Gervaise received another blow on beholding Etienne. She felt as though she would choke when she thought of the youngster’s father being there in the other room, eating cake, and that he had not even expressed a desire to kiss the little fellow. She was on the point of rousing Etienne and of carrying him there in her arms. Then she again felt that the quiet way in which matters had been arranged was the best. It would not have been proper to have disturbed the harmony of the end of the dinner. She returned with the coffee-pot and poured out a glass of coffee for Lantier, who, by the way, did not appear to take any notice of her. “Now, it’s my turn,” stuttered Coupeau, in a thick voice. “You’ve been keeping the best for the last. Well! I’ll sing you ‘That Piggish Child.’” “Yes, yes, ‘That Piggish Child,’” cried everyone. The uproar was beginning again. Lantier was forgotten. The ladies prepared their glasses and their knives for accompanying the chorus. They laughed beforehand, as they looked at the zinc-worker, who steadied himself on his legs as he put on his most vulgar air. Mimicking the hoarse voice of an old woman, he sang: “When out of bed each morn I hop, I’m always precious queer; I send him for a little drop To the drinking-den that’s near. A good half hour or more he’ll stay, And that makes me so riled, He swigs it half upon his way: What a piggish child!” And the ladies, striking their glasses, repeated in chorus in the midst of a formidable gaiety: “What a piggish child! What a piggish child!” Even the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or itself joined in now. The whole neighborhood was singing “What a piggish child!” The little clockmaker, the grocery clerks, the tripe woman and the fruit woman all knew the song and joined in the chorus. The entire street seemed to be getting drunk on the odors from the Coupeau party. In the reddish haze from the two lamps, the noise of the party was enough to shut out the rumbling of the last vehicles in the street. Two policemen rushed over, thinking there was a riot, but on recognizing Poisson, they saluted him smartly and went away between the darkened buildings. Coupeau was now singing this verse: “On Sundays at Petite Villette, Whene’er the weather’s fine, We call on uncle, old Tinette, Who’s in the dustman line. To feast upon some cherry stones The young un’s almost wild, And rolls amongst the dust and bones, What a piggish child! What a piggish child!” Then the house almost collapsed, such a yell ascended in the calm warm night air that the shouters applauded themselves, for it was useless their hoping to be able to bawl any louder.