Complete Works of Emile Zola (501 page)

Lantier only returned at eleven o’clock. He had been to the undertaker’s for information.

“The coffin is twelve francs,” said he. “If you desire a mass, it will be ten francs more. Then there’s the hearse, which is charged for according to the ornaments.”

“Oh! it’s quite unnecessary to be fancy,” murmured Madame Lorilleux, raising her head in a surprised and anxious manner. “We can’t bring mamma to life again, can we? One must do according to one’s means.”

“Of course, that’s just what I think,” resumed the hatter. “I merely asked the prices to guide you. Tell me what you desire; and after lunch I will give the orders.”

They were talking in lowered voices. Only a dim light came into the room through the cracks in the shutters. The door to the little room stood half open, and from it came the deep silence of death. Children’s laughter echoed in the courtyard. Suddenly they heard the voice of Nana, who had escaped from the Boches to whom she had been sent. She was giving commands in her shrill voice and the children were singing a song about a donkey.

Gervaise waited until it was quiet to say:

“We’re not rich certainly; but all the same we wish to act decently. If mother Coupeau has left us nothing, it’s no reason for pitching her into the ground like a dog. No; we must have a mass, and a hearse with a few ornaments.”

“And who will pay for them?” violently inquired Madame Lorilleux. “Not we, who lost some money last week; and you either, as you’re stumped. Ah! you ought, however, to see where it has led you, this trying to impress people!”

Coupeau, when consulted, mumbled something with a gesture of profound indifference, and then fell asleep again on his chair. Madame Lerat said that she would pay her share. She was of Gervaise’s opinion, they should do things decently. Then the two of them fell to making calculations on a piece of paper: in all, it would amount to about ninety francs, because they decided, after a long discussion, to have a hearse ornamented with a narrow scallop.

“We’re three,” concluded the laundress. “We’ll give thirty francs each. It won’t ruin us.”

But Madame Lorilleux broke out in a fury.

“Well! I refuse, yes, I refuse! It’s not for the thirty francs. I’d give a hundred thousand, if I had them, and if it would bring mamma to life again. Only, I don’t like vain people. You’ve got a shop, you only dream of showing off before the neighborhood. We don’t fall in with it, we don’t. We don’t try to make ourselves out what we are not. Oh! you can manage it to please yourself. Put plumes on the hearse if it amuses you.”

“No one asks you for anything,” Gervaise ended by answering. “Even though I should have to sell myself, I’ll not have anything to reproach myself with. I’ve fed mother Coupeau without your help, and I can certainly bury her without your help also. I already once before gave you a bit of my mind; I pick up stray cats, I’m not likely to leave your mother in the mire.”

Then Madame Lorilleux burst into tears and Lantier had to prevent her from leaving. The argument became so noisy that Madame Lerat felt she had to go quietly into the little room and glance tearfully at her dead mother, as though fearing to find her awake and listening. Just at this moment the girls playing in the courtyard, led by Nana, began singing again.

“
Mon Dieu!
how those children grate on one’s nerves with their singing!” said Gervaise, all upset and on the point of sobbing with impatience and sadness. Turning to the hatter, she said:

“Do please make them leave off, and send Nana back to the concierge’s with a kick.”

Madame Lerat and Madame Lorilleux went away to eat lunch, promising to return. The Coupeaus sat down to eat a bite without much appetite, feeling hesitant about even raising a fork. After lunch Lantier went to the undertaker’s again with the ninety francs. Thirty had come from Madame Lerat and Gervaise had run, with her hair all loose, to borrow sixty francs from Goujet.

Several of the neighbors called in the afternoon, mainly out of curiosity. They went into the little room to make the sign of the cross and sprinkle some holy water with the boxwood sprig. Then they sat in the shop and talked endlessly about the departed. Mademoiselle Remanjou had noticed that her right eye was still open. Madame Gaudron maintained that she had a fine complexion for her age. Madame Fauconnier kept repeating that she had seen her having coffee only three days earlier.

