Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
The place was full of life. The lifts were besieged with people, there was a crush at the refreshment-bar and in the reading-room, quite a nation was moving about in these regions covered with the snowy fabrics. And the crowd seemed to be black, like skaters on a Polish lake in December. On the ground floor there was a heavy swell, agitated by a reflux, in which could be distinguished nothing but the delicate and enraptured faces of the women. In the chisellings of the iron framework, along the staircases, on the flying bridges, there was an endless procession of small figures, as if lost amidst the snowy peaks of a mountain. A suffocating hot-house heat surprised one on these frozen heights. The buzz of voices made a great noise like a rushing stream. Up above, the profusion of gildings, the glazed work picked out with gold, and the golden roses seemed like a ray of the sun shining on the Alps of the grand exhibition of white goods.
“Come,” said Madame de Boves, “we must go forward. It’s impossible to stay here.”
Since she came in, Jouve, the inspector, standing near the door, had not taken his eyes off her; and when she turned round she encountered his gaze. Then, as she resumed her walk, he let her get a little in front, but followed her at a distance, without, however, appearing to take any further notice of her.
“Ah!” said Madame Guibal, stopping again as she came to the first pay-desk, “it’s a pretty idea, these violets!”
She referred to the new present made by The Ladies’ Paradise, one of Mouret’s ideas, which was making a great noise in the newspapers; small bouquets of white violets, bought by thousands at Nice and distributed to every customer buying the smallest article. Near each pay-desk were messengers in uniform, delivering the bouquets under the supervision of an inspector. And gradually all the customers were decorated in this way, the shop was filling with these white flowers, every woman becoming the bearer of a penetrating perfume of violets.
“Yes,” murmured Madame Desforges, in a jealous voice, “it’s not a bad idea.”
But, just as they were going away, they heard two shopmen joking about these violets. A tall, thin fellow was expressing his astonishment: the marriage between the governor and the first-hand in the costume department was coming off, then? whilst a short, fat fellow replied that he didn’t know, but that the flowers were bought at any rate.
“What!” exclaimed Madame de Boves, “Monsieur Mouret is going to marry?”
“That’s the latest news,” replied Madame Desforges, affecting the greatest indifference. “Of course, he’s sure to end like that.”
The countess shot a quick glance at her new friend. They both now understood why Madame Desforges had come to The Ladies’ Paradise notwithstanding her rupture with Mouret. No doubt she yielded to the invincible desire to see and to suffer.
“I shall stay with you,” said Madame Guibal, whose curiosity was awakened. “We shall meet Madame de Boves again in the reading-room.”
“Very good,” replied the latter. “I want to go on the first floor. Come along, Blanche.” And she went up followed by her daughter, whilst Jouve, the inspector, still on her track, ascended by another staircase, in order not to attract attention. The two other ladies were soon lost in the compact crowd on the ground floor.
All the counters were talking of nothing else but the governor’s love affairs, amidst the press of business. The adventure, which had for months been occupying the employees, delighted at Denise’s long resistance, had all at once come to a crisis; it had become known that the young girl intended to leave The Ladies’ Paradise, notwithstanding all Mouret’s entreaties, under the pretext of requiring rest. And the opinions were divided. Would she leave? Would she stay? Bets of five francs circulated from department to department that she would leave the following Sunday. The knowing ones staked a lunch on the final marriage; however, the others, those who believed in her departure, did not risk their money without good reasons. Certainly the little girl had the strength of an adored woman who refuses, but the governor, on his side, was strong in his wealth, his happy widowerhood, and his pride which a last exaction might exasperate. Nevertheless, they were all of opinion that this little saleswoman had carried on the business with the science of a rouée, full of genius, and that she was playing the supreme stake in thus offering him this bargain: Marry me or I go away.
Denise, however, thought but little of these things. She had never imposed any conditions or made any calculation. And the reason of her departure was the result of this very judgment of her conduct, which caused her continual surprise. Had she wished for all this? Had she shown herself artful, coquettish, ambitious? No, she had come simply, and was the first to feel astonished at inspiring this passion. And again, now, why did they ascribe her resolution to quit The Ladies’ Paradise to craftiness? It was so natural! She began to feel a nervous uneasiness, an intolerable anguish, amidst this continual gossip which was going on in the house, Mouret’s feverish pursuit of her, and the combats she was obliged to engage in against herself; and she preferred to go away, seized with fear lest she might one day yield and regret it for ever afterwards. If there were in this any learned tactics, she was totally ignorant of it, and she asked herself in despair what was to be done to avoid appearing to be running after a husband. The idea of a marriage now irritated her, and she resolved to say no, and still no, in case he should push his folly to that extent. She alone ought to suffer. The necessity for the separation caused her tears to flow, but she told herself, with her great courage, that it was necessary, that she would have no rest or happiness if she acted in any other way.
