“Whatever has that vermin done with my little iron?” murmured Gervaise, speaking of Augustine.
They were for ever seeking the little iron, which they found in the most out-of-the-way places, where the apprentice, so they said, hid it out of spite.
Gervaise could now finish Madame Boche’s cap.
First she roughly smoothed the lace, spreading it out with her hand, and then she straightened it up by light strokes of the iron.
It had a very fancy border consisting of narrow puffs alternating with insertions of embroidery.
She was working on it silently and conscientiously, ironing the puffs and insertions.
Silence prevailed for a time.
Nothing was to be heard except the soft thud of irons on the ironing pad.
On both sides of the huge rectangular table Gervaise, her two employees, and the apprentice were bending over, slaving at their tasks with rounded shoulders, their arms moving incessantly.
Each had a flat brick blackened by hot irons near her.
A soup plate filled with clean water was on the middle of the table with a moistening rag and a small brush soaking in it.
A bouquet of large white lilies bloomed in what had once been a brandied cherry jar. Its cluster of snowy flowers suggested a corner of a royal garden.
Madame Putois had begun the basket that Gervaise had brought to her filled with towels, wrappers, cuffs and underdrawers.
Augustine was dawdling with the stockings and washcloths, gazing into the air, seemingly fascinated by a large fly that was buzzing around.
Clemence had done thirty-four men’s shirts so far that day.
“Always wine, never spirits!” suddenly said the zinc-worker, who felt the necessity of making this declaration.
“Spirits make me drunk, I’ll have none of them.”
Clemence took an iron from the stove with her leather holder in which a piece of sheet iron was inserted, and held it up to her cheek to see how hot it was.
She rubbed it on her brick, wiped it on a piece of rag hanging from her waist-band and started on her thirty-fifth shirt, first of all ironing the shoulders and the sleeves.
“Bah! Monsieur Coupeau,” said she after a minute or two, “a little glass of brandy isn’t bad.
It sets me going. Besides, the sooner you’re merry, the jollier it is.
Oh! I don’t make any mistake; I know that I shan’t make old bones.”
“What a nuisance you are with your funeral ideas!” interrupted Madame Putois who did not like hearing people talk of anything sad.
Coupeau had arisen and was becoming angry thinking that he had been accused of drinking brandy. He swore on his own head and on the heads of his wife and child that there was not a drop of brandy in his veins.
And he went up to Clemence and blew in her face so that she might smell his breath.
Then he began to giggle because her bare shoulders were right under his nose.
He thought maybe he could see more.
Clemence, having folded over the back of the shirt and ironed it on both sides, was now working on the cuffs and collar.
However, as he was shoving against her, he caused her to make a wrinkle, obliging her to reach for the brush soaking in the soup plate to smooth it out.
“Madame,” said she, “do make him leave off bothering me.”
“Leave her alone; it’s stupid of you to go on like that,” quietly observed Gervaise.
“We’re in a hurry, do you hear?”
They were in a hurry, well!
What?
It was not his fault.
He was doing no harm. He was not touching, he was only looking.
Was it no longer allowed to look at the beautiful things that God had made?
All the same, she had precious fine arms, that artful Clemence!
She might exhibit herself for two sous and nobody would have to regret his money.
The girl allowed him to go on, laughing at these coarse compliments of a drunken man.
And she soon commenced joking with him.
He chuffed her about the shirts.
So she was always doing shirts?
Why yes, she practically lived in them.
Mon Dieu!
She knew them pretty well.
Hundreds and hundreds of them had passed through her hands.
Just about every man in the neighborhood was wearing her handiwork on his body.
Her shoulders were shaking with laughter through all this, but she managed to continue ironing.
“That’s the banter!” said she, laughing harder than ever.