Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
CHAPTER XII
It was on the 25th of September that the building of the new façade of The Ladies’ Paradise was commenced. Baron Hartmann, according to his promise, had had the matter settled at the last general meeting of the Credit Immobilier. And Mouret was at length going to enjoy the realisation of his dreams; this façade, about to arise in the Rue du Dix-Décembre, was like the very blossoming of his fortune. He wished, therefore, to celebrate the laying of the first stone, to make a ceremony of the work, and he distributed gratuities amongst his employees, and gave them game and champagne for dinner in the evening. Every one noticed his wonderfully good humour during the ceremony, his victorious gesture as he laid the first stone, with a flourish of the trowel. For weeks he had been anxious, agitated by a nervous torment that he did not always succeed in concealing; and his triumph served as a respite, a distraction in his suffering. During the afternoon he seemed to have returned to his former healthy gaiety. But, after dinner, when he went through the refectory to drink a glass of champagne with his staff, he appeared feverish again, smiling with a painful look, his features drawn up by the unavowed pain that was devouring him. He was once more mastered by it.
The next day, in the ready-made department, Clara tried to be disagreeable with Denise. She had noticed Colomban’s bashful passion, and took it into her head to joke about the Baudus. As Marguerite was sharpening her pencil while waiting for customers, she said to her, in a loud voice:
“You know my lover opposite. It really grieves me to see him in that dark shop, where no one ever enters.”
“He’s not so badly off,” replied Marguerite, “he’s going to marry the governor’s daughter.”
“Oh! oh!” replied Clara, “it would be good fun to lead him astray, then! I’ll try the game on, my word of honour!” And she continued in the same strain, happy to feel Denise was shocked. The latter forgave her everything else; but the idea of her dying cousin Geneviève, finished by this cruelty, threw her into an indignant rage. At that moment a customer came in, and as Madame Aurélie had just gone downstairs, she took the direction of the counter, and called Clara.
“Mademoiselle Prunaire, you had better attend to this lady instead of gossiping there.”
“I wasn’t gossiping.”
“Have the kindness to hold your tongue, and attend to this lady immediately.”
Clara gave in, conquered. When Denise showed her authority, quietly, without raising her voice, not one of them resisted. She had acquired absolute authority by her very moderation and sweetness. For a moment she walked up and down in silence, amidst the young ladies, who had become very serious. Marguerite had resumed sharpening her pencil, the point of which was always breaking. She alone continued to approve of Denise’s resistance to Mouret, shaking her head, not acknowledging the baby she had had, but declaring that if they had any idea of the consequences of such a thing, they would prefer to remain virtuous.
“What! you’re getting angry?” said a voice behind Denise.
It was Pauline, who was crossing the department. She had noticed the scene, and spoke in a low tone, smiling.
“But I’m obliged to,” replied Denise in the same tone, “I can’t manage them otherwise.”
Pauline shrugged her shoulders. “Nonsense, you can be queen over all of us whenever you like.”
She was still unable to understand her friend’s refusal. Since the end of August, Pauline had been married to Baugé, a most stupid affair, she would sometimes gaily remark. The terrible Bourdoncle treated her anyhow, now, considering her as lost for trade. Her only terror was that they might one fine day send them to love each other elsewhere, for the managers had decreed love to be execrable and fatal to business. So great was her fear, that, when she met Baugé in the galleries, she affected not to know him. She had just had a fright – old Jouve had nearly caught her talking to her husband behind a pile of dusters.
“See! he’s followed me,” added she, after having hastily related the adventure to Denise. “Just look at him scenting me out with his big nose!”
Jouve, in fact, was then coming from the lace department, correctly arrayed in a white tie, his nose on the scent for some delinquent. But when he saw Denise he assumed a knowing air, and passed by with an amiable smile.
“Saved!” murmured Pauline. “My dear, you made him swallow that! I say, if anything should happen to me, you would speak for me, wouldn’t you! Yes, yes, don’t put on that astonished air, we know that a word from you would revolutionise the house.”
