Gervaise shuffled along the passage in her slippers, bending her back and feeling heavy. On reaching her door she did not open it—her room frightened her. It would be better to walk about, she would learn patience. As she passed by she stretched out her neck, peering into Pere Bru’s kennel under the stairs. There, for instance, was another one who must have a fine appetite, for he had breakfasted and dined by heart during the last three days. However, he wasn’t at home, there was only his hole, and Gervaise felt somewhat jealous, thinking that perhaps he had been invited somewhere. Then, as she reached the Bijards’ she heard Lalie moaning, and, as the key was in the lock as usual, she opened the door and went in. “What is the matter?” she asked. The room was very clean. One could see that Lalie had carefully swept it, and arranged everything during the morning. Misery might blow into the room as much as it liked, carry off the chattels and spread all the dirt and refuse about. Lalie, however, came behind and tidied everything, imparting, at least, some appearance of comfort within. She might not be rich, but you realized that there was a housewife in the place. That afternoon her two little ones, Henriette and Jules, had found some old pictures which they were cutting out in a corner. But Gervaise was greatly surprised to see Lalie herself in bed, looking very pale, with the sheet drawn up to her chin. In bed, indeed, then she must be seriously ill! “What is the matter with you?” inquired Gervaise, feeling anxious. Lalie no longer groaned. She slowly raised her white eyelids, and tried to compel her lips to smile, although they were convulsed by a shudder. “There’s nothing the matter with me,” she whispered very softly. “Really nothing at all.” Then, closing her eyes again, she added with an effort: “I made myself too tired during the last few days, and so I’m doing the idle; I’m nursing myself, as you see.” But her childish face, streaked with livid stains, assumed such an expression of anguish that Gervaise, forgetting her own agony, joined her hands and fell on her knees near the bed. For the last month she had seen the girl clinging to the walls for support when she went about, bent double indeed, by a cough which seemed to presage a coffin. Now the poor child could not even cough. She had a hiccough and drops of blood oozed from the corners of her mouth. “It’s not my fault if I hardly feel strong,” she murmured, as if relieved. “I’ve tired myself to-day, trying to put things to rights. It’s pretty tidy, isn’t it? And I wanted to clean the windows as well, but my legs failed me. How stupid! However, when one has finished one can go to bed.” She paused, then said, “Pray, see if my little ones are not cutting themselves with the scissors.”