Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
Sometimes she would become quite animated, she would picture an immense ideal bazaar, the phalansterium of modern commerce, in which each one should have his exact share of the profits, according to his merits, with the certainty of the future, assured to him by a contract Mouret would feel amused at this, notwithstanding his fever. He accused her of socialism, embarrassed her by pointing out the difficulties of carrying out these schemes; for she spoke in the simplicity of her soul, bravely trusting in the future, when she perceived a dangerous hole underlying her tender-hearted plans. He was, however, shaken, captivated by this young voice, still trembling from the evils endured, so convinced and earnest in pointing out the reforms which would tend to consolidate the house; yet he listened while joking with her; the salesmen’s position gradually improved, the wholesale dismissals were replaced by a system of holidays granted during the dead seasons, and there was also about to be created a sort of benefit club which would protect the employees against bad times and ensure them a pension. It was the embryo of the vast trades’ unions of the twentieth century.
Denise did not confine her attention solely to healing the wounds from which she had herself bled; she conceived various delicate feminine ideas, which, communicated to Mouret, delighted the customers. She also caused Lhomme’s happiness by supporting a scheme he had long nourished, that of creating a band of music, in which all the executants should be chosen from amongst the staff. Three months later Lhomme had a hundred and twenty musicians under his direction, the dream of his whole life was realised. And a grand fête was given on the premises, a concert and a ball, to introduce the band of The Ladies’ Paradise to the customers and the whole world. The newspapers took the matter up, Bourdoncle himself, frightened by these innovations, was obliged to bow before this immense advertisement. Afterwards, a recreation room for the men was established, with two billiard tables and backgammon and chess boards. Then classes were held in the house of an evening; there were lessons in English and German, in grammar, arithmetic, and geography; they even had lessons in riding and fencing. A library was formed, ten thousand volumes were placed at the disposal of the employees. And a resident doctor giving consultations gratis was also added, together with baths, and hair-dressing and refreshment saloons. Every want in life was provided for, everything was to be obtained without going outside – board, lodging, and clothing. The Ladies’ Paradise sufficed entirely for all its own wants and pleasures, in the very heart of Paris, taken up by all this clatter, by this working city which was springing up so vigorously out of the ruins of the old streets, at last opened to the rays of the sun.
Then a fresh movement of opinion took place in Denise’s favour. As Bourdoncle, vanquished, repeated with despair to his friends that he would give a great deal to put Denise into Mouret’s arms himself, it was concluded that she had not yielded, that her all-powerfulness resulted from her refusal. From that moment she became immensely popular. They knew for what indulgences they were indebted to her, and they admired her for the force of her will. There was one, at least, who could master the governor, who avenged all the others, and knew how to get something else besides promises out of him! So she had come at last, she who was to make him treat the poor devils with a little respect! When she went through the shop, with her delicate, self-willed head, her tender, invincible air, the salesmen smiled at her, were proud of her, and would willingly have exhibited her to the crowd. Denise, in her happiness, allowed herself to be carried along by this increasing sympathy. Was it all possible? She saw herself arrive in a poor dress, frightened, lost amidst the mechanism of the terrible machine; for a long time she had had the sensation of being nothing, hardly a grain of seed beneath these millstones which were crushing a whole world; and now to-day she was the very soul of this world, she alone was of consequence, able at a word to increase or slacken the pace of the colossus lying at her feet. And yet she had not wished for these things, she had simply presented herself, without calculation, with the sole charm of her sweetness. Her sovereignty sometimes caused her an uneasy surprise; why did they all obey her? she was not pretty, she did nothing wrong. Then she smiled, her heart at rest, feeling within herself nothing but goodness and prudence, a love of truth and logic which constituted all her strength.
