The Ladies' Paradise

“You needn’t grumble!” said Favier. “I was flat enough to ask for skate. It’s putrid.”

They were all speaking at once, some complaining, some joking. At a corner of the table, against the wall, Deloche was silently eating. He was afflicted with an enormous appetite, which he had never been able to satisfy, and not earning enough to afford any extras, he cut himself enormous chunks of bread, and swallowed up the least savoury platefuls, with an air of greediness. They all laughed at him, crying: “Favier, pass your skate to Deloche. He likes it like that. And your meat, Hutin; Deloche wants it for his dessert.”

The poor fellow shrugged his shoulders, and did not even reply. It wasn’t his fault if he was dying of hunger. Besides, the others might abuse the food as much as they liked, they swallowed it up all the same.

But a low whistling stopped their talk; Mouret and Bour-doncle were in the corridor. For some time the complaints had become so frequent that the principals pretended to come and judge for themselves the quality of the food. They gave thirty sous a head per day to the chief cook, who had to pay everything, provisions, coal, gas, and staff, and they displayed a naïve astonishment when the food was not good. This very morning even, each department had deputed a spokesman. Mignot and Liénard had undertaken to speak for their comrades. And in the sudden silence, all ears were stretched out to catch the conversation going on in the next room, where Mouret and Bourdoncle had just entered. The latter declared the beef excellent; and Mignot, astounded by this quiet affirmation, was repeating, “But chew it, and see;” whilst Liénard, attacking the skate, was gently saying, “But it stinks, sir!” Mouret then launched into a cordial speech: he would do everything for his employees’ welfare, he was their father, and would rather eat dry bread than see them badly fed.

“I promise you to look into the matter,” said he in conclusion, raising his voice so that they should hear it from one end of the passage to the other.

The inquiry being finished, the noise of the knives and forks commenced once more. Hutin muttered “Yes, reckon on that, and drink water! Ah, they’re not stingy of soft words. Want some promises, there you are! And they continue to feed you on old boot-leather, and to chuck you out like dogs!”

The salesman who had already questioned him repeated: “You say that Robineau – ”

But a noise of heavy crockery-ware drowned his voice. The men changed their plates themselves, and the piles at both ends were diminishing. When a kitchen-help brought in some large tin dishes, Hutin cried out: “Baked rice! this is a finisher!”

“Good for a penn’orth of gum!” said Favier, serving himself.

Some liked it, others thought it too sticky. There were some who remained quite silent, plunged in the fiction of their newspaper, not even knowing what they were eating. They were all mopping their foreheads, the narrow cellar-like apartment was full of a ruddy steam, whilst the shadows of the passers-by were continually passing in black bands over the untidy cloth.

“Pass Deloche the bread,” cried out one of the wags.

Each one cut a piece, and then dug the knife into the loaf up to the handle; and the bread still went round.

“Who’ll take my rice for a dessert?” asked Hutin.

When he had concluded his bargain with a short, thin young fellow, he attempted to sell his wine also; but no one would take it, it was known to be detestable.

“As I was telling you, Robineau is back,” he continued, amid the cross-fire of laughter and conversation that was going on. “Oh! his affair is a grave one. Just fancy, he has been debauching the saleswomen! Yes, and he gets them cravats to make!”

“Silence!” exclaimed Favier. “They’re just judging him.”

And he pointed to Bouthemont, who was walking in the passage between Mouret and Bourdoncle, all three absorbed in an animated conversation, carried on in a low tone. The diningroom of the managers and second-hands happened to be just opposite. Therefore, when Bouthemont saw Mouret pass he got up, having finished, and related the affair, explaining the awkward position he was in. The other two listened, still refusing to sacrifice Robineau, a first-class salesman, who dated from Madame Hedouin’s time. But when he came to the story of the neckties, Bourdoncle got angry. Was this fellow mad to interfere with the saleswomen and procure them extra work? The house paid dear enough for the women’s time; if they worked on their own account at night they worked less during the day in the shop, that was certain; therefore it was a robbery, they were risking their health which did not belong to them. No, the night was made for sleep; they must all sleep, or they would be sent to the right-about!

“Getting rather warm!” remarked Hutin.

