Gervaise touched Coupeau on the shoulder just as he was coming out of the little Civet.
“Say, I’m waiting; I’m hungry! I’ve got an empty stomach which is all I ever get from you.”
But he silenced her in a capital style, “You’re hungry, eh? Well, eat your fist, and keep the other for to-morrow.”
He considered it highly improper to do the dramatic in other people’s presence. What, he hadn’t worked, and yet the bakers kneaded bread all the same. Did she take him for a fool, to come and try to frighten him with her stories?
“Do you want me to turn thief?” she muttered, in a dull voice.
My-Boots stroked his chin in conciliatory fashion. “No, that’s forbidden,” said he. “But when a woman knows how to handle herself—”
And Coupeau interrupted him to call out “Bravo!” Yes, a woman always ought to know how to handle herself, but his wife had always been a helpless thing. It would be her fault if they died on the straw. Then he relapsed into his admiration for My-Boots. How awfully fine he looked! A regular landlord; with clean linen and swell shoes! They were no common stuff! His wife, at all events, knew how to keep the pot boiling!
The two men walked towards the outer Boulevard, and Gervaise followed them. After a pause, she resumed, talking behind Coupeau’s back: “I’m hungry; you know, I relied on you. You must find me something to nibble.”
He did not answer, and she repeated, in a tone of despairing agony: “Is that all I get from you?”
“Mon Dieu! I’ve no coin,” he roared, turning round in a fury. “Just leave me alone, eh? Or else I’ll hit you.”