The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [68]
Monsieur Lebigre ran a handsome establishment done in the latest modern style. Located on the right-hand side of rue Pirouette with a view of rue Rambuteau, the doorway flanked by four Norwegian pines in green planters, it was a worthy neighbor to the big Quenu-Gradelle charcuterie. The interior could be seen through the clear windows that were decorated with paintings of leaves, vines, and grapes against a muted green background. The floor was covered in large black and white tiles. At the far end yawned the entrance to the basement, above which a spiral staircase draped in red curtains rose to the second-floor billiard room. The bar on the right looked especially luxurious, glittering like well-polished silver. The bulging border of the zinc hung over red-and-white marble, edged with rippling metal like embroidery. At one end, porcelain pots decorated with brass rings stood over gas burners, heating punch and wine. At the other end, an ornately sculpted marble fountain continually spilled a stream of water into a basin, flowing so perfectly that the water appeared to be motionless. In the center, surrounded on three sides by sloping zinc, was a cooling basin where partially emptied green bottles showed their necks. Armies of glasses, arranged in rows by size, stood on both sides—little eau-de-vie glasses, thick goblets for table wine, cups for fruit, absinthe glasses, beer mugs—the long stems upside down with their butts in the air, shining in the pale bar light. On the left, a metal urn bristled with a fan of spoons.
Usually Monsieur Lebigre was enthroned behind the counter, seated on a tufted red leather bench. The cut-glass liqueur decanters half concealed in the wells of a cabinet were within easy reach. His round back rested against a huge mirror that filled the entire panel behind him. Across the panel ran two glass shelves filled with an assortment of bottles and jars. One of the shelves held jars of preserved fruit—cherries, plums, peaches—in dark colors. On the other, between symmetrically arranged packages of cookies, were bright flasks—soft green, yellow, and warm red— suggesting unknown exotic liqueurs from flower extracts. On the glass shelf against the white glow of the mirror, these flasks seemed to be suspended in midair.
To give his establishment the ambience of a café, Monsieur Lebigre had placed two little tables and four bronzed metal chairs against the wall facing the counter. A chandelier with five lights in frosted globes hung from the ceiling. At the left, a gilded clock hung from a rotating mount on the wall. At the far end was a private section shut off by a partition of small squares of frosted glass. During the day a window let in a little light from rue Pirouette. In the evening a gaslight burned over the two tables, which were painted to resemble marble.
It was here that Gavard and his political friends met after dinner every night. They all felt perfectly at home there and had convinced the owner to reserve their spot. When Monsieur Lebigre closed the doors of the partition, they felt sealed from intrusion and spoke without reservation of “the big housecleaning.” No unauthorized customer would have dared intrude.
The first day, Gavard gave Florent some details about Monsieur Lebigre. He was a good man who sometimes came and had a coffee with them. You didn't have to be uneasy in front of him since he said that he had fought in '48. He didn't speak much and even seemed a bit stupid. As they passed in front of him to enter, each one grasped his hands in silence across the glasses and the bottles. Usually a small blond woman was at his side on the red leather couch, a girl he had hired to work at the bar along with the whiteaproned waiter who tended to the tables and the billiard room. Her name was Rose, and she was a sweet, obedient girl. Gavard winked as he told Florent how obedient she was with her employer. The men in the