The Belly of Paris (47 page)

La Sarriette had thrust out her hands with a joyful cry.

“Pull your claws back, my child,” said Madame Lecœur in a hoarse voice.

She was even more yellow in the reflection of the gold, her face and eyes burning from the liver disease that was silently consuming her. Behind her, up on her tiptoes, was Mademoiselle Saget, in ecstacy looking into the depths of the wardrobe. Madame Léonce had also risen to her feet, mouthing unspoken words.

“My uncle told me to take everything,” said the girl crisply.

“And me? I looked after him, will I get nothing?” the concierge exclaimed.

Madame Lecœur was choking. She pushed them back and clung to the wardrobe, stammering, “It's mine. I'm the nearest relative. You're a bunch of thieves. I'd rather throw it all out the window.”

There was silence while they looked at each other suspiciously. La Sarriette's shawl was now completely undone, and her admirable breasts were showing along with her moist lips and the pink around her nostrils. Madame Lecœur was disheartened to see the girl so radiant with longing.

“Listen,” she said in her muted voice, “let's not fight about this … You're his niece, and I'm willing to share. We'll take turns taking stacks.”

They pushed the other two aside and Madame Lecœur went first, a pile disappearing into her skirts. Then La Sarriette swept up a pile too. They watched each other carefully, ready to slap the other's hand. Their fingers reached at regular intervals, first the horrid gnarled ones, then the white ones smooth as silk. They filled their pockets. When there was only one stack left, La Sarriette refused to let Madame Lecœur take it, pointing out that she had taken the first round. She quickly split it between Mademoiselle
Saget and Madame Léonce, who had been watching the taking of the gold with a feverish taping of the feet.

“Thanks a lot,” said the concierge. “Fifty francs for coddling him all these years with infusions and broths. And he told me he had no relatives, the old swindler.”

Before closing up the wardrobe, Madame Lecœur wanted to inspect it from top to bottom. It contained political books that were not allowed into the country, pamphlets from Brussels, scandalous stories about the Bonapartes, foreign cartoons in which the emperor seemed ludicrous. A favorite pastime of Gavard's was to lock himself up with a friend and show him all this contraband.

“He specifically asked me to burn all the papers,” La Sarriette pointed out.

“Ach, we don't have a fire, and it would take too long. I can smell the police. We should get out of here.”

And all four of them walked out of the room. No sooner had they reached the bottom of the stairs than the police arrived. Madame Léonce had to go up again to accompany them. The other three, with bent shoulders, hurried back to the street. They walked quickly in a row, the aunt and the niece encumbered by their bulging pockets. La Sarriette, in front, turned around as she stepped onto rue Rambuteau and said with her endearing laugh, “It's banging into my legs.”

Madame Lecœur spit out an obscenity, which made them all laugh. They tasted a special pleasure from the feel of this weight on their skirts like the caress of a hand. Mademoiselle Saget had kept her fifty francs in her closed fist. Her face looked serious as she worked on her plan to shake more money out of the plump pockets she was following.

Finally reaching the corner of the fish market, the elderly woman said, “Look, we got back at just the right moment. They're about to catch Florent.”

Florent was just returning from his long walk. He went to his office to change his jacket and then began his daily work, supervising the washing of the stones, strolling through the long aisles. It
seemed to him that people were looking at him strangely. The fish women were whispering to each other as he walked past, their noses down and their eyes shifty. He thought some new annoyance had arisen. For some time now these fat, troublesome women had not given him a moment's peace.

When he passed by the Méhudin stall he was very surprised to hear the mother say in a sugary voice, “Monsieur Florent, someone came by asking for you just now. A middle-aged monsieur. He went up and is waiting for you in your room.”

The old fishmonger, collapsed in a chair, was so savoring these words, the perfection of this revenge, that her enormous bulk was quivering. Florent, dubious, looked at the Beautiful Norman. She, now completely in league with her mother, turned on the faucet, slapped some fish beneath it, and seemed not to hear.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Oh, absolutely. Isn't that right, Louise?” the woman continued in an ever shriller voice.

He thought it must have something to do with the big event, so he decided to climb up to his room. He was about to leave the fish market when, turning around mechanically, he caught the Beautiful Norman following him with her eyes, a grave look on her face. He passed the three gossips.

Mademoiselle Saget murmured, “Notice how the charcuterie is empty. Beautiful Lisa is not a woman to put herself at risk.”

It was true, the charcuterie was empty. The front of the building remained bathed in sunlight, and it seemed to have the happy air of a good house warming its belly in the first rays of the morning sun. Above, on the balcony, the pomegranate was in bloom. As he crossed the street, Florent gave a friendly nod to Logre and Monsieur Lebigre, who seemed to be getting some fresh air on the doorstep of the latter's establishment. The two smiled at him.

He was about to start down the alleyway when he thought he saw at its end the pale face of Auguste suddenly vanishing from sight. He then returned to look in the charcuterie to make sure there was not a middle-aged monsieur waiting for him there. But the only one he saw was Mouton, sitting on the chopping block and
studying him with two large yellow eyes, double chin, and the large bristly mustache of a defiant cat. Just as Florent decided to enter by the alley, he saw Beautiful Lisa appear at the end of the shop, behind the curtained windows of a door.

A silence had fallen over the entire fish market. The bellies and enormous breasts held their breath waiting until Florent disappeared. Then it was all released—breasts expanded and bellies were bursting with malice. The scam had succeeded. What could be more funny? The old Méhudin woman jiggled with silent laughter like a full wineskin emptying. Her story about the middle-aged monsieur had circulated in the market, and all the women thought it was highly amusing. Finally the string bean was to be shipped off! They would have no more of his gruesome face and convict eyes. They all wished him good riddance and hoped that the new inspector would be good-looking. They ran from one stall to the next and would gladly have danced around the slabs like girls escaped from a convent.

The Beautiful Norman stood stiffly, watching all this merriment, not daring to move for fear she would start crying, with her hands on a large skate to calm her fever.

“See how the Méhudins dropped him as soon as his money was gone,” said Madame Lecœur.

“And they're right,” replied Mademoiselle Saget. “In any event, my dear, it's over, isn't it? There's nothing more to fight about. You're happy. Let the others deal with it as they want.”

“Only the old one is laughing,” said La Sarriette. “The Norman is not looking very merry.”

Meanwhile, up in his room, Florent let himself be taken like a lamb. The policemen, assuming he would put up a desperate struggle, jumped him roughly. But he gently asked them to let go. Then he just sat there while the men wrapped up the papers, the scarves, the armbands, and the banners. He did not seem surprised by how things had turned out. In fact, it came as a relief, but he did not understand this clearly enough to admit it. But it was painful for him to think of the hatred down below that had urged him into this room. He saw again the pale face of Auguste, the lowered faces of
the fish women, he remembered Mère Méhudin's words, the silence of the Norman, the empty charcuterie, and he told himself that Les Halles had been an accomplice, the entire neighborhood had turned him in. All around him the stench of the greasy streets rose up.

His heart was gripped by a stabbing anguish when, amid the round faces that he conjured up in his mind, he suddenly evoked the image of Quenu.

“Let's go, downstairs,” said a policeman roughly.

He got up and went down. On the third-floor landing he asked to go back as he had forgotten something. The police, not wanting him to go back up, pushed him forward. But he begged to be allowed back. He even offered them the small amount of money he had. Finally two of them agreed to go back up with him but threatened to club him on the head if he tried any tricks. They took their revolvers from their holsters. On reaching the room he went straight to the finch's cage, took the bird, kissed it between its wings, and released it from the window. He watched it perch in the sunlight on the roof of the fish market, seeming dazed. Then it took flight again, disappearing above Les Halles, headed in the direction of square des Innocents. He remained an instant longer, staring at the sky, the open, free sky. He thought of the pigeons cooing in the Tuileries and the pigeons in the storage cellar whose throats had been slit by Marjolin. Then everything in him crumbled, and he followed the police, who put their weapons back in the holsters and shrugged.

At the bottom of the stairs, Florent stopped at the door that led to the kitchen.

