section 49 of La Samoie 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 David Lazarus. La Samoie by Emile Zola, translated by Ernest 11. Nano was growing up and becoming wayward. At fifteen years old, she had expanded like a calf, white-skinned and very fat. So plump indeed you might have called her a pincushion. Yes, such she was. Fifteen years old, full of figure and no stays.  Her pile of fair hair, the color of fresh oats seemed to have scattered gold dust over her temples, freckle like as it were, giving her brow a sunny crown.  Nano no longer needed two stuffed wads of paper into her bodice, her breasts were grown. She wished they were larger though and dreamed of having breasts like a wet nurse. What made her particularly tempting was a nasty habit she had of protruding the tip of her tongue between her white teeth. No doubt on seeing herself in the looking-glasses, she had thought she was pretty like this, and so all day long she poked her tongue out of her mouth in view of improving her appearance.  Coupaud would often get involved pounding his fists, swearing and shouting, make haste and draw that red rag inside again. Nano showed herself very coquettish. She did not always wash her feet, but she bought such tight boots that she suffered martyrdom in St. Crispin's prison, and if folks questioned her when she turned purple with pain, she answered that she had the stomachache, so as to avoid confessing her coquetry. When bread was lacking at home, it was difficult for her to trick herself out, but she accomplished miracles, brought ribbons back from the workshop and concocted toilets, dirty dresses set off with bows and puffs. The summer was the season of her greatest triumphs. With a cambrick dress, which had cost her six francs, she filled the whole neighborhood of the Goudaure with her fair beauty. Yes, she was known from the outer boulevard to the fortifications, and from the Chosé de Clignancourt to the Grand Rue de la Chapelle. Folks called her chicky, for she was really as tender and as fresh-looking as a chicken. There was one dress which suited her perfectly, a white one with pink dots. It was very simple and without a frill. The skirt was rather short and revealed her ankles. The sleeves were deeply slashed and loose, showing her arms to the elbow. She pinned the neck back into a wide v as soon as she reached a dark corner of the staircase to avoid getting her ears boxed by her father for exposing the snowy whiteness of her throat and the golden shadow between her breasts. She also tied a pink ribbon round her blonde hair. Sunday she spent the entire day out with the crowds and loved it when the men eyed her hungrily as they passed. She waited all week long for these glances. She would get up early to dress herself and spend hours before the fragment of mirror that was hung over the bureau. Her mother would scold her because the entire building could see her through the window in her chemise as she mended her dress. Ah, she looked cute like that, said Father Coupeau, sneering and jeering at her, a real Magdalene in despair. She might have turned a savage woman at affair and have shown herself for a penny. Hide your meat, he used to say, and let me eat my bread. In fact, she was adorable, white and dainty under her overhanging golden fleece, losing temper to the point that her skin turned pink, not daring to answer her father, but cutting her thread with her teeth with a hasty furious jerk, which shook her plump but youthful form. Then, immediately after breakfast, she tripped down the stairs into the courtyard. The entire tenement seemed to be resting sleepily in the peacefulness of a Sunday afternoon. The workshops on the ground floor were closed. Gaping windows revealed tables in some apartments that were already set for dinner, awaiting families out working up an appetite by strolling along the fortifications. Then, in the midst of the empty echoing courtyard, Nana Pauline and the other big girls engaged in games of battledore and shuttlecock. They had grown up together, and were now becoming queens of their building. Whenever a man crossed the court, flute-like laughter would arise, and then starched skirts would rustle like the passing of a gust of wind. The games were only an excuse for them to make their escape. Suddenly stillness fell upon the tenement. The girls had glided out into the street and made for the outer boulevard. Then, linked arm in arm across the full breadth of the pavement, they went off. The whole six of them clad in light colors with ribbons tied around their bare heads.  They would swing their hips or group together tightly, or flaunt along with awkward grace, all for the purpose of calling attention to the fact that their forms were filling out. Nanna was in the center with her pink dress all aglow in the sunlight. She gave her arm to Pauline, whose costume, yellow flowers on a white ground, glared in similar fashion, dotted as it were with little flames. As they were the tallest of the band, the most women-like and most unblushing, they led the group and drew themselves up with breasts well forward whenever they detected glances or heard complementary remarks. The others extended right and left, puffing themselves out in order to attract attention. Nanna and Pauline resorted to the complicated devices of experienced cockettes. If they ran till they were out of breath, it was in view of showing their white stockings and making the ribbons of their chignon wave in the breeze. When they stopped, pretending complete breathlessness, you would certainly spot someone they knew quite near, one of the young fellows of the neighborhood. This would make them dawdle along languidly, whispering and laughing amongst themselves, but keeping a sharp watch through their downcast eyelids. They went on these strolls of a Sunday, mainly for the sake of these chance meetings. Tall lads wearing their Sunday vest would stop them joking and try to catch them round their waists. Pauline was forever running into one of Madame Gaudor's sons, a seventeen-year-old carpenter who would treat her to fried potatoes. Nanna could spot Victor for Connie the laundress' son, and they would exchange kisses in dark corners. It never went further than that, but they told each other some tall tales. Then when the sun set, the great delight of these young hussies was to stop and look at the Monterbanks. Conjurers and strongmen turned up and spread threadbare carpets on the soil of the avenue. Loungers collected, and a circle formed, while the Monterbank in the center tried his muscles under his faded tights. Nanna and Pauline would stand for hours in the thickest part of the crowd. Their pretty fresh frocks would get crushed between great coats and dirty worksmox. In this atmosphere of wine and sweat they would laugh gaily, finding amusement in everything, blooming naturally like roses growing out of a dung hill. The only thing that vexed them was to meet their fathers, especially when the hatter had been drinking. So they watched and warned one another. Look, Nanna, Pauline would suddenly cry out, Here comes Father Coupot. Well, he's drunk too, oh dear, said Nanna, greatly bothered. I'm going to beat it, you know. I don't want you to give me a wallop. Hello, how he stumbles, good Lord, if he could only break his neck.  He's looking for me and promised he'd knock my head off if he caught me hanging about. Then when the drunkard had passed them, she drew herself up again, and all the others followed her with bursts of laughter. He'll find her. He will. He won't. It was a true game of hide and seek. One day, however, Boss should come after Pauline and caught her by both ears, and Coupot had driven Nanna home with kicks. Nanna was now a flower-maker, and earned forty soot a day at Titoiville Place in Eru de Caire, where she had served as apprentice. The Coupot had kept her there, so that she might remain under the eye of Madame Lara, who had been four women in the work room for ten years. Of a morning, when her mother looked at the cuckoo clock, off she went by herself, looking very pretty with her shoulders tightly confined in her old black dress, which was both too narrow and too short. And Madame Lara had to note the hour of her arrival and tell it to Gervais. She was allowed twenty minutes to go from the Rue de la Gute d'Or to the Rue de Caire, and it was enough, for those young hussies have the legs of race horses. Sometimes she arrived exactly on time, but so breathless and flushed that she must have covered most of the distance at a run after dawdling along the way. More often she was a few minutes late. Then she would fawn on her aunt all day, hoping to soften her and keep her from telling. Madame Lara understood what it was to be young and would lie to the Coupot, but she also lectured Nanna, stressing the dangers a young girl runs on the streets of Paris. Monde, she herself was followed often enough. Oh, I watch you needn't fear, said the widow to the Coupot. I will answer to you for her as I would for myself, and rather than let a blackguard squeeze her, why I'd step between them. The workroom at Titreville was a large apartment on the first floor, with a broad work table standing on trestles in the centre. Round the four walls, the plaster of which was visible in parts where the dirty yellowish-gray paper was torn away, there were several stands covered with old cardboard boxes, parcels, and discarded patterns under a thick coating of dust. The gas had left what appeared to be like a dorm of soot on the ceiling. The two windows opened so wide that, without leaving the work table, the girls could see the people walking past on the pavement over the way. Madame Lara arrived the first in view of setting an example. Then, for a quarter of an hour, the door swayed to and fro, and all the workgirl scrambled in, perspiring with tumbled hair. One July morning, Nana arrived the last as very often happened. Oh, me, she said, it won't be a pity when I have a carriage of my own. And, without even taking off her hat, one which she was weary of patching up, she approached the window and lent out, looking to the right and to the left to see what was going on in the street. What are you looking at? asked Madame Lara suspiciously. Did your father come with you? No, you may be sure of that, answered Nana Cooley. I'm looking at nothing. I'm seeing how hot it is. Oh, it's enough to make anyone having to run like that. It was a stifling hot morning. The workgirls had drawn down the Venetian blinds between which they could spy out into the street, and they had at last begun working on either side of the table, at the upper end of which sat Madame Lara. There were eight in number, each with her pot of glue, pincers, tools, and curling standing in front of her. On the worktable, lay a mass of wire, reels, cotton, wool, green, and brown paper, leaves, and petals cut out of silk, satin, or velvet. In the center, in the neck of a large decanter, one flower girl had thrust a little penny-nose-gay, which had been fading on her breast since the day before. Oh, I have some news, said a pretty brunette named Leonie, as she leaned over her cushion to crimp some rose petals. Poor Caroline is very unhappy about that fellow who used to wait for her every evening. Ah, said Nana, who was cutting thin strips of green paper, a man who cheats on her every day. Madame Lara had to display severity over the muffled laughter. Then Leonie whispered suddenly, quiet the boss. It was indeed Madame Titreville who entered. The tall, thin woman usually stayed down in the shop. The girls were quite in awe of her, because she never joked with them. All the heads were now bent over the work in diligent silence. Madame Titreville slowly circled the work-table. She told one girl her work was sloppy, and made her do the flower over. Then she stalked out as stiffly as she had come in. The complaining and low laughter began again. Really, young ladies, said Madame Lara, trying to look more severe than ever. You will force me to take measures. The work-girls paid no attention to her. They were not afraid of her. She was too easy going, because she enjoyed being surrounded by these young girls whose zest for life sparkled in their eyes. She enjoyed taking them aside to hear their confidences about