The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [113]
He had his budget all mapped out. With the money that Madame Verlaque left him from his salary and the thirty francs for lessons from the Beautiful Norman, he calculated that he could spend eighteen sous on his lunch and twenty-six sous on his dinner. That was sufficent. Finally, one morning, he dared to make his move. He used the excuse of the new classes he was teaching, saying they made it impossible to be at the charcuterie at mealtimes. He blushed while telling the clumsy lie. Then he began making excuses.
“It's not what I want, but the child is only available at those times. Oh, it's not a problem. I'll grab a bite somewhere. I'll come back later to say good night.”
Beautiful Lisa remained ice cold. That made Florent even more uneasy. She had not wanted to send him away, preferring to wait until he gave up, so that she would not feel as though she had done anything wrong. Now he was leaving and it was good riddance, so she didn't want to do anything that might make him change his mind. But Quenu, a little upset, blurted out, “Don't worry, eat outside if you want. You know we wouldn't send you away, for God's sake. We can dine together on Sundays sometimes.”
Florent left quickly and with a heavy heart. After he was gone Beautiful Lisa did not dare to reproach her husband for the Sunday invitation. The victory was still hers, and, breathing more easily in the light oak dining room, she was suddenly overcome with a desire to burn sugar in the room to drive off the odor she thought she could smell of perverse skinniness.
But she remained on the defensive. By the end of the week her thoughts were even more disturbing. Never seeing Florent except occasionally in the evening, she imagined terrible goings-on. Was there a sinister machine of some kind being built upstairs in Augustine's bedroom or maybe some kind of signals being sent from the balcony to a network of roadblocks throughout the neighborhood? Gavard had become broody and would respond only with nods of his head, and he left Marjolin to run his shop for days at a time.
Beautiful Lisa resolved to find out what was going on. She knew that Florent had a day off and planned to spend it with Claude Lantier going to Nanterre to see Madame François. Since he would be leaving in the morning and not returning until the evening it occurred to Lisa that it was an opportunity to invite Gavard to dinner, where he would babble freely with food in front of his belly. But she did not run into the poultry man anywhere all morning. She went back to the market in the afternoon.
Marjolin was by himself in the shop. He snoozed for hours, recuperating from his long walks. His usual position was at the back of the shop with his legs up on another chair and his head leaning against a buffet. In the wintertime he was dazzled by the displays of game. Deer with their heads hanging down, their front legs broken and twisted around their necks, larks strung in garlands around the shop like necklaces worn by savages, large rust-colored partridges, bronze-gray waterfowl, grouse that arrived from Russia packed in straw and charcoal, and pheasants magnificent in their scarlet hoods, their throats of green satin and enameled gold mantles with their flaming tails flaring out like evening gowns. All these feathers made him think of Cadine and nights spent together in the soft depths of baskets.
On this particular day Beautiful Lisa found Marjolin sitting amid the poultry. It was a damp afternoon, but little puffs of air passed down the narrow lanes of the market. She had to bend down to catch sight of him because he was spread out in the back of the shop in a display of raw meat. Fat geese hung from spiked bars above him. The hooks plunged