Domestic fiction; Married women -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Fiction; Working class women -- Fiction
Gervaise kept her word. She sank lower and lower; she missed going to
her work oftener, spent whole days in gossiping, and became as soft as
a rag whenever she had a task to perform. If a thing fell from her
hands, it might remain on the floor; it was certainly not she who would
have stooped to pick it up. She took her ease about everything, and
never handled a broom except when the accumulation of filth almost
brought her to the ground. The Lorilleuxs now made a point of holding
something to their noses whenever they passed her room; the stench was
poisonous, said they. Those hypocrites slyly lived at the end of the
passage, out of the way of all these miseries which filled the corner
of the house with whimpering, locking themselves in so as not to have
to lend twenty sou pieces. Oh! kind-hearted folks, neighbors awfully
obliging! Yes, you may be sure! One had only to knock and ask for a
light or a pinch of salt or a jug of water, one was certain of getting
the door banged in one’s face. With all that they had vipers’ tongues.
They protested everywhere that they never occupied themselves with
other people. This was true whenever it was a question of assisting a
neighbor; but they did so from morning to night, directly they had a
chance of pulling any one to pieces. With the door bolted and a rug
hung up to cover the chinks and the key-hole, they would treat
themselves to a spiteful gossip without leaving their gold wire for a
moment.
The fall of Clump-clump in particular kept them purring like pet cats.
Completely ruined! Not a sou remaining. They smiled gleefully at the
small piece of bread she would bring back when she went shopping and
kept count of the days when she had nothing at all to eat. And the
clothes she wore now. Disgusting rags! That’s what happened when one
tried to live high.
Gervaise, who had an idea of the way in which they spoke of her, would
take her shoes off, and place her ear against their door; but the rug
over the door prevented her from hearing much. She was heartily sick of
them; she continued to speak to them, to avoid remarks, though
expecting nothing but unpleasantness from such nasty persons, but no
longer having strength even to give them as much as they gave her,
passed the insults off as a lot of nonsense. And besides she only
wanted her own pleasure, to sit in a heap twirling her thumbs, and only
moving when it was a question of amusing herself, nothing more.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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