Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
But a sound of footsteps at the end of the corridor frightened them. She quickly drew him close to the grating, in a dark corner. For an instant they heard nothing but the hissing of a gas-burner near them. Then the footsteps drew nearer; and, on stretching out her neck, she recognised Jouve, the inspector, who had just entered the corridor, with his stiff military walk. Was he there by chance, or had some one at the door warned him of Jean’s presence? She was seized with such a fright that she knew not what to do; and she pushed Jean out of the dark spot where they were concealed, and drove him before her, stammering out: “Be off! Be off!”
Both galloped along, hearing Jouve behind them, for he also had began to run. They crossed the parcels office again, and arrived at the foot of the stairs leading out into the Rue de la Michodière.
“Be off!” repeated Denise, “be off! If I can, I’ll send you the fifteen francs all the same.”
Jean, bewildered, scampered away. The inspector, who came up panting, out of breath, could only distinguish a corner of his white blouse, and his locks of fair hair flying in the wind. He stood a moment to get his breath, and resume his correct appearance. He had on a brand-new white necktie, the large bow of which shone like a snow-flake.
“Well! this is nice behaviour, mademoiselle!” said he, his lips trembling. “Yes, it’s nice, very nice! If you think I’m going to stand this sort of thing in the basement, you’re mistaken.”
And he pursued her with this whilst she was returning to the shop, overcome with emotion, unable to find a word of defence. She was sorry now she had run away. Why hadn’t she explained the matter, and brought her brother forward? They would now go and imagine all sorts of villanies, and say what she might, they would not believe her. Once more she forgot Robineau, and went straight to her counter. Jouve immediately went to the manager’s office to report the matter. But the messenger told him Monsieur Mouret was with Monsieur Bourdoncle and Monsieur Robineau; they had been talking together for the last quarter of an hour. In fact, the door was halfopen, and he could hear Mouret gaily asking Robineau if he had had a pleasant holiday; there was not the least question of a dismissal – on the contrary, the conversation fell on certain things to be done in the department.
“Do you want anything, Monsieur Jouve?” exclaimed Mouret “Come in.”
But a sudden instinct warned the inspector. As Bourdoncle had come out, he preferred to relate the affair to him. They slowly passed through the shawl department, walking side by side, the one leaning over and talking in a low tone, the other listening, not a sign on his severe face betraying his impressions. “All right,” said the latter at last.
And as they had arrived close to the dress department, he went in. Just at that moment Madame Aurélie was scolding Denise. Where had she come from, again? This time she couldn’t say she had been to the work-room. Really, these continual absences could not be tolerated any longer.
“Madame Aurélie!” cried Bourdoncle.
He had decided on a bold stroke, not wishing to consult Mouret, for fear of some weakness. The first-hand came up, and the story was once more related in a low voice. They were all waiting in the expectation of some catastrophe. At last, Madame Aurélie turned round with a solemn air.
“Mademoiselle Baudu!” And her puffy emperor’s mask assumed the immobility of the all-powerful: “Go and be paid!” The terrible phrase sounded very loud in the empty department. Denise stood there pale as a ghost, without saying a word. At last she was able to ask in broken sentences:
“Me! me! What for? What have I done?”
Bourdoncle replied, harshly, that she knew very well, that she had better not provoke any explanation; and he spoke of the cravats, and said that it would be a fine thing if all the young ladies received men down in the basement.
“But it was my brother!” cried she with the grievous anger of an outraged virgin.
Marguerite and Clara commenced to laugh. Madame Frédéric, usually so discreet, shook her head with an incredulous air. Always her brother! Really it was very stupid! Denise looked round at all of them: Bourdoncle, who had taken a dislike to her the first day; Jouve, who had stopped to serve as a witness, and from whom she expected no justice; then these girls whom she had not been able to soften by nine months of smiling courage, who were happy, in fact, to turn her out of doors. What was the good of struggling? what was the use of trying to impose herself on them when no one liked her? And she went away without a word, not even casting a last look towards this room where she had so long struggled. But as soon as she was alone, before the hall staircase, a deeper sense of suffering filled her grieved heart. No one liked her, and the sudden thought of Mouret had just deprived her of all idea of resignation. No! no! she could not accept such a dismissal. Perhaps he would believe this villanous story, this rendezvous with a man down in the cellars. At the thought, a feeling of shame tortured her, an anguish with which she had never before been afflicted. She wanted to go and see him, to explain the matter to him, simply to let him know the truth; for she was quite ready to go away as soon as he knew this. And her old fear, the shiver which chilled her when in his presence, suddenly developed into an ardent desire to see him, not to leave the house without telling him she had never belonged to another.
