Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
At present, morning and evening, when the thousand employees went in and came out, they formed such a long procession in the Place Gaillon that people stopped to look at them as they would at a passing regiment. For ten minutes they blocked up all the streets; and the shopkeepers at their doors thought bitterly of their single assistant, whom they hardly knew how to find food for. The last balance-sheet of the big shop, the forty millions turned over, had also caused a revolution in the neighbourhood. The figure passed from house to house amid cries of surprise and anger. Forty millions! Think of that! No doubt the net profit did not exceed more than four per cent., with their heavy general expenses, and system of low prices; but sixteen hundred thousand francs was a jolly sum, one could be satisfied with four per cent., when one operated on such a scale as that. It was said that Mouret’s starting capital of five hundred thousand francs, augmented each year by the total profits, a capital which must at that moment have amounted to four millions, had thus passed ten times over the counters in the form of goods. Robineau, when he made this calculation before Denise, after dinner, was overcome for a moment, his eyes fixed on his empty plate. She was right, it was this incessant renewal of the capital that constituted the invincible force of the new system of business. Bourras alone denied the facts, refusing to understand, superb and stupid as a mile-stone. A pack of thieves and nothing more! A lying set! Cheap-jacks who would be picked up out of the gutter one fine morning!
The Baudus, however, notwithstanding their wish not to change anything in the way of The Old Elbeuf, tried to sustain the competition. The customers no longer coming to them, they forced themselves to go to the customers, through the agency of travellers. There was at that time, in the Paris market, a traveller connected with all the great tailors, who saved the little cloth and flannel houses when he condescended to represent them. Naturally they all tried to get hold of him; he assumed the importance of a personage; and Baudu, having haggled with him, had the misfortune of seeing him come to terms with the Matignons, in the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs. One after the other, two other travellers robbed him; a third, an honest man, did no business. It was a slow death, without any shock, a continual decrease of business, customers lost one by one. A day came when the bills fell very heavily. Up to that time they had lived on their former savings; but now they began to contract debts. In December, Baudu, terrified by the amount of the bills he had accepted, resigned himself to a most cruel sacrifice: he sold his country-house at Rambouillet, a house which cost him a lot of money in continual repairs, and for which the tenants had not even paid the rent when he decided to get rid of it. This sale killed the only dream of his life, his heart bled as for the loss of some dear one. And he had to sell for seventy thousand francs that which had cost him more than two hundred thousand, considering himself fortunate to have met the Lhommes, his neighbours, who were desirous of adding to their property. The seventy thousand francs would keep the business going a little longer; for notwithstanding the repulses already encountered, the idea of struggling sprang up again; perhaps with great care they might conquer even now.
The Sunday on which the Lhommes paid the money, they were good enough to dine at The Old Elbeuf. Madame Aurélie was the first to arrive; they had to wait for the cashier, who came late, scared by a whole afternoon’s music; as for young Albert, he had accepted the invitation, but did not put in an appearance. It was, moreover, a somewhat painful evening. The Baudus, living without air in their narrow dining-room, suffered from the gust of wind brought in by the Lhommes, with their scattered family and taste for a free existence. Geneviève, wounded by Madame Aurélie’s imperial airs, did not open her mouth; whilst Colomban was admiring her with a shiver, on reflecting that she reigned over Clara. Before retiring to rest, in the evening, Madame Baudu being already in bed, Baudu walked about the room for a long time. It was a mild night, thawing and damp. Outside, notwithstanding the closed windows, and drawn curtains, one could hear the machinery roaring on the opposite side of the way.
“Do you know what I’m thinking of, Elisabeth?” said he at last “Well! these Lhommes may earn as much money as they like, I’d rather be in my shoes than theirs. They get on well, it’s true. The wife said, didn’t she? that she had made nearly twenty thousand francs this year, and that has enabled her to take my poor house. Never mind! I’ve no longer the house, but I don’t go playing music in one direction, whilst you are gadding about in the other. No, look you, they can’t be happy.”
He was still labouring under the grief of his sacrifice, nourishing a certain rancour against those people who had bought up his darling dream. When he came near the bed, he gesticulated, leaning over his wife; then, returning to the window, he stood silent for a minute, listening to the noise of the works. And he resumed his old accusations, his despairing complaints about the new times; nobody had ever seen such things, a shop-assistant earning more than a tradesman, cashiers buying up the employers’ property. Everything was going to the dogs; family ties no longer existed, people lived at hôtels instead of eating their meals at home in a respectable manner. He ended by prophesying that young Albert would later on swallow up the Rambouillet property with a lot of actresses.