their lovers. She even told their fortunes with cards whenever a corner of the work-table was free. She was only offended by coarse expressions. As long as you avoided those, you could say what you pleased. To tell the truth, Nana perfected her education in nice style in the work-room. No doubt she was inclined to go wrong, but this was the finishing stroke, associating with a lot of girls who were already worn out with misery and vice. They all hobnobbed and rotted together, just the story of the baskets of apples when there are rotten ones among them. They maintained a certain propriety in public, but the smut flowed freely when they got to whispering together in a corner. For inexperienced girls like Nana, there was an undesirable atmosphere around the workshop, an air of cheap dance halls, and unorthodox evenings brought in by some of the girls. The laziness of mornings after a gay night, the shadows under the eyes, the lounging, the hoarse voices all spread an odor of dark perversion over the work-table, which contrasted sharply with the brilliant fragility of the artificial flowers. Nana eagerly drank it all in, and was dizzy with joy when she found herself beside a girl who had been around. She always wanted to sit next to Big Lisa, who was said to be pregnant, and she kept glancing curiously at her neighbor, as though expecting her to swell up suddenly. It's hot enough to make one stifle, Nana said, approaching a window as if to draw the blind father down, but she lent forward and again looked out both to the right and left. At the same moment, Leonie, who was watching a man stationed at the foot of the pavement over the way, exclaimed, What's that old fellow about? He's been spying here for the last quarter of an hour. Some Tomcat, said Madam Lara. Nana, just come and sit down. I told you not to stand at the window. End of first part of Chapter 11, Recording by David Lazarus, Section 50 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 David Lazarus. La Samoire by Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Second part of Chapter 11. Nana took up the stems of some violets she was rolling, and the whole workroom turned its attention to the man in question. He was a well-dressed individual wearing a frock coat, and he looked about fifty years old. He had a pale face, very serious and dignified in expression, framed round with a well-trimmed grey beard. He remained for an hour in front of the herbalist's shop, with his eyes fixed on the venetian blinds of the workroom. The flower-girls indulged in little bursts of laughter, which died away amidst the noise of the street, and while leaning forward to all appearance busy with their work, they glanced to scant so as not to lose sight of the gentleman. The remarked Leonie.  He's waiting for Augustine, no doubt.  That is a great mistake on your part, my dear. The old ones are more affectionate.  That's it, all that's it, she stammered.  What did she say? What did she say? asked the whole workroom, a glow with curiosity. Leonie wiped the tears from her eyes without answering, then she became somewhat calmer. She began curling her flowers again and declared, It can't be repeated. The others insisted, but she shook her head, seized again with a gust of gaiety. Thereupon Augustine, her left-hand neighbour, besought her to whisper it to her, and finally Leonie consented to do so with her lips close to Augustine's ear. Augustine threw herself back and wriggled with convulsive laughter in her turn. Then she repeated the phrase to her girl next to her, and from ear to ear it travelled round the room amid exclamations and stifled laughter. When they were all of them acquainted with Sophie's disgusting remark, they looked at one another and burst out laughing together, although a little flushed and confused. Madam Laura alone was not in the secret, and she felt extremely vexed. That's very impolite behaviour on your part, young ladies, said she. It is not right to whisper when other people are present. Something indecent, no doubt. That's becoming. She did not dare go so far as to ask them to pass Sophie's remark on to her, although she burned to hear it, so she kept her eyes on her work, amusing herself by listening to the conversation. Now no one could make even an innocent remark without the others twisting it around and connecting it with the gentleman on the sidewalk. Madam Laura herself once sent them into convulsions of laughter when she said, Madam Zell-Lisa, my fire's gone out. Pass me yours. O Madam Laura's fire's gone out! laughed the whole shop. They refused to listen to any explanation, but maintained they were going to call in the gentleman outside to rekindle Madam Laura's fire. However, the gentleman over the way had gone off. The room grew calmer and the work was carried on in the sultry heat. When twelve o'clock struck, mealtime, they all shook themselves. Nana, who had hastened to the window again, volunteered to do the errands, if they liked, and lay a knee, ordered two sous-worth of shrimps.  Then, as Nana was going down the stairs, Madam Laura, who found her partiality for the window that morning rather curious, overtook her with long legs. Wait a bit, said she. I'll go with you. I want to buy something, too. But in the passage below she perceived the gentleman, stuck there like a candle and exchanging glances with Nana. The girl flushed very red, whereupon her aunt had once caught her by the arm and made her trot over the pavement, whilst the individual followed behind. Ah, so the tonquet had come for Nana. Well, that was nice. At fifteen years and a half to have men trailing after her. Then Madam Laura hastily began to question her. What, dear? Nana didn't know. He had only been following her for five days, but she could not poke her nose out of doors without stumbling on men. She believed he was in business. Yes, a manufacturer of bone buttons. Madam Laura was greatly impressed. She turned around and glanced at the gentleman out of the corner of her eye. One can see he's got a deep purse, she muttered. Listen to me, kitten. You must tell me everything. You have nothing more to fear now. While speaking may hasten from shop to shop, to the pork butchers, the fruiterers, the cook-shop, and the errands in greasy paper were piled up in their hands. Still they remained amiable, flouncing along and casting bright glances behind them with gusts of gay laughter. Madam Laura herself was acting the young girl on account of the button manufacturer, who was still following them. He is very distinguished-looking, she declared, as they returned into the passage. If he only has honorable views, then, as they were going up the stairs, she suddenly seemed to remember something. By the way, tell me what the girls were whispering to each other, you know what Sophie said. Nana did not make any ceremony, only she caught Madam Laura by the hand and caused her to descend a couple of steps, for really it wouldn't do to say it out loud, not even on the stairs. When she whispered it to her, it was so obscene that Madam Laura could only shake her head, opening her eyes wide and pursing her lips. Well, at least her curiosity wasn't troubling her any longer. From that day forth, Madam Laura regalled herself with her niece's first love adventure. She no longer left her, but accompanied her morning and evening, bringing her responsibility well to the fore. This somewhat annoyed Nana, but all the same she expanded with pride at seeing herself guarded like a treasure, and the talk she and her aunt indulged in, in the street with the button manufacturer behind them, flattered her, and rather quickened her desire for new flirtations. Oh, her aunt understood the feelings of the heart. She even compassionate the button manufacturer, this elderly gentleman who looks so respectable, for after all, sentimental feelings are more deeply rooted among people of a certain age. Still she watched, and yes, he would have to pass over her body before stealing her niece. One evening she approached the gentleman and told him as straight as a bullet that his conduct was most improper. He bowed to her politely without answering, like an old satyr who was accustomed to hear parents tell him to go about his business. She really could not be cross with him. He was too well-mannered.  One day, however, in the Urudu for Burg Poisonier, the button manufacturer ventured to poke his nose between the aunt and the niece to whisper something which ought not to have been said, whereupon Madame Lara was so frightened that she declared she no longer felt able to handle the matter, and she told the whole business to her brother. Then came another row. There were some pretty rumpuses in the cupo's room. To begin with, the zinc worker gave Nana a hiding. What was that that he learnt? The hussy was flirting with old men. All right, only let her be caught for landering out of doors again she'd be done for.   Thereupon he shook her, declaring in God's name that she'd have to walk straight, for he'd watch her himself in future. He now looked her over every night when she came in, even going so far as to sniff at her and make her turn round before him. One evening she got another hiding because he discovered a mark on her neck that he maintained was the mark of a kiss. Nana insisted it was a bruise that Leonie had given her when they were having a bit of a rough house, yet at other times her father would tease her, saying she was certainly a choice morsel for men. Nana began to display the sullen submissiveness of a trapped animal. She was raging inside. Why don't you leave her alone, repeated jovets, who was more reasonable. You will end up by making a wish to do it by talking to her about it so much. Ah, yes indeed, she did wish to do it. She itched all over, longing to break loose and gad all the time, as Father Kupo said. He insisted so much on the subject that even an honest girl would have fired up. Even when he was abusing her he taught her a few things she did not know as yet, which to say the least was astonishing.   It was rice powder, which she plastered on her delicate satin-light skin with perverse taste.  On another occasion she brought some ribbon-home to do up her all-black hat, which she was so ashamed of. He asked her in a furious voice where she had got those ribbons from. Had she earned them by lying on her back, or had she bagged them somewhere, a hussy or a thief, and perhaps both by now. More than once he found it with some pretty little doodad. She had found a little interlaced heart in the street on Rue d'Abuquil. Her father crushed the heart under his foot, driving her to the verge of throwing herself at him to ruin something of his. For two years she had been longing for one of those hearts and now he had smashed it. This was too much. She was reaching the end of the line with him. Coupeau was often in the wrong in the manner in which he tried to rule Nanna. His injustice exasperated her. She had last left off, attending the workshop, and when the zinc worker gave her a hiding she declared she would not return to Titreville again, for she was always placed next to Augustine, who must have swallowed her feet to have such a foul breath. Then Coupeau took her himself to the Rue d'Aquil and requested the mistress of the establishment to place her always next to Augustine by way of punishment. Every morning, for a fortnight, he took the trouble to come down from the Barrière Poissonnière to escort Nanna to the door of the flower shop, and he remained for five minutes on the footway to make sure that she had gone in. About one morning while he was drinking a glass with a friend in a wine shop in the Rue Saint-Denis, he perceived the hussy darting down the street. For a fortnight she had been deceiving him. Instead of going into the workroom, she climbed a storey higher and sat down on the stairs, waiting till he had gone. When Coupeau began casting the blame on Madame L'Arra, the latter flatly replied that she would not accept it. She had told her niece all she ought to tell her to keep her on her guard against men, and it was not her fault if the girl still had a liking for the nasty beasts. Now she washed her hands of the whole business. She swore she would not mix up in it, for she knew what she knew about scandal mongers in