ge arm-chair, which seemed to be waiting for the old lace-worker.
The bed was made, and she could have stretched herself beneath the
sheets if she had left the cemetery to come and spend the evening with
her child. There was something solemn, a perfume of honesty and goodness
about the room.

"Come in," repeated the blacksmith in a louder tone.

She went in, half frightened, like a disreputable woman gliding into
a respectable place. He was quite pale, and trembled at the thought of
ushering a woman like this into his dead mother's home. They crossed the
room on tip-toe, as if they were ashamed to be heard. Then when he had
pushed Gervaise into his own room he closed the door. Here he was at
home. It was the narrow closet she was acquainted with; a schoolgirl's
room, with the little iron bedstead hung with white curtains. On the
walls the engravings cut out of illustrated newspapers had gathered and
spread, and they now reached to the ceiling. The room looked so pure
that Gervaise did not dare to advance, but retreated as far as she could
from the lamp. Then without a word, in a transport as it were, he tried
to seize hold of her and press her in his arms. But she felt faint and
murmured: "Oh! _Mon Dieu!_ Oh, _mon Dieu!_"

The fire in the stove, having been covered with coke-dust, was still
alight, and the remains of a stew which Goujet had put to warm, thinking
he should return to dinner, was smoking in front of the cinders.
Gervaise, who felt her numbness leave her in the warmth of this room,
would have gone down on all fours to eat out of the saucepan. Her hunger
was stronger than her will; her stomach seemed rent in two; and she
stooped down with a sigh. Goujet had realized the truth. He placed the
stew on the table, cut some bread, and poured her out a glass of wine.

"Thank you! Thank you!" said she. "Oh, how kind you are! Thank you!"

She stammered; she could hardly articulate. When she caught hold of her
fork she began to tremble so acutely that she let it fall again. The
hunger that possessed her made her wag her head as if senile. She
carried the food to her mouth with her fingers. As she stuffed the first
potato into her mouth, she burst out sobbing. Big tears coursed down her
cheeks and fell onto her bread. She still ate, gluttonously devouring
this bread thus moistened by her tears, and breathing very hard all the
while. Goujet compelled her to drink to prevent her from stifling, and
her glass chinked,