The young marquis grew red in the face; he remained an instant motionless; then, bending down his head, he gave the girl a prolonged kiss on her lips. MAMMA COUPEAU'S FUNERAL. BY ÉMILE ZOLA. (From "L'Assommoir.") [ÉMILE ZOLA, French novelist, was born in Paris, April 2, 1840. He has written, besides many others: "Tales to Ninon " (1864); "Claude's Confession " (1865); "A Dead Woman's Vow,' “My Hatreds,” and “My Salon" (1866); The Mysteries of Marseilles," "Edouard Manet," and "Thérèse Raquin " (1867); "Madeleine Férat" (1868); "The Fortune of the Rougons" (1871); "La Curée" (1872); "The Maw of Paris" (1873); "The Conquest of Plossans" and "New Tales to Ninon" (1874); "The Sin of Abbé Mouret " (1875); "His Excellency Eugéne Rougon" (1876); "L'Assommoir" (1877); "A Page of Love" (1878); "Nana" (1880); "Germinal " (1885); " Earth" (1887); "The Dream" (1888); "The Human Brute" (1890); "Money" (1891); “The Downfall" (1892); "Dr. Pascal" (1893); "Lourdes" (1894); "Rome" (1895); and “Paris” (1897).] 66 JANUARY ushered in damp and cold weather. Mamma Coupeau, who coughed and choked during the whole of December, had to stick to her bed. It was her luck every winter, and she expected it. But this time it was prophesied that she would never leave the room again unless her legs went first. She had a fearful rattle in her throat. Her efforts to prevent strangulation terribly shook her large, fat body. One eye was blind, and the muscles of that side of her face were twisted and distorted by paralysis. Certainly, her relatives would not have hastened her end; nevertheless, she hung on so long, and was so cumbersome, that her death would be a relief to every one. She herself would be much happier, because she had worked her time out, and when we have done that, there is no longer room for us in the world. The doctor, having called once, did not return. She was given tisane simply that she might not feel herself altogether abandoned. Every few hours visitors called to see if she was still alive. She looked at them staringly with her remaining good, clear eye, which told, though suffocation rendered her speechless, of many regrets while recalling her youth, of sadness to see her own so anxious to be rid of her, and of rage against that vicious Nana, who disturbed her by leaving her bed at nights to peep through the window of the closet door. On Monday evening, Coupeau returned home drunk. Since his mother's life had been in danger, he had lived in a state of continual excitement. Nana, who slept with Mamma Coupeau, showed great bravery that night, saying that if her grandmother died, she would notify the household. The old woman appeared to slumber peacefully, and Gervaise, tired out with watching, concluded to retire to rest. Toward three o'clock, she jumped quickly from her bed, shivering, and in terrible anxiety. A cold sweat covered her body. Hastily arranging her skirts in the darkness, and knocking several times against the furniture, she succeeded in reaching the closet, and lighting a little lamp. The deep silence of the night was only broken by the snoring of the tinsmith. Nana, lying upon her back, was breathing gently. Grotesque shadows danced about the room as Gervaise lowered the lamp, and its dim light fell full upon Mamma Coupeau's face. It was very white; her head hung over one shoulder, and her eyes were open and glassy. The old woman was dead. Softly, without uttering a cry, the laundress went to Lantier's room, and shaking him, muttered: "I say, it's all over. She's dead." Awakened out of a heavy sleep, Lantier at first growled :“Give me a rest, go to bed. We can't do anything for her if she is dead." Then, raising himself upon an elbow, he asked: "What time is it?" "Three o'clock," answered Gervaise. "Only three!" he exclaimed. "Go to bed. You'll get sick. When it's daylight, we will see.” But, not listening to him, Gervaise retired to her room to dress herself completely, while Lantier, rolling under the covering, with his head to the wall, talked of women's obstinate natures. Was it a pressing matter to publish to the world that there was a corpse in the house?It exasperated him to be thus disturbed at such an hour in the morning, and have his mind filled with gloomy thoughts. Gervaise, seating herself in her room, began to sob. She really liked Mamma Coupeau, and experienced great grief in not having shown it, some time previously, when, through fear and weariness, she contemplated the old woman's exit at such a solemn and unpropitious hour. And she sobbed again, very loudly. Coupeau, who had not ceased to snore, heard nothing. She had called and shaken him, but, on reflection, decided to leave him alone, since, if he were awakened he would only be a fresh embarrassment. When Gervaise visited the body a second time, Nana was sitting up, rubbing her eyes. The little girl craned her neck to better see her grandma and said nothing. "Come, get up," said her mother, in a low tone of voice. "I don't want you to remain there." Gervaise was quite bothered to know where to put Nana until daybreak. She had concluded to dress the child, when Lantier, unable to sleep, and a little ashamed of his conduct, made his appearance in trousers and slippers. "Let her sleep in my bed," he muttered. plenty of room." "She will have Nana raised her large, clear eyes until they fell upon Lantier and her mother, and assumed the foolish look of a