The Drinking Den Read online

  There was also a man in the equation. It was said that Lantier had left Gervaise. The neighbourhood concluded that this was a good thing; it did bring back some decency to the street. And all the honour for the separation devolved on that sly fox, the hatter, who was still a great favourite with the ladies. They even gave details: he had had to give Gervaise a slap before she would leave him alone, she was so determined in her pursuit of him. Needless to say, no one told the real truth: those who might have known it, considered it too simple and not interesting enough. If you wish, Lantier had in effect left Gervaise, in the sense that he no longer had her at his disposal day and night; but he certainly came up to see her on the sixth floor, when he felt like it, because Mlle Remanjou would meet him coming out of the Coupeaus’ at unnatural times of the day. In short, their relationship continued, on and off, in a casual sort of way, without either of them taking much pleasure in it – a bit out of habit, with some mutual indulgence, nothing more. However, what made the situation complicated was that everyone around, now, had got Lantier and Virginie sleeping in the same pair of sheets. Here, too, the neighbours were jumping to conclusions. No doubt, the hatter did have designs on the tall brunette, and you could see it by the way that she replaced Gervaise in and for everything about the house. There was a joke going round, in fact, which was that one night he had gone to look for Gervaise in the neighbour’s bed, and in the dark had brought back Virginie, and kept her, even though he didn’t recognize her until daybreak. The story raised a laugh, but in reality Lantier had not gone that far and hardly dared to pinch Virginie’s bottom. This did not stop the Lorilleux from indulging in sentimental chat about the love affair between Lantier and Mme Poisson in front of Gervaise in the hope of making her jealous. The Boches, too, let her know that they had never seen a better-looking couple. The oddest thing in all this was that the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or did not seem to bother about the new ménage à trois: no, the moral strictures that had fallen hard on Gervaise seemed relaxed for Virginie. Perhaps the smiling indulgence of the street had something to do with the fact that her husband was a constable.

  Fortunately, Gervaise was not much tormented by jealousy. Lantier’s infidelities worried her very little, because it was a long time since her heart had been engaged in their relationship. Without seeking to, she had learned the sordid tales, the hatter’s affairs with every kind of woman, including the first dolled-up female to pass by in the street; and it had so little effect on her, that she had gone on indulging him, without even finding it in herself to work up enough anger to break it off. However, she was not so readily prepared to accept her lover’s latest fancy woman: Virginie was a different matter. They had thought it up, both of them, with the sole aim of teasing her; and while she didn’t mind at all what they were up to, she did demand a bit of respect. So when Mme Lorilleux or some other spiteful creature made a point of saying in front of her that Poisson could no longer walk under the Porte Saint-Denis,2 she went as white as a sheet, her heart felt like bursting and her stomach tightened. She clenched her teeth and refused to lose her temper, so as not to give any satisfaction to her enemies. But she must have handed Lantier a piece of her mind, because one afternoon Mlle Remanjou thought she heard the sound of a slap; and, anyway, there was certainly a breach between them. Lantier didn’t speak to her for a fortnight, then he was the first to relent and the same old routine appeared to have been resumed, as though nothing had happened. The laundress preferred to make the best of things and avoid a scrap with Virginie, so as not to make any more of a mess of her life. Well, she was not twenty any more and she didn’t like men so much now, not enough anyway to go handing out a good hiding for the sake of their pretty eyes and risk being thrown into the cells. However, she marked it down with the rest of the account.