her own family, yes, certain persons who had the nerve to accuse her of going astray with Nanna, and finding an indecent pleasure in watching her take her first misstep. Then Coupeau found out from the proprietress that Nanna had been corrupted by that little flusy Leonie, who had given up flower-making to go on the street. Nanna was being tempted by the jingle of cash and the lure of adventure on the streets. In the tenement in the Rue de la Goutte d'Or, Nanna's old fellow was talked about as a gentleman everyone was acquainted with. Oh, he remained very polite, even a little timid, but awfully obstinate and patient, following her ten paces behind like an obedient poodle. Sometimes, indeed, he ventured into the courtyard. One evening, Madame Gaudraum met him in the second-floor landing, and he glided down alongside the balusters with his nose lowered, and looking as if on fire, but frightened. The Laurier threatened to move out if that wayward niece of theirs brought men trailing in after her. It was disgusting. The staircase was full of them. The Bosch said that they felt sympathy for the old gentleman because he had fallen for a tramp. He was really a respectable businessman. They had seen his button factory on the Boulevard de la Viette. He would be an excellent catch for a decent girl. For the first month Nanna was greatly amused with her old flirt. You should have seen him always dogging her, a perfect great nuisance who followed far behind in the crowd without seeming to do so. And his legs, regular lucifers, no more moss on his paint, only four straight hairs falling on his neck, so that she was always tempted to ask him where his hairdresser lived. What an old gaffer. He was comical and no mistake, nothing to get excited over. Then, on finding him always behind her, she no longer thought him so funny. She became afraid of him and would have called out if he had approached her. Often, when she stopped in front of a jeweler's shop, she heard him stammering something behind her. And what he said was true. She would have liked to have a cross with a velvet neckband or a pair of coral earrings so small you would have thought they were drops of blood. More and more, as she plodded through the mire of the streets, getting splashed by passing vehicles and being dazzled by the magnificence of the window displays, she felt longings that tortured her like hunger pangs, yearning for better clothes, for eating in restaurants, for going to the theatre, for a room of her own with nice furniture. Right at those moments, it never failed that her old gentleman would come up to whisper something in her ear. Oh, if only she wasn't afraid of him, how readily she would have taken up with him. When the winter arrived, life became impossible at home. Nana had her every night. When her father was tired of beating her, her mother smacked her to teach her how to behave. And they were free for all, as soon as one of them began to beat her, the other took her part, so that all three of them ended up by rolling on the floor in midst of the broken crockery. And with all this, there were short rations, and they shivered with cold. Whenever the girl brought anything pretty, a bow or a pair of buttons, her parents confiscated the purchase and drank what they could get for it. She had nothing of her own, except her allowance of blows before coiling herself up between the rags of a sheet where she shivered under her little black skirt which she stretched out by way of a blanket. No, that cursed life could not continue. She was not going to leave her skin in it. Her father had long since ceased to count for her when her father gets drunk like hers did. He isn't a father, but a dirty beast one longs to be rid of.  She drank as well. She liked to go and fetch her husband at Pair Colombs, so as to be treated, and she willingly sat down with none of the air of disgust that she had assumed on the first occasion, draining glasses indeed at one gulp, dragging her elbows over the table for hours, and leaving the place with her eyes starting out of her head. End of Second Part of Chapter 11, Recording by David Lazarus Section 51 of La Samoa. 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 David Lazarus La Samoa by Emile Zola Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli Third Part of Chapter 11 When Nana passed in front of La Samoa and saw her mother inside with her nose in her glass, fuddled in the midst of the disputing men, she was seized with anger. For youth which has other dainty thoughts uppermost does not understand drink. On these evenings it was a pretty sight, father drunk, mother drunk, a hell of a home that stunk with liquor, and where there was no bread, to tell the truth that saint would not have stayed in the place. So much the worse if she flew the coop one of these days, her parents would have to say they're Mayor Culper, and own that they had driven her out themselves. One Saturday when Nana came home, she found her father and her mother in a lamentable condition. Cupeau, who had fallen across the bed, was snoring.  She had forgotten to warm the dinner, the remains of a stew. A tallow-dib, which she neglected to snuff, revealed the shameful misery of their hovel. It's you, shrimp? Stammer Gervais. Ah, well, your father will take care of you. Nana did not answer but remained pale, looking at the cold stove, the table on which no plates were laid, the lugubrious hovel which this pair of drunkards invested with the pale horror of their callousness. She did not take off her hat but walked around the room. Then with her teeth tightly set, she opened the door and went outside. You're going down again? asked her mother, who was unable even to turn her head. Yes, I've forgotten something. I shall come up again. Good evening. And she did not return. On the morrow, when the Cupeau were sobered, they fought together, reproaching each other with being the cause of Nana's flight. Ah, she was far away, if she was running still. As children are told of sparrows, her parents might set a pinch of salt on her tail, and then perhaps they would catch her. It was a great blow and crush of ease, for despite the impairment of her faculties, she realized perfectly well that her daughter's misconduct lowered her still more. She was alone now, with no child to think about, able to let herself sink as low as she could fall. She drank steadily for three days. Cupeau prowled along the exterior boulevards without seeing Nana, and then came home to smoke his pipe peacefully. He was always back in time for his soup. In this tenement where girls flew off every month like canaries whose cages are left open, no one was astonished to hear the Cupeau's mishap. But the Laurier were triumphant. Ah, they had predicted that the girl would reward her parents in this fashion. It was deserved. All artificial flower girls went that way. The boss and the poisson also sneered, with an extraordinary display and outplay of grief. Lontier alone covertly defended Nana. Montieur said he with his puritanical air, no doubt a girl whose soul left her home did offend her parents, but with a gleam in the corner of his eyes he added, that dash it. The girl was, after all, too pretty to lead such a life of misery at her age. Do you know, cried Madame Laurier, one day in the boss' room where the party were taking coffee, while a surest daylight clunk-clump sold her daughter. Yes, she sold her, and I have proof of it. That old fellow who was always on the stairs morning and night went up to pay something on account. It stares one in the face. They were seen together at the Ambigu Theatre. The young wench and her old tomcat, upon my word of honour they're living together, it's quite plain. They discussed the scandal thoroughly while finishing their coffee. Yes, it was quite possible. Soon most of the neighbourhood accepted the conclusion that Gervais had actually sold her daughter. Gervais now shuffled along in her slippers, without carrying a wrap for anyone. You might have called her a thief in the street. She wouldn't have turned round. For a month past she hadn't looked at Madame Fourconier's. The latter had to turn her out of the place to avoid disputes. In a few weeks' time she had successively entered the service of eight washer-women. She only lasted two or three days in each place before she got the sack.  At last realising her own incapacity, she abandoned ironing, and went out washing by the day at the wash-house in Runeuve, where she's still jogged on, floundering about in the water, fighting with filth, reduced to the roughest but simplest work. A bit lower on the downhill slopes. The wash-house scarcely beautified her. A real mud-splash dog, when she came out of it, soaked and showing her blue skin. At the same time she grew stouter and stouter, despite her frequent dances before the empty sideboard, and her leg became so crooked that she could no longer walk besides anyone without the risk of knocking him over, so great indeed was her limp. Naturally enough, when a woman falls to this point, all her pride leaves her. Gervais had divested herself of all her old self-respect, cockatry and need of sentiment, proprietary and politeness. You might have kicked her, no matter where she did not feel kicks, for she had become too fat and flabby. Launtier had all together neglected her, he no longer escorted her, or even bothered to give her a pinch now and again. She did not seem to notice this finish of a long liaison slowly spun out and ending in mutual insolence. It was at sure the last for her. Even Launtier's intimacy with Virginie left her quite calm, so great was her indifference now for all that she had been so upset about in the past. She would even have held a candle for them now. Everyone was aware that Virginie and Launtier were carrying on. It was much too convenient, especially with Poisson on duty every other night. Launtier had thought of himself when he advised Virginie to deal in dainties. He was too much of a provincial not to adore sugar things, and in fact he would have lived off sugar, candy, lozenges, pastils, sugar plums, and chocolate. Sugar almonds especially left a little froth on his lips, so keenly did they tickle his palette. For a year he had been living only on sweetmeats. He opened the drawers and stuffed himself whenever Virginie asked him to mind the shop. Often, when he was talking in the presence of five or six other people, he would take the lid off a jar on the counter, dip his hand into it, and begin to nibble at something sweet. The glass jar remained open, and its contents diminished. People ceased paying attention to it. It was a mania of his, so he had declared. Besides, he had devised a perpetual cold, an irritation of the throat, which he always talked of calming. He still did not work, for he had more and more important schemes than ever in view. He was contriving a superb invention, the umbrella hat, a hat which transformed itself into an umbrella on your head as soon as a shower commenced to fall, and he promised Passeur half shares in the profit of it, and even borrowed twenty franc pieces of him to defray the cost of experiments. Meanwhile, the shop melted away on his tongue. All the stock in trade followed suit down to the chocolate cigars and pipes in pink caramel. Whenever he was stuffed with sweetmeats and seized with a fit of tenderness, he paid himself with a last lick on the gross rest in a corner, who found him all sugar with lips which tasted like burned almonds. Such a delightful man to kiss. He was positively becoming all honey. The boss said he merely had to dip a finger into his coffee to sweeten it. Softened by this perpetual dessert, Laundier showed himself paternal towards Gervais. He gave her advice and scolded her because she no longer liked to work. Indeed, a woman of her age ought to know how to turn herself round, and he accused her of having always been a glutton. Nevertheless, as one ought to hold out a helping hand even to folks who don't deserve it, he tried to find her a little work. Thus he had prevailed upon Virginie to let Gervais come once a week to scrub the shop and the rooms. That was the sort of thing she understood, and on each occasion she earned thirty sous. Gervais arrived on the Saturday morning with a pail and a scrubbing brush, without seeming to suffer in the least at having to perform a dirty humble duty, a charwoman's work in the dwelling place where she had reigned as the beautiful fair-haired mistress. It was the last humiliation, the end of her pride. One Saturday she had a hard job of it. It had reigned for three days, and the customers seemed to have brought all the mud of the neighborhood into the shop on the soles of their boots. Virginie was at the counter doing the grand with her hair well combed, and wearing a little white collar and her pair of lace cuffs. Beside her on the narrow seat, covered with red oil cloth, Launtier did the dandy, looking for the world as if he were at home, as if he were the real master of the place, and from time to time he carelessly dipped his hand into a jar of peppermint drops, just to nibble something sweet according to his habit. Look here, Madame Couple, cried Virginie, who was watching the scrubbing with compressed lips. You have left some dirt over there in the corner. Scrub that rather better, please. Chavez obeyed. She returned to the corner and began to scrub again. She bent double on her knees in the midst of the dirty water with her shoulders protruding, her arms stiff and purple with cold.   