The new lodging1 of the Coupeaus was next that of the Bijards. Almost opposite their door was a closet under the stairs which went up to the roof--a mere2 hole without light or ventilation, where Father Bru slept.
A chamber3 and a small room, about as large as one's hand, were all the Coupeaus had now. Nana's little bed stood in the small room, the door of which had to be left open at night, lest the child should stifle4.
When it came to the final move Gervaise felt that she could not separate from the commode which she had spent so much time in polishing when first married and insisted on its going to their new quarters, where it was much in the way and stopped up half the window, and when Gervaise wished to look out into the court she had not room for her elbows.
The first few days she spent in tears. She felt smothered5 and cramped6; after having had so much room to move about in it seemed to her that she was smothering7. It was only at the window she could breathe. The courtyard was not a place calculated to inspire cheerful thoughts. Opposite her was the window which years before had elicited8 her admiration9, where every successive summer scarlet10 beans had grown to a fabulous11 height on slender strings12. Her room was on the shady side, and a pot of mignonette would die in a week on her sill.
No, life had not been what she hoped, and it was all very hard to bear.
Instead of flowers to solace13 her declining years she would have but thorns. One day as she was looking down into the court she had the strangest feeling imaginable. She seemed to see herself standing14 just near the loge of the concierge15, looking up at the house and examining it for the first time.
This glimpse of the past made her feel faint. It was at least thirteen years since she had first seen this huge building--this world within a world. The court had not changed. The facade16 was simply more dingy17. The same clothes seemed to be hanging at the windows to dry. Below there were the shavings from the cabinetmaker's shop, and the gutter18 glittered with blue water, as blue and soft in tone as the water she remembered.
But she--alas19, how changed was she! She no longer looked up to the sky. She was no longer hopeful, courageous20 and ambitious. She was living under the very roof in crowded discomfort21, where never a ray of sunshine could reach her, and her tears fell fast in utter discouragement.
Nevertheless, when Gervaise became accustomed to her new surroundings she grew more content. The pieces of furniture she had sold to Virginie had facilitated her installation. When the fine weather came Coupeau had an opportunity of going into the country to work. He went and lived three months without drinking--cured for the time being by the fresh, pure air. It does a man sometimes an infinite deal of good to be taken away from all his old haunts and from Parisian streets, which always seem to exhale22 a smell of brandy and of wine.
He came back as fresh as a rose, and he brought four hundred francs with which he paid the Poissons the amount for which they had become security as well as several other small but pressing debts. Gervaise had now two or three streets open to her again, which for some time she had not dared to enter.
She now went out to iron by the day and had gone back to her old mistress, Mme Fauconnier, who was a kindhearted creature and ready to do anything for anyone who flattered her adroitly24.
With diligence and economy Gervaise could have managed to live comfortably and pay all her debts, but this prospect25 did not charm her particularly. She suffered acutely in seeing the Poissons in her old shop. She was by no means of a jealous or envious26 disposition27, but it was not agreeable to her to hear the admiration expressed for her successors by her husband's sisters. To hear them one would suppose that never had so beautiful a shop been seen before. They spoke28 of the filthy29 condition of the place when Virginie moved in--who had paid, they declared, thirty francs for cleaning it.
Virginie, after some hesitation30, had decided31 on a small stock of groceries--sugar, tea and coffee, also bonbons32 and chocolate. Lantier had advised these because he said the profit on them was immense. The shop was repainted, and shelves and cases were put in, and a counter with scales such as are seen at confectioners'. The little inheritance that Poisson held in reserve was seriously encroached upon. But Virginie was triumphant33, for she had her way, and the Lorilleuxs did not spare Gervaise the description of a case or a jar.
It was said in the street that Lantier had deserted34 Gervaise, that she gave him no peace running after him, but this was not true, for he went and came to her apartment as he pleased. Scandal was connecting his name and Virginie's. They said Virginie had taken the clearstarcher's lover as well as her shop! The Lorilleuxs talked of nothing when Gervaise was present but Lantier, Virginie and the shop. Fortunately Gervaise was not inclined to jealousy36, and Lantier's infidelities had hitherto left her undisturbed, but she did not accept this new affair with equal tranquillity37. She colored or turned pale as she heard these allusions38, but she would not allow a word to pass her lips, as she was fully39 determined40 never to gratify her enemies by allowing them to see her discomfiture41; but a dispute was heard by the neighbors about this time between herself and Lantier, who went angrily away and was not seen by anyone in the Coupeau quarters for more than a fortnight.
Coupeau behaved very oddly. This blind and complacent42 husband, who had closed his eyes to all that was going on at home, was filled with virtuous43 indignation at Lantier's indifference44. Then Coupeau went so far as to tease Gervaise in regard to this desertion of her lovers. She had had bad luck, he said, with hatters and blacksmiths--why did she not try a mason?
