Chapter 5

At about four o'clock on the afternoon of the following day Lisa betook
herself to Saint Eustache. For the short walk across the square she had
arrayed herself very seriously in a black silk gown and thick woollen
shawl. The handsome Norman, who, from her stall in the fish market,
watched her till she vanished into the church porch, was quite amazed.

"Hallo! So the fat thing's gone in for priests now, has she?" she
exclaimed, with a sneer. "Well, a little holy water may do her good!"

She was mistaken in her surmises, however, for Lisa was not a devotee.
She did not observe the ordinances of the Church, but said that she
did her best to lead an honest life, and that this was all that was
necessary. At the same time, however, she disliked to hear religion
spoken ill of, and often silenced Gavard, who delighted in scandalous
stories of priests and their doings. Talk of that sort seemed to her
altogether improper. Everyone, in her opinion, should be allowed to
believe as they pleased, and every scruple should be respected. Besides,
the majority of the clergy were most estimable men. She knew Abbe
Roustan, of Saint Eustache--a distinguished priest, a man of shrewd
sense, and one, she thought, whose friendship might be safely relied
upon. And she would wind up by explaining that religion was absolutely
necessary for the people; she looked upon it as a sort of police force
that helped to maintain order, and without which no government would be
possible. When Gavard went too far on this subject and asserted that the
priests ought to be turned into the streets and have their shops shut
up, Lisa, shrugged her shoulders and replied: "A great deal of good that
would do! Why, before a month was over the people would be murdering
one another in the streets, and you would be compelled to invent another
God. That was just what happened in '93. You know very well that I'm not
given to mixing with the priests, but for all that I say that they are
necessary, as we couldn't do without them."

And so when Lisa happened to enter a church she always manifested
the utmost decorum. She had bought a handsome missal, which she never
opened, for use when she was invited to a funeral or a wedding. She
knelt and rose at the proper times, and made a point of conducting
herself with all propriety. She assumed, indeed, what she considered a
sort of official demeanour, such as all well-to-do folks, tradespeople,
and house-owners ought to observe with regard to religion.

As she entered Saint Eustache that afternoon she let the double doors,
covered with green baize, faded and worn by the frequent touch of pious
hands, close gently behind her. Then she dipped her fingers in the holy
water and crossed herself in the correct fashion. And afterwards, with
hushed footsteps, she made her way to the chapel of Saint Agnes, where
two kneeling women with their faces buried in their hands were waiting,
whilst the blue skirts of a third protruded from the confessional. Lisa
seemed rather put out by the sight of these women, and, addressing a
verger who happened to pass along, wearing a black skullcap and
dragging his feet over the slabs, she inquired: "Is this Monsieur l'Abbe
Roustan's day for hearing confessions?"

The verger replied that his reverence had only two more penitents
waiting, and that they would not detain him long, so that if Lisa would
take a chair her turn would speedily come. She thanked him, without
telling him that she had not come to confess; and, making up her mind to
wait, she began to pace the church, going as far as the chief entrance,
whence she gazed at the lofty, severe, bare nave stretching between the
brightly coloured aisles. Raising her head a little, she examined the
high altar, which she considered too plain, having no taste for the cold
grandeur of stonework, but preferring the gilding and gaudy colouring of
the side chapels. Those on the side of the Rue du Jour looked greyish in
the light which filtered through their dusty windows, but on the side
of the markets the sunset was lighting up the stained glass with lovely
tints, limpid greens and yellows in particular, which reminded Lisa of
the bottle of liqueurs in front of Monsieur Lebigre's mirror. She came
back by this side, which seemed to be warmed by the glow of light,
and took a passing interest in the reliquaries, altar ornaments, and
paintings steeped in prismatic reflections. The church was empty,
quivering with the silence that fell from its vaulted roofing. Here and
there a woman's dress showed like a dark splotch amidst the vague yellow
of the chairs; and a low buzzing came from the closed confessionals. As
Lisa again passed the chapel of Saint Agnes she saw the blue dress still
kneeling at Abbe Roustan's feet.

"Why, if I'd wanted to confess I could have said everything in ten
seconds," she thought, proud of her irreproachable integrity.

Then she went on to the end of the church. Behind the high altar, in the
gloom of a double row of pillars, is the chapel of the Blessed Virgin,
damp and dark and silent. The dim stained windows only show the flowing
crimson and violet robes of saints, which blaze like flames of mystic
love in the solemn, silent adoration of the darkness. It is a weird,
mysterious spot, like some crepuscular nook of paradise solely illumined
by the gleaming stars of two tapers. The four brass lamps hanging from
the roof remain unlighted, and are but faintly seen; on espying them you
think of the golden censers which the angels swing before the throne of
Mary. And kneeling on the chairs between the pillars there are always
women surrendering themselves languorously to the dim spot's voluptuous
charm.

Lisa stood and gazed tranquilly around her. She did not feel the least
emotion, but considered that it was a mistake not to light the lamps.
Their brightness would have given the place a more cheerful look. The
gloom even struck her as savouring of impropriety. Her face was warmed
by the flames of some candles burning in a candelabrum by her side, and
an old woman armed with a big knife was scraping off the wax which had
trickled down and congealed into pale tears. And amidst the quivering
silence, the mute ecstasy of adoration prevailing in the chapel, Lisa
would distinctly hear the rumbling of the vehicles turning out of the
Rue Montmartre, behind the scarlet and purple saints on the windows,
whilst in the distance the markets roared without a moment's pause.

Just as Lisa was leaving the chapel, she saw the younger of the
Mehudins, Claire, the dealer in fresh water fish, come in. The girl
lighted a taper at the candelabrum, and then went to kneel behind a
pillar, her knees pressed upon the hard stones, and her face so pale
beneath her loose fair hair that she seemed a corpse. And believing
herself to be securely screened from observation, she gave way to
violent emotion, and wept hot tears with a passionate outpouring of
prayer which bent her like a rushing wind. Lisa looked on in amazement,
for the Mehudins were not known to be particularly pious; indeed, Claire
was accustomed to speak of religion and priests in such terms as to
horrify one.

"What's the meaning of this, I wonder?" pondered Lisa, as she again
made her way to the chapel of Saint Agnes. "The hussy must have been
poisoning some one or other."

Abbe Roustan was at last coming out of his confessional. He was a
handsome man, of some forty years of age, with a smiling, kindly air.
When he recognised Madame Quenu he grasped her hand, called her "dear
lady," and conducted her to the vestry, where, taking off his surplice,
he told her that he would be entirely at her service in a moment. They
returned, the priest in his cassock, bareheaded, and Lisa strutting
along in her shawl, and paced up and down in front of the side-chapels
adjacent to the Rue du Jour. They conversed together in low tones. The
sunlight was departing from the stained windows, the church was growing
dark, and the retreating footsteps of the last worshippers sounded but
faintly over the flagstones.

Lisa explained her doubts and scruples to Abbe Roustan. There had never
been any question of religion between them; she never confessed, but
merely consulted him in cases of difficulty, because he was shrewd
and discreet, and she preferred him, as she sometimes said, to shady
business men redolent of the galleys. The abbe, on his side, manifested
inexhaustible complaisance. He looked up points of law for her in
the Code, pointed out profitable investments, resolved her moral
difficulties with great tact, recommended tradespeople to her,
invariably having an answer ready however diverse and complicated
her requirements might be. And he supplied all this help in a natural
matter-of-fact way, without ever introducing the Deity into his talk,
or seeking to obtain any advantage either for himself or the cause of
religion. A word of thanks and a smile sufficed him. He seemed glad to
have an opportunity of obliging the handsome Madame Quenu, of whom his
housekeeper often spoke to him in terms of praise, as of a woman who was
highly respected in the neighbourhood.

Their consultation that afternoon was of a peculiarly delicate nature.
Lisa was anxious to know what steps she might legitimately take, as a
woman of honour, with respect to her brother-in-law. Had she a right
to keep a watch upon him, and to do what she could to prevent him from
compromising her husband, her daughter, and herself? And then how far
might she go in circumstances of pressing danger? She did not bluntly
put these questions to the abbe, but asked them with such skilful
circumlocutions that he was able to discuss the matter without entering
into personalities. He brought forward arguments on both sides of the
question, but the conclusion he came to was that a person of integrity
was entitled, indeed bound, to prevent evil, and was justified in using
whatever means might be necessary to ensure the triumph of that which
was right and proper.

"That is my opinion, dear lady," he said in conclusion. "The question
of means is always a very grave one. It is a snare in which souls
of average virtue often become entangled. But I know your scrupulous
conscience. Deliberate carefully over each step you think of taking, and
if it contains nothing repugnant to you, go on boldly. Pure natures have
the marvelous gift of purifying all that they touch."

Then, changing his tone of voice, he continued: "Pray give my kind
regards to Monsieur Quenu. I'll come in to kiss my dear little Pauline
some time when I'm passing. And now good-bye, dear lady; remember that
I'm always at your service."

Thereupon he returned to the vestry. Lisa, on her way out, was curious
to see if Claire was still praying, but the girl had gone back to
her eels and carp; and in front of the Lady-chapel, which was already
shrouded in darkness, there was now but a litter of chairs overturned by
the ardent vehemence of the woman who had knelt there.

When the handsome Lisa again crossed the square, La Normande, who
had been watching for her exit from the church, recognised her in the
twilight by the rotundity of her skirts.

"Good gracious!" she exclaimed, "she's been more than an hour in there!
When the priests set about cleansing her of her sins, the choir-boys
have to form in line to pass the buckets of filth and empty them in the
street!"

The next morning Lisa went straight up to Florent's bedroom and settled
herself there with perfect equanimity. She felt certain that she would
not be disturbed, and, moreover, she had made up her mind to tell a
falsehood and say that she had come to see if the linen was clean,
should Florent by any chance return. Whilst in the shop, however, she
had observed him busily engaged in the fish market. Seating herself in
front of the little table, she pulled out the drawer, placed it upon her
knees, and began to examine its contents, taking the greatest care to
restore them to their original positions.

First of all she came upon the opening chapters of the work on Cayenne;
then upon the drafts of Florent's various plans and projects, his
schemes for converting the Octroi duties into taxes upon sales, for
reforming the administrative system of the markets, and all the others.
These pages of small writing, which she set herself to read, bored her
extremely, and she was about to restore the drawer to its place, feeling
convinced that Florent concealed the proofs of his wicked designs
elsewhere, and already contemplating a searching visitation of his
mattress, when she discovered a photograph of La Normande in an
envelope. The impression was rather dark. La Normande was standing up
with her right arm resting on a broken column. Decked out with all
her jewels, and attired in a new silk dress, the fish-girl was smiling
impudently, and Lisa, at the sight, forgot all about her brother-in-law,
her fears, and the purpose for which she had come into the room. She
became quite absorbed in her examination of the portrait, as often
happens when one woman scrutinises the photograph of another at her
ease, without fear of being seen. Never before had she so favourable an
opportunity to study her rival. She scrutinised her hair, her nose, her
mouth; held the photograph at a distance, and then brought it closer
again. And, finally, with compressed lips, she read on the back of it,
in a big, ugly scrawl: "Louise, to her friend, Florent." This quite
scandalised her; to her mind it was a confession, and she felt a strong
impulse to take possession of the photograph, and keep it as a weapon
against her enemy. However, she slowly replaced it in the envelope on
coming to the conclusion that this course would be wrong, and reflecting
that she would always know where to find it should she want it again.

Then, as she again began turning over the loose sheets of paper, it
occurred to her to look at the back end of the drawer, where Florent had
relegated Augustine's needles and thread; and there, between the missal
and the Dream-book, she discovered what she sought, some extremely
compromising memoranda, simply screened from observation by a wrapper of
grey paper.

That idea of an insurrection, of the overthrow of the Empire by means
of an armed rising, which Logre had one evening propounded at Monsieur
Lebigre's, had slowly ripened in Florent's feverish brain. He soon grew
to see a duty, a mission in it. Therein undoubtedly lay the task to
which his escape from Cayenne and his return to Paris predestined him.
Believing in a call to avenge his leanness upon the city which wallowed
in food while the upholders of right and equity were racked by hunger
in exile, he took upon himself the duties of a justiciary, and dreamt of
rising up, even in the midst of those markets, to sweep away the reign
of gluttony and drunkenness. In a sensitive nature like his, this idea
quickly took root. Everything about him assumed exaggerated proportions,
the wildest fancies possessed him. He imagined that the markets had been
conscious of his arrival, and had seized hold of him that they might
enervate him and poison him with their stenches. Then, too, Lisa wanted
to cast a spell over him, and for two or three days at a time he would
avoid her, as though she were some dissolving agency which would destroy
all his power of will should he approach too closely. However, these
paroxysms of puerile fear, these wild surgings of his rebellious brain,
always ended in thrills of the gentlest tenderness, with yearnings to
love and be loved, which he concealed with a boyish shame.

It was more especially in the evening that his mind became blurred by
all his wild imaginings. Depressed by his day's work, but shunning sleep
from a covert fear--the fear of the annihilation it brought with it--he
would remain later than ever at Monsieur Lebigre's, or at the Mehudins';
and on his return home he still refrained from going to bed, and sat
up writing and preparing for the great insurrection. By slow degrees he
devised a complete system of organisation. He divided Paris into twenty
sections, one for each arrondissement. Each section would have a
chief, a sort of general, under whose orders there were to be twenty
lieutenants commanding twenty companies of affiliated associates. Every
week, among the chiefs, there would be a consultation, which was to be
held in a different place each time; and, the better to ensure secrecy
and discretion, the associates would only come in contact with their
respective lieutenants, these alone communicating with the chiefs of the
sections. It also occurred to Florent that it would be as well that the
companies should believe themselves charged with imaginary missions, as
a means of putting the police upon a wrong scent.

As for the employment of the insurrectionary forces, that would be all
simplicity. It would, of course, be necessary to wait till the companies
were quite complete, and then advantage would be taken of the first
public commotion. They would doubtless only have a certain number of
guns used for sporting purposes in their possession, so they would
commence by seizing the police stations and guard-houses, disarming the
soldiers of the line; resorting to violence as little as possible, and
inviting the men to make common cause with the people. Afterwards they
would march upon the Corps Legislatif, and thence to the Hotel de Ville.
This plan, to which Florent returned night after night, as though it
were some dramatic scenario which relieved his over-excited nervous
system, was as yet simply jotted down on scraps of paper, full of
erasures, which showed how the writer had felt his way, and revealed
each successive phase of his scientific yet puerile conception. When
Lisa had glanced through the notes, without understanding some of them,
she remained there trembling with fear; afraid to touch them further
lest they should explode in her hands like live shells.

A last memorandum frightened her more than any of the others. It was
a half sheet of paper on which Florent had sketched the distinguishing
insignia which the chiefs and the lieutenants were to wear. By the
side of these were rough drawings of the standards which the different
companies were to carry; and notes in pencil even described what colours
the banners should assume. The chiefs were to wear red scarves, and the
lieutenants red armlets.

To Lisa this seemed like an immediate realisation of the rising; she saw
all the men with their red badges marching past the pork shop, firing
bullets into her mirrors and marble, and carrying off sausages
and chitterlings from the window. The infamous projects of her
brother-in-law were surely directed against herself--against her own
happiness. She closed the drawer and looked round the room, reflecting
that it was she herself who had provided this man with a home--that he
slept between her sheets and used her furniture. And she was especially
exasperated at his keeping his abominable infernal machine in that
little deal table which she herself had used at Uncle Gradelle's before
her marriage--a perfectly innocent, rickety little table.

For a while she stood thinking what she should do. In the first place,
it was useless to say anything to Quenu. For a moment it occurred to
her to provoke an explanation with Florent, but she dismissed that idea,
fearing lest he would only go and perpetrate his crime elsewhere, and
maliciously make a point of compromising them. Then gradually growing
somewhat calmer, she came to the conclusion that her best plan would be
to keep a careful watch over her brother-in-law. It would be time enough
to take further steps at the first sign of danger. She already had quite
sufficient evidence to send him back to the galleys.

On returning to the shop again, she found Augustine in a state of
great excitement. Little Pauline had disappeared more than half an
hour before, and to Lisa's anxious questions the young woman could only
reply: "I don't know where she can have got to, madame. She was on the
pavement there with a little boy. I was watching them, and then I had to
cut some ham for a gentleman, and I never saw them again."

"I'll wager it was Muche!" cried Lisa. "Ah, the young scoundrel!"

It was, indeed, Muche who had enticed Pauline away. The little girl, who
was wearing a new blue-striped frock that day for the first time, had
been anxious to exhibit it, and had accordingly taken her stand outside
the shop, manifesting great propriety of bearing, and compressing her
lips with the grave expression of a little woman of six who is afraid of
soiling her clothes. Her short and stiffly-starched petticoats stood out
like the skirts of a ballet girl, allowing a full view of her tightly
stretched white stockings and little sky-blue boots. Her pinafore,
which hung low about her neck, was finished off at the shoulders with an
edging of embroidery, below which appeared her pretty little arms, bare
and rosy. She had small turquoise rings in her ears, a cross at her

neck, a blue velvet ribbon in her well-brushed hair; and she displayed
all her mother's plumpness and softness--the gracefulness, indeed, of a
new doll.

Muche had caught sight of her from the market, where he was amusing
himself by dropping little dead fishes into the gutter, following them
along the kerb as the water carried them away, and declaring that they
were swimming. However, the sight of Pauline standing in front of the
shop and looking so smart and pretty made him cross over to her, capless
as he was, with his blouse ragged, his trousers slipping down, and his
whole appearance suggestive of a seven-year-old street-arab. His mother
had certainly forbidden him to play any more with "that fat booby of a
girl who was stuffed by her parents till she almost burst"; so he stood
hesitating for a moment, but at last came up to Pauline, and wanted to
feel her pretty striped frock. The little girl, who had at first felt
flattered, then put on a prim air and stepped back, exclaiming in a tone
of displeasure: "Leave me alone. Mother says I'm not to have anything to
do with you."

This brought a laugh to the lips of Muche, who was a wily, enterprising
young scamp.

"What a little flat you are!" he retorted. "What does it matter what
your mother says? Let's go and play at shoving each other, eh?"

He doubtless nourished some wicked idea of dirtying the neat little
girl; but she, on seeing him prepare to give her a push in the back,
retreated as though about to return inside the shop. Muche thereupon
adopted a flattering tone like a born cajoler.

"You silly! I didn't mean it," said he. "How nice you look like that! Is
that little cross your mother's?"

Pauline perked herself up, and replied that it was her own, whereupon
Muche gently led her to the corner of the Rue Pirouette, touching her
skirts the while and expressing his astonishment at their wonderful
stiffness. All this pleased the little girl immensely. She had been very
much vexed at not receiving any notice while she was exhibiting herself
outside the shop. However, in spite of all Muche's blandishments, she
still refused to leave the footway.

"You stupid fatty!" thereupon exclaimed the youngster, relapsing into
coarseness. "I'll squat you down in the gutter if you don't look out,
Miss Fine-airs!"

The girl was dreadfully alarmed. Muche had caught hold of her by
the hand; but, recognising his mistake in policy, he again put on a
wheedling air, and began to fumble in his pocket.

"I've got a sou," said he.

The sight of the coin had a soothing effect upon Pauline. The boy held
up the sou with the tips of his fingers, and the temptation to follow
it proved so great that the girl at last stepped down into the roadway.
Muche's diplomacy was eminently successful.

"What do you like best?" he asked.

Pauline gave no immediate answer. She could not make up her mind; there
were so many things that she liked. Muche, however, ran over a whole
list of dainties--liquorice, molasses, gum-balls, and powdered sugar.
The powdered sugar made the girl ponder. One dipped one's fingers into
it and sucked them; it was very nice. For a while she gravely considered
the matter. Then, at last making up her mind, she said:

"No, I like the mixed screws the best."

Muche thereupon took hold of her arm, and she unresistingly allowed him
to lead her away. They crossed the Rue Rambuteau, followed the broad
footway skirting the markets, and went as far as a grocer's shop in the
Rue de la Cossonnerie which was celebrated for its mixed screws. These
mixed screws are small screws of paper in which grocers put up all sorts
of damaged odds and ends, broken sugar-plums, fragments of crystallised
chestnuts--all the doubtful residuum of their jars of sweets. Muche
showed himself very gallant, allowed Pauline to choose the screw--a blue
one--paid his sou, and did not attempt to dispossess her of the sweets.
Outside, on the footway, she emptied the miscellaneous collection of
scraps into both pockets of her pinafore; and they were such little
pockets that they were quite filled. Then in delight she began to munch
the fragments one by one, wetting her fingers to catch the fine sugary
dust, with such effect that she melted the scraps of sweets, and the
pockets of her pinafore soon showed two brownish stains. Muche laughed
slily to himself. He had his arm about the girl's waist, and rumpled her
frock at his ease whilst leading her round the corner of the Rue Pierre
Lescot, in the direction of the Place des Innocents.

"You'll come and play now, won't you?" he asked. "That's nice what
you've got in your pockets, ain't it? You see that I didn't want to do
you any harm, you big silly!"

Thereupon he plunged his own fingers into her pockets, and they entered
the square together. To this spot, no doubt, he had all along intended
to lure his victim. He did the honours of the square as though it were
his own private property, and indeed it was a favourite haunt of his,
where he often larked about for whole afternoons. Pauline had never
before strayed so far from home, and would have wept like an abducted
damsel had it not been that her pockets were full of sweets. The
fountain in the middle of the flowered lawn was sending sheets of water
down its tiers of basins, whilst, between the pilasters above, Jean
Goujon's nymphs, looking very white beside the dingy grey stonework,
inclined their urns and displayed their nude graces in the grimy air
of the Saint Denis quarter. The two children walked round the fountain,
watching the water fall into the basins, and taking an interest in the
grass, with thoughts, no doubt, of crossing the central lawn, or gliding
into the clumps of holly and rhododendrons that bordered the railings of
the square. Little Muche, however, who had now effectually rumpled the
back of the pretty frock, said with his sly smile:

"Let's play at throwing sand at each other, eh?"

Pauline had no will of her own left; and they began to throw the sand at
each other, keeping their eyes closed meanwhile. The sand made its way
in at the neck of the girl's low bodice, and trickled down into her
stockings and boots. Muche was delighted to see the white pinafore
become quite yellow. But he doubtless considered that it was still far
too clean.

"Let's go and plant trees, shall we?" he exclaimed suddenly. "I know how
to make such pretty gardens."

"Really, gardens!" murmured Pauline full of admiration.

Then, as the keeper of the square happened to be absent, Muche told her
to make some holes in one of the borders; and dropping on her knees in
the middle of the soft mould, and leaning forward till she lay at full
length on her stomach, she dug her pretty little arms into the ground.
He, meantime, began to hunt for scraps of wood, and broke off branches.
These were the garden-trees which he planted in the holes that Pauline
made. He invariably complained, however, that the holes were not deep
enough, and rated the girl as though she were an idle workman and he an
indignant master. When she at last got up, she was black from head to
foot. Her hair was full of mould, her face was smeared with it, she
looked such a sight with her arms as black as a coalheaver's that Muche
clapped his hands with glee, and exclaimed: "Now we must water the
trees. They won't grow, you know, if we don't water them."

That was the finishing stroke. They went outside the square, scooped the
gutter-water up in the palms of their hands, and then ran back to pour
it over the bits of wood. On the way, Pauline, who was so fat that she
couldn't run properly, let the water trickle between her fingers on to
her frock, so that by the time of her sixth journey she looked as if she
had been rolled in the gutter. Muche chuckled with delight on beholding
her dreadful condition. He made her sit down beside him under a
rhododendron near the garden they had made, and told her that the trees
were already beginning to grow. He had taken hold of her hand and called
her his little wife.

"You're not sorry now that you came, are you," he asked, "instead of
mooning about on the pavement, where there was nothing to do? I know all
sorts of fun we can have in the streets; you must come with me again.
You will, won't you? But you mustn't say anything to your mother, mind.
If you say a word to her, I'll pull your hair the next time I come past
your shop."

Pauline consented to everything; and then, as a last attention, Muche
filled both pockets of her pinafore with mould. However, all the sweets
were finished, and the girl began to get uneasy, and ceased playing.
Muche thereupon started pinching her, and she burst into tears, sobbing
that she wanted to go away. But at this the lad only grinned, and played
the bully, threatening that he would not take her home at all. Then she
grew terribly alarmed, and sobbed and gasped like a maiden in the power
of a libertine. Muche would certainly have ended by punching her in
order to stop her row, had not a shrill voice, the voice of Mademoiselle
Saget, exclaimed, close by: "Why, I declare it's Pauline! Leave her
alone, you wicked young scoundrel!"

Then the old maid took the girl by the hand, with endless expressions
of amazement at the pitiful condition of her clothes. Muche showed no
alarm, but followed them, chuckling to himself, and declaring that it
was Pauline who had wanted to come with him, and had tumbled down.

Mademoiselle Saget was a regular frequenter of the Square des Innocents.
Every afternoon she would spend a good hour there to keep herself well
posted in the gossip of the common people. On either side there is a
long crescent of benches placed end to end; and on these the poor folks
who stifle in the hovels of the neighbouring narrow streets assemble in
crowds. There are withered, chilly-looking old women in tumbled caps,
and young ones in loose jackets and carelessly fastened skirts, with
bare heads and tired, faded faces, eloquent of the wretchedness of their
lives. There are some men also: tidy old buffers, porters in greasy
jackets, and equivocal-looking individuals in black silk hats, while the
foot-path is overrun by a swarm of youngsters dragging toy carts without
wheels about, filling pails with sand, and screaming and fighting;
a dreadful crew, with ragged clothes and dirty noses, teeming in the
sunshine like vermin.

Mademoiselle Saget was so slight and thin that she always managed to
insinuate herself into a place on one of the benches. She listened to
what was being said, and started a conversation with her neighbour, some
sallow-faced workingman's wife, who sat mending linen, from time to time
producing handkerchiefs and stockings riddled with holes from a little
basket patched up with string. Moreover, Mademoiselle Saget had
plenty of acquaintances here. Amidst the excruciating squalling of
the children, and the ceaseless rumble of the traffic in the Rue Saint
Denis, she took part in no end of gossip, everlasting tales about the
tradesmen of the neighbourhood, the grocers, the butchers, and the
bakers, enough, indeed, to fill the columns of a local paper, and the
whole envenomed by refusals of credit and covert envy, such as is always
harboured by the poor. From these wretched creatures she also obtained
the most disgusting revelations, the gossip of low lodging-houses and
doorkeepers' black-holes, all the filthy scandal of the neighbourhood,
which tickled her inquisitive appetite like hot spice.

As she sat with her face turned towards the markets, she had immediately
in front of her the square and its three blocks of houses, into the
windows of which her eyes tried to pry. She seemed to gradually rise
and traverse the successive floors right up to the garret skylights.
She stared at the curtains; based an entire drama on the appearance of
a head between two shutters; and, by simply gazing at the facades, ended
by knowing the history of all the dwellers in these houses. The Baratte
Restaurant, with its wine shop, its gilt wrought-iron _marquise_,
forming a sort of terrace whence peeped the foliage of a few plants in
flower-pots, and its four low storeys, all painted and decorated, had an
especial interest for her. She gazed at its yellow columns standing
out against a background of tender blue, at the whole of its imitation
temple-front daubed on the facade of a decrepit, tumble-down house,
crowned at the summit by a parapet of painted zinc. Behind the
red-striped window-blinds she espied visions of nice little lunches,
delicate suppers, and uproarious, unlimited orgies. And she did not
hesitate to invent lies about the place. It was there, she declared,
that Florent came to gorge with those two hussies, the Mehudins, on whom
he lavished his money.

However, Pauline cried yet louder than before when the old maid took
hold of her hand. Mademoiselle Saget at first led her towards the gate
of the square; but before she got there she seemed to change her mind;
for she sat down at the end of a bench and tried to pacify the child.

"Come, now, give over crying, or the policeman will lock you up," she
said to Pauline. "I'll take you home safely. You know me, don't you? I'm
a good friend. Come, come, let me see how prettily you can smile."

The child, however, was choking with sobs and wanted to go away.
Mademoiselle Saget thereupon quietly allowed her to continue weeping,
reserving further remarks till she should have finished. The poor little
creature was shivering all over; her petticoats and stockings were
wet through, and as she wiped her tears away with her dirty hands she
plastered the whole of her face with earth to the very tips of her
ears. When at last she became a little calmer the old maid resumed in
a caressing tone: "Your mamma isn't unkind, is she? She's very fond of
you, isn't she?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," replied Pauline, still sobbing.

"And your papa, he's good to you, too, isn't he? He doesn't flog you, or
quarrel with your mother, does he? What do they talk about when they go
to bed?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm asleep then."

"Do they talk about your cousin Florent?"

"I don't know."

Mademoiselle Saget thereupon assumed a severe expression, and got up as
if about to go away.

"I'm afraid you are a little story-teller," she said. "Don't you know
that it's very wicked to tell stories? I shall go away and leave you, if
you tell me lies, and then Muche will come back and pinch you."

Pauline began to cry again at the threat of being abandoned. "Be quiet,
be quiet, you wicked little imp!" cried the old maid shaking
her. "There, there, now, I won't go away. I'll buy you a stick of
barley-sugar; yes, a stick of barley-sugar! So you don't love your
cousin Florent, eh?"

"No, mamma says he isn't good."

"Ah, then, so you see your mother does say something."

"One night when I was in bed with Mouton--I sleep with Mouton sometimes,
you know--I heard her say to father, 'Your brother has only escaped from
the galleys to take us all back with him there.'"

Mademoiselle Saget gave vent to a faint cry, and sprang to her feet,
quivering all over. A ray of light had just broken upon her. Then
without a word she caught hold of Pauline's hand and made her run till
they reached the pork shop, her lips meanwhile compressed by an inward
smile, and her eyes glistening with keen delight. At the corner of the
Rue Pirouette, Muche, who had so far followed them, amused at seeing the
girl running along in her muddy stockings, prudently disappeared.

Lisa was now in a state of terrible alarm; and when she saw her daughter
so bedraggled and limp, her consternation was such that she turned the
child round and round, without even thinking of beating her.

"She has been with little Muche," said the old maid, in her malicious
voice. "I took her away at once, and I've brought her home. I found them
together in the square. I don't know what they've been up to; but that
young vagabond is capable of anything."

Lisa could not find a word to say; and she did not know where to take
hold of her daughter, so great was her disgust at the sight of the
child's muddy boots, soiled stockings, torn skirts, and filthy face and
hands. The blue velvet ribbon, the earrings, and the necklet were all
concealed beneath a crust of mud. But what put the finishing touch to
Lisa's exasperation was the discovery of the two pockets filled with
mould. She stooped and emptied them, regardless of the pink and white
flooring of the shop. And as she dragged Pauline away, she could only
gasp: "Come along, you filthy thing!"

Quite enlivened by this scene, Mademoiselle Saget now hurriedly made
her way across the Rue Rambuteau. Her little feet scarcely touched the
ground; her joy seemed to carry her along like a breeze which fanned her
with a caressing touch. She had at last found out what she had so much
wanted to know! For nearly a year she had been consumed by curiosity,
and now at a single stroke she had gained complete power over Florent!
This was unhoped-for contentment, positive salvation, for she felt that
Florent would have brought her to the tomb had she failed much longer in
satisfying her curiosity about him. At present she was complete mistress
of the whole neighbourhood of the markets. There was no longer any gap
in her information. She could have narrated the secret history of every
street, shop by shop. And thus, as she entered the fruit market, she
fairly gasped with delight, in a perfect transport of pleasure.

"Hallo, Mademoiselle Saget," cried La Sarriette from her stall, "what
are you smiling to yourself like that about? Have you won the grand
prize in the lottery?"

"No, no. Ah, my dear, if you only knew!"

Standing there amidst her fruit, La Sarriette, in her picturesque
disarray, looked charming. Frizzy hair fell over her brow like vine
branches. Her bare arms and neck, indeed all the rosy flesh she showed,
bloomed with the freshness of peach and cherry. She had playfully hung
some cherries on her ears, black cherries which dangled against her
cheeks when she stooped, shaking with merry laughter. She was eating
currants, and her merriment arose from the way in which she was smearing
her face with them. Her lips were bright red, glistening with the juice
of the fruit, as though they had been painted and perfumed with some
seraglio face-paint. A perfume of plum exhaled from her gown, while
from the kerchief carelessly fastened across her breast came an odour of
strawberries.

