The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [28]
With his face close to the grating, Florent studied the rows of hanging cadavers—the red cattle and sheep, the pale calves flecked with the yellow of fat and tendons and with gaping bellies. Then he passed along the sidewalk by the triperie with its calves' feet and heads, the rolled tripe neatly packed in boxes, the brains fastidiously laid in flat baskets, the bloody livers, the purplish kidneys. He paused to inspect long two-wheeled carts covered with a round tarpaulin loaded with halved pigs hung on either side over a bed of straw. Seen from behind, the inside of the cart looked like a tabernacle lit by the rows of naked flesh. On the straw were tin cans catching the dripping blood.
Florent was gripped by a fever. The bland smell of the butchers and the pungent smell of the tripe agitated him. He got out of the covered passageway, preferring the open air of rue du Pont-Neuf.
He was in misery. Shuddering suddenly in the morning air, his teeth chattering, he was afraid that he was about to faint. He looked for but could not find even a corner of a bench to sit on, a place to sleep, even if it meant being awakened by the sergents de ville. About to pass out, he propped himself against a tree, his eyes closed, and a humming sound filled his ears. The raw carrot he had eaten, barely chewing it, was now wrenching his stomach, while the punch befuddled his head. He was drunk with illness, exhaustion, and hunger. Once again a flame burned in his chest, and he clutched at his body as though trying to block an opening through which his entire being might slip away. The pavement seemed to be listing sharply. His pain grew so unbearable that he tried to keep walking in order to distract himself. He walked straight ahead and became lost in the vegetables. He followed one narrow path, turned down another, tried to retrace his steps, but took a wrong turn and was once again lost in the greens. The heaps were piled so high that people were walking between two walls of bundles and bunches. Only their heads could be seen over these battlements, white or black depending on the color of their hats, gliding by while enormous swinging baskets, at the same height as the top of the piles, looked like wicker boats adrift on a stagnant mossy lake.
Florent stumbled over a thousand obstructions—forts hefting their loads and market women arguing in coarse voices. He slipped on a bed of discarded leaves and stalks lying thickly on the sidewalk and nearly choked on the scent of crushed greens. At last falling into a stupor, he stopped and gave in to the shoving and insults, reduced to flotsam adrift on ocean swells.
Cowardice was breaking his spirit. He could easily have stooped to begging, and he was infuriated by his stupid pride of the night before. If he had accepted the charity of Madame François, if he had not been so foolishly intimidated by Claude, he would not now be at nearly his last breath, here among the cabbages. What particularly annoyed him was that he had not questioned the painter about rue Pirouette. And now he might very well drop dead on the pavement like a stray dog.
For the last time he raised his eyes and looked at the market glittering in the sun. Bright sunshine was streaming through the covered passageway from the other end, splitting the pavilions with a beam of light, while fiery shafts poured down on the distant expanse of roofs. The great iron framework grew less clear and turned bluish, a mere silhouette outlined against the flaming sunlight. High above, a windowpane caught fire and flame dripped down the sloping zinc roof all the way to the gutter. Below, the tumultuous metropolis was lit by a cloud of golden dust.
The day's awakening was spreading from the snoring of the market gardeners, wrapped in their thick coats, to the rolling wagons, more active than ever. Now the entire city