It was nearly five o’clock, and the shop was waking up into life again in the cool evening air. She quickly started off for Mouret’s office. But when she arrived at the door, a hopeless melancholy feeling again took possession of her. Her tongue refused its office, the intolerable burden of existence again fell on her shoulders. He would not believe her, he would laugh like the others, she thought; and this idea made her almost faint away. All was over, she would be better alone, out of the way, dead! And, without informing Pauline or Deloche, she went at once and took her money.
“You have, mademoiselle,” said the clerk, “twenty-two days; that makes eighteen francs and fourteen sous; to which must be added seven francs for commission. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Thanks.”
And Denise was going away with her money, when she at last met Robineau. He had already heard of her dismissal, and promised to find the necktie-dealer. In a lower tone he tried to console her, but lost his temper: what an existence, to be at the continual mercy of a whim! to be thrown out at an hour’s notice, without even being able to claim a full month’s salary. Denise went up to inform Madame Cabin, saying that she would try and send for her box during the evening. It was just striking five when she found herself on the pavement of the Place Gaillon, bewildered, in the midst of the crowd of people and cabs.
The same evening when Robineau got home he received a letter from the management informing him, in a few lines, that for certain reasons relating to the internal arrangements they were obliged to deprive themselves of his services. He had been in the house seven years, and it was only that afternoon that he was talking to the principals; this was a heavy blow for him. Hutin and Favier were crowing in the silk department, as loudly as Clara and Marguerite in the dress one. A jolly good riddance! Such clean sweeps make room for the others! Deloche and Pauline were the only ones to regret Denise’s departure, exchanging, in the rush of business, bitter words of regret at losing her, so kind, so well behaved.
“Ah,” said the young man, “if ever she succeeds anywhere else, I should like to see her come back here, and trample on the others; a lot of good-for-nothing creatures!”
It was Bourdoncle who in this affair had to bear the brunt of Mouret’s anger. When the latter heard of Denise’s dismissal, he was exceedingly annoyed. As a rule he never interfered with the staff; but this time he affected to see an encroachment on his power, an attempt to over-ride his authority. Was he no longer master in the place, that they dared to give orders? Everything must pass through his hands, absolutely everything; and he would immediately crush any one who should resist Then, after making personal inquiries, all the while in a nervous torment which he could not conceal, he lost his temper again. This poor girl was not lying; it was really her brother. Campion had fully recognised him. Why was she sent away, then? He even spoke of taking her back.
However, Bourdoncle, strong in his passive resistance, bent before the storm. He watched Mouret, and one day when he saw him a little calmer, ventured to say in a meaning voice: “It’s better for everybody that she’s gone.”
Mouret stood there looking very awkward, the blood rushing to his face. “Well!” replied he, laughing, “perhaps you’re right. Let’s go and take a turn down stairs. Things are looking better, we took nearly a hundred thousand francs yesterday.”
CHAPTER VII
For a moment Denise stood bewildered on the pavement, in the sun which still shone fiercely at five o’clock. The July heat warmed the gutters, Paris was blazing with the chalky whiteness peculiar to it in summer-time, and which produced quite a blinding glare. The catastrophe had happened so suddenly, they had turned her out so roughly, that she stood there, turning her money over in her pocket in a mechanical way, asking herself where she was to go, and what she was to do.
A long line of cabs prevented her quitting the pavement near The Ladies’ Paradise. When she at last risked herself amongst the wheels she crossed over the Place Gaillon, as if she intended to go into the Rue Louis-le-Grand; then she altered her mind, and walked towards the Rue Saint-Roch. But still she had no plan, for she stopped at the corner of the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, and finally followed it, after looking around her with an undecided air. Arrived at the Passage Choiseul, she passed through, and found herself in the Rue Monsigny, without knowing how, and ultimately came into the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin again. Her head was filled with a fearful buzzing sensation, she thought of her box on seeing a commissionaire; but where was she to have it taken to, and why all this trouble, when an hour ago she had a bed to go to?