Fruits of all kinds were piled around her in her narrow stall. On the
shelves at the back were rows of melons, so-called "cantaloups" swarming
with wart-like knots, "maraichers" whose skin was covered with grey
lace-like netting, and "culs-de-singe" displaying smooth bare bumps. In
front was an array of choice fruits, carefully arranged in baskets, and
showing like smooth round cheeks seeking to hide themselves, or glimpses
of sweet childish faces, half veiled by leaves. Especially was this the
case with the peaches, the blushing peaches of Montreuil, with skin
as delicate and clear as that of northern maidens, and the yellow,
sun-burnt peaches from the south, brown like the damsels of Provence.
The apricots, on their beds of moss, gleamed with the hue of amber or
with that sunset glow which so warmly colours the necks of brunettes at
the nape, just under the little wavy curls which fall below the chignon.
The cherries, ranged one by one, resembled the short lips of smiling
Chinese girls; the Montmorencies suggested the dumpy mouths of buxom
women; the English ones were longer and graver-looking; the common black
ones seemed as though they had been bruised and crushed by kisses; while
the white-hearts, with their patches of rose and white, appeared to
smile with mingled merriment and vexation. Then piles of apples
and pears, built up with architectural symmetry, often in pyramids,
displayed the ruddy glow of budding breasts and the gleaming sheen of
shoulders, quite a show of nudity, lurking modestly behind a screen of
fern-leaves. There were all sorts of varieties--little red ones so
tiny that they seemed to be yet in the cradle, shapeless "rambours"
for baking, "calvilles" in light yellow gowns, sanguineous-looking
"Canadas," blotched "chataignier" apples, fair freckled rennets and
dusky russets. Then came the pears--the "blanquettes," the "British
queens," the "Beurres," the "messirejeans," and the "duchesses"--some
dumpy, some long and tapering, some with slender necks, and others with
thick-set shoulders, their green and yellow bellies picked out at times
with a splotch of carmine. By the side of these the transparent plums
resembled tender, chlorotic virgins; the greengages and the Orleans
plums paled as with modest innocence, while the mirabelles lay like
golden beads of a rosary forgotten in a box amongst sticks of
vanilla. And the strawberries exhaled a sweet perfume--a perfume of
youth--especially those little ones which are gathered in the woods, and
which are far more aromatic than the large ones grown in gardens,
for these breathe an insipid odour suggestive of the watering-pot.
Raspberries added their fragrance to the pure scent. The currants--red,
white, and black--smiled with a knowing air; whilst the heavy clusters
of grapes, laden with intoxication, lay languorously at the edges
of their wicker baskets, over the sides of which dangled some of the
berries, scorched by the hot caresses of the voluptuous sun.

It was there that La Sarriette lived in an orchard, as it were, in
an atmosphere of sweet, intoxicating scents. The cheaper fruits--the
cherries, plums, and strawberries--were piled up in front of her in
paper-lined baskets, and the juice coming from their bruised ripeness
stained the stall-front, and steamed, with a strong perfume, in the
heat. She would feel quite giddy on those blazing July afternoons when
the melons enveloped her with a powerful, vaporous odour of musk; and
then with her loosened kerchief, fresh as she was with the springtide of
life, she brought sudden temptation to all who saw her. It was she--it
was her arms and necks which gave that semblance of amorous vitality
to her fruit. On the stall next to her an old woman, a hideous old
drunkard, displayed nothing but wrinkled apples, pears as flabby
as herself, and cadaverous apricots of a witch-like sallowness. La
Sarriette's stall, however, spoke of love and passion. The cherries
looked like the red kisses of her bright lips; the silky peaches were
not more delicate than her neck; to the plums she seemed to have lent
the skin from her brow and chin; while some of her own crimson blood
coursed through the veins of the currants. All the scents of the
avenue of flowers behind her stall were but insipid beside the aroma of
vitality which exhaled from her open baskets and falling kerchief.

That day she was quite intoxicated by the scent of a large arrival of
mirabelle plums, which filled the market. She could plainly see that
Mademoiselle Saget had learnt some great piece of news, and she wished
to make her talk. But the old maid stamped impatiently whilst she
repeated: "No, no; I've no time. I'm in a great hurry to see Madame
Lecoeur. I've just learnt something and no mistake. You can come with
me, if you like."

As a matter of fact, she had simply gone through the fruit market for
the purpose of enticing La Sarriette to go with her. The girl could
not refuse temptation. Monsieur Jules, clean-shaven and as fresh as a
cherub, was seated there, swaying to and fro on his chair.

"Just look after the stall for a minute, will you?" La Sarriette said to
him. "I'll be back directly."

Jules, however, got up and called after her, in a thick voice: "Not I;
no fear! I'm off! I'm not going to wait an hour for you, as I did the
other day. And, besides, those cursed plums of yours quite make my head
ache."

Then he calmly strolled off, with his hands in his pockets, and the
stall was left to look after itself. Mademoiselle Saget went so fast
that La Sarriette had to run. In the butter pavilion a neighbour of
Madame Lecoeur's told them that she was below in the cellar; and so,
whilst La Sarriette went down to find her, the old maid installed
herself amidst the cheeses.

The cellar under the butter market is a very gloomy spot. The rows of
storerooms are protected by a very fine wire meshing, as a safeguard
against fire; and the gas jets, which are very few and far between,
glimmer like yellow splotches destitute of radiance in the heavy,
malordorous atmosphere beneath the low vault. Madame Lecoeur, however,
was at work on her butter at one of the tables placed parallel with the
Rue Berger, and here a pale light filtered through the vent-holes. The
tables, which are continually sluiced with a flood of water from the
taps, are as white as though they were quite new. With her back turned
to the pump in the rear, Madame Lecoeur was kneading her butter in a
kind of oak box. She took some of different sorts which lay beside her,
and mixed the varieties together, correcting one by another, just as is
done in the blending of wines. Bent almost double, and showing sharp,
bony shoulders, and arms bared to the elbows, as scraggy and knotted as
pea-rods, she dug her fists into the greasy paste in front of her, which
was assuming a whitish and chalky appearance. It was trying work, and
she heaved a sigh at each fresh effort.

"Mademoiselle Saget wants to speak to you, aunt," said La Sarriette.

Madame Lecoeur stopped her work, and pulled her cap over her hair with
her greasy fingers, seemingly quite careless of staining it. "I've
nearly finished. Ask her to wait a moment," she said.

"She's got something very particular to tell you," continued La
Sarriette.

"I won't be more than a minute, my dear."

Then she again plunged her arms into the butter, which buried them up
to the elbows. Previously softened in warm water, it covered Madame
Lecoeur's parchment-like skin as with an oily film, and threw the big
purple veins that streaked her flesh into strong relief. La Sarriette
was quite disgusted by the sight of those hideous arms working so
frantically amidst the melting mass. However, she could recall the time
when her own pretty little hands had manipulated the butter for whole
afternoons at a time. It had even been a sort of almond-paste to her,
a cosmetic which had kept her skin white and her nails delicately pink;
and even now her slender fingers retained the suppleness it had endowed
them with.

"I don't think that butter of yours will be very good, aunt," she
continued, after a pause. "Some of the sorts seem much too strong."

"I'm quite aware of that," replied Madame Lecoeur, between a couple of
groans. "But what can I do? I must use everything up. There are some
folks who insist upon having butter cheap, and so cheap butter must be
made for them. Oh! it's always quite good enough for those who buy it."

La Sarriette reflected that she would hardly care to eat butter which
had been worked by her aunt's arms. Then she glanced at a little jar
full of a sort of reddish dye. "Your colouring is too pale," she said.

This colouring-matter--"raucourt," as the Parisians call it is used to
give the butter a fine yellow tint. The butter women imagine that
its composition is known only to themselves, and keep it very secret.
However, it is merely made from anotta;[*] though a composition of
carrots and marigold is at times substituted for it.

[*] Anotta, which is obtained from the pulp surrounding the
seeds of the _Bixa Orellana_, is used for a good many
purposes besides the colouring of butter and cheese. It
frequently enters into the composition of chocolate, and is
employed to dye nankeen. Police court proceedings have also
shown that it is well known to the London milkmen, who are
in the habit of adding water to their merchandise.
--Translator.

"Come, do be quick!" La Sarriette now exclaimed, for she was getting
impatient, and was, moreover, no longer accustomed to the malodorous
atmosphere of the cellar. "Mademoiselle Saget will be going. I fancy
she's got something very important to tell you abut my uncle Gavard."

On hearing this, Madame Lecoeur abruptly ceased working. She at once
abandoned both butter and dye, and did not even wait to wipe her arms.
With a slight tap of her hand she settled her cap on her head again, and
made her way up the steps, at her niece's heels, anxiously repeating:
"Do you really think that she'll have gone away?"

She was reassured, however, on catching sight of Mademoiselle Saget
amidst the cheeses. The old maid had taken good care not to go away
before Madame Lecoeur's arrival. The three women seated themselves at
the far end of the stall, crowding closely together, and their faces
almost touching one another. Mademoiselle Saget remained silent for
two long minutes, and then, seeing that the others were burning with
curiosity, she began, in her shrill voice: "You know that Florent! Well,
I can tell you now where he comes from."

For another moment she kept them in suspense; and then, in a deep,
melodramatic voice, she said: "He comes from the galleys!"

The cheeses were reeking around the three women. On the two shelves at
the far end of the stall were huge masses of butter: Brittany butters
overflowing from baskets; Normandy butters, wrapped in canvas, and
resembling models of stomachs over which some sculptor had thrown damp
cloths to keep them from drying; while other great blocks had been cut
into, fashioned into perpendicular rocky masses full of crevasses and
valleys, and resembling fallen mountain crests gilded by the pale sun of
an autumn evening.

Beneath the stall show-table, formed of a slab of red marble veined with
grey, baskets of eggs gleamed with a chalky whiteness; while on layers
of straw in boxes were Bondons, placed end to end, and Gournays,
arranged like medals, forming darker patches tinted with green. But
it was upon the table that the cheeses appeared in greatest profusion.
Here, by the side of the pound-rolls of butter lying on white-beet
leaves, spread a gigantic Cantal cheese, cloven here and there as by an
axe; then came a golden-hued Cheshire, and next a Gruyere, resembling
a wheel fallen from some barbarian chariot; whilst farther on were some
Dutch cheeses, suggesting decapitated heads suffused with dry blood, and
having all that hardness of skulls which in France has gained them
the name of "death's heads." Amidst the heavy exhalations of these, a
Parmesan set a spicy aroma. Then there came three Brie cheeses displayed
on round platters, and looking like melancholy extinct moons. Two of
them, very dry, were at the full; the third, in its second quarter, was
melting away in a white cream, which had spread into a pool and flowed
over the little wooden barriers with which an attempt had been made to
arrest its course. Next came some Port Saluts, similar to antique discs,
with exergues bearing their makers' names in print. A Romantour, in its
tin-foil wrapper, suggested a bar of nougat or some sweet cheese astray
amidst all these pungent, fermenting curds. The Roqueforts under their
glass covers also had a princely air, their fat faces marbled with blue
and yellow, as though they were suffering from some unpleasant malady
such as attacks the wealthy gluttons who eat too many truffles. And on a
dish by the side of these, the hard grey goats' milk cheeses, about the
size of a child's fist, resembled the pebbles which the billy-goats
send rolling down the stony paths as they clamber along ahead of their
flocks. Next came the strong smelling cheeses: the Mont d'Ors, of a
bright yellow hue, and exhaling a comparatively mild odour; the Troyes,
very thick, and bruised at the edges, and of a far more pungent smell,
recalling the dampness of a cellar; the Camemberts, suggestive of high
game; the square Neufchatels, Limbourgs, Marolles, and Pont l'Eveques,
each adding its own particular sharp scent to the malodorous bouquet,
till it became perfectly pestilential; the Livarots, ruddy in hue, and
as irritating to the throat as sulphur fumes; and, lastly, stronger than
all the others, the Olivets, wrapped in walnut leaves, like the carrion
which peasants cover with branches as it lies rotting in the hedgerow
under the blazing sun.

The heat of the afternoon had softened the cheeses; the patches of mould
on their crusts were melting, and glistening with tints of ruddy bronze
and verdigris. Beneath their cover of leaves, the skins of the Olivets
seemed to be heaving as with the slow, deep respiration of a sleeping
man. A Livarot was swarming with life; and in a fragile box behind the
scales a Gerome flavoured with aniseed diffused such a pestilential
smell that all around it the very flies had fallen lifeless on the
gray-veined slap of ruddy marble.

This Gerome was almost immediately under Mademoiselle Saget's nose; so
she drew back, and leaned her head against the big sheets of white and
yellow paper which were hanging in a corner.

"Yes," she repeated, with an expression of disgust, "he comes from the
galleys! Ah, those Quenu-Gradelles have no reason to put on so many
airs!"

Madame Lecoeur and La Sarriette, however, had burst into exclamations of
astonishment: "It wasn't possible, surely! What had he done to be sent
to the galleys? Could anyone, now, have ever suspected that Madame
Quenu, whose virtue was the pride of the whole neighbourhood, would
choose a convict for a lover?"

"Ah, but you don't understand at all!" cried the old maid impatiently.
"Just listen, now, while I explain things. I was quite certain that I
had seen that great lanky fellow somewhere before."

Then she proceeded to tell them Florent's story. She had recalled to
mind a vague report which had circulated of a nephew of old Gradelle
being transported to Cayenne for murdering six gendarmes at a barricade.
She had even seen this nephew on one occasion in the Rue Pirouette. The
pretended cousin was undoubtedly the same man. Then she began to bemoan
her waning powers. Her memory was quite going, she said; she would soon
be unable to remember anything. And she bewailed her perishing memory
as bitterly as any learned man might bewail the loss of his notes
representing the work of a life-time, on seeing them swept away by a
gust of wind.

"Six gendarmes!" murmured La Sarriette, admiringly; "he must have a very
heavy fist!"

"And he's made away with plenty of others, as well," added Mademoiselle
Saget. "I shouldn't advise you to meet him at night!"

"What a villain!" stammered out Madame Lecoeur, quite terrified.

The slanting beams of the sinking sun were now enfilading the pavilion,
and the odour of the cheeses became stronger than ever. That of the
Marolles seemed to predominate, borne hither and thither in powerful
whiffs. Then, however, the wind appeared to change, and suddenly the
emanations of the Limbourgs were wafted towards the three women, pungent
and bitter, like the last gasps of a dying man.

"But in that case," resumed Madame Lecoeur, "he must be fat Lisa's
brother-in-law. And we thought that he was her lover!"

The women exchanged glances. This aspect of the case took them by
surprise. They were loth to give up their first theory. However, La
Sarriette, turning to Mademoiselle Saget, remarked: "That must have been
all wrong. Besides, you yourself say that he's always running after the
two Mehudin girls."

"Certainly he is," exclaimed Mademoiselle Saget sharply, fancying that
her word was doubted. "He dangles about them every evening. But, after
all, it's no concern of ours, is it? We are virtuous women, and what he
does makes no difference to us, the horrid scoundrel!"

"No, certainly not," agreed the other two. "He's a consummate villain."

The affair was becoming tragical. Of course beautiful Lisa was now
out of the question, but for this they found ample consolation in
prophesying that Florent would bring about some frightful catastrophe.
It was quite clear, they said, that he had got some base design in
his head. When people like him escaped from gaol it was only to burn
everything down; and if he had come to the markets it must assuredly be
for some abominable purpose. Then they began to indulge in the wildest
suppositions. The two dealers declared that they would put additional
padlocks to the doors of their storerooms; and La Sarriette called
to mind that a basket of peaches had been stolen from her during the
previous week. Mademoiselle Saget, however, quite frightened the two
others by informing them that that was not the way in which the Reds
behaved; they despised such trifles as baskets of peaches; their plan
was to band themselves together in companies of two or three hundred,
kill everybody they came across, and then plunder and pillage at their
ease. That was "politics," she said, with the superior air of one who
knew what she was talking about. Madame Lecoeur felt quite ill. She
already saw Florent and his accomplices hiding in the cellars, and
rushing out during the night to set the markets in flames and sack
Paris.

"Ah! by the way," suddenly exclaimed the old maid, "now I think of it,
there's all that money of old Gradelle's! Dear me, dear me, those Quenus
can't be at all at their ease!"

She now looked quite gay again. The conversation took a fresh turn, and
the others fell foul of the Quenus when Mademoiselle Saget had told them
the history of the treasure discovered in the salting-tub, with every
particular of which she was acquainted. She was even able to inform
them of the exact amount of the money found--eighty-five thousand
francs--though neither Lisa nor Quenu was aware of having revealed this
to a living soul. However, it was clear that the Quenus had not given
the great lanky fellow his share. He was too shabbily dressed for
that. Perhaps he had never even heard of the discovery of the treasure.
Plainly enough, they were all thieves in his family. Then the three
women bent their heads together and spoke in lower tones. They were
unanimously of opinion that it might perhaps be dangerous to attack the
beautiful Lisa, but it was decidedly necessary that they should settle
the Red Republican's hash, so that he might no longer prey upon the
purse of poor Monsieur Gavard.

