Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
CHAPTER VI
When the dead summer season arrived, quite a hurricane of panic swept through The Ladies' Paradise. The reign of terror – terror of dismissal – commenced; many employees were sent away on leave, and others were dismissed in dozens by the principals, bent on clearing the shop, as no customers appeared there during the July and August heat. Mouret, on making his daily round with Bourdoncle, would call aside the managers, whom he had prompted during the winter to engage more men than were really necessary, in order that the business might not suffer; but it was now a question of reducing expenses and this was effected by casting quite a third of the shop people – the weak ones who allowed themselves to be swallowed up by the strong ones – on to the pavements again.
"Come," he would say, "you must have some who don't suit you. We can't keep them all this time doing nothing."
And if the manager hesitated, hardly knowing whom to sacrifice, he would continue: "Make your own arrangements, six salesmen must suffice; you can take on others in October, there are always plenty to be had!"
Moreover Bourdoncle undertook the executions. He had a terrible way of saying: "Go and be paid!" which fell on the poor devil he had singled out like a blow from an axe. Anything served him as a pretext for clearing off the superfluous staff. He invented misdeeds, speculating on the slightest negligence. "You were sitting down, sir; go and get paid!" "You dare to answer me; go and get paid!" "Your shoes have not been blackened; go and get paid!" And even the bravest trembled in presence of the massacre which he left behind him. Then, this system not working quickly enough, he invented a trap by which in a few days and without fatigue, he got rid of the number of salesmen condemned beforehand. At eight o'clock, he took his stand at the door, watch in hand; and at three minutes past the hour, the breathless young people who arrived were greeted with his implacable "Go and get paid!" This was a quick and cleanly manner of doing the work.
"You've an ugly mug," he ended by saying one day to a poor devil whose nose, all on one side, annoyed him, "go and get paid!"
The favoured ones obtained a fortnight's holiday without pay, which was a more humane way of lessening the expenses. Moreover the salesmen quietly accepted their precarious situation, obliged to do so by necessity and habit. Since their arrival in Paris, they had roamed about, commencing their apprenticeship here, finishing it there, getting dismissed or they themselves resigning all at once, just as interest dictated. When business slackened the workmen lost their daily bread; and this went on amidst the subdued working of the machine, the useless gear was quietly thrown aside, like so much old plant. There was no gratitude shown for services rendered. So much the worse for those who did not know how to look after themselves!
Nothing else was now talked of in the various departments. Fresh stories circulated every day. The dismissed salesmen were named, in the same way as one counts the dead in time of cholera. The shawl and the woollen departments suffered especially; seven employees disappeared from them in one week. Then quite a drama threw the under-linen department into confusion: a customer, nearly fainting away, accused the young person who had served her of eating garlic; and the latter was dismissed at once, although, badly fed and dying of hunger, she had simply been finishing a collection of bread-crusts at the counter. However, the authorities showed themselves pitiless at the least complaint from customers; no excuse was admitted, the employee was always wrong, and had to disappear like a defective instrument, which interfered with the proper working of the business; and the others bowed their heads, not even attempting any defence. In the panic which was raging, each trembled for himself. Mignot, going out one day with a parcel under his coat, notwithstanding the regulations, was nearly caught, and really thought himself lost. Liénard, celebrated for his idleness, was simply indebted to his father's position in the drapery trade for not being turned away one afternoon when Bourdoncle found him dozing between two piles of English velvets. But the Lhommes were especially anxious, each day expecting to see their son Albert sent away, as the principals were very dissatisfied with his conduct at his pay-desk. He frequently had women there who diverted his attention from his work; and twice already Madame Aurélie had been obliged to plead for him.
