The memory of the events of that morning and of her trip to the pawn-place tore from her the sobs that had been choking her throat.
That abominable trip to the pawn-place was the thing that hurt most in all her sorrow and despair.
Tears were streaming down her face but she didn’t think of using her handkerchief.
“Be reasonable, do be quiet, everyone’s looking at you,” Madame Boche, who hovered round her, kept repeating.
“How can you worry yourself so much on account of a man?
You loved him, then, all the same, did you, my poor darling?
A little while ago you were saying all sorts of things against him; and now you’re crying for him, and almost breaking your heart. Dear me, how silly we all are!”
Then she became quite maternal. “A pretty little woman like you!
Can it be possible?
One may tell you everything now, I suppose.
Well!
You recollect when I passed under your window, I already had my suspicions. Just fancy, last night, when Adele came home, I heard a man’s footsteps with hers.
So I thought I would see who it was. I looked up the staircase.
The fellow was already on the second landing; but I certainly recognized Monsieur Lantier’s overcoat.
Boche, who was on the watch this morning, saw him tranquilly nod adieu. He was with Adele, you know.
Virginie has a situation now, where she goes twice a week.
Only it’s highly imprudent all the same, for they’ve only one room and an alcove, and I can’t very well say where Virginie managed to sleep.”
She interrupted herself an instant, turned round, and then resumed, subduing her loud voice:
“She’s laughing at seeing you cry, that heartless thing over there.
I’d stake my life that her washing’s all a pretence. She’s packed off the other two, and she’s come here so as to tell them how you take it.”
Gervaise removed her hands from her face and looked.
When she beheld Virginie in front of her, amidst three or four women, speaking low and staring at her, she was seized with a mad rage.
Her arms in front of her, searching the ground, she stumbled forward a few paces. Trembling all over, she found a bucket full of water, grabbed it with both hands, and emptied it at Virginie.
“The virago!” yelled tall Virginie.
She had stepped back, and her boots alone got wet.
The other women, who for some minutes past had all been greatly upset by Gervaise’s tears, jostled each other in their anxiety to see the fight.
Some, who were finishing their lunch, got on the tops of their tubs. Others hastened forward, their hands smothered with soap.
A ring was formed.
“Ah! the virago!” repeated tall Virginie.
“What’s the matter with her? She’s mad!”
Gervaise, standing on the defensive, her chin thrust out, her features convulsed, said nothing, not having yet acquired the Paris gift of street gab.
The other continued:
“Get out!
This girl’s tired of wallowing about in the country; she wasn’t twelve years old when the soldiers were at her.
She even lost her leg serving her country.
That leg’s rotting off.”
The lookers-on burst out laughing.
Virginie, seeing her success, advanced a couple of steps, drawing herself up to her full height, and yelling louder than ever:
“Here! Come a bit nearer, just to see how I’ll settle you!
Don’t you come annoying us here.
Do I even know her, the hussy?
If she’d wetted me, I’d have pretty soon shown her battle, as you’d have seen. Let her just say what I’ve ever done to her. Speak, you vixen; what’s been done to you?”
“Don’t talk so much,” stammered Gervaise.
“You know well enough. Some one saw my husband last night. And shut up, because if you don’t I’ll most certainly strangle you.”
“Her husband!
That’s a good one!
As if cripples like her had husbands!
If he’s left you it’s not my fault.
Surely you don’t think I’ve stolen him, do you?
He was much too good for you and you made him sick.