Her son would never have loaned the money if he had only listened to her.
By now he would have been married, instead of miserably sad with only unhappiness to look forward to for the rest of his life.
She grew quite stern and angry, even accusing Gervaise of having schemed with Coupeau to take advantage of her foolish son.
Yes, some women were able to play the hypocrite for years, but eventually the truth came out.
“Mamma! Mamma!” again called Goujet, but louder this time.
She rose from her seat and when she returned she said, as she resumed her lace mending:
“Go in, he wishes to see you.”
Gervaise, all in a tremble left the door open.
This scene filled her with emotion because it was like an avowal of their affection before Madame Goujet.
She again beheld the quiet little chamber, with its narrow iron bedstead, and papered all over with pictures, the whole looking like the room of some girl of fifteen.
Goujet’s big body was stretched on the bed.
Mother Coupeau’s disclosures and the things his mother had been saying seemed to have knocked all the life out of his limbs. His eyes were red and swollen, his beautiful yellow beard was still wet.
In the first moment of rage he must have punched away at his pillow with his terrible fists, for the ticking was split and the feathers were coming out.
“Listen, mamma’s wrong,” said he to the laundress in a voice that was scarcely audible.
“You owe me nothing.
I won’t have it mentioned again.”
He had raised himself up and was looking at her.
Big tears at once filled his eyes.
“Do you suffer, Monsieur Goujet?” murmured she.
“What is the matter with you? Tell me!”
“Nothing, thanks.
I tired myself with too much work yesterday.
I will rest a bit.”
Then, his heart breaking, he could not restrain himself and burst out:
“Mon Dieu!
Ah! Mon Dieu!
It was never to be — never.
You swore it.
And now it is — it is!
Ah, it pains me too much, leave me!”
And with his hand he gently and imploringly motioned to her to go.
She did not draw nearer to the bed.
She went off as he requested her to, feeling stupid, unable to say anything to soothe him.
When in the other room she took up her basket; but she did not go home.
She stood there trying to find something to say.
Madame Goujet continued her mending without raising her head.
It was she who at length said:
“Well! Good-night; send me back my things and we will settle up afterwards.”
“Yes, it will be best so — good-night,” stammered Gervaise.
She took a last look around the neatly arranged room and thought as she shut the door that she seemed to be leaving some part of her better self behind.
She plodded blindly back to the laundry, scarcely knowing where she was going.
When Gervaise arrived, she found mother Coupeau out of her bed, sitting on a chair by the stove.
Gervaise was too tired to scold her. Her bones ached as though she had been beaten and she was thinking that her life was becoming too hard to bear. Surely a quick death was the only escape from the pain in her heart.
After this, Gervaise became indifferent to everything.
With a vague gesture of her hand she would send everybody about their business.
At each fresh worry she buried herself deeper in her only pleasure, which was to have her three meals a day.
The shop might have collapsed. So long as she was not beneath it, she would have gone off willingly without a chemise to her back.
And the little shop was collapsing, not suddenly, but little by little, morning and evening.
One by one the customers got angry, and sent their washing elsewhere.
Monsieur Madinier, Mademoiselle Remanjou, the Boches themselves had returned to Madame Fauconnier, where they could count on great punctuality.