“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:
“I’m not to blame, am I? It was said yesterday that someone on the ground floor had passed away.
Then I thought — you know, in our business, these things enter by one ear and go out by the other. All the same, my compliments to you.
As late as possible, eh?
That’s best, though life isn’t always amusing; ah! no, by no means.”
As Gervaise listened to him, she draw back, afraid he would grab her and take her away in the box.
She remembered the time before, when he had told her he knew of women who would thank him to come and get them.
Well, she wasn’t ready yet. Mon Dieu! The thought sent chills down her spine.
Her life may have been bitter, but she wasn’t ready to give it up yet.
No, she would starve for years first.
“He’s abominably drunk,” murmured she, with an air of disgust mingled with dread.
“They at least oughtn’t to send us tipplers.
We pay dear enough.”
Then he became insolent, and jeered:
“See here, little woman, it’s only put off until another time.
I’m entirely at your service, remember!
You’ve only to make me a sign.
I’m the ladies’ consoler. And don’t spit on old Bazouge, because he’s held in his arms finer ones than you, who let themselves be tucked in without a murmur, very pleased to continue their by-by in the dark.”
“Hold your tongue, old Bazouge!” said Lorilleux severely, having hastened to the spot on hearing the noise, “such jokes are highly improper.
If we complained about you, you would get the sack. Come, be off, as you’ve no respect for principles.”
Bazouge moved away, but one could hear him stuttering as he dragged along the pavement:
“Well! What? Principles!
There’s no such thing as principles, there’s no such thing as principles — there’s only common decency!”
At length ten o’clock struck.
The hearse was late.
There were already several people in the shop, friends and neighbors — Monsieur Madinier, My-Boots, Madame Gaudron, Mademoiselle Remanjou; and every minute, a man’s or a woman’s head was thrust out of the gaping opening of the door between the closed shutters, to see if that creeping hearse was in sight.
The family, all together in the back room, was shaking hands.
Short pauses occurred interrupted by rapid whisperings, a tiresome and feverish waiting with sudden rushes of skirts — Madame Lorilleux who had forgotten her handkerchief, or else Madame Lerat who was trying to borrow a prayer-book.
Everyone, on arriving, beheld the open coffin in the centre of the little room before the bed; and in spite of oneself, each stood covertly studying it, calculating that plump mother Coupeau would never fit into it.
They all looked at each other with this thought in their eyes, though without communicating it.
But there was a slight pushing at the front door.
Monsieur Madinier, extending his arms, came and said in a low grave voice:
“Here they are!”
It was not the hearse though.
Four helpers entered hastily in single file, with their red faces, their hands all lumpy like persons in the habit of moving heavy things, and their rusty black clothes worn and frayed from constant rubbing against coffins.
Old Bazouge walked first, very drunk and very proper. As soon as he was at work he found his equilibrium.
They did not utter a word, but slightly bowed their heads, already weighing mother Coupeau with a glance. And they did not dawdle; the poor old woman was packed in, in the time one takes to sneeze.
A young fellow with a squint, the smallest of the men, poured the bran into the coffin and spread it out.
The tall and thin one spread the winding sheet over the bran.
Then, two at the feet and two at the head, all four took hold of the body and lifted it. Mother Coupeau was in the box, but it was a tight fit. She touched on every side.
The undertaker’s helpers were now standing up and waiting; the little one with the squint took the coffin lid, by way of inviting the family to bid their last farewell, whilst Bazouge had filled his mouth with nails and was holding the hammer in readiness.
Then Coupeau, his two sisters and Gervaise threw themselves on their knees and kissed the mamma who was going away, weeping bitterly, the hot tears falling on and streaming down the stiff face now cold as ice.
There was a prolonged sound of sobbing.
The lid was placed on, and old Bazouge knocked the nails in with the style of a packer, two blows for each; and they none of them could hear any longer their own weeping in that din, which resembled the noise of furniture being repaired.