by Emile Zola
Lisa avoided talking about Florent with Quenu. Usually she made a great show of being patient. But she also believed that it was not a good idea to come between the two brothers without a serious reason to do so. As she liked to say, she could put up with a lot but should not be pushed too far.
She was in her tolerant mode with a blank expression and a severe politeness, an affected indifference, carefully avoiding even hinting at the fact that though he ate and slept there, they had never seen his money, not that they would dream of accepting any payment whatsoever because she was certainly above such a thing, though he could at least go somewhere else for his lunch. One day she mentioned this to Quenu, saying, “We're never alone anymore. If we want to speak in private now, we have to wait until we go to bed.”
And one night she whispered in his ear, “Doesn't he earn a hundred fifty francs? Isn't it strange he can't put a little aside to buy some linen? I just had to give him a few more old shirts.”
“Aw, that's not a big problem,” said Quenu. “My brother's easy. Let him keep his money.”
“Oh, sure,” said Lisa, not wanting to push too hard on the subject. “I didn't mean to say … How he spends his money is his business.”
She became convinced that he must be spending his salary at the Méhudins'. One time she lost her composure, the calm that was partly her natural temperament and partly a calculated tactic. The Beautiful Norman had given Florent a magnificent salmon. Florent, embarrassed by the gift but not daring to refuse it, had brought it to Beautiful Lisa.
“You could make some kind of terrine with it,” he said ingenuously.
Lisa stared at him, her lips turning pale, and in a voice that she struggled to control said, “Do you think we don't have enough food here? My God, there's plenty to eat around here. Take it back!”
“But couldn't you cook it for me?” asked Florent, surprised by her sudden anger. “I'll eat it.”
Then she exploded. “This house is not an inn. Tell whoever gave it to you that she can cook it. I'm not about to smell up my frying pan with it. Take it back. Do you hear me?”
She was about to throw it into the street.
Florent took it to Monsieur Lebigre's, where Rose was ordered to prepare a salmon terrine. And so one evening in the glass-paneled room, they ate it. Gavard bought everyone oysters.
Florent went there more and more, until he hardly ever left the glass-paneled room. He found there an overheated atmosphere where he could vent his political rage freely. Sometimes when he shut himself in his attic to work, he became impatient with the peacefulness of the room. His study of the theory of freedom was not enough, and he had to go down to Monsieur Lebigre's to steep himself in Charvet's sweeping statements and Logre's tirades.
At first, the uproar, the deluge of words, had been disturbing. He still had a feeling of emptiness, but also a need to be slapped into excitement, to be swept away by some extreme resolution that could calm his troubled soul. The smell of the room, the smell of alcohol warmed by tobacco smoke, intoxicated him, raising him to an ecstatic state where he could lose himself and accept the most radical ideas without question. He grew attached to those he met there and anxiously awaited their arrival with the pleasure of a growing habit. Robine's gentle, bearded face, Clémence's grave profile, Charvet's lean pallor, Logre's hump, and Gavard, Alexandre, and Lacaille—they all entered his life and were playing an ever-larger role.
Florent took a sensual pleasure in these meetings. The moment his fingers wrapped around the little copper knob of the room, it seemed alive, warmed his fingers, turned of its own accord. It would not have been a more stimulating sensation if his fingers had been touching the supple palm of a woman's hand.
In truth, serious things were going on in that little room. One evening Logre, who had been railing on even more violently than usual, pounding his fist on the table, declared that if they were really men, they would bury this government. He added that they should come to an understanding without delay, to be ready for action when the time came. Then they all bowed their heads and, in hushed voices, formed a little group that would be ready. From that day on, Gavard considered himself a member of a secret conspiratorial society. The circle was not in complete agreement, but Logre promised to put them in touch with other circles that he knew, and then, once all of Paris was within their grasp, they would make the crowd at the Tuileries dance. Then a series of endless discussions began and continued over a period of several months; questions of organization, questions of ends and means, questions of strategy and of the future government. As soon as Rose had brought Clémence's grog Charvet's and Robine's beer, coffee for Gavard and Florent, and little liqueur glasses for Lacaille and Alexandre, the door was carefully secured and the meeting began.
Charvet and Florent were the most compelling and most listened to. Gavard could not hold his tongue and little by little revealed the entire story of Cayenne, which cast Florent in the glory of martyrdom. His words became testaments of faith. One day the poultry merchant, angry at hearing his friend, who happened to be absent, attacked, shouted, “Lay off Florent! He went to Cayenne!”
But Charvet was annoyed that Florent had this advantage and muttered through his teeth, “Cayenne, Cayenne. Turns out they were not so badly off there.” And he tried to make a case that exile was easier than staying in the country under oppression, mouth gagged in the face of a triumphant despot. Besides, if he hadn't happened to be arrested on December 2, that was not his fault. He implied that those who had let themselves be caught were imbeciles.
This underlying jealousy led to a systematic opposition to Florent. The discussion always ended with the two of them facing off for hours while the others sat in silence and neither one ever admitting defeat.
