On Coupeau's side, this continual familiarity inflamed him more and
more until it began to seriously bother him. He began to feel tense and
uneasy. He continued with his foolish talk, never failing to ask her,
"When will it be?" She understood what he meant and teased him. He would
then come to visit her carrying his bedroom slippers, as if he were
moving in. She joked about it and continued calmly without blushing at
the allusions with which he was always surrounding her. She stood for
anything from him as long as he didn't get rough. She only got angry
once when he pulled a strand of her hair while trying to force a kiss
from her.

Towards the end of June, Coupeau lost his liveliness. He became most
peculiar. Gervaise, feeling uneasy at some of his glances, barricaded
herself in at night. Then, after having sulked ever since the Sunday, he
suddenly came on the Tuesday night about eleven o'clock and knocked at
her room. She would not open to him; but his voice was so gentle and so
trembling that she ended by removing the chest of drawers she had pushed
against the door. When he entered, she thought he was ill; he looked so
pale, his eyes were so red, and the veins on his face were all swollen.
And he stood there, stuttering and shaking his head. No, no, he was not
ill. He had been crying for two hours upstairs in his room; he wept like
a child, biting his pillow so as not to be heard by the neighbors. For
three nights past he had been unable to sleep. It could not go on like
that.

"Listen, Madame Gervaise," said he, with a swelling in his throat and on
the point of bursting out crying again; "we must end this, mustn't we?
We'll go and get married. It's what I want. I've quite made up my mind."

Gervaise showed great surprise. She was very grave.