The inspector, who was waiting for him there, was touched by his gentle obedience and asked, “Do you want to say good-bye to your brother?”

He hesitated a moment. He looked at the door. A commotion of hatchets and saucepans came from the kitchen. Lisa, wishing to keep her husband busy, had come up with the idea of making boudin, which he normally made only at night. Onions were sizzling on the fire, and Florent heard Quenu's happy voice, shouting above the
noise, “Oh, my God, this boudin is going to be so good … Auguste, pass me the fat.”

Florent thanked the inspector. He was afraid to go into the hot kitchen, full of the strong smell of cooking onions. He passed the door, content in the belief that his brother knew nothing, quickening his steps to avoid causing a final scene in the charcuterie. But as he felt the bright sunbeams strike his face, he was ashamed and climbed into the cab with his shoulders stooped. He could feel the presence of the fish market enjoying its victory, and it seemed to him that the whole neighborhood was gathering to celebrate.

“Oh, he looked terrible, didn't he?” said Mademoiselle Saget.

“It's the face of a convict caught redhanded,” added Madame Lecœur.

La Sarriette showed her white teeth and said, “I once saw a man guillotined, and he looked just like that.”

They had come closer and were craning their necks, trying to see inside the cab. Just as the vehicle was leaving, the old woman pulled hard at the skirts of the other two to point out Claire, who was running wildly from rue Pirouette. Her hair was undone, and she looked like a madwoman, her fingernails bleeding. She had managed to dismantle her door. Once she realized that she had arrived too late and Florent was being taken, she hurled herself in the direction of the cab, then stopped abruptly, making a gesture of useless rage, shaking her fist at the vanishing wheels. Then, all red under the fine plaster powder with which she was covered, she hurried home to rue Pirouette.

“You would think he'd promised to marry her,” said La Sarriette, laughing. “She's completely smitten, the big idiot.”

The neighborhood returned to calm. Small groups gathered until the pavilion closed to discuss the morning's events. People peered curiously into the charcuterie. Lisa avoided showing herself, leaving Augustine at the counter. Finally, in the afternoon, she thought it her duty to tell Quenu everything for fear that some big mouth would blurt it all out. She waited until she could be alone with him in the kitchen, understanding that this was the part of the house where he felt most at ease and he would cry less. She proceeded
with maternal gentleness. But once he knew the truth, he fell on the butcher block and started crying like a baby.

“Now, now, my poor big lug, don't carry on like this, you'll hurt yourself.” And she took him in her arms.

Tears ran out of his eyes and down his white apron. His bulk shook with pain. He was silent, melting away. When he managed to speak, he stammered, “You have no idea how good he was to me when we lived on rue Royer-Collard. He cleaned and did the cooking … He loved me like his child, you see. He would come home at night caked in mud, too tired to stand. Meanwhile there was me, staying at home well fed and warm … And now they're going to shoot him.”

Lisa insisted that he was not going to be shot, but he shook his head and continued, “It doesn't matter. I didn't love him enough. It's no use saying that now. I've been heartless. I even hesitated to give him his inheritance.”

“But I offered it to him more than ten times,” she interjected. “We have nothing to reproach ourselves about on that score.”

“Oh, I know, you were very kind. You'd have given him everything. But not me, you see. I'll have to live with this grief for the rest of my life. I will always think that if I had shared with him, he would not have gone back to his bad ways. It's my fault. I'm the one who drove him to this.”

She was even gentler, telling him to stop torturing himself. She felt sorry for Florent too, even though he was very guilty. If he'd had more money, he might have committed even greater follies. Little by little, she managed to convince him that it could not have ended up any other way and that it had all worked out for the best. Quenu was still crying, wiping his cheeks with his apron, stifling his sobs to listen, then melting into a fresh wave of tears. Without thinking, he had sunk his fingers into a pile of sausage meat on the chopping block. He was drilling holes in it, kneading it roughly.

“Do you remember that you weren't feeling well?” Lisa continued. “It was because we had lost our routine. Although I never said anything about it, I was worried. I could see your health was suffering.”

“It was, wasn't it?” he said, holding back his tears for an instant.