Gervaise was still wiping the same plate, although it had long since been clean and shiny. Virginie was reflecting, anxious about a couple of bills which fell due on the morrow and which she didn’t know how to pay; whilst Lantier, stout and fat, perspiring the sugar he fed off, ventured his enthusiasm for well-dressed little hussies. The shop, which was already three parts eaten up, smelt of ruin. Yes, there were only a few more burnt almonds to nibble, a little more barley-sugar to suck, to clean the Poissons’ business out. Suddenly, on the pavement over the way, he perceived the policeman, who was on duty, pass by all buttoned up with his sword dangling by his side. And this made him all the gayer. He compelled Virginie to look at her husband. “Dear me,” he muttered, “Badingue looks fine this morning! Just look, see how stiff he walks. He must have stuck a glass eye in his back to surprise people.” When Gervaise went back upstairs, she found Coupeau seated on the bed, in the torpid state induced by one of his attacks. He was looking at the window-panes with his dim expressionless eyes. She sat herself down on a chair, tired out, her hands hanging beside her dirty skirt; and for a quarter of an hour she remained in front of him without saying a word. “I’ve had some news,” she muttered at last. “Your daughter’s been seen. Yes, your daughter’s precious stylish and hasn’t any more need of you. She’s awfully happy, she is! Ah! _Mon Dieu!_ I’d give a great deal to be in her place.” Coupeau was still staring at the window-pane. But suddenly he raised his ravaged face, and stammered with an idiotic laugh: “Well, my little lamb, I’m not stopping you. You’re not yet so bad looking when you wash yourself. As folks say, however old a pot may be, it ends by finding its lid. And, after all, I wouldn’t care if it only buttered our bread.” CHAPTER XII It must have been the Saturday after quarter day, something like the 12th or 13th of January—Gervaise didn’t quite know. She was losing her wits, for it was centuries since she had had anything warm in her stomach. Ah! what an infernal week! A complete clear out. Two loaves of four pounds each on Tuesday, which had lasted till Thursday; then a dry crust found the night before, and finally not a crumb for thirty-six hours, a real dance before the cupboard! What did she know, by the way, what she felt on her back, was the frightful cold, a black cold, the sky as grimy as a frying-pan, thick with snow which obstinately refused to fall. When winter and hunger are both together in your guts, you may tighten your belt as much as you like, it hardly feeds you.