The Belly of Paris

by Emile Zola

  For a quarter of an hour Florent walked in silence, already growing sad, telling himself that he was leaving his health behind him. The route to Courbevoie was whitened by dust. They both enjoyed hiking the long distance, their thick shoes ringing on the hard earth. With every step little clouds of dust rose behind them. The rays came at an angle across the avenue, stretching out their two shadows, distorting them so that their heads stretched to the other side and hopped along the opposite sidewalk.

  Claude, swinging his arms loosely, took long, regular strides and enjoyed watching their shadows, happily lost in their sway, which he further exaggerated by putting his shoulders into the rhythm.

  Then, as though suddenly waking from a dream, he asked, “Do you know ‘The Battle of the Fat and the Thin’?”

  Florent, caught by surprise, answered no. Claude excitedly praised this series of prints, pointing out favorite parts: the Fat, bursting from their enormity, prepare the evening glut, while the Thin, doubled over from hunger, look in from the street, stick figures filled with envy; then the Fat, seated at the table, cheeks overflowing, drive away a Thin who had the audacity to approach humbly, looking like a bowling pin among bowling balls.

  Claude saw in these drawings the entire drama of mankind, and he took to classifying all people into the Thin and the Fat, two opposing groups, one devouring the other to grow plump and jolly. “You can bet,” he said, “that Cain was a Fat and Abel a Thin. And since that first killing, there have always been hungry Fats sucking the blood out of scanty eaters. It is a constant preying of the stronger on the weaker, each swallowing his neighbor and then finding himself swallowed in turn … So you see, my friend, watch out for the Fat.”

  He fell silent for a moment, gazing at their two shadows as the setting sun stretched them ever longer. Then he murmured, “You and I, we belong to the Thin, you see. Tell me if people with flat stomachs like ours take up much sunlight.”

  Florent looked at the two shadows and smiled. But Claude became angry. “If you think it's funny, you're wrong. I suffer a lot because I'm a Thin. If I were a Fat, I could paint when I felt like it, I would have a beautiful studio, I could sell my paintings for their weight in gold. Instead, I'm a Thin. I pour my soul out to produce things that only make the Fats shrug their shoulders. I'm sure I'll end up dying of it, my skin sticking to my bones and so flat that they could bury me between the covers of a book. And you! You're a Thin, a perfect example, the King of Thins. Remember your argument with the fish sellers? It was spectacular, all those giant bosoms flying at your spindly chest. They were acting out of instinct, hunting the Thin the way a cat chases a mouse. You see, Fats have such a distaste for Thins, they have to drive them out of their sight by either biting or kicking. That's why, if I were you, I'd be careful. The Quenus are Fats, and the Méhudins too. The fact is you are completely surrounded by Fats. That would worry me.”

  “And what about Gavard and Mademoiselle Saget and your friend Marjolin?” Florent asked, still smiling.

  “If you want, I can classify everyone we know for you,” answered Claude. “I've been keeping a file on them in my studio for a long time with notations on who belongs to which group. It's a whole chapter of natural history. Gavard is the kind of Fat who pretends to be a Thin. Not at all a rare species. Mademoiselle Saget and Madame Lecœur are a variety of Thin that should be feared— desperate, capable of doing anything to fatten themselves. My friends Marjolin, little Cadine, and La Sarriette are three Fats, still innocent with nothing more than the lovable hunger of youth. I've noticed that the Fat, if they're still young enough, can be charming creatures. Monsieur Lebigre, he's a Fat, isn't he? Then there are your political friends, who are mostly Thins—Charvet, Clémence, Logre, Lacaille. But I make an exception for that fat slob Alexandre and for the enormous Robine, who has caused me a lot of trouble.”

  The painter continued in this vein from the pont de Neuilly to the Arc de Triomphe. He went back to some people to complete their portraits with a few characteristic brushstrokes. Logre was a Thin who carried his belly between his shoulders. Beautiful Lisa was all stomach and the Beautiful Norman, all bosom. Mademoiselle Saget had surely missed an opportunity sometime in her life to become fat, for she loathed the Fats, while still disdaining the Thins. As for Gavard, he was compromising his role as a Fat and would end up skinny as a bug.

