quieter, and through cracks in the woodwork only such sounds filtered as
the rhythm of a cradle rocking, the stifled crying of a child, a woman's
voice sounding like the dull murmur of running water with no words
distinct. Gervaise read the various signs on the doors giving the names
of the occupants: "Madame Gaudron, wool-carder" and "Monsieur Madinier,
cardboard boxes." There was a fight in progress on the fourth floor: a
stomping of feet that shook the floor, furniture banged around, a racket
of curses and blows; but this did not bother the neighbors opposite, who
were playing cards with their door opened wide to admit more air.

When Gervaise reached the fifth floor, she had to stop to take a breath;
she was not used to going up so high; that wall for ever turning, the
glimpses she had of the lodgings following each other, made her head
ache. Anyway, there was a family almost blocking the landing: the father
washing the dishes over a small earthenware stove near the sink and the
mother sitting with her back to the stair-rail and cleaning the baby
before putting it to bed.

Coupeau kept urging Gervaise along, and they finally reached the sixth
floor. He encouraged her with a smile; they had arrived! She had been
hearing a voice all the way up from the bottom and she was gazing
upward, wondering where it could be coming from, a voice so clear and
piercing that it had dominated all the other sounds. It came from a
little old woman in an attic room who sang while putting dresses on
cheap dolls. When a tall girl came by with a pail of water and entered
a nearby apartment, Gervaise saw a tumbled bed on which a man was
sprawled, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. As the door closed behind her,
Gervaise saw the hand-written card: "Mademoiselle Clemence, ironing."

Now that she had finally made it to the top, her legs weary and her