Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
CHAPTER VIII
At this time the whole neighbourhood was talking of the great thoroughfare which was to be opened between the Bourse and the new Opera House, under the name of the Rue du Dix-Décembre.3 The expropriation judgments had been delivered, and two gangs of demolishers were already beginning operations at either end, the first pulling down the old mansions in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, and the other destroying the thin walls of the old Vaudeville. You could hear the picks getting closer, and the Rue de Choiseul and the Rue de la Michodière waxing quite excited over their condemned houses. Before a fortnight passed, the opening would leave in both these streets a great gap full of sunlight and uproar.
But what stirred up the district still more, was the work undertaken at The Ladies' Paradise. People talked of considerable enlargements, of gigantic shops with frontages on the Rue de la Michodière, the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, and the Rue Monsigny. Mouret, it was said, had made arrangements with Baron Hartmann, the chairman of the Crédit Immobilier, and would occupy the whole block, excepting the future frontage in the Rue du Dix-Décembre, where the baron wished to erect a rival establishment to the Grand Hôtel. The Paradise people were buying up leases on all sides, shops were closing, and tenants moving; and in the empty buildings an army of workmen was commencing the various alterations amidst a cloud of plaster. And alone in all this disorder, old Bourras's narrow hovel remained intact, still obstinately clinging between the high walls covered with masons.
When on the following day, Denise went with Pépé to her uncle Baudu's, the street was blocked up by a line of carts discharging bricks outside the Hôtel Duvillard. Baudu was standing at his shop door looking on with a gloomy air. In proportion as The Ladies' Paradise became larger, The Old Elbeuf seemed to grow smaller. The young girl thought that the windows looked blacker than ever, lower and lower still beneath the first storey, with its rounded prison-like windows. The damp, moreover, had still further discoloured the old green sign-board; woefulness appeared on the whole frontage, livid in hue, and, as it were, shrunken.
"Here you are, then!" said Baudu. "Take care! they would run right over you."
Inside the shop, Denise experienced the same heart pang; she found it darker, steeped more deeply than ever in the somnolence of approaching ruin. Empty corners formed dark cavities, dust was covering the counters and filling the drawers, whilst a cellar-like odour of saltpetre rose from the bales of cloth that were no longer moved about. At the desk Madame Baudu and Geneviève stood mute and motionless, as in some solitary spot, where no one would come to disturb them. The mother was hemming some dusters. The daughter, her hands resting on her knees, was gazing at the emptiness before her.
"Good evening, aunt," said Denise; "I'm delighted to see you again, and if I have hurt your feelings, I hope you will forgive me."
Madame Baudu kissed her, greatly affected. "My poor child," said she, "if I had no other troubles, you would see me gayer than this."
"Good evening, cousin," resumed Denise, kissing Geneviève on the cheeks.
The latter woke with a sort of start, and returned her kisses but without finding a word to say. Then the two women took up Pépé, who was holding out his little arms, and the reconciliation was complete.
"Well! it's six o'clock, let's go to dinner," said Baudu. "Why haven't you brought Jean?"
"Well, he was to have come," murmured Denise, in embarrassment. "I saw him this morning, and he faithfully promised me. Oh! we must not wait for him; his master has kept him, I dare say." In reality she suspected some extraordinary adventure, and wished to apologize for him in advance.
"In that case, we will commence," said her uncle and turning towards the dim depths of the shop, he added:
"You may as well dine with us, Colomban. No one will come."
Denise had not noticed the assistant. Her aunt explained to her that they had been obliged to get rid of the other salesman and the young lady. Business was getting so bad that Colomban sufficed; and even he spent many idle hours, drowsy, falling asleep with his eyes open.
The gas was burning in the dining-room, although they were now in the long days of summer. Denise shivered slightly as she went in, chilled by the dampness oozing from the walls. She once more beheld the round table, the places laid on the American cloth, the window deriving its air and light from the dark and fetid back-yard. And all these things appeared to her to be gloomier than ever, and tearful like the shop.
"Father," said Geneviève, uncomfortable for Denise's sake, "shall I close the window? there's rather a bad smell."
He himself smelt nothing, and seemed surprised. "Shut the window if you like," he replied at last. "But we shan't get any air then."
