As the three ladies went off together, and Madame Marty referred remorsefully 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. Meantime let them send it to your house. You can put it in your drawing-room, keep it for a time and 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 ceased calculating and went on buying, with the secret wish, however, to keep everything, for she was not one of those women who give things back.
At last they arrived in the dress and costume department. But as Denise was about to deliver to another young lady the silk which Madame Desforges had purchased 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 then had to wait complacently till she was ready to return to the mantle department. The girl felt that she was being treated like a servant by this imperious, whimsical customer; but she had vowed to do her duty, and retained her calm demeanour, notwithstanding the rising of her heart and rebellion of her pride. Madame Desforges bought nothing in the dress and costume department.
"Oh! mamma," said Valentine, "if that little costume should only 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 a pattern of it, and then sent it back. And thereupon 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, beside the work-table, for its weight had become too great, and its hind legs threatened to break off. So it was arranged that all the purchases should be centralized at one pay-desk, and thence sent down to the delivery department. And then the ladies, still accompanied by Denise, began roaming all over the establishment, making a second appearance in nearly every department. They were ever on the stairs and in the galleries; and at each 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: Madeleine had a dress for herself under her arm, 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-friend.
"Pray, don't speak of it!" exclaimed Madame Bourdelais. "I'm furious. They get hold of us by the little ones now! You know how little I spend on myself! But how can you expect me to resist the entreaties of these children, who want everything? I merely came to show them round, and here am I plundering the whole establishment!"
Mouret, who still happened to be there, with Vallagnosc and Monsieur de Boves, listened to her with a smile. She observed it, and complained gaily, though with an undercurrent of real irritation, of these traps laid for a mother's affection; the idea that she had just yielded to the force of puffery raised her indignation, and he, still smiling, bowed, fully enjoying his triumph. Monsieur de Boves meanwhile had manœuvred so as to get near Madame Guibal, whom he ultimately followed, for the second time trying to lose Vallagnosc; but the latter, weary of the crush, hastened to rejoin him. And now once more Denise was brought to a standstill, obliged to wait for the ladies. She turned her back, and Mouret himself affected not to see her. But from that moment 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 became deeply absorbed in thought, wondering how she could convict him of his treason.
Meanwhile Monsieur de Boves and Vallagnosc, who had gone on in front with Madame Guibal, reached the lace department, a luxurious room, surrounded by nests of carved oak drawers, which were constantly being opened and shut. Around the columns, covered with red velvet, spirals of white lace ascended; and from one to the other end of the department hung festoons of guipure, whilst on the counters 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 transparent, on which Deloche was placing some pieces of Chantilly, the ladies meantime looking on in silence and without making up their minds.
"Hallo!" said Vallagnosc, quite surprised, "you said that Madame de Boves was unwell. But 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 half stifled customers had pale faces with glittering eyes. It seemed as if all the seductions of the shop converged to this supreme temptation, this secluded corner of perdition where the strongest must succumb. Women plunged their hands into the overflowing heaps, quivering with intoxication at the contact.
"I fancy those ladies are ruining you," resumed Vallagnosc, amused by the meeting.
Monsieur de Boves assumed the look of a husband who is perfectly sure of his wife's discretion, from the simple fact that he does not give her a copper to spend. The countess, after wandering through all the departments with her daughter, without buying anything, had just stranded in the lace department in a rage of unsated desire. Overcome with fatigue, she was leaning against the counter while her clammy hands dived into a heap of lace whence a warmth rose to her shoulders. Then suddenly, just as her daughter turned her head and the salesman went away, it occurred to her to slip a piece of point d'Alençon under her mantle. But she shuddered, and dropped it, on hearing Vallagnosc gaily saying: "Ah! we've caught you, madame."
For several seconds she stood there speechless and very pale. Then she explained that, feeling much better, she had 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, these gentlemen just met us."
As it happened the other ladies came up just at that moment, accompanied by Mouret who again detained them to point out Jouve, who was still following the suspicious woman and her lady friend. It was very curious, said he, they could not form an idea of the number of thieves arrested in the lace department. Madame de Boves, who was listening, fancied herself between a couple of gendarmes, with her forty-five years, her luxury, and her husband's high position; however, she felt no remorse, but reflected that she ought to have slipped the lace up her sleeve. Jouve, however, had just decided to lay hold of the suspicious woman, despairing of catching her in the act, but fully suspecting that she had filled her pockets, by means of some sleight of hand which had escaped him. But when he had taken her aside and searched her, he was wild with confusion at finding nothing on her—not a cravat, not a button. Her friend had disappeared. All at once he understood: the woman he had searched had only been there as a blind; it was the friend who had done the trick.
This affair amused the ladies. Mouret, rather vexed, merely said: "Old Jouve has been floored this time but he'll have his revenge."
"Oh!" replied Vallagnosc, "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 supreme note of the day, in the growing fever that reigned in the establishment. The ladies separated, crossing the crowded departments for the last time. It was four o'clock, the rays of the setting sun were darting obliquely through the large front windows and throwing a cross light on the glazed roofs of the halls; and in this red, fiery glow arose, like a golden vapour, the thick dust raised by the circulation of the crowd since early morning. A broad sheet of light streamed along the grand central gallery, showing up the staircases, the flying bridges, all the network of suspended iron. The mosaics and faiences of the friezes glittered, the green and red paint reflected the fire of the lavish gilding. The Paradise seemed like a red-hot furnace, in which the various displays—the palaces of gloves and cravats, the festoons of ribbons and laces, the lofty piles of linen and calico, the variegated parterres in which bloomed the light silks and foulards—were now burning. The exhibition of parasols, of shield-like roundness, threw forth metallic reflections. In the distance, beyond streaks of shadow, were counters sparkling and swarming with a throng, ablaze with sunshine.
