Complete Works of Emile Zola (707 page)

Hutin had forgotten Madame Desforges, beside himself with rage with an old lady, who, after having kept him a quarter of an hour, had finished by buying a yard of black satin for a pair of stays. In the busy moments they took no notice of the turns, each salesman served the customers as they arrived. And he was answering Madame Boutarel, who was finishing her afternoon at The Ladies’ Paradise, where she had already spent three hours in the morning, when Favier’s warning made him start. Was he going to miss the governor’s friend, from whom he had sworn to draw a five franc piece? That would be the height of ill-luck, for he hadn’t made three francs as yet with all those other chignons who were mooning about the place! Bouthemont was just then calling out loudly:

“Come, gentlemen, someone this way!”

Hutin passed Madame Boutarel over to Robineau, who was doing nothing.

“Here’s the second-hand, madame. He will answer you better than I can.”

And he rushed off to take Madame Marty’s purchases from the woollen salesman who had accompanied the ladies. That day a nervous excitement must have troubled his delicate scent. As a rule, the first glance told him if a customer would buy, and how much. Then he domineered over the customer, he hastened to serve her to pass on to another, imposing his choice on her, persuading her that he knew best what material she wanted.

“What sort of silk, madame?” asked he in his most gallant manner. Madame Desforges had no sooner opened her mouth than he added: “I know, I’ve got just what you want.”

When the piece of Paris Paradise was unfolded on a narrow corner of the counter, between heaps of other silks, Madame Marty and her daughter approached. Hutin, rather anxious, understood that it was at first a question of serving these two. Whispered words were exchanged, Madame Desforges was advising her friend.

“Oh! certainly,” murmured she. “A silk at five francs twelve sous will never be equal to one at fifteen, or even ten.”

“It is very light,” repeated Madame Marty. “I’m afraid that it has not sufficient body for a mantle.”

This remark induced the salesman to intervene. He smiled with the exaggerated politeness of a man who cannot make a mistake.

“But, madame, flexibility is the chief quality of this silk. It will not crumple. It’s exactly what you want.”

Impressed by such an assurance, the ladies said no more. They had taken the silk up, and were examining it again, when they felt a touch on their shoulders. It was Madame Guibal, who had been slowly walking about the shop for an hour past, feasting her eyes on the heaped-up riches, without buying even a yard of calico. And there was another explosion of gossip.

“What! Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me, rather knocked about though.”

“What a crowd — eh? One can’t get about. And the oriental saloon?”

“Ravishing!”

“Good heavens! what a success! Stay a moment, we will go upstairs together.”

“No, thanks, I’ve just come down.”

Hutin was waiting, concealing his impatience with a smile that did not quit his lips. Were they going to keep him there long? Really the women took things very coolly, it was like taking his money out of his pocket. At last Madame Guibal went away and continued her stroll, turning round the splendid display of silks with an enraptured air.

“If I were you I should buy the mantle ready-made,” said Madame Desforges, suddenly returning to the Paris Paradise. “It won’t cost you so much.”

“It’s true that the trimmings and making-up,” murmured Madame Marty. “Besides, one has more choice.”

All three had risen. Madame Desforges turned to Hutin, saying: “Have the goodness to show us to the ready-made department.”

He remained dumbfoundered, not being used to such defeats. What! the dark lady bought nothing! Had he then made a mistake? He abandoned Madame Marty and attacked Madame Desforges, trying his powerful abilities as salesman on her.

“And you, madame, would you not like to see our satins, our velvets? We have some extraordinary bargains.”

“Thanks, another time,” replied she coolly, not looking at him any more than she had at Mignot.

Hutin had to take up Madame Marty’s purchases and walk before the ladies to show them to the ready-made department. But he had also the grief of seeing that Robineau was selling Madame Boutarel a good quantity of silk. Decidedly his scent was playing him false, he wouldn’t make four sous. Beneath the amiable correctness of his manners there was the rage of a man being robbed and swallowed up by the others.

“On the first floor, ladies,” said he, without ceasing to smile.

It was no easy matter to get to the staircase. A compact crowd of heads was surging under the galleries, expanding like an overflowing river into the middle of the hall. Quite a battle of business was going on, the salesmen had this population of women at their mercy, passing them from one to the other with feverish haste. The moment of the formidable afternoon rush had arrived, when the over-heated machine led the dance of customers, drawing the money from their very flesh. In the silk department especially a breath of folly seemed to pervade all, the Paris Paradise collected such a crowd that for several minutes Hutin could not advance a step; and Henriette, half-suffocated, having raised her eyes, beheld Mouret at the top of the stairs, his favorite position, from which he could see the victory. She smiled, hoping that he would come down and extricate her. But he did not even recognize her in the crowd; he was still with Vallagnosc, showing him the house, his face beaming with triumph.

The trepidation within was now stifling all outside noise; one no longer heard the rumbling of the vehicles, nor the banging of the carriage-doors; nothing remained above the vast murmur of business but the sentiment of this enormous Paris, of such immensity that it would always furnish buyers. In the heavy still air, in which the fumes of the heating apparatus warmed the odor of the stuffs, the hubbub increased, made up of all sorts of noises, of the continual walking about, of the same phrases, a hundred times repeated around the counters, of the gold jingling on the brass of the pay-desks, besieged by a legion of purses, and of the baskets on wheels loaded with parcels which were constantly disappearing into the gaping cellars. And, amidst the fine dust, everything finished by getting mixed up, it became impossible to recognize the divisions of the different departments; the haberdashery department over there seemed drowned; further on, in the linen department, a ray of sunshine, entering by the window in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, was like a golden dart in a heap of snow; close by, in the glove and woollen departments, a dense mass of bonnets and chignons hid the background of the shop from view. The toilettes were no longer visible, the head-dresses alone appeared, decked with feathers and ribbons. A few men’s hats introduced here and there a black spot, whilst the women’s pale complexions assumed in the fatigue and heat the transparencies of the camellia. At last, Hutin — thanks to his vigorous elbows — was able to open a way for the ladies, by keeping in front of them. But on ascending the stairs, Henriette could not find Mouret, who had just plunged Vallagnosc right into the crowd to complete his bewilderment, himself feeling the physical want of a dip into this bath of success. He lost his breath deliciously, he felt against his limbs a sort of caress from all his customers.

“To the left, ladies,” said Hutin, still attentive, notwithstanding his increasing exasperation.

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 anyone 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 rancor 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 recognized 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 paralyzed 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 rancor. 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: