The Belly of Paris by Émile Zola Read Free Book Online Page B

interminable line of prisoners.”
    From Paris to Le Havre the prisoners had not been given a drink of water or a mouthful of bread. Someone had forgotten to distribute rations before they left. For thirty-six hours they had had nothing to eat, until they were packed into the hold of the frigate
Canada
.
    The hunger had never left him. Florent searched through his past and could not recall a moment of plenty. He had become dry and emaciated, with a shrunken stomach and skin that drooped from his bones. And now that he was back in Paris, it seemed to him to be fat, haughty, and overloaded with food, while surrounded by sadness. He had returned on a bed of vegetables, rolling into town on a huge wave of food that troubled him.
    Had that festive carnival night continued all these seven years? Again he saw the open windows of the boulevard restaurants, laughing women, the city of gluttony he had left on that January day long ago. It seemed to him that everything had expanded and enlarged as though to keep up with the huge market, Les Halles, whose heavy breathing he was beginning to hear, still sluggish with yesterday's indigestion.
    Mère Chantemesse had finally decided on a dozen turnip bunches. She gathered them up in her apron, pressing them to her midriff, which made her look even plumper than usual, and she stayed on to chat some more in her drawling voice. When she finally left, Madame François sat beside Florent again.
    “Poor old Mère Chantemesse,” she said. “She must be at least seventy-two. I remember when I was a kid, her buying turnips from my father. And she has no family, only some little waif that she picked up God knows where, who gives her nothing but grief. But she gets by, selling a little and making a couple of francs' profit a day. If it were me, I could never spend all my days on the streets of Paris. She doesn't even have relatives.”
    Seeing that Florent was not talking, she asked, “Do you have relatives in Paris?”
    He seemed not to hear her. His old mistrust returned. His mind was swirling with old tales of police, their undercover agents on every street corner, and women selling the secrets they had pried loose from sad souls they took in. As he sat beside Madame François, she looked honest enough with her full, calm face and the black-and-yellow scarf around her head. She seemed about thirty-five, sturdy, with handsome good looks from her outdoor life. Her masculine bearing was softened by kind, soft dark eyes. She was a bit nosy, but it was a good-natured curiosity.
    “I have a nephew in Paris,” she said, continuing the one-sided conversation, not the least offended by Florent's silence. “He hasn't turned out to be any good. Now he's enlisted … It's always good to have somewhere to go. I suppose your parents will be surprised to see you. It feels good to get home, doesn't it?”
    All the while she talked, she never took her eyes off Florent, probably feeling sorry for him because he was so skinny. Then too, she guessed that there was a gentleman somewhere inside that tattered black overcoat, which was why she did not dare press a silver coin into his palm. But finally she did say, “You know, if you ever need anything—”
    But Florent cut her off with clumsy pride, saying that he had everything he needed and knew exactly where he was going. Thisseemed to please her, and she repeated several times, as though to reassure herself, “Oh good, then you just have to wait for daybreak.”
    A huge bell at the corner of the fruit market, right above Florent's head, started ringing. Its slow, regular notes seemed to awaken the market little by little. The carts kept coming with the growing ruckus of shouting wagoneers, the cracks of their whips, the iron wheel bands and horseshoes grinding into the stone pavement. The wagons, unable to move forward except in sudden jolts, lined up and slowly faded into the distant gray. All along rue du Pont-Neuf the carts unloaded, pulled close to the