discovered various cheerful touches--a wall-flower blooming in a pot, a
cage of chirruping canaries, shaving-glasses shining like stars in
the depth of the shadow. A carpenter was singing in his work-shop,
accompanied by the whining of his plane. The blacksmith's hammers were
ringing rhythmically.

In contrast to the apparent wretched poverty, at nearly every open
window appeared the begrimed faces of laughing children. Women with
peaceful faces could be seen bent over their sewing. The rooms were
empty of men who had gone back to work after lunch. The whole tenement
was tranquil except for the sounds from the work-shops below which
served as a sort of lullaby that went on, unceasingly, always the same.

The only thing she did not like was the courtyard's dampness. She would
want rooms at the rear, on the sunny side. Gervaise took a few more
steps into the courtyard, inhaling the characteristic odor of the slums,
comprised of dust and rotten garbage. But the sharp odor of the waste
water from the dye shop was strong, and Gervaise thought it smelled
better here than at the Hotel Boncoeur. She chose a window for herself,
the one at the far left with a small window box planted with scarlet
runners.

"I'm afraid I've kept you waiting rather a long time," said Coupeau,
whom she suddenly heard close beside her. "They always make an awful
fuss whenever I don't dine with them, and it was worse than ever to-day
as my sister had bought some veal."

And as Gervaise had slightly started with surprise, he continued
glancing around in his turn: