The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [49]
She stood in front of the counter, looking at the dishes one by one and murmuring in her wispy voice, “I never know what to eat anymore. When it gets to be afternoon, I'm like a tortured soul thinking about my dinner. And then, later, I don't feel like anything. Madame Quenu, do you have any of those breaded chops left?”
Without waiting for an answer, she lifted one of the lids on the food warmer. It was the section used for andouille, fresh sausages, and boudin. But the dish had gone cold, and only one stray forgotten sausage was left on the grill.
“Have a look on the other side, Mademoiselle Saget,” said the charcutière. “I think there's one chop left.”
“No, that doesn't do anything for me,” muttered the little old lady, who nevertheless stuck her nose under the second lid. “It was just a whim—but breaded chops tonight would be too heavy. I'd rather have something that I wouldn't need to heat up.”
She had turned toward Florent and was staring at him. She looked at Gavard, who was drumming his fingertips on the marble tabletop. With a smile, she invited them to resume their conversation.
“Why don't you take a piece of petit salé?” Lisa suggested.
Mademoiselle Saget picked up the fork resting on a plate by its metal handle and poked around with it, prodding each piece of petit salé. Lightly tapping each bone to estimate its thickness, she then turned them over to examine the pink meat, again saying, “No, you know I'd really like a breaded chop. But the one that's left is too fatty. I'll have to try another time.”
Lisa bent over to watch her through the sausage skins hanging in the front and saw her cross the road and go into the fruit market.
“The old nanny goat,” snarled Gavard. And since they were now alone, he told them about the position he had found for Florent. It was quite a tale. One of his friends, Monsieur Verlaque, a fish inspector, was so ill that he needed to take some time off. Just that morning the poor man had told him that it would be a great favor if he could recommend someone to take over and keep the position open for him in case he wanted to return.
“You have to understand,” Gavard added, “Verlaque isn't going to last another six months. Florent is going to be able to keep his position. It's a beautiful situation. It will completely dupe the police. The prefecture is responsible for the position. It's going to be a big laugh when Florent starts getting paid by the police.”
He broke into a huge belly laugh, finding it all perversely comic.
“I don't want the job,” said Florent emphatically. “I've sworn to accept nothing from the empire. I would rather die of starvation than work for the prefecture. It's out of the question. Do you understand, Gavard!”
Gavard understood and was slightly embarrassed. Quenu lowered his head. But Lisa turned to glare at Florent, her neck puffed up, her bosom nearly popping its bodice. She was just about to open her mouth when La Sarriette came in and the shop again fell silent.
“Well!” exclaimed La Sarriette with her soft laugh, “I almost forgot to get lard. Madame Quenu, could you cut me a dozen strips, nice and thin? You know, for larks.19 Jules wants to eat larks. Oh, and how are you, Uncle?”
She filled the shop with her swirling skirts and smiled at everyone with the freshness of milk and her hair on one side falling down from the wind. Gavard took her hands, and she brashly went on, “I'll bet you were all talking about me when I came in. What were you saying, Uncle?”
Lisa called to her, “Tell me if these are thin enough.” On the edge of a board she was delicately cutting the lard. As she wrapped it up, she asked, “Can I get you anything else?”
“Oh my God, I must be losing my mind,” said La Sarriette. “Give me a pound of saindoux. I just love fried potatoes. I can make a lunch of nothing but two sous of fried potatoes and a bunch of radishes. Yes, one pound of saindoux, Madame Quenu.”
Lisa took a thick piece of paper on the scale and, taking the crock of saindoux from under the shelf, scooped out globs with a wooden spatula and built a mound on the paper