Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
CHAPTER IX
It was on a Monday, the 14th of March, that The Ladies’ Paradise inaugurated its new buildings by a great exhibition of summer novelties, which was to last three days. Outside, a sharp wind was blowing, the passers-by, surprised by this return of winter, spun along, buttoned up in their overcoats. However, behind the closed doors of the neighbouring shops, quite an agitation was fermenting; and one could see, against the windows, the pale faces of the small tradesmen, occupied in counting the first carriages which stopped before the new grand entrance in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. This door, lofty and deep like a church porch, surmounted by a group – Industry and Commerce hand-in-hand amidst a complication of symbols – was sheltered by a vast awning, the fresh gilding of which seemed to light up the pavement with a ray of sunshine. To the right and left stretched the shop fronts, barely dry and of a blinding whiteness, running along the Rue Monsigny and the Rue de la Michodière, occupying the whole island, except on the Rue du Dix-Décembre side, where the Crédit Immobilier intended to build. Along this barrack-like development, the small tradesmen, when they raised their heads, perceived the piles of goods through the large plate-glass windows which, from the ground floor up to the second storey, opened the house to the light of day. And this enormous cube, this colossal bazaar, shut out the sky from them, seeming to cause the cold which was making them shiver behind their frozen counters.
As early as six o’clock, Mouret was on the spot, giving his final orders. In the centre, starting from the grand entrance, a large gallery ran from end to end, flanked right and left by two narrower galleries, the Monsigny Gallery and the Michodière Gallery. The court-yards had been glazed and turned into halls, iron staircases rose from the ground floor, iron bridges were thrown from one end to the other on the two storeys. The architect, who happened to be a young man of talent with modern ideas, had only used stone for the under-ground floor and the corner pillars, constructing the whole ground with the corner pillars, constructing the whole carcase of iron, the assemblage of beams and rafters being supported by columns. The arches of the flooring and the partitions were of brickwork. Space had been gained everywhere, light and air entered freely, and the public circulated with the greatest ease under the bold flights of the far-stretching girders. It was the cathedral of modern commerce, light but solid, made for a nation of customers. Below, in the central gallery, after the door bargains, came the cravat, the glove, and the silk departments; the Monsigny Gallery was occupied by the linen and the Rouen goods; the Michodière Gallery by the mercery, the hosiery, the drapery, and the woollen departments. Then, on the first floor were installed the ready-made, the under-linen, the shawl, the lace, and other new departments, whilst the bedding, the carpets, the furnishing materials, all the cumbersome articles difficult to handle, had been relegated to the second floor. The number of departments was now thirty-nine, with eighteen hundred employees, of whom two hundred were women. Quite a little world operated there, in the sonorous life of the high metallic naves.
Mouret’s unique passion was to conquer woman. He wished her to be queen in his house, and he had built this temple to get her completely at his mercy. His sole aim was to intoxicate her with gallant attentions, and traffic on her desires, work on her fever. Night and day he racked his brain to invent fresh attractions. He had already introduced two lifts lined with velvet for the upper storeys, in order to spare delicate ladies the trouble of mounting the stairs. Then he had just opened a bar where the customers could find, gratis, some light refreshment, syrups and biscuits, and a reading-room, a monumental gallery, decorated with excessive luxury, in which he had even ventured on an exhibition of pictures. But his most profound idea was to conquer the mother through the child, when unable to do so through her coquetry; he neglected no means, speculated on every sentiment, created departments for little boys and girls, arresting the passing mothers by distributing pictures and air-balls to the children. A stroke of genius this idea of distributing to each buyer a red air-ball made of fine gutta-percha, bearing in large letters the name of the shop, and which, held by a string, floated in the air, parading in the streets a living advertisement.
But the greatest power of all was the advertising. Mouret spent three hundred thousand francs a year in catalogues, advertisements, and bills. For his summer sale he had launched forth two hundred thousand catalogues, of which fifty thousand went abroad, translated into every language. He now had them illustrated with engravings, even accompanying them with samples, gummed between the leaves. It was an overflowing display; The Ladies’ Paradise became a household word all over the world, invading the walls, the newspapers, and even the curtains at the theatres. He declared that woman was powerless against advertising, that she was bound to follow the crowd. Not only that, he laid still more seductive traps for her, analysing her like a great moralist. Thus he had discovered that she could not resist a bargain, that she bought without necessity when she thought she saw a cheap line, and on this observation he based his system of reductions in price, progressively lowering the price of unsold articles, preferring to sell them at a loss, faithful to his principle of the continual renewal of the goods. He had penetrated still further into the heart of woman, and had just thought of the “returns,” a masterpiece of Jesuitical seduction. “Take whatever you like, madame; you can return the article if you don’t like it.” And the woman who hesitated was provided with the last excuse, the possibility of repairing an extravagant folly, she took the article with an easy conscience. The returns and the reduction of prices now formed part of the classical working of the new style of business.
But where Mouret revealed himself as an unrivalled master was in the interior arrangement of the shops. He laid down as a law that not a corner of The Ladies’ Paradise ought to remain deserted, requiring everywhere a noise, a crowd, evidence of life; for life, said he, attracts life, increases and multiplies. From this law he drew all sorts of applications. In the first place, there ought always to be a crush at the entrance, so that the people in the street should mistake it for a riot; and he obtained this crush by placing a lot of bargains at the doors, shelves and baskets overflowing with very low-priced articles; so that the common people crowded there, stopping up the doorway, making the shop look as if it were crammed with customers, when it was often only half full. Then, in the galleries, he had the art of concealing the departments in which business was slack; for instance, the shawl department in summer, and the printed calico department in winter, he surrounded them with busy departments, drowning them with a continual uproar. It was he alone who had been inspired with the idea of placing on the second-floor the carpet and furniture counters, counters where the customers were less frequent, and which if placed on the ground floor would have caused empty, cold spaces. If he could have managed it, he would have had the street running through his shop.
Just at that moment, Mouret was a prey to an attack of inspiration. On the Saturday evening, as he was giving a last look at the preparations for the Monday’s great sale, he was suddenly struck with the idea that the arrangement of the departments adopted by him was wrong and stupid; and yet It seemed a perfectly logical arrangement: the stuffs on one side, the made-up articles on the other, an intelligent order of things which would enable the customers to find their way themselves. He had thought of this orderly arrangement formerly, in Madame Hédouin’s narrow shop; and now he felt his faith shaken, just as he carried out his idea. Suddenly he cried out that they would “have to alter all that.” They had forty-eight hours, and half what had been done had to be changed. The staff, frightened, bewildered, had been obliged to work two nights and the entire Sunday, amidst a frightful disorder. On the Monday morning even, an hour before the opening, there was still some goods to be placed. Decidedly the governor was going mad, no one understood, a general consternation prevailed.
“Come, look sharp!” cried Mouret, with the quiet assurance of his genius. “There are some more costumes to be taken upstairs. And the Japan goods, are they placed on the central landing? A last effort, my boys, you’ll see the sale by-and-by.”
Bourdoncle had also been there since daybreak. He did not understand any more than the others, and he followed the governor’s movements with an anxious eye. He hardly dared to ask him any questions, knowing how Mouret received people in these critical moments. However, he at last made up his mind, and gently asked: “Was it really necessary to upset everything like that, on the eve of our sale?”
At first Mouret shrugged his shoulders without replying. Then as the other persisted, he burst out: “So that all the customers should heap themselves into one corner – eh? A nice idea of mine! I should never have got over it! Don’t you see that it would have localised the crowd. A woman would have come in, gone straight to the department she wished, passed from the petticoat counter to the dress one, from the dress to the mantle, then retired, without having even lost herself for a moment? Not one would have thoroughly seen the establishment!”
“But,” remarked Bourdoncle, “now that you have disarranged everything, and thrown the goods all over the place, the employees will wear out their legs in guiding the customers from department to department.”
