Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
“What! you here!” said Madame Bourdelais. “I didn’t know you.”
Near the children was a lady concealed behind the pages of a review. It was Madame Guibal She seemed annoyed at the meeting; but quickly recovering herself, related that she had come to sit down for a moment to escape the crush. And as Madame Bourdelais asked her if she was going to make any purchases, she replied with her languorous air, hiding behind her eyelashes the egoistical greediness of her looks:
“Oh! no. On the contrary, I have come to return some goods. Yes, some door-curtains which I don’t like. But there is such a crowd that I am waiting to get near the department.”
She went on talking, saying how convenient this system of returns was; formerly she never bought anything, but now she sometimes allowed herself to be tempted. In fact, she returned four articles out of five, and was getting known at all the counters for her strange system of buying, and her eternal discontent which made her bring back the articles one by one, after having kept them several days. But, whilst speaking, she did not take her eyes off the doors of the reading-room; and she appeared greatly relieved when Madame Bourdelais rejoined her children, to explain the photographs to them. Almost at the same moment Monsieur de Boves and Paul de Vallagnosc came in. The count, who affected to be showing the young man through the new buildings, exchanged a rapid glance with Madame Guibal; and she then plunged into her review again, as if she had not seen him.
“Hullo, Paul!” suddenly exclaimed a voice behind these gentlemen.
It was Mouret, on his way round to give a look at the various departments. They shook hands, and he at once asked: “Has Madame de Boves done us the honour of coming?”
“Well, no,” replied the husband, “and she very much regrets it. She’s not very well. Oh! nothing dangerous!” But suddenly he pretended to catch sight of Madame Guibal, and ran off, going up to her bareheaded, whilst the others merely bowed to her from a distance. She also pretended to be surprised. Paul smiled; he now understood the affair, and he related to Mouret in a low voice how De Boves, whom he had met in the Rue Richelieu, had tried to get away from him, and had finished by dragging him into The Ladies’ Paradise, under the pretext that he must show him the new buildings. For the last year the lady had drawn from De Boves all the money and pleasure she could, never writing to him, making appointments with him in public places, churches, museums, and shops, to arrange their affairs.
“I fancy that at each meeting they change their hôtel,” murmured the young man. “Not long ago, he was on a tour of inspection; he wrote to his wife every day from Blois, Libourne, and Tarbes; and yet I feel convinced I saw them going into a family boarding-house at Batignolles. But look at him, isn’t he splendid before her with his military correctness! The old French gallantry, my dear fellow, the old French gallantry!”
“And your marriage?” asked Mouret Paul, without taking his eyes off the count, replied that they were still waiting for the death of the aunt. Then, with a triumphant air: “There, did you see him? He stooped down, and slipped an address into her hand. She’s now accepting with the most virtuous air. She’s a terrible woman, that delicate red-haired creature with her careless ways. Well! there are some fine things going on in your place!”
“Oh!” said Mouret, smiling, “these ladies are not in my house, they are at home here.”
He then began to joke. Love, like the swallows, always brought good luck to a house. No doubt he knew the girls who wandered about from counter to counter, the ladies who accidentally met a friend in the shop; but if they bought nothing, they filled up a place, and helped to crowd and warm the shop. Still continuing his gossip, he carried his old comrade off, and planted him on the threshold of the reading-room, opposite the grand central gallery, the successive halls of which ran along at their feet. Behind them, the reading-room still retained its quiet air, only disturbed by the scratching of the pens and the rustling of the newspapers. One old gentleman had gone to sleep over the Moniteur. Monsieur de Boves was looking at the pictures, with the evident intention of losing his future son-in-law in the crowd as soon as possible. And, alone, amid this calmness, Madame Bourdelais was amusing her children, talking very loud, as in a conquered place.
“You see they are quite at home,” said Mouret, who pointed with a broad gesture to the multitude of women with which the departments were overflowing.
