Chapter V

by Emile Zola

　　At about four o'clock on the afternoon of the following day Lisabetook herself to Saint Eustache. For the short walk across the squareshe had arrayed herself very seriously in a black silk gown and thickwoollen shawl. The handsome Norman, who, from her stall in the fishmarket, watched her till she vanished into the church porch, was quiteamazed."Hallo! So the fat thing's gone in for priests now, has she?" sheexclaimed, 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 shedid her best to lead an honest life, and that this was all that wasnecessary. At the same time, however, she disliked to hear religionspoken ill of, and often silenced Gavard, who delighted in scandalousstories of priests and their doings. Talk of that sort seemed to heraltogether improper. Everyone, in her opinion, should be allowed tobelieve as they pleased, and every scruple should be respected.Besides, the majority of the clergy were most estimable men. She knewAbbe Roustan, of Saint Eustache--a distinguished priest, a man ofshrewd sense, and one, she thought, whose friendship might be safelyrelied upon. And she would wind up by explaining that religion wasabsolutely necessary for the people; she looked upon it as a sort ofpolice force that helped to maintain order, and without which nogovernment would be possible. When Gavard went too far on this subjectand asserted that the priests ought to be turned into the streets andhave their shops shut up, Lisa, shrugged her shoulders and replied: "Agreat deal of good that would do! Why, before a month was over thepeople would be murdering one another in the streets, and you would becompelled 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, butfor all that I say that they are necessary, as we couldn't do withoutthem."And so when Lisa happened to enter a church she always manifested theutmost decorum. She had bought a handsome missal, which she neveropened, for use when she was invited to a funeral or a wedding. Sheknelt and rose at the proper times, and made a point of conductingherself with all propriety. She assumed, indeed, what she considered asort of official demeanour, such as all well-to-do folks,tradespeople, and house-owners ought to observe with regard toreligion.As she entered Saint Eustache that afternoon she let the double doors,covered with green baize, faded and worn by the frequent touch ofpious hands, close gently behind her. Then she dipped her fingers inthe holy water and crossed herself in the correct fashion. Andafterwards, with hushed footsteps, she made her way to the chapel ofSaint Agnes, where two kneeling women with their faces buried in theirhands were waiting, whilst the blue skirts of a third protruded fromthe confessional. Lisa seemed rather put out by the sight of thesewomen, and, addressing a verger who happened to pass along, wearing ablack 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 penitentswaiting, and that they would not detain him long, so that if Lisawould take a chair her turn would speedily come. She thanked him,without telling him that she had not come to confess; and, making upher mind to wait, she began to pace the church, going as far as thechief entrance, whence she gazed at the lofty, severe, bare navestretching between the brightly coloured aisles. Raising her head alittle, she examined the high altar, which she considered too plain,having no taste for the cold grandeur of stonework, but preferring thegilding and gaudy colouring of the side chapels. Those on the side ofthe Rue du Jour looked greyish in the light which filtered throughtheir dusty windows, but on the side of the markets the sunset waslighting up the stained glass with lovely tints, limpid greens andyellows in particular, which reminded Lisa of the bottle of liqueursin 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 passinginterest in the reliquaries, altar ornaments, and paintings steeped inprismatic reflections. The church was empty, quivering with thesilence that fell from its vaulted roofing. Here and there a woman'sdress showed like a dark splotch amidst the vague yellow of thechairs; and a low buzzing came from the closed confessionals. As Lisaagain passed the chapel of Saint Agnes she saw the blue dress stillkneeling at Abbe Roustan's feet."Why, if I'd wanted to confess I could have said everything in tenseconds," she thought, proud of her irreproachable integrity.Then she went on to the end of the church. Behind the high altar, inthe gloom of a double row of pillars, is the chapel of the BlessedVirgin, damp and dark and silent. The dim stained windows only showthe flowing crimson and violet robes of saints, which blaze likeflames of mystic love in the solemn, silent adoration of the darkness.It is a weird, mysterious spot, like some crepuscular nook of paradisesolely illumined by the gleaming stars of two tapers. The four brasslamps hanging from the roof remain unlighted, and are but faintlyseen; on espying them you think of the golden censers which the angelsswing before the throne of Mary. And kneeling on the chairs betweenthe pillars there are always women surrendering themselveslanguorously to the dim spot's voluptuous charm.Lisa stood and gazed tranquilly around her. She did not feel the leastemotion, but considered that it was a mistake not to light the lamps.Their brightness would have given the place a more cheerful look. Thegloom even struck her as savouring of impropriety. Her face was warmedby 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 whichhad trickled down and congealed into pale tears. And amidst thequivering silence, the mute ecstasy of adoration prevailing in thechapel, Lisa would distinctly hear the rumbling of the vehiclesturning out of the Rue Montmartre, behind the scarlet and purplesaints on the windows, whilst in the distance the markets roaredwithout a moment's pause.Just as Lisa was leaving the chapel, she saw the younger of theMehudins, Claire, the dealer in fresh water fish, come in. The girllighted a taper at the candelabrum, and then went to kneel behind apillar, her knees pressed upon the hard stones, and her face so palebeneath her loose fair hair that she seemed a corpse. And believingherself to be securely screened from observation, she gave way toviolent emotion, and wept hot tears with a passionate outpouring ofprayer which bent her like a rushing wind. Lisa looked on inamazement, for the Mehudins were not known to be particularly pious;indeed, Claire was accustomed to speak of religion and priests in suchterms as to horrify one."What's the meaning of this, I wonder?" pondered Lisa, as she againmade her way to the chapel of Saint Agnes. "The hussy must have beenpoisoning some one or other."Abbe Roustan was at last coming out of his confessional. He was ahandsome man, of some forty years of age, with a smiling, kindly air.When he recognised Madame Quenu he grasped her hand, called her "dearlady," and conducted her to the vestry, where, taking off hissurplice, he told her that he would be entirely at her service in amoment. They returned, the priest in his cassock, bareheaded, and Lisastrutting along in her shawl, and paced up and down in front of theside-chapels adjacent to the Rue du Jour. They conversed together inlow tones. The sunlight was departing from the stained windows, thechurch was growing dark, and the retreating footsteps of the lastworshippers sounded but faintly over the flagstones.Lisa explained her doubts and scruples to Abbe Roustan. There hadnever been any question of religion between them; she never confessed,but merely consulted him in cases of difficulty, because he was shrewdand discreet, and she preferred him, as she sometimes said, to shadybusiness men redolent of the galleys. The abbe, on his side,manifested inexhaustible complaisance. He looked up points of law forher in the Code, pointed out profitable investments, resolved hermoral difficulties with great tact, recommended tradespeople to her,invariably having an answer ready however diverse and complicated herrequirements might be. And he supplied all this help in a naturalmatter-of-fact way, without ever introducing the Deity into his talk,or seeking to obtain any advantage either for himself or the cause ofreligion. A word of thanks and a smile sufficed him. He seemed glad tohave an opportunity of obliging the handsome Madame Quenu, of whom hishousekeeper often spoke to him in terms of praise, as of a woman whowas 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 awoman of honour, with respect to her brother-in-law. Had she a rightto keep a watch upon him, and to do what she could to prevent him fromcompromising her husband, her daughter, and herself? And then how farmight she go in circumstances of pressing danger? She did not bluntlyput these questions to the abbe, but asked them with such skilfulcircumlocutions that he was able to discuss the matter withoutentering into personalities. He brought forward arguments on bothsides of the question, but the conclusion he came to was that a personof integrity was entitled, indeed bound, to prevent evil, and wasjustified in using whatever means might be necessary to ensure thetriumph of that which was right and proper."That is my opinion, dear lady," he said in conclusion. "The questionof means is always a very grave one. It is a snare in which souls ofaverage virtue often become entangled. But I know your scrupulousconscience. Deliberate carefully over each step you think of taking,and if it contains nothing repugnant to you, go on boldly. Purenatures have the marvelous gift of purifying all that they touch."Then, changing his tone of voice, he continued: "Pray give my kindregards to Monsieur Quenu. I'll come in to kiss my dear little Paulinesome time when I'm passing. And now good-bye, dear lady; remember thatI'm always at your service."Thereupon he returned to the vestry. Lisa, on her way out, was curiousto see if Claire was still praying, but the girl had gone back to hereels and carp; and in front of the Lady-chapel, which was alreadyshrouded in darkness, there was now but a litter of chairs overturnedby the ardent vehemence of the woman who had knelt there.When the handsome Lisa again crossed the square, La Normande, who hadbeen watching for her exit from the church, recognised her in thetwilight by the rotundity of her skirts."Good gracious!" she exclaimed, "she's been more than an hour inthere! When the priests set about cleansing her of her sins, thechoir-boys have to form in line to pass the buckets of filth and emptythem in the street!"The next morning Lisa went straight up to Florent's bedroom andsettled herself there with perfect equanimity. She felt certain thatshe would not be disturbed, and, moreover, she had made up her mind totell a falsehood and say that she had come to see if the linen wasclean, 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 thedrawer, 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 onCayenne; 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 theothers. These pages of small writing, which she set herself to read,bored her extremely, and she was about to restore the drawer to itsplace, feeling convinced that Florent concealed the proofs of hiswicked designs elsewhere, and already contemplating a searchingvisitation of his mattress, when she discovered a photograph of LaNormande in an envelope. The impression was rather dark. La Normandewas standing up with her right arm resting on a broken column. Deckedout with all her jewels, and attired in a new silk dress, the fish-girl was smiling impudently, and Lisa, at the sight, forgot all abouther brother-in-law, her fears, and the purpose for which she had comeinto the room. She became quite absorbed in her examination of theportrait, as often happens when one woman scrutinises the photographof another at her ease, without fear of being seen. Never before hadshe so favourable an opportunity to study her rival. She scrutinisedher hair, her nose, her mouth; held the photograph at a distance, andthen brought it closer again. And, finally, with compressed lips, sheread 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 slowlyreplaced it in the envelope on coming to the conclusion that thiscourse would be wrong, and reflecting that she would always know whereto find it should she want it again.Then, as she again began turning over the loose sheets of paper, itoccurred to her to look at the back end of the drawer, where Florenthad relegated Augustine's needles and thread; and there, between themissal and the Dream-book, she discovered what she sought, someextremely compromising memoranda, simply screened from observation bya wrapper of grey paper.That idea of an insurrection, of the overthrow of the Empire by meansof an armed rising, which Logre had one evening propounded at MonsieurLebigre's, had slowly ripened in Florent's feverish brain. He soongrew to see a duty, a mission in it. Therein undoubtedly lay the taskto which his escape from Cayenne and his return to Paris predestinedhim. Believing in a call to avenge his leanness upon the city whichwallowed in food while the upholders of right and equity were rackedby 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 sweepaway the reign of gluttony and drunkenness. In a sensitive nature likehis, this idea quickly took root. Everything about him assumedexaggerated proportions, the wildest fancies possessed him. Heimagined that the markets had been conscious of his arrival, and hadseized hold of him that they might enervate him and poison him withtheir stenches. Then, too, Lisa wanted to cast a spell over him, andfor two or three days at a time he would avoid her, as though she weresome dissolving agency which would destroy all his power of willshould he approach too closely. However, these paroxysms of puerilefear, these wild surgings of his rebellious brain, always ended inthrills of the gentlest tenderness, with yearnings to love and beloved, which he concealed with a boyish shame.It was more especially in the evening that his mind became blurred byall his wild imaginings. Depressed by his day's work, but shunningsleep from a covert fear--the fear of the annihilation it brought withit--he would remain later than ever at Monsieur Lebigre's, or at theMehudins'; and on his return home he still refrained from going tobed, and sat up writing and preparing for the great insurrection. Byslow degrees he devised a complete system of organisation. He dividedParis into twenty sections, one for each arrondissement. Each sectionwould have a chief, a sort of general, under whose orders there wereto be twenty lieutenants commanding twenty companies of affiliatedassociates. Every week, among the chiefs, there would be aconsultation, which was to be held in a different place each time;and, the better to ensure secrecy and discretion, the associates wouldonly come in contact with their respective lieutenants, these alonecommunicating with the chiefs of the sections. It also occurred toFlorent that it would be as well that the companies should believethemselves charged with imaginary missions, as a means of putting thepolice upon a wrong scent.As for the employment of the insurrectionary forces, that would be allsimplicity. It would, of course, be necessary to wait till thecompanies were quite complete, and then advantage would be taken ofthe first public commotion. They would doubtless only have a certainnumber of guns used for sporting purposes in their possession, so theywould commence by seizing the police stations and guard-houses,disarming the soldiers of the line; resorting to violence as little aspossible, and inviting the men to make common cause with the people.Afterwards they would march upon the Corps Legislatif, and thence tothe Hotel de Ville. This plan, to which Florent returned night afternight, as though it were some dramatic scenario which relieved hisover-excited nervous system, was as yet simply jotted down on scrapsof paper, full of erasures, which showed how the writer had felt hisway, and revealed each successive phase of his scientific yet puerileconception. When Lisa had glanced through the notes, withoutunderstanding some of them, she remained there trembling with fear;afraid to touch them further lest they should explode in her handslike live shells.A last memorandum frightened her more than any of the others. It was ahalf sheet of paper on which Florent had sketched the distinguishinginsignia which the chiefs and the lieutenants were to wear. By theside of these were rough drawings of the standards which the differentcompanies were to carry; and notes in pencil even described whatcolours the banners should assume. The chiefs were to wear redscarves, and the lieutenants red armlets.To Lisa this seemed like an immediate realisation of the rising; shesaw all the men with their red badges marching past the pork shop,firing bullets into her mirrors and marble, and carrying off sausagesand chitterlings from the window. The infamous projects of herbrother-in-law were surely directed against herself--against her ownhappiness. She closed the drawer and looked round the room, reflectingthat it was she herself who had provided this man with a home--that heslept between her sheets and used her furniture. And she wasespecially exasperated at his keeping his abominable infernal machinein that little deal table which she herself had used at UncleGradelle's before her marriage--a perfectly innocent, rickety littletable.