Section 20 of La Sommoir. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. La Sommoir by Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Second part of Chapter 5. She bluntly accused Chavez of flirting with Gougé. She lied. She pretended she had surprised them together one night on a seat on the exterior boulevard. The thought of this liaison, of pleasures that her sister-in-law was no doubt enjoying, exasperated her still more because of her own ugly woman's strict sense of propriety. Every day the same cry came from her heart to her lips. What does she have, that wretched cripple for people to fall in love with her? Why doesn't anyone want me? She busied herself in endless gossiping among the neighbours. She told them the whole story. The day the cool boys got married, she turned her nose up at her. Oh, she had a keen nose. She could smell in advance how it would turn out. Then clump-clump pretended to be so sweet. What a hypocrite! She and her husband had only agreed to be Nana's godparents for the sake of her brother.  If clump-clump were on her deathbed, she wouldn't give her a glass of water, no matter how much she begged. She didn't want anything to do with such a shameless baggage. Little Nana would always be welcome when she came up to see her godparents. The child couldn't be blamed for her mother's sins. But there was no use trying to tell Coupo anything. Any real man in his situation would have beaten his wife and put a stop to it all. All they wanted was for him to insist on respect for his family. Mon Dieu, if she, Madame Laurier, had acted like that, Coupo wouldn't be so complacent. He would have stabbed her for sure with his sheers. The bosses, however, who sternly disapproved of quarrels in their building, said that the lawyers were in the wrong. The lawyers were no doubt respectable persons, quiet, working the whole day long, and paying their rent regularly. But really, jealousy had driven them mad.  They were so stingy they'd hide their bottle when anyone came in, so as not to have to offer a glass of wine. Not regular people at all. Chavers had brought over cassis and soda water one day to drink with the bosses. When Madame Laurier went by, she acted out spitting before the concierge's door. Well, after that, when Madame Bosch swept the corridors on Saturdays, she always left a pile of trash before the Laurier's door. It isn't to be wondered at, Madame Laurier would exclaim, clump-clumps, always stuffing them the gluttons. Ah, they're all alike, but they'd better not annoy me, I'll complain to the landlord. Only yesterday I saw that sly old Bosch chasing after Madame Gaudran's skirts.  It's positively disgusting. If I catch them at anything of the sort again, I'll tell Madame Bosch, and she'll give them both the hiding, and it'll be something to laugh at. Mother Coupeau continued to visit the two houses, agreeing with everybody, and even managing to get asked oftener to dinner by complacently listening one night to her daughter, and the next night to her daughter-in-law. However, Madame Laurier did not go to visit the Coupeaux because she had argued with Chavers about a zuave who had cut the nose of his mistress with a razor. She was on the side of the zuave, saying it was evidence of a great passion but without explaining further her thought. Then she had made Madame Laurier even more angry by telling her that Clamp-Clamp had called her Coupeau in front of 15 or 20 people. Yes, that's what the Bosch's and all the neighbours called her now Coupeau. Chavers remained calm and cheerful among all these goings-on. She often stood by the door of her shop greeting friends who passed by with a nod and a smile. It was her pleasure to take a moment between batches of ironing to enjoy the street and take pride in her own stretch of sidewalk. She felt that the Rue de la Goutte d'Ar was hers and the neighbouring streets and the whole neighbourhood. As she stood there with her blonde hair slightly damp from the heat of the shop, she would look left and right, taking in the people, the buildings and the sky. To the left, Rue de la Goutte d'Ar was peaceful and almost empty, like a country town, with women idling in their doorways. While to the right, only a short distance away, Rue de Poissonnier had a noisy throng of people and vehicles. The stretch of gutter before her own shop became very important in her mind. It was like a wide river which she longed to see neat and clean. It was a lively river coloured by the dye shop with the most fanciful of hues contrasted with the black mud beside it. Then there were the shops, a large grocery with a display of dried fruits protected by mesh nets, a shop selling work clothes which had white tunics and blue smocks hanging before it with arms that waved at the slightest breeze. Cats were purring on the counters of the fruit store and the tripe shop. Madame Bigouhou, the coal dealer next door, returned her greetings. She was a plump, short woman with bright eyes in a dark face who was always joking with the men while standing at her doorway. The shop was decorated in imitation of a rustic chalet. The neighbours on the other side were her mother and daughter, the Cudar. The umbrella sellers kept their door closed and never came out to visit. Chavers always looked across the road too through the wide carriage entrance of the windowless wall opposite her at the blacksmith's forge. The courtyard was cluttered with vans and carts. Inscribed on the wall was the word blacksmith. At the lower end of the wall between the small shops selling scrap iron and fried potatoes was a watchmaker. He wore a frock coat and was always very neat. His cuckoo clocks could be heard in chorus against the background noise of the street and the blacksmith's rhythmic clanging. The neighbourhood in general thought Chavers very nice. There was, it is true, a great deal of scandal related regarding her but everyone admired her large eyes, small mouth and beautiful white teeth. In short she was a pretty blonde and had it not been for her crippled leg she might have ranked among the cumbliest. She was now in her 28th year and had grown considerably plumper. Her fine features were becoming puffy and her gestures were assuming a pleasant indolence. At times she occasionally seemed to forget herself on the edge of a chair while she waited for her iron to heat, smiling vaguely and with an expression of greedy joy upon her face. She was becoming fond of good living, everybody said so but that was not a very grave fault but rather the contrary. When one earns sufficient to be able to buy good food one would be foolish to eat potato pairings although more so as she continued to work very hard slaving to please her customers sitting up late at night after the place was closed whenever there was anything urgent. She was lucky as all her neighbours said everything prospered with her. She did the washing for all the house, Monsieur Madignier, Mademoiselle Romanjoux, the Bosch she even secured some of the customers from her old employer, Madame Fourconniers, Parisian ladies living in the rue du Faubourg Poissonnière. As early as the third week she was obliged to engage two work women, Madame Poutois and Tolle Clémence, the girl who used to live on the sixth floor.  Others would certainly have lost their heads at such a piece of good fortune. It was excusable for her to slack a little on a Monday after drudging all through the week. Besides, it was necessary to her. She would have no courage left and would have expected to see the shirts iron themselves if she had not been able to dress up in some pretty thing. Chavez was always so amiable, nique as a lamb, sweet as sugar. There wasn't anyone she disliked except Madame Loire. She was enjoying a good meal and coffee. She could be indulgent and forgive everybody, saying, we have to forgive each other, don't we? Unless we want to live like savages.  She had everything she wanted now and more than she had ever expected. She laughed, thinking of delaying, dying in her own bed as long as possible. It was to Kupo especially that Chavez behaved nicely.  The zinc worker had at length resumed work and as the job he was engaged on was at the other side of Paris, she gave him every morning 40 sews for his lunch and his glass of wine and his tobacco. Only two days out of every six, Kupo would stop on the way, spend the 40 sews in drink with a friend and return home to lunch with some cock and bull story. Once even he did not take the trouble to go far. He treated himself, my boots and three others to a regular feast, snails, roast meat and some sealed bottles of wine at the Capuchin on the Barriere de la Chapelle. Then as his 40 sews were not sufficient, he had sent the waiter to his wife with the bill and the information that he was in porn. She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. Where was the harm if her old man amused himself a bit? He must give men a long reign if he wants to live peaceably at home. From one word to another, one soon arrived at blows. Mon Dieu, it was easy to understand. Kupo still suffered from his leg. Besides, he was led astray. He was obliged to do as the others did, or else he would be thought a cheapskate. And it was really a matter of no consequence. If he came home a bit elevated, he went to bed and two hours afterwards he was all right again. It was now the warm time of the year. One June afternoon, Saturday, when there was a lot of work to get through, Chávez herself had piled the coke into the stove around which ten irons were heating, whilst a rumbling sound issued from the chimney. At that hour the sun was shining full on the shop front, and the pavement reflected the heat waves, causing all sorts of quaint shadows to dance over the ceiling. And that blaze of light, which assumed a bluish tinge from the colour of the paper on the shelves and against the window, was almost blinding in the intensity with which it shone over the ironing table. Like a golden dust, it was shaken among the fine linen. The atmosphere was stifling. The shop door was thrown wide open, but not a breath of air entered. The clothes which were hung up on brass wires to dry steamed and became as stiff as shavings in less than three quarters of an hour. For some little while past an oppressive silence had rained in that furnace-like heat, interrupted only by the smothered sound of the banging down of the irons on this thick blanket covered with calico. Oh, well, said Chauvet, it's enough to melt one. We might have to take off our chemises.  Her sleeves were rolled up and her camisole was slipping down her shoulders. Little curls of golden hair were stuck to her skin by perspiration. She carefully dipped caps, shirt fronts, entire petticoats, and the trimmings of women's drawers into the milky water. Then she rolled the things up and placed them at the bottom of a square basket, after dipping her hand in a pail and shaking it over the portions of the shirts and drawers which she had not starched. This basket pulls for you, Madame Poutois, and she said, look sharp now, it dries at once and will want doing all over again in an hour. Madame Poutois, a thin little woman of 45, was ironing. Though she was buttoned up in an old chestnut-coloured dress, there was not a drop of perspiration to be seen.  A black cap trimmed with green ribbons turned partly yellow. And she stood perfectly upright in front of the ironing table, which was too high for her, sticking out her elbows and moving her iron with the jerky evolutions of a puppet.  You know I don't like such indecencies. While you're about it, you'd better show everything. There's already three men over the way stopping to look. Tall Clémence called her an old beast between her teeth. She was suffocating. She might certainly make herself comfortable. Everyone was not gifted with a skin as dry as touchwood. Besides, no one could see anything. And she held up her arms whilst her opulent bosom almost ripped her chemise and her shoulders were bursting through the straps. At the rate she was going, Clémence was not likely to have any marrow left in her bones long before she was 30 years old. Mornings after big parties she was unable to feel the ground she trod upon and fell asleep over her work whilst her head and her stomach seemed as though stuffed full of rags. But she was kept on all the same for no other workwoman could iron a shirt with her style. Shirts were her specialty. This is mine, isn't it? She declared tapping her bosom and it doesn't bite. It hurts nobody. Clémence put your wrapper on again, said Chauvet's. Madame Poutois is right. It isn't decent. People will begin to take my house for what it isn't. So Tall Clémence dressed herself again, grumbling the while. Mon Dieu, there's prudery for you. And she vented her rage on the apprentice, that squint-eyed Augustine who was ironing some stockings and handkerchiefs beside her. She jostled her and pushed her with her elbow. But Augustine, who was of a surly disposition and slightly spiteful in the way of an animal and a drudge, spat on the back of the other's dress just out of revenge without being seen. Chauvet's, during this incident, had commenced a cap belonging to Madame Bosch which she intended to take great pains with. She had prepared some boiled starch to make it look new again. She was gently passing a little iron rounded at both ends over the inside of the crown of the cap when a bony-looking woman entered the shop. Her face covered with red blotches and her skirts sopping wet. It was a washerwoman who employed three assistants at the wash-house in the Rue de la Goutte d'Or end of second part of chapter 5. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmeer Surrey, section 21 of La Samoire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. La Samoire by Émile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Third part of chapter 5. You've come too soon, Madame Bijard, cried Chávez. I told you to call this evening. I'm too busy to attend to you now. But as the washerwoman began lamenting and fearing that she would not be able to put all the things to soak that day, she consented to give her the dirty clothes at once. They went to fetch the bundles in the left-hand room where Etienne slept and returned with enormous armfuls which they piled up on the floor at the back of the shop. The sorting lasted a good half hour. Chávez made heaps all around her, throwing the shirts in one, the chemises in another, the handkerchiefs, the socks, the dishcloths in others. Whenever she came across anything belonging to a new customer, she marked it with a cross in red cotton thread so as to know it again. And from all this dirty linen which they were throwing about, there issued an offensive odour in the warm atmosphere. Oh, la la, what a stench! said Clémence, holding her nose. Of course there is. If it were clean, they wouldn't send it to us quietly, explained Chávez. It smells as one would expect it to, that's all. We said 14 chemises, didn't we, Madame Bijard? 16, 16, 17. And she continued counting aloud. Used to this kind of thing, she evinced no disgust. She thrust her bare pink arms deep into the piles of laundry, shirts yellow with grime, towels stiff from dirty dishwater, socks threadbare and eaten away by sweat. The strong odour which slapped her in the face as she sorted the piles of clothes made her feel drowsy. She seemed to be intoxicating herself with this stench of humanity as she sat on the edge of a stool, bending far over, smiling vaguely, her eyes slightly misty. It was as if her laziness was started by a kind of smothering caused by the dirty clothes which poisoned the air in the shop. Just as she was shaking out a child's dirty diaper, Cupeau came in. Why, Joe, he stuttered. What a sun! It shines full on your head. The zinc worker caught hold of the ironing table to save himself from falling. It was the first time he had been so drunk. Until then, he had sometimes come home slightly tipsy, but nothing more.  Just a friendly slap he had run up against in a playful moment.  He was still as attractive as ever, though his features were rather drawn and aged and his under jaw projected more. But he was always lively, as he would sometimes say, with a complexion to be envied by a duchess. I'll just explain it to you, he resumed addressing Chauvet. It was celery root, you know him, the bloke with a wooden leg. Well, as he was going back to his native place, he wanted to treat us. Oh, we were all right if it hadn't been for that devil of a son. In the street, everybody looked shaky. Really, all the world's drunk. And as tall Clémence laughed at his thinking that the people in the street were drunk, he was himself seized with an intense fit of gaiety which almost strangled him. Look at them, the blessed chiplers, aren't they funny? He cried. But it's not their fault, it's the son that's causing it. All the shop laughed, even Madame Pitois, who did not like drunkards. That squint-eyed Augustine was cackling like a hen, suffocating with her mouth wide open. Chauvet's, however, suspected coupard not having come straight home, but of having passed an hour with the lawyer who were always spilling his head with unpleasant ideas.  Monde Dieu, what nonsense he does talk, she murmured.  Then in a maternal tone of voice, she added, now go to bed, won't you? You see, we're busy. You're in our way. That makes thirty-two handkerchiefs, Madame Bichard, and two more, thirty-four. But Coupa was not sleepy. He stood there wagging his body from side to side like the pendulum of a clock and chuckling in an obstinate and teasing manner. Chauvet's, wanting to finish with Madame Bichard, called to Clémence to count the laundry while she made the list.  She commented on the customer's misfortunes and their bedroom adventures. She had a wash-house joke for every rip or stain that passed through her hands. Augustine pretended that she didn't understand, but her ears were wide open.   It's just not done among decent people. Chauvet is serious and her mind fully occupied with what she was about did not seem to notice. As she wrote, she gave a glance to each article as it passed before her so as to recognize it, and she never made a mistake. She guessed the owner's name just by the look or the colour. Those napkins belonged to the goucher that was evident. They had not been used to wipe out frying pans. That pillowcase certainly came from the Bosches on account of the permatum with which Madame Bosch always smeared her things. There was no need to put your nose close to the flannel vests of Monsieur Madignier. His skin was so oily that it clogged up his woollen. She knew many peculiarities, the cleanliness of some, the ragged underclothes of neighbourhood ladies who appeared on the streets in silk dresses, how many items each family soiled weekly, the way some people's garments were always torn at the same spot. Oh, she had many tales to tell. For instance, the chemises of Mademoiselle Romanjoux provided material for endless comments. They wore out at the top first because the old maid had bony, sharp shoulders, and they were never really dirty, proving that she'd dry up by her age like a stick of wood out of which it's hard to squeeze a drop of anything. It was thus that at every sorting of the dirty linen in the shop they undressed the whole neighbourhood of the goutte d'art. Oh, here's something luscious, cried Clémence, opening another bundle. Chauvers suddenly seized with a great repugnance drew back. Madame Gaudran's bundle said she, I'll no longer wash for her. I'll find some excuse. No, I'm not more particular than another. I've handled some most disgusting linen in my time, but really that lot I can't stomach. What can the woman do to get her things into such a state? And she requested Clémence to look sharp, but the girl continued her remarks, thrusting the clothes sullenly about her with complaints on the soiled cap she waved like triumphal banners of filth. Meanwhile, the heaps around Chauvers had grown higher. Still seated on the edge of the stool, she was now disappearing between the petticoats and chemise. In front of her were the sheets, the tablecloths, a veritable mass of dirtiness. She seemed even rosier and more languid than usual within this spreading sea of soiled laundry. She had regained her composure, forgetting Madame Gaudran's laundry, stirring the various piles of clothing to make sure there had been no mistake in sorting. Squintide Augustine had just stuffed the stove full of coke that its cast-iron sides were bright red. The sun was shining obliquely on the window. The shop was in a blaze. Then Coupeau, whom the great heat intoxicated all the more, was seized with a sudden fit of tenderness. He advanced towards Chauvers with open arms and deeply moved.  I must kiss you. But he caught his fox in the garments which barred the way and nearly fell.  Keep still, we're nearly done now. No, he wanted to kiss her. He must do so, because he loved her so much. Whilst he stuttered, he tried to get round the heap of petticoats and stumbled against the pile of chemise. Then, as he obstinately persisted, his feet caught together and he fell flat, his nose in the midst of the dishcloth. Chauvers, beginning to lose her temper, pushed him, saying that he was mixing all the things up. But Clémence, and even Madame Pitois, maintained that she was wrong. It was very nice of him, after all. He wanted to kiss her. She might very well let herself be kissed.  If my old man was like that when he's had a drop, it would be a real pleasure. Chauvers had calmed down and was already regretting her hastiness. She helped Coupeau up on his legs again. Then she offered a cheek with a smile. But the zinc worker, without carrying a button for the other people being present, seized her bosom.  Still, I love you all the same, you know.   How can you be so absurd? He had caught hold of her and would not let her go. She gradually abandoned herself to him, dizzy from the slight faintness caused by the heap of clothes and not minding Coupeau's foul-smelling breath. The long kiss they exchanged on each other's mouths in the midst of the filth of the laundress's trade was perhaps the first tumble in the slow downfall of their life together. Madame Bijard had meanwhile been tying up the laundry into bundles and talking about her daughter, Eulalie, who at two was as smart as a grown woman. She could be left by herself. She never cried or played with matches. Finally, Madame Bijard took the laundry away, a bundle at a time, her face splotched with purple and her tall form bent under the weight. This heat is becoming unbearable. We're roasting, said Jovers, wiping her face before returning to Madame Bosh's cab. They talked of boxing Augustine's ears when they saw that the stove was red hot. The irons also were getting in the same condition. She must have the very devil in her body, but she could not turn one's back a moment without her being up to some of her tricks. Now they would have to wait a quarter of an hour before they would be able to use their irons. Jovers covered the fire with two shovel holes of cinders. Then she thought to hang some sheets on the brass wires near the ceiling to serve as curtains to keep out the sunlight. Things were now better in the shop. The temperature was still high, but you could imagine it was cooler. You could still be heard outside, but you were free to make yourself comfortable. Clemence removed her camisole again. Coupos still refused to go to bed, so they allowed him to stay, but he had to promise to be quiet in the corner, for they were very busy. Whatever has that vermin done with my little iron, Mermin Chauvet is speaking of Augustine. They were forever seeking the little iron, which they found in the most out-of-the-way places, so they hid it out of spite. Chauvet could now finish Madame Bosch's cap. First she roughly smoothed the lace, spreading it out with her hand, and then she straightened it up by light strokes of the iron. It had a very fancy border consisting of narrow puffs, alternating with insertions of embroidery. She was working on it silently and conscientiously, ironing the puffs and insertions. Silence prevailed for a time. Nothing was to be heard, except a soft thud of irons on the ironing pad. On both sides of the huge rectangular table, Chauvet's had two employees and the apprentice were bending over, slaving at their tasks with rounded shoulders, their arms moving incessantly. Each had a flat brick, blackened by hot irons near her. A soup plate filled with clean water was on the middle of the table, with a moistening rag and a small brush soaking in it. A bouquet of large white lilies bloomed in what had once been a branded cherry jar. Its cluster of snowy flowers suggested a corner of a royal garden. Madame Poutois had begun the basket that Chauvet had brought to her, filled with towels, wrappers, cuffs and under drawers. Augustine was dawdling with the stockings and washcloths, gazing into the air, seemingly fascinated by a large fly that was buzzing around. Clémence had done 34 men's shirts so far that day. Always why, never spirits, suddenly said the zinc worker who felt the necessity of making this declaration. Spirits make me drunk, I'll have none of them. Clémence took an iron from the stove with her leather holder in which a piece of sheet iron was inserted and held it up to her cheek to see how hot it was. She rubbed it on her brick, wiped it on a piece of rag hanging from her waistband and started on her 35th shirt, best of all ironing the shoulders and the sleeves. Bah, Monsieur Coupeau said she, after a minute or two, a little glass of brandy isn't bad, it sets me going. Besides the sin of your merry, the jollier it is. Oh, I don't make any mistake, I know that I sharp make old bones.  