Chapter XIV (1)

The Rue du Dix-Décembre, quite new with its chalk-white houses and the last remaining scaffoldings of a few unfinished buildings, stretched out beneath a clear February sun; a stream of vehicles was passing at a conquering pace through this gap of light, intersecting the damp gloom of the old Saint-Roch quarter; and, between the Rue de la Michodière and the Rue de Choiseul, there was quite a tumult, the crush of a crowd of people who had been excited by a month's advertising, and with their eyes in the air, were gaping at the monumental façade of The Ladies' Paradise, inaugurated that Monday, on the occasion of a grand display of white goods.

There was a vast development of bright, fresh polychromatic architecture enriched with gilding, symbolical of the tumult and sparkle of the business inside, and attracting attention like a gigantic window-display flaming with the liveliest colours. In order not to bedim the show of goods, the ground-floor decoration was of a sober description; the base of sea-green marble; the corner piers and bearing pillars covered with black marble, the severity of which was brightened by gilded modillions; and all the rest was plate-glass, in iron sashes, nothing but glass, which seemed to throw the depths of the halls and galleries open to the full light of day. However, as the floors ascended, the hues became brighter. The frieze above the ground-floor was formed of a series of mosaics, a garland of red and blue flowers, alternating with marble slabs on which was cut an infinity of names of goods, encircling the colossus. Then the base of the first floor, of enamelled brickwork, supported large windows, above which came another frieze formed of gilded escutcheons emblazoned with the arms of the chief towns of France, and designs in terra-cotta, in whose enamel one again found the light coloured tints of the base. Then, right at the top, the entablature blossomed forth like an ardent florescence of the entire façade, mosaics and faience reappeared with yet warmer colourings, the zinc of the eaves was cut and gilded, while along the acroteria ran a nation of statues, emblematical of the great industrial and manufacturing cities, their delicate silhouettes profiled against the sky. The spectators were especially astonished by the central entrance which was also decorated with a profusion of mosaics, faience, and terra-cotta, and surmounted by a freshly gilt allegorical group, which glittered in the sun: Woman garmented and kissed by a flight of laughing cupids.

About two o'clock a special squad of police was obliged to make the crowd move on, and to regulate the waiting carriages. The palace was built, the temple raised to the extravagant folly of fashion. It dominated everything, covering a whole district with its shadows. The scar left on its flank by the demolition of Bourras's hovel had already been so skilfully cicatrized that it would now have been impossible to find the former place of that old wart.

In their superb isolation the four frontages now ran along the four streets, without a break. Since Baudu's retirement into a home, The Old Elbeuf, on the other side of the way, had been closed, walled up like a tomb, behind the shutters that were never now taken down; little by little cab-wheels had splashed them, while posters--a rising tide of advertisements, which seemed like the last shovelful of earth thrown over old-fashioned commerce--covered them up and pasted them together; and, in the middle of this dead frontage, dirtied by the mud from the street, and streaked with tatters of Parisian puffery, a huge clean yellow poster, announcing in letters two feet high the great sale at The Ladies' Paradise, was displayed like a flag planted on a conquered empire.

It was as if the colossus, after each enlargement, full of shame and repugnance for the dingy district in which it had modestly sprung up, and which it had subsequently slaughtered, had just turned its back to it, leaving the mud of the narrow streets behind, and presenting its upstart face to the noisy, sunny thoroughfares of new Paris. As now represented in the engravings of its advertisements, it had grown bigger and bigger, like the ogre of the legend, whose shoulders threatened to pierce the clouds. In the first place, in the foreground of one engraving, were the Rue du Dix-Décembre, the Rue de la Michodière, and the Rue Monsigny, filled with little black figures, and endowed with wondrous breadth, as if to make room for the customers of the whole world. Then came a bird's eye view of the buildings themselves, of exaggerated immensity, with the roofs of the covered galleries, the glazed courtyards in which the halls could be divined, all the infinitude of that lake of glass and zinc shining in the sun. Beyond, stretched Paris, but a Paris dwarfed, eaten away by the monster: the houses, of cottage-like humbleness in the immediate neighbourhood, faded into a cloud of indistinct chimneys; the public buildings seemed to melt into nothingness, on the left two dashes sufficed for Notre-Dame, to the right a circumflex accent represented the Invalides, in the background the Panthéon looked no larger than a lentil. The horizon crumbled into powder, became no more than a contemptible frame-work extending past the heights of Châtillon, out into the open country, whose blurred expanses indicated how far extended the state of slavery.

Ever since the morning the crowd had been increasing. No establishment had ever yet stirred up the city with such an uproarious profusion of advertisements. The Ladies' Paradise now spent nearly six hundred thousand francs a year in posters, advertisements, and appeals of all sorts; four hundred thousand catalogues were sent away, more than a hundred thousand francs' worth of material was cut up for patterns. It was a complete invasion of the newspapers, the walls, and the ears of the public, as if some monstrous brass trumpet were being blown incessantly, carrying the tumult of the great sales to the four corners of the earth. And, for the future, this façade, before which people were now crowding, became a living advertisement with its motley, gilded magnificence, its windows large enough for the display of the entire poem of woman's dress and its profusion of inscriptions painted, engraved and cut in stone, from the marble slabs of the ground-floor to the sheets of iron rounded off in semicircles above the roofs and unfolding gilded streamers on which the name of the house could be read in letters bright as the sun, against the azure blue of the sky.