At the mention of Gavard there came a pause. The gossips looked at
each other with a circumspect air. And then, as they drew breath, they
inhaled the odour of the Camemberts, whose gamy scent had overpowered
the less penetrating emanations of the Marolles and the Limbourgs, and
spread around with remarkable power. Every now and then, however, a
slight whiff, a flutelike note, came from the Parmesan, while the Bries
contributed a soft, musty scent, the gentle, insipid sound, as it were,
of damp tambourines. Next followed an overpowering refrain from the
Livarots, and afterwards the Gerome, flavoured with aniseed, kept up the
symphony with a high prolonged note, like that of a vocalist during a
pause in the accompaniment.

"I have seen Madame Leonce," Mademoiselle Saget at last continued, with
a significant expression.

At this the two others became extremely attentive. Madame Leonce was the
doorkeeper of the house where Gavard lived in the Rue de la Cossonnerie.
It was an old house standing back, with its ground floor occupied by an
importer of oranges and lemons, who had had the frontage coloured blue
as high as the first floor. Madame Leonce acted as Gavard's housekeeper,
kept the keys of his cupboards and closets, and brought him up tisane
when he happened to catch cold. She was a severe-looking woman, between
fifty and sixty years of age, and spoke slowly, but at endless length.
Mademoiselle Saget, who went to drink coffee with her every Wednesday
evening, had cultivated her friendship more closely than ever since the
poultry dealer had gone to lodge in the house. They would talk about
the worthy man for hours at a time. They both professed the greatest
affection for him, and a keen desire to ensure his comfort and
happiness.

"Yes, I have seen Madame Leonce," repeated the old maid. "We had a cup
of coffee together last night. She was greatly worried. It seems that
Monsieur Gavard never comes home now before one o'clock in the morning.
Last Sunday she took him up some broth, as she thought he looked quite
ill."

"Oh, she knows very well what she's about," exclaimed Madame Lecoeur,
whom these attentions to Gavard somewhat alarmed.

Mademoiselle Saget felt bound to defend her friend. "Oh, really, you are
quite mistaken," said she. "Madame Leonce is much above her position;
she is quite a lady. If she wanted to enrich herself at Monsieur
Gavard's expense, she might easily have done so long ago. It seems that
he leaves everything lying about in the most careless fashion. It's
about that, indeed, that I want to speak to you. But you'll not repeat
anything I say, will you? I am telling it you in strict confidence."

Both the others swore that they would never breathe a word of what they
might hear; and they craned out their necks with eager curiosity, whilst
the old maid solemnly resumed: "Well, then, Monsieur Gavard has been
behaving very strangely of late. He has been buying firearms--a great
big pistol--one of those which revolve, you know. Madame Leonce says
that things are awful, for this pistol is always lying about on the
table or the mantelpiece; and she daren't dust anywhere near it. But
that isn't all. His money--"

"His money!" echoed Madame Lecoeur, with blazing cheeks.

"Well, he's disposed of all his stocks and shares. He's sold everything,
and keeps a great heap of gold in a cupboard."

"A heap of gold!" exclaimed La Sarriette in ecstasy.

"Yes, a great heap of gold. It covers a whole shelf, and is quite
dazzling. Madame Leonce told me that one morning Gavard opened the
cupboard in her presence, and that the money quite blinded her, it shone
so."

There was another pause. The eyes of the three women were blinking as
though the dazzling pile of gold was before them. Presently La Sarriette
began to laugh.

"What a jolly time I would have with Jules if my uncle would give that
money to me!" said she.

Madame Lecoeur, however, seemed quite overwhelmed by this revelation,
crushed beneath the weight of the gold which she could not banish from
her sight. Covetous envy thrilled her. But at last, raising her skinny
arms and shrivelled hands, her finger-nails still stuffed with butter,
she stammered in a voice full of bitter distress: "Oh, I mustn't think
of it! It's too dreadful!"

"Well, it would all be yours, you know, if anything were to happen to
Monsieur Gavard," retorted Mademoiselle Saget. "If I were in your place,
I would look after my interests. That revolver means nothing good,
you may depend upon it. Monsieur Gavard has got into the hands of evil
counsellors; and I'm afraid it will all end badly."

Then the conversation again turned upon Florent. The three women
assailed him more violently than ever. And afterwards, with perfect
composure, they began to discuss what would be the result of all these
dark goings-on so far as he and Gavard were concerned; certainly it
would be no pleasant one if there was any gossiping. And thereupon they
swore that they themselves would never repeat a word of what they knew;
not, however, because that scoundrel Florent merited any consideration,
but because it was necessary, at all costs, to save that worthy Monsieur
Gavard from being compromised. Then they rose from their seats, and
Mademoiselle Saget was burning as if to go away when the butter dealer
asked her: "All the same, in case of accident, do you think that Madame
Leonce can be trusted? I dare say she has the key of the cupboard."

"Well, that's more than I can tell you," replied the old maid. "I
believe she's a very honest woman; but, after all, there's no telling.
There are circumstances, you know, which tempt the best of people.
Anyhow, I've warned you both; and you must do what you think proper."

As the three women stood there, taking leave of each other, the odour
of the cheeses seemed to become more pestilential than ever. It was a
cacophony of smells, ranging from the heavily oppressive odour of the
Dutch cheeses and the Gruyeres to the alkaline pungency of the Olivets.
From the Cantal, the Cheshire, and the goats' milk cheeses there seemed
to come a deep breath like the sound of a bassoon, amidst which the
sharp, sudden whiffs of the Neufchatels, the Troyes, and the Mont
d'Ors contributed short, detached notes. And then the different odours
appeared to mingle one with another, the reek of the Limbourgs, the Port
Saluts, the Geromes, the Marolles, the Livarots, and the Pont l'Eveques
uniting in one general, overpowering stench sufficient to provoke
asphyxia. And yet it almost seemed as though it were not the cheeses but
the vile words of Madame Lecoeur and Mademoiselle Saget that diffused
this awful odour.

"I'm very much obliged to you, indeed I am," said the butter dealer. "If
ever I get rich, you shall not find yourself forgotten."

The old maid still lingered in the stall. Taking up a Bondon, she turned
it round, and put it down on the slab again. Then she asked its price.

"To me!" she added, with a smile.

"Oh, nothing to you," replied Madame Lecoeur. "I'll make you a present
of it." And again she exclaimed: "Ah, if I were only rich!"

Mademoiselle Saget thereupon told her that some day or other she would
be rich. The Bondon had already disappeared within the old maid's bag.
And now the butter dealer returned to the cellar, while Mademoiselle
Saget escorted La Sarriette back to her stall. On reaching it they
talked for a moment or two about Monsieur Jules. The fruits around them
diffused a fresh scent of summer.

"It smells much nicer here than at your aunt's," said the old maid. "I
felt quite ill a little time ago. I can't think how she manages to exist
there. But here it's very sweet and pleasant. It makes you look quite
rosy, my dear."

La Sarriette began to laugh, for she was fond of compliments. Then she
served a lady with a pound of mirabelle plums, telling her that they
were as sweet as sugar.

"I should like to buy some of those mirabelles too," murmured
Mademoiselle Saget, when the lady had gone away; "only I want so few. A
lone woman, you know."

"Take a handful of them," exclaimed the pretty brunette. "That won't
ruin me. Send Jules back to me if you see him, will you? You'll most
likely find him smoking his cigar on the first bench to the right as you
turn out of the covered way."

Mademoiselle Saget distended her fingers as widely as possible in order
to take a handful of mirabelles, which joined the Bondon in the bag.
Then she pretended to leave the market, but in reality made a detour by
one of the covered ways, thinking, as she walked slowly along, that the
mirabelles and Bondon would not make a very substantial dinner. When she
was unable, during her afternoon perambulations, to wheedle stallkeepers
into filling her bag for her, she was reduced to dining off the merest
scraps. So she now slyly made her way back to the butter pavilions,
where, on the side of the Rue Berger, at the back of the offices of the
oyster salesmen, there were some stalls at which cooked meat was
sold. Every morning little closed box-like carts, lined with zinc and
furnished with ventilators, drew up in front of the larger Parisian
kitchens and carried away the leavings of the restaurants, the
embassies, and State Ministries. These leavings were conveyed to the
market cellars and there sorted. By nine o'clock plates of food were
displayed for sale at prices ranging from three to five sous, their
contents comprising slices of meat, scraps of game, heads and tails of
fishes, bits of galantine, stray vegetables, and, by way of dessert,
cakes scarcely cut into, and other confectionery. Poor starving
wretches, scantily-paid clerks, and women shivering with fever were
to be seen crowding around, and the street lads occasionally amused
themselves by hooting the pale-faced individuals, known to be misers,
who only made their purchases after slyly glancing about them to see
that they were not observed.[*] Mademoiselle Saget wriggled her way to
a stall, the keeper of which boasted that the scraps she sold came
exclusively from the Tuileries. One day, indeed, she had induced the old
maid to buy a slice of leg of mutton by informing that it had come from
the plate of the Emperor himself; and this slice of mutton, eaten with
no little pride, had been a soothing consolation to Mademoiselle Saget's
vanity. The wariness of her approach to the stall was, moreover, solely
caused by her desire to keep well with the neighbouring shop people,
whose premises she was eternally haunting without ever buying anything.
Her usual tactics were to quarrel with them as soon as she had managed
to learn their histories, when she would bestow her patronage upon a
fresh set, desert it in due course, and then gradually make friends
again with those with whom she had quarrelled. In this way she made the
complete circuit of the market neighbourhood, ferreting about in every
shop and stall. Anyone would have imagined that she consumed an enormous
amount of provisions, whereas, in point of fact, she lived solely upon
presents and the few scraps which she was compelled to buy when people
were not in the giving vein.

[*] The dealers in these scraps are called _bijoutiers_, or
jewellers, whilst the scraps themselves are known as
_harlequins_, the idea being that they are of all colours
and shapes when mingled together, thus suggesting
harlequin's variegated attire.--Translator.

On that particular evening there was only a tall old man standing in
front of the stall. He was sniffing at a plate containing a mixture
of meat and fish. Mademoiselle Saget, in her turn, began to sniff at a
plate of cold fried fish. The price of it was three sous, but, by dint
of bargaining, she got it for two. The cold fish then vanished into the
bag. Other customers now arrived, and with a uniform impulse lowered
their noses over the plates. The smell of the stall was very disgusting,
suggestive alike of greasy dishes and a dirty sink.[*]

[*] Particulars of the strange and repulsive trade in
harlequins, which even nowadays is not extinct, will be
found in Privat d'Anglemont's well-known book _Paris
Anecdote_, written at the very period with which M. Zola
deals in the present work. My father, Henry Vizetelly, also
gave some account of it in his _Glances Back through Seventy
Years_, in a chapter describing the odd ways in which
certain Parisians contrive to get a living.--Translator.

"Come and see me to-morrow," the stallkeeper called out to the old maid,
"and I'll put something nice on one side for you. There's going to be a
grand dinner at the Tuileries to-night."

Mademoiselle Saget was just promising to come, when, happening to turn
round, she discovered Gavard looking at her and listening to what she
was saying. She turned very red, and, contracting her skinny shoulders,
hurried away, affecting not to recognise him. Gavard, however, followed
her for a few yards, shrugging his shoulders and muttering to himself
that he was no longer surprised at the old shrew's malice, now he
knew that "she poisoned herself with the filth carted away from the
Tuileries."

On the very next morning vague rumours began to circulate in the
markets. Madame Lecoeur and La Sarriette were in their own fashion
keeping the oaths of silence they had taken. For her own part,
Mademoiselle Saget warily held her tongue, leaving the two others to
circulate the story of Florent's antecedents. At first only a few meagre
details were hawked about in low tones; then various versions of the
facts got into circulation, incidents were exaggerated, and gradually
quite a legend was constructed, in which Florent played the part of a
perfect bogey man. He had killed ten gendarmes at the barricade in the
Rue Greneta, said some; he had returned to France on a pirate ship whose
crew scoured the seas to murder everyone they came across, said others;
whilst a third set declared that ever since his arrival he had been
observed prowling about at nighttime with suspicious-looking characters,
of whom he was undoubtedly the leader. Soon the imaginative market
women indulged in the highest flights of fancy, revelled in the most
melodramatic ideas. There was talk of a band of smugglers plying their
nefarious calling in the very heart of Paris, and of a vast central
association formed for systematically robbing the stalls in the markets.
Much pity was expressed for the Quenu-Gradelles, mingled with malicious
allusions to their uncle's fortune. That fortune was an endless subject
of discussion. The general opinion was that Florent had returned
to claim his share of the treasure; however, as no good reason was
forthcoming to explain why the division had not taken place already, it
was asserted that Florent was waiting for some opportunity which
might enable him to pocket the whole amount. The Quenu-Gradelles would
certainly be found murdered some morning, it was said; and a rumour
spread that dreadful quarrels already took place every night between the
two brothers and beautiful Lisa.

When these stories reached the ears of the beautiful Norman, she
shrugged her shoulders and burst out laughing.

"Get away with you!" she cried, "you don't know him. Why, the dear
fellow's as gentle as a lamb."

She had recently refused the hand of Monsieur Lebigre, who had at last
ventured upon a formal proposal. For two months past he had given the
Mehudins a bottle of some liqueur every Sunday. It was Rose who brought
it, and she was always charged with a compliment for La Normande, some
pretty speech which she faithfully repeated, without appearing in the
slightest degree embarrassed by the peculiar commission. When Monsieur
Lebigre was rejected, he did not pine, but to show that he took no
offence and was still hopeful, he sent Rose on the following Sunday with
two bottles of champagne and a large bunch of flowers. She gave them
into the handsome fish-girl's own hands, repeating, as she did so, the
wine dealer's prose madrigal:

"Monsieur Lebigre begs you to drink this to his health, which has been
greatly shaken by you know what. He hopes that you will one day be
willing to cure him, by being for him as pretty and as sweet as these
flowers."

La Normande was much amused by the servant's delighted air. She kissed
her as she spoke to her of her master, and asked her if he wore braces,
and snored at nights. Then she made her take the champagne and flowers
back with her. "Tell Monsieur Lebigre," said she, "that he's not to send
you here again. It quite vexes me to see you coming here so meekly, with
your bottles under your arms."

"Oh, he wishes me to come," replied Rose, as she went away. "It is wrong
of you to distress him. He is a very handsome man."

La Normande, however, was quite conquered by Florent's affectionate
nature. She continued to follow Muche's lessons of an evening in the
lamplight, indulging the while in a dream of marrying this man who was
so kind to children. She would still keep her fish stall, while he would
doubtless rise to a position of importance in the administrative staff
of the markets. This dream of hers, however, was scarcely furthered by
the tutor's respectful bearing towards her. He bowed to her, and kept
himself at a distance, when she have liked to laugh with him, and love
him as she knew how to love. But it was just this covert resistance
on Florent's part which continually brought her back to the dream of
marrying him. She realised that he lived in a loftier sphere than her
own; and by becoming his wife she imagined that her vanity would reap no
little satisfaction.

She was greatly surprised when she learned the history of the man she
loved. He had never mentioned a word of those things to her; and she
scolded him about it. His extraordinary adventures only increased her
tenderness for him, and for evenings together she made him relate all
that had befallen him. She trembled with fear lest the police should
discover him; but he reassured her, saying that the matter was now too
old for the police to trouble their heads about it. One evening he told
her of the woman on the Boulevard Montmartre, the woman in the pink
bonnet, whose blood had dyed his hands. He still frequently thought of
that poor creature. His anguish-stricken mind had often dwelt upon her
during the clear nights he had passed in Cayenne; and he had returned
to France with a wild dream of meeting her again on some footway in the
bright sunshine, even though he could still feel her corpse-like weight
across his legs. And yet, he thought, she might perhaps have recovered.
At times he received quite a shock while he was walking through the
streets, on fancying that he recognised her; and he followed pink
bonnets and shawl-draped shoulders with a wildly beating heart. When he
closed his eyes he could see her walking, and advancing towards him;
but she let her shawl slip down, showing the two red stains on her
chemisette; and then he saw that her face was pale as wax, and that
her eyes were blank, and her lips distorted by pain. For a long time he
suffered from not knowing her name, from being forced to look upon her
as a mere shadow, whose recollection filled him with sorrow. Whenever
any idea of woman crossed his mind it was always she that rose up before
him, as the one pure, tender wife. He often found himself fancying that
she might be looking for him on that boulevard where she had fallen
dead, and that if she had met him a few seconds sooner she would have
given him a life of joy. And he wished for no other wife; none other
existed for him. When he spoke of her, his voice trembled to such a
degree that La Normande, her wits quickened by her love, guessed his
secret, and felt jealous.

"Oh, it's really much better that you shouldn't see her again," she said
maliciously. "She can't look particularly nice by this time."

Florent turned pale with horror at the vision which these words evoked.
His love was rotting in her grave. He could not forgive La Normande's
savage cruelty, which henceforth made him see the grinning jaws and
hollow eyes of a skeleton within that lovely pink bonnet. Whenever the
fish-girl tried to joke with him on the subject he turned quite angry,
and silenced her with almost coarse language.

That, however, which especially surprised the beautiful Norman in
these revelations was the discovery that she had been quite mistaken in
supposing that she was enticing a lover away from handsome Lisa. This
so diminished her feeling of triumph, that for a week or so her love
for Florent abated. She consoled herself, however, with the story of the
inheritance, no longer calling Lisa a strait-laced prude, but a thief
who kept back her brother-in-law's money, and assumed sanctimonious airs
to deceive people. Every evening, while Muche took his writing lesson,
the conversation turned upon old Gradelle's treasure.

"Did anyone ever hear of such an idea?" the fish-girl would exclaim,
with a laugh. "Did the old man want to salt his money, since he put
it in a salting-tub? Eighty-five thousand francs! That's a nice sum
of money! And, besides, the Quenus, no doubt, lied about it--there
was perhaps two or three times as much. Ah, if I were in your place, I
shouldn't lose any time about claiming my share; indeed I shouldn't."

"I've no need of anything," was Florent's invariable answer. "I
shouldn't know what to do with the money if I had it."

"Oh, you're no man!" cried La Normande, losing all control over herself.
"It's pitiful! Can't you see that the Quenus are laughing at you? That
great fat thing passes all her husband's old clothes over to you. I'm
not saying this to hurt your feelings, but everybody makes remarks about
it. Why, the whole neighbourhood has seen the greasy pair of trousers,
which you're now wearing, on your brother's legs for three years and
more! If I were in your place I'd throw their dirty rags in their faces,
and insist upon my rights. Your share comes to forty-two thousand five
hundred francs, doesn't it? Well, I shouldn't go out of the place till
I'd got forty-two thousand five hundred francs."

It was useless for Florent to explain to her that his sister-in-law had
offered to pay him his share, that she was taking care of it for him,
and that it was he himself who had refused to receive it. He entered
into the most minute particulars, seeking to convince her of the Quenus'
honesty, but she sarcastically replied: "Oh, yes, I dare say! I know all
about their honesty. That fat thing folds it up every morning and puts
it away in her wardrobe for fear it should get soiled. Really, I quite
pity you, my poor friend. It's easy to gull you, for you can't see any
further than a child of five. One of these days she'll simply put your
money in her pocket, and you'll never look on it again. Shall I go, now,
and claim your share for you, just to see what she says? There'd be
some fine fun, I can tell you! I'd either have the money, or I'd break
everything in the house--I swear I would!"

"No, no, it's no business of yours," Florent replied, quite alarmed.
"I'll see about it; I may possibly be wanting some money soon."

At this La Normande assumed an air of doubt, shrugged her shoulders, and
told him that he was really too chicken-hearted. Her one great aim now
was to embroil him with the Quenu-Gradelles, and she employed every
means she could think of to effect her purpose, both anger and banter,
as well as affectionate tenderness. She also cherished another design.
When she had succeeded in marrying Florent, she would go and administer
a sound cuffing to beautiful Lisa, if the latter did not yield up the
money. As she lay awake in her bed at night she pictured every detail of
the scene. She saw herself sitting down in the middle of the pork shop
in the busiest part of the day, and making a terrible fuss. She brooded
over this idea to such an extent, it obtained such a hold upon her, that
she would have been willing to marry Florent simply in order to be able
to go and demand old Gradelle's forty-two thousand five hundred francs.

Old Madame Mehudin, exasperated by La Normande's dismissal of Monsieur
Lebigre, proclaimed everywhere that her daughter was mad, and that the
"long spindle-shanks" must have administered some insidious drug to her.
When she learned the Cayenne story, her anger was terrible. She called
Florent a convict and murderer, and said it was no wonder that his
villainy had kept him lank and flat. Her versions of Florent's biography
were the most horrible of all that were circulated in the neighbourhood.
At home she kept a moderately quiet tongue in her head, and restricted
herself to muttered indignation, and a show of locking up the drawer
where the silver was kept whenever Florent arrived. One day, however,
after a quarrel with her elder daughter, she exclaimed:

"Things can't go on much longer like this! It is that vile man who is
setting you against me. Take care that you don't try me too far, or I'll
go and denounce him to the police. I will, as true as I stand here!"

"You'll denounce him!" echoed La Normande, trembling violently,
and clenching her fists. "You'd better not! Ah, if you weren't my
mother----"

At this, Claire, who was a spectator of the quarrel, began to laugh,
with a nervous laughter that seemed to rasp her throat. For some time
past she had been gloomier and more erratic than ever, invariably
showing red eyes and a pale face.

"Well, what would you do?" she asked. "Would you give her a cuffing?
Perhaps you'd like to give me, your sister, one as well? I dare say it
will end in that. But I'll clear the house of him. I'll go to the police
to save mother the trouble."

Then, as La Normande almost choked with the angry threats that rose
to her throat, the younger girl added: "I'll spare you the exertion of
beating me. I'll throw myself into the river as I come back over the
bridge."

Big tears were streaming from her eyes; and she rushed off to her
bedroom, banging the doors violently behind her. Old Madame Mehudin said
nothing more about denouncing Florent. Muche, however, told La Normande
that he met his grandma talking with Monsieur Lebigre in every corner of
the neighbourhood.

The rivalry between the beautiful Norman and the beautiful Lisa
now assumed a less aggressive but more disturbing character. In the
afternoon, when the red-striped canvas awning was drawn down in front
of the pork shop, the fish-girl would remark that the big fat thing felt
afraid, and was concealing herself. She was also much exasperated by
the occasional lowering of the window-blind, on which was pictured
a hunting-breakfast in a forest glade, with ladies and gentlemen in
evening dress partaking of a red pasty, as big as themselves, on the
yellow grass.

Beautiful Lisa, however, was by no means afraid. As soon as the sun
began to sink she drew up the blind; and, as she sat knitting behind her
counter, she serenely scanned the market square, where numerous urchins
were poking about in the soil under the gratings which protected the
roots of the plane-trees, while porters smoked their pipes on the
benches along the footway, at either end of which was an advertisement
column covered with theatrical posters, alternately green, yellow, red,
and blue, like some harlequin's costume. And while pretending to watch
the passing vehicles, Lisa would really be scrutinising the beautiful
Norman. She might occasionally be seen bending forward, as though her
eyes were following the Bastille and Place Wagram omnibus to the Pointe
Saint Eustache, where it always stopped for a time. But this was only a
manoeuvre to enable her to get a better view of the fish-girl, who, as
a set-off against the blind, retorted by covering her head and fish with
large sheets of brown paper, on the pretext of warding off the rays of
the setting sun. The advantage at present was on Lisa's side, for as
the time for striking the decisive blow approached she manifested the
calmest serenity of bearing, whereas her rival, in spite of all her
efforts to attain the same air of distinction, always lapsed into some
piece of gross vulgarity, which she afterwards regretted. La Normande's
ambition was to look "like a lady." Nothing irritated her more than to
hear people extolling the good manners of her rival. This weak point
of hers had not escaped old Madame Mehudin's observation, and she now
directed all her attacks upon it.

"I saw Madame Quenu standing at her door this evening," she would
say sometimes. "It is quite amazing how well she wears. And she's so
refined-looking, too; quite the lady, indeed. It's the counter that does
it, I'm sure. A fine counter gives a woman such a respectable look."

In this remark there was a veiled allusion to Monsieur Lebigre's
proposal. The beautiful Norman would make no reply; but for a moment or
two she would seem deep in thought. In her mind's eye she saw herself
behind the counter of the wine shop at the other corner of the street,
forming a pendent, as it were, to beautiful Lisa. It was this that first
shook her love for Florent.

To tell the truth, it was now becoming a very difficult thing to defend
Florent. The whole neighbourhood was in arms against him; it seemed as
though everyone had an immediate interest in exterminating him. Some of
the market people swore that he had sold himself to the police; while
others asserted that he had been seen in the butter-cellar, attempting
to make holes in the wire grating, with the intention of tossing lighted
matches through them. There was a vast increase of slander, a perfect
flood of abuse, the source of which could not be exactly determined.
The fish pavilion was the last one to join in the revolt against the
inspector. The fish-wives liked Florent on account of his gentleness,
and for some time they defended him; but, influenced by the stallkeepers
of the butter and fruit pavilions, they at last gave way. Then
hostilities began afresh between these huge, swelling women and the
lean and lank inspector. He was lost in the whirl of the voluminous
petticoats and buxom bodices which surged furiously around his scraggy
shoulders. However, he understood nothing, but pursued his course
towards the realisation of his one haunting idea.

At every hour of the day, and in every corner of the market,
Mademoiselle Saget's black bonnet was now to be seen in the midst of
this outburst of indignation. Her little pale face seemed to multiply.
She had sworn a terrible vengeance against the company which assembled
in Monsieur Lebigre's little cabinet. She accused them of having
circulated the story that she lived on waste scraps of meat. The truth
was that old Gavard had told the others one evening that the "old
nanny-goat" who came to play the spy upon them gorged herself with the
filth which the Bonapartist clique tossed away. Clemence felt quite ill
on hearing this, and Robine hurriedly gulped down a draught of beer, as
though to wash his throat. In Gavard's opinion, the scraps of meat
left on the Emperor's plate were so much political ordure, the putrid
remnants of all the filth of the reign. Thenceforth the party at
Monsieur Lebigre's looked on Mademoiselle Saget as a creature whom no
one could touch except with tongs. She was regarded as some unclean
animal that battened upon corruption. Clemence and Gavard circulated the
story so freely in the markets that the old maid found herself seriously
injured in her intercourse with the shopkeepers, who unceremoniously
bade her go off to the scrap-stalls when she came to haggle and gossip
at their establishments without the least intention of buying anything.
This cut her off from her sources of information; and sometimes she was
altogether ignorant of what was happening. She shed tears of rage, and
in one such moment of anger she bluntly said to La Sarriette and Madame
Lecoeur: "You needn't give me any more hints: I'll settle your Gavard's
hash for him now--that I will!"

The two women were rather startled, but refrained from all protestation.
The next day, however, Mademoiselle Saget had calmed down, and again
expressed much tender-hearted pity for that poor Monsieur Gavard who was
so badly advised, and was certainly hastening to his ruin.

Gavard was undoubtedly compromising himself. Ever since the conspiracy
had begun to ripen he had carried the revolver, which caused Madame
Leonce so much alarm, in his pocket wherever he went. It was a big,
formidable-looking weapon, which he had bought of the principal gunmaker
in Paris. He exhibited it to all the women in the poultry market, like a
schoolboy who has got some prohibited novel hidden in his desk. First he
would allow the barrel to peer out of his pocket, and call attention
to it with a wink. Then he affected a mysterious reticence, indulged in
vague hints and insinuations--played, in short, the part of a man who
revelled in feigning fear. The possession of this revolver gave
him immense importance, placed him definitely amongst the dangerous
characters of Paris. Sometimes, when he was safe inside his stall, he
would consent to take it out of his pocket, and exhibit it to two or
three of the women. He made them stand before him so as to conceal him
with their petticoats, and then he brandished the weapon, cocked the
lock, caused the breech to revolve, and took aim at one of the geese or
turkeys that were hanging in the stall. He was immensely delighted at
the alarm manifested by the women; but eventually reassured them by
stating that the revolver was not loaded. However, he carried a supply
of cartridges about with him, in a case which he opened with the most
elaborate precautions. When he had allowed his friends to feel
the weight of the cartridges, he would again place both weapon and
ammunition in his pockets. And afterwards, crossing his arms over his
breast, he would chatter away jubilantly for hours.

"A man's a man when he's got a weapon like that," he would say with a
swaggering air. "I don't care a fig now for the gendarmes. A friend and
I went to try it last Sunday on the plain of Saint Denis. Of course,
you know, a man doesn't tell everyone that he's got a plaything of that
sort. But, ah! my dears, we fired at a tree, and hit it every time. Ah,
you'll see, you'll see. You'll hear of Anatole one of these days, I can
tell you."

He had bestowed the name of Anatole upon the revolver; and he carried
things so far that in a week's time both weapon and cartridges were
known to all the women in the pavilion. His friendship for Florent
seemed to them suspicious; he was too sleek and rich to be visited with
the hatred that was manifested towards the inspector; still, he lost the
esteem of the shrewder heads amongst his acquaintances, and succeeded in
terrifying the timid ones. This delighted him immensely.

"It is very imprudent for a man to carry firearms about with him," said
Mademoiselle Saget. "Monsieur Gavard's revolver will end by playing him
a nasty trick."

Gavard now showed the most jubilant bearing at Monsieur Lebigre's.
Florent, since ceasing to take his meals with the Quenus, had come
almost to live in the little "cabinet." He breakfasted, dined, and
constantly shut himself up there. In fact he had converted the place
almost into a sort of private room of his own, where he left his old
coats and books and papers lying about. Monsieur Lebigre had offered no
objection to these proceedings; indeed, he had even removed one of the
tables to make room for a cushioned bench, on which Florent could
have slept had he felt so inclined. When the inspector manifested any
scruples about taking advantage of Monsieur Lebigre's kindness, the
latter told him to do as he pleased, saying that the whole house was at
his service. Logre also manifested great friendship for him, and even
constituted himself his lieutenant. He was constantly discussing affairs
with him, rendering an account of the steps he was supposed to take, and
furnishing the names of newly affiliated associates. Logre, indeed, had
now assumed the duties of organiser; on him rested the task of bringing
the various plotters together, forming the different sections, and
weaving each mesh of the gigantic net into which Paris was to fall at
a given signal. Florent meantime remained the leader, the soul of the
conspiracy.

However, much as the hunchback seemed to toil, he attained no
appreciable result. Although he had loudly asserted that in each
district of Paris he knew two or three groups of men as determined and
trustworthy as those who met at Monsieur Lebigre's, he had never yet
given any precise information about them, but had merely mentioned a
name here and there, and recounted stories of endless alleged secret
expeditions, and the wonderful enthusiasm that the people manifested
for the cause. He made a great point of the hand-grasps he had received.
So-and-so, whom he thou'd and thee'd, had squeezed his fingers and
declared he would join them. At the Gros Caillou a big, burly fellow,
who would make a magnificent sectional leader, had almost dislocated
his arm in his enthusiasm; while in the Rue Popincourt a whole group
of working men had embraced him. He declared that at a day's notice a
hundred thousand active supporters could be gathered together. Each time
that he made his appearance in the little room, wearing an exhausted
air, and dropping with apparent fatigue on the bench, he launched into
fresh variations of his usual reports, while Florent duly took notes of
what he said, and relied on him to realise his many promises. And soon
in Florent's pockets the plot assumed life. The notes were looked upon
as realities, as indisputable facts, upon which the entire plan of the
rising was constructed. All that now remained to be done was to wait
for a favourable opportunity, and Logre asserted with passionate
gesticulations that the whole thing would go on wheels.

Florent was at last perfectly happy. His feet no longer seemed to tread
the ground; he was borne aloft by his burning desire to pass sentence on
all the wickedness he had seen committed. He had all the credulity of a
little child, all the confidence of a hero. If Logre had told him that
the Genius of Liberty perched on the Colonne de Juillet[*] would have
come down and set itself at their head, he would hardly have expressed
any surprise. In the evenings, at Monsieur Lebigre's, he showed great
enthusiasm and spoke effusively of the approaching battle, as though it
were a festival to which all good and honest folks would be invited. But
although Gavard in his delight began to play with his revolver, Charvet
got more snappish than ever, and sniggered and shrugged his shoulders.
His rival's assumption of the leadership angered him extremely; indeed,
quite disgusted him with politics. One evening when, arriving early,
he happened to find himself alone with Logre and Lebigre, he frankly
unbosomed himself.

[*] The column erected on the Place de la Bastille in memory
of the Revolution of July 1830, by which Charles X was
dethroned.--Translator.

"Why," said he, "that fellow Florent hasn't an idea about politics,
and would have done far better to seek a berth as writing master in a
ladies' school! It would be nothing short of a misfortune if he were to
succeed, for, with his visionary social sentimentalities, he would crush
us down beneath his confounded working men! It's all that, you know,
which ruins the party. We don't need any more tearful sentimentalists,
humanitarian poets, people who kiss and slobber over each other for the
merest scratch. But he won't succeed! He'll just get locked up, and that
will be the end of it."

Logre and the wine dealer made no remark, but allowed Charvet to talk on
without interruption.

"And he'd have been locked up long ago," he continued, "if he were
anything as dangerous as he fancies he is. The airs he puts on just
because he's been to Cayenne are quite sickening. But I'm sure that the
police knew of his return the very first day he set foot in Paris, and
if they haven't interfered with him it's simply because they hold him in
contempt."

At this Logre gave a slight start.

"They've been dogging me for the last fifteen years," resumed the
Hebertist, with a touch of pride, "but you don't hear me proclaiming it
from the house-tops. However, he won't catch me taking part in his riot.
I'm not going to let myself be nabbed like a mere fool. I dare say he's
already got half a dozen spies at his heels, who will take him by the
scruff of the neck whenever the authorities give the word."

"Oh, dear, no! What an idea!" exclaimed Monsieur Lebigre, who usually
observed complete silence. He was rather pale, and looked at Logre, who
was gently rubbing his hump against the partition.

"That's mere imagination," murmured the hunchback.

"Very well; call it imagination, if you like," replied the tutor; "but
I know how these things are arranged. At all events, I don't mean to
let the 'coppers' nab me this time. You others, of course, will please
yourselves, but if you take my advice--and you especially, Monsieur
Lebigre--you'll take care not to let your establishment be compromised,
or the authorities will close it."

At this Logre could not restrain a smile. On several subsequent
occasions Charvet plied him and Lebigre with similar arguments, as
though he wished to detach them from Florent's project by frightening
them; and he was much surprised at the calmness and confidence which
they both continued to manifest. For his own part, he still came pretty
regularly in the evening with Clemence. The tall brunette was no longer
a clerk at the fish auctions--Monsieur Manoury had discharged her.

"Those salesmen are all scoundrels!" Logre growled, when he heard of her
dismissal.

Thereupon Clemence, who, lolling back against the partition, was rolling
a cigarette between her long, slim fingers, replied in a sharp voice:
"Oh, it's fair fighting! We don't hold the same political views, you
know. That fellow Manoury, who's making no end of money, would lick the
Emperor's boots. For my part, if I were an auctioneer, I wouldn't keep
him in my service for an hour."

The truth was that she had been indulging in some clumsy pleasantry,
amusing herself one day by inscribing in the sale-book, alongside of the
dabs and skate and mackerel sold by auction, the names of some of the
best-known ladies and gentlemen of the Court. This bestowal of piscine
names upon high dignitaries, these entries of the sale of duchesses
and baronesses at thirty sous apiece, had caused Monsieur Manoury much
alarm. Gavard was still laughing over it.

"Well, never mind!" said he, patting Clemence's arm; "you are every inch
a man, you are!"

Clemence had discovered a new method of mixing her grog. She began by
filling her glass with hot water; and after adding some sugar she poured
the rum drop by drop upon the slice of lemon floating on the surface,
in such wise that it did not mix with the water. Then she lighted it and
with a grave expression watched it blaze, slowly smoking her cigarette
while the flame of the alcohol cast a greenish tinge over her face.
"Grog," however, was an expensive luxury in which she could not afford
to indulge after she had lost her place. Charvet told her, with a
strained laugh, that she was no longer a millionaire. She supported
herself by giving French lessons, at a very early hour in the morning,
to a young lady residing in the Rue de Miromesnil, who was perfecting
her education in secrecy, unknown even to her maid. And so now Clemence
merely ordered a glass of beer in the evenings, but this she drank, it
must be admitted, with the most philosophical composure.

The evenings in the little sanctum were now far less noisy than they had
been. Charvet would suddenly lapse into silence, pale with suppressed
rage, when the others deserted him to listen to his rival. The thought
that he had been the king of the place, had ruled the whole party with
despotic power before Florent's appearance there, gnawed at his heart,
and he felt all the regretful pangs of a dethroned monarch. If he
still came to the meetings, it was only because he could not resist the
attraction of the little room where he had spent so many happy hours in
tyrannising over Gavard and Robine. In those days even Logre's hump had
been his property, as well as Alexandre's fleshy arms and Lacaille's
gloomy face. He had done what he liked with them, stuffed his opinions
down their throats, belaboured their shoulders with his sceptre. But
now he endured much bitterness of spirit; and ended by quite ceasing
to speak, simply shrugging his shoulders and whistling disdainfully,
without condescending to combat the absurdities vented in his presence.
What exasperated him more than anything else was the gradual way in
which he had been ousted from his position of predominance without
being conscious of it. He could not see that Florent was in any way his
superior, and after hearing the latter speak for hours, in his gentle
and somewhat sad voice, he often remarked: "Why, the fellow's a parson!
He only wants a cassock!"

The others, however, to all appearance eagerly absorbed whatever the
inspector said. When Charvet saw Florent's clothes hanging from every
peg, he pretended not to know where he could put his hat so that it
would not be soiled. He swept away the papers that lay about the little
room, declaring that there was no longer any comfort for anyone in
the place since that "gentleman" had taken possession of it. He even
complained to the landlord, and asked if the room belonged to a single
customer or to the whole company. This invasion of his realm was indeed
the last straw. Men were brutes, and he conceived an unspeakable scorn
for humanity when he saw Logre and Monsieur Lebigre fixing their eyes on
Florent with rapt attention. Gavard with his revolver irritated him, and
Robine, who sat silent behind his glass of beer, seemed to him to be the
only sensible person in the company, and one who doubtless judged
people by their real value, and was not led away by mere words. As
for Alexandre and Lacaille, they confirmed him in his belief that
"the people" were mere fools, and would require at least ten years of
revolutionary dictatorship to learn how to conduct themselves.

Logre, however, declared that the sections would soon be completely
organised; and Florent began to assign the different parts that each
would have to play. One evening, after a final discussion in which he
again got worsted, Charvet rose up, took his hat, and exclaimed: "Well,
I'll wish you all good night. You can get your skulls cracked if it
amuses you; but I would have you understand that I won't take any part
in the business. I have never abetted anybody's ambition."

Clemence, who had also risen and was putting on her shawl, coldly added:
"The plan's absurd."

Then, as Robine sat watching their departure with a gentle glance,
Charvet asked him if he were not coming with them; but Robine, having
still some beer left in his glass, contented himself with shaking hands.
Charvet and Clemence never returned again; and Lacaille one day informed
the company that they now frequented a beer-house in the Rue Serpente.
He had seen them through the window, gesticulating with great energy, in
the midst of an attentive group of very young men.

Florent was never able to enlist Claude amongst his supporters. He
had once entertained the idea of gaining him over to his own political
views, of making a disciple of him, an assistant in his revolutionary
task; and in order to initiate him he had taken him one evening to
Monsieur Lebigre's. Claude, however, spent the whole time in making
a sketch of Robine, in his hat and chestnut cloak, and with his beard
resting on the knob of his walking-stick.

"Really, you know," he said to Florent, as they came away, "all that you
have been saying inside there doesn't interest me in the least. It may
be very clever, but, for my own part, I see nothing in it. Still, you've
got a splendid fellow there, that blessed Robine. He's as deep as a
well. I'll come with you again some other time, but it won't be for
politics. I shall make sketches of Logre and Gavard, so as to put them
with Robine in a picture which I was thinking about while you were
discussing the question of--what do you call it? eh? Oh, the question
of the two Chambers. Just fancy, now, a picture of Gavard and Logre and
Robine talking politics, entrenched behind their glasses of beer! It
would be the success of the Salon, my dear fellow, an overwhelming
success, a genuine modern picture!"

Florent was grieved by the artist's political scepticism; so he took him
up to his bedroom, and kept him on the narrow balcony in front of the
bluish mass of the markets, till two o'clock in the morning, lecturing
him, and telling him that he was no man to show himself so indifferent
to the happiness of his country.

"Well, you're perhaps right," replied Claude, shaking his head; "I'm an
egotist. I can't even say that I paint for the good of my country; for,
in the first place, my sketches frighten everybody, and then, when I'm
busy painting, I think about nothing but the pleasure I take in it. When
I'm painting, it is as though I were tickling myself; it makes me laugh
all over my body. Well, I can't help it, you know; it's my nature to
be like that; and you can't expect me to go and drown myself in
consequence. Besides, France can get on very well without me, as my
aunt Lisa says. And--may I be quite frank with you?--if I like you it's
because you seem to me to follow politics just as I follow painting. You
titillate yourself, my good friend."

Then, as Florent protested, he continued:

"Yes, yes; you are an artist in your own way; you dream of politics,
and I'll wager you spend hours here at night gazing at the stars and
imagining they are the voting-papers of infinity. And then you titillate
yourself with your ideas of truth and justice; and this is so evidently
the case that those ideas of yours cause just as much alarm to
commonplace middle-class folks as my sketches do. Between ourselves,
now, do you imagine that if you were Robine I should take any pleasure
in your friendship? Ah, no, my friend, you are a great poet!"

Then he began to joke on the subject, saying that politics caused him no
trouble, and that he had got accustomed to hear people discussing them
in beer shops and studios. This led him to speak of a cafe in the
Rue Vauvilliers; the cafe on the ground-floor of the house where La
Sarriette lodged. This smoky place, with its torn, velvet-cushioned
seats, and marble table-tops discoloured by the drippings from
coffee-cups, was the chief resort of the young people of the markets.
Monsieur Jules reigned there over a company of porters, apprentices,
and gentlemen in white blouses and velvet caps. Two curling "Newgate
knockers" were glued against his temples; and to keep his neck white he
had it scraped with a razor every Saturday at a hair-dresser's in the
Rue des Deux Ecus. At the cafe he gave the tone to his associates,
especially when he played billiards with studied airs and graces,
showing off his figure to the best advantage. After the game the company
would begin to chat. They were a very reactionary set, taking a delight
in the doings of "society." For his part, Monsieur Jules read the
lighter boulevardian newspapers, and knew the performers at the smaller
theatres, talked familiarly of the celebrities of the day, and could
always tell whether the piece first performed the previous evening had
been a success or a failure. He had a weakness, however, for politics.
His ideal man was Morny, as he curtly called him. He read the reports of
the discussions of the Corps Legislatif, and laughed with glee over the
slightest words that fell from Morny's lips. Ah, Morny was the man to
sit upon your rascally republicans! And he would assert that only the
scum detested the Emperor, for his Majesty desired that all respectable
people should have a good time of it.

"I've been to the cafe occasionally," Claude said to Florent. "The young
men there are vastly amusing, with their clay pipes and their talk about
the Court balls! To hear them chatter you might almost fancy they were
invited to the Tuileries. La Sarriette's young man was making great fun
of Gavard the other evening. He called him uncle. When La Sarriette came
downstairs to look for him she was obliged to pay his bill. It cost her
six francs, for he had lost at billiards, and the drinks they had played
for were owing. And now, good night, my friend, and pleasant dreams. If
ever you become a Minister, I'll give you some hints on the beautifying
of Paris."

Florent was obliged to relinquish the hope of making a docile disciple
of Claude. This was a source of grief to him, for, blinded though he
was by his fanatical ardour, he at last grew conscious of the
ever-increasing hostility which surrounded him. Even at the Mehudins' he
now met with a colder reception: the old woman would laugh slyly; Muche
no longer obeyed him, and the beautiful Norman cast glances of hasty
impatience at him, unable as she was to overcome his coldness. At the
Quenus', too, he had lost Auguste's friendship. The assistant no longer
came to see him in his room on the way to bed, being greatly alarmed
by the reports which he heard concerning this man with whom he had
previously shut himself up till midnight. Augustine had made her lover
swear that he would never again be guilty of such imprudence; however,
it was Lisa who turned the young man into Florent's determined enemy by
begging him and Augustine to defer their marriage till her cousin should
vacate the little bedroom at the top of the house, as she did not want
to give that poky dressing-room on the first floor to the new shop
girl whom she would have to engage. From that time forward Auguste was
anxious that the "convict" should be arrested. He had found such a
pork shop as he had long dreamed of, not at Plaisance certainly, but at
Montrouge, a little farther away. And now trade had much improved, and
Augustine, with her silly, overgrown girl's laugh, said that she was
quite ready. So every night, whenever some slight noise awoke him,
August was thrilled with delight as he imagined that the police were at
last arresting Florent.

Nothing was said at the Quenu-Gradelles' about all the rumours which
circulated. There was a tacit understanding amongst the staff of the
pork shop to keep silent respecting them in the presence of Quenu. The
latter, somewhat saddened by the falling-out between his brother and his
wife, sought consolation in stringing his sausages and salting his pork.
Sometimes he would come and stand on his door-step, with his red face
glowing brightly above his white apron, which his increasing corpulence
stretched quite taut, and never did he suspect all the gossip which his
appearance set on foot in the markets. Some of the women pitied him, and
thought that he was losing flesh, though he was, indeed, stouter than
ever; while others, on the contrary, reproached him for not having grown
thin with shame at having such a brother as Florent. He, however, like
one of those betrayed husbands who are always the last to know what
has befallen them, continued in happy ignorance, displaying a
light-heartedness which was quite affecting. He would stop some
neighbour's wife on the footway to ask her if she found his brawn or
truffled boar's head to her liking, and she would at once assume a
sympathetic expression, and speak in a condoling way, as though all the
pork on his premises had got jaundice.

"What do they all mean by looking at me with such a funereal air?" he
asked Lisa one day. "Do you think I'm looking ill?"

Lisa, well aware that he was terribly afraid of illness, and groaned
and made a dreadful disturbance if he suffered the slightest ailment,
reassured him on this point, telling him that he was as blooming as
a rose. The fine pork shop, however, was becoming gloomy; the mirrors
seemed to pale, the marbles grew frigidly white, and the cooked meats on
the counter stagnated in yellow fat or lakes of cloudy jelly. One day,
even, Claude came into the shop to tell his aunt that the display in
the window looked quite "in the dumps." This was really the truth. The
Strasburg tongues on their beds of blue paper-shavings had a melancholy
whiteness of hue, like the tongues of invalids; and the whilom chubby
hams seemed to be wasting away beneath their mournful green top-knots.
Inside the shop, too, when customers asked for a black-pudding or ten
sous' worth of bacon, or half a pound of lard, they spoke in subdued,
sorrowful voices, as though they were in the bed-chamber of a dying man.
There were always two or three lachrymose women in front of the chilled
heating-pan. Beautiful Lisa meantime discharged the duties of chief
mourner with silent dignity. Her white apron fell more primly than ever
over her black dress. Her hands, scrupulously clean and closely girded
at the wrists by long white sleevelets, her face with its becoming air
of sadness, plainly told all the neighbourhood, all the inquisitive
gossips who streamed into the shop from morning to night, that they, the
Quenu-Gradelles, were suffering from unmerited misfortune, but that she
knew the cause of it, and would triumph over it at last. And sometimes
she stooped to look at the two gold-fish, who also seemed ill at ease
as they swam languidly around the aquarium in the window, and her glance
seemed to promise them better days in the future.

Beautiful Lisa now only allowed herself one indulgence. She fearlessly
patted Marjolin's satiny chin. The young man had just come out of the
hospital. His skull had healed, and he looked as fat and merry as ever;
but even the little intelligence he had possessed had left him, he was
now quite an idiot. The gash in his skull must have reached his brain,
for he had become a mere animal. The mind of a child of five dwelt in
his sturdy frame. He laughed and stammered, he could no longer pronounce
his words properly, and he was as submissively obedient as a sheep.
Cadine took entire possession of him again; surprised, at first, at the
alteration in him, and then quite delighted at having this big fellow to
do exactly as she liked with. He was her doll, her toy, her slave in
all respects but one: she could not prevent him from going off to Madame
Quenu's every now and then. She thumped him, but he did not seem to feel
her blows; as soon as she had slung her basket round her neck, and set
off to sell her violets in the Rue du Pont Neuf and the Rue de Turbigo,
he went to prowl about in front of the pork shop.

"Come in!" Lisa cried to him.

She generally gave him some gherkins, of which he was extremely fond;
and he ate them, laughing in a childish way, whilst he stood in front of
the counter. The sight of the handsome mistress of the shop filled him
with rapture; he often clapped his hands with joy and began to jump
about and vent little cries of pleasure, like a child delighted at
something shown to it. On the first few occasions when he came to see
her after leaving the hospital Lisa had feared that he might remember
what had happened.

"Does your head still hurt you?" she asked him.

But he swayed about and burst into a merry laugh as he answered no; and
then Lisa gently inquired: "You had a fall, hadn't you?"

"Yes, a fall, fall, fall," he sang, in a happy voice, tapping his skull
the while.

