The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [74]
Inevitably, one morning war broke out. That day, when Florent arrived at the Beautiful Norman's stall, he smelled an unbearable stench. There on the marble slab were a magnificent salmon, cut into and showing its rosy flesh, some creamy white turbots, a few conger eels stuck with black pins to mark their sections, a few pairs of soles, some red mullets, some sea bass, a fine display of fresh fish. But in the midst of all these fish with clear, gleaming eyes and bright red gills lay a large skate, reddish with dark spots, extraordinary in its exotic markings, but unfortunately rotten. Its tail was falling off, and the bones on the wings were sticking through the skin.
“You have to throw this skate away,” said Florent, walking up to her.
The Beautiful Norman emitted a little chuckle. Florent looked up and saw her standing against a bronze lamppost that held the gaslight for the stalls in her row. She seemed very large because she was standing on boxes to keep her feet out of the puddles. Her lips were pursed, her hair set in tight curls, her head held at a devious slant, slightly lowered, and her hands a little too red against her white apron—and Florent thought she looked even more beautiful than usual. He had never before seen her so decked out in jewelry Long pendants hung from her ears, she wore a chain around her neck, there was a brooch, and an imposing collection of rings on two fingers of her left hand and one right-hand finger.
Since she continued looking slyly at Florent and not answering him, Florent said, “Did you hear me? You have to get rid of that skate.”
But he hadn't noticed Mère Méhudin sitting in a chair, like a pile in a corner. Now she got up, ready for combat, and, planting her fists on the marble slab, insolently said, “And why does she have to throw out this skate? I don't suppose you're going to pay her for it.”
Then Florent understood. The other market women began to snicker. He could feel a revolt building around him, and one wrong word would set it off. So he held himself in, picked up the waste bucket from under the slab, and dumped the skate in himself. Mère Méhudin had already planted her fists on her hips, but the Beautiful Norman broke into a vicious laugh as Florent sternly marched off amid jeers that he pretended not to hear.
Every day there was a new trap, and he had to stalk the alleys with the caution of someone in enemy territory. He was splattered with water from the sponges used to clean the slabs. He slipped and nearly fell on scraps deliberately placed in his path. Even the porters bumped the back of his neck with their baskets. One morning when he hurried to intercede between two women who were about to come to blows, he had to duck to avoid being slapped in the face by dabs that were being tossed overhead, which led to much laughter. Florent believed that the two women had conspired with the Méhudins. But his former trade as a teacher had taught him the patience of an angel. He knew how to maintain a magisterial coolness, even if anger was rising within him and his whole being shook with a sense of humiliation.
The waifs of rue de l'Estrapade had never had the ferocity of the women of Les Halles, the relentlessness of these huge women whose bellies and bosoms bobbed with the glee of giants whenever they could trick him in any way. They stared him down with their red faces. In the inflections of their hoarse voices, the swaying of their hips, the flips of their hands, he could read the obscenities being hurled at him. If Gavard had been