Free The Drinking Den by Émile Zola Page A

not my fault he’s left you. I don’t suppose you think I stole him. Do you want to frisk me now? If you really want to know, he was pissed off with you, poor man. He was too good for you… I hope he was wearing his collar at least? Anyone found this lady’s husband? There’s a reward out–’
    There was another burst of laughter. Gervaise simply muttered, almost in a whisper: ‘You know very well, you know very well… It was that sister of yours, I’ll strangle her –’
    â€˜Yes, you take it up with my sister,’ Virginie said, sneering. ‘So, it’s my sister, is it? Well, it could be: she’s got a damn sight more style than you… But what business is it of mine? Can’t one do one’swashing in peace around here nowadays? Leave me alone, you hear, I’ve had enough of this.’
    But she was the one who started up again, after five or six thumps with the beetle, carried away, intoxicated with insults, stopping and starting three times:
    â€˜Well, if you really want to know, yes, it was my sister. Now are you happy? They’re crazy about one another. You should see them necking and spooning. So he’s left you with your bastards! A pretty pair of kids, with scabs all over their faces. One belongs to a
gendarme
, doesn’t it? And you killed off three others, because you didn’t want to be overloaded when you came up to Paris… Your Lantier told us all about it. Oh, he’s got some fine stories; he’s sick to death of your old carcass.’
    â€˜Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!’ Gervaise screamed, beside herself, trembling wildly.
    She turned round, looking on the ground again and, only finding the small tub, grabbed it by its stand and hurled the blueing water into Virginie’s face.
    â€˜The doxy! She’s done for my dress!’ the other girl yelled. The whole of one shoulder was wet and her left hand dyed blue. ‘Just wait, you whore!’
    In her turn, she caught hold of a bucket and emptied it over the young woman. At this, a mighty battle began. The pair of them ran the length of the tubs, grabbing full buckets and coming back to throw them at each other. Each deluge was accompanied by an outburst of insults; even Gervaise was answering back now.
    â€˜There, you scum! That one got you all right. Perhaps it will cool your arse.’
    â€˜Oh, the old sow! Take that for your filth, to clean you up for once in your life.’
    â€˜Yes? I’ll teach you a thing or two, you stinking fish.’
    â€˜There’s another! Wash your mouth out and get ready for your evening’s wait on the corner of the Rue Belhomme.’ 9
    In the end, they were filling the buckets at the taps and, while waiting for them to fill up, carried on hurling insults at one another. The first buckets had been badly aimed and hardly touched them; but now theywere getting their eye in. Virginie was the first to have a bucket load full in the face. The water got past the neck of her dress and ran down her back and across her breasts, pouring underneath her clothes. She was still recovering when a second bucketful came in from the side, slapping hard against her left ear and soaking her bun, which unwound like a piece of string. Gervaise was hit first on the legs. A bucket of water filled her shoes, splashing up as far as her thighs, while two more drenched her hips. In any case, it soon became impossible to judge the effect of the shots. Both women were streaming with water from head to foot, their bodices clinging to their shoulders and skirts stuck to their haunches, made thinner and stiffer, shivering and streaming with water in all directions like umbrellas in a downpour.
    â€˜What a right spectacle they are!’ said the gruff voice of one onlooker.
    The whole wash-house was being entertained. The spectators had moved back, to avoid the splashes. Applause and jokes ran round the throng, in the midst of the swishing