The Drinking Den

by Emile Zola

  ‘There was no sense in coming up here just to have a row,’ Boche said angrily, going back down the stairs.

  The whole party followed, silent, sulking, with no sound except the pattering of shoes on the steps. At the bottom, M. Madinier wanted to pay, but Coupeau protested and hurriedly gave the warden twenty-four sous, two for each of them. It was nearly half-past five; they just had time to get back, so they followed the boulevards and went along the Faubourg Poissonnière. But Coupeau felt the walk could not end just like that: he swept everybody into a wine merchant’s to drink a glass of vermouth.

  The meal had been ordered for six o’clock. At the Moulin d’Argent, they had been expecting the party for twenty minutes. Mme Boche, who had handed over her concierge’s duties to one of the ladies in the building, was talking to Mother Coupeau in the first-floor dining-room, with the table ready-laid in front of them, while the two lads, Claude and Etienne, whom she had brought with her, were running back and forth under the table scattering the chairs this way and that. When Gervaise came in and saw the children, having been away from them all day, she took them on her knees, smothering them with hugs and kisses.

  ‘Have they behaved themselves?’ she asked Mme Boche. ‘They haven’t been driving you nuts, I hope?’

  And, while the concierge was telling how she’d nearly died laughing at this or that thing the little rascals had said during the afternoon, Gervaise picked them up again and squeezed them to her, a wave of tenderness sweeping over her.

  ‘It’s all a bit odd for Coupeau, isn’t it?’ Mme Lorilleux was saying to the other ladies at the other end of the room.

  Gervaise had managed to preserve her tranquil good humour of the morning. However, since the walk, there had been moments when she felt quite sad, giving a sensible and pensive look at her husband and the Lorilleux. She felt that Coupeau was a coward where his sister was concerned. The evening before, he had been shouting and swearing that he would put those vipers’ tongues in their place, if they let him down. But she could see very well that, confronted with them, he was like an obedient puppy, hanging on their every word and worried sick if he thought they were angry. Frankly, all this made the young woman uneasy about the future.

  Now they were waiting only for Mes-Bottes, who had not yet appeared.

  ‘Oh, damn it!’ Coupeau exclaimed. ‘Let’s get started. You’ll see, he’ll soon show up. He can sense when there’s grub around… I say, he must be in fits if he’s still stuck like a lemon on the Saint-Denis road!’

  At that, all of them sat down with a great shuffling of chairs, in fine good humour. Gervaise was between Lorilleux and M. Madinier, and Coupeau between Mme Fauconnier and Mme Lorilleux. The other guests sat wherever they liked, because it always ended in squabbles and resentment when one tried to put them in their places. Boche slipped in beside Mme Lerat. Bibi-la-Grillade was between Mlle Remanjou and Mme Gaudron. As for Mme Boche and Mother Coupeau, at the far end, they looked after the children, cutting their meat and giving them something to drink (but not too much wine).

  ‘Anyone going to say grace?’ asked Boche, while the ladies were arranging their skirts under the tablecloth, to avoid getting them splashed.

  But Mme Lorrilleux didn’t like that kind of joke. And the noodle soup, almost cold, was eaten very fast, to the whistling of lips on spoons. Two waiters served them, in grease-stained little jackets and aprons of questionable whiteness. The daylight poured through the four windows, open on to the acacias in the yard, at the end of a day of storms, fresh but still warm. The reflections from the trees in this damp corner cast a green light over the smoke-filled room and made the shadows of leaves flicker across the tablecloth, which was drenched in a vague odour of mould. There were two mirrors, one at either end, covered in fly specks, which stretched the table out to infinity, laden with its thick crockery, starting to go brown, and scratched knives blackened by grease from the washing-up water. At the far end of the room, whenever a waiter came up from the kitchen, the door swung open, letting through a strong smell of burned fat.

  ‘Don’t let’s all speak at once,’ said Boche, seeing that they were silent, with their noses in their plates.