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 toher to provoke an explanation with Florent, but she dismissed thatidea, fearing lest he would only go and perpetrate his crimeelsewhere, and maliciously make a point of compromising them. Thengradually growing somewhat calmer, she came to the conclusion that herbest plan would be to keep a careful watch over her brother-in-law. Itwould be time enough to take further steps at the first sign ofdanger. She already had quite sufficient evidence to send him back tothe galleys.On returning to the shop again, she found Augustine in a state ofgreat excitement. Little Pauline had disappeared more than half anhour before, and to Lisa's anxious questions the young woman couldonly reply: "I don't know where she can have got to, madame. She wason the pavement there with a little boy. I was watching them, and thenI 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 standoutside the shop, manifesting great propriety of bearing, andcompressing her lips with the grave expression of a little woman ofsix 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 andlittle sky-blue boots. Her pinafore, which hung low about her neck,was finished off at the shoulders with an edging of embroidery, belowwhich appeared her pretty little arms, bare and rosy. She had smallturquoise rings in her ears, a cross at her neck, a blue velvet ribbonin her well-brushed hair; and she displayed all her mother's plumpnessand softness--the gracefulness, indeed, of a new doll.Muche had caught sight of her from the market, where he was amusinghimself by dropping little dead fishes into the gutter, following themalong the kerb as the water carried them away, and declaring that theywere swimming. However, the sight of Pauline standing in front of theshop 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 fatbooby 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 hadat first felt flattered, then put on a prim air and stepped back,exclaiming in a tone of displeasure: "Leave me alone. Mother says I'mnot 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 whatyour mother says? Let's go and play at shoving each other, eh?"He doubtless nourished some wicked idea of dirtying the neat littlegirl; but she, on seeing him prepare to give her a push in the back,retreated as though about to return inside the shop. Muche thereuponadopted 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, whereuponMuche gently led her to the corner of the Rue Pirouette, touching herskirts the while and expressing his astonishment at their wonderfulstiffness. All this pleased the little girl immensely. She had beenvery much vexed at not receiving any notice while she was exhibitingherself outside the shop. However, in spite of all Muche'sblandishments, she still refused to leave the footway."You stupid fatty!" thereupon exclaimed the youngster, relapsing intocoarseness. "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 thehand; but, recognising his mistake in policy, he again put on awheedling 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 heldup the sou with the tips of his fingers, and the temptation to followit proved so great that the girl at last stepped down into theroadway. 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 awhole list of dainties--liquorice, molasses, gum-balls, and powderedsugar. The powdered sugar made the girl ponder. One dipped one'sfingers into it and sucked them; it was very nice. For a while shegravely considered the matter. Then, at last making up her mind, shesaid:"No, I like the mixed screws the best."Muche thereupon took hold of her arm, and she unresistingly allowedhim to lead her away. They crossed the Rue Rambuteau, followed thebroad footway skirting the markets, and went as far as a grocer's shopin the Rue de la Cossonnerie which was celebrated for its mixedscrews. These mixed screws are small screws of paper in which grocersput up all sorts of damaged odds and ends, broken sugar-plums,fragments of crystallised chestnuts--all the doubtful residuum oftheir jars of sweets. Muche showed himself very gallant, allowedPauline to choose the screw--a blue one--paid his sou, and did notattempt to dispossess her of the sweets. Outside, on the footway, sheemptied the miscellaneous collection of scraps into both pockets ofher pinafore; and they were such little pockets that they were quitefilled. Then in delight she began to munch the fragments one by one,wetting her fingers to catch the fine sugary dust, with such effectthat she melted the scraps of sweets, and the pockets of her pinaforesoon showed two brownish stains. Muche laughed slily to himself. Hehad his arm about the girl's waist, and rumpled her frock at his easewhilst leading her round the corner of the Rue Pierre Lescot, in thedirection of the Place des Innocents."You'll come and play now, won't you?" he asked. "That's nice whatyou've got in your pockets, ain't it? You see that I didn't want to doyou any harm, you big silly!"Thereupon he plunged his own fingers into her pockets, and theyentered the square together. To this spot, no doubt, he had all alongintended to lure his victim. He did the honours of the square asthough it were his own private property, and indeed it was a favouritehaunt of his, where he often larked about for whole afternoons.Pauline had never before strayed so far from home, and would have weptlike an abducted damsel had it not been that her pockets were full ofsweets. The fountain in the middle of the flowered lawn was sendingsheets of water down its tiers of basins, whilst, between thepilasters above, Jean Goujon's nymphs, looking very white beside thedingy grey stonework, inclined their urns and displayed their nudegraces in the grimy air of the Saint Denis quarter. The two childrenwalked round the fountain, watching the water fall into the basins,and taking an interest in the grass, with thoughts, no doubt, ofcrossing the central lawn, or gliding into the clumps of holly andrhododendrons 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 sandat each other, keeping their eyes closed meanwhile. The sand made itsway in at the neck of the girl's low bodice, and trickled down intoher stockings and boots. Muche was delighted to see the white pinaforebecome quite yellow. But he doubtless considered that it was still fartoo clean."Let's go and plant trees, shall we?" he exclaimed suddenly. "I knowhow to make such pretty gardens.""Really, gardens!" murmured Pauline full of admiration.Then, as the keeper of the square happened to be absent, Muche toldher to make some holes in one of the borders; and dropping on herknees in the middle of the soft mould, and leaning forward till shelay at full length on her stomach, she dug her pretty little arms intothe ground. He, meantime, began to hunt for scraps of wood, and brokeoff branches. These were the garden-trees which he planted in theholes that Pauline made. He invariably complained, however, that theholes were not deep enough, and rated the girl as though she were anidle workman and he an indignant master. When she at last got up, shewas black from head to foot. Her hair was full of mould, her face wassmeared with it, she looked such a sight with her arms as black as acoalheaver'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'twater them."That was the finishing stroke. They went outside the square, scoopedthe gutter-water up in the palms of their hands, and then ran back topour it over the bits of wood. On the way, Pauline, who was so fatthat she couldn't run properly, let the water trickle between herfingers on to her frock, so that by the time of her sixth journey shelooked as if she had been rolled in the gutter. Muche chuckled withdelight on beholding her dreadful condition. He made her sit downbeside him under a rhododendron near the garden they had made, andtold her that the trees were already beginning to grow. He had takenhold of her hand and called her his little wife."You're not sorry now that you came, are you," he asked, "instead ofmooning about on the pavement, where there was nothing to do? I knowall sorts of fun we can have in the streets; you must come with meagain. You will, won't you? But you mustn't say anything to yourmother, mind. If you say a word to her, I'll pull your hair the nexttime I come past your shop."Pauline consented to everything; and then, as a last attention, Muchefilled both pockets of her pinafore with mould. However, all thesweets were finished, and the girl began to get uneasy, and ceasedplaying. Muche thereupon started pinching her, and she burst intotears, sobbing that she wanted to go away. But at this the lad onlygrinned, and played the bully, threatening that he would not take herhome at all. Then she grew terribly alarmed, and sobbed and gaspedlike a maiden in the power of a libertine. Muche would certainly haveended by punching her in order to stop her row, had not a shrillvoice, the voice of Mademoiselle Saget, exclaimed, close by: "Why, Ideclare it's Pauline! Leave her alone, you wicked young scoundrel!"Then the old maid took the girl by the hand, with endless expressionsof amazement at the pitiful condition of her clothes. Muche showed noalarm, but followed them, chuckling to himself, and declaring that itwas Pauline who had wanted to come with him, and had tumbled down.Mademoiselle Saget was a regular frequenter of the Square desInnocents. Every afternoon she would spend a good hour there to keepherself well posted in the gossip of the common people. On either sidethere is a long crescent of benches placed end to end; and on thesethe poor folks who stifle in the hovels of the neighbouring narrowstreets assemble in crowds. There are withered, chilly-looking oldwomen in tumbled caps, and young ones in loose jackets and carelesslyfastened skirts, with bare heads and tired, faded faces, eloquent ofthe wretchedness of their lives. There are some men also: tidy oldbuffers, porters in greasy jackets, and equivocal-looking individualsin black silk hats, while the foot-path is overrun by a swarm ofyoungsters dragging toy carts without wheels about, filling pails withsand, and screaming and fighting; a dreadful crew, with ragged clothesand dirty noses, teeming in the sunshine like vermin.Mademoiselle Saget was so slight and thin that she always managed toinsinuate herself into a place on one of the benches. She listened towhat was being said, and started a conversation with her neighbour,some sallow-faced workingman's wife, who sat mending linen, from timeto time producing handkerchiefs and stockings riddled with holes froma little basket patched up with string. Moreover, Mademoiselle Sagethad plenty of acquaintances here. Amidst the excruciating squalling ofthe children, and the ceaseless rumble of the traffic in the Rue SaintDenis, she took part in no end of gossip, everlasting tales about thetradesmen of the neighbourhood, the grocers, the butchers, and thebakers, enough, indeed, to fill the columns of a local paper, and thewhole envenomed by refusals of credit and covert envy, such as isalways harboured by the poor. From these wretched creatures she alsoobtained the most disgusting revelations, the gossip of low lodging-houses and doorkeepers' black-holes, all the filthy scandal of theneighbourhood, which tickled her inquisitive appetite like hot spice.As she sat with her face turned towards the markets, she hadimmediately in front of her the square and its three blocks of houses,into the windows of which her eyes tried to pry. She seemed togradually rise and traverse the successive floors right up to thegarret skylights. She stared at the curtains; based an entire drama onthe appearance of a head between two shutters; and, by simply gazingat the facades, ended by knowing the history of all the dwellers inthese houses. The Baratte Restaurant, with its wine shop, its giltwrought-iron marquise, forming a sort of terrace whence peeped thefoliage of a few plants in flower-pots, and its four low storeys, allpainted and decorated, had an especial interest for her. She gazed atits yellow columns standing out against a background of tender blue,at the whole of its imitation temple-front daubed on the facade of adecrepit, tumble-down house, crowned at the summit by a parapet ofpainted zinc. Behind the red-striped window-blinds she espied visionsof nice little lunches, delicate suppers, and uproarious, unlimitedorgies. And she did not hesitate to invent lies about the place. Itwas there, she declared, that Florent came to gorge with those twohussies, the Mehudins, on whom he lavished his money.However, Pauline cried yet louder than before when the old maid tookhold of her hand. Mademoiselle Saget at first led her towards the gateof 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," shesaid 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 poorlittle creature was shivering all over; her petticoats and stockingswere wet through, and as she wiped her tears away with her dirty handsshe plastered the whole of her face with earth to the very tips of herears. When at last she became a little calmer the old maid resumed ina caressing tone: "Your mamma isn't unkind, is she? She's very fond ofyou, 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 whenthey 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 upas if about to go away."I'm afraid you are a little story-teller," she said. "Don't you knowthat 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. "Bequiet, be quiet, you wicked little imp!" cried the old maid shakingher. "There, there, now, I won't go away. I'll buy you a stick ofbarley-sugar; yes, a stick of barley-sugar! So you don't love yourcousin 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 Moutonsometimes, you know--I heard her say to father, 'Your brother has onlyescaped 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. Thenwithout a word she caught hold of Pauline's hand and made her run tillthey reached the pork shop, her lips meanwhile compressed by an inwardsmile, and her eyes glistening with keen delight. At the corner of theRue Pirouette, Muche, who had so far followed them, amused at seeingthe girl running along in her muddy stockings, prudently disappeared.Lisa was now in a state of terrible alarm; and when she saw herdaughter so bedraggled and limp, her consternation was such that sheturned the child round and round, without even thinking of beatingher."She has been with little Muche," said the old maid, in her maliciousvoice. "I took her away at once, and I've brought her home. I foundthem together in the square. I don't know what they've been up to; butthat young vagabond is capable of anything."Lisa could not find a word to say; and she did not know where to takehold of her daughter, so great was her disgust at the sight of thechild's muddy boots, soiled stockings, torn skirts, and filthy faceand hands. The blue velvet ribbon, the earrings, and the necklet wereall concealed beneath a crust of mud. But what put the finishing touchto Lisa's exasperation was the discovery of the two pockets filledwith mould. She stooped and emptied them, regardless of the pink andwhite flooring of the shop. And as she dragged Pauline away, she couldonly gasp: "Come along, you filthy thing!"Quite enlivened by this scene, Mademoiselle Saget now hurriedly madeher way across the Rue Rambuteau. Her little feet scarcely touched theground; her joy seemed to carry her along like a breeze which fannedher with a caressing touch. She had at last found out what she had somuch wanted to know! For nearly a year she had been consumed bycuriosity, and now at a single stroke she had gained complete powerover Florent! This was unhoped-for contentment, positive salvation,for she felt that Florent would have brought her to the tomb had shefailed much longer in satisfying her curiosity about him. At presentshe was complete mistress of the whole neighbourhood of the markets.There was no longer any gap in her information. She could havenarrated the secret history of every street, shop by shop. And thus,as she entered the fruit market, she fairly gasped with delight, in aperfect transport of pleasure."Hallo, Mademoiselle Saget," cried La Sarriette from her stall, "whatare you smiling to yourself like that about? Have you won the grandprize in the lottery?""No, no. Ah, my dear, if you only knew!"Standing there amidst her fruit, La Sarriette, in her picturesquedisarray, looked charming. Frizzy hair fell over her brow like vinebranches. Her bare arms and neck, indeed all the rosy flesh sheshowed, bloomed with the freshness of peach and cherry. She hadplayfully hung some cherries on her ears, black cherries which dangledagainst her cheeks when she stooped, shaking with merry laughter. Shewas eating currants, and her merriment arose from the way in which shewas smearing her face with them. Her lips were bright red, glisteningwith the juice of the fruit, as though they had been painted andperfumed with some seraglio face-paint. A perfume of plum exhaled fromher gown, while from the kerchief carelessly fastened across herbreast came an odour of strawberries.Fruits of all kinds were piled around her in her narrow stall. On theshelves at the back were rows of melons, so-called "cantaloups"swarming with wart-like knots, "maraichers" whose skin was coveredwith grey lace-like netting, and "culs-de-singe" displaying smoothbare bumps. In front was an array of choice fruits, carefully arrangedin baskets, and showing like smooth round cheeks seeking to hidethemselves, or glimpses of sweet childish faces, half veiled byleaves. Especially was this the case with the peaches, the blushingpeaches of Montreuil, with skin as delicate and clear as that ofnorthern maidens, and the yellow, sun-burnt peaches from the south,brown like the damsels of Provence. The apricots, on their beds ofmoss, gleamed with the hue of amber or with that sunset glow which sowarmly colours the necks of brunettes at the nape, just under thelittle wavy curls which fall below the chignon. The cherries, rangedone by one, resembled the short lips of smiling Chinese girls; theMontmorencies suggested the dumpy mouths of buxom women; the Englishones were longer and graver-looking; the common black ones seemed asthough they had been bruised and crushed by kisses; while the white-hearts, with their patches of rose and white, appeared to smile withmingled merriment and vexation. Then piles of apples and pears, builtup with architectural symmetry, often in pyramids, displayed the ruddyglow of budding breasts and the gleaming sheen of shoulders, quite ashow of nudity, lurking modestly behind a screen of fern-leaves. Therewere all sorts of varieties--little red ones so tiny that they seemedto 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. Thencame the pears--the "blanquettes," the "British queens," the"Beurres," the "messirejeans," and the "duchesses"--some dumpy, somelong and tapering, some with slender necks, and others with thick-setshoulders, their green and yellow bellies picked out at times with asplotch of carmine. By the side of these the transparent plumsresembled tender, chlorotic virgins; the greengages and the Orleansplums paled as with modest innocence, while the mirabelles lay likegolden 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, andwhich are far more aromatic than the large ones grown in gardens, forthese 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 heavyclusters of grapes, laden with intoxication, lay languorously at theedges of their wicker baskets, over the sides of which dangled some ofthe berries, scorched by the hot caresses of the voluptuous sun.It was there that La Sarriette lived in an orchard, as it were, in anatmosphere of sweet, intoxicating scents. The cheaper fruits--thecherries, plums, and strawberries--were piled up in front of her inpaper-lined baskets, and the juice coming from their bruised ripenessstained the stall-front, and steamed, with a strong perfume, in theheat. She would feel quite giddy on those blazing July afternoons whenthe melons enveloped her with a powerful, vaporous odour of musk; andthen with her loosened kerchief, fresh as she was with the springtideof life, she brought sudden temptation to all who saw her. It wasshe--it was her arms and necks which gave that semblance of amorousvitality to her fruit. On the stall next to her an old woman, ahideous old drunkard, displayed nothing but wrinkled apples, pears asflabby as herself, and cadaverous apricots of a witch-like sallowness.La Sarriette's stall, however, spoke of love and passion. The cherrieslooked like the red kisses of her bright lips; the silky peaches werenot more delicate than her neck; to the plums she seemed to have lentthe skin from her brow and chin; while some of her own crimson bloodcoursed through the veins of the currants. All the scents of theavenue of flowers behind her stall were but insipid beside the aromaof vitality which exhaled from her open baskets and falling kerchief.That day she was quite intoxicated by the scent of a large arrival ofmirabelle plums, which filled the market. She could plainly see thatMademoiselle Saget had learnt some great piece of news, and she wishedto make her talk. But the old maid stamped impatiently whilst sherepeated: "No, no; I've no time. I'm in a great hurry to see MadameLecoeur. I've just learnt something and no mistake. You can come withme, if you like."As a matter of fact, she had simply gone through the fruit market forthe purpose of enticing La Sarriette to go with her. The girl couldnot refuse temptation. Monsieur Jules, clean-shaven and as fresh as acherub, was seated there, swaying to and fro on his chair."Just look after the stall for a minute, will you?" La Sarriette saidto 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 theother day. And, besides, those cursed plums of yours quite make myhead ache."Then he calmly strolled off, with his hands in his pockets, and thestall was left to look after itself. Mademoiselle Saget went so fastthat La Sarriette had to run. In the butter pavilion a neighbour ofMadame Lecoeur's told them that she was below in the cellar; and so,whilst La Sarriette went down to find her, the old maid installedherself amidst the cheeses.The cellar under the butter market is a very gloomy spot. The rows ofstorerooms are protected by a very fine wire meshing, as a safeguardagainst 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 withthe Rue Berger, and here a pale light filtered through the vent-holes.The tables, which are continually sluiced with a flood of water fromthe taps, are as white as though they were quite new. With her backturned to the pump in the rear, Madame Lecoeur was kneading her butterin a kind of oak box. She took some of different sorts which laybeside her, and mixed the varieties together, correcting one byanother, just as is done in the blending of wines. Bent almost double,and showing sharp, bony shoulders, and arms bared to the elbows, asscraggy and knotted as pea-rods, she dug her fists into the greasypaste in front of her, which was assuming a whitish and chalkyappearance. It was trying work, and she heaved a sigh at each fresheffort."Mademoiselle Saget wants to speak to you, aunt," said La Sarriette.Madame Lecoeur stopped her work, and pulled her cap over her hair withher greasy fingers, seemingly quite careless of staining it. "I'venearly finished. Ask her to wait a moment," she said."She's got something very particular to tell you," continued LaSarriette."I won't be more than a minute, my dear."Then she again plunged her arms into the butter, which buried them upto the elbows. Previously softened in warm water, it covered MadameLecoeur's parchment-like skin as with an oily film, and threw the bigpurple veins that streaked her flesh into strong relief. La Sarriettewas quite disgusted by the sight of those hideous arms working sofrantically amidst the melting mass. However, she could recall thetime when her own pretty little hands had manipulated the butter forwhole afternoons at a time. It had even been a sort of almond-paste toher, a cosmetic which had kept her skin white and her nails delicatelypink; and even now her slender fingers retained the suppleness it hadendowed them with."I don't think that butter of yours will be very good, aunt," shecontinued, after a pause. "Some of the sorts seem much too strong.""I'm quite aware of that," replied Madame Lecoeur, between a couple ofgroans. "But what can I do? I must use everything up. There are somefolks who insist upon having butter cheap, and so cheap butter must bemade for them. Oh! it's always quite good enough for those who buyit."La Sarriette reflected that she would hardly care to eat butter whichhad been worked by her aunt's arms. Then she glanced at a little jarfull of a sort of reddish dye. "Your colouring is too pale," she said.This colouring-matter--"raucourt," as the Parisians call it is used togive the butter a fine yellow tint. The butter women imagine that itscomposition is known only to themselves, and keep it very secret.However, it is merely made from anotta;[*] though a composition ofcarrots and marigold is at times substituted for it.[*] Anotta, which is obtained from the pulp surrounding the seeds ofthe Bixa Orellana, is used for a good many purposes besides thecolouring of butter and cheese. It frequently enters into thecomposition of chocolate, and is employed to dye nankeen. Policecourt proceedings have also shown that it is well known to theLondon milkmen, who are in the habit of adding water to theirmerchandise.--Translator."Come, do be quick!" La Sarriette now exclaimed, for she was gettingimpatient, and was, moreover, no longer accustomed to the malodorousatmosphere of the cellar. "Mademoiselle Saget will be going. I fancyshe's got something very important to tell you abut my uncle Gavard."On hearing this, Madame Lecoeur abruptly ceased working. She at onceabandoned 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, anxiouslyrepeating: "Do you really think that she'll have gone away?"She was reassured, however, on catching sight of Mademoiselle Sagetamidst the cheeses. The old maid had taken good care not to go awaybefore Madame Lecoeur's arrival. The three women seated themselves atthe far end of the stall, crowding closely together, and their facesalmost touching one another. Mademoiselle Saget remained silent fortwo long minutes, and then, seeing that the others were burning withcuriosity, 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 atthe far end of the stall were huge masses of butter: Brittany buttersoverflowing from baskets; Normandy butters, wrapped in canvas, andresembling models of stomachs over which some sculptor had thrown dampcloths to keep them from drying; while other great blocks had been cutinto, fashioned into perpendicular rocky masses full of crevasses andvalleys, and resembling fallen mountain crests gilded by the pale sunof an autumn evening.Beneath the stall show-table, formed of a slab of red marble veinedwith grey, baskets of eggs gleamed with a chalky whiteness; while onlayers of straw in boxes were Bondons, placed end to end, andGournays, arranged like medals, forming darker patches tinted withgreen. But it was upon the table that the cheeses appeared in greatestprofusion. Here, by the side of the pound-rolls of butter lying onwhite-beet leaves, spread a gigantic Cantal cheese, cloven here andthere as by an axe; then came a golden-hued Cheshire, and next aGruyere, resembling a wheel fallen from some barbarian chariot; whilstfarther on were some Dutch cheeses, suggesting decapitated headssuffused with dry blood, and having all that hardness of skulls whichin France has gained them the name of "death's heads." Amidst theheavy exhalations of these, a Parmesan set a spicy aroma. Then therecame three Brie cheeses displayed on round platters, and looking likemelancholy extinct moons. Two of them, very dry, were at the full; thethird, in its second quarter, was melting away in a white cream, whichhad spread into a pool and flowed over the little wooden barriers withwhich an attempt had been made to arrest its course. Next came somePort Saluts, similar to antique discs, with exergues bearing theirmakers' names in print. A Romantour, in its tin-foil wrapper,suggested a bar of nougat or some sweet cheese astray amidst all thesepungent, fermenting curds. The Roqueforts under their glass coversalso had a princely air, their fat faces marbled with blue and yellow,as though they were suffering from some unpleasant malady such asattacks the wealthy gluttons who eat too many truffles. And on a dishby the side of these, the hard grey goats' milk cheeses, about thesize of a child's fist, resembled the pebbles which the billy-goatssend rolling down the stony paths as they clamber along ahead of theirflocks. Next came the strong smelling cheeses: the Mont d'Ors, of abright yellow hue, and exhaling a comparatively mild odour; theTroyes, very thick, and bruised at the edges, and of a far morepungent 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 themalodorous bouquet, till it became perfectly pestilential; theLivarots, ruddy in hue, and as irritating to the throat as sulphurfumes; and, lastly, stronger than all the others, the Olivets, wrappedin walnut leaves, like the carrion which peasants cover with branchesas it lies rotting in the hedgerow under the blazing sun.The heat of the afternoon had softened the cheeses; the patches ofmould on their crusts were melting, and glistening with tints of ruddybronze and verdigris. Beneath their cover of leaves, the skins of theOlivets seemed to be heaving as with the slow, deep respiration of asleeping man. A Livarot was swarming with life; and in a fragile boxbehind the scales a Gerome flavoured with aniseed diffused such apestilential smell that all around it the very flies had fallenlifeless on the gray-veined slap of ruddy marble.This Gerome was almost immediately under Mademoiselle Saget's nose; soshe drew back, and leaned her head against the big sheets of white andyellow paper which were hanging in a corner."Yes," she repeated, with an expression of disgust, "he comes from thegalleys! Ah, those Quenu-Gradelles have no reason to put on so manyairs!"Madame Lecoeur and La Sarriette, however, had burst into exclamationsof astonishment: "It wasn't possible, surely! What had he done to besent to the galleys? Could anyone, now, have ever suspected thatMadame 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 Ihad seen that great lanky fellow somewhere before."Then she proceeded to tell them Florent's story. She had recalled tomind a vague report which had circulated of a nephew of old Gradellebeing transported to Cayenne for murdering six gendarmes at abarricade. She had even seen this nephew on one occasion in the RuePirouette. The pretended cousin was undoubtedly the same man. Then shebegan to bemoan her waning powers. Her memory was quite going, shesaid; she would soon be unable to remember anything. And she bewailedher perishing memory as bitterly as any learned man might bewail theloss of his notes representing the work of a life-time, on seeing themswept away by a gust of wind."Six gendarmes!" murmured La Sarriette, admiringly; "he must have avery heavy fist!""And he's made away with plenty of others, as well," addedMademoiselle 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 thepavilion, and the odour of the cheeses became stronger than ever. Thatof the Marolles seemed to predominate, borne hither and thither inpowerful whiffs. Then, however, the wind appeared to change, andsuddenly the emanations of the Limbourgs were wafted towards the threewomen, pungent and bitter, like the last gasps of a dying man."But in that case," resumed Madame Lecoeur, "he must be fat Lisa'sbrother-in-law. And we thought that he was her lover!"The women exchanged glances. This aspect of the case took them bysurprise. They were loth to give up their first theory. However, LaSarriette, turning to Mademoiselle Saget, remarked: "That must havebeen all wrong. Besides, you yourself say that he's always runningafter the two Mehudin girls.""Certainly he is," exclaimed Mademoiselle Saget sharply, fancying thather word was doubted. "He dangles about them every evening. But, afterall, it's no concern of ours, is it? We are virtuous women, and whathe does makes no difference to us, the horrid scoundrel!""No, certainly not," agreed the other two. "He's a consummatevillain."The affair was becoming tragical. Of course beautiful Lisa was now outof the question, but for this they found ample consolation inprophesying that Florent would bring about some frightful catastrophe.It was quite clear, they said, that he had got some base design in hishead. When people like him escaped from gaol it was only to burneverything down; and if he had come to the markets it must assuredlybe for some abominable purpose. Then they began to indulge in thewildest suppositions. The two dealers declared that they would putadditional padlocks to the doors of their storerooms; and La Sarriettecalled to mind that a basket of peaches had been stolen from herduring the previous week. Mademoiselle Saget, however, quitefrightened the two others by informing them that that was not the wayin which the Reds behaved; they despised such trifles as baskets ofpeaches; their plan was to band themselves together in companies oftwo or three hundred, kill everybody they came across, and thenplunder and pillage at their ease. That was "politics," she said, withthe superior air of one who knew what she was talking about. MadameLecoeur felt quite ill. She already saw Florent and his accompliceshiding in the cellars, and rushing out during the night to set themarkets 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, thoseQuenus 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 hadtold them the history of the treasure discovered in the salting-tub,with every particular of which she was acquainted. She was even ableto inform them of the exact amount of the money found--eighty-fivethousand francs--though neither Lisa nor Quenu was aware of havingrevealed this to a living soul. However, it was clear that the Quenushad not given the great lanky fellow his share. He was too shabbilydressed for that. Perhaps he had never even heard of the discovery ofthe treasure. Plainly enough, they were all thieves in his family.Then the three women bent their heads together and spoke in lowertones. They were unanimously of opinion that it might perhaps bedangerous to attack the beautiful Lisa, but it was decidedly necessarythat they should settle the Red Republican's hash, so that he might nolonger prey upon the purse of poor Monsieur Gavard.At the mention of Gavard there came a pause. The gossips looked ateach other with a circumspect air. And then, as they drew breath, theyinhaled the odour of the Camemberts, whose gamy scent had overpoweredthe less penetrating emanations of the Marolles and the Limbourgs, andspread around with remarkable power. Every now and then, however, aslight whiff, a flutelike note, came from the Parmesan, while theBries contributed a soft, musty scent, the gentle, insipid sound, asit were, of damp tambourines. Next followed an overpowering refrainfrom the Livarots, and afterwards the Gerome, flavoured with aniseed,kept up the symphony with a high prolonged