Gervaise, quite beside herself, ventured to glance in the direction indicated. Some persons had collected in the street to hear the party sing. And Lantier was indeed there in the front row, listening and coolly looking on. It was rare cheek, everything considered. Gervaise felt a chill ascend from her legs to her heart, and she no longer dared to move, whilst old Bru continued: “Trou la la, trou la la, Trou la, trou la, trou la la!” “Very good. Thank you, my ancient one, that’s enough!” said Coupeau. “Do you know the whole of it? You shall sing it for us another day when we need something sad.” This raised a few laughs. The old fellow stopped short, glanced round the table with his pale eyes and resumed his look of a meditative animal. Coupeau called for more wine as the coffee was finished. Clemence was eating strawberries again. With the pause in singing, they began to talk about a woman who had been found hanging that morning in the building next door. It was Madame Lerat’s turn, but she required to prepare herself. She dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of water and applied it to her temples because she was too hot. Then, she asked for a thimbleful of brandy, drank it, and slowly wiped her lips. “The ‘Child of God,’ shall it be?” she murmured, “the ‘Child of God.’” And, tall and masculine-looking, with her bony nose and her shoulders as square as a grenadier’s she began: “The lost child left by its mother alone Is sure of a home in Heaven above, God sees and protects it on earth from His throne, The child that is lost is the child of God’s love.” Her voice trembled at certain words, and dwelt on them in liquid notes; she looked out of the corner of her eyes to heaven, whilst her right hand swung before her chest or pressed against her heart with an impressive gesture. Then Gervaise, tortured by Lantier’s presence, could not restrain her tears; it seemed to her that the song was relating her own suffering, that she was the lost child, abandoned by its mother, and whom God was going to take under his protection. Clemence was now very drunk and she burst into loud sobbing and placed her head down onto the table in an effort to smother her gasps. There was a hush vibrant with emotion. The ladies had pulled out their handkerchiefs, and were drying their eyes, with their heads erect from pride. The men had bowed their heads and were staring straight before them, blinking back their tears. Poisson bit off the end of his pipe twice while gulping and gasping. Boche, with two large tears trickling down his face, wasn’t even bothering to squeeze the coal-dealer’s knee any longer. All these drunk revelers were as soft-hearted as lambs. Wasn’t the wine almost coming out of their eyes? When the refrain began again, they all let themselves go, blubbering into their plates.