child sucking at a stick of candy. She needed no urging, for she skipped across to the room, with her bare feet scarcely touching the floor, and hurriedly enveloped herself in the bedclothes, which were still warm. Every time her mother entered she was to be seen awake and quiet, very flushed and apparently thinking of something. Lantier helped Gervaise dress Mamma Coupeau; and it was no small task, for the corpse had lost none of its weight. Nobody would ever have thought the old woman was so fat and fair. They put on her stockings, a white petticoat, a loose sack, a cap; in a word, her best clothes. Coupeau still snored, one note a basso profundo; the other, very dry, a sort of crescendo. Anybody would have said it was like the church music manufactured for the ceremony on a Good Friday. Lantier, to invigorate himself, took a glass of wine, for he felt quite out of sorts. Gervaise fumbled in her bureau, looking for a brass crucifix brought by her from Plassans, but she recollected that Mamma Coupeau must have sold it. Both of them passed the rest of the night on chairs, bored and sulky. Toward seven o'clock, before daylight, Coupeau finally awoke. When he heard of the affliction, he sat up tearless and yawning, half believing that they were playing him a joke. Convinced that his mother was really dead, he jumped from the bed and threw himself before the corpse, soaking the bedclothes with tears, and using them as pocket handkerchiefs. Gervaise began sobbing again, very much touched at the sight of Coupeau's sorrow. Yes, his heart was better than she had supposed. But the tinsmith's despair arose more than anything else from a headache, the result of the drunk, which still showed itself, notwithstanding his ten hours of sleep. He complained that his head would finish him! and now his heart was to be torn out on account of his poor mother he loved so much! No, it was not just that fate should make such a dead set at him! "Come, brace up, old man," said Lantier, raising Coupeau off the floor. "You must recover yourself." He poured out a glass of wine for him, but Coupeau refused to drink it, and cried out : "What's the matter with me? There's some lead in my head. It's mother, when I saw her. O! Mamma, Mamma, Mamma!" He began again crying like a child. He drank the glass of wine, however, to extinguish the fire that was burning his chest. Lantier soon left, under pretext of notifying the family, and to report the death at the Mayoralty. Besides, he needed the fresh morning air, which he enjoyed leisurely, smoking a cigarette. After leaving Madame Lerat's, Lantier entered a dairy at Batignolles, to sip a cup of warm coffee, and he remained there a full hour in meditation. About nine o'clock, the family assembled in the shop with closed shutters. Lorilleux did not cry, for he had urgent work, and after shuffling around a moment with a face solemnized for the occasion, he returned immediately to his rooms. Madame Lorilleux and Madame Lerat kissed the Coupeaus and wiped their eyes, which were trickling with tears. The former, giving a hasty glance around the room, raised her voice to say abruptly that it was absurd to put a lighted lamp alongside a body; it should be a candle, and Nana was sent to purchase a package of them. "Ah, well!" continued Madame Lorilleux, "when one dies at the Bantam's she arranges things in a funny way. What a booby not to know how to act in the case of a deceased person! Had she never buried anybody during her lifetime?" Madame Lerat was obliged to borrow a crucifix from a neighbor. She brought one too big—a cross in black wood, on which was nailed a Christ of painted pasteboard, that entirely covered Mamma Coupeau's bosom, the weight of which appeared to crush her. Afterwards, they looked for some holy water; but no one having any, Nana was sent at a run to the church for a bottleful. In a twinkling, the closet assumed a new dress. Upon a little table a candle burned; alongside was a glass of holy water in which soaked a sprig of boxwood; and the shop chairs were disposed of in a circle for the reception. Now, if folk should come, things would at least be decent. Lantier returned at eleven o'clock. He had been to the Interment Bureau for information. "The coffin is twelve francs," he said. "If you want a mass, it will be ten francs more. Finally, there is the hearse, which is paid for according to its ornamentation." "It "Oh! that is quite useless," murmured Madame Lorilleux, raising her head with an air of surprise and anxiety. won't bring Mamma back, will it? We must go according to our purse. 66 Undoubtedly, that's what I thought," rejoined the hatter. "I simply took the prices so that you might govern yourselves. Tell me what you want; after breakfast I will order it." Everybody talked in an undertone. Within the shop a soft twilight entered through cracks in the shutters. The closet door remained wide open, and through its gaping aperture there seemed to issue a deathly stillness. Children's laughter ascended in the yard where they were playing under the pale light of a winter's sun. Suddenly, Nana, having escaped from the care of the Boches, was heard ordering about the other children who were stamping the pavement. Soon her sharp tones mingled in a general racket, her companions brawling, and singing: "Our ass! Our ass! Had a pain! and A poultice band, Et cet-e-rah!” Gervaise waited to say : |