Virginie, who sat back with the demeanor of a princess, her eyes partly open, was still watching the scrubbing and indulging in remarks. A little more on the right there. Take care of the wainscot. You know, I was not very well pleased last Saturday. There were some stains left. And both together, the hatter and the grosseress assumed a more important air, as if they had been on a throne while Chavez dragged herself through the black mud at their feet. Virginie must have enjoyed herself, for her yellowish flame darted from her cat's eyes, and she looked at Launtier with an insidious smile. At last she was revenged for that hide in she had received at the wash-house, and which she had never forgotten. Whenever Chavez ceased scrubbing, a sound of soaring could be heard from the back room. Through the open doorway Poisson's profile stood out against the pale light of the courtyard. He was off duty that day, and was profiting by his leisure time to indulge in his mania for making little boxes. He was seated at a table, and was cutting out out of basks in the cigar-box with extraordinary care. Say, Bading, cried Launtier, who had given him this surname again out of friendship, I shall want that box of yours as a present for a young lady. Virginie gave him a pinch, and he reached under the counter to run his fingers like a creeping mouse up her leg. Quite so, said the policeman, I was working for you, Auguste in view of presenting you with a token of friendship. Ah, if that's the case, I'll keep your little memento, rejoin Launtier with a laugh, I'll hang it round my neck with a ribbon. Then, suddenly, as if this thorn brought another one to his memory, by the way, he cried, I met Nana last night. This news caused Jovay such emotion that she sunk down in the dirty water which covered the floor of the shop. Ah, she muttered speechlessly. Yes, as I was going down the rue de Matwe, I caught sight of a girl who was on the arm of an old fellow in front of me, and I said to myself, I know that shape. I stepped faster and sure enough found myself face to face with Nana. There's no need to pity her, she looked very happy with her pretty woolen dress on her back, her gold cross and an awfully pert expression. Ah, repeated Jovay's in a husky voice. Launtier, who had just finished the pastils, took some barley sugar out of another jar. She's sneaky, he resumed. She made a sign to me to follow her with wonderful composure. Then she left her old fellow somewhere in the cafe. Oh, a wonderful chap, the bloke quite used to it. And she came and joined me under the doorway, a pretty little serpent, pretty and doing the grand, and falling on you like a little dog. Yes, she kissed me, and wanted to have news of everyone. I was very pleased to meet her. Oh, said Jovay's for the third time, she drew herself together and still waited. Hadn't her daughter had a word for her, then? In the silence Poisson saw could be heard again.  Well, if I saw her, I should go over to the other side of the street. Interpose Virginie, who had just pinched the hat her again most ferociously. It isn't because you are there, Madame Coupeau, but your daughter is rotten to the core. Why, every day Poisson arrests girls who are better than she is. Jovay said nothing, nor did she move, her eyes staring into space. She ended by jerking her head to and fro, as if an answer to her thoughts, whilst the hat her with her gluttonous mienne muttered. Ah, her man wouldn't mind getting a bit of indigestion from that sort of rottenness. It's as tender as chicken.   Thereupon she laughed at him, good-naturedly, and turned all her anger against Jovay's. Just make haste, eh? The work doesn't do itself while you remain stuck there like at street post. Come, look alive, I don't want to flounder about in the water till night time. And she added hatefully in a lower tone. It's not my fault if her daughter's gone and left her. End of third part of chapter 11. Fourth part of chapter 11. No doubt Jovay's did not hear. She had begun to scrub the floor again with her back bent and dragging herself along with a frog-like motion. She still had to sweep the dirty water out into the gutter, and then do the final rinsing. After a pause, Launtier, who felt bored, raised his voice again. Do you know, badang? he cried. I met your boss yesterday in a rude rivoli. He looked awfully down in the mouth. He hasn't six months' life left in his body. Ha! After all were the life he leads. He was talking about the emperor. The policeman did not raise his eyes, but curtly answered, If you were the government, you wouldn't be so fat. Oh, my dear fellow, if I were the government, rejoined the hatter, suddenly affecting an air of gravity, things would go on rather better. I give you my word for it. Thus, there foreign policy. Why, for some time past it has been enough to make a fellow sweat.  He was growing animated, and as he finished crunching his barley-sugar, he opened a draw from which he took a number of jujubes, which he swallowed while gesticulating. That's quite simple. Before anything else, I should give Poland her independence again, and I should establish a great Scandinavian state to keep the giant of the north at bay. Then I should make a republic out of all the little German states, as for England. She is scarcely to be feared, if she budged ever so little, I should send a hundred thousand men to India. And to that I should send the sultan back to Mecca and the Pope to Jerusalem, belaboring their backs with a butt-end of a rifle. Eh? Europe would soon be clean. Kamberdank, just look here. He paused to take five or six jujubes in his hand, why it wouldn't take longer than to swallow these. And he threw one jujube after another into his open mouth. The emperor has another plan, said the policeman, after reflecting for a couple of minutes. Oh, forget it, rejoin the hatter. We know what his plan is. All Europe is laughing at us. Every day the Tuileries footmen find your boss under the table between a couple of high society flusies. Poisson rose to his feet.  Disgust, but don't evolve personalities. Thereupon Virginie intervened, fitting them stop their row. She didn't care a fig for Europe. How could two men who shared everything else always be disputing about politics? For a minute they mumbled some indistinct words. Then the policeman, in view of showing that he harbored no spite, produced the cover of his little box, which he had just finished. It bore the inscription in Market Tree, to Auguste, a token of friendship. Laundier, feeling exceedingly flattered, lounged back and spread himself out so that he almost sat upon Virginie.  But all the same, at moments the red hairs of his moustache stood up on end of their own accord in a very singular fashion, which would have alarmed any man who was less sure of his business than the hatter. This beast of a laundier had the quiet cheek which pleases ladies.  As a rule he was stealthily prudent, but when he had been disputing about politics he risked everything, so as to show the wife his superiority. These gloating caresses, cheekily stolen behind the policeman's back, revenged him on the empire which had turned France into a house of quarrels. Only on this occasion he had forgotten Gervais' presence. She had just finished rinsing and wiping the shop, and she stood near the counter waiting for her thirtysoul. However, the kiss on Virginie's eye left her perfectly calm, as being quite natural, and as part of a business she had no right to mix herself up in. Virginie seemed rather vexed.  The latter did not budge, but stood there waiting, still palpitating with the effort she had made in scrubbing, and looking as soaked and as ugly as a dogfished out of the sewer. Then she didn't tell you anything. She asked the hatter at last. Oh, he cried. Oh yes, you mean Nana. No, nothing else.  Gervais went off with her thirtysoul in her hand. The holes in her shoes spat water forth like pumps. There were real musical shoes, and played a tune as they left moist traces of their broad souls along the pavement. In the neighborhood the feminine tiplas of her own class now related that she drank to console herself for her daughter's misconduct. She herself, when she gulped down her dram of spirits on the counter, assumed a dramatic air and tossed the liquor into her mouth, wishing it would do for her. And on the days when she came home boozed, she stammered that it was all through grief. But honest folks shrugged their shoulders. They knew what that meant, ascribing the effects of the peppery fire of lasso-moire to grief, indeed. At all events she ought to have called it bottle grief. No doubt at the beginning she couldn't digest Nana's flight. All the honest feelings remaining in her revolted at the thought, and besides as a rule a mother doesn't like to have to think that her daughter, at that very moment perhaps is being familiarly addressed by the first chance comer.  With her it came and went. She remained sometimes for a week together without thinking of her daughter, and then suddenly a tender or an angry feeling seized hold of her, sometimes when she had her stomach empty, at others when it was full. A furious longing to catch Nana in some corner where she would perhaps have kissed her or perhaps have beaten her, according to the fancy of the moment. Whenever these thoughts came over her, Gervais looked on all sides in the street with the eyes of a detective. Ah, if she had only seen her little sinner, how quickly she would have brought her home again. The neighborhood was being turned topsy-turvy that year. The boulevard Magenta and the boulevard Ornano were being pierced. They were doing away with the old barrière Poissonnière and cutting right through the outer boulevard. The district could not be recognized. The whole of one side of the rue de Poissonnière had been pulled down. From the rue de la Goutte d'Or, a large clearing could be seen, a dash of sunlight and open air, and in place of the gloomy buildings which had hidden the view in this direction, there rose up on a boulevard Ornano a perfect monument, a six-storied house carved all over like a church, with clear windows, which with their embroidered curtains seemed symbolical of wealth. This white house standing just in front of the street illuminated it with a jet of light as it were, and every day it caused discussions between Laundier and Poissonnière. Gervais had several times had tidings of Nana. There are always ready tongues anxious to pay you a sorry compliment. Yes, she had been told that the Hussie had left her old gentleman, just like the inexperienced girl she was. She had gotten along famously with him, petted a door and free, too, if she had only known how to manage the situation. But youth is foolish, and she had no doubt gone off with some young rake. No one knew exactly where. What seemed certain was that one afternoon she had left her old fellow on the Place de la Bastille, just for half a minute, and he was still waiting for her to return. Other persons swore they had seen her since dancing on her heels at the Grand Hall of Folly in the Rue de la Chapelle. Then it was that Gervais took it into her head to frequent all the dancing places of the neighborhood. She did not pass in front of a public ballroom without going in. Coupeau accompanied her. At first they merely made the round of the room, looking at the drabs who were jumping about. But one evening, as they had some coin, they sat down and ordered a large bowl of hot wine in view of regaling themselves and waiting to see if Nana would turn up. At the end of a month or so, they had practically forgotten her, but they frequented the halls for their own pleasure. Liking to look at the dancers, they would remain for hours without exchanging a word, resting their elbows on the table, stultified amidst the quaking of the floor, and yet no doubt amusing themselves as they stared with pale eyes at the barrière women in their stifling atmosphere and ruddy glow of the hall. It happened one November evening that they went into the grand hall of Folly to warm themselves. Out of doors a sharp wind cut you across the face, but the hall was crammed. There was a thundering big swarm inside, people at all the tables, people in the middle, people up above, quite an amount of flash. Yes, those who cared for tribes could enjoy themselves. When they had made the round twice without finding a vacant table, they decided to remain standing and wait till somebody went off. Coupo was teetering on his legs in a dirty blouse with an old cloth cap, which had lost its peak, flattened down on his head. And as he blocked the way, he saw a scraggly young fellow who was wiping his coat sleeve after elbowing him.   