She raised her eyes again.
She was in front of the slaughter-houses which were being pulled down; through the gaps in the facade one could see the dark, stinking courtyards, still damp with blood.
And when she had gone down the Boulevard again, she also saw the Lariboisiere Hospital, with its long grey wall, above which she could distinguish the mournful, fan-like wings, pierced with windows at even distances.
A door in the wall filled the neighborhood with dread; it was the door of the dead in solid oak, and without a crack, as stern and as silent as a tombstone.
Then to escape her thoughts, she hurried further down till she reached the railway bridge.
The high parapets of riveted sheet-iron hid the line from view; she could only distinguish a corner of the station standing out against the luminous horizon of Paris, with a vast roof black with coal-dust. Through the clear space she could hear the engines whistling and the cars being shunted, in token of colossal hidden activity.
Then a train passed by, leaving Paris, with puffing breath and a growing rumble. And all she perceived of this train was a white plume, a sudden gust of steam which rose above the parapet and then evaporated.
But the bridge had shaken, and she herself seemed impressed by this departure at full speed.
She turned round as if to follow the invisible engine, the noise of which was dying away.
She caught a glimpse of open country through a gap between tall buildings.
Oh, if only she could have taken a train and gone away, far away from this poverty and suffering.
She might have started an entirely new life!
Then she turned to look at the posters on the bridge sidings.
One was on pretty blue paper and offered a fifty-franc reward for a lost dog.
Someone must have really loved that dog!
Gervaise slowly resumed her walk.
In the smoky fog which was falling, the gas lamps were being lighted up; and the long avenues, which had grown bleak and indistinct, suddenly showed themselves plainly again, sparkling to their full length and piercing through the night, even to the vague darkness of the horizon.
A great gust swept by; the widened spaces were lighted up with girdles of little flames, shining under the far-stretching moonless sky.
It was the hour when, from one end of the Boulevard to the other, the dram-shops and the dancing-halls flamed gayly as the first glasses were merrily drunk and the first dance began.
It was the great fortnightly pay-day, and the pavement was crowded with jostling revelers on the spree.
There was a breath of merrymaking in the air — deuced fine revelry, but not objectionable so far.
Fellows were filling themselves in the eating-houses; through the lighted windows you could see people feeding, with their mouths full and laughing without taking the trouble to swallow first.
Drunkards were already installed in the wineshops, squabbling and gesticulating.
And there was a cursed noise on all sides, voices shouting amid the constant clatter of feet on the pavement.
“Say, are you coming to sip?” “Make haste, old man; I’ll pay for a glass of bottled wine.” “Here’s Pauline!
Shan’t we just laugh!”
The doors swung to and fro, letting a smell of wine and a sound of cornet playing escape into the open air.
There was a gathering in front of Pere Colombe’s l’Assommoir, which was lighted up like a cathedral for high mass.
Mon Dieu! you would have said a real ceremony was going on, for several capital fellows, with rounded paunches and swollen cheeks, looking for all the world like professional choristers, were singing inside.
They were celebrating Saint-Pay, of course — a very amiable saint, who no doubt keeps the cash box in Paradise.
Only, on seeing how gaily the evening began, the retired petty tradesmen who had taken their wives out for a stroll wagged their heads, and repeated that there would be any number of drunken men in Paris that night.
And the night stretched very dark, dead-like and icy, above this revelry, perforated only with lines of gas lamps extending to the four corners of heaven.
Gervaise stood in front of l’Assommoir, thinking that if she had had a couple of sous she could have gone inside and drunk a dram.
No doubt a dram would have quieted her hunger.
Ah! what a number of drams she had drunk in her time!
Liquor seemed good stuff to her after all.
And from outside she watched the drunk-making machine, realizing that her misfortune was due to it, and yet dreaming of finishing herself off with brandy on the day she had some coin.
But a shudder passed through her hair as she saw it was now almost dark.
Well, the night time was approaching. She must have some pluck and sell herself coaxingly if she didn’t wish to kick the bucket in the midst of the general revelry.
Looking at other people gorging themselves didn’t precisely fill her own stomach.
She slackened her pace again and looked around her.
There was a darker shade under the trees.
Few people passed along, only folks in a hurry, who swiftly crossed the Boulevards.
And on the broad, dark, deserted footway, where the sound of the revelry died away, women were standing and waiting.
They remained for long intervals motionless, patient and as stiff-looking as the scrubby little plane trees; then they slowly began to move, dragging their slippers over the frozen soil, taking ten steps or so and then waiting again, rooted as it were to the ground.
There was one of them with a huge body and insect-like arms and legs, wearing a black silk rag, with a yellow scarf over her head; there was another one, tall and bony, who was bareheaded and wore a servant’s apron; and others, too — old ones plastered up and young ones so dirty that a ragpicker would not have picked them up.
However, Gervaise tried to learn what to do by imitating them; girlish-like emotion tightened her throat; she was hardly aware whether she felt ashamed or not; she seemed to be living in a horrible dream.
For a quarter of an hour she remained standing erect.
Men hurried by without even turning their heads.
Then she moved about in her turn, and venturing to accost a man who was whistling with his hands in his pockets, she murmured, in a strangled voice: