Some other time — in the morning for instance.”
At this moment, Madame Lerat, who had gone into the little room, uttered a faint cry.
She had had a fright because she had found the candle burnt out.
They all busied themselves in lighting another; they shook their heads, saying that it was not a good sign when the light went out beside a corpse.
The wake commenced.
Coupeau had gone to lie down, not to sleep, said he, but to think; and five minutes afterwards he was snoring.
When they sent Nana off to sleep at the Boches’ she cried; she had been looking forward ever since the morning to being nice and warm in her good friend Lantier’s big bed.
The Poissons stayed till midnight.
Some hot wine had been made in a salad-bowl because the coffee affected the ladies’ nerves too much.
The conversation became tenderly effusive.
Virginie talked of the country: she would like to be buried at the corner of a wood with wild flowers on her grave.
Madame Lerat had already put by in her wardrobe the sheet for her shroud, and she kept it perfumed with a bunch of lavender; she wished always to have a nice smell under her nose when she would be eating the dandelions by the roots.
Then, with no sort of transition, the policeman related that he had arrested a fine girl that morning who had been stealing from a pork-butcher’s shop; on undressing her at the commissary of police’s they had found ten sausages hanging round her body.
And Madame Lorilleux having remarked, with a look of disgust, that she would not eat any of those sausages, the party burst into a gentle laugh.
The wake became livelier, though not ceasing to preserve appearances.
But just as they were finishing the hot wine a peculiar noise, a dull trickling sound, issued from the little room.
All raised their heads and looked at each other.
“It’s nothing,” said Lantier quietly, lowering his voice.
“She’s emptying.”
The explanation caused the others to nod their heads in a reassured way, and they replaced their glasses on the table.
When the Poissons left for home, Lantier left also, saying he would sleep with a friend and leave his bed for the ladies in case they wanted to take turns napping.
Lorilleux went upstairs to bed.
Gervaise and the two sisters arranged themselves by the stove where they huddled together close to the warmth, talking quietly. Coupeau was still snoring.
Madame Lorilleux was complaining that she didn’t have a black dress and asked Gervaise about the black skirt they had given mother Coupeau on her saint’s day.
Gervaise went to look for it.
Madame Lorilleux then wanted some of the old linen and mentioned the bed, the wardrobe, and the two chairs as she looked around for other odds and ends.
Madame Lerat had to serve as peace maker when a quarrel nearly broke out. She pointed out that as the Coupeaus had cared for their mother, they deserved to keep the few things she had left.
Soon they were all dozing around the stove.
The night seemed terribly long to them.
Now and again they shook themselves, drank some coffee and stretched their necks in the direction of the little room, where the candle, which was not to be snuffed, was burning with a dull red flame, flickering the more because of the black soot on the wick.
Towards morning, they shivered, in spite of the great heat of the stove.
Anguish, and the fatigue of having talked too much was stifling them, whilst their mouths were parched, and their eyes ached.
Madame Lerat threw herself on Lantier’s bed, and snored as loud as a man; whilst the other two, their heads falling forward, and almost touching their knees, slept before the fire.
At daybreak, a shudder awoke them.
Mother Coupeau’s candle had again gone out; and as, in the obscurity, the dull trickling sound recommenced, Madame Lorilleux gave the explanation of it anew in a loud voice, so as to reassure herself:
“She’s emptying,” repeated she, lighting another candle.
The funeral was to take place at half-past ten.
A nice morning to add to the night and the day before!
Gervaise, though without a sou, said she would have given a hundred francs to anybody who would have come and taken mother Coupeau away three hours sooner.
No, one may love people, but they are too great a weight when they are dead; and the more one has loved them, the sooner one would like to be rid of their bodies.
The morning of a funeral is, fortunately, full of diversions.
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.