CHAPTER I.

THE LADIES' PARADISE

BY

EMILE ZOLA

WITH AN INTRODUCTION

BY

ERNEST ALFRED VIZETELLY

From the original French:

Au bonheur des dames

LONDON 1895

HUTCHINSON & CO.

34 PATERNOSTER ROW

[Illustration: "Ah, it's you, mademoiselle!" he said.]

INTRODUCTION.

I certainly have no desire to frighten the female readers to whom this

free rendering of one of M. Zola's best books so largely appeals,--it

is indeed a book with a good sound moral, fit for every thoughtful

woman to peruse--but, in endeavouring to point out its scope and

purport, I must, in the first instance, refer to some matters in

which women, as nowadays educated, take as a rule but the scantiest

of interest. Still many of them may have heard that in the opinion of

various _fin-de-siècle_ seers and prophets the future of the human race

lies in collectivism, a prediction which I do not intend to discuss,

but respecting which I may remark that during the last half century

in this country there has certainly been a tendency in the direction

indicated, even amongst classes which profess to hold every form of

socialism in horror.

This tendency towards collectivism has manifested itself notably in

certain trades and industries by the introduction of various forms of

co-operation, by the amalgamation, too, of rival businesses, and even

by the formation of quasi-monopolies which, evil and unjust as they

may appear to some, nevertheless rejoice the heart of many Socialists

who consider that the fewer the individual interests to be overthrown,

the easier will be their task of conquest when the time shall come for

olden society to give up the ghost. And, further, a tendency towards

collectivism is also to be traced in the establishment of those great

"universal providing" concerns which we know by the name of "stores",

and which many a Socialist will tell you are but the forerunners of the

colossal "magazines of distribution" which will become necessary when

collectivism shall have attained its ends.

On all sides nowadays the small trader and the small manufacturer

are assailed, and in many instances can barely hold their own; for

cheapness is the god of the hour, and in cheapness they cannot hope

to compete with those who operate upon a colossal scale. Whether they

will ultimately be obliged to give up the contest, whether the passion

for individuality is destined to depart from the human race, these and

the many other questions which the problem suggests, I will leave to

the Collectivist prophets and to those who oppose their doctrines in

our reviews and newspapers. I have merely desired to call the reader's

attention to this problem and to the tendencies previously referred to,

because he--or she--will find that they constitute no small portion of

the subject of the present volume of M. Zola's works.

In "Au Bonheur des Dames" M. Zola has taken as his theme a particular

phase of the amalgamation and "universal providing" tendencies, as

they have presented themselves in France; and the phase in question is

certainly one of the most interesting, if only for the fact that it is

so closely connected with the desires and needs of women. In a word

the work deals with those huge drapery establishments, like the "Bon

Marché" and the "Louvre", which are renowned throughout the world.

We have no doubt several very large draper's emporiums in London,

but I do not think that any one of them can claim to rival either in

dimensions, extent of business, or completeness of organisation the

great French establishments to which I have referred above. I can

myself well remember the growth of the "Bon Marché" and the "Louvre".

Transferred, when my education was but half-completed, from the

solitude of the Sussex downs to the whirling vortex of Paris, I grew

up amongst those Haussmannite transformations which virtually made the

French capital a new city--a city which became my home for well nigh

twenty years. Even now I am but a stranger in my own land, among my own

kith and kin; and my memory ever dwells on those years when I saw Paris

develop, opening her streets to air and light and health, increasing

her wealth and her activity, on the one hand multiplying her workshops,

ever busy, thanks to the taste and dexterity of her craftsmen, and on

the other, by the attraction of a thousand pleasures, becoming the

caravanserai of Europe. And my fanatical admiration for M. Zola and for

all his works, the passion which has induced me to translate so many

of them, arises mainly from the fact that they deal so largely with

Paris and her life at a period which I so well remember, with scenes

and incidents which I can so readily recall and which carry me back to

the days when the heart was light and buoyant, and sorrow was a thing

unknown. And when, now and again sundry supercilious English critics,

qualified by a smattering of French and a few months' residence in

France, presume to sneer at M. Zola's pictures of French manners and

customs in the days of the Second Empire, I merely shrug my shoulders

at their ignorance. For my own part I believe, for like St. Thomas I

have seen.

Among the subjects dealt with by M. Zola in the Rougon-Macquart series,

that of the present work,--the development of the great _magasins de

nouveautés_--is to me one of the most familiar, for the reason that

I have always taken a keen interest in the attire and adornment of

women, and in my salad days wrote some hundreds of columns of fashion's

articles for English newspapers. And my duties in those days took me

not only to the _salons_ of M. Worth, M. Pingat and other _faiseurs à

la mode_, but also to the great drapers', for if, on the one hand, I

learned in the former establishments what would be worn by royalty,

aristocracy and fashionable depravity, on the other, in the huge

bazaars similar to "Au Bonheur des Dames", I ascertained what would

be the popular craze of the hour, the material which would be seen

on the back of every second woman one might meet, and the one or two

colours which for a few months would catch the eye at every street

corner. All this may seem to be frivolity, but it is on such frivolity

that a goodly portion of civilized humanity subsists. I find M.

André Cochut, a well informed writer, holding an official position,

stating in 1866--a year which comes within the period I am referring

to--that there were then 26,000 shops and work-shops in Paris which

sold or made (almost exclusively) articles of female attire; and these

26,000 establishments (many, of course, very small) gave employment

to nearly 140,000 persons of both sexes, among whom there were 1500

designers. Moreover, the trade of Paris in materials and made-up goods

was estimated at 570 millions of francs, or £22,800,000! Under these

circumstances that Paris should have claimed the sovereignty of fashion

is, I think, not surprising.

Nowadays the number of establishments selling or making goods for

feminine attire has undoubtedly decreased, but the trade is greater

than ever. Well nigh the only alteration one can trace, is that many

of the smaller houses have been swallowed up by their big rivals in

accordance with the usual conditions of the struggle for life. The

big establishments did not, however, step into the arena, huge like

Goliaths and armed _cap-à-pié_. As M. Zola relates in the following

pages, they likewise had humble beginnings, and would never have

expanded as they did, but for the commercial genius of their founders.

I remember the "Bon Marché" having but one entrance (in the Rue du

Bac, near the corner of the Rue de Sèvres) and ranking, in the opinion

of the women of the neighbourhood, far below the "Petit St. Thomas"

which it has since altogether outstripped. In the same way the huge

block of building now occupied by the "Magasins du Louvre" comprised

some forty different shops held by different tenants. Indeed the pile

had originally been erected for an hotel, the Grand Hôtel du Louvre,

and the shops, even those bearing the name of the Louvre, were at the

outset, only a secondary consideration. But gradually a transformation

was effected; the drapery emporium became larger and larger, secured

the adjoining shops, and ultimately invaded the hotel itself.

Certainly all this was not easily brought about. Many neighbouring

tenants refused to give way to the monster and clung stubbornly

to their leases, fighting the unequal battle with the utmost

obstinacy,--an obstinacy such as that which the Baudus, and old

Bourras, the umbrella maker, will be found displaying in M. Zola's

pages. In the case of the "Louvre", the last of these stubborn

antagonists was, if I recollect rightly, a stationer whose shop fronted

on the Place du Palais Royal, and I believe that he held out until his

lease fell in. At the "Bon Marché" too, the Boucicauts had to contend

against similar obstacles; and, there, the enlargement of the premises

was attended by difficulties akin to those which M. Zola describes;

for many of the adjoining houses were decrepit, tumble-down vestiges

of olden Paris; and each time the "Bon Marché" gained a few yards of

frontage expensive building operations had to be carried out.

In his present work M. Zola has, of course, not taken as his theme the

actual history of either of the great establishments to which I have

been referring. But from that history and from the history of other

important _magasins de nouveautés_ he has borrowed a multitude of

curious and interesting facts, which he has blended into a realistic

whole. Curiously enough the site which he has chosen for "Au Bonheur

des Dames" was really the site of a fairly large drapery emporium,

which became the "Grands Magasins du 4 Septembre"; but perhaps that

title, savouring as it did of revolution (the revolution of 1870),

brought the establishment bad luck with women caring little or nothing

for politics; for it failed to attain the success to which its central

situation seemed to entitle it. The "Place Clichy," to which M. Zola

will be found referring, still exists, and does a largely increasing

business with all the north of Paris; whilst as for the "Four Seasons",

which one of his characters, Bouthemont the silk-salesman, establishes

near the grand opera-house, this is really the "Printemps," that white

and blue and gilded palace which the Parisians owe to the commercial

enterprise of M. Jules Jaluzot, by some people unkindly nicknamed "the

man with the umbrella".