Madame Baudu listened to him, her head flat on the pillow, so pale that her face was the colour of the sheets. “They’ve paid you,” at length said she, softly.
At this Baudu became dumb. He walked about for an instant with his eyes on the ground. Then he resumed: “They’ve paid me, ’tis true; and, after all, their money is as good as another’s. It would be funny if we revived the business with this money. Ah! if I were not so old and worn out!”
A long silence ensued. The draper was full of vague projects. Suddenly his wife spoke again, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, without moving her head: “Have you noticed your daughter lately?”
“No,” replied he.
“Well! she makes me rather anxious. She’s getting pale, she seems to be pining away.”
He stood before the bed, full of surprise. “Really! whatever for? If she’s ill she should say so. To-morrow we must send for the doctor.”
Madame Baudu still remained motionless. After a short time, she declared with her meditative air: “This marriage with Colomban, I think it would be better to get it over.”
He looked at her, then began walking about again. Certain things came back to his mind. Was it possible that his daughter was falling ill over the shopman? Did she love him so much that she could not wait? Here was another misfortune! It worried him all the more from the fact that he himself had fixed ideas about this marriage. He could never consent to it in the present state of affairs. However, his anxiety softened him.
“Very good,” said he at last, “I’ll speak to Colomban.” And without saying another word he continued his walk. Soon afterwards his wife fell off to sleep, quite white, as if dead; but he still kept on walking about. Before getting into bed he drew aside the curtains and glanced outside; on the other side of the street, the gaping windows of the old Hôtel Duvillard showed the workmen moving about in the dazzling glare of the electric light.
The next morning Baudu took Colomban to the further end of the store, on the upper floor, having made up his mind over night what he should say to him. “My boy,” said he “you know I’ve sold my property at Rambouillet. That will enable us to show good fight. But I should like beforehand to have a talk with you.”
The young man, who seemed to dread the interview, waited with an awkward air. His small eyes twinkled in his large face, and he stood there with his mouth open – a sign with him of profound agitation.
“Just listen to me,” resumed the draper. “When old Hauchecorne left me The Old Elbeuf, the house was prosperous; he himself had received it from old Finet in a satisfactory state. You know my ideas; I should consider it wrong if I passed this family trust to my children in a diminished state; and that’s why I’ve always postponed your marriage with Genevieve. Yes, I was obstinate; I hoped to bring back our former prosperity; I wanted to hand you the books, saying: ‘Look here! the year I commenced we sold so much cloth, and this year, the year I retire, we have sold ten thousand or twenty thousand francs’ worth more.’ In short, you understand, it was a vow I had made to myself, the very natural desire I had to prove that the house had not lost anything in my hands. Otherwise it would seem to me I was robbing you.” His voice was stifled with emotion. He blew his nose to recover a bit, and asked, “You don’t say anything?”
But Colomban had nothing to say. He shook his head, and waited, more and more troubled, thinking he could guess what, the governor was aiming at. It was the marriage without further delay. How could he refuse? He would never have the strength. And the other girl, of whom he dreamed at night, devoured by such a flame that he frequently threw himself quite naked on the floor, in the fear of dying of it.
“Now,” continued Baudu, “there’s a sum of money that may save us. The situation becomes worse every day, and perhaps by making a supreme effort – In short, I thought it right to warn you. We are going to venture our last stake. If we are beaten, why that will entirely ruin us! But, my poor boy, your marriage must be again postponed, for I don’t wish to throw you two all alone into the struggle. That would be too cowardly, wouldn’t it?”
Colomban, greatly relieved, had seated himself on a pile of swan-skin flannel. His legs were still trembling. He was afraid of showing his joy, he held down his head, rolling his fingers on his knees.
“You don’t say anything?” repeated Baudu.
No, he said nothing, he could find nothing to say. The draper then slowly continued: “I was sure this would grieve you. You must muster up courage. Pull yourself together a bit, don’t let yourself be crushed in this way. Above all, understand my position. Can I hang such a weight on your neck? Instead of leaving you a good business, I should leave you a bankruptcy perhaps. No, it’s only a scoundrel who would play such a trick! No doubt, I desire nothing but your happiness, but no one shall ever make me, go against my conscience.”
And he went on for a long time in this way, swaying about in a maze of contradictions, like a man who would have liked to be understood at half a word and finds himself obliged to explain everything. As he had promised his daughter and the shop, strict probity forced him to deliver both in good condition, without defects or debts. But he was tired, the burden seemed to be too much for him, his stammering voice was one of supplication. He got more entangled than ever in his words, he was still expecting a sudden rally from Colomban, some heartfelt cry, which came not.
“I know,” murmured he, “that old men are wanting in ardour. With young ones, things light up. They are full of fire, it’s natural. But, no, no, I can’t, my word of honour! If I gave it up to you, you would blame me later on.”
He stopped, trembling, and as the young man still kept his head down, he asked him for the third time, after a painful silence: “You don’t say anything?” At last, but without looking at him, Colomban replied: “There’s nothing to say. You are the master, you know better than all of us. As you wish it we’ll wait, we’ll try and be reasonable.”
It was all over. Baudu still hoped he was going to throw himself into his arms, exclaiming: “Father, do you take a rest, we’ll fight in our turn; give us the shop as it is, so that we may work a miracle and save it! Then he looked at him, and was seized with shame, accusing himself of having wished to dupe his children. The deep-rooted maniacal honesty of the shopkeeper was awakened in him; it was this prudent fellow who was right, for in business there is no such thing as sentiment, it is only a question of figures.
“Give me your hand, my boy,” said he in conclusion. “It’s settled we won’t speak about the marriage for another year. One must think of the business before everything.” That evening in their room when Madame Baudu questioned her husband as to the result of the conversation, the result of the conversation, the latter had resumed his obstinate wish to fight in person to the bitter end. He gave Colomban high praise, calling him a solid fellow, firm in his ideas, brought up with the best principles, incapable, for instance, of joking with the customers like those puppies at The Paradise. No, he was honest, he belonged to the family, he didn’t speculate on the business as though he were a stock-jobber.
“Well, then, when’s the marriage to take place?” asked Madame Baudu.
“Later on,” replied he, “when I am able to keep to my promises.”
She made no gestures, she simply observed: “It will be our daughter’s death.”
Baudu restrained himself, stirred up with anger. He was the one whom it would kill, if they continually upset him like this! Was it his fault? He loved his daughter – would lay down his life for her; but he could not make the business prosper when it obstinately refused to do so. Geneviève ought to have a little more sense, and wait patiently for a better balance-sheet The deuce! Colomban was there, no one would run away with him!
“It’s incredible!” repeated he; “such a well-trained girl!”
Madame Baudu said no more. No doubt she had guessed Genevieve’s jealous agony; but she did not dare to inform her husband. A singular womanly modesty always prevented her approaching certain tender, delicate subjects with him. When he saw her so silent, he turned his anger against the people opposite, stretching his fists out in the air, towards the works, where they were setting up large iron girders, with a great noise of hammers.
Denise had decided to return to The Ladies’ Paradise, having understood that the Robineaus, though forced to cut down their staff, did not like to dismiss her. To maintain their position, now, they were obliged to do everything themselves. Gaujean, obstinate in his rancour, renewed their bills, even promised to find them funds; but they were frightened, they wanted to go in for economy and order. During a whole fortnight Denise had felt uneasy with them, and she had to speak first, saying she had found a situation elsewhere. This was a great relief. Madame Robineau embraced her, deeply affected, saying she should always miss her. Then when, in reply to a question, the young girl said she was going back to Mouret’s, Robineau turned pale.
“You are right!” he exclaimed violently.
It was not so easy to tell the news to old Bourras. However, Denise had to give him notice, and she trembled, for she was full of gratitude towards him. Bourras just at this time was in a continual fever of rage – full of invectives against the works going on next door. The builder’s carts blocked up his doorway; the picks tapped on his walls; everything in his place, the umbrellas and the sticks, danced about to the noise of the hammers. It seemed that the hovel, obstinately remaining amid all these demolitions, was going to give way. But the worst of all was that the architect, in order to connect the existing shops with those about to be opened in the Hôtel Duvillard, had conceived the idea of boring a passage under the little house that separated them. This house belonged to the firm of Mouret & Co., and the lease stipulating that the tenant should submit to all necessary repairs, the workmen appeared on the scene one morning. At this Bourras nearly went into a fit. Wasn’t it enough to strangle him on all sides, on the right, the left, and behind, without attacking him underfoot as well, taking the ground from under him! And he drove the masons away, and went to law. Repairs, yes! but this was rather a work of embellishment. The neighbourhood thought he would carry the day, without, however, being sure of anything The case, however, threatened to be a long one, and people became very excited over this interminable duel. The day Denise resolved to give him notice, Bourras had just returned from his lawyer.
“Would you believe it!” exclaimed he, “they now say the house is not solid; they pretend that the foundations must be strengthened. Confound it! they have shaken it up so with their infernal machines, that it isn’t astonishing if it gives way!”
