L'Assommoir by Émile Zola (psychology books to read .TXT) 📖

“Say, Badingue!” cried Lantier, who had given him this surname again, out of friendship. “I shall want that box of yours as a present for a young lady.”

Virginie gave him a pinch and he reached under the counter to run his fingers like a creeping mouse up her leg.

“Quite so,” said the policeman. “I was working for you, Auguste, in view of presenting you with a token of friendship.”

“Ah, if that’s the case, I’ll keep your little memento!” rejoined Lantier with a laugh. “I’ll hang it round my neck with a ribbon.”

Then suddenly, as if this thought brought another one to his memory, “By the way,” he cried, “I met Nana last night.”

This news caused Gervaise such emotion that she sunk down in the dirty water which covered the floor of the shop.

“Ah!” she muttered speechlessly.

“Yes; as I was going down the Rue des Martyrs, I caught sight of a girl who was on the arm of an old fellow in front of me, and I said to myself: I know that shape. I stepped faster and sure enough found myself face to face with Nana. There’s no need to pity her, she looked very happy, with her pretty woolen dress on her back, a gold cross and an awfully pert expression.”

“Ah!” repeated Gervaise in a husky voice.

Lantier, who had finished the pastilles, took some barley-sugar out of another jar.

“She’s sneaky,” he resumed. “She made a sign to me to follow her, with wonderful composure. Then she left her old fellow somewhere in a cafe —oh a wonderful chap, the old bloke, quite used up!—and she came and joined me under the doorway. A pretty little serpent, pretty, and doing the grand, and fawning on you like a little dog. Yes, she kissed me, and wanted to have news of everyone—I was very pleased to meet her.”

“Ah!” said Gervaise for the third time. She drew herself together, and still waited. Hadn’t her daughter had a word for her then? In the silence Poisson’s saw could be heard again. Lantier, who felt gay, was sucking his barley-sugar, and smacking his lips.

“Well, if I saw her, I should go over to the other side of the street,” interposed Virginie, who had just pinched the hatter again most ferociously. “It isn’t because you are there, Madame Coupeau, but your daughter is rotten to the core. Why, every day Poisson arrests girls who are better than she is.”

Gervaise said nothing, nor did she move; her eyes staring into space. She ended by jerking her head to and fro, as if in answer to her thoughts, whilst the hatter, with a gluttonous mien, muttered:

“Ah, a man wouldn’t mind getting a bit of indigestion from that sort of rottenness. It’s as tender as chicken.”

But the grocer gave him such a terrible look that he had to pause and quiet her with some delicate attention. He watched the policeman, and perceiving that he had his nose lowered over his little box again, he profited of the opportunity to shove some barley-sugar into Virginie’s mouth. Thereupon she laughed at him good-naturedly and turned all her anger against Gervaise.

“Just make haste, eh? The work doesn’t do itself while you remain stuck there like a street post. Come, look alive, I don’t want to flounder about in the water till night time.”

And she added hatefully in a lower tone: “It isn’t my fault if her daughter’s gone and left her.”

No doubt Gervaise did not hear. She had begun to scrub the floor again, with her back bent and dragging herself along with a frog-like motion. She still had to sweep the dirty water out into the gutter, and then do the final rinsing.

After a pause, Lantier, who felt bored, raised his voice again: “Do you know, Badingue,” he cried, “I met your boss yesterday in the Rue de Rivoli. He looked awfully down in the mouth. He hasn’t six months’ life left in his body. Ah! after all, with the life he leads—”

He was talking about the Emperor. The policeman did not raise his eyes, but curtly answered: “If you were the Government you wouldn’t be so fat.”

“Oh, my dear fellow, if I were the Government,” rejoined the hatter, suddenly affecting an air of gravity, “things would go on rather better, I give you my word for it. Thus, their foreign policy—why, for some time past it has been enough to make a fellow sweat. If I—I who speak to you—only knew a journalist to inspire him with my ideas.”

He was growing animated, and as he had finished crunching his barley-sugar, he opened a drawer from which he took a number of jujubes, which he swallowed while gesticulating.

“It’s quite simple. Before anything else, I should give Poland her independence again, and I should establish a great Scandinavian state to keep the Giant of the North at bay. Then I should make a republic out of all the little German states. As for England, she’s scarcely to be feared; if she budged ever so little I should send a hundred thousand men to India. Add to that I should send the Sultan back to Mecca and the Pope to Jerusalem, belaboring their backs with the butt end of a rifle. Eh? Europe would soon be clean. Come, Badingue, just look here.”

He paused to take five or six jujubes in his hand. “Why, it wouldn’t take longer than to swallow these.”

And he threw one jujube after another into his open mouth.

“The Emperor has another plan,” said the policeman, after reflecting for a couple of minutes.

“Oh, forget it,” rejoined the hatter. “We know what his plan is. All Europe is laughing at us. Every day the Tuileries footmen find your boss under the table between a couple of high society floozies.”

Poisson rose to his feet. He came forward and placed his hand on his heart, saying: “You hurt me, Auguste. Discuss, but don’t involve personalities.”

Thereupon Virginie intervened, bidding them stop their row. She didn’t care a fig for Europe. How could two men, who shared everything else, always be disputing about politics? For a minute they mumbled some indistinct words. Then the policeman, in view of showing that he harbored no spite, produced the cover of his little box, which he had just finished; it bore the inscription in marquetry: “To Auguste, a token of friendship.” Lantier, feeling exceedingly flattered, lounged back and spread himself out so that he almost sat upon Virginie. And the husband viewed the scene with his face the color of an old wall and his bleared eyes fairly expressionless; but all the same, at moments the red hairs of his moustaches stood up on end of their own accord in a very singular fashion, which would have alarmed any man who was less sure of his business than the hatter.

This beast of a Lantier had the quiet cheek which pleases ladies. As Poisson turned his back he was seized with the idea of printing a kiss on Madame Poisson’s left eye. As a rule he was stealthily prudent, but when he had been disputing about politics he risked everything, so as to show the wife his superiority. These gloating caresses, cheekily stolen behind the policeman’s back, revenged him on the Empire which had turned France into a house of quarrels. Only on this occasion he had forgotten Gervaise’s presence. She had just finished rinsing and wiping the shop, and she stood near the counter waiting for her thirty sous. However, the kiss on Virginie’s eye left her perfectly calm, as being quite natural, and as part of a business she had no right to mix herself up in. Virginie seemed rather vexed. She threw the thirty sous on to the counter in front of Gervaise. The latter did not budge but stood there waiting, still palpitating with the effort she had made in scrubbing, and looking as soaked and as ugly as a dog fished out of the sewer.

“Then she didn’t tell you anything?” she asked the hatter at last.

“Who?” he cried. “Ah, yes; you mean Nana. No, nothing else. What a tempting mouth she has, the little hussy! Real strawberry jam!”

Gervaise went off with her thirty sous in her hand. The holes in her shoes spat water forth like pumps; they were real musical shoes, and played a tune as they left moist traces of their broad soles along the pavement.

In the neighborhood the feminine tipplers of her own class now related that she drank to console herself for her daughter’s misconduct. She herself, when she gulped down her dram of spirits on the counter, assumed a dramatic air, and tossed the liquor into her mouth, wishing it would “do” for her. And on the days when she came home boozed she stammered that it was all through grief. But honest folks shrugged their shoulders. They knew what that meant: ascribing the effects of the peppery fire of l’Assommoir to grief, indeed! At all events, she ought to have called it bottled grief. No doubt at the beginning she couldn’t digest Nana’s flight. All the honest feelings remaining in her revolted at the thought, and besides, as a rule a mother doesn’t like to have to think that her daughter, at that very moment, perhaps, is being familiarly addressed by the first chance comer. But Gervaise was already too stultified with a sick head and a crushed heart, to think of the shame for long. With her it came and went. She remained sometimes for a week together without thinking of her daughter, and then suddenly a tender or an angry feeling seized hold of her, sometimes when she had her stomach empty, at others when it was full, a furious longing to catch Nana in some corner, where she would perhaps have kissed her or perhaps have beaten her, according to the fancy of the moment.

Whenever these thoughts came over her, Gervaise looked on all sides in the streets with the eyes of a detective. Ah! if she had only seen her little sinner, how quickly she would have brought her home again! The neighborhood was being turned topsy-turvy that year. The Boulevard Magenta and the Boulevard Ornano were being pierced; they were doing away with the old Barriere Poissonniere and cutting right through the outer Boulevard. The district could not be recognized. The whole of one side of the Rue des Poissonniers had been pulled down. From the Rue de la Goutted’Or a large clearing could now be seen, a dash of sunlight and open air; and in place of the gloomy buildings which had hidden the view in this direction there rose up on the Boulevard Ornano a perfect monument, a six-storied house, carved all over like a church, with clear windows, which, with their embroidered curtains, seemed symbolical of wealth. This white house, standing just in front of the street, illuminated it with a jet of light, as it were, and every day it caused discussions between Lantier and Poisson.

Gervaise had several times had tidings of Nana. There are always ready tongues anxious to pay you a sorry compliment. Yes, she had been told that the hussy had left her old gentleman, just like the inexperienced girl she was. She had gotten along famously with him, petted, adored, and free, too, if she had only known how to manage the situation. But youth is foolish, and she had no doubt gone off with some young rake, no one knew exactly where. What seemed certain was that one afternoon she had left her old fellow on the Place de la Bastille, just for half a minute, and he was still waiting for her to return. Other persons swore they had seen