"Oh! Monsieur Coupeau," murmured she, "whatever are you thinking of?
You know I've never asked you for that. I didn't care about it--that was
all. Oh, no, no! it's serious now; think of what you're saying, I beg of
you."

But he continued to shake his head with an air of unalterable
resolution. He had already thought it all over. He had come down because
he wanted to have a good night. She wasn't going to send him back to
weep again he supposed! As soon as she said "yes," he would no longer
bother her, and she could go quietly to bed. He only wanted to hear her
say "yes." They could talk it over on the morrow.

"But I certainly can't say 'yes' just like that," resumed Gervaise. "I
don't want you to be able to accuse me later on of having incited you to
do a foolish thing. You shouldn't be so insistent, Monsieur Coupeau. You
can't really be sure that you're in love with me. If you didn't see
me for a week, it might fade away. Sometimes men get married and then
there's day after day, stretching out into an entire lifetime, and they
get pretty well bored by it all. Sit down there; I'm willing to talk it
over at once."

Then until one in the morning, in the dark room and by the faint light
of a smoky tallow candle which they forgot to snuff, they talked
of their marriage, lowering their voices so as not to wake the two
children, Claude and Etienne, who were sleeping, both heads on the same
pillow. Gervaise kept pointing out the children to Coupeau, what a funny
kind of dowry they were. She really shouldn't burden him with them.
Besides, what would the neighbors say? She'd feel ashamed for him
because everyone knew about the story of her life and her lover. They