From outside, through the half-open window, a lovely June night breathed in puffs of sultry air, disturbing the candle with its long wick gleaming red like a glowing coal.
In the deep silence of the sleeping neighborhood the only sound was the infantile weeping of a drunkard lying in the middle of the street.
Far away, in the back room of some restaurant, a violin was playing a dance tune for some late party. Coupeau was silent.
Then, knowing she had no more arguments, he smiled, took hold of her hands and pulled her toward him.
She was in one of those moments of weakness she so greatly mistrusted, persuaded at last, too emotionally stirred to refuse anything or to hurt anyone’s feelings.
Coupeau didn’t realize that she was giving way. He held her wrists so tightly as to almost crush them. Together they breathed a long sigh that to both of them meant a partial satisfaction of their desire.
“You’ll say ‘yes,’ won’t you,” asked he.
“How you worry me!” she murmured.
“You wish it?
Well then, ‘yes.’ Ah! we’re perhaps doing a very foolish thing.”
He jumped up, and, seizing her round the waist, kissed her roughly on the face, at random.
Then, as this caress caused a noise, he became anxious, and went softly and looked at Claude and Etienne.
“Hush, we must be careful,” said he in a whisper, “and not wake the children. Good-bye till to-morrow.”
And he went back to his room.
Gervaise, all in a tremble, remained seated on the edge of her bed, without thinking of undressing herself for nearly an hour.
She was touched; she felt that Coupeau was very honorable; for at one moment she had really thought it was all over, and that he would forget her.
The drunkard below, under the window, was now hoarsely uttering the plaintive cry of some lost animal.
The violin in the distance had left off its saucy tune and was now silent.
During the following days Coupeau sought to get Gervaise to call some evening on his sister in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or; but the young woman, who was very timid, showed a great dread of this visit to the Lorilleux.
She knew that Coupeau had a lingering fear of that household, even though he certainly wasn’t dependent on his sister, who wasn’t even the oldest of the family.
Mamma Coupeau would certainly give her consent at once, as she never refused her only son anything.
The thing was that the Lorilleuxs were supposed to be earning ten francs a day or more and that gave them a certain authority.
Coupeau would never dare to get married unless his wife was acceptable to them.
“I have spoken to them of you, they know our plans,” explained he to Gervaise.
“Come now!
What a child you are!
Let’s call on them this evening. I’ve warned you, haven’t I?
You’ll find my sister rather stiff.
Lorilleux, too, isn’t always very amiable.
In reality they are greatly annoyed, because if I marry, I shall no longer take my meals with them, and it’ll be an economy the less.
But that doesn’t matter, they won’t turn you out. Do this for me, it’s absolutely necessary.”
These words only frightened Gervaise the more.
One Saturday evening, however, she gave in.
Coupeau came for her at half-past eight.
She had dressed herself in a black dress, a crape shawl with yellow palms, and a white cap trimmed with a little cheap lace.
During the six weeks she had been working, she had saved the seven francs for the shawl, and the two and a half francs for the cap; the dress was an old one cleaned and made up afresh.
“They’re expecting you,” said Coupeau to her, as they went round by the Rue des Poissonniers.
“Oh! they’re beginning to get used to the idea of my being married.
They seem nice indeed, to-night. And you know if you’ve never seen gold chains made, it’ll amuse you to watch them.
They just happen to have a pressing order for Monday.”
“They’ve got gold in their room?” asked Gervaise.
“I should think so; there’s some on the walls, on the floor, in fact everywhere.”
They had passed the arched doorway and crossed the courtyard.
The Lorilleuxs lived on the sixth floor, staircase B.
Coupeau laughingly told her to hold the hand-rail tight and not to leave go of it.
She looked up, and blinked her eyes, as she perceived the tall hollow tower of the staircase, lighted by three gas jets, one on every second landing; the last one, right up at the top looked like a star twinkling in a black sky, whilst the other two cast long flashes of light, of fantastic shapes, among the interminable windings of the stairs.
“By Jove!” said the zinc-worker as he reached the first floor, smiling, “there’s a strong smell of onion soup.
Someone’s having onion soup, I’m sure.”
Staircase B, with its gray, dirty steps and hand-rail, its scratched walls and chipped plaster, was full of strong kitchen odors.
Long corridors, echoing with noise, led away from each landing. Doors, painted yellow, gaped open, smeared black around the latch from dirty hands.