Эмиль Золя
The Ladies' Paradise
And Mouret still continued to watch his nation of women, amidst the shimmering blaze. Their black shadows stood out vigorously against the pale backgrounds. Long eddies would now and again part the crowd; the fever of the day's great sale swept past like a frenzy through the disorderly, billowy sea of heads. People were beginning to leave; pillaged stuffs encumbered all the counters, and gold was chinking in the tills whilst the customers went off, their purses emptied, and their heads turned by the wealth of luxury amidst which they had been wandering all day. It was he who possessed them thus, who held them at his mercy by his continuous displays of novelties, his reductions of prices, and his "returns," his gallantry, puffery, and advertisements. He had conquered even the mothers, he reigned over all with the brutality of a despot, whose caprices ruined many a household. His creation was a sort of new religion; the churches, gradually deserted by wavering faith, were replaced by his bazaar, in the minds of the idle women of Paris. Woman now came and spent her leisure time in his establishment, those shivering anxious hours which she had formerly passed in churches: a necessary consumption of nervous passion, an ever renewed struggle of the god of dress against the husband, an ever renewed worship of the body with the promise of future divine beauty. If he had closed his doors, there would have been a rising in the street, the despairing cry of worshippers deprived of their confessional and altar! In their still growing passion for luxury, he saw them, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour yet obstinately lingering in the huge iron building, on the suspended staircases and flying bridges. Madame Marty and her daughter, carried away to the highest point, were wandering amongst the furniture. Madame Bourdelais, retained by her young people, could not get away from the fancy goods. And then came another group, Madame de Boves, still on Vallagnosc's arm, and followed by Blanche, stopping in each department and still daring to examine the goods with her superb air. But amidst the crowded sea of customers, that sea of bodies inflated with life and beating with desire, one and all decorated with bunches of violets, as though for the bridal of some sovereign, Mouret could now only distinguish the figure of Madame Desforges, who had stopped in the glove department with Madame Guibal. Despite her jealous rancour, she also was buying, and he felt himself to be the master once more, having them at his feet, beneath the dazzle of the electric light, like a drove of cattle from which he had drawn his fortune.
With a mechanical step, Mouret went along the galleries, so absorbed that he yielded to the pushing of the crowd. When he raised his head again he found himself in the new millinery department, the windows of which overlooked the Rue du Dix-Décembre. And there, his forehead against the glass, he made another halt and watched the departure of the throng. The setting sun was tinging the roofs of the white houses with yellow, the blue sky was growing paler, refreshed by a pure breeze; whilst in the twilight, which was already enveloping the side-walks down below, the electric lamps of The Ladies' Paradise threw forth the fixed glimmer of stars, lighted on the horizon at the decline of day. Towards the Opera-house and the Bourse were rows of waiting vehicles, the harness of the horses still presenting reflections of bright light, the gleam of a lamp, the glitter of a silver chain. At each minute the cry of a messenger was heard, and a cab drew near, or a brougham came forth from the ranks, took up a customer and went off at a rapid trot. The rows of conveyances were now diminishing, six went off at a time, occupying the whole street from one side to the other, amidst the banging of doors, the snapping of whips, and the hum of the passers-by, who swarmed between the wheels. There was a sort of continuous enlargement, a spreading of the customers, carried off to the four corners of the city, as the building emptied with the roaring clamour of a sluice. And the roof of The Ladies' Paradise, the big golden letters of the sky signs, the banners fluttering in the heavens, still flamed with the reflections of the setting sun, looking so colossal in the oblique light that they evoked the thought of some monster of advertising, some phalansterium whose buildings, incessantly multiplied, in turn covered up every district, as far as the distant woods of the suburbs. And the spreading soul of Paris, in a huge but gentle breath, sank asleep in the serenity of the evening, hovering in prolonged, languid caresses over the last vehicles which were spinning through the streets, now slowly deserted by the crowd as it disappeared into the darkness of the night.
Mouret, gazing around, had just felt something grand in himself; but, amid the quiver of triumph with which his flesh trembled, in face of Paris devoured and woman conquered, he experienced a sudden weakness, a defection of his strong will, by which in his turn he was overthrown beneath a superior force. It was an unreasonable longing to be vanquished amidst his victory, the nonsense of a warrior bending beneath the caprice of a child, on the morrow of his conquests. He who had struggled for months, who even that morning had sworn to stifle his passion, all at once yielded, seized by the vertigo which overcomes one on mountain heights, happy to commit what he looked upon as folly. His decision, so rapidly arrived at, acquired in a minute such energy that he saw nothing else useful and necessary in the world.
In the evening, after the last dinner, he sat waiting in his office, trembling like a young man about to stake his life's happiness, unable to keep still but incessantly going towards the door to listen to the hubbub in the shop, where the employees, submerged to the shoulders in a sea of stuffs, were now doing the folding up. At each footstep his heart beat. And all at once he experienced violent emotion, and rushed forward, for he had heard in the distance a deep murmur, which had gradually increased.
It was Lhomme slowly approaching with the day's receipts. That day they were so heavy, there was such a quantity of silver and copper, that he had been obliged to enlist the services of two messengers. Behind him came Joseph and one of his colleagues, both bending beneath the weight of the bags, enormous bags, thrown on their shoulders like sacks of plaster, whilst he walked on in front with the notes and gold, a note-book swollen with flimsies, and two bags hung round his neck, the weight of which made him sway to the right, the same side as his broken arm. Slowly, perspiring and puffing, he had come from the other end of the shop amidst the growing emotion of the salesmen. The employees in the glove and silk departments had laughingly offered to relieve him of his burden, the men in the drapery and woollen departments had longed to see him make a false step, which would have scattered the gold all over the place. Then he had been obliged to mount the stairs, and cross a bridge and then go higher still, turning about amidst the longing looks of the employees of the linen, hosiery, and mercery departments, who gazed in ecstasy at this fortune travelling in the air. On the first-floor the mantle, perfumery, lace, and shawl employees were ranged devoutly as for the passage of the Blessed Sacrament. And from counter to counter a tumult arose, like the clamour of a nation bowing down before the Golden Calf.
Mouret had opened the door, and Lhomme appeared, followed by the two messengers, who were staggering; and, out of breath though he was, the cashier still had strength to cry out: "One million two hundred and forty-seven francs, nineteen sous!"
At last the million had been attained, that million picked up in a day, of which Mouret had so long dreamed. But he gave way to an angry gesture, and with the disappointed air of a man disturbed by some troublesome visitor, he impatiently exclaimed, "A million! very good, put it there." Lhomme knew that he was fond of seeing the heavy receipts on his table before they were taken to the central cash office. The million covered the whole table, crushing the papers and almost overturning the ink; and the gold and the silver and the copper running out of the sacks and bursting the leather bags, formed a great heap, the heap of the gross receipts, such as it came still warm and palpitating from the customers' hands.
Just as the cashier was going away, heart-broken at the governor's indifference, Bourdoncle arrived, gaily exclaiming: "Ah! we've got it this time. We've hooked the million, eh?"
But on observing Mouret's febrile air he understood the situation and calmed down. His face was beaming with delight; and after a short silence he resumed: "You've made up your mind, haven't you? Well, I approve your decision."
All at once, however, Mouret planted himself before him, and in his terrible voice thundered: "I say, my man, you're rather too lively. You think me played out, don't you? and you feel hungry. But be careful, I'm not one to be swallowed up, you know!"
Discountenanced by the sharp attack of this wonderful fellow, who guessed everything, Bourdoncle stammered: "What now? Are you joking? I who have always admired you so much!"
"Don't tell lies!" replied Mouret, more violently than ever. "Just listen, we were stupid to entertain the superstition that marriage would ruin us. Why, is it not the necessary health, the very strength and order of life? Well, my dear fellow, I'm going to marry her, and I'll pitch you all out of doors at the slightest movement. Yes, you'll go and get paid like the rest, Bourdoncle."
And with a gesture he dismissed him. Bourdoncle felt himself condemned, swept away, in this victory gained by woman. He went off. Denise was just coming in, and he bowed to her with profound respect, his head swimming.
"Ah! you've come at last!" said Mouret gently.
Denise was pale with emotion. She had just experienced another grief, Deloche had informed her of his dismissal, and when she had tried to retain him, offering to speak in his favour, he had obstinately declined to struggle against his bad luck; he wanted to disappear, he said, what was the use of staying? Why should he interfere with people who were happy? Then Denise had bade him a sisterly farewell, her eyes full of tears. Did she not herself long to sink into oblivion? Everything was now about to finish, and she asked nothing more of her exhausted strength than the courage to insist on the separation. In a few minutes, if she could only be valiant enough to crush her heart, she would be able to go away alone, and weep unseen.
"You wished to see me, sir," she said in her calm voice. "In fact, I intended to come and thank you for all your kindness to me."
On entering, she had perceived the million on the table, and the display of that money wounded her. Above her, as if watching the scene, was the portrait of Madame Hédouin, in its gilded frame, and with the eternal smile of its painted lips.
"You are still resolved to leave us?" asked Mouret, in a trembling voice.
"Yes, sir. I must."
Then he took her hands, and, in an outburst of tenderness, after the long coldness he had imposed on himself exclaimed: "And if I asked you to marry me, Denise, would you still leave?"
But she rapidly drew her hands away, struggling as if under the influence of a great grief. "Oh! Monsieur Mouret! Pray say no more. Oh! don't cause me even greater pain than before! I cannot! I cannot! Heaven is my witness that I was going away to avoid such a misfortune!"
She continued to defend herself in broken sentences. Had she not already suffered too much from the gossip of the house? Did he wish her to pass in the eyes of others and his own for a worthless woman? No, no, she would be strong, she would certainly prevent him doing such a foolish thing. He, tortured, listened to her, repeating in a passionate tone: "I wish it. I wish it!"
"No, it's impossible. And my brothers? I have sworn not to marry. I cannot bring you those children, can I?"
"They shall be my brothers, too. Say yes, Denise."
"No, no, leave me. You are torturing me!"
Little by little he was losing his strength; this last obstacle drove him frantic. What! She still refused even at this price! In the distance he heard the clamour of his three thousand employees building up his immense fortune. And that idiotic million lying there! He suffered from it as from a sort of irony, he could have kicked it into the street.
"Go, then!" he cried at last in a flood of tears. "Go and join the man you love. That's the reason, isn't it? You warned me, I ought to have known it, and not have tormented you any further."
She stood there thunderstruck by the violence of this despair. Her own heart was bursting. And then, with the impetuosity of a child, she threw herself on his neck, sobbing also, and stammering: "Oh! Monsieur Mouret, it's you I love!"
A last murmur was rising from The Ladies' Paradise, the distant acclamation of a multitude. Madame Hédouin's portrait was still smiling, with its painted lips; Mouret had fallen on his table, on the million which he could no longer see. He did not quit Denise, but clasped her to his breast in a desperate embrace, telling her that she might now go, that she could spend a month at Valognes which would silence everybody, and that then he would go to fetch her himself, and bring her back, all-powerful, as his wedded wife.
