Gervaise had waited and watched for Lantier until two in themorning. Then chilled and shivering, she turned from the windowand threw herself across the bed, where she fell into a feverishdoze with her cheeks wet with tears. For the last week when theycame out of the Veau à Deux Têtes, where they ate,he had sent her off to bed with the children and had not appeareduntil late into the night and always with a story that he hadbeen looking for work.
This very night, while she was watching for his return, shefancied she saw him enter the ballroom of the Grand-Balcon, whoseten windows blazing with lights illuminated, as with a sheet offire, the black lines of the outer boulevards. She caught aglimpse of Adèle, a pretty brunette who dined at theirrestaurant and who was walking a few steps behind him, with herhands swinging as if she had just dropped his arm, rather thanpass before the bright light of the globes over the door in hiscompany.
When Gervaise awoke about five o'clock, stiff and sore, sheburst into wild sobs, for Lantier had not come in. For the firsttime he had slept out. She sat on the edge of the bed, halfshrouded in the canopy of faded chintz that hung from the arrowfastened to the ceiling by a string. Slowly, with her eyessuffused with tears, she looked around this miserable chambregarnie, whose furniture consisted of a chestnut bureau ofwhich one drawer was absent, three straw chairs and a greasytable on which was a broken-handled pitcher.
Another bedstead—an iron one—had been brought infor the children. This stood in front of the bureau and filled uptwo thirds of the room.
A trunk belonging to Gervaise and Lantier stood in the cornerwide open, showing its empty sides, while at the bottom a man'sold hat lay among soiled shirts and hose. Along the walls and onthe backs of the chairs hung a ragged shawl, a pair of muddypantaloons and a dress or two—all too bad for theold-clothes man to buy. In the middle of the mantel between twomismated tin candlesticks was a bundle of pawn tickets from theMont-de-Piété. These tickets were of a delicateshade of rose.
The room was the best in the hotel—the first floorlooking out on the boulevard.
Meanwhile side by side on the same pillow the two children laycalmly sleeping. Claude, who was eight years old, was breathingcalmly and regularly with his little hands outside of thecoverings, while Etienne, only four, smiled with one arm underhis brother's neck.
When their mother's eyes fell on them she had a new paroxysmof sobs and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle them.Then with bare feet, not stopping to put on her slippers whichhad fallen off, she ran to the window out of which she leaned asshe had done half the night and inspected the sidewalks as far asshe could see.
The hotel was on the Boulevard de la Chapelle, at the left ofthe Barrière Poissonnièrs. It was a two-storybuilding, painted a deep red up to the first floor, and haddisjointed weather-stained blinds.
Above a lantern with glass sides was a sign between the twowindows:
HÔTEL BONCŒUR
KEPT BY
MARSOULLIER
in large yellow letters, partially obliterated by thedampness. Gervaise, who was prevented by the lantern from seeingas she desired, leaned out still farther, with her handkerchiefon her lips. She looked to the right toward the Boulevard deRochechouart, where groups of butchers stood with their bloodyfrocks before their establishments, and the fresh breeze broughtin whiffs, a strong animal smell—the smell of slaughteredcattle.
She looked to the left, following the ribbonlike avenue, pastthe Hosp