The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [61]
“One evening the man sank up to his waist. With each effort to pull himself out, the mud seemed to rise to his mouth. He remained quietly for almost two hours. Just as the moon rose, he was fortunately able to grab a tree branch over his head.
“When he finally reached a dwelling, his hands and feet were bruised and bleeding and swollen with poisonous bites. He was so piteous and starving a figure that he was frightening to look at. They tossed some food for him fifty steps away from their house, and the owner stood guard at the doorway with a rifle.”
Florent stopped talking his voice cut off, his eyes with a far-off stare. He seemed to no longer be talking to anyone but himself. Little Pauline was falling asleep and had tried to prop her head back while lying in his arms, trying to force her wondering eyes to stay open. Quenu was irritated.
“You dumbbell!” he shouted at Léon. “Don't you know how to hold a sausage casing? What are you looking at me for? Don't look at me. Look at the casing! There! Just like that. Now, don't move!”
Léon was holding up a long ribbon of casing with his right hand. A funnel had been inserted into one end. With his left hand he coiled the boudin on a round metal platter as rapidly as Quenu could stuff the funnel with big spoonfuls of the filling. The filling ran, black and steamy, from the funnel, slowly filling out the casing, which dropped down filled and softly curled. Quenu had removed the pot from the fire, and Léon and Quenu, the thin-featured boy and the broad-featured man, stood in the stark glow of the stove, which heated their pale faces and white clothing to a rosy hue.
The operation attracted the interest of Lisa and Augustine. Lisa in particular criticized Léon for pinching the sausages too tight and, she said, causing knots to form. When the casing was completely filled, Quenu slid it into a pot of boiling water. He seemed relaxed again, with nothing left to do but let it cook.
“And the man, the man,” Pauline was muttering, opening her eyes again and surprised to find that her cousin was no longer speaking.
Florent rocked her on his knee and began again in a murmur, like a nurse singing a baby to sleep.
“The man,” he said, “came to a large town. He was immediately taken for an escaped convict and spent several months in prison. Then he was released and took up a variety of trades. He kept books and taught children to read and even hired out as a laborer digging earthworks. But always the man dreamed of returning to his country. He managed to save the necessary money. Then he got yellow fever. He was thought to be dead, and everyone divided up his possessions so that when he recovered he did not have so much as a shirt. He had to start all over. The man was very weak and was afraid he would have to stay there, but finally he made it back.”
Florent's voice became lower and lower and at last faded into a last quiver of the lips. Little Pauline was asleep, sent off by the end of the story, her head fallen against her cousin's shoulder. He held her with one arm and gently rocked her on one knee. Since no one seemed to pay any more attention to him, he remained there without moving, holding the sleeping child.
Now for the last round, as Quenu liked to put it. He took the boudin from the pot. So that it would not break or tangle, he drew it out by rolling it around a thick wooden stick and then took it into the courtyard, where it was hung on screens to dry rapidly. Léon helped him, lifting up the ends when a piece was too long. The pungent garlands of blood sausage left a trail of strong steam that thickened the air. Auguste shot one last glance