He was now stated to be worth several millions.
He was a man of fifty-five, large and big-boned. Even though he now wore a decoration in his button-hole, his huge hands were still those of a former workingman.
It was his joy to carry off the scissors and knives of his tenants, to sharpen them himself, for the fun of it.
He often stayed for hours with his concierges, closed up in the darkness of their lodges, going over the accounts.
That’s where he did all his business.
He was now seated by Madame Boche’s kitchen table, listening to her story of how the dressmaker on the third floor, staircase A, had used a filthy word in refusing to pay her rent.
He had had to work precious hard once upon a time.
But work was the high road to everything.
And, after counting the two hundred and fifty francs for the first two quarters in advance, and dropping them into his capacious pocket, he related the story of his life, and showed his decoration.
Gervaise, however, felt rather ill at ease on account of the Boches’ behavior. They pretended not to know her.
They were most assiduous in their attentions to the landlord, bowing down before him, watching for his least words, and nodding their approval of them.
Madame Boche suddenly ran out and dispersed a group of children who were paddling about in front of the cistern, the tap of which they had turned full on, causing the water to flow over the pavement; and when she returned, upright and severe in her skirts, crossing the courtyard and glancing slowly up at all the windows, as though to assure herself of the good behavior of the household, she pursed her lips in a way to show with what authority she was invested, now that she reigned over three hundred tenants.
Boche again spoke of the dressmaker on the second floor; he advised that she should be turned out; he reckoned up the number of quarters she owed with the importance of a steward whose management might be compromised.
Monsieur Marescot approved the suggestion of turning her out, but he wished to wait till the half quarter. It was hard to turn people out into the street, more especially as it did not put a sou into the landlord’s pocket.
And Gervaise asked herself with a shudder if she too would be turned out into the street the day that some misfortune rendered her unable to pay.
The concierge’s lodge was as dismal as a cellar, black from smoke and crowded with dark furniture.
All the sunlight fell upon the tailor’s workbench by the window. An old frock coat that was being reworked lay on it.
The Boches’ only child, a four-year-old redhead named Pauline, was sitting on the floor, staring quietly at the veal simmering on the stove, delighted with the sharp odor of cooking that came from the frying pan.
Monsieur Marescot again held out his hand to the zinc-worker, when the latter spoke of the repairs, recalling to his mind a promise he had made to talk the matter over later on.
But the landlord grew angry, he had never promised anything; besides, it was not usual to do any repairs to a shop.
However, he consented to go over the place, followed by the Coupeaus and Boche.
The little linen-draper had carried off all his shelves and counters; the empty shop displayed its blackened ceiling and its cracked wall, on which hung strips of an old yellow paper.
In the sonorous emptiness of the place, there ensued a heated discussion.
Monsieur Marescot exclaimed that it was the business of shopkeepers to embellish their shops, for a shopkeeper might wish to have gold put about everywhere, and he, the landlord, could not put out gold.
Then he related that he had spent more than twenty thousand francs in fitting up his premises in the Rue de la Paix.
Gervaise, with her woman’s obstinacy, kept repeating an argument which she considered unanswerable. He would repaper a lodging, would he not?
Then, why did he not treat the shop the same as a lodging?
She did not ask him for anything else — only to whitewash the ceiling, and put some fresh paper on the walls.
Boche, all this while, remained dignified and impenetrable; he turned about and looked up in the air, without expressing an opinion.
Coupeau winked at him in vain; he affected not to wish to take advantage of his great influence over the landlord.
He ended, however, by making a slight grimace — a little smile accompanied by a nod of the head.
Just then Monsieur Marescot, exasperated, and seemingly very unhappy, and clutching his fingers like a miser being despoiled of his gold, was giving way to Gervaise, promising to do the ceiling and repaper the shop on condition that she paid for half of the paper.
And he hurried away declining to discuss anything further.
Now that Boche was alone with the Coupeaus, the concierge became quite talkative and slapped them on the shoulders.
Well, well, see what they had gotten.
Without his help, they would never have gotten the concessions.
Didn’t they notice how the landlord had looked to him out of the corner of his eye for advice and how he’d made up his mind suddenly when he saw Boche smile?
He confessed to them confidentially that he was the real boss of the building. It was he who decided who got eviction notices and who could become tenants. He collected all the rents and kept them for a couple of weeks in his bureau drawer.
That evening the Coupeaus, to express their gratitude to the Boches, sent them two bottles of wine as a present.
The following Monday the workmen started doing up the shop.
The purchasing of the paper turned out especially to be a very big affair.
Gervaise wanted a grey paper with blue flowers, so as to enliven and brighten the walls.
Boche offered to take her to the dealers, so that she might make her own selection.
But the landlord had given him formal instructions not to go beyond the price of fifteen sous the piece.
They were there an hour.
The laundress kept looking in despair at a very pretty chintz pattern costing eighteen sous the piece, and thought all the other papers hideous.
At length the concierge gave in; he would arrange the matter, and, if necessary, would make out there was a piece more used than was really the case.
So, on her way home, Gervaise purchased some tarts for Pauline.
She did not like being behindhand — one always gained by behaving nicely to her.
The shop was to be ready in four days. The workmen were there three weeks.