He said this as if it were a joke, but Gervaise had a firm conviction that he was in deadly earnest. A man who is tipsy from one year's end to the next is not apt to be fastidious, and there are husbands who at twenty are very jealous and at thirty have grown very complacent under the influence of constant tippling.
Lantier preserved an attitude of calm indifference. He kept the peace between the Poissons and the Coupeaus. Thanks to him, Virginie and Gervaise affected45 for each other the most tender regard. He ruled the brunette as he had ruled the blonde, and he would swallow her shop as he had that of Gervaise.
It was in June of this year that Nana partook of her first Communion. She was about thirteen, slender and tall as an asparagus plant, and her air and manner were the height of impertinence and audacity46.
She had been sent away from the catechism class the year before on account of her bad conduct. And if the cure did not make a similar objection this year it was because he feared she would never come again and that his refusal would launch on the Parisian _pave_ another castaway.
Nana danced with joy at the mere thought of what the Lorilleuxs--as her godparents--had promised, while Mme Lerat gave the veil and cup, Virginie the purse and Lantier a prayer book, so that the Coupeaus looked forward to the day without anxiety.
The Poissons--probably through Lantier's advice--selected this occasion for their housewarming. They invited the Coupeaus and the Boche family, as Pauline made her first Communion on that day, as well as Nana.
The evening before, while Nana stood in an ecstasy48 of delight before her presents, her father came in in an abominable49 condition. His virtuous resolutions had yielded to the air of Paris; he had fallen into evil ways again, and he now assailed50 his wife and child with the vilest51 epithets52, which did not seem to shock Nana, for they could fall from her tongue on occasion with facile glibness53.
"I want my soup," cried Coupeau, "and you two fools are chattering54 over those fal-lals! I tell you, I will sit on them if I am not waited upon, and quickly too."
Gervaise answered impatiently, but Nana, who thought it better taste just then--all things considered--to receive with meekness55 all her father's abuse, dropped her eyes and did not reply.
"Take that rubbish away!" he cried with growing impatience56. "Put it out of my sight or I will tear it to bits."
Nana did not seem to hear him. She took up the tulle cap and asked her mother what it cost, and when Coupeau tried to snatch the cap Gervaise pushed him away.
"Let the child alone!" she said. "She is doing no harm!"
Then her husband went into a perfect rage:
"Mother and daughter," he cried, "a nice pair they make. I understand very well what all this row is for: it is merely to show yourself in a new gown. I will put you in a bag and tie it close round your throat, and you will see if the cure likes that!"
Nana turned like lightning to protect her treasures. She looked her father full in the face, and, forgetting the lessons taught her by her priest, she said in a low, concentrated voice:
"Beast!" That was all.
After Coupeau had eaten his soup he fell asleep and in the morning woke quite amiable57. He admired his daughter and said she looked quite like a young lady in her white robe. Then he added with a sentimental58 air that a father on such days was naturally proud of his child. When they were ready to go to the church and Nana met Pauline in the corridor, she examined the latter from head to foot and smiled condescendingly on seeing that Pauline had not a particle of chic59.
The two families started off together, Nana and Pauline in front, each with her prayer book in one hand and with the other holding down her veil, which swelled60 in the wind like a sail. They did not speak to each other but keenly enjoyed seeing the shopkeepers run to their doors to see them, keeping their eyes cast down devoutly61 but their ears wide open to any compliment they might hear.
Nana's two aunts walked side by side, exchanging their opinions in regard to Gervaise, whom they stigmatized62 as an irreligious ne'er-do-well whose child would never have gone to the Holy Communion if it had depended on her.
At the church Coupeau wept all the time. It was very silly, he knew, but he could not help it. The voice of the cure was pathetic; the little girls looked like white-robed angels; the organ thrilled him, and the incense63 gratified his senses. There was one especial anthem64 which touched him deeply. He was not the only person who wept, he was glad to see, and when the ceremony was over he left the church feeling that it was the happiest day of his life. But an hour later he quarreled with Lorilleux in a wineshop because the latter was so hardhearted.
The housewarming at the Poissons' that night was very gay. Lantier sat between Gervaise and Virginie and was equally civil and attentive65 to both. Opposite was Poisson with his calm, impassive face, a look he had cultivated since he began his career as a police officer.
But the queens of the fete were the two little girls, Nana and Pauline, who sat very erect66 lest they should crush and deface their pretty white dresses. At dessert there was a serious discussion in regard to the future of the children. Mme Boche said that Pauline would at once enter a certain manufactory, where she would receive five or six francs per week. Gervaise had not decided yet, for Nana had shown no especial leaning in any direction. She had a good deal of taste, but she was butter-fingered and careless.
Whereupon ensued a warm discussion. The men were especially careful of their language out of deference68 to the little girls, but Mme Lerat would not accept the lesson: she flattered herself she could say what she pleased in such a way that it could not offend the most fastidious ears.
Women, she declared, who followed her trade were more virtuous than others. They rarely made a slip.
"I have no objection to your trade," interrupted Gervaise. "If Nana likes to make flowers let her do so. Say, Nana, would you like it?"
The little girl did not look up from her plate, into which she was dipping a crust of bread. She smiled faintly as she replied:
"Yes, Mamma; if you desire it I have no objection."
The decision was instantly made, and Coupeau wished his sister to take her the very next day to the place where she herself worked, Rue35 du Caire, and the circle talked gravely of the duties of life. Boche said that Pauline and Nana were now women, since they had been to Communion, and they ought to be serious and learn to cook and to mend. They alluded69 to their future marriages, their homes and their children, and the girls touched each other under the table, giggled71 and grew very red. Lantier asked them if they did not have little husbands already, and Nana blushingly confessed that she loved Victor Fauconnier and never meant to marry anyone else.
Mme Lorilleux said to Mme Boche on their way home:
"Nana is our goddaughter now, but if she goes into that flower business, in six months she will be on the _pave_, and we will have nothing to do with her."
Gervaise told Boche that she thought the shop admirably arranged. She had looked forward to an evening of torture and was surprised that she had not experienced a pang72.
Nana, as she undressed, asked her mother if the girl on the next floor, who had been married the week before, wore a dress of muslin like hers.
But this was the last bright day in that household. Two years passed away, and their prospects73 grew darker and their demoralization and degradation74 more evident. They went without food and without fire, but never without brandy.
They found it almost impossible to meet their rent, and a certain January came when they had not a penny, and Father Boche ordered them to leave.
It was frightfully cold, with a sharp wind blowing from the north.
M. Marescot appeared in a warm overcoat and his hands encased in warm woolen77 gloves and told them they must go, even if they slept in the gutter. The whole house was oppressed with woe78, and a dreary79 sound of lamentation80 arose from most of the rooms, for half the tenants81 were behindhand. Gervaise sold her bed and paid the rent. Nana made nothing as yet, and Gervaise had so fallen off in her work that Mme Fauconnier had reduced her wages. She was irregular in her hours and often absented herself from the shop for several days together but was none the less vexed82 to discover that her old employee, Mme Putois, had been placed above her. Naturally at the end of the week Gervaise had little money coming to her.
As to Coupeau, if he worked he brought no money home, and his wife had ceased to count upon it. Sometimes he declared he had lost it through a hole in his pocket or it had been stolen, but after a while he ceased to make any excuses.
But if he had no cash in his pockets it was because he had spent it all in drink. Mme Boche advised Gervaise to watch for him at the door of the place where he was employed and get his wages from him before he had spent them all, but this did no good, as Coupeau was warned by his friends and escaped by a rear door.
The Coupeaus were entirely83 to blame for their misfortunes, but this is just what people will never admit. It is always ill luck or the cruelty of God or anything, in short, save the legitimate84 result of their own vices85.
Gervaise now quarreled with her husband incessantly86. The warmth of affection of husband and wife, of parents for their children and children for their parents had fled and left them all shivering, each apart from the other.
All three, Coupeau, Gervaise and Nana, watched each other with eyes of baleful hate. It seemed as if some spring had broken--the great mainspring that binds88 families together.
Gervaise did not shudder89 when she saw her husband lying drunk in the gutter. She would not have pushed him in, to be sure, but if he were out of the way it would be a good thing for everybody. She even went so far as to say one day in a fit of rage that she would be glad to see him brought home on a shutter90. Of what good was he to any human being? He ate and he drank and he slept. His child learned to hate him, and she read the accidents in the papers with the feelings of an unnatural91 daughter. What a pity it was that her father had not been the man who was killed when that omnibus tipped over!
In addition to her own sorrows and privations, Gervaise, whose heart was not yet altogether hard, was condemned92 to hear now of the sufferings of others. The corner of the house in which she lived seemed to be consecrated93 to those who were as poor as herself. No smell of cooking filled the air, which, on the contrary, was laden94 with the shrill95 cries of hungry children, heavy with the sighs of weary, heartbroken mothers and with the oaths of drunken husbands and fathers.
Gervaise pitied Father Bru from the bottom of her heart; he lay the greater part of the time rolled up in the straw in his den75 under the staircase leading to the roof. When two or three days elapsed without his showing himself someone opened the door and looked in to see if he were still alive.
