Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
“As you are on our side,” said he, laughing, “why do you stay with our adversaries? I fancy, too, they told me you lodged with Bourras.”
“A very worthy man,” murmured she.
“No, not a bit of it! he’s an old idiot, a madman who will force me to ruin him, though I should be glad to get rid of him with a fortune! Besides, your place is not in his house, which has a bad reputation. He lets to certain women – ”
But feeling that the young girl was confused, he hastened to add: “One can be respectable anywhere, and there’s even more merit in remaining so when one is so poor.”
They went on a few steps in silence. Pépé seemed to be listening with the attentive air of a sharp child. Now and again he raised his eyes to his sister, whose burning hand, quivering with sudden starts, astonished him.
“Look here!” resumed Mouret, gaily, “will you be my ambassador? I intended increasing my offer to-morrow – of proposing eighty thousand francs to Bourras. Do you speak to him first about it. Tell him he’s cutting his own throat. Perhaps he’ll listen to you, as he has a liking for you, and you’ll be doing him a real service.”
“Very well!” said Denise, smiling also, “I will deliver your message, but I am afraid I shall not succeed.”
And a fresh silence ensued, neither of them having anything more to say. He attempted to talk of her uncle Baudu; but had to give it up on seeing the young girl’s uneasiness. However, they continued to walk side by side, and at last found themselves near the Rue de Rivoli, in a path where it was still light. On coming out of the darkness of the trees it was like a sudden awakening. He understood that he could not detain her any longer.
“Good night, mademoiselle.”
“Good night, sir.”
But he did not go away. On raising his eyes he perceived in front of him, at the corner of the Rue d’Alger, the lighted windows at Madame Desforges’s, whither he was bound. And looking at Denise, whom he could now see, in the pale twilight, she appeared to him very puny beside Henriette. Why was it she touched his heart in this way? It was a stupid caprice.
“This little man is getting tired,” resumed he, just for something to say. “Remember, mind, that our house is always open to you; you’ve only to knock, and I’ll give you every compensation possible. Good night, mademoiselle.”
“Good night, sir,”
When Mouret quitted her, Denise went back under the chestnut-trees, in the black shadow. For a long time she walked on without any object, between the enormous trunks, her face burning, her head in a whirl of confused ideas. Pépé still had hold of her hand, stretching out his short legs to keep pace with her. She had forgotten him. At last he said:
“You go too quick, little mother.”
At this she sat down on a bench; and as he was tired, the child went to sleep on her lap. She held him there, nestling to her virgin bosom, her eyes lost far away in the darkness. When, an hour later on, they returned slowly to the Rue de la Michodière, she had regained her usual quiet, sensible expression.
“Hell and thunder!” shouted Bourras, when he saw her coming, “the blow is struck. That rascal of a Mouret has just bought my house.” He was half mad, and was striking himself in the middle of the shop with such outrageous gestures that he almost threatened to break the windows. “Ah! the scoundrel! It’s the fruiterer who’s written to tell me this. And how much do you think he has got for the house? One hundred and fifty thousand francs, four times its value! There’s another thief, if you like! Just fancy, he has taken advantage of my embellishments, making capital out of the fact that the house has been done up. How much longer are they going to make a fool of me?”
The thought that his money spent on paint and white-wash had brought the fruiterer a profit exasperated him. And now Mouret would be his landlord; he would have to pay him! It was beneath this detested competitor’s roof, that he must live in future! Such a thought raised his fury to the highest possible pitch.
“Ah! I could hear them digging a hole through the wall. At this moment, they are here eating out of my very plate, so to say!”
And the shop shook under his heavy fist which he banged on the counter; he made the umbrellas and the parasols dance again. Denise, bewildered, could not get in a word. She stood there, motionless, waiting for the end of his tirade; whilst Pépé, very tired, had fallen asleep on a chair. At last, when Bourras became a little calmer, she resolved to deliver Mouret’s message. No doubt the old man was irritated, but the excess even of his anger, the blind alley in which he found himself, might determine an abrupt acceptance.
“I’ve just met some one,” she commenced. “Yes, a person from The Paradise, very well informed. It appears that they are going to offer you eighty thousand francs to-morrow.”