One of their favorite topics was the reorganization of the country after victory.
“We're the victorious ones, aren't we?” Gavard would begin. And, no one doubting the victory, each gave his opinion on the next step. There were two camps. Charvet, who claimed to be an hébertiste, was supported by Logre and Robine. Florent, always lost in his dream of humanitarian utopia, labeled himself a socialist and was backed by Alexandre and Lacaille. As for Gavard, he did not back off from advocating violence, but since he was often teased about his fortune with sarcasm, which annoyed him, he declared himself a communist.
“We have to wipe the slate clean,” Charvet would say as though delivering a chop with a cleaver. “The trunk is rotten, and we have to cut it down.”
“Yes, yes,” declared Logre, standing up to appear taller and shaking the paneling with the excited motion of his hump. “Everything will be leveled to the ground. Remember, I said it first. Then we will decide what to do.”
Robine waved his beard in agreement. His silence seemed to imply delight whenever violent revolution was proposed. His eyes showed a soft glow at the mention of the word guillotine. He half closed them as though staring off at the machine itself and was filled with a pleasant feeling from this sight; then he would rub his chin against the knob of his cane and purr with contentment.
“However,” Florent pointed out, taking his turn, his voice still revealing a hint of sadness, “if you cut down the tree, you have to save some seed. Personally, I think the tree should be spared in order to graft new shoots. The political revolution has already happened. Today we have to think of the laborer, the worker. Our movement must be a social movement. I challenge you to embrace the demands of the people. The people are weary. They want their share.”
These words thrilled Alexandre. His face beaming, he confirmed that it was true. The people were weary.
“And we too will have our share,” declared Lacaille, in a more threatening tone. “All revolutions advance the middle class. We've had enough of that. The next one is going to be for us.”
Now there was no more consensus. Gavard offered to divide up his property, but Logre declined, swearing that he had no interest in money. Then Charvet gradually got control of the bedlam, until his w
as the only voice heard.
“The self-interest of the different social classes is the great strength of tyranny,” he said. “The selfishness of the people is wrong. If you work with us, you will get your share. But why should I fight for the workers if the workers won't fight for me? That's not the question. It will take ten years of revolutionary government to accustom a country like France to the ways of liberty.”
“All the more reason,” said Clémence bluntly, “why the workingman is not ready and needs to be directed.”
She seldom spoke. This tall, serious girl, lost among all those men, had a professorial way of listening to political discussion. She leaned against the partition, sipping her grog, studying the speakers with a furrowed brow and enlarged nostrils, using them to silently indicate her approval or disapproval, demonstrating that she understood and held opinions on everything. Occasionally she would roll a cigarette, blowing thin streams of smoke from the corners of her mouth while intensifying her scrutiny of the debate. It was as though she were judging the debate and would award a prize to the winner after it was over. She believed in keeping her place as a woman, holding back her opinions and not growing agitated when the men did. But now and then she would let a word or two escape to “drive home the nail,” as Gavard liked to say. In her heart, she believed herself to be far ahead of the men. She had no respect for any of them, accept Robine, and she would watch his silence with her large black eyes.
Neither Florent nor any of the others paid any special attention to Clémence. To them she was one of the boys, and they shook her hand so roughly it nearly dislocated her arm. One evening Florent was present at one of the chronic settling of accounts between Charvet and her. They lived together with a mutual understanding, each controlling their own earnings and responsible for their own expenses. That way, they said, no one owed anything and they were not slaves. Rent, food, laundry, entertainment, everything was written down and added up. On this particular night, after checking the accounts, Clémence proved to Charvet that he still owed five francs. Then she handed him the ten he wanted to borrow and said, “Make a note that you now owe me fifteen. You can pay me back on the fifth, when you get paid for teaching little Léhudier.”
When it came time to pay Rose for the drinks, each would pull out a few sous. Charvet joked that Clémence was an aristocrat because she drank grog. He said that she was trying to humiliate him because he earned less money, which in fact was true. Underneath the joke was a note of protest that she was better off, for despite his theory of sexual equality, he felt wounded by this.
Though the discussions never accomplished much, they did help them to vent. This produced a great deal of noise in the little room, and the frosted glass vibrated like drum skins. Sometimes it became so loud that Rose, languidly serving a customer a drink outside, would turn her head nervously.
“Good God, it's getting rough in there,” the customer would say, putting his glass back down on the zinc counter and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Monsieur Lebigre calmly, “it's just some gentlemen having a discussion.”
Monsieur Lebigre, normally very strict with his other customers, let these debaters shout to their heart's content and never said a word about it. He would sit for hours in his vest on the bench behind the counter, his big head nodding drowsily against the mirror, watching Rose uncorking bottles and wiping the counter with a towel. When he was in a good mood and she was in front of him, plunging glasses into the washbowl, her hands bare, he would pinch the fleshy parts of her legs without anyone being able to see him, and she would accept it with a pleasant smile. Even when he pinched her almost to the bone, she did not betray the familiarity with a sudden jump. She simply said that she wasn't ticklish.
