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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54687 ***</div>

    <h1>
      THE LADIES' PARADISE
    </h1>
    <h3>
      (The Sequel To &ldquo;Piping Hot!&rdquo;)
    </h3>
    <h3>
      A Realistic Novel
    </h3>
    <h2>
      By Émile Zola
    </h2>
    <h4>
      Translated without Abridgment from the 80th French Edition
    </h4>
    <h4>
      London: Vizetelly And Company
    </h4>
    <h3>
      1886.
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0011.jpg" alt="0011 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0011.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0012.jpg" alt="0012 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0012.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0014.jpg" alt="0014 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0014.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <b>CONTENTS</b>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE LADIES' PARADISE</b> </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h1>
      THE LADIES' PARADISE
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>ENISE had walked
      from the Saint-Lazare railway station, where a Cherbourg train had landed
      her and her two brothers, after a night passed on the hard seat of a
      third-class carriage. She was leading Pépé by the hand, and Jean was
      following her, all three fatigued after the journey, frightened and lost
      in this vast Paris, their eyes on every street name, asking at every
      corner the way to the Rue de la Michodière, where their uncle Baudu lived.
      But on arriving in the Place Gaillon, the young girl stopped short,
      astonished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! look there, Jean,&rdquo; said she; and they stood still, nestling close to
      one another, all dressed in black, wearing the old mourning bought at
      their father's death. She, rather puny for her twenty years, was carrying
      a small parcel; on the other side, her little brother, five years old, was
      clinging to her arm; while behind her, the big brother, a strapping youth
      of sixteen, was standing empty-handed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said she, after a pause, &ldquo;that <i>is</i> a shop!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were at the corner of the Rue de la Michodière and the Rue
      Neuve-Saint-Augustin, in front of a draper's shop, which displayed a
      wealth of colour in the soft October light. Eight o'clock was striking at
      the church of Saint-Roch; not many people were about, only a few clerks on
      their way to business, and housewives doing their morning shopping. Before
      the door, two shopmen, mounted on a step-ladder, were hanging up some
      woollen goods, whilst in a window in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin another
      young man, kneeling with his back to the pavement, was delicately plaiting
      a piece of blue silk. In the shop, where there were as yet no customers,
      there was a buzz as of a swarm of bees at work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Jove!&rdquo; said Jean, &ldquo;this beats Valognes. Yours wasn't such a fine
      shop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise shook her head. She had spent two years there, at Cornaille's, the
      principal draper's in the town, and this shop, encountered so suddenly&mdash;this,
      to her, enormous place, made her heart swell, and kept her excited,
      interested, and oblivious of everything else. The high plate-glass door,
      facing the Place Gaillon, reached the first storey, amidst a complication
      of ornaments covered with gilding. Two allegorical figures, representing
      two laughing, bare-breasted women, unrolled the scroll bearing the sign,
      &ldquo;The Ladies' Paradise.&rdquo; The establishment extended along the Rue de la
      Michodière and the Rue Neuve-Saint Augustin, and comprised, beside the
      corner house, four others&mdash;two on the right and two on the left,
      bought and fitted up recently. It seemed to her an endless extension, with
      its display on the ground floor, and the plate-glass windows, through
      which could be seen the whole length of the counters. Upstairs a young
      lady, dressed all in silk, was sharpening a pencil, while two others,
      beside her, were unfolding some velvet mantles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Ladies' Paradise,&rdquo; read Jean, with the tender laugh of a handsome
      youth who had already had an adventure with a woman. &ldquo;That must draw the
      customers&mdash;eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Denise was absorbed by the display at the principal entrance. There
      she saw, in the open street, on the very pavement, a mountain of cheap
      goods&mdash;bargains, placed there to tempt the passers-by, and attract
      attention. Hanging from above were pieces of woollen and cloth goods,
      merinoes, cheviots, and tweeds, floating like flags; the neutral, slate,
      navy-blue, and olive-green tints being relieved by the large white
      price-tickets. Close by, round the doorway, were hanging strips of fur,
      narrow bands for dress trimmings, fine Siberian squirrel-skin, spotless
      snowy swansdown, rabbit-skin imitation ermine and imitation sable. Below,
      on shelves and on tables, amidst a pile of remnants, appeared an immense
      quantity of hosiery almost given away; knitted woollen gloves,
      neckerchiefs, women's hoods, waistcoats, a winter show in all colours,
      striped, dyed, and variegated, with here and there a flaming patch of red.
      Denise saw some tartan at nine sous, some strips of American vison at a
      franc, and some mittens at five sous. There appeared to be an immense
      clearance sale going on; the establishment seemed bursting with goods,
      blocking up the pavement with the surplus.
    </p>
    <p>
      Uncle Baudu was forgotten. Pépé himself, clinging tightly to his sister's
      hand, opened his big eyes in wonder. A vehicle coming up, forced them to
      quit the road-way, and they turned up the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin
      mechanically, following the shop windows and stopping at each fresh
      display. At first they were captivated by a complicated arrangement:
      above, a number of umbrellas, laid obliquely, seemed to form a rustic
      roof; beneath these a quantity of silk stockings, hung on rods, showed the
      roundness of the calves, some covered with rosebuds, others of all
      colours, black open-worked, red with embroidered corners, and flesh
      colour, the silky grain of which made them look as soft as a fair woman's
      skin; and at the bottom of all, a symmetrical array of gloves, with their
      taper fingers and narrow palms, and that rigid virgin grace which
      characterises such feminine articles before they are worn. But the last
      window especially attracted their attention. It was an exhibition of
      silks, satins, and velvets, arranged so as to produce, by a skilful
      artistic arrangement of colours, the most delicious shades imaginable. At
      the top were the velvets, from a deep black to a milky white: lower down,
      the satins&mdash;pink, blue, fading away into shades of a wondrous
      delicacy; still lower down were the silks, of all the colours of the
      rainbow, pieces set up in the form of shells, others folded as if round a
      pretty figure, arranged in a life-like natural manner by the clever
      fingers of the window dressers. Between each motive, between each coloured
      phrase of the display, ran a discreet accompaniment, a slight puffy ring
      of cream-coloured silk. At each end were piled up enormous bales of the
      silk of which the house had made a specialty, the &ldquo;Paris Paradise&rdquo; and the
      &ldquo;Golden Grain,&rdquo; two exceptional articles destined to work a revolution in
      that branch of commerce.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that silk at five francs twelve sous!&rdquo; murmured Denise, astonished at
      the &ldquo;Paris Paradise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jean began to get tired. He stopped a passer-by. &ldquo;Which is the Rue de la
      Michodière, please, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On hearing that it was the first on the right they all turned back, making
      the tour of the establishment. But just as she was entering the street,
      Denise was attracted by a window in which ladies' dresses were displayed.
      At Cornaille's that was her department, but she had never seen anything
      like this, and remained rooted to the spot with admiration. At the back a
      large sash of Bruges lace, of considerable value, was spread out like an
      altar-veil, with its two white wings extended; there were flounces of
      Alençon point, grouped in garlands; then from the top to the bottom
      fluttered, like a fall of snow, a cloud of lace of every description&mdash;Malines,
      Honiton, Valenciennes, Brussels, and Venetian-point. On each side the
      heavy columns were draped with cloth, making the background appear still
      more distant And the dresses were in this sort of chapel raised to the
      worship of woman's beauty and grace. Occupying the centre was a
      magnificent article, a velvet mantle, trimmed with silver fox; on one side
      a silk cape lined with miniver, on the other a cloth cloak edged with
      cocks' plumes; and last of all, opera cloaks in white cashmere and white
      silk trimmed with swansdown or chenille. There was something for all
      tastes, from the opera cloaks at twenty-nine francs to the velvet mantle
      marked up at eighteen hundred. The well-rounded neck and graceful figures
      of the dummies exaggerated the slimness of the waist, the absent head
      being replaced by a large price-ticket pinned on the neck; whilst the
      mirrors, cleverly arranged on each side of the window, reflected and
      multiplied the forms without end, peopling the street with these beautiful
      women for sale, each bearing a price in big figures in the place of a
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How stunning they are!&rdquo; murmured Jean, finding no other words to express
      his emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      This time he himself had become motionless, his mouth open. All this
      female luxury turned him rosy with pleasure. He had a girl's beauty&mdash;a
      beauty he seemed to have stolen from his sister&mdash;a lovely skin, curly
      hair, lips and eyes overflowing with tenderness. By his side Denise, in
      her astonishment, appeared thinner still, with her rather long face and
      large mouth, fading complexion, and light hair. Pépé, also fair, in the
      way of most children, clung closer to her, as if wanting to be caressed,
      troubled and delighted at the sight of the beautiful ladies in the window.
      They looked so strange, so charming, on the pavement, those three fair
      ones, poorly dressed in black&mdash;the sad-looking young girl between the
      pretty child and the handsome youth&mdash;that the passers-by looked back
      smilingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      For several minutes a stout man with grey hair and a large yellow face,
      standing at a shop-door on the other side of the street, had been looking
      at them. He was standing there with bloodshot eyes and contracted mouth,
      beside himself with rage at the display made by The Ladies' Paradise, when
      the sight of the young girl and her brothers completed his exasperation.
      What were those three simpletons doing there, gaping in front of the
      cheap-jack's parade?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What about uncle?&rdquo; asked Denise, suddenly, as if just waking up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are in the Rue de la Michodière,&rdquo; said Jean. &ldquo;He must live somewhere
      about here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They raised their heads and looked round. Just in front of them, above the
      stout man, they perceived a green sign-board bearing in yellow letters,
      discoloured by the rain: &ldquo;The Old Elbeuf. Cloths, Flannels. Baudu, late
      Hauchecorne.&rdquo; The house, coated with an ancient rusty white-wash, quite
      flat and unadorned, amidst the mansions in the Louis XIV. style which
      surrounded it, had only three front windows, and these windows, square,
      without shutters, were simply ornamented by a handrail and two iron bars
      in the form of a cross. But amidst all this nudity, what struck Denise the
      most, her eyes full of the light airy windows at The Ladies' Paradise, was
      the ground-floor shop, crushed by the ceiling, surmounted by a very low
      storey with half-moon windows, of a prison-like appearance. The
      wainscoting, of a bottle-green hue, which time had tinted with ochre and
      bitumen, encircled, right and left, two deep windows, black and dusty, in
      which the heaped-up goods could hardly be seen. The open door seemed to
      lead into the darkness and dampness of a cellar.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0021.jpg" alt="0021 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0021.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the house,&rdquo; said Jean.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we must go in,&rdquo; declared Denise. &ldquo;Come on, Pepé.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They appeared, however, somewhat troubled, as if seized with fear. When
      their father died, carried off by the same fever which had, a month
      previous, killed their mother, their uncle Baudu, in the emotion which
      followed this double mourning, had written to Denise, assuring her there
      would always be a place for her in his house whenever she would like to
      come to Paris. But this was nearly a year ago, and the young girl was now
      sorry to have left Valognes in a moment of temper without informing her
      uncle. The latter did not know them, never having set foot in Valognes
      since the day he left, as a boy, to enter as junior in the drapery
      establishment kept by Hauchecorne, whose daughter he afterwards married.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Baudu?&rdquo; asked Denise, deciding at last to speak to the stout man
      who was still eyeing them, surprised at their appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's me,&rdquo; replied he.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise blushed and stammered out: &ldquo;Oh, I'm so pleased! I am Denise. This
      is Jean, and this is Pépé. You see we have come, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Baudu seemed amazed. His big eyes rolled in his yellow face; he spoke
      slowly and with difficulty. He was evidently far from thinking of this
      family which suddenly dropped down on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&mdash;what, you here?&rdquo; repeated he several times. &ldquo;But you were at
      Valognes. Why aren't you at Valognes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With her sweet but rather faltering voice she then explained that since
      the death of her father, who had spent everything in his dye-works, she
      had acted as a mother to the two children, but the little she earned at
      Cornaille's did not suffice to keep the three of them. Jean worked at a
      cabinetmaker's, a repairer of old furniture, but didn't earn a sou.
      However, he had got to like the business, and had learned to carve in wood
      very well. One day, having found a piece of ivory, he amused himself by
      carving a head, which a gentleman staying in the town had seen and
      admired, and it was this gentleman who had persuaded them to leave
      Valognes, promising to find a place in Paris for Jean with an
      ivory-carver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you see, uncle,&rdquo; continued Denise, &ldquo;Jean will commence his
      apprenticeship at his new master's to-morrow. They ask no premium, and
      will board and lodge him. I felt sure Pépé and I could manage very well.
      We can't be worse off than we were at Valognes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She said nothing about Jean's love affair, of certain letters written to
      the daughter of a nobleman living in the town, of kisses exchanged over a
      wall&mdash;in fact, quite a scandal which had determined her leaving. And
      she was especially anxious to be in Paris, to be able to look after her
      brother, feeling quite a mother's tender anxiety for this gay and handsome
      youth, whom all the women adored. Uncle Baudu couldn't get over it, and
      continued his questions. However, when he heard her speaking of her
      brothers in this way he became much kinder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So your father has left you nothing,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I certainly thought there
      was still something left. Ah! how many times did I write advising him not
      to take that dye-work! A good-hearted fellow, but no head for business!
      And you've been obliged to keep and look after these two youngsters
      since?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His bilious face had become clearer, his eyes were not so bloodshot as
      when he was glaring at The Ladies' Paradise. Suddenly he noticed that he
      was blocking up the doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;come in, now you're here. Come in, no use hanging about
      gaping at a parcel of rubbish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And after having darted a last look of anger at The Ladies' Paradise, he
      made way for the children by entering the shop and calling his wife and
      daughter. .
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Elizabeth, Geneviève, come down; here's company for you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Denise and the two boys hesitated before the darkness of the shop.
      Blinded by the clear light of the street, they could hardly see. Feeling
      their way with their feet with an instinctive fear of encountering some
      treacherous step, and clinging still closer together from this vague fear,
      the child continuing to hold the young girl's skirts, and the big boy
      behind, they made their entry with a smiling, anxious grace. The clear
      morning light described the dark profile of their mourning clothes; an
      oblique ray of sunshine gilded their fair hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in, come in,&rdquo; repeated Baudu.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few brief sentences he explained the matter to his wife and daughter.
      The first was a little woman, eaten up with anaemia, quite white&mdash;white
      hair, white eyes, white lips. Geneviève, in whom her mother's
      degenerateness appeared stronger still, had the debilitated, colourless
      appearance of a plant reared in the shade. However, her magnificent black
      hair, thick and heavy, marvellously vigorous for such a weak, poor soil,
      gave her a sad charm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; said both the women in their turn; &ldquo;you are welcome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And they made Denise sit down behind a counter. Pépé immediately jumped up
      on his sister's lap, whilst Jean leant against some wood-work beside her.
      Looking round the shop the new-comers began to take courage, their eyes
      getting used to the obscurity. Now they could see it, with its low and
      smoky ceiling, oaken counters bright with use, and old-fashioned drawers
      with strong iron fittings. Bales of goods reached to the beams above; the
      smell of linen and dyed stuffs&mdash;a sharp chemical smell&mdash;seemed
      intensified by the humidity of the floor. At the further end two young men
      and a young woman were putting away pieces of white flannel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps this young gentleman would like to take something?&rdquo; said Madame
      Baudu, smiling at Pépé.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thanks,&rdquo; replied Denise, &ldquo;we had a cup of milk in a café opposite the
      station.&rdquo; And as Geneviève looked at the small parcel she had laid down,
      she added: &ldquo;I left our box there too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She blushed, feeling that she ought not to have dropped down on her
      friends in this way. Even as she was leaving Valognes, she had been full
      of regrets and fears; that was why she had left the box, and given the
      children their breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come,&rdquo; said Baudu suddenly, &ldquo;let's come to an understanding. 'Tis
      true I wrote to you, but that's a year ago, and since then business hasn't
      been flourishing, I can assure you, my girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped, choked with an emotion he did not wish to show. Madame Baudu
      and Geneviève, with a resigned look, had cast their eyes down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; continued he, &ldquo;it's a crisis which will pass, no doubt, but I have
      reduced my staff; there are only three here now, and this is not the
      moment to engage a fourth. In short, my dear girl, I cannot take you as I
      promised.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise listened, and turned very pale. He dwelt upon the subject, adding:
      &ldquo;It would do no good, either to you or to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, uncle,&rdquo; replied she with a painful effort, &ldquo;I'll try and
      manage all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Baudus were not bad sort of people. But they complained of never
      having had any luck. When their business was flourishing, they had had to
      bring up five sons, of whom three had died before attaining the age of
      twenty; the fourth had gone wrong, and the fifth had just left for Mexico,
      as a captain. Geneviève was the only one left at home. But this large
      family had cost a great deal of money, and Baudu had made things worse by
      buying a great lumbering country house, at Rambouillet, near his wife's
      father's place. Thus, a sharp, sour feeling was springing up in the honest
      old tradesman's breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might have warned us,&rdquo; resumed he, gradually getting angry at his own
      harshness. &ldquo;You could have written; I should have told you to stay at
      Valognes. When I heard of your father's death I said what is right on such
      occasions, but you drop down on us without a word of warning. It's very
      awkward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He raised his voice, and that relieved him. His wife and daughter still
      kept their eyes on the ground, like submissive persons who would never
      think of interfering. However, whilst Jean had turned pale, Denise had
      hugged the terrified Pépé to her bosom. She dropped hot tears of
      disappointment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, uncle,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;we'll go away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At that he stopped, an awkward silence ensued. Then he resumed in a harsh
      tone: &ldquo;I don't mean to turn you out. As you are here you must stay the
      night; to-morrow we will see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Madame Baudu and Geneviève understood they were free to arrange
      matters. There was no need to trouble about Jean, as he was to commence
      his apprenticeship the next day. As for Pépé, he would be well looked
      after by Madame Gras, an old lady living in the Rue des Orties, who
      boarded and lodged young children for forty francs a month. Denise said
      she had sufficient to pay for the first month, and as for herself they
      could soon find her a situation in the neighbourhood, no doubt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wasn't Vinçard wanting a saleswoman?&rdquo; asked Geneviève.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course!&rdquo; cried Baudu; &ldquo;we'll go and see him after lunch. Nothing like
      striking the iron while it's hot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not a customer had been in to interrupt this family discussion; the shop
      remained dark and empty. At the other end, the two young men and the young
      women were still working, talking in a low hissing tone amongst
      themselves. However, three ladies arrived, and Denise was left alone for a
      moment. She kissed Pépé with a swelling heart, at the thought of their
      approaching separation. The child, affectionate as a kitten, hid his head
      without saying a word. When Madame Baudu and Geneviève returned, they
      remarked how quiet he was. Denise assured them he never made any more
      noise than that, remaining for days together without speaking, living on
      kisses and caresses. Until lunch-time the three women sat and talked about
      children, housekeeping, life in Paris and life in the country, in short,
      vague sentences, like relations feeling rather awkward through not knowing
      one another very well. Jean had gone to the shop-door, and stood there
      watching the passing crowd and smiling at the pretty girls. At ten o'clock
      a servant appeared. As a rule the cloth was laid for Baudu, Geneviève, and
      the first-hand. A second lunch was served at eleven o'clock for Madame
      Baudu, the other young man, and the young woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come to lunch!&rdquo; called out the draper, turning towards his niece. .
    </p>
    <p>
      And as all sat ready in the narrow dining-room behind the shop, he called
      the first-hand who had not come.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Colomban!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man apologised, having wished to finish arranging the flannels.
      He was a big, stout fellow of twenty-five, heavy and freckled, with an
      honest face, large weak mouth, and cunning eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's a time for everything,&rdquo; said Baudu, solidly seated before a piece
      of cold veal, which he was carving with a master's skill and prudence,
      weighing each piece at a glance to within an ounce.
    </p>
    <p>
      He served everybody, and even cut up the bread. Denise had placed Pépé
      near her to see that he ate properly. But the dark close room made her
      feel uncomfortable. She thought it so small, after the large well-lighted
      rooms she had been accustomed to in the country. A single window opened on
      a small back-yard, which communicated with the street by a dark alley
      along the side of the house. And this yard, sodden and filthy, was like
      the bottom of a well into which a glimmer of light had fallen. In the
      winter they were obliged to keep the gas burning all day long. When the
      weather enabled them to do without gas it was duller still. Denise was
      several seconds before her eyes got sufficiently used to the light to
      distinguish the food on her plate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That young chap has a good appetite,&rdquo; remarked Baudu, observing that Jean
      had finished his veal. &ldquo;If he works as well as he eats, he'll make a fine
      fellow. But you, my girl, you don't eat. And, I say, now we can talk a
      bit, tell us why you didn't get married at Valognes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise almost dropped the glass she had in her hand. &ldquo;Oh! uncle&mdash;get
      married! How can you think of it? And the little ones!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was forced to laugh, it seemed to her such a strange idea. Besides,
      what man would care to have her&mdash;a girl without a sou, no fatter than
      a lath, and not at all pretty? No, no, she would never marry, she had
      quite enough children with her two brothers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are wrong,&rdquo; said her uncle; &ldquo;a woman always needs a man. If you had
      found an honest young fellow, you wouldn't have dropped on to the Paris
      pavement, you and your brothers, like a family of gipsies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped, to divide with a parsimony full of justice, a dish of bacon
      and potatoes which the servant brought in. Then, pointing to Geneviève and
      Colomban with his spoon, he added: &ldquo;Those two will be married next spring,
      if we have a good winter season.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Such was the patriarchal custom of the house. The founder, Aristide Finet,
      had given his daughter, Désirée to his firsthand, Hauchecorne; he, Baudu,
      who had arrived in the Rue de la Michodière with seven francs in his
      pocket, had married old Hauchecorne's daughter, Elizabeth; and he
      intended, in his turn, to hand over Geneviève and the business to Colomban
      as soon as trade should improve. If he thus delayed a marriage, decided on
      for three years past, it was by a scruple, an obstinate probity. He had
      received the business in a prosperous state, and did not wish to pass it
      on to his son-in-law less patronised or in a worse position than when he
      took it. Baudu continued, introducing Colomban, who came from Rambouillet,
      the same place as Madame Baudu's father; in fact they were distant
      cousins. A hard-working fellow, who for ten years had slaved in the shop,
      fairly earning his promotions! Besides, he was far from being a nobody; he
      had for father that noted toper, Colomban, a veterinary surgeon, known all
      over the department of Seine-et-Oise, an artist in his line, but so fond
      of the flowing bowl that he was ruining himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank heaven!&rdquo; said the draper in conclusion, &ldquo;if the father drinks and
      runs after the women, the son has learnt the value of money here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Whilst he was speaking Denise was examining Geneviève and Colomban. They
      sat close together at table, but remained very quiet, without a blush or a
      smile. From the day of his entry the young man had counted on this
      marriage. He had passed through the various stages: junior, counter-hand,
      etc., and had at last gained admittance into the confidence and pleasures
      of the family circle, all this patiently, and leading a clock-work style
      of life, looking upon this marriage with Geneviève as an excellent,
      convenient arrangement. The certainty of having her prevented him feeling
      any desire for her. And the young girl had also got to love him, but with
      the gravity of her reserved nature, and a real deep passion of which she
      herself was not aware, in her regular, monotonous daily life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite right, if they like each other, and can do it,&rdquo; said Denise,
      smiling, considering it her duty to make herself agreeable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it always finishes like that,&rdquo; declared Colomban, who had not spoken
      a word before, masticating slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Geneviève, after giving him a long look, said in her turn: &ldquo;When people
      understand each other, the rest comes naturally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their tenderness had sprung up in this gloomy house of old Paris like a
      flower in a cellar. For ten years she had known no one but him, living by
      his side, behind the same bales of cloth, amidst the darkness of the shop;
      morning and evening they found themselves elbow to elbow in the narrow
      dining-room, so damp and dull. They could not have been more concealed,
      more utterly lost had they been in the country, in the woods. But a doubt,
      a jealous fear, began to suggest itself to the young girl, that she had
      given her hand, for ever, amidst this abetting solitude through sheer
      emptiness of heart and mental weariness.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, Denise, having remarked a growing anxiety in the look Geneviève
      cast at Colomban, good-naturedly replied: &ldquo;Oh! when people are in love
      they always understand each other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Baudu kept a sharp eye on the table. He had distributed slices of Brie
      cheese, and, as a treat for the visitors, he called for a second dessert,
      a pot of red-currant jam, a liberality which seemed to surprise Colomban.
      Pépé, who up to then had been very good, behaved rather badly at the sight
      of the jam; whilst Jean, all attention during the conversation about
      Geneviève's marriage, was taking stock of the latter, whom he thought too
      weak, too pale, comparing her in his own mind to a little white rabbit
      with black ears and pink eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We've chatted enough, and must now make room for the others,&rdquo; said the
      draper, giving the signal to rise from table. &ldquo;Just because we've had a
      treat is no reason why we should want too much of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Baudu, the other shopman, and the young lady then came and took
      their places at the table. Denise, left alone again, sat near the door
      waiting for her uncle to take her to Vinçard's. Pépé was playing at her
      feet, whilst Jean had resumed his post of observation at the door. She sat
      there for nearly an hour, taking an interest in what was going on around
      her. Now and again a few customers came in; a lady, then two others
      appeared, the shop retaining its musty odour, its half light, by which the
      old-fashioned business, good-natured and simple, seemed to be weeping at
      its desertion. But what most interested Denise was The Ladies' Paradise
      opposite, the windows of which she could see through the open door. The
      sky remained clouded, a sort of humid softness warmed the air,
      notwithstanding the season; and in this clear light, in which there was,
      as it were, a hazy diffusion of sunshine, the great shop seemed alive and
      in full activity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise began to feel as if she were watching a machine working at full
      pressure, communicating its movement even as far as the windows. They were
      no longer the cold windows she had seen in the early morning; they seemed
      to be warm and vibrating from the activity within. There was a crowd
      before them, groups of women pushing and squeezing, devouring the finery
      with longing, covetous eyes. And the stuffs became animated in this
      passionate atmosphere: the laces fluttered, drooped, and concealed the
      depths of the shop with a troubling air of mystery; even the lengths of
      cloth, thick and heavy, exhaled a tempting odour, while the cloaks threw
      out their folds over the dummies, which assumed a soul, and the great
      velvet mantle particularly, expanded, supple and warm, as if on real
      fleshly shoulders, with a heaving of the bosom and a trembling of the
      hips. But the furnace-like glow which the house exhaled came above all
      from the sale, the crush at the counters, that could be felt behind the
      walls. There was the continual roaring of the machine at work, the
      marshalling of the customers, bewildered amidst the piles of goods, and
      finally pushed along to the pay-desk. And all that went on in an orderly
      manner, with mechanical regularity, quite a nation of women passing
      through the force and logic of this wonderful commercial machine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise had felt herself being tempted all day. She was bewildered and
      attracted by this shop, to her so vast, in which she saw more people in an
      hour than she had seen at Cornaille's in six months; and there was mingled
      with her desire to enter it a vague sense of danger which rendered the
      seduction complete. At the same time her uncle's shop made her feel ill at
      ease; she felt an unreasonable disdain, an instinctive repugnance for this
      cold, icy place, the home of old-fashioned trading. All her sensations&mdash;her
      anxious entry, her friends' cold reception, the dull lunch eaten in a
      prison-like atmosphere, her waiting amidst the sleepy solitude of this old
      house doomed to a speedy decay&mdash;all these sensations reproduced
      themselves in her mind under the form of a dumb protestation, a passionate
      longing for life and light. And notwithstanding her really tender heart,
      her eyes turned to The Ladies' Paradise, as if the saleswoman within her
      felt the need to go and warm herself at the glow of this immense business.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plenty of customers over there!&rdquo; was the remark that escaped her.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she regretted her words on seeing the Baudus near her. Madame Baudu,
      who had finished her lunch, was standing up, quite white, with her pale
      eyes fixed on the monster; every time she caught sight of this place, a
      mute, blank despair swelled her heart, and filled her eyes with scalding
      tears. As for Geneviève, she was anxiously watching Colomban, who, not
      supposing he was being observed, stood in ecstasy, looking at the handsome
      young saleswomen in the dress department opposite, the counter being
      visible through the first floor window. Baudu, his anger rising, merely
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All is not gold that glitters. Patience!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The thought of his family evidently kept back the flood of rancour which
      was rising in his throat A feeling of pride prevented him displaying his
      temper before these children, only that morning arrived. At last the
      draper made an effort, and tore himself away from the spectacle of the
      sale opposite.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; resumed he, &ldquo;we'll go and see Vinçard. These situations are soon
      snatched up; it might be too late tomorrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But before going out he ordered the junior to go to the station and fetch
      Denise's box. Madame Baudu, to whom the young girl had confided Pépé,
      decided to run over and see Madame Gras, to arrange about the child. Jean
      promised his sister not to stir from the shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's two minutes' walk,&rdquo; explained Baudu as they went down the Rue
      Gaillon; &ldquo;Vinçard has a silk business, and still does a fair trade. Of
      course he suffers, like every one else, but he's an artful fellow, who
      makes both ends meet by his miserly ways. I fancy, though, he wants to
      retire, on account of his rheumatics.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shop was in the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, near, the Passage
      Choiseul. It was clean and light, well fitted up in the modern style, but
      rather small, and contained but a poor stock. They found Vinçard in
      consultation with two gentlemen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind us,&rdquo; called out the draper; &ldquo;we are in no hurry; we can wait.&rdquo;
       And returning to the door he whispered to Denise: &ldquo;The thin fellow is at
      The Paradise, second in the silk department, and the stout man is a silk
      manufacturer from Lyons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise gathered that Vinçard was trying to sell his business to Robineau
      of The Paradise. He was giving his word of honour in a frank open way,
      with the facility of a man who could take any number of oaths without the
      slightest trouble. According to his account, the business was a golden
      one; and in the splendour of his rude health he interrupted himself to
      whine and complain of those infernal pains which prevented him stopping
      and making his fortune. But Robineau, nervous and tormented, interrupted
      him impatiently. He knew what a crisis the trade was passing through, and
      named a silk warehouse already ruined by The Paradise. Vinçard, inflamed,
      raised his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No wonder! The fall of that great booby of a Vabre was certain. His wife
      spent everything he earned. Besides, we are more than five hundred yards
      away, whilst Vabre was almost next door to The Paradise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gaujean, the silk manufacturer, then chimed in, and their voices fell
      again. He accused the big establishments of ruining French manufacture;
      three or four laid down the law, reigning like masters over the market;
      and he gave it as his opinion that the only way of fighting them was to
      favour the small traders; above all, those who dealt in special classes of
      goods, to whom the future belonged. Therefore he offered Robineau plenty
      of credit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See how you have been treated at The Paradise,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;No notice taken
      of your long service. You had the promise of the first-hand's place long
      ago, when Bouthemont, an outsider without any claim, came in and got it at
      once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Robineau was still smarting under this injustice. However, he hesitated to
      start on his own account, explaining that the money came from his wife, a
      legacy of sixty thousand francs she had just inherited, and he was full of
      scruples regarding this sum, saying that he would rather cut off his right
      hand than compromise her money in a doubtful affair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I haven't made up my mind; give me time to think over it.
      We'll have another talk about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you like,&rdquo; replied Vinçard, concealing his disappointment under a
      smiling countenance. &ldquo;It's to my interest not to sell; and were it not for
      my rheumatics&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And returning to the middle of the shop, he asked: &ldquo;What can I do for you,
      Monsieur Baudu?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The draper, who had been listening with one ear, introduced Denise, told
      him as much as he thought necessary of her story, adding that she had two
      years' country experience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as I have heard you are wanting a good saleswoman&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vinçard affected to be awfully sorry. &ldquo;What an unfortunate thing!&rdquo; said
      he. &ldquo;I have, indeed, been looking for a saleswoman all the week; but I've
      just engaged one&mdash;not two hours ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A silence ensued. Denise seemed disheartened. Robineau, who was looking at
      her with interest, probably inspired with pity by her poor appearance,
      ventured to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know they're wanting a young person at our place, in the ready-made
      dress department.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Baudu could not help crying out fervently: &ldquo;At your place? Never!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he stopped, embarrassed. Denise had turned very red; she would never
      dare enter that great place, and yet the idea of being there filled her
      with pride.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; asked Robineau, surprised. &ldquo;It would be a good opening for the
      young lady. I advise her to go and see Madame Aurélie, the first-hand,
      to-morrow. The worst that can happen to her is not to be accepted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The draper, to conceal his inward revolt, began to talk vaguely. He knew
      Madame Aurélie, or, at least, her husband, Lhomme, the cashier, a stout
      man, who had had his right arm severed by an omnibus. Then turning
      suddenly to Denise, he added: &ldquo;However, that's her business. She can do as
      she likes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he went out, after having said &ldquo;good-day&rdquo; to Gaujean and Robineau.
      Vinçard went with him as far as the door, reiterating his regrets. The
      young girl had remained in the middle of the shop, intimidated, desirous
      of asking Robineau for further particulars. But not daring to, she in her
      turn bowed, and simply said: &ldquo;Thank you, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the way back Baudu said nothing to his niece, but walked very fast,
      forcing her to run to keep up with him, as if carried away by his
      reflections. Arrived in the Rue de la Michodière, he was going into his
      shop, when a neighbouring shopkeeper, standing at his door, called him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise stopped and waited.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, old Bourras?&rdquo; asked the draper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bourras was a tall old man, with a prophet's head, bearded and hairy, and
      piercing eyes under thick and bushy eyebrows. He kept an umbrella and
      walking-stick shop, did repairs, and even carved handles, which had won
      for him an artistic celebrity in the neighbourhood. Denise glanced at the
      shop-window, where the umbrellas and sticks were arranged in straight
      lines. But on raising her eyes she was astonished at the appearance of the
      house, a hovel squeezed between The Ladies' Paradise and a large building
      of the Louis XIV. style, sprung up one hardly knew how, in this narrow
      space, crushed by its two low storeys. Had it not been for the support on
      each side it must have fallen; the slates were old and rotten, and the
      two-windowed front was cracked and covered with stains, which ran down in
      long rusty lines over the worm-eaten sign-board.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know he's written to my landlord, offering to buy the house?&rdquo; said
      Bourras, looking steadily at the draper with his fiery eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Baudu became paler still, and bent his shoulders. There was a silence,
      during which the two men remained face to face, looking very serious.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must be prepared for anything now,&rdquo; murmured Baudu at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bourras then got angry, shaking his hair and flowing board. &ldquo;Let him buy
      the house, he'll have to pay four times the value for it! But I swear that
      as long as I live he shall not touch a stone of it. My lease has twelve
      years to run yet. We shall see! we shall see!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a declaration of war. Bourras looked towards The Ladies' Paradise,
      which neither had directly named. Baudu shook his head in silence, and
      then crossed the street to his shop, his legs almost failing under him.
      &ldquo;Ah! good Lord! ah! good Lord!&rdquo; he kept repeating.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise, who had heard all, followed her uncle. Madame Baudu had just come
      back with Pépé, whom Madame Gras had agreed to receive at anytime. But
      Jean had disappeared, and this made his sister anxious. When he returned
      with a flushed face, talking in an animated way of the boulevards, she
      looked at him with such a sad expression that he blushed with shame. The
      box had arrived, and it was arranged that they should sleep in the attic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did you get on at Vinçard's?&rdquo; asked Madame Baudu, suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The draper related his useless errand, adding that Denise had heard of a
      situation; and, pointing to The Ladies' Paradise with a scornful gesture,
      he cried out: &ldquo;There&mdash;in there!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The whole family felt wounded at the idea. The first dinner was at five
      o'clock. Denise and the two children took their places, with Baudu,
      Geneviève, and Colomban. A single jet of gas lighted and warmed the little
      dining-room, reeking with the smell of hot food. The meal passed off in
      silence, but at dessert Madame Baudu, who could not rest anywhere, left
      the shop, and came and sat down near Denise. And then the storm, kept back
      all day, broke out, every one feeling a certain relief in abusing the
      monster.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's your business, you can do as you like,&rdquo; repeated Baudu. &ldquo;We don't
      want to influence you. But if you only knew what sort of place it is&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       And he commenced to relate, in broken sentences, the history of this
      Octave Mouret. Wonderful luck! A fellow who had come up from the South of
      France with the amiable audacity of an adventurer; no sooner arrived than
      he commenced to distinguish himself by all sorts of disgraceful pranks
      with the ladies; had figured in an affair, which was still the talk of the
      neighbourhood; and to crown all, had suddenly and mysteriously made the
      conquest of Madame Hédouin, who brought him The Ladies' Paradise as a
      marriage portion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Caroline!&rdquo; interrupted Madame Baudu. &ldquo;We were distantly related. If
      she had lived things would be different. She wouldn't have let them ruin
      us like this. And he's the man who killed her. Yes, that very building!
      One morning, when visiting the works, she fell down a hole, and three days
      after she died. A fine, strong, healthy woman, who had never known what
      illness was! There's some of her blood in the foundation of that house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pointed to the establishment opposite with her pale and trembling
      hand. Denise, listening as to a fairy tale, slightly shuddered; the sense
      of fear which had mingled with the temptation she had felt since the
      morning, was caused perhaps by the presence of this woman's blood, which
      she fancied she could see in the red mortar of the basement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems as if it brought him good luck,&rdquo; added Madame Baudu, without
      mentioning Mouret by name.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the draper shrugged his shoulders, disdaining these old women's tales,
      and resumed his story, explaining the situation commercially. The Ladies'
      Paradise was founded in 1822 by two brothers, named Deleuze. On the death
      of the elder, his daughter, Caroline, married the son of a linen
      manufacturer, Charles Hédouin; and, later on, becoming a widow, she
      married Mouret. She thus brought him a half share of the business. Three
      months after the marriage, the second brother Deleuze died childless; so
      that when Caroline met her death, Mouret became sole heir, sole proprietor
      of The Ladies' Paradise. Wonderful luck!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A sharp fellow, a dangerous busybody, who will overthrow the whole
      neighborhood if allowed to!&rdquo; continued Baudu. &ldquo;I fancy that Caroline, a
      rather romantic woman, must have been carried away by the gentleman's
      extravagant ideas. In short, he persuaded her to buy the house on the
      left, then the one on the right; and he himself, on becoming his own
      master, bought two others; so that the establishment has continued to grow&mdash;extending
      in such a way that it now threatens to swallow us all up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was addressing Denise, but was really speaking more to himself, feeling
      a feverish longing to go over this history which haunted him continually.
      At home he was always angry, always violent, clenching his fists as if
      longing to go for somebody. Madame Baudu ceased to interfere, sitting
      motionless on her chair; Geneviève and Colomban, their eyes cast down,
      were picking up and eating the crumbs off the table, just for the sake of
      something to do. It was so warm, so stuffy in the small room, that Pépé
      was sleeping with his head on the table, and even Jean's eyes were
      closing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait a bit!&rdquo; resumed Baudu, seized with a sudden fit of anger, &ldquo;such
      jokers always go to smash! Mouret is hard-pushed just now; I know that for
      a fact. He's been forced to spend all his savings on his mania for
      extensions and advertisements. Moreover, in order to raise money, he has
      induced most of his shop-people to invest all they possess with him. So
      that he hasn't a sou to help himself with now; and, unless a miracle be
      worked, and he treble his sales, as he hopes to do, you'll see what a
      crash there'll be! Ah! I'm not ill-natured, but that day I'll illuminate
      my shop-front, on my word of honour!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he went on in a revengeful voice; one would have thought that the fall
      of The Ladies' Paradise was to restore the dignity and prestige of
      compromised business. Had any one ever seen such a thing? A draper's shop
      selling everything! Why not call it a bazaar at once? And the employees! a
      nice set they were too&mdash;a lot of puppies, who did their work like
      porters at a railway station, treating goods and customers like so many
      parcels; leaving the shop or getting the sack at a moment's notice. No
      affection, no manners, no taste! And all at once he quoted Colomban as an
      example of a good tradesman, brought up in the old school, knowing how
      long it took to learn all the cunning and tricks of the trade. The art was
      not to sell a large quantity, but to sell dear. Colomban could say how he
      had been treated, carefully looked after, his washing and mending done,
      nursed in illness, considered as one of the family&mdash;loved, in fact!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; repeated Colomban, after every statement the governor made.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you're the last of the old stock,&rdquo; Baudu ended by declaring. &ldquo;After
      you're gone there'll be none left. You are my sole consolation, for if
      they call all this sort of thing business I give up, I would rather clear
      out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Geneviève, her head on one side, as if her thick hair were too heavy for
      her pale forehead, was watching the smiling shopman; and in her look there
      was a suspicion, a wish to see whether Colomban, stricken with remorse,
      would not blush at all this praise. But, like a fellow up to every trick
      of the old trade, he preserved his quiet manner, his good-natured and
      cunning look. However, Baudu still went on, louder than ever, condemning
      the people opposite, calling them a pack of savages, murdering each other
      in their struggle for existence, destroying all family ties. And he
      mentioned some country neighbours, the Lhommes&mdash;mother, father, and
      son&mdash;all employed in the infernal shop, people without any home life,
      always out, leading a comfortless, savage existence, never dining at home
      except on Sunday, feeding all the week at restaurants, hotels, anywhere.
      Certainly his dining-room wasn't too large nor too well-lighted; but it
      was part of their home, and the family had grown up affectionately about
      the domestic hearth. Whilst speaking his eyes wandered about the room; and
      he shuddered at the unavowed idea that the savages might one day, if they,
      succeeded in ruining his trade, turn him out of this house where he was so
      comfortable with his wife and child. Notwithstanding the assurance with
      which he predicted the utter downfall of his rivals, he was really
      terrified, feeling that the neighbourhood was being gradually invaded and
      devoured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't want to disgust you,&rdquo; resumed he, trying to calm himself; &ldquo;if you
      think it to your interest to go there, I shall be the first to say, 'go.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure of that, uncle,&rdquo; murmured Denise, bewildered, all this
      excitement rendering her more and more desirous of entering The Ladies'
      Paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had put his elbows on the table, and was staring at her so hard that
      she felt uneasy. &ldquo;But look here,&rdquo; resumed he; &ldquo;you who know the business,
      do you think it right that a simple draper's shop should sell everything?
      Formerly, when trade was trade, drapers sold nothing but drapery. Now they
      are doing their best to snap up every branch and ruin their neighbours.
      The whole neighbourhood complains of it, for every small tradesman is
      beginning to suffer terribly. This Mouret is ruining them. Bédoré and his
      sister, who keep the hosiery shop in the Rue Gaillon, have already lost
      half their customers; Mademoiselle Tatin, at the under-linen warehouse in
      the Passage Choiseul, has been obliged to lower her prices, to be able to
      sell at all. And the effects of this scourge, this pest, are felt as far
      as the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, where I hear that Vanpouille Brothers,
      the furriers, cannot hold out much longer. Drapers selling fur goods&mdash;what
      a farce! another of Mouret's ideas!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And gloves,&rdquo; added Madame Baudu; &ldquo;isn't it monstrous? He has even dared
      to add a glove department! Yesterday, as I was going along the Rue
      Neuve-Saint-Augustin, I saw Quinette, the glover, at his door, looking so
      downcast that I hadn't the heart to ask him how business was going.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And umbrellas,&rdquo; resumed Baudu; &ldquo;that's the climax! Bourras feels sure
      that Mouret simply wants to ruin him; for, in short, where's the rhyme
      between umbrellas and drapery? But Bourras is firm on his legs, and won't
      allow himself to be beggared. We shall see some fun one of these days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spoke of other tradesmen, passing the whole neigbour-hood in review.
      Now and again he let slip a confession. If Vinçard wanted to sell it was
      time for the rest to pack up, for Vinçard was like the rats who leave a
      house when it threatens to fall in. Then, immediately after, he
      contradicted himself, alluded to an alliance, an understanding between the
      small tradesmen in order to fight the colossus. He hesitated an instant
      before speaking of himself, his hands shaking, and his mouth twitching in
      a nervous manner. At last he made up his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for myself, I can't complain as yet. Of course he has done me harm,
      the scoundrel! But up to the present he only keeps ladies' cloths, light
      stuffs for dresses and heavier goods for mantles. People still come to me
      for men's goods, velvets for shooting suits, cloths for liveries, without
      speaking of flannels and serges, of which I defy him to show as good an
      assortment. But he thinks to annoy me by planting his cloth department
      right in front of my door. You've seen his display, haven't you? He always
      places his finest made-up goods there, surrounded by a framework of
      various cloths&mdash;a cheap-jack parade to tempt the women. Upon my word,
      I should be ashamed to use such means! The Old Elbeuf has been known for
      nearly a hundred years, and has no need for such at its door. As long as I
      live, it shall remain as I took it, with a few samples on each side, and
      nothing more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The whole family was affected. Geneviève ventured to make a remark after a
      silence:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know, papa, our customers know and like us. We mustn't lose heart
      Madame Desforges and Madame de Boves have been to-day, and I am expecting
      Madame Marty for some flannel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I,&rdquo; declared Colomban, &ldquo;I took an order from Madame Bourdelais yesterday.
      'Tis true she spoke of an English cheviot marked up opposite ten
      sous cheaper than ours, and the same stuff, it appears.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fancy,&rdquo; murmured Madame Baudu in her weak voice, &ldquo;we knew that house when
      it was scarcely larger than a handkerchief! Yes, my dear Denise, when the
      Deleuzes started it, it had only one window in the Rue
      Neuve-Saint-Augustin; and such a tiny one, in which there was barely room
      for a couple of pieces of print and two or three pieces of calico. There
      was no room to turn round in the shop, it was so small. At that time The
      Old Elbeuf, after sixty years' trading, was as you see it now. Ah! all
      that has greatly changed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head; the drama of her whole life was expressed in these few
      words. Born in the old house, she loved every part of it, living only for
      it and by it; and, formerly proud of this house, the finest, the best
      patronised in the neighbourhood, she had had the daily grief of seeing the
      rival establishment gradually growing in importance, at first disdained,
      then equal to theirs, and finally towering above it, and threatening all
      the rest. This was for her a continual, open sore; she was slowly dying
      from sheer grief at seeing The Old Elbeuf humiliated, though still living,
      as if by the force of impulse, like a machine wound up. But she felt that
      the death of the shop would be hers as well, and that she would never
      survive the closing of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a painful silence. Baudu was softly beating a tattoo with his
      fingers on the American cloth on the table. He experienced a sort of
      lassitude, almost a regret at having relieved his feelings once more in
      this way. In fact, the whole family felt the effects of his despondency,
      and could not help ruminating on the bitter story. They never had had any
      luck. The children had been educated and started in the world, fortune was
      beginning to smile on them, when suddenly this competition sprang up and
      ruined their hopes. There was, also, the house at Rambouillet, that
      country house to which he had been dreaming of retiring for the last ten
      years&mdash;a bargain, he thought; but it had turned out to be an old
      building always wanting repairs, and which he had let to people who never
      paid any rent. His last profits were swallowed up by the place&mdash;the
      only folly he had committed in his honest, upright career as a tradesman,
      obstinately attached to the old ways.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come!&rdquo; said he, suddenly, &ldquo;we must make room for the others. Enough
      of this useless talk!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was like an awakening. The gas hissed, in the dead and stifling air of
      the small room. They all jumped up, breaking the melancholy silence.
      However, Pépé was sleeping so soundly that they laid him on some bales of
      cloth. Jean had already returned to the street door yawning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In short,&rdquo; repeated Baudu to his niece, &ldquo;you can do as you like. We have
      explained the matter to you, that's all. You know your own business best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her sharply, waiting for a decisive answer. Denise, whom
      these stories had inspired with a still greater longing to enter The
      Ladies' Paradise, instead of turning her from it, preserved her quiet
      gentle demeanour with a Norman obstinacy. She simply replied: &ldquo;We shall
      see, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she spoke of going to bed early with the children, for they were all
      three very tired. But it had only just struck six, so she decided to stay
      in the shop a little longer. Night had come on, and she found the street
      quite dark, enveloped in a fine close rain, which had been falling since
      sunset. She was surprised. A few minutes had sufficed to fill the street
      with small pools, a stream of dirty water was running along the gutters,
      the pavement was thick with a sticky black mud; and through the beating
      rain she saw nothing but a confused stream of umbrellas, pushing, swinging
      along in the gloom like great black wings. She started back at first,
      feeling very cold, oppressed at heart by the badly-lighted shop, very
      dismal at this hour of the day. A damp breeze, the breath of the old
      quarter, came in from the street; it seemed that the rain, streaming from
      the umbrellas, was running right into the shop, that the pavement with its
      mud and its puddles extended all over the place, putting the finishing
      touches to the mouldiness of the old shop front, white with saltpetre. It
      was quite a vision of old Paris, damp and uncomfortable, which made her
      shiver, astonished and heart-broken to find the great city so cold and so
      ugly.
    </p>
    <p>
      But opposite, the gas-lamps were being lighted all along the frontage of
      The Ladies' Paradise. She moved nearer, again attracted and, as it were,
      warmed by this wealth of illumination. The machine was still roaring,
      active as ever, hissing forth its last clouds of steam; whilst the
      salesmen were folding up the stuffs, and the cashiers counting up the
      receipts. It was, as seen through the hazy windows, a vague swarming of
      lights, a confused factory-like interior. Behind the curtain of falling
      rain, this apparition, distant and confused, assumed the appearance of a
      giant furnace-house, where the black shadows of the firemen could be seen
      passing by the red glare of the furnaces. The displays in the windows
      became indistinct also; one could only distinguish the snowy lace,
      heightened in its whiteness by the ground glass globes of a row of gas
      jets, and against this chapel-like background the ready-made goods stood
      out vigorously, the velvet mantle trimmed with silver fox threw into
      relief the curved profile of a headless woman running through the rain to
      some entertainment in the unknown of the shades of the Paris night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise, yielding to the seduction, had gone to the door, heedless of the
      raindrops falling on her. At this hour, The Ladies' Paradise, with its
      furnace-like brilliancy, entirely conquered her. In the great metropolis,
      black and silent, beneath the rain&mdash;in this Paris, to which she was a
      stranger, it shone out like a lighthouse, and seemed to be of itself the
      life and light of the city. She dreamed of her future there, working hard
      to bring up the children, and of other things besides&mdash;she hardly
      knew what&mdash;far-off things, the desire and the fear of which made her
      tremble. The idea of this woman who had met her death amidst the
      foundations came back to her; she felt afraid, she thought she saw the
      lights bleeding; then, the whiteness of the lace quieting her, a vague
      hope sprang up in her heart, quite a certainty of happiness; whilst the
      fine rain, blowing on her, cooled her hands, and calmed her after the
      excitement of her journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's Bourras,&rdquo; said a voice behind her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She leant forward, and perceived the umbrella-maker, motionless before the
      window containing the ingenious display of umbrellas and walking-sticks.
      The old man had slipped up there in the dark, to feast his eyes on the
      triumphant show; and so great was his grief that he was unconscious of the
      rain which was beating on his bare head, and trickling off his white hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How stupid he is, he'll make himself ill,&rdquo; resumed the voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Turning round, Denise found the Baudus behind her again. Though they
      thought Bourras so stupid, they were obliged, against their will, to
      return to this spectacle which was breaking their hearts. Geneviève, very
      pale, had noticed that Colomban was watching the shadows of the saleswomen
      pass to and fro on the first floor opposite; and, whilst Baudu was choking
      with suppressed rancour, Madame Baudu was silently weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll go and see to-morrow, won't you, Denise?&rdquo; asked the draper,
      tormented with uncertainty, but feeling that his niece was conquered like
      the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      She hesitated, then gently replied: &ldquo;Yes, uncle, unless it pains you too
      much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he next morning,
      at half-past seven, Denise was outside The Ladies' Paradise, wishing to
      call there before taking Jean to his new place, which was a long way off,
      at the top of the Faubourg du Temple. But, accustomed to early hours, she
      had arrived too soon; the shop was hardly opened, and, afraid of looking
      ridiculous, full of timidity, she walked up and down the Place Gaillon for
      a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cold wind that blew had already dried the pavement. Shopmen were
      hurriedly turning out of every street in the neighbourhood, their
      coat-collars turned up, and their hands in their pockets, taken unawares
      by this first chill of winter. Most of them hurried along alone, and
      disappeared in the depths of the warehouse, without addressing a word or
      look to their colleagues marching along by their side. Others were walking
      in twos and threes, talking fast, and taking up the whole of the pavement;
      while they all threw away with a similar gesture, their cigarette or cigar
      before crossing the threshold.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise noticed that several of these gentlemen took stock of her in
      passing. This increased her timidity; she felt quite unable to follow
      them, and resolved to wait till they had all entered before going in,
      blushing at the idea of being elbowed at the door by all these men. But
      the stream continued, so to escape their looks, she took a walk round.
      When she returned to the principal entrance, she found a tall young man,
      pale and awkward, who appeared to be waiting as she was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,&rdquo; he finished by stammering out, &ldquo;but
      perhaps you belong to the establishment?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was so troubled at hearing a stranger address her in this way that she
      did not reply at first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fact is,&rdquo; he continued, getting more confused than ever, &ldquo;I thought
      of asking them to engage me, and you might have given me a little
      information.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was as timid as she was, and had probably risked speaking to her
      because he felt she was trembling like himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would with pleasure, sir,&rdquo; replied she at last &ldquo;But I'm no better off
      than you are; I'm just going to apply myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, very good,&rdquo; said he, quite out of countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      And they blushed violently, their two timidities remaining face to face
      for a moment, affected by the similarity of their positions, not daring,
      however, to wish each other success openly. Then, as they said nothing
      further, and became more and more uncomfortable, they separated awkwardly,
      and recommenced their waiting, one on either side, a few steps apart.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shopmen continued to arrive, and Denise could now hear them joking as
      they passed, casting side glances towards her. Her confusion increased at
      finding herself exposed to this unpleasant ordeal, and she had decided to
      take half an hour's walk in the neighbourhood, when the sight of a young
      man coming rapidly through the Rue Port-Mahon, detained her for a moment.
      He was evidently the manager of a department, she thought, for the others
      raised their hats to him. He was tall, with a clear skin and carefully
      trimmed beard; and he had eyes the colour of old gold, of a velvety
      softness, which he fixed on her for a moment as he crossed the street. He
      already entered the shop, indifferent that she remained motionless, quite
      upset by his look, filled with a singular emotion, in which there was more
      uneasiness than pleasure. She began to feel really afraid, and, to give
      herself time to collect her courage somewhat, she walked slowly down the
      Rue Gaillon, and then along the Rue Saint-Roch.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was better than a manager of a department, it was Octave Mouret in
      person. He had not been to bed, for after having spent the evening at a
      stockbroker's, he had gone to supper with a friend and two women, picked
      up behind the scenes of a small theatre. His tightly buttoned overcoat
      concealed a dress suit and white tie. He quickly ran upstairs, performed
      his toilet, changed, and entered his office, quite ready for work, with
      beaming eyes, and complexion as fresh as if he had had ten hours' sleep.
      The spacious office, furnished in old oak and hung with green rep, had for
      sole ornament the portrait of that Madame Hédouin, who was still the talk
      of the neighbourhood. Since her death Octave thought of her with a tender
      regret, showing himself grateful to the memory of her, who, by marrying
      him, had made his fortune. And before commencing to sign the drafts laid
      on his desk, he bestowed the contented smile of a happy man on the
      portrait Was it not always before her that he returned to work, after his
      young widower's escapades, every time he issued from the alcoves where his
      craving for amusement attracted him?
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a knock, and without waiting, a young man entered, a tall, thin
      fellow, with thin lips and a sharp nose, very gentlemanly and correct in
      his appearance, with his smooth hair already showing signs of turning
      grey. Mouret raised his eyes, then continuing to sign, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you slept well, Bourdoncle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, thanks,&rdquo; replied the young man, walking about as if quite at
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle, the son of a poor farmer near Limoges, had started at The
      Ladies' Paradise at the same time as Mouret, when it only occupied the
      corner of the Place Gaillon. Very intelligent, very active, it seemed as
      if he ought to have easily supplanted his comrade, who was not so steady,
      and who had, besides various other faults, a careless manner and too many
      intrigues with women; but he lacked that touch of genius possessed by the
      impassioned Southerner, and had not his audacity, his winning grace.
      Besides, by a wise instinct, he had always, from the first, bowed before
      him, obedient and without a struggle; and when Mouret advised his people
      to put all their money into the business, Bourdoncle was one of the first
      to respond, even investing the proceeds of an unexpected legacy left him
      by an aunt; and little by little, after passing through the various
      grades, salesman, second, and then first-hand in the silk department, he
      had become one of the governor's most cherished and influential
      lieutenants, one of the six persons who assisted Mouret to govern The
      Ladies' Paradise&mdash;something like a privy council under an absolute
      king. Each one watched over a department. Bourdoncle exercised a general
      control.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you,&rdquo; resumed he, familiarly, &ldquo;have you slept well?&rdquo; When Mouret
      replied that he had not been to bed, he shook his head, murmuring: &ldquo;Bad
      habits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; replied the other, gaily. &ldquo;I'm not so tired as you are, my dear
      fellow. You are half asleep now, you lead too quiet a life. Take a little
      amusement, that'll wake you up a bit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was their constant friendly dispute. Bourdoncle had, at the
      commencement, beaten his mistresses, because, said he, they prevented him
      sleeping. Now he professed to hate women, having, no doubt, chance love
      affairs of which he said nothing, so small was the place they occupied in
      his life; he contented himself with encouraging the extravagance of his
      lady customers, feeling the greatest disdain for their frivolity, which
      led them to ruin themselves in stupid gewgaws. Mouret, on the contrary,
      affected to worship them, remained before them delighted and cajoling,
      continually carried away by fresh love-affairs; and this served as an
      advertisement for his business. One would have said that he enveloped all
      the women in the same caress, the better to bewilder them and keep them at
      his mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw Madame Desforges last night,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;she was looking delicious
      at the ball.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it wasn't with her that you went to supper, was it?&rdquo; asked the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret protested. &ldquo;Oh! no, she's very virtuous, my dear fellow. I went to
      supper with little Héloïse, of the Folly. Stupid as a donkey, but so
      comical!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took another bundle of drafts and went on signing. Bourdoncle continued
      to walk about. He went and took a look through the lofty plate-glass
      windows, into the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, then returned, saying: &ldquo;You
      know they'll have their revenge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; asked Mouret, who had lost the thread of the conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, the women.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this, Mouret became merrier still, displaying, beneath his sensual,
      adorative manner, his really brutal character. With a shrug of the
      shoulders he seemed to declare he would throw them all over, like so many
      empty sacks, when they had finished helping him to make his fortune.
      Bourdoncle obstinately repeated, in his cold way: &ldquo;They will have their
      revenge; there will be one who will avenge all the others. It's bound to
      be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No fear,&rdquo; cried Mouret, exaggerating his Southern accent. &ldquo;That one isn't
      born yet, my boy. And if she comes, you know&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had raised his penholder, brandishing it and pointing it in the air, as
      if he would have liked to stab some invisible heart with a knife.
      Bourdoncle resumed walking, bowing as usual before the superiority of the
      governor, whose genius, though faulty, had always got the better of him.
      He, so clear-headed, logical and passionless, incapable of falling, had
      yet to learn the feminine character of success, Paris yielding herself
      with a kiss to the boldest.
    </p>
    <p>
      A silence reigned, broken only by Mouret's pen. Then, in reply to his
      brief questions, Bourdoncle gave him the particulars of the great sale of
      winter novelties, which was to commence the following Monday. This was an
      important affair, and the house was risking its fortune in it; for the
      rumour had some foundation, Mouret was throwing himself into speculation
      like a poet, with such ostentation, such a determination to attain the
      colossal, that everything seemed bound to give way under him. It was quite
      a new style of doing business, an apparent commercial recklessness which
      had formerly made Madame Hédouin anxious, and which even now,
      notwithstanding the first successes, quite dismayed those who had capital
      in the business. They blamed the governor in secret for going too quick;
      accused him of having enlarged the establishment to a dangerous extent,
      before making sure of a sufficient increase of custom; above all, they
      trembled on seeing him put all the capital into one venture, filling the
      place with a pile of goods without leaving a sou in the reserve fund.
      Thus, for this sale, after the heavy sums paid to the builders, the whole
      capital was out, and it was once more a question of victory or death. And
      he, in the midst of all this excitement, preserved a triumphant gaiety, a
      certainty of gaining millions, like a man worshipped by the women, and who
      cannot be betrayed. When Bourdoncle ventured to express certain fears with
      reference to the too great development given to several not very
      productive departments, he broke out into a laugh full of confidence, and
      exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No fear! my dear fellow, the place is too small!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other appeared dumbfounded, seized with a fear he no longer attempted
      to conceal. The house too small! a draper's shop having nineteen
      departments, and four hundred and three employees!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; resumed Mouret, &ldquo;we shall be obliged to enlarge our premises
      before another eighteen months. I'm seriously thinking about the matter.
      Last night Madame Desforges promised to introduce me to some one. In
      short, we'll talk it over when the idea is ripe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And having finished signing his drafts, he got up, and tapped his
      lieutenant on the shoulder in a friendly manner, but the latter could not
      get over his astonishment. The fright felt by the prudent people around
      him amused Mouret. In one of his fits of brusque frankness with which he
      sometimes overwhelmed his familiars, he declared he was at heart a bigger
      Jew than all the Jews in the world; he took after his father, whom he
      resembled physically and morally, a fellow who knew the value of money;
      and, if his mother had given him that particle of nervous fantasy, why it
      was, perhaps, the principal element of his luck, for he felt the
      invincible force of his daring reckless grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know very well that we'll stand by you to the last,&rdquo; Bourdoncle
      finished by saying.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before going down into the various departments to give their usual look
      round, they settled certain other details. They examined the specimen of a
      little book of account forms, which Mouret had just invented for use at
      the counters. Having remarked that the old-fashioned goods, the dead
      stock, went off all the more rapidly when the commission given to the
      employees was high, he had based on this observation a new system. In
      future he intended to interest his people in the sale of all goods, giving
      them a commission on the smallest piece of stuff, the slightest article
      sold: a system which had caused a revolution in the drapery trade,
      creating between the salespeople a struggle for existence of which the
      proprietor reaped the benefit. This struggle formed his favourite method,
      the principle of organisation he constantly applied. He excited his
      employees' passions, pitted one against the other, allowed the strongest
      to swallow up the weakest, fattening on this interested struggle. The
      specimen book was approved of; at the top of the two forms&mdash;the one
      retained, and the one torn off&mdash;were the particulars of the
      department and the salesman's number; then there were columns on both for
      the measurement, description of the articles sold, and the price; the
      salesman simply signed the bill before handing it to the cashier. In this
      way an easy account was kept, it sufficed to compare the bills delivered
      by the cashier's department to the clearing-house with the salesmen's
      counterfoils. Every week the latter would receive their commission, and
      that without the least possibility of any error.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We sha'n't be robbed so much,&rdquo; remarked Bourdoncle, with satisfaction. &ldquo;A
      very good idea of yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I thought of something else last night,&rdquo; explained Mouret. &ldquo;Yes, my
      dear fellow, at the supper. I should like to give the clearing-house
      clerks a trifle for every error found in checking. You can understand that
      we shall then be certain they won't pass any, for they would rather invent
      some.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He began to laugh, whilst the other looked at him in admiration. This new
      application of the struggle for existence delighted Mouret; he had a real
      genius for administrative business, and dreamed of organising the house,
      so as to play upon the selfish instincts of his employees, for the
      complete and quiet satisfaction of his own appetites. He often said that
      to make people do their best, and even to keep them fairly honest, it was
      necessary to excite their selfish desires first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, let's go downstairs,&rdquo; resumed Mouret. &ldquo;We must look after this
      sale. The silk arrived yesterday, I believe, and Bouthemont must be
      getting it in now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle followed him. The receiving office was on the basement floor,
      in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. There, on a level with the pavement, was
      a kind of glazed cage, where the vans discharged the goods. They were
      weighed, and then slipped down a rapid slide, its oak and iron work
      shining, brightened by the chafing of goods and cases. Everything entered
      by this yawning trap; it was a continual swallowing up, a fall of goods,
      causing a roaring like that of a cataract. At the approach of big sale
      times especially, the slide carried down a perpetual stream of Lyons
      silks, English woollens, Flemish linens, Alsatian calicoes, and Rouen
      printed goods; and the vans were sometimes obliged to wait their turn
      along the street; the bales running down produced the peculiar noise made
      by a stone thrown into deep water.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret stopped a moment before the slide, which was in full activity. Rows
      of cases were going down of themselves, falling like rain from some upper
      stream. Then some huge bales appeared, toppling over in their descent like
      so many pebbles. Mouret looked on, without saying a word. But this wealth
      of goods rushing in at the rate of thousands of francs a minute, made his
      eyes glisten. He had never before had such a clear, definite idea of the
      struggle he was engaged in. Here was this mountain of goods that he had to
      launch to the four corners of Paris. He did not open his mouth, continuing
      his inspection.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the grey light penetrating the air-holes, a squad of men were receiving
      the goods, whilst others were undoing and opening the cases and bales in
      presence of the managers of different departments. A dockyard agitation
      filled this cellar, this basement, where wrought-iron pillars supported
      the arches, and the bare walls of which were cemented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you got all there, Bouthemont?&rdquo; asked Mouret, going up to a
      broad-shouldered young fellow who was checking the contents of a case.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, everything seems all right,&rdquo; replied he; &ldquo;but the counting will take
      me all the morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The manager was glancing at the invoice every now and then, standing up
      before a large counter on which one of his salesmen was laying, one by
      one, the pieces of silk he was taking from the case. Behind them ran other
      counters, also encumbered with goods that a small army of shopmen were
      examining. It was a general unpacking, an apparent confusion of stuffs,
      examined, turned over, and marked, amidst a buzz of voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bouthemont, a celebrity in the trade, had a round, jolly face, a
      coal-black beard, and fine hazel eyes. Born at Montpellier, noisy, too
      fond of company, he was not much good for the sales, but for buying he had
      not his equal. Sent to Paris by his father, who kept a draper's shop in
      his native town, he had absolutely refused to return when the old fellow
      thought he ought to know enough to succeed him in his business; and from
      that moment a rivalry sprung up between father and son, the former, all
      for his little country business, shocked to see a simple shopman earning
      three times as much as he did himself, the latter joking at the old man's
      routine, chinking his money, and throwing the whole house into confusion
      at every flying visit he paid. Like the other managers, Bouthemont drew,
      besides his three thousand francs regular pay, a commission on the sales.
      Montpellier, surprised and respectful, whispered that young Bouthemont had
      made fifteen thousand francs the year before, and that that was only a
      beginning&mdash;people prophesied to the exasperated father that this
      figure would certainly increase.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle had taken up one of the pieces of silk, and was examining the
      grain with the eye of a connoisseur. It was a faille with a blue and
      silver selvage, the famous Paris Paradise, with which Mouret hoped to
      strike a decisive blow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is really very good,&rdquo; observed Bourdoncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the effect it produces is better than its real quality,&rdquo; said
      Bouthemont. &ldquo;Dumonteil is the only one capable of manufacturing such
      stuff. Last journey when I fell out with Gaujean, the latter was willing
      to set a hundred looms to work on this pattern, but he asked five sous a
      yard more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nearly every month Bouthemont went to Lyons, staying there days together,
      living at the best hotels, with orders to treat the manufacturers with
      open purse. He enjoyed, moreover, a perfect liberty, and bought what he
      liked, provided that he increased the yearly business of his department in
      a certain proportion, settled beforehand; and it was on this proportion
      that his commission was based. In short, his position at The Ladies'
      Paradise, like that of all the managers, was that of a special tradesman,
      in a grouping of various businesses, a sort of vast trading city.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So,&rdquo; resumed he, &ldquo;it's decided we mark it five francs twelve sous? It's
      barely the cost price, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, five francs twelve sous,&rdquo; said Mouret, quickly; &ldquo;and if I were
      alone, I'd sell it at a loss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The manager laughed heartily. &ldquo;Oh! I don't mind, that will just suit me;
      it will treble the sale, and as my only interest is to attain heavy
      receipts&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Bourdoncle remained very grave, biting his lips. He drew his
      commission on the total profits, and it did not suit him to lower the
      prices. Part of his business was to exercise a control over the prices
      fixed upon, to prevent Bouthemont selling at too small a profit in order
      to increase the sales. Moreover, his former anxiety reappeared in the
      presence of these advertising combinations which he did not understand. He
      ventured to show his repugnance by saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If we sell it at five francs twelve sous, it will be like selling it at a
      loss, as we must allow for our expenses, which are considerable. It would
      fetch seven francs anywhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this Mouret got angry. He struck the silk with his open hand, crying
      out excitedly: &ldquo;I know that, that's why I want to give it to our
      customers. Really, my dear fellow, you'll never understand women's ways.
      Don't you see they'll be crazy after this silk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt,&rdquo; interrupted the other, obstinately, &ldquo;and the more they buy,
      the more we shall lose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall lose a few sous on the stuff, very likely. What matters, if in
      return we attract all the women here, and keep them at our mercy, excited
      by the sight of our goods, emptying their purses without thinking? The
      principal thing, my dear fellow, is to inflame them, and for that you must
      have one article which flatters them&mdash;which causes a sensation.
      Afterwards, you can sell the other articles as dear as anywhere else,
      they'll still think yours the cheapest. For instance, our Golden Grain,
      that taffeta at seven francs and a half, sold everywhere at that price,
      will go down as an extraordinary bargain, and suffice to make up for the
      loss on the Paris Paradise. You'll see, you'll see!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He became quite eloquent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you understand? In a week's time from to-day I want the Paris
      Paradise to make a revolution in the market. It's our master-stroke, which
      will save us, and get our name up. Nothing else will be talked of; the
      blue and silver selvage will be known from one end of France to the other.
      And you'll hear the furious complaints of our competitors. The small
      traders will lose another wing by it; they'll be done for, all those
      rheumatic old brokers shivering in their cellars!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shopmen checking the goods round about were listening and smiling. He
      liked to talk in this way without contradiction. Bourdoncle yielded once
      more. However, the case was empty, two men were opening another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the manufacturers who are not exactly pleased,&rdquo; said Bouthemont. &ldquo;At
      Lyons they are all furious with you, they pretend that your cheap trading
      is ruining them. You are aware that Gaujean has positively declared war
      against me. Yes, he has sworn to give the little houses longer credit,
      rather than accept my prices.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret shrugged his shoulders. &ldquo;If Gaujean doesn't look sharp,&rdquo; replied
      he, &ldquo;Gaujean will be floored. What do they complain of? We pay ready money
      and we take all they can make; it's strange if they can't work cheaper at
      that rate. Besides, the public gets the benefit, and that's everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shopman was emptying the second case, whilst Bouthemont was checking
      the pieces by the invoice. Another shopman, at the end of the counter, was
      marking them in plain figures, and the checking finished, the invoice,
      signed by the manager, had to be sent to the chief cashier's office.
      Mouret continued looking at this work for a moment, at all this activity
      round this unpacking of goods which threatened to drown the basement;
      then, without adding a word, with the air of a captain satisfied with his
      troops, he went away, followed by Bourdoncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      They slowly crossed the basement floor. The air-holes placed at intervals
      admitted a pale light; while in the dark corners, and along the narrow
      corridors, gas was constantly burning. In these corridors were situated
      the reserves, large vaults closed with iron railings, containing the
      surplus goods of each department. Mouret glanced in passing at the heating
      apparatus, to be lighted on the Monday for the first time, and at the post
      of firemen guarding a giant gas-meter enclosed in an iron cage. The
      kitchen and dining-rooms, old cellars turned into habitable apartments,
      were on the left at the corner of the Place Gaillon. At last he arrived at
      the delivery department, right at the other end of the basement floor. The
      parcels not taken away by the customers were sent down there, sorted on
      tables, placed in compartments each representing a district of Paris; then
      sent up by a large staircase opening just opposite The Old Elbeuf, to the
      vans standing alongside the pavement. In the mechanical working of The
      Ladies' Paradise, this staircase in the Rue de la Michodière disgorged
      without ceasing the goods swallowed up by the slide in the Rue
      Neuve-Saint-Augustin, after they had passed through the mechanism of the
      counters up above.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Campion,&rdquo; said Mouret to the delivery manager, a retired sergeant with a
      thin face, &ldquo;why weren't six pairs of sheets, bought by a lady yesterday
      about two o'clock, delivered in the evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where does the lady live?&rdquo; asked the employee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the Rue de Rivoli, at the corner of the Rue d'Alger&mdash;Madame
      Desforges.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this early hour the sorting tables were bare, the compartment only
      contained a few parcels left over night Whilst Campion was searching
      amongst these packets, after having consulted a list, Bourdoncle was
      looking at Mouret, thinking that this wonderful fellow knew everything,
      thought of everything, even when at the supper-tables of restaurants or in
      the alcoves of his mistresses. At last Campion discovered the error; the
      cashier's department had given a wrong number, and the parcel had come
      back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the number of the pay-desk that debited that?&rdquo; asked Mouret: &ldquo;No.
      10, you say?&rdquo; And turning towards his lieutenant, he added: &ldquo;No. 10;
      that's Albert, isn't it? We'll just say two words to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But before starting on their tour round the shops, he wanted to go up to
      the postal order department, which occupied several rooms on the second
      floor. It was there that all the provincial and foreign orders arrived;
      and he went up every morning to see the correspondence. For two years this
      correspondence had been increasing daily. At first occupying only about
      ten clerks, it now required more than thirty. Some opened the letters,
      others read them, seated at both sides of the same table; others again
      classed them, giving each one a running number, which was repeated on a
      pigeon-hole. Then when the letters had been distributed to the different
      departments and the latter had delivered the articles, these articles were
      put in the pigeon-holes as they arrived, according to the running numbers.
      There was then nothing to do but to check and tie them up, which was done
      in a neighbouring room by a squad of workmen who were nailing and tying up
      from morning to night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret put his usual question: &ldquo;How many letters this morning, Levasseur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five hundred and thirty-four, sir,&rdquo; replied the chief clerk. &ldquo;After the
      commencement of Monday's sale, I'm afraid we sha'n't have enough hands.
      Yesterday we were driven very hard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle expressed his satisfaction by a nod of the head. He had not
      reckoned on five hundred and thirty-four letters on a Tuesday. Round the
      table, the clerks continued opening and reading the letters amidst a noise
      of rustling paper, whilst the going and coming of the various articles
      commenced before the pigeon-holes. It was one of the most complicated and
      important departments of the establishment, one in which there was a
      continual rush, for, strictly speaking, all the orders received in the
      morning ought to be sent off the same evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall have more hands if you want them,&rdquo; replied Mouret, who had seen
      at a glance that the work was well done. &ldquo;You know that when there's work
      to be done we never refuse the men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Up above, under the roof, were the small bedrooms for the saleswomen. But
      he went downstairs again and entered the chief cashier's office, which was
      near his own. It was a room with a glazed wicket, and contained an
      enormous safe, fixed in the wall. Two cashiers there centralised the
      receipts which Lhomme, the chief cashier at the counters, brought in every
      evening; they also settled the current expenses, paid the manufacturers,
      the staff, all the crowd of people who lived by the house. The cashiers'
      office communicated with another, full of green cardboard boxes, where ten
      clerks checked the invoices. Then came another office, the clearing-house:
      six young men bending over black desks, having behind them quite a
      collection of registers, were getting up the discount accounts of the
      salesmen, by checking the debit notes. This work, which was new to them,
      did not get on very well.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret and Bourdoncle had crossed the cashiers' office and the invoice
      room. When they passed through the other office the young men, who were
      laughing and joking, started up in surprise. Mouret, without reprimanding
      them, explained the system of the little bonus he thought of giving them
      for each error discovered in the debit notes; and when he went out the
      clerks left off laughing, as if they had been whipped, and commenced
      working in earnest, looking up the errors.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the ground-floor, occupied by the shops, Mouret went straight to the
      pay-desk No. 10, where Albert Lhomme was cleaning his nails, waiting for
      customers. People regularly spoke of &ldquo;the Lhomme dynasty,&rdquo; since Madame
      Aurélie, firsthand at the dress department, after having helped her
      husband on to the post of chief cashier, had managed to get a pay desk for
      her son, a tall fellow, pale and vicious, who couldn't stop anywhere, and
      who caused her an immense deal of anxiety. But on reaching the young man,
      Mouret kept in the background, not wishing to render himself unpopular by
      performing a policeman's duty, and retaining from policy and taste his
      part of amiable god. He nudged Bourdoncle gently with his elbow&mdash;Bourdoncle,
      the infallible man, that model of exactitude, whom he generally charged
      with the work of reprimanding.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Albert,&rdquo; said the latter, severely, &ldquo;you have taken another
      address wrong; the parcel has come back. It's unbearable!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The cashier, thinking it his duty to defend himself, called as a witness
      the messenger who had tied up the packet. This messenger, named Joseph,
      also belonged to the Lhomme dynasty, for he was Albert's foster brother,
      and owed his place to Madame Aurelie's influence, As the young man wanted
      to make him say it was the customer's mistake, Joseph stuttered, twisted
      the shaggy beard that ornamented his scarred face, struggling between his
      old soldier's conscience and gratitude towards his protectors.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let Joseph alone,&rdquo; Bourdoncle exclaimed at last, &ldquo;and don't say any more.
      Ah! it's a lucky thing for you that we are mindful of your mother's good
      services!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But at this moment Lhomme came running up. From his office near the door
      he could see his son's pay-desk, which was in the glove department. Quite
      white-haired already, deadened by his sedentary life, he had a flabby,
      colourless face, as if worn out by the reflection of the money he was
      continually handling. His amputated arm did not at all incommode him in
      this work, and it was quite a curiosity to see him verify the receipts, so
      rapidly did the notes and coins slip through his left one, the only one he
      had. Son of a tax-collector at Chablis, he had come to Paris as a clerk in
      the office of a merchant of the Port-aux-Vins. Then, whilst lodging in the
      Rue Cuvier, he married the daughter of his doorkeeper, a small tailor, an
      Alsatian; and from that day he had bowed submissively before his wife,
      whose commercial ability filled him with respect. She earned more than
      twelve thousand francs a year in the dress department, whilst he only drew
      a fixed salary of five thousand francs. And the deference he felt for a
      woman bringing such sums into the home was extended to the son, who also
      belonged to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the matter?&rdquo; murmured he; &ldquo;is Albert in fault?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, according to his custom, Mouret appeared on the scene, to play the
      part of good-natured prince. When Bourdoncle had made himself feared, he
      looked after his own popularity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing of consequence!&rdquo; murmured he. &ldquo;My dear Lhomme, your son Albert is
      a careless fellow, who should take an example from you.&rdquo; Then, changing
      the subject, showing himself more amiable than ever, he continued; &ldquo;And
      that concert the other day&mdash;did you get a good seat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A blush overspread the white cheeks of the old cashier. Music was his only
      vice, a vice which he indulged in solitarily, frequenting the theatres,
      the concerts, the rehearsals. Notwithstanding the loss of his arm, he
      played on the French horn, thanks to an ingenious system of keys; and as
      Madame Lhomme detested noise, he wrapped up his instrument in cloth in the
      evening, delighted all the same, in the highest degree, with the strangely
      dull sounds he drew from it. In the forced irregularity of their domestic
      life he had made himself an oasis of this music&mdash;that and the
      cash-box, he knew of nothing else, beyond the admiration he felt for his
      wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A very good seat,&rdquo; replied he, with sparkling eyes. &ldquo;You are really too
      kind, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret, who enjoyed a personal pleasure in satisfying other people's
      passions, sometimes gave Lhomme the tickets forced on him by the lady
      patronesses of such entertainments, and he completed the old man's delight
      by saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Beethoven! ah, Mozart! What music!&rdquo; And without waiting for a reply,
      he went off, rejoining Bourdoncle, already on his tour of inspection
      through the departments.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the central hall, an inner courtyard with a glass roof formed the silk
      department. Both went along the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, occupied by the
      linen department, from one end to the other. Nothing unusual striking
      them, they passed on through the crowd of respectful assistants. They then
      turned into the cotton and hosiery departments, where the same order
      reigned. But in the department devoted to woollens, occupying the gallery
      which ran through to the Rue de la Michodière, Bourdoncle resumed the
      character of executioner, on observing a young man, seated on the counter,
      looking knocked up after a night passed without sleep. And this young man,
      named Liénard, son of a rich Angers draper, bowed his head beneath the
      reprimand, fearing nothing in his idle, careless life of pleasure except
      to be recalled by his father. The reprimands now began to shower down, and
      the gallery of the Rue de la Michodière received the full force of the
      storm. In the drapery department a salesman, a fresh hand, who slept in
      the house, had come in after eleven o'clock; in the haberdashery
      department, the second counterman had just allowed himself to be caught
      downstairs smoking a cigarette. But the tempest burst with especial
      violence in the glove department, on the head of one of the rare Parisians
      in the house, handsome Mignot, as they called him, the illegitimate son of
      a music-mistress: his crime was having caused a scandal in the dining-room
      by complaining of the food. As there were three tables, one at half-past
      nine, one at half-past ten, and another at half-past eleven, he wished to
      explain that belonging to the third table, he always had the leavings, the
      worst of everything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! the food not good?&rdquo; asked Mouret, naïvely, opening his mouth at
      last.
    </p>
    <p>
      He only gave the head cook, a terrible Auvergnat, a franc and a half a
      head per day, out of which this man still managed to make a good profit;
      and the food was really execrable. But Bourdoncle shrugged his shoulders:
      a cook who had four hundred luncheons and four hundred dinners to serve,
      even in three series, had no time to waste on the refinements of his art.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; said the governor, good-naturedly, &ldquo;I wish all our employees
      to have good, abundant food. I'll speak to the cook.&rdquo; And Mignot's
      complaint was shelved.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then returning to their point of departure, standing up near the door,
      amidst the umbrellas and neckties, Mouret and Bourdoncle received the
      report of one of the four inspectors, charged with the superintendence of
      the establishment. Old Jouve, a retired captain, decorated at Constantine,
      a fine-looking man still, with his big sensual nose and majestic baldness,
      having drawn their attention to a salesman, who, in reply to a simple
      remonstrance on his part, had called him &ldquo;an old humbug,&rdquo; the salesman was
      immediately discharged.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, the shop was still without customers, except a few housewives of
      the neighbourhood who were going through the almost deserted galleries. At
      the door the time-keeper had just closed his book, and was making out a
      separate list of the late comers. The salesmen were taking possession of
      their departments, which had been swept and brushed by the messengers
      before their arrival. Each young man hung up his hat and great-coat as he
      arrived, stifling a yawn, still half asleep. Some exchanged a few words,
      gazed about the shop and seemed to be pulling themselves together ready
      for another day's work; others were leisurely removing the green baize
      with which they had covered the goods over night, after having folded them
      up; and the piles of stuffs appeared symmetrically arranged, the whole
      shop was in a clean and orderly state, brilliant in the morning gaiety,
      waiting for the rush of business to come and obstruct it, and, as it were,
      narrow it by the unpacking and display of linen, cloth, silk, and lace.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the bright light of the central hall, two young men were talking in a
      low voice at the silk counter. One, short and charming, well set, and with
      a pink skin, was endeavouring to blend the colours of some silks for
      indoor show. His name was Hutin, his father kept a café at Yvetot, and he
      had managed after eighteen months' service to become one of the principal
      salesmen, thanks to a natural flexibility of character, a continual flow
      of caressing flattery, under which was concealed a furious rage for
      business, grasping everything, devouring everybody, even without hunger,
      just for the pleasure of the thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, Favier, I should have struck him if I had been in your place,
      honour bright!&rdquo; said he to the other, a tall bilious fellow with a dry and
      yellow skin, who was born at Besançon of a family of weavers, and who,
      without the least grace, concealed under a cold exterior a disquieting
      will.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It does no good to strike people,&rdquo; murmured he, phlegmatically; &ldquo;better
      wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were both speaking of Robineau, who was looking after the shopmen
      during the manager's absence downstairs. Hutin was secretly undermining
      Robineau, whose place he coveted. He had already, to wound him and make
      him leave, introduced Bouthemont to fill the vacancy of manager which had
      been promised to Robineau. However, the latter stood firm, and it was now
      an hourly battle. Hutin dreamed of setting the whole department against
      him, to hound him out by means of ill-will and vexations. At the same time
      he went to work craftily, exciting Favier especially, who stood next to
      him as salesman, and who appeared to allow himself to be led on, but with
      certain brusque reserves, in which could be felt quite a private campaign
      carried on in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! seventeen!&rdquo; said he, quickly, to his colleague, to warn him by this
      peculiar cry of the approach of Mouret and Bourdoncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      These latter were continuing their inspection by traversing the hall. They
      stopped to ask Robineau for an explanation with regard to a stock of
      velvets of which the boxes were encumbering a table. And as the latter
      replied that there wasn't enough room:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you so, Bourdoncle,&rdquo; cried out Mouret, smiling; &ldquo;the place is
      already too small. We shall soon have to knock down the walls as far as
      the Rue de Choiseul. You'll see what a crush there'll be next Monday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And respecting the coming sale, for which they were preparing at every
      counter, he asked Robineau further questions and gave him various orders.
      But for several minutes, and without having stopped talking, he had been
      watching Hutin, who was contrasting the silks&mdash;blue, grey, and yellow&mdash;drawing
      back to judge of the harmony of the tones. Suddenly he interfered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why are you endeavouring to please the eyes? Don't be afraid; blind
      them. Look! red, green, yellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had taken the pieces, throwing them together, crushing them, producing
      an excessively fast effect. Every one allowed the governor to be the best
      displayer in Paris, of a regular revolutionary stamp, who had founded the
      brutal and colossal school in the science of displaying. He delighted in a
      tumbling of stuffs, as if they had fallen from the crowded shelves by
      chance, making them glow with the most ardent colours, lighting each other
      up by the contrast, declaring that the customers ought to have sore eyes
      on going out of the shop. Hutin, who belonged, on the contrary, to the
      classic school, in which symmetry and harmony of colour were cherished,
      looked at him lighting up this fire of stuff on a table, not venturing on
      the least criticism, but biting his lip with the pout of an artist whose
      convictions are wounded by such a debauch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There!&rdquo; exclaimed Mouret when he had finished. &ldquo;Leave it; you'll see if
      it doesn't fetch the women on Monday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Just as he rejoined Bourdoncle and Robineau, there arrived a woman, who
      remained stock-still, suffocated before this show. It was Denise, who,
      having waited for nearly an hour in the street, the prey to a violent
      attack of timidity, had at last decided to go in. But she was so beside
      herself with bashfulness that she mistook the clearest directions; and the
      shopmen, of whom she had stutteringly asked for Madame Aurélie, directed
      her in vain to the lower staircase; she thanked them, and turned to the
      left if they told her to turn to the right; so that for the last ten
      minutes she had been wandering about the ground-floor, going from
      department to department, amidst the ill-natured curiosity and
      ill-tempered indifference of the salesmen. She longed to run away, and was
      at the same time retained by a wish to stop and admire. She felt herself
      lost, she, so little, in this monster place, in this machine at rest,
      trembling for fear she should be caught in the movement with which the
      walls already began to shake. And the thought of The Old Elbeuf, black and
      narrow, increased the immensity of this vast establishment, presenting it
      to her as bathed in light, like a city with its monuments, squares, and
      streets, in which it seemed impossible that she should ever find her way.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, she had not dared to risk herself in the silk hall, the high
      glass roof, luxurious counters, and cathedral-like air of which frightened
      her. Then when she did venture in, to escape the shopmen in the linen
      department, who were grinning, she had stumbled right on to Mouret's
      display; and, notwithstanding her fright, the woman was aroused within
      her, her cheeks suddenly became red, and she forgot everything in looking
      at the glow of these silks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hullo!&rdquo; said Hutin in Favier's ear; &ldquo;there's the girl we saw in the Place
      Gaillon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret, whilst affecting to listen to Bourdoncle and Robineau, was at
      heart flattered by the startled look of this poor girl, as a marchioness
      might be by the brutal desire of a passing drayman. But Denise had raised
      her eyes, and her confusion increased at the sight of this young man, whom
      she took for a manager. She thought he was looking at her severely. Then
      not knowing how to get away, quite lost, she applied to the nearest
      shopman, who happened to be Favier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame Aurélie, please?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Favier, who was disagreeable, contented himself with replying sharply:
      &ldquo;First floor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Denise, longing to escape the looks of all these men, thanked him, and
      had again turned her back to the stairs she ought to have mounted, when
      Hutin, yielding naturally to his instinct of gallantry, stopped her with
      his most amiable salesman's smile, &ldquo;No&mdash;this way, mademoiselle; if
      you don't mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he even went with her a little way to the foot of the staircase on the
      left-hand side of the hall under the gallery. There he bowed, smiling
      tenderly, as he smiled at all women.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you get upstairs turn to the left. The dress department is straight
      in front.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This caressing politeness affected Denise deeply. It was like a brotherly
      hand extended to her; she raised her eyes and looked at Hutin, and
      everything in him touched her&mdash;his handsome face, his looks which
      dissolved her fears, and his voice which seemed to her of a consoling
      softness. Her heart swelled with gratitude, and she bestowed her
      friendship in the few disjointed words her emotion allowed her to utter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, sir, you are too kind. Pray don't trouble to come any further.
      Thank you very much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hutin had already rejoined Favier, to whom he coarsely whispered: &ldquo;What a
      bag of bones&mdash;eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Upstairs the young girl suddenly found herself in the midst of the dress
      department. It was a vast room, with high carved oak cupboards all round,
      and clear glass windows looking on to the Rue de la Michodière. Five or
      six women in silk dresses, looking very coquettish with their frizzed
      chignons and crinolines drawn back, were moving about, talking. One, tall
      and thin, with a long head, having a runaway-horse appearance, was leaning
      against a cupboard, as if already knocked up with fatigue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame Aurélie?&rdquo; inquired Denise.
    </p>
    <p>
      The saleswoman looked at her without replying, with an air of disdain for
      her shabby dress, then turning to one of her friends, a short girl with a
      sickly white skin and an innocent and disgusted appearance, she asked:
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Vadon, do you know where Madame Aurélie is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young girl, who was arranging some mantles according to their sizes,
      did not even take the trouble to raise her head. &ldquo;No, Mademoiselle
      Prunaire, I don't know at all,&rdquo; replied she in a mincing tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      A silence ensued. Denise stood still, and no one took any further notice
      of her. However, after waiting a moment, she ventured to put another
      question: &ldquo;Do you think Madame Aurélie will be back soon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The second-hand, a thin, ugly woman, whom she had not noticed before, a
      widow with a projecting jaw-bone and coarse hair, cried out from a
      cupboard, where she was checking some tickets: &ldquo;You'd better wait if you
      want to speak to Madame Aurélie herself.&rdquo; And, addressing another
      saleswoman, she added: &ldquo;Isn't she downstairs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Madame Frédéric, I don't think so,&rdquo; replied the young lady. &ldquo;She said
      nothing before going, so she can't be far off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, thus instructed, remained standing. There were several chairs for
      the customers; but as they had not told her to sit down, she did not dare
      to take one, although she felt ready to drop with fatigue. All these
      ladies had evidently put her down as an applicant for the vacancy, and
      they were taking stock of her, pulling her to pieces ill-naturedly, with
      the secret hostility of people at table who do not like to close up to
      make room for hungry outsiders. Her confusion increased; she crossed the
      room quietly and looked out of the window into the street, just for
      something to do. Opposite, The Old Elbeuf, with its rusty front and
      lifeless windows, appeared to her so ugly, so miserable, seen thus from
      amidst the luxury and life of her present standpoint, that a sort of
      remorse filled her already swollen heart with grief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say,&rdquo; whispered tall Prunaire to little Vadon, &ldquo;have you seen her
      boots?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And her dress!&rdquo; murmured the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      With her eyes still towards the street, Denise felt herself being
      devoured. But she was not angry; she did not think them handsome, neither
      the tall one with her carroty chignon falling over her horse-like neck,
      nor the little one with her sour milk complexion, which gave her flat and,
      as it were, boneless face a flabby appearance. Clara Primaire, daughter of
      a clogmaker in the forest of Vilet, debauched by the footmen at the
      Château de Mareuil, where the countess engaged her as needlewoman, had
      come later on from a shop at Langres, and was avenging herself in Paris on
      the men for the kicks with which her father had regaled her when at home.
      Marguerite Vadon, born at Grenoble, where her parents kept a linen shop,
      had been obliged to come to The Ladies' Paradise to conceal an accident
      she had met with&mdash;a brat which had made its appearance one day. She
      was a well-conducted girl, and intended to return to Grenoble to take
      charge of her parents' shop, and marry a cousin who was waiting for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; resumed Clara, in a low voice, &ldquo;there's a girl who won't do much
      good here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But they stopped talking. A woman of about forty-five came in. It was
      Madame Aurélie, very stout, tightly laced in her black silk dress, the
      body of which, strained over her massive shoulders and full bust, shone
      like a piece of armour. She had, under very dark folds of hair, great
      fixed eyes, a severe mouth, and large and rather drooping cheeks; and in
      the majesty of her position as first-hand, her face assumed the bombast of
      a puffy mask of Cæsar, &ldquo;Mademoiselle Vadon,&rdquo; said she, in an irritated
      voice, &ldquo;you didn't return the pattern of that mantle to the workroom
      yesterday, it seems?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was an alteration to make, madame,&rdquo; replied the saleswoman, &ldquo;so
      Madame Frédéric kept it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The second-hand then took the pattern out of a cupboard, and the
      explanation continued. Every one gave way to Madame Aurélie, when she
      thought it necessary to assert her authority. Very vain, even going so far
      as not to wish to be called by her real name, Lhomme, which annoyed her,
      and to deny her father's humble position, always referring to him as a
      regularly established tailor, she was only gracious towards those young
      ladies who showed themselves flexible and caressing, bowing down in
      admiration before her. Some time previously, whilst she was trying to
      establish herself in a shop of her own, her temper had become sour,
      continually thwarted by the worst of luck, exasperated to feel herself
      born to fortune and to encounter nothing but a series of catastrophes; and
      now, even after her success at The Ladies' Paradise, where she earned
      twelve thousand francs a year, it seemed that she still nourished a secret
      spite against every one, and she was very hard with beginners, as life had
      shown itself hard for her at first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will do!&rdquo; said she, sharply; &ldquo;you are no more reasonable than the
      others, Madame Frédéric. Let the alteration be made immediately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      During this explanation, Denise had ceased to look into the street She had
      no doubt this was Madame Aurélie; but, frightened at her sharp voice, she
      remained standing, still waiting. The two saleswomen, delighted to have
      set their two superiors at variance, had returned to their work with an
      air of profound indifference. A few minutes elapsed, nobody being
      charitable enough to draw the young girl from her uncomfortable position.
      At last, Madame Aurélie herself perceived her, and astonished to see her
      standing there without moving, asked her what she wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame Aurélie, please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am Madame Aurélie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise's mouth became dry and parched, and her hands cold; she felt some
      such fear as when she was a child and trembled at the thought of being
      whipped. She stammered out her request, but was obliged to repeat it to
      make herself understood. Madame Aurélie looked at her with her great fixed
      eyes, not a line of her imperial mask deigning to relax, &ldquo;How old are
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, twenty years old? you don't look sixteen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The saleswomen again raised their heads. Denise hastened to add: &ldquo;Oh, I'm
      very strong!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Aurélie shrugged her broad shoulders, then coldly declared: &ldquo;Well!
      I don't mind entering your name. We enter the names of all those who
      apply. Mademoiselle Prunaire, give me the book.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the book could not be found; Jouve, the inspector had probably got it.
      As tall Clara was going to fetch it, Mouret arrived, still followed by
      Bourdoncle. They had made the tour of the other departments&mdash;the
      lace, the shawls, the furs, the furniture, the under-linen, and were
      winding up with the dresses. Madame Aurélie left Denise a moment to speak
      to them about an order for some cloaks she thought of giving to one of the
      large Paris houses; as a rule, she bought direct, and on her own
      responsibility; but, for important purchases, she preferred consulting the
      chiefs of the house. Bourdoncle then related her son Albert's latest act
      of carelessness, which seemed to fill her with despair. That boy would
      kill her; his father, although not a man of talent, was at least
      well-conducted, careful, and honest. All this dynasty of Lhommes, of which
      she was the acknowledged head, very often caused her a great deal of
      trouble. However, Mouret, surprised to see Denise again, bent down to ask
      Madame Aurélie what the young lady was doing there; and, when the
      first-hand replied that she was applying for a saleswoman's situation,
      Bourdoncle, with his disdain for women, seemed suffocated at this
      pretension.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't mean it,&rdquo; murmured he; &ldquo;it must be a joke, she's too ugly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fact is, there's nothing handsome about her,&rdquo; said Mouret, not daring
      to defend her, although still moved by the rapture she had displayed
      downstairs before his arrangement of silks.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the book having been brought in, Madame Aurélie returned to Denise,
      who had certainly not made a favourable impression. She looked very clean
      in her thin black woollen dress; the question of shabbiness was of no
      importance, as the house furnished a uniform, the regulation silk dress;
      but she appeared rather weak and puny, and had a melancholy face. Without
      insisting on handsome girls, one liked them to be of agreeable appearance
      for the sale rooms. And beneath the gaze of all these ladies and gentlemen
      who were studying her, weighing her like farmers would a horse at a fair,
      Denise completely lost countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your name?&rdquo; asked Madame Aurélie, at the end of a counter, pen in hand,
      ready to write.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Denise Baudu, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your age?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty years and four months.&rdquo; And she repeated, risking a glance at
      Mouret, at this supposed manager, whom she met everywhere and whose
      presence troubled her so: &ldquo;I don't look like it, but I am really very
      strong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They smiled. Bourdoncle showed evident signs of impatience; her remark
      fell, moreover, amidst a most discouraging silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What house have you been in, in Paris?&rdquo; resumed Madame Aurélie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've just arrived from Valognes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was a fresh disaster. As a rule, The Ladies' Paradise only took
      saleswomen with a year's experience in one of the small houses in Paris.
      Denise thought all was lost; and, had it not been for the children, had
      she not been obliged to work for them, she would have closed this useless
      interview and left the place. &ldquo;Where were you at Valognes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At Cornaille's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know him&mdash;good house,&rdquo; remarked Mouret.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was very rarely that he interfered in the engagement of the employees,
      the manager of each department being responsible for his staff. But with
      his delicate appreciation of women, he divined in this young girl a hidden
      charm, a wealth of grace, and tenderness of which she herself was
      ignorant. The good name enjoyed by the house in which the candidate had
      started was of great importance, often deciding the question in his or her
      favour. Madame Aurélie continued, in a kinder tone: &ldquo;And why did you leave
      Cornaille's?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For family reasons,&rdquo; replied Denise, turning scarlet &ldquo;We have lost our
      parents, I have been obliged to follow my brothers. Here is a
      certificate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was excellent Her hopes were reviving, when another question troubled
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you any other references in Paris? Where do you live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At my uncle's,&rdquo; murmured she, hesitating about naming him, fearing they
      would never take the niece of a competitor. &ldquo;At my uncle Baudu's,
      opposite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this, Mouret interfered a second time. &ldquo;What! are you Baudu's niece? Is
      it Baudu who sent you here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! no, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she could not help laughing, the idea appeared to her so singular. It
      was a transfiguration; she became quite rosy, and the smile round her
      rather large mouth lighted up her whole face. Her grey eyes sparkled with
      a tender flame, her cheeks filled with delicious dimples, and even her
      light hair seemed to partake of the frank and courageous gaiety that
      pervaded her whole being.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, she's really pretty,&rdquo; whispered Mouret to Bourdoncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      The partner refused to admit it, with a gesture of annoyance. Clara bit
      her lips, and Marguerite turned away; but Madame Aurélie seemed won over,
      and encouraged Mouret with a nod when he resumed: &ldquo;Your uncle was wrong
      not to bring you; his recommendation sufficed. They say he has a grudge
      against us. We are people of more liberal minds, and if he can't find
      employment for his niece in his house, why we will show him that she has
      only to knock at our door to be received. Just tell him I still like him
      very much, and that he must blame, not me, but the new style of business.
      Tell him, too, that he will ruin himself if he insists on keeping to his
      ridiculous old-fashioned ways.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise turned quite white again. It was Mouret; no one had mentioned his
      name, but he had revealed himself, and now she guessed who it was, she
      understood why this young man had caused her such emotion in the street,
      in the silk department, and again now. This emotion, which she could not
      analyse, pressed on her heart more and more, like a too-heavy weight. All
      the stories related by her uncle came back to her, increasing Mouret's
      importance, surrounding him with a sort of halo, making of him the master
      of the terrible machine by whose wheels she had felt herself being seized
      all the morning. And, behind his handsome face, well-trimmed beard, and
      eyes of the colour of old gold, she beheld the dead woman, that Madame
      Hédouin, whose blood had helped to cement the stones of the house. The
      shiver she had felt the previous night again seized her; and she thought
      she was merely afraid of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, Madame Aurélie had closed the book. She only wanted one
      saleswoman, and she already had ten applications. But she was too anxious
      to please the governor to hesitate for a moment. However, the application
      would follow its course, Jouve, the inspector, would go and make
      enquiries, send in his report, and then she would come to a decision.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good, mademoiselle,&rdquo; said she majestically, to preserve her
      authority; &ldquo;we will write to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise stood there, unable to move for a moment, hardly knowing how to
      take her leave in the midst of all these people. At last she thanked
      Madame Aurélie, and on passing by Mouret and Bourdoncle, she bowed. These
      gentlemen, occupied in examining the pattern of a mantle with Madame
      Frédéric, did not take the slightest notice. Clara looked in a vexed way
      towards Marguerite, as if to predict that the new comer would not have a
      very pleasant time of it in the place. Denise doubtless felt this
      indifference and rancour behind her, for she went downstairs with the same
      troubled feeling she had on going up, asking herself whether she ought to
      be sorry or glad to have come. Could she count on having the situation?
      She did not even know that, her uncomfortable state having prevented her
      understanding clearly. Of all her sensations, two remained and gradually
      effaced all the others&mdash;the emotion, almost the fear, inspired in her
      by Mouret, and Hutin's amiability, the only pleasure she had enjoyed the
      whole morning, a souvenir of charming sweetness which filled her with
      gratitude. When she crossed the shop to go out she looked for the young
      man, happy at the idea of thanking him again with her eyes; and she was
      very sorry not to see him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, mademoiselle, have you succeeded?&rdquo; asked a timid voice, as she at
      last stood on the pavement outside. She turned round and recognised the
      tall, awkward young fellow who had spoken to her in the morning. He also
      had just come out of The Ladies' Paradise, appearing more frightened than
      she did, still bewildered with the examination he had just passed through.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really don't know yet, sir,&rdquo; replied she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're like me, then. What a way of looking at and talking to you they
      have in there&mdash;eh? I'm applying for a place in the lace department I
      was at Crèvecour's in the Rue du Mail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were once more standing facing each other; and, not knowing how to
      take leave, they commenced to blush. Then the young man, just for
      something to say in the excess of his timidity, ventured to ask in his
      good-natured, awkward way: &ldquo;What is your name, mademoiselle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Denise Baudu.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name is Henri Deloche.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Now they smiled, and, yielding to the fraternity of their positions, shook
      each other by the hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good luck!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, good luck!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>very Saturday,
      between four and six, Madame Desforges offered a cup of tea and a few
      cakes to those friends who were kind enough to visit her. She occupied the
      third floor of a house at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue
      d'Alger; and the windows of both drawing-rooms overlooked the Tuileries
      Gardens. This Saturday, just as a footman was about to introduce him into
      the principal drawing-room, Mouret perceived from the anteroom, through an
      open door, Madame Desforges, who was crossing the little drawing-room. She
      stopped on seeing him, and he went in that way, bowing to her with a
      ceremonious air. But when the footman had closed the door, he quickly
      seized the young woman's hand, and tenderly kissed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care, I have company!&rdquo; she said, in a low voice, glancing towards
      the door of the larger room. &ldquo;I've just been to fetch this fan to show
      them,&rdquo; and she playfully tapped him on the face with the tip of the fan.
      She was dark, rather stout, with big jealous eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he still held her hand and asked: &ldquo;Will he come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; replied she. &ldquo;I have his promise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both of them referred to Baron Hartmann, director of the Crédit
      Immobilier. Madame Desforges, daughter of a Councillor of State, was the
      widow of a stock-broker, who had left her a fortune, denied by some,
      exaggerated by others. Even during her husband's lifetime people said she
      had shown herself grateful towards Baron Hartmann, whose financial tips
      had proved very useful to them; and later on, after her husband's death,
      the acquaintance had probably continued, but always discreetly, without
      imprudence or display; for she never courted notoriety in any way, and was
      received everywhere in the upper-middle classes amongst whom she was born.
      Even at this time, when the passion of the banker, a sceptical, crafty
      man, had subsided into a simple paternal affection, if she permitted
      herself certain lovers whom he tolerated, she displayed in these treasons
      of the heart such a delicate reserve and tact, a knowledge of the world so
      adroitly applied, that appearances were saved, and no one would have
      ventured to openly express any doubt as to her conduct Having met Mouret
      at a mutual friend's, she had at first detested him; but she had yielded
      to him later on, as if carried away by the violent love with which he
      attacked her, and since he had commenced to approach Baron Hartmann
      through her, she had gradually got to love him with a real profound
      tenderness, adoring him with the violence of a woman already thirty-five,
      although only acknowledging twenty-nine, and in despair at feeling him
      younger than herself, trembling lest she should lose him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he know about it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you'll explain the affair to him yourself,&rdquo; she replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him, thinking that he couldn't know anything or he would not
      employ her in this way with the baron, affecting to consider him simply as
      an old friend of hers. But he still held her hand, he called her his good
      Henriette, and she felt her heart melting. Silently she presented her
      lips, pressed them to his, then whispered: &ldquo;Oh, they're waiting for me.
      Come in behind me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They could hear voices issuing from the principal drawingroom, deadened by
      the heavy curtains. She pushed the door, leaving its two folds open, and
      handed the fan to one of the four ladies who were seated in the middle of
      the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There it is,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;I didn't know exactly where it was. My maid
      would never have found it.&rdquo; And she added in her cheerful way: &ldquo;Come in,
      Monsieur Mouret, come through the little drawing-room; it will be less
      solemn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret bowed to the ladies whom he knew. The drawingroom, with its
      flowered brocatel Louis XVI. furniture, gilded bronzes and large green
      plants, had a tender feminine air, notwithstanding the height of the
      ceiling; and through the two windows could be seen the chestnut trees in
      the Tuileries Gardens, their leaves blowing about in the October wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it isn't at all bad, this Chantilly!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame Bourdelais,
      who had taken the fan.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was a short fair woman of thirty, with a delicate nose and sparkling
      eyes, an old school-fellow of Henriette's, and who had married a chief
      clerk in the Treasury. Of an old middle-class family, she managed her
      household and three children with a rare activity and good grace, and an
      exquisite knowledge of practical life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you paid twenty-five francs for it?&rdquo; resumed she, examining each mesh
      of the lace. &ldquo;At Luc, I think you said, to a country woman? No, it isn't
      dear; but you had to get it mounted, hadn't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; replied Madame Desforges. &ldquo;The mounting cost me two hundred
      francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Bourdelais began to laugh. And that was what Henriette called a
      bargain! Two hundred francs for a plain ivory mount, with a monogram! And
      that for a simple piece of Chantilly, over which she had saved five
      francs, perhaps. Similar fans could be had ready, mounted for a hundred
      and twenty francs, and she named a shop in the Rue Poissonnière.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, the fan was handed round to all the ladies. Madame Guibal barely
      glanced at it. She was a tall, thin woman, with red hair, and a face full
      of indifference, in which her grey eyes, occasionally penetrating her
      unconcerned air, cast the terrible gleams of selfishness. She was never
      seen out with her husband, a barrister well-known at the Palais de
      Justice, who led, it was said, a pretty free life, dividing himself
      between his law business and his pleasures.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; murmured she, passing the fan to Madame de Boves, &ldquo;I've scarcely
      bought one in my life. One always receives too many of such things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The countess replied with delicate malice: &ldquo;You are fortunate, my dear, in
      having a gallant husband.&rdquo; And bending over to her daughter, a tall girl
      of twenty, she added: &ldquo;Just look at the monogram, Blanche. What pretty
      work! It's the monogram that must have increased the price like that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Boves had just turned forty. She was a superb woman, with the
      neck of a goddess, a large regular face, and big sleepy eyes, whom her
      husband, Inspector-General of the Stud, had married for her beauty. She
      appeared quite moved by the delicacy of the monogram, as if seized with a
      desire the emotion of which made her turn pale, and turning round
      suddenly, she continued: &ldquo;Give us your opinion, Monsieur Mouret. Is it too
      dear&mdash;two hundred francs for this mount?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret had remained standing in the midst of the five women, smiling,
      taking an interest in what interested them. He picked up the fan, examined
      it, and was about to give his opinion, when the footman opened the door
      and announced:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame Marty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And there entered a thin, ugly woman, ravaged with the small-pox, dressed
      with a complicated elegance. She was of uncertain age, her thirty-five
      years appearing sometimes equal to thirty, and sometimes to forty,
      according to the intensity of the nervous fever which agitated her. A red
      leather bag, which she had not let go, hung from her right hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear madame,&rdquo; said she to Henriette, &ldquo;excuse me bringing my bag. Just
      fancy, as I was coming along I went into The Paradise, and as I have again
      been very extravagant, I did not like to leave it in my cab for fear of
      being robbed.&rdquo; But having perceived Mouret, she resumed laughingly: &ldquo;Ah!
      sir, I didn't mean to give you an advertisement, for I didn't know you
      were here. But you really have some extraordinary fine lace just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This turned the attention from the fan, which the young man laid on the
      table. The ladies were all anxious to see what Madame Marty had bought.
      She was known to be very extravagant, totally unable to resist temptation,
      strict in her conduct and incapable of yielding to a lover, but weak and
      cowardly, easily conquered before the least bit of finery. Daughter of a
      city clerk, she was ruining her husband, a master at the Lycée Bonaparte,
      who was obliged to double his salary of six thousand francs a year by
      giving private lessons, in order to meet the constantly increasing
      household expenses. She did not open her bag, but held it tight on her
      lap, and commenced to talk about her daughter Valentine, fourteen years
      old, one of her dearest coquetries, for she dressed her like herself, with
      all the fashionable novelties of which she submitted to the irresistible
      seduction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;they are making dresses trimmed with a narrow lace
      for young girls this winter. So when I saw a very pretty Valenciennes&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she at last decided to open her bag. The ladies were stretching out
      their necks, when, in the midst of the silence, the door-bell was heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's my husband,&rdquo; stammered Madame Marty, very confused. &ldquo;He promised to
      fetch me on leaving the Lycée Bonaparte.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She quickly shut the bag again, and put it under her chair with an
      instinctive movement. All the ladies set up a laugh. This made her blush
      for her precipitation, and she put the bag on her knees again, explaining
      that men never understood, and that they need not know.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Boves, Monsieur de Vallagnosc,&rdquo; announced the footman.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was quite a surprise. Madame de Boves herself did not expect her
      husband. The latter, a fine man, wearing a moustache and an imperial with
      the military correctness so much liked at the Tuileries, kissed the hand
      of Madame Desforges, whom he had known as a young girl at her father's.
      And he made way to allow his companion, a tall, pale fellow, of an
      aristocratic poverty of blood, to make his bow to the lady of the house.
      But the conversation had hardly recommenced when two exclamations were
      heard:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Is that you, Paul?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Octave!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret and Vallagnosc then shook hands, much to Madame Desforges's
      surprise. They knew each other, then? Of course, they had grown up side by
      side at the college at Plassans, and it was quite by chance they had not
      met at her house before. However, with their hands still united, they went
      into the little drawing-room, just as the servant brought in the tea, a
      china service on a silver waiter, which he placed near Madame Desforges,
      on a small round marble table with a light copper mounting. The ladies
      drew up and began talking louder, all speaking at once, producing a
      cross-fire of short disjointed sentences; whilst Monsieur de Boves,
      standing up behind them, put in an occasional word with the gallantry of a
      handsome functionary. The vast room, so prettily and cheerfully furnished,
      became merrier still with these gossiping voices, and the frequent
      laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! Paul, old boy,&rdquo; repeated Mouret.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was seated near Vallagnosc, on a sofa. And alone in the little
      drawing-room, very coquettish with its pretty silk hangings, out of
      hearing of the ladies, and not even seeing them, except through the open
      door, the two old friends commenced grinning, examining each other's
      looks, exchanging slaps on the knees. Their whole youthful career was
      recalled, the old college at Plassans, with its two courtyards, its damp
      classrooms, and the dining-room in which they had consumed so much
      cod-fish, and the dormitories where the pillows used to fly from bed to
      bed as soon as the monitor began to snore. Paul, belonging to an old
      parliamentary family, noble, poor, and proud, was a good scholar, always
      at the top of his class, continually held up as an example by the master,
      who prophesied for him a brilliant future; whilst Octave remained at the
      bottom, stuck amongst the dunces, fat and jolly, indulging in all sorts of
      pleasures outside. Notwithstanding the difference in their characters, a
      fast friendship had rendered them inseparable, until their final
      examinations, which they passed, the one with honours, the other in a
      passable manner after two vexatious trials. Then they went out into the
      world, and had now met again, after ten years, already changed and looking
      older.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Mouret, &ldquo;what's become of you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing at all,&rdquo; replied the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vallagnosc, in the joy of their meeting, retained his tired and
      disenchanted air; and as his friend, astonished, insisted, saying: &ldquo;But
      you must do something. What do you do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; replied he.
    </p>
    <p>
      Octave commenced to laugh. Nothing! that wasn't enough. Little by little
      he succeeded in drawing Paul out to tell his story. It was the usual story
      of penniless younger sons, who think themselves obliged by their birth to
      choose a liberal profession, burying themselves in a sort of vain
      mediocrity, happy to escape starvation, notwithstanding their numerous
      degrees. He had studied law by a sort of family tradition; and had since
      remained a burden on his widowed mother, who even then hardly knew how to
      dispose of her two daughters. Having at last got quite ashamed, he left
      the three women to vegetate on the remnants of their fortune, and accepted
      an appointment in the Ministry of the Interior, where he buried himself
      like a mole in its hole.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you get there?&rdquo; resumed Mouret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three thousand francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that's pitiful pay! Ah! old man, I'm really sorry for you. What! a
      clever fellow like you, who floored all of us I And they only give you
      three thousand francs a year, after having already ground you down for
      five years! No, it isn't right!&rdquo; He interrupted himself, and returned to
      his own doings. &ldquo;As for me, I made them a humble bow. You know what I'm
      doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Vallagnosc, &ldquo;I heard you were in business. You've got that big
      place in the Place Gaillon, haven't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's it. Counter-jumper, my boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret raised his head, again slapped him on the knee, and repeated, with
      the solid gaiety of a fellow who did not blush for the trade by which he
      was making his fortune:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Counter-jumper, and no mistake! You remember, no doubt, I didn't bite
      much at their machines, although at heart I never thought myself duller
      than the others. When I took my degree, just to please the family, I could
      have become a barrister or a doctor quite as easily as any of my
      school-fellows, but those trades frightened me. I saw so many who were
      starving at them that I just threw them over without the least regret, and
      pitched head-first into business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vallognosc smiled with an awkward air, and ultimately said: &ldquo;It's very
      certain your degree can't be much good to you for selling calico.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; replied Mouret, joyously, &ldquo;all I ask is, that it shall not stand
      in my way, and you know, when one has been stupid enough to burden one's
      self with it, it is difficult to get rid of it. One goes at a tortoise's
      pace through life, whilst those who are bare-footed run like madmen.&rdquo;
       Then, noticing that his friend seemed troubled, he took his hand in his,
      and continued: &ldquo;Come, come, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but
      confess that your degrees have not satisfied any of your wants. Do you
      know that my manager in the silk department will draw more than twelve
      thousand francs this year. Just so! a fellow of very clear intelligence,
      whose knowledge is confined to spelling, and the first four rules. The
      ordinary salesmen in my place make from three to four thousand francs a
      year, more than you can earn yourself; and their education was not so
      expensive as yours, nor were they launched into the world with a written
      promise to conquer it. Of course, it is not everything to make money; but
      between the poor devils possessed of a smattering of science who now block
      up the liberal professions, without earning enough to keep themselves from
      starving, and the practical fellows armed for life's struggle, knowing
      every branch of their trade, by Jove! I don't hesitate a moment, I'm for
      the latter against the former, I think they thoroughly understand the age
      they live in!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His voice had become impassioned. Henriette, who was pouring out the tea,
      turned her head. When he caught her smile, at the further end of the large
      drawing-room, and saw the other ladies were listening, he was the first to
      make merry over his own big phrases.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In short, old man, every counter-jumper who commences, has, at the
      present day, a chance of becoming a millionaire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vallagnosc threw himself back on the sofa indolently, half-closing his
      eyes in a fatigued and disdainful attitude, in which a suspicion of
      affectation was added to his real hereditary exhaustion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; murmured he, &ldquo;life isn't worth all that trouble. There is nothing
      worth living for.&rdquo; And as Mouret, shocked, looked at him with an air of
      surprise, he added: &ldquo;Everything happens and nothing happens; one may as
      well stay with one's arms folded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then explained his pessimism&mdash;the mediocrities and the abortions
      of existence. For a time he had thought of literature, but his intercourse
      with certain poets had filled him with universal despair. He always
      arrived at the conclusion that all effort was useless, every hour equally
      weary and empty, and the world incurably stupid and dull. All enjoyment
      was a failure, and there was no pleasure in wrong-doing even.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just tell me, do you enjoy life yourself?&rdquo; asked he at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret was now in a state of astonished indignation, and exclaimed: &ldquo;What?
      Do I enjoy myself? What are you talking about? Why, of course I do, my
      boy, and even when things give way, for then I am furious at hearing them
      cracking. I am a passionate fellow myself, and don't take life quietly;
      that's what interests me in it perhaps.&rdquo; He glanced towards the
      drawing-room, and lowered his voice. &ldquo;Oh! there are some women who've
      bothered me awfully, I must confess. But when I've got hold of one, I keep
      her. She doesn't always escape me, and then I take my share, I assure you.
      But it is not so much the women, for to speak truly, I don't care a hang
      for them; it's the wish to act&mdash;to create, in short. You have an
      idea; you fight for it, you hammer it into people's heads, and you see it
      grow and triumph. Ah! yes, my boy, I enjoy life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All the joy of action, all the gaiety of existence, resounded in these
      words. He repeated that he went with the times. Really, a man must be
      badly constituted, have his brain and limbs out of order, to refuse to
      work in an age of such vast undertakings, when the entire century was
      pressing forward with giant strides. And he laughed at the despairing
      ones, the disgusted ones, the pessimists, all those weak, sickly members
      of our budding sciences, who assumed the weeping airs of poets, or the
      mincing ways of sceptics, amidst the immense activity of the present day.
      A fine part to play, proper and intelligent, that of yawning before other
      people's labour!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's my only pleasure, yawning in other's faces,&rdquo; said Vallagnosc,
      smiling with his cold look.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this Mouret's passion subsided, and he became affectionate again. &ldquo;Ah,
      Paul, you're not changed. Just as paradoxical as ever! However, we've not
      met to quarrel. Each one has his own ideas, fortunately. But you must come
      and see my machine at work; you'll see it isn't a bad idea. Come, what
      news? Your mother and sisters are quite well, I hope? And weren't you
      supposed to get married at Plassans, about six months ago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sudden movement made by Vallagnosc stopped him; and as the former was
      looking round the drawing-room with an anxious expression, Mouret also
      turned round, and noticed that Mademoiselle de Boves was closely watching
      them. Blanche, tall and stout, resembled her mother; but her face was
      already puffed out, her large, coarse features swollen with unhealthy fat.
      Paul, in reply to a discreet question, intimated that nothing was yet
      settled; perhaps nothing would be settled. He had made the young person's
      acquaintance at Madame Desforges's, where he had visited a good deal last
      winter, but where he very rarely came now, which explained why he had not
      met Octave there sooner. In their turn, the De Boves invited him, and he
      was especially fond of the father, a very amiable man, formerly well known
      about town, who had retired into his present position. On the other hand,
      no money. Madame de Boves having brought her husband nothing but her
      Juno-like beauty as a marriage portion, the family were living poorly on
      the last mortgaged farm, to which modest revenue was added, fortunately,
      the nine thousand francs a year drawn by the count as Inspector-General of
      the Stud. And the ladies, mother and daughter, kept very short of money by
      him, impoverished by tender escapades outside, were sometimes reduced to
      turning their dresses themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case, why marry?&rdquo; was Mouret's simple question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! I can't go on like this for ever,&rdquo; said Vallagnosc, with a weary
      movement of the eyelids. &ldquo;Besides, there are certain expectations; we are
      waiting the death of an aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, Mouret still kept his eye on Monsieur de Boves, who, seated next
      to Madame Guibal, was most attentive, and laughing tenderly like a man on
      an amorous campaign; he turned to his friend with such a significant
      twinkle of the eye that the latter added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not that one. At least not yet. The misfortune is, that his duty calls
      him to the four corners of France, to the breeding depôts, so that he has
      continual pretexts for absenting himself. Last month, whilst his wife
      supposed him to be at Perpignan, he was living at an hotel, in an
      out-of-the-way neighbourhood, with a music-mistress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There ensued a pause. Then the young man, who was also watching the
      count's gallantries towards Madame Guibal, resumed in a low tone: &ldquo;Really,
      I think you are right. The more so as the dear lady is not exactly a
      saint, if all they say is true. There's a very amusing story about her and
      an officer. But just look at him! Isn't he comical, magnetising her with
      his eyes? The old-fashioned gallantry, my dear fellow! I adore that man,
      and if I marry his daughter, he can safely say it's for his sake!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret laughed, greatly amused. He questioned Vallagnosc again, and when
      he found that the first idea of a marriage between him and Blanche came
      from Madame Desforges, he thought the story better still. That good
      Henriette took a widow's delight in marrying people, so much so, that when
      she had provided for the girls, she sometimes allowed their fathers to
      choose friends from her company; but all so naturally, with such a good
      grace, that no one ever found any food for scandal. And Mouret, who loved
      her with the love of an active, busy man, accustomed to reducing his
      tenderness to figures, forgot all his calculations of captivation, and
      felt for her a comrade's friendship.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment she appeared at the door of the little drawing-room,
      followed by a gentleman, about sixty years old, whose entry had not been
      observed by the two friends. Occasionally the ladies' voices became
      sharper, accompanied by the tinkling of the small spoons in the china
      cups; and there was heard, from time to time, in the interval of a short
      silence, the noise of a saucer laid down too roughly on the marble table.
      A sudden gleam of the setting sun, which had just emerged from behind a
      thick cloud, gilded the top of the chestnut-trees in the gardens, and
      streamed through the windows in a red, golden flame, the fire of which
      lighted up the brocatel and brass-work of the furniture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This way, my dear baron,&rdquo; said Madame Desforges. &ldquo;Allow me to introduce
      Monsieur Octave Mouret, who is longing to express the admiration he feels
      for you.&rdquo; And turning round towards Octave, she added: &ldquo;Baron Hartmann.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0077.jpg" alt="0077 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0077.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      A smile played on the old man's lips. He was a short, vigorous man, with a
      large Alsatian head, and a heavy face, which lighted up with a gleam of
      intelligence at the slightest curl of his mouth, the slightest movement of
      his eyelids. For the last fortnight he had resisted Henriette's wish that
      he should consent to this interview; not that he felt any immoderate
      jealousy, accepting, like a man of the world, his position of father; but
      because it was the third friend Henriette had introduced to him, and he
      was afraid of becoming ridiculous at last. So that on approaching Octave
      he put on the discreet smile of a rich protector, who, if good enough to
      show himself charming, does not consent to be a dupe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! sir,&rdquo; said Mouret, with his Southern enthusiasm, &ldquo;the Crédit
      Immobiliers last operation was really astonishing! You cannot think how
      happy and proud I am to know you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Too kind, sir, too kind,&rdquo; repeated the baron, still smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Henriette looked at them with her clear eyes without any awkwardness,
      standing between the two, lifting her head, going from one to the other;
      and, in her lace dress, which revealed her delicate neck and wrists, she
      appeared delighted to see them so friendly together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said she at last, &ldquo;I leave you to your conversation.&rdquo; Then,
      turning towards Paul, who had got up, she resumed: &ldquo;Will you accept of a
      cup of tea, Monsieur de Vallagnosc?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With pleasure, madame,&rdquo; and they both returned to the drawing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret resumed his place on the sofa, when Baron Hartmann had sat down;
      the young man then broke out in praise of the Crédit Immobiliers
      operations. From that he went on to the subject so near his heart,
      speaking of the new thoroughfare, of the lengthening of the Rue Reaumur,
      of which they were going to open a section under the name of the Rue du
      Dix-Décembre, between the Place de la Bourse and the Place de l'Opera. It
      had been declared a work of public utility eighteen months previously; the
      expropriation jury had just been appointed. The whole neighbourhood was
      excited about this new opening, anxiously awaiting the commencement of the
      work, taking an interest in the condemned houses. Mouret had been waiting
      three years for this work&mdash;first, in the expectation of an increase
      of business; secondly, with certain schemes of enlargement which he dared
      not openly avow, so extensive were his ideas. As the Rue du Dix-Décembre
      was to cut through the Rue de Choiseul and the Rue de la Michodière, he
      saw The Ladies' Paradise invading the whole block, surrounded by these
      streets and the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin; he already imagined it with a
      princely frontage in the new thoroughfare, lord and master of the
      conquered city. Hence his strong desire to make Baron Hartmann's
      acquaintance, when he learnt that the Crédit Immobilier had made a
      contract with the authorities to open and build the Rue du Dix-Décembre,
      on condition that they received the frontage ground on each side of the
      street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really,&rdquo; repeated he, trying to assume a naïve look, &ldquo;you'll hand over
      the street ready made, with sewers, pavements, and gas lamps. And the
      frontage ground will suffice to compensate you. Oh! it's curious, very
      curious!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last he came to the delicate point. He was aware that the Crédit
      Immobilier was buying up the houses which surrounded The Ladies' Paradise,
      not only those which were to fall under the demolisher's hands, but the
      others as well, those which were to remain standing; and he suspected the
      projectment of some future establishment He was very anxious about the
      enlargements of which he continued to extend the dream, seized with fear
      at the idea of one day clashing with a powerful company, owning property
      which they certainly would not part with. It was precisely this fear which
      had decided him to establish a connection immediately between himself and
      the baron&mdash;the amiable connection of a woman, so powerful between men
      of a gallant nature. No doubt he could have seen the financier in his
      office, and talked over the affair in question at his ease; but he felt
      himself stronger in Henriette's house; he knew how much the mutual
      possession of a mistress serves to render men pliable and tender. To be
      both near her, within the beloved perfume of her presence, to have her
      ready to convince them with a smile, seemed to him a certainty of success.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haven't you bought the old Hôtel Duvillard, that old building next to
      mine?&rdquo; he asked suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The baron hesitated a moment, and then denied it. But Mouret looked in his
      face and smiled, playing, from that moment, the part of a good young man,
      open-hearted, simple, and straightforward in business.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, baron,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;as I have the unexpected honour of meeting
      you, I must make a confession. Oh, I don't ask you any of your secrets,
      but I am going to entrust you with mine, certain that I couldn't place
      them in wiser hands. Besides, I want your advice. I have long wished to
      call and see you, but dared not do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did make his confession, he related his start, not even concealing the
      financial crisis through which he was passing in the midst of his triumph.
      Everything was brought up, the successive enlargements, the profits
      continually put back into the business, the sums brought by his employees,
      the house risking its existence at every fresh sale, in which the entire
      capital was staked, as it were, on a single throw of the dice. However, it
      was not money he wanted, for he had a fanatic's faith in his customers;
      his ambition ran higher; he proposed to the baron a partnership, into
      which the Crédit Immobilier should bring the colossal palace he saw in his
      dreams, whilst he, for his part, would give his genius and the business
      already created. The estate could be valued, nothing appeared to him
      easier to realise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you going to do with your land and buildings?&rdquo; asked he,
      persistently. &ldquo;You have a plan, no doubt. But I'm quite certain your idea
      is not so good as mine. Think of that. We build a gallery on the ground,
      we pull down or re-arrange the houses, and we open the most extensive
      establishment in Paris&mdash;a bazaar which will bring in millions.&rdquo; And
      he let slip the fervent heartfelt exclamation: &ldquo;Ah! if I could only do
      without you! But you get hold of everything now. Besides, I shall never
      have the necessary capital. Come, we must come to an understanding. It
      would be a crime not to do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How you go ahead, my dear sir!&rdquo; Baron Hartmann contented himself with
      replying. &ldquo;What an imagination!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head, and continued to smile, determined not to return
      confidence for confidence. The intention of the Crédit Immobilier was to
      create in the Rue du Dix-Décembre a rival to the Grand Hôtel, a luxurious
      establishment, the central position of which would attract foreigners. At
      the same time, as the hôtel was only to occupy a certain, frontage, the
      baron could also have entertained Mouret's idea, and treated for the rest
      of the block of houses, occupying a vast surface. But he had already
      advanced funds to two of Henriette's friends, and he was getting tired of
      his position as complacent protector. Besides, notwithstanding his passion
      for activity, which prompted him to open his purse to every fellow of
      intelligence and courage, Mouret's commercial genius astonished more than
      captivated him. Was it not a fanciful, imprudent operation, this gigantic
      shop? Would he not risk a certain failure in thus enlarging out of all
      bounds the drapery trade? In short, he didn't believe in it; he refused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt the idea is attractive, but it's a poet's idea. Where would you
      find the customers to fill such a cathedral?&rdquo; Mouret looked at him for a
      moment silently, as if stupefied at his refusal. Was it possible?&mdash;a
      man of such foresight, who smelt money at no matter what depth! And
      suddenly, with an extremely eloquent gesture, he pointed to the ladies in
      the drawing-room and exclaimed: &ldquo;There are my customers!&rdquo; The sun was
      going down, the golden-red flame was now but a pale light, dying away in a
      farewell gleam on the silk of the hangings and the panels of the
      furniture. At this approach of twilight, an intimacy bathed the large room
      in a sweet softness. While Monsieur de Boves and Paul de Vallagnosc were
      talking near one of the windows, their eyes wandering far away into the
      gardens, the ladies had closed up, forming in the middle of the room a
      narrow circle of petticoats, from which issued sounds of laughter,
      whispered words, ardent questions and replies, all the passion felt by
      woman for expenditure and finery. They were talking about dress, and
      Madame de Boves was describing a costume she had seen at a ball.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First of all, a mauve silk skirt, then over that flounces of old Alençon
      lace, twelve inches deep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! is it possible!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame Marty. &ldquo;Some women are fortunate!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Baron Hartmann, who had followed Mouret's gesture, was looking at the
      ladies through the door, which was wide open. He was listening to them
      with one ear, whilst the young man, inflamed by the desire to convince
      him, went deeper into the question, explaining the mechanism of the new
      style of drapery business. This branch of commerce was now based on a
      rapid and continual turning over of the capital, which it was necessary to
      turn into goods as often as possible in the same year. Thus, that year his
      capital, which only amounted to five hundred thousand francs, had been
      turned over four times, and had thus produced business to the amount of
      two millions. But this was a mere trifle, which could be increased
      tenfold, for later on he certainly hoped to turn over the capital fifteen
      or twenty times in certain departments.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will understand, baron, that the whole system lies in this. It is
      very simple, but it had to be found out. We don't want a very large
      working capital; our sole effort is to get rid as quickly as possible of
      our stock to replace it by another, which will give our capital as many
      times its interest. In this way we can content ourselves with a very small
      profit; as our general expenses amount to the enormous figure of sixteen
      per cent., and as we seldom make more than twenty per cent, on our goods,
      it is only a net profit of four per cent at most; but this will finish by
      bringing in millions when we can operate on considerable quantities of
      goods incessantly renewed. You follow me, don't you? nothing can be
      clearer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron shook his head again. He who had entertained the boldest
      combinations, of whom people still quoted the daring flights at the time
      of the introduction of gas, still remained uneasy and obstinate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I quite understand,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;you sell cheap to sell a quantity, and you
      sell a quantity to sell cheap. But you must sell, and I repeat my former
      question: Whom will you sell to? How do you hope to keep up such a
      colossal sale?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sudden burst of a voice, coming from the drawing-room, cut short
      Mouret's explanation. It was Madame Guibal, who was saying she would have
      preferred the flounces of old Alençon down the front only.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, my dear,&rdquo; said Madame de Boves, &ldquo;the front was covered with it as
      well. I never saw anything richer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that's a good idea,&rdquo; resumed Madame Desforges, &ldquo;I've got several
      yards of Alençon somewhere; I must look them up for a trimming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the voices fell again, becoming nothing but a murmur. Prices were
      quoted, quite a traffic stirred up their desires, the ladies were buying
      lace by the mile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why!&rdquo; said Mouret, when he could speak, &ldquo;we can sell what we like when we
      know how to sell! There lies our triumph.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And with his southern spirit, he showed the new business at work in warm,
      glowing phrases which evoked whole pictures. First came the wonderful
      power of the piling up of the goods, all accumulated at one point,
      sustaining and pushing each other, never any stand-still, the article of
      the season always on hand; and from counter to counter the customer found
      herself seized, buying here the material, further on the cotton, elsewhere
      the mantle, everything necessary to complete her dress in fact, then
      falling into unforeseen purchases, yielding to her longing for the useless
      and the pretty. He then went on to sing the praises of the plain figure
      system. The great revolution in the business sprung from this fortunate
      inspiration. If the old-fashioned small shops were dying out it was
      because they could not struggle against the low prices guaranteed by the
      tickets. The competition was now going on under the very eyes of the
      public; a look into the windows enabled them to contrast the prices; every
      shop was lowering its rates, contenting itself with the smallest possible
      profit; no cheating, no stroke of fortune prepared long beforehand on an
      article sold at double its value, but current operations, a regular
      percentage on all goods, success depending solely on the orderly working
      of a sale all the larger from the fact of its being carried on in broad
      daylight. Was it not an astonishing creation? It was causing a revolution
      in the market, transforming Paris, for it was made of woman's flesh and
      blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have the women, I don't care a hang for the rest!&rdquo; said Mouret, in a
      brutal confession which passion snatched from him.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this cry Baron Hartmann appeared moved. His smile lost its touch of
      irony; he looked at the young man, won over gradually by his confidence,
      feeling a growing tenderness for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; murmured he, paternally, &ldquo;they will hear you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the ladies were now all speaking at once, so excited that they weren't
      even listening to each other. Madame de Boves was finishing the
      description of a dinner-dress; a mauve silk tunic, draped and caught up by
      bows of lace; the bodice cut very low, with more bows of lace on the
      shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll see,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I am having a bodice made like it, with some
      satin&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I,&rdquo; interrupted Madame Bourdelais, &ldquo;I wanted some velvet. Oh! such a
      bargain!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Marty asked: &ldquo;How much for the silk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And off they started again, all together. Madame Guibal, Henriette, and
      Blanche were measuring, cutting out, and making up. It was a pillage of
      material, a ransacking of all the shops, an appetite for luxury which
      expended itself in toilettes longed for and dreamed of&mdash;such a
      happiness to find themselves in an atmosphere of finery, that they lived
      buried in it, as in the warm air necessary to their existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret, however, had glanced towards the other drawingroom, and in a few
      phrases whispered into the baron's ear, as if he were confiding to him one
      of those amorous secrets that men sometimes risk among themselves, he
      finished explaining the mechanism of modern commerce. And, above the facts
      already given, right at the summit, appeared the exploitation of woman.
      Everything depended on that, the capital incessantly renewed, the system
      of piling up goods, the cheapness which attracts, the marking in plain
      figures which tranquilises. It was for woman that all the establishments
      were struggling in wild competition; it was woman that they were
      continually catching in the snare of their bargains, after bewildering her
      with their displays. They had awakened new desires in her flesh; they were
      an immense temptation, before which she succumbed fatally, yielding at
      first to reasonable purchases of useful articles for the household, then
      tempted by their coquetry, then devoured. In increasing their business
      tenfold, in popularising luxury, they became a terrible spending agency,
      ravaging the households, working up the fashionable folly of the hour,
      always dearer. And if woman reigned in their shops like a queen, cajoled,
      flattered, overwhelmed with attentions, she was an amorous one, on whom
      her subjects traffic, and who pays with a drop of her blood each fresh
      caprice. Through the very gracefulness of his gallantry, Mouret thus
      allowed to appear the brutality of a Jew, selling woman by the pound. He
      raised a temple to her, had her covered with incense by a legion of
      shopmen, created the rite of a new religion, thinking of nothing but her,
      continually seeking to imagine more powerful seductions; and, behind her
      back, when he had emptied her purse and shattered her nerves, he was full
      of the secret scorn of a man to whom a woman had just been stupid enough
      to yield herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once have the women on your side,&rdquo; whispered he to the baron, and
      laughing boldly, &ldquo;you could sell the very world.&rdquo; Now the baron
      understood. A few sentences had sufficed, he guessed the rest, and such a
      gallant exploitation inflamed him, stirring up in him the memory of his
      past life of pleasure. His eyes twinkled in a knowing way, and he ended by
      looking with an air of admiration at the inventor of this machine for
      devouring the women. It was really clever. He made the same remark as
      Bourdoncle, suggested to him by his long experience: &ldquo;You know they'll
      make you suffer for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Mouret shrugged his shoulders in a movement of overwhelming disdain.
      They all belonged to him, were his property, and he belonged to none of
      them. After having drawn from them his fortune and his pleasure, he
      intended to throw them all over for those who might still find their
      account in them. It was the rational, cold disdain of a Southerner and a
      speculator.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! my dear baron,&rdquo; asked he in conclusion, &ldquo;will you join me? Does
      this affair appear possible to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron, half conquered, did not wish, however, to engage himself yet A
      doubt remained beneath the charm which was gradually operating on him. He
      was going to reply in an evasive manner, when a pressing call from the
      ladies spared him the trouble. Voices were repeating, amidst silvery
      laughter: &ldquo;Monsieur Mouret! Monsieur Mouret!&rdquo; And as the latter, annoyed
      at being interrupted, pretended not to hear, Madame de Boves, who had just
      got up, came as far as the door of the little drawing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are wanted, Monsieur Mouret. It isn't very gallant of you to bury
      yourself in a corner to talk over business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then decided to go, with an apparent good grace, an air of rapture
      which astonished the baron. Both rose up and passed into the other
      drawing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am quite at your service, ladies,&rdquo; said he on entering, a smile on
      his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was greeted with a burst of triumph. He was obliged to go further
      forward; the ladies made room for him in their midst The sun had just gone
      down behind the trees in the gardens, the day was departing, a fine shadow
      was gradually invading the vast apartment. It was the tender hour of
      twilight, that minute of discreet voluptuousness in the Parisian houses,
      between the dying brightness of the street and the lighting of the lamps
      downstairs. Monsieur de Boves and Vallagnosc, still standing up before a
      window, threw a shadow on the carpet: whilst, motionless in the last gleam
      of light which came in by the other window, Monsieur Marty, who had
      quietly entered, and whom the conversation of these ladies about dress had
      completely confused, placed his poor profile, a frock-coat, scanty but
      clean, his face pale and wan from teaching.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is your sale still fixed for next Monday?&rdquo; Madame Marty was just asking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, madame,&rdquo; replied Mouret, in a soft, sweet voice, an actor's
      voice, which he assumed when speaking to women.
    </p>
    <p>
      Henriette then intervened. &ldquo;We are all going, you know. They say you are
      preparing wonders.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! wonders!&rdquo; murmured he, with an air of modest fatuity. &ldquo;I simply try
      to deserve your patronage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But they pressed him with questions: Madame Bourdelais, Madame Guibal,
      Blanche even wanted to know.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, give us some details,&rdquo; repeated Madame de Boves, persistently. &ldquo;You
      are making us die of curiosity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And they were surrounding him, when Henriette observed that he had not
      even taken a cup of tea. It was distressing. Four of them set about
      serving him, but on condition that he would answer them afterwards.
      Henriette poured it out, Madame Marty held the cup, whilst Madame de Boves
      and Madame Bourdelais contended for the honour of sweetening it. Then,
      when he had declined to sit down, and commenced to drink his tea slowly,
      standing up in the midst of them, they all approached, imprisoning him in
      the narrow circle of their skirts; and with their heads raised, their eyes
      sparkling, they sat there smiling at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your silk, your Paris Paradise, that all the papers are taking about?&rdquo;
       resumed Madame Marty, impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; replied he, &ldquo;an extraordinary article, coarse-grained, supple and
      strong. You'll see it, ladies, and you'll see it nowhere else, for we have
      bought the exclusive right of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really! a fine silk at five francs twelve sous!&rdquo; said Madame Bourdelais,
      enthusiastic. &ldquo;One cannot credit it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ever since the advertisement had appeared, this silk had occupied a
      considerable place in their daily life. They talked of it, promising
      themselves some of it, worked up with desire and doubt. And, beneath the
      gossiping curiosity with which they overwhelmed the young man, there
      appeared their various temperaments as buyers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Marty, carried away by her rage for spending, took everything at
      The Ladies' Paradise, without choosing, just as the articles appeared;
      Madame Guibal walked about the shop for hours without ever buying
      anything, happy and satisfied to simply feast her eyes; Madame de Boves,
      short of money, always tortured by some immoderate wish, nourished a
      feeling of rancour against the goods she could not carry away; Madame
      Bourdelais, with the sharp eye of a careful practical housewife, made
      straight for the bargains, using the big establishments with such a clever
      housewife's skill that she saved a heap of money; and lastly, Henriette,
      who, very elegant, only procured certain articles there, such as gloves,
      hosiery, and her coarser linen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have other stuffs of astonishing cheapness and richness,&rdquo; continued
      Mouret, with his musical voice. &ldquo;For instance, I recommend you our Golden
      Grain, a taffeta of incomparable brilliancy. In the fancy silks there are
      some charming lines, designs chosen from among thousands by our buyer: and
      in velvets you will find an exceedingly rich collection of shades. I warn
      you that cloth will be greatly worn this year; you'll see our checks and
      our cheviots.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had ceased to interrupt him, and narrowed the circle, their mouths
      half open with a vague smile, their eager faces close to his, as in a
      sudden rush of their whole being towards the tempter. Their eyes grew dim,
      a slight shudder ran through them. All this time he retained his calm,
      conquering air, amidst the intoxicating perfumes which their hair exhaled;
      and between each sentence he continued to sip a little of his tea, the
      aroma of which cooled those sharper odours, in which there was a particle
      of the savage. Before a captivating grace so thoroughly master of itself,
      strong enough to play with woman in this way without being overcome by the
      intoxication which she exhales, Baron Hartmann, who had not ceased to look
      at him, felt his admiration increasing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So cloth will be worn?&rdquo; resumed Madame Marty, whose ravished face
      sparkled with coquettish passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Bourdelais, who kept a cool look-out, said, in her turn: &ldquo;Your sale
      of remnants takes place on Thursday, doesn't it? I shall wait. I have all
      my little ones to clothe.&rdquo; And turning her delicate blonde head towards
      the mistress of the house: &ldquo;Sauveur is still your dressmaker, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Henriette, &ldquo;Sauveur is very dear, but she is the only one
      in Paris who knows how to make a bodice. Besides, Monsieur Mouret may say
      what he likes, she has the prettiest designs, designs that are not seen
      anywhere else. I can't bear to see my dresses on every woman's back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret smiled discreetly at first. Then he intimated that Madame Sauveur
      bought her material at his shop; no doubt she went to the manufacturers
      direct for certain designs of which she acquired the sole right of sale;
      but for all black silks, for instance, she watched for The Paradise
      bargains, laying in a considerable stock, which she disposed of at double
      and treble the price she gave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thus I am quite sure her buyers will snap up all our Paris Paradise. Why
      should she go to the manufacturers and pay dearer for this silk than she
      would at my place? On my word of honour, we shall sell it at a loss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was a decisive blow for the ladies. The idea of getting goods below
      cost price awoke in them all the greed felt by women, whose enjoyment as
      buyers is doubled when they think they are robbing the tradesman. He knew
      them to be incapable of resisting anything cheap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we sell everything for nothing!&rdquo; exclaimed he gaily, taking up Madame
      Desforges's fan, which was behind him on the table. &ldquo;For instance, here's
      this fan. I don't know what it cost.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Chantilly lace was twenty-five francs, and the mounting cost two
      hundred,&rdquo; said Henriette.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, the Chantilly isn't dear. However, we have the same at eighteen
      francs; as for the mount, my dear madame, it's a shameful robbery. I
      should not dare to sell one like it for more than ninety francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just what I said!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame Bourdelais.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ninety francs!&rdquo; murmured Madame de Boves; &ldquo;one must be very poor indeed
      to go without one at that price.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had taken up the fan, and was again examining it with her daughter
      Blanche; and, on her large regular face, in her big sleepy eyes, there
      arose an expression of the suppressed and despairing longing of a caprice
      in which she could not indulge. The fan once more went the round of the
      ladies, amidst various remarks and exclamations. Monsieur de Boves and
      Vallagnosc, however, had left the window. Whilst the former had returned
      to his place behind Madame Guibal, the charms of whose bust he was
      admiring, with his correct and superior air, the young man was leaning
      over Blanche, endeavouring to find something agreeable to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you think it rather gloomy, mademoiselle, this white mount and
      black lace?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; replied she, gravely, not a blush colouring her inflated cheeks, &ldquo;I
      once saw one made of mother-of-pearl and white lace. Something truly
      virginal!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur de Boves, who had doubtless observed the heartbroken, longing
      looks with which his wife was following the fan, at last added his word to
      the conversation. &ldquo;These flimsy things don't last long, they soon break,&rdquo;
       said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course they do!&rdquo; declared Madame Guibal, with an air of indifference.
      &ldquo;I'm tired of having mine mended.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For several minutes, Madame Marty, excited by the conversation, was
      feverishly turning her red leather bag about on her lap, for she had not
      yet been able to show her purchases. She was burning to display them, with
      a sort of sensual desire; and, suddenly forgetting her husband's presence,
      she took out a few yards of narrow lace wound on a piece of cardboard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the Valenciennes for my daughter,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;It's an inch and a
      half wide. Isn't it delicious? One franc eighteen sous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lace was passed from hand to hand. The ladies were astonished. Mouret
      assured them he sold these little trimmings at cost price. However, Madame
      Marty had closed the bag, as if to conceal certain things she could not
      show. But after the success obtained by the Valenciennes she was unable to
      resist the temptation of taking out a handkerchief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was this handkerchief as well. Real Brussels, my dear. Oh! a
      bargain! Twenty francs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And after that the bag became inexhaustible, she blushed with pleasure, a
      modesty like that of a woman undressing herself made her appear more
      charming and embarrassed at each fresh article she took out. There was a
      Spanish blonde-lace cravat, thirty francs: she didn't want it, but the
      shopman had sworn it was the last, and that in future the price would be
      raised. Next came a Chantilly veil: rather dear, fifty francs; if she
      didn't wear it she could make it do for her daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, lace is so pretty!&rdquo; repeated she with her nervous laugh. &ldquo;Once
      I'm inside I could buy everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this?&rdquo; asked Madame de Boves, taking up and examining a remnant of
      Maltese lace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That,&rdquo; replied she, &ldquo;is for an insertion. There are twenty-six yards&mdash;a
      franc the yard. Just fancy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; said Madame Bourdelais, surprised, &ldquo;what are you going to do with
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure I don't know. But it was such a funny pattern!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this moment she raised her eyes and perceived her terrified husband in
      front of her. He had turned paler than usual, his whole person expressed
      the patient, resigned anguish of a man assisting, powerless, at the
      reckless expenditure of his salary, so dearly earned. Every fresh bit of
      lace was for him a disaster; bitter days of teaching swallowed up, long
      journeys to pupils through the mud devoured, the continued effort of his
      life resulting in a secret misery, the hell of a necessitous household.
      Before the increasing wildness of his look, she wanted to catch up the
      veil, the cravat, and the handkerchief, moving her feverish hands about,
      repeating with forced laughter: &ldquo;You'll get me a scolding from my husband.
      I assure you, my dear, I've been very reasonable; for there was a fine
      piece of point at five hundred francs, oh! a marvel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why didn't you buy it?&rdquo; asked Madame Guibal, calmly. &ldquo;Monsieur Marty is
      the most gallant of men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The poor professor was obliged to bow and say his wife was perfectly
      welcome. But the idea of this point at five hundred francs was like a lump
      of ice dripping down his back; and as Mouret was just at that moment
      affirming that the new shops increased the comfort of the middle-class
      households, he glared at him with a terrible expression, the flash of
      hatred of a timid man who would have throttled him had he dared.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the ladies had still kept hold of the bits of lace, fascinated,
      intoxicated. The pieces were unrolled, passed from one to the other,
      drawing the admirers closer still, holding them in the delicate meshes. On
      their laps there was a continual caress of this tissue, so miraculously
      fine, and amidst which their culpable fingers fondly lingered. They still
      kept Mouret a close prisoner, overwhelming him with fresh questions. As
      the day continued to decline, he was now and again obliged to bend his
      head, grazing their hair with his beard, to examine a stitch, or indicate
      a design. But in this soft voluptuousness of twilight, in the midst of
      this warm feminine atmosphere, Mouret still remained their master beneath
      the rapture he affected. He seemed, to be a woman himself, they felt
      themselves penetrated and overcome by this delicate sense of their secret
      that he possessed, and they abandoned themselves, captivated; whilst he,
      certain from that moment to have them at his mercy, appeared, brutally
      triumphing over them, the despotic monarch of dress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Monsieur Mouret!&rdquo; stammered they, in low, hysterical voices, in the
      gloom of the drawing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last rays of the setting sun were dying away on the brass-work of the
      furniture. The laces alone retained a snowy reflex on the dark dresses of
      the ladies, of which the confused group seemed to surround the young man
      with a vague appearance of kneeling, worshipping women. A light still
      shone on the side of the silver teapot, a short flame like that of a
      night-light, burning in an alcove warmed by the perfume of the tea. But
      suddenly the servant entered with two lamps, and the charm was destroyed.
      The drawing-room became light and cheerful. Madame Marty was putting her
      lace in her little bag, Madame de Boves was eating a sponge cake, whilst
      Henriette who had got up, was talking in a half-whisper to the baron, near
      one of the windows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's a charming fellow,&rdquo; said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't he?&rdquo; exclaimed she, with the involuntary cry of a woman in love.
    </p>
    <p>
      He smiled, and looked at her with a paternal indulgence. This was the
      first time he had seen her so completely conquered; and, too proud to
      suffer from it, he experienced nothing but a feeling of compassion on
      seeing her in the hands of this handsome fellow, so tender and yet so
      cold-hearted. He thought he ought to warn her, and murmured in a joking
      tone: &ldquo;Take care, my dear, or he'll eat you all up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A flash of jealousy lighted up Henriette's eyes. Perhaps she understood
      Mouret had simply made use of her to get at the baron; and she determined
      to render him mad with passion, he whose hurried style of making love had
      the easy charm of a song thrown to the four winds of heaven. &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said
      she, affecting to joke in her turn, &ldquo;the lamb always finishes up by eating
      the wolf.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron, greatly amused, encouraged, her with a nod. Could she be the
      woman who was to avenge all the others?
    </p>
    <p>
      When Mouret, after having reminded Vallagnosc that he wanted to show him
      his machine at work, came up to take his leave, the baron retained him
      near the window opposite the gardens, now buried in darkness. He yielded
      at last to the seduction; his confidence had come on seeing him in the
      midst of these ladies. Both conversed for a moment in a low tone, then the
      banker said: &ldquo;Well, I'll look into the affair. It's settled if your
      Monday's sale proves as important as you expect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They shook hands, and Mouret, delighted, took his leave, for he did not
      enjoy his dinner unless he went and gave a look at the day's receipts at
      The Ladies' Paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he following
      Monday, the 10th of October, a clear, victorious sun pierced the grey
      clouds which had darkened Paris during the previous week. It had drizzled
      all the previous night, a sort of watery mist, the humidity of which
      dirtied the streets; but in the early morning, thanks to the sharp wind
      which was driving the clouds away, the pavement had become drier, and the
      blue sky had a limpid, spring-like gaiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus The Ladies' Paradise, after eight o'clock, blazed forth beneath the
      clear rays of the sun, in all the glory of its great sale of winter
      novelties. Flags were flying at the door, and pieces of woollens were
      flapping about in the fresh morning air, animating the Place Gaillon with
      the bustle of a country fair; whilst in both streets the windows developed
      symphonies of displays, the clearness of the glass showing up still
      further the brilliant tones. It was like a debauch of colour, a street
      pleasure which burst forth there, a wealth of goods publicly displayed,
      where everybody could go and feast their eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      But at this hour very few people entered, only a few rare customers,
      housewives of the neighbourhood, women desirous of avoiding the afternoon
      crush. Behind the stuffs which decorated it, one could feel the shop to be
      empty, under arms and waiting for customers, with its waxed floors and
      counters overflowing with goods.
    </p>
    <p>
      The busy morning crowd barely glanced at the windows, without lingering a
      moment. In the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin and in the Place Gaillon, where
      the carriages were to take their stand, there were only two cabs at nine
      o'clock. The inhabitants of the district, especially the small traders,
      stirred up by such a show of streamers and decorations, formed little
      groups in the doorways, at the corners of the streets, gazing at the shop,
      making bitter remarks. What most filled them with indignation was the
      sight of one of the four delivery vans just introduced by Mouret, which
      was standing in the Rue de la Michodière, in front of the delivery office.
      They were green, picked out with yellow and red, their brilliantly
      varnished panels sparkling in the sun with the brightness of purple and
      gold. This van, with its brand-new medley of colours, the name of the
      house painted on each side, and surmounted with an advertisement of the
      day's sale, finished by going off at a trot, drawn by a splendid horse,
      after being filled up with the previous night's parcels; and Baudu, who
      was standing on the threshold of The Old Elbeuf, watched it as far as the
      boulevard, where it disappeared, to spread all over Paris in a starry
      radiance the hated name of The Ladies' Paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, a few cabs were arriving and forming a line.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every time a customer entered, there was a movement amongst the shop
      messengers, who were drawn up under the lofty doorway, dressed in livery
      consisting of a light green coat and trousers, and striped red and yellow
      waistcoat. Jouve, the inspector and retired captain, was also there, in a
      frock-coat and white tie, wearing his decoration like a sign of
      respectability and probity, receiving the ladies with a gravely polite
      air, bending over them to point out the departments. Then they disappeared
      in the vestibule, which was transformed into an oriental saloon.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the very threshold it was a marvel, a surprise, which enchanted all
      of them. It was Mouret who had been struck with this idea. He was the
      first to buy, in the Levant, at very advantageous rates, a collection of
      old and new carpets, articles which up to the present had only been sold
      at curiosity shops, at high prices; and he intended to flood the market
      with these goods, selling them at a little over cost price, simply drawing
      from them a splendid decoration destined to attract the best class of art
      customers to his establishment From the centre of the Place Gaillon could
      be seen this oriental saloon, composed solely of carpets and door curtains
      which had been hung under his orders. The ceiling was covered with a
      quantity of Smyrna carpets, the complicated designs of which stood out
      boldly on a red ground. Then from each side there hung Syrian and
      Karamanian door-curtains, speckled with green, yellow, and vermilion;
      Diarbekir door-curtains of a commoner type, rough to the touch, like
      shepherds' cloaks; besides these there were carpets which could be used as
      door-curtains and hangings&mdash;long Ispahan, Teheran, and Kermancha
      rugs, the larger Schoumaka and Madras carpets, a strange florescence of
      peonies and palms, the fancy let loose in a garden of dreams. On the floor
      were more carpets, a heap of greasy fleeces: in the centre was an Agra
      carpet, an extraordinary article with a white ground and a broad delicate
      blue border, through which ran violet-coloured ornaments of exquisite
      design. Everywhere there was an immense display of marvellous fabrics;
      Mecca carpets with a velvety reflection, prayer carpets from Daghestan
      with a symbolic point, Kurdistan carpets covered with blossoming flowers;
      and finally, piled up in a corner, a heap of Gherdes, Koula, and Kirchur
      rugs from fifteen francs a piece.
    </p>
    <p>
      This sumptuous pacha's tent was furnished with divans and arm-chairs, made
      with camel sacks, some ornamented with many-coloured lozenges, others with
      primitive roses. Turkey, Arabia, and the Indies were all there. They had
      emptied the palaces, plundered the mosques and bazaars. A barbarous gold
      tone prevailed in the weft of the old carpets, the faded tints of which
      still preserved a sombre warmth, as of an extinguished furnace, a
      beautiful burnt hue suggestive of the old masters. Visions of the East
      floated beneath the luxury of this barbarous art, amid the strong odour
      which the old wools had retained of the country of vermin and of the
      rising sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the morning at eight o'clock, when Denise, who was to commence on that
      very Monday, had crossed the oriental saloon, she stood there, lost in
      astonishment, unable to recognise the shop entrance, entirely overcome by
      this harem-like decoration planted at the door. A messenger having shown
      her to the top of the house, and handed her over to Madame Cabin, who
      cleaned and looked after the rooms, this person installed her in No. 7,
      where her box had already been put. It was a narrow cell, opening on the
      roof by a skylight, furnished with a small bed, a walnut-wood wardrobe, a
      toilet-table, and two chairs. Twenty similar rooms ran along the
      convent-like corridor, painted yellow; and, out of the thirty-five young
      ladies in the house, the twenty who had no friends in Paris slept there,
      whilst the remaining fifteen lodged outside, a few with borrowed aunts and
      cousins. Denise at once took off her shabby woollen dress, worn thin by
      brushing and mended at the sleeves, the only one she had brought from
      Valognes; she then put on the uniform of her department, a black silk
      dress which had been altered for her and which she found ready on the bed.
      This dress was still too large, too wide across the shoulders; but she was
      so hurried in her emotion that she paid no heed to these details of
      coquetry. She had never worn silk before. When she went downstairs again,
      dressed up, uncomfortable, she looked at the shining skirt, feeling
      ashamed of the noisy rustling of the silk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Down below, as she was entering her department, a quarrel burst out. She
      heard Clara say, in a shrill voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame, I came in before her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It isn't true,&rdquo; replied Marguerite. &ldquo;She pushed past me at the door, but
      I had already one foot in the room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was for the inscription on the list of turns, which regulated the
      sales. The saleswomen wrote their names on a slate in the order of their
      arrival, and whenever one of them had served a customer, she re-wrote her
      name beneath the others. Madame Aurélie finished by deciding in
      Marguerite's favour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Always some injustice here!&rdquo; muttered Clara, furiously. But Denise's
      entry reconciled these young ladies. They looked at her, then smiled to
      each other. How could a person truss herself up in that way! The young
      girl went and awkwardly wrote her name on the list, where she found
      herself last. Meanwhile, Madame Aurélie was examining her with an anxious
      face. She could not help saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, two like you could get into your dress; you must have it taken
      in. Besides, you don't know how to dress yourself. Come here and let me
      arrange you a bit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she placed herself before one of the tall glasses alternating with the
      doors of the cupboards containing the dresses. The vast apartment,
      surrounded by these glasses and the wood-work in carved oak, the floor
      covered with red Wilton carpet of a large pattern, resembled the
      commonplace drawing-room of an hotel, traversed by a continual stream of
      travellers. The young ladies completed the resemblance, dressed in the
      regulation silk, promenading their commercial charms about, without ever
      sitting down on the dozen chairs reserved for the customers. All wore
      between two buttonholes of the body of their dresses, as if stuck in their
      bosoms, a long pencil, with its point in the air; and half out of their
      pockets, could be seen the white cover of the book of debit-notes. Several
      risked wearing jewellery&mdash;rings, brooches, chains; but their great
      coquetry, the luxury they all struggled for in the forced uniformity of
      their dress, was their bare hair, quantities of it, augmented by plaits
      and chignons when their own did not suffice, combed, curled, and decked
      out in every way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pull the waist down in front,&rdquo; said Madame Aurélie. &ldquo;There, you have now
      no hump on your back. And your hair, how can you massacre it like that? It
      would be superb, if you only took a little trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was, in fact, Denise's only beauty. Of a beautiful flaxen hue, it
      fell down to her ankles; and when she did it up, it was so troublesome
      that she simply rolled it in a knot, keeping it together under the strong
      teeth of a bone comb. Clara, greatly annoyed by this head of hair,
      affected to laugh at it, so strange did it look, twisted up anyhow in its
      savage grace. She made a sign to a saleswoman in the under-linen
      department, a girl with a large face and agreeable manner. The two
      departments, which were close together, were in continual hostility; but
      the young ladies sometimes joined together in laughing at other people.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Cugnot, just look at that mane,&rdquo; said Clara, whom Marguerite
      was nudging, feigning also to be on the point of bursting out laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mademoiselle Cugnot was not in the humour for joking. She had been
      looking at Denise for a moment, and she remembered what she had suffered
      herself during the first few months of her arrival in the establishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what?&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Everybody hasn't got a mane like that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she returned to her place, leaving the two others very crestfallen.
      Denise, who had heard all, followed her with a look of thanks, while
      Madame Aurélie gave our heroine a book of debit-notes with her name on it,
      saying: &ldquo;To-morrow you'll get yourself up better; and, now, try and pick
      up the ways of the house, wait your turn for selling. To-day's work will
      be very hard; we shall be able to judge of your capabilities.&rdquo; However,
      the department still remained deserted; very few customers came up at this
      early hour. The young ladies reserved themselves, prudently preparing for
      the fatigues of the afternoon. Denise, intimidated by the thought that
      they were watching her, sharpened her pencil, for the sake of something to
      do; then, imitating the others, she stuck it into her bosom, between two
      buttonholes, and summoned up all her courage, determined to conquer a
      position. The previous evening they had told her she entered as a
      probationer, that is to say without any fixed salary; she would simply
      have the commission and a certain allowance on everything she sold. But
      she fully hoped to earn twelve hundred francs a year in this way, knowing
      that the good saleswomen earned as much as two thousand, when they liked
      to take the trouble. Her expenses were regulated; a hundred francs a month
      would enable her to pay Pépé's board and lodging, assist Jean, who did not
      earn a sou, and procure some clothes and linen for herself. But, in order
      to attain this large sum, she would have to show herself industrious and
      pushing, taking no notice of the ill-will displayed by those around her,
      fighting for her share, even snatching it from her comrades if necessary.
      As she was thus working herself up for the struggle, a tall young man,
      passing the department, smiled at her; and when she saw it was Deloche,
      who had been engaged in the lace department the previous day, she returned
      his smile, happy at the friendship which thus presented itself, accepting
      this smile as a good omen.
    </p>
    <p>
      At half-past nine a bell rang for the first luncheon. Then a fresh peal
      announced the second; and still no customers appeared. The second-hand,
      Madame Frédéric, who, in her disagreeable widow's harshness, delighted in
      prophesying disasters, declared in short sentences that the day was lost,
      that they would not see a soul, that they might close the cupboards and go
      away; predictions which darkened Marguerite's flat face, she being a girl
      who looked sharp after her profits, whilst Clara, with her runaway-horse
      appearance, was already dreaming of an excursion to the Verrières woods,
      if the house failed. As for Madame Aurélie, she was there, silent and
      serious, promenading her Cæsar-like mask about the empty department, like
      a general who has a certain responsibility in victory and in defeat. About
      eleven o'clock a few ladies appeared. Denise's turn for serving had
      arrived. Just at that moment a customer came up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fat old girl from the country,&rdquo; murmured Marguerite.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a woman of forty-five, who occasionally journeyed to Paris from the
      depths of some out-of-the-way place. There she saved up for months; then,
      hardly out of the train, she made straight for The Ladies' Paradise, and
      spent all her savings. She very rarely ordered anything by letter, she
      liked to see and handle the goods, and laid in a stock of everything, even
      down to needles, which she said were excessively dear in her small town.
      The whole staff knew her, that her name was Boutarel, and that she lived
      at Albi, but troubled no further about her, neither about her position nor
      her mode of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you do, madame?&rdquo; graciously asked Madame Aurélie, who had come
      forward. &ldquo;And what can we show you? You shall be attended to at once.&rdquo;
       Then, turning round: &ldquo;Now, young ladies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise approached; but Clara had sprung forward. As a rule, she was very
      careless and idle, not caring about the money she earned in the shop, as
      she could get plenty outside, without trouble. But the idea of doing the
      new-comer out of a good customer spurred her on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, it's my turn,&rdquo; said Denise, indignantly. Madame
      Aurélie set her aside with a severe look, saying: &ldquo;There are no turns. I
      alone am mistress here. Wait till you know, before serving our regular
      customers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young girl retired, and as the tears were coming in her eyes, and she
      wished to conceal this excess of sensibility, she turned her back,
      standing up before the window, pretending to be looking into the street.
      Were they going to prevent her selling? Would they all arrange together to
      deprive her of the important sales, like that? A fear for the future
      seized her, she felt herself crushed between so many interests let loose.
      Yielding to the bitterness of her abandonment, her forehead against the
      cold glass, she gazed at The Old Elbeuf opposite, thinking she ought to
      have implored her uncle to keep her. Perhaps he himself regretted his
      decision, for he seemed to her greatly affected the previous evening. Now
      she was quite alone in this vast house, where no one liked her, where she
      found herself hurt, lost. Pépé and Jean, who had never left her side, were
      living with strangers; it was a cruel separation, and the big tears which
      she kept back made the street dance in a sort of fog. All this time, the
      hum of voices continued behind her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This one makes me look a fright,&rdquo; Madame Boutarel was saying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You really make a mistake, madame,&rdquo; said Clara; &ldquo;the shoulders fit
      perfectly&mdash;but perhaps you would prefer a pelisse to a mantle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Denise started. A hand was laid on her arm. Madame Aurélie addressed
      her severely:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you're doing nothing now&mdash;eh? only looking at the people
      passing. Things can't go on this way, you know!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But they prevent me selling, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, there's other work for you, mademoiselle! Begin at the beginning. Do
      the folding-up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In order to please the few customers who had called, they had been obliged
      to ransack all the cupboards, and on the two long oaken tables, to the
      right and the left, were heaps of mantles, pelisses, and capes, garments
      of all sizes and all materials. Without replying, Denise set about sorting
      them, folding them carefully and arranging them again in the cupboards.
      This was the lowest work, generally performed by beginners. She ceased to
      protest, knowing that they required the strictest obedience, waiting till
      the first hand should be good enough to let her sell, as she seemed at
      first to have the intention of doing. She was still folding, when Mouret
      appeared on the scene. This was a violent shock for her; she blushed
      without knowing why, she felt herself invaded by a strange fear, thinking
      he was going to speak to her. But he did not even see her; he no longer
      remembered this little girl whom the charming impression of an instant had
      induced him to support.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame Aurélie,&rdquo; called he in a brief voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was rather pale, but his eyes were clear and resolute. In making the
      tour of the departments he had found them empty, and the possibility of a
      defeat had suddenly presented itself in the midst of his obstinate faith
      in fortune. True, it was only eleven o'clock; he knew by experience that
      the crowd never arrived much before the afternoon. But certain symptoms
      troubled him. At the previous sales, a general movement had taken place
      from the morning even; besides he did not see any of those bareheaded
      women, customers living in the neighbourhood, who usually dropped into his
      shop as into a neighbour's. Like all great captains, he felt at the moment
      of giving battle a superstitious weakness, notwithstanding his habitually
      resolute attitude. Things would not go on well, he was lost, and he could
      not have explained why; he thought he could read his defeat on the faces
      of the passing ladies even.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just at that moment, Madame Boutarel, she who always bought something, was
      going away, saying: &ldquo;No, you have nothing that pleases me. I'll see, I'll
      decide later on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret watched her depart. Then, as Madame Aurélie ran up at his call, he
      took her aside, and they exchanged a few rapid words. She wore a
      despairing air, and was evidently admitting that things were looking bad.
      For a moment they remained face to face, seized with one of those doubts
      which generals conceal from their soldiers. Ultimately he said out loud in
      his brave way: &ldquo;If you want assistance, understand, take a girl from the
      workroom. She'll be a little help to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He continued his inspection in despair. He had avoided Bourdoncle all the
      morning, for his anxious doubts irritated him. On leaving the under-linen
      department, where business was still worse, he dropped right on to him,
      and was obliged to submit to the expression of his fears. He did not
      hesitate to send him to the devil, with a brutality that even his
      principal employees came in for when things were looking bad.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get out of my way!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Everything is going on all right. I shall
      end by pitching out the tremblers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret planted himself alone on the landing of the hall-staircase. From
      there he commanded the whole shop; around him the departments on the
      first-floor; beneath, those of the ground-floor. Above, the emptiness
      seemed heart-breaking; in the lace department, an old woman was having
      everything turned over and buying nothing; whilst three good-for-nothing
      minxes in the under-linen department were slowly choosing some collars at
      eighteen sous. Down below, under the covered galleries, in the ray of
      light which came in from the street, he noticed that the customers were
      commencing to get more numerous. It was a slow, broken procession, a
      promenade before the counters; in the mercery and the haberdashery
      departments some women of the commoner class were pushing about, but there
      was hardly a customer in the linen or in the woollen departments. The shop
      messengers, in their green coats, the buttons of which shone brilliantly,
      were waiting for customers, their hands dangling about. Now and again
      there passed an inspector with a ceremonious air, very stiff in his white
      neck-tie. Mouret was especially grieved by the mortal silence which
      reigned in the hall, where the light fell from above from a ground glass
      window, showing a white dust, diffuse and suspended, as it were, under
      which the silk department seemed to be sleeping, amid a shivering
      religious silence. A shopman's footstep, a few whispered words, the
      rustling of a passing skirt, were the only noises heard, and they were
      almost stifled by the hot air of the heating apparatus. However, carriages
      began to arrive, the sudden piffling up of the horses was heard, and
      immediately after the banging of the carriage doors. Outside, a distant
      tumult was commencing to make itself heard, groups of idlers were pushing
      in front of the windows, cabs were taking up their positions in the Place
      Gaillon, there were all the appearances of an approaching crowd. But on
      seeing the idle cashiers leaning back on their chairs behind their
      wickets, and observing that the parcel-tables with their boxes of string
      and reams of blue packing-paper remained unoccupied, Mouret, though
      indignant with himself for being afraid, thought he felt his immense
      machine stop and turn cold beneath him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, Favier,&rdquo; murmured Hutin, &ldquo;look at the governor up there. He
      doesn't seem to be enjoying himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a rotten shop!&rdquo; replied Favier. &ldquo;Just fancy, I've not sold a
      thing yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both of them, waiting for customers, whispered such short remarks from
      time to time without looking at each other. The other salesmen of the
      department were occupied in arranging large bales of the Paris Paradise
      under Robineau's orders; whilst Bouthemont, in full consultation with a
      thin young woman, seemed to be taking an important order. Around them, on
      frail and elegant shelves, the silks, folded in long pieces of creamy
      paper, were heaped up like pamphlets of an unusual size; and, encumbering
      the counters, were fancy silks, moires, satins, velvets, presenting the
      appearance of mown flowers, quite a harvest of delicate precious tissues.
      This was the most elegant of all the departments, a veritable drawingroom,
      where the goods, so light and airy, were nothing but a luxurious
      furnishing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must have a hundred francs by Sunday,&rdquo; said Hutin. &ldquo;If I don't make an
      average of twelve francs a day, I'm lost. I'd reckoned on this sale.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Jovel a hundred francs; that's rather stiff,&rdquo; said Favier. &ldquo;I only
      want fifty or sixty. You must go in for swell women, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, my dear fellow. It's a stupid affair; I made a bet and lost. So I
      have to stand a dinner for five persons, two fellows and three girls. Hang
      me! the first one that passes I'll let her in for twenty yards of Paris
      Paradise!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They continued talking for several minutes, relating what they had done
      the previous day, and what they intended to do the next week. Favier did a
      little betting, Hutin did a little boating, and kept music-hall singers.
      But they were both possessed by the same desire for money, struggling for
      it all the week, and spending it all on Sunday. It was their sole
      preoccupation in the shop, an hourly and pitiless struggle. And that
      cunning Bouthemont had just managed to get hold of Madame Sauveur's
      messenger, the skinny woman with whom he was talking! good business, three
      or four dozen pieces, at least, for the celebrated dressmaker always gave
      good orders. At that moment Robineau took it into his head to do Favier
      out of a customer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! as for that fellow, we must settle up with him,&rdquo; said Hutin, who took
      advantage of the slightest thing in order to stir up the salesmen against
      the man whose place he coveted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ought the first and second hands to sell? My word of honour! my dear
      fellow, if ever I become second you'll see how well I shall act with the
      others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And all his little Norman person, so fat and jolly, played the
      good-natured man energetically. Favier could not help casting a side
      glance towards him, but he preserved his phlegmatical air, contenting
      himself with replying: &ldquo;Yes, I know. I should be only too pleased.&rdquo; Then,
      as a lady came up, he added in a lower tone: &ldquo;Look out! Here's one for
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a lady with a blotchy face, a yellow bonnet, and a red dress. Hutin
      immediately recognised in her a woman who would buy nothing. He quickly
      stooped behind the counter, pretending to be doing up his boot-lace; and,
      thus concealed, he murmured: &ldquo;No fear, let some one else take her. I don't
      want to lose my turn!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, Robineau called out: &ldquo;Whose turn, gentlemen? Monsieur Hutin's?
      Where's Monsieur Hutin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as this gentleman still gave no reply, it was the next salesman who
      served the lady with the blotches. Hutin was right, she simply wanted some
      samples with the prices; and she kept the salesman more than ten minutes,
      overwhelming him with questions. However, Robineau had seen Hutin get up
      from behind the counter; so that when another customer arrived, he
      interfered with a stern air, stopping the young man, who was rushing
      forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your turn is passed. I called you, and as you were there behind&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I didn't hear you, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That'll do! Write your name at the bottom. Now, Monsieur Favier, it's
      your turn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Favier, greatly amused at heart at this adventure, threw a glance at his
      friend, as if to excuse himself. Hutin, with pale lips, had turned his
      head away. What enraged him was that he knew the customer very well, an
      adorable blonde who often came to their department, and whom the salesmen
      called amongst themselves &ldquo;the pretty lady,&rdquo; knowing nothing of her, not
      even her name. She bought a great deal, had her purchases taken to her
      carriage, and immediately disappeared. Tall, elegant, dressed with
      exquisite taste, she appeared to be very rich, and to belong to the best
      society.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! and your courtesan?&rdquo; asked Hutin of Favier, when the latter
      returned from the pay-desk, where he had accompanied the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! a courtesan!&rdquo; replied the other. &ldquo;I fancy she looks too lady-like for
      that. She must be the wife of a stockbroker or a doctor, or something of
      that sort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't tell me! it's a courtesan. With their grand lady airs it's
      impossible to tell now-a-days!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Favier looked at his book of debit-notes. &ldquo;I don't care!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I've
      stuck her for two hundred and ninety-three francs. That makes nearly three
      francs for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hutin bit his lips, and vented his spleen on the debit notebooks. Another
      invention for cramming their pockets. There was a secret rivalry between
      these two. Favier, as a rule, pretended to sing small, to recognise
      Hutin's superiority, but in reality devouring him all the while behind his
      back. Thus Hutin was wild at the thought of the three francs pocketed so
      easily by a salesman whom he considered to be his inferior in business. A
      fine day's work! If it went on like this, he would not earn enough to pay
      for the seltzer water for his guests. And in the midst of the battle,
      which was now becoming fiercer, he walked along the counters with hungry
      eyes, eager for his share, jealous even of his superior, who was just
      showing the thin young woman out, and saying to her:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well! it's understood. Tell her I'll do my best to obtain this
      favour from Monsieur Mouret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret had quitted his post on the stairs some time before. Suddenly he
      reappeared on the landing of the principal staircase which communicated
      with the ground floor; and from there he commanded a view of the whole
      establishment. His face had regained its colour, his faith was restored
      and increasing before the crowd which was gradually filling the place. It
      was the expected rush at last, the afternoon crush, which he had for a
      moment despaired of. All the shopmen were at their posts, a last ring of
      the bell had announced the end of the third lunch; the disastrous morning,
      due no doubt to a shower which fell about nine o'clock, could still be
      repaired, for the blue sky of early morn had resumed its victorious
      gaiety. Now that the first-floor departments were becoming animated, he
      was obliged to stand back to make way for the women who were going up to
      the under-clothing and dress departments; whilst, behind him, in the lace
      and the shawl departments, he heard large sums bandied about. But the
      sight of the galleries on the ground-floor especially reassured him. There
      was a crowd at the haberdashery department, and even the linen and woollen
      departments were invaded. The procession of buyers closed up, nearly all
      of a higher class at present, with a few lingering housewives. Under the
      pale light of the silk hall, ladies had taken off their gloves to feel the
      Paris Paradise, talking in half-whispers. And there was no longer any
      mistaking the noises arriving from outside, rolling of cabs, banging of
      carriage-doors, an increasing tumult in the crowd. He felt the machine
      commencing to work under him, getting up steam and reviving, from the
      pay-desks where the money was jingling, and the tables where the
      messengers were hurriedly packing up the goods, down to the basement, in
      the delivery-room, which was quickly filling up with the parcels sent
      down, and the underground rumbling of which seemed to shake the whole
      house. In the midst of the crowd was the inspector, Jouve, walking about
      gravely, watching for thieves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hullo! is that you?&rdquo; said Mouret, all at once, recognising Paul de
      Vallagnosc whom a messenger had conducted to him. &ldquo;No, no, you are not in
      my way. Besides, you've only to follow me if you want to see everything,
      for to-day I stay at the breach.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He still felt anxious. No doubt there were plenty of people, but would the
      sale prove to be the triumph he hoped for? However, he laughed with Paul,
      carrying him off gaily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems to be picking up a bit,&rdquo; said Hutin to Favier. &ldquo;But somehow I've
      no luck; there are some days that are precious bad, my word! I've just
      made another miss, that old frump hasn't bought anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he glanced towards a lady who was walking off, casting looks of
      disgust at all the goods. He was not likely to get fat on his thousand
      francs a year, unless he sold something; as a rule he made seven or eight
      francs a day commission, which gave him with his regular pay an average of
      ten francs a day. Favier never made much more than eight, and there was
      this animal taking the bread out of his mouth, for he had just sold
      another dress&mdash;a cold-natured fellow who had never known how to amuse
      a customer! It was exasperating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those chaps over there seem to be doing very well,&rdquo; remarked Favier,
      speaking of the salesmen in the hosiery and haberdashery departments.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Hutin, who was looking all round the place, suddenly asked: &ldquo;Do you
      know Madame Desforges, the governor's sweetheart? Look! that dark woman in
      the glove department, who is having some gloves tried on by Mignot.&rdquo; He
      stopped, then resumed in a low tone, as if speaking to Mignot, on whom he
      continued to keep his eyes: &ldquo;Oh, go on, old man, you may pull her fingers
      about as much as you like, that won't do you any good! We know your
      conquests!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a rivalry between himself and the glove-man, the rivalry of two
      handsome fellows, who both affected to flirt with the lady-customers. As a
      matter of fact they had neither had any real conquests to boast about.
      Mignot lived on the legend of a police superintendent's wife who had
      fallen in love with him, whilst Hutin had really conquered a lace-maker
      who had got tired of wandering about in the doubtful hotels in the
      neighbourhood; but they invented a lot of mysterious adventures, leading
      people to believe in all sorts of appointments made by titled ladies,
      between two purchases.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should get hold of her,&rdquo; said Favier, in his sly, artful way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a good idea!&rdquo; exclaimed Hutin. &ldquo;If she comes here I'll let her in
      for something extensive; I want a five-franc piece!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the glove department quite a row of ladies were seated before the
      narrow counter covered with green velvet and edged with nickel silver; and
      the smiling shopmen were heaping up before them the flat boxes of a bright
      red, taken out of the counter itself, and resembling the ticketed drawers
      of a secrétaire. Mignot especially was bending his pretty doll-like face
      over his customer, his thick Parisian voice full of tender inflections. He
      had already sold Madame Desforges a dozen pairs of kid gloves, the
      Paradise gloves, one of the specialities of the house. She then took three
      pairs of Swedish, and was now trying on some Saxon gloves, for fear the
      size should not be exact.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! quite perfect, madame!&rdquo; repeated Mignot. &ldquo;Six and a quarter would be
      too large for a hand like yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Half lying on the counter, he was holding her hand, taking the fingers one
      by one, slipping the glove on with a long, renewed, and persistently
      caressing air, looking at her as if he expected to see in her face the
      signs of a voluptuous joy. But she, with her elbow on the velvet counter,
      her wrist raised, gave him her fingers with the unconcerned air with which
      she gave her foot to her maid to allow her to button her boot. For her he
      was not a man; she employed him for such private work with the familiar
      disdain she showed for the people in her service, without looking at him
      even.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't hurt you, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She replied &ldquo;No,&rdquo; with a shake of the head. The smell of the Saxon gloves&mdash;that
      savage smell as of sugared musk&mdash;troubled her as a rule; and she
      sometimes laughed about it, confessing her taste for this equivocal
      perfume, in which there is a suspicion of the wild beast fallen into some
      girl's powder-box. But seated at this commonplace counter she did not
      notice the smell of the gloves, it raised no sensual feeling between her
      and this salesman doing his work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what next, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, thanks. Be good enough to carry the parcel to the pay-desk No.
      10, for Madame Desforges.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Being a constant customer, she gave her name at a pay-desk, and had each
      purchase sent there without wanting a shopman to follow her. When she had
      gone away, Mignot turned towards his neighbour and winked, and would have
      liked him to believe that wonderful things had just taken place. &ldquo;By Jove!
      I'd like to dress her all over!&rdquo; said he, coarsely. Meanwhile, Madame
      Desforges continued her purchases. She turned to the left, stopping in the
      linen department to procure some dusters; then she walked round the shop,
      going as far as the woollen department at the further end of the gallery.
      As she was satisfied with her cook, she wanted to make her a present of a
      dress. The woollen department overflowed with a compact crowd, all the
      lower middle-class women were there, feeling the stuff, absorbed in mute
      calculations; and she was obliged to sit down for a moment. The shelves
      were piled up with great rolls of stuff which the salesmen were taking
      down one by one, with a sudden pull. They were beginning to get confused
      with these encumbered counters, on which the stuffs were mixing up and
      tumbling over each other. It was a rising tide of neutral tints, heavy
      woollen tones, iron-greys, and blue-greys, with here and there a Scotch
      tartan, and a blood-red ground of flannel breaking out. And the white
      tickets on the pieces were like a shower of rare white flakes falling on a
      black December soil.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behind a pile of poplin, Liénard was joking with a tall girl without hat
      or bonnet, a work-girl, sent by her mistress to match some merino. He
      detested these big-sale days, which tired him to death, and he endeavoured
      to shirk his work, getting plenty of money from his father, not caring a
      fig about the business, doing just enough to avoid being dismissed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me, Mademoiselle Fanny,&rdquo; he was saying; &ldquo;you are always in a
      hurry. Did the striped vicugna do the other day? I shall come and see you,
      and ask for my commission.&rdquo; But the girl escaped, laughing, and Liénard
      found himself before Madame Desforges, whom he could not help asking:
      &ldquo;What can I serve you with, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She wanted a dress, not too dear but yet strong. Liénard, with the view of
      sparing his arms, which was his principal care, manoeuvred to make her
      take one of the stuffs already unfolded on the counter. There were
      cashmeres, serges, vicugnas, and he declared that there was nothing better
      to be had, they never wore out. But none of these seemed to satisfy her.
      On one of the shelves she had observed a blue serge, which she wished to
      see. He made up his mind at last, and took down the roll, but she thought
      it too rough. Then he showed her a cheviot, some diagonal, some greys,
      every sort of woollens, which she felt out of curiosity, for the pleasure
      of doing so, decided at heart to take no matter what. The young man was
      thus obliged to empty the highest shelves; his shoulders cracked, the
      counter had disappeared under the silky grain of the cashmeres and
      poplins, the rough nap of the cheviot, and the tufty down of the vicugna;
      there were samples of every material and every tint. Though she had not
      the least wish to buy any, she asked to see some grenadine and some
      Chambéry gauze. Then, when she had seen enough, she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! after all, the first is the best; it's for my cook. Yes, the serge,
      the one at two francs.&rdquo; And when Liénard had measured it, pale with
      suppressed anger, she added: &ldquo;Have the goodness to carry that to pay-desk
      No. 10, for Madame Desforges.&rdquo; Just as she was going away, she recognised
      Madame Marty close to her, accompanied by her daughter Valentine, a tall
      girl of fourteen, thin and bold, who was already casting a woman's
      covetous looks on the goods.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! it's you, dear madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear madame; what a crowd&mdash;eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! don't speak of it, it's stifling. And such a success! Have you seen
      the oriental saloon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Superb&mdash;wonderful!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And amidst the pushing and crushing of the growing crowd of modest purses
      eagerly seeking the cheap lines in the woollen goods, they went into
      ecstasies over the exhibition of carpets. Then Madame Marty explained she
      was looking for some material for a mantle; but she was not quite decided;
      she wanted to see some check patterns.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look, mamma,&rdquo; murmured Valentine, &ldquo;it's too common.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come to the silk department,&rdquo; said Madame Desforges, &ldquo;you must see their
      famous Paris Paradise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Marty hesitated for a moment. It would be very dear, and she had
      faithfully promised her husband to be careful! She had been buying for an
      hour, quite a pile of articles were following her already: a muff and some
      cuffs and collars for herself, some stockings for her daughter. She
      finished by saying to the shopman who was showing her the checks:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;no; I'm going to the silk department; you've nothing to suit
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shopman took the articles and walked before the ladies. In the silk
      department there was also a crowd, the principal crush being opposite the
      inside display, arranged by Hutin, and to which Mouret had given the
      finishing touches. It was at the further end of the hall, around one of
      the small wrought-iron columns which supported the glass roof, a veritable
      torrent of stuffs, a puffy sheet falling from, above and spreading out?
      down to the floor. At first stood out the light satins and tender silks,
      the satins <i>à la Reine</i> and Renaissance, with the pearly tones of
      spring water; light silks, transparent as crystals&mdash;Nile-green,
      Indian-azure, May-rose, and Danube-blue. Then came the stronger fabrics:
      marvellous satins, duchess silks, warm tints, rolling in great waves; and
      right at the bottom, as in a fountain-basin, reposed the heavy stuffs, the
      figured silks, the damasks, brocades, and lovely silvered silks in the
      midst of a deep bed of velvet of every sort&mdash;black, white, and
      coloured&mdash;skilfully disposed on silk and satin grounds, hollowing out
      with their medley of colours a still lake in which the reflex of the sky
      seemed to be dancing. The women, pale with desire, bent over as if to look
      at themselves. And before this falling cataract they all remained
      standing, with the secret fear of being carried away by the irruption of
      such luxury, and with the irresistible desire to jump in amidst it and be
      lost.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here you are, then!&rdquo; said Madame Desforges, on finding Madame Bourdelais
      installed before a counter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! good-morning!&rdquo; replied the latter, shaking hands with the ladies.