Then her eyes fixed on the houses, she began to examine the windows. There were any number of bills, “Apartments to Let.” She saw them confusedly, repeatedly seized by the inward emotion which was agitating her whole being. Was it possible? Left alone so suddenly, lost in this immense city in which she was a stranger, without support, without resources. She must eat and sleep, however. The streets succeeded one another, the Rue des Moulins, the Rue Sainte-Anne. She wandered about the neighbourhood, frequently retracing her steps, always brought back to the only spot she knew really well. Suddenly she was astonished, she was again standing before The Ladies’ Paradise; and to escape this obsession she plunged into the Rue de la Michodière. Fortunately Baudu was not at his door. The Old Elbeuf appeared to be dead, behind its murky windows. She would never have dared to show herself at her uncle’s, for he affected not to recognise her any more, and she did not wish to become a burden to him, in the misfortune he had predicted for her. But, on the other side of the street, a yellow bill attracted her attention. “Furnished room to let.” It was the first that did not frighten her, so poor did the house appear. She soon recognised it, with its two low storeys, and rusty-coloured front, crushed between The Ladies’ Paradise and the old Hôtel Duvillard. On the threshold of the umbrella shop, old Bourras, hairy and bearded like a prophet, and with his glasses on his nose, stood studying the ivory handle of a walking-stick. Hiring the whole house, he under-let the two upper floors furnished, to lighten the rent.
“You have a room, sir?” asked Denise, obeying an instinctive impulse.
He raised his great bushy eyes, surprised to see her, for he knew all the young persons at The Ladies’ Paradise. And, after observing her clean dress and respectable appearance, he replied: “It won’t suit you.”
“How much is it, then?” replied Denise.
“Fifteen francs a month.”
She asked to see it. On arriving in the narrow shop, and seeing that he was still eyeing her with an astonished air, she told him of her departure from the shop and of her wish not to trouble her uncle. The old man then went and fetched a key hanging on a board in the back-shop, a small dark room, where he did his cooking and had his bed; beyond that, behind a dirty window, could be seen a back-yard about six feet square.
“I’ll walk in front to prevent you falling,” said Bourras, entering the damp corridor which ran along the shop.
He stumbled against the lower stair, and commenced the ascent, reiterating his warnings to be careful. Look out! the rail was close against the wall, there was a hole at the corner, sometimes the lodgers left their dust-boxes there. Denise, in complete obscurity, could distinguish nothing, only feeling the chilliness of the old damp plaster. On the first floor, however, a small window looking into the yard enabled her to see vaguely, as at the bottom of a piece of sleeping water, the rotten staircase, the walls black with dirt, the cracked and discoloured doors.
“If only only these rooms were vacant,” resumed
Bourras. “You would be very comfortable there. But they are always occupied by ladies.”
On the second floor the light increased, showing up with a raw paleness the distress of the house. A journeyman-baker occupied the first room, and it was the other, the further one, that was vacant. When Bourras had opened the door he was obliged to stay on the landing in order that Denise might enter with ease. The bed placed in the corner nearest the door, left just room enough for one person to pass. At the other end there was a small walnut-wood chest of drawers, a deal table stained black, and two chairs. The lodgers who did any cooking were obliged to kneel before the fire-place, where there was an earthenware stove.
“You know,” said the old man, “it is not luxurious, but the view from the window is gay. You can see the people passing in the street.” And, as Denise was looking with surprise at the ceiling just above the bed, where a chance lady-lodger had written her name – Ernestine – by drawing the flame of the candle over it, he added with a good-natured smile; “If I did a lot of repairs, I should never make both ends meet. There you are; it’s all I have to offer.”
“I shall be very well here,” declared the young girl.
She paid a month in advance, asked for the linen – a pair of sheets and two towels, and made her bed without delay, happy, relieved to know where she was going to sleep that night. An hour after she had sent a commissionaire to fetch her box, and was quite at home.