When Mouret received her resignation, he remained mute and cold, in the effort which he made to contain himself. Then he replied that he granted her a week’s reflection, before allowing her to commit such a stupid act. At the expiration of the week, when she returned to the subject, and expressed a strong wish to go away after the great sale, he said nothing further, but affected to talk the language of reason to her: she had little or no fortune, she would never find another position equal to that she was leaving. Had she another situation in view? If so, he was quite prepared to offer her the advantages she expected to obtain elsewhere. And the young girl having replied that she had not looked for any other situation, that she intended to take a rest at Valognes, thanks to the money she had already saved, he asked her what would prevent her returning to The Ladies’ Paradise if her health alone were the reason of her departure. She remained silent, tortured by this cross-examination. He at once imagined that she was about to join a lover, a future husband perhaps. Had she not confessed to him one evening that she loved some one? From that moment he carried deep in his heart, like the stab of a knife, this confession wrung from her in an hour of trouble. And if this man was to marry her, she was giving up all to follow him: that explained her obstinacy. It was all over, and he simply added in his icy tones, that he would detain her no longer, since she could not tell him the real cause of her leaving. These harsh words, free from anger, affected her far more than the anger she had feared.
Throughout the week that Denise was obliged to spend in the shop, Mouret kept his rigid paleness. When he crossed the departments, he affected not to see her, never had he seemed more indifferent, more buried in his work; and the bets began again, only the brave ones dared to back the marriage. However, beneath this coldness, so unusual with him, Mouret concealed a frightful crisis of indecision and suffering. Fits of anger brought the blood to his head: he saw red, he dreamed of taking Denise in a close embrace, keeping her, and stifling her cries. Then he tried to reason with himself, to find some practical means of preventing her going away; but he constantly ran up against his powerlessness, the uselessness of his power and money. An idea, however, was growing amidst his mad projects, and gradually imposing itself, notwithstanding his revolt. After Madame Hédouin’s death he had sworn never to marry again; deriving from a woman his first good fortune, he resolved in future to draw his fortune from all women. It was with him, as with Bourdoncle, a superstition that the head of a great drapery establishment should be single, if he wished to retain his masculine power over the growing desires of his world of customers; the introduction of a woman changed the air, drove away the others, by bringing her own odour. And he still resisted the invincible logic of facts, preferring to die rather than yield, seized with sudden bursts of fury against Denise, feeling that she was the revenge, fearing he should fall vanquished over his millions, broken like a straw by the eternal feminine force, the day he should marry her. Then he slowly became cowardly again, dismissing his repugnance; why tremble? she was so sweet-tempered, so prudent, that he could abandon himself to her without fear. Twenty times an hour the battle recommenced in his distracted mind. His pride tended to aggravate the wound, and he completely lost his reason when he thought that, even after this last submission, she might still say no, if she loved another. The morning of the great sale, he had still not decided on anything, and Denise was to leave the next day.
When Bourdoncle, on the day in question, entered Mouret’s office about three o’clock, according to custom, he surprised him sitting with his elbows on the desk, his hands over his eyes, so greatly absorbed that he had to touch him on the shoulder. Mouret glanced up, his face bathed in tears; they both looked at each other, held out their hands, and a hearty grip was exchanged between these two men who had fought so many commercial battles side by side. For the past month Bourdoncle’s attitude had completely changed; he now bowed before Denise, and even secretly pushed the governor on to a marriage with her. No doubt he was thus manoeuvring to save himself being swept away by a force which he now recognised as superior. But there could have been found at the bottom of this change the awakening of an old ambition, the timid and gradually growing hope to swallow up in his turn this Mouret, before whom he had so long bowed. This was in the air of the house, in this struggle for existence, of which the continued massacres warmed up the business around him. He was carried away by the working of the machine, seized by the others’ appetites, by that voracity which, from top to bottom, drove the lean ones to the extermination of the fat ones. But a sort of religions fear, the religion of chance, had up to that time prevented him making the attempt. And the governor was becoming childish, drifting into a ridiculous marriage, ruining his luck, destroying his charm with the customers. Why should he dissuade him from it, when he could so easily take up the business of this played-out man, fallen into the arms of a woman? Thus it was with the emotion of an adieu, the pity of an old friendship, that he shook his chiefs hand, saying:
“Come, come, courage! Marry her, and finish the matter.”
Mouret already felt ashamed of his moment of cowardice, and got up, protesting: “No, no, it’s too stupid. Come, let’s take our turn round the shop. Things are looking well, aren’t they? I fancy we shall have a magnificent day.”
They went out and commenced their afternoon inspection through the crowded departments. Bourdoncle cast oblique glances at him, anxious at this last display of energy, watching his lips to catch the least sign of suffering. The business was in fact throwing forth its fire, in an infernal roar, which made the house tremble with the violent shaking of a big steamer going at full speed. At Denise’s counter were a crowd of mothers dragging along their little girls and boys, swamped beneath the garments they were trying on. The department had brought out all its white articles, and there, as everywhere else, was a riot of white, enough to dress in white a troop of shivering cupids, white cloth cloaks, white piques and cashmere dresses, sailor costumes, and even white Zouave costumes. In the centre, for the sake of the effect, and although the season had not arrived, was a display of communion costumes, the white muslin dress and veil, the white satin shoes, a light gushing florescence, which, planted there, produced the effect of an enormous bouquet of innocence and candid delight. Madame Bourdelais was there with her three children, Madeleine, Edmond, Lucien, seated according to their size, and was getting angry with the latter, the smallest, because he was struggling with Denise, who was trying to put a woollen muslin jacket on him.
“Keep still, Lucien! Don’t you think it’s rather tight, mademoiselle?” And with the sharp look of a woman difficult to deceive, she examined the stuff, studied the cut, and scrutinized the stitching. “No, it fits well,” she resumed. “It’s no trifle to dress all these little ones. Now I want a mantle for this young lady.”
Denise had been obliged to assist in serving during the busy moments of the day. She was looking for the mantle required, when she set up a cry of surprise.
“What! It’s you; what’s the matter?”
Her brother Jean, holding a parcel in his hand, was standing before her. He had married a week before, and on the Saturday his wife, a dark little woman, with a provoking, charming face, had paid a long visit to The Ladies’ Paradise to make some purchases. The young people were to accompany Denise to Valognes, a regular marriage trip, a month’s holiday, which would remind them of old times.
“Just imagine,” said he, “Thérèse has forgotten a lot of things. There are some articles to be changed, and others to be bought. So, as she was in a hurry, she sent me with this parcel. I’ll explain – ”
But she interrupted him on perceiving Pépé, “What; Pépé as well! and his school?”
“Well,” said Jean, “after dinner on Sunday I had not the heart to take him back. He will go back this evening. The poor child is very downhearted at being shut up in Paris whilst we are enjoying ourselves at home.”
Denise smiled on them, in spite of her suffering. She handed over Madame Bourdelais to one of her young ladies, and came back to them in a corner of the department, which was, fortunately, getting deserted. The little ones, as she still called them, had now grown to be big fellows. Pépé, twelve years old, was already taller and bigger than her, still silent and living on caresses, of a charming, cajolling sweetness; whilst Jean, broad-shouldered, was quite a head taller than his sister, and still possessed his feminine beauty, with his blonde hair blowing about in the wind. And she, always slim, no fatter than a skylark, as she said, still retained her anxious motherly authority over them, treating them as children wanting all her attention, buttoning up Jean’s coat so that he should not look like a rake, and seeing that Pépé had got a clean handkerchief. When she saw the latter’s swollen eyes, she gently chided him.
“Be reasonable, my boy. Your studies cannot be interrupted. I’ll take you away at the holidays. Is there anything you want? But perhaps you prefer to have the money.” Then she turned towards the other. “You, youngster, yet making him believe we are going to have wonderful fun! Just try and be a little more careful.”
She had given Jean four thousand francs, half of her savings, to enable him to set up housekeeping. The younger one cost her a great deal for schooling, all her money went for them, as in former days. They were her sole reason for living and working, for she had again declared she would never marry.
“Well, here are the things,” resumed Jean. “In the first place, there’s a cloak in this parcel that Thérèse – ”
But he stopped, and Denise, on turning round to see what had frightened him, perceived Mouret behind them. For a moment he had stood looking at her in her motherly attitude between the two big boys, scolding and embracing them, turning them round as mothers do babies when changing their clothes. Bourdoncle had remained on one side, appearing to be interested in the business, but he did not lose sight of this little scene.
