The Belly of Paris

by Emile Zola

  “Meanwhile, they kept the inheritance,” Madame Lecœur commented.

  “Oh, no, my dear. He got his share.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “Oh, you can tell,” the elderly woman answered after a short hesitation and without offering any further evidence. “In fact, he took more than his share. The Quenus have lost several thousand francs. With a man of vices, money simply disappears. Maybe you hadn't heard. There was another woman.”

  “That doesn't surprise me,” La Sarriette interjected. “Those skinny men have a lot of pride.”

  “Yes, and not all that young, this woman. When a man wants it, he wants it—he'd grab them from anywhere. Madame Verlaque, the wife of the former fish inspector. You know her, that yellow-faced woman …”

  But the other two would not accept that. “It's not possible. Madame Verlaque was in terrible shape.”

  But Mademoiselle Saget had taken off. “I'm telling you. Are you calling me a liar? There's proof. Letters have been found from this woman, a whole bundle of letters in which she asked him for money, ten and twenty francs at a time. It's pretty obvious, that's what killed her husband.”

  La Sarriette and Madame Lecœur were convinced. But they were growing impatient. They had been standing out on the street waiting for more than an hour. Their stalls might have been robbed in the meantime, they said. So Mademoiselle Saget found yet another story to hold them there. It was impossible for Florent to escape. He was going to come back, and it would be something to see him arrested. And she gave the most minute details of the plan, so that the butter vendor and the fruit vendor continued to examine the building, looking it up and down, trying to peer through every chink and crack in the hopes of seeing the caps of the sergents de ville. But the house was calm and silent, bathing in the morning sunlight.

  “You'd never guess that it's full of police,” said Madame Lecœur.

  “They're all up there in the attic,” said the older woman. “They left the window just as they found it. But wait, isn't that one of them hidden behind the pomegranate on the balcony?”

  They craned their necks and saw nothing.

  “No, just a shadow,” said La Sarriette. “Even the little curtains don't stir. They all must be sitting down up there and not moving.”

  At that very moment she saw Gavard walk out of the fish market looking preoccupied with something. They glanced at one another, their eyes gleaming, and not a word passed between them. They had huddled close together, standing very erect in their full skirts. The poultryman crossed over to them.

  “Have you seen Florent around?” he asked.

  They didn't answer.

  “I need to talk to him right away,” Gavard continued. “He isn't in the fish market. He must have gone back home. But then you would have seen him.”

  The three women were looking a little pale. They were still staring at one another, looking very serious, with a quiver in the corner of their lips. Since her brother-in-law still hesitated, Madame Lecœur snapped, “We've only been here five minutes. He probably came by before that.”

  “Then I'll go up and take a chance climbing five flights,” Gavard answered with a laugh.

  La Sarriette started to move to stop him, but her aunt grabbed her arm and whispered in her ear, “Let him go, you big idiot. It's what he deserves. That'll teach him to step on us.”

  In a lower voice Mademoiselle Saget muttered, “He won't be telling people I eat bad meat anymore.”

  Then the women had nothing to add. La Sarriette blushed bright red, the other two remained yellow. They now turned their heads, embarrassed to look at one another. They didn't know what to do with their hands, so they hid them under their aprons. Intuitively their eyes wandered to the house, following Gavard through the stone walls, watching him climb five flights of stairs. When they estimated he had arrived in the bedroom, they began to shoot hard sideways glances at one another. La Sarriette laughed nervously. They thought they saw the curtain move for an instant, which they imagined had been caused by some kind of struggle.

  But the outside of the house kept its look of warm tranquillity. A quarter of an hour passed in complete silence, total peace, during which time mounting emotions gripped them in the throat. They were nearly overcome when finally a man running out of the side alley went to find a cab. Five minutes later Gavard came down, followed by two policemen. Lisa, who had gone outside, had seen the cab coming and hurried back into the shop.

  Gavard had turned white. Upstairs he had been searched and his pistol and box of cartridges had been found. To judge by the inspector's rude treatment of him and the reaction he had shown upon hearing his name, Gavard was lost. This was a terrible turn of events that he had never considered. The Tuileries would never pardon him. His legs had gone limp as though the executioner were awaiting him. But when he reached the street, he found enough strength to walk upright. He even gave a last smile, thinking that Les Halles would see him going to his death bravely.

  Meanwhile, La Sarriette and Madame Lecœur ran to him. They asked what was happening, Madame Lecœur sobbing and the niece emotionally hugging her uncle. He held her tightly and slipped her a key, whispering in her ear, “Take everything and burn the papers.”

  Like a man climbing the scaffold, he stepped into the cab. As soon as the coach disappeared around the corner of rue Pierre-Lescot, Madame Lecœur saw La Sarriette trying to hide the key in her pocket.

  “It's no use, my dear,” she said between clenched teeth. “I saw him put it in your hand. I swear to God, I will go to the prison and tell him everything if you're not nice.”

  “But my dear aunt, I'm always nice,” La Sarriette answered with an awkward smile.

  “Let's go to his place right away. No point in letting the police get their paws in his cupboards.”

  Mademoiselle Saget had been listening wild-eyed, and now followed, running behind them with the biggest strides her little legs could manage. She couldn't care less about waiting for Florent now. From rue Rambuteau to rue de la Cossonnerie, she was very humble and full of little suggestions. She offered to speak to the concierge, Madame Léonce.

  “We'll see. We'll see,” Madame Lecœur repeated curtly.

  It turned out she needed to negotiate. Madame Léonce did not want to let these women go upstairs to her tenant's apartment. She stared at them severely, shocked by La Sarriette's badly tied shawl. But when the elderly mademoiselle whispered a few words and showed her the key, she made a decision. Feeling exasperated, once they were upstairs, she would let them into the rooms only one at a time, as though she were being forced to show thieves where she kept her money.

  “Go on, take it all,” she said, flopping down on a chair.

  La Sarriette tried the key on every wardrobe. The suspicious Madame Lecœur followed close behind—so close that La Sarriette complained, “You're in my way, Aunt, at least give me a little arm room.”

  Finally a wardrobe was opened, the one in front of the window between the fireplace and the bed. The four women heaved sighs. On the middle shelf were about ten thousand francs in gold coins, methodically stacked in little piles. Gavard, whose real holdings had wisely been placed in the hands of a broker, held this amount in reserve for “the day the dogs are unleashed.” As he used to say with great solemnity, he was “ready to support the revolution.” He had sold a few securities and took particular pleasure in fondling these ten thousand francs every evening, contemplating them and finding in them something bold and revolutionary. At night he would dream of a battle in his wardrobe: he could hear gunshots and the sound of paving stones being torn up and rolled down the street, voices of confusion and of victory, and it was his money that paid for it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He got up and went down. On the third-floor landing he asked to go back as he had forgotten something. The police, n
ot wanting him to go back up, pushed him forward. But he begged to be allowed back. He even offered them the small amount of money he had. Finally two of them agreed to go back up with him but threatened to club him on the head if he tried any tricks. They took their revolvers from their holsters. On reaching the room he went straight to the finch's cage, took the bird, kissed it between its wings, and released it from the window. He watched it perch in the sunlight on the roof of the fish market, seeming dazed. Then it took flight again, disappearing above Les Halles, headed in the direction of square des Innocents. He remained an instant longer, staring at the sky, the open, free sky. He thought of the pigeons cooing in the Tuileries and the pigeons in the storage cellar whose throats had been slit by Marjolin. Then everything in him crumbled, and he followed the police, who put their weapons back in the holsters and shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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