‘Well! Now the governor is laughing!’ said Favier in astonishment, as the group went past the door again.
‘Good Lord!’ swore Hutin, ‘if they persist in saddling us with that Robineau of theirs, we’ll give them something to laugh about!’
Bourdoncle looked Mouret straight in the face. Then he simply made a gesture of contempt, as much as to say that he understood at last, and that it was idiotic. Bouthemont had resumed his complaints: the salesmen were threatening to leave, and there were some excellent men amongst them. But what appeared to make a greater impression on these gentlemen was the rumour of Robineau’s friendly relations with Gaujean: the latter, it was said, was urging his friend to set up his own business in the neighbourhood, and was offering him the most generous credit in order to make things difficult for the Ladies’ Paradise. There was a silence. Ah! So Robineau was dreaming of battle! Mouret had become serious; he pretended to be scornful, and avoided taking a decision, as if the affair was of no importance. They would see, they would speak to him. And he immediately began joking with Bouthemont, whose father had arrived two days earlier from his little shop in Montpellier, and had almost choked with amazement and indignation when he saw the enormous hall where his son reigned. They were still laughing about the old man who, when he had recovered his southern self-possession, had set about disparaging everything, maintaining that the drapery trade would soon be finished.
‘Here comes Robineau now,’ murmured Bouthemont. ‘I sent him to the stock-room to avoid anything unpleasant… I’m sorry to insist, but things have got to such a pitch that something’s got to be done.’
Robineau, who had come in, greeted them as he made his way to his table.
Mouret simply repeated:
‘All right, we’ll see about it.’
They left. Hutin and Favier were still waiting for them. When they did not see them reappear, they relieved their feelings. Was the management now going to come down to every meal like that to count how many mouthfuls they had? What fun it would be if they couldn’t even eat in peace! The truth of the matter was that they had just seen Robineau come in, and the governor’s good humour was making them anxious about the outcome of the struggle they had set in motion. They lowered their voices, trying to think up new ways to annoy Robineau.
‘I’m starving!’ said Hutin out loud. ‘You leave the table even hungrier than when you arrived!’
And yet he had eaten two portions of preserves, his own and the one he had received for his helping of rice. Suddenly he exclaimed:
‘Damn it all! I’m going in for an extra helping! Victor, bring me some more preserves!’
The waiter was finishing serving the dessert. Then he brought the coffee, and those who took it gave him their fifteen centimes on the spot. Some of the salesmen had left and were dawdling along the corridor, looking for a dark corner in which to smoke a cigarette. The others remained slouched over the table cluttered up with greasy plates. They were rolling the breadcrumbs into pellets, going over the same stories again and again, in the midst of the smell of burnt fat which they no longer noticed and the sweltering heat which turned their ears red. The walls were oozing with moisture; slow asphyxiation was descending from the mouldy ceiling. Standing against the wall, Deloche, stuffed full of bread, was digesting in silence, looking up at the ventilator; his daily recreation, after lunch, was to watch the feet of the passers-by as they hurried along the pavement—feet cut off at the ankle, heavy shoes, elegant high boots, dainty women’s ankle-boots, a continual procession of live feet, without bodies and heads. On rainy days it was very dirty.
‘What! Already!’ cried Hutin.
A bell was ringing at the end of the corridor; they had to give up their places for the third meal service. The waiters were coming to wash the oilcloth with buckets of tepid water and big sponges. The dining-rooms were slowly emptying, and the salesmen were going back to their departments again, lingering on the stairs. In the kitchen the cook had again taken up his position between the pans of skate, beef, and sauce, armed with his forks and spoons, ready once more to fill the plates with the rhythmic movement of a well-regulated clock.
As Hutin and Favier were lagging behind they saw Denise coming down.
‘Monsieur Robineau is back, miss,’ Hutin said with mocking politeness.
‘He’s still having lunch,’ Favier added. ‘But if it’s urgent you can go in.’
Denise carried on without answering or turning round. However, when she passed the dining-room for section-managers and their assistants she could not help glancing in. Robineau was indeed there. She would try to speak to him in the afternoon; and she went on down the corridor to her table, which was at the other end.
The women ate separately, in two rooms reserved for them. Denise went into the first room. It was also an old cellar transformed into a refectory, but it had been fitted up more comfortably. On the oval table in the middle of the room the fifteen places were laid further apart, and the wine was in carafes; a dish of skate and a dish of beef with mustard sauce occupied the two ends of the table. Waiters in white aprons were serving the young ladies, which spared them the trouble of fetching their helpings themselves from the hatch. The management had considered this more seemly.
‘So you went all round?’ asked Pauline, who was already seated and was cutting herself some bread.
‘Yes,’ Denise replied, blushing. ‘I was accompanying a customer.’
She was lying. Clara nudged the salesgirl sitting next to her. What was the matter with the unkempt girl today? She seemed really strange. She kept getting letters from her lover in rapid succession; then she ran round the shop like a madwoman, pretending to be going on errands to the work-room, where she did not even put in an appearance. There was certainly something going on. Then Clara, eating her skate without distaste, with the indifference of a girl who in the past had been fed on rancid bacon, spoke of a horrible drama which was filling the newspapers.
‘Have you read about the man who slit his mistress’s throat with a razor?’
‘Of course!’ remarked a little assistant from the lingerie department, with a gentle, delicate face. ‘He found her with another man. Serve her right!’
But Pauline protested. What! Just because you didn’t love a man any longer, he had the right to slit your throat! What a mad idea! And breaking off and turning to the waiter, she said:
‘Pierre, you know I just can’t eat this beef… Tell them to do me something else, an omelette, nice and soft, if possible!’
As she always had something sweet in her pocket she took out some chocolate drops and started munching them with her bread while she waited.
‘A man like that isn’t very funny,’ Clara resumed. ‘And a lot of men get really jealous! Only the other day there was a workman who threw his wife down a well.’
She did not take her eyes off Denise, and seeing her grow pale she thought she had guessed what was the matter. Obviously, the little prude was terrified of being beaten by her lover, to whom she was probably being unfaithful. It would be funny if he came right into the shop in his pursuit of her, as she seemed to fear. But the conversation was changing, one of the girls was telling them how to take spots out of velvet. Then they talked about a play at the Gaité, in which some delightful little girls danced better than grown-ups. Pauline, momentarily saddened by the sight of her omelette, which was overdone, brightened up again when she found that it tasted quite nice after all.
‘Pass me the wine,’ she said to Denise. ‘You should order yourself an omelette.’
‘Oh! The beef’s enough for me,’ replied Denise, who, to avoid spending anything, always kept to the food provided by the shop, no matter how repulsive it was.
When the waiter brought the baked rice the girls protested. They had left it the week before, and had hoped it would not appear again. Denise, absent-minded and worried about Jean as a result of Clara’s stories, was the only one who ate it; they all watched her with an air of disgust. There
was an orgy of extra dishes; they filled themselves up with preserves. In any case, they thought it was quite smart to pay for their food with their own money.
‘You know, the gentlemen have complained,’ said the delicate-looking girl from the lingerie department, ‘and the management has promised …’
She was interrupted by a burst of laughter, and their conversation now turned entirely to the management. They all had coffee, except Denise, who could not stand it, so she said. They lingered over their cups, the girls from the lingerie department dressed with lower middle-class simplicity in wool, those from the gown department in silk, their napkins tucked under their chins so as not to get stains on their dresses, like ladies who had come down to eat in the servants’ hall with their maids. They had opened the skylight of the ventilator to freshen the stifling, foul-smelling air, but they had to shut it again immediately, for the cab-wheels seemed to be going across the table.
‘Shh!’ breathed Pauline, ‘here’s that old fool!’
It was Jouve. He was fond of prowling about towards the end of the mealtime, when the girls were there. In any case, he supervised their dining-rooms. He would come in, eyes smiling, and go round the table; sometimes he would even chat with them, and ask if they had enjoyed their lunch. But, as he both bored them and made them feel uncomfortable, they would all hasten to get away. Although the bell had not yet rung, Clara was the first to disappear; others followed her. Soon only Denise and Pauline remained. The latter, having drunk her coffee, was finishing her chocolate drops.
‘Well!’ she said as she stood up, ‘I’m going to ask a waiter to fetch me some oranges … Are you coming?’
‘In a minute,’ answered Denise, who was nibbling a crust, determined to be the last to leave, so that she could tackle Robineau when she went upstairs again.
However, when she found herself alone with Jouve she felt uneasy, so she left the table. But seeing her go towards the door, he barred her way:
‘Mademoiselle Baudu …’
He stood before her, smiling with a paternal air. His thick grey moustache and crew-cut hair gave him a respectable military appearance, and he puffed out his chest, on which the red ribbon of his decoration was displayed.
‘What is it, Monsieur Jouve?’ she asked, reassured.
‘I saw you again this morning, talking upstairs, behind the carpets. You know it’s against the rules, and if I reported you … She’s very fond of you, your friend Pauline, isn’t she?’
His moustache quivered, his enormous nose, the powerful hooked nose of a man with the appetites of a bull, was aflame.
‘What makes you two so fond of each other, eh?’
Denise, not understanding, began to feel uneasy again. He was coming too close, he was speaking right in her face.
‘It’s true we were talking, Monsieur Jouve,’ she stammered. ‘But there’s no harm in a bit of talking … You’re very kind to me, and I’m very grateful… ’
‘I ought not to be kind to you,’ he said. ‘Justice is the only thing I’m interested in … But you’re so nice that…’
He came even closer. Now she was really afraid. Pauline’s words came back to her; she remembered the stories that were going round, of salesgirls terrorized by old Jouve and having to buy his goodwill. In the shop he was content with little familiarities, such as gently patting the cheeks of obliging girls with his fat fingers, taking their hands in his and keeping them there as if he had forgotten. It was all very paternal, and he only let the bull loose outside, when they consented to have some bread and butter with him at his place in the Rue des Moineaux.
‘Leave me alone,’ she murmured, drawing back.
‘Come on,’ he was saying, ‘you’re not going to be shy with a friend who’s always good to you. Be nice, come and have a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter this evening. You’re very welcome.’
She was struggling now.
‘No! No!’
The dining-room was still empty, the waiter had not reappeared. Jouve, keeping his ears open for the sound of footsteps, gave a quick glance round, and, very excited, lost control of himself, went beyond his paternal familiarities, and tried to kiss her on the neck.
‘Silly, ungrateful little girl… How can you be so silly with hair like that? Come round tonight, just for fun.’
But she was in a panic, terrified and shocked at the approach of this burning face and the feel of its breath. Suddenly she gave him a push which was so strong that he staggered and almost fell on to the table. Fortunately a chair saved him; but the impact knocked over a carafe of wine, bespattering his white tie and soaking his red ribbon. And he stood there, not wiping himself, choking with rage at such brutality. When he wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t even trying hard, and was simply giving way to his kind nature!
‘You’ll be sorry for this, I swear, miss!’
Denise had fled. The bell was just ringing; and flustered, still trembling, she forgot about Robineau and went up to her department. She no longer dared to go down again. As the sun fell on the Place Gaillon side of the shop in the afternoon, it was stifling in the rooms on the mezzanine floor in spite of the blinds. A few customers came, bathed the girls in perspiration, and went away without buying anything. The whole department was yawning, watched by Madame Aurélie’s big sleepy eyes. Finally, towards three o’clock, seeing the buyer fall asleep, Denise quietly slipped off and resumed her trip round the shop, trying to look busy. In order to put anyone who might be looking off the scent, she did not go straight down to the silk department; first she pretended she had some business in the lace department, went up to Deloche, and asked him something; then, on the ground floor, she went through the cottons, and was just going into the neckties when she stopped short with a start of surprise. Jean was standing in front of her.
‘What are you doing here?’ she murmured, quite pale.
He was still wearing his overalls and was bare-headed, his fair hair in disorder and his curls falling over his girlish face. Standing before a case full of narrow black ties, he seemed deep in thought.
‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated.
‘What do you think?’ he replied, ‘I was waiting for you! You forbade me to come. But I came in all the same, though I haven’t said a word to anyone. You needn’t worry! Pretend you don’t know me, if you like.’
Some salesmen were already looking at them with surprise. Jean lowered his voice.
‘She wanted to come with me, you know. Yes, she’s in the square, by the fountain … Give me the fifteen francs quickly, or we’re absolutely done for!’
At this, Denise became very agitated. People were grinning, listening to this adventure. As there was a staircase down to the basement at the back of the tie department, she pushed her brother towards it and quickly made him go down it. Once downstairs he went on with his story, embarrassed, inventing his facts, afraid that she would not believe him.
‘The money isn’t for her. She’s too refined … and as for her husband, he doesn’t care a damn about fifteen francs! He wouldn’t give his wife permission for a million … a glue manufacturer, did I tell you? They’re terribly well off… No, it’s for a scoundrel, a friend of hers who saw us together; and if I don’t give him fifteen francs this evening …’
‘Be quiet,’ murmured Denise. ‘Later… just carry on walking!’
They had reached the dispatch department. The slack season was sending the vast cellar to sleep, in the pale light from the ventilators. It was cold there, silence was seeping down from the ceiling. Nevertheless, a porter was collecting the few parcels for the Madeleine district* from one of the compartments; and on the big sorting table Campion, the head of the department, was sitting and dangling his legs, staring about him.
Jean started up again:
‘The husband, who has a big knife …’
‘Carry on!’ Denise repeated, still pushing him.
They went down one of the narrow corridors, where the gas was kept continually burning
. To the right and left, in the depths of dark cellars, the reserve stocks made piles of shadows behind the gates. Finally she stopped in front of one of these wooden screens. Doubtless no one would come; but it was forbidden, and she gave a shudder.
‘If that scoundrel says anything,’ Jean went on, ‘the husband, who has a big knife …’
‘Where do you think I can find fifteen francs?’ Denise burst out in despair. ‘Can’t you behave sensibly? You’re always getting into some silly scrape!’
He beat his chest. In all his romantic inventions, he himself no longer knew what the truth was. He simply dramatized his financial requirements; but behind it there was always some pressing necessity.
‘I swear on everything I hold most sacred, that this time it’s really true … I was holding her like this, and she was kissing me …’
She stopped him once more; tortured, at the end of her tether, she lost her temper.
‘I don’t want to hear about it. Keep your bad behaviour to yourself. It’s too disgusting, do you understand? And you pester me every week, I’m killing myself to keep you supplied with money. Yes, I sit up all night for you … Not to mention the fact that you’re taking the bread out of your brother’s mouth.’
Jean stood gaping, his face pale. What! It was disgusting? He did not understand; he had always treated his sister as a friend, and it seemed quite natural to open his heart to her. What choked him above all was to learn that she sat up all night. The idea that he was killing her and taking Pépé’s share as well affected him so much that he began to cry.