‘Oh! Absolutely,’ she murmured, ‘a silk at five francs sixty will never be equal to one at fifteen, or even ten.’
‘It’s very thin,’ Madame Marty was repeating. ‘I’m afraid it hasn’t got enough body for a coat.’
This remark made the salesman intervene. He had the exaggerated politeness of a man who cannot be mistaken.
‘But, madam, flexibility is the main quality of this silk. It doesn’t crease … It’s exactly what you want.’
Impressed by such assurance, the ladies fell silent. They had picked up the material again and were examining it once more when they felt a touch on their shoulders. It was Madame Guibal, who had been walking through the shop at a leisurely pace for at least an hour, feasting her eyes on the piled-up riches, without buying so much as a metre of calico. There was another outburst of chatter.
‘What! Is it you!’
‘Yes, it’s me, a bit knocked about though!’
‘Yes, I know. What a crowd, you can’t move … Did you see the oriental hall?’
‘Delightful!’
‘What an incredible success … Do wait a moment, we can go upstairs together.’
‘No, thank you, I’ve just come down.’
Hutin was waiting, hiding his impatience behind a smile which never left his lips. How much longer were they going to keep him there? Really, women had a nerve; it was just as if they were taking his money out of his pocket. Finally, Madame Guibal took her leave and continued her stroll, going round and round the great display of silks with an air of delight.
‘If I were you, I’d buy the coat ready-made,’ said Madame Desforges, coming back to the Paris-Paradise. ‘It’ll cost less.’
‘It’s true that what with the trimmings and having it made up …’ murmured Madame Marty. ‘And there’s more choice too.’
All three ladies had risen to their feet. Madame Desforges turned to Hutin and resumed:
‘Would you please take us to the ladieswear department?’
Unaccustomed to defeats of this kind, he was dumbfounded. What! the dark-haired lady wasn’t buying anything! His instinct had let him down, then! He abandoned Madame Marty, and concentrated on Henriette, trying his powers as a good salesman on her.
‘And you, madam, don’t you wish to see our satins and velvets? We have some remarkable bargains.’
‘No, thank you, another time,’ she replied coolly, not looking at him any more than she had at Mignot.
Hutin had to pick up Madame Marty’s things again, and walk ahead of them to show them to the ladieswear department. And he had the additional grief of seeing that Robineau was in the process of selling a large quantity of silk to Madame Boutarel. He certainly had lost his flair, he wouldn’t make a penny. Beneath his pleasant, polite manner there was the rage of a man who had been robbed and devoured by others.
‘On the first floor, ladies,’ he said, without ceasing to smile.
It was no longer easy to get to the staircase. A compact mass of heads was surging through the arcades, spreading out like an overflowing river into the middle of the hall. A real commercial battle was developing; the salesmen were holding the army of women at their mercy, passing them from one to another as if to see who could be quickest. The great afternoon rush-hour had arrived, when the overheated machine led the dance of customers, extracting money from their very flesh. In the silk department especially there was a sense of madness; the Paris-Paradise had attracted such a crowd that for several minutes Hutin could not advance a step; and when Henriette, half-suffocated, looked up, she glimpsed Mouret at the top of the stairs, for he always came back to the same place from where he could watch the victory. She smiled, hoping that he would come down and extricate her. But he did not even recognize her in the crowd; he was still with Vallagnosc, busy showing him the shop, his face radiant with triumph. By now the commotion inside was muffling the sounds from the street; the rumbling of cabs and the banging of doors could no longer be heard; beyond the huge murmur of the sale there remained nothing but a sensation of the vastness of Paris, a city so enormous that it would always provide customers. In the still air, where the stifling central heating brought out the smell of the materials, the hubbub was increasing, made up of all sorts of noises—the continuous trampling of feet, the same phrases repeated a hundred times at the counters, gold clinking on the brass of the cash-desks, besieged by a mass of purses, the baskets on wheels with their loads of parcels falling endlessly into the gaping cellars. In the end everything became intermingled amidst the fine dust; it became impossible to recognize the divisions between the different departments: over there, the haberdashery seemed swamped; further on, in the linen department, a ray of sunlight coming through the window on the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin was like a golden arrow in the snow; while, in the glove and woollen departments, a dense mass of hats and hair hid the further reaches of the shop from view. Even the clothes of the crowd could no longer be seen, only headdresses, decked with feathers and ribbons, were floating on the surface; a few men’s hats made black smudges, while the pale complexions of the women, in the general fatigue and heat, were acquiring the transparency of camellias. Finally, thanks to some vigorous elbow-work, Hutin opened up a pathway for the ladies by walking ahead of them. But when she reached the top of the stairs Henriette could not find Mouret, who had just plunged Vallagnosc into the middle of the crowd to complete his bewilderment, and also because he felt the physical need to bathe in his own success. He became breathless with delight as he felt against his limbs a sort of long caress from all his customers.
‘To the left, ladies,’ said Hutin in a voice which was still courteous in spite of his growing exasperation.
Upstairs it was just as crowded. Even the furniture department, usually the quietest, was being invaded. The shawls, the furs, the underwear departments were teeming with people. As the ladies were going through the lace department, they again came upon some people they knew. Madame de Boves was there with her daughter Blanche, both buried in the articles which Deloche was showing them. Hutin, parcel in hand, once more had to make a halt.
‘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 ca
used 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, w
hose 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.’