Complete Works of Emile Zola (738 page)

When Mouret returned to the little drawing-room, he found De Vallagnosc alone, the baron having gone back to the ladies. As he felt himself very agitated still, he sat down at the further end of the room, on a sofa; and his friend, seeing him turn pale, charitably came and stood before him, to conceal him from curious eyes. At first, they looked at each other without saying a word. Then De Vallagnosc, who seemed to be inwardly amused at Mouret’s confusion, finished by asking in his bantering voice:

“Are you still enjoying yourself?”

Mouret did not appear to understand him at first. But remembered their former conversations on the empty and the useless torture of life, he replied: “Of course, before lived so much. Ah! my boy, don’t you laugh, the hours that make one die of grief are by far the shortest.” He lowered his voice, continuing gaily, beneath his half-wiped tears: “Yes, you know all, don’t you? Between them they have rent my heart. But yet it’s nice, as nice as kisses, the wounds they make. I am thoroughly worn out; but, no matter, you can’t think how I love life! Oh! I shall win her at last, this little girl who still says no!”

De Vallagnosc simply said: “And after?”

“After? Why, I shall have her! Isn’t that enough? If you think yourself strong, because you refuse to be stupid and to suffer, you make a great mistake! You are merely a dupe, my boy, nothing more! Try and long for a woman and win her at last: that pays you in one minute for all your misery,”

But De Vallagnosc once more trotted out his pessimism. What was the good of working so much if money could not buy everything? He would very soon have shut up shop and given up work forever, the day he found out that his millions could not even buy the woman he wanted! Mouret, listening to him, became grave. Then he set off violently, he believed in the all-powerfulness of his will.

“I want her, and I’ll have her! And if she escapes me, you’ll see what a place I shall have built to cure myself. It will be splendid, all the same. You don’t understand this language, old man, otherwise you would know that action contains its own recompense. To act, to create, to struggle against facts, to overcome them or be overthrown by them, all human health and joy consists in that!”

“Simple method of diverting one’s self,” murmured the other.

“Well, I prefer diverting myself. As one must die, I would rather die of passion than boredom!”

They both laughed, this reminded them of their old discussions at college. De Vallagnosc, in an effeminate voice, then commenced to parade his theories of the insipidity of things, investing with a sort of fanfaronade the immobility and emptiness of his existence. Yes, he dragged on from day to day at the office, in three years he had had a rise of six hundred francs; he was now receiving three thousand six hundred, barely enough to pay for his cigars; it was getting worse than ever, and if he did not kill himself, it was simply from a dislike of all trouble. Mouret having spoken of his marriage with Mademoiselle de Boves, he replied that notwithstanding the obstinacy of the aunt in refusing to die, the matter was going to be concluded; at least, he thought so, the parents were agreed, and he was ready to do anything they might tell him to do. What was the use of wishing or not wishing, since things never turned out as one desired? He quoted as an example his future father-in-law, who expected to find in Madame Guibal an indolent blonde, the caprice of an hour, but who was now led by her with a whip, like an old horse on its last legs. Whilst they supposed him to be busy inspecting the stud at Saint-Lô, she was squandering his last resources in a little house hired by him at Versailles.

“He’s happier than you,” said Mouret, getting up.

“Oh! rather!” declared De Vallagnosc. “Perhaps it’s only doing wrong that’s somewhat amusing.”

Mouret had now recovered his spirits. He was thinking about getting away; but not wishing his departure to resemble a flight he resolved to take a cup of tea, and went into the other drawing-room with his friend, both in high spirits. The baron asked him if the mantle had been made to fit, and Mouret replied, carelessly, that he gave it up as far as he was concerned. They all seemed astonished. Whilst Madame Marty hastened to serve him, Madame de Boves accused the shops of always keeping their garments too narrow. At last, he managed to sit down near Bouthemont, who had not stirred. They were forgotten for a moment, and, in reply to anxious questions put by Bouthemont, desirous of knowing what he had to say to him, Mouret did not wait to get into the street, but abruptly informed him that the board of directors had decided to deprive themselves of his services. Between each phrase he drank a drop of tea, protesting all the while that he was in despair. Oh! a quarrel that he had not even then got over, for he had left the meeting beside himself with rage. But what could he do? he could not break with these gentlemen about a simple question of staff. Bouthemont, very pale, had to thank him once more.

