The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [130]
In the midst of the unbearable shrieking from the children and the constant rumbling of traffic from behind rue Saint-Denis, the women babbled without stopping long enough to take a breath, with tales of storekeepers, grocers, bakers, butchers—a complete listing of the district—tales soured and warped by a lack of credit and the hungry longings of the poor. It was among these needy people that she learned of the horrors that slipped out of sleazy boardinghouses and emerged from the dark caves of the con cierges, the muck and garbage that piqued her curiosity and appetite like hot pepper on the tongue.
Facing Les Halles, the square was in front of her, with the facades of three buildings broken up by windows into which she tried to penetrate with her stare. She seemed to stretch taller and glide along each story, right up to the round flaring eyes of the attic windows. She gawked at the curtains. She could develop an entire drama from a head that appeared between two shutters. Over time she had come to know all the stories of the tenants of every house just by sitting outside, watching. Restaurant Baratte was especially interesting to her, with its wine shop and gilded fretwork awning forming a terrace that overflowed with greenery from a few pots of flowers. It was a narrow four-story house daubed and speckled with color. She liked the pale blue base with yellow trim, the fluted pillar with a shell on top. It all looked like a cardboard temple on the facade of a dilapidated old building, topped off by colored tin edging along the roof. Behind the red-striped flexible shutters she could imagine pleasant little lunches and fine dinners. She even convinced herself that this was where Florent and Gavard went to carouse with those two Méhudin floozies and imagined the abominations that took place during the dessert course.
Meanwhile Pauline cried even more loudly as Mademoiselle Saget took her hand. The elderly woman was about to lead her away through the gate to the square when she suddenly had a different idea. She sat her down at the end of a bench and tried to get her to stop crying.
“Come on, Pauline, stop this crying or the police will come get you. I will take you home. You know me, don't you? I'm a good friend, aren't I? Now, come on. Let me see a little smile.”
But the tears were choking her, and she wanted to go. Calmly Mademoiselle Saget let her cry, waiting for her to finish. The poor girl was shivering. Her skirt and stockings were soaked. Her entire face was becoming muddy as she wiped away her tears with dirty fists. After the girl calmed down, the old woman said to her in a syrupy tone, “You have a good mama, don't you? She loves you very much?”
“Yes,” said Pauline, her heart still heavy.
“And Father isn't wicked either. He doesn't beat you, does he? What do they talk about at night when you're going to sleep?”
“Oh, I don't know. I'm warm in my bed.”
“Do they talk about your cousin Florent?”
“I don't know.”
Mademoiselle Saget adopted a stern bearing and pretended to get up as though she would walk away. “You're a liar. You know you shouldn't lie. If you lie to me, I'll leave you here and Muche will come back and pinch you.”
Muche, who had been hanging around the bench, interrupted at this point and said in a clear, masculine voice, “Aw, she's too stupid to know anything. But I know that my good friend Florent looked pretty worked up when Mama smiled and said he could kiss her if he wanted to.”
Pauline, afraid of being abandoned, had started crying again.
“Be quiet, just shut up, you little brat,” Mademoiselle Saget cursed, starting to shake the little girl. “I'm not going away. I'll buy you some barley sugar,5 hmm? A little barley sugar? … So you don't like your cousin Florent, do you?”
“No. Mama says that he's not