CHAPTER XIII
That night Coupeau went on a spree.
Next day, Gervaise received ten francs from her son Etienne, who was a mechanic on some railway.
The youngster sent her a few francs from time to time, knowing that they were not very well off at home.
She made some soup, and ate it all alone, for that scoundrel Coupeau did not return on the morrow.
On Monday he was still absent, and on Tuesday also.
The whole week went by.
Ah, it would be good luck if some woman took him in.
On Sunday Gervaise received a printed document.
It was to inform her that her husband was dying at the Sainte-Anne asylum.
Gervaise did not disturb herself.
He knew the way; he could very well get home from the asylum by himself.
They had cured him there so often that they could once more do him the sorry service of putting him on his pins again.
Had she not heard that very morning that for the week before Coupeau had been seen as round as a ball, rolling about Belleville from one dram shop to another in the company of My-Boots.
Exactly so; and it was My-Boots, too, who stood treat. He must have hooked his missus’s stocking with all the savings gained at very hard work.
It wasn’t clean money they had used, but money that could infect them with any manner of vile diseases.
Well, anyway, they hadn’t thought to invite her for a drink.
If you wanted to drink by yourself, you could croak by yourself.
However, on Monday, as Gervaise had a nice little meal planned for the evening, the remains of some beans and a pint of wine, she pretended to herself that a walk would give her an appetite. The letter from the asylum which she had left lying on the bureau bothered her.
The snow had melted, the day was mild and grey and on the whole fine, with just a slight keenness in the air which was invigorating.
She started at noon, for her walk was a long one. She had to cross Paris and her bad leg always slowed her.
With that the streets were crowded; but the people amused her; she reached her destination very pleasantly.
When she had given her name, she was told a most astounding story to the effect that Coupeau had been fished out of the Seine close to the Pont-Neuf.
He had jumped over the parapet, under the impression that a bearded man was barring his way.
A fine jump, was it not?
And as for finding out how Coupeau got to be on the Pont-Neuf, that was a matter he could not even explain himself.
One of the keepers escorted Gervaise.
She was ascending a staircase, when she heard howlings which made her shiver to her very bones.
“He’s playing a nice music, isn’t he?” observed the keeper.
“Who is?” asked she.
“Why, your old man!
He’s been yelling like that ever since the day before yesterday; and he dances, you’ll just see.”
Mon Dieu! what a sight!
She stood as one transfixed.
The cell was padded from the floor to the ceiling. On the floor there were two straw mats, one piled on top of the other; and in a corner were spread a mattress and a bolster, nothing more.
Inside there Coupeau was dancing and yelling, his blouse in tatters and his limbs beating the air. He wore the mask of one about to die. What a breakdown!
He bumped up against the window, then retired backwards, beating time with his arms and shaking his hands as though he were trying to wrench them off and fling them in somebody’s face.
One meets with buffoons in low dancing places who imitate the delirium tremens, only they imitate it badly.
One must see this drunkard’s dance if one wishes to know what it is like when gone through in earnest.
The song also has its merits, a continuous yell worthy of carnival-time, a mouth wide open uttering the same hoarse trombone notes for hours together.
Coupeau had the howl of a beast with a crushed paw.
Strike up, music!
Gentlemen, choose your partners!
“Mon Dieu! what is the matter with him?
What is the matter with him?” repeated Gervaise, seized with fear.
A house surgeon, a big fair fellow with a rosy countenance, and wearing a white apron, was quietly sitting taking notes.
The case was a curious one; the doctor did not leave the patient.
“Stay a while if you like,” said he to the laundress; “but keep quiet. Try and speak to him, he will not recognise you.”
Coupeau indeed did not even appear to see his wife.
She had only had a bad view of him on entering, he was wriggling about so much.