note, like that of avocalist 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 wasthe doorkeeper of the house where Gavard lived in the Rue de laCossonnerie. It was an old house standing back, with its ground flooroccupied by an importer of oranges and lemons, who had had thefrontage coloured blue as high as the first floor. Madame Leonce actedas Gavard's housekeeper, kept the keys of his cupboards and closets,and brought him up tisane when he happened to catch cold. She was asevere-looking woman, between fifty and sixty years of age, and spokeslowly, but at endless length. Mademoiselle Saget, who went to drinkcoffee with her every Wednesday evening, had cultivated her friendshipmore closely than ever since the poultry dealer had gone to lodge inthe house. They would talk about the worthy man for hours at a time.They both professed the greatest affection for him, and a keen desireto ensure his comfort and happiness."Yes, I have seen Madame Leonce," repeated the old maid. "We had a cupof coffee together last night. She was greatly worried. It seems thatMonsieur Gavard never comes home now before one o'clock in themorning. Last Sunday she took him up some broth, as she thought helooked 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, youare quite mistaken," said she. "Madame Leonce is much above herposition; she is quite a lady. If she wanted to enrich herself atMonsieur Gavard's expense, she might easily have done so long ago. Itseems that he leaves everything lying about in the most carelessfashion. It's about that, indeed, that I want to speak to you. Butyou'll not repeat anything I say, will you? I am telling it you instrict confidence."Both the others swore that they would never breathe a word of whatthey might hear; and they craned out their necks with eager curiosity,whilst the old maid solemnly resumed: "Well, then, Monsieur Gavard hasbeen behaving very strangely of late. He has been buying firearms--agreat big pistol--one of those which revolve, you know. Madame Leoncesays that things are awful, for this pistol is always lying about onthe 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 soldeverything, 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 quitedazzling. Madame Leonce told me that one morning Gavard opened thecupboard in her presence, and that the money quite blinded her, itshone so."There was another pause. The eyes of the three women were blinking asthough the dazzling pile of gold was before them. Presently LaSarriette began to laugh."What a jolly time I would have with Jules if my uncle would give thatmoney 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 fromher sight. Covetous envy thrilled her. But at last, raising her skinnyarms and shrivelled hands, her finger-nails still stuffed with butter,she stammered in a voice full of bitter distress: "Oh, I mustn't thinkof it! It's too dreadful!""Well, it would all be yours, you know, if anything were to happen toMonsieur Gavard," retorted Mademoiselle Saget. "If I were in yourplace, I would look after my interests. That revolver means nothinggood, you may depend upon it. Monsieur Gavard has got into the handsof evil counsellors; and I'm afraid it will all end badly."Then the conversation again turned upon Florent. The three womenassailed him more violently than ever. And afterwards, with perfectcomposure, they began to discuss what would be the result of all thesedark goings-on so far as he and Gavard were concerned; certainly itwould be no pleasant one if there was any gossiping. And thereuponthey swore that they themselves would never repeat a word of what theyknew; not, however, because that scoundrel Florent merited anyconsideration, but because it was necessary, at all costs, to savethat worthy Monsieur Gavard from being compromised. Then they rosefrom their seats, and Mademoiselle Saget was burning as if to go awaywhen 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 thekey of the cupboard.""Well, that's more than I can tell you," replied the old maid. "Ibelieve 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 odourof the cheeses seemed to become more pestilential than ever. It was acacophony of smells, ranging from the heavily oppressive odour of theDutch cheeses and the Gruyeres to the alkaline pungency of theOlivets. From the Cantal, the Cheshire, and the goats' milk cheesesthere seemed to come a deep breath like the sound of a bassoon, amidstwhich the sharp, sudden whiffs of the Neufchatels, the Troyes, and theMont d'Ors contributed short, detached notes. And then the differentodours appeared to mingle one with another, the reek of the Limbourgs,the Port Saluts, the Geromes, the Marolles, the Livarots, and the Pontl'Eveques uniting in one general, overpowering stench sufficient toprovoke asphyxia. And yet it almost seemed as though it were not thecheeses but the vile words of Madame Lecoeur and Mademoiselle Sagetthat 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, sheturned it round, and put it down on the slab again. Then she asked itsprice."To me!" she added, with a smile."Oh, nothing to you," replied Madame Lecoeur. "I'll make you a presentof it." And again she exclaimed: "Ah, if I were only rich!"Mademoiselle Saget thereupon told her that some day or other she wouldbe rich. The Bondon had already disappeared within the old maid's bag.And now the butter dealer returned to the cellar, while MademoiselleSaget escorted La Sarriette back to her stall. On reaching it theytalked for a moment or two about Monsieur Jules. The fruits aroundthem diffused a fresh scent of summer."It smells much nicer here than at your aunt's," said the old maid. "Ifelt quite ill a little time ago. I can't think how she manages toexist there. But here it's very sweet and pleasant. It makes you lookquite rosy, my dear."La Sarriette began to laugh, for she was fond of compliments. Then sheserved a lady with a pound of mirabelle plums, telling her that theywere as sweet as sugar."I should like to buy some of those mirabelles too," murmuredMademoiselle 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'truin me. Send Jules back to me if you see him, will you? You'll mostlikely find him smoking his cigar on the first bench to the right asyou turn out of the covered way."Mademoiselle Saget distended her fingers as widely as possible inorder to take a handful of mirabelles, which joined the Bondon in thebag. Then she pretended to leave the market, but in reality made adetour by one of the covered ways, thinking, as she walked slowlyalong, that the mirabelles and Bondon would not make a verysubstantial dinner. When she was unable, during her afternoonperambulations, to wheedle stallkeepers into filling her bag for her,she was reduced to dining off the merest scraps. So she now slyly madeher way back to the butter pavilions, where, on the side of the RueBerger, at the back of the offices of the oyster salesmen, there weresome stalls at which cooked meat was sold. Every morning little closedbox-like carts, lined with zinc and furnished with ventilators, drewup in front of the larger Parisian kitchens and carried away theleavings 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 pricesranging from three to five sous, their contents comprising slices ofmeat, scraps of game, heads and tails of fishes, bits of galantine,stray vegetables, and, by way of dessert, cakes scarcely cut into, andother confectionery. Poor starving wretches, scantily-paid clerks, andwomen shivering with fever were to be seen crowding around, and thestreet lads occasionally amused themselves by hooting the pale-facedindividuals, known to be misers, who only made their purchases afterslyly glancing about them to see that they were not observed.[*]Mademoiselle Saget wriggled her way to a stall, the keeper of whichboasted 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 ofmutton by informing that it had come from the plate of the Emperorhimself; and this slice of mutton, eaten with no little pride, hadbeen a soothing consolation to Mademoiselle Saget's vanity. Thewariness of her approach to the stall was, moreover, solely caused byher desire to keep well with the neighbouring shop people, whosepremises she was eternally haunting without ever buying anything. Herusual tactics were to quarrel with them as soon as she had managed tolearn their histories, when she would bestow her patronage upon afresh set, desert it in due course, and then gradually make friendsagain with those with whom she had quarrelled. In this way she madethe complete circuit of the market neighbourhood, ferreting about inevery shop and stall. Anyone would have imagined that she consumed anenormous amount of provisions, whereas, in point of fact, she livedsolely upon presents and the few scraps which she was compelled to buywhen 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 ideabeing that they are of all colours and shapes when mingledtogether, thus suggesting harlequin's variegated attire.--Translator.On that particular evening there was only a tall old man standing infront of the stall. He was sniffing at a plate containing a mixture ofmeat and fish. Mademoiselle Saget, in her turn, began to sniff at aplate of cold fried fish. The price of it was three sous, but, by dintof bargaining, she got it for two. The cold fish then vanished intothe bag. Other customers now arrived, and with a uniform impulselowered their noses over the plates. The smell of the stall was verydisgusting, 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 Privatd'Anglemont's well-known book Paris Anecdote, written at thevery period with which M. Zola deals in the present work. Myfather, Henry Vizetelly, also gave some account of it in hisGlances Back through Seventy Years, in a chapter describing theodd ways in which certain Parisians contrive to get a living.--Translator."Come and see me to-morrow," the stallkeeper called out to the oldmaid, "and I'll put something nice on one side for you. There's goingto be a grand dinner at the Tuileries to-night."Mademoiselle Saget was just promising to come, when, happening to turnround, she discovered Gavard looking at her and listening to what shewas saying. She turned very red, and, contracting her skinnyshoulders, hurried away, affecting not to recognise him. Gavard,however, followed her for a few yards, shrugging his shoulders andmuttering to himself that he was no longer surprised at the oldshrew's malice, now he knew that "she poisoned herself with the filthcarted away from the Tuileries."On the very next morning vague rumours began to circulate in themarkets. Madame Lecoeur and La Sarriette were in their own fashionkeeping the oaths of silence they had taken. For her own part,Mademoiselle Saget warily held her tongue, leaving the two others tocirculate the story of Florent's antecedents. At first only a fewmeagre details were hawked about in low tones; then various versionsof the facts got into circulation, incidents were exaggerated, andgradually quite a legend was constructed, in which Florent played thepart of a perfect bogey man. He had killed ten gendarmes at thebarricade in the Rue Greneta, said some; he had returned to France ona pirate ship whose crew scoured the seas to murder everyone they cameacross, said others; whilst a third set declared that ever since hisarrival he had been observed prowling about at nighttime withsuspicious-looking characters, of whom he was undoubtedly the leader.Soon the imaginative market women indulged in the highest flights offancy, revelled in the most melodramatic ideas. There was talk of aband of smugglers plying their nefarious calling in the very heart ofParis, and of a vast central association formed for systematicallyrobbing the stalls in the markets. Much pity was expressed for theQuenu-Gradelles, mingled with malicious allusions to their uncle'sfortune. That fortune was an endless subject of discussion. Thegeneral opinion was that Florent had returned to claim his share ofthe treasure; however, as no good reason was forthcoming to explainwhy the division had not taken place already, it was asserted thatFlorent was waiting for some opportunity which might enable him topocket the whole amount. The Quenu-Gradelles would certainly be foundmurdered some morning, it was said; and a rumour spread that dreadfulquarrels already took place every night between the two brothers andbeautiful Lisa.When these stories reached the ears of the beautiful Norman, sheshrugged her shoulders and burst out laughing."Get away with you!" she cried, "you don't know him. Why, the dearfellow's as gentle as a lamb."She had recently refused the hand of Monsieur Lebigre, who had at lastventured upon a formal proposal. For two months past he had given theMehudins a bottle of some liqueur every Sunday. It was Rose whobrought it, and she was always charged with a compliment for LaNormande, some pretty speech which she faithfully repeated, withoutappearing in the slightest degree embarrassed by the peculiarcommission. When Monsieur Lebigre was rejected, he did not pine, butto show that he took no offence and was still hopeful, he sent Rose onthe following Sunday with two bottles of champagne and a large bunchof 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 beengreatly shaken by you know what. He hopes that you will one day bewilling to cure him, by being for him as pretty and as sweet as theseflowers."La Normande was much amused by the servant's delighted air. She kissedher as she spoke to her of her master, and asked her if he worebraces, and snored at nights. Then she made her take the champagne andflowers back with her. "Tell Monsieur Lebigre," said she, "that he'snot to send you here again. It quite vexes me to see you coming hereso meekly, with your bottles under your arms.""Oh, he wishes me to come," replied Rose, as she went away. "It iswrong of you to distress him. He is a very handsome man."La Normande, however, was quite conquered by Florent's affectionatenature. She continued to follow Muche's lessons of an evening in thelamplight, indulging the while in a dream of marrying this man who wasso kind to children. She would still keep her fish stall, while hewould doubtless rise to a position of importance in the administrativestaff of the markets. This dream of hers, however, was scarcelyfurthered by the tutor's respectful bearing towards her. He bowed toher, and kept himself at a disntace, when she have liked to laugh withhim, and love him as she knew how to love. But it was just this covertresistance on Florent's part which continually brought her back to thedream of marrying him. She realised that he lived in a loftier spherethan her own; and by becoming his wife she imagined that her vanitywould reap no little satisfaction.She was greatly surprised when she learned the history of the man sheloved. He had never mentioned a word of those things to her; and shescolded him about it. His extraordinary adventures only increased hertenderness for him, and for evenings together she made him relate allthat had befallen him. She trembled with fear lest the police shoulddiscover him; but he reassured her, saying that the matter was now tooold for the police to trouble their heads about it. One evening hetold her of the woman on the Boulevard Montmartre, the woman in thepink bonnet, whose blood had dyed his hands. He still frequentlythought of that poor creature. His anguish-stricken mind had oftendwelt upon her during the clear nights he had passed in Cayenne; andhe had returned to France with a wild dream of meeting her again onsome footway in the bright sunshine, even though he could still feelher corpse-like weight across his legs. And yet, he thought, she mightperhaps have recovered. At times he received quite a shock while hewas walking through the streets, on fancying that he recognised her;and he followed pink bonnets and shawl-draped shoulders with a wildlybeating heart. When he closed his eyes he could see her walking, andadvancing towards him; but she let her shawl slip down, showing thetwo red stains on her chemisette; and then he saw that her face waspale as wax, and that her eyes were blank, and her lips distorted bypain. For a long time he suffered from not knowing her name, frombeing forced to look upon her as a mere shadow, whose recollectionfilled him with sorrow. Whenever any idea of woman crossed his mind itwas 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 onthat boulevard where she had fallen dead, and that if she had met hima few seconds sooner she would have given him a life of joy. And hewished for no other wife; none other existed for him. When he spoke ofher, his voice trembled to such a degree that La Normande, her witsquickened by her love, guessed his secret, and felt jealous."Oh, it's really much better that you shouldn't see her again," shesaid maliciously. "She can't look particularly nice by this time."Florent turned pale with horror at the vision which these wordsevoked. His love was rotting in her grave. He could not forgive LaNormande's savage cruelty, which henceforth made him see the grinningjaws and hollow eyes of a skeleton within that lovely pink bonnet.Whenever the fish-girl tried to joke with him on the subject he turnedquite angry, and silenced her with almost coarse language.That, however, which especially surprised the beautiful Norman inthese revelations was the discovery that she had been quite mistakenin supposing that she was enticing a lover away from handsome Lisa.This so diminished her feeling of triumph, that for a week or so herlove for Florent abated. She consoled herself, however, with the storyof the inheritance, no longer calling Lisa a strait-laced prude, but athief who kept back her brother-in-law's money, and assumedsanctimonious airs to deceive people. Every evening, while Muche tookhis writing lesson, the conversation turned upon old Gradelle'streasure."