CHAPTER III

Three days later the necessary formalities were gone through, and

without demur the police authorities at the Prefecture accepted Florent

on Monsieur Verlaque’s recommendation as his substitute. Gavard, by the

way, had made it a point to accompany them. When he again found himself

alone with Florent he kept nudging his ribs with his elbow as they

walked along together, and laughed, without saying anything, while

winking his eyes in a jeering way. He seemed to find something very

ridiculous in the appearance of the police officers whom they met on

the Quai de l’Horloge, for, as he passed them, he slightly shrugged his

shoulders and made the grimace of a man seeking to restrain himself

from laughing in people’s faces.

On the following morning Monsieur Verlaque began to initiate the new

inspector into the duties of his office. It had been arranged that

during the next few days he should make him acquainted with the

turbulent sphere which he would have to supervise. Poor Verlaque, as

Gavard called him was a pale little man, swathed in flannels,

handkerchiefs, and mufflers. Constantly coughing, he made his way

through the cool, moist atmosphere, and running waters of the fish

market, on a pair of scraggy legs like those of a sickly child.

When Florent made his appearance on the first morning, at seven

o’clock, he felt quite distracted; his eyes were dazed, his head ached

with all the noise and riot. Retail dealers were already prowling about

the auction pavilion; clerks were arriving with their ledgers, and

consigners’ agents, with leather bags slung over their shoulders, sat

on overturned chairs by the salesmen’s desks, waiting to receive their

cash. Fish was being unloaded and unpacked not only in the enclosure,

but even on the footways. All along the latter were piles of small

baskets, an endless arrival of cases and hampers, and sacks of mussels,

from which streamlets of water trickled. The auctioneers’ assistants,

all looking very busy, sprang over the heaps, tore away the straw at

the tops of the baskets, emptied the latter, and tossed them aside.

They then speedily transferred their contents in lots to huge

wickerwork trays, arranging them with a turn of the hand so that they

might show to the best advantage. And when the large tray-like baskets

were all set out, Florent could almost fancy that a whole shoal of fish

had got stranded there, still quivering with life, and gleaming with

rosy nacre, scarlet coral, and milky pearl, all the soft, pale, sheeny

hues of the ocean.

The deep-lying forests of seaweed, in which the mysterious life of the

ocean slumbers, seemed at one haul of the nets to have yielded up all

they contained. There were cod, keeling, whiting, flounders, plaice,

dabs, and other sorts of common fish of a dingy grey with whitish

splotches; there were conger-eels, huge serpent-like creatures, with

small black eyes and muddy, bluish skins, so slimy that they still

seemed to be gliding along, yet alive. There were broad flat skate with

pale undersides edged with a soft red, and superb backs bumpy with

vertebrae, and marbled down to the tautly stretched ribs of their fins

with splotches of cinnabar, intersected by streaks of the tint of

Florentine bronze—a dark medley of colour suggestive of the hues of a

toad or some poisonous flower. Then, too, there were hideous dog-fish,

with round heads, widely-gaping mouths like those of Chinese idols, and

short fins like bats’ wings; fit monsters to keep yelping guard over

the treasures of the ocean grottoes. And next came the finer fish,

displayed singly on the osier trays; salmon that gleamed like chased

silver, every scale seemingly outlined by a graving-tool on a polished

metal surface; mullet with larger scales and coarser markings; large

turbot and huge brill with firm flesh white like curdled milk;

tunny-fish, smooth and glossy, like bags of blackish leather; and

rounded bass, with widely gaping mouths which a soul too large for the

body seemed to have rent asunder as it forced its way out amidst the

stupefaction of death. And on all sides there were sole, brown and

grey, in pairs; sand-eels, slim and stiff, like shavings of pewter;

herrings, slightly twisted, with bleeding gills showing on their

silver-worked skins; fat dories tinged with just a suspicion of

carmine; burnished mackerel with green-streaked backs, and sides

gleaming with ever-changing iridescence; and rosy gurnets with white

bellies, their head towards the centre of the baskets and their tails

radiating all around, so that they simulated some strange florescence

splotched with pearly white and brilliant vermilion. There were rock

mullet, too, with delicious flesh, flushed with the pinky tinge

peculiar to the Cyprinus family; boxes of whiting with opaline

reflections; and baskets of smelts—neat little baskets, pretty as those

used for strawberries, and exhaling a strong scent of violets. And

meantime the tiny black eyes of the shrimps dotted as with beads of jet

their soft-toned mass of pink and grey; and spiny crawfish and lobsters

striped with black, all still alive, raised a grating sound as they

tried to crawl along with their broken claws.

Florent gave but indifferent attention to Monsieur Verlaque’s

explanations. A flood of sunshine suddenly streamed through the lofty

glass roof of the covered way, lighting up all these precious colours,

toned and softened by the waves—the iridescent flesh-tints of the

shell-fish, the opal of the whiting, the pearly nacre of the mackerel,

the ruddy gold of the mullets, the plated skins of the herrings, and

massive silver of the salmon. It was as though the jewel-cases of some

sea-nymph had been emptied there—a mass of fantastical, undreamt-of

ornaments, a streaming and heaping of necklaces, monstrous bracelets,

gigantic brooches, barbaric gems and jewels, the use of which could not

be divined. On the backs of the skate and the dog-fish you saw, as it

were, big dull green and purple stones set in dark metal, while the

slender forms of the sand-eels and the tails and fins of the smelts

displayed all the delicacy of finely wrought silver-work.

And meantime Florent’s face was fanned by a fresh breeze, a sharp, salt

breeze redolent of the sea. It reminded him of the coasts of Guiana and

his voyages. He half fancied that he was gazing at some bay left dry by

the receding tide, with the seaweed steaming in the sun, the bare rocks

drying, and the beach smelling strongly of the brine. All around him

the fish in their perfect freshness exhaled a pleasant perfume, that

slightly sharp, irritating perfume which depraves the appetite.

Monsieur Verlaque coughed. The dampness was affecting him, and he

wrapped his muffler more closely about his neck.

“Now,” said he, “we will pass on to the fresh water fish.”

This was in a pavilion beside the fruit market, the last one, indeed,

in the direction of the Rue Rambuteau. On either side of the space

reserved for the auctions were large circular stone basins, divided

into separate compartments by iron gratings. Slender streams of water

flowed from brass jets shaped like swan’s necks; and the compartments

were filled with swarming colonies of crawfish, black-backed carp ever

on the move, and mazy tangles of eels, incessantly knotting and

unknotting themselves. Again was Monsieur Verlaque attacked by an

obstinate fit of coughing. The moisture of the atmosphere was more

insipid here than amongst the sea water fish: there was a riverside

scent, as of sun-warmed water slumbering on a bed of sand.

A great number of crawfishes had arrived from Germany that morning in

cases and hampers, and the market was also crowded with river fish from

Holland and England. Several men were unpacking shiny carp from the

Rhine, lustrous with ruddy metallic hues, their scales resembling

bronzed _cloisonne_ enamel; and others were busy with huge pike, the

cruel iron-grey brigands of the waters, who ravenously protruded their

savage jaws; or with magnificent dark-hued with verdigris. And amidst

these suggestions of copper, iron, and bronze, the gudgeon and perch,

the trout, the bleak, and the flat-fish taken in sweep-nets showed

brightly white, the steel-blue tints of their backs gradually toning

down to the soft transparency of their bellies. However, it was the fat

snowy-white barbel that supplied the liveliest brightness in this

gigantic collection of still life.

Bags of young carp were being gently emptied into the basins. The fish

spun round, then remained motionless for a moment, and at last shot

away and disappeared. Little eels were turned out of their hampers in a

mass, and fell to the bottom of the compartments like tangled knots of

snakes; while the larger ones—those whose bodies were about as thick as

a child’s arm—raised their heads and slipped of their own accord into

the water with the supple motion of serpents gliding into the

concealment of a thicket. And meantime the other fish, whose death

agony had been lasting all the morning as they lay on the soiled osiers

of the basket-trays, slowly expired amidst all the uproar of the

auctions, opening their mouths as though to inhale the moisture of the

air, with great silent gasps, renewed every few seconds.

However, Monsieur Verlaque brought Florent back to the salt water fish.

He took him all over the place and gave him the minutest particulars

about everything. Round the nine salesmen’s desks ranged along three

sides of the pavilion there was now a dense crowd of surging, swaying

heads, above which appeared the clerks, perched upon high chairs and

making entries in their ledgers.

“Are all these clerks employed by the salesmen?” asked Florent.

By way of reply Monsieur Verlaque made a detour along the outside

footway, led him into the enclosure of one of the auctions, and then

explained the working of the various departments of the big yellow

office, which smelt strongly of fish and was stained all over by

drippings and splashings from the hampers. In a little glazed

compartment up above, the collector of the municipal dues took note of

the prices realised by the different lots of fish. Lower down, seated

upon high chairs and with their wrists resting upon little desks, were

two female clerks, who kept account of the business on behalf of the

salesmen. At each end of the stone table in front of the office was a

crier who brought the basket-trays forward in turn, and in a bawling

voice announced what each lot consisted of; while above him the female

clerk, pen in hand, waited to register the price at which the lots were

knocked down. And outside the enclosure, shut up in another little

office of yellow wood, Monsieur Verlaque showed Florent the cashier, a

fat old woman, who was ranging coppers and five-franc pieces in piles.

“There is a double control, you see,” said Monsieur Verlaque; “the

control of the Prefecture of the Seine and that of the Prefecture of

Police. The latter, which licenses the salesmen, claims to have the

right of supervision over them; and the municipality asserts its right

to be represented at the transactions as they are subject to taxation.”

He went on expatiating at length in his faint cold voice respecting the

rival claims of the two Prefectures. Florent, however, was paying but

little heed, his attention being concentrated on a female clerk sitting

on one of the high chairs just in front of him. She was a tall, dark

woman of thirty, with big black eyes and an easy calmness of manner,

and she wrote with outstretched fingers like a girl who had been taught

the regulation method of the art.

However, Florent’s attention was diverted by the yelping of the crier,

who was just offering a magnificent turbot for sale.

“I’ve a bid of thirty francs! Thirty francs, now; thirty francs!”

He repeated these words in all sorts of keys, running up and down a

strange scale of notes full of sudden changes. Humpbacked and with his

face twisted askew, and his hair rough and disorderly, he wore a great

blue apron with a bib; and with flaming eyes and outstretched arms he

cried vociferously: “Thirty-one! thirty-two! thirty-three! Thirty-three

francs fifty centimes! thirty-three fifty!”

Then he paused to take breath, turning the basket-tray and pushing it

farther upon the table. The fish-wives bent forward and gently touched

the turbot with their finger-tips. Then the crier began again with

renewed energy, hurling his figures towards the buyers with a wave of

the hand and catching the slightest indication of a fresh bid—the

raising of a finger, a twist of the eyebrows, a pouting of the lips, a

wink, and all with such rapidity and such a ceaseless jumble of words

that Florent, utterly unable to follow him, felt quite disconcerted

when, in a sing-song voice like that of a priest intoning the final

words of a versicle, he chanted: “Forty-two! forty-two! The turbot goes

for forty-two francs.”

It was the beautiful Norman who had made the last bid. Florent

recognised her as she stood in the line of fish-wives crowding against

the iron rails which surrounded the enclosure. The morning was fresh

and sharp, and there was a row of tippets above the display of big

white aprons, covering the prominent bosoms and stomachs and sturdy

shoulders. With high-set chignon set off with curls, and white and

dainty skin, the beautiful Norman flaunted her lace bow amidst tangled

shocks of hair covered with dirty kerchiefs, red noses eloquent of

drink, sneering mouths, and battered faces suggestive of old pots. And

she also recognised Madame Quenu’s cousin, and was so surprised to see

him there that she began gossiping to her neighbours about him.

The uproar of voices had become so great that Monsieur Verlaque

renounced all further attempt to explain matters to Florent. On the

footway close by, men were calling out the larger fish with prolonged

shouts, which sounded as though they came from gigantic

speaking-trumpets; and there was one individual who roared “Mussels!

Mussels!” in such a hoarse, cracked, clamorous voice that the very

roofs of the market shook. Some sacks of mussels were turned upside

down, and their contents poured into hampers, while others were emptied

with shovels. And there was a ceaseless procession of basket-trays

containing skate, soles, mackerel, conger-eels, and salmon, carried

backwards and forwards amidst the ever-increasing cackle and pushing of

the fish-women as they crowded against the iron rails which creaked

with their pressure. The humpbacked crier, now fairly on the job, waved

his skinny arms in the air and protruded his jaws. Presently, seemingly

lashed into a state of frenzy by the flood of figures that spurted from

his lips, he sprang upon a stool, where, with his mouth twisted

spasmodically and his hair streaming behind him, he could force nothing

more than unintelligible hisses from his parched throat. And in the

meantime, up above, the collector of municipal dues, a little old man,

muffled in a collar of imitation astrachan, remained with nothing but

his nose showing under his black velvet skullcap. And the tall,

dark-complexioned female clerk, with eyes shining calmly in her face,

which had been slightly reddened by the cold, sat on her high wooden

chair, quietly writing, apparently unruffled by the continuous rattle

which came from the hunchback below her.

“That fellow Logre is wonderful,” muttered Monsieur Verlaque with a

smile. “He is the best crier in the markets. I believe he could make

people buy boot soles in the belief they were fish!”

Then he and Florent went back into the pavilion. As they again passed

the spot where the fresh water fish was being sold by auction, and

where the bidding seemed much quieter, Monsieur Verlaque explained that

French river fishing was in a bad way.[*] The crier here, a fair,

sorry-looking fellow, who scarcely moved his arms, was disposing of

some lots of eels and crawfish in a monotonous voice, while the

assistants fished fresh supplies out of the stone basins with their

short-handled nets.

[*] M. Zola refers, of course, to the earlier years of the Second

Empire. Under the present republican Government, which has largely

fostered fish culture, matters have considerably improved.—Translator.

However, the crowd round the salesmen’s desks was still increasing.

Monsieur Verlaque played his part as Florent’s instructor in the most

conscientious manner, clearing the way by means of his elbows, and

guiding his successor through the busiest parts. The upper-class retail

dealers were there, quietly waiting for some of the finer fish, or

loading the porters with their purchases of turbot, tunny, and salmon.

The street-hawkers who had clubbed together to buy lots of herrings and

small flat-fish were dividing them on the pavement. There were also

some people of the smaller middle class, from distant parts of the

city, who had come down at four o’clock in the morning to buy a really

fresh fish, and had ended by allowing some enormous lot, costing from

forty to fifty francs, to be knocked down to them, with the result that

they would be obliged to spend the whole day in getting their friends

and acquaintances to take the surplus off their hands. Every now and

then some violent pushing would force a gap through part of the crowd.

A fish-wife, who had got tightly jammed, freed herself, shaking her

fists and pouring out a torrent of abuse. Then a compact mass of people

again collected, and Florent, almost suffocated, declared that he had

seen quite enough, and understood all that was necessary.

As Monsieur Verlaque was helping him to extricate himself from the

crowd, they found themselves face to face with the handsome Norman. She

remained stock-still in front of them, and with her queenly air

inquired:

“Well, is it quite settled? You are going to desert us, Monsieur

Verlaque?”

“Yes, yes,” replied the little man; “I am going to take a rest in the

country, at Clamart. The smell of the fish is bad for me, it seems.

Here, this is the gentleman who is going to take my place.”

So speaking he turned round to introduce Florent to her. The handsome

Norman almost choked; however, as Florent went off, he fancied he could

hear her whisper to her neighbours, with a laugh: “Well, we shall have

some fine fun now, see if we don’t!”

The fish-wives had begun to set out their stalls. From all the taps at

the corners of the marble slabs water was gushing freely; and there was

a rustling sound all round, like the plashing of rain, a streaming of

stiff jets of water hissing and spurting. And then, from the lower side

of the sloping slabs, great drops fell with a softened murmur,

splashing on the flagstones where a mass of tiny streams flowed along

here and there, turning holes and depressions into miniature lakes, and

afterwards gliding in a thousand rills down the slope towards the Rue

Rambuteau. A moist haze ascended, a sort of rainy dust, bringing fresh

whiffs of air to Florent’s face, whiffs of that salt, pungent sea

breeze which he remembered so well; while in such fish as was already

laid out he once more beheld the rosy nacres, gleaming corals, and

milky pearls, all the rippling colour and glaucous pallidity of the

ocean world.

That first morning left him much in doubt; indeed, he regretted that he

had yielded to Lisa’s insistence. Ever since his escape from the greasy

drowsiness of the kitchen he had been accusing himself of base weakness

with such violence that tears had almost risen in his eyes. But he did

not dare to go back on his word. He was a little afraid of Lisa, and

could see the curl of her lips and the look of mute reproach upon her

handsome face. He felt that she was too serious a woman to be trifled

with. However, Gavard happily inspired him with a consoling thought. On

the evening of the day on which Monsieur Verlaque had conducted him

through the auction sales, Gavard took him aside and told him, with a

good deal of hesitation, that “the poor devil” was not at all well off.

And after various remarks about the scoundrelly Government which ground

the life out of its servants without allowing them even the means to

die in comfort, he ended by hinting that it would be charitable on

Florent’s part to surrender a part of his salary to the old inspector.

Florent welcomed the suggestion with delight. It was only right, he

considered, for he looked upon himself simply as Monsieur Verlaque’s

temporary substitute; and besides, he himself really required nothing,

as he boarded and lodged with his brother. Gavard added that he thought

if Florent gave up fifty francs out of the hundred and fifty which he

would receive monthly, the arrangement would be everything that could

be desired; and, lowering his voice, he added that it would not be for

long, for the poor fellow was consumptive to his very bones. Finally it

was settled that Florent should see Monsieur Verlaque’s wife, and

arrange matters with her, to avoid any possibility of hurting the old

man’s feelings.

