had no
time for such nonsense! She said it would do for rich women but not
for her, and in another week she was at Mme Fauconnier's again at
work.

Mme Lorilleux, who was the baby's godmother, appeared on Saturday
evening with a cap and baptismal robe, which she had bought cheap
because they had lost their first freshness. The next day Lorilleux,
as godfather, gave Gervaise six pounds of sugar. They flattered
themselves they knew how to do things properly and that evening, at
the supper given by Coupeau, did not appear empty-handed. Lorilleux
came with a couple of bottles of wine under each arm, and his wife
brought a large custard which was a specialty of a certain restaurant.

Yes, they knew how to do things, these people, but they also liked
to tell of what they did, and they told everyone they saw in the next
month that they had spent twenty francs, which came to the ears of
Gervaise, who was none too well pleased.

It was at this supper that Gervaise became acquainted with her
neighbors on the other side of the house. These were Mme Goujet, a
widow, and her son. Up to this time they had exchanged a good morning
when they met on the stairs or in the street, but as Mme Goujet had
rendered some small services on the first day of her illness, Gervaise
invited them on the occasion of the baptism.

These people were from the _Department du Nond_. The mother
repaired laces, while the son, a blacksmith by trade, worked in
a factory.

They had lived in their present apartment for five years. Beneath the
peaceful calm of their lives lay a great sorrow. Goujet, the husband
and father, had killed a man in a fit of furious intoxication
and then, while in prison, had choked himself with his pocket
handkerchief. His widow and child left Lille after this and came to
Paris, with the weight of this tragedy on their hearts and heads, and
faced the future with indomitable courage and sweet patience. Perhaps
they were overproud and reserved, for they held themselves aloof
from those about them. Mme Goujet always wore mourning, and her pale,
serene face was encircled with nunlike bands of white. Goujet was a
colossus of twenty-three with a clear, fresh complexion and honest
eyes. At the manufactory he went by the name of the Gueule-d'Or on
account of his beautiful blond beard.

Gervaise took a great fancy to these people and when she first entered
their apartment and was charmed with the exquisite cleanliness of all
she saw. Mme Goujet opened the door into her son's room to show it
to her. It was as pretty and white as the chamber of a young girl.
A narrow iron bed, white curtains and quilt, a dressing table and
bookshelves made up the furniture. A few colored engravings were
pinned against the wall, and Mme Goujet said that her son was a good
deal of a boy still--he liked to look at pictures rather than read.
Gervaise sat for an hour with her neighbor, watching her at work with
her cushion, its numberless pins and the pretty lace.

The more she saw of her new friends the better Gervaise liked them.
They were frugal but not parsimonious. They were the admiration of
the neighborhood. Goujet was never seen with a hole or a spot on his
garments. He was very polite to all but a little diffident, in spite
of his height and broad shoulders. The girls in the street were much
amused to see him look away when they met him; he did not fancy their
ways--their forward boldness and loud laughs. One day he came home
tipsy. His mother uttered no word of reproach but brought out a
picture of his father which was piously preserved in her wardrobe. And
after that lesson Goujet drank no more liquor, though he conceived no
hatred for wine.

On Sunday he went out with his mother, who was his idol. He went to
her with all his troubles and with all his joys, as he had done when
little.

At first he took no interest in Gervaise, but after a while he began
to like her and treated her like a sister, with abrupt familiarity.

Cadet-Cassis, who was a thorough Parisian, thought Gueule-d'Or very
stupid. What was the sense of turning away from all the pretty girls
he met in the street? But this did not prevent the two young fellows
from liking each other very heartily.