And indeed they were almost stifled. It was a very simple family dinner. After the soup, as soon as the servant had served the boiled beef, the old man as usual began talking about the people opposite. At first he showed himself very tolerant, allowing his niece to have a different opinion.
"Dear me!" said he, "you are quite free to support those big tricky shows. Each person has his ideas, my girl. If you were not disgusted at being so disgracefully chucked out you must have strong reasons for liking them; and even if you went back again, I should think none the worse of you. No one here would be offended, would they?"
"Oh, no!" murmured Madame Baudu.
Thereupon Denise quietly gave her reasons for her preference, just as she had at Robineau's: explaining the logical evolution in business, the necessities of modern times, the greatness of these new creations, in short, the growing well-being of the public. Baudu, his eyes dilated, and his mouth clammy, listened with a visible mental strain. Then, when she had finished, he shook his head.
"That's all phantasmagoria, you know. Business is business, there's no getting over that. Oh! I own that they succeed, but that's all. For a long time I thought they would smash up; yes, I expected that, waiting patiently – you remember? Well, no, it appears that nowadays thieves make fortunes, whilst honest people die of hunger. That's what we've come to. I'm obliged to bow to facts. And I do bow, on my word, I do bow to them!" A deep anger was gradually rising within him. All at once he flourished his fork. "But The Old Elbeuf will never give way! I said as much to Bourras, you know, 'Neighbour,' said I 'you're going over to the cheapjacks; your paint and your varnish are a disgrace to you.'"
"Eat your dinner!" interrupted Madame Baudu, feeling anxious, on seeing him so excited.
"Wait a bit, I want my niece thoroughly to understand my motto. Just listen, my girl: I'm like this decanter, I don't budge. They succeed, so much the worse for them! As for me, I protest – that's all!"
The servant brought in a piece of roast veal. He cut it up with trembling hands; and no longer showed his accurate glance, his deft skill in weighing the portions. The consciousness of his defeat deprived him of the confidence he had formerly possessed as a respected employer. Pépé had thought that his uncle was getting angry, and they had to pacify him, by giving him some dessert, some biscuits which were near his plate. Then Baudu, lowering his voice, tried to talk of something else. For a moment he spoke of the demolitions going on, approving of the Rue du Dix-Décembre, the piercing of which would certainly increase the business of the neighbourhood. But then he again returned to The Ladies' Paradise; everything brought him back to it, as to a chronic complaint. They were being covered with plaster, and business had quite ceased since the builders' carts had commenced to block up the street. Moreover the place would soon be really ridiculous, in its immensity; the customers would lose themselves in it. Why not have the Central Markets at once? And, in spite of his wife's supplicating looks, notwithstanding his own effort, he went on from the works to the amount of business done in the big shop. Was it not inconceivable? In less than four years they had increased their figures five-fold: the annual receipts, formerly some eight million francs, now attained the sum of forty millions, according to the last balance-sheet. In fact it was a piece of folly, a thing that had never been seen before, and against which it was perfectly useless to struggle. They were always swelling and growing; they now had a thousand employees and twenty-eight departments. Those twenty-eight departments enraged him more than anything else. No doubt they had duplicated a few, but others were quite new; for instance a furniture department, and a department for fancy goods. The idea! Fancy goods! Really those people had no pride whatever, they would even end by selling fish. Then Baudu, though still affecting to respect Denise's opinions, attempted to convert her.
"Frankly, you can't defend them. What would you say if I were to add an ironmongery department to my cloth business? You would say I was mad, eh? Confess, at least, that you don't esteem them."
And as the young girl simply smiled, feeling uncomfortable and realizing how futile the best of reasons would be, he resumed: "In short, you are on their side. We won't talk about it any more, for it's useless to let that part us again. That would be the climax – to see them come between me and my family! Go back with them, if you like; but pray don't worry me with any more of their stories!"
A silence ensued. His previous violence fell to this feverish resignation. As they were suffocating in the narrow room, heated by the gas-burner, the servant had to open the window again; and the damp, pestilential air from the yard blew into the apartment. A dish of sauté potatoes had appeared, and they helped themselves slowly, without a word.