“What a terrible mantle,” observed Madame Marty. “Henriette can’t get over it.”

And really, this prolonged absence began to make everyone feel awkward. But, at that very moment, Madame Desforges appeared.

“So you’ve given it up as well?” cried Madame de Boves, gaily.

“How do you mean?”

“Why, Monsieur Mouret told us you could do nothing with it.” Henriette affected the greatest surprise. “Monsieur was joking. The mantle will fit splendidly.”

She appeared very calm and smiling. No doubt she had bathed her eyes, for they were quite fresh, without the slightest trace of redness. Whilst her whole being was still trembling and bleeding, she managed to conceal her torture beneath the mask of her smiling, well-bred elegance. And she offered the sandwiches to De Vallagnosc with her usual graceful smile. The baron alone, who knew her so well, remarked, the slight contraction of her lips, and the sombre fire, which she had not been able to extinguish in her eyes. He guessed the whole scene.

“Dear me! each one to his taste,” said Madame de Boves, also accepting a sandwich. “I know some women who would never buy a ribbon except at the Louvre. Others only swear by the Bon Marche. It’s a question of temperament, no doubt.”

“The Bon Marché is very provincial,” murmured Madame Marty, “and one gets so crushed at the Louvre.”

They had again returned to the big shops. Mouret had to give his opinion; he came up to them and affected to be very just. The Bon Marché was an excellent house, solid, respectable; but the Louvre certainly had a more aristocratic class of customers.

“In short, you prefer The Ladies’ Paradise,” said the baron, smiling.

“Yes,” replied Mouret, quietly. “There we really love our customers.”

All the women present were of his opinion. It was just that, they were at a sort of private party at The Ladies’ Paradise, they felt there a continual caress of flattery, an overflowing adoration which detained the most dignified and virtuous woman. The enormous success of the establishment sprung from this gallant seduction.

“By the way,” asked Henriette, who wished to appear entirely at her ease, “what have you done with, my protégé, Monsieur Mouret? You know — Mademoiselle de Fontenailles.” And turning towards Madame Marty she explained, “A marchioness, my dear, a poor girl fallen into poverty.”

“Oh,” said Mouret, “she earns three francs a day stitching pattern-books, and I fancy I shall be able to marry her to one of my messengers.”

“Oh! fie! what a horror!” exclaimed Madame de Boves. He looked at her, and replied in his calm voice: “Why madame? Isn’t it better for her to marry an honest, hard-working messenger than to run the risk of being picked up by some good-far-nothing fellow outside?”

De Vallagnosc wished to interfere for a joke. “Don’t push him too far, madame, or he’ll tell you that all the old families of France ought to sell calico.”

“Well,” declared Mouret, “it would at least be an honorable end for a great many of them.”

They set up a laugh, the paradox seemed rather strong. He continued to sing the praises of what he called the aristocracy of work. A slight flush had colored Madame de Boves’s cheeks, she was wild at the shifts she was put to by her poverty; whilst Madame Marty on the contrary approved, stricken with remorse on thinking of her poor husband. The footman had just ushered in the professor, who had called to take her home. He was drier, more emaciated than ever by his hard labor, and still wore his thin shining frock coat. When he had thanked Madame Desforges for having spoken for him at the Ministry, he cast at Mouret the timid glance of a man meeting the evil that is to kill him. And he was quite confused when he heard the latter asking him:

“Isn’t it true, sir, that work leads to everything?”

“Work and economy,” replied he, with a slight shivering of his whole body. “Add economy, sir.”

Meanwhile, Bouthemont had not moved from his chair, Mouret’s words were still ringing in his ears. He at last got up, and went and said to Henriette in a low tone: “You know, he’s given me notice; oh! in the kindest possible manner. But may I be hanged if he sha’n’t repent it! I’ve just found my sign, The Four Seasons, and shall plant myself close to the Opera House!”

She looked at him with a gloomy expression. “Reckon on me, I’m with you. Wait a minute.” And she immediately drew Baron Hartmann into the recess of a window, and boldly recommended Bouthemont to him, as a fellow who was going to revolutionize Paris, in his turn, by setting up for himself. When she spoke of an advance of funds for her new protégée, the baron, though now astonished at nothing, could not suppress a gesture of bewilderment. This was the fourth fellow of genius she had confided to him, and he began to feel himself ridiculous. But he did not directly refuse, the idea of starting a competitor to The Ladies’ Paradise even pleased him somewhat; for he had already invented, in banking matters, this sort of competition, to keep off others. Besides, the adventure amused him, and he promised to look into the matter.

“We must talk it over tonight,” whispered Henriette, returning to Bouthemont. “Don’t fail to call about nine o’clock. The baron is with us.”

At this moment the vast room was full of voices. Mouret still standing up, in the midst of the ladies, had recovered his habitual elegant gracefulness, and was gaily defending himself from the charge of ruining them in dress, offering to prove by the figures that he enabled them to save thirty per cent on their purchases. Baron Hartmann watched him, seized with the fraternal admiration of a former man about town. Come! the duel was finished, Henriette was decidedly beaten, she certainly was not the coming woman. And he thought he could see the modest profile of the young girl whom he had observed on passing through the ante-room. She was there, patient, alone, redoubtable in her sweetness.

CHAPTER XII

It was on the 25th of September that the building of the new façade of The Ladies’ Paradise was commenced. Baron Hartmann, according to his promise, had had the matter settled at the last general meeting of the Crédit Immobilier. And Mouret was at length going to enjoy the realization of his dreams; this façade, about to arise in the Rue du Dix-Décembre, was like the very blossoming of his fortune. He wished, therefore, to celebrate the laying of the first stone, to make a ceremony of the work, and he distributed gratuities amongst his employees, and gave them game and champagne for dinner in the evening. Everyone noticed his wonderfully good humor during the ceremony, his victorious gesture as he laid the first stone, with a flourish of the trowel. For weeks he had been anxious, agitated by a nervous torment that he did not always succeed in concealing; and his triumph served as a respite, a distraction in his suffering. During the afternoon he seemed to have returned to his former healthy gaiety. But, after dinner, when he went through the refectory to drink a glass of champagne with his staff, he appeared feverish again, smiling with a painful look, his features drawn up by the unavowed pain that was devouring him. He was once more mastered by it.

The next day, in the ready-made department, Clara tried to be disagreeable with Denise. She had noticed Colomban’s bashful passion, and took it into her head to joke about the Baudus. As Marguerite was sharpening her pencil while waiting for customers, she said to her, in a loud voice:

“You know my lover opposite. It really grieves me to see him in that dark shop, where no one ever enters.”

“He’s not so badly off,” replied Marguerite, “he’s going to marry the governor’s daughter.”

“Oh! oh!” replied Clara, “it would be good fun to lead him astray, then! I’ll try the game on, my word of honor!”

And she continued in the same strain, happy to feel Denise was shocked. The latter forgave her everything else; but the idea of her dying cousin Geneviève, finished by this cruelty, threw her into an indignant rage. At that moment a customer came in, and as Madame Aurélie had just gone downstairs, she took the direction of the counter, and called Clara.

“Mademoiselle Prunaire, you had better attend to this lady instead of gossiping there.”

“I wasn’t gossiping.”

“Have the kindness to hold your tongue, and attend to this lady immediately.”

Clara gave in, conquered. When Denise showed her authority, quietly, without raising her voice, not one of them resisted. She had acquired absolute authority by her very moderation and sweetness. For a moment she walked up and down in silence, amidst the young ladies, who had become very serious. Marguerite had resumed sharpening her pencil, the point of which was always breaking. She alone continued to approve of Denise’s resistance to Mouret, shaking her head, not acknowledging the baby she had had, but declaring that if they had any idea of the consequences of such a thing, they would prefer to remain virtuous.

“What! you’re getting angry?” said a voice behind Denise.

It was Pauline, who was crossing the department. She had noticed the scene, and spoke in a low tone, smiling.

“But I’m obliged to,” replied Denise in the same tone, “I can’t manage them otherwise.”

Pauline shrugged her shoulders. “Nonsense, you can be queen over all of us whenever you like.”