The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [155]
“Did you get the seats?” Quenu asked when she got back. He wanted to see them and to have explained to him the exact location of their balcony seats. Lisa had imagined the police rushing to the scene of the crime as soon as she warned them, and her plan to go to the theater had simply been a clever ruse to get her husband away from the house while Florent was being arrested. The plan called for her to take him for a walk in the afternoon, one of those excursions that they sometimes took, taking a cab to the Bois de Boulogne, eating in a restaurant, and lingering at a café-concert.
But now it seemed pointless to go out. She spent the day in the usual way, behind the counter, her complexion pinker than normal, her mood merrier and friendlier, as though she were finally recovering from an illness.
“I told you fresh air would do you good,” Quenu repeated. “Your morning out has perked you up.”
“That's ridiculous,” she finally answered, giving him a stern look. “The streets of Paris are not exactly good for your health.”
That evening at the Gaîté they saw La Grâce de Dieu. Quenu in his overcoat and gray gloves, hair carefully combed, was absorbed by the actors' names in the program. Lisa was stunning with her bare shoulders, draping her wrist on the red velvet balcony, displaying the sheen of her too-tight white gloves. They were both very moved by Marie's misfortunes. The commandant was truly evil, and Pierrot made them laugh from his first entrance. Lisa wept. The death of the child, the prayer in that virginal bedroom, the return of the poor mad girl, moistened her beautiful eyes with discreet tears that she dabbed away with her handkerchief.
But the evening turned into a veritable triumph for her when, looking up, she caught a glimpse of the Norman and her mother in the second gallery. That made her swell with pride, and she sent Quenu to buy some caramels at the food concession and played with her fan, a mother-of-pearl fan with a lot of gold. The fish seller had been defeated and lowered her head to listen to her mother, who whispered to her. On the way out, Beautiful Lisa and the Beautiful Norman greeted each other with vague smiles.
That day Florent had eaten an early dinner at Monsieur Lebigre's. He waited for Logre, who was to introduce him to a retired sergeant, a capable man with whom they could discuss the plan of attack on the Palais Bourbon and the Hôtel de Ville. Night fell, and a fine rain that had started in the afternoon drowned the market in grayness. The buildings stood out in black against the rust-colored sky, while clouds like dirty dishrags ran above the line of roofs as though caught and torn by the row of lightning rods.
Florent was depressed. The trash in the streets and the stream of yellow water seemed to blur and smother the sunset in the mud. He gazed at the people ducking under the porticos, the umbrellas darting by in the downpour, the cabs speedily echoing past in the empty streets. Then the weather cleared for a moment. A reddish glow rose in the sunset. An entire army of sweepers appeared at the entrance to rue Montmartre, pushing along a lake of liquid muck with strokes of their brooms.
Logre did not bring the sergeant. Gavard had gone to dine with friends in Batignolles. So Florent was reduced to spending the evening alone with Robine. He talked continually but ended up feeling sad. The other man gently stroked his beard, and every fifteen minutes he would reach out his arm for a gulp of beer. Bored, Florent went back up to his room. Robine, left alone, did not leave, but frowning thoughtfully beneath his hat, stared at his beer mug. Both Rose and the waiter, who had hoped that since the group wasn't in the little room they could shut down early, had to wait more than a half hour before he finally left.
Up in his room, Florent was afraid to go to bed. He was in the grip of one of his nervous ailments that caused endless nightmares lasting until morning. The day before, he had attended Monsieur Verlaque's funeral in Clamart. The