Trophies and flags had been added in honour of the inauguration; each storey was gay with banners and standards bearing the arms of the principal towns of France; and right at the top, the flags of foreign nations, run up on masts, fluttered in the breeze. Down below the show of white goods in the windows flashed with blinding intensity. There was nothing but white; on the left a complete trousseau and a mountain of sheets, on the right some curtains draped to imitate a chapel, and numerous pyramids of handkerchiefs fatigued the eyes; while between the hung goods at the door--pieces of cotton, calico, and muslin, falling and spreading out like snow from a mountain summit--were placed some dressed prints, sheets of bluish cardboard, on which a young bride and a lady in ball costume, both life-size and attired in real lace and silk, smiled with their coloured faces. A group of idlers was constantly forming there, and desire arose from the admiration of the throng.

Moreover the curiosity around The Ladies' Paradise was increased by a catastrophe of which all Paris was talking, the burning down of The Four Seasons, the big establishment which Bouthemont had opened near the Opera-house, hardly three weeks before. The newspapers were full of details--the fire breaking out through an explosion of gas during the night, the hurried flight of the frightened saleswomen in their night-dresses, and the heroic conduct of Bouthemont, who had carried five of them out on his shoulders. The enormous losses were covered by insurances and people had already begun to shrug their shoulders, saying what a splendid advertisement it was. But for the time being attention again flowed back to The Ladies' Paradise, excited by all the stories which were flying about, occupied to a wonderful extent by these colossal establishments which by their importance were taking up such a large place in public life. How wonderfully lucky that Mouret was! Paris saluted her star, and crowded to see him still standing erect since the very flames now undertook to sweep all competition from before him; and the profits of his season were already being calculated, people had begun to estimate the increase of custom which would be brought to his doors by the forced closing of the rival house. For a moment he had been anxious, troubled at feeling a jealous woman against him, that Madame Desforges to whom he owed some part of his fortune. Baron Hartmann's financial dilettantism in putting money into both concerns, annoyed him also. Then he was above all exasperated at having missed a genial idea which had occurred to Bouthemont, who had prevailed on the vicar of the Madeleine to bless his establishment, followed by all his clergy; an astonishing ceremony, a religious pomp paraded from the silk department to the glove department, and so on throughout the building. True, this ceremony had not prevented everything from being destroyed, but it had done as much good as a million francs worth of advertisements, so great an impression had it produced on the fashionable world. From that day, Mouret dreamed of securing the services of the archbishop.

The clock over the door was striking three, and the afternoon crush had commenced, nearly a hundred thousand customers struggling in the various galleries and halls. Outside, the vehicles were stationed from one to the other end of the Rue du Dix-Décembre, and over against the Opera-house another compact mass of conveyances occupied the _cul-de-sac_ where the future Avenue de l'Opéra was to commence. Public cabs mixed with private broughams, the drivers waiting about the wheels and the horses neighing and shaking their curb-chains which sparkled in the sun. The lines were incessantly reforming amidst the calls of the messengers and the pushing of the animals, which closed in of their own accord, whilst fresh vehicles kept on arriving and taking their places with the rest. The pedestrians flew on to the refuges in frightened bands, the foot pavements appeared black with people in the receding perspective of the broad straight thoroughfare. And a clamour rose up between the white houses, a mighty caressing breath swept along, as though Paris were opening her soul.

Madame de Boves, accompanied by her daughter Blanche and Madame Guibal, was standing at a window, looking at a display of costumes composed of made-up skirts with the necessary material for bodices.

"Oh! do look," said she, "at those print costumes at nineteen francs fifteen sous!"

In their square pasteboard boxes lay the costumes, each tied round with a favour, and folded so as to show the blue and red embroidered trimmings; and, in a corner of each box, was an engraving depicting the garment completed, as worn by a young person resembling some princess.

"But they are not worth more," murmured Madame Guibal. "They fall to pieces as soon as you handle them."

The two women had become quite intimate since Monsieur de Boves had been confined to his arm-chair by an attack of gout. His wife put up with the acquaintance, since in this way she picked up a little pocket money, sums that the husband allowed himself to be robbed of, being also in need of forbearance.

"Well! let's go in," resumed Madame Guibal. "We must see their show. Hasn't your son-in-law made an appointment with you inside?"

Madame de Boves did not reply, being absorbed in contemplation of the string of carriages, whose doors one by one opened and gave egress to more customers.

"Yes," said Blanche, at last, in her indolent voice. "Paul is to join us at about four o'clock in the reading-room, on leaving the ministry."

They had been married about a month, and Vallagnosc, after a three weeks' leave of absence spent in the South of France, had just returned to his post. The young woman already had her mother's portly appearance; her flesh seemed to be more puffy and coarse since her marriage.

"But there's Madame Desforges over there!" exclaimed the countess, looking at a brougham that had just pulled up.

"Do you think so?" murmured Madame Guibal. "After all those stories! She must still be weeping over the fire at The Four Seasons."

However, it was indeed Henriette. On perceiving her friends, she came up with a gay, smiling air, concealing her defeat beneath the fashionable ease of her manner.

"Dear me! yes, I wanted to have a look round. It's better to see for one's self, isn't it? Oh! we are still good friends with Monsieur Mouret, though he is said to be furious since I interested myself in that rival establishment. Personally, there is only one thing I cannot forgive him, and that is, to have urged on the marriage of my protégée, Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, with that Joseph----"

"What! it's done?" interrupted Madame de Boves. "What a horror!"

"Yes, my dear, and solely to annoy us. I know him; he wished to intimate that the daughters of our great families are only fit to marry his shop messengers."

She was getting quite animated. They had all four remained on the pavement, amidst the crush at the entrance. Little by little, however, they were caught by the stream and only had to yield to the current to pass the door without being conscious of it, talking louder the while in order to make themselves heard. They were now asking each other about Madame Marty; it was said that poor Monsieur Marty, after some violent scenes at home, had gone quite mad, believing himself endowed with unexhaustible wealth. He was ever diving into the treasures of the earth, exhausting mines of gold and loading tumbrils with diamonds and precious stones.

"Poor old fellow!" said Madame Guibal, "he who was always so shabby, with his teacher's humility! And the wife?"

"She's ruining an uncle, now," replied Henriette, "a worthy old man who has gone to live with her, since losing his wife. But she must be here, we shall see her."

Surprise, however, made the ladies stop short. Before them extended "the largest shops in the world," as the advertisements said. The grand central gallery now ran from end to end, opening on to both the Rue du Dix-Décembre and the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin; whilst to the right and the left, similar to the aisles of a church, the narrower Monsigny and Michodière Galleries, extended along the two side streets without a break. Here and there the halls formed open spaces amidst the metallic framework of the spiral staircases and hanging bridges. The inside arrangements had been all changed: the bargains were now placed on the Rue du Dix-Décembre side, the silk department was in the centre, the glove department occupied the Saint-Augustin Hall at the far end; and, from the new grand vestibule, you beheld, on looking up, the bedding department which had been moved from one to the other end of the second floor. The number of departments now amounted to the enormous total of fifty; several, quite fresh, were being inaugurated that very day; others, which had become too important, had simply been divided, in order to facilitate the sales; and, owing to the continual increase of business, the staff had been increased to three thousand and forty-five employees for the new season.

What caused the ladies to stop was the prodigious spectacle presented by the grand exhibition of white goods. In the first place, there was the vestibule, a hall with bright mirrors, and paved with mosaics, where the low-priced goods detained the voracious crowd. Then the galleries opened displaying a glittering blaze of white, a borealistic vista, a country of snow, with endless steppes hung with ermine, and an accumulation of glaciers shimmering in the sun. You here again found the whiteness of the show windows, but vivified, and burning from one end of the enormous building to the other with the white flame of a fire in full swing. There was nothing but white goods, all the white articles from each department, a riot of white, a white constellation whose fixed radiance was at first blinding, so that details could not be distinguished. However, the eye soon became accustomed to this unique whiteness; to the left, in the Monsigny Gallery, white promontories of cotton and calico jutted out, with white rocks formed of sheets, napkins, and handkerchiefs; whilst to the right, in the Michodière Gallery, occupied by the mercery, the hosiery, and the woollen goods, were erections of mother of pearl buttons, a grand decoration composed of white socks and one whole room covered with white swanskin illumined by a stream of light from the distance. But the greatest radiance of this nucleus of light came from the central gallery, from amidst the ribbons and the neckerchiefs, the gloves and the silks. The counters disappeared beneath the whiteness of the silks, the ribbons, the gloves and the neckerchiefs.

Round the iron columns climbed "puffings" of white muslin, secured now and again with white silk handkerchiefs. The staircases were decorated with white draperies, quiltings and dimities alternating along the balustrades and encircling the halls as high as the second storey; and all this ascending whiteness assumed wings, hurried off and wandered away, like a flight of swans. And more white hung from the arches, a fall of down, a sheet of large snowy flakes; white counterpanes, white coverlets hovered in the air, like banners in a church; long jets of guipure lace hung across, suggestive of swarms of white motionless butterflies; other laces fluttered on all sides, floating like gossamer in a summer sky, filling the air with their white breath. And the marvel, the altar of this religion of white was a tent formed of white curtains, which hung from the glazed roof above the silk counter, in the great hall. The muslin, the gauze, the art-guipures flowed in light ripples, whilst very richly embroidered tulles, and pieces of oriental silver-worked silk served as a background to this giant decoration, which partook both of the tabernacle and the alcove. It was like a broad white bed, awaiting with its virginal immensity, as in the legend, the coming of the white princess, she who was to appear some day, all powerful in her white bridal veil.

"Oh! extraordinary!" repeated the ladies. "Wonderful!"

They did not weary of this song in praise of whiteness which the goods of the entire establishment were singing. Mouret had never conceived anything more vast; it was the master stroke of his genius for display. Beneath the flow of all this whiteness, amidst the seeming disorder of the tissues, fallen as if by chance from the open drawers, there was so to say a harmonious phrase,--white followed and developed in all its tones: springing into existence, growing, and blossoming with the complicated orchestration of some master's fugue, the continuous development of which carries the mind away in an ever-soaring flight. Nothing but white, and yet never the same white, each different tinge showing against the other, contrasting with that next to it, or perfecting it, and attaining to the very brilliancy of light itself. It all began with the dead white of calico and linen, and the dull white of flannel and cloth; then came the velvets, silks, and satins--quite an ascending gamut, the white gradually lighting up and finally emitting little flashes at its folds; and then it flew away in the transparencies of the curtains, became diffuse brightness with the muslins, the guipures, the laces and especially the tulles, so light and airy that they formed the extreme final note; whilst the silver of the oriental silk sounded higher than all else in the depths of the giant alcove.

Meanwhile the place was full of life. The lifts were besieged by people; there was a crush at the refreshment-bar and in the reading-room; quite a nation was moving about in these snowy regions. And the crowd seemed to be black, like skaters on a Polish lake in December. On the ground-floor there was a heavy swell, ruffled by a reflux, in which nothing but the delicate enraptured faces of women could be distinguished. In the gaps of the iron framework, up the staircases, on the hanging bridges, there was an endless ascent of small figures which looked as if lost amidst the snowy peaks of mountains. A suffocating, hot-house heat surprised one at sight of these frozen heights. The buzz of all the voices made a great noise like that of a river carrying ice along. Up above, the profusion of gilding, the glass work and the golden roses seemed like a burst of sunshine, glittering over the Alps of this grand exhibition of white goods.

"Come," said Madame de Boves, "we must go forward. It's impossible to stay here."

Since she had entered, inspector Jouve, standing near the door, had not taken his eyes off her; and when she turned round she encountered his gaze. Then, as she resumed her walk, he let her gain ground, but followed her at a distance, without, however, appearing to take any further notice of her.

"Ah!" said Madame Guibal again stopping amidst all the jostling as she came to the first pay-desk, "that's a pretty idea, those violets!"

She referred to the new present made by The Ladies' Paradise, one of Mouret's ideas, which was making a great noise in the newspapers: small bouquets of white violets, bought by the thousand at Nice were distributed to every lady customer who made the smallest purchase. Near each pay-desk messengers in uniform stood delivering the bouquets under the supervision of an inspector. And gradually all the customers were decorated in this way, the building was filling with these white bridal flowers, every woman diffusing as she passed a penetrating perfume of violets.

"Yes," murmured Madame Desforges, in a jealous voice, "it's a good idea."

But, just as they were moving away, they heard two salesmen joking about these violets. A tall, thin fellow was expressing his astonishment: was the marriage between the governor and the first-hand in the costume department coming off, then? whilst a short, fat fellow replied that he didn't know, but that the flowers were bought at any rate.

"What!" exclaimed Madame de Boves, "is Monsieur Mouret going to marry?"

"That's the latest news," replied Madame Desforges, affecting the greatest indifference. "However, one's bound to come to that."

The countess darted a quick glance at her new friend. They both now understood why Madame Desforges had come to The Ladies' Paradise notwithstanding the hostilities attending her rupture with Mouret. No doubt she was yielding to an invincible desire to see and suffer.

"I shall stay with you," said Madame Guibal, whose curiosity was awakened. "We can meet Madame de Boves again in the reading-room."

"Very good," replied the latter. "I want to go up to the first floor. Come along, Blanche." And she went up followed by her daughter, whilst inspector Jouve still on her track, ascended by another staircase, in order not to attract her attention. The two other ladies soon disappeared in the compact crowd on the ground-floor.

Amidst the press of business all the counters were again talking of nothing but the governor's love matters. The affair which had for months been occupying the employees, who were delighted at Denise's long resistance, had all at once come to a crisis: since the previous day it had been known that the girl intended to leave The Ladies' Paradise, under the pretext of requiring rest, and this despite all Mouret's entreaties. And opinions were divided. Would she leave? Would she stay? Bets of five francs that she would leave on the following Sunday circulated from department to department. The knowing ones staked a lunch on it all ending in a marriage; yet, the others, those who believed in her departure, did not risk their money without good reasons. Certainly the girl had all the power of an adored woman who refuses to yield; but the governor, on his side, was strong in his wealth, his happy widowerhood, and his pride, which a last exaction might exasperate. At all events they were all of opinion that this little saleswoman had played her game with the science of a expert woman of the world and was now venturing on the supreme stroke by offering him this bargain: Marry me, or I go.

Denise, however, thought but little of these things. She had never imposed any conditions or made any calculation. And the reason of her departure was the very judgment which, to her continual surprise, was passed upon her conduct. Had she wished for all this? Had she shown herself artful, coquettish, ambitious? No, she had simply presented herself and had been the first to feel astonished at such a passion. And again, at the present time, why did they ascribe her resolution to quit The Ladies' Paradise to craftiness? It was after all so natural! She had begun to experience a nervous uneasiness, an intolerable anguish, amidst the continual gossip which went on in the house, and Mouret's feverish pursuit of her, and the combats she was obliged to wage against herself; and she preferred to go away, seized with fear lest she might some day yield and regret it for ever afterwards. If in all this there were any learned tactics, she was totally unaware of it, and she asked herself in despair what she might do to avoid appearing like one who is running after a husband. The idea of a marriage now irritated her, and she resolved to say no, and still no should he push his folly to that extent. She alone ought to suffer. The necessity for the separation caused her tears to flow; but, with her great courage, she repeated that it was necessary, that she would have no rest or happiness if she acted in any other way.

