The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [53]
“Not so, Aunt,” said La Sarriette. “It is you who never has a kind word for me.”
Right there and then they reconciled their differences and kissed. The niece promised that she would stop her teasing, and the aunt swore on all she held sacred that she would treat La Sarriette as though she were her own daughter. Mademoiselle Saget offered them advice on how to keep Gavard from squandering his money. And they all agreed that the Quenu-Gradelles were unsavory and needed to be watched.
“I don't know what kind of shenanigans they're up to,” said the old spinster, “but there's something fishy going on. And that Florent, Madame Quenu's cousin, what do you two make of him?”
The three women huddled close together and lowered their voices. “Remember how we saw him one morning,” said Madame Lecœur, “with his boots falling apart and his clothes covered with dust, sneaking around like a thief who had just gotten away with something … That man frightens me.”
“No,” said La Sarriette, “he's very skinny, but he's not a bad man.”
Mademoiselle Saget was thinking out loud. “I've been working on this for the past two weeks, trying to find out something about him. Clearly Monsieur Gavard knows him. I must have met him somewhere, I just can't remember where.”
She was still combing her memory when the Norman, straight from the charcuterie, blew in like a storm. “She's certainly polite, the big Quenu ogre!” she announced, relieved at getting it off her chest. “Imagine her telling me that I sold rotten fish. But I took care of her in her pretty little lair where she keeps tainted pork that makes everyone sick.”
“What did you say to her?” asked the old woman, all excited, thrilled to hear that the two had argued.
“Me, I didn't say a thing. Not a thing. I just dropped in to tell her very politely that I would be stopping by for boudin tomorrow evening. And then she turned on me. Filthy little hypocrite with her sanctimonious airs! But this is going to cost her a lot more than she knows.”
The three could sense that the Norman had not spoken the entire truth. But that didn't stop them from rushing to her defense with a volley of curses. They turned toward rue Rambuteau, inventing insults and making up tales about the filthiness of the kitchen and other meaty accusations. If the Quenus had been dealers in human flesh, the women's outrage would not have been more violent. The Norman felt the need to retell the story three more times.
“And the cousin?” Mademoiselle Saget asked in a mischievous tone. “What did he say?”
“Cousin?” the Norman replied in a sharp voice. “You believe this cousin story? He's someone's lover, the big goon.”
The other three protested. Lisa's virtue was an act of faith in the neighborhood.
“Go on, you never know about these slippery holy hypocrites. That husband of hers is a bit too simple not to cheat on.”
Mademoiselle Saget nodded as though she agreed with this point of view. Sweetly she said, “Besides, this cousin has dropped in from nowhere and the story offered by the Quenus doesn't smell quite right.”
“Oh, yes, he's that fatso's lover,” the fish woman again asserted. “Some tramp or bum she found in the streets. That's clear.”
“Skinny men are backward men,” declared La Sarriette with a knowing air.
“She bought him an entire new outfit,” Madame Lecœur added. “He has cost her a lot.”
“Well, yes, yes, you could be right,” said the old maid. “I'm going to have to learn more …”
The three agreed to keep one another informed about anything that happened at the Quenu-Gradelle establishment. The butter vendor claimed that she wanted to open her brother-in-law's eyes to the kind of place he was frequenting. But by then the Norman's anger had subsided, and, being at heart a kind person,