And she darted through Madame Goujet’s room and found herself outside on the pavement again. When she recovered her senses she had rung at the door in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or and Boche was pulling the string. The house was quite dark, and in the black night the yawning, dilapidated porch looked like an open mouth. To think that she had been ambitious of having a corner in this barracks! Had her ears been stopped up then, that she had not heard the cursed music of despair which sounded behind the walls? Since she had set foot in the place she had begun to go down hill. Yes, it must bring bad luck to shut oneself up in these big workmen’s houses; the cholera of misery was contagious there. That night everyone seemed to have kicked the bucket. She only heard the Boches snoring on the right-hand side, while Lantier and Virginie on the left were purring like a couple of cats who were not asleep, but have their eyes closed and feel warm. In the courtyard she fancied she was in a perfect cemetery; the snow paved the ground with white; the high frontages, livid grey in tint, rose up unlighted like ruined walls, and not a sigh could be heard. It seemed as if a whole village, stiffened with cold and hunger, were buried here. She had to step over a black gutter—water from the dye-works—which smoked and streaked the whiteness of the snow with its muddy course. It was the color of her thoughts. The beautiful light blue and light pink waters had long since flowed away.
Then, whilst ascending the six flights of stairs in the dark, she could not prevent herself from laughing; an ugly laugh which hurt her. She recalled her ideal of former days: to work quietly, always have bread to eat and a tidy house to sleep in, to bring up her children, not to be beaten and to die in her bed. No, really, it was comical how all that was becoming realized! She no longer worked, she no longer ate, she slept on filth, her husband frequented all sorts of wineshops, and her husband drubbed her at all hours of the day; all that was left for her to do was to die on the pavement, and it would not take long if on getting into her room, she could only pluck up courage to fling herself out of the window. Was it not enough to make one think that she had hoped to earn thirty thousand francs a year, and no end of respect? Ah! really, in this life it is no use being modest; one only gets sat upon. Not even pap and a nest, that is the common lot.
What increased her ugly laugh was the recollection of her grand hope of retiring into the country after twenty years passed in ironing. Well! she was on her way to the country. She was going to have her green corner in the Pere-Lachaise cemetery.
When she entered the passage she was like a mad-woman. Her poor head was whirling round. At heart her great grief was at having bid the blacksmith an eternal farewell. All was ended between them; they would never see each other more. Then, besides that, all her other thoughts of misfortune pressed upon her, and almost caused her head to split. As she passed she poked her nose in at the Bijards’ and beheld Lalie dead, with a look of contentment on her face at having at last been laid out and slumbering forever. Ah, well! children were luckier than grown-up people. And, as a glimmer of light passed under old Bazouge’s door, she walked boldly in, seized with a mania for going off on the same journey as the little one.
That old joker, Bazouge, had come home that night in an extraordinary state of gaiety. He had had such a booze that he was snoring on the ground in spite of the temperature, and that no doubt did not prevent him from dreaming something pleasant, for he seemed to be laughing from his stomach as he slept. The candle, which he had not put out, lighted up his old garments, his black cloak, which he had drawn over his knees as though it had been a blanket.
On beholding him Gervaise uttered such a deep wailing that he awoke.
“Mon Dieu! shut the door! It’s so cold! Ah! it’s you! What’s the matter? What do you want?”
Then, Gervaise, stretching out her arms, no longer knowing what she stuttered, began passionately to implore him:
“Oh! take me away! I’ve had enough; I want to go off. You mustn’t bear me any grudge. I didn’t know. One never knows until one’s ready. Oh, yes; one’s glad to go one day! Take me away! Take me away and I shall thank you!”
She fell on her knees, all shaken with a desire which caused her to turn ghastly pale. Never before had she thus dragged herself at a man’s feet. Old Bazouge’s ugly mug, with his mouth all on one side and his hide begrimed with the dust of funerals, seemed to her as beautiful and resplendent as a sun. The old fellow, who was scarcely awake thought, however, that it was some sort of bad joke.