Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
It did not do for Denise to discuss his explanations, for he retorted bitterly by reminding her of the shameful way they had dismissed her. She was obliged to relate for the hundredth time her life in the dress department, the hardships she had endured at first, the small unhealthy bedrooms, the bad food, and the continual struggle between the salesmen; and they were thus talking about the shop from morning to night, absorbing it hourly in the very air they breathed.
“Give it me, sir,” Pépé would repeat, with eager outstretched hands.
The dog’s head finished, Bourras would hold it at a distance, then examine it closely with childish glee. “Take care, it will bite you! There, go and play, and don’t break it, if you can help it.” Then resuming his fixed idea, he would shake his fist at the wall. “You may do all you can to knock the house down. You sha’n’t have it, even if you invade the whole neighbourhood.”
Denise had now her daily bread assured her, and she was extremely grateful to the old umbrella-dealer, whose good heart she felt beneath his strange violent ways. She had a strong desire, however, to find some work elsewhere, for she often saw him inventing some trifle for her to do; she fully understood that he did not require a workwoman in the present slack state of his business, and that he was employing her out of pure charity. Six months had passed thus, and the dull winter season had again returned. She was despairing of finding a situation before March, when, one evening in January, Deloche, who was watching for her in a doorway, gave her a bit of advice. Why did she not go and see Robineau; perhaps he might want some one?
In September, Robineau had decided to buy Vinçard’s silk business, trembling all the time lest he should compromise his wife’s sixty thousand francs. He had paid forty thousand for the good-will and stock, and was starting with the remaining twenty thousand. It was not much, but he had Gaujean behind him to back him up with any amount of credit. Since his disagreement with The Ladies’ Paradise, the latter had been longing to stir up a system of competition against the colossus; and he thought victory certain, by creating special shops in the neighbourhood, where the public could find a large and varied choice of articles. The rich Lyons manufacturers, such as Dumonteil, were the only ones who could accept the big shops’ terms, satisfied to keep their looms going with them, looking for their profits by selling to less important houses. But Gaujean was far from having the solidity and staying power possessed by Dumonteil. For a long time a simple commission agent, it was only during the last five or six years that he had had looms of his own, and he still had a lot of work done by other makers, furnishing them with the raw material and paying them by the yard. It was precisely this system which, increasing his manufacturing expenses, had prevented him competing with Dumonteil for the supply of the Paris Paradise. This had filled him with rancour; he saw in Robineau the instrument of a decisive battle to be declared against these drapery bazaars which he accused of ruining the French manufacturers.
When Denise called she found Madame Robineau alone. Daughter of an overseer in the Department of Highways, entirely ignorant of business matters, she still retained the charming awkwardness of a girl educated in a Blois convent She was dark, very pretty, with a gentle, cheerful manner, which gave her a great charm. She adored her husband, living solely by his love. As Denise was about to leave her name Robineau came in, and engaged her at once, one of his two saleswomen having left the previous day to go to The Ladies’ Paradise.
“They don’t leave us a single good hand,” said he. “However, with you I shall feel quite easy, for you are like me, you can’t be very fond of them. Come to-morrow.”
In the evening Denise hardly knew how to announce her departure to Bourras. In fact, he called her an ungrateful girl, and lost his temper. Then when, with tears in her eyes, she tried to defend herself by intimating that she could see through his charitable conduct, he softened down, said that he had plenty of work, that she was leaving him just as he was about to bring out an umbrella of his invention.
“And Pépé?” asked he.
This was Denise’s great trouble; she dared not take him back to Madame Gras, and could not leave him alone in the bedroom, shut up from morning to night.
“Very good, Til keep him,” said the old man; “he’ll be all right in my shop. We’ll do the cooking together.” Then, as she refused, fearing it might inconvenience him, he thundered out: “Great heavens! have you no confidence in me? I sha’n’t eat your child!”
Denise was much happier at Robineau’s. He only paid her sixty francs a month, with her food, without giving her any commission on the sales, just the same as in the old-fashioned houses. But she was treated with great kindness, especially by Madame Robineau, always smiling at her counter. He, nervous, worried, was sometimes rather abrupt. At the expiration of the first month, Denise was quite one of the family, like the other saleswoman, a silent, consumptive, little body. The Robineaus were not at all particular before them, talking of the business at table in the back shop, which looked on to a large yard. And it was there they decided one evening on starting the campaign against The Ladies’ Paradise. Gaujean had come to dinner. After the usual roast leg of mutton, he had broached the subject in his Lyons voice, thickened by the Rhône fogs.
“It’s getting unbearable,” said he. “They go to Dumonteil, purchase the sole right in a design, and take three hundred pieces straight off, insisting on a reduction of ten sous a yard; and, as they pay ready money, they enjoy moreover the profit of eighteen per cent discount. Very often Dumonteil barely makes four sous a yard out of it He works to keep his looms going, for a loom that stands still is a dead loss. Under these circumstances how can you expect that we, with our limited plant, and especially with our makers, can keep up the struggle?”
Robineau, pensive, forgot his dinner. “Three hundred pieces!” he murmured. “I tremble when I take a dozen, and at ninety days. They can mark up a franc or two francs cheaper than us. I have calculated there is a reduction of at least fifteen per cent, on their catalogued articles, when compared with our prices. That’s what kills the small houses.”
He was in a period of discouragement. His wife, full of anxiety, was looking at him with a tender air. She understood very little about the business, all these figures confused her; she could not understand why people took such trouble, when it was so easy to be gay and love one another. However, it sufficed that her husband wished to conquer, and she became as impassioned as he himself, and would have stood to her counter till death.
“But why don’t all the manufacturers come to an understanding together?” resumed Robineau, violently. “They could then lay down the law, instead of submitting to it.”
Gaujean, who had asked for another slice of mutton, was slowly masticating. “Ah! why, why? The looms must be kept going, I tell you. When one has weavers everywhere, in the neighbourhood of Lyons, in the Gard, in the Isère, they can’t stand still a day without an enormous loss. Then we who sometimes employ makers having ten or fifteen looms are better able to control the output, as far as regards the stock, whilst the big manufacturers are obliged to have continual outlets, the quickest and largest possible, so that they are on their knees before the big shops. I know three or four who out-bid each other, and who would sooner work at a loss than not obtain the orders. But they make up for it with the small houses like yours. Yes, if they exist through them, they make their profit out of you. Heaven knows how the crisis will end!”
“It’s odious!” exclaimed Robineau, relieved by this cry of anger.
Denise was quietly listening. She was secretly for the big shops, with her instinctive love of logic and life.
They had relapsed into silence, and were eating some potted French beans; at last she ventured to say in a cheerful tone, “The public does not complain.”
Madame Robineau could not suppress a little laugh, which annoyed her husband and Gaujean. No doubt the customer was satisfied, for, in the end, it was the customer who profited by the fall in prices. But everybody must live; where would they be if, under the pretext of the general welfare, the consumer was fattened at the expense of the producer? And then commenced a long discussion. Denise affected to be joking, all the while producing solid arguments. All the middle-men disappeared, the manufacturing agents, representatives, commission agents, and this greatly contributed to cheapen the articles; besides, the manufacturers could no longer live without the big shops, for as soon as one of them lost their custom, failure became a certainty; in short, it was a natural commercial evolution. It would be impossible to prevent things going on as they ought to, when everybody was working for that, whether they liked it or not.
“So you are for those who turned you out into the street?” asked Gaujean.
Denise became very red. She herself was surprised at the vivacity of her defence. What had she at heart, that such a flame should have invaded her bosom?
“Dear me, no!” replied she. “Perhaps I’m wrong, for you are more competent to judge than I. I simply express my opinion. The prices, instead of being settled as formerly by fifty houses, are now fixed by four or five, which have lowered them, thanks to the power of their capital, and the strength of their immense business. So much the better for the public, that’s all!”
Robineau was not angry, but had become grave, keeping his eyes fixed on the table-cloth. He had often felt this breath of the new style of business, this evolution of which the young girl spoke; and he would ask himself in his clear, quiet moments, why he should wish to resist such a powerful current, which must carry everything before it Madame Robineau herself, on seeing her husband deep in thought, glanced with approval at Denise, who had modestly resumed her silent attitude.
“Come,” resumed Gaujean, to cut short the argument, “all that is simply theory. Let’s talk of our matter.”
After the cheese, the servant brought in some jam and some pears. He took some jam, eating it with a spoon, with the unconscious greediness of a big man very fond of sugar.
“To begin with, you must attack their Paris Paradise, which has been their success of the year. I have come to an understanding with several of my brother manufacturers at Lyons, and have brought you an exceptional offer – a black silk, that you can sell at five and a half. They sell theirs at five francs twelve sous, don’t they? Well! this will be two sous less, and that will suffice to upset them.”
At this Robineau’s eyes lighted up again. In his continual nervous torment, he often skipped like this from despair to hope. “Have you got a sample?” asked he. And when Gaujean drew from his pocket-book a little square of silk, he went into raptures, exclaiming: “Why, this is a handsomer silk than the Paris Paradise! In any case it produces a better effect, the grain is coarser. You are right, we must make the attempt If I don’t bring them to my feet, I’ll give up this time!”
Madame Robineau, sharing this enthusiasm, declared the silk superb, and Denise herself thought they would succeed. The latter part of the dinner was thus very gay. They talk in a loud tone; it seemed that The Ladies’ Paradise was at its last gasp. Gaujean, who was finishing the pot of jam, explained what enormous sacrifices he and his colleagues would be obliged to make to deliver such an article at this low price; but they would ruin themselves rather than yield; they had sworn to kill the big shops. As the coffee came in the gaiety was greatly increased by the arrival of Vinçard, who had just called, in passing, to see how his successor was getting on.
“Famous!” cried he, feeling the silk. “You’ll floor them, I stake my life! Ah! you owe me a rare good thing; I told you this was a golden affair!”
He had just taken a restaurant at Vincennes. It was an old, cherished idea, slyly nourished while he was struggling in the silk business, trembling for fear he should not sell it before the crash came, and swearing to himself that he would put his money into an undertaking where he could rob at his ease. The idea of a restaurant had struck him at the wedding of a cousin, who had been made to pay ten francs for a bowl of dish water, in which floated some Italian paste. And, in presence of the Robineaus, the joy he felt in having saddled them with a badly-paying business of which he despaired of ever getting rid, enlarged still further his face with its round eyes and large loyal-looking mouth, a face beaming with health.
“And your pains?” asked Madame Robineau, good-naturedly.
“My pains?” murmured he, astonished.
“Yes, those rheumatic pains which tormented you so much when you were here.”
He then recollected, and blushed slightly. “Oh, I suffered,” and blushed slightly. “Oh I suffer from them still! However, the country air, you know, has done wonders for me. Never mind, you’ve done a good stroke of business. Had it not been for my rheumatics, I could soon have retired with ten thousand francs a year. My word of honour!”
A fortnight later, the struggle commenced between Robineau and The Ladies’ Paradise. It became celebrated, and occupied for a time the whole Parisian market. Robineau, using his adversary’s weapons, had advertised extensively in the newspapers. Besides that, he made a fine display, piling up enormous bales of the famous silk in his windows, with immense white tickets, displaying in giant figures the price, five francs and a half. It was this figure that caused a revolution among the women; two sous cheaper than at The Ladies’ Paradise, and the silk appeared stronger. From the first day a crowd of customers flocked in. Madame Marty bought a dress she did not want, pretending it to be a bargain; Madame Bourdelais thought the silk very fine, but preferred waiting, guessing no doubt what would happen. And, indeed the following week, Mouret boldly reduced The Paris Paradise by four sous, after a lively discussion with Bourdoncle and the other managers, in which he had succeeded in inducing them to accept the challenge, even at a sacrifice; for these four sous represented a dead loss, the silk being sold already at strict cost price. It was a heavy blow to Robineau, who did not think his rival would reduce; for this suicidal competition, these losing sales, were then unknown; and the tide of customers, attracted by the cheapness, had immediately flown back towards the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, whilst the shop in the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs gradually emptied.
Gaujean came up from Lyons; there were hasty confabulations, and they finished by coming to a most heroic resolution; the silk should be lowered in price, they would sell it at five francs six sous, beneath which no one could go, without folly. The next day Mouret marked his at five francs four sous. After that it became a mania: Robineau replied by five francs three sous, when Mouret at once ticketed his at five francs and two sous. Neither lowered more than a sou at a time now, losing considerable sums as often as they made this present to the public. The customers laughed, delighted with this duel, moved by the terrible blows dealt each other by the two houses to please them. At last Mouret ventured as low as five francs; his staff paled before such a challenge thrown down to fortune. Robineau, utterly beaten, out of breath, stopped also at five francs, not having the courage to go any lower. And they rested at their positions, face to face, with the massacre of their goods around them.
But if honour was saved on both sides, the situation was becoming fatal for Robineau. The Ladies’ Paradise had money at its disposal and a patronage which enabled it to balance its profits; whilst he, sustained by Gaujean alone, unable to recoup his losses on other articles, was exhausted, and slipped daily a little further on the verge of bankruptcy. He was dying from his hardihood, notwithstanding the numerous customers that the hazards of the struggle had brought him. One of his secret torments was to see these customers slowly quitting him, returning to The Ladies’ Paradise, after the money he had lost and the efforts he had made to conquer them.
One day he quite lost patience. A customer, Madame de Boves, had come to his shop for some mantles, for he had added a ready-made department to his business. She could not make up her mind, complaining of the quality of the goods. At last she said: “Their Paris Paradise is a great deal stronger.”
Robineau restrained himself, assuring her that she was mistaken, with a tradesman’s politeness, all the more respectful, because he was afraid to allow his anger to burst forth.
“But just look at the silk of this mantle!” resumed she, “one would really take it for so much cobweb. You may say what you like, sir, their silk at five francs is like leather compared with this.”
He did not reply, the blood rushing to his face, and his lips tightly closed. In point of fact he had ingeniously thought of buying some of his rival’s silk for these mantles. So that it was Mouret, not he, who lost on the material. He simply cut off the selvage.
“Really you think the Paris Paradise thicker?” murmured he.
“Oh! a hundred times!” said Madame de Boves. “There’s no comparison.”
This injustice on her part, her running down the goods in this way, filled him with indignation. And, as she was still turning the mantle over with a disgusted air, a little piece of the blue and silver selvage, not cut off, appeared under the lining. He could not contain himself any longer; he confessed he would even have given his head.
“Well, madame, this is Paris Paradise. I bought it myself! Look at the border.”
Madame de Boves went away greatly annoyed, and a number of ladies quitted him when the affair became known. And he, amid this ruin, when the fear for the future seized him, only trembled for his wife, who had been brought up in a happy, peaceful home, and would never be able to endure a life of poverty. What would become of her if a catastrophe threw them into the street, with a load of debts? It was his fault, he ought never to have touched her money. She was obliged to comfort him. Wasn’t the money as much his as hers? He loved her dearly, and she wanted nothing more; she gave him everything, her heart and her life. They could be heard in the back shop embracing one another. Little by little, the affairs and ways of the house became more regular; every month their losses increased, in a slow proportion which postponed the fatal issue. A tenacious hope sustained them, they still announced the near discomfiture of The Ladies’ Paradise.
“Pooh!” he would say, “we are young yet The future is ours.”
“And besides, what matters, if you have done what you wanted to do?” resumed she. “As long as you are satisfied, I am as well, darling.”
Denise’s affection increased for them on seeing their tenderness. She trembled, feeling their inevitable fall; but she dared not interfere. It was then she fully understood the power of the new system of business, and became impassioned for this force which was transforming Paris. Her ideas were ripening, a woman’s grace was developing out of the savage child newly arrived from Valognes. In fact, her life was a pretty pleasant one, notwithstanding the fatigue and the little money she earned. When she had spent all the day on her feet, she had to go straight home, and look after Pépé, whom old Bourras insisted on feeding, fortunately; but there was still a lot to do: a shirt to wash, stockings to mend; without mentioning the noise made by the youngster, which made her head ache fit to split. She never went to bed before midnight. Sunday was her hardest day: she cleaned her room, and mended her own things, so busy that it was often five o’clock before she could dress. However, she sometimes went out for health’s sake, taking the little one for a long walk, out towards Neuilly; and their treat was to drink a cup of milk there at a dairyman’s, who allowed them to sit down in his yard. Jean disdained these excursions; he put in an appearance now and again on week-day evenings, then disappeared, pretending to have other visits to pay; he asked for no more money, but he arrived with such a melancholy face, that his sister, anxious, always managed to keep a five-franc piece for him. That was her sole luxury.
“Five francs!” he would exclaim each time. “My stars! you’re too good! It just happens, there’s the stationer’s wife – ”
“Not another word,” Denise would say; “I don’t want to know.”
But he thought she was accusing him of boasting. “I tell you she’s the wife of a stationer! Oh! something magnificent!”
Three months passed away, spring was returning. Denise refused to return to Joinville with Pauline and Bauge. She sometimes met them in the Rue Saint-Roch, when she left the shop in the evening. Pauline, one evening when she was alone, confided to her that she was very likely going to marry her lover; it was she who was hesitating, for they did not care for married saleswomen at The Ladies’ Paradise. This idea of marriage surprised Denise, she did not dare to advise her friend. One day, just as Colomban had stopped her near the fountain to talk about Clara, the latter was crossing the road; and Denise was obliged to run away, for he implored her to ask her old comrade if she would marry him. What was the matter with them all? why were they tormenting themselves like this? She thought herself very fortunate not to be in love with any one.
“You’ve heard the news?” cried out the umbrella dealer to her one evening on her return home from business.
“No, Monsieur Bourras.”
“Well! the scoundrels have bought the Hôtel Duvillard. I’m hemmed in on all sides!” He was waving his long arms about, in a burst of fury which made his white mane stand up on end. “A regular mixed-up affair,” resumed the old man. “It appears that the hôtel belonged to the Credit Immobilier, the president of which, Baron Hartmann, has just sold it to our famous Mouret. Now they’ve got me on the right, on the left, and at the back, just in the way I’m holding the knob of this stick in my hand!”
It was true, the sale was to have been concluded the previous day. Bourras’s small house, hemmed in between The Ladies’ Paradise and the Hôtel Duvillard, hanging on like a swallow’s nest in a crack of a wall, seemed sure to be crushed, as soon as the shop invaded the hôtel, and the time had now arrived. The colossus had turned the feeble obstacle, and was surrounding it with a pile of goods, threatening to swallow it up, to absorb it by the sole force of its giant aspiration.
Bourras could feel the embrace which was making his shop creak. He thought he could see the place getting smaller; he was afraid of being absorbed himself, of being carried to the other side with his umbrellas and sticks, so loudly was the terrible machine roaring just then.
“Do you hear them?” asked he. “One would think they were eating up the walls even! And in my cellar, in the attic, everywhere, there’s the same noise as of a saw going through the plaster. Never mind! I don’t fancy they’ll flatten me out like a sheet of paper. I’ll stick here, even if they blow up my roof, and the rain should fall in bucketfuls on my bed!”
It was just at this moment that Mouret caused fresh proposals to be made to Bourras; they would increase the figure, they would give him fifty thousand francs for his good-will and the remainder of the lease. This offer redoubled the old man’s anger; he refused in an insulting manner. How these scoundrels must rob people to be able to pay fifty thousand francs for a thing not worth ten thousand. And he defended his shop as a young girl defends her virtue, for honour’s sake.
Denise noticed Bourras was pre-occupied during the next fortnight. He wandered about in a feverish manner, measuring the walls of his house, surveying it from the middle of the street with the air of an architect. Then one morning some workmen arrived. This was the decisive blow. He had conceived the bold idea of beating The Ladies’ Paradise on its own ground by making certain concessions to modern luxury. The customers, who often reproached him about his dark shop, would certainly come back again, when they saw it bright and new. In the first place, the workmen stopped up the crevices and whitewashed the frontage, then they painted the woodwork a light green, and even carried the splendour so far as to gild the sign-board. A sum of three thousand francs, held in reserve by Bourras as a last resource, was swallowed up in this way. The whole neighbourhood was in a state of revolution; people came to look at him amid all these riches, losing his head, no longer able to find the things he was accustomed to. He did not seem to be at home in this shining frame, in this tender setting; he seemed frightened, with his long beard and white hair. The people passing on the opposite side of the street were astonished on seeing him waving his arms about and carving his handles. And he was in a state of fever, afraid of dirtying his shop, plunging further into this luxurious business, which he did not at all understand.
