The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [152]
“This act of his doesn't work, pretending to be so indifferent,” Lisa said to Quenu one night when they were going to bed. “You see, I was right to keep accounts. Wait! I haven't marked down today's thousand francs.”
She sat at her secretary and studied the pages of figures. Then she added, “I was right to leave space. I'm going to mark the withdrawals in the margins. Now he's going to waste it all, bit by bit. I've been expecting this for a long time.”
Quenu said nothing but went to bed feeling depressed. Every time his wife opened her secretary, the lid gave a sad little squeak that tore at his soul. He even promised to have a talk with his brother so that the Méhudins wouldn't ruin him. But he didn't dare. Within ten days Florent had asked for another fifteen hundred francs.
One evening Logre had said that things would move much faster if they could find some money. The next day he was thrilled to find that the words he had so carelessly tossed into the air had landed in his hands in the form of a little pile of gold, which he pocketed with a snicker, his hump heaving with joy Since then, there was an endless stream of needs: a certain section needed to rent a space, another had to support some disgruntled patriots, and then there were weapons to buy, as well as ammunition, rental charges, and police expenses.
Florent would give everything he had. He remembered his inheritance and the Beautiful Norman's advice, and he went to the source, Lisa's desk, restrained only by a mute fear of her disapproving face. It seemed to him that he could never have a chance to spend his money on a more righteous cause. Logre, brimming with enthusiasm, took to donning shocking pink ties and patent leather boots, the sight of which angered Lacaille.
“That makes three thousand francs in seven days,” Lisa told Quenu. “What do you say about that? It's a pretty thing, isn't it? If he continues on this path, it will take him four months at the most to spend the whole fifty thousand francs. That's it for old Gradelle, who spent forty years building up his savings.”
“That's your problem!” shouted Quenu. “You didn't have to tell him about the inheritance.”
But she looked at him sternly and said, “It's his money. He can take it all. It's not giving him the money that's bothering me. It's just knowing how badly he uses it. I've been telling you about this for long enough. It's time to end it.”
“Do what you like, I won't try to stop you,” Quenu declared, though his natural greed was still nagging him.
Though he was very fond of his brother, the idea of fifty thousand francs being eaten up in four months was unbearable to him. After listening to the driveling of Mademoiselle Saget, Lisa could guess where the money was going. When the old woman ventured to mention the inheritance, Lisa took the opportunity to have it circulated in the neighborhood that Florent was taking his share and spending it as he saw fit. It was the next day after hearing the story of the red rags, that she made up her mind. She stayed in the shop only a few minutes, still feeling conflicted, glancing around at the sad appearance of the charcuterie, pigs sulking on their spikes. Mouton, sitting by a jar of meat drippings, had a ruffled coat and the mournful eyes of a cat no longer able to enjoy a peaceful life. Then she called Augustine to look after the counter and went upstairs to Florent's room.
When she entered, she was jolted by what she saw. The childlike innocence of the bed had been defiled by a bundle of red scarves drooping down all the way to the