The second lunch-bell rang, the clang of which came up from the basement, distant and deadened in the close air of the shop. Hutin and Favier went down. From all the counters, the salesmen were arriving one by one, helter-skelter, hastening below to the narrow entrance to the kitchen, a damp passage always lighted with gas. The throng pushed forward, without a laugh or a word, amidst an increasing noise of crockery and a strong odour of food. At the extremity of the passage there was a sudden halt, before a wicket. Flanked with piles of plates, armed with forks and spoons, which he was plunging in the copper-pans, a cook was distributing the portions. And when he stood aside, the flaring kitchen could be seen behind his white-covered belly. “Of course!” muttered Hutin, consulting the bill of fare, written on a black-board above the wicket. “Beef and pungent sauce, or skate. Never any roast meat in this rotten shop! Their boiled beef and fish don't do a bit of good to a fellow!” Moreover, the fish was universally neglected, for the pan was quite full. Favier, however, took some skate. Behind him, Hutin stooped down, saying: “Beef and pungent sauce.” With a mechanical movement, the cook picked up a piece of meat, and poured a spoonful of sauce over it; and Hutin, suffocated by the ardent breath from the kitchen, had hardly got his portion, before the words, “Beef, pungent sauce; beef, pungent sauce,” followed each other like a litany; whilst the cook continued to pick up the meat and pour over the sauce, with the rapid and rhythmical movement of a well-regulated clock. “But the skate's cold,” declared Favier, whose hand felt no warmth from the plate. They were all hurrying along now, with their plates held out straight, for fear of running up against one another. Ten steps further was the bar, another wicket with a shiny zinc counter, on which were ranged the shares of wine, small bottles, without corks, still damp from rinsing. And each took one of these bottles in his empty hand as he passed, and then, completely laden, made for his table with a serious air, careful not to spill anything. Hutin grumbled, “This is a fine dance, with all this crockery!” Their table, Favier's and his, was at the end of the corridor in the last dining-room. The rooms were all alike, old cellars twelve feet by fifteen, which had been cemented over and fitted up as refectories; but the damp came through the paint-work, the yellow walls were covered with greenish spots; and, from the narrow air-holes, opening on the street, on a level with the pavement, there fell a livid light, incessantly traversed by the vague shadows of the passers-by. In July as in December, one was stifled in the warm air, laden with nauseous smells, coming from the neighbourhood of the kitchen.