Vizheny, now frequently spoke to Gervais of Lanche, she seemed to find amusement in filling her mind with ideas of her old lover just for the pleasure of embarrassing her by making suggestions. One day she related that she had met him. Then, as the laundress took no notice, she said nothing further, and it was only on the morrow that she added he had spoken about her for a long time and with a great show of affection. Gervais was much upset by these reports, whispered in her ear in a corner of the shop. The mention of Lanche's name always caused a worried sensation in the pit of her stomach. She suddenly thought herself strong. She wished to lead the life of an industrious woman, because labour is the half of happiness. So she never considered Kupo in this matter, having nothing to reproach herself with as regarded her husband not even in her thoughts, but with a hesitating and suffering heart she would think of the blacksmith. It seemed to her that the memory of Lanche, that slow possession, which she was resuming, rendered her unfaithful to Kujé, to their unevowed love, sweet as friendship. She passed sad days whenever she felt herself guilty towards a good friend. She would have liked to have had no affection for anyone but him outside of her family. It was a feeling far above all carnal thoughts, for the signs of which upon her burning face Virginie was ever on the watch. As soon as spring came, Gervais often went and sold refuge with Kujé. She could no longer sit musing on a chair without immediately thinking of her first lover. She pictured him leaving Adèle, pecking his clothes in the bottom of their old trunk and returning to her in a cab. The days when she went out, she was seized with the most foolish fears in the street. She was ever thinking she heard Lanche's footsteps behind her. She did not dare turn round, but tremblingly fancied, she felt his hands seizing her round the waist. He was no doubt spying upon her. He would appear before her some afternoon, and the bare idea threw her into a cold perspiration because he would to a certainty kiss her on the ear as he used to do in former days solely to tease her. It was this kiss which frightened her. It rendered her deaf beforehand. It filled her with a buzzing amidst which she could only distinguish the sound of her heart beating violently. So, as soon as these fears seized upon her, the forge was her only shelter. There, under Kujé's protection, she once more became easy and smiling as his sonorous hammer drove away her disagreeable reflections. What a happy time! The laundress took particular pains with the washing of her customer in the Rue de Porte Blanche. She always took it home herself because that errant every Friday was a ready excuse for passing through the Rue Macade and looking in at the forge. The moment she turned the corner of the street she felt light and gay as though in the midst of those plots of wasteland surrounded by grey factories she were out in the country. The roadway black with cold dust, the plumage of steam over the roofs, amused her as much as a moss-covered path leading through masses of green foliage in a wood in the environs, and she loved the dull horizon streaked by the tall factory chimneys, the Montmartre Heights which hid the heavens from view, the chalky white houses pierced with the uniform openings of their windows. She would slacken her steps as she drew near, jumping over the pools of water and finding a pleasure in traversing the deserted inns and outs of the yard full of old building materials. Right at the further end the forge shone with a brilliant light even at midday. Her heart leapt with the dance of the hammers. When she entered her face turned quite red, the little fair hairs of the nape of her neck flew about like those of a woman arriving at some lover's meeting. Guget was expecting her, his arms and chest bare, whilst he hammered harder on the anvil on those days supposed to make himself heard at a distance. He divined her presence and greeted her with a good silent laugh in his yellow beard. When she would not leave him off his work, she begged him to take up his hammer again, because she loved him the more when he willed it with his big arms swollen with muscles. She would go and give a gentle tap on the cheek as he hung on to the bellows, and then remained for an hour watching the rivets. The two did not exchange a dozen words. They could not have more completely satisfied their love if alone in a room with a door double locked. The snickering of salt mouth, otherwise drink without thirst, did not bother them in the least, for they no longer even heard him. At the end of a quarter of an hour she would begin to feel slightly oppressed. The heat, the powerful smell, the ascending smoke made her dizzy, whilst the dull thuds of the hammers shook her from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. Then she desired nothing more. It was her pleasure. Had Gujet pressed her in his arms it would not have procured her so sweet in emotion. She drew close to him that she might feel the wind raised by his hammer beat upon her cheek, and become as it were a part of the blow he struck. When the sparks made her soft hands smart she did not withdraw them. On the contrary she enjoyed the rain of fire which stung her skin. He, for certain, divined the happiness which he tasted there. He always kept the most difficult work for the Fridays so as to pay his court to her with all his strength and all his skill. He no longer spared himself at the risk of spitting the anvils in two as he panted and his loins vibrated with the joy he was procuring her. All one spring time there a love thus filled Gujet with the rumbling of a storm. It was an idyll amongst giant-like labour in the midst of the glare of the coal-fire and of the shaking of the shed, the cracking carcass of which was black with soot. All that beat an iron needed like red wax preserved the rough marks of her love. When on the Fridays the laundry's parted from golden mug she slowly re-ascended the rue de Poissonnier, contented and tired, her mind and her body alike tranquil. Little by little her fear of luncheer diminished. Her good sense got the better of her. At that time she would still have led a happy life, had it not been for Coupeau, who was decidedly going to the bed. One day she just happened to be returning from the forge when she fancied she recognised Coupeau inside Père Colombe's La Samoire in the act of treating himself to a round of vitriol in the company of my boots, bibby the smoker and sore mouth otherwise drink without thirst. She passed quickly by so as not to seem to be spying on them, but she glanced back. It was indeed Coupeau who was tossing a little glass of bad brandy down his throat with a gesture already familiar. He lied then, so he went in for brandy now. She returned home in despair. All her old dread of brandy took possession of her. She forgave the wine, because wine nourishes the workmen. All kinds of spirit on the country were filth, poisons which destroyed in the workmen the taste for bread. Ah, the government ought to prevent the manufacture of such horrid stuff. On arriving at the rue de la goutte d'Or, she found the whole house upset. Her workwoman had left the shop and were in the courtyard looking up above. She questioned Clémence. It's old Bixar who's giving his wife a hiding, replied the ironer. He was in the doorway, as drunk as a trooper, watching for her return from the wash-house.   Chévese hastened to the spot. She felt some friendship for her washerwoman, Madame Bixar, who was a very courageous woman. She had hoped to put a stop to what was going on. Upstairs, on the sixth floor, the door of the room was wide open.  I shall send for the police, do you hear? No one dared to venture inside the room, because it was known that Bixar was like a brood beast when he was drunk. As a matter of fact, he was scarcely ever sober. The rare days on which he worked, he placed a bottle of brandy beside his blacksmith's vise, gulping some of it down every half-hour. He could not keep himself going any other way. He would have blazed away like a torch if anyone had placed a lighted match close to his mouth. But we must let her be murdered! said Chévese, all in a tremble. And she entered. The room, an attic, and very clean, was bare and cold, almost emptied by the drunken habits of the man who took the very sheets from the bed to turn them into liquor. During the struggle the table had rolled away to the window. The two chairs, knocked over, had fallen with their legs in the air. In the middle of the room, on the tile floor, Les Madame Bixar, all bloody, her skirts still soaked with the water of the wash-house, clinging to her thighs, her hair straggling in disorder. She was breathing heavily, with a rattle in her throat, as she muttered prolonged, ohs, each time she received a blow from the heel of Bixar's boot. He had knocked her down with his fists, and now he stemmed upon her. Ah, strumpet! Ah, strumpet! Ah, strumpet! Granted he, in a choking voice, accompanying each blow with the word, taking a delight in repeating it, and striking all the harder the more he found his voice failing him. Then, when he could no longer speak, he madly continued to kick with a dull sound, rigid in his ragged blue blouse and overalls, his face turned purple beneath his dirty beard, and his bald forehead streaked with big red blotches. The neighbours on the landing related that he was beating her, because she had refused him twenty soothed that morning. Bosch's voice was heard at the foot of the staircase.  Meanwhile, Père Bru had followed Chervais into the room. Between them they were trying to get him towards the door. But he turned round, speechless and foaming at the lips, and in his pale eyes the alcohol was blazing with a mergers glare. The laundress had a wrist injured. The old workman was knocked against the table. On the floor Madame Bichard was breathing with greater difficulty.  Now Bichard kept missing her. He had madly returned to the attack, but blinded by rage his blows fell on either side, and at times he almost fell when his kicks went into space. And during all this onslaught, Chervais beheld in a corner of the room little Lalis, then four years old, watching her father murdering her mother. The child held in her arms as though to protect her. Her sister Henriette only recently weaned.   When at length, Bichard, running against the chair, stumbled onto the tiled floor where they left him snoring, Perbru helped Chervais to raise Madame Bichard. The letter was now sobbing busily, and Lalis, drawing near, watched her crying, being used to such sights and already resigned to them. As the laundress descended the stairs, in the silence of the now quieted house, she kept seeing before her that look of this child of four as grave and courageous as that of a woman. Monsieur Coupaud was on the other side of the street, called out Clémence as soon as she caught sight of her. He looks awfully drunk. Coupaud was just then crossing the street. He almost smashed a pane of glass with his shoulder as he missed the door. He was in a state of complete drunkenness, with his teeth clinged and his nose inflamed, and Chervais at once recognized the vitriol of la Samoire in the poisoned blood which peeled his skin. She tried to joke and get into bed, the same as on the days when the wine had made him marry, but he pushed her aside without opening his lips, and raised his fist in passing as he went to bed of his own accord. He made Chervais think of the other, the drunkard who was now snoring upstairs, tired out by the blows he had struck. A cold shiver passed over her. She thought of the man she knew, of her husband, of Gougé, of Lanthier, her heart breaking, despairing of ever being happy. End of Chapter 6 Mille Zola Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli Chapter 7 Chervais' saint's day fell on the 19th of June. On such occasions the Coupaud always made a grand display. They feasted till they were as round as balls, and their stomachs were filled for the rest of the week. There was a complete clear out of all the money they had. The moment there were a few sous in the house, they went in gorging. The invented saints for those days, which the Ormanac had not provided with any, just for the sake of giving themselves a pretext for gormandising. Virginie highly commended Chervais for stuffing herself with all sorts of savory dishes. When one has a husband who turns all he can lay hands on into drink, it's good to line one's stomach well, and not to let everything go off in liquids. Since the money would disappear anyway, surely it was better to pay it to the butcher. Chervais used that excuse to justify overeating, saying it was Coupaud's fault if they could no longer save a sous. She had grown considerably fatter, and she limped more than before because her leg now swollen with fat seemed to be getting gradually shorter. That year they talked about her saint's day a good month beforehand. They thought of dishes and smacked their lips in advance. All the shop had a confounded longing to junk it. They wanted a merry making of the right sort, something out of the ordinary and highly successful. One does not have so many opportunities for enjoyment. What most troubled the laundress was to decide whom to invite.  