  “And Madame François?” asked Florent.

  Claude was embarrassed by the question. He struggled for an answer and finally stuttered, “Madame François. Madame François. I don't know. I never had the urge to classify her. She's a fine woman, that's all. She's not a Fat, and she's not a Thin.”

  They both laughed. They were now in front of the Arc de Triomphe. The sun, on the crest of the hills of Suresnes, was so low on the horizon that their shadows darkened the whiteness high up on the monument, even higher than the group of statues, like two black marks sketched in charcoal. This made Claude even more amused, and he waved his arms and bent his body. Then, as he started to walk again, he asked, “Did you notice? Just as the sun set, our two heads flew up to the sky.”

  But Florent stopped laughing. Paris started to overtake him again, Paris that had cost him so many tears in Guiana and still frightened him. He lowered his head as he returned to that nightmare of mountains of food, but he carried within him the sweet and sad memories of the day in thyme-scented fresh air.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The following day around four o'clock Lisa went to Saint Eustache. She had adorned herself in black silk with a woven shawl for crossing the square. The Beautiful Norman, from her place in the fish market, followed her with her eyes, right up to the church doors. She was choking with indignation.

  “Oh, fine!” she said malevolently. “Now the fatso is working on the priests … It'll calm her down some to dip her rear end in holy water.”

  But she was mistaken. Lisa was not in the least religious. She did not practice religion and often said that she tried to be honest in everything she did and that was enough. But she didn't like it if someone spoke badly of religion in front of her. She often cut off Gavard, who loved telling stories of priests and nuns, the scandals of the clergy. She found it inappropriate. Everyone had a right to their own beliefs and should be respected for them. Besides, most of the priests were good people.

  She knew Abbé Roustan at Saint Eustache, a distinguished man and good confidant on whose friendship she could rely. She would end up stating that religion was absolutely necessary for most people. She thought of them as a police force that helped to maintain order, without which there could be no government. When Gavard went too far and said that the clergy should all be thrown out and their shops closed, she shrugged and said, “How would that help you? In a month's time they'd be massacring people on the streets, and then they'd have to invent another god. That is what happened in '93.1 I'm not much of a churchgoer, as you know, but I do believe that you have to have clergy because you have to.”

  So when Lisa entered the church she showed deference. She had bought an attractive prayer book, which she never opened, to take with her to weddings and funerals. She stood up and knelt at the right places and was careful to have the correct bearing. For her it was a kind of official posture that respectable people, shopkeepers and businesspeople, ought to show toward religion.

  On this day the handsome charcuterie woman walked into Saint Eustache, letting the double door, which was covered in faded green cloth worn thin by the hands of the faithful, close gently behind her. She dipped her fingers in holy water and crossed herself properly. Then, with muffled steps, she went to the Chapel of Saint Agnès, where two women were kneeling with their faces in their hands and waiting while the blue skirts of a third were spilling over from the confessional. A little annoyed, she went up to a verger in a black skullcap who was dragging his feet.

  “Is Abbé Roustan hearing confession today?” she asked.

  He answered that Abbé Roustan had only two more penitents and it wouldn't be a long w
ait. If she would just take a seat, her turn would come soon. She thanked him and did not admit that she had not come to say confession. She decided to wait and delicately paced up and down the aisle. She looked down the bare nave as far as the west door, high and austere between the walls painted in vivid colors. She raised her chin a bit, finding the high altar too unadorned. This cold stone grandeur was not to her taste. She preferred the gilding and gaudy colors of the side chapels. Running along the rue du Jour side, these chapels lay in shadow, lit only by dusty windows, whereas on the Les Halles side, sunset lit the stained-glass windows with gentle colors, especially greens and yellows, with such clarity that they reminded her of the liqueur bottles in front of the mirror at Monsieur Lebigre's.

  She went back to her side, which seemed to be warmed by glowing embers of light, looking briefly at the shrines, the ornaments on the altar, the murals on the wall, which were illuminated by a prism of light. The church was empty, quivering in the silence of its vaulting. The skirts of a few women appeared as dark splotches against the yellow chairs. The sound of whispering escaped from the closed confessional. As she passed the chapel again, she could see that the blue skirts were still at Abbé Roustan's feet.

