The Drinking Den by Émile Zola Page A

in the end one would like to die in one’s bed. After slaving away all my life, it would be nice to die in my bed, at home.’
    She got up. Coupeau, who had nodded in approval at each of her wishes, was already on his feet, anxious about the time. But they did not leave immediately; she was curious to have a look at the back ofthe room behind an oak paling, where the huge red copper still worked away under the clear-glass roof of the little yard; and Coupeau, who had followed her, explained how it worked, pointing out the different parts of the apparatus and showing her the huge retort with the clear trickle of pure spirit running out of it. There was something forbidding about the still, with its peculiarly shaped containers and its endless twisting pipes: it emitted no smoke; but there was a barely audible breath somewhere inside it, a subterranean purring. The whole thing was like some dark work being carried out in broad daylight by an operator who was powerful, but dumb and speechless. Meanwhile, Mes-Bottes had arrived with his two friends and they were leaning on the barrier, waiting for a place at the bar. He gave a laugh like a rusty chain going over a pulley and shook his head, with a loving glance at the liquor factory. God-damn it! What a darling she was! There was enough in that great copper belly to keep one’s throat oiled for a week. He wished they would just solder the end of the tube to his teeth so that he could feel the vitriol while it was still warm, filling him up, flowing right down to his heels, on and on, like a little river. Damn it! He wouldn’t mind, it would be better than the thimblefuls they got from that skinflint Old Colombe! At which his friends giggled and said that that guy Mes-Bottes had the gift of the gab, no doubt about it. The still, with barely a sound, without a flame or any flash of jollity to liven the dull sheen of the copper, continued to drip out its sweat of liquor, like a slow, stubborn spring, destined in the long run to pour out into the whole room, to spread across the outer boulevards, to flood the vast pit of Paris. Gervaise shuddered and stepped back, but tried to smile as she said: ‘It’s silly, I know, but it gives me the shudders, that machine… Drink gives me the shudders…’
    Then, coming back to her pet idea of perfect happiness, she said: ‘Don’t you agree? It would be much better just to work, eat one’s fill, have a place of one’s own, bring up your children and die in your bed…’
    â€˜And not be beaten,’ Coupeau added, teasing her. ‘But I wouldn’t hit you, Madame Gervaise, if you would agree… There’s no danger of that: I don’t drink, and anyway I’m too fond of you… How about it this evening? We’ll keep each other’s tootsies warm.’
    He had lowered his voice and was speaking to the back of her neck, while she made her way through the throng, holding her basket in front of her. But she shook her head again, several times. However, she did turn round and smile at him, seeming pleased to learn that he did not drink. Of course, she would have said yes to him, if she had not promised herself that she wouldn’t live with any man again. At length they got to the door and went out. Behind them, the drinking den was still packed, breathing out into the street the sound of voices made hoarse by drink and the strong, sweet smell of liquor. Mes-Bottes could be heard calling Old Colombe a swindler, saying that his glass had been only half filled. He, Mes-Bottes, was a good sort, a fine fellow, not afraid of anyone. Oh, hell, the boss could take a jump, he wasn’t going back to that lousy place, he was sick of it. And he suggested to his two friends that they go round to the Petit Bonhomme qui Tousse, a bar over by the Barrière Saint-Denis, where they served the stuff neat.
    â€˜We can breathe at last!’ Gervaise exclaimed when they were