Just at that moment Madame Desforges, after having nearly had her mantle carried away in the crowd, at last came in and crossed the first hall. Then, on reaching the principal gallery, she raised her eyes. It was like a railway span, surrounded by the balustrades of the two storeys, intersected by hanging staircases, crossed by flying bridges. The iron staircases developed bold curves, multiplying the landings; the iron bridges suspended in space, ran straight along, very high up; and all this iron formed, beneath the white light of the windows, an excessively light architecture, a complicated lace-work through which the daylight penetrated, the modern realisation of a dreamed-of palace, of a Babel-like heaping up of the storeys, enlarging the rooms, opening up glimpses on to other floors and into other rooms without end. In fact, iron reigned everywhere; the young architect had had the honesty and courage not to disguise it under a coating of paint imitating stone or wood. Down below, in order not to outshine the goods, the decoration was sober, with large regular spaces in neutral tints; then as the metallic work ascended, the capitals of the columns became richer, the rivets formed ornaments, the shoulder-pieces and corbels were loaded with sculptured work; up above, there was a mass of painting, green and red, amidst a prodigality of gold, floods of gold, heaps of gold, even to the glazed-work, the glass of which was enamelled and inlaid with gold. Under the covered galleries, the bare brick-work of the arches was also decorated in bright colours. Mosaics and earthenware also formed part of the decoration, enlivening the friezes, lighting up with their fresh notes the severity of the whole; whilst the stairs, with their red velvet covered hand-rails, were edged with a band of curved polished iron, which shone like the steel of a piece of armour.
Although she had already seen the new establishment
Madame Desforges stood still, struck by the ardent life which was this day animating the immense nave. Below, around her, continued the eddying of the crowd, of which the double current of those entering and those going out made itself felt as far as the silk department; a crowd still very mixed in its elements, though the afternoon was bringing a greater number of ladies amongst the shopkeepers and house-wives; a great many women in mourning, with their flowing veils, and the inevitable wet nurses straying about, protecting their babies with their outstretched arms. And this sea of faces, these many-coloured hats, these bare heads, both dark and light, rolled from one end of the gallery to the other, confused and discoloured amidst the loud glare of the stuffs. Madame Desforges could see nothing but large price tickets bearing enormous figures everywhere, their white patches standing out on the bright printed cottons, the shining silks, and the sombre woollens. Piles of ribbons curtailed the heads, a wall of flannel threw out a promontory; on all sides the mirrors carried the departments back into infinite space, reflecting the displays with portions of the public, faces reversed, and halves of shoulders and arms; whilst to the right and to the left the lateral galleries opened up other vistas, the snowy background of the linen department, the speckled depth of the hosiery one, distant views illuminated by the rays of light from some glazed bay, and in which the crowd appeared nothing but a mass of human dust. Then, when Madame Desforges raised her eyes, she saw, along the staircases, on the flying bridges, around the balustrade of each storey, a continual humming ascent, an entire population in the air, travelling in the cuttings of the enormous ironwork construction, casting black shadows on the diffused light of the enamelled windows. Large gilded lustres hung from the ceiling; a decoration of rugs, embroidered silks, stuffs worked with gold, hung down, draping the balustrade with gorgeous banners; and, from one end to the other, there were clouds of lace, palpitations of muslin, trophies of silks, apotheoses of half-dressed dummies; and right at the top, above all this confusion, the bedding department, suspended as it were, displayed little iron bedsteads with their mattresses, hung with their white curtains, a sort of school dormitory sleeping amidst the stamping of the customers, rarer and rarer as the departments ascended.
“Does madame require a cheap pair of garters?” asked a salesman of Madame Desforges, seeing her standing still “All silk, twenty-nine sous.”
She did not deign to answer. Things were being offered around her more feverishly than ever. She wanted, however, to find out where she was. Albert Lhomme’s pay-desk was on her left; he knew her by sight and ventured to give her an amiable smile, not in the least hurry in the midst of the heaps of bills by which he was besieged; whilst, behind him, Joseph, struggling with the string-box, could not pack up the articles fast enough. She then saw where she was; the silk department must be in front of her. But it took her ten minutes to get there, the crowd was becoming so immense. Up in the air, at the end of their invisible strings, the red air-balls had become more numerous than ever; they now formed clouds of purple, gently blowing towards the doors, continuing to scatter themselves over Paris; and she had to bow her head beneath the flight of air-balls, when very young children held them, the string rolled round their little fingers.
“What! you have ventured here, madame?” exclaimed Bouthemont gaily, as soon as he caught sight of Madame Desforges.