Amid the scent of wine and warm liquors, he would turn his ear toward the ruckus coming from the little room. When he heard them getting loud, he would get up and walk over to lean against the divider. Sometimes he even pushed open the door, walked in, and sat down for a moment, giving Gavard a friendly slap on the leg. It was his nod of approval for everything said in the room. The poultry merchant said that Lebigre was not much of an orator, but he could be counted on when the time came.
One morning at the market a terrible quarrel erupted between Rose and a fish vendor when Rose accidentally knocked over a basket of herring with her elbow and was called a “sneak” and a “police stooge.” After Florent restored calm, he got an earful of tales about Monsieur Lebigre. The fish woman said that he worked for the police and everyone in the neighborhood knew it. Before Mademoiselle Saget was a customer of his, she had run into him walking into the prefecture to give his report. It was also asserted that he was a money-grubber, a usurer, and lent petty cash by the day to grocers and hired carts out to them, all at scandalous interest rates.
Florent was deeply shaken. That very evening in a low voice he whispered to the others what he had heard. They shrugged and laughed.
“Poor Florent,” said Charvet a little maliciously. “Because he was in Cayenne he imagines the entire police force dogging his heels.”
Gavard swore on his word of honor that Lebigre was “good and true.” But Logre was angry. His chair creaked as he babbled agitatedly that it was not possible to go on like this. If everyone was going to be accused of being with the police, he would rather just stay home and forget about politics. He reminded them that even he had once been accused of being mixed up with the police, he who had fought in both '48 and '51 and had twice escaped deportation only narrowly. As he proclaimed all this he stared at the others, his jaw jutting forward as though he wanted to hammer them with his conviction that he was not working for the police. Under his angry glare the others made gestures of protest. But when Lacaille heard Monsieur Lebigre accused of usury, he silently lowered his head.
The discussion continued, and the incident was forgotten. Ever since Logre had called for a conspiracy, Monsieur Lebigre had been particularly friendly to the regulars in his little room. The truth was that he didn't make much money from them because they never ordered more than one round of drinks. When they were ready to leave, they drank the last drops, having been careful even in the throes of the most heated political and sociological debates to make sure that they never completely emptied their glasses.
Farewells, in the damp night, were done with a great deal of shivering. They lingered a moment on the sidewalk, eyes burning and ears deafened, as though taken aback by the darkness of the street. Behind them Rose was putting up the shutters. After each one had shaken everyone's hands, exhausted and unable to find one more word to say, they went their separate ways, still chewing over the debate and regretting that they had not been able to do a better job of jamming their own beliefs down the others' throats. The rounded shoulders of Robine vanished in the direction of rue Rambuteau, while Charvet and Clémence went side by side along the market to the Luxembourg Gardens, their heels ringing out a martial beat, continuing to discuss some point of politics or philosophy and never taking each other by the arm.
The plot slowly ripened. At the beginning of summer they had only agreed that they should attempt to strike a blow. Florent, who at the beginning had approached the plot with mistrust, ended up believing in the possibility of a revolutionary movement. He took it all very seriously, taking notes, making written plans. The others just talked. Little by little he focused his whole life on this one idea, and he battered his brain with it every evening. He even took Quenu with him to Monsieur Lebigre's, doing it as though this were the most natural thing in the world to do. He still treated him like his student and tried to guide him in the right direction.
Quenu was completely new to politics. But after five or six evenings, he was agreeing with them. He was docile and, if Lisa was not present, showed great respect for his brother's ideas. But what appealed to him most was the bourgeois debauchery of walking out of his charcuterie and shutting himself up in a small room of shouting men, and the presence
of Clémence provided a forbidden and delicious undertone. Now he would hurry through his andouille to get there sooner, not wanting to miss a single word of argument that seemed to him deep, even though he was sometimes unable to follow it. Beautiful Lisa was quick to notice his hasty departures, but she said nothing. When Florent led him off, she would stand in the doorway, slightly pale, a stern look in her eyes, and watch them go off to Monsieur Lebigre's.
One evening Mademoiselle Saget looked out the casement window of her garret and recognized the shadow of Quenu on the frosted glass of the tall window on rue Pirouette. She had found herself an excellent observation post. She faced the milky glass window on which the gaslight showed the silhouettes of the men with their sharp noses, the sudden thrusts of their jaws, huge arms stretching out with no sign of a body attached. This unexpected dislocation of limbs, the silent angry profiles, betrayed to the outside world the ferocity of the discussions in the little room. It riveted the attention of Mademoiselle Saget behind her muslin curtain until the transparency turned black. She suspected that something was amiss. By studying carefully, she had come to recognize the various shadows of hands and hair and clothes. As she observed the bedlam of clenched fists, enraged heads, and swaying shoulders, they seemed to have become detached, bobbing around one on top of the other. She would shout, “Oh, there's that big dodo of a cousin, there's that cheapskate Gavard, there's the hunchback, there's that maypole Clémence.”