  So they were drinking the first glass of wine and watching the entry of the waiters with two hot veal pies, when Mes-Bottes came in.

  ‘You’re a fine lot, I must say!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve been wearing out my soles for three hours on the road; a gendarme even asked me for my papers. Is that the sort of dirty trick to play on a friend? You could at least have sent a boy in a cab to pick me up. Ah, no, honestly, it’s no joke, I really do find that a bit much. What’s more it was raining so hard that my pockets filled with water. You could catch a few minnows in them still.’

  Everybody was helpless with laughter. Damn me if Mes-Bottes wasn’t well lit up; he’d put away two litres already, if only to stop going crazy with that frog’s juice that the storm had been emptying over him.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t the Count of Mutton-Leg himself!’ Coupeau said. ‘Go and sit over there, next to Mme Gaudron. As you see, we were expecting you.’

  Oh, he didn’t mind a bit, he’d soon catch up with the rest; and he asked for a second, then a third helping of soup, plates of noodles in which he cut up huge slices of bread. Then when they started on the veal pies, he became an object of deep admiration from the whole table. How he could put it away! The waiters, horrified, formed a relay to bring him bread, thinly sliced pieces that he swallowed in a single mouthful. Eventually, he lost his temper: he wanted a whole loaf next to him. The wine merchant himself became very anxious and made a momentary appearance at the door of the room. They had all been expecting him and again collapsed in fits of laughter. That was one in the eye for him! What a devil he was, that Mes-Bottes! Hadn’t he once eaten twelve hard-boiled eggs and drunk twelve glasses of wine, all in the time it took for the clock to strike twelve! You didn’t often come across someone who could put it back like that… And Mlle Remanjou was quite moved at the sight of Mes-Bottes chewing away, while M. Madinier, looking for the right word to express his almost respectful astonishment, pronounced him a man of quite extraordinary capacity.

  Silence fell. A waiter had just set down on the table a rabbit fricassee, in a huge dish as deep as a salad bowl.

  Coupeau, always ready with a quip, had a good one for the occasion: ‘I say, waiter, that’s an alley rabbit, isn’t it? It’s still going “meow”.’ And, in fact, a faint ‘meow’, perfectly imitated, appeared to be coming out of the dish. It was Coupeau, who could make the noise in this throat without moving his lips: this was a party trick that was so assured of success that, whenever he ate out, he ordered a rabbit fricassee. After that, he purred. The ladies were dabbing their faces with their napkins, because they were laughing so much.

  Mme Fauconnier asked for the head; she liked only the head. Mlle Remanjou loved the rashers of bacon. And when Boche said he preferred little onions when they were well done, Mme Lerat pursed her lips and muttered: ‘I know what he means.’

  She was as dry as a stick, and since her husband’s death had led a cloistered life, working away from day to day, without a hint of a man anywhere near her, while at the same time continually obsessed with obscenities, a mania for double entendres and dirty jokes so obscure that she alone could understand them. Boche leaned over and asked her to explain, so she whispered very quietly in his ear: ‘It goes without saying: little onions… Need I say more?’

  But the conversation was starting to get serious. Everyone was talking about his own profession. M. Madinier sang the praises of cardboard: there were real artists in the field – he could mention gift boxes: there were some designs that were real luxury items. However, Lorilleux sniggered; he was very proud of working in gold, and almost felt he carried traces of it on his fingers and about his whole person. Well, he would often say, in olden days jewellers had the right to carry swords; and he would cite Bernard Palissy,18 without really knowing what he was talking about. As
for Coupeau, he gave the example of a weathervane, a masterpiece made by one of his fellow-workers, and composed of a column, then a sheaf of corn, then a basket of fruit and finally a flag, all superbly fashioned out of bits of zinc,19 cut out and soldered together. Mme Lerat showed Bibi-la-Grillade how you turned a rose stem, twirling the handle of her knife between her bony fingers. Meanwhile, voices were raised and clashing with one another. Above the din, one could hear Mme Fauconnier speaking very loudly as she complained about the women she employed, especially one little scrubber of an apprentice who only the day before had burned another set of her sheets.