And she ran off to her counter. Denise had blushed, troubled by these amicable allusions. It was true, however. She had a vague sensation of her power by the flatteries with which she was surrounded. When Madame Aurélie returned, and found the department quiet and busy under the surveillance of the second-hand, she smiled at her amicably. She threw over Mouret himself, her amiability increased daily for this young girl who might one fine morning desire her situation as first-hand. Denise’s reign was commencing.
Bourdoncle alone still stood out. In the secret war which he continued to carry on against the young girl, there was in the first place a natural antipathy, he detested her for her gentleness and her charm. Then he fought against her as a fatal influence which would place the house in peril the day when Mouret should succumb. The governor’s commercial genius seemed bound to sink amidst this stupid affection: what they had gained by women would be swallowed up by this woman. None of them touched his heart, he treated them with the disdain of a man without passion, whose trade is to live on them, and who had had his last illusions dispelled by seeing them too closely in the miseries of his traffic. Instead of intoxicating him, the odour of these seventy thousand customers gave him frightful headaches: and so soon as he reached home he beat his mistresses. And what made him especially anxious in the presence of this little saleswoman, who had gradually become so redoubtable, was that he did not in the least believe in her disinterestedness, in the genuineness of her refusals. For him she was playing a part, the most skilful of parts; for if she had yielded at once, Mouret would doubtless have forgotten her the next day; whilst by refusing, she had goaded his desires, rendering him mad, capable of any folly. An artful jade, a woman learned in vice, would not have acted any different to this pattern of innocence.
Thus Bourdoncle could never catch sight of her, with her clear eyes, sweet face, and simple attitude, without being seized with a real fear, as if he had before him some disguised female flesh-eater, the sombre enigma of woman, Death in the guise of a virgin. In what way could he confound the tactics of this false novice? He was now only anxious to penetrate her artful ways, in the hope of exposing them to the light of day. She would certainly commit some fault, he would surprise her with one of her lovers, and she should again be dismissed. The house would then resume its regular working like a well wound-up machine.
“Keep a good look-out, Monsieur Jouve,” repeated Bourdoncle to the inspector. “I’ll take care that you shall be rewarded.”
But Jouve was somewhat lukewarm, he knew something about women, and was asking himself whether he had not better take the part of this young girl, who might be the future sovereign mistress of the place. Though he did not now dare to touch her, he still thought her bewitchingly pretty. His colonel in bygone days had killed himself for a similar little thing, with an insignificant face, delicate and modest, one look from whom ravaged all hearts.
“I do,” replied he. “But, on my word, I cannot discover anything.”
And yet stories were circulating, there was quite a stream of abominable tittle-tattle running beneath the flattery and respect Denise felt arising around her. The whole house now declared that she had formerly had Hutin for a lover; no one could swear that the intimacy still continued, but they were suspected of meeting from time to time. Deloche also was said to sleep with her, they were continually meeting in dark corners, talking for hours together. It was quite a scandal!
“So, nothing about the first-hand in the silk department, nor about the young man in the lace one?” asked Bourdoncle.
“No, sir, nothing yet,” replied the inspector.
It was with Deloche especially that Bourdoncle expected to surprise Denise. One morning he himself had caught them laughing together downstairs. In the meantime, he treated her on a footing of perfect equality, for he no longer disdained her, he felt her to be strong enough to overthrow even him, notwithstanding his ten years’ service, if he lost the game.
“Keep your eye on the young man in the lace department,” concluded he each time. “They are always together. If you catch them, call me, I’ll manage the rest.”
Mouret, however, was living in anguish. Was it possible that this child could torture him in this manner? He could always recall her arriving at The Ladies’ Paradise, with her big shoes, thin black dress, and savage airs. She stammered, they all used to laugh at her, he himself had thought her ugly at first. Ugly! and now she could have brought him on his knees by a look, he thought her nothing less than an angel! Then she had remained the last in the house, repulsed, joked at, treated by him as a curious specimen of humanity. For months he had wanted to see how a girl sprung up, and had amused himself at this experiment, without understanding that he was risking his heart. She, little by little grew up, became redoubtable. Perhaps he had loved her from the first moment, even at the time he thought he felt nothing but pity for her. And yet he had only really begun to feel this love the evening of their walk under the chestnut trees of the Tuileries. His life started from there, he could still hear the laughing of a group of little girls, the distant fall of a jet of water, whilst in the warm shade she walked on beside him in silence. After that he knew no more, his fever had increased hour by hour; all his blood, his whole being, in fact, was sacrificed. And for such a child – was it possible? When she passed him now, the slight wind from her dress seemed so powerful that he staggered.
