The Belly of Paris (43 page)

Mademoiselle Saget continued, “After all, it's fair. Your brother-in-law might go too far if you let him. We were talking about you yesterday at Madame Taboureau's. She really is a good friend to you. She said that you were much too nice and if it were up to her, she would have put an end to it a long time ago.”

“Madame Taboureau said that?” murmured Lisa absentmindedly.

“Yes, she did, and Madame Taboureau is a woman to be listened to. Try to find out what that red material is. Then you'll tell me, won't you?”

But Lisa was no longer listening. She looked at the Petit Gervais
cheeses and the escargots on the other side of the string of sausages in the display. She seemed lost in some internal struggle that caused two small wrinkles to show on her silent face. Meanwhile the old woman had stuck her nose closer to the dishes on the counter. As though talking to herself, she muttered, “Well, look at that. There's some sliced sausages. They must be getting dry left a long time all cut up like that. Oh, and look, that boudin has burst open. Apparently it was stabbed with a fork. Someone ought to take it out of there. It's messing up the plate.”

Still distracted, Lisa handed her the sliced sausage and the broken blood sausage. “For you, if you'd like.”

It all vanished into the bag. Mademoiselle had become so used to gathering gifts that she didn't even bother with thanks anymore. Every morning she carried away the leftover scraps of the charcuterie. Then off she went to La Sarriette and Madame Lecœur to get her dessert and talk to them about Gavard.

Once she was alone, Lisa sat down on the bench behind the counter, as though she believed that being comfortable would help her to make a better decision. She had been very worried for the past week. One evening Florent had asked Quenu for five hundred francs. He had asked for it very casually, like a man who had an open account. Quenu had told him to consult his wife, and this very much displeased Florent. He shook a little as he asked Beautiful Lisa. But Lisa, without asking what the money was for, climbed the stairs to her room and gave him the five hundred francs. All she said was that she had jotted down a note on the inheritance account. Three days later he took another thousand francs.

“This act of his doesn't work, pretending to be so indifferent,” Lisa said to Quenu one night when they were going to bed. “You see, I was right to keep accounts. Wait! I haven't marked down today's thousand francs.”

She sat at her secretary and studied the pages of figures. Then she added, “I was right to leave space. I'm going to mark the withdrawals in the margins. Now he's going to waste it all, bit by bit. I've been expecting this for a long time.”

Quenu said nothing but went to bed feeling depressed. Every time his wife opened her secretary, the lid gave a sad little squeak that tore at his soul. He even promised to have a talk with his brother so that the Méhudins wouldn't ruin him. But he didn't dare. Within ten days Florent had asked for another fifteen hundred francs.

One evening Logre had said that things would move much faster if they could find some money. The next day he was thrilled to find that the words he had so carelessly tossed into the air had landed in his hands in the form of a little pile of gold, which he pocketed with a snicker, his hump heaving with joy Since then, there was an endless stream of needs: a certain section needed to rent a space, another had to support some disgruntled patriots, and then there were weapons to buy, as well as ammunition, rental charges, and police expenses.

Florent would give everything he had. He remembered his inheritance and the Beautiful Norman's advice, and he went to the source, Lisa's desk, restrained only by a mute fear of her disapproving face. It seemed to him that he could never have a chance to spend his money on a more righteous cause. Logre, brimming with enthusiasm, took to donning shocking pink ties and patent leather boots, the sight of which angered Lacaille.

“That makes three thousand francs in seven days,” Lisa told Quenu. “What do you say about that? It's a pretty thing, isn't it? If he continues on this path, it will take him four months at the most to spend the whole fifty thousand francs. That's it for old Gradelle, who spent forty years building up his savings.”

“That's your problem!” shouted Quenu. “You didn't have to tell him about the inheritance.”

But she looked at him sternly and said, “It's his money. He can take it all. It's not giving him the money that's bothering me. It's just knowing how badly he uses it. I've been telling you about this for long enough. It's time to end it.”

“Do what you like, I won't try to stop you,” Quenu declared, though his natural greed was still nagging him.

