The door of the factory remained firmly shut for some time. Then it opened to allow the egress of one workman; then two, three, followed, but these were probably those who, well behaved, took their wages home to their wives, for they neither retreated nor started when they saw the little crowd. One woman fell on a pale little fellow and, plunging her hand into his pocket, carried off every sou of her husband's earnings, while he, left without enough to pay for a pint of wine, went off down the street almost weeping. Some other men appeared, and one turned back to warn a comrade, who came gamely and fearlessly out, having put his silver pieces in his shoes. In vain did his wife look for them in his pockets; in vain did she scold and coax--he had no money, he declared. Then came another noisy group, elbowing each other in their haste to reach a cabaret, where they could drink away their week's wages. These fellows were followed by some shabby men who were swearing under their breath at the trifle they had received, having been tipsy and absent more than half the week. But the saddest sight of all was the grief of a meek little woman in black, whose husband, a tall, good-looking fellow, pushed her roughly aside and walked off down the street with his boon companions, leaving her to go home alone, which she did, weeping her very heart out as she went. Gervaise still stood watching the entrance. Where was Coupeau? She asked some of the men, who teased her by declaring that he had just gone by the back door. She saw by this time that Coupeau had lied to her, that he had not been at work that day. She also saw that there was no dinner for her. There was not a shadow of hope--nothing but hunger and darkness and cold. She toiled up La Rue des Poissonniers when she suddenly heard Coupeau's voice and, glancing in at the window of a wineshop, she saw him drinking with Mes-Bottes, who had had the luck to marry the previous summer a woman with some money. He was now, therefore, well clothed and fed and altogether a happy mortal and had Coupeau's admiration. Gervaise laid her hands on her husband's shoulders as he left the cabaret. "I am hungry," she said softly. "Hungry, are you? Well then, eat your fist and keep the other for tomorrow." "Shall I steal a loaf of bread?" she asked in a dull, dreary tone. Mes-Bottes smoothed his chin and said in a conciliatory voice: "No, no! Don't do that; it is against the law. But if a woman manages----" Coupeau interrupted him with a coarse laugh. Yes, a woman, if she had any sense, could always get along, and it was her own fault if she starved. And the two men walked on toward the outer boulevard. Gervaise followed them. Again she said: "I am hungry. You know I have had nothing to eat. You must find me something." He did not answer, and she repeated her words in a tone of agony.