Mouret gave a look of superb contempt. “I don’t care a hang for that! They’re young, it’ll make them grow! So much the better if they do walk about! They’ll appear more numerous, and increase the crowd. The greater the crush the better; all will go well!” He laughed, and deigned to explain his idea, lowering his voice: “Look here, Bourdoncle, listen to the result. Firstly, this continual circulation of customers disperses them all over the shop, multiplies them, and makes them lose their heads; secondly, as they must be conducted from one end of the establishment to the other, if they want, for instance, a lining after having bought a dress, these journeys in every direction triple the size of the house in their eyes; thirdly, they are forced to traverse departments where they would never have set foot otherwise, temptations present themselves on their passage, and they succumb; fourthly – ”
Bourdoncle was now laughing with him. At this Mouret, delighted, stopped to call out to the messengers: “Very good, my boys! now for a sweep, and it’ll be splendid!”
But on turning round he perceived Denise. He and Bourdoncle were opposite the ready-made department, which he had just dismembered by sending the dresses and costumes up on the second-floor at the other end of the building. Denise, the first down, was opening her eyes with astonishment, quite bewildered by the new arrangements.
“What is it?” murmured she; “are we going to move?” This surprise appeared to amuse Mouret, who adored these sensational effects. Early in February Denise had returned to The Ladies’ Paradise, where she had been agreeably surprised to find the staff polite, almost respectful. Madame Aurélie especially was very kind; Marguerite and Clara seemed resigned; even down to old Jouve, who also bowed his head, with an awkward embarrassed air, as if desirous of effacing the disagreeable memory of the past. It sufficed that Mouret had said a few words, everybody was whispering, following her with their eyes. And in this general amiability, the only things that wounded her were Deloche’s singularly melancholy looks, and Paulines inexplicable smiles. However, Mouret was still looking at her in his delighted way.
“What is it you want, mademoiselle?” asked he at last.
Denise had noticed him. She blushed slightly. Since her return she had received marks of kindness from him which greatly touched her. Pauline, without her knowing why, had given her a full account of the governor’s and Clara’s love affairs: where he saw her, and what he paid her; and she often returned to the subject, even adding that he had another mistress, that Madame Desforges, well known by all the shop. Such stories stirred up Denise, she felt in his presence all her former fears, an uneasiness in which her gratitude was struggling against her anger.
“It’s all this confusion going on in the place,” she murmured.
Mouret then approached her and said in a lower voice:
“Have the goodness to come to my office this evening after business. I wish to speak to you.”
Greatly agitated, she bowed her head without saying a word. And she went into the department where the other saleswomen were now arriving. But Bourdoncle had overheard Mouret, and he looked at him with a smile. He even ventured to say when they were alone:
“That girl again! Be careful; it will end by being serious!”
Mouret hastily defended himself, concealing his emotion beneath an air of superior indifference. “Never fear, it’s only a joke! The woman who’ll catch me isn’t born, my dear fellow!”
And as the shop was opening at last, he rushed off to give a final look at the various counters. Bourdoncle shook his head. This Denise, so simple and quiet, began to make him uneasy. The first time, he had conquered by a brutal dismissal. But she had reappeared, and he felt she had become so strong that he now treated her as a redoubtable adversary, remaining mute before her, patiently waiting. Mouret, whom he caught up, was shouting out downstairs, in the Saint-Augustin Hall, opposite the entrance door:
“Are you playing with me? I ordered the blue parasols to be put as a border. Just pull all that down, and be quick about it!”
He would listen to nothing; a gang of messengers had to come and re-arrange the exhibition of parasols. Seeing the customers arriving, he even had the doors closed for a moment, declaring that he would not open them, rather than have the blue parasols in the centre. It ruined his composition. The renowned dressers, Hutin, Mignot, and others, came to look, and opened their eyes; but they affected not to understand, being of a different school.
At last the doors were opened again, and the crowd flowed in. From the first, before the shop was full, there was such a crush at the doorway that they were obliged to call the police to re-establish the circulation on the pavement. Mouret had calculated correctly; all the housekeepers, a compact troop of middle-class women and workmen’s wives, swarmed around the bargains and remnants displayed in the open street. They felt the “hung” goods at the entrance; a calico at seven sous, a wool and cotton grey stuff at nine sous, and, above all, an Orleans cloth at seven sous and half, which was emptying the poorer purses. There was an elbowing, a feverish crushing around the shelves and baskets containing the articles at reduced prices, lace at two sous, ribbon at five, garters at three the pair, gloves, petticoats, cravats, cotton socks, and stockings, were all tumbled about, and disappearing, as if swallowed up by the voracious crowd. Notwithstanding the cold, the shopmen who were selling in the open street could not serve fast enough. A woman in the family way cried out with pain; two little girls were nearly stifled.
All the morning this crush went on increasing. Towards one o’clock there was a crowd waiting to enter; the street was blocked as in a time of riot. Just at that moment, as Madame de Boves and her daughter Blanche were standing on the pavement opposite, hesitating, they were accosted by Madame Marty, also accompanied by her daughter Valentine.
“What a crowd – eh?” said the former. “They’re killing themselves inside. I ought not to have come, I was in bed, but got up to get a little fresh air.”
“Just like me,” said the other. “I promised my husband to go and see his sister at Montmartre. Then just as I was passing, I thought of a piece of braid I wanted. I may as well buy it here as anywhere else, mayn’t I? Oh, I sha’n’t spend a sou! in fact I don’t want anything.”
However, they did not take their eyes off the door, seized and carried away as it were by the force of the crowd.
“No, no, I’m not going in, I’m afraid,” murmured Madame de Boves. “Blanche, let’s go away, we should be crushed.” But her voice failed, she was gradually yielding to the desire to follow the others; and her fear dissolved in the irresistible attraction of the crush. Madame Marty was also giving way, repeating:
“Keep hold of my dress, Valentine. Ah, well! I’ve never seen such a thing before. You are lifted off your feet. What will it be like inside?”
The ladies, seized by the current, could not now go back. As streams attract to themselves the fugitive waters of a valley, so it seemed that the wave of customers, flowing into the vestibule, was absorbing the passers-by, drinking in the population from the four corners of Paris. They advanced but slowly, squeezed almost to death, kept upright by the shoulders and bellies around them, of which they felt the close heat; and their satisfied desire enjoyed the painful entrance which incited still further their curiosity. There was a pell-mell of ladies arrayed in silk, of poorly dressed middle-class women, and of bare-headed girls, all excited and carried away by the same passion. A few men buried beneath the overflow of bosoms were casting anxious glances around them. A nurse, in the thickest of the crowd, held her baby above her head, the youngster crowing with delight. The only one to get angry was a skinny woman, who broke out into bad words, accusing her neighbour of digging right into her.
“I really think I shall lose my skirts in this crowd,” remarked Madame de Boves.
Mute, her face still fresh from the open air, Madame Marty was standing on tip-toe to see above the others’ heads into the depths of the shop. The pupils of her grey eyes were as contracted as those of a cat coming out of the broad daylight; she had the reposed flesh, and the clear expression of a person just waking up.
“Ah, at last!” said she, heaving a sigh.
The ladies had just extricated themselves. They were in the Saint-Augustin Hall, which they were greatly surprised to find almost empty. But a feeling of comfort invaded them, they seemed to be entering into spring-time after emerging from the winter of the street. Whilst outside, the frozen wind, laden with rain and hail, was still blowing, the fine season, in The Paradise galleries, was already budding forth with the light stuffs, the flowery brilliancy of the tender shades, the rural gaiety of the summer dresses and the parasols.
“Do look there!” exclaimed Madame de Boves, standing motionless, her eyes in the air.
It was the exhibition of parasols. Wide-open, rounded off like shields, they covered the whole hall, from the glazed roof to the varnished oak mouldings below. They described festoons round the semi-circular arches of the upper storeys; they descended in garlands along the slender columns; they ran along in close lines on the balustrades of the galleries and the staircases; and everywhere, ranged symmetrically, speckling the walls with red, green, and yellow, they looked like great Venetian lanterns, lighted up for some colossal entertainment. In the corners were more complicated patterns, stars composed of parasols at thirty-nine sous, the light shades of which, pale-blue, cream-white, and blush rose, seemed to burn with the sweetness of a night-light; whilst up above, immense Japanese parasols, on which golden-coloured cranes soared in a purple sky, blazed forth with the reflections of a great conflagration.
Madame Marty endeavoured to find a phrase to express her rapture, but could only exclaim, “It’s like fairyland!” Then trying to find out where she was she continued: “Let’s see, the braid is in the mercery department. I shall buy my braid and be off.”
“I will go with you,” said Madame de Boves. “Eh? Blanche, we’ll just go through the shop, nothing more.”
But they had hardly left the door before they lost themselves. They turned to the left, and as the mercery department had been moved, they dropped right into the middle of the one devoted to collarettes, cuffs, trimmings, &c. It was very warm under the galleries, a hot-house heat, moist and close, laden with the insipid odour of the stuffs, and in which the stamping of the crowd was stifled. They then returned to the door, where an outward current was already established, an interminable line of women and children, over whom floated a multitude of red air-balls. Forty thousand of these were ready; there were men specially placed for their distribution. To see the customers who were going out, one would have thought there was a flight of enormous soap-bubbles above them, at the end of the almost invisible strings, reflecting the fiery glare of the parasols. The whole place was illuminated by them.
“There’s quite a world here!” declared Madame de Boves. “You hardly know where you are.”
However, the ladies could not remain in the eddy of the door, right in the crush of the entrance and exit. Fortunately, Jouve, the inspector, came to their assistance. He stood in the vestibule, grave, attentive, eyeing each woman as she passed. Specially charged with the inside police, he was on the lookout for thieves, and especially followed women in the family way, when the fever of their eyes became too alarming.
“The mercery department, ladies?” said he obligingly, “turn to the left; look! just there behind the hosiery department.”
Madame de Boves thanked him. But Madame Marty, turning round, no longer saw her daughter Valentine beside her. She was beginning to feel frightened, when she caught sight of her, already a long way off, at the end of the Saint-Augustin Hall, deeply absorbed before a table covered with a heap of women’s cravats at nineteen sous. Mouret practised the system of offering articles to the customers, hooking and plundering them as they passed; for he used every sort of advertisement, laughing at the discretion of certain fellow-tradesmen who thought the articles should be left to speak for themselves. Special salesmen, idle and smooth-tongued Parisians, thus got rid of considerable quantities of small trashy things.
“Oh, mamma!” murmured Valentine, “just look at these cravats. They have a bird embroidered at the corners.”
The shopman cracked up the article, swore it was all silk, that the manufacturer had become bankrupt, and that they would never have such a bargain again.
“Nineteen sous – is it possible?” said Madame Marty, tempted as well as her daughter. “Well! I can take a couple, that won’t ruin us.”
Madame de Boves disdained this style of thing, she detested things being offered. A shopman calling her made her run away. Madame Marty, surprised, could not understand this nervous horror of commercial quackery, for she was of another nature; she was one of those fortunate women who delight in being thus violated, in bathing in the caress of this public offering, with the enjoyment of plunging one’s hands in everything, and wasting one’s time in useless talk.
“Now,” she said, “I’m going for my braid. I don’t wish to see anything else.”
However, as she crossed the cravat and glove departments, her heart once more failed her. There was, under the diffuse light, a display made up of bright and gay colours, which produced a ravishing effect The counters, symmetrically arranged, seemed like so many flower-borders, changing the hall into a French garden, in which smiled a tender gamut of blossoms. Lying on the bare wood, in open boxes, and protruding from the overflowing drawers, a quantity of silk hand-kerchiefs displayed the bright scarlet of the geranium, the creamy white of the petunia, the golden yellow of the chrysanthemum, the sky-blue of the verbena; and higher up, on brass stems, twined another florescence, fichus carelessly hung, ribbons unrolled, quite a brilliant cordon, which extended along, climbed up the columns, and were multiplied indefinitely by the mirrors. But what most attracted the crowd was a Swiss cottage in the glove department, made entirely of gloves, a chef d’ouvre of Mignot’s, which had taken him two days to arrange. In the first place, the ground-floor was composed of black gloves; then came straw-coloured, mignonette, and red gloves, distributed in the decoration, bordering the windows, forming the balconies, and taking the place of the tiles.
“What do you desire, madame?” asked Mignot, on seeing Madame Marty planted before the cottage. “Here are some Swedish kid gloves at one franc fifteen sous, first quality.”
