Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
Meanwhile the news had spread into the various departments, causing the guilty consciences to tremble, and the most honest ones to quake at the general sweep that seemed imminent. Albert had disappeared into the inspectors’ office. Next his father had passed, choking, his face full of blood, showing signs of apoplexy. Madame Aurélie herself was then called; and she, her head high beneath the affront, had the fat, puffed-up appearance of a wax mask. The explanation lasted some time, no one knew the exact details; but it was said the firsthand had slapped her son’s face, and that the worthy old father wept, whilst the governor, contrary to all his elegant habits, swore like a trooper, absolutely wanting to deliver the offenders up to justice. However, the scandal was hushed up. Mignot was the only one dismissed there and then. Albert did not disappear till two days later; no doubt his mother had begged that the family should not be dishonoured by an immediate execution. But the panic lasted several days longer, for after this scene Mouret had wandered from one end of the establishment to the other, with a terrible expression, venting his anger on all those who dared even to raise their eyes.
“What are you doing there, sir, looking at the flies? Go and be paid!”
At last, the storm burst one day on the head of Hutin himself. Favier, appointed second-hand, was undermining the first-hand, in order to dislodge him from his position. This was always the way; he addressed crafty reports to the directors, taking advantage of every occasion to have the first-hand caught doing something wrong. Thus, one morning, as Mouret was going through the silk department, he stopped, surprised to see Favier engaged in altering the price tickets of a stock of black velvet.
“Why are you lowering the prices?” asked he. “Who gave you the order to do so?”
The second-hand, who was making a great noise over this work, as if he wished to attract the governor’s attention, foreseeing the result, replied with an innocent, surprised air:
“Why, Monsieur Hutin told me, sir.”
“Monsieur Hutin! Where is Monsieur Hutin?”
And when the latter came upstairs, called by a salesman, an animated explanation ensued. What! he undertook to lower the prices himself now! But he appeared greatly astonished in his turn, having merely talked over the matter with Favier, without giving any positive orders. The latter then assumed the sorrowful air of an employee who finds himself obliged to contradict his superior. However, he was quite willing to accept the blame, if it would get the latter out of a scrape. Things began to look very bad.
“Understand, Monsieur Hutin!” cried Mouret, “I have never tolerated these attempts at independence. We alone decide about the prices.”
He continued, with a sharp voice, and wounding intentions, which surprised the salesmen, for as a rule these discussions were carried on quietly, and the case might really have resulted from a misunderstanding. One could feel he had some unavowed spite to satisfy. He had at last caught that Hutin at fault, that Hutin who was said to be Denise’s lover! He could now solace himself, by making him feel that he was the master! And he exaggerated matters, even insinuating that this reduction of price appeared to conceal very questionable intentions.
“Sir,” repeated Hutin, “I meant to consult you about it. It is really necessary, as you know, for these velvets have not succeeded.”
Mouret cut him short with a final insult. “Very good, sir; we will look into the matter. But don’t do such a thing again, if you value your place.”
And he walked off. Hutin, bewildered, furious, finding no one but Favier to confide in, swore he would go and throw his resignation at the brute’s head. But he soon left off talking of going away, and began to stir up all the abominable accusations which were current amongst the salesmen against their chiefs. And Favier, his eye sparkling, defended himself with a great show of sympathy. He was obliged to reply, wasn’t he? Besides, could any one have foreseen such a row for so trifling a matter? What had come to the governor lately, that he should be so unbearable?
“We all know what’s the matter with him,” replied Hutin, “Is it my fault if that little jade in the dress-department is turning his head? My dear fellow, you can see the blow comes from there. He’s aware I’ve slept with her, and he doesn’t like it; or perhaps it’s she herself who wants to get me pitched out, because I’m in her way. But I swear she shall hear from me, if ever she crosses my path.”
Two days after, as Hutin was going up into the work-room, upstairs, under the roof, to recommend a person, he started on perceiving at the end of a passage Denise and Deloche leaning out of a window, and plunged so deeply in private conversation that they did not even turn round. The idea of having them caught occurred to him suddenly, when he perceived with astonishment that Deloche was weeping. He at once went away without making any noise; and meeting Bourdoncle and Jouve on the stairs, told them some story about one of the extincteurs the door of which seemed to be broken; in this way they would go upstairs and drop on to the two others. Bourdoncle discovered them first. He stopped short, and told Jouve to go and fetch the governor, whilst he remained there. The inspector had to obey, greatly annoyed at being forced to compromise himself in such a matter.
