The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [90]
At first, the uproar, the deluge of words, had been disturbing. He still had a feeling of emptiness, but also a need to be slapped into excitement, to be swept away by some extreme resolution that could calm his troubled soul. The smell of the room, the smell of alcohol warmed by tobacco smoke, intoxicated him, raising him to an ecstatic state where he could lose himself and accept the most radical ideas without question. He grew attached to those he met there and anxiously awaited their arrival with the pleasure of a growing habit. Robine's gentle, bearded face, Clémence's grave profile, Charvet's lean pallor, Logre's hump, and Gavard, Alexandre, and Lacaille—they all entered his life and were playing an ever-larger role.
Florent took a sensual pleasure in these meetings. The moment his fingers wrapped around the little copper knob of the room, it seemed alive, warmed his fingers, turned of its own accord. It would not have been a more stimulating sensation if his fingers had been touching the supple palm of a woman's hand.
In truth, serious things were going on in that little room. One evening Logre, who had been railing on even more violently than usual, pounding his fist on the table, declared that if they were really men, they would bury this government. He added that they should come to an understanding without delay, to be ready for action when the time came. Then they all bowed their heads and, in hushed voices, formed a little group that would be ready. From that day on, Gavard considered himself a member of a secret conspiratorial society. The circle was not in complete agreement, but Logre promised to put them in touch with other circles that he knew, and then, once all of Paris was within their grasp, they would make the crowd at the Tuileries dance. Then a series of endless discussions began and continued over a period of several months; questions of organization, questions of ends and means, questions of strategy and of the future government. As soon as Rose had brought Clémence's grog Charvet's and Robine's beer, coffee for Gavard and Florent, and little liqueur glasses for Lacaille and Alexandre, the door was carefully secured and the meeting began.
Charvet and Florent were the most compelling and most listened to. Gavard could not hold his tongue and little by little revealed the entire story of Cayenne, which cast Florent in the glory of martyrdom. His words became testaments of faith. One day the poultry merchant, angry at hearing his friend, who happened to be absent, attacked, shouted, “Lay off Florent! He went to Cayenne!”
But Charvet was annoyed that Florent had this advantage and muttered through his teeth, “Cayenne, Cayenne. Turns out they were not so badly off there.” And he tried to make a case that exile was easier than staying in the country under oppression, mouth gagged in the face of a triumphant despot. Besides, if he hadn't happened to be arrested on December 2, that was not his fault. He implied that those who had let themselves be caught were imbeciles.
This underlying jealousy led to a systematic opposition to Florent. The discussion always ended with the two of them facing off for hours while the others sat in silence and neither one ever admitting defeat.
One of their favorite topics was the reorganization of the country after victory.
“We're the victorious ones, aren't we?” Gavard would begin. And, no one doubting the victory, each gave his opinion on the next step. There were two camps. Charvet, who claimed to be an hébertiste, was supported by Logre and Robine. Florent, always lost in his dream of humanitarian utopia, labeled himself a socialist and was backed by Alexandre and Lacaille. As for Gavard, he did not back off from advocating violence, but since he was often teased about his fortune with sarcasm, which annoyed him, he declared himself a communist.
“We have to wipe the slate clean,” Charvet would say as though delivering