Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
“I am very pleased to have met you,” stammered Deloche at last, making up his mind to speak first. “You can’t think how happy you render me in consenting to walk with me.”
And, aided by the darkness, after many awkward attempts, he ventured to tell her he loved her. He had long wanted to write to her and tell her so; and perhaps she would never have known it had it not been for this lovely night coming to his assistance, this water that murmured so softly, and these trees which screened them with their shade. But she did not reply; she continued to walk by his side with the same suffering air. And he was trying to look into her face, when he heard a sob.
“Oh! good heavens!” he exclaimed, “you are crying, mademoiselle, you are crying! Have I offended you?”
“No, no,” she murmured.
She tried to keep back her tears, but she could not. Even when at table, she had thought her heart was about to burst. She abandoned herself in the darkness entirely, stifled by her sobs, thinking that if Hutin had been in Deloche’s place and said such tender things to her, she would have been unable to resist. This confession made to herself filled her with confusion. A feeling of shame burnt her face, as if she had already fallen into the arms of that Hutin, who was disporting himself with those girls.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” continued Deloche, almost crying also.
“No, but listen,” said she, her voice still trembling; “I am not at all angry with you. But never speak to me again as you have just done. What you ask is impossible. Oh! you’re a good fellow, and I’m quite willing to be your friend, but nothing more. You understand – your friend.”
He shuddered. After a few steps taken in silence, he stammered: “In fact, you don’t love me?”
And as she spared him the pain of a brutal “no,” he resumed in a soft, heart-broken voice: “Oh, I was prepared for it I have never had any luck, I know I can never be happy. At home, they used to beat me. In Paris, I’ve always been a drudge. You see, when one does not know how to rob other fellows of their mistresses, and when one is too awkward to earn as much as the others, why the best thing is to go into some corner and die. Never fear, I sha’n’t torment you any more. As for loving you, you can’t prevent me, can you? I shall love you for nothing, like a dog. There, everything escapes me, that’s my luck in life.”
And he, too, burst into tears. She tried to console him, and in their friendly effusion they found they belonged to the same department – she to Valognes, he to Briquebec, eight miles from each other, and this was a fresh tie. His father, a poor, needy bailiff, and sickly jealous, used to drub him, calling him a bastard, exasperated with his long pale face and tow-like hair, which, said he, did not belong to the family. And they got talking about the vast pastures, surrounded with quick-set hedges, of the shady paths winding beneath the elm trees, and of the grass grown roads, like the alleys in a park.
Around them night was getting darker, but they could still distinguish the rushes on the banks, and the interlaced foliage, black beneath the twinkling stars; and a peacefulness came over them, they forgot their troubles, brought nearer by their ill-luck, in a closer feeling of friendship.
“Well?” asked Pauline of Denise, taking her aside when they arrived at the station.
The young girl understood by the smile and the stare of tender curiosity; she turned very red and replied: “But – never, my dear! I told you I did not wish to! He belongs to my part of the country. We were talking about Valognes.”
Pauline and Bauge were perplexed, put out in their ideas, not knowing what to think. Deloche left them in the Place de la Bastille; like all young probationers, he slept at the house, where he had to be in by eleven o’clock. Not wishing to go in with him, Denise, who had got permission to go to the theatre, accepted Baugé’s invitation to accompany Pauline to his home – he, in order to be nearer his mistress, had moved into the Rue Saint-Roch. They took a cab, and Denise was stupefied on learning on the way that her friend was going to stay all night with the young man – nothing was easier, they only had to give Madame Cabin five francs, all the young ladies did it. Bauge did the honours of his room, which was furnished with old Empire furniture, given him by his father. He got angry when Denise spoke of settling up, but at last accepted the fifteen francs twelve sous which she had laid on the chest of drawers; but he insisted on making her a cup of tea, and he struggled with a spirit-lamp and saucepan, and then was obliged to go and fetch some sugar. Midnight struck as he was pouring out the tea.
“I must be off,” said Denise.
“Presently,” replied Pauline. “The theatres don’t close so early.”
Denise felt uncomfortable in this bachelor’s room. She had seen her friend take off her things, turn down the bed, open it, and pat the pillows with her naked arms; and these preparations for a night of love-making carried on before her, troubled her, and made her feel ashamed, awakening once in her wounded heart the recollection of Hutin. Such ideas were not very salutary. At last she left them, at a quarter past twelve. But she went away confused, when in reply to her innocent “good night,” Pauline cried out, thoughtlessly; “Thanks, we are sure to have a good one!”
The private door leading to Mouret’s apartments and to the employees’ bedrooms was in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. Madame Cabin opened the door and gave a glance in order to mark the return. A night-light was burning dimly in the hall, and Denise, finding herself in this uncertain light, hesitated, and was seized with fear, for on turning the corner of the street, she had seen the door close on the vague shadow of a man. It must have been the governor coming home from a party, and the idea that he was there in the dark waiting for her perhaps, caused her one of those strange fears with which he still inspired her, without any reasonable cause. Some one moved on the first-floor, a boot creaked, and losing her head entirely, she pushed open a door which led into the shop, and which was always left open for the night-watch. She was in the printed cotton department.
“Good heavens! what shall I do?” she stammered, in her emotion.
The idea occurred to her that there was another door upstairs leading to the bedrooms; but she would have to go right across the shop. She preferred this, notwithstanding the darkness reigning in the galleries. Not a gas-jet was burning, there were only a few oil-lamps hung here and there on the branches of the lustres; and these scattered lights, like yellow patches, their rays lost in the gloom, resembled the lanterns hung up in a mine. Big shadows loomed in the air; one could hardly distinguish the piles of goods, which assumed alarming profiles: fallen columns, squatting beasts, and lurking thieves. The heavy silence, broken by distant respirations, increased still more the darkness. However, she saw where she was. The linen department on her left formed a dead colour, like the blueiness of houses in the street under a summer sky; then she wished to cross the hall immediately, but running up against some piles of printed calico, she thought it safer to follow the hosiery department, and then the woollen one. There she was frightened by a loud noise of snoring. It was Joseph, the messenger, sleeping behind some articles of mourning. She quickly ran into the hall, now illuminated by the skylight, with a sort of crepuscular light which made it appear larger, full of a nocturnal church-like terror, with the immobility of its shelves, and the shadows of its yard-measures which described reversed crosses. She now fairly ran away. In the mercery and glove departments she nearly walked over some more messengers, and only felt safe when she at last found herself on the staircase. But upstairs, before the ready-made department, she was seized with fear on perceiving a lantern moving forward, twinkling in the darkness. It was the watch, two firemen marking their passage on the faces of the indicators. She stood a moment unable to understand it, watched them passing from the shawl to the furniture department, then to the under-linen, terrified by their strange manouvres, by the grinding of the key, and by the closing of the iron doors which made a murderous noise. When they approached, she took refuge in the lace department, but a sound of talking made her hastily depart, and run off to the outer door. She had recognised Deloche’s voice. He slept in his department, on a little iron bedstead which he set up himself every evening; and he was not asleep yet, recalling the pleasant hours he had just spent.
“What! it’s you, mademoiselle?” said Mouret, whom Denise found before her on the staircase, a small pocket-candlestick in his hand.
She stammered, and tried to explain that she had come to look for something. But he was not angry. He looked at her with his paternal, and at the same time curious, air.
“You had permission to go to the theatre, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have you enjoyed yourself? What theatre did you go to?”
“I have been in the country, sir.”
That made him laugh. Then he asked, laying a certain stress on his question: “All alone?”
“No, sir; with a lady friend,” replied she, her cheeks burning, shocked at the idea which he no doubt entertained.
He said no more; but he was still looking at her in her simple black dress and hat trimmed with a single blue ribbon. Was this little savage going to turn out a pretty girl? She looked all the better for her day in the open air, charming with her splendid hair falling over her forehead. And he, who during the last six months had treated her like a child, some times giving her advice, yielding to a desire to gain experience, to a wicked wish to know how a woman sprung up and lost herself in Paris, no longer laughed, experiencing a feeling of surprise and fear mingled with tenderness. No doubt it was a lover who embellished her like this. At this thought he felt as if stung to the quick by a favourite bird, with which he was playing.