For three years the lives of these people flowed tranquilly on
without an event. Gervaise had been elevated in the laundry where
she worked, had higher wages and decided to place Etienne at school.
Notwithstanding all her expenses of the household, they were able to
save twenty and thirty francs each month. When these savings amounted
to six hundred francs Gervaise could not rest, so tormented was she by
ambitious dreams. She wished to open a small establishment herself and
hire apprentices in her turn. She hesitated, naturally, to take the
definite steps and said they would look around for a shop that would
answer their purpose; their money in the savings bank was quietly
rolling up. She had bought her clock, the object of her ambition; it
was to be paid for in a year--so much each month. It was a wonderful
clock, rosewood with fluted columns and gilt moldings and pendulum.
She kept her bankbook under the glass shade, and often when she was
thinking of her shop she stood with her eyes fixed on the clock, as
if she were waiting for some especial and solemn moment.

The Coupeaus and the Goujets now went out on Sundays together. It was
an orderly party with a dinner at some quiet restaurant. The men drank
a glass or two of wine and came home with the ladies and counted up
and settled the expenditures of the day before they separated.
The Lorilleuxs were bitterly jealous of these new friends of their
brother's. They declared it had a very queer look to see him and his
wife always with strangers rather than with his own family, and Mme
Lorilleux began to say hateful things again of Gervaise. Mme Lerat,
on the contrary, took her part, while Mamma Coupeau tried to please
everyone.

The day that Nana--which was the pet name given to the little
girl--was three years old Coupeau, on coming in, found his wife in
a state of great excitement. She refused to give any explanation,
saying, in fact, there really was nothing the matter, but she finally
became so abstracted that she stood still with the plates in her hand
as she laid the table for dinner, and her husband insisted on an
explanation.

"If you must know," she said, "that little shop in La Rue de la
Goutte-d'Or is vacant. I heard so only an hour ago, and it struck
me all of a heap!"

It was a very nice shop in the very house of which they had so often
thought. There was the shop itself--a back room--and two others. They
were small, to be sure, but convenient and well arranged; only she
thought it dear--five hundred francs.

"You asked the price then?"

"Yes, I asked it just out of curiosity," she answered with an air of
indifference, "but it is too dear, decidedly too dear. It would be
unwise, I think, to take it."

But she could talk of nothing else the whole evening. She drew the
plan of the rooms on the margin of a newspaper, and as she talked she
measured the furniture, as if they were to move the next day. Then
Coupeau, seeing her great desire to have the place, declared he would
see the owner the next morning, for it was possible he would take less
than five hundred francs, but how would she like to live so near his
sister, whom she detested?

Gervaise was displeased at this and said she detested no one and even
defended the Lorilleuxs, declaring they were not so bad, after all.
And when Coupeau was asleep her busy brain was at work arranging the
rooms which as yet they had not decided to hire.

The next day when she was alone she lifted the shade from the clock
and opened her bankbook. Just to think that her shop and future
prosperity lay between those dirty leaves!

Before going to her work she consulted Mme Goujet, who approved of the
plan. With a husband like hers, who never drank, she could not fail
of success. At noon she called on her sister-in-law to ask her advice,
for she did not wish to have the air of concealing anything from the
family.

Mme Lorilleux was confounded. What, did Wooden Legs think of having
an establishment of her own? And with an envious heart she stammered
out that it would be very well, certainly, but when she had recovered
herself a little she began to talk of the dampness of the courtyard
and of the darkness of the _rez-de-chaussee_. Oh yes, it was a
capital place for rheumatism, but of course if her mind was made up
anything she could say would make no difference.

That night Gervaise told her husband that if he had thrown any
obstacles in the way of her taking the shop she believed she should
have fallen sick and died, so great was her longing. But before they
came to any decision they must see if a diminution of the rent could
be obtained.

"We can go tomorrow if you say so," was her husband's reply; "you can
call for me at six o'clock."

Coupeau was then completing the roof of a three-storied house and
was laying the very last sheets of zinc. It was May and a cloudless
evening. The sun was low in the horizon, and against the blue sky the
figure of Coupeau was clearly defined as he cut his zinc as quietly
as a tailor might have cut out a pair of breeches in his workshop. His
assistant, a lad of seventeen, was blowing up the furnace with a pair
of bellows, and at each puff a great cloud of sparks arose.

"Put in the irons, Zidore!" shouted Coupeau.

