The Ladies' Paradise (BBC tie-in) (Oxford World's Classics) (21 page)

‘Good-afternoon! I was just thinking about you.’

‘And I was looking for you. But how can you expect to find anyone in this crowd?’

‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it?’

‘Dazzling, my dear. We can hardly stand up any more.’

‘Are you buying anything?’

‘Oh! no, we’re just looking. It rests us a bit to sit down.’

Madame de Boves, who in fact had nothing but her cab-fare in her purse, was asking for all sorts of laces to be taken out of the boxes simply for the pleasure of seeing and touching them. She had guessed that Deloche was a new salesman, awkward and slow, who dared not resist the customers’ whims; she was taking advantage of his timid obligingness, and had already kept him for half an hour, asking all the time for fresh articles. The counter was overflowing; she was plunging her hands into the growing cascade of pillow lace, Mechlin lace, Valenciennes, Chantilly, her fingers trembling with desire, her face gradually warming with sensual joy; while Blanche, by her side, possessed by the same passion, was very pale, her flesh soft and puffy.

Meanwhile, the conversation continued; Hutin, standing there, awaiting their convenience, could have slapped them.

‘I say!’ said Madame Marty, ‘you’re looking at scarves and veils just like mine.’

It was true; Madame de Boves, tormented by Madame Marty’s lace since the previous Saturday, had not been able to resist the urge at least to touch the same patterns, as the modest allowance her husband gave her did not permit her to take any away. She blushed slightly, and explained that Blanche wanted to see the Spanish lace scarves. Then she added:

‘You’re going to the ladieswear department… We’ll see you later then. Shall we meet in the oriental hall?’

‘All right, in the oriental hall… It’s superb, isn’t it?’

They went into raptures as they separated, amidst the congestion caused by the sale of cheap insertions and small trimmings.
Deloche, happy to have something to do, started emptying the boxes again for Madame de Boves and her daughter. And among the groups crowded along the counters, Jouve the shopwalker was slowly pacing up and down with his military air, flaunting his medal, watching over those fine, precious goods which were so easy to conceal up a sleeve. As he passed behind Madame de Boves he cast a quick glance at her feverish hands, surprised to see her with her arms plunged in such a cascade of lace.

‘To the right, ladies,’ said Hutin, setting off again.

He was beside himself. As if it wasn’t enough to make him miss a sale downstairs! Now they kept him waiting at every turning! His irritation was, above all, full of the resentment felt by the departments selling material against those that sold ready-made goods; they were in continual conflict, fighting over customers, cheating each other out of their percentages and commissions. Those in the silk department, more even than those in woollens, were quite enraged whenever they had to show a lady to the ladieswear department, when she decided to buy a coat after having asked to see taffetas and failles.

‘Mademoiselle Vadon!’ said Hutin in an angry voice, when he finally reached the counter.

But she passed by without taking any notice, absorbed in a sale she was anxious to finish. The room was full; a stream of people were going through it at one end, entering and leaving by the doors of the lace and lingerie departments, which faced each other, while in the background customers were trying on clothes, arching their backs in front of the mirrors. The red moquette muffled the sound of footsteps, the distant roar from the ground floor was dying away, and there was nothing but a discreet murmur, the warmth of a drawing-room made oppressive by a crowd of women.

‘Mademoiselle Prunaire!’ cried Hutin.

And as she took no notice either, he added inaudibly between his teeth:

‘You old hags!’

He certainly was not fond of them; his legs were aching from climbing the stairs to bring them customers, and he was furious about the earnings he accused them of taking out of his pocket in this way. It was a secret war, in which the girls themselves
participated with as much ferocity as he did; and, in their common fatigue, always on their feet as they were, dead tired, differences of sex disappeared and nothing remained but opposing interests inflamed by the fever of business.

‘Well, isn’t there anyone here?’ Hutin asked.

Then he caught sight of Denise. She had been kept busy unfolding things since the morning, and had only been allowed to deal with a few doubtful customers to whom she’d been unable to sell anything. When he recognized her, busy clearing an enormous pile of clothes off a table, he ran to fetch her.

‘Please serve these ladies who are waiting, miss.’

He quickly put Madame Marty’s purchases, which he was tired of carrying about, into her arms. His smile was coming back, and in it there was the secret malice of the experienced salesman, who had a shrewd idea of the embarrassment he was going to cause both the ladies and the girl. The latter, however, was quite overcome by the prospect of this unexpected sale. For the second time Hutin had appeared like an unknown friend, brotherly and affectionate, always waiting in the background to come and save her. Her eyes shone with gratitude; with a lingering look she watched him go, elbowing his way through the crowd to get back to his department as quickly as possible.

‘I’m looking for a coat,’ said Madame Marty.