One of Denise’s greatest joys was to be able to assist Pauline. The latter, being about to become a mother, was trembling, aware that two other saleswomen in the same condition had been sent away. The principals did not tolerate these accidents, maternity being suppressed as cumbersome and indecent; they occasionally allowed marriage, but would admit of no children. Pauline had, it was true, her husband in the house; but still she felt anxious, it being almost impossible for her to appear at the counter; and in order to postpone a probable dismissal, she laced herself very tightly, resolved to conceal her state as long as she could. One of the two saleswomen who had been dismissed, had just been delivered of a still-born child, through having laced herself up in this way; and it was not certain that she herself would recover. Meanwhile, Bourdoncle had observed that Pauline’s complexion was getting very livid, and that she had a painfully stiff way of walking. One morning he was standing near her, in the under-linen department, when a messenger, taking away a bundle, ran up against her with such force that she cried out with pain. Bourdoncle immediately took her on one side, made her confess, and submitted the question of her dismissal to the board, under the pretext that she stood in need of country air: the story of this accident would spread, and would have a disastrous effect on the public if she should have a miscarriage, as had already taken place in the baby linen department the year before. Mouret, who was not at the meeting, could only give his opinion in the evening. But Denise having had time to interfere, he closed Bourdoncle’s mouth, in the interest of the house itself. Did they wish to frighten the heads of families and the young mothers amongst their customers? And it was decided, with great pomp, that every married saleswoman should, when in the family way, be sent to a special midwife’s as soon as her presence at the counter became offensive to the customers.
The next day when Denise went up into the infirmary to see Pauline, who had been obliged to take to her bed on account of the blow she had received, the latter kissed her violently on both cheeks. “How kind you are! Had it not been for you I should have been turned away. Pray don’t be anxious about me, the doctor says it’s nothing.”
Bauge, who had slipped away from his department, was also there, on the other side of the bed. He likewise stammered his thanks, troubled before Denise, whom he now treated as an important person, of a superior class. Ah! if he heard any more nasty remarks about her, he would soon close the mouths of the jealous ones! But Pauline sent him away with a good-natured shrug of the shoulders.
“My poor darling, you’re always saying something stupid. Leave us to talk together.”
The infirmary was a long, light room, containing twelve beds, with their white curtains. Those who did not wish to go home to their families were nursed here. But on the day in question, Pauline was the only occupant, in a bed near one of the large windows which looked on to the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. And they immediately commenced to exchange whispered words, tender confidences, in the calm air, perfumed with a vague odour of lavender.
“So he does just what you wish him to? How cruel you are, to make him suffer so! Come, just explain it to me, now I’ve ventured to approach the subject. Do you detest him?” Pauline had retained hold of Denise’s hand, as the latter sat near the bed, with her elbow on the bolster; and overcome by a sudden emotion, her cheeks invaded with colour, she had a moment of weakness at this direct and unexpected question. Her secret escaped her, she buried her head in the pillow, murmuring:
“I love him!”
Pauline was astonished. “What! you love him? But it’s very simple: say yes.”
Denise, her face still concealed, replied “No!” by an energetic shake of the head. And she did so, simply because she loved him, without being able to explain the matter. No doubt it was ridiculous; but she felt like that, she could not change her nature. Her friend’s surprise increased, and she at length asked: “So it’s all to make him marry you?”
At this the young girl sprung up, quite confused: “Marry me! Oh! no! Oh! I assure you that I have never wished for anything of the kind! No, never has such an idea entered my head; and you know what a horror I have of all falsehood!”
“Well, dear,” resumed Pauline, kindly, “you couldn’t have acted otherwise, if such had been your intention. All this must come to an end, and it is very certain that it can only finish by a marriage, as you won’t let it be otherwise. I must tell you that every one has the same idea; yes, they feel persuaded that you are riding the high horse, in order to make him take you to church. Dear me! what a funny girl you are!”
And she had to console Denise, who had again dropped her head on to the bolster, sobbing, declaring that she would certainly go away, since they attributed all sorts of things to her that had never crossed her mind. No doubt, when a man loved a woman he ought to marry her. But she asked for nothing, she had made no calculations, she simply begged to be allowed to live quietly, with her joys and her sorrows, like other people. She would go away.
