On the following morning Manfred went to Hippolita's apartment, to
inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. While he was questioning her,
word was brought that Father Jerome demanded to speak with him. Manfred
ordered him to be admitted.
"Is your business with me or the Princess?" asked Manfred.
"With both," replied the holy man. "The lady Isabella--"
"What of her?" interrupted Manfred eagerly.
--"Is at St. Nicholas altar," replied Jerome.
"That is no business of Hippolita," said Manfred with confusion; "let us
retire to my chamber."
"No, my lord," said Jerome firmly; "my commission is to both, and in the
presence of both I shall deliver it. But first I must interrogate the
Princess, whether she is acquainted with the cause of the lady
Isabella's flight."
"No, on my soul," said Hippolita.
"Father," interrupted Manfred, "I am the sovereign here, and will allow
no meddling priest to interfere in my domestic affairs."
"My lord," said the friar, "I know my duty, and am the minister of a
mightier Prince than Manfred."
Manfred trembled with rage and shame, but Hippolita intervened. "Holy
father," said she, "it is my duty to hear nothing that it pleases not my
lord I should hear. Attend the Prince to his chamber; I will retire to
my oratory."
"Excellent woman!" said the friar. "My lord, I attend your pleasure."
As soon as they had entered the Prince's apartments, Manfred began. "I
perceive that Isabella has acquainted you with my purpose. Now hear my
resolve. Urgent reasons of state demand that I should have a son. It is
in vain to expect an heir from Hippolita. I have made choice of
Isabella, and you must bring her back."
"Prince," replied Jerome, "the injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have
mounted to the throne of pity. By me thou art reprimanded for thy
intention of repudiating her; by me thou art warned not to pursue thy
wicked design on Isabella."
"Father, you mistake me," said the Prince. "You know not the bitterest
of my pangs. I have had scruples on the legality of our union; Hippolita
is related to me in the fourth degree. It is true, we had a
dispensation. But I have been informed that she had been contracted to
another. Ease my conscience of this burden by dissolving our marriage."
For some time the holy man remained absorbed in thought. At length,
conceiving some hopes from delay, he professed to be struck with the
Prince's scruples. Manfred was overjoyed at this apparent change.
"Since we now understand one another," resumed the Prince, "I expect
that you will satisfy me on one point. Who is the youth that I found in
the vault? He must have been privy to Isabella's flight. Is he her
lover?"
The friar conceived it might not be amiss to sow the seeds of jealousy
in Manfred's mind, so that he might be prejudiced against Isabella, or
have his attention diverted to a wrong scent. With this unhappy policy,
he answered in a manner to confirm Manfred's fears.
"I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue," cried Manfred in a rage;
and, quitting Jerome abruptly, he hastened to the great hall, and
ordered the peasant to be brought before him.
The young man, finding that his share in Isabella's flight had been
discovered, boldly told the truth of his adventure in the vault.
"And on a silly girl's report," said Manfred, "thou didst hazard my
displeasure!"
"I fear no man's displeasure," said the peasant, "when a woman in
distress puts herself under my protection."
Matilda was passing through a latticed gallery at the upper end of the
hall, when her attention was drawn to the prisoner. The gallantry of his
last reply interested her in his favour. His person was noble, handsome,
and commanding; but his countenance soon engrossed her whole care.
"Heavens!" she said to herself softly, "is he not the exact resemblance
of Alfonso's picture?"
"Take him to the court-yard, and sever his head from his body!" was the
sentence of Manfred.
Matilda fainted. Father Jerome, horrified at the catastrophe his
imprudence had occasioned, begged for the prisoner's life. But the
undaunted youth received the sentence with courage and resignation. In
the court-yard he unbuttoned his collar, and knelt down to his prayers.
As he stooped, his shirt slipped down below his shoulder and disclosed
the mark of a bloody arrow.
"Gracious heavens!" cried Jerome, "it is my child! my Theodore!"
"What may this mean? how can it be thy son?" said Manfred.
"Spare him, good Prince! He is my lawful son, born to me when I was
Count of Falconara; Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient--is it
possible my lord can refuse a father the life of his long-lost child?"
"Return to thy convent," answered Manfred after a pause; "conduct the
Princess hither; obey me in what else thou knowest; and I promise thee
the life of thy son."
"Rather let me die a thousand deaths!" cried Theodore.
Ere Manfred could reply, a brazen trumpet, which hung without the gate
of the castle, was suddenly sounded.
-III.--The Knight of the Sword-
It was announced that a herald sought to speak with Manfred, who ordered
him to be admitted.
"I came," said the herald, "from the renowned and invincible Knight of
the Gigantic Sabre. In the name of his lord, Frederic, Marquis of
Vicenza, he demands the Lady Isabella, daughter of that Prince whom thou
hast barely got into thy power; and he requires thee to resign the
principality of Otranto, which thou hast usurped from the said Lord
Frederic, the nearest of blood to the last rightful lord, Alfonso the
Good. If thou dost not instantly comply with these just demands, he
defies thee to single combat to the last extremity."
Injurious as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it was not his
interest to provoke the Marquis. He knew how well founded the claim of
Frederic was. Frederic's ancestors had assumed the style of Princes of
Otranto; but Manfred's family had been too powerful for the house of
Vicenza to dispossess them. Frederic had taken the cross and gone to the
Holy Land, where he was wounded, made prisoner, and reported to be dead.
Manfred had bribed Isabella's guardians to deliver her up to him as a
bride for Conrad, hoping to unite the claims of the two houses.
"Herald," said Manfred, "tell thy master that ere we liquidate our
differences with the sword, I would hold converse with him. Bid him
welcome to the castle."
In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived. Pages and trumpeters were
followed by foot-guards; then came knights with their squires; then an
hundred gentlemen bearing an enormous sword, and seeming to faint under
its weight; then the knight himself, in complete armour, his face
entirely concealed by his visor.
As the knight entered, the plumes on the enchanted helmet in the
court-yard were tempestuously agitated, and nodded thrice. The knight
gazed on the casque, dismounted, and kneeling down, seemed to pray
inwardly for some minutes.
Manfred, during the feast that followed, discoursed to his guests of his
claim to Otranto through the will of Alfonso bequeathing his estates to
Don Ricardo, Manfred's grandfather, in consideration of faithful
services; and he subtly suggested his plan of uniting the houses by
divorcing Hippolita and marrying Isabella. But the knight and his
companions would not reveal their countenances, and, although they
occasionally made gestures of dissent, they hardly ever spoke.
Manfred's discourse was interrupted by the news that Isabella had fled
from the convent. The knight was not less disturbed at this than Manfred
himself, and, rushing to the door, summoned his attendants to search for
her. Manfred also gave orders that she should be found, hoping to secure
her for himself and prevent her from falling into the hands of the
strangers.
When the company had quitted the castle, Matilda bethought herself of
Theodore, who had been placed hastily in confinement. His guards had
been by accident included in the general order that had been given by
Manfred for the pursuit of Isabella. Matilda stole to his prison, and
unbolted the door.
"Fly!" she said; "the doors of thy prison are open; and may the angels
of heaven direct thy course!"
"Thou art surely one of these angels!" said the enraptured Theodore.
"But dost thou not neglect thine own safety in setting me free?"
"Nay," she answered, "I am Manfred's daughter, but no dangers await me."
"Is it possible? can Manfred's blood feel holy pity?"
"Hasten; I tremble to see thee abide here." Matilda took him to the
armoury, and equipped him with a complete suit.
"Yonder behind that forest," she said, "is a chain of rocks, hollowed
into caverns that reach the sea-coast. Lie concealed there until thou
canst make signs to some vessel to take thee off."
Theodore flung himself at her feet, kissed her hand, vowed to get
himself knighted, and entreated her permission to swear himself her
knight. But Matilda bade him hasten away, and thus made end of an
interview in which both had tasted for the first time the passion of
love.
When Theodore had reached the caves and was roving amongst them, he
heard steps retreating before him and an imperfect rustling sound. He
gave pursuit, and caught a breathless woman who besought him not to
deliver her up to Manfred.
"No, Lady Isabella," cried he, "I have once already delivered thee from
his tyranny--"
"Art thou the generous unknown whom I met in the vault?" she
interrupted. "Surely thou art my guardian angel."
A cry was heard, "Isabella! what ho! Isabella!" The Knight of the Sword
approached, and Theodore bade him advance at his peril. Each took the
other for an emissary of Manfred; they rushed upon each other, and after
a furious combat the knight was wounded and disarmed.
Some of Manfred's domestics, running up, informed Theodore that the
knight was an enemy of Manfred; and Theodore, touched with compunction,
helped to staunch his wounds. When the knight recovered his speech, he
asked faintly for Isabella.
Theodore flew to her, told her of his mistake, and brought her to the
knight, who seemed to be dying.
"Isabella," said the knight, struggling for utterance, "thou--seest--thy
father!"
"Oh, amazement! horror!" cried Isabella. "My father!"
"Yes, I am Frederic, thy father--I came to deliver thee--it may not
be--"
He could say no more, and he was carried back to the castle, whither
Isabella accompanied him, Theodore vowing to protect her from Manfred.