"Look at those two," began Baudu again, pointing with his knife to Geneviève and Colomban. "Ask them if they like your Ladies' Paradise."
Side by side in the places where they had found themselves twice a-day for the last twelve years, Colomban and Geneviève were eating slowly, without uttering a word. He, exaggerating the coarse good-nature of his face, seemed to be concealing, behind his drooping eyelashes, the inward flame which was consuming him; whilst she, her head bowed lower beneath her heavy hair, appeared to be giving way entirely, as if a prey to some secret grief.
"Last year was very disastrous," explained Baudu, "and we have been obliged to postpone the marriage. Just to please them, ask them what they think of your friends."
In order to pacify him, Denise interrogated the young people.
"Naturally I can't be very fond of them, cousin," replied Geneviève. "But never fear, every one doesn't detest them."
And so speaking she looked at Colomban, who was rolling up some bread-crumbs with an absorbed air. But when he felt that the young girl's gaze was turned upon him, he broke out into a series of violent exclamations: "A rotten shop! A lot of rogues, every man-jack of them! In fact a regular pest in the neighbourhood!"
"You hear him! You hear him!" exclaimed Baudu, delighted. "There's one whom they'll never get hold of! Ah! my boy, you're the last of the old stock, we shan't see any more!"
But Geneviève, with her severe and suffering look, did not take her eyes off Colomban, but dived into the depths of his heart. And he felt troubled, and again launched out into invective. Madame Baudu was watching them in silence with an anxious air, as if she foresaw another misfortune in this direction. For some time past her daughter's sadness had frightened her, she felt her to be dying.
"The shop is left to take care of itself," she said at last, rising from table, in order to put an end to the scene. "Go and see, Colomban; I fancy I heard some one."
They had finished, and got up. Baudu and Colomban went to speak to a traveller, who had come for orders. Madame Baudu carried Pépé off to show him some pictures. The servant had quickly cleared the table, and Denise was lingering by the window, looking curiously into the little back-yard, when on turning round she saw Geneviève still in her place, her eyes fixed on the American cloth, which was still damp from the sponge that had been passed over it.
"Are you suffering, cousin?" she asked.
The young girl did not reply but seemed to be obstinately studying a rent in the cloth, though really absorbed in the reflections passing through her mind. But after a while she raised her head with difficulty, and looked at the sympathizing face bent over hers. The others had gone, then? What was she doing on that chair? And suddenly sobs stifled her, her head fell forward on the edge of the table. She wept on, wetting her sleeve with her tears.
"Good heavens! what's the matter with you?" cried Denise in dismay. "Shall I call some one?"
But Geneviève nervously caught her by the arm, and held her back, stammering: "No, no, stay here. Don't let mamma know! With you I don't mind; but not the others – not the others! It's not my fault, I assure you. It was on finding myself all alone. Wait a bit; I'm better, I'm not crying now."
Nevertheless sudden attacks kept on seizing her, sending shudders through her frail body. It seemed as though her pile of hair was weighing down her neck. While she was rolling her head on her folded arms, a hair-pin slipped out, and then her hair fell over her neck, burying it beneath gloomy tresses. Denise, as quietly as possible for fear of attracting attention, sought to console her. She undid her dress, and was heart-rent on seeing how fearfully thin she had become. The poor girl's bosom was as hollow as a child's. Then Denise took hold of her hair by the handful, that superb hair, which seemed to be absorbing all her life, and twisted it up tightly to clear her neck, and make her cooler.
"Thanks, you are very kind," said Geneviève. "Ah! I'm not stout, am I? I used to be stouter, but it's all gone away. Do up my dress or mamma might see my shoulders. I hide them as much as I can. Good heavens! I'm not at all well, I'm not at all well."
However, the attack passed away, and she sat there completely exhausted and looking fixedly at her cousin. After a pause she abruptly inquired: "Tell me the truth: does he love her?"
Denise felt a blush rising to her cheeks. She was perfectly well aware that Geneviève referred to Colomban and Clara; but she pretended to be surprised. "Who, dear?"
