The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [31]
At the top of the window display, draped with symmetry on a bar armed with sharp wolves' teeth, were links of sausages, dried saucissons18 and cervelas,19 their lacy membranes hanging like cords and tassels. On the highest rung in this gourmand's chapel, amid the membranes and between two bunches of purple gladioli, the window was crowned by a small, square aquarium decorated with rocks and housing two goldfish that never stopped swimming.
The sight gave Florent goose bumps. He noticed a woman in the doorway standing in the sunlight. She had a prosperous, contented look that went with the cheerful displays of fat food. A handsome woman, she nearly filled the doorway not too large but full-busted and ample for a woman of only thirty. It was early in the morning, but her hair was well brushed and arranged over her temples— a tidy-looking woman. She had that fine shine and milky pink complexion of people who spend their days around fats and raw meat. She had a slightly grave demeanor, very calm and slow, with eyes that smiled while her lips remained serious. A white starched collar encircled her neck, white cuffs reached up to her elbows, and a white apron covered her to the tips of her shoes, all of which allowed only an occasional glimpse of her black cashmere dress, round shoulders, and ample bosom. The sun glared on all this white. But despite the glow from her bluish black hair, her pink complexion, and her glaring sleeves and apron, she never blinked. She bathed herself in the morning sun, her soft eyes taking in the overflowing Les Halles. The woman was visibly respectable.
“That's your brother's wife, your sister-in-law, Lisa,” Gavard told Florent. He had acknowledged her with a slight nod but then ducked down an alleyway, continuing to take every precaution, not wanting Florent to enter the shop even though it was empty. He was clearly thrilled to be having this slight adventure, enjoying the intrigue.
“Wait here,” he said. “I'll go see if your brother is alone. When I clap my hands, you can come in.”
He pushed open a door at the end of the alley. But the minute Florent heard his brother's voice behind the door, he bounded in. Quenu, who adored him, threw his arms round Florent's neck. They kissed like children. “Oh my God, it's really you!” Quenu stammered. “I can't believe it. I thought you were dead! Just yesterday I was saying to Lisa, ‘Poor Florent’”
He stopped, turned his head toward the shop, and shouted, “Hey, Lisa! Lisa!” Then he turned to a little girl hiding in a corner. “Pauline, go find your mother.”
But the little girl did not move. She was a beautiful five-year-old with a chubby round build, who looked very much like the beautiful charcuterie woman. She held in her arms an enormous tabby cat, which had contentedly surrendered to the child's embrace, its paws hanging loose while the little girl squeezed it tightly in her little arms, as though afraid that this badly dressed man would try to steal her pet.
Slowly Lisa came over to them.
“This is Florent. My brother,” Quenu repeated.
Lisa addressed him as “Monsieur” and welcomed him. She quietly studied him from head to foot without showing any unpleasant surprise. Only her lips showed a slight downward curl. She just stood there until she started to smile at the way her husband was embracing him. As Quenu calmed down, he noticed Florent's emaciated, wretched appearance.
“Oh, poor fellow,” he said. “That place didn't agree with you. Look at me, you see how I've fattened up.”
He was fat, too, quite fat for a man of only thirty. He was bursting out of his shirt and apron, all wrapped up in white linen like a big stuffed doll. His clean-shaven face was sticking out, slightly resembling the snout of one of the pigs he was with all day. Florent had barely recognized him. Seated, Quenu cast a glance at the lovely Lisa and little Pauline. They looked brimming with good health, solidly built, fit, and trim. The two in their turn looked at Florent with that uneasiness that fleshy people always feel in the presence of someone