_ Florent had just begun to study law in Paris when his mother died. She
       lived at Le Vigan, in the department of the Gard, and had taken for
       her second husband one Quenu, a native of Yvetot in Normandy, whom
       some sub-prefect had transplanted to the south and then forgotten
       there. He had remained in employment at the sub-prefecture, finding
       the country charming, the wine good, and the women very amiable. Three
       years after his marriage he had been carried off by a bad attack of
       indigestion, leaving as sole legacy to his wife a sturdy boy who
       resembled him. It was only with very great difficulty that the widow
       could pay the college fees of Florent, her elder son, the issue of her
       first marriage. He was a very gentle youth, devoted to his studies,
       and constantly won the chief prizes at school. It was upon him that
       his mother lavished all her affection and based all her hopes.
       Perhaps, in bestowing so much love on this slim pale youth, she was
       giving evidence of her preference for her first husband, a tender-
       hearted, caressing Provencal, who had loved her devotedly. Quenu,
       whose good humour and amiability had at first attracted her, had
       perhaps displayed too much self-satisfaction, and shown too plainly
       that he looked upon himself as the main source of happiness. At all
       events she formed the opinion that her younger son--and in southern
       families younger sons are still often sacrificed--would never do any
       good; so she contented herself with sending him to a school kept by a
       neighbouring old maid, where the lad learned nothing but how to idle
       his time away. The two brothers grew up far apart from each other, as
       though they were strangers.
       When Florent arrived at Le Vigan his mother was already buried. She
       had insisted upon having her illness concealed from him till the very
       last moment, for fear of disturbing his studies. Thus he found little
       Quenu, who was then twelve years old, sitting and sobbing alone on a
       table in the middle of the kitchen. A furniture dealer, a neighbour,
       gave him particulars of his mother's last hours. She had reached the
       end of her resources, had killed herself by the hard work which she
       had undertaken to earn sufficient money that her elder son might
       continue his legal studies. To her modest trade in ribbons, the
       profits of which were but small, she had been obliged to add other
       occupations, which kept her up very late at night. Her one idea of
       seeing Florent established as an advocate, holding a good position in
       the town, had gradually caused her to become hard and miserly, without
       pity for either herself or others. Little Quenu was allowed to wander
       about in ragged breeches, and in blouses from which the sleeves were
       falling away. He never dared to serve himself at table, but waited
       till he received his allowance of bread from his mother's hands. She
       gave herself equally thin slices, and it was to the effects of this
       regimen that she had succumbed, in deep despair at having failed to
       accomplish her self-allotted task.
       This story made a most painful impression upon Florent's tender
       nature, and his sobs wellnigh choked him. He took his little half
       brother in his arms, held him to his breast, and kissed him as though
       to restore to him the love of which he had unwittingly deprived him.
       Then he looked at the lad's gaping shoes, torn sleeves, and dirty
       hands, at all the manifest signs of wretchedness and neglect. And he
       told him that he would take him away, and that they would both live
       happily together. The next day, when he began to inquire into affairs,
       he felt afraid that he would not be able to keep sufficient money to
       pay for the journey back to Paris. However, he was determined to leave
       Le Vigan at any cost. He was fortunately able to sell the little
       ribbon business, and this enabled him to discharge his mother's debts,
       for despite her strictness in money matters she had gradually run up
       bills. Then, as there was nothing left, his mother's neighbour, the
       furniture dealer, offered him five hundred francs for her chattels and
       stock of linen. It was a very good bargain for the dealer, but the
       young man thanked him with tears in his eyes. He bought his brother
       some new clothes, and took him away that same evening.
       On his return to Paris he gave up all thought of continuing to attend
       the Law School, and postponed every ambitious project. He obtained a
       few pupils, and established himself with little Quenu in the Rue Royer
       Collard, at the corner of the Rue Saint Jacques, in a big room which
       he furnished with two iron bedsteads, a wardrobe, a table, and four
       chairs. He now had a child to look after, and this assumed paternity
       was very pleasing to him. During the earlier days he attempted to give
       the lad some lessons when he returned home in the evening, but Quenu
       was an unwilling pupil. He was dull of understanding, and refused to
       learn, bursting into tears and regretfully recalling the time when his
       mother had allowed him to run wild in the streets. Florent thereupon
       stopped his lessons in despair, and to console the lad promised him a
       holiday of indefinite length. As an excuse for his own weakness he
       repeated that he had not brought his brother to Paris to distress him.
       To see him grow up in happiness became his chief desire. He quite
       worshipped the boy, was charmed with his merry laughter, and felt
       infinite joy in seeing him about him, healthy and vigorous, and
       without a care. Florent for his part remained very slim and lean in
       his threadbare coat, and his face began to turn yellow amidst all the
       drudgery and worry of teaching; but Quenu grew up plump and merry, a
       little dense, indeed, and scarce able to read or write, but endowed
       with high spirits which nothing could ruffle, and which filled the big
       gloomy room in the Rue Royer Collard with gaiety.
       Years, meantime, passed by. Florent, who had inherited all his
       mother's spirit of devotion, kept Quenu at home as though he were a
       big, idle girl. He did not even suffer him to perform any petty
       domestic duties, but always went to buy the provisions himself, and
       attended to the cooking and other necessary matters. This kept him, he
       said, from indulging in his own bad thoughts. He was given to
       gloominess, and fancied that he was disposed to evil. When he returned
       home in the evening, splashed with mud, and his head bowed by the
       annoyances to which other people's children had subjected him, his
       heart melted beneath the embrace of the sturdy lad whom he found
       spinning his top on the tiled flooring of the big room. Quenu laughed
       at his brother's clumsiness in making omelettes, and at the serious
       fashion in which he prepared the soup-beef and vegetables. When the
       lamp was extinguished, and Florent lay in bed, he sometimes gave way
       to feelings of sadness. He longed to resume his legal studies, and
       strove to map out his duties in such wise as to secure time to follow
       the programme of the faculty. He succeeded in doing this, and was then
       perfectly happy. But a slight attack of fever, which confined him to
       his room for a week, made such a hole in his purse, and caused him so
       much alarm, that he abandoned all idea of completing his studies. The
       boy was now getting a big fellow, and Florent took a post as teacher
       in a school in the Rue de l'Estrapade, at a salary of eighteen hundred
       francs per annum. This seemed like a fortune to him. By dint of
       economy he hoped to be able to amass a sum of money which would set
       Quenu going in the world. When the lad reached his eighteenth year
       Florent still treated him as though he were a daughter for whom a
       dowry must be provided.
       However, during his brother's brief illness Quenu himself had made
       certain reflections. One morning he proclaimed his desire to work,
       saying that he was now old enough to earn his own living. Florent was
       deeply touched at this. Just opposite, on the other side of the
       street, lived a working watchmaker whom Quenu, through the curtainless
       window, could see leaning over a little table, manipulating all sorts
       of delicate things, and patiently gazing at them through a magnifying
       glass all day long. The lad was much attracted by the sight, and
       declared that he had a taste for watchmaking. At the end of a
       fortnight, however, he became restless, and began to cry like a child
       of ten, complaining that the work was too complicated, and that he
       would never be able to understand all the silly little things that
       enter into the construction of a watch.
       His next whim was to be a locksmith; but this calling he found too
       fatiguing. In a couple of years he tried more than ten different
       trades. Florent opined that he acted rightly, that it was wrong to
       take up a calling one did not like. However, Quenu's fine eagerness to
       work for his living strained the resources of the little establishment
       very seriously. Since he had begun flitting from one workshop to
       another there had been a constant succession of fresh expenses; money
       had gone in new clothes, in meals taken away from home, and in the
       payment of footings among fellow workmen. Florent's salary of eighteen
       hundred francs was no longer sufficient, and he was obliged to take a
       couple of pupils in the evenings. For eight years he had continued to
       wear the same old coat.
       However, the two brothers had made a friend. One side of the house in
       which they lived overlooked the Rue Saint Jacques, where there was a
       large poultry-roasting establishment[*] kept by a worthy man called
       Gavard, whose wife was dying from consumption amidst an atmosphere
       redolent of plump fowls. When Florent returned home too late to cook a
       scrap of meat, he was in the habit of laying out a dozen sous or so on
       a small portion of turkey or goose at this shop. Such days were feast
       days. Gavard in time grew interested in this tall, scraggy customer,
       learned his history, and invited Quenu into his shop. Before long the
       young fellow was constantly to be found there. As soon as his brother
       left the house he came downstairs and installed himself at the rear of
       the roasting shop, quite enraptured with the four huge spits which
       turned with a gentle sound in front of the tall bright flames.
       [*] These rotisseries, now all but extinct, were at one time a
       particular feature of the Parisian provision trade. I can myself
       recollect several akin to the one described by M. Zola. I suspect
       that they largely owed their origin to the form and dimensions of
       the ordinary Parisian kitchen stove, which did not enable people
       to roast poultry at home in a convenient way. In the old French
       cuisine, moreover, roast joints of meat were virtually unknown;
       roasting was almost entirely confined to chickens, geese, turkeys,
       pheasants, etc.; and among the middle classes people largely
       bought their poultry already cooked of the /rotisseur/, or else
       confided it to him for the purpose of roasting, in the same way as
       our poorer classes still send their joints to the baker's.
       Roasting was also long looked upon in France as a very delicate
       art. Brillat-Savarin, in his famous /Physiologie du Gout/, lays
       down the dictum that "A man may become a cook, but is born a
       /rotisseur/."--Translator.
       The broad copper bands of the fireplace glistened brightly, the
       poultry steamed, the fat bubbled melodiously in the dripping-pan, and
       the spits seemed to talk amongst themselves and to address kindly
       words to Quenu, who, with a long ladle, devoutly basted the golden
       breasts of the fat geese and turkeys. He would stay there for hours,
       quite crimson in the dancing glow of the flames, and laughing vaguely,
       with a somewhat stupid expression, at the birds roasting in front of
       him. Indeed, he did not awake from this kind of trance until the geese
       and turkeys were unspitted. They were placed on dishes, the spits
       emerged from their carcasses smoking hot, and a rich gravy flowed from
       either end and filled the shop with a penetrating odour. Then the lad,
       who, standing up, had eagerly followed every phase of the dishing,
       would clap his hands and begin to talk to the birds, telling them that
       they were very nice, and would be eaten up, and that the cats would
       have nothing but their bones. And he would give a start of delight
       whenever Gavard handed him a slice of bread, which he forthwith put
       into the dripping-pan that it might soak and toast there for half an
       hour.
       It was in this shop, no doubt, that Quenu's love of cookery took its
       birth. Later on, when he had tried all sorts of crafts, he returned,
       as though driven by fate, to the spits and the poultry and the savoury
       gravy which induces one to lick one's fingers. At first he was afraid
       of vexing his brother, who was a small eater and spoke of good fare
       with the disdain of a man who is ignorant of it; but afterwards, on
       seeing that Florent listened to him when he explained the preparation
       of some very elaborate dish, he confessed his desires and presently
       found a situation at a large restaurant. From that time forward the
       life of the two brothers was settled. They continued to live in the
       room in the Rue Royer Collard, whither they returned every evening;
       the one glowing and radiant from his hot fire, the other with the
       depressed countenance of a shabby, impecunious teacher. Florent still
       wore his old black coat, as he sat absorbed in correcting his pupils'
       exercises; while Quenu, to put himself more at ease, donned his white
       apron, cap, and jacket, and, flitting about in front of the stove,
       amused himself by baking some dainty in the oven. Sometimes they
       smiled at seeing themselves thus attired, the one all in black, the
       other all in white. These different garbs, one bright and the other
       sombre, seemed to make the big room half gay and half mournful. Never,
       however, was there so much harmony in a household marked by such
       dissimilarity. Though the elder brother grew thinner and thinner,
       consumed by the ardent temperament which he had inherited from his
       Provencal father, and the younger one waxed fatter and fatter like a
       true son of Normandy, they loved each other in the brotherhood they
       derived from their mother--a mother who had been all devotion.
       They had a relation in Paris, a brother of their mother's, one
       Gradelle, who was in business as a pork butcher in the Rue Pirouette,
       near the central markets. He was a fat, hard-hearted, miserly fellow,
       and received his nephews as though they were starving paupers the
       first time they paid him a visit. They seldom went to see him
       afterwards. On his nameday Quenu would take him a bunch of flowers,
       and receive a half-franc piece in return for it. Florent's proud and
       sensitive nature suffered keenly when Gradelle scrutinised his shabby
       clothes with the anxious, suspicious glance of a miser apprehending a
       request for a dinner, or the loan of a five-franc piece. One day,
       however, it occurred to Florent in all artlessness to ask his uncle to
       change a hundred-franc note for him, and after this the pork butcher
       showed less alarm at sight of the lads, as he called them. Still,
       their friendship got no further than these infrequent visits.
       These years were like a long, sweet, sad dream to Florent. As they
       passed he tasted to the full all the bitter joys of self-sacrifice. At
       home, in the big room, life was all love and tenderness; but out in
       the world, amidst the humiliations inflicted on him by his pupils, and
       the rough jostling of the streets, he felt himself yielding to wicked
       thoughts. His slain ambitions embittered him. It was long before he
       could bring himself to bow to his fate, and accept with equanimity the
       painful lot of a poor, plain, commonplace man. At last, to guard
       against the temptations of wickedness, he plunged into ideal goodness,
       and sought refuge in a self-created sphere of absolute truth and
       justice. It was then that he became a republican, entering into the
       republican idea even as heart-broken girls enter a convent. And not
       finding a republic where sufficient peace and kindliness prevailed to
       lull his troubles to sleep, he created one for himself. He took no
       pleasure in books. All the blackened paper amidst which he lived spoke
       of evil-smelling class-rooms, of pellets of paper chewed by unruly
       schoolboys, of long, profitless hours of torture. Besides, books only
       suggested to him a spirit of mutiny and pride, whereas it was of peace
       and oblivion that he felt most need. To lull and soothe himself with
       the ideal imaginings, to dream that he was perfectly happy, and that
       all the world would likewise become so, to erect in his brain the
       republican city in which he would fain have lived, such now became his
       recreation, the task, again and again renewed, of all his leisure
       hours. He no longer read any books beyond those which his duties
       compelled him to peruse; he preferred to tramp along the Rue Saint
       Jacques as far as the outer boulevards, occasionally going yet a
       greater distance and returning by the Barriere d'Italie; and all along
       the road, with his eyes on the Quartier Mouffetard spread out at his
       feet, he would devise reforms of great moral and humanitarian scope,
       such as he thought would change that city of suffering into an abode
       of bliss. During the turmoil of February 1848, when Paris was stained
       with blood he became quite heartbroken, and rushed from one to another
       of the public clubs demanding that the blood which had been shed
       should find atonement in "the fraternal embrace of all republicans
       throughout the world." He became one of those enthusiastic orators who
       preached revolution as a new religion, full of gentleness and
       salvation. The terrible days of December 1851, the days of the Coup
       d'Etat, were required to wean him from his doctrines of universal
       love. He was then without arms; allowed himself to be captured like a
       sheep, and was treated as though he were a wolf. He awoke from his
       sermon on universal brotherhood to find himself starving on the cold
       stones of a casemate at Bicetre.
       Quenu, when two and twenty, was distressed with anguish when his
       brother did not return home. On the following day he went to seek his
       corpse at the cemetery of Montmartre, where the bodies of those shot
       down on the boulevards had been laid out in a line and covered with
       straw, from beneath which only their ghastly heads projected. However,
       Quenu's courage failed him, he was blinded by his tears, and had to
       pass twice along the line of corpses before acquiring the certainty
       that Florent's was not among them. At last, at the end of a long and
       wretched week, he learned at the Prefecture of Police that his brother
       was a prisoner. He was not allowed to see him, and when he pressed the
       matter the police threatened to arrest him also. Then he hastened off
       to his uncle Gradelle, whom he looked upon as a person of importance,
       hoping that he might be able to enlist his influence in Florent's
       behalf. But Gradelle waxed wrathful, declared that Florent deserved
       his fate, that he ought to have known better than to have mixed
       himself up with those rascally republicans. And he even added that
       Florent was destined to turn out badly, that it was written on his
       face.