During the first two months she had a terribly hard time of it. Being unable to pay for Pépé’s board, she had taken him away, and slept him on an old sofa lent by Bourras. She could not do with less than thirty sous a day, including the rent, even by consenting to live on dry bread herself, in order to procure a bit of meat for the little one. During the first fortnight she got on pretty well, having begun her housekeeping with about ten francs; besides she had been fortunate enough to find the cravat-dealer, who paid her her eighteen francs six sous. But after that she became completely destitute. It was in vain she applied to the various shops, at La Place Clichy, the Bon Marché, the Louvre: the dead season had stopped business everywhere, they told her to apply again in the autumn, more than five thousand employees, dismissed like her, were wandering about Paris in want of places. She then tried to obtain a little work elsewhere; but in her ignorance of Paris she did not know where to apply, often accepting most ungrateful tasks, and sometimes even not getting her money. Certain evenings she gave Pépé his dinner alone, a plate of soup, telling him she had dined out; and she would go to bed, her head in a whirl, nourished by the fever which was burning her hands. When Jean dropped suddenly into the midst of this poverty, he called himself a scoundrel with such a despairing violence that she was obliged to tell some falsehood to reassure him; and often found means of slipping a two-franc piece into his hand, to prove that she still had money. She never wept before the children. On Sundays, when she would cook a piece of veal in the stove, on her knees before the fire, the narrow room re-echoed with the gaiety of children, careless about existence. Then, when Jean had returned to his master’s and Pépé was sleeping, she spent a frightful night, in anguish about the coming day.
Other fears kept her awake. The two ladies on the first floor received visitors up to a late hour; and sometimes a visitor mistook the floor and came banging at Denise’s door. Bourras having quietly told her not to answer, she buried her face under her pillow to escape hearing their oaths. Then, her neighbour, the baker, had shown a disposition to annoy her: he never came home till the morning, and would lay in wait for her, as she went to fetch her water; he even made holes in the wall, to watch her washing herself, so that she was obliged to hang her clothes against the wall. But she suffered still more from the annoyances of the street, the continual persecution of the passers-by. She could not go downstairs to buy a candle, in these streets swarming with the debauchees of the old quarters, without feeling a warm breath behind her, and hearing crude, insulting remarks; and the men pursued her to the very end of the dark passage, encouraged by the sordid appearance of the house. Why had she no lover? It astonished people, and seemed ridiculous. She would certainly have to yield one day. She herself could not have explained why she resisted, menaced as she was by hunger, and perturbed by the desires with which the air around her was warm.
One evening Denise had not even any bread for Pépé’s soup, when a gentleman, wearing a decoration, commenced to follow her. On arriving opposite the passage he became brutal, and it was with a disgusted, shocked feeling that she banged the door in his face. Then, upstairs, she sat down, her hands trembling. The little one was sleeping. What should she say if he woke up and asked for bread? And yet she had only to consent and her misery would be over, she could have money, dresses, and a fine room. It was very simple, every one came to that, it was said; for a woman alone in Paris could not live by her labour. But her whole being rose up in protestation, without indignation against the others, simply averse to the disgrace of the thing. She considered life a matter of logic, good conduct, and courage.
Denise frequently questioned herself in this way. An old love story floated in her memory, the sailor’s betrothed whom her love guarded from all perils. At Valognes she had often hummed over this sentimental ballad, gazing on the deserted street. Had she also a tender affection in her heart that she was so brave? She still thought of Hutin, full of uneasiness. Morning and evening she saw him pass under her window. Now that he was second-hand he walked by himself, amid the respect of the simple salesmen. He never raised his head, she thought she suffered from his vanity, and watched him pass without any fear of being discovered. And as soon as she saw Mouret, who also passed every day, she began to tremble, and, quickly concealed herself, her bosom heaving. He had no need to know where she was lodging. Then she felt ashamed of the house, and suffered at the idea of what he thought of her, although perhaps they would never meet again.