Coupeau had arisen and was becoming angry thinking that he'd been accused of drinking brandy. He swore on his own head and on the heads of his wife and child that there was not one drop of brandy in his veins.  Then he began to giggle because her bare shoulders were right under his nose. He thought maybe he could see more. Clémence, having folded over the back of the shirt and ironed it on both sides, was now working on the cuffs and collar. However, as he was shoving against her, he caused her to make a wrinkle obliging her to reach for the brush soaking in the soup plate to smooth it out. Madame said she do make him leave off bothering me.  Quietly observed Chávez. We're in a hurry, do hear? End of third part of chapter 5 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey Section 22 of La Samoire This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Martin Geeson La Samoire by Émile Zola translated by Ernest A. Visitelli Fourth part of chapter 5 They were in a hurry. Well, it was not his fault. He was doing no harm. He was not touching. He was only looking. Was it no longer allowed to look at the beautiful things that God had made? All the same she had precious fine arms, that artful claymars. She might exhibit herself for two sews and nobody would have to regret his money. The girl allowed him to go on laughing at these coarse compliments of a drunken man. And she soon commenced joking with him. He chuffed her about the shirts. So, she was always doing shirts. Why, yes, she practically lived in them. More dur, she knew them pretty well. Hundreds and hundreds of them had passed through her hands. Just about every man in the neighbourhood was wearing her handiwork on his body. Her shoulders were shaking with laughter through all this, but she managed to continue ironing. That's the banter, said she, laughing harder than ever. That squint-eyed Augustine almost burst. The joke seemed to her so funny. The others bullied her. There was a brat for you who laughed at the words she ought not to understand. Claymars handed her her iron. The apprentice finished up the irons on the stockings and the dishcloths when they were not hot enough for the starched things. But she took hold of this one so clumsily that she made herself a cuff in the form of a long burn on the wrist. And she sobbed and accused Claymars of having burnt her on purpose. The latter, who had gone to fetch a very hot iron for the shirt front, consoled her at once by threatening to iron her two ears if she did not leave off. Then she placed a piece of flannel under the front and slowly passed the iron over it, giving the starch time to show up and dry. The shirt front became as stiff and as shiny as cardboard. By golly! swore Kupo, who was treading behind her with the obstinacy of a drunkard. He raised himself up with a shrill laugh that resembled a pulley in want of grief. Claymars, leaning heavily over the ironing table, her wrists bent in, her elbows sticking out and wide apart, was bending her neck in a last effort and all her muscles swelled. Her shoulders rose with the slow play of the muscles beating beneath the soft skin. Her breasts heaved, wet with perspiration in the rosy shadow of the half-open chemise. Then Kupo thrust out his hands, trying to touch her bare flesh. Madam, madam! cried Claymars, do make him leave off. I shall go away if it continues. I won't be intimated. Chauvet's glanced over just as her husband's hands began to explore inside the chemise. Really, Kupo, you're too foolish, said she with a vexed air, as though she was scolding a child who persisted in eating his jam without bread. You must go to bed. Yes, go to bed, Mr. Kupo, it would be far better, exclaimed Madame Pitois. Oh, well, stuttered he without ceasing to chuckle.  So one mustn't amuse oneself now. Women, I know how to handle them. I only kiss them no more. One admires a lady, you know, and wants to show it. And besides, when one displays one's goods, it's that one may make one's choice, isn't it? Why does a tall blonde show everything she's got? It's not decent. And turning towards Claymars, he added, you know, my lovely, you're wrong to be so very insolent, if it's because there are others here. But he was unable to continue. Gervais very calmly seized hold of him with one hand and placed the other on his mouth. He struggled just by way of a joke while she pushed him to the back of the shop towards the bedroom. He got his mouth free and said that he was willing to go to bed, but that the tall blonde must come and warm his feet. Then Gervais could be heard taking off his shoes. She removed his clothes, too, bullying him in a motherly way. He burst out laughing after she had removed his trousers and kicked about, pretending that she was tickling him.  Was he comfortable now? But he did not answer. He called to Claymars, I say, my lovely, I'm here and waiting for you. When Gervais went back into the shop, the squint-eyed Augustine was being properly chastised by Claymars because of a dirty iron Madame Pitua had used, and which had caused her to soil a camisole. Claymars, in defending herself for not having cleaned her iron, blamed Augustine, swearing that it wasn't hers, in spite of the spot of burnt starch still cleaning to the bottom. The apprentice, outraged at the injustice, openly spat on the front of Claymars' dress, earning a slap for her boldness. Now, as Augustine went about cleaning the iron, she saved up her spit, and each time she passed to Claymars, spat on her back and laughed to herself. Gervais continued with the lace of Madame Bosch's camp. In the sudden calm which ensued, one could hear Coupeau's husky voice issuing from the depths of the bedroom. He was still jolly and was laughing to himself as he uttered bits of phrases.   Really, it's too absurd in the middle of the day when one isn't sleepy. But all of a sudden, he snored. Ben-Gervais gave a sigh of relief, happy in knowing that he was at length quiet and sleeping off his intoxication on two good mattresses. And she spoke out in the silence in a slow and continuous voice without taking her eyes off her work. You see, he hasn't his reason. One can't be angry. Were I to be harsh with him, it would be of no use. I prefer to agree with him and get him to bed than at least it's over at once and I'm quiet. Besides, he isn't ill-natured. He loves me very much. You could see that just a moment ago when he was so desperate to give me a kiss. That's quite nice of him.  Oh, he may fool around with the women in the shop, but he doesn't lead to anything. Clémence, you mustn't feel insulted.  He could do anything and not even remember it. She spoke composedly, not at all angry, being quite used to Kupo's sprees and not holding them against him. The silence settled down for a while when she stopped talking. There was a lot of work to get done. They figured they would have to keep at it until 11, working as fast as they could. Now that they were undisturbed, all of them were pounding away. Bare arms were moving back and forth, showing glimpses of pink among the whiteness of the laundry. More coke had been put into the stove and the sunlight slanted in between the sheets onto the stove. You could see the heat rising up through the rays of the sun. It became so stifling that Augustine ran out of spit to lick her lips. The room smelled of the heat and of the working women. The white lilies in the jar were beginning to fade, yet they still exuded a pure and strong perfume. Kupo's heavy snores were heard like the regular ticking of a huge clock, setting the tempo for the heavy labour in the shop.  He got up late on those days, not shaking the fleas off until about eight o'clock, and he would hang about the shop unable to make up his mind to start off to his work. It was another day lost. In the morning he would complain at his legs bent like pieces of thread and would call himself a great fool to guzzle to such an extent as it broke one's constitution. Then too there were a lot of lazy bums who wouldn't let you go and you'd get to drinking more in spite of yourself. No, no, no more for him. After lunch he would always begin to perk up and deny that he'd been really drunk the night before. Maybe just a bit lit up. He was rock solid and able to drink anything he wanted without even blinking an eye. When he had thoroughly badgered the work women, Treves would give him twenty sews to clear out and off he would go to buy us tobacco at the little civet in the Rue des Poissons, where he generally took a plum in brandy whenever he met a friend. Then he spent the rest of the twenty sews at Old François at the corner of the Rue de la Goutte d'Ar where there was a famous wine, quite young, which tickled your gullet. This was an old fashioned place with a low ceiling. There was a smoky room to one side where soup was served. He would stay there until evening drinking because there was an understanding that he didn't have to pay right away and they would never send the bill to his wife. Besides, he was a jolly fellow who would never do the least harm. A chap who loved a spree, sure enough, and who coloured his nose in his turn, but in a nice manner, full of contempt for those pigs of men who have succumbed to alcohol and who never seized sober. He always went home as gay and as gallant as a lark. As your lover been, he would sometimes ask Cheveze by way of teasing her, or never seize him now or must go and rout him out. The lover was Gouget. He avoided, in fact, calling too often for fear of being in the way and also of causing people to talk. Yet he frequently found a pretext such as bringing in the washing whilst no end of time on the pavement in front of the shop. There was a corner right at the back in which he liked to sit, without moving for hours and smoke his short pipe. Once every ten days, in the evening after his dinner, he would venture there and take up his favourite position. And he was no talker. His mouth almost seemed sewn up as he sat with his eyes fixed on Cheveze and only removed his pipe When they were working late on a Saturday, he would stay on and appeared to amuse himself more than if he had gone to a theatre. Sometimes the women stayed in the shop ironing until three in the morning. A lamp hung from the ceiling and spread a brilliant light, making the linen look like fresh snow. The apprentice would put up the shop shutters, but since these July nights were scorching hot, the door would be left open. The later the hour, the more casual the women became with their clothes while trying to be comfortable. The lamp light flecked their rosy skin with gold specks, especially Cheveze who was so pleasantly rounded. On these nights, Cheveze would be overcome by the heat from the stove and the odor of linen steaming under the hot irons. He would drift into a sort of giddiness. His thinking slowed and his eyes obsessed by these hurrying women as their naked arms moved back and forth, working far into the night to have the neighbourhood's best clothes ready for Sunday. Everything around the laundry was slumbering, settled into sleep for the night. Midnight rang then one o'clock, then two o'clock. There were no vehicles or pedestrians. In the dark and deserted street, only their shop door let out any light. Once in a while footsteps would be heard and the man would pass the shop. As he crossed the path of light he would stretch his neck to look in startled by the sound of the thudding irons and carry with him the quick glimpse of bare-shoulded laundresses immersed in a rosy mist. Gouger, a thing that Cheveze did not know what to do with Etienne and wishing to deliver him from Coupot's kicks, had engaged him to go and blow the bellows at the factory where he worked. The profession of boat-maker, if not one to be proud of on account of the dirt of the forge and of the monotony of the constantly hammering on pieces of iron of a similar kind, was nevertheless a well-paid one at which ten and even twelve francs a day could be earned. The youngster, who was then twelve years old would soon be able to go in for it if the calling was to his liking. And Etienne had thus become another link between the laundress and the blacksmith.  