The young man turned round and looked at the zinc worker from head to foot. I'll teach you, you scraggly young scamp, continued Coupo, that the blouse is the finest garment out, yes, the garment of work. I'll wipe you if you like with my fists. Did one ever hear of such a thing? A near do well insulting a workman. Gervais tried to calm him, but in vain he drew himself up in his rags in full view, and struck his blouse, roaring, There's a man's chest under that. Thereupon the young man dived into the midst of the crowd, muttering, What a dirty blaggard! Coupo wanted to follow and catch him. He wasn't going to let himself be insulted by a fellow with a coat on. Probably it wasn't even paid for, some secondhand togery to impress a girl with, without having to fork out a sortime. If he caught the chap again, he'd bring him down on his knees and make him bow to the blouse. But the crush was too great, there was no means of walking. He and Gervais turned slowly round the dancers. There were three rows of sightseers packed close together, whose faces lighted up whenever any of the dancers showed off. As Coupo and Gervais were both short, they raised themselves up on tiptoe, tried to see something besides the chignon and hats that were bobbing about. The cracked brass instruments of the orchestra were furiously thundering a quadril, a perfect tempest which made the hall shake. While the dancers striking the floor with their feet raised a cloud of dust which dimmed the brightness of the gas. The heat was unbearable. Look there, said Gervais suddenly. Look at what? Why, at that velvet hat over there! They raised themselves up on tiptoe. On the left hand there was an old black velvet hat, trimmed with ragged feathers bobbing about, regular hearse's plumes. It was dancing a devil of a dance this hat, bouncing and whirling round, diving down and then springing up again. Coupo and Gervais lost sight of it as the people round about moved their heads, but then suddenly they saw it again, swaying farther off with such droll effrontery that folks laughed merely at the sight of this dancing hat, without knowing what was underneath it. Well, asked Coupo, don't you recognize that head of hair muttered Gervais in a stifled voice? May my head be cut off if it isn't her. With one shove the zinc worker made his way through the crowd. Mon Dieu, yes, it was none, and in a nice pickle too. She had nothing on her back but an old silk dress, all stained and sticky from having wiped the tables of boozing dens, and with its flounces so torn that they fell in tatters round about. Not even a bit of a shawl over her shoulders, and to think that the hussy had had such an attentive loving gentleman, and had yet fallen to this condition merely for the sake of following some rascal who had beaten her, no doubt. Nevertheless, she had remained fresh and insolent with her hair as frizzy as a poodles, and her mouth bright pink under that rascally hat of hers. Just wait a bit, I'll make her dance, resumed Coupo. Naturally enough Nana was not on her guard. You should have seen how she wriggled about. She twisted to the right and to the left, bending double as if she were going to break herself in two, and kicking her feet as high as her partner's face. A circle had formed about her, and this excited her even more. She raised her skirts to her knees and really let herself go in a wild dance, whirling and turning, dropping to the floor in splits, and then jigging and bouncing. Coupo was trying to force his way through the dancers, and was disrupting the quadril. I tell you, it's my daughter, he cried. Let me pass. Nana was now dancing backwards, sweeping the floor with her flounces, rounding her figure and wriggling it, so as to look all the more tempting. She suddenly received a masterly blow just on the right cheek. She raised herself up and turned quite pale on recognizing her father and mother. Bad luck and no mistake. Turn him out, howled the dancers. But Coupo had just recognized his daughter's cavalier as the scraggy young man in the coat did not care a fig for what the people said. Yes, it's us, he roared.  Gervais, whose teeth were tight set, pushed him aside, exclaiming, shut up, there's no need of so much explanation. And stepping forward, she dealt Nana a couple of hearty cuffs. The first knocked down the feathered hat on one side, and the second left a red mark on the girl's white cheek. Nana was too stupefied either to cry or resist. The orchestra continued playing. The crowd grew angry and repeated savagely, turn them out, turn them out. Come, make haste to presume Gervais.  You shall sleep in prison if you do. The scraggy young man had prudently disappeared. Nana walked ahead very stiff and still stupefied by her bad luck. Whenever she showed the least unwillingness, a cuff from behind brought her back to the direction of the door, and thus they went out, all three of them, amidst the jeers and banter of the spectators, whilst the orchestra finished playing the finale with such thunder that the trombones seemed to be spitting bullets. End of fourth part of chapter 11 Recording by David Lazarus Section 53 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 David Lazarus La Samoire by Emile Zola Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli Fifth part of chapter 11 The old life began again. After sleeping for 12 hours in her closet, Nana behaved very well for a week or so. She had patched herself a modest little dress, and wore a cap with the strings tied under her chignon. Seized indeed with remarkable fervour, she declared she would work at home, where one could earn what one liked without hearing any nasty workroom talk, and she procured some work and installed herself at a table, getting up at five o'clock in the morning on the first few days to roll her sprigs of violets. But when she had delivered a few gross, she stretched her arms and yawned over her work with her hands cramped, for she had lost her knack of stem-rolling and suffocated shut up like this at home after allowing herself so much open-air freedom during the last six months. Then the glue dried, the petals and the green paper got stained with grease, and the flower dealer came three times in person to make a row and claim his spoiled materials. Nana idled along, constantly getting a hiding from her father and wrangling with her mother morning and night, quarrels in which the two women flung horrible words at each other's heads. It couldn't last. The twelfth day she took herself off, with no more luggage than her modest dress on her back and her cap perched over one ear. The laurel who had pursed their lips on hearing of her return and repentance nearly died of laughter now. Second performance, eclipse number two, all aboard for the train for Salazar, the prison hospital for street walkers? No, it was really too comical. Nana took herself off in such an amusing style. Well, if the Coupo wanted to keep her in the future, they must shut her up in a cage. In the presence of other people, the Coupo pretended they were very glad to be rid of the girl, though in reality they were enraged. However, rage can't last forever, and soon they heard without even blinking that Nana was seen in the neighborhood. Gervais, who accused her of doing it to enrage them, set herself above the scandal. She might meet her daughter on the street, she said. She wouldn't even dirty her hand to cuff her. Yes, it was all over. She might have seen her lying in the gutter, dying on the pavement, and she would have passed by without even admitting that such a hussy was her own child. Nana, meanwhile, was enlivening the dancing halls of the neighborhood. She was known from the Ball of Queen Blanche to the Great Hall of Folly. When she entered the Elise Montmartre, folks climbed onto the tables to see her do the sniffling crawfish during the pastorelle. As she had twice been turned out of the Chateau Rouge Hall, she walked outside the door waiting for someone she knew to escort her inside. The black ball on the other boulevard, and the grand turk in the rue de Poissonnier, were respectable places where she only went when she had some fine dress on. Of all the jumping places in the neighborhood, however, those she most preferred were the Hermitage Ball in a damp courtyard, and Robert's Ball in the Impasse de Cadreur.  Everyone pleased and everyone free, so much so that the men and their girls kissed each other at their ease in the dances without being disturbed. Nana had ups and downs, perfect transformations, now tricked out like a stylish woman, and now all dirt. Ah, she had a fine life. On several occasions, the couple fancied they saw her in some shady dive. They turned their backs and decamped in another direction, so as not to be obliged to recognize her. They didn't care to be laughed at by a whole dancing-hall again for the sake of bringing such adult home. One night, as they were going to bed, however, someone knocked at the door. It was Nana, who matter-of-factly came to ask for a bed, and in water state.  