a bit
of a snooze."

He was still yawning; he had slept eighteen hours at a stretch. He was,
moreover, quite sobered, with a stupid look on his face, and his jacket
smothered with fluff; for he had no doubt tumbled into bed with his
clothes on.

"And you don't know where my husband is, sir?" asked the laundress.

"Well, no, not a bit. It was five o'clock when we left mother Baquet's.
That's all I know about it. Perhaps he went down the street. Yes, I
fancy now that I saw him go to the 'Butterfly' with a coachman. Oh! how
stupid it is! Really, we deserve to be shot."

Lantier and Gervaise spent a very pleasant evening at the music-hall.
At eleven o'clock when the place closed, they strolled home without
hurrying themselves. The cold was quite sharp. People seemed to be in
groups. Some of the girls were giggling in the darkness as their men
pressed close to them. Lantier was humming one of Mademoiselle Amanda's
songs. Gervaise, with her head spinning from too much drink, hummed the
refrain with him. It had been very warm at the music-hall and the two
drinks she had had, along with all the smoke, had upset her stomach a
bit. She had been quite impressed with Mademoiselle Amanda. She wouldn't
dare to appear in public wearing so little, but she had to admit that
the lady had lovely skin.

"Everyone's asleep," said Gervaise, after ringing three times without
the Boches opening the door.

At length the door opened, but inside the porch it was very dark, and
when she knocked at the window of the concierge's room to ask for her
key, the concierge, who was half asleep, pulled out some rigmarole
which she could make nothing of at first. She eventually understood that
Poisson, the policeman, had brought Coupeau home in a frightful state,
and that the key was no doubt in the lock.

"The deuce!" murmured Lantier, when they had entered, "whatever has he
been up to here? The stench is abominable."

There was indeed a most powerful stench. As Gervaise went to look
for matches, she stepped into something messy. After she succeeded in
lighting a candle, a pretty sight met their eyes. Coupeau appeared to
have disgorged his very insides. The bed was splattered all over, so was
the carpet, and even the bureau had splashes on its sides. Besides that,
he had fallen from the bed where Poisson had probably thrown him, and
was snoring on the floor in the midst of the filth like a pig wallowing
in the mire, exhaling his foul breath throu