The heat was melting the snow on her hair and clothes, and she was dripping.
Her poor wagging head was quite grey; there were any number of grey locks which the wind had disarranged.
Her neck sank into her shoulders and she had become so fat and ugly you might have cried on noticing the change.
He recollected their love, when she was quite rosy, working with her irons, and showing the child-like crease which set such a charming necklace round her throat.
In those times he had watched her for hours, glad just to look at her.
Later on she had come to the forge, and there they had enjoyed themselves whilst he beat the iron, and she stood by watching his hammer dance.
How often at night, with his head buried in his pillow, had he dreamed of holding her in his arms.
Gervaise rose; she had finished.
She remained for a moment with her head lowered, and ill at ease.
Then, thinking she detected a gleam in his eyes, she raised her hand to her jacket and began to unfasten the first button.
But Goujet had fallen on his knees, and taking hold of her hands, he exclaimed softly:
“I love you, Madame Gervaise; oh!
I love you still, and in spite of everything, I swear it to you!”
“Don’t say that, Monsieur Goujet!” she cried, maddened to see him like this at her feet.
“No, don’t say that; you grieve me too much.”
And as he repeated that he could never love twice in his life, she became yet more despairing.
“No, no, I am too ashamed. For the love of God get up.
It is my place to be on the ground.”
He rose, he trembled all over and stammered:
“Will you allow me to kiss you?”
Overcome with surprise and emotion she could not speak, but she assented with a nod of the head.
After all she was his; he could do what he chose with her.
But he merely kissed her.
“That suffices between us, Madame Gervaise,” he muttered.
“It sums up all our friendship, does it not?”
He had kissed her on the forehead, on a lock of her grey hair.
He had not kissed anyone since his mother’s death.
His sweetheart Gervaise alone remained to him in life.
And then, when he had kissed her with so much respect, he fell back across his bed with sobs rising in his throat.
And Gervaise could not remain there any longer.
It was too sad and too abominable to meet again under such circumstances when one loved.
“I love you, Monsieur Goujet,” she exclaimed. “I love you dearly, also.
Oh! it isn’t possible you still love me. Good-bye, good-bye; it would smother us both; it would be more than we could stand.”
And she darted through Madame Goujet’s room and found herself outside on the pavement again.
When she recovered her senses she had rung at the door in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or and Boche was pulling the string.
The house was quite dark, and in the black night the yawning, dilapidated porch looked like an open mouth.
To think that she had been ambitious of having a corner in this barracks!
Had her ears been stopped up then, that she had not heard the cursed music of despair which sounded behind the walls?
Since she had set foot in the place she had begun to go down hill.
Yes, it must bring bad luck to shut oneself up in these big workmen’s houses; the cholera of misery was contagious there.
That night everyone seemed to have kicked the bucket.
She only heard the Boches snoring on the right-hand side, while Lantier and Virginie on the left were purring like a couple of cats who were not asleep, but have their eyes closed and feel warm.
In the courtyard she fancied she was in a perfect cemetery; the snow paved the ground with white; the high frontages, livid grey in tint, rose up unlighted like ruined walls, and not a sigh could be heard.
It seemed as if a whole village, stiffened with cold and hunger, were buried here.
She had to step over a black gutter — water from the dye-works — which smoked and streaked the whiteness of the snow with its muddy course.
It was the color of her thoughts.
The beautiful light blue and light pink waters had long since flowed away.
Then, whilst ascending the six flights of stairs in the dark, she could not prevent herself from laughing; an ugly laugh which hurt her.
She recalled her ideal of former days: to work quietly, always have bread to eat and a tidy house to sleep in, to bring up her children, not to be beaten and to die in her bed.
No, really, it was comical how all that was becoming realized!