The Belly of Paris

by Emile Zola

  “Not real, my goodness! In the evening, if you walk down rue Pirouette, you can hear the most horrible shouting. They're not bothered by anything. Don't forget how they tried to involve your husband. And what about the cartridges I see them making from my window, are they nonsense too? I'm only telling you for your own good.”

  “Of course. And I thank you. But so much of this is completely fabricated.”

  “Oh no, it's not. Unfortunately. Everyone in the neighborhood is talking about it. They say that if the police find out, a lot of people will be in trouble. Including Monsieur Gavard.”

  But Lisa shrugged as though to say that Monsieur Gavard was an old fool and would get what he deserved.

  “I mentioned Monsieur Gavard, but I could have just as easily named some of the others. Your brother-in-law, for example,” the foxy old mademoiselle continued. “It seems that he's the leader, your brother-in-law. It's very awkward for you. I feel bad for you, because if the police come here, it's possible they would also take Monsieur Quenu. Two brothers are like two fingers on the same hand.”

  Beautiful Lisa contradicted her, but she had turned pale. Mademoiselle Saget had managed to hit on her deepest fears. From that moment on she brought in nothing but tales of innocent people who had been thrown into prison for harboring criminals. In the evenings when she went to collect her black-currant liqueur from the wine merchant, she filed away material for the following morning. But Rose was not very forthcoming. The aged mademoiselle had to count on her own eyes and ears. She noticed Monsieur Lebigre's affection for Florent, the attention he gave that was so little rewarded by the small amount of money the young man spent there. It was especially surprising to Mademoiselle Saget because she knew about the two of them and the Beautiful Norman.

  “You would have thought,” she said to herself, “that he had been beak-feeding him from birth. I wonder who he wants to sell him to?”

  One evening when she was in the shop, she saw Logre throw himself on a bench in the small room and talk about his exhausting travels through the suburbs. She stole a quick look at his feet and saw that his shoes did not have a flake of dust. She smiled discreetly, pinching her lips, and left with her black-currant liqueur.

  Then, as usual, she sat at her window and put her information together. The window was on an upper floor and had a commanding view of the neighborhood, which gave her endless pleasure. She would sit there at all hours of the day, as though in an observatory from which she could clock all the movements in the neighborhood. She knew all the windows across from her, on both the right and the left, knew them down to the smallest pieces of furniture. She could have listed the inventory without omitting a single detail, the habits of the tenants, who was a good or a bad housekeeper, how they washed up, what they ate for dinner, even who their visitors were. She also had a side view of Les Halles so that no one could cross rue Rambuteau without mademoiselle seeing her. She knew without error where the woman was coming from, where she was going, what she carried in her basket, her whole history, who her husband was, her habits of hygiene, how many children she had, and how much money. There's Madame Loret. She has given her son a fine education. That's Madame Hutin, a sad little woman whose husband neglects her. And that's Mademoiselle Cécile, the butcher's daughter, who could not find a husband because of her unappealing temperament. She could have continued in this vein for days, stringing together empty phrases, being incredibly amused by uninteresting facts dissected into small pieces.

  But once eight in the evening came, she only had eyes for the frosted glass window that revealed the shadows of the people drinking in the little room. She had figured out that Charvet and Clémence had left, because she could no longer see their silhouettes on the milky glass. Nothing ever happened in there that she did not eventually figure out from abrupt revelations garnered from the actions of the arms and heads silently projected onto the glass. She was a very good guesser, interpreting the elongated noses, parted fingers, wide-open mouths, and defiant shoulders, following the conspiracy, step by step, with such accuracy that she could report daily on where everything stood. One evening she saw evidence of the conspiracy's brutal climax. She made out the shadow of Gavard's pistol, the enormous profile of a revolver, its long barrel, black against the pale window. The pistol appeared and disappeared several times. It was the weapon she had been talking about at Madame Quenu's. Then, on a different evening, she was no longer able to follow, but she imagined them making cartridges as she saw endless lengths of fabric being measured out. She went in the following morning using the pretext of wanting to borrow a candle from Rose, and out of the corner of her eye, on the table in the little room, she caught sight of a pile of red cloth that seemed very frightening.

