Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 4 December 1879 — Page 6

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CHAPTER X.

A chamber and a small room, about as large as one's hand, were all the Coupeaus had now. N&na's little bed stood in the 6tnall room, the door of which had to be left open at night, Jest the child should stifle.

When it came to the final move, Gervaise felt that she could not separate from the commode which she had spent eo much time in polishing when first married, and insisted on its going to their new quarters, where it was much in the way and stopped up half the window and when Gervaise wished to look out into the court, she had not room for her elbows.

The first few days she spent in tears. She felt smothered and cramped after haying had so much room to move about in it seemed to her that she was smothering. It was only at the window she could breathe. The court-yard was not a place calculated to inspire cheerful thoughts. Opposite her was the window which years before had elicited her admiration, where every successive summer, scarlet beans had grown to a fabulous height on slender strings. Her room was on the «ihady sidi, and a pot of mignonette would die in a week on her sill.

No. life had not been what she hoped, and it was all very hard to bear. Instead of flowers to solace her declining years, she would have but thorns. One day, as she was lobking down itito the court, she had the strangest feeling imaginable. She seemed to see herself standing just near the loge of the Con-: cierge, looking up at the. house ahd examining it foi" the first tune.

This glimpse of the Past made her fee1 faint. It was at least thirteen years 6ince she had first seen this huge building— this world within a world. The court had not changed. The facade was simply more ding v. The same clothes seemed to be hanging in the windows to dry. Below, there were the shavings from the cabinet-maker's shop, and the gutter glittered with blue water, as blue and soft in tone as the water she remembered.

Butshe! Alas! how changed was she! She no longer looked up to the sky. She was no longer hopeful, courageous and ambitious. She was living under the very roof in crowded discomfort, where never a rav of sunshine could reach her, and her tears fell last in utter discouragement.

Nevertheless, when Gervaise became accustomed to her new surrounding, she grew more contert. The pieces ot furniture she had sold to Virginie had facilitated her installation. When the fine weather came, Coupeau had an opportunity of going into the country to work. He went and lived three months without drinking—cured for the time being, by the fresh, pure air. It does a man some times an infinitsdeal of good to be taken away from ail his old haunts, and from Parisian streets, which always seem to exhale a smell of brandy and of wine.

He came back as, fresh as a rose, and he brought four hundred francs, with which he paid the Poissons the amount for which they had become security, as well as several other small but pressing debts. Gervaise had now two or three streets open to her again, which tor some time she nad not dared to enter.

She now went out to iron by the day, and had gone back to her old mistress, Madame Fauconnier, who was a kindhearted creature, and ready to do anything for any one who flattered her adroitly.

With diligence anJ economy Gervaise could have managed to live comfortably and pay all her debts but this prospect did not charm her particularly. She suffered acutely in seeing the Poissons in her old shop. She was by no means of a jealous or envious disposition, bat it •was not agreeable to her to hear the &d miration expressed for her successors "by her husband's sisters. To hear them, one would suppose that never had so beautiful a shop been seen before. They spoke of the filthy condition of the place when Virginie moved in—who had paid, thev declared, thirty francs for cleaning it.

Virginie, after some hesitation, had decided on a small stock of groceries— sugar, tea, and coffce #iso bonbons and chocolate. -Lantier had advised these because he said the profit on them was immense. The shop was repainted, and shelves and cases were put in, and a counter with scales such as are seen at confectioners'. The little inheritance that Poisson held in reserve was seriously encroached aipon. But Virginie was triumphant, for she had her way. and the Lorilleux did not spare Gervaise the descript'oti ot a case or a jar.

It was said in the street that Lantier had deserted Gervaise—that she gave him no peace running" after him but this was not true, for he went and came to her apartment as he pleased. Scandal was connecting his name and Virginie's. They 6aid Virginie had taken the clearstarcher's lover as well as her shop! The Lorilleux talked of nothing when Garvaise was present but Lantier, Virginie and the shop. Fortunately Gervaise was not inclined to jealousy, and Lantier's infidelities had hitherto left her undisturbed but she did not accept th

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Nana danced with joy at the mere thought of what the Lorilleux—as her god-parents—had promised, while Madame Lerafc gave the veil and cup, Virginie the pnrse, and Lantier a prayerbook so that the Coupeaus looked forward to the day without anxiety. 3

The Poissons—probably through Lantier's advice—selected'this occasion *for their house-warming.

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The new lodging of the Coupeaus was next that of the Bijards. Almost opposite their door was a closet under the stairs which went up to the roof—a mere hole without light or ventilation, where Father Bru slept.

new affair with equal tranquillity. She colored or turned pale as she heard these allusions, but she would not allow a word to pass her lips, as she. was fully determined never to gratify her emmies by allowing them to see her discomfiture but a dispute was heard by the neighbors about this time between herself and Lantier, who went angrily away, and was not seen by any One in the Copeau quarters for more than a fortnight.

Coupeau behaved very oddly. This blind and complacent husband, who had closed his eye6 to all that was going on at home, was filled with virtuous indignation at1 Poisson's indifference. Then Coupeau weRt so tar as to tease Gervaise in regard to this desertion of her loyers. She had had bad luck, He said with hatters and blasksmiths—why did she not trv a mason?

He said" this as if it were a joke, but Gervaise had a firm conviction that he was in deadly earnest. A man who is tipsy from one year's end to the nexJL is not apt to be fastidious and there are husbands who at twenty are very jealous, and at thirty have grown very complacent, under the influence of constant tippling.

Lantier preserved an attitude of calm indifference. He kept the peace between the Poissons and the Coupeaus. Thinks to him,Virginie and Gervaise affected for each other the most tender regard. He ruled the brunette as he had ruled the blonde, and he would swallow her .shop as hp had that of Gervaise.

It was in June of this year that Nana partook of her first communion. She was about thirteeh, slender and tall as an asparagus plant and her air and manner was the height of impertinence and audacity.

She had been sent awav from he catechism class the year'before on account of her bad conduct. And if the Cure did not make a similar objection this year, it was because he feared she would never come again, and that his refusal would launch on the Parisian pave another castaway.

They invited the

Coupeau and the Boche family, as Pauline made her first communion on that day, as well as Nana.

The e'vening before, while Nana, fctood in an ectstacy of delight before her presents. her father came in, in an abominable condition. His virtuous resolutions had yielded to the air of Paris, he had fallen into evil way6 again, and he now as­

his .wife and child with the vilest epithets, which did not seem to shock Nana, for they could fall from her tongue on occasion, with facile glibness. "I want my soup," cried Coupeau, ''and you two fools are chattering over those fal-lals! I tell you I will sit on them if I am not waited upon, and quckly too."

Gervaise answered impatiently, but Nana, who thought it better taste just then—all things considered—to recehe with meekness all her father's abuse, dropped her eyes and did not reply. "Take that rubbish away!" he cried, with growing impatience, put it out ol ray sight, or I will tear it to bits.'

Nana did not se£m to hear him. She took up the tullecap and asked her mother what it cost, and when Coupeau tried to snatch the cap, Gervaise pushed him

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"Let the child alone!" she said, "she is doing no harm!" V? Then her husband wint into a ]perfe:t rage: "Mother and daughter!" he cried, "a nice pair they make. I understand very well what all this row is for: it is merely to show yourself in a new gown. I will put you in a bag and tie it close round your throat, and you will see if the Cure likes that!"

Nana turned like lightning to protect her treasures. She looked her father full in the face, and, forgetting the lessons taught her by he priest, she said, a low, concentrated voice: "Beast!'* That was all.

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After Coupeau had eaten his soup he fell asleep, and in the morning woke quite amible. He admired his daughter, and 6aid she looked quite like a

lady in her white robe. Then he added, with a sentimental air, that a father on such days was naturally proud of his child. When they were ready to go to the church, and Nana met Pauline in the corridor, she examined the latter from head to foot, and smiled condescendingly on seeing that Pauline had not a particle of chic.

The two families started off together, Nana and Pauline in front, each with her prayer-book in one hand and with the other holding down

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veil which swelled in the wind like a sail. They did not speak to each other, but keenly enjoyed seeing the shopkeepers run to their doois to see them—keeping their eyes cast down devoutly, but their ears wide open to any compliment they might hear.

N ana's two aunts walked side by side, exchanging their opinions in regard to Gervaise, whom they stigmatzed as an irreligious ne'er-do-well, whose child would never have gone to the Holy Communion if it had depended on her.

At the church Coupeau wept all the time. It was very silly, he knew, but he could not help it. The voice of the Care

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was pathetic the little girls looked like white-robed angels the organ thrilled 1 im, and the incense gratified his senses. There was one especial anthem which touched him deeply. He was not the only person who wept, he was glad to see, and when the cercmony was over, he left the church feeling that it was the happiest day of his life. But an hour later he quarrelled with Lorilleux in a wine-shop because the latter was so hardhearted.

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night was very gay. Lantier sat between Gervaite and Virginie, and was equally civil and attentive to both. Opposite was Poisson with his calm, impassive face, a look he had cultivated since he began his career as a police officer.

But the Qyeens of the Fete were the two little girls, Nana acd Pauline, who sat very erect lest they bhould crush and deface their pretty white dresses. At dessert there was a serious discussion in regard to the Future of the children. Madame Boche said that Pauline would at once enter a certain manufactory, where she would receive five or six francs per week. Gervaise had not decided yet, for Nana had shown no especial leaning in any direction. Slid had a good deal of taste, but she was butterfingered and careless. "I should make a florist of her," said Madame Lerat. "It is clean work, and Dretty work, too."

Whereupon ensued a warm discussion. The men were especially careful of their language out of deference to the little girls, but Madame Lerat would not accept the lesson: she flattered herself she could say what she pleased in such a way. that it could not offend the most fastidious ears. "Women,'1 she declared, "who followed her trade were more virtuous than others. They rarely made a slip." "I have no objection to your trade," interrupted Gervaise. "If Nana likes to make flowers let her do so. Say, Nana, would you like it?"

The little girl did not look up irom her plate, into which she was dipping a crust of bread. She smiled faintly as she replied: "Yes, mamma if you desire it, I have nO objection."

The decision was instantly made, and Coupeau wished his sister to take her the very next day to the place wlisre she herself worked—Rue du Caire arid the circle talked gravely of ther duties of life. Boche said that Pauline and! Nana were pow women, since they had been to Communion, and they ought to be serious, and learn to cook and to mend. They alluded to their future marriages, their homes and their children, and the girls touched each olher under the table, giggled and grew very red. ^Lantier asked them if they did not Have little husbands already, and Nana blushingly confessed that she loved Victor Fauconnier, and never meant to marry any one

Madame Lorilleux said to Madame Boche on their way home: A "Nana is our goddaughter now, but if 6he goes into that flower business, in six months she will be on the pave, and we will have nothing to do with her."'

Gervaise told Boche that she thought the shop admirably arranged. She had looked lorward to an evening of torture, and wa» sui prised that slje had not experiet.ced a pang.

Nana, as she undressed, asked her mother it the girl on the next floor, who had been married the week before, wore a dress of muslin like hera.

But this was the la*t bright day in that household. Two yeais passed away, and their prospects grew darker and their demoralization and degradation mores evident. They went without food and without fire, but never without brand y.

They fOjiind it slmost impossible to meet their rent, and a certain January came wheti they had not a penny, and Father Boche ordered them to leave.

It was frightfully cold, with a sharp wind blowing from the north. Monsieur Marescot appeared in a warm overcoat, and his hanJs encased in warm woollen gloves, and told them they must go even if they slept in the gutter. The whole house was oppressed with woe, and a dreary sound of lamentation arose from most of the rooms, for half the tenants we're behind-hand. Gervaise sold her bed and paid the rent. Nana made nothing as yet. and Gervaise had so fallen off in her work that Madame Fauconnier had reduced her wages. She was irregular in her hours, and often absented "nerseif from the, shop for several days together, but was none the less vexed to discover that her old employee, Madame Putoie, had been placed, above her. Naturally, at the end of the week.. Gervaise had little money coming to her

As to Coupeau, if he worked he brought no money nome, and his wife had ceased to count upon it. Sometimes he declsircd he had lost it, through a hole in his pocket, or it had heen stolen but after a while he ceased to make any exciteses.

