Then he paused to catch his breath and, turning the tray, shoved it farther over on the table. The women fish sellers bent forward and gently touched the turbot with their fingertips. Then the auctioneer began again, hurling figures at the buyers with a thrust of his hand and responding to the most subtle sign of a bid—a finger raised, an eyebrow arched, lips beginning to purse, an eye winking—and this with such a jumble of words and such speed that Florent, completely incapable of following it, felt uneasy when the hunchback, in a singsong voice like that of a priest chanting a psalm, said, “Forty-two! Forty-two! The turbot is sold at forty-two francs!”
It was the Beautiful Norman who made the final bid. Florent recognized her in the line of women selling fish pressed against the iron rail around the auction space. It was a cool morning. There was a row of fur stoles above the assortment of large white aprons, covering the plentiful stomachs and bosoms and formidable shoulders. With her bun twisted high on her head, adorned with curls, and her white, delicate flesh, the Beautiful Norman showed off her lacy bow amid the tangle of locks covered with dirty kerchiefs, the red noses of heavy drinkers, the scornful mouths and faces like cracked pottery.
The Beautiful Norman, for her part, recognizing Madame Quenu's cousin, was surprised to see him and started gossiping about him to the women around her.
The roar of voices became so loud that Monsieur Verlaque gave up on his explanations to Florent. Nearby, men were calling out deluxe fish with prolonged shouts that sounded as though they came out of bullhorns. One man bellowed out, “Mussels! Mussels!” in such a loud, hoarse voice that it vibrated the roofs of the market. Some of the bags of mussels were dumped upside down, the shellfish poured into hampers, while other bags were emptied with shovels. An unending parade of straw trays with skates, soles, mackerel, eels, and salmon were carried back and forth to the cackling cries of pushing fish women getting louder and louder and leaning so hard on the iron rails that they were starting to creak under the weight. The auctioneer, the hunchback, now in his stride, protruded his jaw and flailed the air with his thin arms. And then, as though driven wild by the avalanche of numbers that shot from his mouth, he leaped onto a stool, where, with his twisted mouth and his hair flying behind him, he could wrench nothing more from his parched throat than unintelligible hisses. Meanwhile, up above, a little old man, his voice muffled in a collar of fake astrakhan,5 the collector of municipal fees, sat with nothing but his nose showing from beneath a black velvet cap. The tall brown-haired clerk, with flashing eyes in her calm face, slightly reddened by the cold, sat on a high wooden chair, peacefully writing, apparently undisturbed by the commotion of the hunchback, who seemed to ripple the edges of her skirts.
“That man Logre is fantastic,” Monsieur Verlaque said softly with a smile on his face. “He's the best auctioneer in the market. He could sell a pair of shoe soles as a pair of choice flounder.”
Then he and Florent went back into the pavilion. Passing by the fresh fish auction where there was less passion to the bidding, Monsieur Verlaque explained that river fishing in France was not doing well. The auctioneer, a light-haired, sorry-looking man without hand gestures, was auctioning off some lots of crayfish and eels in a monotonous voice while his helpers kept him in supply by scooping out the tanks with short-handled nets.
Meanwhile, the horde gathering around the sales desk was still growing. Monsieur Verlaque conscientiously served as Florent's instructor, elbowing a path, guiding his successor through the most crowded sections where the major retailers congregated, quietly waiting for the best fish and loading the porters' shoulders with tuna, turbots, and salmon they had bought. At ground level the street merchants were divvying up the herring and dabs they had bought together. And there were a few upper-middle-class gentlemen, small property owners who had come at four in the morning from the far corners of the city in search of one truly fresh fish but had ended up with an entire lot bid down to them, forty or fifty francs' worth of seafood, and were spending their day trying to sell off the ones they could not use. From time to time some rough shoving would break out in one corner of the crowd or another. A saleswoman who had gotten too pressed in would push her way free, raising her fists and cursing ferociously. Then the crowd would re-form tightly. Florent, feeling suffocated, announced that he had seen enough and now he understood everything he needed to know.