      &ldquo;Yes, I've come to have a look.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a prodigious exhibition! It's like a dream. And the oriental saloon!
      Have you seen the oriental saloon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes; extraordinary!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But beneath this enthusiasm, which was to be decidedly the fashionable
      note of the day, Madame Bourdelais retained her practical housekeeper's
      coolness. She was carefully examining a piece of Paris Paradise, for she
      had come on purpose to take advantage of the exceptional cheapness of this
      silk, if she found it really advantageous. She was doubtless satisfied
      with it, for she took twenty-five yards, hoping it would be sufficient to
      make a dress for herself and a cloak for her little girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you are going already?&rdquo; resumed Madame Desforges. &ldquo;Take a walk
      round with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thanks; they are waiting for me at home. I didn't like to risk
      bringing the children into this crowd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she went away, preceded by the salesman carrying * the twenty-five
      yards of silk, and who led her to pay-desk No. 10, where young Albert was
      getting confused with all the demands for bills with which he was
      besieged. When the salesman was able to approach, after having inscribed
      his sale on the debit-note, he called out the item, which the cashier
      entered in a register; then it was checked over, and the leaf torn off the
      salesman's book of debit-notes was stuck on a file near the receipting
      stamp.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One hundred and forty francs,&rdquo; said Albert.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Bourdelais paid and gave her address, for having come on foot she
      did not wish to be troubled with a parcel. Joseph had already got the silk
      behind the pay-desk, and was tying it up; and the parcel, thrown into a
      basket on wheels, was sent down to the delivery department, where all the
      goods in the shop seemed to be swallowed up with a sluice-like noise.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the block was becoming so great in the silk department that
      Madame Desforges and Madame Marty could not at first find a salesman
      disengaged. They remained standing, mingling with the crowd of ladies who
      were looking at the silks and feeling them, staying there hours without
      making up their minds. But the Paris Paradise was a great success; around
      it pressed one of those crowds which decides the fortune of a fashion in a
      day. A host of shopmen were engaged in measuring off this silk; one could
      see, above the customers' heads, the pale glimmer of the unfolded pieces,
      in the continual coming and going of the fingers along the oak yard
      measures hanging from brass rods; one could hear the noise of the scissors
      cutting the silk, without ceasing, as the sale went on, as if there were
      not enough shopmen to suffice for all the greedy outstretched hands of the
      customers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It really isn't bad for five francs twelve sous,&rdquo; said Madame Desforges,
      who had succeeded in getting hold of a piece at the edge of the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Marty and her daughter experienced a disappointment. The newspapers
      had said so much about it, that they had expected something stronger and
      more brilliant. But Bouthemont had just recognised Madame Desforges, and
      in order to get in the good graces of such a handsome lady, who was
      supposed to be all-powerful with the governor, he came up, with his rather
      coarse amiability. What! no one was serving her! it was unpardonable! He
      begged her to be indulgent, for really they did not know which way to
      turn. And he went to look for some chairs amongst the neighbouring skirts,
      laughing with his good-natured laugh, full of a brutal love for the sex,
      which did not seem to displease Henrietta.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say,&rdquo; murmured Favier, on going to take some velvet from a shelf behind
      Hutin, &ldquo;there's Bouthemont making up to your mash.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, gentlemen, some one this way!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hutin passed Madame Boutarel over to Robineau, who was doing nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here's the second-hand, madame. He will answer you better than I can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of silk, madame?&rdquo; asked he in his most gallant manner. Madame
      Desforges had no sooner opened her mouth than he added: &ldquo;I know, I've got
      just what you want.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! certainly,&rdquo; murmured she. &ldquo;A silk at five francs twelve sous will
      never be equal to one at fifteen, or even ten.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very light,&rdquo; repeated Madame Marty. &ldquo;I'm afraid that it has not
      sufficient body for a mantle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This remarked induced the salesman to intervene. He smiled with the
      exaggerated politeness of a man who cannot make a mistake.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, madame, flexibility is the chief quality of this silk. It will not
      crumple. It's exactly what you want.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Is that you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it's me, rather knocked about though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a crowd&mdash;eh? One can't get about. And the oriental saloon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ravishing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! what a success! Stay a moment, we will go upstairs
      together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thanks, I've just come down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I were you I should buy the mantle ready-made,&rdquo; said Madame Desforges,
      suddenly returning to the Paris Paradise. &ldquo;It won't cost you so much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's true that the trimmings and making-up&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; murmured Madame
      Marty. &ldquo;Besides, one has more choice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All three had risen. Madame Desforges turned to Hutin, saying: &ldquo;Have the
      goodness to show us to the ready-made department.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you, madame, would you not like to see our satins, our velvets? We
      have some extraordinary bargains.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, another time,&rdquo; replied she coolly, not looking at him any more
      than she had at Mignot.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the first floor, ladies,&rdquo; said he, without ceasing to smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 favourite position, from which he
      could see the victory. She smiled, hoping that he would come down and
      extricate her. But he did not even recognise her in the crowd; he was
      still with Vallagnosc, showing him the house, his face beaming with
      triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 odour 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 recognise 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;thanks to his
      vigorous elbows&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the left, ladies,&rdquo; said Hutin, still attentive, notwithstanding his
      increasing exasperation.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good afternoon! I was just thinking of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been looking for you myself. But how can you expect to find any one
      in this crowd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's magnificent, isn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dazzling, my dear. We can hardly stand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you're buying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! no, we're only looking round. It rests us a little to be seated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Madame Marty, &ldquo;you're looking at some cravats and handkerchiefs
      like those I showed you the other day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;You're going to the
      ready-made department&mdash;Well! we'll see you again. Shall we say in the
      oriental saloon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's it, in the oriental saloon&mdash;Superb, isn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the right, ladies,&rdquo; said Hutin, resuming his march.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 rancour 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Vadon!&rdquo; said Hutin, in an angry voice, when he at last
      arrived in the department.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Prunaire!&rdquo; cried out Hutin. And as she took no notice
      either, he added between his teeth, so as not to be heard: &ldquo;A set of
      frights!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So there's no one here to serve?&rdquo; asked Hutin.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 recognised her, occupied in clearing off the counter an
      enormous heap of garments, he ran up to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, mademoiselle! serve these ladies who are waiting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want a mantle,&rdquo; said Madame Marty.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are these ladies being served?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that young person over there is attending to us,&rdquo; replied Henriette.
      &ldquo;But she does not appear to be very well up to her work; she can't find
      anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this, the first-hand completely paralysed Denise by saying to her in a
      whisper: &ldquo;You see very well you know nothing. Don't interfere any more,
      please.&rdquo; And turning round she called out: &ldquo;Mademoiselle Vadon, these
      ladies require a mantle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 rancour. 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: &ldquo;Just see,
      aren't they pitiful?&rdquo; Madame Marty dared not think of them after that; she
      bent over to murmur in Madame Desforges's ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you prefer to be served by men? One feels more comfortable?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last Marguerite brought a silk mantle trimmed with jet, which she
      treated with more respect And Madame Aurélie abruptly called Denise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, do something for your living. Just put that on your shoulders.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, wounded to the heart, despairing of ever succeeding in the house,
      had remained motionless, her hands hanging by her side. No doubt she would
      be sent away, and the children would be without food. The tumult of the
      crowd buzzed in her head, she felt herself tottering, her arms bruised by
      the handling of so many armfuls of garments, hard work which she had never
      done before. However, she was obliged to obey and allow Marguerite to put
      the mantle on her, as on a dummy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stand upright,&rdquo; said Madame Aurélie.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a moment after they forgot Denise. Mouret had just come in with
      Vallagnosc and Bourdoncle; and he bowed to the ladies, who complimented
      him on his magnificent exhibition of winter novelties. Of course they went
      into raptures over the oriental saloon. Vallagnosc, who was finishing his
      walk round the counters, displayed more surprise than admiration; for,
      after all, thought he, in his pessimist supineness, it was nothing more
      than an immense collection of calico. Bourdoncle, forgetting that he
      belonged to the establishment, also congratulated the governor, to make
      him forget his anxious doubts and persecutions of the early part of the
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes; things are going on very well, I'm quite satisfied,&rdquo; repeated
      Mouret, radiant, replying with a smile to Madame Desforges's tender looks.
      &ldquo;But I must not interrupt you, ladies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then all eyes were again fixed on Denise. She placed herself entirely in
      the hands of Marguerite, who was making her turn round slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think of it&mdash;eh?&rdquo; asked Madame Marty of Madame
      Desforges.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter gave her advice, like a supreme umpire of fashion. &ldquo;It isn't
      bad, the cut is original, but it doesn't seem to me very graceful about
      the figure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; interrupted Madame Aurélie, &ldquo;it must be seen on the lady herself.
      You can understand it does not look much on this young person, who is not
      very stout. Hold up your head, mademoiselle, give it all its importance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They smiled. Denise had turned very pale. She felt ashamed at being thus
      turned into a machine, which they were examining and joking about so
      freely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Desforges, yielding to the antipathy of a contrary nature, and
      annoyed by the young girl's sweet face, maliciously added: &ldquo;No doubt it
      would set better if the young person's dress were not so loose-fitting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she cast at Mouret the mocking look of a Parisian beauty, greatly
      amused by the absurd ridiculous dress of a country girl. He felt the
      amorous caress of this glance, the triumph of a woman proud of her beauty
      and of her art. Therefore, out of pure gratitude, the gratitude of a man
      who felt himself adored, he thought himself obliged to joke in his turn,
      notwithstanding his good-will towards Denise, whose secret charm had
      conquered his gallant nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides, her hair should be combed,&rdquo; murmured he.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the last straw. The director deigned to laugh, all the young
      ladies were bursting. Marguerite risked a slight chuckle, like a
      well-behaved girl who restrains herself; Clara had left a customer to
      enjoy the fun at her ease; even the saleswomen from another department had
      come, attracted by the talking. As for the ladies they took it more
      quietly, with an air of well-bred enjoyment. Madame Aurélie was the only
      one who did not laugh, as if Denise's splendid wild-looking head of hair
      and elegant virginal shoulders had dishonoured her, in the orderly
      well-kept department. The young girl had turned paler still, in the midst
      of all these people who were laughing at her. She felt herself violated,
      exposed to all their looks, without defence. What had she done that they
      should thus attack her thin figure, and her too luxuriant hair? But she
      was especially wounded by Madame Desforges's and Mouret's laughter,
      instinctively divining their connection, her heart sinking with an unknown
      grief. This lady was very ill-natured to attack a poor girl who had said
      nothing; and as for Mouret, he most decidedly froze her up with a sort of
      fear, before which all her other sentiments disappeared, without her being
      able to analyse them. And, totally abandoned, attacked in her most
      cherished womanly feelings of modesty, and shocked at their injustice, she
      was obliged to stifle the sobs which were rising in her throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think so; let her comb her hair to-morrow,&rdquo; said the terrible
      Bourdoncle to Madame Aurélie. He had condemned Denise the first day she
      came, full of scorn for her small limbs.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last the first-hand came and took the mantle off Denise's shoulders,
      saying to her in a low tone: &ldquo;Well! mademoiselle, here's a fine start.
      Really, if this is the way you show off your capabilities&mdash;&mdash;Impossible
      to be more stupid!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, fearing the tears might gush from her, hastened back to the heap
      of garments, which she began to sort out on the counter. There at least
      she was lost in the crowd. Fatigue prevented her thinking. But she
      suddenly felt Pauline near her, a saleswoman in the under-clothing
      department, who had already defended her that morning. The latter had
      followed the scene, and murmured in Denise's ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor child, don't be so sensitive. Keep that to yourself, or they'll
      go on worse and worse. I come from Chartres. Yes, exactly, Pauline Cugnot
      is my name; and my parents are millers. Well! they would have devoured me
      the first few days if I had not stood up firm. Come, be brave! give me
      your hand, we'll have a talk together whenever you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This hand held out redoubled Denise's confusion; she shook it furtively,
      hastening to take up a load of cloaks, fearing to be doing wrong and to
      get a scolding if they knew she had a friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, Madame Aurélie herself, had just put the mantle on Madame Marty,
      and they all exclaimed: &ldquo;Oh! how nice! delightful!&rdquo; It at once looked
      quite different. Madame Desforges decided it would be impossible to
      improve on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a good deal of bowing. Mouret took his leave, whilst Vallognosc,
      who had perceived Madame de Boves and her daughter in the lace department,
      hastened to offer his arm to the mother. Marguerite, standing before one
      of the pay-desks, was already calling out the different purchases made by
      Madame Marty, who settled for them and ordered the parcel to be taken to
      her cab. Madame Desforges had found her articles at pay-desk No. 10. Then
      the ladies met once more in the oriental saloon. They were leaving, but it
      was amidst a loquacious feeling of admiration. Even Madame Guibal became
      enthusiastic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! delicious! makes you think you are in the East; doesn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A real harem, and not at all dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the Smyrnas! oh, the Smyrnas! what tones, what delicacy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this Kurdestan! Just look, a Delacroix!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The crowd was slowly diminishing. The bell, at an hour's interval, had
      already announced the two first dinners; the third was about to be served,
      and in the departments there were now only a few lingering customers,
      whose fever for spending had made them forget the time. Outside nothing
      was heard but the rolling of the last carriages amidst the husky voice of
      Paris, the snort of a satiated ogre digesting the linens and cloths, silks
      and lace, with which he had been gorged since the morning. Inside, beneath
      the flaming gas-jets, which, burning in the twilight, had lighted up the
      supreme efforts of the sale, everything appeared like a field of battle
      still warm with the massacre of the various goods. The salesmen, harassed
      and fatigued, camped amidst the contents of their shelves and counters,
      which appeared to have been thrown into the greatest confusion by the
      furious blast of a hurricane. It was with difficulty that one traversed
      the galleries on the ground floor, blocked up with a crowd of chairs, and
      in the glove department it was necessary to step over a pile of cases
      heaped up around Mignot; in the woollen department there was no means of
      passing at all, Liénard was dozing on a sea of bales, in which certain
      piles, still standing, though half destroyed, seemed to be houses that an
      overflowing river was carrying away; and, further on, the linen department
      was like a heavy fall of snow, one ran up against icebergs of napkins, and
      walked on light flakes of handkerchiefs.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same disorder prevailed upstairs in the departments; the furs were
      scattered over the flooring, the readymade clothes were heaped up like the
      great-coats of wounded soldiers, the lace and the underlinen, unfolded,
      crumpled, thrown about everywhere, made one think of an army of women who
      had disrobed there in the disorder of some sudden desire; whilst
      downstairs, at the other end of the house, the delivery department in full
      activity was still disgorging the parcels with which it was bursting, and
      which were carried off by the vans&mdash;last vibration of the overheated
      machine. But it was in the silk department especially that the customers
      had flung themselves with the greatest ardour. There they had cleared off
      everything, there was plenty of room to pass, the hall was bare; the whole
      of the colossal stock of Paris Paradise had been cut up and carried away,
      as if by a swarm of devouring locusts. And in the midst of this emptiness,
      Hutin and Favier were running through the counterfoils of their
      debit-notes, calculating their commission, still out of breath after the
      struggle. Favier had made fifteen francs, Hutin had only managed to make
      thirteen, thoroughly beaten that day, enraged at his bad luck. Their eyes
      sparkled with the passion for money. The whole shop around them was also
      adding up figures, glowing with the same fever, in the brutal gaiety of
      the evening of the battle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Bourdoncle!&rdquo; cried out Mouret, &ldquo;are you trembling still?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had returned to his favourite position at the top of the stairs of the
      first floor, against the balustrade; and, in the presence of the massacre
      of stuffs which was spread out under him, he indulged in a victorious
      laugh. His fears of the morning, that moment of unpardonable weakness
      which nobody would ever know of, inspired him with a greater desire to
      triumph. The battle was definitely won, the small tradespeople of the
      neighbourhood were done for, and Baron Hartmann was conquered, with his
      millions and his land. Whilst he was looking at the cashiers bending over
      their ledgers, adding up long columns of figures, whilst he was listening
      to the sound of the gold, falling from their fingers into the metal bowls,
      he already saw The Ladies' Paradise growing beyond all bounds, enlarging
      its hall and prolonging its galleries as far as the Rue du Dix-Décembre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now are you convinced, Bourdoncle,&rdquo; he resumed, &ldquo;that the house is
      really too small? We could have sold twice as much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle humbled himself, enraptured, moreover, to find himself in the
      wrong. But a new spectacle rendered them grave. As was the custom every
      evening, Lhomme, the chief cashier, had just collected the receipts from
      each pay-desk; after having added them up, he usually posted up the total
      amount after placing the paper on which it was written on his file. He
      then took the receipts up to the chief cashier's office, in a leather case
      and in bags, according to the nature of the cash. On this occasion the
      gold and silver predominated, and he was slowly walking upstairs, carrying
      three enormous bags. Deprived of his right arm, cut off at the elbow, he
      clasped them in his left arm against his breast, holding one up with his
      chin to prevent it slipping. His heavy breathing could be heard at a
      distance, he passed along, staggering and superb, amidst the respectful
      shopmen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much, Lhomme?&rdquo; asked Mouret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eighty thousand seven hundred and forty-two francs two sous,&rdquo; replied the
      cashier.
    </p>
    <p>
      A joyous laugh stirred up The Ladies' Paradise. The amount ran through the
      establishment. It was the highest figure ever attained in one day by a
      draper's shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      That evening, when Denise went up to bed, she was obliged to lean against
      the partition in the corridor under the zinc roof. When in her room, and
      with the door closed, she fell down on the bed; her feet pained her so
      much. For a long time she continued to look with a stupid air at the
      dressing-table, the wardrobe, all the hotel-like nudity. This, then, was
      where she was going to live; and her first day tormented her&mdash;an
      abominable, endless day. She would never have the courage to go through
      another. Then she perceived she was dressed in silk; and this uniform
      depressed her. She was childish enough, before unpacking her box, to put
      on her old woollen dress, which hung on the back of a chair. But when she
      was once more dressed in this poor garment of hers, a painful emotion
      choked her; the sobs which she had kept back all day burst forth suddenly
      in a flood of hot tears. She fell back on the bed, weeping at the thought
      of the two children, and she wept on, without feeling to have the strength
      to take off her boots, completely overcome with fatigue and grief.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he next day Denise
      had scarcely been downstairs half an hour, when Madame Aurélie said to her
      in her sharp voice: &ldquo;You are wanted at the directorate, mademoiselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young girl found Mouret alone, in the large office hung with green
      repp. He had suddenly remembered the &ldquo;unkempt girl,&rdquo; as Bourdoncle called
      her; and he, who usually detested the part of fault-finder, had had the
      idea of sending for her and waking her up a bit, if she were still dressed
      in the style of a country wench. The previous day, notwithstanding his
      pleasantry, he had experienced, in Madame Desforges's presence, a feeling
      of wounded vanity, on seeing the elegance of one of his saleswomen
      discussed. He felt a confused sentiment, a mixture of sympathy and anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have engaged you, mademoiselle,&rdquo; commenced he, &ldquo;out of regard for your
      uncle, and you must not put us under the sad necessity&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he stopped. Opposite him, on the other side of the desk, stood Denise,
      upright, serious, and pale. Her silk dress was no longer too big for her,
      but fitted tight round her pretty figure, displaying the pure lines of her
      virgin shoulders; and if her hair, knotted in thick tresses, still
      appeared untidy, she tried at least to keep it in order. After having gone
      to sleep with her clothes on, her eyes red with weeping, the young girl
      had felt ashamed of this attack of nervous sensibility on waking up about
      four o'clock, and she had immediately set about taking in her dress. She
      had spent an hour before the small looking-glass, combing her hair,
      without being able to reduce it as she would have liked to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! thank heavens!&rdquo; said Mouret, &ldquo;you look better this morning. But
      there's still that dreadful hair!&rdquo; He rose from his seat and went up to
      her to try and smooth it down in the same familiar way Madame Aurélie had
      attempted to do it the previous day. &ldquo;There! just tuck that in behind your
      ear. The chignon is too high.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not speak, but let him continue to arrange her hair;
      notwithstanding her vow to be strong, she had arrived at the office full
      of misgivings, certain that she had been sent for to be informed of her
      dismissal. And Mouret's evident kindliness did not reassure her; she still
      felt afraid of him, feeling when near him that uneasiness which she
      attributed to a natural anxiety in the presence of a powerful man on whom
      her fate depended. When he saw her so trembling under his hands, which
      were grazing her neck, he was sorry for his movement of good-nature, for
      he feared above all to lose his authority.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In short, mademoiselle,&rdquo; resumed he, once more placing the desk between
      himself and her, &ldquo;try and look to your appearance. You are no longer at
      Valognes; study our Parisian young ladies. If your uncle's name has
      sufficed to gain your admittance to our house, I feel sure you will carry
      out what your person seemed to promise to me. Unfortunately, everybody
      here is not of my opinion. Let this be a warning to you. Don't make me
      tell a falsehood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He treated her like a child, with more pity than kindness, his curiosity
      in matters feminine simply awakened by the troubling, womanly charm which
      he felt springing up in this poor and awkward child. And she, whilst he
      was lecturing her, having suddenly perceived Madame Hedouin's portrait&mdash;the
      handsome regular face smiling gravely in the gold frame&mdash;felt herself
      shivering again, notwithstanding the encouraging words he addressed to
      her. This was the dead lady, she whom people accused him of having killed,
      in order to found the house with the blood of her body.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret was still speaking. &ldquo;Now you may go,&rdquo; said he at last, sitting down
      and taking up his pen. She went away, heaving a deep sigh of relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      From that day forward, Denise displayed her great courage. Beneath these
      rare attacks of sensitiveness, a strong sense of reason was constantly
      working, quite a feeling of bravery at finding herself weak and alone, a
      cheerful determination to carry out her self-imposed task. She made very
      little noise, but went straight ahead to her goal, with an invincible
      sweetness, overcoming all obstacles, and that simply and naturally, for
      such was her real character.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first she had to surmount the terrible fatigues of the department The
      parcels of garments tired her arms, so much so that during the first six
      weeks she cried with pain when she turned over at night, bent almost
      double, her shoulders bruised. But she suffered still more from her shoes,
      thick shoes brought from Valognes, want of money preventing her replacing
      them with light boots. Always on her feet, trotting about from morning to
      night, scolded if seen leaning for a moment against any support, her feet
      became swollen, little feet, like those of a child, which seemed ground up
      in these torturing bluchers; her heels throbbed with fever, the soles were
      covered with blisters, the skin of which chafed off and stuck to the
      stocking. She felt her entire frame shattered, her limbs and organs
      contracted by the lassitude of her legs, the certain sudden weaknesses
      incident to her sex betraying themselves by the paleness of her flesh. And
      she, so thin, so frail, resisted courageously, whilst a great many
      saleswomen around her were obliged to quit the business, attacked with
      special maladies. Her good grace in suffering, her valiant obstinacy
      maintained her, smiling and upright, when she felt ready to give way,
      thoroughly worn out and exhausted by work to which men would have
      succumbed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another torment was to have the whole department against her. To the
      physical martyrdom there was added the secret persecution of her comrades.
      Two months of patience and gentleness had not disarmed them. She was
      constantly exposed to wounding remarks, cruel inventions, a series of
      slights which cut her to the heart, in her longing for affection. They had
      joked for a long time over her unfortunate first appearance; the words
      &ldquo;clogs&rdquo; and &ldquo;numbskull&rdquo; circulated. Those who missed a sale were sent to
      Valognes; she passed, in short, for the fool of the place. Then, when she
      revealed herself later on as a remarkable saleswoman, well up in the
      mechanism of the house, the young ladies arranged together so as never to
      leave her a good customer. Marguerite and Clara pursued her with an
      instinctive hatred, closing up the ranks in order not to be swallowed up
      by this new comer, whom they really feared in spite of their affectation
      of disdain. As for Madame Aurélie, she was hurt by the proud reserve
      displayed by the young girl, who did not hover round her skirts with an
      air of caressing admiration; she therefore abandoned Denise to the rancour
      of her favourites, to the favoured ones of her court, who were always on
      their knees, engaged in feeding her with a continual flattery, which her
      large authoritative person needed to make it blossom forth. For a while,
      the second-hand, Madame Frédéric, appeared not to enter into the
      conspiracy, but this must have been by inadvertence, for she showed
      herself equally harsh the moment she saw to what annoyances her
      good-nature was likely to expose her. Then the abandonment became
      complete, they all made a butt of the &ldquo;unkempt girl,&rdquo; who lived in an
      hourly struggle, only managing by the greatest courage to hold her own in
      the department.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was her life now. She had to smile, look brave and gracious in a silk
      dress which did not belong to her, although dying with fatigue, badly fed,
      badly treated, under the continual menace of a brutal dismissal. Her room
      was her only refuge, the only place where she could abandon herself to the
      luxury of a cry, when she had suffered too much during the day. But a
      terrible coldness fell from the zinc roof, covered with the December snow;
      she was obliged to nestle in her iron bedstead, throw all her clothes over
      her, and weep under the counterpane to prevent the frost chapping her
      face. Mouret never spoke to her now. When she caught Bourdoncle's severe
      looks during business hours she trembled, for she felt in him a born enemy
      who would not forgive her the slightest fault. And amidst this general
      hostility, Jouve the inspector's strange friendliness astonished her. If
      he met her in any out-of-the-way corner he smiled at her, made some
      amiable remark; twice he had saved her from being reprimanded without any
      show of gratitude on her part, for she was more troubled than touched by
      his protection.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening, after dinner, as the young ladies were setting the cupboards
      in order, Joseph came and informed Denise that a young man wanted her
      below. She went down, feeling very anxious.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hullo!&rdquo; said Clara, &ldquo;the 'unkempt girl' has got a young man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must be hard up for a sweetheart,&rdquo; declared Marguerite.
    </p>
    <p>
      Downstairs, at the door, Denise found her brother Jean. She had formally
      prohibited him from coming to the shop in this way, as it looked very bad.
      But she did not dare to scold him, so excited did he appear, bareheaded,
      out of breath through running from the Faubourg du Temple.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you got ten francs?&rdquo; stammered he. &ldquo;Give me ten francs, or I'm a
      lost man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young rascal looked so comical, with his flowing locks and handsome
      girlish face, launching out with this melodramatic phrase, that she could
      have smiled had it not been for the anguish which this demand for money
      caused her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! ten francs?&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;Whatever's the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He blushed, and explained that he had met a friend's sister. Denise
      stopped him, feeling embarrassed, not wishing to know any more about it.
      Twice already had he rushed in to obtain similar loans, but the first time
      it was only twenty-five sous, and the next thirty. He was always getting
      mixed up with women.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't give you ten francs,&rdquo; resumed she. &ldquo;Pépé's board isn't paid yet,
      and I've only just the money. I shall have hardly enough to buy a pair of
      boots, which I want badly. You really are not reasonable, Jean. It's too
      bad of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'm lost,&rdquo; repeated he, with a tragical gesture. &ldquo;Just listen,
      little sister; she's a tall, dark girl; we went to the café with her
      brother. I never thought the drinks&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had to interrupt him again, and as tears were coming into his eyes,
      she took out her purse and slipped a ten-franc piece into his hand. He at
      once set up a laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was sure&mdash;But my word of honour! never again! A fellow would have
      to be a regular scamp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he ran off, after having kissed his sister, like a madman. The fellows
      in the shop seemed astonished.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night Denise did not sleep much. Since her entry in The Ladies'
      Paradise, money had been her cruel anxiety. She was still a probationer,
      without salary; the young ladies in the department frequently prevented
      her from selling, and she just managed to pay Pépé's board and lodging,
      thanks to the unimportant customers they were good enough to leave her. It
      was a time of black misery&mdash;misery in a silk dress. She was often
      obliged to spend the night repairing her small stack of clothes, darning
      her linen, mending her chemises as if they had been lace; without
      mentioning the patches she put on her boots, as cleverly as any bootmaker
      could have done. She even risked washing things in her hand basin. But her
      old woollen dress was an especial cause of anxiety to her; she had no
      other, and was forced to put it on every evening when she quitted the
      uniform silk, and this wore it terribly; a spot on it gave her the fever,
      the least tear was a catastrophe. And she had nothing, not a sou, not even
      enough to buy the trifling articles which a woman always wants; she had
      been obliged to wait a fortnight to renew her stock of needles and cotton.
      Thus it was a real disaster when Jean, with his love affairs, dropped down
      all at once and pillaged her purse. A franc-piece taken away caused a gulf
      which she did not know how to fill up. As for finding ten francs on the
      morrow it was not to be thought of for a moment. The whole night she slept
      an uncomfortable sleep, haunted by the nightmare, in which she saw Pépé
      thrown into the street, whilst she was turning over the flagstones with
      her bruised fingers to see if there were not some money underneath.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened that the next day she had to play the part of the well-dressed
      girl. Some well-known customers came in, and Madame Aurélie called her
      several times in order that she should show off the new styles. And whilst
      she was posing there, with the stiff graces of a fashion-plate, she was
      thinking of Pépé's board and lodging, which she had promised to pay that
      evening. She could very well do without boots for another month; but even
      on adding the thirty francs she had left to the four francs which she had
      saved sou by sou, that would never make more than thirty-four francs, and
      where was she to find six francs to complete the sum? It was an anguish in
      which her heart failed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will notice the shoulders are free,&rdquo; Madame Aurélie was saying. &ldquo;It's
      very fashionable and very convenient. The young person can fold her arms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! easily,&rdquo; replied Denise, who continued to smile amiably. &ldquo;One can't
      feel it. I am sure you will like it, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She now blamed herself for having gone to fetch Pépé from Madame Gras's,
      the previous Sunday, to take him for a walk in the Champs-Elysées. The
      poor child so seldom went out with her! But she had had to buy some
      gingerbread and a little spade, and then take him to see Punch and Judy,
      and that had mounted at once to twenty-nine sous. Really Jean could not
      think much about the little one, or he would not be so foolish.
      Afterwards, everything fell upon her shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, if it does not suit you, madame&mdash;&rdquo; resumed the
      first-hand. &ldquo;Just put this cloak on, mademoiselle, so that the lady may
      judge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Denise walked slowly round, with the cloak on, saying: &ldquo;This is
      warmer. It's this year's fashion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she continued to torture herself, behind her professional good graces,
      until the evening, to know where she was to find this money. The young
      ladies, who were very busy, had left her an important sale; but it was
      only Tuesday, and she had four days to wait before drawing any money.
      After dinner she decided to postpone her visit to Madame Gras till the
      next day. She would excuse herself, say she had been detained, and before
      then she would have the six francs, perhaps.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Denise avoided the slightest expense, she went to bed early. What could
      she do in the streets, with her unsociableness, still frightened by the
      big city in which she only knew the streets near the shop? After having
      ventured as far as the Palais-Royal, to get a little fresh air, she would
      quickly return, lock herself in her room and set about sewing or washing.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was, along the corridor of the bed-rooms, a barrack-like promiscuity&mdash;girls,
      who were often not very tidy, a gossiping over dirty water and dirty
      linen, quite a disagreeable feeling, which manifested itself in frequent
      quarrels and continual reconciliations. They were, moreover, prohibited
      from going up to their rooms in the day-time; they did not live there, but
      merely slept there at night, not going up till the last minute, leaving
      again in the morning still half asleep, hardly awakened by a rapid wash;
      and this gust of wind which was continually sweeping through the corridor,
      the fatigue of the thirteen hours' work which threw them on their beds
      thoroughly worn out, changed this upper part of the house into an inn
      traversed by the tired ill-temper of a host of travellers. Denise had no
      friend. Of all the young ladies, one alone, Pauline Cugnot, showed her a
      certain tenderness; and the ready-made and under-clothing departments
      being close to one another, and in open war, the sympathy between the two
      saleswomen had hitherto been confined to a few rare words hastily
      exchanged. Pauline occupied a neighbouring room, to the right of Denise's;
      but as she disappeared immediately after dinner and only returned at
      eleven o'clock, the latter only heard her get into bed, without ever
      meeting her after business hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      This evening, Denise had made up her mind to play the part of bootmaker
      once more. She was holding her shoes, turning them about, wondering how
      she could make them last another month. At last she decided to take a
      strong needle and sew on the soles, which were threatening to leave the
      uppers. During this time a collar and a pair of cuffs were soaking in the
      basin full of soapsuds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every evening she heard the same noises, the young ladies coming in one by
      one, short whispered conversations, laughing, and sometimes a dispute,
      which they stifled as much as possible. Then the beds creaked, the tired
      occupants yawned, and fell into a heavy slumber. Denise's left hand
      neighbour often talked in her sleep, which frightened her very much at
      first Perhaps others, like herself, stopped up to mend their things, in
      spite of the rules; but if so they probably took the same precautions as
      she did herself, keeping very quiet, avoiding the least shock, for a
      shivering silence reigned in all the rooms.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had struck eleven about ten minutes before when a sound of footsteps
      made her raise her head. Another young lady late! And she recognised it to
      be Pauline, by hearing the latter open the door next to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she was astonished when Pauline returned quietly and knocked at her
      door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make haste, it's me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The saleswomen not being allowed to visit each other in their rooms,
      Denise quickly unlocked the door, so that her neighbour should not be
      caught by Madame Cabin, who was supposed to see this rule strictly carried
      out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was she there?&rdquo; asked Denise, closing the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who? Madame Cabin?&rdquo; replied Pauline. &ldquo;Oh, I'm not afraid of her, she's
      easily settled with a five-franc-piece!&rdquo; Then she added: &ldquo;I've wanted to
      have a talk with you for a long time past. But it's impossible to do so
      downstairs. Besides, you looked so down-hearted to-night at table.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise thanked her, and invited her to sit down, touched by her
      good-natured air. But in the trouble caused by the sudden visit she had
      not laid down the shoe she was mending, and Pauline's eyes fell on it at
      once. She shook her head, looked round and perceived the collar and cuffs
      in the basin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor child, I thought as much,&rdquo; resumed she. &ldquo;Ah, I know what it is!
      When I first came up from Chartres, and old Cugnot didn't send me a sou, I
      many a time washed my own chemises! Yes, yes, even my chemises! I had two,
      and there was always one in soak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sat down, still out of breath from running. Her large face, with small
      bright eyes, and big tender mouth, had a certain grace, notwithstanding
      the rather coarse features. And, without transition, all of a sudden, she
      related her history; her childhood at the mill; old Cugnot ruined by a
      lawsuit; her being sent to Paris to make her fortune with twenty francs in
      her pocket; then her start as a shop-girl in a shop at Batignolles, then
      at The Ladies' Paradise&mdash;a terrible start, all the sufferings and all
      the privations imaginable; she then spoke of her present life, of the two
      hundred francs she earned a month, the pleasures she indulged in, the
      carelessness in which she allowed her days to glide away. Some jewellery,
      a brooch, a watch-chain, glistened on her dark-blue cloth dress,
      coquettishly made to the figure; and she wore a velvet hat, ornamented
      with a large grey feather.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise had turned very red, with her shoe. She began to stammer out an
      explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the same thing happened to me,&rdquo; repeated Pauline.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come, I'm older than you, I'm over twenty-six, though I don't look
      it. Just tell me your little troubles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise yielded, conquered by this friendship so frankly offered. She sat
      down in her petticoat, with an old shawl over her shoulders, near Pauline
      in full dress; and an interesting gossip ensued.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was freezing in the room, the cold seemed to run down the bare
      prison-like walls; but they did not notice that their fingers were almost
      frost-bitten, they were so fully taken up by their conversation. Little by
      little, Denise opened her heart entirely, spoke of Jean and Pépé, and how
      much the money question tortured her; which led them both to abuse the
      young ladies in the dress department. Pauline relieved her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the hussies! If they treated you properly and in a friendly manner,
      you could make more than a hundred francs a month.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everybody is down on me, and I'm sure I don't know why,&rdquo; said Denise,
      beginning to cry. &ldquo;Look at Monsieur Bourdoncle, he's always watching me
      for a chance of finding me in fault, as if I were in his way. Old Jouve is
      about the only one&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other interrupted her. &ldquo;What, that old monkey of an inspector! Ah! my
      dear, don't you trust him. You know, men with big noses like his! He may
      display his decoration as much as he likes, there's a story about
      something that happened to him in our department. But what a child you are
      to grieve like this! What a misfortune it is to be so sensitive! Of
      course, what is happening to you happens to every one; they are making you
      pay your footing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She seized her hands and kissed her, carried away by her good heart The
      money-question was a graver one. Certainly a poor girl could not support
      her two brothers, pay the little one's board and lodging, and regale the
      big one's mistresses with the few paltry sous picked up from the others'
      cast-off customers; for it was to be feared that she would not get any
      salary until business improved in March.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me, it's impossible for you to live in this way any longer. If
      I were you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; said Pauline.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a noise in the corridor stopped her. It was probably Marguerite, who
      was accused of prowling about at night to watch the others. Pauline, who
      was still pressing her friend's hand, looked at her for a moment in
      silence, listening. Then she resumed in a very low tone, with an air of
      tender conviction: &ldquo;If I were you I should take some one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How some one?&rdquo; murmured Denise, not understanding at first.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she understood, she withdrew her hands, looking very confused. This
      advice made her feel awkward, like an idea which had never occurred to
      her, and of which she could not see the advantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! no,&rdquo; replied she simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; continued Pauline, &ldquo;you'll never manage, I tell you so, plainly.
      Here are the figures: forty francs for the little one, a five franc piece
      now and again for the big one; and then there's yourself, you can't always
      go about dressed like a pauper, with boots that make the other girls laugh
      at you; yes, really, your boots do you a deal of harm. Take some one, it
      would be much better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; repeated Denise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! you are very foolish. It's inevitable, my dear, and so natural. We
      all do it sooner or later. Look at me, I was a probationer, like you,
      without a sou. We are boarded and lodged, it's true; but there's our
      dress; besides, it's impossible to go without a copper in one's pocket,
      shut up in one's room, watching the flies. So you see girls forcibly drift
      into it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She then spoke of her first lover, a lawyer's clerk whom she had met at a
      party at Meudon. After him, came a post-office clerk. And, finally, ever
      since the autumn, she had been keeping company with a salesman at the Bon
      Marche, a very nice tall fellow, with whom she spent all her leisure time.
      Never more than one sweetheart at a time, however. She was very
      respectable in her way, and became indignant when she heard talk of those
      girls who yielded to the first-comer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't tell you to misconduct yourself, you know!&rdquo; said she quickly.
      &ldquo;For instance, I should not like to be seen with your Clara, for fear
      people should say I was as bad as she. But when a girl stays quietly with
      one lover, and has nothing to blame herself for&mdash;do you think that
      wrong?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Denise. &ldquo;But I don't care for it, that's all.&rdquo; There was a
      fresh silence. In the small icy-cold room they were smiling to each other,
      greatly affected by this whispered conversation. &ldquo;Besides, one must have
      some affection for some one before doing so,&rdquo; resumed she, her cheeks
      scarlet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pauline was astonished. She set up a laugh, and embraced her a second
      time, saying: &ldquo;But, my darling, when you meet and like each other! You are
      funny! People won't force you. Look here, would you like Baugé to take us
      somewhere in the country on Sunday? He'll bring one of his friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Denise, in her gently obstinate way.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pauline insisted no longer. Each one was free to act as she liked. What
      she had said was out of pure kindness of heart, for she felt really
      grieved to see a comrade so miserable. And as it was nearly midnight, she
      got up to leave. But before doing so she forced Denise to accept the six
      francs she wanted, begging her not to trouble about the matter, but to
      repay the amount when she earned more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; added she, &ldquo;blow your candle out, so that they can't see which door
      opens; you can light it again immediately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The candle blown out, they shook hands; and Pauline ran off to her room,
      without leaving any trace in the darkness but the vague rustling of her
      petticoats amidst the deep slumber of the occupants of the other little
      rooms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before going to bed Denise wanted to finish her boot and do her washing.
      The cold became sharper still as the night advanced; but she did not feel
      it, this conversation had stirred up her heart's blood. She was not
      shocked, it seemed to her that every one had a right to arrange her life
      as she liked, when alone and free in the world. She had never given way to
      such ideas; her sense of right and her healthy nature maintained her
      naturally in the respectability in which she had always lived. About one
      o'clock she at last went to bed. No, she did not love any one. So what was
      the use of disarranging her life, of spoiling the maternal devotion she
      had vowed for her two brothers? However, she did not sleep; a crowd of
      indistinct forms passed before her closed eyes, vanishing in the darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      From this moment Denise took an interest in the love-stories of the
      department. During the slack moments they were constantly occupied by
      their affairs with the men. Gossiping tales flew about, stories of
      adventures amused the girls for a week. Clara was a scandal; she had three
      lovers, without counting a string of chance admirers whom she had in tow;
      and, if she did not leave the shop, where she did the least work possible,
      disdaining the money which she could easily and more agreeably earn
      elsewhere, it was to shield herself from her family; for she was mortally
      afraid of old Prunaire, who threatened to come to Paris and break her arms
      and legs with his clogs. Marguerite, on the contrary, behaved very well,
      and was not known to have any lover; this caused some surprise, for all
      knew of her adventure&mdash;her coming to Paris to be confined in secret;
      how had she come to have the child, if she were so virtuous? And there
      were some who hinted at an accident, adding that she was now reserving
      herself for her cousin at Grenoble. The young ladies also joked about
      Madame Frédéric, declaring that she was discreetly connected with certain
      great personages; the truth was that they knew nothing of her
      love-affairs; for she disappeared every evening, stiff as starch in her
      widow's ill-temper, evidently in a great hurry, though nobody knew where
      she was running off to so eagerly. As to Madame Aurélie's passions, her
      pretended larks with obedient young men, they were certainly false; mere
      inventions, spread abroad by discontented saleswomen just for fun. Perhaps
      she had formerly displayed rather too much motherly feeling for one of her
      son's friends, but she now occupied too high a place in the drapery
      business to allow her to amuse herself with such childish matters. Then
      there was the crowd leaving in the evening, nine girls out of every ten
      having young men waiting for them at the door; in the Place Gaillon, along
      the Rue de la Michodière, and the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, there was
      always quite a troop of men standing motionless, watching for the girls
      coming out; and, when they came, each one gave his arm to his lady and
      disappeared, talking with a marital tranquillity.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what troubled Denise most was to have discovered Colomban's secret. He
      was continually to be seen on the other side of the street, at the door of
      The Old Elbeuf, his eyes raised, and never quitting the young ladies in
      the readymade department. When he felt Denise was watching him he blushed
      and turned away his head, as if afraid she might betray him to Geneviève,
      although there had been no further connection between the Baudus and their
      niece since her engagement at The Ladies' Paradise. At first she had
      thought he was in love with Marguerite, on seeing his despairing looks,
      for Marguerite, being very quiet, and sleeping in the building, was not
      very easy to get at. But what was her astonishment to find that Colomban's
      ardent glances were intended for Clara. He had been like that for months,
      devoured by passion on the opposite side of the way, without finding the
      courage to declare himself; and that for a girl who was perfectly free,
      who lived in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, and whom he could have spoken to any
      evening before she walked off on the arm of a fresh fellow! Clara herself
      appeared to have no idea of her conquest. Denise's discovery filled her
      with a painful emotion. Was love, then, such a stupid thing as that? What!
      this fellow, who had real happiness within his reach, was ruining his
      life, enraptured with this good-for-nothing girl as if she were a saint!
      From that day she was seized with a feeling of grief every time she saw
      Geneviève's pale and suffering face behind the green panes of The Old
      Elbeuf.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the evening, Denise could not help thinking a great deal, on seeing the
      young ladies march off with their sweethearts Those who did not sleep at
      The Ladies' Paradise, disappeared until the next day, bringing back into
      their departments an outside odour, a sort of troubling, unknown
      impression. The young girl was sometimes obliged to reply with a smile to
      a friendly nod from Pauline, whom Baugé waited for every evening regularly
      at half-past eight, at the corner of the fountain in the Place Gaillon.
      Then, after having gone out the last and taken a furtive walk, always
      alone, she was invariably the first in, going upstairs to work, or to bed,
      her head filled with dreams, full of curiosity about this outdoor life, of
      which she knew nothing. She certainly did not envy the young ladies, she
      was happy in her solitude, in that unsociableness to which her timidity
      condemned her, as to a refuge; but her imagination carried her away, she
      tried to guess things, evoking the pleasures constantly described before
      her, the cafés, the restaurants, the theatres, the Sundays spent on the
      water and in the country taverns. This filled her with a mental weakness,
      a desire mingled with lassitude; and she seemed to be already tired of
      those amusements which she had never tasted.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, there was but little room for these dangerous dreams in her daily
      working life. During the thirteen hours' hard work in the shop, there was
      no time for any display of tenderness between the salesmen and the
      saleswomen. If the continual fight for money had not abolished the sexes,
      the unceasing press of business which occupied their minds and fatigued
      their bodies would have sufficed to kill all desire. But very few
      love-affairs had been known in the establishment amidst the hostilities
      and friendships between the men and the women, the constant elbowings from
      department to department. They were all nothing but the wheels, turned
      round by the immense machine, abdicating their personalities, simply
      contributing their strength to this commonplace, powerful total. It was
      only outside that they resumed their individual lives, with the abrupt
      flame of awakening passions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise, however, one day saw Albert Lhomme slipping a note into the hand
      of a young lady in the underclothing department, after having several
      times passed through with an air of indifference. The dead season, which
      lasts from December to February was commencing; and she had periods of
      rest, hours spent on her feet, her eyes wandering all over the shop,
      waiting for customers. The young ladies of her department were especially
      friendly with the salesmen who served the lace, but their intimacy never
      went any further than some rather risky jokes, exchanged in whispers. In
      the lace department there was a second-hand, a gay youth who pursued Clara
      with all sorts of abominable stories, simply for a joke&mdash;so careless
      at heart that he made no effort to meet her outside; and thus it was from
      counter to counter, between the gentlemen and the young ladies, a series
      of winks, nods, and remarks, which they alone understood. At times they
      indulged in some sly gossip with their backs half turned and with a dreamy
      air, in order to put the terrible Bourdoncle off the scent As for Deloche,
      for a long time he contented him self with smiling at Denise when he met
      her; but, getting bolder, he occasionally murmured a friendly word. The
      day she had noticed Madame Aurélie's son giving a note to the young lady
      in the under-linen department, Deloche was asking her if she had enjoyed
      her lunch, feeling to want to say something, and unable to find anything
      more amiable. He also saw the white paper; and looking at the young girl,
      they both blushed at this intrigue carried on before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      But under these rumours which gradually awoke the woman in her, Denise
      still retained her infantine peace of mind. The one thing that stirred her
      heart was meeting with Hutin. But even that was only gratitude in her
      eyes; she simply thought herself touched by the young man's politeness. He
      could not bring a customer to the department without her feeling quite
      confused. Several times, on returning from a pay-desk, she found herself
      making a <i>détour</i>, uselessly passing the silk counter, her bosom
      heaving with emotion. One afternoon she met Mouret there, who seemed to
      follow her with a smile. He paid no more attention to her now, only
      addressing a few words to her from time to time, to give her a few hints
      about her toilet, and to joke with her, as an impossible girl, a little
      savage almost like a boy, of whom he would never make a coquette,
      notwithstanding all his knowledge of women; sometimes he even ventured to
      laugh at and tease her, without wishing to acknowledge to himself the
      charm which this little saleswoman inspired in him, with her comical head
      of hair. Before this mute smile, Denise trembled, as if she were in fault
      Did he know why she was going through the silk department, when she could
      not herself have explained what made her make such a <i>détour?</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      Hutin, moreover, did not seem to be aware in any way of the young girl's
      grateful looks. The shop-girls were not his style, he affected to despise
      them, boasting more than ever of extraordinary adventures with the lady
      customers; a baroness had been struck with him at his counter, and the
      wife of an architect had fallen into his arms one day when he went to her
      house about an error in measuring he had made. Beneath this Norman
      boasting he simply concealed girls picked up in cafés and music-halls.
      Like all young gentlemen in the drapery line, he had a mania for spending,
      fighting in his department the whole week with a miser's greediness, with
      the sole wish to squander his money on Sunday on the racecourses, in the
      restaurants, and dancing-saloons; never thinking of saving a penny,
      spending his salary as soon as he drew it, absolutely indifferent about
      the future. Favier did not join him in these parties. Hutin and he, so
      friendly in the shop, bowed to each other at the door, where all further
      intercourse ceased. A great many of the shopmen, in continual contact
      indoors, became strangers, ignorant of each other's lives, as soon as they
      set foot in the streets. But Liénard was Hutin's intimate friend. Both
      lived in the same lodging-house, the Hôtel de Smyrne, in the Rue
      Sainte-Anne, a murky building entirely inhabited by shop assistants. In
      the morning they arrived together; then, in the evening, the first one
      free, after the folding was done, waited for the other at the Cafe
      Saint-Roch, in the Rue Saint-Roch, a little café where the employees of
      The Ladies' Paradise usually met, brawling, drinking, and playing cards
      amidst the smoke of their pipes. They often stopped there till one in the
      morning, until the tired landlord turned them out. For the last month they
      had been spending three evenings a week at a free-and-easy at Montmartre;
      and they took their friends with them, creating a success for Mademoiselle
      Laure, a music-hall singer. Hutin's latest conquest, whose talent they
      applauded with such violent blows and such a clamour that the police had
      been obliged to interfere on two occasions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The winter passed in this way, and Denise at last obtained three hundred
      francs a-year fixed salary. It was quite time, for her shoes were
      completely worn out. For the last month she had avoided going out, for
      fear of bursting them entirely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a noise you make with your shoes, mademoiselle!&rdquo; Madame Aurélie very
      often remarked, with an irritated look. &ldquo;It's intolerable. What's the
      matter with your feet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The day Denise appeared with a pair of cloth boots, for which she had
      given five francs, Marguerite and Clara expressed their astonishment in a
      kind of half whisper, so as to be heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hullo! the 'unkempt girl' has given up her goloshes,&rdquo; said the one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; retorted the other, &ldquo;she must have cried over them. They were her
      mother's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In point of fact, there was a general uprising against Denise. The girls
      of her department had found out her friendship with Pauline, and thought
      they saw a certain bravado in this affection displayed for a saleswoman of
      a rival counter. They spoke of treason, accused her of going and repeating
      their slightest words. The war between the two departments became more
      violent than ever, it had never waxed so warm; hard words were exchanged
      like cannon-balls, and there was even a slap given one evening behind some
      boxes of chemises. Perhaps this remote quarrel arose from the fact that
      the young ladies in the under-linen department wore woollen dresses,
      whilst those in the ready-made one wore silk. In any case, the former
      spoke of their neighbours with the shocked air of respectable girls; and
      facts proved that they were right, for it had been remarked that the silk
      dresses appeared to have a certain influence on the dissolute habits of
      the young ladies who wore them. Clara was taunted with her troop of
      lovers, even Marguerite had, so to say, had her child thrown in her face,
      whilst Madame Frédéric was accused of all sorts of concealed passions. And
      this was solely on account of that Denise!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, young ladies, no ugly words; behave yourselves!&rdquo; Madame Aurélie
      would say with her imperial air, amidst the rising passions of her little
      kingdom. &ldquo;Show who you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At heart she preferred to remain neutral. As she confessed one day, when
      talking to Mouret, these girls were all about the same, one was as good as
      the other. But she suddenly became impassioned when she learnt from
      Bourdoncle that he had just caught her son downstairs kissing a young girl
      belonging to the under-linen department, the saleswoman to whom he had
      passed several letters. It was abominable, and she roundly accused the
      under-linen department of having laid a trap for Albert. Yes, it was a
      got-up affair against herself, they were trying to dishonour her by
      ruining a child without experience, after seeing that it was impossible to
      attack her department. Her only object in making such a noise was to
      complicate the business, for she knew what her son was, fully aware that
      he was capable of doing all sorts of stupid things. For a time the matter
      assumed a grave aspect, Mignot, the glove salesman, was mixed up in it. He
      was a great friend of Albert's, and the rumour got circulated that he
      favoured the mistresses Albert sent him, girls with big chignons, who
      rummaged in the boxes for hours together; and there was also a story about
      some Swedish kid gloves given to the girl of the under-linen department
      which was never properly cleared up. At last the scandal was hushed up out
      of regard for Madame Aurélie, whom Mouret himself treated with deference.
      Bourdoncle contented himself a week after with dismissing, for some slight
      offence, the girl who allowed herself to be kissed. If they shut their
      eyes to the terrible doings of their employees outdoors, the managers did
      not tolerate the least nonsense in the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      And it was Denise who suffered for all this. Madame Aurélie, although
      perfectly well aware of what was going on, nourished a secret rancour
      against her; she saw her laughing one evening with Pauline, and took it
      for bravado, concluding that they were gossiping over her son's
      love-affairs. And she caused the young girl to be isolated more than ever
      in the department. For some time she had been thinking of inviting the
      young ladies to spend a Sunday near Rambouillet, at Rigolles, where she
      had bought a country house with the first hundred thousand francs she had
      saved; and she suddenly decided to do so; it would be a means of punishing
      Denise, of putting her openly on one side. She was the only one not
      invited. For a fortnight in advance, nothing was talked of but this party;
      the girls kept their eyes on the sky, and had already mapped out the whole
      day, looking forward to all sorts of pleasures: donkey-riding, milk and
      brown bread. And they were to be all women, which was more amusing still!
      As a rule, Madame Aurélie killed her holidays in this way, going out with
      her lady friends; for she was so little accustomed to being at home, she
      always felt so uncomfortable, so strange, during the rare occasions she
      could dine with her husband and son, that she preferred to throw up even
      those occasions, and go and dine at a restaurant. Lhomme went his own way,
      enraptured to resume his bachelor existence, and Albert, greatly relieved,
      went off with his beauties; so that, unaccustomed to being at home,
      feeling in each other's way, and wearying each other when together on a
      Sunday, they paid nothing more than a flying visit to the house, as to
      some common hôtel where people take a bed for the night. Regarding the
      excursion to Rambouillet, Madame Aurélie simply declared that propriety
      prevented Albert joining them, and that the father himself would display
      great tact by refusing to come; a declaration which enchanted the two men.
      However, the happy day was drawing near, and the young girls chattered
      more than ever, relating their preparations in the way of dress, as if
      they were going on a six months' tour, whilst Denise had to listen to
      them, pale and silent in her abandonment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, they make you wild, don't they?&rdquo; said Pauline to her one morning. &ldquo;If
      I were you I would just catch them nicely! They are going to enjoy
      themselves. I would enjoy myself too. Come with us on Sunday, Baugé is
      going to take me to Joinville.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thanks,&rdquo; said the young girl with her quiet obstinacy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why not? Are you still afraid of being taken by force?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Pauline, laughed heartily. Denise also smiled. She knew how such
      things came about; it was always during some similar excursions that the
      young ladies had made the acquaintance of their first lovers, brought by
      chance by a friend; and she did not want to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; resumed Pauline, &ldquo;I assure you that Baugé won't bring any one. We
      shall be all by ourselves. As you don't want to, I won't go and marry you
      off, of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise hesitated, tormented by such a strong desire to go that the blood
      flew to her cheeks. Since the girls had been talking about their country
      pleasures she had felt stifled, overcome by a longing for fresh air,
      dreaming of the tall grass into which she could sink down up to the neck,
      of the giant trees the shadows of which should flow over her like so much
      cooling water. Her childhood, spent in the rich verdure of the Cotentin,
      was awakening with a regret for sun and air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! yes,&rdquo; said she at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Everything was soon arranged. Baugé was to come and fetch them at eight
      o'clock, in the Place Gaillon; from there they would take a cab to the
      Vincennes Station. Denise, whose twenty-five francs a month was quickly
      swallowed up by the children, had only been able to do up her old black
      woollen dress, by trimming it with strips of check poplin; and she had
      also made herself a bonnet, a shape covered with silk and ornamented with
      a simple blue ribbon. In this simple attire she looked very young, like an
      overgrown girl, exceedingly clean, rather shamefaced and embarrassed by
      her luxuriant hair, which appeared through the nakedness of her bonnet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pauline, on the contrary, displayed a pretty violet and white striped silk
      dress, a hat richly trimmed and laden with feathers, jewels round her neck
      and rings on her fingers, which gave her the appearance of a well-to-do
      tradesman's wife. It was like a Sunday revenge on the woollen dress she
      was obliged to wear all the week in the shop; whilst Denise, who wore her
      uniform silk from Monday to Saturday, resumed, on Sunday, her thin woollen
      dress of misery.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's Baugé,&rdquo; said Pauline, pointing to a tall fellow standing near the
      fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      She introduced her lover, and Denise felt at her ease at once, he seemed
      such a nice fellow. Baugé, big, strong as an ox, had a long Flemish face,
      in which his expressionless eyes twinkled with an infantine puerility.
      Born at Dunkerque, the younger son of a grocer, he had come to Paris,
      almost turned out by his father and brother, who thought him a fearful
      dunce. However, he made three thousand five hundred francs a year at the
      Bon Marche. He was rather stupid, but a very good hand in the linen
      department. The women thought him nice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the cab?&rdquo; asked Pauline.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had to go as far as the Boulevard. It was already rather warm in the
      sun, the glorious May morning seemed to laugh on the street pavement.
      There was not a cloud in the sky; quite a gaiety floated in the blue air,
      transparent as crystal. An involuntary smile played on Denise's lips; she
      breathed freely; it seemed to her that her bosom was throwing off the
      stifling sensation of six months. At last she no longer felt the stuffy
      air and the heavy stones of The Ladies' Paradise weighing her down! She
      had then the prospect of a long day in the country before her! and it was
      like a new lease of life, an endless joy, into which she entered with all
      the glee of a little child. However, when in the cab, she turned her eyes
      away, feeling very awkward as Pauline bent over to kiss her lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, look!&rdquo; said she, her head still at the window, &ldquo;there's Monsieur
      Lhomme. How he does walk!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's got his French horn,&rdquo; added Pauline, leaning out. &ldquo;What an old
      stupid! One would think he was running to meet his girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lhomme, with his instrument under his arm, was spinning along past the
      Gymnase Theatre, his nose in the air, laughing with delight at the thought
      of the treat in store for him. He was going to spend the day at a
      friend's, a flautist at a small theatre, where a few amateurs indulged in
      a little chamber music on Sundays as soon as breakfast was over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At eight o'clock! what a madman!&rdquo; resumed Pauline. &ldquo;And you know that
      Madame Aurélie and all her clique must have taken the Rambouillet train
      that left at half-past six. It's very certain the husband and wife won't
      come across each other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both then commenced talking of the Rambouillet excursion. They did not
      wish it to be rainy for the others, because they themselves would be
      obliged to suffer as well; but if a cloud could burst over there without
      extending to Joinville, it would be funny all the same. Then they attacked
      Clara, a dirty slut, who hardly knew how to spend the money her men gave
      her: hadn't she bought three pairs of boots all at the same time, which
      she threw away the next day, after having cut them with her scissors, on
      account of her feet, which were covered with bunions. In fact, the young
      ladies were just as bad as the fellows, they squandered everything, never
      saving a sou, wasting two or three hundred francs a month on dress and
      dainties.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he's only got one arm,&rdquo; said Baugé all of a sudden. &ldquo;How does he
      manage to play the French horn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had kept his eyes on Lhomme. Pauline, who sometimes amused herself by
      playing on his stupidity, told him the cashier kept the instrument up by
      placing it against a wall. He thoroughly believed her, and thought it very
      ingenious. Then, when stricken with remorse, she explained to him in what
      way Lhomme had adapted to his stump a system of keys which he made use of
      as a hand, he shook his head, full of suspicion, declaring that they
      wouldn't make him swallow that.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are ready too stupid!&rdquo; she retorted, laughingly. &ldquo;Never mind, I love
      you all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They reached the Vincennes Station just in time for a train. Baugé paid;
      but Denise had previously declared that she wished to pay her share of the
      expenses; they would settle up in the evening. They took second-class
      tickets, and found the train full of a gay noisy throng. At Nogent, a
      wedding-party got out, amidst a storm of laughter. At last they arrived at
      Joinville and went straight to the island to order lunch; and they stopped
      there, lingering on the banks of the Marne, under the tall poplars. It was
      rather cold in the shade, a sharp breese was blowing in the sunshine,
      extending far into the distance, on the other side of the river, the
      limpid parity of a plain dotted with cultivated fields. Denise lingered
      behind Pauline and her lover, who were walking with their arms round each
      others waists. She had picked a handful of buttercups, and was watching
      the view of the river, happy, her heart beating, her head drooping, each
      time Baugé leant over to kiss his mistress. Her eyes filled with tears.
      And yet she was not suffering. What was the matter with her that she had
      this feeling of suffocation? and why did this vast landscape, where she
      had looked forward to having so much enjoyment, fill her with a vague
      regret she could not explain? Then, at lunch, Pauline's noisy laugh
      bewildered her. That young lady, who loved the suburbs with the passion of
      an actress living in the gas-light, in the thick air of a crowd, wanted to
      lunch in an arbour, notwithstanding the sharp wind. She was delighted with
      the sudden gusts which blew up the table-cloth, she thought the arbour
      very funny in its nudity, with the freshly-painted trelliswork, the
      lozenges of which cast a reflection on the cloth. She ate ravenously,
      devouring everything with the voracity of a girl badly fed at the shop,
      making up for it outside by giving herself an indigestion with the things
      she liked; this was her vice, she spent most of her money in cakes and
      indigestible dainties of all kinds, favourite dishes stowed away in her
      leisure moments. As Denise seemed to have had enough of the eggs, fried
      fish, and stewed chicken, she restrained herself, not daring to order any
      strawberries, a luxury still very dear, for fear of running the bill up
      too high.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, what are we going to do?&rdquo; asked Baugé when the coffee was served.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a rule Pauline and he returned to Paris to dine, and finish their day
      in some theatre. But at Denise's request, they decided to stay at
      Joinville all day; they would be able to have their fill of the country.
      So they stopped and wandered about the fields all the afternoon. They
      spoke for a moment of going for a row, but abandoned the idea; Baugé was
      not a good waterman. But they found themselves walking along the banks of
      the Marne, all the same, and were greatly interested by the life on the
      river, the squadrons of yawls and other boats, and the young men who
      formed the crews. The sun was going down, they were returning to
      Joinville, when they saw two boats coming down stream at a racing speed,
      exchanging volleys of insults, in which the repeated cries of &ldquo;Sawbones!&rdquo;
       and &ldquo;Counter-jumpers!&rdquo; dominated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo!&rdquo; said Pauline, &ldquo;it's Monsieur Hutin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Baugé, shading his face with his hand, &ldquo;I recognise his
      mahogany boat. The other one is manned by students, no doubt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he explained the deadly hatred existing between the young students and
      the shopmen. Denise, on hearing Hutin's name mentioned, suddenly stopped,
      and followed, with fixed eyes, the frail skiff spinning along like an
      arrow. She tried to distinguish the young man among the rowers, but could
      only manage to make out the white dresses of two women, one of whom, who
      was steering, wore a red hat. Their voices were drowned by the rapid flow
      of the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pitch 'em in, the sawbones!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duck 'em, the counter-jumpers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the evening they returned to the restaurant on the island. But it had
      turned too chilly, they were obliged to dine in one of the closed rooms,
      where the table-cloths were still damp from the humidity of the winter.
      After six o'clock the tables were all occupied, yet the excursionists
      still hurried in, looking for a corner; and the waiters continued to bring
      in more chairs and forms, putting the plates closer together, and crowding
      the people up. It was stifling, they had to open the windows. Outdoors,
      the day was waning, a greenish twilight fell from the poplars so quickly
      that the proprietor, unprepared for these meals under cover, and having no
      lamps, was obliged to put a wax candle on each table. The uproar became
      deafening with laughing, calling out, and the clacking of the table
      utensils; the candles flared and melted in the draught from the windows,
      whilst moths fluttered about in the air, warmed by the odour of the food,
      and traversed by sudden gusts of cold wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What fun they're having, eh?&rdquo; said Pauline, very busy with a plate of
      matelote, which she declared extraordinary. She leant over to add: &ldquo;Didn't
      you see Monsieur Albert over there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was really young Lhomme, in the middle of three questionable women, a
      vulgar-looking old lady in a yellow bonnet, suspiciously like a procuress,
      and two young girls of thirteen or fourteen, forward and painfully
      impudent creatures. He, already intoxicated, was knocking his glass on the
      table, and talking of drubbing the waiter if he did not bring some
      &ldquo;liqueurs&rdquo; immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; resumed Pauline, &ldquo;there's a family, if you like! the mother at
      Rambouillet, the father in Paris; and the son at Joinville; they won't
      tread on one another's toes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, who detested noise, smiled, however, and tasted the joy of ceasing
      to think, amid such uproar. But all at once they heard a noise in the
      other room, a burst of voices which drowned the others. They were yelling,
      and must have come to blows, for one could hear a scuffle, chairs falling
      down, quite a struggle, amid which the river-cries again resounded:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Duck 'em, the counter-jumpers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pitch 'em in, the sawbones!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And when the hotel-keeper's loud voice had calmed this tempest, Hutin
      suddenly made his appearance, wearing a red jersey, and a little cap at
      the back of his head; he had on his arm the tall, fair girl, who had been
      steering, and who, in order to wear the boat's colours, had planted a
      bunch of poppies behind her ear. They were greeted on entering by a storm
      of applause; and his face beamed with pride, he swelled out his chest,
      assuming a nautical rolling gait, showing off a blow which had blackened
      his cheek, puffed up with joy at being noticed. Behind them followed the
      crew. They took a table by storm, and the uproar became something fearful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It appears,&rdquo; explained Baugé, after having listened to the conversation
      behind him, &ldquo;it appears that the students have recognised the woman with
      Hutin as an old friend from their neighbourhood, who now sings in a
      music-hall at Montmartre. So they were kicking up a row for her. These
      students never pay their women.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In any case,&rdquo; said Pauline, stiffly, &ldquo;she's jolly ugly, with her carroty
      hair. Really, I don't know where Monsieur Hutin picks them up, but they're
      an ugly, dirty lot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise had turned pale, and felt an icy coldness, as if her heart's blood
      were flowing away, drop by drop. She had already, on seeing the boats from
      the bank, felt a shiver; but now she no longer had any doubt, this girl
      was certainly with Hutin. With trembling hands, and a choking sensation in
      her throat, she ceased eating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the matter?&rdquo; asked her friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; stammered she; &ldquo;it's rather warm here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Hutin's table was close to theirs, and when he perceived Baugé, whom
      he knew, he commenced a conversation in a shrill voice, in order to
      attract further attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say,&rdquo; cried he, &ldquo;are you as virtuous as ever at the Bon Marche?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so much as all that,&rdquo; replied Baugé, turning very red.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That won't do! You know they only take virgins there, and there's a
      confessional box permanently fixed for the salesmen who venture to look at
      them. A house where they marry you&mdash;no, thanks!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other fellows began to laugh. Liénard, who belonged to the crew,
      added: &ldquo;It isn't like the Louvre. There they have a midwife attached to
      the ready-made department. My word of honour!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gaiety increased; Pauline herself burst out, the idea of the midwife
      seemed so funny. But Baugé was annoyed by the jokes about the innocence of
      his house. He launched out all at once: &ldquo;Oh, you're not too well off at
      The Ladies' Paradise. Sacked for the slightest thing! And a governor who
      seems to tout for his lady customers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hutin no longer listened to him, but commenced to praise the house in the
      Place Clichÿ. He knew a young girl there so excessively aristocratic that
      the customers dared not speak to her for fear of humiliating her. Then,
      drawing up closer, he related that he had made a hundred and fifteen
      francs that week; oh! a capital week. Favier left behind with fifty-two
      francs, the whole lot floored. And it was visible he was bursting with
      money, he would not go to bed till he had liquidated the hundred and
      fifteen francs. Then, as he gradually became intoxicated, he attacked
      Robineau, that fool of a second-hand who affected to keep himself apart,
      going so far as to refuse to walk in the street with one of his salesmen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shut up,&rdquo; said Liénard; &ldquo;you talk too much, old man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The heat had increased, the candles were guttering down on to the
      table-cloths stained with wine; and through the open windows, when the
      noise within ceased for an instant, there entered a distant prolonged
      voice, the voice of the river, and of the tall poplars sleeping in the
      calm night. Baugé had just called for the bill, seeing that Denise was now
      quite white, her throat choked by the tears she withheld; but the waiter
      did not appear, and she had to submit to Hutin's loud talk. He was now
      boasting of being more superior to Liénard, because Liénard cared for
      nothing, simply squandering his father's money, whilst he, Hutin, was
      spending his own earnings, the fruit of his intelligence. At last Baugé
      paid, and the two girls went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's one from the Louvre,&rdquo; murmured Pauline in the outer room, looking
      at a tall thin girl putting on her mantle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't know her. You can't tell,&rdquo; said the young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, can't I? They've got a way of draping themselves. She belongs to the
      midwife's department! If she heard, she must be pleased.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They got outside at last, and Denise heaved a sigh of relief. For a moment
      she had thought she was going to die in that suffocating heat, amidst all
      those cries; and she still attributed her faintness to the want of air.
      Now she breathed freely in the freshness of the starry night As the two
      young girls were leaving the garden of the restaurant, a timid voice
      murmured in the shade: &ldquo;Good evening, ladies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Deloche. They had not seen him at the further end of the front
      room, where he was dining alone, after having come from Paris on foot, for
      the pleasure of the walk. On recognising this friendly voice, Denise,
      suffering, yielded mechanically to the want of some support.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Deloche, come back with us,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Give me your arm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pauline and Baugé had already gone on in front. They were astonished,
      never thinking it would turn out like this, and with this fellow above
      all. However, as there was still an hour before the train started, they
      went to the end of the island, following the bank, under the tall poplars;
      and, from time to time, they turned round, murmuring: &ldquo;But where are they?
      Ah, there they are. It's rather funny, all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At first Denise and Deloche remained silent The noise from the restaurant
      was slowly dying away, changing into a musical sweetness in the calmness
      of the night; and they went further in amongst the cool of the trees,
      still feverish from that furnace, the lights of which were disappearing
      one by one behind the foliage. Opposite them there was a sort of shadowy
      wall, a mass of shade in which the trunks and branches buried themselves
      so compact that they could not even distinguish any trace of the path.
      However, they went forward quietly, without fear. Then, their eyes getting
      more accustomed to the darkness, they saw on the right the trunks of the
      poplars, resembling sombre columns upholding the domes of their branches,
      pierced with stars; whilst on the right the water assumed occasionally in
      the darkness the brightness of a mirror. The wind was subsiding, they no
      longer heard anything but the flowing of the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am very pleased to have met you,&rdquo; stammered Deloche at last, making up
      his mind to speak first. &ldquo;You can't think how happy you render me in
      consenting to walk with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, aided by the darkness, after many awkward attempts, he ventured to
      tell her he loved her. He had long wanted to write to her and tell her so;
      and perhaps she would never have known it had it not been for this lovely
      night coming to his assistance, this water that murmured so softly, and
      these trees which screened them with their shade. But she did not reply;
      she continued to walk by his side with the same suffering air. And he was
      trying to look into her face, when he heard a sob.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! good heavens!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;you are crying, mademoiselle, you are
      crying! Have I offended you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      She tried to keep back her tears, but she could not. Even when at table,
      she had thought her heart was about to burst. She abandoned herself in the
      darkness entirely, stifled by her sobs, thinking that if Hutin had been in
      Deloche's place and said such tender things to her, she would have been
      unable to resist. This confession made to herself filled her with
      confusion. A feeling of shame burnt her face, as if she had already fallen
      into the arms of that Hutin, who was disporting himself with those girls.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't mean to offend you,&rdquo; continued Deloche, almost crying also.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but listen,&rdquo; said she, her voice still trembling; &ldquo;I am not at all
      angry with you. But never speak to me again as you have just done. What
      you ask is impossible. Oh! you're a good fellow, and I'm quite willing to
      be your friend, but nothing more. You understand&mdash;your friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shuddered. After a few steps taken in silence, he stammered: &ldquo;In fact,
      you don't love me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as she spared him the pain of a brutal &ldquo;no,&rdquo; he resumed in a soft,
      heart-broken voice: &ldquo;Oh, I was prepared for it I have never had any luck,
      I know I can never be happy. At home, they used to beat me. In Paris, I've
      always been a drudge. You see, when one does not know how to rob other
      fellows of their mistresses, and when one is too awkward to earn as much
      as the others, why the best thing is to go into some corner and die. Never
      fear, I sha'n't torment you any more. As for loving you, you can't prevent
      me, can you? I shall love you for nothing, like a dog. There, everything
      escapes me, that's my luck in life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he, too, burst into tears. She tried to console him, and in their
      friendly effusion they found they belonged to the same department&mdash;she
      to Valognes, he to Briquebec, eight miles from each other, and this was a
      fresh tie. His father, a poor, needy bailiff, and sickly jealous, used to
      drub him, calling him a bastard, exasperated with his long pale face and
      tow-like hair, which, said he, did not belong to the family. And they got
      talking about the vast pastures, surrounded with quick-set hedges, of the
      shady paths winding beneath the elm trees, and of the grass grown roads,
      like the alleys in a park.
    </p>
    <p>
      Around them night was getting darker, but they could still distinguish the
      rushes on the banks, and the interlaced foliage, black beneath the
      twinkling stars; and a peacefulness came over them, they forgot their
      troubles, brought nearer by their ill-luck, in a closer feeling of
      friendship.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; asked Pauline of Denise, taking her aside when they arrived at the
      station.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young girl understood by the smile and the stare of tender curiosity;
      she turned very red and replied: &ldquo;But&mdash;never, my dear! I told you I
      did not wish to! He belongs to my part of the country. We were talking
      about Valognes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pauline and Baugé were perplexed, put out in their ideas, not knowing what
      to think. Deloche left them in the Place de la Bastille; like all young
      probationers, he slept at the house, where he had to be in by eleven
      o'clock. Not wishing to go in with him, Denise, who had got permission to
      go to the theatre, accepted Baugé's invitation to accompany Pauline to his
      home&mdash;he, in order to be nearer his mistress, had moved into the Rue
      Saint-Roch. They took a cab, and Denise was stupefied on learning on the
      way that her friend was going to stay all night with the young man&mdash;nothing
      was easier, they only had to give Madame Cabin five francs, all the young
      ladies did it. Baugé did the honours of his room, which was furnished with
      old Empire furniture, given him by his father. He got angry when Denise
      spoke of settling up, but at last accepted the fifteen francs twelve sous
      which she had laid on the chest of drawers; but he insisted on making her
      a cup of tea, and he struggled with a spirit-lamp and saucepan, and then
      was obliged to go and fetch some sugar. Midnight struck as he was pouring
      out the tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must be off,&rdquo; said Denise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Presently,&rdquo; replied Pauline. &ldquo;The theatres don't close so early.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise felt uncomfortable in this bachelor's room. She had seen her friend
      take off her things, turn down the bed, open it, and pat the pillows with
      her naked arms; and these preparations for a night of love-making carried
      on before her, troubled her, and made her feel ashamed, awakening once in
      her wounded heart the recollection of Hutin. Such ideas were not very
      salutary. At last she left them, at a quarter past twelve. But she went
      away confused, when in reply to her innocent &ldquo;good night,&rdquo; Pauline cried
      out, thoughtlessly; &ldquo;Thanks, we are sure to have a good one!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The private door leading to Mouret's apartments and to the employees'
      bedrooms was in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. Madame Cabin opened the door
      and gave a glance in order to mark the return. A night-light was burning
      dimly in the hall, and Denise, finding herself in this uncertain light,
      hesitated, and was seized with fear, for on turning the corner of the
      street, she had seen the door close on the vague shadow of a man. It must
      have been the governor coming home from a party, and the idea that he was
      there in the dark waiting for her perhaps, caused her one of those strange
      fears with which he still inspired her, without any reasonable cause. Some
      one moved on the first-floor, a boot creaked, and losing her head
      entirely, she pushed open a door which led into the shop, and which was
      always left open for the night-watch. She was in the printed cotton
      department.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! what shall I do?&rdquo; she stammered, in her emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The idea occurred to her that there was another door upstairs leading to
      the bedrooms; but she would have to go right across the shop. She
      preferred this, notwithstanding the darkness reigning in the galleries.
      Not a gas-jet was burning, there were only a few oil-lamps hung here and
      there on the branches of the lustres; and these scattered lights, like
      yellow patches, their rays lost in the gloom, resembled the lanterns hung
      up in a mine. Big shadows loomed in the air; one could hardly distinguish
      the piles of goods, which assumed alarming profiles: fallen columns,
      squatting beasts, and lurking thieves. The heavy silence, broken by
      distant respirations, increased still more the darkness. However, she saw
      where she was. The linen department on her left formed a dead colour, like
      the blueiness of houses in the street under a summer sky; then she wished
      to cross the hall immediately, but running up against some piles of
      printed calico, she thought it safer to follow the hosiery department, and
      then the woollen one. There she was frightened by a loud noise of snoring.
      It was Joseph, the messenger, sleeping behind some articles of mourning.
      She quickly ran into the hall, now illuminated by the skylight, with a
      sort of crepuscular light which made it appear larger, full of a nocturnal
      church-like terror, with the immobility of its shelves, and the shadows of
      its yard-measures which described reversed crosses. She now fairly ran
      away. In the mercery and glove departments she nearly walked over some
      more messengers, and only felt safe when she at last found herself on the
      staircase. But upstairs, before the ready-made department, she was seized
      with fear on perceiving a lantern moving forward, twinkling in the
      darkness. It was the watch, two firemen marking their passage on the faces
      of the indicators. She stood a moment unable to understand it, watched
      them passing from the shawl to the furniture department, then to the
      under-linen, terrified by their strange manouvres, by the grinding of the
      key, and by the closing of the iron doors which made a murderous noise.
      When they approached, she took refuge in the lace department, but a sound
      of talking made her hastily depart, and run off to the outer door. She had
      recognised Deloche's voice. He slept in his department, on a little iron
      bedstead which he set up himself every evening; and he was not asleep yet,
      recalling the pleasant hours he had just spent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! it's you, mademoiselle?&rdquo; said Mouret, whom Denise found before her
      on the staircase, a small pocket-candlestick in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stammered, and tried to explain that she had come to look for
      something. But he was not angry. He looked at her with his paternal, and
      at the same time curious, air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had permission to go to the theatre, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And have you enjoyed yourself? What theatre did you go to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been in the country, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That made him laugh. Then he asked, laying a certain stress on his
      question: &ldquo;All alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir; with a lady friend,&rdquo; replied she, her cheeks burning, shocked at
      the idea which he no doubt entertained.
    </p>
    <p>
      He said no more; but he was still looking at her in her simple black dress
      and hat trimmed with a single blue ribbon. Was this little savage going to
      turn out a pretty girl? She looked all the better for her day in the open
      air, charming with her splendid hair falling over her forehead. And he,
      who during the last six months had treated her like a child, some times
      giving her advice, yielding to a desire to gain experience, to a wicked
      wish to know how a woman sprung up and lost herself in Paris, no longer
      laughed, experiencing a feeling of surprise and fear mingled with
      tenderness. No doubt it was a lover who embellished her like this. At this
      thought he felt as if stung to the quick by a favourite bird, with which
      he was playing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good night, sir,&rdquo; murmured Denise, continuing her way without waiting.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not answer, but stood watching her till she dis appeared. Then he
      entered his own apartments.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen the dead
      summer season arrived, there was quite a panic at The Ladies' Paradise.
      The reign of terror commenced, a great many employees were sent away on
      leave, and others were dismissed in dozens by the principals, who wished
      to clear the shop, no customers appearing during the July and August heat.
      Mouret, on making his daily inspection with Burdoncle, called aside the
      managers, whom he had prompted during the winter to engage more men than
      were necessary, so that the business should not suffer, leaving them to
      weed out their staff later on. It was now a question of reducing expenses
      by getting rid of quite a third of the shop people, the weak ones who
      allowed themselves to be swallowed up by the strong ones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; he would say, &ldquo;you must have some who don't suit you. We can't
      keep them all this time doing nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And if the manager hesitated, hardly knowing whom to sacrifice, he would
      continue; &ldquo;Make your arrangements, six salesmen must suffice; you can take
      on others in October, there are plenty to be had!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As a rule Bourdoncle undertook the executions. He had a terrible way of
      saying: &ldquo;Go and be paid!&rdquo; which fell like a blow from an axe. Anything
      served him as a pretext for clearing off the superfluous staff. He
      invented misdeeds, speculating on the slightest negligence. &ldquo;You were
      sitting down, sir; go and be paid!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You dare to answer me; go and be paid!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your shoes are not clean; go and be paid!&rdquo; And even the bravest trembled
      in presence of the massacre which he left behind him. Then, this system
      not working quick enough, he invented a trap by which he got rid in a few
      days, without fatigue, of the number of salesmen condemned beforehand. At
      eight o'clock, he took his stand at the door, watch in hand; and at three
      minutes past the hour, the breathless young people were greeted with the
      implacable &ldquo;Go and be paid!&rdquo; This was a quick and cleanly method of doing
      the work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've an ugly mug,&rdquo; he ended by saying one day to a poor wretch whose
      nose, all on one side, annoyed him, &ldquo;go and be paid!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The favoured ones obtained a fortnight's holiday without pay, which was a
      more humane way of lessening the expenses. The salesmen accepted their
      precarious situation, obliged to do so by necessity and habit. Since their
      arrival in Paris, they had roamed about, commencing their apprenticeship
      here, finishing it there, getting dismissed or themselves resigning all at
      once, as interest dictated. When business stood still, the workmen were
      deprived of their daily bread; and this was well understood in the
      indifferent march of the machine, the useless workmen were quietly thrown
      aside, like so much old plant, there was no gratitude shown for services
      rendered. So much the worse for those who did not know how to look after
      themselves!
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing else was now talked of in the various departments. Fresh stories
      circulated every day. The dismissed salesmen were named, as one counts the
      dead in time of cholera. The shawl and the woollen departments suffered
      especially; seven employees disappeared from them in one week. Then the
      underlinen department was thrown into confusion, a customer had nearly
      fainted away, accusing the young person who had served her of eating
      garlic; and the latter was dismissed at once, although, badly fed and
      dying of hunger, she was simply finishing a collection of bread crusts at
      the counter. The authorities were pitiless at the least complaint from the
      customers; no excuse was admitted, the employee was always wrong, and had
      to disappear like a defective instrument, hurtful to the proper working of
      the business; and the others bowed their heads, not even attempting any
      defence. In the panic which was raging each one trembled for himself.
      Mignot, going out one day with a parcel under his coat, notwithstanding
      the rules, was nearly caught, and really thought himself lost. Liénard,
      who was celebrated for his idleness, owed to his father's position in the
      drapery trade that he was not turned away one afternoon that Bourdoncle
      found him dozing between two piles of English velvets. But the Lhommes
      were especially anxious, expecting every day to see their son Albert sent
      away, the governor being very dissatisfied with his conduct at the
      pay-desk. He frequently had women there who distracted his attention from
      his work; and twice Madame Aurélie had been obliged to plead for him with
      the principals.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise was so menaced amid this general clearance, that she lived in the
      constant 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 any one 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 rancour. 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let them alone!&rdquo; repeated Pauline, &ldquo;a lot of stuck-up things, as stupid
      as donkeys!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know the 'unkempt girl' has got a child?&rdquo; said Clara one morning, on
      arriving in the department. And, as they seemed astonished, she continued:
      &ldquo;I saw her yesterday myself taking the child out for a walk! She's got it
      stowed away in the neighbourhood, somewhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two days after, Margueritte came up after dinner with another piece of
      news. &ldquo;A nice thing, I've just seen the 'unkempt girl's' lover&mdash;a
      workman, just fancy! Yes, a dirty little workman, with yellow hair, who
      was watching her through the windows.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      From that moment it was an accepted truth: Denise had a workman for a
      lover, and an infant concealed somewhere in the neighbourhood. 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: &ldquo;But they are my
      brothers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! oh! her brothers!&rdquo; said Clara in a bantering tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Aurélie was obliged to interfere. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This curt defence was a condemnation. The young girl, feeling choked as if
      they had accused her of a crime, vainly endeavoured to explain the facts.
      They laughed and shrugged their shoulders, and she felt wounded to the
      heart On hearing the rumour, 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 any one should attack her before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You look dull,&rdquo; said Pauline, meeting her in the furniture gallery,
      looking very pale. &ldquo;Are you in want of anything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But as Denise already owed her friend twelve francs, she tried to smile
      and replied: &ldquo;No, thanks. I've not slept well, that's all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 rumours 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! it's only old Jouve!&rdquo; murmured she in a relieved tone. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should I be afraid?&rdquo; asked Denise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; replied Pauline, laughing, &ldquo;perhaps he may exact some return.
      Several of the young ladies try to keep well with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way,&rdquo; resumed Pauline, &ldquo;weren't you looking for Monsieur Robineau
      yesterday? He's come back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise thought she was saved. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yesterday they were all Auvergnat women, to-day they're all Provençales.
      I'm sick of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Hutin rushed forward, it was his turn, and he had recognised &ldquo;the
      pretty lady,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's married, then?&rdquo; asked Favier, when Hutin returned from the
      pay-desk, where he had debited her with thirty yards of Duchess satin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Possibly,&rdquo; replied he, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      À silence ensued. The two salesmen gazed vaguely into the depths of the
      shop. Then Favier resumed in a low voice; &ldquo;If she's married, perhaps her
      husband's given her a drubbing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Possibly,&rdquo; repeated Hutin, &ldquo;unless it be a lover who has left her.&rdquo; And
      after a fresh silence, he added: &ldquo;Any way, I don't care a hang!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's that bag of bones again,&rdquo; murmured Hutin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's looking for Robineau,&rdquo; said Favier. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hutin was meditating something spiteful. When Denise passed near he, he
      stopped her, saying: &ldquo;Is it me you're looking for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; she replied, embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hutin then began to laugh at her uneasy manner. &ldquo;Would you like us to
      serve him to you? Favier, just serve this young lady with Robineau.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Robineau is in the stock-room,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;No doubt he will be
      back for lunch. You'll find him here this afternoon, if you want to speak
      to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise thanked him, and went up to her department, where Madamé 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, every one 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We would sooner all leave, if they keep him,&rdquo; declared Hutin.
    </p>
    <p>
      This affair bothered Bouthemont, whose gaiety ill-accorded with such an
      internal vexation. He was pained to see nothing but scowling faces around
      him. However, he wished to be just &ldquo;Come, leave him alone, he doesn't hurt
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But they protested energetically. &ldquo;What! doesn't hurt us! An insupportable
      object, always irritable, capable of walking over your body, he's so
      proud!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the great bitterness of the department Robineau, nervous as a
      woman, was intolerably stiff and susceptible. They related scores of
      stories, a poor little fellow who had fallen ill through it, and lady
      customers even who had been humiliated by his nasty remarks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, gentlemen, I won't take anything on myself,&rdquo; said Bouthemont. &ldquo;I've
      notified the directors, and am going to speak about it shortly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The second lunch-bell rang, the clang of which came up from the basement,
      distant and deadened in the close air of the shop. Hutin and Favier went
      down. From all the counters, the salesmen were arriving one by one,
      helter-skelter, hastening below to the narrow entrance to the kitchen, a
      damp passage always lighted with gas. The throng pushed forward, without a
      laugh or a word, amidst an increasing noise of crockery and a strong odour
      of food. At the extremity of the passage there was a sudden halt, before a
      wicket. Flanked with piles of plates, armed with forks and spoons, which
      he was plunging in the copper-pans, a cook was distributing the portions.
      And when he stood aside, the flaring kitchen could be seen behind his
      white-covered belly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course!&rdquo; muttered Hutin, consulting the bill of fare, written on a
      black-board above the wicket. &ldquo;Beef and pungent sauce, or skate. Never any
      roast meat in this rotten shop! Their boiled beef and fish don't do a bit
      of good to a fellow!&rdquo; Moreover, the fish was universally neglected, for
      the pan was quite full. Favier, however, took some skate. Behind him,
      Hutin stooped down, saying: &ldquo;Beef and pungent sauce.&rdquo; With a mechanical
      movement, the cook picked up a piece of meat, and poured a spoonful of
      sauce over it; and Hutin, suffocated by the ardent breath from the
      kitchen, had hardly got his portion, before the words, &ldquo;Beef, pungent
      sauce; beef, pungent sauce,&rdquo; followed each other like a litany; whilst the
      cook continued to pick up the meat and pour over the sauce, with the rapid
      and rhythmical movement of a well-regulated clock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the skate's cold,&rdquo; declared Favier, whose hand felt no warmth from
      the plate.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were all hurrying along now, with their plates held out straight, for
      fear of running up against one another. Ten steps further was the bar,
      another wicket with a shiny zinc counter, on which were ranged the shares
      of wine, small bottles, without corks, still damp from rinsing. And each
      took one of these bottles in his empty hand as he passed, and then,
      completely laden, made for his table with a serious air, careful not to
      spill anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hutin grumbled, &ldquo;This is a fine dance, with all this crockery!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their table, Favier's and his, was at the end of the corridor in the last
      dining-room. The rooms were all alike, old cellars twelve feet by fifteen,
      which had been cemented over and fitted up as refectories; but the damp
      came through the paint-work, the yellow walls were covered with greenish
      spots; and, from the narrow air-holes, opening on the street, on a level
      with the pavement, there fell a livid light, incessantly traversed by the
      vague shadows of the passers-by. In July as in December, one was stifled
      in the warm air, laden with nauseous smells, coming from the neighbourhood
      of the kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hutin went in first. On the table, which was fixed at one end to the wall,
      and covered with American cloth, there were only the glasses, knives, and
      forks, marking oft the places. A pile of clean plates stood at each end;
      whilst in the middle was a big loaf, a knife sticking in it, with the
      handle in the air. Hutin got rid of his bottle and laid down his plate;
      then, after having taken his napkin from the bottom of a set of
      pigeonholes, the sole ornament on the walls, he heaved a sigh and sat
      down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I'm fearfully hungry, too!&rdquo; he murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's always like that,&rdquo; replied Favier, who took his place on the left.
      &ldquo;Nothing to eat when one is starving.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The table was rapidly filling. It contained twenty-two places. At first
      nothing was heard but a loud clattering of knives and forks, the
      gormandising of big fellows with stomachs emptied by thirteen hours' daily
      work. Formerly the employees had an hour for meals, which enabled them to
      go outside to a café and take their coffee; and they would despatch their
      dinner in twenty minutes, anxious to get into the street But this stirred
      them up too much, they came back careless, indisposed for business; and
      the managers had decided that they should not go out, but pay an extra
      three halfpence for a cup of coffee, if they wanted it. So that now they
      were in no hurry, but prolonged the meal, not at all anxious to go back to
      work before time. A great many read some newspaper, between mouthfuls, the
      journal folded and placed against their bottle. Others, their first hunger
      satisfied, talked noisily, always returning to the eternal grievance of
      the bad food, the money they had earned, what they had done the previous
      Sunday, and what they were going to do on the next one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, what about your Robineau?&rdquo; asked a salesman of Hutin.
    </p>
    <p>
      The struggle between the salesmen of the silk department and their
      second-hand occupied all the counters. The question was discussed every
      evening at the Café Saint-Roch until midnight. Hutin, who was busy with
      his piece of beef, contented himself with replying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! he's come back, Robineau has.&rdquo; Then, suddenly getting angry, he
      resumed: &ldquo;But confound it! they've given me a bit of a donkey, I believe!
      It's becoming disgusting, my word of honour!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You needn't grumble!&rdquo; said Favier. &ldquo;I was flat enough to ask for skate.
