The Belly of Paris (46 page)

She pulled the portrait from her pocket. Mademoiselle Saget sniffed it and snickered as she read, “From Louise, to her friend Florent,” then, in her sharp-edged voice she said, “That may be a mistake. You should keep that.”

“No, no,” Lisa interrupted. “I want all this foolishness to end.
Today's the day of reconciliation. Enough of all this. Let's have a peaceful neighborhood again.”

“So should I tell the Norman that you want to see her?” asked the elderly woman.

“Yes, I'd appreciate that.”

Mademoiselle Saget went back to rue Pirouette, where she alarmed the Norman by telling her she had just seen her portrait in Lisa's pocket. But she was not able to persuade the Norman to do as her rival had asked. The Norman had her conditions: she would go to the charcuterie only if Lisa would come out and meet her at the door. The elderly woman had to make two trips back and forth to settle the conditions for the upcoming encounter. But eventually she had the pleasure of negotiating an accord that was going to make some noise around the neighborhood. As she passed Claire's door one last time, she could still hear the sound of scissors in the plaster.

After having gotten a definitive response from the charcuterie woman, she hurried off to look for Madame Lecœur and La Sarriette. The three planted themselves at the corner of the fish market, opposite the charcuterie. From there they would miss nothing of the encounter. Growing impatient, they pretended to chat among themselves, watching rue Pirouette, where the Norman was expected to be coming out. Throughout Les Halles, gossip about the meeting was already circulating. The women, standing stiffly in their stalls, craned their necks in order to see. Others, more curious, left their places and took positions along the covered street. Every eye in Les Halles was turned toward the charcuterie. The neighborhood had been alerted.

It was a solemn moment. When the Norman finally emerged on rue Pirouette, no one was breathing.

“She has her diamonds on,” La Sarriette murmured.

“Look at the way she's walking,” added Madame Lecœur. “She's too aggressive.”

The truth was that the Beautiful Norman walked like a queen who deigned to accept an offer of peace. She had primped carefully, with her hair all in curls and the corners of her apron turned
up to show the cashmere skirt underneath; she even wore a lace bow of stunning lavishness. Feeling the eyes of Les Halles on her, she thrust her chest out and marched up to the charcuterie, stopping in front of the door. “Now it's Beautiful Lisa's turn,” said Mademoiselle Saget, watching closely.

Smiling Beautiful Lisa walked away from the counter, crossed the shop without hurrying, and gently offered her hand to the Beautiful Norman. She too was very well put together, her linen brilliantly white, radiating cleanliness. A whisper ran through the fish market; every head outside drew closer together as they chattered excitedly.

Now the two women were in the shop, and the paper from the window displays obstructed a clear view. But they seemed to be chatting cordially, giving each other little greetings, no doubt flattering each other.

“Look,” said Mademoiselle Saget. “The Beautiful Norman is buying something … What could she be buying? Oh, I think it's an andouille. Ah, did the rest of you see that? Beautiful Lisa gave her the photograph when she handed her the andouille.”

Then there were more pleasantries. Beautiful Lisa went beyond the courtesies she had planned on and said she would accompany the Beautiful Norman to the street. That's what she did, and they both laughed and showed the neighborhood what good friends they were. It was a cheerful moment for the neighborhood, and the fish women all went back to their stalls, agreeing that it had all gone very well.

But Mademoiselle Saget detained Madame Lecœur and La Sarriette. The drama was reaching its climax. The three of them fixed their eyes on the house across from them with a curiosity that hoped to penetrate the stone walls of the building. To pass the time, they gossiped a bit about the Beautiful Norman.

“Now she doesn't have a man,” said Madame Lecœur.

“She has Monsieur Lebigre,” observed La Sarriette, chuckling.

“Monsieur Lebigre isn't going to want her anymore.”

Mademoiselle Saget shrugged, saying, “You don't really know
him. He couldn't care less about all this. He is a man who knows how to do business, and the Norman is rich. In two months they'll be together, you'll see. Mère Méhudin has been working on this marriage for a long time.”

“It doesn't matter,” the butter merchant insisted. “The inspector found her sleeping with Florent.”

“No, that's not what I said. The big beanpole had just left. I was there when they looked in her bed. The inspector examined it with his hands. There were two spots still warm.”