He offered his wares with furious energy, calling the passing customers from the end of his counter, dunning them with his politeness. As she shook her head in refusal he confined: “Tyrolian gloves, one franc five sous. Turin gloves for children, embroidered gloves in all colours.”
“No, thanks; I don’t want anything,” declared Madame Marty.
But feeling that her voice was softening, he attacked her with greater energy than ever, holding the embroidered gloves before her eyes; and she could not resist, she bought a pair. Then, as Madame de Boves looked at her with a smile, she blushed.
“Don’t you think me childish – eh? If I don’t make haste and get my braid and be off, I shall be done for.”
Unfortunately, there was such a crush in the mercery department that she could not get served. They had both been waiting for over ten minutes, and were getting annoyed, when the sudden meeting with Madame Bourdelais occupied their attention. The latter explained, with her quiet practical air, that she had just brought the little ones to see the show. Madeleine was ten, Edmond eight, and Lucien four years old; and they were laughing with joy, it was a cheap treat long promised.
“They are really too comical; I shall buy a red parasol,” said Madame Marty all at once, stamping with impatience at being there doing nothing.
She choose one at fourteen francs and a-half. Madame Bourdelais, after having watched the purchase with a look of blame, said to her amicably: “You are very wrong to be in such a hurry. In a month’s time you could have had it for ten francs. They won’t catch me like that.”
And she developed quite a theory of careful housekeeping. As the shops lowered their prices, it was simply a question of waiting. She did not wish to be taken in by them, so she preferred to take advantage of their real bargains. She even showed a feeling of malice in the struggle, boasting that she had never left them a sou profit.
“Come,” said she at last, “I’ve promised my little ones to show them the pictures upstairs in the reading-room. Come up with us, you have plenty of time.”
And the braid was forgotten. Madame Marty yielded at once, whilst Madame de Boves refused, preferring to take a turn on the ground-floor first. Besides, they were sure to meet again upstairs. Madame Bourdelais was looking for a staircase when she perceived one of the lifts; and she pushed her children in to complete their pleasure. Madame Marty and Valentine also entered the narrow cage, where they were closely packed; but the mirrors, the velvet seats, and the polished brasswork took up their attention so much that they arrived at the first storey without having felt the gentle ascent of the machine. Another pleasure was in store for them, in the first gallery. As they passed before the refreshment bar, Madame Bourdelais did not fail to gorge her little family with syrup. It was a square room with a large marble counter; at the two ends there were silvered fountains from which flowed a small stream of water; whilst rows of bottles stood on small shelves behind. Three waiters were continually engaged wiping and filling the glasses. To restrain the thirsty crowd, they had been obliged to establish a system of turns, as at theatres and railway-stations, by erecting a barrier covered with velvet. The crush was terrific. Some people, losing all shame before these gratuitous treats, made themselves ill.
“Well! where are they?” exclaimed Madame Bourdelais when she extricated herself from the crowd, after having wiped the children’s faces with her handkerchief.
But she caught sight of Madame Marty and Valentine at the further end of another gallery, a long way off. Both buried beneath a heap of petticoats, were still buying. They were conquered, the mother and daughter were rapidly disappearing in the fever of spending which was carrying them away. When she at last arrived in the reading-room Madame Bourdelais installed Madeleine, Edmond, and Lucien before the large table; then taking from one of the shelves some photographic albums she brought them to them. The ceiling of the long apartment was covered with gold; at the two extremities, monumental chimney-pieces faced each other; some rather poor pictures, very richly framed, covered the walls; and between the columns before each of the arched bays opening into the various shops, were tall green plants in majolica vases. Quite a silent crowd surrounded the table, which was littered with reviews and newspapers, with here and there some ink-stands and boxes of stationery. Ladies took off their gloves, and wrote their letters on the paper stamped with the name of the house, which they crossed out with a dash of the pen. A few men, lolling back in the armchairs, were reading the newspapers. But a great many people sat there doing nothing: husbands waiting for their wives, let loose in the various departments, discreet young women looking out for their lovers, old relations left there as in a cloak-room, to be taken away when time to leave. And this little society, comfortably installed, quietly reposed itself there, glancing through the open bays into the depths of the galleries and the halls, from which a distant murmur ascended above the grating of the pens and the rustling of the newspapers.