“Good night, sir,” murmured Denise, continuing her way without waiting.
He did not answer, but stood watching her till she dis appeared. Then he entered his own apartments.
CHAPTER VI
When the dead summer season arrived, there was quite a panic at The Ladies’ Paradise. The reign of terror commenced, a great many employees were sent away on leave, and others were dismissed in dozens by the principals, who wished to clear the shop, no customers appearing during the July and August heat. Mouret, on making his daily inspection with Burdoncle, called aside the managers, whom he had prompted during the winter to engage more men than were necessary, so that the business should not suffer, leaving them to weed out their staff later on. It was now a question of reducing expenses by getting rid of quite a third of the shop people, the weak ones who allowed themselves to be swallowed up by the strong ones.
“Come,” he would say, “you must have some who don’t suit you. We can’t keep them all this time doing nothing.”
And if the manager hesitated, hardly knowing whom to sacrifice, he would continue; “Make your arrangements, six salesmen must suffice; you can take on others in October, there are plenty to be had!”
As a rule Bourdoncle undertook the executions. He had a terrible way of saying: “Go and be paid!” which fell like a blow from an axe. Anything served him as a pretext for clearing off the superfluous staff. He invented misdeeds, speculating on the slightest negligence. “You were sitting down, sir; go and be paid!”
“You dare to answer me; go and be paid!”
“Your shoes are not clean; go and be paid!” And even the bravest trembled in presence of the massacre which he left behind him. Then, this system not working quick enough, he invented a trap by which he got rid in a few days, without fatigue, of the number of salesmen condemned beforehand. At eight o’clock, he took his stand at the door, watch in hand; and at three minutes past the hour, the breathless young people were greeted with the implacable “Go and be paid!” This was a quick and cleanly method of doing the work.
“You’ve an ugly mug,” he ended by saying one day to a poor wretch whose nose, all on one side, annoyed him, “go and be paid!”
The favoured ones obtained a fortnight’s holiday without pay, which was a more humane way of lessening the expenses. The salesmen accepted their precarious situation, obliged to do so by necessity and habit. Since their arrival in Paris, they had roamed about, commencing their apprenticeship here, finishing it there, getting dismissed or themselves resigning all at once, as interest dictated. When business stood still, the workmen were deprived of their daily bread; and this was well understood in the indifferent march of the machine, the useless workmen were quietly thrown aside, like so much old plant, there was no gratitude shown for services rendered. So much the worse for those who did not know how to look after themselves!
Nothing else was now talked of in the various departments. Fresh stories circulated every day. The dismissed salesmen were named, as one counts the dead in time of cholera. The shawl and the woollen departments suffered especially; seven employees disappeared from them in one week. Then the underlinen department was thrown into confusion, a customer had nearly fainted away, accusing the young person who had served her of eating garlic; and the latter was dismissed at once, although, badly fed and dying of hunger, she was simply finishing a collection of bread crusts at the counter. The authorities were pitiless at the least complaint from the customers; no excuse was admitted, the employee was always wrong, and had to disappear like a defective instrument, hurtful to the proper working of the business; and the others bowed their heads, not even attempting any defence. In the panic which was raging each one trembled for himself. Mignot, going out one day with a parcel under his coat, notwithstanding the rules, was nearly caught, and really thought himself lost. Liénard, who was celebrated for his idleness, owed to his father’s position in the drapery trade that he was not turned away one afternoon that Bourdoncle found him dozing between two piles of English velvets. But the Lhommes were especially anxious, expecting every day to see their son Albert sent away, the governor being very dissatisfied with his conduct at the pay-desk. He frequently had women there who distracted his attention from his work; and twice Madame Aurélie had been obliged to plead for him with the principals.