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 itin a salting-tub? Eighty-five thousand francs! That's a nice sum ofmoney! And, besides, the Quenus, no doubt, lied about it--there wasperhaps two or three times as much. Ah, if I were in your place, Ishouldn't lose any time about claiming my share; indeed I shouldn't.""I've no need of anything," was Florent's invariable answer. "Ishouldn't know what to do with the money if I had it.""Oh, you're no man!" cried La Normande, losing all control overherself. "It's pitiful! Can't you see that the Quenus are laughing atyou? That great fat thing passes all her husband's old clothes over toyou. I'm not saying this to hurt your feelings, but everybody makesremarks about it. Why, the whole neighbourhood has seen the greasypair of trousers, which you're now wearing, on your brother's legs forthree years and more! If I were in your place I'd throw their dirtyrags in their faces, and insist upon my rights. Your share comes toforty-two thousand five hundred francs, doesn't it? Well, I shouldn'tgo out of the place till I'd got forty-two thousand five hundredfrancs."It was useless for Florent to explain to her that his sister-in-lawhad offered to pay him his share, that she was taking care of it forhim, and that it was he himself who had refused to receive it. Heentered into the most minute particulars, seeking to convince her ofthe Quenus' honesty, but she sarcastically replied: "Oh, yes, I daresay! I know all about their honesty. That fat thing folds it up everymorning and puts it away in her wardrobe for fear it should getsoiled. Really, I quite pity you, my poor friend. It's easy to gullyou, for you can't see any further than a child of five. One of thesedays she'll simply put your money in her pocket, and you'll never lookon it again. Shall I go, now, and claim your share for you, just tosee what she says? There'd be some fine fun, I can tell you! I'deither have the money, or I'd break everything in the house--I swear Iwould!""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 aimnow was to embroil him with the Quenu-Gradelles, and she employedevery means she could think of to effect her purpose, both anger andbanter, as well as affectionate tenderness. She also cherished anotherdesign. When she had succeeded in marrying Florent, she would go andadminister a sound cuffing to beautiful Lisa, if the latter did notyield up the money. As she lay awake in her bed at night she picturedevery detail of the scene. She saw herself sitting down in the middleof the pork shop in the busiest part of the day, and making a terriblefuss. She brooded over this idea to such an extent, it obtained such ahold upon her, that she would have been willing to marry Florentsimply in order to be able to go and demand old Gradelle's forty-twothousand five hundred francs.Old Madame Mehudin, exasperated by La Normande's dismissal of MonsieurLebigre, proclaimed everywhere that her daughter was mad, and that the"long spindle-shanks" must have administered some insidious drug toher. When she learned the Cayenne story, her anger was terrible. Shecalled Florent a convict and murderer, and said it was no wonder thathis villainy had kept him lank and flat. Her versions of Florent'sbiography were the most horrible of all that were circulated in theneighbourhood. At home she kept a moderately quiet tongue in her head,and restricted herself to muttered indignation, and a show of lockingup the drawer where the silver was kept whenever Florent arrived. Oneday, 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 issetting you against me. Take care that you don't try me too far, orI'll go and denounce him to the police. I will, as true as I standhere!""You'll denounce him!" echoed La Normande, trembling violently, andclenching her fists. "You'd better not! Ah, if you weren't mymother----"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 timepast she had been gloomier and more erratic than ever, invariablyshowing 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 itwill end in that. But I'll clear the house of him. I'll go to thepolice to save mother the trouble."Then, as La Normande almost choked with the angry threats that rose toher throat, the younger girl added: "I'll spare you the exertion ofbeating me. I'll throw myself into the river as I come back over thebridge."Big tears were streaming from her eyes; and she rushed off to herbedroom, banging the doors violently behind her. Old Madame Mehudinsaid nothing more about denouncing Florent. Muche, however, told LaNormande that he met his grandma talking with Monsieur Lebigre inevery corner of the neighbourhood.The rivalry between the beautiful Norman and the beautiful Lisa nowassumed a less aggressive but more disturbing character. In theafternoon, when the red-striped canvas awning was drawn down in frontof the pork shop, the fish-girl would remark that the big fat thingfelt afraid, and was concealing herself. She was also much exasperatedby the occasional lowering of the window-blind, on which was pictureda hunting-breakfast in a forest glade, with ladies and gentlemen inevening dress partaking of a red pasty, as big as themselves, on theyellow grass.Beautiful Lisa, however, was by no means afraid. As soon as the sunbegan to sink she drew up the blind; and, as she sat knitting behindher counter, she serenely scanned the market square, where numerousurchins were poking about in the soil under the gratings whichprotected the roots of the plane-trees, while porters smoked theirpipes on the benches along the footway, at either end of which was anadvertisement column covered with theatrical posters, alternatelygreen, yellow, red, and blue, like some harlequin's costume. And whilepretending to watch the passing vehicles, Lisa would really bescrutinising the beautiful Norman. She might occasionally be seenbending forward, as though her eyes were following the Bastille andPlace Wagram omnibus to the Pointe Saint Eustache, where it alwaysstopped for a time. But this was only a manoeuvre to enable her to geta 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 brownpaper, on the pretext of warding off the rays of the setting sun. Theadvantage at present was on Lisa's side, for as the time for strikingthe decisive blow approached she manifested the calmest serenity ofbearing, whereas her rival, in spite of all her efforts to attain thesame air of distinction, always lapsed into some piece of grossvulgarity, which she afterwards regretted. La Normande's ambition wasto look "like a lady." Nothing irritated her more than to hear peopleextolling the good manners of her rival. This weak point of hers hadnot escaped old Madame Mehudin's observation, and she now directed allher attacks upon it."I saw Madame Quenu standing at her door this evening," she would saysometimes. "It is quite amazing how well she wears. And she's sorefined-looking, too; quite the lady, indeed. It's the counter thatdoes it, I'm sure. A fine counter gives a woman such a respectablelook."In this remark there was a veiled allusion to Monsieur Lebigre'sproposal. The beautiful Norman would make no reply; but for a momentor two she would seem deep in thought. In her mind's eye she sawherself behind the counter of the wine shop at the other corner of thestreet, forming a pendent, as it were, to beautiful Lisa. It was thisthat first shook her love for Florent.To tell the truth, it was now becoming a very difficult thing todefend Florent. The whole neighbourhood was in arms against him; itseemed as though everyone had an immediate interest in exterminatinghim. Some of the market people swore that he had sold himself to thepolice; while others asserted that he had been seen in the butter-cellar, attempting to make holes in the wire grating, with theintention of tossing lighted matches through them. There was a vastincrease of slander, a perfect flood of abuse, the source of whichcould not be exactly determined. The fish pavilion was the last one tojoin in the revolt against the inspector. The fish-wives liked Florenton 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 thesehuge, swelling women and the lean and lank inspector. He was lost inthe whirl of the voluminous petticoats and buxom bodices which surgedfuriously around his scraggy shoulders. However, he understoodnothing, but pursued his course towards the realisation of his onehaunting 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 ofthis outburst of indignation. Her little pale face seemed to multiply.She had sworn a terrible vengeance against the company which assembledin Monsieur Lebigre's little cabinet. She accused them of havingcirculated the story that she lived on waste scraps of meat. The truthwas that old Gavard had told the others one evening that the "oldnanny-goat" who came to play the spy upon them gorged herself with thefilth which the Bonapartist clique tossed away. Clemence felt quiteill on hearing this, and Robine hurriedly gulped down a draught ofbeer, as though to wash his throat. In Gavard's opinion, the scraps ofmeat left on the Emperor's plate were so much political ordure, theputrid remnants of all the filth of the reign. Thenceforth the partyat Monsieur Lebigre's looked on Mademoiselle Saget as a creature whomno one could touch except with tongs. She was regarded as some uncleananimal that battened upon corruption. Clemence and Gavard circulatedthe story so freely in the markets that the old maid found herselfseriously injured in her intercourse with the shopkeepers, whounceremoniously bade her go off to the scrap-stalls when she came tohaggle and gossip at their establishments without the least intentionof buying anything. This cut her off from her sources of information;and sometimes she was altogether ignorant of what was happening. Sheshed tears of rage, and in one such moment of anger she bluntly saidto La Sarriette and Madame Lecoeur: "You needn't give me any morehints: I'll settle your Gavard's hash for him now--that I will!"The two women were rather startled, but refrained from allprotestation. The next day, however, Mademoiselle Saget had calmeddown, and again expressed much tender-hearted pity for that poorMonsieur Gavard who was so badly advised, and was certainly hasteningto his ruin.Gavard was undoubtedly compromising himself. Ever since the conspiracyhad begun to ripen he had carried the revolver, which caused MadameLeonce so much alarm, in his pocket wherever he went. It was a big,formidable-looking weapon, which he had bought of the principalgunmaker in Paris. He exhibited it to all the women in the poultrymarket, like a schoolboy who has got some prohibited novel hidden inhis 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 mysteriousreticence, indulged in vague hints and insinuations--played, in short,the part of a man who revelled in feigning fear. The possession ofthis revolver gave him immense importance, placed him definitelyamongst the dangerous characters of Paris. Sometimes, when he was safeinside his stall, he would consent to take it out of his pocket, andexhibit it to two or three of the women. He made them stand before himso as to conceal him with their petticoats, and then he brandished theweapon, cocked the lock, caused the breech to revolve, and took aim atone of the geese or turkeys that were hanging in the stall. He wasimmensely delighted at the alarm manifested by the women; buteventually reassured them by stating that the revolver was not loaded.However, he carried a supply of cartridges about with him, in a casewhich he opened with the most elaborate precautions. When he hadallowed his friends to feel the weight of the cartridges, he wouldagain place both weapon and ammunition in his pockets. And afterwards,crossing his arms over his breast, he would chatter away jubilantlyfor hours."A man's a man when he's got a weapon like that," he would say with aswaggering air. "I don't care a fig now for the gendarmes. A friendand I went to try it last Sunday on the plain of Saint Denis. Ofcourse, you know, a man doesn't tell everyone that he's got aplaything of that sort. But, ah! my dears, we fired at a tree, and hitit every time. Ah, you'll see, you'll see. You'll hear of Anatole oneof these days, I can tell you."He had bestowed the name of Anatole upon the revolver; and he carriedthings so far that in a week's time both weapon and cartridges wereknown to all the women in the pavilion. His friendship for Florentseemed to them suspicious; he was too sleek and rich to be visitedwith the hatred that was manifested towards the inspector; still, helost the esteem of the shrewder heads amongst his acquaintances, andsucceeded 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 byplaying 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 comealmost to live in the little "cabinet." He breakfasted, dined, andconstantly shut himself up there. In fact he had converted the placealmost into a sort of private room of his own, where he left his oldcoats and books and papers lying about. Monsieur Lebigre had offeredno objection to these proceedings; indeed, he had even removed one ofthe tables to make room for a cushioned bench, on which Florent couldhave slept had he felt so inclined. When the inspector manifested anyscruples about taking advantage of Monsieur Lebigre's kindness, thelatter told him to do as he pleased, saying that the whole house wasat his service. Logre also manifested great friendship for him, andeven constituted himself his lieutenant. He was constantly discussingaffairs with him, rendering an account of the steps he was supposed totake, and furnishing the names of newly affiliated associates. Logre,indeed, had now assumed the duties of organiser; on him rested thetask of bringing the various plotters together, forming the differentsections, and weaving each mesh of the gigantic net into which Pariswas 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 noappreciable result. Although he had loudly asserted that in eachdistrict of Paris he knew two or three groups of men as determined andtrustworthy as those who met at Monsieur Lebigre's, he had never yetgiven any precise information about them, but had merely mentioned aname here and there, and recounted stories of endless alleged secretexpeditions, and the wonderful enthusiasm that the people manifestedfor the cause. He made a great point of the hand-grasps he hadreceived. So-and-so, whom he thou'd and thee'd, had squeezed hisfingers and declared he would join them. At the Gros Caillou a big,burly fellow, who would make a magnificent sectional leader, hadalmost dislocated his arm in his enthusiasm; while in the RuePopincourt a whole group of working men had embraced him. He declaredthat at a day's notice a hundred thousand active supporters could begathered together. Each time that he made his appearance in the littleroom, wearing an exhausted air, and dropping with apparent fatigue onthe bench, he launched into fresh variations of his usual reports,while Florent duly took notes of what he said, and relied on him torealise his many promises. And soon in Florent's pockets the plotassumed life. The notes were looked upon as realities, as indisputablefacts, upon which the entire plan of the rising was constructed. Allthat now remained to be done was to wait for a favourable opportunity,and Logre asserted with passionate gesticulations that the whole thingwould go on wheels.Florent was at last perfectly happy. His feet no longer seemed totread the ground; he was borne aloft by his burning desire to passsentence on all the wickedness he had seen committed. He had all thecredulity of a little child, all the confidence of a hero. If Logrehad told him that the Genius of Liberty perched on the Colonne deJuillet[*] would have come down and set itself at their head, he wouldhardly have expressed any surprise. In the evenings, at MonsieurLebigre's, he showed great enthusiasm and spoke effusively of theapproaching battle, as though it were a festival to which all good andhonest folks would be invited. But although Gavard in his delightbegan to play with his revolver, Charvet got more snappish than ever,and sniggered and shrugged his shoulders. His rival's assumption ofthe leadership angered him extremely; indeed, quite disgusted him withpolitics. One evening when, arriving early, he happened to findhimself alone with Logre and Lebigre, he frankly unbosomed himself.