Chapter IV (2)

Up above there was the same block. It invaded even the furnishing department, usually the quietest. The shawl, the fur, and the under-clothing departments swarmed with people. As the ladies were crossing the lace department another meeting took place. Madame de Boves was there with her daughter Blanche, both buried in the articles Deloche was showing them. And Hutin had to make another halt, bundle in hand.

“Good afternoon! I was just thinking of you.”

“I've been looking for you myself. But how can you expect to find any one in this crowd?”

“It's magnificent, isn't it?”

“Dazzling, my dear. We can hardly stand.”

“And you're buying?”

“Oh! no, we're only looking round. It rests us a little to be seated.”

As a fact, Madame de Boves, scarcely possessing more than her cab-fare in her purse, was having all sorts of laces handed down, simply for the pleasure of seeing and handling them. She had guessed Deloche to be a new salesman, slow and awkward, who dared not resist the customers' whims; and she took advantage of his bewildered good-nature, and kept him there half an hour, still asking for fresh articles. The counter was covered, she dived her hands into this increasing mountain of lace, Malines, Valenciennes, and Chantilly, her fingers trembling with desire, her face gradually warming with a sensual joy; whilst Blanche, close to her, agitated by the same passion, was very pale, her flesh inflated and soft. The conversation continued; Hutin, standing there waiting their good pleasure, could have slapped their faces.

“Ah!” said Madame Marty, “you're looking at some cravats and handkerchiefs like those I showed you the other day.”

It was true, Madame de Boves, tormented by Madame Marty's lace since the previous Saturday, had been unable to resist the desire to at least handle some like it, as the allowance her husband made her did not permit her to carry any away. She blushed slightly, explaining that Blanche wanted to see the Spanish-blonde cravats. Then she added: “You're going to the ready-made department--Well! we'll see you again. Shall we say in the oriental saloon?”

“That's it, in the oriental saloon--Superb, isn't it?”

And they separated enraptured, amidst the obstruction produced by the sale of the insertions and small trimmings at low prices. Deloche, glad to be occupied, recommenced emptying the boxes before the mother and daughter. And amidst the groups pressed along the counters, Jouve, the inspector, was slowly walking about with his military air, displaying his decoration, watching over these fine and precious goods, so easy to conceal up a sleeve. When he passed behind Madame de Boves, surprised to see her with her arms plunged in such a heap of lace he cast a quick glance at her feverish hands.

“To the right, ladies,” said Hutin, resuming his march.

He was beside himself with rage. Was it not enough that he had missed a sale down below? Now they kept him waiting at each turning of the shop! And in his annoyance there was a strong feeling of the rancour existing between the textile departments and the ready-made departments, which were in continual hostility, fighting over the customers, stealing each other's percentage and commission. Those of the silk department were more enraged than those of the woollen, whenever they were obliged to show a lady to where the ready-made articles were kept, when she decided to take a mantle after looking at various sorts of silk.

“Mademoiselle Vadon!” said Hutin, in an angry voice, when he at last arrived in the department.

But she passed by without listening, absorbed in a sale which she was conducting. The room was full, a stream of people were crossing it, coming in by the door of the lace department and going out by the door of the under-clothing department, whilst to the right customers were trying on garments, and posing before the glasses. The red carpet stifled the noise of the footsteps, the distant roar from the ground-floor died away, giving place to a discreet murmur, a drawing-room warmth deadened by the crowd of women.

“Mademoiselle Prunaire!” cried out Hutin. And as she took no notice either, he added between his teeth, so as not to be heard: “A set of frights!”

He certainly was not fond of them, tired to death as he was by climbing the stairs to bring them customers, furious at the profits which he accused them of taking out of his pocket It was a secret war, in which the young ladies themselves entered with equal fierceness; and in their mutual fatigue, always on foot, worked to death, all difference of sex disappeared, nothing remained but these contrary interests, irritated by the fever of business.

“So there's no one here to serve?” asked Hutin.

But he suddenly caught sight of Denise. They had kept her folding all the morning, only giving her a few doubtful customers to whom she had not sold anything. When he recognised her, occupied in clearing off the counter an enormous heap of garments, he ran up to her.

“Look here, mademoiselle! serve these ladies who are waiting.”