Everyone laughingly said that Gouger was smitten with Cheveze. She knew it and blushed like a young girl, the flush of modesty colouring her cheeks with the bright tints of an apple. The poor fellow, he was never any trouble. He never made a bold gesture or an indelicate remark. He didn't find many men like him. Cheveze didn't want to admit it, but she derived a great deal of pleasure from being adored like this. Whenever a problem arose she thought immediately of the blacksmith and was consoled. There was never any awkward tension when they were alone together. They just looked at each other and smiled happily with no need to talk. It was a very sensible kind of affection. Towards the end of the summer Nanna quite upset the household. She was six years old and promised to be a thorough good for nothing. So was not to have her always under her feet. Her mother took her every morning to a little school in the rue Poulenceau kept by Mademoiselle Josse. She fastened her playfellows dresses together behind. She filled the schoolmistress's snuff box with ashes and invented other tricks much less decent which could not be mentioned. Twice Mademoiselle Josse expelled her and then took her back again so as not to lose the six francs a month. Directly lessons were over. Nanna avenged herself for having been kept in by making an infernal noise under the porch and in the courtyard where the ironers whose ears could not stand the racket sent her to play. There she would meet Pauline the boss's daughter and Victor the son of Gervais his old employer a big booby of ten who delighted in playing with very little girls. Madame Fourquonier who had not quarrelled with the Coupos would herself send her son. In the house too there was an extraordinary swarm of brats flights of children who rolled down the four staircases at all hours of the day and alighted on the pavement of the courtyard like troops of noisy pillaging sparrows. Madame Gaudron was responsible for nine of them all with combed hair, runny noses hand-me-down clothes, saggy stockings and ripped jackets. Another woman on the sixth floor had seven of them. This horde that only got their faces washed when it rained were in all shapes and sizes fat, thin, big and barely out of the cradle end of fourth part of Chapter 5 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey Section 23 of La Samoire This is a LibriVox recording or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Martin Geeson La Samoire by Emile Zola translated by Ernest A. Visitelli Fifth part of Chapter 5 Now now a rain supreme over this host of urchins. She ordered about girls twice her own size and only deigned to relinquish a little of her power in favour of Pauline and Victor intimate confidant who enforced her commands. This precious chit was forever wanting to play it being mamar and dressing the smallest ones to dress them again insisting on examining the others all over messing them about and exercising the capricious despotism of a grown-up person with a vicious disposition. Under her leadership they got up tricks for which they should have been well spanked. The troop paddled in the coloured water from the dyers and emerged from it with legs stained blue or red as high as the knees. Then off it flew to the locksmiths where it perloined nails and filings and started off again to alight in the midst of the carp into shavings. Enormous heaps of shavings which delighted it immensely and in which it rolled head over heels exposing their behinds. The courtyard was her kingdom. It echoed with the clatter of little shoes as they stampeded back and forth with piercing cries. On some days the courtyard was too small for them and the troop would dash down into the cellar, race up a staircase, run along a corridor and then dash up another staircase to another corridor for hours. They never got tired of their yelling and clambering. Aren't they abominable those little toads? cried Madame Bush. Really people can have but very little to do to have time to get so many brats and yet they complain of having no bread. Bush said that children pushed up out of poverty like mushrooms out of manure. All day long his wife was screaming at them with her broom. Finally she had to lock the door of the cellar when she learned from Pauline that Nanna was playing doctor down there in the dark viciously finding pleasure in applying remedies to the others by beating them with sticks. Well one afternoon there was a frightful scene. It was bound to have come sooner or later. Nanna had thought of a very funny little game. She had stolen one of Madame Bush's wooden shoes from outside the concierge's room. She tied a string to it and began dragging it about like a carp. Victor on his side had the idea to fill it with potato pairings. Then a procession was formed. Nanna came first dragging the wooden shoe. Pauline and Victor walked on her right and left. Then the entire crowd of urchins followed in order. The big ones first, the little ones next holding one another. A baby in long skirts about as tall as a boot with an old tattered bonnet cocked on one side of its head brought up the rear. And the procession chanted something sad with plenty of ores and ares. Nanna had said that they were going to play at a funeral. The potato pairings represented the body. When they had gone the round of the courtyard they recommend. They thought it immensely amusing. What can they be up to? murmured Madame Barsh who emerged from her room to see ever mistrustful and on the alert. And when she understood but it's my shoe cried she furiously. Ah, the rogues! She distributed some smacks clouted Nanna on both cheeks and administered a kick to Pauline that great goose who allowed the others to steal her mother's shoe. It so happened that Chavez was filling a bucket at the top. When she beheld Nanna her nose bleeding and choking with sobs she almost sprang at the concierge's chignon. It was not right to hit a child as though it were an ox. One could have no heart. One must be the lowest of the low if one did so. Madame Barsh naturally replied in a similar strain when one had a beast of a girl like that one should keep her locked up.  There was a regular quarrel. As a matter of fact things had not gone on very pleasantly between the bushes and the cupos for a month passed. Chavez, who was of a very generous nature was continually bestowing wine, broth, oranges and slices of cake on the bushes. One that she'd taken was the remains of an andeevan beetroot salad to the concierge's room knowing that the latter would have done anything for such a treat. But on the morrow she became quite pale with rage on hearing Mademoiselle Romanjou relate how Madame Barsh had thrown the salad away in the presence of several persons with an air of disgust and under the pretext that she, thank goodness was not yet reduced to feeding on things which others had messed about from that time Chavez took no more presence to the Barsh's, nothing. Now the Barsh's seem to think that Chavez was stealing something which was rightfully theirs. Chavez saw that she had made a mistake. If she hadn't catered to them so much in the beginning they wouldn't have gotten into the habit of expecting it and might have remained on good terms with her. Now the concierge began to spread slander about Chavez. It was a great fuss with the landlord Monsieur Maraisco at the October rental period because Chavez was a day late with the rent. Madame Barsh accused her of eating up all her money in fancy dishes. Monsieur Maraisco charged into the laundry demanding to be paid at once. He didn't even bother to remove his hat. The money was ready and was paid to him immediately. The Barsh's had now made up with the lawyer who came and did their guzzling in the concierge's lodge. They assured each other that they would never have fallen out if it hadn't been for clump-clump. She was enough to set mountains to fight in. The Barsh's knew her well now that they could understand how much the lawyers must suffer. And whenever she passed beneath the doorway they all affected to sneer at her. One day Chavez went up to see the lawyers in spite of this. It was with respect to Mother Coupeau who was then 67 years old. Mother Coupeau's eyesight was almost completely gone. Her legs too were no longer what they used to be. She had been obliged to give up her last cleaning job and now threatened to die of hunger if assistants were not forthcoming. Chavez thought it shameful that a woman of her age having three children should be thus abandoned by heaven and earth. And as Coupeau refused to speak to the lawyers on the subject saying that she, Chavez, could very well go and do so the latter went up in a fit of indignation with which her heart was almost bursting. When she reached their door she entered without knocking. Nothing had been changed since the night when the lawyers at their first meeting had received her so ungraciously. The same strip of faded woollen stuff separated the room from the workshop a lodging like a gun barrel and which looked as though it had been built for an eel. Right at the back, lawyer leaning over his bench was squeezing together one by one the links of a piece of chain.  In the broad daylight the little forge had a rosy reflection. Yes, it's I, said Chavez. My dear sir, you're surprised to see me as we're at daggers drawn but I've come neither for you nor myself you may be quite sure. It's the mother Koopa that I've come. Yes, I've come to see if we're going to let her beg her bread from the charity of others. Oh, well that's a fine way to burst in upon one. Mehmed Madame lawyer almost have a rare cheek and she turned her back and resumed drawing her gold wire affecting to ignore her sister-in-law's presence.  Then as he had heard perfectly well he continued more backbiting say she's nice mother Koopa to go and cry starvation everywhere yet only the day before yesterday she dined here, we did what we can we haven't all got the gold of Peru only if she goes about gossiping with others she had better stay with them for we don't like spies. He took up the piece of chain and turned his back also adding as though with regret when everyone gives five francs a month we'll give five francs. Chavez had calmed down and felt quite chilled by the wooden looking faces of the lawyer's she'd never once set foot in their rooms without experiencing a certain uneasiness with her eyes fixed on the floor staring at the holes of the wooden grating through which the waste gold fell she now explained herself in a reasonable manner. Mother Koopa had three children if each gave five francs he would only make fifteen francs and really that was not enough one could not live on it they must at least triple the sum but Laurier cried out where did she think he could still fifteen francs a month it was quite amusing people thought he was rich simply because he had gold he began then to criticise Mother Koopa she had to have her morning coffee she took a sip of brandy now and then she was as demanding as if she were rich, mon Dieu sure everyone liked the good things of life but if you've never saved a sue you ought to do what other folks did and do without besides Mother Koopa wasn't too old to work she could see well enough when she was trying to pick a choice morsel from the platter she was just an old spendthrift with others to provide her with comforts even had he had the means he would have considered it wrong to support anyone in idleness Chavez remained conciliatory and peaceably argued against all this bad reasoning she tried to soften the Laurier's but the husband ended by no longer answering her the wife was now at the forge scouring a piece of chain in the little long-handled brass saucepan full of lye water she still effectively turned her back as though a hundred leagues away and Chavez continued speaking watching them pretending to be absorbed in their labour in the midst of the black dust of the workshop their bodies distorted their clothes patched and greasy both become stupidly hardened like old tools in the pursuit of their narrow mechanical task then suddenly anger again got the better of her she exclaimed very well, I'd rather it was so keep your money I'll give mother Coupo a home do you hear? I picked up a cat the other evening so I can at least do the same for your mother when she should be in want of nothing she shall have her coffee and a drop of brandy good heavens, what a vile family at these words madame Laurier turned round she brandished the saucepan in Laura's face she stammered with rage be your for I shall do you an injury and don't count on the five francs because I won't give a radish no, not a radish oh well yes, five francs mother would be your servant and you would enjoy yourself with my five francs if she goes to live with you tell her this she may croak, I won't even send her a glass of water now off you go clear out what a monster of a woman she is violently slamming the door on the morrow she brought mother Coupo to live with her putting her bed in the inner room where Nana slept the moving did not take long for