-IV.--The Prophecy Fulfilled-
It was found by the surgeons that none of Frederic's wounds were mortal,
and when he was recovering he informed Hippolita of his story. While a
prisoner with the infidels he had dreamed that his daughter was in
danger of dreadful misfortunes, and that if he repaired to a wood near
Joppa he would learn more. On being ransomed he instantly set out for
the wood, where he found in a cave a hermit on the point of death, who
with his last words bade him dig under the seventh tree on the left of
the cave. When Frederic and his attendants dug according to the
direction, they found an enormous sabre--the very weapon that was now in
the court of the castle--with these lines written on the blade.
Where'er a casque that suits this sword is found,
With perils is thy daughter compass'd round;
Alfonso's blood alone can save the maid,
And quiet a long restless Prince's shade.
Hearing on his return that Isabella was at Otranto in the hands of
Manfred, Frederic had travelled thither, and on arriving had beheld the
miraculous casque that fulfilled the lines on the sword-blade.
Manfred, on entering the castle after the search, beheld Theodore in his
armour. He started in an agony of terror and amazement.
"Ha!" he cried, "thou dreadful spectre, what art thou?"
"My dearest lord," said Hippolita, clasping him in her arms, "what is it
you see?"
"What, is not that Alfonso? Dost thou not see him?"
"This, my lord," said Hippolita, "is Theodore."
"Theodore!" said Manfred, striking his forehead. "But how comes he
here?"
"I believe," answered Hippolita, "he went in search of Isabella."
"Isabella!" cried Manfred, relapsing into jealous rage. "Has this youth
been brought into my castle to insult me?"
"My lord," said Theodore, "is it insolence to surrender myself thus to
your highness's pleasure? Behold my bosom," he continued, laying his
sword at Manfred's feet. "Strike, my lord, if you suspect that a
disloyal thought is lodged there."
Even Manfred was touched by these words. "Rise," said he, "thy life is
not my present purpose."
Manfred now devised a scheme for uniting the two houses by proposing the
marriage of Matilda to Frederic, while he himself should divorce
Hippolita and marry Isabella. When he broke his purpose to Frederic,
that weak Prince, who had been struck with the charms of Matilda,
listened but too eagerly to the offer. But he wished to find the
disposition of Hippolita in the affair, and sought her apartments. He
found them empty; and concluding that she was in her oratory, he passed
on. On entering, he saw a person kneeling before the altar; not a woman,
but one in a long woollen weed, whose back was towards him.
"Reverend father," said Frederic, meaning to excuse his interruption, "I
sought the lady Hippolita."
"Hippolita!" replied a hollow voice; and then the figure, turning slowly
round, discovered to Frederic the fleshless jaws and empty sockets of a
skeleton, wrapped in a hermit's cowl.
"Angels of grace, protect me!" cried Frederic, recoiling.
"Deserve their protection!" said the spectre. "Remember the wood of
Joppa!"
"Art thou that holy hermit?" asked Frederic, trembling. "What is thy
errand to me?"
"Forget Matilda!" said the apparition--and vanished.
For some minutes Frederic remained motionless, his blood frozen in his
veins. Then, falling before the altar, he besought the intercession of
every saint for pardon.
On that night Matilda, whose passion for Theodore had increased, and who
abhorred her father's purpose of marrying her to Frederic, had by chance
met her lover as he was kneeling at the tomb of Alfonso in the great
church. Manfred was told by the domestic that Theodore and some lady
from the castle were in private conference at the tomb. Concluding in
his jealousy that the lady was Isabella, he hastened secretly to the
church.
The first sounds he could distinguish in the darkness were, "Does it,
alas! depend on me? Manfred will never permit our union--"
"No, this shall prevent it!" cried the tyrant, plunging his dagger into
the bosom of the woman that spoke.
"Inhuman monster!" cried Theodore, rushing on him.
"Stop! stop!" cried Matilda, "it is my father!"
Manfred, waking as from a trance, beat his breast and twisted his hands
in his locks. Theodore's cries quickly drew some monks to his aid, among
them Father Jerome.
"Now, tyrant," said Jerome, "behold the completion of woe fulfilled on
thy impious head!"
"Cruel man!" cried Matilda, "to aggravate the woes of a parent!"
"Oh, Matilda," said Manfred, "I took thee for Isabella. Oh, canst thou
forgive the blindness of my rage?"
"I can, and do," answered Matilda, "and may heaven confirm it!"
Matilda was carried back to the castle; and Hippolita, when she saw the
afflicted procession, ran weeping to her daughter, whose hands the
agonized Theodore covered with a thousand kisses.
"I would say something more," said Matilda, struggling, "but it may not
be. Isabella--Theodore--for my sake--oh!" She expired.