And he quickly slipped Madame Marty's purchases into her arms, tired of carrying them about the place. His smile returned, and in this smile there was the ill-natured expression of the experienced salesman, who shrewdly guessed into what an awkward position he had just thrown both the ladies and the young girl. The latter, however, remained quite troubled before this unhoped-for sale which suddenly presented itself. For the second time Hutin appeared to her like an unknown friend, fraternal and tender, always ready to spring out of darkness and save her. Her eyes glistened with gratitude; she followed him with a lingering look, whilst he was elbowing his way towards his department.

“I want a mantle,” said Madame Marty.

Then Denise questioned her. What style of mantle? But the lady had no idea, she wished to see what the house had got. And the young girl, already very tired, bewildered by the crowd, lost her head; she had never served any but the rare customers who came to Cornaille's, at Valognes; she didn't even know the number of the models, nor their places in the cupboards. She hardly knew how to reply to the ladies, who were beginning to lose patience, when Madame Aurélie perceived Madame Desforges, of whose connection with Mouret she was no doubt aware, for she hastened over and asked with a smile:

“Are these ladies being served?”

“Yes, that young person over there is attending to us,” replied Henriette. “But she does not appear to be very well up to her work; she can't find anything.”

At this, the first-hand completely paralysed Denise by saying to her in a whisper: “You see very well you know nothing. Don't interfere any more, please.” And turning round she called out: “Mademoiselle Vadon, these ladies require a mantle!”

She remained there whilst Marguerite showed the models. The girl assumed with the customers a dry polite voice, the disagreeable attitude of a young person dressed up in silk, with a sort of varnish of elegance, of which she retained, unknown to herself, the jealousy and rancour. When she heard Madame Marty say she did not wish to exceed two hundred francs, she made a grimace of pity. Oh! madame would give more, it would be impossible to find anything respectable for two hundred francs. And she threw some of the common mantles on a counter with a gesture which signified: “Just see, aren't they pitiful?” Madame Marty dared not think of them after that; she bent over to murmur in Madame Desforges's ear:

“Don't you prefer to be served by men? One feels more comfortable?”

At last Marguerite brought a silk mantle trimmed with jet, which she treated with more respect And Madame Aurélie abruptly called Denise.

“Come, do something for your living. Just put that on your shoulders.”

Denise, wounded to the heart, despairing of ever succeeding in the house, had remained motionless, her hands hanging by her side. No doubt she would be sent away, and the children would be without food. The tumult of the crowd buzzed in her head, she felt herself tottering, her arms bruised by the handling of so many armfuls of garments, hard work which she had never done before. However, she was obliged to obey and allow Marguerite to put the mantle on her, as on a dummy.

“Stand upright,” said Madame Aurélie.

But a moment after they forgot Denise. Mouret had just come in with Vallagnosc and Bourdoncle; and he bowed to the ladies, who complimented him on his magnificent exhibition of winter novelties. Of course they went into raptures over the oriental saloon. Vallagnosc, who was finishing his walk round the counters, displayed more surprise than admiration; for, after all, thought he, in his pessimist supineness, it was nothing more than an immense collection of calico. Bourdoncle, forgetting that he belonged to the establishment, also congratulated the governor, to make him forget his anxious doubts and persecutions of the early part of the day.

“Yes, yes; things are going on very well, I'm quite satisfied,” repeated Mouret, radiant, replying with a smile to Madame Desforges's tender looks. “But I must not interrupt you, ladies.”

Then all eyes were again fixed on Denise. She placed herself entirely in the hands of Marguerite, who was making her turn round slowly.

“What do you think of it--eh?” asked Madame Marty of Madame Desforges.

The latter gave her advice, like a supreme umpire of fashion. “It isn't bad, the cut is original, but it doesn't seem to me very graceful about the figure.”

“Oh!” interrupted Madame Aurélie, “it must be seen on the lady herself. You can understand it does not look much on this young person, who is not very stout. Hold up your head, mademoiselle, give it all its importance.”

They smiled. Denise had turned very pale. She felt ashamed at being thus turned into a machine, which they were examining and joking about so freely.

Madame Desforges, yielding to the antipathy of a contrary nature, and annoyed by the young girl's sweet face, maliciously added: “No doubt it would set better if the young person's dress were not so loose-fitting.”