At the same moment Mouret was going through the premises below. He had wanted to forget his thoughts by visiting the works once more. Several months had elapsed, the façade now reared its monumental lines behind the vast hoardings which concealed it from the public. Quite an army of decorators were at work: marble-cutters, mosaic-workers, and others. The central group above the door was being gilded; whilst on the acroteria were being fixed the pedestals destined to receive the statues of the manufacturing cities of France. From morning to night, in the Rue du Dix-Décembre, lately opened to the public, a crowd of idlers stood gaping about, their noses in the air, seeing nothing, but pre-occupied by the marvels that were related of this façade, the inauguration of which was going to revolutionise Paris. And it was on this feverish working-ground, amidst the artists putting the finishing touches to the realisation of his dream commenced by the masons, that Mouret felt more bitterly than ever the vanity of his fortune. The thought of Denise had suddenly arrested him, this thought which incessantly pierced him with a flame, like the shooting of an incurable pain. He had run away, unable to find a word of satisfaction, fearful lest he should show his tears, leaving behind him the disgust of his triumph. This façade, which was at last erected, seemed little in his eyes, very much like one of those walls of sand that children build, and it might have been extended from one end of the city to the other, elevated to the starry sky, yet it would not have filled the emptiness of his heart, that the “yes” of a mere child could alone fill.
When Mouret entered his office he was almost choking with sobs. What did she want? He dared not offer her money now; and the confused idea of a marriage presented itself amidst his young widower’s revolts. And, in the debility of his powerlessness, his tears began to flow. He was very miserable.
CHAPTER XIII
One morning in November, Denise was giving her first orders in the department when the Baudus’ servant came to tell her that Mademoiselle Geneviève had passed a very bad night, and wished to see her cousin immediately. For some time the young girl had been getting weaker and weaker, and she had been obliged to take to her bed two days before.
“Say I am coming at once,” replied Denise, very anxious.
The blow which was finishing Genevieve was Colomban’s sudden disappearance. At first, chaffed by Clara, he had stopped out several nights; then, yielding to the mad desires of a quiet, chaste fellow, he had become her obedient slave, and had not returned one Monday, but had simply sent a farewell letter to Baudu, written in the studied terms of a man about to commit suicide. Perhaps, at the bottom of this passion, there was also the crafty calculation of a fellow delighted at escaping a disastrous marriage. The draper’s business was in as bad a way as his betrothed; the moment was propitious to break with them through any stupidity. And every one cited him as an unfortunate victim of love.
When Denise arrived at The Old Elbeuf, Madame Baudu was there alone, sitting motionless behind the pay-desk, with her small white face, eaten up by anæmia, silent and quiet in the cold, deserted shop. There were no assistants now. The servant dusted the shelves, and it was even a question of replacing her by a charwoman. A dreary cold fell from the ceiling, hours passed away without a customer coming to disturb this silence, and the goods, no longer touched, became mustier and mustier every day.
“What’s the matter?” asked Denise, anxiously. “Is Geneviève in danger?”
Madame Baudu did not reply at first. Her eyes filled with tears. Then she stammered: “I don’t know; they don’t tell me anything. Ah, it’s all over, it’s all over.”
And she cast a sombre glance around the dark old shop, as if she felt her daughter and the shop disappearing together. The seventy thousand francs, produce of the sale of their Rambouillet property, had melted away in less than two years in this gulf of competition. In order to struggle against The Ladies’ Paradise, which now kept men’s cloths and materials for hunting and livery suits, the draper had made considerable sacrifices. At last he had been definitely crushed by the swanskin cloth and flannels sold by his rival, an assortment that had not its equal in the market. Little by little his debts had increased, and, as a last resource, he had resolved to mortgage the old building in the Rue de la Michodière, where Finet, their ancestor, had founded the business; and it was now only a question of days, the crumbling away had commenced, the very ceilings seemed to be falling down and turning into dust, like an old worm-eaten structure carried away by the wind.
“Your uncle is upstairs,” resumed Madame Baudu in her broken voice. “We stay with her two hours each. Some one must look out here; oh! but only as a precaution, for to tell the truths – ”
Her gesture finished the phrase. They would have put the shutters up had it not been for their old commercial pride, which still propped them up in the presence of the neighbourhood.
“Well, I’ll go up, aunt,” said Denise, whose heart was bleeding, amidst this resigned despair that even the pieces of cloth themselves exhaled.
“Yes, go upstairs quick, my girl. She’s waiting for you. She’s been asking for you all night. She has something to tell you.”
But just at that moment Baudu came down. The rising bile gave his yellow face a greenish tinge, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was still walking with the muffled step with which he had quitted the Sick room, and murmur-ed, as if he might be heard upstairs, “She’s asleep.”