“Eighty thousand francs!” interrupted he, in a terrible voice; “eighty thousand francs! Not for a million now!” She tried to reason with him. But at that moment the shop door opened, and she suddenly drew back, pale and silent. It was her uncle Baudu, with his yellow face and aged look. Bourras seized his neighbour by the button-hole, and roared out in his face without allowing him to say a word, as if goaded on by his presence:
“What do you think they have the cheek to offer me? Eighty thousand francs! They’ve got so far, the brigands! they think I’m going to sell myself like a prostitute. Ah! they’ve bought the house, and think they’ve now got me. Well! it’s all over, they sha’n’t have it! I might have given way, perhaps; but now it belongs to them, let them try and take it!”
“So the news is true?” said Baudu in his slow voice. “I had heard of it, and came over to know if it was so.”
“Eighty thousand francs!” repeated Bourras. “Why not a hundred thousand at once? It’s this immense sum of money that makes me indignant Do they think they can make me commit a knavish trick with their money! They sha’n’t have it, by heavens! Never, never, you hear me?”
Denise gently observed, in her calm, quiet way: “They’ll have it in nine years’ time, when your lease expires.”
And, notwithstanding her uncle’s presence, she begged of the old man to accept. The struggle was becoming impossible, he was fighting against a superior force; he would be mad to refuse the fortune offered him. But he still replied no. In nine years’ time he hoped to be dead, so as not to see it “You hear, Monsieur Baudu,” resumed he, “your niece is on their side, it’s her they have employed to corrupt me. She’s with the brigands, my word of honour!”
Baudu, who up to then had appeared not to notice Denise, now raised his head, with the morose movement that he affected when standing at his shop door, every time she passed. But, slowly, he turned round and looked at her, and his thick lips trembled.
“I know it,” replied he in a half-whisper, and he continued to look at her.
Denise, affected almost to tears, thought him greatly changed by trouble. Perhaps he was stricken with remorse for not having assisted her during the time of misery she had just passed through. Then the sight of Pépé sleeping on the chair, amidst the noise of the discussion, seemed to suddenly inspire him with compassion.
“Denise,” said he simply, “come to-morrow and have dinner with us and bring the little one. My wife and Geneviève asked me to invite you if I met you.”
She turned very red, and went up and kissed him. And as he was going away, Bourras, delighted at this reconciliation, cried out to him again: “Just talk to her, she isn’t a bad sort. As for me, the house may fall, I shall be found in the ruins.”
“Our houses are already falling, neighbour,” said Baudu with a sombre air. “We shall all be crushed under them.”
CHAPTER VIII
At this time the whole neighbourhood was talking of the great thoroughfare to be opened from the Bourse to the new Opera House, under the name of the Rue du Dix-Décembre. The expropriation judgments had just been delivered, two gangs of demolishers were already attacking the opening at the two ends, the first pulling down the old mansions in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, the other destroying the thin walls of the old Vaudeville; and one could hear the picks getting closer. The Rue de Choiseul and the Rue de la Michodière got quite excited over their condemned houses. Before a fortnight passed, the opening would make a great hole in these streets, letting in the sun and air.
But what stirred up the district still more, was the work going on at The Ladies’ Paradise. Considerable enlargements were talked of, gigantic shops having frontages in the Rue de la Michodière, the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, and the Rue Monsigny. Mouret, it was said, had made arrangements with Baron Hartmann, chairman of the Credit Immobilier, and he would occupy the whole block, except the future frontage in the Rue du Dix-Décembre, on which the baron wished to construct a rival to the Grand Hôtel. The Paradise people were buying up leases on all sides, the shops were closing, the tenants moving; and in the empty buildings an army of workmen were commencing the various alterations under a cloud of plaster. In the midst of this disorder, old Bourras’s narrow hovel was the only one that remained standing and intact, obstinately sticking between the high walls covered with masons.
When, the next day, Denise went with Pépé to her uncle Baudu’s, the street was just at that moment blocked up by a line of tumbrels discharging bricks before the Hôtel Duvillard. Baudu was standing at his shop door looking on with a gloomy air. As The Ladies’ Paradise became larger, The Old Elbeuf seemed to get smaller. The young girl thought the windows looked blacker than ever, and more and more crushed beneath the low first storey, with its prison-like bars; the damp had still further discoloured the old green sign-board, a sort of distress oozed from the whole frontage, livid in hue, and, as it were, grown thinner.
“Here you are, then!” said Baudu. “Take care! they would run right over you.”