But if he had no cash in his pockets it 3»as because he spent it all in drink. Madame Boche advised Gervasie to watch for him at the door of the place where he was employed aud get hi9 wages from him before he had spent them all but this did no good, as Coupeau was warned by his friends and escaped by a rear door.

The Coupeaus" were cntirley to blame for their misfortunes, but this is just what people will never admit. It is always ill-luck, or the cruelty of God, or anything in short save the legitimate result of their own vices.

Gervaise now quarrelled with her husband incessantly. The warmth of affection of husband and wife, of parents for their children, and children for their parents had fled, and left them all shivering, each apart from the other.

All three. Coupeau, Gervaise and Nana watchcd each other with eyes ot bale fl hate. It seemed as it some spring had broken—the great main-spring that binds families together.

Gervaise did not shudder when she saw

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pity it was that her father had not been the man who was killed when that omnibus tipped over!

In addition to her own sorrows and hrivations, Gervaise, whose heart was not yet altogether hard, was condemned to dear now the sufferings of others. The corner of the house in which she lived seemed to be consecrated to those who were as poor as herself. No smell of cooking filled the air, which, on the contrary. was laden with the shrill cries of hungry children—heavy with the sighs of weary, heart-broken mothers, and with the oaths of drunken husbands and fathers.

Gervaise pitied Father Bru from the bottom of her heart he lay the greater part of the time rolled up in the straw in his den under the staircase leading to the roof. When two or three days elapsed without his showing himself, some one opened the door and looked in. to see if he were still alive.

Yes, he was living that is, he was not dead. When Gervaise had bread she always remembered him. If she had learned to hate men because of her husband, her heart was still tender toward animals, and Father Bru seemed like one to her. She regarded him as a faithful old dog. Her heart was heavy within her, whenever she thought of him, alone —abandoned by God and man—dying by inches—or drying rather, as an orange dries on the chimney piece.

Gervaise was also troubled by the vicinity of the undertaker Bazonge—a wooden partition alone separated their rooms. When he came in at night she could hear him throw dtfwn his glazed hat, which fell, with a dull thud like a shovelful of clay, on the table. The bkek cloak hung against the wall rustled like the wings oif some huge bird of prey. She could hear his every movement, and she spent most of her time listening to him with morbid horror, while he—ail unconscious—hummed his vulgar songs and tipsily staggered to his bed, under which the poor woman's sick fancy pictured a dead body concealed.

She had read in some paper a dismal tale of some undertaker who took home with him coffin ater coffin—children's coffins—in oi der to make one trip to the cemetery suffice. When she heard his step, the whole corridor was pervaded to her senses with the odor of dead humanity.

She would as lief have resided at Pere La Chaise and watched the moles at their work. The man terrified her hi6 incessant laughter terrified her. She talked ef moving, but at the same time was reluctant to do so, for there was a strange fascination about Bazonge after all. Had he not told her once that he would come for her and lay her down to sleep in the. shadow of waving branches, where she would know neither hunger nor tail?

She wished she could try it for a month. And she thounht how delicious it would be in midwinter, just at the time her quarter's rent was due. But alas! ihis was not possible. The rest and thd sleep must be Eternal: this1 thought chilled her, and her longing for death laded away before the unrelenting severity of the bonds exacted by Mother Earth.

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night she was sick and feverish,

and instead of throwing herself out of the window as she was tempted to do, she rapped on the partition and called loudly— v? "Father Bazonge! Fath'er B^orige!'*

The undertaker was kicking off his slippers, singing a vulgar song as he did so. 'What is the matter?" he answered.

But at his voice Gervaise awoke as from a nightmare. What had she done? Had she really tapped? she asked herself, and she "recoiled from

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the wall in chill horror. It seemed to her that she felt the undertaker's hands on her head. No! No! She was not ready. She told herself that she had not intended call him. It was her elbow that had knocked the wall accidently. and she shivered from head to foot at the idea of being carried away in this man's arms. "What is the matter"' repeated Bazonge. "Can I serve you in any way. Madame?" *v "No! No! It is nothing, answered the laundress, in a choked voice. "I am very much obliged."

While the undertaker slept.' she lay wide awake, holding her breath and not daring to move lest he should think she called him again.

She said to herself that under no circumstances would she ever appeal to him for assistance, and she said this over and over again, with the vain hope of reassuring nerseif, f@r she was by no means at ease in her mind.

Gervaise had before her a noble example of courage and fortitude in the Bijard family. Little Lalie, that tiny child, about as big as a pinch of saltswept and kept her room like wax she watched over the two younger children, with all the care and patience of a mother. This she had done since her father had kicked her mother to dea*h. She had entirely assumed that mother's place even to receiving the blows which had fallen formerly on that poor woman. It seemed to be "a necessity of his nature that when he came home drunk he must have some women, to abuse. Lalie was too small he grumbled one blow of his fist covered her whole face, and her skin was so delicate that the marks of his five fingers would remain on her cheek for days!

He would fly at her like a wolf at a poor little kitten, for the mere«t trifle. Lolie never answered, never rebelled and never complained. She merely tried to shield her face, and suppressed all shrieks, lest the neighbors should come her pride could not endure that. When her father was tired kicking her about the room, she lay where h? left her, until

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lying drunk in the gutter. She yrould not have pushes him in, to be &ure' but if he were out of the way it would fre a good thing for everybody. She even went so far as to say one day, in a fit of rage, that she should be glad to see him brought home on a shutter. Of what good was he to any human being? He ate, and he drank, and he slept. His child ^earned Jto hate him, and she read the accidents in the papers with the feelings ot an unnatural daughter. What a

had strength to rise, and then she went steadily about her work, washing the children and making her soup, sweeping and dusting, until every thing was clean. It was a part of her plan of life to be beaten every day.

Geryaise had conceived a strong affection for this little neighbor. She treated her like a woman who knew some hing of life. It must be admitted that Lalie was large for her years. She was fair and pale, with solemn eyes and delicate mouth. To have heard her talk, one would have thought her thirty. She could make and mend, and she talked of the children as if she had herself brought them into the world. She made people augh sometimes vsrhen .fhe talked, but

more often she brought tears to their eyes. Gervaise did everything she could for her gave her what she could, and helped the energetic little soul with her work One day she was altering a dress of Nana's for her, and when the child tried it on, Gervaise was chilled with horror at seeing her whole back purple and bruised —the tiny arm bleeding—all the innocent flesh of children maityrized by the brute—her father.

Bazonge might get the coffin ready,she thought, for the little girl could not. bear this long. But Lalie entreated her friend to say nothing, telling her that her father did not know what he was doing that he had been drinking. She forgave him with her whole heart—foi madmen must not be held accountable for their deeds. After that, Gervaise was on the ".vatch whenever she heard Bijard coming up the stairs. But she never caught him in any act of absolute brutality. Sevaral timer she had found Lalie tied to the foot of the bedstead—an idea that had entered her father's brain, no one knew why—a whim of his disordered brain—disordered b_y liquor—which probably arose from his wish to tyrannize over the child, even when he was no longer there.

Lalie sometimes was lelt there all day, and once all night. When Gervaise insisted on untying her, the child entreated her not to touch the knots, saying that her father would be furious if he found the knots had been tampered with. "And really," she said, with an angelic smile, "she needed rest and the only thing that troubled her was not to be able to put the room in order. She could watch the children iust as well— and she could think—so that her time was not entirely lost." When her father let her free, her sufferings were not over, for it was sometimes more than an hour before she could stand—before the blood circulated freely in her stiffened limbs.

Her father had invented another cheerful game. He heated some sons red-hot on the stove, and laid them on the chim-ney-peice. He then summoned Lalie and bade her go buy some bread. The child unsuspiciously took up the sous, uttered a little shriek, and dropped them, shaking her poor burned fingers'

Then he would go off in a rage. What did she mean by such nonsense? She had thrown away the money and lost it, and he threatened her with a hiding if she did not find the money instantly. When the poor child hesitated, he gave her a cuff on the side of her head. With silent tears streaming down her ckeeks, she would pick up the sous and toss them from hand to hand to cool them, as she went down the long flights of stairs.