And at this last moment, in this over-heated atmosphere, the women reigned supreme. They had taken the whole place by storm, they were camping there as in a conquered country, like an invading horde installed amidst all the disorder of the goods. The salesmen, deafened and exhausted, were now nothing but their slaves, of whom they disposed with sovereign tyranny. Fat women elbowed their way along; even the thinnest took up a deal of space, and became quite arrogant. They were all there, with heads erect and gestures abrupt, quite at home, not showing the slightest politeness to one another but making as much use of the house as they could, even to the point of carrying away the dust from its walls. Madame Bourdelais, desirous of making up for her expenditure had again taken her children to the refreshment bar: whither the crowd was now rushing with rageful thirst and appetite. Even the mothers were gorging themselves with Malaga; since the morning eighty quarts of syrup and seventy bottles of wine had been drunk. After purchasing her travelling cloak, Madame Desforges had secured some picture cards at the pay-desk; and she went away scheming how she might get Denise into her house, so as to humiliate her before Mouret himself, see their faces and arrive at a conclusion. And whilst Monsieur de Boves succeeded at last in plunging into the crowd and disappearing with Madame Guibal, Madame de Boves, followed by Blanche and Vallagnosc, had the fancy to ask for a red air-ball, although she had bought nothing. It would always be 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 starting on the fortieth thousand: thirty nine thousand red air-balls had already taken flight in the warm atmosphere of the shop, a perfect 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 throes of the day's sales. Although ready to drop with fatigue she could not tear herself away, being retained by so strong an attraction that although she needed nothing she continually retraced her steps, scouring the departments with insatiable curiosity. It was the moment in which the throng, goaded on by puffery, completely lost its head; 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 emptying the women's purses, left their minds weakened by intoxication; and they still remained shaken by Mouret's inventions, the reduction of prices, the "returns," and the endless gallantries. Madame Marty lingered before the various "proposal" stalls, amidst the hoarse cries of the salesmen, the clink of the pay-desks, and the rolling of the parcels sent down to the basement; she again traversed the ground floor, the linen, silk, glove and woollen departments; she again went upstairs, yielding to the metallic vibrations of the hanging staircases and flying-bridges; she returned to the mantle, under-linen, and lace departments; she even ascended to the second floor, to the heights of the bedding and furniture galleries; and on all sides the employees, Hutin and Favier, Mignot and Liénard, Deloche, Pauline and Denise, nearly dead with fatigue, were making a final effort, snatching victories from the last fever of the customers. This fever had gradually increased since the morning, like the intoxication emanating from all the tumbled stuffs. The crowd flared under the fiery glare of the five o'clock sun. Madame Marty now had the animated nervous face of a child after drinking pure wine. Arriving with clear eyes and fresh skin from the cold of the street, she had slowly burnt both sight and complexion, by the contemplation of all that luxury, those violent colours, whose everlasting gallop irritated her passion. When she at last went away, after saying that she would pay at home, terrified as she was by the amount of her bill, her features were drawn, and her eyes dilated like those of a sick person. She was obliged to fight her way through the stubborn crush at the door, where people were almost killing each other, amidst the struggle for bargains. Then, when she got into the street, and again found her daughter, whom she had lost for a moment, the fresh air made her shiver, and she remained quite scared, her mind unhinged by the neurosis to which the great drapery establishments give birth.
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 which Mouret had given her in the morning, to go to his office when the sale was over. She found him 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 motionless with surprise. Then she murmured in a trembling voice: "But there are saleswomen in the department who are much my seniors, sir."
"What does that matter?" he resumed. "You are the most capable, the most trustworthy. I select you; it's quite natural. Are you not satisfied?"
She blushed, feeling a delicious happiness and embarrassment, in which all her original fright vanished. Why had she, before aught else, thought of the suppositions with which this unhoped-for favour would be received? And she remained there full of confusion, despite her sudden burst of gratitude. With a smile he looked at her in her simple silk dress, without a single piece of jewellery, displaying only the luxury of her royal, blonde hair. She had become more refined, her skin was whiter, her manner delicate and grave. Her former puny insignificance was developing into a penetrating, gentle charm.
"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 on the threshold. In his hand he held a large leather bag, and with his mutilated arm he pressed an enormous note case to his chest; whilst, behind him came his son Albert weighed down by the load of bags he was carrying.
"Five hundred and eighty-seven thousand two hundred and ten francs thirty centimes!" exclaimed the cashier, whose flabby, worn face seemed to light up with a ray of sunshine, in the reflection of such a huge sum of money.
It was the day's receipts, the highest that The Ladies' Paradise had ever attained. In the distance, in the depths of the shop through which Lhomme had just slowly passed with the heavy gait of an overladen beast of burden, you could hear the uproar, the ripple of surprise and joy which this colossal sum had left behind it as it passed.
"Why, 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 the 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 rid themselves of their burdens. The leather bag gave out a clear, golden ring, two of the other bags in bursting let a torrent of silver and copper escape, whilst from the note-case peeped the 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, dreamy, his eyes fixed on the money. But on raising his head, he perceived Denise, who had drawn back. Then he began to smile again, forced her to come forward, and finished by saying that he would make her a present of all the money 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 everything; she felt the growing flame of desire with which he had enveloped her ever 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 the offer of all that money, when she was overflowing with gratitude? He was stepping nearer to her still, continuing to joke, when, to his great annoyance, Bourdoncle came in under the pretence of informing him of the enormous number of entries—no fewer than seventy thousand customers had entered The Ladies' Paradise that day. And thereupon Denise hastened off, after again expressing her thanks.
CHAPTER X.
On the first Sunday in August, the stock-taking, which had to be finished by the evening, took place. Early in the morning all the employees were at their posts, as on a week-day, and the work began with closed doors, not a customer was admitted.
Denise, however, had not come down with the other young ladies at eight o'clock. Confined to her room since the previous Thursday through having sprained her ankle whilst on her way up to the work-rooms, she was now much better; but, as Madame Aurélie treated her indulgently, she did not hurry down. Still after a deal of trouble she managed to put her boots on, having resolved that she would show herself in the department. The young ladies' bed-rooms now occupied the entire fifth storey of the new buildings in 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 simply with an iron bedstead, large wardrobe, and little mahogany toilet-table. The private life of the saleswomen was now becoming more refined and elegant; 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 hotel-like gust that carried them away, morning and evening. Denise, being second-hand in her department, had one of the largest rooms with two attic windows looking into the street. Being now in much better circumstances she indulged in sundry little luxuries, a red eider-down bed quilt, covered with guipure, a small carpet in front of her wardrobe, a couple of blue-glass vases containing a few fading roses on her toilet table.