      It's putrid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were all speaking at once, some complaining, some joking. At a corner
      of the table, against the wall, Deloche was silently eating. He was
      afflicted with an enormous appetite, which he had never been able to
      satisfy, and not earning enough to afford any extras, he cut himself
      enormous chunks of bread, and swallowed up the least savoury platefuls,
      with an air of greediness. They all laughed at him, crying: &ldquo;Favier, pass
      your skate to Deloche. He likes it like that. And your meat, Hutin;
      Deloche wants it for his dessert.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The poor fellow shrugged his shoulders, and did not even reply. It wasn't
      his fault if he was dying of hunger. Besides, the others might abuse the
      food as much as they liked, they swallowed it up all the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a low whistling stopped their talk; Mouret and Bourdoncle were in the
      corridor. For some time the complaints had become so frequent that the
      principals pretended to come and judge for themselves the quality of the
      food. They gave thirty sous a head per day to the chief cook, who had to
      pay everything, provisions, coal, gas, and staff, and they displayed a
      naïve astonishment when the food was not good. This very morning even,
      each department had deputed a spokesman. Mignot and Liénard had undertaken
      to speak for their comrades. And in the sudden silence, all ears were
      stretched out to catch the conversation going on in the next room, where
      Mouret and Bourdoncle had just entered. The latter declared the beef
      excellent; and Mignot, astounded by this quiet affirmation, was repeating,
      &ldquo;But chew it, and see;&rdquo; whilst Liénard, attacking the skate, was gently
      saying, &ldquo;But it stinks, sir!&rdquo; Mouret then launched into a cordial speech:
      he would do everything for his employees' welfare, he was their father,
      and would rather eat dry bread than see them badly fed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I promise you to look into the matter,&rdquo; said he in conclusion, raising
      his voice so that they should hear it from one end of the passage to the
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      The inquiry being finished, the noise of the knives and forks commenced
      once more. Hutin muttered &ldquo;Yes, reckon on that, and drink water! Ah,
      they're not stingy of soft words. Want some promises, there you are! And
      they continue to feed you on old boot-leather, and to chuck you out like
      dogs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The salesman who had already questioned him repeated: &ldquo;You say that
      Robineau&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But a noise of heavy crockery-ware drowned his voice. The men changed
      their plates themselves, and the piles at both ends were diminishing. When
      a kitchen-help brought in some large tin dishes, Hutin cried out: &ldquo;Baked
      rice! this is a finisher!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good for a penn'orth of gum!&rdquo; said Favier, serving himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some liked it, others thought it too sticky. There were some who remained
      quite silent, plunged in the fiction of their newspaper, not even knowing
      what they were eating. They were all mopping their foreheads, the narrow
      cellar-like apartment was full of a ruddy steam, whilst the shadows of the
      passers-by were continually passing in black bands over the untidy cloth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pass Deloche the bread,&rdquo; cried out one of the wags.
    </p>
    <p>
      Each one cut a piece, and then dug the knife into the loaf up to the
      handle; and the bread still went round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who'll take my rice for a dessert?&rdquo; asked Hutin.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had concluded his bargain with a short, thin young fellow, he
      attempted to sell his wine also; but no one would take it, it was known to
      be detestable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I was telling you, Robineau is back,&rdquo; he continued, amid the
      cross-fire of laughter and conversation that was going on. &ldquo;Oh! his affair
      is a grave one. Just fancy, he has been debauching the saleswomen! Yes,
      and he gets them cravats to make!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence!&rdquo; exclaimed Favier. &ldquo;They're just judging him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he pointed to Bouthemont, who was walking in the passage between
      Mouret and Bourdoncle, all three absorbed in an animated conversation,
      carried on in a low tone. The diningroom of the managers and second-hands
      happened to be just opposite. Therefore, when Bouthemont saw Mouret pass
      he got up, having finished, and related the affair, explaining the awkward
      position he was in. The other two listened, still refusing to sacrifice
      Robineau, a first-class salesman, who dated from Madame Hedouin's time.
      But when he came to the story of the neckties, Bourdoncle got angry. Was
      this fellow mad to interfere with the saleswomen and procure them extra
      work? The house paid dear enough for the women's time; if they worked on
      their own account at night they worked less during the day in the shop,
      that was certain; therefore it was a robbery, they were risking their
      health which did not belong to them. No, the night was made for sleep;
      they must all sleep, or they would be sent to the right-about!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Getting rather warm!&rdquo; remarked Hutin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every time the three men passed the dining-room, the shopmen watched them,
      commenting on the slightest gestures. They had forgotten the baked rice,
      in which a cashier had just found a brace-button.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard the word 'cravat,'&rdquo; said Favier. &ldquo;And you saw how Bourdoncle's
      face turned pale at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret shared his partner's indignation. That a saleswoman should be
      reduced to work at night, seemed to him an attack on the organisation of
      The Ladies' Paradise. Who was the stupid that couldn't earn enough in the
      business? But when Bouthemont named Denise he softened down, and invented
      excuses. Ah I yes, that poor little girl; she wasn't very sharp, and was
      greatly burdened, it was said. Bourdoncle interrupted him to declare they
      ought to send her off immediately. They would never do anything with such
      an ugly creature, he had always said so; and he seemed to be indulging a
      spiteful feeling. Mouret, perplexed, affected to laugh. Dear me! what a
      severe man! couldn't they forgive her for once? They could call in the
      culprit and give her a scolding. In short, Robineau was the most to blame,
      for he ought to have dissuaded her, he, an old hand, knowing the ways of
      the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! there's the governor laughing now!&rdquo; resumed Favier, astonished, as
      the group again passed the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, by Jove!&rdquo; exclaimed Hutin, &ldquo;if they persist in shoving Robineau on
      our shoulders, we'll make it lively for them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle looked straight at Mouret. Then he simply assumed a disdainful
      expression, to intimate that he saw how it was, and thought it idiotic.
      Bouthemont resumed his complaints; the salesmen threatened to leave, and
      there were some very good men amongst them. But what appeared to touch
      these gentlemen especially, was the rumour of Robineau's friendly
      relations with Gaujean; the latter, it was said, was urging the former to
      set up for himself in the neighbourhood, offering him any amount of
      credit, to run in opposition to The Ladies' Paradise. There was a pause.
      Ah! Robineau was thinking of showing fight, was he! Mouret had become
      serious; he affected a certain scorn, avoided coming to a decision,
      treating it as a matter of no importance. They would see, they would speak
      to him. And he immediately commenced to joke with Bouthemont, whose
      father, arrived two days before from his little shop at Montpellier, had
      been nearly choked with rage and indignation on seeing the immense hall in
      which his son reigned. They were still laughing about the old man, who,
      recovering his Southern assurance, had immediately commenced to run
      everything down, pretending that the drapery business would soon go to the
      dogs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here's Robineau,&rdquo; said Bouthemont. &ldquo;I sent him to the stock-room to avoid
      any unpleasant occurrence. Excuse me if I insist, but things are in such
      an unpleasant state that something must be done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Robineau, who had just come in, passed by the group with a bow, on his way
      to the table. Mouret simply repeated: &ldquo;All right, we'll see about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And they separated. Hutin and Favier were still waiting for them, but on
      seeing they did not return, relieved their feelings. Was the governor
      coming down like this to every meal, to count the mouthfuls? A nice thing,
      if they could not even eat in peace! The truth was, they had just seen
      Robineau come in, and the governor's good-humour made them anxious for the
      result of the struggle they were engaged in. They lowered their voices,
      trying to find fresh subjects for grumbling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'm dying of hunger!&rdquo; continued Hutin, aloud. &ldquo;One is hungrier than
      ever on getting up from table!&rdquo; And yet he had eaten two portions of
      dessert, his own and the one he had exchanged for his plate of rice. All
      at once he cried out: &ldquo;Hang it, I'm going in for an extra! Victor, give me
      another dessert!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The waiter was finishing serving the dessert. He then brought in the
      coffee, and those who took it gave him their three sous there and then. A
      few fellows had gone away, dawdling along the corridor, looking for a dark
      corner in which they could smoke a cigarette. The others remained at table
      before the heaps of greasy plates and dishes, rolling up the bread-crumbs
      into little bullets, going over the same old stories, in the odour of
      broken food, and the sweltering heat that was reddening their ears. The
      walls reeked with moisture, a slow asphyxia fell from the mouldy ceiling.
      Standing against the wall was Deloche, stuffed with bread, digesting in
      silence, his eyes on the air-hole; his daily recreation, after lunch, was
      to watch the feet of the passers-by spinning along the street, a continual
      procession of living feet, big boots, elegant boots, and ladies' tiny
      boots, without head or body. On rainy days it was very dirty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Already?&rdquo; exclaimed Hutin.
    </p>
    <p>
      A bell rang at the end of the passage, they had to make way for the third
      lunch. The waiters came in with pails of warm water and big sponges to
      clean the American cloth. Gradually the rooms became empty, the salesmen
      returned to their departments, lingering on the stairs. In the kitchen,
      the head cook had resumed his place at the wicket, between the pans of
      skate, beef, and sauce, armed with his forks and spoons, ready to fill the
      plates anew with the rhythmical movement of a well-regulated clock. As
      Hutin and Favier slowly withdrew, they saw Denise coming down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Robineau is back, mademoiselle,&rdquo; said the former with sneering
      politeness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is still at table,&rdquo; added the other. &ldquo;But if it's anything important
      you can go in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise continued on her way without replying or turning round; but when
      she passed the dining-room of the managers and second-hands, she could not
      help just looking in, and saw that Robineau was really there. She resolved
      to try and speak to him in the afternoon, and continued her journey along
      the corridor to her dining-room, which was at the other end.
    </p>
    <p>
      The women took their meals apart, in two special rooms. Denise entered the
      first one. It was also an old cellar, transformed into a refectory; but it
      had been fitted up with more comfort. On the oval table, in the middle of
      the apartment, the fifteen places were further apart and the wine was in
      decanters, a dish of skate and a dish of beef with pungent sauce occupied
      the two ends of the table. Waiters in white aprons attended to the young
      ladies, and spared them the trouble of fetching their portions from the
      wicket The management had thought that more decent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You went round, then?&rdquo; asked Pauline, already seated and cutting herself
      some bread.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Denise, blushing, &ldquo;I was accompanying a customer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But this was a falsehood. Clara nudged her neighbour. What was the matter
      with the &ldquo;unkempt girl?&rdquo; She was quite strange in her ways. One after the
      other she had received letters from her lover; then, she went running all
      over the shop like a madwoman, pretending to be going to the work-room,
      where she did not even make an appearance. There was something up, that
      was certain. Then Clara, eating her skate without disgust, with the
      indifference of a girl who had been used to nothing better than rancid
      bacon, spoke of a frightful drama, the account of which filled the
      newspapers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've heard about that man cutting his mistress's throat with a razor,
      haven't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said a little quiet delicate-looking girl belonging to the
      under-linen department, &ldquo;he found her with another fellow. Serve her
      right!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Pauline protested. What! just because one had ceased to love a man, he
      should be allowed to cut your throat? Ah! no, never! And stopping all at
      once, she turned round to the waiter, saying: &ldquo;Pierre, I can't get through
      this beef. Just tell them to do me an extra, an omelet, nice and soft, if
      possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To pass away the time, she took out some chocolate which she began eating
      with her bread, for she always had her pockets full of sweetmeats.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly it isn't very amusing with such a fellow,&rdquo; resumed Clara. &ldquo;And
      some people are fearfully jealous, you know! Only the other day there was
      a workman who pitched his wife into a well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She kept her eyes on Denise, thinking she had guessed her trouble on
      seeing her turn pale. Evidently this little prude was afraid of being
      beaten by her lover, whom she no doubt deceived. It would be a lark if he
      came right into the shop after her, as she seemed to fear he would. But
      the conversation took another turn, one of the girls was giving a recipe
      for cleaning velvet. They then went on to speak of a piece at the Gaiety,
      in which some darling little children danced better than any grown-up
      persons. Pauline, saddened for a moment at the sight of her omelet, which
      was overdone, resumed her gaiety on finding it went down fairly well.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pass the wine,&rdquo; said she to Denise. &ldquo;You should go in for an omelet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! the beef is enough for me,&rdquo; replied the young girl, who, to avoid
      expense, confined herself to the food provided by the house, no matter how
      repugnant it might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the waiter brought in the baked rice, the young ladies protested.
      They had refused it the previous week, and hoped it would not appear
      again. Denise, inattentive, worrying about Jean after Clara's stories, was
      the only one to eat it; all the others looked at her with an air of
      disgust. There was a great demand for extras, they gorged themselves with
      jam. This was a sort of elegance, they felt obliged to feed themselves
      with their own money.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know the gentlemen have complained,&rdquo; said the little delicate girl
      from the under-linen department, &ldquo;and the management has promised&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They interrupted her with a burst of laughter, and commenced to talk about
      the management. All the girls took coffee but Denise, who couldn't bear
      it, she said. And they lingered there before their cups, the young ladies
      from the under-linen department in woollen dresses, with a middle-class
      simplicity, the young ladies from the dress department in silk, their
      napkins tucked under their chins, in order not to stain their dresses,
      like ladies who might have come down to the servants' hall to dine with
      their chamber-maids. They had opened the glazed sash of the airhole to
      change the stifling poisoned air; but they were obliged to close it at
      once, the cab-wheels seemed to be passing over the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; exclaimed Pauline; &ldquo;here's that old beast!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Jouve, the inspector, who was rather fond of prowling about at meal
      times, when the young ladies were there. He was supposed, in fact, to look
      after their dining-rooms. With a smiling face he would come in and walk
      round the tables; sometimes he would even indulge in a little gossip, and
      inquire if they had made a good lunch. But as he annoyed them and made
      them feel uncomfortable, they all hastened to get away. Although the bell
      had not rung, Clara was the first to disappear; the others followed her,
      so that soon only Denise and Pauline remained. The latter, after having
      drunk her coffee, was finishing her chocolate drops. All at once she got
      up, saying: &ldquo;I'm going to send the messenger for some oranges. Are you
      coming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Presently,&rdquo; replied Denise, who was nibbling at a crust, determined to
      wait till the last, so as to be able to see Robineau on going upstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, when she found herself alone with Jouve she felt uneasy, so she
      quitted the table; but as she was going towards the door he stopped her
      saying: &ldquo;Mademoiselle Baudu&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Standing before her, he smiled with a paternal air. His thick grey
      moustache and short cropped hair gave him a respectable military
      appearance; and he threw out his chest, on which was displayed the red
      ribbon of his decoration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, Monsieur Jouve?&rdquo; asked she, feeling reassured. &ldquo;I caught you
      again this morning talking upstairs behind the carpet department You know
      it is not allowed, and if I reported you&mdash;&mdash; She must be very
      fond of you, your friend Pauline.&rdquo; His moustache quivered, a flame lighted
      up his enormous nose. &ldquo;What makes you so fond of each other, eh?&rdquo; Denise,
      without understanding, was again becoming seized with an uneasy feeling.
      He was getting too close, and was speaking right in her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's true we were talking, Monsieur Jouve,&rdquo; she stammered, &ldquo;but there's
      no harm in talking a bit. You are very good to me, and I'm very much
      obliged to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ought not to be good,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Justice, and nothing more, is my
      motto. But when it's a pretty girl&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he came closer still, and she felt really afraid. Pauline's words came
      back to her memory; she now remembered the stories going about, stories of
      girls terrified by old Jouve into buying his good-will. In the shop, as a
      rule, he confined himself to little familiarities, such as pinching the
      cheeks of the complaisant young ladies with his fat fingers, taking their
      hands in his and keeping them there as if he had forgotten them. This was
      very paternal, and he only gave way to his real nature outdoors, when they
      consented to accept a little refreshment at his place in the Rue des
      Moineaux.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave me alone,&rdquo; murmured the young girl, drawing back. &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said he,
      &ldquo;you are not going to play the savage with me, who always treats you well.
      Be amiable, come and take a cup of tea and a slice of bread-and-butter
      with me this evening. You are very welcome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was struggling now. &ldquo;No! no!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The dining room was empty, the waiter had not come back. Jouve, listening
      for the sound of any footsteps, cast a rapid glance around him; and, very
      excited, losing control over himself, going beyond his fatherly
      familiarities, he tried to kiss her on the neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a spiteful, stupid little girl. When one has a head of hair like
      yours one should not be so stupid. Come round this evening, just for fun.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she was very excited, shocked, and terrified at the approach of this
      burning face, of which she could feel the breath. Suddenly she pushed him,
      so roughly that he staggered and nearly fell on to the table. Fortunately,
      a chair saved him; but in the shock, some wine left in a glass spurted on
      to his white necktie, and soaked his decoration. And he stood there,
      without wiping himself, choked with anger at such brutality. What! when he
      was expecting nothing, when he was not exerting his strength, and was
      yielding simply to his kindness of heart!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0297.jpg" alt="0297 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0297.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you will be sorry for this, on my word of honour!&rdquo; Denise ran away.
      Just at that moment the bell rang; but troubled, still shuddering, she
      forgot Robineau, and went straight to her counter, not daring to go down
      again. As the sun fell on the frontage of the Place Gaillon of an
      afternoon, they were all stifling in the first floor rooms,
      notwithstanding the grey linen blinds. A few customers came, put the young
      ladies into a very uncomfortable, warm state, and went away without buying
      anything. Every one was yawning even under Madame Aurélie's big sleepy
      eyes. Towards three o'clock, Denise, seeing the first-hand falling off to
      sleep, quietly slipped off, and resumed her journey across the shop, with
      a busy air. To put the curious ones, who might be watching her, off the
      scent, she did not go straight to the silk department; pretending to want
      something in the lace department, she went up to Deloche, and asked him a
      question; then, on the ground-floor, she passed through the printed
      cottons department, and was just going into the cravat one, when she
      stopped short, startled and surprised. Jean was before her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! it's you?&rdquo; she murmured, quite pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had on his working blouse, and was bare-headed, with his hair in
      disorder, the curls falling over his girlish face. Standing before a
      show-case of narrow black neckties, he appeared to be thinking deeply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you doing here?&rdquo; resumed Denise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think?&rdquo; replied he. &ldquo;I was waiting for you. You won't let me
      come. So I came in, but haven't said anything to anybody. You may feel
      quite safe. Pretend not to know me, if you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Some salesmen were already looking at them with astonishment Jean lowered
      his voice. &ldquo;She wanted to come with me you know. Yes, she is close by,
      opposite the fountain. Give me the fifteen francs quick, or we are done
      for as sure as the sun is shining on us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise lost her head. The lookers-on were grinning, listening to this
      adventure. And as there was a staircase behind the cravat department
      leading to the lower floor, she pushed her brother along, and quickly led
      him below. Downstairs he continued his story, embarrassed, inventing his
      facts, fearing not to be believed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The money is not for her. She is too respectable for that. And as for her
      husband, he does not care a straw for fifteen francs. Not for a million
      would he allow his wife. A glue manufacturer, I tell you. People very well
      off indeed. No, it's for a low fellow, one of her friends, who has seen us
      together; and if I don't give him this money this evening&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be quiet,&rdquo; murmured Denise. &ldquo;Presently, do get along.&rdquo; They were now in
      the parcels office. The dead season had thrown the vast floor into a sort
      of torpor, in the pale light from the air-holes. It was cold as well, a
      silence fell from the ceiling. However, a porter was collecting from one
      of the compartments the few packets for the neighbourhood of the
      Madeleine; and, on the large sorting-table, was seated Campion, the chief
      clerk, his legs dangling, and his eyes wandering about.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jean began again: &ldquo;The husband, who has a big knife&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get along!&rdquo; repeated Denise, still pushing him forward. They followed one
      of the narrow corridors, where the gas was kept continually burning. To
      the right and the left in the dark vaults the reserve goods threw out
      their shadows behind the gratings. At last she stopped opposite one of
      these. Nobody was likely to pass that way; but it was not allowed, and she
      shuddered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If this rascal says anything,&rdquo; resumed Jean, &ldquo;the husband, who has a big
      knife&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where do you expect I can find fifteen francs?&rdquo; exclaimed Denise in
      despair. &ldquo;Can't you be more careful? You're always getting into some
      stupid scrape!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He struck his chest. Amidst all his romantic inventions, he had almost
      forgotten the exact truth. He dramatised his money wants, but there was
      always some immediate necessity behind this display. &ldquo;By all that's
      sacred, it's really true this time. I was holding her like this, and she
      was kissing me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped him again, and lost her temper, feeling on thorns, completely
      at a loss. &ldquo;I don't want to know. Keep your wicked conduct to yourself.
      It's too bad, you ought to know better! You're always tormenting me. I'm
      killing myself to keep you in money. Yes, I have to stay up all night at
      work. Not only that, you are taking the bread out of your little brother's
      mouth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jean stood there with his mouth wide open, and all the colour left his
      face. What! it was not right? And he could not understand, he had always
      treated his sister like a comrade, he thought it quite a natural thing to
      open his heart to her. But what choked him above all, was to learn she
      stopped up all night. The idea that he was killing her, and taking Pépé's
      share as well, affected him so much that he began to cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're right; I'm a scamp,&rdquo; exclaimed he. &ldquo;But it isn't wicked, really,
      far from it, and that's why one always does it! This woman, Denise, is
      twenty, and thought it such fun, because I'm only seventeen. Really now! I
      am quite furious with myself! I could slap my face!&rdquo; He had taken her
      hands, and was kissing them and inundating them with tears. &ldquo;Give me the
      fifteen francs, and this shall be the last time. I swear to you. Or rather&mdash;no!&mdash;don't
      give me anything. I prefer to die. If the husband murders me it will be a
      good riddance for you.&rdquo; And as she was crying as well, he was stricken
      with remorse. &ldquo;I say that, but of course I'm not sure. Perhaps he doesn't
      want to kill any one. We'll manage. I promise you that, darling. Good-bye,
      I'm off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But a sound of footsteps at the end of the corridor frightened them. She
      quickly drew him close to the grating, in a dark corner. For an instant
      they heard nothing but the hissing of a gas-burner near them. Then the
      footsteps drew nearer; and, on stretching out her neck, she recognised
      Jouve, the inspector, who had just entered the corridor, with his stiff
      military walk. Was he there by chance, or had some one at the door warned
      him of Jean's presence? She was seized with such a fright that she knew
      not what to do; and she pushed Jean out of the dark spot where they were
      concealed, and drove him before her, stammering out: &ldquo;Be off! Be off!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both galloped along, hearing Jouve behind them, for he also had began to
      run. They crossed the parcels office again, and arrived at the foot of the
      stairs leading out into the Rue de la Michodière.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be off!&rdquo; repeated Denise, &ldquo;be off! If I can, I'll send you the fifteen
      francs all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jean, bewildered, scampered away. The inspector, who came up panting, out
      of breath, could only distinguish a corner of his white blouse, and his
      locks of fair hair flying in the wind. He stood a moment to get his
      breath, and resume his correct appearance. He had on a brand-new white
      necktie, the large bow of which shone like a snow-flake.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! this is nice behaviour, mademoiselle!&rdquo; said he, his lips trembling.
      &ldquo;Yes, it's nice, very nice! If you think I'm going to stand this sort of
      thing in the basement, you're mistaken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he pursued her with this whilst she was returning to the shop,
      overcome with emotion, unable to find a word of defence. She was sorry now
      she had run away. Why hadn't she explained the matter, and brought her
      brother forward? They would now go and imagine all sorts of villanies, and
      say what she might, they would not believe her. Once more she forgot
      Robineau, and went straight to her counter. Jouve immediately went to the
      manager's office to report the matter. But the messenger told him Monsieur
      Mouret was with Monsieur Bourdoncle and Monsieur Robineau; they had been
      talking together for the last quarter of an hour. In fact, the door was
      halfopen, and he could hear Mouret gaily asking Robineau if he had had a
      pleasant holiday; there was not the least question of a dismissal&mdash;on
      the contrary, the conversation fell on certain things to be done in the
      department.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you want anything, Monsieur Jouve?&rdquo; exclaimed Mouret &ldquo;Come in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But a sudden instinct warned the inspector. As Bourdoncle had come out, he
      preferred to relate the affair to him. They slowly passed through the
      shawl department, walking side by side, the one leaning over and talking
      in a low tone, the other listening, not a sign on his severe face
      betraying his impressions. &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said the latter at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      And as they had arrived close to the dress department, he went in. Just at
      that moment Madame Aurélie was scolding Denise. Where had she come from,
      again? This time she couldn't say she had been to the work-room. Really,
      these continual absences could not be tolerated any longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame Aurélie!&rdquo; cried Bourdoncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had decided on a bold stroke, not wishing to consult Mouret, for fear
      of some weakness. The first-hand came up, and the story was once more
      related in a low voice. They were all waiting in the expectation of some
      catastrophe. At last, Madame Aurélie turned round with a solemn air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Baudu!&rdquo; And her puffy emperor's mask assumed the immobility
      of the all-powerful: &ldquo;Go and be paid!&rdquo; The terrible phrase sounded very
      loud in the empty department. Denise stood there pale as a ghost, without
      saying a word. At last she was able to ask in broken sentences:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me! me! What for? What have I done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle replied, harshly, that she knew very well, that she had better
      not provoke any explanation; and he spoke of the cravats, and said that it
      would be a fine thing if all the young ladies received men down in the
      basement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it was my brother!&rdquo; cried she with the grievous anger of an outraged
      virgin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite and Clara commenced to laugh. Madame Frédéric, usually so
      discreet, shook her head with an incredulous air. Always her brother!
      Really it was very stupid! Denise looked round at all of them: Bourdoncle,
      who had taken a dislike to her the first day; Jouve, who had stopped to
      serve as a witness, and from whom she expected no justice; then these
      girls whom she had not been able to soften by nine months of smiling
      courage, who were happy, in fact, to turn her out of doors. What was the
      good of struggling? what was the use of trying to impose herself on them
      when no one liked her? And she went away without a word, not even casting
      a last look towards this room where she had so long struggled. But as soon
      as she was alone, before the hall staircase, a deeper sense of suffering
      filled her grieved heart. No one liked her, and the sudden thought of
      Mouret had just deprived her of all idea of resignation. No! no! she could
      not accept such a dismissal. Perhaps he would believe this villanous
      story, this rendezvous with a man down in the cellars. At the thought, a
      feeling of shame tortured her, an anguish with which she had never before
      been afflicted. She wanted to go and see him, to explain the matter to
      him, simply to let him know the truth; for she was quite ready to go away
      as soon as he knew this. And her old fear, the shiver which chilled her
      when in his presence, suddenly developed into an ardent desire to see him,
      not to leave the house without telling him she had never belonged to
      another.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was nearly five o'clock, and the shop was waking up into life again in
      the cool evening air. She quickly started off for Mouret's office. But
      when she arrived at the door, a hopeless melancholy feeling again took
      possession of her. Her tongue refused its office, the intolerable burden
      of existence again fell on her shoulders. He would not believe her, he
      would laugh like the others, she thought; and this idea made her almost
      faint away. All was over, she would be better alone, out of the way, dead!
      And, without informing Pauline or Deloche, she went at once and took her
      money.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have, mademoiselle,&rdquo; said the clerk, &ldquo;twenty-two days; that makes
      eighteen francs and fourteen sous; to which must be added seven francs for
      commission. That's right, isn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir. Thanks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Denise was going away with her money, when she at last met Robineau.
      He had already heard of her dismissal, and promised to find the
      necktie-dealer. In a lower tone he tried to console her, but lost his
      temper: what an existence, to be at the continual mercy of a whim! to be
      thrown out at an hour's notice, without even being able to claim a full
      month's salary. Denise went up to inform Madame Cabin, saying that she
      would try and send for her box during the evening. It was just striking
      five when she found herself on the pavement of the Place Gaillon,
      bewildered, in the midst of the crowd of people and cabs.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same evening when Robineau got home he received a letter from the
      management informing him, in a few lines, that for certain reasons
      relating to the internal arrangements they were obliged to deprive
      themselves of his services. He had been in the house seven years, and it
      was only that afternoon that he was talking to the principals; this was a
      heavy blow for him. Hutin and Favier were crowing in the silk department,
      as loudly as Clara and Marguerite in the dress one. A jolly good riddance!
      Such clean sweeps make room for the others! Deloche and Pauline were the
      only ones to regret Denise's departure, exchanging, in the rush of
      business, bitter words of regret at losing her, so kind, so well behaved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; said the young man, &ldquo;if ever she succeeds anywhere else, I should
      like to see her come back here, and trample on the others; a lot of
      good-for-nothing creatures!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Bourdoncle who in this affair had to bear the brunt of Mouret's
      anger. When the latter heard of Denise's dismissal, he was exceedingly
      annoyed. As a rule he never interfered with the staff; but this time he
      affected to see an encroachment on his power, an attempt to over-ride his
      authority. Was he no longer master in the place, that they dared to give
      orders? Everything must pass through his hands, absolutely everything; and
      he would immediately crush any one who should resist Then, after making
      personal inquiries, all the while in a nervous torment which he could not
      conceal, he lost his temper again. This poor girl was not lying; it was
      really her brother. Campion had fully recognised him. Why was she sent
      away, then? He even spoke of taking her back.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, Bourdoncle, strong in his passive resistance, bent before the
      storm. He watched Mouret, and one day when he saw him a little calmer,
      ventured to say in a meaning voice: &ldquo;It's better for everybody that she's
      gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret stood there looking very awkward, the blood rushing to his face.
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; replied he, laughing, &ldquo;perhaps you're right. Let's go and take a
      turn down stairs. Things are looking better, we took nearly a hundred
      thousand francs yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>or a moment Denise
      stood bewildered on the pavement, in the sun which still shone fiercely at
      five o'clock. The July heat warmed the gutters, Paris was blazing with the
      chalky whiteness peculiar to it in summer-time, and which produced quite a
      blinding glare. The catastrophe had happened so suddenly, they had turned
      her out so roughly, that she stood there, turning her money over in her
      pocket in a mechanical way, asking herself where she was to go, and what
      she was to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      A long line of cabs prevented her quitting the pavement near The Ladies'
      Paradise. When she at last risked herself amongst the wheels she crossed
      over the Place Gaillon, as if she intended to go into the Rue
      Louis-le-Grand; then she altered her mind, and walked towards the Rue
      Saint-Roch. But still she had no plan, for she stopped at the corner of
      the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, and finally followed it, after looking
      around her with an undecided air. Arrived at the Passage Choiseul, she
      passed through, and found herself in the Rue Monsigny, without knowing
      how, and ultimately came into the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin again. Her head
      was filled with a fearful buzzing sensation, she thought of her box on
      seeing a commissionaire; but where was she to have it taken to, and why
      all this trouble, when an hour ago she had a bed to go to?
    </p>
    <p>
      Then her eyes fixed on the houses, she began to examine the windows. There
      were any number of bills, &ldquo;Apartments to Let.&rdquo; She saw them confusedly,
      repeatedly seized by the inward emotion which was agitating her whole
      being. Was it possible? Left alone so suddenly, lost in this immense city
      in which she was a stranger, without support, without resources. She must
      eat and sleep, however. The streets succeeded one another, the Rue des
      Moulins, the Rue Sainte-Anne. She wandered about the neighbourhood,
      frequently retracing her steps, always brought back to the only spot she
      knew really well. Suddenly she was astonished, she was again standing
      before The Ladies' Paradise; and to escape this obsession she plunged into
      the Rue de la Michodière. Fortunately Baudu was not at his door. The Old
      Elbeuf appeared to be dead, behind its murky windows. She would never have
      dared to show herself at her uncle's, for he affected not to recognise her
      any more, and she did not wish to become a burden to him, in the
      misfortune he had predicted for her. But, on the other side of the street,
      a yellow bill attracted her attention. &ldquo;Furnished room to let.&rdquo; It was the
      first that did not frighten her, so poor did the house appear. She soon
      recognised it, with its two low storeys, and rusty-coloured front, crushed
      between The Ladies' Paradise and the old Hôtel Duvillard. On the threshold
      of the umbrella shop, old Bourras, hairy and bearded like a prophet, and
      with his glasses on his nose, stood studying the ivory handle of a
      walking-stick. Hiring the whole house, he under-let the two upper floors
      furnished, to lighten the rent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a room, sir?&rdquo; asked Denise, obeying an instinctive impulse.
    </p>
    <p>
      He raised his great bushy eyes, surprised to see her, for he knew all the
      young persons at The Ladies' Paradise. And, after observing her clean
      dress and respectable appearance, he replied: &ldquo;It won't suit you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much is it, then?&rdquo; replied Denise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fifteen francs a month.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She asked to see it. On arriving in the narrow shop, and seeing that he
      was still eyeing her with an astonished air, she told him of her departure
      from the shop and of her wish not to trouble her uncle. The old man then
      went and fetched a key hanging on a board in the back-shop, a small dark
      room, where he did his cooking and had his bed; beyond that, behind a
      dirty window, could be seen a back-yard about six feet square.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll walk in front to prevent you falling,&rdquo; said Bourras, entering the
      damp corridor which ran along the shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stumbled against the lower stair, and commenced the ascent, reiterating
      his warnings to be careful. Look out! the rail was close against the wall,
      there was a hole at the corner, sometimes the lodgers left their
      dust-boxes there. Denise, in complete obscurity, could distinguish
      nothing, only feeling the chilliness of the old damp plaster. On the first
      floor, however, a small window looking into the yard enabled her to see
      vaguely, as at the bottom of a piece of sleeping water, the rotten
      staircase, the walls black with dirt, the cracked and discoloured doors.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If only only these rooms were vacant,&rdquo; resumed
    </p>
    <p>
      Bourras. &ldquo;You would be very comfortable there. But they are always
      occupied by ladies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the second floor the light increased, showing up with a raw paleness
      the distress of the house. A journeyman-baker occupied the first room, and
      it was the other, the further one, that was vacant. When Bourras had
      opened the door he was obliged to stay on the landing in order that Denise
      might enter with ease. The bed placed in the corner nearest the door, left
      just room enough for one person to pass. At the other end there was a
      small walnut-wood chest of drawers, a deal table stained black, and two
      chairs. The lodgers who did any cooking were obliged to kneel before the
      fire-place, where there was an earthenware stove.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; said the old man, &ldquo;it is not luxurious, but the view from the
      window is gay. You can see the people passing in the street.&rdquo; And, as
      Denise was looking with surprise at the ceiling just above the bed, where
      a chance lady-lodger had written her name&mdash;Ernestine&mdash;by drawing
      the flame of the candle over it, he added with a good-natured smile; &ldquo;If I
      did a lot of repairs, I should never make both ends meet. There you are;
      it's all I have to offer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be very well here,&rdquo; declared the young girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      She paid a month in advance, asked for the linen&mdash;a pair of sheets
      and two towels, and made her bed without delay, happy, relieved to know
      where she was going to sleep that night. An hour after she had sent a
      commissionaire to fetch her box, and was quite at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the first two months she had a terribly hard time of it. Being
      unable to pay for Pépé's board, she had taken him away, and slept him on
      an old sofa lent by Bourras. She could not do with less than thirty sous a
      day, including the rent, even by consenting to live on dry bread herself,
      in order to procure a bit of meat for the little one. During the first
      fortnight she got on pretty well, having begun her housekeeping with about
      ten francs; besides she had been fortunate enough to find the
      cravat-dealer, who paid her her eighteen francs six sous. But after that
      she became completely destitute. It was in vain she applied to the various
      shops, at La Place Clichy, the Bon Marché, the Louvre: the dead season had
      stopped business everywhere, they told her to apply again in the autumn,
      more than five thousand employees, dismissed like her, were wandering
      about Paris in want of places. She then tried to obtain a little work
      elsewhere; but in her ignorance of Paris she did not know where to apply,
      often accepting most ungrateful tasks, and sometimes even not getting her
      money. Certain evenings she gave Pépé his dinner alone, a plate of soup,
      telling him she had dined out; and she would go to bed, her head in a
      whirl, nourished by the fever which was burning her hands. When Jean
      dropped suddenly into the midst of this poverty, he called himself a
      scoundrel with such a despairing violence that she was obliged to tell
      some falsehood to reassure him; and often found means of slipping a
      two-franc piece into his hand, to prove that she still had money. She
      never wept before the children. On Sundays, when she would cook a piece of
      veal in the stove, on her knees before the fire, the narrow room re-echoed
      with the gaiety of children, careless about existence. Then, when Jean had
      returned to his master's and Pépé was sleeping, she spent a frightful
      night, in anguish about the coming day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Other fears kept her awake. The two ladies on the first floor received
      visitors up to a late hour; and sometimes a visitor mistook the floor and
      came banging at Denise's door. Bourras having quietly told her not to
      answer, she buried her face under her pillow to escape hearing their
      oaths. Then, her neighbour, the baker, had shown a disposition to annoy
      her: he never came home till the morning, and would lay in wait for her,
      as she went to fetch her water; he even made holes in the wall, to watch
      her washing herself, so that she was obliged to hang her clothes against
      the wall. But she suffered still more from the annoyances of the street,
      the continual persecution of the passers-by. She could not go downstairs
      to buy a candle, in these streets swarming with the debauchees of the old
      quarters, without feeling a warm breath behind her, and hearing crude,
      insulting remarks; and the men pursued her to the very end of the dark
      passage, encouraged by the sordid appearance of the house. Why had she no
      lover? It astonished people, and seemed ridiculous. She would certainly
      have to yield one day. She herself could not have explained why she
      resisted, menaced as she was by hunger, and perturbed by the desires with
      which the air around her was warm.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening Denise had not even any bread for Pépé's soup, when a
      gentleman, wearing a decoration, commenced to follow her. On arriving
      opposite the passage he became brutal, and it was with a disgusted,
      shocked feeling that she banged the door in his face. Then, upstairs, she
      sat down, her hands trembling. The little one was sleeping. What should
      she say if he woke up and asked for bread? And yet she had only to consent
      and her misery would be over, she could have money, dresses, and a fine
      room. It was very simple, every one came to that, it was said; for a woman
      alone in Paris could not live by her labour. But her whole being rose up
      in protestation, without indignation against the others, simply averse to
      the disgrace of the thing. She considered life a matter of logic, good
      conduct, and courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise frequently questioned herself in this way. An old love story
      floated in her memory, the sailor's betrothed whom her love guarded from
      all perils. At Valognes she had often hummed over this sentimental ballad,
      gazing on the deserted street. Had she also a tender affection in her
      heart that she was so brave? She still thought of Hutin, full of
      uneasiness. Morning and evening she saw him pass under her window. Now
      that he was second-hand he walked by himself, amid the respect of the
      simple salesmen. He never raised his head, she thought she suffered from
      his vanity, and watched him pass without any fear of being discovered. And
      as soon as she saw Mouret, who also passed every day, she began to
      tremble, and, quickly concealed herself, her bosom heaving. He had no need
      to know where she was lodging. Then she felt ashamed of the house, and
      suffered at the idea of what he thought of her, although perhaps they
      would never meet again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise still lived amidst the agitation caused by The Ladies' Paradise. A
      simple wall separated her room from her old department; and, from early
      morning, she went over her day's work, feeling the arrival of the crowd,
      the increased bustle of business. The slightest noise shook the old house
      hanging on the flank of the colossus; she felt the gigantic pulse beating.
      Besides, she could not avoid certain meetings. Twice she had found herself
      face to face with Pauline, who had offered her services, grieved to see
      her so unfortunate; and she had even been obliged to tell a falsehood to
      avoid receiving her friend or paying her a visit, one Sunday, at Baugé's.
      But it was more difficult still to defend herself against Deloche's
      desperate affection; he watched her, aware of all her troubles, waited for
      her in the doorways. One day he wanted to lend her thirty francs, a
      brother's savings, he said, with a blush. And these meetings made her
      regret the shop, continually occupying her with the life they led inside,
      as if she had not quitted it.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one ever called upon Denise. One afternoon she was surprised by a
      knock. It was Colomban. She received him standing. He, looking very
      awkward, stammered at first, asked how she was getting on, and spoke of
      The Old Elbeuf.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps it was Uncle Baudu who had sent him, regretting his rigour; for he
      continued to pass his niece without taking any notice of her, although
      quite aware of her miserable position. But when she plainly questioned her
      visitor, he appeared more embarrassed than ever. No, no, it was not the
      governor who had sent him; and he finished by naming Clara&mdash;he simply
      wanted to talk about Clara. Little by little he became bolder, and asked
      Denise's advice, supposing that she could be useful to him with her old
      friend. It was in vain that she tried to dishearten him, by reproaching
      him with the pain he was causing Geneviève, all for this heartless girl.
      He came up another day, and got into the habit of coming to see her. This
      sufficed for his timid passion; he continually commenced the same
      conversation, unable to resist, trembling with joy to be with a girl who
      had approached Clara. And this caused Denise to live more than ever at The
      Ladies' Paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was towards the end of September that the young girl experienced the
      blackest misery. Pépé had fallen ill, having caught a severe cold. He
      ought to have been nourished with good broth, and she had not even a piece
      of bread. One evening, completely conquered, she was sobbing, in one of
      those sombre straits which drive women on to the streets, or into the
      Seine, when old Bourras gently knocked at the door. He brought a loaf, and
      a milk-can full of broth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! there's something for the youngster,&rdquo; said he in his abrupt way.
      &ldquo;Don't cry like that; it annoys my lodgers.&rdquo; And as she thanked him in a
      fresh outburst of tears, he resumed: &ldquo;Do keep quiet! To-morrow come and
      see me. I've some work for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourras, since the terrible blow dealt him by The Ladies' Paradise by
      their opening an umbrella department, had ceased to employ any workwomen.
      He did everything himself to save expenses&mdash;the cleaning, mending,
      and sewing. His trade was also diminishing, so that he was sometimes
      without work. And he was obliged to invent something to do the next day,
      when he installed Denise in a corner of his shop. He felt that he could
      not let any one die of hunger in his house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll have two francs a day,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;When you find something better,
      you can leave me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was afraid of him, and did the work so quickly that he hardly knew
      what else to give her to do. He had given her some silk to stitch, some
      lace to repair. During the first few days she did not dare raise her head,
      uncomfortable to know he was close to her, with his lion-like mane, hooked
      nose, and piercing eyes, under his thick bushy eyebrows. His voice was
      harsh, his gestures extravagant, and the mothers of the neighbourhood
      often frightened their youngsters by threatening to send for him, as they
      would for a policeman. However, the boys never passed his door without
      calling out some insulting words, which he did not even seem to hear. All
      his maniacal anger was directed against the scoundrels who dishonoured his
      trade by selling cheap trashy articles, which dogs would not consent to
      use.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise trembled whenever he burst out thus: &ldquo;Art is done for, I tell you!
      There's not a single respectable handle made now. They make sticks, but as
      for handles, it's all up! Bring me a proper handle, and I'll give you
      twenty francs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had a real artist's pride; not a workman in Paris was capable of
      turning out a handle like his, light and strong. He carved the knobs
      especially with charming ingenuity, continually inventing fresh designs,
      flowers, fruit, animals, and heads, subjects conceived and executed in a
      free and life-like style. A little pocket-knife sufficed, and he spent
      whole days, spectacles on nose, chipping bits of boxwood and ebony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A pack of ignorant beggars,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;who are satisfied with sticking a
      certain quantity of silk on so much whalebone! They buy their handles by
      the gross, handles readymade. And they sell just what they like! I tell
      you, art is done for!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise began to take courage. He had insisted on having Pépé down in the
      shop to play, for he was wonderfully fond of children. When the little one
      was crawling about on all-fours, neither of them had room to move, she in
      her corner doing the mending, he near the window, carving with his little
      pocket-knife. Every day now brought on the same work and the same
      conversation. Whilst working, he continually pitched into The Ladies'
      Paradise; never tired of explaining how affairs stood. He had occupied his
      house since 1845, and had a thirty years' lease, at a rent of eighteen
      hundred francs a year; and, as he made a thousand francs out of his four
      furnished rooms, he only paid eight hundred for the shop. It was a mere
      trifle, he had no expenses, and could thus hold out for a long time still.
      To hear him, there was no doubt about his triumph; he would certainly
      swallow up the monster. Suddenly he would interrupt himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have they got any dog's heads like that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he would blink his eyes behind his glasses, to judge the dog's head he
      was carving, with its lip turned up and fangs out, in a life-like growl.
      Pépé, delighted with the dog, would get up, placing his two little arms on
      the old man's knee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As long as I make both ends meet I don't care a hang about the rest,&rdquo; the
      latter would resume, delicately shaping the dog's tongue with the point of
      his knife. &ldquo;The scoundrels have taken away my profits; but if I'm making
      nothing I'm not losing anything yet, or at least but very little. And, you
      see, I'm ready to sacrifice everything rather than yield.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He would brandish his knife, and his white hair would blow about in a
      storm of anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; Denise would mildly observe, without raising her eyes from her
      needle, &ldquo;if they made you a reasonable offer, it would be wiser to
      accept.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then his ferocious obstinacy would burst forth. &ldquo;Never! If my head were
      under the knife I would say no, by heavens! I've another ten years' lease,
      and they shall not have the house before then, even if I should have to
      die of hunger within the four bare walls. Twice already have they tried to
      get over me. They offered me twelve thousand francs for my good-will, and
      eighteen thousand francs for the last ten years of my lease; in all thirty
      thousand. Not for fifty thousand even! I have them in my power, and intend
      to see them licking the dust before me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thirty thousand francs! it's a good sum,&rdquo; Denise would resume. &ldquo;You could
      go and establish yourself elsewhere. And suppose they were to buy the
      house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourras, putting the finishing touches to his dog's tongue, would appear
      absorbed for a moment, an infantine laugh pervading his venerable
      prophet's face. Then he would, continue: &ldquo;The house, no fear! They spoke
      of buying it last year, and offered eighty thousand francs, twice as much
      as it's worth. But the landlord, a retired fruiterer, as big a scoundrel
      as they, wanted to make them shell out more. But not only that, they are
      suspicious about me; they know I'm not so likely to give way. No! no! here
      I am, and here I intend to stay. The emperor with all his cannon could not
      turn me out.&rdquo; Denise never dared say any more, she would go on with her
      work, whilst the old man continued to break out in short sentences,
      between two cuts with his knife, muttering something to the effect that
      the game had hardly commenced, later on they would see wonderful things,
      he had certain plans which would sweep away their umbrella counter; and,
      in his obstinacy, there appeared a personal revolt of the small
      manufacturer against the threatening invasion of the great shops. Pépé,
      however, would at last climb on his knees, and impatiently stretch out his
      hand towards the dog's head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give it me, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Presently, my child,&rdquo; the old man would reply in a voice that suddenly
      became tender. &ldquo;He hasn't any eyes; we must make his eyes now.&rdquo; And whilst
      carving the eye he would continue talking to Denise. &ldquo;Do you hear them?
      Isn't there a roar next door? That's what exasperates me more than
      anything, my word of honour! to have them always on my back with their
      infernal locomotive-like noise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It made his little table tremble, he asserted. The whole shop was shaken,
      and he would spend the entire afternoon without a customer, in the
      trepidation of the crowd which overflowed The Ladies' Paradise. It was
      from morning to night a subject for eternal grumbling. Another good day's
      work, they were knocking against the wall, the silk department must have
      cleared ten thousand francs; or else he made merry over a showery day
      which had killed the receipts. And the slightest rumours, the most
      unimportant noises, furnished him with subjects of endless comment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! some one has slipped down! Ah, if they could only all fall and break
      their backs! That, my dear, is a dispute between some ladies. So much the
      better! So much the better! Do you hear the parcels falling on to the
      lower floor? It's disgusting!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It did not do for Denise to discuss his explanations, for he retorted
      bitterly by reminding her of the shameful way they had dismissed her. She
      was obliged to relate for the hundredth time her life in the dress
      department, the hardships she had endured at first, the small unhealthy
      bedrooms, the bad food, and the continual struggle between the salesmen;
      and they were thus talking about the shop from morning to night, absorbing
      it hourly in the very air they breathed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give it me, sir,&rdquo; Pépé would repeat, with eager outstretched hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dog's head finished, Bourras would hold it at a distance, then examine
      it closely with childish glee. &ldquo;Take care, it will bite you! There, go and
      play, and don't break it, if you can help it.&rdquo; Then resuming his fixed
      idea, he would shake his fist at the wall. &ldquo;You may do all you can to
      knock the house down. You sha'n't have it, even if you invade the whole
      neighbourhood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise had now her daily bread assured her, and she was extremely grateful
      to the old umbrella-dealer, whose good heart she felt beneath his strange
      violent ways. She had a strong desire, however, to find some work
      elsewhere, for she often saw him inventing some trifle for her to do; she
      fully understood that he did not require a workwoman in the present slack
      state of his business, and that he was employing her out of pure charity.
      Six months had passed thus, and the dull winter season had again returned.
      She was despairing of finding a situation before March, when, one evening
      in January, Deloche, who was watching for her in a doorway, gave her a bit
      of advice. Why did she not go and see Robineau; perhaps he might want some
      one?
    </p>
    <p>
      In September, Robineau had decided to buy Vinçard's silk business,
      trembling all the time lest he should compromise his wife's sixty thousand
      francs. He had paid forty thousand for the good-will and stock, and was
      starting with the remaining twenty thousand. It was not much, but he had
      Gaujean behind him to back him up with any amount of credit. Since his
      disagreement with The Ladies' Paradise, the latter had been longing to
      stir up a system of competition against the colossus; and he thought
      victory certain, by creating special shops in the neighbourhood, where the
      public could find a large and varied choice of articles. The rich Lyons
      manufacturers, such as Dumonteil, were the only ones who could accept the
      big shops' terms, satisfied to keep their looms going with them, looking
      for their profits by selling to less important houses. But Gaujean was far
      from having the solidity and staying power possessed by Dumonteil. For a
      long time a simple commission agent, it was only during the last five or
      six years that he had had looms of his own, and he still had a lot of work
      done by other makers, furnishing them with the raw material and paying
      them by the yard. It was precisely this system which, increasing his
      manufacturing expenses, had prevented him competing with Dumonteil for the
      supply of the Paris Paradise. This had filled him with rancour; he saw in
      Robineau the instrument of a decisive battle to be declared against these
      drapery bazaars which he accused of ruining the French manufacturers.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Denise called she found Madame Robineau alone. Daughter of an
      overseer in the Department of Highways, entirely ignorant of business
      matters, she still retained the charming awkwardness of a girl educated in
      a Blois convent She was dark, very pretty, with a gentle, cheerful manner,
      which gave her a great charm. She adored her husband, living solely by his
      love. As Denise was about to leave her name Robineau came in, and engaged
      her at once, one of his two saleswomen having left the previous day to go
      to The Ladies' Paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They don't leave us a single good hand,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;However, with you I
      shall feel quite easy, for you are like me, you can't be very fond of
      them. Come to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the evening Denise hardly knew how to announce her departure to
      Bourras. In fact, he called her an ungrateful girl, and lost his temper.
      Then when, with tears in her eyes, she tried to defend herself by
      intimating that she could see through his charitable conduct, he softened
      down, said that he had plenty of work, that she was leaving him just as he
      was about to bring out an umbrella of his invention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Pépé?&rdquo; asked he.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was Denise's great trouble; she dared not take him back to Madame
      Gras, and could not leave him alone in the bedroom, shut up from morning
      to night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good, Til keep him,&rdquo; said the old man; &ldquo;he'll be all right in my
      shop. We'll do the cooking together.&rdquo; Then, as she refused, fearing it
      might inconvenience him, he thundered out: &ldquo;Great heavens! have you no
      confidence in me? I sha'n't eat your child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise was much happier at Robineau's. He only paid her sixty francs a
      month, with her food, without giving her any commission on the sales, just
      the same as in the old-fashioned houses. But she was treated with great
      kindness, especially by Madame Robineau, always smiling at her counter.
      He, nervous, worried, was sometimes rather abrupt. At the expiration of
      the first month, Denise was quite one of the family, like the other
      saleswoman, a silent, consumptive, little body. The Robineaus were not at
      all particular before them, talking of the business at table in the back
      shop, which looked on to a large yard. And it was there they decided one
      evening on starting the campaign against The Ladies' Paradise. Gaujean had
      come to dinner. After the usual roast leg of mutton, he had broached the
      subject in his Lyons voice, thickened by the Rhône fogs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's getting unbearable,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;They go to Dumonteil, purchase the
      sole right in a design, and take three hundred pieces straight off,
      insisting on a reduction of ten sous a yard; and, as they pay ready money,
      they enjoy moreover the profit of eighteen per cent discount. Very often
      Dumonteil barely makes four sous a yard out of it He works to keep his
      looms going, for a loom that stands still is a dead loss. Under these
      circumstances how can you expect that we, with our limited plant, and
      especially with our makers, can keep up the struggle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Robineau, pensive, forgot his dinner. &ldquo;Three hundred pieces!&rdquo; he murmured.
      &ldquo;I tremble when I take a dozen, and at ninety days. They can mark up a
      franc or two francs cheaper than us. I have calculated there is a
      reduction of at least fifteen per cent, on their catalogued articles, when
      compared with our prices. That's what kills the small houses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was in a period of discouragement. His wife, full of anxiety, was
      looking at him with a tender air. She understood very little about the
      business, all these figures confused her; she could not understand why
      people took such trouble, when it was so easy to be gay and love one
      another. However, it sufficed that her husband wished to conquer, and she
      became as impassioned as he himself, and would have stood to her counter
      till death.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why don't all the manufacturers come to an understanding together?&rdquo;
       resumed Robineau, violently. &ldquo;They could then lay down the law, instead of
      submitting to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gaujean, who had asked for another slice of mutton, was slowly
      masticating. &ldquo;Ah! why, why? The looms must be kept going, I tell you. When
      one has weavers everywhere, in the neighbourhood of Lyons, in the Gard, in
      the Isère, they can't stand still a day without an enormous loss. Then we
      who sometimes employ makers having ten or fifteen looms are better able to
      control the output, as far as regards the stock, whilst the big
      manufacturers are obliged to have continual outlets, the quickest and
      largest possible, so that they are on their knees before the big shops. I
      know three or four who out-bid each other, and who would sooner work at a
      loss than not obtain the orders. But they make up for it with the small
      houses like yours. Yes, if they exist through them, they make their profit
      out of you. Heaven knows how the crisis will end!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's odious!&rdquo; exclaimed Robineau, relieved by this cry of anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise was quietly listening. She was secretly for the big shops, with her
      instinctive love of logic and life.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had relapsed into silence, and were eating some potted French beans;
      at last she ventured to say in a cheerful tone, &ldquo;The public does not
      complain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Robineau could not suppress a little laugh, which annoyed her
      husband and Gaujean. No doubt the customer was satisfied, for, in the end,
      it was the customer who profited by the fall in prices. But everybody must
      live; where would they be if, under the pretext of the general welfare,
      the consumer was fattened at the expense of the producer? And then
      commenced a long discussion. Denise affected to be joking, all the while
      producing solid arguments. All the middle-men disappeared, the
      manufacturing agents, representatives, commission agents, and this greatly
      contributed to cheapen the articles; besides, the manufacturers could no
      longer live without the big shops, for as soon as one of them lost their
      custom, failure became a certainty; in short, it was a natural commercial
      evolution. It would be impossible to prevent things going on as they ought
      to, when everybody was working for that, whether they liked it or not.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you are for those who turned you out into the street?&rdquo; asked Gaujean.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise became very red. She herself was surprised at the vivacity of her
      defence. What had she at heart, that such a flame should have invaded her
      bosom?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me, no!&rdquo; replied she. &ldquo;Perhaps I'm wrong, for you are more competent
      to judge than I. I simply express my opinion. The prices, instead of being
      settled as formerly by fifty houses, are now fixed by four or five, which
      have lowered them, thanks to the power of their capital, and the strength
      of their immense business. So much the better for the public, that's all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Robineau was not angry, but had become grave, keeping his eyes fixed on
      the table-cloth. He had often felt this breath of the new style of
      business, this evolution of which the young girl spoke; and he would ask
      himself in his clear, quiet moments, why he should wish to resist such a
      powerful current, which must carry everything before it Madame Robineau
      herself, on seeing her husband deep in thought, glanced with approval at
      Denise, who had modestly resumed her silent attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; resumed Gaujean, to cut short the argument, &ldquo;all that is simply
      theory. Let's talk of our matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After the cheese, the servant brought in some jam and some pears. He took
      some jam, eating it with a spoon, with the unconscious greediness of a big
      man very fond of sugar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To begin with, you must attack their Paris Paradise, which has been their
      success of the year. I have come to an understanding with several of my
      brother manufacturers at Lyons, and have brought you an exceptional offer&mdash;a
      black silk, that you can sell at five and a half. They sell theirs at five
      francs twelve sous, don't they? Well! this will be two sous less, and that
      will suffice to upset them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this Robineau's eyes lighted up again. In his continual nervous
      torment, he often skipped like this from despair to hope. &ldquo;Have you got a
      sample?&rdquo; asked he. And when Gaujean drew from his pocket-book a little
      square of silk, he went into raptures, exclaiming: &ldquo;Why, this is a
      handsomer silk than the Paris Paradise! In any case it produces a better
      effect, the grain is coarser. You are right, we must make the attempt If I
      don't bring them to my feet, I'll give up this time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Robineau, sharing this enthusiasm, declared the silk superb, and
      Denise herself thought they would succeed. The latter part of the dinner
      was thus very gay. They talk in a loud tone; it seemed that The Ladies'
      Paradise was at its last gasp. Gaujean, who was finishing the pot of jam,
      explained what enormous sacrifices he and his colleagues would be obliged
      to make to deliver such an article at this low price; but they would ruin
      themselves rather than yield; they had sworn to kill the big shops. As the
      coffee came in the gaiety was greatly increased by the arrival of Vinçard,
      who had just called, in passing, to see how his successor was getting on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Famous!&rdquo; cried he, feeling the silk. &ldquo;You'll floor them, I stake my life!
      Ah! you owe me a rare good thing; I told you this was a golden affair!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had just taken a restaurant at Vincennes. It was an old, cherished
      idea, slyly nourished while he was struggling in the silk business,
      trembling for fear he should not sell it before the crash came, and
      swearing to himself that he would put his money into an undertaking where
      he could rob at his ease. The idea of a restaurant had struck him at the
      wedding of a cousin, who had been made to pay ten francs for a bowl of
      dish water, in which floated some Italian paste. And, in presence of the
      Robineaus, the joy he felt in having saddled them with a badly-paying
      business of which he despaired of ever getting rid, enlarged still further
      his face with its round eyes and large loyal-looking mouth, a face beaming
      with health.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your pains?&rdquo; asked Madame Robineau, good-naturedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My pains?&rdquo; murmured he, astonished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, those rheumatic pains which tormented you so much when you were
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then recollected, and blushed slightly. &ldquo;Oh, I suffered,&rdquo; and blushed
      slightly. &ldquo;Oh I suffer from them still! However, the country air, you
      know, has done wonders for me. Never mind, you've done a good stroke of
      business. Had it not been for my rheumatics, I could soon have retired
      with ten thousand francs a year. My word of honour!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A fortnight later, the struggle commenced between Robineau and The Ladies'
      Paradise. It became celebrated, and occupied for a time the whole Parisian
      market. Robineau, using his adversary's weapons, had advertised
      extensively in the newspapers. Besides that, he made a fine display,
      piling up enormous bales of the famous silk in his windows, with immense
      white tickets, displaying in giant figures the price, five francs and a
      half. It was this figure that caused a revolution among the women; two
      sous cheaper than at The Ladies' Paradise, and the silk appeared stronger.
      From the first day a crowd of customers flocked in. Madame Marty bought a
      dress she did not want, pretending it to be a bargain; Madame Bourdelais
      thought the silk very fine, but preferred waiting, guessing no doubt what
      would happen. And, indeed the following week, Mouret boldly reduced The
      Paris Paradise by four sous, after a lively discussion with Bourdoncle and
      the other managers, in which he had succeeded in inducing them to accept
      the challenge, even at a sacrifice; for these four sous represented a dead
      loss, the silk being sold already at strict cost price. It was a heavy
      blow to Robineau, who did not think his rival would reduce; for this
      suicidal competition, these losing sales, were then unknown; and the tide
      of customers, attracted by the cheapness, had immediately flown back
      towards the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, whilst the shop in the Rue
      Neuve-des-Petits-Champs gradually emptied.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaujean came up from Lyons; there were hasty confabulations, and they
      finished by coming to a most heroic resolution; the silk should be lowered
      in price, they would sell it at five francs six sous, beneath which no one
      could go, without folly. The next day Mouret marked his at five francs
      four sous. After that it became a mania: Robineau replied by five francs
      three sous, when Mouret at once ticketed his at five francs and two sous.
      Neither lowered more than a sou at a time now, losing considerable sums as
      often as they made this present to the public. The customers laughed,
      delighted with this duel, moved by the terrible blows dealt each other by
      the two houses to please them. At last Mouret ventured as low as five
      francs; his staff paled before such a challenge thrown down to fortune.
      Robineau, utterly beaten, out of breath, stopped also at five francs, not
      having the courage to go any lower. And they rested at their positions,
      face to face, with the massacre of their goods around them.
    </p>
    <p>
      But if honour was saved on both sides, the situation was becoming fatal
      for Robineau. The Ladies' Paradise had money at its disposal and a
      patronage which enabled it to balance its profits; whilst he, sustained by
      Gaujean alone, unable to recoup his losses on other articles, was
      exhausted, and slipped daily a little further on the verge of bankruptcy.
      He was dying from his hardihood, notwithstanding the numerous customers
      that the hazards of the struggle had brought him. One of his secret
      torments was to see these customers slowly quitting him, returning to The
      Ladies' Paradise, after the money he had lost and the efforts he had made
      to conquer them.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day he quite lost patience. A customer, Madame de Boves, had come to
      his shop for some mantles, for he had added a ready-made department to his
      business. She could not make up her mind, complaining of the quality of
      the goods. At last she said: &ldquo;Their Paris Paradise is a great deal
      stronger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Robineau restrained himself, assuring her that she was mistaken, with a
      tradesman's politeness, all the more respectful, because he was afraid to
      allow his anger to burst forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But just look at the silk of this mantle!&rdquo; resumed she, &ldquo;one would really
      take it for so much cobweb. You may say what you like, sir, their silk at
      five francs is like leather compared with this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not reply, the blood rushing to his face, and his lips tightly
      closed. In point of fact he had ingeniously thought of buying some of his
      rival's silk for these mantles. So that it was Mouret, not he, who lost on
      the material. He simply cut off the selvage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really you think the Paris Paradise thicker?&rdquo; murmured he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! a hundred times!&rdquo; said Madame de Boves. &ldquo;There's no comparison.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This injustice on her part, her running down the goods in this way, filled
      him with indignation. And, as she was still turning the mantle over with a
      disgusted air, a little piece of the blue and silver selvage, not cut off,
      appeared under the lining. He could not contain himself any longer; he
      confessed he would even have given his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, madame, this <i>is</i> Paris Paradise. I bought it myself! Look at
      the border.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Boves went away greatly annoyed, and a number of ladies quitted
      him when the affair became known. And he, amid this ruin, when the fear
      for the future seized him, only trembled for his wife, who had been
      brought up in a happy, peaceful home, and would never be able to endure a
      life of poverty. What would become of her if a catastrophe threw them into
      the street, with a load of debts? It was his fault, he ought never to have
      touched her money. She was obliged to comfort him. Wasn't the money as
      much his as hers? He loved her dearly, and she wanted nothing more; she
      gave him everything, her heart and her life. They could be heard in the
      back shop embracing one another. Little by little, the affairs and ways of
      the house became more regular; every month their losses increased, in a
      slow proportion which postponed the fatal issue. A tenacious hope
      sustained them, they still announced the near discomfiture of The Ladies'
      Paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh!&rdquo; he would say, &ldquo;we are young yet. The future is ours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And besides, what matters, if you have done what you wanted to do?&rdquo;
       resumed she. &ldquo;As long as you are satisfied, I am as well, darling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise's affection increased for them on seeing their tenderness. She
      trembled, feeling their inevitable fall; but she dared not interfere. It
      was then she fully understood the power of the new system of business, and
      became impassioned for this force which was transforming Paris. Her ideas
      were ripening, a woman's grace was developing out of the savage child
      newly arrived from Valognes. In fact, her life was a pretty pleasant one,
      notwithstanding the fatigue and the little money she earned. When she had
      spent all the day on her feet, she had to go straight home, and look after
      Pépé, whom old Bourras insisted on feeding, fortunately; but there was
      still a lot to do: a shirt to wash, stockings to mend; without mentioning
      the noise made by the youngster, which made her head ache fit to split.
      She never went to bed before midnight. Sunday was her hardest day: she
      cleaned her room, and mended her own things, so busy that it was often
      five o'clock before she could dress. However, she sometimes went out for
      health's sake, taking the little one for a long walk, out towards Neuilly;
      and their treat was to drink a cup of milk there at a dairyman's, who
      allowed them to sit down in his yard. Jean disdained these excursions; he
      put in an appearance now and again on week-day evenings, then disappeared,
      pretending to have other visits to pay; he asked for no more money, but he
      arrived with such a melancholy face, that his sister, anxious, always
      managed to keep a five-franc piece for him. That was her sole luxury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five francs!&rdquo; he would exclaim each time. &ldquo;My stars! you're too good! It
      just happens, there's the stationer's wife&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not another word,&rdquo; Denise would say; &ldquo;I don't want to know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he thought she was accusing him of boasting. &ldquo;I tell you she's the
      wife of a stationer! Oh! something magnificent!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Three months passed away, spring was returning. Denise refused to return
      to Joinville with Pauline and Baugé. She sometimes met them in the Rue
      Saint-Roch, when she left the shop in the evening. Pauline, one evening
      when she was alone, confided to her that she was very likely going to
      marry her lover; it was she who was hesitating, for they did not care for
      married saleswomen at The Ladies' Paradise. This idea of marriage
      surprised Denise, she did not dare to advise her friend. One day, just as
      Colomban had stopped her near the fountain to talk about Clara, the latter
      was crossing the road; and Denise was obliged to run away, for he implored
      her to ask her old comrade if she would marry him. What was the matter
      with them all? why were they tormenting themselves like this? She thought
      herself very fortunate not to be in love with any one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've heard the news?&rdquo; cried out the umbrella dealer to her one evening
      on her return home from business.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Monsieur Bourras.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! the scoundrels have bought the Hôtel Duvillard. I'm hemmed in on
      all sides!&rdquo; He was waving his long arms about, in a burst of fury which
      made his white mane stand up on end. &ldquo;A regular mixed-up affair,&rdquo; resumed
      the old man. &ldquo;It appears that the hôtel belonged to the Crédit Immobilier,
      the president of which, Baron Hartmann, has just sold it to our famous
      Mouret. Now they've got me on the right, on the left, and at the back,
      just in the way I'm holding the knob of this stick in my hand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was true, the sale was to have been concluded the previous day.
      Bourras's small house, hemmed in between The Ladies' Paradise and the
      Hôtel Duvillard, hanging on like a swallow's nest in a crack of a wall,
      seemed sure to be crushed, as soon as the shop invaded the hôtel, and the
      time had now arrived. The colossus had turned the feeble obstacle, and was
      surrounding it with a pile of goods, threatening to swallow it up, to
      absorb it by the sole force of its giant aspiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bourras could feel the embrace which was making his shop creak. He thought
      he could see the place getting smaller; he was afraid of being absorbed
      himself, of being carried to the other side with his umbrellas and sticks,
      so loudly was the terrible machine roaring just then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear them?&rdquo; asked he. &ldquo;One would think they were eating up the
      walls even! And in my cellar, in the attic, everywhere, there's the same
      noise as of a saw going through the plaster. Never mind! I don't fancy
      they'll flatten me out like a sheet of paper. I'll stick here, even if
      they blow up my roof, and the rain should fall in bucketfuls on my bed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was just at this moment that Mouret caused fresh proposals to be made
      to Bourras; they would increase the figure, they would give him fifty
      thousand francs for his good-will and the remainder of the lease. This
      offer redoubled the old man's anger; he refused in an insulting manner.
      How these scoundrels must rob people to be able to pay fifty thousand
      francs for a thing not worth ten thousand. And he defended his shop as a
      young girl defends her virtue, for honour's sake.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise noticed Bourras was pre-occupied during the next fortnight. He
      wandered about in a feverish manner, measuring the walls of his house,
      surveying it from the middle of the street with the air of an architect.
      Then one morning some workmen arrived. This was the decisive blow. He had
      conceived the bold idea of beating The Ladies' Paradise on its own ground
      by making certain concessions to modern luxury. The customers, who often
      reproached him about his dark shop, would certainly come back again, when
      they saw it bright and new. In the first place, the workmen stopped up the
      crevices and whitewashed the frontage, then they painted the woodwork a
      light green, and even carried the splendour so far as to gild the
      sign-board. A sum of three thousand francs, held in reserve by Bourras as
      a last resource, was swallowed up in this way. The whole neighbourhood was
      in a state of revolution; people came to look at him amid all these
      riches, losing his head, no longer able to find the things he was
      accustomed to. He did not seem to be at home in this shining frame, in
      this tender setting; he seemed frightened, with his long beard and white
      hair. The people passing on the opposite side of the street were
      astonished on seeing him waving his arms about and carving his handles.
      And he was in a state of fever, afraid of dirtying his shop, plunging
      further into this luxurious business, which he did not at all understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same as with Robineau, the campaign against The Ladies' Paradise was
      opened by Bourras. The latter had just brought out his invention, the
      automatic umbrella, which later on was to become popular. But The Paradise
      people immediately improved on the invention, and a struggle of prices
      commenced. Bourras had an article at one franc and nineteen sous, in
      zanella, with steel mounting, everlasting, said the ticket, But he was
      especially anxious to vanquish his competitors with his handles&mdash;bamboo,
      dogwood, olive, myrtle, rattan, every imaginable sort of handle. The
      Paradise people, less artistic, paid more attention to the material,
      extolling their alpacas and mohairs, their twills and sarcenets. And they
      came out victorious. Bourras, in despair, repeated that art was done for,
      that he was reduced to carving his handles for pleasure, without any hope
      of selling them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's my fault!&rdquo; cried he to Denise. &ldquo;I never ought to have kept a lot of
      rotten articles, at one franc nineteen sous! That's where these new
      notions lead one to. I wanted to follow the example of these brigands; so
      much the better if I'm ruined by it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The month of July was very warm, and Denise suffered greatly in her narrow
      room, under the roof. So after leaving the shop, she sometimes went and
      fetched Pépé, and instead of going up-stairs at once, went for a stroll in
      the Tuileries Gardens until the gates were closed. One evening as she was
      walking under the chestnut-trees she suddenly stopped with surprise; a few
      yards off, walking straight towards her, she thought she recognised Hutin.
      But her heart commenced to beat violently. It was Mouret, who had dined
      over the water, and was hurrying along on foot to call on Madame
      Desforges. At the abrupt movement she made to escape him, he caught sight
      of her. The night was coming on, but still he recognised her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, it's you, mademoiselle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not reply, astonished that he should deign to stop. He, smiling,
      concealed his constraint beneath an air of amiable protection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are still in Paris?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; said she at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was slowly drawing back, desirous of making a bow and continuing her
      walk. But he turned and followed her under the black shadows of the
      chestnut-trees. The air was getting cooler, some children were laughing in
      the distance, trundling their hoops.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is your brother, is it not?&rdquo; resumed he, looking at Pépé.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little boy, frightened by the unusual presence of a gentleman, was
      gravely walking by his sister's side, holding her tightly by the hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; replied she once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      She blushed, thinking of the abominable inventions circulated by
      Marguerite and Clara. No doubt Mouret understood why she was blushing, for
      he quickly added: &ldquo;Listen, mademoiselle, I have to apologise to you. Yes,
      I should have been happy to have told you sooner how much I regret the
      error that has been made. You were accused too lightly of a fault. But the
      evil is done. I simply wanted to assure you that every one in our
      establishment now knows of your affection for your brothers,&rdquo; he
      continued, with a respectful politeness to which the saleswomen in The
      Ladies' Paradise were little accustomed. Denise's confusion had increased;
      but her heart was filled with joy. He knew, then, that she had given
      herself to no one! Both remained silent; he continued beside her,
      regulating his walk to the child's short steps; and the distant murmurs of
      the city were dying away under the black shadows of the spreading
      chestnut-trees. &ldquo;I have only one reparation to offer you,&rdquo; resumed he.
      &ldquo;Naturally, if you would like to come back to us&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She interrupted him, and refused with a feverish haste. &ldquo;No, sir, I
      cannot. Thank you all the same, but I have found another situation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He knew it, they had informed him she was with Robineau; and leisurely, on
      a footing of amiable equality, he spoke of the latter, rendering him full
      justice. A very intelligent fellow, but too nervous. He would certainly
      come to grief: Gaujean had burdened him with a very heavy business, in
      which they would both suffer. Denise, conquered by this familiarity,
      opened her mind further, and allowed it to be seen that she was for the
      big shops in the war between them and the small traders: she became
      animated, citing examples, showing herself well up in the question, even
      expressing new and enlightened ideas. He, charmed, listened to her in
      surprise; and turned round, trying to distinguish her features in the
      growing darkness. She seemed still the same with her simple dress and
      sweet face; but from this modest bashfulness, there seemed to exhale a
      penetrating perfume, of which he felt the powerful' influence. Decidedly
      this little girl had got used to the air of Paris, she was becoming quite
      a woman, and was really perturbing, so sensible, with her beautiful hair,
      overflowing with tenderness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you are on our side,&rdquo; said he, laughing, &ldquo;why do you stay with our
      adversaries? I fancy, too, they told me you lodged with Bourras.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A very worthy man,&rdquo; murmured she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not a bit of it! he's an old idiot, a madman who will force me to
      ruin him, though I should be glad to get rid of him with a fortune!
      Besides, your place is not in his house, which has a bad reputation. He
      lets to certain women&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But feeling that the young girl was confused, he hastened to add: &ldquo;One can
      be respectable anywhere, and there's even more merit in remaining so when
      one is so poor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They went on a few steps in silence. Pépé seemed to be listening with the
      attentive air of a sharp child. Now and again he raised his eyes to his
      sister, whose burning hand, quivering with sudden starts, astonished him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here!&rdquo; resumed Mouret, gaily, &ldquo;will you be my ambassador? I intended
      increasing my offer to-morrow&mdash;of proposing eighty thousand francs to
      Bourras. Do you speak to him first about it. Tell him he's cutting his own
      throat. Perhaps he'll listen to you, as he has a liking for you, and
      you'll be doing him a real service.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well!&rdquo; said Denise, smiling also, &ldquo;I will deliver your message, but
      I am afraid I shall not succeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And a fresh silence ensued, neither of them having anything more to say.
      He attempted to talk of her uncle Baudu; but had to give it up on seeing
      the young girl's uneasiness. However, they continued to walk side by side,
      and at last found themselves near the Rue de Rivoli, in a path where it
      was still light. On coming out of the darkness of the trees it was like a
      sudden awakening. He understood that he could not detain her any longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good night, mademoiselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good night, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he did not go away. On raising his eyes he perceived in front of him,
      at the corner of the Rue d'Alger, the lighted windows at Madame
      Desforges's, whither he was bound. And looking at Denise, whom he could
      now see, in the pale twilight, she appeared to him very puny beside
      Henriette. Why was it she touched his heart in this way? It was a stupid
      caprice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This little man is getting tired,&rdquo; resumed he, just for something to say.
      &ldquo;Remember, mind, that our house is always open to you; you've only to
      knock, and I'll give you every compensation possible. Good night,
      mademoiselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good night, sir,&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Mouret quitted her, Denise went back under the chestnut-trees, in the
      black shadow. For a long time she walked on without any object, between
      the enormous trunks, her face burning, her head in a whirl of confused
      ideas. Pépé still had hold of her hand, stretching out his short legs to
      keep pace with her. She had forgotten him. At last he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You go too quick, little mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this she sat down on a bench; and as he was tired, the child went to
      sleep on her lap. She held him there, nestling to her virgin bosom, her
      eyes lost far away in the darkness. When, an hour later on, they returned
      slowly to the Rue de la Michodière, she had regained her usual quiet,
      sensible expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hell and thunder!&rdquo; shouted Bourras, when he saw her coming, &ldquo;the blow is
      struck. That rascal of a Mouret has just bought my house.&rdquo; He was half
      mad, and was striking himself in the middle of the shop with such
      outrageous gestures that he almost threatened to break the windows. &ldquo;Ah!
      the scoundrel! It's the fruiterer who's written to tell me this. And how
      much do you think he has got for the house? One hundred and fifty thousand
      francs, four times its value! There's another thief, if you like! Just
      fancy, he has taken advantage of my embellishments, making capital out of
      the fact that the house has been done up. How much longer are they going
      to make a fool of me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The thought that his money spent on paint and white-wash had brought the
      fruiterer a profit exasperated him. And now Mouret would be his landlord;
      he would have to pay him! It was beneath this detested competitor's roof,
      that he must live in future! Such a thought raised his fury to the highest
      possible pitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! I could hear them digging a hole through the wall. At this moment,
      they are here eating out of my very plate, so to say!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the shop shook under his heavy fist which he banged on the counter; he
      made the umbrellas and the parasols dance again. Denise, bewildered, could
      not get in a word. She stood there, motionless, waiting for the end of his
      tirade; whilst Pépé, very tired, had fallen asleep on a chair. At last,
      when Bourras became a little calmer, she resolved to deliver Mouret's
      message. No doubt the old man was irritated, but the excess even of his
      anger, the blind alley in which he found himself, might determine an
      abrupt acceptance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've just met some one,&rdquo; she commenced. &ldquo;Yes, a person from The Paradise,
      very well informed. It appears that they are going to offer you eighty
      thousand francs to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eighty thousand francs!&rdquo; interrupted he, in a terrible voice; &ldquo;eighty
      thousand francs! Not for a million now!&rdquo; She tried to reason with him. But
      at that moment the shop door opened, and she suddenly drew back, pale and
      silent. It was her uncle Baudu, with his yellow face and aged look.
      Bourras seized his neighbour by the button-hole, and roared out in his
      face without allowing him to say a word, as if goaded on by his presence:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think they have the cheek to offer me? Eighty thousand
      francs! They've got so far, the brigands! they think I'm going to sell
      myself like a prostitute. Ah! they've bought the house, and think they've
      now got me. Well! it's all over, they sha'n't have it! I might have given
      way, perhaps; but now it belongs to them, let them try and take it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So the news is true?&rdquo; said Baudu in his slow voice. &ldquo;I had heard of it,
      and came over to know if it was so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eighty thousand francs!&rdquo; repeated Bourras. &ldquo;Why not a hundred thousand at
      once? It's this immense sum of money that makes me indignant Do they think
      they can make me commit a knavish trick with their money! They sha'n't
      have it, by heavens! Never, never, you hear me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise gently observed, in her calm, quiet way: &ldquo;They'll have it in nine
      years' time, when your lease expires.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, notwithstanding her uncle's presence, she begged of the old man to
      accept. The struggle was becoming impossible, he was fighting against a
      superior force; he would be mad to refuse the fortune offered him. But he
      still replied no. In nine years' time he hoped to be dead, so as not to
      see it &ldquo;You hear, Monsieur Baudu,&rdquo; resumed he, &ldquo;your niece is on their
      side, it's her they have employed to corrupt me. She's with the brigands,
      my word of honour!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Baudu, who up to then had appeared not to notice Denise, now raised his
      head, with the morose movement that he affected when standing at his shop
      door, every time she passed. But, slowly, he turned round and looked at
      her, and his thick lips trembled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it,&rdquo; replied he in a half-whisper, and he continued to look at
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise, affected almost to tears, thought him greatly changed by trouble.
      Perhaps he was stricken with remorse for not having assisted her during
      the time of misery she had just passed through. Then the sight of Pépé
      sleeping on the chair, amidst the noise of the discussion, seemed to
      suddenly inspire him with compassion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Denise,&rdquo; said he simply, &ldquo;come to-morrow and have dinner with us and
      bring the little one. My wife and Geneviève asked me to invite you if I
      met you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned very red, and went up and kissed him. And as he was going away,
      Bourras, delighted at this reconciliation, cried out to him again: &ldquo;Just
      talk to her, she isn't a bad sort. As for me, the house may fall, I shall
      be found in the ruins.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our houses are already falling, neighbour,&rdquo; said Baudu with a sombre air.
      &ldquo;We shall all be crushed under them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t this time the
      whole neighbourhood was talking of the great thoroughfare to be opened
      from the Bourse to the new Opera House, under the name of the Rue du
      Dix-Décembre. The expropriation judgments had just been delivered, two
      gangs of demolishers were already attacking the opening at the two ends,
      the first pulling down the old mansions in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, the
      other destroying the thin walls of the old Vaudeville; and one could hear
      the picks getting closer. The Rue de Choiseul and the Rue de la Michodière
      got quite excited over their condemned houses. Before a fortnight passed,
      the opening would make a great hole in these streets, letting in the sun
      and air.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what stirred up the district still more, was the work going on at The
      Ladies' Paradise. Considerable enlargements were talked of, gigantic shops
      having frontages in the Rue de la Michodière, the Rue
      Neuve-Saint-Augustin, and the Rue Monsigny. Mouret, it was said, had made
      arrangements with Baron Hartmann, chairman of the Crédit Immobilier, and
      he would occupy the whole block, except the future frontage in the Rue du
      Dix-Décembre, on which the baron wished to construct a rival to the Grand
      Hôtel. The Paradise people were buying up leases on all sides, the shops
      were closing, the tenants moving; and in the empty buildings an army of
      workmen were commencing the various alterations under a cloud of plaster.
      In the midst of this disorder, old Bourras's narrow hovel was the only one
      that remained standing and intact, obstinately sticking between the high
      walls covered with masons.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, the next day, Denise went with Pépé to her uncle Baudu's, the street
      was just at that moment blocked up by a line of tumbrels discharging
      bricks before the Hôtel Duvillard. Baudu was standing at his shop door
      looking on with a gloomy air. As The Ladies' Paradise became larger, The
      Old Elbeuf seemed to get smaller. The young girl thought the windows
      looked blacker than ever, and more and more crushed beneath the low first
      storey, with its prison-like bars; the damp had still further discoloured
      the old green sign-board, a sort of distress oozed from the whole
      frontage, livid in hue, and, as it were, grown thinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here you are, then!&rdquo; said Baudu. &ldquo;Take care! they would run right over
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Inside the shop, Denise experienced the same heart-broken sensation; she
      found it darker, invaded more than ever by the somnolence of approaching
      ruin; empty corners formed dark and gloomy holes, the dust was invading
      the counters and drawers, whilst an odour of saltpetre rose from the bales
      of cloth that were no longer moved about. At the desk Madame Baudu and
      Geneviève were standing mute and motionless, as in some solitary spot,
      where no one would come to disturb them. The mother was hemming some
      dusters. The daughter, her hands spread on her knees, was gazing at the
      emptiness before her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good evening, aunt,&rdquo; said Denise; &ldquo;I'm delighted to see you again, and if
      I have hurt your feelings, I hope you will forgive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Baudu kissed her, greatly affected. &ldquo;My poor child,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;if
      I had no other troubles, you would see me gayer than this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good evening, cousin,&rdquo; resumed Denise, kissing Geneviève on the cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter woke up with a sort of start, and returned her kisses, without
      finding a word to say. The two women then took up Pépé, who was holding
      out his little arms, and the reconciliation was complete.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! it's six o'clock, let's go to dinner,&rdquo; said Baudu. &ldquo;Why haven't you
      brought Jean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he was to come,&rdquo; murmured Denise, embarrassed. &ldquo;I saw him this
      morning, and he faithfully promised me. Oh! we must not wait for him; his
      master has kept him, I dare say.&rdquo; She suspected some extraordinary
      adventure, and wished to apologise for him in advance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case, we will commence,&rdquo; said her uncle. Then turning towards the
      obscure depths of the shop, he added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come on, Colomban, you can dine with us. No one will come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise had not noticed the shopman. Her aunt explained to her that they
      had been obliged to get rid of the other salesman and the young lady.
      Business was getting so bad that Colomban sufficed; and even he spent many
      idle hours, drowsy, falling off to sleep with his eyes open. The gas was
      burning in the dining-room, although they were enjoying long summer days.
      Denise slightly shivered on entering, seized by the dampness falling from
      the walls. She once more beheld the round table, the places laid on the
      American cloth, the window drawing its air and light from the dark and
      fetid back yard. And these things appeared to her to be gloomier than
      ever, and tearful like the shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; said Geneviève, uncomfortable for Denise's sake, &ldquo;shall I close
      the window? there's rather a bad smell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smelt nothing, and seemed surprised. &ldquo;Shut the window if you like,&rdquo;
       replied he at last. &ldquo;But we sha'n't get any air then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And indeed they were almost stifled. It was a family dinner, very simple.
      After the soup, as soon as the servant had served the boiled beef, the old
      man as usual commenced about the people opposite. At first he showed
      himself very tolerant, allowing his niece to have a different opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me! you are quite free to support these great hairbrained houses.
      Each one has his ideas, my girl. If you were not disgusted at being so
      disgracefully chucked out you must have strong reasons for liking them;
      and even if you went back again, I should think none the worse of you. No
      one here would be offended, would they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no!&rdquo; murmured Madame Baudu.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise quietly gave her reasons, as she had at Robineau's: the logical
      evolution in business, the necessities of modern times, the greatness of
      these new creations, in short, the growing well-being of the public.
      Baudu, his eyes opened, and his mouth clamming, listened with a visible
      tension of intelligence. Then, when she had finished, he shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's all phantasmagoria, you know. Business is business, there's no
      getting over that. I own that they succeed, but that's all. For a long
      time I thought they would smash up; yes, I expected that, waiting
      patiently&mdash;you remember? Well, no, it appears that now-a-days thieves
      make fortunes, whilst honest people die of hunger. That's what we've come
      to. I'm obliged to bow to facts. And I do bow, on my word, I do bow!&rdquo; A
      deep anger was gradually rising within him. All at once he flourished his
      fork. &ldquo;But The Old Elbeuf will never give way! I said as much to Bourras,
      you know, 'Neighbour, you're going over to the cheapjacks; your paint and
      your varnish are a disgrace.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eat your dinner!&rdquo; interrupted Madame Baudu, feeling anxious, on seeing
      him so excited.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait a bit, I want my niece thoroughly to understand my motto. Just
      listen, my girl: I'm like this decanter, I don't budge. They succeed, so
      much the worse for them! As for me, I protest&mdash;that's all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant brought in a piece of roast veal. He cut it up with his
      trembling hands; but he no longer had his correct glance, his skill in
      weighing the portions. The consciousness of his defeat deprived him of the
      confidence he used to have as a respected employer. Pépé thought his uncle
      was getting angry, and they had to pacify him, by giving him some dessert,
      some biscuits which were near his plate. Then Baudu, lowering his voice,
      tried to talk of something else. For a moment he spoke of the demolitions
      going on, approving of the Rue du Dix-Décembre, the cutting of which would
      certainly improve the business of the neighbourhood. But then again he
      returned to The Ladies' Paradise; everything brought him back to it, it
      was a kind of complaint. They were covered with plaster, and business was
      stopped since the builders' carts had commenced to block up the street. It
      would soon be really ridiculous, in its immensity; the customers would
      lose themselves. Why not have the central markets at once? And, in spite
      of his wife's supplicating looks, notwithstanding his own effort, he went
      on from the works to the amount of business done in the big shop. Was it
      not inconceivable? In less than four years they had increased their
      figures five-fold; the annual receipts, formerly eight million francs, now
      attained the sum of forty millions, according to the last balance-sheet.
      In fact it was a piece of folly, a thing that had never been seen before,
      and against which it was perfectly useless to struggle. They were always
      increasing, they had now a thousand employees and twenty-eight
      departments. These twenty-eight departments enraged him more than anything
      else. No doubt they had duplicated a few, but others were quite new; for
      instance, a furniture department, and a department for fancy goods. The
      idea! Fancy goods! Really these people were not at all proud, they would
      end by selling fish. Baudu, though affecting to respect Denise's opinions,
      attempted to convert her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Frankly, you can't defend them. What would you say were I to add a
      hardware department to my cloth business? You would say I was mad.
      Confess, at least, that you don't esteem them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as the young girl simply smiled, feeling uncomfortable, understanding
      the uselessness of good reasons, he resumed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In short, you are on their side. We won't talk about it any more, for ifs
      useless to let that part us again. It would be too much to see them come
      between me and my family! Go back with them, if you like; but pray don't
      worry me with any more of their stories!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A silence ensued. His former violence was reduced to this feverish
      resignation. As they were suffocating in the narrow room, heated by the
      gas-burner, the servant had to open the window again; and the damp,
      pestilential air from the yard blew into the apartment. A dish of stewed
      potatoes appeared, and they helped themselves slowly, without a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at those two,&rdquo; recommenced Baudu, pointing with his knife to
      Geneviève and Colomban. &ldquo;Ask them if they like your Ladies' Paradise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Side by side in the usual place where they had found themselves twice
      a-day for the last twelve years, the engaged couple were eating in
      moderation, and without uttering a word. He, exaggerating the coarse
      good-nature of his face, seemed to be concealing, behind his drooping
      eyelashes, the inner flame which was devouring him; whilst she, her head
      bowed lower beneath her too heavy hair, seemed to be giving way entirely,
      as if ravaged by a secret grief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Last year was very disastrous,&rdquo; explained Baudu, &ldquo;and we have been
      obliged to postpone the marriage, not for our own pleasure; ask them what
      they think of your friends.&rdquo; Denise, in order to pacify him, interrogated
      the young people.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally I can't be very fond of them,&rdquo; replied Geneviève. &ldquo;But never
      fear, every one doesn't detest them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she looked at Colomban, who was rolling up some bread-crumbs with an
      absorbed air. When he felt the young girl's gaze directed towards him, he
      broke out into a series of violent exclamations: &ldquo;A rotten shop! A lot of
      rogues, every man-jack of them! A regular pest in the neighbourhood!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hear him!' You hear him!&rdquo; exclaimed Baudu, delighted. &ldquo;There's one
      they'll never get hold of! Ah! my boy, you're the last of the old stock,
      we sha'n't see any more!&rdquo; But Geneviève, with her severe and suffering
      look, still kept her eyes on Colomban, diving into the depths of his
      heart. And he felt troubled, he redoubled his invectives. Madame Baudu was
      watching them with an anxious air, as if she foresaw another misfortune in
      this direction. For some time her daughter's sadness had frightened her,
      she felt her to be dying. &ldquo;The shop is left to take care of itself,&rdquo; said
      she at last, quitting the table, desirous of putting an end to the scene.
      &ldquo;Go and see, Colomban; I fancy I heard some one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had finished, and got up. Baudu and Colomban went to speak to a
      traveller, who had come for orders. Madame Baudu carried Pépé off to show
      him some pictures. The servant had quickly cleared the table, and Denise
      was lounging by the window, looking into the little back yard, when
      turning round she saw Geneviève still in her place, her eyes fixed on the
      American cloth, which was still damp from the sponge having been passed
      over it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you suffering, cousin?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young girl did not reply, obstinately studying a rent in the cloth,
      too preoccupied by the reflections passing through her mind. Then she
      raised her head with pain, and looked at the sympathising face bent over
      hers. The others had gone, then? What was she doing on this chair? And
      suddenly a flood of sobs stifled her, her head fell forward on the edge of
      the table. She wept on, wetting her sleeve with her tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! what's the matter with you?&rdquo; cried Denise in dismay. &ldquo;Shall
      I call some one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Geneviève nervously seized her by the arm, and held her back, stammering:
      &ldquo;No, no, stay. Don't let mamma know! With you I don't mind; but not the
      others&mdash;not the others! It's not my fault, I assure you. It was on
      finding myself all alone. Wait a bit; I'm better, and Pm not crying now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But sudden attacks kept seizing her, causing her frail body to tremble. It
      seemed as though the weight of her hair was weighing down her head. As she
      was rolling her poor head on her folded arms, a hair-pin came out, and her
      hair fell over her neck, burying it in its folds. Denise, quietly, for
      fear of attracting attention, tried to console her. She undid her dress,
      and was heart-broken on seeing how fearfully thin she was. The poor girl's
      bosom was as hollow as that of a child. Denise took the hair by handfuls,
      that superb head of hair which seemed to be absorbing all her life, and
      twisted it up, to clear it away, and give her a little air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, you are very kind,&rdquo; said Geneviève. &ldquo;Ah! I'm not very stout, am
      I? I used to be stouter, but it's all gone away. Do up my dress or mamma
      might see my shoulders. I hide them as much as I can. Good heavens! I'm
      not at all well, I'm not at all well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, the attack passed away, and she sat there completely worn out,
      looking fixedly at her cousin. After a pause she abruptly asked: &ldquo;Tell me
      the truth: does he love her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise felt a blush rising to her cheek. She was perfectly well aware that
      Geneviève referred to Colomban and Clara; but she pretended to be
      surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who, dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Geneviève shook her head with an incredulous air. &ldquo;Don't tell falsehoods,
      I beg of you. Do me the favour of setting my doubts at rest. You must
      know, I feel it. Yes, you have been this girl's comrade, and I've seen
      Colomban run after you, and talk to her in a low voice. He was giving you
      messages for her, wasn't he? Oh! for pity's sake, tell me the truth; I
      assure you it will do me good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Never had Denise been in such an awkward position. She lowered her eyes
      before this almost dumb girl, who yet guessed all. However, she had the
      strength to deceive her still. &ldquo;But it's you he loves!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Geneviève turned away in despair. &ldquo;Very well, you won't tell me anything.
      However, I don't care, I've seen them. He's continually going outside to
      look at her. She, upstairs, laughs like a bad woman. Of course they meet
      out of doors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for that, no, I assure you!&rdquo; exclaimed Denise, forgetting herself,
      carried away by the desire to give her, at least, that consolation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young girl drew a long breath, and smiled feebly. Then with the weak
      voice of a convalescent: &ldquo;I should like a glass of water. Excuse me if I
      trouble you. Look, over there in the sideboard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When she got hold of the bottle, she drank a large glassful right off,
      keeping Denise away with one hand, the latter being afraid Geneviève might
      do herself harm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, let me be; I'm always thirsty. In the night I get up to drink.&rdquo;
       There was a fresh silence. Then she went on again quietly: &ldquo;If you only
      knew, I've been accustomed to the idea of this marriage for the last ten
      years. I was still wearing short dresses, when Colomban was courting me. I
      hardly remember how things have come about By always living together,
      being shut up here together, without any other distractions between us, I
      must have ended by believing him to be my husband before he really was. I
      didn't know whether I loved him. I was his wife, and that's all. And now
      he wants to go off with another girl! Oh, heavens! my heart is breaking!
      You see, it's a grief that I've never felt before. It hurts me in the
      bosom, and in the head; then it spreads every where, and is killing me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes filled with tears. Denise, whose eyelids were also wet with pity,
      asked her: &ldquo;Does my aunt suspect anything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, mamma has her suspicions, I think. As to papa, he is too worried,
      and does not know the pain he is causing me by postponing this marriage.
      Mamma has questioned me several times, greatly alarmed to see me pining
      away. She has never been very strong herself, and has often said: 'My poor
      child, I've not made you very strong.' Besides, one doesn't grow much in
      these shops. But she must find me getting really too thin now. Look at my
      arms; would you believe it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And with a trembling hand she again took up the water bottle. Her cousin
      tried to prevent her drinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I'm so thirsty, let me drink.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They could hear Baudu talking in a loud voice. Then yielding to an
      inspiration of her tender heart, Denise knelt down before Geneviève,
      throwing her arms round her neck, kissing her, and assuring her that
      everything would turn out all right, that she would marry Colomban, that
      she would get well, and live happily. But she got up quickly, her uncle
      was calling her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jean is here. Come along.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was indeed Jean, looking rather scared, who had come to dinner. When
      they told him it was striking eight, he looked amazed. Impossible! He had
      only just left his master's. They chaffed him. No doubt he had come by way
      of the Bois de Vincennes. But as soon as he could get near his sister, he
      whispered to her: &ldquo;It's a little laundry-girl who was taking back some
      linen. I've got a cab outside by the hour. Give me five francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went out a minute, and then returned to dinner, for Madame Baudu would
      not hear of his going away without taking, at least, a plate of soup.
      Geneviève had reappeared in her usual silent and retiring manner. Colomban
      was half asleep behind the counter. The evening passed away, slow and
      melancholy, only animated by Baudu's step, as he walked from one end of
      the empty shop to the other. A single gas-burner was alight&mdash;the
      shadow of the low ceiling fell in large masses, like black earth from a
      ditch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Several months passed away. Denise came in nearly every evening to cheer
      up Geneviève a bit, but the house became more melancholy than ever. The
      works opposite were a continual torment, which intensified their bad luck.
      Even when they had an hour of hope&mdash;some unexpected joy&mdash;the
      falling of a tumbrel-load of bricks, the sound of the saw of a
      stonecutter, or the simple call of a mason, sufficed at once to mar their
      pleasure. In fact, the whole neighbourhood felt the shock. From the
      boarded enclosure, running along and blocking up the three streets, there
      issued a movement of feverish activity. Although the architect used the
      existing buildings, he altered them in various ways to adapt them to their
      new uses; and right in the centre at the opening caused by the
      court-yards, he was building a central gallery as big as a church, which
      was to terminate with a grand entrance in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin
      right in the middle of the frontage. They had, at first, experienced great
      difficulty in laying the foundations, for they had come on to some sewer
      deposits and loose earth, full of human bones. Besides that, the boring of
      the well had made the neighbours very anxious&mdash;a well three hundred
      feet deep, destined to give two hundred gallons a minute. They had now got
      the walls up to the first storey; the entire block was surrounded by
      scaffolding, regular towers of timber work. There was an incessant noise
      from the grinding of the windlasses hoisting up the stone, the abrupt
      discharge of iron bars, the clamour of this army of workmen, accompanied
      by the noise of picks and hammers. But above all, what deafened the people
      was the sound of the machinery. Everything went by steam, screeching
      whistles rent the air; whilst, at the slightest gust of wind, clouds of
      plaster flew about and covered the neighbouring roofs like a fall of snow.
      The Baudus in despair looked on at this implacable dust penetrating
      everywhere&mdash;getting through the closest woodwork, soiling the goods
      in their shop, even gliding into their beds; and the idea that they must
      continue to breathe it&mdash;that it would finish by killing them&mdash;empoisoned
      their existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The situation, however, was destined to become worse still, for in
      September, the architect, afraid of not being ready, decided to carry on
      the work at night also. Powerful electric lamps were established, and the
      uproar became continuous. Gangs of men relieved each other; the hammers
      never stopped, the engines whistled night and day; the everlasting clamour
      seemed to raise and scatter the white dust The Baudus now had to give up
      the idea of sleeping even; they were shaken in their beds; the noises
      changed into nightmare as soon as they fell off to sleep. Then, if they
      got up to calm their fever, and went, with bare feet, to look out of the
      window, they were frightened by the vision of The Ladies' Paradise flaring
      in the darkness like a colossal forge, where their ruin was being forged.
      Along the half-built walls, dotted with open bays, the electric lamps
      threw a large blue flood of light, of a blinding intensity. Two o'clock
      struck&mdash;then three, then four; and during the painful sleep of the
      neighbourhood, the works, increased by this lunar brightness, became
      colossal and fantastic, swarming with black shadows, noisy workmen, whose
      profiles gesticulated on the crude whiteness of the new plastering.
    </p>
    <p>
      Baudu was quite right. The small traders in the neighbouring streets were
      receiving another mortal blow. Every time The Ladies' Paradise created new
      departments there were fresh failures among the shopkeepers of the
      district The disaster spread, one could hear the cracking of the oldest
      houses. Mademoiselle Tatin, at the under-linen shop in the Passage
      Choiseul, had just been declared bankrupt; Quinette, the glover, could
      hardly hold out another six months; the furriers, Vanpouille, were obliged
      to sub-let a part of their premises; and if the Bédorés, brother and
      sister, the hosiers, still kept on in the Rue Gaillon, they were evidently
      living on money saved formerly. And now more smashes were going to be
      added to those long since foreseen; the department for fancy goods
      threatened a toy-shopkeeper in the Rue Saint-Roch, Deslignières, a big,
      full-blooded man; whilst the furniture department attacked Messrs. Piot
      and Rivoire, whose shops were sleeping in the shadow of the Passage
      Sainte-Anne. It was even feared that an attack of apoplexy would carry off
      the toyman, who had gone into a terrible rage on seeing The Ladies'
      Paradise mark up purses at thirty per cent, reduction. The furniture
      dealers, who were much calmer, affected to joke at these counter-jumpers
      who wanted to meddle with such articles as chairs and tables; but
      customers were already leaving them, the success of the department had
      every appearance of being a formidable one. It was all over, they were
      obliged to bow their heads. After these others would be swept off, and
      there was no reason why every business should not be driven away. One day
      The Ladies' Paradise alone would cover the neighbourhood with its roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      At present, morning and evening, when the thousand employees went in and
      came out, they formed such a long procession in the Place Gaillon that
      people stopped to look at them as they would at a passing regiment. For
      ten minutes they blocked up all the streets; and the shopkeepers at their
      doors thought bitterly of their single assistant, whom they hardly knew
      how to find food for. The last balance-sheet of the big shop, the forty
      millions turned over, had also caused a revolution in the neighbourhood.
      The figure passed from house to house amid cries of surprise and anger.
      Forty millions! Think of that! No doubt the net profit did not exceed more
      than four per cent., with their heavy general expenses, and system of low
      prices; but sixteen hundred thousand francs was a jolly sum, one could be
      satisfied with four per cent., when one operated on such a scale as that.
      It was said that Mouret's starting capital of five hundred thousand
      francs, augmented each year by the total profits, a capital which must at
      that moment have amounted to four millions, had thus passed ten times over
      the counters in the form of goods. Robineau, when he made this calculation
      before Denise, after dinner, was overcome for a moment, his eyes fixed on
      his empty plate. She was right, it was this incessant renewal of the
      capital that constituted the invincible force of the new system of
      business. Bourras alone denied the facts, refusing to understand, superb
      and stupid as a mile-stone. A pack of thieves and nothing more! A lying
      set! Cheap-jacks who would be picked up out of the gutter one fine
      morning!
    </p>
    <p>
      The Baudus, however, notwithstanding their wish not to change anything in
      the way of The Old Elbeuf, tried to sustain the competition. The customers
      no longer coming to them, they forced themselves to go to the customers,
      through the agency of travellers. There was at that time, in the Paris
      market, a traveller connected with all the great tailors, who saved the
      little cloth and flannel houses when he condescended to represent them.
      Naturally they all tried to get hold of him; he assumed the importance of
      a personage; and Baudu, having haggled with him, had the misfortune of
      seeing him come to terms with the Matignons, in the Rue
      Croix-des-Petits-Champs. One after the other, two other travellers robbed
      him; a third, an honest man, did no business. It was a slow death, without
      any shock, a continual decrease of business, customers lost one by one. A
      day came when the bills fell very heavily. Up to that time they had lived
      on their former savings; but now they began to contract debts. In
      December, Baudu, terrified by the amount of the bills he had accepted,
      resigned himself to a most cruel sacrifice: he sold his country-house at
      Rambouillet, a house which cost him a lot of money in continual repairs,
      and for which the tenants had not even paid the rent when he decided to
      get rid of it. This sale killed the only dream of his life, his heart bled
      as for the loss of some dear one. And he had to sell for seventy thousand
      francs that which had cost him more than two hundred thousand, considering
      himself fortunate to have met the Lhommes, his neighbours, who were
      desirous of adding to their property. The seventy thousand francs would
      keep the business going a little longer; for notwithstanding the repulses
      already encountered, the idea of struggling sprang up again; perhaps with
      great care they might conquer even now.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Sunday on which the Lhommes paid the money, they were good enough to
      dine at The Old Elbeuf. Madame Aurélie was the first to arrive; they had
      to wait for the cashier, who came late, scared by a whole afternoon's
      music; as for young Albert, he had accepted the invitation, but did not
      put in an appearance. It was, moreover, a somewhat painful evening. The
      Baudus, living without air in their narrow dining-room, suffered from the
      gust of wind brought in by the Lhommes, with their scattered family and
      taste for a free existence. Geneviève, wounded by Madame Aurélie's
      imperial airs, did not open her mouth; whilst Colomban was admiring her
      with a shiver, on reflecting that she reigned over Clara. Before retiring
      to rest, in the evening, Madame Baudu being already in bed, Baudu walked
      about the room for a long time. It was a mild night, thawing and damp.
      Outside, notwithstanding the closed windows, and drawn curtains, one could
      hear the machinery roaring on the opposite side of the way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know what I'm thinking of, Elisabeth?&rdquo; said he at last &ldquo;Well!
      these Lhommes may earn as much money as they like, I'd rather be in my
      shoes than theirs. They get on well, it's true. The wife said, didn't she?
      that she had made nearly twenty thousand francs this year, and that has
      enabled her to take my poor house. Never mind! I've no longer the house,
      but I don't go playing music in one direction, whilst you are gadding
      about in the other. No, look you, they can't be happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was still labouring under the grief of his sacrifice, nourishing a
      certain rancour against those people who had bought up his darling dream.
      When he came near the bed, he gesticulated, leaning over his wife; then,
      returning to the window, he stood silent for a minute, listening to the
      noise of the works. And he resumed his old accusations, his despairing
      complaints about the new times; nobody had ever seen such things, a
      shop-assistant earning more than a tradesman, cashiers buying up the
      employers' property. Everything was going to the dogs; family ties no
      longer existed, people lived at hôtels instead of eating their meals at
      home in a respectable manner. He ended by prophesying that young Albert
      would later on swallow up the Rambouillet property with a lot of
      actresses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Baudu listened to him, her head flat on the pillow, so pale that
      her face was the colour of the sheets. &ldquo;They've paid you,&rdquo; at length said
      she, softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this Baudu became dumb. He walked about for an instant with his eyes on
      the ground. Then he resumed: &ldquo;They've paid me, 'tis true; and,
      after all, their money is as good as another's. It would be funny if we
      revived the business with this money. Ah! if I were not so old and worn
      out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A long silence ensued. The draper was full of vague projects. Suddenly his
      wife spoke again, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, without moving her head:
      &ldquo;Have you noticed your daughter lately?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! she makes me rather anxious. She's getting pale, she seems to be
      pining away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stood before the bed, full of surprise. &ldquo;Really! whatever for? If she's
      ill she should say so. To-morrow we must send for the doctor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Baudu still remained motionless. After a short time, she declared
      with her meditative air: &ldquo;This marriage with Colomban, I think it would be
      better to get it over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her, then began walking about again. Certain things came back
      to his mind. Was it possible that his daughter was falling ill over the
      shopman? Did she love him so much that she could not wait? Here was
      another misfortune! It worried him all the more from the fact that he
      himself had fixed ideas about this marriage. He could never consent to it
      in the present state of affairs. However, his anxiety softened him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; said he at last, &ldquo;I'll speak to Colomban.&rdquo; And without saying
      another word he continued his walk. Soon afterwards his wife fell off to
      sleep, quite white, as if dead; but he still kept on walking about. Before
      getting into bed he drew aside the curtains and glanced outside; on the
      other side of the street, the gaping windows of the old Hôtel Duvillard
      showed the workmen moving about in the dazzling glare of the electric
      light.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning Baudu took Colomban to the further end of the store, on
      the upper floor, having made up his mind over night what he should say to
      him. &ldquo;My boy,&rdquo; said he &ldquo;you know I've sold my property at Rambouillet.
      That will enable us to show good fight. But I should like beforehand to
      have a talk with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man, who seemed to dread the interview, waited with an awkward
      air. His small eyes twinkled in his large face, and he stood there with
      his mouth open&mdash;a sign with him of profound agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just listen to me,&rdquo; resumed the draper. &ldquo;When old Hauchecorne left me The
      Old Elbeuf, the house was prosperous; he himself had received it from old
      Finet in a satisfactory state. You know my ideas; I should consider it
      wrong if I passed this family trust to my children in a diminished state;
      and that's why I've always postponed your marriage with Geneviève. Yes, I
      was obstinate; I hoped to bring back our former prosperity; I wanted to
      hand you the books, saying: 'Look here! the year I commenced we sold so
      much cloth, and this year, the year I retire, we have sold ten thousand or
      twenty thousand francs' worth more.' In short, you understand, it was a
      vow I had made to myself, the very natural desire I had to prove that the
      house had not lost anything in my hands. Otherwise it would seem to me I
      was robbing you.&rdquo; His voice was stifled with emotion. He blew his nose to
      recover a bit, and asked, &ldquo;You don't say anything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Colomban had nothing to say. He shook his head, and waited, more and
      more troubled, thinking he could guess what, the governor was aiming at.
      It was the marriage without further delay. How could he refuse? He would
      never have the strength. And the other girl, of whom he dreamed at night,
      devoured by such a flame that he frequently threw himself quite naked on
      the floor, in the fear of dying of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; continued Baudu, &ldquo;there's a sum of money that may save us. The
      situation becomes worse every day, and perhaps by making a supreme effort&mdash;&mdash;In
      short, I thought it right to warn you. We are going to venture our last
      stake. If we are beaten, why that will entirely ruin us! But, my poor boy,
      your marriage must be again postponed, for I don't wish to throw you two
      all alone into the struggle. That would be too cowardly, wouldn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Colomban, greatly relieved, had seated himself on a pile of swan-skin
      flannel. His legs were still trembling. He was afraid of showing his joy,
      he held down his head, rolling his fingers on his knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't say anything?&rdquo; repeated Baudu.
    </p>
    <p>
      No, he said nothing, he could find nothing to say. The draper then slowly
      continued: &ldquo;I was sure this would grieve you. You must muster up courage.
      Pull yourself together a bit, don't let yourself be crushed in this way.
      Above all, understand my position. Can I hang such a weight on your neck?
      Instead of leaving you a good business, I should leave you a bankruptcy
      perhaps. No, it's only a scoundrel who would play such a trick! No doubt,
      I desire nothing but your happiness, but no one shall ever make me, go
      against my conscience.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he went on for a long time in this way, swaying about in a maze of
      contradictions, like a man who would have liked to be understood at half a
      word and finds himself obliged to explain everything. As he had promised
      his daughter and the shop, strict probity forced him to deliver both in
      good condition, without defects or debts. But he was tired, the burden
      seemed to be too much for him, his stammering voice was one of
      supplication. He got more entangled than ever in his words, he was still
      expecting a sudden rally from Colomban, some heartfelt cry, which came
      not.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; murmured he, &ldquo;that old men are wanting in ardour. With young
      ones, things light up. They are full of fire, it's natural. But, no, no, I
      can't, my word of honour! If I gave it up to you, you would blame me later
      on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped, trembling, and as the young man still kept his head down, he
      asked him for the third time, after a painful silence: &ldquo;You don't say
      anything?&rdquo; At last, but without looking at him, Colomban replied: &ldquo;There's
      nothing to say. You are the master, you know better than all of us. As you
      wish it we'll wait, we'll try and be reasonable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was all over. Baudu still hoped he was going to throw himself into his
      arms, exclaiming: &ldquo;Father, do you take a rest, we'll fight in our turn;
      give us the shop as it is, so that we may work a miracle and save it! Then
      he looked at him, and was seized with shame, accusing himself of having
      wished to dupe his children. The deep-rooted maniacal honesty of the
      shopkeeper was awakened in him; it was this prudent fellow who was right,
      for in business there is no such thing as sentiment, it is only a question
      of figures.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me your hand, my boy,&rdquo; said he in conclusion. &ldquo;It's settled we won't
      speak about the marriage for another year. One must think of the business
      before everything.&rdquo; That evening in their room when Madame Baudu
      questioned her husband as to the result of the conversation, the result of
      the conversation, the latter had resumed his obstinate wish to fight in
      person to the bitter end. He gave Colomban high praise, calling him a
      solid fellow, firm in his ideas, brought up with the best principles,
      incapable, for instance, of joking with the customers like those puppies
      at The Paradise. No, he was honest, he belonged to the family, he didn't
      speculate on the business as though he were a stock-jobber.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, when's the marriage to take place?&rdquo; asked Madame Baudu.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Later on,&rdquo; replied he, &ldquo;when I am able to keep to my promises.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made no gestures, she simply observed: &ldquo;It will be our daughter's
      death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Baudu restrained himself, stirred up with anger. He was the one whom it
      would kill, if they continually upset him like this! Was it his fault? He
      loved his daughter&mdash;would lay down his life for her; but he could not
      make the business prosper when it obstinately refused to do so. Geneviève
      ought to have a little more sense, and wait patiently for a better
      balance-sheet The deuce! Colomban was there, no one would run away with
      him!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's incredible!&rdquo; repeated he; &ldquo;such a well-trained girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Baudu said no more. No doubt she had guessed Geneviève's jealous
      agony; but she did not dare to inform her husband. A singular womanly
      modesty always prevented her approaching certain tender, delicate subjects
      with him. When he saw her so silent, he turned his anger against the
      people opposite, stretching his fists out in the air, towards the works,
      where they were setting up large iron girders, with a great noise of
      hammers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise had decided to return to The Ladies' Paradise, having understood
      that the Robineaus, though forced to cut down their staff, did not like to
      dismiss her. To maintain their position, now, they were obliged to do
      everything themselves. Gaujean, obstinate in his rancour, renewed their
      bills, even promised to find them funds; but they were frightened, they
      wanted to go in for economy and order. During a whole fortnight Denise had
      felt uneasy with them, and she had to speak first, saying she had found a
      situation elsewhere. This was a great relief. Madame Robineau embraced
      her, deeply affected, saying she should always miss her. Then when, in
      reply to a question, the young girl said she was going back to Mouret's,
      Robineau turned pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right!&rdquo; he exclaimed violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not so easy to tell the news to old Bourras. However, Denise had to
      give him notice, and she trembled, for she was full of gratitude towards
      him. Bourras just at this time was in a continual fever of rage&mdash;full
      of invectives against the works going on next door. The builder's carts
      blocked up his doorway; the picks tapped on his walls; everything in his
      place, the umbrellas and the sticks, danced about to the noise of the
      hammers. It seemed that the hovel, obstinately remaining amid all these
      demolitions, was going to give way. But the worst of all was that the
      architect, in order to connect the existing shops with those about to be
      opened in the Hôtel Duvillard, had conceived the idea of boring a passage
      under the little house that separated them. This house belonged to the
      firm of Mouret &amp; Co., and the lease stipulating that the tenant should
      submit to all necessary repairs, the workmen appeared on the scene one
      morning. At this Bourras nearly went into a fit. Wasn't it enough to
      strangle him on all sides, on the right, the left, and behind, without
      attacking him underfoot as well, taking the ground from under him! And he
      drove the masons away, and went to law. Repairs, yes! but this was rather
      a work of embellishment. The neighbourhood thought he would carry the day,
      without, however, being sure of anything The case, however, threatened to
      be a long one, and people became very excited over this interminable duel.
      The day Denise resolved to give him notice, Bourras had just returned from
      his lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you believe it!&rdquo; exclaimed he, &ldquo;they now say the house is not
      solid; they pretend that the foundations must be strengthened. Confound
      it! they have shaken it up so with their infernal machines, that it isn't
      astonishing if it gives way!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, when the young girl announced she was going away, and that she was
      going back to The Ladies' Paradise at a salary of a thousand francs, he
      was so amazed that he simply raised his trembling hands in the air. The
      emotion made him drop into a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You! you!&rdquo; he stammered. &ldquo;Ah, I'm the only one&mdash;I'm the only one
      left!&rdquo; After a pause, he asked: &ldquo;And the youngster?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He'll go back to Madame Gras's,&rdquo; replied Denise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was very fond of him! that can't be refused. You'll all go. Go, then,
      leave me here alone. Yes, alone&mdash;you understand! There shall be one
      who will never bow his head. And tell them I'll win my lawsuit, if I have
      to sell my last shirt for it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise was not to leave Robineau's till the end of the month. She had seen
      Mouret again; everything was settled. One evening as she was going up to
      her room, Deloche, who was watching for her in a doorway, stopped her. He
      was delighted, having just heard the good news; they were all talking
      about it in the shop, he said. And he told her the gossip of the counters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know, the young ladies in the dress department are pulling long
      faces!&rdquo; Then, interrupting himself, he added: &ldquo;By the way, you remember
      Clara Primaire? Well, it appears the governor has&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; You
      understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had turned quite red. She, very pale, exclaimed: &ldquo;Monsieur Mouret!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Funny taste&mdash;eh?&rdquo; he resumed. &ldquo;A woman who looks like a horse. The
      little girl from the under-linen department, whom he had twice last year,
      was, at least, good-looking. However, that's his business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, once upstairs, almost fainted away. It was surely through coming
      up too quick. Leaning out of the window she had a sudden vision of
      Valognes, the deserted street and grassy pavement, which she used to see
      from her room as a child; and she was seized with a desire to go and live
      there&mdash;to seek refuge in the peace and forgetfulness of the country.
      Paris irritated her, she hated The Ladies' Paradise, she hardly knew why
      she had consented to go back. She would certainly suffer as much as ever
      there; she was already suffering from an unknown uneasiness since
      Deloche's stories. Suddenly, without any notice, a flood of tears forced
      her to leave the window. She wept on for some time, and found a little
      courage to live on still. The next day at breakfast-time, as Robineau had
      sent her on an errand, and she was passing The Old Elbeuf, she pushed open
      the door on seeing Colomban alone in the shop. The Baudus were
      breakfasting; she could hear the clatter of the knives and forks in the
      little room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can come in,&rdquo; said the shopman. &ldquo;They are at breakfast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she motioned him to be silent, and drew him into a corner. Then,
      lowering her voice, she said: &ldquo;It's you I want to speak to. Have you no
      heart? Don't you see that Geneviève loves you, and that it's killing her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was trembling, the previous night's fever had taken possession of her
      again. He, frightened, surprised at this sudden attack, stood looking at
      her, without a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear?&rdquo; she continued. &ldquo;Geneviève knows you love another. She told
      me so. She wept like a child. Ah, poor girl! she isn't very strong now, I
      can tell you! If you had seen her thin arms! It's heart-breaking. You
      can't leave her to die like this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last he spoke, quite overcome. &ldquo;But she isn't ill&mdash;you exaggerate!
      I don't see anything myself. Besides, it's her father who is postponing
      the marriage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise sharply corrected this falsehood, certain that the least
      persistence on the part of the young man would decide her uncle. As to
      Colomban's surprise, it was not feigned; he had really never noticed
      Geneviève's slow agony. For him it was a very disagreeable revelation; for
      while he remained ignorant of it, he had no great blame to tax himself
      with.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who for?&rdquo; resumed Denise. &ldquo;For a worthless girl! You can't know who
      you are loving! Up to the present I have not wanted to hurt your feelings,
      I have often avoided answering your continual questions. Well! she goes
      with everybody, she laughs at you, you will never have her, or you may
      have her, like others, just once in a way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He listened to her, very pale; and at each of the sentences she threw into
      his face, his lips trembled. She, in a cruel fit, yielded to a transport
      of anger of which she had no consciousness. &ldquo;In short,&rdquo; said she in a
      final cry, &ldquo;she's with Monsieur Mouret, if you want to know!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her voice was stifled, she turned paler than Colomban himself. Both stood
      looking at each other. Then he stammered out: &ldquo;I love her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise felt ashamed of herself. Why was she talking in this way to this
      young fellow? Why was she getting so excited? She stood there mute, the
      simple reply he had just given resounded in her heart like the clang of a
      bell, which deafened her. &ldquo;I love her, I love her!&rdquo; and it seemed to
      spread. He was right, he could not marry another woman. And as she turned
      round, she observed Geneviève on the threshold of the dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be quiet!&rdquo; she said rapidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was too late, Geneviève must have heard, for her face was white
      bloodless. Just at that moment a customer opened the door&mdash;Madame
      Bourdelais, one of the last faithful customers of the Old Elbeuf where she
      found solid goods for her money; for a long time past Madame de Boves had
      followed the fashion, and gone over to The Ladies' Paradise; Madame Marty
      herself no longer came, entirely captivated by the seductions of the
      display opposite. And Geneviève was forced to go forward, and say in her
      weak voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you desire, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Bourdelais wished to see some flannel. Colomban took down a roll
      from a shelf. Geneviève showed the article; and both of them, their hands
      cold, found themselves brought together behind the counter. Meanwhile
      Baudu came out of the dining-room last, behind his wife, who had gone and
      seated herself at the pay-desk. At first he did not meddle with the sale,
      but stood up, looking at Madame Bourdelais.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not good enough,&rdquo; said the latter. &ldquo;Show me the strongest you
      have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Colomban took down another bundle. There was a silence. Madame Bourdelais
      examined the stuff.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Six francs, madame,&rdquo; replied Geneviève. The lady made an abrupt movement.
      &ldquo;Six francs!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;But they have the same opposite at five francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A slight contraction passed over Baudu's face. He could not help
      interfering politely. No doubt madame made a mistake, the stuff ought to
      have been sold at six francs and a half; it was impossible to give it at
      five francs. It must be another quality she was referring to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; she repeated, with the obstinacy of a lady who could not be
      deceived. &ldquo;The quality is the same. It may even be a little thicker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the discussion got very warm. Baudu, his face getting bilious, made an
      effort to continue smiling. His bitterness against The Ladies' Paradise
      was bursting in his throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really,&rdquo; said Madame Bourdelais at last, &ldquo;you must treat me better,
      otherwise I shall go opposite, like the others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then lost his head, and cried out, shaking with a passion he could not
      repress: &ldquo;Well! go opposite!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this she got up, greatly annoyed, and went away without turning round,
      saying: &ldquo;That's what I am going to do, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A general stupor ensued. The governor's violence had frightened all of
      them. He was himself scared, and trembled at what he had just said. The
      phrase had escaped against his will in the explosion of a long pent-up
      rancour. And the Baudus now stood there motionless, following Madame
      Bourdelais with their looks, watching her cross the street. She seemed to
      be carrying off their fortune. When she slowly passed under the high door
      of The Ladies' Paradise, when they saw her disappear in the crowd, they
      felt a sort of sudden wrench.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's another they've taken from us!&rdquo; murmured the draper. Then turning
      towards Denise, of whose re-engagement he was aware, he said: &ldquo;You as
      well, they've taken you back. Oh, I don't blame you for it. As they have
      the money, they are naturally the strongest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Just then, Denise, still hoping that Geneviève had not overheard Colomban,
      was saying to her: &ldquo;He loves you. Try and cheer up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the young girl replied to her in a very low and heartbroken voice:
      &ldquo;Why do you tell me a falsehood? Look! he can't help it, he's always
      glancing up there. I know very well they've stolen him from me, as they've
      robbed us of everything else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Geneviève went and sat down on the seat at the desk near her mother. The
      latter had doubtless guessed the fresh blow received by her daughter, for
      her anxious eyes wandered from her to Colomban, and then to The Ladies'
      Paradise. It was true, they had stolen everything from them: from the
      father, a fortune; from the mother, her dying child; from the daughter, a
      husband, waited for for ten years. Before this condemned family, Denise,
      whose heart was overflowing with pity, felt for an instant afraid of being
      wicked. Was she not going to assist this machine which was crushing the
      poor people? But she felt herself carried away as it were by an invisible
      force, and knew that she was doing no wrong.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; resumed Baudu, to give himself courage; &ldquo;we sha'n't die over it,
      after all. For one customer lost we shall find two others. You hear,
      Denise, I've got over seventy thousand francs there, which will certainly
      trouble your Mouret's rest. Come, come, you others, don't look so glum!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he could not enliven them. He himself relapsed into a pale
      consternation; and they all stood with their eyes on the monster,
      attracted, possessed, full of their misfortune. The work was nearly
      finished, the scaffolding had been removed from the front, a whole side of
      the colossal edifice appeared, with its walls and large light windows.
    </p>
    <p>
      Along the pavement at last open to circulation, stood eight vans that the
      messengers were loading one after the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the sunshine, a ray of which ran along the street, the green panels,
      picked out with red and yellow, sparkled like so many mirrors, sending
      blinding reflections right into The Old Elbeuf. The drivers, dressed in
      black, of a correct appearance, were holding the horses well in, superb
      pairs, shaking their silvered bits. And each time a van was loaded, there
      was a sonorous, rolling noise, which made the neighbouring small shops
      tremble. And before this triumphal procession, which they were destined to
      submit to twice a day, the Baudus' hearts broke. The father half fainted
      away, asking himself where this continual flood of goods could go to;
      whilst the mother, tormented to death about her daughter, continued to
      gaze into the street, her eyes drowned in a flood of tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was on a Monday,
      the 14th of March, that The Ladies' Paradise inaugurated its new buildings
      by a great exhibition of summer novelties, which was to last three days.
      Outside, a sharp wind was blowing, the passers-by, surprised by this
      return of winter, spun along, buttoned up in their overcoats. However,
      behind the closed doors of the neighbouring shops, quite an agitation was
      fermenting; and one could see, against the windows, the pale faces of the
      small tradesmen, occupied in counting the first carriages which stopped
      before the new grand entrance in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. This door,
      lofty and deep like a church porch, surmounted by a group&mdash;Industry
      and Commerce hand-in-hand amidst a complication of symbols&mdash;was
      sheltered by a vast awning, the fresh gilding of which seemed to light up
      the pavement with a ray of sunshine. To the right and left stretched the
      shop fronts, barely dry and of a blinding whiteness, running along the Rue
      Monsigny and the Rue de la Michodière, occupying the whole island, except
      on the Rue du Dix-Décembre side, where the Crédit Immobilier intended to
      build. Along this barrack-like development, the small tradesmen, when they
      raised their heads, perceived the piles of goods through the large
      plate-glass windows which, from the ground floor up to the second storey,
      opened the house to the light of day. And this enormous cube, this
      colossal bazaar, shut out the sky from them, seeming to cause the cold
      which was making them shiver behind their frozen counters.
    </p>
    <p>
      As early as six o'clock, Mouret was on the spot, giving his final orders.
      In the centre, starting from the grand entrance, a large gallery ran from
      end to end, flanked right and left by two narrower galleries, the Monsigny
      Gallery and the Michodière Gallery. The court-yards had been glazed and
      turned into halls, iron staircases rose from the ground floor, iron
      bridges were thrown from one end to the other on the two storeys. The
      architect, who happened to be a young man of talent with modern ideas, had
      only used stone for the under-ground floor and the corner pillars,
      constructing the whole ground with the corner pillars, constructing the
      whole carcase of iron, the assemblage of beams and rafters being supported
      by columns. The arches of the flooring and the partitions were of
      brickwork. Space had been gained everywhere, light and air entered freely,
      and the public circulated with the greatest ease under the bold flights of
      the far-stretching girders. It was the cathedral of modern commerce, light
      but solid, made for a nation of customers. Below, in the central gallery,
      after the door bargains, came the cravat, the glove, and the silk
      departments; the Monsigny Gallery was occupied by the linen and the Rouen
      goods; the Michodière Gallery by the mercery, the hosiery, the drapery,
      and the woollen departments. Then, on the first floor were installed the
      ready-made, the under-linen, the shawl, the lace, and other new
      departments, whilst the bedding, the carpets, the furnishing materials,
      all the cumbersome articles difficult to handle, had been relegated to the
      second floor. The number of departments was now thirty-nine, with eighteen
      hundred employees, of whom two hundred were women. Quite a little world
      operated there, in the sonorous life of the high metallic naves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret's unique passion was to conquer woman. He wished her to be queen in
      his house, and he had built this temple to get her completely at his
      mercy. His sole aim was to intoxicate her with gallant attentions, and
      traffic on her desires, work on her fever. Night and day he racked his
      brain to invent fresh attractions. He had already introduced two lifts
      lined with velvet for the upper storeys, in order to spare delicate ladies
      the trouble of mounting the stairs. Then he had just opened a bar where
      the customers could find, gratis, some light refreshment, syrups and
      biscuits, and a reading-room, a monumental gallery, decorated with
      excessive luxury, in which he had even ventured on an exhibition of
      pictures. But his most profound idea was to conquer the mother through the
      child, when unable to do so through her coquetry; he neglected no means,
      speculated on every sentiment, created departments for little boys and
      girls, arresting the passing mothers by distributing pictures and
      air-balls to the children. A stroke of genius this idea of distributing to
      each buyer a red air-ball made of fine gutta-percha, bearing in large
      letters the name of the shop, and which, held by a string, floated in the
      air, parading in the streets a living advertisement.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the greatest power of all was the advertising. Mouret spent three
      hundred thousand francs a year in catalogues, advertisements, and bills.
      For his summer sale he had launched forth two hundred thousand catalogues,
      of which fifty thousand went abroad, translated into every language. He
      now had them illustrated with engravings, even accompanying them with
      samples, gummed between the leaves. It was an overflowing display; The
      Ladies' Paradise became a household word all over the world, invading the
      walls, the newspapers, and even the curtains at the theatres. He declared
      that woman was powerless against advertising, that she was bound to follow
      the crowd. Not only that, he laid still more seductive traps for her,
      analysing her like a great moralist. Thus he had discovered that she could
      not resist a bargain, that she bought without necessity when she thought
      she saw a cheap line, and on this observation he based his system of
      reductions in price, progressively lowering the price of unsold articles,
      preferring to sell them at a loss, faithful to his principle of the
      continual renewal of the goods. He had penetrated still further into the
      heart of woman, and had just thought of the &ldquo;returns,&rdquo; a masterpiece of
      Jesuitical seduction. &ldquo;Take whatever you like, madame; you can return the
      article if you don't like it.&rdquo; And the woman who hesitated was provided
      with the last excuse, the possibility of repairing an extravagant folly,
      she took the article with an easy conscience. The returns and the
      reduction of prices now formed part of the classical working of the new
      style of business.
    </p>
    <p>
      But where Mouret revealed himself as an unrivalled master was in the
      interior arrangement of the shops. He laid down as a law that not a corner
      of The Ladies' Paradise ought to remain deserted, requiring everywhere a
      noise, a crowd, evidence of life; for life, said he, attracts life,
      increases and multiplies. From this law he drew all sorts of applications.
      In the first place, there ought always to be a crush at the entrance, so
      that the people in the street should mistake it for a riot; and he
      obtained this crush by placing a lot of bargains at the doors, shelves and
      baskets overflowing with very low-priced articles; so that the common
      people crowded there, stopping up the doorway, making the shop look as if
      it were crammed with customers, when it was often only half full. Then, in
      the galleries, he had the art of concealing the departments in which
      business was slack; for instance, the shawl department in summer, and the
      printed calico department in winter, he surrounded them with busy
      departments, drowning them with a continual uproar. It was he alone who
      had been inspired with the idea of placing on the second-floor the carpet
      and furniture counters, counters where the customers were less frequent,
      and which if placed on the ground floor would have caused empty, cold
      spaces. If he could have managed it, he would have had the street running
      through his shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just at that moment, Mouret was a prey to an attack of inspiration. On the
      Saturday evening, as he was giving a last look at the preparations for the
      Monday's great sale, he was suddenly struck with the idea that the
      arrangement of the departments adopted by him was wrong and stupid; and
      yet It seemed a perfectly logical arrangement: the stuffs on one side, the
      made-up articles on the other, an intelligent order of things which would
      enable the customers to find their way themselves. He had thought of this
      orderly arrangement formerly, in Madame Hédouin's narrow shop; and now he
      felt his faith shaken, just as he carried out his idea. Suddenly he cried
      out that they would &ldquo;have to alter all that.&rdquo; They had forty-eight hours,
      and half what had been done had to be changed. The staff, frightened,
      bewildered, had been obliged to work two nights and the entire Sunday,
      amidst a frightful disorder. On the Monday morning even, an hour before
      the opening, there was still some goods to be placed. Decidedly the
      governor was going mad, no one understood, a general consternation
      prevailed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0355.jpg" alt="0355 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0355.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, look sharp!&rdquo; cried Mouret, with the quiet assurance of his genius.
      &ldquo;There are some more costumes to be taken upstairs. And the Japan goods,
      are they placed on the central landing? A last effort, my boys, you'll see
      the sale by-and-by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle had also been there since daybreak. He did not understand any
      more than the others, and he followed the governor's movements with an
      anxious eye. He hardly dared to ask him any questions, knowing how Mouret
      received people in these critical moments. However, he at last made up his
      mind, and gently asked: &ldquo;Was it really necessary to upset everything like
      that, on the eve of our sale?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At first Mouret shrugged his shoulders without replying. Then as the other
      persisted, he burst out: &ldquo;So that all the customers should heap themselves
      into one corner&mdash;eh? A nice idea of mine! I should never have got
      over it! Don't you see that it would have localised the crowd. A woman
      would have come in, gone straight to the department she wished, passed
      from the petticoat counter to the dress one, from the dress to the mantle,
      then retired, without having even lost herself for a moment? Not one would
      have thoroughly seen the establishment!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; remarked Bourdoncle, &ldquo;now that you have disarranged everything, and
      thrown the goods all over the place, the employees will wear out their
      legs in guiding the customers from department to department.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret gave a look of superb contempt. &ldquo;I don't care a hang for that!
      They're young, it'll make them grow! So much the better if they do walk
      about! They'll appear more numerous, and increase the crowd. The greater
      the crush the better; all will go well!&rdquo; He laughed, and deigned to
      explain his idea, lowering his voice: &ldquo;Look here, Bourdoncle, listen to
      the result. Firstly, this continual circulation of customers disperses
      them all over the shop, multiplies them, and makes them lose their heads;
      secondly, as they must be conducted from one end of the establishment to
      the other, if they want, for instance, a lining after having bought a
      dress, these journeys in every direction triple the size of the house in
      their eyes; thirdly, they are forced to traverse departments where they
      would never have set foot otherwise, temptations present themselves on
      their passage, and they succumb; fourthly&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle was now laughing with him. At this Mouret, delighted, stopped
      to call out to the messengers: &ldquo;Very good, my boys! now for a sweep, and
      it'll be splendid!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But on turning round he perceived Denise. He and Bourdoncle were opposite
      the ready-made department, which he had just dismembered by sending the
      dresses and costumes up on the second-floor at the other end of the
      building. Denise, the first down, was opening her eyes with astonishment,
      quite bewildered by the new arrangements.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; murmured she; &ldquo;are we going to move?&rdquo; This surprise appeared
      to amuse Mouret, who adored these sensational effects. Early in February
      Denise had returned to The Ladies' Paradise, where she had been agreeably
      surprised to find the staff polite, almost respectful. Madame Aurélie
      especially was very kind; Marguerite and Clara seemed resigned; even down
      to old Jouve, who also bowed his head, with an awkward embarrassed air, as
      if desirous of effacing the disagreeable memory of the past. It sufficed
      that Mouret had said a few words, everybody was whispering, following her
      with their eyes. And in this general amiability, the only things that
      wounded her were Deloche's singularly melancholy looks, and Paulines
      inexplicable smiles. However, Mouret was still looking at her in his
      delighted way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it you want, mademoiselle?&rdquo; asked he at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise had noticed him. She blushed slightly. Since her return she had
      received marks of kindness from him which greatly touched her. Pauline,
      without her knowing why, had given her a full account of the governor's
      and Clara's love affairs: where he saw her, and what he paid her; and she
      often returned to the subject, even adding that he had another mistress,
      that Madame Desforges, well known by all the shop. Such stories stirred up
      Denise, she felt in his presence all her former fears, an uneasiness in
      which her gratitude was struggling against her anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's all this confusion going on in the place,&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret then approached her and said in a lower voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have the goodness to come to my office this evening after business. I
      wish to speak to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Greatly agitated, she bowed her head without saying a word. And she went
      into the department where the other saleswomen were now arriving. But
      Bourdoncle had overheard Mouret, and he looked at him with a smile. He
      even ventured to say when they were alone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That girl again! Be careful; it will end by being serious!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret hastily defended himself, concealing his emotion beneath an air of
      superior indifference. &ldquo;Never fear, it's only a joke! The woman who'll
      catch me isn't born, my dear fellow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as the shop was opening at last, he rushed off to give a final look at
      the various counters. Bourdoncle shook his head. This Denise, so simple
      and quiet, began to make him uneasy. The first time, he had conquered by a
      brutal dismissal. But she had reappeared, and he felt she had become so
      strong that he now treated her as a redoubtable adversary, remaining mute
      before her, patiently waiting. Mouret, whom he caught up, was shouting out
      downstairs, in the Saint-Augustin Hall, opposite the entrance door:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you playing with me? I ordered the blue parasols to be put as a
      border. Just pull all that down, and be quick about it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He would listen to nothing; a gang of messengers had to come and
      re-arrange the exhibition of parasols. Seeing the customers arriving, he
      even had the doors closed for a moment, declaring that he would not open
      them, rather than have the blue parasols in the centre. It ruined his
      composition. The renowned dressers, Hutin, Mignot, and others, came to
      look, and opened their eyes; but they affected not to understand, being of
      a different school.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last the doors were opened again, and the crowd flowed in. From the
      first, before the shop was full, there was such a crush at the doorway
      that they were obliged to call the police to re-establish the circulation
      on the pavement. Mouret had calculated correctly; all the housekeepers, a
      compact troop of middle-class women and workmen's wives, swarmed around
      the bargains and remnants displayed in the open street. They felt the
      &ldquo;hung&rdquo; goods at the entrance; a calico at seven sous, a wool and cotton
      grey stuff at nine sous, and, above all, an Orleans cloth at seven sous
      and half, which was emptying the poorer purses. There was an elbowing, a
      feverish crushing around the shelves and baskets containing the articles
      at reduced prices, lace at two sous, ribbon at five, garters at three the
      pair, gloves, petticoats, cravats, cotton socks, and stockings, were all
      tumbled about, and disappearing, as if swallowed up by the voracious
      crowd. Notwithstanding the cold, the shopmen who were selling in the open
      street could not serve fast enough. A woman in the family way cried out
      with pain; two little girls were nearly stifled.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the morning this crush went on increasing. Towards one o'clock there
      was a crowd waiting to enter; the street was blocked as in a time of riot.
      Just at that moment, as Madame de Boves and her daughter Blanche were
      standing on the pavement opposite, hesitating, they were accosted by
      Madame Marty, also accompanied by her daughter Valentine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a crowd&mdash;eh?&rdquo; said the former. &ldquo;They're killing themselves
      inside. I ought not to have come, I was in bed, but got up to get a little
      fresh air.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just like me,&rdquo; said the other. &ldquo;I promised my husband to go and see his
      sister at Montmartre. Then just as I was passing, I thought of a piece of
      braid I wanted. I may as well buy it here as anywhere else, mayn't I? Oh,
      I sha'n't spend a sou! in fact I don't want anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, they did not take their eyes off the door, seized and carried
      away as it were by the force of the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, I'm not going in, I'm afraid,&rdquo; murmured Madame de Boves.
      &ldquo;Blanche, let's go away, we should be crushed.&rdquo; But her voice failed, she
      was gradually yielding to the desire to follow the others; and her fear
      dissolved in the irresistible attraction of the crush. Madame Marty was
      also giving way, repeating:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep hold of my dress, Valentine. Ah, well! I've never seen such a thing
      before. You are lifted off your feet. What will it be like inside?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ladies, seized by the current, could not now go back. As streams
      attract to themselves the fugitive waters of a valley, so it seemed that
      the wave of customers, flowing into the vestibule, was absorbing the
      passers-by, drinking in the population from the four corners of Paris.
      They advanced but slowly, squeezed almost to death, kept upright by the
      shoulders and bellies around them, of which they felt the close heat; and
      their satisfied desire enjoyed the painful entrance which incited still
      further their curiosity. There was a pell-mell of ladies arrayed in silk,
      of poorly dressed middle-class women, and of bare-headed girls, all
      excited and carried away by the same passion. A few men buried beneath the
      overflow of bosoms were casting anxious glances around them. A nurse, in
      the thickest of the crowd, held her baby above her head, the youngster
      crowing with delight. The only one to get angry was a skinny woman, who
      broke out into bad words, accusing her neighbour of digging right into
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really think I shall lose my skirts in this crowd,&rdquo; remarked Madame de
      Boves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mute, her face still fresh from the open air, Madame Marty was standing on
      tip-toe to see above the others' heads into the depths of the shop. The
      pupils of her grey eyes were as contracted as those of a cat coming out of
      the broad daylight; she had the reposed flesh, and the clear expression of
      a person just waking up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, at last!&rdquo; said she, heaving a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies had just extricated themselves. They were in the Saint-Augustin
      Hall, which they were greatly surprised to find almost empty. But a
      feeling of comfort invaded them, they seemed to be entering into
      spring-time after emerging from the winter of the street. Whilst outside,
      the frozen wind, laden with rain and hail, was still blowing, the fine
      season, in The Paradise galleries, was already budding forth with the
      light stuffs, the flowery brilliancy of the tender shades, the rural
      gaiety of the summer dresses and the parasols.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do look there!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de Boves, standing motionless, her eyes
      in the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the exhibition of parasols. Wide-open, rounded off like shields,
      they covered the whole hall, from the glazed roof to the varnished oak
      mouldings below. They described festoons round the semi-circular arches of
      the upper storeys; they descended in garlands along the slender columns;
      they ran along in close lines on the balustrades of the galleries and the
      staircases; and everywhere, ranged symmetrically, speckling the walls with
      red, green, and yellow, they looked like great Venetian lanterns, lighted
      up for some colossal entertainment. In the corners were more complicated
      patterns, stars composed of parasols at thirty-nine sous, the light shades
      of which, pale-blue, cream-white, and blush rose, seemed to burn with the
      sweetness of a night-light; whilst up above, immense Japanese parasols, on
      which golden-coloured cranes soared in a purple sky, blazed forth with the
      reflections of a great conflagration.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Marty endeavoured to find a phrase to express her rapture, but
      could only exclaim, &ldquo;It's like fairyland!&rdquo; Then trying to find out where
      she was she continued: &ldquo;Let's see, the braid is in the mercery department.
      I shall buy my braid and be off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go with you,&rdquo; said Madame de Boves. &ldquo;Eh? Blanche, we'll just go
      through the shop, nothing more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But they had hardly left the door before they lost themselves. They turned
      to the left, and as the mercery department had been moved, they dropped
      right into the middle of the one devoted to collarettes, cuffs, trimmings,
      &amp;c. It was very warm under the galleries, a hot-house heat, moist and
      close, laden with the insipid odour of the stuffs, and in which the
      stamping of the crowd was stifled. They then returned to the door, where
      an outward current was already established, an interminable line of women
      and children, over whom floated a multitude of red air-balls. Forty
      thousand of these were ready; there were men specially placed for their
      distribution. To see the customers who were going out, one would have
      thought there was a flight of enormous soap-bubbles above them, at the end
      of the almost invisible strings, reflecting the fiery glare of the
      parasols. The whole place was illuminated by them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's quite a world here!&rdquo; declared Madame de Boves. &ldquo;You hardly know
      where you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, the ladies could not remain in the eddy of the door, right in the
      crush of the entrance and exit. Fortunately, Jouve, the inspector, came to
      their assistance. He stood in the vestibule, grave, attentive, eyeing each
      woman as she passed. Specially charged with the inside police, he was on
      the lookout for thieves, and especially followed women in the family way,
      when the fever of their eyes became too alarming.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The mercery department, ladies?&rdquo; said he obligingly, &ldquo;turn to the left;
      look! just there behind the hosiery department.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Boves thanked him. But Madame Marty, turning round, no longer
      saw her daughter Valentine beside her. She was beginning to feel
      frightened, when she caught sight of her, already a long way off, at the
      end of the Saint-Augustin Hall, deeply absorbed before a table covered
      with a heap of women's cravats at nineteen sous. Mouret practised the
      system of offering articles to the customers, hooking and plundering them
      as they passed; for he used every sort of advertisement, laughing at the
      discretion of certain fellow-tradesmen who thought the articles should be
      left to speak for themselves. Special salesmen, idle and smooth-tongued
      Parisians, thus got rid of considerable quantities of small trashy things.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, mamma!&rdquo; murmured Valentine, &ldquo;just look at these cravats. They have a
      bird embroidered at the corners.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shopman cracked up the article, swore it was all silk, that the
      manufacturer had become bankrupt, and that they would never have such a
      bargain again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nineteen sous&mdash;is it possible?&rdquo; said Madame Marty, tempted as well
      as her daughter. &ldquo;Well! I can take a couple, that won't ruin us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Boves disdained this style of thing, she detested things being
      offered. A shopman calling her made her run away. Madame Marty, surprised,
      could not understand this nervous horror of commercial quackery, for she
      was of another nature; she was one of those fortunate women who delight in
      being thus violated, in bathing in the caress of this public offering,
      with the enjoyment of plunging one's hands in everything, and wasting
      one's time in useless talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I'm going for my braid. I don't wish to see anything
      else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, as she crossed the cravat and glove departments, her heart once
      more failed her. There was, under the diffuse light, a display made up of
      bright and gay colours, which produced a ravishing effect The counters,
      symmetrically arranged, seemed like so many flower-borders, changing the
      hall into a French garden, in which smiled a tender gamut of blossoms.
      Lying on the bare wood, in open boxes, and protruding from the overflowing
      drawers, a quantity of silk hand-kerchiefs displayed the bright scarlet of
      the geranium, the creamy white of the petunia, the golden yellow of the
      chrysanthemum, the sky-blue of the verbena; and higher up, on brass stems,
      twined another florescence, fichus carelessly hung, ribbons unrolled,
      quite a brilliant cordon, which extended along, climbed up the columns,
      and were multiplied indefinitely by the mirrors. But what most attracted
      the crowd was a Swiss cottage in the glove department, made entirely of
      gloves, a chef d'ouvre of Mignot's, which had taken him two days to
      arrange. In the first place, the ground-floor was composed of black
      gloves; then came straw-coloured, mignonette, and red gloves, distributed
      in the decoration, bordering the windows, forming the balconies, and
      taking the place of the tiles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you desire, madame?&rdquo; asked Mignot, on seeing Madame Marty planted
      before the cottage. &ldquo;Here are some Swedish kid gloves at one franc fifteen
      sous, first quality.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He offered his wares with furious energy, calling the passing customers
      from the end of his counter, dunning them with his politeness. As she
      shook her head in refusal he confined: &ldquo;Tyrolian gloves, one franc five
      sous. Turin gloves for children, embroidered gloves in all colours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thanks; I don't want anything,&rdquo; declared Madame Marty.
    </p>
    <p>
      But feeling that her voice was softening, he attacked her with greater
      energy than ever, holding the embroidered gloves before her eyes; and she
      could not resist, she bought a pair. Then, as Madame de Boves looked at
      her with a smile, she blushed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you think me childish&mdash;eh? If I don't make haste and get my
      braid and be off, I shall be done for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Unfortunately, there was such a crush in the mercery department that she
      could not get served. They had both been waiting for over ten minutes, and
      were getting annoyed, when the sudden meeting with Madame Bourdelais
      occupied their attention. The latter explained, with her quiet practical
      air, that she had just brought the little ones to see the show. Madeleine
      was ten, Edmond eight, and Lucien four years old; and they were laughing
      with joy, it was a cheap treat long promised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are really too comical; I shall buy a red parasol,&rdquo; said Madame
      Marty all at once, stamping with impatience at being there doing nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      She choose one at fourteen francs and a-half. Madame Bourdelais, after
      having watched the purchase with a look of blame, said to her amicably:
      &ldquo;You are very wrong to be in such a hurry. In a month's time you could
      have had it for ten francs. They won't catch me like that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she developed quite a theory of careful housekeeping. As the shops
      lowered their prices, it was simply a question of waiting. She did not
      wish to be taken in by them, so she preferred to take advantage of their
      real bargains. She even showed a feeling of malice in the struggle,
      boasting that she had never left them a sou profit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said she at last, &ldquo;I've promised my little ones to show them the
      pictures upstairs in the reading-room. Come up with us, you have plenty of
      time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the braid was forgotten. Madame Marty yielded at once, whilst Madame
      de Boves refused, preferring to take a turn on the ground-floor first.
      Besides, they were sure to meet again upstairs. Madame Bourdelais was
      looking for a staircase when she perceived one of the lifts; and she
      pushed her children in to complete their pleasure. Madame Marty and
      Valentine also entered the narrow cage, where they were closely packed;
      but the mirrors, the velvet seats, and the polished brasswork took up
      their attention so much that they arrived at the first storey without
      having felt the gentle ascent of the machine. Another pleasure was in
      store for them, in the first gallery. As they passed before the
      refreshment bar, Madame Bourdelais did not fail to gorge her little family
      with syrup. It was a square room with a large marble counter; at the two
      ends there were silvered fountains from which flowed a small stream of
      water; whilst rows of bottles stood on small shelves behind. Three waiters
      were continually engaged wiping and filling the glasses. To restrain the
      thirsty crowd, they had been obliged to establish a system of turns, as at
      theatres and railway-stations, by erecting a barrier covered with velvet.
      The crush was terrific. Some people, losing all shame before these
      gratuitous treats, made themselves ill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! where are they?&rdquo; exclaimed Madame Bourdelais when she extricated
      herself from the crowd, after having wiped the children's faces with her
      handkerchief.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she caught sight of Madame Marty and Valentine at the further end of
      another gallery, a long way off. Both buried beneath a heap of petticoats,
      were still buying. They were conquered, the mother and daughter were
      rapidly disappearing in the fever of spending which was carrying them
      away. When she at last arrived in the reading-room Madame Bourdelais
      installed Madeleine, Edmond, and Lucien before the large table; then
      taking from one of the shelves some photographic albums she brought them
      to them. The ceiling of the long apartment was covered with gold; at the
      two extremities, monumental chimney-pieces faced each other; some rather
      poor pictures, very richly framed, covered the walls; and between the
      columns before each of the arched bays opening into the various shops,
      were tall green plants in majolica vases. Quite a silent crowd surrounded
      the table, which was littered with reviews and newspapers, with here and
      there some ink-stands and boxes of stationery. Ladies took off their
      gloves, and wrote their letters on the paper stamped with the name of the
      house, which they crossed out with a dash of the pen. A few men, lolling
      back in the armchairs, were reading the newspapers. But a great many
      people sat there doing nothing: husbands waiting for their wives, let
      loose in the various departments, discreet young women looking out for
      their lovers, old relations left there as in a cloak-room, to be taken
      away when time to leave. And this little society, comfortably installed,
      quietly reposed itself there, glancing through the open bays into the
      depths of the galleries and the halls, from which a distant murmur
      ascended above the grating of the pens and the rustling of the newspapers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you here!&rdquo; said Madame Bourdelais. &ldquo;I didn't know you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Near the children was a lady concealed behind the pages of a review. It
      was Madame Guibal She seemed annoyed at the meeting; but quickly
      recovering herself, related that she had come to sit down for a moment to
      escape the crush. And as Madame Bourdelais asked her if she was going to
      make any purchases, she replied with her languorous air, hiding behind her
      eyelashes the egoistical greediness of her looks:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! no. On the contrary, I have come to return some goods. Yes, some
      door-curtains which I don't like. But there is such a crowd that I am
      waiting to get near the department.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She went on talking, saying how convenient this system of returns was;
      formerly she never bought anything, but now she sometimes allowed herself
      to be tempted. In fact, she returned four articles out of five, and was
      getting known at all the counters for her strange system of buying, and
      her eternal discontent which made her bring back the articles one by one,
      after having kept them several days. But, whilst speaking, she did not
      take her eyes off the doors of the reading-room; and she appeared greatly
      relieved when Madame Bourdelais rejoined her children, to explain the
      photographs to them. Almost at the same moment Monsieur de Boves and Paul
      de Vallagnosc came in. The count, who affected to be showing the young man
      through the new buildings, exchanged a rapid glance with Madame Guibal;
      and she then plunged into her review again, as if she had not seen him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hullo, Paul!&rdquo; suddenly exclaimed a voice behind these gentlemen.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Mouret, on his way round to give a look at the various departments.
      They shook hands, and he at once asked: &ldquo;Has Madame de Boves done us the
      honour of coming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, no,&rdquo; replied the husband, &ldquo;and she very much regrets it. She's not
      very well. Oh! nothing dangerous!&rdquo; But suddenly he pretended to catch
      sight of Madame Guibal, and ran off, going up to her bareheaded, whilst
      the others merely bowed to her from a distance. She also pretended to be
      surprised. Paul smiled; he now understood the affair, and he related to
      Mouret in a low voice how De Boves, whom he had met in the Rue Richelieu,
      had tried to get away from him, and had finished by dragging him into The
      Ladies' Paradise, under the pretext that he must show him the new
      buildings. For the last year the lady had drawn from De Boves all the
      money and pleasure she could, never writing to him, making appointments
      with him in public places, churches, museums, and shops, to arrange their
      affairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancy that at each meeting they change their hôtel,&rdquo; murmured the young
      man. &ldquo;Not long ago, he was on a tour of inspection; he wrote to his wife
      every day from Blois, Libourne, and Tarbes; and yet I feel convinced I saw
      them going into a family boarding-house at Batignolles. But look at him,
      isn't he splendid before her with his military correctness! The old French
      gallantry, my dear fellow, the old French gallantry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your marriage?&rdquo; asked Mouret Paul, without taking his eyes off the
      count, replied that they were still waiting for the death of the aunt.
      Then, with a triumphant air: &ldquo;There, did you see him? He stooped down, and
      slipped an address into her hand. She's now accepting with the most
      virtuous air. She's a terrible woman, that delicate red-haired creature
      with her careless ways. Well! there are some fine things going on in your
      place!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Mouret, smiling, &ldquo;these ladies are not in my house, they are at
      home here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then began to joke. Love, like the swallows, always brought good luck
      to a house. No doubt he knew the girls who wandered about from counter to
      counter, the ladies who accidentally met a friend in the shop; but if they
      bought nothing, they filled up a place, and helped to crowd and warm the
      shop. Still continuing his gossip, he carried his old comrade off, and
      planted him on the threshold of the reading-room, opposite the grand
      central gallery, the successive halls of which ran along at their feet.
      Behind them, the reading-room still retained its quiet air, only disturbed
      by the scratching of the pens and the rustling of the newspapers. One old
      gentleman had gone to sleep over the <i>Moniteur</i>. Monsieur de Boves
      was looking at the pictures, with the evident intention of losing his
      future son-in-law in the crowd as soon as possible. And, alone, amid this
      calmness, Madame Bourdelais was amusing her children, talking very loud,
      as in a conquered place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see they are quite at home,&rdquo; said Mouret, who pointed with a broad
      gesture to the multitude of women with which the departments were
      overflowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just at that moment Madame Desforges, after having nearly had her mantle
      carried away in the crowd, at last came in and crossed the first hall.
      Then, on reaching the principal gallery, she raised her eyes. It was like
      a railway span, surrounded by the balustrades of the two storeys,
      intersected by hanging staircases, crossed by flying bridges. The iron
      staircases developed bold curves, multiplying the landings; the iron
      bridges suspended in space, ran straight along, very high up; and all this
      iron formed, beneath the white light of the windows, an excessively light
      architecture, a complicated lace-work through which the daylight
      penetrated, the modern realisation of a dreamed-of palace, of a Babel-like
      heaping up of the storeys, enlarging the rooms, opening up glimpses on to
      other floors and into other rooms without end. In fact, iron reigned
      everywhere; the young architect had had the honesty and courage not to
      disguise it under a coating of paint imitating stone or wood. Down below,
      in order not to outshine the goods, the decoration was sober, with large
      regular spaces in neutral tints; then as the metallic work ascended, the
      capitals of the columns became richer, the rivets formed ornaments, the
      shoulder-pieces and corbels were loaded with sculptured work; up above,
      there was a mass of painting, green and red, amidst a prodigality of gold,
      floods of gold, heaps of gold, even to the glazed-work, the glass of which
      was enamelled and inlaid with gold. Under the covered galleries, the bare
      brick-work of the arches was also decorated in bright colours. Mosaics and
      earthenware also formed part of the decoration, enlivening the friezes,
      lighting up with their fresh notes the severity of the whole; whilst the
      stairs, with their red velvet covered hand-rails, were edged with a band
      of curved polished iron, which shone like the steel of a piece of armour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although she had already seen the new establishment
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Desforges stood still, struck by the ardent life which was this day
      animating the immense nave. Below, around her, continued the eddying of
      the crowd, of which the double current of those entering and those going
      out made itself felt as far as the silk department; a crowd still very
      mixed in its elements, though the afternoon was bringing a greater number
      of ladies amongst the shopkeepers and house-wives; a great many women in
      mourning, with their flowing veils, and the inevitable wet nurses straying
      about, protecting their babies with their outstretched arms. And this sea
      of faces, these many-coloured hats, these bare heads, both dark and light,
      rolled from one end of the gallery to the other, confused and discoloured
      amidst the loud glare of the stuffs. Madame Desforges could see nothing
      but large price tickets bearing enormous figures everywhere, their white
      patches standing out on the bright printed cottons, the shining silks, and
      the sombre woollens. Piles of ribbons curtailed the heads, a wall of
      flannel threw out a promontory; on all sides the mirrors carried the
      departments back into infinite space, reflecting the displays with
      portions of the public, faces reversed, and halves of shoulders and arms;
      whilst to the right and to the left the lateral galleries opened up other
      vistas, the snowy background of the linen department, the speckled depth
      of the hosiery one, distant views illuminated by the rays of light from
      some glazed bay, and in which the crowd appeared nothing but a mass of
      human dust. Then, when Madame Desforges raised her eyes, she saw, along
      the staircases, on the flying bridges, around the balustrade of each
      storey, a continual humming ascent, an entire population in the air,
      travelling in the cuttings of the enormous ironwork construction, casting
      black shadows on the diffused light of the enamelled windows. Large gilded
      lustres hung from the ceiling; a decoration of rugs, embroidered silks,
      stuffs worked with gold, hung down, draping the balustrade with gorgeous
      banners; and, from one end to the other, there were clouds of lace,
      palpitations of muslin, trophies of silks, apotheoses of half-dressed
      dummies; and right at the top, above all this confusion, the bedding
      department, suspended as it were, displayed little iron bedsteads with
      their mattresses, hung with their white curtains, a sort of school
      dormitory sleeping amidst the stamping of the customers, rarer and rarer
      as the departments ascended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does madame require a cheap pair of garters?&rdquo; asked a salesman of Madame
      Desforges, seeing her standing still &ldquo;All silk, twenty-nine sous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not deign to answer. Things were being offered around her more
      feverishly than ever. She wanted, however, to find out where she was.
      Albert Lhomme's pay-desk was on her left; he knew her by sight and
      ventured to give her an amiable smile, not in the least hurry in the midst
      of the heaps of bills by which he was besieged; whilst, behind him,
      Joseph, struggling with the string-box, could not pack up the articles
      fast enough. She then saw where she was; the silk department must be in
      front of her. But it took her ten minutes to get there, the crowd was
      becoming so immense. Up in the air, at the end of their invisible strings,
      the red air-balls had become more numerous than ever; they now formed
      clouds of purple, gently blowing towards the doors, continuing to scatter
      themselves over Paris; and she had to bow her head beneath the flight of
      air-balls, when very young children held them, the string rolled round
      their little fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you have ventured here, madame?&rdquo; exclaimed Bouthemont gaily, as
      soon as he caught sight of Madame Desforges.
    </p>
    <p>
      The manager of the silk department, introduced to her by Mouret himself,
      was now in the habit of sometimes calling on her at her five o'clock tea.
      She thought him common, but very amiable, of a fine sanguine temper, which
      surprised and amused her. Besides, about two days before he had openly
      related to her the affair between Mouret and Clara, without any
      calculation, out of stupidity, like a fellow who loves a joke; and, stung
      with jealousy, concealing her wounded feelings beneath an appearance of
      disdain, she had come to try and discover her rival, a young lady in the
      dress department he had merely said, refusing to name her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you require anything to-day?&rdquo; he asked her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, or else I should not have come. Have you any silk for morning
      gowns?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hoped to obtain the name of the young lady from him, for she was full
      of a desire to see her. He immediately called Favier; and resumed talking
      to her, whilst waiting for the salesman, who was just finishing serving a
      customer who happened to be &ldquo;the pretty lady,&rdquo; that beautiful blonde of
      whom the whole department occasionally spoke, without knowing anything of
      her life or even her name. This time the pretty lady was in deep mourning.
      Ah, who had she lost&mdash;her husband or her father? Not her father, or
      she would have appeared more melancholy. What had they been saying? She
      was not a gay woman then; she had a real husband. Unless, however, she
      should be in mourning for her mother. For a few minutes, notwithstanding
      the press of business, the department exchanged these various
      speculations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make haste! it's intolerable!&rdquo; cried Hutin to Favier, who had just
      returned from showing his customer to the pay-desk. &ldquo;When that lady is
      here you never seem to finish. She doesn't care a fig for you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She cares a deuced sight more for me than I do for her!&rdquo; replied the
      vexed salesman.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Hutin threatened to report him to the directors if he did not show
      more respect for the customers. He was getting terrible, of a morose
      severity, since the department had conspired together to get him into
      Robineau's place. He even showed himself so intolerable, after the
      promises of good-fellowship, with which he had formerly warmed his
      colleagues, that the latter were now secretly supporting Favier against
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, then, no back answers,&rdquo; replied Hutin sharply. &ldquo;Monsieur Bouthemont
      wishes you to show some light designs in silks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the middle of the department, an exhibition of summer silks lighted up
      the hall with an aurora-like brilliancy, like the rising of a star, in the
      most delicate tints possible: pale rose, tender yellow, limpid blue, the
      entire gamut of Iris. There were silks of a cloudy fineness, surahs
      lighter than the down falling from the trees, satined pekins soft and
      supple as a Chinese virgin's skin. There were, moreover, Japanese pongees,
      Indian tussores and corahs, without counting the light French silks, the
      thousand stripes, the small checks, the flowered patterns, all the most
      fanciful designs, which made one think of ladies in furbelows, walking
      about, in the sweet May mornings, under the immense trees of some park.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll take this, the Louis XIV. with figured roses,&rdquo; said Madame Desforges
      at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      And whilst Favier was measuring it, she made a last attempt with
      Bouthemont, who had remained near her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm going up to the ready-made department to see if there are any
      travelling cloaks. Is she fair, the young lady you were talking about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The manager, who felt rather anxious on finding her so persistent, merely
      smiled. But, just at that moment, Denise went by. She had just passed on
      to Liénard, who had charge of the merinoes, Madame Boutarel, that
      provincial lady who came up to Paris twice a year, to scatter all over The
      Ladies' Paradise the money she scraped together out of her housekeeping.
      And as Favier was about to take up Madame Desforges's silk, Hutin,
      thinking to annoy him, interfered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's quite unnecessary, Mademoiselle Denise will have the kindness to
      conduct this lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, quite confused, at once took charge of the parcel and the
      debit-note. She could never meet this young man face to face without
      experiencing a feeling of shame, as if he reminded her of a former fault;
      and yet she had only sinned in her dreams.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, tell me,&rdquo; said Madame Desforges, in a low tone, to Bouthemont,
      &ldquo;isn't it this awkward girl? He has taken her back, then? But it is she,
      the heroine of the adventure!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; replied the head of department, still smiling, and fully
      decided not to tell the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Desforges then slowly ascended the staircase, preceded by Denise;
      but she had to stop every two or three steps to avoid being carried away
      by the descending crowd. In the living vibration of the whole building,
      the iron supports seemed to stagger beneath the weight, as if continually
      trembling from the breath of the crowd On each stair was a dummy, strongly
      fixed, displaying some garment: a costume, cloak, or dressing-gown; and it
      was like a double row of soldiers for some triumphal march-past, with the
      little wooden arm like the handle of a poniard, stuck into the red
      swan-skin, which gave a bloody appearance to the stump of a neck crowning
      the whole.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Desforges was at last reaching the first storey, when a still
      greater surging of the crowd forced her to stop once more. She had now,
      beneath her, the departments on the ground-floor, with the press of
      customers she had just passed through. It was a new spectacle, a sea of
      heads fore-shortened, concealing the bodices, swarming with a busy
      agitation. The white price tickets now appeared but so many thin lines,
      the promontory of flannels cut through the gallery like a narrow wall;
      whilst the carpets and the embroidered silks which decked the balustrades
      hung at her feet like processional banners suspended from the gallery of a
      church. In the distance, she could perceive the angles of the lateral
      galleries, as from the top of a steeple one perceives the corners of the
      neighbouring streets, with the black spots of the passers-by moving about.
      But what surprised her above all, in the fatigue of her eyes blinded by
      the brilliant pell mell of colours, was, when she lowered her lids, to
      feel the crowd more than its dull noise like the rising tide, and the
      human warmth that it exhaled. A fine dust rose from the floor, laden with
      the odour of woman, the odour of her linen and her bust, of her skirts and
      her hair, an invading, penetrating odour, which seemed to be the incense
      of this temple raised for the worship of her body.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Mouret, still standing up before the reading-room with De
      Vallagnosc, was inhaling this odour, intoxicating himself with it, and
      repeating: &ldquo;They are quite at home. I know some who spend the whole day
      here, eating cakes and writing their letters. There's only one thing more
      to do, and that is, to find them beds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This joke made Paul smile, he who, in the <i>ennui</i> of his pessimism,
      continued to think the crowd stupid in thus running after a lot of
      gew-gaws. Whenever he came to give his old comrade a look up, he went away
      almost vexed to see him so full of life amidst his people of coquettes.
      Would not one of them, with shallow brain and empty heart, teach him one
      day the stupidity and uselessness of existence? That very day Octave
      seemed to lose some of his admirable equilibrium; he who generally
      inspired his customers with a fever, with the tranquil grace of an
      operator, was as though seized by the passion with which the establishment
      was gradually burning. Since he had caught sight of Denise and Madame
      Desforges coming up the grand staircase, he had been talking louder,
      gesticulating against his will; and, whilst affecting not to turn his face
      towards them, he became more and more animated as he felt them drawing
      nearer. His face got redder, his eyes had a little of that rapture with
      which the eyes of his customers ultimately vacillated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must be robbed fearfully,&rdquo; murmured De Vallagnosc, who thought the
      crowd looked very criminal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret threw his arms out &ldquo;My dear fellow, it's beyond all imagination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, nervously, delighted at having something to talk about, he gave a
      number of details, related cases, and classified the subjects. In the
      first place, there were the professional thieves; these women did the
      least harm of all, for the police knew every one of them. Then came the
      kleptomaniacs, who stole from a perverse desire, a new sort of nervous
      affection which a mad doctor had classed, proving the results of the
      temptation provided by the big shops. In the last place must be counted
      the women in an interesting condition, whose robberies were of a special
      order. For instance, at the house of one of them, the superintendent of
      police had found two hundred and forty-eight pairs of pink gloves stolen
      from every shop in Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what makes the women have such funny eyes here, then,&rdquo; murmured De
      Vallagnosc; &ldquo;I've been watching them with their greedy, shameful looks,
      like mad creatures. A fine school for honesty!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hang it!&rdquo; replied Mouret, &ldquo;though we make them quite at home, we can't
      let them take away the goods under their mantles. And sometimes they are
      very respectable people. Last week we had the sister of a chemist, and the
      wife of a councillor. We try and settle these matters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped to point out Jouve, the inspector, who was just then looking
      sharp after a woman in the family way, down below at the ribbon counter.
      This woman, whose enormous belly suffered a great deal from the pushing of
      the crowd, was accompanied by a friend, whose mission appeared to be to
      defend her against the heavy shocks, and each time she stopped in a
      department, Jouve did not take his eyes off her, whilst her friend near
      her ransacked the card-board boxes at her ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! he'll catch her!&rdquo; resumed Mouret; &ldquo;he knows all their tricks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But his voice trembled, he laughed in an awkward manner. Denise and
      Henriette, whom he had ceased to watch, were at last passing behind him,
      after having had a great deal of trouble to get out of the crowd. He
      turned round suddenly, and bowed to his customer with the discreet air of
      a friend who does not wish to compromise a woman by stopping her in the
      middle of a crowd of people. But the latter, on the alert, had at once
      perceived the look with which he had first enveloped Denise. It must be
      this girl, this was the rival she had had the curiosity to come and see.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the ready-made department, the young ladies were losing their heads.
      Two of them had fallen ill, and Madame Frédéric, the second-hand, had
      quietly given notice the previous day, and gone to the cashier's office to
      take her money, leaving The Ladies' Paradise all in a minute, as The
      Ladies' Paradise itself discharged its employees. Ever since the morning,
      in spite of the feverish rush of business, every one had been talking of
      this adventure. Clara, maintained in the department by Mouret's caprice,
      thought it grand. Marguerite related how exasperated Bourdoncle was;
      whilst Madame Aurélie, greatly vexed, declared that Madame Frédéric ought
      at least to have informed her, for such hypocrisy had never before been
      heard of.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although the latter had never confided in any one, she was suspected of
      having given up drapery business to marry the proprietor of some of the
      baths in the neighbourhood of the Halles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a travelling cloak that madame desires, I believe?&rdquo; asked Denise of
      Madame Desforges, after having offered her a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied the latter, curtly, decided on being rude.
    </p>
    <p>
      The new decorations of the department were of a rich severity: high carved
      oak cupboards, mirrors filling the whole space of the panels, and a red
      Wilton carpet, which stifled the continued movement of the customers.
      Whilst Denise was gone for the cloaks, Madame Desforges, who was looking
      round, perceived herself in a glass; and she continued contemplating
      herself. She must be getting old to be cast aside for the first-comer. The
      glass reflected the entire department with its commotion, but she only
      beheld her own pale face; she did not hear Clara behind her relating to
      Marguerite instances of Madame Frederic's mysterious ways, the manner in
      which she went out of her way night and morning to go through the Passage
      Choiseul, in order to make believe that she perhaps lived over the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here are our latest designs,&rdquo; said Denise. &ldquo;We have them in several
      colours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She laid out four or five cloaks. Madame Desforges looked at them with a
      scornful air, and became harsher at each fresh one she examined. Why those
      frillings which made the garment look so scanty? and the other one, square
      across the shoulders, one would have thought it had been cut out with a
      hatchet. Though it was for travelling she could not dress like a
      sentry-box.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Show me something else, mademoiselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise unfolded and folded the garments without the slightest sign of ill
      temper. And it was just this calm, serene patience which exasperated
      Madame Desforges still further. Her looks continually returned to the
      glass in front of her. Now that she saw herself there, close to Denise,
      she made a comparison. Was it possible that he should prefer this
      insignificant creature to herself? She now remembered that this was the
      girl she had formerly seen making her début with such a silly figure,
      awkward as a peasant girl just arrived from her village. No doubt she
      looked better now, stiff and correct in her silk dress. But how puny, how
      common-place!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will show you some other models, madame,&rdquo; said Denise, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she returned, the scene began again. Then it was the cloth that was
      heavy and no good whatever. Madame Desforges turned round, raised her
      voice, endeavouring to attract Madame Aurélie's attention, in the hope of
      getting the young girl a scolding. But Denise, since her return, had
      gradually conquered the department, and now felt quite at home in it; the
      first-hand had even recognised in her some rare and valuable qualities as
      a saleswoman&mdash;an obstinate sweetness, a smiling conviction. Therefore
      Madame Aurélie simply shrugged her shoulders, taking care not to
      interfere.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you kindly tell me the kind of garment you require, madame?&rdquo; asked
      Denise, once more, with her polite persistence, which nothing could
      discourage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you've got nothing!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame Desforges.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stopped, surprised to feel a hand laid on her shoulder. It was Madame
      Marty, carried right through the establishment by her fever for spending.
      Her purchases had increased to such an extent, since the cravats, the
      embroidered gloves, and the red parasol, that the last salesman had just
      decided to place the whole on a chair, for it would have broken his arm;
      and he walked in front of her, drawing the chair along, on which was
      heaped up a pile of petticoats, napkins, curtains, a lamp, and three straw
      hats.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;you are buying a travelling cloak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! dear, no,&rdquo; replied Madame Desforges; &ldquo;they are frightful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Madame Marty had just noticed a striped cloak which she rather liked.
      Her daughter Valentine was already examining it. So Denise called
      Marguerite to clear the article out of the department, it being a model of
      the previous year, and the latter, at a glance from her comrade, presented
      it as an exceptional bargain. When she had sworn that they had lowered the
      price twice, that from a hundred and fifty francs, they had reduced it to
      a hundred and thirty, and that it was now at a hundred and ten, Madame
      Marty could not withstand the temptation of its cheapness. She bought it,
      and the salesman who accompanied her left the chair and the parcel, with
      the debit-notes attached to the goods.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, behind the ladies' backs, and amidst the jostlings of the sale,
      the gossip of the department about Madame Frédéric still went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really! she had some one?&rdquo; asked a little saleswoman, fresh in the
      department.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The bath-man of course!&rdquo; replied Clara. &ldquo;Mustn't trust those sly, quiet
      widows.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then while Marguerite was debiting, Madam Marty turned her head and
      desired Clara by a slight movement of the eyebrows, she whispered to
      Madame Desforges: &ldquo;Monsieur Mouret's caprice, you know!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other, surprised, looked at Clara; then, turning her eyes towards
      Denise, replied: &ldquo;But it isn't the tall one; the little one!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as Madame Marty could not be sure which, Madame Desforges resumed
      aloud, with the scorn of a lady for chambermaids: &ldquo;Perhaps the tall one
      and the little one; all those who like!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise had heard everything. She turned pale, and raised her big, pure
      eyes on this lady who was thus wounding her, and whom she did not know. No
      doubt it was the lady of whom they had spoken to her, the lady whom the
      governor saw outside. In the look that was exchanged between them, Denise
      displayed such a melancholy dignity, such a frank innocence, that
      Henriette felt quite awkward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you have nothing presentable to show me here, conduct me to the dress
      and costume department,&rdquo; said she, abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll go with you as well,&rdquo; exclaimed Madame Marty, &ldquo;I wanted to see a
      costume for Valentine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite took the chair by its back, and dragged it along on its hind
      feet, that were getting worn by this species of cartage. Denise only
      carried a few yards of silk, bought by Madame Desforges. It was quite a
      journey, now that the robes and costumes were on the second floor, at the
      other end of the establishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      And the long journey commenced along the crowded galleries. Marguerite
      walked in front, drawing the chair along, like a little carriage, slowly
      opening herself a passage. As soon as she reached the under-linen
      department, Madame Desforges began to complain: wasn't it ridiculous, a
      shop where one was obliged to walk a couple of leagues to find the least
      thing! Madame Marty also said she was tired to death, yet she did not the
      less enjoy this fatigue, this slow exhaustion of her strength, amidst the
      inexhaustible treasures displayed on every side. Mouret's idea, full of
      genius, seized upon her, stopping her at each department. She made a first
      halt before the trousseaux, tempted by some chemises that Pauline sold
      her; and Marguerite found herself relieved from the burden of the chair,
      which Pauline had to take, with the debit-notes. Madame Desforges could
      have gone on her road, and thus have liberated Denise quicker, but she
      seemed happy to feel her behind her, motionless and patient, whilst she
      was lingering there, advising her friend. In the baby-linen department the
      ladies went into ecstasies, without buying anything. Then Madame Marty's
      weakness commenced anew; she succumbed successively before a black silk
      corset, a pair of fur cuffs, sold at a reduction on account of the
      lateness of the season, and some Russian lace much in vogue at that time
      for trimming table-linen. All these things were heaped up on the chair,
      the parcels still increased, making the chair creak; and the salesmen who
      succeeded each other, found it more and more difficult to drag along as
      the load became heavier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This way, madame,&rdquo; said Denise without a murmur, after each halt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it's absurd!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame Desforges. &ldquo;We shall never get there.
      Why not have put the dresses and costumes near the ready-made department?
      It is a jumble!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Marty, whose eyes were sparkling, intoxicated by this succession of
      riches dancing before her, repeated in a half whisper:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear! What will my husband say? You are right, there is no order in
      this place. You lose yourself, and commit all sorts of follies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the great central landing, the chair, could barely pass. Mouret had
      just blocked the space with a lot of fancy goods, drinking-cups mounted on
      gilded zinc, trashy dressing-cases and liqueur stands, being of opinion
      that the crowd was not sufficiently great, and that circulation was too
      easy. He had authorised one of his shopmen to exhibit there on a small
      table Chinese and Japanese curiosities, knick-knacks at a low price, which
      the customers eagerly snatched up. It was an unexpected success, and he
      already thought of extending this business. Whilst two messengers carried
      the chair up to the second storey, Madame Marty bought six ivory studs,
      some silk mice, and an enamelled match-box.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the second floor the journey was continued. Denise, who had been
      showing customers about in this way since the morning, was dropping with
      fatigue; but she still continued correct, amiable, and polite. She had to
      wait for the ladies again in the furnishing materials department, where a
      ravishing cretonne had tempted Madame Marty. Then, in the furniture
      department, it was a work-table that took her fancy. Her hands trembled,
      she jokingly entreated Madame Desforges to prevent her spending any more,
      when a meeting with Madame Guibal furnished her with an excuse. It was in
      the carpet department, where the latter had gone to return a lot of
      Oriental door-curtains bought by her five days before. And she was
      standing, talking to the salesman, a brawny fellow, who, with his sinewy
      arms handled from morning to night loads heavy enough to kill a bullock.
      Naturally he was quite astounded at this &ldquo;return,&rdquo; which deprived him of
      his commission. He did his best to embarrass his customer, suspecting some
      queer adventure, no doubt a ball given with these curtains, bought at The
      Ladies' Paradise, and then returned, to avoid hiring at an upholsterer's:
      he knew this was frequently done by the needy portion of society. In
      short, she must have some reason for returning them; if she did not like
      the designs or the colours, he would show her others, he had a most
      complete assortment. To all these insinuations Madame Guibal replied in
      the quietest, most unconcerned manner possible, with a queenly assurance
      that the curtains did not suit her, without deigning to add any
      explanation. She refused to look at any others, and he was obliged to give
      way, for the salesmen had orders to take back the goods, even if they saw
      they had been used.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the three ladies went off together, and Madame Marty referred with
      remorse to the work-table for which she had no earthly need, Madame Guibal
      said in her calm voice: &ldquo;Well! you can return it. You saw it was quite
      easy. Let them send it home. You can put it in your drawing-room, keep it
      for a time, then if you don't like it, return it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that's a good idea!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame Marty. &ldquo;If my husband makes too
      much fuss, I'll send everything back.&rdquo; This was for her the supreme
      excuse, she calculated no longer, but went on buying, with the secret wish
      to keep everything, for she was not a woman to give anything back.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last they arrived in the dress and costume department. But as Denise
      was about to deliver to another young lady the silk bought by Madame
      Desforges, the latter seemed to change her mind, and declared that she
      would decidedly take one of the travelling cloaks, the light grey one with
      the hood; and Denise had to wait complacently to bring her back to the
      ready-made department. The young girl felt herself being treated like a
      servant by this imperious, whimsical customer; but she had sworn to
      herself to do her duty, and retained her calm attitude, notwithstanding
      the rising of her heart and the shock to her pride. Madame Desforges
      bought nothing in the dress and costume department.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! mamma,&rdquo; said Valentine, &ldquo;if that little costume should fit me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a low tone, Madame Guibal was explaining her tactics to Madame Marty.
      When she saw a dress she liked in a shop, she had it sent home, took the
      pattern of it, and then sent it back. And Madame Marty bought the costume
      for her daughter remarking: &ldquo;A good idea! You are very practical, my dear
      madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had been obliged to abandon the chair. It had been left in distress,
      in the furniture department, with the work-table. The weight was too much,
      the hind legs threatened to break off; and it was arranged that all the
      purchases should be centralised at one pay-desk, and from there sent down
      to the delivery department. The ladies, still accompanied by Denise, then
      began wandering all about the establishment, making a second appearance in
      nearly every department. They seemed to take up all the space on the
      stairs and in the galleries. Every moment some fresh meeting brought them
      to a standstill. Thus, near the reading-room, they once more came across
      Madame Bourdelais and her three children. The youngsters were loaded with
      parcels: Madeline had a dress for herself, Edmond was carrying a
      collection of little shoes, whilst the youngest, Lucien, was wearing a new
      cap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You as well!&rdquo; said Madame Desforges, laughingly, to her old
      school-fellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray, don't speak of it!&rdquo; cried out Madame Bourdelais. &ldquo;I'm furious. They
      get hold of us by the little ones now! You know what a little I spend on
      myself! But how can you expect me to resist the voices of these young
      children, who want everything? I had come just to show them round, and
      here am I plundering the whole establishment!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret, who happened to be there still, with De Vallagnosc and Monsieur de
      Boves, was listening to her with a smile. She observed it, and gaily
      complained, with a certain amount of real irritation, of these traps laid
      for a mother's tenderness; the idea that she had just yielded to the
      fevers of advertising raised her indignation, and he, still smiling,
      bowed, fully enjoying this triumph. Monsieur de Boves had manoeuvred so as
      to get near Madame Guibal, whom he ultimately followed, trying for the
      second time to lose De Vallagnosc; but the latter, tired of the crush,
      hastened to rejoin him. Denise was again brought to a standstill, obliged
      to wait for the ladies. She turned her back, and Mouret himself affected
      not to see her. Madame Desforges, with the delicate scent of a jealous
      woman, had no further doubt. Whilst he was complimenting her and walking
      beside her, like a gallant host, she was deep in thought, asking herself
      how she could convince him of his treason.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Monsieur de Boves and De Vallagnosc, who were on in front with
      Madame Guibal, had reached the lace department, a luxurious room, near the
      ready-made department, surrounded with stocks of carved oak drawers, which
      were constantly being opened and shut. Around the columns, covered with
      red velvet, were spirals of white lace; and from one end of the department
      to the other, hung lengths of Maltese; whilst on the counters there were
      quantities of large cards, wound round with Valenciennes, Malines, and
      hand-made point At the further end two ladies were seated before a mauve
      silk skirt, on which Deloche was placing pieces of Chantilly, the ladies
      looking on silently, without making up their minds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo!&rdquo; said De Vallagnosc, quite surprised, &ldquo;you said Madame de Boves
      was unwell. But there she is standing over there near that counter, with
      Mademoiselle Blanche.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The count could not help starting back, and casting a side glance at
      Madame Guibal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me! so she is,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was very warm in this room. The customers, half stifled, had pale faces
      with flaming eyes. It seemed as if all the seductions of the shop had
      converged into this supreme temptation, that it was the secluded alcove
      where the customers were doomed to fall, the corner of perdition where the
      strongest must succumb. Hands were plunged into the overflowing heaps,
      retaining an intoxicating trembling from the contact.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancy those ladies are ruining you,&rdquo; resumed De Vallagnosc, amused at
      the meeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur de Boves assumed the look of a husband perfectly sure of his
      wife's discretion, from the simple fact that he did not give her a sou to
      spend. The latter, after having wandered through all the departments with
      her daughter, without buying anything, had just stranded in the lace
      department in a rage of unsated desire. Half dead with fatigue, she was
      leaning up against the counter. She dived about in a heap of lace, her
      hands became soft, a warmth penetrated as far as her shoulders. Then
      suddenly, just as her daughter turned her head and the salesman went away,
      she was thinking of slipping a piece of point d'Alençon under her mantle.
      But she shuddered, and dropped it, on hearing De Vallagnosc's voice saying
      gaily:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! we've caught you, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For several seconds she stood there speechless and pale. Then she
      explained that, feeling much better, she thought she would take a stroll.
      And on noticing that her husband was with Madame Guibal, she quite
      recovered herself, and looked at them with such a dignified air that the
      other lady felt obliged to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was with Madame Desforges when these gentlemen met us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other ladies came up just at that moment, accompanied by Mouret, who
      again detained them to point out Jouve the inspector, who was still
      following the woman in the family way and her lady friend. It was very
      curious, they could not form any idea of the number of thieves that were
      arrested in the lace department. Madame de Boves, who was listening,
      fancied herself between two gendarmes, with her forty-six years, her
      luxury, and her husband's fine position; but yet she felt no remorse,
      thinking she ought to have slipped the lace up her sleeve. Jouve, however,
      had just decided to lay hold of the woman in the family way, despairing of
      catching her in the act, but fully suspecting her of having filled her
      pockets, with a sleight of hand which had escaped him. But when he had
      taken her aside and searched her, he was wild to find nothing on her&mdash;not
      a cravat, not a button. Her friend had disappeared. All at once he
      understood: the woman in the family way was only there as a blind; it was
      the friend who did the trick.
    </p>
    <p>
      This affair amused the ladies. Mouret, rather vexed, merely said: &ldquo;Old
      Jouve has been floored this time. He'll have his revenge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; replied De Vallognosc, &ldquo;I don't think he's equal to it. Besides, why
      do you display such a quantity of goods? It serves you right, if you are
      robbed. You ought not to tempt these poor, defenceless women so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the last word, which sounded like the sharp note of the day, in
      the growing fever of the establishment. The ladies then separated,
      crossing the crowded departments for the last time. It was four o'clock,
      the rays of the setting sun were darting through the large windows in the
      front, lighting up crossways the glazed roofs of the halls, and in this
      red, fiery light sprung up, like a golden vapour, the thick dust raised by
      the circulation of the crowd. A broad ray ran along the grand central
      gallery, showing up on a flaming ground the staircases, the flying
      bridges, all the network of suspended iron. The mosaics and the
      terra-cotta of the friezes sparkled, the green andred paint were lighted
      up by the fire of the masses of gold scattered everywhere. It was like a
      red-hot furnace, in which the displays were now burning, the palaces of
      gloves and cravats, the clusters of ribbons and lace, the lofty piles of
      linen and calico, the diapered parterres in which flourished the light
      silks and foulards. The exhibition of parasols, with their shield-like
      roundness, threw out a sort of metallic reflection. In the distance were a
      lot of lost counters, sparkling, swarming with a moving crowd, ablaze with
      sunshine.
    </p>
    <p>
      And at this last moment, amidst this over-warmed air, the women reigned
      supreme. They had taken the whole place by storm, camping there as in a
      conquered country, like an invading horde installed amongst the
      overhauling of the goods. The salesmen, deafened, knocked up, were now
      nothing but their slaves, of whom they disposed with a sovereign's
      tyranny. Fat women elbowed their way through the crowd. The thinnest ones
      took up a lot of space, and became quite arrogant. They were all there,
      with heads high and abrupt gestures, quite at home, without the slightest
      politeness one for the other, using the house as much as they could, even
      carrying away the dust from the walls. Madame Bourdelais, desirous of
      making up for her expenditure, had again taken her children to the
      refreshment bar; the crowd was now pushing about there in a furious way,
      even the mothers were gorging themselves with Malaga; they had drunk since
      the opening eighty quarts of syrup and seventy bottles of wine. After
      having bought her travelling cloak, Madame Desforges had managed to secure
      some pictures at the pay-desk; and she went away scheming to get Denise
      into her house, where she could humiliate her before Mouret himself, so as
      to see their faces and arrive at a conclusion. Whilst Monsieur de Boves
      succeeded in losing himself in the crowd and disappearing with Madame
      Guibal, Madame de Boves, followed by Blanche and De Vallagnosc, had had
      the fancy to ask for a red air-ball, although she had bought nothing. It
      was always something, she would not go away empty-handed, she would make a
      friend of her doorkeeper's little girl with it. At the distributing
      counter they were just commencing the fortieth thousand: forty thousand
      red air-balls which had taken flight in the warm air of the shop, quite a
      cloud of red air-balls which were now floating from one end of Paris to
      the other, bearing upwards to the sky the name of The Ladies' Paradise!
    </p>
    <p>
      Five o'clock struck. Of all the ladies, Madame Marty and her daughter were
      the only ones to remain, in the final crisis of the sale. She could not
      tear herself away, although ready to drop with fatigue, retained by an
      attraction so strong that she was continually retracing her steps, though
      wanting nothing, wandering about the departments out of a curiosity that
      knew no bounds. It was the moment in which the crowd, goaded on by the
      advertisements, completely lost itself; the sixty thousand francs paid to
      the newspapers, the ten thousand bills posted on the walls, the two
      hundred thousand catalogues distributed all over the world, after having
      emptied their purses, left in the women's minds the shock of their
      intoxication; and the customers still remained, shaken by Mouret's other
      inventions, the reduction of prices, the &ldquo;returns,&rdquo; the endless
      gallantries. Madame Marty lingered before the various stalls, amidst the
      hoarse cries of the salesmen, the chinking of the gold at the pay-desks,
      and the rolling of the parcels down into the basement; she again traversed
      the ground floor, the linen, the silk, the glove, and the woollen
      departments; then she went upstairs again, abandoning herself to the
      metallic vibrations of the suspended staircases and the flying-bridges,
      returning to the ready-made, the under-linen, and the lace departments;
      she even ascended to the second floor, into the heights of the bedding and
      furniture department; and everywhere the employees, Hutin and Favier,
      Mignot and Liénard, Deloche, Pauline and Denise, nearly dead with fatigue,
      were making a last effort, snatching victories from the expiring fever of
      the customers. This fever had gradually increased since the morning, like
      the intoxication arising from the tumbling of the stuffs. The crowd shone
      forth under the fiery glare of the five o'clock sun. Madame Marty's face
      was now animated and nervous, like that of an infant after drinking pure
      wine. Arrived with clear eyes and fresh skin from the cold of the street,
      she had slowly burnt her sight and complexion, at the spectacle of this
      luxury, of these violent colours, the continued gallop of which irritated
      her passion. When she at last went away, after saying she would pay at
      home, terrified by the amount of her bill, her features were drawn up, her
      eyes were like those of a sick person. She was obliged to fight her way
      through the crowd at the door, where the people were almost killing each
      other, amidst the struggle for the bargains. Then, when she got into the
      street, and found her daughter, whom she had lost for a moment, the fresh
      air made her shiver, she stood there frightened in the disorder of this
      neurosis of the immense establishments.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the evening, as Denise was returning from dinner, a messenger called
      her: &ldquo;You are wanted at the director's office, mademoiselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had forgotten the order Mouret had given her in the morning, to go to
      his office after the sale. He was standing waiting for her. On going in
      she did not close the door, which remained, wide open.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are very pleased with you, mademoiselle,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and we have
      thought of proving our satisfaction. You know in what a shameful manner
      Madame Frédéric has left us. From to-morrow you will take her place as
      second-hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise listened to him immovable with surprise. She murmured in a
      trembling voice: &ldquo;But, sir, there are saleswomen in the department who are
      much my seniors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does that matter?&rdquo; resumed he. &ldquo;You are the most capable, the most
      trustworthy. I choose you; it's quite natural. Are you not satisfied?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She blushed, feeling a delicious happiness and embarrassment, in which her
      first fright vanished. Why had she at once thought of the suppositions
      with which this unhoped for favour would be received? And she stood filled
      with her confusion, notwithstanding her sudden burst of gratitude. He was
      looking at her with a smile, in her simple silk dress, without a single
      piece of jewellery, nothing but the luxury of her royal, blonde head of
      hair. She had become more refined, her skin was whiter, her manner
      delicate and grave. Her former puny insignificance was developing into a
      charm of a penetrating discretion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very kind, sir,&rdquo; she stammered. &ldquo;I don't know how to tell you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she was cut short by the appearance of Lhomme in the doorway. In his
      hand he was holding a large leather bag, and with his mutilated arm he was
      pressing an enormous notecase to his chest; whilst, behind him, his son
      Albert was carrying a load of bags, which were weighing him down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five hundred and eighty-seven thousand two hundred and ten francs thirty
      centimes!&rdquo; cried out the cashier, whose flabby, used-up face seemed to be
      lighted up with a ray of sunshine, in the reflection of such a sum.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the day's receipts, the highest The Ladies' Paradise had ever done.
      In the distance, in the depths of the shop that Lhomme had just passed
      through slowly, with the heavy gait of an overloaded beast of burden, one
      could hear the uproar, the ripple of surprise and joy, left by this
      colossal sum which passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it's superb!&rdquo; said Mouret, enchanted. &ldquo;My good Lhomme, put it down
      there, and take a rest, for you look quite done up. I'll have this money
      taken to the central cashier's office. Yes, yes, put it all on my table, I
      want to see the heap.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was full of a childish gaiety. The cashier and his son laid down their
      burdens. The leather bag gave out a clear, golden ring, two of the other
      bags bursting let out a stream of silver and copper, whilst from the
      note-case peeped forth corners of bank notes. One end of the large table
      was entirely covered; it was like the tumbling of a fortune picked up in
      ten hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Lhomme and Albert had retired, mopping their faces, Mouret remained
      for a moment motionless, lost, his eyes fixed on the money. Then, raising
      his head, he perceived Denise, who had drawn back. He began to smile
      again, forced her to come forward, and finished by saying he would give
      her all she could take in her hand; and there was a sort of love-bargain
      beneath his playfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look! out of the bag. I bet it would be less than a thousand francs, your
      hand is so small!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she drew back again. He loved her, then? Suddenly she understood, she
      felt the growing flame of desire with which he had enveloped her since,
      her return to the shop. What overcame her more than anything else was to
      feel her heart beating violently. Why did he wound her with all this
      money, when she was overflowing with gratitude, and he could have done
      anything with her by a friendly word? He was coming closer to her,
      continuing to joke, when, to his great annoyance, Bourdoncle appeared,
      under the pretence of informing him of the number of entries&mdash;the
      enormous number of seventy thousand customers had entered The Ladies'
      Paradise that day. And she hastened away, after having again thanked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he first Sunday in
      August every one was busy with the stock-taking, which had to be finished
      by the evening. Early in the morning all the employees were at their
      posts, as on a week-day, and the work commenced with closed doors, in the
      immense establishment, entirely free from customers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise, however, had not come down with the other young ladies at eight
      o'clock. Confined to her room for the last five days by a sprained ankle,
      caused when going up stairs to the work-rooms, she was going on much
      better; but, sure of Madame Aurélie's indulgence, she did not hurry down,
      and sat putting her boots on with difficulty, resolved, however, to show
      herself in the department. The young ladies' bed-rooms now occupied the
      entire fifth storey of the new buildings, along the Rue Monsigny; there
      were sixty of them, on either side of a corridor, and they were much more
      comfortable than formerly, although still furnished with the iron
      bedstead, large wardrobe, and little mahogany toilet-table. The private
      life of the saleswomen became more refined and elegant there, they
      displayed a taste for scented soap and fine linen, quite a natural ascent
      towards middle-class ways as their positions improved, although high words
      and banging doors were still sometimes heard amidst the hôtel-like gust
      that carried them away, morning and evening. Denise, being second-hand in
      her department, had one of the largest rooms, the two attic windows of
      which looked into the street. Being much better off now, she indulged in
      several little luxuries, a red eider-down coverlet for the bed, covered
      with Maltese lace, a small carpet in front of the wardrobe, and two
      blue-glass vases containing a few faded roses on the toilet table.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she got her boots on she tried to walk across the room; but was
      obliged to lean against the furniture, being still rather lame. But that
      would soon come right again, she thought. At the same time, she had been
      quite right in refusing the invitation to dine at uncle Baudu's that
      evening, and in asking her aunt to take Pépé out for a walk, for she had
      placed him with Madame Gras again. Jean, who had been to see her the
      previous day, was to dine at his uncle's also. She continued to try to
      walk, resolved to go to bed early, in order to rest her leg, when Madame
      Cabin, the housekeeper, knocked and gave her a letter, with an air of
      mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door closed. Denise, astonished by this woman's discreet smile, opened
      the letter. She dropped on to a chair; it was a letter from Mouret, in
      which he expressed himself delighted at her recovery, and begged her to go
      down and dine with him that evening, as she could not go out. The tone of
      this note, at once familiar and paternal, was in no way offensive; but it
      was impossible for her to mistake its meaning. The Ladies' Paradise well
      knew the real signification of these invitations, which were legendary:
      Clara had dined, others as well, all those the governor had specially
      remarked. After dinner, as the witlings were wont to say, came the
      dessert. And the young girl's white cheeks were gradually invaded by a
      flow of blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      The letter slipped on to her knees, and Denise, her heart beating
      violently, remained with her eyes fixed on the blinding light of one of
      the windows. This was the confession she must have made to herself, in
      this very room, during her sleepless moments: if she still trembled when
      he passed, she now knew it was not from fear; and her former uneasiness,
      her old terror, could have been nothing but the frightened ignorance of
      love, the disorder of her growing affections, in her youthful wildness.
      She did not argue with herself, she simply felt that she had always loved
      him from the hour she had shuddered and stammered before him. She had
      loved him when she had feared him as a pitiless master; she had loved him
      when her distracted heart was dreaming of Hutin, unconsciously yielding to
      a desire for affection. Perhaps she might have given herself to another,
      but she had never loved any but this man, whose mere look terrified her.
      And her whole past life came back to her, unfolding itself in the blinding
      light of the window: the hardships of her start, that sweet walk under the
      shady trees of the Tuileries Gardens, and, lastly, the desires with which
      he had enveloped her ever since her return. The letter dropped on the
      ground, Denise still gazed at the window, dazzled by the glare of the sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly there was a knock. She hastened to pick up the letter and conceal
      it in her pocket. It was Pauline, who, having slipped away under some
      pretext, had come for a little gossip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How are you, my dear? We never meet now&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But as it was against the rules to go up into the bed-rooms, and, above
      all, for two to be shut in together, Denise took her to the end of the
      passage, into the ladies' drawing-room, a gallant present from Mouret to
      the young ladies, who could spend their evenings there till eleven
      o'clock. The apartment, decorated in white and gold, of the vulgar nudity
      of an hôtel room, was furnished with a piano, a central table, and some
      arm-chairs and sofas protected with white covers. But, after a few
      evenings spent together, in the first novelty of the thing, the saleswomen
      never went into the place without coming to high words at once. They
      required educating to it, the little trading city was wanting in accord.
      Meanwhile, almost the only one that went there in the evening was the
      second-hand in the corset department, Miss Powell, who strummed away at
      Chopin on the piano, and whose coveted talent ended by driving the others
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see my ankle's better now,&rdquo; said Denise, &ldquo;I was going downstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; exclaimed the other, &ldquo;what zeal! I'd take it easy if I had the
      chance!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They both sat down on a sofa. Pauline's attitude had changed since her
      friend had been promoted to be second-hand in the ready-made department.
      With her good-natured cordiality was mingled a shade of respect, a sort of
      surprise to feel the puny little saleswoman of former days on the road to
      fortune. Denise liked her very much, and confided in her alone, amidst the
      continual gallop of the two hundred women that the firm now employed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the matter?&rdquo; asked Pauline, quickly, when she remarked the young
      girl's troubled looks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! nothing,&rdquo; replied the latter, with an awkward smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes; there's something the matter with you. Have you no faith in me,
      that you have given up telling me your troubles?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Denise, in the emotion that was swelling her bosom&mdash;an emotion
      she could not control&mdash;abandoned herself to her feelings. She gave
      her friend the letter, stammering: &ldquo;Look! he has just written to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Between themselves, they had never openly spoken of Mouret. But this very
      silence was like a confession of their secret pre-occupations. Pauline
      knew everything. After having read the letter, she clasped Denise in her
      arms, and softly murmured: &ldquo;My dear, to speak frankly, I thought it was
      already done. Don't be shocked; I assure you the whole shop must think as
      I do. Naturally! he appointed you as second-hand so quickly, then he's
      always after you. It's obvious!&rdquo; She kissed her affectionately, and then
      asked her: &ldquo;You will go this evening, of course?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise looked at her without replying. All at once she burst into tears,
      her head on Pauline's shoulder. The latter was quite astonished.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, try and calm yourself; there's nothing in the affair to upset you
      like this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; let me be,&rdquo; stammered Denise. &ldquo;If you only knew what trouble I am
      in! Since I received that letter, I have felt beside myself. Let me have a
      good cry, that will relieve me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Full of pity, though not understanding, Pauline endeavoured to console
      her. In the first place, he had thrown up Clara. It was said he still
      visited a lady outside, but that was not proved. Then she explained that
      one could not be jealous of a man in such a position. He had too much
      money; he was the master, after all Denise listened to her, and had she
      been ignorant of her love, she could no longer have doubted it after the
      suffering she felt at the name of Clara and the allusion to Madame
      Desforges, which made her heart bleed. She could hear Clara's disagreeable
      voice, she could see Madame Desforges dragging her about the different
      departments with the scorn of a rich lady for a poor shop-girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you would go yourself?&rdquo; asked she.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pauline, without pausing to think, cried out: &ldquo;Of course, how can one do
      otherwise!&rdquo; Then reflecting, she added: &ldquo;Not now, but formerly, because
      now I am going to marry Baugé, and it would not be right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In fact, Baugé, who had left the Bon Marche for The Ladies' Paradise, was
      going to marry her about the middle of the month. Bourdoncle did not like
      these married couples; they had managed, however, to get the necessary
      permission, and even hoped to obtain a fortnight's holiday for their
      honeymoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There you are,&rdquo; declared Denise, &ldquo;when a man loves a girl he ought to
      marry her. Baugé is going to marry you.&rdquo; Pauline laughed heartily. &ldquo;But my
      dear, it isn't the same thing. Baugé is going to marry me because he is
      Baugé. He's my equal, that's a natural thing. Whilst Monsieur Mouret! Do
      you think Monsieur Mouret can marry his saleswomen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! no, oh! no,&rdquo; exclaimed the young girl, shocked by the absurdity the
      question, &ldquo;and that's why he ought not to have written to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This argument completely astonished Pauline. Her coarse face, with her
      small tender eyes, assumed quite an expression of maternal compassion.
      Then she got up, opened the piano, and softly played with one finger,
      &ldquo;King Dagobert,&rdquo; to enliven the situation, no doubt. Into the nakedness of
      the drawingroom, the white coverings of which seemed to increase the
      emptiness, came the noises from the street, the distant melopoia of a
      woman crying out green peas. Denise had thrown herself back on the sofa,
      her head against the wood-work, shaken by a fresh flood of sobs, which she
      stifled in her handkerchief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again!&rdquo; resumed Pauline, turning round. &ldquo;Really you are not reasonable.
      Why did you bring me here? We ought to have stopped in your room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She knelt down before her, and commenced lecturing her again. How many
      others would like to be in her place! Besides, if the thing did not please
      her, it was very simple: she had only to say no, without worrying herself
      like this. But she should reflect before risking her position by a refusal
      which was inexplicable, considering she had no engagement elsewhere. Was
      it such a terrible thing after all? and the reprimand was finishing up by
      some pleasantries, gaily whispered, when a sound of footsteps was heard in
      the passage. Pauline ran to the door and looked out. &ldquo;Hush! Madame
      Aurélie!&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;I'm off, and just you dry your eyes. She need not
      know what's up.&rdquo; When Denise was alone, she got up, and forced back her
      tears; and, her hands still trembling, with the fear of being caught there
      doing nothing, she closed the piano, which her friend had left open. But
      on hearing Madame Aurélie knocking at her door, she left the drawing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you are up!&rdquo; exclaimed the first-hand. &ldquo;It's very thoughtless of
      you, my dear child. I was just coming up to see how you were, and to tell
      you that we did not require you downstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise assured her that she felt very much better, that it would do her
      good to do something to amuse herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I sha'nt tire myself, madame. You can place me on a chair, and I'll do
      some writing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both then went downstairs. Madame Aurélie, who was most attentive,
      insisted on Denise leaning on her shoulder. She must have noticed the
      young girl's red eyes, for she was stealthily examining her. No doubt she
      was aware of a great deal of what was going on.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was an unexpected victory: Denise had at last conquered the department.
      After struggling for six months, amidst her torments as drudge and fag,
      without disarming her comrades' ill-will, she had in a few weeks entirely
      overcome them, and now saw them around her submissive and respectful.
      Madame Aurélie's sudden affection had greatly assisted her in this
      ungrateful task of softening her comrades' hearts towards her. It was
      whispered that the first-hand was Mouret's obliging factotum, that she
      rendered him many delicate services; and she took the young girl under her
      protection with such warmth that the latter must have been recommended to
      her in a very special manner. But Denise had also brought all her charm
      into play in order to disarm her enemies. The task was all the more
      difficult from the fact that she had to obtain their pardon for her
      appointment to the situation of second-hand. The young ladies spoke of
      this as an injustice, accused her of having earned it at dessert, with the
      governor; and even added a lot of abominable details. But in spite of
      their revolt, the title of second-hand influenced them, Denise assumed a
      certain authority which astonished and overawed the most hostile spirits.
      Soon after, she even found flatterers amongst the new hands; and her
      sweetness and modesty finished the conquest. Marguerite came over to her
      side. Clara was the only one to continue her ill-natured ways, still
      venturing on the old insult of the &ldquo;unkempt girl,&rdquo; which no one now saw
      the fun of. During her short intimacy with Mouret, she had taken advantage
      of it to neglect her work, being of a wonderfully idle, gossiping nature;
      then, as he had quickly tired of her, she did not even recriminate,
      incapable of jealousy in the disorderly abandon of her existence,
      perfectly satisfied to have profited from it to the extent of being
      allowed to stand about doing nothing. But, at the same time, she
      considered that Denise had robbed her of Madame Frederic's place. She
      would never have accepted it, on account of the worry; but she was vexed
      at the want of politeness, for she had the same claims as the other one,
      and prior claims too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hullo! there's the young mother being trotted out after her confinement,&rdquo;
       murmured she, on seeing Madame Aurélie bringing Denise in on her arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite shrugged her shoulders, saying, &ldquo;I dare say you think that's a
      good joke!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nine o'clock struck. Outside, an ardent blue sky was warming the streets.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cabs were rolling toward the railway stations, the whole population
      dressed out in Sunday clothes, was streaming in long rows towards the
      suburban woods.
    </p>
    <p>
      Inside the building, inundated with sun through the large open bays, the
      cooped-up staff had just commenced the stocktaking. They had closed the
      doors; people stopped on the pavement, looking through the windows,
      astonished at this shutting-up when an extraordinary activity was going on
      inside. There was, from one end of the galleries to the other, from the
      top floor to the bottom, a continual movement of employees, their arms in
      the air, and parcels flying about above their heads; and all this amidst a
      tempest of cries and a calling out of prices, the confusion of which
      ascended and became a deafening roar. Each of the thirty-nine departments
      did its work apart, without troubling about its neighbour. At this early
      hour the shelves had hardly been touched, there were only a few bales of
      goods on the floors; the machine would have to get up more steam if they
      were to finish that evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why have you come down?&rdquo; asked Marguerite of Denise, good-naturedly.
      &ldquo;You'll only make yourself worse, and we are quite enough to do the work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what I told her,&rdquo; declared Madame Aurélie, &ldquo;but she insisted on
      coming down to help us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All the young ladies flocked round Denise. The work was interrupted even
      for a time. They complimented her, listening with various exclamations to
      the story of her sprained ankle. At last Madame Aurélie made her sit down
      at a table; and it was understood that she should merely write down the
      articles as they were called out. On such a day as this they requisitioned
      any employee capable of holding a pen: the inspectors, the cashiers, the
      clerks, even down to the shop messengers; and the various departments
      divided amongst themselves these assistants of a day to get the work over
      quicker. It was thus that Denise found herself installed near Lhomme the
      cashier and Joseph the messenger, both bending over large sheets of paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five mantles, cloth, fur trimming, third size, at two hundred and forty
      francs!&rdquo; cried Marguerite. &ldquo;Four ditto, first size, at two hundred and
      twenty!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The work once more commenced. Behind Marguerite three saleswomen were
      emptying the cupboards, classifying the articles, giving them to her in
      bundles; and, when she had called them out, she threw them on the table,
      where they were gradually heaping up in enormous piles. Lhomme wrote down
      the articles, Joseph kept another list for the clearinghouse. Whilst this
      was going on, Madame Aurélie herself, assisted by three other saleswomen,
      was counting the silk garments, which Denise entered on the sheets. Clara
      was employed in looking after the heaps, to arrange them in such a manner
      that they should occupy the least space possible on the tables. But she
      was not paying much attention to her work, for the heaps were already
      tumbling down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say,&rdquo; asked she of a little saleswoman who had joined that winter, &ldquo;are
      they going to give you a rise? You know the second-hand is to have two
      thousand francs, which, with her commission, will bring her in nearly
      seven thousand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The little saleswoman, without ceasing to pass some cloaks down, replied
      that if they didn't give her eight hundred francs she would take her hook.
      The rises were always given the day after the stock-taking; it was also
      the epoch at which, the amount of business done during the year being
      known, the managers of the departments drew their commission on the
      increase of this figure, compared with that of the preceding year. Thus,
      notwithstanding the bustle and uproar of the work, the impassioned
      gossiping went on everywhere. Between two articles called out, they talked
      of nothing but money. The rumour ran that Madame Aurélie would exceed
      twenty-five thousand francs; and this immense sum greatly excited the
      young ladies. Marguerite, the best saleswoman after Denise, had made four
      thousand five hundred francs, fifteen hundred francs salary, and about
      three thousand francs commission; whilst Clara had not made two thousand
      five hundred francs altogether.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't care a button for their rises!&rdquo; resumed the latter, still talking
      to the little saleswoman. &ldquo;If papa were dead, I would jolly soon clear out
      of this! But what exasperates me is to see seven thousand francs given to
      that strip of a girl! What do you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Aurélie violently interrupted the conversation, turning round with
      her imperial air. &ldquo;Be quiet, young ladies! We can't hear ourselves speak,
      my word of honour!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she resumed calling out: &ldquo;Seven mantles, old style, Sicilian, first
      size, at a hundred and thirty! Three pelisses, surah, second size, at a
      hundred and fifty! Have you got that down, Mademoiselle Baudu?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clara then had to look after the armfuls of garments piled on the tables.
      She pushed them about, and made more room. But she soon left them again to
      reply to a salesman, who was looking for her. It was the glover, Mignot,
      escaped from his department. He whispered a request for twenty francs; he
      already owed her thirty, a loan effected the day after a race, after
      having lost his week's salary on a horse; this time he had squandered his
      commission, drawn over night, and had not ten sous for his Sunday. Clara
      had only ten francs about her, which she lent him with a fairly good
      grace. And they went on talking, spoke of a party of six, indulged in at a
      restaurant at Bougival, where the women had paid their share: it was much
      better, they all felt perfectly at their ease like that. Then Mignot, who
      wanted his twenty francs, went and bent over Lhomme's shoulder. The
      latter, stopped in his writing, appeared greatly troubled. However, he
      dared not refuse, and was looking for the money in his purse, when Madame
      Aurélie, astonished not to hear Marguerite's voice, which had been
      interrupted, perceived Mignot, and understood at once. She roughly sent
      him back to his department, saying she didn't want any one to come and
      distract her young ladies from their work. The truth is, she dreaded this
      young man, a bosom friend of Albert's, the accomplice of his doubtful
      tricks, which she trembled to see turn out badly some day. Therefore, when
      Mignot had got his ten francs, and had run away, she could not help saying
      to her husband:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible to let a fellow like that get over you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, my dear, I really could not refuse the young man.&rdquo; She closed his
      mouth with a shrug of her substantial shoulders. Then, as the saleswomen
      were slyly grinning at this family explanation, she resumed with severity:
      &ldquo;Now, Mademoiselle Vadon, don't let's go to sleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty cloaks, cashmere extra, fourth size, at eighteen francs and a
      half,&rdquo; resumed Marguerite in her sing-song voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lhomme, with his head bowed down, had resumed writing. They had gradually
      raised his salary to nine thousand francs a year; and he was very humble
      before Madame Aurélie, who still brought nearly triple as much into the
      family.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a while the work pushed forward. Figures flew about, the parcels of
      garments rained thick and fast on the tables, But Clara had invented
      another amusement: she was teasing the messenger, Joseph, about a passion
      that he was said to nourish for a young lady in the pattern-room. This
      young lady, already twenty-eight years old, thin and pale, was a protege
      of Madame Desforges, who had wanted to make Mouret engage her as a
      saleswoman, backing up her recommendation with a touching story: an
      orphan, the last of the De Fontenailles, an old and noble family of
      Poitou, thrown into the streets of Paris with a drunken father, but yet
      virtuous amidst this misfortune, with an education too limited,
      unfortunately, to take a place as governess or music-mistress. Mouret
      generally got angry when any one recommended to him these broken-down
      gentlewomen; there was not, said he, a class of creatures more incapable,
      more insupportable, more narrow-minded than these gentlewomen; and,
      besides, a saleswoman could not be improvised, she must serve an
      apprenticeship, it was a complicated and delicate business. However, he
      took Madame Desforges's protege, but put her in the pattern-room, in the
      same way as he had already found places, to oblige friends, for two
      countesses and a baroness in the advertising department, where they
      addressed envelopes, etc. Mademoiselle de Fontenailles earned three francs
      a day, which just enabled her to live in her modest room, in the Rue
      d'Argenteuil. It was on seeing her, with her sad look and such shabby
      clothes, that Joseph's heart, very tender under his rough soldier's
      manner, had been touched. He did not confess, but he blushed, when the
      young ladies in the ready-made department chaffed him; for the
      pattern-room was not far off, and they had often observed him prowling
      about the doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Joseph is somewhat absent-minded,&rdquo; murmured Clara. &ldquo;His nose is always
      turned towards the under-linen department.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had requisitioned Mademoiselle de Fontenailles there, and she was
      assisting at the outfitting counter. As the messenger was continually
      glancing in that direction, the saleswomen began to laugh. He became very
      confused, and plunged into his accounts; whilst Marguerite, in order to
      arrest the flood of gaiety which was tickling her throat, cried out louder
      stills &ldquo;Fourteen jackets, English cloth, second size, at fifteen francs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this, Madame Aurélie, who was engaged in calling out some cloaks, could
      not make herself heard. She interfered with a wounded air, and a majestic
      slowness: &ldquo;A little softer, mademoiselle. We are not in a market. And you
      are all very unreasonable, to be amusing yourselves with these childish
      matters, when our time is so precious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Just at that moment, as Clara was not paying any attention to the parcels,
      a catastrophe took place. Some mantles tumbled down, and all the heaps on
      the tables, dragged down with them, fell one after the other, so that the
      carpet was strewn with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! what did I say!&rdquo; cried the first-hand, beside herself. &ldquo;Pray be
      more careful, Mademoiselle Prunaire; it's intolerable!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But a hum ran along: Mouret and Bourdoncle, making their round of
      inspection, had just appeared. The voices started again, the pens
      sputtered along, whilst Clara hastened to pick up the garments. The
      governor did not interrupt the work. He stood there several minutes, mute,
      smiling; and it was on his lips alone that a slight feverish shivering was
      visible in his gay and victorious face of stock-taking days. When he
      perceived Denise, he nearly gave way to a gesture of astonishment. She had
      come down, then? His eyes met Madame Aurélie's. Then, after a moment's
      hesitation, he went away into the under-linen department.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, Denise, warned by the slight noise, had raised her head. And,
      after having recognised Mouret, she had immediately bent over her work
      again, without ostentation. Since she had been writing in this mechanical
      way, amidst the regular calling-out of the articles, a peaceful feeling
      had stolen over her. She had always yielded thus to the first excesses of
      her sensitiveness: the tears suffocated her, her passion doubled her
      torments; then she regained her self-command, finding a grand, calm
      courage, a strength of will, quiet but inexorable. Now, with her limpid
      eyes, and pale complexion, she was free from all agitation, entirely given
      up to her work, resolved to crush her heart and to do nothing but her
      will.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ten o'clock struck, the uproar of the stock-taking was increasing in the
      activity of the departments. And amidst the cries incessantly raised,
      crossing each other on all sides, the same news was circulating with
      surprising rapidity: every salesman knew that Mouret had written that
      morning inviting Denise to dinner. The indiscretion came from Pauline. On
      going downstairs, still excited, she had met Deloche in the lace
      department, and, without noticing that Liénard was talking to the young
      man, she immediately relieved her mind of the secret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's done, my dear fellow. She's just received a letter. He invites her
      for this evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Deloche turned very pale. He had understood, for he often questioned
      Pauline; they spoke of their common friend every day, of Mouret's love for
      her, of the famous invitation which would finish by bringing the adventure
      to an issue. She frequently scolded him for his secret love for Denise,
      with whom he would never succeed, and she shrugged her shoulders whenever
      he expressed his approval of the girl's conduct in resisting the governor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her foot's better, she's coming down,&rdquo; continued Pauline.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray don't put on that funeral face. It's a piece of good luck for her,
      this invitation.&rdquo; And she hastened back to her department.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! good!&rdquo; murmured Liénard, who had heard all, &ldquo;you're talking about the
      young girl with the sprain. You were quite right to be so quick in
      defending her last night at the café!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He also ran off; but before he had returned to the woollen department, he
      had already related the story to four or five fellows. In less than ten
      minutes, it had gone the round of the whole shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      Liénard's last remark referred to a scene which had taken place the
      previous evening, at the Café Saint-Roch. Deloche and he were now
      constantly together. The former had taken Hutin's room at the Hôtel de
      Smyme, when that gentleman, appointed second-hand, had hired a suite of
      three rooms; and the two shopmen came to The Ladies' Paradise together in
      the morning, and waited for each other in the evening in order to go away
      together. Their rooms, which were next door to each other, looked into the
      same black yard, a narrow well, the odour from which poisoned the hôtel.
      They got on very well together, notwithstanding their difference of
      character, the one carelessly squandering the money he drew from his
      father, the other penniless, perpetually tortured by ideas of saving, both
      having, however, a point in common, their unskilfulness as salesmen, which
      left them to vegetate at their counters, without any increase of salary.
      After leaving the shop, they spent the greater part of their time at the
      Café Saint-Roch. Quite free from customers during the day, this café
      filled up about halfpast eight with an overflowing crowd of employees,
      that crowd of shopmen disgorged into the street from the great door in the
      Place Gaillon. Then burst forth a deafening uproar of clinking dominoes,
      bursts of laughter and yelping voices, amidst the thick smoke of the
      pipes. Beer and coffee were in great demand. Seated in the left-hand
      corner, Liénard went in for the dearest drinks, whilst Deloche contented
      himself with a glass of beer, which he would take four hours to drink. It
      was there that the latter had heard Favier, at a neighbouring table,
      relate some abominable things about Denise, the way in which she had
      &ldquo;hooked&rdquo; the governor, by pulling her dress up whenever she went upstairs
      in front of him. He had with difficulty restrained himself from striking
      him. Then, as the other went off, saying that the young girl went down
      every night to join her lover, he called him a liar, feeling mad with
      rage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a blackguard! It's a lie, it's a lie, I tell you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And in the emotion which was agitating him, he let out too much, with a
      stammering voice, entirely opening his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know her, and it isn't true. She has never had any affection except for
      one man; yes, for Monsieur Hutin, and even he has never noticed it, he
      can't even boast of ever having as much as touched her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The report of this quarrel, exaggerated, misconstrued, was already
      affording amusement for the whole shop, when the story of Mouret's letter
      was circulated. In fact, it was to a salesman in the silk department that
      Liénard first confided the news. With the silk-vendors the stock-taking
      was going on rapidly. Favier and two shopmen, mounted on stools, were
      emptying the shelves, passing the pieces of stuff to Hutin as they went
      on, the latter, standing on a table, calling out the figures, after
      consulting the tickets; and he then dropped the pieces, which, rising
      slowly like an autumn tide, were gradually encumbering the floor. Other
      men were writing, Albert Lhomme was also helping them, his face pale and
      heavy after a night spent in a low public-house at La Chapelle. A ray of
      sun fell from the glazed roof of the hall, through which could be seen the
      ardent blue of the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Draw those blinds!&rdquo; cried out Bouthemont, very busy superintending the
      work. &ldquo;The sun is unbearable!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Favier, who was stretching to reach a piece, grumbled under his breath: &ldquo;A
      nice thing to shut people up a lovely day like this! No fear of it raining
      on a stock-taking day! And they keep us under lock and key like a lot of
      convicts when all Paris is out-doors!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He passed the piece to Hutin. On the ticket was the measurement,
      diminished at each sale by the quantity sold, which greatly simplified the
      work. The second-hand cried out: &ldquo;Fancy silk, small check, twenty-one
      yards, at six francs and a half.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the silk went to increase the heap on the floor. Then he continued a
      conversation commenced, by saying to Favier: &ldquo;So he wanted to fight you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I was quietly drinking my glass of beer. It was hardly worth while
      contradicting me, she has just received a letter from the governor
      inviting her to dinner. The whole shop is talking about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! it wasn't done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Favier handed him another piece.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A caution, isn't it? One would have staked his life on it. It seemed like
      an old connection.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ditto, twenty-five yards!&rdquo; cried Hutin.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dull thud of the piece was heard, whilst he added in a lower tone:
      &ldquo;She carried on fearfully, you know, at that old fool Bourras's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The whole department was now joking about the affair, without, however,
      allowing the work to suffer. The young girl's name passed from mouth to
      mouth, the fellows arched their backs and winked. Bouthemont himself, who
      took a rare delight in such gay stories, could not help adding his joke,
      the bad taste of which filled his heart with joy. Albert, waking up a bit,
      swore he had seen Denise with two soldiers at the Gros-Caillou. At that
      moment Mignot came down, with the twenty francs he had just borrowed, and
      he stopped to slip ten francs into Albert's hand, making an appointment
      with him for the evening; a projected lark, restrained for want of money,
      but still possible, notwithstanding the smallness of the sum. But handsome
      Mignot, when he heard about the famous letter, made such an abominable
      remark, that Bouthemont was obliged to interfere.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's enough, gentlemen. It isn't our business. Go on, Monsiéur Hutin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fancy silk, small check, thirty-two yards, at six francs and a half,&rdquo;
       cried out the latter.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pens started off again, the parcels fell regularly, the flood of
      stuffs still increased, as if the overflow of a river had emptied itself
      there. And the calling out of the fancy silks never ceased. Favier, in a
      half whisper, remarked that the stock was in a nice state; the governors
      would be enchanted; that big stupid of a Bouthemont might be the best
      buyer in Paris, but as a salesman he was not worth his salt. Hutin smiled,
      delighted, approving by a friendly look; for after having himself
      introduced Bouthemont into The Ladies' Paradise, in order to drive out
      Robineau, he was now undermining him also, with the firm intention of
      robbing him of his place. It was the same war as formerly, treacherous
      insinuations whispered in the partners' ears, an excessive display of zeal
      in order to push one's-self forward, a regular campaign carried on with
      affable cunning. However, Favier, towards whom Hutin was displaying some
      fresh condescension, took a look at the latter, thin and cold, with his
      bilious face, as if to count the mouthfuls in this short, squat little
      man, and looking as though he were waiting till his comrade had swallowed
      up Bouthemont, in order to eat him afterwards. He, Favier,' hoped to get
      the second-hand's place, should his friend be appointed manager. Then,
      they would see. And both, consumed by the fever which was raging from one
      end of the shop to the other, talked of the probable rises of salary,
      without ceasing to call out the stock of fancy silks; they felt sure
      Bouthemont would reach thirty thousand francs that year; Hutin would
      exceed ten thousand; Favier estimated his pay and commission at five
      thousand five hundred. The amount of business in the department was
      increasing yearly, the salesmen were promoted and their salaries doubled,
      like officers in time of war.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won't those fancy silks soon be finished?&rdquo; asked Bouthemont suddenly,
      with an annoyed air. &ldquo;What a miserable spring, always raining! People have
      bought nothing but black silks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His fat, jovial face became cloudy; he looked at the growing heap on the
      floor, whilst Hutin called out louder still, in a sonorous voice, not free
      from triumph&mdash;&ldquo;Fancy silks, small check, twenty-eight yards, at six
      francs and a half.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was still another shelf-full. Favier, whose arms were beginning to
      feel tired, was now going very slowly. As he handed Hutin the last pieces
      he resumed in a low tone&mdash;&ldquo;Oh! I say, I forgot. Have you heard that
      the second-hand in the ready-made department once had a regular fancy for
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man seemed greatly surprised. &ldquo;What! How do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that great booby Deloche let it out to us. I remember her casting
      sheep's eyes at you some time back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Since his appointment as second-hand Hutin had thrown up his music-hall
      singers and gone in for governesses. Greatly flattered at heart, he
      replied with a scornful air, &ldquo;I like them a little better stuffed, my boy;
      besides, it won't do to take up with anybody, as the governor does.&rdquo; He
      stopped to call out&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;White Poult silk, thirty-five yards, at eight francs fifteen sous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! at last!&rdquo; murmured Bouthemont, greatly relieved.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a bell rang, it was the second table, to which Favier belonged. He got
      off the stool, another salesman took his place, and he was obliged to step
      over the mountain of pieces of stuff with which the floor was encumbered.
      Similar heaps were scattered about in very department; the shelves, the
      boxes, the cupboards were being gradually emptied, whilst the goods were
      overflowing on every side, under-foot, between the counters and the
      tables, in a continual rising. In the linen department was heard the heavy
      falling of the bales of calico; in the mercery department there was a
      clicking of boxes; and distant rumbling sounds came from the furniture
      department. Every sort of voice was heard together, shrill voices, thick
      voices; figures whizzed through the air, a rustling clamour reigned in the
      immense nave&mdash;the clamour of the forests in January when the wind is
      whistling through the branches.
    </p>
    <p>
      Favier at last got clear and went up the dining-room staircase. Since the
      enlargement of The Ladies' Paradise the refectories had been shifted to
      the fourth storey in the new buildings. As he hurried up he came upon
      Deloche and Liénard, so he fell back on Mignot, who was following on his
      heels.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The deuce!&rdquo; said he, in the corridor leading to the kitchen, opposite the
      blackboard on which the bill of fare was inscribed, &ldquo;you can see it's
      stock-taking day. A regular feast! Chicken, or leg of mutton, and
      artichokes! Their mutton won't be much of a success!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mignot sniggered, murmuring, &ldquo;Every one's going in for chicken, then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, Deloche and Liénard had taken their portions and had gone away.
      Favier then leant over at the wicket and called out&mdash;&ldquo;Chicken!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he had to wait; one of the kitchen helps had cut his finger in
      carving, and this caused some confusion. Favier stood there, with his face
      to the opening, looking into the kitchen with its giant appliances&mdash;the
      central range, over which two rails fixed to the ceiling brought forward,
      by a system of chains and pullies, the colossal coppers, which four men
      could not have lifted. Several cooks, quite white in the sombre red of the
      furnace, were attending to the evening soup coppers, mounted on iron
      ladders, armed with skimmers fixed on long handles. Then against the wall
      were grills large enough to roast martyrs on, saucepans big enough to cook
      a whole sheep in, a monumental plate-warmer, and a marble well kept full
      by a continual stream of water. To the left could be seen a washing-up
      place, stone sinks as large as ponds; whilst on the other side to the
      right, was an immense meat-safe, in which some large joints of red meat
      were hanging on steel hooks. A machine for peeling potatoes was working
      with the tic-tac of a mill. Two small trucks laden with freshly-picked
      salad were being wheeled along by some kitchen helps into the fresh air
      under a fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chicken,&rdquo; repeated Favier, getting impatient. Then, turning round, he
      added in a lower tone, &ldquo;There's one fellow cut himself. It's disgusting,
      it's running over the food.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mignot wanted to see. Quite a string of shopmen had now arrived; there was
      a good deal of laughing and pushing. The two young men, their heads at the
      wicket, exchanged their remarks before this phalansterian kitchen, in
      which the least utensils, even the spits and larding pins, assumed
      gigantic proportions. Two thousand luncheons and two thousand dinners had
      to be served, and the number of employees was increasing every week. It
      was quite an abyss, into which was thrown daily something like forty-five
      bushels of potatoes, one hundred and twenty pounds of butter, and sixteen
      hundred pounds of meat; and at each meal they had to broach three casks of
      wine, over a hundred and fifty gallons were served out at the wine
      counter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! at last!&rdquo; murmured Favier when the cook reappeared with a large pan,
      out of which he handed him the leg of a fowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chicken,&rdquo; said Mignot behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      And with their plates in their hands they both entered the refectory,
      after having taken their wine at the counter; whilst behind them the word
      &ldquo;Chicken&rdquo; was repeated without ceasing, regularly, and one could hear the
      cook picking up the pieces with his fork with a rapid and measured sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      The men's dining-room was now an immense apartment, where places for five
      hundred at each of the three dinners could easily be laid. There were long
      mahogany tables, placed parallel across the room, and at either end were
      similar tables reserved for the managers of departments and the
      inspectors; whilst in the centre was a counter for the extras. Large
      windows, right and left, lighted up with a white light this gallery, of
      which the ceiling, notwithstanding its being four yards high, seemed very
      low, crushed by the enormous development of the other dimensions. The sole
      ornament on the walls, painted a light yellow, were the napkin cupboards.
      After this first refectory came that of the messengers and carmen, where
      the meals were served irregularly, according to the necessities of the
      work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you've got a leg as well, Mignot?&rdquo; said Favier, as he took his
      place at one of the tables opposite his companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Other young men now sat down around them. There was no tablecloth, the
      plates gave out a cracked sound on the bare mahogany, and every one was
      crying out in this particular corner, for the number of legs was really
      prodigious.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These chickens are all legs!&rdquo; remarked Mignot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Those who had pieces of the carcase were greatly discontented. However,
      the food had been much better since the late improvements. Mouret no
      longer treated with a contractor at a fixed sum; he had taken the kitchen
      into his own hands, organising it like one of the departments, with a
      head-cook, under-cooks, and an inspector; and if he spent more he got more
      work out of the staff&mdash;a practical humane calculation which long
      terrified Bourdoncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine is pretty tender, all the same,&rdquo; said Mignot. &ldquo;Pass over the bread!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The big loaf was sent round, and after cutting a slice for himself he dug
      the knife into the crust A few dilatory ones now hurried in, taking their
      places; a ferocious appetite, increased by the morning's work, ran along
      the immense tables from one end to the other. There was an increasing
      clatter of forks, a sound of bottles being emptied, the noise of glasses
      laid down too violently, the grinding rumble of five hundred pairs of
      powerful jaws working with wonderful energy. And the talk, still very
      rare, was stifled in the mouths full of food.
    </p>
    <p>
      Deloche, however, seated between Baugé and Liénard, found himself nearly
      opposite Favier. They had glanced at each other with a rancorous look. The
      neighbours whispered, aware of their quarrel the previous day. Then they
      laughed at poor Deloche's ill-luck, always famishing, always falling on to
      the worst piece at table, by a sort of cruel fatality. This time he had
      come in for the neck of a chicken and bits of the carcase. Without saying
      a word he let them joke away, swallowing large mouthfuls of bread, and
      picking the neck with the infinite art of a fellow who entertains a great
      respect for meat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don't you complain?&rdquo; asked Baugé.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he shrugged his shoulders. What would be the good? It was always the
      same. When he ventured to complain things went worse than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know the Bobbin fellows have got their club now,&rdquo; said Mignot, all at
      once. &ldquo;Yes, my boy, the 'Bobbin Club.' It's held at a tavern in the Rue
      Saint-Honoré, where they hire a room on Saturdays.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was speaking of the mercery salesmen. The whole table began to joke.
      Between two mouthfuls, with his voice still thick, each one made some
      remark, added a detail; the obstinate readers alone remained mute,
      absorbed, their noses buried in some newspapers. It could not be denied;
      shopmen were gradually assuming a better style; nearly half of them now
      spoke English or German. It was no longer good form to go and kick up a
      row at Bullier, to prowl about the music-halls for the pleasure of hissing
      ugly singers. No; a score of them got together and formed a club.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have they a piano like the linen-drapers?&rdquo; asked Liénard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should rather think they have a piano!&rdquo; exclaimed Mignot. &ldquo;And they
      play, my boy, and sing! There's even one of them, little Bavoux, who
      recites verses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gaiety redoubled, they chaffed little Bavoux, but still beneath this
      laughter there lay a great respect. They then spoke of a piece at the
      Vaudeville, in which a counter-jumper played a nasty part, which annoyed
      several of them, whilst others were anxiously wondering what time they
      would get away, having invitations to pass the evening at friends' houses;
      and from all points were heard similar conversations amidst the increasing
      noise of the crockery. To drive out the odour of the food&mdash;the warm
      steam which rose from the five hundred plates&mdash;the windows had been
      opened, while the lowered blinds were scorching in the heavy August sun.
      An ardent breath came in from the street, golden reflections yellowed the
      ceiling, bathing in a reddish light the perspiring eaters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A nice thing to shut people up such a fine Sunday as this!&rdquo; repeated
      Favier.
    </p>
    <p>
      This reflection brought them back to the stock-taking. It was a splendid
      year. And they went on to speak of the salaries&mdash;the rises&mdash;the
      eternal subject, the stirring question which occupied them all. It was
      always thus on chicken days, a wonderful excitement declared itself, the
      noise at last became insupportable. When the waiters brought the
      artichokes one could not hear one's self speak. The inspector on duty had
      orders to be indulgent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way,&rdquo; cried out Favier, &ldquo;you've heard the news?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But his voice was drowned. Mignot was asking: &ldquo;Who doesn't like artichoke;
      I'll sell my dessert for an artichoke.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No one replied. Everybody liked artichoke. This lunch would be counted
      amongst the good ones, for peaches were to be given for dessert.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has invited her to dinner, my dear fellow,&rdquo; said Favier to his
      right-hand neighbour, finishing his story. &ldquo;What! you didn't know it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The whole table knew it, they were tired of talking about it since the
      first thing in the morning. And the same poor jokes passed from mouth to
      mouth. Deloche had turned pale again. He looked at them, his eyes
      finishing by resting on Favier, who was persisting in repeating:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he's not had her, he's going to. And he won't be the first; oh! no, he
      won't be the first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was also looking at Deloche. He added with a provoking air: &ldquo;Those who
      like bones can have her for a crown!&rdquo; Suddenly, he ducked his head.
      Deloche, yielding to an irresistible movement, had just thrown his last
      glass of wine into his tormentor's face, stammering: &ldquo;Take that, you
      infernal liar! I ought to have drenched you yesterday!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0406.jpg" alt="0406 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0406.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      It caused quite a scandal. A few drops had spurted on Favier's neighbours,
      whilst he only had his hair slightly wetted: the wine, thrown by an
      awkward hand, had fallen the other side of the table. But the others got
      angry, asking if she was his mistress that he defended her in this way?
      What a brute! he deserved a good sound drubbing to teach him manners.
      However, their voices fell, an inspector was observed coming along, and it
      was useless to introduce the management into the quarrel. Favier contented
      himself with saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it had caught me, you would have seen some sport!&rdquo; Then the affair
      wound up in jeers. When Deloche, still trembling, wished to drink to hide
      his confusion, and seized his empty glass mechanically, they burst out
      laughing. He laid his glass down again awkwardly, and commenced sucking
      the leaves of the artichoke he had already eaten.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pass Deloche the water bottle,&rdquo; said Mignot, quietly; &ldquo;he's thirsty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The laughter increased. The young men took their clean plates from the
      piles standing on the table, at equal distances, whilst the waiters handed
      round the dessert, which consisted of peaches, in baskets. And they all
      held their sides when Mignot added, with a grin:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Each man to his taste. Deloche takes wine with his peaches.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The latter sat motionless, with his head hanging down, as if deaf to the
      joking going on around him: he was full of a despairing regret for what he
      had just done. These fellows were right&mdash;what right had he to defend
      her? They would now think all sorts of villanous things: he could have
      killed himself for having thus compromised her, in attempting to prove her
      innocence. This was always his luck, he might just as well kill himself at
      once, for he could not even yield to the promptings of his heart without
      doing some stupid thing. And the fears came into his eyes. Was it not
      always his fault if the whole shop was talking of the letter written by
      the governor? He heard them grinning and making abominable remarks about
      this invitation, of which Liénard alone had been informed; and he accused
      himself, he ought not to have let Pauline speak before the latter; he was
      really responsible for the annoying indiscretion committed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why did you go and relate that?&rdquo; he murmured at last, in a voice full of
      grief. &ldquo;It's very bad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I?&rdquo; replied Liénard; &ldquo;but I only told it to one or two persons, enjoining
      secrecy. One never knows how these things get about!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Deloche made up his mind to drink a glass of water the whole table
      burst out laughing again. They had finished and were lolling back on their
      chairs waiting for the bell recalling them to work. They had not asked for
      many extras at the great central counter, the more so as the firm treated
      them to coffee that day. The cups were steaming, perspiring faces shone
      under the light vapours, floating like the blue clouds from cigarettes. At
      the windows the blinds hung motionless, without the slightest flapping.
      One of them, drawn up, admitted a ray of sunshine which traversed the room
      and gilded the ceiling. The uproar of the voices beat on the walls with
      such force that the bell was at first only heard by those at the tables
      near the door. They got up, and the confusion of the departure filled the
      corridors for a long time. Deloche, however, remained behind to escape the
      malicious remarks that were still being made. Baugé even went out before
      him, and Baugé was, as a rule, the last to leave, going a circuitous way
      so as to meet Pauline as she went to the ladies' dining-room; a manouvre
      arranged between them&mdash;the only chance of seeing each other for a
      minute during business hours. But this time, just as they were indulging
      in a loving kiss in a corner of the passage they were surprised by Denise,
      who was also going up to lunch. She was walking slowly on account of her
      foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! my dear,&rdquo; stammered Pauline, very red, &ldquo;don't say anything, will
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Baugé, with his big limbs and giant proportions, was trembling like a
      little boy. He murmured, &ldquo;They'd very soon pitch us out. Though our
      marriage may be announced, they don't allow any kissing, the animals!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, greatly agitated, affected not to have seen them; and Baugé
      disappeared just as Deloche, who was going the longest way round, appeared
      in his turn. He tried to apologise, stammering out phrases that Denise did
      not at first catch. Then, as he blamed Pauline for having spoken before
      Liénard, and she stood there looking very embarrassed, Denise at last
      understood the whispered phrases she had heard around her all the morning.
      It was the story of the letter that was circulating. She was again seized
      by the shudder with which this letter had agitated her; she felt herself
      disrobed by all these men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I didn't know,&rdquo; repeated Pauline. &ldquo;Besides, there's nothing bad in
      the letter. Let them gossip; they're jealous, of course!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; said Denise at last, with her prudent air, &ldquo;I don't blame you
      in any way! You've spoken nothing but the truth. I <i>have</i> received a
      letter, and it is my duty to answer it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Deloche went away heart-broken, having understood that the young girl
      accepted the situation and would keep the appointment that evening. When
      the two young ladies had lunched in a small room adjoining the large
      dining-room, and in which the women were served much more comfortably,
      Pauline had to assist Denise downstairs, for the latter's foot was worse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Down below in the afternoon warmth the stock-taking was roaring louder
      than ever. The moment for the supreme effort had arrived, when before the
      work, behindhand since the morning, every force was put forth in order to
      finish that evening. The voices got louder still, one saw nothing but the
      waving of arms continually emptying the shelves, throwing the goods down,
      and it was impossible to get along, the tide of the bales and piles of
      goods on the floor rose as high as the counters. A sea of heads, of
      brandished fists, of limbs flying about, seemed to extend to the very
      depths of the departments, like the distant confusion of a riot. It was
      the last fever of the clearance, the machine nearly ready to burst; whilst
      along the plate-glass windows, round the closed shop, a few rare
      pedestrians continued to pass, pale with the stifling boredom of a summer
      Sunday. On the pavement in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin were planted three
      tall girls, bareheaded and sluttish-looking, impudently sticking their
      faces against the windows, trying to see the curious work going on inside.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Denise returned to the ready-made department Madame Aurélie left
      Marguerite to finish calling out the garments. There was still a lot of
      checking to be done, for which, desirous of silence, she retired into the
      pattern-room, taking the young girl with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come with me, we'll do the checking; then you can add up the totals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But as she wished to leave the door open, in order to look after the young
      ladies, the noise came in, and they could not hear much better. It was a
      large, square room, furnished simply with some chairs and three long
      tables. In one corner were the great machine knives, for cutting up the
      patterns. Entire pieces were consumed; they sent away every year more than
      sixty thousand francs' worth of material, cut up in strips. From morning
      to night, the knives were cutting up silk, wool, and linen, with a
      scythe-like noise. Then the books had to be got together, gummed or sewn.
      And there was also between the two windows, a little printing-press for
      the tickets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so loud, please!&rdquo; cried Madame Aurélie, now and again, quite unable
      to hear Denise reading out the articles.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the checking of the first lists was finished, she left the young girl
      at one of the tables, absorbed in the adding-up. But she returned almost
      immediately, and placed Mademoiselle de Fontenailles near her; the
      under-linen department not wanting her any longer, had sent her to Madame
      Aurélie. She could also do some adding-up, it would save time. But the
      appearance of the marchioness, as Clara ill-naturedly called her, had
      disturbed the department. They laughed and joked at poor Joseph, their
      ferocious sallies could be heard in the pattern-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't draw back, you are not at all in my way,&rdquo; said Denise, seized with
      pity for the poor girl. &ldquo;My inkstand will suffice, we'll dip together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, dulled and stultified by her unfortunate
      position, could not even find a word of gratitude. She appeared to be a
      woman who drank, her thinness had a livid appearance, and her hands alone,
      white and delicate, attested the distinction of her birth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The laughter ceased all at once, and the work resumed its regular roar. It
      was Mouret who was once more going through the departments. But he stopped
      and looked round for Denise, surprised not to see her there. He made a
      sign to Madame Aurélie; and both drew aside, talking in a low tone for a
      moment. He must be questioning her. She indicated with her eyes the
      pattern-room, then seemed to be making a report. No doubt she was relating
      that the young girl had been weeping that morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good!&rdquo; said Mouret, aloud, coming nearer. &ldquo;Show me the lists.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This way, sir,&rdquo; said the first-hand. &ldquo;We have run away from the noise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He followed her into the next room. Clara was not duped by this manouvre,
      and said they had better go and fetch a bed at once. But Marguerite threw
      her the garments at a quicker rate, in order to take up her attention and
      close her mouth. Wasn't the second-hand a good comrade? Her affairs did
      not concern any one. The department was becoming an accomplice, the young
      ladies got more agitated than ever, Lhomme and Joseph affected not to see
      or hear anything. And Jouve, the inspector, who, passing by, had remarked
      Madame Aurélie's tactics, commenced walking up and down before the
      pattern-room door, with the regular step of a sentry guarding the will and
      pleasure of a superior.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give Monsieur Mouret the lists,&rdquo; said the first-hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise gave them, and sat there with her eyes raised. She had slightly
      started, but had conquered herself, and retained a fine calm look,
      although her cheeks were pale. For a moment, Mouret appeared to be
      absorbed in the list of articles, without a look for the young girl. A
      silence reigned, Madame Aurélie then went up to Mademoiselle de
      Fontenailles, who had not even turned her head, appeared dissatisfied with
      her counting, and said to her in a half whisper:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go and help with the parcels. You are not used to figures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The latter got up, and returned to the department, where she was greeted
      by a whispering on all sides. Joseph, exposed to the laughing eyes of
      these young minxes, was writing anyhow. Clara, delighted with this
      assistant who arrived, was yet very rough with her, hating her as she
      hated all the women in the shop. What an idiotic thing to yield to the
      love of a workman, when one was a marchioness! And yet she envied her this
      love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good!&rdquo; repeated Mouret, still affecting to read.
    </p>
    <p>
      However Madame Aurélie hardly knew how to get away in her turn in a decent
      fashion. She stamped about, went to look at the knives, furious with her
      husband for not inventing a pretext for calling her; but he was never any
      good for serious matters, he would have died of thirst close to a pond. It
      was Marguerite who was intelligent enough to go and ask the first-hand a
      question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm coming,&rdquo; replied the latter.
    </p>
    <p>
      And her dignity being now protected, having a pretext in the eyes of the
      young ladies who were watching her, she at last left Denise and Mouret
      alone together, going out with her imperial air, her profile so noble,
      that the saleswomen did not even dare to smile. Mouret had slowly laid the
      lists on the table, and stood looking at the young girl, who had remained
      seated, pen in hand. She did not avert her gaze, but she had turned paler.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will come this evening?&rdquo; asked he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir, I cannot. My brothers are to be at uncle's to-night, and I have
      promised to dine with them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But your foot! You walk with such difficulty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I can get so far very well. I feel much better since the morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had now turned pale in his turn, before this quiet refusal. A nervous
      revolt agitated his lips. However, he restrained himself, and resumed with
      the air of a good-natured master simply interesting himself in one of his
      young ladies: &ldquo;Come now, if I begged of you&mdash;You know what great
      esteem I have for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise retained her respectful attitude. &ldquo;I am greatly touched, sir, by
      your kindness to me, and I thank you for this invitation. But I repeat, I
      cannot; my brothers expect me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She persisted in not understanding. The door remained open, and she felt
      that the whole shop was pushing her on to yield. Pauline had amicably
      called her a great simpleton, the others would laugh at her if she refused
      the invitation. Madame Aurélie, who had gone away, Marguerite, whose
      rising voice she could hear, Lhomme, with his motionless, discreet
      attitude, all these people were wishing for her fall, throwing her into
      the governor's arms. And the distant roar of the stock-taking, the
      millions of goods called out on all sides, thrown about in every
      direction, were like a warm wind, carrying the breath of passion straight
      towards her. There was a silence. Now and again, Mouret's voice was
      drowned by the noise which accompanied him, with the formidable uproar of
      a kingly fortune gained in battle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When will you come, then?&rdquo; asked he again. &ldquo;Tomorrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This simple question troubled Denise. She lost her calmness for a moment,
      and stammered: &ldquo;I don't know&mdash;I can't&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smiled, and tried to take her hand, which she withheld. &ldquo;What are you
      afraid of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she quickly raised her head, looked him straight in the face, and
      said, smiling, with her sweet, brave look: &ldquo;I am afraid of nothing, sir. I
      can do as I like, can't I? I don't wish to, that's all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she finished speaking, she was surprised by hearing a creaking noise,
      and on turning round saw the door slowly closing. It was Jouve, the
      inspector, who had taken upon himself to pull it to. The doors were a part
      of his duty, none should ever remain open. And he gravely resumed his
      position as sentinel. No one appeared to have noticed this door being
      closed in such a simple manner. Clara alone risked a strong remark in
      Mademoiselle de Fontenailles's ear, but the latter's face remained
      expressionless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise, however, had got up. Mouret was saying to her in a low and
      trembling voice: &ldquo;Listen, Denise, I love you. You have long known it, pray
      don't be so cruel as to play the ignorant. And don't fear anything. Many a
      time I've thought of calling you into my office. We should have been
      alone, I should only have had to lock the door. But I did not wish to; you
      see I speak to you here, where any one can enter. I love you, Denise!&rdquo; She
      was standing up, very pale, listening to him, still looking straight into
      his face. &ldquo;Tell me. Why do you refuse? Have you no wants? Your brothers
      are a heavy burden. Anything you might ask me, anything you might require
      of me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a word, she stopped him: &ldquo;Thanks, I now earn more than I want.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it's perfect liberty that I am offering you, an existence of pleasure
      and luxury. I will set you up in a home of your own. I will assure you a
      little fortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thanks; I should soon get tired of doing nothing. I earned my own
      living before I was ten years old.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was almost mad. This was the first one who did not yield. He had only
      had to stoop to pick up the others, they all awaited his pleasure like
      submissive slaves; and this one said no, without even giving a reasonable
      pretext. His desire, long restrained, goaded by resistance, became
      stronger than ever. Perhaps he had not offered enough, he thought, and he
      doubled his offers; he pressed her more and more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, thanks,&rdquo; replied she each time, without faltering. Then he
      allowed this cry from his heart to escape him: &ldquo;But don't you see that I
      am suffering! Yes, it's stupid, but I am suffering like a child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tears came into his eyes. A fresh silence reigned. They could still hear
      behind the closed door the softened roar of the stock-taking. It was like
      a dying note of triumph, the accompaniment became more discreet, in this
      defeat of the master. &ldquo;And yet if I liked&mdash;&rdquo; said he in an ardent
      voice, seizing her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      She left them in his, her eyes turned pale, her whole strength was
      deserting her. A warmth came from this man's burning hands, filling her
      with a delicious cowardice. Good heavens! how she loved him, and with what
      delight she could have hung on his neck and remained there!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will! I will!&rdquo; repeated he, in his passionate excitement &ldquo;I expect you
      to-night, otherwise I will take measures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was becoming brutal. She set up a low cry; the pain she felt at her
      wrists restored her courage. With an angry shake she disengaged herself.
      Then, very stiff, looking taller in her weakness: &ldquo;No, leave me alone! I
      am not a Clara, to be thrown over in a day. Besides, you love another;
      yes, that lady who comes here. Stay with her. I do not accept half an
      affection.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was struck with surprise. What was she saying, and what did she want?
      The girls he had picked up in the shop had never asked to be loved. He
      ought to have laughed at such an idea, and this attitude of tender pride
      completely conquered his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, sir, please open the door,&rdquo; resumed she. &ldquo;It is not proper to be
      shut up together in this way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He obeyed; and with his temples throbbing, hardly knowing how to conceal
      his anguish, he recalled Madame Aurélie, and broke out angrily about the
      stock of cloaks, saying that the prices must be lowered, until every one
      had been got rid of. Such was the rule of the house&mdash;a clean sweep
      was made every year, they sold at sixty per cent, loss rather than keep an
      old model or any stale material. At that moment, Bourdoncle, seeking
      Mouret, was waiting for him outside, stopped before the closed door by
      Jouve, who had said a word in his ear with a grave air. He got very
      impatient, without, however, summoning up the courage to interrupt the
      governor's tête-à-tête. Was it possible? such a day too, and with that
      puny creature! And when Mouret at last came out Bourdoncle spoke to him
      about the fancy silks, of which the stock left on hand would be enormous.
      This was a relief for Mouret, who could now cry out at his ease. What the
      devil was Bouthemont thinking about? He went off, declaring that he could
      not allow a buyer to display such a want of sense as to buy beyond the
      requirements of the business.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with him?&rdquo; murmured Madame Aurélie, quite overcome by
      his reproaches.
    </p>
    <p>
      And the young ladies looked at each other with a surprised air. At six
      o'clock the stock-taking was finished. The sun was still shining&mdash;a
      blonde summer sun, of which the golden reflection streamed through the
      glazed roofs of the halls. In the heavy air of the streets, tired families
      were already returning from the suburbs, loaded with bouquets, dragging
      their children along. One by one, the departments had become silent.
      Nothing was now heard in the depths of the galleries but the lingering
      calls of a few men clearing a last shelf. Then even these voices ceased,
      and there remained of the bustle of the day nothing but a shivering, above
      the formidable piles of goods. The shelves, cupboards, boxes, and
      band-boxes, were now empty: not a yard of stuff, not an object of any sort
      had remained in its place. The vast establishment presented nothing but
      the carcase of its usual appearance, the woodwork was absolutely bare, as
      on the day of entering into possession. This nakedness was the visible
      proof of the complete and exact taking of the stock. And on the ground was
      sixteen million francs' worth of goods, a rising sea, which had finished
      by submerging the tables and counters. The shopmen, drowned up to the
      shoulders, had commenced to put each article back into its place. They
      expected to finish about ten o'clock.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Madame Aurélie, who went to the first dinner, returned to the
      dining-room, she announced the amount of business done during the year,
      which the totals of the various departments had just given. The figure was
      eighty million francs, ten millions more than the preceding year. The only
      real decrease was on the fancy silks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Monsieur Mouret is not satisfied, I should like to know what more he
      wants,&rdquo; added the first-hand. &ldquo;See! he's over there, at the top of the
      grand staircase, looking furious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young ladies went to look at him. He was standing alone, with a sombre
      countenance, above the millions scattered at his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; said Denise, at this moment, &ldquo;would you kindly let me go away
      now? I can't do any more good on account of my foot, and as I am to dine
      at my uncle's with my brothers&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were all astonished. She had not yielded, then! Madame Aurélie
      hesitated, and seemed inclined to prohibit her going out, her voice sharp
      and disagreeable; whilst Clara shrugged her shoulders, full of
      incredulity. That wouldn't do! it was very simple&mdash;the governor no
      longer wanted her! When Pauline learnt this, she was in the baby-linen
      department with Deloche, and the sudden joy exhibited by the young man
      made her very angry. That did him a lot of good, didn't it? Perhaps he was
      pleased to see that his friend had been stupid enough to miss a fortune?
      And Bourdoncle, who did not dare to approach Mouret in his ferocious
      isolation, marched up and down amidst these rumours, in despair also, and
      full of anxiety. However, Denise went downstairs. As she arrived at the
      bottom of the left-hand staircase, slowly, supporting herself by the
      banister, she came upon a group of grinning salesmen. Her name was
      pronounced, and she felt that they were talking about her adventure. They
      had not noticed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! all that's put on, you know,&rdquo; Favier was saying. &ldquo;She's full of vice!
      Yes, I know some one she wanted to take by force.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he looked at Hutin, who, in order to preserve his dignity as
      second-hand, was standing a certain distance apart, without joining in
      their conversation. But he was so flattered by the air of envy with which
      the others were contemplating him, that he deigned to murmur: &ldquo;She was a
      regular nuisance to me, that girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, wounded to the heart, clung to the banister. They must have seen
      her, for they all disappeared, laughing. He was right, she thought, and
      she accused herself of her former ignorance, when she used to think about
      him. But what a coward he was, and how she scorned him now! A great
      trouble had seized her: was it not strange that she should have found the
      strength just now to repulse a man whom she adored, when she used to feel
      herself so feeble in bygone days before this worthless fellow, whom she
      had only dreamed off? Her sense of reason and her bravery foundered before
      these contradictions of her being, in which she could not read clearly.
      She hastened to cross the hall. Then a sort of instinct prompted her to
      raise her head, whilst an inspector opened the door, closed since the
      morning. And she perceived Mouret, who was still at the top of the stairs,
      on the great central landing, dominating the gallery. But he had forgotten
      the stock-taking, he did not see his empire, this building bursting with
      riches. Everything had disappeared, his former glorious victories, his
      future colossal fortune. With a desponding look he was watching Denise's
      departure, and when she had passed the door everything disappeared, a
      darkness came over the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hat day Bouthemont
      was the first to arrive at Madame Desforges's four o'clock tea. Still
      alone in her large Louis XVI. drawing-room, the brasses and brocatelle of
      which shone out with a clear gaiety, the latter rose with an air of
      impatience, saying, &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; replied the young man, &ldquo;when I told him I should doubtless call on
      you he formally promised me to come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You made him thoroughly understand that I counted on the baron to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly. That's what appeared to decide him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were speaking of Mouret, who the year before had suddenly taken such
      a liking to Bouthemont that he had admitted him to share his pleasures,
      and had even introduced him to Henriette, glad to have an agreeable fellow
      always at hand to enliven an intimacy of which he was getting tired. It
      was thus that Bouthemont had ultimately become the confidant of his
      governor and of the handsome widow; he did their little errands, talked of
      the one to the other, and sometimes reconciled them. Henriette, in her
      jealous fits, abandoned herself to a familiarity which sometimes surprised
      and embarrassed him, for she lost all her lady-like prudence, using all
      her art to save appearances.
    </p>
    <p>
      She resumed violently, &ldquo;You ought to have brought him. I should have been
      sure then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, with a good-natured laugh, &ldquo;it isn't my fault if he
      escapes so frequently now. Oh! he's very fond of me, all the same. Were it
      not for him I should be in a bad way at the shop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His situation at The Ladies' Paradise was really menaced since the last
      stock-taking. It was in vain that he adduced the rainy season; one could
      not overlook the considerable stock of fancy silks; and as Hutin was
      improving the occasion, undermining him with the governors with an
      increase of sly rage, he felt the ground cracking under him. Mouret had
      condemned him, weary, no doubt, of this witness who prevented him breaking
      with Henriette, tired of a familiarity which was profitless. But, in
      accordance with his usual tactics, he was pushing Bourdoncle forward; it
      was Bourdoncle and the other partners who insisted on his dismissal at
      each board meeting; whilst he resisted still, according to his account,
      defending his friend energetically, at the risk of getting into serious
      trouble with the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I shall wait,&rdquo; resumed Madame Desforges. &ldquo;You know that girl is
      coming here at five o'clock, I want to see them face to face. I must
      discover their secret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she returned to this long-meditated plan. She repeated in her fever
      that she had requested Madame Aurélie to send her Denise to look at a
      mantle which fitted badly. When she had once got the young girl in her
      room, she would find a means of calling Mouret, and could then act.
      Bouthemont, who had sat down opposite her, was gazing at her with his fine
      laughing eyes, which he endeavoured to render grave. This jovial,
      dissipated fellow, with his coal-black beard, whose warm Gascon blood
      empurpled his cheeks, was thinking that these fine ladies were not much
      good, and that they let out a nice lot of secrets, when they opened their
      hearts. His friend's mistresses, simple shop-girls, certainly never made
      more complete confessions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; he ventured to say at last, &ldquo;what does that matter to you? I swear
      to you there is nothing whatever between them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just so,&rdquo; cried she, &ldquo;because he loves her! I don't care in the least for
      the others, chance acquaintances, friends of a day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She spoke of Clara with disdain. She was well aware that Mouret, after
      Denise's refusal, had fallen back on this tall, redhaired girl, with the
      horse's head, doubtless by calculation; for he maintained her in the
      department, loading her with presents. Not only that, for the last three
      months he had been leading: a terrible life, squandering his money with a
      prodigality which caused a great many remarks; he had bought a mansion for
      a worthless actress, and was being ruined by two or three other jades, who
      seemed to be struggling to outdo each other in costly, stupid caprices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's this creature's fault,&rdquo; repeated Henriette. &ldquo;I feel sure he's
      ruining himself with the others because she repulses him. Besides, what's
      his money to me? I should have loved him better poor. You know how I love
      him, you who have become our friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped, choked, ready to burst into tears; and with a movement of
      abandon she held out her two hands to him. It was true, she adored Mouret
      for his youth and his triumphs, never had any man thus conquered her so
      entirely in a quiver of her flesh and of her pride; but at the thought of
      losing him, she also heard the knell of her fortieth year, and she asked
      herself with terror how she should replace this great love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll have my revenge,&rdquo; murmured she. &ldquo;I'll have my revenge, if he behaves
      badly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bouthemont continued to hold her hands in his. She was still handsome. But
      she would be a very awkward mistress, thought he, and he did not like that
      style of woman. The thing, however, deserved thinking over; perhaps it
      would be worth while risking certain annoyances.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don't you set up for yourself?&rdquo; she asked all at once, drawing her
      hands away.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was astonished. Then he replied: &ldquo;But it would require an immense sum.
      Last year I had an idea in my head. I feel convinced that there are
      customers enough in Paris for one or two more big shops; but the district
      would have to be chosen. The Bon Marche has the left side of the river;
      the Louvre occupies the centre; we monopolise, at The Paradise, the rich
      west-end district. There remains the north, where a rival to the Place
      Clichy could be created. And I had discovered a splendid position, near
      the Opera House&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He set up a noisy laugh. &ldquo;Just fancy. I was stupid enough to go and talk
      to my father about it Yes, I was simple enough to ask him to find some
      shareholders at Toulouse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he gaily described the anger of the old man, enraged against the great
      Parisian bazaars, in his little country shop. Old Bouthemont, suffocated
      by the thirty thousand francs a year earned by his son, had replied that
      he would give his money and that of his friends to the hospitals rather
      than contribute a sou to one of those shops which were the pests of the
      drapery business.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides,&rdquo; continued the young man, &ldquo;it would require millions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose they were found?&rdquo; observed Madame Desforges, simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her, serious all at once. Was it not merely a jealous woman's
      word? But she did not give him time to question her, adding: &ldquo;In short,
      you know what a great interest I take in you. We'll talk about it again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The outer bell had rung. She got up, and he, himself, with an instinctive
      movement, drew back his chair, as if they might have been surprised. A
      silence reigned in the drawingroom, with its pretty hangings, and
      decorated with such a profusion of green plants that there was quite a
      small wood between the two windows. She stood there waiting, with her ear
      towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There he is,&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      The footman announced Monsieur Mouret and Monsieur de Vallagnosc.
      Henriette could not restrain a movement of anger. Why had he not come
      alone? He must have gone after his friend, fearful of a tête-à-tête with
      her. However, she smiled and shook hands with the two men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a stranger you are getting. I may say the same for you, Monsieur de
      Vallagnosc.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her great grief was to be becoming stout, and she squeezed herself into
      tight black silk dresses, to conceal her increasing obesity. However, her
      pretty face, with her dark hair, preserved its amiable expression. And
      Mouret could familiarly tell her, enveloping her with a look:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's useless to ask how you are. You are as fresh as a rose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! I'm almost too well,&rdquo; replied she. &ldquo;Besides, I might have died; you
      would have known nothing about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was examining him also, and thought him looking tired and nervous, his
      eyes heavy, his complexion livid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she resumed, in a tone which she endeavoured to render agreeable,
      &ldquo;I cannot return the compliment; you don't look at all well to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Overwork!&rdquo; remarked De Vallagnosc.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret shrugged his shoulders, without replying. He had just perceived
      Bouthemont, and nodded to him in a friendly way. During the time of their
      close intimacy he used to take him away direct from the department,
      bringing him to Henriette's during the busiest moments of the afternoon.
      But times had changed; he said to him in a half whisper: &ldquo;You went away
      rather early. They noticed your departure, and are furious about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He referred to Bourdoncle and the other persons who had an interest in the
      business, as if he were not himself the master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; murmured Bouthemont, rather anxious.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I want to talk to you. Wait for me, we'll leave together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, Henriette had sat down again; and while listening to De
      Vallagnosc, who was announcing that Madame de Boves would probably pay her
      a visit, she did not take her eyes off Mouret. The latter, silent again,
      gazed at the furniture, seemed to be looking for something on the ceiling.
      Then as she laughingly complained that she had only gentlemen at her four
      o'clock tea, he so far forgot himself as to blurt out:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I expected to find Baron Hartmann here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Henriette turned pale. No doubt she knew he came to her house solely to
      meet the baron; but he might have avoided throwing his indifference in her
      face like this. At that moment the door had opened and the footman was
      standing behind her. When she had interrogated him by a sign, he leant
      over her and said in a very low tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's for that mantle. You wished me to let you know. The young lady is
      there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Henriette raised her voice, so as to be heard. All her jealous
      suffering found relief in the following words, of a scornful harshness:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She can wait!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I show her into your dressing-room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no. Let her stay in the ante-room!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And when the servant had gone out she quietly resumed her conversation
      with De Vallagnosc. Mouret, who had relapsed into his former lassitude,
      had listened with a careless, distracted air, without understanding.
      Bouthemont, preoccupied by the adventure, was reflecting. But almost
      immediately after the door was opened again, and two ladies were shown in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just fancy,&rdquo; said Madame Marty, &ldquo;I was alighting at the door, when I saw
      Madame de Boves coming under the arcade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; explained the latter, &ldquo;it's a fine day, and my doctor says I must
      take walking exercise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, after a general hand-shaking, she asked Henriette:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're engaging a new maid, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied the other, astonished. &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I've just seen a young girl in the ante-room.&rdquo; Henriette
      interrupted her, laughing. &ldquo;It's true; all these shop-girls look like
      ladies' maids, don't they? Yes, it's a young person come to alter a
      mantle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret looked at her intently, a suspicion crossing his mind. She went on
      with a forced gaiety, explaining that she had bought mantle at The Ladies'
      Paradise the previous week.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; asked Madame Marty, &ldquo;have you deserted Sauveur then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No my dear, but I wished to make an experiment. Besides, I was pretty
      well satisfied with a first purchase, a travelling cloak. But this time it
      has not succeeded at all. You may say what you like, one is horribly
      trussed up in the big shops. I speak out plainly, even before you,
      Monsieur Mouret; you will never know how to dress a woman with the
      slightest claim to distinction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret did not defend his house, still keeping his eyes on her, thinking
      to himself that she would never have dared to do such a thing. And it was
      Bouthemont who had to plead the cause of The Ladies' Paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If all the aristocratic ladies who patronise us announced the fact,&rdquo;
       replied he, gaily, &ldquo;you would be astonished at our customers. Order a
      garment to measure at our place, it will equal one from Sauveur's, and
      will cost but half the money. But there, just because it's cheaper it's
      not so good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So it doesn't fit, this mantle you speak of?&rdquo; resumed Madame de Boves.
      &ldquo;Ah! now I remember the young person. It's rather dark in your ante-room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; added Madame Marty, &ldquo;I was wondering where I had seen that figure.
      Well, go, my dear, don't stand on ceremony with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Henriette assumed a look of disdainful unconcern. &ldquo;Oh, presently, there is
      no hurry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ladies continued to discuss the articles from the big shops. Then
      Madame de Boves spoke of her husband, who, she said, had gone to inspect
      the breeding depot at Saint-Lô; and just then Henriette was relating that
      through the illness of an aunt Madame Guibal had been suddenly called into
      Franche-Comté. Moreover, she did not reckon that day on Madame Bourdelais,
      who at the end of every month shut herself up with a needlewoman to look
      over her young people's under-linen. But Madame Marty seemed agitated with
      some secret trouble. Her husband's position at the Lycée Bonaparte was
      menaced, in consequence of lessons given by the poor man in certain
      doubtful institutions where a regular trade was carried on with the B.A.
      diplomas; the poor fellow picked up a pound where he could, feverishly, in
      order to meet the ruinous expenses which pillaged his household; and his
      wife, on seeing him weeping one evening in the fear of a dismissal, had
      conceived the idea of getting her friend Henriette to speak to a director
      at the Ministry of Public Instruction with whom she was acquainted.
      Henriette finished by quieting her with a few words. It was understood
      that Monsieur Marty was coming himself to know his fate and to thank her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You look ill, Monsieur Mouret,&rdquo; observed Madame de Boves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Overwork!&rdquo; repeated De Vallagnosc, with his ironical phlegm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret quickly got up, as if ashamed at forgetting himself thus. He went
      and took his accustomed place in the midst of the ladies, summoning up all
      his agreeable talent. He was now occupied with the winter novelties, and
      spoke of a considerable arrival of lace; and Madame de Boves questioned
      him as to the price of Bruges lace: she felt inclined to buy some. She had
      now got so far as to economise the thirty-sous for a cab, often going home
      quite ill from the effects of stopping before the windows. Draped in a
      mantle which was already two years old she tried, in imagination, on her
      queenly shoulders all the dearest things she saw; and it was like tearing
      her flesh away when she awoke and found herself dressed in her patched,
      old dresses, without the slightest hope of ever satisfying her passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Baron Hartmann,&rdquo; announced the man-servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Henriette observed with what pleasure Mouret shook hands with the new
      arrival. The latter bowed to the ladies and looked at the young man with
      that subtle expression which sometimes illumined his big Alsatian face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Always plunged in dress!&rdquo; murmured he, with a smile. Then, like a friend
      of the house, he ventured to add, &ldquo;There's a charming young girl in the
      ante-room. Who is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nobody,&rdquo; replied Madame Desforges, in her ill-natured voice. &ldquo;Only a
      shop-girl waiting to see me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the door remained half open, the servant was bringing in the tea. He
      went out, came in again, placed the china service on the table, then some
      plates of sandwiches and biscuits. In the vast room, a bright light,
      softened by the green plants, illuminated the brass-work, bathing the silk
      hangings in a tender flame; and each time the door was opened one could
      perceive an obscure corner of the ante-room, which was only lighted by two
      ground-glass windows. There, in the darkness, appeared a sombre form,
      motionless and patient. It was Denise, still standing up; there was a
      leather-covered form there, but a feeling of pride prevented her sitting
      down on it. She felt the insult keenly. She had been there for the last
      half-hour, without a gesture, without a word. The ladies and the baron had
      taken stock of her in passing; she could now hear the voices from the
      drawingroom. All this amiable luxury wounded her with its indifference,
      and still she did not move. Suddenly, through the half-open door, she
      perceived Mouret, and he, on his side, had at last guessed it to be her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it one of your saleswomen?&rdquo; asked Baron Hartmann.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret had succeeded in concealing his great agitation; but his voice
      trembled somewhat with emotion: &ldquo;No doubt; but I don't know which.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the little fair girl from the ready-made department,&rdquo; replied Madame
      Marty, obligingly, &ldquo;the second-hand, I believe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Henriette looked at Mouret in her turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said he, simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      And he tried to change the conversation, speaking of the fêtes given to
      the King of Prussia then passing through Paris. But the baron returned
      maliciously to the young ladies in the big establishments. He affected to
      be desirous of gaining information, and put several questions: Where did
      they come from in general? Was their conduct as bad as it was said to be?
      Quite a discussion ensued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really,&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;you think them well behaved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret defended their virtue with a conviction which made De Vallagnosc
      smile. Bouthemont then interfered, to save his chief. Of course there were
      some of all sorts, bad and good. Formerly they had nothing but the refuse
      of the trade, a poor, vague class of girls drifted into the drapery
      business; whilst now, such respectable families as those living in the Rue
      de Sèvres, for instance, positively brought up their girls for the Bon
      Marche. In short, when they liked to conduct themselves well, they could,
      for they were not, like the work-girls of Paris, obliged to board and
      lodge themselves; they had bed and board, their existence was provided
      for, an existence excessively hard, no doubt. The worst of all was their
      neutral, badly-defined position, between the shop-woman and the lady.
      Thrown into the midst of luxury, often without any previous instruction,
      they formed a singular, nameless class. Their misfortunes and vices sprung
      from that.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I,&rdquo; said Madame de Boves, &ldquo;I don't know any creatures more disagreeable.
      Really, one could slap them sometimes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the ladies vented their spite. They devoured each other before the
      shop-counters; it was a question of woman against woman in the sharp
      rivalry of money and beauty. It was an ill-natured jealousy felt by the
      saleswomen towards the well-dressed customers, the ladies whose manners
      they tried to imitate, and a still stronger feeling on the part of the
      poorly-dressed customers, the lower-class ones, against the saleswomen,
      those girls dressed in silk, from whom they would have liked to exact a
      servant's humility when serving a ten sou purchase.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't speak of them,&rdquo; said Henriette, by way of conclusion, &ldquo;a wretched
      lot of beings ready to sell themselves the same as their goods.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0009" id="linkimage-0009"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0423.jpg" alt="0423 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0423.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Mouret had the strength to smile. The baron was looking at him, so touched
      by his graceful command over himself that he changed the conversation,
      returning to the fêtes to be given to the King of Prussia, saying they
      would be superb, the whole trade of Paris would profit by them. Henriette
      remained silent and thoughtful, divided between the desire to forget
      Denise in the ante-room, and the fear that Mouret, now aware of her
      presence, might go away. At last she quitted her chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will allow me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, my dear,&rdquo; replied Madame Marty. &ldquo;I'll do the honours of the
      house for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She got up, took the teapot, and filled the cups. Henriette turned towards
      Baron Hartmann, saying: &ldquo;You'll stay a few minutes, won't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I want to speak to Monsieur Mouret. We are going to invade your
      little drawing-room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She went out, and her black silk dress, rustling against the door,
      produced a noise like that of a snake wriggling through the brushwood. The
      baron at once manoeuvred to carry Mouret off, leaving the ladies to
      Bouthemont and De Vallagnosc. Then they stood talking before the window of
      the other room in a low tone. It was quite a fresh affair. For a long time
      Mouret had cherished a desire to realise his former project, the invasion
      of the whole block by The Ladies' Paradise, from the Rue Monsigny to the
      Rue de la Michodière and from the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin to the Rue du
      Dix-Décembre. There was still a vast piece of ground, in the latter
      street, remaining to be acquired, and that sufficed to spoil his triumph,
      he was tortured with the desire to complete his conquest, to erect there a
      sort of apotheosis, a monumental façade. As long as his principal entrance
      should remain in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, in a dark street of old
      Paris, his work would be incomplete, wanting in logic. He wished to set it
      up before new Paris, in one of these modern avenues through which passed
      the busy crowd of the latter part of the nineteenth century. He saw it
      dominating, imposing itself as the giant palace of commerce, casting a
      greater shadow over the city than the old Louvre itself. But up to the
      present he had been baulked by the obstinacy of die Crédit Immobilier,
      which still held to its first idea of building a rival to the Grand Hôtel
      on this land. The plans were ready, they were only waiting for the
      clearing of the Rue du Dix-Décembre to commence the work. At last, by a
      supreme effort, Mouret had almost convinced Baron Hartmann.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; commenced the latter, &ldquo;we had a board-meeting yesterday, and I
      came to-day, thinking I should meet you, and being desirous of keeping you
      informed. They still resist.&rdquo; The young man gave way to a nervous gesture.
      &ldquo;But it's ridiculous. What do they say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me! they say what I have said to you myself, and what I am still
      inclined to think. Your façade is only an ornament, the new buildings
      would only extend by about a tenth the surface of your establishment, and
      it would be throwing away immense sums on a mere advertisement.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this Mouret burst out &ldquo;An advertisement! an advertisement! In any case
      this will be in stone and outlive all of us. Just consider that it would
      increase our business tenfold! We should see our money back in two years.
      What matters about what you call the wasted ground, if this ground returns
      you an enormous interest! You will see the crowd, when our customers are
      no longer obliged to struggle through the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, but
      can freely pass down a thoroughfare large enough for six carriages
      abreast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt,&rdquo; replied the baron, laughing. &ldquo;But you are a poet in your way,
      let me tell you once more. These gentlemen think it would be dangerous to
      further extend your business.' They want to be prudent for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do they mean? Prudent! I don't understand. Don't the figures show
      the constant progression of our business? At first, with a capital of five
      hundred thousand francs, I did business to the extent of two millions,
      turning the capital over four times. It then became four million francs,
      which, turned over ten times, has produced business to the extent of forty
      millions. In short, after successive increases, I have just learnt, from
      the last stock-taking, that the amount of business done now amounts to a
      total of eighty millions; thus the capital, only slightly increased&mdash;for
      it does not exceed six millions&mdash;has passed over our counters in the
      form of more than twelve times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He raised his voice, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the palm of
      his left hand, knocking down these millions as he would have cracked a few
      nuts. The baron interrupted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, I know. But you don't hope to keep on increasing in this way, do
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; asked Mouret, ingenuously. &ldquo;There's no reason why it should
      stop. The capital can be turned over as often as fifteen times. I
      predicted as much long ago. In certain departments it can be turned over
      twenty-five or thirty times. And after? well! after, we'll find a means of
      turning it over more than that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you'll finish by drinking up all the money in Paris, as you'd drink a
      glass of water?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most decidedly. Doesn't Paris belong to the women, and don't the women
      belong to us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron laid his hands on Mouret's shoulders, looking at him with a
      paternal air. &ldquo;Listen, you're a fine fellow, and I am really fond of you.
      There's no resisting you. We'll go into the matter seriously, and I hope
      to make them listen to reason. Up to the present, we are perfectly
      satisfied with you. Your dividends astonish the Bourse. You must be right;
      it will be better to put more money into your business, than to risk this
      competition with the Grand Hôtel, which is hazardous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret's excitement subsided at once; he thanked the baron, but without
      any of his usual enthusiasm; and the latter saw him turn his eyes towards
      the door of the next room, again seized with the secret anxiety which he
      was concealing. However, De Vallagnosc had come up, understanding that
      they had finished talking business. He stood close to them, listening to
      the baron, who was murmuring with the gallant air of an old man who had
      seen life:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, I fancy they're taking their revenge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; asked Mouret, embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, the women. They're getting tired of belonging to you; you now belong
      to them, my dear fellow; it's only just!&rdquo; He joked him, well aware of the
      young man's notorious love affairs: the mansion bought for the actress,
      the enormous sums squandered with girls picked up in private supper rooms,
      amused him as an excuse for the follies he had formerly committed himself.
      His old experience rejoiced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, I don't understand,&rdquo; repeated Mouret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! you understand well enough. They always get the last word. In fact, I
      said to myself: It isn't possible, he's boasting he can't be so strong as
      that! And there you are! Bleed the women, work them as you would a coal
      mine, and what for? In order that they may work you afterwards, and force
      you to refund at last! Take care, for they'll draw more blood and money
      from you than you have ever sucked from them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He laughed louder still; and De Vallagnosc was also grinning, without,
      however, saying a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me! one must have a taste of everything,&rdquo; confessed Mouret, at last,
      pretending to laugh as well. &ldquo;Money is so stupid, if it isn't spent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for that, I agree with you,&rdquo; resumed the baron. &ldquo;Enjoy yourself, my
      dear fellow, I'll not be the one to preach to you, nor to tremble for the
      great interests we have confided to your care. Every one must sow his wild
      oats, and his head is generally clearer afterwards. Besides, there's
      nothing unpleasant in ruining one's self when one feels capable of
      building up another fortune. But if money is nothing, there are certain
      sufferings&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped, his smile became sad, former sufferings presented themselves
      amid the irony of his scepticism. He had watched the duel between
      Henriette and Mouret with the curiosity of one who still felt greatly
      interested in other people's love battles; and he felt that the crisis had
      arrived, he guessed the drama, well acquainted with the story of this
      Denise, whom he had seen in the ante-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! as for suffering, that's not in my line,&rdquo; said Mouret, in a tone of
      bravado. &ldquo;It's quite enough to pay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron looked at him for a moment without speaking. Without wishing to
      insist on his discreet allusion he added, slowly&mdash;&ldquo;Don't make
      yourself worse than you are! You'll lose something else besides your money
      at that game. Yes, you'll lose a part of yourself, my dear fellow.&rdquo; He
      stopped, again laughing, to ask, &ldquo;That often happens, doesn't it, Monsieur
      de Vallagnosc?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So they say, baron,&rdquo; the young man simply replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just at this moment the door was opened. Mouret, who was going to reply,
      slightly started. The three men turned round. It was Madame Desforges,
      looking very gay, putting her head through the doorway to call, in a
      hurried voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Mouret! Monsieur Mouret!&rdquo; Then, when she perceived the three
      men, she added, &ldquo;Oh! you'll excuse me, won't you, gentlemen? I'm going to
      take Monsieur Mouret away for a minute. The least he can do, as he has
      sold me a frightful mantle, is to give me the benefit of his experience.
