her fingers suspiciously.

"You must be careful," said he, "the tiny bits of gold stick to the
shoes, and get carried away without one knowing it."

It was all to do with business. The employers didn't allow a single
speck for waste. He showed her the rabbit's foot he used to brush off
any flecks of gold left on the _cheville_ and the leather he kept on
his lap to catch any gold that fell. Twice weekly the shop was swept out
carefully, the sweepings collected and burned and the ashes sifted. This
recovered up to twenty-five or thirty francs' worth of gold a month.

Madame Lorilleux could not take her eyes from Gervaise's shoes.

"There's no reason to get angry," murmured she with an amiable smile.
"But, perhaps madame would not mind looking at the soles of her shoes."

And Gervaise, turning very red, sat down again, and holding up her feet
showed that there was nothing clinging to them. Coupeau had opened the
door, exclaiming: "Good-night!" in an abrupt tone of voice. He called to
her from the corridor. Then she in her turn went off, after stammering
a few polite words: she hoped to see them again, and that they would
all agree well together. Both of the Lorilleux had already gone back
to their work at the far end of their dark hole of a work-room. Madame
Lorilleux, her skin reflecting the red glow from the bed of coals, was
drawing on another wire. Each effort swelling her neck and making the
strained muscles stand out like taut cords. Her husband, hunched over
beneath the greenish gleam of the globe was starting another length
of chain, twisting each link with his pliers, pressing it on one side,
inserting it into the next link above, opening it again with the pointed