In the principal room in the tavern they were installed as masters, gazing with malignant glances at the ordinary customers, who were seated at the little tables in the corners, where one of the girls, who was left free to come and go, dressed like a big baby or a singer at a cafe-concert, went about serving them, and then seated herself near them.  Each man, on coming in, had selected his partner, whom he kept all the evening, for the vulgar taste is not changeable.  They had drawn three tables close up to them; and, after the first bumper, the procession divided into two parts, increased by as many women as there were seamen, had formed itself anew on the staircase.  On the wooden steps, the four feet of each couple kept tramping for some time, while this long file of lovers got swallowed up behind the narrow doors leading into the different rooms.

Then they came down again to have a drink, and, after they had returned to the rooms descended the stairs once more.

Now, almost intoxicated, they began to howl.  Each of them, with bloodshot eyes, and his chosen female companion on his knee, sang or bawled, struck the table with his fist, shouted while swilling wine down his throat, set free the human brute.  In the midst of them, Celestin Duclos, pressing close to him, a big damsel with red cheeks, who sat astride over his legs, gazed at her ardently.  Less tipsy than the others, not that he had taken less drink, he was as yet occupied with other thoughts, and, more tender than his comrades, he tried to get up a chat.  His thoughts wandered a little, escaped him, and then came back, and disappeared again, without allowing him to recollect exactly what he meant to say.

“What time—­what time—­how long are you here?”

“Six months,” the girl answered.

He seemed to be satisfied with her, as if this were a proof of good conduct, and he went on questioning her: 

“Do you like this life?”

She hesitated, then in a tone of resignation.

“One gets used to it.  It is not more worrying than any other kind of life.  To be a servant-girl or else a scrub is always a nasty occupation.”

He looked as if he also approved of the truthful remark.

“You are not from this place?” said he.

She answered merely by shaking her head.

“Do you come from a distance?”

She nodded, still without opening her lips.

“Where is it you come from?”

She appeared to be thinking, to be searching her memory, then said falteringly: 

“From Perpignan.”

He was once more perfectly satisfied, and said: 

“Ah! yes.”

In her turn she asked: 

“And you, are you a sailor?”

“Yes, my beauty.”

“Do you come from a distance?”

“Ah! yes.  I have seen countries, ports, and everything.”

“You have been round the world, perhaps?”