The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [139]
When these tales reached the Beautiful Norman, she shrugged and laughed. “That's silly,” she said. “You don't know him. The dear man is as gentle as a lamb.”
She had just harshly spurned the hand of Monsieur Lebigre, who had finally managed to propose. For about two months he had been presenting the Méhudins with a bottle of liquor every Sunday. It was Rose who brought the bottle over along with her submissive look. She was always entrusted with a compliment for the Norman, some profession of friendship that she faithfully recited without appearing in the least bit embarrassed by this strange errand.
Now that Monsieur Lebigre was a rejected suitor, he was eager to show that he was not angry and still held out hope, so the following Sunday he sent Rose with two bottles of champagne and a gigantic bouquet of flowers. Rose dutifully presented it to the beautiful fishmonger, reciting in one breath this composition from the wine merchant:
“Monsieur Lebigre invites you to drink this to his health, which has been much shaken by you-know-what. He hopes that someday you will cure him, for to him you remain as beautiful and wonderful as these flowers.”
The Norman was amused by the servant's enraptured expression. She kissed her and talked to her about her monsieur, who, it was said, was very hard to please. She asked her if she liked him, whether he wore suspenders, and if he snored at night. Then she insisted that she take back the champagne and the flowers. “Tell Monsieur Lebigre not to send anything more. You're too nice, my dear. It annoys me to see you so sweet with your bottles under your arms. You ought to scratch his face, your monsieur.”
“Oh, no! He's waiting for me,” was Rose's answer. “You're wrong to make him suffer. He's a fine, handsome man.”
The Norman was seduced by Florent's gentle nature. She still sat in on his lessons with Muche under the evening lamp, dreaming that one day she would marry this fellow who was so good with children. She would keep working her fish stall and he would become an important figure in the administration of Les Halles. But this dream was obstructed by the respect with which the teacher treated her. He greeted her with a bow, keeping his distance, when what she wanted was to laugh with him and love the way she knew to love. His silent resistance was the reason she constantly played with the idea of marriage. She imagined how she would enjoy the self-esteem it would give her. Florent, however, was ever more aloof. Perhaps he would have given in to his passions had he not been so attached to little Muche. But in addition, the idea of being involved with someone in that house, so close to the mother and the sister, was not appealing.
It was with great surprise that the Norman heard the stories about the man she loved. Never had he uttered a word about such things. She prodded him about it. These incredible adventures added yet another spice to her affection. So he spent whole evenings allowing stories to be coaxed out of him about the things that had happened. She shivered at the thought that the police might find him, but he reassured her, saying that it was ancient history and of little interest to the police anymore.
One evening he told her about the woman in boulevard Montmartre, the one in the pink bonnet who had bled onto his hands from a wound in her breast. He still thought of her often. His bereaved memory had regularly surfaced on moonlit nights in Guiana. The memory had returned with him to France, and he had crazily half expected to see her walking down the sidewalk in bright sunlight despite the fact that he could still remember the feel of her dead weight on his legs. But suppose she had managed to get up? Often, walking down the street, he felt a jab in his heart, thinking he had just seen her. With his heart pounding, he would follow a pink bonnet and a shawl over one shoulder. When he closed his