Virginie led Coupeau away and he calmed down at once as soon as he had turned the corner of the street.
All the same they returned to the shop far less lively than when they left it.
The guests were standing round the table with very long faces.
The zinc-worker shook hands with them, showing himself off before the ladies.
Gervaise, feeling rather depressed, spoke in a low voice as she directed them to their places.
But she suddenly noticed that, as Madame Goujet had not come, a seat would remain empty — the one next to Madame Lorilleux.
“We are thirteen!” said she, deeply affected, seeing in that a fresh omen of the misfortune with which she had felt herself threatened for some time past.
The ladies already seated rose up looking anxious and annoyed.
Madame Putois offered to retire because according to her it was not a matter to laugh about; besides she would not touch a thing, the food would do her no good.
As to Boche, he chuckled. He would sooner be thirteen than fourteen; the portions would be larger, that was all.
“Wait!” resumed Gervaise.
“I can manage it.”
And going out on to the pavement she called Pere Bru who was just then crossing the roadway.
The old workman entered, stooping and stiff and his face without expression.
“Seat yourself there, my good fellow,” said the laundress.
“You won’t mind eating with us, will you?”
He simply nodded his head.
He was willing; he did not mind.
“As well him as another,” continued she, lowering her voice. “He doesn’t often eat his fill.
He will at least enjoy himself once more. We shall feel no remorse in stuffing ourselves now.”
This touched Goujet so deeply that his eyes filled with tears.
The others were also moved by compassion and said that it would bring them all good luck.
However, Madame Lorilleux seemed unhappy at having the old man next to her. She cast glances of disgust at his work-roughened hands and his faded, patched smock, and drew away from him.
Pere Bru sat with his head bowed, waiting. He was bothered by the napkin that was on the plate before him.
Finally he lifted it off and placed it gently on the edge of the table, not thinking to spread it over his knees.
Now at last Gervaise served the vermicelli soup; the guests were taking up their spoons when Virginie remarked that Coupeau had disappeared.
He had perhaps returned to Pere Colombe’s.
This time the company got angry.
So much the worse! One would not run after him; he could stay in the street if he was not hungry; and as the spoons touched the bottom of the plates, Coupeau reappeared with two pots of flowers, one under each arm, a stock and a balsam.
They all clapped their hands.
He gallantly placed the pots, one on the right, the other on the left of Gervaise’s glass; then bending over and kissing her, he said:
“I had forgotten you, my lamb. But in spite of that, we love each other all the same, especially on such a day as this.”
“Monsieur Coupeau’s very nice this evening,” murmured Clemence in Boche’s ear.
“He’s just got what he required, sufficient to make him amiable.”
The good behavior of the master of the house restored the gaiety of the proceedings, which at one moment had been compromised.
Gervaise, once more at her ease, was all smiles again.
The guests finished their soup.
Then the bottles circulated and they drank their first glass of wine, just a drop pure, to wash down the vermicelli.
One could hear the children quarrelling in the next room.
There were Etienne, Pauline, Nana and little Victor Fauconnier.
It had been decided to lay a table for the four of them, and they had been told to be very good.
That squint-eyed Augustine who had to look after the stoves was to eat off her knees.
“Mamma! Mamma!” suddenly screamed Nana,
“Augustine is dipping her bread in the Dutch oven!”
The laundress hastened there and caught the squint-eyed one in the act of burning her throat in her attempts to swallow without loss of time a slice of bread soaked in boiling goose fat.
She boxed her ears when the young monkey called out that it was not true.
When, after the boiled beef, the stewed veal appeared, served in a salad-bowl, as they did not have a dish large enough, the party greeted it with a laugh.
“It’s becoming serious,” declared Poisson, who seldom spoke.
It was half-past seven.
They had closed the shop door, so as not to be spied upon by the whole neighborhood; the little clockmaker opposite especially was opening his eyes to their full size and seemed to take the pieces from their mouths with such a gluttonous look that it almost prevented them from eating.