Death had to take her little by little, bit by bit, dragging her thus to the end through the accursed existence she had made for herself.
It was never even exactly known what she did die of.
There was some talk of a cold, but the truth was she died of privation and of the filth and hardship of her ruined life.
Overeating and dissoluteness killed her, according to the Lorilleuxs.
One morning, as there was a bad smell in the passage, it was remembered that she had not been seen for two days, and she was discovered already green in her hole.
It happened to be old Bazouge who came with the pauper’s coffin under his arm to pack her up.
He was again precious drunk that day, but a jolly fellow all the same, and as lively as a cricket.
When he recognized the customer he had to deal with he uttered several philosophical reflections, whilst performing his little business. “Everyone has to go.
There’s no occasion for jostling, there’s room for everyone. And it’s stupid being in a hurry that just slows you up. All I want to do is to please everybody.
Some will, others won’t.
What’s the result? Here’s one who wouldn’t, then she would.
So she was made to wait. Anyhow, it’s all right now, and faith! She’s earned it!
Merrily, just take it easy.”
And when he took hold of Gervaise in his big, dirty hands, he was seized with emotion, and he gently raised this woman who had had so great a longing for his attentions.
Then, as he laid her out with paternal care at the bottom of the coffin, he stuttered between two hiccoughs:
“You know — now listen — it’s me, Bibi-the-Gay, called the ladies’ consoler. There, you’re happy now.
Go by-by, my beauty!”