She, her husband, mother Coupaud and madame Lara, already made four members of the family. She would also have the gougé and the poisson. Originally she had decided not to invite her work women, madame Poutois and Clémence, so as not to make them too familiar, but as the projected feast was being constantly spoken of in their presence and their mouths watered, she ended by telling them to come. Four and four, eight and two or ten, then wishing particularly to have twelve, she became reconciled with the laurel her, who for some time past had been hovering around her. At least it was agreed that the laurel her should come to dinner, and that peace should be made with glasses in hand. You really shouldn't keep family quarrels going forever. When the Bosch heard that a reconciliation was planned, they also sought to make up with Gervais, and so they had to be invited to the dinner too. That would make fourteen not counting the children. Never before had she given such a large dinner, and the thought frightened and excited her at the same time. The saint's day happened to fall on a Monday. It was a piece of luck. Gervais counted on the Sunday afternoon to begin the cooking. On the Saturday, whilst the work women hurried with their work, there was a long discussion in the shop with the viewer finally deciding upon what the fissure consists of. For three weeks past, one thing alone had been chosen, a fat roast goose. There was a gluttonous look on every face whenever it was mentioned. The goose was even already bought. Mother Cooper went and fetched it to let Clemence and Madame Poutois feel its weight, and they uttered all kinds of exclamations. It looked such an enormous bird with its rough skin all swelled out with yellow fat.  It's always good. Then we must have something in the way of a stew. Tall Clemence suggested rabbit, but they were always having that. Everyone was sick of it. Gervais wanted something more distinguished. Madame Poutois, having spoken of stewed veal, they looked at one another with broad smiles. It was a real idea. Nothing would make a better impression than a veal stew. And after that, resumed Gervais, we must have some other dish with a sauce. Mother Cooper proposed fish, but the others made a grimace, as they banged down their irons. None of them liked fish. It was not a bit satisfying, and besides that it was full of bones.  At length, the mistress thought of stewed pigs back and potatoes, which restored the smiles to every countenance.  You've come just at the right time, exclaimed Gervais. Mother Cooper, do show her the bird. And Mother Cooper went a second time and fetched the goose, which Virginie had to take in her hands. She uttered no end of exclamations. By Jove, it was heavy. But soon laid it down on the work-table between a petticoat and a bundle of shirts. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She dragged Gervais into the back room. I say, little one, murmured she rapidly, I've come to warn you. You'll never guess who I just met at the corner of the street. L'entier, my dear. He's hovering about on the watch, so I hastened here at once. It frightened me on your account, you know. The launderers turned quite pale. What could the wretched man want with her? Coming too, like that, just in the midst of the preparation for the feast. She never had any luck. She could not even be allowed to enjoy herself quietly. But Virginie replied that she was very foolish to put herself out about it like that. Why, if L'entier dared to follow her about, all she had to do was call a policeman and have him locked up. Then the months since her husband had been appointed a policeman, Virginie had assumed rather lordly manners and talked of arresting everybody. She began to raise her voice, saying that she wished some passer-by would pinch her bottom so that she could take the fresh fellow to the police station herself and turn him over to her husband. Gervais signaled her to be quiet since the work-women were listening and led the way back into the shop, reopening the discussion about the dinner. Now, don't we need a vegetable? Why not peas with bacon? said Virginie. I like nothing better. Yes, peas with bacon, the others approved. Augustine was so enthusiastic that she jabbed the poker into the stove harder than ever. By three o'clock on the morrow, Sunday, Mother Coupot had lighted their two stoves, and also a third one of earthenware, which they had borrowed from the Bosch. At half-past three, the pot of ver was boiling away in an enormous earthenware pot lent by the eating-housekeeper next door, the family pot having been found too small. They had decided to cook the veal and the pigs back the night before, since both of those dishes are better when reheated, but the cream sauce for the veal would not be prepared until just before sitting down for the feast. There was still plenty of work left for Monday, the soup, the peas with bacon, the roast goose, the inner room was lit by three fires, butter was sizzling in the pans and emitting a sharp odor of burnt flour. Mother Coupot and Gervais with white aprons tied on were bustling all around, cleaning parsley, dashing for salt and pepper, turning the meat. They had sent Coupot away so as to not have him under foot, but they still had plenty of people looking in throughout the afternoon. The luscious smells from the kitchen had spread through the entire building, so that neighboring ladies came into the shop on various pretexts, very curious to see what was being cooked. Virgin Yee put in an appearance towards five o'clock. She had again seen Laundier. Really, it was impossible to go down the street now without meeting him. Madame Bosch also had just caught sight of him standing at the corner of the pavement with his head thrust forward in an uncommonly sly manner. Then Gervais, who had at that moment intended going for a sous-worth of burnt onions for the pot of fur, began to tremble from head to foot and did not dare leave the house. The more so as the concierge and the dressmaker put her into a terrible fright by relating horrible stories of men waiting for women with knives and pistols hidden beneath their overcoats. Well, yes, one reads of such things every day in the newspapers. When one of those scoundrels gets his monkey up on discovering an old love leading a happy life, he becomes capable of everything. Virgin Yee obligingly offered to run and fetch the burnt onions. Women should always help one another. They could not let that little thing be murdered. When she returned, she said that Laundier was no longer there. He had probably gone off on finding he was discovered. In spite of that thought, he was the subject of conversation around the saucepans until nighttime. When Madame Bosch advised her to inform Coupot, Gervais became really terrified and implored her not to say a word about it. Oh, yes, wouldn't that be a nice situation? Her husband must have become suspicious already, because for the last few days at night he would swear to himself and bang the war with his fists. The mere thought that the two men might destroy each other because of her made her shudder.  While the four of them had been deep in contemplating this drama, the saucepans on the banked coals of the stove had been quietly simmering. When Mother Coupot lifted the lids, their veal and the pigs back were discreetly bubbling. The pot au fur was steadily steaming with snore-like sounds. Eventually, each of them dipped a piece of bread into the soup to taste the bouillon. At length Monday arrived. Now that Gervais was going to have fourteen persons at table, she began to fear that she would not be able to find room for them all. She decided that they should dine in the shop, and the first thing in the morning she took measurements so as to settle which way she would place the table. After that they had to remove all the clothes and take the dining table to pieces. The top of this, laid on to some shorter trestles, was to be the dining table. But just in the midst of all this moving a customer appeared and made a scene because she had been waiting for her washing ever since the Friday. They were humbugging her. She would have her things at once. Then Gervais tried to excuse herself and lied boldly. What's not her fault, she was cleaning out her shop. The workman would not be there till the morrow, and she pacified her customer and got rid of her by promising to busy herself with her things at the earliest possible moment. Then as soon as the woman had left, she showed her temper. Really, if you listened to all your customers, you'd never have time to eat.  Well, no matter who came in today, even if they offered one hundred thousand francs, she wouldn't touch an iron on this Monday, because it was her turn to enjoy herself. The entire morning was spent in completing the purchases.  But just as she was going to order wine, she noticed that she had not sufficient money left. She could easily have got it on credit, only she could not be without money in the house on account of the thousand little expenses that one is liable to forget. And Mother Coupot and she had lamented together in the back room as they reckoned that they required at least twenty francs. How could they obtain them, those four pieces of a hundred sous each? Mother Coupot, who added one time done the charring for a little actress of their théâtre de Batignol, was the first to suggest the pawn shop.   Then she hid the bundle under Mother Coupot's apron, telling her to keep it very flat against her stomach on account of the neighbors who had no need to know. And she went and watched at the door to see that the old woman was not followed. But the latter had only gone as far as the charcoal dealers when she called her back. Mama, mama! She met her return to the shop, and, taking her wedding ring off, her finger said, Here, put this with it. We should get all the more. When Mother Coupot brought her twenty-five francs, she danced for joy. She would order an extra six bottles of wine, sealed wine, to drink with the roast. The laurelur would be crushed. For a fortnight past it had been the Coupot's dream to crush the laurelur. Was it not true that those sly ones, though a man and his wife, a truly pretty couple, shopped themselves up whenever they had anything nice to eat as though they had stolen it? Yes, they covered up the windows with a blanket to hide the light, and made believe they were already asleep in bed. This stopped anyone from coming up, and so the laurelur could stuff everything down just the two of them. They were even careful the next day not to throw the bones into the garbage, so that no one would know what they had eaten. Madam laurelur would walk to the end of the street to toss them into a sewer opening. One morning Gervais surprised her, emptying a basket of oyster shells there. Though all those penny-pinchers were never open-handed, and all their mean contrivances came from their desire to appear to be poor. Well, we'd show them. We'd prove to them that we weren't mean. Gervais would have laid her table in the street had she been able to, just for the sake of inviting each passer-by. Money was not invented that it should be allowed to grow moldy, was it? It is pretty when it shines all new in the sunshine. She resembled them so little now that on the days when she had twenty soo, she arranged things to let people think she had forty. Mother Coupeau and Gervais talked of the laurelur whilst they laid the cloth about three o'clock. They had hung some big curtains of the windows, but it was very warm and the door was left open, and the whole street passed in front of the little table. The two women did not place a decanter or a bottle or a salt cellar without trying to arrange them in such a way as to annoy the laurelur. They had arranged their seats so as to give them a full view of the superbly-laid cloth, and they had reserved the best crockery for them, well knowing that the porcelain plates would create a great effect. No, no, Mama, cried Gervais, don't give them those napkins, I've two dumbest ones. Ah, good, murmured the old woman, that'll break their hearts, that's certain. And they smiled to each other as they stood up on either side of that big white table on which the forty knives and forks placed all round, caused them to swell with pride. It had the appearance of the altar of some chapel in the middle of the shop. Well, that's because their so stingy themselves, resumed Gervais. You know they lied last month when the woman went about everywhere, saying that she had lost a piece of gold chain as she was taking the work home. The idea, there's no fear of her ever losing anything. It was simply a way of making themselves out very poor, and of not giving you your five francs. As yet, I've only seen my five francs twice, said Mother Coupole. I'll bet next month they all concoct some other story. That explains why they cover their window up when they have a rabbit to eat. Don't you see? One would have the right to say to them, as you can afford a rabbit, you can certainly give five francs to your mother. Oh, they're just rotten. What would have become of you if I hadn't taken you to live with us?  That day she was all against the L'Orealur, because of the great feast the Coupole were giving. She loved cooking, the little gossiping around the saucepans, the place turned topsy-turvy by the revels of saint's day. Besides, she generally got on pretty well with Jervais. On other days, when they played one another as happens in all families, the old woman grumbled, saying she was wretchedly unfortunate in thus being at her daughter-in-law's mercy. In point of fact, she probably had some affection for Madame L'Orealur, who after all was her daughter. Ah, continued Jervais, you wouldn't be so fat, would you, if you were living with them, and no coffee, no snuff, no little luxuries of any sort. Tell me, would they have given you two mattresses to your bed? No, that's very certain, replied Mother Coupole. When they arrive, I shall place myself so as to have a good view of the door to see the faces they'll make. End of First Part of Chapter 7, Recording by David Lazarus Section 30 of La Samoa. La Samoa by Emile Zola Translated by Ernest Avisatelli Second Part of Chapter 7 Thinking of the faces they would make gave them pleasure ahead of time. However, they couldn't remain standing there admiring the table. The Coupos had lunched very late on just a bite or two, because the stoves were already in use, and because they did not want to dirty any dishes needed for the evening. By four o'clock the two women were working very hard. The huge goose was being cooked on a spit. Squintide Augustine was sitting on a low bench, solemnly basting the goose with a long-handled spoon. Gervais was busy with the peas with bacon. Mother Coupo kept spinning around a bit confused, waiting for the right time to begin reheating the pork and the veal. Towards five o'clock the guests began to arrive. First of all came the two work women, Clemence and Madame Poutois, both in their Sunday best, the former in blue, the latter in black. Clemence carried a geranium, Madame Poutois a heliotrope, and Gervais, whose hands were just then smothered with flour, had to kiss each of them on both cheeks with her arms behind her back. Then, following close upon their heels, entered Virginie, dressed like a lady in a printed Muslim costume with a sash and a bonnet, though she only had a few steps to come. She brought a pot of red carnations. She took the laundress and her big arms, and squeezed her tight. At length Bosch appeared with a pot of pansies, and Madame Bosch with a pot of mignonette. Then came Madame Lorette, with a balm mint, the pot of which had dirtied her violet marino dress. All these people kissed each other and gathered together in the back room in the midst of the three stoves and the roasting apparatus, which gave out a stifling heat. The noise from the saucepan's drown the voices. Dress catching in the Dutch oven caused quite an emotion. The smell of roost goose was so strong that it made their mouths water, and Gervais was very pleasant, thanking everyone for their flowers, without, however, letting that interfere with her preparing the thickening for the stewed veal at the bottom of a soup plate. She had placed the pots in the shop, at one end of the table, without removing the white paper that was around them. A sweet scent of flowers mingled with the odor of cooking. Do you want any assistance? asked Virginie. Just fancy you've been three days preparing all this feast, and it will be gobbled up in no time. Well, you know, replied Gervais, it wouldn't prepare itself. No, don't dirty your hands. You see everything's ready. There's only the soup to warm. Then they all made themselves comfortable. The ladies laid their shawls and their caps on the bed, and pinned up their skirts, so as not to soil them. Bosch sent his wife back to the Carciages' lodge until time to eat, and had cornered Clamance in a corner, trying to find out if she was ticklish. She was gasping for breath, as the mere thought of being tickled sent shivers through her. So as not to bother the cooks, the other ladies had gone into the shop, and were standing against the wall facing the table. They were talking through the door, though, and as they could not hear very well, they were continually invading the back room, and crowding around Gervais, who would forget what she was doing to answer them. There were a few stories which brought sly laughter. When Virginie mentioned that she hadn't eaten for two days, in order to have more room for today's feast, Tol Clamance said that she had cleaned herself out that morning with an annimate like the English do. Then Bosch suggested a way of digesting the food quickly by squeezing oneself after each course, another English custom. After all, when you were invited to dinner, wasn't it polite to eat as much as you could? Veal, and pork, and goose are placed out for the cats to eat. The hostess didn't need to worry a bit. They were going to clean their plates so thoroughly that she wouldn't have to wash them. All of them kept coming to smell the air above the saucepans and the roaster. The ladies began to act like young girls, scurrying from room to room and pushing each other. Just as they were all jumping about and shouting by way of amusement, Gougier appeared. He was so timid he scarcely dared enter, but stood still holding a tall white rose-tree in his arms. A magnificent plant with a stem that reached to his face and entangled the flowers in his beard. Gervais ran to him, her cheeks burning from the heat of the stoves, but he did not know how to get rid of his pot, and when she had taken it from his hands he stammered not daring to kiss her. It was she who was obliged to stand on tiptoe and place her cheek against his lips. He was so agitated that even then he kissed her roughly on the eye, almost blinding her. They both stood trembling. Oh, M. Gougier, it's too lovely, said she, placing the rose-tree beside the other flowers, witchered over-topped with the whole of its tufts of foliage. Not at all, not at all, repeated he, unable to say anything else. Then, after sign deeply, he slightly recovered himself and stated that she was not to expect his mother. She was suffering from an attack of sciatica. Gervais was greatly grieved. She talked of putting a piece of the goose on one side as she particularly wished M. Gougier to have a taste of the bird. No one else was expected. Coupeau was no doubt strolling about in the neighborhood with Poisson, whom he had called for directly after his lunch. They would be home directly. They had promised to be back punctually at six. Then, as the soup was almost ready, Gervais called to M. saying that she thought it was time to go and fetch the laurelure. M. Loret became at once very grave. It was she who had conducted all the negotiations and who had settled how everything should pass between the two families. She put her cap and shawl on again and went upstairs very stiffly in her skirts, looking very stately. Down below, the launderers continued to stir her vermicelli soup without saying a word. The guests suddenly became serious and solemnly waited. It was M. Loret who appeared first. She had gone round by the street, so as to give more pomp to the reconciliation. She held the shop door wide open, whilst M. Loret Loret, wearing a silk dress, stopped at the threshold. All the guests had risen from their seats. Gervais went forward, and kissing her sister-in-law as had been agreed, said, Come in. It's all over, isn't it? We'll both be nice to each other. Then M. Loret Loret replied, I shall be only too happy if we're so always. When she had entered, Loret Loret also stopped at the threshold, and he likewise waited to be embraced before penetrating into the shop. Neither the one nor the other had brought a bouquet. They had decided not to do so, as they thought it would look too much like giving way to clump-clump if they carried flowers with them the first time they set foot in her home. Gervais called to Augustine to bring two bottles of wine, then, filling some glasses on a corner of the table, she called everyone to her, and each took a glass and drank to the good friendship of the family. There was a pause whilst the guests were drinking, the ladies raising their elbows and emptying their glasses to the last drop. Nothing is better before soup, declared Bosch, smacking his lips. Mother Coupeau had placed herself opposite the door to see the faces the Loret Loret would make. She pulled Gervais by the skirt and dragged her into the back room, and as they both leaned over the soup they conversed rapidly in a low voice.  You couldn't see them, but I was watching. When she caught sight of the table her face twisted around like that, the corners of her mouth almost touched her eyes, and as for him it nearly choked him. He coughed and coughed. Now, just look at them over there. There's no saliva left in their mouths, they're chewing their lips. It's quite painful to see people as jealous as that, Mother Gervais. Really, the Loret Loret had a funny look about them. No one, of course, liked to be crushed. In families, especially when the one succeeds, the others do not like it. That is only natural. Only one keeps it in. One does not make an exhibition of oneself. Well, the Loret Loret could not keep it in. It was more than a match for them. They squinted their mouths, were all on one side. In short, it was so apparent that the other guests looked at them and asked them if they were unwell. Never would they be able to stomach this table with its fourteen-place settings. It's white linen tablecloth. It slices a bread cut in advance, all in the style of a first-class restaurant. Madam Loret Loret went around the table surreptitiously fingering the tablecloth, tortured by the thought that it was a new one. Everything's ready, cried Gervais as she reappeared with a smile, her arms bare and her little fair curls blowing over her temples. If the boss would only come, resume the laundry, we might begin. Ah well, said Madam Loret Loret, the soup will be cold by then.  It was already, half past six, everything was burning now, the goose would be overdone. Then Gervais, feeling quite dejected, talked of sending someone to all the wine-shops in the neighborhood to find Coupeau. And as Gougier offered to go, she decided to accompany him. Virginie anxious about her husband went also. The three of them bare-headed quite blocked up the pavement. The blacksmith, who wore his frock-coat, had Gervais on his left arm, and Virginie on his right. He was doing the two-handled basket, as he said, and it seemed to them such a funny thing to say that they stopped unable to move their legs for laughing. They looked at themselves in the pork butcher's glass and laughed more than ever.  