er. "When I'm in want of death, I'll send you to fetch him."

Gervaise entered, greatly embarrassed, not even daring to mutter an
excuse. She was no longer punctual, never came at the time arranged, and
would keep her customers waiting for days on end. Little by little she
was giving way to a system of thorough disorder.

"For a week past I've been expecting you," continued the lace-mender.
"And you tell falsehoods too; you send your apprentice to me with all
sorts of stories; you are then busy with my things, you will deliver
them the same evening, or else you've had an accident, the bundle's
fallen into a pail of water. Whilst all this is going on, I waste my
time, nothing turns up, and it worries me exceedingly. No, you're most
unreasonable. Come, what have you in your basket? Is everything there
now? Have you brought me the pair of sheets you've been keeping back
for a month past, and the chemise which was missing the last time you
brought home the washing?"

"Yes, yes," murmured Gervaise, "I have the chemise. Here it is."

But Madame Goujet cried out. That chemise was not hers, she would have
nothing to do with it. Her things were changed now; it was too bad! Only
the week before, there were two handkerchiefs which hadn't her mark on
them. It was not to her taste to have clothes coming from no one knew
where. Besides that, she liked to have her own things.

"And the sheets?" she resumed. "They're lost, aren't they? Well!
Woman, you must see about them, for I insist upon having them to-morrow
morning, do you hear?"

There was a silence which particularly bothered Gervaise when she
noticed that the door to Goujet's room was open. If he was in there, it
was most annoying that he should hear these just criticisms. She made
no reply, meekly bowing her head, and placing the laundry on the bed as
quickly as possible.

Matters became worse when Madame Goujet began to look over the things,
one by one. She took hold of them and threw them down again saying:

"Ah! you don't get them up nearly so well as you used to do. One
can't compliment you every day now. Yes, you've taken to mucking your
work--doing it in a most slovenly way. Just look at this shirt-front,
it's scorched, there's the mark of the iron on the plaits; and the
buttons have all been torn off. I don't know how you manage it, but
there's never a button left on anything. Oh! now, here's a petticoat
body which I shall certainly not pay you for. Look there!