And, thoroughly worn out, he sat down on a chair, wiping his forehead with a mechanical gesture, puffing like a man who has just finished some hard work. A silence ensued, but at last he said to Denise: “You’ll see her presently. When she is sleeping, she seems to me to be all right again.”
There was again a silence. Face to face, the father and mother stood looking at each other. Then, in a half whisper, he went over his grief again, naming no one, addressing no one directly: “My head on the block, I wouldn’t have believed it! He was the last one. I had brought him up as a son. If any one had come and said to me, ‘They’ll take him away from you as well; he’ll fall as well,’ I would have replied ‘Impossible, it could not be.’ And he has fallen all the same! Ah! the scoundrel, he who was so well up in real business, who had all my ideas! And all for a young monkey, one of those dummies that parade at the windows of bad houses! No! really, it’s enough to drive one mad!”
He shook his head, his eyes fell on the damp floor worn away by generations of customers. Then he continued in a lower voice, “There are moments when I feel myself the most culpable of all in our misfortune. Yes, it’s my fault if our poor girl is upstairs devoured by fever. Ought not I to have married them at once, without yielding to my stupid pride, my obstinacy in refusing to leave them the house less prosperous than before? Had I done that she would now have the man she loved, and perhaps their united youthful strength would have accomplished the miracle that I have failed to work. But I am an old fool, and saw through nothing; I didn’t know that people fell ill over such things. Really he was an extraordinary fellow: with such a gift for business, and such probity, such simplicity of conduct, so orderly in every way – in short, my pupil.”
He raised his head, still defending his ideas, in the person of the shopman who had betrayed him. Denise could not bear to hear him accuse himself, and she told him so, carried away by her emotion, on seeing him so humble, with his eyes full of tears, he who used formerly to reign as absolute master.
“Uncle, pray don’t apologise for him. He never loved Geneviève, he would have run away sooner if you had tried to hasten the marriage. I have spoken to him myself about it; he was perfectly well aware that my cousin was suffering on his account, and you see that did not prevent him leaving. Ask aunt.”
Without opening her lips, Madame Baudu confirmed these words by a nod. The draper turned paler still, blinded by his tears. He stammered out: “It must be in the blood, his father died last year through having led a dissolute life.”
And he once more looked round the obscure shop, his eyes wandering from the empty counters to the full shelves, then resting on Madame Baudu, who was still at the pay-desk, waiting in vain for the customers who did not come.
“Come,” said he, “it’s all over. They’ve ruined our business, and now one of their hussies is killing our daughter.”
No one spoke. The rolling of the vehicles, which occasionally shook the floor, passed like a funereal beating of drums in the still air, stifled under the low ceiling. Suddenly, amidst this gloomy sadness of the old dying shop, could be heard several heavy knocks, struck somewhere in the house. It was Geneviève, who had just awoke, and was knocking with a stick they had left near her bed.
“Let’s go up at once,” said Baudu, rising with a start. “Try and be cheerful, she mustn’t know.”
He himself rubbed his eyes to efface the trace of his tears. As soon as he had opened the door, on the first storey, they heard a frightened, feeble voice crying: “Oh, I don’t like to be left alone. Don’t leave me; I’m afraid to be left alone.” Then, when she perceived Denise, Geneviève became calmer, and smiled joyfully. “You’ve come, then! How I’ve been longing to see you since yesterday. I thought you also had abandoned me!”
It was a piteous sight. The young girl’s room looked out on to the yard, a little room lighted by a livid light At first her parents had put her in their own room, in the front; but the sight of The Ladies’ Paradise opposite affected her so much, that they had been obliged to bring her back to her own again. And there she lay, so very thin, under the bed-clothes, that one hardly suspected the form and existence of a human body. Her skinny arms, consumed by a burning fever, were in a perpetual movement of anxious, unconscious searching; whilst her black hair seemed thicker still, and to be eating up her poor face with its voracious vitality, that face in which was agonising the final degenerateness of a family sprung up in the shade, in this cellar of old commercial Paris. Denise, her heart bursting with pity, stood looking at her. She did not at first speak, for fear of giving way to tears. At last she murmured:
“I came at once. Can I be of any use to you? You asked for me. Would you like me to stay?”
“No, thanks. I don’t want anything. I only wanted to embrace you.”
