The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [92]
Though the discussions never accomplished much, they did help them to vent. This produced a great deal of noise in the little room, and the frosted glass vibrated like drum skins. Sometimes it became so loud that Rose, languidly serving a customer a drink outside, would turn her head nervously.
“Good God, it's getting rough in there,” the customer would say, putting his glass back down on the zinc counter and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Monsieur Lebigre calmly, “it's just some gentlemen having a discussion.”
Monsieur Lebigre, normally very strict with his other customers, let these debaters shout to their heart's content and never said a word about it. He would sit for hours in his vest on the bench behind the counter, his big head nodding drowsily against the mirror, watching Rose uncorking bottles and wiping the counter with a towel. When he was in a good mood and she was in front of him, plunging glasses into the washbowl, her hands bare, he would pinch the fleshy parts of her legs without anyone being able to see him, and she would accept it with a pleasant smile. Even when he pinched her almost to the bone, she did not betray the familiarity with a sudden jump. She simply said that she wasn't ticklish.
Amid the scent of wine and warm liquors, he would turn his ear toward the ruckus coming from the little room. When he heard them getting loud, he would get up and walk over to lean against the divider. Sometimes he even pushed open the door, walked in, and sat down for a moment, giving Gavard a friendly slap on the leg. It was his nod of approval for everything said in the room. The poultry merchant said that Lebigre was not much of an orator, but he could be counted on when the time came.
One morning at the market a terrible quarrel erupted between Rose and a fish vendor when Rose accidentally knocked over a basket of herring with her elbow and was called a “sneak” and a “police stooge.” After Florent restored calm, he got an earful of tales about Monsieur Lebigre. The fish woman said that he worked for the police and everyone in the neighborhood knew it. Before Mademoiselle Saget was a customer of his, she had run into him walking into the prefecture to give his report. It was also asserted that he was a money-grubber, a usurer, and lent petty cash by the day to grocers and hired carts out to them, all at scandalous interest rates.
Florent was deeply shaken. That very evening in a low voice he whispered to the others what he had heard. They shrugged and laughed.
“Poor Florent,” said Charvet a little maliciously. “Because he was in Cayenne he imagines the entire police force dogging his heels.”
Gavard swore on his word of honor that Lebigre was “good and true.” But Logre was angry. His chair creaked as he babbled agitatedly that it was not possible to go on like this. If everyone was going to be accused of being with the police, he would rather just stay home and forget about politics. He reminded them that even he had once been accused of being mixed up with the police, he who had fought in both '48 and '51 and had twice escaped deportation only narrowly. As he proclaimed all this he stared at the others, his jaw jutting forward as though he wanted to hammer them with his conviction that he was not working for the police. Under his angry glare the others made gestures of protest. But when Lacaille heard Monsieur Lebigre accused of usury, he silently lowered his head.
The discussion continued, and the incident was forgotten. Ever since Logre had called for a conspiracy, Monsieur Lebigre had been particularly friendly to the regulars in his little room. The truth was that he didn't make much money from them because they never ordered more than one round of drinks.