Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
“It’s my confounded knees,” exclaimed he. “Don’t draw back! Is it you that we detest?”
She felt him to be friendly and furious as in former days. He grumbled, declared that Baudu must be fearfully strong to be able to keep up after such blows as he had received. The procession had resumed its slow pace; and on leaning out, Denise saw her uncle walking with his heavy step, which seemed to regulate the rumbling and painful march of the cortege. She then threw herself back into the corner, listening to the endless complaints of the old umbrella maker, rocked by the melancholy movement of the coach.
“The police ought to clear the public thoroughfare, my word! They’ve been blocking up our street for the last eighteen months with the scaffolding of their façade, where a man was killed the other day. Never mind! When they want to enlarge further they’ll have to throw bridges over the street. They say there are now two thousand seven hundred employees, and that the business will amount to a hundred millions this year. A hundred millions! Just fancy, a hundred millions!”
Denise had nothing to say in reply. The procession had just turned into the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, where it was stopped by a block of vehicles. Bourras went on, with a vague expression in his eyes, as if he were dreaming aloud. He still failed to understand the triumph achieved by The Ladies’ Paradise, but he acknowledged the defeat of the old-fashioned traders.
“Poor Robineau’s done for, he’s got the face of a drowning man. And the Bédorés and the Vanpouilles, they can’t keep going; they’re like me, played out Deslignières will die of apoplexy. Piot and Rivoire have the yellow jaundice. Ah! we’re a fine lot; a pretty cortege of skeletons to follow the poor child. It must be comical for those looking on to see this string of bankrupts pass. Besides, it appears that the clean sweep is to continue. The scoundrels are creating departments for flowers, bonnets, perfumery, shoemaking, all sorts of things. Grognet, the perfumer in the Rue de Grammont, can clear out, and I wouldn’t give ten francs for Naud’s shoe-shop in the Rue d’Antin. The cholera has spread as far as the Rue Sainte-Anne, where Lacassagne, at the feather and flower shop, and Madame Chadeuil, whose bonnets are so well-known, will be swept away before long. And after those, others; it will still go on! All the businesses in the neighbourhood will suffer. When counter-jumpers commence to sell soap and goloshes, they are quite capable of dealing in fried potatoes. My word, the world is turning upside down!”
The hearse was just then crossing the Place de la Trinité to ascend the steep Rue Blanche, and from the corner of the gloomy coach Denise, who, broken-hearted, was listening to the endless complaints of the old man, could see the coffin as they issued from the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. Behind her uncle, marching along with the blind, mute face of an ox about to be poleaxed, she seemed to hear the tramping of a flock of sheep led to the slaughter-house, the discomfiture of the shops of a whole district, the small traders dragging along their ruin, with the thud of damp shoes, through the muddy streets of Paris. Bourras still went on, in a deeper voice, as if slackened by the difficult ascent of the Rue Blanche.
“As for me, I am settled. But I still hold on all the same, and won’t let go. He’s just lost his appeal case. Ah! that’s cost me something, what with nearly two years’ pleading, and the solicitors and the barristers! Never mind, he won’t pass under my shop, the judges have decided that such a work could not be considered as a legitimate case of repairing. Fancy, he talked of creating underneath a light saloon to judge the colours of the stuffs by gas-light, a subterranean room which would have united the hosiery to the drapery department! And he can’t get over it; he can’t swallow the fact that an old humbug like me should stop his progress when everybody are on their knees before his money. Never! I won’t! that’s understood. Very likely I may be worsted. Since I have had to go to the money-lenders, I know the villain is looking after my paper, in the hope to play me some villanous trick, no doubt. But that doesn’t matter. He says ‘yes,’ and I say ‘no,’ and shall still say ‘no,’ even when I get between two boards like this poor little girl who has just been nailed up.”
When they reached the Boulevard de Clichy, the coach went at a quicker pace; one could hear the heavy breathing of the mourners, the unconscious haste of the cortege, anxious to get the sad ceremony over. What Bourras did not openly mention, was the frightful misery into which he had fallen, bewildered amidst the confusion of the small trader who is on the road to ruin and yet remains obstinate, under a shower of protested bills. Denise, well acquainted with his situation, at last interrupted the silence by saying, in a voice of entreaty:
“Monsieur Bourras, pray don’t stand out any longer. Let me arrange matters for you.”
