The Ladies' Paradise

And he gaily described the anger of the old man, enraged against the great Parisian bazaars, in his little country shop. Old Bouthemont, suffocated by the thirty thousand francs a year earned by his son, had replied that he would give his money and that of his friends to the hospitals rather than contribute a sou to one of those shops which were the pests of the drapery business.

“Besides,” continued the young man, “it would require millions.”

“Suppose they were found?” observed Madame Desforges, simply.

He looked at her, serious all at once. Was it not merely a jealous woman’s word? But she did not give him time to question her, adding: “In short, you know what a great interest I take in you. We’ll talk about it again.”

The outer bell had rung. She got up, and he, himself, with an instinctive movement, drew back his chair, as if they might have been surprised. A silence reigned in the drawingroom, with its pretty hangings, and decorated with such a profusion of green plants that there was quite a small wood between the two windows. She stood there waiting, with her ear towards the door.

“There he is,” she murmured.

The footman announced Monsieur Mouret and Monsieur de Vallagnosc. Henriette could not restrain a movement of anger. Why had he not come alone? He must have gone after his friend, fearful of a tête-à-tête with her. However, she smiled and shook hands with the two men.

“What a stranger you are getting. I may say the same for you, Monsieur de Vallagnosc.”

Her great grief was to be becoming stout, and she squeezed herself into tight black silk dresses, to conceal her increasing obesity. However, her pretty face, with her dark hair, preserved its amiable expression. And Mouret could familiarly tell her, enveloping her with a look:

“It’s useless to ask how you are. You are as fresh as a rose.”

“Oh! I’m almost too well,” replied she. “Besides, I might have died; you would have known nothing about it.”

She was examining him also, and thought him looking tired and nervous, his eyes heavy, his complexion livid.

“Well,” she resumed, in a tone which she endeavoured to render agreeable, “I cannot return the compliment; you don’t look at all well to-day.”

“Overwork!” remarked De Vallagnosc.

Mouret shrugged his shoulders, without replying. He had just perceived Bouthemont, and nodded to him in a friendly way. During the time of their close intimacy he used to take him away direct from the department, bringing him to Henriette’s during the busiest moments of the afternoon. But times had changed; he said to him in a half whisper: “You went away rather early. They noticed your departure, and are furious about it.”

He referred to Bourdoncle and the other persons who had an interest in the business, as if he were not himself the master.

“Ah!” murmured Bouthemont, rather anxious.

“Yes, I want to talk to you. Wait for me, we’ll leave together.”

Meanwhile, Henriette had sat down again; and while listening to De Vallagnosc, who was announcing that Madame de Boves would probably pay her a visit, she did not take her eyes off Mouret. The latter, silent again, gazed at the furniture, seemed to be looking for something on the ceiling. Then as she laughingly complained that she had only gentlemen at her four o’clock tea, he so far forgot himself as to blurt out:

“I expected to find Baron Hartmann here.”

Henriette turned pale. No doubt she knew he came to her house solely to meet the baron; but he might have avoided throwing his indifference in her face like this. At that moment the door had opened and the footman was standing behind her. When she had interrogated him by a sign, he leant over her and said in a very low tone:

“It’s for that mantle. You wished me to let you know. The young lady is there.”

Then Henriette raised her voice, so as to be heard. All her jealous suffering found relief in the following words, of a scornful harshness:

“She can wait!”

“Shall I show her into your dressing-room?”

“No, no. Let her stay in the ante-room!”

And when the servant had gone out she quietly resumed her conversation with De Vallagnosc. Mouret, who had relapsed into his former lassitude, had listened with a careless, distracted air, without understanding. Bouthemont, preoccupied by the adventure, was reflecting. But almost immediately after the door was opened again, and two ladies were shown in.

“Just fancy,” said Madame Marty, “I was alighting at the door, when I saw Madame de Boves coming under the arcade.”

“Yes,” explained the latter, “it’s a fine day, and my doctor says I must take walking exercise.”

Then, after a general hand-shaking, she asked Henriette:

“You’re engaging a new maid, then?”

“No,” replied the other, astonished. “Why?”