       Quenu wept copiously and remained there, almost choked by his sobs.
       His uncle, a little ashamed of his harshness, and feeling that he
       ought to do something for him, offered to receive him into his house.
       He wanted an assistant, and knew that his nephew was a good cook.
       Quenu was so much alarmed by the mere thought of going back to live
       alone in the big room in the Rue Royer Collard, that then and there he
       accepted Gradelle's offer. That same night he slept in his uncle's
       house, in a dark hole of a garret just under the room, where there was
       scarcely space for him to lie at full length. However, he was less
       wretched there than he would have been opposite his brother's empty
       couch.
       He succeeded at length in obtaining permission to see Florent; but on
       his return from Bicetre he was obliged to take to his bed. For nearly
       three weeks he lay fever-stricken, in a stupefied, comatose state.
       Gradelle meantime called down all sorts of maledictions on his
       republican nephew; and one morning, when he heard of Florent's
       departure for Cayenne, he went upstairs, tapped Quenu on the hands,
       awoke him, and bluntly told him the news, thereby bringing about such
       a reaction that on the following day the young man was up and about
       again. His grief wore itself out, and his soft flabby flesh seemed to
       absorb his tears. A month later he laughed again, and then grew vexed
       and unhappy with himself for having been merry; but his natural light-
       heartedness soon gained the mastery, and he laughed afresh in
       unconscious happiness.
       He now learned his uncle's business, from which he derived even more
       enjoyment than from cookery. Gradelle told him, however, that he must
       not neglect his pots and pans, that it was rare to find a pork butcher
       who was also a good cook, and that he had been lucky in serving in a
       restaurant before coming to the shop. Gradelle, moreover, made full
       use of his nephew's acquirements, employed him to cook the dinners
       sent out to certain customers, and placed all the broiling, and the
       preparation of pork chops garnished with gherkins in his special
       charge. As the young man was of real service to him, he grew fond of
       him after his own fashion, and would nip his plump arms when he was in
       a good humour. Gradelle had sold the scanty furniture of the room in
       the Rue Royer Collard and retained possession of the proceeds--some
       forty francs or so--in order, said he, to prevent the foolish lad,
       Quenu, from making ducks and drakes of the cash. After a time,
       however, he allowed his nephew six francs a month a pocket-money.
       Quenu now became quite happy, in spite of the emptiness of his purse
       and the harshness with which he was occasionally treated. He liked to
       have life doled out to him; Florent had treated him too much like an
       indolent girl. Moreover, he had made a friend at his uncle's.
       Gradelle, when his wife died, had been obliged to engage a girl to
       attend to the shop, and had taken care to choose a healthy and
       attractive one, knowing that a good-looking girl would set off his
       viands and help to tempt custom. Amongst his acquaintances was a
       widow, living in the Rue Cuvier, near the Jardin des Plantes, whose
       deceased husband had been postmaster at Plassans, the seat of a
       sub-prefecture in the south of France. This lady, who lived in a very
       modest fashion on a small annuity, had brought with her from Plassans
       a plump, pretty child, whom she treated as her own daughter. Lisa, as
       the young one was called, attended upon her with much placidity and
       serenity of disposition. Somewhat seriously inclined, she looked quite
       beautiful when she smiled. Indeed, her great charm came from the
       exquisite manner in which she allowed this infrequent smile of hers to
       escape her. Her eyes then became most caressing, and her habitual
       gravity imparted inestimable value to these sudden, seductive flashes.
       The old lady had often said that one of Lisa's smiles would suffice to
       lure her to perdition.
       When the widow died she left all her savings, amounting to some ten
       thousand francs, to her adopted daughter. For a week Lisa lived alone
       in the Rue Cuvier; it was there that Gradelle came in search of her.
       He had become acquainted with her by often seeing her with her
       mistress when the latter called on him in the Rue Pirouette; and at
       the funeral she had struck him as having grown so handsome and sturdy
       that he had followed the hearse all the way to the cemetery, though he
       had not intended to do so. As the coffin was being lowered into the
       grave, he reflected what a splendid girl she would be for the counter
       of a pork butcher's shop. He thought the matter over, and finally
       resolved to offer her thirty francs a month, with board and lodging.
       When he made this proposal, Lisa asked for twenty-four hours to
       consider it. Then she arrived one morning with a little bundle of
       clothes, and her ten thousand francs concealed in the bosom of her
       dress. A month later the whole place belonged to her; she enslaved
       Gradelle, Quenu, and even the smallest kitchen-boy. For his part,
       Quenu would have cut off his fingers to please her. When she happened
       to smile, he remained rooted to the floor, laughing with delight as he
       gazed at her.
       Lisa was the eldest daughter of the Macquarts of Plassans, and her
       father was still alive.[*] But she said that he was abroad, and never
       wrote to him. Sometimes she just dropped a hint that her mother, now
       deceased, had been a hard worker, and that she took after her. She
       worked, indeed, very assiduously. However, she sometimes added that
       the worthy woman had slaved herself to death in striving to support
       her family. Then she would speak of the respective duties of husband
       and wife in such a practical though modest fashion as to enchant
       Quenu. He assured her that he fully shared her ideas. These were that
       everyone, man or woman, ought to work for his or her living, that
       everyone was charged with the duty of achieving personal happiness,
       that great harm was done by encouraging habits of idleness, and that
       the presence of so much misery in the world was greatly due to sloth.
       This theory of hers was a sweeping condemnation of drunkenness, of all
       the legendary loafing ways of her father Macquart. But, though she did
       not know it, there was much of Macquart's nature in herself. She was
       merely a steady, sensible Macquart with a logical desire for comfort,
       having grasped the truth of the proverb that as you make your bed so
       you lie on it. To sleep in blissful warmth there is no better plan
       than to prepare oneself a soft and downy couch; and to the preparation
       of such a couch she gave all her time and all her thoughts. When no
       more than six years old she had consented to remain quietly on her
       chair the whole day through on condition that she should be rewarded
       with a cake in the evening.
       [*] See M. Zola's novel, /The Fortune of the Rougons/.--Translator
       At Gradelle's establishment Lisa went on leading the calm, methodical
       life which her exquisite smiles illumined. She had not accepted the
       pork butcher's offer at random. She reckoned upon finding a guardian
       in him; with the keen scent of those who are born lucky she perhaps
       foresaw that the gloomy shop in the Rue Pirouette would bring her the
       comfortable future she dreamed of--a life of healthy enjoyment, and
       work without fatigue, each hour of which would bring its own reward.
       She attended to her counter with the quiet earnestness with which she
       had waited upon the postmaster's widow; and the cleanliness of her
       aprons soon became proverbial in the neighbourhood. Uncle Gradelle was
       so charmed with this pretty girl that sometimes, as he was stringing
       his sausages, he would say to Quenu: "Upon my word, if I weren't
       turned sixty, I think I should be foolish enough to marry her. A wife
       like she'd make is worth her weight in gold to a shopkeeper, my lad."
       Quenu himself was growing still fonder of her, though he laughed
       merrily one day when a neighbour accused him of being in love with
       Lisa. He was not worried with love-sickness. The two were very good
       friends, however. In the evening they went up to their bedrooms
       together. Lisa slept in a little chamber adjoining the dark hole which
       the young man occupied. She had made this room of hers quite bright by
       hanging it with muslin curtains. The pair would stand together for a
       moment on the landing, holding their candles in their hands, and
       chatting as they unlocked their doors. Then, as they closed them, they
       said in friendly tones:
       "Good night, Mademoiselle Lisa."
       "Good night, Monsieur Quenu."
       As Quenu undressed himself he listened to Lisa making her own
       preparations. The partition between the two rooms was very thin.
       "There, she is drawing her curtains now," he would say to himself;
       "what can she be doing, I wonder, in front of her chest of drawers?
       Ah! she's sitting down now and taking off her shoes. Now she's blown
       her candle out. Well, good night. I must get to sleep"; and at times,
       when he heard her bed creak as she got into it, he would say to
       himself with a smile, "Dash it all! Mademoiselle Lisa is no feather."
       This idea seemed to amuse him, and presently he would fall asleep
       thinking about the hams and salt pork that he had to prepare the next
       morning.
       This state of affairs went on for a year without causing Lisa a single
       blush or Quenu a moment's embarrassment. When the girl came into the
       kitchen in the morning at the busiest moment of the day's work, they
       grasped hands over the dishes of sausage-meat. Sometimes she helped
       him, holding the skins with her plump fingers while he filled them
       with meat and fat. Sometimes, too, with the tips of their tongues they
       just tasted the raw sausage-meat, to see if it was properly seasoned.
       She was able to give Quenu some useful hints, for she knew of many
       favourite southern recipes, with which he experimented with much
       success. He was often aware that she was standing behind his shoulder,
       prying into the pans. If he wanted a spoon or a dish, she would hand
       it to him. The heat of the fire would bring their blood to their
       skins; still, nothing in the world would have induced the young man to
       cease stirring the fatty /bouillis/ which were thickening over the
       fire while the girl stood gravely by him, discussing the amount of
       boiling that was necessary. In the afternoon, when the shop lacked
       customers, they quietly chatted together for hours at a time. Lisa sat
       behind the counter, leaning back, and knitting in an easy, regular
       fashion; while Quenu installed himself on a big oak block, dangling
       his legs and tapping his heels against the wood. They got on
       wonderfully well together, discussing all sorts of subjects, generally
       cookery, and then Uncle Gradelle and the neighbours. Lisa also amused
       the young man with stories, just as though he were a child. She knew
       some very pretty ones--some miraculous legends, full of lambs and
       little angels, which she narrated in a piping voice, with all her
       wonted seriousness. If a customer happened to come in, she saved
       herself the trouble of moving by asking Quenu to get the required pot
       of lard or box of snails. And at eleven o'clock they went slowly up to
       bed as on the previous night. As they closed their doors, they calmly
       repeated the words:
       "Good night, Mademoiselle Lisa."
       "Good night, Monsieur Quenu."
       One morning Uncle Gradelle was struck dead by apoplexy while preparing
       a galantine. He fell forward, with his face against the chopping-
       block. Lisa did not lose her self-possession. She remarked that the
       dead man could not be left lying in the middle of the kitchen, and had
       the body removed into a little back room where Gradelle had slept.
       Then she arranged with the assistants what should be said. It must be
       given out that the master had died in his bed; otherwise the whole
       district would be disgusted, and the shop would lose its customers.
       Quenu helped to carry the dead man away, feeling quite confused, and
       astonished at being unable to shed any tears. Presently, however, he
       and Lisa cried together. Quenu and his brother Florent were the sole
       heirs. The gossips of the neighbourhood credited old Gradelle with the
       possession of a considerable fortune. However, not a single crown
       could be discovered. Lisa seemed very restless and uneasy. Quenu
       noticed how pensive she became, how she kept on looking around her
       from morning till night, as though she had lost something. At last she
       decided to have a thorough cleaning of the premises, declaring that
       people were beginning to talk, that the story of the old man's death
       had got about, and that it was necessary they should make a great show
       of cleanliness. One afternoon, after remaining in the cellar for a
       couple of hours, whither she herself had gone to wash the salting-
       tubs, she came up again, carrying something in her apron. Quenu was
       just then cutting up a pig's fry. She waited till he had finished,
       talking awhile in an easy, indifferent fashion. But there was an
       unusual glitter in her eyes, and she smiled her most charming smile as
       she told him that she wanted to speak to him. She led the way upstairs
       with seeming difficulty, impeded by what she had in her apron, which
       was strained almost to bursting.
       By the time she reached the third floor she found herself short of
       breath, and for a moment was obliged to lean against the balustrade.
       Quenu, much astonished, followed her into her bedroom without saying a
       word. It was the first time she had ever invited him to enter it. She
       closed the door, and letting go the corners of her apron, which her
       stiffened fingers could no longer hold up, she allowed a stream of
       gold and silver coins to flow gently upon her bed. She had discovered
       Uncle Gradelle's treasure at the bottom of a salting-tub. The heap of
       money made a deep impression in the softy downy bed.
       Lisa and Quenu evinced a quiet delight. They sat down on the edge of
       the bed, Lisa at the head and Quenu at the foot, on either side of the
       heap of coins, and they counted the money out upon the counterpane, so
       as to avoid making any noise. There were forty thousand francs in
       gold, and three thousand francs in silver, whilst in a tin box they
       found bank notes to the value of forty-two thousand francs. It took
       them two hours to count up the treasure. Quenu's hands trembled
       slightly, and it was Lisa who did most of the work.
       They arranged the gold on the pillow in little heaps, leaving the
       silver in the hollow depression of the counterpane. When they had
       ascertained the total amount--eighty-five thousand francs, to them an
       enormous sum--they began to chat. And their conversation naturally
       turned upon their future, and they spoke of their marriage, although
       there had never been any previous mention of love between them. But
       this heap of money seemed to loosen their tongues. They had gradually
       seated themselves further back on the bed, leaning against the wall,
       beneath the white muslin curtains; and as they talked together, their
       hands, playing with the heap of silver between them, met, and remained
       linked amidst the pile of five-franc pieces. Twilight surprised them
       still sitting together. Then, for the first time, Lisa blushed at
       finding the young man by her side. For a few moments, indeed, although
       not a thought of evil had come to them, they felt much embarrassed.
       Then Lisa went to get her own ten thousand francs. Quenu wanted her to
       put them with his uncle's savings. He mixed the two sums together,
       saying with a laugh that the money must be married also. Then it was
       agreed that Lisa should keep the hoard in her chest of drawers. When
       she had locked it up they both quietly went downstairs. They were now
       practically husband and wife.
       The wedding took place during the following month. The neighbours
       considered the match a very natural one, and in every way suitable.
       They had vaguely heard the story of the treasure, and Lisa's honesty
       was the subject of endless eulogy. After all, said the gossips, she
       might well have kept the money herself, and not have spoken a word to
       Quenu about it; if she had spoken, it was out of pure honesty, for no
       one had seen her find the hoard. She well deserved, they added, that
       Quenu should make her his wife. That Quenu, by the way, was a lucky
       fellow; he wasn't a beauty himself, yet he had secured a beautiful
       wife, who had disinterred a fortune for him. Some even went so far as
       to whisper that Lisa was a simpleton for having acted as she had done;
       but the young woman only smiled when people speaking to her vaguely
       alluded to all these things. She and her husband lived on as
       previously, in happy placidity and quiet affection. She still assisted
       him as before, their hands still met amidst the sausage-meat, she
       still glanced over his shoulder into the pots and pans, and still
       nothing but the great fire in the kitchen brought the blood to their
       cheeks.
       However, Lisa was a woman of practical common sense, and speedily saw
       the folly of allowing eighty-five thousand francs to lie idle in a
       chest of drawers. Quenu would have willingly stowed them away again at
       the bottom of the salting-tub until he had gained as much more, when
       they could have retired from business and have gone to live at
       Suresnes, a suburb to which both were partial. Lisa, however, had
       other ambitions. The Rue Pirouette did not accord with her ideas of
       cleanliness, her craving for fresh air, light, and healthy life. The
       shop where Uncle Gradelle had accumulated his fortune, sou by sou, was
       a long, dark place, one of those suspicious looking pork butchers'
       shops of the old quarters of the city, where the well-worn flagstones
       retain a strong odour of meat in spite of constant washings. Now the
       young woman longed for one of those bright modern shops, ornamented
       like a drawing-room, and fringing the footway of some broad street
       with windows of crystalline transparence. She was not actuated by any
       petty ambition to play the fine lady behind a stylish counter, but
       clearly realised that commerce in its latest development needed
       elegant surroundings. Quenu showed much alarm the first time his wife
       suggested that they ought to move and spend some of their money in
       decorating a new shop. However, Lisa only shrugged her shoulders and
       smiled at finding him so timorous.
       One evening, when night was falling and the shop had grown dark, Quenu
       and Lisa overheard a woman of the neighbourhood talking to a friend
       outside their door.
       "No, indeed! I've given up dealing with them," said she. "I wouldn't
       buy a bit of black-pudding from them now on any account. They had a
       dead man in their kitchen, you know."
       Quenu wept with vexation. The story of Gradelle's death in the kitchen
       was clearly getting about; and his nephew began to blush before his
       customers when he saw them sniffing his wares too closely. So, of his
       own accord, he spoke to his wife of her proposal to take a new shop.
       Lisa, without saying anything, had already been looking out for other
       premises, and had found some, admirably situated, only a few yards
       away, in the Rue Rambuteau. The immediate neighbourhood of the central
       markets, which were being opened just opposite, would triple their
       business, and make their shop known all over Paris.
       Quenu allowed himself to be drawn into a lavish expenditure of money;
       he laid out over thirty thousand francs in marble, glass, and gilding.
       Lisa spent hours with the workmen, giving her views about the
       slightest details. When she was at last installed behind the counter,
       customers arrived in a perfect procession, merely for the sake of
       examining the shop. The inside walls were lined from top to bottom
       with white marble. The ceiling was covered with a huge square mirror,
       framed by a broad gilded cornice, richly ornamented, whilst from the
       centre hung a crystal chandelier with four branches. And behind the
       counter, and on the left, and at the far end of the shop were other
       mirrors, fitted between the marble panels and looking like doors
       opening into an infinite series of brightly lighted halls, where all
       sorts of appetising edibles were displayed. The huge counter on the
       right hand was considered a very fine piece of work. At intervals
       along the front were lozenge-shaped panels of pinky marble. The
       flooring was of tiles, alternately white and pink, with a deep red
       fretting as border. The whole neighbourhood was proud of the shop, and
       no one again thought of referring to the kitchen in the Rue Pirouette,
       where a man had died. For quite a month women stopped short on the
       footway to look at Lisa between the saveloys and bladders in the
       window. Her white and pink flesh excited as much admiration as the
       marbles. She seemed to be the soul, the living light, the healthy,
       sturdy idol of the pork trade; and thenceforth one and all baptised
       her "Lisa the beauty."
       To the right of the shop was the dining-room, a neat looking apartment
       containing a sideboard, a table, and several cane-seated chairs of
       light oak. The matting on the floor, the wallpaper of a soft yellow
       tint, the oil-cloth table-cover, coloured to imitate oak, gave the
       room a somewhat cold appearance, which was relieved only by the
       glitter of a brass hanging lamp, suspended from the ceiling, and
       spreading its big shade of transparent porcelain over the table. One
       of the dining-room doors opened into the huge square kitchen, at the
       end of which was a small paved courtyard, serving for the storage of
       lumber--tubs, barrels and pans, and all kinds of utensils not in use.
       To the left of the water-tap, alongside the gutter which carried off
       the greasy water, stood pots of faded flowers, removed from the shop
       window, and slowly dying.
       Business was excellent. Quenu, who had been much alarmed by the
       initial outlay, now regarded his wife with something like respect, and
       told his friends that she had "a wonderful head." At the end of five
       years they had nearly eighty thousand francs invested in the State
       funds. Lisa would say that they were not ambitious, that they had no
       desire to pile up money too quickly, or else she would have enabled
       her husband to gain hundreds and thousands of francs by prompting him
       to embark in the wholesale pig trade. But they were still young, and
       had plenty of time before them; besides, they didn't care about a
       rough, scrambling business, but preferred to work at their ease, and
       enjoy life, instead of wearing themselves out with endless anxieties.
       "For instance," Lisa would add in her expansive moments, "I have, you
       know, a cousin in Paris. I never see him, as the two families have
       fallen out. He has taken the name of Saccard,[*] on account of certain
       matters which he wants to be forgotten. Well, this cousin of mine, I'm
       told, makes millions and millions of francs; but he gets no enjoyment
       out of life. He's always in a state of feverish excitement, always
       rushing hither and thither, up to his neck in all sorts of worrying
       business. Well, it's impossible, isn't it, for such a man to eat his
       dinner peaceably in the evening? We, at any rate, can take our meals
       comfortably, and make sure of what we eat, and we are not harassed by
       worries as he is. The only reason why people should care for money is
       that money's wanted for one to live. People like comfort; that's
       natural. But as for making money simply for the sake of making it, and
       giving yourself far more trouble and anxiety to gain it than you can
       ever get pleasure from it when it's gained, why, as for me, I'd rather
       sit still and cross my arms. And besides, I should like to see all
       those millions of my cousin's. I can't say that I altogether believe
       in them. I caught sight of him the other day in his carriage. He was
       quite yellow, and looked ever so sly. A man who's making money doesn't
       have that kind of expression. But it's his business, and not mine. For
       our part, we prefer to make merely a hundred sous at a time, and to
       get a hundred sous' worth of enjoyment out of them."
       [*] See M. Zola's novel, /Money/.
       The household was undoubtedly thriving. A daughter had been born to
       the young couple during their first year of wedlock, and all three of
       them looked blooming. The business went on prosperously, without any
       laborious fatigue, just as Lisa desired. She had carefully kept free
       of any possible source of trouble or anxiety, and the days went by in
       an atmosphere of peaceful, unctuous prosperity. Their home was a nook
       of sensible happiness--a comfortable manger, so to speak, where
       father, mother, and daughter could grow sleek and fat. It was only
       Quenu who occasionally felt sad, through thinking of his brother
       Florent. Up to the year 1856 he had received letters from him at long
       intervals. Then no more came, and he had learned from a newspaper that
       three convicts having attempted to escape from the Ile du Diable, had
       been drowned before they were able to reach the mainland. He had made
       inquiries at the Prefecture of Police, but had not learnt anything
       definite; it seemed probable that his brother was dead. However, he
       did not lose all hope, though months passed without any tidings.
       Florent, in the meantime, was wandering about Dutch Guiana, and
       refrained from writing home as he was ever in hope of being able to
       return to France. Quenu at last began to mourn for him as one mourns
       for those whom one has been unable to bid farewell. Lisa had never
       known Florent, but she spoke very kindly whenever she saw her husband
       give way to his sorrow; and she evinced no impatience when for the
       hundredth time or so he began to relate stories of his early days, of
       his life in the big room in the Rue Royer Collard, the thirty-six
       trades which he had taken up one after another, and the dainties which
       he had cooked at the stove, dressed all in white, while Florent was
       dressed all in black. To such talk as this, indeed, she listened
       placidly, with a complacency which never wearied.
       It was into the midst of all this happiness, ripening after careful
       culture, that Florent dropped one September morning just as Lisa was
       taking her matutinal bath of sunshine, and Quenu, with his eyes still
       heavy with sleep, was lazily applying his fingers to the congealed fat
       left in the pans from the previous evening. Florent's arrival caused a
       great commotion. Gavard advised them to conceal the "outlaw," as he
       somewhat pompously called Florent. Lisa, who looked pale, and more
       serious than was her wont, at last took him to the fifth floor, where
       she gave him the room belonging to the girl who assisted her in the
       shop. Quenu had cut some slices of bread and ham, but Florent was
       scarcely able to eat. He was overcome by dizziness and nausea, and
       went to bed, where he remained for five days in a state of delirium,
       the outcome of an attack of brain-fever, which fortunately received
       energetic treatment. When he recovered consciousness he perceived Lisa
       sitting by his bedside, silently stirring some cooling drink in a cup.
       As he tried to thank her, she told him that he must keep perfectly
       quiet, and that they could talk together later on. At the end of
       another three days Florent was on his feet again. Then one morning
       Quenu went up to tell him that Lisa awaited them in her room on the
       first floor.
       Quenu and his wife there occupied a suite of three rooms and a
       dressing-room. You first passed through an antechamber, containing
       nothing but chairs, and then a small sitting-room, whose furniture,
       shrouded in white covers, slumbered in the gloom cast by the Venetian
       shutters, which were always kept closed so as to prevent the light
       blue of the upholstery from fading. Then came the bedroom, the only
       one of the three which was really used. It was very comfortably
       furnished in mahogany. The bed, bulky and drowsy of aspect in the
       depths of the damp alcove, was really wonderful, with its four
       mattresses, its four pillows, its layers of blankets, and its
       corpulent /edredon/. It was evidently a bed intended for slumber. A
       mirrored wardrobe, a washstand with drawers, a small central table
       with a worked cover, and several chairs whose seats were protected by
       squares of lace, gave the room an aspect of plain but substantial
       middle-class luxury. On the left-hand wall, on either side of the
       mantelpiece, which was ornamented with some landscape-painted vases
       mounted on bronze stands, and a gilt timepiece on which a figure of
       Gutenberg, also gilt, stood in an attitude of deep thought, hung
       portraits in oils of Quenu and Lisa, in ornate oval frames. Quenu had
       a smiling face, while Lisa wore an air of grave propriety; and both
       were dressed in black and depicted in flattering fashion, their
       features idealised, their skins wondrously smooth, their complexions
       soft and pinky. A carpet, in the Wilton style, with a complicated
       pattern of roses mingling with stars, concealed the flooring; while in
       front of the bed was a fluffy mat, made out of long pieces of curly
       wool, a work of patience at which Lisa herself had toiled while seated
       behind her counter. But the most striking object of all in the midst
       of this array of new furniture was a great square, thick-set
       secretaire, which had been re-polished in vain, for the cracks and
       notches in the marble top and the scratches on the old mahogany front,
       quite black with age, still showed plainly. Lisa had desired to retain
       this piece of furniture, however, as Uncle Gradelle had used it for
       more than forty years. It would bring them good luck, she said. It's
       metal fastenings were truly something terrible, it's lock was like
       that of a prison gate, and it was so heavy that it could scarcely be
       moved.
       When Florent and Quenu entered the room they found Lisa seated at the
       lowered desk of the secretaire, writing and putting down figures in a
       big, round, and very legible hand. She signed to them not to disturb
       her, and the two men sat down. Florent looked round the room, and
       notably at the two portraits, the bed and the timepiece, with an air
       of surprise.
       "There!" at last exclaimed Lisa, after having carefully verified a
       whole page of calculations. "Listen to me now; we have an account to
       render to you, my dear Florent."
       It was the first time that she had so addressed him. However, taking
       up the page of figures, she continued: "Your Uncle Gradelle died
       without leaving a will. Consequently you and your brother are his sole
       heirs. We now have to hand your share over to you."
       "But I do not ask you for anything!" exclaimed Florent, "I don't wish
       for anything!"
       Quenu had apparently been in ignorance of his wife's intentions. He
       turned rather pale and looked at her with an expression of
       displeasure. Of course, he certainly loved his brother dearly; but
       there was no occasion to hurl his uncle's money at him in this way.
       There would have been plenty of time to go into the matter later on.
       "I know very well, my dear Florent," continued Lisa, "that you did not
       come back with the intention of claiming from us what belongs to you;
       but business is business, you know, and we had better get things
       settled at once. Your uncle's savings amounted to eighty-five thousand
       francs. I have therefore put down forty-two thousand five hundred to
       your credit. See!"
       She showed him the figures on the sheet of paper.
       "It is unfortunately not so easy to value the shop, plant, stock-in-
       trade, and goodwill. I have only been able to put down approximate
       amounts, but I don't think I have underestimated anything. Well, the
       total valuation which I have made comes to fifteen thousand three
       hundred and ten francs; your half of which is seven thousand six
       hundred and fifty-five francs, so that your share amounts, in all, to
       fifty thousand one hundred and fifty-five francs. Please verify it for
       yourself, will you?"
       She had called out the figures in a clear, distinct voice, and she now
       handed the paper to Florent, who was obliged to take it.
       "But the old man's business was certainly never worth fifteen thousand
       francs!" cried Quenu. "Why, I wouldn't have given ten thousand for
       it!"
       He had ended by getting quite angry with his wife. Really, it was
       absurd to carry honesty to such a point as that! Had Florent said one
       word about the business? No, indeed, he had declared that he didn't
       wish for anything.
       "The business was worth fifteen thousand three hundred and ten
       francs," Lisa re-asserted, calmly. "You will agree with me, my dear
       Florent, that it is quite unnecessary to bring a lawyer into our
       affairs. It is for us to arrange the division between ourselves, since
       you have now turned up again. I naturally thought of this as soon as
       you arrived; and, while you were in bed with the fever, I did my best
       to draw up this little inventory. It contains, as you see, a fairly
       complete statement of everything. I have been through our old books,
       and have called up my memory to help me. Read it aloud, and I will
       give you any additional information you may want."
       Florent ended by smiling. He was touched by this easy and, as it were,
       natural display of probity. Placing the sheet of figures on the young
       woman's knee, he took hold of her hand and said, "I am very glad, my
       dear Lisa, to hear that you are prosperous, but I will not take your
       money. The heritage belongs to you and my brother, who took care of my
       uncle up to the last. I don't require anything, and I don't intend to
       hamper you in carrying on your business."
       Lisa insisted, and even showed some vexation, while Quenu gnawed his
       thumbs in silence to restrain himself.
       "Ah!" resumed Florent with a laugh, "if Uncle Gradelle could hear you,
       I think he'd come back and take the money away again. I was never a
       favourite of his, you know."
       "Well, no," muttered Quenu, no longer able to keep still, "he
       certainly wasn't over fond of you."
       Lisa, however, still pressed the matter. She did not like to have
       money in her secretaire that did not belong to her; it would worry
       her, said she; the thought of it would disturb her peace. Thereupon
       Florent, still in a joking way, proposed to invest his share in the
       business. Moreover, said he, he did not intend to refuse their help;
       he would, no doubt, be unable to find employment all at once; and
       then, too, he would need a complete outfit, for he was scarcely
       presentable.
       "Of course," cried Quenu, "you will board and lodge with us, and we
       will buy you all that you want. That's understood. You know very well
       that we are not likely to leave you in the streets, I hope!"
       He was quite moved now, and even felt a trifle ashamed of the alarm he
       had experienced at the thought of having to hand over a large amount
       of money all at once. He began to joke, and told his brother that he
       would undertake to fatten him. Florent gently shook his hand; while
       Lisa folded up the sheet of figures and put it away in a drawer of the
       secretaire.
       "You are wrong," she said by way of conclusion. "I have done what I
       was bound to do. Now it shall be as you wish. But, for my part, I
       should never have had a moment's peace if I had not put things before
       you. Bad thoughts would quite upset me."
       They then began to speak of another matter. It would be necessary to
       give some reason for Florent's presence, and at the same time avoid
       exciting the suspicion of the police. He told them that in order to
       return to France he had availed himself of the papers of a poor fellow
       who had died in his arms at Surinam from yellow fever. By a singular
       coincidence this young fellow's Christian name was Florent.
       Florent Laquerriere, to give him his name in full, had left but one
       relation in Paris, a female cousin, and had been informed of her death
       while in America. Nothing could therefore be easier than for Quenu's
       half brother to pass himself off as the man who had died at Surinam.
       Lisa offered to take upon herself the part of the female cousin. They
       then agreed to relate that their cousin Florent had returned from
       abroad, where he had failed in his attempts to make a fortune, and
       that they, the Quenu-Gradelles, as they were called in the
       neighbourhood, had received him into their house until he could find
       suitable employment. When this was all settled, Quenu insisted upon
       his brother making a thorough inspection of the rooms, and would not
       spare him the examination of a single stool. Whilst they were in the
       bare looking chamber containing nothing but chairs, Lisa pushed open a
       door, and showing Florent a small dressing room, told him that the
       shop girl should sleep in it, so that he could retain the bedroom on
       the fifth floor.
       In the evening Florent was arrayed in new clothes from head to foot.
       He had insisted upon again having a black coat and black trousers,
       much against the advice of Quenu, upon whom black had a depressing
       effect. No further attempts were made to conceal his presence in the
       house, and Lisa told the story which had been planned to everyone who
       cared to hear it. Henceforth Florent spent almost all his time on the
       premises, lingering on a chair in the kitchen or leaning against the
       marble-work in the shop. At meal times Quenu plied him with food, and
       evinced considerable vexation when he proved such a small eater and
       left half the contents of his liberally filled plate untouched. Lisa
       had resumed her old life, evincing a kindly tolerance of her brother-
       in-law's presence, even in the morning, when he somewhat interfered
       with the work. Then she would momentarily forget him, and on suddenly
       perceiving his black form in front of her give a slight start of
       surprise, followed, however, by one of her sweet smiles, lest he might
       feel at all hurt. This skinny man's disinterestedness had impressed
       her, and she regarded him with a feeling akin to respect, mingled with
       vague fear. Florent had for his part only felt that there was great
       affection around him.
       When bedtime came he went upstairs, a little wearied by his lazy day,
       with the two young men whom Quenu employed as assistants, and who
       slept in attics adjoining his own. Leon, the apprentice, was barely
       fifteen years of age. He was a slight, gentle looking lad, addicted to
       stealing stray slices of ham and bits of sausages. These he would
       conceal under his pillow, eating them during the night without any
       bread. Several times at about one o'clock in the morning Florent
       almost fancied that Leon was giving a supper-party; for he heard low
       whispering followed by a sound of munching jaws and rustling paper.
       And then a rippling girlish laugh would break faintly on the deep
       silence of the sleeping house like the soft trilling of a flageolet.
       The other assistant, Auguste Landois, came from Troyes. Bloated with
       unhealthy fat, he had too large a head, and was already bald, although
       only twenty-eight years of age. As he went upstairs with Florent on
       the first evening, he told him his story in a confused, garrulous way.
       He had at first come to Paris merely for the purpose of perfecting
       himself in the business, intending to return to Troyes, where his
       cousin, Augustine Landois, was waiting for him, and there setting up
       for himself as a pork butcher. He and she had had the game godfather
       and bore virtually the same Christian name. However, he had grown
       ambitious; and now hoped to establish himself in business in Paris by
       the aid of the money left him by his mother, which he had deposited
       with a notary before leaving Champagne.
       Auguste had got so far in his narrative when the fifth floor was
       reached; however, he still detained Florent, in order to sound the
       praises of Madame Quenu, who had consented to send for Augustine
       Landois to replace an assistant who had turned out badly. He himself
       was now thoroughly acquainted with his part of the business, and his
       cousin was perfecting herself in shop management. In a year or
       eighteen months they would be married, and then they would set up on
       their own account in some populous corner of Paris, at Plaisance most
       likely. They were in no great hurry, he added, for the bacon trade was
       very bad that year. Then he proceeded to tell Florent that he and his
       cousin had been photographed together at the fair of St. Ouen, and he
       entered the attic to have another look at the photograph, which
       Augustine had left on the mantelpiece, in her desire that Madame
       Quenu's cousin should have a pretty room. Auguste lingered there for a
       moment, looking quite livid in the dim yellow light of his candle, and
       casting his eyes around the little chamber which was still full of
       memorials of the young girl. Next, stepping up to the bed, he asked
       Florent if it was comfortable. His cousin slept below now, said he,
       and would be better there in the winter, for the attics were very
       cold. Then at last he went off, leaving Florent alone with the bed,
       and standing in front of the photograph. As shown on the latter
       Auguste looked like a sort of pale Quenu, and Augustine like an
       immature Lisa.
       Florent, although on friendly terms with the assistants, petted by his
       brother, and cordially treated by Lisa, presently began to feel very
       bored. He had tried, but without success, to obtain some pupils;
       moreover, he purposely avoided the students' quarter for fear of being
       recognised. Lisa gently suggested to him that he had better try to
       obtain a situation in some commercial house, where he could take
       charge of the correspondence and keep the books. She returned to this
       subject again and again, and at last offered to find a berth for him
       herself. She was gradually becoming impatient at finding him so often
       in her way, idle, and not knowing what to do with himself. At first
       this impatience was merely due to the dislike she felt of people who
       do nothing but cross their arms and eat, and she had no thought of
       reproaching him for consuming her substance.
       "For my own part," she would say to him, "I could never spend the
       whole day in dreamy lounging. You can't have any appetite for your
       meals. You ought to tire yourself."
       Gavard, also, was seeking a situation for Florent, but in a very
       extraordinary and most mysterious fashion. He would have liked to find
       some employment of a dramatic character, or in which there should be a
       touch of bitter irony, as was suitable for an outlaw. Gavard was a man
       who was always in opposition. He had just completed his fiftieth year,
       and he boasted that he had already passed judgment on four
       Governments. He still contemptuously shrugged his shoulders at the
       thought of Charles X, the priests and nobles and other attendant
       rabble, whom he had helped to sweep away. Louis Philippe, with his
       bourgeois following, had been an imbecile, and he could tell how the
       citizen-king had hoarded his coppers in a woollen stocking. As for the
       Republic of '48, that had been a mere farce, the working classes had
       deceived him; however, he no longer acknowledged that he had applauded
       the Coup d'Etat, for he now looked upon Napoleon III as his personal
       enemy, a scoundrel who shut himself up with Morny and others to
       indulge in gluttonous orgies. He was never weary of holding forth upon
       this subject. Lowering his voice a little, he would declare that women
       were brought to the Tuileries in closed carriages every evening, and
       that he, who was speaking, had one night heard the echoes of the
       orgies while crossing the Place du Carrousel. It was Gavard's religion
       to make himself as disagreeable as possible to any existing
       Government. He would seek to spite it in all sorts of ways, and laugh
       in secret for several months at the pranks he played. To begin with,
       he voted for candidates who would worry the Ministers at the Corps
       Legislatif. Then, if he could rob the revenue, or baffle the police,
       and bring about a row of some kind or other, he strove to give the
       affair as much of an insurrectionary character as possible. He told a
       great many lies, too; set himself up as being a very dangerous man;
       talked as though "the satellites of the Tuileries" were well
       acquainted with him and trembled at the sight of him; and asserted
       that one half of them must be guillotined, and the other half
       transported, the next time there was "a flare-up." His violent
       political creed found food in boastful, bragging talk of this sort; he
       displayed all the partiality for a lark and a rumpus which prompts a
       Parisian shopkeeper to take down his shutters on a day of barricade-
       fighting to get a good view of the corpses of the slain. When Florent
       returned from Cayenne, Gavard opined that he had got hold of a
       splendid chance for some abominable trick, and bestowed much thought
       upon the question of how he might best vent his spleen on the Emperor
       and Ministers and everyone in office, down to the very lowest police
       constable.
       Gavard's manners with Florent were altogether those of a man tasting
       some forbidden pleasure. He contemplated him with blinking eyes,
       lowered his voice even when making the most trifling remark, and
       grasped his hand with all sorts of masonic flummery. He had at last
       lighted upon something in the way of an adventure; he had a friend who
       was really compromised, and could, without falsehood speak of the
       dangers he incurred. He undoubtedly experienced a secret alarm at the
       sight of this man who had returned from transportation, and whose
       fleshlessness testified to the long sufferings he had endured;
       however, this touch of alarm was delightful, for it increased his
       notion of his own importance, and convinced him that he was really
       doing something wonderful in treating a dangerous character as a
       friend. Florent became a sort of sacred being in his eyes: he swore by
       him alone, and had recourse to his name whenever arguments failed him
       and he wanted to crush the Government once and for all.
       Gavard had lost his wife in the Rue Saint Jacques some months after
       the Coup d'Etat; however, he had kept on his roasting shop till 1856.
       At that time it was reported that he had made large sums of money by
       going into partnership with a neighbouring grocer who had obtained a
       contract for supplying dried vegetables to the Crimean expeditionary
       corps. The truth was, however, that, having sold his shop, he lived on
       his income for a year without doing anything. He himself did not care
       to talk about the real origin of his fortune, for to have revealed it
       would have prevented him from plainly expressing his opinion of the
       Crimean War, which he referred to as a mere adventurous expedition,
       "undertaken simply to consolidate the throne and to fill certain
       persons' pockets." At the end of a year he had grown utterly weary of
       life in his bachelor quarters. As he was in the habit of visiting the
       Quenu-Gradelles almost daily, he determined to take up his residence
       nearer to them, and came to live in the Rue de la Cossonnerie. The
       neighbouring markets, with their noisy uproar and endless chatter,
       quite fascinated him; and he decided to hire a stall in the poultry
       pavilion, just for the purpose of amusing himself and occupying his
       idle hours with all the gossip. Thenceforth he lived amidst ceaseless
       tittle-tattle, acquainted with every little scandal in the
       neighbourhood, his head buzzing with the incessant yelping around him.
       He blissfully tasted a thousand titillating delights, having at last
       found his true element, and bathing in it, with the voluptuous
       pleasure of a carp swimming in the sunshine. Florent would sometimes
       go to see him at his stall. The afternoons were still very warm. All
       along the narrow alleys sat women plucking poultry. Rays of light
       streamed in between the awnings, and in the warm atmosphere, in the
       golden dust of the sunbeams, feathers fluttered hither and thither
       like dancing snowflakes. A trail of coaxing calls and offers followed
       Florent as he passed along. "Can I sell you a fine duck, monsieur?"
       "I've some very fine fat chickens here, monsieur; come and see!"
       "Monsieur! monsieur, do just buy this pair of pigeons!" Deafened and
       embarrassed he freed himself from the women, who still went on
       plucking as they fought for possession of him; and the fine down flew
       about and wellnigh choked him, like hot smoke reeking with the strong
       odour of the poultry. At last, in the middle of the alley, near the
       water-taps, he found Gavard ranting away in his shirt-sleeves, in
       front of his stall, with his arms crossed over the bib of his blue
       apron. He reigned there, in a gracious, condescending way, over a
       group of ten or twelve women. He was the only male dealer in that part
       of the market. He was so fond of wagging his tongue that he had
       quarrelled with five or six girls whom he had successively engaged to
       attend to his stall, and had now made up his mind to sell his goods
       himself, naively explaining that the silly women spent the whole
       blessed day in gossiping, and that it was beyond his power to manage
       them. As someone, however, was still necessary to supply his place
       whenever he absented himself he took in Marjolin, who was prowling
       about, after attempting in turn all the petty market callings.
       Florent sometimes remained for an hour with Gavard, amazed by his
       ceaseless flow of chatter, and his calm serenity and assurance amid
       the crowd of petticoats. He would interrupt one woman, pick a quarrel
       with another ten stalls away, snatch a customer from a third, and make
       as much noise himself as his hundred and odd garrulous neighbours,
       whose incessant clamour kept the iron plates of the pavilion vibrating
       sonorously like so many gongs.
       The poultry dealer's only relations were a sister-in-law and a niece.
       When his wife died, her eldest sister, Madame Lecoeur, who had become
       a widow about a year previously, had mourned for her in an exaggerated
       fashion, and gone almost every evening to tender consolation to the
       bereaved husband. She had doubtless cherished the hope that she might
       win his affection and fill the yet warm place of the deceased. Gavard,
       however, abominated lean women; and would, indeed, only stroke such
       cats and dogs as were very fat; so that Madame Lecoeur, who was long
       and withered, failed in her designs.
       With her feelings greatly hurt, furious at the ex-roaster's five-franc
       pieces eluding her grasp, she nurtured great spite against him. He
       became the enemy to whom she devoted all her time. When she saw him
       set up in the markets only a few yards away from the pavilion where
       she herself sold butter and eggs and cheese, she accused him of doing
       so simply for the sake of annoying her and bringing her bad luck. From
       that moment she began to lament, and turned so yellow and melancholy
       that she indeed ended by losing her customers and getting into
       difficulties. She had for a long time kept with her the daughter of
       one of her sisters, a peasant woman who had sent her the child and
       then taken no further trouble about it.
       This child grew up in the markets. Her surname was Sarriet, and so she
       soon became generally known as La Sarriette. At sixteen years of age
       she had developed into such a charming sly-looking puss that gentlemen
       came to buy cheeses at her aunt's stall simply for the purpose of
       ogling her. She did not care for the gentlemen, however; with her dark
       hair, pale face, and eyes glistening like live embers, her sympathies
       were with the lower ranks of the people. At last she chose as her
       lover a young man from Menilmontant who was employed by her aunt as a
       porter. At twenty she set up in business as a fruit dealer with the
       help of some funds procured no one knew how; and thenceforth Monsieur
       Jules, as her lover was called, displayed spotless hands, a clean
       blouse, and a velvet cap; and only came down to the market in the
       afternoon, in his slippers. They lived together on the third storey of
       a large house in the Rue Vauvilliers, on the ground floor of which was
       a disreputable cafe.
       Madame Lecoeur's acerbity of temper was brought to a pitch by what she
       called La Sarriette's ingratitude, and she spoke of the girl in the
       most violent and abusive language. They broke off all intercourse, the
       aunt fairly exasperated, and the niece and Monsieur Jules concocting
       stories about the aunt, which the young man would repeat to the other
       dealers in the butter pavilion. Gavard found La Sarriette very
       entertaining, and treated her with great indulgence. Whenever they met
       he would good-naturedly pat her cheeks.
       One afternoon, whilst Florent was sitting in his brother's shop, tired
       out with the fruitless pilgrimages he had made during the morning in
       search of work, Marjolin made his appearance there. This big lad, who
       had the massiveness and gentleness of a Fleming, was a protege of
       Lisa's. She would say that there was no evil in him; that he was
       indeed a little bit stupid, but as strong as a horse, and particularly
       interesting from the fact that nobody knew anything of his parentage.
       It was she who had got Gavard to employ him.
       Lisa was sitting behind the counter, feeling annoyed by the sight of
       Florent's muddy boots which were soiling the pink and white tiles of
       the flooring. Twice already had she risen to scatter sawdust about the
       shop. However, she smiled at Marjolin as he entered.
       "Monsieur Gavard," began the young man, "has sent me to ask--"
       But all at once he stopped and glanced round; then in a lower voice he
       resumed: "He told me to wait till there was no one with you, and then
       to repeat these words, which he made me learn by heart: 'Ask them if
       there is no danger, and if I can come and talk to them of the matter
       they know about.'"
       "Tell Monsieur Gavard that we are expecting him," replied Lisa, who
       was quite accustomed to the poultry dealer's mysterious ways.
       Marjolin, however, did not go away; but remained in ecstasy before the
       handsome mistress of the shop, contemplating her with an expression of
       fawning humility.
       Touched, as it were, by this mute adoration, Lisa spoke to him again.
       "Are you comfortable with Monsieur Gavard?" she asked. "He's not an
       unkind man, and you ought to try to please him."
       "Yes, Madame Lisa."
       "But you don't behave as you should, you know. Only yesterday I saw
       you clambering about the roofs of the market again; and, besides, you
       are constantly with a lot of disreputable lads and lasses. You ought
       to remember that you are a man now, and begin to think of the future."
       "Yes, Madame Lisa."
       However, Lisa had to get up to wait upon a lady who came in and wanted
       a pound of pork chops. She left the counter and went to the block at
       the far end of the shop. Here, with a long, slender knife, she cut
       three chops in a loin of pork; and then, raising a small cleaver with
       her strong hand, dealt three sharp blows which separated the chops
       from the loin. At each blow she dealt, her black merino dress rose
       slightly behind her, and the ribs of her stays showed beneath her
       tightly stretched bodice. She slowly took up the chops and weighed
       them with an air of gravity, her eyes gleaming and her lips tightly
       closed.
       When the lady had gone, and Lisa perceived Marjolin still full of
       delight at having seen her deal those three clean, forcible blows with
       the cleaver, she at once called out to him, "What! haven't you gone
       yet?"
       He thereupon turned to go, but she detained him for a moment longer.
       "Now, don't let me see you again with that hussy Cadine," she said.
       "Oh, it's no use to deny it! I saw you together this morning in the
       tripe market, watching men breaking the sheep's heads. I can't
       understand what attraction a good-looking young fellow like you can
       find in such a slipshod slattern as Cadine. Now then, go and tell
       Monsieur Gavard that he had better come at once, while there's no one
       about."
       Marjolin thereupon went off in confusion, without saying a word.
       Handsome Lisa remained standing behind her counter, with her head
       turned slightly in the direction of her markets, and Florent gazed at
       her in silence, surprised to see her looking so beautiful. He had
       never looked at her properly before; indeed, he did not know the right
       way to look at a woman. He now saw her rising above the viands on the
       counter. In front of her was an array of white china dishes,
       containing long Arles and Lyons sausages, slices of which had already
       been cut off, with tongues and pieces of boiled pork; then a pig's
       head in a mass of jelly; an open pot of preserved sausage-meat, and a
       large box of sardines disclosing a pool of oil. On the right and left,
       upon wooden platters, were mounds of French and Italian brawn, a
       common French ham, of a pinky hue, and a Yorkshire ham, whose deep red
       lean showed beneath a broad band of fat. There were other dishes too,
       round ones and oval ones, containing spiced tongue, truffled
       galantine, and a boar's head stuffed with pistachio nuts; while close
       to her, in reach of her hand, stood some yellow earthen pans
       containing larded veal, /pate de foie gras/, and hare-pie.
       As there were no signs of Gavard's coming, she arranged some fore-end
       bacon upon a little marble shelf at the end of the counter, put the
       jars of lard and dripping back into their places, wiped the plates of
       each pair of scales, and saw to the fire of the heater, which was
       getting low. Then she turned her head again, and gazed in silence
       towards the markets. The smell of all the viands ascended around her,
       she was enveloped, as it were, by the aroma of truffles. She looked
       beautifully fresh that afternoon. The whiteness of all the dishes was
       supplemented by that of her sleevelets and apron, above which appeared
       her plump neck and rosy cheeks, which recalled the soft tones of the
       hams and the pallor of all the transparent fat.
       As Florent continued to gaze at her he began to feel intimidated,
       disquieted by her prim, sedate demeanour; and in lieu of openly
       looking at her he ended by glancing surreptitiously in the mirrors
       around the shop, in which her back and face and profile could be seen.
       The mirror on the ceiling, too, reflected the top of her head, with
       its tightly rolled chignon and the little bands lowered over her
       temples. There seemed, indeed, to be a perfect crowd of Lisas, with
       broad shoulders, powerful arms, and round, full bosoms. At last
       Florent checked his roving eyes, and let them rest on a particularly
       pleasing side view of the young woman as mirrored between two pieces
       of pork. From the hooks running along the whole line of mirrors and
       marbles hung sides of pork and bands of larding fat; and Lisa, with
       her massive neck, rounded hips, and swelling bosom seen in profile,
       looked like some waxwork queen in the midst of the dangling fat and
       meat. However, she bent forward and smiled in a friendly way at the
       two gold-fish which were ever and ever swimming round the aquarium in
       the window.
       Gavard entered the shop. With an air of great importance he went to
       fetch Quenu from the kitchen. Then he seated himself upon a small
       marble-topped table, while Florent remained on his chair and Lisa
       behind the counter; Quenu meantime leaning his back against a side of
       pork. And thereupon Gavard announced that he had at last found a
       situation for Florent. They would be vastly amused when they heard
       what it was, and the Government would be nicely caught.
       But all at once he stopped short, for a passing neighbour,
       Mademoiselle Saget, having seen such a large party gossiping together
       at the Quenu-Gradelles', had opened the door and entered the shop.
       Carrying her everlasting black ribbonless straw hat, which
       appropriately cast a shadow over her prying white face, she saluted
       the men with a slight bow and Lisa with a sharp smile.
       She was an acquaintance of the family, and still lived in the house in
       the Rue Pirouette where she had resided for the last forty years,
       probably on a small private income; but of that she never spoke. She
       had, however, one day talked of Cherbourg, mentioning that she had
       been born there. Nothing further was ever known of her antecedents.
       All her conversation was about other people; she could tell the whole
       story of their daily lives, even to the number of things they sent to
       be washed each month; and she carried her prying curiosity concerning
       her neighbours' affairs so far as to listen behind their doors and
       open their letters. Her tongue was feared from the Rue Saint Denis to
       the Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and from the Rue Saint Honore to the
       Rue Mauconseil. All day long she went ferreting about with her empty
       bag, pretending that she was marketing, but in reality buying nothing,
       as her sole purpose was to retail scandal and gossip, and keep herself
       fully informed of every trifling incident that happened. Indeed, she
       had turned her brain into an encyclopaedia brimful of every possible
       particular concerning the people of the neighbourhood and their homes.
       Quenu had always accused her of having spread the story of his Uncle
       Gradelle's death on the chopping-block, and had borne her a grudge
       ever since. She was extremely well posted in the history of Uncle
       Gradelle and the Quenus, and knew them, she would say, by heart. For
       the last fortnight, however, Florent's arrival had greatly perplexed
       her, filled her, indeed, with a perfect fever of curiosity. She became
       quite ill when she discovered any unforeseen gap in her information.
       And yet she could have sworn that she had seen that tall lanky fellow
       somewhere or other before.
       She remained standing in front of the counter, examining the dishes
       one after another, and saying in a shrill voice:
       "I hardly know what to have. When the afternoon comes I feel quite
       famished for my dinner, and then, later on, I don't seem able to fancy
       anything at all. Have you got a cutlet rolled in bread-crumbs left,
       Madame Quenu?"
       Without waiting for a reply, she removed one of the covers of the
       heater. It was that of the compartment reserved for the chitterlings,
       sausages, and black-puddings. However, the chafing-dish was quite
       cold, and there was nothing left but one stray forgotten sausage.
       "Look under the other cover, Mademoiselle Saget," said Lisa. "I
       believe there's a cutlet there."
       "No, it doesn't tempt me," muttered the little old woman, poking her
       nose under the other cover, however, all the same. "I felt rather a
       fancy for one, but I'm afraid a cutlet would be rather too heavy in
       the evening. I'd rather have something, too, that I need not warm."
       While speaking she had turned towards Florent and looked at him; then
       she looked at Gavard, who was beating a tattoo with his finger-tips on
       the marble table. She smiled at them, as though inviting them to
       continue their conversation.
       "Wouldn't a little piece of salt pork suit you?" asked Lisa.
       "A piece of salt pork? Yes, that might do."
       Thereupon she took up the fork with plated handle, which was lying at
       the edge of the dish, and began to turn all the pieces of pork about,
       prodding them, lightly tapping the bones to judge of their thickness,
       and minutely scrutinising the shreds of pinky meat. And as she turned
       them over she repeated, "No, no; it doesn't tempt me."
       "Well, then, have a sheep's tongue, or a bit of brawn, or a slice of
       larded veal," suggested Lisa patiently.
       Mademoiselle Saget, however, shook her head. She remained there for a
       few minutes longer, pulling dissatisfied faces over the different
       dishes; then, seeing that the others were determined to remain silent,
       and that she would not be able to learn anything, she took herself
       off.
       "No; I rather felt a fancy for a cutlet rolled in bread-crumbs," she
       said as she left the shop, "but the one you have left is too fat. I
       must come another time."
       Lisa bent forward to watch her through the sausage-skins hanging in
       the shop-front, and saw her cross the road and enter the fruit market.
       "The old she-goat!" growled Gavard.
       Then, as they were now alone again, he began to tell them of the
       situation he had found for Florent. A friend of his, he said, Monsieur
       Verlaque, one of the fish market inspectors, was so ill that he was
       obliged to take a rest; and that very morning the poor man had told
       him that he should be very glad to find a substitute who would keep
       his berth open for him in case he should recover.
       "Verlaque, you know, won't last another six months," added Gavard,
       "and Florent will keep the place. It's a splendid idea, isn't it? And
       it will be such a take-in for the police! The berth is under the
       Prefecture, you know. What glorious fun to see Florent getting paid by
       the police, eh?"
       He burst into a hearty laugh; the idea struck him as so extremely
       comical.
       "I won't take the place," Florent bluntly replied. "I've sworn I'll
       never accept anything from the Empire, and I would rather die of
       starvation than serve under the Prefecture. It is quite out of the
       question, Gavard, quite so!"
       Gavard seemed somewhat put out on hearing this. Quenu had lowered his
       head, while Lisa, turning round, looked keenly at Florent, her neck
       swollen, her bosom straining her bodice almost to bursting point. She
       was just going to open her mouth when La Sarriette entered the shop,
       and there was another pause in the conversation.
       "Dear me!" exclaimed La Sarriette with her soft laugh, "I'd almost
       forgotten to get any bacon fat. Please, Madame Quenu, cut me a dozen
       thin strips--very thin ones, you know; I want them for larding larks.
       Jules has taken it into his head to eat some larks. Ah! how do you do,
       uncle?"
       She filled the whole shop with her dancing skirts and smiled brightly
       at everyone. Her face looked fresh and creamy, and on one side her
       hair was coming down, loosened by the wind which blew through the
       markets. Gavard grasped her hands, while she with merry impudence
       resumed: "I'll bet that you were talking about me just as I came in.
       Tell me what you were saying, uncle."
       However, Lisa now called to her, "Just look and tell me if this is
       thin enough."
       She was cutting the strips of bacon fat with great care on a piece of
       board in front of her. Then as she wrapped them up she inquired, "Can
       I give you anything else?"
       "Well, yes," replied La Sarriette; "since I'm about it, I think I'll
       have a pound of lard. I'm awfully fond of fried potatoes; I can make a
       breakfast off a penn'orth of potatoes and a bunch of radishes. Yes,
       I'll have a pound of lard, please, Madame Quenu."
       Lisa placed a sheet of stout paper in the pan of the scales. Then she
       took the lard out of a jar under the shelves with a boxwood spatula,
       gently adding small quantities to the fatty heap, which began to melt
       and run slightly. When the plate of the scale fell, she took up the
       paper, folded it, and rapidly twisted the ends with her finger-tips.
       "That makes twenty-four sous," she said; "the bacon is six sous--
       thirty sous altogether. There's nothing else you want, is there?"
       "No," said La Sarriette, "nothing." She paid her money, still laughing
       and showing her teeth, and staring the men in the face. Her grey skirt
       was all awry, and her loosely fastened red neckerchief allowed a
       little of her white bosom to appear. Before she went away she stepped
       up to Gavard again, and pretending to threaten him exclaimed: "So you
       won't tell me what you were talking about as I came in? I could see
       you laughing from the street. Oh, you sly fellow! Ah! I sha'n't love
       you any longer!"
       Then she left the shop and ran across the road.
       "It was Mademoiselle Saget who sent her here," remarked handsome Lisa
       drily.
       Then silence fell again for some moments. Gavard was dismayed at
       Florent's reception of his proposal. Lisa was the first to speak. "It
       was wrong of you to refuse the post, Florent," she said in the most
       friendly tones. "You know how difficult it is to find any employment,
       and you are not in a position to be over-exacting."
       "I have my reasons," Florent replied.
       Lisa shrugged her shoulders. "Come now," said she, "you really can't
       be serious, I'm sure. I can understand that you are not in love with
       the Government, but it would be too absurd to let your opinions
       prevent you from earning your living. And, besides, my dear fellow,
       the Emperor isn't at all a bad sort of man. You don't suppose, do you,
       that he knew you were eating mouldy bread and tainted meat? He can't
       be everywhere, you know, and you can see for yourself that he hasn't
       prevented us here from doing pretty well. You are not at all just;
       indeed you are not."
       Gavard, however, was getting very fidgety. He could not bear to hear
       people speak well of the Emperor.
       "No, no, Madame Quenu," he interrupted; "you are going too far. It is
       a scoundrelly system altogether."
       "Oh, as for you," exclaimed Lisa vivaciously, "you'll never rest until
       you've got yourself plundered and knocked on the head as the result of
       all your wild talk. Don't let us discuss politics; you would only make
       me angry. The question is Florent, isn't it? Well, for my part, I say
       that he ought to accept this inspectorship. Don't you think so too,
       Quenu?"
       Quenu, who had not yet said a word, was very much put out by his
       wife's sudden appeal.
       "It's a good berth," he replied, without compromising himself.
       Then, amidst another interval of awkward silence, Florent resumed: "I
       beg you, let us drop the subject. My mind is quite made up. I shall
       wait."
       "You will wait!" cried Lisa, losing patience.
       Two rosy fires had risen to her cheeks. As she stood there, erect, in
       her white apron, with rounded, swelling hips, it was with difficulty
       that she restrained herself from breaking out into bitter words.
       However, the entrance of another person into the shop arrested her
       anger. The new arrival was Madame Lecoeur.
       "Can you let me have half a pound of mixed meats at fifty sous the
       pound?" she asked.
       She at first pretended not to notice her brother-in-law; but presently
       she just nodded her head to him, without speaking. Then she
       scrutinised the three men from head to foot, doubtless hoping to
       divine their secret by the manner in which they waited for her to go.
       She could see that she was putting them out, and the knowledge of this
       rendered her yet more sour and angular, as she stood there in her limp
       skirts, with her long, spider-like arms bent and her knotted fingers
       clasped beneath her apron. Then, as she coughed slightly, Gavard, whom
       the silence embarrassed, inquired if she had a cold.
       She curtly answered in the negative. Her tightly stretched skin was of
       a red-brick colour on those parts of her face where her bones
       protruded, and the dull fire burning in her eyes and scorching their
       lids testified to some liver complaint nurtured by the querulous
       jealousy of her disposition. She turned round again towards the
       counter, and watched each movement made by Lisa as she served her with
       the distrustful glance of one who is convinced that an attempt will be
       made to defraud her.
       "Don't give me any saveloy," she exclaimed; "I don't like it."
       Lisa had taken up a slender knife, and was cutting some thin slices of
       sausage. She next passed on to the smoked ham and the common ham,
       cutting delicate slices from each, and bending forward slightly as she
       did so, with her eyes ever fixed on the knife. Her plump rosy hands,
       flitting about the viands with light and gentle touches, seemed to
       have derived suppleness from contact with all the fat.
       "You would like some larded veal, wouldn't you?" she asked, bringing a
       yellow pan towards her.
       Madame Lecoeur seemed to be thinking the matter over at considerable
       length; however, she at last said that she would have some. Lisa had
       now begun to cut into the contents of the pans, from which she removed
       slices of larded veal and hare /pate/ on the tip of a broad-bladed
       knife. And she deposited each successive slice on the middle of a
       sheet of paper placed on the scales.
       "Aren't you going to give me some of the boar's head with pistachio
       nuts?" asked Madame Lecoeur in her querulous voice.
       Lisa was obliged to add some of the boar's head. But the butter dealer
       was getting exacting, and asked for two slices of galantine. She was
       very fond of it. Lisa, who was already irritated, played impatiently
       with the handles of the knives, and told her that the galantine was
       truffled, and that she could only include it in an "assortment" at
       three francs the pound. Madame Lecoeur, however, continued to pry into
       the dishes, trying to find something else to ask for. When the
       "assortment" was weighed she made Lisa add some jelly and gherkins to
       it. The block of jelly, shaped like a Savoy cake, shook on its white
       china dish beneath the angry violence of Lisa's hand; and as with her
       finger-tips she took a couple of gherkins from a jar behind the
       heater, she made the vinegar spurt over the sides.
       "Twenty-five sous, isn't it?" Madame Lecoeur leisurely inquired.
       She fully perceived Lisa's covert irritation, and greatly enjoyed the
       sight of it, producing her money as slowly as possible, as though,
       indeed, her silver had got lost amongst the coppers in her pocket. And
       she glanced askance at Gavard, relishing the embarrassed silence which
       her presence was prolonging, and vowing that she would not go off,
       since they were hiding some trickery or other from her. However, Lisa
       at last put the parcel in her hands, and she was then obliged to make
       her departure. She went away without saying a word, but darting a
       searching glance all round the shop.
       "It was that Saget who sent her too!" burst out Lisa, as soon as the
       old woman was gone. "Is the old wretch going to send the whole market
       here to try to find out what we talk about? What a prying, malicious
       set they are! Did anyone ever hear before of crumbed cutlets and
       "assortments" being bought at five o'clock in the afternoon? But then
       they'd rack themselves with indigestion rather than not find out! Upon
       my word, though, if La Saget sends anyone else here, you'll see the
       reception she'll get. I would bundle her out of the shop, even if she
       were my own sister!"
       The three men remained silent in presence of this explosion of anger.
       Gavard had gone to lean over the brass rail of the window-front,
       where, seemingly lost in thought, he began playing with one of the
       cut-glass balusters detached from its wire fastening. Presently,
       however, he raised his head. "Well, for my part," he said, "I looked
       upon it all as an excellent joke."
       "Looked upon what as a joke?" asked Lisa, still quivering with
       indignation.
       "The inspectorship."
       She raised her hands, gave a last glance at Florent, and then sat down
       upon the cushioned bench behind the counter and said nothing further.
       Gavard, however, began to explain his views at length; the drift of
       his argument being that it was the Government which would look foolish
       in the matter, since Florent would be taking its money.
       "My dear fellow," he said complacently, "those scoundrels all but
       starved you to death, didn't they? Well, you must make them feed you
       now. It's a splendid idea; it caught my fancy at once!"
       Florent smiled, but still persisted in his refusal. Quenu, in the hope
       of pleasing his wife, did his best to find some good arguments. Lisa,
       however, appeared to pay no further attention to them. For the last
       moment or two she had been looking attentively in the direction of the
       markets. And all at once she sprang to her feet again, exclaiming,
       "Ah! it is La Normande that they are sending to play the spy on us
       now! Well, so much the worse for La Normande; she shall pay for the
       others!"
       A tall female pushed the shop door open. It was the handsome fish-
       girl, Louise Mehudin, generally known as La Normande. She was a bold-
       looking beauty, with a delicate white skin, and was almost as plump as
       Lisa, but there was more effrontery in her glance, and her bosom
       heaved with warmer life. She came into the shop with a light swinging
       step, her gold chain jingling on her apron, her bare hair arranged in
       the latest style, and a bow at her throat, a lace bow, which made her
       one of the most coquettish-looking queens of the markets. She brought
       a vague odour of fish with her, and a herring-scale showed like a tiny
       patch of mother-of-pearl near the little finger of one of her hands.
       She and Lisa having lived in the same house in the Rue Pirouette, were
       intimate friends, linked by a touch of rivalry which kept each of them
       busy with thoughts of the other. In the neighbourhood people spoke of
       "the beautiful Norman," just as they spoke of "beautiful Lisa." This
       brought them into opposition and comparison, and compelled each of
       them to do her utmost to sustain her reputation for beauty. Lisa from
       her counter could, by stooping a little, perceive the fish-girl amidst
       her salmon and turbot in the pavilion opposite; and each kept a watch
       on the other. Beautiful Lisa laced herself more tightly in her stays;
       and the beautiful Norman replied by placing additional rings on her
       fingers and additional bows on her shoulders. When they met they were
       very bland and unctuous and profuse in compliments; but all the while
       their eyes were furtively glancing from under their lowered lids, in
       the hope of discovering some flaw. They made a point of always dealing
       with each other, and professed great mutual affection.
       "I say," said La Normande, with her smiling air, "it's to-morrow
       evening that you make your black-puddings, isn't it?"
       Lisa maintained a cold demeanour. She seldom showed any anger; but
       when she did it was tenacious, and slow to be appeased. "Yes," she
       replied drily, with the tips of her lips.
       "I'm so fond of black-puddings, you know, when they come straight out
       of the pot," resumed La Normande. "I'll come and get some of you
       to-morrow."
       She was conscious of her rival's unfriendly greeting. However, she
       glanced at Florent, who seemed to interest her; and then, unwilling to
       go off without having the last word, she was imprudent enough to add:
       "I bought some black-pudding of you the day before yesterday, you
       know, and it wasn't quite sweet."
       "Not quite sweet!" repeated Lisa, very pale, and her lips quivering.
       She might, perhaps, have once more restrained herself, for fear of La
       Normande imagining that she was overcome by envious spite at the sight
       of the lace bow; but the girl, not content with playing the spy,
       proceeded to insult her, and that was beyond endurance. So, leaning
       forward, with her hands clenched on the counter, she exclaimed, in a
       somewhat hoarse voice: "I say! when you sold me that pair of soles
       last week, did I come and tell you, before everybody that they were
       stinking?"
       "Stinking! My soles stinking!" cried the fish dealer, flushing
       scarlet.
       For a moment they remained silent, choking with anger, but glaring
       fiercely at each other over the array of dishes. All their honeyed
       friendship had vanished; a word had sufficed to reveal what sharp
       teeth there were behind their smiling lips.
       "You're a vulgar, low creature!" cried the beautiful Norman. "You'll
       never catch me setting foot in here again, I can tell you!"
       "Get along with you, get along with you," exclaimed beautiful Lisa. "I
       know quite well whom I've got to deal with!"
       The fish-girl went off, hurling behind her a coarse expression which
       left Lisa quivering. The whole scene had passed so quickly that the
       three men, overcome with amazement, had not had time to interfere.
       Lisa soon recovered herself, and was resuming the conversation,
       without making any allusion to what had just occurred, when the shop
       girl, Augustine, returned from an errand on which she had been sent.
       Lisa thereupon took Gavard aside, and after telling him to say nothing
       for the present to Monsieur Verlaque, promised that she would
       undertake to convince her brother-in-law in a couple of days' time at
       the utmost. Quenu then returned to his kitchen, while Gavard took
       Florent off with him. And as they were just going into Monsieur
       Lebigre's to drink a drop of vermouth together he called his attention
       to three women standing in the covered way between the fish and
       poultry pavilions.
       "They're cackling together!" he said with an envious air.
       The markets were growing empty, and Mademoiselle Saget, Madame
       Lecoeur, and La Sarriette alone lingered on the edge of the footway.
       The old maid was holding forth.
       "As I told you before, Madame Lecoeur," said she, "they've always got
       your brother-in-law in their shop. You saw him there yourself just
       now, didn't you?"
       "Oh yes, indeed! He was sitting on a table, and seemed quite at home."
       "Well, for my part," interrupted La Sarriette, "I heard nothing wrong;
       and I can't understand why you're making such a fuss."
       Mademoiselle Saget shrugged her shoulders. "Ah, you're very innocent
       yet, my dear," she said. "Can't you see why the Quenus are always
       attracting Monsieur Gavard to their place? Well, I'll wager that he'll
       leave all he has to their little Pauline."
       "You believe that, do you?" cried Madame Lecoeur, white with rage.
       Then, in a mournful voice, as though she had just received some heavy
       blow, she continued: "I am alone in the world, and have no one to take
       my part; he is quite at liberty to do as he pleases. His niece sides
       with him too--you heard her just now. She has quite forgotten all that
       she cost me, and wouldn't stir a hand to help me."
       "Indeed, aunt," exclaimed La Sarriette, "you are quite wrong there!
       It's you who've never had anything but unkind words for me."
       They became reconciled on the spot, and kissed one another. The niece
       promised that she would play no more pranks, and the aunt swore by all
       she held most sacred that she looked upon La Sarriette as her own
       daughter. Then Mademoiselle Saget advised them as to the steps they
       ought to take to prevent Gavard from squandering his money. And they
       all agreed that the Quenu-Gradelles were very disreputable folks, and
       required closely watching.
       "I don't know what they're up to just now," said the old maid, "but
       there's something suspicious going on, I'm sure. What's your opinion,
       now, of that fellow Florent, that cousin of Madame Quenu's?"
       The three women drew more closely together, and lowered their voices.
       "You remember," said Madame Lecoeur, "that we saw him one morning with
       his boots all split, and his clothes covered with dust, looking just
       like a thief who's been up to some roguery. That fellow quite
       frightens me."
       "Well, he's certainly very thin," said La Sarriette, "but he isn't
       ugly."
       Mademoiselle Saget was reflecting, and she expressed her thoughts
       aloud. "I've been trying to find out something about him for the last
       fortnight, but I can make nothing of it. Monsieur Gavard certainly
       knows him. I must have met him myself somewhere before, but I can't
       remember where."
       She was still ransacking her memory when La Normande swept up to them
       like a whirlwind. She had just left the pork shop.
       "That big booby Lisa has got nice manners, I must say!" she cried,
       delighted to be able to relieve herself. "Fancy her telling me that I
       sold nothing but stinking fish! But I gave her as good as she
       deserved, I can tell you! A nice den they keep, with their tainted
       pig meat which poisons all their customers!"
       "But what had you been saying to her?" asked the old maid, quite
       frisky with excitement, and delighted to hear that the two women had
       quarrelled.
       "I! I'd said just nothing at all--no, not that! I just went into the
       shop and told her very civilly that I'd buy some black-pudding
       to-morrow evening, and then she overwhelmed me with abuse. A dirty
       hypocrite she is, with her saint-like airs! But she'll pay more dearly
       for this than she fancies!"
       The three women felt that La Normande was not telling them the truth,
       but this did not prevent them from taking her part with a rush of bad
       language. They turned towards the Rue Rambuteau with insulting mien,
       inventing all sorts of stories about the uncleanliness of the cookery
       at the Quenu's shop, and making the most extraordinary accusations. If
       the Quenus had been detected selling human flesh the women could not
       have displayed more violent and threatening anger. The fish-girl was
       obliged to tell her story three times over.
       "And what did the cousin say?" asked Mademoiselle Saget, with wicked
       intent.
       "The cousin!" repeated La Normande, in a shrill voice. "Do you really
       believe that he's a cousin? He's some lover or other, I'll wager, the
       great booby!"
       The three others protested against this. Lisa's honourability was an
       article of faith in the neighbourhood.
       "Stuff and nonsense!" retorted La Normande. "You can never be sure
       about those smug, sleek hypocrites."
       Mademoiselle Saget nodded her head as if to say that she was not very
       far from sharing La Normande's opinion. And she softly added:
       "Especially as this cousin has sprung from no one knows where; for
       it's a very doubtful sort of account that the Quenus give of him."
       "Oh, he's the fat woman's sweetheart, I tell you!" reaffirmed the
       fish-girl; "some scamp or vagabond picked up in the streets. It's easy
       enough to see it."
       "She has given him a complete outfit," remarked Madame Lecoeur. "He
       must be costing her a pretty penny."
       "Yes, yes," muttered the old maid; "perhaps you are right. I must
       really get to know something about him."
       Then they all promised to keep one another thoroughly informed of
       whatever might take place in the Quenu-Gradelle establishment. The
       butter dealer pretended that she wished to open her brother-in-law's
       eyes as to the sort of places he frequented. However, La Normande's
       anger had by this time toned down, and, a good sort of girl at heart,
       she went off, weary of having talked so much on the matter.
       "I'm sure that La Normande said something or other insolent," remarked
       Madame Lecoeur knowingly, when the fish-girl had left them. "It is
       just her way; and it scarcely becomes a creature like her to talk as
       she did of Lisa."
       The three women looked at each other and smiled. Then, when Madame
       Lecoeur also had gone off, La Sarriette remarked to Mademoiselle
       Saget: "It is foolish of my aunt to worry herself so much about all
       these affairs. It's that which makes her so thin. Ah! she'd have
       willingly taken Gavard for a husband if she could only have got him.
       Yet she used to beat me if ever a young man looked my way."
       Mademoiselle Saget smiled once more. And when she found herself alone,
       and went back towards the Rue Pirouette, she reflected that those
       three cackling hussies were not worth a rope to hang them. She was,
       indeed, a little afraid that she might have been seen with them, and
       the idea somewhat troubled her, for she realised that it would be bad
       policy to fall out with the Quenu-Gradelles, who, after all, were
       well-to-do folks and much esteemed. So she went a little out of her
       way on purpose to call at Taboureau the baker's in the Rue Turbigo--
       the finest baker's shop in the whole neighbourhood. Madame Taboureau
       was not only an intimate friend of Lisa's, but an accepted authority
       on every subject. When it was remarked that "Madame Taboureau had said
       this," or "Madame Taboureau had said that," there was no more to be
       urged. So the old maid, calling at the baker's under pretence of
       inquiring at what time the oven would be hot, as she wished to bring a
       dish of pears to be baked, took the opportunity to eulogise Lisa, and
       lavish praise upon the sweetness and excellence of her black-puddings.
       Then, well pleased at having prepared this moral alibi and delighted
       at having done what she could to fan the flames of a quarrel without
       involving herself in it, she briskly returned home, feeling much
       easier in her mind, but still striving to recall where she had
       previously seen Madame Quenu's so-called cousin.
       That same evening, after dinner, Florent went out and strolled for
       some time in one of the covered ways of the markets. A fine mist was
       rising, and a grey sadness, which the gas lights studded as with
       yellow tears, hung over the deserted pavilions. For the first time
       Florent began to feel that he was in the way, and to recognise the
       unmannerly fashion in which he, thin and artless, had tumbled into
       this world of fat people; and he frankly admitted to himself that his
       presence was disturbing the whole neighbourhood, and that he was a
       source of discomfort to the Quenus--a spurious cousin of far too
       compromising appearance. These reflections made him very sad; not,
       indeed, that the had noticed the slightest harshness on the part of
       his brother or Lisa: it was their very kindness, rather, that was
       troubling him, and he accused himself of a lack of delicacy in
       quartering himself upon them. He was beginning to doubt the propriety
       of his conduct. The recollection of the conversation in the shop
       during the afternoon caused him a vague disquietude. The odour of the
       viands on Lisa's counter seemed to penetrate him; he felt himself
       gliding into nerveless, satiated cowardice. Perhaps he had acted
       wrongly in refusing the inspectorship offered him. This reflection
       gave birth to a stormy struggle in his mind, and he was obliged to
       brace and shake himself before he could recover his wonted rigidity of
       principles. However, a moist breeze had risen, and was blowing along
       the covered way, and he regained some degree of calmness and
       resolution on being obliged to button up his coat. The wind seemingly
       swept from his clothes all the greasy odour of the pork shop, which
       had made him feel so languid.
       He was returning home when he met Claude Lantier. The artist, hidden
       in the folds of his greenish overcoat, spoke in a hollow voice full of
       suppressed anger. He was in a passion with painting, declared that it
       was a dog's trade, and swore that he would not take up a brush again
       as long as he lived. That very afternoon he had thrust his foot
       through a study which he had been making of the head of that hussy
       Cadine.
       Claude was subject to these outbursts, the fruit of his inability to
       execute the lasting, living works which he dreamed of. And at such
       times life became an utter blank to him, and he wandered about the
       streets, wrapped in the gloomiest thoughts, and waiting for the
       morning as for a sort of resurrection. He used to say that he felt
       bright and cheerful in the morning, and horribly miserable in the
       evening.[*] Each of his days was a long effort ending in
       disappointment. Florent scarcely recognised in him the careless night
       wanderer of the markets. They had already met again at the pork shop,
       and Claude, who knew the fugitive's story, had grasped his hand and
       told him that he was a sterling fellow. It was very seldom, however,
       that the artist went to the Quenus'.
       [*] Claude Lantier's struggle for fame is fully described in M. Zola's
       novel, /L'Oeuvre/ ("His Masterpiece").--Translator.
       "Are you still at my aunt's?" he asked. "I can't imagine how you
       manage to exist amidst all that cookery. The places reeks with the
       smell of meat. When I've been there for an hour I feel as though I
       shouldn't want anything to eat for another three days. I ought not to
       have gone there this morning; it was that which made me make a mess of
       my work."
       Then, after he and Florent had taken a few steps in silence, he
       resumed:
       "Ah! the good people! They quite grieve me with their fine health. I
       had thought of painting their portraits, but I've never been able to
       succeed with such round faces, in which there is never a bone. Ah! You
       wouldn't find my aunt Lisa kicking her foot through her pans! I was an
       idiot to have destroyed Cadine's head! Now that I come to think of it,
       it wasn't so very bad, perhaps, after all."
       Then they began to talk about Aunt Lisa. Claude said that his
       mother[*] had not seen anything of her for a long time, and he hinted
       that the pork butcher's wife was somewhat ashamed of her sister having
       married a common working man; moreover, she wasn't at all fond of
       unfortunate folks. Speaking of himself, he told Florent that a
       benevolent gentleman had sent him to college, being very pleased with
       the donkeys and old women that he had managed to draw when only eight
       years old; but the good soul had died, leaving him an income of a
       thousand francs, which just saved him from perishing of hunger.
       [*] Gervaise, the heroine of the /Assommoir/.
       "All the same, I would rather have been a working man," continued
       Claude. "Look at the carpenters, for instance. They are very happy
       folks, the carpenters. They have a table to make, say; well, they make
       it, and then go off to bed, happy at having finished the table, and
       perfectly satisfied with themselves. Now I, on the other hand,
       scarcely get any sleep at nights. All those confounded pictures which
       I can't finish go flying about my brain. I never get anything finished
       and done with--never, never!"
       His voice almost broke into a sob. Then he attempted to laugh; and
       afterwards began to swear and pour forth coarse expressions, with the
       cold rage of one who, endowed with a delicate, sensitive mind, doubts
       his own powers, and dreams of wallowing in the mire. He ended by
       squatting down before one of the gratings which admit air into the
       cellars beneath the markets--cellars where the gas is continually kept
       burning. And in the depths below he pointed out Marjolin and Cadine
       tranquilly eating their supper, whilst seated on one of the stone
       blocks used for killing the poultry. The two young vagabonds had
       discovered a means of hiding themselves and making themselves at home
       in the cellars after the doors had been closed.
       "What a magnificent animal he is, eh!" exclaimed Claude, with envious
       admiration, speaking of Marjolin. "He and Cadine are happy, at all
       events! All they care for is eating and kissing. They haven't a care
       in the world. Ah, you do quite right, after all, to remain at the
       pork shop; perhaps you'll grow sleek and plump there."
       Then he suddenly went off. Florent climbed up to his garret, disturbed
       by Claude's nervous restlessness, which revived his own uncertainty.
       On the morrow, he avoided the pork shop all the morning, and went for
       a long walk on the quays. When he returned to lunch, however, he was
       struck by Lisa's kindliness. Without any undue insistence she again
       spoke to him about the inspectorship, as of something which was well
       worth his consideration. As he listened to her, with a full plate in
       front of him, he was affected, in spite of himself, by the prim
       comfort of his surroundings. The matting beneath his feet seemed very
       soft; the gleams of the brass hanging lamp, the soft, yellow tint of
       the wallpaper, and the bright oak of the furniture filled him with
       appreciation of a life spent in comfort, which disturbed his notions
       of right and wrong. He still, however, had sufficient strength to
       persist in his refusal, and repeated his reasons; albeit conscious of
       the bad taste he was showing in thus ostentatiously parading his
       animosity and obstinacy in such a place. Lisa showed no signs of
       vexation; on the contrary, she smiled, and the sweetness of her smile
       embarrassed Florent far more than her suppressed irritation of the
       previous evening. At dinner the subject was not renewed; they talked
       solely of the great winter saltings, which would keep the whole staff
       of the establishment busily employed.
       The evenings were growing cold, and as soon as they had dined they
       retired into the kitchen, where it was very warm. The room was so
       large, too, that several people could sit comfortably at the square
       central table, without in any way impeding the work that was going on.
       Lighted by gas, the walls were coated with white and blue tiles to a
       height of some five or six feet from the floor. On the left was a
       great iron stove, in the three apertures of which were set three large
       round pots, their bottoms black with soot. At the end was a small
       range, which, fitted with an oven and a smoking-place, served for the
       broiling; and up above, over the skimming-spoons, ladles, and long-
       handled forks, were several numbered drawers, containing rasped bread,
       both fine and coarse, toasted crumbs, spices, cloves, nutmegs, and
       pepper. On the right, leaning heavily against the wall, was the
       chopping-block, a huge mass of oak, slashed and scored all over.
       Attached to it were several appliances, an injecting pump, a forcing-
       machine, and a mechanical mincer, which, with their wheels and cranks,
       imparted to the place an uncanny and mysterious aspect, suggesting
       some kitchen of the infernal regions.
       Then, all round the walls upon shelves, and even under the tables,
       were iron pots, earthenware pans, dishes, pails, various kinds of tin
       utensils, a perfect battery of deep copper saucepans, and swelling
       funnels, racks of knives and choppers, rows of larding-pins and
       needles--a perfect world of greasy things. In spite of the extreme
       cleanliness, grease was paramount; it oozed forth from between the
       blue and white tiles on the wall, glistened on the red tiles of the
       flooring, gave a greyish glitter to the stove, and polished the edges
       of the chopping-block with the transparent sheen of varnished oak.
       And, indeed, amidst the ever-rising steam, the continuous evaporation
       from the three big pots, in which pork was boiling and melting, there
       was not a single nail from ceiling to floor from which grease did not
       exude.
       The Quenu-Gradelles prepared nearly all their stock themselves. All
       that they procured from outside were the potted meats of celebrated
       firms, with jars of pickles and preserves, sardines, cheese, and
       edible snails. They consequently became very busy after September in
       filling the cellars which had been emptied during the summer. They
       continued working even after the shop had been closed for the night.
       Assisted by Auguste and Leon, Quenu would stuff sausages-skins,
       prepare hams, melt down lard, and salt the different sorts of bacon.
       There was a tremendous noise of cauldrons and cleavers, and the odour
       of cooking spread through the whole house. All this was quite
       independent of the daily business in fresh pork, /pate de fois gras/,
       hare patty, galantine, saveloys and black-puddings.
       That evening, at about eleven o'clock, Quenu, after placing a couple
       of pots on the fire in order to melt down some lard, began to prepare
       the black-puddings. Auguste assisted him. At one corner of the square
       table Lisa and Augustine sat mending linen, whilst opposite to them,
       on the other side, with his face turned towards the fireplace, was
       Florent. Leon was mincing some sausage-meat on the oak block in a
       slow, rhythmical fashion.
       Auguste first of all went out into the yard to fetch a couple of jug-
       like cans full of pigs' blood. It was he who stuck the animals in the
       slaughter house. He himself would carry away the blood and interior
       portions of the pigs, leaving the men who scalded the carcasses to
       bring them home completely dressed in their carts. Quenu asserted that
       no assistant in all Paris was Auguste' equal as a pig-sticker. The
       truth was that Auguste was a wonderfully keen judge of the quality of
       the blood; and the black-pudding proved good every time that he said
       such would be the case.
       "Well, will the black-pudding be good this time?" asked Lisa.
       August put down the two cans and slowly answered: "I believe so,
       Madame Quenu; yes, I believe so. I tell it at first by the way the
       blood flows. If it spurts out very gently when I pull out the knife,
       that's a bad sign, and shows that the blood is poor."
       "But doesn't that depend on how far the knife has been stuck in?"
       asked Quenu.
       A smile came over Auguste's pale face. "No," he replied; "I always let
       four digits of the blade go in; that's the right way to measure. But
       the best sign of all is when the blood runs out and I beat it with my
       hand when it pours into the pail; it ought to be of a good warmth, and
       creamy, without being too thick."
       Augustine had put down her needle, and with her eyes raised was now
       gazing at Auguste. On her ruddy face, crowned by wiry chestnut hair,
       there was an expression of profound attention. Lisa and even little
       Pauline were also listening with deep interest.
       "Well, I beat it, and beat it, and beat it," continued the young man,
       whisking his hand about as though he were whipping cream. "And then,
       when I take my hand out and look at it, it ought to be greased, as it
       were, by the blood and equally coated all over. And if that's the
       case, anyone can say without fear of mistake that the black-puddings
       will be good."
       He remained for a moment in an easy attitude, complacently holding his
       hand in the air. This hand, which spent so much of its time in pails
       of blood, had brightly gleaming nails, and looked very rosy above his
       white sleeve. Quenu had nodded his head in approbation, and an
       interval of silence followed. Leon was still mincing. Pauline,
       however, after remaining thoughtful for a little while, mounted upon
       Florent's feet again, and in her clear voice exclaimed: "I say,
       cousin, tell me the story of the gentleman who was eaten by the wild
       beasts!"
       It was probably the mention of the pig's blood which had aroused in
       the child's mind the recollection of "the gentleman who had been eaten
       by the wild beasts." Florent did not at first understand what she
       referred to, and asked her what gentleman she meant. Lisa began to
       smile.
       "She wants you to tell her," she said, "the story of that unfortunate
       man--you know whom I mean--which you told to Gavard one evening. She
       must have heard you."
       At this Florent grew very grave. The little girl got up, and taking
       the big cat in her arms, placed it on his knees, saying that Mouton
       also would like to hear the story. Mouton, however, leapt on to the
       table, where, with rounded back, he remained contemplating the tall,
       scraggy individual who for the last fortnight had apparently afforded
       him matter for deep reflection. Pauline meantime began to grow
       impatient, stamping her feet and insisting on hearing the story.
       "Oh, tell her what she wants," said Lisa, as the child persisted and
       became quite unbearable; "she'll leave us in peace then."
       Florent remained silent for a moment longer, with his eyes turned
       towards the floor. Then slowly raising his head he let his gaze rest
       first on the two women who were plying their needles, and next on
       Quenu and Auguste, who were preparing the pot for the black-puddings.
       The gas was burning quietly, the stove diffused a gentle warmth, and
       all the grease of the kitchen glistened in an atmosphere of comfort
       such as attends good digestion
       Then, taking little Pauline upon his knee, and smiling a sad smile,
       Florent addressed himself to the child as follows[*]:--
       [*] Florent's narrative is not romance, but is based on the statements
       of several of the innocent victims whom the third Napoleon
       transported to Cayenne when wading through blood to the power
       which he so misused.--Translator.
       "Once upon a time there was a poor man who was sent away, a long, long
       way off, right across the sea. On the ship which carried him were four
       hundred convicts, and he was thrown among them. He was forced to live
       for five weeks amidst all those scoundrels, dressed like them in
       coarse canvas, and feeding at their mess. Foul insects preyed on him,
       and terrible sweats robbed him of all his strength. The kitchen, the
       bakehouse, and the engine-room made the orlop deck so terribly hot
       that ten of the convicts died from it. In the daytime they were sent
       up in batches of fifty to get a little fresh air from the sea; and as
       the crew of the ship feared them, a couple of cannons were pointed at
       the little bit of deck where they took exercise. The poor fellow was
       very glad indeed when his turn to go up came. His terrible
       perspiration then abated somewhat; still, he could not eat, and felt
       very ill. During the night, when he was manacled again, and the
       rolling of the ship in the rough sea kept knocking him against his
       companions, he quite broke down, and began to cry, glad to be able to
       do so without being seen."
       Pauline was listening with dilated eyes, and her little hands crossed
       primly in front of her.
       "But this isn't the story of the gentleman who was eaten by the wild
       beasts," she interrupted. "This is quite a different story; isn't it
       now, cousin?"
       "Wait a bit, and you'll see," replied Florent gently. "I shall come to
       the gentleman presently. I'm telling you the whole story from the
       beginning."
       "Oh, thank you," murmured the child, with a delighted expression.
       However, she remained thoughtful, evidently struggling with some great
       difficulty to which she could find no explanation. At last she spoke.
       "But what had the poor man done," she asked, "that he was sent away
       and put in the ship?"
       Lisa and Augustine smiled. They were quite charmed with the child's
       intelligence; and Lisa, without giving the little one a direct reply,
       took advantage of the opportunity to teach her a lesson by telling her
       that naughty children were also sent away in boats like that.
       "Oh, then," remarked Pauline judiciously, "perhaps it served my
       cousin's poor man quite right if he cried all night long."
       Lisa resumed her sewing, bending over her work. Quenu had not
       listened. He had been cutting some little rounds of onion over a pot
       placed on the fire; and almost at once the onions began to crackle,
       raising a clear shrill chirrup like that of grasshoppers basking in
       the heat. They gave out a pleasant odour too, and when Quenu plunged
       his great wooden spoon into the pot the chirruping became yet louder,
       and the whole kitchen was filled with the penetrating perfume of the
       onions. Auguste meantime was preparing some bacon fat in a dish, and
       Leon's chopper fell faster and faster, and every now and then scraped
       the block so as to gather together the sausage-meat, now almost a
       paste.
       "When they got across the sea," Florent continued, "they took the man
       to an island called the Devil's Island,[*] where he found himself
       amongst others who had been carried away from their own country. They
       were all very unhappy. At first they were kept to hard labour, just
       like convicts. The gendarme who had charge of them counted them three
       times every day, so as to be sure that none were missing. Later on,
       they were left free to do as they liked, being merely locked up at
       night in a big wooden hut, where they slept in hammocks stretched
       between two bars. At the end of the year they went about barefooted,
       as their boots were quite worn out, and their clothes had become so
       ragged that their flesh showed through them. They had built themselves
       some huts with trunks of trees as a shelter against the sun, which is
       terribly hot in those parts; but these huts did not shield them
       against the mosquitoes, which covered them with pimples and swellings
       during the night. Many of them died, and the others turned quite
       yellow, so shrunken and wretched, with their long, unkempt beards,
       that one could not behold them without pity."
       [*] The Ile du Diable. This spot was selected as the place of
       detention of Captain Dreyfus, the French officer convicted in 1894
       of having divulged important military documents to foreign powers.
       --Translator.
       "Auguste, give me the fat," cried Quenu; and when the apprentice had
       handed him the dish he let the pieces of bacon-fat slide gently into
       the pot, and then stirred them with his spoon. A yet denser steam now
       rose from the fireplace.
       "What did they give them to eat?" asked little Pauline, who seemed
       deeply interested.
       "They gave them maggoty rice and foul meat," answered Florent, whose
       voice grew lower as he spoke. "The rice could scarcely be eaten. When
       the meat was roasted and very well done it was just possible to
       swallow it; but if it was boiled, it smelt so dreadfully that the men
       had nausea and stomach ache."
       "I'd rather have lived upon dry bread," said the child, after thinking
       the matter carefully over.
       Leon, having finished the mincing, now placed the sausage-meat upon
       the square table in a dish. Mouton, who had remained seated with his
       eyes fixed upon Florent, as though filled with amazement by his story,
       was obliged to retreat a few steps, which he did with a very bad
       grace. Then he rolled himself up, with his nose close to the sausage-
       meat, and began to purr.
       Lisa was unable to conceal her disgust and amazement. That foul rice,
       that evil-smelling meat, seemed to her to be scarcely credible
       abominations, which disgraced those who had eaten them as much as it
       did those who had provided them; and her calm, handsome face and round
       neck quivered with vague fear of the man who had lived upon such
       horrid food.
       "No, indeed, it was not a land of delights," Florent resumed,
       forgetting all about little Pauline, and fixing his dreamy eyes upon
       the steaming pot. "Every day brought fresh annoyances--perpetual
       grinding tyranny, the violation of every principle of justice,
       contempt for all human charity, which exasperated the prisoners, and
       slowly consumed them with a fever of sickly rancour. They lived like
       wild beasts, with the lash ceaselessly raised over their backs. Those
       torturers would have liked to kill the poor man-- Oh, no; it can never
       be forgotten; it is impossible! Such sufferings will some day claim
       vengeance."
       His voice had fallen, and the pieces of fat hissing merrily in the pot
       drowned it with the sound of their boiling. Lisa, however, heard him,
       and was frightened by the implacable expression which had suddenly
       come over his face; and, recollecting the gentle look which he
       habitually wore, she judged him to be a hypocrite.
       Florent's hollow voice had brought Pauline's interest and delight to
       the highest pitch, and she fidgeted with pleasure on his knee.
       "But the man?" she exclaimed. "Go on about the man!"
       Florent looked at her, and then appeared to remember, and smiled his
       sad smile again.
       "The man," he continued, "was weary of remaining on the island, and
       had but one thought--that of making his escape by crossing the sea and
       reaching the mainland, whose white coast line could be seen on the
       horizon in clear weather. But it was no easy matter to escape. It was
       necessary that a raft should be built, and as several of the prisoners
       had already made their escape, all the trees on the island had been
       felled to prevent the others from obtaining timber. The island was,
       indeed, so bare and naked, so scorched by the blazing sun, that life
       in it had become yet more perilous and terrible. However, it occurred
       to the man and two of his companions to employ the timbers of which
       their huts were built; and one evening they put out to sea on some
       rotten beams, which they had fastened together with dry branches. The
       wind carried them towards the coast. Just as daylight was about to
       appear, the raft struck on a sandbank with such violence that the
       beams were severed from their lashings and carried out to sea. The
       three poor fellows were almost engulfed in the sand. Two of them sank
       in it to their waists, while the third disappeared up to his chin, and
       his companions were obliged to pull him out. At last they reached a
       rock, so small that there was scarcely room for them to sit down upon
       it. When the sun rose they could see the coast in front of them, a bar
       of grey cliffs stretching all along the horizon. Two, who knew how to
       swim, determined to reach those cliffs. They preferred to run the risk
       of being drowned at once to that of slowly starving on the rock. But
       they promised their companion that they would return for him when they
       had reached land and had been able to procure a boat."
       "Ah, I know now!" cried little Pauline, clapping her hands with glee.
       "It's the story of the gentleman who was eaten by the crabs!"
       "They succeeded in reaching the coast," continued Florent, "but it was
       quite deserted; and it was only at the end of four days that they were
       able to get a boat. When they returned to the rock, they found their
       companion lying on his back, dead, and half-eaten by crabs, which were
       still swarming over what remained of his body."[*]
       [*] In deference to the easily shocked feelings of the average English
       reader I have somewhat modified this passage. In the original M.
       Zola fully describes the awful appearance of the body.--
       Translator.
       A murmur of disgust escaped Lisa and Augustine, and a horrified
       grimace passed over the face of Leon, who was preparing the skins for
       the black-puddings. Quenu stopped in the midst of his work and looked
       at Auguste, who seemed to have turned faint. Only little Pauline was
       smiling. In imagination the others could picture those swarming,
       ravenous crabs crawling all over the kitchen, and mingling gruesome
       odours with the aroma of the bacon-fat and onions.
       "Give me the blood," cried Quenu, who had not been following the
       story.
       Auguste came up to him with the two cans, from which he slowly poured
       the blood, while Quenu, as it fell, vigorously stirred the now
       thickening contents of the pot. When the cans were emptied, Quenu
       reached up to one of the drawers above the range, and took out some
       pinches of spice. Then he added a plentiful seasoning of pepper.
       "They left him there, didn't they," Lisa now asked of Florent, "and
       returned themselves in safety?"
       "As they were going back," continued Florent, "the wind changed, and
       they were driven out into the open sea. A wave carried away one of
       their oars, and the water swept so furiously into the boat that their
       whole time was taken up in baling it out with their hands. They tossed
       about in this way in sight of the coast, carried away by squalls and
       then brought back again by the tide, without a mouthful of bread to
       eat, for their scanty stock of provisions had been consumed. This went
       on for three days."
       "Three days!" cried Lisa in stupefaction; "three days without food!"
       "Yes, three days without food. When the east wind at last brought them
       to shore, one of them was so weak that he lay on the beach the whole
       day. In the evening he died. His companion had vainly attempted to get
       him to chew some leaves which he gathered from the trees."
       At this point Augustine broke into a slight laugh. Then, ashamed at
       having done so and not wishing to be considered heartless, she
       stammered out in confusion: "Oh! I wasn't laughing at that. It was
       Mouton. Do just look at Mouton, madame."
       Then Lisa in her turn began to smile. Mouton, who had been lying all
       this time with his nose close to the dish of sausage-meat, had
       probably begun to feel distressed and disgusted by the presence of all
       this food, for he had risen and was rapidly scratching the table with
       his paws as though he wanted to bury the dish and its contents. At
       last, however, turning his back to it and lying down on his side, he
       stretched himself out, half closing his eyes and rubbing his head
       against the table with languid pleasure. Then they all began to
       compliment Mouton. He never stole anything, they said, and could be
       safely left with the meat. Pauline related that he licked her fingers
       and washed her face after dinner without trying to bite her.
       However, Lisa now came back to the question as to whether it were
       possible to live for three days without food. In her opinion it was
       not. "No," she said, "I can't believe it. No one ever goes three days
       without food. When people talk of a person dying of hunger, it is a
       mere expression. They always get something to eat, more or less. It is
       only the most abandoned wretches, people who are utterly lost----"
       She was doubtless going to add, "vagrant rogues," but she stopped
       short and looked at Florent. The scornful pout of her lips and the
       expression of her bright eyes plainly signified that in her belief
       only villains made such prolonged fasts. It seemed to her that a man
       able to remain without food for three days must necessarily be a very
       dangerous character. For, indeed, honest folks never placed themselves
       in such a position.
       Florent was now almost stifling. In front of him the stove, into which
       Leon had just thrown several shovelfuls of coal, was snoring like a
       lay clerk asleep in the sun; and the heat was very great. Auguste, who
       had taken charge of the lard melting in the pots, was watching over it
       in a state of perspiration, and Quenu wiped his brow with his sleeve
       whilst waiting for the blood to mix. A drowsiness such as follows
       gross feeding, an atmosphere heavy with indigestion, pervaded the
       kitchen.
       "When the man had buried his comrade in the sand," Florent continued
       slowly, "he walked off alone straight in front of him. Dutch Guiana,
       in which country he now was, is a land of forests intermingled with
       rivers and swamps. The man walked on for more than a week without
       coming across a single human dwelling-place. All around, death seemed
       to be lurking and lying in wait for him. Though his stomach was racked
       by hunger, he often did not dare to eat the bright-coloured fruits
       which hung from the trees; he was afraid to touch the glittering
       berries, fearing lest they should be poisonous. For whole days he did
       not see a patch of sky, but tramped on beneath a canopy of branches,
       amidst a greenish gloom that swarmed with horrible living creatures.
       Great birds flew over his head with a terrible flapping of wings and
       sudden strange calls resembling death groans; apes sprang, wild
       animals rushed through the thickets around him, bending the saplings
       and bringing down a rain of leaves, as though a gale were passing. But
       it was particularly the serpents that turned his blood cold when,
       stepping upon a matting of moving, withered leaves, he caught sight of
       their slim heads gliding amidst a horrid maze of roots. In certain
       nooks, nooks of dank shadow, swarming colonies of reptiles--some
       black, some yellow, some purple, some striped, some spotted, and some
       resembling withered reeds--suddenly awakened into life and wriggled
       away. At such times the man would stop and look about for a stone on
       which he might take refuge from the soft yielding ground into which
       his feet sank; and there he would remain for hours, terror-stricken on
       espying in some open space near by a boa, who, with tail coiled and
       head erect, swayed like the trunk of a big tree splotched with gold.
       "At night he used to sleep in the trees, alarmed by the slightest
       rustling of the branches, and fancying that he could hear endless
       swarms of serpents gliding through the gloom. He almost stifled
       beneath the interminable expanse of foliage. The gloomy shade reeked
       with close, oppressive heat, a clammy dankness and pestilential sweat,
       impregnated with the coarse aroma of scented wood and malodorous
       flowers.
       "And when at last, after a long weary tramp, the man made his way out
       of the forest and beheld the sky again, he found himself confronted by
       wide rivers which barred his way. He skirted their banks, keeping a
       watchful eye on the grey backs of the alligators and the masses of
       drifting vegetation, and then, when he came to a less suspicious-
       looking spot, he swam across. And beyond the rivers the forests began
       again. At other times there were vast prairie lands, leagues of thick
       vegetation, in which, at distant intervals, small lakes gleamed
       bluely. The man then made a wide detour, and sounded the ground
       beneath him before advancing, having but narrowly escaped from being
       swallowed up and buried beneath one of those smiling plains which he
       could hear cracking at each step he took. The giant grass, nourished
       by all the collected humus, concealed pestiferous marshes, depths of
       liquid mud; and amongst the expanses of verdure spread over the
       glaucous immensity to the very horizon there were only narrow
       stretches of firm ground with which the traveller must be acquainted
       if he would avoid disappearing for ever. One night the man sank down
       as far as his waist. At each effort he made to extricate himself the
       mud threatened to rise to his mouth. Then he remained quite still for
       nearly a couple of hours; and when the moon rose he was fortunately
       able to catch hold of a branch of a tree above his head. By the time
       he reached a human dwelling his hands and feet were bruised and
       bleeding, swollen with poisonous stings. He presented such a pitiable,
       famished appearance that those who saw him were afraid of him. They
       tossed him some food fifty yards away from the house, and the master
       of it kept guard over his door with a loaded gun."
       Florent stopped, his voice choked by emotion, and his eyes gazing
       blankly before him. For some minutes he had seemed to be speaking to
       himself alone. Little Pauline, who had grown drowsy, was lying in his
       arms with her head thrown back, though striving to keep her wondering
       eyes open. And Quenu, for his part, appeared to be getting impatient.
       "Why, you stupid!" he shouted to Leon, "don't you know how to hold a
       skin yet? What do you stand staring at me for? It's the skin you
       should look at, not me! There, hold it like that, and don't move
       again!"
       With his right hand Leon was raising a long string of sausage-skin, at
       one end of which a very wide funnel was inserted; while with his left
       hand he coiled the black-pudding round a metal bowl as fast as Quenu
       filled the funnel with big spoonfuls of the meat. The latter, black
       and steaming, flowed through the funnel, gradually inflating the skin,
       which fell down again, gorged to repletion and curving languidly. As
       Quenu had removed the pot from the range both he and Leon stood out
       prominently, he broad visaged, and the lad slender of profile, in the
       burning glow which cast over their pale faces and white garments a
       flood of rosy light.
       Lisa and Augustine watched the filling of the skin with great
       interest, Lisa especially; and she in her turn found fault with Leon
       because he nipped the skin too tightly with his fingers, which caused
       knots to form, she said. When the skin was quite full, Quenu let it
       slip gently into a pot of boiling water; and seemed quite easy in his
       mind again, for now nothing remained but to leave it to boil.
       "And the man--go on about the man!" murmured Pauline, opening her
       eyes, and surprised at no longer hearing the narrative.
       Florent rocked her on his knee, and resumed his story in a slow,
       murmuring voice, suggestive of that of a nurse singing an infant to
       sleep.
       "The man," he said, "arrived at a large town. There he was at first
       taken for an escaped convict, and was kept in prison for several
       months. Then he was released, and turned his hand to all sorts of
       work. He kept accounts and taught children to read, and at one time he
       was even employed as a navvy in making an embankment. He was
       continually hoping to return to his own country. He had saved the
       necessary amount of money when he was attacked by yellow fever. Then,
       believing him to be dead, those about him divided his clothes amongst
       themselves; so that when he at last recovered he had not even a shirt
       left. He had to begin all over again. The man was very weak, and was
       afraid he might have to remain where he was. But at last he was able
       to get away, and he returned."
       His voice had sunk lower and lower, and now died away altogether in a
       final quivering of his lips. The close of the story had lulled little
       Pauline to sleep, and she was now slumbering with her head on
       Florent's shoulder. He held her with one arm, and still gently rocked
       her on his knee. No one seemed to pay any further attention to him, so
       he remained still and quiet where he was, holding the sleeping child.
       Now came the tug of war, as Quenu said. He had to remove the black-
       puddings from the pot. In order to avoid breaking them or getting them
       entangled, he coiled them round a thick wooden pin as he drew them
       out, and then carried them into the yard and hung them on screens,
       where they quickly dried. Leon helped him, holding up the drooping
       ends. And as these reeking festoons of black-pudding crossed the
       kitchen they left behind them a trail of odorous steam, which still
       further thickened the dense atmosphere.
       Auguste, on his side, after giving a hasty glance at the lard moulds,
       now took the covers off the two pots in which the fat was simmering,
       and each bursting bubble discharged an acrid vapour into the kitchen.
       The greasy haze had been gradually rising ever since the beginning of
       the evening, and now it shrouded the gas and pervaded the whole room,
       streaming everywhere, and veiling the ruddy whiteness of Quenu and his
       two assistants. Lisa and Augustine had risen from their seats; and all
       were panting as though they had eaten too much.
       Augustine carried the sleeping Pauline upstairs; and Quenu, who liked
       to fasten up the kitchen himself, gave Auguste and Leon leave to go to
       bed, saying that he would fetch the black-pudding himself. The younger
       apprentice stole off with a very red face, having managed to secrete
       under his shirt nearly a yard of the pudding, which must have almost
       scalded him. Then the Quenus and Florent remained alone, in silence.
       Lisa stood nibbling a little piece of the hot pudding, keeping her
       pretty lips well apart all the while, for fear of burning them, and
       gradually the black compound vanished in her rosy mouth.
       "Well," said she, "La Normande was foolish in behaving so rudely; the
       black-pudding's excellent to-day."
       However, there was a knock at the passage door, and Gavard, who stayed
       at Monsieur Lebigre's every evening until midnight, came in. He had
       called for a definite answer about the fish inspectorship.
       "You must understand," he said, "that Monsieur Verlaque cannot wait
       any longer; he is too ill. So Florent must make up his mind. I have
       promised to give a positive answer early to-morrow."
       "Well, Florent accepts," Lisa quietly remarked, taking another nibble
       at some black-pudding.
       Florent, who had remained in his chair, overcome by a strange feeling
       of prostration, vainly endeavoured to rise and protest.
       "No, no, say nothing," continued Lisa; "the matter is quite settled.
       You have suffered quite enough already, my dear Florent. What you have
       just been telling us is enough to make one shudder. It is time now for
       you to settle down. You belong to a respectable family, you received a
       good education, and it is really not fitting that you should go
       wandering about the highways like a vagrant. At your age childishness
       is no longer excusable. You have been foolish; well, all that will be
       forgotten and forgiven. You will take your place again among those of
       your own class--the class of respectable folks--and live in future
       like other people."
       Florent listened in astonishment, quite unable to say a word. Lisa
       was, doubtless, right. She looked so healthy, so serene, that it was
       impossible to imagine that she desired anything but what was proper.
       It was he, with his fleshless body and dark, equivocal-looking
       countenance, who must be in the wrong, and indulging in unrighteous
       dreams. He could, indeed, no longer understand why he had hitherto
       resisted.
       Lisa, however, continued to talk to him with an abundant flow of
       words, as though he were a little boy found in fault and threatened
       with the police. She assumed, indeed, a most maternal manner, and
       plied him with the most convincing reasons. And at last, as a final
       argument, she said:
       "Do it for us, Florent. We occupy a fair position in the neighbourhood
       which obliges us to use a certain amount of circumspection; and, to
       tell you the truth, between ourselves, I'm afraid that people will
       begin to talk. This inspectorship will set everything right; you will
       be somebody; you will even be an honour to us."
       Her manner had become caressingly persuasive, and Florent was
       penetrated by all the surrounding plenteousness, all the aroma filling
       the kitchen, where he fed, as it were, on the nourishment floating in
       the atmosphere. He sank into blissful meanness, born of all the
       copious feeding that went on in the sphere of plenty in which he had
       been living during the last fortnight. He felt, as it were, the
       titillation of forming fat which spread slowly all over his body. He
       experienced the languid beatitude of shopkeepers, whose chief concern
       is to fill their bellies. At this late hour of night, in the warm
       atmosphere of the kitchen, all his acerbity and determination melted
       away. That peaceable evening, with the odour of the black-pudding and
       the lard, and the sight of plump little Pauline slumbering on his
       knee, had so enervated him that he found himself wishing for a
       succession of such evenings--endless ones which would make him fat.
       However, it was the sight of Mouton that chiefly decided him. Mouton
       was sound asleep, with his stomach turned upwards, one of his paws
       resting on his nose, and his tail twisted over this side, as though to
       keep him warm; and he was slumbering with such an expression of feline
       happiness that Florent, as he gazed at him, murmured: "No, it would be
       too foolish! I accept the berth. Say that I accept it, Gavard."
       Then Lisa finished eating her black-pudding, and wiped her fingers on
       the edge of her apron. And next she got her brother-in-law's candle
       ready for him, while Gavard and Quenu congratulated him on his
       decision. It was always necessary for a man to settle down, said they;
       the breakneck freaks of politics did not provide one with food. And,
       meantime, Lisa, standing there with the lighted candle in her hand,
       looked at him with an expression of satisfaction resting on her
       handsome face, placid like that of some sacred cow. _

INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI