Complete Works of Emile Zola (751 page)

“You say another dozen?” asked Denise of her brother.

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

Jean and Pépé had not quitted her side, clinging to her, as they had done formerly, on arriving in Paris, knocked up by the journey. This vast shop, in which she was quite at home, seemed to trouble them, and they sheltered themselves in her shadow, placing themselves under the protection of their second mother by an instinctive awakening of their infancy. People watched them as they passed, smiling at the two big fellows following in the footsteps of this grave thin girl; Jean frightened with his beard, Pépé bewildered in his tunic, all three of the same fair complexion, a fairness which caused the whisper from one end of the counters to the other: “They are her brothers! They are her brothers!”

But whilst Denise was looking for a saleswoman there was a meeting. Mouret and Bourdoncle entered the gallery; and as the former again stopped in front of the young girl, without, however, speaking to her, Madame Desforges and Madame Guibal passed by. Henriette suppressed the shiver which had invaded her whole being; she looked at Mouret and then at Denise. They had also looked at her, and it was a sort of mute catastrophe, the common end of these great dramas of the heart, a glance exchanged in the crush of a crowd. Mouret had already gone off, whilst Denise lost herself in the depths of the department, accompanied by her brothers, still in search of a disengaged salesman. But Henriette having recognized Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, in the auxiliary following Denise, with a yellow number on her shoulder, and her coarse, cadaverous, servant’s-looking face, relieved herself by saying to Madame Guibal, in a trembling 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 picked up by him in the street!” 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 spotless whiteness. All the milky tones of an adored person were there, from the velvet of the hips, to the fine silk of the thighs and the shining satin of the bosom. Pieces of velvet hung from the columns, silk and satins stood out, on this white creamy ground, in draperies of a metallic and porcelain-like whiteness: and falling in arches were also poult and gros grain silks, light foulards, and surahs, which varied from the heavy white of a Norwegian blonde to the transparent white, warmed by the sun, of an Italian or a Spanish beauty.

Favier was just then engaged in measuring some white silk for “the pretty lady,” that elegant blonde, a frequent customer at the counter, and whom the salesmen never referred to except by this name. She had dealt at the shop for years, and yet they knew nothing about her — neither her life, her address, and not even her name. None of them tried to find out, although they all indulged in supposition every time she made her appearance, but simply 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 night — such were the remarks made about her: thus every little fact of her unknown life, outside events, domestic dramas, were in this way reproduced and commented on. That day she seemed very gay. So, on returning from the pay-desk where he had conducted her, Favier remarked to Hutin:

“Perhaps she’s going to marry again.”

“What! is she a widow?” asked the other.

“I don’t know; but you must remember that she was in mourning the last time she came. Unless she’s made some money by speculating on the Bourse.” A silence ensued. At last he ended by saying: “But that’s her business. It wouldn’t do to take notice of all the women we see here.”

But Hutin was looking very thoughtful, having had, two days ago, a warm discussion with the direction, and feeling himself condemned. After the great sale his dismissal was certain. For a long time he had felt his position giving way; at the last stock-taking they had complained of his being below the amount of business fixed on in advance; and it was also, in fact chiefly, the slow working of the appetites that were swallowing him up in his turn — the whole silent war of the department, amidst the very motion of the machine. Favier’s obscure mining could be perceived — a deadened sound as of jaw-bones working under the earth. The latter had already received the promise of the first-hand’s place. Hutin, who was aware of all this, instead of attacking his old comrade, looked upon him as a clever fellow — a fellow who had always appeared so cold, so obedient, whom he had made use of to turn out Robineau and Bouthemont! He was full of a feeling of mingled surprise and respect.

“By the way,” resumed Favier, “she’s going to stay, you know. The governor has just been seen casting sheep’s eyes at her. I shall be let in for a bottle of champagne over it.”