When Mouret received her resignation, he remained mute and cold, in the effort which he made to contain himself. Then he curtly replied that he granted her a week's reflection, before allowing her to commit such a stupid action. At the expiration of the week, when she returned to the subject, and expressed a determination to go away after the great sale, he did not lose his temper, but affected to talk the language of reason to her: she was playing with fortune, she would never find another position equal to that she was leaving. Had she another situation in view? If so, he was quite prepared to offer her the advantages she expected to obtain elsewhere. And when the young woman replied that she had not looked for any other situation, but intended first of all to take a rest at Valognes, thanks to the money she had already saved, he asked her what would prevent her from returning to The Ladies' Paradise if her health alone were the reason of her departure. She remained silent, tortured by this cross-examination. And thereupon he imagined that she was about to join a sweetheart, a future husband perhaps. Had she not confessed to him one evening that she loved somebody? From that moment he had been carrying deep in his heart, like the stab of a knife, the confession wrung from her. And, if this man was to marry her, she must be giving up all to follow him: that explained her obstinacy. It was all over; and so he simply added in an icy tone that he would detain her no longer, since she could not tell him the real cause of her departure. These harsh words, free from anger, upset her far more than a violent scene such as she had feared.

Throughout the remaining week which Denise was obliged to spend in the house, Mouret preserved his rigid pallor. When he crossed the departments, he affected not to see her; never had he seemed more indifferent, more absorbed in his work; and the bets began again, only the brave ones dared to risk a luncheon on the wedding. Yet, beneath this coldness, so unusual with him, Mouret hid a frightful attack of indecision and suffering. Fits of anger brought the blood seething to his head: he saw red, he dreamed of taking Denise in a close embrace, keeping her, and stifling her cries. Then he tried to reflect, to find some practical means of preventing her from going away; but he constantly ran up against his powerlessness, the uselessness of his power and money. An idea, however, was growing amidst his wild projects, and gradually imposing itself on him notwithstanding his revolt. After Madame Hédouin's death he had sworn never to marry again; having derived from a woman his first good fortune, he resolved in future to draw his fortune from all women. It was with him, as with Bourdoncle, a superstition that the head of a great drapery establishment ought to remain single, if he wished to retain his masculine sovereignty over the growing desires of his world of female customers; for the introduction of a woman to the throne would change the atmosphere, drive away all the others. Thus, he still resisted the invincible logic of facts, preferring to die rather than yield, and inflamed by sudden bursts of fury against Denise, feeling that she was Revenge and fearing he should fall vanquished upon his millions, broken like a mere straw by the Eternal Feminine on the day he should marry her. Then, however, he would become cowardly again, and discuss his repugnance: why should he tremble? she was so sweet-tempered, so prudent, that he could abandon himself to her without fear. Twenty times an hour the battle began afresh in his distracted mind. His pride tended to irritate the wound, and he completely lost his reason when he thought that, even after this last submission, she might yet say no, ever no if she loved another. On the morning of the great sale, he had still not decided on anything, and Denise was to leave on the morrow.

When Bourdoncle, on the day in question, entered Mouret's private room at about three o'clock, according to custom, he found him sitting with his elbows on his desk, his hands over his eyes, so greatly absorbed that he had to touch him on the shoulder. Then Mouret glanced up, his face bathed in tears. They looked at each other, held out their hands, and a hearty grip was exchanged by these two men who had fought so many commercial battles side by side. For the past month moreover Bourdoncle's manner had completely changed; he now bent before Denise, and even secretly urged the governor on to a marriage with her. No doubt he was thus manœuvring to save himself from being swept away by a power which he now recognised as superior. But beneath this change there could also have been found the awakening of an old ambition, a timid, gradually growing hope of in his turn swallowing up that Mouret before whom he had so long bowed. This was in the atmosphere of the house, in the struggle for existence whose continued massacres helped on the sales around him. He was carried away by the working of the machine, seized by the same appetite as the others, that voracity which, from top to bottom, urged the lean ones to the extermination of the fat ones. Only a sort of religious fear, the religion of chance, had so far prevented him from showing his own teeth. But now the governor was becoming childish, drifting into a ridiculous marriage, ruining his luck, destroying his charm over the customers. Why should he dissuade him from it, when he might afterwards so easily pick up the business of this weakling who fell at the feet of a woman? Thus it was with the emotion of a farewell, the pity of an old friendship, that he shook his chief's hand, saying:

"Come, come, courage! Marry her, and finish the matter."

But Mouret already felt ashamed of his momentary weakness, and got up, protesting: "No, no, it's too stupid. Come, let's take a turn round the place. Things are looking well, aren't they? I fancy we shall have a magnificent day."

They went out and began their afternoon inspection of the crowded departments. Bourdoncle meanwhile cast side glances at his companion, feeling anxious at this last display of energy and watching his lips to catch the least sign of suffering. The business was now throwing forth its fire, with an infernal roar, which made the building tremble like a big steamer going at full speed. At Denise's counter was a crowd of mothers with bands of little girls and boys, swamped beneath the garments they were trying on. The department had brought out all its white articles, and there, as everywhere else, was a riot of white fit for the garmenting of a troop of shivering cupids: white cloth cloaks, white piqué, nainsook and cashmere dresses, white sailor costumes, and even white Zouave ones. In the centre, for the sake of effect, for the proper season had not yet arrived, there was a display of confirmation costumes, white muslin dresses and veils and white satin shoes, a light gushing florescence like an enormous bouquet of innocence and candid delight. Madame Bourdelais, with her three children, Madeleine, Edmond and Lucien, seated according to their size, was getting angry with the smallest because he continued struggling whilst Denise tried to put a muslin-de-laine jacket on him.