When she had succeeded in getting her boots on she tried to walk across the room; but was obliged to lean against the furniture, being still rather lame. However that would soon come right again, she thought. At the same time, she had been quite right in refusing an 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 on the previous day, was also to dine at his uncle's. She was still slowly trying to walk, resolving, however, to go to bed early, in order to rest her ankle, when Madame Cabin, the housekeeper, knocked and gave her a letter, with an air of mystery.
The door closed. Denise, astonished by the woman's discreet smile, opened the letter. And at once she dropped on a chair; for it was a letter from Mouret, in which he expressed himself delighted at her recovery, and begged her to come down and dine with him that evening, since 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. And thus her white cheeks slowly coloured with a flush.
With the letter lying on her lap and her heart beating violently she remained with her eyes fixed on the blinding light which came in by one of the windows. There was a confession which she had been obliged to make to herself in this very room, during her sleepless hours: if she still trembled when he passed, she now knew that it was not from fear; and her former uneasiness, her old terror, could have been only the frightened ignorance of love, the perturbation of passion springing up amidst her youthful wildness. She did not reason, she simply felt that she had always loved him, from the hour when 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. Yes, she had never loved any but this man, whose mere look terrified her. And all her past life came back to her, unfolding itself in the blinding light from the window: the hardships of her start, that sweet walk under the dark foliage of the Tuileries Gardens, and, lastly, the desires with which he had enveloped her ever since her return. The letter dropped on the floor and Denise was still gazing at the window, dazzled by the glare of the sun.
Suddenly there was a knock and she hastened to pick up the missive and conceal it in her pocket. It was Pauline, who, having slipped away from her department under some pretext or other, had come up for a little chat.
"How are you, my dear? We never meet now——"
As it was against the rules, however, to go up into the bed-rooms, and, above all, for two of the saleswomen to be shut in together, Denise took her friend to the end of the passage, to a saloon which Mouret had gallantly fitted up for the young ladies, who could spend their evenings there, chatting or sewing, till eleven o'clock. The apartment, decorated in white and gold, with the vulgar nudity of an hotel room, was furnished with a piano, a central table, and some arm-chairs and sofas protected by white covers. After spending a few evenings together there in the first novelty of the thing, the saleswomen now never entered the place without coming to high words at once. They required educating to it; so far their little circle lacked harmony. Meanwhile, almost the only girl that went there in the evening was the second-hand of the corset department, Miss Powell, who strummed away at Chopin on the piano, and whose envied talents were for much in driving the others away.
"You see my ankle's better now," said Denise, "I was just going down."
"Well!" exclaimed the other, "how zealous you are! I'd take it easy if I had the chance!"
They had both sat down on a sofa. Pauline's manner had changed since her friend had become second-hand in the mantle department. With her good-natured cordiality there mingled a touch of respect, a sort of surprise at realizing that the puny little saleswoman of former days was on the road to fortune. Denise, however, liked her very much, and amidst the continual gallop of the two hundred women that the firm now employed, confided in her alone.
"What's the matter?" asked Pauline, quickly, when she remarked her companion's troubled looks.
"Oh! nothing," replied Denise, 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 worries?"
Thereupon 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 thoughts. 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 had all happened long ago. Don't be shocked; I assure you the whole shop must think as I do. You see, he appointed you as second-hand so quickly, and then he's always looking at you. It's obvious!" She kissed her affectionately on the cheek and then asked her: "You will go this evening, of course?"
Denise looked at her without replying and all at once burst into tears, letting her head fall on Pauline's shoulder. The latter was quite astonished. "Come, try and calm yourself; there's nothing to upset you like this," she said.
"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, declaring that she must not worry, for it was quite certain that M. Mouret had ceased to pay any attention to Clara; whilst as for that other lady friend of his, Madame Desforges, it was probably all but so much gossip. Denise listened, and had she been ignorant of her love, she could no longer have doubted it after the suffering she felt at the allusions to those two women. She could again hear Clara's disagreeable voice, and see Madame Desforges dragging her about the different departments with all the scorn of a rich lady for a poor shop-girl.
Then the two friends went on conversing; and at last Denise in a sudden impulse exclaimed: "But when a man loves a girl he ought to marry her. Baugé is going to marry you."
This was true, Baugé, who had left the Bon Marché for The Ladies' Paradise, was going to marry her about the middle of the month. Bourdoncle did not like these married couples; however, they had managed to get the necessary permission, and even hoped to obtain a fortnight's holiday for their honeymoon.
On hearing Denise's remark Pauline laughed heartily. "But, my dear," said she. "Baugé is going to marry me because he is Baugé. He's my equal, that's natural. Whereas Monsieur Mouret! Do you think that Monsieur Mouret could marry one of his saleswomen?"
"Oh! no, oh! no," exclaimed Denise, shocked by the absurdity of the question, "and that's why he ought never to have written to me."
This argument seemed to astonish Pauline. Her coarse face, with small tender eyes, assumed quite an expression of maternal pity. Then she got up, opened the piano, and with one finger softly played the air of "King Dagobert," doubtless to enliven the situation. The noises of the street, the distant melopœia of a woman crying out green peas, ascended to the bare saloon, whose emptiness seemed increased by the white coverings of the furniture. Denise had thrown herself back on the sofa, her head against the woodwork and 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 had begun lecturing her again, when a sound of footsteps was heard in the passage. And thereupon she 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 rose, and forced back her tears; and, her hands still trembling, fearful of being caught there weeping, she closed the piano, which her friend had left open. However, on hearing Madame Aurélie knocking at her door, she at once left the drawing-room.
"What! you are up!" exclaimed the first-hand. "It's very thoughtless of you, my dear child. I just came up to see how you were, and to tell you that we did not require you downstairs."
Denise assured her, however, that she felt much better and that it would do her good to have some occupation.
"I shan't tire myself, madame. You can put me on a chair, and I'll do some writing."
Both then went downstairs. Madame Aurélie, 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 much that was going on.
Denise had gained an unexpected victory: she had at last conquered the department. Formerly she had struggled on for six months, amidst all the torments of drudgery, without disarming her comrades' ill-will, but now in a few weeks she had overcome them, and saw them submissive and respectful around her. Madame Aurélie's sudden affection had greatly assisted her in this ungrateful task of propitiating her companions. Indeed the first-hand had taken the young girl under her protection with such warmth that the latter must have been recommended to her in a very special manner. However, Denise had also brought her own 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 forgiveness for her appointment to the situation of second-hand. The other young ladies spoke of this at first as an injustice, and even added a lot of abominable accusations. But in spite of their revolt, the title of second-hand influenced them, and Denise with her promotion assumed a certain air of authority which astonished and overawed even the most hostile spirits. Soon afterwards she actually found flatterers amongst the new hands; and her sweetness and modesty completed the conquest. Marguerite came over to her side; and Clara was the only one to continue her ill-natured ways, still venturing to allude to Denise as the "unkempt one," an insult in which nobody now saw any fun. During the short time that she had engaged Mouret's attention Clara had profited by the caprice to neglect her work, being of a wonderfully idle, gossiping nature unfitted for any responsible duty. Nevertheless she considered that Denise had robbed her of Madame Frédéric's place. She would never have accepted it, on account of the worry; but she was vexed that no attention had been paid to her claims.
Nine o'clock struck as Denise came down, leaning on Madame Aurélie's arm. Out of doors an ardent blue sky was warming the streets, cabs were rolling towards the railway stations, the whole population of Paris rigged out in Sunday attire was streaming towards the suburban woods. Inside the Paradise, which the large open bays flooded with sunshine, the imprisoned staff had just commenced stock-taking. They had closed the doors and people halted on the pavement, looking through the windows in astonishment that the shop should be shut when such extraordinary activity prevailed inside. From one end of the galleries to the other, from the top to the bottom floor, there was a continual tramping of employees; arms were ever being raised and parcels were flying about above their heads; and all this amidst a tempest of shouts and calling out of figures, ascending in confusion and becoming 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. They must get up a good deal 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 numerous 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 even interrupted for a time. They complimented her, listening with all sorts of 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 all the employees who were capable of holding a pen: the inspectors, the cashiers, the clerks, even the shop messengers; and each department annexed some of these assistants of a day in order to get the work over more quickly. It was thus that Denise found herself installed near Lhomme the cashier and Joseph the messenger, both of whom were bending over large sheets of paper.
"Five mantles, cloth, fur trimming, third size, at two hundred and forty francs!" called 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, and giving them to her in bundles; and, when she had called them out, she threw them on the table, where they were gradually accumulating in huge piles. Lhomme jotted down the articles whilst Joseph checked him by keeping another list. Whilst this was going on, Madame Aurélie herself, assisted by three other saleswomen, was counting out the silk garments, which Denise entered on the sheets of paper given to her. Clara on her side was looking after the heaps, arranging them in such a manner that they should occupy the least possible space on the tables. But she was not paying much attention to her work, for many things were already tumbling down.
"I say," she asked of a little saleswoman who had joined that winter, "are they going to give you a rise? You know that 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 on the day after the stock-taking; it was also then, as the amount of business done during the year became known, that the managers of the departments drew their commission on the increase of this amount, as compared with that of the preceding year. Thus, despite the bustle and uproar of the work, the impassioned gossiping went on everywhere. Between every two articles that were called out, they talked of nothing but money. The rumour ran that Madame Aurélie's gains would exceed twenty-five thousand francs; and this huge sum greatly excited the young ladies. Marguerite, the best saleswoman after Denise, had for her part made four thousand five hundred francs, that is fifteen hundred francs salary and about three thousand francs commission; whilst Clara had not made two thousand five hundred altogether.
"I don't care a button for their rises!" she resumed, still talking to the little saleswoman. "If papa were dead I would jolly soon clear out of this! Still it exasperates me to see seven thousand francs given to that strip of a girl! What do you say?"
Madame Aurélie, turning round with her imperial air, violently interrupted the conversation. "Be quiet, young ladies! We can't hear ourselves speak, my word of honour!"
Then she again went on 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 upon the tables. She pushed them about, and made some more room. But she soon left them again to reply to a salesman, who was looking for her. It was the glover, Mignot, who had escaped from his department. He whispered a request for twenty francs; he already owed her thirty, a loan effected on the day after some races when he had lost his week's money on a horse; this time he had squandered his commission, drawn overnight, and had not ten sous left him for his Sunday. Clara had only ten francs about her, and she lent them with a fairly good grace. And they then went on talking of a party of six, which they had formed part of, at a restaurant at Bougival, where the women had paid their shares. It was much better to do that, they all felt more at ease. Next, 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 a ten-franc piece in his purse, when Madame Aurélie, astonished at not hearing the voice of Marguerite who had been obliged to pause, perceived Mignot, and understood everything. She roughly sent him back to his department, saying that she didn't want any one to come and distract her young ladies' attention from their work. The truth was, she dreaded this young man, a bosom friend of Albert's, and his accomplice in all sorts of questionable pranks which she feared would some day turn out badly. Accordingly, when Mignot had got his ten francs, and 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 couldn't 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 severely: "Now, Mademoiselle Vadon, don't let us 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, again began writing. They had gradually raised his salary to nine thousand francs a year; but he was very humble before Madame Aurélie, who still brought nearly three times as much into the family.
For a while the work was pushed forward. Figures were bandied about, garments rained thick and fast on the tables. But Clara had invented another amusement: she was teasing the messenger, Joseph, about a passion which he was said to nourish for a young lady in the pattern-room. This young lady, already twenty-eight years old, and thin and pale, was a protégée of Madame Desforges, who had wanted Mouret to engage her as a saleswoman, backing up her recommendation with a touching story: An orphan, the last of the Fontenailles, an old and noble family of Poitou, had been thrown on to the streets of Paris with a drunken father; still she had remained virtuous amidst this misfortune which was the greater as her education was altogether too limited to enable her to secure employment as governess or music-mistress. Mouret generally got angry when any one recommended these broken-down gentlewomen to him; there were no more incapable, more insupportable, more narrow-minded creatures than these gentlewomen, said he; and, besides, a saleswoman could not be improvised, she must serve an apprenticeship, it was an intricate and delicate business. However, he took Madame Desforges's protégée placing her in the pattern-room, in the same way as (to oblige friends) he had already found places for two countesses and a baroness in the advertising department, where they addressed wrappers and envelopes. 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 shabby attire, that Joseph's heart, very tender despite his rough soldierly manner, had been touched. He did not confess, but blushed, when the young ladies of the mantle 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 turning towards the under-linen department."