I have often thought that, from the commercial point of view there is

considerable resemblance between M. Jaluzot and M. Zola's hero, Octave

Mouret. The latter figures at an earlier stage of his life in another

of M. Zola's novels--"Pot-Bouille"--but he there appears as a graceless

Don Juan without a redeeming quality; whereas, in the present work, one

observes the development of his business capacities, and the gradual

progress of his reformation, till his career culminates in a marriage

which ought to prove a very happy one, if there be any truth in the old

saw that a reformed rake makes the best of husbands. I have, however,

no desire to institute the faintest comparison between the private life

of Octave Mouret and that of M. Jaluzot; but in describing the former's

commercial genius and boldness M. Zola has, I think, more than once

thought of the latter's hardihood and talent in carving for himself

a great industrial kingdom beside those of the "Bon Marché" and the

"Louvre".

M. Jaluzot is famous in Paris for the rare ability he displays in

turning everything into advertisement, and this of course is an

extremely valuable gift, as advertisement is the very life of the

huge _magasins de nouveautés_. Some years ago the "Printemps" was

burnt down; and when the necessary rebuilding operations began M.

Jaluzot prevailed upon the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris to come and

bless the foundation stone of the new edifice. This inspiration--well

worthy of M. Zola's hero--secured to M. Jaluzot extensive patronage

among the devout; and it was important at the time that he should

reconcile himself with society, for on the occasion of the burning of

his establishment the entire Parisian press had reproached him with

showing greater eagerness to rush off and purchase an umbrella, for

protection against a shower, than to minister to the needs of the

numerous employees who had been cast on the pavement of Paris by the

catastrophe. Hence the nickname to which I have previously referred.

With the every-day life of the Parisian drapery employee the present

work is very largely concerned. From the personal investigations I

made at former times, the many conversations I had with employees

of this class, the numerous corroborative statements I have read in

the works of other French writers, I believe M. Zola's pictures of

the "counter jumper's" existence at the period dealt with, to be

scrupulously accurate. It will be noticed that these pictures slowly

change in certain respects as the story proceeds. Mouret at last begins

to take more interest in the material comforts of his staff, provides

it with better food, and treats it generally in a more reasonable

manner; whilst among the employees themselves, their depravity and

vulgarity, hidden beneath a surface elegance and politeness, is at

times altogether stamped out, at others thrust back far more deeply. To

the Boucicauts of the "Bon Marché" largely belongs the honour of having

improved the material well-being, and raised the moral tone of shopmen

of this class; and their example has been very generally followed.

Still, as every Paris "calicot" well knows, there is one great emporium

whose internal organization is still open to serious criticism.

"Calicot," I may mention, is the French equivalent of our term

"counter-jumper"; and in this introduction to a work which deals so

largely with the "calicot's" life it may not be out of place to explain

the origin of the nickname. It dates from 1817, when a vaudeville

called "_Le Combat des Montagnes, ou la Folie-Beaujon_" by Scribe

and Dupin was performed at the Paris Théâtre des Variétés. At that

period, with the wars of the Empire still fresh in their recollection,

the Parisians generally evinced a cordial respect for those who

had seen service; and the young men of the capital, promenading on

the boulevards, were fond of affecting a military appearance and

demeanour. Matters even came to such a pass that drapers'-assistants,

_commis-marchands_ as they were then called, cultivated huge moustaches

and wore spurs on their boots even when behind their counters. To

this ridiculous craze Scribe and Dupin alluded in their vaudeville,

into which they introduced a certain "counter-jumper" called Monsieur

Calicot, whom the other characters of the play at first mistook

for some survivor of the Old Guard. The result, as might have been

expected, was an explosion of rage among all the drapery employees of

Paris. They besieged the theatre, and desperate and sanguinary battles

ensued in the auditorium. The authorities, however, declined to place

the vaudeville under interdict; and after several interventions on the

part of the police, the irate employees were cowed by the presence of

a detachment of grenadiers, who, with loaded muskets, stood on either

side of the stage throughout each performance. And from that time to

the present day "calicot" has been French for "counter-jumper"[1] so

far as drapery is concerned.

However, the vaudeville did not cure the "calicot" of his partiality

for moustaches. These he still cultivates, as all who have been in

Paris well know; indeed he frequently grows a beard as well; but as

such hirsute appendages have long since ceased to be the exclusive

property of the military, nobody taunts him with affectation concerning

them. On the other hand he has wisely renounced the practice of wearing

spurs behind his counter, and if he sometimes evinces a little military

precision or even swagger it would be unwise to deem this assumed;

for in these days of the universal conscription it may well have been

acquired by real service in the ranks. Indeed, we must not sneer at the

"calicot"; he answers his country's call as readily as any other of her

sons.

It remains for me to say a few words concerning the moral of this book.

The story of Denise's struggles, hardships and temptations, her quiet

courage and gentle steadfastness is invested by M. Zola with that

simple pathos which adorns so many of his works. The young girl passes

through the fire and emerges from it unscathed, protected by her own

sense of rectitude and the purity of her love, whilst others, alas,

are devoured. No more beautiful example of feminine resistance to evil

could be imagined. We follow the heroine's fortunes with emotional

interest and take a kindly satisfaction in her reward. Possibly, we

might wish that she had loved a somewhat worthier man than Mouret, in

whom there are many moral blemishes; but the reflection imposes itself,

that under her caressing influence these blemishes will disappear, that

Mouret will throw off all that remains in him of the old Adam and prove

worthy of the love that he himself feels and has inspired. And surely

woman's love can have no holier mission than that of the reformation of

man. What, moreover, would become of humanity if a woman's heart were

to be given only to the immaculate, in accordance with the paradoxical

dictum of some latter day lady-novelists? Does not the woman who brings

an erring man back into the straight path that he may contribute to the

common weal, achieve more good than she who simply plights her troth

to one as blameless as herself? And thus a halo encircles M. Zola's

heroine, Denise, the personification of all that is best and truest in

the female heart.

One word more. The compass of the present introduction does not permit

me to establish a comparison between the relative positions of French

and English salesmen and women in the great drapery establishments.

I fear, however, from all I have heard, that several of M. Zola's

strictures on the treatment meted out to the employees of Octave

Mouret's bazaar, might be applied to English houses. And thus whilst I

recommend this book to women, whom its subject cannot fail to interest

and who will take a warning from the extravagance of Madame Marty and

find a bright example in the unswerving rectitude of Denise, I also

submit it to the attention of those who are seeking in this country to

improve the position of shop employees, for I feel certain that they

will find many a useful hint in its searching and accurate pages.

ERNEST A. VIZETELLY.

_Merton_, May 1895.

[1] I find that Brunet who played the part of M. Calicot wore the

following typical costume: high boots with spurs, white trousers,

a buff waistcoat and a frock coat made of a green and white

"mixture"--_chicorée à la crême_, as the tailors of those days termed

it.

THE LADIES PARADISE.

CHAPTER I.

Denise had come on foot from the Saint-Lazare railway station, where

a Cherbourg train had landed her and her two brothers, after a night

spent on the hard seat of a third-class carriage. She was leading Pépé

by the hand, while Jean followed her; all three of them exhausted by

their journey, frightened and lost in that vast city of Paris, their

eyes raised to the house fronts and their tongues for ever inquiring

the way to the Rue de la Michodière, where their uncle Baudu lived.

However, as she at last emerged into the Place Gaillon, the girl

stopped short in astonishment.

"Oh! just look there, Jean," said she; and they remained stock still,

nestling close to one another, dressed from head to foot in black, the

old mourning bought at their father's death. Denise, rather puny for

her twenty years, was carrying a small parcel in one hand, while on the

other side, her little brother, five years old, clung to her arm, and

in the rear her big brother in the flower of his sixteen summers stood

erect with dangling arms.

"Well I never," said she, after a pause, "that _is_ a shop!"

They were at the corner of the Rue de la Michodière and the Rue

Neuve-Saint-Augustin, in front of a draper's shop, whose windows

displayed a wealth of bright colour in the soft, pale October light.

Eight o'clock was striking at the church of Saint-Roch; and only

the early birds of Paris were abroad, a few clerks on their way to

business, and housewives flitting about on their morning shopping.

Before the door of the drapery establishment, two shopmen, mounted on

a step-ladder, were hanging up some woollen goods, whilst in a window

facing the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin another young man, kneeling with

his back to the pavement, was delicately plaiting a piece of blue silk.

In the shop, which was as yet void of customers, and whose employees

were only just beginning to arrive, there was a low buzz as in a bee

hive just awakening.

"By Jove!" said Jean, "this beats Valognes. Yours wasn't such a fine

shop."

Denise shook her head. She had spent two years at Valognes, with

Cornaille, the principal draper in the town; and this Parisian shop

so suddenly encountered and to her so vast made her heart swell and

detained her there, interested, impressed, forgetful of everything

else. The lofty plate-glass door in a corner facing the Place Gaillon

reached the first storey amidst a medley of ornaments covered with

gilding. Two allegorical female figures, with laughing faces and

bare bosoms unrolled a scroll bearing the inscription "The Ladies'

Paradise"; then, on either side, along the Rue de la Michodière and the

Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, stretched the windows of the establishment,

not limited merely to the corner house but comprising four others--two

on the right and two on the left which had been recently purchased and

fitted up. It all appeared endless to Denise, thus seen in perspective,

with the display down below and the plate glass windows above, through

which a long line of counters was to be perceived. Upstairs a young

lady, dressed in silk, could be espied sharpening a pencil, while two

others, beside her, were unfolding some velvet mantles.

"The Ladies' Paradise," read Jean, with a soft laugh, like a handsome

youth who already has thoughts of women. "That's a pretty name--that

must draw customers--eh?"

But Denise was absorbed by the display at the principal entrance.

There, in the open street, on the very pavement, she beheld a mass of

cheap goods--doorway temptations, bargains to attract the passer-by.

Pieces of woollen and cloth goods, merinoes, cheviots, and tweeds,

hung from above like bunting, with their neutral, slate, navy-blue,

and olive-green tints relieved by large white price-tickets. Close by,

on either side of the doorway, dangled strips of fur, narrow bands

for dress trimmings, ashen-hued Siberian squirrel-skin, swansdown of

spotless snowiness, and rabbit-skin transformed into imitation ermine

and imitation sable. Below, in boxes and on tables, amidst piles of

remnants, appeared a quantity of hosiery which was virtually given

away; knitted woollen gloves, neckerchiefs, women's hoods, cardigan

waistcoats, a complete winter show with colours in mixtures, patterns

and stripes and here and there a flaming patch of red. Denise saw some

tartan at nine sous, some strips of American bison at a franc the

mètre, and some mittens at five sous a pair. An immense clearance sale

was apparently going on; the establishment seemed to be bursting with

goods, blocking up the pavement with the surplus of its contents. Uncle

Baudu was forgotten. Even Pépé, clinging tightly to his sister's hand,

opened his big eyes in wonder. However a vehicle in coming up forced

them to quit the roadway, and they mechanically turned into the Rue

Neuve-Saint-Augustin, following the windows and stopping at each fresh

display. At first they were captivated by an intricate arrangement:

up above a number of umbrellas, placed obliquely, seemed to form a

rustic roof; upon rods beneath them hung a quantity of silk stockings

displaying neat ankles and well rounded calves, some of them dotted

with rosebuds, others of divers hues, the black ones open-worked and

the red ones elegantly clocked; whilst those which were of a flesh

tint, looked, with their satiny texture, as soft as skin itself. Then,

on the baize covering of the show-stage, came a symmetrical array of

gloves with extended fingers and narrow palms recalling the hands of

Byzantine Virgins, all the rigid and, as it were, adolescent grace

which characterises feminine frippery before it is worn. However, it

was especially the last window which detained their eyes. An exhibition

of silks, satins and velvets, in a supple, vibrating scale of colour,

here set, as in full bloom, the most delicate hues of the floral

world. At the top were the velvets, deeply black, or white as curds;

lower down came the satins, pinks and blues, bright at their folds,

then fading into paler and paler tints of infinite delicacy; and lower

still were silks, the rainbow's variegated scarf, the several pieces

cocked shell-wise, plaited as though round some female waist, endowed,

as it were, with life by the skilful manipulation of the employees;

and between each _motif_, each glowing phrase of the display ran a

discreet accompaniment, a light, puffy roll of creamy _foulard_. Here

too at either end of the window, were huge piles of the two silks which

were the exclusive property of the establishment, the "Paris Delight"

and the "Golden Grain"--articles of exceptional quality destined to

revolutionize the silk trade.

"Oh! look at that _faille_ at five francs sixty!" murmured Denise,

transported with astonishment at sight of the "Paris Delight".

Jean, however, was getting bored and stopped a passer-by. "Which is the

Rue de la Michodière, please, sir?"

On hearing that it was the first on the right they all turned back,

making the tour of the establishment. But just as she was entering the

street, Denise was again attracted by a window in which ladies' mantles

were displayed. At Cornaille's the mantles had been her department,

but she had never seen anything like this, and remained rooted to the

spot with admiration. At the rear a large scarf of Bruges lace, of

considerable value, was spread out like an altar-veil, with its two

creamy wings extended; then there were flounces of Alençon, grouped in

garlands; and from the top to the bottom, like falling snow, fluttered

lace of every description--Malines, Valenciennes, Brussels, and

Venetian-point. On each side pieces of cloth rose up in dark columns

imparting distance to the background. And the mantles were here, in

this sort of chapel raised to the worship of woman's beauty and grace.

In the centre was a magnificent article, a velvet mantle trimmed

with silver fox; on one side of it appeared a silk cloak lined with

miniver, on the other a cloth cloak edged with cocks' plumes; and, last

of all, some opera cloaks in white cashmere and quilted silk trimmed

with swansdown or chenille. There was something for every taste, from

the opera cloaks at twenty-nine francs to the velvet mantle which was

marked eighteen hundred. The round busts of the dummies filled out

the stuff, the prominent hips exaggerating the slimness of the waists

and the absent heads being replaced by large price-tickets pinned on

the necks, whilst the mirrors, on each side of the window, reflected

and multiplied all these forms, peopling the street, as it were, with

beautiful women for sale, each bearing a price in big figures in lieu

of a head.

"How stunning they are!" murmured Jean, finding no other words to

express his emotion.

This time he himself had become motionless, and stood there gaping.

All this female luxury turned him rosy with pleasure. He had a girl's

beauty--a beauty which he seemed to have stolen from his sister--a

fair white skin, ruddy curly hair, lips and eyes overflowing with

tenderness. By his side Denise, with her rather long face, large mouth,

fading complexion and light hair, appeared thinner still. Pépé, who

was also fair, with the fairness of infancy, now clung closer to her,

as if anxious to be caressed, perturbed and delighted as he was by the

sight of the beautiful ladies in the window. And those three fair ones,

poorly clad in black, that sad-looking girl between the pretty child

and the handsome youth, looked so strange yet so charming standing

there on the pavement, that the passers-by glanced back smilingly.

For some minutes a stout man with grey hair and a large yellow face

had been looking at them from a shop-door on the other side of the

street. He had been standing there with bloodshot eyes and contracted

mouth, beside himself with rage at the display made by The Ladies'

Paradise, when the sight of the girl and her brothers had completed his

exasperation. What were those three simpletons doing there, gaping in

front of the cheap-jack's show booth?

"What about uncle?" asked Denise, suddenly, as if just waking up.

"We are in the Rue de la Michodière," replied Jean. "He must live

somewhere about here."

They raised their heads and looked round; and just in front of them,

above the stout man, they perceived a green sign-board on which in

yellow letters, discoloured by the rain was the following inscription:

"THE OLD ELBEUF. Cloths and Flannels. BAUDU, late HAUCHECORNE." The

house, coated with ancient rusty paint, and quite flat and unadorned

amidst the surrounding mansions of the Louis XIV. period, had only

three front windows up above, square and shutterless windows simply

provided with handrails supported by two iron bars placed crosswise.

But what most struck Denise, whose eyes were full of the bright display

of The Ladies' Paradise, was the low ground-floor shop, surmounted

by an equally low storey with half-moon windows, of prison-like

appearance. Right and left, framed round by wood work of a bottle-green

hue, which time had tinted with ochre and bitumen, were two deep

windows, black and dusty, in which pieces of cloth heaped one on

another could vaguely be seen. The open doorway seemed to conduct into

the darkness and dampness of a cellar.

"That's the house," said Jean.

"Well, we must go in," declared Denise. "Come on, Pépé."

All three, however, grew somewhat troubled, as if seized with fear.

