The morning of a funeral is, fortunately, full of diversions. One has all sorts of preparations to make. To begin with, they lunched. Then it happened to be old Bazouge, the undertaker’s helper, who lived on the sixth floor, who brought the coffin and the sack of bran. He was never sober, the worthy fellow. At eight o’clock that day, he was still lively from the booze of the day before.
“This is for here, isn’t it?” asked he.
And he laid down the coffin, which creaked like a new box. But as he was throwing the sack of bran on one side, he stood with a look of amazement in his eyes, his mouth opened wide, on beholding Gervaise before him.
“Beg pardon, excuse me. I’ve made a mistake,” stammered he. “I was told it was for you.”
He had already taken up the sack again, and the laundress was obliged to call to him:
“Leave it alone, it’s for here.”
“Ah! Mon Dieu! Now I understand!” resumed he, slapping his thigh. “It’s for the old lady.”
Gervaise had turned quite pale. Old Bazouge had brought the coffin for her. By way of apology, he tried to be gallant, and continued:
“I’m not to blame, am I? It was said yesterday that someone on the ground floor had passed away. Then I thought—you know, in our business, these things enter by one ear and go out by the other. All the same, my compliments to you. As late as possible, eh? That’s best, though life isn’t always amusing; ah! no, by no means.”
As Gervaise listened to him, she draw back, afraid he would grab her and take her away in the box. She remembered the time before, when he had told her he knew of women who would thank him to come and get them. Well, she wasn’t ready yet. Mon Dieu! The thought sent chills down her spine. Her life may have been bitter, but she wasn’t ready to give it up yet. No, she would starve for years first.