The thought of this kindly action afforded Florent great relief, and he

now accepted his duties with the object of doing good, thus continuing

to play the part which he had been fulfilling all his life. However, he

made the poultry dealer promise that he would not speak of the matter

to anyone; and as Gavard also felt a vague fear of Lisa, he kept the

secret, which was really very meritorious in him.

And now the whole pork shop seemed happy. Handsome Lisa manifested the

greatest friendliness towards her brother-in-law. She took care that he

went to bed early, so as to be able to rise in good time; she kept his

breakfast hot for him; and she no longer felt ashamed at being seen

talking to him on the footway, now that he wore a laced cap. Quenu,

quite delighted by all these good signs, sat down to table in the

evening between his wife and brother with a lighter heart than ever.

They often lingered over dinner till nine o’clock, leaving the shop in

Augustine’s charge, and indulging in a leisurely digestion interspersed

with gossip about the neighbourhood, and the dogmatic opinions of Lisa

on political topics; Florent also had to relate how matters had gone in

the fish market that day. He gradually grew less frigid, and began to

taste the happiness of a well-regulated existence. There was a

well-to-do comfort and trimness about the light yellowish dining room

which had a softening influence upon him as soon as he crossed its

threshold. Handsome Lisa’s kindly attentions wrapped him, as it were,

in cotton-wool; and mutual esteem and concord reigned paramount.

Gavard, however, considered the Quenu-Gradelles’ home to be too drowsy.

He forgave Lisa her weakness for the Emperor, because, he said, one

ought never to discuss politics with women, and beautiful Madame Quenu

was, after all, a very worthy person, who managed her business

admirably. Nevertheless, he much preferred to spend his evenings at

Monsieur Lebigre’s, where he met a group of friends who shared his own

opinions. Thus when Florent was appointed to the inspectorship of the

fish market, Gavard began to lead him astray, taking him off for hours,

and prompting him to lead a bachelor’s life now that he had obtained a

berth.

Monsieur Lebigre was the proprietor of a very fine establishment,

fitted up in the modern luxurious style. Occupying the right-hand

corner of the Rue Pirouette, and looking on to the Rue Rambuteau, it

formed, with its four small Norwegian pines in green-painted tubs

flanking the doorway, a worthy pendant to the big pork shop of the

Quenu-Gradelles. Through the clear glass windows you could see the

interior, which was decorated with festoons of foliage, vine branches,

and grapes, painted on a soft green ground. The floor was tiled with

large black and white squares. At the far end was the yawning cellar

entrance, above which rose a spiral staircase hung with red drapery,

and leading to the billiard-room on the first floor. The counter or

“bar” on the right looked especially rich, and glittered like polished

silver. Its zinc-work, hanging with a broad bulging border over the

sub-structure of white and red marble, edged it with a rippling sheet

of metal as if it were some high altar laden with embroidery. At one

end, over a gas stove, stood porcelain pots, decorated with circles of

brass, and containing punch and hot wine. At the other extremity was a

tall and richly sculptured marble fountain, from which a fine stream of

water, so steady and continuous that it looked as though it were

motionless, flowed into a basin. In the centre, edged on three sides by

the sloping zinc surface of the counter, was a second basin for rinsing

and cooling purposes, where quart bottles of draught wine, partially

empty, reared their greenish necks. Then on the counter, to the right

and left of this central basin, were batches of glasses symmetrically

arranged: little glasses for brandy, thick tumblers for draught wine,

cup glasses for brandied fruits, glasses for absinthe, glass mugs for

beer, and tall goblets, all turned upside down and reflecting the

glitter of the counter. On the left, moreover, was a metal urn, serving

as a receptacle for gratuities; whilst a similar one on the right

bristled with a fan-like arrangement of coffee spoons.

Monsieur Lebigre was generally to be found enthroned behind his counter

upon a seat covered with buttoned crimson leather. Within easy reach of

his hand were the liqueurs in cut-glass decanters protruding from the

compartments of a stand. His round back rested against a huge mirror

which completely filled the panel behind him; across it ran two glass

shelves supporting an array of jars and bottles. Upon one of them the

glass jars of preserved fruits, cherries, plums, and peaches, stood out

darkly; while on the other, between symmetrically arranged packets of

finger biscuits, were bright flasks of soft green and red and yellow

glass, suggesting strange mysterious liqueurs, or floral extracts of

exquisite limpidity. Standing on the glass shelf in the white glow of

the mirror, these flasks, flashing as if on fire, seemed to be

suspended in the air.

To give his premises the appearance of a café, Monsieur Lebigre had

placed two small tables of bronzed iron and four chairs against the

wall, in front of the counter. A chandelier with five lights and

frosted globes hung down from the ceiling. On the left was a round gilt

timepiece, above a _tourniquet_[*] fixed to the wall. Then at the far

end came the private “cabinet,” a corner of the shop shut off by a

partition glazed with frosted glass of a small square pattern. In the

daytime this little room received a dim light from a window that looked

on to the Rue Pirouette; and in the evening, a gas jet burnt over the

two tables painted to resemble marble. It was there that Gavard and his

political friends met each evening after dinner. They looked upon

themselves as being quite at home there, and had prevailed on the

landlord to reserve the place for them. When Monsieur Lebigre had

closed the door of the glazed partition, they knew themselves to be so

safely screened from intrusion that they spoke quite unreservedly of

the great “sweep out” which they were fond of discussing. No

unprivileged customer would have dared to enter.

[*] This is a kind of dial turning on a pivot, and usually enclosed in

a brass frame, from which radiate a few small handles or spokes. Round

the face of the dial—usually of paper—are various numerals, and between

the face and its glass covering is a small marble or wooden ball. The

appliance is used in lieu of dice or coins when two or more customers

are “tossing” for drinks. Each in turn sends the dial spinning round,

and wins or loses according to the numeral against which the ball rests

when the dial stops. As I can find no English name for the appliance, I

have thought it best to describe it.—Translator.

On the first day that Gavard took Florent off he gave him some

particulars of Monsieur Lebigre. He was a good fellow, he said, who

sometimes came to drink his coffee with them; and, as he had said one

day that he had fought in ‘48, no one felt the least constraint in his

presence. He spoke but little, and seemed rather thick-headed. As the

gentlemen passed him on their way to the private room they grasped his

hand in silence across the glasses and bottles. By his side on the

crimson leather seat behind the counter there was generally a fair

little woman, whom he had engaged as counter assistant in addition to

the white-aproned waiter who attended to the tables and the

billiard-room. The young woman’s name was Rose, and she seemed a very

gentle and submissive being. Gavard, with a wink of his eye, told

Florent that he fancied Lebigre had a weakness for her. It was she, by

the way, who waited upon the friends in the private room, coming and

going, with her happy, humble air, amidst the stormiest political

discussions.

Upon the day on which the poultry dealer took Florent to Lebigre’s to

present him to his friends, the only person whom the pair found in the

little room when they entered it was a man of some fifty years of age,

of a mild and thoughtful appearance. He wore a rather shabby-looking

hat and a long chestnut-coloured overcoat, and sat, with his chin

resting on the ivory knob of a thick cane, in front of a glass mug full

of beer. His mouth was so completely concealed by a vigorous growth of

beard that his face had a dumb, lipless appearance.

“How are you, Robine?” exclaimed Gavard.

Robine silently thrust out his hand, without making any reply, though

his eyes softened into a slight smile of welcome. Then he let his chin

drop on to the knob of his cane again, and looked at Florent over his

beer. Florent had made Gavard swear to keep his story a secret for fear

of some dangerous indiscretion; and he was not displeased to observe a

touch of distrust in the discreet demeanour of the gentleman with the

heavy beard. However, he was really mistaken in this, for Robine never

talked more than he did now. He was always the first to arrive, just as

the clock struck eight; and he always sat in the same corner, never

letting go his hold of his cane, and never taking off either his hat or

his overcoat. No one had ever seen him without his hat upon his head.

He remained there listening to the talk of the others till midnight,

taking four hours to empty his mug of beer, and gazing successively at

the different speakers as though he heard them with his eyes. When

Florent afterwards questioned Gavard about Robine, the poultry dealer

spoke of the latter as though he held him in high esteem. Robine, he

asserted, was an extremely clever and able man, and, though he was

unable to say exactly where he had given proof of his hostility to the

established order of things, he declared that he was one of the most

dreaded of the Government’s opponents. He lived in the Rue Saint Denis,

in rooms to which no one as a rule could gain admission. The poultry

dealer, however, asserted that he himself had once been in them. The

wax floors, he said, were protected by strips of green linen; and there

were covers over the furniture, and an alabaster timepiece with

columns. He had caught a glimpse of the back of a lady, who was just

disappearing through one doorway as he was entering by another, and had

taken her to be Madame Robine. She appeared to be an old lady of very

genteel appearance, with her hair arranged in corkscrew curls; but of

this he could not be quite certain. No one knew why they had taken up

their abode amidst all the uproar of a business neighbourhood; for the

husband did nothing at all, spending his days no one knew how and

living on no one knew what, though he made his appearance every evening

as though he were tired but delighted with some excursion into the

highest regions of politics.

“Well, have you read the speech from the throne?” asked Gavard, taking

up a newspaper that was lying on the table.

Robine shrugged his shoulders. Just at that moment, however, the door

of the glazed partition clattered noisily, and a hunchback made his

appearance. Florent at once recognised the deformed crier of the fish

market, though his hands were now washed and he was neatly dressed,

with his neck encircled by a great red muffler, one end of which hung

down over his hump like the skirt of a Venetian cloak.

“Ah, here’s Logre!” exclaimed the poultry dealer. “Now we shall hear

what he thinks about the speech from the throne.”

Logre, however, was apparently furious. To begin with he almost broke

the pegs off in hanging up his hat and muffler. Then he threw himself

violently into a chair, and brought his fist down on the table, while

tossing away the newspaper.

“Do you think I read their fearful lies?” he cried.

Then he gave vent to the anger raging within him. “Did ever anyone

hear,” he cried, “of masters making such fools of their people? For two

whole hours I’ve been waiting for my pay! There were ten of us in the

office kicking our heels there. Then at last Monsieur Manoury arrived

in a cab. Where he had come from I don’t know, and don’t care, but I’m

quite sure it wasn’t any respectable place. Those salesmen are all a

parcel of thieves and libertines! And then, too, the hog actually gave

me all my money in small change!”

Robine expressed his sympathy with Logre by the slight movement of his

eyelids. But suddenly the hunchback bethought him of a victim upon whom

to pour out his wrath. “Rose! Rose!” he cried, stretching his head out

of the little room.

The young woman quickly responded to the call, trembling all over.

“Well,” shouted Logre, “what do you stand staring at me like that for?

Much good that’ll do! You saw me come in, didn’t you? Why haven’t you

brought me my glass of black coffee, then?”

Gavard ordered two similar glasses, and Rose made all haste to bring

what was required, while Logre glared sternly at the glasses and little

sugar trays as if studying them. When he had taken a drink he seemed to

grow somewhat calmer.

“But it’s Charvet who must be getting bored,” he said presently. “He is

waiting outside on the pavement for Clemence.”

Charvet, however, now made his appearance, followed by Clemence. He was

a tall, scraggy young man, carefully shaved, with a skinny nose and

thin lips. He lived in the Rue Vavin, behind the Luxembourg, and called

himself a professor. In politics he was a disciple of Hébert.[*] He

wore his hair very long, and the collar and lapels of his threadbare

frock-coat were broadly turned back. Affecting the manner and speech of

a member of the National Convention, he would pour out such a flood of

bitter words and make such a haughty display of pedantic learning that

he generally crushed his adversaries. Gavard was afraid of him, though

he would not confess it; still, in Charvet’s absence he would say that

he really went too far. Robine, for his part, expressed approval of

everything with his eyes. Logre sometimes opposed Charvet on the

question of salaries; but the other was really the autocrat of the

coterie, having the greatest fund of information and the most

overbearing manner. For more than ten years he and Clemence had lived

together as man and wife, in accordance with a previously arranged

contract, the terms of which were strictly observed by both parties to

it. Florent looked at the young woman with some little surprise, but at

last he recollected where he had previously seen her. This was at the

fish auction. She was, indeed, none other than the tall dark female

clerk whom he had observed writing with outstretched fingers, after the

manner of one who had been carefully instructed in the art of holding a

pen.

[*] Hébert, as the reader will remember, was the furious demagogue with

the foul tongue and poisoned pen who edited the _Père Duchesne_ at the

time of the first French Revolution. We had a revival of his politics

and his journal in Paris during the Commune of 1871.—Translator.

Rose made her appearance at the heels of the two newcomers. Without

saying a word she placed a mug of beer before Charvet and a tray before

Clemence, who in a leisurely way began to compound a glass of “grog,”

pouring some hot water over a slice of lemon, which she crushed with

her spoon, and glancing carefully at the decanter as she poured out

some rum, so as not to add more of it than a small liqueur glass could

contain.

Gavard now presented Florent to the company, but more especially to

Charvet. He introduced them to one another as professors, and very able

men, who would be sure to get on well together. But it was probable

that he had already been guilty of some indiscretion, for all the men

at once shook hands with a tight and somewhat masonic squeeze of each

other’s fingers. Charvet, for his part, showed himself almost amiable;

and whether he and the others knew anything of Florent’s antecedents,

they at all events indulged in no embarrassing allusions.

“Did Manoury pay you in small change?” Logre asked Clemence.

She answered affirmatively, and produced a roll of francs and another

of two-franc pieces, and unwrapped them. Charvet watched her, and his

eyes followed the rolls as she replaced them in her pocket, after

counting their contents and satisfying herself that they were correct.

“We have our accounts to settle,” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, we’ll settle up to-night,” the young woman replied. “But we are

about even, I should think. I’ve breakfasted with you four times,

haven’t I? But I lent you a hundred sous last week, you know.”

Florent, surprised at hearing this, discreetly turned his head away.

Then Clemence slipped the last roll of silver into her pocket, drank a

little of her grog, and, leaning against the glazed partition, quietly

settled herself down to listen to the men talking politics. Gavard had

taken up the newspaper again, and, in tones which he strove to render

comic, was reading out some passages of the speech from the throne

which had been delivered that morning at the opening of the Chambers.

Charvet made fine sport of the official phraseology; there was not a

single line of it which he did not tear to pieces. One sentence

afforded especial amusement to them all. It was this: “We are

confident, gentlemen, that, leaning on your lights[*] and the

conservative sentiments of the country, we shall succeed in increasing

the national prosperity day by day.”

[*] In the sense of illumination of mind. It has been necessary to give

a literal translation of this phrase to enable the reader to realise

the point of subsequent witticisms in which Clemence and Gavard

indulge. —Translator.

Logre rose up and repeated this sentence, and by speaking through his

nose succeeded fairly well in mimicking the Emperor’s drawling voice.

“It’s lovely, that prosperity of his; why, everyone’s dying of hunger!”

said Charvet.

“Trade is shocking,” asserted Gavard.

“And what in the name of goodness is the meaning of anybody ‘leaning on

lights’?” continued Clemence, who prided herself upon literary culture.

Robine himself even allowed a faint laugh to escape from the depths of

his beard. The discussion began to grow warm. The party fell foul of

the Corps Législatif, and spoke of it with great severity. Logre did

not cease ranting, and Florent found him the same as when he cried the

fish at the auctions—protruding his jaws and hurling his words forward

with a wave of the arm, whilst retaining the crouching attitude of a

snarling dog. Indeed, he talked politics in just the same furious

manner as he offered a tray full of soles for sale.

Charvet, on the other hand, became quieter and colder amidst the smoke

of the pipes and the fumes of the gas which were now filling the little

den; and his voice assumed a dry incisive tone, sharp like a guillotine

blade, while Robine gently wagged his head without once removing his

chin from the ivory knob of his cane. However, some remark of Gavard’s

led the conversation to the subject of women.

“Woman,” declared Charvet drily, “is the equal of man; and, that being

so, she ought not to inconvenience him in the management of his life.

Marriage is a partnership, in which everything should be halved. Isn’t

that so, Clemence?”

“Clearly so,” replied the young woman, leaning back with her head

against the wall and gazing into the air.

However, Florent now saw Lacaille, the costermonger, and Alexandre, the

porter, Claude Lantier’s friend, come into the little room. In the past

these two had long remained at the other table in the sanctum; they did

not belong to the same class as the others. By the help of politics,

however, their chairs had drawn nearer, and they had ended by forming

part of the circle. Charvet, in whose eyes they represented “the

people,” did his best to indoctrinate them with his advanced political

theories, while Gavard played the part of the shopkeeper free from all

social prejudices by clinking glasses with them. Alexandre was a

cheerful, good-humoured giant, with the manner of a big merry lad.

Lacaille, on the other hand, was embittered; his hair was already

grizzling; and, bent and wearied by his ceaseless perambulations

through the streets of Paris, he would at times glance loweringly at

the placid figure of Robine, and his sound boots and heavy coat.

That evening both Lacaille and Alexandre called for a liqueur glass of

brandy, and then the conversation was renewed with increased warmth and

excitement, the party being now quite complete. A little later, while

the door of the cabinet was left ajar, Florent caught sight of

Mademoiselle Saget standing in front of the counter. She had taken a

bottle from under her apron, and was watching Rose as the latter poured

into it a large measureful of black-currant syrup and a smaller one of

brandy. Then the bottle disappeared under the apron again, and

Mademoiselle Saget, with her hands out of sight, remained talking in

the bright glow of the counter, face to face with the big mirror, in

which the flasks and bottles of liqueurs were reflected like rows of

Venetian lanterns. In the evening all the metal and glass of the

establishment helped to illuminate it with wonderful brilliancy. The

old maid, standing there in her black skirts, looked almost like some

big strange insect amidst all the crude brightness. Florent noticed

that she was trying to inveigle Rose into a conversation, and shrewdly

suspected that she had caught sight of him through the half open

doorway. Since he had been on duty at the markets he had met her at

almost every step, loitering in one or another of the covered ways, and

generally in the company of Madame Lecœur and La Sarriette. He had

noticed also that the three women stealthily examined him, and seemed

lost in amazement at seeing him installed in the position of inspector.

