The panes of glass of the shop-front resounded, the singers’ great volume of breath agitated the muslin curtains. Whilst all this was going on, Virginie had already twice disappeared and each time, on returning, had leant towards Gervaise’s ear to whisper a piece of information. When she returned the third time, in the midst of the uproar, she said to her:
“My dear, he’s still at Francois’s; he’s pretending to read the newspaper. He’s certainly meditating some evil design.”
She was speaking of Lantier. It was him that she had been watching. At each fresh report Gervaise became more and more grave.
“Is he drunk?” asked she of Virginie.
“No,” replied the tall brunette. “He looks as though he had merely had what he required. It’s that especially which makes me anxious. Why does he remain there if he’s had all he wanted? Mon Dieu! I hope nothing is going to happen!”
The laundress, greatly upset, begged her to leave off. A profound silence suddenly succeeded the clamor. Madame Putois had just risen and was about to sing “The Boarding of the Pirate.” The guests, silent and thoughtful, watched her; even Poisson had laid his pipe down on the edge of the table the better to listen to her. She stood up to the full height of her little figure, with a fierce expression about her, though her face looked quite pale beneath her black cap; she thrust out her left fist with a satisfied pride as she thundered in a voice bigger than herself:
“If the pirate audacious
Should o’er the waves chase us,
The buccaneer slaughter,
Accord him no quarter.
To the guns every man,
And with rum fill each can!
While these pests of the seas
Dangle from the cross-trees.”
That was something serious. By Jove! it gave one a fine idea of the real thing. Poisson, who had been on board ship nodded his head in approval of the description. One could see too that that song was in accordance with Madame Putois’s own feeling. Coupeau then told how Madame Putois, one evening on Rue Poulet, had slapped the face of four men who sought to attack her virtue.
With the assistance of mother Coupeau, Gervaise was now serving the coffee, though some of the guests had not yet finished their Savoy cake. They would not let her sit down again, but shouted that it was her turn. With a pale face, and looking very ill at ease, she tried to excuse herself; she seemed so queer that someone inquired whether the goose had disagreed with her. She finally gave them “Oh! let me slumber!” in a sweet and feeble voice. When she reached the chorus with its wish for a sleep filled with beautiful dreams, her eyelids partly closed and her rapt gaze lost itself in the darkness of the street.
Poisson stood next and with an abrupt bow to the ladies, sang a drinking song: “The Wines of France.” But his voice wasn’t very musical and only the final verse, a patriotic one mentioning the tricolor flag, was a success. Then he raised his glass high, juggled it a moment, and poured the contents into his open mouth.