  “I could take care of it in ten seconds,” she thought, proud of her virtue.

  She walked to the end of the church. Behind the high altar, shaded by a double row of pillars, the Chapel of the Virgin was silent and stuffy. Only the saints' robes could be made out in the dark windows, with large folds of red and purple burning like the flames of spiritual love and silent adoration in the dark recesses. It was a place of mystery, a glimpse into Paradise, where two candles shone in the air like stars and four metal candelabra hanging from the vaulting in the ceiling by angels, recalling the gold censers swung before Mary, could barely be made out. Between the pillars she could see that the women were still there, bent low over the chair backs, consumed in voluptuous shadows.

  Lisa stood there watching calmly. She was not in the least agitated. She did think it was a mistake not to light the candelabra. It would be much more cheerful with lights. There was something almost indecent about all this darkness. It gave a feeling to the alcoves that she did not find suitable. The candles burning beside her on a stand warmed her face. An elderly woman was using a knife to scratch off the wax that had fallen like very pale teardrops. And in this soft trembling of religion, this silent melting setting of love, drifting through the chapel she heard the distant rumble of carriages turning into rue Montmartre on the other side of the red-and-purple saints in the stained glass. From a distance the relentless hubbub of Les Halles was continuing.

  She was about to leave the chapel when she saw the younger Méhudin girl come in—Claire, the freshwater fish vendor. She lit a candle on the rack and then walked behind a pillar, where she knelt on the stone floor. With her pale face and her disheveled blond hair, she looked like a corpse. And, thinking she was out of sight, she wept warm tears, a woman surrendering to her feelings, praying with such passion that she was tilting as though bent by a powerful wind.

  Beautiful Lisa was very surprised because the Méhudins were not very religious. Claire usually talked about priests and religion in a way that would make people's hair stand on end.

  “What's come over her?” Lisa wondered as she walked back into the Saint Agnès chapel. “She's probably poisoned someone, the slut.”

  Finally Abbé Roustan emerged from the confessional. He was a handsome, fortyish man with a smiling demeanor. When he saw Madame Quenu he took her hand, calling her “dear lady,” and led her to the sacristy, where he took off his surplice and told her that he was at her disposal. They went back into the church, the abbé bareheaded in his cassock. Lisa was stiffly wrapped in her shawl. Walking by the chapels along the rue du Jour side, they spoke in low voices. Through the windows the sun was dying, the church growing darker, the footsteps of the last worshippers barely making a noise on the stones as they left.

  Lisa explained her problem to him. They never discussed religion with each other. She didn't say confession but simply asked his advice when she was troubled, turning to him as a man of wisdom and discretion whom she much preferred, she liked to say, to shady businessmen who have the scent of prison about them. He had shown an inexhaustible patience. He would check regulations for her, suggest good investments, tactfully address moral issues, recommend tradesmen, always ready with a solution no matter how diverse and complicated the proposition—and, of course, without letting God enter into it or trying to gain anything for himself or the church. All he asked for was a smile and a thank-you. He seemed pleased to help this lovely Madame Quenu, about whom his maid often spoke with great respect, saying she was much admired in the neighborhood.

  This time the topic was particularly sensitive. It was a question of what would be the decent way to deal with her brother-in-law and whether she had the right to spy on him to protect her husband, her daughter, and herself, and also how far she should go in case of imminent danger. She did not state this directly, but posed the questions artfully so that the abbé could respond without speaking of specific people. And sure enough, it was his conclusion that a person had the right, even the obligation, to prevent wrongdoing by whatever means necessary and to make sure that goodness triumphed.

  “That's my opinion, dear lady,” he said in conclusion. “The discussion of methods is serious. The method is the great trap that ensnares common virtue. But I know what sound moral judgment you have. Weigh carefully your every act, and if there is no protest from within you, go forth boldly. Good souls have that wonderful gift of marking everything they touch with their virtue.”

  He continued with a change of tone, “Please send Monsieur Quenu my best regards. Next time I pass by I will drop in to give my sweet little Pauline a kiss. Good-bye, dear lady, I am here whenever you need me.”

