The Ladies' Paradise

CHAPTER VII

For a moment Denise stood bewildered on the pavement, in the sun which still shone fiercely at five o’clock. The July heat warmed the gutters, Paris was blazing with the chalky whiteness peculiar to it in summer-time, and which produced quite a blinding glare. The catastrophe had happened so suddenly, they had turned her out so roughly, that she stood there, turning her money over in her pocket in a mechanical way, asking herself where she was to go, and what she was to do.

A long line of cabs prevented her quitting the pavement near The Ladies’ Paradise. When she at last risked herself amongst the wheels she crossed over the Place Gaillon, as if she intended to go into the Rue Louis-le-Grand; then she altered her mind, and walked towards the Rue Saint-Roch. But still she had no plan, for she stopped at the corner of the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, and finally followed it, after looking around her with an undecided air. Arrived at the Passage Choiseul, she passed through, and found herself in the Rue Monsigny, without knowing how, and ultimately came into the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin again. Her head was filled with a fearful buzzing sensation, she thought of her box on seeing a commissionaire; but where was she to have it taken to, and why all this trouble, when an hour ago she had a bed to go to?

Then her eyes fixed on the houses, she began to examine the windows. There were any number of bills, “Apartments to Let.” She saw them confusedly, repeatedly seized by the inward emotion which was agitating her whole being. Was it possible? Left alone so suddenly, lost in this immense city in which she was a stranger, without support, without resources. She must eat and sleep, however. The streets succeeded one another, the Rue des Moulins, the Rue Sainte-Anne. She wandered about the neighbourhood, frequently retracing her steps, always brought back to the only spot she knew really well. Suddenly she was astonished, she was again standing before The Ladies’ Paradise; and to escape this obsession she plunged into the Rue de la Michodière. Fortunately Baudu was not at his door. The Old Elbeuf appeared to be dead, behind its murky windows. She would never have dared to show herself at her uncle’s, for he affected not to recognise her any more, and she did not wish to become a burden to him, in the misfortune he had predicted for her. But, on the other side of the street, a yellow bill attracted her attention. “Furnished room to let.” It was the first that did not frighten her, so poor did the house appear. She soon recognised it, with its two low storeys, and rusty-coloured front, crushed between The Ladies’ Paradise and the old Hôtel Duvillard. On the threshold of the umbrella shop, old Bourras, hairy and bearded like a prophet, and with his glasses on his nose, stood studying the ivory handle of a walking-stick. Hiring the whole house, he under-let the two upper floors furnished, to lighten the rent.

“You have a room, sir?” asked Denise, obeying an instinctive impulse.

He raised his great bushy eyes, surprised to see her, for he knew all the young persons at The Ladies’ Paradise. And, after observing her clean dress and respectable appearance, he replied: “It won’t suit you.”

“How much is it, then?” replied Denise.

“Fifteen francs a month.”

She asked to see it. On arriving in the narrow shop, and seeing that he was still eyeing her with an astonished air, she told him of her departure from the shop and of her wish not to trouble her uncle. The old man then went and fetched a key hanging on a board in the back-shop, a small dark room, where he did his cooking and had his bed; beyond that, behind a dirty window, could be seen a back-yard about six feet square.

“I’ll walk in front to prevent you falling,” said Bourras, entering the damp corridor which ran along the shop.

He stumbled against the lower stair, and commenced the ascent, reiterating his warnings to be careful. Look out! the rail was close against the wall, there was a hole at the corner, sometimes the lodgers left their dust-boxes there. Denise, in complete obscurity, could distinguish nothing, only feeling the chilliness of the old damp plaster. On the first floor, however, a small window looking into the yard enabled her to see vaguely, as at the bottom of a piece of sleeping water, the rotten staircase, the walls black with dirt, the cracked and discoloured doors.

“If only only these rooms were vacant,” resumed

Bourras. “You would be very comfortable there. But they are always occupied by ladies.”

On the second floor the light increased, showing up with a raw paleness the distress of the house. A journeyman-baker occupied the first room, and it was the other, the further one, that was vacant. When Bourras had opened the door he was obliged to stay on the landing in order that Denise might enter with ease. The bed placed in the corner nearest the door, left just room enough for one person to pass. At the other end there was a small walnut-wood chest of drawers, a deal table stained black, and two chairs. The lodgers who did any cooking were obliged to kneel before the fire-place, where there was an earthenware stove.