"Do keep still! Don't you think it's rather tight, mademoiselle?" she said; and with the sharp look of a woman difficult to deceive, she examined the stuff, studied the cut, and scrutinized the seams. "No, it fits well," she resumed. "It's no trifle to dress all these little ones. Now I want a mantle for this young lady."

Denise had been obliged to assist in serving as the customers had besieged her department in great force. She was looking for the mantle required, when she set up a cry of surprise.

"What! It's you! what's the matter?"

Her brother Jean was standing before her, a parcel in his hand. He had been married a week before, and on the Saturday his wife, a dark little woman, with a provoking, charming face, had paid a long visit to The Ladies' Paradise to make some purchases. The young people were to accompany Denise to Valognes: it was to be a regular honeymoon trip, a month's holiday which would remind them of old times.

"Just fancy," he said, "Thérèse has forgotten a number of things. There are some articles to be changed, and others to be bought. So, as she was in a hurry, she sent me with this parcel. I'll explain----"

But she interrupted him on perceiving Pépé, "What! Pépé too! and his school?"

"Well," said Jean, "after dinner on Sunday I had not the heart to take him back. He will return this evening. The poor child is very downhearted at the thought of being shut up in Paris whilst we shall be enjoying ourselves."

Denise smiled at them, in spite of her suffering. She handed Madame Bourdelais over to one of her saleswomen and came back to her brothers in a corner of the department, which was, fortunately, getting clearer. The youngsters, as she still called them, had now grown to be big fellows. Pépé at twelve years old, was already taller and stouter than herself but still taciturn and living on caresses, looking, too, very gentle in his school-uniform; whilst broad-shouldered Jean, quite a head taller than his sister, with blonde hair blowing about in the wind, still retained his feminine good looks. And she, always slim, no fatter than a skylark, as she said, still retained her anxious motherly authority over them, treating them as children in need of all her attention, buttoning up Jean's frock coat so that he should not look like a rake, and seeing that Pépé had got a clean handkerchief. When she perceived the latter's swollen eyes, she gently chided him. "You must be reasonable, my boy. Your studies cannot be interrupted," said she. "I'll take you away at the holidays. Is there anything you want? But perhaps you prefer to have the money." Then she turned towards the other. "And you, youngster, it's your fault, you get making him believe that we are going to have wonderful fun! Just try to be a little more reasonable."

She had given Jean four thousand francs, half of her savings, to enable him to set up housekeeping. The younger one cost her a great deal for schooling, indeed all her money went for them, as in former days. They alone linked her to life and work, for she had again vowed that she would never marry.

"Well, here are the things," resumed Jean. "In the first place, there's a light brown cloak in this parcel that Thérèse----"

But he stopped, and Denise, on turning round to see what had frightened him, perceived Mouret standing behind them. For a moment he had been watching her acting the mother towards the two big boys, scolding and embracing them and turning them round as mothers do babies when changing their clothes. Bourdoncle had remained on one side, feigning to be interested in the sales; but he did not lose sight of this little scene.

"They are your brothers, are they not?" asked Mouret, after a silence.

He had the icy tone and rigid demeanour which he now assumed with her. Denise herself made an effort to remain cold. Her smile died away, and she replied: "Yes, sir. I've married off the eldest, and his wife has sent him for some purchases."

Mouret continued looking at the three of them. At last he said: "The youngest has grown very much. I recognise him, I remember having seen him in the Tuileries Gardens one evening with you."

Then his voice, which was coming more slowly, slightly trembled. She, much moved, bent down, pretending to arrange Pépé's belt. Both brothers, who had turned scarlet, stood smiling at their sister's employer.

"They're very much like you," said the latter.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "they're much handsomer than I am!"

For a moment he seemed to be comparing their faces. But he could endure it no longer. How she loved them! He walked on a step or two; then returned and whispered in her ear: "Come to my office after business. I want to speak to you before you go away."

This time, Mouret went off and continued his inspection. The battle was once more raging within him, for the appointment he had just given caused him a sort of irritation. To what idea had he yielded on seeing her with her brothers? It was maddening to think that he could no longer find the strength to assert his will. However, he could settle it by saying a few words of farewell. Bourdoncle, who had rejoined him, seemed less anxious, though he was still examining him with stealthy glances.

Meanwhile, Denise had returned to Madame Bourdelais. "Does the mantle suit you, madame?" she inquired.

"Oh yes, very well. That's quite enough for one day. These little ones are ruining me!"

Denise, now being able to slip off, went to listen to Jean's explanations, and then accompanied him to the various counters, where he would certainly have lost his head without her. First came the brown jacket, which Thérèse now wished to change for a white cloth one of the same size and same shape. And the young woman, having taken the parcel, went to the mantle department, followed by her two brothers.