He referred to Denise. The gossip was going on more than ever, from one counter to the other, across the constantly increasing crowd of customers. The silk sellers were especially excited, for they had been taking heavy bets about it.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Hutin, waking up as if from a dream, “wasn’t I a flat not to have slept with her! I should be all right now!”

Then he blushed at this confession on seeing Favier laughing. He pretended to laugh also, and added, to recall his words, that it was this creature that had ruined him with the management. However, a desire for violence seizing him, he finished by getting into a rage with the salesmen disbanded under the assault of the customers. But all at once he resumed his smile, having just perceived Madame Desforges and Madame Guibal slowly crossing the department.

“What can we serve you with today, madame?”

“Nothing, thanks,” replied Henriette. “You see I’m merely walking round; I’ve only come out of curiosity.”

When he had stopped her, he lowered his voice. Quite a plan was springing up in his head. And he flattered her, running down the house; he had had enough of it, and preferred going away to assisting at such a scene of disorder. She listened to him, delighted. It was she herself who, thinking to get him away from The Ladies’ Paradise, offered to have him engaged by Bouthemont as first-hand in the silk department, when The Four Seasons started again. The matter was settled in whispers, whilst Madame Guibal interested herself in the displays.

“May I offer you one of these bouquets of violets?” resumed Hutin, aloud, pointing to a table where there were four or five bunches of the flowers, which he had procured from the paydesk for personal presents.

“Ah, no!” exclaimed Henriette, with a backward movement. “I don’t wish to take any part in the wedding.”

They understood each other, and separated, exchanging glances of intelligence. As Madame Desforges was looking for Madame Guibal, she set up an exclamation of surprise on seeing her with Madame Marty. The latter, followed by her daughter Valentine, had been carried away for the last two hours, right through the place, by one of those fits of spending from which she always emerged tired and confused. She had roamed about the furniture department that a show of white lacquered suites of furniture had changed into a vast young girl’s room, the ribbon and neckerchief department forming white vellumy colonnades, the mercery and lace department, with its white fringes which surrounded ingenious trophies patiently composed of cards of buttons and packets of needles, and the hosiery department, in which there was a great crush this year to see an immense piece of decoration, the name “The Ladies’ Paradise “in letters three yards high, formed of white socks on a groundwork of red ones. But Madame Marty was especially excited by the new departments; they could not open a new department without she must inaugurate it, she was bound to plunge in and buy something. And she had passed an hour at the millinery counter, installed in a new room on the ground-floor, having the cupboards emptied, taking the bonnets off the stands which stood on two tables, trying all of them on herself and her daughter, white hats, white bonnets, and white turbans. Then she had gone down to the boot department, at the further end of a gallery on the ground-floor, behind the cravat department, a counter opened that day, and which she had turned topsy turvy, seized with sickly desires in the presence of the white silk slippers trimmed with swansdown, the white satin boots and shoes with their high Louis XV. heels.

“Oh! my dear,” she stammered, “you’ve no idea! They have a wonderful assortment of hoods. I’ve chosen one for myself and one for my daughter. And the boots, eh? Valentine.”

“It’s marvellous!” added the young girl, with her womanly boldness. “There are some boots at twenty francs and a half which are delicious!”

A salesman was following them, dragging along the eternal chair, on which was already heaped a mountain of articles.

“How is Monsieur Marty?” asked Madame Desforges.

“Very well, I believe,” replied Madame Marty, bewildered by this brusque question, which fell ill-naturedly amidst her fever for spending. “He’s still confined, my uncle had to go and see him this morning.”

“Oh, look! isn’t it lovely?”