“Because I’ve just seen a young girl in the ante-room.” Henriette interrupted her, laughing. “It’s true; all these shop-girls look like ladies’ maids, don’t they? Yes, it’s a young person come to alter a mantle.”

Mouret looked at her intently, a suspicion crossing his mind. She went on with a forced gaiety, explaining that she had bought mantle at The Ladies’ Paradise the previous week.

“What!” asked Madame Marty, “have you deserted Sauveur then?”

“No my dear, but I wished to make an experiment. Besides, I was pretty well satisfied with a first purchase, a travelling cloak. But this time it has not succeeded at all. You may say what you like, one is horribly trussed up in the big shops. I speak out plainly, even before you, Monsieur Mouret; you will never know how to dress a woman with the slightest claim to distinction.”

Mouret did not defend his house, still keeping his eyes on her, thinking to himself that she would never have dared to do such a thing. And it was Bouthemont who had to plead the cause of The Ladies’ Paradise.

“If all the aristocratic ladies who patronise us announced the fact,” replied he, gaily, “you would be astonished at our customers. Order a garment to measure at our place, it will equal one from Sauveur’s, and will cost but half the money. But there, just because it’s cheaper it’s not so good.”

“So it doesn’t fit, this mantle you speak of?” resumed Madame de Boves. “Ah! now I remember the young person. It’s rather dark in your ante-room.”

“Yes,” added Madame Marty, “I was wondering where I had seen that figure. Well, go, my dear, don’t stand on ceremony with us.”

Henriette assumed a look of disdainful unconcern. “Oh, presently, there is no hurry.”

The ladies continued to discuss the articles from the big shops. Then Madame de Boves spoke of her husband, who, she said, had gone to inspect the breeding depot at Saint-Lô; and just then Henriette was relating that through the illness of an aunt Madame Guibal had been suddenly called into Franche-Comté. Moreover, she did not reckon that day on Madame Bourdelais, who at the end of every month shut herself up with a needlewoman to look over her young people’s under-linen. But Madame Marty seemed agitated with some secret trouble. Her husband’s position at the Lycée Bonaparte was menaced, in consequence of lessons given by the poor man in certain doubtful institutions where a regular trade was carried on with the B.A. diplomas; the poor fellow picked up a pound where he could, feverishly, in order to meet the ruinous expenses which pillaged his household; and his wife, on seeing him weeping one evening in the fear of a dismissal, had conceived the idea of getting her friend Henriette to speak to a director at the Ministry of Public Instruction with whom she was acquainted. Henriette finished by quieting her with a few words. It was understood that Monsieur Marty was coming himself to know his fate and to thank her.

“You look ill, Monsieur Mouret,” observed Madame de Boves.

“Overwork!” repeated De Vallagnosc, with his ironical phlegm.

Mouret quickly got up, as if ashamed at forgetting himself thus. He went and took his accustomed place in the midst of the ladies, summoning up all his agreeable talent. He was now occupied with the winter novelties, and spoke of a considerable arrival of lace; and Madame de Boves questioned him as to the price of Bruges lace: she felt inclined to buy some. She had now got so far as to economise the thirty-sous for a cab, often going home quite ill from the effects of stopping before the windows. Draped in a mantle which was already two years old she tried, in imagination, on her queenly shoulders all the dearest things she saw; and it was like tearing her flesh away when she awoke and found herself dressed in her patched, old dresses, without the slightest hope of ever satisfying her passion.

“Baron Hartmann,” announced the man-servant.

Henriette observed with what pleasure Mouret shook hands with the new arrival. The latter bowed to the ladies and looked at the young man with that subtle expression which sometimes illumined his big Alsatian face.

“Always plunged in dress!” murmured he, with a smile. Then, like a friend of the house, he ventured to add, “There’s a charming young girl in the ante-room. Who is it?”

“Oh, nobody,” replied Madame Desforges, in her ill-natured voice. “Only a shop-girl waiting to see me.”

