The Drinking Den (12 page)

‘Well, then, we'll be going,' he said. ‘We leave you to get on with your work.'

He hung around, shuffling his feet, for a moment, hoping for some word or allusion. At length, he decided to broach the subject himself:

‘Now then, Lorilleux, we're counting on you to be a witness for my wife.'

The chain-maker looked up and feigned surprise, sniggering, while his wife, putting down her wires, stood in the middle of the workshop.

‘So, it's serious, is it?' Lorilleux said. ‘He's an old rascal, this Cadet-Cassis; you never know when he's pulling your leg.'

‘Ah, yes! So this is the young lady,' the woman remarked, staring at Gervaise. ‘My God, there's no advice we can give you… Still, it's an odd idea, getting married. But if that's what you want, the pair of you… When it doesn't work, you've only got yourselves to blame, that's all. And it's not often it does work, not often… Not often at all…'

Lingering over these last few words, she shook her head, looking from the young woman's face to her hands, then her feet, as though undressing her, to examine the pores of her skin. She must have found her better than she expected.

‘My brother's quite free,' she went on, tight-lipped. ‘Of course, the family might have wanted… One always makes these plans. But things turn out in such unexpected ways… Most of all, speaking for myself, I don't want a row. Even if he'd brought us the lowest of the low, I'd have told him: “Go on, marry her, leave us out of it.” Even so, he was not badly off here, with us. He's plump enough: you can see we didn't starve him. And he always had his soup hot, right on
time. Tell me, Lorilleux, don't you think that the lady looks like Thérèse; you know, the woman opposite, who died of a consumption?'

‘Yes, there is a resemblance,' the chain-maker said.

‘And you have two children, it seems. Well, as far as that's concerned, I told my brother: “I don't understand you marrying a woman with two children.” Oh, don't be cross, I'm only considering his interests; it's quite natural… And, as well as that, you don't look too strong… What do you say, Lorilleux: the young lady doesn't look strong, does she?'

‘No, no, she's not strong.'

Her leg was not mentioned, but Gervaise understood from their sidelong glances and pinched lips that they were referring to it. She remained there, in front of them, hugging her meagre shawl with the yellow palm leaves around her, and answering in monosyllables, like someone in front of a judge. Seeing how much it hurt her, Coupeau eventually shouted:

‘That's enough now! It doesn't make a scrap of difference what you say. The wedding will take place on Saturday, the 29th of July. I've worked it out with the almanack. Is that agreed? Do you have any objection?'

‘Oh, we don't object to anything!' his sister replied. ‘You didn't need to ask us. I shan't stop Lorilleux being a witness. All I want is a quiet life.'

Gervaise hung her head, not knowing what to do, and poked the end of her foot into a gap in the wooden planks that covered the floor of the workshop; then, fearing that she might have disturbed something when she took it out, bent down and started feeling around with her hand. Lorilleux quickly brought the lamp across and examined her fingers suspiciously.

‘You've got to be careful,' he said. ‘Small bits of gold can stick to the bottom of one's shoes and get carried away without anyone knowing.'

A great fuss ensued. The bosses did not allow a milligram of waste: he showed her the hare's foot that he used to brush up the tiny particles of gold that stayed behind on the ‘peg', and the leather apron that he put on his knees to catch any droppings. Twice every week the workshop was swept carefully and the dust kept so that it could be burned: the
ashes were then sieved and every month they might recover as much as twenty-five or thirty francs' worth of gold.

Mme Lorilleux kept her eyes fixed on Gervaise's shoes.

‘But there's nothing to get upset about,' she muttered with a friendly smile. ‘The young lady can look at the soles of her shoes herself.'

Gervaise blushed deeply, sat down, lifted her feet and showed that there was nothing on them. Coupeau had already opened the door, shouting: ‘Night!', in a brusque voice. He called to her from the corridor, so she followed him, muttering a brief goodbye: she hoped that they would meet again and that they would get on with one another. But the Lorilleux had already returned to their work at the back of the dark, poky room, where the little forge glowed like the last coal burning white in the massive heat of a furnace. A corner of the woman's shift had slipped off her shoulder and her skin glowed red in the glare from the fire; she was drawing a new wire, her neck swelling with each tug, the muscles knotted like ropes. The husband, bending in the green light from the globe of water, had started a new chain, twisting each link with his pincers, flattening it on one side and putting it into the link above, opening it with the aid of a pin, continuously, mechanically, without pausing for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow.

When Gervaise emerged from the corridor on to the sixth-floor landing, she could not help exclaiming, with tears in her eyes: ‘That doesn't promise much happiness for us!'

Coupeau shook his head vigorously. Lorilleux would pay for the evening he had given them. Had you ever seen such a skinflint – thinking that they were about to carry off three grains of his gold-dust! All that nonsense was pure greed on their part. Perhaps his sister thought that he would never get married, so that she could save four
sous
by giving him dinner. No matter: it would take place on July the 29th. He didn't give a damn about them!

But Gervaise, as she went down the stairs, felt sad even so, pursued by some demon of fear that made her search anxiously through the magnified shadows of the banisters. By this time, the stairway was asleep and deserted, lit only by the gaslight on the second floor, its diminished flame casting merely the flicker of a nightlight in the depths
of this well of darkness. Behind the closed doors, one could almost hear the heavy silence, the exhausted sleep of workers who had gone to bed immediately after eating. However, a muffled laugh did emerge from the laundrywoman's room, and a small shaft of light shone through the lock in Mlle Remanjou's door: she was still cutting out gauze dresses for the thirteen-
sou
dolls with a tiny snipping of her scissors. Downstairs, in Mme Gaudron's, a child was still crying. And the cisterns gave out an even stronger stench in the midst of this dark, heavy silence.

Then, in the yard, while Coupeau was asking the concierge in a singsong voice to open up for them, Gervaise turned round and looked at the house one last time. It appeared to have grown beneath the moonless sky. The grey façades, seemingly cleansed of their leprous colour and smeared with shadows, extended as they rose, more naked still and entirely flat now that they were stripped of the rags that hung there in daytime drying in the sun. The closed windows slept. A few, here and there, brightly lit, opened their eyes and made some corners of the building appear to be squinting. Above each of the entrance halls, rowed up from top to bottom, the windows of the six landings, faintly illuminated, made a narrow shaft of white light. A ray of light from a lamp, shining down from the cardboard-box factory on the second floor, left a yellow band across the paved yard, cutting through the gloom that enveloped the ground-floor workshops. And, from the depths of this gloom, in the musty distance, drops of water fell one by one from the tap on the water-fountain, which had not been properly turned off, ringing in the midst of the silence. It seemed to Gervaise that the house was on top of her, weighing down, icily, across her shoulders. This was a fear that she had had from childhood, a silliness that she later laughed about.

‘Mind out!' Coupeau shouted.

To leave the building, she had to jump over a huge sheet of water that had flowed out of the dyeworks. That day, the puddle was blue, the deep blue of summer skies, which the concierge's little lamp dotted with stars.

The roof-mender, with a nudge and a wink, made the young woman's mind up for her when he swore that no one would have a good time: he would keep an eye on the glasses, to prevent anyone coming down with sunstroke. So he set about organizing a picnic for five francs a head at Auguste's, at the Moulin-d' Argent, on the Boulevard de la Chapelle. This was a little wine merchant's where the prices were reasonable and there was a dance-floor behind the shop, in a courtyard with three acacia trees. They'd be fine on the first floor. Over the next ten days, he worked out the guest list at his sister's in the Rue de la Goutte-d'Or: M. Madinier, Mlle Remanjou, Mme Gaudron and her husband. He even managed to get Gervaise to accept two of his friends: Bibi-la-Grillade and Mes-Bottes. Admittedly, Mes-Bottes had a bit of a thirst, but he had such a crazy appetite on top of it that they always invited him to picnics, just to see the landlord's face at the sight of this bottomless pit shovelling away his twelve pounds of bread.

For her part, the young woman promised to bring her boss, Mme
Fauconnier, and the Boches, who were fine people. All in all, there would be fifteen of them round the table, which was enough. When there are too many people, someone always ends up starting a row.

Meanwhile, Coupeau had no money. Without wishing to show off, he did intend to do things properly. He borrowed fifty francs from his boss, out of which he first bought the wedding ring, a gold one worth twelve francs, which Lorilleux got him from the factory for nine. Then he ordered a frock-coat, trousers and a waistcoat from a tailor in the Rue Myrha, putting down only twenty-five francs on account; his patent-leather shoes and bolivar
¹
were still serviceable. When he had put aside the ten francs for the meal – his contribution and that of Gervaise, the children being allowed in free – he had just six francs left, which was enough for a pauper's mass. Admittedly, he had no love for those black-coats and it broke his heart to hand over his six francs to such sanctimonious imbeciles who had no need of his money to keep their whistles wet; but you had to admit that a marriage without a mass was not really a marriage. He went to bargain with them at the church himself and got tied up for an hour with a little old priest, in a dirty cassock, who was as tight-fisted as a market-trader. He had a good mind to slap his face. Then, as a joke, he asked if somewhere in the store he didn't have a cut-price mass, not too shop-soiled, which might still serve for a nice, ordinary young couple. The little old man grumbled that God would have no pleasure in blessing their union, but did finally let him have his mass for five francs. Well, that was still twenty
sous
saved; he had twenty
sous
left over.

Gervaise also wanted things to be done correctly. As soon as the wedding had been decided upon, she arranged to do overtime in the evenings and set aside thirty francs. She was really keen to have a little silk mantelet, priced at thirteen francs in the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière. She treated herself to it, then spent ten francs to buy a dark blue dress off the husband of a laundress from Mme Fauconnier's who had died; she altered it to fit her. With the remaining seven francs, she got a pair of cotton gloves, a rose for her hat and some shoes for Claude, her eldest. Fortunately, the two children had passable smocks. She spent four nights cleaning everything and darning the minutest holes in her stockings and her blouse.

Finally, on the Friday evening, the eve of the great day, Gervaise and Coupeau came back from work and had to stay up until eleven o'clock slaving away. Then, going back to their own beds to sleep, they spent an hour together in the young woman's room, both happy to have reached the end of all that effort and commotion. Even though they had decided not to break their backs for the sake of the neighbours, when it came down to it they had taken the whole thing to heart and exhausted themselves. When they said good-night, they were both asleep on their feet; but, even so, they managed a great sigh of relief. Now it was all settled. Coupeau had M. Madinier and Bibi-la-Grillade as his witnesses, Gervaise would rely on Lorilleux and Boche. They just needed to go quietly to the town hall and the church, these six, without dragging a whole string of people along behind them. The bridegroom's two sisters had even announced that they would stay at home, since their presence was not necessary. Only old Mother Coupeau had started to cry, saying that she would go off ahead and hide in a corner, so they had promised to take her with them. As for the rest of the company, they would all meet up at one o'clock at the Moulin d'Argent. From there, they would go and work up an appetite on the Plaine Saint-Denis, taking the railway out and coming back on foot, along the main road. Altogether, it promised to be a fine day, not an extravagant feast, but a bit of fun, something decent and agreeable.

On Saturday morning, as he was getting dressed, Coupeau suddenly felt a pang of anxiety as he looked at his last twenty
sous
. It had just occurred to him that it would be a courtesy to offer the witnesses a glass of wine and a slice of ham, while waiting for dinner. Then there might be some unexpected expenses. Twenty
sous
was definitely not enough. So, after agreeing to take Claude and Etienne round to Mme Boche, who was to bring them to the dinner in the evening, he hurried off to the Rue de la Goutte-d'Or and unashamedly went up to borrow ten francs from Lorilleux. Not that it didn't pain him to ask, because he was expecting his brother-in-law's scowl of disapproval. Lorilleux grunted, sniggered unpleasantly and in the end handed over the two five-franc pieces. But Coupeau heard his sister muttering between clenched teeth that this was ‘a good start'.

The town-hall wedding was set for half-past ten. It was very fine,
blistering sunshine roasting the streets. To avoid drawing attention to themselves, the bride and groom, Mother Coupeau and the four witnesses divided into two groups. Gervaise walked at the front, on Lorilleux's arm, while M. Madinier escorted Mother Coupeau; then, twenty yards behind, on the other pavement, came Coupeau, Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade. The three of them, in black frock-coats, hunched their shoulders and dangled their arms. Boche was wearing yellow trousers, while Bibi-la-Grillade, buttoned up to the neck, with no waistcoat, showed only a corner of a cravat, twisted into a rope. Only M. Madinier was wearing a proper morning-coat, a long one with square-cut tails: passers-by stopped to look at this gentleman escorting fat old Mother Coupeau in her green shawl and black hat with red ribbons. Gervaise, gentle, mild and merry, in her bright-blue dress, her shoulders tightly wrapped in her little silk mantelet, listened obligingly to Lorilleux's sniggering; as for him, he was buried under a vast greatcoat, in spite of the heat. From time to time, as they went round a corner, Gervaise would turn her head a little and give a quick smile to Coupeau, awkward in his brand-new clothes, shining in the sun.

Even though they walked very slowly, they arrived outside the town hall a full half-hour too early. And, since the Mayor was late, their turn didn't come until around eleven o'clock. They waited on chairs in a corner of the room, looking at the high ceiling and the austerity of the walls, keeping their voices low and pushing back their seats with exaggerated politeness whenever a clerk walked by. Yet, under their breath, they called the Mayor a lazy dog; no doubt he was with his mistress, getting a massage for the gout, or else he had swallowed his sash. But when the official did arrive, they stood up respectfully. They were instructed to sit down again. After that, they had to sit through three bourgeois weddings, with brides in white, girls in ringlets, bridesmaids with pink sashes and endless processions of ladies and gentlemen done up to the nines, very respectable-looking. At last, when they were called, they almost missed getting married at all, because Bibi-la-Grillade had disappeared. Boche found him outside, on the square, smoking a pipe. But they were a nice lot in this joint, turning up their noses at people because they didn't have pale-yellow gloves to stick under their faces! And the formalities – the reading of the Code Civil,
²
the questions they were asked, the signing of the certificates – were all hurried through so fast that they exchanged glances, feeling they had been robbed of a good half of the ceremony. Gervaise, bewildered, with a lump in her throat, was dabbing her lips with a handkerchief. Mother Coupeau was weeping uncontrollably. They all bent over the register, writing their names in big, ungainly letters, except the bridegroom, who put a cross, since he was unable to write. Each of them gave four
sous
for the poor. When the office-boy handed Coupeau the marriage certificate, Gervaise nudged him and he reached in his pocket for another five
sous
.

It was a fair distance from the town hall to the church. On the way, the men stopped for a glass of beer and Mother Coupeau and Gervaise for some cassis with water. And they had to follow a long street, where the sun was beating directly down without a scrap of shade. The beadle was waiting for them in the middle of the empty church; he pushed them in the direction of a little chapel, angrily demanding to know if the reason for their late arrival was to show their contempt for religion. A priest strode into the chapel with a sullen look about him, his face pale with hunger, preceded by a young cleric scurrying along in a dirty surplice. The priest rushed through the mass, gobbling the Latin phrases, turning round, bowing, opening his arms wide, all at full speed, with sidelong glances towards the couple and their witnesses. The couple themselves, right in front of the altar, were very put out, not knowing when they should kneel, get up or sit down, and waiting for the server to give them a sign. The witnesses, out of a sense of decency, remained standing the whole time, while Mother Coupeau gave way to another fit of tears and wept into the mass book that she had borrowed from a neighbour. Meanwhile, the clock had struck twelve, the last mass had been said and the church was filling with the sound of the sacristans' shuffling feet and the din of chairs being put back in place. The high altar was clearly being prepared for some feast-day, because one could hear the hammers of the workmen as they put up some hangings. And, hidden away in the side chapel, in a cloud of dust raised by the beadle sweeping the floor, the sullen-looking priest was briefly passing his dry hands over the bent heads of Gervaise and Coupeau, as though consecrating their union in the midst of a
house-moving, with the Good Lord temporarily absent, between two serious masses. When the members of the wedding party had again signed a register, in the sacristy, then found themselves outside in the bright sunlight, under the porch, they stood for a moment, aghast and breathless at having been carried along at a gallop.

‘There we are!' Coupeau said, with an embarrassed laugh. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and saw nothing funny in it, though he added: ‘Well, well, they don't hang about. They get it all over, one, two, three, like at the dentist's, so you don't even have time to say “ouch!” Painless marriage.'

‘Yes, indeed, a smart piece of work,' Lorilleux muttered, with a snigger. ‘They chuck it together in five minutes and it holds up for life. Poor old Cadet-Cassis!'

The four witnesses clapped the roofer on the back and he ducked to avoid them. At the same time, Gervaise was kissing Mother Coupeau and smiling, though her eyes were a little moist. She was saying something in answer to the old woman's broken mutterings: ‘Don't worry, I'll do my best. If it does go wrong, it won't be my fault. No, no, of course, I'm too anxious to be happy myself… Anyway, it's done now, isn't it? It's up to the two of us to get along together and each do our bit.'

From there, they went directly to the Moulin d'Argent. Coupeau had taken his wife by the arm. They were walking along quickly, laughing, as if impelled forward, some two hundred yards ahead of the others, not seeing the houses, the people or the carriages. The deafening noises of the busy thoroughfare rang bells in their ears. When they reached the wine merchant's, Coupeau immediately ordered two litres, some bread and slices of ham, in the little glass-walled parlour on the ground floor, without plates or a tablecloth, just as a light refreshment. Then, seeing that Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade were showing signs of serious appetite, he got the landlord to send in another litre and a piece of brie. Mother Coupeau was not hungry, being too choked up for eating. Gervaise, who was dying of thirst, drank great glasses of water, barely tinted with wine.

‘That's on me,' said Coupeau, going straight to the counter, where he paid four francs five
sous
.

Meanwhile, it was one o'clock and the guests were arriving. Mme Fauconnier, a plump woman and still attractive, was the first to appear; she was wearing a plain linen dress with a printed-flower pattern, a pink scarf and a hat smothered in flowers. After that came Mlle Remanjou, a wisp of a thing in the eternal black dress that one imagined she wore even to bed; and the Gaudrons: the husband, built like an ox, made his brown jacket creak with the strain every time he moved, and the wife, vast, exhibited her pregnant belly, its rotundity exaggerated by her bright-violet dress. Coupeau said that they should not wait for Mes-Bottes, because he would meet up with the party on the road to Saint-Denis.

‘My, oh my!' Mme Lerat exclaimed as she came in. ‘We're going to get a proper soaking. It will be fun!'

She called everyone to the door of the wine merchant's to have a look at the clouds, an ink-black storm that was rapidly gathering to the south of Paris. Mme Lerat, the eldest of the Coupeaus, was a tall woman, dry and masculine, who spoke through her nose; she was done up in a puce-coloured dress, too big for her, with long fringes, which made her look like a thin poodle emerging from the water. She was toying with a sunshade as though it were a walking-stick. When she had kissed Gervaise, she went on:

‘You can't imagine the heat out there. It's like getting a blast from a furnace in your face.'