Such a toilette as might have made the police run her in and take her off to the depot. Naturally enough, she received a hiding, and then she gluttonously fell on a crust of stale bread and went to sleep worn out, with a last mouthful between her teeth. Then this sort of life continued. As soon as she was somewhat recovered, she would go off and not a sight or sound of her. Weeks or months would pass, and she would suddenly appear with no explanation. The couple got used to these comings and goings, well as long as she didn't leave the door open, what could you expect? There was only one thing that really bothered Jovais. This was to see her daughter come home in a dress with a train and her hat covered with feathers. No, she couldn't stomach this display. Nana might indulge in rioters living as she chose, but when she came home to her mother's, she ought to dress like a work girl. The dresses with trains caused quite a sensation in the house, the Laurier sneered. Laundier, whose mouth sneered, turned the girl round to sniff at her delicious aroma. The boss shared forbidden Pauline to associate with this baggage in her frippery, and Jovais was also angered by Nana's exhausted slumber when, after one of her adventures, she slept till noon with her chignon undone and still full of hairpins, looking so white and breathing so feebly that she seemed to be dead. Her mother shook her five or six times in the course of the morning, threatening to throw a jug full of water over her. The sight of this handsome lazy girl, half-naked and besotted with wine, exasperated her, as she saw her lying there. Sometimes Nana opened an eye, closed it again, and then stretched herself out all the more. One day, after reproaching her with the life she led and asking her if she had taken on an entire battalion of soldiers, Jovais put her threat into execution, to the extent of shaking her dripping hand over Nana's body. Quite infuriated, the girl pulled herself up in the sheet and cried out, That's enough, mama. It would be better not to talk of men, you did as you liked, and now I do the same. What? What? stammered the mother. Yes, I never spoke to you about it, for it didn't concern me, but you didn't used to be very fussy. I often saw you when we lived at the shop sneaking off as soon as papa started snoring, so just shut up. You shouldn't have set me the example. Jovais remained pale with trembling hands, turning round without knowing what she was about, while Nana flattened on her breast, embraced her pillow with both arms, and subsided into the torpor of her leaden slumber. Coupot growled no longer sane enough to think of launching out a whack. He was altogether losing his mind, and really there was no need to call him an unprincipled father, for liquor had deprived him of all consciousness of good and evil. Now it was a settled thing. He wasn't sober once in six months, then he was laid up and had to go into St. Anne Hospital, a pleasure trip for him. The lorryer said that the duke of bowel twister had gone to visit his estates. At the end of a few weeks he left the asylum, repaired, and set together again, and then he began to pull himself to bits once more, till he was down on his back and needed another mending. In three years he went seven times to St. Anne in this fashion. The neighborhood said that his cell was kept ready for him, but the worst of the matter was that this obstinate tipler demolished himself more and more each time, so that from relapse to relapse one could foresee the final tumble, the last cracking of this shaky cask, all the hoops of which were breaking away one after the other. At the same time he forgot to improve in appearance, a perfect ghost to look at. The poison was having terrible effects. By dint of imbibing alcohol his body shrank up like the embryos displayed in glass jars in chemical laboratories. When he approached a window you could see through his ribs so skinny had he become. Those who knew his age, only forty years just gone, shuddered when he passed by, bent and unsteady, looking as old as the streets themselves. And the trembling of his hands increased, the right one danced to such an extent that sometimes he had to take his glass between both fists to carry it to his lips. All that cursed trembling, it was the only thing that worried his adult brains. You could hear him growling ferocious insults against those hands of his. This last summer, during which Nana usually came home to spend her nights after she had finished knocking about, was especially bad for Kupo. His voice changed entirely as if liquor had set a new music in his throat. He became deaf in one ear. Then in a few days his sight grew dim, and he had to clutch hold of the stair railings to prevent himself from falling. As for his health, he had abominable headaches and dizziness. All on a sudden he was seized with acute pains in his arms and legs. He turned pale, was obliged to sit down, and remained on a chair witless for hours. Indeed, after one such attack, his arm remained paralyzed for the whole day. He took to his bed several times. He rolled himself up and hit himself under the sheet, breathing hard and continuously like a suffering animal. Then the strange scenes of St. Anne began again, suspicious and nervous, worried with a burning fever he rolled about in a mad rage, tearing his blouse and biting the furniture with his convulsed jaws, or else he sank into a great state of emotion, complaining like a child, sobbing and lamenting, because nobody loved him. One night, when Gervais and Nana returned home together, they were surprised not to find him in his bed. He had laid the bolster in his place, and when they discovered him, hiding between the bed and the wall, his teeth were chattering, and he related that some men had come to murder him. The two women were obliged to put him to bed again and quiet him like a child. Coupon knew only one remedy, to toss down a pint of spirits, a whack in his stomach which set him on his feet again. This was how he doctored his gripes of a morning. His memory had left him long ago, his brain was empty, and he no sooner found himself on his feet than he poked fun at illness. He had never been ill.  When Nana came home after gadding about for six weeks or so, he seemed to fancy she had returned from doing some errand in the neighborhood. Often when she was hanging on an acquaintance's arm, she met him and laughed at him without his recognizing her. In short, he no longer counted for anything. She might have sat down on him if she had been at a loss for a chair. When the first frosts came, Nana took herself off once more under the pretense of going to the fruiterers to see if there were any baked pears. She scented winter and didn't care to let her teeth chatter in front of the filer stove. The couple had called her no good, because they had waited for the pears. No doubt she would come back again. The other winter, she stayed away three weeks to fetch her father two sues worth of tobacco. But the months went by and the girl did not show herself. This time she must have indulged in a hard gallop. When June arrived, she did not even turn up with the sunshine. Eventually it was all over. She had found a new meal ticket somewhere or other. One day, when the couple were totally broke, they sold Nana's iron bedstead for six francs, which they drank together at Sawan. The bedstead had been in their way. One morning in July, Virginie called to Gervais, who was passing by, and asked her to lend a hand in washing up, for Lontier had entertained a couple of friends on the day before. And while Gervais was cleaning up the plates and dishes, greasy with the traces of the spread, the hatter, who was still digesting in the shop, suddenly called out, say, I saw Nana the other day. Virginie, who was seated at the counter, looked very care-worn in front of the jars and drawers, which were already three parts emptied, jerked her head furiously. She restrained herself so as not to say too much, but really it was angering her. Lontier was seeing Nana often. Oh, she was by no means sure of him. He was a man to do much worse than that. When a fancy for a woman came into his head, Madam Lara, very intimate just then with Virginie, who confided in her, had that moment entered the shop, and hearing Lontier's remark, she pouted ridiculously and asked, What do you mean you saw her? On the street here, answered the hatter, who felt highly flattered, and began to laugh and twirl his moustache. She was in a carriage, and I was floundering on the pavement. Really, it was so, I swear it. There's no use denying it. The young fellows of position who were on friendly terms with her terribly lucky.  Yes, she was in a carriage, and wore such a stylish dress, I didn't recognize her. She looked so much like a lady of the upper set, with her white teeth and her face as fresh as a flower. It was she who waved her glove to me. She has caught account, I believe. She's launched for good. She can afford to do without any of us. She's head over heels in happiness, the little beggar. What a love of a little kitten. Oh, you've no idea what a little kitten she is. Gervais was still wiping the same plate, although it had long since been clean and shiny. Virginie was reflecting anxious about her couple of bills which fell due on the morrow, and which she didn't know how to pay.  The shop which was already three parts eaten up smelled of ruin.  Suddenly on the pavement over the way, he perceived the policeman who was on duty passed by all buttoned up with his sword dangling by his side, and this made him all the gayer. He compelled Virginie to look at her husband. Dear me, he muttered, but Ang looks fine this morning. Just look how stiff he walks. He must have stuck a glass eye in his back to surprise people. When Gervais went back upstairs, she found Coupot seated on the bed, in the torpid state induced by one of his attacks. He was looking at the window-pains with his dim, expressionless eyes.  I've had some news, she muttered at last. Your daughter's been seen. Yes, your daughter's precious, stylish, and hasn't any more need of you. She's awfully happy she is. Mountier, I'd give a great deal to be in her place.   You're not yet so bad-looking when you wash yourself, as folks say. However old a pot may be, it dens by finding its lid, and, after all, I wouldn't care if it only buttered our bread. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. La Samoire by Emile Zola, translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Chapter 12. It must have been the Saturday after quarter-day, something like the 12th or 13th of January. Chavez didn't quite know. She was losing her wits, where it was centuries since she'd had anything warm in her stomach. Ah, what an infernal week, a complete clear-out. Two loaves of four pounds each on Tuesday, which had lasted till Thursday. Then a dry crust found the night before, and finally not a crumb for 36 hours, a real dance before the cupboard.  When winter and hunger are both together in your guts, you may tighten your belt as much as you like and hardly feeds you. Perhaps Cooper would bring back some money in the evening. He said that he was working. Anything is possible, isn't it? And Chavez, although she had been caught many and many a time, had ended by relying on this coin. After all sorts of incidents, she herself couldn't find as much of a duster to wash in the whole neighborhood, and even an old lady whose room she did had just given her the sack, charging her with the swilling her liqueurs. No one would engage her. She was washed up everywhere, and this secretly suited her, for she had fallen to that state of indifference, when one prefers to croak rather than move one's fingers. At all events, if Cooper brought his pay home, they would have something warm to eat. And meanwhile, as it wasn't yet noon, she remained stretched on the mattress, for one doesn't feel so cold or so hungry when one is lying down. The bed was nothing but a pile of straw in a corner. Bed and bedding had gone piece by piece to the second-hand dealers of the neighborhood. First, she had ripped open the mattress to sell handfuls of wool at 10 soos a pound. When the mattress was empty, she got 30 soos for the sack, so as to be able to have coffee. Everything else had followed. Well, wasn't the straw good enough for them? Charvert's bent herself like a gun trigger on the heap of straw, with her clothes on and her feet drawn up under her rag of a skirt, so as to keep them warm.  Ah, no, they couldn't continue living without food. She no longer felt her hunger, only she had a leaden weight on her chest, and her brain seemed empty.  The perfect kennel now, where greyhounds who wear wrappers in the street would not even have lived in effigy. Her pale eyes stared at the bare walls. Everything had long since gone to uncles. All that remained were the chest of drawers, the table, and a chair. Even the marble top of the chest of drawers and the drawers themselves had evaporated in the same direction as the bedstead. A fire could not have cleaned them out more completely. The little knick-knacks had melted, beginning with the ticker, the twelve-frank watch, down to the family photos, the frames of which had been bought by a woman keeping a second hand store. A very obliging woman, by the way, to whom Jarvez carried a saucepan, an iron, a comb, and who gave her five, three, or two sews in exchange, according to the article. Enough at all events to go upstairs again with a bit of bread. But now there only remained a broken pair of candle snuffers, which the woman refused to give her even a sue for. Oh, if she could only have sold the rubbish and refuse, the dust and the dirt, how speedily she would have opened shop, for the room was filthy to behold. She saw only cobwebs in the corners, and although cobwebs are good for cats, there are so far no merchants who buy them. Then turning her head, abandoning the idea of doing a bit of trade, Jarvez gathered herself together more closely on her straw, preferring to stare through the window at the snow-laden sky and the dreary daylight which froze the marrow in her bones. What a lot of worry, though, after all, what was the use of putting herself in such a state and puzzling her brains, if she had only been able to have a snooze, but her whole of her home wouldn't go out of her mind. Monsieur Marisco, the landlord, had come in person the day before to tell them that he would turn them out into the street if the two-quarters rent, now overdue, were not paid during the ensuing week. Well, so he might, they certainly couldn't be worse off on the pavement. Fancy this ape in his overcoat and his woolen gloves, coming upstairs to talk to them about rent, as if they had a treasure hidden somewhere. Just the same with that brute of a cupo who couldn't come home now without beating her.  