This was a lost corner of the vast world in which the people of The Ladies’ Paradise worked. One arrived there by a complication of stairs and passages. The work-rooms occupied the top of the house, a succession of low sloping rooms, lighted by large windows cut in the zinc roof, furnished solely with long tables and enormous iron stoves; and right along were a crowd of work-girls of all sorts, for the under-clothing, the lace, the dressmaking, and the house furnishing; living winter and summer in a stifling heat, amidst the odour special to the business; and one had to go straight through the wing, and turn to the right on passing the dressmakers, before coming to this solitary end of the corridor. The rare customers, that a salesman occasionally brought here for an order, gasped for breath, tired out, frightened, with the sensation of having been turning round for hours and hours, and of being a hundred leagues above the street.
Denise had often found Deloche waiting for her. As secondhand she had charge of the arrangements between her department and the work-room where only the models and alterations were done, and was always going up and down to give the necessary orders. He watched for her, inventing any pretext to run after her; then he affected to be surprised when he met her at the work-room door. She got to laugh about the matter, it became quite an understood thing. The corridor ran alongside the cistern, an enormous iron tank containing twelve thousand gallons of water; and there was another one of equal size on the roof, reached by an iron ladder. For an instant, Deloche would stand talking, leaning with one shoulder against the cistern in the continual abandonment of his long body, bent with fatigue. The noise of the water was heard, a mysterious noise of which the iron tank ever retained the musical vibration. Notwithstanding the deep silence, Denise would turn round anxiously, thinking she had seen a shadow pass on the bare, yellow-painted walls. But the window would soon attract them, they would lean out, and forget themselves in a pleasant gossip, in endless souvenirs of their native place. Below them, extended the immense glass roof of the central gallery, a lake of glass bounded by the distant housetops, like a rocky coast. Beyond, they saw nothing but the sky, a sheet of sky, which reflected in the sleeping water of the glazed work the flight of its clouds and the tender blue of its azure.
It so happened that Deloche was speaking of Valognes that day. “I was six years old; my mother took me to Valognes market in a cart. You know it’s ten miles away; we had to leave Bricquebec at five o’clock. It’s a fine country down our way. Do you know it?”
“Yes, yes,” replied Denise, slowly, her looks lost in the distance. “I was there once, but was very little then. Nice roads with grass on each side, aren’t there? and now and again sheep browsing in couples, dragging their clog along by the rope.” She stopped, then resumed with a vague smile: “Our roads run as straight as an arrow for miles between rows of trees which afford a lot of shade. We have meadows surrounded with hedges taller than I am, where there are horses and cows feeding. We have a little river, and the water is very cold, under the brushwood, in a spot I know well.”
“It is the same with us, exactly!” cried Deloche, delighted. “There’s grass everywhere, each one encloses his plot with thorns and elms, and is at once at home; and it’s quite green, a green far different to what we see in Paris. Dear me! what fun I’ve had at the bottom of the road, to the left, coming down from the mill!”
And their voices died away, they stopped with their eyes fixed and lost on the sunny lake of the glazed work. A mirage rose up before them from this blinding water, they saw an endless succession of meadows, the Cotentin bathed in the balmy breath of the ocean, a luminous vapour, which melted the horizon into a delicate pearly grey. Below, under the colossal iron framework, in the silk hall, roared the business, the trepidation of the machine at work; the entire house vibrated with the trampling of the crowd, the bustle of the shopmen, and the life of the thirty thousand persons elbowing each other there; and they, carried away by their dreams, on feeling this profound and dull clamour with which the roofs were resounding, thought they heard the wind passing over the grass, shaking the tall trees.
“Ah! Mademoiselle Denise,” stammered Deloche, “why aren’t you kinder to me? I love you so much!” Tears had come into his eyes, and as she tried to interrupt him with a gesture, he continued quickly: “No – let me tell you these things once more. We should get on so well together! People always find something to talk about when they come from the same place.”
He was choking, and she at last managed to say kindly: “You’re not reasonable; you promised me never to speak of that again. It’s impossible. I have a good friendship for you, because you’re a nice fellow; but I wish to remain free.”