People turned round to see them pass, looking so fresh and lively, dressed in their Sunday best on a weekday, and jostling the crowd, which hung about the rue de Poissonnier on that warm June evening. But it was not a question of amusing themselves. They went straight to the door of each wine-shop, looked in, and sought amongst the people standing before the counter. Had that animal Coupeau gone to the Arc de Triomphe to get his dram? They had already, down the upper part of the street, looking in all the likely places. At the little civet, renowned for its preserved plums, at old mother Bacchets, who sold Orleans wine at Ait-Sous, and at the butterfly, the coachman's house of call, gentlemen who were not easy to please, but no Coupeau. Then, as they were going down towards the boulevard, Gervais uttered a faint cry on passing the eating-house at the corner kept by François. What's the matter? asked Gougier. The launderess no longer laughed. She was very pale, and laboring under so great an emotion that she had almost fallen. Virginie understood it all as she caught her sight of l'ontier seated at one of François's tables quietly dining. The two women dragged the blacksmith along. My ankle twisted, said Gervais, as soon as she was able to speak. At length they discovered Coupeau and François at the bottom of the street, inside Père Colombe's la Samoire. They were standing up in a midst of a number of men. Coupeau, in a gray blouse, was shouting with furious gestures, and banging his fists down on the counter. François not on duty that day, and buttoned up in an all-brown coat was listening to him in a dull sort of way, and without uttering a word, bristling his charity moustache and beard the while. Gougier left the women on the edge of the pavement, and went and laid his hand on the zinc worker's shoulder. But when the latter caught sight of Gervais and Virginie outside, he grew angry. Why was he badgered with such females as those? Petticoat had taken to tracking him about now. Well, he declined to stir. They could go and eat their beastly dinner all by themselves. To quiet him, Gougier was obliged to accept a drop of something, and even then Coupeau took a fiendish delight in dawdling a good five minutes at the counter. When he at length came out, he said to his wife, I don't like this. It's my business where I go.  She did not answer. She was all in a tremble. She must have said something about lontier to Virginie, for the latter pushed her husband and Gougier ahead, telling them to walk in front. The two women got on each side of Coupeau to keep him occupied and prevent him seeing lontier. He wasn't really drunk, being more intoxicated from shouting than drinking. Since they seemed to want to stay on the left side to tease them, he crossed over to the other side of the street. Worried, they ran after him and tried to block his view of the door of François's, but Coupeau must have known that lontier was there. Gervais almost went out of her senses on hearing him grunt. Yes, my duck, there's a fellow of our acquaintance inside there. You mustn't take me for a nanny.  And he made use of some very coarse expressions. It was not him that she had come to look for with her bare elbows and her mealy mouth, it was her old bow. Then he was suddenly seized with a mad rage against lontier. The brigand, the filthy hound! One or the other of them would have to be left on the pavement empty of its guts like a rabbit. Lontier, however, did not appear to notice what was going on, and continued slowly eating some veal and sorrow. A crowd began to form. Virginie led Coupeau away, and he calmed down at once as soon as he had turned the corner of the street. All the same they returned to the shop far less lively than when they left it. The guests were standing around the table with very long faces. The zinc workers shook hands with them, showing himself off before the ladies. Gervais, feeling rather depressed, spoke in a low voice as she directed them to their places. But she suddenly noticed that as Madame Gougier had not come, a seat would remain empty, the one next to Madame Laurelure. We are thirteen, said she deeply affected, seeing in that a fresh omen of the misfortune with which she had felt herself threatened for some time past. The ladies, already seated, rose up, looking anxious and annoyed. Madame Poutois offered to retire because, according to her, it was not a matter to laugh about. Besides, she would not touch a thing. The food would do her no good. As to bar she chuckled, he would sooner be thirteen than fourteen, the portions would be larger, that was all. Wait, resume Gervais, I can manage it. And, going out onto the pavement, she called Pierre Bru, who was just then crossing the roadway. The old workman emptied, stooping and stiff, and his face without expression. Seat yourself there, my good fellow, said the laundress. You won't mind eating with us, will you? He simply nodded his head. He was willing, he did not mind. As well him as another, continued she, lowering her voice. He doesn't often eat his fill. He will at least enjoy himself once more. We shall fill no remorse in stuffing ourselves now. This touched Gougier so deeply that his eyes filled with tears. The others were also moved by compassion, and said that it would bring them all good luck. However, Madame Laurelur seemed unhappy at having the old man next to her. She cut glances of disgust at his work-ruffened hands and his faded patch-smock, and drew away from him. End of second part of chapter 7 Recording by David Lazarus Section 31 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 Avisatelli Third part of chapter 7 Père Bruz sat with his head bowed, waiting. He was bothered by the napkin that was on the plate before him. Finally, he lifted it off and placed it gently on the edge of the table, not thinking to spread it over his knees. Now at last your vase served the vermicelli soup. The guests were taking up their spoons when Virginie remarked that Coupeau had disappeared. The heard perhaps return to Père Colombs. This time the company got angry, so much the worse. One would not run after him. He could stay in the street if he was not hungry, and as the spoons touched the bottom of the plates, Coupeau reappeared, with two pots of flowers, one under each arm, a stock, and a balsam. They all clapped their hands. He gallantly placed the pots one on the right, the other on the left of Gervais's glass, then bending over and kissing her, he said, I had forgotten you, my lamb, but in spite of that we love each other all the same, especially on such a day as this. Monsieur Coupeau's very nice this evening, murmured Clémence in Boche's ear. He's got just what he required, sufficient to make him amiable. The good behaviour of the master of the house restored the gaiety of the proceedings, which at one moment had been compromised. Gervais, once more at her ease, was all smiles again.  One could hear the children quarrelling in the next room. There were Etienne, Pauline, Nana, and a little Victor of Fourconier. It had been decided to lay a table for the four of them, and they had been told to be very good.  Mama, mama, suddenly screamed Nana. Augustine is dipping her bread in the Dutch oven. The laundress hastened there and called the squint-eyed one in the act of burning her throat in her attempt to swallow, without loss of time, a slice of bread soaked in boiling goose fat. She boxed her ears when the young monkey called out that it was not true. When, after the boiled beef, the stewed veal appeared, served in a salad bowl, as they did not have a dish large enough. The party greeted it with a laugh. It's become serious, declared Poisson, who seldom spoke. It was half-past seven. They had closed the shop door, so as not to be spied upon by the whole neighborhood.  The curtains hung before the windows admitted a great white uniform light which bathed the entire table with its symmetrical arrangements of knives and forks and its pots of flowers enveloped in tall collars of white paper, and this pale fading light, this slowly approaching dusk, gave to the party somewhat of an air of distinction. Virginie looked around the closed apartment hung with muslin and with a happy criticism declared it to be very cozy. Whenever a card passed in the street, the glasses jingled together on the tablecloth, and the ladies were obliged to shout as loud as the man. But there was not much conversation. They all behaved very respectively and were very attentive to each other. Coupot alone wore a blouse because as he said one need not stand on ceremony with friends and besides which the blouse was the workman's garb of honour. The ladies laced up in their bodices wore their hair in plaques greasy with permatum in which the daylight was reflected, whilst the gentlemen sitting at a distance from the table swirled out their chests and kept their elbows wide apart for fear of staining their frock coats. Ah thunder!  If they spoke little they were chewing an earnest. The salad bowl was becoming emptier and emptier with a spoon stuck in the midst of the thick sauce, a good yellow sauce which quivered like a jelly. They fished pieces of veal out of it and seemed as though they would never come to the end. The salad bowl journeyed from hand to hand and faces bent over it as forks picked out the mushrooms. The long loaves standing against the wall behind the guests appeared to melt away. Between the mouthfuls one could hear the sound of glasses being replaced on the table. The sauce was a trifle too salty. It required four bottles of wine to drown that blessed stewed veal which went down like cream but which afterwards lit up a regular conflagration in one's stomach, and before one had time to take a breath the pigs back in the middle of a deep dish surrounded by big round potatoes arrived in the midst of a cloud of smoke. There was one general cry, by Jove, it was just the thing. Everyone liked it. They would do it justice, and they followed the dish with a side glance as they wiped their knives on their bread, so as to be in readiness. Then as soon as they were helped they nudged one another and spoke with their mouths full. It was just like butter, something sweet and solid which one could feel run through one's guts right down into one's boots. The potatoes were like sugar. It was not a bit salty only. Just on a count of the potatoes it required a wetting every few minutes. Four more bottles were placed on the table. The plates were wiped so clean that they also served for the green peas and bacon. Oh, vegetables were of no consequence. They playfully gulped them down in spoonfuls. The best part of the dish was the small pieces of bacon just nicely grilled and smelling like horses' hoof. Two bottles were sufficient for them. Mama, mama, called out Nana suddenly, Augustine's putting a finger in my plate. Don't bother me. Give her a slap, replied Jovay's in the act of stuffing herself with green peas. At the children's table in the back room, Nana was playing the role of the lady of the house, sitting next to Victor and putting her brother Etienne besides Pauline so they could play house, pretending they were two married couples. Nana had served her guests very politely at first, but now she had given way to her passion for grilled bacon, trying to keep every piece for herself. While Augustine was prowling around the children's table, she would grab the bits of bacon under the pretext of dividing them amongst the children. Nana was so furious that she bit Augustine on the wrist.  But all became quiet again as Jovay's and Mother Coupeau came in to get the goose. The guests of the big table were leaning back in their chairs, taking a breather. The men had unbuttoned their waistcoats, the ladies were wiping their faces with their napkins. The repast was, so to say, interrupted. Only one or two persons, unable to keep their jaws still, continued to swallow large mouthfuls of bread without even knowing that they were doing so. The others were waiting and allowing their food to settle while waiting for the main course. Night was slowly coming on. A dirty ash-gray light was gathering behind the curtains, where in Augustine brought two lamps and placed one at each end of the table. The general disorder became apparent in the bright glare. The greasy forks and plates, the tablecloth stained with wine and covered with crumbs. A strong stifling odor pervaded the room. Certain warm fumes, however, attracted all the noses in the direction of the kitchen. Can I help you? cried Virginie. She left her chair and passed into the inner room. All the women followed one by one. They surrounded the Dutch oven and watched with profound interest as Jovay's and Mother Coupeau tried to pull the bird out. Then a clamor arose, in the midst of which one could distinguish the shrill voices and the joyful leaps of the children, and there was a triumphful entry. Jovay's carried the goose, her arms stiff, and her perspiring face expanded in one broad silent laugh. The women walked behind her laughing in the same way, whilst Nanna, right at the end, raised herself up to see, her eyes open to their full extent. When the enormous golden goose streaming with gravy was on the table, they did not attack it at once. It was a wonder, a respectful wonderment, which for a moment left everyone speechless. They drew one another's attention to it with winks and nods of the head. Golly, what a bird!  Then they entered into details, respecting the bird. Jovay's gave the facts. It was the best she could get at the poulterers in the Faubeau Poissonnier. It weighed twelve and a half pounds on the scales at the charcoal dealers. They had burned nearly half a bushel of charcoal in cooking it, and it had given three bowls full of dripping. Virginie interrupted her to boast of having seen it before it was cooked. Oh, you could have eaten it just as it was, she said. Its skin was so fine, like the skin of a blonde. All the men laughed at this, smacking their lips. Laurelure and Madame Laurelure sniffed disdainfully, almost choking with rage to see such a goose on clump-clump's table.  Oh, no, not me, it's too big, I'm afraid of it. Coupeau offered his services. Montjuïd was very simple. You caught hold of the limbs and pulled them off. The pieces were good all the same. But the others protested. They forcibly took possession of the large kitchen knife, which the zinc worker already held in his hand, saying that whenever he carved, he made a regular graveyard of the platter. Finally, Madame Laurelure suggested in a friendly tone, listen, it should be Monsieur Poisson. Yes, Monsieur Poisson. But as the others did not appear to understand, she added in a more flattering manner still. Why, yes, of course, it should be Monsieur Poisson who's accustomed to the use of arms. And she passed the kitchen knife to the policemen. All round the table, they laughed with pleasure and approval. Poisson bowed his head with military stiffness and moved the goose before him. When he thrust the knife into the goose, which cracked, Laurelure was seized with an outburst of patriotism. Ah, if it was a Cossack, he cried. Have you ever fought with Cossacks, Monsieur Poisson? asked Madame Bosch. No, but I have with Bedouins, replied the policemen, who was cutting off a wing. There are no more Cossacks. A great silence ensued. Necks were stretched out as every eye followed the knife. Poisson was preparing a surprise. Suddenly he gave a last cut. The hind quarter of the bird came off and stood up on end, rump in the air making a Bishop's Miter. Then admiration burst forth. None were so agreeable in company as retired soldiers. The policemen allowed several minutes for the company to admire the Bishop's Miter and then finished cutting the slices and arranging them on the platter. The carving of the goose was now complete. When the ladies complained that they were getting rather warm, Coupot opened the door to the street, and the gaiety continued against the background of cabs ruttling down the street and pedestrians bustling along the pavement. The goose was attacked furiously by the rested jaws. Bosch remarked that just having to wait and watch the goose being carved had been enough to make the veal and pork slide down to his ankles. Then ensued a famous tuck-in, that is to say not one of the party recollected ever having before run the risk of such a stomach ache. Gervais looking enormous, her elbows on the table, ate great pieces of breast without uttering a word, for fear of losing a mouthful, and merely felt slightly ashamed and annoyed at exhibiting herself thus, as gluttonous as a cat before Gougé. Gougé, however, was too busy stuffing himself to notice that she was all red with eating. Besides, in spite of her greediness, she remained so nice and good. She did not speak, but she troubled herself every minute to look after Père Brew, and place some dainty bits on his plate. It was even touching to see this glutton take a piece of wing almost from her mouth to give it to the old fellow, who did not appear to be very particular, and who swallowed everything with bowed head, almost besotted from having gobbled so much after he had forgotten the taste of bread. The laurelure expended their rage on the roast goose, they ate enough to last them three days. They would have stowed away the dish, the table, the very shop, if they could have ruined clump-clump by doing so. All the ladies had wanted a piece of the breast, traditionally the lady's portion. Madame Lorette, Madame Boche, Madame Poutois were all picking bones, whilst Mother Coupot, who adored the neck, was tearing off the flesh with her last two teeth. Virginie liked the skin when it was nicely browned, and the other guests scallantly passed their skin to her, so much so that Poisson looked at his wife severely and bade her stop, because she had had an half as it was. Once already she had been a fortnight in bed with her stomach swollen out, through having eaten too much roast goose. But Coupot got angry and helped Virginie to the upper part of a leg, saying that by Joe Thunder, if she did not pick it, she wasn't a proper woman. Had roast goose ever done harm to anybody? On that contrary, it cured all complaints of the spleen. One could eat it without bread, like dessert. He could go on swallowing it all night without being the least bit inconvenienced, and just to show off, he stuffed a whole drumstick into his mouth. Meanwhile Clémence had got to the end of the rump, and was sucking it with her lips, whilst she wriggled with laughter on her chair, because Boche was whispering all sorts of smutty things to her. Ah, by Joe, yes, there was a dinner. When one's added, one's added, you know. And if one only has the chance now and then, one would be precious stupid not to stuff oneself up to one's ears. Really, one could see their sides puff out by degrees. They were cracking in their skins, the blessed gormandisers. With their mouths open, their chins besmeared with grease, they had such bloated red faces, that one would have said they were bursting with prosperity. As for the wine, well, that was flowing as freely around the table as water flows in the sain. It was like a brook overflowing after a rainstorm when the soil is parched. Coupeau raised the bottle high, when pouring to see the red jet foam in the glass. Whenever he emptied a bottle, he would turn it upside down and shake it. One more dead soldier. In a corner of the laundry the pile of dead soldiers grew larger and larger, a veritable cemetery of bottles onto which other debris from the table was tossed. Coupeau became indignant when Madame Poutrois asked for water. He took all the water-pitches from the table. Do respectable citizens ever drink water? Did she want to grow frogs in her stomach? Many glasses were emptied at one gulp. You could hear the liquid gurgling its way down the throats like rainwater in a drain pipe after a storm. One might say it was raining wine. Mon Dieu, the juice of the grape was a remarkable invention. Surely the working man couldn't get along without his wine. Papanoa must have planted his grapevine for the benefit of zinc workers, tailors, and blacksmiths. It brightened you up and refreshed you after a hard day's work. End of third part of Chapter 7, Recording by David Lazarus La Samoire by Emile Zola Translated by Ernest A. Visitelli Fourth part of Chapter 7 Coupeau was in a high mood. He proclaimed that all the ladies present were very cute and jingled the three sous in his pocket as if they had been five frank pieces. Even Gougier, who was ordinarily very sober, had taken plenty of wine. Posh's eyes were narrowing, those of Laurelure were pailing, and Poisson was developing expressions of stern severity on his soldierly face. All the men were as drunk as lords, and the ladies had reached a certain point also, feeling so warm that they had to loosen their clothes. Only Clémence carried this a bit too far. Suddenly Gervais recollected the six sealed bottles of wine. She had forgotten to put them on the table with a goose. She fetched them, and all the glasses were filled. Then Poisson rose and, holding his glass in the air, said, I drink to the health of the misses. All of them stood up, making a great noise with their chairs as they moved. Holding out their arms, they clinked glasses in the midst of an immense uproar. Here's to this day fifty years hence, cried Virginie. No, no, replied Gervais, deeply moved and smiling, I shall be too old. Ah, a day comes when one's glad to go. Through the door, which was wide open, the neighborhood was looking on and taking part in the festivities. Posh's by stopped in the broad ray of light which shone over the pavement, and laughed heartily at seeing all these people stuffing away so jovially. The aroma from the roasted goose brought joy to the whole street. The clocks on the sidewalk opposite thought that they could almost taste the bird.  The little jeweler was unable to work, dizzy from having counted so many bottles. He seemed to have lost his head among his merry little cuckoo clocks. Yes, the neighbors were devoured with envy, as Coupot said, but why should there be any secret about the matter? The party now, fairly launched, was no longer ashamed of being seen at table. On the contrary, it felt flattered and excited at seeing the crowd gathered there, gaping with gluttony. It would have liked to have knocked out the shop front and dragged the table into the roadway, and there to have enjoyed the dessert under the very nose of the public, and amidst the commotion of the thoroughfare. Nothing disgusting was to be seen in them was there.  Coupot, noticing the little clockmaker, looked very thirsty, held up a bottle, and as the other nodded his head, he carried him the bottle and a glass. A fraternity was established in the street. They drank to anyone who passed. They called in any chaps who looked the right sort. The feast spread, extending from one to another, to the degree that the entire neighborhood of the goot door sniffed the grub and held its stomach amidst the rumpus worthy of the devil and all his demons. For some minutes, Madame Vigoreau, the charcoal dealer, had been passing to and fro before the door. I, Madame Vigoreau, Madame Vigoreau, yelled the party. She entered with a broad grin on her face, which was washed for once, and so fat that the body of her dress was bursting. The men liked pinching her because they might pinch her all over without ever encountering a bone. Bosch made room for her besides him and reached slightly under the table to grab her knee, but she being accustomed to that sort of thing quietly tossed off a glass of wine and related that all the neighbors were at their windows and that some of the people of the house were beginning to get angry. Oh, that's our business, said Madame Bosch. We're the concierge, aren't we? Well, we're answerable for good order. Let them come and complain to us. We'll receive them in a way they don't expect. In the back room there had just been a furious fight between Nanna and Augustine on account of the Dutch oven, which both wanted to scrape out. For a quarter of an hour the Dutch oven had rebounded over the tile floor with the noise of an old saucepan. Nanna was now nursing little Victor, who had a goose bone in his throat. She pushed her fingers under his chin and made him swallow big lumps of sugar by way of a remedy. That did not prevent her keeping an eye on the big table. At every minute she came and asked for wine, bread, or meat for Etienne and Pauline, she said. Here burst her mother would say to her, perhaps you'll leave us in peace now. The children were scarcely able to swallow any longer, but they continued to eat all the same, banging their forks down on the table to the tune of a canticle in order to excite themselves. In the midst of the noise, however, a conversation was going on between Père Bru and mother Coupeau, the old fellow who was ghastly pale in spite of the wine and the food, was talking of his sons who had died in the crimeeer. If the lads had only lived, he would have bread to eat every day. But mother Coupeau, speaking thickly, lent towards him and said, Ah, one has many worries with children. For instance, I appear to be happy here, don't I? Well, I cry more often than you think. No, don't wish you still