The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [153]
Lisa examined everything—the flags, the armbands, the scarves—not touching anything, as though afraid that the horrible rags would burn her. She thought that she had been right, that this was what he had spent the money on. To her this was the abomination, the unbelievable deed that shook her to her being. Her money, money that had been come by honestly, was being used to organize and pay for a riot. She stood there, looking at the open flower of the pomegranate on the terrace resembling the bloodred rosettes, listening to the finch singing, sounding to her like the far-off echo of gunfire. She was seized by the idea that the insurrection was set to begin the next day. The banners fluttered, the scarves marched out, a sudden burst of drums pounded her ears. She quickly descended the stairs, not even stopping to read the papers spread out on the table. She stopped on the second floor and got dressed.
At this fateful hour, Beautiful Lisa was carefully doing her hair with a steady hand. Her mind was made up, her face did not quiver, and she showed just a little more severity around the eyes. As she fastened her black silk dress, stretching the cloth with all the strength in her large fists, she recalled the words of Abbé Roustan. She had interrogated herself, and her conscience told her that what she was about to do was her duty.
Throwing the heavy shawl around her broad shoulders, she felt that she was about to carry out an act of great morality. She pulled on dark purple gloves and attached a thick veil to her hat. Before leaving she double-locked her desk, shooting it a look of reassurance, as though telling that troubled piece of furniture that it would soon be able to sleep in peace.
Quenu was at the doorway of the charcuterie, displaying his big white belly. He was surprised to see her leaving, and so dressed up at ten in the morning.
“Where are you off to?” he asked.
She fabricated a project that she was supposedly doing with Madame Taboureau. She added that she would pass by the Théâtre de la Gaîté to reserve some seats. Quenu ran after her, reminding her that he preferred center seats to see better. Then he went back to the store and she made her way to the taxi stand alongside Saint Eustache, got into a cab,13 and, lowering the blinds, told the driver to go to the Théâtre de la Gaîté.
She was afraid of being followed. Once she had bought her tickets, she directed the cab to the Palais de Justice. Once at the gate she paid the driver and sent him off. Slowly she made her way through the rooms and hallways to the Prefecture of Police. Finding herself lost amid the rush of sergents de ville and men in heavy overcoats, she gave a man ten sous to take her to the office of the prefect. But to get to the prefect, she first had to have a letter of introduction. She was shown into a narrow room, decorated like a luxury hotel, where a fat, bald man, dressed all in black, received her with surly coldness. Now she could speak.
Lifting her veil, she gave her name and told the whole story in a matter-of-fact tone, barely pausing to breathe. The bald man listened without interrupting, looking bored. When she finished he simply asked, “You're the sister-in-law of this man, are you not?”
“Yes,” Lisa answered. “We're respectable people. I don't want my husband involved.”
He shrugged his shoulders as if to say that the whole matter bored him. Then with impatience he added, “You see, I've been badgered about this business