Inside the shop, Denise experienced the same heart-broken sensation; she found it darker, invaded more than ever by the somnolence of approaching ruin; empty corners formed dark and gloomy holes, the dust was invading the counters and drawers, whilst an odour of saltpetre rose from the bales of cloth that were no longer moved about. At the desk Madame Baudu and Geneviève were standing mute and motionless, as in some solitary spot, where no one would come to disturb them. The mother was hemming some dusters. The daughter, her hands spread on her knees, was gazing at the emptiness before her.
“Good evening, aunt,” said Denise; “I’m delighted to see you again, and if I have hurt your feelings, I hope you will forgive me.”
Madame Baudu kissed her, greatly affected. “My poor child,” said she, “if I had no other troubles, you would see me gayer than this.”
“Good evening, cousin,” resumed Denise, kissing Geneviève on the cheeks.
The latter woke up with a sort of start, and returned her kisses, without finding a word to say. The two women then took up Pépé, who was holding out his little arms, and the reconciliation was complete.
“Well! it’s six o’clock, let’s go to dinner,” said Baudu. “Why haven’t you brought Jean?”
“But he was to come,” murmured Denise, embarrassed. “I saw him this morning, and he faithfully promised me. Oh! we must not wait for him; his master has kept him, I dare say.” She suspected some extraordinary adventure, and wished to apologise for him in advance.
“In that case, we will commence,” said her uncle. Then turning towards the obscure depths of the shop, he added:
“Come on, Colomban, you can dine with us. No one will come.”
Denise had not noticed the shopman. Her aunt explained to her that they had been obliged to get rid of the other salesman and the young lady. Business was getting so bad that Colomban sufficed; and even he spent many idle hours, drowsy, falling off to sleep with his eyes open. The gas was burning in the dining-room, although they were enjoying long summer days. Denise slightly shivered on entering, seized by the dampness falling from the walls. She once more beheld the round table, the places laid on the American cloth, the window drawing its air and light from the dark and fetid back yard. And these things appeared to her to be gloomier than ever, and tearful like the shop.
“Father,” said Geneviève, uncomfortable for Denise’s sake, “shall I close the window? there’s rather a bad smell.”
He smelt nothing, and seemed surprised. “Shut the window if you like,” replied he at last. “But we sha’n’t get any air then.”
And indeed they were almost stifled. It was a family dinner, very simple. After the soup, as soon as the servant had served the boiled beef, the old man as usual commenced about the people opposite. At first he showed himself very tolerant, allowing his niece to have a different opinion.
“Dear me! you are quite free to support these great hairbrained houses. Each one has his ideas, my girl. If you were not disgusted at being so disgracefully chucked out you must have strong reasons for liking them; and even if you went back again, I should think none the worse of you. No one here would be offended, would they?”
“Oh, no!” murmured Madame Baudu.
Denise quietly gave her reasons, as she had at Robineau’s: the logical evolution in business, the necessities of modern times, the greatness of these new creations, in short, the growing well-being of the public. Baudu, his eyes opened, and his mouth clamming, listened with a visible tension of intelligence. Then, when she had finished, he shook his head.
“That’s all phantasmagoria, you know. Business is business, there’s no getting over that. I own that they succeed, but that’s all. For a long time I thought they would smash up; yes, I expected that, waiting patiently – you remember? Well, no, it appears that now-a-days thieves make fortunes, whilst honest people die of hunger. That’s what we’ve come to. I’m obliged to bow to facts. And I do bow, on my word, I do bow!” A deep anger was gradually rising within him. All at once he flourished his fork. “But The Old Elbeuf will never give way! I said as much to Bourras, you know, ‘Neighbour, you’re going over to the cheapjacks; your paint and your varnish are a disgrace.’”
“Eat your dinner!” interrupted Madame Baudu, feeling anxious, on seeing him so excited.
“Wait a bit, I want my niece thoroughly to understand my motto. Just listen, my girl: I’m like this decanter, I don’t budge. They succeed, so much the worse for them! As for me, I protest – that’s all!”
The servant brought in a piece of roast veal. He cut it up with his trembling hands; but he no longer had his correct glance, his skill in weighing the portions. The consciousness of his defeat deprived him of the confidence he used to have as a respected employer. Pépé thought his uncle was getting angry, and they had to pacify him, by giving him some dessert, some biscuits which were near his plate. Then Baudu, lowering his voice, tried to talk of something else. For a moment he spoke of the demolitions going on, approving of the Rue du Dix-Décembre, the cutting of which would certainly improve the business of the neighbourhood. But then again he returned to The Ladies’ Paradise; everything brought him back to it, it was a kind of complaint. They were covered with plaster, and business was stopped since the builders’ carts had commenced to block up the street. It would soon be really ridiculous, in its immensity; the customers would lose themselves. Why not have the central markets at once? And, in spite of his wife’s supplicating looks, notwithstanding his own effort, he went on from the works to the amount of business done in the big shop. Was it not inconceivable? In less than four years they had increased their figures five-fold; the annual receipts, formerly eight million francs, now attained the sum of forty millions, according to the last balance-sheet. In fact it was a piece of folly, a thing that had never been seen before, and against which it was perfectly useless to struggle. They were always increasing, they had now a thousand employees and twenty-eight departments. These twenty-eight departments enraged him more than anything else. No doubt they had duplicated a few, but others were quite new; for instance, a furniture department, and a department for fancy goods. The idea! Fancy goods! Really these people were not at all proud, they would end by selling fish. Baudu, though affecting to respect Denise’s opinions, attempted to convert her.
“Frankly, you can’t defend them. What would you say were I to add a hardware department to my cloth business? You would say I was mad. Confess, at least, that you don’t esteem them.”
And as the young girl simply smiled, feeling uncomfortable, understanding the uselessness of good reasons, he resumed:
“In short, you are on their side. We won’t talk about it any more, for ifs useless to let that part us again. It would be too much to see them come between me and my family! Go back with them, if you like; but pray don’t worry me with any more of their stories!”
A silence ensued. His former violence was reduced to this feverish resignation. As they were suffocating in the narrow room, heated by the gas-burner, the servant had to open the window again; and the damp, pestilential air from the yard blew into the apartment. A dish of stewed potatoes appeared, and they helped themselves slowly, without a word.
“Look at those two,” recommenced Baudu, pointing with his knife to Geneviève and Colomban. “Ask them if they like your Ladies’ Paradise.”
Side by side in the usual place where they had found themselves twice a-day for the last twelve years, the engaged couple were eating in moderation, and without uttering a word. He, exaggerating the coarse good-nature of his face, seemed to be concealing, behind his drooping eyelashes, the inner flame which was devouring him; whilst she, her head bowed lower beneath her too heavy hair, seemed to be giving way entirely, as if ravaged by a secret grief.
“Last year was very disastrous,” explained Baudu, “and we have been obliged to postpone the marriage, not for our own pleasure; ask them what they think of your friends.” Denise, in order to pacify him, interrogated the young people.
“Naturally I can’t be very fond of them,” replied Geneviève. “But never fear, every one doesn’t detest them.”
And she looked at Colomban, who was rolling up some bread-crumbs with an absorbed air. When he felt the young girl’s gaze directed towards him, he broke out into a series of violent exclamations: “A rotten shop! A lot of rogues, every man-jack of them! A regular pest in the neighbourhood!”
“You hear him!’ You hear him!” exclaimed Baudu, delighted. “There’s one they’ll never get hold of! Ah! my boy, you’re the last of the old stock, we sha’n’t see any more!” But Geneviève, with her severe and suffering look, still kept her eyes on Colomban, diving into the depths of his heart. And he felt troubled, he redoubled his invectives. Madame Baudu was watching them with an anxious air, as if she foresaw another misfortune in this direction. For some time her daughter’s sadness had frightened her, she felt her to be dying. “The shop is left to take care of itself,” said she at last, quitting the table, desirous of putting an end to the scene. “Go and see, Colomban; I fancy I heard some one.”
They had finished, and got up. Baudu and Colomban went to speak to a traveller, who had come for orders. Madame Baudu carried Pépé off to show him some pictures. The servant had quickly cleared the table, and Denise was lounging by the window, looking into the little back yard, when turning round she saw Geneviève still in her place, her eyes fixed on the American cloth, which was still damp from the sponge having been passed over it.
“Are you suffering, cousin?” she asked.
The young girl did not reply, obstinately studying a rent in the cloth, too preoccupied by the reflections passing through her mind. Then she raised her head with pain, and looked at the sympathising face bent over hers. The others had gone, then? What was she doing on this chair? And suddenly a flood of sobs stifled her, her head fell forward on the edge of the table. She wept on, wetting her sleeve with her tears.
“Good heavens! what’s the matter with you?” cried Denise in dismay. “Shall I call some one?”
Geneviève nervously seized her by the arm, and held her back, stammering: “No, no, stay. Don’t let mamma know! With you I don’t mind; but not the others – not the others! It’s not my fault, I assure you. It was on finding myself all alone. Wait a bit; I’m better, and Pm not crying now.”
But sudden attacks kept seizing her, causing her frail body to tremble. It seemed as though the weight of her hair was weighing down her head. As she was rolling her poor head on her folded arms, a hair-pin came out, and her hair fell over her neck, burying it in its folds. Denise, quietly, for fear of attracting attention, tried to console her. She undid her dress, and was heart-broken on seeing how fearfully thin she was. The poor girl’s bosom was as hollow as that of a child. Denise took the hair by handfuls, that superb head of hair which seemed to be absorbing all her life, and twisted it up, to clear it away, and give her a little air.
“Thanks, you are very kind,” said Geneviève. “Ah! I’m not very stout, am I? I used to be stouter, but it’s all gone away. Do up my dress or mamma might see my shoulders. I hide them as much as I can. Good heavens! I’m not at all well, I’m not at all well.”
However, the attack passed away, and she sat there completely worn out, looking fixedly at her cousin. After a pause she abruptly asked: “Tell me the truth: does he love her?”
Denise felt a blush rising to her cheek. She was perfectly well aware that Geneviève referred to Colomban and Clara; but she pretended to be surprised.
“Who, dear?”
Geneviève shook her head with an incredulous air. “Don’t tell falsehoods, I beg of you. Do me the favour of setting my doubts at rest. You must know, I feel it. Yes, you have been this girl’s comrade, and I’ve seen Colomban run after you, and talk to her in a low voice. He was giving you messages for her, wasn’t he? Oh! for pity’s sake, tell me the truth; I assure you it will do me good.”
Never had Denise been in such an awkward position. She lowered her eyes before this almost dumb girl, who yet guessed all. However, she had the strength to deceive her still. “But it’s you he loves!”
Geneviève turned away in despair. “Very well, you won’t tell me anything. However, I don’t care, I’ve seen them. He’s continually going outside to look at her. She, upstairs, laughs like a bad woman. Of course they meet out of doors.”
“As for that, no, I assure you!” exclaimed Denise, forgetting herself, carried away by the desire to give her, at least, that consolation.
The young girl drew a long breath, and smiled feebly. Then with the weak voice of a convalescent: “I should like a glass of water. Excuse me if I trouble you. Look, over there in the sideboard.”
When she got hold of the bottle, she drank a large glassful right off, keeping Denise away with one hand, the latter being afraid Geneviève might do herself harm.
“No, no, let me be; I’m always thirsty. In the night I get up to drink.” There was a fresh silence. Then she went on again quietly: “If you only knew, I’ve been accustomed to the idea of this marriage for the last ten years. I was still wearing short dresses, when Colomban was courting me. I hardly remember how things have come about By always living together, being shut up here together, without any other distractions between us, I must have ended by believing him to be my husband before he really was. I didn’t know whether I loved him. I was his wife, and that’s all. And now he wants to go off with another girl! Oh, heavens! my heart is breaking! You see, it’s a grief that I’ve never felt before. It hurts me in the bosom, and in the head; then it spreads every where, and is killing me.”
Her eyes filled with tears. Denise, whose eyelids were also wet with pity, asked her: “Does my aunt suspect anything?”
“Yes, mamma has her suspicions, I think. As to papa, he is too worried, and does not know the pain he is causing me by postponing this marriage. Mamma has questioned me several times, greatly alarmed to see me pining away. She has never been very strong herself, and has often said: ‘My poor child, I’ve not made you very strong.’ Besides, one doesn’t grow much in these shops. But she must find me getting really too thin now. Look at my arms; would you believe it?”
And with a trembling hand she again took up the water bottle. Her cousin tried to prevent her drinking.
“No, I’m so thirsty, let me drink.”
They could hear Baudu talking in a loud voice. Then yielding to an inspiration of her tender heart, Denise knelt down before Geneviève, throwing her arms round her neck, kissing her, and assuring her that everything would turn out all right, that she would marry Colomban, that she would get well, and live happily. But she got up quickly, her uncle was calling her.
“Jean is here. Come along.”
It was indeed Jean, looking rather scared, who had come to dinner. When they told him it was striking eight, he looked amazed. Impossible! He had only just left his master’s. They chaffed him. No doubt he had come by way of the Bois de Vincennes. But as soon as he could get near his sister, he whispered to her: “It’s a little laundry-girl who was taking back some linen. I’ve got a cab outside by the hour. Give me five francs.”