Geneviève shook her head with an incredulous air. "Don't tell falsehoods, I beg of you. Do me the favour of setting my doubts at rest. You must know, I feel it. Yes, you were that girl's comrade, and I've seen Colomban run after you, and talk to you in a low voice. He was giving you messages for her, wasn't he? Oh! for pity's sake, tell me the truth; I assure you it will do me good."
Never before had Denise been in such an awkward position. She lowered her eyes before this girl, who was ever silent and yet guessed all. However, she had the strength to deceive her still. "But it's you he loves!" she said.
Geneviève made a gesture of despair. "Very well, you won't tell me anything. However, I don't care, I've seen them. He's continually going outside to look at her. She, upstairs, laughs like a bad woman. Of course they meet out of doors."
"As for that, no, I assure you!" exclaimed Denise, forgetting herself and carried away by the desire to give her cousin at least that consolation.
Geneviève drew a long breath, and smiled feebly. Then in the weak voice of a convalescent she said, "I should like a glass of water. Excuse me if I trouble you. Look, over there in the sideboard."
When she got hold of the bottle, she drank a large glassful right off, keeping Denise away with one hand. The young saleswoman was afraid that she might do herself harm.
"No, no," said she, "let me be; I'm always thirsty. In the night I get up to drink."
Silence again fell. Then Geneviève once more began in a gentle voice. "If you only knew, I've been accustomed to the idea of this marriage for the last ten years. I was still wearing short dresses, when Colomban began courting me. I can hardly remember how things came about. By always living together, shut up here together, without any other distractions between us, I must have ended by believing him to be my husband before he really was. I didn't know whether I loved him, I was his wife, that was all. And now he wants to go off with another girl! Oh, heavens! my heart is breaking! You see, it's a grief that I never felt before. It hurts me in the bosom, and in the head; then it spreads everywhere, it's killing me."
Her eyes filled with tears. Denise, whose eyelids were also moistening with pity, asked her: "Does my aunt suspect anything?"
"Yes, mamma has her suspicions, I think. As for papa, he is too much worried, and does not know the pain he is causing me by postponing the marriage. Mamma has questioned me several times, greatly alarmed to see me pining away. She has never been very strong herself, and has often said to me: 'My poor child, you're like myself, by no means strong. Besides, one doesn't grow much in these shops. But she must find me getting really too thin now. Look at my arms; would you believe it?"
Then with a trembling hand she again took up the water bottle. Her cousin tried to prevent her from drinking.
"But I'm so thirsty," said she, "let me drink."
They could hear Baudu talking in a loud voice. Then suddenly yielding to an inspiration of her heart, Denise knelt down before Geneviève and throwing her sisterly arms round her neck, kissed her, and assured her that everything would yet turn out all right, that she would marry Colomban, would get well, and live happily. And then she got up quickly for her uncle was calling her.
"Jean is here. Come along."
It was indeed Jean, who, looking rather scared, had just arrived for dinner. When they told him it was striking eight, he seemed amazed. Impossible! He had only just left his master's. They chaffed him. No doubt he had come by way of the Bois de Vincennes. But as soon as he could get near his sister, he whispered to her: "It's all the fault of a little laundry-girl. I've got a cab outside by the hour. Give me five francs."
He went out for a minute, and then returned to dinner, for Madame Baudu would not hear of his going away without taking, at least, a plate of soup. Geneviève had returned to the shop in her usual silent and retiring manner. Colomban was now half asleep behind the counter; and the evening passed away, slow and melancholy, only animated by Baudu's tramp, as he walked from one end of the empty shop to the other. A single gas-burner was alight – the shadows of the low ceiling fell in large masses, like black earth from a ditch.
Several months passed away. Denise came in nearly every evening to cheer up Geneviève a bit, but the Baudus' home became more melancholy than ever. The works opposite were a continual torment, which made them feel their bad luck more and more keenly. Even when they had an hour of hope – some unexpected joy – the uproar of a tumbrel-load of bricks, the sound of a stone-cutter's saw or the simple call of a mason would at once suffice to mar their pleasure. In fact, the whole neighbourhood was stirred by it all. From behind the hoarding edging and obstructing the three streets, there issued a movement of feverish activity. Although the architect was utilizing the existing buildings, he was opening them in various ways to adapt them to their new uses; and right in the centre of the vacant space supplied by the court-yards, he was building a central gallery as vast as a church, which would be reached by a grand entrance in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin in the very middle of the frontage. They had, at first, experienced great difficulty in laying the foundations, for they had come upon sewer deposits and loose earth, full of human bones; besides which the boring of the well – a well three hundred feet deep – destined to yield two hundred gallons a minute had made the neighbours very anxious. They had now got the walls up to the first storey; and the entire block was surrounded by scaffoldings, regular towers of timber. There was an incessant noise from the grinding of the windlasses hoisting up the free-stone, the abrupt unloading of iron bars, the clamour of the army of workmen, accompanied by the noise of picks and hammers. But above all else, what most deafened you was the sound of the machinery. Everything went by steam, screeching whistles rent the air; and then too, at the slightest gust of wind, clouds of plaster flew about and covered the neighbouring roofs like a fall of snow. The despairing Baudus looked on at this implacable dust penetrating everywhere – filtering through the closest woodwork, soiling the goods in their shop, even gliding into their beds; and the idea that they must continue to breathe it – that it would end by killing them – empoisoned their existence.
The situation, however, was destined to become worse still, for in September, the architect, afraid of not being ready in time, decided to carry on the work at night also. Powerful electric lamps were established, and then the uproar became continuous. Gangs of men relieved each other; the hammers never stopped, the engines whistled night and day; and again the everlasting clamour seemed to raise and scatter the white dust. The exasperated Baudus now had to give up the idea of sleeping even; they were shaken in their alcove; the noises changed into nightmare whenever they managed to doze off. Then, if they got up to calm their fever, and went, with bare feet, to pull back the curtains and look out of the window, they were frightened by the vision of The Ladies' Paradise flaring in the darkness like a colossal forge, where their ruin was being forged. Along the half-built walls, pierced with empty bays, the electric lamps threw broad bluey rays, of blinding intensity. Two o'clock struck – then three, then four; and during the painful sleep of the neighbourhood, the works, expanding in the lunar-like brightness, became colossal and fantastic, swarming with black shadows, noisy workmen, whose silhouettes gesticulated against the crude whiteness of the new walls.
Baudu had spoken correctly. The small traders of the adjacent streets were receiving another mortal blow. Every time The Ladies' Paradise created new departments there were fresh failures among the shopkeepers of the district. The disaster spread, one could hear the oldest houses cracking. Mademoiselle Tatin, of the under-linen shop in the Passage Choiseul, had just been declared bankrupt; Quinette, the glover, could hardly hold out another six months; the furriers, Vanpouille, were obliged to sub-let a part of their premises; and if the Bédorés, brother and sister, still kept on as hosiers, in the Rue Gaillon, they were evidently living on the money they had formerly saved. And now more smashes were on the point of being added to those long since foreseen; the fancy goods department threatened a dealer in the Rue Saint-Roch, Deslignières, a big, full-blooded man; whilst the furniture department was injuring Messrs. Piot and Rivoire, whose shops slumbered in the gloom of the Passage Sainte-Anne. It was even feared that an attack of apoplexy would carry off Deslignières, who had been in a terrible rage ever since The Ladies' Paradise had marked up purses at thirty per cent. reduction. The furniture dealers, who were much calmer, affected to joke at these counter-jumpers who wanted to meddle with such articles as chairs and tables; but customers were already leaving them, and the success of Mouret's department threatened to be a formidable one. It was all over, they must bow their heads. After these, others would be swept off in their turn and there was no reason why every business should not be driven away. Some day The Ladies' Paradise alone would cover the neighbourhood with its roof.