  ‘Say what you like,’ Lorrilleux shouted, banging his fist on the table. ‘Gold is gold!’

  This undoubted truth silenced everyone except Mlle Remanjou, whose reedy voice continued: ‘So I lift their skirts and sew underneath… I stick a pin in their heads to hold the hat on, and that’s it. They sell for thirteen sous.’

  She was telling Mes-Bottes about her dolls, while his upper and lower jaws ground slowly on like two millstones. He nodded, though he was not listening, keeping an eye out for the waiters, in case they tried to take away the dishes before he had wiped them clean. They had eaten a fricandeau of veal with a sauce and runner beans. Now the roast was brought in, two scrawny chickens, sitting on a bed of cress, discoloured and burned from the oven. Outside the sun was setting behind the upper branches of the acacia trees. In the dining-room, the greenish light was thickened by the steam rising from the table, covered with stains of wine and gravy and cluttered with the bits and pieces of crockery, knives and forks. Along the wall, the dirty plates and empty bottles that the waiters had left there seemed like rubbish swept up or shaken off the tablecloth. It was very hot. The men removed their jackets and went on eating in their shirtsleeves.

  ‘Please, Madame Boche, don’t stuff so much into them,’ said Gervaise, who was not talking a great deal, but keeping an eye from afar on Claude and Etienne.

  She got up and went over to have a word, standing behind the children’s chairs. Children were not sensible, they could eat all day and not refuse anything; but she gave them a bit of chicken herself, a little of the white meat. And Madame Coupeau said that, for once, they might give themselves indigestion if they liked. In a whisper, Mme Boche accused Boche of pinching Mme Lerat’s knees. Oh, he was a sly one, the way he was playing around. She’s seen his hands vanish under the table. But, by God, if he didn’t stop it, she’d clip him round the head with a bottle.

  In the silence, M. Madinier was talking politics.

  ‘Their law of May the 31st is an abomination.20 Now you have to be two years at the same address. Three million citizens have been taken off the register. I understand that, underneath, Bonaparte is very upset, because he loves the people, as he has proved.’

  He was a republican himself, but he admired the nephew for the sake of the uncle – and there would never be another like him. Bibi-la-Grillade got angry: he had worked at the Elysée Palace21 and seen this Bonaparte as close to him as Mes-Bottes was now, there, just across the table. Well, that god-damn President was like a stool-pigeon, so there! They said he was going on a trip to Lyon and it would be good riddance if his coach went into the ditch and he broke his neck. And, since the discussion was turning nasty, Coupeau had to step in.

  ‘Well, I must say! How daft are you, to let yourselves get worked up about politics! There’s a load of bullshit, politics! Does it have anything to do with us? They can put what they like up there – King, Emperor or nothing at all – it wouldn’t stop me earning my five francs, eating and sleeping, would it? No, it’s all bullshit!’

  Lorilleux shook his head. He had been born on the same day as the Comte de Chambord,22 the 29th of September 1820. He was very struck by this coincidence, which inspired some vague dream in him whereby the King’s return to France was connected with his own personal fortunes. He never said precisely what he expected, but he let it be understood that when this happened it would result in something extremely gratifying for him. So, whenever he had a wish that was too great to be satisfied, he always deferred it until later, ‘when the King comes back’.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he told them, ‘I saw the Comte de Chambord one evening…’

  Every face turned towards him.

  ‘Just so. A large man in an overcoat, a decent-looking sort… I was at a friend’s house, Péquignot, who sells furniture in the Grande Rue de la Chapelle. The Comte de Chambord had left an umbrella behind there the previous day. So he came in, and just like that said, quite simply: “Could I have my umbrella back?” Good Lord, yes! It was him, Péquignot gave me his word on it.’

