Meanwhile, like Robineau, Bourras had launched his campaign against the Ladies’ Paradise. He had just put his new invention on the market, the frilled umbrella, which later on was to become popular. The Paradise, however, immediately improved the invention. Then the struggle over prices began. He had a model at one franc ninety-five, in zanelle, with a steel frame, which, according to the label, would last for ever. But he hoped above all to beat his rival with his handles, handles of bamboo, of dogwood, of olive wood, of myrtle, of rattan, every imaginable kind of handle. The Paradise, being less artistic, paid more attention to the materials, boasting of its alpacas and mohairs, its serges and taffetas. And it was victorious. The old man repeated in despair that art was done for, that he was reduced to carving handles for pleasure, with no hope of selling them.
‘It’s my fault!’ he cried to Denise. ‘I should never have got trash like that at one franc ninety-five… That’s where new ideas get you. I wanted to follow those robbers’ example; so much the better if I’ve ruined myself because of it!’
July was very hot, and Denise suffered greatly in her little room under the tiles. Therefore, when she left the shop she would fetch Pépé from Bourras and, instead of going up to her room straight away, she would go to the Tuileries Gardens for a breath of fresh air until the gates were closed. One evening, as she was walking towards the chestnut trees, she stopped short: she thought she recognized Hutin, a few steps away and walking straight towards her. Then her heart beat violently: it was Mouret, who had dined on the Left Bank and was hurrying along on foot to Madame Desforges’s house. Denise’s sudden attempt to avoid him caught his attention. Night was falling, but he recognized her all the same.
‘Is it you, Mademoiselle Baudu?’
She did not reply, astonished that he had deigned to stop. With a smile, he hid his embarrassment beneath an air of kindly patronage.
‘So you’re still in Paris?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said at last.
She was slowly backing away, trying to say goodbye and continue her walk. But he turned and followed her under the dark shadows of the tall chestnut trees. The air was getting cooler; in the distance children were laughing and bowling hoops.
‘That’s your brother, isn’t it?’ he went on, looking at Pépé.
The little boy, intimidated by the unusual presence of a gentleman with them, was walking solemnly by his sister’s side, holding her hand.
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied once more.
She blushed, thinking of the dreadful stories which Marguerite and Clara had invented. No doubt Mouret understood why she was blushing, for he quickly added:
‘Listen, Mademoiselle Baudu, I owe you an apology … Yes, I would have liked to tell you before how much I regretted the mistake that was made. You were too lightly accused of misbehaviour … Well, the harm’s been done; I just wanted to tell you that everyone in the shop now knows of your love for your brothers …’
He went on, with a respectful politeness to which the salesgirls in the Ladies’ Paradise were not at all accustomed. Denise’s embarrassment had increased; but her heart was filled with joy. So he knew that she had not given herself to anyone! They both remained silent; he stayed close beside her, adjusting his gait to the child’s small steps; and the distant sounds of Paris were dying away under the dark shadows of the spreading chestnut trees.
‘There is only one thing I can offer you, Mademoiselle Baudu,’ he resumed. ‘Naturally, if you would like to come back to us …’
She interrupted him, refusing with feverish haste.
‘I can’t, sir … Thank you all the same, but I’ve found another situation.’
He knew, for he had been told that she was at Robineau’s. And calmly, on a footing of equality which was charming, he talked to her about Robineau, giving him his due: a very intelligent young man, but too highly strung. He would certainly come to grief; Gaujean had burdened him with too big an affair, which would be the end of them both. Denise, won over by this familiarity, began to confide in him more, making it clear that in their battle with the small tradespeople she was on the side of the big shops; she became excited, quoted examples, showed that she knew all about the question, and was even full of bold new ideas. He listened to her with surprise and delight and turned towards her, trying to distinguish her features in the growing dark. She seemed to be just the same still, with her simple dress and gentle face; but this modest simplicity gave off a penetrating perfume, and he felt its power. No doubt this little girl had grown accustomed to the air of Paris; she was becoming a woman, and she was disturbing, with her sensible manner and her beautiful hair heavy with passion.
‘Since you’re on our side,’ he said, laughing, ‘why do you stay with our opponents? I think someone told me that you lodge with that man Bourras.’
‘He’s a very worthy man,’ she murmured.
‘No, not at all, he’s a silly old fool, a madman who’ll force me to ruin him, though I’d be happy to get rid of him by paying him a fortune! Besides, his house isn’t the right place for you; it has a bad reputation, he lets to certain women …’
But he felt that Denise was embarrassed, and hastened to add:
‘One can be decent wherever one lives, and there’s even more merit in being so when one isn’t well off.’
They took a few more steps in silence. Pépé, with the attentive air of a precocious child, seemed to be listening to them. From time to time he looked up at his sister, whose burning hand, shaken by slight quivers, surprised him.
‘I know!’ Mouret went on gaily, ‘will you be my ambassador? I had intended to increase my offer tomorrow, to propose eighty thousand francs to Bourras … You speak to him about it first; tell him he’s cutting his own throat. Perhaps he’ll listen to you, because he’s fond of you, and you’ll be doing him a real service.’