The boy thrust the irons among the coals which showed only a dull pink
in the sunlight and then went to work again with his bellows. Coupeau
took up his last sheet of zinc. It was to be placed on the edge of the
roof, near the gutter. Just at that spot the roof was very steep. The
man walked along in his list slippers much as if he had been at home,
whistling a popular melody. He allowed himself to slip a little and
caught at the chimney, calling to Zidore as he did so:

"Why in thunder don't you bring the irons? What are you staring at?"

But Zidore, quite undisturbed, continued to stare at a cloud of heavy
black smoke that was rising in the direction of Grenelle. He wondered
if it were a fire, but he crawled with the irons toward Coupeau, who
began to solder the zinc, supporting himself on the point of one foot
or by one finger, not rashly, but with calm deliberation and perfect
coolness. He knew what he could do and never lost his head. His pipe
was in his mouth, and he would occasionally turn to spit down into
the street below.

"Hallo, Madame Boche!" he cried as he suddenly caught sight of his
old friend crossing the street. "How are you today?"

She looked up, laughed, and a brisk conversation ensued between the
roof and the street. She stood with her hands under her apron and her
face turned up, while he, with one arm round a flue, leaned over the
side of the house.

"Have you seen my wife?" he asked.

"No indeed; is she anywhere round?"

"She is coming for me. Is everyone well with you?"

"Yes, all well, thanks. I am going to a butcher near here who sells
cheaper than up our way."

They raised their voices because a carriage was passing, and this
brought to a neighboring window a little old woman, who stood in
breathless horror, expecting to see the man fall from the roof in
another minute.

"Well, good night," cried Mme Boche. "I must not detain you from your
work."

Coupeau turned and took the iron Zidore held out to him. At the same
moment Mme Boche saw Gervaise coming toward her with little Nana
trotting at her side. She looked up to the roof to tell Coupeau, but
Gervaise closed her lips with an energetic signal, and then as she
reached the old concierge she said in a low voice that she was always
in deadly terror that her husband would fall. She never dared look at
him when he was in such places.

"It is not very agreeable, I admit," answered Mme Boche. "My man is
a tailor, and I am spared all this."

"At first," continued Gervaise, "I had not a moment's peace. I saw
him in my dreams on a litter, but now I have got accustomed to it
somewhat."

She looked up, keeping Nana behind her skirts, lest the child should
call out and startle her father, who was at that moment on the extreme
edge. She saw the soldering iron and the tiny flame that rose as he
carefully passed it along the edges of the zinc. Gervaise, pale with
suspense and fear, raised her hands mechanically with a gesture of
supplication. Coupeau ascended the steep roof with a slow step, then
glancing down, he beheld his wife.

"You are watching me, are you?" he cried gaily. "Ah, Madame Boche, is
she not a silly one? She was afraid to speak to me. Wait ten minutes,
will you?"

The two women stood on the sidewalk, having as much as they could do
to restrain Nana, who insisted on fishing in the gutter.

The old woman still stood at the window, looking up at the roof and
waiting.

"Just see her," said Mme Boche. "What is she looking at?"

Coupeau was heard lustily singing; with the aid of a pair of compasses
he had drawn some lines and now proceeded to cut a large fan; this he
adroitly, with his tools, folded into the shape of a pointed mushroom.
Zidore was again heating the irons. The sun was setting just behind
the house, and the whole western sky was flushed with rose, fading
to a soft violet, and against this sky the figures of the two men,
immeasurably exaggerated, stood clearly out, as well as the strange
form of the zinc which Coupeau was then manipulating.

"Zidore! The irons!"

But Zidore was not to be seen. His master, with an oath, shouted down
the scuttle window which was open near by and finally discovered him
two houses off. The boy was taking a walk, apparently, with his scanty
blond hair blowing all about his head.

"Do you think you are in the country?" cried Coupeau in a fury. "You
are another Beranger, perhaps--composing verses! Will you have the
kindness to give me my irons? Whoever heard the like? Give me my
irons, I say!"

