wide expanse of quietness. The muffled voices of the washerwomen and
the rhythmic puffing of the steam engine seemed to deepen the almost
religious silence. Open fields and narrow lanes vanishing between dark
walls gave it the air of a country village. Coupeau, always amused by
the infrequent pedestrians having to jump over the continuous streams of
soapy water, said it reminded him of a country town where his uncle had
taken him when he was five years old. Gervaise's greatest joy was a tree
growing in the courtyard to the left of their window, an acacia that
stretched out a single branch and yet, with its meager foliage, lent
charm to the entire street.

It was on the last day of April that Gervaise was confined. The pains
came on in the afternoon, towards four o'clock, as she was ironing a
pair of curtains at Madame Fauconnier's. She would not go home at
once, but remained there wriggling about on a chair, and continuing
her ironing every time the pain allowed her to do so; the curtains
were wanted quickly and she obstinately made a point of finishing them.
Besides, perhaps after all it was only a colic; it would never do to
be frightened by a bit of a stomach-ache. But as she was talking of
starting on some shirts, she became quite pale. She was obliged to leave
the work-shop, and cross the street doubled in two, holding on to the
walls. One of the workwomen offered to accompany her; she declined, but
begged her to go instead for the midwife, close by, in the Rue de la
Charbonniere. This was only a false alarm; there was no need to make a
fuss. She would be like that no doubt all through the night. It was not
going to prevent her getting Coupeau's dinner ready as soon as she
was indoors; then she might perhaps lie down on the bed a little, but
without undressing. On the staircase she was seized with such a violent
pain, that she was obliged to sit down on one of the stairs; and she
pressed her two fists against her mouth to prevent herself from crying