But he interrupted her with a violent gesture. “You be quiet. That’s nobody’s business. You’re a good little girl, and I know you lead him a hard life, this man who thought you were for sale like my house. But what would you answer if I advised you to say ‘yes?’ You’d send me about my business. Therefore, when I say ‘no,’ don’t you interfere in the matter.”
And the coach having stopped at the cemetery gate, he got out with the young girl. The Baudus’ vault was situated in the first alley on the left. In a few minutes the ceremony was terminated. Jean had drawn away his uncle, who was looking into the grave with a gaping air. The mourners wandered about amongst the neighbouring tombs, and the faces of all these shopkeepers, their blood impoverished by living in their unhealthy shops assumed an ugly suffering look under the leaden sky. When the coffin slipped gently down, their blotched and pimpled cheeks paled, and their bleared eyes, blinded with figures, turned away.
“We ought all to jump into this hole,” said Bourras to Denise, who had kept close to him. “In burying this poor girl they are burying the whole district. Oh! I know what I am saying, the old-fashioned business may go and join the white roses they are throwing on to her coffin.”
Denise brought back her uncle and brother in a mourning coach. The day was for her exceedingly dull and melancholy. In the first place, she began to get anxious at Jean’s paleness, and when she understood that it was on account of another woman, she tried to quiet him by opening her purse, but he shook his head and refused, saying it was serious this time, the niece of a very rich pastry-cook, who would not accept even a bunch of violets. Afterwards, in the afternoon, when Denise went to fetch Pépé from Madame Gras’s, the latter declared that he was getting too big for her to keep any longer; another annoyance, for she would be obliged to find him a school, perhaps send him away. And to crown all she was thoroughly heart-broken, on bringing Pépé back to kiss his aunt and uncle, to see the gloomy sadness of The Old Elbeuf. The shop was closed, and the old couple were at the further end of the little room, where they had forgotten to light the gas, notwithstanding the complete obscurity of this winter’s day. They were now quite alone, face to face, in the house, slowly emptied by ruin; and the death of their daughter deepened the shady corners, and was like the supreme cracking which was soon to break up the old rafters, eaten away by the damp. Beneath this destruction, her uncle, unable to stop himself, still kept walking round the table, with his funeral-like step, blind and silent; whilst her aunt said nothing, she had fallen into a chair, with the white face of a wounded person, whose blood was running away drop by drop. They did not even weep when Pépé covered their cold cheeks with kisses. Denise was choked with tears.
That same evening Mouret sent for the young girl to speak of a child’s garment he wished to launch forth, a mixture of the Scotch and Zouave costumes. And still trembling with pity, shocked at so much suffering, she could not contain herself; she first ventured to speak of Bourras, of that poor old man whom they were about to ruin. But, on hearing the umbrella maker’s name, Mouret flew into a rage at once. The old madman, as he called him, was the plague of his life, and spoilt his triumph by his idiotic obstinacy in not giving up his house, that ignoble hovel which was a disgrace to The Ladies’ Paradise, the only little corner of the vast block that escaped his conquest. The matter was becoming a regular nightmare; any one else but Denise speaking in favour of Bourras would have run the risk of being dismissed immediately, so violently was Mouret tortured by the sickly desire to kick the house down. In short, what did they wish him to do? Could he leave this heap of ruins sticking to The Ladies’ Paradise? It would be got rid of, the shop was to pass through it. So touch the worse for the old fool! And he spoke of his repeated proposals; he had offered him as much as a hundred thousand francs. Wasn’t that fair? He never higgled, he gave the money required; but in return he expected people to be reasonable, and allow him to finish his work! Did any one ever try to stop the locomotives on a railway? She listened to him, with drooping eyes, unable to find any but purely sentimental reasons. The old man was so old, they might have waited till his death; a failure would kill him. Then he added that he was no longer able to prevent things going their course. Bourdoncle had taken the matter up, for the board had resolved to put an end ta it. She had nothing more to add, notwithstanding the grievous pity she felt for her old friend.