They had requisitioned Mademoiselle de Fontenailles there, and she was assisting at the trousseau counter. As the messenger continually glanced in that direction, the saleswomen began to laugh; whereupon he became very confused, and plunged into his accounts, whilst Marguerite, in order to arrest the burst of gaiety which was tickling her throat, cried out louder still: "Fourteen jackets, English cloth, second size, at fifteen francs!"
At this, Madame Aurélie, who was calling out some cloaks, could not make herself heard. She interfered with a wounded air, and a majestic slowness of manner. "A little softer, mademoiselle. We are not in a market. And you are all of you very unreasonable, to be amusing yourselves with such childish matters, when our time is so precious."
Just at that moment, as Clara was not paying any attention to the packages, a catastrophe took place. Several mantles tumbled down, and all the heaps on the tables, carried with them, toppled over one after the other, so that the carpet was quite strewn with them.
"There! what did I say!" cried the first-hand, beside herself. "Pray be more careful, Mademoiselle Prunaire; it's altogether intolerable."
But a hum ran along: Mouret and Bourdoncle, making their round of inspection, had just appeared. The voices began calling again and the pens sputtered, whilst Clara hastened to pick up the garments. The governor did not interrupt the work. He stood there for several minutes, mute and smiling, with the gay victorious face of stock-taking days; and it was only on his lips that a slight feverish quiver could be detected. 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, having recognised Mouret, she had immediately bent over her work again. Since she had been writing in this mechanical way, amidst the calling-out of the goods, a peaceful feeling had stolen over her. She had always yielded thus to the first outburst of her sensitiveness: tears suffocated her, and passion increased her torments: but then she regained her self-command, a grand, calm courage, a quiet but inexorable strength of will. And now, with her limpid eyes, and pale complexion, she was free from all agitation, entirely absorbed in her work, resolved to silence her heart and to do nothing but her will.
Ten o'clock struck, the uproar of the stock-taking was increasing; and amidst the incessant shouts which rose and flew about on all sides the same news circulated 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 greatly excited, she had met Deloche in the lace department, and, without noticing that Liénard was talking to the young man, had immediately relieved her mind of the secret. "It's all over, my dear fellow. She's just received a letter. He has invited her to dinner for this evening."
Deloche turned very pale. He had understood, for he often questioned Pauline; each day they spoke of their common friend, and Mouret's passion for her. Moreover, she frequently scolded him for his secret love for Denise, with whom he would never succeed, and shrugged her shoulders when he expressed his approval of the girl's conduct with reference to their employer.
"Her foot's better, she's coming down," continued Pauline. "Pray don't put on that funeral face. There's no reason to cry." And thereupon she hastened back to her department.
"Ah! good!" murmured Liénard, who had heard everything, "you're talking about the young girl with the sprain. You were quite right to make haste in defending her last night at the café!"
Then 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.
Liénard's last remark to Deloche referred to a scene which had occurred on 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 Smyrne, when that gentleman, on being appointed second-hand, had hired a suite of three rooms; and the two salesmen 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 adjoined one another, overlooked a black yard, a narrow well, the stench from which pervaded the hotel. They got on very well together, notwithstanding their difference of character, the one carelessly squandering the money which he drew from his father, and the other penniless, perpetually tormented by ideas of thrift; both having, however, one point in common, their unskilfulness as salesmen, which kept them vegetating 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. Void of customers during the day, this café filled at about half-past eight with an overflowing crowd of employees, the stream of shopmen which rolled into the street from the great doorway in the Place Gaillon. Then a deafening uproar of dominoes, laughter and yelping voices burst forth amidst dense tobacco smoke. Beer and coffee were in great demand. Seated in the left-hand corner, Liénard would order the most expensive beverages, whilst Deloche contented himself with a glass of beer, which he would take four hours to drink. It was here that the latter had heard Favier relating, at a neighbouring table, some abominable things about the way in which Denise had "hooked" the governor. He had with difficulty restrained himself from striking him. However, as the other went on adding still viler and viler stories of the girl, he had at last called him a liar, feeling mad with rage.
"What a blackguard!" he had shouted. "It's a lie, it's a lie, I tell you!" And in the emotion agitating him, he had added a confession, entirely opening his heart in a stammering voice. "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!"
The report of this quarrel, exaggerated and distorted, was already affording amusement to the whole shop when the story of Mouret's letter ran round. 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 and passing the pieces of stuff to Hutin who, standing on a table, called out the figures, after consulting the tickets; and he then dropped the pieces on to the floor over which they spread, rising slowly like an autumn tide. Other employees were writing, Albert Lhomme being among the helpers, his face pale and heavy after a night spent in a low show at La Chapelle. A sheet of light fell from the glazed roof of the hall, through which could be seen the intense blue of the sky.
"Draw those blinds!" cried out Bouthemont who was very busy superintending the work. "That sun is unbearable!"
Favier, on tiptoe, trying to reach a piece of silk, then grumbled under his breath: "A nice thing to shut people up on a lovely day like this! No fear of it raining on stock-taking day! And they keep us under lock and key, like convicts, when all Paris is out of doors!"
He passed the silk 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: "Fancy silk, small check, twenty-one yards, at six francs and a half."
And then the piece went to increase the heap already on the floor. Whilst waiting for another he resumed a conversation previously begun, by saying to Favier: "So he wanted to fight you?"
"Yes, I was quietly drinking my glass of beer. It was hardly worth his while to contradict me, for she has just received a letter from the governor inviting her to dinner. The whole shop is talking about it."
"What! hadn't she dined with him before!"
Favier handed him another piece of silk.
"No, it seems not; though my opinion was all the other way."
