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The Floating Press - Émile Zola

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281 pages

English

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Regarded by critics as one of the highest pinnacles of achievement in Emile Zola's literary career, L'Assommoir (best translated as "the cheap liquor store") offers an unflinching look at alcoholism among the working class in nineteenth-century France. Part of a larger, 20-volume story cycle that spanned Zola's entire career, L'Assommoir was the novel that initially propelled the writer to fame and fortune.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775419549
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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L'ASSOMMOIR
* * *
EMILE ZOLA

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L'Assommoir First published in 1877 ISBN 978-1-775419-54-9 © 2010 The Floating Press
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII
Chapter I
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Gervaise had waited up for Lantier until two in the morning. Then,shivering from having remained in a thin loose jacket, exposed to thefresh air at the window, she had thrown herself across the bed, drowsy,feverish, and her cheeks bathed in tears.
For a week past, on leaving the "Two-Headed Calf," where they tooktheir meals, he had sent her home with the children and never reappearedhimself till late at night, alleging that he had been in search of work.That evening, while watching for his return, she thought she had seenhim enter the dancing-hall of the "Grand-Balcony," the ten blazingwindows of which lighted up with the glare of a conflagration the darkexpanse of the exterior Boulevards; and five or six paces behind him,she had caught sight of little Adele, a burnisher, who dined at the samerestaurant, swinging her hands, as if she had just quitted his arm so asnot to pass together under the dazzling light of the globes at the door.
When, towards five o'clock, Gervaise awoke, stiff and sore, she brokeforth into sobs. Lantier had not returned. For the first time he hadslept away from home. She remained seated on the edge of the bed, underthe strip of faded chintz, which hung from the rod fastened to theceiling by a piece of string. And slowly, with her eyes veiled by tears,she glanced round the wretched lodging, furnished with a walnut chestof drawers, minus one drawer, three rush-bottomed chairs, and a littlegreasy table, on which stood a broken water-jug. There had been added,for the children, an iron bedstead, which prevented any one getting tothe chest of drawers, and filled two-thirds of the room. Gervaise's andLantier's trunk, wide open, in one corner, displayed its emptiness, anda man's old hat right at the bottom almost buried beneath some dirtyshirts and socks; whilst, against the walls, above the articles offurniture, hung a shawl full of holes, and a pair of trousers begrimedwith mud, the last rags which the dealers in second-hand clothesdeclined to buy. In the centre of the mantel-piece, lying between twoodd zinc candle-sticks, was a bundle of pink pawn-tickets. It wasthe best room of the hotel, the first floor room, looking on to theBoulevard.
The two children were sleeping side by side, with their heads on thesame pillow. Claude, aged eight years, was breathing quietly, with hislittle hands thrown outside the coverlet; while Etienne, only fouryears old, was smiling, with one arm round his brother's neck! Andbare-footed, without thinking to again put on the old shoes that hadfallen on the floor, she resumed her position at the window, her eyessearching the pavements in the distance.
The hotel was situated on the Boulevard de la Chapelle, to the leftof the Barriere Poissonniere. It was a building of two stories high,painted a red, of the color of wine dregs, up to the second floor, andwith shutters all rotted by the rain. Over a lamp with starred panesof glass, one could manage to read, between the two windows, the words,"Hotel Boncoeur, kept by Marsoullier," painted in big yellow letters,several pieces of which the moldering of the plaster had carried away.The lamp preventing her seeing, Gervaise raised herself on tiptoe, stillholding the handkerchief to her lips. She looked to the right, towardsthe Boulevard Rochechouart, where groups of butchers, in aprons smearedwith blood, were hanging about in front of the slaughter-houses; and thefresh breeze wafted occasionally a stench of slaughtered beasts. Lookingto the left, she scanned a long avenue that ended nearly in front ofher, where the white mass of the Lariboisiere Hospital was then incourse of construction. Slowly, from one end of the horizon to theother, she followed the octroi wall, behind which she sometimes heard,during night time, the shrieks of persons being murdered; and shesearchingly looked into the remote angles, the dark corners, black withhumidity and filth, fearing to discern there Lantier's body, stabbed todeath.
