The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [131]
“Aha! You see, your mama did say something.”
“I had Mouton in bed with me one night, I sleep with Mouton. And she told Papa, ‘Your brother only escaped from the penal colony to drag us all back there.’”
Mademoiselle Saget let out a slight squeal. She stood up shaking from head to foot. A light beam had at last shown through the shadows of her mind. She took Pauline's hand again and hustled her off to the charcuterie without saying a word, her lips squeezed into a secretive smile, her eyes shining with intense happiness. At the corner of rue Pirouette, Muche, who had been prancing alongside, enjoying the sight of the little girl running in her muddy stockings, wisely vanished.
Lisa was in a state of extreme anxiety. When she saw her daughter coming, looking like a dishrag she was so perplexed that she spun her around to look at her from every side and didn't even want to hit her.
“It was that Muche,” said Mademoiselle Saget with a malevolent tone. “I've brought her back to you. I found them under a tree in the square. I don't know what they were up to. You'd better take her home and look her over. That slut's son is capable of anything.”
Lisa could find nothing to say. She could not decide where to grab her child, she was so disgusted by her muddy little boots, dirty stockings, torn skirts, and smudged face and hands. Blue velvet, little ear studs, crucifix, all were buried under a layer of dirt. But what really drove Lisa over the top was the pockets full of soil. She bent down and emptied them without regard for the pink-and-white tile floor. Still she was speechless and dragged Pauline away saying only, “Come on, you mess.”
Mademoiselle Saget, who was thrilled by the scene, crossed rue Rambuteau with a light step with her head hidden deep in her black hat. In fact, her little feet barely touched the ground. She was carried by her delight as though caressed by a breeze. At last she had found out. After almost a year of aching to find out the truth, here she was, all of a sudden, entirely in possession of Florent. It was more than she had hoped for, like a cure for a disease, because she felt that she could have slowly burned herself out because of this man and for a long time held off death only with the strength of her curiosity. Now the whole Les Halles neighborhood belonged to her. There was no longer a missing piece. She could tell the story, shop by shop, on every street in the area. She uttered little sighs of pleasure as she entered the fruit pavilion.
“Well, Mademoiselle Saget,” shouted La Sarriette from her fruit stand, “what's happened to you, laughing to yourself? Have you won the big pot in the lottery?”
“No, no. Oh, my child, if you only knew.”
La Sarriette looked irresistible, with the wildness of a beautiful woman amid all her fruit. The locks of her curly hair fell over her forehead like wild grass. Her bare arms and bare neck, every bare and pink part of her that she was showing, had the freshness of cherries and peaches. Just for the fun of it, she had hung cherries from her ears, black cherries that bounced against her cheeks when she leaned forward with earthy laughter. What was amusing her was that she was eating red currants in a way that was covering her from nose to chin in red juice. Her mouth was lipstick red from the red currant juice, as though she had been painted and perfumed with some cosmetic. A smell of plums came from her skirts, and her loosely tied scarf had the scent of strawberries.
And mountains of fruit surrounded her in the narrow shop. Behind her were shelves of melons: cantaloupes, with warty little bumps; maraîchers, with their skin like gray lace; and culs de singe,6 with their smooth bare humps. The beautiful fruits were on display, delicately arranged with the roundness of their cheeks, half hidden in the baskets like faces of beautiful children, partly concealed by leaves. The peaches were especially beautiful, peaches from Montreuil with clear, soft skin like northern girls' and yellow sunburned peaches from the Midi, tanned like Provençal women.