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 and the salesmen arched their backs and winked. Bouthemont himself, who took a rare delight in all such stories, could not help adding his joke. Just then, however, Mignot came down, with the twenty francs which 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 spree, hampered by lack of money, but still possible, notwithstanding the smallness of the sum secured. However, when Mignot heard about the famous letter, he made such an abominable remark, that Bouthemont was obliged to interfere. "That's enough, gentlemen. It isn't any of our business. Go on, Monsieur Hutin."
"Fancy silk, small check, thirty-two yards, at six francs and a half," cried out the latter.
The pens started off again, the pieces fell; the flood of material still increased, as if the water of a river had emptied itself there. And there was no end to the calling out of the fancy silks. Favier, in an undertone thereupon remarked that the stock in hand would form a nice total; the governors would be enchanted; that big fool of a Bouthemont might be the best buyer in Paris, but as a salesman he was not worth his salt. Hutin smiled, delighted, and giving the other a friendly look of approval; for after having himself introduced Bouthemont to The Ladies' Paradise, in order to get rid of Robineau, he was now undermining him also, with the firm intention of depriving him of his berth. It was the same war as formerly—treacherous insinuations whispered in the partners' ears, excessive zeal to push one's self forward, a regular campaign carried on with affable cunning. Hutin was again displaying some condescension towards Favier, but the latter, thin and frigid with a bilious look, gave him a sly glance as if to count how many mouthfuls this short, little fellow would make, and to imply that he was waiting till he 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. And after that they would see. Consumed by the fever which was raging from one to the other end of the shop, both of them began talking of the probable increases of salary, without however ceasing to call out the stock of fancy silks; they felt sure that Bouthemont would secure thirty thousand francs that year; Hutin for his part would exceed ten thousand whilst Favier estimated his pay and commission at five thousand five hundred. The amount of business in the department was increasing yearly, the salesmen secured promotion and increase of pay, like officers in time of war.
"Won't those fancy silks soon be finished?" asked Bouthemont suddenly, with an expression of annoyance. "But it was a miserable spring, always raining! People bought nothing but black silks."
His fat, jovial face became cloudy as he gazed at the growing heap on the floor, whilst Hutin called out louder still, in a sonorous voice tinged with an accent of triumph—"Fancy silks, small check, twenty-eight yards, at six francs and a half."
There was still another shelf-full. Favier whose arms were getting tired, was now progressing but slowly. As he handed Hutin the last pieces he resumed in a low tone—"Oh! I say, I forgot. Have you heard that the second-hand in the mantle department once had a regular fancy for you?"
Hutin seemed greatly surprised. "What! How do you mean?"
"Yes, that great booby Deloche let it out to us. But I remember her casting sheep's eyes at you some time back."
Since his appointment as second-hand Hutin had thrown up his music-hall singers. Flattered at heart by Favier's words he nevertheless replied with a scornful air, "I don't care for such scraggy creatures." And then he called out:
"White Poult, thirty-five yards, at eight francs seventy-five."
"Oh! at last!" murmured Bouthemont, greatly relieved.
But a bell rang, that for the second table, to which Favier belonged. He jumped off the stool where another salesman took his place, and he was obliged to climb over the mountain of materials with which the floor was littered. Similar heaps were scattered about in every department; the shelves, the boxes, the cupboards were being gradually emptied, whilst the goods overflowed on all sides, under-foot, between the counters and the tables, in ever rising piles. In the linen department you heard heavy bales of calico falling; in the mercery department there was a clicking of boxes; whilst distant rumbling sounds came from amongst the furniture. Every sort of voice was heard too, shrill, full, deep, and husky, figures whizzed through the air and a rustling clamour reigned in the immense nave—the clamour of forests in January when the wind whistles through the branches.
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 of the new buildings. As he hurried up he overtook Deloche and Liénard who had gone on before him, so he fell back on Mignot who was following at his heels.
"The deuce!" said he, in the corridor leading to the kitchen, on reaching the black-board on which the bill of fare was inscribed, "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!"
Mignot sniggered, murmuring, "Is there a poultry epidemic on, then?"
However, Deloche and Liénard had taken their portions and gone away. Favier thereupon leant over the wicket and called out—"Chicken!"
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, gazing into the kitchen with its giant appliances. There was a central range, over which, by a system of chains and pullies, a couple of rails fixed to the ceiling brought colossal cauldrons which four men could not have lifted. Several cooks, quite white in the ruddy glow of the cast-iron, were attending to the evening soup mounted on metal ladders and armed with skimmers fixed to long handles. Then against the wall were grills large enough for the roasting of martyrs, saucepans big enough for the stewing of entire sheep, a monumental plate-warmer, and a marble basin filled by a continual stream of water. To the left could be seen a scullery with stone sinks as large as ponds; whilst on the other side, to the right, was a huge meat-safe, where a glimpse was caught of numerous joints of red meat hanging from steel hooks. A machine for peeling potatoes was working with the tic-tac of a mill; and two small trucks laden with freshly-picked salad were being wheeled by some kitchen helps into a cool spot under a gigantic filter.
"Chicken," repeated Favier, getting impatient. Then, turning round, he added in a lower tone, "One fellow has cut himself. It's disgusting, his blood's running over the food."
Mignot wanted to see. Quite a string of shopmen had now arrived; there was a deal of laughing and pushing. The two young men, their heads at the wicket, exchanged remarks about this phalansterian kitchen, in which the least important 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 something like forty-five bushels of potatoes, one hundred and twenty pounds of butter, and sixteen hundred pounds of meat were cast every day; and at each meal they had to broach three casks of wine, over a hundred and fifty gallons being served out at the wine counter.
"Ah! at last!" murmured Favier when the cook reappeared with a large pan, out of which he handed him the leg of a fowl.
"Chicken," said Mignot behind him.
And with their plates in their hands they both entered the refectory, after taking their wine at the "bar;" whilst behind them the word "Chicken" was repeated without cessation, and one could hear the cook picking up the portions with his fork with a rapid rhythmical sound.