The manager of the silk department, introduced to her by Mouret himself, was now in the habit of sometimes calling on her at her five o’clock tea. She thought him common, but very amiable, of a fine sanguine temper, which surprised and amused her. Besides, about two days before he had openly related to her the affair between Mouret and Clara, without any calculation, out of stupidity, like a fellow who loves a joke; and, stung with jealousy, concealing her wounded feelings beneath an appearance of disdain, she had come to try and discover her rival, a young lady in the dress department he had merely said, refusing to name her.
“Do you require anything to-day?” he asked her.
“Of course, or else I should not have come. Have you any silk for morning gowns?”
She hoped to obtain the name of the young lady from him, for she was full of a desire to see her. He immediately called Favier; and resumed talking to her, whilst waiting for the salesman, who was just finishing serving a customer who happened to be “the pretty lady,” that beautiful blonde of whom the whole department occasionally spoke, without knowing anything of her life or even her name. This time the pretty lady was in deep mourning. Ah, who had she lost – her husband or her father? Not her father, or she would have appeared more melancholy. What had they been saying? She was not a gay woman then; she had a real husband. Unless, however, she should be in mourning for her mother. For a few minutes, notwithstanding the press of business, the department exchanged these various speculations.
“Make haste! it’s intolerable!” cried Hutin to Favier, who had just returned from showing his customer to the pay-desk. “When that lady is here you never seem to finish. She doesn’t care a fig for you!”
“She cares a deuced sight more for me than I do for her!” replied the vexed salesman.
But Hutin threatened to report him to the directors if he did not show more respect for the customers. He was getting terrible, of a morose severity, since the department had conspired together to get him into Robineau’s place. He even showed himself so intolerable, after the promises of good-fellowship, with which he had formerly warmed his colleagues, that the latter were now secretly supporting Favier against him.
“Now, then, no back answers,” replied Hutin sharply. “Monsieur Bouthemont wishes you to show some light designs in silks.”
In the middle of the department, an exhibition of summer silks lighted up the hall with an aurora-like brilliancy, like the rising of a star, in the most delicate tints possible: pale rose, tender yellow, limpid blue, the entire gamut of Iris. There were silks of a cloudy fineness, surahs lighter than the down falling from the trees, satined pekins soft and supple as a Chinese virgin’s skin. There were, moreover, Japanese pongees, Indian tussores and corahs, without counting the light French silks, the thousand stripes, the small checks, the flowered patterns, all the most fanciful designs, which made one think of ladies in furbelows, walking about, in the sweet May mornings, under the immense trees of some park.
“I’ll take this, the Louis XIV. with figured roses,” said Madame Desforges at last.
And whilst Favier was measuring it, she made a last attempt with Bouthemont, who had remained near her.
“I’m going up to the ready-made department to see if there are any travelling cloaks. Is she fair, the young lady you were talking about?”
The manager, who felt rather anxious on finding her so persistent, merely smiled. But, just at that moment, Denise went by. She had just passed on to Liénard, who had charge of the merinoes, Madame Boutarel, that provincial lady who came up to Paris twice a year, to scatter all over The Ladies’ Paradise the money she scraped together out of her housekeeping. And as Favier was about to take up Madame Desforges’s silk, Hutin, thinking to annoy him, interfered.
“It’s quite unnecessary, Mademoiselle Denise will have the kindness to conduct this lady.”
Denise, quite confused, at once took charge of the parcel and the debit-note. She could never meet this young man face to face without experiencing a feeling of shame, as if he reminded her of a former fault; and yet she had only sinned in her dreams.
“But, tell me,” said Madame Desforges, in a low tone, to Bouthemont, “isn’t it this awkward girl? He has taken her back, then? But it is she, the heroine of the adventure!”
“Perhaps,” replied the head of department, still smiling, and fully decided not to tell the truth.
Madame Desforges then slowly ascended the staircase, preceded by Denise; but she had to stop every two or three steps to avoid being carried away by the descending crowd. In the living vibration of the whole building, the iron supports seemed to stagger beneath the weight, as if continually trembling from the breath of the crowd On each stair was a dummy, strongly fixed, displaying some garment: a costume, cloak, or dressing-gown; and it was like a double row of soldiers for some triumphal march-past, with the little wooden arm like the handle of a poniard, stuck into the red swan-skin, which gave a bloody appearance to the stump of a neck crowning the whole.