Then, when the young girl announced she was going away, and that she was going back to The Ladies’ Paradise at a salary of a thousand francs, he was so amazed that he simply raised his trembling hands in the air. The emotion made him drop into a chair.
“You! you!” he stammered. “Ah, I’m the only one – I’m the only one left!” After a pause, he asked: “And the youngster?”
“He’ll go back to Madame Gras’s,” replied Denise.
“She was very fond of him! that can’t be refused. You’ll all go. Go, then, leave me here alone. Yes, alone – you understand! There shall be one who will never bow his head. And tell them I’ll win my lawsuit, if I have to sell my last shirt for it!”
Denise was not to leave Robineau’s till the end of the month. She had seen Mouret again; everything was settled. One evening as she was going up to her room, Deloche, who was watching for her in a doorway, stopped her. He was delighted, having just heard the good news; they were all talking about it in the shop, he said. And he told her the gossip of the counters.
“You know, the young ladies in the dress department are pulling long faces!” Then, interrupting himself, he added: “By the way, you remember Clara Primaire? Well, it appears the governor has – You understand?”
He had turned quite red. She, very pale, exclaimed: “Monsieur Mouret!”
“Funny taste – eh?” he resumed. “A woman who looks like a horse. The little girl from the under-linen department, whom he had twice last year, was, at least, good-looking. However, that’s his business.”
Denise, once upstairs, almost fainted away. It was surely through coming up too quick. Leaning out of the window she had a sudden vision of Valognes, the deserted street and grassy pavement, which she used to see from her room as a child; and she was seized with a desire to go and live there – to seek refuge in the peace and forgetfulness of the country. Paris irritated her, she hated The Ladies’ Paradise, she hardly knew why she had consented to go back. She would certainly suffer as much as ever there; she was already suffering from an unknown uneasiness since Deloche’s stories. Suddenly, without any notice, a flood of tears forced her to leave the window. She wept on for some time, and found a little courage to live on still. The next day at breakfast-time, as Robineau had sent her on an errand, and she was passing The Old Elbeuf, she pushed open the door on seeing Colomban alone in the shop. The Baudus were breakfasting; she could hear the clatter of the knives and forks in the little room.
“You can come in,” said the shopman. “They are at breakfast.”
But she motioned him to be silent, and drew him into a corner. Then, lowering her voice, she said: “It’s you I want to speak to. Have you no heart? Don’t you see that Geneviève loves you, and that it’s killing her.”
She was trembling, the previous night’s fever had taken possession of her again. He, frightened, surprised at this sudden attack, stood looking at her, without a word.
“Do you hear?” she continued. “Genevieve knows you love another. She told me so. She wept like a child. Ah, poor girl! she isn’t very strong now, I can tell you! If you had seen her thin arms! It’s heart-breaking. You can’t leave her to die like this!”
At last he spoke, quite overcome. “But she isn’t ill – you exaggerate! I don’t see anything myself. Besides, it’s her father who is postponing the marriage.”
Denise sharply corrected this falsehood, certain that the least persistence on the part of the young man would decide her uncle. As to Colomban’s surprise, it was not feigned; he had really never noticed Genevieve’s slow agony. For him it was a very disagreeable revelation; for while he remained ignorant of it, he had no great blame to tax himself with.
“And who for?” resumed Denise. “For a worthless girl! You can’t know who you are loving! Up to the present I have not wanted to hurt your feelings, I have often avoided answering your continual questions. Well! she goes with everybody, she laughs at you, you will never have her, or you may have her, like others, just once in a way.”
He listened to her, very pale; and at each of the sentences she threw into his face, his lips trembled. She, in a cruel fit, yielded to a transport of anger of which she had no consciousness. “In short,” said she in a final cry, “she’s with Monsieur Mouret, if you want to know!”
Her voice was stifled, she turned paler than Colomban himself. Both stood looking at each other. Then he stammered out: “I love her!”
Denise felt ashamed of herself. Why was she talking in this way to this young fellow? Why was she getting so excited? She stood there mute, the simple reply he had just given resounded in her heart like the clang of a bell, which deafened her. “I love her, I love her!” and it seemed to spread. He was right, he could not marry another woman. And as she turned round, she observed Genevieve on the threshold of the dining-room.
“Be quiet!” she said rapidly.
But it was too late, Genevieve must have heard, for her face was white bloodless. Just at that moment a customer opened the door – Madame Bourdelais, one of the last faithful customers of the Old Elbeuf where she found solid goods for her money; for a long time past Madame de Boves had followed the fashion, and gone over to The Ladies’ Paradise; Madame Marty herself no longer came, entirely captivated by the seductions of the display opposite. And Genevieve was forced to go forward, and say in her weak voice:
“What do you desire, madame?”
Madame Bourdelais wished to sec some flannel. Colomban took down a roll from a shelf. Genevieve showed the article; and both of them, their hands cold, found themselves brought together behind the counter. Meanwhile Baudu came out of the dining-room last, behind his wife, who had gone and seated herself at the pay-desk. At first he did not meddle with the sale, but stood up, looking at Madame Bourdelais.
“It is not good enough,” said the latter. “Show me the strongest you have.”
Colomban took down another bundle. There was a silence. Madame Bourdelais examined the stuff.
“How much?”
“Six francs, madame,” replied Genevieve. The lady made an abrupt movement. “Six francs!” said she. “But they have the same opposite at five francs.”
A slight contraction passed over Baudu’s face. He could not help interfering politely. No doubt madame made a mistake, the stuff ought to have been sold at six francs and a half; it was impossible to give it at five francs. It must be another quality she was referring to.
“No, no,” she repeated, with the obstinacy of a lady who could not be deceived. “The quality is the same. It may even be a little thicker.”
And the discussion got very warm. Baudu, his face getting bilious, made an effort to continue smiling. His bitterness against The Ladies’ Paradise was bursting in his throat.
“Really,” said Madame Bourdelais at last, “you must treat me better, otherwise I shall go opposite, like the others.”
He then lost his head, and cried out, shaking with a passion he could not repress: “Well! go opposite!”
At this she got up, greatly annoyed, and went away without turning round, saying: “That’s what I am going to do, sir.”
A general stupor ensued. The governor’s violence had frightened all of them. He was himself scared, and trembled at what he had just said. The phrase had escaped against his will in the explosion of a long pent-up rancour. And the Baudus now stood there motionless, following Madame Bourdelais with their looks, watching her cross the street. She seemed to be carrying off their fortune. When she slowly passed under the high door of The Ladies’ Paradise, when they saw her disappear in the crowd, they felt a sort of sudden wrench.
“There’s another they’ve taken from us!” murmured the draper. Then turning towards Denise, of whose re-engagement he was aware, he said: “You as well, they’ve taken you back. Oh, I don’t blame you for it. As they have the money, they are naturally the strongest.”
Just then, Denise, still hoping that Geneviève had not overheard Colomban, was saying to her: “He loves you. Try and cheer up.”
But the young girl replied to her in a very low and heartbroken voice: “Why do you tell me a falsehood? Look! he can’t help it, he’s always glancing up there. I know very well they’ve stolen him from me, as they’ve robbed us of everything else.”
Geneviève went and sat down on the seat at the desk near her mother. The latter had doubtless guessed the fresh blow received by her daughter, for her anxious eyes wandered from her to Colomban, and then to The Ladies’ Paradise. It was true, they had stolen everything from them: from the father, a fortune; from the mother, her dying child; from the daughter, a husband, waited for for ten years. Before this condemned family, Denise, whose heart was overflowing with pity, felt for an instant afraid of being wicked. Was she not going to assist this machine which was crushing the poor people? But she felt herself carried away as it were by an invisible force, and knew that she was doing no wrong.
“Bah!” resumed Baudu, to give himself courage; “we sha’n’t die over it, after all. For one customer lost we shall find two others. You hear, Denise, I’ve got over seventy thousand francs there, which will certainly trouble your Mouret’s rest. Come, come, you others, don’t look so glum!”
But he could not enliven them. He himself relapsed into a pale consternation; and they all stood with their eyes on the monster, attracted, possessed, full of their misfortune. The work was nearly finished, the scaffolding had been removed from the front, a whole side of the colossal edifice appeared, with its walls and large light windows.
Along the pavement at last open to circulation, stood eight vans that the messengers were loading one after the other.
In the sunshine, a ray of which ran along the street, the green panels, picked out with red and yellow, sparkled like so many mirrors, sending blinding reflections right into The Old Elbeuf. The drivers, dressed in black, of a correct appearance, were holding the horses well in, superb pairs, shaking their silvered bits. And each time a van was loaded, there was a sonorous, rolling noise, which made the neighbouring small shops tremble. And before this triumphal procession, which they were destined to submit to twice a day, the Baudus’ hearts broke. The father half fainted away, asking himself where this continual flood of goods could go to; whilst the mother, tormented to death about her daughter, continued to gaze into the street, her eyes drowned in a flood of tears.