The department had laid out all its light coloured garments, summer jackets and capes, of light silk and fancy woollens. But there was little doing there, the customers were but few and far between. Nearly all the saleswomen were new-comers. Clara had disappeared a month before, and some said that she had altogether gone to the bad. As for Marguerite, she was at last about to assume the management of the little shop at Grenoble, where her cousin was waiting for her. Madame Aurélie alone remained there immutable, in the curved cuirass of her silk dress and with her imperial face retaining the yellowish puffiness of an antique marble. However, her son Albert's bad conduct was a source of great trouble to her, and she would have retired into the country had it not been for the inroads made on the family savings by this scapegrace, whose terrible extravagance threatened to swallow up the Rigolles property piece by piece. It was a sort of punishment on them, for breaking up their home, for the mother had resumed her little excursions with her lady friends, and the father on his side continued his musical performances. Bourdoncle was already looking at Madame Aurélie with a discontented air, surprised that she lacked the tact to resign: too old for business, such was his opinion; the knell was about to sound which would sweep away the Lhomme dynasty.

"Ah! it's you," said she to Denise, with exaggerated amiability. "You want this cloak changed, eh? Certainly, at once. Ah! there are your brothers; getting quite men, I declare!"

In spite of her pride, she would have gone on her knees to pay her court to the young woman. In her department, as in the others, nothing but Denise's departure was being talked of; and the first-hand was quite ill over it, for she had been reckoning on the protection of her former saleswoman. She lowered her voice to say: "It's reported you're going to leave us. Really, it isn't possible?"

"But it is, though," replied Denise.

Marguerite was listening. Since her marriage had been decided on, she had marched about with more disdainful airs than ever on her putty-looking face. And she came up saying: "You are quite right. Self-respect above everything, I say. Allow me to bid you adieu, my dear."

Some customers arriving at that moment, Madame Aurélie requested her, in a harsh voice, to attend to business. Then, as Denise was taking the cloak to effect the "return" herself, she protested, and called an auxiliary. This, again, was an innovation suggested to Mouret by the young woman--the engagement of persons to carry the articles about, thus relieving the saleswomen of much fatigue.

"Go with Mademoiselle," said the first-hand, giving the auxiliary the cloak. Then, returning to Denise, she added: "Pray consider the matter well. We are all heart-broken at your leaving."

Jean and Pépé, who were waiting, smiling amidst this overflowing torrent of women, followed their sister. They now had to go to the under-linen department, to get four chemises like the half-dozen which Thérèse had bought on the Saturday. But there, where the exhibition of white goods was snowing down from every shelf, they were almost stifled, and found it very difficult to get along.

In the first place, at the corset counter a little scene was collecting quite a crowd. Madame Boutarel, who had arrived in Paris from the south, this time with her husband and daughter, had been wandering all over the place since morning, collecting an outfit for the young lady, who was about to be married. The father was consulted at every turn so that it seemed they would never finish. At last they had stranded here; and whilst the young lady was absorbed in a profound study of some undergarments, the mother had disappeared, having cast her eyes on some corsets she herself fancied. When Monsieur Boutarel, a big, full-blooded man, quite bewildered, left his daughter to search for his wife, he at last found her in a sitting-room, at the door of which he was politely invited to take a seat. These rooms were like narrow cells, glazed with ground glass, and not even husbands were allowed to enter them. Saleswomen came out and went in quickly, closing the doors behind them, while men waited outside, seated in rows on arm-chairs, and looking very weary. Monsieur Boutarel, when he understood matters, got really angry, crying out that he wanted his wife, and insisting on knowing what they had done with her. It was in vain that they tried to calm him. Madame Boutarel was obliged to come out, to the delight of the crowd, which was discussing and laughing over the affair.

Denise and her brothers were at last able to get past. Every article of ladies' underwear was here displayed in a suite of rooms classified into various departments. The corsets and dress-improvers occupied one counter, there were hand-sown corsets, Duchess, cuirass, and, above all, white silk corsets, fan-pointed with divers colours, these latter forming a special display, an army of dummies without heads or legs, nothing indeed but busts; and close by were horse-hair and other dress improvers, often of fantastic aspect. But afterwards came articles of fine linen, white cuffs and cravats, white fichus and collars, an infinite variety of light trifles, a white foam which escaped from the boxes and was heaped up like so much snow. There were loose jackets, little bodices, morning gowns and peignoirs in linen, nainsook, and lace, long white roomy garments, which spoke of the morning lounge. Then appeared white petticoats of every length, the petticoat that clings to the knees, and the long petticoat which sweeps the pavement, a rising sea of petticoats, in which one lost oneself.

At the trousseau department there was a wonderful display of pleating, embroidery, valenciennes, percale and Cambric; and then followed another room devoted to baby-linen, where the voluptuous whiteness of woman's clothing developed into the chaste whiteness of infancy--an innocence, a joy, the young wife become a mother, amidst flannel coifs, chemises and caps like dolls' things, christening gowns, cashmere pelisses, indeed all the white down of birth, like a fine shower of white feathers.

"They are chemises with running-strings," said Jean, who was delighted with the rising tide of feminine attire about him.

However, Pauline ran up as soon as she perceived Denise; and before even asking what she wanted, began to talk in a low tone, stirred as she was by the rumours circulating in the building. In her department, two saleswomen had even got to quarrelling over it, one affirming and the other denying the favourite's departure.

"You'll stay with us, I'll stake my life. What would become of me?" said Pauline; and as Denise replied that she intended to leave the next day: "No, no," the other added, "you think so, but I know better. You must appoint me second-hand, now that I've got my baby. Baugé is reckoning on it, my dear."

