The Ladies' Paradise

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.

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.

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.

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.

“How are you, my dear? We never meet now – ”

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.

“You see my ankle’s better now,” said Denise, “I was going downstairs.”

“Well!” exclaimed the other, “what zeal! I’d take it easy if I had the chance!”

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.

“What’s the matter?” asked Pauline, quickly, when she remarked the young girl’s troubled looks.

“Oh! nothing,” replied the latter, with an awkward smile.

“Yes, yes; there’s something the matter with you. Have you no faith in me, that you have given up telling me your troubles?”

Then Denise, in the emotion that was swelling her bosom – an emotion she could not control – abandoned herself to her feelings. She gave her friend the letter, stammering: “Look! he has just written to me.”

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: “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!” She kissed her affectionately, and then asked her: “You will go this evening, of course?”

Denise looked at her without replying. All at once she burst into tears, her head on Pauline’s shoulder. The latter was quite astonished.’

“Come, try and calm yourself; there’s nothing in the affair to upset you like this.”

“No, no; let me be,” stammered Denise. “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.”

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.

“So you would go yourself?” asked she.

Pauline, without pausing to think, cried out: “Of course, how can one do otherwise!” Then reflecting, she added: “Not now, but formerly, because now I am going to marry Bauge, and it would not be right.”

In fact, Bauge, 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.

“There you are,” declared Denise, “when a man loves a girl he ought to marry her. Bauge is going to marry you.” Pauline laughed heartily. “But my dear, it isn’t the same thing. Baugé is going to marry me because he is Bauge. He’s my equal, that’s a natural thing. Whilst Monsieur Mouret! Do you think Monsieur Mouret can marry his saleswomen?”

“Oh! no, oh! no,” exclaimed the young girl, shocked by the absurdity the question, “and that’s why he ought not to have written to me.”

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, “King Dagobert,” 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.

“Again!” resumed Pauline, turning round. “Really you are not reasonable. Why did you bring me here? We ought to have stopped in your room.”

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. “Hush! Madame Aurélie!” she murmured. “I’m off, and just you dry your eyes. She need not know what’s up.” 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.

“What! you are up!” exclaimed the first-hand. “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.”

Denise assured her that she felt very much better, that it would do her good to do something to amuse herself.

“I sha’nt tire myself, madame. You can place me on a chair, and I’ll do some writing.”

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.

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 “unkempt girl,” 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.

“Hullo! there’s the young mother being trotted out after her confinement,” murmured she, on seeing Madame Aurélie bringing Denise in on her arm.

Marguerite shrugged her shoulders, saying, “I dare say you think that’s a good joke!”

Nine o’clock struck. Outside, an ardent blue sky was warming the streets.

Cabs were rolling toward the railway stations, the whole population dressed out in Sunday clothes, was streaming in long rows towards the suburban woods.

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.

“Why have you come down?” asked Marguerite of Denise, good-naturedly. “You’ll only make yourself worse, and we are quite enough to do the work.”

“That’s what I told her,” declared Madame Aurélie, “but she insisted on coming down to help us.”

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.

“Five mantles, cloth, fur trimming, third size, at two hundred and forty francs!” cried Marguerite. “Four ditto, first size, at two hundred and twenty!”

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.

“I say,” asked she of a little saleswoman who had joined that winter, “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.”

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.

“I don’t care a button for their rises!” resumed the latter, still talking to the little saleswoman. “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?”

Madame Aurélie violently interrupted the conversation, turning round with her imperial air. “Be quiet, young ladies! We can’t hear ourselves speak, my word of honour!”

Then she resumed calling out: “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?”

“Yes, madame.”

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:

“Is it possible to let a fellow like that get over you!”

“But, my dear, I really could not refuse the young man.” 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: “Now, Mademoiselle Vadon, don’t let’s go to sleep.”

“Twenty cloaks, cashmere extra, fourth size, at eighteen francs and a half,” resumed Marguerite in her sing-song voice.

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.

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.

“Joseph is somewhat absent-minded,” murmured Clara. “His nose is always turned towards the under-linen department.”

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 “Fourteen jackets, English cloth, second size, at fifteen francs!”

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: “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.”

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.

“There! what did I say!” cried the first-hand, beside herself. “Pray be more careful, Mademoiselle Prunaire; it’s intolerable!”

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.

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.

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.

“It’s done, my dear fellow. She’s just received a letter. He invites her for this evening.”

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.