and she no longer dared
to move, whilst old Bru continued:

"Trou la la, trou la la,
Trou la, trou la, trou la la!"

"Very good. Thank you, my ancient one, that's enough!" said Coupeau. "Do
you know the whole of it? You shall sing it for us another day when we
need something sad."

This raised a few laughs. The old fellow stopped short, glanced round
the table with his pale eyes and resumed his look of a meditative
animal. Coupeau called for more wine as the coffee was finished.
Clemence was eating strawberries again. With the pause in singing, they
began to talk about a woman who had been found hanging that morning in
the building next door. It was Madame Lerat's turn, but she required
to prepare herself. She dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of
water and applied it to her temples because she was too hot. Then, she
asked for a thimbleful of brandy, drank it, and slowly wiped her lips.

"The 'Child of God,' shall it be?" she murmured, "the 'Child of God.'"

And, tall and masculine-looking, with her bony nose and her shoulders as
square as a grenadier's she began:

"The lost child left by its mother alone
Is sure of a home in Heaven above,
God sees and protects it on earth from His throne,
The child that is lost is the child of God's love."

Her voice trembled at certain words, and dwelt on them in liquid notes;
she looked out of the corner of her eyes to heaven, whilst her right
hand swung before her chest or pressed against her heart with an
impressive gesture. Then Gervaise, tortured by Lantier's presence, could
not restrain her tears; it seemed to her that the song was relating her
own suffering, that she was the lost child, abandoned by its mother, and
whom God was going to take under his protection. Clemence was now very
drunk and she burst into loud sobbing and placed her head down onto the
table in an effort to smother her gasps. There was a hush vibrant with
emotion.

The ladies had pulled out their handkerchiefs, and were drying their
eyes, with their heads erect from pride. The men had bowed their heads
and were staring straight before them, blinking back their tears.
Poisson bit off the end of his pipe twice while gulping and gasping.
Boche, with two large tears trickling down his face, wasn't even
bothering to squeeze the coal-dealer's knee any longer. All these drunk
revelers were as soft-hearted as lambs. Wasn't the wine almost coming
out of their eyes? W