The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [165]
But the outside of the house kept its look of warm tranquillity. A quarter of an hour passed in complete silence, total peace, during which time mounting emotions gripped them in the throat. They were nearly overcome when finally a man running out of the side alley went to find a cab. Five minutes later Gavard came down, followed by two policemen. Lisa, who had gone outside, had seen the cab coming and hurried back into the shop.
Gavard had turned white. Upstairs he had been searched and his pistol and box of cartridges had been found. To judge by the inspector's rude treatment of him and the reaction he had shown upon hearing his name, Gavard was lost. This was a terrible turn of events that he had never considered. The Tuileries would never pardon him. His legs had gone limp as though the executioner were awaiting him. But when he reached the street, he found enough strength to walk upright. He even gave a last smile, thinking that Les Halles would see him going to his death bravely.
Meanwhile, La Sarriette and Madame Lecœur ran to him. They asked what was happening, Madame Lecœur sobbing and the niece emotionally hugging her uncle. He held her tightly and slipped her a key, whispering in her ear, “Take everything and burn the papers.”
Like a man climbing the scaffold, he stepped into the cab. As soon as the coach disappeared around the corner of rue Pierre-Lescot, Madame Lecœur saw La Sarriette trying to hide the key in her pocket.
“It's no use, my dear,” she said between clenched teeth. “I saw him put it in your hand. I swear to God, I will go to the prison and tell him everything if you're not nice.”
“But my dear aunt, I'm always nice,” La Sarriette answered with an awkward smile.
“Let's go to his place right away. No point in letting the police get their paws in his cupboards.”
Mademoiselle Saget had been listening wild-eyed, and now followed, running behind them with the biggest strides her little legs could manage. She couldn't care less about waiting for Florent now. From rue Rambuteau to rue de la Cossonnerie, she was very humble and full of little suggestions. She offered to speak to the concierge, Madame Léonce.
“We'll see. We'll see,” Madame Lecœur repeated curtly.
It turned out she needed to negotiate. Madame Léonce did not want to let these women go upstairs to her tenant's apartment. She stared at them severely, shocked by La Sarriette's badly tied shawl. But when the elderly mademoiselle whispered a few words and showed her the key, she made a decision. Feeling exasperated, once they were upstairs, she would let them into the rooms only one at a time, as though she were being forced to show thieves where she kept her money.
“Go on, take it all,” she said, flopping down on a chair.
La Sarriette tried the key on every wardrobe. The suspicious Madame Lecœur followed close behind—so close that La Sarriette complained, “You're in my way, Aunt, at least give me a little arm room.”
Finally a wardrobe was opened, the one in front of the window between the fireplace and the bed. The four women heaved sighs. On the middle shelf were about ten thousand francs in gold coins, methodically stacked in little piles. Gavard, whose real holdings had wisely been placed in the hands of a broker, held this amount in reserve for “the day the dogs are unleashed.” As he used to say with great solemnity, he was “ready to support the revolution.” He had sold a few securities and took particular pleasure in fondling these ten thousand francs every evening, contemplating them and finding in them something bold and revolutionary. At night he would dream of a battle in his wardrobe: he could hear gunshots and the sound of paving stones being torn up and rolled down the street, voices of confusion and of victory, and it was his money that paid for it all.
La Sarriette had thrust out her hands with a joyful cry.
“Pull your claws back, my child,” said Madame Lecœur in a hoarse voice.
She was even more yellow