After a painful silence, Mouret himself commenced to speak of the Baudus, by expressing his sorrow at the death of their daughter. They were very worthy people, very honest, but had been pursued by the worst of luck. Then he resumed his arguments; at bottom, they had really caused their own misfortune by obstinately sticking to the old ways in their worm-eaten place; it was not astonishing that the place should be falling about their heads. He had predicted it scores of times; she must remember that he had charged her to warn her uncle of a fatal disaster, if the latter still clung to his old-fashioned stupid ways. And the catastrophe had arrived; no one in the world could now prevent it They could not reasonably expect him to ruin himself to save the neighbourhood. Besides, if he had been foolish enough to close The Ladies’ Paradise, another big shop would have sprung up of itself next door, for the idea was now starting from the four corners of the globe; the triumph of these manufacturing and industrial cities was sown by the spirit of the times, which was sweeping away the tumbling edifice of former ages. Little by little Mouret warmed up, and found an eloquent emotion with which to defend himself against the hatred of his involuntary victims, the clamour of the small dying shops that was heard around him. They could not keep their dead, he continued, they must bury them; and with a gesture he sent down into the grave, swept away and threw into the common hole the corpse of old-fashioned business, the greenish, poisonous remains of which were becoming a disgrace to the bright, sun-lighted streets of new Paris. No, no, he felt no remorse, he was simply doing the work of his age, and she knew it; she, who loved life, who had a passion for big affairs, concluded in the full glare of publicity. Reduced to silence, she listened to him for some time, and then went away, her soul full of trouble.
That night Denise slept but little. A sleeplessness, traversed by nightmare, kept her turning over and over in her bed. It seemed to her that she was quite little, and she burst into tears, in their garden at Valognes, on seeing the blackcaps eat up the spiders, which themselves devoured the flies. Was it then really true, this necessity for the world to fatten on death, this struggle for existence which drove people into the charnel-house of eternal destruction? Afterwards she saw herself before the vault into which they had lowered Geneviève, then she perceived her uncle and aunt in their obscure dining-room. In the profound silence, a heavy voice, as of something tumbling down, traversed the dead air; it was Bourras’s house giving way, as if undermined by a high tide. The silence recommenced, more sinister than ever, and a fresh rumbling was heard, then another, then another; the Robineaus, the Bédorés, the Vanpouilles, cracked and fell down in their turn, the small shops of the neighbourhood were disappearing beneath an invisible pick, with a brusque, thundering noise, as of a tumbril being emptied. Then an immense pity awoke her with a start. Heavens! what tortures! There were families weeping, old men thrown out into the street, all the poignant dramas that ruin conjures up. And she could save nobody; and she felt that it was right, that all this misery was necessary for the health of the Paris of the future. When day broke she became calmer, a feeling of resigned melancholy kept her awake, turned towards the windows through which the light was making its way. Yes, it was the meed of blood that every revolution exacted from its martyrs, every step forward was made over the bodies of the dead. Her fear of being a wicked girl, of having assisted in the ruin of her fellow-creatures, now melted into a heartfelt pity, in face of these evils without remedy, which are the painful accompaniment of each generation’s birth. She finished by seeking some possible comfort in her goodness, she dreamed of the means to be employed in order to save her relations at least from the final crash.
Mouret now appeared before her with his passionate face and caressing eyes. He would certainly refuse her nothing; she felt sure he would accord her all reasonable compensation. And her thoughts went astray in trying to judge him. She knew his life, was aware of the calculating nature of his former affections, his continual exploitation of woman, mistresses taken up to further his own ends, and his intimacy with Madame Desforges solely to get hold of Baron Hartmann, and all the others, such as Clara and the rest, pleasure bought, paid for, and thrown out on the pavement. But these beginnings of a love adventurer, which were the talk of the shop, were gradually effaced by the strokes of genius of this man, his victorious grace. He was seduction itself. What she could never have forgiven was his former deception, his lover’s coldness under the gallant comedy of his attentions. But she felt herself to be entirely without rancour, now that he was suffering through her. This suffering had elevated him. When she saw him tortured by her refusal, atoning so fully for his former disdain for woman, he seemed to have made amends for all his faults.
That morning Denise obtained from Mouret the compensation she might judge legitimate the day the Baudus and old Bourras should succumb. Weeks passed away, during which she went to see her uncle nearly every afternoon, escaping from her counter for a few minutes, bringing her smiling face and brave courage to enliven the sombre shop. She was especially anxious about her aunt, who had fallen into a dull stupor since Geneviève’s death; it seemed that her life was quitting her hourly; and when people spoke to her she would reply with an astonished air that she was not suffering, but that she simply felt as if overcome by sleep. The neighbours shook their heads, saying she would not live long to regret her daughter.
One day Denise was coming out of the Baudus’, when, on turning the corner of the Place Oaillon, she heard a loud cry. The crowd rushed forward, a panic arose, that breath of fear and pity which so suddenly seizes a crowd. It was a brown omnibus, belonging to the Bastille-Batignolles line, which had run over a man, coming out of the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, opposite the fountain. Upright on his seat, with furious gestures, the driver was pulling in his two kicking horses, and crying out, in a great passion:
“Confound you! Why don’t you look out, you idiot!”
The omnibus had now stopped, and the crowd had surrounded the wounded man, and, strange to say, a policeman was soon on the spot. Still standing up, invoking the testimony of the people on the knife-board, who had also got up, to look over and see the wounded man, the coachman was explaining the matter, with exasperated gestures, choked by his increasing anger.
“It’s something fearful. This fellow was walking in the middle of the road, quite at home. I called out, and he at once threw himself under the wheels!”
A house-painter, who had run up, brush in hand, from a neighbouring house, then said, in a sharp voice, amidst the clamour: “Don’t excite yourself. I saw him, he threw himself under. He jumped in, head first. Another unfortunate tired of life, no doubt.”
Others spoke up, and all agreed upon it being a case of suicide, whilst the policeman pulled out his book and made his entry. Several ladies, very pale, got out quickly, and ran away without looking back, filled with horror by the soft shaking which had stirred them up when the omnibus passed over the body. Denise approached, attracted by a practical pity, which prompted her to interest herself in all sorts of street accidents, wounded dogs, horses down, and tilers falling off roofs. And she immediately recognised the unfortunate fellow who had fainted away, his clothes covered with mud.
“It’s Monsieur Robineau,” cried she, in her grievous astonishment.
The policeman at once questioned the young girl, and she gave his name, profession, and address. Thanks to the driver’s energy, the omnibus had twisted round, and thus only Robineau’s legs had gone under the wheels, but it was to be feared that they were both broken. Four men carried the wounded draper to a chemist’s shop in the Rue Gaillon, whilst the omnibus slowly resumed its journey.
“My stars!” said the driver, whipping up his horses, “I’ve done a famous day’s work.”
Denise followed Robineau into the chemist’s. The latter, waiting for a doctor who could not be found, declared there was no immediate danger, and that the wounded man had better be taken home, as he lived in the neighbourhood. A lad started off to the police-station to order a stretcher, and Denise had the happy thought of going on in front and preparing Madame Robineau for this frightful blow. But she had the greatest trouble in the world to get into the street through the crowd, which was struggling before the door. This crowd, attracted by death, was increasing every minute; men, women, and children stood on tip-toe, and held their own amidst a brutal pushing, and each new comer had his version of the accident, so that at last it was said to be a husband pitched out of the window by his wife’s lover.
In the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, Denise perceived Madame Robineau on the threshold of the silk warehouse. This gave her a pretext for stopping, and she talked on for a moment, trying to find a way of breaking the terrible news. The shop presented the disorderly, abandoned appearance of the last struggles of a dying business. It was the inevitable end of the great battle of the silks; the Paris Paradise had crushed its rival by a fresh reduction of a sou; it was now sold at four francs nineteen sous, Gaujean’s silk had found its Waterloo. For the last two months Robineau, reduced to all sorts of shifts, had been leading a fearful life, trying to prevent a declaration of bankruptcy.
“I’ve just seen your husband pass through the Place Gaillon,” murmured Denise, who had now entered the shop.
Madame Robineau, whom a secret anxiety seemed to be continually attracting towards the street, said quickly: “Ah, just now, wasn’t it? I’m waiting for him, he ought to be back; Monsieur Gaujean came up this morning, and they have gone out together.”
She was still charming, delicate, and gay; but her advanced state of pregnancy gave her a fatigued look, and she was more frightened, more bewildered than ever, by these business matters, which she did not understand, and which were all going wrong. As she often said, what was the use of it all? Would it not be better to live quietly in some small house, and be contented with modest fare?
“My dear child,” resumed she with her smile, which was becoming sadder, “we have nothing to conceal from you. Things are not going on well, and my poor darling is worried to death. To-day this Gaujean has been tormenting him about some bills overdue. I was dying with anxiety at being left here all alone.”
And she was returning to the door when Denise stopped her, having heard the noise of the crowd and guessing that it was the wounded man being brought along, surrounded by a mob of idlers anxious to see the end of the affair. Then, with a parched throat, unable to find the consoling words she would have wished, she had to explain the matter.
“Don’t be anxious, there’s no immediate danger. I’ve seen Monsieur Robineau, he has met with an accident. They are just bringing him home, pray don’t be frightened.”
The poor woman listened to her, white as a sheet, without clearly understanding. The street was full of people, the drivers of the impeded cabs were swearing, the men had laid down the stretcher before the shop in order to open both glass doors.
“It was an accident,” continued Denise, resolved to conceal the attempt at suicide. “He was on the pavement and slipped under the wheels of an omnibus. Only his feet were hurt. They’ve sent for a doctor. There’s no need to be anxious.”
A shudder passed over Madame Robineau. She set up an inarticulate cry, then ceased talking and ran to the stretcher, drawing the covering away with her trembling hands. The men who had brought Robineau were waiting to take him away as soon as the doctor arrived. They dared not touch him, who had come round again, and whose sufferings were frightful at the slightest movement. When he saw his wife his eyes filled with tears. She embraced him, and stood looking fixedly at him, and weeping. In the street the tumult was increasing; the people pressed forward as at a theatre, with glistening eyes; some work-girls, escaped from a shop, were almost pushing through the windows eager to see what was going on. In order to avoid this feverish curiosity, and thinking, besides, that it was not right to leave the shop open, Denise decided on letting the metallic shutters down. She went and turned the winch, the wheels of which gave out a plaintive cry, the sheets of iron slowly descended, like the heavy draperies of a curtain falling on the catastrophe of a fifth act. When she went in again, after closing the little round door in the shutters, she found Madame Robineau still clasping her husband in her arms, in the half-light which came from the two stars cut in the shutters. The ruined shop seemed to be gliding into nothingness, the two stars alone glittered on this sudden and brutal catastrophe of the streets of Paris.
At last Madame Robineau recovered her speech. “Oh, my darling! – oh, my darling! my darling!”
This was all she could say, and he, suffocated, confessed himself with a cry of remorse when he saw her kneeling thus before him. When he did not move he only felt the burning lead of his legs.
“Forgive me, I must have been mad. When the lawyer told me before Gaujean that the posters would be put up tomorrow, I saw flames dancing before me as if the walls were burning. After that I remember nothing else. I came down the Rue de la Michodière – it seemed that The Paradise people were laughing at me, that immense house seemed to crush me.. So, when the omnibus came up, I thought of Lhomme and his arm, and threw myself underneath the omnibus.”
Madame Robineau had slowly fallen on to the floor, horrified by this confession. Heavens! he had tried to kill himself. She seized the hand of her young friend, who leant over towards her quite overcome. The wounded man, exhausted by emotion, had just fainted away again; and the doctor not having arrived, two men went all over the neighbourhood for him. The doorkeeper belonging to the house had gone off in his turn to look for him.
“Pray, don’t be anxious,” repeated Denise, mechanically, herself also sobbing.
Then Madame Robineau, seated on the floor, with her head against the stretcher, her cheek placed on the mattress where her husband was lying, relieved her heart “Oh! I must tell you. It’s all for me he wanted to die. He’s always saying, ‘I’ve robbed you; it was not my money.’ And at night he dreams of this money, waking up covered with perspiration, calling himself an incapable fellow, saying that those who have no head for business ought not to risk other people’s money. You know he has always been nervous, his brain tormented. He finished by conjuring up things that frightened me. He saw me in the street in tatters, begging, his darling wife, whom he loved so tenderly, whom he longed to see rich and happy.” But on turning round, she noticed he had opened his eyes; and she continued in a trembling voice: “My darling, why have you done this? You must think me very wicked! I assure you, I don’t care if we are ruined. So long as we are together, we shall never be unhappy. Let them take everything, and we will go away somewhere, where you won’t hear any more about them. You can still work; you’ll see how happy we shall be!”
She placed her forehead near her husband’s pale face, and both were silent, in the emotion of their anguish. There was a pause. The shop seemed to be sleeping, benumbed by the pale night which enveloped it; whilst behind the thin shutters could be heard the noises of the street, the life of the busy city, the rumble of the vehicles, and the hustling and pushing of the passing crowd. At last Denise, who went every minute to glance through the hall door, came back, exclaiming: “Here’s the doctor!”
