The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [105]
They also crept in the shadows of the cellars, knowing all the darkest corners, able to squeeze through the most carefully sealed gates. A favorite game was to penetrate through to the tracks of the underground railroad that was supposed to connect the cellars of the different pavilions one day. Already connections had been built and were ready to hook up. Cadine and Marjolin had found a loose plank of wood by the railway that they could move to slip in and out.
Once inside, they were cut off from the world, though they could still hear the feet of Paris walking around on the streets overhead. The lines stretched into avenues of deserted galleries, spotted with daylight through the steel grates and lit by gas in the darker parts. They wandered around as though it were their own private castle, certain that no one would disturb them, content in the rumbling silence, dank light, and subterranean privacy, where their chatty childish love took on the suggestion of melodrama.
From the neighboring cellars, fenced off by timbers, came all kinds of smells—the dull scent of vegetables, the pungent smell of fish, the overpowering rankness of cheese, the warm breath of poultry.
Between kisses they were inhaling nourishment, in the dark alcove where they passed hours lying across the rails. At other times, when the night was beautiful, the dawn clear, they would climb over the rooftops by means of ladders in the turrets at the corner of each pavilion. At the top they had a view of sprawling meadows of zinc, with pathways and open spaces, a vast expanse of flowing countryside ruled by them. They toured the square roofs of the market, following the outstretched roofs of the covered streets, climbing up and down the slopes, losing themselves in endless journeys. Then, bored with the foothills, they climbed even higher, ascending the iron ladders where Cadine's skirts fluttered like flags.
Then they ran along the second tier of roofs beneath the open heavens with nothing above them but the stars. All kinds of sounds rose up from the market, clattering, rumbling, and the distant roar of a storm in the night. At that height the morning breeze swept away the foul smells, the fetid breath of the awakening market. They would kiss each other along the gutters like sparrows pecking. The first rays of the sun set them aglow. Cadine laughed to be so high in the air, and her neck reflected iridescent tints like a dove's while Marjolin bent down to look at the streets still murky and dark, his hands clasping the zinc edge like the feet of a pigeon. When they came back to earth again, exuberant from their trip in the open air, they pretended they were returning from a trip to the country.
They met Claude Lantier in the tripe market. They had been going there every day, drawn by the taste of blood, the cruelty of street urchins titillated by the sight of severed heads. A rust-colored stream ran through the pavilion. They dipped the tips of their shoes in it and made dams with leaves, creating little bloody puddles. They were fascinated by the arrival of cartloads of offal, which stank even after thorough washing. They watched the unloading of bundles of sheeps' feet, which were piled on the ground like dirty paving stones; huge stiff tongues still bleeding where they had been ripped from the throat; and beef hearts, like huge church bells, unmounted and silent. But what most made them shudder with pleasure was the big baskets dripping blood, filled with sheeps' heads, their greasy horns and black muzzles and strips of wooly skin left hanging from bleeding flesh. They looked at these bloody hampers and imagined guillotines lopping off countless heads and throwing them into baskets.
They followed the baskets to the bottom of the cellar, watching them glide along the rails laid over the steps and listening