  He returned to the sacristy. Lisa was curious to see on her way out if Claire was still praying. But Claire had returned to her carp and eels, and only the litter of overturned chairs left by kneeling women in their holy zeal remained in the Chapel of the Virgin, where night was now falling. When Beautiful Lisa crossed the square again, the Norman, who had been waiting for her, spotted her by the curve of her skirts.

  “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “She was there more than an hour! When the priests clear out all of her sins, the choirboys have to form lines to toss it all out in buckets.”

  The next morning Lisa went straight to Florent's room. She settled in with complete peace of mind, certain that she would not be disturbed, and besides, if Florent were to return, she could lie and say that she was checking on the linen. She had seen him down at the fish market, and he was very busy. Sitting at the small table, she pulled out the drawer, placed it on her lap, and started emptying it very carefully so that she could put all the bundles of papers back exactly the same way she had found them. First of all she found the opening chapters of a book on Cayenne, then plans for all kinds of projects—his idea for the conversion of municipal taxes into a tax on business transactions and his reform of the Les Halles administration, among other ideas.

  These pages of writing in tiny letters, which she carefully read, bored her terribly. She was about to put them back in the drawer, convinced that Florent had hidden the proof of his diabolical designs somewhere else, and had already decided to search the wool in the mattress, when she found in an envelope a portrait of the Norman. The photograph was a bit dark. The Norman posed standing up with her right arm resting on a truncated pillar, wearing all her jewelry a new silk dress that puffed out, and an insolent smile.

  Lisa forgot all about her brother-in-law, her fears, the reason she was there. She was lost in the fascination of one woman staring at another without inhibition and with no concern for being caught. She had never had an opportunity to study her rival from this close up. She examined her hair, nose, and mouth; she held the photograph at a distance, then brought it closer. Then with pursed lips she read on the back, writ
ten in large, distasteful letters, “From Louise, to her friend Florent.” She was shocked. It was as good as a confession, and she was tempted to keep the photograph as a weapon against her enemy. But she put it back in the envelope, slowly, thinking that keeping it would be wrong, and besides, she could always come back and get it later.

  Then it was back to sifting through the papers, laying them one on top of the other. It occurred to her to look in the back where he had shoved Augustine's needles and thread. And there between the prayer book and The Guide to Dreams she found what she was looking for: incriminating notes hidden under a layer of gray paper. The idea of an uprising, a movement to overthrow the empire, an armed insurrection, had been proposed one evening at Monsieur Lebigre's and had ripened in Florent's impassioned soul. He had soon come to think of it as a duty, a mission. At last he had found the reason for his escape from Guiana and his return to Paris. Thinking it his calling to avenge his thinness against this city that had grown fat while those who defended justice starved in exile, he was a self-appointed avenger, and he dreamed of rising up, right in Les Halles, and crushing this regime of drunks and gluttons. Into his sensitive nature, this idea had easily driven its nail. Everything grew out of all proportion. The strangest of stories were based on nothing. He imagined that immediately upon his arrival, Les Halles had grabbed him to sap him of his strength and poison him with its rankness.

  It was Lisa who wanted to hypnotize him, and he would avoid her for days at a time, as though she were an acid that would, if he was exposed, eat away his will. These spasms of irrational panic, the outbursts of a man in revolt, always resulted in a surge of tenderness, the need to love, which he would hide like an embarrassed child.

  Especially at night Florent's brain was consumed with such noxious fumes. Depressed by his day's work, his nerves tense, unable to sleep out of fear, he would stay late at Monsieur Lebigre's or the Méhudins', and when he got home, he still couldn't sleep, so he wrote, preparing the illustrious revolution. Slowly he drew up a plan. He divided Paris into twenty sectors, one per arrondissement,2 each with its own leader, a sort of general who would command twenty lieutenants in charge of twenty companies of followers. Every week these leaders would hold a staff meeting, always in a different sector, and, to ensure even greater secrecy, the followers would know only the lieutenant who commanded them, who in turn would deal only with the head of his sector. It would also be advisable that the companies be led to believe that they were discussing a hypothetical mission, which would have the effect of throwing off the police.