Tears filled her eyes. Denise quickly leant over, and kissed her on both cheeks, trembling to feel on her lips the flame of those hollow cheeks. But Geneviève, stretching out her arms, seized and kept her in a desperate embrace. Then she looked towards her father.
“Would you like me to stay?” repeated Denise. “Perhaps there is something I can do for you.”
Geneviève’s glance was still obstinately fixed on her father, who remained standing, with a stolid air, almost choking. He at last understood, and went away, without saying a word; and they heard his heavy footstep on the stairs.
“Tell me, is he with that woman?” asked the sick girl immediately, seizing her cousin’s hand, and making her sit on the side of the bed. “I want to know, and you are the only one can tell me. They’re living together, aren’t they?” Denise, surprised by these questions, stammered, and was obliged to confess the truth, the rumours that were current in the shop. Clara, tired of this fellow, who was getting a nuisance to her, had already broken with him, and Colomban, desolated, was pursuing her everywhere, trying to obtain a meeting from time to time, with a sort of canine humility. They said that he was going to take a situation at the Grands Magasins du Louvre.
“If you still love him, he may return,” said Denise, to cheer the dying girl with this last hope. “Get well quick, he will acknowledge his errors, and marry you.”
Geneviève interrupted her. She had listened with all her soul, with an intense passion that raised her in the bed. But she fell back almost immediately. “No, I know it’s all over! I don’t say anything, because I see papa crying, and I don’t wish to make mamma worse than she is. But I am going, Denise, and if I called for you last night it was for fear of going off before the morning. And to think that he is not happy after all!”
And Denise having remonstrated, assuring her that she was not so bad as all that, she cut her short again, suddenly throwing off the bed-clothes with the chaste gesture of a virgin who has nothing to conceal in death. Naked to the waist, she murmured: “Look at me! Is it possible?”
Trembling, Denise quitted the side of the bed, as if she feared to destroy this fearful nudity with a breath. It was the last of the flesh, a bride’s body used up by waiting, returned to the first infantile slimness of her young days. Geneviève slowly covered herself up again, saying: “You see I am no longer a woman. It would be wrong to wish for him still!” There was a silence. Both continued to look at each other, unable to find a word to say. It was Geneviève who resumed: “Come, don’t stay any longer, you have your own affairs to look after. And thanks, I was tormented by the wish to know, and am now satisfied. If you see him, tell him I forgive him. Adieu, dear Denise. Kiss me once more, for it’s the last time.” The young girl kissed her, protesting: “No, no, don’t despair, all you want is loving care, nothing more.” But the sick girl, shaking her head in an obstinate way, smiled, quite sure of what she said. And as her cousin was making for the door, she exclaimed: “Wait a minute, knock with this stick, so that papa may come up. I’m afraid to stay alone.”
Then, when Baudu arrived in that small, gloomy room, where he spent hours seated on a chair, she assumed an air of gaiety, saying to Denise – “Don’t come to-morrow, I would rather not. But on Sunday I shall expect you; you can spend the afternoon with me.”
The next morning, at six o’clock, Geneviève expired after four hours’ fearful agony. The funeral took place on a Saturday, a fearfully black, gloomy day, under a sooty sky which hung over the shivering city. The Old Elbeuf, hung with white linen, lighted up the street with a bright spot, and the candles burning in the fading day seemed so many stars drowned in the twilight The coffin was covered with wreaths and bouquets of white roses; it was a narrow child’s coffin, placed in the obscure passage of the house on a level with the pavement, so near the gutter that the passing carriages had already splashed the coverings. The whole neighbourhood exhaled a dampness, a cellar-like mouldy odour, with its continual rush of pedestrians on the muddy pavement.