There was no limit io the strange ingenuity of this man. One afternoon, for example, Lalie having completed her day's labors, was kneeling and praying with the chilpren. The window was open, and the air shook the door so- that it sounded like gentle raps. "It is Mr. Wind," said Lalie "come in, Mr. Wind—how you to-day?"

And she made a low courtesy to Mr. Wind. Thechildaen did the same in high glee, and she was quite radiant with happiness, which was not often the caae. "Come in, Mr. Wind!" she repeated but the door was pushed open by a rough band, and Bijard entered. Then a sudden change came over the scene. The two children crouched in as cornor while Lalie stood in the center of the floor frozen stiff with terror, for Bijard held in his hand a new whip, with a long and wicked-looking lash. He laid this whip on the bed, and did not kick either one of the children,-but smiled in the most vicious way, showing his two lines of blackened, irregular teeth. He wp-5 very drunk and veiy noisy. "Woatisthe matter with you fools? Have you been struck dumb? I Heard you all talking and laughing merrily "enough before I came in. Where are your tongues now? Here! Take off my shoes!"

Lalie. considerably disheartened at not having received her customary kick, turned very pate a6 she obeyed. He was sitting on the side of the bed. He lay down without undressigg, and watched the child a* she moved about the room. Troub,ed by this strange conduct, the child euded by breaking a cup.' Then without disturbing himself1 he took up the whip and showed it to her. "Look here, fool," he said, grimly: "I bought this for you, and it cost me fifty sous but I expect to get a good deal more than fifty sous' worth of good out of it. With this long lash I need not run about after you, for 1 can reach you in exery cornor of the room. You will break the cups, sou will? Come, now jump about a little, and say goodmorning to Mr. Wind again!"

He did not even sit up in the bed, but with his head buried in the pillow, snapped the whip with a noise like that made by a pistilion. The lash curled round Lalie's slender body—she fell on the floor cut he lashed her again and compelled her to rise. "This is a very good thing," be said, cooly, "and saves my getting chilled on cold mornings. Yes, I can reach you in that corncr—and in that! Sk:p, now! Skipf

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A light foam was on his lips, and his sufiusedeyes were starting from their sockets. Poor little Lalie darted about the room like a terrified bird, but the lash tingled over her shouldiers, coiled ronnd 'ner slender legs, and and stung like a viper. She was like an India rubber ball boundine from the floor, while her beast ol a father laughed aloud and asked her if she had had enough.

The d.ior opened, and Gervaise entered. She had heard the noice. She stood aghast at the scene, and then was seized with noble rage. "Let her be!"' she cried. "I will go myself and summon the police."

Bijard growied like an animal who is disturbed over his prey. •'Why do you meddle?" he exclnimed.

What'business is it of yours?" And with another adroit movement he cut Lalie across the face. The blood gushed from her lip. Gervaise snatched a chair and flew at the brute, but the little girl held her skirts and said it did not hurt much, it would be over soon, and she washed the blood away, speaking gently to the frightened children

When Gervaise thought ot Lalie she was ashamed to complain. She wished she had the courage of this child. She knew that she had lived on dry bread for weeks, and that she was so weak that she could hardly stand, and the tears came to

the woman's eyes as she saw the precocious mite, who had known nothing of the innocent happiness of her years. And Gervaise took this slender creature for example, whose eyes alone told the 6tory of her misery and hardships, for in tlie Coupeau family, the vitriol of the

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somuir was also doing its work of destruction. Gervaise had seen a whip. Gervaise had learned to dread it, and tht6 dread inspired her with tenderest pity for Lalie. Coupeau had lost the fle*h and the bloated look which had been his and he nas thin an^ emaciated. His coraplex'on was gradually acquiring a leaden hue. His appetite was utterly gone. It was with difficulty that he swallowed a mouthful of bread. His stomach turned against all solid food, but he took hfe brandy every day. This was his meat as well as his drink, and he touched nothing else.

When he crawled out of his bed in the morning he stood for a good fifteen minrtes, coughing and spitting out a bitter liquid that rose in his throat and choked him.