Denise was so menaced amid this general clearance, that she lived in the constant expectation of a catastrophe. It was in vain that she summoned up her courage, struggling with all her gaiety and all her reason not to yield to the misgivings of her tender nature; she burst out into blinding tears as soon as she had closed the door of her bedroom, desolated at the thought of seeing herself in the street, on bad terms with her uncle, not knowing where to go, without a sou saved, and having the two children to look after. The sensations she had felt the first few weeks sprang up again, she fancied herself a grain of seed under a powerful millstone; and, utterly discouraged, she abandoned herself entirely to the thought of what a small atom she was in this great machine, which would certainly crush her with its quiet indifference. There was no illusion possible; if they sent away any one from her department she knew it would be her. No doubt, during the Rambouillet excursion, the other young ladies had incensed Madame Aurélie against her, for since then that lady had treated her with an air of severity in which there was a certain rancour. Besides, they could not forgive her going to Joinville, regarding it as a sign of revolt, a means of setting the whole department at defiance, by parading about with a young lady from a rival counter. Never had Denise suffered so much in the department, and she now gave up all hope of conquering it.
“Let them alone!” repeated Pauline, “a lot of stuck-up things, as stupid as donkeys!”
But it was just these fine lady airs which intimidated Denise. Nearly all the saleswomen, by their daily contact with the rich customers, assumed certain graces, and finished by forming a vague nameless class, something between a work-girl and a middle-class lady. But beneath their art in dress, and the manners and phrases learnt by heart, there was often only a false superficial education, the fruits of attending cheap theatres and music-halls, and picking up all the current stupidities of the Paris pavement.
“You know the ‘unkempt girl’ has got a child?” said Clara one morning, on arriving in the department. And, as they seemed astonished, she continued: “I saw her yesterday myself taking the child out for a walk! She’s got it stowed away in the neighbourhood, somewhere.”
Two days after, Margueritte came up after dinner with another piece of news. “A nice thing, I’ve just seen the ‘unkempt girl’s’ lover – a workman, just fancy! Yes, a dirty little workman, with yellow hair, who was watching her through the windows.”
From that moment it was an accepted truth: Denise had a workman for a lover, and an infant concealed somewhere in the neighbourhood. They overwhelmed her with spiteful allusions. The first time she understood she turned quite pale before the monstrosity of their suppositions. It was abominable; she tried to explain, and stammered out: “But they are my brothers!”
“Oh! oh! her brothers!” said Clara in a bantering tone.
Madame Aurélie was obliged to interfere. “Be quiet! young ladies. You had better go on changing those tickets. Mademoiselle Baudu is quite free to misbehave herself out of doors, if only she worked a bit when here.”
This curt defence was a condemnation. The young girl, feeling choked as if they had accused her of a crime, vainly endeavoured to explain the facts. They laughed and shrugged their shoulders, and she felt wounded to the heart On hearing the rumour, Deloche was so indignant that he wanted to slap the faces of the young ladies in Denise’s department; and was only restrained by the fear of compromising her. Since the evening at Joinville, he entertained a submissive love, an almost religious friendship for her, which he proved by his faithful doglike looks. He was careful not to show his affection before the others, for they would have laughed at them; but that did not prevent his dreaming of the avenging blow, if ever any one should attack her before him.
Denise finished by not answering the insults. It was too odious, nobody would believe it. When any girl ventured a fresh allusion, she contented herself with looking at her with a sad, calm air. Besides, she had other troubles, material anxieties which took up her attention. Jean went on as bad as ever, always worrying her for money. Hardly a week passed that she did not receive some fresh story from him, four pages long; and when the house postman brought her these letters, in a big, passionate handwriting, she hastened to hide them in her pocket, for the saleswomen affected to laugh, and sung snatches of some doubtful ditties. Then after having invented a pretext to go to the other end of the establishment and read the letters, she was seized with fear; poor Jean seemed to be lost. All his fibs went down with her, she believed all his extraordinary love adventures, her complete ignorance of such things making her exaggerate the danger. Sometimes it was a two-franc piece to enable him to escape the jealousy of some woman; at other times five francs, six francs, to get some poor girl out of a scrape, whose father would otherwise kill her. So that as her salary and commission did not suffice, she had conceived the idea of looking for a little work after business hours. She spoke about it to Robineau, who had shown a certain sympathy for her since their meeting at Vinçard’s, and he had procured her the making of some neckties at five sous a dozen. At night, between nine and one o’clock, she could do six dozen, which made thirty sous, out of which she had to deduct four sous for a candle. But as this sum kept Jean going she did not complain of the want of sleep, and would have thought herself very happy had not another catastrophe once more overthrown her budget calculations. At the end of the second fortnight, when she went to the necktie-dealer, she found the door closed; the woman had failed, become bankrupt, thus carrying off her eighteen francs six sous, a considerable sum on which she had been counting for the last week. All the annoyances in the department disappeared before this disaster.
