The Drinking Den

by Emile Zola

  ‘Papa, papa!’ she shouted, as loudly as she could. ‘Papa, look at me!’

  The roofer tried to lean over, but his foot slipped. And then, suddenly, stupidly, like a cat tripping up over its own paws, he rolled over and slid down the gentle slope of the roof, unable to stop himself.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he said in a strangled voice.

  And he fell. His body described a wide curve, turned over twice on itself and crashed into the middle of the street with the dull thud of a bundle of washing thrown down from a height.

  Gervaise, appalled, her throat riven by a great cry, stayed transfixed with her arms in the air. Passers-by ran across and a crowd gathered. Mme Boche, shocked, her legs giving way beneath her, took Nana in her arms in order to hide her head and prevent her from seeing. Meanwhile, on the far side of the street, the little old woman, as if satisfied, quietly closed her window.

  Eventually, four men carried Coupeau to a pharmacy on the corner of the Rue des Poissonniers, and he stayed there for nearly an hour in the middle of the shop, lying on a blanket, while someone went to fetch a stretcher from the Lariboisière Hospital. He was still breathing, but the pharmacist kept giving little shakes of his head. Now, Gervaise, kneeling on the floor, was sobbing continually, her face smeared with tears, blinded and dazed. Mechanically, she reached out and felt her husband’s limbs, very gently. Then she withdrew her hands, looking up at the pharmacist who had told her not to touch him; but a few seconds later, she started again, unable to resist the urge to find if he was still warm, thinking that she was doing him some good. When the stretcher did finally arrive, and they spoke of leaving for the hospital, she got up and said fiercely: ‘No, no, not the hospital! We live in the Rue Neuve de la Goutte-d’Or.’

  They tried to explain that the treatment would be very expensive, if she had her husband at home with her; but she repeated obstinately: ‘Rue Neuve de la Goutte-d’Or, I’ll show you which door… What difference does it make to you? I’ve got some money… He’s my husband, isn’t he? He’s mine, I want him!’

  So they had to take Coupeau home. When the stretcher went through the crowd that was pressing in in front of the pharmacist’s shop, the women of the neighbourhood were talking excitedly about Gervaise. True, that lass, she did have a limp, but she had guts for all that. Of course, she would save her man, while in the hospital the doctors made you kick the bucket if they thought you were too far gone: that way they didn’t have the trouble of making you better. Mme Boche took Nana to her house, then came back and told the story of the accident with endless details, still very shaken by what had happened.

  ‘I was going to get a leg of mutton, I was there, I saw him fall,’ she said, over and over. ‘It was all because of his kid: he tried to take a look at her, and wham! Oh, God in heaven above, I never want to see anyone fall like that again… I suppose I’d better go and get my leg of mutton all the same.’

  For a week, Coupeau was very poorly. His family, their friends, everyone expected to see him slip away at any moment. The doctor, a very expensive doctor who had to be paid five francs a visit, was afraid of internal lesions: the word provoked a good deal of anxiety and people around and about said that the roofer had had his heart unhinged by the shock. Only Gervaise, pale through staying up all night, grave and determined, shrugged her shoulders. Her man’s right leg was broken, everyone knew that; so they would mend it for him, quite simply. As for the rest, the unhinged heart, all that was nothing. She would re-hinge his heart for him. She knew how hearts were attached: with care, cleanliness and firm affection. She demonstrated magnificent certainty, sure that she would cure him merely by staying close to him, and touching his hands when his temperature soared. She did not doubt for a moment. For a whole week, she could be seen up on her feet, hardly speaking, locked into her obstinate determination to save him, forgetting her children, the street, the whole city. On the ninth day, on the evening when the doctor was finally prepared to answer for his patient, she slumped into a chair, her legs giving way under her, her back breaking, in floods of tears. That night, she agreed to sleep for two hours, with her head resting on the end of the bed.

  Coupeau’s accident had thrown the whole family into confusion. Mother Coupeau spent her nights with Gervaise, but at around nine o’clock, fell asleep on her chair. Every evening, Mme Lerat came the long way round on her way back from work, to get the news. At first, the Lorilleux used to come by two or three times a day, offering to sit with Coupeau and even bringing an armchair for Gervaise. Then, disagreements soon arose about the best way of treating the patient. Mme Lorilleux claimed to have saved enough people in her life to know how one should go about it; she also accused the young woman of pushing her aside, of keeping her away from her brother’s bedside. Of course, Tip-Tap did have good reason for wanting Coupeau to get better because, when all’s said and done, if she had not gone and distracted him in the Rue de la Nation, he wouldn’t have had the fall. However, the way she was going about it, she was sure to finish him off.

  When she saw that Coupeau was out of danger, Gervaise stopped guarding his bed with such jealous severity. Now that no one could kill him, she was no longer wary of letting people see him. The family made themselves at home around the room. Coupeau’s convalescence would be very long: the doctor had mentioned four months. So, while he was sleeping, hour after hour, the Lorilleux went on and on about what an idiot Gervaise was. A lot of use it was having her husband at home! If he had gone to the hospital, he would have been on his feet twice as fast. Lorilleux said he would like to be ill and catch some ailment or other, just to show her if he would hesitate for a moment to go to Lariboisière. Mme Lorilleux knew a lady who had just left there: well, she had chicken to eat twice a day! And both of them, for the twentieth time, worked out how much the four months’ convalescence would cost the family: first of all, the working days lost, then the doctor, and the medicines, and later the good wine and red meat. If all the Coupeaus did was to use up their meagre savings, they ought to consider themselves very lucky. But they would surely get into debt. Oh, it was their own business entirely! Above all, they should not look to the family, which was not rich enough to afford keeping sick people at home. It was down to Tip-Tap, wasn’t it? She could very well have done like everyone else and let her man be taken to the hospital. It was the last straw, her being stuck-up as well.

  One evening, Mme Lorilleux was unkind enough to ask her suddenly: ‘So, what about your shop then? When are you going to rent it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Lorilleux sniggered. ‘The concierge is still waiting to see you.’

  Gervaise was speechless. She had entirely forgotten about the shop. But she could see the malicious pleasure they took at the idea that her scheme was in ruins. Indeed, from then on they took every opportunity to tease her about her shattered hopes. If anyone mentioned an unrealizable dream, they said it would happen when she was set up in her own business with a fine shop-front opening on to the street. And they chattered away about it behind her back. She hated to think such a terrible thing; but the truth was that the Lorilleux now seemed quite pleased about Coupeau’s accident, which had prevented her from setting up her laundry in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or.

  In return, she tried to tease them and show them how much and how willingly she was sacrificing her money so that her husband could be cured. Every time that she took her savings book from under the glass cover of the clock, and they happened to be there, she would say, merrily: ‘I’m off, I’m going out to rent my shop.’

  She didn’t want to take all the money out at once. Instead, she asked for it at a hundred francs a time, so as not to keep such a large pile of coins in her cupboard; and, then, she was vaguely hoping for some miracle, a sudden cure, which would mean that they did not have to spend the whole amount. Every time she went to the bank, as soon as she returned home, she did a sum on a piece of paper to work out how much money they still had left there. This was purely to keep things tidy. Even though the hole in the
money was constantly enlarging, she kept the account of this collapse of their savings with the same reasonable air and quiet smile. Wasn’t it in fact a consolation that the money was being so well spent, that she had had it to hand at the moment when misfortune struck? So, without any regret, she carefully replaced the book behind the clock under the glass dome.

  The Goujets were very considerate towards Gervaise while Coupeau was ill. Mme Goujet was entirely at her disposal. She never went down the stairs without asking if Gervaise needed sugar, butter or salt; she always offered her the best of the stock, on evenings when she was making a beef stew. She would even tidy up her kitchen and do the washing-up, if she saw that Gervaise had too much to do. Every morning, Goujet took the young woman’s pails and went to fill them at the pump in the Rue des Poissonniers: that saved her two sous. Then, after dinner, when the family was no longer taking up most of the bedroom, the Goujets came to keep the Coupeaus company. For two hours, until ten o’clock, the blacksmith smoked his pipe and watched Gervaise busying herself around the patient. He would not say ten words the whole evening. With his great blond head sinking between his giant shoulders, he was touched by the sight of her pouring some herbal tea into a cup and stirring the sugar without making a noise with the spoon. When she was making the bed and gently encouraging Coupeau, he was deeply moved. Never had he met such a splendid woman. Even her limp suited her, because she had all the more credit for running around after her husband the whole day long. Honestly, she didn’t sit down for more than quarter of an hour, just long enough to get a bite to eat. She was constantly running across to the pharmacist’s, looking after the most unpleasant things and taking a huge amount of trouble to try and keep some semblance of order in this room where they did everything; and, despite that, not a word of complaint, always friendly, even on those evenings when she was so tired that she was falling asleep on her feet, with her eyes open. And the blacksmith, in this atmosphere of devotion, with various medicines strewn across the table, started to develop a great affection for Gervaise, seeing her loving and caring for Coupeau with all her heart.

