In the midst of the noise, however, a conversation was going on between Pere Bru and mother Coupeau. The old fellow, who was ghastly pale in spite of the wine and the food, was talking of his sons who had died in the Crimea. Ah! if the lads had only lived, he would have had bread to eat every day. But mother Coupeau, speaking thickly, leant towards him and said: “Ah! one has many worries with children! For instance, I appear to be happy here, don’t I? Well! I cry more often than you think. No, don’t wish you still had your children.” Pere Bru shook his head. “I can’t get work anywhere,” murmured he. “I’m too old. When I enter a workshop the young fellows joke, and ask me if I polished Henri IV.’s boots. To-day it’s all over; they won’t have me anywhere. Last year I could still earn thirty sous a day painting a bridge. I had to lie on my back with the river flowing under me. I’ve had a bad cough ever since then. Now, I’m finished.” He looked at his poor stiff hands and added: “It’s easy to understand, I’m no longer good for anything. They’re right; were I in their place I should do the same. You see, the misfortune is that I’m not dead. Yes, it’s my fault. One should lie down and croak when one’s no longer able to work.” “Really,” said Lorilleux, who was listening, “I don’t understand why the Government doesn’t come to the aid of the invalids of labor. I was reading that in a newspaper the other day.” But Poisson thought it his duty to defend the Government. “Workmen are not soldiers,” declared he. “The Invalides is for soldiers. You must not ask for what is impossible.” Dessert was now served. In the centre of the table was a Savoy cake in the form of a temple, with a dome fluted with melon slices; and this dome was surmounted by an artificial rose, close to which was a silver paper butterfly, fluttering at the end of a wire. Two drops of gum in the centre of the flower imitated dew. Then, to the left, a piece of cream cheese floated in a deep dish; whilst in another dish to the right, were piled up some large crushed strawberries, with the juice running from them. However, there was still some salad left, some large coss lettuce leaves soaked with oil. “Come, Madame Boche,” said Gervaise, coaxingly, “a little more salad. I know how fond you are of it.” “No, no, thank you! I’ve already had as much as I can manage,” replied the concierge. The laundress turning towards Virginie, the latter put her finger in her mouth, as though to touch the food she had taken. “Really, I’m full,” murmured she. “There’s no room left. I couldn’t swallow a mouthful.” “Oh! but if you tried a little,” resumed Gervaise with a smile. “One can always find a tiny corner empty. Once doesn’t need to be hungry to be able to eat salad. You’re surely not going to let this be wasted?” “You can eat it to-morrow,” said Madame Lerat; “it’s nicer when its wilted.”