“You look dull,” said Pauline, meeting her in the furniture gallery, looking very pale. “Are you in want of anything?”
But as Denise already owed her friend twelve francs, she tried to smile and replied: “No, thanks. I’ve not slept well, that’s all.”
It was the twentieth of July, when the panic caused by the dismissals was at its worst. Out of the four hundred employees, Bourdoncle had already sacked fifty, and there were rumours of fresh executions. She thought but little of the menaces which were flying about, entirely taken up by the anguish of one of Jean’s adventures, still more terrifying than the others. This very day he wanted fifteen francs, which sum alone could save him from the vengeance of an outraged husband. The previous evening she had received the first letter opening the drama; then, one after the other, came two more; in the last, which she was finishing when Pauline met her, Jean announced his death for that evening, if she did not send the money. She was in agony. Impossible to take it out of Pépé’s board, paid two days before. Every sort of bad luck was pursuing her, for she had hoped to get her eighteen francs six sous through Robineau, who could perhaps find the necktie-dealer; but Robineau having got a fortnight’s holiday, had not returned the previous night as he was expected to do.
However, Pauline still questioned her in a friendly way; when they met, in an out-of-the-way department, they conversed for a few minutes, keeping a sharp look-out the while. Suddenly, Pauline made a move as if to run off, having observed the white tie of an inspector who was coming out of the shawl department.
“Ah! it’s only old Jouve!” murmured she in a relieved tone. “I can’t think what makes the old man grin as he does when he sees us together. In your place I should beware, for he’s too kind to you. He’s an old humbug, as spiteful as a cat, and thinks he’s still got his troopers to talk to.”
It was quite true; Jouve was detested by all the salespeople for the severity of his treatment More than half the dismissals were the result of his reports; and with his big red nose of a rakish ex-captain, he only exercised his leniency in the departments served by women.
“Why should I be afraid?” asked Denise.
“Well!” replied Pauline, laughing, “perhaps he may exact some return. Several of the young ladies try to keep well with him.”
Jouve had gone away, pretending not to see them; and they heard him dropping on to a salesman in the lace department, guilty of watching a fallen horse in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin.
“By the way,” resumed Pauline, “weren’t you looking for Monsieur Robineau yesterday? He’s come back.”
Denise thought she was saved. “Thanks, I’ll go round the other way then, and pass through the silk department. So much the worse! They sent me upstairs to the work-room to fetch a bodkin.”
And they separated. The young girl, with a busy look, as if she were running from pay-desk to pay-desk in search of something, arrived on the stairs and went down into the hall. It was a quarter to ten, the first lunch-bell had rung. A warm sun was playing on the windows, and notwithstanding the grey linen blinds, the heat penetrated into the stagnant air. Now and then a refreshing breath arose from the floor, which the messengers were gently watering. It was a somnolence, a summer siesta, in the midst of the empty space around the counters, like the interior of a church wrapt in sleeping shadow after the last mass. Some listless salesmen were standing about, a few rare customers were crossing the galleries and the hall, with the fatigued step of women annoyed by the sun.
Just as Denise went down, Favier was measuring a dress length of light silk, with pink spots, for Madame Boutarel, arrived in Paris the previous day from the South. Since the commencement of the month, the provinces had been sending up their detachments; one saw nothing but queerly-dressed ladies with yellow shawls, green skirts, and flaring bonnets. The shopmen, indifferent, were too indolent to laugh at them even. Favier accompanied Madame Boutarel to the mercery department, and on returning, said to Hutin:
“Yesterday they were all Auvergnat women, to-day they’re all Provençales. I’m sick of them.”
