He was good at this; he could have flattened the Vendome column like a pancake.
“Now then, off you go!” said Goujet, placing one of the pieces of iron, as thick as a girl’s wrist, in the tool-hole.
Salted-Mouth, otherwise Drink-without-Thirst, leant back, and swung Dedele round with both hands.
Short and lean, with his goatee bristling, and with his wolf-like eyes glaring beneath his unkempt hair, he seemed to snap at each swing of the hammer, springing up from the ground as though carried away by the force he put into the blow.
He was a fierce one, who fought with the iron, annoyed at finding it so hard, and he even gave a grunt whenever he thought he had planted a fierce stroke.
Perhaps brandy did weaken other people’s arms, but he needed brandy in his veins, instead of blood.
The drop he had taken a little while before had made his carcass as warm as a boiler; he felt he had the power of a steam-engine within him.
And the iron seemed to be afraid of him this time; he flattened it more easily than if it had been a quid of tobacco.
And it was a sight to see how Dedele waltzed!
She cut such capers, with her tootsies in the air, just like a little dancer at the Elysee Montmartre, who exhibits her fine underclothes; for it would never do to dawdle, iron is so deceitful, it cools at once, just to spite the hammer.
With thirty blows, Salted-Mouth, otherwise Drink-without-Thirst, had fashioned the head of his bolt.
But he panted, his eyes were half out of his head, and got into a great rage as he felt his arms growing tired.
Then, carried away by wrath, jumping about and yelling, he gave two more blows, just out of revenge for his trouble.
When he took the bolt from the hole, it was deformed, its head being askew like a hunchback’s.
“Come now!
Isn’t that quickly beaten into shape?” said he all the same, with his self-confidence, as he presented his work to Gervaise.
“I’m no judge, sir,” replied the laundress, reservedly.
But she saw plainly enough the marks of Dedele’s last two kicks on the bolt, and she was very pleased.
She bit her lips so as not to laugh, for now Goujet had every chance of winning.
It was now Golden-Mug’s turn.
Before commencing, he gave the laundress a look full of confident tenderness.
Then he did not hurry himself. He measured his distance, and swung the hammer from on high with all his might and at regular intervals.
He had the classic style, accurate, evenly balanced, and supple.
Fifine, in his hands, did not cut capers, like at a dance-hall, but made steady, certain progress; she rose and fell in cadence, like a lady of quality solemnly leading some ancient minuet.
There was no brandy in Golden-Mug’s veins, only blood, throbbing powerfully even into Fifine and controlling the job.
That stalwart fellow! What a magnificent man he was at work.
The high flame of the forge shone full on his face.
His whole face seemed golden indeed with his short hair curling over his forehead and his splendid yellow beard.
His neck was as straight as a column and his immense chest was wide enough for a woman to sleep across it.
His shoulders and sculptured arms seemed to have been copied from a giant’s statue in some museum.
You could see his muscles swelling, mountains of flesh rippling and hardening under the skin; his shoulders, his chest, his neck expanded; he seemed to shed light about him, becoming beautiful and all-powerful like a kindly god.
He had now swung Fifine twenty times, his eyes always fixed on the iron, drawing a deep breath with each blow, yet showing only two great drops of sweat trickling down from his temples.
He counted: “Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three — “ Calmly Fifine continued, like a noble lady dancing.
“What a show-off!” jeeringly murmured Salted-Mouth, otherwise Drink-without-Thirst.
Gervaise, standing opposite Goujet, looked at him with an affectionate smile.
Mon Dieu! What fools men are!
Here these two men were, pounding on their bolts to pay court to her.
She understood it. They were battling with hammer blows, like two big red roosters vying for the favors of a little white hen.
Sometimes the human heart has fantastic ways of expressing itself.
This thundering of Dedele and Fifine upon the anvil was for her, this forge roaring and overflowing was for her.
They were forging their love before her, battling over her.
To be honest, she rather enjoyed it. All women are happy to receive compliments.
The mighty blows of Golden-Mug found echoes in her heart; they rang within her, a crystal-clear music in time with the throbbing of her pulse.
She had the feeling that this hammering was driving something deep inside of her, something solid, something hard as the iron of the bolt.
She had no doubt Goujet would win.
Salted-Mouth, otherwise Drink-without-Thirst, was much too ugly in his dirty tunic, jumping around like a monkey that had escaped from a zoo.
She waited, blushing red, happy that the heat could explain the blush.
Goujet was still counting.
“And twenty-eight!” cried he at length, laying the hammer on the ground.
“It’s finished; you can look.”