Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 16 October 1879 — Page 2

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I3TIY"

CHAPTER II. "3 GERVAISE AND COUPEAUi Three weeks later, about half-past eleven one fine tunny morning, Gervaise and Coupeau, the tin-worker, were eating some brandied lrui| .it the Asfommoir. j.

Coupeau, who was smoking outside, had seen her as she crossed the street with her linen, and compelled her to en ter. Her huge basket was on the floor, back ot the little table where they eat. WH Father Colombe'* Tavern, known as the Assommoir, wis on the cornets of the Rue des Poistonnlers and ol the

Boulevard de Rochechouart. The sign bore the one single word, in long, blue letters,

DISTILLATION.

And this word stretched from one end to the other. On either side of the door stood tall oleanders in small casks, their leaves covered thick with dust. The enormous counter with its rows of glares, its fountain, and it* pewter measures, .? was on the left of the door and the huge

room was ornamented by gigantic casks

painted bright yellow, and highly varnished, hooped" with shining copper. On high shelves were bottles of liquors, and jars of fruits all 6orts of flasks standing in order concealed the wall, and repeated their pale green or deep crimson tints in the great mirror behind the counter.

The great feature of the house, however, was the distilling apparatus, which stood at the back ot the room behind an oak railing, on which the tipsy workmen leaned, as they stupidly watched the still, with its long neck and serpentine tube# descending to subterranean regions —a very 'devil's kitchen.

At this early hour the Assommoir was nearly empty. A stout man in his shirt sleeves—Father Colombe himself—was serving a little girl, not more than twelve years old, with lour cents worth of liquor an a cup.

The sun streamed in at the door, and lay on the floor, which was black where the men had spat a6 they smoked. And from the counter—from the casks—from all the rocm—rose an alcoholic emanation which seemed to intoxicate the very particles of dust floating in the sunshine.

In the meantime, Coupeau rolled a new cigarette. He was very neat and clean, wearing a blouse and a little blue cloth cap, and showing his white teeth as he smiled.

The lower jaw was somewhat prominent, and the nose slightly flat he had fine brown eyes, and the face of a happy

child and good natured animal. His hair was thick and curly. His complexion was delicate still, tor he was only twen-ty-six. Opposite him sat Gervaise in a black gown, leaning slightly forward, finishing her fruit, which 6he held by the, stem.

They were near the street, at the first of the four tables arranged in front of the counter. When Coupeau had lighted his cigar, he placed both elbows on the table and looked at the woman without speaking. Her pretty face had that day something of the delicate transparency of fine

porcelain. Then continuing something which they apparently had been previously discuss i,, ing, he 6aid in a loy voice: "Then yfcu 6ay no, do you? Absolute-

Jy no?"

'X "Of course. No, it mu6t be Monsieur £oupeau," answered Gervaise, with a smile. Surely you do not intend to begin that again here! You promised to be reasonable, too. Had I known, I should certainly have refused your treat."

He did not speak, but gazed at her more intently than before, with tender boldness. He looked at her soft eye6 'and dewy lips, pale at the corners, but *", half parted, allowing one to see the rich crimson within.

She returned his look with a kind and affectionate stnile. Finally she said: You should not think of such a thing. »It is folly! 1 «h an old woman. I have a bov eight years old. What should we do together?" "Much as other people do, I suppose?" answered Coupeau, with a wink.

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AUTHOR. Of "HKLttNE OR, UKE PAGE D'AMOUR,' "THE ABBK'^/TEMPTATIONJ OR

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She shrugged her shoulders. "Yon know nothing about it, Monsieur

Cuopeau, but I have had some experi-

ence. I have two mouths in the house, and they have excellent appetites how am I to bring up mv children if I trifle away my time? Then, loo, my misfortune has taught me on* great lesson, which is, that the less I have to do with men, the betterl"

She then proceeded to explain her rea«ons, calmly and without anger. It was easy to see "that her words were the result of grave consideration.

Coupeau listened quietly, saying oniy at intervals: YoQ are hurting my ieelings. Yes, hurting my feelings

44Ytt,

I see that," she answered, ''and I

am really very 6orry for you. If I had any

idea

of leading a different life from

that which I follow to-day, it might as well be with you as withanother. You have the look of a good-natured man. But what is the use? I have been now with Madame Faucanniei for a tortnight. The children are going to school and I am very happj, for I have plenty to do. Don't you see, therefore, that it is best for us to remain as we are?"

And she stooped to pick up her basiet. "You are keeping me here to talk," she said, "and they "are waiting for me at my employers'. You will find some other woman, Monsieur Coupeau, far prettier than I, who will not have two children

itilfW,

ETC.

CHAPTER I.

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-W

GERVAISE.

•ad-*

to bring up!" He looked at the clock, and made her sit down again. "Wait!" he cried. "It is still thirty-five minutes of eleven, I have twenty-five minutes still, and don't be afraid ot any familiarity, for the table is between us! Do jou dislike me so very much that you can't stay and talk with me for five min utes?''

She put down her basket, unwilling to seem disobliging, and they talked for some time in a friendly sort of way. She had breakfasted beiore she left home, and he had swallowed his soup in the greatest haste, and laid in wait for her as she came out. Gervafee, as she listened to him, watched from the windows—be tween the bottles brandied fruit—the movement ol the crowd in the street, which at this hour—that of the Parisian breakfast—was unusually lively. Workmen hurried into the Bakers, and coming out with a loaf under their arms, they went into the Veau a Deux Tetes, three doors higher up, to breakfast at six sous. Next the Baker's, was a shop where fried potatoes, and mussels with parsley, were sold. A constant succession of shop girls carried off paper parcels of fried potatoes and cups filled With mussels, and otfifers bought bunches of radishes. When Gervaise leaned a little more toward the window, 6he saw still another shop, also crowded, from which issued a steady stieam of children holding in their hand6, wrapped in paper, a breadsd cutlet, or a sausage, still warm.

A group formed around the door of the Assommoir. "Say! Bibi-la-GriJlade," asked a voice "will you stand a drink all around?"

Five workmen went in, and the same voice said: "Father Colombe, be honest, now. Give us honest glasses, and no nut-shell6, if vou please." i-

Presently j^.ahree more workmen entered together, and finally a crowd of blouses passed in between the dusty oleanders.

You have no business to ask such questions," said Gervaise to Coupeau of course I loved him. But after the manner in which he deserted me

They were speaking of Lantier. Gervaise had never 6een him again she supposed him to be living with Virginie's sister—with the friend who was about to start a manufactory for hats.

At first 6he thought of committing suicide, ot drowning herself but 6he had grown more reasonable, and had really begun to trust that things were all for the best. With Lantier she feit6uie she never could have done justice to the children, 6o extravagant were his habits.

He might come, of course, and 6ee Claude and Etienne. She would not show him the door only so far as she hefrself was concerned, he had best not lay hia finger on her. And she uttered these words in a tone of determination, like a woman whose plan of life is clearly defihed while Coupeau, who was byno means inclined to give up lightly, teased and questioned her in regard to Lantier with none to much delicacy, it is true, but bis teeth were so white and his face so merry that the woman could not take offence.

Did you beat him he asked, finally. Oh you are none too amiable. "You beat people sometime^ I have heard.

She laughed gaily. Yes, it was true she had whipped that great Virginie. That day she could have stranged some one prith a glad heart. And she laughed again, because Coupeau had told her that Virginie, in her humiliation, had left the Quariier.

Gervaise's face, as she laughed, however, had a certain childish sweetness. She extended her slender, dimpled hands, declaring she Would not hurt a fly. All she knew of blows was, that the had received a good many in her life! Then she began to talk of Plassans and of her youth. She had never beeh indiscreet, nor was she fond of men., When 6he had fallen in with Lantier the was only fourteen, and she regarded, him as her husband. Her only fault, she declared, was that she was too amiable, and allowed people to impose on her, and that she got fond of people too easily were she to love another man, she should wish and expect to live quietly and comfortably with him always without any nonsense.

And when Coupeau slyly asked her if she called her dear children nonsense, she gave him a little slap and said that she, of course, was much like Other women. But women were not like men, after all thev had their homes to take care of and1 keep clean she was like her mother, who had been a slave to her brutal father for more than twenty years.

My very lameness," she continued— Your lameness," interrupted Coupeau, gallantly why it is almost noth ing. No one would ever notice it!"

She shook her head. She knew very well that it was very evident, and at forty it would be far worse: but she said softly, with a faint smile, "You have a strange taste, to fall in love with a lame woman!" I

He,

with his

elbows On the table, still

coaxed and entreated, but she continued to shake her head in the negative. She listened, with her eyes fixed on the street, seemingly fascinated by the surging crow«V»

The shops were being swept—the last frying pan of potatoes was taken from the stove—the pork merchant washed the plates his customers had used, and put his olace in order. Groups of mechanics were hurrying out from all the workshops, laughing and pushing each other like so many school boys, making a great

scuffling on the sidewalk with their&obnailed shoes while some, with their hands:' in their pocketSf Smoked in meditative fashion, looicififc'up at thf iort prodigiously. The sidewalks were crowded, Slid flJf WDWl stantly added to, by men who poured from the open door—men in blouses and frocks, old jackets and coats, which showed all their defects in the clear morning light.

The bells of the ut manufactories were ringing loudly, but the workmen did not hurry. They deliberately lighted their pipes, and then with rounded shoulders slouched along, dragging their feet after them.

Gervaise mechanically watched a group of three, one much taller than the other two, who seemed to be hesitating as to what they should do next. Finally thev came directly to the Assommoii. "*1 know them," said Coupeau, "or rather I know the tall one. It is MesBottes, a comrade of mine."

The Assommoir was now crowded with boisterous men. The glasses rang with the energy with which they brought down their fists on thi counter. They stood in rows, with their hands crossed over tbeir stomachs, or folded behind

their backs, waiting their turn to be served by Father Colombe. "Hallo!" cried Mes-Bottes, giving Coupeau a rough slap on the shoulders, "how fine you have got to be with your cigarettes and your linen shirt bosom! Who is your friend that pays for all this? I should like to make her acquaintance." "Don't be so silly!" returned Coupeau, angrily.

But the ether gave a knowing wink "Ah! I understand—

wise'

word to the

"—and he turned lound with a fearful lurch to look at Gervaise, who shuddered and recoiled. The tobacco smoke —the odor of humanity —added to this air heavy with alcohol, was oppressive— and she choked a little and coughed. "Ah! what an awful thing it is to drink!" she said in a whisper to her friend, to whom she then went on to »ay, how years before, she had .drank anisette with her mother at Plassans, and how it had made her so very sick that ever since that day, she had never been able to endure even the 6mell of liquors. "You sef," frhe added, as 6he held up her glass, "I have eaten the fruit but I left the brandv, for it would make me ill."

Coupeau also failed to understand bow a man could swallow glasses of brandy and water, one after the other. Brandied fruit, now and again, was not bad. As to absinthe and similar abominations, he never touched them—not he, indeed. His comrades might laugh at him as much as they pleased he always remained on the other ^de ol the door, when they came in to swallow perdition like that.

His father, who was a tinworker like himself, had fallen one day from the roof ol No. 25, in La Rue Coquenaud, and this recollection had made him very prudent ever since. As tor himself, when he passed through that street and saw the place, he would socner drink the water in the gutter, than swallow a drop at the wineshop. He concluded wi*h the sentence "You see in my trade, a man needs a clear head and steady legs."

Gervaise had taken up her basket—she had not risen from her chair, however, but held it on her knees, with a dreary look in her eyes as i4' the words of the young mechanic had awanened in her miod strange thoughts of a possible fu ture.

She answeted' i« a low, hesitating tone, without any apparent connection: "Heaven knov»6 I am not ambitious.. I do not ask for much in this world. My idea would be to live a quiet life, and always have enough to eat—a clean place to live in —with a comfortable bed, a table and a chair or two. Yes, I would like to brine my Children up in that way, and see them good and industrious. I should not like to run the risk of bek:g beaten—no, that would not please me at all!"

She hesitated, as if to find something else to say, and then resumed "Yes, and at the end I should like to die in my bed, in my own home

She pushed back her chair and rcse. Coupeau argued with her vehemently, and then gaye an uneasy glance at the clock. They did not, however, depart at onci. She wished to look at the still, and stood for some minutes gazing with curiosity at the great copper machine. The tin worker, who had followed her, explained to her how the thing worked, pointing out with his finger the various parts ot the machine, and ehowed the enormous retort whence fell the clear stream of alcohol. The still, with its intricate and endless coils of wire and pipes had a dreary aspect. Not a breath escaped from it and hardly a sound was heard. It was like some night ta6k performed in daylight, by a melancholy, silent workman.

