The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [27]
Now he had but one thought, one idea, and that was to get away from the market as fast as he could. He would put off his research until later, when the area had emptied out. The three streets that intersected here, rue Montmartre, rue Montorgueil, and rue de Turbigo, worried him. They were blocked by all kinds of vehicles, and the sidewalks were clogged with vegetables. Florent continued until rue Pierre-Lescot, but there he ran into the watercress and potato markets, and it seemed to him there was no way past them. It looked better to take rue Rambuteau. But once he reached boulevard Sébastopol he ran into such a barricade of carriages, wagons, and carts that he turned off to rue Saint-Denis. But there he was back with the vegetables. Retailers had just set up their stands—thick planks propped up on tall baskets—and the flood of cabbages, carrots, and turnips started again. Les Halles overflowed. He tried to escape the flood, but it ran after him. He tried rue de la Cossonnerie, rue Berger, the square des Innocents, rue de la Ferronerie, rue des Halles. He was trapped, disheartened, afraid that he was unable to hop off this carousel of vegetables, which would end up prancing around him, thin vines wrapping around his legs.
The eternal trail of carts and horses stretched all the way to rue de Rivoli and place de l'Hôtel de Ville. Huge vans were hauling away supplies for all the district's grocers and fruit sellers. Large covered wagons with straining, groaning flanks were starting for the suburbs. In rue du Pont-Neuf, Florent became completely disoriented. He stumbled upon a row of handcarts where numerous vendors were arranging their goods. Among them, heading off down rue Saint-Honoré pushing a cart of carrots and cauliflower, he sighted Lacaille.
Florent followed him, hoping he would help him find his way out. Even though the weather was dry, the pavement was very slippery, and discarded artichoke stalks and leaves of all kinds made walking a bit perilous. He slid with each step. He lost track of Lacaille in rue Vauvilliers and, heading into the grain market, once again found his route blocked by vehicles. He no longer tried to fight. Les Halles had defeated him, the tide had overtaken him. Slowly he worked his way back to pointe Saint-Eustache.
Now he heard the loud rumbling of the wagons setting out from the market. Paris was dispersing the mouthfuls that would feed its two million inhabitants. These markets were like a huge central organ, furiously pulsating and pumping the blood of life through the city's veins. The uproar from all the stocking and provisioning was like the chomping of the jaws of a colossus, at one end the cracking of whips of the big buyers driving their wagons to the local markets, at the other the plodding clogs of the poor women who sold lettuce from door to door carrying off their baskets.
Florent entered a covered passage on the left between a group of four pavilions, which, he had noticed when it was nighttime, had no lights on. There he hoped to find refuge, some corner in which he could hide. But now these pavilions were as packed and lively as everywhere else. He went to the end of the street. Wagons were arriving at a quick rate, congesting the market with cages of live poultry and deep square baskets in which dead birds were laid. On the opposite sidewalk, other wagons were unloading whole calves, lying on their sides like children wrapped in shrouds so tailored that only the bloody