The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [99]
When someone asked, “Where's your mama?” he would make an adorable gesture, a sweep of his hand that included every woman in sight. He was a child of the market, always clinging to the skirts of one woman or another, eating where he found a meal, clothed by the grace of God, and somehow he always had a few sous in the bottom of his threadbare pocket. A handsome redheaded girl who sold medicinal plants named him Marjolin, though no one knew why.
When Marjolin was nearly four years old, Mère Chantemesse happened to find a child, a little girl, on the sidewalk of rue Saint-Denis by the corner of the market. The little thing looked to be about two years old. She was already chattering like a magpie, strangling words in her incessant childish babble. But Mère Chantemesse was able to glean that her name was Cadine and that her mother had left her sitting in a doorway the night before with instructions to wait for her return.
The child had slept there and did not cry. She said that she had been beaten at home, and she seemed happy to follow Mère Chantemesse, enchanted by the large square full of so many people and so many vegetables. Mère Chantemesse, who sold retail, was a kind old witch, nearly sixty years old. She loved children and had lost three boys of her own when they were babies. She thought, “This little character is far too tough to die on me.” So she adopted Cadine.
But one evening, as Mère Chantemesse was leaving, holding Cadine's right hand, Marjolin came up and unceremoniously took the little girl's left hand.
“Well, young fellow,” said the old woman, stopping. “This place is taken. Have you given up Thérèse? You're getting a reputation as a flirt, you know.”
The boy looked at her, smiling and not letting go of the girl's hand. But he looked so pretty with his curly hair that she couldn't remain stern. “Well, come along then, you little rascal. I'll put you to bed too.”
And so she arrived at rue au Lard, where she lived, with a child in each hand. Marjolin made himself at home at Mère Chantemesse's. She smacked the two children when they got too noisy. She delighted in having them to shout at and get angry with and tuck into bed beneath the blankets. She had made them a little bed in an old street vendor's wheelbarrow with the wheels missing. It resembled a big cradle, a little bit hard and still smelling of vegetables that had long been stored there, cool and fresh under a damp cloth. And there, only four years old, Marjolin and Cadine slept in each other's arms.
They grew up together, always seen with their arms around each other's waists. At night Mère Chantemesse would hear them chatting softly. For hours Marjolin listened with gasps of astonishment to endless tales told in Cadine's melodious voice. She was very mischievous, inventing stories to scare him, telling him that the other night she had seen a man all in white at the foot of their bed staring at them and sticking out a large red tongue. Marjolin, breaking into a sweat, asked for details. Then she laughed at him, calling him a “big dodo.”
Other times they were silly and kicked each other under the bedding, Cadine snickering as she pulled her legs up to her chest so that Marjolin, striking with all his might, missed her and struck the wall. When that happened, Mère Chantemesse had to go and straighten out the covers, sending them both off to sleep with little smacks around the ears.
For a long time their bed was a playground. They took their toys into it along with stolen carrots and turnips. Every morning their adopted mother was surprised to find various strange objects there, including stones, leaves, apple cores, and dolls made of rags. On the most bitterly cold days, she would leave them there sleeping all day, Cadine's shock of black hair mingled with Marjolin's blond curls, their mouths so close to each other that they seemed to keep each other