The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [26]
A crowd of white caps, black jackets, and blue overalls was converging in the narrow passages between piles. The forts' huge baskets made their way slowly over the heads of the crowd. The saleswomen, grocers, and fruit sellers were doing a brisk business. A group of corporals and a few nuns were huddled around mountains of cabbages, and institutional cooks were hunting for bargains. The unloading continued, the carts tossing their loads to the ground as though they were shipments of cobblestones, adding more and more waves to the sea of produce that was now spreading to the opposite pathway. And from the far end of the rue du Pont-Neuf, carts kept coming in a line without end.
“It is phenomenally beautiful,” cooed the enraptured Claude.
But Florent was in pain. He believed himself to be tested by some supernatural temptation and turned to look at the side facade of Saint Eustache, unable to look at the market any longer. From this view it seemed washed in sepia against the blue sky with its rosettes and broad arched windows, its bell turret and slate roof. Then his eyes rested on the somber depths of rue Montorgueil, where gaudy signs stood out. On the corner of rue Montmartre, gilded balconies gleamed in the sunlight. When he looked back at the intersection, his eyes were drawn to other signboards with inscriptions such as DRUGGIST AND PHARMACY and FLOUR AND DRIED BEANS in large red and black letters on dull backgrounds.
By now the households in the corner buildings with their narrow windows were waking up, and the airy new rue du Pont-Neuf was showing a touch of the remaining facades of old Paris, yellowing and sturdy. Standing at the empty windows of the large store at the corner of rue Rambuteau, smart-looking attendants in tight pants with large cuffs were arranging their displays. Further away, in the Maison Guillout, severe as a barracks, cookies in gilded wrappers and ornate petits fours were artistically set out in glass cases. All the shops were now open, and workers in white smocks carrying tools under their arms were hurrying up the street.
Claude was still standing on the bench on his tiptoes, trying to see farther down the streets. Suddenly, coming from the crowd that he was not even focusing on, he caught a glimpse of a head draped in blond hair, followed by a smaller one covered in frizzy black curls.
“Hey, Marjolin! Hi, Cadine!” he shouted.
Since his voice was lost in the noise of the crowd, he jumped off the bench and took off. Then he remembered that he had left Florent behind and came back. “You know, I live at the end of the impasse des Bourdonnais,” he said. “My name's written in chalk on the door: Claude Lantier. Come and see my etching of the rue Pirouette.”
Then he vanished. He did not even know Florent's name. After having offered him his views on art, he disappeared in the street the same way he had appeared.
Now Florent was alone. At first he welcomed this solitude. Ever since Madame François had picked him up on avenue de Neuilly he had been moving in a world part sleep and part pain, which had kept him from completely grasping anything. Finally he was free to do exactly what he felt like and to shake himself free of this nightmare of overflowing food following him everywhere. But his mind remained blank, and he could find nothing within him except a vague sense of fear. The day had brightened, and everything could be seen clearly now. He looked at his pants and his pathetic coat. He buttoned the first, dusted off the second, and attempted to straighten himself up, afraid that his black rags would scream out from where he had come. He was seated in the middle of a bench alongside some homeless people who had settled there to wait for sunrise. The nights at Les Halles are good to drifters and vagabonds.
Two sergents de ville, still in night uniforms with their greatcoats and képis,10 paced back and forth on the sidewalk, side by side, with their hands folded behind their backs. Each time they passed the bench, they cast a glance at