tails. On plates near by were giblets, livers, gizzards, necks, feet, and wings; while an oval dish contained a skinned and gutted rabbit, with its four legs wide apart, its head bleeding, and is kidneys showing through its gashed belly. A streamlet of dark blood, after trickling along its back to its tail, had fallen drop by drop, staining the whiteness of the dish. Marjolin had not even taken the trouble to wipe the block, near which the rabbit’s feet were still lying. He reclined there with his eyes half closed, encompassed by other piles of dead poultry which crowded the shelves of the stall, poultry in paper wrappers like bouquets, rows upon rows of protuberant breasts and bent legs showing confusedly. And amidst all this mass of food, the young fellow’s big, fair figure, the flesh of his cheeks, hands, and powerful neck covered with ruddy down seemed as soft as that of the magnificent turkeys, and as plump as the breasts of the fat geese.
When he caught sight of Lisa, he at once sprang up, blushing at having been caught sprawling in this way. He always seemed very nervous and ill at ease in Madame Quenu’s presence; and when she asked him if Monsieur Gavard was there, he stammered out: “No, I don’t think so. He was here a little while ago, but he want away again.”
Lisa looked at him, smiling; she had a great liking for him. But feeling something warm brush against her hand, which was hanging by her side, she raised a little shriek. Some live rabbits were thrusting their noses out of a box under the counter of the stall, and sniffing at her skirts.
“Oh,” she exclaimed with a laugh, “it’s your rabbits that are tickling me.”
Then she stooped and attempted to stroke a white rabbit, which darted in alarm into a corner of the box.
“Will Monsieur Gavard be back soon, do you think?” she asked, as she again rose erect.
Marjolin once more replied that he did not know; then in a hesitating way he continued: “He’s very likely gone down into the cellars. He told me, I think, that he was going there.”
“Well, I think I’ll wait for him, then,” replied Lisa. “Could you let him know that I am here? or I might go down to him, perhaps. Yes, that’s a good idea; I’ve been intending to go and have a look at the cellars for these last five years. You’ll take me down, won’t you, and explain things to me?”
Marjolin blushed crimson, and, hurrying out of the stall, walked on in front of her, leaving the poultry to look after itself. “Of course I will,” said he. “I’ll do anything you wish, Madame Lisa.”
When they got down below, the beautiful Lisa felt quite suffocated by the dank atmosphere of the cellar. She stood at the bottom step, and raised her eyes to look at the vaulted roofing of red and white bricks arching slightly between the iron ribs upheld by small columns. What made her hesitate more than the gloominess of the place was a warm, penetrating odour, the exhalations of large numbers of living creatures, which irritated her nostrils and throat.
“What a nasty smell!” she exclaimed. “It must be very unhealthy down here.”
“It never does me any harm,” replied Marjolin in astonishment. “There’s nothing unpleasant about the smell when you’ve got accustomed to it; and it’s very warm and cosy down here in the wintertime.”
As Lisa followed him, however, she declared that the strong scent of the poultry quite turned her stomach, and that she would certainly not be able to eat a fowl for the next two months. All around her, the storerooms, the small cabins where the stallkeepers keep their live stock, formed regular streets, intersecting each other at right angles. There were only a few scattered gas lights, and the little alleys seemed wrapped in sleep like the lanes of a village where the inhabitants have all gone to bed. Marjolin made Lisa feel the close-meshed wiring, stretched on a framework of cast iron; and as she made her way along one of the streets she amused herself by reading the names of the different tenants, which were inscribed on blue labels.
“Monsieur Gavard’s place is quite at the far end,” said the young man, still walking on.
They turned to the left, and found themselves in a sort of blind alley, a dark, gloomy spot where not a ray of light penetrated. Gavard was not there.
“Oh, it makes no difference,” said Marjolin. “I can show you our birds just the same. I have a key of the storeroom.”
Lisa followed him into the darkness.
“You don’t suppose that I can see your birds in this black oven, do you?” she asked, laughing.
Marjolin did not reply at once; but presently he stammered out that there was always a candle in the storeroom. He was fumbling about the lock, and seemed quite unable to find the keyhole. As Lisa came up to help him, she felt a hot breath on her neck; and when the young man had at last succeeded in opening the door and lighted the candle, she saw that he was trembling.
“You silly fellow!” she exclaimed, “to get yourself into such a state just because a door won’t open! Why, you’re no better than a girl, in spite of your big fists!”
She stepped inside the storeroom. Gavard had rented two compartments, which he had thrown into one by removing the partition between them. In the dirt on the floor wallowed the larger birds — the geese, turkeys, and ducks — while up above, on tiers of shelves, were boxes with barred fronts containing fowls and rabbits. The grating of the storeroom was so coated with dust and cobwebs that it looked as though covered with grey blinds. The woodwork down below was rotting, and covered with filth. Lisa, however, not wishing to vex Marjolin, refrained from any further expression of disgust. She pushed her fingers between the bars of the boxes, and began to lament the fate of the unhappy fowls, which were so closely huddled together and could not even stand upright. Then she stroked a duck with a broken leg which was squatting in a corner, and the young man told her that it would be killed that very evening, for fear lest it should die during the night.
“But what do they do for food?” asked Lisa.
Thereupon he explained to her that poultry would not eat in the dark, and that it was necessary to light a candle and wait there till they had finished their meal.
“It amuses me to watch them,” he continued; “I often stay here with a light for hours altogether. You should see how they peck away; and when I hide the flame of the candle with my hand they all stand stock-still with their necks in the air, just as though the sun had set. It is against the rules to leave a lighted candle here and go away. One of the dealers, old Mother Palette — you know her, don’t you? — nearly burned the whole place down the other day. A fowl must have knocked the candle over into the straw while she was away.”
“A pretty thing, isn’t it,” said Lisa, “for fowls to insist upon having the chandeliers lighted up every time they take a meal?”
This idea made her laugh. Then she came out of the storeroom, wiping her feet, and holding up her skirts to keep them from the filth. Marjolin blew out the candle and locked the door. Lisa felt rather nervous at finding herself in the dark again with this big young fellow, and so she hastened on in front.
“I’m glad I came, all the same,” she presently said, as he joined her. “There is a great deal more under these markets than I ever imagined. But I must make haste now and get home again. They’ll wonder what has become of me at the shop. If Monsieur Gavard comes back, tell him that I want to speak to him immediately.”
“I expect he’s in the killing-room,” said Marjolin. “We’ll go and see, if you like.”
Lisa made no reply. She felt oppressed by the close atmosphere which warmed her face.