Though he was very fond of his brother, the idea of fifty thousand
francs being eaten up in four months was unbearable to him. After listening to the driveling of Mademoiselle Saget, Lisa could guess where the money was going. When the old woman ventured to mention the inheritance, Lisa took the opportunity to have it circulated in the neighborhood that Florent was taking his share and spending it as he saw fit. It was the next day after hearing the story of the red rags, that she made up her mind. She stayed in the shop only a few minutes, still feeling conflicted, glancing around at the sad appearance of the charcuterie, pigs sulking on their spikes. Mouton, sitting by a jar of meat drippings, had a ruffled coat and the mournful eyes of a cat no longer able to enjoy a peaceful life. Then she called Augustine to look after the counter and went upstairs to Florent's room.

When she entered, she was jolted by what she saw. The childlike innocence of the bed had been defiled by a bundle of red scarves drooping down all the way to the floor. On the mantel, between the gilded boxes and the old jars of cream, there were a few red armbands and scattered rosettes like splattered blood. The wall was adorned with flags hung from all the hooks on the faded gray wallpaper—squares of yellow, blue, green, and black. Lisa recognized them as the flags of the twenty sections. The sweet virginity of the room seemed defiled by this revolutionary decor. The dumb innocence left by the shopgirl, the wholesome feel of the curtains and the furniture, seemed caught in the reflection of a fire, and the photograph of Auguste and Augustine looked pale with horror.

Lisa examined everything—the flags, the armbands, the scarves—not touching anything, as though afraid that the horrible rags would burn her. She thought that she had been right, that this was what he had spent the money on. To her this was the abomination, the unbelievable deed that shook her to her being. Her money, money that had been come by honestly, was being used to organize and pay for a riot. She stood there, looking at the open flower of the pomegranate on the terrace resembling the bloodred rosettes, listening to the finch singing, sounding to her like the far-off echo of gunfire. She was seized by the idea that the insurrection was set to begin the next day. The banners fluttered, the scarves
marched out, a sudden burst of drums pounded her ears. She quickly descended the stairs, not even stopping to read the papers spread out on the table. She stopped on the second floor and got dressed.

At this fateful hour, Beautiful Lisa was carefully doing her hair with a steady hand. Her mind was made up, her face did not quiver, and she showed just a little more severity around the eyes. As she fastened her black silk dress, stretching the cloth with all the strength in her large fists, she recalled the words of Abbé Roustan. She had interrogated herself, and her conscience told her that what she was about to do was her duty.

Throwing the heavy shawl around her broad shoulders, she felt that she was about to carry out an act of great morality. She pulled on dark purple gloves and attached a thick veil to her hat. Before leaving she double-locked her desk, shooting it a look of reassurance, as though telling that troubled piece of furniture that it would soon be able to sleep in peace.

Quenu was at the doorway of the charcuterie, displaying his big white belly. He was surprised to see her leaving, and so dressed up at ten in the morning.

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

She fabricated a project that she was supposedly doing with Madame Taboureau. She added that she would pass by the Théâtre de la Gaîté to reserve some seats. Quenu ran after her, reminding her that he preferred center seats to see better. Then he went back to the store and she made her way to the taxi stand alongside Saint Eustache, got into a cab,
¹³
and, lowering the blinds, told the driver to go to the Théâtre de la Gaîté.

She was afraid of being followed. Once she had bought her tickets, she directed the cab to the Palais de Justice. Once at the gate she paid the driver and sent him off. Slowly she made her way through the rooms and hallways to the Prefecture of Police. Finding herself lost amid the rush of sergents de ville and men in heavy overcoats, she gave a man ten sous to take her to the office of the prefect. But to get to the prefect, she first had to have a letter of introduction. She was shown into a narrow room, decorated
like a luxury hotel, where a fat, bald man, dressed all in black, received her with surly coldness. Now she could speak.

Lifting her veil, she gave her name and told the whole story in a matter-of-fact tone, barely pausing to breathe. The bald man listened without interrupting, looking bored. When she finished he simply asked, “You're the sister-in-law of this man, are you not?”

“Yes,” Lisa answered. “We're respectable people. I don't want my husband involved.”

He shrugged his shoulders as if to say that the whole matter bored him. Then with impatience he added, “You see, I've been badgered about this business for more than a year now. Denunciation after denunciation, people are always pushing me, telling me to hurry. You have to understand that if I don't take action, it's because I would rather wait. We have our reasons. Here's the file. I can show it to you.”

He put a thick pile of papers in a blue folder in front of her. They were like miscellaneous disconnected chapters from the story she had told. The commissioners of police in Le Havre, Rouen, and Vernon had all announced Florent's arrival. Then came a report confirming his installation at the Quenu-Gradelles' and after that his appointment in Les Halles, his life, his evenings at Monsieur Lebigre's—no details were missing. Astounded, Lisa noted that there were duplicate reports, which must have come from two sources. At the end she found a pile of letters, anonymous letters in different shapes and formats and every kind of handwriting. She recognized a thin, spindly penmanship, the hand of Mademoiselle Saget, denouncing the group in the glass-paneled room. She saw a large sheet of greasy paper stained with Madame Lecœur's big paddles and a glossy sheet, decorated with a yellow pansy, covered with the scratchings of La Sarriette and Monsieur Jules—both letters advising the government to keep an eye on Gavard. She also recognized the abusive style of Mère Méhudin, repeating in four almost indecipherable pages all the stories about Florent that circulated in Les Halles. But she was especially struck by one on her own letterhead, Charcuterie Quenu-Gradelle, on which Auguste had sold out the man he considered to be an obstacle
to his wedding. The policeman had his own secret motive for letting her see the file.

“Do you recognize any of these handwritings?” he asked her.

She stammered, “No.” She had stood up. What she had just learned had taken her breath away her veil now lowered to conceal the confusion that was showing on her cheeks. Her silk dress rustled. Her dark gloves vanished beneath her shawl.

The bald man smiled faintly as he said, “You see, Madame Quenu, your information has come a bit late. But we shall make a note of what you have done, I promise you. Most important, tell your husband not to do anything. Certain circumstances may arise …”

He did not finish what he was saying but nodded an abrupt good-bye, getting halfway out of his chair. It was a dismissal. She left immediately. Outside the room she saw Logre and Monsieur Lebigre, who quickly turned away. But she was more upset than they were. She crossed the rooms and passed through the hallways as though she had become part of the police world where, at this moment, she was certain that everything was seen and known. Finally she exited by place Dauphine and walked slowly along the quai de l'Horloge, revived by a breeze from the Seine.

What most upset her was the complete pointlessness of what she had done. Her husband was not in any danger. This was a relief, though it gave her a twinge of remorse. She was angry with Auguste and the women who had managed to put her in this ridiculous position. Slowing her pace, she watched the flow of the river—the barges black with coal dust sliding downstream through the green water while along the bank fishermen were casting their lines.

Truthfully, Lisa was not the one who had handed Florent over to the police. She was suddenly struck by this thought, surprised by it. Would it, then, have been a terrible sin if she had handed him over? She was confused, disturbed by the possibility that she might have been misled by her conscience. The anonymous letters were clearly wrong. But she had gone openly and given her name, trying to save everyone. When she thought suddenly of old Gradelle's inheritance, she searched her conscience and found herself perfectly willing to throw all the money into the river, if that would clear the
charcuterie of any wrong. No, she wasn't greedy. It wasn't the money that had motivated her. Crossing the pont au Change, she calmed herself and regained her equilibrium. It was good that the others had beaten her to the police. Now there was no need to lie to Quenu, and for that she would sleep better.

“Did you get the seats?” Quenu asked when she got back. He wanted to see them and to have explained to him the exact location of their balcony seats. Lisa had imagined the police rushing to the scene of the crime as soon as she warned them, and her plan to go to the theater had simply been a clever ruse to get her husband away from the house while Florent was being arrested. The plan called for her to take him for a walk in the afternoon, one of those excursions that they sometimes took, taking a cab to the Bois de Boulogne, eating in a restaurant, and lingering at a café-concert.