At nine o’clock Denise came over to stay with her aunt. But as the funeral was starting, the latter – who had ceased weeping, her eyes burnt with tears – begged her to follow the body and look after her uncle, whose mute affliction and almost idiotic grief filled the family with anxiety. Below, the young girl found the street full of people, for the small traders in the neighbourhood were anxious to show the Baudus a mark of sympathy, and in this eagerness there was also a sort of manifestation against The Ladies’ Paradise, whom they accused of causing Geneviève’s slow agony. All the victims of the monster were there – Bédoré and sister from the hosier’s shop in the Rue Gaillon, the furriers, Vanpouille Brothers, and Deslignières the toyman, and Piot and Rivoire the furniture dealers; even Mademoiselle Tatin from the underclothing shop, and the glover Quinette, long since cleared off by bankruptcy, had made it a duty to come, the one from Batignolle, the other from the Bastille, where they had been obliged to take situations. Whilst waiting for the hearse, which was late, these people, tramping about in the mud, cast glances of hatred towards The Ladies’ Paradise, the bright windows and gay displays of which seemed an insult in face of The Old Elbeuf, which, with its funeral trappings and glimmering candles, cast a gloom over the other side of the street A few curious faces appeared at the plate-glass windows; but the colossus maintained the indifference of a machine going at full speed, unconscious of the deaths it may cause on the road.
Denise looked round for her brother Jean, whom she at last perceived standing before Bourras’s shop, and she went and asked him to walk with his uncle, to assist him if he could not get along. For the last few weeks Jean had been very grave, as if tormented by some worry. To-day, buttoned up in his black frock-coat, a full grown man, earning his twenty francs a day, he seemed so dignified and so sad that his sister was surprised, for she had no idea he loved his cousin so much as that. Desirous of sparing Pépé this needless grief, she had left him with Madame Gras, intending to go and fetch him in the afternoon to see his uncle and aunt.
The hearse had still not arrived, and Denise, greatly affected, was watching the candles burn, when she was startled by a well-known voice behind her. It was Bourras. He had called the chestnut-seller opposite, in his little box, against the public-house, and said to him:
“I say, Vigouroux, just keep a look-out for me a bit, will you? You see I’ve closed the door. If any one comes tell them to call again. But don’t let that disturb you, no one will come.”
Then he took his stand on the pavement, waiting like the others. Denise, feeling rather awkward, glanced at his shop. He entirely abandoned it now; there was nothing left but a disorderly array of umbrellas eaten up by the damp air, and canes blackened by the gas. The embellishments that he had made, the delicate green paint work, the glasses, the gilded sign, were all cracking, already getting dirty, presenting that rapid and lamentable decrepitude of false luxury laid over ruins. But though the old crevices were re-appearing, though the spots of damp had sprung up over the gildings, the house still held its ground obstinately, hanging on to the flanks of The Ladies’ Paradise like a dishonouring wart, which, although cracked and rotten, refused to fall off.
“Ah! the scoundrels,” growled Bourras, “they won’t even let her be carried away.”
The hearse, which had at last arrived, had just got into collision with one of The Ladies’ Paradise vans, which was spinning along, shedding in the mist its starry radiance, with the rapid trot of two superb horses. And the old man cast on Denise an oblique glance, lighted up under his bushy eyebrows. Slowly, the funeral started off, splashing through the muddy pools, amid the silence of the omnibuses and carriages suddenly pulled up. When the coffin, draped with white, crossed the Place Gaillon, the sombre looks of the cortege were once more plunged into the windows of the big shop, where two saleswomen alone had run up to look on, pleased at this distraction. Baudu followed the hearse with a heavy mechanical step, refusing by a sign the arm offered by Jean, who was walking with him. Then, after a long-string of people, came three mourning coaches. As they passed the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, Robineau ran up to join the cortege, very pale, and looking much older.
At Saint-Roch, a great many women were waiting, the small traders of the neighbourhood, who had been afraid of the crowd at the house. The manifestation was developing into quite a riot; and when, after the service, the procession started off back, all the men followed, although it was a long walk from the Rue Saint-Honoré to the Montmartre Cemetery. They had to go up the Rue Saint-Roch, and once more pass The Ladies’ Paradise. It was a sort of obsession; this poor young girl’s body was paraded round the big shop like the first victim fallen in time of revolution. At the door some red flannels were flapping like so many flags, and a display of carpets blazed forth in a florescence of enormous roses and full-blown pæonies. Denise had got into one of the coaches, being agitated by some smarting doubts, her heart oppressed by such a feeling of grief that she had not the strength to walk At that moment there was a stop, in the Rue du Dix-Décembre, before the scaffolding of the new façade which still obstructed the thoroughfare. ‘And the young girl observed old Bourras, left behind, dragging along with difficulty, close to the wheels of the coach in which she was riding alone. He would never get as far as the cemetery, she thought. He raised his head, looked at her, and all at once got into the coach.
