The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [124]
“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 wait. 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