Suddenly an absolute whirlwind struck her and bore her breathless and helpless along--she did not even know in what direction. When at last she was able to open her eyes she could see nothing through the blinding snow, but she heard a step and saw the outlines of a man's figure. She snatched him by the blouse. "Sir," she said, "please listen." The man turned. It was Goujet. Ah, what had she done to be thus tortured and humiliated? Was God in heaven an angry God always? This was the last dreg of bitterness in her cup. She saw her shadow: her limp, she felt, made her walk like an intoxicated woman, which was indeed hard, when she had not swallowed a drop. Goujet looked at her while the snow whitened his yellow beard. "Come!" he said. And he walked on, she following him. Neither spoke. Poor Mme Goujet had died in October of acute rheumatism, and her son continued to reside in the same apartment. He had this night been sitting with a sick friend. He entered, lit a lamp and turned toward Gervaise, who stood humbly on the threshold. "Come in!" he said in a low voice, as if his mother could have heard him. The first room was that of Mme Goujet, which was unchanged since her death. Near the window stood her frame, apparently ready for the old lady. The bed was carefully made, and she could have slept there had she returned from the cemetery to spend a night with her son. The room was clean, sweet and orderly. "Come in," repeated Goujet. Gervaise entered with the air of a woman who is startled at finding herself in a respectable place. He was pale and trembling. They crossed his mother's room softly, and when Gervaise stood within his own he closed the door. It was the same room in which he had lived ever since she knew him--small and almost virginal in its simplicity. Gervaise dared not move. Goujet snatched her in his arms, but she pushed him away faintly. The stove was still hot, and a dish was on the top of it. Gervaise looked toward it. Goujet understood. He placed the dish on the table, poured her out some wine and cut a slice of bread. "Thank you," she said. "How good you are!" She trembled to that degree that she could hardly hold her fork. Hunger gave her eyes the fierceness of a famished beast and to her head the tremulous motion of senility. After eating a potato she burst into tears but continued to eat, with the tears streaming down her cheeks and her chin quivering. "Will you have some more bread?" he asked. She said no; she said yes; she did not know what she said.