The Drinking Den (60 page)

The junior doctor took a jar of lemonade from a low shelf and gave
it to him. He grasped the jar in both hands and greedily drew in a mouthful, spilling half the liquid on himself. But he at once spat out the mouthful in disgust and anger, yelling:

‘In God's name! It's brandy!'

So the young man, at a sign from the older doctor, tried to make Coupeau drink some water without letting go of the jar. This time, he swallowed a mouthful, screaming as though he had swallowed fire.

‘It's brandy! In God's name! It's brandy!'

Since the previous day, everything that he'd drunk had been brandy. This made his thirst twice as bad and he could drink nothing, because everything burned him. They had brought him soup, but they were surely trying to poison him because it smelled of spirits. The bread was sour and stale. Everything around him was poison. The cell stank of sulphur. He even accused people of striking matches under his nose to poison the air.

The doctor had just got up and was listening to Coupeau, who could now see ghosts again in the middle of the day. He thought he could see spiders' webs on the walls as big as ships' sails. Then the sails became nets with meshes that got wider and smaller – a most peculiar toy! Black balls drifted through the meshes, jugglers' balls, now the size of marbles, then as big as cannon-balls; they would expand or shrink, just to annoy him. Suddenly, he shouted out:

‘Oh! The rats! We've got the rats now!'

The balls were turning into rats. The filthy beasts swelled up and came through the net, then jumped on the mattress, where they faded away. There was also a monkey, which came out of the wall, then went back into the wall, each time coming so close to him that he shrank back, afraid that it would bite off his nose. Then, without warning, it changed again. The walls must have been jumping around, because he kept saying, in a voice choked with terror and fury:

‘That's it, then! Shake me, I don't care! Oh, my! The room! Oh, my! It's coming down! Yes, sound the bells, you flock of crows! Play the organ to stop me calling out the guard! They've put a machine behind the walls, these louts! I can hear it, it's humming, they're going to blow us up! Fire, fire! Help, fire! Someone's shouting: “fire!” Look, it's burning! Oh, it's getting lighter, it's getting lighter! The whole sky
is burning, with red flames, green flames, yellow flames! Help me! Help! Fire!'

His yells trailed off into a croak. Now he was simply mouthing disconnected words, foaming at the mouth, his chin dripping with saliva. The doctor rubbed his nose with a finger, a gesture that must have been a habit when confronted with a serious case. He turned to the junior doctor and asked in an undertone:

‘And his temperature: still forty degrees, is it?'

‘Yes, Monsieur.'

The doctor pulled a face. He stayed there for another minute or two, staring at Coupeau. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said:

‘The same treatment: broth, milk, lemonade, weak extract of cinchona as medicine. Don't leave him, and call for me.'

He went out. Gervaise followed him, to ask if there was not some hope. But he strode so briskly down the corridor that she did not dare stop him. She stayed there, standing, for a while, unwilling to go back and look at her man. She felt that she had already been through a rough enough time; she could still hear him, shouting that the lemonade smelled of brandy. Good Lord! She had had enough with one performance. In the streets, the galloping of the horses and the noise of the carriages made her think that Sainte-Anne was following at her heels. And that doctor who threatened her: she felt as though she already had the illness.