But the door remained half open, the servant was bringing in the tea. He went out, came in again, placed the china service on the table, then some plates of sandwiches and biscuits. In the vast room, a bright light, softened by the green plants, illuminated the brass-work, bathing the silk hangings in a tender flame; and each time the door was opened one could perceive an obscure corner of the ante-room, which was only lighted by two ground-glass windows. There, in the darkness, appeared a sombre form, motionless and patient. It was Denise, still standing up; there was a leather-covered form there, but a feeling of pride prevented her sitting down on it. She felt the insult keenly. She had been there for the last half-hour, without a gesture, without a word. The ladies and the baron had taken stock of her in passing; she could now hear the voices from the drawingroom. All this amiable luxury wounded her with its indifference, and still she did not move. Suddenly, through the half-open door, she perceived Mouret, and he, on his side, had at last guessed it to be her.

“Is it one of your saleswomen?” asked Baron Hartmann.

Mouret had succeeded in concealing his great agitation; but his voice trembled somewhat with emotion: “No doubt; but I don’t know which.”

“It’s the little fair girl from the ready-made department,” replied Madame Marty, obligingly, “the second-hand, I believe.”

Henriette looked at Mouret in her turn.

“Ah!” said he, simply.

And he tried to change the conversation, speaking of the fêtes given to the King of Prussia then passing through Paris. But the baron returned maliciously to the young ladies in the big establishments. He affected to be desirous of gaining information, and put several questions: Where did they come from in general? Was their conduct as bad as it was said to be? Quite a discussion ensued.

“Really,” he repeated, “you think them well behaved.”

Mouret defended their virtue with a conviction which made De Vallagnosc smile. Bouthemont then interfered, to save his chief. Of course there were some of all sorts, bad and good. Formerly they had nothing but the refuse of the trade, a poor, vague class of girls drifted into the drapery business; whilst now, such respectable families as those living in the Rue de Sèvres, for instance, positively brought up their girls for the Bon Marche. In short, when they liked to conduct themselves well, they could, for they were not, like the work-girls of Paris, obliged to board and lodge themselves; they had bed and board, their existence was provided for, an existence excessively hard, no doubt. The worst of all was their neutral, badly-defined position, between the shop-woman and the lady. Thrown into the midst of luxury, often without any previous instruction, they formed a singular, nameless class. Their misfortunes and vices sprung from that.

“I,” said Madame de Boves, “I don’t know any creatures more disagreeable. Really, one could slap them sometimes.”

And the ladies vented their spite. They devoured each other before the shop-counters; it was a question of woman against woman in the sharp rivalry of money and beauty. It was an ill-natured jealousy felt by the saleswomen towards the well-dressed customers, the ladies whose manners they tried to imitate, and a still stronger feeling on the part of the poorly-dressed customers, the lower-class ones, against the saleswomen, those girls dressed in silk, from whom they would have liked to exact a servant’s humility when serving a ten sou purchase.

“Don’t speak of them,” said Henriette, by way of conclusion, “a wretched lot of beings ready to sell themselves the same as their goods.”

Mouret had the strength to smile. The baron was looking at him, so touched by his graceful command over himself that he changed the conversation, returning to the fêtes to be given to the King of Prussia, saying they would be superb, the whole trade of Paris would profit by them. Henriette remained silent and thoughtful, divided between the desire to forget Denise in the ante-room, and the fear that Mouret, now aware of her presence, might go away. At last she quitted her chair.

“You will allow me?”

“Certainly, my dear,” replied Madame Marty. “I’ll do the honours of the house for you.”

She got up, took the teapot, and filled the cups. Henriette turned towards Baron Hartmann, saying: “You’ll stay a few minutes, won’t you?”

“Yes; I want to speak to Monsieur Mouret. We are going to invade your little drawing-room.”

She went out, and her black silk dress, rustling against the door, produced a noise like that of a snake wriggling through the brushwood. The baron at once manoeuvred to carry Mouret off, leaving the ladies to Bouthemont and De Vallagnosc. Then they stood talking before the window of the other room in a low tone. It was quite a fresh affair. For a long time Mouret had cherished a desire to realise his former project, the invasion of the whole block by The Ladies’ Paradise, from the Rue Monsigny to the Rue de la Michodière and from the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin to the Rue du Dix-Décembre. There was still a vast piece of ground, in the latter street, remaining to be acquired, and that sufficed to spoil his triumph, he was tortured with the desire to complete his conquest, to erect there a sort of apotheosis, a monumental façade. As long as his principal entrance should remain in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, in a dark street of old Paris, his work would be incomplete, wanting in logic. He wished to set it up before new Paris, in one of these modern avenues through which passed the busy crowd of the latter part of the nineteenth century. He saw it dominating, imposing itself as the giant palace of commerce, casting a greater shadow over the city than the old Louvre itself. But up to the present he had been baulked by the obstinacy of die Credit Immobilier, which still held to its first idea of building a rival to the Grand Hôtel on this land. The plans were ready, they were only waiting for the clearing of the Rue du Dix-Décembre to commence the work. At last, by a supreme effort, Mouret had almost convinced Baron Hartmann.

