At church Coupeau wept all the time. It was stupid but he could not help it. It affected him to see the priest holding out his arms and all the little girls, looking like angels, pass before him, clasping their hands; and the music of the organ stirred up his stomach and the pleasant smell of the incense forced him to sniff, the same as though someone had thrust a bouquet of flowers into his face. In short he saw everything cerulean, his heart was touched. Anyway, other sensitive souls around him were wetting their handkerchiefs. This was a beautiful day, the most beautiful of his life. After leaving the church, Coupeau went for a drink with Lorilleux, who had remained dry-eyed. That evening the Poissons’ house-warming was very lively. Friendship reigned without a hitch from one end of the feast to the other. When bad times arrive one thus comes in for some pleasant evenings, hours during which sworn enemies love each other. Lantier, with Gervaise on his left and Virginie on his right, was most amiable to both of them, lavishing little tender caresses like a cock who desires peace in his poultry-yard. But the queens of the feast were the two little ones, Nana and Pauline, who had been allowed to keep on their things; they sat bolt upright through fear of spilling anything on their white dresses and at every mouthful they were told to hold up their chins so as to swallow cleanly. Nana, greatly bored by all this fuss, ended by slobbering her wine over the body of her dress, so it was taken off and the stains were at once washed out in a glass of water. Then at dessert the children’s future careers were gravely discussed. Madame Boche had decided that Pauline would enter a shop to learn how to punch designs on gold and silver. That paid five or six francs a day. Gervaise didn’t know yet because Nana had never indicated any preference. “In your place,” said Madame Lerat, “I would bring Nana up as an artificial flower-maker. It is a pleasant and clean employment.” “Flower-makers?” muttered Lorilleux. “Every one of them might as well walk the streets.” “Well, what about me?” objected Madame Lerat, pursing her lips. “You’re certainly not very polite. I assure you that I don’t lie down for anyone who whistles.” Then all the rest joined together in hushing her. “Madame Lerat! Oh, Madame Lerat!” By side glances they reminded her of the two girls, fresh from communion, who were burying their noses in their glasses to keep from laughing out loud. The men had been very careful, for propriety’s sake, to use only suitable language, but Madame Lerat refused to follow their example. She flattered herself on her command of language, as she had often been complimented on the way she could say anything before children, without any offence to decency. “Just you listen, there are some very fine women among the flower-makers!” she insisted. “They’re just like other women and they show good taste when they choose to commit a sin.”