“You know,” said the old man, “it is not luxurious, but the view from the window is gay. You can see the people passing in the street.” And, as Denise was looking with surprise at the ceiling just above the bed, where a chance lady-lodger had written her name – Ernestine – by drawing the flame of the candle over it, he added with a good-natured smile; “If I did a lot of repairs, I should never make both ends meet. There you are; it’s all I have to offer.”

“I shall be very well here,” declared the young girl.

She paid a month in advance, asked for the linen – a pair of sheets and two towels, and made her bed without delay, happy, relieved to know where she was going to sleep that night. An hour after she had sent a commissionaire to fetch her box, and was quite at home.

During the first two months she had a terribly hard time of it. Being unable to pay for Pépé’s board, she had taken him away, and slept him on an old sofa lent by Bourras. She could not do with less than thirty sous a day, including the rent, even by consenting to live on dry bread herself, in order to procure a bit of meat for the little one. During the first fortnight she got on pretty well, having begun her housekeeping with about ten francs; besides she had been fortunate enough to find the cravat-dealer, who paid her her eighteen francs six sous. But after that she became completely destitute. It was in vain she applied to the various shops, at La Place Clichy, the Bon Marché, the Louvre: the dead season had stopped business everywhere, they told her to apply again in the autumn, more than five thousand employees, dismissed like her, were wandering about Paris in want of places. She then tried to obtain a little work elsewhere; but in her ignorance of Paris she did not know where to apply, often accepting most ungrateful tasks, and sometimes even not getting her money. Certain evenings she gave Pépé his dinner alone, a plate of soup, telling him she had dined out; and she would go to bed, her head in a whirl, nourished by the fever which was burning her hands. When Jean dropped suddenly into the midst of this poverty, he called himself a scoundrel with such a despairing violence that she was obliged to tell some falsehood to reassure him; and often found means of slipping a two-franc piece into his hand, to prove that she still had money. She never wept before the children. On Sundays, when she would cook a piece of veal in the stove, on her knees before the fire, the narrow room re-echoed with the gaiety of children, careless about existence. Then, when Jean had returned to his master’s and Pépé was sleeping, she spent a frightful night, in anguish about the coming day.

Other fears kept her awake. The two ladies on the first floor received visitors up to a late hour; and sometimes a visitor mistook the floor and came banging at Denise’s door. Bourras having quietly told her not to answer, she buried her face under her pillow to escape hearing their oaths. Then, her neighbour, the baker, had shown a disposition to annoy her: he never came home till the morning, and would lay in wait for her, as she went to fetch her water; he even made holes in the wall, to watch her washing herself, so that she was obliged to hang her clothes against the wall. But she suffered still more from the annoyances of the street, the continual persecution of the passers-by. She could not go downstairs to buy a candle, in these streets swarming with the debauchees of the old quarters, without feeling a warm breath behind her, and hearing crude, insulting remarks; and the men pursued her to the very end of the dark passage, encouraged by the sordid appearance of the house. Why had she no lover? It astonished people, and seemed ridiculous. She would certainly have to yield one day. She herself could not have explained why she resisted, menaced as she was by hunger, and perturbed by the desires with which the air around her was warm.

One evening Denise had not even any bread for Pépé’s soup, when a gentleman, wearing a decoration, commenced to follow her. On arriving opposite the passage he became brutal, and it was with a disgusted, shocked feeling that she banged the door in his face. Then, upstairs, she sat down, her hands trembling. The little one was sleeping. What should she say if he woke up and asked for bread? And yet she had only to consent and her misery would be over, she could have money, dresses, and a fine room. It was very simple, every one came to that, it was said; for a woman alone in Paris could not live by her labour. But her whole being rose up in protestation, without indignation against the others, simply averse to the disgrace of the thing. She considered life a matter of logic, good conduct, and courage.

Denise frequently questioned herself in this way. An old love story floated in her memory, the sailor’s betrothed whom her love guarded from all perils. At Valognes she had often hummed over this sentimental ballad, gazing on the deserted street. Had she also a tender affection in her heart that she was so brave? She still thought of Hutin, full of uneasiness. Morning and evening she saw him pass under her window. Now that he was second-hand he walked by himself, amid the respect of the simple salesmen. He never raised his head, she thought she suffered from his vanity, and watched him pass without any fear of being discovered. And as soon as she saw Mouret, who also passed every day, she began to tremble, and, quickly concealed herself, her bosom heaving. He had no need to know where she was lodging. Then she felt ashamed of the house, and suffered at the idea of what he thought of her, although perhaps they would never meet again.

