One of the keepers escorted Gervaise. She was ascending a staircase, when she heard howlings which made her shiver to her very bones. “He’s playing a nice music, isn’t he?” observed the keeper. “Who is?” asked she. “Why, your old man! He’s been yelling like that ever since the day before yesterday; and he dances, you’ll just see.” _Mon Dieu!_ what a sight! She stood as one transfixed. The cell was padded from the floor to the ceiling. On the floor there were two straw mats, one piled on top of the other; and in a corner were spread a mattress and a bolster, nothing more. Inside there Coupeau was dancing and yelling, his blouse in tatters and his limbs beating the air. He wore the mask of one about to die. What a breakdown! He bumped up against the window, then retired backwards, beating time with his arms and shaking his hands as though he were trying to wrench them off and fling them in somebody’s face. One meets with buffoons in low dancing places who imitate the delirium tremens, only they imitate it badly. One must see this drunkard’s dance if one wishes to know what it is like when gone through in earnest. The song also has its merits, a continuous yell worthy of carnival-time, a mouth wide open uttering the same hoarse trombone notes for hours together. Coupeau had the howl of a beast with a crushed paw. Strike up, music! Gentlemen, choose your partners! “_Mon Dieu!_ what is the matter with him? What is the matter with him?” repeated Gervaise, seized with fear. A house surgeon, a big fair fellow with a rosy countenance, and wearing a white apron, was quietly sitting taking notes. The case was a curious one; the doctor did not leave the patient. “Stay a while if you like,” said he to the laundress; “but keep quiet. Try and speak to him, he will not recognise you.” Coupeau indeed did not even appear to see his wife. She had only had a bad view of him on entering, he was wriggling about so much. When she looked him full in the face, she stood aghast. _Mon Dieu!_ was it possible he had a countenance like that, his eyes full of blood and his lips covered with scabs? She would certainly never have known him. To begin with, he was making too many grimaces, without saying why, his mouth suddenly out of all shape, his nose curled up, his cheeks drawn in, a perfect animal’s muzzle. His skin was so hot the air steamed around him; and his hide was as though varnished, covered with a heavy sweat which trickled off him. In his mad dance, one could see all the same that he was not at his ease, his head was heavy and his limbs ached. Gervaise drew near to the house surgeon, who was strumming a tune with the tips of his fingers on the back of his chair. “Tell me, sir, it’s serious then this time?” The house surgeon nodded his head without answering. “Isn’t he jabbering to himself? Eh! don’t you hear? What’s it about? “About things he sees,” murmured the young man. “Keep quiet, let me listen.”