Then, as though he were in a sort of ecstasy, he continued in lingering
notes, as he gazed at Lisa, "Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!" This
quite touched Madame Quenu. She had prevailed upon Gavard to keep him
in his service. It was on the occasions when he so humbly vented his
admiration that she caressed his chin, and told him that he was a good
lad. He smiled with childish satisfaction, at times closing his eyes
like some domestic pet fondled by its mistress; and Lisa thought to
herself that she was making him some compensation for the blow with
which she had felled him in the cellar of the poultry market.

However, the Quenus' establishment still remained under a cloud. Florent
sometimes ventured to show himself, and shook hands with his brother,
while Lisa observed a frigid silence. He even dined with them sometimes
on Sundays, at long intervals, and Quenu then made great efforts at
gaiety, but could not succeed in imparting any cheerfulness to the meal.
He ate badly, and ended by feeling altogether put out. One evening,
after one of these icy family gatherings, he said to his wife with tears
in his eyes:

"What can be the matter with me? Is it true that I'm not ill? Don't you
really see anything wrong in my appearance? I feel just as though I'd
got a heavy weight somewhere inside me. And I'm so sad and depressed,
too, without in the least knowing why. What can it be, do you think?"

"Oh, a little attack of indigestion, I dare say," replied Lisa.

"No, no; it's been going on too long for that; I feel quite crushed
down. Yet the business is going on all right; I've no great worries, and
I am leading just the same steady life as ever. But you, too, my dear,
don't look well; you seem melancholy. If there isn't a change for the
better soon, I shall send for the doctor."

Lisa looked at him with a grave expression.

"There's no need of a doctor," she said, "things will soon be all right
again. There's something unhealthy in the atmosphere just now. All the
neighbourhood is unwell." Then, as if yielding to an impulse of anxious
affection, she added: "Don't worry yourself, my dear. I can't have you
falling ill; that would be the crowning blow."

As a rule she sent him back to the kitchen, knowing that the noise of
the choppers, the tuneful simmering of the fat, and the bubbling of the
pans had a cheering effect upon him. In this way, too, she kept him at
a distance from the indiscreet chatter of Mademoiselle Saget, who now
spent whole mornings in the shop. The old maid seemed bent on arousing
Lisa's alarm, and thus driving her to some extreme step. She began by
trying to obtain her confidence.

"What a lot of mischievous folks there are about!" she exclaimed; "folks
who would be much better employed in minding their own business. If you
only knew, my dear Madame Quenu--but no, really, I should never dare to
repeat such things to you."

And, as Madame Quenu replied that she was quite indifferent to gossip,
and that it had no effect upon her, the old maid whispered into her ear
across the counter: "Well, people say, you know, that Monsieur Florent
isn't your cousin at all."

Then she gradually allowed Lisa to see that she knew the whole story; by
way of proving that she had her quite at her mercy. When Lisa confessed
the truth, equally as a matter of diplomacy, in order that she might
have the assistance of some one who would keep her well posted in all
the gossip of the neighbourhood, the old maid swore that for her own
part she would be as mute as a fish, and deny the truth of the reports
about Florent, even if she were to be led to the stake for it. And
afterwards this drama brought her intense enjoyment; every morning she
came to the shop with some fresh piece of disturbing news.

"You must be careful," she whispered one day; "I have just heard two
women in the tripe market talking about you know what. I can't interrupt
people and tell them they are lying, you know. It would look so strange.
But the story's got about, and it's spreading farther every day. It
can't be stopped now, I fear; the truth will have to come out."

A few days later she returned to the assault in all earnest. She made
her appearance looking quite scared, and waited impatiently till there
was no one in the shop, when she burst out in her sibilant voice:

"Do you know what people are saying now? Well, they say that all those
men who meet at Monsieur Lebigre's have got guns, and are going to
break out again as they did in '48. It's quite distressing to see such
a worthy man as Monsieur Gavard--rich, too, and so respectable--leaguing
himself with such scoundrels! I was very anxious to let you know, on
account of your brother-in-law."

"Oh, it's mere nonsense, I'm sure; it can't be serious," rejoined Lisa,
just to incite the old maid to tell her more.

"Not serious, indeed! Why, when one passes along the Rue Pirouette in
the evening one can hear them screaming out in the most dreadful way.
Oh! they make no mystery of it all. You know yourself how they tried to
corrupt your husband. And the cartridges which I have seen them making
from my own window, are they mere nonsense? Well, well, I'm only telling
you this for your own good."

"Oh! I'm sure of that, and I'm very much obliged to you," replied Lisa;
"but people do invent such stories, you know."

"Ah, but this is no invention, unfortunately. The whole neighbourhood is
talking of it. It is said, too, that if the police discover the matter
there will be a great many people compromised--Monsieur Gavard, for
instance."

Madame Quenu shrugged her shoulders as though to say that Monsieur
Gavard was an old fool, and that it would do him good to be locked up.

"Well, I merely mention Monsieur Gavard as I might mention any of the
others, your brother-in-law, for instance," resumed the old maid with a
wily glance. "Your brother-in-law is the leader, it seems. That's very
annoying for you, and I'm very sorry indeed; for if the police were to
make a descent here they might march Monsieur Quenu off as well. Two
brothers, you know, they're like two fingers of the same hand."

Beautiful Lisa protested against this, but she turned very pale, for
Mademoiselle Saget's last thrust had touched a vulnerable point. From
that day forward the old maid was ever bringing her stories of innocent
people who had been thrown into prison for extending hospitality to
criminal scoundrels. In the evening, when La Saget went to get her
black-currant syrup at the wine dealer's, she prepared her budget for
the next morning. Rose was but little given to gossiping, and the old
main reckoned chiefly on her own eyes and ears. She had been struck by
Monsieur Lebigre's extremely kind and obliging manner towards Florent,
his eagerness to keep him at his establishment, all the polite
civilities, for which the little money which the other spent in the
house could never recoup him. And this conduct of Monsieur Lebigre's
surprised her the more as she was aware of the position in which the two
men stood in respect to the beautiful Norman.

"It looks as though Lebigre were fattening him up for sale," she
reflected. "Whom can he want to sell him to, I wonder?"

One evening when she was in the bar she saw Logre fling himself on the
bench in the sanctum, and heard him speak of his perambulations through
the faubourgs, with the remark that he was dead beat. She cast a hasty
glance at his feet, and saw that there was not a speck of dust on his
boots. Then she smiled quietly, and went off with her black-currant
syrup, her lips closely compressed.

She used to complete her budget of information on getting back to her
window. It was very high up, commanding a view of all the neighbouring
houses, and proved a source of endless enjoyment to her. She was
constantly installed at it, as though it were an observatory from which
she kept watch upon everything that went on in the neighbourhood. She
was quite familiar with all the rooms opposite her, both on the right
and the left, even to the smallest details of their furniture. She could
have described, without the least omission, the habits of their tenants,
have related if the latter's homes were happy or the contrary, have told
when and how they washed themselves, what they had for dinner, and
who it was that came to see them. Then she obtained a side view of the
markets, and not a woman could walk along the Rue Rambuteau without
being seen by her; and she could have correctly stated whence the woman
had come and whither she was going, what she had got in her basket,
and, in short, every detail about her, her husband, her clothes, her
children, and her means. "That's Madame Loret, over there; she's giving
her son a fine education; that's Madame Hutin, a poor little woman who's
dreadfully neglected by her husband; that's Mademoiselle Cecile,
the butcher's daughter, a girl that no one will marry because
she's scrofulous." In this way she could have continued jerking out
biographical scraps for days together, deriving extraordinary amusement
from the most trivial, uninteresting incidents. However, as soon as
eight o'clock struck, she only had eyes for the frosted "cabinet" window
on which appeared the black shadows of the coterie of politicians. She
discovered the secession of Charvet and Clemence by missing their bony
silhouettes from the milky transparency. Not an incident occurred in
that room but she sooner or later learnt it by some sudden motion of
those silent arms and heads. She acquired great skill in interpretation,
and could divine the meaning of protruding noses, spreading fingers,
gaping mouths, and shrugging shoulders; and in this way she followed
the progress of the conspiracy step by step, in such wise that she could
have told day by day how matters stood. One evening the terrible outcome
of it all was revealed to her. She saw the shadow of Gavard's revolver,
a huge silhouette with pointed muzzle showing very blackly against the
glimmering window. It kept appearing and disappearing so rapidly that it
seemed as though the room was full of revolvers. Those were the firearms
of which Mademoiselle Saget had spoken to Madame Quenu. On another
evening she was much puzzled by the sight of endless lengths of some
material or other, and came to the conclusion that the men must be
manufacturing cartridges. The next morning, however, she made her
appearance in the wine shop by eleven o'clock, on the pretext of asking
Rose if she could let her have a candle, and, glancing furtively into
the little sanctum, she espied a heap of red material lying on the
table. This greatly alarmed her, and her next budget of news was one of
decisive gravity.

"I don't want to alarm you, Madame Quenu," she said, "but matters are
really looking very serious. Upon my word, I'm quite alarmed. You must
on no account repeat what I am going to confide to you. They would
murder me if they knew I had told you."

Then, when Lisa had sworn to say nothing that might compromise her, she
told her about the red material.

"I can't think what it can be. There was a great heap of it. It looked
just like rags soaked in blood. Logre, the hunchback, you know, put one
of the pieces over his shoulder. He looked like a headsman. You may be
sure this is some fresh trickery or other."

Lisa made no reply, but seemed deep in thought whilst with lowered eyes,
she handled a fork and mechanically arranged some piece of salt pork on
a dish.

"If I were you," resumed Mademoiselle Saget softly, "I shouldn't be easy
in mind; I should want to know the meaning of it all. Why shouldn't you
go upstairs and examine your brother-in-law's bedroom?"

At this Lisa gave a slight start, let the fork drop, and glanced
uneasily at the old maid, believing that she had discovered her
intentions. But the other continued: "You would certainly be justified
in doing so. There's no knowing into what danger your brother-in-law may
lead you, if you don't put a check on him. They were talking about you
yesterday at Madame Taboureau's. Ah! you have a most devoted friend in
her. Madame Taboureau said that you were much too easy-going, and that
if she were you she would have put an end to all this long ago."

"Madame Taboureau said that?" murmured Lisa thoughtfully.

"Yes, indeed she did; and Madame Taboureau is a woman whose advice is
worth listening to. Try to find out the meaning of all those red bands;
and if you do, you'll tell me, won't you?"

Lisa, however, was no longer listening to her. She was gazing
abstractedly at the edible snails and Gervais cheeses between the
festoons of sausages in the window. She seemed absorbed in a mental
conflict, which brought two little furrows to her brow. The old maid,
however, poked her nose over the dishes on the counter.

"Ah, some slices of saveloy!" she muttered, as though she were
speaking to herself. "They'll get very dry cut up like that. And that
black-pudding's broken, I see--a fork's been stuck into it, I expect. It
might be taken away--it's soiling the dish."

Lisa, still absent-minded, gave her the black-pudding and slices of
saveloy. "You may take them," she said, "if you would care for them."

The black bag swallowed them up. Mademoiselle Saget was so accustomed
to receiving presents that she had actually ceased to return thanks for
them. Every morning she carried away all the scraps of the pork shop.
And now she went off with the intention of obtaining her dessert from La
Sarriette and Madame Lecoeur, by gossiping to them about Gavard.

When Lisa was alone again she installed herself on the bench, behind the
counter, as though she thought she would be able to come to a sounder
decision if she were comfortably seated. For the last week she had
been very anxious. Florent had asked Quenu for five hundred francs one
evening, in the easy, matter-of-course way of a man who had money lying
to his credit at the pork shop. Quenu referred him to his wife. This
was distasteful to Florent, who felt somewhat uneasy on applying to
beautiful Lisa. But she immediately went up to her bedroom, brought
the money down and gave it to him, without saying a word, or making the
least inquiry as to what he intended to do with it. She merely remarked
that she had made a note of the payment on the paper containing the
particulars of Florent's share of the inheritance. Three days later he
took a thousand francs.

"It was scarcely worth while trying to make himself out so
disinterested," Lisa said to Quenu that night, as they went to bed. "I
did quite right, you see, in keeping the account. By the way, I haven't
noted down the thousand francs I gave him to-day."

She sat down at the secretaire, and glanced over the page of figures.
Then she added: "I did well to leave a blank space. I'll put down what
I pay him on the margin. You'll see, now, he'll fritter it all away by
degrees. That's what I've been expecting for a long time past."

Quenu said nothing, but went to bed feeling very much put out. Every
time that his wife opened the secretaire the drawer gave out a mournful
creak which pierced his heart. He even thought of remonstrating with
his brother, and trying to prevent him from ruining himself with the
Mehudins; but when the time came, he did not dare to do it. Two days
later Florent asked for another fifteen hundred francs. Logre had said
one evening that things would ripen much faster if they could only get
some money. The next day he was enchanted to find these words of his,
uttered quite at random, result in the receipt of a little pile of
gold, which he promptly pocketed, sniggering as he did so, and his hunch
fairly shaking with delight. From that time forward money was constantly
being needed: one section wished to hire a room where they could meet,
while another was compelled to provide for various needy patriots. Then
there were arms and ammunition to be purchased, men to be enlisted, and
private police expenses. Florent would have paid for anything. He
had bethought himself of Uncle Gradelle's treasure, and recalled La
Normande's advice. So he made repeated calls upon Lisa's secretaire,
being merely kept in check by the vague fear with which his
sister-in-law's grave face inspired him. Never, thought he, could
he have spent his money in a holier cause. Logre now manifested
the greatest enthusiasm, and wore the most wonderful rose-coloured
neckerchiefs and the shiniest of varnished boots, the sight of which
made Lacaille glower blackly.

"That makes three thousand francs in seven days," Lisa remarked to
Quenu. "What do you think of that? A pretty state of affairs, isn't
it? If he goes on at this rate his fifty thousand francs will last him
barely four months. And yet it took old Gradelle forty years to put his
fortune together!"

"It's all your own fault!" cried Quenu. "There was no occasion for you
to say anything to him about the money."

Lisa gave her husband a severe glance. "It is his own," she said; "and
he is entitled to take it all. It's not the giving him the money that
vexes me, but the knowledge that he must make a bad use of it. I tell
you again, as I have been telling you for a long time past, all this
must come to an end."

"Do whatever you like; I won't prevent you," at last exclaimed the pork
butcher, who was tortured by his cupidity.

He still loved his brother; but the thought of fifty thousand francs
squandered in four months was agony to him. As for his wife, after all
Mademoiselle Saget's chattering she guessed what became of the money.
The old maid having ventured to refer to the inheritance, Lisa had taken
advantage of the opportunity to let the neighbourhood know that Florent
was drawing his share, and spending it after his own fashion.

It was on the following day that the story of the strips of red material
impelled Lisa to take definite actin. For a few moments she remained
struggling with herself whilst gazing at the depressed appearance of the
shop. The sides of pork hung all around in a sullen fashion, and Mouton,
seated beside a bowl of fat, displayed the ruffled coat and dim eyes of
a cat who no longer digests his meals in peace. Thereupon Lisa called to
Augustine and told her to attend to the counter, and she herself went up
to Florent's room.

When she entered it, she received quite a shock. The bed, hitherto so
spotless, was quite ensanguined by a bundle of long red scarves dangling
down to the floor. On the mantelpiece, between the gilt cardboard boxes
and the old pomatum-pots, were several red armlets and clusters of red
cockades, looking like pools of blood. And hanging from every nail and
peg against the faded grey wallpaper were pieces of bunting, square
flags--yellow, blue, green, and black--in which Lisa recognised the
distinguishing banners of the twenty sections. The childish simplicity
of the room seemed quite scared by all this revolutionary decoration.
The aspect of guileless stupidity which the shop girl had left behind
her, the white innocence of the curtains and furniture, now glared
as with the reflection of a fire; while the photograph of Auguste
and Augustine looked white with terror. Lisa walked round the room,
examining the flags, the armlets, and the scarves, without touching any
of them, as though she feared that the dreadful things might burn her.
She was reflecting that she had not been mistaken, that it was indeed on
these and similar things that Florent's money had been spent. And to her
this seemed an utter abomination, an incredibility which set her whole
being surging with indignation. To think that her money, that money
which had been so honestly earned, was being squandered to organise and
defray the expenses of an insurrection!

