and shaking his hands as though he were trying to wrench them off and
fling them in somebody's face. One meets with buffoons in low dancing
places who imitate the delirium tremens, only they imitate it badly.
One must see this drunkard's dance if one wishes to know what it is like
when gone through in earnest. The song also has its merits, a continuous
yell worthy of carnival-time, a mouth wide open uttering the same hoarse
trombone notes for hours together. Coupeau had the howl of a beast with
a crushed paw. Strike up, music! Gentlemen, choose your partners!

"_Mon Dieu!_ what is the matter with him? What is the matter with him?"
repeated Gervaise, seized with fear.

A house surgeon, a big fair fellow with a rosy countenance, and wearing
a white apron, was quietly sitting taking notes. The case was a curious
one; the doctor did not leave the patient.

"Stay a while if you like," said he to the laundress; "but keep quiet.
Try and speak to him, he will not recognise you."

Coupeau indeed did not even appear to see his wife. She had only had a
bad view of him on entering, he was wriggling about so much. When
she looked him full in the face, she stood aghast. _Mon Dieu!_ was it
possible he had a countenance like that, his eyes full of blood and his
lips covered with scabs? She would certainly never have known him. To
begin with, he was making too many grimaces, without saying why, his
mouth suddenly out of all shape, his nose curled up, his cheeks drawn
in, a perfect animal's muzzle. His skin was so hot the air steamed
around him; and his hide was as though varnished, covered with a heavy
sweat which trickled off him. In his mad dance, one could see all the
same that he was not at his ease, his head was heavy and his limbs
ached.

Gervaise drew near to the house surgeon, who was strumming a tune with
the tips of his fingers on the back of his chair.

"Tell me, sir, it's serious then this time?"

The house surgeon nodded his head without answering.

"Isn't he jabbering to himself? Eh! don't you hear? What's it about?

"About things he sees," murmured the young man. "Keep quiet, let me
listen."

Coupeau was speaking in a jerky voice. A glimmer of amusement lit up
his eyes. He looked on the floor, to the right, to the left, and
turned about as though he had been strolling in the Bois de Vincennes,
conversing with himself.

"Ah! that's nice, that's grand! There're cottages, a regular fair. And
some jolly fine musi