Yes, he was living; that is, he was not dead. When Gervaise had bread she always remembered him. If she had learned to hate men because of her husband her heart was still tender toward animals, and Father Bru seemed like one to her. She regarded him as a faithful old dog. Her heart was heavy within her whenever she thought of him, alone, abandoned by God and man, dying by inches or drying, rather, as an orange dries on the chimney piece.
Gervaise was also troubled by the vicinity of the undertaker Bazonge--a wooden partition alone separated their rooms. When he came in at night she could hear him throw down his glazed96 hat, which fell with a dull thud, like a shovelful97 of clay, on the table. The black cloak hung against the wall rustled98 like the wings of some huge bird of prey99. She could hear his every movement, and she spent most of her time listening to him with morbid100 horror, while he--all unconscious--hummed his vulgar songs and tipsily staggered to his bed, under which the poor woman's sick fancy pictured a dead body concealed101.
She had read in some paper a dismal102 tale of some undertaker who took home with him coffin103 after coffin--children's coffins--in order to make one trip to the cemetery104 suffice. When she heard his step the whole corridor was pervaded105 to her senses with the odor of dead humanity.
She would as lief have resided at Pere-Lachaise and watched the moles106 at their work. The man terrified her; his incessant87 laughter dismayed her. She talked of moving but at the same time was reluctant to do so, for there was a strange fascination107 about Bazonge after all. Had he not told her once that he would come for her and lay her down to sleep in the shadow of waving branches, where she would know neither hunger nor toil108?
She wished she could try it for a month. And she thought how delicious it would be in midwinter, just at the time her quarter's rent was due. But, alas, this was not possible! The rest and the sleep must be eternal; this thought chilled her, and her longing109 for death faded away before the unrelenting severity of the bonds exacted by Mother Earth.
One night she was sick and feverish110, and instead of throwing herself out of the window as she was tempted111 to do, she rapped on the partition and called loudly:
"Father Bazonge! Father Bazonge!"
"What is the matter?" he answered.
But at his voice Gervaise awoke as from a nightmare. What had she done? Had she really tapped? she asked herself, and she recoiled113 from his side of the wall in chill horror. It seemed to her that she felt the undertaker's hands on her head. No! No! She was not ready. She told herself that she had not intended to call him. It was her elbow that had knocked the wall accidentally, and she shivered from head to foot at the idea of being carried away in this man's arms.
"What is the matter?" repeated Bazonge. "Can I serve you in any way, madame?"
"No! No! It is nothing!" answered the laundress in a choked voice. "I am very much obliged."
While the undertaker slept she lay wide awake, holding her breath and not daring to move, lest he should think she called him again.
She said to herself that under no circumstances would she ever appeal to him for assistance, and she said this over and over again with the vain hope of reassuring114 herself, for she was by no means at ease in her mind.
Gervaise had before her a noble example of courage and fortitude115 in the Bijard family. Little Lalie, that tiny child--about as big as a pinch of salt--swept and kept her room like wax; she watched over the two younger children with all the care and patience of a mother. This she had done since her father had kicked her mother to death. She had entirely assumed that mother's place, even to receiving the blows which had fallen formerly116 on that poor woman. It seemed to be a necessity of his nature that when he came home drunk he must have some woman to abuse. Lalie was too small, he grumbled117; one blow of his fist covered her whole face, and her skin was so delicate that the marks of his five fingers would remain on her cheek for days!
He would fly at her like a wolf at a poor little kitten for the merest trifle. Lalie never answered, never rebelled and never complained. She merely tried to shield her face and suppressed all shrieks119, lest the neighbors should come; her pride could not endure that. When her father was tired kicking her about the room she lay where he left her until she had strength to rise, and then she went steadily120 about her work, washing the children and making her soup, sweeping121 and dusting until everything was clean. It was a part of her plan of life to be beaten every day.
Gervaise had conceived a strong affection for this little neighbor. She treated her like a woman who knew something of life. It must be admitted that Lalie was large for her years. She was fair and pale, with solemn eyes for her years and had a delicate mouth. To have heard her talk one would have thought her thirty. She could make and mend, and she talked of the children as if she had herself brought them into the world. She made people laugh sometimes when she talked, but more often she brought tears to their eyes.
Gervaise did everything she could for her, gave her what she could and helped the energetic little soul with her work. One day she was altering a dress of Nana's for her, and when the child tried it on Gervaise was chilled with horror at seeing her whole back purple and bruised122, the tiny arm bleeding--all the innocent flesh of childhood martyrized by the brute123--her father.
Bazonge might get the coffin ready, she thought, for the little girl could not bear this long. But Lalie entreated124 her friend to say nothing, telling her that her father did not know what he was doing, that he had been drinking. She forgave him with her whole heart, for madmen must not be held accountable for their deeds. After that Gervaise was on the watch whenever she heard Bijard coming up the stairs. But she never caught him in any act of absolute brutality125. Several times she had found Lalie tied to the foot of the bedstead--an idea that had entered her father's brain, no one knew why, a whim126 of his disordered brain, disordered by liquor, which probably arose from his wish to tyrannize over the child, even when he was no longer there.
Lalie sometimes was left there all day and once all night. When Gervaise insisted on untying127 her the child entreated her not to touch the knots, saying that her father would be furious if he found the knots had been tampered128 with.
And really, she said with an angelic smile, she needed rest, and the only thing that troubled her was not to be able to put the room in order. She could watch the children just as well, and she could think, so that her time was not entirely lost. When her father let her free, her sufferings were not over, for it was sometimes more than an hour before she could stand--before the blood circulated freely in her stiffened129 limbs.
Her father had invented another cheerful game. He heated some sous red hot on the stove and laid them on the chimney piece. He then summoned Lalie and bade her go buy some bread. The child unsuspiciously took up the sous, uttered a little shriek118 and dropped them, shaking her poor burned fingers.
Then he would go off in a rage. What did she mean by such nonsense? She had thrown away the money and lost it, and he threatened her with a hiding if she did not find the money instantly. The poor child hesitated; he gave her a cuff130 on the side of the head. With silent tears streaming down her cheeks she would pick up the sous and toss them from hand to hand to cool them as she went down the long flights of stairs.
There was no limit to the strange ingenuity131 of the man. One afternoon, for example, Lalie had completed playing with the children. The window was open, and the air shook the door so that it sounded like gentle raps.
"It is Mr Wind," said Lalie; "come in, Mr Wind. How are you today?"
And she made a low curtsy to Mr Wind. The children did the same in high glee, and she was quite radiant with happiness, which was not often the case.
"Come in, Mr Wind!" she repeated, but the door was pushed open by a rough hand and Bijard entered. Then a sudden change came over the scene. The two children crouched132 in a corner, while Lalie stood in the center of the floor, frozen stiff with terror, for Bijard held in his hand a new whip with a long and wicked-looking lash133. He laid this whip on the bed and did not kick either one of the children but smiled in the most vicious way, showing his two lines of blackened, irregular teeth. He was very drunk and very noisy.
"What is the matter with you fools? Have you been struck dumb? I heard you all talking and laughing merrily enough before I came in. Where are your tongues now? Here! Take off my shoes!"
Lalie, considerably134 disheartened at not having received her customary kick, turned very pale as she obeyed. He was sitting on the side of the bed. He lay down without undressing and watched the child as she moved about the room. Troubled by this strange conduct, the child ended by breaking a cup. Then without disturbing himself he took up the whip and showed it to her.
"Look here, fool," he said grimly: "I bought this for you, and it cost me fifty sous, but I expect to get a good deal more than fifty sous' worth of good out of it. With this long lash I need not run about after you, for I can reach you in every corner of the room. You will break the cups, will you? Come, now, jump about a little and say good morning to Mr Wind again!"
He did not even sit up in the bed but, with his head buried in the pillow, snapped the whip with a noise like that made by a postilion. The lash curled round Lalie's slender body; she fell to the floor, but he lashed135 her again and compelled her to rise.
"This is a very good thing," he said coolly, "and saves my getting chilled on cold mornings. Yes, I can reach you in that corner--and in that! Skip now! Skip!"
A light foam136 was on his lips, and his suffused137 eyes were starting from their sockets138. Poor little Lalie darted139 about the room like a terrified bird, but the lash tingled140 over her shoulders, coiled around her slender legs and stung like a viper141. She was like an India-rubber ball bounding from the floor, while her beast of a father laughed aloud and asked her if she had had enough.
The door opened and Gervaise entered. She had heard the noise. She stood aghast at the scene and then was seized with noble rage.
"Let her be!" she cried. "I will go myself and summon the police."
And with another adroit23 movement he cut Lalie across the face. The blood gushed144 from her lip. Gervaise snatched a chair and flew at the brute, but the little girl held her skirts and said it did not hurt much; it would be over soon, and she washed the blood away, speaking gently to the frightened children.