That evening, however, Rose was no doubt loath to enter into

conversation with the old maid, for the latter at last turned round,

apparently with the intention of approaching Monsieur Lebigre, who was

playing piquet with a customer at one of the bronzed tables. Creeping

quietly along, Mademoiselle Saget had at last managed to install

herself beside the partition of the cabinet, when she was observed by

Gavard, who detested her.

“Shut the door, Florent!” he cried unceremoniously. “We can’t even be

by ourselves, it seems!”

When midnight came and Lacaille went away he exchanged a few whispered

words with Monsieur Lebigre, and as the latter shook hands with him he

slipped four five-franc pieces into his palm, without anyone noticing

it. “That’ll make twenty-two francs that you’ll have to pay to-morrow,

remember,” he whispered in his ear. “The person who lends the money

won’t do it for less in future. Don’t forget, too, that you owe three

days’ truck hire. You must pay everything off.”

Then Monsieur Lebigre wished the friends good night. He was very sleepy

and should sleep well, he said, with a yawn which revealed his big

teeth, while Rose gazed at him with an air of submissive humility.

However, he gave her a push, and told her to go and turn out the gas in

the little room.

On reaching the pavement, Gavard stumbled and nearly fell. And being in

a humorous vein, he thereupon exclaimed: “Confound it all! At any rate,

I don’t seem to be leaning on anybody’s lights.”

This remark seemed to amuse the others, and the party broke up. A

little later Florent returned to Lebigre’s, and indeed he became quite

attached to the “cabinet,” finding a seductive charm in Robine’s

contemplative silence, Logre’s fiery outbursts, and Charvet’s cool

venom. When he went home, he did not at once retire to bed. He had

grown very fond of his attic, that girlish bedroom, where Augustine had

left scraps of ribbons, souvenirs, and other feminine trifles lying

about. There still remained some hair-pins on the mantelpiece, with

gilt cardboard boxes of buttons and lozenges, cutout pictures, and

empty pomade pots that retained an odour of jasmine. Then there were

some reels of thread, needles, and a missal lying by the side of a

soiled Dream-book in the drawer of the rickety deal table. A white

summer dress with yellow spots hung forgotten from a nail; while upon

the board which served as a toilet-table a big stain behind the

water-jug showed where a bottle of bandoline had been overturned. The

little chamber, with its narrow iron bed, its two rush-bottomed chairs,

and its faded grey wallpaper, was instinct with innocent simplicity.

The plain white curtains, the childishness suggested by the cardboard

boxes and the Dream-book, and the clumsy coquetry which had stained the

walls, all charmed Florent and brought him back to dreams of youth. He

would have preferred not to have known that plain, wiry-haired

Augustine, but to have been able to imagine that he was occupying the

room of a sister, some bright sweet girl of whose budding womanhood

every trifle around him spoke.

Yet another pleasure which he took was to lean out of the garret window

at nighttime. In front of it was a narrow ledge of roof, enclosed by an

iron railing, and forming a sort of balcony, on which Augustine had

grown a pomegranate in a box. Since the nights had turned cold, Florent

had brought the pomegranate indoors and kept it by the foot of his bed

till morning. He would linger for a few minutes by the open window,

inhaling deep draughts of the sharp fresh air which was wafted up from

the Seine, over the housetops of the Rue de Rivoli. Below him the roofs

of the markets spread confusedly in a grey expanse, like slumbering

lakes on whose surface the furtive reflection of a pane of glass

gleamed every now and then like a silvery ripple. Farther away the

roofs of the meat and poultry pavilions lay in deeper gloom, and became

mere masses of shadow barring the horizon. Florent delighted in the

great stretch of open sky in front of him, in that spreading expanse of

the markets which amidst all the narrow city streets brought him a dim

vision of some strip of sea coast, of the still grey waters of a bay

scarce quivering from the roll of the distant billows. He used to lose

himself in dreams as he stood there; each night he conjured up the

vision of some fresh coast line. To return in mind to the eight years

of despair which he had spent away from France rendered him both very

sad and very happy. Then at last, shivering all over, he would close

the window. Often, as he stood in front of the fireplace taking off his

collar, the photograph of Auguste and Augustine would fill him with

disquietude. They seemed to be watching him as they stood there, hand

in hand, smiling faintly.

Florent’s first few weeks at the fish market were very painful to him.

The Mehudins treated him with open hostility, which infected the whole

market with a spirit of opposition. The beautiful Norman intended to

revenge herself on the handsome Lisa, and the latter’s cousin seemed a

victim ready to hand.

The Mehudins came from Rouen. Louise’s mother still related how she had

first arrived in Paris with a basket of eels. She had ever afterwards

remained in the fish trade. She had married a man employed in the

Octroi service, who had died leaving her with two little girls. It was

she who by her full figure and glowing freshness had won for herself in

earlier days the nickname of “the beautiful Norman,” which her eldest

daughter had inherited. Now five and sixty years of age, Madame Mehudin

had become flabby and shapeless, and the damp air of the fish market

had rendered her voice rough and hoarse, and given a bluish tinge to

her skin. Sedentary life had made her extremely bulky, and her head was

thrown backwards by the exuberance of her bosom. She had never been

willing to renounce the fashions of her younger days, but still wore

the flowered gown, the yellow kerchief, and turban-like head-gear of

the classic fish-wife, besides retaining the latter’s loud voice and

rapidity of gesture as she stood with her hands on her hips, shouting

out the whole abusive vocabulary of her calling.

She looked back regretfully to the old Marché des Innocents, which the

new central markets had supplanted. She would talk of the ancient

rights of the market “ladies,” and mingle stories of fisticuffs

exchanged with the police with reminiscences of the visits she had paid

the Court in the time of Charles X and Louis Philippe, dressed in silk,

and carrying a bouquet of flowers in her hand. Old Mother Mehudin, as

she was now generally called, had for a long time been the

banner-bearer of the Sisterhood of the Virgin at St. Leu. She would

relate that in the processions in the church there she had worn a dress

and cap of tulle trimmed with satin ribbons, whilst holding aloft in

her puffy fingers the gilded staff of the richly-fringed silk standard

on which the figure of the Holy Mother was embroidered.

According to the gossip of the neighbourhood, the old woman had made a

fairly substantial fortune, though the only signs of it were the

massive gold ornaments with which she loaded her neck and arms and

bosom on important occasions. Her two daughters got on badly together

as they grew up. The younger one, Claire, an idle, fair-complexioned

girl, complained of the ill-treatment which she received from her

sister Louise, protesting, in her languid voice, that she could never

submit to be the other’s servant. As they would certainly have ended by

coming to blows, their mother separated them. She gave her stall in the

fish market to Louise, while Claire, whom the smell of the skate and

the herrings affected in the lungs, installed herself among the fresh

water fish. And from that time the old mother, although she pretended

to have retired from business altogether, would flit from one stall to

the other, still interfering in the selling of the fish, and causing

her daughters continual annoyance by the foul insolence with which she

would at times speak to customers.

Claire was a fantastical creature, very gentle in her manner, and yet

continually at loggerheads with others. People said that she invariably

followed her own whimsical inclinations. In spite of her dreamy,

girlish face she was imbued with a nature of silent firmness, a spirit

of independence which prompted her to live apart; she never took things

as other people did, but would one day evince perfect fairness, and the

next day arrant injustice. She would sometimes throw the market into

confusion by suddenly increasing or lowering the prices at her stall,

without anyone being able to guess her reason for doing so. She herself

would refuse to explain her motive. By the time she reached her

thirtieth year, her delicate physique and fine skin, which the water of

the tanks seemed to keep continually fresh and soft, her small,

faintly-marked face and lissome limbs would probably become heavy,

coarse, and flabby, till she would look like some faded saint that had

stepped from a stained-glass window into the degrading sphere of the

markets. At twenty-two, however, Claire, in the midst of her carp and

eels, was, to use Claude Lantier’s expression, a Murillo. A Murillo,

that is, whose hair was often in disorder, who wore heavy shoes and

clumsily cut dresses, which left her without any figure. But she was

free from all coquetry, and she assumed an air of scornful contempt

when Louise, displaying her bows and ribbons, chaffed her about her

clumsily knotted neckerchiefs. Moreover, she was virtuous; it was said

that the son of a rich shopkeeper in the neighbourhood had gone abroad

in despair at having failed to induce her to listen to his suit.

Louise, the beautiful Norman, was of a different nature. She had been

engaged to be married to a clerk in the corn market; but a sack of

flour falling upon the young man had broken his back and killed him.

Not very long afterwards Louise had given birth to a boy. In the

Mehudins’ circle of acquaintance she was looked upon as a widow; and

the old fish-wife in conversation would occasionally refer to the time

when her son-in-law was alive.