The ladies, who had gone on a few steps, found themselves before the flowers and feathers department, installed in the central gallery, between the silk and glove departments. It appeared beneath the bright light of the glass roof as an enormous florescence, a white sheaf, tall and broad as an oak. The base was formed of single flowers, violets, lilies of the valley, hyacinths, daisies, all the delicate hues of the garden. Then came bouquets, white roses, softened by a fleshy tint, great white peonies, slightly shaded with carmine, white chrysanthemums, with narrow petals and starred with yellow. And the flowers still ascended, great mystical lilies, branches of apple blossom, bunches of lilac, a continual blossoming, surmounted, as high as the first storey, by ostrich feathers, white plumes, which were like the airy breath of this collection of white flowers. One whole corner was devoted to the display of trimmings and orange-flower wreaths. There were also metallic flowers, silver thistles and silver ears of corn. Amidst the foliage and the petals, amidst all this muslin, silk, and velvet, where drops of gum shone like dew, flew birds of Paradise for hats, purple Tangaras with black tails, and Septicolores with their changing rainbow-like plumage.

“I’m going to buy a branch of apple-blossom,” resumed Madame Marty. “It’s delicious, isn’t it? And that little bird, do look, Valentine. I must take it!”

Madame Guibal began to feel tired of standing still in the eddy of the crowd, and at last said: “Well, we’ll leave you to make your purchases. We’re going upstairs.”

“No, no, wait for me!” cried the other. “I’m going up too. There’s the perfumery department, I must see that.”

This department, created the day before, was next door to the reading-room. Madame Desforges, to avoid the crush on the stairs, spoke of going up in the lift, but they had to abandon the idea, there was such a crowd waiting their turn. At last they arrived, passing before the public refreshment bar, where the crowd was becoming so great that an inspector had to restrain the people’s appetites by only allowing the gluttonous customers to enter in small groups. And the ladies already began to smell the perfumery department, a penetrating odor which scented the whole gallery. There was quite a struggle over one article, The Paradise soap, a specialty of the house. In the show cases, and on the crystal tablets of the shelves, were ranged pots of pomade and paste, boxes of powder and paint, boxes of oil and toilet vinegar; whilst the fine brushes, combs, scissors, and smelling-bottles occupied a special place. The salesmen had managed to decorate the shelves with white porcelain pots and white glass bottles. But what delighted the customers above all was a silver fountain, a shepherdess seated in the middle of a harvest of flowers, and from which flowed a continual stream of violet water, which fell with a musical plash into the metal basin. An exquisite odor was disseminated around, the ladies dipping their handkerchiefs in the scent as they passed.

“There,” said Madame Marty, when she had loaded herself with lotions, dentrifices, and cosmetics. “Now I’ve done, I’m at your service. Let’s go and rejoin Madame de Boves.”

But on the landing of the great central staircase they were again stopped by the Japanese department. This counter had grown wonderfully since the day Mouret had amused himself by setting up, in the same place, a little proposition table, covered with a lot of soiled articles, without at all foreseeing its future success. Few departments had had a more modest commencement, and now it overflowed with old bronzes, old ivories, old lacquer work. He did fifteen hundred thousand francs’ worth of business a year in this department, ransacking the Far East, where his travellers pillaged the palaces and the temples. Besides, fresh departments were always springing up, they had tried two in December, in order to fill up the empty spaces caused by the dead winter season — a book department and a toy department, which would certainly grow also and sweep away certain shops in the neighborhood. Four years had sufficed for the Japanese department to attract the entire artistic custom of Paris. This time Madame Desforges herself, notwithstanding the rancor which had made her swear not to buy anything, succumbed before some finely carved ivory.

“Send it to my house,” said she rapidly, at a neighboring pay-desk. “Ninety francs, is it not?” And, seeing Madame Marty and her daughter plunged in a lot of trashy porcelains, she resumed, as she carried Madame Guibal off: “You will find us in the reading-room, I really must sit down a little while.”

In the reading-room they were obliged to remain standing. All the chairs were occupied, round the large table covered with newspapers. Great fat fellows were reading and lolling about without even thinking of giving up their seats to the ladies. A few women were writing, their faces on the paper, as if to conceal their letters under the flowers of their hats. Madame de Boves was not there, and Henriette was getting very impatient when she perceived De Vallagnosc, who was also looking for his wife and mother-in-law. He bowed, and said: