Complete Works of Emile Zola (753 page)

And Mouret continued to watch his nation of women, amidst this shimmering blaze. Their black shadows stood out vigorously on the pale ground-work. Long eddies divided the crowd; the fever of this day’s great sale swept past like a frenzy, rolling along the disordered sea of heads. People were commencing to leave, the pillage of the stuffs had encumbered all the counters, the gold was chinking in the tills; whilst the customers went away, their purses completely empty, and their heads turned by the wealth of luxury amidst which they had been wandering all day. It was he who possessed them thus, keeping them at his mercy by his continued display of novelties, his reduction of prices, and his “returns,” his gallantry and his advertisements. He had conquered the mothers themselves, reigning over them with the brutality of a despot, whose caprices were ruining many a household. His creation was a sort of new religion; the churches, gradually deserted by a wavering faith, were replaced by this bazaar, in the minds of the idle women of Paris. Women now came and spent their leisure time in his establishment, the shivering and anxious hours they formerly passed in churches: a necessary consumption of nervous passion, a growing struggle of the god of dress against the husband, the incessantly renewed religion of the body with the divine future of beauty. If he had closed his doors, there would have been a rising in the street, the despairing cry of worshippers deprived of their confessional and altar. In their still growing luxury, he saw them, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, obstinately clinging to the enormous iron building, along the suspended staircases and flying bridges. Madame Marty and her daughter, carried away to the highest point, were wandering amongst the furniture. Retained by her young people, Madame Bourdelais could not get away from the fancy goods. Then came another group, Madame de Boves, still on De Vallagnosc’s arm, and followed by Blanche, stopping in each department, still daring to examine the articles with her superb air. But amidst the crowded sea of customers, this sea of bodies swelling with life, beating with desire, all decorated with bunches of violets, as though for the bridals of some sovereign, Mouret could now distinguish nothing but the bare bust of Madame Desforges, who had stopped in the glove department with Madame Guibal. Notwithstanding her jealous rancor, she was also buying, and he felt himself to be the master once more, having them at his feet, beneath the dazzle of the electric light, like a drove of cattle from whom he had drawn his fortune.

With a mechanical step, Mouret went along the galleries, so absorbed that he abandoned himself to the pushing of the crowd. When he raised his head, he found himself in the new millinery department, the windows of which looked on to the Rue du Dix-Décembre. And there, his forehead against the glass, he made another halt, watching the departure of the crowd. The setting sun was yellowing the roofs of the white houses, the blue sky was growing paler, refreshed by a pure breath; whilst in the twilight, which was already enveloping the streets, the electric lamps of The Ladies’ Paradise threw out that fixed glimmer of stars lighted on the horizon at the decline of the day. Towards the Opera-house and the Bourse were the rows of waiting carriages, the harness still retaining the reflections of the bright light, the gleam of a lamp, the glitter of a silvered bit. Every minute the cry of a footman was heard, and a cab drew near, or a brougham issued from the ranks, took up a customer, and went off at a rapid trot. The rows of carriages were now diminishing, six went off at a time, occupying the whole street, from the one side to the other, amidst the banging of doors, snapping of whips, and the hum of the passers-by, who swarmed between the wheels. There was a sort of continual enlargement, a spreading of the customers, carried off to the four corners of the city, emptying the building with the roaring clamor of a sluice. And the roof of The Ladies’ Paradise, the big golden letters of the ensigns, the banners fluttering in the sky, still flamed forth with the reflections of the setting sun, so colossal in this oblique light, that they evoked the monster of advertising, the phalansterium whose wings, incessantly multiplied, were swallowing up the whole neighborhood, as far as the distant woods of the suburbs. And the soul of Paris, an enormous, sweet breath, fell asleep in the serenity of the evening, running in long and sweet caresses over the last carriages, spinning through the streets now becoming deserted by the crowd, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

Mouret, gazing about, had just felt something grand in himself; and, in the shiver of triumph with which his flesh trembled, in the face of Paris devoured and woman conquered, he experienced a sudden weakness, a defection of his strong will which overthrew him in his turn, beneath a superior force. It was an unreasonable necessity to be vanquished in his victory, the nonsense of a warrior bending beneath the caprice of a child, on the morrow of his conquests. He who had struggled for months, who even that morning had sworn to stifle his passion, yielded all at once, seized by the vertigo of high places, happy to commit what he looked upon as a folly. His decision, so rapid, had assumed all at once such energy that he saw nothing but her as being useful and necessary in the world.

The evening, after the last dinner, he was waiting in his office, trembling like a young man about to stake his life’s happiness, unable to keep still, incessantly going towards the door to listen to the rumors in the shop, where the men were doing the folding, drowned up to the shoulder in a sea of stuffs. At each footstep his heart beat. He felt a violent emotion, he rushed forward, for he had heard in the distance a deep murmur, which had gradually increased.

It was Lhomme slowly approaching with the day’s receipts. That day they were so heavy, there was such a quantity of silver and copper, that he had been obliged to enlist the services of two messengers. Behind him came Joseph and one of his colleagues, bending beneath the weight of the bags, enormous bags, thrown on their shoulders like sacks of wheat, whilst he walked on in front with the notes and gold, a note-book swollen with paper, and two bags hung round his neck, the weight of which swayed him to the right, the same side as his broken arm. Slowly, perspiring and puffing, he had come from the other end of the shop, amidst the growing emotion of the salesmen. The employees in the glove and silk departments laughingly offered to relieve him of his burden, the fellows in the drapery and woollen departments were longing to see him make a false step, which would have scattered the gold through the place. Then he had been obliged to mount the stairs, go across a bridge, going still higher, turning about, amidst the longing looks of the employees in the linen, the hosiery, and the mercery departments, who followed him, gazing with ecstasy at this fortune travelling in the air. On the first-floor the employees in the ready-made, the perfumery, the lace, and the shawl departments were ranged with devotion, as on the passage of a king. From counter to counter a tumult arose, like the clamor of a nation bowing down before the golden calf.