had your children. Père Bru shook his head. I can't get work anywhere, murmured he. I'm too old. When I enter a workshop, the young fellows joke and ask me if I polished Henry the Force boots. To-days it's all over, they won't have me anywhere. Last year I could still earn thirty sewer-day painting a bridge. I had to lie on my back with a river flowing under me. I've had a bad cough ever since then, now I'm finished. He looked at his poor stiff hands and added, It's easy to understand I'm no longer good for anything. They're right. Where I am their place, I should do the same. You see, the misfortune is that I'm not dead. Yes, it's my fault. One should lie down and croak when one's no longer able to work. Really, said Lorilla, who was listening, I don't understand why the government doesn't come to the aid of the invalids of labour. I was reading that in the newspaper the other day, but Warsaw thought it his duty to defend the government. Walkman are not soldiers, declared he. The invalid is for soldiers. You must not ask for what is impossible. Dessert was now served. In the centre of the table was a savoy cake in the form of a temple, with a dome fluted with melon slices, and this dome was surmounted by an artificial rose, close to which was a silver paper butterfly, fluttering at the end of a wire. Two drops of gum in the centre of the flour imitated dew. Then to the left a piece of cream cheese floated in a deep dish, whilst in another dish to the right were piled up some large crushed strawberries, with the juice running from them. However, there was still some salad left, some large coslettis leaves soaked with oil. Come, Madame Bosch, said Gervais coaxingly, a little more salad, I know how fond you are of it. No, no, thank you, I've already had as much as I can manage, replied the concierge. The launderers turned towards Virginie, the latter put her finger in her mouth, as though to touch the food she had taken. Really, I'm full, moment she. There's no room left, I couldn't swallow a mouthful. Oh, but if you tried a little, resumed Gervais with a smile.  You're surely not going to let this be wasted. You can eat it tomorrow, said Madame Laura, it's nicer when it's wilted. The ladies sighed as they looked regretfully at the salad bowl. Clamance related that she had one day eaten three bunches of watercress at her lunch. Madame Poutois could do more than that. She would take a coslettis and munch it up with some salt just as it was without separating the leaves. They could all have lived on salad, would have treated themselves to tubfuls. Then, this conversation aiding, the ladies cleaned out the salad bowl. I could go on all fours in a meadow, observed the concierge with her mouth full. Then they chuckled together as they eyed the dessert. Dessert did not count. It came rather late, but that did not matter. They would nurse it all the same.  There was no hurry. They had the entire night, if they wished, so they piled their plates with strawberries and cream cheese. Meanwhile, the men let their pipes. They were drinking the ordinary wine while they smoked, since the special wine had been finished. Now they insisted that Jervais cut the Savoy cake. Wasar got up and took the rose from the cake and presented it in his most gallant manner to the hostess amidst applause from the other guests. She pinned it over her left breast near the heart. The silver butterfly fluttered with every movement. Well, look, exclaimed Lorela, who had just made a discovery. It's your work table that we're eating off. Oh, well, I dare say it's never seen so much work before. The malicious joke had a great success. Witty illusions came from all sides. Clémence could not swallow a spoonful of strawberries without saying that it was another shirt-ironed. Madame Laurel pretended that the cream cheese smelled of starch, whilst Madame Laurelur said between her teeth that it was capital fun to gobble up the money so quickly on the very boards on which one had so much trouble to earn it. There was quite a tempest of shouts and laughter. But suddenly a loud voice called for silence. It was Bosch, who, standing up in an affected and vulgar way, was commencing to sing the Volcano of Love, or the Seductive Trooper. A thunder of applause greeted the first verse. Yes, yes, they would sing songs, every one in turn. It was more amusing than anything else, and they all put their elbows on the table or leaned back in their chairs, nodding their heads at the best parts and sipping their wine when they came to the choruses. That rogue Bosch had a special gift for comic songs.  He burst out into the Baraneste de Follubiche, one of his greatest successes. When he reached the third verse, he turned towards Clémence and almost murmured it in a slow and voluptuous tone of voice. The Baraneste had people there, a sister's four, a rare surprise, and three were dark and one was fair, between them each bewitching eyes. Then the whole party carried away, joined in the chorus. The men beat time with their heels, whilst the lady did the same with their knives against their glasses, all of them singing at the top of their voices. By jingle, who on earth will pay? A drink to the pa, to the pa, pa by jingle, who on earth will pay? A drink to the pa, to the pa, troho. The panes of glass of the shop-front resounded. The singer's great volume of breath agitated the muslin curtains. Whilst all this was going on, Virginie had already twice disappeared, and each time on returning had leaned towards Gervais' ear to whisper a piece of information. When she returned the third time in the midst of the uproar, she said to her, my dear, he's still at François's, he's pretending to read the newspaper, he's certainly meditating some evil design. She was speaking of Laundier. It was him she had been watching, at each fresh report Gervais became more and more grave. Is he drunk? Asked she of Virginie. No replied the tall brunette. He looks as though he had merely had what he required. It's that especially which makes me anxious. Why does he remain there if he's had all he wanted? Oh, my dear, I hope nothing is going to happen. The launderers greatly upset begged her to leave off. A profound silence suddenly succeeded the clamour. Madame Poutois had just risen and was about to sing the boarding of the pirate. The guests silent and thoughtful watched her. Even Poisson had laid his pipe down on the edge of the table the better to listen to her.  She thrust out her left fist with her satisfied pride, as she thundered in her voice bigger than herself. If the pirate audacious should owe the waves chasest the buccaneer slaughter, accord him no quarter to the guns every man, and with rum fill each can, whilst these pests of the sea dangle from the cross-trees. That was something serious. By Jove it gave one a fine idea of the real thing. Poisson, who had been on board ships, nodded his head in approval of the description. One could see, too, that that song was in accordance with Madame Poutois's own feeling. Coupot, then told how Madame Poutois one evening en roue poulet, had slapped the face of four men who sought to attack her virtue. With the assistance of mother Coupot, Jove's was now serving the coffee. Though some of the guests had not yet finished their savoy cake, they would not let her sit down again, but shouted that it was her turn. With a pale face and looking very ill at ease, she tried to excuse herself. She seemed so queer that someone inquired whether the goose had disagreed with her.  When she reached the chorus, with its wish for a sleep filled with beautiful dreams, her eyelids partly closed, and her rapt gaze lost itself in the darkness of the street. Poisson stood next, and with an abrupt bow to the ladies, sang a drinking song The Wines of France. But his voice wasn't very musical, and only the final verse, a patriotic one mentioning the tricolour flag, was a success. Then he raised his glass high, juggled it a moment, and poured the contents into his open mouth. Then came a string of ballads. Madame Bosh's Baccarole was all about Venice and the Gondoliers. Madame Laurelure sang of Seville and the Andalusians in her Bolero, whilst Laurelure went so far as to allude to the perfumes of Arabia in reference to the loves of Fatima the dancer. Golden horizons were opening up all around the heavily laden table. The men were smoking their pipes, and the women unconsciously smiling with pleasure. All were dreaming they were far away. Clamance began to sing softly, Let's make a nest, with a tremolo in her voice which pleased them greatly, for it made them think of the open country, of songbirds of dancing beneath an arba, and of flowers. In short, it made them think of the wild of Assen when they went there for a picnic. End of fourth part of chapter seven. Recording by David Lazarus. Section 33 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 Avisatelli. Fifth part of chapter seven. But Virginie revived the joking with my little drop of brandy. She imitated a camp follower with one hand on her hip, the elbow arch to indicate the little barrel, and with the other hand she poured out the brandy into space by turning her fist round. She did it so well that the party then begged Mother Coupaud to sing the mouse. The old woman refused, vowing that she did not know that naughty song. Yet she started off with the remnants of her broken voice, and her wrinkled face with its lively little eyes underlined the illusions, the terrors of Madame Moselle Lisse drawing her skirts around her at the sight of a mouse. All the table laughed. The women could not keep their countenance, and continued casting bright glances at their neighbors. It was not indecent after all. There were no coarse words in it. All during the song, Bosch was playing mouse up and down the legs of the Lady Coldealer. Things might have gotten a bit out of line if Gougé in response to a glance from Gervais had not brought back the respectful silence with the farewell of Abdul Qadir, which he sang out loudly in his bass voice. The song rang out from his golden beard as if from a brass trumpet. All the hearts skipped a beat when he cried, Ah, my noble comrade, referring to the warrior's black mare. They burst into applause even before the end. Now, pebre, it's your turn, said Mother Coupot. Sing your song. The old ones are the best any day. And everybody turned towards the old man, pressing him and encouraging him. He, in a state of torpor, with his immovable mask of tanned skin, looked at them without appearing to understand. They asked him if he knew the five vowels. He held down his head. He could not recollect it. All the songs of the good old days were mixed up in his head. As they made up their minds to leave him alone, he seemed to remember and began to stutter in a cavernous voice. True lala, true lala, true lala, true lala, true lala. His face assumed an animated expression. This chorus seemed to awake some far-off gayities within him, enjoyed by himself alone, as he listened with a childish delight to his voice, which became more and more hollow. Say, there, my dear, Virginie came and whispered in Jovée's ear, I've just been there again, you know, it worried me. Well, laudier has disappeared from François. You didn't meet him outside, asked the laundress. No, I walked quickly, not as if I was looking for him. But Virginie raised her eyes, interrupted herself, and heaved a smothered sigh. Ah, mon dieu, he's there on the pavement opposite, he's looking this way. Jovée's quite beside herself ventured a glance in the direction indicated. Some persons heard collected in the street to hear the party sing, and laudier was indeed there in the front row, listening and coolly looking on. It was rare cheek, everything considered. Jovée's felt a chill ascend from her legs to her heart, and she no longer dared to move, whilst all brew continued. Very good, thank you, my ancient one, that's enough, said Coupot. Do you know the whole of it? You shall sing it for us another day when we need something sad. This raised a few laughs. The old fellow stopped short, glanced round the table with his pale eyes, and resumed his look of a meditative animal. Coupot called for more wine as the coffee was finished. Clamors was eating strawberries again. With the pours in singing, they began to talk about a woman who had been found hanging that morning in the building next door. It was Madame Larasse's turn, but she required to prepare herself. She dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of water and applied it to her temples because she was too hot. Then she asked for a thimble full of brandy, drank it, and slowly wiped her lips. The child of God shall it be, she murmured, the child of God. And tall and masculine, looking with her bony nose and her shoulders as square as her grenadiers, she began. The lost child, left by its mother alone, is sure of a home in heaven above. God sees and protects it on earth from his throne. The child that is lost is the child of God's love. Her voice trembled at certain words and dwelt on them in liquid notes. She looked out of the corner of her eyes to heaven, whilst her right hand swung before her chest or pressed against her heart with an impressive gesture. Then Gervais, tortured by Launtier's presence, could not restrain her tears. It seemed to her that the song was relating her own suffering, that she was the lost child, abandoned by its mother and whom God was going to take under his protection. Clamance was now very drunk, and she burst into loud sobbing, and placed her head down onto the table in an effort to smother her gasps. There was a hush vibrant with emotion. The ladies had pulled out their handkerchiefs and were drying their eyes, with their heads erect from pride. The men had bowed their heads and were staring straight before them, blinking back their tears. Poisson bit off the end of his pipe twice, while gulping and gasping. Bosch, with two large tears trickling down his face, wasn't even bothering to squeeze the cold dealer's knee any longer. All these drunk revelers were as soft-hearted as lambs. Wasn't the wine almost coming out of their eyes? When the refrain began again, they all let themselves go, blubbering into their plates. Gervais and Virginie could not, in spite of themselves, take their eyes off the pavement opposite.  Then all three had very anxious faces, as they exchanged involuntary signs.  And they went on to such an extent that the zincwork asked them, whatever are you looking at? He leaned forward and recognized Launtier.  La, la, dirty scoundrel! La, la, dirty scoundrel! No, it's too much. It must come to an end. And he rose from his seat, muttering most atrocious threats. Gervais in a low voice implored him to keep quiet. Listen to me, I implore you. Leave the knife alone. Remain where you are. Don't do anything dreadful. Virginie had to take the knife which he had picked up off the table from him, but she could not prevent him leaving the shop and going up to Launtier. Those around the table saw nothing of this, so involved were they in weeping over the song as Madame Lorath sang the last verse. It sounded like a moaning wail of the wind, and Madame Poutois was so moved that she spilled her wine over the table. Gervais remained frozen with fright, one hand tight against her lips to stifle her sobs. She expected at any moment to see one of the two men fall unconscious in the street. As Coupeau rushed towards Launtier, he was so astonished by the fresh air that he staggered, and Launtier with his hands in his pockets merely took a step to the side. Now the two men were almost shouting at each other, Coupeau calling the other a lousy pig and threatening to make sausage of his guts. They were shouting loudly and angrily and waving their arms violently. Gervais felt faint, and as it continued for a while she closed her eyes. Suddenly she didn't hear any shouting and opened her eyes. The two men were chatting amably together. Madame Lorath's voice rose higher and higher, warbling another verse. Gervais exchanged a glance with Madame Bosch and Virginie. Was it going to end amicably then? Coupeau and Launtier continued to converse on the edge of the pavement. They were still abusing each other but in a friendly way. There's people were staring at them, they ended by strolling leisurely side by side past the houses, turning round again every ten yards or so. A very animated conversation was now taking place. Suddenly Coupeau appeared to become angry again whilst the other was refusing something and required to be pressed. And it was the zinc worker who pushed Launtier and who forced him to cross the street and enter the shop.  You'll take a glass of wine.  Madame Lorath was finishing the last chorus. The ladies were singing altogether as they twisted their handkerchiefs. The child that is lost is the child of God's love. The singer was greatly complimented and she resumed her seat, affecting to be quite broken down. She asked for something to drink because she always put too much feeling into that song and she was constantly afraid of straining her vocal chords. Every one at the table now had their eyes fixed on Launtier, who quietly seated beside Coupeau was devouring the last piece of Savoycake which he dipped in his glass of wine. With the exception of Virginie and Madame Bosch, none of the guests knew him. The laurelur certainly scented some underhand business, but not knowing what, they merely assumed their most conceited heir. Gougier, who had noticed your vase's emotion, gave the newcomer a sour look. As an awkward pause ensued, Coupeau simply said, the friend of mine.  Gervais, feeling meek and stupid, looked at them one after the other. At first, when her husband pushed her old lover into the shop, she buried her head between her hands, the same as she instinctively did on stormy days at each clap of thunder. She could not believe it possible the walls would fall in and crush them all. Then, when she saw the two sitting together peacefully, she suddenly accepted it as quite natural. A happy feeling of languor benumbed her, retaining her all in a heap at the edge of the table, with a sole desire of not being bothered. Mondeur, what is the use of putting oneself out when others do not, and when things arrange themselves to the satisfaction of everybody? She got up to see if there was any coffee left. In the back room the children had fallen asleep. That, squint-eyed Augustine had tyrannized over them all during the dessert, pilfering their strawberries and frightening them with the most abominable threats.  Fat Pauline heard her head fall against Etienne's shoulder, and he himself was sleeping on the edge of the table. Nana was seated with Victor on the rug beside the bedstead. She had passed her arm round his neck, and was drawing him towards her, Anne succumbing to drowsiness and with her eyes shut. She kept repeating in a feeble voice, Oh, Mama, I'm not well. Oh, Mama, I'm not well.  They're drunk. They've been singing like grown-up persons. Gervais received another blow on beholding Etienne.  She was on the point of rousing Etienne and of carrying him there in her arms. Then she felt again that the quiet way in which matters had been arranged was the best. It would not have been proper to have disturbed the harmony of the end of the dinner. She returned with a coffee pot and poured out a glass of coffee for Launtier, who, by the way, did not appear to take any notice of her. Now it's my turn, stuttered Coupot in a thick voice. You've been keeping the best for the lost? Well, I'll sing That Piggish Child. Yes, yes, that Piggish Child, cried everyone. The uproar was beginning again. Launtier was forgotten. The ladies prepared their glasses and their knives for accompanying the chorus. They laughed beforehand as they looked at the zinc worker who steadied himself on his legs, as he put on his most vulgar air, mimicking the hoarse voice of an old woman he sang. We're now to bed each morn I hop. I'm always precious queer. I send him for a little drop to the drinking-ken that's near. A good half hour or more he'll stay, and that makes me so riled. He swigs it half upon his way a what a Piggish Child. And the ladies, striking their glasses, repeated in a chorus in the midst of formidable gaiety. What a Piggish Child! What a Piggish Child! Even the Rue de la Goudre itself joined in now. The whole neighborhood was singing, What a Piggish Child! The little clockmaker, the grocery-clarks, the tripe-women and the fruit-women all knew the song and joined in the chorus. The entire street seemed to be getting drunk on the odors from the Coupeau Party. In the reddish haze from the two lamps, the noise of the party was enough to shut out the rumbling of the last vehicles in the street. Two policemen rushed over thinking there was a riot, but on recognizing Poisson they saluted him smartly and went away between the darkened buildings. Coupeau was now singing this verse, On sunday's at Petit Vellet, When air the weather's fine, We call on Uncle Old Tinette, Who's in the dustman line, To feast upon some cherry stones, The young'uns almost wild, And rolls amongst the dust and bones, What a Piggish Child! What a Piggish Child! Then the house almost collapsed, Such a yell ascended and the calm warm night air that the shouters applauded themselves, For it was useless there hoping to be able to ball any louder. Not one of the party could ever recollect exactly how the carousel terminated. It must have been very late. It's quite certain for not a cat was to be seen in the street. Possibly, too, they had all joined hands and danced round the table, but all was submerged in a yellow mist in which red faces were jumping about with mouth slip from ear to ear. They had probably treated themselves to something stronger than wine toward the end, and there was a vague suspicion that someone had played them the trick of putting salt into the glasses. The children must have undressed and put themselves to bed. On the morrow, Madame Bosch boasted of having treated Bosch to a couple of clouts in a corner where he was conversing a great deal too close to the charcoal dealer, but Bosch, who recollected nothing, said she must have dreamt it. Everyone agreed that it wasn't a very decent the way Clamours had carried on.  The men had at least the decency to go into the street. Laurelure and Poisson, feeling their stomachs upset, had stumblingly glided as far as the pork butcher's shop. It is easy to see when a person has been well brought up. For instance, the ladies, Madame Poutrois, Madame Lorare, and Virginie, indisposed by the heat, had simply gone into the back room and taken their stays off. Virginie had even desired to lie on the bed for a minute, just to obviate any unpleasant effects. Thus the party had seemed to melt away, some disappearing behind the others, all accompanying one another, and being lost sight of in the surrounding darkness, to the accompaniment of a final uproar, a furious quarrel between the Laurelure, and an obstinate and mournful trulala, trulala of ol' bruise. Gervais had an idea that Gougé had burst out sobbing when bidding her goodbye. Coupeau was still singing, as for Laundier, he must have remained till the end. At one moment, even, she could still feel a breath against her hair, but she was unable to say whether it came from Laundier, or if it was the warm night air. Since Madame Lorare didn't want to return to Les Batignolles at such a late hour, they took one of the mattresses off the bed and spread it for her in the corner of the shop after pushing back the table. She slept right there amid all the dinner crumbs. All night long, while the Coupeau was sleeping, a neighbour's cat took advantage of an open window and was crunching the bones of the goose with its sharp teeth, giving the bird its final resting place. 8. On the following Saturday, Coupeau, who had not come home to dinner, brought Laundier with him towards 10 o'clock. They had had some sheep's trotters at Chaitaumat at Montmartre. You mustn't scald, wife, said the zinc worker, with soba, as you can see. Now, there's no fear with him. He keeps one on the straight road, and he related how they had happened to meet in the Rue Roche-soire. After dinner, Laundier declined to have a drink at the black ball, saying that when one was married to a pretty and worthy little woman, one ought not to go liqueurring up at all the wine shops. Jefaire smiled slightly as she listened. Oh, she was not thinking of scolding. She felt too much embarrassed for that.  But at such an hour, when she was about to go to bed, the unexpected arrival of the two men had startled her. Her hands were quivering as she pinned back the hair which had slid down her neck. You know, resumed Coupeau, as he was so polite as to decline a drink outside, you must treat us to one here. Ah, he certainly owe us that. The work women had left long ago. Mother Coupeau and Nana had just gone to bed. Jefaire's, who had been just about to put up the shutters when they appeared, left the shop open and brought some glasses, which she placed on a corner of the work table with what was left of a bottle of brandy. Lantier remained standing and avoided speaking directly to her. However, when she served him, he exclaimed, only a thimbleful, madame, if you please. Coupeau looked at them and then spoke his mind very plainly. They were not going to behave like a couple of geese, he hoped. The past was passed, was it not? If people nursed grudges for nine and ten years together, one would end by no longer seeing anybody. No, no, he carried his heart in his hand, he did. First of all, he knew who he had to deal with. A worthy woman and a worthy man. In short, two friends. He felt easy. He knew he could depend upon them. Oh, that's certain, quite certain, repeated Jefaire's, looking on the ground and scarcely understanding what she said.  Mehmed Lantier in his turn. Maudier, shake hands, cried Coupeau, and let those who don't like it go to blazes. When one has proper feelings, one is better off than millionaires. For myself, I prefer friendship before everything, because friendship is friendship and there's nothing to beat it. He dealt himself heavy blows on the chest and seemed so moved that they had to calm him. They all three silently clinked glasses and drank their drop of brandy. Jefaire's was then able to look at Lantier at her ease, for on the night of her saint's day, she had only seen him through a fog. He had grown more stout, his arms and legs seeming too heavy because of his small stature.  He still took great pains with his narrow mustache. He looked about his actual age. He was wearing grey trousers, a heavy blue overcoat and a round hat. He even had a watch with a silver chain on which a ring was hanging as a keepsake. He looked quite like a gentleman. I'm off, said he. I live no end of a distance from here. He was already on the pavement when the zinc worker called him back to make him promise never to pass the door without looking in to wish them good day. Meanwhile, Chalvez, who had quietly disappeared, returned, pushing Etienne before her.  But when he beheld Lantier, he stood trembling and embarrassed, and casting anxious glances in the direction of his mother and couple. Don't you remember this gentleman? asked the latter. The child held down his head without replying, and he made a slight sign which meant that he did remember the gentleman.   Lantier gravely and quietly waited. When Etienne had made up his mind to approach him, he stooped down, presented both his cheeks, and then kissed the youngster on the forehead himself. At this the boy ventured to look at his father. But all of a sudden he burst out sobbing and scampered away like a mad creature, with his clothes half falling off him, while Coupo angrily called him a young savage. The emotion's too much for him, said Chalvez pale and agitated herself. Now he's generally very gentle and nice, exclaimed Coupo. I brought him up properly, as you'll see. He'll get used to you. He must learn to know people. We can't stay mad. We should have made up a long time ago for his sake. I'd rather have my head cut off than keep a father from seeing his own son. Having thus delivered himself, he talked of finishing the bottle of brandy. All three clinked glasses again. Lantier showed no surprise, but remained perfectly calm. By way of repaying the zinc worker's politeness, he persisted in helping him put up the shutters before taking his departure. Then, rubbing his hands together to get rid of the dust on them, he wished the couple good night. Sleep well. I shall try and catch the last boss. I promise you I'll look in again soon. After that evening, Lantier frequently called at the Rue de la Goutte d'Arc. He came on the zinc worker who was there, inquiring after his health the moment he passed the door, and affecting to have solely called on his account. Then, clean shaven his hair nicely combed and always wearing his overcoat, he would take a seat by the window and converse politely with the manners of an educated man. It was thus that the Coupos learned little by little the details of his life. During the last eight years, he had for a while managed a hat factory, and when they asked him why he had retired from it, he merely alluded to the rascality of a partner, a fellow from his native place, a scoundrel who had squandered all the takings with women. His former position as an employer continued to affect his entire personality, like a title of nobility that he could not abandon. He was always talking of concluding a magnificent deal with some hat makers who were going to set him up in business. While waiting for this, he did nothing but stroll around all day like one of the idle rich. If anyone dared to mention a hat factory looking for workers, he smiled and said he was not interested in breaking his back working for others. A smart fellow like Lancier, according to Coupos, knew how to take care of himself. He always looked prosperous, and it took money to look thus. He must have some deal going. One morning, Coupos had seen him having his shoes shined on the Boulevard Montmartre. Lancier was very talkative about others, but the truth was that he told lies about himself. He would not even say where he lived, only that he was staying with a friend, and that there was no use in coming to see him because he was never in. It was now early November. Lancier would gallantly bring bunches of violets for chervères and the work women. He was now coming almost every day.  At the end of the month, they adored him. The bus, whom he flattered by going to pay his respect in their Courcielges Lodge, went into ecstasy over his politeness. As soon as the lawyers knew who he was, they howled at the impudence of chervères in bringing her former lover into her home. However, one day Lancier went to visit them and made such a good impression when he ordered a necklace for a lady of his acquaintance that they invited him to sit down. He stayed an hour, and they were so charmed by his conversation that they wondered how a man of such distinction had ever lived with clump clump. Soon Lancier's visit to the Coupos were accepted as perfectly natural. He was in the good graces of everyone along the rue de la Goudard. Gougé was the only one who remained cold. If he happened to be there when Lancier arrived, he would leave at once, as he didn't want to be obliged to be friendly to him. In the midst, however, of all this extraordinary affection for Lancier, Chervères lived in a state of great agitation for the first few weeks. She felt that burning sensation in the pit of her stomach, which affected her on the day when Vierchini first alluded to her past life. A great fear was that she might find herself without strength if he came upon her all alone one night and took it into his head to kiss her. She thought of him too much. She was forever thinking of him. But she gradually became calmer on seeing him behave so well, never looking her in the face, never even touching her with the tips of his fingers when no one was watching. Then Vierchini, who seemed to read within her, made her ashamed of all her wicked thoughts. Why did she tremble? One could not hope to come across a nicer man. She certainly had nothing to fear now, and one day the tall brunettes maneuvered in such a way as to get them both into a corner and to turn the conversation to the subject of love. Lancier, choosing his words, declared in a grave voice that his heart was dead, that for the future he wished to consecrate his life solely for his son's happiness. Every evening he would kiss Etienne on the forehead, yet he was out to forget him in teasing back and forth with clements, and he never mentioned Claude, who was still in the south. Gervais began to feel at ease. Lancier's actual presence overshadowed her memories and seeing him all the time, she no longer dreamed about him. She even felt a certain repugnance at the thought of their former relationship. Yes, it was over. If he dared to approach her, she'd box his ears, or even better, she'd tell her husband. Once again her thoughts turned to Goucher and his affection for her. One morning Clémence reported that the previous night, at about eleven o'clock, she had seen Monsieur Lancier with a woman. She told about it maliciously and in coarse terms, to see how Gervais would react. Yes, Monsieur Lancier was on the Rue Notre-de-Lorette with a blonde, and she followed them. They'd gone into a shop where the worn-out and used that woman had bought some shrimps. Then they went to the Rue de la Roche-au-Coeur. Monsieur Lancier had waited on the pavement in front of the house while his lady friend went in alone. Then she had beckoned to him from the window to join her. No matter how Clémence went on with the story, Gervais went on peacefully ironing a white dress. Sometimes she smiled faintly.  They have to have them no matter what, even if they come from a dung heap. When Lancier came in that evening, Gervais was amused when Clémence teased him about the blonde. He seemed to feel flattered that he'd been seen. Monsieur, she was just an old friend, he explained. He saw her from time to time. She was quite stylish. He mentioned some of her former lovers, among them a count, an important merchant, and the son of a lawyer. He added that a bit of playing around didn't mean a thing. His heart was dead. In the end, Clémence had to pay a price for her meanness. She certainly felt Lancier pinching her hard two or three times without seeming to do so. She was also jealous because she didn't reek of musk like that boulevard workhorse. When spring came, Lancier, who was now quite one of the family, talked of living in the neighbourhood so as to be nearer his friends. He wanted a furnished room in a decent house. Madame Bosch and even Gervais herself went searching about to find it for him. They explored the neighbouring streets. But he was always too difficult to please. He required a big courtyard, a room on the ground floor. In fact, every luxury imaginable. And then every evening at the coupos, he seemed to measure the height of the ceilings, study the arrangement of the rooms, and cover to similar lodging. Oh, he would never have asked for anything better. He would willingly have made himself a hole in that warm, quiet corner. Then each time he wound up his inspection with these words, by Jove, you are comfortably situated here. One evening when he had dined there, I was making the same remark during the dessert. Coupo, who now treated him most familiarly, suddenly exclaimed, you must stay here, oh boy, if it suits you, it's easily arranged. And he explained that the dirty clothes room cleaned out would make a nice apartment. Itchen could sleep in the shop, on a mattress on the floor, that was all. No, no, I said, Lancie, I cannot accept. It would inconvenience you too much. I know that it's willingly offered, but we should be too warm or jumbled up together. Besides, you know, each one likes his liberty. I should have to go through your room, and that wouldn't be exactly funny. Ah, the rogue resumed the zinc worker choking with laughter, banging his fist down on the table. He's always thinking of something smutty. But you joker, we have an inventive turn of mind. There are two windows in the room, aren't there? Well, we'll knock one out and turn it into a door.  And we can even stop up the other door if we like, though she'll be in your home, and we in ours. The poor's ensued, at length the hatter murmured, ah, yes, in that manner, perhaps we might, and yet, no, I should be too much in your way. He avoided looking at Chauvet, but he was evidently waiting for a word from her before accepting. She was very much annoyed at her husband's idea, not that the thought of seeing Lantier living with them wounded her feelings or made her particularly uneasy, but she was wondering where she would be able to keep the dirty clothes. Coupeau was going on about the advantages of the arrangement. Their rent, 500 francs, had always been a bit steep. Their friend could pay 20 francs a month for a nicely furnished room, and it would help them with the rent. He would be responsible for fixing up a big box under their bed that would be large enough to hold all the dirty clothes. Chauvet still hesitated. She looked towards Mother Coupeau for guidance. Lantier had won over Mother Coupeau months ago by bringing her gumdrops for her cough. End of first part of chapter eight, Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey