Complete Works of Emile Zola (714 page)

Denise was so menaced amid this general clearance, that she lived in the continual expectation of a catastrophe. It was in vain that she summoned up her courage struggling with all her gaiety and all her reason not to yield to the misgivings of her tender nature; she burst out into blinding tears as soon as she had closed the door of her bedroom, desolated at the thought of seeing herself in the street, on bad terms with her uncle, not knowing where to go, without a sou saved, and having the two children to look after. The sensations she had felt the first few weeks sprang up again, she fancied herself a grain of seed under a powerful millstone; and, utterly discouraged, she abandoned herself entirely to the thought of what a small atom she was in this great machine, which would certainly crush her with its quiet indifference. There was no illusion possible; if they sent away anyone from her department she knew it would be her. No doubt, during the Rambouillet excursion, the other young ladies had incensed Madame Aurélie against her, for since then that lady had treated her with an air of severity in which there was a certain rancor. Besides, they could not forgive her going to Joinville, regarding it as a sign of revolt, a means of setting the whole department at defiance, by parading about with a young lady from a rival counter. Never had Denise suffered so much in the department, and she now gave up all hope of conquering it.

“Let them alone!” repeated Pauline, “a lot of stuck-up things, as stupid as donkeys!”

But it was just these fine lady airs which intimidated Denise. Nearly all the saleswomen, by their daily contact with the rich customers, assumed certain graces, and finished by forming a vague nameless class, something between a work-girl and a middle-class lady. But beneath their art in dress, and the manners and phrases learnt by heart, there was often only a false superficial education, the fruits of attending cheap theatres and music-halls, and picking up all the current stupidities of the Paris pavement.

“You know the “unkempt girl” has got a child?” said Clara one morning, on arriving in the department. And, as they seemed astonished, she continued: “I saw her yesterday myself taking the child out for a walk! She’s got it stowed away in the neighborhood, somewhere.”

Two days after, Margueritte came up after dinner with another piece of news. “A nice thing, I’ve just seen the “unkempt girl’s” lover — a workman, just fancy! Yes, a dirty little workman, with yellow hair, who was watching her through the windows.”

From that moment it was an accepted truth: Denise had a workman for a lover, and an infant concealed somewhere in the neighborhood. They overwhelmed her with spiteful allusions. The first time she understood she turned quite pale before the monstrosity of their suppositions. It was abominable; she tried to explain, and stammered out: “But they are my brothers!”

“Oh! oh! her brothers!” said Clara in a bantering tone.

Madame Aurélie was obliged to interfere. “Be quiet! young ladies. You had better go on changing those tickets. Mademoiselle Baudu is quite free to misbehave herself out of doors, if only she worked a bit when here.”

This curt defense was a condemnation. The young girl, feeling choked as if they had accused her of a crime, vainly endeavored to explain the facts. They laughed and shrugged their shoulders, and she felt wounded to the heart. On hearing the rumor, Deloche was so indignant that he wanted to slap the faces of the young ladies in Denise’s department; and was only restrained by the fear of compromising her. Since the evening at Joinville, he entertained a submissive love, an almost religious friendship for her, which he proved by his faithful doglike looks. He was careful not to show his affection before the others, for they would have laughed at them; but that did not prevent his dreaming of the avenging blow, if ever anyone should attack her before him.

Denise finished by not answering the insults. It was too odious, nobody would believe it. When any girl ventured a fresh allusion, she contented herself with looking at her with a sad, calm air. Besides, she had other troubles, material anxieties which took up her attention. Jean went on as bad as ever, always worrying her for money. Hardly a week passed that she did not receive some fresh story from him, four pages long; and when the house postman brought her these letters, in a big, passionate handwriting, she hastened to hide them in her pocket, for the saleswomen affected to laugh, and sung snatches of some doubtful ditties. Then after having invented a pretext to go to the other end of the establishment and read the letters, she was seized with fear; poor Jean seemed to be lost. All his fibs went down with her, she believed all his extraordinary love adventures, her complete ignorance of such things making her exaggerate the danger. Sometimes it was a two-franc piece to enable him to escape the jealousy of some woman; at other times five francs, six francs, to get some poor girl out of a scrape, whose father would otherwise kill her. So that as her salary and commission did not suffice, she had conceived the idea of looking for a little work after business hours. She spoke about it to Robineau, who had shown a certain sympathy for her since their meeting at Vinçard’s, and he had procured her the making of some neckties at five sous a dozen. At night, between nine and one o’clock, she could do six dozen, which made thirty sous, out of which she had to deduct four sous for a candle. But as this sum kept Jean going she did not complain of the want of sleep, and would have thought herself very happy had not another catastrophe once more overthrown her budget calculations. At the end of the second fortnight, when she went to the necktie-dealer, she found the door closed; the woman had failed, become bankrupt, thus carrying off her eighteen francs six sous, a considerable sum on which she had been counting for the last week. All the annoyances in the department disappeared before this disaster.

“You look dull,” said Pauline, meeting her in the furniture gallery, looking very pale. “Are you in want of anything?”

But as Denise already owed her friend twelve francs, she tried to smile and replied: “No, thanks. I’ve not slept well, that’s all.”

It was the twentieth of July, when the panic caused by the dismissals was at its worst. Out of the four hundred employees, Bourdoncle had already sacked fifty, and there were rumors of fresh executions. She thought but little of the menaces which were flying about, entirely taken up by the anguish of one of Jean’s adventures, still more terrifying than the others. This very day he wanted fifteen francs, which sum alone could save him from the vengeance of an outraged husband. The previous evening she had received the first letter opening the drama; then, one after the other, came two more; in the last, which she was finishing when Pauline met her, Jean announced his death for that evening, if she did not send the money. She was in agony. Impossible to take it out of Pépé’s board, paid two days before. Every sort of bad luck was pursuing her, for she had hoped to get her eighteen francs six sous through Robineau, who could perhaps find the necktie-dealer; but Robineau having got a fortnight’s holiday, had not returned the previous night as he was expected to do.

However, Pauline still questioned her in a friendly way; when they met, in an out-of-the-way department, they conversed for a few minutes, keeping a sharp look-out the while. Suddenly, Pauline made a move as if to run off, having observed the white tie of an inspector who was coming out of the shawl department.

“Ah! it’s only old Jouve!” murmured she in a relieved tone. “I can’t think what makes the old man grin as he does when he sees us together. In your place I should beware, for he’s too kind to you. He’s an old humbug, as spiteful as a cat, and thinks he’s still got his troopers to talk to.”

It was quite true; Jouve was detested by all the salespeople for the severity of his treatment. More than half the dismissals were the result of his reports; and with his big red nose of a rakish ex-captain, he only exercised his leniency in the departments served by women.

“Why should I be afraid?” asked Denise.

“Well!” replied Pauline, laughing, “perhaps he may exact some return. Several of the young ladies try to keep well with him.”

Jouve had gone away, pretending not to see them; and they heard him dropping on to a salesman in the lace department, guilty of watching a fallen horse in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin.

“By the way,” resumed Pauline, “weren’t you looking for Monsieur Robineau yesterday? He’s come back.”

Denise thought she was saved. “Thanks, I’ll go round the other way then, and pass through the silk department. So much the worse! They sent me upstairs to the work-room to fetch a bodkin.”

And they separated. The young girl, with a busy look, as if she were running from pay-desk to pay-desk in search of something, arrived on the stairs and went down into the hall. It was a quarter to ten, the first lunch-bell had rung. A warm sun was playing on the windows, and notwithstanding the grey linen blinds, the heat penetrated into the stagnant air. Now and then a refreshing breath arose from the floor, which the messengers were gently watering. It was a somnolence, a summer siesta, in the midst of the empty space around the counters, like the interior of a church wrapt in sleeping shadow after the last mass. Some listless salesmen were standing about, a few rare customers were crossing the galleries and the hall, with the fatigued step of women annoyed by the sun.

Just as Denise went down, Favier was measuring a dress length of light silk, with pink spots, for Madame Boutarel, arrived in Paris the previous day from the South. Since the commencement of the month, the provinces had been sending up their detachments; one saw nothing but queerly-dressed ladies with yellow shawls, green skirts, and flaring bonnets. The shopmen, indifferent, were too indolent to laugh at them even. Favier accompanied Madame Boutarel to the mercery department, and on returning, said to Hutin:

“Yesterday they were all Auvergnat women, today they’re all Provençales. I’m sick of them.”

But Hutin rushed forward, it was his turn, and he had recognized “the pretty lady,” the lovely blonde whom the department thus designated, knowing nothing about her, not even her name. They all smiled at her, not a week passed without her coming to The Ladies’ Paradise, always alone. This time she had a little boy of four or five with her, and this gave rise to some comment.

“She’s married, then?” asked Favier, when Hutin returned from the pay-desk, where he had debited her with thirty yards of Duchess satin.

“Possibly,” replied he, “although the youngster proves nothing. Perhaps he belongs to a lady friend. What’s certain is, that she must have been weeping. She’s so melancholy, and her eyes are so red!”

A silence ensued. The two salesmen gazed vaguely into the depths of the shop. Then Favier resumed in a low voice; “If she’s married, perhaps her husband’s given her a drubbing.”

“Possibly,” repeated Hutin, “unless it be a lover who has left her.” And after a fresh silence, he added: “Any way, I don’t care a hang!”

At this moment Denise crossed the silk department, slackening her pace and looking around her, trying to find Robineau. She could not see him, so she went into the linen department, then passed through again. The two salesmen had noticed her movements.

“There’s that bag of bones again,” murmured Hutin.

“She’s looking for Robineau,” said Favier. “I can’t think what they’re up to together. Oh! nothing smutty; Robineau’s too big a fool. They say he has procured her a little work, some neckties. What a spec, eh?”

Hutin was meditating something spiteful. When Denise passed nearby, he stopped her, saying: “Is it me you’re looking for?”

She turned very red. Since the Joinville excursion, she dared not read her heart, full of confused sensations. She was constantly recalling his appearance with that red-haired girl, and if she still trembled before him, it was doubtless from uneasiness. Had she ever loved him? Did she love him still? She hardly liked to stir up these things, which were painful to her.

“No, sir,” she replied, embarrassed.

Hutin then began to laugh at her uneasy manner. “Would you like us to serve him to you? Favier, just serve this young lady with Robineau.”

She looked at him fixedly, with the sad calm look with which she had received the wounding remarks the young ladies had made about her. Ah! he was spiteful, he attacked her as well as the others! And she felt a sort of supreme anguish, the breaking of a last tie. Her face expressed such real suffering, that Favier, though not of a very tender nature, came to her assistance.

“Monsieur Robineau is in the stock-room,” said he. “No doubt he will be back for lunch. You’ll find him here this afternoon, if you want to speak to him.”

Denise thanked him, and went up to her department, where Madame Aurélie was waiting for her in a terrible rage. What! she had been gone half an hour! Where had she just sprung from? Not from the work-room, that was quite certain! The poor girl hung down her head, thinking of this avalanche of misfortunes. All would be over if Robineau did not come in. However, she resolved to go down again.

In the silk department, Robineau’s return had provoked quite a revolution. The salesmen had hoped that, disgusted with the annoyances they were incessantly causing him, he would not return; and, in fact, there was a moment, when pressed by Vinçard to take over his business, he had almost decided to do so. Hutin’s secret working, the mine he had been laying under the second-hand’s feet for months past, was about to be sprung. During Robineau’s holidays, Hutin, who had taken his place as second-hand, had done his best to injure him in the minds of the principals, and get possession of his situation by an excess of zeal; he discovered and reported all sorts of trifling irregularities, suggested improvements, and invented new designs. In fact, everyone in the department, from the unpaid probationer, longing to become a salesman, up to the first salesman who coveted the situation of manager, they all had one fixed idea, and that was to dislodge the comrade above them, to ascend another rung of the ladder, swallowing him up if necessary; and this struggle of appetites, this pushing the one against the other, even contributed to the better working of the machine, provoking business and increasing tenfold the success which was astonishing Paris. Behind Hutin, there was Favier; then behind Favier came the others, in a long line. One heard a loud noise as of jaw-bones working. Robineau was condemned, each one was grabbing after his bone. So that when the second-hand reappeared there was a general grumbling. The matter had to be settled, the salesmen’s attitude appeared so menacing, that the head of the department had sent Robineau to the stock-room, in order to give the authorities time to come to a decision.