The Mehudins were a power in the markets. When Monsieur Verlaque had

finished instructing Florent in his new duties, he advised him to

conciliate certain of the stall-holders, if he wished his life to be

endurable; and he even carried his sympathy so far as to put him in

possession of the little secrets of the office, such as the various

little breaches of rule that it was necessary to wink at, and those at

which he would have to feign stern displeasure; and also the

circumstances under which he might accept a small present. A market

inspector is at once a constable and a magistrate; he has to maintain

proper order and cleanliness, and settle in a conciliatory spirit all

disputes between buyers and sellers. Florent, who was of a weak

disposition put on an artificial sternness when he was obliged to

exercise his authority, and generally over-acted his part. Moreover,

his gloomy, pariah-like face and bitterness of spirit, the result of

long suffering, were against him.

The beautiful Norman’s idea was to involve him in some quarrel or

other. She had sworn that he would not keep his berth a fortnight.

“That fat Lisa’s much mistaken,” said she one morning on meeting Madame

Lecœur, “if she thinks that she’s going to put people over us. We don’t

want such ugly wretches here. That sweetheart of hers is a perfect

fright!”

After the auctions, when Florent commenced his round of inspection,

strolling slowly through the dripping alleys, he could plainly see the

beautiful Norman watching him with an impudent smile on her face. Her

stall, which was in the second row on the left, near the fresh water

fish department faced the Rue Rambuteau. She would turn round, however,

and never take her eyes off her victim whilst making fun of him with

her neighbours. And when he passed in front of her, slowly examining

the slabs, she feigned hilarious merriment, slapped her fish with her

hand, and turned her jets of water on at full stream, flooding the

pathway. Nevertheless Florent remained perfectly calm.

At last, one morning as was bound to happen, war broke out. As Florent

reached La Normande’s stall that day an unbearable stench assailed his

nostrils. On the marble slab, in addition to part of a magnificent

salmon, showing its soft roseate flesh, there lay some turbots of

creamy whiteness, a few conger-eels pierced with black pins to mark

their divisions, several pairs of soles, and some bass and red

mullet—in fact, quite a display of fresh fish. But in the midst of it,

amongst all these fish whose eyes still gleamed and whose gills were of

a bright crimson, there lay a huge skate of a ruddy tinge, splotched

with dark stains—superb, indeed, with all its strange colourings.

Unfortunately, it was rotten; its tail was falling off and the ribs of

its fins were breaking through the skin.

“You must throw that skate away,” said Florent as he came up.

The beautiful Norman broke into a slight laugh. Florent raised his eyes

and saw her standing before him, with her back against the bronze lamp

post which lighted the stalls in her division. She had mounted upon a

box to keep her feet out of the damp, and appeared very tall as he

glanced at her. She looked also handsomer than usual, with her hair

arranged in little curls, her sly face slightly bent, her lips

compressed, and her hands showing somewhat too rosily against her big

white apron. Florent had never before seen her decked with so much

jewellery. She had long pendants in her ears, a chain round her neck, a

brooch in her dress body, and quite a collection of rings on two

fingers of her left hand and one of her right.

As she still continued to look slyly at Florent, without making any

reply, the latter continued: “Do you hear? You must remove that skate.”

He had not yet noticed the presence of old Madame Mehudin, who sat all

of a heap on a chair in a corner. She now got up, however, and, with

her fists resting on the marble slap, insolently exclaimed: “Dear me!

And why is she to throw her skate away? You won’t pay her for it, I’ll

bet!”

Florent immediately understood the position. The women at the other

stalls began to titter, and he felt that he was surrounded by covert

rebellion, which a word might cause to blaze forth. He therefore

restrained himself, and in person drew the refuse-pail from under the

stall and dropped the skate into it. Old Madame Mehudin had already

stuck her hands on her hips, while the beautiful Norman, who had not

spoken a word, burst into another malicious laugh as Florent strode

sternly away amidst a chorus of jeers, which he pretended not to hear.

Each day now some new trick was played upon him, and he was obliged to

walk through the market alleys as warily as though he were in a hostile

country. He was splashed with water from the sponges employed to

cleanse the slabs; he stumbled and almost fell over slippery refuse

intentionally spread in his way; and even the porters contrived to run

their baskets against the nape of his neck. One day, moreover, when two

of the fish-wives were quarrelling, and he hastened up to prevent them

coming to blows, he was obliged to duck in order to escape being

slapped on either cheek by a shower of little dabs which passed over

his head. There was a general outburst of laughter on this occasion,

and Florent always believed that the two fish-wives were in league with

the Mehudins. However, his old-time experiences as a teacher had

endowed him with angelic patience, and he was able to maintain a

magisterial coolness of manner even when anger was hotly rising within

him, and his whole being quivered with a sense of humiliation. Still,

the young scamps of the Rue de l’Estrapade had never manifested the

savagery of these fish-wives, the cruel tenacity of these huge females,

whose massive figures heaved and shook with a giant-like joy whenever

he fell into any trap. They stared him out of countenance with their

red faces; and in the coarse tones of their voices and the impudent

gesture of their hands he could read volumes of filthy abuse levelled

at himself. Gavard would have been quite in his element amidst all

these petticoats, and would have freely cuffed them all round; but

Florent, who had always been afraid of women, gradually felt

overwhelmed as by a sort of nightmare in which giant women, buxom

beyond all imagination, danced threateningly around him, shouting at

him in hoarse voices and brandishing bare arms, as massive as any

prize-fighter’s.

Amongst this hoard of females, however, Florent had one friend. Claire

unhesitatingly declared that the new inspector was a very good fellow.

When he passed in front of her, pursued by the coarse abuse of the

others, she gave him a pleasant smile, sitting nonchalantly behind her

stall, with unruly errant locks of pale hair straying over her neck and

her brow, and the bodice of her dress pinned all askew. He also often

saw her dipping her hands into her tanks, transferring the fish from

one compartment to another, and amusing herself by turning on the brass

taps, shaped like little dolphins with open mouths, from which the

water poured in streamlets. Amidst the rustling sound of the water she

had some of the quivering grace of a girl who has just been bathing and

has hurriedly slipped on her clothes.

One morning she was particularly amiable. She called the inspector to

her to show him a huge eel which had been the wonder of the market when

exhibited at the auction. She opened the grating, which she had

previously closed over the basin in whose depths the eel seemed to be

lying sound asleep.

“Wait a moment,” she said, “and I’ll show it to you.”

Then she gently slipped her bare arm into the water; it was not a very

plump arm, and its veins showed softly blue beneath its satiny skin. As

soon as the eel felt her touch, it rapidly twisted round, and seemed to

fill the narrow trough with its glistening greenish coils. And directly

it had settled down to rest again Claire once more stirred it with her

fingertips.

“It is an enormous creature,” Florent felt bound to say. “I have rarely

seen such a fine one.”

Claire thereupon confessed to him that she had at first been frightened

of eels; but now she had learned how to tighten her grip so that they

could not slip away. From another compartment she took a smaller one,

which began to wriggle both with head and tail, as she held it about

the middle in her closed fist. This made her laugh. She let it go, then

seized another and another, scouring the basin and stirring up the

whole heap of snaky-looking creatures with her slim fingers.

Afterwards she began to speak of the slackness of trade. The hawkers on

the foot-pavement of the covered way did the regular saleswomen a great

deal of injury, she said. Meantime her bare arm, which she had not

wiped, was glistening and dripping with water. Big drops trickled from

each finger.

“Oh,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I must show you my carp, too!”

She now removed another grating, and, using both hands, lifted out a

large carp, which began to flap its tail and gasp. It was too big to be

held conveniently, so she sought another one. This was smaller, and she

could hold it with one hand, but the latter was forced slightly open by

the panting of the sides each time that the fish gasped. To amuse

herself it occurred to Claire to pop the tip of her thumb into the

carp’s mouth whilst it was dilated. “It won’t bite,” said she with her

gentle laugh; “it’s not spiteful. No more are the crawfishes; I’m not

the least afraid of them.”

She plunged her arm into the water again, and from a compartment full

of a confused crawling mass brought up a crawfish that had caught her

little finger in its claws. She gave the creature a shake, but it no

doubt gripped her too tightly, for she turned very red, and snapped off

its claw with a quick, angry gesture, though still continuing to smile.

“By the way,” she continued quickly, to conceal her emotion, “I

wouldn’t trust myself with a pike; he’d cut off my fingers like a

knife.”

She thereupon showed him some big pike arranged in order of size upon

clean scoured shelves, beside some bronze-hued tench and little heaps

of gudgeon. Her hands were now quite slimy with handling the carp, and

as she stood there in the dampness rising from the tanks, she held them

outstretched over the dripping fish on the stall. She seemed enveloped

by an odour of spawn, that heavy scent which rises from among the reeds

and water-lilies when the fish, languid in the sunlight, discharge

their eggs. Then she wiped her hands on her apron, still smiling the

placid smile of a girl who knew nothing of passion in that quivering

atmosphere of the frigid loves of the river.

