entire lifetime, and they
get pretty well bored by it all. Sit down there; I'm willing to talk it
over at once."

Then until one in the morning, in the dark room and by the faint light
of a smoky tallow candle which they forgot to snuff, they talked
of their marriage, lowering their voices so as not to wake the two
children, Claude and Etienne, who were sleeping, both heads on the same
pillow. Gervaise kept pointing out the children to Coupeau, what a funny
kind of dowry they were. She really shouldn't burden him with them.
Besides, what would the neighbors say? She'd feel ashamed for him
because everyone knew about the story of her life and her lover. They
wouldn't think it decent if they saw them getting married barely two
months later.

Coupeau replied by shrugging his shoulders. He didn't care about the
neighbors! He never bothered about their affairs. So, there was Lantier
before him, well, so what? What's so bad about that? She hadn't been
constantly bringing men upstairs, as some women did, even rich ladies!
The children would grow up, they'd raise them right. Never had he known
before such a woman, such sound character, so good-hearted. Anyway,
she could have been anything, a streetwalker, ugly, lazy and
good-for-nothing, with a whole gang of dirty kids, and so what? He
wanted her.

"Yes, I want you," he repeated, bringing his hand down on his knee with
a continuos hammering. "You understand, I want you. There's nothing to
be said to that, is there?"

Little by little, Gervaise gave way. Her emotions began to take control
when faced with his encompassing desire. Still, with her hands in her
lap and her face suffused with a soft sweetness, she hesitantly offered
objections. From outside, through the half-open window, a lovely June
night breathed in puffs of sultry air, disturbing the candle with its
long wick gleaming red like a glowing coal. In the deep silence of the
sleeping neighborhood the only sound was the infantile weeping of a
drunkard lying in the middle of the street. Far away, in the back room
of some restaurant, a violin was playing a dance tune for some late
party.

Coupeau was silent. Then, knowing she had no more arguments, he smiled,
took hold of her hands and pulled her toward him. She was in one of
those moments of weakness she so greatly mistrusted, persuaded at last,
too emotionally stirred to refuse anything or to hurt anyone's feelings.
Coupeau didn't realize that she was giving way