alk between the tips of her fingers. They were close to the
street, at the first of the four tables placed alongside the barrels
facing the bar.

When the zinc-worker had lit his cigarette, he placed his elbows on
the table, thrust his face forward, and for an instant looked without
speaking at the young woman, whose pretty fair face had that day
the milky transparency of china. Then, alluding to a matter known to
themselves alone, and already discussed between them, he simply asked in
a low voice:

"So it's to be 'no'? you say 'no'?"

"Oh! most decidedly 'no' Monsieur Coupeau," quietly replied Gervaise
with a smile. "I hope you're not going to talk to me about that here.
You know you promised me you would be reasonable. Had I known, I
wouldn't have let you treat me."

Coupeau kept silence, looking at her intently with a boldness. She sat
still, at ease and friendly. At the end of a brief silence she added:

"You can't really mean it. I'm an old woman; I've a big boy eight years
old. Whatever could we two do together?"

"Why!" murmured Coupeau, blinking his eyes, "what the others do, of
course, get married!"

She made a gesture of feeling annoyed. "Oh! do you think it's always
pleasant? One can very well see you've never seen much of living. No,
Monsieur Coupeau, I must think of serious things. Burdening oneself
never leads to anything, you know! I've two mouths at home which are
never tired of swallowing, I can tell you! How do you suppose I can
bring up my little ones, if I only sit here talking indolently? And
listen, besides that, my misfortune has been a famous lesson to me. You
know I don't care a bit about men now. They won't catch me again for a
long while."

She spoke with such cool objectivity that it was clear she had resolved
this in her mind, turning it about thoroughly.

Coupeau was deeply moved and kept repeating: "I feel so sorry for you.
It causes me a great deal of pain."

"Yes, I know that," resumed she, "and I am sorry, Monsieur Coupeau. But
you mustn't take it to heart. If I had any idea of enjoying myself, _mon
Dieu!_, I would certainly rather be with you than anyone else. You're
a good boy and gentle. Only, where's the use, as I've no inclination to
wed? I've been for the last fortnight, now, at Madame Fauconnier's.
The children go to school. I've work, I'm contented. So the best is to
remain as we are, isn't it?"

And she stooped down to take her basket.

"You're making me talk; t