While Monsieur Verlaque was helping him extricate himself, they found themselves face-to-face with the Beautiful Norman. She stood with her feet planted firmly in front of them and asked, with her regal air, “Is it definite, Monsieur Verlaque, that you're leaving us?”
“Yes, yes,” said the small man. “I'm going to rest in the country, in Clamart. It seems that the smell of fish is bad for my health … By the way, here's my replacement.”
With that he turned to show her Florent. The Beautiful Norman nearly choked. As Florent walked away, he thought he could make out her whisper to the women nearby, “Now we're going to have some fun, I think.”
The saleswomen were beginning to set up their stalls. There was a great rush of water from the faucets at the corners of the marble slabs. There was a gurgling sound, the hiss of jets of water sloshing along the edges of the tables with a line of drops rolling down with the hush of a stream, slopping into the alleys where little rivers coursed, filling holes and indents, turning them into miniature lakes and then into a thousand tributaries that ran downhill to rue Rambuteau. A haze, a dust cloud of rain, rose up, refreshing Florent's face, a breath of sea air, the air both bitter and salty, that he remembered well. He once more saw, in the fish that were being spread out, opalescent pinks, brilliant corals, and milky pearls, all the colors and pastels of the sea.
This first morning left him feeling uncertain. He already regretted having given in to Lisa. Ever since his escape from the fatty repose of the sleepy kitchen, he had been accusing himself of cowardice with such vehemence that he almost wept. But he could not go back on his word. He was intimidated by Lisa and could picture the curl of her lips, the silent reproach on her beautiful face. She seemed too imposing a woman and far too confident to argue with. Fortunately Gavard had given him a comforting idea. On the evening of the day on which Monsieur Verlaque had given him his tour, Gavard pulled him aside and explained to him hesitantly that “the poor devil” was not happy. Then, after tearing into the miserable government that worked its people to death without even assuring them the means to die well, he suggested that it would be a charitable thing to donate part of his salary to the former inspector. Florent agreed enthusiastically.
It was so perfectly fair. After all, he was supposed to be a temporary replacement for Monsieur Verlaque. Besides, Florent ate and slept at his brother's and didn't need anything. Gavard added that fifty francs out of a monthly salary of one hundred fifty francs would seem quite generous and added in a low voice that he wouldn't have to give it for very long because the man was consumptive to his bones. It was agreed that Florent would arrange everything with Verlaque's wife so as not to upset her husband.
This largesse made Florent feel better about the position, and he could now take it on as a way of helping someone else, reestablishing himself in his customary role. But he made the poultry dealer swear not to tell anyone about the arrangement, and Gavard, who was a bit afraid of Lisa, kept the secret.
Now the entire charcuterie was happy. Beautiful Lisa was very warm toward her brother-in-law. She made sure that he got to bed early so that he would get up good and early and she would have a hot breakfast waiting. And now that he wore his official braided cap, she was no longer embarrassed to be seen chatting with him in the doorway. Quenu, thrilled by all these positive signs, sat at the evening table between his wife and his brother, more content than ever. Dinner often continued until nine o'clock, with only Augustine manning the shop. They lingered over their digestion with neighborhood gossip and Lisa's opinionated judgments on the politics of the day. Florent was made to tell how things had gone at the fish market
that day.
Bit by bit Florent succumbed and developed a taste for the stable life. The light yellow dining room's middle-class tidiness softened him whenever he crossed its threshold. Beautiful Lisa's care wrapped him in a warm comforter and softened both his body and mind. It was an atmosphere of mutual esteem and serenity.
But Gavard thought that things at the Quenu-Gradelles' were just a bit too sleepy. He forgave Lisa her fondness for the emperor because, he said, you cannot argue politics with women and the beautiful charcuterie woman was, after all, an honest person who managed her business well. Personally, he preferred to spend his evenings at Monsieur Lebigre's, where he had a circle of friends who shared his views. When Florent was named fish inspector, Gavard began to corrupt him, taking him away for hours, arguing that now that he had established himself he should start living the bachelor's life.
Monsieur Lebigre ran a handsome establishment done in the latest modern style. Located on the right-hand side of rue Pirouette with a view of rue Rambuteau, the doorway flanked by four Norwegian pines in green planters, it was a worthy neighbor to the big Quenu-Gradelle charcuterie. The interior could be seen through the clear windows that were decorated with paintings of leaves, vines, and grapes against a muted green background. The floor was covered in large black and white tiles. At the far end yawned the entrance to the basement, above which a spiral staircase draped in red curtains rose to the second-floor billiard room. The bar on the right looked especially luxurious, glittering like well-polished silver. The bulging border of the zinc hung over red-and-white marble, edged with rippling metal like embroidery. At one end, porcelain pots decorated with brass rings stood over gas burners, heating punch and wine. At the other end, an ornately sculpted marble fountain continually spilled a stream of water into a basin, flowing so perfectly that the water appeared to be motionless. In the center, surrounded on three sides by sloping zinc, was a cooling basin where partially emptied green bottles showed their necks. Armies of glasses, arranged in rows by size, stood on both sides—little eau-de-vie glasses, thick goblets for table wine, cups for fruit, absinthe glasses, beer mugs—the long stems upside down with their butts in the air, shining in the pale bar light. On the left, a metal urn bristled with a fan of spoons.
Usually Monsieur Lebigre was enthroned behind the counter, seated on a tufted red leather bench. The cut-glass liqueur decanters half concealed in the wells of a cabinet were within easy reach. His round back rested against a huge mirror that filled the entire panel behind him. Across the panel ran two glass shelves filled with an assortment of bottles and jars. One of the shelves held jars of preserved fruit—cherries, plums, peaches—in dark colors. On the other, between symmetrically arranged packages of cookies, were bright flasks—soft green, yellow, and warm red— suggesting unknown exotic liqueurs from flower extracts. On the glass shelf against the white glow of the mirror, these flasks seemed to be suspended in midair.
To give his establishment the ambience of a café, Monsieur Lebigre had placed two little tables and four bronzed metal chairs against the wall facing the counter. A chandelier with five lights in frosted globes hung from the ceiling. At the left, a gilded clock hung from a rotating mount on the wall. At the far end was a private section shut off by a partition of small squares of frosted glass. During the day a window let in a little light from rue Pirouette. In the evening a gaslight burned over the two tables, which were painted to resemble marble.
It was here that Gavard and his political friends met after dinner every night. They all felt perfectly at home there and had convinced the owner to reserve their spot. When Monsieur Lebigre closed the doors of the partition, they felt sealed from intrusion and spoke without reservation of “the big housecleaning.” No unauthorized customer would have dared intrude.
The first day, Gavard gave Florent some details about Monsieur Lebigre. He was a good man who sometimes came and had a coffee with them. You didn't have to be uneasy in front of him since he said that he had fought in '48. He didn't speak much and even seemed a bit stupid. As they passed in front of him to enter, each one grasped his hands in silence across the glasses and the bottles. Usually a small blond woman was at his side on the red leather couch, a girl he had hired to work at the bar along with the whiteaproned waiter who tended to the tables and the billiard room. Her name was Rose, and she was a sweet, obedient girl. Gavard winked as he told Florent how obedient she was with her employer. The men in the back room were served by Rose, who entered and exited with a humble, happy air in the middle of the most stormy political disputes.
The day the poultry merchant introduced Florent to his friends, the only one they found in the glassed-in room was a fiftyish man, who seemed quiet and thoughtful. He wore a somewhat seedy-looking hat and a long chestnut-colored overcoat, and he sat resting his chin on the ivory knob of a thick walking stick in front of a glass mug of beer. His mouth was hidden by a bushy beard, which gave his face a mute, lipless appearance.
“Robine, how are you?” Gavard asked.
Robine silently offered his hand without answering, but his face softened with a slight smile to greet him. Then he replaced his chin on the knob of his walking stick and looked at Florent over the top of his beer. Florent had made Gavard swear not to tell anyone his story for fear someone might be dangerously indiscreet, and he was not displeased to detect a little distrust in this gentleman with the thick beard. But in truth Robine was rarely any more talkative than he was just now. He was always the first to arrive just as the clock struck eight, always installing himself in the same corner, never letting go of his cane or removing his hat or overcoat. No one had ever seen Robine bareheaded. He sat there, listening to the others until midnight, taking four hours to empty one mug of beer, studying each speaker in his turn as though listening with his eyes. Later, when Florent asked Gavard about Robine, the poultry merchant seemed to have a high opinion of the man without being able to offer any reasons why but said that he was one of the government's most ardent opponents.
No one ever entered Robine's apartment on rue Saint-Denis, but Gavard claimed actually to have been inside it once. The polished floors were protected with green canvas runners. The furniture was covered, and there was a clock on alabaster pillars. He thought he had caught a glimpse of Madame Robine's back between two doors; she seemed to have been a very proper older woman with her hair done in English ringlets—but he couldn't be sure. It wasn't known why they lived in the commotion of a commercial district. The husband did absolutely nothing, spending his days who knew where, living on who knew what, and showing up every evening looking weary but excited by his journey to the pinnacle of the political scene.
“So,” said Gavard, picking up a newspaper, “have you read the speech from the throne?”
Robine shrugged. But the glass-paneled partition slammed noisily and a hunchback appeared. Florent recognized him from the market, now with washed hands and clean clothes, wearing a big red muffler, one end draped over his hump like the corner of a Venetian cape.
“Ah, here's Logre,” Gavard continued, “and he's going to tell us what he thought of the speech from the throne.”
Logre was furious. He almost yanked the hook off the wall as he hung up his hat and muffler. He sat down violently, banging the table with his fist and shoving away the newspaper as he demanded, “Did I read that pack of lies?” Then he exploded: “Did you ever hear of an employer treating his staff like this? I waited a good two hours. There were ten of us in the office biding our time. Finally, Monsieur Manoury arrived in his carriage, straight from some tramp, no doubt. Those agents do nothing but steal and cheat. And then the pig paid me with nothing but small change.”
Robine made a slight movement of his eyelids to show sympathy for Logre. The hunchback quickly found his victim. “Rose! Rose!” he called, leaning out of the room. When the girl was facing him, trembling, he snapped, “What's going on? You saw me come in. Where's my coffee?”
Gavard ordered two more glasses of black coff
ee. Rose hurried to serve the three under the glare of Logre, who seemed to be studying his coffee and the little trays of sugar. After a sip he calmed down a bit.
“Charvet ought to come have a seat,” he quickly said. “He's out on the sidewalk, waiting for Clémence.”
Just then Charvet entered, followed by Clémence. He was a tall, bony youth with a pinched nose and thin lips who shaved carefully and lived behind the Luxembourg Gardens on rue Vavin. He called himself a freelance teacher, and politically he was an hébertiste.6 With his long, curly hair and the wide lapels on his threadbare coat, affecting the manner of a politician, he would unleash a flood of bitter words and demonstrate such a strangely lofty erudition that it instantly defeated most of his adversaries. Gavard was afraid of him, though he didn't admit it. Instead he would declare, when Charvet wasn't there, that he thought he went too far.
Robine agreed to everything with a slight movement of his eyebrows. Logre would occasionally take on Charvet on the subject of salaries. But Charvet remained the despot of the group, the most authoritative and the best informed. For more than ten years Clémence and he had lived together under a mutual agreement strictly observed by the two of them. Florent, who was slightly thrown by the sight of the woman, finally remembered where he had seen her. She was none other than the tall, dark secretary at the fish market, who wrote with long, graceful fingers, like a well-taught young woman.
Rose appeared on the heels of these two newcomers and without saying a word deposited a stein of beer in front of Charvet and a tray in front of Clémence, who began preparing grog, pouring hot water over the lemon, which she crushed with a spoon, adding sugar and rum with a measure to avoid exceeding the correct amount.