Then everything was arranged.
“She can sleep in my bed,” murmured he.
“She’ll have plenty of room.”
Nana looked at her mother and Lantier with her big, clear eyes and put on her stupid air, the same as on New Year’s day when anyone made her a present of a box of chocolate candy.
And there was certainly no need for them to hurry her.
She trotted off in her night-gown, her bare feet scarcely touching the tiled floor; she glided like a snake into the bed, which was still quite warm, and she lay stretched out and buried in it, her slim body scarcely raising the counterpane.
Each time her mother entered the room she beheld her with her eyes sparkling in her motionless face — not sleeping, not moving, very red with excitement, and appearing to reflect on her own affairs.
Lantier assisted Gervaise in dressing mother Coupeau — and it was not an easy matter, for the body was heavy.
One would never have thought that that old woman was so fat and so white.
They put on her stockings, a white petticoat, a short linen jacket and a white cap — in short, the best of her linen.
Coupeau continued snoring, a high note and a low one, the one sharp, the other flat.
One could almost have imagined it to be church music accompanying the Good Friday ceremonies.
When the corpse was dressed and properly laid out on the bed, Lantier poured himself out a glass of wine, for he felt quite upset.
Gervaise searched the chest of drawers to find a little brass crucifix which she had brought from Plassans, but she recollected that mother Coupeau had, in all probability, sold it herself.
They had lighted the stove, and they passed the rest of the night half asleep on chairs, finishing the bottle of wine that had been opened, worried and sulking, as though it was their own fault.
Towards seven o’clock, before daylight, Coupeau at length awoke.
When he learnt his loss he at first stood still with dry eyes, stuttering and vaguely thinking that they were playing him some joke.
Then he threw himself on the ground and went and knelt beside the corpse. His kissed it and wept like a child, with such a copious flow of tears that he quite wetted the sheet with wiping his cheeks.
Gervaise had recommenced sobbing, deeply affected by her husband’s grief, and the best of friends with him again. Yes, he was better at heart than she thought he was.
Coupeau’s despair mingled with a violent pain in his head.
He passed his fingers through his hair. His mouth was dry, like on the morrow of a booze, and he was still a little drunk in spite of his ten hours of sleep.
And, clenching his fist, he complained aloud.
Mon Dieu! she was gone now, his poor mother, whom he loved so much!
Ah! what a headache he had; it would settle him!
It was like a wig of fire! And now they were tearing out his heart!
No, it was not just of fate thus to set itself against one man!
“Come, cheer up, old fellow,” said Lantier, raising him from the ground; “you must pull yourself together.”
He poured him out a glass of wine, but Coupeau refused to drink.
“What’s the matter with me?
I’ve got copper in my throat. It’s mamma. When I saw her I got a taste of copper in my mouth. Mamma!
Mon Dieu! mamma, mamma!”
And he recommenced crying like a child.
Then he drank the glass of wine, hoping to put out the flame searing his breast.
Lantier soon left, using the excuse of informing the family and filing the necessary declaration at the town hall.
Really though, he felt the need of fresh air, and so he took his time, smoking cigarettes and enjoying the morning air.
When he left Madame Lerat’s house, he went into a dairy place on Les Batignolles for a cup of hot coffee and remained there an hour, thinking things over.
Towards nine o’clock the family were all united in the shop, the shutters of which were kept up.
Lorilleux did not cry. Moreover he had some pressing work to attend to, and he returned almost directly to his room, after having stalked about with a face put on for the occasion.
Madame Lorilleux and Madame Lerat embraced the Coupeaus and wiped their eyes, from which a few tears were falling.
But Madame Lorilleux, after giving a hasty glance round the death chamber, suddenly raised her voice to say that it was unheard of, that one never left a lighted lamp beside a corpse; there should be a candle, and Nana was sent to purchase a packet of tall ones.
Ah, well! It made one long to die at Clump-clump’s, she laid one out in such a fine fashion!
What a fool, not even to know what to do with a corpse!
Had she then never buried anyone in her life?
Madame Lerat had to go to the neighbors and borrow a crucifix; she brought one back which was too big, a cross of black wood with a Christ in painted cardboard fastened to it, which covered the whole of mother Coupeau’s chest, and seemed to crush her under its weight.
Then they tried to obtain some holy water, but no one had any, and it was again Nana who was sent to the church to bring some back in a bottle.
In practically no time the tiny room presented quite another appearance; on a little table a candle was burning beside a glass full of holy water into which a sprig of boxwood was dipped.
Now, if anyone came, it would at least look decent.
And they arranged the chairs in a circle in the shop for receiving people.
Lantier only returned at eleven o’clock.
He had been to the undertaker’s for information.