For a long time he had struggled, and even now he frequently became indignant, endeavouring to extricate himself from this idiotic possession. What secret had she to be able to bind him in this way? Had he not seen her without boots? Had she not been received almost out of charity? He could have understood it had it been a question of one of those superb creatures who charm the crowd, but this little girl; this nobody! She had, in short, one of those insignificant faces which excite no remark. She could not even be very intelligent, for he remembered her bad beginning as a saleswoman. But, after every explosion of anger, he had experienced a relapse of passion, like a sacred terror at having insulted his idol. She possessed everything that renders a woman good – courage, gaiety, simplicity; and there exhaled from her gentleness, a charm of a penetrating, perfume-like subtlety. One might at first ignore her, or elbow her like any other girl; but the charm soon began to act, with a slow invincible force; one belonged to her for ever, if she deigned to smile. Everything then smiled in her white face, her pretty eyes, her cheeks and chin full of dimples; whilst her heavy blonde hair seemed to light up also, with a royal and conquering beauty. He acknowledged himself vanquished; she was as intelligent as she was beautiful, her intelligence came from the best part of her being. Whilst the other saleswomen had only a superficial education, the varnish which scales off from girls of that class, she, without any false elegance, retained her native grace, the savour of her origin. The most complete commercial ideas sprang up from her experience, under this narrow forehead, the pure lines of which clearly announced the presence of a firm will and a love of order. And he could have clasped his hands to ask her pardon for having blasphemed her during his hours of revolt.
Why did she still refuse with such obstinacy. Twenty times had he entreated her, increasing his offers, offering money and more money. Then, thinking she must be ambitious, he had promised to appoint her first-hand, as soon as there should be a vacant department And she refused, and still she refused Î For him it was a stupor, a struggle in which his desire became enraged. Such an adventure appeared to him impossible, this child would certainly finish by yielding, for he had always regarded a woman’s virtue as a relative matter. He could see no other object, everything disappeared before this necessity: to have her at last in his room, to take her on his knees, and, kiss her on her lips; and at this vision, the blood of his veins ran quick and strong, he trembled, distracted by his own powerlessness.
His days now passed in the same grievous obsession, Denise’s image rose with him; after having dreamed of her all night, it followed him before the desk in his office, where he signed his bills and orders from nine to ten o’clock: a work which he accomplished mechanically, never ceasing to feel her present, still saying no, with her quiet air. Then, at ten o’clock, came the board-meeting, a meeting of the twelve directors, at which he had to preside; they discussed matters affecting the in-door arrangements, examined the purchases, settled the window displays; and she was still there, he heard her soft voice amidst the figures, he saw her bright smile in the most complicated financial situations. After the board-meeting, she still accompanied him, making with him the daily inspection of the counters, returned with him to his office in the afternoon, remaining close to his chair from two till four o’clock, whilst he received a crowd of important business men, the principal manufacturers of all France, bankers, inventors; a continual come-and-go of the riches and intelligence of the land, an excited dance of millions, rapid interviews during which were hatched the biggest affairs on the Paris market. If he forgot her for a moment whilst deciding on the ruin or the prosperity of an industry, he found her again at a twitch of his heart; his voice died away, he asked himself what was the use of this princely fortune when she still refused. At last, when five o’clock struck, he had to sign the day’s correspondence, the mechanical working of his hand again commenced, whilst she rose up before him more dominating than ever, seizing him entirely, to possess him during the solitary and ardent hours of the night. And the morrow was the same day over again, those days so active, so full of a colossal labour, which the slight shadow of a child sufficed to ravage with anguish.