Mouret opened the door, and Lhomme appeared, followed by the two messengers, who were staggering; and, out of breath, he still had strength to cry out: “One million two hundred and forty-seven francs, nineteen sous!”

At last the million had been attained, the million picked up in a day, and of which Mouret had so long dreamed. But he gave way to an angry gesture, and said impatiently, with the disappointed air of a man disturbed by some troublesome fellow: “A million! very good, put it there.” Lhomme knew that he was fond of seeing the heavy receipts on his table before they were taken to the central cashier’s office. The million covered the whole table, crushing the papers, almost overturning the ink, running out of the sacks, bursting the leather bags, making a great heap, the heap of the gross receipts, such as it had come from the customers’ hands, still warm and living.

Just as the cashier was going away, heart-broken at the governor’s indifference, Bourdoncle arrived, gaily exclaiming: “Ah! we’ve done it this time. We’ve hooked the million, eh?”

But observing Mouret’s febrile pre-occupation, he understood at once and calmed down. His face was beaming with joy. After a short silence he resumed: “You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you? Well, I approve your decision.”

Suddenly Mouret planted himself before him, and with his terrible voice he thundered: “I say, my man, you’re rather too lively. You think me played out, don’t you? and you feel hungry. But be careful, I’m not one to be swallowed up, you know!”

Discountenanced by the sharp attack of this wonderful fellow, who guessed everything, Bourdoncle stammered: “What now? Are you joking? I who have always admired you so!”

“Don’t tell lies!” replied Mouret, more violently than ever, “Just listen, we were stupid to entertain the superstition that marriage would ruin us. Is it not the necessary health, the very strength and order of life? Well, my dear fellow, I’m going to marry her, and I’ll pitch you all out at the slightest movement. Yes, you’ll go and be paid like the rest, Bourdoncle.”

And with a gesture he dismissed him. Bourdoncle felt himself condemned, swept away, by this victory gained by woman. He went off. Denise was just going in, and he bowed with a profound respect, his head swimming.

“Ah! you’ve come at last!” said Mouret gently.

Denise was pale with emotion. She had just experienced another grief, Deloche had informed her of his dismissal, and as she tried to retain him, offering to speak in his favor, he obstinately declined to struggle against his bad luck, he wanted to disappear, what was the use of staying? Why should he interfere with people who were happy? Denise had bade him a sisterly adieu, her eyes full of tears. Did she not herself long to sink into oblivion? Everything was now about to be finished, and she asked nothing more of her exhausted strength than the courage to support this separation. In a few minutes, if she could only be valiant enough to crush her heart, she could go away alone, to weep unseen.

“You wished to see me, sir,” she said in her calm voice. “In fact, I intended to come and thank you for all your kindness to me.”

On entering, she had perceived the million on the desk, and the display of this money wounded her. Above her, as if watching the scene, was the portrait of Madame Hédouin, in its gilded frame, and with the eternal smile of its painted lips.

“You are still resolved to leave us?” asked Mouret, in a trembling voice.

“Yes, sir. I must.”

Then he took her hands, and said, in an explosion of tenderness, after the long period of coldness he had imposed on himself: “And if I married you, Denise, would you still leave?”

But she had drawn her hands away, struggling as if under the influence of a great grief. “Oh! Monsieur Mouret. Pray say no more. Don’t cause me such pain again! I cannot! I cannot! Heaven is my witness that I was going away to avoid such a misfortune!”

She continued to defend herself in broken sentences. Had she not already suffered too much from the gossip of the house? Did he wish her to pass in his eyes and her own for a worthless woman? No, no, she would be strong, she would certainly prevent him doing such a thing. He, tortured, listened to her, repeating in a passionate tone: “I wish it. I wish it!”

“No, it’s impossible. And my brothers? I have sworn not to marry. I cannot bring you those children, can I?”

“They shall be my brothers, too. Say yes, Denise.”

“No, no, leave me. You are torturing me!”

Little by little he gave way, this last obstacle drove him mad. What! She still refused even at this price! In the distance he heard the clamor of his three thousand employees building up his immense fortune. And that stupid million lying there! He suffered from it as a sort of irony, he could have thrown it into the street.

“Go, then!” he cried, in a flood of tears. “Go and join the man you love. That’s the reason, isn’t it? You warned me, I ought to have known it, and not tormented you any further.”

She stood there dazed before the violence of this despair. Her heart was bursting. Then, with the impetuosity of a child, she threw herself on his neck, sobbing also, and stammered: “Oh! Monsieur Mouret, it’s you that I love!”

A last murmur was rising from The Ladies’ Paradise, the distant acclamation of a crowd. Madame Hédouin’s portrait was still smiling, with its painted lips; Mouret had fallen on his desk, on the million that he could no longer see. He did not quit Denise, but clasped her in a desperate embrace, telling her that she could now go, that she could spend a month at Valognes, which would silence everybody, and that he would then go and fetch her himself, and bring her back, all-powerful, and his wedded wife.

THE END

THE JOY OF LIFE

Translated by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly

The twelfth novel in the
Rougon-Macquart
series,
La Joie de vivre
was serialised in the periodical
Gil Blas
in 1883 before being published in book form by Charpentier the following year.  The protagonist is Pauline Quenu, the daughter of Parisian characters Lisa Macquart and M. Quenu, who are central characters
in Le Ventre de Paris
.  The novel opens in 1863, at which point the ten-year-old Pauline’s parents have died and she comes to live with the Chanteaus, relatives on her father’s side, in the seaside village of Bonneville in Normandy.