Pauline smiled with an air of conviction. Then she gave the six chemises; and, Jean having said that he must next go to the handkerchief counter, she called an auxiliary to carry both the chemises and the jacket left by the auxiliary from the mantle department. The woman who happened to answer was Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, recently married to Joseph. She had just obtained this menial situation as a great favour, and she wore a long black blouse, marked on the shoulder with a number in yellow wool.

"Follow mademoiselle," said Pauline, and then returning to Denise and again lowering her voice, she added: "It's understood that I am to be appointed second-hand, eh?"

Denise promised, with a laugh, by way of joking in her turn. And she went off, going down the stairs with Jean and Pépé, all three followed by the auxiliary. On the ground-floor, they found themselves in the woollen department, a gallery entirely hung with white swanskin cloth and white flannel. Liénard, whom his father had vainly recalled to Angers, was talking to the handsome Mignot who was now a traveller, and had boldly reappeared at The Ladies' Paradise. No doubt they were speaking of Denise, for they both stopped talking to bow to her with a ceremonious air. In fact, as she passed through the departments the salesmen appeared full of emotion and bent their heads before her, uncertain as they were what she might be the next day. They whispered and thought she looked triumphant; and the betting was once more altered; they again risked bottles of Argenteuil wine and fish dinners over the event. She had entered the linen-gallery in order to get to the handkerchief counter, which was at the further end. The show of white goods continued: cottons, madapolams, dimities, quiltings, calicoes, nainsooks, muslins, tarlatans; then came the linen, in enormous piles, the pieces ranged alternately like blocks of stone: stout linen, fine linen, of all widths, white and unbleached, some of pure flax, whitened in the sun; next the same thing commenced once more, there were departments for each sort of linen: house linen, table linen, kitchen linen, a continual crush of white goods, sheets, pillow-cases, innumerable styles of napkins, table-cloths, aprons, and dusters. And the bowing continued, all made way for Denise to pass, while Baugé rushed out to smile on her, as on the good fairy of the house. At last, after crossing the counterpane department, a room hung with white banners, she arrived at the handkerchief counter, the ingenious decoration of which delighted the throng; everything here was arranged in white columns, white pyramids, white castles, an intricate architecture, solely composed of handkerchiefs, some of lawn, others of cambric, Irish linen, or China silk, some marked, some embroidered by hand, some trimmed with lace, some hemstitched, and some woven with vignettes; the whole forming a city of white bricks of infinite variety, standing out mirage-like against an Eastern sky, warmed to a white heat.

"You say another dozen?" asked Denise of her brother. "Cholet handkerchiefs, eh?"

"Yes, like this one," he replied, showing a handkerchief in his parcel.

Jean and Pépé had not quitted her side, but clung to her as they had done formerly on arriving in Paris, knocked up by their journey. This vast establishment, in which she was quite at home, ended by troubling them; and they sheltered themselves in her shadow, placing themselves again under the protection of this second mother of theirs as in an instinctive re-awakening of their infancy. The employees watching them as they passed, smiled at those two big fellows following in the footsteps of that grave slim girl; Jean frightened in spite of his beard, Pépé bewildered in his tunic, and all three of the same fair complexion, a fairness which made a whisper run from one end of the counters to the other: "They are her brothers! They are her brothers!"

But, whilst Denise was looking for a salesman, there occurred another meeting. Mouret and Bourdoncle had entered the gallery; and as the former again stopped in front of the young woman, without, however, speaking to her, Madame Desforges and Madame Guibal passed by. Henriette suppressed the quiver which had invaded her whole being; she looked at Mouret and then at Denise. They also had looked at her, and it was a sort of mute _dénouement_, the common end of many great dramas of the heart,--a glance exchanged in the crush of a crowd. Mouret had already moved off, whilst Denise strayed into the depths of the department, accompanied by her brothers and still in search of a disengaged salesman. But in the auxiliary following Denise, with a yellow number on her shoulder, and a coarse, cadaverous, servant's-looking face, Henriette had recognised Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, and relieved herself by saying to Madame Guibal, in an angry voice:

"Just see what he's doing with that unfortunate girl. Isn't it shameful? A marchioness! And he makes her follow like a dog the creatures he has picked up in the street!" Then she tried to calm herself, adding, with an affected air of indifference: "Let's go and see their display of silks."

The silk department was like a great chamber of love, hung with white by the caprice of some snowy maiden wishing to show off her own spotless whiteness. Pieces of velvet hung from the columns, forming a creamy white background against which silk and satin draperies showed with a metallic and porcelain-like whiteness; and there were also festoons of poult and gros grain silks, light foulards and surahs, which varied from the dull white of a Norwegian blonde to the transparent white, warmed by the sun, of a fair Italian or Spanish beauty.

Favier was just then engaged in measuring some white silk for "the pretty lady," that elegant blonde who was such a frequent customer at the counter, and whom the salesmen never referred to except by that name. She had dealt at the shop for years, and yet they knew nothing about her--neither her condition of life, her address, nor even her name. None of them, in fact, tried to find out, although every time she made her appearance they all indulged in suppositions just for something to talk about. She was getting thinner, she was getting stouter, she had slept well, or she must have been out late the previous evening; indeed every little incident of her unknown life, outdoor events and domestic dramas alike, found an echo at the Paradise, and was commented on. That day, she seemed very gay; and so, on returning from the pay-desk whither he had conducted her, Favier remarked to Hutin: "Perhaps she's going to marry again."