The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [170]
One August morning while the people of Les Halles were just getting up, Claude Lantier, wandering where the vegetables were arriving, his waist cinched with a red belt, came to touch the hand of Madame François at pointe Saint-Eustache. There she was with her big sad face, seated on turnips and carrots. The painter was in a dark mood, despite the bright sunlight, which was already softening the big green mountains of cabbage.
“Well,” he said, “it's over. They're sending him back there. I think they've already sent him to Brest.”
She made a silent gesture of pain. She waved her hand slowly around her and said in a muted voice, “It's Paris. It's this damned Paris.”
“No,” said Claude. “I know who it is. It's those sons of bitches.” Claude raised his fist. “You cannot imagine, Madame François. There isn't a single stupid thing that they didn't say at the trial. They even went as far as to go through a child's notebook. That moron of a prosecutor made a whole big thing out of preaching respect for children on one hand and demagogic education on the other. It made me sick.”
He shuddered and, hunching his shoulders inside his green coat, continued, “A man as gentle as a girl. I saw him fall ill seeing pigeons bled. It made me laugh with pity when I saw him between two policemen. We'll never see him again. This time he'll stay there.”
“He should have listened to me,” said the vegetable vendor after some silence. “He could have come to Nanterre, lived there with my rabbits and hens. I really liked him because I understood what a good man he was. We could have been happy. What a tragedy! Take care of yourself, Monsieur Claude. I'll expect you to come have an omelette with me one of these mornings.”
She had tears in her eyes. She got up, a strong woman bearing her sorrow. “Oh, look,” she said. “There's Mère Chantemesse coming to buy turnips. She's hale and hearty as ever, the old fatso.”
Claude went off for a while, prowling the streets. The day had risen like a white fountain from the depth of rue Rambuteau. The sun was spreading its rosy light above the rooftops, bright expanses washing the pavement even at this early hour. And Claude sensed a cheerful mood awakening in these vast echoing marketplaces filled with their piles of food. It was like the pleasure of recovered health, the brightening sound of people at last relieved of a heavy burden weighing on their stomachs. Along came La Sarriette with a gold watch, singing in the midst of her plums and strawberries, tweaking the little mustache of Monsieur Jules, who was wearing a velvet jacket.
He caught a glimpse of Madame Lecœur and Mademoiselle Saget walking down one of the covered streets, their faces less yellow than before, almost pink. Like good friends, they giggled over some amusing incident. In the fish market Mère Méhudin was back in her stall, slapping fish, abusing customers, and snubbing the new inspector, a young man whom she had vowed to get fired. Claire, lazier and more listless, was gathering a huge handful of snails, sparkling from their silvery slime, with her hands, which had turned blue from the tanks.
At the tripe market, Auguste and Augustine had just bought pigs' feet, and with the sweet faces of newlyweds they were taking their cart back to their charcuterie in Montrouge. It was now eight o'clock and already warm when Claude returned to rue Rambuteau, where he found Muche and Pauline playing at horses. Muche was on all fours, and Pauline was astride him, hanging on to his hair so she wouldn't fall. On the roofs of Les Halles along the gutter a shadow