The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [69]
The day the poultry merchant introduced Florent to his friends, the only one they found in the glassed-in room was a fiftyish man, who seemed quiet and thoughtful. He wore a somewhat seedy-looking hat and a long chestnut-colored overcoat, and he sat resting his chin on the ivory knob of a thick walking stick in front of a glass mug of beer. His mouth was hidden by a bushy beard, which gave his face a mute, lipless appearance.
“Robine, how are you?” Gavard asked.
Robine silently offered his hand without answering, but his face softened with a slight smile to greet him. Then he replaced his chin on the knob of his walking stick and looked at Florent over the top of his beer. Florent had made Gavard swear not to tell anyone his story for fear someone might be dangerously indiscreet, and he was not displeased to detect a little distrust in this gentleman with the thick beard. But in truth Robine was rarely any more talkative than he was just now. He was always the first to arrive just as the clock struck eight, always installing himself in the same corner, never letting go of his cane or removing his hat or overcoat. No one had ever seen Robine bareheaded. He sat there, listening to the others until midnight, taking four hours to empty one mug of beer, studying each speaker in his turn as though listening with his eyes. Later, when Florent asked Gavard about Robine, the poultry merchant seemed to have a high opinion of the man without being able to offer any reasons why but said that he was one of the government's most ardent opponents.
No one ever entered Robine's apartment on rue Saint-Denis, but Gavard claimed actually to have been inside it once. The polished floors were protected with green canvas runners. The furniture was covered, and there was a clock on alabaster pillars. He thought he had caught a glimpse of Madame Robine's back between two doors; she seemed to have been a very proper older woman with her hair done in English ringlets—but he couldn't be sure. It wasn't known why they lived in the commotion of a commercial district. The husband did absolutely nothing, spending his days who knew where, living on who knew what, and showing up every evening looking weary but excited by his journey to the pinnacle of the political scene.
“So,” said Gavard, picking up a newspaper, “have you read the speech from the throne?”
Robine shrugged. But the glass-paneled partition slammed noisily and a hunchback appeared. Florent recognized him from the market, now with washed hands and clean clothes, wearing a big red muffler, one end draped over his hump like the corner of a Venetian cape.
“Ah, here's Logre,” Gavard continued, “and he's going to tell us what he thought of the speech from the throne.”
Logre was furious. He almost yanked the hook off the wall as he hung up his hat and muffler. He sat down violently, banging the table with his fist and shoving away the newspaper as he demanded, “Did I read that pack of lies?” Then he exploded: “Did you ever hear of an employer treating his staff like this? I waited a good two hours. There were ten of us in the office biding our time. Finally, Monsieur Manoury arrived in his carriage, straight from some tramp, no doubt. Those agents do nothing but steal and cheat. And then the pig paid me with nothing but small change.”
Robine made a slight movement of his eyelids to show sympathy for Logre. The hunchback quickly found his victim. “Rose! Rose!” he called, leaning out of the room. When the girl was facing him, trembling, he snapped, “What's going on? You saw me come in. Where's my coffee?”
Gavard ordered two more glasses of black coffee. Rose hurried to serve the three under the glare of Logre, who seemed to be studying his coffee and the little trays of sugar. After a sip he calmed down a bit.
“Charvet ought to come have a seat,” he quickly said. “He's out on the sidewalk, waiting for Clémence.”
Just then Charvet entered, followed by Clémence.