  Her report for the following day was of the utmost gravity. “I don't want to frighten you, Madame Quenu,” she said. “But things are going too far. I'm afraid, I tell you. You cannot repeat what I am about to tell you for anything in the world. If they knew, they would slash my throat.”

  Then, once the charcutière swore not to expose her, she told her of the red cloths. “I just don't know what it could be. There was a huge pile of the things. It looked like blood-soaked rags. Logre— you know, the hunchback—had one of them over his shoulder. He looked like an executioner. One thing is sure, it's some kind of underhanded plot.”

  Lisa didn't answer. She was gazing downward and seemed lost in thought while she was fiddling with a fork handle and arranging petit salé on platters. Mademoiselle Saget continued softly, “If I were you, I wouldn't be too calm. I'd want to know. Why don't you go upstairs and have a look in your brother-in-law's room?”

  This gave Lisa a slight shiver. She dropped her fork and examined the old woman with a worried eye, believing she had grasped what Mademoiselle Saget was doing.

  Mademoiselle Saget continued, “After all, it's fair. Your brother-in-law might go too far if you let him. We were talking about you yesterday at Madame Taboureau's. She really is a good friend to you. She said that you were much too nice and if it were up to her, she would have put an end to it a long time ago.”

  “Madame Taboureau said that?” murmured Lisa absentmindedly.

  “Yes, she did, and Madame Taboureau is a woman to be listened to. Try to find out what that red material is. Then you'll tell me, won't you?”

  But Lisa was no longer listening. She looked at the Petit Gervais cheeses and the escargots on the other side of the string of sausages in the display. She seemed lost in some internal struggle that caused two small wrinkles to show on her silent face. Meanwhile the old woman had stuck her nose closer to the dishes on the counter. As though talking to herself, she muttered, “Well, look at that. There's some sliced sausages. They must be getting dry left a long time all cut up like that. Oh, and look, that boudin has burst open. Apparently it was stabbed with a fork. Someone ought to take it out of there. It's messing up the plate.”

  Still distracted, Lisa handed her the sliced sausage and the broken blood sausage. “For you, if you'd like.”

  It all vanished into the bag. Mademoiselle had become so used to gathering gifts that she didn't even bother with thanks anymore. Every morning she carried away the leftover scraps of the charcuterie. Then off she went to La Sarriette and Madame Lecœur to get her dessert and talk to them about Gavard.

  Once she was alone, Lisa sat down on the bench behind the counter, as though she believed that being comfortable would help her to make a better decision. She had been very worried for the past week. One evening Florent had asked Quenu for five hundred francs. He had asked for it very casually, like a man who had an open account. Quenu had told him to consult his wife, and this very much displeased Florent. He shook a little as he asked Beautiful Lisa. But Lisa, without asking what the money was for, climbed the stairs to her room and gave him the five hundred francs. All she said was that she had jotted down a note on the inheritance account. Three days later he took another thousand francs.

  “This act of his doesn
't work, pretending to be so indifferent,” Lisa said to Quenu one night when they were going to bed. “You see, I was right to keep accounts. Wait! I haven't marked down today's thousand francs.”

  She sat at her secretary and studied the pages of figures. Then she added, “I was right to leave space. I'm going to mark the withdrawals in the margins. Now he's going to waste it all, bit by bit. I've been expecting this for a long time.”

  Quenu said nothing but went to bed feeling depressed. Every time his wife opened her secretary, the lid gave a sad little squeak that tore at his soul. He even promised to have a talk with his brother so that the Méhudins wouldn't ruin him. But he didn't dare. Within ten days Florent had asked for another fifteen hundred francs.

  One evening Logre had said that things would move much faster if they could find some money. The next day he was thrilled to find that the words he had so carelessly tossed into the air had landed in his hands in the form of a little pile of gold, which he pocketed with a snicker, his hump heaving with joy Since then, there was an endless stream of needs: a certain section needed to rent a space, another had to support some disgruntled patriots, and then there were weapons to buy, as well as ammunition, rental charges, and police expenses.