The irons hissed as he applied them, and he called to Gervaise:

"I am coming!"

The chimney to which he had fitted this cap was in the center of the
roof. Gervaise stood watching him, soothed by his calm self-possession.
Nana clapped her little hands.

"Papa! Papa!" she cried. "Look!"

The father turned; his foot slipped; he rolled down the roof slowly,
unable to catch at anything.

"Good God!" he said in a choked voice, and he fell; his body turned
over twice and crashed into the middle of the street with the dull
thud of a bundle of wet linen.

Gervaise stood still. A shriek was frozen on her lips. Mme Boche
snatched Nana in her arms and hid her head that she might not see,
and the little old woman opposite, who seemed to have waited for this
scene in the drama, quietly closed her windows.

Four men bore Coupeau to a druggist's at the corner, where he lay for
an hour while a litter was sent for from the Hospital Lariboisiere.
He was breathing still, but that was all. Gervaise knelt at his side,
hysterically sobbing. Every minute or two, in spite of the prohibition
of the druggist, she touched him to see if he were still warm. When
the litter arrived and they spoke of the hospital, she started up,
saying violently:

"No--no! Not to the hospital--to our own home."

In vain did they tell her that the expenses would be very great if
she nursed him at home.

"No--no!" she said. "I will show them the way. He is my husband,
is he not? And I will take care of him myself."

And Coupeau was carried home, and as the litter was borne through the
_Quartier_ the women crowded together and extolled Gervaise. She
was a little lame, to be sure, but she was very energetic, and she
would save her man.

Mme Boche took Nana home and then went about among her friends to tell
the story with interminable details.

"I saw him fall," she said. "It was all because of the child; he was
going to speak to her, when down he went. Good lord! I trust I may
never see such another sight."

For a week Coupeau's life hung on a thread. His family and his friends
expected to see him die from one hour to another. The physician, an
experienced physician whose every visit cost five francs, talked of
a lesion, and that word was in itself very terrifying to all but
Gervaise, who, pale from her vigils but calm and resolute, shrugged
her shoulders and would not allow herself to be discouraged. Her man's
leg was broken; that she knew very well, "but he need not die for
that!" And she watched at his side night and day, forgetting her
children and her home and everything but him.

On the ninth day, when the physician told her he would recover,
she dropped, half fainting, on a chair, and at night she slept for
a couple of hours with her head on the foot of his bed.

This accident to Coupeau brought all his family about him. His mother
spent the nights there, but she slept in her chair quite comfortably.
Mme Lerat came in every evening after work was over to make inquiries.

The Lorilleuxs at first came three or four times each day and brought
an armchair for Gervaise, but soon quarrels and discussions arose as
to the proper way of nursing the invalid, and Mme Lorilleux lost her
temper and declared that had Gervaise stayed at home and not gone to
pester her husband when he was at work the accident would not have
happened.

When she saw Coupeau out of danger Gervaise allowed his family to
approach him as they saw fit. His convalescence would be a matter of
months. This again was a ground of indignation for Mme Lorilleux.

"What nonsense it was," she said, "for Gervaise to take him home! Had
he gone to the hospital he would have recovered as quickly again."

And then she made a calculation of what these four months would cost:
First, there was the time lost, then the physician, the medicines,
the wines and finally the meat for beef tea. Yes, it would be a pretty
sum, to be sure! If they got through it on their savings they would
do well, but she believed that the end would be that they would find
themselves head over heels in debt, and they need expect no assistance
from his family, for none of them was rich enough to pay for sickness
at home!

One evening Mme Lorilleux was malicious enough to say:

"And your shop, when do you take it? The concierge is waiting to know
what you mean to do."

Gervaise gasped. She had utterly forgotten the shop. She saw the
delight of these people when they believed that this plan was given
up, and from that day they never lost an occasion of twitting her on
her dream that had toppled over like a house of cards, and she grew
morbid and fancied they were pleased at the accident to their brother
which had prevented the realization of their plans.