He did not feel any better until he had taken what he called "a good drink," and later in the day his strength returned. He felt strange prickings in the skin of his hands and feet. But lately his limbs had grown heavy* This pricking sensation gave place to the most excruciating cramps, which he did not find very amusing. Hd rarely laughed now, but often stopped short and stood still on the sidewalk, troubled by a strange buzzing in his ears, and by flashes of light before his eyes. Everything looked, yellow to him the houses seemed to be moving away from him. Ai other times when the sun was full on his bacK, he shivered as if a stream of ice-water had been poured down between hi9 shoulders. But the thing he liked the least about htmself, was a nervous trembling in his hands, the right hand especially. "Had he become an old woman, then?" he asked himself, with sudden fury. He tried with all his strength to lift his glass and command his nerves enough to hold it steady. But the glass had a regular tremulous movement from right to left, and left to right again, in SDite of all his efforts.

Then he emptied it down his throat, saying that when he had swallowed a dozen tn6re. he should be all right and as steady as a monument. Gervaise told him On the contrary that he must leave off drinking, if he wished to leave off trembling.

He grew very angty, and drank quarts in his eagernecs to test the question, finally declaring that it was the passing o:nnibuses that jarred the house and shook his hand.

In March Cotipeau came in one night drenched to the skin. He had been caught out in a shower.' That night he could not sleep for coughing. In themorning he had a high fever, and the physician whd Was sent for, advised Gervaise to senti him at once to the hospital.

And Gervaise made no objection1 Onc6 she had refused to trust her husband^to these people but now she consigned him to their tender mercies without a regret, in fact 6he sh ould regard it as a mercy.

Nevertheless, when the litter 'came, she turned very pale, and if she had had even ten francs in her pocket would have kept him at home. She walked to the hospital by the side of the litter, and went into the ward where he was placed. The room looked to her like a, miniature Pere La Chaise, with its rows of1 beds on either side, and its path down the jniddlc. She went slowly away, and in the 6treet she turned and'looked up. How well she remembered when Coupeau was at work on those gutters, cheerily singing in t^e morning air! He did not drink in those days, and she, at her window in the Hotel Boncceur, had watched his athletic form against the sky, and both had waved their handkerchief. Yes, Coupeau had

vV

worked more than a year

on this" hospital, little thinking that he was preparing a place for himself. Now he was no longer on the roof —he had built a dismal nest within. Good God! was she, and the once happy wife and mother, one and the same HoW long ago those days seemed

The next day when Gervaise went to make inquiries, she found the bed empty. A Sister explained that her husband had been taken to the asylum of SainteAnne, becanse the night before he had suddenly become unmanageable from delirium, and had uttered such terrible howls that it disturbed the inmates of all the beds in that ward. It was the alcohol in his system, she said, which attacked his nerves now, when he was so reduced by the inflammation on his lungs that he could not resist it.

The clear-starcher went home, but how or by what route she never knew. Her husband was mad—-she heard these words reverberating through her brain. Life was growing very strange, Nana simply said that he must, of course, be left at tbe asylum, tor he might murder them both.

On Sunday only could Gervaise go to Sainte-Anne. It was a long distance off. Fortunately their was an omnibus which went very near. She got out at La Rue Sante, and bought two oranges that she might no go quite empty-handed.

But when she went in, to her astonish--ment she found Coupeau sitting up. He welcomed her gaylv. "You are betterr' she exclaimed. "Yes, nearly well," he replied and

they

talked to-gether a while, and she gave him the oranges, which pleased and touched him, for he was a different man, now that he drank tisane, instead of liquor. She did not dare allude to his delirium, but he spoke of it himself. "Yes," he said, "I was in a pretly state! I saw rats running all over the floor and the walls, and you were calling and I saw all sorts of horrible things! But I am all right now. Once in a while I have a bad dream, but everybody does, I suppose."

Gervise remained with him until night. When the house surgeon made his round at six o'clock, he told him to hold out his bands. They scarcely trembled—an almost inperceptible motion of the tips of his fingers was all. But as the room grew darker, Coupeau became restless. Two or three times he sat up and peered into the remote corners.

Suddenly he |stretched out his arm, and seemed to crush some creature on the wall.

4

What is it?" asked Gervaise terribly frightened.

CORtlnaed on Third Page.