In the meantime Mes-Bottes, accompanied by his two comrades, had lounged to the oak railing, and leaned there until there was a corner of the counter free. He laughed a tipsy laugh-as he stood with his eyes fixed on the machine. "By thunder he muttered, "that is a jolly little thing P' lie went on to say that it held enough to keep their throats fresh for a week. As for himself, he should like to hold the end of that pipe between his teeth, and he should like to ieei that liquor run down his throat, in a steady stream, until it reached his heels.

The still did its work slowly bat surely. There was not a glimmer on its 6urfcce—no firelight reflected in its clean colored sides. The liquor dropped steadily, and suggested a persevering stream, w'hich would gradually invade the room, spread over the streets and Boulevard, and finally deluge and inundate Paris itself.

Gervaise shuddered and drew back. She tried to smile, but her lips quivered as she murmured:

It frightens me—that machine! It makes me feel cold to see that constant drip—"

Then returning to the idea which had struck her as the acme of human happiness, she said: do you not think that it would be very nice? Towork and have plentv

eat—to

se]f_to

have a little home all to one's

bring up children, and then die

in one's bed?" And not be beaten, added Coupeau,

gayly. ttBat

I will promise neysr to beat

you, Madame Gervaise, if *ov will agree

to what I ask. I will promise also never to drink, because I love you too much! aUkwMJiow, say yes."

with she, was

He lowered hH voice and' spoke his lips close to her throat, while hrr hlttir"front of her, making a path men:

But the did not say no or shake her head as she had done, She glanced up at him with a half tender 6mile, and seemed to rejoice in the assurance he gave that he did not drink-

It was clear that she would have said yes, if she had not sworn never to have aivythuu more to do with men. flnalty they reached the door, and w«it^iii «rthe place, leaving it crowded to overflowing, the fumes of alcohol, and the tips} voices of the men carousing, went out into the street with them.

Mes-Bottes war-heard accusing Father Colombe of cheating, by not filling his glasses mote than half full, and he pro posed to his comrades to go in future to another place, where they could Jo much better and get more for their money. "Ah!" said Gervaise, drawing a long breath when they stood on the sidewalk, "here one can breathe again. Good-bye,

Monsieur Coueau, and many thanks for your politenesp. I must hasten now." She moved son. but he took her hand, and held it fast. -jj |p "Go a little way with me. It will'not be much further lor you. I must stop at my sister's before I go back to the 6hop."

She yielded to his entreaties, and they walked slowly on together. He told her about his family. His mother, a tailoress, Was the housekeeper. Twice she had been obliged to give uo her work on account of trouble with her eyes. She wa6 sixtv-twoon the third of the last month. He* was her youngest child. One of his sisters, Madame Lerat," a widow was thirty-six years old. was a flower maker, and lived at Batignolles, in La Rue Des Moines. The other, who was thirty, had married a chain maker—a man by the name of Lorilleux. It was to their rooms that he was now going. They lived in that great house on the left. He ate his dinner every night with them it was an economy for them all. Bpt he wanted to tell them now, not to expect him that night, as he was invited to dine with a iriend.

Gtrvaise interrupted him suddenly: "Did I hear your friend call you Cadet-Cassis?"

Yes. That is the name they have given me, because when they drag me into a wine shop, it is Cassis *1 always take. I had as lief be called 'CadetCassis' as 'Mes-Bottes,' any time." "I do not think Cadet-Cassis s- very bad," answered Gervaise, ind she asked him about his work. How long should he be employed on the new Hospital? "Oh," he answered, "there was never any lack cfwofk." He had always more than he could do. He should remain in that shop at least a year, for he had yards and yards of gutters to make. "Do you know," he said, "when I am up there I can see the Hotel. Boncoeur. Yesterday you were at the window, and I waved my hand, but you did not see me."

They by this this time had turned into La Rue de la Goutte 'Or. He stopped and looked up. "Theie is the house," he said, "and I was born only a few doors further off. It is an enormous place."

