Mathurin, his friend, kept pulling him by the sleeve. “Come on, Jeremie. This isn't the kind of a night to go home without anything to warm you up. What are you afraid of? Isn't your wife going to warm your bed for you?” Jeremie answered: “The other night I couldn't find the door--I had to be fished out of the ditch in front of the house!” He was still laughing at this drunkard's recollection, and he was unconsciously going toward Paumelle's Cafe, where a light was shining in the window; he was going, pulled by Mathurin and pushed by the wind, unable to resist these combined forces. The low room was full of sailors, smoke and noise. All these men, clad in woolens, their elbows on the tables, were shouting to make themselves heard. The more people came in, the more one had to shout in order to overcome the noise of voices and the rattling of dominoes on the marble tables. Jeremie and Mathurin sat down in a corner and began a game, and the glasses were emptied in rapid succession into their thirsty throats. Then they played more games and drank more glasses. Mathurin kept pouring and winking to the saloon keeper, a big, red-faced man, who chuckled as though at the thought of some fine joke; and Jeremie kept absorbing alcohol and wagging his head, giving vent to a roar of laughter and looking at his comrade with a stupid and contented expression. All the customers were going away. Every time that one of them would open the door to leave a gust of wind would blow into the cafe, making the tobacco smoke swirl around, swinging the lamps at the end of their chains and making their flames flicker, and suddenly one could hear the deep booming of a breaking wave and the moaning of the wind. Jeremie, his collar unbuttoned, was taking drunkard's poses, one leg outstretched, one arm hanging down and in the other hand holding a domino. They were alone now with the owner, who had come up to them, interested. He asked: “Well, Jeremie, how goes it inside? Feel less thirsty after wetting your throat?” Jeremie muttered: “The more I wet it, the drier it gets inside.” The innkeeper cast a sly glance at Mathurin. He said: “And your brother, Mathurin, where's he now?” The sailor laughed silently: “Don't worry; he's warm, all right.” And both of them looked toward Jeremie, who was triumphantly putting down the double six and announcing: “Game!” Then the owner declared: “Well, boys, I'm goin' to bed. I will leave you the lamp and the bottle; there's twenty cents' worth in it. Lock the door when you go, Mathurin, and slip the key under the mat the way you did the other night.” Mathurin answered: “Don't worry; it'll be all right.” Paumelle shook hands with his two customers and slowly went up the wooden stairs. For several minutes his heavy step echoed through the little house. Then a loud creaking announced that he had got into bed.