Often when she was hanging on an acquaintance’s arm she met him and laughed at him without his recognizing her.
In short, he no longer counted for anything; she might have sat down on him if she had been at a loss for a chair.
When the first frosts came Nana took herself off once more under the pretence of going to the fruiterer’s to see if there were any baked pears.
She scented winter and didn’t care to let her teeth chatter in front of the fireless stove.
The Coupeaus had called her no good because they had waited for the pears.
No doubt she would come back again. The other winter she had stayed away three weeks to fetch her father two sous’ worth of tobacco.
But the months went by and the girl did not show herself.
This time she must have indulged in a hard gallop.
When June arrived she did not even turn up with the sunshine.
Evidently it was all over, she had found a new meal ticket somewhere or other.
One day when the Coupeaus were totally broke they sold Nana’s iron bedstead for six francs, which they drank together at Saint-Ouen.
The bedstead had been in their way.
One morning in July Virginie called to Gervaise, who was passing by, and asked her to lend a hand in washing up, for Lantier had entertained a couple of friends on the day before.
And while Gervaise was cleaning up the plates and dishes, greasy with the traces of the spread, the hatter, who was still digesting in the shop, suddenly called out:
“Say, I saw Nana the other day.”
Virginie, who was seated at the counter looking very careworn in front of the jars and drawers which were already three parts emptied, jerked her head furiously.
She restrained herself so as not to say too much, but really it was angering her.
Lantier was seeing Nana often.
Oh! she was by no means sure of him; he was a man to do much worse than that, when a fancy for a woman came into his head. Madame Lerat, very intimate just then with Virginie, who confided in her, had that moment entered the shop, and hearing Lantier’s remark, she pouted ridiculously, and asked:
“What do you mean, you saw her?”
“Oh, in the street here,” answered the hatter, who felt highly flattered, and began to laugh and twirl his moustaches.
“She was in a carriage and I was floundering on the pavement. Really it was so, I swear it!
There’s no use denying it, the young fellows of position who are on friendly terms with her are terribly lucky!”
His eyes had brightened and he turned towards Gervaise who was standing in the rear of the shop wiping a dish.
“Yes, she was in a carriage, and wore such a stylish dress!
I didn’t recognise her, she looked so much like a lady of the upper set, with her white teeth and her face as fresh as a flower. It was she who waved her glove to me. She has caught a count, I believe.
Oh! she’s launched for good.
She can afford to do without any of us; she’s head over heels in happiness, the little beggar!
What a love of a little kitten!
No, you’ve no idea what a little kitten she is!”
Gervaise was still wiping the same plate, although it had long since been clean and shiny.
Virginie was reflecting, anxious about a couple of bills which fell due on the morrow and which she didn’t know how to pay; whilst Lantier, stout and fat, perspiring the sugar he fed off, ventured his enthusiasm for well-dressed little hussies.
The shop, which was already three parts eaten up, smelt of ruin.
Yes, there were only a few more burnt almonds to nibble, a little more barley-sugar to suck, to clean the Poissons’ business out.
Suddenly, on the pavement over the way, he perceived the policeman, who was on duty, pass by all buttoned up with his sword dangling by his side.
And this made him all the gayer.
He compelled Virginie to look at her husband.
“Dear me,” he muttered, “Badingue looks fine this morning! Just look, see how stiff he walks.
He must have stuck a glass eye in his back to surprise people.”
When Gervaise went back upstairs, she found Coupeau seated on the bed, in the torpid state induced by one of his attacks.
He was looking at the window-panes with his dim expressionless eyes.
She sat herself down on a chair, tired out, her hands hanging beside her dirty skirt; and for a quarter of an hour she remained in front of him without saying a word.
“I’ve had some news,” she muttered at last.
“Your daughter’s been seen. Yes, your daughter’s precious stylish and hasn’t any more need of you.
She’s awfully happy, she is! Ah! Mon Dieu! I’d give a great deal to be in her place.”
Coupeau was still staring at the window-pane.
But suddenly he raised his ravaged face, and stammered with an idiotic laugh:
“Well, my little lamb, I’m not stopping you. You’re not yet so bad looking when you wash yourself.
As folks say, however old a pot may be, it ends by finding its lid.
And, after all, I wouldn’t care if it only buttered our bread.”