Gervaise looked up and down the facade. It was indeed enormouR. The house was of five s.ories, with Stteen windows on each floor. The blinds were black, and with many of the slats broken, which gave an indescribable air of ruin and desolation to the place. Four shop* occupied the rez de chautsee. On the right of the door was a large room, occupied as a cookshop. On the left wan a charcoal vender, a thread and needle £hop, and an establishment for the manufacture of umbrellas.

The house appeared all the higher for the reason, tha' on either side were two low buildings, squeezed close to it, and stood square, like a block of granite roughly hewn, against the blue 6ky. Totally without ornament, the house grimly suggested a prison.

Gervaise looked at the entrance, an immense doorway which rose to *he height of the second story, and made a deep passage, at the end of which was a large coun yard. In the centre of this doorway, which was paved like thestreet, ran a gutter full of pale, rose colored water. "Come up." 6aid Conpeau, "they won't eat you."

Gervaise preferred to wait for him in the street, but she consented to go as far as the room of the Concierge, which wa within the porch, on the left.

When he had reached the place she again looked up. [fy Within there wferf six flo jr^1-instead of five, and four regular facades surrounded the vast square of the court yard. The walls were gray—covered with patches at leprous yellow, stained by the dripping from the slate covered roof. The wall had not eveu a moulding to break its dull uniformity—only the gutters ran across it. The windows had neither shatters nor blinds, but showed the panes of glans, which Were greenish and full of bubbles. Some were open, and from them hung checked mattresses and 6heet* to air. Lines were stretched in front of others, on which the family wash was hung to dry—men's shirts, women's chemises and children's breeches! There was a look as if the dwellers untler that roof found their quarters too small, and were oozing out at every crack and aperture.

For the convenience of each facade, there was a narrow, high doorway, from which a damp passage led to the rear, where four staircases, with iron railings. These each had one of the first four letters of the a'phabe* rainted at the side.

The Rez de Chaussee was divided into enormous workshops, and lighted by windows black with dust. The forge of a locksmith blazed in one: Irom another came the sound of a carpenter's planewhile near the doorway a pink stream from a dyeing establishment poured into the gutter. Pools of stagnant water stood in the court yard, all littered with shavings and fragments of charcoal. A few pale tufts of grass struggled up between the flat stones, and the whole court yard was lighted but dimly.

In the shade, near the water faucet, three small hens were pecking, with the vain hope of finding a worm and Gervaise looked about her, amazed at the enormous place which seemed like a little

world, and as interested in the house as if it were a living creature. "Are you looking for any one?" asked the (j|^^^| Wining to the door corr-

But the young woman explained that

igh'^he crowd uf jstis waa wisiting, for a friend, and then turned back toward the street. A» CW peau still delayed, she returned to the court yard, finding it a strange fascination.

The house did not strike her as espe cially ugly. At some of the windows were plants—a wall flower, blooming in a pot, a caged canary, who uttered ai occasional warble—and several shavinj mirrors caught the light and shone lik start.

A cabinetmaker sang, accompanied by the regular whistling sound of his plane, while from the locksmith's quarters came a clatter of hammers struck in cadence.

At almost all the open windows the laughing, dirty faces of merry children were seen, and women sat, with their calm faces in profile, bending over thejr work. It was the quiet time—after the morning labors were over, and the men were gone to their work, and the house was comparatively quiet, disturbed only by the sound of the various trades. The tame refrain repeated hour after hour has a soothing effect, Gervaise thought.

To be sure, the courtyard was a little damp. Were she to live there, she should ccrtainly prefer a rocm on the tunny side.

She went in several steps, and breathed that heavy odor of the ho.nes of the poor —an odor of old dust, of rancid dirt and grease but as the acridity of the smells from the dye-house predominated, she decided it to be far better than the Hotel Boncoeur.

She selected a window—a window in the comer on the left, where there was a small box planted with scarlet beans, whose slender tendril* were beginning to wind round a little arbor of strings. "I have made you wait too long, I am afraid," said Coupeau, whom she suddenly heard at her side. "They make a great fuss when I do not dine there, and she did not like it to-day, especially as my sister had bought veal. You are looking at this house," he continued. "Think of it—it is always lit from top to bottom. There are a hundred lodgers in it. If I had any furniture I would have had a room in it long aeo. It would be very nice here, wouldn't it?" "Yes," murmured Gervaise, "very nice indeed. At Plassans there were not so many people in one whole street. Look up at that window on the fifth floor—the window, I mean, where thote beans are growing. See how pretty that is!"

He, with his usual recklessness, declared he would hire that room for her, and they would live there together.

She turned away with a laugh,1 and begged him not to talk any more nonsense. The house might stand or fall— they would never have a room in it together.

But Coupeau, all the same, was not reproved whfen he held her band longer thaa necessary, in bidding her farewell, when they reached Madame Fauconnier's laundry.

For another month the kindly intercourse between Gervaise and Coupeau continued on much the same footing. He thought her wonderfully courageousdeclared the was killing herself with hard work all day and sitting up half the night to sew for the children. She was not like the woman he had known she took life too seriously, by furl

She laughed and defended herself modestly. Unfortunately, she said, she had not always been discreet. She alluded to her first confinement when she was not more than fourteen—and to the bottles of anisette she had emptied with •ier mother—but she had learned much from experience, she said. He was mistaken, however, in thinking her persevering and strong. She was, on the contrary, very weak, and too easily influenced, as she had di«coverjd to her cost. Hsr dream had always been, to live in a respectable way, among respectable people because bad company knocks i».e life out of a woman. She trembled when she thought of the future, and said she was like a son thrown up in the air— falling, heads up or down, according to chance—on the muddy pavement. Air she had seen, the bad example spread before her childish eyes, had given her valuable lessons. But Coupeau laughed at these gloomy notions, and brought back her courage fry attempting to put his aims around her waUt. She slapped his hands, and he cried nt that for a weak woman, she managed to hurt a fellow con«idera bly

As for himself, he was always as merry as a grig, and no fool, ther. He parted his hair carefully on one tide, wore pretty cravats and patent leather shoes on Sunday, and was a» tatfty as only a fine Parisan man can be.

They were ot mutual use to each other at 'he Hotel Boncoeur. Coupeau went for milk, did many little errands for her, and carried home her linen to her customers, and often took the children out to walk. Gervaise, to return these courte.ies, went up to the liny room where he slept, and in bW absence looked over his clothes, sewed on buttons and mended his garments. They gre up to be very good and cordial friends. He was to her a constant source of amusement. She listened to the songs he sang, and to their slang and nonoense, which as yet had for her, much of the charm of novelty. But he began to grow uneasy, and his smiles were less frequent. He asked her whenever they met, the same question,

When shall it be She answered invariably with a jest, but passed her days in a fire of indelicate allusions however, which did not bring a blush tower cheek. So long as he was not rough and brutal, stie objected to nothing but one day 6he wa» very angry when he, in trying to steal a kiss, tore out a lock of her hair.

About the last of June Coupeau became absolutely morose, and Gervaise was so much disturbed by certain glances he gave her, that she fairly barricaded her door at night. Finally one Tuesday evening, when he had sulked trom the previous Sunday, he came to her door at eleven in the evening. At first she refused to open it but his voice was so gentle, so sad even, that she pushed away the barrier she had pushed against the door for her better protection. When he came in, she was startled, and thought him ill, he was so deadly pale aiyl his eves were so bright. Noj he was no ill, be said, but things could not go on like this he could not sleep.

Listen, Madame Gervaise," he exclaimed, with tears in hi* eyes and a strange choking sensation in his throat.

We mutt get married at once. That is all there is to be said about it," Gervaise was astonished and very grave.

Oh Monsieur Coupeau, I never dreamed of this. a« you know very well, and you moct not take such a step lightly.

But he ontinued to insist—he was certainly fully determined. He had come nown to her then, without waiting until morning, merely because he needed a good sleep. At toon as she said yps, he would leave her. But he should not go until he heard that word.

I cannot say yes in such a hurry," remonstrated Gervaise. I do not choose to run the ritk of your telling me at tome future day, that 1 led you into thit. You are making a great mistake, I assure you. Suppose you should not see me for a week—you would forget me entirely. Men sometimes mairy 'for a fancy, and in twentyfour hours would gladly take it all back. Sit down here ana let us talk a little."

