artistically cutting out his zinc. With his compasses he traced a line,
and he detached a large fan-shaped piece with the aid of a pair of
curved shears; then he lightly bent this fan with his hammer into the
form of a pointed mushroom. Zidore was again blowing the charcoal in the
chafing-dish. The sun was setting behind the house in a brilliant rosy
light, which was gradually becoming paler, and turning to a delicate
lilac. And, at this quiet hour of the day, right up against the sky,
the silhouettes of the two workmen, looking inordinately large, with the
dark line of the bench, and the strange profile of the bellows, stood
out from the limpid back-ground of the atmosphere.

When the chimney-top was got into shape, Coupeau called out: "Zidore!
The irons!"

But Zidore had disappeared. The zinc-worker swore, and looked about for
him, even calling him through the open skylight of the loft. At length
he discovered him on a neighboring roof, two houses off. The young rogue
was taking a walk, exploring the environs, his fair scanty locks blowing
in the breeze, his eyes blinking as they beheld the immensity of Paris.

"I say, lazy bones! Do you think you're having a day in the country?"
asked Coupeau, in a rage. "You're like Monsieur Beranger, composing
verses, perhaps! Will you give me those irons! Did any one ever see
such a thing! Strolling about on the house-tops! Why not bring your
sweetheart at once, and tell her of your love? Will you give me those
irons? You confounded little shirker!"

He finished his soldering, and called to Gervaise: "There, it's done.
I'm coming down."