When their father had died, carried off by the same fever which a month

previously had killed their mother, their uncle Baudu, in the emotion

born of this double bereavement, had certainly written to Denise,

assuring her that there would always be a place for her in his house

whenever she might like to try fortune in Paris. But this had taken

place nearly a year ago, and the young girl was now sorry that she

should have so impulsively left Valognes without informing her uncle.

The latter did not know them, never having set foot in the little town

since the day when he had left it as a boy, to enter the service of the

draper Hauchecorne, whose daughter he had subsequently married.

"Monsieur Baudu?" asked Denise, at last making up her mind to speak to

the stout man who was still eyeing them, surprised by their appearance

and manners.

"That's me," he replied.

Then Denise blushed deeply and stammered: "Oh, I'm so pleased! I am

Denise. This is Jean, and this is Pépé. You see, we have come, uncle."

Baudu seemed lost in amazement. His big eyes rolled in his yellow face;

he spoke slowly and with difficulty. He had evidently been far from

thinking of this family which now suddenly dropped down upon him.

"What--what, you here?" he several times repeated. "But you were at

Valognes. Why aren't you at Valognes?"

In her sweet but rather faltering voice she then explained that since

the death of her father, who had spent every penny he possessed in

his dye-works, she had acted as a mother to the two children; but the

little she had earned at Cornaille's did not suffice to keep the three

of them. Jean certainly worked at a cabinet-maker's, a repairer of

old furniture, but didn't earn a sou. Still, he had got to like the

business, and had even learned to carve. One day, having found a piece

of ivory, he had amused himself by carving it into a head, which a

gentleman staying in the town had seen and praised; and this gentleman

it was who had been the cause of their leaving Valognes, as he had

found Jean a place with an ivory-carver in Paris.

"So you see, uncle," continued Denise, "Jean will commence his

apprenticeship at his new master's to-morrow. They ask no premium, and

will board and lodge him. And so I felt sure that Pépé and I would be

able to jog along. At all events we can't be worse off than we were at

Valognes."

She said nothing about a certain love affair of Jean's, of certain

letters which he had written to the daughter of a nobleman of the town,

of the kisses which the pair had exchanged over a wall--in fact, quite

a scandal which had strengthened her in her determination to leave. And

if she was so anxious to be in Paris herself it was that she might be

able to look after her brother, feeling, as she did, quite a mother's

tender anxiety for this gay and handsome youth, whom all the women

adored. Uncle Baudu, however, couldn't get over it, but continued his

questions.

"So your father left you nothing," said he. "I certainly thought there

was still something left. Ah! how many times did I write advising him

not to take those dye-works! He was a good-hearted fellow certainly,

but he had no head for business And you were left with those two

youngsters to look after--you've had to keep them, eh?"

His bilious face had now become clearer, his eyes were not so bloodshot

as when he had stood glaring at The Ladies' Paradise. All at once he

noticed that he was blocking up the doorway. "Well," said he, "come in,

now you're here. Come in, that'll be better than gaping at a parcel of

rubbish."

And after addressing a last pout of anger to The Ladies' Paradise, he

made way for the children by entering the shop and calling his wife and

daughter: "Elizabeth, Geneviève, come down; here's company for you!"

Denise and the two boys, however, hesitated at sight of the darkness

of the shop. Blinded by the clear outdoor light, they blinked as on

the threshold of some unknown pit, and felt their way with their feet

with an instinctive fear of encountering some treacherous step. And

drawn yet closer together by this vague fear, the child still holding

the girl's skirts, and the big boy behind, they made their entry with

a smiling, anxious grace. The clear morning light outlined the dark

silhouettes of their mourning clothes; and an oblique ray of sunshine

gilded their fair hair.

"Come in, come in," repeated Baudu.

Then, in a few sentences he explained matters to his wife and

daughter. The former was a little woman, consumed by anæmia and quite

white--white hair, white eyes and white lips. Geneviève, the daughter,

in whom the maternal degeneracy appeared yet more marked, had the

sickly, colourless appearance of a plant reared in the shade. However,

a thick, heavy crop of magnificent black hair, marvellously vigorous

for such poor soil, gave her, as it were, a mournful charm.

"Come in," said both the women in their turn; "you are welcome." And

they at once made Denise sit down behind a counter.

Pépé then jumped upon his sister's lap, whilst Jean leant against the

panelling beside her. They were regaining their assurance and looking

round the shop where their eyes had grown used to the obscurity. They

could now distinctly see it all, with its low and smoky ceiling, its

oaken counters polished by use, and its old-fashioned nests of drawers

with strong iron fittings. Bales of dark goods reached to the beams

above; a smell of wool and dye--a sharp chemical smell--prevailed,

intensified it seemed by the humidity of the floor. At the further end

two young men and a young woman were putting away some pieces of white

flannel.

"Perhaps this young gentleman would like to take something?" said

Madame Baudu, smiling at Pépé.

"No, thanks," replied Denise, "we each had a cup of milk at a café

opposite the station." And as Geneviève looked at the small parcel she

had laid on the floor near her, she added: "I left our box there too."

She blushed as she spoke feeling that she ought not to have dropped

down on her friends in this way. Even in the train, just as she was

leaving Valognes, she had been assailed by regrets and fears; and this

was why she had left the box at the station and given the children

their breakfast immediately on arriving in Paris.

"Well, well," suddenly said Baudu, "let's come to an understanding.

'Tis true that I wrote to you, but that was a year ago, and since then

business hasn't been flourishing, I can assure you, my girl."

He stopped short, choked by an emotion he did not wish to show.

Madame Baudu and Geneviève, had cast down their eyes with an air of

resignation.

"Oh," continued he, "it's a crisis which will pass, no doubt, I'm not

uneasy; but I have reduced my staff; there are only three here now, and

this is not the moment to engage a fourth. In short, my poor girl, I

cannot take you as I promised."

Denise listened, aghast and very pale. He repeated his words, adding:

"It would do no good to either of us."

"All right, uncle," at last she replied, with a painful effort, "I'll

try to manage all the same."

The Baudus were not bad sort of people. But they complained of never

having had any luck. In the flourishing days of their business, they

had had to bring up five sons, of whom three had died before attaining

the age of twenty; the fourth had gone wrong, and the fifth had just

started for Mexico, as a captain. Geneviève was the only one now left

at home. From first to last, however, this large family had cost a deal

of money, and Baudu had made things worse by buying a great lumbering

country house, at Rambouillet, near his wife's father's place. Thus,

a sharp, sour feeling was springing up in the honest old tradesman's

breast.

"You might have warned us," he resumed, gradually getting angry at

his own harshness. "You might have written and I should have told you

to stay at Valognes. When I heard of your father's death I said what

is right on such occasions, but you drop down on us without a word of

warning. It's very awkward."

He raised his voice, as he thus relieved himself. His wife and

daughter still kept their eyes on the floor, like submissive persons

who would never think of interfering. Jean, however, had turned pale,

whilst Denise hugged the terrified Pépé to her bosom. Hot tears of

disappointment fell from her eyes.

"All right, uncle," she said, "we'll go away."

At that he ceased speaking, and an awkward silence ensued. Then he

resumed in a surly tone: "I don't mean to turn you out. As you are here

you can sleep upstairs to-night; after that, we'll see."

Then, as he glanced at them, Madame Baudu and Geneviève understood that

they were free to arrange matters. And all was soon settled. There was

no need to trouble about Jean, as he was to enter on his apprenticeship

the next day. As for Pépé, he would be well looked after by Madame

Gras, an old lady who rented a large ground floor in the Rue des

Orties, where she boarded and lodged young children for forty francs a

month. Denise said that she had sufficient to pay for the first month,

and, so the only remaining question was to find a place for herself.

Surely they would be able to discover some situation for her in the

neighbourhood.

"Wasn't Vinçard in want of a saleswoman?" asked Geneviève.

"Of course, so he was!" cried Baudu; "we'll go and see him after lunch.

There's nothing like striking the iron while it's hot."

Not a customer had come in to interrupt this family discussion; the

shop remained dark and empty as before. At the far end, the two young

men and the young woman were still working, talking in low sibilant

whispers amongst themselves. At last, however, three ladies arrived,

and Denise was then left alone for a moment. She kissed Pépé with a

swelling heart, at the thought of their approaching separation. The

child, affectionate as a kitten, hid his little head without saying a

word. When Madame Baudu and Geneviève returned, they remarked how quiet

he was, and Denise assured them that he never made any more noise than

that, but remained for days together without speaking, living solely

on kisses and caresses. Then until lunch-time the three women sat and

talked together about children, housekeeping, life in Paris and life in

the country, in curt, cautious sentences, like relations whom ignorance

of one another renders somewhat awkward. Jean meantime had gone to the

shop-door, and stood there watching all the outdoor life and smiling

at the pretty girls. At ten o'clock a servant appeared. As a rule the

cloth was then laid for Baudu, Geneviève, and the first-hand; a second

lunch being served at eleven o'clock for Madame Baudu, the other young

man, and the young woman.

"Come to lunch!" exclaimed the draper, turning towards his niece; and

when they sat ready in the narrow dining-room behind the shop, he

called the first-hand who had lingered behind: "Colomban lunch!"

The young man entered apologising; he had wished to finish arranging

the flannels, he said. He was a big fellow of twenty-five, heavy but

crafty, for although his face, with its large weak mouth, seemed at

first sight typical of honesty there was a veiled cunning in his eyes.

"There's a time for everything," rejoined Baudu, who sat before a

piece of cold veal, carving it with a master's skill and prudence,

calculating the weight of each thin slice to within a quarter of an

ounce.

He served everybody, and even cut up the bread. Denise had placed Pépé

near her to see that he ate properly; but the dark close room made

her feel uncomfortable. She thought it so small, after the large,

well-lighted rooms to which she had been accustomed in the country. A

single window overlooked a small back-yard, which communicated with the

street by a dark passage running along the side of the house. And this

yard, dripping wet and evil-smelling, was like the bottom of some well

into which fell a circular glimmer of light. In the winter they were

obliged to keep the gas burning all day, and when the weather enabled

them to do without it the room seemed more melancholy still. Several

seconds elapsed before Denise's eyes got sufficiently used to the light

to distinguish the food on her plate.

"That young chap has a good appetite," remarked Baudu, observing that

Jean had finished his veal. "If he works as well as he eats, he'll make

a fine fellow. But you, my girl, you are not eating. And, I say, now

that we can talk a bit, tell us why you didn't get married at Valognes?"

At this Denise almost dropped the glass she held in her hand. "Oh!

uncle--get married! How can you think of it? And the little ones!"

She ended by laughing, it seemed to her such a strange idea. Besides,

what man would have cared to take her--a girl without a sou, no fatter

than a lath, and not at all pretty? No, no, she would never marry, she

had quite enough children with her two brothers.

"You are wrong," said her uncle; "a woman always needs a man. If you

had found an honest young fellow over there you wouldn't have dropped

on to the Paris pavement, you and your brothers, like a party of

gipsies."

He paused in order to apportion with a parsimony full of justice, a

dish of bacon and potatoes which the servant had just brought in. Then,

pointing to Geneviève and Colomban with his spoon, he added: "Those two

will get married next spring, if we have a good winter season."

Such was the patriarchal custom of the house. The founder, Aristide

Finet, had given his daughter, Désirée, to his first-hand, Hauchecorne;

he, Baudu, who had arrived in the Rue de la Michodière with seven

francs in his pocket, had married old Hauchecorne's daughter,

Elizabeth; and in his turn he intended to hand over Geneviève and the

business to Colomban as soon as trade should improve. If he still

delayed the marriage which had been decided on three years previously,

it was because a scruple had come to him, a fixed resolve to act in all

honesty. He himself had received the business in a prosperous state,

and did not wish to pass it on to his son-in-law with fewer customers

or doubtful sales. And, continuing his talk, he formally introduced

Colomban, who came from Rambouillet, like Madame Baudu's father; in

fact they were distant cousins. A hard-working fellow was Colomban,

said he; for ten years he had slaved in the shop, fairly earning all

his promotions! Besides, he was far from being a nobody; his father was

that noted toper, Colomban, the veterinary surgeon so well known all

over the department of Seine-et-Oise, an artist in his line, but so

addicted to the flowing bowl that his money fast slipped through his

fingers.

"Thank heaven!" said the draper in conclusion, "if the father drinks

and runs after women, the son at all events has learnt the value of

money here."

Whilst he was thus speaking Denise began to examine Geneviève and

Colomban. Though they sat close together at table, they remained

very quiet, without a blush or a smile. From the day of entering the

establishment the young man had counted on this marriage. He had passed

through the various stages of junior hand, salesman, etc., at last

gaining admittance into the confidence and pleasures of the family

circle, and all this patiently, whilst leading a clock-work style of

life and looking upon his marriage with Geneviève as a legitimate

stroke of business. The certainty of having her as his wife prevented

him from feeling any desire for her. On her side the girl had got to

love him with the gravity of her reserved nature, full of a real deep

passion of which she was not aware, in the regulated monotony of her

daily life.

"Oh! it's quite right, when folks like each other, and can do it," at

last said Denise, smiling, with a view to making herself agreeable.

"Yes, it always finishes like that," declared Colomban, who, slowly

masticating, had not yet spoken a word.

Geneviève gave him a long look, and then in her turn remarked: "When

people understand each other, the rest comes naturally."

Their affection had sprung up in this gloomy nook of old Paris like a

flower in a cellar. For ten years past she had known no one but him,

living by his side, behind the same bales of cloth, amidst the darkness

of the shop; and morning and evening they had found themselves elbow to

elbow in the tiny dining-room, so damp and vault-like. They could not

have been more concealed, more utterly lost had they been far away in

the country, under the screening foliage of the trees. Only the advent

of doubt, of jealous fear, could make it plain to the girl, that she

had given herself, for ever, amidst this abetting solitude, through

sheer emptiness of heart and mental weariness.

As it was, Denise, fancied she could detect a growing anxiety in the

look Geneviève had cast at Colomban, so she good-naturedly replied:

"Oh! when people are in love they always understand each other."

Meantime Baudu kept a sharp eye on the table. He had distributed some

"fingers" of Brie cheese, and, as a treat for the visitors, called for

a second dessert, a pot of red-currant jam, a liberality which seemed

to surprise Colomban. Pépé, who so far had been very good, behaved

rather badly at the sight of the jam; whilst Jean, his attention

attracted by the conversation about his cousin Geneviève's marriage,

began to take stock of the girl, whom he thought too puny and too pale,

comparing her in his own mind to a little white rabbit with black ears

and pink eyes.

"Well, we've chatted enough, and must make room for the others," said

the draper, giving the signal to rise from table. "Just because we've

had a treat there is no reason why we should want too much of it."

Madame Baudu, the other shopman, and the young lady then came and

took their places at table. Denise, again left to herself, sat down

near the door waiting until her uncle should be able to take her to

Vinçard's. Pépé was playing at her feet, whilst Jean had resumed his

post of observation on the threshold. And Denise sat there for nearly

an hour, taking interest in what went on around her. Now and again

a few customers came in; a lady, then two others appeared, the shop

meanwhile retaining its musty odour and its half light, in which

old-fashioned commerce, simple and good natured, seemed to weep at

finding itself so deserted. What most interested Denise, however, was

The Ladies' Paradise opposite, whose windows she could see through the

open doorway. The sky remained cloudy, a sort of humid mildness warmed

the air, notwithstanding the season; and in the clear light, permeated,

as it were, by a hazy diffusion of sunshine, the great shop acquired

abundant life and activity.

To Denise it seemed as if she were watching a machine working at full

pressure, setting even the window-shows in motion. They were no longer

the cold windows she had seen in the early morning; they seemed to

have been warmed and to vibrate with all the activity within. There

were folks before them, groups of women pushing and squeezing against

the sheets of glass, a perfect crowd excited with covetousness. And in

this passionate atmosphere the stuffs themselves seemed endowed with

life; the laces quivered, drooped, and concealed the depths of the shop

with a disturbing air of mystery; even the thick square-cut lengths

of cloth breathed, exhaling a tempting odour, while the tailor-made

coats seemed to draw themselves up more erectly on the dummies, which

acquired souls, and the velvet mantle expanded, supple and warm, as if

falling from real shoulders, over a heaving bosom and quivering hips.

But the factory-like glow which pervaded the house came above all from

the sales, the crush at the counters, which could be divined behind

the walls. There was the continual roaring of a machine at work, an

engulfing of customers close-pressed against the counters, bewildered

amidst the piles of goods, and finally hurled towards the pay-desks.

And all went on in an orderly manner, with mechanical regularity, force

and logic carrying quite a nation of women through the gearing of this

commercial machine.

