at ease on account of the Boches'
behavior. They pretended not to know her. They were most assiduous in
their attentions to the landlord, bowing down before him, watching
for his least words, and nodding their approval of them. Madame Boche
suddenly ran out and dispersed a group of children who were paddling
about in front of the cistern, the tap of which they had turned full
on, causing the water to flow over the pavement; and when she returned,
upright and severe in her skirts, crossing the courtyard and glancing
slowly up at all the windows, as though to assure herself of the good
behavior of the household, she pursed her lips in a way to show with
what authority she was invested, now that she reigned over three hundred
tenants. Boche again spoke of the dressmaker on the second floor; he
advised that she should be turned out; he reckoned up the number of
quarters she owed with the importance of a steward whose management
might be compromised. Monsieur Marescot approved the suggestion of
turning her out, but he wished to wait till the half quarter. It was
hard to turn people out into the street, more especially as it did not
put a sou into the landlord's pocket. And Gervaise asked herself with a
shudder if she too would be turned out into the street the day that some
misfortune rendered her unable to pay.

The concierge's lodge was as dismal as a cellar, black from smoke and
crowded with dark furniture. All the sunlight fell upon the tailor's
workbench by the window. An old frock coat that was being reworked lay
on it. The Boches' only child, a four-year-old redhead named Pauline,
was sitting on the floor, staring quietly at the veal simmering on
the stove, delighted with the sharp odor of cooking that came from the
frying pan.

Monsieur Marescot again held out his hand to the zinc-worker, when the
latter spoke of the repairs, recalling to his mind a promise he had made
to talk the matter over later on. But the landlord grew angry, he had
never promised anything; besides, it was not usual to do any repairs
to a shop. However, he consented to go over the place, followed by the
Coupeaus and Boche. The little linen-draper had carried off all his
shelves and counters; the empty shop displayed its blackened ceiling and
its cracked wall, on which hung strips of an old yellow paper. In the
sonorous emptiness of the place, there ensued a heated discussion.
Monsieur Marescot exclaimed that it was the business of shopkeepers