One has
all sorts of preparations to make. To begin with, they lunched. Then it
happened to be old Bazouge, the undertaker's helper, who lived on the
sixth floor, who brought the coffin and the sack of bran. He was never
sober, the worthy fellow. At eight o'clock that day, he was still lively
from the booze of the day before.

"This is for here, isn't it?" asked he.

And he laid down the coffin, which creaked like a new box. But as he was
throwing the sack of bran on one side, he stood with a look of amazement
in his eyes, his mouth opened wide, on beholding Gervaise before him.

"Beg pardon, excuse me. I've made a mistake," stammered he. "I was told
it was for you."

He had already taken up the sack again, and the laundress was obliged to
call to him:

"Leave it alone, it's for here."

"Ah! _Mon Dieu!_ Now I understand!" resumed he, slapping his thigh.
"It's for the old lady."

Gervaise had turned quite pale. Old Bazouge had brought the coffin for
her. By way of apology, he tried to be gallant, and continued:

"I'm not to blame, am I? It was said yesterday that someone on the
ground floor had passed away. Then I thought--you know, in our business,
these things enter by one ear and go out by the other. All the same, my
compliments to you. As late as possible, eh? That's best, though life
isn't always amusing; ah! no, by no means."

As Gervaise listened to him, she draw back, afraid he would grab her and
take her away in the box. She remembered the time before, when he had
told her he knew of women who would thank him to come and get them.
Well, she wasn't ready yet. _Mon Dieu!_ The thought sent chills down her
spine. Her life may have been bitter, but she wasn't ready to give it up
yet. No, she would starve for years first.

"He's abominably drunk," murmured she, with an air of disgust mingled
with dread. "They at least oughtn't to send us tipplers. We pay dear
enough."

Then he became insolent, and jeered:

"See here, little woman, it's only put off until another time. I'm
entirely at your service, remember! You've only to make me a sign. I'm
the ladies' consoler. And don't spit on old Bazouge, because he's held
in his arms finer ones than you, who let themselves be tucked in without
a murmur, very pleased to continue their by-by in the dark."

"Hold your tongue, old Bazouge!" said Lorilleux severely, having
hastened to the spot on hearing the noise, "such jokes are highly
improper. If we complained ab