[*] The column erected on the Place de la Bastille in memory of theRevolution 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 aladies' school! It would be nothing short of a misfortune if he wereto succeed, for, with his visionary social sentimentalities, he wouldcrush us down beneath his confounded working men! It's all that, youknow, which ruins the party. We don't need any more tearfulsentimentalists, humanitarian poets, people who kiss and slobber overeach other for the merest scratch. But he won't succeed! He'll justget locked up, and that will be the end of it."Logre and the wine dealer made no remark, but allowed Charvet to talkon without interruption."And he'd have been locked up long ago," he continued, "if he wereanything as dangerous as he fancies he is. The airs he puts on justbecause he's been to Cayenne are quite sickening. But I'm sure thatthe 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 holdhim in contempt."At this Logre gave a slight start."They've been dogging me for the last fifteen years," resumed theHebertist, with a touch of pride, "but you don't hear me proclaimingit from the house-tops. However, he won't catch me taking part in hisriot. I'm not going to let myself be nabbed like a mere fool. I daresay he's already got half a dozen spies at his heels, who will takehim by the scruff of the neck whenever the authorities give the word.""Oh, dear, no! What an idea!" exclaimed Monsieur Lebigre, who usuallyobserved 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; "butI know how these things are arranged. At all events, I don't mean tolet the 'coppers' nab me this time. You others, of course, will pleaseyourselves, but if you take my advice--and you especially, MonsieurLebigre--you'll take care not to let your establishment becompromised, or the authorities will close it."At this Logre could not restrain a smile. On several subsequentoccasions Charvet plied him and Lebigre with similar arguments, asthough he wished to detach them from Florent's project by frighteningthem; and he was much surprised at the calmness and confidence whichthey both continued to manifest. For his own part, he still camepretty regularly in the evening with Clemence. The tall brunette wasno longer a clerk at the fish auctions--Monsieur Manoury haddischarged her."Those salesmen are all scoundrels!" Logre growled, when he heard ofher dismissal.Thereupon Clemence, who, lolling back against the partition, wasrolling a cigarette between her long, slim fingers, replied in a sharpvoice: "Oh, it's fair fighting! We don't hold the same politicalviews, 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 ofthe dabs and skate and mackerel sold by auction, the names of some ofthe best-known ladies and gentlemen of the Court. This bestowal ofpiscine names upon high dignitaries, these entries of the sale ofduchesses and baronesses at thirty sous apiece, had caused MonsieurManoury much alarm. Gavard was still laughing over it."Well, never mind!" said he, patting Clemence's arm; "you are everyinch a man, you are!"Clemence had discovered a new method of mixing her grog. She began byfilling her glass with hot water; and after adding some sugar shepoured the rum drop by drop upon the slice of lemon floating on thesurface, in such wise that it did not mix with the water. Then shelighted it and with a grave expression watched it blaze, slowlysmoking her cigarette while the flame of the alcohol cast a greenishtinge over her face. "Grog," however, was an expensive luxury in whichshe could not afford to indulge after she had lost her place. Charvettold her, with a strained laugh, that she was no longer a millionaire.She supported herself by giving French lessons, at a very early hourin the morning, to a young lady residing in the Rue de Miromesnil, whowas perfecting her education in secrecy, unknown even to her maid. Andso now Clemence merely ordered a glass of beer in the evenings, butthis she drank, it must be admitted, with the most philosophicalcomposure.The evenings in the little sanctum were now far less noisy than theyhad been. Charvet would suddenly lapse into silence, pale withsuppressed rage, when the others deserted him to listen to his rival.The thought that he had been the king of the place, had ruled thewhole party with despotic power before Florent's appearance there,gnawed at his heart, and he felt all the regretful pangs of adethroned monarch. If he still came to the meetings, it was onlybecause he could not resist the attraction of the little room where hehad spent so many happy hours in tyrannising over Gavard and Robine.In those days even Logre's hump had been his property, as well asAlexandre's fleshy arms and Lacaille's gloomy face. He had done whathe liked with them, stuffed his opinions down their throats,belaboured their shoulders with his sceptre. But now he endured muchbitterness of spirit; and ended by quite ceasing to speak, simplyshrugging his shoulders and whistling disdainfully, withoutcondescending to combat the absurdities vented in his presence. Whatexasperated him more than anything else was the gradual way in whichhe had been ousted from his position of predominance without beingconscious of it. He could not see that Florent was in any way hissuperior, and after hearing the latter speak for hours, in his gentleand somewhat sad voice, he often remarked: "Why, the fellow's aparson! He only wants a cassock!"The others, however, to all appearance eagerly absorbed whatever theinspector said. When Charvet saw Florent's clothes hanging from everypeg, he pretended not to know where he could put his hat so that itwould not be soiled. He swept away the papers that lay about thelittle room, declaring that there was no longer any comfort for anyonein the place since that "gentleman" had taken possession of it. Heeven complained to the landlord, and asked if the room belonged to asingle customer or to the whole company. This invasion of his realmwas indeed the last straw. Men were brutes, and he conceived anunspeakable scorn for humanity when he saw Logre and Monsieur Lebigrefixing their eyes on Florent with rapt attention. Gavard with hisrevolver irritated him, and Robine, who sat silent behind his glass ofbeer, seemed to him to be the only sensible person in the company, andone who doubtless judged people by their real value, and was not ledaway by mere words. As for Alexandre and Lacaille, they confirmed himin his belief that "the people" were mere fools, and would require atleast ten years of revolutionary dictatorship to learn how to conductthemselves.Logre, however, declared that the sections would soon be completelyorganised; and Florent began to assign the different parts that eachwould have to play. One evening, after a final discussion in which heagain got worsted, Charvet rose up, took his hat, and exclaimed:"Well, I'll wish you all good night. You can get your skulls crackedif it amuses you; but I would have you understand that I won't takeany part in the business. I have never abetted anybody's ambition."Clemence, who had also risen and was putting on her shawl, coldlyadded: "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, havingstill some beer left in his glass, contented himself with shakinghands. Charvet and Clemence never returned again; and Lacaille one dayinformed the company that they now frequented a beer-house in the RueSerpente. He had seen them through the window, gesticulating withgreat energy, in the midst of an attentive group of very young men.Florent was never able to enlist Claude amongst his supporters. He hadonce entertained the idea of gaining him over to his own politicalviews, of making a disciple of him, an assistant in his revolutionarytask; and in order to initiate him he had taken him one evening toMonsieur Lebigre's. Claude, however, spent the whole time in making asketch of Robine, in his hat and chestnut cloak, and with his beardresting on the knob of his walking-stick."Really, you know," he said to Florent, as they came away, "all thatyou have been saying inside there doesn't interest me in the least. Itmay 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 deepas a well. I'll come with you again some other time, but it won't befor politics. I shall make sketches of Logre and Gavard, so as to putthem with Robine in a picture which I was thinking about while youwere discussing the question of--what do you call it? eh? Oh, thequestion of the two Chambers. Just fancy, now, a picture of Gavard andLogre and Robine talking politics, entrenched behind their glasses ofbeer! It would be the success of the Salon, my dear fellow, anoverwhelming success, a genuine modern picture!"Florent was grieved by the artist's political scepticism; so he tookhim up to his bedroom, and kept him on the narrow balcony in front ofthe 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 soindifferent to the happiness of his country."Well, you're perhaps right," replied Claude, shaking his head; "I'man 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 takein it. When I'm painting, it is as though I were tickling myself; itmakes me laugh all over my body. Well, I can't help it, you know; it'smy nature to be like that; and you can't expect me to go and drownmyself in consequence. Besides, France can get on very well withoutme, as my aunt Lisa says. And--may I be quite frank with you?--if Ilike you it's because you seem to me to follow politics just as Ifollow 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 andimagining they are the voting-papers of infinity. And then youtitillate yourself with your ideas of truth and justice; and this isso evidently the case that those ideas of yours cause just as muchalarm to commonplace middle-class folks as my sketches do. Betweenourselves, now, do you imagine that if you were Robine I should takeany pleasure in your friendship? Ah, no, my friend, you are a greatpoet!"Then he began to joke on the subject, saying that politics caused himno trouble, and that he had got accustomed to hear people discussingthem in beer shops and studios. This led him to speak of a cafe in theRue Vauvilliers; the cafe on the ground-floor of the house where LaSarriette lodged. This smoky place, with its torn, velvet-cushionedseats, 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 "Newgateknockers" were glued against his temples; and to keep his neck whitehe had it scraped with a razor every Saturday at a hair-dresser's inthe 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 thecompany would begin to chat. They were a very reactionary set, takinga delight in the doings of "society." For his part, Monsieur Julesread the lighter boulevardian newspapers, and knew the performers atthe smaller theatres, talked familiarly of the celebrities of the day,and could always tell whether the piece first performed the previousevening had been a success or a failure. He had a weakness, however,for politics. His ideal man was Morny, as he curtly called him. Heread the reports of the discussions of the Corps Legislatif, andlaughed with glee over the slightest words that fell from Morny'slips. Ah, Morny was the man to sit upon your rascally republicans! Andhe would assert that only the scum detested the Emperor, for hisMajesty desired that all respectable people should have a good time ofit."I've been to the cafe occasionally," Claude said to Florent. "Theyoung men there are vastly amusing, with their clay pipes and theirtalk about the Court balls! To hear them chatter you might almostfancy they were invited to the Tuileries. La Sarriette's young man wasmaking great fun of Gavard the other evening. He called him uncle.When La Sarriette came downstairs to look for him she was obliged topay 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, myfriend, and pleasant dreams. If ever you become a Minister, I'll giveyou some hints on the beautifying of Paris."Florent was obliged to relinquish the hope of making a docile discipleof Claude. This was a source of grief to him, for, blinded though hewas by his fanatical ardour, he at last grew conscious of the ever-increasing hostility which surrounded him. Even at the Mehudins' henow met with a colder reception: the old woman would laugh slyly;Muche no longer obeyed him, and the beautiful Norman cast glances ofhasty impatience at him, unable as she was to overcome his coldness.At the Quenus', too, he had lost Auguste's friendship. The assistantno longer came to see him in his room on the way to bed, being greatlyalarmed by the reports which he heard concerning this man with whom hehad previously shut himself up till midnight. Augustine had made herlover swear that he would never again be guilty of such imprudence;however, it was Lisa who turned the young man into Florent'sdetermined enemy by begging him and Augustine to defer their marriagetill her cousin should vacate the little bedroom at the top of thehouse, as she did not want to give that poky dressing-room on thefirst floor to the new shop girl whom she would have to engage. Fromthat time forward Auguste was anxious that the "convict" should bearrested. He had found such a pork shop as he had long dreamed of, notat Plaisance certainly, but at Montrouge, a little farther away. Andnow trade had much improved, and Augustine, with her silly, overgrowngirl's laugh, said that she was quite ready. So every night, wheneversome slight noise awoke him, August was thrilled with delight as heimagined that the police were at last arresting Florent.Nothing was said at the Quenu-Gradelles' about all the rumours whichcirculated. There was a tacit understanding amongst the staff of thepork shop to keep silent respecting them in the presence of Quenu. Thelatter, somewhat saddened by the falling-out between his brother andhis wife, sought consolation in stringing his sausages and salting hispork. Sometimes he would come and stand on his door-step, with his redface glowing brightly above his white apron, which his increasingcorpulence stretched quite taut, and never did he suspect all thegossip which his appearance set on foot in the markets. Some of thewomen pitied him, and thought that he was losing flesh, though he was,indeed, stouter than ever; while others, on the contrary, reproachedhim for not having grown thin with shame at having such a brother asFlorent. He, however, like one of those betrayed husbands who arealways the last to know what has befallen them, continued in happyignorance, displaying a light-heartedness which was quite affecting.He would stop some neighbour's wife on the footway to ask her if shefound his brawn or truffled boar's head to her liking, and she wouldat 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?" heasked Lisa one day. "Do you think I'm looking ill?"Lisa, well aware that he was terribly afraid of illness, and groanedand made a dreadful disturbance if he suffered the slightest ailment,reassured him on this point, telling him that he was as blooming as arose. The fine pork shop, however, was becoming gloomy; the mirrorsseemed to pale, the marbles grew frigidly white, and the cooked meatson the counter stagnated in yellow fat or lakes of cloudy jelly. Oneday, even, Claude came into the shop to tell his aunt that the displayin the window looked quite "in the dumps." This was really the truth.The Strasburg tongues on their beds of blue paper-shavings had amelancholy whiteness of hue, like the tongues of invalids; and thewhilom chubby hams seemed to be wasting away beneath their mournfulgreen top-knots. Inside the shop, too, when customers asked for ablack-pudding or ten sous' worth of bacon, or half a pound of lard,they spoke in subdued, sorrowful voices, as though they were in thebed-chamber of a dying man. There were always two or three lachrymosewomen in front of the chilled heating-pan. Beautiful Lisa meantimedischarged the duties of chief mourner with silent dignity. Her whiteapron fell more primly than ever over her black dress. Her hands,scrupulously clean and closely girded at the wrists by long whitesleevelets, her face with its becoming air of sadness, plainly toldall the neighbourhood, all the inquisitive gossips who streamed intothe shop from morning to night, that they, the Quenu-Gradelles, weresuffering from unmerited misfortune, but that she knew the cause ofit, and would triumph over it at last. And sometimes she stooped tolook at the two gold-fish, who also seemed ill at ease as they swamlanguidly around the aquarium in the window, and her glance seemed topromise them better days in the future.Beautiful Lisa now only allowed herself one indulgence. She fearlesslypatted Marjolin's satiny chin. The young man had just come out of thehospital. His skull had healed, and he looked as fat and merry asever; 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 hisbrain, for he had become a mere animal. The mind of a child of fivedwelt in his sturdy frame. He laughed and stammered, he could nolonger pronounce his words properly, and he was as submissivelyobedient as a sheep. Cadine took entire possession of him again;surprised, at first, at the alteration in him, and then quitedelighted 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 couldnot 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 shehad slung her basket round her neck, and set off to sell her violetsin the Rue du Pont Neuf and the Rue de Turbigo, he went to prowl aboutin 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 frontof the counter. The sight of the handsome mistress of the shop filledhim with rapture; he often clapped his hands with joy and began tojump about and vent little cries of pleasure, like a child delightedat something shown to it. On the first few occasions when he came tosee her after leaving the hospital Lisa had feared that he mightremember 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 hisskull the while.Then, as though he were in a sort of ecstasy, he continued inlingering notes, as he gazed at Lisa, "Beautiful, beautiful,beautiful!" This quite touched Madame Quenu. She had prevailed uponGavard to keep him in his service. It was on the occasions when he sohumbly vented his admiration that she caressed his chin, and told himthat he was a good lad. He smiled with childish satisfaction, at timesclosing his eyes like some domestic pet fondled by its mistress; andLisa thought to herself that she was making him some compensation forthe blow with which she had felled him in the cellar of the poultrymarket.However, the Quenus' establishment still remained under a cloud.Florent sometimes ventured to show himself, and shook hands with hisbrother, while Lisa observed a frigid silence. He even dined with themsometimes on Sundays, at long intervals, and Quenu then made greatefforts at gaiety, but could not succeed in imparting any cheerfulnessto the meal. He ate badly, and ended by feeling altogether put out.One evening, after one of these icy family gatherings, he said to hiswife with tears in his eyes:"What can be the matter with me? Is it true that I'm not ill? Don'tyou really see anything wrong in my appearance? I feel just as thoughI'd got a heavy weight somewhere inside me. And I'm so sad anddepressed, too, without in the least knowing why. What can it be, doyou 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 crusheddown. 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, mydear, don't look well; you seem melancholy. If there isn't a changefor 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 allright again. There's something unhealthy in the atmosphere just now.All the neighbourhood is unwell." Then, as if yielding to an impulseof anxious affection, she added: "Don't worry yourself, my dear. Ican'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 ofthe choppers, the tuneful simmering of the fat, and the bubbling ofthe pans had a cheering effect upon him. In this way, too, she kepthim at a distance from the indiscreet chatter of Mademoiselle Saget,who now spent whole mornings in the shop. The old maid seemed bent onarousing Lisa's alarm, and thus driving her to some extreme step. Shebegan 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 ownbusiness. If you only knew, my dear Madame Quenu--but no, really, Ishould 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 herear across the counter: "Well, people say, you know, that MonsieurFlorent 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 Lisaconfessed the truth, equally as a matter of diplomacy, in order thatshe might have the assistance of some one who would keep her wellposted in all the gossip of the neighbourhood, the old maid swore thatfor her own part she would be as mute as a fish, and deny the truth ofthe reports about Florent, even if she were to be led to the stake forit. And afterwards this drama brought her intense enjoyment; everymorning she came to the shop with some fresh piece of disturbing news."You must be careful," she whispered one day; "I have just heard twowomen in the tripe market talking about you know what. I can'tinterrupt people and tell them they are lying, you know. It would lookso strange. But the story's got about, and it's spreading fartherevery day. It can't be stopped now, I fear; the truth will have tocome out."A few days later she returned to the assault in all earnest. She madeher appearance looking quite scared, and waited impatiently till therewas 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 thosemen who meet at Monsieur Lebigre's have got guns, and are going tobreak out again as they did in '48. It's quite distressing to see sucha worthy man as Monsieur Gavard--rich, too, and so respectable--leaguing himself with such scoundrels! I was very anxious to let youknow, on account of your brother-in-law.""Oh, it's mere nonsense, I'm sure; it can't be serious," rejoinedLisa, just to incite the old maid to tell her more."Not serious, indeed! Why, when one passes along the Rue Pirouette inthe 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 triedto corrupt your husband. And the cartridges which I have seen themmaking from my own window, are they mere nonsense? Well, well, I'monly telling you this for your own good.""Oh! I'm sure of that, and I'm very much obliged to you," repliedLisa; "but people do invent such stories, you know.""Ah, but this is no invention, unfortunately. The whole neighbourhoodis talking of it. It is said, too, that if the police discover thematter there will be a great many people compromised--Monsieur Gavard,for instance."Madame Quenu shrugged her shoulders as though to say that MonsieurGavard 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 theothers, your brother-in-law, for instance," resumed the old maid witha wily glance. "Your brother-in-law is the leader, it seems. That'svery annoying for you, and I'm very sorry indeed; for if the policewere to make a descent here they might march Monsieur Quenu off aswell. Two brothers, you know, they're like two fingers of the samehand."Beautiful Lisa protested against this, but she turned very pale, forMademoiselle Saget's last thrust had touched a vulnerable point. Fromthat day forward the old maid was ever bringing her stories ofinnocent people who had been thrown into prison for extendinghospitality to criminal scoundrels. In the evening, when La Saget wentto get her black-currant syrup at the wine dealer's, she prepared herbudget for the next morning. Rose was but little given to gossiping,and the old main reckoned chiefly on her own eyes and ears. She hadbeen struck by Monsieur Lebigre's extremely kind and obliging mannertowards Florent, his eagerness to keep him at his establishment, allthe polite civilities, for which the little money which the otherspent in the house could never recoup him. And this conduct ofMonsieur Lebigre's surprised her the more as she was aware of theposition in which the two men stood in respect to the beautifulNorman."It looks as though Lebigre were fattening him up for sale," shereflected. "Whom can he want to sell him to, I wonder?"One evening when she was in the bar she saw Logre fling himself on thebench in the sanctum, and heard him speak of his perambulationsthrough the faubourgs, with the remark that he was dead beat. She casta hasty glance at his feet, and saw that there was not a speck of duston 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 herwindow. It was very high up, commanding a view of all the neighbouringhouses, and proved a source of endless enjoyment to her. She wasconstantly installed at it, as though it were an observatory fromwhich she kept watch upon everything that went on in theneighbourhood. She was quite familiar with all the rooms opposite her,both on the right and the left, even to the smallest details of theirfurniture. She could have described, without the least omission, thehabits of their tenants, have related if the latter's homes were happyor the contrary, have told when and how they washed themselves, whatthey had for dinner, and who it was that came to see them. Then sheobtained a side view of the markets, and not a woman could walk alongthe Rue Rambuteau without being seen by her; and she could havecorrectly 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 MadameLoret, over there; she's giving her son a fine education; that'sMadame Hutin, a poor little woman who's dreadfully neglected by herhusband; that's Mademoiselle Cecile, the butcher's daughter, a girlthat no one will marry because she's scrofulous." In this way shecould have continued jerking out biographical scraps for daystogether, deriving extraordinary amusement from the most trivial,uninteresting incidents. However, as soon as eight o'clock struck, sheonly had eyes for the frosted "cabinet" window on which appeared theblack shadows of the coterie of politicians. She discovered thesecession of Charvet and Clemence by missing their bony silhouettesfrom the milky transparency. Not an incident occurred in that room butshe sooner or later learnt it by some sudden motion of those silentarms and heads. She acquired great skill in interpretation, and coulddivine the meaning of protruding noses, spreading fingers, gapingmouths, and shrugging shoulders; and in this way she followed theprogress of the conspiracy step by step, in such wise that she couldhave told day by day how matters stood. One evening the terribleoutcome of it all was revealed to her. She saw the shadow of Gavard'srevolver, a huge silhouette with pointed muzzle showing very blacklyagainst the glimmering window. It kept appearing and disappearing sorapidly that it seemed as though the room was full of revolvers. Thosewere the firearms of which Mademoiselle Saget had spoken to MadameQuenu. On another evening she was much puzzled by the sight of endlesslengths of some material or other, and came to the conclusion that themen must be manufacturing cartridges. The next morning, however, shemade her appearance in the wine shop by eleven o'clock, on the pretextof asking Rose if she could let her have a candle, and, glancingfurtively into the little sanctum, she espied a heap of red materiallying on the table. This greatly alarmed her, and her next budget ofnews was one of decisive gravity."I don't want to alarm you, Madame Quenu," she said, "but matters arereally looking very serious. Upon my word, I'm quite alarmed. You muston no account repeat what I am going to confide to you. They wouldmurder 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 lookedjust like rags soaked in blood. Logre, the hunchback, you know, putone of the pieces over his shoulder. He looked like a headsman. Youmay be sure this is some fresh trickery or other."Lisa made no reply, but seemed deep in thought whilst with loweredeyes, she handled a fork and mechanically arranged some piece of saltpork on a dish."If I were you," resumed Mademoiselle Saget softly, "I shouldn't beeasy in mind; I should want to know the meaning of it all. Whyshouldn't you go upstairs and examine your brother-in-law's bedroom?"At this Lisa gave a slight start, let the fork drop, and glanceduneasily at the old maid, believing that she had discovered herintentions. But the other continued: "You would certainly be justifiedin doing so. There's no knowing into what danger your brother-in-lawmay lead you, if you don't put a check on him. They were talking aboutyou yesterday at Madame Taboureau's. Ah! you have a most devotedfriend 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 thislong ago.""Madame Taboureau said that?" murmured Lisa thoughtfully."Yes, indeed she did; and Madame Taboureau is a woman whose advice isworth listening to. Try to find out the meaning of all those redbands; and if you do, you'll tell me, won't you?"Lisa, however, was no longer listening to her. She was gazingabstractedly at the edible snails and Gervais cheeses between thefestoons of sausages in the window. She seemed absorbed in a mentalconflict, 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 werespeaking to herself. "They'll get very dry cut up like that. And thatblack-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 ofsaveloy. "You may take them," she said, "if you would care for them."The black bag swallowed them up. Mademoiselle Saget was so accustomedto receiving presents that she had actually ceased to return thanksfor them. Every morning she carried away all the scraps of the porkshop. And now she went off with the intention of obtaining her dessertfrom La Sarriette and Madame Lecoeur, by gossiping to them aboutGavard.When Lisa was alone again she installed herself on the bench, behindthe counter, as though she thought she would be able to come to asounder decision if she were comfortably seated. For the last week shehad been very anxious. Florent had asked Quenu for five hundred francsone evening, in the easy, matter-of-course way of a man who had moneylying to his credit at the pork shop. Quenu referred him to his wife.This was distasteful to Florent, who felt somewhat uneasy on applyingto beautiful Lisa. But she immediately went up to her bedroom, broughtthe money down and gave it to him, without saying a word, or makingthe least inquiry as to what he intended to do with it. She merelyremarked that she had made a note of the payment on the papercontaining 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 sodisinterested," Lisa said to Quenu that night, as they went to bed. "Idid quite right, you see, in keeping the account. By the way, Ihaven'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 whatI pay him on the margin. You'll see, now, he'll fritter it all away bydegrees. That's what I've been expecting for a long time past."Quenu said nothing, but went to bed feeling very much put out. Everytime that his wife opened the secretaire the drawer gave out amournful creak which pierced his heart. He even thought ofremonstrating with his brother, and trying to prevent him from ruininghimself with the Mehudins; but when the time came, he did not dare todo it. Two days later Florent asked for another fifteen hundredfrancs. Logre had said one evening that things would ripen much fasterif they could only get some money. The next day he was enchanted tofind these words of his, uttered quite at random, result in thereceipt 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 sectionwished to hire a room where they could meet, while another wascompelled to provide for various needy patriots. Then there were armsand ammunition to be purchased, men to be enlisted, and private policeexpenses. Florent would have paid for anything. He had bethoughthimself of Uncle Gradelle's treasure, and recalled La Normande'sadvice. So he made repeated calls upon Lisa's secretaire, being merelykept in check by the vague fear with which his sister-in-law's graveface inspired him. Never, thought he, could he have spent his money ina holier cause. Logre now manifested the greatest enthusiasm, and worethe most wonderful rose-coloured neckerchiefs and the shiniest ofvarnished boots, the sight of which made Lacaille glower blackly."That makes three thousand francs in seven days," Lisa remarked toQuenu. "What do you think of that? A pretty state of affairs, isn'tit? If he goes on at this rate his fifty thousand francs will last himbarely four months. And yet it took old Gradelle forty years to puthis fortune together!""It's all your own fault!" cried Quenu. "There was no occasion for youto say anything to him about the money."Lisa gave her husband a severe glance. "It is his own," she said; "andhe is entitled to take it all. It's not the giving him the money thatvexes me, but the knowledge that he must make a bad use of it. I tellyou again, as I have been telling you for a long time past, all thismust come to an end.""Do whatever you like; I won't prevent you," at last exclaimed thepork butcher, who was tortured by his cupidity.He still loved his brother; but the thought of fifty thousand francssquandered in four months was agony to him. As for his wife, after allMademoiselle Saget's chattering she guessed what became of the money.The old maid having ventured to refer to the inheritance, Lisa hadtaken advantage of the opportunity to let the neighbourhood know thatFlorent was drawing his share, and spending it after his own fashion.It was on the following day that the story of the strips of redmaterial impelled Lisa to take definite actin. For a few moments sheremained struggling with herself whilst gazing at the depressedappearance of the shop. The sides of pork hung all around in a sullenfashion, and Mouton, seated beside a bowl of fat, displayed theruffled coat and dim eyes of a cat who no longer digests his meals inpeace. Thereupon Lisa called to Augustine and told her to attend tothe counter, and she herself went up to Florent's room.When she entered it, she received quite a shock. The bed, hitherto sospotless, was quite ensanguined by a bundle of long red scarvesdangling down to the floor. On the mantelpiece, between the giltcardboard boxes and the old pomatum-pots, were several red armlets andclusters of red cockades, looking like pools of blood. And hangingfrom every nail and peg against the faded grey wallpaper were piecesof bunting, square flags--yellow, blue, green, and black--in whichLisa recognised the distinguishing banners of the twenty sections. Thechildish simplicity of the room seemed quite scared by all thisrevolutionary decoration. The aspect of guileless stupidity which theshop girl had left behind her, the white innocence of the curtains andfurniture, now glared as with the reflection of a fire; while thephotograph of Auguste and Augustine looked white with terror. Lisawalked round the room, examining the flags, the armlets, and thescarves, without touching any of them, as though she feared that thedreadful things might burn her. She was reflecting that she had notbeen mistaken, that it was indeed on these and similar things thatFlorent's money had been spent. And to her this seemed an utterabomination, an incredibility which set her whole being surging withindignation. To think that her money, that money which had been sohonestly earned, was being squandered to organise and defray theexpenses of an insurrection!She stood there, gazing at the expanded blossoms of the pomegranate onthe balcony--blossoms which seemed to her like an additional supply ofcrimson cockades--and listening to the sharp notes of the chaffinch,which resembled the echo of a distant fusillade. And then it struckher that the insurrection might break out the next day, or perhapsthat very evening. She fancied she could see the banners streaming inthe air and the scarves advancing in line, while a sudden roll ofdrums broke on her ear. Then she hastily went downstairs again,without even glancing at the papers which were lying on the table. Shestopped on the first floor, went into her own room, and dressedherself.In this critical emergency Lisa arranged her hair with scrupulous careand perfect calmness. She was quite resolute; not a quiver ofhesitation disturbed her; but a sterner expression than usual had comeinto her eyes. As she fastened her black silk dress, straining thewaistband with all the strength of her fingers, she recalled AbbeRoustan's words; and she questioned herself, and her conscienceanswered that she was going to fulfil a duty. By the time she drew herbroidered shawl round her broad shoulders, she felt that she was aboutto perform a deed of high morality. She put on a pair of dark mauvegloves, secured a thick veil to her bonnet; and before leaving theroom she double-locked the secretaire, with a hopeful expression onher face which seemed to say that that much worried piece of furniturewould at last be able to sleep in peace again.Quenu was exhibiting his white paunch at the shop door when his wifecame down. He was surprised to see her going out in full dress at teno'clock in the morning. "Hallo! Where are you off to?" he asked.She pretended that she was going out with Madame Taboureau, and addedthat she would call at the Gaite Theatre to buy some tickets. Quenuhurried after her to tell her to secure some front seats, so that theymight be able to see well. Then, as he returned to the shop, Lisa madeher way to the cab-stand opposite St. Eustache, got into a cab, pulleddown the blinds, and told the driver to go to the Gaite Theatre. Shefelt 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 herway through the halls and corridors to the Prefecture of Police.She soon lost herself in a noisy crowd of police officers andgentlemen in long frock-coats, but at last gave a man half a franc toguide her to the Prefect's rooms. She found, however, that the Prefectonly received such persons as came with letters of audience; and shewas shown into a small apartment, furnished after the style of aboarding-house parlour. A fat, bald-headed official, dressed in blackfrom head to foot, received her there with sullen coldness. What washer business? he inquired. Thereupon she raised her veil, gave hername, and told her story, clearly and distinctly, without a pause. Thebald man listened with a weary air."You are this man's sister-in-law, are you not?" he inquired, when shehad 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 wholeaffair was a great nuisance."Do you know," he said impatiently, "that I have been pestered withthis business for more than a year past? Denunciation afterdenunciation has been sent to me, and I am being continually goadedand pressed to take action. You will understand that if I haven't doneso as yet, it is because I prefer to wait. We have good reasons forour conduct in the matter. Stay, now, here are the papers relating toit. 