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Only they would rather have died than have applied to the Lorilleuxs, for they knew they were too tight-fisted. Thus Gervaise displayed remarkable courage in going to knock at their door. She felt so frightened in the passage that she experienced the sudden relief of people who ring a dentist's bell. "Come in!" cried the chainmaker in a sour voice. How warm and nice it was inside.
In the midst of the paroxysm, he spoke, and said in a choking voice, still without looking at Gervaise, as though he was merely mentioning the thing to himself: "I'm making the herring-bone chain." Coupeau urged Gervaise to get up. She might draw nearer and see. The chainmaker consented with a grunt. He wound the wire prepared by his wife round a mandrel, a very thin steel rod.
The Lorilleux were furious enough to explode, especially since Madame Lerat was now back on good terms with the Coupeaus. One day the two sisters, the flower-maker and the chainmaker came to blows about Gervaise because Madame Lerat dared to express approval of the way she was taking care of their mother.
At length he decided to broach the subject himself. "I say, Lorilleux, we're counting on you to be my wife's witness." The chainmaker pretended, with a chuckle, to be greatly surprised; whilst his wife, leaving her draw-plates, placed herself in the middle of the work-room. "So it's serious then?" murmured he. "That confounded Young Cassis, one never knows whether he is joking or not."
I say, Lorilleux, don't you think madame's like Therese you know who I mean, that woman who used to live opposite, and who died of consumption?" "Yes, there's a certain resemblance," replied the chainmaker. "And you've got two children, madame?
Gervaise was saying at the same moment, speaking of the chainmaker and his wife. "To think that those skinflints have not even brought a bunch of violets for their mother!" The Lorilleuxs, true enough, had come empty-handed. Madame Lerat had given a wreath of artificial flowers. And a wreath of immortelles and a bouquet bought by the Coupeaus were also placed on the coffin.
This time, however, they meant to watch her. And as she approached nearer, with her feet on the board, the chainmaker roughly called out, without giving any further answer to her question: "Look out, pest take care; you'll be carrying some scraps of gold away on the soles of your shoes. One would think you had greased them on purpose to make the gold stick to them." Gervaise slowly drew back.
The Lorilleux, without going and eating consecrated bread in church, plumed themselves on their religious sentiments. "It shall be next Sunday, if you like," said the chainmaker. And Gervaise having consented by a nod, everyone kissed her and told her to take good care of herself. They also wished the baby good-bye.
He has considerable flesh on his bones and does not look as if he had been starved. His soup was always ready to the minute. Tell me, Lorilleux, don't you think that my brother's friend looks like Therese you know whom I mean that woman opposite, who died of consumption?" "She certainly does," answered the chainmaker contemplatively. "And you have two children, madame?
One of his sisters, a widow of thirty-six, worked in a flower shop and lived in the Batignolles section, on Rue des Moines. The other sister was thirty years old now. She had married a deadpan chainmaker named Lorilleux. That's where he was going now. They lived in a big tenement on the left side. He ate with them in the evenings; it saved a bit for all of them.
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