The Ladies' Paradise

The other, surprised, looked at Clara; then, turning her eyes towards Denise, replied: “But it isn’t the tall one; the little one!”

And as Madame Marty could not be sure which, Madame Desforges resumed aloud, with the scorn of a lady for chambermaids: “Perhaps the tall one and the little one; all those who like!”

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.

“As you have nothing presentable to show me here, conduct me to the dress and costume department,” said she, abruptly.

“I’ll go with you as well,” exclaimed Madame Marty, “I wanted to see a costume for Valentine.”

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.

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.

“This way, madame,” said Denise without a murmur, after each halt.

“But it’s absurd!” exclaimed Madame Desforges. “We shall never get there. Why not have put the dresses and costumes near the ready-made department? It is a jumble!”

Madame Marty, whose eyes were sparkling, intoxicated by this succession of riches dancing before her, repeated in a half whisper:

“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.”

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.

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 “return,” 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.

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: “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!”

“Ah! that’s a good idea!” exclaimed Madame Marty. “If my husband makes too much fuss, I’ll send everything back.” 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.

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.

“Oh! mamma,” said Valentine, “if that little costume should fit me!”

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: “A good idea! You are very practical, my dear madame.”

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.

“You as well!” said Madame Desforges, laughingly, to her old school-fellow.

“Pray, don’t speak of it!” cried out Madame Bourdelais. “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!”

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.

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.

“Hallo!” said De Vallagnosc, quite surprised, “you said Madame de Boves was unwell. But there she is standing over there near that counter, with Mademoiselle Blanche.”

The count could not help starting back, and casting a side glance at Madame Guibal.

“Dear me! so she is,” said he.

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.

“I fancy those ladies are ruining you,” resumed De Vallagnosc, amused at the meeting.

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:

“Ah! we’ve caught you, madame.”

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:

“I was with Madame Desforges when these gentlemen met us.”

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 – 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.

This affair amused the ladies. Mouret, rather vexed, merely said: “Old Jouve has been floored this time. He’ll have his revenge.”

“Oh!” replied De Vallognosc, “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.”

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.

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!

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 “returns,” 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.

In the evening, as Denise was returning from dinner, a messenger called her: “You are wanted at the director’s office, mademoiselle.”

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.

“We are very pleased with you, mademoiselle,” said he, “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.”

Denise listened to him immovable with surprise. She murmured in a trembling voice: “But, sir, there are saleswomen in the department who are much my seniors.”

“What does that matter?” resumed he. “You are the most capable, the most trustworthy. I choose you; it’s quite natural. Are you not satisfied?”

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.

“You are very kind, sir,” she stammered. “I don’t know how to tell you – ”

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.

“Five hundred and eighty-seven thousand two hundred and ten francs thirty centimes!” 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.

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.

“But it’s superb!” said Mouret, enchanted. “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.”

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.

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.

“Look! out of the bag. I bet it would be less than a thousand francs, your hand is so small!”

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 – the enormous number of seventy thousand customers had entered The Ladies’ Paradise that day. And she hastened away, after having again thanked him.

CHAPTER X

The 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.

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.