  Florent would give everything he had. He remembered his inheritance and the Beautiful Norman's advice, and he went to the source, Lisa's desk, restrained only by a mute fear of her disapproving face. It seemed to him that he could never have a chance to spend his money on a more righteous cause. Logre, brimming with enthusiasm, took to donning shocking pink ties and patent leather boots, the sight of which angered Lacaille.

  “That makes three thousand francs in seven days,” Lisa told Quenu. “What do you say about that? It's a pretty thing, isn't it? If he continues on this path, it will take him four months at the most to spend the whole fifty thousand francs. That's it for old Gradelle, who spent forty years building up his savings.”

  “That's your problem!” shouted Quenu. “You didn't have to tell him about the inheritance.”

  But she looked at him sternly and said, “It's his money. He can take it all. It's not giving him the money that's bothering me. It's just knowing how badly he uses it. I've been telling you about this for long enough. It's time to end it.”

  “Do what you like, I won't try to stop you,” Quenu declared, though his natural greed was still nagging him.

  Though he was very fond of his brother, the idea of fifty thousand francs being eaten up in four months was unbearable to him. After listening to the driveling of Mademoiselle Saget, Lisa could guess where the money was going. When the old woman ventured to mention the inheritance, Lisa took the opportunity to have it circulated in the neighborhood that Florent was taking his share and spending it as he saw fit. It was the next day after hearing the story of the red rags, that she made up her mind. She stayed in the shop only a few minutes, still feeling conflicted, glancing around at the sad appearance of the charcuterie, pigs sulking on their spikes. Mouton, sitting by a jar of meat drippings, had a ruffled coat and the mournful eyes of a cat no longer able to enjoy a peaceful life. Then she called Augustine to look after the counter and went upstairs to Florent's room.

  When she entered, she was jolted by what she saw. The childlike innocence of the bed had been defiled by a bundle of red scarves drooping down all the way to the floor. On the mantel, between the gilded boxes and the old jars of cream, there were a few red armbands and scattered rosettes like splattered blood. The wall was adorned with flags hung from all the hooks on the faded gray wallpaper—squares of yellow, blue, green, and black. Lisa recognized them as the flags of the twenty sections. The sweet virginity of the room seemed defiled by this revolutionary decor. The dumb innocence left by the shopgirl, the wholesome feel of the curtains and the furniture, seemed caught in the reflection of a fire, and the photograph of Auguste and Augustine looked pale with horror.

  Lisa examined everything—the flags, the armbands, the scarves—not touching anything, as though afraid that the horrible rags would burn her. She thought that she had been right, that this was what he had spent the money on. To her this was the abomination, the unbelievable deed that shook her to her being. Her money, money that had been come by honestly, was being used to organize and pay for a riot. She stood there, looking at the open flower of the pomegranate on the terrace resembling the bloodred rosettes, listening to the finch singing, sounding to her like the far-off echo of gunfire. She was seized by the idea that the insurrection was set to begin the next day. The banners fluttered, the scarves marched out, a sudden burst of drums pounded her ears. She quickly descended the stairs, not even stopping to read the papers spread out on the table. She stopped on the second floor and got dressed.

  At this fateful hour, Beautiful Lisa was carefully doing her hair with a steady hand. Her mind was made up, her face did not quiver, and she showed just a little more severity around the eyes. As she fastened her black silk dress, stretching the cloth with all the strength in her large fists, she recalled the words of Abbé Roustan. She had interrogated herself, and her conscience told her that what she was about to do was her duty.

  Throwing the heavy shawl around her broad shoulders, she felt that she was about to carry out an act of great morality. She pulled on dark purple gloves and attached a thick veil to her hat. Before leaving she double-locked her desk, shooting it a look of reassurance, as though telling that troubled piece of furniture that it would soon be able to sleep in peace.

  Quenu was at the doorway of the charcuterie, displaying his big white belly. He was surprised to see her leaving, and so dressed up at ten in the morning.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked.