Madame Desforges was at last reaching the first storey, when a still greater surging of the crowd forced her to stop once more. She had now, beneath her, the departments on the ground-floor, with the press of customers she had just passed through. It was a new spectacle, a sea of heads fore-shortened, concealing the bodices, swarming with a busy agitation. The white price tickets now appeared but so many thin lines, the promontory of flannels cut through the gallery like a narrow wall; whilst the carpets and the embroidered silks which decked the balustrades hung at her feet like processional banners suspended from the gallery of a church. In the distance, she could perceive the angles of the lateral galleries, as from the top of a steeple one perceives the corners of the neighbouring streets, with the black spots of the passers-by moving about. But what surprised her above all, in the fatigue of her eyes blinded by the brilliant pell mell of colours, was, when she lowered her lids, to feel the crowe more than its dull noise like the rising tide, and the human warmth that it exhaled. A fine dust rose from the floor, laden with the odour of woman, the odour of her linen and her bust, of her skirts and her hair, an invading, penetrating odour, which seemed to be the incense of this temple raised for the worship of her body.
Meanwhile Mouret, still standing up before the reading-room with De Vallagnosc, was inhaling this odour, intoxicating himself with it, and repeating: “They are quite at home. I know some who spend the whole day here, eating cakes and writing their letters. There’s only one thing more to do, and that is, to find them beds.”
This joke made Paul smile, he who, in the ennui of his pessimism, continued to think the crowd stupid in thus running after a lot of gew-gaws. Whenever he came to give his old comrade a look up, he went away almost vexed to see him so full of life amidst his people of coquettes. Would not one of them, with shallow brain and empty heart, teach him one day the stupidity and uselessness of existence? That very day Octave seemed to lose some of his admirable equilibrium; he who generally inspired his customers with a fever, with the tranquil grace of an operator, was as though seized by the passion with which the establishment was gradually burning. Since he had caught sight of Denise and Madame Desforges coming up the grand staircase, he had been talking louder, gesticulating against his will; and, whilst affecting not to turn his face towards them, he became more and more animated as he felt them drawing nearer. His face got redder, his eyes had a little of that rapture with which the eyes of his customers ultimately vacillated.
“You must be robbed fearfully,” murmured De Vallagnosc, who thought the crowd looked very criminal.
Mouret threw his arms out “My dear fellow, it’s beyond all imagination.”
And, nervously, delighted at having something to talk about, he gave a number of details, related cases, and classified the subjects. In the first place, there were the professional thieves; these women did the least harm of all, for the police knew every one of them. Then came the kleptomaniacs, who stole from a perverse desire, a new sort of nervous affection which a mad doctor had classed, proving the results of the temptation provided by the big shops. In the last place must be counted the women in an interesting condition, whose robberies were of a special order. For instance, at the house of one of them, the superintendent of police had found two hundred and forty-eight pairs of pink gloves stolen from every shop in Paris.
“That’s what makes the women have such funny eyes here, then,” murmured De Vallagnosc; “I’ve been watching them with their greedy, shameful looks, like mad creatures. A fine school for honesty!”
“Hang it!” replied Mouret, “though we make them quite at home, we can’t let them take away the goods under their mantles. And sometimes they are very respectable people. Last week we had the sister of a chemist, and the wife of a councillor. We try and settle these matters.”
He stopped to point out Jouve, the inspector, who was just then looking sharp after a woman in the family way, down below at the ribbon counter. This woman, whose enormous belly suffered a great deal from the pushing of the crowd, was accompanied by a friend, whose mission appeared to be to defend her against the heavy shocks, and each time she stopped in a department, Jouve did not take his eyes off her, whilst her friend near her ransacked the card-board boxes at her ease.
“Oh! he’ll catch her!” resumed Mouret; “he knows all their tricks.”
But his voice trembled, he laughed in an awkward manner. Denise and Henriette, whom he had ceased to watch, were at last passing behind him, after having had a great deal of trouble to get out of the crowd. He turned round suddenly, and bowed to his customer with the discreet air of a friend who does not wish to compromise a woman by stopping her in the middle of a crowd of people. But the latter, on the alert, had at once perceived the look with which he had first enveloped Denise. It must be this girl, this was the rival she had had the curiosity to come and see.
In the ready-made department, the young ladies were losing their heads. Two of them had fallen ill, and Madame Frédéric, the second-hand, had quietly given notice the previous day, and gone to the cashier’s office to take her money, leaving The Ladies’ Paradise all in a minute, as The Ladies’ Paradise itself discharged its employees. Ever since the morning, in spite of the feverish rush of business, every one had been talking of this adventure. Clara, maintained in the department by Mouret’s caprice, thought it grand. Marguerite related how exasperated Bourdoncle was; whilst Madame Aurélie, greatly vexed, declared that Madame Frédéric ought at least to have informed her, for such hypocrisy had never before been heard of.
Although the latter had never confided in any one, she was suspected of having given up drapery business to marry the proprietor of some of the baths in the neighbourhood of the Halles.
“It’s a travelling cloak that madame desires, I believe?” asked Denise of Madame Desforges, after having offered her a chair.
“Yes,” replied the latter, curtly, decided on being rude.
The new decorations of the department were of a rich severity: high carved oak cupboards, mirrors filling the whole space of the panels, and a red Wilton carpet, which stifled the continued movement of the customers. Whilst Denise was gone for the cloaks, Madame Desforges, who was looking round, perceived herself in a glass; and she continued contemplating herself. She must be getting old to be cast aside for the first-comer. The glass reflected the entire department with its commotion, but she only beheld her own pale face; she did not hear Clara behind her relating to Marguerite instances of Madame Frederic’s mysterious ways, the manner in which she went out of her way night and morning to go through the Passage Choiseul, in order to make believe that she perhaps lived over the water.
“Here are our latest designs,” said Denise. “We have them in several colours.”
She laid out four or five cloaks. Madame Desforges looked at them with a scornful air, and became harsher at each fresh one she examined. Why those frillings which made the garment look so scanty? and the other one, square across the shoulders, one would have thought it had been cut out with a hatchet. Though it was for travelling she could not dress like a sentry-box.
“Show me something else, mademoiselle.”
Denise unfolded and folded the garments without the slightest sign of ill temper. And it was just this calm, serene patience which exasperated Madame Desforges still further. Her looks continually returned to the glass in front of her. Now that she saw herself there, close to Denise, she made a comparison. Was it possible that he should prefer this insignificant creature to herself? She now remembered that this was the girl she had formerly seen making her début with such a silly figure, awkward as a peasant girl just arrived from her village. No doubt she looked better now, stiff and correct in her silk dress. But how puny, how common-place!
“I will show you some other models, madame,” said Denise, quietly.
When she returned, the scene began again. Then it was the cloth that was heavy and no good whatever. Madame Desforges turned round, raised her voice, endeavouring to attract Madame Aurélie’s attention, in the hope of getting the young girl a scolding. But Denise, since her return, had gradually conquered the department, and now felt quite at home in it; the first-hand had even recognised in her some rare and valuable qualities as a saleswoman – an obstinate sweetness, a smiling conviction. Therefore Madame Aurélie simply shrugged her shoulders, taking care not to interfere.
“Would you kindly tell me the kind of garment you require, madame?” asked Denise, once more, with her polite persistence, which nothing could discourage.
“But you’ve got nothing!” exclaimed Madame Desforges.
She stopped, surprised to feel a hand laid on her shoulder. It was Madame Marty, carried right through the establishment by her fever for spending. Her purchases had increased to such an extent, since the cravats, the embroidered gloves, and the red parasol, that the last salesman had just decided to place the whole on a chair, for it would have broken his arm; and he walked in front of her, drawing the chair along, on which was heaped up a pile of petticoats, napkins, curtains, a lamp, and three straw hats.
“Ah!” said she, “you are buying a travelling cloak.”
“Oh! dear, no,” replied Madame Desforges; “they are frightful.”
But Madame Marty had just noticed a striped cloak which she rather liked. Her daughter Valentine was already examining it. So Denise called Marguerite to clear the article out of the department, it being a model of the previous year, and the latter, at a glance from her comrade, presented it as an exceptional bargain. When she had sworn that they had lowered the price twice, that from a hundred and fifty francs, they had reduced it to a hundred and thirty, and that it was now at a hundred and ten, Madame Marty could not withstand the temptation of its cheapness. She bought it, and the salesman who accompanied her left the chair and the parcel, with the debit-notes attached to the goods.
Meanwhile, behind the ladies’ backs, and amidst the jostlings of the sale, the gossip of the department about Madame Frédéric still went on.
“Really! she had some one?” asked a little saleswoman, fresh in the department.
“The bath-man of course!” replied Clara. “Mustn’t trust those sly, quiet widows.”
Then while Marguerite was debiting, Madam Marty turned her head and desired Clara by a slight movement of the eyebrows, she whispered to Madame Desforges: “Monsieur Mouret’s caprice, you know!”
The other, surprised, looked at Clara; then, turning her eyes towards Denise, replied: “But it isn’t the tall one; the little one!”
And as Madame Marty could not be sure which, Madame Desforges resumed aloud, with the scorn of a lady for chambermaids: “Perhaps the tall one and the little one; all those who like!”
Denise had heard everything. She turned pale, and raised her big, pure eyes on this lady who was thus wounding her, and whom she did not know. No doubt it was the lady of whom they had spoken to her, the lady whom the governor saw outside. In the look that was exchanged between them, Denise displayed such a melancholy dignity, such a frank innocence, that Henriette felt quite awkward.
“As you have nothing presentable to show me here, conduct me to the dress and costume department,” said she, abruptly.
“I’ll go with you as well,” exclaimed Madame Marty, “I wanted to see a costume for Valentine.”
Marguerite took the chair by its back, and dragged it along on its hind feet, that were getting worn by this species of cartage. Denise only carried a few yards of silk, bought by Madame Desforges. It was quite a journey, now that the robes and costumes were on the second floor, at the other end of the establishment.
And the long journey commenced along the crowded galleries. Marguerite walked in front, drawing the chair along, like a little carriage, slowly opening herself a passage. As soon as she reached the under-linen department, Madame Desforges began to complain: wasn’t it ridiculous, a shop where one was obliged to walk a couple of leagues to find the least thing! Madame Marty also said she was tired to death, yet she did not the less enjoy this fatigue, this slow exhaustion of her strength, amidst the inexhaustible treasures displayed on every side. Mouret’s idea, full of genius, seized upon her, stopping her at each department. She made a first halt before the trousseaux, tempted by some chemises that Pauline sold her; and Marguerite found herself relieved from the burden of the chair, which Pauline had to take, with the debit-notes. Madame Desforges could have gone on her road, and thus have liberated Denise quicker, but she seemed happy to feel her behind her, motionless and patient, whilst she was lingering there, advising her friend. In the baby-linen department the ladies went into ecstasies, without buying anything. Then Madame Marty’s weakness commenced anew; she succumbed successively before a black silk corset, a pair of fur cuffs, sold at a reduction on account of the lateness of the season, and some Russian lace much in vogue at that time for trimming table-linen. All these things were heaped up on the chair, the parcels still increased, making the chair creak; and the salesmen who succeeded each other, found it more and more difficult to drag along as the load became heavier.
“This way, madame,” said Denise without a murmur, after each halt.
“But it’s absurd!” exclaimed Madame Desforges. “We shall never get there. Why not have put the dresses and costumes near the ready-made department? It is a jumble!”
Madame Marty, whose eyes were sparkling, intoxicated by this succession of riches dancing before her, repeated in a half whisper:
“Oh, dear! What will my husband say? You are right, there is no order in this place. You lose yourself, and commit all sorts of follies.”
On the great central landing, the chair, could barely pass. Mouret had just blocked the space with a lot of fancy goods, drinking-cups mounted on gilded zinc, trashy dressing-cases and liqueur stands, being of opinion that the crowd was not sufficiently great, and that circulation was too easy. He had authorised one of his shopmen to exhibit there on a small table Chinese and Japanese curiosities, knick-knacks at a low price, which the customers eagerly snatched up. It was an unexpected success, and he already thought of extending this business. Whilst two messengers carried the chair up to the second storey, Madame Marty bought six ivory studs, some silk mice, and an enamelled match-box.