“Yes, yes. I know it,” replied he in a broken voice, “you don’t love me. Oh! you may say so, I quite understand it. There’s nothing in me to make you love me. Listen, I’ve only had one sweet moment in my life, and that was when I met you at Joinville, do you remember? For a moment under the trees, when it was so dark, I thought your arm trembled, and was stupid enough to imagine – ”
But she again interrupted him. Her quick ear had just caught Bourdoncle’s and Jouve’s steps at the end of the corridor.
“Hark, there’s some one coming.”
“No,” said he, preventing her leaving the window, “it’s in the cistern: all sorts of extraordinary noises come up from it, as if there were some one inside.”
And he continued his timid, caressing complaints. She was no longer listening to him, rocked into dreamland by this declaration of love, her looks wandering over the roofs of The Ladies’ Paradise. To the right and the left of the glazed gallery, other galleries, other halls, were glistening in the sun, between the tops of the houses, pierced with windows and running along symmetrically, like the wings of a barracks. Immense metallic works rose up, ladders, bridges, describing a lacework of iron in the air; whilst the kitchen chimneys threw out an immense volume of smoke like a factory, and the great square cistern, supported in the air on wrought-iron pillars, assumed a strange, barbarous profile, hoisted up to this height by the pride of one man. In the distance, Paris was roaring.
When Denise returned from this dreamy state, from this fanciful development of The Ladies’ Paradise, in which her thoughts floated as in a vast solitude, she found that Deloche had seized her hand. And he appeared so woe-begone, so full of grief, that she had not the heart to draw it away.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “It’s all over now; I should be quite too miserable if you punished me by withdrawing your friendship. I assure you I intended to say something else. Yes, I had determined to understand the situation and be very good.” His tears again began to flow, he tried to steady his voice. “For I know my lot in life. It is too late for my luck to turn. Beaten at home, beaten in Paris, beaten everywhere. I’ve now been here four years and am still the last in the department So I wanted to tell you not to trouble on my account. I won’t annoy you any longer. Try to be happy, love some one else; yes, that would really be a pleasure for me. If you are happy, I shall be also. That will be my happiness.”
He could say no more. As if to seal his promise he raised the young girl’s hand to his lips – kissing it with the humble kiss of a slave. She was deeply affected, and said simply, in a tender, sisterly tone, which attenuated somewhat the pity of the words:
“My poor boy!”
But they started, and turned round; Mouret was standing before them.
For the last ten minutes, Jouve had been searching for the governor all over the place; but the latter was looking at the works going on for the new façade in the Rue du Dix-Décembre. He spent long hours there every day, trying to interest himself in this work, of which he had so long dreamed. This was his refuge against his torments, amidst the masons laying the immense corner-stones, and the engineers setting up the great iron framework. The façade already appeared above the level of the street, indicating the vast porch, and the windows of the first storey, a palace-like development in its crude state. He scaled the ladders, discussing with the architect the ornamentation which was to be something quite new, scrambled over the heaps of brick and iron, and even went down into the cellar; and the roar of the steam-engine, the tic-tac of the trowels, the noise of the hammers, the clamour of this people of workmen, all over this immense cage surrounded by sonorous planks, really distracted him for an instant. He came out white with plaster, black with iron-filings, his feet splashed by the water from the pumps, his pain so far from being cured that his anguish returned and his heart beat stronger than ever, as the noise of the works died away behind him. It so happened, on the day in question, a slight distraction had restored him his gaiety, and he was deeply interested in an album of drawings of the mosaics and enamelled terra-cottas which were to decorate the friezes, when Jouve came up to fetch him, out of breath, annoyed at being obliged to dirty his coat amongst all this building material. At first Mouret had cried out that they must wait; then, at a word spoken in a low tone by the inspector, he had immediately followed him, shivering, a prey again to his passion. Nothing else existed, the façade crumbled away before being built; what was the use of this supreme triumph of his pride, if the simple name of a woman whispered in his ear tortured him to this extent.
Upstairs, Bourdoncle and Jouve thought it prudent to vanish. Deloche had already run away, Denise alone remained to face Mouret, paler than usual, but looking straight into his eyes.
“Have the kindness to follow me, mademoiselle,” said he in a harsh voice.
She followed him, they descended the two storeys, and crossed the furniture and carpet departments without saying a word. When he arrived at his office, he opened the door wide, saying, “Walk in, mademoiselle.”