He was a young fellow, with bright eyes, whom the doorkeeper had found and brought in. He preferred to examine the poor man before they put him to bed. Only one of his legs, the left one, was broken above the ankle; it was a simple fracture, no serious complication appeared likely to result from it. And they were about to carry the stretcher into the back-room when Gaujean arrived. He came to give them an account of a last attempt to settle matters, an attempt which had failed; the declaration of bankruptcy was definite.
“Dear me,” murmured he, “what’s the matter?”
In a few words, Denise informed him. Then he stopped, feeling rather awkward, while Robineau said, in a feeble voice: “I don’t bear you any ill-will, but all this is partly your fault.”
“Well, my dear fellow,” replied Gaujean, “it wanted stronger men than us. You know I’m not in a much better state than you.”
They raised the stretcher; Robineau still found strength to say: “No, no, stronger fellows than us would have given way as we have. I can understand such obstinate old men as Bourras and Baudu standing out, but you and I, who are young, who had accepted the new style of tilings! No, Gaujean, it’s the last of a world.”
They carried him off. Madame Robineau embraced Denise with an eagerness in which there was almost a feeling of joy, to have at last got rid of all those worrying business matters. And, as Gaujean went away with the young girl, he confessed to her that this poor devil of a Robineau was right. It was idiotic to try and struggle against The Ladies’ Paradise. He personally felt himself lost, if he did not give in. Last night, in fact, he had secretly made a proposal to Hutin, who was just leaving for Lyons. But he felt very doubtful, and tried to interest Denise in the matter, aware, no doubt, of her powerfulness.
“My word,” said he, “so much the worse for the manufacturers! Every one would laugh at me if I ruined myself in fighting for other people’s benefit, when these fellows are struggling who shall make at the cheapest price! As you said some time ago, the manufacturers have only to follow the march of progress by a better organisation and new methods. Everything will come all right; it suffices that the public are satisfied.”
Denise smiled and replied: “Go and say that to Monsieur Mouret himself. Your visit will please him, and he’s not the man to display any rancour, if you offer him even a centime profit per yard.”
Madame Baudu died in January, on a bright sunny afternoon. For some weeks she had been unable to go down into the shop that a charwoman now looked after. She was in bed, propped up by the pillows. Nothing but her eyes seemed to be living in her white face, and, her head erect, she kept them obstinately fixed on The Ladies’ Paradise opposite, through the small curtains of the windows. Baudu, himself suffering from this obsession, from the despairing fixity of her gaze, sometimes wanted to draw the large curtains to. But she stopped him with an imploring gesture, obstinately desirous of seeing the monster shop till the last moment. It had now robbed her of everything, her business, her daughter; she herself had gradually died away with The Old Elbeuf, losing a part of her life as the shop lost its customers; the day it succumbed, she had no more breath left When she felt she was dying, she still found the strength to insist on her husband opening the two windows. It was very mild, a bright day of sun gilded The Ladies’ Paradise, whilst the bed-room of their old house shivered in the shade. Madame Baudu lay with her fixed gaze, absorbed by the vision of the triumphal monument, the clear, limpid windows, behind which a gallop of millions was passing. Slowly her eyes grew dim, invaded by darkness; and when they at last sunk in death, they remained wide open, still looking, drowned in tears.
Once more the ruined traders of the district followed the funeral procession. There were the brothers Vanpouille, pale at the thought of their December bills, paid by a supreme effort which they would never be able to repeat. Bédoré, with his sister, leant on his cane, so full of worry and anxiety that his liver complaint was getting worse every day. Deslignières had had a fit, Piot and Rivoire walked on in silence, with downcast looks, like men entirely played out. They dared not question each other about those who had disappeared, Quinette, Mademoiselle Tatin, and others, who were sinking, ruined, swept away by this disastrous flood; without counting Robineau, still in bed, with his broken leg. But they pointed with an especial air of interest to the new tradesmen attacked by the plague; the perfumer Grognet, the milliner Madame Chadeuil, Lacassagne, the flower maker, and Naud, the bootmaker, still standing firm, but seized by the anxiety of the evil, which would doubtless sweep them away in their turn. Baudu walked along behind the hearse with the same heavy, stolid step as when he had followed his daughter; whilst at the back of a mourning coach could be seen Bourras’s sparkling eyes under his bushy eyebrows, and his hair of a snowy white.
