It happened one November evening that they went into the “Grand Hall of Folly” to warm themselves. Out of doors a sharp wind cut you across the face. But the hall was crammed. There was a thundering big swarm inside; people at all the tables, people in the middle, people up above, quite an amount of flesh. Yes, those who cared for tripes could enjoy themselves. When they had made the round twice without finding a vacant table, they decided to remain standing and wait till somebody went off. Coupeau was teetering on his legs, in a dirty blouse, with an old cloth cap which had lost its peak flattened down on his head. And as he blocked the way, he saw a scraggy young fellow who was wiping his coat-sleeve after elbowing him. “Say!” cried Coupeau in a fury, as he took his pipe out of his black mouth. “Can’t you apologize? And you play the disgusted one? Just because a fellow wears a blouse!” The young man turned round and looked at the zinc-worker from head to foot. “I’ll just teach you, you scraggy young scamp,” continued Coupeau, “that the blouse is the finest garment out; yes! the garment of work. I’ll wipe you if you like with my fists. Did one ever hear of such a thing—a ne’er-do-well insulting a workman!” Gervaise tried to calm him, but in vain. He drew himself up in his rags, in full view, and struck his blouse, roaring: “There’s a man’s chest under that!” Thereupon the young man dived into the midst of the crowd, muttering: “What a dirty blackguard!” Coupeau wanted to follow and catch him. He wasn’t going to let himself be insulted by a fellow with a coat on. Probably it wasn’t even paid for! Some second-hand toggery to impress a girl with, without having to fork out a centime. If he caught the chap again, he’d bring him down on his knees and make him bow to the blouse. But the crush was too great; there was no means of walking. He and Gervaise turned slowly round the dancers; there were three rows of sightseers packed close together, whose faces lighted up whenever any of the dancers showed off. As Coupeau and Gervaise were both short, they raised themselves up on tiptoe, trying to see something besides the chignons and hats that were bobbing about. The cracked brass instruments of the orchestra were furiously thundering a quadrille, a perfect tempest which made the hall shake; while the dancers, striking the floor with their feet, raised a cloud of dust which dimmed the brightness of the gas. The heat was unbearable. “Look there,” said Gervaise suddenly. “Look at what?” “Why, at that velvet hat over there.”