| CHAPTER I. |
| CHAPTER II. |
| CHAPTER III. |
| CHAPTER IV. |
| CHAPTER V. |
| CHAPTER VI. |
| CHAPTER VII. |
| CHAPTER VIII |
| CHAPTER IX |
| CHAPTER X |
| CHAPTER XI |
| CHAPTER XII |
| CHAPTER XIII |
Gervaise had waited up for Lantier until two in the morning. Then, shiveringfrom having remained in a thin loose jacket, exposed to the fresh air at thewindow, she had thrown herself across the bed, drowsy, feverish, and her cheeksbathed in tears.
For a week past, on leaving the “Two-Headed Calf,” where they tooktheir meals, he had sent her home with the children and never reappearedhimself till late at night, alleging that he had been in search of work. Thatevening, while watching for his return, she thought she had seen him enter thedancing-hall of the “Grand-Balcony,” the ten blazing windows ofwhich lighted up with the glare of a conflagration the dark expanse of theexterior Boulevards; and five or six paces behind him, she had caught sight oflittle Adele, a burnisher, who dined at the same restaurant, swinging herhands, as if she had just quitted his arm so as not to pass together under thedazzling light of the globes at the door.
When, towards five o’clock, Gervaise awoke, stiff and sore, she brokeforth into sobs. Lantier had not returned. For the first time he had slept awayfrom home. She remained seated on the edge of the bed, under the strip of fadedchintz, which hung from the rod fastened to the ceiling by a piece of string.And slowly, with her eyes veiled by tears, she glanced round the wretchedlodging, furnished with a walnut chest of drawers, minus one drawer, threerush-bottomed chairs, and a little greasy table, on which stood a brokenwater-jug. There had been added, for the children, an iron bedstead, whichprevented any one getting to the chest of drawers, and filled two-thirds of theroom. Gervaise’s and Lantier’s trunk, wide open, in one corner,displayed its emptiness, and a man’s old hat right at the bottom almostburied beneath some dirty shirts and socks; whilst, against the walls, abovethe articles of furniture, hung a shawl full of holes, and a pair of trousersbegrimed with mud, the last rags which the dealers in second-hand clothesdeclined to buy. In the centre of the mantel-piece, lying between two odd zinccandle-sticks, was a bundle of pink pawn-tickets. It was the best room of thehotel, the first floor room, looking on to the Boulevard.
The two children were sleeping side by side, with their heads on the samepillow. Claude, aged eight years, was breathing quietly, with his little handsthrown outside the coverlet; while Etienne, only four years old, was smiling,with one arm round his brother’s neck. And bare-footed, without thinkingto again put on the old shoes that had fallen on the floo