They sat in that dingy room, lighted only by one candle which they forgot to snuff, and discusted the expediency of their marriage until after midnight— speakine very low, lest they should disturb the children, who were asleegta with their heads, on the same pillow.

And Gervaise pointed therttout to Coupeau. That was an odd tort of dowry to carry a ms.rj sarelyl How could she venture to go td him'With such encumbrances? Then too, she was troubled about another thing. People would laugh at him. Her story was known— her lover had been teen, and there would le no endof talk if the should marry now.

To all these good and excellent reasons, Coupeau answered with a shrug of his shoulders. What did he care for talk and gossip? He never meddled with'the affairs of others, why should they meddle with his?

Yes, she had children to be sure, and he would !-tok out for them with her. He had never seen a woman in his life, who' was so good and so conrageous and patient. Beiides, that had nothings to do with ft! Had shfr been ugly ana lazy, with a dozen dirty children, he would have wanted her, and only her. "Yfcs," fce continued, tapping her on the knee, "you are the woman I want,, and none other. You have nothing to say against that, I suppose?"

Gervaise melted by degrees. Her res* olution forsook her, and a weakness of her art and her senses overwhelmed her in the face of this brutal passion. She ventured only a timid objection or two. Her hands lay loosely folded on her knees, while her fafce was very gentle and sweet.

Through the open window came the soft air of a fair June night—the candle flickered in th: wind—from the street came the tobs of a child, tt^p child of a drunken man, who was lying just in front of the door in the stieet.'' From a long distance the breeze brought the notes ofa violin, playing at a restaurant for some late marriage festival—a delicate strain it was too, clear and sweet as mu-, sical glasses.

Coupeau, teeing that the young woman had exhausted all her arguments,snatched her hands and drew her toward him. She was in one of those mood* which she so much distrusted, when she could refuse no one anything. But the young man did not understand this, and he contented himseif with simply holding her hands closely in his. "You say yes, do you not?" he asked. "How you tease," she replied. "You wish it—well then, yes. Heaven grant that the day will not come *hen you will be sorry for it."

He started up, lifting her from her feet and kissed her loudly. He glanced at the children. "Hush!" he said, *we must not wake the boys! Good night."

And lie went out of the room. Gervaise, trembling trom head to foot, sat for a full hour on the side of her bed without undressing. She was profoundly touched, and thought Coupean very honest and ye^ kind. The Mpby man in the street uttered a groan like that of a wild beast, and the notes of the violin had ceased.

The next evening, Coupeau urged Gervaise to go with him to call on his sister. But the young woman shrank with ardent fear from this visit to the Lorilleux. She saw perfectly well that her lover stood in dread of. these people.

He was in no way dependent on this tister, who was not the eldest either. Mother Coupeaa would gladly give her consent, for the had never been known to contradict her son. In the family however, the Lorilleux were supposed to earn ten francs per day, and this gave them great weight. Coupeau would never venture to marry unless they agreed to accept his witc. "I have told them about you," he said. "Gervaite—Good Heavens!-what a baby you are! Come there, to-night, with me I you will find my sister a little stiff, and Lorilleux is none too amiable. The truth is thev are much vexed—because you, see if marry, I shall no longer dine with them—and that is the great economy. But that makes no odds^ they won't put you out of doors. Do what I ask, for it is absolutely necessary."

These words frightened Gervaise

nearly

out of her wits. One Saturday

evening, however, she consented. Coupeau, came for her at half-past eigtm ahe was all ready, wearing a black dress* a shawl with printed palm leaves in yellow, and a white cap with fluted ruffles. She had saved seven francs for the shawl, and two francs fifty centimes for the cap the dress was an .old one, cleaned and made over.

They expect you," said Coupeau, as they walked along the (street,"and they have become accustomed to the idea of seeing me married. They are really quite amiable to-night. Then, too, if you have never seen a gold chain made, you will be much amused in watching it. Thev have an order for Monday." "And have they gold fn these roOms?" asked Geryaise. "I should say to! It is on the walls, on the floors—everywhere!"

By this time they had reached the door, and had entered the courtyard. The Lorilleux lived on the sixth floor—

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