The kindliness which Claire showed to Florent was but a slight

consolation to him. By stopping to talk to the girl he only drew upon

himself still coarser jeers from the other stallkeepers. Claire

shrugged her shoulders, and said that her mother was an old jade, and

her sister a worthless creature. The injustice of the market folk

towards the new inspector filled her with indignation. The war between

them, however, grew more bitter every day. Florent had serious thoughts

of resigning his post; indeed, he would not have retained it for

another twenty-four hours if he had not been afraid that Lisa might

imagine him to be a coward. He was frightened of what she might say and

what she might think. She was naturally well aware of the contest which

was going on between the fish-wives and their inspector; for the whole

echoing market resounded with it, and the entire neighbourhood

discussed each fresh incident with endless comments.

“Ah, well,” Lisa would often say in the evening, after dinner, “I’d

soon bring them to reason if I had anything to do with them! Why, they

are a lot of dirty jades that I wouldn’t touch with the tip of my

finger! That Normande is the lowest of the low! I’d soon crush her,

that I would! You should really use your authority, Florent. You are

wrong to behave as you do. Put your foot down, and they’ll all come to

their senses very quickly, you’ll see.”

A terrible climax was presently reached. One morning the servant of

Madame Taboureau, the baker, came to the market to buy a brill; and the

beautiful Norman, having noticed her lingering near her stall for

several minutes, began to make overtures to her in a coaxing way: “Come

and see me; I’ll suit you,” she said. “Would you like a pair of soles,

or a fine turbot?”

Then as the servant at last came up, and sniffed at a brill with that

dissatisfied pout which buyers assume in the hope of getting what they

want at a lower price, La Normande continued:

“Just feel the weight of that, now,” and so saying she laid the brill,

wrapped in a sheet of thick yellow paper, on the woman’s open palm.

The servant, a mournful little woman from Auvergne, felt the weight of

the brill, and examined its gills, still pouting, and saying not a

word.

“And how much do you want for it?” she asked presently, in a reluctant

tone.

“Fifteen francs,” replied La Normande.

At this the servant hastily laid the brill on the stall again, and

seemed anxious to hurry away, but the other detained her. “Wait a

moment,” said she. “What do you offer?”

“No, no, I can’t take it. It is much too dear.”

“Come, now, make me an offer.”

“Well, will you take eight francs?”

Old Madame Mehudin, who was there, suddenly seemed to wake up, and

broke out into a contemptuous laugh. Did people think that she and her

daughter stole the fish they sold? “Eight francs for a brill that

size!” she exclaimed. “You’ll be wanting one for nothing next, to use

as a cooling plaster!”

Meantime La Normande turned her head away, as though greatly offended.

However, the servant came back twice and offered nine francs; and

finally she increased her bid to ten.

“All right, come on, give me your money!” cried the fish-girl, seeing

that the woman was now really going away.

The servant took her stand in front of the stall and entered into a

friendly gossip with old Madame Mehudin. Madame Taboureau, she said,

was so exacting! She had got some people coming to dinner that evening,

some cousins from Blois a notary and his wife. Madame Taboureau’s

family, she added, was a very respectable one, and she herself,

although only a baker, had received an excellent education.

“You’ll clean it nicely for me, won’t you?” added the woman, pausing in

her chatter.

With a jerk of her finger La Normande had removed the fish’s entrails

and tossed them into a pail. Then she slipped a corner of her apron

under its gills to wipe away a few grains of sand. “There, my dear,”

she said, putting the fish into the servant’s basket, “you’ll come back

to thank me.”

Certainly the servant did come back a quarter of an hour afterwards,

but it was with a flushed, red face. She had been crying, and her

little body was trembling all over with anger. Tossing the brill on to

the marble slab, she pointed to a broad gash in its belly that reached

the bone. Then a flood of broken words burst from her throat, which was

still contracted by sobbing: “Madame Taboureau won’t have it. She says

she couldn’t put it on her table. She told me, too, that I was an

idiot, and let myself be cheated by anyone. You can see for yourself

that the fish is spoilt. I never thought of turning it round; I quite

trusted you. Give me my ten francs back.”

“You should look at what you buy,” the handsome Norman calmly observed.

And then, as the servant was just raising her voice again, old Madame

Mehudin got up. “Just you shut up!” she cried. “We’re not going to take

back a fish that’s been knocking about in other people’s houses. How do

we know that you didn’t let it fall and damage it yourself?”

“I! I damage it!” The little servant was choking with indignation. “Ah!

you’re a couple of thieves!” she cried, sobbing bitterly. “Yes, a

couple of thieves! Madame Taboureau herself told me so!”

Matters then became uproarious. Boiling over with rage and brandishing

their fists, both mother and daughter fairly exploded; while the poor

little servant, quite bewildered by their voices, the one hoarse and

the other shrill, which belaboured her with insults as though they were

battledores and she a shuttlecock, sobbed on more bitterly than ever.

“Be off with you! Your Madame Taboureau would like to be half as fresh

as that fish is! She’d like us to sew it up for her, no doubt!”

“A whole fish for ten francs! What’ll she want next!”

Then came coarse words and foul accusations. Had the servant been the

most worthless of her sex she could not have been more bitterly

upbraided.

Florent, whom the market keeper had gone to fetch, made his appearance

when the quarrel was at its hottest. The whole pavilion seemed to be in

a state of insurrection. The fish-wives, who manifest the keenest

jealousy of each other when the sale of a penny herring is in question,

display a united front when a quarrel arises with a buyer. They sang

the popular old ditty, “The baker’s wife has heaps of crowns, which

cost her precious little”; they stamped their feet, and goaded the

Mehudins as though the latter were dogs which they were urging on to

bite and devour. And there were even some, having stalls at the other

end of the alley, who rushed up wildly, as though they meant to spring

at the chignon of the poor little woman, she meantime being quite

submerged by the flood of insulting abuse poured upon her.

“Return mademoiselle her ten francs,” said Florent sternly, when he had

learned what had taken place.

But old Madame Mehudin had her blood up. “As for you, my little man,”

quoth she, “go to blazes! Here, that’s how I’ll return the ten francs!”

As she spoke, she flung the brill with all her force at the head of

Madame Taboureau’s servant, who received it full in the face. The blood

spurted from her nose, and the brill, after adhering for a moment to

her cheeks, fell to the ground and burst with a flop like that of a wet

clout. This brutal act threw Florent into a fury. The beautiful Norman

felt frightened and recoiled, as he cried out: “I suspend you for a

week, and I will have your licence withdrawn. You hear me?”

Then, as the other fish-wives were still jeering behind him, he turned

round with such a threatening air that they quailed like wild beasts

mastered by the tamer, and tried to assume an expression of innocence.

When the Mehudins had returned the ten francs, Florent peremptorily

ordered them to cease selling at once. The old woman was choking with

rage, while the daughter kept silent, but turned very white. She, the

beautiful Norman, to be driven out of her stall!

Claire said in her quiet voice that it served her mother and sister

right, a remark which nearly resulted in the two girls tearing each

other’s hair out that evening when they returned home to the Rue

Pirouette. However, when the Mehudins came back to the market at the

week’s end, they remained very quiet, reserved, and curt of speech,

though full of a cold-blooded wrath. Moreover, they found the pavilion

quite calm and restored to order again. From that day forward the

beautiful Norman must have harboured the thought of some terrible

vengeance. She felt that she really had Lisa to thank for what had

happened. She had met her, the day after the battle, carrying her head

so high, that she had sworn she would make her pay dearly for her

glance of triumph. She held interminable confabulations with Madame

Saget, Madame Lecœur, and La Sarriette, in quiet corners of the market;

however, all their chatter about the shameless conduct which they

slanderously ascribed to Lisa and her cousin, and about the hairs which

they declared were found in Quenu’s chitterlings, brought La Normande

little consolation. She was trying to think of some very malicious plan

of vengeance, which would strike her rival to the heart.

Her child was growing up in the fish market in all freedom and neglect.

When but three years old the youngster had been brought there, and day

by day remained squatting on some rag amidst the fish. He would fall

asleep beside the big tunnies as though he were one of them, and awake

among the mackerel and whiting. The little rascal smelt of fish as

strongly as though he were some big fish’s offspring. For a long time

his favourite pastime, whenever his mother’s back was turned, was to

build walls and houses of herrings; and he would also play at soldiers

on the marble slab, arranging the red gurnets in confronting lines,

pushing them against each other, and battering their heads, while

imitating the sound of drum and trumpet with his lips; after which he

would throw them all into a heap again, and exclaim that they were

dead. When he grew older he would prowl about his aunt Claire’s stall

to get hold of the bladders of the carp and pike which she gutted. He

placed them on the ground and made them burst, an amusement which

afforded him vast delight. When he was seven he rushed about the

alleys, crawled under the stalls, ferreted amongst the zinc bound fish

boxes, and became the spoiled pet of all the women. Whenever they

showed him something fresh which pleased him, he would clasp his hands

and exclaim in ecstasy, “Oh, isn’t it stunning!” _Muche_ was the exact

word which he used; _muche_ being the equivalent of “stunning” in the

lingo of the markets; and he used the expression so often that it clung

to him as a nickname. He became known all over the place as “Muche.” It

was Muche here, there and everywhere; no one called him anything else.

