Hutin grumbled, “This is a fine dance, with all this crockery!”
Their table, Favier's and his, was at the end of the corridor in the last dining-room. The rooms were all alike, old cellars twelve feet by fifteen, which had been cemented over and fitted up as refectories; but the damp came through the paint-work, the yellow walls were covered with greenish spots; and, from the narrow air-holes, opening on the street, on a level with the pavement, there fell a livid light, incessantly traversed by the vague shadows of the passers-by. In July as in December, one was stifled in the warm air, laden with nauseous smells, coming from the neighbourhood of the kitchen.
Hutin went in first. On the table, which was fixed at one end to the wall, and covered with American cloth, there were only the glasses, knives, and forks, marking oft the places. A pile of clean plates stood at each end; whilst in the middle was a big loaf, a knife sticking in it, with the handle in the air. Hutin got rid of his bottle and laid down his plate; then, after having taken his napkin from the bottom of a set of pigeonholes, the sole ornament on the walls, he heaved a sigh and sat down.
“And I'm fearfully hungry, too!” he murmured.
“It's always like that,” replied Favier, who took his place on the left. “Nothing to eat when one is starving.”
The table was rapidly filling. It contained twenty-two places. At first nothing was heard but a loud clattering of knives and forks, the gormandising of big fellows with stomachs emptied by thirteen hours' daily work. Formerly the employees had an hour for meals, which enabled them to go outside to a café and take their coffee; and they would despatch their dinner in twenty minutes, anxious to get into the street But this stirred them up too much, they came back careless, indisposed for business; and the managers had decided that they should not go out, but pay an extra three halfpence for a cup of coffee, if they wanted it. So that now they were in no hurry, but prolonged the meal, not at all anxious to go back to work before time. A great many read some newspaper, between mouthfuls, the journal folded and placed against their bottle. Others, their first hunger satisfied, talked noisily, always returning to the eternal grievance of the bad food, the money they had earned, what they had done the previous Sunday, and what they were going to do on the next one.
“I say, what about your Robineau?” asked a salesman of Hutin.
The struggle between the salesmen of the silk department and their second-hand occupied all the counters. The question was discussed every evening at the Café Saint-Roch until midnight. Hutin, who was busy with his piece of beef, contented himself with replying:
“Well! he's come back, Robineau has.” Then, suddenly getting angry, he resumed: “But confound it! they've given me a bit of a donkey, I believe! It's becoming disgusting, my word of honour!”
“You needn't grumble!” said Favier. “I was flat enough to ask for skate. It's putrid.”