She had not been unreasonable in her wishes, surely. She had not asked of heaven an income of thirty thousand francs or a carriage and horses. This was a queer world! And then she laughed again as she remembered that she had once said that after she had worked for twenty years she would retire into the country. Yes, she would go into the country, for she should soon have her little green corner in Pere-Lachaise. Her poor brain was disturbed. She had bidden an eternal farewell to Goujet. They would never see each other again. All was over between them--love and friendship too. As she passed the Bijards' she looked in and saw Lalie lying dead, happy and at peace. It was well with the child. "She is lucky," muttered Gervaise. At this moment she saw a gleam of light under the undertaker's door. She threw it wide open with a wild desire that he should take her as well as Lalie. Bazonge had come in that night more tipsy than usual and had thrown his hat and cloak in the corner, while he lay in the middle of the floor. He started up and called out: "Shut that door! And don't stand there--it is too cold. What do you want?" Then Gervaise, with arms outstretched, not knowing or caring what she said, began to entreat him with passionate vehemence: "Oh, take me!" she cried. "I can bear it no longer. Take me, I implore you!" And she knelt before him, a lurid light blazing in her haggard eyes. Father Bazonge, with garments stained by the dust of the cemetery, seemed to her as glorious as the sun. But the old man, yet half asleep, rubbed his eyes and could not understand her. "What are you talking about?" he muttered. "Take me," repeated Gervaise, more earnestly than before. "Do you remember one night when I rapped on the partition? Afterward I said I did not, but I was stupid then and afraid. But I am not afraid now. Here, take my hands--they are not cold with terror. Take me and put me to sleep, for I have but this one wish now." Bazonge, feeling that it was not proper to argue with a lady, said: "You are right. I have buried three women today, who would each have given me a jolly little sum out of gratitude, if they could have put their hands in their pockets. But you see, my dear woman, it is not such an easy thing you are asking of me." "Take me!" cried Gervaise. "Take me! I want to go away!" "But there is a certain little operation first, you know----" And he pretended to choke and rolled up his eyes. Gervaise staggered to her feet. He, too, rejected her and would have nothing to do with her. She crawled into her room and threw herself on her straw. She was sorry she had eaten anything and delayed the work of starvation. CHAPTER XIII THE HOSPITAL The next day Gervaise received ten francs from her son Etienne, who had steady work. He occasionally sent her a little money, knowing that there was none too much of that commodity in his poor mother's pocket.