The elderly mademoiselle paused to catch her breath and then said with indignation, “You know what hurt most? To hear of all the terrible things that evil man taught little Muche. You wouldn't believe it. There was a whole bundle of them.”

“What horrors?” La Sarriette asked eagerly.

“Who knows? Filth, profanity. The inspector said he could be hanged for this alone. The man is a monster, going after a child like that. Little Muche doesn't amount to much, but that's no reason to fill him with that red propaganda, the poor thing.”

“Absolutely,” the other two agreed.

“Anyway, they're starting to get this scheming straightened out. I told you, you might recall, that there was ‘something hidden at the Quenus’ that didn't smell right.' You see, I have a keen nose … Thank God, now the neighborhood can breathe a little. All it needed was a good sweeping—because, I swear, it was going to end up with everyone afraid of being murdered in broad daylight. You can't live like that. Upheavals and fights and killing. And all because of one man, this Florent. And now, you see, Beautiful Lisa and the Beautiful Norman have made up, which is good news for them, and they had to do it for everyone's peace of mind. Now everything else will fall into place, you'll see. Oh, look, there's poor Monsieur Quenu laughing over there.”

Quenu was indeed outside again, his fat belly spilling over his apron, joking with Madame Taboureau's maid. He was in a good mood this morning. He squeezed the young maid's hands hard enough to make her cry out, in the best of charcuterie humor. Lisa
had a hard time getting him back into the kitchen. She paced up and down the shop, fearing that Florent would appear at any moment and wanting to keep the two of them apart.

“She's awfully anxious,” said Mademoiselle Saget. “Poor Monsieur Quenu has no idea. He's laughing like a child. You know, Madame Taboureau said she was going to get into a fight with the Quenus if they continued to ruin themselves by letting Florent stay there.”

“Meanwhile, they kept the inheritance,” Madame Lecœur commented.

“Oh, no, my dear. He got his share.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Oh, you can tell,” the elderly woman answered after a short hesitation and without offering any further evidence. “In fact, he took more than his share. The Quenus have lost several thousand francs. With a man of vices, money simply disappears. Maybe you hadn't heard. There was another woman.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” La Sarriette interjected. “Those skinny men have a lot of pride.”

“Yes, and not all that young, this woman. When a man wants it, he wants it—he'd grab them from anywhere. Madame Verlaque, the wife of the former fish inspector. You know her, that yellow-faced woman …”

But the other two would not accept that. “It's not possible. Madame Verlaque was in terrible shape.”

But Mademoiselle Saget had taken off. “I'm telling you. Are you calling me a liar? There's proof. Letters have been found from this woman, a whole bundle of letters in which she asked him for money, ten and twenty francs at a time. It's pretty obvious, that's what killed her husband.”

La Sarriette and Madame Lecœur were convinced. But they were growing impatient. They had been standing out on the street waiting for more than an hour. Their stalls might have been robbed in the meantime, they said. So Mademoiselle Saget found yet another story to hold them there. It was impossible for Florent to escape. He was going to come back, and it would be something to see
him arrested. And she gave the most minute details of the plan, so that the butter vendor and the fruit vendor continued to examine the building, looking it up and down, trying to peer through every chink and crack in the hopes of seeing the caps of the sergents de ville. But the house was calm and silent, bathing in the morning sunlight.

“You'd never guess that it's full of police,” said Madame Lecœur.

“They're all up there in the attic,” said the older woman. “They left the window just as they found it. But wait, isn't that one of them hidden behind the pomegranate on the balcony?”

They craned their necks and saw nothing.

“No, just a shadow,” said La Sarriette. “Even the little curtains don't stir. They all must be sitting down up there and not moving.”

At that very moment she saw Gavard walk out of the fish market looking preoccupied with something. They glanced at one another, their eyes gleaming, and not a word passed between them. They had huddled close together, standing very erect in their full skirts. The poultryman crossed over to them.

“Have you seen Florent around?” he asked.

They didn't answer.

“I need to talk to him right away,” Gavard continued. “He isn't in the fish market. He must have gone back home. But then you would have seen him.”

The three women were looking a little pale. They were still staring at one another, looking very serious, with a quiver in the corner of their lips. Since her brother-in-law still hesitated, Madame Lecœur snapped, “We've only been here five minutes. He probably came by before that.”

“Then I'll go up and take a chance climbing five flights,” Gavard answered with a laugh.

La Sarriette started to move to stop him, but her aunt grabbed her arm and whispered in her ear, “Let him go, you big idiot. It's what he deserves. That'll teach him to step on us.”

In a lower voice Mademoiselle Saget muttered, “He won't be telling people I eat bad meat anymore.”

Then the women had nothing to add. La Sarriette blushed
bright red, the other two remained yellow. They now turned their heads, embarrassed to look at one another. They didn't know what to do with their hands, so they hid them under their aprons. Intuitively their eyes wandered to the house, following Gavard through the stone walls, watching him climb five flights of stairs. When they estimated he had arrived in the bedroom, they began to shoot hard sideways glances at one another. La Sarriette laughed nervously. They thought they saw the curtain move for an instant, which they imagined had been caused by some kind of struggle.

But the outside of the house kept its look of warm tranquillity. A quarter of an hour passed in complete silence, total peace, during which time mounting emotions gripped them in the throat. They were nearly overcome when finally a man running out of the side alley went to find a cab. Five minutes later Gavard came down, followed by two policemen. Lisa, who had gone outside, had seen the cab coming and hurried back into the shop.

Gavard had turned white. Upstairs he had been searched and his pistol and box of cartridges had been found. To judge by the inspector's rude treatment of him and the reaction he had shown upon hearing his name, Gavard was lost. This was a terrible turn of events that he had never considered. The Tuileries would never pardon him. His legs had gone limp as though the executioner were awaiting him. But when he reached the street, he found enough strength to walk upright. He even gave a last smile, thinking that Les Halles would see him going to his death bravely.

Meanwhile, La Sarriette and Madame Lecœur ran to him. They asked what was happening, Madame Lecœur sobbing and the niece emotionally hugging her uncle. He held her tightly and slipped her a key, whispering in her ear, “Take everything and burn the papers.”

Like a man climbing the scaffold, he stepped into the cab. As soon as the coach disappeared around the corner of rue Pierre-Lescot, Madame Lecœur saw La Sarriette trying to hide the key in her pocket.

“It's no use, my dear,” she said between clenched teeth. “I saw
him put it in your hand. I swear to God, I will go to the prison and tell him everything if you're not nice.”

“But my dear aunt, I'm always nice,” La Sarriette answered with an awkward smile.

“Let's go to his place right away. No point in letting the police get their paws in his cupboards.”

Mademoiselle Saget had been listening wild-eyed, and now followed, running behind them with the biggest strides her little legs could manage. She couldn't care less about waiting for Florent now. From rue Rambuteau to rue de la Cossonnerie, she was very humble and full of little suggestions. She offered to speak to the concierge, Madame Léonce.

“We'll see. We'll see,” Madame Lecœur repeated curtly.

It turned out she needed to negotiate. Madame Léonce did not want to let these women go upstairs to her tenant's apartment. She stared at them severely, shocked by La Sarriette's badly tied shawl. But when the elderly mademoiselle whispered a few words and showed her the key, she made a decision. Feeling exasperated, once they were upstairs, she would let them into the rooms only one at a time, as though she were being forced to show thieves where she kept her money.

“Go on, take it all,” she said, flopping down on a chair.

La Sarriette tried the key on every wardrobe. The suspicious Madame Lecœur followed close behind—so close that La Sarriette complained, “You're in my way, Aunt, at least give me a little arm room.”

Finally a wardrobe was opened, the one in front of the window between the fireplace and the bed. The four women heaved sighs. On the middle shelf were about ten thousand francs in gold coins, methodically stacked in little piles. Gavard, whose real holdings had wisely been placed in the hands of a broker, held this amount in reserve for “the day the dogs are unleashed.” As he used to say with great solemnity, he was “ready to support the revolution.” He had sold a few securities and took particular pleasure in fondling these ten thousand francs every evening, contemplating them and
finding in them something bold and revolutionary. At night he would dream of a battle in his wardrobe: he could hear gunshots and the sound of paving stones being torn up and rolled down the street, voices of confusion and of victory, and it was his money that paid for it all.