January had now arrived; the weather was wretched, both damp and cold. Mother Coupeau, who had coughed and choked all through December, was obliged to take to her bed after Twelfth-night. It was her annuity, which she expected every winter. This winter though, those around her said she’d never come out of her bedroom except feet first. Indeed, her gaspings sounded like a death rattle. She was still fat, but one eye was blind and one side of her face was twisted. The doctor made one call and didn’t return again. They kept giving her tisanes and going to check on her every hour. She could no longer speak because her breathing was so difficult.
One Monday evening, Coupeau came home totally drunk. Ever since his mother was in danger, he had lived in a continual state of deep emotion. When he was in bed, snoring soundly, Gervaise walked about the place for a while. She was in the habit of watching over mother Coupeau during a part of the night. Nana had showed herself very brave, always sleeping beside the old woman, and saying that if she heard her dying, she would wake everyone. Since the invalid seemed to be sleeping peacefully this night, Gervaise finally yielded to the appeals of Lantier to come into his room for a little rest. They only kept a candle alight, standing on the ground behind the wardrobe. But towards three o’clock Gervaise abruptly jumped out of bed, shivering and oppressed with anguish. She thought she had felt a cold breath pass over her body. The morsel of candle had burnt out; she tied on her petticoats in the dark, all bewildered, and with feverish hands. It was not till she got into the little room, after knocking up against the furniture, that she was able to light a small lamp. In the midst of the oppressive silence of night, the zinc-worker’s snores alone sounded as two grave notes. Nana, stretched on her back, was breathing gently between her pouting lips. And Gervaise, holding down the lamp which caused big shadows to dance about the room, cast the light on mother Coupeau’s face, and beheld it all white, the head lying on the shoulder, the eyes wide open. Mother Coupeau was dead.
Gently, without uttering a cry, icy cold yet prudent, the laundress returned to Lantier’s room. He had gone to sleep again. She bent over him and murmured:
“Listen, it’s all over, she’s dead.”
Heavy with sleep, only half awake, he grunted at first:
“Leave me alone, get into bed. We can’t do her any good if she’s dead.”
Then he raised himself on his elbow and asked:
“What’s the time?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Only three o’clock! Get into bed quick. You’ll catch cold. When it’s daylight, we’ll see what’s to be done.”