And, closing the door, he went to his desk. The new director’s office was fitted up more luxuriously than the old one, the reps hangings had been replaced by velvet ones, and a book-case, incrusted with ivory, occupied one whole side; but on the walls there was still no picture but the portrait of Madame Hédouin, a young woman with a handsome calm face, smiling in its gold frame.
“Mademoiselle,” said he at last, trying to maintain a cold, severe air, “there are certain things that we cannot tolerate. Good conduct is absolutely necessary here.”
He stopped, choosing his words, in order not to yield to the furious anger which was rising up within him. What! she loved this fellow, this miserable salesman, the laughingstock of his counter! and it was the humblest, the most awkward of all that she preferred to him, the master! for he had seen them, she leaving her hand in his, and he covering that hand with kisses.
“I’ve been very good to you, mademoiselle,” continued he, making a fresh effort “I little expected to be rewarded in this way.”
Denise, immediately on entering, had been attracted by Madame Hédouin’s portrait; and, notwithstanding her great trouble, was still pre-occupied by it. Every time she came into the director’s office her eyes were sure to meet those of this lady. She felt almost afraid of her, although she knew her to have been very good. This time, she felt her to be a protection.
“You are right, sir,” he said, softly, “I was wrong to stop and talk, and I beg your pardon for doing so. This young man comes from my part of the country.”
“I’ll dismiss him!” cried Mouret, putting all his suffering into this furious cry.
And, completely overcome, entirely forgetting his position as a director lecturing a saleswoman guilty of an infraction of the rules, he broke out into a torrent of violent words. Had she no shame in her? a young girl like her abandoning herself to such a being! and he even made most atrocious accusations, introducing Hutin’s name into the affair, and then others, in such a flood of words, that she could not even defend herself. But he would make a clean sweep, and kick them all out. The severe explanation he had promised himself, when following Jouve, had degenerated into the shameful violence of a scene of jealousy.
“Yes, your lovers! They told me about it, and I was stupid enough to doubt it But I was the only one! I was the only one!”
Denise, suffocating, bewildered, stood listening to these frightful charges, which she had not at first understood. Did he really suppose her to be as bad as this? At another remark, harsher than all the rest, she silently turned towards the door. And, in reply to a movement he made to stop her, said:
“Let me alone, sir, I’m going away. If you think me what you say, I will not remain in the house another second.”
But he rushed in front of the door, exclaiming: “Why don’t you defend yourself? Say something!”
She stood there very stiff, maintaining an icy silence. For a long time he pressed her with questions, with a growing anxiety; and the mute dignity of this innocent girl once more appeared to be the artful calculation of a woman learned in all the tactics of passion. She could not have played a game better calculated to bring him to her feet, tortured by doubt, desirous of being convinced.
“Come, you say he is from your part of the country? Perhaps you’ve met there formerly. Swear that there has been nothing between you and this fellow.”
And as she obstinately remained silent, as if still wishing to open the door and go away, he completely lost his head, and broke out into a supreme explosion of grief.
“Good heavens! I love you! I love you! Why do you delight in tormenting me like this? You can see that nothing else exists, that the people of whom I speak only touch me through you, and you alone can occupy my thoughts. Thinking you were jealous, I gave up all my pleasures. You were told I had mistresses; well! I have them no longer; I hardly set foot outside. Did I not prefer you at that lady’s house? have I not broken with her to belong solely to you? And I am still waiting for a word of thanks, a little gratitude. And if you fear that I should return to her, you may feel quite easy: she is avenging herself by helping one of our former salesmen to found a rival establishment. Tell me, must I go on my knees to touch your heart?”
He had come to this. He, who did not tolerate the slightest peccadillo with the shopwomen, who turned them out for the least caprice, found himself reduced to imploring one of them not to go away, not to abandon him in his misery. He held the door against her, ready to forgive her everything, to shut his eyes, if she merely deigned to lie. And it was true, he had got thoroughly sick of girls picked up at theatres and night-houses; he had long since given up Clara and now ceased to visit at Madame Desforges’s house, where Bouthemont reigned supreme, while waiting for the opening of the new shop, The Four Seasons, which was already filling the newspapers with its advertisements.
“Must I go on my knees?” repeated he, almost choked by suppressed tears.
She stopped him, herself quite unable to conceal her emotion, deeply affected by this suffering passion. “You are wrong, sir, to agitate yourself in this way,” replied she, at last “I assure you that all these wicked reports are untrue. This poor fellow you have just seen is no more guilty than I am.”
She said this with her brave, frank air, looking with her bright eyes straight into his face.
“Very good, I believe you,” murmured he. “I’ll not dismiss any of your comrades, since you take all these people under your protection. But why, then, do you repulse me, if you love no one else?”
A sudden constraint, an anxious bashfulness seized the young girl.
“You love some one, don’t you?” resumed he, in a trembling voice. “Oh! you may speak out; I have no claim on your affections. Do you love any one?”
She turned very red, her heart was in her mouth, and she felt all falsehood impossible before this emotion which was betraying her, this repugnance for a lie which made the truth appear in her face in spite of all.
“Yes,” she at last confessed, feebly. “But I beg you to let me go away, sir, you are torturing me.”
She was now suffering in her turn. Was it not enough to have to defend herself against him? Was she to be obliged to fight against herself, against the breath of tenderness which sometimes took away all her courage? When he spoke to her thus, when she saw him so full of emotion, so overcome, she hardly knew why she still refused; and it was only afterwards that she found, in the depths of her healthy, girlish nature, the pride and the prudence which maintained her intact in her virtuous resolution. It was by a sort of instinct of happiness that she still remained so obstinate, to satisfy her need of a quiet life, and not from any idea of virtue. She would have fallen into this man’s arms, her heart seduced, her flesh overpowered if she had not experienced a sort of revolt, almost a feeling of repulsion before the definite bestowal of her being, ignorant of her future fate. The lover made her afraid, inspiring her with that fear that all women feel at the approach of the male.
Mouret gave way to a gesture of gloomy discouragement. He could not understand her. He turned towards his desk, took up some papers and then laid them down again, saying: “I will retain you no longer, mademoiselle; I cannot keep you against your will.”
“But I don’t wish to go away,” replied she, smiling. “If you believe me to be innocent, I will remain. One ought always to believe a woman to be virtuous, sir. There are numbers who are so, I assure you.”
Denise’s eyes had involuntarily wandered towards Madame Hédouin’s portrait: that lady so wise and so beautiful, whose blood, they said, had brought good fortune to the house. Mouret followed the young girl’s look with a start, for he thought he heard his dead wife pronounce this phrase, one of her own sayings which he at once recognised. And it was like a resurrection, he discovered in Denise the good sense, the just equilibrium of her he had lost, even down to the gentle voice, sparing of useless words. He was struck by this resemblance, which rendered him sadder still.
“You know I am yours,” murmured he in conclusion. “Do what you like with me.”
Then she resumed gaily: “That is right, sir. The advice of a woman, however humble she may be, is always worth listening to when she has a little intelligence. If you put yourself in my hands, be sure I’ll make nothing but a good man of you!”
She smiled, with that simple unassuming air which had such a charm. He also smiled in a feeble way, and escorted her as far as the door, as he would a lady.
The next day Denise was appointed first-hand. The dress and costume department was divided, the management creating especially for her one for children’s costumes, which was installed close to the ready-made one. Since her son’s dismissal, Madame Aurélie had been trembling, for she found the directors getting cool towards her, and saw the young girl’s power increasing daily. Would they not shortly sacrifice her in favour of this latter, by taking advantage of the first pretext? Her emperor’s mask, puffed up with fat, seemed to have got thinner from the shame which now stained the whole Lhomme dynasty; and she made a show of going away every evening on her husband’s arm, for they were brought nearer together by misfortune, and felt vaguely that the evil came from the disorder of their home; whilst the poor old man, more affected than her, in a sickly fear of being himself suspected of robbery, counted over the receipts, again and again, noisily, performing miracles with his amputated arm. So that, when she saw Denise appointed first-hand in the children’s costume department, she experienced such joy that she paraded the most affectionate feeling towards the young girl, really grateful to her for not having taken her place away. And she overwhelmed her with attentions, treating her as an equal, often going to talk to her in the neighbouring department, with a stately air, like a queen-mother paying a visit to a young queen.