‘All right!’ Denise replied, smiling back at him. ‘I’ll give him the message, but I doubt if I’ll succeed.’
They fell silent again. They had nothing more to say to each other. For a moment he tried to talk about her uncle Baudu; but seeing how ill at ease she was, he had to stop. They carried on walking side by side, and they finally came out near the Rue de Rivoli in an avenue where it was still light. Leaving the darkness of the trees was like a sudden awakening. He understood that he could not detain her any longer.
‘Good-night, Mademoiselle Baudu.’
‘Good-night, sir.’
But he did not go away. Raising his eyes, he had just caught sight of Madame Desforges’s lighted windows in front of him at the corner of the Rue d’Alger, where she was waiting for him. And looking at Denise again, he could now see her clearly in the pale dusk: she was really quite skinny compared to Henriette. Why was it that she stirred his heart like this? It was a stupid whim.
‘Here’s a little boy who’s getting tired,’ he resumed, just for something to say. ‘And you will remember, won’t you, that our shop is always open to you. You’ve only to knock, and I’ll give you all the compensation possible … Good-night.’
‘Good-night, sir.’
When Mouret had left her, Denise went back under the chestnut trees, into the dark shadows. For a long time she walked aimlessly between the enormous trunks, her face burning, her head buzzing with confused ideas. Pépé, still hanging on to her hand, was stretching his short legs to keep up with her. She had forgotten him. Finally he said:
‘You’re going too fast, Sis.’
At this she sat down on a bench; and, as he was tired, Pépé fell asleep across her lap. She held him, pressing him to her virginal bosom, her eyes far away in the distance. And when, an hour later, they walked slowly back to the Rue de la Michodière, she was again wearing the calm expression of a sensible girl.
‘Hell!’ Bourras shouted to her as soon as he saw her. ‘It’s happened … That scoundrel Mouret has just bought my house.’
He was beside himself, thrashing about by himself in the middle of his shop, making such wild gest
ures that he was in danger of breaking the windows.
‘Oh! The scoundrel! The fruiterer wrote to tell me. And d’you know how much he’s sold it for, my house? A hundred and fifty thousand francs, four times its value! He’s another thief! Just imagine, he used my decorations as a pretext; yes, he made the most of the fact that the house has just been done up like new … When are they going to stop making a fool of me?’
The thought that his money, spent on distemper and paint, had brought the fruiterer a profit exasperated him. And now Mouret would be his landlord: he would have to pay him! It was in his house, in the house of his detested rival, that he would be living from now on! Such a thought raised his fury to an even higher pitch.
‘I knew I could hear them digging through the wall… Now they’re here, it’s as if they’re eating out of my plate!’
And he slammed his fist on the counter, shaking the whole shop, making the umbrellas and parasols dance.
Denise, feeling dazed, had not been able to get a word in. She stood there motionless, waiting for his rage to subside, while Pépé, who was very tired, fell asleep on a chair. Finally, when Bourras calmed down a little, she resolved to give him Mouret’s message; no doubt the old man was angry, but the very excess of his anger and the impossible position in which he found himself might bring about a sudden acceptance.
‘I’ve just met someone,’ she began. ‘Yes, someone from the Paradise, and very well informed … It seems that tomorrow they’re going to offer you eighty thousand francs …’
He interrupted her with a terrible roar:
‘Eighty thousand francs! Eighty thousand francs! Not for a million, now!’
She wanted to reason with him. But the shop-door opened, and she suddenly drew back, pale and mute. It was her uncle Baudu, with his sallow face looking aged. Bourras seized his neighbour by the buttonholes, and shouted into his face without letting him say a word:
‘D’you know what they’ve had the nerve to offer me? Eighty thousand francs! They’ve stooped to that, the sharks! They think I’ll sell myself like a prostitute … Ah! They’ve bought the house and they think they’ve got me! Well, that’s it, they won’t get it! I might have given in perhaps, but now that it belongs to them, just let them try to get it!’
‘So it’s true?’ said Baudu in his slow voice. ‘I was told it was, and I came over to find out.’
‘Eighty thousand francs!’ Bourras was repeating. ‘Why not a hundred thousand? It’s all that money which makes me so angry. Do they think they’ll make me do such a foul thing, with their money? They won’t get it, by God! Never, never, d’you hear?’
Denise broke her silence to say in her calm way:
‘They’ll get it in nine years’ time, when your lease expires.’
And, despite the presence of her uncle, she begged the old man to accept. The struggle was becoming impossible; he was fighting against a superior force, he was mad to refuse the fortune they were offering. But he still refused. In nine years’ time, he truly hoped he would be dead, so as not to see them take over.
‘D’you hear that, Monsieur Baudu?’ he resumed. ‘Your niece is on their side, it’s her they’ve told to corrupt me … She’s on the side of those scoundrels, my word of honour!’
Her uncle, until then, had appeared not to notice Denise. He was tossing his head with the surly movement he affected on the doorstep of his shop every time she passed. But he slowly turned round and looked at her. His thick lips were trembling.
‘Yes, I know,’ he answered in a low voice.