She stood there, gazing at the expanded blossoms of the pomegranate on
the balcony--blossoms which seemed to her like an additional supply of
crimson cockades--and listening to the sharp notes of the chaffinch,
which resembled the echo of a distant fusillade. And then it struck her
that the insurrection might break out the next day, or perhaps that very
evening. She fancied she could see the banners streaming in the air and
the scarves advancing in line, while a sudden roll of drums broke on her
ear. Then she hastily went downstairs again, without even glancing
at the papers which were lying on the table. She stopped on the first
floor, went into her own room, and dressed herself.

In this critical emergency Lisa arranged her hair with scrupulous care
and perfect calmness. She was quite resolute; not a quiver of hesitation
disturbed her; but a sterner expression than usual had come into her
eyes. As she fastened her black silk dress, straining the waistband with
all the strength of her fingers, she recalled Abbe Roustan's words; and
she questioned herself, and her conscience answered that she was going
to fulfil a duty. By the time she drew her broidered shawl round her
broad shoulders, she felt that she was about to perform a deed of high
morality. She put on a pair of dark mauve gloves, secured a thick
veil to her bonnet; and before leaving the room she double-locked the
secretaire, with a hopeful expression on her face which seemed to say
that that much worried piece of furniture would at last be able to sleep
in peace again.

Quenu was exhibiting his white paunch at the shop door when his wife
came down. He was surprised to see her going out in full dress at ten
o'clock in the morning. "Hallo! Where are you off to?" he asked.

She pretended that she was going out with Madame Taboureau, and added
that she would call at the Gaite Theatre to buy some tickets. Quenu
hurried after her to tell her to secure some front seats, so that they
might be able to see well. Then, as he returned to the shop, Lisa made
her way to the cab-stand opposite St. Eustache, got into a cab, pulled
down the blinds, and told the driver to go to the Gaite Theatre. She
felt afraid of being followed. When she had booked two seats, however,
she directed the cabman to drive her to the Palais de Justice. There,
in front of the gate, she discharged him, and then quietly made her way
through the halls and corridors to the Prefecture of Police.

She soon lost herself in a noisy crowd of police officers and gentlemen
in long frock-coats, but at last gave a man half a franc to guide her to
the Prefect's rooms. She found, however, that the Prefect only received
such persons as came with letters of audience; and she was shown into a
small apartment, furnished after the style of a boarding-house parlour.
A fat, bald-headed official, dressed in black from head to foot,
received her there with sullen coldness. What was her business? he
inquired. Thereupon she raised her veil, gave her name, and told her
story, clearly and distinctly, without a pause. The bald man listened
with a weary air.

"You are this man's sister-in-law, are you not?" he inquired, when she
had finished.

"Yes," Lisa candidly replied. "We are honest, straight-forward people,
and I am anxious that my husband should not be compromised."

The official shrugged his shoulders, as though to say that the whole
affair was a great nuisance.

"Do you know," he said impatiently, "that I have been pestered with this
business for more than a year past? Denunciation after denunciation has
been sent to me, and I am being continually goaded and pressed to take
action. You will understand that if I haven't done so as yet, it is
because I prefer to wait. We have good reasons for our conduct in the
matter. Stay, now, here are the papers relating to it. I'll let you see
them."

He laid before her an immense collection of papers in a blue wrapper.
Lisa turned them over. They were like detached chapters of the story she
had just been relating. The commissaires of police at Havre, Rouen, and
Vernon notified Florent's arrival within their respective jurisdictions.
Then came a report which announced that he had taken up his residence
with the Quenu-Gradelles. Next followed his appointment at the markets,
an account of his mode of life, the spending of his evenings at Monsieur
Lebigre's; not a detail was deficient. Lisa, quite astounded as she
was, noticed that the reports were in duplicate, so that they must have
emanated from two different sources. And at last she came upon a pile of
letters, anonymous letters of every shape, and in every description of
handwriting. They brought her amazement to a climax. In one letter she
recognised the villainous hand of Mademoiselle Saget, denouncing the
people who met in the little sanctum at Lebigre's. On a large piece of
greasy paper she identified the heavy pot-hooks of Madame Lecoeur;
and there was also a sheet of cream-laid note-paper, ornamented with a
yellow pansy, and covered with the scrawls of La Sarriette and Monsieur
Jules. These two letters warned the Government to beware of Gavard.
Farther on Lisa recognised the coarse style of old Madame Mehudin, who
in four pages of almost indecipherable scribble repeated all the wild
stories about Florent that circulated in the markets. However, what
startled her more than anything else was the discovery of a bill-head
of her own establishment, with the inscription _Quenu-Gradelle, Pork
Butcher_, on its face, whilst on the back of it Auguste had penned
a denunciation of the man whom he looked upon as an obstacle to his
marriage.

The official had acted upon a secret idea in placing these papers before
her. "You don't recognise any of these handwritings, do you?" he asked.

"No," she stammered, rising from her seat, quite oppressed by what she
had just learned; and she hastily pulled down her veil again to conceal
the blush of confusion which was rising to her cheeks. Her silk dress
rustled, and her dark gloves disappeared beneath her heavy shawl.

"You see, madame," said the bald man with a faint smile, "your
information comes a little late. But I promise you that your visit shall
not be forgotten. And tell your husband not to stir. It is possible that
something may happen soon that----"

He did not complete his sentence, but, half rising from his armchair,
made a slight bow to Lisa. It was a dismissal, and she took her leave.
In the ante-room she caught sight of Logre and Monsieur Lebigre, who
hastily turned their faces away; but she was more disturbed than they
were. She went her way through the halls and along the corridors,
feeling as if she were in the clutches of this system of police which,
it now seemed to her, saw and knew everything. At last she came out upon
the Place Dauphine. When she reached the Quai de l'Horloge she slackened
her steps, and felt refreshed by the cool breeze blowing from the Seine.

She now had a keen perception of the utter uselessness of what she had
done. Her husband was in no danger whatever; and this thought,
whilst relieving her, left her a somewhat remorseful feeling. She
was exasperated with Auguste and the women who had put her in such a
ridiculous position. She walked on yet more slowly, watching the Seine
as it flowed past. Barges, black with coal-dust, were floating down the
greenish water; and all along the bank anglers were casting their lines.
After all, it was not she who had betrayed Florent. This reflection
suddenly occurred to her and astonished her. Would she have been guilty
of a wicked action, then, if she had been his betrayer? She was quite
perplexed; surprised at the possibility of her conscience having
deceived her. Those anonymous letters seemed extremely base. She herself
had gone openly to the authorities, given her name, and saved innocent
people from being compromised. Then at the sudden thought of old
Gradelle's fortune she again examined herself, and felt ready to throw
the money into the river if such a course should be necessary to
remove the blight which had fallen on the pork shop. No, she was not
avaricious, she was sure she wasn't; it was no thought of money that
had prompted her in what she had just done. As she crossed the Pont au
Change she grew quite calm again, recovering all her superb equanimity.
On the whole, it was much better, she felt, that others should have
anticipated her at the Prefecture. She would not have to deceive Quenu,
and she would sleep with an easier conscience.

"Have you booked the seats?" Quenu asked her when she returned home.

He wanted to see the tickets, and made Lisa explain to him the exact
position the seats occupied in the dress-circle. Lisa had imagined
that the police would make a descent upon the house immediately after
receiving her information, and her proposal to go to the theatre had
only been a wily scheme for getting Quenu out of the way while the
officers were arresting Florent. She had contemplated taking him for
an outing in the afternoon--one of those little jaunts which they
occasionally allowed themselves. They would then drive in an open cab to
the Bois de Boulogne, dine at a restaurant, and amuse themselves for an
hour or two at some cafe concern. But there was no need to go out now,
she thought; so she spent the rest of the day behind her counter, with
a rosy glow on her face, and seeming brighter and gayer, as though she
were recovering from some indisposition.

"You see, I told you it was fresh air you wanted!" exclaimed Quenu.
"Your walk this morning has brightened you up wonderfully!"

"No, indeed," she said after a pause, again assuming her look of
severity; "the streets of Paris are not at all healthy places."

In the evening they went to the Gaite to see the performance of "La
Grace de Dieu." Quenu, in a frock-coat and drab gloves, with his hair
carefully pomatumed and combed, was occupied most of the time in hunting
for the names of the performers in the programme. Lisa looked superb
in her low dress as she rested her hands in their tight-fitting white
gloves on the crimson velvet balustrade. They were both of them deeply
affected by the misfortunes of Marie. The commander, they thought, was
certainly a desperate villain; while Pierrot made them laugh from the
first moment of his appearance on the stage. But at last Madame Quenu
cried. The departure of the child, the prayer in the maiden's chamber,
the return of the poor mad creature, moistened her eyes with gentle
tears, which she brushed away with her handkerchief.

However, the pleasure which the evening afforded her turned into a
feeling of triumph when she caught sight of La Normande and her mother
sitting in the upper gallery. She thereupon puffed herself out more than
ever, sent Quenu off to the refreshment bar for a box of caramels, and
began to play with her fan, a mother-of-pearl fan, elaborately gilt.
The fish-girl was quite crushed; and bent her head down to listen to
her mother, who was whispering to her. When the performance was over
and beautiful Lisa and the beautiful Norman met in the vestibule they
exchanged a vague smile.

Florent had dined early at Monsieur Lebigre's that day. He was expecting
Logre, who had promised to introduce to him a retired sergeant, a
capable man, with whom they were to discuss the plan of attack upon the
Palais Bourbon and the Hotel de Ville. The night closed in, and the
fine rain, which had begun to fall in the afternoon, shrouded the vast
markets in a leaden gloom. They loomed darkly against the copper-tinted
sky, while wisps of murky cloud skimmed by almost on a level with the
roofs, looking as though they were caught and torn by the points of the
lightning-conductors. Florent felt depressed by the sight of the muddy
streets, and the streaming yellowish rain which seemed to sweep the
twilight away and extinguish it in the mire. He watched the crowds of
people who had taken refuge on the foot-pavements of the covered ways,
the umbrellas flitting past in the downpour, and the cabs that dashed
with increased clatter and speed along the wellnigh deserted roads.
Presently there was a rift in the clouds; and a red glow arose in the
west. Then a whole army of street-sweepers came into sight at the end of
the Rue Montmartre, driving a lake of liquid mud before them with their
brooms.

Logre did not turn up with the sergeant; Gavard had gone to dine with
some friends at Batignolles, and so Florent was reduced to spending the
evening alone with Robine. He had all the talking to himself, and ended
by feeling very low-spirited. His companion merely wagged his beard, and
stretched out his hand every quarter of an hour to raise his glass of
beer to his lips. At last Florent grew so bored that he went off to
bed. Robine, however, though left to himself, still lingered there,
contemplating his glass with an expression of deep thought. Rose and the
waiter, who had hoped to shut up early, as the coterie of politicians
was absent, had to wait a long half hour before he at last made up his
mind to leave.

When Florent got to his room, he felt afraid to go to bed. He was
suffering from one of those nervous attacks which sometimes plunged him
into horrible nightmares until dawn. On the previous day he had been to
Clamart to attend the funeral of Monsieur Verlaque, who had died after
terrible sufferings; and he still felt sad at the recollection of the
narrow coffin which he had seen lowered into the earth. Nor could he
banish from his mind the image of Madame Verlaque, who, with a tearful
voice, though there was not a tear in her eyes, kept following him and
speaking to him about the coffin, which was not paid for, and of the
cost of the funeral, which she was quite at a loss about, as she had
not a copper in the place, for the druggist, on hearing of her husband's
death on the previous day, had insisted upon his bill being paid. So
Florent had been obliged to advance the money for the coffin and other
funeral expenses, and had even given the gratuities to the mutes.
Just as he was going away, Madame Verlaque looked at him with such a
heartbroken expression that he left her twenty francs.

And now Monsieur Verlaque's death worried him very much. It affected
his situation in the markets. He might lose his berth, or perhaps
be formally appointed inspector. In either case he foresaw vexatious
complications which might arouse the suspicions of the police. He would
have been delighted if the insurrection could have broken out the very
next day, so that he might at once have tossed the laced cap of his
inspectorship into the streets. With his mind full of harassing thoughts
like these, he stepped out upon the balcony, as though soliciting of the
warm night some whiff of air to cool his fevered brow. The rain had
laid the wind, and a stormy heat still reigned beneath the deep blue,
cloudless heavens. The markets, washed by the downpour, spread out below
him, similar in hue to the sky, and, like the sky, studded with the
yellow stars of their gas lamps.

Leaning on the iron balustrade, Florent recollected that sooner or later
he would certainly be punished for having accepted the inspectorship. It
seemed to lie like a stain on his life. He had become an official of the
Prefecture, forswearing himself, serving the Empire in spite of all
the oaths he had taken in his exile. His anxiety to please Lisa, the
charitable purpose to which he had devoted the salary he received, the
just and scrupulous manner in which he had always struggled to carry
out his duties, no longer seemed to him valid excuses for his base
abandonment of principle. If he had suffered in the midst of all that
sleek fatness, he had deserved to suffer. And before him arose a
vision of the evil year which he had just spent, his persecution by the
fish-wives, the sickening sensations he had felt on close, damp days,
the continuous indigestion which had afflicted his delicate stomach, and
the latent hostility which was gathering strength against him. All these
things he now accepted as chastisement. That dull rumbling of hostility
and spite, the cause of which he could not divine, must forebode some
coming catastrophe before whose approach he already stooped, with the
shame of one who knows there is a transgression that he must expiate.
Then he felt furious with himself as he thought of the popular rising he
was preparing; and reflected that he was no longer unsullied enough to
achieve success.

In how many dreams he had indulged in that lofty little room, with his
eyes wandering over the spreading roofs of the market pavilions! They
usually appeared to him like grey seas that spoke to him of far-off
countries. On moonless nights they would darken and turn into stagnant
lakes of black and pestilential water. But on bright nights they became
shimmering fountains of light, the moonbeams streaming over both tiers
like water, gliding along the huge plates of zinc, and flowing over the
edges of the vast superposed basins. Then frosty weather seemed to turn
these roofs into rigid ice, like the Norwegian bays over which skaters
skim; while the warm June nights lulled them into deep sleep. One
December night, on opening his window, he had seen them white with snow,
so lustrously white that they lighted up the coppery sky. Unsullied by
a single footstep, they then stretched out like the lonely plains of the
Far North, where never a sledge intrudes. Their silence was beautiful,
their soft peacefulness suggestive of innocence.

And at each fresh aspect of the ever-changing panorama before him,
Florent yielded to dreams which were now sweet, now full of bitter pain.
The snow calmed him; the vast sheet of whiteness seemed to him like a
veil of purity thrown over the filth of the markets. The bright, clear
nights, the shimmering moonbeams, carried him away into the fairy-land
of story-books. It was only the dark, black nights, the burning nights
of June, when he beheld, as it were, a miasmatic marsh, the stagnant
water of a dead and accursed sea, that filled him with gloom and grief;
and then ever the same dreadful visions haunted his brain.

The markets were always there. He could never open the window and rest
his elbows on the balustrade without having them before him, filling
the horizon. He left the pavilions in the evening only to behold their
endless roofs as he went to bed. They shut him off from the rest of
Paris, ceaselessly intruded their huge bulk upon him, entered into every
hour of his life. That night again horrible fancies came to him, fancies
aggravated by the vague forebodings of evil which distressed him. The
rain of the afternoon had filled the markets with malodorous dampness,
and as they wallowed there in the centre of the city, like some drunken
man lying, after his last bottle, under the table, they cast all their
foul breath into his face. He seemed to see a thick vapour rising up
from each pavilion. In the distance the meat and tripe markets reeked
with the sickening steam of blood; nearer in, the vegetable and fruit
pavilions diffused the odour of pungent cabbages, rotten apples, and
decaying leaves; the butter and cheese exhaled a poisonous stench; from
the fish market came a sharp, fresh gust; while from the ventilator in
the tower of the poultry pavilion just below him, he could see a warm
steam issuing, a fetid current rising in coils like the sooty smoke from
a factory chimney. And all these exhalations coalesced above the roofs,
drifted towards the neighbouring houses, and spread themselves out in
a heavy cloud which stretched over the whole of Paris. It was as though
the markets were bursting within their tight belt of iron, were beating
the slumber of the gorged city with the stertorous fumes of their
midnight indigestion.

However, on the footway down below Florent presently heard a sound of
voices, the laughter of happy folks. Then the door of the passage was
closed noisily. It was Quenu and Lisa coming home from the theatre.
Stupefied and intoxicated, as it were, by the atmosphere he was
breathing, Florent thereupon left the balcony, his nerves still
painfully excited by the thought of the tempest which he could feel
gathering round his head. The source of his misery was yonder, in
those markets, heated by the day's excesses. He closed the window with
violence, and left them wallowing in the darkness, naked and perspiring
beneath the stars.

• About Emile Zola