ar of
being in the way, and also of causing people to talk. Yet he frequently
found a pretext, such as bringing the washing; and he would pass no end
of time on the pavement in front of the shop. There was a corner right
at the back in which he liked to sit, without moving for hours, and
smoke his short pipe. Once every ten days, in the evening after his
dinner, he would venture there and take up his favorite position. And he
was no talker, his mouth almost seemed sewn up, as he sat with his eyes
fixed on Gervaise, and only removed his pipe to laugh at everything she
said. When they were working late on a Saturday he would stay on, and
appeared to amuse himself more than if he had gone to a theatre.

Sometimes the women stayed in the shop ironing until three in the
morning. A lamp hung from the ceiling and spread a brilliant light
making the linen look like fresh snow. The apprentice would put up the
shop shutters, but since these July nights were scorching hot, the door
would be left open. The later the hour the more casual the women became
with their clothes while trying to be comfortable. The lamplight
flecked their rosy skin with gold specks, especially Gervaise who was so
pleasantly rounded.

On these nights Goujet would be overcome by the heat from the stove and
the odor of linen steaming under the hot irons. He would drift into a
sort of giddiness, his thinking slowed and his eyes obsessed by these
hurrying women as their naked arms moved back and forth, working far
into the night to have the neighborhood's best clothes ready for Sunday.

Everything around the laundry was slumbering, settled into sleep for the
night. Midnight rang, then one o'clock, then two o'clock. There were
no vehicles or pedestrians. In the dark and deserted street, only their
shop door let out any light. Once in a while, footsteps would be heard
and a man would pass the shop. As he crossed the path of light he would
stretch his neck to look in, startled by the sound of the thudding
irons, and carry with him the quick glimpse of bare-shouldered
laundresses immersed in a rosy mist.

Goujet, seeing that Gervaise did not know what to do with Etienne, and
wishing to deliver him from Coupeau's kicks, had engaged him to go
and blow the bellows at the factory where he worked. The profession
of bolt-maker, if not one to be proud of on account of the dirt of the
forge and of the monotony of constantly hammering on pieces of iron of
a similar kind