And she cast at Mouret the mocking look of a Parisian beauty, greatly amused by the absurd ridiculous dress of a country girl. He felt the amorous caress of this glance, the triumph of a woman proud of her beauty and of her art. Therefore, out of pure gratitude, the gratitude of a man who felt himself adored, he thought himself obliged to joke in his turn, notwithstanding his good-will towards Denise, whose secret charm had conquered his gallant nature.

“Besides, her hair should be combed,” murmured he.

This was the last straw. The director deigned to laugh, all the young ladies were bursting. Marguerite risked a slight chuckle, like a well-behaved girl who restrains herself; Clara had left a customer to enjoy the fun at her ease; even the saleswomen from another department had come, attracted by the talking. As for the ladies they took it more quietly, with an air of well-bred enjoyment. Madame Aurélie was the only one who did not laugh, as if Denise's splendid wild-looking head of hair and elegant virginal shoulders had dishonoured her, in the orderly well-kept department. The young girl had turned paler still, in the midst of all these people who were laughing at her. She felt herself violated, exposed to all their looks, without defence. What had she done that they should thus attack her thin figure, and her too luxuriant hair? But she was especially wounded by Madame Desforges's and Mouret's laughter, instinctively divining their connection, her heart sinking with an unknown grief. This lady was very ill-natured to attack a poor girl who had said nothing; and as for Mouret, he most decidedly froze her up with a sort of fear, before which all her other sentiments disappeared, without her being able to analyse them. And, totally abandoned, attacked in her most cherished womanly feelings of modesty, and shocked at their injustice, she was obliged to stifle the sobs which were rising in her throat.

“I should think so; let her comb her hair to-morrow,” said the terrible Bourdoncle to Madame Aurélie. He had condemned Denise the first day she came, full of scorn for her small limbs.

At last the first-hand came and took the mantle off Denise's shoulders, saying to her in a low tone: “Well! mademoiselle, here's a fine start. Really, if this is the way you show off your capabilities----Impossible to be more stupid!”

Denise, fearing the tears might gush from her, hastened back to the heap of garments, which she began to sort out on the counter. There at least she was lost in the crowd. Fatigue prevented her thinking. But she suddenly felt Pauline near her, a saleswoman in the under-clothing department, who had already defended her that morning. The latter had followed the scene, and murmured in Denise's ear:

“My poor child, don't be so sensitive. Keep that to yourself, or they'll go on worse and worse. I come from Chartres. Yes, exactly, Pauline Cugnot is my name; and my parents are millers. Well! they would have devoured me the first few days if I had not stood up firm. Come, be brave! give me your hand, we'll have a talk together whenever you like.”

This hand held out redoubled Denise's confusion; she shook it furtively, hastening to take up a load of cloaks, fearing to be doing wrong and to get a scolding if they knew she had a friend.

However, Madame Aurélie herself, had just put the mantle on Madame Marty, and they all exclaimed: “Oh! how nice! delightful!” It at once looked quite different. Madame Desforges decided it would be impossible to improve on it.

There was a good deal of bowing. Mouret took his leave, whilst Vallognosc, who had perceived Madame de Boves and her daughter in the lace department, hastened to offer his arm to the mother. Marguerite, standing before one of the pay-desks, was already calling out the different purchases made by Madame Marty, who settled for them and ordered the parcel to be taken to her cab. Madame Desforges had found her articles at pay-desk No. 10. Then the ladies met once more in the oriental saloon. They were leaving, but it was amidst a loquacious feeling of admiration. Even Madame Guibal became enthusiastic.

“Oh! delicious! makes you think you are in the East; doesn't it?”

“A real harem, and not at all dear!”

“And the Smyrnas! oh, the Smyrnas! what tones, what delicacy!”

“And this Kurdestan! Just look, a Delacroix!”

The crowd was slowly diminishing. The bell, at an hour's interval, had already announced the two first dinners; the third was about to be served, and in the departments there were now only a few lingering customers, whose fever for spending had made them forget the time. Outside nothing was heard but the rolling of the last carriages amidst the husky voice of Paris, the snort of a satiated ogre digesting the linens and cloths, silks and lace, with which he had been gorged since the morning. Inside, beneath the flaming gas-jets, which, burning in the twilight, had lighted up the supreme efforts of the sale, everything appeared like a field of battle still warm with the massacre of the various goods. The salesmen, harassed and fatigued, camped amidst the contents of their shelves and counters, which appeared to have been thrown into the greatest confusion by the furious blast of a hurricane. It was with difficulty that one traversed the galleries on the ground floor, blocked up with a crowd of chairs, and in the glove department it was necessary to step over a pile of cases heaped up around Mignot; in the woollen department there was no means of passing at all, Liénard was dozing on a sea of bales, in which certain piles, still standing, though half destroyed, seemed to be houses that an overflowing river was carrying away; and, further on, the linen department was like a heavy fall of snow, one ran up against icebergs of napkins, and walked on light flakes of handkerchiefs.

The same disorder prevailed upstairs in the departments; the furs were scattered over the flooring, the readymade clothes were heaped up like the great-coats of wounded soldiers, the lace and the underlinen, unfolded, crumpled, thrown about everywhere, made one think of an army of women who had disrobed there in the disorder of some sudden desire; whilst downstairs, at the other end of the house, the delivery department in full activity was still disgorging the parcels with which it was bursting, and which were carried off by the vans--last vibration of the overheated machine. But it was in the silk department especially that the customers had flung themselves with the greatest ardour. There they had cleared off everything, there was plenty of room to pass, the hall was bare; the whole of the colossal stock of Paris Paradise had been cut up and carried away, as if by a swarm of devouring locusts. And in the midst of this emptiness, Hutin and Favier were running through the counterfoils of their debit-notes, calculating their commission, still out of breath after the struggle. Favier had made fifteen francs, Hutin had only managed to make thirteen, thoroughly beaten that day, enraged at his bad luck. Their eyes sparkled with the passion for money. The whole shop around them was also adding up figures, glowing with the same fever, in the brutal gaiety of the evening of the battle.

“Well, Bourdoncle!” cried out Mouret, “are you trembling still?”

He had returned to his favourite position at the top of the stairs of the first floor, against the balustrade; and, in the presence of the massacre of stuffs which was spread out under him, he indulged in a victorious laugh. His fears of the morning, that moment of unpardonable weakness which nobody would ever know of, inspired him with a greater desire to triumph. The battle was definitely won, the small tradespeople of the neighbourhood were done for, and Baron Hartmann was conquered, with his millions and his land. Whilst he was looking at the cashiers bending over their ledgers, adding up long columns of figures, whilst he was listening to the sound of the gold, falling from their fingers into the metal bowls, he already saw The Ladies' Paradise growing beyond all bounds, enlarging its hall and prolonging its galleries as far as the Rue du Dix-Décembre.

“And now are you convinced, Bourdoncle,” he resumed, “that the house is really too small? We could have sold twice as much.”

Bourdoncle humbled himself, enraptured, moreover, to find himself in the wrong. But a new spectacle rendered them grave. As was the custom every evening, Lhomme, the chief cashier, had just collected the receipts from each pay-desk; after having added them up, he usually posted up the total amount after placing the paper on which it was written on his file. He then took the receipts up to the chief cashier's office, in a leather case and in bags, according to the nature of the cash. On this occasion the gold and silver predominated, and he was slowly walking upstairs, carrying three enormous bags. Deprived of his right arm, cut off at the elbow, he clasped them in his left arm against his breast, holding one up with his chin to prevent it slipping. His heavy breathing could be heard at a distance, he passed along, staggering and superb, amidst the respectful shopmen.

“How much, Lhomme?” asked Mouret.

“Eighty thousand seven hundred and forty-two francs two sous,” replied the cashier.

A joyous laugh stirred up The Ladies' Paradise. The amount ran through the establishment. It was the highest figure ever attained in one day by a draper's shop.

That evening, when Denise went up to bed, she was obliged to lean against the partition in the corridor under the zinc roof. When in her room, and with the door closed, she fell down on the bed; her feet pained her so much. For a long time she continued to look with a stupid air at the dressing-table, the wardrobe, all the hotel-like nudity. This, then, was where she was going to live; and her first day tormented her--an abominable, endless day. She would never have the courage to go through another. Then she perceived she was dressed in silk; and this uniform depressed her. She was childish enough, before unpacking her box, to put on her old woollen dress, which hung on the back of a chair. But when she was once more dressed in this poor garment of hers, a painful emotion choked her; the sobs which she had kept back all day burst forth suddenly in a flood of hot tears. She fell back on the bed, weeping at the thought of the two children, and she wept on, without feeling to have the strength to take off her boots, completely overcome with fatigue and grief.