Denise questioned her. What kind of coat? But the lady did not know, had no idea; she just wanted to see what models the shop had. And the girl, already very tired, dazed by the crowd, lost her head; she had never served anyone but the rare customers who came to Cornaille’s, in Valognes; she did not yet know how many models there were, or where they were kept in the cupboards. She thus hardly knew what to say to the two friends, who were getting impatient, when Madame Aurélie caught sight of Madame Desforges, of whose liaison with Mouret she was no doubt aware, for she hurried over and asked:

‘Are these ladies being looked after?’

‘Yes, by that young lady who’s looking for something over there,’ Henriette replied. ‘But she doesn’t seem very well up on her job, she can’t find anything.’

At that, the buyer paralysed Denise completely by walking over and saying to her in a low voice:

‘You can see that you don’t know a thing. Just don’t interfere, please.’

And she called out:

‘Mademoiselle Vadon, coats please!’

She stayed there while Marguerite was showing the ladies the models. The girl affected a crisply polite voice, the disagreeable attitude of a young girl dressed up in silk, used to rubbing shoulders with the smartest people, yet jealous and resentful of them without even realizing it. When she heard Madame Marty say she did not wish to spend more than two hundred francs, she made a grimace of pity. Oh! Madam would spend more than that, it was not possible for madam to find anything decent for two hundred francs! And she threw the common coats on to a counter as if to say: ‘You see how cheap they are!’ Madame Marty did not even dare to look at them to see if she liked them. She bent forward to whisper in Madame Desforges’s ear:

‘Don’t you prefer being served by men? One feels more at ease.’

Finally Marguerite brought a silk coat trimmed with jet, which she treated with respect. Madame Aurélie called Denise.

‘Do something to help, at least. Put this over your shoulders.’

Denise, numbed, despairing of ever succeeding in the shop, had remained motionless, her arms dangling. No doubt she would be given notice, and the children would starve. The tumult of the crowd buzzed in her head, and she felt herself tottering; her muscles were aching from having lifted armfuls of clothes, really hard work which she had never done before. Nevertheless, she had to obey; she had to let Marguerite drape the coat over her, as if on a dummy.

‘Stand straight,’ said Madame Aurélie.

But almost immediately Denise was forgotten. Mouret had just come in with Vallagnosc and Bourdoncle; he was greeting the ladies, who complimented him on his magnificent display of winter fashions. Inevitably there were exclamations of delight about the oriental hall. Vallagnosc, who was just completing his walk round the counters, showed more surprise than admiration; for, after all, he thought, with the dismissiveness of a pessimist, it was nothing more than a huge collection of calico. As for Bourdoncle, forgetting that he was on the staff, he also congratulated
the governor, to make him forget his doubts and anxieties of the morning.

‘Yes, yes, it’s going quite well, I’m pleased,’ repeated Mouret, radiant, replying to Henriette’s tender glances with a smile. ‘But I mustn’t interrupt you, ladies.’

Then all eyes were fixed once more on Denise. She had abandoned herself to Marguerite, who was making her turn round slowly.

‘So, what do you think of it?’ Madame Marty asked Madame Desforges.

The latter, as supreme arbiter of fashion, made her pronouncement:

‘It’s not bad, and the cut is original… But it doesn’t seem to me very elegant round the waist.’

‘Oh!’ intervened Madame Aurélie, ‘you should see it on madam herself. You see, it doesn’t look much on this young lady, who isn’t exactly well-built… Stand up straight, Mademoiselle Baudu, give it its full value.’

They all smiled. Denise had become very pale. She felt ashamed at being treated like a machine which they were freely examining and joking about. Madame Desforges, feeling antipathy to a temperament clearly different from her own, irritated by the girl’s gentle face, added maliciously:

‘It would certainly look better if the young lady’s dress wasn’t so loose-fitting.’

And she gave Mouret the mocking look of a Parisian amused by the ridiculous get-up of a girl from the provinces. He felt the amorous caress of this glance, the triumph of a woman proud of her beauty and her art. Therefore, in gratitude for being adored, and in spite of the goodwill he felt towards Denise, whose secret charm had conquered his gallant nature, he felt obliged to laugh at her in his turn.

‘And she should have combed her hair,’ he murmured.

This was the last straw. The director was condescending to laugh, and all the girls burst into fits of laughter too. Marguerite risked a slight chuckle, like a refined girl controlling herself; Clara had left a customer in order to enjoy the fun at her ease; even the salesgirls from the lingerie department had appeared, attracted by the noise. As for the ladies, they were joking more
discreetly, with an air of worldly understanding; Madame Aurélie’s imperial profile alone was unmoved, as if the new girl’s beautiful, untamed hair and slender, virginal shoulders had somehow brought her well-ordered department into disrepute. Denise had grown even paler, in the midst of all these people making fun of her. She felt violated, defenceless, naked. What had she done, after all, to deserve being attacked like that for her waist being too small and her bun too big? But she was hurt above all by the laughter of Mouret and Madame Desforges, for some instinct had made her aware of their understanding, and some unknown grief was making her heart sink; that lady must be really wicked to attack a poor girl who had said nothing; while he positively made her blood run cold with a fear which froze all her other feelings so that she could not analyse them. Abandoned like an outcast, attacked in her most intimate feelings of feminine modesty, shocked at the unfairness, she choked back the sobs which were rising in her throat.

‘You’ll make sure that she combs her hair tomorrow, won’t you? It’s quite unseemly …!’ the terrible Bourdoncle was repeating to Madame Aurélie. Full of contempt for her small limbs, he had condemned Denise from the moment she arrived.

At last the buyer came and took the coat off Denise’s shoulders, saying to her in a low voice:

‘Well, Mademoiselle Baudu! That’s a good start. Really, if you wanted to show us what you’re capable of… you couldn’t have been sillier.’

Denise, fearing that she might burst into tears, hurried back to the pile of clothes she was sorting out on a counter. There, at any rate, she was lost in the crowd; tiredness prevented her from thinking. But she noticed that the salesgirl from the lingerie department, who had defended her that morning, was standing next to her. She had just witnessed the scene, and murmured in Denise’s ear:

‘My poor girl, you mustn’t be so sensitive. Don’t show you’re bothered, or it will just encourage them … I’m from Chartres. Pauline Cugnot’s my name; my parents are millers … Well, they’d have eaten me up when I arrived here if I hadn’t stood up to them … Come on, be brave! Give me your hand; we’ll have a nice chat when you feel up to it.’

The hand which was being held out only made Denise feel twice as upset. She shook it furtively, and hastened to carry away a heavy bundle of overcoats, afraid of doing something wrong again and of being scolded if they knew she had a friend.

Madame Aurélie herself had just placed the coat on Madame Marty’s shoulders, and everyone was exclaiming: ‘Oh! How lovely! It’s wonderful!’ It immediately began to look as if it had some shape. Madame Desforges declared that it would be impossible to find anything better. There was an exchange of farewells as Mouret took his leave, while Vallagnosc had caught sight of Madame de Boves in the lace department with her daughter, and hastened to offer her his arm. Marguerite, standing at one of the mezzanine cash-desks, was already calling out the various purchases made by Madame Marty, who paid for them and gave orders that the parcel should be taken to her carriage. Madame Desforges had found her own purchases at cash-desk No. 10. Then the ladies met once more in the oriental hall. They were leaving, but not without a final noisy burst of admiration. Even Madame Guibal became enthusiastic.

‘Oh! It’s delightful! It makes you feel you’re actually there!’

‘Yes, a real harem, isn’t it? And quite cheap!’

‘And the Smyrnas! Oh! the Smyrnas! What tones, what delicacy!’

‘And that Kurdistan! Just look, a Delacroix!’

The crowd was slowly ebbing away. Peals of bells, at an hour’s interval, had already signalled the first two evening meals; the third was about to be served, and in the departments there only remained a few belated customers whose passion for spending had made them forget the time. Outside nothing could be heard but the rattle of the last cabs of Paris, the snore of a replete ogre digesting the linens and cloths, the silks and laces, with which he had been gorged since the morning. Inside, beneath the flaming gas jets which, burning in the dusk, had illuminated the climactic moments of the sale, it was like a battlefield still hot from the massacre of materials. The salesmen, harassed and exhausted, were camping amidst the havoc of their shelves and counters, which looked as if they had been wrecked by the raging blast of a hurricane. The ground-floor galleries were blocked up with an untidy mass of chairs; in the glove department it was necessary to
step over a barricade of boxes, piled up round Mignot; in the woollens it was impossible to get through at all, and Liénard was dozing on a sea of materials in which some half-destroyed stacks of cloth were still standing, like ruined houses about to be carried away by an overflowing river; further along, the white linen had snowed all over the ground, and one stumbled against ice-flows of table-napkins and walked on the soft flakes of handkerchiefs. Upstairs in the mezzanine departments the havoc was the same: furs littered the floor, ready-made clothes were heaped up like the greatcoats of disabled soldiers, the lace and underclothes, unfolded, crumpled, thrown about everywhere, gave the impression that an army of women had undressed there haphazardly in a wave of desire; while downstairs, in the depths of the shop, the dispatch department, operating at full stretch, was still disgorging the parcels with which it was bursting, and these were being carried away by the delivery vans in a final movement of the overheated machine. But it was in the silk department that the customers had been at their most voracious. There they had made a clean sweep, and it was quite easy to walk about; the hall was bare, the whole colossal stock of Paris-Paradise had just been torn to pieces and carried away, as if by a swarm of ravenous locusts. In the midst of this emptiness Hutin and Favier, out of breath from the struggle, were turning the pages of their cash-books, calculating their commission. Favier had made fifteen francs, whereas Hutin, who had only managed to make thirteen, had been beaten that day, and was furious at his bad luck. Their eyes were alight with mercenary passion, and around them the whole shop was also making calculations, burning with the same fever, with the brutal gaiety of nights of carnage.