  ‘There you are, old chap – mended,’ he said one day to the convalescing man. ‘I wasn’t worried about you, your wife is the Good Lord Himself.’

  He himself was on the point of getting married. Or, at least, his mother had found a highly suitable young woman, a lace-maker like herself, whom she was very keen for her son to marry. To avoid upsetting her, he said yes, and they had even fixed the wedding for the first week of September. The money for setting the couple up together had been resting for a long time at the savings bank. But he would shake his head when Gervaise spoke to him about his marriage and murmured in his slow voice:

  ‘Not all women are like you, Madame Coupeau. If all women were like you, one would marry ten of them.’

  Meanwhile, Coupeau, after two months, was able to start getting up. He did not walk far, just from the bed to the window, and even then he had to be supported by Gervaise. There he would sit in the Lorilleux’s chair, with his right leg resting on a stool. This jester, who used to make quips about broken legs whenever there was ice on the road, was very put out by his own accident. He could not bear it philosophically. He had spent those two months in his bed, cursing and driving everyone mad. It was no life, honestly, to spend one’s time on one’s back, with one peg strung up and stiff as a salami sausage. My goodness, he should know that ceiling by now: there was a crack in the corner by the alcove that he could draw with his eyes shut. Then, when he settled into the armchair, it was another story. How long did he have to spend, stuck here, like an Egyptian mummy? The street was not a lot of fun to look at, no one went by and it stank of bleach all day. No, it was too much, he was getting old here, he would have given ten years of his life to know how the fortifications were doing. And he repeatedly and violently cursed his fate. His accident was not fair; it shouldn’t have happened, not to a good worker like him, who didn’t idle and didn’t drink. If it had been someone else, he might have understood.

  ‘Old Coupeau,’ he would say, ‘now, he broke his neck one day when he’d had a drink too many. I’m not saying he deserved it, but at least one could explain how it happened… But I was as calm and sober as John the Baptist, not a drop inside me, and I lost my balance just wanting to turn round to smile at Nana! It’s too bad, isn’t it? If there is a Good Lord, he manages things in an odd way. I’ll never accept that.’

  When he did regain the use of his legs, he retained a sort of dull grudge against his job. It was an accursed trade, spending one’s days like a cat crawling along the gutter. They had the right idea, those bourgeois! They sent you off to die, while they were far too cowardly to step on a ladder, preferring to sit quietly by their fires, not giving a damn for the rest of us. He even came to the point of saying that he thought everyone should put their own roofs up. Good Lord! If there was any justice, that’s what would be done: if you don’t like getting wet, get under cover. Then he regretted not having learned another trade, one that was more attractive and less dangerous, like cabinet-making, for example. That, too, was Old Coupeau’s fault; fathers had this silly habit of sticking their children in whatever they did themselves, regardless.

  For two more months, Coupeau walked with crutches. First of all, he managed to go down into the street and smoke a pipe in front of his door. Then, he went as far as the outer boulevard, hanging around in the sunshine and staying for hours seated on a bench. His good temper returned and his devilish wit was sharpened during these long strolls. And, along with the joy of being alive, he started to acquire a taste for doing nothing, feeling his limbs relaxed and his muscles sliding into the sweetest slumber; it was like a gradual invasion of idleness, taking advantage of his convalescence to permeate his skin and fill him with a delicious numbness. He came back in fine fettle, mocking, finding this life beautiful and seeing no reason why it should not go on for ever. When he was able to do without crutches, he extended his walks further and went round the building sites to see his old friends. He would stay with his arms crossed in front of half-finished houses, sniggering and shaking his head; he would make fun of the workers as they slaved away, sticking his leg forward, to show them what thanks you got for toiling. These mocking halts to watch others at work satisfied his grudge against work. Of course, he would be going back, he had to; but he would leave it as late as he could. Huh! He had a reason now for lacking in zeal. In any case, he couldn’t think of anything better than taking it easy for a bit.

  On those afternoons when he felt bored, Coupeau would go up to see the Lorilleux. They showed him lots of sympathy and won him over with friendly signs of consideration. During the first years of his marriage, he had escaped them, because of Gervaise’s influence. Now, they were taking him back, teasing him about how afraid he was of his wife. Wasn’t he a man, then? Yet the Lorilleux were very careful, and would sing the laundress’s praises in the most exaggerated way. Coupeau, avoiding arguments for the time being, swore to Gervaise that his sister adored her and asked her to be less hostile. The first family row came one evening, over Etienne. The roofer had spent the afternoon with the Lorilleux. When he got home, since the dinner was late and the children kept saying that they were hungry, he suddenly lost his temper with Etienne and gave him a slap round the ears. Then, for an hour, he grouched away: the kid wasn’t his; he didn’t know why he put up with him in the house; one day, he’d throw him out. Until then, he had accepted the boy with hardly a word of complaint. The next day, he started to talk about his self-respect, and three days later he was kicking the child up the backside, morning and evening, so that when Etienne heard Coupeau coming upstairs, the boy would run across to the Goujets, where the old lace-maker kept a corner of the table for him to do his homework.

  Gervaise had long since gone back to work. She no longer had the unpleasant task of taking off and putting back the glass dome over the clock, because all the savings were gone. Now she had to work hard, to work for four, because there
were four mouths to feed. She alone provided for all of them. When people sympathized with her, she would quickly spring to Coupeau’s defence. Just imagine what he had had to put up with. It was hardly surprising if he was a little embittered! Once he was well again, he would get over it. And if anyone suggested that Coupeau seemed healthy enough now, and that he could surely go back to work, she protested: no, no, not yet! She didn’t want to have him back in bed again. She supposed she knew best what the doctor had told her. She it was who prevented him from working, telling him every morning to take his time, not to push himself. She would even slip five-franc coins into the pocket of his waistcoat. Coupeau accepted this as quite natural. He would complain of all sorts of pains so that she would spoil him; and, six months later, he was still convalescent. Now, on the days when he went to watch others at work, he would be happy to go and drink a jug with his friends. After all, one was not badly off at the wine merchant’s; you could have a good laugh and stay for five minutes or so. No one should be ashamed of that. Only hypocrites pretended they were dying of thirst as they went through the door. In the old days, they had been quite right to make fun of him, seeing that a glass of wine never killed anybody. But he thumped his chest and said that it was a point of honour for him never to drink anything but wine, always wine, never spirits. Wine helped you live longer, and didn’t make you ill or drunk. Even so, several times, after days with nothing to do, wandering from one building site to the next, and from bar to bar, he came home the worse for wear. On such days, Gervaise shut the apartment door, pretending that she herself had a bad headache, so that the Goujets would not hear the nonsense that Coupeau was talking.

  Meanwhile, bit by bit, the young woman became more depressed. Morning and evening, she went to see the shop in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or, which was still for rent; but she told nobody, as though she were guilty of some childishness inappropriate for a grown-up. The shop was starting to obsess her again. At night, when the lights were out, she would dream of it, eyes open, with a sense of enjoying a forbidden pleasure. She did the sums once more: two hundred and fifty francs for the rent, one hundred and fifty francs for tools and fitting out, and a hundred francs as a float so that she could manage for two weeks: in all, five hundred francs, at the least. If she did not talk about it aloud, and constantly, it was because she was afraid of seeming to regret the loss of her savings because of Coupeau’s illness. Often, she would go quite pale, because she had almost let slip what she wanted, and just managed to stop the words coming out, as though it were something indecent. Now, she would have to work for four or five years before she could put aside such a large sum. What made her most unhappy was precisely that she could not set herself up right away. She would have supplied the needs of the family, without having to rely on Coupeau, leaving him months to recover his taste for work. She would be easy in her mind then, sure of the future and freed from those secret fears that sometimes assailed her when he came back very merry, singing and telling them about some fine prank that idiot Mes-Bottes had got up to after he had bought him a bottle.