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 storyshe had just been relating. The commissaires of police at Havre,Rouen, and Vernon notified Florent's arrival within their respectivejurisdictions. Then came a report which announced that he had taken uphis residence with the Quenu-Gradelles. Next followed his appointmentat the markets, an account of his mode of life, the spending of hisevenings at Monsieur Lebigre's; not a detail was deficient. Lisa,quite astounded as she was, noticed that the reports were induplicate, so that they must have emanated from two different sources.And at last she came upon a pile of letters, anonymous letters ofevery shape, and in every description of handwriting. They brought heramazement to a climax. In one letter she recognised the villainoushand of Mademoiselle Saget, denouncing the people who met in thelittle sanctum at Lebigre's. On a large piece of greasy paper sheidentified the heavy pot-hooks of Madame Lecoeur; and there was also asheet of cream-laid note-paper, ornamented with a yellow pansy, andcovered with the scrawls of La Sarriette and Monsieur Jules. These twoletters warned the Government to beware of Gavard. Farther on Lisarecognised the coarse style of old Madame Mehudin, who in four pagesof almost indecipherable scribble repeated all the wild stories aboutFlorent that circulated in the markets. However, what startled hermore than anything else was the discovery of a bill-head of her ownestablishment, with the inscription Quenu-Gradelle, Pork Butcher, onits face, whilst on the back of it Auguste had penned a denunciationof the man whom he looked upon as an obstacle to his marriage.The official had acted upon a secret idea in placing these papersbefore her. "You don't recognise any of these handwritings, do you?"he asked."No," she stammered, rising from her seat, quite oppressed by what shehad just learned; and she hastily pulled down her veil again toconceal the blush of confusion which was rising to her cheeks. Hersilk dress rustled, and her dark gloves disappeared beneath her heavyshawl."You see, madame," said the bald man with a faint smile, "yourinformation comes a little late. But I promise you that your visitshall not be forgotten. And tell your husband not to stir. It ispossible 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, whohastily turned their faces away; but she was more disturbed than theywere. 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 outupon the Place Dauphine. When she reached the Quai de l'Horloge sheslackened her steps, and felt refreshed by the cool breeze blowingfrom the Seine.She now had a keen perception of the utter uselessness of what she haddone. Her husband was in no danger whatever; and this thought, whilstrelieving her, left her a somewhat remorseful feeling. She wasexasperated with Auguste and the women who had put her in such aridiculous position. She walked on yet more slowly, watching the Seineas it flowed past. Barges, black with coal-dust, were floating downthe greenish water; and all along the bank anglers were casting theirlines. After all, it was not she who had betrayed Florent. Thisreflection suddenly occurred to her and astonished her. Would she havebeen guilty of a wicked action, then, if she had been his betrayer?She was quite perplexed; surprised at the possibility of herconscience having deceived her. Those anonymous letters seemedextremely base. She herself had gone openly to the authorities, givenher name, and saved innocent people from being compromised. Then atthe sudden thought of old Gradelle's fortune she again examinedherself, and felt ready to throw the money into the river if such acourse should be necessary to remove the blight which had fallen onthe pork shop. No, she was not avaricious, she was sure she wasn't; itwas no thought of money that had prompted her in what she had justdone. As she crossed the Pont au Change she grew quite calm again,recovering all her superb equanimity. On the whole, it was muchbetter, she felt, that others should have anticipated her at thePrefecture. She would not have to deceive Quenu, and she would sleepwith 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 exactposition the seats occupied in the dress-circle. Lisa had imaginedthat the police would make a descent upon the house immediately afterreceiving her information, and her proposal to go to the theatre hadonly been a wily scheme for getting Quenu out of the way while theofficers were arresting Florent. She had contemplated taking him foran outing in the afternoon--one of those little jaunts which theyoccasionally allowed themselves. They would then drive in an open cabto the Bois de Boulogne, dine at a restaurant, and amuse themselvesfor an hour or two at some cafe concern. But there was no need to goout now, she thought; so she spent the rest of the day behind hercounter, 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 ofseverity; "the streets of Paris are not at all healthy places."In the evening they went to the Gaite to see the performance of "LaGrace de Dieu." Quenu, in a frock-coat and drab gloves, with his haircarefully pomatumed and combed, was occupied most of the time inhunting for the names of the performers in the programme. Lisa lookedsuperb in her low dress as she rested her hands in their tight-fittingwhite gloves on the crimson velvet balustrade. They were both of themdeeply affected by the misfortunes of Marie. The commander, theythought, was certainly a desperate villain; while Pierrot made themlaugh from the first moment of his appearance on the stage. But atlast Madame Quenu cried. The departure of the child, the prayer in themaiden's chamber, the return of the poor mad creature, moistened hereyes with gentle tears, which she brushed away with her handkerchief.However, the pleasure which the evening afforded her turned into afeeling of triumph when she caught sight of La Normande and her mothersitting in the upper gallery. She thereupon puffed herself out morethan ever, sent Quenu off to the refreshment bar for a box ofcaramels, and began to play with her fan, a mother-of-pearl fan,elaborately gilt. The fish-girl was quite crushed; and bent her headdown to listen to her mother, who was whispering to her. When theperformance was over and beautiful Lisa and the beautiful Norman metin the vestibule they exchanged a vague smile.Florent had dined early at Monsieur Lebigre's that day. He wasexpecting Logre, who had promised to introduce to him a retiredsergeant, a capable man, with whom they were to discuss the plan ofattack upon the Palais Bourbon and the Hotel de Ville. The nightclosed in, and the fine rain, which had begun to fall in theafternoon, shrouded the vast markets in a leaden gloom. They loomeddarkly against the copper-tinted sky, while wisps of murky cloudskimmed by almost on a level with the roofs, looking as though theywere caught and torn by the points of the lightning-conductors.Florent felt depressed by the sight of the muddy streets, and thestreaming yellowish rain which seemed to sweep the twilight away andextinguish it in the mire. He watched the crowds of people who hadtaken refuge on the foot-pavements of the covered ways, the umbrellasflitting past in the downpour, and the cabs that dashed with increasedclatter and speed along the wellnigh deserted roads. Presently therewas a rift in the clouds; and a red glow arose in the west. Then awhole army of street-sweepers came into sight at the end of the RueMontmartre, driving a lake of liquid mud before them with theirbrooms.Logre did not turn up with the sergeant; Gavard had gone to dine withsome friends at Batignolles, and so Florent was reduced to spendingthe evening alone with Robine. He had all the talking to himself, andended by feeling very low-spirited. His companion merely wagged hisbeard, and stretched out his hand every quarter of an hour to raisehis glass of beer to his lips. At last Florent grew so bored that hewent off to bed. Robine, however, though left to himself, stilllingered there, contemplating his glass with an expression of deepthought. Rose and the waiter, who had hoped to shut up early, as thecoterie of politicians was absent, had to wait a long half hour beforehe at last made up his mind to leave.When Florent got to his room, he felt afraid to go to bed. He wassuffering from one of those nervous attacks which sometimes plungedhim into horrible nightmares until dawn. On the previous day he hadbeen to Clamart to attend the funeral of Monsieur Verlaque, who haddied after terrible sufferings; and he still felt sad at therecollection of the narrow coffin which he had seen lowered into theearth. 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 notpaid for, and of the cost of the funeral, which she was quite at aloss about, as she had not a copper in the place, for the druggist, onhearing of her husband's death on the previous day, had insisted uponhis bill being paid. So Florent had been obliged to advance the moneyfor the coffin and other funeral expenses, and had even given thegratuities to the mutes. Just as he was going away, Madame Verlaquelooked at him with such a heartbroken expression that he left hertwenty francs.And now Monsieur Verlaque's death worried him very much. It affectedhis situation in the markets. He might lose his berth, or perhaps beformally appointed inspector. In either case he foresaw vexatiouscomplications which might arouse the suspicions of the police. Hewould have been delighted if the insurrection could have broken outthe very next day, so that he might at once have tossed the laced capof his inspectorship into the streets. With his mind full of harassingthoughts like these, he stepped out upon the balcony, as thoughsoliciting of the warm night some whiff of air to cool his feveredbrow. The rain had laid the wind, and a stormy heat still reignedbeneath the deep blue, cloudless heavens. The markets, washed by thedownpour, spread out below him, similar in hue to the sky, and, likethe sky, studded with the yellow stars of their gas lamps.Leaning on the iron balustrade, Florent recollected that sooner orlater he would certainly be punished for having accepted theinspectorship. It seemed to lie like a stain on his life. He hadbecome an official of the Prefecture, forswearing himself, serving theEmpire in spite of all the oaths he had taken in his exile. Hisanxiety to please Lisa, the charitable purpose to which he had devotedthe salary he received, the just and scrupulous manner in which he hadalways struggled to carry out his duties, no longer seemed to himvalid excuses for his base abandonment of principle. If he hadsuffered in the midst of all that sleek fatness, he had deserved tosuffer. And before him arose a vision of the evil year which he hadjust spent, his persecution by the fish-wives, the sickeningsensations he had felt on close, damp days, the continuous indigestionwhich had afflicted his delicate stomach, and the latent hostilitywhich was gathering strength against him. All these things he nowaccepted as chastisement. That dull rumbling of hostility and spite,the cause of which he could not divine, must forebode some comingcatastrophe before whose approach he already stooped, with the shameof one who knows there is a transgression that he must expiate. Thenhe felt furious with himself as he thought of the popular rising hewas preparing; and reflected that he was no longer unsullied enough toachieve success.In how many dreams he had indulged in that lofty little room, with hiseyes wandering over the spreading roofs of the market pavilions! Theyusually appeared to him like grey seas that spoke to him of far-offcountries. On moonless nights they would darken and turn into stagnantlakes of black and pestilential water. But on bright nights theybecame shimmering fountains of light, the moonbeams streaming overboth tiers like water, gliding along the huge plates of zinc, andflowing over the edges of the vast superposed basins. Then frostyweather seemed to turn these roofs into rigid ice, like the Norwegianbays over which skaters skim; while the warm June nights lulled theminto deep sleep. One December night, on opening his window, he hadseen them white with snow, so lustrously white that they lighted upthe coppery sky. Unsullied by a single footstep, they then stretchedout like the lonely plains of the Far North, where never a sledgeintrudes. Their silence was beautiful, their soft peacefulnesssuggestive 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 bitterpain. The snow calmed him; the vast sheet of whiteness seemed to himlike a veil of purity thrown over the filth of the markets. Thebright, clear nights, the shimmering moonbeams, carried him away intothe fairy-land of story-books. It was only the dark, black nights, theburning nights of June, when he beheld, as it were, a miasmatic marsh,the stagnant water of a dead and accursed sea, that filled him withgloom and grief; and then ever the same dreadful visions haunted hisbrain.The markets were always there. He could never open the window and resthis elbows on the balustrade without having them before him, fillingthe horizon. He left the pavilions in the evening only to behold theirendless roofs as he went to bed. They shut him off from the rest ofParis, ceaselessly intruded their huge bulk upon him, entered intoevery hour of his life. That night again horrible fancies came to him,fancies aggravated by the vague forebodings of evil which distressedhim. The rain of the afternoon had filled the markets with malodorousdampness, and as they wallowed there in the centre of the city, likesome drunken man lying, after his last bottle, under the table, theycast all their foul breath into his face. He seemed to see a thickvapour rising up from each pavilion. In the distance the meat andtripe markets reeked with the sickening steam of blood; nearer in, thevegetable and fruit pavilions diffused the odour of pungent cabbages,rotten apples, and decaying leaves; the butter and cheese exhaled apoisonous stench; from the fish market came a sharp, fresh gust; whilefrom the ventilator in the tower of the poultry pavilion just belowhim, he could see a warm steam issuing, a fetid current rising incoils like the sooty smoke from a factory chimney. And all theseexhalations coalesced above the roofs, drifted towards theneighbouring houses, and spread themselves out in a heavy cloud whichstretched over the whole of Paris. It was as though the markets werebursting within their tight belt of iron, were beating the slumber ofthe gorged city with the stertorous fumes of their midnightindigestion.However, on the footway down below Florent presently heard a sound ofvoices, the laughter of happy folks. Then the door of the passage wasclosed noisily. It was Quenu and Lisa coming home from the theatre.Stupefied and intoxicated, as it were, by the atmosphere he wasbreathing, Florent thereupon left the balcony, his nerves stillpainfully excited by the thought of the tempest which he could feelgathering round his head. The source of his misery was yonder, inthose markets, heated by the day's excesses. He closed the window withviolence, and left them wallowing in the darkness, naked andperspiring beneath the stars.