the shop, and tried to kiss her. It so chanced that Goujet
entered just at that moment. Then she struggled and escaped. And all
three exchanged a few words, as though nothing had happened. Goujet, his
face deadly pale, looked on the ground, fancying that he had disturbed
them, and that she had merely struggled so as not to be kissed before a
third party.

The next day Gervaise moved restlessly about the shop. She was miserable
and unable to iron even a single handkerchief. She only wanted to
see Goujet and explain to him how Lantier happened to have pinned her
against the wall. But since Etienne had gone to Lille, she had hesitated
to visit Goujet's forge where she felt she would be greeted by his
fellow workers with secret laughter. This afternoon, however, she
yielded to the impulse. She took an empty basket and went out under
the pretext of going for the petticoats of her customer on Rue des
Portes-Blanches. Then, when she reached Rue Marcadet, she walked very
slowly in front of the bolt factory, hoping for a lucky meeting. Goujet
must have been hoping to see her, too, for within five minutes he came
out as if by chance.

"You have been on an errand," he said, smiling. "And now you are on your
way home."

Actually Gervaise had her back toward Rue des Poissonniers. He only said
that for something to say. They walked together up toward Montmartre,
but without her taking his arm. They wanted to get a bit away from the
factory so as not to seem to be having a rendezvous in front of it. They
turned into a vacant lot between a sawmill and a button factory. It was
like a small green meadow. There was even a goat tied to a stake.

"It's strange," remarked Gervaise. "You'd think you were in the
country."

The went to sit under a dead tree. Gervaise placed the laundry basket by
her feet.

"Yes," Gervaise said, "I had an errand to do, and so I came out."

She felt deeply ashamed and was afraid to try to explain. Yet
she realized that they had come here to discuss it. It remained a
troublesome burden.

Then, all in a rush, with tears in her eyes, she told him of the
death that morning of Madame Bijard, her washerwoman. She had suffered
horrible agonies.

"Her husband caused it by kicking her in the stomach," she said in a
monotone. "He must have damaged her insides. _Mon Dieu!_ She was
in agony for three days with her stomach all swelled up. Plenty of
scoundrels have been sent to the galleys for less than that, but