Denise still lived amidst the agitation caused by The Ladies’ Paradise. A simple wall separated her room from her old department; and, from early morning, she went over her day’s work, feeling the arrival of the crowd, the increased bustle of business. The slightest noise shook the old house hanging on the flank of the colossus; she felt the gigantic pulse beating. Besides, she could not avoid certain meetings. Twice she had found herself face to face with Pauline, who had offered her services, grieved to see her so unfortunate; and she had even been obliged to tell a falsehood to avoid receiving her friend or paying her a visit, one Sunday, at Baugé’s. But it was more difficult still to defend herself against Deloche’s desperate affection; he watched her, aware of all her troubles, waited for her in the doorways. One day he wanted to lend her thirty francs, a brother’s savings, he said, with a blush. And these meetings made her regret the shop, continually occupying her with the life they led inside, as if she had not quitted it.
No one ever called upon Denise. One afternoon she was surprised by a knock. It was Colomban. She received him standing. He, looking very awkward, stammered at first, asked how she was getting on, and spoke of The Old Elbeuf.
Perhaps it was Uncle Baudu who had sent him, regretting his rigour; for he continued to pass his niece without taking any notice of her, although quite aware of her miserable position. But when she plainly questioned her visitor, he appeared more embarrassed than ever. No, no, it was not the governor who had sent him; and he finished by naming Clara – he simply wanted to talk about Clara. Little by little he became bolder, and asked Denise’s advice, supposing that she could be useful to him with her old friend. It was in vain that she tried to dishearten him, by reproaching him with the pain he was causing Geneviève, all for this heartless girl. He came up another day, and got into the habit of coming to see her. This sufficed for his timid passion; he continually commenced the same conversation, unable to resist, trembling with joy to be with a girl who had approached Clara. And this caused Denise to live more than ever at The Ladies’ Paradise.
It was towards the end of September that the young girl experienced the blackest misery. Pépé had fallen ill, having caught a severe cold. He ought to have been nourished with good broth, and she had not even a piece of bread. One evening, completely conquered, she was sobbing, in one of those sombre straits which drive women on to the streets, or into the Seine, when old Bourras gently knocked at the door. He brought a loaf, and a milk-can full of broth.
“There! there’s something for the youngster,” said he in his abrupt way. “Don’t cry like that; it annoys my lodgers.” And as she thanked him in a fresh outburst of tears, he resumed: “Do keep quiet! To-morrow come and see me. I’ve some work for you.”
Bourras, since the terrible blow dealt him by The Ladies’ Paradise by their opening an umbrella department, had ceased to employ any workwomen. He did everything himself to save expenses – the cleaning, mending, and sewing. His trade was also diminishing, so that he was sometimes without work. And he was obliged to invent something to do the next day, when he installed Denise in a corner of his shop. He felt that he could not let any one die of hunger in his house.
“You’ll have two francs a day,” said he. “When you find something better, you can leave me.”
She was afraid of him, and did the work so quickly that he hardly knew what else to give her to do. He had given her some silk to stitch, some lace to repair. During the first few days she did not dare raise her head, uncomfortable to know he was close to her, with his lion-like mane, hooked nose, and piercing eyes, under his thick bushy eyebrows. His voice was harsh, his gestures extravagant, and the mothers of the neighbourhood often frightened their youngsters by threatening to send for him, as they would for a policeman. However, the boys never passed his door without calling out some insulting words, which he did not even seem to hear. All his maniacal anger was directed against the scoundrels who dishonoured his trade by selling cheap trashy articles, which dogs would not consent to use.
Denise trembled whenever he burst out thus: “Art is done for, I tell you! There’s not a single respectable handle made now. They make sticks, but as for handles, it’s all up! Bring me a proper handle, and I’ll give you twenty francs!”
He had a real artist’s pride; not a workman in Paris was capable of turning out a handle like his, light and strong. He carved the knobs especially with charming ingenuity, continually inventing fresh designs, flowers, fruit, animals, and heads, subjects conceived and executed in a free and life-like style. A little pocket-knife sufficed, and he spent whole days, spectacles on nose, chipping bits of boxwood and ebony.
“A pack of ignorant beggars,” said he, “who are satisfied with sticking a certain quantity of silk on so much whalebone! They buy their handles by the gross, handles readymade. And they sell just what they like! I tell you, art is done for!”
Denise began to take courage. He had insisted on having Pépé down in the shop to play, for he was wonderfully fond of children. When the little one was crawling about on all-fours, neither of them had room to move, she in her corner doing the mending, he near the window, carving with his little pocket-knife. Every day now brought on the same work and the same conversation. Whilst working, he continually pitched into The Ladies’ Paradise; never tired of explaining how affairs stood. He had occupied his house since 1845, and had a thirty years’ lease, at a rent of eighteen hundred francs a year; and, as he made a thousand francs out of his four furnished rooms, he only paid eight hundred for the shop. It was a mere trifle, he had no expenses, and could thus hold out for a long time still. To hear him, there was no doubt about his triumph; he would certainly swallow up the monster. Suddenly he would interrupt himself.
“Have they got any dog’s heads like that?”
And he would blink his eyes behind his glasses, to judge the dog’s head he was carving, with its lip turned up and fangs out, in a life-like growl. Pépé, delighted with the dog, would get up, placing his two little arms on the old man’s knee.
“As long as I make both ends meet I don’t care a hang about the rest,” the latter would resume, delicately shaping the dog’s tongue with the point of his knife. “The scoundrels have taken away my profits; but if I’m making nothing I’m not losing anything yet, or at least but very little. And, you see, I’m ready to sacrifice everything rather than yield.”
He would brandish his knife, and his white hair would blow about in a storm of anger.
“But,” Denise would mildly observe, without raising her eyes from her needle, “if they made you a reasonable offer, it would be wiser to accept.”
Then his ferocious obstinacy would burst forth. “Never! If my head were under the knife I would say no, by heavens! I’ve another ten years’ lease, and they shall not have the house before then, even if I should have to die of hunger within the four bare walls. Twice already have they tried to get over me. They offered me twelve thousand francs for my good-will, and eighteen thousand francs for the last ten years of my lease; in all thirty thousand. Not for fifty thousand even! I have them in my power, and intend to see them licking the dust before me!”
“Thirty thousand francs! it’s a good sum,” Denise would resume. “You could go and establish yourself elsewhere. And suppose they were to buy the house?”
Bourras, putting the finishing touches to his dog’s tongue, would appear absorbed for a moment, an infantine laugh pervading his venerable prophet’s face. Then he would, continue: “The house, no fear! They spoke of buying it last year, and offered eighty thousand francs, twice as much as it’s worth. But the landlord, a retired fruiterer, as big a scoundrel as they, wanted to make them shell out more. But not only that, they are suspicious about me; they know I’m not so likely to give way. No! no! here I am, and here I intend to stay. The emperor with all his cannon could not turn me out.” Denise never dared say any more, she would go on with her work, whilst the old man continued to break out in short sentences, between two cuts with his knife, muttering something to the effect that the game had hardly commenced, later on they would see wonderful things, he had certain plans which would sweep away their umbrella counter; and, in his obstinacy, there appeared a personal revolt of the small manufacturer against the threatening invasion of the great shops. Pépé, however, would at last climb on his knees, and impatiently stretch out his hand towards the dog’s head.
“Give it me, sir.”
“Presently, my child,” the old man would reply in a voice that suddenly became tender. “He hasn’t any eyes; we must make his eyes now.” And whilst carving the eye he would continue talking to Denise. “Do you hear them? Isn’t there a roar next door? That’s what exasperates me more than anything, my word of honour! to have them always on my back with their infernal locomotive-like noise.”
It made his little table tremble, he asserted. The whole shop was shaken, and he would spend the entire afternoon without a customer, in the trepidation of the crowd which overflowed The Ladies’ Paradise. It was from morning to night a subject for eternal grumbling. Another good day’s work, they were knocking against the wall, the silk department must have cleared ten thousand francs; or else he made merry over a showery day which had killed the receipts. And the slightest rumours, the most unimportant noises, furnished him with subjects of endless comment.
“Ah! some one has slipped down! Ah, if they could only all fall and break their backs! That, my dear, is a dispute between some ladies. So much the better! So much the better! Do you hear the parcels falling on to the lower floor? It’s disgusting!”
