The street is full of women who have been waiting there since the morning, outside an ugly granite building: the sailors' pay office. Women of Brest, deterred in no wise by the cold rain, they are talking querulously, their feet in water, hugging the walls of the mournful little street, in the grey mist.
It is the first day of the quarter. They form a queue to get their money and none too soon, for money is wanting in all the dark dwellings of the town.
Wives of sailors far away at sea, they are waiting to draw their allowances, the pay which those sailors have allotted them.
And when they have drawn it they will spend it on drink. There is, opposite, a tavern which has been established specially for their convenience. It is called À la mère de famille and the proprietress is one Madame Pétavin. It is known in Brest as le cabaret de la délégue (the tavern of the allowance).
Madame Quéméneur, pug-faced, square-jawed, big-bellied, wears a waterproof and a bonnet of black tulle trimmed with blue shells.
Madame Kerdoncuff, sickly, greenish, with a look of a blue-bottle, shows a mean, sly-looking face under a hat trimmed with two roses with their foliage.
As the hour approaches the crowd of inebriates increases. The paying office is besieged; there are disputes at the doors. The cashier's desk is about to open.
And Marie, the wife of Yves, is there too, in this unclean promiscuousness, holding little Pierre by the hand. Timid, depressed, filled with a vague fear of all these women, she allows the more impatient to pass and waits against the wall on the side sheltered from the rain.
"Come in, my good woman, instead of letting the dear little fellow get wet like this."
It is Madame Pétavin who speaks. She has just appeared at her door, her face wreathed in smiles.