“They are your brothers, are they not?” asked Mouret, after a silence.
He had the icy tone and rigid attitude, which he now assumed with her. Denise herself made an effort to remain cold and unconcerned. Her smile died away, and she replied: “Yes, sir. I’ve married off the eldest, and his wife has sent him for some purchases.”
Mouret continued looking at the three of them. At last he said: “The youngest has grown very much. I recognise him, I remember having seen him in the Tuileries Gardens one evening with you.”
And his voice, which was becoming moderate, slightly trembled. She, suffocating, bent down, pretending to arrange Pépé’s belt. The two brothers, who had turned scarlet, stood smiling on their sister’s master.
“They’re very much like you,” said the latter.
“Oh!” exclaimed she, “they’re much handsomer than I am!”
For a moment he seemed to be comparing their faces. How she loved them! And he walked a step or two; then returned and whispered in her ear: “Come to my office after business, I want to speak to you before you go away.”
This time Mouret went off and continued his inspection. The battle was once more raging within him, for the appointment he had given caused him a sort of irritation. To what idea had he yielded on seeing her with her brothers? It was maddening to think he could no longer find the strength to assert his will. However, he could settle it by saying a word of adieu. Bourdoncle, who had rejoined him, seemed less anxious, though he was still examining him with stealthy glances.
Meanwhile Denise had returned to Madame Bourdelais. “How are you getting on with the mantle, madame?”
“Oh, very well. I’ve spent enough for one day. These little ones are ruining me!”
Denise now being able to slip away, went and listened to Jean’s explanations, then accompanied him to the various counters, where he would certainly have lost his head without her. First came the mantle, which Thérèse wished to change for a white cloth cloak, same size, same shape. And the young girl, having taken the parcel, went up to the ready-made department, followed by her two brothers.
The department had laid out its light coloured garments, summer jackets and mantillas, of light silk and fancy woollens. But there was little doing here, the customers were but few and far between. Nearly all the young ladies were new-comers. Clara had disappeared a month before, some said she had eloped with the husband of one of the saleswomen, others that she had gone on the streets. As for Marguerite, she was at last about to take the management of the little shop at Grenoble, where her cousin was waiting for her. Madame Aurélie remained immutable, in the round cuirass of her silk dress, with her imperial mask which retained the yellowish puffiness of an antique marble. Her son Albert’s bad conduct was a source of great trouble to her, and she would have retired into the country had it not been for the inroads made on the family savings by this scapegrace, whose terrible extravagance threatened to swallow up piece by piece their Rigolles property. It was a sort of punishment for their home broken up, for the mother had resumed her little excursions with her lady friends, and the father on his side continued his musical performances. Bourdoncle was already looking upon Madame Aurélie with a discontented air, surprised that she had not the tact to resign; too old for business! the knell was about to sound which would sweep away the Lhomme dynasty.
“Ah! it’s you,” said she to Denise, with an exaggerated amiability. “You want this cloak changed, eh? Certainly, at once. Ah! there are your brothers; getting quite men, I declare!”
In spite of her pride, she would have gone on her knees to pay her court to the young girl. Nothing else was being talked of in her department, as in the others, but Denise’s departure; and the first-hand was quite ill over it, for she had been reckoning on the protection of her former saleswoman. She lowered her voice: “They say you’re going to leave us. Really, it isn’t possible?”
“But it is, though,” replied Denise.
Marguerite was listening. Since her marriage had been decided on, she had marched about with her putty-looking face, assuming more disdainful airs than ever. She came up saying: “You are quite right. Self-respect above everything, I say. Allow me to bid you adieu, my dear.”
Some customers arriving at that moment, Madame Aurélie requested her, in a harsh voice, to attend to business. Then, as Denise was taking the cloak to effect the “return” herself, she protested, and called an auxiliary. This, again, was an innovation suggested to Mouret by the young girl – persons charged with carrying the articles, which relieved the saleswomen of a great burden.
“Go with Mademoiselle Denise,” said the first-hand, giving her the cloak. Then, returning to Denise: “Pray consider well. We are all heart-broken at your leaving.”
Jean and Pépé, who were waiting, smiling amidst this overflowing crowd of women, followed their sister. They now had to go to the underlinen department, to get four chemises like the half-dozen that Thérèse had bought on the Saturday. But there, where the exhibition of white goods was snowing down from every shelf, they were almost stifled, and found it very difficult to get past.
In the first place, at the stay counter a little scene was causing a crowd to collect. Madame Boutarel, who had arrived in Paris this time with her husband and daughter, had been wandering all about the shop since the morning collecting an outfit for the young lady, who was about to be married. The father was consulted every moment, and they never appeared likely to finish. At last the family had just stranded here; and whilst the young lady was absorbed in a profound study of some drawers, the mother had disappeared, having cast her coquettish eyes on a delicious pair of stays. When Monsieur Boutarel, a big, full-blooded man, left his daughter, bewildered, to go and look for his wife, he at last found her in a fitting-room, at the door of which he was politely invited to take a seat. These rooms were like narrow cells, glazed with ground glass, where the men, and even the husbands, were not allowed to enter, by an exaggerated sentiment of propriety on the part of the directors. Saleswomen came out and went in again quickly, allowing those outside to divine, by the rapid closing of the door, visions of ladies in their petticoats, with bare arms and shoulders – stout women with white flesh, and thin ones with flesh the colour of old ivory. A row of men were waiting outside, seated on arm-chairs, and looking very weary. Monsieur Boutarel, when he understood, got really angry, crying out that he wanted his wife, that he insisted on knowing what was going on inside, that he certainly would not allow her to undress without him. It was in vain that they tried to calm him; he seemed to think there were some very queer things going on inside. Madame Boutarel was obliged to come out, to the delight of the crowd, who were discussing and laughing over the affair.
Denise and her brothers were at last able to get past. Every article of female linen, all those white under-things that are usually concealed, were here displayed, in a suite of rooms, classed in various departments. The corsets and dress-improvers occupied one counter, there were the stitched corsets, the Duchesse, the cuirass, and, above all, the white silk corsets, dove-tailed with colours, forming for this day a special display; an army of dummies without heads or legs, nothing but the bust, dolls’ breasts flattened under the silk, and close by, on other dummies, were horse-hair and other dress improvers, prolonging these broomsticks into enormous, distended croups, of which the profile assumed a ludicrous unbecomingness. But afterwards commenced the gallant dishabille, a dishabille which strewed the vast rooms, as if an army of lovely girls had undressed themselves from department to department, down to the very satin of their skin. Here were articles of fine linen, white cuffs and cravats, white fichus and collars, an infinite variety of light gewgaws, a white froth which escaped from the drawers and ascended like so much snow. There were jackets, little bodices, morning dresses and peignoirs, linen, nansouck, long white garments, roomy and thin, which spoke of the lounging in a lazy morning after a night of tenderness. Then appeared the under-garments, falling one by one; the white petticoats of all lengths, the petticoat that clings to the knees, and the long petticoat with which the gay ladies sweep the pavement, a rising sea of petticoats, in which the legs were drowned; cotton, linen, and cambric drawers, large white drawers in which a man could dance; lastly, the chemises, buttoned at the neck for the night, or displaying the bosom in the day, simply supported by narrow shoulder-straps; chemises in all materials, common calico, Irish linen, cambric, the last white veil slipping from the panting bosom and hips.
And, at the outfitting counter, there was an indiscreet unpacking, women turned round and viewed on all sides, from the small housewife with her common calicoes, to the rich lady drowned in laces, an alcove publicly open, of which the concealed luxury, the plaitings, the embroideries, the Valenciennes lace, became a sort of sexual depravation, as it developed into costly fantasies. Woman was dressing herself again, the white wave of this fall of linen was returning again to the shivering mystery of the petticoats, the chemise stiffened by the fingers of the workwomen, the frigid drawers retaining the creases of the box, all this cambric and muslin, dead, scattered over the counters, thrown about, heaped up, was going to become living, with the life of the flesh, odorous and warm with the odour of love, a white cloud become sacred, bathed in night, and of which the least flutter, the pink of a knee disclosed through the whiteness, ravaged the world. Then there was another room devoted to the baby linen, where the voluptuous snowy whiteness of woman’s clothing developed into the chaste whiteness of the infant: an innocence, a joy, the young wife become a mother, flannel garments, chemises and caps large as doll’s things, baptismal dresses, cashmere pelisses, the white down of birth, like a fine shower of white feathers.
“They are embroidered chemises,” said Jean, who was delighted with this display, this rising tide of feminine attire into which he was plunging.
Pauline ran up at once, when she perceived Denise; and before even asking what she wanted, began to talk in a low tone, stirred up by the rumours circulating in the shop. In her department, two saleswomen had even got quarrelling, one affirming and the other denying her departure.