  None of the guests expressed the least doubt of that. They had reached the dessert. The waiters were clearing the table with a loud clattering of plates. And Mme Lorilleux, who had until then been very proper, very much the lady, let out a: ‘Damn the bugger!’, because a waiter had let something liquid run down the back of her neck while he was removing a dish. Her silk dress would be stained for sure. M. Madinier had to look at her back, but swore there was nothing there. Now, in the centre of the table, were laid out some oeufs à la neige, in a salad bowl, with a plate of cheese and one of fruit on either side. The egg whites, overcooked, floated on the yellow cream; but the dish was greeted with a respectful silence. It was unexpected and considered distinguished. Mes-Bottes was still eating; he had asked for more bread. He polished off both cheeses; and, as some cream was left, he got them to pass him the salad bowl and wiped the bottom of it with great slices of bread, as though it were soup.

  ‘That gentleman is truly remarkable,’ M. Madinier said, with renewed admiration.

  Whereupon, the men rose to take their pipes. They paused for a moment behind Mes-Bottes and clapped him on the shoulder, asking if he felt any better. Bibi-la-Grillade lifted him up on the chair; but, what was this, good heavens! The brute had doubled in weight. Coupeau, teasing, said that his friend had only just got started; he could eat bread like that all night long. The waiters vanished, appalled.

  Boche, who had been downstairs for a moment, came back to tell them how the wine merchant was taking it: he was sitting, all pale, behind his counter, his good lady had just sent out anxiously to see if the bakers stayed open; and even the shop cat looked as if some disaster had befallen it. Of course, it was a joke, and well worth the price of the dinner: it was impossible to have a picnic without that dustbin, Mes-Bottes. And the men, after lighting up their pipes, gave him envious glances: when all’s said and done, you had to be solidly built to put it away like that!

  ‘I’m glad I don’t have to feed you,’ said Mme Gaudron. ‘My, oh my, that’s for sure!’

  ‘Now then, Ma,’ Mes-Bottes replied, with a sidelong glance at his neighbour’s belly. ‘Don’t joke about it. You’ve swallowed more than I have.’

  They clapped and shouted bravo! Bullseye! It was pitch black outside, and three gaslights were burning in the room, casting large, flickering patches of light in the midst of the smoke from the pipes. The waiters, after serving coffee and cognac, had just cleared away the last of the neat piles of dirty plates. Down below, under the three acacia trees, the ball was starting, with a cornet and two violins playing very loudly, amid the laughter of some women, which sounded a little hoarse in the warm night air.

  ‘We should make a punch!’ Mes-Bottes exclaimed. ‘Two litres of fire-water, lots of lemon and not too much sugar!’

  But Coupeau, seeing Gervaise’s anxious face in front of him, stood up and said they would not be drinking any more. They had emptied twenty-five litres, which meant one and a half litres for everyone, counting the children as grown-ups: that was quite enough. They had just had a bite to eat together, as friends, without any fuss and bother, because they respected one another and wanted to celebrate a family occasion among themselves. Everything had gone off nicely, they were merry, but they didn’t now want to get pig drunk, if they were to show some consideration for the ladies. In a word, to put it in a nutshel
l, they had got together to drink the health of the happy couple, not to get rat-arsed. This little speech, which the roof-mender delivered in persuasive tones, putting his hand to his chest at the end of every sentence, was greeted with warm approval by Lorilleux and M. Madinier. But the rest, Boche, Gaudron, Bibi-la-Grillade and especially Mes-Bottes, all four of them, quite lit up already, sniggered that their tongues were sticking to the backs of their throats and they all had a bitch of a thirst that had to be slaked.

  ‘Those who are thirsty, are thirsty,’ Mes-Bottes pointed out. ‘And those who are not, are not. Which is why we’re going to order the punch. We’re not twisting anyone’s arm. The lords and ladies can call for some sugar-water.’

  And, as the roofer was starting to deliver another sermon, Mes-Bottes, who by this time was also standing, slapped his thigh and called out: ‘Come off it! Why don’t you kiss my arse! Waiter, two litres of brandy!’