The same as with Robineau, the campaign against The Ladies’ Paradise was opened by Bourras. The latter had just brought out his invention, the automatic umbrella, which later on was to become popular. But The Paradise people immediately improved on the invention, and a struggle of prices commenced. Bourras had an article at one franc and nineteen sous, in zanella, with steel mounting, everlasting, said the ticket, But he was especially anxious to vanquish his competitors with his handles – bamboo, dogwood, olive, myrtle, rattan, every imaginable sort of handle. The Paradise people, less artistic, paid more attention to the material, extolling their alpacas and mohairs, their twills and sarcenets.. And they came out victorious. Bourras, in despair, repeated that art was done for, that he was reduced to carving his handles for pleasure, without any hope of selling them.
“It’s my fault!” cried he to Denise. “I never ought to have kept a lot of rotten articles, at one franc nineteen sous! That’s where these new notions lead one to. I wanted to follow the example of these brigands; so much the better if I’m ruined by it!”
The month of July was very warm, and Denise suffered greatly in her narrow room, under the roof. So after leaving the shop, she sometimes went and fetched Pépé, and instead of going up-stairs at once, went for a stroll in the Tuileries Gardens until the gates were closed. One evening as she was walking under the chestnut-trees she suddenly stopped with surprise; a few yards off, walking straight towards her, she thought she recognised Hutin. But her heart commenced to beat violently. It was Mouret, who had dined over the water, and was hurrying along on foot to call on Madame Desforges. At the abrupt movement she made to escape him, he caught sight of her. The night was coming on, but still he recognised her.
“Ah, it’s you, mademoiselle!”
She did not reply, astonished that he should deign to stop. He, smiling, concealed his constraint beneath an air of amiable protection.
“You are still in Paris?”
“Yes, sir,” said she at last.
She was slowly drawing back, desirous of making a bow and continuing her walk. But he turned and followed her under the black shadows of the chestnut-trees. The air was getting cooler, some children were laughing in the distance, trundling their hoops.
“This is your brother, is it not?” resumed he, looking at Pépé.
The little boy, frightened by the unusual presence of a gentleman, was gravely walking by his sister’s side, holding her tightly by the hand.
“Yes, sir,” replied she once more.
She blushed, thinking of the abominable inventions circulated by Marguerite and Clara. No doubt Mouret understood why she was blushing, for he quickly added: “Listen, mademoiselle, I have to apologise to you. Yes, I should have been happy to have told you sooner how much I regret the error that has been made. You were accused too lightly of a fault. But the evil is done. I simply wanted to assure you that every one in our establishment now knows of your affection for your brothers,” he continued, with a respectful politeness to which the saleswomen in The Ladies’ Paradise were little accustomed. Denise’s confusion had increased; but her heart was filled with joy. He knew, then, that she had given herself to no one! Both remained silent; he continued beside her, regulating his walk to the child’s short steps; and the distant murmurs of the city were dying away under the black shadows of the spreading chestnut-trees. “I have only one reparation to offer you,” resumed he. “Naturally, if you would like to come back to us – ”
She interrupted him, and refused with a feverish haste. “No, sir, I cannot. Thank you all the same, but I have found another situation.”
He knew it, they had informed him she was with Robineau; and leisurely, on a footing of amiable equality, he spoke of the latter, rendering him full justice. A very intelligent fellow, but too nervous. He would certainly come to grief: Gaujean had burdened him with a very heavy business, in which they would both suffer. Denise, conquered by this familiarity, opened her mind further, and allowed it to be seen that she was for the big shops in the war between them and the small traders: she became animated, citing examples, showing herself well up in the question, even expressing new and enlightened ideas. He, charmed, listened to her in surprise; and turned round, trying to distinguish her features in the growing darkness. She seemed still the same with her simple dress and sweet face; but from this modest bashfulness, there seemed to exhale a penetrating perfume, of which he felt the powerful’ influence. Decidedly this little girl had got used to the air of Paris, she was becoming quite a woman, and was really perturbing, so sensible, with her beautiful hair, overflowing with tenderness.
