those moments of weakness she so greatly mistrusted, persuaded at last,
too emotionally stirred to refuse anything or to hurt anyone's feelings.
Coupeau didn't realize that she was giving way. He held her wrists so
tightly as to almost crush them. Together they breathed a long sigh that
to both of them meant a partial satisfaction of their desire.

"You'll say 'yes,' won't you," asked he.

"How you worry me!" she murmured. "You wish it? Well then, 'yes.' Ah!
we're perhaps doing a very foolish thing."

He jumped up, and, seizing her round the waist, kissed her roughly on
the face, at random. Then, as this caress caused a noise, he became
anxious, and went softly and looked at Claude and Etienne.

"Hush, we must be careful," said he in a whisper, "and not wake the
children. Good-bye till to-morrow."

And he went back to his room. Gervaise, all in a tremble, remained
seated on the edge of her bed, without thinking of undressing herself
for nearly an hour. She was touched; she felt that Coupeau was very
honorable; for at one moment she had really thought it was all over, and
that he would forget her. The drunkard below, under the window, was now
hoarsely uttering the plaintive cry of some lost animal. The violin in
the distance had left off its saucy tune and was now silent.

During the following days Coupeau sought to get Gervaise to call some
evening on his sister in the Rue de la Goutte-d'Or; but the young woman,
who was very timid, showed a great dread of this visit to the Lorilleux.
She knew that Coupeau had a lingering fear of that household, even