Identifier: germinielacerteu02dego (find matches)
Title: Germinie Lacerteux
Year: 1897 (1890s)
Authors: de Goncourt, Edmond de Goncourt, Jules
Subjects: Bibliothèque des chefs-d'oeuvre du roman contemporain: Realists (and) Romancists French fiction--19th century--Translations into English Limited Editions French fiction
Publisher: Philadelpha: Printed for subscribers only by G. Barrie
Contributing Library: Susquehanna University, Blough-Weis Library
Digitizing Sponsor: Lyrasis Members and Sloan Foundation

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en of the common people. Insulting words, poured out upon her by those rosebud mouths, wounded Germinie more deeply than all else. She would half rise for an instant; then, overwhelmed by shame, resigning herself to her fate, she would fall back into her corner, and, pulling her shawl over her head in order to bury herself therein out of sight, she would sit like a dead woman, crushed, inert, insensible, cowering over her own shadow, like a bundle tossed on the floor which everyone might tread upon — having no control of her faculties, dead to everything except adapter EM Sometimes, in the night, she would suddenly sit upon the edge of the bed, rest her bare feet on the cold floor, and remain there, wild-eyed, listening to the things that breathe in a sleeping chamber. The ghastly temptations that afford madness a vague glimpse of crime caused a red light, the flash of murder, to pass before her eyes, close at hand; and hands placed against her back pushed her toward the table where the knives lay.
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GERMINIE LACERTEUX 305 the footsteps that she was listening for and that did not come. At last, after long hours, hours that she could not count, she would fancy that she heard a stumbling walk in the street; then a vinous voice would mount the stairs, stammering canaille. Canaille of a saloon keeper! you sold me the kind of wine that goes to my head ! It was he. And almost every day the same scene was enacted. •Ah! there yare, my Germinie, he would say as his eyes fell upon her. It's like this I'll tell you all about it. Im a little bit underwater. And, as he put the key in the lock: I'll tell you all about it. It isn't my fault. He would enter the room, kick aside a turtle dove with mangy wings that limped forward to greet him, and close the door. It wasn't me, d'ye see. It was Paillon, you know Paillon ? that little round fellow, fat as a mad dog. Well, it was him, pon my honor. He insisted on paying for a sixteen sous bottle for me. He offered to treat me, and I proffered him thanks. There u

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