Then they entered into details respecting the bird. Gervaise gave the facts. It was the best she could get at the poulterer’s in the Faubourg Poissonniers; it weighed twelve and a half pounds on the scales at the charcoal-dealer’s; they had burnt nearly half a bushel of charcoal in cooking it, and it had given three bowls full of drippings.
Virginie interrupted her to boast of having seen it before it was cooked. “You could have eaten it just as it was,” she said, “its skin was so fine, like the skin of a blonde.” All the men laughed at this, smacking their lips. Lorilleux and Madame Lorilleux sniffed disdainfully, almost choking with rage to see such a goose on Clump-clump’s table.
“Well! We can’t eat it whole,” the laundress observed. “Who’ll cut it up? No, no, not me! It’s too big; I’m afraid of it.”
Coupeau offered his services. Mon Dieu! it was very simple. You caught hold of the limbs, and pulled them off; the pieces were good all the same. But the others protested; they forcibly took possession of the large kitchen knife which the zinc-worker already held in his hand, saying that whenever he carved he made a regular graveyard of the platter. Finally, Madame Lerat suggested in a friendly tone:
“Listen, it should be Monsieur Poisson; yes, Monsieur Poisson.”
But, as the others did not appear to understand, she added in a more flattering manner still:
“Why, yes, of course, it should be Monsieur Poisson, who’s accustomed to the use of arms.”
And she passed the kitchen knife to the policeman. All round the table they laughed with pleasure and approval. Poisson bowed his head with military stiffness, and moved the goose before him. When he thrust the knife into the goose, which cracked, Lorilleux was seized with an outburst of patriotism.
“Ah! if it was a Cossack!” he cried.
“Have you ever fought with Cossacks, Monsieur Poisson?” asked Madame Boche.