Denise still lived amidst the agitation caused by The Ladies’ Paradise. A simple wall separated her room from her old department; and, from early morning, she went over her day’s work, feeling the arrival of the crowd, the increased bustle of business. The slightest noise shook the old house hanging on the flank of the colossus; she felt the gigantic pulse beating. Besides, she could not avoid certain meetings. Twice she had found herself face to face with Pauline, who had offered her services, grieved to see her so unfortunate; and she had even been obliged to tell a falsehood to avoid receiving her friend or paying her a visit, one Sunday, at Baugé’s. But it was more difficult still to defend herself against Deloche’s desperate affection; he watched her, aware of all her troubles, waited for her in the doorways. One day he wanted to lend her thirty francs, a brother’s savings, he said, with a blush. And these meetings made her regret the shop, continually occupying her with the life they led inside, as if she had not quitted it.

No one ever called upon Denise. One afternoon she was surprised by a knock. It was Colomban. She received him standing. He, looking very awkward, stammered at first, asked how she was getting on, and spoke of The Old Elbeuf.

Perhaps it was Uncle Baudu who had sent him, regretting his rigour; for he continued to pass his niece without taking any notice of her, although quite aware of her miserable position. But when she plainly questioned her visitor, he appeared more embarrassed than ever. No, no, it was not the governor who had sent him; and he finished by naming Clara – he simply wanted to talk about Clara. Little by little he became bolder, and asked Denise’s advice, supposing that she could be useful to him with her old friend. It was in vain that she tried to dishearten him, by reproaching him with the pain he was causing Geneviève, all for this heartless girl. He came up another day, and got into the habit of coming to see her. This sufficed for his timid passion; he continually commenced the same conversation, unable to resist, trembling with joy to be with a girl who had approached Clara. And this caused Denise to live more than ever at The Ladies’ Paradise.

It was towards the end of September that the young girl experienced the blackest misery. Pépé had fallen ill, having caught a severe cold. He ought to have been nourished with good broth, and she had not even a piece of bread. One evening, completely conquered, she was sobbing, in one of those sombre straits which drive women on to the streets, or into the Seine, when old Bourras gently knocked at the door. He brought a loaf, and a milk-can full of broth.

“There! there’s something for the youngster,” said he in his abrupt way. “Don’t cry like that; it annoys my lodgers.” And as she thanked him in a fresh outburst of tears, he resumed: “Do keep quiet! To-morrow come and see me. I’ve some work for you.”

Bourras, since the terrible blow dealt him by The Ladies’ Paradise by their opening an umbrella department, had ceased to employ any workwomen. He did everything himself to save expenses – the cleaning, mending, and sewing. His trade was also diminishing, so that he was sometimes without work. And he was obliged to invent something to do the next day, when he installed Denise in a corner of his shop. He felt that he could not let any one die of hunger in his house.

“You’ll have two francs a day,” said he. “When you find something better, you can leave me.”

She was afraid of him, and did the work so quickly that he hardly knew what else to give her to do. He had given her some silk to stitch, some lace to repair. During the first few days she did not dare raise her head, uncomfortable to know he was close to her, with his lion-like mane, hooked nose, and piercing eyes, under his thick bushy eyebrows. His voice was harsh, his gestures extravagant, and the mothers of the neighbourhood often frightened their youngsters by threatening to send for him, as they would for a policeman. However, the boys never passed his door without calling out some insulting words, which he did not even seem to hear. All his maniacal anger was directed against the scoundrels who dishonoured his trade by selling cheap trashy articles, which dogs would not consent to use.

Denise trembled whenever he burst out thus: “Art is done for, I tell you! There’s not a single respectable handle made now. They make sticks, but as for handles, it’s all up! Bring me a proper handle, and I’ll give you twenty francs!”

He had a real artist’s pride; not a workman in Paris was capable of turning out a handle like his, light and strong. He carved the knobs especially with charming ingenuity, continually inventing fresh designs, flowers, fruit, animals, and heads, subjects conceived and executed in a free and life-like style. A little pocket-knife sufficed, and he spent whole days, spectacles on nose, chipping bits of boxwood and ebony.