He was in a mood of despondency. His wife, worried, was looking at him tenderly. Business was quite beyond her; she was bewildered by all those figures, and could not understand why people took such trouble when it was so easy to be happy and love each other. However, it was enough for her that her husband wished to conquer; she became as impassioned as he was, and would have been willing to die at her counter.
‘But why don’t all the manufacturers come to an agreement between themselves?’ Robineau went on violently. ‘They could lay down the law then, instead of having to submit to it.’
Gaujean, who had asked for another slice of mutton, was slowly munching.
‘Ah! Why, why …?’ The looms must be kept going, as I said. When there are weavers everywhere, in the Gard, in the Isère,* you can’t stop work for a day without huge losses … And people like me who sometimes employ home-workers with ten or fifteen looms are better able to control production from the point of view of stock, whereas the big manufacturers are always obliged to get rid of their stock as quickly as they can … That’s why they go down on their knees to the big shops. I know three or four who are always quarrelling over them, and who would rather lose money than fail to get the orders. They make up for it with the small shops like yours. Yes, if the big shops keep them going, they make their profits out of you … God knows how the crisis will end!’
‘It’s odious!’ concluded Robineau, who felt better after this cry of rage.
Denise was listening in silence. With her instinctive love of logic and life, she was secretly on the side of the big shops. They had fallen silent, and were eating some bottled French beans; finally she ventured to say in a cheerful tone:
‘Anyway, the public doesn’t complain!’
Madame Robineau could not suppress a chuckle, which displeased her husband and Gaujean. Of course the customers were satisfied since, after all, it was the customers who profited from the reduction in prices. But everyone had to live; where would they be if, under the pretext of general well-being, the consumer was fattened at the expense of the producer? An argument started. While pretending to joke, Denise produced sound arguments: the middlemen—factory agents, representatives, commission-agents—were disappearing, and this was an important factor in reducing prices; besides, the manufacturers could no longer exist without the big shops, for as soon as one of them lost their custom, bankruptcy became inevitable; in short, it was a natural development of business, it was impossible to stop things going the way they ought to, when everyone was working for it, whether they liked it or not.
‘So you’re on the side of the people who kicked you out into the street?’ asked Gaujean.
Denise became very red. She was surprised herself at the enthusiasm with which she was defending them. What could there be in her heart to inflame her with such passion?
‘Good heavens, no!’ she answered. ‘Perhaps I’m wrong, you know more about it… I’m just saying what I think. Prices, instead of being fixed by about fifty shops as they used to be, are fixed nowadays by four or five, which have lowered them, thanks to the power of their capital and the number of their customers … So much the better for the public, that’s all!’
Robineau managed to keep his temper. He had become very serious, and was looking at the table-cloth. He had often felt the new way of business in the air, this development Denise was talking about; and he sometimes wondered, in his clear-sighted moments, why he should want to resist such a powerful current, which would carry all before it. Madame Robineau herself, seeing her husband so thoughtful, gave a look of approval at Denise, who had fallen silent again.
‘Look,’ Gaujean resumed, ‘to cut the argument short, all that is just theory … Let’s talk about what concerns us.’
After the cheese, the maid brought in some preserves and some pears. He helped himself to the preserves, and ate them by the spoonful, with the unconscious greed of a fat man who was fond of sweet things.
‘What you must do is beat their Paris-Paradise, which was their great success this year … I’ve made an arrangement with some of my colleagues in Lyons, and I’m going to make you an exceptional offer, a black silk, a faille, which you’ll be able to sell at five francs fifty … They sell theirs at five francs sixty, don’t they? Very well! Yours will be ten centimes cheaper, and that will be enough to get the better of them.’
Robineau’s eyes had lit up again. His nerves were always in such turmoil that he would often jump from fear to hope like that.
‘Have you got a sample?’ he asked.
When Gaujean had taken a little square of silk from his wallet, he became quite ecstatic, and exclaimed:
‘But it’s even finer than the Paris-Paradise! In any case it makes a better effect, the texture’s stronger … You’re right, we must have a go. I want them at my feet this time, or I give up!’
Madame Robineau, sharing this enthusiasm, declared the silk superb. Even Denise thought they would succeed. Thus the end of the dinner was very boisterous. They were talking in loud voices; it seemed as if the Ladies’ Paradise was at its last gasp. Gaujean, who was finishing off the jar of preserves, explained what enormous sacrifices he and his colleagues would have to make to supply a material of that kind so cheaply; but they were ready to ruin themselves over it, for they had sworn to kill the big shops. As the coffee was brought in the gaiety was increased even further by the arrival of Vinçard. He had been passing, and had called in to see how his successor was getting on.
‘Splendid!’ he exclaimed, feeling the silk. ‘You’ll beat them, I’m absolutely sure of it! You should be very grateful to me, eh? Didn’t I tell you this place was a gold-mine?’
He himself had just taken a restaurant at Vincennes. It was an old dream he had secretly cherished while he was struggling in the silk business, terrified that he would not be able to sell his business before the crash came, and swearing that he would put what little money he had into a business that would enable him to rob people in comfort. The idea of a restaurant had come to him after a cousin’s wedding; stomachs were always good business, for he had been made to pay ten francs for some washing-up water with a few noodles swimming about in it. In the presence of the Robineaus, his joy at having saddled them with a bad business he had been desperate to rid himself of made his face, with its round eyes and big, honest mouth, seem even broader; it positively beamed with health.
‘And how are your pains?’ Madame Robineau asked kindly.
‘What? My pains?’ he murmured in surprise.
‘Yes, those rheumatic pains you suffered from so badly when you were here.’
He remembered and blushed slightly.
‘Oh! I’ve still got them … However, the country air, you know … Never mind, you got a real bargain. If it hadn’t been for my rheumatism I’d have retired within ten years with an income of ten thousand francs … That’s for sure.’
A fortnight later the struggle between Robineau and the Ladies’ Paradise began. It immediately became celebrated, and for a time the whole Parisian market was taken up with it. Robineau, using his opponent’s own weapons, had put advertisements in the newspapers. And he also took great pains over his display, heaping up huge piles of the famous silk in his windows, announcing it with big white placards on which the price of five francs fifty stood out in giant figures. It was this figure that caused a revolution amongst the ladies—ten centimes cheaper than at the Ladies’ Paradise, and the silk seemed stronger! From the very first day there was a stream of customers: Madame Marty, under the pretext of showing how economical she was, bought a dress she did not need; Madame Bourdelais thought the material was lovely, but said she would rather wait, sensing no doubt what was going to happen. And in fact the following week Mouret boldly reduced the price of the Paris-Paradise by twenty centimes, offering it at five francs forty; he had had a lively discussion with Bourdoncle and the other managers before convincing them that they had to take up the challenge, and accept losing on the purchase price; those twenty
centimes meant a dead loss, for the silk was already being sold at cost price. It was a severe blow for Robineau; he had not thought that his rival would lower his prices, for such suicidal competitions, such loss-leading sales, were then unknown; and the stream of customers, responding to the lower prices, had immediately flowed back to the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, while the shop in the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs gradually emptied. Gaujean rushed up from Lyons, there were anxious confabulations, and in the end a heroic decision was taken: the price of the silk would be reduced; they would sell it at five francs thirty, a price below which no one in their senses would go. The next day Mouret priced his material at five francs twenty. And, from then on, they all went mad. Robineau replied with five francs fifteen, whereupon Mouret changed his price tickets to five francs ten. They were now fighting with only five centimes, and lost considerable sums each time they made this gift to the public. The customers laughed, delighted with this duel, excited by the terrible blows the two shops were giving each other in order to please them. Finally, Mouret ventured as low as five francs; his staff paled in terror before such defiance of fortune. Robineau, utterly beaten, out of breath, also stopped at five francs, not having the courage to go any lower. They remained entrenched, face to face, with the wreckage of their goods around them.