      This girl is a stupid, without the least idea. Come, come! I'm waiting for
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hesitated, undecided, flinching before the scene he could foresee. But
      he had to obey. The baron said to him, with his air at once paternal and
      mocking, &ldquo;Go, my dear fellow, go, madame wants you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret followed her. The door closed, and he thought he could hear De
      Vallagnosc's grin stifled by the hangings. His courage was entirely
      exhausted. Since Henriette had quitted the drawing-room, and he knew
      Denise was alone in the house in jealous hands, he had experienced a
      growing anxiety, a nervous torment, which made him listen from time to
      time as if suddenly startled by a distant sound of weeping. What could
      this woman invent to torture her? And his whole love, this love which
      surprised him even now, went out to the young girl like a support and a
      consolation. Never had he loved her so strongly, with that charm so
      powerful in suffering. His former affections, his love for Henriette
      herself&mdash;so delicate, so handsome, the possession of whom was so
      flattering to his pride&mdash;had never been more than agreeable pastimes,
      frequently a calculation, in which he sought nothing but a profitable
      pleasure. He used quietly to leave his mistresses and go home to bed,
      happy in his bachelor liberty, without a regret or a care on his mind;
      whilst now his heart beat with anguish, his life was taken, he no longer
      enjoyed the forgetfulness of sleep in his great, solitary bed. Denise was
      his only thought. Even at this moment she was the sole object of his
      anxiety, and he was telling himself that he preferred to be there to
      protect her, notwithstanding his fear of some regrettable scene with the
      other one.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first, they both crossed the bed-room, silent and empty. Then Madame
      Desforges, pushing open a door, entered the dressing-room, followed by
      Mouret. It was a rather large room, hung with red silk, furnished with a
      marble toilet table and a large wardrobe with three compartments and great
      glass doors. As the window looked into the yard, it was already rather
      dark, and the two nickel-plated gas burners on either side of the wardrobe
      had been lighted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, let's see,&rdquo; said Henriette, &ldquo;perhaps we shall get on better. This
      girl is a stupid, without the least idea. Come, come! I'm waiting for
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On entering, Mouret had found Denise standing upright, in the middle of
      the bright light. She was very pale, dressed in a cashmere jacket, and a
      black hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      He hesitated, undecided, flinching before the scene he could foresee. But
      he had to obey. The baron said to him, with his air at once paternal and
      mocking, &ldquo;Go, my dear fellow, go, madame wants you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret followed her. The door closed, and he thought he could hear De
      Vallagnosc's grin stifled by the hangings. His courage was entirely
      exhausted. Since Henriette had quitted the drawing-room, and he knew
      Denise was alone in the house in jealous hands, he had experienced a
      growing anxiety, a nervous torment, which made him listen from time to
      time as if suddenly startled by a distant sound of weeping. What could
      this woman invent to torture her? And his whole love, this love which
      surprised him even now, went out to the young girl like a support and a
      consolation. Never had he loved her so strongly, with that charm so
      powerful in suffering. His former affections, his love for Henriette
      herself&mdash;so delicate, so handsome, the possession of whom was so
      flattering to his pride&mdash;had never been more than agreeable pastimes,
      frequently a calculation, in which he sought nothing but a profitable
      pleasure. He used quietly to leave his mistresses and go home to bed,
      happy in his bachelor liberty, without a regret or a care on his mind;
      whilst now his heart beat with anguish, his life was taken, he no longer
      enjoyed the forgetfulness of sleep in his great, solitary bed. Denise was
      his only thought. Even at this moment she was the sole object of his
      anxiety, and he was telling himself that he preferred to be there to
      protect her, notwithstanding his fear of some regrettable scene with the
      other one.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first, they both crossed the bed-room, silent and empty. Then Madame
      Desforges, pushing open a door, entered the dressing-room, followed by
      Mouret. It was a rather large room, hung with red silk, furnished with a
      marble toilet table and a large wardrobe with three compartments and great
      glass doors. As the window looked into the yard, it was already rather
      dark, and the two nickel-plated gas burners on either side of the wardrobe
      had been lighted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, let's see,&rdquo; said Henriette, &ldquo;perhaps we shall get on better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On entering Mouret had found Denise standing upright, in the middle of a
      bright light. She was very pale, modestly dressed in a cashmere jacket
      with a black hat, and was holding on one arm the mantle bought at The
      Ladies Paradise. When she saw the young man her hands slightly trembled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish Monsieur Mouret to judge,&rdquo; resumed Henriette. &ldquo;Just help me,
      mademoiselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Denise, approaching, had to give her the mantle. She had already
      placed some pins on the shoulders, the part that did not fit. Henriette
      turned round to look at herself in the glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible? Speak frankly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It really is a failure, madame,&rdquo; said Mouret, to cut the matter short.
      &ldquo;It's very simple; the young lady will take your measure, and we will make
      you another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I want this one, I want it immediately,&rdquo; resumed she, with vivacity.
      &ldquo;But it's too narrow across the chest, and it forms a ruck at the back
      between the shoulders.&rdquo; Then, in her sharpest voice, she added: &ldquo;It's no
      use you standing looking at me, mademoiselle, that won't make it any
      better! Try and find a remedy. It's your business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise again commenced to place the pins, without saying a word. That went
      on for some time: she had to pass from one shoulder to the other, and was
      even obliged to go almost on her knees, to pull the mantle down in front.
      Above her placing herself entirely in Denise's hands, Madame Desforges
      gave her face the harsh expression of a mistress exceedingly difficult to
      please. Delighted to lower the young girl to this servant's work, she gave
      her sharp and brief orders, watching for the least sign of suffering on
      Mouret's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put a pin here! No! not there, here, near the sleeve. You don't seem to
      understand! That isn't it, there's the ruck showing again. Take care,
      you're pricking me now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Twice had Mouret vainly attempted to interfere, to put an end to this
      scene. His heart was beating violently from this humiliation of his love;
      and he loved Denise more than ever, with a deep tenderness, in the
      presence of her admirably silent and patient attitude. If the young girl's
      hands still trembled somewhat, at being treated in this way before his
      face, she accepted the necessities of her position with the proud
      resignation of a courageous girl. When Madame Desforges found they were
      not likely to betray themselves, she tried another way, she commenced to
      smile on Mouret, treating him openly as her lover. The pins having run
      short, she said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look, my dear, in the ivory box on the dressing-table. Really! it's
      empty? Kindly see on the chimney-piece in the bed-room; you know, at the
      corner of the looking-glass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She spoke as if he were quite at home, in the habit of sleeping there, and
      knew where to find everything, even the brushes and combs. When he brought
      back a few pins, she took them one by one, and forced him to stay near
      her, looking at him and speaking low.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't fancy I'm hump-backed. Give me your hand, feel my shoulders, just
      to please me. Am I really made like that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise slowly raised her eyes, paler than ever, and set about placing the
      pins in silence. Mouret could only see her blonde tresses, twisted at the
      back of her delicate neck; but by the slight shudder which was raising
      them, he thought he could perceive the uneasiness and shame of her face.
      Now, she would certainly repulse him, and send him back to this woman, who
      did not conceal her connection even before strangers. Brutal thoughts came
      into his head, he could have struck Henriette. How was he to stop her
      talk? How should he tell Denise that he adored her, that she alone existed
      for him at this moment, and that he was ready to sacrifice for her all his
      former affections? The worst of women would not have indulged in the
      equivocal familiarities of this well-born lady. He took his hand away, and
      drew back, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are wrong to go so far, madame, since I myself consider the garment
      to be a failure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One of the gas-burners was hissing, and in the stuffy, moist air of the
      room, nothing else was heard but this ardent breath. The looking-glasses
      threw large sheets of light on the red silk hangings, on which were
      dancing the shadows of the two women. A bottle of verbena, of which the
      cork had been left out, spread a vague odour, something like that of a
      fading bouquet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, madame, I can do no more,&rdquo; said Denise, at last, rising up.
    </p>
    <p>
      She felt thoroughly worn out. Twice she had run the pins in her fingers,
      as if blinded, her eyes in a mist. Was he in the plot? Had he sent for
      her, to avenge himself for her refusal, by showing that other women loved
      him? And this thought chilled her; she never remembered to have stood in
      need of so much courage, not even during the terrible hours of her life
      when she wanted for bread. It was comparatively nothing to be humiliated,
      but to see him almost in the arms of another woman, as if she had not been
      there! Henriette looked at herself in the glass, and once more broke out
      into harsh words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it's absurd, mademoiselle. It fits worse than ever. Just look how
      tight it is across the chest I look like a wet nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, losing all patience, made a rather unfortunate remark. &ldquo;You are
      slightly stout, madame. We cannot make you thinner than you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stout! stout!&rdquo; exclaimed Henriette, who now turned pale in her turn.
      &ldquo;You're becoming insolent, mademoiselle. Really, I should advise you to
      criticise others!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They both stood looking at each other, face to face, trembling. There was
      now neither lady or shop-girl. They were simply two women, made equal by
      their rivalry. The one had violently taken off the mantle and cast it on a
      chair, whilst the other was throwing on the dressing-table the few pins
      she had in her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What astonishes me,&rdquo; resumed Henriette, &ldquo;is that Monsieur Mouret should
      tolerate such insolence. I thought, sir, that you were more particular
      about your employees.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise had again assumed her brave, calm manner. She gently replied: &ldquo;If
      Monsieur Mouret keeps me, it's because he has no fault to find. I am ready
      to apologise to you, if he wishes it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret was listening, excited by this quarrel, unable to find a word to
      put a stop to it. He had a great horror of these explanations between
      women, their asperity wounding his sense of elegance and gracefulness.
      Henriette wished to force him to say something in condemnation of the
      young girl; and, as he remained mute, still undecided, she stung him with
      a final insult:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good, sir. It seems that I must suffer the insolence of your
      mistresses in my own house even! A girl you've picked up out of the
      gutter!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two big tears gushed from Denise's eyes. She had kept them back for some
      time, but her whole being succumbed beneath this last insult. When he saw
      her weeping like that, without the slightest attempt at retaliation, with
      a silent, despairing dignity, Mouret no longer hesitated, his heart went
      out towards her in an immense burst of tenderness. He took her hands in
      his and stammered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go away immediately, my child, and forget this house!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Henriette, perfectly amazed, choking with anger, stood looking at them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait a minute,&rdquo; continued he, folding up the mantle himself, &ldquo;take this
      garment away. Madame can buy another elsewhere. And pray don't cry any
      more. You know how much I esteem you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went with her to the door, which he closed after her. She had not said
      a word; but a pink flame had coloured her cheeks, whilst her eyes were wet
      with fresh tears, tears of a delicious sweetness. Henriette, who was
      suffocating, had taken out her handkerchief and was crushing her lips with
      it. This was a total overthrowing of her calculations, she herself had
      been caught in the trap she had laid. She was mortified with herself for
      having pushed the matter too far, tortured with jealousy. To be abandoned
      for such a creature as that! To see herself disdained before her! Her
      pride suffered more than her love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So, it's that girl that you love?&rdquo; said she, painfully, when they were
      alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret did not reply at once; he was walking about from the window to the
      door, as if absorbed by some violent emotion. At last he stopped, and very
      politely, in a voice which he tried to render cold, he replied with
      simplicity: &ldquo;Yes, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gas burner was still hissing in the stifling air of the dressing-room.
      But the reflex of the glasses were no longer traversed by dancing shadows,
      the room seemed bare, of a heavy dulness. Henriette suddenly dropped on a
      chair, twisting her handkerchief in her febrile fingers, repeating amidst
      her sobs:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! How miserable I am!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stood looking at her for several seconds, and then went away quietly.
      She, left all alone, wept on in silence, before the pins scattered over
      the dressing-table and the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you still enjoying yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret did not appear to understand him at first. But when he remembered
      their former conversations on the empty stupidity and the useless torture
      of life, he replied: &ldquo;Of course, I've never before lived so much. Ah! my
      boy, don't you laugh, the hours that make one die of grief are by far the
      shortest.&rdquo; He lowered his voice, continuing gaily, beneath his half-wiped
      tears: &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      De Vallagnosc simply said: &ldquo;And after?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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 for ever, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simple method of diverting one's self,&rdquo; murmured the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I prefer diverting myself. As one must die, I would rather die of
      passion than boredom!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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-Lo, she was squandering his last resources in a little house hired
      by him at Versailles.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's happier than you,&rdquo; said Mouret, getting up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! rather!&rdquo; declared De Vallagnosc. &ldquo;Perhaps it's only doing wrong
      that's somewhat amusing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a terrible mantle,&rdquo; observed Madame Marty. &ldquo;Henriette can't get over
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And really, this prolonged absence began to make every one feel awkward.
      But, at that very moment, Madame Desforges appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you've given it up as well?&rdquo; cried Madame de Boves, gaily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Monsieur Mouret told us you could do nothing with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Henriette affected the greatest surprise. &ldquo;Monsieur Mouret was joking. The
      mantle will fit splendidly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 Marche was an
      excellent house, solid, respectable, but the Louvre certainly had a more
      aristocratic class of customers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In short, you prefer The Ladies' Paradise,&rdquo; said the baron, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Mouret, quietly. &ldquo;There we really love our customers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way,&rdquo; asked Henriette, who wished to appear entirely at her ease,
      &ldquo;what have you done with my protege. Monsieur Mouret? You know&mdash;Mademoiselle
      de Fontenailles.&rdquo; And turning towards Madame Marty she explained, &ldquo;A
      maricheness, poor girl, fallen into poverty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Mouret, &ldquo;she earns three francs a day stitching.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      De Vallagnosc wished to interfere for a joke. &ldquo;Don't push him too far,
      madame, or he'll tell you that all the old families of France ought to
      sell calico.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; declared Mouret, &ldquo;it would at least be an honourable end for a
      great many of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 coloured 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 labour, 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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't it true, sir, that work leads to everything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Work and economy,&rdquo; replied he, with a slight shivering of his whole body.
      &ldquo;Add economy, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him with a gloomy expression. &ldquo;Reckon on me, I'm with you.
      Wait a minute.&rdquo; 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 revolutionise Paris, in his turn, by setting up for himself. When
      she spoke of an advance of funds for her new protegee, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must talk it over to-night,&rdquo; whispered Henriette, returning to
      Bouthemont. &ldquo;Don't fail to call about nine o'clock. The baron is with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the vast room was foil 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t 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 realisation 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. Every one noticed his wonderfully good humour
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know my lover opposite. It really grieves me to see him in that dark
      shop, where no one ever enters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's not so badly off,&rdquo; replied Marguerite, &ldquo;he's going to marry the
      governor's daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! oh!&rdquo; replied Clara, &ldquo;it would be good fun to lead him astray, then!
      I'll try the game on, my word of honour!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Prunaire, you had better attend to this lady instead of
      gossiping there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wasn't gossiping.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have the kindness to hold your tongue, and attend to this lady
      immediately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you're getting angry?&rdquo; said a voice behind Denise.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Pauline, who was crossing the department. She had noticed the
      scene, and spoke in a low tone, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'm obliged to,&rdquo; replied Denise in the same tone, &ldquo;I can't manage
      them otherwise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pauline shrugged her shoulders. &ldquo;Nonsense, you can be queen over all of us
      whenever you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was still unable to understand her friend's refusal. Since the end of
      August, Pauline had been married to Baugé, a most stupid affair, she would
      sometimes gaily remark. The terrible Bourdoncle treated her anyhow, now,
      considering her as lost for trade. Her only terror was that they might one
      fine day send them to love each other elsewhere, for the managers had
      decreed love to be execrable and fatal to business. So great was her fear,
      that, when she met Baugé in the galleries, she affected not to know him.
      She had just had a fright&mdash;old Jouve had nearly caught her talking to
      her husband behind a pile of dusters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See! he's followed me,&rdquo; added she, after having hastily related the
      adventure to Denise. &ldquo;Just look at him scenting me out with his big nose!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jouve, in fact, was then coming from the lace department, correctly
      arrayed in a white tie, his nose on the scent for some delinquent. But
      when he saw Denise he assumed a knowing air, and passed by with an amiable
      smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saved!&rdquo; murmured Pauline. &ldquo;My dear, you made him swallow that! I say, if
      anything should happen to me, you would speak for me, wouldn't you! Yes,
      yes, don't put on that astonished air, we know that a word from you would
      revolutionise the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she ran off to her counter. Denise had blushed, troubled by these
      amicable allusions. It was true, however. She had a vague sensation of her
      power by the flatteries with which she was surrounded. When Madame Aurélie
      returned, and found the department quiet and busy under the surveillance
      of the second-hand, she smiled at her amicably. She threw over Mouret
      himself, her amiability increased daily for this young girl who might one
      fine morning desire her situation as first-hand. Denise's reign was
      commencing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle alone still stood out. In the secret war which he continued to
      carry on against the young girl, there was in the first place a natural
      antipathy, he detested her for her gentleness and her charm. Then he
      fought against her as a fatal influence which would place the house in
      peril the day when Mouret should succumb. The governor's commercial genius
      seemed bound to sink amidst this stupid affection: what they had gained by
      women would be swallowed up by this woman. None of them touched his heart,
      he treated them with the disdain of a man without passion, whose trade is
      to live on them, and who had had his last illusions dispelled by seeing
      them too closely in the miseries of his traffic. Instead of intoxicating
      him, the odour of these seventy thousand customers gave him frightful
      headaches: and so soon as he reached home he beat his mistresses. And what
      made him especially anxious in the presence of this little saleswoman, who
      had gradually become so redoubtable, was that he did not in the least
      believe in her disinterestedness, in the genuineness of her refusals. For
      him she was playing a part, the most skilful of parts; for if she had
      yielded at once, Mouret would doubtless have forgotten her the next day;
      whilst by refusing, she had goaded his desires, rendering him mad, capable
      of any folly. An artful jade, a woman learned in vice, would not have
      acted any different to this pattern of innocence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus Bourdoncle could never catch sight of her, with her clear eyes, sweet
      face, and simple attitude, without being seized with a real fear, as if he
      had before him some disguised female flesh-eater, the sombre enigma of
      woman, Death in the guise of a virgin. In what way could he confound the
      tactics of this false novice? He was now only anxious to penetrate her
      artful ways, in the hope of exposing them to the light of day. She would
      certainly commit some fault, he would surprise her with one of her lovers,
      and she should again be dismissed. The house would then resume its regular
      working like a well wound-up machine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep a good look-out, Monsieur Jouve,&rdquo; repeated Bourdoncle to the
      inspector. &ldquo;I'll take care that you shall be rewarded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Jouve was somewhat lukewarm, he knew something about women, and was
      asking himself whether he had not better take the part of this young girl,
      who might be the future sovereign mistress of the place. Though he did not
      now dare to touch her, he still thought her bewitchingly pretty. His
      colonel in bygone days had killed himself for a similar little thing, with
      an insignificant face, delicate and modest, one look from whom ravaged all
      hearts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; replied he. &ldquo;But, on my word, I cannot discover anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And yet stories were circulating, there was quite a stream of abominable
      tittle-tattle running beneath the flattery and respect Denise felt arising
      around her. The whole house now declared that she had formerly had Hutin
      for a lover; no one could swear that the intimacy still continued, but
      they were suspected of meeting from time to time. Deloche also was said to
      sleep with her, they were continually meeting in dark corners, talking for
      hours together. It was quite a scandal!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So, nothing about the first-hand in the silk department, nor about the
      young man in the lace one?&rdquo; asked Bourdoncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir, nothing yet,&rdquo; replied the inspector.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was with Deloche especially that Bourdoncle expected to surprise
      Denise. One morning he himself had caught them laughing together
      downstairs. In the meantime, he treated her on a footing of perfect
      equality, for he no longer disdained her, he felt her to be strong enough
      to overthrow even him, notwithstanding his ten years' service, if he lost
      the game.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep your eye on the young man in the lace department,&rdquo; concluded he each
      time. &ldquo;They are always together. If you catch them, call me, I'll manage
      the rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret, however, was living in anguish. Was it possible that this child
      could torture him in this manner? He could always recall her arriving at
      The Ladies' Paradise, with her big shoes, thin black dress, and savage
      airs. She stammered, they all used to laugh at her, he himself had thought
      her ugly at first. Ugly! and now she could have brought him on his knees
      by a look, he thought her nothing less than an angel! Then she had
      remained the last in the house, repulsed, joked at, treated by him as a
      curious specimen of humanity. For months he had wanted to see how a girl
      sprung up, and had amused himself at this experiment, without
      understanding that he was risking his heart. She, little by little grew
      up, became redoubtable. Perhaps he had loved her from the first moment,
      even at the time he thought he felt nothing but pity for her. And yet he
      had only really begun to feel this love the evening of their walk under
      the chestnut trees of the Tuileries. His life started from there, he could
      still hear the laughing of a group of little girls, the distant fall of a
      jet of water, whilst in the warm shade she walked on beside him in
      silence. After that he knew no more, his fever had increased hour by hour;
      all his blood, his whole being, in fact, was sacrificed. And for such a
      child&mdash;was it possible? When she passed him now, the slight wind from
      her dress seemed so powerful that he staggered.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a long time he had struggled, and even now he frequently became
      indignant, endeavouring to extricate himself from this idiotic possession.
      What secret had she to be able to bind him in this way? Had he not seen
      her without boots? Had she not been received almost out of charity? He
      could have understood it had it been a question of one of those superb
      creatures who charm the crowd, but this little girl; this nobody! She had,
      in short, one of those insignificant faces which excite no remark. She
      could not even be very intelligent, for he remembered her bad beginning as
      a saleswoman. But, after every explosion of anger, he had experienced a
      relapse of passion, like a sacred terror at having insulted his idol. She
      possessed everything that renders a woman good&mdash;courage, gaiety,
      simplicity; and there exhaled from her gentleness, a charm of a
      penetrating, perfume-like subtlety. One might at first ignore her, or
      elbow her like any other girl; but the charm soon began to act, with a
      slow invincible force; one belonged to her for ever, if she deigned to
      smile. Everything then smiled in her white face, her pretty eyes, her
      cheeks and chin full of dimples; whilst her heavy blonde hair seemed to
      light up also, with a royal and conquering beauty. He acknowledged himself
      vanquished; she was as intelligent as she was beautiful, her intelligence
      came from the best part of her being. Whilst the other saleswomen had only
      a superficial education, the varnish which scales off from girls of that
      class, she, without any false elegance, retained her native grace, the
      savour of her origin. The most complete commercial ideas sprang up from
      her experience, under this narrow forehead, the pure lines of which
      clearly announced the presence of a firm will and a love of order. And he
      could have clasped his hands to ask her pardon for having blasphemed her
      during his hours of revolt.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why did she still refuse with such obstinacy. Twenty times had he entreated
      her, increasing his offers, offering money and more money. Then, thinking
      she must be ambitious, he had promised to appoint her first-hand, as soon
      as there should be a vacant department And she refused, and still she
      refused Î For him it was a stupor, a struggle in which his desire became
      enraged. Such an adventure appeared to him impossible, this child would
      certainly finish by yielding, for he had always regarded a woman's virtue
      as a relative matter. He could see no other object, everything disappeared
      before this necessity: to have her at last in his room, to take her on his
      knees, and, kiss her on her lips; and at this vision, the blood of his
      veins ran quick and strong, he trembled, distracted by his own
      powerlessness.
    </p>
    <p>
      His days now passed in the same grievous obsession, Denise's image rose
      with him; after having dreamed of her all night, it followed him before
      the desk in his office, where he signed his bills and orders from nine to
      ten o'clock: a work which he accomplished mechanically, never ceasing to
      feel her present, still saying no, with her quiet air. Then, at ten
      o'clock, came the board-meeting, a meeting of the twelve directors, at
      which he had to preside; they discussed matters affecting the in-door
      arrangements, examined the purchases, settled the window displays; and she
      was still there, he heard her soft voice amidst the figures, he saw her
      bright smile in the most complicated financial situations. After the
      board-meeting, she still accompanied him, making with him the daily
      inspection of the counters, returned with him to his office in the
      afternoon, remaining close to his chair from two till four o'clock, whilst
      he received a crowd of important business men, the principal manufacturers
      of all France, bankers, inventors; a continual come-and-go of the riches
      and intelligence of the land, an excited dance of millions, rapid
      interviews during which were hatched the biggest affairs on the Paris
      market. If he forgot her for a moment whilst deciding on the ruin or the
      prosperity of an industry, he found her again at a twitch of his heart;
      his voice died away, he asked himself what was the use of this princely
      fortune when she still refused. At last, when five o'clock struck, he had
      to sign the day's correspondence, the mechanical working of his hand again
      commenced, whilst she rose up before him more dominating than ever,
      seizing him entirely, to possess him during the solitary and ardent hours
      of the night. And the morrow was the same day over again, those days so
      active, so full of a colossal labour, which the slight shadow of a child
      sufficed to ravage with anguish.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was especially during his daily inspection of the departments that
      he felt his misery. To have built up this giant machine, to reign over
      such a world of people, and to be dying of grief because a little girl
      would not accept him! He scorned himself, dragging the fever and shame of
      his pain about with him everywhere. On certain days he became disgusted
      with his power, feeling a nausea at the very sight of the long galleries.
      At other times he would have wished to extend his empire, and make it so
      vast that she would perhaps yield out of sheer admiration and fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      He first of all stopped in the basement opposite the shoot. It was still
      in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin; but it had been necessary to enlarge it,
      and it was now as wide as the bed of a river, down which the continual
      flood of goods rolled with the loud noise of rushing water; it was a
      constant succession of arrivals from all parts of the world, rows of
      waggons from all railways, a ceaseless discharging of merchandise, a
      stream of boxes and bales running underground, absorbed by the insatiable
      establishment. He gazed at this torrent flowing into his house, thought of
      his position as one of the masters of the public fortune, that he held in
      his hands the fate of the French manufacturers, and that he was unable to
      buy a kiss from one of his saleswomen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he passed on to the receiving department, which now occupied that
      part of the basement running along the Rue Monsigny. Twenty tables were
      ranged there, in the pale light of the air-holes; dozens of shopmen were
      bustling about, emptying the cases, checking the goods, and marking them
      in plain figures, amidst the roar of the shoot, which almost drowned their
      voices. Various managers of departments stopped him, he had to resolve
      difficulties and confirm orders. This cellar was filled with the tender
      glimmer of the satin, the whiteness of the linen, a prodigious unpacking
      in which the furs were mingled with the lace, the fancy goods with the
      Eastern curtains. With a slow step he made his way amongst all these
      riches thrown about in disorder, heaped up in their rough state. Above,
      they were destined to ornament the window displays, letting loose the race
      after money across the counters, no sooner shown than carried off, in the
      furious current of business which traversed the place. He thought of his
      having offered the young girl silks, velvets, anything she liked to take
      in any quantities, from these enormous heaps, and that she had refused by
      a shake of her fair head.
    </p>
    <p>
      After that, he passed on to the other end of the basement, to pay his
      usual visit to the delivery department. Interminable corridors ran along,
      lighted up with gas; to the right and to the left, the reserves, closed in
      with gratings, were like so many subterranean stores, a complete
      commercial quarter, with its haberdashery, underclothing, glove, and other
      shops, sleeping in the shade. Further on was placed one of the three
      stoves; further still, a fireman's post guarding the gas-meter, enclosed
      in its iron cage. He found, in the delivery department, the sorting tables
      already blocked with loads of parcels, bandboxes, and cases, continually
      arriving in large baskets; and Campion, the superintendent, gave him some
      particulars about the current work, whilst the twenty men placed under his
      orders distributed the parcels into large compartments, each bearing the
      name of a district of Paris, and from whence the messengers took them up
      to the vans, ranged along the pavement. One heard a series of cries, names
      of streets, and recommendations shouted out; quite an uproar, an agitation
      such as on board a mail boat about to start. And he stood there for a
      moment, motionless, looking at this discharge of goods which he had just
      seen absorbed by the house, at the opposite extremity of the basement: the
      enormous current there discharged itself into the street, after having
      filled the tills with gold. His eyes became misty, this colossal business
      no longer had any importance; he had but one idea, that of going away to
      some distant, land, and abandoning everything, if she persisted in saying
      no.
    </p>
    <p>
      He then went upstairs, continuing his inspection, talking, and agitating
      himself more and more, without finding any respite. On the second floor he
      entered the correspondence department, picking quarrels, secretly
      exasperated against the perfect regularity of this machine that he had
      himself built up. This department was the one that was daily assuming the
      most considerable importance; it now required two hundred employees&mdash;some
      opening, reading, and classifying the letters coming from the provinces
      and abroad, whilst others gathered into compartments the goods ordered by
      the correspondents. And the number of letters was increasing to such an
      extent that they no longer counted them; they weighed them, receiving as
      much as a hundred pounds per day. He, feverish, went through the three
      offices, questioning Levasseur as to the weight of the correspondence;
      eighty pounds, ninety pounds, sometimes, on a Monday, a hundred pounds.
      The figure increased daily, he ought to have been delighted. But he stood
      shuddering, in the noise made by the neighbouring squad of packers nailing
      down the cases. Vainly he roamed about the house; the fixed idea remained
      fast in his mind, and as his power unfolded itself before him, as the
      mechanism of the business and the army of employees passed before his
      gaze, he felt more profoundly than ever the insult of his powerlessness.
      Orders from all Europe were flowing in, a special post-office van was
      required for his correspondence; and yet she said no, always no.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went downstairs again, visiting the central cashier's office, where
      four clerks guarded the two giants safes, in which there had passed the
      previous year forty-eight million francs. He glanced at the
      clearing-house, which now occupied twenty-five clerks, chosen from amongst
      the most trustworthy. He went into the next office, where twenty-five
      young men, junior clerks, were engaged in checking the debit-notes, and
      calculating the salesmen's commission. He returned to the chief cashier's
      office, exasperated at the sight of the safes, wandering amidst these
      millions, the uselessness of which drove him mad. She said no, always no.
    </p>
    <p>
      And it was always no, in all the departments, in the galleries, in the
      saloons, and in every part of the establishment! He went from the silk to
      the drapery department, from the linen to the lace department, he ascended
      to the upper floors, stopping on the flying bridges, prolonging his
      inspection with a maniacal, grievous minuteness. The house had grown out
      of all bounds, he had created this department, then this other; he
      governed this fresh domain, he extended his empire into this industry, the
      last one conquered; and it was no, always no, in spite of everything. His
      staff would now have sufficed to people a small town: there were fifteen
      hundred salesmen, and a thousand other employees of every sort, including
      forty inspectors and seventy cashiers; the kitchens alone gave occupation
      to thirty-two men; ten clerks were set apart for the advertising; there
      were three hundred and fifty shop messengers, all wearing livery, and
      twenty-four firemen living on the premises. And, in the stables, royal
      buildings situated in the Rue Monsigny, opposite the warehouse, were one
      hundred and forty-five horses, a luxurious establishment which was already
      celebrated in Paris. The first four conveyances which used formerly to
      stir up the whole neighbourhood, when the house occupied only the corner
      of the Place Gaillon, had gradually increased to sixty-two trucks,
      one-horse vans, and heavy two-horse ones. They were continually scouring
      Paris, driven with knowing skill by drivers dressed in black, promenading
      the gold and purple sign of The Ladies' Paradise. They even went beyond
      the fortifications, into the suburbs; they were to be met on the dusty
      roads of Bicêtre, along the banks of the Marne, even in the shady drives
      of the Forest of Saint-Germain. Sometimes one would spring up from the
      depths of some sunny avenue, where all was silent and deserted, the superb
      animals trotting along, throwing into the mysterious peacefulness of this
      grand nature the loud advertisement of its varnished panels. He was even
      dreaming of launching them further still, into the neighbouring
      departments; he would have liked to hear them rolling along every road in
      France, from one frontier to the other. But he no longer even troubled to
      visit his horses, though he was passionately fond of them. Of what good
      was this conquest of the world, since it was no, always no?
    </p>
    <p>
      At present, in the evening, when he arrived at Lhomme's desk, he still
      looked through habit at the amount of the takings written on a card, which
      the cashier stuck on an iron file at his side; this figure rarely fell
      below a hundred thousand francs, sometimes it ran up to eight and nine
      hundred thousand, on big sale days; but these figures no longer sounded in
      his ears like a trumpet-blast, he regretted having looked at them, going
      away full of bitterness and scorn for money.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mouret's sufferings were destined to increase, for he became jealous.
      One morning, in the office, before the boardmeeting commenced, Bourdoncle
      ventured to hint that the little girl in the ready-made department was
      playing with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&rdquo; asked he, very pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! she has lovers in this very building.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret found strength to smile. &ldquo;I don't think any more about her, my dear
      fellow. You can speak freely. Who are her lovers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hutin, they say, and then a salesman in the lace department&mdash;Deloche,
      that tall awkward fellow. I can't speak with certainty, never having seen
      them together. But it appears that it's notorious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a silence. Mouret affected to arrange the papers on his desk, to
      conceal the trembling of his hands. At last, he observed, without raising
      his head: &ldquo;We must have proofs, try and bring me some proofs. As for me, I
      assure you I don't, care in the least, for I'm quite sick of her. But we
      can't allow such things to go on here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle simply replied: &ldquo;Never fear, you shall have proofs one of these
      days. I'm keeping a good look out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This news deprived Mouret of all rest. He no longer had the courage to
      return to this conversation, but lived in the continual expectation of a
      catastrophe, in which his heart would be crushed. And this torment
      rendered him terrible, the whole house trembled before him. He now
      disdained to conceal himself behind Bourdoncle, but performed the
      executions in person, feeling a nervous desire for revenge, solacing
      himself by an abuse of his power, of that power which could do nothing for
      the contentment of his sole desire. Each one of his inspections became a
      massacre, his appearance caused a panic to run along from counter to
      counter. The dead winter season was just then approaching, and he made a
      clean sweep in the departments, multiplying the victims and pushing them
      into the streets. His first idea had been to dismiss Hutin and Deloche;
      then he had reflected that if he did not keep them, he would never
      discover anything; and the others suffered for them: the whole staff
      trembled. In the evening, when he found himself alone again, his eyes
      swelled up, big with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day especially terror reigned supreme. An inspector had the idea that
      Mignot was stealing. There were always a lot of strange-looking girls
      prowling around his counter; and one of them had just been arrested, her
      thighs and bosom padded with sixty pairs of gloves. From that moment a
      watch was kept, and the inspector caught Mignot in the act, facilitating
      the sleight of hand of a tall fair girl, formerly a saleswoman at the
      Louvre, but since gone wrong: the manouvre was very simple, he affected to
      try some gloves on her, waited till she had padded herself, and then
      conducted her to the pay-desk, where she paid for a single pair only.
      Mouret happened to be there, just at that moment. As a rule, he preferred
      not to mix himself up with these sort of adventures, which were pretty
      frequent; for notwithstanding the regular working of the well-arranged
      machine, great disorder reigned in certain departments of The Ladies'
      Paradise, and scarcely a week passed without some employee being dismissed
      for theft. The authorities preferred to hush up such matters as far as
      possible, considering it useless to set the police at work, and thus
      expose one of the fatal plague-spots of these great bazaars. But, that
      day, Mouret felt a real need of getting angry with some one, and he
      treated the handsome Mignot with such violence, and the latter stood there
      trembling with fear, his face pale and discomposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ought to call a policeman,&rdquo; cried Mouret, before all the other
      salesmen. &ldquo;But why don't you answer? who is this woman? I swear I'll send
      for the police, if you don't tell me the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had taken the woman away, and two saleswomen were undressing her.
      Mignot stammered out: &ldquo;I don't know her, sir. She's the one who came&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't tell lies!&rdquo; interrupted Mouret, in a violent rage. &ldquo;And there's
      nobody here to warn us! You are all in the plot, on my word! We are in a
      regular wood, robbed, pillaged, plundered. It's enough to make us have the
      pockets of each one searched before going out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Murmurs were heard. The three or four customers buying gloves stood
      looking on, frightened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence!&rdquo; resumed he, furiously, &ldquo;or I'll clear the place!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Bourdoncle came running up, anxious at the idea of the scandal. He
      whispered a few words in Mouret's ear, the affair was assuming an
      exceptional gravity; and he prevailed on him to take Mignot into the
      inspectors' office, a room on the ground floor near the entrance in the
      Rue Gaillon. The woman was there, quietly putting on her stays again. She
      had just mentioned Albert Lhomme's name. Mignot, again questioned, lost
      his head, and commenced to sob; he wasn't in fault, it was Albert who sent
      him his mistresses; at first he had merely afforded them certain
      advantages, enabling them to profit by the bargains; then, when they at
      last took to stealing, he was already too far compromised to report the
      matter. The principals now discovered a series of extraordinary robberies;
      goods taken away by girls, who went into the neighbouring W.Cs, built near
      the refreshment bar and surrounded by evergreen plants, to hide the goods
      under their petticoats; purchases that a salesman neglected to call out at
      a pay-desk, when he accompanied a customer there, the price of which he
      divided with the cashier; even down to false returns, articles which they
      announced as brought back to the house, pocketing the money thus repaid;
      without even mentioning the classical robbery, parcels taken out under
      their coats in the evening, rolled round their bodies, and sometimes even
      hung down their leg's. For the last fourteen months, thanks to Mignot and
      other salesmen, no doubt, whom they refused to name, this pilfering had
      been going on at Albert's desk, quite an impudent trade, for sums of which
      no one ever knew the exact total.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the news had spread into the various departments, causing the
      guilty consciences to tremble, and the most honest ones to quake at the
      general sweep that seemed imminent. Albert had disappeared into the
      inspectors' office. Next his father had passed, choking, his face full of
      blood, showing signs of apoplexy. Madame Aurélie herself was then called;
      and she, her head high beneath the affront, had the fat, puffed-up
      appearance of a wax mask. The explanation lasted some time, no one knew
      the exact details; but it was said the firsthand had slapped her son's
      face, and that the worthy old father wept, whilst the governor, contrary
      to all his elegant habits, swore like a trooper, absolutely wanting to
      deliver the offenders up to justice. However, the scandal was hushed up.
      Mignot was the only one dismissed there and then. Albert did not disappear
      till two days later; no doubt his mother had begged that the family should
      not be dishonoured by an immediate execution. But the panic lasted several
      days longer, for after this scene Mouret had wandered from one end of the
      establishment to the other, with a terrible expression, venting his anger
      on all those who dared even to raise their eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you doing there, sir, looking at the flies? Go and be paid!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last, the storm burst one day on the head of Hutin himself. Favier,
      appointed second-hand, was undermining the first-hand, in order to
      dislodge him from his position. This was always the way; he addressed
      crafty reports to the directors, taking advantage of every occasion to
      have the first-hand caught doing something wrong. Thus, one morning, as
      Mouret was going through the silk department, he stopped, surprised to see
      Favier engaged in altering the price tickets of a stock of black velvet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why are you lowering the prices?&rdquo; asked he. &ldquo;Who gave you the order to do
      so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The second-hand, who was making a great noise over this work, as if he
      wished to attract the governor's attention, foreseeing the result, replied
      with an innocent, surprised air:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Monsieur Hutin told me, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Hutin! Where is Monsieur Hutin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And when the latter came upstairs, called by a salesman, an animated
      explanation ensued. What! he undertook to lower the prices himself now!
      But he appeared greatly astonished in his turn, having merely talked over
      the matter with Favier, without giving any positive orders. The latter
      then assumed the sorrowful air of an employee who finds himself obliged to
      contradict his superior. However, he was quite willing to accept the
      blame, if it would get the latter out of a scrape. Things began to look
      very bad.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Understand, Monsieur Hutin!&rdquo; cried Mouret, &ldquo;I have never tolerated these
      attempts at independence. We alone decide about the prices.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He continued, with a sharp voice, and wounding intentions, which surprised
      the salesmen, for as a rule these discussions were carried on quietly, and
      the case might really have resulted from a misunderstanding. One could
      feel he had some unavowed spite to satisfy. He had at last caught that
      Hutin at fault, that Hutin who was said to be Denise's lover! He could now
      solace himself, by making him feel that he was the master! And he
      exaggerated matters, even insinuating that this reduction of price
      appeared to conceal very questionable intentions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; repeated Hutin, &ldquo;I meant to consult you about it. It is really
      necessary, as you know, for these velvets have not succeeded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret cut him short with a final insult. &ldquo;Very good, sir; we will look
      into the matter. But don't do such a thing again, if you value your
      place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he walked off. Hutin, bewildered, furious, finding no one but Favier
      to confide in, swore he would go and throw his resignation at the brute's
      head. But he soon left off talking of going away, and began to stir up all
      the abominable accusations which were current amongst the salesmen against
      their chiefs. And Favier, his eye sparkling, defended himself with a great
      show of sympathy. He was obliged to reply, wasn't he? Besides, could any
      one have foreseen such a row for so trifling a matter? What had come to
      the governor lately, that he should be so unbearable?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We all know what's the matter with him,&rdquo; replied Hutin, &ldquo;Is it my fault
      if that little jade in the dress-department is turning his head? My dear
      fellow, you can see the blow comes from there. He's aware I've slept with
      her, and he doesn't like it; or perhaps it's she herself who wants to get
      me pitched out, because I'm in her way. But I swear she shall hear from
      me, if ever she crosses my path.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two days after, as Hutin was going up into the work-room, upstairs, under
      the roof, to recommend a person, he started on perceiving at the end of a
      passage Denise and Deloche leaning out of a window, and plunged so deeply
      in private conversation that they did not even turn round. The idea of
      having them caught occurred to him suddenly, when he perceived with
      astonishment that Deloche was weeping. He at once went away without making
      any noise; and meeting Bourdoncle and Jouve on the stairs, told them some
      story about one of the <i>extincteurs</i> the door of which seemed to be
      broken; in this way they would go upstairs and drop on to the two others.
      Bourdoncle discovered them first. He stopped short, and told Jouve to go
      and fetch the governor, whilst he remained there. The inspector had to
      obey, greatly annoyed at being forced to compromise himself in such a
      matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a lost corner of the vast world in which the people of The
      Ladies' Paradise worked. One arrived there by a complication of stairs and
      passages. The work-rooms occupied the top of the house, a succession of
      low sloping rooms, lighted by large windows cut in the zinc roof,
      furnished solely with long tables and enormous iron stoves; and right
      along were a crowd of work-girls of all sorts, for the under-clothing, the
      lace, the dressmaking, and the house furnishing; living winter and summer
      in a stifling heat, amidst the odour special to the business; and one had
      to go straight through the wing, and turn to the right on passing the
      dressmakers, before coming to this solitary end of the corridor. The rare
      customers, that a salesman occasionally brought here for an order, gasped
      for breath, tired out, frightened, with the sensation of having been
      turning round for hours and hours, and of being a hundred leagues above
      the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise had often found Deloche waiting for her. As secondhand she had
      charge of the arrangements between her department and the work-room where
      only the models and alterations were done, and was always going up and
      down to give the necessary orders. He watched for her, inventing any
      pretext to run after her; then he affected to be surprised when he met her
      at the work-room door. She got to laugh about the matter, it became quite
      an understood thing. The corridor ran alongside the cistern, an enormous
      iron tank containing twelve thousand gallons of water; and there was
      another one of equal size on the roof, reached by an iron ladder. For an
      instant, Deloche would stand talking, leaning with one shoulder against
      the cistern in the continual abandonment of his long body, bent with
      fatigue. The noise of the water was heard, a mysterious noise of which the
      iron tank ever retained the musical vibration. Notwithstanding the deep
      silence, Denise would turn round anxiously, thinking she had seen a shadow
      pass on the bare, yellow-painted walls. But the window would soon attract
      them, they would lean out, and forget themselves in a pleasant gossip, in
      endless souvenirs of their native place. Below them, extended the immense
      glass roof of the central gallery, a lake of glass bounded by the distant
      housetops, like a rocky coast. Beyond, they saw nothing but the sky, a
      sheet of sky, which reflected in the sleeping water of the glazed work the
      flight of its clouds and the tender blue of its azure.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so happened that Deloche was speaking of Valognes that day. &ldquo;I was six
      years old; my mother took me to Valognes market in a cart. You know it's
      ten miles away; we had to leave Bricquebec at five o'clock. It's a fine
      country down our way. Do you know it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; replied Denise, slowly, her looks lost in the distance. &ldquo;I was
      there once, but was very little then. Nice roads with grass on each side,
      aren't there? and now and again sheep browsing in couples, dragging their
      clog along by the rope.&rdquo; She stopped, then resumed with a vague smile:
      &ldquo;Our roads run as straight as an arrow for miles between rows of trees
      which afford a lot of shade. We have meadows surrounded with hedges taller
      than I am, where there are horses and cows feeding. We have a little
      river, and the water is very cold, under the brushwood, in a spot I know
      well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the same with us, exactly!&rdquo; cried Deloche, delighted. &ldquo;There's
      grass everywhere, each one encloses his plot with thorns and elms, and is
      at once at home; and it's quite green, a green far different to what we
      see in Paris. Dear me! what fun I've had at the bottom of the road, to the
      left, coming down from the mill!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And their voices died away, they stopped with their eyes fixed and lost on
      the sunny lake of the glazed work. A mirage rose up before them from this
      blinding water, they saw an endless succession of meadows, the Cotentin
      bathed in the balmy breath of the ocean, a luminous vapour, which melted
      the horizon into a delicate pearly grey. Below, under the colossal iron
      framework, in the silk hall, roared the business, the trepidation of the
      machine at work; the entire house vibrated with the trampling of the
      crowd, the bustle of the shopmen, and the life of the thirty thousand
      persons elbowing each other there; and they, carried away by their dreams,
      on feeling this profound and dull clamour with which the roofs were
      resounding, thought they heard the wind passing over the grass, shaking
      the tall trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! Mademoiselle Denise,&rdquo; stammered Deloche, &ldquo;why aren't you kinder to
      me? I love you so much!&rdquo; Tears had come into his eyes, and as she tried to
      interrupt him with a gesture, he continued quickly: &ldquo;No&mdash;let me tell
      you these things once more. We should get on so well together! People
      always find something to talk about when they come from the same place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was choking, and she at last managed to say kindly: &ldquo;You're not
      reasonable; you promised me never to speak of that again. It's impossible.
      I have a good friendship for you, because you're a nice fellow; but I wish
      to remain free.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes. I know it,&rdquo; replied he in a broken voice, &ldquo;you don't love me.
      Oh! you may say so, I quite understand it. There's nothing in me to make
      you love me. Listen, I've only had one sweet moment in my life, and that
      was when I met you at Joinville, do you remember? For a moment under the
      trees, when it was so dark, I thought your arm trembled, and was stupid
      enough to imagine&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she again interrupted him. Her quick ear had just caught Bourdoncle's
      and Jouve's steps at the end of the corridor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hark, there's some one coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said he, preventing her leaving the window, &ldquo;it's in the cistern:
      all sorts of extraordinary noises come up from it, as if there were some
      one inside.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he continued his timid, caressing complaints. She was no longer
      listening to him, rocked into dreamland by this declaration of love, her
      looks wandering over the roofs of The Ladies' Paradise. To the right and
      the left of the glazed gallery, other galleries, other halls, were
      glistening in the sun, between the tops of the houses, pierced with
      windows and running along symmetrically, like the wings of a barracks.
      Immense metallic works rose up, ladders, bridges, describing a lacework of
      iron in the air; whilst the kitchen chimneys threw out an immense volume
      of smoke like a factory, and the great square cistern, supported in the
      air on wrought-iron pillars, assumed a strange, barbarous profile, hoisted
      up to this height by the pride of one man. In the distance, Paris was
      roaring.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Denise returned from this dreamy state, from this fanciful
      development of The Ladies' Paradise, in which her thoughts floated as in a
      vast solitude, she found that Deloche had seized her hand. And he appeared
      so woe-begone, so full of grief, that she had not the heart to draw it
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me,&rdquo; he murmured. &ldquo;It's all over now; I should be quite too
      miserable if you punished me by withdrawing your friendship. I assure you
      I intended to say something else. Yes, I had determined to understand the
      situation and be very good.&rdquo; His tears again began to flow, he tried to
      steady his voice. &ldquo;For I know my lot in life. It is too late for my luck
      to turn. Beaten at home, beaten in Paris, beaten everywhere. I've now been
      here four years and am still the last in the department So I wanted to
      tell you not to trouble on my account. I won't annoy you any longer. Try
      to be happy, love some one else; yes, that would really be a pleasure for
      me. If you are happy, I shall be also. That will be my happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He could say no more. As if to seal his promise he raised the young girl's
      hand to his lips&mdash;kissing it with the humble kiss of a slave. She was
      deeply affected, and said simply, in a tender, sisterly tone, which
      attenuated somewhat the pity of the words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But they started, and turned round; Mouret was standing before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the last ten minutes, Jouve had been searching for the governor all
      over the place; but the latter was looking at the works going on for the
      new façade in the Rue du Dix-Décembre. He spent long hours there every
      day, trying to interest himself in this work, of which he had so long
      dreamed. This was his refuge against his torments, amidst the masons
      laying the immense corner-stones, and the engineers setting up the great
      iron framework. The façade already appeared above the level of the street,
      indicating the vast porch, and the windows of the first storey, a
      palace-like development in its crude state. He scaled the ladders,
      discussing with the architect the ornamentation which was to be something
      quite new, scrambled over the heaps of brick and iron, and even went down
      into the cellar; and the roar of the steam-engine, the tic-tac of the
      trowels, the noise of the hammers, the clamour of this people of workmen,
      all over this immense cage surrounded by sonorous planks, really
      distracted him for an instant. He came out white with plaster, black with
      iron-filings, his feet splashed by the water from the pumps, his pain so
      far from being cured that his anguish returned and his heart beat stronger
      than ever, as the noise of the works died away behind him. It so happened,
      on the day in question, a slight distraction had restored him his gaiety,
      and he was deeply interested in an album of drawings of the mosaics and
      enamelled terra-cottas which were to decorate the friezes, when Jouve came
      up to fetch him, out of breath, annoyed at being obliged to dirty his coat
      amongst all this building material. At first Mouret had cried out that
      they must wait; then, at a word spoken in a low tone by the inspector, he
      had immediately followed him, shivering, a prey again to his passion.
      Nothing else existed, the façade crumbled away before being built; what
      was the use of this supreme triumph of his pride, if the simple name of a
      woman whispered in his ear tortured him to this extent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upstairs, Bourdoncle and Jouve thought it prudent to vanish. Deloche had
      already run away, Denise alone remained to face Mouret, paler than usual,
      but looking straight into his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have the kindness to follow me, mademoiselle,&rdquo; said he in a harsh voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      She followed him, they descended the two storeys, and crossed the
      furniture and carpet departments without saying a word. When he arrived at
      his office, he opened the door wide, saying, &ldquo;Walk in, mademoiselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, closing the door, he went to his desk. The new director's office was
      fitted up more luxuriously than the old one, the reps hangings had been
      replaced by velvet ones, and a book-case, incrusted with ivory, occupied
      one whole side; but on the walls there was still no picture but the
      portrait of Madame Hédouin, a young woman with a handsome calm face,
      smiling in its gold frame.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle,&rdquo; said he at last, trying to maintain a cold, severe air,
      &ldquo;there are certain things that we cannot tolerate. Good conduct is
      absolutely necessary here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped, choosing his words, in order not to yield to the furious anger
      which was rising up within him. What! she loved this fellow, this
      miserable salesman, the laughingstock of his counter! and it was the
      humblest, the most awkward of all that she preferred to him, the master!
      for he had seen them, she leaving her hand in his, and he covering that
      hand with kisses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been very good to you, mademoiselle,&rdquo; continued he, making a fresh
      effort &ldquo;I little expected to be rewarded in this way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, immediately on entering, had been attracted by Madame Hédouin's
      portrait; and, notwithstanding her great trouble, was still pre-occupied
      by it. Every time she came into the director's office her eyes were sure
      to meet those of this lady. She felt almost afraid of her, although she
      knew her to have been very good. This time, she felt her to be a
      protection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right, sir,&rdquo; he said, softly, &ldquo;I was wrong to stop and talk, and
      I beg your pardon for doing so. This young man comes from my part of the
      country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll dismiss him!&rdquo; cried Mouret, putting all his suffering into this
      furious cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      And, completely overcome, entirely forgetting his position as a director
      lecturing a saleswoman guilty of an infraction of the rules, he broke out
      into a torrent of violent words. Had she no shame in her? a young girl
      like her abandoning herself to such a being! and he even made most
      atrocious accusations, introducing Hutin's name into the affair, and then
      others, in such a flood of words, that she could not even defend herself.
      But he would make a clean sweep, and kick them all out. The severe
      explanation he had promised himself, when following Jouve, had degenerated
      into the shameful violence of a scene of jealousy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, your lovers! They told me about it, and I was stupid enough to doubt
      it But I was the only one! I was the only one!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, suffocating, bewildered, stood listening to these frightful
      charges, which she had not at first understood. Did he really suppose her
      to be as bad as this? At another remark, harsher than all the rest, she
      silently turned towards the door. And, in reply to a movement he made to
      stop her, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me alone, sir, I'm going away. If you think me what you say, I will
      not remain in the house another second.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he rushed in front of the door, exclaiming: &ldquo;Why don't you defend
      yourself? Say something!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stood there very stiff, maintaining an icy silence. For a long time he
      pressed her with questions, with a growing anxiety; and the mute dignity
      of this innocent girl once more appeared to be the artful calculation of a
      woman learned in all the tactics of passion. She could not have played a
      game better calculated to bring him to her feet, tortured by doubt,
      desirous of being convinced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, you say he is from your part of the country? Perhaps you've met
      there formerly. Swear that there has been nothing between you and this
      fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as she obstinately remained silent, as if still wishing to open the
      door and go away, he completely lost his head, and broke out into a
      supreme explosion of grief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! I love you! I love you! Why do you delight in tormenting me
      like this? You can see that nothing else exists, that the people of whom I
      speak only touch me through you, and you alone can occupy my thoughts.
      Thinking you were jealous, I gave up all my pleasures. You were told I had
      mistresses; well! I have them no longer; I hardly set foot outside. Did I
      not prefer you at that lady's house? have I not broken with her to belong
      solely to you? And I am still waiting for a word of thanks, a little
      gratitude. And if you fear that I should return to her, you may feel quite
      easy: she is avenging herself by helping one of our former salesmen to
      found a rival establishment. Tell me, must I go on my knees to touch your
      heart?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had come to this. He, who did not tolerate the slightest peccadillo
      with the shopwomen, who turned them out for the least caprice, found
      himself reduced to imploring one of them not to go away, not to abandon
      him in his misery. He held the door against her, ready to forgive her
      everything, to shut his eyes, if she merely deigned to lie. And it was
      true, he had got thoroughly sick of girls picked up at theatres and
      night-houses; he had long since given up Clara and now ceased to visit at
      Madame Desforges's house, where Bouthemont reigned supreme, while waiting
      for the opening of the new shop, The Four Seasons, which was already
      filling the newspapers with its advertisements.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must I go on my knees?&rdquo; repeated he, almost choked by suppressed tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stopped him, herself quite unable to conceal her emotion, deeply
      affected by this suffering passion. &ldquo;You are wrong, sir, to agitate
      yourself in this way,&rdquo; replied she, at last &ldquo;I assure you that all these
      wicked reports are untrue. This poor fellow you have just seen is no more
      guilty than I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She said this with her brave, frank air, looking with her bright eyes
      straight into his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good, I believe you,&rdquo; murmured he. &ldquo;I'll not dismiss any of your
      comrades, since you take all these people under your protection. But why,
      then, do you repulse me, if you love no one else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sudden constraint, an anxious bashfulness seized the young girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You love some one, don't you?&rdquo; resumed he, in a trembling voice. &ldquo;Oh! you
      may speak out; I have no claim on your affections. Do you love any one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned very red, her heart was in her mouth, and she felt all
      falsehood impossible before this emotion which was betraying her, this
      repugnance for a lie which made the truth appear in her face in spite of
      all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she at last confessed, feebly. &ldquo;But I beg you to let me go away,
      sir, you are torturing me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was now suffering in her turn. Was it not enough to have to defend
      herself against him? Was she to be obliged to fight against herself,
      against the breath of tenderness which sometimes took away all her
      courage? When he spoke to her thus, when she saw him so full of emotion,
      so overcome, she hardly knew why she still refused; and it was only
      afterwards that she found, in the depths of her healthy, girlish nature,
      the pride and the prudence which maintained her intact in her virtuous
      resolution. It was by a sort of instinct of happiness that she still
      remained so obstinate, to satisfy her need of a quiet life, and not from
      any idea of virtue. She would have fallen into this man's arms, her heart
      seduced, her flesh overpowered if she had not experienced a sort of
      revolt, almost a feeling of repulsion before the definite bestowal of her
      being, ignorant of her future fate. The lover made her afraid, inspiring
      her with that fear that all women feel at the approach of the male.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret gave way to a gesture of gloomy discouragement. He could not
      understand her. He turned towards his desk, took up some papers and then
      laid them down again, saying: &ldquo;I will retain you no longer, mademoiselle;
      I cannot keep you against your will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I don't wish to go away,&rdquo; replied she, smiling. &ldquo;If you believe me to
      be innocent, I will remain. One ought always to believe a woman to be
      virtuous, sir. There are numbers who are so, I assure you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise's eyes had involuntarily wandered towards Madame Hédouin's
      portrait: that lady so wise and so beautiful, whose blood, they said, had
      brought good fortune to the house. Mouret followed the young girl's look
      with a start, for he thought he heard his dead wife pronounce this phrase,
      one of her own sayings which he at once recognised. And it was like a
      resurrection, he discovered in Denise the good sense, the just equilibrium
      of her he had lost, even down to the gentle voice, sparing of useless
      words. He was struck by this resemblance, which rendered him sadder still.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know I am yours,&rdquo; murmured he in conclusion. &ldquo;Do what you like with
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she resumed gaily: &ldquo;That is right, sir. The advice of a woman,
      however humble she may be, is always worth listening to when she has a
      little intelligence. If you put yourself in my hands, be sure I'll make
      nothing but a good man of you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She smiled, with that simple unassuming air which had such a charm. He
      also smiled in a feeble way, and escorted her as far as the door, as he
      would a lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day Denise was appointed first-hand. The dress and costume
      department was divided, the management creating especially for her one for
      children's costumes, which was installed close to the ready-made one.
      Since her son's dismissal, Madame Aurélie had been trembling, for she
      found the directors getting cool towards her, and saw the young girl's
      power increasing daily. Would they not shortly sacrifice her in favour of
      this latter, by taking advantage of the first pretext? Her emperor's mask,
      puffed up with fat, seemed to have got thinner from the shame which now
      stained the whole Lhomme dynasty; and she made a show of going away every
      evening on her husband's arm, for they were brought nearer together by
      misfortune, and felt vaguely that the evil came from the disorder of their
      home; whilst the poor old man, more affected than her, in a sickly fear of
      being himself suspected of robbery, counted over the receipts, again and
      again, noisily, performing miracles with his amputated arm. So that, when
      she saw Denise appointed first-hand in the children's costume department,
      she experienced such joy that she paraded the most affectionate feeling
      towards the young girl, really grateful to her for not having taken her
      place away. And she overwhelmed her with attentions, treating her as an
      equal, often going to talk to her in the neighbouring department, with a
      stately air, like a queen-mother paying a visit to a young queen.
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, Denise was now at the summit. Her appointment as first-hand had
      destroyed the last resistance. If some still babbled, from that itching of
      the tongue which ravages every assemblage of men and women, they bowed
      very low before her face. Marguerite, now second-hand, was full of praise
      for her. Clara, herself, inspired with a secret respect before this good
      fortune, which she felt herself incapable of achieving, had bowed her
      head. But Denise's victory was more complete still over the gentlemen;
      over Jouve, who now bent almost double whenever he addressed her; over
      Hutin, seized with anxiety on feeling his position giving way under him;
      and over Bourdoncle, reduced at last to powerlessness. When the latter saw
      her coming out of the director's office, smiling, with her quiet air, and
      that the next day Mouret had insisted on the board creating this new
      department, he had yielded, vanquished by a sacred terror of woman. He had
      always given in thus before Mouret, recognising him to be his master,
      notwithstanding his escapades and his idiotic love affairs. This time the
      woman had proved the stronger, and he was expecting to be swept away by
      the disaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, Denise bore her triumph in a peaceable, charming manner, happy at
      these marks of consideration, even affecting to see in them a sympathy for
      the miseries of her debut and the final success of her patient courage.
      Thus she received with a laughing joy the slightest marks of friendship,
      and this caused her to be really loved by some, she was so kind,
      sympathetic, and full of affection. The only person for whom she still
      showed an invincible repugnance was Clara, having learned that this girl
      had amused herself by taking Colomban home with her one night as she had
      said she would do for a joke; and he, carried away by his passion, was
      becoming more dissipated every day, whilst poor Geneviève was slowly
      dying. The adventure was talked of at The Ladies' Paradise, and thought
      very droll.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this trouble, the only one she had outside, did not in any way change
      Denise's equable temper. It was especially in her department that she was
      seen at her best, in the midst of her little world of babies of all ages.
      She was passionately fond of children, and she could not have been placed
      in a better position. Sometimes there were fully fifty girls and as many
      boys there, quite a turbulent school, let loose in their growing
      coquettish desires. The mothers completely lost their heads. She,
      conciliating, smiling, had the little ones placed in a line, on chairs;
      and when there happened to be amongst the number a rosy-cheeked little
      angel, whose pretty face tempted her, she would insist on serving her
      herself, bringing the dress and trying it on the child's dimpled
      shoulders, with the tender precaution of an elder sister. There were fits
      of laughter, cries of joy, amidst the scolding voices of the mothers.
      Sometimes a little girl, already a grand lady, nine or ten years old,
      having a cloth jacket to try on, would stand studying it before a glass,
      turning round, with an absorbed air, her eyes sparkling with a desire to
      please. The counters were encumbered with the things unpacked, dresses in
      pink and blue Asian linen for children of from one to five years, blue
      sailor costumes, with plaited skirt and blouse, trimmed with fine cambric
      muslin, Louis XV. costumes, mantles, jackets, a pell-mell of narrow
      garments, stiffened in their infantine grace, something like the
      cloak-room of a regiment of big dolls, taken out of the wardrobes and
      given up to pillage. Denise had always a few sweets in her pockets, to
      appease the tears of some youngster in despair at not being able to carry
      off a pair of red trousers; and she lived there amongst these little ones
      as in her own family, feeling quite young again herself from the contact
      of all this innocence and freshness incessantly renewed around her skirts.
    </p>
    <p>
      She now had frequent friendly conversations with Mouret. When she went to
      the office to take orders and furnish information, he kept her talking,
      enjoying the sound of her voice. It was what she laughingly called &ldquo;making
      a good man of him.&rdquo; In her prudent, cautious Norman head there sprang up
      all sorts of projects, ideas about the new business which she had already
      ventured to hint at when at Robineau's, and some of which she had
      expressed on the evening of their walk in the Tuileries gardens. She could
      not be occupied in any matter, see any work going on, without being moved
      with a desire to introduce some improvement in the mechanism. Then, since
      her entry into The Ladies' Paradise, she was especially pained by the
      precarious position of the employees; the sudden dismissals shocked her,
      she thought them iniquitous and stupid, hurtful to all, to the house as
      much as to the staff. Her former sufferings were still fresh in her mind,
      and her heart was seized with pity every time she saw a new comer, her
      feet bruised, her eyes dim with tears, dragging herself along in her
      misery in her silk dress, amidst the spiteful persecution of the old
      hands. This dog's life made the best of them bad; and the sad work of
      destruction commenced: all eaten up by the trade before the age of forty,
      disappearing, falling into unknown places, a great many dying in harness,
      some of consumption and exhaustion, others of fatigue and bad air, a few
      thrown on the street, the happiest married, buried in some little
      provincial shop. Was it humane, was it just, this frightful consumption of
      human life that the big shops carried on every year? And she pleaded the
      cause of the wheel-work of the colossal machine, not from any sentimental
      reasons, but by arguments appealing to the very interests of the
      employers. To make a machine solid and strong, it is necessary to use good
      iron; if the iron breaks or is broken, there is a stoppage of work,
      repeated expenses of starting, quite a loss of power.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes she would become quite animated, she would picture an immense
      ideal bazaar, the phalansterium of modern commerce, in which each one
      should have his exact share of the profits, according to his merits, with
      the certainty of the future, assured to him by a contract Mouret would
      feel amused at this, notwithstanding his fever. He accused her of
      socialism, embarrassed her by pointing out the difficulties of carrying
      out these schemes; for she spoke in the simplicity of her soul, bravely
      trusting in the future, when she perceived a dangerous hole underlying her
      tender-hearted plans. He was, however, shaken, captivated by this young
      voice, still trembling from the evils endured, so convinced and earnest in
      pointing out the reforms which would tend to consolidate the house; yet he
      listened while joking with her; the salesmen's position gradually
      improved, the wholesale dismissals were replaced by a system of holidays
      granted during the dead seasons, and there was also about to be created a
      sort of benefit club which would protect the employees against bad times
      and ensure them a pension. It was the embryo of the vast trades' unions of
      the twentieth century.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise did not confine her attention solely to healing the wounds from
      which she had herself bled; she conceived various delicate feminine ideas,
      which, communicated to Mouret, delighted the customers. She also caused
      Lhomme's happiness by supporting a scheme he had long nourished, that of
      creating a band of music, in which all the executants should be chosen
      from amongst the staff. Three months later Lhomme had a hundred and twenty
      musicians under his direction, the dream of his whole life was realised.
      And a grand fête was given on the premises, a concert and a ball, to
      introduce the band of The Ladies' Paradise to the customers and the whole
      world. The newspapers took the matter up, Bourdoncle himself, frightened
      by these innovations, was obliged to bow before this immense
      advertisement. Afterwards, a recreation room for the men was established,
      with two billiard tables and backgammon and chess boards. Then classes
      were held in the house of an evening; there were lessons in English and
      German, in grammar, arithmetic, and geography; they even had lessons in
      riding and fencing. A library was formed, ten thousand volumes were placed
      at the disposal of the employees. And a resident doctor giving
      consultations gratis was also added, together with baths, and
      hair-dressing and refreshment saloons. Every want in life was provided
      for, everything was to be obtained without going outside&mdash;board,
      lodging, and clothing. The Ladies' Paradise sufficed entirely for all its
      own wants and pleasures, in the very heart of Paris, taken up by all this
      clatter, by this working city which was springing up so vigorously out of
      the ruins of the old streets, at last opened to the rays of the sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then a fresh movement of opinion took place in Denise's favour. As
      Bourdoncle, vanquished, repeated with despair to his friends that he would
      give a great deal to put Denise into Mouret's arms himself, it was
      concluded that she had not yielded, that her all-powerfulness resulted
      from her refusal. From that moment she became immensely popular. They knew
      for what indulgences they were indebted to her, and they admired her for
      the force of her will. There was one, at least, who could master the
      governor, who avenged all the others, and knew how to get something else
      besides promises out of him! So she had come at last, she who was to make
      him treat the poor devils with a little respect! When she went through the
      shop, with her delicate, self-willed head, her tender, invincible air, the
      salesmen smiled at her, were proud of her, and would willingly have
      exhibited her to the crowd. Denise, in her happiness, allowed herself to
      be carried along by this increasing sympathy. Was it all possible? She saw
      herself arrive in a poor dress, frightened, lost amidst the mechanism of
      the terrible machine; for a long time she had had the sensation of being
      nothing, hardly a grain of seed beneath these millstones which were
      crushing a whole world; and now to-day she was the very soul of this
      world, she alone was of consequence, able at a word to increase or slacken
      the pace of the colossus lying at her feet. And yet she had not wished for
      these things, she had simply presented herself, without calculation, with
      the sole charm of her sweetness. Her sovereignty sometimes caused her an
      uneasy surprise; why did they all obey her? she was not pretty, she did
      nothing wrong. Then she smiled, her heart at rest, feeling within herself
      nothing but goodness and prudence, a love of truth and logic which
      constituted all her strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of Denise's greatest joys was to be able to assist Pauline. The
      latter, being about to become a mother, was trembling, aware that two
      other saleswomen in the same condition had been sent away. The principals
      did not tolerate these accidents, maternity being suppressed as cumbersome
      and indecent; they occasionally allowed marriage, but would admit of no
      children. Pauline had, it was true, her husband in the house; but still
      she felt anxious, it being almost impossible for her to appear at the
      counter; and in order to postpone a probable dismissal, she laced herself
      very tightly, resolved to conceal her state as long as she could. One of
      the two saleswomen who had been dismissed, had just been delivered of a
      still-born child, through having laced herself up in this way; and it was
      not certain that she herself would recover. Meanwhile, Bourdoncle had
      observed that Pauline's complexion was getting very livid, and that she
      had a painfully stiff way of walking. One morning he was standing near
      her, in the under-linen department, when a messenger, taking away a
      bundle, ran up against her with such force that she cried out with pain.
      Bourdoncle immediately took her on one side, made her confess, and
      submitted the question of her dismissal to the board, under the pretext
      that she stood in need of country air: the story of this accident would
      spread, and would have a disastrous effect on the public if she should
      have a miscarriage, as had already taken place in the baby linen
      department the year before. Mouret, who was not at the meeting, could only
      give his opinion in the evening. But Denise having had time to interfere,
      he closed Bourdoncle's mouth, in the interest of the house itself. Did
      they wish to frighten the heads of families and the young mothers amongst
      their customers? And it was decided, with great pomp, that every married
      saleswoman should, when in the family way, be sent to a special midwife's
      as soon as her presence at the counter became offensive to the customers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day when Denise went up into the infirmary to see Pauline, who
      had been obliged to take to her bed on account of the blow she had
      received, the latter kissed her violently on both cheeks. &ldquo;How kind you
      are! Had it not been for you I should have been turned away. Pray don't be
      anxious about me, the doctor says it's nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Baugé, who had slipped away from his department, was also there, on the
      other side of the bed. He likewise stammered his thanks, troubled before
      Denise, whom he now treated as an important person, of a superior class.
      Ah! if he heard any more nasty remarks about her, he would soon close the
      mouths of the jealous ones! But Pauline sent him away with a good-natured
      shrug of the shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor darling, you're always saying something stupid. Leave us to talk
      together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The infirmary was a long, light room, containing twelve beds, with their
      white curtains. Those who did not wish to go home to their families were
      nursed here. But on the day in question, Pauline was the only occupant, in
      a bed near one of the large windows which looked on to the Rue
      Neuve-Saint-Augustin. And they immediately commenced to exchange whispered
      words, tender confidences, in the calm air, perfumed with a vague odour of
      lavender.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So he does just what you wish him to? How cruel you are, to make him
      suffer so! Come, just explain it to me, now I've ventured to approach the
      subject. Do you detest him?&rdquo; Pauline had retained hold of Denise's hand,
      as the latter sat near the bed, with her elbow on the bolster; and
      overcome by a sudden emotion, her cheeks invaded with colour, she had a
      moment of weakness at this direct and unexpected question. Her secret
      escaped her, she buried her head in the pillow, murmuring:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I love him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pauline was astonished. &ldquo;What! you love him? But it's very simple: say
      yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, her face still concealed, replied &ldquo;No!&rdquo; by an energetic shake of
      the head. And she did so, simply because she loved him, without being able
      to explain the matter. No doubt it was ridiculous; but she felt like that,
      she could not change her nature. Her friend's surprise increased, and she
      at length asked: &ldquo;So it's all to make him marry you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this the young girl sprung up, quite confused: &ldquo;Marry me! Oh! no! Oh! I
      assure you that I have never wished for anything of the kind! No, never
      has such an idea entered my head; and you know what a horror I have of all
      falsehood!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, dear,&rdquo; resumed Pauline, kindly, &ldquo;you couldn't have acted otherwise,
      if such had been your intention. All this must come to an end, and it is
      very certain that it can only finish by a marriage, as you won't let it be
      otherwise. I must tell you that every one has the same idea; yes, they
      feel persuaded that you are riding the high horse, in order to make him
      take you to church. Dear me! what a funny girl you are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she had to console Denise, who had again dropped her head on to the
      bolster, sobbing, declaring that she would certainly go away, since they
      attributed all sorts of things to her that had never crossed her mind. No
      doubt, when a man loved a woman he ought to marry her. But she asked for
      nothing, she had made no calculations, she simply begged to be allowed to
      live quietly, with her joys and her sorrows, like other people. She would
      go away.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same moment Mouret was going through the premises below. He had
      wanted to forget his thoughts by visiting the works once more. Several
      months had elapsed, the façade now reared its monumental lines behind the
      vast hoardings which concealed it from the public. Quite an army of
      decorators were at work: marble-cutters, mosaic-workers, and others. The
      central group above the door was being gilded; whilst on the acroteria
      were being fixed the pedestals destined to receive the statues of the
      manufacturing cities of France. From morning to night, in the Rue du
      Dix-Décembre, lately opened to the public, a crowd of idlers stood gaping
      about, their noses in the air, seeing nothing, but pre-occupied by the
      marvels that were related of this façade, the inauguration of which was
      going to revolutionise Paris. And it was on this feverish working-ground,
      amidst the artists putting the finishing touches to the realisation of his
      dream commenced by the masons, that Mouret felt more bitterly than ever
      the vanity of his fortune. The thought of Denise had suddenly arrested
      him, this thought which incessantly pierced him with a flame, like the
      shooting of an incurable pain. He had run away, unable to find a word of
      satisfaction, fearful lest he should show his tears, leaving behind him
      the disgust of his triumph. This façade, which was at last erected, seemed
      little in his eyes, very much like one of those walls of sand that
      children build, and it might have been extended from one end of the city
      to the other, elevated to the starry sky, yet it would not have filled the
      emptiness of his heart, that the &ldquo;yes&rdquo; of a mere child could alone fill.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Mouret entered his office he was almost choking with sobs. What did
      she want? He dared not offer her money now; and the confused idea of a
      marriage presented itself amidst his young widower's revolts. And, in the
      debility of his powerlessness, his tears began to flow. He was very
      miserable.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne morning in
      November, Denise was giving her first orders in the department when the
      Baudus' servant came to tell her that Mademoiselle Geneviève had passed a
      very bad night, and wished to see her cousin immediately. For some time
      the young girl had been getting weaker and weaker, and she had been
      obliged to take to her bed two days before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say I am coming at once,&rdquo; replied Denise, very anxious.
    </p>
    <p>
      The blow which was finishing Geneviève was Colomban's sudden
      disappearance. At first, chaffed by Clara, he had stopped out several
      nights; then, yielding to the mad desires of a quiet, chaste fellow, he
      had become her obedient slave, and had not returned one Monday, but had
      simply sent a farewell letter to Baudu, written in the studied terms of a
      man about to commit suicide. Perhaps, at the bottom of this passion, there
      was also the crafty calculation of a fellow delighted at escaping a
      disastrous marriage. The draper's business was in as bad a way as his
      betrothed; the moment was propitious to break with them through any
      stupidity. And every one cited him as an unfortunate victim of love.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Denise arrived at The Old Elbeuf, Madame Baudu was there alone,
      sitting motionless behind the pay-desk, with her small white face, eaten
      up by anæmia, silent and quiet in the cold, deserted shop. There were no
      assistants now. The servant dusted the shelves, and it was even a question
      of replacing her by a charwoman. A dreary cold fell from the ceiling,
      hours passed away without a customer coming to disturb this silence, and
      the goods, no longer touched, became mustier and mustier every day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the matter?&rdquo; asked Denise, anxiously. &ldquo;Is Geneviève in danger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Baudu did not reply at first. Her eyes filled with tears. Then she
      stammered: &ldquo;I don't know; they don't tell me anything. Ah, it's all over,
      it's all over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she cast a sombre glance around the dark old shop, as if she felt her
      daughter and the shop disappearing together. The seventy thousand francs,
      produce of the sale of their Rambouillet property, had melted away in less
      than two years in this gulf of competition. In order to struggle against
      The Ladies' Paradise, which now kept men's cloths and materials for
      hunting and livery suits, the draper had made considerable sacrifices. At
      last he had been definitely crushed by the swanskin cloth and flannels
      sold by his rival, an assortment that had not its equal in the market.
      Little by little his debts had increased, and, as a last resource, he had
      resolved to mortgage the old building in the Rue de la Michodière, where
      Finet, their ancestor, had founded the business; and it was now only a
      question of days, the crumbling away had commenced, the very ceilings
      seemed to be falling down and turning into dust, like an old worm-eaten
      structure carried away by the wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your uncle is upstairs,&rdquo; resumed Madame Baudu in her broken voice. &ldquo;We
      stay with her two hours each. Some one must look out here; oh! but only as
      a precaution, for to tell the truths&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her gesture finished the phrase. They would have put the shutters up had
      it not been for their old commercial pride, which still propped them up in
      the presence of the neighbourhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'll go up, aunt,&rdquo; said Denise, whose heart was bleeding, amidst
      this resigned despair that even the pieces of cloth themselves exhaled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, go upstairs quick, my girl. She's waiting for you. She's been asking
      for you all night. She has something to tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But just at that moment Baudu came down. The rising bile gave his yellow
      face a greenish tinge, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was still walking
      with the muffled step with which he had quitted the Sick room, and
      murmur-ed, as if he might be heard upstairs, &ldquo;She's asleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, thoroughly worn out, he sat down on a chair, wiping his forehead with
      a mechanical gesture, puffing like a man who has just finished some hard
      work. A silence ensued, but at last he said to Denise: &ldquo;You'll see her
      presently. When she is sleeping, she seems to me to be all right again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was again a silence. Face to face, the father and mother stood
      looking at each other. Then, in a half whisper, he went over his grief
      again, naming no one, addressing no one directly: &ldquo;My head on the block, I
      wouldn't have believed it! He was the last one. I had brought him up as a
      son. If any one had come and said to me, 'They'll take him away from you
      as well; he'll fall as well,' I would have replied 'Impossible, it could
      not be.' And he has fallen all the same! Ah! the scoundrel, he who was so
      well up in real business, who had all my ideas! And all for a young
      monkey, one of those dummies that parade at the windows of bad houses! No!
      really, it's enough to drive one mad!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head, his eyes fell on the damp floor worn away by
      generations of customers. Then he continued in a lower voice, &ldquo;There are
      moments when I feel myself the most culpable of all in our misfortune.
      Yes, it's my fault if our poor girl is upstairs devoured by fever. Ought
      not I to have married them at once, without yielding to my stupid pride,
      my obstinacy in refusing to leave them the house less prosperous than
      before? Had I done that she would now have the man she loved, and perhaps
      their united youthful strength would have accomplished the miracle that I
      have failed to work. But I am an old fool, and saw through nothing; I
      didn't know that people fell ill over such things. Really he was an
      extraordinary fellow: with such a gift for business, and such probity,
      such simplicity of conduct, so orderly in every way&mdash;in short, my
      pupil.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He raised his head, still defending his ideas, in the person of the
      shopman who had betrayed him. Denise could not bear to hear him accuse
      himself, and she told him so, carried away by her emotion, on seeing him
      so humble, with his eyes full of tears, he who used formerly to reign as
      absolute master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, pray don't apologise for him. He never loved Geneviève, he would
      have run away sooner if you had tried to hasten the marriage. I have
      spoken to him myself about it; he was perfectly well aware that my cousin
      was suffering on his account, and you see that did not prevent him
      leaving. Ask aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without opening her lips, Madame Baudu confirmed these words by a nod. The
      draper turned paler still, blinded by his tears. He stammered out: &ldquo;It
      must be in the blood, his father died last year through having led a
      dissolute life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he once more looked round the obscure shop, his eyes wandering from
      the empty counters to the full shelves, then resting on Madame Baudu, who
      was still at the pay-desk, waiting in vain for the customers who did not
      come.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;it's all over. They've ruined our business, and now one
      of their hussies is killing our daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No one spoke. The rolling of the vehicles, which occasionally shook the
      floor, passed like a funereal beating of drums in the still air, stifled
      under the low ceiling. Suddenly, amidst this gloomy sadness of the old
      dying shop, could be heard several heavy knocks, struck somewhere in the
      house. It was Geneviève, who had just awoke, and was knocking with a stick
      they had left near her bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's go up at once,&rdquo; said Baudu, rising with a start. &ldquo;Try and be
      cheerful, she mustn't know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He himself rubbed his eyes to efface the trace of his tears. As soon as he
      had opened the door, on the first storey, they heard a frightened, feeble
      voice crying: &ldquo;Oh, I don't like to be left alone. Don't leave me; I'm
      afraid to be left alone.&rdquo; Then, when she perceived Denise, Geneviève
      became calmer, and smiled joyfully. &ldquo;You've come, then! How I've been
      longing to see you since yesterday. I thought you also had abandoned me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a piteous sight. The young girl's room looked out on to the yard, a
      little room lighted by a livid light At first her parents had put her in
      their own room, in the front; but the sight of The Ladies' Paradise
      opposite affected her so much, that they had been obliged to bring her
      back to her own again. And there she lay, so very thin, under the
      bed-clothes, that one hardly suspected the form and existence of a human
      body. Her skinny arms, consumed by a burning fever, were in a perpetual
      movement of anxious, unconscious searching; whilst her black hair seemed
      thicker still, and to be eating up her poor face with its voracious
      vitality, that face in which was agonising the final degenerateness of a
      family sprung up in the shade, in this cellar of old commercial Paris.
      Denise, her heart bursting with pity, stood looking at her. She did not at
      first speak, for fear of giving way to tears. At last she murmured:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came at once. Can I be of any use to you? You asked for me. Would you
      like me to stay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thanks. I don't want anything. I only wanted to embrace you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tears filled her eyes. Denise quickly leant over, and kissed her on both
      cheeks, trembling to feel on her lips the flame of those hollow cheeks.
      But Geneviève, stretching out her arms, seized and kept her in a desperate
      embrace. Then she looked towards her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you like me to stay?&rdquo; repeated Denise. &ldquo;Perhaps there is something
      I can do for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Geneviève's glance was still obstinately fixed on her father, who remained
      standing, with a stolid air, almost choking. He at last understood, and
      went away, without saying a word; and they heard his heavy footstep on the
      stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, is he with that woman?&rdquo; asked the sick girl immediately, seizing
      her cousin's hand, and making her sit on the side of the bed. &ldquo;I want to
      know, and you are the only one can tell me. They're living together,
      aren't they?&rdquo; Denise, surprised by these questions, stammered, and was
      obliged to confess the truth, the rumours that were current in the shop.
      Clara, tired of this fellow, who was getting a nuisance to her, had
      already broken with him, and Colomban, desolated, was pursuing her
      everywhere, trying to obtain a meeting from time to time, with a sort of
      canine humility. They said that he was going to take a situation at the
      Grands Magasins du Louvre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you still love him, he may return,&rdquo; said Denise, to cheer the dying
      girl with this last hope. &ldquo;Get well quick, he will acknowledge his errors,
      and marry you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Geneviève interrupted her. She had listened with all her soul, with an
      intense passion that raised her in the bed. But she fell back almost
      immediately. &ldquo;No, I know it's all over! I don't say anything, because I
      see papa crying, and I don't wish to make mamma worse than she is. But I
      am going, Denise, and if I called for you last night it was for fear of
      going off before the morning. And to think that he is not happy after
      all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Denise having remonstrated, assuring her that she was not so bad as
      all that, she cut her short again, suddenly throwing off the bed-clothes
      with the chaste gesture of a virgin who has nothing to conceal in death.
      Naked to the waist, she murmured: &ldquo;Look at me! Is it possible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Trembling, Denise quitted the side of the bed, as if she feared to destroy
      this fearful nudity with a breath. It was the last of the flesh, a bride's
      body used up by waiting, returned to the first infantile slimness of her
      young days. Geneviève slowly covered herself up again, saying: &ldquo;You see I
      am no longer a woman. It would be wrong to wish for him still!&rdquo; There was
      a silence. Both continued to look at each other, unable to find a word to
      say. It was Geneviève who resumed: &ldquo;Come, don't stay any longer, you have
      your own affairs to look after. And thanks, I was tormented by the wish to
      know, and am now satisfied. If you see him, tell him I forgive him. Adieu,
      dear Denise. Kiss me once more, for it's the last time.&rdquo; The young girl
      kissed her, protesting: &ldquo;No, no, don't despair, all you want is loving
      care, nothing more.&rdquo; But the sick girl, shaking her head in an obstinate
      way, smiled, quite sure of what she said. And as her cousin was making for
      the door, she exclaimed: &ldquo;Wait a minute, knock with this stick, so that
      papa may come up. I'm afraid to stay alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, when Baudu arrived in that small, gloomy room, where he spent hours
      seated on a chair, she assumed an air of gaiety, saying to Denise&mdash;&ldquo;Don't
      come to-morrow, I would rather not. But on Sunday I shall expect you; you
      can spend the afternoon with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next morning, at six o'clock, Geneviève expired after four hours'
      fearful agony. The funeral took place on a Saturday, a fearfully black,
      gloomy day, under a sooty sky which hung over the shivering city. The Old
      Elbeuf, hung with white linen, lighted up the street with a bright spot,
      and the candles burning in the fading day seemed so many stars drowned in
      the twilight The coffin was covered with wreaths and bouquets of white
      roses; it was a narrow child's coffin, placed in the obscure passage of
      the house on a level with the pavement, so near the gutter that the
      passing carriages had already splashed the coverings. The whole
      neighbourhood exhaled a dampness, a cellar-like mouldy odour, with its
      continual rush of pedestrians on the muddy pavement.
    </p>
    <p>
      At nine o'clock Denise came over to stay with her aunt. But as the funeral
      was starting, the latter&mdash;who had ceased weeping, her eyes burnt with
      tears&mdash;begged her to follow the body and look after her uncle, whose
      mute affliction and almost idiotic grief filled the family with anxiety.
      Below, the young girl found the street full of people, for the small
      traders in the neighbourhood were anxious to show the Baudus a mark of
      sympathy, and in this eagerness there was also a sort of manifestation
      against The Ladies' Paradise, whom they accused of causing Geneviève's
      slow agony. All the victims of the monster were there&mdash;Bédoré and
      sister from the hosier's shop in the Rue Gaillon, the furriers, Vanpouille
      Brothers, and Deslignières the toyman, and Piot and Rivoire the furniture
      dealers; even Mademoiselle Tatin from the underclothing shop, and the
      glover Quinette, long since cleared off by bankruptcy, had made it a duty
      to come, the one from Batignolle, the other from the Bastille, where they
      had been obliged to take situations. Whilst waiting for the hearse, which
      was late, these people, tramping about in the mud, cast glances of hatred
      towards The Ladies' Paradise, the bright windows and gay displays of which
      seemed an insult in face of The Old Elbeuf, which, with its funeral
      trappings and glimmering candles, cast a gloom over the other side of the
      street A few curious faces appeared at the plate-glass windows; but the
      colossus maintained the indifference of a machine going at full speed,
      unconscious of the deaths it may cause on the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise looked round for her brother Jean, whom she at last perceived
      standing before Bourras's shop, and she went and asked him to walk with
      his uncle, to assist him if he could not get along. For the last few weeks
      Jean had been very grave, as if tormented by some worry. To-day, buttoned
      up in his black frock-coat, a full grown man, earning his twenty francs a
      day, he seemed so dignified and so sad that his sister was surprised, for
      she had no idea he loved his cousin so much as that. Desirous of sparing
      Pépé this needless grief, she had left him with Madame Gras, intending to
      go and fetch him in the afternoon to see his uncle and aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hearse had still not arrived, and Denise, greatly affected, was
      watching the candles burn, when she was startled by a well-known voice
      behind her. It was Bourras. He had called the chestnut-seller opposite, in
      his little box, against the public-house, and said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, Vigouroux, just keep a look-out for me a bit, will you? You see
      I've closed the door. If any one comes tell them to call again. But don't
      let that disturb you, no one will come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he took his stand on the pavement, waiting like the others. Denise,
      feeling rather awkward, glanced at his shop. He entirely abandoned it now;
      there was nothing left but a disorderly array of umbrellas eaten up by the
      damp air, and canes blackened by the gas. The embellishments that he had
      made, the delicate green paint work, the glasses, the gilded sign, were
      all cracking, already getting dirty, presenting that rapid and lamentable
      decrepitude of false luxury laid over ruins. But though the old crevices
      were re-appearing, though the spots of damp had sprung up over the
      gildings, the house still held its ground obstinately, hanging on to the
      flanks of The Ladies' Paradise like a dishonouring wart, which, although
      cracked and rotten, refused to fall off.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! the scoundrels,&rdquo; growled Bourras, &ldquo;they won't even let her be carried
      away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hearse, which had at last arrived, had just got into collision with
      one of The Ladies' Paradise vans, which was spinning along, shedding in
      the mist its starry radiance, with the rapid trot of two superb horses.
      And the old man cast on Denise an oblique glance, lighted up under his
      bushy eyebrows. Slowly, the funeral started off, splashing through the
      muddy pools, amid the silence of the omnibuses and carriages suddenly
      pulled up. When the coffin, draped with white, crossed the Place Gaillon,
      the sombre looks of the cortege were once more plunged into the windows of
      the big shop, where two saleswomen alone had run up to look on, pleased at
      this distraction. Baudu followed the hearse with a heavy mechanical step,
      refusing by a sign the arm offered by Jean, who was walking with him.
      Then, after a long-string of people, came three mourning coaches. As they
      passed the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, Robineau ran up to join the
      cortege, very pale, and looking much older.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Saint-Roch, a great many women were waiting, the small traders of the
      neighbourhood, who had been afraid of the crowd at the house. The
      manifestation was developing into quite a riot; and when, after the
      service, the procession started off back, all the men followed, although
      it was a long walk from the Rue Saint-Honoré to the Montmartre Cemetery.
      They had to go up the Rue Saint-Roch, and once more pass The Ladies'
      Paradise. It was a sort of obsession; this poor young girl's body was
      paraded round the big shop like the first victim fallen in time of
      revolution. At the door some red flannels were flapping like so many
      flags, and a display of carpets blazed forth in a florescence of enormous
      roses and full-blown pæonies. Denise had got into one of the coaches,
      being agitated by some smarting doubts, her heart oppressed by such a
      feeling of grief that she had not the strength to walk At that moment
      there was a stop, in the Rue du Dix-Décembre, before the scaffolding of
      the new façade which still obstructed the thoroughfare. 'And the young
      girl observed old Bourras, left behind, dragging along with difficulty,
      close to the wheels of the coach in which she was riding alone. He would
      never get as far as the cemetery, she thought. He raised his head, looked
      at her, and all at once got into the coach.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's my confounded knees,&rdquo; exclaimed he. &ldquo;Don't draw back! Is it you that
      we detest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She felt him to be friendly and furious as in former days. He grumbled,
      declared that Baudu must be fearfully strong to be able to keep up after
      such blows as he had received. The procession had resumed its slow pace;
      and on leaning out, Denise saw her uncle walking with his heavy step,
      which seemed to regulate the rumbling and painful march of the cortege.
      She then threw herself back into the corner, listening to the endless
      complaints of the old umbrella maker, rocked by the melancholy movement of
      the coach.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The police ought to clear the public thoroughfare, my word! They've been
      blocking up our street for the last eighteen months with the scaffolding
      of their façade, where a man was killed the other day. Never mind! When
      they want to enlarge further they'll have to throw bridges over the
      street. They say there are now two thousand seven hundred employees, and
      that the business will amount to a hundred millions this year. A hundred
      millions! Just fancy, a hundred millions!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise had nothing to say in reply. The procession had just turned into
      the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, where it was stopped by a block of
      vehicles. Bourras went on, with a vague expression in his eyes, as if he
      were dreaming aloud. He still failed to understand the triumph achieved by
      The Ladies' Paradise, but he acknowledged the defeat of the old-fashioned
      traders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Robineau's done for, he's got the face of a drowning man. And the
      Bédorés and the Vanpouilles, they can't keep going; they're like me,
      played out Deslignières will die of apoplexy. Piot and Rivoire have the
      yellow jaundice. Ah! we're a fine lot; a pretty cortege of skeletons to
      follow the poor child. It must be comical for those looking on to see this
      string of bankrupts pass. Besides, it appears that the clean sweep is to
      continue. The scoundrels are creating departments for flowers, bonnets,
      perfumery, shoemaking, all sorts of things. Grognet, the perfumer in the
      Rue de Grammont, can clear out, and I wouldn't give ten francs for Naud's
      shoe-shop in the Rue d'Antin. The cholera has spread as far as the Rue
      Sainte-Anne, where Lacassagne, at the feather and flower shop, and Madame
      Chadeuil, whose bonnets are so well-known, will be swept away before long.
      And after those, others; it will still go on! All the businesses in the
      neighbourhood will suffer. When counter-jumpers commence to sell soap and
      goloshes, they are quite capable of dealing in fried potatoes. My word,
      the world is turning upside down!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hearse was just then crossing the Place de la Trinité to ascend the
      steep Rue Blanche, and from the corner of the gloomy coach Denise, who,
      broken-hearted, was listening to the endless complaints of the old man,
      could see the coffin as they issued from the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin.
      Behind her uncle, marching along with the blind, mute face of an ox about
      to be poleaxed, she seemed to hear the tramping of a flock of sheep led to
      the slaughter-house, the discomfiture of the shops of a whole district,
      the small traders dragging along their ruin, with the thud of damp shoes,
      through the muddy streets of Paris. Bourras still went on, in a deeper
      voice, as if slackened by the difficult ascent of the Rue Blanche.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for me, I am settled. But I still hold on all the same, and won't let
      go. He's just lost his appeal case. Ah! that's cost me something, what
      with nearly two years' pleading, and the solicitors and the barristers!
      Never mind, he won't pass under my shop, the judges have decided that such
      a work could not be considered as a legitimate case of repairing. Fancy,
      he talked of creating underneath a light saloon to judge the colours of
      the stuffs by gas-light, a subterranean room which would have united the
      hosiery to the drapery department! And he can't get over it; he can't
      swallow the fact that an old humbug like me should stop his progress when
      everybody are on their knees before his money. Never! I won't! that's
      understood. Very likely I may be worsted. Since I have had to go to the
      money-lenders, I know the villain is looking after my paper, in the hope
      to play me some villanous trick, no doubt. But that doesn't matter. He
      says 'yes,' and I say 'no,' and shall still say 'no,' even when I get
      between two boards like this poor little girl who has just been nailed
      up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When they reached the Boulevard de Clichy, the coach went at a quicker
      pace; one could hear the heavy breathing of the mourners, the unconscious
      haste of the cortege, anxious to get the sad ceremony over. What Bourras
      did not openly mention, was the frightful misery into which he had fallen,
      bewildered amidst the confusion of the small trader who is on the road to
      ruin and yet remains obstinate, under a shower of protested bills. Denise,
      well acquainted with his situation, at last interrupted the silence by
      saying, in a voice of entreaty:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Bourras, pray don't stand out any longer. Let me arrange matters
      for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he interrupted her with a violent gesture. &ldquo;You be quiet. That's
      nobody's business. You're a good little girl, and I know you lead him a
      hard life, this man who thought you were for sale like my house. But what
      would you answer if I advised you to say 'yes?' You'd send me about my
      business. Therefore, when I say 'no,' don't you interfere in the matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the coach having stopped at the cemetery gate, he got out with the
      young girl. The Baudus' vault was situated in the first alley on the left.