The men's dining-room was now an immense apartment, supplying ample room for five hundred people at each repast. The places were laid at 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." Right and left large windows admitted a white light to the gallery, whose ceiling, although over twelve feet from the floor, seemed very low, owing to the development of the other proportions. The sole ornaments on the walls, painted a light yellow, were the napkin cupboards. Beyond this first refectory came that of the messengers and carmen, where the meals were served irregularly, according to the needs of the moment.
"What! you've got a leg as well, Mignot?" said Favier, as he took his place at one of the tables opposite his companion.
Other young men now sat down around them. There was no tablecloth, the plates clattered on the bare mahogany, and in this particular corner everybody was raising exclamations, for the number of legs distributed was really prodigious.
"These chickens are all legs!" remarked Mignot.
"Yes, they're real centipedes," retorted another salesman.
Those who had merely secured pieces of carcase were greatly discontented. However, the food had been of much better quality since the late improvements. Mouret no longer treated with a contractor at a fixed rate; he had taken the kitchen into his own hands, organizing it like one of the departments, with a head-cook, under-cooks and an inspector; and if he spent more money he got on the other hand more work out of the staff—a practical humanitarian calculation which had long terrified Bourdoncle.
"Mine is pretty tender, all the same," said Mignot. "Pass the bread!"
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, burst forth from one to the other end of the immense tables. There was an increasing clatter of forks, a gurgling sound of bottles being emptied, a noise of glasses laid down too violently amidst the grinding rumble of five hundred pairs of powerful jaws chewing with wondrous energy. And the talk, still infrequent, seemed to be hampered by the fullness of the mouths.
Deloche, however, seated between Baugé and Liénard, found himself nearly opposite Favier. They had glanced at each other with a rancorous look. Some neighbours, aware of their quarrel on the previous day, began whispering together. Then there was a laugh at poor Deloche's ill-luck. Although always famished he invariably fell on the worst piece at table, by a sort of cruel fatality. This time he had come in for the neck of a chicken and some bits of carcase. Without saying a word, however, he let them joke away, swallowing large mouthfuls of bread, and picking the neck with the infinite art of a fellow who entertains great respect for meat.
"Why don't you complain?" asked Baugé.
But he shrugged his shoulders. What would be the use of that? It was always the same. When he did venture to complain things went worse than ever.
"You know the Bobbinards have got their club now?" said Mignot, all at once. "Yes, my boy, the 'Bobbin Club.' It's held at a wine shop in the Rue Saint-Honoré, where they hire a room on Saturdays."
He was speaking of the mercery salesmen. The whole table began to joke. Between two mouthfuls, with his voice still thick, each made some remark, adding a detail; and only the obstinate readers remained mute, with their noses buried in their newspapers. It could not be denied that shopmen were gradually assuming a better style; nearly half of them now spoke English or German. It was no longer considered good form to go and kick up a row at Bullier or prowl about the music-halls for the pleasure of hissing ugly singers. No; a score of them got together and formed a club.
"Have they a piano like the linen-men?" asked Liénard.
"I should rather think they had!" exclaimed Mignot. "And they play, my boy, and sing! There's even one of them, little Bavoux, who recites verses."
The gaiety redoubled and they chaffed little Bavoux; nevertheless beneath their laughter lay a great respect. Then they spoke of a piece at the Vaudeville, in which a counter-jumper played a nasty part, which annoyed several of them, whilst others began anxiously wondering at what time they would get away that evening, having invitations to pass the evening at friends' houses. And from all points came similar conversations amidst an increasing rattle of crockery. To drive away the odour of the food—the warm steam which rose from the five hundred plates—they had opened the windows, whose lowered blinds were scorching in the heavy August sun. Burning gusts came in from the street, golden reflections yellowed the ceiling, steeping the perspiring eaters in a reddish light.
"A nice thing to shut people up on such a fine Sunday as this!" repeated Favier.
This remark brought them back to the stock-taking. It had been a splendid year. And they went on to speak of the salaries—the rises—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 unbearable. When the waiters brought the artichokes you could not hear yourself speak. However, the inspector on duty had orders to be indulgent.
"By the way," cried Favier, "you've heard the news?"
But his voice was drowned by Mignot asking: "Who doesn't like artichoke; I'll sell my dessert for an artichoke."
No one replied. Everybody liked artichoke. That lunch would be counted amongst the good ones, for peaches were to be given for dessert.
"He has invited her to dinner, my dear fellow," said Favier to his right-hand neighbour, finishing his story. "What! you didn't know it?"
The whole table knew it, they were tired of talking about it since early morning. And the same poor jokes passed from mouth to mouth. Deloche was quivering again, and his eyes at last rested on Favier, who was persisting in his shameful remarks. But all at once the silk salesman ducked his head, for Deloche, yielding to an irresistible impulse, had thrown his last glass of wine into his face, stammering: "Take that, you infernal liar! I ought to have drenched you yesterday!"
This caused quite a scandal. A few drops had spurted on Favier's neighbours, whilst he himself only had his hair slightly wetted: the wine, thrown by an awkward hand, had fallen on the other side of the table. However, the others got angry, asking Deloche if the girl was his property that he defended her in this way? What a brute he was! he deserved a good drubbing to teach him better manners. However, their voices fell, for an inspector was observed coming along, and it was useless to let the management interfere in the quarrel. Favier contented himself with saying: "If it had caught me, you would have seen some sport!"
Then the affair wound up in jeers. When Deloche, still trembling, wished to drink by way of hiding his confusion, and mechanically caught hold of his empty glass, they all burst out laughing. He laid his glass down again awkwardly enough and commenced sucking the leaves of the artichoke which he had already eaten.
"Pass Deloche the water bottle," said Mignot, quietly; "he's thirsty."
The laughter increased. The young men took clean plates from the piles standing at equal distances on the table 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: "Each man to his taste. Deloche takes wine with his peaches."
Deloche, however, sat motionless, with his head hanging down, as if deaf to the joking going on around him: he was full of despairing regret at thought of what he had just done. Those fellows were right—what right had he to defend her? They would now think all sorts of villainous things: he could have killed himself for having thus compromised her, in attempting to prove her innocence. Such 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 then tears came into his eyes. Was it not also 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, which Liénard alone had been informed of, and he reproached himself, he ought never to have let Pauline speak before that fellow; he was really responsible for the annoying indiscretion which had been committed.
"Why did you go and relate that?" he murmured at last in a sorrowful voice. "It's very wrong."
"I?" replied Liénard; "but I only told it to one or two persons, enjoining secrecy. One never knows how these things get about!"
When Deloche made up his mind to drink a glass of water everybody burst out laughing again. They had finished their meal and were lolling back on their chairs waiting for the bell to recall them to work. They had not asked for many extras at the great central counter, especially as on stock-taking day the firm treated them to coffee. The cups were steaming, perspiring faces shone under the light vapour, floating like bluey clouds from cigarettes. At the windows the blinds hung motionless, without the slightest flapping. One of them, on being drawn up, admitted a ray of sunshine which sped across the room and gilded the ceiling. The uproar of the voices beat upon the walls with such force that the bell was at first only heard by those at the tables near the door. Then they got up and for some time the corridors were full of the confusion of the departure. 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, taking a circuitous route so as to meet Pauline on he way to the ladies' dining-room; a manœuvre they had arranged between them—the only chance they had of seeing one another for a minute during business hours. That day, however, 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.
"Oh! my dear," stammered Pauline, very red, "don't say anything, will you?"
Baugé, with his big limbs and giant stature, was trembling like a little boy. He muttered, "They'd precious soon pitch us out. Although our marriage may be announced, they don't allow any kissing, the brutes!"
Denise, greatly agitated, affected not to have seen them: and Baugé disappeared just as Deloche, also going the longest way round, in his turn appeared. He wished to apologize, 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 meaning of the whispers she had heard around her all the morning. It was the story of the letter circulating. And again was she shaken by the shiver with which this letter had agitated her.
"But I didn't know," repeated Pauline. "Besides, there's nothing bad in the letter. Let them gossip; they're jealous, of course!"
"My dear," said Denise at last, with her sensible air, "I don't blame you in any way! You've spoken nothing but the truth. I have received a letter, and it is my duty to answer it."
Deloche went off heart-broken, in the belief that the girl accepted the situation and would keep the appointment that evening. When the two saleswomen had lunched in a small room, adjoining the larger one where the women were served much more comfortably, Pauline had to assist Denise downstairs again as her sprain was getting more painful.
In the afternoon warmth below, the stock-taking was roaring more loudly than ever. The moment for the supreme effort had arrived, when, as the work had not made much progress during the morning, everybody put forth their strength in order that all might be finished that night. The voices grew louder still, you saw nothing but waving arms continually emptying the shelves and throwing the goods down; and it was impossible to get along for the tide of the bales and packages on the floor rose as high as the counters. A sea of heads, brandished fists, and flying limbs seemed to extend to the very depths of the departments, with the confused aspect of a distant riot. It was the last fever of the clearing, the machine seemed ready to burst; and past the plate-glass windows all round the closed shop there still went a few pedestrians, pale with the stifling boredom of a summer Sunday. On the pavement in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin three tall girls, bareheaded and sluttish-looking, were impudently pressing their faces against the windows, trying to see the curious work going on inside.
When Denise returned to the mantle department Madame Aurélie told Marguerite to finish calling out the garments. There was still the checking to be done, and for this, being desirous of silence, she retired into the pattern-room, taking Denise with her.
"Come with me, we'll do the checking;" she said, "and then you can add up the figures."
However, as she wished to leave the door open, in order to keep an eye on her young ladies, the noise came in, and they could not hear themselves much better even in this pattern-room—a large, square apartment furnished merely with some chairs and three long tables. In one corner were the great machine knives, for cutting up the patterns. Entire pieces of stuff were consumed; every year they sent away more than sixty thousand francs' worth of material, cut up in strips. From morning to night, the knives were cutting silk, wool, and linen, with a scythe-like noise. Then, too, the books had to be got together, gummed or sewn. And between the two windows, there was also a little printing-press for the tickets.
"Not so loud, please!" cried Madame Aurélie every now and again, quite unable as she was to hear Denise reading out the articles.
Then, the checking of the first lists being completed, she left the young girl at one of the tables, absorbed in the adding-up; but came back almost immediately, and placed Mademoiselle de Fontenailles near her. The under-linen department not requiring Madame Desforges' protégée any longer, had placed her at her disposal. She could also do some adding-up, it would save time. But the appearance of the marchioness, as Clara ill-naturedly called the poor creature, had disturbed the department. They laughed and joked at poor Joseph, and their ferocious sallies were wafted into the pattern-room.
"Don't draw back, you are not at all in my way," said Denise, seized with pity. "My inkstand will suffice, we'll dip together."
Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, brutified by her unfortunate position, could not even find a word of gratitude. She looked like a woman who drank, her meagre face had a livid hue, and her hands alone, white and delicate, attested the distinction of her birth.
However, the laughter all at once ceased, and the work resumed its regular roar. Mouret was once more going through the departments. But he stopped and looked round for Denise, surprised at not seeing her there. Then he made a sign to Madame Aurélie; and both drew aside, and for a moment talked in a low tone. He must have been questioning her. She nodded towards the pattern-room and then seemed to be making a report. No doubt she was relating that the young girl had been weeping that morning.
"Very good!" said Mouret, aloud, coming nearer. "Show me the lists."
"This way, sir," said the first-hand. "We have run away from the noise."
He followed her into the next room. Clara was not duped by this manœuvre, 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 them. The whole department was now aiding and abetting the intrigue, the young ladies grew more agitated than ever, Lhomme and Joseph affected not to see or hear anything. And inspector Jouve, who, in passing by, had remarked Madame Aurélie's tactics, began walking up and down before the pattern-room door, with the regular step of a sentry guarding the will and pleasure of a superior.
"Give Monsieur Mouret the lists," said the first-hand.
Denise handed them over, and sat there with her eyes raised. She had started slightly, but had promptly conquered herself, and retained a fine calm look, although her cheeks were pale. For a moment, Mouret appeared to be absorbed in the lists of articles, never giving the girl a glance. A silence reigned, then Madame Aurélie all at once stepped up to Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, who had not even turned her head, and, apparently dissatisfied with her counting, said to her in an undertone: