The Drinking Den (39 page)

‘What! You're going to that slave-driver Bourguignon!' Mes-Bottes exclaimed, when the roofer asked him. ‘It'll be a while before you catch me in that place again! Oh, no! I'd rather lick my lips until next year… I tell you, mate, you won't stick it three days!'

‘Seriously, it's a rotten place?' Coupeau asked anxiously.

‘Oh, as bad as it gets! You can't move. The guy's on your back the whole time. And, on top of that, the way they behave! His old lady calls you a drunkard, you're not allowed to spit in the shop… I sent them packing the first evening, I tell you.'

‘Well, it's nice to be warned! I won't let myself be had by that
lot! I'll go and try it out this morning, but if the boss gets on my nerves, I'll pick him up and plant him down on his old lady, see what I mean? I'll stick the two of them together like a couple of flat-fish.'

The roofer shook his comrade's hand, to thank him for the information, and was just leaving when Mes-Bottes hit the roof. God in heaven! Was Bourguignon going to stop them having a little drink? Were men no longer men, then? The ugly bastard could wait for five minutes, couldn't he? And Lantier came in to accept a glass, the four workmen standing at the counter. Meanwhile, Mes-Bottes, with his worn shoes, his grimy smock and his cap flat on the top of his head, was shouting loudly and rolling his eyes as if the drinking den belonged to him. He had just been proclaimed Emperor of Drunks and King of Hogs for having eaten a salad of live beetles and bitten a dead cat.

‘Now then, you Borgia,
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you!' he yelled at Old Colombe. ‘Give me some top-quality yellow asses' piss.'

When Old Colombe, pale and unruffled in his blue sweater, filled the four glasses, the customers knocked them back, bottoms up, so as not to let the drink get stale.

‘It certainly does a power of good as it goes down,' Bibi-la-Grillade muttered.

But that devil Mes-Bottes was telling a funny story. On Friday he had been so drunk that his friends had stuck his pipe in his mug with a handful of plaster. If he had been anyone else, it could have done for him, but he swaggered around, glorying in it.

‘Won't these gentlemen have another?' asked Old Colombe in his oily voice.

‘Yes, give us the same again,' said Lantier. ‘It's my round.'

Now they started to talk about women. The previous Sunday, Bibi-la-Grillade had taken the old girl to Montrouge to an aunt's. Coupeau asked if anyone knew what had happened to ‘East India Packet', a laundress from Chaillot,
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well known around the place. They were on the point of drinking, when Mes-Bottes yelled out loudly to Goujet and Lorilleux who were just going past. They came as far as the door, but refused to come in. The blacksmith did not feel like drinking anything, while the chain-maker, grey-faced and shivering, had his hands tightly clasped on the gold chains in his pocket, which
he was taking back, so he coughed and said no thank you, explaining that a single drop of spirits would knock him out.

‘Look at these hypocrites,' Mes-Bottes grumbled. ‘I bet they go knocking it back when no one's looking.'

Then, after having a sniff at his glass, he turned on Old Colombe.

‘You old swindler! You changed the bottle! You can't fool me with your fake brandy, you know!'

Day had broken and the drinking den was lit by a gloomy light. The owner put out the gas lamps. But Coupeau apologized for his brother-in-law, who couldn't drink: after all, he shouldn't be blamed for that. He even supported Goujet, since he was lucky that he never got thirsty. And he was talking of going off to work, when Lantier, putting on his most haughty air of a man of the world, taught him a lesson: before sliding off, one ought to pay for one's round. You didn't leave your friends like a sissy, even when duty called.

‘How long is he going to keep getting on our nerves with this talk about his work!' Mes-Bottes exclaimed.

‘So, is it this gentleman's round?' Old Colombe asked Coupeau.

He paid his turn. But when it came to Bibi-la-Grillade, he leaned over and whispered in the Colombe's ear; but the landlord shook his head slowly. Mes-Bottes realized what was going on and started to swear at the skinflint. What! Did a twerp like that dare to behave badly towards one of his friends? All publicans would put a drink on the slate for you! Did they come into a joint like this to be insulted? The landlord remained calm, leaning on his large fists against the counter and saying politely, over and over:

‘Why don't you lend the gentleman some money; that would be simpler.'

‘God in heaven, yes!' Mes-Bottes yelled. ‘Yes, I'll lend him some. There, Bibi, throw the money in his face, the cheat.'

After that, really getting into his stride and irritated by the sack that Coupeau still had slung over his shoulder, he turned to the roofer and said:

‘You look like a nursemaid. Put the baby down. It's giving you a hunched back.'

Coupeau hesitated for a moment, then, quietly, as though he had
made up his mind after careful consideration, he put his sack down, saying:

‘It's too late, now. I'll go to Bourguignon's after dinner. I'll tell them my old lady had a belly-ache. Listen, Colombe, I'll leave my tools under this bench and pick them up at lunch-time.'

Lantier nodded approval of this arrangement. Of course, one has to work; but on the other hand when you're among friends, good manners take precedence over everything. The idea of having a real old binge had gradually excited and filled all four of them. Their hands were heavy and they looked questioningly at one another. And, since they now had five hours to idle away, they were suddenly seized with a violent feeling of joy, clapping one another on the back and shouting terms of endearment into each other's faces. Coupeau in particular was so relieved and rejuvenated that he was calling the rest of them ‘My old mate, my old buddy!'. They had one more round, then went on to the Puce qui Renifle, a little cabaret, which had a billiard table. The hatter made a face at first, because it wasn't a very decent joint: the hooch cost a franc a litre, or ten
sous
for a half-litre in two glasses; and the regulars had left so much crap on the billiard table that the balls stuck to it. But once they had started the game, Lantier, who was a genius with the cue, recovered his good grace and his good humour, puffing out his chest and swinging his hips every time he scored a cannon.

When lunch-time came, Coupeau had an idea. He stamped his foot, exclaiming:

‘We should go and fetch Bec-Salé. I know where he's working… We'll take him to eat pigs' trotters in hollandaise sauce at Mère Louis'.'

They all shouted approval. Yes, Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst) must surely want to eat trotters in sauce. They set out. The streets were yellow and a thin rain was falling; but they were already too well warmed up inside to feel it sprinkling their extremities. Coupeau took them to the Rue Marcadet, to the bolt factory. Since they were arriving at least half an hour before the end of the shift, the roofer gave two
sous
to a lad to go in and tell Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst) that his old woman was feeling ill and asking for him to come straight away. The blacksmith came out at once,
strolling along, perfectly calm, scenting a good meal in the offing.

‘Ah! You old drunks!' he said, as soon as he saw them, hiding in a doorway. ‘I guessed as much… So, where are we going to eat then?'

At Mère Louis', while they were sucking the little bones from the trotters, they started in again on saying what they thought of bosses. Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst) announced that there was an urgent order to be finished at his works. Oh, the boss was not worried about a quarter of an hour; even if they didn't turn up, he would be nice enough: he had to consider himself lucky when they came back at all. In the first place, there was no danger that any boss would dare to sack Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst), because you didn't find blokes of his ability any more. After the trotters, they had an omelette and everyone drank his bottle. Mère Louis had her wine sent up from the Auvergne, wine the colour of blood, which you could cut with a knife. They were beginning to have fun: the party was really starting to swing.

‘What right has he to get on my wick, that beggar of a boss?' Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst) exclaimed over dessert. ‘Do you know, he's just had the nerve to put up a bell in his dump? A bell! That's for slaves… Well, it can ring as much as it likes today! I'll be damned if they catch me at the anvil again! I've put up with it for five days, now I can chuck it in. If he kicks up a fuss, I'll tell him to go to hell!'

‘Now, then,' said Coupeau, with a serious look, ‘I'll have to leave you, I'm off to work. Yes, I promised my wife… Enjoy yourselves, I'll be with you in spirit, you know, my old mates.'

The others fell about laughing. But he seemed so determined that they all went with him, when he talked about fetching his tools from Old Colombe's. He took the bag from under the bench and put it in front of him while they had a last drink. At one o'clock, they were still offering one another successive rounds, so Coupeau, with a gesture of annoyance, put the tools back under the bench; they were getting in his way, he couldn't get close to the counter without stubbing his foot against them. It was too silly, he would go to Bourguignon's the next day. The other four, who were arguing about wages, were not surprised when the roofer, without further explanation, suggested they went for
a little walk round the boulevard, to stretch their legs. The rain had ended. The leg-stretching amounted to no more than a few steps in single file, with their arms swinging idly at their sides. They had nothing to say, startled by the fresh air and annoyed at being outside. Slowly, without even needing to nudge each other, they instinctively went back up the Rue des Poissonniers, where they slipped into Chez François to take a glass out of the bottle. Honestly, they needed that to pick up their spirits. It made one too miserable being in the street; it was so muddy that you would hesitate to show a constable the door. Lantier pushed his friends towards the private bar, a narrow room with just one table in it, separated from the public room by a partition with frosted glass. He preferred private bars, because they were more respectable. Weren't they all nice and easy there? You could imagine you were at home and even take a little nap without embarrassment. He asked for the newspaper, spread it out on the table and looked through it, raising his eyebrows. Coupeau and Mes-Bottes had started a game of piquet. Two litres and five glasses were waiting on the table.

‘So, what have they got to say for themselves, in that paper?' Bibi-la-Grillade asked Lantier.

He didn't answer straight away. Then, without looking up:

‘I'm at the parliamentary page. Here are some ten-a-penny Republicans, those damned lazy beggars on the Left. Do the people elect them so that they can dribble this sugar-water? Here's one who believes in God and is getting all lovey-dovey with those bastards in the government. Now, if I was elected, I'd go up on the rostrum and say: Shit! Yes, not another word. That's my opinion!'

‘You know Badinguet had a fight with his old woman in front of the whole courtyard the other evening,' said Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst). ‘Honest! And about nothing, just an argument. Badinguet was sloshed.'

‘Give us a rest with your politics,' said the roofer. ‘Read the murders, it's more amusing.'

And, going back to his game, he called three nines and three queens:

‘I've got a threesome down the drain and three doves… Skirts don't let me down.'

They emptied their glasses, Lantier started to read aloud:

‘The commune of Gaillon (Seine-et-Marne) has just been appalled by a ghastly crime. A son killed his own father with a spade, in order to steal thirty
sous
from him…'

They all gave exclamations of horror. Now, there's someone, if you like, whom they would be happy to go and see shortened by a head! No, the guillotine was too good for him; he should be drawn and quartered. A report of an infanticide also shocked them, but the hatter, a great moralizer, excused the woman and put all the blame on her seducer – because, after all, if some scoundrel of a man had not given the poor woman a child, then she couldn't have thrown one down the water-closet. But what really got their enthusiasm up were the exploits of the Marquis de T—, who had left a ball at two in the morning and defended himself against three footpads in the Boulevard des Invalides. Without even taking off his gloves, he had dealt with the first two by head-butting them in the stomach, and led the third off to the police station, by one ear. Honestly! What a man! Pity he was an aristocrat.

‘Now, listen to this,' Lantier went on, ‘I'm moving on to the society news.“The Comtesse de Brétigny's eldest daughter is to marry the young Baron de Valençay, His Majesty's aide-de-camp. The wedding gifts include more than three hundred thousand francs' worth of lace –”'

‘What do we care about that?' Bibi-la-Grillade said, interrupting. ‘We don't want to know the colour of her petticoats. Even though she has lots of lace, she'll still be seeing the moon through the same hole as everyone else.'

As Lantier appeared to be on the point of reading the rest, Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst) took the paper away from him and sat on it, saying: ‘Oh, no, come on! That's enough! There: like that it'll keep warm. That's all paper is good for…'

Meanwhile, Mes-Bottes, who had been looking at his hand, gave a triumphant thump on the table. He had ninety-three.

‘I've got the Revolution!'
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he exclaimed. ‘A greedy quint with its point in the cow's grass…Twenty, no? Then, tierce major in window-panes, twenty-three; three bulls, twenty-six; three flunkeys; three one-eyes, ninety-two
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… So I play Year I of the Revolution: ninety-three.'