She tried to laugh and to show them she did not grudge the money that
had been expended in the restoration of her husband's health. She did
not withdraw all her savings from the bank at once, for she had a
vague hope that some miracle would intervene which would render the
sacrifice unnecessary.

Was it not a great comfort, she said to herself and to her enemies,
for as such she had begun to regard the Lorilleuxs, that she had this
money now to turn to in this emergency?

Her neighbors next door had been very kind and thoughtful to Gervaise
all through her trouble and the illness of her husband.

Mme Goujet never went out without coming to inquire if there was
anything she could do, any commission she could execute. She brought
innumerable bowls of soup and, even when Gervaise was particularly
busy, washed her dishes for her. Goujet filled her buckets every
morning with fresh water, and this was an economy of at least two
sous, and in the evening came to sit with Coupeau. He did not say
much, but his companionship cheered and comforted the invalid. He
was tender and compassionate and was thrilled by the sweetness of
Gervaise's voice when she spoke to her husband. Never had he seen such
a brave, good woman; he did not believe she sat in her chair fifteen
minutes in the whole day. She was never tired, never out of temper,
and the young man grew very fond of the poor woman as he watched her.

His mother had found a wife for him. A girl whose trade was the same
as her own, a lace mender, and as he did not wish to go contrary to
her desires he consented that the marriage should take place in
September.

But when Gervaise spoke of his future he shook his head.

"All women are not like you, Madame Coupeau," he said. "If they were
I should like ten wives."

At the end of two months Coupeau was on his feet again and could
move--with difficulty, of course--as far as the window, where he sat
with his leg on a chair. The poor fellow was sadly shaken by his
accident. He was no philosopher, and he swore from morning until
night. He said he knew every crack in the ceiling. When he was
installed in his armchair it was little better. How long, he asked
impatiently, was he expected to sit there swathed like a mummy? And
he cursed his ill luck. His accident was a cursed shame. If his head
had been disturbed by drink it would have been different, but he was
always sober, and this was the result. He saw no sense in the whole
thing!

"My father," he said, "broke his neck. I don't say he deserved it,
but I do say there was a reason for it. But I had not drunk a drop,
and yet over I went, just because I spoke to my child! If there be
a Father in heaven, as they say, who watches over us all, I must say
He manages things strangely enough sometimes!"

And as his strength returned his trade grew strangely distasteful to
him. It was a miserable business, he said, roaming along gutters like
a cat. In his opinion there should be a law which should compel every
houseowner to tin his own roof. He wished he knew some other trade he
could follow, something that was less dangerous.

For two months more Coupeau walked with a crutch and after a while
was able to get into the street and then to the outer boulevard, where
he sat on a bench in the sun. His gaiety returned; he laughed again
and enjoyed doing nothing. For the first time in his life he felt
thoroughly lazy, and indolence seemed to have taken possession of his
whole being. When he got rid of his crutches he sauntered about and
watched the buildings which were in the process of construction in the
vicinity, and he jested with the men and indulged himself in a general
abuse of work. Of course he intended to begin again as soon as he
was quite well, but at present the mere thought made him feel ill,
he said.

In the afternoons Coupeau often went to his sister's apartment;
she expressed a great deal of compassion for him and showed every
attention. When he was first married he had escaped from her
influence, thanks to his affection for his wife and hers for him.
Now he fell under her thumb again; they brought him back by declaring
that he lived in mortal terror of his wife. But the Lorilleuxs were
too wise to disparage her openly; on the contrary, they praised her
extravagantly, and he told his wife that they adored her and begged
her, in her turn, to be just to them.

The first quarrel in their home arose on the subject of Etienne.
Coupeau had been with his sister. He came in late and found the
children fretting for their dinner. He cuffed Etienne's ears, bade him
hold his tongue and scolded for an hour. He was sure he did not know
why he let that boy stay in the house; he was none of his; until that
day he had accepted the child as a matter of course.

Three days after this he gave the boy a kick, and it was not long
before the child, when he heard him coming, ran into the Goujets',
where there was always a corner at the table for him.