Denise was so menaced amid this general clearance, that she lived in constant expectation of a catastrophe. It was in vain that she summoned up her courage, struggling with all her gaiety and all her reason in the endeavour not to yield to the misgivings of her tender nature; she burst into blinding tears as soon as she had closed the door of her bedroom, in desolation at the thought of finding herself in the street, on bad terms with her uncle, not knowing where to go, without a copper saved, and with the two children to look after. The sensations she had experienced during the first few weeks again returned, she fancied herself a grain of seed under a powerful millstone; and utter discouragement came over her at the thought of what a small atom she was in this great machine, which would certainly crush her with its quiet indifference. There was no illusion possible; if they dismissed any one from her department it would certainly be herself. During the Rambouillet excursion no doubt the other young ladies had incensed Madame Aurélie against her, for since then that lady had treated her with an air of severity into which entered a certain rancour. Besides, they could not forgive her for going to Joinville, regarding it as a sign of revolt, a means of setting the whole department at defiance, by exhibiting herself out of doors with a young lady from a rival counter. Never had Denise suffered so much in the department, and she now gave up all hope of conquering it.
"Let them alone!" repeated Pauline, "a lot of stuck-up things, as stupid as geese!"
But it was just these fine-lady airs which intimidated Denise. Nearly all the saleswomen, by their daily contact with rich customers, acquired certain graces, and finished by forming a vague nameless class – something between a work-girl and a middle-class lady. But beneath their art in dress, and the manners and phrases they had learnt by rote, there was often only a false, superficial education, the fruit of reading worthless papers, attending cheap theatres and music-halls, and picking up all the current stupidities of Paris.
"You know the 'unkempt one' has got a child?" said Clara one morning, on arriving in the department. And, as the others seemed astonished, she continued: "Yes, I saw her yesterday myself taking the child out for a walk! She's got it stowed away in the neighbourhood, somewhere."
Two days later, Marguerite came up after dinner with another piece of news. "A nice thing, I've just seen the unkempt one's sweetheart – a workman, just fancy! Yes, a dirty little workman, with yellow hair, who was watching her through the windows."
From that moment it became an accepted fact: Denise had a workman for a lover, and an infant concealed somewhere in the neighbourhood. They overwhelmed her with spiteful allusions. The first time she understood them she turned quite pale at the monstrosity of their suppositions. It was abominable; she tried to explain, and stammered out: "But they are my brothers!"
"Oh! oh! her brothers!" said Clara in a bantering tone.
Madame Aurélie was obliged to interfere. "Be quiet! young ladies. You had better go on changing those tickets. Mademoiselle Baudu is quite free to misbehave herself out of doors, if only she worked a bit when she is here."
This curt defence was a condemnation. The poor girl, suffocating as if they had accused her of a crime, vainly endeavoured to explain the facts. They laughed and shrugged their shoulders, and she felt wounded to the heart. On hearing the rumours Deloche was so indignant that he wanted to slap the faces of the young ladies in Denise's department; and was only restrained from doing so by the fear of compromising her. Since the evening at Joinville, he had harboured a submissive love, an almost religious friendship for her, which he proved by his faithful doglike looks. He was careful not to show his affection before the others, for they would have laughed at him, still that did not prevent him dreaming of the avenging blow he would deal if ever any one should attack her in his presence.
Denise finished by not answering the insults. It was all too odious, nobody would believe it. When any of her companions ventured a fresh allusion, she contented herself with looking at her with a sad, calm air. Besides, she had other troubles, material anxieties which took up her attention. Jean went on as badly as ever, always worrying her for money. Hardly a week passed that she did not receive some fresh story from him, four pages long; and when the house postman brought her these letters, in a big, passionate handwriting, she hastened to hide them in her pocket, for the saleswomen affected to laugh, and hummed snatches of some doubtful ditties. Then, after inventing some pretext to enable her to go to the other end of the establishment and read these letters, she became full of fear; poor Jean seemed to be lost. All his fibs succeeded with her, she believed in all his extraordinary love adventures, her complete ignorance of such things making her exaggerate his dangers. Sometimes it was a two-franc piece he wanted to enable him to escape some woman's jealousy, at other times five francs, six francs, to get some poor girl out of a scrape as her father would otherwise kill her. And so, as her salary and commission did not suffice, Denise conceived the idea of looking for a little work after business hours. She spoke about it to Robineau, who had shown a certain sympathy for her since their first meeting at Vinçard's, and he procured her the making of some neckties at five sous a dozen. At night, between nine and one o'clock, she could sew six dozen of these which represented thirty sous, out of which she had to deduct four sous for a candle. And as this sum kept Jean going she did not complain of the want of sleep, and would have thought herself very happy had not another catastrophe once more upset her budgetary calculations. At the end of the second fortnight, when she went to the necktie-dealer's, she found the door closed; the woman had failed, become bankrupt, thus carrying off her eighteen francs six sous, a considerable sum on which she had been relying for the last week. All the annoyances she experienced in the department disappeared before this disaster.
"You seem worried," said Pauline, meeting her one day in the furniture gallery, looking very pale. "Are you in want of anything?"
But as Denise already owed her friend twelve francs, she tried to smile and replied: "No, thanks. I've not slept well, that's all."
It was the twentieth of July, and the panic caused by the dismissals was at its height. Out of the four hundred employees, Bourdoncle had already sacked fifty, and there were rumours of fresh executions. She, however, thought but little of the menaces which were flying about, entirely absorbed as she was by the anguish caused her by one of Jean's adventures, an adventure yet more terrifying than any previous one. That very day he wanted fifteen francs, which sum alone could save him from somebody's vengeance. On the previous evening she had received the first letter opening the drama; then, one after the other had come two more; and in the last, the perusal of which she was finishing when Pauline met her, Jean had announced his death for that evening, if she did not send the money. She was in agony. She couldn't take the sum out of Pépé's board money as this she had paid away two days before. Every sort of bad luck was pursuing her, for she had hoped to get her eighteen francs six sous through Robineau, who might perhaps be able to find the necktie-dealer; but Robineau, having got a fortnight's holiday, had not returned on the previous night though expected to do so.
However, Pauline still questioned her in a friendly way. Whenever they met, in an out-of-the-way department, they would thus converse for a few minutes, keeping a sharp look-out the while. And suddenly, Pauline made a move as if to run off, having observed the white tie of an inspector coming out of the shawl department.
"Ah! it's only old Jouve!" she murmured in a relieved tone. "I can't think what makes the old man grin as he does when he sees us together. In your place I should beware, for he's too kind to you. He's an old humbug, as spiteful as a cat, and thinks he's still got his troopers to talk to."
This was quite true; Jouve was detested by all the salespeople for his severity. More than half the dismissals were the result of his reports; and, rakish ex-captain that he was, with a big red nose, he only shewed himself lenient in the departments served by women. Thus though he must have perceived Denise and Pauline he went away, pretending not to see them; and they heard him dropping on a salesman of the lace department, guilty of watching a fallen horse in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin.
"By the way," resumed Pauline, "weren't you looking for Monsieur Robineau yesterday? He's come back."
At this Denise thought herself saved. "Thanks," said she, "I'll go round the other way then, and pass through the silk department. So much the worse! They sent me upstairs to the work-room to fetch a bodkin."
And thereupon they separated. The young girl, with a busy look, as if she were running from pay-desk to pay-desk in search of something, reached the stairs and went down into the hall. It was a quarter to ten, the first lunch-bell had rung. A warm sun was playing on the windows, and in spite of the grey linen blinds, the heat penetrated the stagnant air. Now and then a refreshing breath arose from the floor, which some assistants were gently watering. A somnolence, a summer siesta reigned in all the vacant spaces around the counters, you might have thought yourself in a church wrapt in sleeping shadow after the last mass. Some salesmen were standing about listlessly, and a few rare customers crossed the galleries and the hall, with the indolent step of women annoyed by the sun.
Just as Denise went down, Favier was measuring a dress length of light silk, with pink spots, for Madame Boutarel, who had arrived in Paris from the South on the previous day. Since the commencement of the month, the provinces had been sending up their detachments; you saw nothing but queerly-dressed dames in yellow shawls, green skirts, and flaring bonnets. But the shopmen were even too indolent to laugh at them. Favier accompanied Madame Boutarel to the mercery department, and on returning, remarked to Hutin:
"Yesterday they were all Auvergnat women, to-day they're all Provençales. I'm sick of them."
But just then Hutin rushed forward, for it was his turn, and he had recognised "the pretty lady," the lovely blonde thus nicknamed by the department which knew nothing about her, not even her name. They all smiled at her, not a week passed without her coming to The Ladies' Paradise, hitherto always alone. This time, however, she had a little boy of four or five with her, and this gave rise to various comments.
"She's married, then?" asked Favier, when Hutin returned from the pay-desk, where he had debited her with thirty yards of Duchess satin.
"Possibly," replied he, "although the youngster proves nothing. Perhaps he belongs to a lady friend. What's certain is, that she must have been weeping. She was awfully melancholy, and her eyes were so red!"
A silence ensued. The two salesmen gazed vaguely into the depths of the shop. Then Favier resumed in a low voice: "If she's married, perhaps her husband's smacked her face."
"Possibly," repeated Hutin, "unless a lover has played her false." And after a fresh silence, he added: "Any way, I don't care a hang!"
At this moment Denise crossed the silk department, slackening her steps and looking around her, in search of Robineau. She could not see him, so she went into the linen department, then passed through again. The two salesmen had noticed her movements.
"There's that bag of bones again," murmured Hutin.
"She's looking for Robineau," said Favier. "I can't think what they get up to together. Oh! nothing wrong. But they say Robineau has procured her a little work, some neckties. What a spec, eh?"
Hutin was meditating something spiteful; and when Denise passed near him, he stopped her, saying: "Is it me you're looking for?"
She turned very red. Since the Joinville excursion, she had not dared to read her heart, full of confused sensations. She was constantly recalling his appearance with that red-haired girl, and if she still trembled before him, it was doubtless from uneasiness. Had she ever loved him? Did she love him still? She hardly liked to stir up these things, which were painful to her.
"No, sir," she replied, embarrassed.
Hutin thereupon began to laugh at her uneasy manner. "Would you like us to serve him to you? Favier, just serve Robineau to this young lady."
She looked at him fixedly, with the sad calm look with which she had met the wounding remarks made by the girls, her companions. Ah! so he was spiteful, he attacked her as well as the others! And she felt a sort of supreme anguish, the breaking of a last tie. Her face expressed such real suffering, that Favier, although not of a very tender nature, came to her assistance.
"Monsieur Robineau has gone out to match some goods," said he. "No doubt he will be back for lunch. You'll find him here this afternoon, if you want to speak to him."
Denise thanked him, and went up to her department, where Madame Aurélie was waiting for her in a terrible rage. What! she had been gone half an hour! Where had she just sprung from? Not from the work-room, that was quite certain! The poor girl hung her head, thinking of this avalanche of misfortunes. All would be over if Robineau should not come in. However, she resolved to go down again, later on.
In the silk department, Robineau's return had provoked quite a revolution. The salesmen had hoped that, disgusted with the annoyances they were incessantly causing him, he would not return to the establishment; and, in fact, there was a moment, when pressed by Vinçard to take over his business, he had almost decided to do so. Hutin's secret labour, the mine which he had been laying under the second-hand's feet for months past, was about to explode. During Robineau's holidays, he had temporarily taken his place and had done his best to injure him in the minds of the principals, and secure possession of his situation by excess of zeal; he discovered and reported all sorts of trifling irregularities, suggested improvements, and invented new designs. There was, however, nothing exceptional in all this. Everybody in the department – from the unpaid probationer, longing to become a salesman, to the first salesman who coveted the situation of manager – had but one fixed idea, and that was to dislodge the comrade above them, to ascend another rung of the ladder, by knocking him over if necessary; and this battle of appetites, this constant hurtling, even contributed to the better working of the machine, inspiriting the sales and fanning the flame of success which was astonishing Paris. Behind Hutin, there was Favier; and behind Favier came the others, in a long line. You heard a loud noise as of jaws working. Robineau was condemned, and each was grabbing for one of his bones. So when the second-hand returned from his holiday there was a general grumbling. The matter had to be settled at once, the salesmen's attitude appearing so menacing that the head of the department had sent Robineau out to match some goods at the dépôts of manufacturers in order to give the authorities an opportunity to come to a decision.
"We would sooner all leave, if he is to be kept," declared Hutin.
The affair greatly bothered Bouthemont, whose gaiety ill-accorded with such worries. He was pained to see nothing but scowling faces around him. Nevertheless he desired to be just.
"Come, leave him alone, he doesn't hurt you," he said.
But they protested energetically. "What! doesn't hurt us! An insupportable being who is always irritable and so proud that he would walk over one rather than not pass."
This was the great grievance of the department. Robineau, nervous as a woman, was intolerably stiff and susceptible. They related scores of stories about him; one poor little fellow had fallen ill through his treatment, and even lady customers had been humiliated by his curt remarks.
"Well, gentlemen, I won't take anything on myself," said Bouthemont. "I've notified the position to the directors, and am going to speak about it shortly."
The second lunch was being rung; the clang of a bell came up from the basement with a distant muffled sound in the close air of the shop. Hutin and Favier went down. From all the counters, came salesmen one by one, hastening, helter-skelter, through the narrow entrance to the kitchen passage down below, a damp passage always lighted by gas. The flock pushed forward, without a laugh or a word, amidst an increasing clatter of crockery and a strong odour of food. Then at the far end of the passage there was a sudden halt, before a wicket. Flanked by piles of plates, and armed with forks and spoons, which he plunged into copper-pans, a cook was distributing the portions. And when he stood aside, the flaring kitchen could be seen beyond his white-covered belly.
"Of course!" muttered Hutin, consulting the bill of fare, written on a black-board above the wicket. "Boiled beef and pungent sauce, or skate. Never any roast meat in this rotten shop! Their boiled beef and fish don't do a fellow a bit of good!"
Moreover, the fish was universally neglected, for the pan was quite full. Favier, however, took some skate. Behind him, Hutin stooped down, saying: "Beef and sauce."
With a mechanical movement of his fork, the cook picked up a piece of meat; then poured a spoonful of sauce over it, and Hutin, suffocated by the hot air from the kitchen, had hardly secured his portion, before the words, "Beef, pungent sauce; beef, pungent sauce," followed each other like a litany; whilst the cook continued to pick up the meat and pour the sauce over it with the rapid rhythmical movement of a well-regulated clock.
"But the skate's cold," declared Favier, whose hand felt no warmth from the plate.
They were now all hurrying along, with arms extended and plates held straight, for fear of running against one another. Ten steps further was the bar, another wicket with a shiny zinc counter, on which were ranged the shares of wine, small bottles, without corks and still damp from rinsing. And each took one of these bottles in his empty hand as he passed, and then, completely laden, made for his table with a serious air, careful not to spill anything.
Hutin, however, grumbled between his teeth. "This is a fine dance, with all this crockery!"
The table at which he and Favier sat, was at the end of the corridor, in the last dining-room. The rooms were all alike, old cellars twelve feet by fifteen, which had been cemented over and fitted up as refectories; but the damp came through the paint-work, the yellow walls were covered with greenish spots; and, from the narrow windows, opening on the street, on a level with the pavement, there fell a livid light, incessantly traversed by the vague shadows of passers-by. In July as in December, you stifled in the warm air, laden with nauseous smells, which came from the kitchen near by.
Hutin went in first. On the table, which was fixed at one end to the wall, and covered with American cloth, there were only the glasses, knives, and forks, marking the places. A pile of clean plates stood at each end; whilst in the middle was a big loaf, a knife sticking in it, with the handle in the air. Hutin rid himself of his bottle and laid down his plate; then, after taking his napkin from the bottom of a set of pigeon-holes, the sole ornament on the walls, he heaved a sigh and sat down.
"And I'm fearfully hungry, too!" he murmured.
"It's always like that," replied Favier, seating himself on the left. "Nothing to eat when one is starving."
The table was rapidly filling. It contained twenty-two places. At first nothing was heard but a loud clattering of knives and forks, the gormandizing of big fellows whom thirteen hours' daily work incessantly rendered hungry. Formerly the employees had been allowed an hour for meals, which had enabled them to go to a café and take their coffee; and they would then despatch their dinner in twenty minutes, anxious to get into the street. But this excited them too much, they came back careless, their minds bent on other things than business; and so the managers had decided that they should not go out, but pay an extra three halfpence for a cup of coffee, if they wanted one. So now they were in no hurry, but prolonged the meal, being in no wise anxious to go back to work before time. Between their big mouthfuls a great many read newspapers which they had folded and placed against their bottles. Others, their first hunger satisfied, talked noisily, always returning to the eternal grievance of the bad food, to the money they had earned, to what they had done on the previous Sunday, and what they were going to do on the next one.
"I say, what about your Robineau?" a salesman suddenly asked Hutin.
The struggle between the men of the silk department and their second-hand occupied all the counters. The question was discussed every evening at the Café Saint-Roch until midnight. Hutin, who was busy with his piece of beef, contented himself with replying:
"Well! he's come back." Then, suddenly getting angry, he resumed: "But confound it! I really believe they've given me a slice of donkey! It's become disgusting, my word of honour!"
"You needn't grumble!" said Favier. "I was flat enough to ask for skate. It's putrid."
They were all speaking at once, some complaining and some joking. At a corner of the table, against the wall, sat Deloche silently eating. He was afflicted with a ravenous appetite, which he had never been able to satisfy, and not earning enough to afford any extras, he cut himself huge chunks of bread, and bolted even the least savoury platefuls, with a gormandizing air. They all laughed at him, crying: "Favier, pass your skate to Deloche. He likes it like that. And your meat, Hutin; Deloche wants it for his dessert."
The poor fellow shrugged his shoulders, and did not even reply. It wasn't his fault if he was dying of hunger. Besides, the others might abuse the food as much as they liked, they swallowed it all the same.
But a low whistle stopped their talk; Mouret and Bourdoncle were in the corridor. For some time the complaints had become so frequent that the principals pretended to come and judge the quality of the food themselves. They gave thirty sous a head per day to the chief cook, who had to pay for everything, provisions, coal, gas, and staff, and they displayed a naive astonishment when the food was not good. That very morning even, each department had deputed a spokesman. Mignot and Liénard had undertaken to speak for their comrades. And so, in the sudden silence which fell, all ears were cocked to catch the conversation going on in the next room, which Mouret and Bourdoncle had just entered. The latter declared the beef excellent; and Mignot, astounded by this quiet assertion, was repeating, "But chew it, and see;" whilst Liénard, attacking the skate, gently remarked, "But it stinks, sir!" Mouret thereupon launched into a cordial speech; he would do everything for his employees' welfare, he was their father, and would rather eat dry bread himself than see them badly fed.
"I promise you to look into the matter," he said in conclusion, raising his voice so that they might all hear it from one end of the passage to the other.
The inquiry being finished, the noise of the knives and forks commenced once more. "Yes, reckon on that, and drink water!" Hutin muttered. "Ah, they're not stingy of fine words. You want some promises, there you are! But all the while they continue feeding you on old boot-leather, and chuck you out like dogs!"
The salesman who had already questioned him thereupon repeated: "You say that Robineau – "
But a clatter of heavy crockery-ware drowned his voice. The men changed their plates themselves, and the piles at both ends were diminishing. When a kitchen-help brought in some large tin dishes, Hutin cried out: "Baked rice! this is a finisher!"
"Good for a penn'orth of gum!" said Favier, serving himself.
Some liked it but others thought it too sticky. Those who were plunged in the fiction of their newspaper, not even knowing what they were eating, remained silent. All, however, mopped their foreheads, and the narrow cellar-like apartment filled with a ruddy vapour whilst the shadows of the passers-by continually passed like black bars over the littered tables.
"Pass Deloche the bread," cried one of the wags.
Each one cut a piece, and then again dug the knife into the loaf up to the handle; and the bread still went round.
"Who'll take my rice for a dessert?" all at once asked Hutin; and when he had concluded his bargain with a short, thin young fellow, he attempted to sell his wine also; but no one would take it as it was known to be detestable.
"As I was telling you, Robineau is back," he continued, amid the cross-fire of laughter and conversation that went on. "Oh! his affair is serious. Just fancy, he has been leading the saleswomen astray! Yes, and he gets them cravats to make!"
"Silence!" muttered Favier. "They're just judging him."