Denise had felt tempted ever since early morning. She was bewildered

and attracted by this shop, to her so vast, which she saw more people

enter in an hour than she had seen enter Cornaille's in six months; and

with her desire to enter it was mingled a vague sense of danger which

rendered her seduction complete. At the same time her uncle's shop

made her feel ill at ease; she felt unreasonable disdain, instinctive

repugnance for this cold, icy place, the home of old-fashioned trading.

All her sensations--her anxious entry, her relatives' cold reception,

the dull lunch partaken of in a prison-like atmosphere, her spell of

waiting amidst the sleepy solitude of this old establishment doomed

to speedy decay--all these became concentrated in mute protest, in a

passionate longing for life and light. And despite her good heart, her

eyes ceaselessly turned to The Ladies' Paradise, as if, saleswoman

as she was, she felt the need of warming herself in the glow of that

immense business.

"Plenty of customers over there at all events!" was the remark which at

last escaped her.

But she promptly regretted these words on seeing the Baudus near her.

Madame Baudu, who had finished her lunch, was standing there, quite

white, with her pale eyes fixed on the monster; and resigned though she

tried to be, she could never catch sight of that place across the road,

without mute despair filling her eyes with tears. As for Geneviève,

she was anxiously watching Colomban, who, unaware that he was being

observed, remained in ecstasy, looking at the young saleswomen in the

mantle department of the Paradise, whose counter was visible through

the first floor window. Baudu, for his part, though his anger was

written on his face, merely remarked: "All is not gold that glitters.

Patience!"

The members of the family evidently kept back the flood of rancour

rising in their throats. A feeling of self-esteem prevented them from

displaying their temper before these children, who had only that

morning arrived. At last the draper made an effort, and tore himself

away from the spectacle of The Paradise and its sales.

"Well!" he resumed, "we'll go and see Vinçard. Situations are soon

snatched up and it might be too late to-morrow."

However, before starting, he ordered his junior salesman to go to the

railway station to fetch Denise's box. On her side Madame Baudu, to

whom the girl had confided Pépé, decided to run over to see Madame Gras

in order to arrange about the child. Jean on the other hand promised

his sister not to stir from the shop.

"It's two minutes' walk," explained Baudu as he went down the Rue

Gaillon with his niece: "Vinçard has a silk business, and still does a

fair trade. Oh, of course he has his worries, like every one else, but

he's an artful fellow, who makes both ends meet by his miserly ways. I

fancy, though, he wants to retire, on account of his rheumatics."

Vinçard's shop was in the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, near the Passage

Choiseul. It was clean and light, well fitted up in the modern style,

but rather small, and contained but a poor stock. Baudu and Denise

found Vinçard in consultation with two gentlemen.

"Never mind us," called out the draper; "we are in no hurry; we can

wait." And discreetly returning to the door he whispered to Denise:

"That thin fellow is second in the silk department at The Paradise, and

the stout man is a silk manufacturer from Lyons."

Denise gathered that Vinçard was trying to sell his business to

Robineau of The Paradise. With a frank air, and open face, he was

giving his word of honour, with the facility of a man whom assurances

never troubled. According to him, his business was a golden one; and

albeit in the splendour of robust health he broke off to whine and

complain of those infernal pains of his which prevented him from

remaining in business and making his fortune. Robineau who seemed

nervous and uneasy interrupted him impatiently. He knew what a crisis

the trade was passing through, and named a silk warehouse which had

already been ruined by the vicinity of The Paradise. Then Vinçard,

inflamed, raised his voice.

"No wonder! The downfall of that big booby Vabre was a foregone

conclusion. His wife spent everything he earned. Besides, we are more

than five hundred yards away, whilst Vabre was almost next door to The

Paradise."

Gaujean, the silk manufacturer, then chimed in, and their voices

fell again. He accused the big establishments of ruining French

manufactures; three or four laid down the law, reigning like masters

over the market; and he gave it as his opinion that the only way to

fight them was to favour the small traders; above all, those who dealt

in specialties, for to them the future belonged. For that reason he

offered Robineau plenty of credit.

"See how you have been treated at The Paradise," said he. "No notice

has been taken of your long service. You had the promise of the

first-hand's place long ago, when Bouthemont, an outsider without any

claim at all, came in and got it at once."

Robineau was still smarting under this act of injustice. However, he

hesitated to start business on his own account, explaining that the

money came from his wife, who had inherited sixty thousand francs, and

he was full of scruples regarding this money, saying that he would

rather cut off his right hand than compromise it in a doubtful affair.

"No," said he, "I haven't yet made up my mind; give me time to think

over it. We'll have another talk about it."

"As you like," replied Vinçard, concealing his disappointment under

a smiling countenance. "My interest, you know, is not to sell; and I

certainly shouldn't were it not for my rheumatics----"

Then stepping to the middle of the shop, he inquired: "What can I do

for you, Monsieur Baudu?"

The draper, who had been slily listening, thereupon introduced Denise,

telling Vinçard as much as he thought necessary of her story and adding

that she had two years' country experience. "And as I heard you are

wanting a good saleswoman----" he added.

But Vinçard, affecting extreme sorrow, cut him short: "How

unfortunate!" said he. "I had, indeed, been looking for a saleswoman

all this week; but I've just engaged one--not two hours ago."

A silence ensued. Denise seemed to be in consternation. Robineau,

who was looking at her with interest, probably inspired with pity by

her poverty-stricken appearance, ventured to remark: "I know they're

wanting a young person at our place, in the mantle department."

At this Baudu could not restrain a fervent outburst: "At your place

indeed! Never!"

Then he stopped short in embarrassment. Denise had turned very red;

she would never dare to enter that great shop, and yet the idea of

belonging to it filled her with pride.

"Why not?" asked Robineau, surprised. "It would be a good opening

for the young lady. I advise her to go and see Madame Aurélie, the

first-hand, to-morrow. The worst that can happen to her is to be

refused."

The draper, to conceal his inward revolt, then began talking vaguely.

He knew Madame Aurélie, or, at least, her husband, Lhomme, the cashier,

a stout man, who had had his right arm crushed by an omnibus. Then

suddenly turning to Denise, he added: "However, it's her business, it

isn't mine. She can do as she likes."

And thereupon he went off, after wishing Gaujean and Robineau

"good-day". Vinçard accompanied him as far as the door, reiterating

his regrets. The girl meantime had remained in the middle of the shop,

intimidated yet desirous of asking Robineau for further particulars.

However she could not muster the courage to do so, but in her turn

bowed, and simply said: "Thank you, sir."

On the way back, Baudu said nothing to his niece, but as if carried

away by his reflections walked on very fast, forcing her to run in

order to keep up with him. On reaching the Rue de la Michodière, he

was about to enter his establishment when a neighbouring shopkeeper,

standing at his door, called to him.

Denise stopped and waited.

"What is it, Père Bourras?" asked the draper.

Bourras was a tall old man, with a prophet's head, bearded and hairy,

with piercing eyes shining from under bushy brows. He kept an umbrella

and walking-stick shop, did repairs, and even carved handles, which

had won for him an artistic celebrity in the neighbourhood. Denise

glanced at the windows of his shop where the sticks and umbrellas were

arranged in straight lines. But on raising her eyes she was astonished

by the appearance of the house--it was an old hovel squeezed in between

The Ladies' Paradise and a large Louis XIV. mansion; you could hardly

conceive how it had sprung up in the narrow slit where its two low

dumpy storeys displayed themselves. Had it not been for the support of

the buildings on either side it must have fallen; the slates of its

roof were old and rotten, and its two-windowed front was cracked and

covered with stains, running down in long rusty lines to the worm-eaten

sign-board over the shop.

"You know he's written to my landlord, offering to buy the house?" said

Bourras, looking steadily at the draper with his fiery eyes.

Baudu became paler still, and bent his shoulders. There was a silence,

during which the two men remained face to face, looking very serious.

"We must be prepared for anything," murmured Baudu at last.

Thereupon Bourras flew into a passion, shaking his hair and flowing

beard while he shouted: "Let him buy the house, he'll have to pay four

times the value for it! But I swear that as long as I live he shan't

touch a stone of it. My lease has twelve years to run yet. We shall

see! we shall see!"

It was a declaration of war. Bourras was looking towards The Ladies'

Paradise, which neither of them had named. For a moment Baudu remained

shaking his head in silence, and then crossed the street to his shop,

his legs almost failing him as he repeated: "Ah! good Lord! ah! good

Lord!"

Denise, who had listened, followed her uncle. Madame Baudu had just

come back with Pépé, whom Madame Gras had agreed to receive at any

time. Jean, however, had disappeared, and this made his sister anxious.