  She fabricated a project that she was supposedly doing with Madame Taboureau. She added that she would pass by the Théâtre de la Gaîté to reserve some seats. Quenu ran after her, reminding her that he preferred center seats to see better. Then he went back to the store and she made her way to the taxi stand alongside Saint Eustache, got into a cab,13 and, lowering the blinds, told the driver to go to the Théâtre de la Gaîté.

  She was afraid of being followed. Once she had bought her tickets, she directed the cab to the Palais de Justice. Once at the gate she paid the driver and sent him off. Slowly she made her way through the rooms and hallways to the Prefecture of Police. Finding herself lost amid the rush of sergents de ville and men in heavy overcoats, she gave a man ten sous to take her to the office of the prefect. But to get to the prefect, she first had to have a letter of introduction. She was shown into a narrow room, decorated like a luxury hotel, where a fat, bald man, dressed all in black, received her with surly coldness. Now she could speak.

  Lifting her veil, she gave her name and told the whole story in a matter-of-fact tone, barely pausing to breathe. The bald man listened without interrupting, looking bored. When she finished he simply asked, “You're the sister-in-law of this man, are you not?”

  “Yes,” Lisa answered. “We're respectable people. I don't want my husband involved.”

  He shrugged his shoulders as if to say that the whole matter bored him. Then with impatience he added, “You see, I've been badgered about this business for more than a year now. Denunciation after denunciation, people are always pushing me, telling me to hurry. You have to understand that if I don't take action, it's because I would rather wait. We have our reasons. Here's the file. I can show it to you.”

  He put a thick pile of papers in a blue folder in front of her. They were like miscellaneous disconnected chapters from the story she had told. The commissioners of police in Le Havre, Rouen, and Vernon had all announced Florent's arrival. Then came a report confirming his installation at the Quenu-Gradelles' and after that his appointment in Les Halles, his life, his evenings at Monsieur Lebigre's—no details were missing. Astounded, Lisa noted that there were duplicate reports, which must have come from two sources. At the end she found a pile of letters, anonymous letters in different shapes and formats and every kind of handwr
iting. She recognized a thin, spindly penmanship, the hand of Mademoiselle Saget, denouncing the group in the glass-paneled room. She saw a large sheet of greasy paper stained with Madame Lecœur's big paddles and a glossy sheet, decorated with a yellow pansy, covered with the scratchings of La Sarriette and Monsieur Jules—both letters advising the government to keep an eye on Gavard. She also recognized the abusive style of Mère Méhudin, repeating in four almost indecipherable pages all the stories about Florent that circulated in Les Halles. But she was especially struck by one on her own letterhead, Charcuterie Quenu-Gradelle, on which Auguste had sold out the man he considered to be an obstacle to his wedding. The policeman had his own secret motive for letting her see the file.

  “Do you recognize any of these handwritings?” he asked her.

  She stammered, “No.” She had stood up. What she had just learned had taken her breath away her veil now lowered to conceal the confusion that was showing on her cheeks. Her silk dress rustled. Her dark gloves vanished beneath her shawl.

  The bald man smiled faintly as he said, “You see, Madame Quenu, your information has come a bit late. But we shall make a note of what you have done, I promise you. Most important, tell your husband not to do anything. Certain circumstances may arise …”

  He did not finish what he was saying but nodded an abrupt good-bye, getting halfway out of his chair. It was a dismissal. She left immediately. Outside the room she saw Logre and Monsieur Lebigre, who quickly turned away. But she was more upset than they were. She crossed the rooms and passed through the hallways as though she had become part of the police world where, at this moment, she was certain that everything was seen and known. Finally she exited by place Dauphine and walked slowly along the quai de l'Horloge, revived by a breeze from the Seine.

  What most upset her was the complete pointlessness of what she had done. Her husband was not in any danger. This was a relief, though it gave her a twinge of remorse. She was angry with Auguste and the women who had managed to put her in this ridiculous position. Slowing her pace, she watched the flow of the river—the barges black with coal dust sliding downstream through the green water while along the bank fishermen were casting their lines.