Every time the three men passed the dining-room, the shopmen watched them, commenting on the slightest gestures. They had forgotten the baked rice, in which a cashier had just found a brace-button.

“I heard the word ‘cravat,’” said Favier. “And you saw how Bourdoncle’s face turned pale at once.”

Mouret shared his partner’s indignation. That a saleswoman should be reduced to work at night, seemed to him an attack on the organisation of The Ladies’ Paradise. Who was the stupid that couldn’t earn enough in the business? But when Bouthemont named Denise he softened down, and invented excuses. Ah I yes, that poor little girl; she wasn’t very sharp, and was greatly burdened, it was said. Bourdoncle interrupted him to declare they ought to send her off immediately. They would never do anything with such an ugly creature, he had always said so; and he seemed to be indulging a spiteful feeling. Mouret, perplexed, affected to laugh. Dear me! what a severe man! couldn’t they forgive her for once? They could call in the culprit and give her a scolding. In short, Robineau was the most to blame, for he ought to have dissuaded her, he, an old hand, knowing the ways of the house.

“Well! there’s the governor laughing now!” resumed Favier, astonished, as the group again passed the door.

“Ah, by Jove!” exclaimed Hutin, “if they persist in shoving Robineau on our shoulders, we’ll make it lively for them!”

Bourdoncle looked straight at Mouret. Then he simply assumed a disdainful expression, to intimate that he saw how it was, and thought it idiotic. Bouthemont resumed his complaints; the salesmen threatened to leave, and there were some very good men amongst them. But what appeared to touch these gentlemen especially, was the rumour of Robineau’s friendly relations with Gaujean; the latter, it was said, was urging the former to set up for himself in the neighbourhood, offering him any amount of credit, to run in opposition to The Ladies’ Paradise. There was a pause. Ah! Robineau was thinking of showing fight, was he! Mouret had become serious; he affected a certain scorn, avoided coming to a decision, treating it as a matter of no importance. They would see, they would speak to him. And he immediately commenced to joke with Bouthemont, whose father, arrived two days before from his little shop at Montpellier, had been nearly choked with rage and indignation on seeing the immense hall in which his son reigned. They were still laughing about the old man, who, recovering his Southern assurance, had immediately commenced to run everything down, pretending that the drapery business would soon go to the dogs.

“Here’s Robineau,” said Bouthemont. “I sent him to the stock-room to avoid any unpleasant occurrence. Excuse me if I insist, but things are in such an unpleasant state that something must be done.”

Robineau, who had just come in, passed by the group with a bow, on his way to the table. Mouret simply repeated: “All right, we’ll see about it.”

And they separated. Hutin and Favier were still waiting for them, but on seeing they did not return, relieved their feelings. Was the governor coming down like this to every meal, to count the mouthfuls? A nice thing, if they could not even eat in peace! The truth was, they had just seen Robineau come in, and the governor’s good-humour made them anxious for the result of the struggle they were engaged in. They lowered their voices, trying to find fresh subjects for grumbling.

“But I’m dying of hunger!” continued Hutin, aloud. “One is hungrier than ever on getting up from table!” And yet he had eaten two portions of dessert, his own and the one he had exchanged for his plate of rice. All at once he cried out: “Hang it, I’m going in for an extra! Victor, give me another dessert!”

The waiter was finishing serving the dessert. He then brought in the coffee, and those who took it gave him their three sous there and then. A few fellows had gone away, dawdling along the corridor, looking for a dark corner in which they could smoke a cigarette. The others remained at table before the heaps of greasy plates and dishes, rolling up the bread-crumbs into little bullets, going over the same old stories, in the odour of broken food, and the sweltering heat that was reddening their ears. The walls reeked with moisture, a slow asphyxia fell from the mouldy ceiling. Standing against the wall was Deloche, stuffed with bread, digesting in silence, his eyes on the air-hole; his daily recreation, after lunch, was to watch the feet of the passers-by spinning along the street, a continual procession of living feet, big boots, elegant boots, and ladies’ tiny boots, without head or body. On rainy days it was very dirty.

“What! Already?” exclaimed Hutin.

A bell rang at the end of the passage, they had to make way for the third lunch. The waiters came in with pails of warm water and big sponges to clean the American cloth. Gradually the rooms became empty, the salesmen returned to their departments, lingering on the stairs. In the kitchen, the head cook had resumed his place at the wicket, between the pans of skate, beef, and sauce, armed with his forks and spoons, ready to fill the plates anew with the rhythmical movement of a well-regulated clock. As Hutin and Favier slowly withdrew, they saw Denise coming down.

“Monsieur Robineau is back, mademoiselle,” said the former with sneering politeness.

“He is still at table,” added the other. “But if it’s anything important you can go in.”

Denise continued on her way without replying or turning round; but when she passed the dining-room of the managers and second-hands, she could not help just looking in, and saw that Robineau was really there. She resolved to try and speak to him in the afternoon, and continued her journey along the corridor to her dining-room, which was at the other end.

The women took their meals apart, in two special rooms. Denise entered the first one. It was also an old cellar, transformed into a refectory; but it had been fitted up with more comfort. On the oval table, in the middle of the apartment, the fifteen places were further apart and the wine was in decanters, a dish of skate and a dish of beef with pungent sauce occupied the two ends of the table. Waiters in white aprons attended to the young ladies, and spared them the trouble of fetching their portions from the wicket The management had thought that more decent.

“You went round, then?” asked Pauline, already seated and cutting herself some bread.

“Yes,” replied Denise, blushing, “I was accompanying a customer.”

But this was a falsehood. Clara nudged her neighbour. What was the matter with the “unkempt girl?” She was quite strange in her ways. One after the other she had received letters from her lover; then, she went running all over the shop like a madwoman, pretending to be going to the work-room, where she did not even make an appearance. There was something up, that was certain. Then Clara, eating her skate without disgust, with the indifference of a girl who had been used to nothing better than rancid bacon, spoke of a frightful drama, the account of which filled the newspapers.

“You’ve heard about that man cutting his mistress’s throat with a razor, haven’t you?”

“Well!” said a little quiet delicate-looking girl belonging to the under-linen department, “he found her with another fellow. Serve her right!”

But Pauline protested. What! just because one had ceased to love a man, he should be allowed to cut your throat? Ah! no, never! And stopping all at once, she turned round to the waiter, saying: “Pierre, I can’t get through this beef. Just tell them to do me an extra, an omelet, nice and soft, if possible.”

To pass away the time, she took out some chocolate which she began eating with her bread, for she always had her pockets full of sweetmeats.

“Certainly it isn’t very amusing with such a fellow,” resumed Clara. “And some people are fearfully jealous, you know! Only the other day there was a workman who pitched his wife into a well.”

She kept her eyes on Denise, thinking she had guessed her trouble on seeing her turn pale. Evidently this little prude was afraid of being beaten by her lover, whom she no doubt deceived. It would be a lark if he came right into the shop after her, as she seemed to fear he would. But the conversation took another turn, one of the girls was giving a recipe for cleaning velvet. They then went on to speak of a piece at the Gaiety, in which some darling little children danced better than any grown-up persons. Pauline, saddened for a moment at the sight of her omelet, which was overdone, resumed her gaiety on finding it went down fairly well.

“Pass the wine,” said she to Denise. “You should go in for an omelet.”

“Oh! the beef is enough for me,” replied the young girl, who, to avoid expense, confined herself to the food provided by the house, no matter how repugnant it might be.

When the waiter brought in the baked rice, the young ladies protested. They had refused it the previous week, and hoped it would not appear again. Denise, inattentive, worrying about Jean after Clara’s stories, was the only one to eat it; all the others looked at her with an air of disgust. There was a great demand for extras, they gorged themselves with jam. This was a sort of elegance, they felt obliged to feed themselves with their own money.

“You know the gentlemen have complained,” said the little delicate girl from the under-linen department, “and the management has promised – ”

They interrupted her with a burst of laughter, and commenced to talk about the management. All the girls took coffee but Denise, who couldn’t bear it, she said. And they lingered there before their cups, the young ladies from the under-linen department in woollen dresses, with a middle-class simplicity, the young ladies from the dress department in silk, their napkins tucked under their chins, in order not to stain their dresses, like ladies who might have come down to the servants’ hall to dine with their chamber-maids. They had opened the glazed sash of the airhole to change the stifling poisoned air; but they were obliged to close it at once, the cab-wheels seemed to be passing over the table.