Of course, the Boches and the others were waiting for her in the Rue de la Goutte-d'Or. As soon as she appeared in the doorway, they called her into the lodge. Well, was old Coupeau still hanging on? My God, yes, he was still hanging on. Boche seemed amazed and disturbed, because he had bet a bottle of wine that Coupeau wouldn't last until nightfall. What! He was still going on! And everyone was amazed, slapping their thighs. He was a tough old bugger! Mme Lorilleux worked it out: thirty-six hours, plus twenty-four, made sixty hours. Sweet Jesus! That was sixty hours now that he'd been dancing and yelling! Nothing like it had ever been seen. But Boche, wearing a sour expression because of his bottle of wine, interrogated Gervaise suspiciously, asking if she was quite sure that he hadn't snuffed it while her back was turned. Oh, no, he was leaping around, without wanting
to. So Boche, insisting, asked her to show them again what he was doing, just so they could see. Yes, yes, give us a bit more! General request! The company said it would be really good of her, because two neighbours happened to have come in who hadn't seen it yesterday and had come down especially for the performance. The concierge called out to everyone to stand back and they cleared the centre of the floor, elbowing each other in a tremor of anticipation. But Gervaise hung her head. Actually, she was afraid of making herself ill. However, so they wouldn't think she was just being coy, she gave a little jump or two; but she started to feel odd and fell back. Honestly, she couldn't do it. A murmur of disappointment ran around the room: what a pity, she did it really well; but, if she couldn't… And, since Virginie had gone back to her shop, they forgot old Coupeau to talk eagerly about the Poissons, which was a real bear garden nowadays. The previous day, the bailiffs had come, the constable was going to lose his job; and as for Lantier, he was hanging around the daughter of the people from the restaurant next door, a splendid woman, who was talking about setting up a tripe shop. Ha! What a joke: they could already imagine a tripe shop there: after the sweets, the main course. That cuckold Poisson looked a real idiot in all this: how on earth could a man whose job was to keep his eyes open to what was going on be such an oaf in his own home? But they suddenly fell quiet on seeing Gervaise: no one had been paying attention to her, and she was rehearsing all alone at the back of the room, trembling from head to foot, doing Coupeau. Bravo! That was it, they couldn't ask for more. She stood there, bemused, looking as though she had just awoken from a dream. Then she quickly went out. Good-night, everybody! She was going upstairs to try and get some sleep.

The next day, the Boches saw her leave at midday, as on the two previous days. They wished her a pleasant visit. That day, in Sainte-Anne, the corridor was trembling with Coupeau's bellowing and stamping. She still had her hand on the banisters when she heard him scream:

‘Now it's the bugs! Come back here a bit, and I'll fillet you! Ah, they're trying to gobble me up! Ah, the bugs! I'm smarter than you are, all of you! Be off with you, in God's name!'

For a moment, she stood at the door, getting her breath back. Was he fighting a whole army, now? When she went in, what she found was bigger and better than ever: Coupeau was a raging lunatic, a refugee from Charenton.
²
He was marching around in the middle of the cell, punching his hands in every direction, against himself, against the walls, on the ground, falling over, boxing the air. He wanted to open the window, then he hid himself, protested, called out and answered himself, all alone as he performed this hellish ritual with the exasperated manner of a man tormented by nightmarish hordes. Then Gervaise realized that he was imagining himself on a roof, laying zinc plates. He was blowing through his lips, stirring irons in a brazier and going down on his knees to run his thumb along the edges of the matting, with the idea that he was soldering it. Yes, his profession was coming back to him, at the point of death; he was shouting so loudly and grasping the roof so hard, it was because some louts were preventing him from doing his work correctly. There were scoundrels on all the roofs around and about, jeering at him. What's more, the devils were sending hordes of rats to run around his legs. Ugh, the filthy creatures, he could still see them! Even though he was crushing them, rubbing his foot against the ground with all his strength, fresh swarms of them kept coming, the roof was black with them. And weren't there spiders, too? He tightened his trousers roughly against his thigh to crush the big spiders that had crawled up there. Thunder and lightning! He would never finish his day's work, they were trying to ruin him, his boss would send him to Mazas.
³
So, working as fast as possible, he thought he had a steam-engine in his belly; with his mouth wide open, he was blowing out smoke, a thick smoke that filled the cell and poured out of the window. And, leaning out, still blowing, he looked out at the stream of smoke drifting out, rising into the sky, obscuring the sun.

‘Hey!' he cried. ‘It's the gang from the Chaussée Clignancourt, disguised as bears, dancing a jig.'

He stayed crouched in front of the window, as though following a procession down a street from the top of a roof.

‘Here's the cavalcade, lions and panthers, snarling… There are children dressed up as dogs and cats… And there's tall Clémence with her hair full of feathers. Oh, by golly! She's rolling over, she's
showing everything she's got. I say, sweetie, we'd better be off. Hey, you lousy cops, don't take her away. Don't shoot, damn it, don't shoot!'

