Piping hot! (Pot-bouille) : $b a realistic novel — John Shaqi
Piping hot! (Pot-bouille) : $b a realistic novelZola, Émile
History
Piping hot! (Pot-bouille) : $b a realistic novel
Zola, Émile
France -- History -- Second Empire, 1852-1870 -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Fiction
“Ah! yes,” repeated he gently, “I have grown, I have grown. Do you
recollect, when your cousin Gasparine used to buy me marbles?”
Then, he gave her news of her parents. Monsieur and Madame Domergue
were living happily, in the house to which they had retired; they
merely complained of being very lonely, bearing Campardon a grudge for
having taken their little Rose from them, during a stay he had made at
Plassans on business. Then, the young man tried to bring the
conversation round to cousin Gasparine, having a precocious youngster’s
old curiosity to satisfy, in the matter of an hitherto unexplained
adventure: the architect’s mad passion for Gasparine, a tall lovely
girl, but poor, and his sudden marriage with skinny Rose who had a
dowry of thirty thousand francs, and quite a tearful scene, and a
quarrel, and the flight of the abandoned one to Paris, to an aunt who
was a dressmaker. But Madame Campardon, whose placid complexion
preserved a rosy paleness, did not appear to understand. He was unable
to draw a single particular from her.
“And your parents?” inquired she in her turn. “How are Monsienr and
Madame Mouret?”
“Very well, thank you,” replied he. “My mother scarcely leaves her
garden. You would find the house in the Rue de la Banne, just as you
left it.”
Madame Campardon, who seemed unable to remain standing for long without
feeling tired, had seated herself on a high drawing-chair, her legs
stretched out in her dressing-gown; and he, taking a low chair beside
her, raised his head when speaking, with his air of habitual adoration.
With his large shoulders, he was like a woman, he had a woman’s feeling
which at once admitted him to their hearts. So that, at the end of ten
minutes, they were both talking like two lady friends of long standing.
“Now I am your boarder,” said he, passing a handsome hand with neatly
trimmed nails over his beard. “We shall get on well together, you will
see. How charming it was of you to remember the Plassans youngster and
to busy yourself about everything, at the first word!”
But she protested.
“No, do not thank me. I am a great deal too lazy, I never move. It was
Achille who arranged everything. And, besides, was it not sufficient
that my mother mentioned to us your desire to board in some family, for
us to think at once of opening our doors to you? You will not be with
strangers, and will be company for us.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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