But if honour was saved on both sides, for Robineau the situation was becoming critical. The Ladies’ Paradise had loans and enough customers to enable it to break even; whereas he, with no one but Gaujean to support him, and unable to recoup his losses with other wares, remained at a low ebb, and every day slipped a little further down the slope towards bankruptcy. He was dying from his own rashness, in spite of the many customers he had gained as a result of the ups and downs of the struggle. One of his secret torments was to see those customers slowly leaving him to go back to the Ladies’ Paradise, after all the money he had lost and the efforts he had made to win them over.
One day he lost all patience. A customer, Madame de Boves, had come to look at his coats, for he had added a ladieswear department to the silks which were his speciality. She could not make up her mind, and was complaining about the quality of the materials. Finally she said:
‘Their Paris-Paradise is much stronger.’
Robineau restrained himself, and assured her with his salesman’s politeness that she was mistaken; and he was all the more respectful because he was afraid that his anger might get the better of him.
‘Just look at the silk this cloak is made of!’ she resumed.
‘It looks just like a spider’s web … You may say what you like, Monsieur, their silk at five francs is like leather compared with this.’
He did not say any more, his face crimson and his lips tightly closed. It so happened that he had had the ingenious idea of buying the silk for his ready-made clothes from his rival. This meant that it was Mouret who was losing on the material, not him. He simply cut off the selvedge.
‘Really, you think the Paris-Paradise is thicker?’ he murmured. ‘Oh, a hundred times thicker!’ said Madame de Boves. ‘There’s no comparison.’
The unfairness of his customer, running down his goods in this way, was making his blood boil. And, as she was still turning the cloak round with a distasteful air, a little bit of the blue and silver selvedge which had escaped the scissors showed under the lining. Whereupon he could no longer contain himself, and owned up, not caring now what she might think.
‘Well, madam, this silk is Paris-Paradise. I bought it myself! Yes, look at the selvedge!’
Madame de Boves went away very annoyed. The story spread very quickly, and many of Robineau’s customers promptly left him. And in the midst of his downfall, when fear for the future seized him, he worried only for his wife, who had been brought up in happy security, and was incapable of living in poverty. What would happen to her if a catastrophe were to throw them into the street with piles of debts? It was his fault, he should never have touched her sixty thousand francs. She had to console him. Hadn’t the money been as much his as hers? He loved her, she did not want anything else, she gave him everything, her heart, her life. In the room at the back of the shop they could be heard kissing. Little by little their affairs became more stable; every month their losses increased relatively slowly, which postponed the fatal issue. Stubborn hope kept them going; they still proclaimed the imminent collapse of the Ladies’ Paradise.
‘Pooh!’ he would say, ‘we’re still young, aren’t we? The future is ours!’
‘In any case, what does it matter, as long as you did what you wanted to do?’ she would say. ‘As long as you’re happy, I’m happy, darling.’
Seeing how much they loved each other, Denise herself began to feel quite fond of them. She was afraid that the crash was inevitable, but she no longer dared to interfere. It was now that she finally understood the power of the new business methods, and became full of enthusiasm for this force which was transforming Paris. Her ideas were becoming more mature, and the grace of a woman was emerging from the timid child who had arrived from Valognes. Besides, in spite of her tiredness and lack of money, her life was fairly pleasant. Having spent the whole day on her feet, she had to hurry home to look after Pépé whom old Bourras, fortunately, insisted on feeding; and she had other things to do as well, a shirt to wash, a blouse to mend, not to mention the noise the little boy made, which gave her splitting headaches. She never went to bed before midnight. Sunday was the day when she did all the heavy work: she cleaned her room, and tidied herself up, so busy that it was often five o’clock before she had time to comb her hair. However, she was sensible enough to go out sometimes, taking the child with her for a long walk in the direction of Neuilly; and, once there, they would have a treat and drink a cup of milk at a dairyman’s, who allowed them to sit down in his yard. Jean disdained these outings; he would turn up now and again on weekday evenings, then would disappear, saying he had other visits to make; he no longer asked for money, but he would arrive looking so dejected that his sister, who worried about him, always had a five-franc piece put aside for him. This was her extravagance.
‘Five francs!’ Jean would exclaim each time. ‘I say! You are too good to me! It just so happens that the stationer’s wife …’
‘Shut up,’ Denise would say. ‘I don’t want to know.’
But he would think she was accusing him of boasting.
‘But I tell you she’s a stationer’s wife … Oh! really gorgeous!’
Three months went by. Spring was coming round again. Denise refused to go to Joinville again with Pauline and Baugé. She met them sometimes in the Rue Saint-Roch, when she was leaving Robineau’s. One evening Pauline confided to her that she was perhaps going to marry her lover—it was she who couldn’t make up her mind; they didn’t like married salesgirls at the Ladies’ Paradise. This idea of marriage surprised Denise, and she did not dare to advise her friend. One day Colomban stopped her near the fountain to talk to her about Clara, and just at that moment the latter crossed the square; Denise had to make her escape, for he was begging her to ask her former colleague if she would like to marry him. What was the matter with them all? Why did they torment themselves like this? She considered herself very lucky not to be in love with anyone.
‘Have you heard the news?’ the umbrella dealer said to her one evening as she came in.
‘No, Monsieur Bourras.’
‘Well! The scoundrels have bought the Hôtel Duvillard … I’m surrounded!’
He was waving his long arms about in a fit of rage which was making his white mane stand on end.
‘It’s all very fishy, and impossible to understand!’ he resumed. ‘It seems that the hôtel belonged to the Crédit Immobilier, and its chairman, Baron Hartmann, has just sold it to that devil Mouret… Now they’ve got me on the right, on the left, and behind—just like I’m holding the knob of this stick in my fist!’
It was true; the sale was due to have been concluded the day before. It had seemed as if Bourras’s little house, squeez
ed in between the Ladies’ Paradise and the Hôtel Duvillard, hanging on there like a swallow’s nest in a crack in the wall, would certainly be crushed on the day the shop invaded the Hôtel Duvillard; and this day had come; the colossus was encircling the feeble obstacle, surrounding it with stacks of goods, threatening to swallow it up, to absorb it by the sheer force of its gigantic suction. Bourras could feel the pressure which was making his shop crack. He thought he could see the place shrinking; the terrible machine was roaring so loudly now that he was afraid of being swallowed up himself, of being sucked through the wall with his umbrellas and walking-sticks.
‘Can you hear them?’ he shouted. ‘It’s as if they were eating the walls! And everywhere, in my cellar, in my loft, there’s the same noise, of saws cutting into plaster … Never mind! Perhaps after all they won’t be able to flatten me out like a sheet of paper. I’ll stay, even if they make my roof cave in and the rain falls on my bed in bucketfuls!’
It was now that Mouret made fresh proposals to Bourras: the figure was increased—they would buy his business and the lease for fifty thousand francs. This offer redoubled the old man’s fury and he refused it with insults. How these scoundrels must be robbing people to pay fifty thousand francs for something which wasn’t worth ten thousand! And he defended his shop as a decent girl defends her virtue, in the name of honour, out of self-respect.
For about a fortnight Denise saw that Bourras was preoccupied. He moved around feverishly, measuring the walls of his house, looking at it from the middle of the street with the air of an architect. Then, one morning, some workmen arrived. The decisive battle had begun; he had had the rash idea of beating the Ladies’ Paradise at its own game by making certain concessions to modern luxury. Customers who reproached him for his dark shop would certainly come back again when they saw it bright and new. First of all, the cracks were filled in and the front was distempered; next, the woodwork in the shop-window was painted light green; he even carried this magnificence so far as to gild the signboard. Three thousand francs, which Bourras had been keeping in reserve as a last resource, were swallowed up in this way. The neighbourhood, what is more, was in uproar; people came to gaze at him losing his head amid these riches, unable to pick up his old ways again. Bewildered, his long beard and white hair wilder than ever, he no longer seemed at home in this gleaming new setting, against this pastel background. Passers-by on the opposite side of the street watched him in astonishment as he waved his arms about and carved his handles. He was in a state of fever, afraid of making things dirty, sinking ever deeper into this luxury business, of which he understood nothing.