      In a few minutes the ceremony was terminated. Jean had drawn away his
      uncle, who was looking into the grave with a gaping air. The mourners
      wandered about amongst the neighbouring tombs, and the faces of all these
      shopkeepers, their blood impoverished by living in their unhealthy shops
      assumed an ugly suffering look under the leaden sky. When the coffin
      slipped gently down, their blotched and pimpled cheeks paled, and their
      bleared eyes, blinded with figures, turned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We ought all to jump into this hole,&rdquo; said Bourras to Denise, who had
      kept close to him. &ldquo;In burying this poor girl they are burying the whole
      district. Oh! I know what I am saying, the old-fashioned business may go
      and join the white roses they are throwing on to her coffin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise brought back her uncle and brother in a mourning coach. The day was
      for her exceedingly dull and melancholy. In the first place, she began to
      get anxious at Jean's paleness, and when she understood that it was on
      account of another woman, she tried to quiet him by opening her purse, but
      he shook his head and refused, saying it was serious this time, the niece
      of a very rich pastry-cook, who would not accept even a bunch of violets.
      Afterwards, in the afternoon, when Denise went to fetch Pépé from Madame
      Gras's, the latter declared that he was getting too big for her to keep
      any longer; another annoyance, for she would be obliged to find him a
      school, perhaps send him away. And to crown all she was thoroughly
      heart-broken, on bringing Pépé back to kiss his aunt and uncle, to see the
      gloomy sadness of The Old Elbeuf. The shop was closed, and the old couple
      were at the further end of the little room, where they had forgotten to
      light the gas, notwithstanding the complete obscurity of this winter's
      day. They were now quite alone, face to face, in the house, slowly emptied
      by ruin; and the death of their daughter deepened the shady corners, and
      was like the supreme cracking which was soon to break up the old rafters,
      eaten away by the damp. Beneath this destruction, her uncle, unable to
      stop himself, still kept walking round the table, with his funeral-like
      step, blind and silent; whilst her aunt said nothing, she had fallen into
      a chair, with the white face of a wounded person, whose blood was running
      away drop by drop. They did not even weep when Pépé covered their cold
      cheeks with kisses. Denise was choked with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      That same evening Mouret sent for the young girl to speak of a child's
      garment he wished to launch forth, a mixture of the Scotch and Zouave
      costumes. And still trembling with pity, shocked at so much suffering, she
      could not contain herself; she first ventured to speak of Bourras, of that
      poor old man whom they were about to ruin. But, on hearing the umbrella
      maker's name, Mouret flew into a rage at once. The old madman, as he
      called him, was the plague of his life, and spoilt his triumph by his
      idiotic obstinacy in not giving up his house, that ignoble hovel which was
      a disgrace to The Ladies' Paradise, the only little corner of the vast
      block that escaped his conquest. The matter was becoming a regular
      nightmare; any one else but Denise speaking in favour of Bourras would
      have run the risk of being dismissed immediately, so violently was Mouret
      tortured by the sickly desire to kick the house down. In short, what did
      they wish him to do? Could he leave this heap of ruins sticking to The
      Ladies' Paradise? It would be got rid of, the shop was to pass through it.
      So touch the worse for the old fool! And he spoke of his repeated
      proposals; he had offered him as much as a hundred thousand francs. Wasn't
      that fair? He never higgled, he gave the money required; but in return he
      expected people to be reasonable, and allow him to finish his work! Did
      any one ever try to stop the locomotives on a railway? She listened to
      him, with drooping eyes, unable to find any but purely sentimental
      reasons. The old man was so old, they might have waited till his death; a
      failure would kill him. Then he added that he was no longer able to
      prevent things going their course. Bourdoncle had taken the matter up, for
      the board had resolved to put an end to it. She had nothing more to add,
      notwithstanding the grievous pity she felt for her old friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a painful silence, Mouret himself commenced to speak of the Baudus,
      by expressing his sorrow at the death of their daughter. They were very
      worthy people, very honest, but had been pursued by the worst of luck.
      Then he resumed his arguments; at bottom, they had really caused their own
      misfortune by obstinately sticking to the old ways in their worm-eaten
      place; it was not astonishing that the place should be falling about their
      heads. He had predicted it scores of times; she must remember that he had
      charged her to warn her uncle of a fatal disaster, if the latter still
      clung to his old-fashioned stupid ways. And the catastrophe had arrived;
      no one in the world could now prevent it They could not reasonably expect
      him to ruin himself to save the neighbourhood. Besides, if he had been
      foolish enough to close The Ladies' Paradise, another big shop would have
      sprung up of itself next door, for the idea was now starting from the four
      corners of the globe; the triumph of these manufacturing and industrial
      cities was sown by the spirit of the times, which was sweeping away the
      tumbling edifice of former ages. Little by little Mouret warmed up, and
      found an eloquent emotion with which to defend himself against the hatred
      of his involuntary victims, the clamour of the small dying shops that was
      heard around him. They could not keep their dead, he continued, they must
      bury them; and with a gesture he sent down into the grave, swept away and
      threw into the common hole the corpse of old-fashioned business, the
      greenish, poisonous remains of which were becoming a disgrace to the
      bright, sun-lighted streets of new Paris. No, no, he felt no remorse, he
      was simply doing the work of his age, and she knew it; she, who loved
      life, who had a passion for big affairs, concluded in the full glare of
      publicity. Reduced to silence, she listened to him for some time, and then
      went away, her soul full of trouble.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night Denise slept but little. A sleeplessness, traversed by
      nightmare, kept her turning over and over in her bed. It seemed to her
      that she was quite little, and she burst into tears, in their garden at
      Valognes, on seeing the blackcaps eat up the spiders, which themselves
      devoured the flies. Was it then really true, this necessity for the world
      to fatten on death, this struggle for existence which drove people into
      the charnel-house of eternal destruction? Afterwards she saw herself
      before the vault into which they had lowered Geneviève, then she perceived
      her uncle and aunt in their obscure dining-room. In the profound silence,
      a heavy voice, as of something tumbling down, traversed the dead air; it
      was Bourras's house giving way, as if undermined by a high tide. The
      silence recommenced, more sinister than ever, and a fresh rumbling was
      heard, then another, then another; the Robineaus, the Bédorés, the
      Vanpouilles, cracked and fell down in their turn, the small shops of the
      neighbourhood were disappearing beneath an invisible pick, with a brusque,
      thundering noise, as of a tumbril being emptied. Then an immense pity
      awoke her with a start. Heavens! what tortures! There were families
      weeping, old men thrown out into the street, all the poignant dramas that
      ruin conjures up. And she could save nobody; and she felt that it was
      right, that all this misery was necessary for the health of the Paris of
      the future. When day broke she became calmer, a feeling of resigned
      melancholy kept her awake, turned towards the windows through which the
      light was making its way. Yes, it was the need of blood that every
      revolution exacted from its martyrs, every step forward was made over the
      bodies of the dead. Her fear of being a wicked girl, of having assisted in
      the ruin of her fellow-creatures, now melted into a heartfelt pity, in
      face of these evils without remedy, which are the painful accompaniment of
      each generation's birth. She finished by seeking some possible comfort in
      her goodness, she dreamed of the means to be employed in order to save her
      relations at least from the final crash.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mouret now appeared before her with his passionate face and caressing
      eyes. He would certainly refuse her nothing; she felt sure he would accord
      her all reasonable compensation. And her thoughts went astray in trying to
      judge him. She knew his life, was aware of the calculating nature of his
      former affections, his continual exploitation of woman, mistresses taken
      up to further his own ends, and his intimacy with Madame Desforges solely
      to get hold of Baron Hartmann, and all the others, such as Clara and the
      rest, pleasure bought, paid for, and thrown out on the pavement. But these
      beginnings of a love adventurer, which were the talk of the shop, were
      gradually effaced by the strokes of genius of this man, his victorious
      grace. He was seduction itself. What she could never have forgiven was his
      former deception, his lover's coldness under the gallant comedy of his
      attentions. But she felt herself to be entirely without rancour, now that
      he was suffering through her. This suffering had elevated him. When she
      saw him tortured by her refusal, atoning so fully for his former disdain
      for woman, he seemed to have made amends for all his faults.
    </p>
    <p>
      That morning Denise obtained from Mouret the compensation she might judge
      legitimate the day the Baudus and old Bourras should succumb. Weeks passed
      away, during which she went to see her uncle nearly every afternoon,
      escaping from her counter for a few minutes, bringing her smiling face and
      brave courage to enliven the sombre shop. She was especially anxious about
      her aunt, who had fallen into a dull stupor since Geneviève's death; it
      seemed that her life was quitting her hourly; and when people spoke to her
      she would reply with an astonished air that she was not suffering, but
      that she simply felt as if overcome by sleep. The neighbours shook their
      heads, saying she would not live long to regret her daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day Denise was coming out of the Baudus', when, on turning the corner
      of the Place Gaillon, she heard a loud cry. The crowd rushed forward, a
      panic arose, that breath of fear and pity which so suddenly seizes a
      crowd. It was a brown omnibus, belonging to the Bastille-Batignolles line,
      which had run over a man, coming out of the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin,
      opposite the fountain. Upright on his seat, with furious gestures, the
      driver was pulling in his two kicking horses, and crying out, in a great
      passion:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confound you! Why don't you look out, you idiot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The omnibus had now stopped, and the crowd had surrounded the wounded man,
      and, strange to say, a policeman was soon on the spot. Still standing up,
      invoking the testimony of the people on the knife-board, who had also got
      up, to look over and see the wounded man, the coachman was explaining the
      matter, with exasperated gestures, choked by his increasing anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's something fearful. This fellow was walking in the middle of the
      road, quite at home. I called out, and he at once threw himself under the
      wheels!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A house-painter, who had run up, brush in hand, from a neighbouring house,
      then said, in a sharp voice, amidst the clamour: &ldquo;Don't excite yourself. I
      saw him, he threw himself under. He jumped in, head first. Another
      unfortunate tired of life, no doubt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Others spoke up, and all agreed upon it being a case of suicide, whilst
      the policeman pulled out his book and made his entry. Several ladies, very
      pale, got out quickly, and ran away without looking back, filled with
      horror by the soft shaking which had stirred them up when the omnibus
      passed over the body. Denise approached, attracted by a practical pity,
      which prompted her to interest herself in all sorts of street accidents,
      wounded dogs, horses down, and tilers falling off roofs. And she
      immediately recognised the unfortunate fellow who had fainted away, his
      clothes covered with mud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's Monsieur Robineau,&rdquo; cried she, in her grievous astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The policeman at once questioned the young girl, and she gave his name,
      profession, and address. Thanks to the driver's energy, the omnibus had
      twisted round, and thus only Robineau's legs had gone under the wheels,
      but it was to be feared that they were both broken. Four men carried the
      wounded draper to a chemist's shop in the Rue Gaillon, whilst the omnibus
      slowly resumed its journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My stars!&rdquo; said the driver, whipping up his horses, &ldquo;I've done a famous
      day's work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise followed Robineau into the chemist's. The latter, waiting for a
      doctor who could not be found, declared there was no immediate danger, and
      that the wounded man had better be taken home, as he lived in the
      neighbourhood. A lad started off to the police-station to order a
      stretcher, and Denise had the happy thought of going on in front and
      preparing Madame Robineau for this frightful blow. But she had the
      greatest trouble in the world to get into the street through the crowd,
      which was struggling before the door. This crowd, attracted by death, was
      increasing every minute; men, women, and children stood on tip-toe, and
      held their own amidst a brutal pushing, and each new comer had his version
      of the accident, so that at last it was said to be a husband pitched out
      of the window by his wife's lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, Denise perceived Madame Robineau on
      the threshold of the silk warehouse. This gave her a pretext for stopping,
      and she talked on for a moment, trying to find a way of breaking the
      terrible news. The shop presented the disorderly, abandoned appearance of
      the last struggles of a dying business. It was the inevitable end of the
      great battle of the silks; the Paris Paradise had crushed its rival by a
      fresh reduction of a sou; it was now sold at four francs nineteen sous,
      Gaujean's silk had found its Waterloo. For the last two months Robineau,
      reduced to all sorts of shifts, had been leading a fearful life, trying to
      prevent a declaration of bankruptcy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've just seen your husband pass through the Place Gaillon,&rdquo; murmured
      Denise, who had now entered the shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Robineau, whom a secret anxiety seemed to be continually attracting
      towards the street, said quickly: &ldquo;Ah, just now, wasn't it? I'm waiting
      for him, he ought to be back; Monsieur Gaujean came up this morning, and
      they have gone out together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was still charming, delicate, and gay; but her advanced state of
      pregnancy gave her a fatigued look, and she was more frightened, more
      bewildered than ever, by these business matters, which she did not
      understand, and which were all going wrong. As she often said, what was
      the use of it all? Would it not be better to live quietly in some small
      house, and be contented with modest fare?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear child,&rdquo; resumed she with her smile, which was becoming sadder,
      &ldquo;we have nothing to conceal from you. Things are not going on well, and my
      poor darling is worried to death. To-day this Gaujean has been tormenting
      him about some bills overdue. I was dying with anxiety at being left here
      all alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she was returning to the door when Denise stopped her, having heard
      the noise of the crowd and guessing that it was the wounded man being
      brought along, surrounded by a mob of idlers anxious to see the end of the
      affair. Then, with a parched throat, unable to find the consoling words
      she would have wished, she had to explain the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be anxious, there's no immediate danger. I've seen Monsieur
      Robineau, he has met with an accident. They are just bringing him home,
      pray don't be frightened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The poor woman listened to her, white as a sheet, without clearly
      understanding. The street was full of people, the drivers of the impeded
      cabs were swearing, the men had laid down the stretcher before the shop in
      order to open both glass doors.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was an accident,&rdquo; continued Denise, resolved to conceal the attempt at
      suicide. &ldquo;He was on the pavement and slipped under the wheels of an
      omnibus. Only his feet were hurt. They've sent for a doctor. There's no
      need to be anxious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A shudder passed over Madame Robineau. She set up an inarticulate cry,
      then ceased talking and ran to the stretcher, drawing the covering away
      with her trembling hands. The men who had brought Robineau were waiting to
      take him away as soon as the doctor arrived. They dared not touch him, who
      had come round again, and whose sufferings were frightful at the slightest
      movement. When he saw his wife his eyes filled with tears. She embraced
      him, and stood looking fixedly at him, and weeping. In the street the
      tumult was increasing; the people pressed forward as at a theatre, with
      glistening eyes; some work-girls, escaped from a shop, were almost pushing
      through the windows eager to see what was going on. In order to avoid this
      feverish curiosity, and thinking, besides, that it was not right to leave
      the shop open, Denise decided on letting the metallic shutters down. She
      went and turned the winch, the wheels of which gave out a plaintive cry,
      the sheets of iron slowly descended, like the heavy draperies of a curtain
      falling on the catastrophe of a fifth act. When she went in again, after
      closing the little round door in the shutters, she found Madame Robineau
      still clasping her husband in her arms, in the half-light which came from
      the two stars cut in the shutters. The ruined shop seemed to be gliding
      into nothingness, the two stars alone glittered on this sudden and brutal
      catastrophe of the streets of Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last Madame Robineau recovered her speech. &ldquo;Oh, my darling!&mdash;oh,
      my darling! my darling!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was all she could say, and he, suffocated, confessed himself with a
      cry of remorse when he saw her kneeling thus before him. When he did not
      move he only felt the burning lead of his legs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me, I must have been mad. When the lawyer told me before Gaujean
      that the posters would be put up tomorrow, I saw flames dancing before me
      as if the walls were burning. After that I remember nothing else. I came
      down the Rue de la Michodière&mdash;it seemed that The Paradise people
      were laughing at me, that immense house seemed to crush me. So, when the
      omnibus came up, I thought of Lhomme and his arm, and threw myself
      underneath the omnibus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Robineau had slowly fallen on to the floor, horrified by this
      confession. Heavens! he had tried to kill himself. She seized the hand of
      her young friend, who leant over towards her quite overcome. The wounded
      man, exhausted by emotion, had just fainted away again; and the doctor not
      having arrived, two men went all over the neighbourhood for him. The
      doorkeeper belonging to the house had gone off in his turn to look for
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray, don't be anxious,&rdquo; repeated Denise, mechanically, herself also
      sobbing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Madame Robineau, seated on the floor, with her head against the
      stretcher, her cheek placed on the mattress where her husband was lying,
      relieved her heart &ldquo;Oh! I must tell you. It's all for me he wanted to die.
      He's always saying, 'I've robbed you; it was not my money.' And at night
      he dreams of this money, waking up covered with perspiration, calling
      himself an incapable fellow, saying that those who have no head for
      business ought not to risk other people's money. You know he has always
      been nervous, his brain tormented. He finished by conjuring up things that
      frightened me. He saw me in the street in tatters, begging, his darling
      wife, whom he loved so tenderly, whom he longed to see rich and happy.&rdquo;
       But on turning round, she noticed he had opened his eyes; and she
      continued in a trembling voice: &ldquo;My darling, why have you done this? You
      must think me very wicked! I assure you, I don't care if we are ruined. So
      long as we are together, we shall never be unhappy. Let them take
      everything, and we will go away somewhere, where you won't hear any more
      about them. You can still work; you'll see how happy we shall be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She placed her forehead near her husband's pale face, and both were
      silent, in the emotion of their anguish. There was a pause. The shop
      seemed to be sleeping, benumbed by the pale night which enveloped it;
      whilst behind the thin shutters could be heard the noises of the street,
      the life of the busy city, the rumble of the vehicles, and the hustling
      and pushing of the passing crowd. At last Denise, who went every minute to
      glance through the hall door, came back, exclaiming: &ldquo;Here's the doctor!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was a young fellow, with bright eyes, whom the doorkeeper had found and
      brought in. He preferred to examine the poor man before they put him to
      bed. Only one of his legs, the left one, was broken above the ankle; it
      was a simple fracture, no serious complication appeared likely to result
      from it. And they were about to carry the stretcher into the back-room
      when Gaujean arrived. He came to give them an account of a last attempt to
      settle matters, an attempt which had failed; the declaration of bankruptcy
      was definite.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me,&rdquo; murmured he, &ldquo;what's the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a few words, Denise informed him. Then he stopped, feeling rather
      awkward, while Robineau said, in a feeble voice: &ldquo;I don't bear you any
      ill-will, but all this is partly your fault.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear fellow,&rdquo; replied Gaujean, &ldquo;it wanted stronger men than us.
      You know I'm not in a much better state than you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They raised the stretcher; Robineau still found strength to say: &ldquo;No, no,
      stronger fellows than us would have given way as we have. I can understand
      such obstinate old men as Bourras and Baudu standing out, but you and I,
      who are young, who had accepted the new style of things! No, Gaujean,
      it's the last of a world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They carried him off. Madame Robineau embraced Denise with an eagerness in
      which there was almost a feeling of joy, to have at last got rid of all
      those worrying business matters. And, as Gaujean went away with the young
      girl, he confessed to her that this poor devil of a Robineau was right. It
      was idiotic to try and struggle against The Ladies' Paradise. He
      personally felt himself lost, if he did not give in. Last night, in fact,
      he had secretly made a proposal to Hutin, who was just leaving for Lyons.
      But he felt very doubtful, and tried to interest Denise in the matter,
      aware, no doubt, of her powerfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My word,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;so much the worse for the manufacturers! Every one
      would laugh at me if I ruined myself in fighting for other people's
      benefit, when these fellows are struggling who shall make at the cheapest
      price! As you said some time ago, the manufacturers have only to follow
      the march of progress by a better organisation and new methods. Everything
      will come all right; it suffices that the public are satisfied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise smiled and replied: &ldquo;Go and say that to Monsieur Mouret himself.
      Your visit will please him, and he's not the man to display any rancour,
      if you offer him even a centime profit per yard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Baudu died in January, on a bright sunny afternoon. For some weeks
      she had been unable to go down into the shop that a charwoman now looked
      after. She was in bed, propped up by the pillows. Nothing but her eyes
      seemed to be living in her white face, and, her head erect, she kept them
      obstinately fixed on The Ladies' Paradise opposite, through the small
      curtains of the windows. Baudu, himself suffering from this obsession,
      from the despairing fixity of her gaze, sometimes wanted to draw the large
      curtains to. But she stopped him with an imploring gesture, obstinately
      desirous of seeing the monster shop till the last moment. It had now
      robbed her of everything, her business, her daughter; she herself had
      gradually died away with The Old Elbeuf, losing a part of her life as the
      shop lost its customers; the day it succumbed, she had no more breath left
      When she felt she was dying, she still found the strength to insist on her
      husband opening the two windows. It was very mild, a bright day of sun
      gilded The Ladies' Paradise, whilst the bed-room of their old house
      shivered in the shade. Madame Baudu lay with her fixed gaze, absorbed by
      the vision of the triumphal monument, the clear, limpid windows, behind
      which a gallop of millions was passing. Slowly her eyes grew dim, invaded
      by darkness; and when they at last sunk in death, they remained wide open,
      still looking, drowned in tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more the ruined traders of the district followed the funeral
      procession. There were the brothers Vanpouille, pale at the thought of
      their December bills, paid by a supreme effort which they would never be
      able to repeat. Bédoré, with his sister, leant on his cane, so full of
      worry and anxiety that his liver complaint was getting worse every day.
      Deslignières had had a fit, Piot and Rivoire walked on in silence, with
      downcast looks, like men entirely played out. They dared not question each
      other about those who had disappeared, Quinette, Mademoiselle Tatin, and
      others, who were sinking, ruined, swept away by this disastrous flood;
      without counting Robineau, still in bed, with his broken leg. But they
      pointed with an especial air of interest to the new tradesmen attacked by
      the plague; the perfumer Grognet, the milliner Madame Chadeuil,
      Lacassagne, the flower maker, and Naud, the bootmaker, still standing
      firm, but seized by the anxiety of the evil, which would doubtless sweep
      them away in their turn. Baudu walked along behind the hearse with the
      same heavy, stolid step as when he had followed his daughter; whilst at
      the back of a mourning coach could be seen Bourras's sparkling eyes under
      his bushy eyebrows, and his hair of a snowy white.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise was in great trouble. For the last fifteen days she had been worn
      out with fatigue and anxiety; she had been obliged to put Pépé to school,
      and had been running about for Jean, who was so stricken with the
      pastrycook's niece, that he had implored his sister to go and ask her hand
      in marriage. Then her aunt's death, these repeated catastrophes had quite
      overwhelmed the young girl. Mouret again offered his services, giving her
      leave to do what she liked for her uncle and the others. One morning she
      had an interview with him, at the news that Bourras was turned into the
      street, and that Baudu was going to shut up shop. Then she went out after
      breakfast in the hope of comforting these two, at least.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the Rue de la Michodière, Bourras was standing on the pavement opposite
      his house, from which he had been expelled the previous day by a fine
      trick, a discovery of the lawyers; as Mouret held some bills, he had
      easily obtained an order in bankruptcy against the umbrella-maker; then he
      had given five hundred francs for the expiring lease at the sale ordered
      by the court; so that the obstinate old man had allowed himself to be
      deprived of, for five hundred francs, what he had refused to give up for a
      hundred thousand. The architect, who came with his gang of workmen, had
      been obliged to employ the police to get him out. The goods had been taken
      and sold; but he still kept himself obstinately in the corner where he
      slept, and from which they did not like to drive him, out of pity. The
      workmen even attacked the roofing over his head. They had taken off the
      rotten slates, the ceilings fell in, the walls cracked, and yet he stuck
      there, under the naked old beams, amidst the ruins of the shop. At last
      the police came, and he went away. But the following morning he again
      appeared on the opposite side of the street, after having spent the night
      in a lodging-house in the neighbourhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Bourras!&rdquo; said Denise, kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not hear her, his flaming eyes were devouring the workmen who were
      attacking the front of the hovel with their picks. Through the empty
      window-frames could be seen the inside of the house, the miserable rooms,
      and the black staircase, where the sun had not penetrated for the last two
      hundred years. .
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! it's you,&rdquo; replied he, at last, when he recognised her. &ldquo;A nice bit
      of work they're doing, eh? the robbers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not now dare to speak, stirred up by the lamentable sadness of the
      old place, herself unable to take her eyes off the mouldy stones that were
      falling. Above, in a corner of the ceiling of her old room, she still
      perceived the name in black and shaky letters&mdash;Ernestine&mdash;written
      with the flame of a candle, and the remembrance of those days of misery
      came back to her, inspiring her with a tender sympathy for all suffering.
      But the workmen, in order to knock one of the walls down at a blow, had
      attacked it at its base. It was tottering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should like to see it crush all of them,&rdquo; growled Bourras, in a savage
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a terrible cracking noise. The frightened workmen ran out into
      the street. In falling down, the wall tottered and carried all the house
      with it. No doubt the hovel was ripe for the fall&mdash;it could no longer
      stand, with its flaws and cracks; a push had sufficed to cleave it from
      top to bottom. It was a pitiful crumbling away, the razing of a mud-house
      soddened by the rains. Not a board remained standing; there was nothing on
      the ground but a heap of rubbish, the dung of the past thrown at the
      street corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, heavens!&rdquo; exclaimed the old man, as if the blow had resounded in his
      very entrails.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood there gaping, never supposing it would have been over so quick.
      And he looked at the gap, the hollow space at last left free on the flanks
      of The Ladies' Paradise. It was like the crushing of a gnat, the final
      triumph over the annoying obstinacy of the infinitely small, the whole
      isle invaded and conquered. The passers-by lingered to talk to the
      workmen, who were crying out against these old buildings, only good for
      killing people.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Bourras,&rdquo; repeated Denise, trying to get him on one side, &ldquo;you
      know that you will not be abandoned. All your wants will be provided for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He held up his head. &ldquo;I have no wants. You've been sent by them, haven't
      you? Well, tell them that old Bourras still knows how to work, and that he
      can find work wherever he likes. Really, it would be a fine thing to offer
      charity to those they are assassinating!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she implored him: &ldquo;Pray accept, Monsieur Bourras; don't give me this
      grief.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he shook his bushy head. &ldquo;No, no, it's all over. Good-bye. Go and live
      happily, you who are young, and don't prevent old people sticking to their
      ideas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He cast a last glance at the heap of rubbish, and then went away. She
      watched him disappear, elbowed by the crowd on the pavement. He turned the
      corner of the Place Gaillon, and all was over. For a moment, Denise
      remained motionless, lost in thought. At last she went over to her
      uncle's. The draper was alone in the dark shop of The Old Elbeuf. The
      charwoman only came morning and evening to do a little cooking, and to
      take down and put up the shutters. He spent hours in this solitude, often
      without being disturbed once during the whole day, bewildered, and unable
      to find the goods when a stray customer happened to venture in. And there
      in the half-light he marched about unceasingly, with that heavy step he
      had at the two funerals, yielding to a sickly desire, regular fits of
      forced marching, as if he were trying to rock his grief to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you feeling better, uncle?&rdquo; asked Denise. He only stopped for a
      second to glance at her. Then he started off again, going from the
      pay-desk to an obscure corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes. Very well, thanks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She tried to find some consoling subject, some cheerful remark, but could
      think of nothing. &ldquo;Did you hear the noise? The house is down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! it's true,&rdquo; murmured he, with an astonished look, &ldquo;that must have
      been the house. I felt the ground tremble. Seeing them on the roof this
      morning, I closed my door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he made a vague movement, to imitate that such things no longer
      interested him. Every time he arrived before the pay-desk, he looked at
      the empty seat, that well-known velvet-covered seat, where his wife and
      daughter had grown up. Then when his perpetual walking brought him to the
      other end, he gazed at the shelves drowned in shadow, in which a few
      pieces of cloth were gradually growing mouldy. It was a widowed house,
      those he loved had disappeared, his business had come to a shameful end,
      and he was left alone to commune with his dead heart, and his pride
      brought low amidst all these catastrophes. He raised his eyes towards the
      black ceiling, overcome by the sepulchral silence which reigned in the
      little dining-room, the family nook, of which he had formerly loved every
      part, even down to the stuffy odour. Not a breath was now heard in the old
      house, his regular heavy step made the ancient walls resound, as if he
      were walking over the tombs of his affections.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last Denise approached the subject which had brought her. &ldquo;Uncle, you
      can't stay like this. You must come to a decision.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He replied, without stopping his walk&mdash;&ldquo;No doubt; but what would you
      have me do? I've tried to sell, but no one has come. One of these mornings
      I shall shut up shop and go off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was aware that a failure was no longer to be feared. The creditors had
      preferred to come to an understanding before such a long series of
      misfortunes. Everything paid, the old man would find himself in the
      street, penniless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what will you do, then?&rdquo; murmured she, seeking some transition in
      order to arrive at the offer she dared not make.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; replied he. &ldquo;They'll pick me up all right.&rdquo; He had changed
      his route, going from the dining-room to the windows with their lamentable
      displays, looking at the latter, every time he came to them, with a gloomy
      expression. His gaze did not even turn towards the triumphal façade of The
      Ladies' Paradise, whose architectural lines ran as far as the eye could
      see, to the right and to the left, at both ends of the street. He was
      thoroughly annihilated, and had not even the strength to get angry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, uncle,&rdquo; said Denise, greatly embarrassed; &ldquo;perhaps there might be
      a situation for you.&rdquo; She stopped, and stammered. &ldquo;Yes, I am charged to
      offer you a situation as inspector.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo; asked Baudu.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Opposite,&rdquo; replied she; &ldquo;in our shop. Six thousand francs a year; a very
      easy place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly he stopped in front of her. But instead of getting angry as she
      feared he would, he turned very pale, succumbing to a grievous emotion, a
      feeling of bitter resignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Opposite, opposite,&rdquo; stammered he several times. &ldquo;You want me to go
      opposite?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise herself was affected by this emotion. She recalled the long
      struggle of the two shops, assisted at the funerals of Geneviève and
      Madame Baudu, saw before her The Old Elbeuf overthrown, utterly ruined by
      The Ladies' Paradise. And the idea of her uncle taking a situation
      opposite, and walking about in a white neck-tie, made her heart leap with
      pity and revolt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Denise, is it possible?&rdquo; said he, simply, wringing his poor
      trembling hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, uncle,&rdquo; exclaimed she, in a sudden burst of her just and
      excellent being. &ldquo;It would be wrong. Forgive me, I beg of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He resumed his walk, his step once more broke the funereal silence of the
      house. And when she left him, he was still going on in that obstinate
      locomotion of great griefs, which turn round themselves without ever being
      able to get beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise passed another sleepless night. She had just touched the bottom of
      her powerlessness. Even in favour of her own people she was unable to find
      any consolation. She had been obliged to assist to the bitter end at this
      invincible work of life which requires death as its continual seed. She no
      longer struggled, she accepted this law of combat; but her womanly soul
      was filled with a weeping pity, with a fraternal tenderness at the idea of
      suffering humanity. For years, she herself had been caught in the
      wheel-work of the machine. Had she not bled there? Had they not bruised
      her, dismissed her, overwhelmed her with insults? Even now she was
      frightened, when she felt herself chosen by the logic of facts. Why her, a
      girl so puny? Why should her small hand suddenly become so powerful amidst
      the monster's work? And the force which was sweeping everything away,
      carried her away in her turn, she, whose coming was to be a revenge.
      Mouret had invented this mechanism for crushing the world, and its brutal
      working shocked her; he had sown ruin all over the neighbourhood,
      despoiled some, killed others; and yet she loved him for the grandeur of
      his work, she loved him still more at every excess of his power,
      notwithstanding the flood of tears which overcame her, before the sacred
      misery of the vanquished.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Rue du
      Dix-Décembre, looking quite new with its chalk-white houses and the final
      scaffoldings of some nearly finished buildings, stretched out beneath a
      clear February sun; a stream of carriages was passing at a rattling pace
      through this gleam of light, which traversed the damp shadow of the old
      Saint-Roch quarter; and, between the Rue de la Michodière and the Rue de
      Choiseul, there was a great tumult, the crushing of a crowd excited by a
      month's advertising, their eyes in the air, gaping at the monumental
      façade of The Ladies' Paradise, inaugurated that Monday, on the occasion
      of a grand show of white goods.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bright new masonry displayed a vast development of polychromatic
      architecture, relieved by gildings, announcing the tumult and sparkle of
      the business inside, and attracting attention like a gigantic
      window-display all aglow with the liveliest colours. In order not to
      neutralise the show of goods, the decoration of the ground floor was of a
      sober description; the base of sea-green marble; the corner pillars and
      the supporting columns were covered with black marble, the severity of
      which was relieved by gilded medallions; and the rest of plate-glass, in
      iron sashes, nothing but glass, which seemed to open up the depths of the
      halls and galleries to the full light of day. But as the floors ascended,
      the tones became brighter. The frieze on the ground floor was decorated
      with a series of mosaics, a garland of red and blue flowers, alternating
      with marble slabs, on which were cut the names of goods, running all
      round, encircling the colossus. Then the base of the first floor, made of
      enamelled bricks, supported the large windows, as high as the frieze,
      formed of gilded escutcheons, with the arms of the towns of France, and
      designs in terra-cotta, the enamel of which reproduced the bright coloured
      flowers of the base. Then, right at the top, the entablature blossomed
      forth like the ardent florescence of the entire façade, the mosaics and
      the faience reappeared with warmer colourings, the zinc gutters were
      carved and gilded, while along the acroteria ran a nation of statues,
      representing the great industrial and manufacturing cities, their delicate
      silhouettes standing out against the sky. The spectators were especially
      astonished at the sight of the central door, also decorated with a
      profusion of mosaics, faience, and terra-cotta, and surmounted by an
      allegorical group, the new gilding of which glittered in the sun: Woman
      dressed and kissed by a flight of laughing cupids.
    </p>
    <p>
      About two o'clock the police were obliged to make the crowd move on, and
      to look after the carriages. The palace was built, the temple raised to
      the extravagant folly of fashion. It dominated everything, covering a
      whole district with its shadow. The scar left on its flank by the
      demolition of Bourras's hovel had already been so skilfully cicatrised
      that it would have been impossible to find the place formerly occupied by
      this old wart&mdash;the four façades now ran along the four streets,
      without a break in their superb isolation. Since Baudu's retirement, The
      Old Elbeuf, on the other side of the way, had been closed, walled up like
      a tomb, behind the shutters that were never now taken down; little by
      little the cab-wheels had splashed them, posters covered them up and
      pasted them together, a rising tide of advertising, which seemed like the
      last shovelful of earth thrown over the old-fashioned commerce; and, in
      the middle of this dead frontage, dirtied by the mud from the street,
      discoloured by the refuse of Paris, was displayed, like a flag planted
      over a conquered empire, an immense yellow poster, quite wet, announcing
      in letters two feet high the great sale at The Ladies' Paradise. It was as
      if the colossus, after each enlargement, seized with shame and repugnance
      for the black old quarter, where it had modestly sprung up, and that it
      had later on slaughtered, had just turned its back to it, leaving the mud
      of the narrow streets in its track, presenting its upstart face to the
      noisy, sunny thoroughfare of new Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      As it was now represented in the engraving of the advertisements, it had
      grown bigger and bigger, like the ogre of the legend, whose shoulders
      threatened to pierce the clouds. In the first place, in the foreground of
      the engraving, were the Rue du Dix-Décembre, the Rue de la Michodière, and
      the Rue de Choiseul, filled with little black figures, and spread out
      immoderately, as if to make room for the customers of the whole world.
      Then came a bird's eye view of the buildings themselves, of an exaggerated
      immensity, with their roofings which described the covered galleries, the
      glazed courtyards in which could be recognised the halls, the endless
      detail of this lake of glass and zinc shining in the sun. Beyond,
      stretched forth Paris, but Paris diminished, eaten up by the monster: the
      houses, of a cottage-like humility in the neighbourhood of the building,
      then dying away in a cloud of indistinct chimneys; the monuments seemed to
      melt into nothing, to the left two dashes for Notre-Dame, to the right a
      circumflex accent for the Invalides, in the background the Pantheon,
      ashamed and lost, no larger than a lentil. The horizon, crumbled into
      powder, became no more than a contemptible frame-work, as far as the
      heights of Châtillon, out into the open country, the vanishing expanse of
      which indicated how far reached the state of slavery.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ever since the morning the crowd had been increasing. No shop had ever yet
      stirred up the city with such a profusion of advertisements. The Ladies'
      Paradise now spent nearly six hundred thousand francs a year in posters,
      advertisements, and appeals of all sorts; the number of catalogues sent
      away amounted to four hundred thousand, more than a hundred thousand
      francs' worth of stuff was cut up for patterns. It was a complete invasion
      of the newspapers, the walls, and the ears of the public, like a monstrous
      brass trumpet, which, blown incessantly, spread to the four corners of the
      earth the tumult of the great sales. And, for the future, this façade,
      before which people were now crowding, became a living advertisement, with
      its bespangled, gilded magnificence, its windows large enough to display
      the entire poem of woman's clothing, its profusion of signs, painted,
      engraved, and cut in stone, from the marble slabs on the ground floor to
      the sheets of iron rounded off in semicircles above the roof, unfolding
      their gilded streamers on which the name of the house could be read in
      letters bright as the sun, standing out against the azure blue of the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      To celebrate the inauguration, there had been added trophies and flags;
      each storey was gay with banners and standards bearing the arms of the
      principal cities of France; and right at the top, the flags of all
      nations, run up on masts, fluttered in the air, while the show of cotton
      and linen goods downstairs assumed in the windows a tone of blinding
      intensity. Nothing but white, a complete trousseau, and a mountain of
      sheets to the left, a lot of curtains forming a chapel, and pyramids of
      handkerchiefs to the right, fatigued the eyes; and, between the hung goods
      at the door, whole pieces of cotton, calico, and muslin in clusters, like
      snow-drifts, were planted some dressed engravings, sheets of bluish
      cardboard, on which a young bride, or a lady in ball costume, both life
      size and dressed in real lace and silk, smiled with their painted faces. A
      circle of idlers was constantly forming, a desire arose from the
      admiration of the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      What caused an increase of curiosity around The Ladies' Paradise was a
      catastrophe of which all Paris was talking, the burning down of The Four
      Seasons, the big shop Bouthemont had opened near the Opera-house, hardly
      three weeks before. The newspapers were full of details, of the fire
      breaking out through an explosion of gas during the night, the hurried
      flight of the young ladies in their night-dresses, and the heroic conduct
      of Bouthemont, who had carried five of them out on his shoulders. The
      enormous losses were covered, and the people commenced to shrug their
      shoulders, saying what a splendid advertisement it was. But for the moment
      attention again flowed back to The Ladies' Paradise, excited by all these
      stories flying about, occupied to a wonderful extent by these colossal
      establishments, which by their importance took up such a large place in
      public life. Wonderfully lucky, this Mouret! Paris saluted her star, and
      crowded to see him still standing, since the very flames now undertook to
      sweep all competition from beneath his feet; and the profits of the season
      were already being calculated, people began to estimate the swollen flood
      of customers which would be sent into his shop by the forced closing of
      the rival house. For a moment he had felt anxious, troubled at feeling a
      jealous woman against him, that Madame Desforges, to whom he owed in a
      manner his fortune. Baron Hartmann's financial dilettantism, putting money
      into the two affairs, annoyed him also. Then he was exasperated at having
      missed a genial idea which had occurred to Bouthemont, who had artfully
      had his shop blessed by the vicar of the Madeleine, followed by all his
      clergy; an astonishing ceremony, a religious pomp paraded from the silk
      department to the glove department, and so on throughout the
      establishment. This imposing ceremony had not, it is true, prevented
      everything being destroyed, but had done as much good as a million francs'
      worth of advertisements, so great an impression had it produced on the
      fashionable world. From that day, Mouret dreamed of having the archbishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clock over the door was striking three, and the afternoon crush had
      commenced, nearly a hundred thousand customers were struggling in the
      various galleries and halls. Outside, the carriages were stationed from
      one end of the Rue du Dix-Décembre to the other, and over against the
      Opera-house another compact mass occupied the <i>cul-de-sac</i>, where the
      future avenue was to commence. Common cabs were mingled with private
      broughams, the drivers waiting amongst the wheels, the rows of horses
      neighing and shaking their bits, which sparkled in the sun. The lines were
      incessantly reformed, amidst the calls of the messengers, the poshing of
      the animals which closed in of their own accord, whilst fresh vehicles
      were continually arriving and taking their places with the rest. The
      pedestrians flew on to the refuges in frightened bands, the pavements were
      black with people, in the receding perspective of the wide and straight
      thoroughfare. And a clamour arose from between the white houses, this
      human stream rolled along under the soul of overflowing Paris, a sweet and
      enormous breath, of which one could feel the giant caress.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Boves, accompanied by her daughter Blanche and Madame Guibal,
      was standing, at a window, looking at a display of half made up costumes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! do look,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;at those print costumes at nineteen francs
      fifteen sous!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In their square boxes, the costumes, tied round with a favour, were folded
      so as to present the trimmings alone, embroidered with blue and red; and,
      occupying the corner of each box, was an engraving showing the garment
      made up, worn by a young person looking like some princess.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But they are not worth more,&rdquo; murmured Madame Guibal. &ldquo;They fall into
      rags as soon as you handle them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had now become intimate since Monsieur de Boves had been confined to
      his arm-chair by an attack of gout. The wife put up with the mistress,
      preferring that things should take place in her own house, for in this way
      she picked up a little pocket money, sums that the husband allowed himself
      to be robbed of, having, himself, need of forbearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! let's go in,&rdquo; resumed Madame Guibal &ldquo;We must see their show. Hasn't
      your son-in-law made an appointment with you inside?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Boves did not reply, entirely absorbed by the string of
      carriages, which, one by one, opened their doors and let out more
      customers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Blanche, at last, in her indolent voice. &ldquo;Paul is to join us
      about four o'clock in the reading-room, on leaving the ministry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had been married about a month, and De Vallagnosc, after a leave of
      absence of three weeks, spent in the South of France, had just returned to
      his post. The young woman had already her mother's portly look, and her
      flesh appeared puffed up and coarser since her marriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there's Madame Desforges over there!&rdquo; exclaimed the countess, looking
      at a brougham that had just arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think so?&rdquo; murmured Madame Guibal. &ldquo;After all those stories! She
      must still be weeping over the fire at The Four Seasons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was really Henriette. On perceiving her friends, she came up with a
      gay, smiling air, concealing her defeat beneath the fashionable ease of
      her manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me! yes, I wanted to have a look round. It's better to see for one's
      self, isn't it? Oh! we are still good friends with Monsieur Mouret, though
      he is said to be furious since I have interested myself in that rival
      house. Personally, there is only one thing I cannot forgive him, and that
      is, to have pushed on the marriage of my protege, Mademoiselle de
      Fontenailles, with that Joseph&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! it's done?&rdquo; interrupted Madame de Boves. &ldquo;What a horror!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my dear, and solely to annoy us. I know him; he wished to intimate
      that the daughters of our great families are only fit to marry his shop
      messengers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was getting quite animated. They had all four remained on the
      pavement, amidst the pushing at the entrance. Little by little, however,
      the stream carried them in; and they had only to abandon themselves to the
      current, they passed the door as if lifted up, without being conscious of
      it, talking louder to make themselves heard. They were now asking each
      other about Madame Marty; it was said that poor Monsieur Marty, after
      violent scenes at home, had gone quite mad; he was diving into all the
      treasures of the earth, exhausting mines of gold, loading tumbrils with
      diamonds and precious stones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor fellow!&rdquo; said Madame Guibal, &ldquo;he who was always so shabby, with his
      teacher's humility! And the wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's ruining an uncle, now,&rdquo; replied Henriette, &ldquo;a worthy old man who
      has gone to live with her, having lost his wife. But she must be here, we
      shall see her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A surprise made the ladies stop short. Before them extended the shop, the
      largest drapery establishment in the world, as the advertisements said.
      The grand central gallery now ran from end to end, extending from the Rue
      du Dix-Décembre to the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin; whilst to the right and
      to the left, like the aisles of a church, ran the Monsigny Gallery and the
      Michodière Gallery, right along the two streets, without a break. Here and
      there the halls crossed and formed open spaces amidst the metallic
      framework of the suspended stairs and flying bridges. The inside
      arrangements had been all changed: the bargains were now placed on the Rue
      du Dix-Décembre side, the silk department was in the centre, the glove
      department occupied the Saint-Augustin Hall at the back; and, from the new
      grand vestibule, one beheld, on looking up, the bedding department, moved
      from one end of the second floor to the other. The number of departments
      now amounted to the enormous figure of fifty; several, quite fresh, were
      to be inaugurated that very day; others, become too important, had been
      simply divided, in order to facilitate the sales; and, owing to this
      continual increase of business, the staff had been increased to three
      thousand and forty-five employees.
    </p>
    <p>
      What caused the ladies to stop was the prodigious spectacle of the grand
      exhibition of white goods. In the first place, there was the vestibule, a
      hall with bright mirrors, paved with mosaics, where the low-priced goods
      detained the voracious crowd. Then there were the galleries, plunged in a
      glittering blaze of light, a borealistic vista, quite a country of snow,
      revealing the endless steppes hung with ermine, the accumulation of
      icebergs shimmering in the sun. One found there the whiteness of the
      outside windows, but vivified, colossal, burning from one end of the
      enormous building to the other, with the white flame of a fire in full
      swing. Nothing but white goods, all the white articles from each
      department, a riot of white, a white star, the twinkling of which was at
      first blinding, so that the details could not be distinguished amidst this
      unique whiteness. But the eye soon became accustomed to it; to the left,
      in the Monsigny Gallery, jutted out the white promontories of cotton and
      calico, the white rocks formed of sheets, napkins, and handkerchiefs;
      whilst to the right, in the Michodière Gallery, occupied by the mercery,
      the hosiery, and the woollen goods, were exposed constructions of mother
      of pearl buttons, a pretty decoration composed of white socks, one whole
      room covered with white swanskin, traversed in the distance by a stream of
      light. But the brightness shone with especial brilliancy in the central
      gallery, amidst the ribbons and the cravats, the gloves and the silks. The
      counters disappeared beneath the whiteness of the silks, the ribbons, and
      the gloves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Round the iron columns were twined flounces of white muslin, looped up now
      and again with white silk handkerchiefs. The staircases were decorated
      with white drapings, quiltings and dimities alternating along the
      balustrades, encircling the halls as high as the second storey; and this
      tide of white assumed wings, hurried off and lost itself, like a flight of
      swans. And the white hung from the arches, a fall of down, a snowy sheet
      of large flakes; white counterpanes, white coverlets floated about in the
      air, suspended like banners in a church; long jets of Maltese lace hung
      across, seeming to suspend swarms of white butterflies; other lace
      fluttered about on all sides, floating like fleecy clouds in a summer sky,
      filling the air with their clear breath. And the marvel, the altar of this
      religion of white was, above the silk counter, in the great hall, a tent
      formed of white curtains, which fell from the glazed roof. The muslin, the
      gauze, the lace flowed in light ripples, whilst very richly embroidered
      tulles, and pieces of oriental silk striped with silver, served as a
      background to this giant decoration, which partook of the tabernacle and
      of the alcove. It made one think of a broad white bed, awaiting in its
      virginal immensity the white princess, as in the legend, she who was to
      come one day, all powerful, with the bride's white veil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! extraordinary!&rdquo; repeated the ladies. &ldquo;Wonderful!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They never tired of this song in praise of white that the goods of the
      entire establishment were singing. Mouret had never conceived anything
      more extraordinary; it was the master stroke of his genius for display.
      Beneath the flow of all this whiteness, in the apparent disorder of the
      tissues, fallen as if by chance from the open drawers, there was a
      harmonious phrase, the white followed up and developed in all its tones,
      springing into existence, growing, and blossoming forth with the
      complicated orchestration of a master's fugue, the continual development
      of which carries away the mind in an ever-increasing flight. Nothing but
      white, and never the same goods, all styles outvying with, opposing, and
      completing one another, attaining the very brilliancy of light itself.
      Starting from the dull shades of the calico and linen, and the heavy
      shades of the flannel and cloth, there then came the velvet, silk, and
      satin goods&mdash;quite an ascending gamut, the white gradually lighted
      up, finishing in little flames at the breaks of the folds; and the white
      flew away in the transparencies of the curtains, becoming free and clear
      with the muslin, the lace, and above all the tulle, so light and airy that
      it was like the extreme and last note; whilst the silver of the oriental
      silk sung higher than all in the depths of the giant alcove.
    </p>
    <p>
      The place was full of life. The lifts were besieged with people, there was
      a crush at the refreshment-bar and in the reading-room, quite a nation was
      moving about in these regions covered with the snowy fabrics. And the
      crowd seemed to be black, like skaters on a Polish lake in December. On
      the ground floor there was a heavy swell, agitated by a reflux, in which
      could be distinguished nothing but the delicate and enraptured faces of
      the women. In the chisellings of the iron framework, along the staircases,
      on the flying bridges, there was an endless procession of small figures,
      as if lost amidst the snowy peaks of a mountain. A suffocating hot-house
      heat surprised one on these frozen heights. The buzz of voices made a
      great noise like a rushing stream. Up above, the profusion of gildings,
      the glazed work picked out with gold, and the golden roses seemed like a
      ray of the sun shining on the Alps of the grand exhibition of white goods.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said Madame de Boves, &ldquo;we must go forward. It's impossible to stay
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Since she came in, Jouve, the inspector, standing near the door, had not
      taken his eyes off her; and when she turned round she encountered his
      gaze. Then, as she resumed her walk, he let her get a little in front, but
      followed her at a distance, without, however, appearing to take any
      further notice of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Madame Guibal, stopping again as she came to the first
      pay-desk, &ldquo;it's a pretty idea, these violets!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She referred to the new present made by The Ladies' Paradise, one of
      Mouret's ideas, which was making a great noise in the newspapers; small
      bouquets of white violets, bought by thousands at Nice and distributed to
      every customer buying the smallest article. Near each pay-desk were
      messengers in uniform, delivering the bouquets under the supervision of an
      inspector. And gradually all the customers were decorated in this way, the
      shop was filling with these white flowers, every woman becoming the bearer
      of a penetrating perfume of violets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; murmured Madame Desforges, in a jealous voice, &ldquo;it's not a bad
      idea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But, just as they were going away, they heard two shopmen joking about
      these violets. A tall, thin fellow was expressing his astonishment: the
      marriage between the governor and the first-hand in the costume department
      was coming off, then? whilst a short, fat fellow replied that he didn't
      know, but that the flowers were bought at any rate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de Boves, &ldquo;Monsieur Mouret is going to marry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the latest news,&rdquo; replied Madame Desforges, affecting the greatest
      indifference. &ldquo;Of course, he's sure to end like that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The countess shot a quick glance at her new friend. They both now
      understood why Madame Desforges had come to The Ladies' Paradise
      notwithstanding her rupture with Mouret. No doubt she yielded to the
      invincible desire to see and to suffer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall stay with you,&rdquo; said Madame Guibal, whose curiosity was awakened.
      &ldquo;We shall meet Madame de Boves again in the reading-room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; replied the latter. &ldquo;I want to go on the first floor. Come
      along, Blanche.&rdquo; And she went up followed by her daughter, whilst Jouve,
      the inspector, still on her track, ascended by another staircase, in order
      not to attract attention. The two other ladies were soon lost in the
      compact crowd on the ground floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the counters were talking of nothing else but the governor's love
      affairs, amidst the press of business. The adventure, which had for months
      been occupying the employees, delighted at Denise's long resistance, had
      all at once come to a crisis; it had become known that the young girl
      intended to leave The Ladies' Paradise, notwithstanding all Mouret's
      entreaties, under the pretext of requiring rest. And the opinions were
      divided. Would she leave? Would she stay? Bets of five francs circulated
      from department to department that she would leave the following Sunday.
      The knowing ones staked a lunch on the final marriage; however, the
      others, those who believed in her departure, did not risk their money
      without good reasons. Certainly the little girl had the strength of an
      adored woman who refuses, but the governor, on his side, was strong in his
      wealth, his happy widowerhood, and his pride which a last exaction might
      exasperate. Nevertheless, they were all of opinion that this little
      saleswoman had carried on the business with the science of a <i>rouée</i>,
      full of genius, and that she was playing the supreme stake in thus
      offering him this bargain: Marry me or I go away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise, however, thought but little of these things. She had never imposed
      any conditions or made any calculation. And the reason of her departure
      was the result of this very judgment of her conduct, which caused her
      continual surprise. Had she wished for all this? Had she shown herself
      artful, coquettish, ambitious? No, she had come simply, and was the first
      to feel astonished at inspiring this passion. And again, now, why did they
      ascribe her resolution to quit The Ladies' Paradise to craftiness? It was
      so natural! She began to feel a nervous uneasiness, an intolerable
      anguish, amidst this continual gossip which was going on in the house,
      Mouret's feverish pursuit of her, and the combats she was obliged to
      engage in against herself; and she preferred to go away, seized with fear
      lest she might one day yield and regret it for ever afterwards. If there
      were in this any learned tactics, she was totally ignorant of it, and she
      asked herself in despair what was to be done to avoid appearing to be
      running after a husband. The idea of a marriage now irritated her, and she
      resolved to say no, and still no, in case he should push his folly to that
      extent. She alone ought to suffer. The necessity for the separation caused
      her tears to flow, but she told herself, with her great courage, that it
      was necessary, that she would have no rest or happiness if she acted in
      any other way.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Mouret received her resignation, he remained mute and cold, in the
      effort which he made to contain himself. Then he replied that he granted
      her a week's reflection, before allowing her to commit such a stupid act.
      At the expiration of the week, when she returned to the subject, and
      expressed a strong wish to go away after the great sale, he said nothing
      further, but affected to talk the language of reason to her: she had
      little or no fortune, she would never find another position equal to that
      she was leaving. Had she another situation in view? If so, he was quite
      prepared to offer her the advantages she expected to obtain elsewhere. And
      the young girl having replied that she had not looked for any other
      situation, that she intended to take a rest at Valognes, thanks to the
      money she had already saved, he asked her what would prevent her returning
      to The Ladies' Paradise if her health alone were the reason of her
      departure. She remained silent, tortured by this cross-examination. He at
      once imagined that she was about to join a lover, a future husband
      perhaps. Had she not confessed to him one evening that she loved some one?
      From that moment he carried deep in his heart, like the stab of a knife,
      this confession wrung from her in an hour of trouble. And if this man was
      to marry her, she was giving up all to follow him: that explained her
      obstinacy. It was all over, and he simply added in his icy tones, that he
      would detain her no longer, since she could not tell him the real cause of
      her leaving. These harsh words, free from anger, affected her far more
      than the anger she had feared.
    </p>
    <p>
      Throughout the week that Denise was obliged to spend in the shop, Mouret
      kept his rigid paleness. When he crossed the departments, he affected not
      to see her, never had he seemed more indifferent, more buried in his work;
      and the bets began again, only the brave ones dared to back the marriage.
      However, beneath this coldness, so unusual with him, Mouret concealed a
      frightful crisis of indecision and suffering. Fits of anger brought the
      blood to his head: he saw red, he dreamed of taking Denise in a close
      embrace, keeping her, and stifling her cries. Then he tried to reason with
      himself, to find some practical means of preventing her going away; but he
      constantly ran up against his powerlessness, the uselessness of his power
      and money. An idea, however, was growing amidst his mad projects, and
      gradually imposing itself, notwithstanding his revolt. After Madame
      Hédouin's death he had sworn never to marry again; deriving from a woman
      his first good fortune, he resolved in future to draw his fortune from all
      women. It was with him, as with Bourdoncle, a superstition that the head
      of a great drapery establishment should be single, if he wished to retain
      his masculine power over the growing desires of his world of customers;
      the introduction of a woman changed the air, drove away the others, by
      bringing her own odour. And he still resisted the invincible logic of
      facts, preferring to die rather than yield, seized with sudden bursts of
      fury against Denise, feeling that she was the revenge, fearing he should
      fall vanquished over his millions, broken like a straw by the eternal
      feminine force, the day he should marry her. Then he slowly became
      cowardly again, dismissing his repugnance; why tremble? she was so
      sweet-tempered, so prudent, that he could abandon himself to her without
      fear. Twenty times an hour the battle recommenced in his distracted mind.
      His pride tended to aggravate the wound, and he completely lost his reason
      when he thought that, even after this last submission, she might still say
      no, if she loved another. The morning of the great sale, he had still not
      decided on anything, and Denise was to leave the next day.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Bourdoncle, on the day in question, entered Mouret's office about
      three o'clock, according to custom, he surprised him sitting with his
      elbows on the desk, his hands over his eyes, so greatly absorbed that he
      had to touch him on the shoulder. Mouret glanced up, his face bathed in
      tears; they both looked at each other, held out their hands, and a hearty
      grip was exchanged between these two men who had fought so many commercial
      battles side by side. For the past month Bourdoncle's attitude had
      completely changed; he now bowed before Denise, and even secretly pushed
      the governor on to a marriage with her. No doubt he was thus manoeuvring
      to save himself being swept away by a force which he now recognised as
      superior. But there could have been found at the bottom of this change the
      awakening of an old ambition, the timid and gradually growing hope to
      swallow up in his turn this Mouret, before whom he had so long bowed. This
      was in the air of the house, in this struggle for existence, of which the
      continued massacres warmed up the business around him. He was carried away
      by the working of the machine, seized by the others' appetites, by that
      voracity which, from top to bottom, drove the lean ones to the
      extermination of the fat ones. But a sort of religions fear, the religion
      of chance, had up to that time prevented him making the attempt. And the
      governor was becoming childish, drifting into a ridiculous marriage,
      ruining his luck, destroying his charm with the customers. Why should he
      dissuade him from it, when he could so easily take up the business of this
      played-out man, fallen into the arms of a woman? Thus it was with the
      emotion of an adieu, the pity of an old friendship, that he shook his
      chiefs hand, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come, courage! Marry her, and finish the matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret already felt ashamed of his moment of cowardice, and got up,
      protesting: &ldquo;No, no, it's too stupid. Come, let's take our turn round the
      shop. Things are looking well, aren't they? I fancy we shall have a
      magnificent day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They went out and commenced their afternoon inspection through the crowded
      departments. Bourdoncle cast oblique glances at him, anxious at this last
      display of energy, watching his lips to catch the least sign of suffering.
      The business was in fact throwing forth its fire, in an infernal roar,
      which made the house tremble with the violent shaking of a big steamer
      going at full speed. At Denise's counter were a crowd of mothers dragging
      along their little girls and boys, swamped beneath the garments they were
      trying on. The department had brought out all its white articles, and
      there, as everywhere else, was a riot of white, enough to dress in white a
      troop of shivering cupids, white cloth cloaks, white piques and cashmere
      dresses, sailor costumes, and even white Zouave costumes. In the centre,
      for the sake of the effect, and although the season had not arrived, was a
      display of communion costumes, the white muslin dress and veil, the white
      satin shoes, a light gushing florescence, which, planted there, produced
      the effect of an enormous bouquet of innocence and candid delight. Madame
      Bourdelais was there with her three children, Madeleine, Edmond, Lucien,
      seated according to their size, and was getting angry with the latter, the
      smallest, because he was struggling with Denise, who was trying to put a
      woollen muslin jacket on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep still, Lucien! Don't you think it's rather tight, mademoiselle?&rdquo; And
      with the sharp look of a woman difficult to deceive, she examined the
      stuff, studied the cut, and scrutinized the stitching. &ldquo;No, it fits well,&rdquo;
       she resumed. &ldquo;It's no trifle to dress all these little ones. Now I want a
      mantle for this young lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise had been obliged to assist in serving during the busy moments of
      the day. She was looking for the mantle required, when she set up a cry of
      surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! It's you; what's the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her brother Jean, holding a parcel in his hand, was standing before her.
      He had married a week before, and on the Saturday his wife, a dark little
      woman, with a provoking, charming face, had paid a long visit to The
      Ladies' Paradise to make some purchases. The young people were to
      accompany Denise to Valognes, a regular marriage trip, a month's holiday,
      which would remind them of old times.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just imagine,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;Thérèse has forgotten a lot of things. There are
      some articles to be changed, and others to be bought. So, as she was in a
      hurry, she sent me with this parcel. I'll explain&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she interrupted him on perceiving Pépé, &ldquo;What; Pépé as well! and his
      school?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Jean, &ldquo;after dinner on Sunday I had not the heart to take him
      back. He will go back this evening. The poor child is very downhearted at
      being shut up in Paris whilst we are enjoying ourselves at home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise smiled on them, in spite of her suffering. She handed over Madame
      Bourdelais to one of her young ladies, and came back to them in a corner
      of the department, which was, fortunately, getting deserted. The little
      ones, as she still called them, had now grown to be big fellows. Pépé,
      twelve years old, was already taller and bigger than her, still silent and
      living on caresses, of a charming, cajolling sweetness; whilst Jean,
      broad-shouldered, was quite a head taller than his sister, and still
      possessed his feminine beauty, with his blonde hair blowing about in the
      wind. And she, always slim, no fatter than a skylark, as she said, still
      retained her anxious motherly authority over them, treating them as
      children wanting all her attention, buttoning up Jean's coat so that he
      should not look like a rake, and seeing that Pépé had got a clean
      handkerchief. When she saw the latter's swollen eyes, she gently chided
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be reasonable, my boy. Your studies cannot be interrupted. I'll take you
      away at the holidays. Is there anything you want? But perhaps you prefer
      to have the money.&rdquo; Then she turned towards the other. &ldquo;You, youngster,
      yet making him believe we are going to have wonderful fun! Just try and be
      a little more careful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had given Jean four thousand francs, half of her savings, to enable
      him to set up housekeeping. The younger one cost her a great deal for
      schooling, all her money went for them, as in former days. They were her
      sole reason for living and working, for she had again declared she would
      never marry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, here are the things,&rdquo; resumed Jean. &ldquo;In the first place, there's a
      cloak in this parcel that Thérèse&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he stopped, and Denise, on turning round to see what had frightened
      him, perceived Mouret behind them. For a moment he had stood looking at
      her in her motherly attitude between the two big boys, scolding and
      embracing them, turning them round as mothers do babies when changing
      their clothes. Bourdoncle had remained on one side, appearing to be
      interested in the business, but he did not lose sight of this little
      scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are your brothers, are they not?&rdquo; asked Mouret, after a silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had the icy tone and rigid attitude, which he now assumed with her.
      Denise herself made an effort to remain cold and unconcerned. Her smile
      died away, and she replied: &ldquo;Yes, sir. I've married off the eldest, and
      his wife has sent him for some purchases.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mouret continued looking at the three of them. At last he said: &ldquo;The
      youngest has grown very much. I recognise him, I remember having seen him
      in the Tuileries Gardens one evening with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And his voice, which was becoming moderate, slightly trembled. She,
      suffocating, bent down, pretending to arrange Pépé's belt. The two
      brothers, who had turned scarlet, stood smiling on their sister's master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're very much like you,&rdquo; said the latter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; exclaimed she, &ldquo;they're much handsomer than I am!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment he seemed to be comparing their faces. How she loved them!
      And he walked a step or two; then returned and whispered in her ear: &ldquo;Come
      to my office after business, I want to speak to you before you go away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time Mouret went off and continued his inspection. The battle was
      once more raging within him, for the appointment he had given caused him a
      sort of irritation. To what idea had he yielded on seeing her with her
      brothers? It was maddening to think he could no longer find the strength
      to assert his will. However, he could settle it by saying a word of adieu.
      Bourdoncle, who had rejoined him, seemed less anxious, though he was still
      examining him with stealthy glances.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Denise had returned to Madame Bourdelais. &ldquo;How are you getting
      on with the mantle, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, very well. I've spent enough for one day. These little ones are
      ruining me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise now being able to slip away, went and listened to Jean's
      explanations, then accompanied him to the various counters, where he would
      certainly have lost his head without her. First came the mantle, which
      Thérèse wished to change for a white cloth cloak, same size, same shape.
      And the young girl, having taken the parcel, went up to the ready-made
      department, followed by her two brothers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The department had laid out its light coloured garments, summer jackets
      and mantillas, of light silk and fancy woollens. But there was little
      doing here, the customers were but few and far between. Nearly all the
      young ladies were new-comers. Clara had disappeared a month before, some
      said she had eloped with the husband of one of the saleswomen, others that
      she had gone on the streets. As for Marguerite, she was at last about to
      take the management of the little shop at Grenoble, where her cousin was
      waiting for her. Madame Aurélie remained immutable, in the round cuirass
      of her silk dress, with her imperial mask which retained the yellowish
      puffiness of an antique marble. Her son Albert's bad conduct was a source
      of great trouble to her, and she would have retired into the country had
      it not been for the inroads made on the family savings by this scapegrace,
      whose terrible extravagance threatened to swallow up piece by piece their
      Rigolles property. It was a sort of punishment for their home broken up,
      for the mother had resumed her little excursions with her lady friends,
      and the father on his side continued his musical performances. Bourdoncle
      was already looking upon Madame Aurélie with a discontented air, surprised
      that she had not the tact to resign; too old for business! the knell was
      about to sound which would sweep away the Lhomme dynasty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! it's you,&rdquo; said she to Denise, with an exaggerated amiability. &ldquo;You
      want this cloak changed, eh? Certainly, at once. Ah! there are your
      brothers; getting quite men, I declare!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In spite of her pride, she would have gone on her knees to pay her court
      to the young girl. Nothing else was being talked of in her department, as
      in the others, but Denise's departure; and the first-hand was quite ill
      over it, for she had been reckoning on the protection of her former
      saleswoman. She lowered her voice: &ldquo;They say you're going to leave us.
      Really, it isn't possible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is, though,&rdquo; replied Denise.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite was listening. Since her marriage had been decided on, she had
      marched about with her putty-looking face, assuming more disdainful airs
      than ever. She came up saying: &ldquo;You are quite right. Self-respect above
      everything, I say. Allow me to bid you adieu, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Some customers arriving at that moment, Madame Aurélie requested her, in a
      harsh voice, to attend to business. Then, as Denise was taking the cloak
      to effect the &ldquo;return&rdquo; herself, she protested, and called an auxiliary.
      This, again, was an innovation suggested to Mouret by the young girl&mdash;persons
      charged with carrying the articles, which relieved the saleswomen of a
      great burden.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go with Mademoiselle Denise,&rdquo; said the first-hand, giving her the cloak.
      Then, returning to Denise: &ldquo;Pray consider well. We are all heart-broken at
      your leaving.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jean and Pépé, who were waiting, smiling amidst this overflowing crowd of
      women, followed their sister. They now had to go to the underlinen
      department, to get four chemises like the half-dozen that Thérèse had
      bought on the Saturday. But there, where the exhibition of white goods was
      snowing down from every shelf, they were almost stifled, and found it very
      difficult to get past.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the first place, at the stay counter a little scene was causing a crowd
      to collect. Madame Boutarel, who had arrived in Paris this time with her
      husband and daughter, had been wandering all about the shop since the
      morning collecting an outfit for the young lady, who was about to be
      married. The father was consulted every moment, and they never appeared
      likely to finish. At last the family had just stranded here; and whilst
      the young lady was absorbed in a profound study of some drawers, the
      mother had disappeared, having cast her coquettish eyes on a delicious
      pair of stays. When Monsieur Boutarel, a big, full-blooded man, left his
      daughter, bewildered, to go and look for his wife, he at last found her in
      a fitting-room, at the door of which he was politely invited to take a
      seat. These rooms were like narrow cells, glazed with ground glass, where
      the men, and even the husbands, were not allowed to enter, by an
      exaggerated sentiment of propriety on the part of the directors.
      Saleswomen came out and went in again quickly, allowing those outside to
      divine, by the rapid closing of the door, visions of ladies in their
      petticoats, with bare arms and shoulders&mdash;stout women with white
      flesh, and thin ones with flesh the colour of old ivory. A row of men were
      waiting outside, seated on arm-chairs, and looking very weary. Monsieur
      Boutarel, when he understood, got really angry, crying out that he wanted
      his wife, that he insisted on knowing what was going on inside, that he
      certainly would not allow her to undress without him. It was in vain that
      they tried to calm him; he seemed to think there were some very queer
      things going on inside. Madame Boutarel was obliged to come out, to the
      delight of the crowd, who were discussing and laughing over the affair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Denise and her brothers were at last able to get past. Every article of
      female linen, all those white under-things that are usually concealed,
      were here displayed, in a suite of rooms, classed in various departments.
      The corsets and dress-improvers occupied one counter, there were the
      stitched corsets, the Duchesse, the cuirass, and, above all, the white
      silk corsets, dove-tailed with colours, forming for this day a special
      display; an army of dummies without heads or legs, nothing but the bust,
      dolls' breasts flattened under the silk, and close by, on other dummies,
      were horse-hair and other dress improvers, prolonging these broomsticks
      into enormous, distended croups, of which the profile assumed a ludicrous
      unbecomingness. But afterwards commenced the gallant dishabille, a
      dishabille which strewed the vast rooms, as if an army of lovely girls had
      undressed themselves from department to department, down to the very satin
      of their skin. Here were articles of fine linen, white cuffs and cravats,
      white fichus and collars, an infinite variety of light gewgaws, a white
      froth which escaped from the drawers and ascended like so much snow. There
      were jackets, little bodices, morning dresses and peignoirs, linen,
      nansouck, long white garments, roomy and thin, which spoke of the lounging
      in a lazy morning after a night of tenderness. Then appeared the
      under-garments, falling one by one; the white petticoats of all lengths,
      the petticoat that clings to the knees, and the long petticoat with which
      the gay ladies sweep the pavement, a rising sea of petticoats, in which
      the legs were drowned; cotton, linen, and cambric drawers, large white
      drawers in which a man could dance; lastly, the chemises, buttoned at the
      neck for the night, or displaying the bosom in the day, simply supported
      by narrow shoulder-straps; chemises in all materials, common calico, Irish
      linen, cambric, the last white veil slipping from the panting bosom and
      hips.
    </p>
    <p>
      And, at the outfitting counter, there was an indiscreet unpacking, women
      turned round and viewed on all sides, from the small housewife with her
      common calicoes, to the rich lady drowned in laces, an alcove publicly
      open, of which the concealed luxury, the plaitings, the embroideries, the
      Valenciennes lace, became a sort of sexual depravation, as it developed
      into costly fantasies. Woman was dressing herself again, the white wave of
      this fall of linen was returning again to the shivering mystery of the
      petticoats, the chemise stiffened by the fingers of the workwomen, the
      frigid drawers retaining the creases of the box, all this cambric and
      muslin, dead, scattered over the counters, thrown about, heaped up, was
      going to become living, with the life of the flesh, odorous and warm with
      the odour of love, a white cloud become sacred, bathed in night, and of
      which the least flutter, the pink of a knee disclosed through the
      whiteness, ravaged the world. Then there was another room devoted to the
      baby linen, where the voluptuous snowy whiteness of woman's clothing
      developed into the chaste whiteness of the infant: an innocence, a joy,
      the young wife become a mother, flannel garments, chemises and caps large
      as doll's things, baptismal dresses, cashmere pelisses, the white down of
      birth, like a fine shower of white feathers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are embroidered chemises,&rdquo; said Jean, who was delighted with this
      display, this rising tide of feminine attire into which he was plunging.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pauline ran up at once, when she perceived Denise; and before even asking
      what she wanted, began to talk in a low tone, stirred up by the rumours
      circulating in the shop. In her department, two saleswomen had even got
      quarrelling, one affirming and the other denying her departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll stay with us, I'll stake my life. What would become of me?&rdquo; And as
      Denise replied that she intended to leave the next day. &ldquo;No, no, you think
      so, but I know better. You must appoint me second-hand, now that I've got
      a baby. Baugé is reckoning on it, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pauline smiled with an air of conviction. She then gave the six chemises;
      and, Jean having said that he was now going to the handkerchief counter,
      she called an auxiliary to carry the chemises and the jacket left by the
      auxiliary from the readymade department The girl who happened to answer
      was Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, recently married to Joseph. She had just
      obtained this menial situation as a great favour, and she wore a long
      black blouse, marked on the shoulder with a number in yellow wool.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Follow this young lady,&rdquo; said Pauline. Then returning, and again lowering
      her voice: &ldquo;It's understood that I am to be appointed second-hand, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Denise, troubled, defended herself; but at last promised, with a laugh,
      joking in her turn. And she went away, going down with Jean and Pépé, and
      followed by the auxiliary. On the ground-floor, they fell into the woollen
      department, a corner of a gallery entirely hung with white swanskin cloth
      and white flannel. Liénard, whom his father had vainly recalled to Angers,
      was talking to the handsome Mignot, now a traveller, and who had boldly
      reappeared at The Ladies' Paradise. No doubt they were speaking of Denise,
      for they both stopped talking to bow to her with a ceremonious air. In
      fact, as she went along through the departments the salesmen appeared full
      of emotion and bent their heads before her, uncertain of what she might be
      the next day. They whispered, thought she looked triumphant, and the
      betting was again altered; they began to risk bottles of wine, etc., over
      the event. She had gone through the linen-gallery, in order to get to the
      handkerchief counter, which was at the further end. They saw nothing but
      white goods: cottons, madapolams, muslins, etc.; then came the linen, in
      enormous piles, ranged in alternate pieces like blocks of stone, stout
      linen, fine linen, of all sizes, white and unbleached, pure flax, whitened
      in the sun; then the same thing commenced once more, there were
      departments for each sort of linen: house linen, table linen, kitchen
      linen, a continual fall of white goods, sheets, pillow-cases, innumerable
      styles of napkins, aprons, and dusters. And the bowing continued, they
      made way for Denise to pass, Baugé had rushed out to smile on her, as the
      good fairy of the house. At last, after crossing the counterpane
      department, a room hung with white banners, she arrived at the
      handkerchief counter, the ingenious decoration of which delighted the
      crowd; there were nothing but white columns, white pyramids, white
      castles, a complicated architecture, solely composed of handkerchiefs,
      cambric, Irish linen, China silk, marked, embroidered by hand, trimmed
      with lace, hemstitched, and woven with vignettes, an entire city, built of
      white bricks, of infinite variety, standing out in a mirage against an
      Eastern sky, warmed to a white heat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say another dozen?&rdquo; asked Denise of her brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, like this one,&rdquo; replied he, showing a handkerchief in his parcel.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;They
      are her brothers! They are her brothers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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
      recognised 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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo; She tried to calm herself, adding, with an affected
      air of indifference: &ldquo;Let's go and see their display of silks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Favier was just then engaged in measuring some white silk for &ldquo;the pretty
      lady,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps she's going to marry again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! is she a widow?&rdquo; asked the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
       A silence ensued. At last he ended by saying: &ldquo;But that's her business. It
      wouldn't do to take notice of all the women we see here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the whole silent war of the department, amidst
      the very motion of the machine. Favier's obscure mining could be perceived&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way,&rdquo; resumed Favier, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Jove!&rdquo; exclaimed Hutin, waking up as if from a dream, &ldquo;wasn't I a flat
      not to have slept with her! I should be all right now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can we serve you with to-day, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, thanks,&rdquo; replied Henriette. &ldquo;You see I'm merely walking round;
      I've only come out of curiosity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I offer you one of these bouquets of violets?&rdquo; resumed Hutin, aloud,
      pointing to a table where there were four or five bunches of the flowers,
      which he had procured from the pay-desk for personal presents.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, no!&rdquo; exclaimed Henriette, with a backward movement. &ldquo;I don't wish to
      take any part in the wedding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;The Ladies' Paradise&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! my dear,&rdquo; she stammered, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's marvellous!&rdquo; added the young girl, with her womanly boldness. &ldquo;There
      are some boots at twenty francs and a half which are delicious!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A salesman was following them, dragging along the eternal chair, on which
      was already heaped a mountain of articles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How is Monsieur Marty?&rdquo; asked Madame Desforges.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, I believe,&rdquo; replied Madame Marty, bewildered by this brusque
      question, which fell ill-naturedly amidst her fever for spending. &ldquo;He's
      still confined, my uncle had to go and see him this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, look! isn't it lovely?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 pæonies,
      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 com. 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm going to buy a branch of apple-blossom,&rdquo; resumed Madame Marty. &ldquo;It's
      delicious, isn't it? And that little bird, do look, Valentine. I must take
      it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Guibal began to feel tired of standing still in the eddy of the
      crowd, and at last said: &ldquo;Well, we'll leave you to make your purchases.
      We're going upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, wait for me!&rdquo; cried the other. &ldquo;I'm going up too. There's the
      perfumery department, I must see that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 odour 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 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 odour was disseminated around, the
      ladies dipping their handkerchiefs in the scent as they passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There,&rdquo; said Madame Marty, when she had loaded herself with lotions,
      dentrifices, and cosmetics. &ldquo;Now I've done, I'm at your service. Let's go
      and rejoin Madame de Boves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a book department
      and a toy department, which would certainly grow also and sweep away
      certain shops in the neighbourhood. Four years had sufficed for the
      Japanese department to attract the entire artistic custom of Paris. This
      time Madame Desforges herself, notwithstanding the rancour which had made
      her swear not to buy anything, succumbed before some finely carved ivory.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send it to my house,&rdquo; said she rapidly, at a neighbouring pay-desk.
      &ldquo;Ninety francs, is it not?&rdquo; And, seeing Madame Marty and her daughter
      plunged in a lot of trashy porcelains, she resumed, as she carried Madame
      Guibal off: &ldquo;You will find us in the reading-room, I really must sit down
      a little while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They must be in the lace department&mdash;impossible to drag them away.
      I'll just see.&rdquo; And he was gallant enough to procure them two chairs
      before going away.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the lace department the crush was increasing every minute. The great
      show of white was there triumphing in its most delicate and dearest
      whiteness. It was an acute temptation, a mad desire, which bewildered all
      the women. The department had been turned into a white temple, tulles and
      Maltese lace, falling from above, formed a white sky, one of those cloudy
      veils which pales the morning sun. Bound the columns descended flounces of
      Malines and Valenciennes, white dancers' skirts, unfolding in a snowy
      shiver down to the ground. Then on all sides, on every counter, was a
      stream of white Spanish blonde as light as air, Brussels with its large
      flowers on a delicate mesh, hand-made point, and Venice point with heavier
      designs, Alençon point, and Bruges of royal and almost religious richness.
      It seemed that the god of dress had there set up his white tabernacle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Boves, after wandering about for a long time before the counters
      with her daughter, and feeling a sensual desire to plunge her hands into
      the goods, had just decided to make Deloche show her some Alençon point.
      At first he brought out some imitation; but she wished to see some real
      Alençon, and was not satisfied with the little pieces at three hundred
      francs the yard, insisting on having deep flounces at a thousand francs a
      yard, handkerchiefs and fans at seven and eight hundred francs. The
      counter was soon covered with a fortune. In a corner of the department
      Jouve, the inspector, who had not lost sight of Madame de Boves,
      notwithstanding the latter's apparent dawdling, stood there amidst the
      crowd, with an indifferent air, but still keeping a sharp eye on her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you any in hand-made point?&rdquo; she asked; &ldquo;show me some, please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The salesman, whom she had kept there for twenty minutes, dared not
      resist, she appeared so aristocratic, with her imposing air and princess's
      voice. However, he hesitated, for the salesmen were cautioned against
      heaping up these precious fabrics, and he had allowed himself to be robbed
      of ten yards of Malines the week before. But she troubled him, he yielded,
      and abandoned the Alençon point for a moment to take the lace asked for
      from a drawer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! look, mamma,&rdquo; said Blanche, who was ransacking a box close by, full
      of cheap Valenciennes, &ldquo;we might take some of this for pillow-cases.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Boves not replying, her daughter on turning round saw her with
      her hands plunged amidst the lace, about to slip some Alençon up the
      sleeve of her mantle. She did not appear surprised, and moved forward
      instinctively to conceal her mother, when Jouve suddenly stood before
      them. He leant over, and politely murmured in the countess's ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have the kindness to follow me, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hesitated for a moment, shocked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what for, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have the kindness to follow me, madame,&rdquo; repeated the inspector, without
      raising his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her face was full of anguish, she threw a rapid glance around her. Then
      she resigned herself all at once, resumed her haughty look, and walked by
      his side like a queen who deigns to accept the services of an
      aide-de-camp. Not one of the customers had observed the scene, and
      Deloche, on returning to the counter, looked at her being walked off, his
      mouth wide open with astonishment What! this one as well! this
      noble-looking lady! Really it was time to have them all searched! And
      Blanche, who was left free, followed her mother at a distance, lingering
      amidst the sea of faces, livid, divided between the duty of not deserting
      her mother and the terror of being detained with her. She saw her enter
      Bourdoncle's office, but she contented herself with waiting near the door.
      Bourdoncle, whom Mouret had just got rid of, happened to be there. As a
      rule, he dealt with these sorts of robberies committed by persons of
      distinction. Jouve had long been watching this lady, and had informed him
      of it, so that he was not astonished when the inspector briefly explained
      the matter to him; in fact, such extraordinary cases passed through his
      hands that he declared the women capable of anything once the rage for
      dress had seized them. As he was aware of Mouret's acquaintance with the
      thief, he treated her with the utmost politeness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We excuse these moments of weakness, madame. But pray consider the
      consequences of such a thing. Suppose some one else had seen you slip this
      lace&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she interrupted him in great indignation. She a thief! Who did he take
      her for? She was the Countess de Boves, her husband, Inspector-General of
      the Stud, was received at Court.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, I know, madame,&rdquo; repeated Bourdoncle, quietly. &ldquo;I have the honour
      of knowing you. In the first place, will you kindly give up the lace you
      have on you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She again protested, not allowing him to say another word, handsome in her
      violence, going as far as tears. Any one else but he would have been
      shaken and feared some deplorable mistake, for she threatened to go to law
      to avenge herself for such an insult.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care, sir, my husband will certainly appeal to the Minister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, you are not more reasonable than the others,&rdquo; declared Bourdoncle,
      losing patience. &ldquo;We must search you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still she did not yield, but said with her superb assurance, &ldquo;Very good,
      search me. But I warn you, you are risking your house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jouve went to fetch two saleswomen from the corset department. When he
      returned, he informed Bourdoncle that the lady's daughter, left at
      liberty, had not quitted the doorway, and asked if she should also be
      detained, although he had not seen her take anything. The manager, always
      correct, decided that she should not be brought in, for the sake of
      morality, and in order not to force a mother to blush before her daughter.
      The two men retired into a neighbouring room, whilst the saleswomen
      searched the countess, even taking off her dress to search her bosom and
      hips. Besides the twelve yards of Alençon point at a thousand francs the
      yard concealed in her sleeve, they found in her bosom a handkerchief, a
      fan, and a cravat, making a total of about fourteen thousand francs' worth
      of lace. She had been stealing like this for the last year, ravaged by a
      furious, irresistible passion for dress. These fits got worse, growing
      daily, sweeping away all the reasonings of prudence, and the enjoyment she
      felt in the indulgence of this passion was all the more violent from the
      fact that she was risking before the eyes of a crowd her name, her pride,
      and her husband's high position. Now that the latter allowed her to empty
      his drawers, she stole although she had her pockets full of money, she
      stole for the pleasure of stealing, as one loves for the pleasure of
      loving, goaded on by desire, urged on by the species of kleptomania that
      her unsatisfied luxurious tastes had developed in her formerly at sight of
      the enormous and brutal temptation of the big shops.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a trap,&rdquo; cried she, when Bourdoncle and Jouve came in. &ldquo;This lace
      has been placed on me, I swear before Heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was now weeping tears of rage, and fell on a chair, suffocated in her
      dress. The partner sent away the saleswomen, and resumed, with his quiet
      air: &ldquo;We are quite willing, madame, to hush up this painful affair for the
      sake of your family. But you must first sign a paper thus worded: 'I have
      stolen some lace from The Ladies' Paradise,' followed by the details of
      the lace, and the day of the month. Besides, I shall be happy to return
      you this document whenever you like to bring me a sum of two thousand
      francs for the poor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She got up again, and declared in a fresh outburst: &ldquo;I'll never sign that,
      I'd rather die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't die, madame; but I warn you that I shall shortly send for the
      police.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then followed a frightful scene. She insulted him, she stammered that it
      was cowardly for a man to torture a woman in that way. Her Juno-like
      beauty, her tall majestic body was distorted by vulgar rage. Then she
      tried to melt them, entreating them in the name of their mothers, and
      spoke of dragging herself at their feet. And as they remained quite
      unmoved, hardened by custom, she sat down all at once and began to write
      with a trembling hand. The pen sputtered, the words: &ldquo;I have stolen,&rdquo;
       written madly, went almost through the thin paper, whilst she repeated in
      a strangled voice: &ldquo;There, sir, there. I yield to force.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle took the paper, carefully folded it, and put it in a drawer,
      saying: &ldquo;You see it's in company, for ladies, after talking of dying
      rather than signing, generally forget to come and redeem their <i>billets
      doux</i>. However, I hold it at your disposal. You'll be able to judge
      whether it's worth two thousand francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was buttoning up her dress, and became as arrogant as ever, now that
      she had paid. &ldquo;I can go now?&rdquo; asked she, in a sharp tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bourdoncle was already occupied with other business. On Jouve's report, he
      decided on Deloche's dismissal, as a stupid fellow, who was always being
      robbed, never having any authority over the customers. Madame de Boves
      repeated her question, and as they dismissed her with an affirmative nod,
      she enveloped both of them in a murderous look. In the flood of insulting
      words that she kept back, a melodramatic cry escaped from her lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wretches!&rdquo; said she, banging the door after her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Blanche had not gone far away from the office. Her ignorance of
      what was going on inside, the passing backwards and forwards of Jouve and
      the two saleswomen frightened her, she had visions of the police, the
      assize court, and the prison. But all at once she stopped short: De
      Vallagnosc was before her, this husband of a month, with whom she still
      felt rather awkward; and he questioned her, astonished at her bewildered
      appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where's your mother? Have you lost each other? Come, tell me, you make me
      feel anxious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nothing in the way of a colourable fiction presented itself to her, and in
      great distress she told him everything in a low voice: &ldquo;Mamma, mamma&mdash;she
      has been stealing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! stealing?&rdquo; At last he understood. His wife's bloated face, the pale
      mask, ravaged by fear, terrified him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some lace, like that, up her sleeve,&rdquo; she continued stammering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You saw her, then? You were looking on?&rdquo; murmured he, chilled to feel her
      a sort of accomplice.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had to stop talking, several persons were already turning round. An
      hesitation full of anguish kept De Vallagnosc motionless for a moment.
      What was to be done? He was about to go into Bourdoncle's office, when he
      perceived Mouret crossing the gallery. He told his wife to wait for him,
      and seized his old friend's arm, informing him of the affair, in broken
      sentences. The latter hastily took him into his office, where he soon put
      him at rest as to the possible consequences. He assured him that he need
      not interfere, and explained in what way the affair would be arranged,
      without appearing at all excited about this robbery, as if he had foreseen
      it long ago. But De Vallagnosc, when he no longer feared an immediate
      arrest, did not accept the adventure with this admirable coolness. He had
      thrown himself into an arm-chair, and now that he could discuss the
      matter, began to lament his own unfortunate position. Was it possible that
      he had married into a family of thieves? A stupid marriage that he had
      drifted into, just to please his father! Surprised at this childish
      violence, Mouret watched him weeping, thinking of his former pessimist
      boasting. Had he not heard him announce scores of times the nothingness of
      life, in which evil alone had any attraction? And by way of a joke he
      amused himself for a minute or so, by preaching indifference to his
      friend, in a friendly, bantering tone. But at this De Vallognosc got
      angry: he was quite unable to recover his compromised philosophy, his
      middle-class education broke out in virtuously indignant cries against his
      mother-in-law. As soon as trouble fell on him, at the least appearance of
      human suffering, at which he had always coldly laughed, the boasted
      sceptic was beaten and bleeding. It was abominable, they were dragging the
      honour of his race into the mud, and the world seemed to be coming to an
      end.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, calm yourself,&rdquo; concluded Mouret, stricken with pity. &ldquo;I won't tell
      you that everything happens and nothing happens, because that does not
      seem to comfort you just now. But I think you ought to go and offer your
      arm to Madame de Boves, that would be wiser than causing a scandal. The
      deuce! you who professed such scorn before the universal rascality of the
      present day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; cried De Vallagnosc, innocently, &ldquo;when it affects other
      people!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, he got up, and followed his old school-fellow's advice. Both were
      returning to the gallery when Madame de Boves came out of Bourdoncle's
      office. She accepted her son-in-law's arm with a majestic air, and as
      Mouret bowed to her with respectful gallantry, he heard her saying:
      &ldquo;They've apologised to me. Really, these mistakes are abominable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Blanche rejoined them, and they were soon lost in the crowd. Then Mouret,
      alone and pensive, crossed the shop once more. This scene, which had
      changed his thoughts from the struggle going on within him, now increased
      his fever, and decided him to make a supreme effort. A vague connection
      arose in his mind: the robbery by this unfortunate woman, the last folly
      of the conquered customers, beaten at the feet of the tempter, evoked the
      proud and avenging image of Denise, whose victorious grip he could feel at
      his throat. He stopped at the top of the central staircase, and gazed for
      a long time into the immense nave, where his nation of women were
      swarming.
    </p>
    <p>
      Six o'clock was about to strike, the daylight decreasing outside was
      gradually forsaking the covered galleries, already dark and waning at the
      further end of the halls, invaded by long shadows. And in this daylight,
      barely extinct, was commenced the lighting of the electric lamps, the
      globes of an opaque whiteness studding with bright moons the distant
      depths of the departments. It was a white brightness of a blinding fixity,
      extending like the reverberation of a discoloured star, killing the
      twilight Then, when all were lighted, there was a delighted murmur in the
      crowd, the great show of white goods assumed a fairy splendour beneath
      this new illumination. It seemed that this colossal orgie of white was
      also burning, itself becoming a light. The song of the white seemed to
      soar upward in the inflamed whiteness of an aurora. A white glimmer gushed
      from the linen and calico department in the Monsigny Gallery, like the
      first bright gleam which lights up the eastern sky; whilst along the
      Michodière Gallery, the mercery and the lace, the fancy-goods and the
      ribbon departments threw out the reflection of distant hills&mdash;the
      white flash of the mother-of-pearl buttons, the silvered bronzes and the
      pearls. But the central nave especially was filled with a blaze of white:
      the puffs of white muslin round the columns, the white dimities and other
      stuffs draping the staircases, the white lace flying in the air, opened up
      a dreamy firmament, the dazzling whiteness of a paradise, where was being
      celebrated the marriage of the unknown queen. The tent of the silk hall
      was like a giant alcove, with its white curtains, gauzes and tulles, the
      dazzle of which protected the bride in her white nudity from the gaze of
      the curious. There was now nothing but this blinding white light in which
      all the whites blended, a multitude of stars twinkling in the bright clear
      light.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;returns,&rdquo; 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 rancour, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 clamour 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 neighbourhood, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 rumours 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 clamour of a nation bowing
      down before the golden calf.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;One million two hundred and forty-seven francs, nineteen
      sous!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;A million! very good, put it there.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just as the cashier was going away, heart-broken at the governor's
      indifference, Bourdoncle arrived, gaily exclaiming: &ldquo;Ah! we've done it
      this time. We've hooked the million, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;You've made up your mind, haven't you? Well, I approve your
      decision.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly Mouret planted himself before him, and with his terrible voice he
      thundered: &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Discountenanced by the sharp attack of this wonderful fellow, who guessed
      everything, Bourdoncle stammered: &ldquo;What now? Are you joking? I who have
      always admired you so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't tell lies!&rdquo; replied Mouret, more violently than ever &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you've come at last!&rdquo; said Mouret gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 favour, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wished to see me, sir,&rdquo; she said in her calm voice. &ldquo;In fact, I
      intended to come and thank you for all your kindness to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are still resolved to leave us?&rdquo; asked Mouret, in a trembling voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir. I must!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he took her hands, and said, in an explosion of tenderness, after the
      long period of coldness he had imposed on himself: &ldquo;And if I married you,
      Denise, would you still leave?&rdquo; But she had drawn her hands away,
      struggling as if under the influence of a great grief. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;I wish it. I wish it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it's impossible. And my brothers? I have sworn not to marry. I cannot
      bring you those children, can I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They shall be my brothers, too. Say yes, Denise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, leave me. You are torturing me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 clamour 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, then!&rdquo; he cried, in a flood of tears. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;Oh!
      Monsieur Mouret, it's you that I love!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <h3>
      THE END.
    </h3>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54687 ***</div>
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