“No, I walked quickly, not as if I was looking for him.”
But Virginie raised her eyes, interrupted herself and heaved a smothered sigh.
“Ah! Mon Dieu! He’s there, on the pavement opposite; he’s looking this way.”
Gervaise, quite beside herself, ventured to glance in the direction indicated. Some persons had collected in the street to hear the party sing. And Lantier was indeed there in the front row, listening and coolly looking on. It was rare cheek, everything considered. Gervaise felt a chill ascend from her legs to her heart, and she no longer dared to move, whilst old Bru continued:
“Trou la la, trou la la,
Trou la, trou la, trou la la!”
“Very good. Thank you, my ancient one, that’s enough!” said Coupeau. “Do you know the whole of it? You shall sing it for us another day when we need something sad.”
This raised a few laughs. The old fellow stopped short, glanced round the table with his pale eyes and resumed his look of a meditative animal. Coupeau called for more wine as the coffee was finished. Clemence was eating strawberries again. With the pause in singing, they began to talk about a woman who had been found hanging that morning in the building next door. It was Madame Lerat’s turn, but she required to prepare herself. She dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of water and applied it to her temples because she was too hot. Then, she asked for a thimbleful of brandy, drank it, and slowly wiped her lips.
“The ‘Child of God,’ shall it be?” she murmured, “the ‘Child of God.’”
And, tall and masculine-looking, with her bony nose and her shoulders as square as a grenadier’s she began:
“The lost child left by its mother alone
Is sure of a home in Heaven above,
God sees and protects it on earth from His throne,
The child that is lost is the child of God’s love.”