“Hush!” exclaimed Pauline; “here’s that old beast!”

It was Jouve, the inspector, who was rather fond of prowling about at meal times, when the young ladies were there. He was supposed, in fact, to look after their dining-rooms. With a smiling face he would come in and walk round the tables; sometimes he would even indulge in a little gossip, and inquire if they had made a good lunch. But as he annoyed them and made them feel uncomfortable, they all hastened to get away. Although the bell had not rung, Clara was the first to disappear; the others followed her, so that soon only Denise and Pauline remained. The latter, after having drunk her coffee, was finishing her chocolate drops. All at once she got up, saying: “I’m going to send the messenger for some oranges. Are you coming?”

“Presently,” replied Denise, who was nibbling at a crust, determined to wait till the last, so as to be able to see Robineau on going upstairs.

However, when she found herself alone with Jouve she felt uneasy, so she quitted the table; but as she was going towards the door he stopped her saying: “Mademoiselle Baudu – ”

Standing before her, he smiled with a paternal air. His thick grey moustache and short cropped hair gave him a respectable military appearance; and he threw out his chest, on which was displayed the red ribbon of his decoration.

“What is it, Monsieur Jouve?” asked she, feeling reassured. “I caught you again this morning talking upstairs behind the carpet department You know it is not allowed, and if I reported you – She must be very fond of you, your friend Pauline.” His moustache quivered, a flame lighted up his enormous nose. “What makes you so fond of each other, eh?” Denise, without understanding, was again becoming seized with an uneasy feeling. He was getting too close, and was speaking right in her face.

“It’s true we were talking, Monsieur Jouve,” she stammered, “but there’s no harm in talking a bit. You are very good to me, and I’m very much obliged to you.”

“I ought not to be good,” said he. “Justice, and nothing more, is my motto. But when it’s a pretty girl – ”

And he came closer still, and she felt really afraid. Pauline’s words came back to her memory; she now remembered the stories going about, stories of girls terrified by old Jouve into buying his good-will. In the shop, as a rule, he confined himself to little familiarities, such as pinching the cheeks of the complaisant young ladies with his fat fingers, taking their hands in his and keeping them there as if he had forgotten them. This was very paternal, and he only gave way to his real nature outdoors, when they consented to accept a little refreshment at his place in the Rue des Moineaux.

“Leave me alone,” murmured the young girl, drawing back. “Come,” said he, “you are not going to play the savage with me, who always treats you well. Be amiable, come and take a cup of tea and a slice of bread-and-butter with me this evening. You are very welcome.”

She was struggling now. “No! no!”

The dining room was empty, the waiter had not come back. Jouve, listening for the sound of any footsteps, cast a rapid glance around him; and, very excited, losing control over himself, going beyond his fatherly familiarities, he tried to kiss her on the neck.

“What a spiteful, stupid little girl. When one has a head of hair like yours one should not be so stupid. Come round this evening, just for fun.”

But she was very excited, shocked, and terrified at the approach of this burning face, of which she could feel the breath. Suddenly she pushed him, so roughly that he staggered and nearly fell on to the table. Fortunately, a chair saved him; but in the shock, some wine left in a glass spurted on to his white necktie, and soaked his decoration. And he stood there, without wiping himself, choked with anger at such brutality. What! when he was expecting nothing, when he was not exerting his strength, and was yielding simply to his kindness of heart!

“Ah, you will be sorry for this, on my word of honour!” Denise ran away. Just at that moment the bell rang; but troubled, still shuddering, she forgot Robineau, and went straight to her counter, not daring to go down again. As the sun fell on the frontage of the Place Gaillon of an afternoon, they were all stifling in the first floor rooms, notwithstanding the grey linen blinds. A few customers came, put the young ladies into a very uncomfortable, warm state, and went away without buying anything. Every one was yawning even under Madame Aurélie’s big sleepy eyes. Towards three o’clock, Denise, seeing the first-hand falling off to sleep, quietly slipped off, and resumed her journey across the shop, with a busy air. To put the curious ones, who might be watching her, off the scent, she did not go straight to the silk department; pretending to want something in the lace department, she went up to Deloche, and asked him a question; then, on the ground-floor, she passed through the printed cottons department, and was just going into the cravat one, when she stopped short, startled and surprised. Jean was before her.

“What! it’s you?” she murmured, quite pale.

He had on his working blouse, and was bare-headed, with his hair in disorder, the curls falling over his girlish face. Standing before a show-case of narrow black neckties, he appeared to be thinking deeply.

“What are you doing here?” resumed Denise.

“What do you think?” replied he. “I was waiting for you. You won’t let me come. So I came in, but haven’t said anything to anybody. You may feel quite safe. Pretend not to know me, if you like.”

Some salesmen were already looking at them with astonishment Jean lowered his voice. “She wanted to come with me you know. Yes, she is close by, opposite the fountain. Give me the fifteen francs quick, or we are done for as sure as the sun is shining on us!”

Denise lost her head. The lookers-on were grinning, listening to this adventure. And as there was a staircase behind the cravat department leading to the lower floor, she pushed her brother along, and quickly led him below. Downstairs he continued his story, embarrassed, inventing his facts, fearing not to be believed.

“The money is not for her. She is too respectable for that. And as for her husband, he does not care a straw for fifteen francs. Not for a million would he allow his wife. A glue manufacturer, I tell you. People very well off indeed. No, it’s for a low fellow, one of her friends, who has seen us together; and if I don’t give him this money this evening – ”

“Be quiet,” murmured Denise. “Presently, do get along.” They were now in the parcels office. The dead season had thrown the vast floor into a sort of torpor, in the pale light from the air-holes. It was cold as well, a silence fell from the ceiling. However, a porter was collecting from one of the compartments the few packets for the neighbourhood of the Madeleine; and, on the large sorting-table, was seated Campion, the chief clerk, his legs dangling, and his eyes wandering about.

Jean began again: “The husband, who has a big knife – ”

“Get along!” repeated Denise, still pushing him forward. They followed one of the narrow corridors, where the gas was kept continually burning. To the right and the left in the dark vaults the reserve goods threw out their shadows behind the gratings. At last she stopped opposite one of these. Nobody was likely to pass that way; but it was not allowed, and she shuddered.

“If this rascal says anything,” resumed Jean, “the husband, who has a big knife – ”

“Where do you expect I can find fifteen francs?” exclaimed Denise in despair. “Can’t you be more careful? You’re always getting into some stupid scrape!”

He struck his chest. Amidst all his romantic inventions, he had almost forgotten the exact truth. He dramatised his money wants, but there was always some immediate necessity behind this display. “By all that’s sacred, it’s really true this time. I was holding her like this, and she was kissing me – ”

She stopped him again, and lost her temper, feeling on thorns, completely at a loss. “I don’t want to know. Keep your wicked conduct to yourself. It’s too bad, you ought to know better! You’re always tormenting me. I’m killing myself to keep you in money. Yes, I have to stay up all night at work. Not only that, you are taking the bread out of your little brother’s mouth.”

Jean stood there with his mouth wide open, and all the colour left his face. What! it was not right? And he could not understand, he had always treated his sister like a comrade, he thought it quite a natural thing to open his heart to her. But what choked him above all, was to learn she stopped up all night. The idea that he was killing her, and taking Pépé’s share as well, affected him so much that he began to cry.

“You’re right; I’m a scamp,” exclaimed he. “But it isn’t wicked, really, far from it, and that’s why one always does it! This woman, Denise, is twenty, and thought it such fun, because I’m only seventeen. Really now! I am quite furious with myself! I could slap my face!” He had taken her hands, and was kissing them and inundating them with tears. “Give me the fifteen francs, and this shall be the last time. I swear to you. Or rather – no! – don’t give me anything. I prefer to die. If the husband murders me it will be a good riddance for you.” And as she was crying as well, he was stricken with remorse. “I say that, but of course I’m not sure. Perhaps he doesn’t want to kill any one. We’ll manage. I promise you that, darling. Good-bye, I’m off.”