The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [55]
But Claude rarely went to the charcuterie.
“Are you still at my aunt's?” he asked. “I don't know how you can stand being around that kitchen. It stinks in there. If I spend an hour in there, I feel like I've eaten enough for the next three days. It was a mistake to have gone there this morning. That's what ruined my study.”
Then, after he and Florent had walked a few steps in silence, he continued, “Oh, what fine people. They're so healthy, it makes me ill. I'd like to paint their portraits, but I don't know how to do such round faces that don't have any bones. You wouldn't see my aunt Lisa kicking her foot through her pots. I was a fool to have wrecked Cadine's head. Now that I think about it, it wasn't that bad.”
Then they began chatting about Aunt Lisa. Claude said that his mother had not seen anything of her in a long time. He had the impression that Lisa was ashamed that her sister had married a worker. And besides, she did not like to be around the less fortunate. As for himself, he told Florent how a generous man had sent him to college because he had been taken with the donkeys and old women that he had drawn when he was only eight years old. But the good man had died, leaving him an income of a thousand francs a year, just enough to keep from starving.
“I would rather have been a worker. Take a carpenter, for example. Carpenters are happy men. Say they have to make a table. They make it, then they go to bed happy to have made their table, completely satisfied. Me? I hardly sleep at all at night. All those damn studies that I can't finish dance in my head. I never finish anything, never, never!”
His voice almost broke into sobs. Then he tried to laugh. He cursed, searching for foul language, wallowing in muck with the ice-cold rage of a fine and delicate spirit who fantasizes his own degradation. He ended by squatting in front of one of the Les Halles gratings that ventilate the markets below—cellars where the gas burns permanently. Down there in the depths, he pointed out to Florent, Marjolin and Cadine were peacefully eating their supper, seated on a stone block used for slaughtering chickens. The two young waifs had found a way of hiding in the basement and living there after the gratings were closed.
“What an animal, an extraordinary beast!” Claude repeated with both admiration and envy of Marjolin. And to think that animal is happy. If they want their treats, they just hide together in one of those big baskets full of feathers. At least that's a life! My God, you're right to stay at the charcuterie. Maybe that will fatten you up.”
Suddenly he left. Florent climbed up to his garret, troubled by the anxiety of uncertainty. The next morning, he avoided the shop, taking a long walk along the banks of the Seine. But when he returned for lunch he was struck once again by Lisa's kindness. She again mentioned the position of fish inspector, without pushing too hard but as something worth thinking about. As he listened to her, a plate full of food in front of him, he could not help being influenced by the comfort of the dining room. The mat beneath his feet felt soft, the hanging copper lamp glowed, the wallpaper had a yellow tint, and the light oak furniture—all filled him with a sense of well-being that threatened his sense of right and wrong. But he still had the strength to refuse, explaining his reasons once again, though at the same time realizing what bad taste it was to be making such a crude show of his stance in a place such as this.
Lisa did not get angry but instead smiled, that beautiful smile that embarrassed Florent far more than her suppressed irritation the evening before. At dinner they spoke only of winter pickling, which would keep everyone in the charcuterie busy.
The evenings