The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [127]
Every night Florent returned to this plan, as though it were the script for a play that somehow relieved his frazzled nerves. It was so far only scribbling and doodles on scraps of paper, clearly showing the floundering of the author, at once scientific and childish. After Lisa read through the notes, only half understanding them, she sat there shaking, not daring to touch the papers, as though they might explode in her hands like a loaded weapon.
One final note shocked her more than all the rest. It was a half sheet of paper on which he had drawn the different insignias to distinguish the leaders from the lieutenants, and alongside she found the banners for various companies. Captions written in pencil specified the colors for each of the twenty sectors. The insignia of the leaders were red sashes, the lieutenants were to wear armbands, also red. This made Lisa able to visualize the riot. She could see the men, decked out in red, charging past her charcuterie, firing bullets into the mirrors and the marble, stealing sausages and andouilles from her window. These treacherous plots of her brother-in-law were an attack on her, an assault on her happiness.
She closed the drawer and looked around the room, telling herself that she was the one who had given this man a home, that he slept on her sheets and used her furniture. She was particularly irritated by the thought that he had concealed his infernal, abominable scheme in this little white wood table, an innocent, tattered table that she had used at Uncle Gradelle's house before her marriage.
She stood there, trying to decide what to do. First of all, it would be useless to discuss this with Quenu. It occurred to her to confront Florent, but she was afraid that he would just commit the crime further away, where he could still endanger them, just to be vindictive. She calmed down and decided that the best course of action would be to keep an eye on him, and at the first sign of trouble she would return to these papers. In any event, she already had enough evidence to send him back to prison.
Back at the shop, she found Augustine in a state. Little Pauline had been missing for at least a half hour. When Lisa questioned her, she could only say, “I don't know, Madame. She was here just a minute ago on the sidewalk, playing with a little boy. I was watching them. Then I sliced some ham for a gentleman, and they were gone.”
“I'll bet it was Muche!” shouted Lisa. “That horrible child!”
And it was, in fact, Muche. Pauline, who was excited because she had just gotten a new dress with blue stripes, had wanted to show it off. She had stood very rigid in front of the shop, behaving perfectly, her face pulled into the earnest expression of a six-year-old lady who does not want to get dirty. Her short, starched dress spread out like a ballerina's skirts, revealing her smooth white stockings and shiny little blue boots. The dress had a low-cut apron with embroidered edging around the shoulders, out of which came her chubby, sweet, bare pink arms. She wore turquoise studs in her ears, a small gold cross around her neck, and a blue velvet ribbon in her well-coiffed hair, and she combined the plump, fleshy good looks of her mother with the fashionable style of a new doll.
Muche had spotted her from the market. He was releasing small dead fish into the stream, which the water washed away. He followed them along the pavement, insisting that they were swimming. But the sight of Pauline, so clean and pretty, made him cross the street, hatless, with a frayed shirt, his pants drooping down, and looking entirely like a seven-year-old street waif. His mother had forbidden him ever to play with “that fat beast stuffed by her parents until she practically explodes.” He circled for an instant, then came nearer, wanting to touch the pretty blue-striped dress. Pauline, flattered at first, put on a prudish face and stepped backward, saying in an angry tone,