o rows on top of the chest of drawers on
each side of an old holy-water basin in which they kept matches. Busts
of Pascal and Beranger were on top of the wardrobe. It was really a
handsome room.

"Guess how much we pay here?" Gervaise would ask of every visitor she
had.

And whenever they guessed too high a sum, she triumphed and delighted at
being so well suited for such a little money, cried:

"One hundred and fifty francs, not a sou more! Isn't it almost like
having it for nothing!"

The street, Rue Neuve de la Goutte d'Or, played an important part in
their contentment. Gervaise's whole life was there, as she traveled back
and forth endlessly between her home and Madame Fauconnier's laundry.
Coupeau now went down every evening and stood on the doorstep to smoke
his pipe. The poorly-paved street rose steeply and had no sidewalks.
Toward Rue de la Goutte d'Or there were some gloomy shops with dirty
windows. There were shoemakers, coopers, a run-down grocery, and a
bankrupt cafe whose closed shutters were covered with posters. In the
opposite direction, toward Paris, four-story buildings blocked the
sky. Their ground floor shops were all occupied by laundries with
one exception--a green-painted store front typical of a small-town
hair-dresser. Its shop windows were full of variously colored flasks. It
lighted up this drab corner with the gay brightness of its copper bowls
which were always shining.

The most pleasant part of the street was in between, where the buildings
were fewer and lower, letting in more sunlight. The carriage sheds, the
plant which manufactured soda water, and the wash-house opposite made a
wide expanse of quietness. The muffled voices of the washerwomen and
the rhythmic puffing of the steam engine seemed to deepen the almost
religious silence. Open fields and narrow lanes vanishing between dark
walls gave it the air of a country village. Coupeau, always amused by
the infrequent pedestrians having to jump over the continuous streams of
soapy water, said it reminded him of a country town where his uncle had
taken him when he was five years old. Gervaise's greatest joy was a tree
growing in the courtyard to the left of their window, an acacia that
stretched out a single branch and yet, with its meager foliage, lent
charm to the entire street.

It was on the last day of April that Gervaise was confined. The pains
came on in the afternoon, towards four o'clock, as she was ironing a
pair of curt