A clap of thunder at that instant shook the castle to its foundations;
the earth rocked, and the clank of more than mortal armour was heard
behind. The walls of the castle were thrown down with a mighty force,
and the form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared in
the centre of the ruins. "Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!"
said the vision; and having pronounced these words, accompanied by a
clap of thunder, it ascended solemnly towards heaven, where, the clouds
parting asunder, the form of St. Nicholas was seen, and receiving
Alfonso's shade, they were soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of
glory.
The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine
will. Manfred at last spoke.
"My story has drawn down these judgements," he said; "let my confession
atone. Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will declared my grandfather
Ricardo his heir. Ricardo's crimes have been visited upon my head. St.
Nicholas promised him in a dream that his posterity should reign in
Otranto until the rightful owner should be grown too large to inhabit
the castle, and as long as male descendants of Ricardo should live to
enjoy it. Alas! nor male nor female, except myself, remains of all his
wretched race! How this young man can be Alfonso's heir, I know not--yet
I do not doubt it."
"What remains, it is my part to declare," said Jerome. "When Alfonso was
journeying to the Holy Land, he loved and wedded a fair Sicilian maiden.
Deeming this incongruous with his holy vow of arms, he concealed their
nuptials. During his absence, his wife was delivered of a daughter; and
straightway afterwards she heard of her lord's death in the Holy Land
and Ricardo's succession. The daughter was married to me. My son
Theodore has told me that he was captured and enslaved by corsairs, and,
on his release, found that my castle was burnt to the ground, and that I
was retired into religion, but where no man could inform him. Destitute
and friendless, he wandered into this province, where he has supported
himself by the labour of his hands."
On the next morning Manfred signed his abdication of the principality,
with the approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them the habit of
religion. Frederic offered his daughter to the new Prince. But
Theodore's grief was too fresh to admit the thought of another love, and
it was not until after frequent discourses with Isabella of his dear
Matilda that he was persuaded he could know no happiness but in the
society of one with whom he could for ever indulge the melancholy that
had taken possession of his soul.
* * * * *
ÉMILE ZOLA
Drink
The early days of Émile Edouard Charles Antoine Zola were
sordid and unromantic. He was born at Paris, on April 2, 1840,
his father dying while the son was quite young, and leaving
his family no legacy except a lawsuit against the municipality
of the town of Aix. And it was at Aix, which figures in many
of his novels under the name of "Plassans," that Zola received
the first part of his education. Later he went to Paris and
Marseilles, but failed to get his degree. A period of terrible
poverty followed, Zola existing as best he might in a garret
at Paris, and employing his hours in writing. Towards the
beginning of 1862 he obtained a position as clerk in a
publishing house at a salary of a pound a week. Two years
after his first novel, "Contes à Ninon," appeared. The book
was only moderately successful, but attracted sufficient
attention to justify Zola in abandoning clerking, and taking
seriously to literature. There followed a long series of
powerful and realistic studies of social life, each of
unquestioned ability, but failing to win the popularity which
was later accorded to Zola's works. The turning-point came in
1877 with the publication of "Drink" ("L'Assommoir"). Its
success was extraordinary, and its author found himself the
most widely-read writer in France. The story belongs to the
"realistic" school, and, although objections may be raised
against its nauseating details, there is no mistaking its
graphic power and truth to a certain phase of life. Zola was
accidentally suffocated by charcoal fumes on September 29,
1902.
-I.--The Lodgers of the Hôtel Boncoeur-
Gervaise had waited up for Lantier until two in the morning, exposed in
a thin loose jacket to the night air at the window. Then, chilled and
drowsy, she had thrown herself across the bed, bathed in tears. For a
week he had not appeared till late, alleging that he had been in search
of work. This evening she thought she had seen him enter a dancing-hall
opposite, and, five or six paces behind, little Adèle, a burnisher.
Towards five o'clock Gervaise awoke, stiff and sore. Seated on the edge
of the bed, her eyes veiled in tears, she glanced round the wretched
room, furnished with a chest of drawers, three chairs and a little
greasy table on which stood a broken water-jug. On the mantelpiece was a
bundle of pawn tickets. It was the best room of the lodging house, the
Hôtel Boncoeur, in the Boulevard de la Chapelle.
The two children were sleeping side by side. Claude was eight years of
age, while Étienne was only four. The bedewed gaze of their mother
rested upon them and she burst into a fresh fit of sobbing. Then she
returned to the window and searched the distant pavements with her eyes.
About eight Lantier returned. He was a young fellow of twenty-six, a
short, dark, and handsome Provençal. He pushed her aside, and when she
upbraided him, shook her violently, and then sent her out to pawn a few
ragged, soiled garments. When she returned with a five-franc-piece he
slipped it into his pocket and lay down on the bed and appeared to fall
asleep. Reassured by his regular breathing, she gathered together a
bundle of dirty clothes and went out to a wash-house near by.
Madame Boche, the doorkeeper of the Hôtel Boncoeur, had kept a place for
her, and immediately started talking, without leaving off her work.
"No, we're not married" said Gervaise presently. "Lantier isn't so nice
that one should care to be his wife. We have lived together eight years.
In the country he was very good to me, but his mother died last year and
left him seventeen hundred francs. He would come to Paris, and since
then I don't know what to make of him. He's ambitious and a spendthrift,
and at the end of two months we came to the Hôtel Boncoeur."
The gossip continued and Gervaise had nearly finished when she
recognised, a few tubs away, the tall Virginie, her supposed rival in
the affections of Lantier, and the sister of Adèle. Suddenly some
laughter arose at the door of the wash-house and Claude and Etienne ran
to Gervaise through the puddles. Claude had the key of the room on his
finger, and he exclaimed in his clear voice, "Papa's gone. He jumped off
the bed, put all the things in the box and carried it down to a cab.
He's gone."
Gervaise rose to her feet, ghastly pale, unable to cry.
"Come, my dear," murmured Madame Boche.
"If you but knew," she said at length. "He sent me this morning to pawn
the last of my things so that he could pay the cab." And she burst out
crying. Then, seeing the tall Virginie, with other women, staring at
her, a mad rage seized her, and noticing a bucket of water, she threw
its contents with all her might. A fierce quarrel ensued, ending in a
hand-to-hand conflict with flowing blood and torn garments. When her
rival was driven to flight Gervaise returned to her deserted lodgings.
Her tears again took possession of her. Lantier had forgotten nothing.
Even a little hand-glass and the packet of pawn tickets were gone.
-II.--Gervaise and Coupeau-
About three weeks later, at half-past eleven one beautiful day of
sunshine, Gervaise and Coupeau, the zinc-worker, were partaking together
of plums preserved in brandy at the "Assommoir" kept by old Colombe.
Coupeau, who had been smoking a cigarette on the pavement, had prevailed
on her to go inside as she crossed the road returning from taking home a
customer's washing; and her large square laundress's basket was on the
floor beside her, behind the little zinc-covered table.
Coupeau was making a fresh cigarette. He was very clean in a cap and a
short blue linen blouse, laughing and showing his white teeth. With a
projecting under jaw, and slightly snub nose, he had yet handsome
chestnut eyes, and the face of a jolly dog, and a good fellow. His
coarse, curly hair stood erect. His skin still preserved the softness of
his twenty-six years. Opposite to him, Gervaise, in a frock of black
Orleans stuff, and bareheaded, was finishing her plum, which she held by
the stalk between the tips of her fingers.
The zinc-worker, having lit his cigarette, placed his elbows on the
table, and said, "Then it's to be 'No,' is it?"
"Oh, most decidedly 'No,' Monsieur Coupeau," she replied. "You'll find
someone else prettier than I am who won't have two monkeys to drag about
with her."
But she did not repulse him entirely, and as, in his urgency, Coupeau
made a point of offering marriage, little by little Gervaise gave way.
At last, after a month, she yielded.
"How you do tease me," she murmured. "Well, then, yes. Ah, we're perhaps
doing a very foolish thing."
During the following days Coupeau sought to get Gervaise to call on his
sister in the Rue de la Goutte d'Or, but the young woman showed a great
dread of this visit to the Lorilleux. Coupeau was in no wise dependent
on his sister, only the Lorilleux had the reputation of earning as much
as ten francs a day as gold chain makers, and on that ground they
exercised special authority. They lived on the sixth floor in a tenement
house crammed with tenants of every degree of squalor. They were so busy
that they could not cease their work, and welcomed their new relative
with but a few cold words. Her reception was very trying to Gervaise,
but the disappointment of herself and Coupeau was dispelled when the
Lorilleux agreed to attend the wedding and pay their share of the
wedding dinner.
Gervaise did not want to have guests at her wedding. What was the use of
spending money? Besides, it seemed quite unnecessary to show off her
marriage before the whole neighbourhood. But Coupeau exclaimed at this.
One could not be married without having a spread, and at length he got
her to consent.
They formed a party of twelve, including the Lorilleux and some of
Coupeau's comrades who frequented the "Assommoir." The day was
excessively hot. At the mayor's they had to wait their turn and thus
were late at the church. On the way the men had some beer and after the
religious ceremony they adjourned to a wine-shop. Then a heavy storm
preventing a proposed excursion into the country before dinner, they
went to the Louvre. The general opinion was that the pictures were quite
wonderful. Shut out of the galleries with still two hours to spare, the
party decided to take a short walk and filled up the interval in
climbing to the top of the Vendome monument.
Then the wedding party, feeling very lively, sat down to the
long-desired feast. The repast was pronounced fairly good. It was
accompanied by quantities of cheap wine and enlivened with much coarse
joking, becoming violent as the discussion turned on politics. Quiet
being obtained, there followed the settling-up squabble with the
landlord. Each paid his share and Coupeau found himself starting married
life on seven sous, the day's entertainment having cost him over forty
francs.
There were four years of hard work after this. Gervaise worked twelve
hours a day at Madame Fauconnier's, the laundress, and still found means
to keep their lodging clean and bright as a son. Coupeau never got drunk
and brought his wages home regularly from the zinc-works. During the
earlier days especially, they had to work slavishly to make ends meet.
The marriage had burdened them with a two-hundred-franc debt. Then, too,
they hated the Hôtel Boncoeur. It was a disgusting place and they
dreamed of a home of their own. Then there came a piece of good luck.
Claude was taken off their hands by an old gentleman who had been struck
by some of his sketches. Eight months later they were able to furnish a
room and a kitchen in a house nearly facing Madame Fauconnier's. There,
soon after, Nana was born. They had two good friends in Jean Goujet, a
blacksmith, and his mother. They went out nearly every Sunday with the
Goujes.
-III.--Starting on the Down Road-
No great change took place in their affairs until one day Coupeau fell
from the roof of a house and was laid up for three months. Lying idle so
long he lost the habit of work, and as he grew stronger again, he wasted
his time and Gervaise's earnings in drinking shops. But he slapped his
chest as he boasted that he never drank anything but wine, always wine,
never brandy. Money grew scarcer and Gervaise's one ambition--a laundry
of her own--seemed to fade away. But the Goujets came to her aid, and
lent her five hundred francs to begin business with. Engaging three
assistants, Gervaise was able, with her industry and beautiful work and
her cheerful face and manner, to obtain plenty of custom and to lay up
money again.
Never before had Gervaise shown so much complaisance. She was as quiet
as a lamb and as good as bread. In her slight gluttonous forgetfulness,
when she had lunched well and taken her coffee, she yielded to the
necessity for a general indulgence all round. Her common saying was "One
must forgive one another if one does not wish to live like savages."
When people talked of her kindness she laughed. It would never have
suited her to have been cruel. She protested, she said, no merit was due
to her for being kind. Had not all her dreams been realised? Had she any
other ambition in life?
It was to Coupeau especially that Gervaise behaved so well. Never an
angry word, never a complaint behind her husband's back. The zinc-worker
had at last resumed work, and as his employment was at the other side of
Paris, she gave him every morning forty sous for his luncheon, his drink
and his tobacco. Only two days out of every six Coupeau would stop on
the way, drink the forty sous with a friend, and return home to lunch
with some grand story or other. Once even he did not take the trouble to
go far, he treated himself and four others to a regular feast at the
"Capuchin," on the Barriere de la Chapelle. Then, as his forty sous were
not sufficient, he had sent the waiter to his wife with the bill, and to
say that he was under lock for the balance. She laughed and shrugged her
shoulders. Where was the harm if her good man amused himself a little
while? You must give men a long rein if you want to live peaceably at
home. Gracious powers! It was easy to understand. Coupeau still suffered
from his leg; besides, he was drawn in sometimes. He was obliged to do
as the others did, or else he would pass for a muff. It was really a
matter of no consequence. If he came home a little bit elevated, he went
to bed, and two hours afterwards he was all right again.
But Coupeau was becoming a continual drag on his wife. Most of his time
and few earnings were wasted in Colombe's "Assommoir." And Nana, between
her mother's toil and her father's shiftlessness, ran wild about the
streets.
Then one day Coupeau came in drunk. He almost smashed a pane of glass
with his shoulder as he missed the door. He was in a state of absolute
drunkenness, with his teeth clinched and his nose inflamed. And Gervaise
at once recognised the "vitriol" of the "Assommoir" in the poisoned
blood which made his skin quite pale. She tried to make fun and get him
to bed, as she had done on the days when the wine had made him merry,
but he pushed her aside, without opening his lips, and raised his fist
to her in passing as he went to bed of his own accord. Then she grew
cold. She thought of the men she knew--of her husband, of Goujet, of
Lantier--her heart breaking, despairing of ever being happy.
-IV.--Lantier's Return-
At this stage of Coupeau's affairs Virginie reappeared. She expressed
great joy in meeting her former foe, declaring that she retained no bad
feeling. She mentioned that Gervaise might be interested to know that
she had recently seen Lantier in the neighbourhood. Gervaise received
the news with apparent indifference. Then, on the evening of her -fête-
Lantier appeared and, strangely enough, it was the zinc-worker who,
heated with the festival drinking, welcomed him most warmly.
Gervaise, feeling meek and stupid, gazed at them one after the other. At
first when her husband pushed her old lover into the shop, she could not
believe it possible; the walls would fall in and crush the whole of
them. Then, seeing the two men seated together, and without so much as
the muslin curtains moving, she suddenly thought it the most natural
thing in the world.
On the following Saturday Coupeau brought Lantier home with him in the
evening. He remained standing and avoided looking at Gervaise.
Coupeau looked at them, and then spoke his mind very plainly. They were
not going to behave like a couple of geese, he hoped. The past was the
past, was it not? If people nursed grudges after nine and ten years, one
would end by no longer seeing anybody. No, no, he carried his heart in
his hand, he did. He knew who he had to deal with, a worthy woman and a
worthy man--in short, two friends.
"Oh! that's certain, quite certain," repeated Gervaise.
"She's a sister now--nothing but a sister," murmured Lantier.
From that evening Lantier frequently called at the Rue de la Goutte
d'Or. He came when the zinc-worker was there, inquiring after his health
the moment he passed the door, and affecting to have solely called for
him. Then, shaved, his hair nicely divided, and always wearing his
overcoat, he would take a seat by the window, and converse politely with
the manners of a man who had received a good education. Thus the
Coupeaus learnt little by little some particulars of his life.
During the last eight years he had for a while managed a hat factory;
and when they asked him why he had retired from it, he merely alluded to
the rascality of a partner. He was forever saying that he was on the
point of making a first-class arrangement; some wholesale manufacturers
were about to establish him in business and trust him with an enormous
stock. Meanwhile, he did nothing whatever but walk about like a
gentleman. In his effusiveness Coupeau suggested that Lantier become a
lodger, and overruled all objections. Nevertheless, Lantier showed no
intention for a long while of trespassing on the bibulous good nature of
Coupeau.
-V.--The Beginning of the End-
Coupeau was now becoming a confirmed drunkard and presently Lantier
ceased paying for his lodging, talking of clearing up everything as soon
as he had completed an agreement. Thus Gervaise had two men to support,
while her increasing indolence and gluttony continuously reduced her
earnings. Custom began to fall away faster and faster and soon they were
living almost entirely on credit. Then Madame Coupeau, who had come to
live with her son and Gervaise soon after the shop was opened, died. The
funeral was celebrated with pomp and feast greatly in excess of the
resources of the Coupeaus and helped considerably towards the final
ruin.
As they were sitting down to the funeral meal the landlord presented
himself, looking very grave, and wearing a broad decoration on his frock
coat. He bowed in silence, and went straight to the little room, where
he knelt down. He was very pious; he prayed in the accustomed manner of
a priest, then made the sign of the cross in the air, whilst he
sprinkled the body with the sprig of box. All the family leaving the
table, stood up, greatly moved. Mr. Marescot, having ended his
devotions, passed into the shop and said to the Coupeaus, "I have called
for the two quarters' rent which remain unpaid. Can you give it me?"
"No, sir, not quite," stammered Gervaise. "You will understand, with the
misfortune which has--"
"No doubt, but everyone has his troubles," resumed the landlord,
spreading out his immense fingers. "I am very sorry, but I cannot wait
any longer. If I am not paid by the morning after to-morrow, I shall be
forced to have recourse to expulsion."
Gervaise, struck dumb, imploringly clasped her hands, her eyes full of
tears. With an energetic shake of his big bony head, he gave her to
understand that all supplications were useless. Besides, the respect due
to the dead forbade all discussion. He discreetly retired, walking
backwards.
Gervaise was persuaded by the jealous Lorilleux to resign the lease of
her shop to Virginie and her husband. That evening when Gervaise found
herself at home again after the funeral she continued in a stupefied
state on a chair. It seemed to her that the rooms were very large and
deserted. Really, it would be a good riddance. But it was certainly not
only mother Coupeau that she missed. She missed, too, many other things,
very likely a part of her life, and her shop, and her pride of being an
employer, and other sentiments besides, which she had buried on that
day. Yes, the walls were bare, and her heart also; it was an absolute
deplenishment, a tumble into the pit.
It was the beginning of the end. She got employment with her old
employer, Madame Fauconnier, but presently she began to be looked upon
with disfavour. She was not nearly so expert; she did her work so
clumsily that the mistress had reduced her wages to forty sous a day,
the price paid to the stupidest. With all that she was very proud and
very susceptible, throwing at everybody's head her former position of a
person in business. Some days she never appeared at all, whilst on
others she would leave in the midst of her work through nothing but a
fit of temper. After these outbursts, she would be taken back out of
charity, which embittered her still more.
As for Coupeau, he did perhaps work, but in that case he certainly made
a present of his labour to the government; for Gervaise never saw his
money. She no longer looked in his hands when he returned home on
paydays. He arrived swinging his arms, his pockets empty, and often
without his handkerchief. Good gracious! Yes, he had lost his fogle, or
else some rascally comrade had sneaked it. At first he made excuses; he
invented all sorts of lies--ten francs for a subscription, twenty francs
fallen through a hole which he showed in his pocket, fifty francs
disbursed in paying off imaginary debts. After a little, he no longer
troubled himself to give any explanations. The money evaporated, that
was all!
Yes, it was their fault if they descended lower and lower every season.
But that is the sort of thing one never tells one self, especially when
one is down in the gutter. They accused their bad fortune; they
pretended that fate was against them. Their home had become a little
hell by this time. They bickered away the whole day. However, they had
not yet come to blows, with the exception of a few smacks which somehow
were given at the height of their disputes. The saddest thing was that
they had opened the cage of affection; the better feelings had all taken
flight like so many canaries. The loving warmth of father, mother, and
child, when united and wrapped up in each other, deserted them, and left
them shivering, each in his or her own corner. The whole three--Coupeau,
Gervaise, and Nana--were ever ready to seize one another by the hair,
biting each other for nothing at all, their eyes full of hatred. What
use was he, that drunkard? thought Gervaise. To make her weep, to eat up
all she possessed, to drive her to sin. Well, men so useless as he
should be thrown as quickly as possible into the hole, and the polka of
deliverance be danced over them.
-VI.--The Final Ruin-
Presently, Gervaise took to fuddling with her husband at the
"Assommoir." She sank lower than ever; she missed going to her work
oftener, gossipped for whole days, and became as soft as a rag whenever
she had any work to do. If a thing fell from her hands, it might remain
on the floor; it was certainly not she who would have bent down to pick
it up. She intended to save her bacon. She took her ease, and never
handled a broom except when the accumulation of filth almost upset her.
She could keep no work, and at last came to scrub out the shop and rooms
for Virginie. She came on Saturday morning with a pail and a scrubbing
brush, without appearing to suffer in the least at having to perform a
dirty, humble duty, a charwoman's work, in the home where she had
reigned as the beautiful, fair-haired mistress--for thirty sous. It was
a last humiliation, the end of her pride. Virginie must have enjoyed
herself, for a yellowish flame darted from her cat's eyes. At last she
was revenged for that thrashing she had received at the wash-house, and
which she had never forgotten.
Coupeau went from worse to worse. He was not sober once in six months.
Then he fell ill and had to go to the asylum, but when he came out
repaired he would begin to pull himself to bits again and need another
mending. In three years he went seven times to the asylum in this
fashion, until he died in the extremities of delirium.
Gervaise was next compelled to descend to begging of Lorilleux and his
wife. But they refused her a son or a crumb and laughed at her. It was
terrible. She remembered her ideal of former days; to work quietly,
always having bread to eat and a tidy home to sleep in, to bring up her
children not to be thrashed, and to die in her bed. No, really, it was
droll how all that was be? coming realised! She no longer worked, she no
longer ate, she slept on filth; all that was left for her to do was to
die on the pavement, and it would not take long if, on getting into her
room, she could only screw up enough courage to fling herself out of the
window. What increased her ugly laugh was the remembrance of her grand
hope of retiring into the country after twenty years spent in ironing.
Well! she was on her way to the country. She was about to have her green
corner in the Père-Lachaise cemetery.
Gervaise lasted in this state several months. She fell lower and lower
still, dying of starvation a little every day. As soon as she had four
sous, she drank and fought the walls. Her landlord had decided to turn
her out of her room on the sixth floor, but allowed her to turn into a
hole under the staircase. It was inside there, on some old straw, that
her teeth chattered, whilst her stomach was empty and her bones were
frozen. The earth would not have her evidently. She was becoming
idiotic; she did not even think of making an end of herself by jumping
out of the sixth floor window on to the pavement of the court-yard
beneath. Death was to take her little by little, bit by bit, dragging
her thus to the end through the accursed existence she had made for
herself. It was never even exactly known what she did die of. There was
some talk of a cold, but the truth was she died of privation, and of the
filth and hardship of her spoilt life. Over-gorging and dissoluteness
killed her, said the Lorilleux.
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