"And never to be beaten," added Coupeau gaily. "But I would never beat
you, if you would only try me, Madame Gervaise. You've no cause for
fear. I don't drink and then I love you too much. Come, shall it be
marriage? I'll get you divorced and make you my wife."

He was speaking low, whispering at the back of her neck while she made
her way through the crowd of men with her basket held before her. She
kept shaking her head "no." Yet she turned around to smile at him,
apparently happy to know that he never drank. Yes, certainly, she would
say "yes" to him, except she had already sworn to herself never to start
up with another man. Eventually they reached the door and went out.

When they left, l'Assommoir was packed to the door, spilling its hubbub
of rough voices and its heavy smell of vitriol into the street. My-Boots
could be heard railing at Pere Colombe, calling him a scoundrel and
accusing him of only half filling his glass. He didn't have to come in
here. He'd never come back. He suggested to his comrades a place near
the Barriere Saint-Denis where you drank good stuff straight.

"Ah," sighed Gervaise when they reached the sidewalk. "You can breathe
out here. Good-bye, Monsieur Coupeau, and thank you. I must hurry now."

He seized her hand as she started along the boulevard, insisting, "Take
a walk with me along Rue de la Goutte-d'Or. It's not much farther for
you. I've got to see my sister before going back to work. We'll keep
each other company."

In the end, Gervaise agreed and they walked beside each other along the
Rue des Poissonniers, although she did not take his arm. He told
her about his family. His mother, an old vest-maker, now had to do
housekeeping because her eyesight was poor. Her birthday was the third
of last month and she was sixty-two. He was the youngest. 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.
But he had been invited out this evening and he was going to tell her
not to expect him.

Gervaise, who was listening to him, suddenly interrupted him to ask,
with a smile: "So you're called 'Young Cassis,' Monsieur Coupeau?"

"Oh!" replied he, "it's a nickname my mates have giv