Towards seven o’clock, before daylight, Coupeau at length awoke. When he learnt his loss he at first stood still with dry eyes, stuttering and vaguely thinking that they were playing him some joke. Then he threw himself on the ground and went and knelt beside the corpse. His kissed it and wept like a child, with such a copious flow of tears that he quite wetted the sheet with wiping his cheeks. Gervaise had recommenced sobbing, deeply affected by her husband’s grief, and the best of friends with him again. Yes, he was better at heart than she thought he was. Coupeau’s despair mingled with a violent pain in his head. He passed his fingers through his hair. His mouth was dry, like on the morrow of a booze, and he was still a little drunk in spite of his ten hours of sleep. And, clenching his fist, he complained aloud. _Mon Dieu!_ she was gone now, his poor mother, whom he loved so much! Ah! what a headache he had; it would settle him! It was like a wig of fire! And now they were tearing out his heart! No, it was not just of fate thus to set itself against one man! “Come, cheer up, old fellow,” said Lantier, raising him from the ground; “you must pull yourself together.” He poured him out a glass of wine, but Coupeau refused to drink. “What’s the matter with me? I’ve got copper in my throat. It’s mamma. When I saw her I got a taste of copper in my mouth. Mamma! _Mon Dieu!_ mamma, mamma!” And he recommenced crying like a child. Then he drank the glass of wine, hoping to put out the flame searing his breast. Lantier soon left, using the excuse of informing the family and filing the necessary declaration at the town hall. Really though, he felt the need of fresh air, and so he took his time, smoking cigarettes and enjoying the morning air. When he left Madame Lerat’s house, he went into a dairy place on Les Batignolles for a cup of hot coffee and remained there an hour, thinking things over.