At present, when the thousand employees went in and came out morning and evening, they formed such a long procession on the Place Gaillon that people stopped to look at them as they might at a passing regiment. For ten minutes they blocked up all the streets; and the shopkeepers standing at their doors thought bitterly of their one assistant, whom they hardly knew how to find food for. The last balance-sheet of the big bazaar, the turn-over of forty millions, had also revolutionized the neighbourhood. The figure passed from house to house amid cries of surprise and anger. Forty millions! Think of that! No doubt the net profit did not exceed more than four per cent., given the heavy general expenses, and the system of low prices; but sixteen hundred thousand francs was still a handsome sum; one could well be satisfied with four per cent., when one operated on such a scale as that. It was said that Mouret's starting capital of five hundred thousand francs, each year increased by the total profits of the house – a capital which must at that moment have amounted to four millions – had in one twelvemonth passed ten times over the counters in the form of goods. Robineau, when he made this calculation in Denise's presence one evening, after dinner, was quite overcome for a moment, and remained staring at his empty plate. She was right, it was this incessant renewal of capital that constituted the invincible power of the new system of business. Bourras alone denied the facts, refusing to understand, superb and stupid as a milestone. To him the Paradise people were a pack of thieves and nothing more! A lying set! Cheap-jacks who would be picked out of the gutter some fine morning!
The Baudus, however, despite their determination not to change anything in the system of The Old Elbeuf, tried to sustain the competition. Customers no longer coming to them, they sought to reach the customers through the agency of travellers. There was at that time, in the Paris market, a traveller connected with all the leading tailors, who saved the little cloth and flannel houses when he condescended to represent them. Naturally they all tried to get hold of him; he was quite a personage; and Baudu, having haggled with him, had the misfortune to see him come to terms with the Matignons, of the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs. Then one after the other, two other travellers robbed him; a third, an honest man, did no business. It was a slow death, exempt from shocks, a continual decrease of business, customers falling away one by one. A day came when the bills to be met fell on the Baudus very heavily. Until that time they had lived on their former savings; but now they began to contract debts. In December, Baudu, terrified by the amount of his acceptances, resigned himself to a most cruel sacrifice: he sold his country-house at Rambouillet, a house which cost him a lot of money in continual repairs, and whose tenants had not even paid the rent when he decided to get rid of it. This sale killed the sole dream of his life, his heart bled as for the loss of some dear one. And for seventy thousand francs he had to part with what had cost him more than two hundred thousand, considering himself fortunate even in meeting the Lhommes, his neighbours, who were desirous of adding to their property. Those seventy thousand francs would keep the business going a little longer; for in spite of all the repulses the idea of struggling on ever sprang up again; perhaps with great care they might conquer even now.
On the Sunday on which the Lhommes paid the money, they condescended to dine at The Old Elbeuf. Madame Aurélie was the first to arrive; they had to wait for the cashier, who came late, scared by a whole afternoon's music: as for young Albert, he had accepted the invitation, but did not put in an appearance. It was, moreover, a painful evening. The Baudus, living without air in their tiny dining-room, suffered from the breeze which the Lhommes, with their lack of family ties and their taste for a free life, brought in with them. Geneviève, wounded by Madame Aurélie's imperial airs, did not open her mouth; but Colomban admired her with a shiver, on reflecting that she reigned over Clara. Later on, when Madame Baudu was already in bed, her husband remained for a long time walking about the room. It was a mild night – damp, thawing weather – and in spite of the closed windows, and drawn curtains, one could hear the engines snorting on the opposite side of the way.
"Do you know what I'm thinking of, Elisabeth?" said Baudu at last. "Well! those Lhommes may earn as much money as they like, I'd rather be in my shoes than theirs. They get on well, it's true. The wife said, didn't she? that she had made nearly twenty thousand francs this year, and that had enabled her to take my poor house. Never mind! I've no longer got the house, but I don't go playing music in one direction, whilst you are gadding about in the other. No, look you, they can't be happy."
He was still keenly fretting over the sacrifice he had been compelled to make, full of rancour against those people who had bought up his darling dream. When ever he came near the bed, he leant over his wife and gesticulated, then, returning to the window, he stood silent for a minute, listening to the noise of the works. And again he vented his old accusations, his despairing complaints about the new times; nobody had ever seen such things, shop-assistants now earned more than tradesmen, cashiers bought up employers' property. So no wonder that everything was going to the dogs; family ties no longer existed, people lived at hotels instead of eating their meals at home in a respectable manner. At last he ended by prophesying that young Albert would swallow up the Rambouillet property later on with a lot of actresses.
Madame Baudu listened to him, her head flat on the pillow, and so pale that her face seemed the colour of the sheets. "They've paid you," she at length said softly.
