So she had Lantier on her mind throughout all of Virginie’s visits.
This was silly because, in fact, she didn’t care a bit about Lantier or Adele at this time.
She was quite certain that she had no curiosity as to what had happened to either of them.
But this obsession got hold of her in spite of herself.
Anyway, she didn’t hold it against Virginie, it wasn’t her fault, surely.
She enjoyed being with her and looked forward to her visits.
Meanwhile winter had come, the Coupeaus’ fourth winter in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or.
December and January were particularly cold.
It froze hard as it well could.
After New Year’s day the snow remained three weeks without melting.
It did not interfere with work, but the contrary, for winter is the best season for the ironers.
It was very pleasant inside the shop!
There was never any ice on the window-panes like there was at the grocer’s and the hosier’s opposite.
The stove was always stuffed with coke and kept things as hot as a Turkish bath. With the laundry steaming overhead you could almost imagine it was summer.
You were quite comfortable with the doors closed and so much warmth everywhere that you were tempted to doze off with your eyes open.
Gervaise laughed and said it reminded her of summer in the country.
The street traffic made no noise in the snow and you could hardly hear the pedestrians who passed by. Only children’s voices were heard in the silence, especially the noisy band of urchins who had made a long slide in the gutter near the blacksmith’s shop.
Gervaise would sometimes go over to the door, wipe the moisture from one of the panes with her hand, and look out to see what was happening to her neighborhood due to this extraordinary cold spell. Not one nose was being poked out of the adjacent shops. The entire neighborhood was muffled in snow.
The only person she was able to exchange nods with was the coal-dealer next door, who still walked out bare-headed despite the severe freeze.
What was especially enjoyable in this awful weather was to have some nice hot coffee in the middle of the day.
The workwomen had no cause for complaint. The mistress made it very strong and without a grain of chicory. It was quite different to Madame Fauconnier’s coffee, which was like ditch-water.
Only whenever mother Coupeau undertook to make it, it was always an interminable time before it was ready, because she would fall asleep over the kettle.
On these occasions, when the workwomen had finished their lunch, they would do a little ironing whilst waiting for the coffee.
It so happened that on the morrow of Twelfth-day half-past twelve struck and still the coffee was not ready.
It seemed to persist in declining to pass through the strainer.
Mother Coupeau tapped against the pot with a tea-spoon; and one could hear the drops falling slowly, one by one, and without hurrying themselves any the more.
“Leave it alone,” said tall Clemence; “you’ll make it thick. To-day there’ll be as much to eat as to drink.”
Tall Clemence was working on a man’s shirt, the plaits of which she separated with her finger-nail.
She had caught a cold, her eyes were frightfully swollen and her chest was shaken with fits of coughing, which doubled her up beside the work-table.
With all that she had not even a handkerchief round her neck and she was dressed in some cheap flimsy woolen stuff in which she shivered.
Close by, Madame Putois, wrapped up in flannel muffled up to her ears, was ironing a petticoat which she turned round the skirt-board, the narrow end of which rested on the back of a chair; whilst a sheet laid on the floor prevented the petticoat from getting dirty as it trailed along the tiles.
Gervaise alone occupied half the work-table with some embroidered muslin curtains, over which she passed her iron in a straight line with her arms stretched out to avoid making any creases.
All on a sudden the coffee running through noisily caused her to raise her head.
It was that squint-eyed Augustine who had just given it an outlet by thrusting a spoon through the strainer.
“Leave it alone!” cried Gervaise.
“Whatever is the matter with you?
It’ll be like drinking mud now.”
Mother Coupeau had placed five glasses on a corner of the work-table that was free.
The women now left their work.
The mistress always poured out the coffee herself after putting two lumps of sugar into each glass.
It was the moment that they all looked forward to.
On this occasion, as each one took her glass and squatted down on a little stool in front of the stove, the shop-door opened. Virginie entered, shivering all over.
“Ah, my children,” said she, “it cuts you in two! I can no longer feel my ears. The cold is something awful!”
“Why, it’s Madame Poisson!” exclaimed Gervaise.
“Ah, well! You’ve come at the right time.
You must have some coffee with us.”
“On my word, I can’t say no. One feels the frost in one’s bones merely by crossing the street.”
There was still some coffee left, luckily.
Mother Coupeau went and fetched a sixth glass, and Gervaise let Virginie help herself to sugar out of politeness.
The workwomen moved to give Virginie a small space close to the stove.