without letting your wife know, a handful of fresh nettles picked in
bright sunlight.

The table had been pushed over close to the bed. Until ten o'clock
Gervaise lay there, smiling although she was only half awake. She was
becoming more and more weary, her head turned sideways on the pillow.
She no longer had the energy to venture a remark or a gesture. It seemed
to her that she was dead, a very sweet death, from the depths of which
she was happy to observe the others still in the land of the living. The
thin cries of her baby daughter rose above the hum of heavy voices that
were discussing a recent murder on Rue du Bon Puits, at the other end of
La Chapelle.

Then, as the visitors were thinking of leaving, they spoke of the
christening. The Lorilleux had promised to be godfather and godmother;
they looked very glum over the matter. However, if they had not been
asked to stand they would have felt rather peculiar. Coupeau did not see
any need for christening the little one; it certainly would not procure
her an income of ten thousand francs, and besides she might catch a
cold from it. The less one had to do with priests the better. But mother
Coupeau called him a heathen. 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. Each
one went and leant over the little trembling body with smiles and loving
words as though she were able to understand. They called her Nana, the