The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [87]
She would embellish in order to linger at the heater a little longer. The morning after the evening when she had heard Claire slam her door on Florent, she managed to spend a good half hour stretching out her story. What a disgrace, the cousin hopping from one bed to another!
“I saw him,” she said. “When he's had enough of the Norman, he tiptoes over to the little blonde. Yesterday he was leaving the blonde, no doubt going back to the big brunette, when he spotted me and changed course. It goes on all night. And the old lady sleeps in a closet between the two daughters' rooms.”
Lisa showed her contempt. She said very little, and Mademoiselle Saget was encouraged by the silence. But she listened closely. When the details were too sordid, she would mutter, “No, no, it's not acceptable. I can't believe that there are women like that.”
Then Mademoiselle Saget would answer, “My God, did you think all women were as decent as you?” Then she would feign great understanding for Florent. Men chase every skirt that passes their way. And maybe he's not even married? She slipped the question out without appearing to question. But Lisa refused to be judgmental about her cousin. She just shrugged her shoulders and pursed her lips. After Mademoiselle Saget had left, she would look with disdain at the spot on the metal heater where the old lady had left a mark with her grubby little hands.
“Augustine!” she shouted. “Bring a rag to wipe off the heater. It's disgusting.”
The rivalry between Beautiful Lisa and the Beautiful Norman intensified. The Beautiful Norman fantasized that she had snatched away a lover from her enemy, and Beautiful Lisa was furious that this lowlife, by luring Florent to her home, would end up compromising the standing of her entire family. Each pursued the conflict in a manner suiting her own temperament. One was calm and contemptuous, with the demeanor of a woman who hikes up her skirts to avoid soiling the hem. The other swaggered, flouncing down the street with the defiance of a duelist, daring someone to challenge her. The slightest skirmish between them would be the topic of the fish market gossip for an entire day. When the Beautiful Norman sighted Beautiful Lisa in the charcuterie doorway, she would go out of her way to walk by her, brushing her apron against her; then the two would glare at each other like two swords crossing with the flash and thrust of sharpened steel.
For her part, when Beautiful Lisa went to the fish market she always approached the Beautiful Norman's stall wearing an expression of disgust. Then she would make a major purchase, a turbot or a salmon, at the neighboring stall, spreading her money out on the marble slab, an act that she noticed greatly pained the “lowlife,” who would stop laughing. Listening to the two rivals, one would have had the impression that they sold nothing but rotten fish and tainted sausages.
The principal combat took place with the Beautiful Norman at her stall and Beautiful Lisa at her counter, glaring ferociously at each other across rue Rambuteau. They were enthroned in their great white aprons, coiffed and bejeweled. Battle commenced at dawn.
“Look at that, the cow has stood up!” shouted the Beautiful Norman. “She's encased as tight as her sausages, that woman. Oh my, she's wearing the same collar she wore on Saturday. And she's still wearing that poplin dress.”
At the same moment, on the other side of the street, Beautiful Lisa was telling her shopgirl, “Just look at that creature over there, staring at us. The kind of life she leads is beginning to show on her. See those earrings she's wearing. I think they're those big pears, aren't they? What a shame, such jewels on a girl like that.”
“Just think what they must have cost,” answered Augustine, playing along.
Any time one of them had a new piece of jewelry it was a victory and the other nearly died of chagrin. Every morning they would count and analyze each other's customers and become irritable if it seemed that “The big thing across the way” was doing a better business.