In fact, Denise was now at the summit. Her appointment as first-hand had destroyed the last resistance. If some still babbled, from that itching of the tongue which ravages every assemblage of men and women, they bowed very low before her face. Marguerite, now second-hand, was full of praise for her. Clara, herself, inspired with a secret respect before this good fortune, which she felt herself incapable of achieving, had bowed her head. But Denise’s victory was more complete still over the gentlemen; over Jouve, who now bent almost double whenever he addressed her; over Hutin, seized with anxiety on feeling his position giving way under him; and over Bourdoncle, reduced at last to powerlessness. When the latter saw her coming out of the director’s office, smiling, with her quiet air, and that the next day Mouret had insisted on the board creating this new department, he had yielded, vanquished by a sacred terror of woman. He had always given in thus before Mouret, recognising him to be his master, notwithstanding his escapades and his idiotic love affairs. This time the woman had proved the stronger, and he was expecting to be swept away by the disaster.
However, Denise bore her triumph in a peaceable, charming manner, happy at these marks of consideration, even affecting to see in them a sympathy for the miseries of her debut and the final success of her patient courage. Thus she received with a laughing joy the slightest marks of friendship, and this caused her to be really loved by some, she was so kind, sympathetic, and full of affection. The only person for whom she still showed an invincible repugnance was Clara, having learned that this girl had amused herself by taking Colomban home with her one night as she had said she would do for a joke; and he, carried away by his passion, was becoming more dissipated every day, whilst poor Geneviève was slowly dying. The adventure was talked of at The Ladies’ Paradise, and thought very droll.
But this trouble, the only one she had outside, did not in any way change Denise’s equable temper. It was especially in her department that she was seen at her best, in the midst of her little world of babies of all ages. She was passionately fond of children, and she could not have been placed in a better position. Sometimes there were fully fifty girls and as many boys there, quite a turbulent school, let loose in their growing coquettish desires. The mothers completely lost their heads. She, conciliating, smiling, had the little ones placed in a line, on chairs; and when there happened to be amongst the number a rosy-cheeked little angel, whose pretty face tempted her, she would insist on serving her herself, bringing the dress and trying it on the child’s dimpled shoulders, with the tender precaution of an elder sister. There were fits of laughter, cries of joy, amidst the scolding voices of the mothers. Sometimes a little girl, already a grand lady, nine or ten years old, having a cloth jacket to try on, would stand studying it before a glass, turning round, with an absorbed air, her eyes sparkling with a desire to please. The counters were encumbered with the things unpacked, dresses in pink and blue Asian linen for children of from one to five years, blue sailor costumes, with plaited skirt and blouse, trimmed with fine cambric muslin, Louis XV. costumes, mantles, jackets, a pell-mell of narrow garments, stiffened in their infantine grace, something like the cloak-room of a regiment of big dolls, taken out of the wardrobes and given up to pillage. Denise had always a few sweets in her pockets, to appease the tears of some youngster in despair at not being able to carry off a pair of red trousers; and she lived there amongst these little ones as in her own family, feeling quite young again herself from the contact of all this innocence and freshness incessantly renewed around her skirts.
She now had frequent friendly conversations with Mouret. When she went to the office to take orders and furnish information, he kept her talking, enjoying the sound of her voice. It was what she laughingly called “making a good man of him.” In her prudent, cautious Norman head there sprang up all sorts of projects, ideas about the new business which she had already ventured to hint at when at Robineau’s, and some of which she had expressed on the evening of their walk in the Tuileries gardens. She could not be occupied in any matter, see any work going on, without being moved with a desire to introduce some improvement in the mechanism. Then, since her entry into The Ladies’ Paradise, she was especially pained by the precarious position of the employees; the sudden dismissals shocked her, she thought them iniquitous and stupid, hurtful to all, to the house as much as to the staff. Her former sufferings were still fresh in her mind, and her heart was seized with pity every time she saw a new comer, her feet bruised, her eyes dim with tears, dragging herself along in her misery in her silk dress, amidst the spiteful persecution of the old hands. This dog’s life made the best of them bad; and the sad work of destruction commenced: all eaten up by the trade before the age of forty, disappearing, falling into unknown places, a great many dying in harness, some of consumption and exhaustion, others of fatigue and bad air, a few thrown on the street, the happiest married, buried in some little provincial shop. Was it humane, was it just, this frightful consumption of human life that the big shops carried on every year? And she pleaded the cause of the wheel-work of the colossal machine, not from any sentimental reasons, but by arguments appealing to the very interests of the employers. To make a machine solid and strong, it is necessary to use good iron; if the iron breaks or is broken, there is a stoppage of work, repeated expenses of starting, quite a loss of power.
