. Gervaise could now finish Madame Boche's cap. First she roughly
smoothed the lace, spreading it out with her hand, and then she
straightened it up by light strokes of the iron. It had a very fancy
border consisting of narrow puffs alternating with insertions of
embroidery. She was working on it silently and conscientiously, ironing
the puffs and insertions.

Silence prevailed for a time. Nothing was to be heard except the soft
thud of irons on the ironing pad. On both sides of the huge rectangular
table Gervaise, her two employees, and the apprentice were bending
over, slaving at their tasks with rounded shoulders, their arms moving
incessantly. Each had a flat brick blackened by hot irons near her. A
soup plate filled with clean water was on the middle of the table with a
moistening rag and a small brush soaking in it.

A bouquet of large white lilies bloomed in what had once been a brandied
cherry jar. Its cluster of snowy flowers suggested a corner of a royal
garden. Madame Putois had begun the basket that Gervaise had brought to
her filled with towels, wrappers, cuffs and underdrawers. Augustine
was dawdling with the stockings and washcloths, gazing into the air,
seemingly fascinated by a large fly that was buzzing around. Clemence
had done thirty-four men's shirts so far that day.

"Always wine, never spirits!" suddenly said the zinc-worker, who felt
the necessity of making this declaration. "Spirits make me drunk, I'll
have none of them."

Clemence took an iron from the stove with her leather holder in which a
piece of sheet iron was inserted, and held it up to her cheek to see
how hot it was. She rubbed it on her brick, wiped it on a piece of rag
hanging from her waist-band and started on her thirty-fifth shirt, first
of all ironing the shoulders and the sleeves.

"Bah! Monsieur Coupeau," said she after a minute or two, "a little glass
of brandy isn't bad. It sets me going. Besides, the sooner you're merry,
the jollier it is. Oh! I don't make any mistake; I know that I shan't
make old bones."

"What a nuisance you are with your funeral ideas!" interrupted Madame
Putois who did not like hearing people talk of anything sad.

Coupeau had arisen and was becoming angry thinking that he had been
accused of drinking brandy. He swore on his own head and on the heads of
his wife and child that there was not a drop of brandy in his veins. And
he went up to Clemence and blew in her face so that she might smell his