His voice got higher; it was hoarse and terrified. He ducked down quickly, repeating that the cops and soldiers were downstairs – men aiming at him with rifles. He saw the barrel of a pistol coming out of the wall, aimed at his chest. They were coming to take back the girl.

‘Don't shoot, in God's name, don't shoot!'

Then the houses crumbled and he made the noise of a whole neighbourhood crashing down. Everything vanished, everything was whisked away. But he had no time to draw breath, because other pictures came by, with astonishing rapidity. A desperate need to speak filled his mouth with words that he poured out in no particular order, with a bubbling in his throat. His voice kept on rising.

‘Well, if it isn't you! Hallo! Don't mess around! Stop making me eat your hair!'

And he put a hand in front of his face, blowing to get rid of some hairs. The doctor asked:

‘What can you see?'

‘My wife, by golly!'

He was staring at the wall, with his back to Gervaise.

This gave her a nasty feeling and she too stared at the wall in case she could see herself. He carried on talking.

‘Now then, don't try to bamboozle me! I don't like to be tied down. Strewth! You look lovely; that's a pretty dress. Where did you get it, you cow? You've been walking the streets, haven't you? Just wait until I get my hands on you! Huh? You're hiding your fancy man behind your skirts. What's that? Curtsy, so that we can see. Jesus! It's him again!'

With a fearful leap he tried to ram his head against the wall, but the padding softened the blow. All that one could hear was his body hitting the matting, where he had been thrown by the shock.

‘So, what can you see?' the junior doctor asked.

‘The hatter, the hatter!' Coupeau screamed.

The doctor questioned Gervaise, but she stammered without being able to reply, because this scene brought back all the troubles she had suffered in her life. The roofer had his fists raised.

‘It's between us, now, my lad! I've got to do for you, at last! Oh, you come along, just like that, with this hag on your arm and make a fool of me in public. Well, I'm going to strangulate you now, yes, yes, I am, and without gloves on, either! No need to strut around. Take that! And that! And that! And that!'

He was punching the air. And then a fury seized him. Bumping against the wall as he stepped back, he thought that he was being attacked from behind. He swung round and threw himself at the padding. He leaped around, jumping from one corner to another, hitting with his stomach, his bottom and his shoulder, rolling, getting back on his feet. His bones were softening, his body gave off a sound like wet tow. And he accompanied this fine display with frightful threats and savage, guttural cries. However, it looked as though the battle was not going well for him, because his breathing was becoming shallow and his eyes were bulging from their sockets. And bit by bit he seemed to be overcome by a childish feeling of cowardice.

‘Murder! Murder! Be off with the both of you! Oh, the scoundrels, they're laughing! The bitch, there she is with her arms and legs in the air! She's got to go, that's certain! Oh, the bandit, he's killing her! He's cutting off one of her pegs with his knife! The other one's on the ground, her belly's slit, buckets of blood! Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!'

Bathed in sweat, his hair standing on his head, giving him a fearful appearance, he backed away, furiously waving his arms as though to drive away the dreadful scene. Then he gave two pitiful cries as he got his heels caught in the mattress and fell backwards on to it.

‘Monsieur, Monsieur, he's dead!' Gervaise exclaimed, clasping her hands.

The junior doctor had gone over to Coupeau and was pulling him on to the middle of the mattress. No, he wasn't dead. They took off his shoes and his naked feet stuck out at the end, dancing all alone, from one side to the other, rhythmically, in a regular, hurried little dance.

At this point, the other doctor came in. He brought two colleagues, one thin, the other fat, both wearing decorations, as was he. The three of them leaned over, saying nothing, examining the man all over. Then,
hastily, in an undertone, they talked. They had uncovered Coupeau from his legs to his shoulders and, as Gervaise got up, she saw this naked torso displayed in front of her. Well, now the cycle was complete: the trembling had gone down from the arms and up from the legs; now the trunk too was joining in the fun! The puppet was quite clearly having a belly-laugh. There were tickles along the ribs and a heaving of the belly, which seemed to be dying with laughter. Everything was in movement: the muscles going this way and that, the skin shuddering like a drum and the hairs nodding to one another as they waltzed. In short it must be the ‘rout', as they call the final gallop at a ball, when day is breaking and all the dancers hold hands and beat time with their feet.