He was to be met with in every nook; in out-of-the-way corners of the

offices in the auction pavilion; among the piles of oyster baskets, and

betwixt the buckets where the refuse was thrown. With a pinky fairness

of skin, he was like a young barbel frisking and gliding about in deep

water. He was as fond of running, streaming water as any young fry. He

was ever dabbling in the pools in the alleys. He wetted himself with

the drippings from the tables, and when no one was looking often slyly

turned on the taps, rejoicing in the bursting gush of water. But it was

especially beside the fountains near the cellar steps that his mother

went to seek him in the evening, and she would bring him thence with

his hands quite blue, and his shoes, and even his pockets, full of

water.

At seven years old Muche was as pretty as an angel, and as coarse in

his manners as any carter. He had curly chestnut hair, beautiful eyes,

and an innocent-looking mouth which gave vent to language that even a

gendarme would have hesitated to use. Brought up amidst all the

ribaldry and profanity of the markets, he had the whole vocabulary of

the place on the tip of his tongue. With his hands on his hips he often

mimicked Grandmother Mehudin in her anger, and at these times the

coarsest and vilest expressions would stream from his lips in a voice

of crystalline purity that might have belonged to some little chorister

chanting the _Ave Maria_. He would even try to assume a hoarse

roughness of tone, seek to degrade and taint that exquisite freshness

of childhood which made him resemble a _bambino_ on the Madonna’s

knees. The fish-wives laughed at him till they cried; and he,

encouraged, could scarcely say a couple of words without rapping out an

oath. But in spite of all this he still remained charming,

understanding nothing of the dirt amidst which he lived, kept in

vigorous health by the fresh breezes and sharp odours of the fish

market, and reciting his vocabulary of coarse indecencies with as pure

a face as though he were saying his prayers.

The winter was approaching, and Muche seemed very sensitive to the

cold. As soon as the chilly weather set in he manifested a strong

predilection for the inspector’s office. This was situated in the

left-hand corner of the pavilion, on the side of the Rue Rambuteau. The

furniture consisted of a table, a stack of drawers, an easy-chair, two

other chairs, and a stove. It was this stove which attracted Muche.

Florent quite worshipped children, and when he saw the little fellow,

with his dripping legs, gazing wistfully through the window, he made

him come inside. His first conversation with the lad caused him

profound amazement. Muche sat down in front of the stove, and in his

quiet voice exclaimed: “I’ll just toast my toes, do you see? It’s d——d

cold this morning.” Then he broke into a rippling laugh, and added:

“Aunt Claire looks awfully blue this morning. Is it true, sir, that you

are sweet on her?”

Amazed though he was, Florent felt quite interested in the odd little

fellow. The handsome Norman retained her surly bearing, but allowed her

son to frequent the inspector’s office without a word of objection.

Florent consequently concluded that he had the mother’s permission to

receive the boy, and every afternoon he asked him in; by degrees

forming the idea of turning him into a steady, respectable young

fellow. He could almost fancy that his brother Quenu had grown little

again, and that they were both in the big room in the Rue Royer-Collard

once more. The life which his self-sacrificing nature pictured to him

as perfect happiness was a life spent with some young being who would

never grow up, whom he could go on teaching for ever, and in whose

innocence he might still love his fellow man. On the third day of his

acquaintance with Muche he brought an alphabet to the office, and the

lad delighted him by the intelligence he manifested. He learned his

letters with all the sharp precocity which marks the Parisian street

arab, and derived great amusement from the woodcuts illustrating the

alphabet.

He found opportunities, too, for plenty of fine fun in the little

office, where the stove still remained the chief attraction and a

source of endless enjoyment. At first he cooked potatoes and chestnuts

at it, but presently these seemed insipid, and he thereupon stole some

gudgeons from his aunt Claire, roasted them one by one, suspended from

a string in front of the glowing fire, and then devoured them with

gusto, though he had no bread. One day he even brought a carp with him;

but it was impossible to roast it sufficiently, and it made such a

smell in the office that both window and door had to be thrown open.

Sometimes, when the odour of all these culinary operations became too

strong, Florent would throw the fish into the street, but as a rule he

only laughed. By the end of a couple of months Muche was able to read

fairly well, and his copy-books did him credit.

Meantime, every evening the lad wearied his mother with his talk about

his good friend Florent. His good friend Florent had drawn him pictures

of trees and of men in huts, said he. His good friend Florent waved his

arm and said that men would be far better if they all knew how to read.

And at last La Normande heard so much about Florent that she seemed to

be almost intimate with this man against whom she harboured so much

rancour. One day she shut Muche up at home to prevent him from going to

the inspector’s, but he cried so bitterly that she gave him his liberty

again on the following morning. There was very little determination

about her, in spite of her broad shoulders and bold looks. When the lad

told her how nice and warm he had been in the office, and came back to

her with his clothes quite dry, she felt a sort of vague gratitude, a

pleasure in knowing that he had found a shelter-place where he could

sit with his feet in front of a fire. Later on, she was quite touched

when he read her some words from a scrap of soiled newspaper wrapped

round a slice of conger-eel. By degrees, indeed, she began to think,

though without admitting it, that Florent could not really be a bad

sort of fellow. She felt respect for his knowledge, mingled with an

increasing curiosity to see more of him and learn something of his

life. Then, all at once, she found an excuse for gratifying this

inquisitiveness. She would use it as a means of vengeance. It would be

fine fun to make friends with Florent and embroil him with that great

fat Lisa.

“Does your good friend Florent ever speak to you about me?” she asked

Muche one morning as she was dressing him.

“Oh, no,” replied the boy. “We enjoy ourselves.”

“Well, you can tell him that I’ve quite forgiven him, and that I’m much

obliged to him for having taught you to read.”

Thenceforward the child was entrusted with some message every day. He

went backwards and forwards from his mother to the inspector, and from

the inspector to his mother, charged with kindly words and questions

and answers, which he repeated mechanically without knowing their

meaning. He might, indeed, have been safely trusted with the most

compromising communications. However, the beautiful Norman felt afraid

of appearing timid, and so one day she herself went to the inspector’s

office and sat down on the second chair, while Muche was having his

writing lesson. She proved very suave and complimentary, and Florent

was by far the more embarrassed of the two. They only spoke of the lad;

and when Florent expressed a fear that he might not be able to continue

the lessons in the office, La Normande invited him to come to their

home in the evening. She spoke also of payment; but at this he blushed,

and said that he certainly would not come if any mention were made of

money. Thereupon the young woman determined in her own mind that she

would recompense him with presents of choice fish.

Peace was thus made between them; the beautiful Norman even took

Florent under her protection. Apart from this, however, the whole

market was becoming reconciled to the new inspector, the fish-wives

arriving at the conclusion that he was really a better fellow than

Monsieur Verlaque, notwithstanding his strange eyes. It was only old

Madame Mehudin who still shrugged her shoulders, full of rancour as she

was against the “long lanky-guts,” as she contemptuously called him.

And then, too, a strange thing happened. One morning, when Florent

stopped with a smile before Claire’s tanks, the girl dropped an eel

which she was holding and angrily turned her back upon him, her cheeks

quite swollen and reddened by temper. The inspector was so much

astonished that he spoke to La Normande about it.

“Oh, never mind her,” said the young woman; “she’s cracked. She makes a

point of always differing from everybody else. She only behaved like

that to annoy me.”

La Normande was now triumphant—she strutted about her stall, and became

more coquettish than ever, arranging her hair in the most elaborate

manner. Meeting the handsome Lisa one day she returned her look of

scorn, and even burst out laughing in her face. The certainty she felt

of driving the mistress of the pork shop to despair by winning her

cousin from her endowed her with a gay, sonorous laugh, which rolled up

from her chest and rippled her white plump neck. She now had the whim

of dressing Muche very showily in a little Highland costume and velvet

bonnet. The lad had never previously worn anything but a tattered

blouse. It unfortunately happened, however, that just about this time

he again became very fond of the water. The ice had melted and the

weather was mild, so he gave his Scotch jacket a bath, turning the

fountain tap on at full flow and letting the water pour down his arm

from his elbow to his hand. He called this “playing at gutters.” Then a

little later, when his mother came up and caught him, she found him

with two other young scamps watching a couple of little fishes swimming

about in his velvet cap, which he had filled with water.

For nearly eight months Florent lived in the markets, feeling continual

drowsiness. After his seven years of suffering he had lighted upon such

calm quietude, such unbroken regularity of life, that he was scarcely

conscious of existing. He gave himself up to this jog-trot peacefulness

with a dazed sort of feeling, continually experiencing surprise at

finding himself each morning in the same armchair in the little office.

This office with its bare hut-like appearance had a charm for him. He

here found a quiet and secluded refuge amidst that ceaseless roar of

the markets which made him dream of some surging sea spreading around

him, and isolating him from the world. Gradually, however, a vague

nervousness began to prey upon him; he became discontented, accused

himself of faults which he could not define, and began to rebel against

the emptiness which he experienced more and more acutely in mind and

body. Then, too, the evil smells of the fish market brought him nausea.

By degrees he became unhinged, his vague boredom developing into

restless, nervous excitement.