all the furniture mother Coupo had was her bed an ancient walnut wardrobe which was put in the dirty clothes room a table and two chairs they sold the table and had the chairs recaned from the very first the old lady took over the sweeping she washed the dishes and made herself useful happy to have settled her problem the lorries were furious enough to explode especially since Madame Lorra was now back on good terms with the Coupos one day the two sisters the flower maker and the chain maker came to blows about Chauvet because Madame Lorra dared to express approval of the way she was taking care of their mother when she noticed how this upset the other she went on to remark that Chauvet had magnificent eyes eyes warm enough to set paper on fire the two of them commenced slapping each other and swore they would never see each other again nowadays Madame Lorra often spent her evenings in the shop laughing to herself at Clémence's spicy remarks three years passed by there were frequent quarrels and reconciliations Chauvet did not care a straw for the lorriers the barf and all the others who were not of her way of thinking if they did not like it they could forget it she earned what she wished that was her principal concern the people of the neighbourhood ended by greatly esteeming her for one did not find many customers so kind as she was paying punctually, never caveling or higgling she bought her bread of Madame Coudalou in the Rue des Poissonniers a meat of stout Charles a butcher in the Rue Polonso a groceries at Le Angre in the Rue de la Goutteur almost opposite her own shop François the wine merchant to the corner of the street supplied her with wine in baskets of fifty bottles a neighbour Vigouroux whose wife's hips must have been black and blue the men pinched her so much sold coke to her at the same price as the gas company and in all truth her tradespeople served her faithfully knowing that there was everything to gain by treating her well besides whenever she went out around the neighbourhood she was greeted everywhere she felt quite at home sometimes she put off doing a laundry job just to enjoy being outdoors among her good friends on days when she was too rushed to do her own cooking she would stop to gossip with her arms full of bowls the neighbour she respected most was still the watchmaker often she would cross the street to greet him in his tiny cupboard of a shop taking pleasure in the gaiety of the little cuckoo clocks with their pendulums ticking away the hours in chorus end of chapter 5 recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey section 24 of La Sommoir this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Anna Simon La Sommoir by Emile Zola translated by Ernest A. Vestelli chapter 6 one afternoon in the autumn Réveille who had been taking some washing-home to her customer in the Rue de Porte Blanche found herself at the bottom of the Rue de Poissonnier just as the day was declining it had rained in the morning the weather was very mild and an odor rose from the greasy pavement and the laundress burdened with her big basket was rather out of breath, slow of step and inclined to take her ease as she ascended the street with the vague preoccupation of a longing increased by awareness she would have liked to have had something to eat then on raising her eyes she beheld the name of the Rue Marcade and she suddenly had the idea to see Gougé at his forge he had no end of times told her to look in any day she was curious to see how iron was wrought besides, in the presence of other workmen she would ask for a chain and make believe that she had merely called for the youngster the factory was somewhere on this end of the Rue Marcade but she didn't know exactly where and street numbers were often lacking on those ramshackle buildings separated by vacant lots she wouldn't have lived on this street for all the gold in the world was made but dirty black with soot from factories with holes in the pavement and deep ruts filled with stagnant water on both sides were rows of sheds workshops with beams and brickwork exposed so that they seemed unfinished a messy collection of masonry besides them were dubious lodging houses and even more dubious taverns all she could recall was that a bald factory was next to a yard full of scrap iron and rags a sort of open sewer spread over the ground storing merchandise worth hundreds of thousands of francs according to Gouger the street was filled with a noisy racket exhaust pipes on roofs puffed out violent jets of steam an automatic sawmill added a rhythmic screeching a button factory shook the ground with a rumbling of the machines she was looking up toward the Montmartre height hesitant and certain whether to continue when a gust of wind blew down a mass of sooty smoke had covered the entire street she closed her eyes and held her breath at that moment she heard the sound of hammers and cadence without realising it she had arrived directly in front of the bold factory which she now recognised by the vacant lot beside it full of piles of scrap iron and rolled rags she still hesitated not knowing where to enter a broken fence opened a passage which seemed to lead through the heaps of rubbish from some buildings recently pulled down two planks had been thrown a large puddle of muddy water that barred the way she ended by venturing along them turned to the left and found herself lost in the death of a strange forest of old carts standing on end with her shafts in the air and of hovels and ruins the woodwork of which was still standing toward the back stabbing through the half light of sundown a flame gleamed red a clamour of the hammers had seized she was advancing carefully when a workman, his face blackened with coldest and wearing a good tee passed near her casting a side glance with his pale eyes sir, asked she it's here is not that a boy named E. Chen works he's my son E. Chen E. Chen repeated the workman in a hoarse voice as he twisted himself about E. Chen no, I don't know him an alcoholic weak like that from old brandy casks issued from his mouth meeting a woman in this dark corner seemed to be giving the fellow ideas and so Gervais drew back saying but yet it's here that M. Gougier works, isn't it ah, Gougier, yes said the workman I know Gougier, if you come for Gougier go right to the end and turning round he called out at the top of his voice which had a sound of cracked brass I say golden mug here's a lady wants you but a clanging of iron drowned the cry Gervais went to the end she reached the door and stretching out her neck looked in at first she could distinguish nothing the forge had died down but there was still a little glow which held back the advancing shadows from its corner great shadows seemed to float in the air at times black shapes passed before the fire shutting off this last bit of brightness silhouettes of men so strangely magnified that their arms and legs were indistinct Gervais, not daring to venture in pulled from the doorway in a faint voice M. Gougier M. Gougier suddenly all became lighted up beneath the puff of the bellows a jet of white flame had ascended and the whole interior of the shed could be seen walled in by wooden planks with openings roughly plastered over and brick walls reinforcing the corners coal ash had painted the whole expanse of sooty grey spider webs hung from the beams like regs hung up to dry heavy with the accumulated dust of years on shells along the walls or hanging from nails or tossed into corners she saw rusty iron, battered implements and huge tools the white flame flared higher like an explosion of dazzling sunlight revealing that trampled dirt underfoot where the polished steel of four anvils fixed on blocks took on a reflection of silver sprinkled with gold then Gervais recognized Gougier in front of the forge by his beautiful yellow beard Etienne was blowing the bellows two other workmen were there but she only beheld Gougier and walked forward and stood before him Why, it's Madame Gervais he exclaimed with a bright look on his face what a pleasant surprise but as his comrades appear to be rather amused he pushed Etienne towards his mother and resumed he have come to see the youngster he behaves himself well he's beginning to get some strength in his wrists well, she said it isn't easy to find your way here I thought I was going to the end of the world after telling about her journey she asked why no one in the shop knew Etienne's name Gougier laughed and explained to her that everybody called him little Zuzu because he had his hair cut short like that of a Zouave while they were talking together Etienne stopped working the bellows and the flame of the forge dwindled to a rosy glow amid the gathering darkness touched by the presence of this smiling young woman the blacksmith stood gazing at her then as neither continued speaking he seemed to recollect and broke the silence excuse me Madame Gervais I have something that has to be finished you'll stay won't you you're not in anybody's way she remained, Etienne returned to the bellows the forge was soon ablaze again with the cloud of sparks the morso as the youngster wanted to show his mother what he could do was making the bellows blow a regular hurricane Gougier standing up watching a bar of iron heating was waiting with the tongs in his hand the bright glare illuminated him without a shadow sleeves rolled back, shirt neck open bare arms and chest when the bar was at white heat he seized it with tongs and cut it with a hammer on the anvil in pieces of equal length as though he'd been gently breaking pieces of glass then he put the pieces back into the fire from which he took them one by one to work them into shape he was forging hexagonal rivets he placed each piece in a tool hole of the anvil bent down the iron that was to form the head flattened the six sides and threw the finished rivet still red hot onto the black earth where its bright light gradually died out and this with a continuous hammering wielding in his right hand a hammer weighing five pounds completing a detail at every blow turning and working the iron with such dexterity that it was able to talk to and look at those about him the anvil had a silvery ring without a drop of perspiration quite at his ease he struck in a good-natured sort of a way not appearing to exert himself more than on the evenings when he cut out pictures at home oh, these are little rivets of twenty millimetres said he in reply to Gervais's questions oh fellow can do this three hundred a day but it requires practice for one's arms soon grows wary and when she asked him if his wrist did not feel stiff at the end of the day he laughed aloud did she think him a young lady his wrist had had plenty of drudgery for fifteen years past it was now as strong as the iron implements had been so long in contact with she was right though a gentleman who had never fought a rivet or a bolt and who would try to show off with his five pound hammer would find himself precious stiff in the course of a couple of hours it did not seem much but a few years of it often did for some very strong fellows during this conversation the other workmen were also hammering away altogether their tall shadows danced about in the light the red flashes of the iron that their fire traversed the gloomy recesses clouds of sparks darted out from beneath the hammers and shun like suns on a level with the anvils and Gervais feeling happy and interested in the movement around the forge did not think of leaving she was going a long way round to get nearer to Itian without having her hands burned when she saw the dirty and bearded workmen whom she had spoken to outside enter so you found him madam was he in his drunken venturing way you know golden mug it's I who told madam where to find you he was called Salted Mouth otherwise drink without thirst the brick of bricks a damp hand at bolt forging who wedded his iron every day with a pint and a half of brandy he'd gone out to have a drop because he felt he wanted greasing to make him last till six o'clock when he learned that little Zuzu's real name was Itian he thought it very funny and he showed his black teeth as he laughed and he recognized Gervais only the day before he had had a glass of wine with Kupo you could speak to Kupo about Salted Mouth otherwise drink without thirst he would at once say he's a jolly dog ah that joker Kupo he was one of the right sort he's to treat oftener than his turn I'm awfully glad to know you're his Mrs. Adity he deserves to have a pretty wife hey golden mug he's idling up towards the laundress who took hold of her basket and held it in front of her so as to keep him at a distance guzhe annoyed and seeing that his comrade was joking because of his friendship for