Towards evening the Coupeaus were beginning to have had enough of it. It was too great an affliction for a family to have to keep a corpse so long a time. The government ought to have made a new law on the subject. All through another evening, another night, and another morning — no! it would never come to an end. When one no longer weeps, grief turns to irritation; is it not so? One would end by misbehaving oneself. Mother Coupeau, dumb and stiff in the depths of the narrow chamber, was spreading more and more over the lodging and becoming heavy enough to crush the people in it. And the family, in spite of itself, gradually fell into the ordinary mode of life, and lost some portion of its respect.

“You must have a mouthful with us,” said Gervaise to Madame Lerat and Madame Lorilleux, when they returned. “We’re too sad; we must keep together.”

They laid the cloth on the work-table. Each one, on seeing the plates, thought of the feastings they had had on it. Lantier had returned. Lorilleux came down. A pastry-cook had just brought a meat pie, for the laundress was too upset to attend to any cooking. As they were taking their seats, Boche came to say that Monsieur Marescot asked to be admitted, and the landlord appeared, looking very grave, and wearing a broad decoration on his frock-coat. He bowed in silence and went straight to the little room, where he knelt down. All the family, leaving the table, stood up, greatly impressed. Monsieur Marescot, having finished his devotions, passed into the shop and said to the Coupeaus:

“I have come for the two quarters’ rent that’s overdue. Are you prepared to pay?”

“No, sir, not quite,” stammered Gervaise, greatly put out at hearing this mentioned before the Lorilleuxs. “You see, with the misfortune which has fallen upon us — “

“No doubt, but everyone has their troubles,” resumed the landlord, spreading out his immense fingers, which indicated the former workman. “I am very sorry, but I cannot wait any longer. If I am not paid by the morning after to-morrow, I shall be obliged to have you put out.”

Gervaise, struck dumb, imploringly clasped her hands, her eyes full of tears. With an energetic shake of his big bony head, he gave her to understand that supplications were useless. Besides, the respect due to the dead forbade all discussion. He discreetly retired, walking backwards.

“A thousand pardons for having disturbed you,” murmured he. “The morning after to-morrow; do not forget.”

And as on withdrawing he again passed before the little room, he saluted the corpse a last time through the wide open door by devoutly bending his knee.

They began eating and gobbled the food down very quickly, so as not to seem to be enjoying it, only slowing down when they reached the dessert. Occasionally Gervaise or one of the sisters would get up, still holding her napkin, to look into the small room. They made plenty of strong coffee to keep them awake through the night. The Poissons arrived about eight and were invited for coffee.

Then Lantier, who had been watching Gervaise’s face, seemed to seize an opportunity that he had been waiting for ever since the morning. In speaking of the indecency of landlords who entered houses of mourning to demand their money, he said:

“He’s a Jesuit, the beast, with his air of officiating at a mass! But in your place, I’d just chuck up the shop altogether.”

Gervaise, quite worn out and feeling weak and nervous, gave way and replied:

“Yes, I shall certainly not wait for the bailiffs. Ah! it’s more than I can bear — more than I can bear.”

The Lorilleuxs, delighted at the idea that Clump-clump would no longer have a shop, approved the plan immensely. One could hardly conceive the great cost a shop was. If she only earned three francs working for others she at least had no expenses; she did not risk losing large sums of money. They repeated this argument to Coupeau, urging him on; he drank a great deal and remained in a continuous fit of sensibility, weeping all day by himself in his plate. As the laundress seemed to be allowing herself to be convinced, Lantier looked at the Poissons and winked. And tall Virginie intervened, making herself most amiable.

“You know, we might arrange the matter between us. I would relieve you of the rest of the lease and settle your matter with the landlord. In short, you would not be worried nearly so much.”

“No thanks,” declared Gervaise, shaking herself as though she felt a shudder pass over her. “I’ll work; I’ve got my two arms, thank heaven! to help me out of my difficulties.”

“We can talk about it some other time,” the hatter hastened to put in. “It’s scarcely the thing to do so this evening. Some other time — in the morning for instance.”

At this moment, Madame Lerat, who had gone into the little room, uttered a faint cry. She had had a fright because she had found the candle burnt out. They all busied themselves in lighting another; they shook their heads, saying that it was not a good sign when the light went out beside a corpse.

The wake commenced. Coupeau had gone to lie down, not to sleep, said he, but to think; and five minutes afterwards he was snoring. When they sent Nana off to sleep at the Boches’ she cried; she had been looking forward ever since the morning to being nice and warm in her good friend Lantier’s big bed. The Poissons stayed till midnight. Some hot wine had been made in a salad-bowl because the coffee affected the ladies’ nerves too much. The conversation became tenderly effusive. Virginie talked of the country: she would like to be buried at the corner of a wood with wild flowers on her grave. Madame Lerat had already put by in her wardrobe the sheet for her shroud, and she kept it perfumed with a bunch of lavender; she wished always to have a nice smell under her nose when she would be eating the dandelions by the roots. Then, with no sort of transition, the policeman related that he had arrested a fine girl that morning who had been stealing from a pork-butcher’s shop; on undressing her at the commissary of police’s they had found ten sausages hanging round her body. And Madame Lorilleux having remarked, with a look of disgust, that she would not eat any of those sausages, the party burst into a gentle laugh. The wake became livelier, though not ceasing to preserve appearances.

But just as they were finishing the hot wine a peculiar noise, a dull trickling sound, issued from the little room. All raised their heads and looked at each other.

“It’s nothing,” said Lantier quietly, lowering his voice. “She’s emptying.”

The explanation caused the others to nod their heads in a reassured way, and they replaced their glasses on the table.

When the Poissons left for home, Lantier left also, saying he would sleep with a friend and leave his bed for the ladies in case they wanted to take turns napping. Lorilleux went upstairs to bed. Gervaise and the two sisters arranged themselves by the stove where they huddled together close to the warmth, talking quietly. Coupeau was still snoring.

Madame Lorilleux was complaining that she didn’t have a black dress and asked Gervaise about the black skirt they had given mother Coupeau on her saint’s day. Gervaise went to look for it. Madame Lorilleux then wanted some of the old linen and mentioned the bed, the wardrobe, and the two chairs as she looked around for other odds and ends. Madame Lerat had to serve as peace maker when a quarrel nearly broke out. She pointed out that as the Coupeaus had cared for their mother, they deserved to keep the few things she had left. Soon they were all dozing around the stove.

The night seemed terribly long to them. Now and again they shook themselves, drank some coffee and stretched their necks in the direction of the little room, where the candle, which was not to be snuffed, was burning with a dull red flame, flickering the more because of the black soot on the wick. Towards morning, they shivered, in spite of the great heat of the stove. Anguish, and the fatigue of having talked too much was stifling them, whilst their mouths were parched, and their eyes ached. Madame Lerat threw herself on Lantier’s bed, and snored as loud as a man; whilst the other two, their heads falling forward, and almost touching their knees, slept before the fire. At daybreak, a shudder awoke them. Mother Coupeau’s candle had again gone out; and as, in the obscurity, the dull trickling sound recommenced, Madame Lorilleux gave the explanation of it anew in a loud voice, so as to reassure herself:

“She’s emptying,” repeated she, lighting another candle.

The funeral was to take place at half-past ten. A nice morning to add to the night and the day before! Gervaise, though without a sou, said she would have given a hundred francs to anybody who would have come and taken mother Coupeau away three hours sooner. No, one may love people, but they are too great a weight when they are dead; and the more one has loved them, the sooner one would like to be rid of their bodies.

The morning of a funeral is, fortunately, full of diversions. One has all sorts of preparations to make. To begin with, they lunched. Then it happened to be old Bazouge, the undertaker’s helper, who lived on the sixth floor, who brought the coffin and the sack of bran. He was never sober, the worthy fellow. At eight o’clock that day, he was still lively from the booze of the day before.

“This is for here, isn’t it?” asked he.

And he laid down the coffin, which creaked like a new box. But as he was throwing the sack of bran on one side, he stood with a look of amazement in his eyes, his mouth opened wide, on beholding Gervaise before him.

“Beg pardon, excuse me. I’ve made a mistake,” stammered he. “I was told it was for you.”

He had already taken up the sack again, and the laundress was obliged to call to him:

“Leave it alone, it’s for here.”

“Ah!
Mon Dieu!
Now I understand!” resumed he, slapping his thigh. “It’s for the old lady.”

Gervaise had turned quite pale. Old Bazouge had brought the coffin for her. By way of apology, he tried to be gallant, and continued: