long, either, by the look of it. You havenât got too much in there. Weâll be done with this lot before twelve, so we can go and get a bite to eat⦠I used to give mine to a laundress in the Rue Poulet, but she was destroying it all for me with that chlorine and brushes of hers. So now I wash it myself. Itâs pure gain. It only costs me the price of the soap⦠Well I never! You should have put those shirts to soak! Those wretched kids! Theyâve got soot on their bottoms!â
Gervaise was undoing her parcel, spreading out the childrenâs shirts; and when Mme Boche advised her to take a bucket of soda, she answered: âNo, no! Hot waterâll do⦠I know what Iâm at.â
She had sorted the washing, putting aside the few coloured garments; and then, after filling her tub with four buckets of cold water from the tap behind her, she threw in the pile of white clothes and, hitching up her skirt and tucking it between her thighs, she got into an upright box which came up to her waist.
âYou do know what youâre at, donât you,â Mme Boche echoed. âIs it right: you were a laundress back home, sweetie?â
With her sleeves rolled back to display a blondeâs fine arms, still young and only slightly reddened at the elbows, Gervaise started to clean her washing. She had just spread a shirt out on the narrow washboard, worn away and whitened by the constant effect of water; she was rubbing the soap in, turning the shirt over and rubbing it on the other side. Before answering, she grasped her beetle and began to strike the shirt, shouting over the noise and punctuating her remarks with steady, hard blows.
âYes, yes, laundress⦠When I was ten⦠Twelve years ago⦠We went down to the river⦠It used to smell better than hereâ¦You should have seen it⦠There was a spot under the trees⦠with clear running water⦠You know, in Plassans 8 ⦠I doubt if you know it⦠Itâs near Marseilleâ¦â
âYou donât half go it!â
Mme Boche exclaimed, amazed by the force Gervaise was putting behind each stroke. âWhat a wench! Those little ladyâs arms of hers: she could flatten an iron with them!â
The conversation went on, very loudly. At times, the concierge had to lean forward to catch what Gervaise was saying. All the white linen was beaten â and how! â and Gervaise threw it back into the tub, then took each piece out one by one to soap a second time, and scrub it. She held the garment on the washboard with one hand, while with the other, holding the short scrubbing brush, she drove out of the material a froth of dirty suds, which hung down in long strands. Now, having only the slight noise from the brush to contend with, the two women came closer and talked more privately.
âNo, weâre not married,â Gervaise said. âI donât try to hide it. Lantierâs not such a nice chap that youâd want to marry him. And if it wasnât for the children⦠I was fourteen and him eighteen when we had our first⦠The other one came four years after that. It happened as it always does, you know how it is. I wasnât happy at home. Old Papa Macquart would kick me up the backside at the least excuse, and when itâs like that, you start having fun outside⦠We might have got married, but one way or another our parents didnât like the idea.â
She shook her hands, which were going red beneath the white suds.
âThe waterâs that hard in Paris,â she said.
Mine Boche was washing only half-heartedly. She stopped, making her soaping time last, so that she could stay there and listen to this story, which had been tormenting her with curiosity for the past fortnight. Her lips were half open in her plump face and her popping eyes glowed. Satisfied at having guessed the situation, she was thinking: Thatâs right, the girlâs giving
Gervaise was undoing her parcel, spreading out the childrenâs shirts; and when Mme Boche advised her to take a bucket of soda, she answered: âNo, no! Hot waterâll do⦠I know what Iâm at.â
She had sorted the washing, putting aside the few coloured garments; and then, after filling her tub with four buckets of cold water from the tap behind her, she threw in the pile of white clothes and, hitching up her skirt and tucking it between her thighs, she got into an upright box which came up to her waist.
âYou do know what youâre at, donât you,â Mme Boche echoed. âIs it right: you were a laundress back home, sweetie?â
With her sleeves rolled back to display a blondeâs fine arms, still young and only slightly reddened at the elbows, Gervaise started to clean her washing. She had just spread a shirt out on the narrow washboard, worn away and whitened by the constant effect of water; she was rubbing the soap in, turning the shirt over and rubbing it on the other side. Before answering, she grasped her beetle and began to strike the shirt, shouting over the noise and punctuating her remarks with steady, hard blows.
âYes, yes, laundress⦠When I was ten⦠Twelve years ago⦠We went down to the river⦠It used to smell better than hereâ¦You should have seen it⦠There was a spot under the trees⦠with clear running water⦠You know, in Plassans 8 ⦠I doubt if you know it⦠Itâs near Marseilleâ¦â
âYou donât half go it!â
Mme Boche exclaimed, amazed by the force Gervaise was putting behind each stroke. âWhat a wench! Those little ladyâs arms of hers: she could flatten an iron with them!â
The conversation went on, very loudly. At times, the concierge had to lean forward to catch what Gervaise was saying. All the white linen was beaten â and how! â and Gervaise threw it back into the tub, then took each piece out one by one to soap a second time, and scrub it. She held the garment on the washboard with one hand, while with the other, holding the short scrubbing brush, she drove out of the material a froth of dirty suds, which hung down in long strands. Now, having only the slight noise from the brush to contend with, the two women came closer and talked more privately.
âNo, weâre not married,â Gervaise said. âI donât try to hide it. Lantierâs not such a nice chap that youâd want to marry him. And if it wasnât for the children⦠I was fourteen and him eighteen when we had our first⦠The other one came four years after that. It happened as it always does, you know how it is. I wasnât happy at home. Old Papa Macquart would kick me up the backside at the least excuse, and when itâs like that, you start having fun outside⦠We might have got married, but one way or another our parents didnât like the idea.â
She shook her hands, which were going red beneath the white suds.
âThe waterâs that hard in Paris,â she said.
Mine Boche was washing only half-heartedly. She stopped, making her soaping time last, so that she could stay there and listen to this story, which had been tormenting her with curiosity for the past fortnight. Her lips were half open in her plump face and her popping eyes glowed. Satisfied at having guessed the situation, she was thinking: Thatâs right, the girlâs giving
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