The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [168]
“Let's go, downstairs,” said a policeman roughly.
He got up and went down. On the third-floor landing he asked to go back as he had forgotten something. The police, not wanting him to go back up, pushed him forward. But he begged to be allowed back. He even offered them the small amount of money he had. Finally two of them agreed to go back up with him but threatened to club him on the head if he tried any tricks. They took their revolvers from their holsters. On reaching the room he went straight to the finch's cage, took the bird, kissed it between its wings, and released it from the window. He watched it perch in the sunlight on the roof of the fish market, seeming dazed. Then it took flight again, disappearing above Les Halles, headed in the direction of square des Innocents. He remained an instant longer, staring at the sky, the open, free sky. He thought of the pigeons cooing in the Tuileries and the pigeons in the storage cellar whose throats had been slit by Marjolin. Then everything in him crumbled, and he followed the police, who put their weapons back in the holsters and shrugged.
At the bottom of the stairs, Florent stopped at the door that led to the kitchen.
The inspector, who was waiting for him there, was touched by his gentle obedience and asked, “Do you want to say good-bye to your brother?”
He hesitated a moment. He looked at the door. A commotion of hatchets and saucepans came from the kitchen. Lisa, wishing to keep her husband busy, had come up with the idea of making boudin, which he normally made only at night. Onions were sizzling on the fire, and Florent heard Quenu's happy voice, shouting above the noise, “Oh, my God, this boudin is going to be so good … Auguste, pass me the fat.”
Florent thanked the inspector. He was afraid to go into the hot kitchen, full of the strong smell of cooking onions. He passed the door, content in the belief that his brother knew nothing, quickening his steps to avoid causing a final scene in the charcuterie. But as he felt the bright sunbeams strike his face, he was ashamed and climbed into the cab with his shoulders stooped. He could feel the presence of the fish market enjoying its victory, and it seemed to him that the whole neighborhood was gathering to celebrate.
“Oh, he looked terrible, didn't he?” said Mademoiselle Saget.
“It's the face of a convict caught redhanded,” added Madame Lecœur.
La Sarriette showed her white teeth and said, “I once saw a man guillotined, and he looked just like that.”
They had come closer and were craning their necks, trying to see inside the cab. Just as the vehicle was leaving, the old woman pulled hard at the skirts of the other two to point out Claire, who was running wildly from rue Pirouette. Her hair was undone, and she looked like a madwoman, her fingernails bleeding. She had managed to dismantle her door. Once she realized that she had arrived too late and Florent was being taken, she hurled herself in the direction of the cab, then stopped abruptly, making a gesture of useless rage, shaking her fist at the vanishing wheels. Then, all red under the fine plaster powder with which she was covered, she hurried home to rue Pirouette.
“You would think he'd promised to marry her,” said La Sarriette, laughing. “She's completely smitten, the big idiot.”
The neighborhood returned to calm. Small groups gathered until the pavilion closed to discuss the morning's events. People peered curiously into the charcuterie. Lisa avoided showing herself, leaving Augustine at the counter. Finally, in the afternoon, she thought it her duty to tell Quenu everything for fear that some big mouth would blurt it all out. She waited until she could be alone with him in the kitchen, understanding that this was the part of the house where he felt most at ease and he would cry less. She proceeded with maternal gentleness. But once he knew the truth, he fell on the butcher block and started crying like a baby.
“Now, now, my poor big lug, don't carry on like this,