The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [29]
To the right, to the left, everywhere, the shrill cries sent the treble notes of a flute into the bass rumble of the crowd. It was the sound of seafood, butter, poultry, and meat being sold. The pealing of bells sent added vibrations through the noisy market. All around Florent, sunlight set vegetables on fire with color. The pale water-color he had seen at dawn had vanished. The ample hearts of lettuce were aflame. The hues of the greenery had turned brilliant, the carrots glowed bloodred, the turnips turned incandescent in the triumphal sunlight.
Loads of cabbage were being unloaded to the left of Florent. He turned away and saw in the distance even more wagons being unloaded on rue de Turbigo. The tide was still rising. At first he had felt it around his ankles, then at stomach height, and now it was threatening to rise over his head. Blinded, drowning, his ears ringing, his stomach demolished by all that he had seen and guessing that there were even greater, unfathomable depths of food to come, he asked for mercy. Mad sorrow gripped him at the thought that he would starve to death here at the heart of glutted Paris, in the midst of the market's resplendent daybreak. Fat, hot tears dripped from his eyes.
Now he reached one of the wider alleys. Two women, a small elderly one and a tall withered one, walked by him, headed toward the pavilions.
“So you have come to do your shopping, Mademoiselle Saget?” the tall withered one asked.
“Well, Madame Lecœur, if you can call it shopping. You know how it is for a woman alone, living on almost nothing. I wanted a nice little cauliflower. But it's too expensive. What about the butter, how much is that today?”
“Thirty-four sous. I have some that is very nice. Come with me and I'll show you.”
“Yes, well, I don't know. I still have a little lard left …”
Florent, with a supreme effort, followed the two women. He remembered having heard Claude mention the little elderly woman. He told himself that after she left the tall woman, he would go up and question her.
“And how is your niece?” Mademoiselle Saget asked.
“La Sarriette does what she wants,” Madame Lecœur answered bitterly. “She's decided to go off on her own, and her business is no longer my problem. When all her boyfriends have cleaned her out, don't expect me to give her a bite of bread.”
“You were so good to her. She ought to be doing well this year. Fruits are getting good prices. And how is your brother-in-law?”
“Oh, he—” Madame Lecœur bit her lips and did not seem to want to say anything else.
“The same as always, huh?” Mademoiselle Saget continued. “He's a decent man. But I've heard it said that he goes through money …”
“Who knows how he spends his money?” Madame Lecœur said abruptly. “He's very secretive and also stingy. You know, he's the kind of man who would let you drop dead before he'd loan you a hundred sous. He knows perfectly well that butter, not to mention cheese and eggs, have not had a good season. He's selling poultry as fast as he can get them. But never, not once, not one time, has he offered to help me. Of course, I'm too proud to accept it, you understand, but I would have appreciated the gesture.”
“Oh, look, here he is now,” said Mademoiselle Saget in a low voice.
The two women turned around to look at someone crossing the street to enter the covered passage.
“I'm in a hurry,” Madame Lecœur muttered. “I left my shop with no one watching it. But also, I don't want to talk to him.”
Florent too had mechanically turned to see the man. He was a short, burly man with a cheerful demeanor and grayish stubble for hair. He carried a fat goose under each arm with their heads hanging down and bumping into his legs. Suddenly Florent opened his arms in pleasure and, completely forgetting his exhaustion, ran after the man. When he caught up with him, he shouted,