“Well!” commenced the latter, “we had a board-meeting yesterday, and I came to-day, thinking I should meet you, and being desirous of keeping you informed. They still resist.” The young man gave way to a nervous gesture. “But it’s ridiculous. What do they say?”

“Dear me! they say what I have said to you myself, and what I am still inclined to think. Your façade is only an ornament, the new buildings would only extend by about a tenth the surface of your establishment, and it would be throwing away immense sums on a mere advertisement.”

At this Mouret burst out “An advertisement! an advertisement! In any case this will be in stone and outlive all of us. Just consider that it would increase our business tenfold! We should see our money back in two years. What matters about what you call the wasted ground, if this ground returns you an enormous interest! You will see the crowd, when our customers are no longer obliged to struggle through the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, but can freely pass down a thoroughfare large enough for six carriages abreast.”

“No doubt,” replied the baron, laughing. “But you are a poet in your way, let me tell you once more. These gentlemen think it would be dangerous to further extend your business.’ They want to be prudent for you.”

“What do they mean? Prudent! I don’t understand. Don’t the figures show the constant progression of our business? At first, with a capital of five hundred thousand francs, I did business to the extent of two millions, turning the capital over four times. It then became four million francs, which, turned over ten times, has produced business to the extent of forty millions. In short, after successive increases, I have just learnt, from the last stock-taking, that the amount of business done now amounts to a total of eighty millions; thus the capital, only slightly increased – for it does not exceed six millions – has passed over our counters in the form of more than twelve times.”

He raised his voice, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the palm of his left hand, knocking down these millions as he would have cracked a few nuts. The baron interrupted him.

“I know, I know. But you don’t hope to keep on increasing in this way, do you?”

“Why not?” asked Mouret, ingenuously. “There’s no reason why it should stop. The capital can be turned over as often as fifteen times. I predicted as much long ago. In certain departments it can be turned over twenty-five or thirty times. And after? well! after, we’ll find a means of turning it over more than that.”

“So you’ll finish by drinking up all the money in Paris, as you’d drink a glass of water?”

“Most decidedly. Doesn’t Paris belong to the women, and don’t the women belong to us?”

The baron laid his hands on Mouret’s shoulders, looking at him with a paternal air. “Listen, you’re a fine fellow, and I am really fond of you. There’s no resisting you. We’ll go into the matter seriously, and I hope to make them listen to reason. Up to the present, we are perfectly satisfied with you. Your dividends astonish the Bourse. You must be right; it will be better to put more money into your business, than to risk this competition with the Grand Hôtel, which is hazardous.”

Mouret’s excitement subsided at once; he thanked the baron, but without any of his usual enthusiasm; and the latter saw him turn his eyes towards the door of the next room, again seized with the secret anxiety which he was concealing. However, De Vallagnosc had come up, understanding that they had finished talking business. He stood close to them, listening to the baron, who was murmuring with the gallant air of an old man who had seen life:

“I say, I fancy they’re taking their revenge.”

“Who?” asked Mouret, embarrassed.

“Why, the women. They’re getting tired of belonging to you; you now belong to them, my dear fellow; it’s only just!” He joked him, well aware of the young man’s notorious love affairs: the mansion bought for the actress, the enormous sums squandered with girls picked up in private supper rooms, amused him as an excuse for the follies he had formerly committed himself. His old experience rejoiced.

“Really, I don’t understand,” repeated Mouret.

“Oh! you understand well enough. They always get the last word. In fact, I said to myself: It isn’t possible, he’s boasting he can’t be so strong as that! And there you are! Bleed the women, work them as you would a coal mine, and what for? In order that they may work you afterwards, and force you to refund at last! Take care, for they’ll draw more blood and money from you than you have ever sucked from them.”

He laughed louder still; and De Vallagnosc was also grinning, without, however, saying a word.

“Dear me! one must have a taste of everything,” confessed Mouret, at last, pretending to laugh as well. “Money is so stupid, if it isn’t spent.”

“As for that, I agree with you,” resumed the baron. “Enjoy yourself, my dear fellow, I’ll not be the one to preach to you, nor to tremble for the great interests we have confided to your care. Every one must sow his wild oats, and his head is generally clearer afterwards. Besides, there’s nothing unpleasant in ruining one’s self when one feels capable of building up another fortune. But if money is nothing, there are certain sufferings – ”

He stopped, his smile became sad, former sufferings presented themselves amid the irony of his scepticism. He had watched the duel between Henriette and Mouret with the curiosity of one who still felt greatly interested in other people’s love battles; and he felt that the crisis had arrived, he guessed the drama, well acquainted with the story of this Denise, whom he had seen in the ante-room.

“Oh! as for suffering, that’s not in my line,” said Mouret, in a tone of bravado. “It’s quite enough to pay.”

The baron looked at him for a moment without speaking. Without wishing to insist on his discreet allusion he added, slowly – “Don’t make yourself worse than you are! You’ll lose something else besides your money at that game. Yes, you’ll lose a part of yourself, my dear fellow.” He stopped, again laughing, to ask, “That often happens, doesn’t it, Monsieur de Vallagnosc?”

“So they say, baron,” the young man simply replied.

Just at this moment the door was opened. Mouret, who was going to reply, slightly started. The three men turned round. It was Madame Desforges, looking very gay, putting her head through the doorway to call, in a hurried voice —

“Monsieur Mouret! Monsieur Mouret!” Then, when she perceived the three men, she added, “Oh! you’ll excuse me, won’t you, gentlemen? I’m going to take Monsieur Mouret away for a minute. The least he can do, as he has sold me a frightful mantle, is to give me the benefit of his experience. This girl is a stupid, without the least idea. Come, come! I’m waiting for you.”

He hesitated, undecided, flinching before the scene he could foresee. But he had to obey. The baron said to him, with his air at once paternal and mocking, “Go, my dear fellow, go, madame wants you.”

Mouret followed her. The door closed, and he thought he could hear De Vallagnosc’s grin stifled by the hangings. His courage was entirely exhausted. Since Henriette had quitted the drawing-room, and he knew Denise was alone in the house in jealous hands, he had experienced a growing anxiety, a nervous torment, which made him listen from time to time as if suddenly startled by a distant sound of weeping. What could this woman invent to torture her? And his whole love, this love which surprised him even now, went out to the young girl like a support and a consolation. Never had he loved her so strongly, with that charm so powerful in suffering. His former affections, his love for Henriette herself – so delicate, so handsome, the possession of whom was so flattering to his pride – had never been more than agreeable pastimes, frequently a calculation, in which he sought nothing but a profitable pleasure. He used quietly to leave his mistresses and go home to bed, happy in his bachelor liberty, without a regret or a care on his mind; whilst now his heart beat with anguish, his life was taken, he no longer enjoyed the forgetfulness of sleep in his great, solitary bed. Denise was his only thought. Even at this moment she was the sole object of his anxiety, and he was telling himself that he preferred to be there to protect her, notwithstanding his fear of some regrettable scene with the other one.

At first, they both crossed the bed-room, silent and empty. Then Madame Desforges, pushing open a door, entered the dressing-room, followed by Mouret. It was a rather large room, hung with red silk, furnished with a marble toilet table and a large wardrobe with three compartments and great glass doors. As the window looked into the yard, it was already rather dark, and the two nickel-plated gas burners on either side of the wardrobe had been lighted.

“Now, let’s see,” said Henriette, “perhaps we shall get on better. This girl is a stupid, without the least idea. Come, come! I’m waiting for you.”

On entering, Mouret had found Denise standing upright, in the middle of the bright light. She was very pale, dressed in a cashmere jacket, and a black hat.