ors, something incited Gervaise
to put her ear to the wall, the better to find out what was taking
place. Bazouge had the same effect on her as handsome men have on good
women: they would like to touch them. Well! if fear had not kept her
back, Gervaise would have liked to have handled death, to see what it
was like. She became so peculiar at times, holding her breath, listening
attentively, expecting to unravel the secret through one of Bazouge's
movements, that Coupeau would ask her with a chuckle if she had a fancy
for that gravedigger next door. She got angry and talked of moving, the
close proximity of this neighbor was so distasteful to her; and yet,
in spite of herself, as soon as the old chap arrived, smelling like a
cemetery, she became wrapped again in her reflections, with the excited
and timorous air of a wife thinking of passing a knife through the
marriage contract. Had he not twice offered to pack her up and carry
her off with him to some place where the enjoyment of sleep is so great,
that in a moment one forgets all one's wretchedness? Perhaps it was
really very pleasant. Little by little the temptation to taste it became
stronger. She would have liked to have tried it for a fortnight or a
month. Oh! to sleep a month, especially in winter, the month when the
rent became due, when the troubles of life were killing her! But it was
not possible--one must sleep forever, if one commences to sleep for an
hour; and the thought of this froze her, her desire for death departed
before the eternal and stern friendship which the earth demanded.

However, one evening in January she knocked with both her fists against
the partition. She had passed a frightful week, hustled by everyone,
without a sou, and utterly discouraged. That evening she was not at all
well, she shivered with fever, and seemed to see flames dancing about
her. Then, instead of throwing herself out of the window, as she had at
one moment thought of doing, she set to knocking and calling:

"Old Bazouge! Old Bazouge!"

The undertaker's helper was taking off his shoes and singing, "There
were three lovely girls." He had probably had a good day, for he seemed
even more maudlin than usual.

"Old Bazouge! Old Bazouge!" repeated Gervaise, raising her voice.

Did he not hear her then? She was ready to give herself at once; he
might come and take her on his neck, and carry her off to the place
where he carried his other women, the poor and the rich, who