Gervais called out to him I say lazy bones what about the 40mm bolts do you think you're equal to them now that you've got your gullet full you confounded guzzler the blacksmith was alluding to an order for big bolts which necessitated two beaters at the anvil I'm ready to start at this moment big baby I'd salt it mouth otherwise drink without thirst it sucks its thumb and thinks itself a man in spite of your size I'm equal to you yes that's it at once look sharp and off we go right you are my boy they'd taunted each other stimulated by Gervais's presence guzzhe placed the pieces of iron that had been cut beforehand in the fire then he fixed a tool-hole of a large bore on an anvil his comrade had taken from against the wall two sledge-hammers paying twenty pounds each the two big sisters of the factory whom the workers called Fifine and Edel and he continued to brag talking of a half-grove of rivets which had forged for the Dunkirk lighthouse regular jewels, things to be put in a museum they were so daintyly finished off hang at all, no he did not fear competition before meeting with another chap like him you might search every factory in the capital they were going to have a laugh they would see what they would see he said he, turning towards the young woman enough chattering, cried Guzhe now then, Guzhe show your muscle, it's not hot enough, my lad but salted mouth otherwise drink without thirst asked, so we strike together not a bit of it, each his own bold, my friend this statement operated as a damper and Guzhe's comrade, on hearing it remained speechless in spite of his boasting bolts of forty millimages fashioned by one man had never before been seen, the more so as the bolts were to be round-headed a work of great difficulty a real masterpiece to achieve the three other workmen came over leaving their jobs to watch a tall, lean one wagered a bottle of wine that Guzhe would be beaten meanwhile the two blacksmiths had chosen their sledge-hammers with eyes closed because Fifine weighed a half-pound more than the dell Salt's mouth, otherwise drink without thirst had a good look to put his hand on the dell Fifine fell to golden mug while waiting for the iron to get hot enough Salt's mouth, otherwise drink without thirst again showing off, struck a pose before the anvil while casting side-glances towards Gervais he planted himself solidly tapping his feet impatiently like a man ready for a fight throwing all his strength into practice swings with the dell Come on G, he was good at this he could have flattened the vendum column like a pancake Now then, off you go, said Guzhe placing one of the pieces of iron as thick as a girl's wrist in the tool-hole End of first part of Chapter 6 Section 25 of La Samoire This is a LibreVox recording All LibreVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibreVox.org Recording by Anosimum La Samoire by Emile Zolle Translated by Ernest A. Viste Second part of Chapter 6 Swallowed mouth, otherwise drink without thirst Lent back and swung the dell round with both hands Short and lean, with his goatee bristling and with his wolf-like eyes glaring beneath his unkempt hair he seemed to snap at each swing of the hammer springing up from the ground as though carried away by the force he put into the blow He was a fierce one, who fought with the iron annoyed at finding it so hard and he even gave a grunt whenever he thought he had planted a fierce stroke Perhaps Brandy did weaken other people's arms but he needed Brandy in his veins instead of blood The drop he had taken a little while before had made his carcass as warm as a boiler He felt he had the power of a steam engine within him and the iron seemed to be afraid of him this time He flattened it more easily than if it had been a quid of tobacco and it was a sight to see how the dell waltzed She cut such capers with her tutsis in the air just like a little dancer at the Elysée Montmartre who exhibits her fine underclothes for it would never do to Doral Iron is so deceitful it cools it once just despite the hammer With thirty blows sold at Mouth, otherwise drink without thirst had fashioned the head of his bold but he panted his eyes were half out of his head and got into a great rage as he felt his arms growing tired Then, carried away by wrath, jumping about and yelling he gave two more blows just out of revenge for his trouble When he took the bolt from the hole it was deformed, its head being a skew like a hunchback Come now, isn't that quickly beaten into shape? said he all the same with his self-confidence as he presented his work to Gervais I'm no judge sir, replied the laundress, reservately But she saw plainly enough the marks of the dell's last two kicks on the bolt and she was very pleased She bit her lips so as not to laugh for now Gourje had every chance of winning It was now Golden Mug's turn Before commencing he gave the laundress a look full of confident tenderness Then he did not hurry himself He measured his distance and swung the hammer from on high with always might and at regular intervals He had the classic style, accurate, evenly balanced and supple Fifine in his hands did not cut capers like at a dance-hole but made steady, certain progress She rose and fell in cadence like a lady of quality, solemnly leading some ancient minuet There was no brandy in Golden Mug's veins only blood throbbing powerfully even into Fifine and controlling the job That stalwart fellow, what a magnificent man he was at work The high flame of the forge shone full on his face His whole face seemed golden indeed with his short hair curling over his forehead and a splendid yellow beard His neck was as straight as a column and his immense chest was wide enough for a woman to sleep across it His shoulders and sculptured arms seemed to have been copied from a giant statue in some museum You could see his muscles swelling mountains of flesh rippling and hardening under the skin His shoulders, his chest, his neck expanded He seemed to shed light about him becoming beautiful and all-powerful like a kindly guard He had now swung Fifine twenty times His eyes always fixed on the iron drawing a deep breath with each blow yet showing only two great drops of sweat trickling down from his temples He counted Twenty-one Twenty-two Twenty-three calmly, Fifine continued like a noble lady dancing What a show-off! Geringly a murmured, salted mouth otherwise drink without thirst Gervais, standing opposite Coucher looked at him with an affectionate smile Mange, what fools men are Here these two men were pounding on their bolts to pay court to her She understood it They were battling with hammer-blows like two big red roosters vying for the favours of a little white hen Sometimes the human heart has fantastic ways of expressing itself This thundering of the dell and Fifine upon the anvil was for her This forge roaring and overflowing was for her They were forging their love before her battling over her To be honest, she rather enjoyed it All women are happy to receive compliments The mighty blows of golden mug found echoes in her heart They rang within her A crystal-clear music in time with the throbbing of her pulse She had the feeling that this hammering was driving something deep inside of her Something solid, something hard as the iron of the bolt She had no doubt Gouger would win Salted mouth, otherwise drink without thirst Was much too ugly in his dirty tunic Jumping around like a monkey that escaped from a zoo She waited, blushing red Happy that the heat could explain the blush Gouger was still counting Hand twenty-eight, cried he at length Laying the hammer on the ground It's finished, you can look The head of the bolt was clean Polished and without a flaw Regular goldsmith's work With the roundness of a marble cast in a mould The other men looked at it and knotted their heads There was no denying it was lovely enough to be worshipped Salted mouth, otherwise drink without thirst Tried indeed to chuff, but it was no use And ended by returning to his anvil With his nose put out of joint Gervais had squeezed up against Gouger As though to get a better view A gen having let go the bellows The forge was once more becoming enveloped in shadow Like a brilliant red sunset suddenly giving way to black night And the blacksmith and the laundress experienced a sweet pleasure In feeling this gloom surround them In that shed, black with suit and filings And where an odor of old iron prevailed They could not have thought themselves more alone In the Bois de Vincennes had they met there In the death of some cops He took her hand as though he had conquered her Outside they scarcely exchanged a word All he could find to say was that she might have taken a gen away with her Had it not been that there was still another half hour's work to get through Once she started away he called her back Wanting a few more minutes with her Come along, you haven't seen all the place It's quite interesting He led her to another shed Where the owner was installing a new machine She hesitated in the doorway Oppressed by an instinctive dread The great hole was vibrating for the machines And black shadows filled the air He reassured her with a smile Swearing that there was nothing to fear Only she should be careful not to let her skirts get caught in any of the gears He went first and she followed into the deafening hubbub of whistling And made clouds of steam peopled by human shadows moving busily The passages were very narrow And there were obstacles to step over Holes to avoid, passing carts to move back from She couldn't distinguish anything clearly or hear what Gujet was saying Gervais looked up and stopped to stare at the leather belts Hanging from the roof in a gigantic spider web Each strip ceaselessly revolving The steam engine that drove them was hidden behind a low brick wall So that the belts seemed to be moving by themselves She stumbled and almost fell while looking up Gujet raised his voice with explanations There were the tapping machines operated by women Which put threats on bolts and nuts Their steel gears were shining with oil She could follow the entire process She nodded her head and smiled She was still a little tense, however Feeling uneasy at being so small among these rough metal workers She jumped back more than once Her blood suddenly chilled by the dull thud of a machine Gujet stopped before one of the rivet machines He stood there brooding His head lowered His gaze fixed This machine forged 40 millimeter rivets With the calm ease of a giant Nothing could be simpler The stoker took the iron shank from the furnace The striker put it into the socket Where a continuous stream of water Cooled it to prevent softening of the steel The press descended and the bolt flew out into the ground Its head as round as though cast in a mould Every twelve hours this machine Made hundreds of kilograms of bolts Gujet was not a mean person There were moments when he wanted to take Fifine And smash this machine to bits Because he was angry to see That its arms were stronger than his own He reasoned with himself Telling himself that human flesh Cannot compete with steel But he was still deeply hurt The day would come when machinery Would destroy the skilled worker Their days' pay had already fallen From twelve francs to nine francs There was talk of cutting it again He stared at it, frowning For three minutes, without saying a word His yellow beard seemed to bristle defiantly Then, gradually, an expression of resignation Came over his face And he turned toward Gervais Who was clinging tightly to him And said with a sad smile Well, that machine would certainly win a contest But perhaps it would be for the good Of mankind in the long run Gervais didn't care a bit About the welfare of mankind Smiling, she said to Gujet I like yours better Because they show the hand of an artist Hearing this gave him great happiness Because he had been afraid That she might be scornful of him After seeing the machines He might be stronger than salted mouth Otherwise drink without thirst But the machines were stronger yet When Gervais finally took her leave Gujet was so happy That he almost crushed her with a hug The laundress went every Saturday To the Gujets to deliver their washing They still lived in a little house In their rue neuve de la Goudeur During the first year She had regularly repaid them twenty francs a month So as not to jumble up the accounts The washing book was only made up At the end of each month And then she added to the amount Whatever sum was necessary to make the twenty francs For the Gujets washing Rarely came to more than seven or eight francs During that time She had therefore paid off nearly half the sum owing One one quarter day, not knowing what to do Some of her customers Not having kept their promises She had been obliged to go to the Gujets And borrow from them sufficient for her rent On two other occasions She had also applied to them for the money To pay her work women So that the debt had increased again To four hundred and twenty five francs Now she no longer gave a half penny She worked off the amount solely by the washing It was not that she worked less Or that her business was not so prosperous But something was going wrong in her home The money seemed to melt away And she was glad when she was able to make both ends meet Mon Dieu What's the use of complaining as long as one gets by She was putting on weight And this caused her to become a bit lazy She no longer had the energy that she had in the past Oh well There was always something coming in Madame Gujets Felt a motherly concern for Gervais And sometimes reprimanded her This wasn't due to the money owed But because she liked her I didn't want to see her get into difficulties She never mentioned the debt In short, she behaved with the utmost delicacy The moral of Gervais's visit to the forge Happened to be the last Saturday of the month When she reached the Gujets Where she made a point of going herself Her basket had so weight on her arms That she was quite two minutes Before she could get her breath One would hardly believe how heavy clothes are Especially when there are sheets among them Are you sure you have brought everything? Asked Madame Gujets She was very strict on that point She insisted on having her washing Brought home without a single article Being kept back for the sake of order As she said She also required the laundress Always to come on the day arranged And at the same hour In that way there was no time wasted Oh yes, everything is here Replied Gervais, smiling You know I never leave anything behind That's true, admitted Madame Gujets You've gotten to many bad habits But you're still free of that one And while the laundress emptied her basket Laying the linen on the bed The old woman praised her She never burnt the things Nor tore them like so many others did Neither did she pull the buttons off with the iron Only she used too much blue And made the short fronts too stiff with starch Just look, it's like cardboard Continued she My son does not complain But it cuts his neck Tomorrow his neck will be all scratched When returned from Vincent No, don't say that Exclaimed Gervais, quite grieved To look nice, shirts must be rather stiff Otherwise, it's as though one had a rag on one's body You should just see what the gentlemen wear I do all your things myself The work women never touch them And I assure you, I take great pains I would, if necessary, do everything over A dozen times, because it's for you, you know She slightly blushed As she stammered out the last words She was afraid of showing the great pleasure She took in ironing Gouges' shirts She certainly had no wicked thoughts But she was nonetheless a little bit ashamed End of second part of chapter 6 Section 26 of La Sommoir This is a Libberfox recording All Libberfox recordings are in the puppet domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit Libberfox.org Recording by Anna Simon La Sommoir by Imin Zoula Translated by Ernest Avis Derry Third part of chapter 6 Oh, I'm not complaining of your work I know it's perfection, said Madame Gouges For instance, you've done this cap splendidly Only you could bring out the embroidery like that And the flutings are all so even Oh, I recognize your hand at once When you give even a dishcloth To one of your work-memen, I detect it at once In future, use a little less starch, that's all Gouges does not care to look like a stylish gentleman She had taken out her notebook And was crossing off the various items Everything was in order She noticed that her vase was charging six sous for each bonnet She protested, but had to agree That it was in line with present prizes Men's shirts were five sous Women's under-drawers four sous Pillow cases a sous and a half And aprons one sous No, the prices weren't high Some laundresses charged a sous more for each item Chavez was now calling out the soiled clothes As she packed them in her basket For Madame Gouges to list Then she lingered on, embarrassed by a request Which she wished to make Madame Gouges, she said at length If it does not inconvenience you I would like to take the money for the month's washing It so happened that that month was a very heavy one The account they had made up together Amounting to ten francs seven sous Madame Gouges looked at her a moment in a serious manner Then she replied My child, it shall be as you wish I will not refuse you the money as you are in need of it Only, it's scarcely the way to pay off your debt I say that for your sake, you know Really now, you should be careful Chavez received a lecture with bowed head And stemmering excuses The ten francs were to make up the amount of a bill She had given her coke merchant But on hearing the word bill Madame Gouges became severe still She gave herself as an example She had reduced her expenditure Ever since Gouges's wages had been lowered From twelve to nine francs a day When one was wanting in wisdom Whilst young, one dies of hunger in one's old age But she held back and didn't tell Chavez That she gave her their laundry only In order to help her pay off the debt Before that she had done all her own washing And she would have to do it herself again If the laundry continued taking so much cash out of her pocket Chavez spoke her thanks and left quickly As soon as she had received the ten francs seven sous Outside on a landing she was so relieved She wanted to dance She was becoming used to the annoying And pleasant difficulties caused by a shortage of money And preferred to remember not the embarrassment But the joy in escaping from them It was also on that Saturday That Chavez met with a rather strange adventure As she descended the Gouges staircase She was obliged to stand up close against the stair rail With her basket to make way for a tall, bare-headed woman Who was coming up carrying in her hand A very fresh mackerel with bloody gills In a piece of paper She recognised Virginie the girl Whose face she had slapped at the wash house They looked each other full in the face Chavez shut her eyes She thought for a moment that she was going to be hit In the face with a fish But no, Virginie even smiled slightly Then as her basket was blocking the staircase The Launders wished to show how polite she too could be I beg your pardon, she said You are completely excused, replied the tall Burnett And they remained conversing together on the stairs Reconciled at once without having ventured On a single illusion to the past Virginie, then twenty-nine years old Had become a superb woman of strapping proportions Her face, however, looking rather along Between her two plates of jet-black hair She at once began to relate her history Just to show off She had a husband now She had married in the spring An ex-journeyman cabinet-maker Who recently left the army And who had applied to be admitted into the police Because a post of that kind is more to be depended upon And more respectable She had been out to buy the mackerel for him He adores mackerel, said she We must spoil them, those naughty men, mustn't we But come up, you shall see our home We are standing in a draught here After Gervais had told her of her own marriage And that she had formally occupied the very apartment Virginie now had Virginie urged her even more strongly to come up Since it is always nice to visit a spot Where one had been happy Virginie had lived for five years On a left bank at Gros Cailloux That was where she had met her husband While he was still in the army But she got tired of it And wanted to come back to the goudeur neighborhood Where she knew everyone She had only been living in the rooms opposite the gouges For two weeks Everything was still a mess But they were slowly getting into the aura Then, still on the staircase They finally told each other their names Madame Coupaud Madame Poisson From that time forth They called each other on every possible occasion Madame Poisson and Madame Coupaud Soleil for the pleasure of being Madame They who in former days had been acquainted When occupying rather questionable positions However Gervais felt rather mistrustful at heart Perhaps the tall brunette Had made it up the better to avenge herself For the beating at the wash-house By concocting some plan worthy Of a spiteful, hypocritical creature Gervais determined to be upon her guard For the time being, as Virginie Behaved so nicely She would be nice also In the room upstairs Poisson, the husband A man of thirty-five With a cadaverous-looking countenance And charity moustaches and beard Was seated working at a table near the window He was making little boxes His only tools were a knife A tiny saw the size of a nail-file And a pot of glue He was using wood from old cigar boxes Thin boards of unfinished mahogany Upon which he executed fretwork And embellishments of extraordinary delicacy All year long He worked at making the same size boxes Only varying them occasionally By inlay work, new designs for the cover Or putting compartments inside He did not sell his work He distributed it in presence To persons of his acquaintance It was for his own amusement A way of occupying his time While waiting for his appointment to the police force It was all that remained with him From his former occupation of cabinet-making Poisson rose from his seat And politely bowed to Gervais When his wife introduced her as an old friend But he was no talker He had once returned to his little soul From time to time he merely glanced In the direction of the mackerel Placed on the corner of the chest of drawers Gervais was very pleased To see her old lodging once more She told him whereabouts her own furniture stood And pointed out the place on the floor Where Nana had been born How strange it was To meet like this again After so many years They never dreamt of running into each other like this And even living in the same rooms Virginia added some further details Her husband had inherited A little money from an aunt And he would probably set her up In a shop before long Meanwhile, she was still sewing At length, at the end of a full half hour The laundress took her leave And Gervais seemed to notice her departure While seeing her to the door Virginia promised to return the visit And she would have Gervais to her laundry While Virginia was keeping her In further conversation on the landing Gervais had the feeling That she wanted to say something About Lanche and her sister Adele And this notion upset her a bit But not a word was uttered Respecting those unpleasant things They parted, wishing each other Goodbye in a very amiable manner Goodbye, Madame Coupeau Goodbye, Madame Poisson That was the starting point Of a great friendship A week later, Virginia never passed Gervais's shop without going in And she remained there gossiping For hours together To such an extent indeed That Poisson, filled with anxiety Fearing she had been run over Would come and seek her With his expressionless and death-like countenance Now that she was seeing the dressmaker A strange obsession Every time Virginie began to talk Gervais had the feeling Lanche Was going to be mentioned So she had Lanche on her mind Throughout all of Virginie's visit This was silly, because in fact She didn't care a bit about Lanche Or Adele at this time She was quite certain that she had no Curiosity as to what had happened To either of them But this obsession got hold of her In spite of herself It wasn't her fault, surely She enjoyed being with her And looked forward to her visit Meanwhile, winter had come The groupose fourth winter in the Rue de la Goudeur December and January were particularly cold It froze hard as it well could After New Year's Day The snow remained three weeks without melting It did not interfere with work But the contrary, for winter Is the best season for the ironers It was very pleasant inside the shop There was never any ice on the window Pains like there was at the grocers And the hoses opposite The stove was always stuffed with coke And kept things as hot as a Turkish bath With the laundry steaming overhead You could almost imagine it was summer You were quite comfortable With the doors closed and so much warmth Everywhere that you were tempted To doze off with your eyes open Gervais laughed and said it reminded Her of summer in the country The street traffic made no noise In the snow and you could hardly hear The pedestrians who passed by Only children's voices Were heard in the silence Especially the noisy band of urchins Who had made a long slide in the gutter Near the blacksmith's shop Gervais would sometimes go over to the door Wipe the moisture from one of the Pains with her hand and look out To see what was happening to her neighbourhood Due to this extraordinary cold spell Not one nose was being poked out Of the adjacent shops The entire neighbourhood was muffled in snow The only person she was able To exchange knots with was the cold Dealer next door who still walked Out bare-headed despite the severe freeze What was especially enjoyable In this awful weather was to have Some nice hot coffee in the middle Of the day. The work women Had no cause for complaint The mistress made it very strong And without a grain of chicory It was quite different to Madame Fokunye's coffee which was like Only whenever Mother Kupo And took to make it it was always An interminable time before it was ready Because she would fall asleep over the kettle On these occasions when the work Women had finished their lunch They would do a little ironing whilst waiting For the coffee. It so happened That on the morrow of 12th day Half past 12 struck and still the coffee Was not ready. It seemed to persist In declining to pass through the strainer Mother Kupo tapped Against the pot with a teaspoon And one could hear the drops falling slowly One by one and without hurrying Themselves any the more Leave the loan, said Tall Clemence You'll make it thick. Today There'll be as much to eat as to drink Tall Clemence Was working on a man's shirt The place of which she separated With her fingernail. She had caught a cold Her eyes were frightfully swollen And her chest was shaken with fits of cuffing Which doubled her up beside the work table With all that she had And not even a handkerchief around her neck And she was dressed in some cheap flimsy Woolen stuff in which she shivered Close by Madame Poutois Wrapped up in flannel muffled up to her ears Was ironing a petticoat Which she turned round the skirtboard The narrow end of which rested On the back of a chair Whilst the sheet laid on the floor Prevented the petticoat from getting dirty As it trailed along the tiles Chavez alone occupied half the work table With some embroidered muslin curtains Over which she passed her iron In a straight line with her arms Stretched out to avoid making any creases All on a sudden The coffee running through noisily Caused her to raise her head It was that squinty-eyed Augustine Who had just given it an outlet By thrusting a spoon through the strainer Leave it alone, cried Chavez Whatever is the matter with you It'll be like drinking mud now Mother Coupaud Had placed five glasses on a corner Of the work table that was free The women now left their work The mistress always poured out the coffee herself After putting two lumps of sugar Into each glass It was the moment that they all looked forward to On this occasion, as each one took her glass And squatted down on a little stool In front of the stove The shop door opened Virginie entered, shivering all over Ah, my children, said she It cuts you in two I cannot longer feel my ears The cold is something awful Why, it's Madame Poisson Exclaims Chavez Ah well, you've come at the right time You must have some coffee with us On my word I can't say no One feels the frost in one's bones Mealy by crossing the street End of third part of chapter 6 Section 27 of La Samoire This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Anna Simon La Samoire by Imil Zola Translated by Ernest Avis Delly Fourth part of chapter 6 There was still some coffee left, luckily Madame Poisson went and fetched a sixth glass And Chavez led Virginie Help herself to sugar out of politeness The workwoman moved to give Virginie a small space Close to the stove Her nose was very red She shivered a bit, pressing her hands Which were stiff with cold Around the glass to warm them She had just come from the grocery stall Where you froze to death Waiting for a quarter pound of cheese And so she raved about the warmth of the shop It felt so good on one's skin After warming up She stretched out her long legs And the sixth of them relaxed together Supping their coffee slowly Surrounded by all the work still to be done Mother Coupeau and Virginie Were the only ones on chairs The others, on low benches Seemed to be sitting on the floor Squint-eyed Augustine had pulled over A corner of the cloth below the skirt Stretching herself out on it No one spoke at first All kept their noses in their glasses Enjoying their coffee It's not bad all the same Declared Clémence But she was seized with a fit of coughing And almost choked Against the wall to cough with more force That's a bad cough you've got Said Virginie Wherever did you catch it One of her nose replied Clémence Wiping her face with her sleeve It must have been the other night There were two girls who were flaying each other Outside the ground balcony I wanted to see so I stood there Whilst the snow was falling What a drubbing!  Madame Poutois inquired The midwife and her maid, you know, a little blonde What a pest the girl is She was yelling at her employer That she had got rid of a child for the fruit woman And that she was going to tell the police If she wasn't paid to keep quiet So the midwife slapped her right in the face And then the little blonde jumped on her And started scratching her And pulling her hair, really, by the roots The sausage-man had to grab her To put a stop to it The work-woman laughed Then they all took a sip of coffee Do you believe that she really got rid of a child?  Was it right for her to be eavesdropping When all the people were talking The little goose Anyway, it was time for her To deliver the laundry To a friend of Madame Léra at Les Batignons So Gervais hung a basket on her arm And pushed her towards the door Augustine went off Sobbing and sniveling Dragging her feet in the snow Meanwhile, Mother Coupeau, Madame Poutois And Clémence were discussing The effectiveness of hard-cooked eggs And spinach leaves Then Virginie said softly Mon Dieu You have a fight and then you make it up If you have a generous heart She leaned towards Gervais with a smile And added Really, I don't hold any grudge against you In the business at the wash-house You remember it, don't you? This was what Gervais had been dreading She guessed that the subject Of Lanthier and Adèle would now come up Virginie had moved close to Gervais So as not to be overheard by the others Gervais, lulled by the excessive heat Felt so limp That she couldn't even summon the will-puller To change the subject She foresaw what the tall brunette would say And her heart was stirred with an emotion Which she didn't want to admit to herself I hope I'm not hurting your feelings Virginie continued Often I've had it on the tip of my tongue But since we are now on the subject Word of honour, I don't have any grudge against you She stirred her remaining coffee And then took a small sip Gervais, with her heart and her throat Wondered if Virginie had really Forgiven her as completely as she said For she seemed to observe sparks In her dark eyes You see, Virginie went on You had an excuse They played a really rotten Dirty trick on you To be fair about it, if it had been me I'd have taken a knife to her She drank another small sip Then added rapidly without a pause Anyway, it didn't bring them happiness Morgé, not a bit of it They went to live over at La Clâchère In a filthy street That was always muddy I went two days later to have lunch with them I can tell you, it was quite a trip by bus Well, I find it hard To take a trip by bus Well, I found them already fighting Really, as I came in They were boxing each other's ears Fine pair of lovebirds Adele isn't worth the rope to hang her I say that even if she is my own sister It would take too long To relate all the nasty tricks she played on me And anyhow, it's between the two of us Has for La Clâchère Well, he's no good either He'd beat the hide of you for anything And with his fist closed too They fought all the time The police even came once Virginie went on about other fights How? She knew of things That would make your hair stand up Chervais listened in silence Her face pale It was nearly seven years since she had heard a word About La Clâchère She hadn't realized what a strong curiosity she had As to what had become of the poor man Even though he had treated her badly And she never would have believed That just the mention of his name Could put such a glowing warmth In the pit of her stomach She certainly had no reason to be jealous Of Adele any more But she rejoiced to think of her body All bruised from the beatings She could have listened to Virginie all night But she didn't ask any questions Not wanting to appear much interested Virginie stopped to sip at her coffee Chervais realizing that she was Expected to say something Asked with a pretence of indifference Are they still living at La Clâchère? No, the other replied Didn't I tell you They separated last week One morning Adele moved out And Lanthier didn't chase after her So they're separated Chervais exclaimed Who are you talking about? Clemence asked, interrupting her conversation With M. Coupaud and M. Poutois Nobody you know Said Virginie She was looking at Chervais carefully And could see that she was upset Maliciously finding pleasure In bringing up these old stories Of a sudden she asked Chervais What she would do if Lanthier came round here Man were really such strange creatures He might decide to return to his first love This caused Chervais to sit up Very straight and dignified She was a married woman She would send Lanthier off immediately There was no possibility Of anything further between them Not even a handshake She would not even want to look that man in the face I know that Etienne is his son And that's a relationship that remains She's heard If Lanthier wants to see his son I'll send the boy to him Because she can't stop a father from seeing his child But as for myself I don't want him to touch me Even with the tip of his finger That is all finished Desiring to break off this conversation She seemed to awake with a stile And called out to the women You ladies, do you think all these clothes Get to work The work women, slow from the heat And general laziness, didn't hurry themselves But went right on talking Gossiping about other people they had known Chervais shook herself and got to her feet Couldn't own money by sitting all day She was the first to return to the ironing But found that her curtains had been Spotted by the coffee And she had to rub out the stains With a damp cloth The other women were now stretching And getting ready to begin ironing The mons had a terrible attack of cuffing As soon as she moved Finally she was able to return to the shirt She had been doing Madame Poutois began to work on the petticoat again Well, goodbye, said Virginie I only came out for a quarter pound Of Swiss cheese Poisson must think I've frozen to death On the way She'd only just stepped outside When she turned back to say that Augustine Was at the end of the street Sliding on the ice with some urchins All red-faced and out of breath With snow all in her hair She didn't mind the scolding she received Merely saying that she hadn't been able To walk fast because of the ice And then some breaths through snow at her The afternoons were all the same These winter days The laundry was the refuge for anyone In the neighbourhood who was cold There was an endless procession Of gossiping women Chervais took pride in the comforting warmth Of her shop and welcomed those who came in To the washers remarked meanly Chervais was always thoughtful and generous Sometimes she even invited poor people in If she saw them shivering outside A friendship sprang up With an elderly house painter who was 70 He lived in an attic room And was slowly dying of cold and hunger His three sons had been killed in the war He survived the best he could But it had been two years Since he had been able to hold a paintbrush In his hand Whenever Chervais saw Père Bru Walking outside She would call him in and arrange a place For him close to the stove Often she gave him some bread and cheese Père Bru's face Was as wrinkled as a withered apple He would sit there with his stupid Shoulders and his white beard Without saying a word Just listening to the coke sputtering In the stove Maybe he was thinking of his 50 years Of hard work on high letters His 50 years spent painting doors Of buildings in every corner of Paris Well, Père Bru Chervais would say What are you thinking of now? Nothing much All sorts of things He would answer quietly The workwoman tried to joke with him To cheer him up Saying he was worrying over his love affairs But he scarcely listened to them Before he fell back into his habitual attitude Of meditative melancholy of chapter 6