He went out a minute, and then returned to dinner, for Madame Baudu would not hear of his going away without taking, at least, a plate of soup. Genevieve had reappeared in her usual silent and retiring manner. Colomban was half asleep behind the counter. The evening passed away, slow and melancholy, only animated by Baudu’s step, as he walked from one end of the empty shop to the other. A single gas-burner was alight – the shadow of the low ceiling fell in large masses, like black earth from a ditch.
Several months passed away. Denise came in nearly every evening to cheer up Geneviève a bit, but the house became more melancholy than ever. The works opposite were a continual torment, which intensified their bad luck. Even when they had an hour of hope – some unexpected joy – the falling of a tumbrel-load of bricks, the sound of the saw of a stonecutter, or the simple call of a mason, sufficed at once to mar their pleasure. In fact, the whole neighbourhood felt the shock. From the boarded enclosure, running along and blocking up the three streets, there issued a movement of feverish activity. Although the architect used the existing buildings, he altered them in various ways to adapt them to their new uses; and right in the centre at the opening caused by the court-yards, he was building a central gallery as big as a church, which was to terminate with a grand entrance in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin right in the middle of the frontage. They had, at first, experienced great difficulty in laying the foundations, for they had come on to some sewer deposits and loose earth, full of human bones. Besides that, the boring of the well had made the neighbours very anxious – a well three hundred feet deep, destined to give two hundred gallons a minute. They had now got the walls up to the first storey; the entire block was surrounded by scaffolding, regular towers of timber work. There was an incessant noise from the grinding of the windlasses hoisting up the stone, the abrupt discharge of iron bars, the clamour of this army of workmen, accompanied by the noise of picks and hammers. But above all, what deafened the people was the sound of the machinery. Everything went by steam, screeching whistles rent the air; whilst, at the slightest gust of wind, clouds of plaster flew about and covered the neighbouring roofs like a fall of snow. The Baudus in despair looked on at this implacable dust penetrating everywhere – getting through the closest woodwork, soiling the goods in their shop, even gliding into their beds; and the idea that they must continue to breathe it – that it would finish by killing them – empoisoned their existence.
The situation, however, was destined to become worse still, for in September, the architect, afraid of not being ready, decided to carry on the work at night also. Powerful electric lamps were established, and the uproar became continuous. Gangs of men relieved each other; the hammers never stopped, the engines whistled night and day; the everlasting clamour seemed to raise and scatter the white dust The Baudus now had to give up the idea of sleeping even; they were shaken in their beds; the noises changed into nightmare as soon as they fell off to sleep. Then, if they got up to calm their fever, and went, with bare feet, to look out of the window, they were frightened by the vision of The Ladies’ Paradise flaring in the darkness like a colossal forge, where their ruin was being forged. Along the half-built walls, dotted with open bays, the electric lamps threw a large blue flood of light, of a blinding intensity. Two o’clock struck – then three, then four; and during the painful sleep of the neighbourhood, the works, increased by this lunar brightness, became colossal and fantastic, swarming with black shadows, noisy workmen, whose profiles gesticulated on the crude whiteness of the new plastering.
Baudu was quite right. The small traders in the neighbouring streets were receiving another mortal blow. Every time The Ladies’ Paradise created new departments there were fresh failures among the shopkeepers of the district The disaster spread, one could hear the cracking of the oldest houses. Mademoiselle Tatin, at the under-linen shop in the Passage Choiseul, had just been declared bankrupt; Quinette, the glover, could hardly hold out another six months; the furriers, Vanpouille, were obliged to sub-let a part of their premises; and if the Bédorés, brother and sister, the hosiers, still kept on in the Rue Gaillon, they were evidently living on money saved formerly. And now more smashes were going to be added to those long since foreseen; the department for fancy goods threatened a toy-shopkeeper in the Rue Saint-Roch, Deslignières, a big, full-blooded man; whilst the furniture department attacked Messrs. Piot and Rivoire, whose shops were sleeping in the shadow of the Passage Sainte-Anne. It was even feared that an attack of apoplexy would carry off the toyman, who had gone into a terrible rage on seeing The Ladies’ Paradise mark up purses at thirty per cent, reduction. The furniture dealers, who were much calmer, affected to joke at these counter-jumpers who wanted to meddle with such articles as chairs and tables; but customers were already leaving them, the success of the department had every appearance of being a formidable one. It was all over, they were obliged to bow their heads. After these others would be swept off, and there was no reason why every business should not be driven away. One day The Ladies’ Paradise alone would cover the neighbourhood with its roof.