But Hutin rushed forward, it was his turn, and he had recognised “the pretty lady,” the lovely blonde whom the department thus designated, knowing nothing about her, not even her name. They all smiled at her, not a week passed without her coming to The Ladies’ Paradise, always alone. This time she had a little boy of four or five with her, and this gave rise to some comment.
“She’s married, then?” asked Favier, when Hutin returned from the pay-desk, where he had debited her with thirty yards of Duchess satin.
“Possibly,” replied he, “although the youngster proves nothing. Perhaps he belongs to a lady friend. What’s certain is, that she must have been weeping. She’s so melancholy, and her eyes are so red!”
À silence ensued. The two salesmen gazed vaguely into the depths of the shop. Then Favier resumed in a low voice; “If she’s married, perhaps her husband’s given her a drubbing.”
“Possibly,” repeated Hutin, “unless it be a lover who has left her.” And after a fresh silence, he added: “Any way, I don’t care a hang!”
At this moment Denise crossed the silk department, slackening her pace and looking around her, trying to find Robineau. She could not see him, so she went into the linen department, then passed through again. The two salesmen had noticed her movements.
“There’s that bag of bones again,” murmured Hutin.
“She’s looking for Robineau,” said Favier. “I can’t think what they’re up to together. Oh! nothing smutty; Robineau’s too big a fool. They say he has procured her a little work, some neckties. What a spec, eh?”
Hutin was meditating something spiteful. When Denise passed near he, he stopped her, saying: “Is it me you’re looking for?”
She turned very red. Since the Joinville excursion, she dared not read her heart, full of confused sensations. She was constantly recalling his appearance with that red-haired girl, and if she still trembled before him, it was doubtless from uneasiness. Had she ever loved him? Did she love him still? She hardly liked to stir up these things, which were painful to her.
“No, sir,” she replied, embarrassed.
Hutin then began to laugh at her uneasy manner. “Would you like us to serve him to you? Favier, just serve this young lady with Robineau.”
She looked at him fixedly, with the sad calm look with which she had received the wounding remarks the young ladies had made about her. Ah! he was spiteful, he attacked her as well as the others! And she felt a sort of supreme anguish, the breaking of a last tie. Her face expressed such real suffering, that Favier, though not of a very tender nature, came to her assistance.
“Monsieur Robineau is in the stock-room,” said he. “No doubt he will be back for lunch. You’ll find him here this afternoon, if you want to speak to him.”
Denise thanked him, and went up to her department, where Madamé Aurélie was waiting for her in a terrible rage. What! she had been gone half an hour! Where had she just sprung from? Not from the work-room, that was quite certain! The poor girl hung down her head, thinking of this avalanche of misfortunes. All would be over if Robineau did not come in. However, she resolved to go down again.
In the silk department, Robineau’s return had provoked quite a revolution. The salesmen had hoped that, disgusted with the annoyances they were incessantly causing him, he would not return; and, in fact, there was a moment, when pressed by Vinçard to take over his business, he had almost decided to do so. Hutin’s secret working, the mine he had been laying under the second-hand’s feet for months past, was about to be sprung. During Robineau’s holidays, Hutin, who had taken his place as second-hand, had done his best to injure him in the minds of the principals, and get possession of his situation by an excess of zeal; he discovered and reported all sorts of trifling irregularities, suggested improvements, and invented new designs. In fact, every one in the department, from the unpaid probationer, longing to become a salesman, up to the first salesman who coveted the situation of manager, they all had one fixed idea, and that was to dislodge the comrade above them, to ascend another rung of the ladder, swallowing him up if necessary; and this struggle of appetites, this pushing the one against the other, even contributed to the better working of the machine, provoking business and increasing tenfold the success which was astonishing Paris. Behind Hutin, there was Favier; then behind Favier came the others, in a long line. One heard a loud noise as of jaw-bones working. Robineau was condemned, each one was grabbing after his bone. So that when the second-hand reappeared there was a general grumbling. The matter had to be settled, the salesmen’s attitude appeared so menacing, that the head of the department had sent Robineau to the stock-room, in order to give the authorities time to come to a decision.
“We would sooner all leave, if they keep him,” declared Hutin.