But it was especially during his daily inspection of the departments that he felt his misery. To have built up this giant machine, to reign over such a world of people, and to be dying of grief because a little girl would not accept him! He scorned himself, dragging the fever and shame of his pain about with him everywhere. On certain days he became disgusted with his power, feeling a nausea at the very sight of the long galleries. At other times he would have wished to extend his empire, and make it so vast that she would perhaps yield out of sheer admiration and fear.
He first of all stopped in the basement opposite the shoot. It was still in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin; but it had been necessary to enlarge it, and it was now as wide as the bed of a river, down which the continual flood of goods rolled with the loud noise of rushing water; it was a constant succession of arrivals from all parts of the world, rows of waggons from all railways, a ceaseless discharging of merchandise, a stream of boxes and bales running underground, absorbed by the insatiable establishment. He gazed at this torrent flowing into his house, thought of his position as one of the masters of the public fortune, that he held in his hands the fate of the French manufacturers, and that he was unable to buy a kiss from one of his saleswomen.
Then he passed on to the receiving department, which now occupied that part of the basement running along the Rue Monsigny. Twenty tables were ranged there, in the pale light of the air-holes; dozens of shopmen were bustling about, emptying the cases, checking the goods, and marking them in plain figures, amidst the roar of the shoot, which almost drowned their voices. Various managers of departments stopped him, he had to resolve difficulties and confirm orders. This cellar was filled with the tender glimmer of the satin, the whiteness of the linen, a prodigious unpacking in which the furs were mingled with the lace, the fancy goods with the Eastern curtains. With a slow step he made his way amongst all these riches thrown about in disorder, heaped up in their rough state. Above, they were destined to ornament the window displays, letting loose the race after money across the counters, no sooner shown than carried off, in the furious current of business which traversed the place. He thought of his having offered the young girl silks, velvets, anything she liked to take in any quantities, from these enormous heaps, and that she had refused by a shake of her fair head.
After that, he passed on to the other end of the basement, to pay his usual visit to the delivery department. Interminable corridors ran along, lighted up with gas; to the right and to the left, the reserves, closed in with gratings, were like so many subterranean stores, a complete commercial quarter, with its haberdashery, underclothing, glove, and other shops, sleeping in the shade. Further on was placed one of the three stoves; further still, a fireman’s post guarding the gas-meter, enclosed in its iron cage. He found, in the delivery department, the sorting tables already blocked with loads of parcels, bandboxes, and cases, continually arriving in large baskets; and Campion, the superintendent, gave him some particulars about the current work, whilst the twenty men placed under his orders distributed the parcels into large compartments, each bearing the name of a district of Paris, and from whence the messengers took them up to the vans, ranged along the pavement. One heard a series of cries, names of streets, and recommendations shouted out; quite an uproar, an agitation such as on board a mail boat about to start. And he stood there for a moment, motionless, looking at this discharge of goods which he had just seen absorbed by the house, at the opposite extremity of the basement: the enormous current there discharged itself into the street, after having filled the tills with gold. His eyes became misty, this colossal business no longer had any importance; he had but one idea, that of going away to some distant, land, and abandoning everything, if she persisted in saying no.
He then went upstairs, continuing his inspection, talking, and agitating himself more and more, without finding any respite. On the second floor he entered the correspondence department, picking quarrels, secretly exasperated against the perfect regularity of this machine that he had himself built up. This department was the one that was daily assuming the most considerable importance; it now required two hundred employees – some opening, reading, and classifying the letters coming from the provinces and abroad, whilst others gathered into compartments the goods ordered by the correspondents. And the number of letters was increasing to such an extent that they no longer counted them; they weighed them, receiving as much as a hundred pounds per day. He, feverish, went through the three offices, questioning Levasseur as to the weight of the correspondence; eighty pounds, ninety pounds, sometimes, on a Monday, a hundred pounds. The figure increased daily, he ought to have been delighted. But he stood shuddering, in the noise made by the neighbouring squad of packers nailing down the cases. Vainly he roamed about the house; the fixed idea remained fast in his mind, and as his power unfolded itself before him, as the mechanism of the business and the army of employees passed before his gaze, he felt more profoundly than ever the insult of his powerlessness. Orders from all Europe were flowing in, a special post-office van was required for his correspondence; and yet she said no, always no.