He carried on looking at her. Denise, moved to the point of tears, found him much changed by grief. He was overwhelmed with secret remorse at not having helped her, and was perhaps thinking of the life of poverty she had just been through. Then the sight of Pépé asleep on the chair, in the middle of all the noise of the discussion, seemed to soften his heart.
‘Denise,’ he said simply, ‘come tomorrow with the little one and have some soup with us. My wife and Geneviève asked me to invite you if I saw you.’
She blushed deeply and kissed him. And as he was leaving, Bourras, pleased about this reconciliation, shouted after him:
‘She just needs a good talking to, she isn’t a bad girl… As far as I’m concerned, the house can fall down; they’ll find me in the rubble.’
‘Our houses are already falling down, neighbour,’ said Baudu with a gloomy air. ‘And we’ll all be buried in them.’
CHAPTER 8
MEANWHILE, the whole neighbourhood was talking about the great thoroughfare which was going to be opened up from the new Opéra* to the Bourse, and which was to be called the Rue du Dix-Décembre. The expropriation notices had been served, and two gangs of demolition workers were already attacking the site at both ends, one pulling down the old mansions in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, the other knocking down the flimsy walls of the old Vaudeville; and, as the pickaxes could be heard getting closer to each other, the Rue de Choiseul and the Rue de la Michodière got very excited about their condemned houses. Before a fortnight was out the breach would make a great gash through them, full of noise and sunshine.
But the neighbourhood was even more agitated by the building work going on at the Ladies’ Paradise. There was talk of considerable extensions, of gigantic shops occupying the three frontages of the Rue de la Michodière, the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, and the Rue Monsigny.* Mouret, it was said, had made a deal with Baron Hartmann, the chairman of the Crédit Immobilier, and was to occupy the whole block, except the future frontage on the Rue du Dix-Décembre where the Baron wanted to build a rival to the Grand Hotel. Everywhere the Paradise was buying up leases, shops were closing, tenants were moving out; and, in the empty buildings, an army of workmen was starting on the alterations, beneath clouds of plaster. In the midst of the upheaval, old Bourras’s narrow hovel was the only one that remained standing and intact, obstinately hanging on between the high walls swarming with bricklayers.
When, the next day, Denise went with Pépé to her uncle Baudu’s, the street was blocked up by a line of tip-carts which were unloading bricks outside what had once been the Hôtel Duvillard. Baudu was standing at his shop-door, looking on with a gloomy air. It seemed as if the Vieil Elbeuf was shrinking as the Ladies’ Paradise expanded. Denise thought the window-panes looked blacker, crushed even more beneath the low mezzanine floor with its round, prison-like bay windows; the damp had further discoloured the old green signboard; the whole front of the house, livid and somehow shrunken, was oozing with anguish.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said Baudu. ‘Be careful! They’ll run you over!’ Inside the shop Denise felt the same sense of sadness. It now seemed even gloomier, more overcome by the somnolence of ruin; empty corners formed dark cavities, dust was invading the counters and cash-desks, while a smell of cellars and saltpetre was coming from the bales of cloth, which were no longer moved around. At the cash-desk Madame Baudu and Geneviève stood mute and motionless, as if in some lonely spot where no one ever came to disturb them. The mother was hemming dusters. The daughter, her hands resting on her knees, was gazing into space.
‘Good-evening, Aunt,’ said Denise. ‘I’m so happy to see you again, and if I hurt your feelings, please forgive me.’
Madame Baudu, deeply moved, kissed her.
‘My dear,’ she replied, ‘if that was all that bothered me, you’d find me much more cheerful!’
‘Good evening, Cousin,’ Denise went on, kissing Geneviève on the cheeks.
The latter seemed to wake up with a start. She returned her kisses, but could find nothing to say. Then the two women picked up Pépé, who was holding out his little arms. The reconciliation was complete.
‘Well! It’s six o’clock, let’s have dinner,’ said Baudu. ‘Why didn’t you bring Jean?’
‘Well, he was supposed to be coming,’ murmured Denise, embarrassed. ‘I saw him this morning, and he faithfully promised me … Oh! You mustn’t wait for him, his employer must have kept him late.’
; She suspected some extraordinary adventure, and wanted to make excuses for him in advance.
‘Then let’s sit down,’ her uncle said.
Then, turning towards the dark back of the shop, he called: ‘Colomban, you can have your dinner at the same time as us. No one will come.’
Denise had not noticed the shop assistant. Her aunt explained that they had had to dismiss the other salesman and the girl. Business was becoming so bad that they only needed Colomban; and even he spent hours doing nothing, apathetic, dropping off to sleep with his eyes open.
In the dining-room the gas was burning, although they were still enjoying the long days of summer. Denise shivered slightly as she went in, her shoulders chilled by the coldness given off by the walls. Once more she saw the round table, the places laid on the oilcloth, the window getting its air and light from the depths of the stinking alley of the little yard. And these things, like the shop, seemed to her to have become gloomier than ever, and to be shedding tears.
‘Father,’ said Geneviève, embarrassed for Denise, ‘shall I close the window? It doesn’t smell very nice.’