The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [154]
He put a thick pile of papers in a blue folder in front of her. They were like miscellaneous disconnected chapters from the story she had told. The commissioners of police in Le Havre, Rouen, and Vernon had all announced Florent's arrival. Then came a report confirming his installation at the Quenu-Gradelles' and after that his appointment in Les Halles, his life, his evenings at Monsieur Lebigre's—no details were missing. Astounded, Lisa noted that there were duplicate reports, which must have come from two sources. At the end she found a pile of letters, anonymous letters in different shapes and formats and every kind of handwriting. She recognized a thin, spindly penmanship, the hand of Mademoiselle Saget, denouncing the group in the glass-paneled room. She saw a large sheet of greasy paper stained with Madame Lecœur's big paddles and a glossy sheet, decorated with a yellow pansy, covered with the scratchings of La Sarriette and Monsieur Jules—both letters advising the government to keep an eye on Gavard. She also recognized the abusive style of Mère Méhudin, repeating in four almost indecipherable pages all the stories about Florent that circulated in Les Halles. But she was especially struck by one on her own letterhead, Charcuterie Quenu-Gradelle, on which Auguste had sold out the man he considered to be an obstacle to his wedding. The policeman had his own secret motive for letting her see the file.
“Do you recognize any of these handwritings?” he asked her.
She stammered, “No.” She had stood up. What she had just learned had taken her breath away her veil now lowered to conceal the confusion that was showing on her cheeks. Her silk dress rustled. Her dark gloves vanished beneath her shawl.
The bald man smiled faintly as he said, “You see, Madame Quenu, your information has come a bit late. But we shall make a note of what you have done, I promise you. Most important, tell your husband not to do anything. Certain circumstances may arise …”
He did not finish what he was saying but nodded an abrupt good-bye, getting halfway out of his chair. It was a dismissal. She left immediately. Outside the room she saw Logre and Monsieur Lebigre, who quickly turned away. But she was more upset than they were. She crossed the rooms and passed through the hallways as though she had become part of the police world where, at this moment, she was certain that everything was seen and known. Finally she exited by place Dauphine and walked slowly along the quai de l'Horloge, revived by a breeze from the Seine.
What most upset her was the complete pointlessness of what she had done. Her husband was not in any danger. This was a relief, though it gave her a twinge of remorse. She was angry with Auguste and the women who had managed to put her in this ridiculous position. Slowing her pace, she watched the flow of the river—the barges black with coal dust sliding downstream through the green water while along the bank fishermen were casting their lines.
Truthfully, Lisa was not the one who had handed Florent over to the police. She was suddenly struck by this thought, surprised by it. Would it, then, have been a terrible sin if she had handed him over? She was confused, disturbed by the possibility that she might have been misled by her conscience. The anonymous letters were clearly wrong. But she had gone openly and given her name, trying to save everyone. When she thought suddenly of old Gradelle's inheritance, she searched her conscience and found herself perfectly willing to throw all the money into the river, if that would clear the charcuterie of any wrong. No, she wasn't greedy. It wasn't the money that had motivated her. Crossing the pont au Change, she calmed herself and regained her equilibrium. It was good that the others had beaten her to the police. Now there was no need