Gervaise had long since resumed her work. She no longer lifted the
globe of her clock to take out her bankbook; her savings were all
gone, and it was necessary to count the sous pretty closely, for there
were four mouths to feed, and they were all dependent on the work of
her two hands. When anyone found fault with Coupeau and blamed him
she always took his part.

"Think how much he has suffered," she said with tears in her eyes.
"Think of the shock to his nerves! Who can wonder that he is a little
sour? Wait awhile, though, until he is perfectly well, and you will
see that his temper will be as sweet as it ever was."

And if anyone ventured to observe that he seemed quite well and that
he ought to go to work she would exclaim:

"No indeed, not yet. It would never do." She did not want him down in
his bed again. She knew what the doctor had said, and she every day
begged him to take his own time. She even slipped a little silver,
into his vest pocket. All this Coupeau accepted as a matter of course.
He complained of all sorts of pains and aches to gain a little longer
period of indolence and at the end of six months had begun to look
upon himself as a confirmed invalid.

He almost daily dropped into a wineshop with a friend; it was a place
where he could chat a little, and where was the harm? Besides, whoever
heard of a glass of wine killing a man? But he swore to himself that
he would never touch anything but wine--not a drop of brandy should
pass his lips. Wine was good for one--prolonged one's life, aided
digestion--but brandy was a very different matter. Notwithstanding all
these wise resolutions, it came to pass more than once that he came
in, after visiting a dozen different cabarets, decidedly tipsy. On
these occasions Gervaise locked her doors and declared she was ill,
to prevent the Goujets from seeing her husband.

The poor woman was growing very sad. Every night and morning she
passed the shop for which she had so ardently longed. She made her
calculations over and over again until her brain was dizzy. Two
hundred and fifty francs for rent, one hundred and fifty for moving
and the apparatus she needed, one hundred francs to keep things going
until business began to come in. No, it could not be done under five
hundred francs.

She said nothing of this to anyone, deterred only by the fear of
seeming to regret the money she had spent for her husband during his
illness. She was pale and dispirited at the thought that she must work
five years at least before she could save that much money.

One evening Gervaise was alone. Goujet entered, took a chair in
silence and looked at her as he smoked his pipe. He seemed to be
revolving something in his mind. Suddenly he took his pipe from his
mouth.

"Madame Gervaise," he said, "will you allow me to lend you the money
you require?"

She was kneeling at a drawer, laying some towels in a neat pile. She
started up, red with surprise. He had seen her standing that very
morning for a good ten minutes, looking at the shop, so absorbed that
she had not seen him pass.

She refused his offer, however. No, she could never borrow money when
she did not know how she could return it, and when he insisted she
replied:

"But your marriage? This is the money you have saved for that."

"Don't worry on that account," he said with a heightened color. "I
shall not marry. It was an idea of my mother's, and I prefer to lend
you the money."

They looked away from each other. Their friendship had a certain
element of tenderness which each silently recognized.

Gervaise accepted finally and went with Goujet to see his mother, whom
he had informed of his intentions. They found her somewhat sad, with
her serene, pale face bent over her work. She did not wish to thwart
her son, but she no longer approved of the plan, and she told Gervaise
why. With kind frankness she pointed out to her that Coupeau had
fallen into evil habits and was living on her labors and would in
all probability continue to do so. The truth was that Mme Goujet
had not forgiven Coupeau for refusing to read during all his long
convalescence; this and many other things had alienated her and her
son from him, but they had in no degree lost their interest in
Gervaise.

Finally it was agreed she should have five hundred francs and should
return the money by paying each month twenty francs on account.

"Well, well!" cried Coupeau as he heard of this financial transaction.
"We are in luck. There is no danger with us, to be sure, but if he
were dealing with knaves he might never see hide or hair of his cash
again!"

The next day the shop was taken, and Gervaise ran about with such
a light heart that there was a rumor that she had been cured of her
lameness by an operation.

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