When Gervaise thought of Lalie she was ashamed to complain. She wished she had the courage of this child. She knew that she had lived on dry bread for weeks and that she was so weak she could hardly stand, and the tears came to the woman's eyes as she saw the precocious145 mite146 who had known nothing of the innocent happiness of her years. And Gervaise took this slender creature for example, whose eyes alone told the story of her misery147 and hardships, for in the Coupeau family the vitriol of the Assommoir was doing its work of destruction. Gervaise had seen a whip. Gervaise had learned to dread148 it, and this dread inspired her with tenderest pity for Lalie. Coupeau had lost the flesh and the bloated look which had been his, and he was thin and emaciated149. His complexion150 was gradually acquiring a leaden hue151. His appetite was utterly152 gone. It was with difficulty that he swallowed a mouthful of bread. His stomach turned against all solid food, but he took his brandy every day. This was his meat as well as his drink, and he touched nothing else.
When he crawled out of his bed in the morning he stood for a good fifteen minutes, coughing and spitting out a bitter liquid that rose in his throat and choked him.
He did not feel any better until he had taken what he called "a good drink," and later in the day his strength returned. He felt strange prickings in the skin of his hands and feet. But lately his limbs had grown heavy. This pricking153 sensation gave place to the most excruciating cramps154, which he did not find very amusing. He rarely laughed now but often stopped short and stood still on the sidewalk, troubled by a strange buzzing in his ears and by flashes of light before his eyes. Everything looked yellow to him; the houses seemed to be moving away from him. At other times, when the sun was full on his back, he shivered as if a stream of ice water had been poured down between his shoulders. But the thing he liked the least about himself was a nervous trembling in his hands, the right hand especially.
Had he become an old woman then? he asked himself with sudden fury. He tried with all his strength to lift his glass and command his nerves enough to hold it steady. But the glass had a regular tremulous movement from right to left and left to right again, in spite of all his efforts.
Then he emptied it down his throat, saying that when he had swallowed a dozen more he would be all right and as steady as a monument. Gervaise told him, on the contrary, that he must leave off drinking if he wished to leave off trembling.
He grew very angry and drank quarts in his eagerness to test the question, finally declaring that it was the passing omnibusses that jarred the house and shook his hand.
In March Coupeau came in one night drenched155 to the skin. He had been caught out in a shower. That night he could not sleep for coughing. In the morning he had a high fever, and the physician who was sent for advised Gervaise to send him at once to the hospital.
And Gervaise made no objection; once she had refused to trust her husband to these people, but now she consigned156 him to their tender mercies without a regret; in fact, she regarded it as a mercy.
Nevertheless, when the litter came she turned very pale and, if she had had even ten francs in her pocket, would have kept him at home. She walked to the hospital by the side of the litter and went into the ward47 where he was placed. The room looked to her like a miniature Pere-Lachaise, with its rows of beds on either side and its path down the middle. She went slowly away, and in the street she turned and looked up. How well she remembered when Coupeau was at work on those gutters157, cheerily singing in the morning air! He did not drink in those days, and she, at her window in the Hotel Boncoeur, had watched his athletic158 form against the sky, and both had waved their handkerchiefs. Yes, Coupeau had worked more than a year on this hospital, little thinking that he was preparing a place for himself. Now he was no longer on the roof--he had built a dismal nest within. Good God, was she and the once-happy wife and mother one and the same? How long ago those days seemed!
The next day when Gervaise went to make inquiries159 she found the bed empty. A sister explained that her husband had been taken to the asylum160 of Sainte-Anne, because the night before he had suddenly become unmanageable from delirium161 and had uttered such terrible howls that it disturbed the inmates162 of all the beds in that ward. It was the alcohol in his system, she said, which attacked his nerves now, when he was so reduced by the inflammation on his lungs that he could not resist it.
The clearstarcher went home, but how or by what route she never knew. Her husband was mad--she heard these words reverberating163 through her brain. Life was growing very strange. Nana simply said that he must, of course, be left at the asylum, for he might murder them both.
On Sunday only could Gervaise go to Sainte-Anne. It was a long distance off. Fortunately there was an omnibus which went very near. She got out at La Rue Sante and bought two oranges that she might not go quite empty-handed.
But when she went in, to her astonishment164 she found Coupeau sitting up. He welcomed her gaily165.
"You are better!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, nearly well," he replied, and they talked together awhile, and she gave him the oranges, which pleased and touched him, for he was a different man now that he drank tisane instead of liquor. She did not dare allude70 to his delirium, but he spoke of it himself.
"Yes," he said, "I was in a pretty state! I saw rats running all over the floor and the walls, and you were calling me, and I saw all sorts of horrible things! But I am all right now. Once in a while I have a bad dream, but everybody does, I suppose."
Gervaise remained with him until night. When the house surgeon made his rounds at six o'clock he told him to hold out his hands. They scarcely trembled--an almost imperceptible motion of the tips of his fingers was all. But as the room grew darker Coupeau became restless. Two or three times he sat up and peered into the remote corners.
Suddenly he stretched out his arms and seemed to crush some creature on the wall.
"What is it?" asked Gervaise, terribly frightened.
"Rats!" he said quietly. "Only rats!"
After a long silence he seemed to be dropping off to sleep, with disconnected sentences falling from his lips.
"Dirty beasts! Look out, one is under your skirts!" He pulled the covering hastily over his head, as if to protect himself against the creature he saw.
Then starting up in mad terror, he screamed aloud. A nurse ran to the bed, and Gervaise was sent away, mute with horror at this scene.
But when on the following Sunday she went again to the hospital, Coupeau was really well. All his dreams had vanished. He slept like a child, ten hours without lifting a finger. His wife, therefore, was allowed to take him away. The house surgeon gave him a few words of advice before he left, assuring him if he continued to drink he would be a dead man in three months. All depended on himself. He could live at home just as he had lived at Sainte-Anne's and must forget that such things as wine and brandy existed.
"He is right," said Gervaise as they took their seats in the omnibus.
"Of course he is right," answered her husband. But after a moment's silence he added:
That very evening he took a tiny drop and for a week was very moderate; he had no desire, he said, to end his days at Bicetre. But he was soon off his guard, and one day his little drop ended in a full glass, to be followed by a second, and so on. At the end of a fortnight he had fallen back in the old rut.
Gervaise did her best, but, after all, what can a wife do in such circumstances?
She had been so startled by the scene at the asylum that she had fully determined to begin a regular life again and hoped that he would assist her and do the same himself. But now she saw that there was no hope, that even the knowledge of the inevitable167 results could not restrain her husband now.
Then the hell on earth began again; hopeless and intolerant, Nana asked indignantly why he had not remained in the asylum. All the money she made, she said, should be spent in brandy for her father, for the sooner it was ended, the better for them all.
Gervaise blazed out one day when he lamented168 his marriage and told him that it was for her to curse the day when she first saw him. He must remember that she had refused him over and over again. The scene was a frightful76 one and one unexampled in the Coupeau annals.
Gervaise, now utterly discouraged, grew more indolent every day. Her room was rarely swept. The Lorilleuxs said they could not enter it, it was so dirty. They talked all day long over their work of the downfall of Wooden Legs. They gloated over her poverty and her rags.
"Well! Well!" they murmured. "A great change has indeed come to that beautiful blonde who was so fine in her blue shop."
Gervaise suspected their comments on her and her acts to be most unkind, but she determined to have no open quarrel. It was for her interest to speak to them when they met, but that was all the intercourse169 between them.
On Saturday Coupeau had told his wife he would take her to the circus; he had earned a little money and insisted on indulging himself. Nana was obliged to stay late at the place where she worked and would sleep with her aunt Mme Lerat.
Seven o'clock came, but no Coupeau. Her husband was drinking with his comrades probably. She had washed a cap and mended an old gown with the hope of being presentable. About nine o'clock, in a towering rage, she sallied forth170 on an empty stomach to find Coupeau.
"Are you looking for your husband?" said Mme Boche. "He is at the Assommoir. Boche has just seen him there."
Gervaise muttered her thanks and went with rapid steps to the Assommoir.
A fine rain was falling. The gas in the tavern171 was blazing brightly, lighting172 up the mirrors, the bottles and glasses. She stood at the window and looked in. He was sitting at a table with his comrades. The atmosphere was thick with smoke, and he looked stupefied and half asleep.
She shivered and wondered why she should stay there and, so thinking, turned away, only to come back twice to look again.
The water lay on the uneven173 sidewalk in pools, reflecting all the lights from the Assommoir. Finally she determined on a bold step: she opened the door and deliberately174 walked up to her husband. After all, why should she not ask him why he had not kept his promise of taking her to the circus? At any rate, she would not stay out there in the rain and melt away like a cake of soap.
"She is crazy!" said Coupeau when he saw her. "I tell you, she is crazy!"
He and all his friends shrieked175 with laughter, but no one condescended176 to say what it was that was so very droll177. Gervaise stood still, a little bewildered by this unexpected reception. Coupeau was so amiable that she said:
"Come, you know it is not too late to see something."
"Sit down a minute," said her husband, not moving from his seat.
Gervaise saw she could not stand there among all those men, so she accepted the offered chair. She looked at the glasses, whose contents glittered like gold. She looked at these dirty, shabby men and at the others crowding around the counter. It was very warm, and the pipe smoke thickened the air.
Gervaise felt as if she were choking; her eyes smarted, and her head was heavy with the fumes178 of alcohol. She turned around and saw the still, the machine that created drunkards. That evening the copper179 was dull and glittered only in one round spot. The shadows of the apparatus180 on the wall behind were strange and weird--creatures with tails, monsters opening gigantic jaws181 as if to swallow the whole world.
"What will you take to drink?" said Coupeau.
"Nothing," answered his wife. "You know I have had no dinner!"
"You need it all the more then! Have a drop of something!"
"The lady would like something sweet like herself."
"I like men," she answered angrily, "who do not get tipsy and talk like fools! I like men who keep their promises!"
Her husband laughed.
"You had better drink your share," he said, "for the devil a bit of a circus will you see tonight."
"You are right; it is a good idea. We can drink up the money together."
Bibi brought her a glass of anisette. As she sipped185 it she remembered all at once the brandied fruit she had eaten in the same place with Coupeau when he was courting her. That day she had left the brandy and took only the fruit, and now she was sitting there drinking liqueur.
But the anisette was good. When her glass was empty she refused another, and yet she was not satisfied.
She looked around at the infernal machine behind her--a machine that should have been buried ten fathoms186 deep in the sea. Nevertheless, it had for her a strange fascination, and she longed to quench187 her thirst with that liquid fire.
"What is that you have in your glasses?" she asked.
And when a glass of the vitriol was brought to her Coupeau bade her swallow it down, saying it was good for her.
After she had drunk this glass Gervaise was no longer conscious of the hunger that had tormented189 her. Coupeau told her they could go to the circus another time, and she felt she had best stay where she was. It did not rain in the Assommoir, and she had come to look upon the scene as rather amusing. She was comfortable and sleepy. She took a third glass and then put her head on her folded arms, supporting them on the table, and listened to her husband and his friends as they talked.
Behind her the still was at work with constant drip-drip, and she felt a mad desire to grapple with it as with some dangerous beast and tear out its heart. She seemed to feel herself caught in those copper fangs190 and fancied that those coils of pipe were wound around her own body, slowly but surely crushing out her life.
The whole room danced before her eyes, for Gervaise was now in the condition which had so often excited her pity and indignation with others. She vaguely191 heard a quarrel arise and a crash of chairs and tables, and then Father Colombe promptly192 turned everyone into the street.
It was still raining and a cold, sharp wind blowing. Gervaise lost Coupeau, found him and then lost him again. She wanted to go home, but she could not find her way. At the corner of the street she took her seat by the side of the gutter, thinking herself at her washtub. Finally she got home and endeavored to walk straight past the door of the concierge, within whose room she was vaguely conscious of the Poissons and Lorilleuxs holding up their hands in disgust at her condition.
She never knew how she got up those six flights of stairs. But when she turned into her own corridor little Lalie ran toward her with loving, extended arms.
"Dear Madame Gervaise," she cried, "Papa has not come in; please come and see my children. They are sleeping so sweetly!"
But when she looked up in the face of the clearstarcher she recoiled, trembling from head to foot. She knew only too well that alcoholic193 smell, those wandering eyes and convulsed lips.
Then as Gervaise staggered past her without speaking the child's arms fell at her side, and she looked after her friend with sad and solemn eyes.
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1
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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13
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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15
concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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19
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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21
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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exhale
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| v.呼气，散出，吐出，蒸发 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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28
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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29
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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32
bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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36
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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37
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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38
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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40
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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41
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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42
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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43
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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46
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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47
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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48
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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49
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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50
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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51
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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52
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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53
glibness
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| n.花言巧语；口若悬河 | |
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54
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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55
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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56
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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57
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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58
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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59
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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60
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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61
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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stigmatized
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| v.使受耻辱，指责，污辱( stigmatize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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64
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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65
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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66
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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67
florist
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| n.花商；种花者 | |
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68
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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69
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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71
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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73
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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74
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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75
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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76
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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77
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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78
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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80
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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81
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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82
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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83
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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84
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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85
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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86
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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88
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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89
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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90
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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91
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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92
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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93
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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94
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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95
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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96
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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97
shovelful
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| n．一铁铲 | |
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98
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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100
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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101
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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102
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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103
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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104
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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105
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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107
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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108
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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109
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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110
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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111
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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112
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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113
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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114
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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115
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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116
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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117
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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118
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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119
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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120
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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121
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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122
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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123
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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124
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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126
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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127
untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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128
tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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129
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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130
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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131
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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132
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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134
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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135
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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136
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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137
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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139
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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140
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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142
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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143
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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144
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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145
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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146
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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147
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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148
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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149
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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150
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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151
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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152
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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153
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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154
cramps
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| n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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155
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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156
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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157
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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158
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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159
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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160
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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161
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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162
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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163
reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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164
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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165
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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166
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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167
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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168
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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170
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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171
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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172
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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173
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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174
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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175
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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177
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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178
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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179
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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180
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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181
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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182
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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183
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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184
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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185
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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187
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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188
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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189
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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190
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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191
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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192
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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193
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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