The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [150]
“It's all nonsense, none of this is real,” said Lisa to push her into saying more.
“Not real, my goodness! In the evening, if you walk down rue Pirouette, you can hear the most horrible shouting. They're not bothered by anything. Don't forget how they tried to involve your husband. And what about the cartridges I see them making from my window, are they nonsense too? I'm only telling you for your own good.”
“Of course. And I thank you. But so much of this is completely fabricated.”
“Oh no, it's not. Unfortunately. Everyone in the neighborhood is talking about it. They say that if the police find out, a lot of people will be in trouble. Including Monsieur Gavard.”
But Lisa shrugged as though to say that Monsieur Gavard was an old fool and would get what he deserved.
“I mentioned Monsieur Gavard, but I could have just as easily named some of the others. Your brother-in-law, for example,” the foxy old mademoiselle continued. “It seems that he's the leader, your brother-in-law. It's very awkward for you. I feel bad for you, because if the police come here, it's possible they would also take Monsieur Quenu. Two brothers are like two fingers on the same hand.”
Beautiful Lisa contradicted her, but she had turned pale. Mademoiselle Saget had managed to hit on her deepest fears. From that moment on she brought in nothing but tales of innocent people who had been thrown into prison for harboring criminals. In the evenings when she went to collect her black-currant liqueur from the wine merchant, she filed away material for the following morning. But Rose was not very forthcoming. The aged mademoiselle had to count on her own eyes and ears. She noticed Monsieur Lebigre's affection for Florent, the attention he gave that was so little rewarded by the small amount of money the young man spent there. It was especially surprising to Mademoiselle Saget because she knew about the two of them and the Beautiful Norman.
“You would have thought,” she said to herself, “that he had been beak-feeding him from birth. I wonder who he wants to sell him to?”
One evening when she was in the shop, she saw Logre throw himself on a bench in the small room and talk about his exhausting travels through the suburbs. She stole a quick look at his feet and saw that his shoes did not have a flake of dust. She smiled discreetly, pinching her lips, and left with her black-currant liqueur.
Then, as usual, she sat at her window and put her information together. The window was on an upper floor and had a commanding view of the neighborhood, which gave her endless pleasure. She would sit there at all hours of the day, as though in an observatory from which she could clock all the movements in the neighborhood. She knew all the windows across from her, on both the right and the left, knew them down to the smallest pieces of furniture. She could have listed the inventory without omitting a single detail, the habits of the tenants, who was a good or a bad housekeeper, how they washed up, what they ate for dinner, even who their visitors were. She also had a side view of Les Halles so that no one could cross rue Rambuteau without mademoiselle seeing her. She knew without error where the woman was coming from, where she was going, what she carried in her basket, her whole history, who her husband was, her habits of hygiene, how many children she had, and how much money. There's Madame Loret. She has given her son a fine education. That's Madame Hutin, a sad little woman whose husband neglects her. And that's Mademoiselle Cécile, the butcher's daughter, who could not find a husband because of her unappealing temperament. She could have continued in this vein for days, stringing together empty phrases, being incredibly amused by uninteresting facts dissected into small pieces.
But once eight in the evening came, she only had eyes for the frosted glass window that revealed the shadows of the people drinking in the little room. She had