The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [97]
She came and sat on the edge of the bed. Quenu was shaken.
“Listen to me carefully,” she said in a deeper voice. “You don't want, I imagine, to have your shop raided, your cellar cleaned out, your money stolen? If those men at Monsieur Lebigre's won, do you think that the next day you would be warmly snuggled in your bed the way you are now? And when you went down to the kitchen, do you think you would merrily start making your galantines like you will in a few minutes? No, you wouldn't, would you? So why do you talk about overthrowing the government that protects you and lets you prosper? You have a wife and a daughter. You should put them first. You would be to blame if you risked their well-being. It's only the people without hearth and home, with nothing to lose, who want the shooting to start. You don't want to be anyone's clown, do you? Then stay home, you big dope, sleep well, eat well, make money, keep a pure conscience, and let France work out her own problems, even if she is troubled by the empire. France does not need you!”
Then she laughed a lovely laugh, and Quenu was completely convinced. She was right, after all, and she was a beautiful woman, sitting on the edge of the bed, even so early in the morning, so clean and fresh and crisp in her white linen. While listening to her, his eyes fell upon their portraits on either side of the fireplace. Of course they were honest people. They had an aura of respectability, dressed in black and framed in gold. The bedroom too was the room of notable people. The lacy antimacassars gave the chairs an air of respectability. The rug, the curtains, the porcelain vases with country scenes bespoke their hard work and their taste for a good life. He wriggled deeper under the quilt, where he warmed himself as though taking a hot bath. It seemed to him that he had barely escaped losing all of this at Monsieur Lebigre's—his huge bed, his cozy bedroom, his charcuterie, to which his thoughts now returned with a sense of remorse. And from Lisa, from all the lovely things around her, arose a suffocating—but pleasant—sense of well-being.
“What a fool,” said his wife, seeing that she had won the argument. “Look at the path you were taking. But you see, you could have gone down that road only by trampling us, Pauline and me. Now, don't worry about judging the government. In the first place, all governments are the same. If you don't support one, you end up supporting another. It's inescapable. The main thing, when you grow old, is to spend your earnings in peace, with the knowledge that you came by the money honestly.”
Quenu nodded in approval. He wanted to explain himself. “It was Gavard …”
But she became serious and abruptly interrupted him. “No, it isn't Gavard. I know who it is. And he would do well to look after his own safety before compromising the security of others.”
“Are you talking about Florent?” Quenu timidly asked after a long pause.
She did not respond right away. She got up and turned to her desk, as though trying to control herself. Then in a clear voice she said, “Yes, Florent. You know how patient I am. I wouldn't make trouble between you and your brother for anything in the world. Family ties are sacred. But I have come to the end of my rope. Since he came here, things have steadily gotten worse. Besides … no, I won't say any more. I better not.”
Silence fell again. Then, while her husband stared at the ceiling in embarrassment, she continued more aggressively, “The truth is that he seems not to understand how much we've done for him. We've