She looked at the endless gray wall that surrounded the city with itsbelt of desolation. When she raised her eyes higher, she became aware ofa bright burst of sunlight. The dull hum of the city's awakening alreadyfilled the air. Craning her neck to look at the Poissonniere gate, sheremained for a time watching the constant stream of men, horses, andcarts which flooded down from the heights of Montmartre and La Chapelle,pouring between the two squat octroi lodges. It was like a herd ofplodding cattle, an endless throng widened by sudden stoppages intoeddies that spilled off the sidewalks into the street, a steadyprocession of laborers on their way back to work with tools slung overtheir back and a loaf of bread under their arm. This human inundationkept pouring down into Paris to be constantly swallowed up. Gervaiseleaned further out at the risk of falling when she thought sherecognized Lantier among the throng. She pressed the handkerchieftighter against her mouth, as though to push back the pain within her.
The sound of a young and cheerful voice caused her to leave the window.
"So the old man isn't here, Madame Lantier?"
"Why, no, Monsieur Coupeau," she replied, trying to smile.
Coupeau, a zinc-worker who occupied a ten franc room on the top floor,having seen the door unlocked, had walked in as friends will do.
"You know," he continued, "I'm now working over there in the hospital.What beautiful May weather, isn't it? The air is rather sharp thismorning."
And he looked at Gervaise's face, red with weeping. When he saw that thebed had not been slept in, he shook his head gently; then he went to thechildren's couch where they were sleeping, looking as rosy as cherubs,and, lowering his voice, he said,
"Come, the old man's not been home, has he? Don't worry yourself, MadameLantier. He's very much occupied with politics. When they were votingfor Eugene Sue the other day, he was acting almost crazy. He hasvery likely spent the night with some friends blackguarding crapulousBonaparte."
"No, no," she murmured with an effort. "You don't think that. I knowwhere Lantier is. You see, we have our little troubles like the rest ofthe world!"
Coupeau winked his eye, to indicate he was not a dupe of this falsehood;and he went off, after offering to fetch her milk, if she did not careto go out: she was a good and courageous woman, and might count upon himon any day of trouble.
As soon as he was gone, Gervaise again returned to the window. At theBarriere, the tramp of the drove still continued in the morning air:locksmiths in short blue blouses, masons in white jackets, housepainters in overcoats over long smocks. From a distance the crowd lookedlike a chalky smear of neutral hue composed chiefly of faded blue anddingy gray. When one of the workers occasionally stopped to light hispipe the others kept plodding past him, without sparing a laugh or aword to a comrade. With cheeks gray as clay, their eyes were continuallydrawn toward Paris which was swallowing them one by one.
At both corners of the Rue des Poissonniers however, some of the menslackened their pace as they neared the doors of the two wine-dealerswho were taking down their shutters; and, before entering, they stood onthe edge of the pavement, looking sideways over Paris, with no strengthin their arms and already inclined for a day of idleness. Inside variousgroups were already buying rounds of drinks, or just standing around,forgetting their troubles, crowding up the place, coughing, spitting,clearing their throats with sip after sip.
Gervaise was watching Pere Colombe's wineshop to the left of the street,where she thought she had seen Lantier, when a stout woman, bareheadedand wearing an apron called to her from the middle of the roadway:
"Hey, Madame Lantier, you're up very early!"
Gervaise leaned out. "Why! It's you, Madame Boche! Oh! I've got a lot ofwork to-day!"
"Yes, things don't do themselves, do they?"
The conversation continued between roadway and window. Madame Boche wasconcierge of the building where the "Two-Headed Calf" was on the groundfloor. Gervaise had waited for Lantier more than once in the concierge'slodge, so as not to be alone at table with all the men who ate at therestaurant. Madame Boche was going to a tailor who was late in mendingan overcoat for her husband. She mentioned one of her tenants who hadcome in with a woman the night before and kept everybody awake pastthree in the morning. She looked at Gervaise with intense curiosity.
"Is Monsieur Lantier, then, still in bed?" she asked abruptly.
"Yes, he's asleep," replied Gervaise, who could not avoid blushing.
Madame Boche saw the tears come into her eyes; and, satisfied no doubt,she turned to go, declaring men to be a cursed, lazy set. As she wentoff, she called back:
"It's this morning you go to the wash-house, isn't it? I've something towash, too. I'll keep you a place next to me, and we can chat together."Then, as if moved with sudden pity, she added:
"My poor little thing, you had far better not remain there; you'll takeharm. You look quite blue with cold."
Gervaise still obstinately remained at the window during two mortalhours, till