down on his stomach, his head over the opening, and he passed the irons
to Coupeau. Then the latter commenced to solder the sheet. He squatted,
he stretched, always managing to balance himself, sometimes seated on
one side, at other times standing on the tip of one foot, often only
holding on by a finger. He had a confounded assurance, the devil's own
cheek, familiar with danger, and braving it. It knew him. It was the
street that was afraid, not he. As he kept his pipe in his mouth, he
turned round every now and then to spit onto the pavement.

"Look, there's Madame Boche," he suddenly exclaimed and called down to
her. "Hi! Madame Boche."

He had just caught sight of the concierge crossing the road. She raised
her head and recognised him, and a conversation ensured between them.
She hid her hands under her apron, her nose elevated in the air. He,
standing up now, his left arm passed round a chimney-pot, leant over.

"Have you seen my wife?" asked he.

"No, I haven't," replied the concierge. "Is she around here?"

"She's coming to fetch me. And are they all well at home?"

"Why, yes, thanks; I'm the most ill, as you see. I'm going to the
Chaussee Clignancourt to buy a small leg of mutton. The butcher near the
Moulin-Rouge only charges sixteen sous."

They raised their voices, because a vehicle was passing. In the wide,
deserted Rue de la Nation, their words, shouted out with all their
might, had only caused a little old woman to come to her window; and