  Coupeau thought it a great joke. This accommodating husband who had refused to notice his own cuckolding, couldn’t stop laughing at Poisson’s pair of horns. In his own house it didn’t count, but in someone else’s he found it very amusing, and he went out of his way to uncover situations of that kind, when the neighbours’ wives were putting it around. What a ninny he was, that Poisson! And a public official into the bargain, who could push everyone around in the street. Then Coupeau went so far as to tease Gervaise. Look at that: her lover had dumped her good and proper! She was really out of luck. First it was the blacksmith who let her down, now the hatter was giving her the elbow. The trouble was, she had picked the wrong trades. Why didn’t she try a builder, someone solid, who was used to sticking his plaster on firmly? Of course, he said all this in a jocular manner, but even so Gervaise shrank away from him when he searched her with his little grey eyes, as though trying to force the words into her with a screwdriver. When he talked about indecencies, she could never tell whether he was joking or serious. A man who is drunk from one end of the year to the next is no longer in his right mind, and there are husbands who may be very jealous at twenty but become very compliant at thirty when it comes to their wives’ fidelity.

  You should have seen Coupeau strutting around the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or! He called Poisson ‘the cuckold’: that shut the gossips up. ‘The cuckold’ no longer meant him. Oh, he knew what he knew… If he had pretended not to be listening in the past, it was obviously because he didn’t like gossips. Everyone knows his own business and can scratch where it itches. He didn’t itch, so he was not going to scratch himself just to please people. And what about the constable: was he aware of what was going on? Yet this time it was definite: people had seen the lovers, it wasn’t just a fairy tale. It made him quite cross: he couldn’t understand how a man, who was a government employee, could put up with such a scandal in his home. The constable must like other people’s leftovers, that’s all. This didn’t stop Coupeau going down to look for Lantier and dragging him out in the evening if he happened to be bored staying with his wife in their cubby-hole under the roof. He found it depressing now that his friend was no longer there; Lantier would patch things up between him and Gervaise, if he saw that they had fallen out. Heavens above! Weren’t they allowed to send everyone else packing and enjoy themselves as they wished? He sniggered. His vacant, drunkard’s eyes lit up and broad-minded notions glimmered in them, notions about sharing everything with the hatter, to make life more fun. These were the evenings when Gervaise felt particularly unsure as to whether he was joking or being serious.

  In the midst of all this, Lantier kept his head down and behaved in a dignified, rather paternal manner. Three times he had warded off a major row between the Coupeaus and the Poissons. His own well-being required peace between the two famillies. Thanks to the stern and affectionate looks that he gave Gervaise and Virginie, they always pretended to be good friends with one another; while he, lording it over both the blonde and the brunette with the serenity of a sultan, profited from his guile. The old fox was still digesting the Coupeaus while already dining on the Poissons. It didn’t worry him! After swallowing one shop he was starting on the second. In truth, fortune smiles only on men of that kind.

  This was the year,3 in June, when Nana made her first communion. She was rising thirteen, already as tall as forced asparagus, with an impudent air. The previous year, she had been sent out of catechism classes because of her behaviour, and the priest was letting her in this time only for fear that she would never return, making him responsible for sending another little pagan out on the streets. Nana was jumping with joy at the idea of the white dress, which the Lorilleux, as godfather and godmother, had promised her; they talked about this present to everyone in the block. Mme Lerat was going to give the veil and hat, Virginie the purse and Lantier the missal. In this way the Coupeaus were able to look forward to the ceremony without too much anxiety. And the Poissons, who wanted to have a house-warming, even chose the same day, no doubt on the advice of the hatter. They invited the Coupeaus and the Boches, whose daughter was also making her first communion. That evening, they would eat roast at the Poissons’, with a few other things.


  The evening before, while Nana was just looking in wonder at the presents spread out on the chest of drawers, Coupeau came back in a dreadful state. He was starting to breathe the Parisian air again. He set about his wife and child, on some excuse that made sense only to his drunkard’s mind, using foul language that was quite inappropriate in the situation. As it happened, Nana herself was starting to become foul-mouthed because of the talk that she heard all the time around her. When there was an argument, she happily called her mother a bitch or an old cow.

  ‘And some bread!’ the roofer yelled. ‘I want my soup, you bunch of harpies! Look at these women with their bits of rag! I don’t give a damn for your dressing-up, you know, as long as I haven’t got my soup!’

