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

whores in silk skirts. That’s it, isn’t it? You think I’m not good enough for you, since you made me pawn all my dresses… Now, you listen to me, Auguste. I didn’t want to say anything yet, I would have waited, but I know where you spent last night: I saw you going into the Grand Balcon with that slut Adèle. My God, you do choose them! She’s a right one, she is! She can afford to show off like she does… She’s slept with everyone in that restaurant.’
    Lantier leaped off the bed. His eyes were as black as ink in his pale face. Though he was a small man, he had a temper like a hurricane.
    â€˜Yeah, you hear me, with the whole lot of them!’ Gervaise repeated. ‘Madame Boche is going to kick the both of them out, her and her great beanpole of a sister, because there’s always a line of men queuing for them down the stairs.’
    Lantier raised both fists; then, resisting the urge to beat her, grasped both her arms, shook her roughly and threw her back, on to the children’s bed. They started to cry again. He went back to his own bed, muttering savagely, like a man who had just made up his mind to something: ‘You don’t know what you’ve done there, Gervaise… You’ve made a big mistake, you wait and see.’
    For a short time, the children kept on sobbing. Their mother, bending over the bed, held both of them in a single embrace and kept on repeating the same thing, twenty times over, in a monotonous voice:
    â€˜Oh, if it wasn’t for you, my poor little chicks! If it wasn’t for you… if it wasn’t for you…!’
    Calmly stretched out on the bed and looking up at the piece of faded chintz, Lantier had stopped listening and was lost in thought. He stayed like that almost an hour, without giving way to sleep, though his eyelids were drooping with tiredness. When he sat up on his elbow,his face hard and determined, Gervaise had almost finished tidying the room. She was making the children’s bed, after getting them up and dressing them. He watched her taking the broom round and dusting the furniture, but the room remained black and dingy, with its smoke-stained ceiling, damp, peeling wallpaper, three rickety chairs and chest of drawers, to which the grime clung obstinately, so that the duster merely spread it around. Then, while she was splashing water over herself, after tying up her hair, in front of the little round mirror that hung on the window latch – and which he used for shaving – he appeared to be inspecting her bare arms and bare neck, all the nakedness that she displayed, as if mentally making comparisons. He curled his lip in distaste. Gervaise had a limp, in the right leg; but you could hardly notice it except on days when she was tired and gave in to it. That morning, exhausted after her sleepless night, she was dragging one foot and supporting herself against the wall.
    Silence reigned: they had not exchanged a single word. He seemed to be waiting for something, while she, swallowing her misery and determined not to show her feelings, hurried about her work. When she started making up a parcel of dirty linen, which had been discarded in one corner of the room, behind the trunk, he finally asked: ‘What are you doing? Where are you going?’
    At first, she did not answer. Then, when he angrily repeated the question, she changed her mind: ‘I should think you could see the answer to that… I’m going to wash all this lot… We can’t have the children living in such filth.’
    He let her pick up two or three handkerchiefs, then, after a further silence, he asked: ‘Got any money?’
    At once, she got up and looked him straight in the face, without letting go of the children’s shirt that she was holding.
    â€˜Money! Where do you expect me to steal it from? You know I got three francs the day before yesterday on my black skirt. We’ve had two meals out