He went downstairs again, visiting the central cashier’s office, where four clerks guarded the two giants safes, in which there had passed the previous year forty-eight million francs. He glanced at the clearing-house, which now occupied twenty-five clerks, chosen from amongst the most trustworthy. He went into the next office, where twenty-five young men, junior clerks, were engaged in checking the debit-notes, and calculating the salesmen’s commission. He returned to the chief cashier’s office, exasperated at the sight of the safes, wandering amidst these millions, the uselessness of which drove him mad. She said no, always no.
And it was always no, in all the departments, in the galleries, in the saloons, and in every part of the establishment! He went from the silk to the drapery department, from the linen to the lace department, he ascended to the upper floors, stopping on the flying bridges, prolonging his inspection with a maniacal, grievous minuteness. The house had grown out of all bounds, he had created this department, then this other; he governed this fresh domain, he extended his empire into this industry, the last one conquered; and it was no, always no, in spite of everything. His staff would now have sufficed to people a small town: there were fifteen hundred salesmen, and a thousand other employees of every sort, including forty inspectors and seventy cashiers; the kitchens alone gave occupation to thirty-two men; ten clerks were set apart for the advertising; there were three hundred and fifty shop messengers, all wearing livery, and twenty-four firemen living on the premises. And, in the stables, royal buildings situated in the Rue Monsigny, opposite the warehouse, were one hundred and forty-five horses, a luxurious establishment which was already celebrated in Paris. The first four conveyances which used formerly to stir up the whole neighbourhood, when the house occupied only the corner of the Place Gaillon, had gradually increased to sixty-two trucks, one-horse vans, and heavy two-horse ones. They were continually scouring Paris, driven with knowing skill by drivers dressed in black, promenading the gold and purple sign of The Ladies’ Paradise. They even went beyond the fortifications, into the suburbs; they were to be met on the dusty roads of Bicêtre, along the banks of the Marne, even in the shady drives of the Forest of Saint-Germain. Sometimes one would spring up from the depths of some sunny avenue, where all was silent and deserted, the superb animals trotting along, throwing into the mysterious peacefulness of this grand nature the loud advertisement of its varnished panels. He was even dreaming of launching them further still, into the neighbouring departments; he would have liked to hear them rolling along every road in France, from one frontier to the other. But he no longer even troubled to visit his horses, though he was passionately fond of them. Of what good was this conquest of the world, since it was no, always no?
At present, in the evening, when he arrived at Lhomme’s desk, he still looked through habit at the amount of the takings written on a card, which the cashier stuck on an iron file at his side; this figure rarely fell below a hundred thousand francs, sometimes it ran up to eight and nine hundred thousand, on big sale days; but these figures no longer sounded in his ears like a trumpet-blast, he regretted having looked at them, going away full of bitterness and scorn for money.
But Mouret’s sufferings were destined to increase, for he became jealous. One morning, in the office, before the boardmeeting commenced, Bourdoncle ventured to hint that the little girl in the ready-made department was playing with him.
“How?” asked he, very pale.
“Yes! she has lovers in this very building.”
Mouret found strength to smile. “I don’t think any more about her, my dear fellow. You can speak freely. Who are her lovers?”
“Hutin, they say, and then a salesman in the lace department – Deloche, that tall awkward fellow. I can’t speak with certainty, never having seen them together. But it appears that it’s notorious.”
There was a silence. Mouret affected to arrange the papers on his desk, to conceal the trembling of his hands. At last, he observed, without raising his head: “We must have proofs, try and bring me some proofs. As for me, I assure you I don’t, care in the least, for I’m quite sick of her. But we can’t allow such things to go on here.”
Bourdoncle simply replied: “Never fear, you shall have proofs one of these days. I’m keeping a good look out.”
This news deprived Mouret of all rest. He no longer had the courage to return to this conversation, but lived in the continual expectation of a catastrophe, in which his heart would be crushed. And this torment rendered him terrible, the whole house trembled before him. He now disdained to conceal himself behind Bourdoncle, but performed the executions in person, feeling a nervous desire for revenge, solacing himself by an abuse of his power, of that power which could do nothing for the contentment of his sole desire. Each one of his inspections became a massacre, his appearance caused a panic to run along from counter to counter. The dead winter season was just then approaching, and he made a clean sweep in the departments, multiplying the victims and pushing them into the streets. His first idea had been to dismiss Hutin and Deloche; then he had reflected that if he did not keep them, he would never discover anything; and the others suffered for them: the whole staff trembled. In the evening, when he found himself alone again, his eyes swelled up, big with tears.
One day especially terror reigned supreme. An inspector had the idea that Mignot was stealing. There were always a lot of strange-looking girls prowling around his counter; and one of them had just been arrested, her thighs and bosom padded with sixty pairs of gloves. From that moment a watch was kept, and the inspector caught Mignot in the act, facilitating the sleight of hand of a tall fair girl, formerly a saleswoman at the Louvre, but since gone wrong: the manouvre was very simple, he affected to try some gloves on her, waited till she had padded herself, and then conducted her to the pay-desk, where she paid for a single pair only. Mouret happened to be there, just at that moment. As a rule, he preferred not to mix himself up with these sort of adventures, which were pretty frequent; for notwithstanding the regular working of the well-arranged machine, great disorder reigned in certain departments of The Ladies’ Paradise, and scarcely a week passed without some employee being dismissed for theft. The authorities preferred to hush up such matters as far as possible, considering it useless to set the police at work, and thus expose one of the fatal plague-spots of these great bazaars. But, that day, Mouret felt a real need of getting angry with some one, and he treated the handsome Mignot with such violence, and the latter stood there trembling with fear, his face pale and discomposed.
“I ought to call a policeman,” cried Mouret, before all the other salesmen. “But why don’t you answer? who is this woman? I swear I’ll send for the police, if you don’t tell me the truth.”
They had taken the woman away, and two saleswomen were undressing her. Mignot stammered out: “I don’t know her, sir. She’s the one who came – ”
“Don’t tell lies!” interrupted Mouret, in a violent rage. “And there’s nobody here to warn us! You are all in the plot, on my word! We are in a regular wood, robbed, pillaged, plundered. It’s enough to make us have the pockets of each one searched before going out!”
Murmurs were heard. The three or four customers buying gloves stood looking on, frightened.
“Silence!” resumed he, furiously, “or I’ll clear the place!”
But Bourdoncle came running up, anxious at the idea of the scandal. He whispered a few words in Mouret’s ear, the affair was assuming an exceptional gravity; and he prevailed on him to take Mignot into the inspectors’ office, a room on the ground floor near the entrance in the Rue Gaillon. The woman was there, quietly putting on her stays again. She had just mentioned Albert Lhomme’s name. Mignot, again questioned, lost his head, and commenced to sob; he wasn’t in fault, it was Albert who sent him his mistresses; at first he had merely afforded them certain advantages, enabling them to profit by the bargains; then, when they at last took to stealing, he was already too far compromised to report the matter. The principals now discovered a series of extraordinary robberies; goods taken away by girls, who went into the neighbouring W.Cs, built near the refreshment bar and surrounded by evergreen plants, to hide the goods under their petticoats; purchases that a salesman neglected to call out at a pay-desk, when he accompanied a customer there, the price of which he divided with the cashier; even down to false returns, articles which they announced as brought back to the house, pocketing the money thus repaid; without even mentioning the classical robbery, parcels taken out under their coats in the evening, rolled round their bodies, and sometimes even hung down their leg’s. For the last fourteen months, thanks to Mignot and other salesmen, no doubt, whom they refused to name, this pilfering had been going on at Albert’s desk, quite an impudent trade, for sums of which no one ever knew the exact total.