  ‘What a bore he is when he’s sloshed!’ Gervaise muttered impatiently. Then, turning towards him, added: ‘It’s heating up, so leave us alone.’

  Nana kept quiet, because she thought it was nice to be like that today. She was still looking at the presents on the chest, with her eyes lowered, pretending not to understand the vile things her father was saying. But he could be a real pain when he was drunk. He stuck his face up against hers and said:

  ‘I’ll give you white dresses! Huh? Are you going to make yourself some tits with bits of paper in your bodice, as you did the other Sunday? Oh, yes, just you wait! I can see you wiggling your behind. It excites you having nice clothes, doesn’t it? Goes to your head… Would you shift from there, you little worm. Get your hands off that and stick it in a drawer before I thump you with it.’

  Nana, hanging her head, still said nothing. She had picked up the little tulle bonnet and was asking her mother how much it cost. And as Coupeau was reaching over to grab it from her, Gervaise pushed him back, shouting:

  ‘Leave her alone, won’t you! She’s being good, she’s not doing any harm.’

  At this, the roofer really let fly.

  ‘Oh, the bitches! Mother and daughter – a right pair! Off they go, eating the Good Lord and having a sly wink at the men, meanwhile! Just you dare deny it, you little slut! I’ll put a sack on you and we’ll see how that tickles you! Yes, a sack: that’ll make you sick of it, you and your priests! Do I really need someone to make you more vicious than you are already? In God’s name, will you listen to me, the pair of you!’

  Suddenly Nana swung round in a fury, while Gervaise had to reach out to protect the clothes that Coupeau was threatening to tear up. The child stared hard at her father; then, forgetting what her confessor had told her about a modest bearing, she spat out through clenched teeth: ‘Pig!’

  As soon as Coupeau had eaten his soup, he fell asleep. The next day, when he woke up, he was all sweetness and light. He had a bit of drink in him left over from the night before, just enough to be pleasant. He watched the girl getting ready, waxed sentimental over the white dress and remarked that it took nothing to make the little pest like a proper young lady. Well, as he said, in such circumstances, a father is naturally proud of his daughter. And you should have seen how smart Nana looked, giving embarrassed smiles, like a bride, in her dress that was too short. When they went down and she saw Pauline at the door of the concierge’s lodge, similarly dressed, Nana stopped, quickly looked her all over, then put on her most amiable manner, having decided that Pauline was not as well turned out as herself, but was in fact done up like a parcel. The two families left together for the church, Nana and Pauline leading the way, with their missals in their hands, holding down their veils, which were blowing up in the wind. They said nothing, dying with pleasure at the sight of the shops emptying and putting on pious expressions when they heard people say how sweet they looked. Mme Boche and Mme Lorilleux hung back so that they could exchange views about Tip-Tap, a spendthrift whose daughter would never have made her first communion if the relatives hadn’t given her everything, yes, everything, even a new blouse, out of respect for the holy altar. Mme Lorilleux was especially concerned about the dress, her present, shouting at Nana and calling her a ‘great slattern’ every time the child picked up some dust with her skirt by going too close to the shops.

  In church, Coupeau cried all the time. It was silly, but he couldn’t stop himself. It got to him: the priest raising his arms, the little girls like angels joining their hands… And the organ music hit him in the pit of the stomach, while the good scent of incense made him sniff as though someone had shoved a bunch of flowers in his face. In short, he was carried away; he had a lump in his throat. There was one particular canticle, such a sweet piece of music, while the kids were taking communion: it seemed to flow down his neck and send a shiver all the way along his spine. And, anyway, everyone around him with an ounce of feeling was dabbing their eyes. Yes, indeed, it was a lovely day; the best day of their lives. However, as they were coming out of the church and he was going to have a glass with Lorilleux, who had remained dry-eyed and was teasing him about it, he lost his temper and accused those wizards in their black surplices of burning the devil’s herbs to undermine a man’s strength. Then, after all, he didn’t deny it, he had shed a tear or two; it just proved that he didn’t have a stone in his chest. And he ordered another round.

  The house-warming at the Poissons’ that evening was very merry. Friendship reigned from one end of the meal to the other, without a hitch. When bad times come, there are good evenings such as this, moments when there is good fellowship between people who hate one another. Lantier, with Gervaise on his left and Virginie on his right, was charming to both of them, smothering them with affection like a cockerel who wants his hens to live in peace. Opposite them, Poisson maintained his constable’s state of reverie, calm and stern, being in the habit of thinking about nothing, with hooded eyes, during a long spell on the beat. But the two girls, Nana and Pauline, were the queens of the feast. They had been allowed to keep their white dresses on and sat bolt upright, for fear of staining them; at every mouthful, someone called out to them to lift their chins and swallow properly. Eventually, Nana got bored and dribbled all her wine over her bodice, which caused a great stir. They undressed her and immediately washed the bodice with a glass of water.

  Then, over dessert, they began to talk seriously about the children’s future. Mme Boche had taken a decision: Pauline was to start with the cutters in a jeweller’s, working on gold and silver. You could make five or six francs. Gervaise was not yet sure; Nana showed no particular inclination. Well, of course, she ran about, she had that inclination all right; but where anything else was concerned, she was a wet rag.

  ‘If I were you,’ said Mme Lerat, ‘I’d make her a florist. That’s a clean, respectable job.’

  ‘Florists!’ Lorilleux muttered. ‘They’re all slags.’

  ‘And what about me?’ the widow asked, thin-lipped. ‘You’re polite, I must say. Do you think I’m some old bitch who falls flat on her back whenever someone whistles?’

  But they all told her to mind what she said.

  ‘Madame Lerat! No, really, Madame Lerat!’

  And they nodded towards the two first communicants, who were hiding their faces in their plates so as not to laugh. For reasons of decency, even the men had been careful to use only posh words up to then. But Mme Lerat rejected their criticisms. What she had just said, she had heard in the best company. In any case, she prided herself on knowing her own language; she had often been complimented on the way that she spoke about things, even in front of children, without ever causing offence.

  ‘Let me tell you: there are very fine women who are florists!’ she exclaimed. ‘They are built just like other women and, of course, they are not devoid of tender feelings. But they restrain themselves and show taste when they choose, if they’re going to fall… Yes, it’s something that they get from the flowers. That’s what kept me from harm.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Gervaise, ‘I’ve got nothing against flowers. It must be what Nana likes, that’s all. One shouldn’t force children when it comes to a vocation. Come on, Nana, tell us, don’t just sit there looking s
tupid. Do you like flowers?’

  The girl, leaning over her plate, was picking up bits of cake on her wet finger and then sucking it. She didn’t hurry, but gave that lewd smile of hers.

  ‘Yes, Mummy, I like them,’ she said at last.

  So the matter was settled there and then. Coupeau was happy for Mme Lerat to take the child to her shop in the Rue du Caire the very next day. And everyone started to talk gravely about responsibilities in life. Boche said that Nana and Pauline were women now that they had made their communion. Poisson added that they should now know how to cook, darn socks and run a home. People even talked to them about marriage and the children they would be having one day. The two girls listened and laughed at it all, prodding one another, their hearts full at the idea of womanhood, red and embarrassed in their white dresses. But what excited them the most was when Lantier joked with them, asking if they didn’t already have any little husbands. And they forced Nana to admit that she rather liked Victor Fauconnier, the son of her mother’s employer.

  ‘That’s that!’ Mme Lorilleux told the Boches as they were leaving. ‘She’s our god-daughter, but if they’re going to make a florist out of her, that’s the last we want to hear of her. There’s another whore on the streets. In less than six months, she’ll be a real pain in the ass for them.’