When he returned with a flushed face, talking in an animated way of

the boulevards, she looked at him with such a sad expression that he

blushed with shame. Meantime their box had arrived, and it was arranged

that they should sleep in the attic.

"Ah! By the way, how did you get on at Vinçard's?" inquired Madame

Baudu.

The draper thereupon gave an account of his fruitless errand, adding

that Denise had heard of a situation; and, pointing to The Ladies'

Paradise with a scornful gesture, he exclaimed: "There--in there!"

The whole family felt hurt at the idea. The first dinner was at five

o'clock. Denise and the two children sat down to it with Baudu,

Geneviève, and Colomban. A single gas jet lighted and warmed the little

dining-room which reeked with the smell of food. The meal passed off in

silence, but at dessert Madame Baudu, who was restless, left the shop,

and came and sat down behind Denise. And then the storm, kept back

all day, broke out, one and all seeking to relieve their feelings by

abusing the "monster".

"It's your business, you can do as you like," repeated Baudu. "We

don't want to influence you. But if you only knew what sort of place

it is----" And in broken sentences he commenced to relate the story

of that Octave Mouret to whom The Paradise belonged. He had been

wonderfully lucky! A fellow who had come up from the South of France

with the smiling audacity of an adventurer, who had no sooner arrived

in Paris than he had begun to distinguish himself by all sorts of

disgraceful pranks, figuring most prominently in a matrimonial scandal,

which was still the talk of the neighbourhood; and who, to crown all,

had suddenly and mysteriously made the conquest of Madame Hédouin, who

had brought him The Ladies' Paradise as a marriage portion.

"That poor Caroline!" interrupted Madame Baudu. "We were distantly

related. If she had lived things would be different. She wouldn't have

let them ruin us like this. And he's the man who killed her. Yes, with

that very building! One morning, when she was visiting the works,

she fell into a hole, and three days after she died. A fine, strong,

healthy woman, who had never known what illness was! There's some of

her blood in the foundations of that house."

So speaking she pointed to the establishment opposite with her pale

and trembling hand. Denise, listening as to a fairy tale, slightly

shuddered; the sense of fear which had mingled with the temptation

she had felt since morning, was due, perhaps, to the presence of that

woman's blood, which she fancied she could now detect in the red mortar

of the basement.

"It seems as if it brought him good luck," added Madame Baudu, without

mentioning Mouret by name.

But the draper, full of disdain for these old women's tales, shrugged

his shoulders and resumed his story, explaining the situation

commercially. The Ladies' Paradise had been founded in 1822 by two

brothers, named Deleuze. On the death of the elder, his daughter,

Caroline, had married the son of a linen manufacturer, Charles Hédouin;

and, later on, becoming a widow, she had married Mouret. She thus

brought him a half share in the business. Three months after the

marriage, however, the second brother Deleuze died childless; so that

when Caroline met her death, Mouret became sole heir, sole proprietor

of The Ladies' Paradise. Yes, he had been wonderfully lucky!

"He's what they call a man of ideas, a dangerous busybody, who will

overturn the whole neighbourhood if he's left to himself!" continued

Baudu. "I fancy that Caroline, who was rather romantic also, must have

been carried away by the gentleman's extravagant plans. In short, he

persuaded her to buy the house on the left, then the one on the right;

and he himself, on becoming his own master, bought two others; so that

the establishment has kept on growing and growing to such a point that

it now threatens to swallow us all up!"

He was addressing Denise, but was in reality speaking for himself,

feeling a feverish longing to recapitulate this story which continually

haunted him. At home he was always angry and full of bile, always

violent, with fists ever clenched. Madame Baudu, ceasing to interfere,

sat motionless on her chair; Geneviève and Colomban, with eyes cast

down, were picking up and eating the crumbs off the table, just for the

sake of something to do. It was so warm, so stuffy in that tiny room

that Pépé had fallen asleep with his head on the table, and even Jean's

eyes were closing.

"But wait a bit!" resumed Baudu, seized with a sudden fit of anger,

"such jokers always go to smash! Mouret is hard-pushed just now; I

know that for a fact. He's been forced to spend all his savings on his

mania for extensions and advertisements. Moreover, in order to raise

additional capital, he has induced most of his shop-people to invest

all they possess with him. And so he hasn't a sou to help himself with

now; and, unless a miracle be worked, and he manages to treble his

sales, as he hopes to do, you'll see what a crash there'll be! Ah! I'm

not ill-natured, but that day I'll illuminate my shop-front, I will, on

my word of honour!"

And he went on in a revengeful voice; to hear him you would have

thought that the fall of The Ladies' Paradise would restore the

dignity and prestige of commerce. Had any one ever seen such doings?

A draper's shop selling everything! Why not call it a bazaar at once?

And the employees! a nice set they were too--a lot of puppies, who

did their work like porters at a railway station, treating both goods

and customers as if they were so many parcels; taking themselves off

or getting the sack at a moment's notice. No affection, no morals,

no taste! And all at once he appealed to Colomban as a witness; he,

Colomban, brought up in the good old school, knew how long it took to

learn all the cunning and trickery of the trade. The art was not to

sell much, but to sell dear. And then too, Colomban could tell them how

he had been treated, carefully looked after, his washing and mending

done, nursed in illness, considered as one of the family--loved, in

fact!

"Of course, of course," repeated Colomban, after each statement made by

his governor.

"Ah, you're the last of the old stock, my dear fellow," Baudu ended by

declaring. "After you're gone there'll be none left. You are my sole

consolation, for if all that hurry and scurry is what they now call

business I understand nothing of it and would rather clear out."

Geneviève, with her head on one side as if her thick hair were weighing

down her pale brow, sat watching the smiling shopman; and in her

glance there was a gleam of suspicion, a wish to see whether Colomban,

stricken with remorse, would not blush at all this praise. But, like

a fellow well acquainted with every trick of the old style of trade,

he retained his sedateness, his good-natured air, with just a touch of

cunning about his lips. However, Baudu still went on, louder than ever,

accusing the people opposite--that pack of savages who murdered each

other in their struggle for existence--of even destroying all family

ties. And he mentioned his country neighbours, the Lhommes--mother,

father, and son--all employed in the infernal shop, people who

virtually had no home but were always out and about, leading a hotel,

_table d'hôte_ kind of existence, and never taking a meal at their

own place excepting on Sundays. Certainly his dining-room wasn't over

large or too well aired or lighted; but at least it spoke to him of his

life, for he had lived there amidst the affection of his kith and kin.

Whilst speaking, his eyes wandered about the room; and he shuddered

at the unavowed idea that if those savages should succeed in ruining

his trade they might some day turn him out of this hole where he was

so comfortable with his wife and child. Notwithstanding the seeming

assurance with which he predicted the utter downfall of his rivals, he

was in reality terrified, feeling at heart that the neighbourhood was

being gradually invaded and devoured.

"Well, I don't want to disgust you," he resumed, trying to calm

himself; "if you think it to your interest to go there, I shall be the

first to say, 'go.'"

"I am sure of that, uncle," murmured Denise in bewilderment, her desire

to enter The Ladies' Paradise, growing keener and keener amidst all

this display of passion.

Baudu had put his elbows on the table, and was wearying her with

his fixed stare. "But look here," he resumed; "you who know the

business, do you think it right that a simple draper's shop should

sell everything? Formerly, when trade was trade, drapers sold nothing

but drapery. But now they are doing their best to snap up every branch

of trade and ruin their neighbours. The whole neighbourhood complains

of it, every small tradesman is beginning to suffer terribly. This

man Mouret is ruining them. For instance, Bédoré and his sister, who

keep the hosiery shop in the Rue Gaillon, have already lost half their

customers; Mademoiselle Tatin, who sells under-linen in the Passage

Choiseul, has been obliged to lower her prices, to be able to sell at

all. And the effects of this scourge, this pest, are felt as far as

the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, where I hear that Messrs. Vanpouille

Brothers, the furriers, cannot hold out much longer. Ah! Drapers

selling fur goods--what a farce! another of Mouret's ideas!"

"And gloves," added Madame Baudu; "isn't it monstrous? He has even

dared to add a glove department! Yesterday, when I passed down the Rue

Neuve-Saint-Augustin, I saw Quinette, the glover, at his door, looking

so downcast that I hadn't the heart to ask him how business was going."

"And umbrellas," resumed Baudu; "that's the climax! Bourras is

convinced that Mouret simply wants to ruin him; for, in short, where's

the rhyme between umbrellas and drapery? But Bourras is firm on his

legs, and won't let himself be butchered! We shall see some fun one of

these days."

Then Baudu went on to speak of other tradesmen, passing the whole

neighbourhood in review. Now and again he let slip a confession. If

Vinçard wanted to sell it was time for the rest to pack up, for Vinçard

was like the rats who make haste to leave a house when it threatens

ruin. Then, however, immediately afterwards, he contradicted himself,

and talked of an alliance, an understanding between the small tradesmen

to enable them to fight the colossus. For a moment, his hands shaking,

and his mouth twitching nervously, he hesitated as to whether he should

speak of himself. At last he made up his mind to do so.

"As for me," he said, "I can't complain as yet. Of course he has

done me harm, the scoundrel! But up to the present he has only kept

ladies' cloths, light stuffs for dresses and heavier goods for mantles.

People still come to me for men's goods, velvets and velveteens for

shooting suits, cloths for liveries, without speaking of flannels and

_molletons_, of which I defy him to show so complete an assortment as

my own. But he thinks he will annoy me by placing his cloth department

right in front of my door. You've seen his display, haven't you? He

always places his finest mantles there, surrounded by a framework of

cloth in pieces--a cheapjack parade to tempt the hussies. Upon my word,

I should be ashamed to use such means! The Old Elbeuf has been known

for nearly a hundred years, and has no need of any such catchpenny

devices at its door. As long as I live, it shall remain as I took it,

with its four samples on each side, and nothing more!"

The whole family was becoming affected; and after a spell of silence

Geneviève ventured to make a remark:

"Our customers know and like us, papa," said she. "We mustn't lose

heart. Madame Desforges and Madame de Boves have been to-day, and I am

expecting Madame Marty for some flannel."

"For my part," declared Colomban, "I took an order from Madame

Bourdelais yesterday. 'Tis true she spoke of an English cheviot marked

up opposite ten sous cheaper than ours, and the same stuff, it appears."

"Fancy," murmured Madame Baudu in her weak voice, "we knew that house

when it was scarcely larger than a handkerchief! Yes, my dear Denise,

when the Deleuzes started it, it had only one window in the Rue

Neuve-Saint-Augustin; and such a tiny one, there was barely room for a

couple of pieces of print and two or three pieces of calico. There was

no room to turn round in the shop, it was so small. At that time The

Old Elbeuf, after sixty years' trading, was already such as you see it

now. Ah! all has greatly changed, greatly changed!"

She shook her head; the drama of her whole life was expressed in those

few words. Born in the old house, she loved each of its damp stones,

living only for it and by it; and, formerly so proud of that house,

the finest, the best patronised in the neighbourhood, she had had

the daily grief of seeing the rival establishment gradually growing

in importance, at first disdained, then equal to her own and finally

towering above it, and threatening all. This was to her an ever-open

sore; she was slowly dying from sheer grief at seeing The Old Elbeuf

humiliated; if she still lived it was, as in the case of the shop

itself, solely by the effect of impulsion; but she well realised that

the death of the shop would be hers as well, and that she would pass

away on the day when it should close.

Silence fell. Baudu began softly beating a tattoo with his fingers on

the American cloth on the table. He experienced a sort of lassitude,

almost a regret at having once more relieved his feelings in this way.

The whole family shared his despondency, and with dreamy eyes chewed

the cud of his bitter story. They never had had any luck. The children

had been brought up and fortune had seemed at hand, when suddenly this

competition had arisen and ruined all their hopes. And there was, also,

that house at Rambouillet, that country house to which the draper had

been dreaming of retiring for the last ten years--a bargain, he had

thought when he acquired it, but it had proved a sorry old building,

always in want of repairs, and he had let it to people who never

paid any rent. His last profits were swallowed up by this place--the

only folly he had been guilty of in his honest, upright career as a

tradesman stubbornly attached to the old ways.

"Come, come!" he suddenly exclaimed, "we must make room for the others.

That's enough of this useless talk!"

It was like an awakening. The gas was hissing in the lifeless, stifling

air of the tiny room. They all jumped up, breaking the melancholy

silence. Pépé, however, was sleeping so soundly that they decided to

lay him on some bales of cloth. Jean had already returned to the street

door yawning.

"In short," repeated Baudu to his niece, "you can do as you like.

We have explained the matter to you, that's all. You know your own

business best."

He gave her an urgent glance, waiting for a decisive answer. But

Denise, whom these stories had inspired with a still greater longing to

enter The Ladies' Paradise, instead of turning her from it, retained

her quiet gentle demeanour beneath which lurked a genuine Norman

obstinacy. And she simply replied: "We'll see, uncle."

Then she spoke of going to bed early with the children, for they were

all three very tired. But it had only just struck six, so she decided

to stay in the shop a little longer. Night had now come on, and she

found the street quite dark, drenched by a fine close rain, which had

been falling since sunset. It came on her as a surprise. A few minutes

had sufficed to fill the roadway with puddles, a stream of dirty

water was running along the gutters, the pavement was sticky with a

thick black mud; and through the beating rain she saw nothing but a

confused stream of umbrellas, pushing along and swelling in the gloom

like great black wings. She started back at first, feeling very cold,

oppressed at heart by the badly-lighted shop, now so extremely dismal.

A moist breeze, the breath of that old quarter of Paris, came in from

the street; it seemed as if the rain, streaming from the umbrellas,

was running right up to the counters, as if the pavement with its mud

and its puddles was coming into the shop, putting the finishing touch

to the mouldiness of that ancient, cavernous ground-floor, white with

saltpetre. It was quite a vision of old Paris in the wet, and it made

her shiver with distressful astonishment at finding the great city so

cold and so ugly.

But across the road The Ladies' Paradise glowed with its deep, serried

lines of gas jets. She moved nearer, again attracted and, as it were,

warmed by that ardent blaze. The machine was still roaring, active as

ever, letting its steam escape with a last roar, whilst the salesmen

folded up the stuffs, and the cashiers counted the receipts. Seen

through the hazy windows, the lights swarmed vaguely, revealing a

confused factory-like interior. Behind the curtain of falling rain,

the vision, blurred and distant, assumed the appearance of a giant

furnace-house, where the shadows of firemen passed black against the

red glare of the furnaces. The displays in the windows likewise became

indistinct: you could only distinguish the snowy lace, its whiteness

heightened by the ground glass globes of a row of gas jets, and against

this chapel-like background the ready-made goods stood out vigorously,

the velvet mantle trimmed with silver fox setting amidst them all the

curved silhouette of a headless woman who seemed to be running through

the rain to some entertainment in the unknown shades of nocturnal Paris.

Denise, yielding to the fascination, had gone to the door, heedless of

the raindrops dripping upon her. At this hour, The Ladies' Paradise,

with its furnace-like brilliancy, completed its conquest of her. In the

great metropolis, black and silent beneath the rain--in this Paris, to

which she was a stranger, it shone out like a lighthouse, and seemed

to be of itself the life and light of the city. She dreamed of her

future there, working hard to bring up the children, with other things

besides--she hardly knew what--far-off things however, the desire and

fear of which made her tremble. The idea of that woman who had met her

death amidst the foundations came back to her; and she felt afraid,

fancying that the lights were tinged with blood; but the whiteness of

the lace quieted her, a hope, quite a certainty of happiness, sprang up

in her heart, whilst the fine rain, blowing on her, cooled her hands,

and calmed the feverishness within her, born of her journey.

"It's Bourras," all at once said a voice behind her.

She leant forward, and perceived the umbrella-maker, motionless before

the window containing the ingenious roof-like construction of umbrellas

and walking-sticks which she had noticed in the morning. The old man

had slipped up there in the dark, to feast his eyes on that triumphant

show; and so great was his grief that he was unconscious of the rain

beating down on his bare head, and streaming off his long white hair.

"How stupid he is, he'll make himself ill," resumed the voice.

Then, turning round, Denise again found the Baudus behind her. Though

they thought Bourras so stupid, they also, despite themselves, ever

and ever returned to the contemplation of that spectacle which rent

their hearts. It was, so to say, a rageful desire to suffer. Geneviève,

very pale, had noticed that Colomban was watching the shadows of the

saleswomen pass to and fro on the first floor opposite; and, whilst

Baudu almost choked with suppressed rancour, Madame Baudu began

silently weeping.

"You'll go and see, to-morrow, won't you, Denise?" asked the draper,

tormented with uncertainty, but feeling that his niece was conquered

like the rest.

She hesitated, then gently replied: "Yes, uncle, unless it pains you

too much."