She sent them all there wishing to rid herself of everyone, and of life, too. She was becoming a real storehouse for blows. Cooper had a cudgel, which she called his ass's fan, and he fanned his old woman. Usually, she'd just have seen him giving her abominable thrashings, which made her perspire all over. She was no better herself, or she bit and scratched him. Then they stamped about in the empty room and gave each other such drubbings as were likely to ease them of all taste for bread for good. But Chauvers ended by not carrying a fig for these swacks, not more than she did for anything else. Cooper might celebrate St. Monday for weeks altogether, go off on the spree for months at a time, come home mad with liquor, and seek to sharpen her, as he said. She had grown accustomed to it. She thought him tiresome, but nothing more. It was on these occasions that she wished him somewhere else. Yes, somewhere, her beast of a man, and the lorriers, the bosses, and the poisons, too. In fact, the whole neighborhood, which she had such contempt for. She sent all Paris there with a gesture of supreme carelessness, and was pleased to be able to revenge herself in this style. Well, one could get used to almost anything, but still it is hard to break the habit of eating. That was the one thing that really annoyed Chauvers, the hunger that kept gnawing at her insides, are those pleasant little snacks she used to have. Now she had fallen low enough to gobble anything she could find. On special occasions she would get waste scraps of meat from the butcher for four sews a pound, blacked and dried out meat that couldn't find a purchaser. She would mix this with potatoes for a stew. On other occasions, when she had some wine, she treated herself to a soft, a true parrot's potage. Two sews worth of Italian cheese, bushels of white potatoes, quarts of dry beans cooked in their own juice. These also were dainties she was not often able to indulge in now. She came down to leavings from low eating dens, where for a stew she had a pile of fishbones mixed with the pairings of moldy roast meat. She fell even lower. She begged a charitable eating housekeeper to give her his customers dry crusts, and she made herself a bread soup, letting this crust simmer as long as possible on a neighbour's fire. On the days when she was really hungry she searched about with the dogs to see what might be lying outside the treads people's doors before the dustmen went by. And thus at times she came across rich men's food, rotten melons stinking mackerel and chops, which she carefully inspected for fear of maggots. Yes, she had come to this. The idea may be a repugnant one to delicate-minded folks, but if they hadn't chewed anything for three days running we should hardly see them quarrelling with their stomachs. They would go down on all fours and eat filth like other people. Ah, the death of the poor, the empty entrails howling hunger, the animal appetite that leads one with chattering teeth to fill one's stomach with beastly refuse in this great parish so bright and golden. And to think that Jarvez used to fill her belly with fat goose. Now the thought of it brought tears to her eyes. One day when Kupo bagged two bread tickets from her to go and sell them and get some liquor she nearly killed him with the blow of a shovel, so hungered and so enraged was she by this theft of a bit of bread. However after a long contemplation of the pale sky she had fallen into a painful dose. She dreamt that the snow-laden sky was falling on her so cruelly did the cold pinch. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, awakened with a start by a shudder of anguish. Mon Dieu, was she going to die? Shivering and haggard she perceived that it was still daylight. Wouldn't the night ever come? How long the time seems when the stomach is empty. Hers was waking up in its turn and began to torture her. Sinking down on the chair with her head bent and her hands between her legs to warm them, she began to think what they would have for dinner as soon as Kupo brought the money home. A loaf, a quart of wine, and two platefuls of tripe in the lyonnaise fashion. Three o'clock struck by Father Bazouge's clock. Yes, it was only three o'clock. Then she began to cry. She would never have strength enough to wait until seven. Her body swayed backwards and forwards. She oscillated like a child nursing some sharp pain, bending herself double and crushing her stomach so as not to feel it. Ah, and a kushma is less painful than hunger. And unable to ease herself, seized with rage, she rose and stamped about, hoping to send her hunger to sleep by walking it to and throw like an infant. For half an hour or so she knocked against the four corners of the empty room. Then suddenly she paused with a fixed stare. So much the worse they might say what they liked. She would lick their feet if needs be, but she would go and ask the lorriers to lend her ten sooth. At wintertime, up these stairs of the house, the pauper's stairs, there was a constant borrowing of ten sooth and twenty sooth. Petty services which these hungry beggars rendered each other. Only they would rather have died than have applied to the lorriers, for they knew they were too tight-fisted. Thus Charvers displayed remarkable courage in going to knock at their door. She felt so frightened in the passage that she experienced the sudden relief of people who ring a dentist's bell. Kamin cried the chainmaker in a sour voice. How warm and nice it was inside. The forge was blazing, its white flame lighting up the narrow workroom, whilst Madame Lorrier set a coil of gold wire to heat. Lorrier, in front of his work table, was perspiring with the warmth as he soldered the links of a chain together. And it smelt nice, some cabbage soup was simmering on the stove, exhaling a steam which turned Charvers' heart topsy-turvy and almost made her faint.  What do you want? Charvers did not answer for a moment. She had recently been on fairly good terms with the Lorrier's, that she saw Bush sitting by the stove. He seemed very much at home telling funny stories. What do you want? repeated Lorrier. You haven't seen Kupo. Charvers finally stammered at last. I thought he was here. The chainmakers and the concierges sneered. No, for certain they hadn't seen Kupo. They didn't stand treat often enough to interest Kupo. Charvers made an effort and resumed stuttering. It's because he promised to come home. Yes, he's to bring me some money. And as I have absolute need of something, silence followed. Madame Lorrier was roughly fanning the fire of the stove. Lorrier had lowered his nose over the bit of chain between his fingers, while Bush continued laughing, puffing out his face till it looked like the full moon. If only I had ten sews, muttered Charvers in a low voice. The silence persisted. Couldn't you lend me ten sews? I would return them to you this evening. Madame Lorrier turned round and stared at her. It was a weedler trying to get round them. Today she asked them for ten sews. Tomorrow it would be for twenty. There would be no reason to stop. Now indeed it would be a warm day in winter if they lend her anything. But my dear, cried Madame Lorrier, you know very well that we haven't any money. Look, there's the lining of my pocket. You can search us. If we could, it would be with a willing heart, of course. The heart's always there, growled Lorrier. Only when one can't, one can't. Charvers looked very humble and nodded her head approvingly. However, she did not take herself off. She squinted at the gold. At the gold tied together hanging on the walls.  At the gold links lying in a heap under the husband's knotty fingers. And she thought that the least bit of this ugly black metal would suffice to buy her a good dinner. The workroom was as dirty as ever, full of old iron, cold dust, and sticky oil stains half wiped away. But now, as Charvers saw it, it seemed resplendent with treasure, like a money-changer's shop. And so she ventured to repeat softly, I would return them to you, return them without fail. Ten sews wouldn't inconvenience you. End of First Part of Chapter 12. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 55 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 Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli. Second Part of Chapter 12. Her heart was swelling with the effort she made, not to own that she had had nothing to eat since the day before. Then she felt her legs give way. She was frightened that she might burst into tears, and she still stammered. It would be kind of you, you don't know. Yes, I'm reduced to that. Could Lord reduce to that? Thereupon the loyiers pursed their lips and exchanged covert glances. So clump-clump was begging now. Well, the fall was complete, but they did not care for that kind of thing by any means. If they had known they would have barricaded the door, the people should always be on their guard against beggars. Folks who make their way into apartments under a pretext and carry precious objects away with them, and especially so in this place as they were something worthwhile stealing. One might lay one's fingers no matter where and carry off 30 or 40 francs by merely closing the hands. They had felt suspicious several times already on noticing how strange your vase looked when she stuck herself in front of the gold. This time, however, they meant to watch her. And as she approached nearer with her feet on the board, the chain-maker roughly called out without giving any further answer to her question. Look out, pest! Take care! You'll be carrying some scraps of gold away on the soles of your shoes. One would think you had greased them on purpose to make the gold stick to them. Chauvet slowly drew back. For a moment she lent against a rack, and seeing that Madame Loyiers was looking at her hands, she opened them and showed them, saying softly without the least anger, like a fallen woman who accepts anything. I have taken nothing. You can look. And then she went off because the strong smell of the cabbage soup and the warmth of the workroom made her feel too ill. Ah, the Loyiers did not detain her good riddance. Just see if they opened the door to her again.  They didn't want other people's misery in their rooms, especially when that misery was so well deserved. They reveled in their selfish delight at being seated so cosily in a warm room with the dainty soup cooking. Varsh also stretched himself, puffing with his cheeks still more and more, so much indeed that his laugh really became indecent. They were all nicely revenged on clump-clump for her former manners, a blue shop, her spreads and all the rest. It all worked out just as it should, proving where a love of showing off would get you. So that is the style now, begging for 10 souses, cried Madame Loyiers sooner Chauvet had gone. Wait a bit, I'll lend her 10 souses and no mistake to go and get drunk with. Chauvet has shuffled along the passage in her slippers, bending her back and feeling heavy. On reaching her door she did not open it, her room frightened her. It would be better to walk about, she would learn patience. As she passed by she stretched out her neck, peering into perp-ruise kennel under the stairs. There, for instance, was another one who must have a fine appetite, for he had breakfasted and dined by heart during the last three days. However he wasn't at home, there was only his whole, and Chauvet felt somewhat jealous, thinking that perhaps he had been invited somewhere. Then as she reached the bijard, she heard la lieve moaning, and as the key was in the lock as usual, she opened the door and went in. What is the matter? she asked. The room was very clean, one could see that La Lie had carefully swept it and arranged everything during the morning. Misery might blow into the room as much as it liked, carry off the chattels and spread all the dirt and refuse about. La Lie, however, came behind and tidied everything, imparting at least some appearance of comfort within. She might not be rich, but she realised there was a housewife in the place. That afternoon her two little ones, Henriette and Jules, had found some old pictures which they were cutting out in the corner. But Chauvet was greatly surprised to see La Lie herself in bed, looking very pale, with the sheet drawn up to her chin. In bed, indeed, then she must be seriously ill. What is the matter with you? inquired Chauvet's feeling anxious. La Lie no longer groaned. She slowly raised her white eyelids and tried to compel her lips to smile, although they were convulsed by a shudder. There's nothing the matter with me, she whispered very softly, really nothing at all. Then closing her eyes again, she added with an effort. I made myself too tired during the last few days, and so I'm doing the idle. I'm nursing myself, as you see. But her childish face, streaked with livid stains, assumed such an expression of anguish that Chauvet's forgetting her own agony, joined her hands and fell on her knees near the bed. For the last month she had seen the girl clinging to the walls for support when she went about, bent double, indeed, by a cough which seemed to presage a coffin. Now the poor child could not even cough. She had a hiccough and drops of blood oozed from the corners of her mouth. It's not my fault if I hardly feel strong, she murmured, as if relieved. I've tired myself today, trying to put things to rights. It's pretty tidy, isn't it? And I wanted to clean the windows as well, but my legs failed me.  However, when one has finished, one can go to bed. She paused, then said, pray, see if my little ones are not cutting themselves with the scissors. And then she relapsed into silence, trembling and listening to a heavy footfall which was approaching up the stairs. Suddenly Father Bichard brutally opened the door. As usual he was far gone and his eyes shone with the furious madness imparted by the vitriol he had swallowed. When he perceived Lali in bed he tapped on his thighs with a sneer and took the whip from where it hung. Ah, by blazes, that's too much, he growled. We'll soon have a laugh. So the cows lie down on their straw at noon now.   And he cracked the whip over the bed. But the child beggingly replied, pray, Papa, don't, don't strike me.  Don't strike. Will you jump up? He roared still louder. Or else I'll tickle your ribs.  Then she softly said, I can't.   Gervais had sprung upon Bichard and torn the whip away from him.  What was the dirty brat talking about? Do girls die so young without even having been ill? Some excuse to get sugar out of him, no doubt. Now he'd make inquiries and if she lied, let her look out. You will see it's the truth, she continued. As long as I could, I avoided worrying you. But be kind and bid me goodbye, Papa. Bichard wriggled his nose as if he fancied she was deceiving him. And yet it was true she had a singular look, the serious mean of a grown-up person. The breath of death which passed through the room in some measure sobered him. He gazed around like a man awakened from a long sleep, saw the room so tidy, the two children clean, playing and laughing. And then he sank onto a chair, stammering. How a little mother! How a little mother! Those were the only words he could find to say, and yet they were very tender ones to Lali, who had never been much spoiled. She consoled her father.  He would take care of them, would he not? With her dying breath she told him how they ought to be cared for and kept clean. But stultified with the fumes of drink seizing hold of him again, he wagged his head watching her with an uncertain stare as she was dying. All kinds of things were touched in him, but he could find no more to say. And he was too utterly burnt with liquor to shed a tear. Listen, resumed Lali after a pause. We owe four francs and seven souses to the baker. You must pay that. Madame Gaudran borrowed an iron of ours which she must get from her. I wasn't able to make any soup this evening, but there's some bread left, and you can warm up the potatoes.  Surely she could never be replaced. She was dying because she'd had at her age a true mother's reason, because her breast was too small and weak for so much maternity. And if her ferocious beast of her father lost his treasure, it was his own fault. After kicking the mother to death, hadn't he murdered the daughter as well? The two good angels would lie in the paupers grave, and all that could be in store for him was to kick the bucket like a dog in the gutter. Chavez restrained herself not to burst out sobbing. She extended her hands desirous of easing the child, and as the shred of a sheet was falling, she wished to tack it up and arrange the bed. And the dying girl's poor little body was seen. Oh, mon Dieu, what misery, what woe! Stones would have wept. Lully was bare, with only the remains of a camisole on his shoulders by way of chemise. Yes, bare, with the grievous, bleeding nudity of a martyr. She had no flesh left. Her bones seemed to protrude through the skin. From her ribs to her thighs, very extended a number of violet stripes. The marks of the whip forcibly imprinted on her. A livid bruise, moreover, encircled her left arm as if the tender limb, scarcely larger than a lucifer, had been crushed in a vice. There was also an imperfectly closed wound on her right leg, left there by some ugly blow, and which opened again and again of a morning when she went about doing her errands. From head to foot, indeed, she was but one bruise. Oh, this murdering of childhood. Those heavy hands crushing this lovely girl. How abominable that such weakness should have such a weighty cross to bear. Again did Chavez crouch down, no longer thinking of tucking in the sheet, but overwhelmed by the pitiful sight of this martyrdom. And her trembling lips seemed to be seeking for words of prayer. Madame Coupeau, numbered the child, I beg you. With a little arm she tried to draw up the sheet again, as shamed as it were for her father. Bichard has stultified as ever with his eyes on the corpse, which was his own work, still wagged his head, but more slowly, like a worried animal might do. When she had covered Lali up again, Chavez felt she could not remain there any longer. The dying girl was growing weaker and ceased speaking. All that was left to her was her gaze, the dark look she had had as a resigned and thoughtful child, and which she now fixed on her two little ones who were still cutting out their pictures. The room was growing gloomy and Bichard was working off his liquor while the poor girl was in her death agonies. No, no, life was too abominable, how frightful it was, how frightful.  As she hastened on growling against cursed fate, she suddenly found herself in front of the place where Kupo pretended that he worked. Her legs had taken her there and now her stomach began singing its song again, the complaint of hunger in 90 verses, the complaint she knew by heart. However, as she caught Kupo as he left, she would be able to pounce upon the coin at once and buy some grub. The short hours waiting at the utmost, she could surely stay that out, though she had sucked her thumb since the day before. She was at the corner of Rue de la Charbonnière and Rue de Chartres.  The impending snow hung over the city but not a flake had fallen as yet. She tried stomping her feet to keep warm but soon stopped as there was no use working up an appetite. There was nothing amusing about. A few passes by strode rapidly along rapid in comforters. Naturally enough, one does not care to tarry when the cold is nipping at your heels. However, Gervais perceived four or five women who were mounting guard like herself outside the door of the zinc works. Unfortunate creatures, of course. Wives waiting for the pay to prevent it going to the dram shop. There was a tall creature as bulky as a gendarm leaning against the wall, ready to spring on her husband as soon as he showed himself. A dark little woman with a delicate humbler was walking about on the other side of the way. Another one, a fat creature, had brought her two brats with her and was dragging them along one on either hand and both of them shivering and sobbing. And all these women chervais like the others passed and repast exchanging glances but without speaking to one another. A pleasant meeting and no mistake. They didn't need to make friends to learn what number they lived at. They could all hang out the same signboard, misery and co. It seemed to make one feel even colder to see them walk about in silence, passing each other in this terrible January weather. End of second part of chapter 12. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere, sorry.


Despite hopes the world would emerge from the COVID-19 pandemic and food security would begin to improve, world hunger rose further in 2021. The prevalence of undernourishment jumped from 8% in 2019 to 9.8% in 2021. New figures estimate as many as 828 million people around the world faced hunger in 2021. This represents an increase of 150 million more people facing hunger in 2021 compared to 2019, the year before the outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic. Projections suggest nearly 670 million people, or 8% of the world's population, will be facing hunger in 2030, which is the same projection from 2015. The launch year for the SDG 2030 agenda. Hunger continued to rise in Africa, Asia and Latin America and the Caribbean in 2021, but with somewhat slower increases than in 2019 to 2020. In 2021, hunger affected 278 million people in Africa, 425 million people in Asia, and 56.5 million in Latin America and the Caribbean. The ongoing war in Ukraine presents additional food security challenges. Ukraine and Russia are two of the biggest global producers of staple cereals, oil seeds and fertilizer. The conflict is disrupting supply chains and pushing up prices of grains, fertilizer and energy. Simulations of a severe export shortfall from these countries suggest an increase of up to 13 million in 2022 and 19 million more undernourished in 2023 respectively. In 2021, about 2.3 billion people around the world were moderately or severely food insecure. 11.7% of the global population faced food insecurity at severe levels. Globally, malnutrition in all its forms also remains a challenge. With almost 3.1 billion people unable to afford a healthy diet, 149.2 million children under age 5 or 22% were affected by stunting and 6.7% suffered from wasting. The actual figures are expected to be higher due to the effects of COVID-19. At the same time, 38.9 million children of children under 5 or 5.7% are overweight. The effects of inflation and consumer food prices have increased the costs of healthy diets worldwide. In this challenging environment, policies aimed at bolstering food security and nutrition are more important than ever before. Governments can achieve more with the same public resources. Governments support to food and agriculture, such as trade and market interventions and fiscal subsidies to producers and consumers can help improve the availability and affordability of healthy diets. Not only is much of the current support to agriculture not promoting the production of nutritious foods, it is also market distorting, not reaching many farmers, and hurts the environment. Repurposing policy support to food and agriculture to increase the availability of nutritious foods can have positive impacts on accessing better nutrition. The challenges we face are daunting, but concerted efforts to repurpose food and agricultural policy support and related spending can help make healthy diets less costly and more affordable for those most at risk.