The Drinking Den by Émile Zola Read Free Book Online Page A

complexion and a thin moustache, which he twirled constantly with a mechanical gesture. He had on a workman’s overall and an old, stained coat, taken in at the waist. He spoke with a marked southern accent.
    Gervaise had slumped back into the chair and was complaining softly, in short bursts: ‘I didn’t sleep a wink… I thought you must have come to some harm… Where did you go? Where did you spend the night? For God’s sake, don’t ever do it again, I’ll go out of my mind… Tell me, Auguste, where did you go?’
    â€˜I was busy, right?’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Damn it all! I went to La Glacière at eight, to see that friend of ours who is meant to be setting up a milliner’s. It was late, so I thought I might as well stop over… In any case, I don’t like being spied on, so get off my back!’
    The young woman began to sob again. Lantier had raised his voiceand made brusque gestures, knocking aside the chairs, which woke up the children. They sat up in bed, half naked, ruffling their hair with their little hands; and, when they heard their mother crying, howled dreadfully, themselves weeping from half-opened eyes.
    â€˜Ah, now the music’s started!’ Lantier yelled, in fury. ‘I warn the lot of you, I’ll be off again! And this time it will be for good… Won’t you shut up? OK, that’s it. I’m going back where I came from.’
    He was already picking up his hat from the chest of drawers. But Gervaise rushed forward, stammering: ‘No, no!’ She stifled the children’s tears with hugs, kissing them on the head and muttering endearments as she put them back to bed. Quickly appeased, they started to laugh and pinch one another. Meanwhile, the father, without even taking his boots off, had slumped down on to the bed, looking exhausted, his face blotchy after a sleepless night. He didn’t fall asleep, but stayed there with his eyes open, looking around the room.
    â€˜A fine state this place is in,’ he muttered. Then, after staring at Gervaise for a moment, he added unkindly: ‘Have you given up washing yourself then?’
    Gervaise was only twenty-two, tall, rather thin, with fine features, though already drawn: she had had a hard life. Now, in her slippers, her hair unbrushed, shivering beneath a white shift that was stained with dust and grease from the furniture, she seemed to have aged ten years because of the hours of anxiety and tears that she had just suffered. Lantier’s remark stirred her out of her fear and apathy.
    â€˜That’s not fair,’ she said, with some spirit. ‘You know darned well I do as best I can. It’s not my fault we ended up here… I’d like to see you managing, with the two kids, in a single room where there’s not even a stove to get some hot water… If you hadn’t spent all your money when you first came to Paris, you could have set us up somewhere, like you promised.’
    â€˜I like that!’ he yelled. ‘You did your bit in spending our money, just as much as me. You’re a fine one, to start blaming me now for the good times we had!’
    She seemed not to have heard; instead, she went on: ‘Anyway, with a bit of an effort we might still get out of here… Yesterday evening, I saw Madame Fauconnier, the washerwoman from the Rue Neuve;she’s going to take me on, Monday. If you get together with your friend from La Glacière, we’ll be back on our feet in six months, then we can get some decent clothes and find ourselves a place that we can call home… But we’ll have to work hard, real hard…’
    Lantier turned towards the street, with a bored look on his face. At this Gervaise lost her temper.
    â€˜Yeah, that’s right, I know you’re in no great hurry to get down to work. You want lots of things, you’d like to be dressed like a gent and show off your