Coupeau moved the chairs forward and seated Gervaise by the curtain.
The room was so narrow that he could not sit beside her, so he sat behind her, leaning over her shoulder to explain the work in progress.
Gervaise was intimidated by this strange reception and felt uneasy. She had a buzzing in her ears and couldn’t hear clearly.
She thought the wife looked older than her thirty years and not very neat with her hair in a pigtail dangling down the back of her loosely worn wrapper.
The husband, who was only a year older, appeared already an old man with mean, thin lips, as he sat there working in his shirt sleeves with his bare feet thrust into down at the heel slippers.
Gervaise was dismayed by the smallness of the shop, the grimy walls, the rustiness of the tools, and the black soot spread all over what looked like the odds and ends of a scrap-iron peddler’s wares.
“And the gold?” asked Gervaise in a low voice.
Her anxious glances searched the corners and sought amongst all that filth for the resplendence she had dreamt of.
But Coupeau burst out laughing.
“Gold?” said he; “why there’s some; there’s some more, and there’s some at your feet!”
He pointed successively to the fine wire at which his sister was working, and to another roll of wire, similar to the ordinary iron wire, hanging against the wall close to the vise; then going down on all fours, he picked up, beneath the wooden screen which covered the tiled floor of the work-room, a piece of waste, a tiny fragment resembling the point of a rusty needle.
But Gervaise protested; that couldn’t be gold, that blackish piece of metal as ugly as iron!
He had to bite into the piece and show her the gleaming notch made by his teeth.
Then he continued his explanations: the employers provided the gold wire, already alloyed; the craftsmen first pulled it through the draw-plate to obtain the correct size, being careful to anneal it five or six times to keep it from breaking.
It required a steady, strong hand, and plenty of practice.
His sister would not let her husband touch the wire-drawing since he was subject to coughing spells.
She had strong arms for it; he had seen her draw gold to the fineness of a hair.
Lorilleux, seized with a fit of coughing, almost doubled up on his stool.
In the midst of the paroxysm, he spoke, and said in a choking voice, still without looking at Gervaise, as though he was merely mentioning the thing to himself:
“I’m making the herring-bone chain.”
Coupeau urged Gervaise to get up.
She might draw nearer and see.
The chainmaker consented with a grunt.
He wound the wire prepared by his wife round a mandrel, a very thin steel rod.
Then he sawed gently, cutting the wire the whole length of the mandrel, each turn forming a link, which he soldered.
The links were laid on a large piece of charcoal. He wetted them with a drop of borax, taken from the bottom of a broken glass beside him; and he made them red-hot at the lamp beneath the horizontal flame produced by the blow-pipe.
Then, when he had soldered about a hundred links he returned once more to his minute work, propping his hands against the edge of the cheville, a small piece of board which the friction of his hands had polished.
He bent each link almost double with the pliers, squeezed one end close, inserted it in the last link already in place and then, with the aid of a point opened out again the end he had squeezed; and he did this with a continuous regularity, the links joining each other so rapidly that the chain gradually grew beneath Gervaise’s gaze, without her being able to follow, or well understand how it was done.
“That’s the herring-bone chain,” said Coupeau.
“There’s also the long link, the cable, the plain ring, and the spiral. But that’s the herring-bone.
Lorilleux only makes the herring-bone chain.”
The latter chuckled with satisfaction.
He exclaimed, as he continued squeezing the links, invisible between his black finger-nails.
“Listen to me, Young Cassis!
I was making a calculation this morning.
I commenced work when I was twelve years old, you know.
Well! Can you guess how long a herring-bone chain I must have made up till to-day?”
He raised his pale face, and blinked his red eye-lids.
“Twenty-six thousand feet, do you hear?
Two leagues! That’s something!
A herring-bone chain two leagues long!
It’s enough to twist round the necks of all the women of the neighborhood. And you know, it’s still increasing.
I hope to make it long enough to reach from Paris to Versailles.”
Gervaise had returned to her seat, disenchanted and thinking everything very ugly.
She smiled to be polite to the Lorilleuxs.
The complete silence about her marriage bothered her.
It was the sole reason for her having come.
The Lorilleuxs were treating her as some stranger brought in by Coupeau.
When a conversation finally did get started, it concerned the building’s tenants.
Madame Lorilleux asked her husband if he had heard the people on the fourth floor having a fight.