Nowadays, morning and evening, when the thousand employees were going in and leaving, they stretched out in such a long queue in the Place Gaillon that people would stop to look at them, as they would at a passing regiment. They blocked up the pavements for ten minutes; and the shopkeepers standing at their doors would think of their sole assistant whom they already had trouble feeding. The big shop’s last stock-taking, when the turnover had been forty million, had also revolutionized the neighbourhood. The figure had spread from house to house, amidst cries of surprise and rage. Forty million! It was unimaginable! Doubtless with their heavy trade expenses and their system of low prices the net profit was at most four per cent. But a profit of sixteen hundred thousand francs was still a pretty good sum; one could be content with four per cent when one operated on such a scale. It was said that Mouret’s starting capital of five hundred thousand francs, increased every year by the total profits, a capital which by now must have become four million, had thus passed ten times over the counters in the form of goods. Robineau, when he made this calculation before Denise, after dinner, was overcome for a moment, his eyes fixed on his empty plate: she was right, it was this incessant renewal of capital that constituted the invincible strength of the new way of business. Bourras alone, as proud and stupid as a monument, still denied the facts, and refused to understand. They were just a pack of thieves, and nothing more! A bunch of liars! Charlatans, who would be fished out of the river one fine morning!
The Baudus, however, in spite of their wish not to make any changes in the ways of the Vieil Elbeuf, were still trying to compete. The customers no longer came to them, so they did all they could to go to the customers by using agents. There was at that time in the Place de Paris an agent who had connections with all the great tailors, and who was the salvation of small shops selling cloth and flannel when he chose to represent them. Naturally there was a lot of competition to get him; he was becoming an important personality; and Baudu, having haggled with him over his fee, had the misfortune of seeing him come to an agreement with the Matignons in the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs. Two other agents robbed him in quick succession; a third, who was honest, did nothing to help him. They were dying a slow death: there were no shocks, just a continuous slowing-down of business as customers disappeared one after another. Eventually it became difficult to pay the bills. Until then, they had been living on their savings; from now on they began to accumulate debts. In December, Baudu, terrified by the number of his promissory notes, resigned himself to the cruellest of sacrifices: he sold his country house at Rambouillet, the house which cost so much money in continual repairs, and for which the tenants had not even paid the rent when he decided to get rid of it. This sale killed the only dream of his life, and his heart bled for it as for the loss of a loved one. And he had to accept seventy thousand francs for a property which had cost him more than two hundred thousand. He was lucky, indeed, to find the Lhommes, his neighbours, whose desire to add to their property made them decide to buy it. The seventy thousand francs would keep the shop going for a little while longer. In spite of all the set-backs, the idea of a fight was reviving: if they were careful, they might still be able to win through.
On the Sunday on which the Lhommes paid the money, they consented to dine at the Vieil Elbeuf. Madame Aurélie arrived first, but they had to wait for the cashier, who arrived late and agitated as a result of having spent the whole afternoon making music; as for young Albert, he accepted the invitation, but did not put in an appearance. It was, moreover, a rather painful evening. The Baudus, living without any air in the depths of their narrow dining-room, suffered from the sudden gust of wind brought into it by the Lhommes, with their scattered family and their taste for the free life. Geneviève, offended by Madame Aurélie’s imperial manner, did not open her mouth; whereas Colomban looked at her with admiration, thrilled at the thought that she reigned over Clara.
That evening, when Madame Baudu was already in bed, Baudu, before joining her, walked about the room for a long time. It was a mild night, thawing and damp. Outside, in spite of the tightly closed windows and drawn curtains, the roar of the machines on the building site opposite could be heard.
‘Do you know what I’m thinking about, Elizabeth?’ he said finally. ‘Well, although those Lhommes are making a lot of money, I’d rather be in my shoes than in theirs … They’re successful, it’s true. She told us, didn’t she, that she’s made nearly twenty thousand francs this year, and that enabled her to take my poor house from me. It doesn’t matter! I’ve lost my house, but at least I don’t go playing music in one direction while you go gadding about in the other … No, you know, they can’t be happy.’
He was still grieving over his sacrifice, and still felt a grudge against them for having bought his dream from him. When he came near the bed, he leaned over his wife, gesticulating; then, returning to the window, he was silent for a moment, listening to the din from the building site. Then he started making his old accusations again, his despairing complaints about modern times: such things had never been seen before; shop assistants were now earning more than shopkeepers, cashiers were buying up their employers’ estates! As a result, everything was breaking up, the family no longer existed, people lived in hotels instead of supping decently at home. Finally, he ended by prophesying that before long young Albert would swallow up the estate at Rambouillet with his actresses.
Madame Baudu listened to him, her head flat on the pillow, so pale that her face was the same colour as the sheets.
‘They’ve paid you,’ she finally said softly.
At this Baudu fell silent. He walked up and down for a few seconds, his eyes on the ground. Then he resumed:
‘They’ve paid me, it’s true; and, after all, their money’s as good as anyone else’s … It would be funny if we got the shop on its feet again with that money. Oh! If only I wasn’t so old and tired!’
A long silence ensued. The draper was absorbed by vague plans. Suddenly, looking at the ceiling and without moving her head, his wife spoke:
‘Have you noticed your daughter lately?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Well, she rather worries me … She’s growing pale; she seems to be pining away.’
Standing by the bed, he was full of surprise.
‘Really? But why? If she’s ill she should say so. We must send for the doctor tomorrow.’
Madame Baudu still remained motionless. After a good minute she simply declared in her thoughtful way:
‘This marriage with Colomban—I think it would be better to get it over with.’
He looked at her, then started to walk up and down again. Certain things were coming back to him. Could his daughter really be falling ill on account of the shop assistant? Did she love him so much that she couldn’t wait? This was yet another misfortune! It upset him, especially as he himself had definite ideas about the marriage. He would never have wanted it to take place under present circumstances. However, anxiety was softening him.
‘Very well,’ he said finally, ‘I’ll speak to Colomban.’
And without saying another word he continued to walk up and down. Soon his wife’s eyes closed, and she looked quite white as she slept, as if she were dead. But he still kept on walking about. Before getting into bed he parted the curtains and glanced out; on the other side of the street the gaping windows of the old Hôtel Duvillard formed holes through which he could see the building site, where workmen were moving about in the glare of the electric lamps.
The following morning Baudu led Colomban to the end of a narrow part of the shop on the mezzanine floor. He had decided the day before what he would say.
‘My boy,’ he began. ‘You know that I’ve sold my house at Rambouillet. That’s going to enable us to make a special effort… But first of all I’d like to have a little talk with you.’
The young man, who seemed very nervous about the interview, waited awkwardly. His small eyes were blinking in his broad face, and he stood there with
his mouth open, which was always a sign that he was deeply disturbed.
‘Listen,’ the draper resumed. ‘When old Hauchecorne handed the Vieil Elbeuf over to me, the shop was prosperous; he himself had received it in good condition from old Finet… You know my ideas; I’d think it wrong if I passed this family trust on to my children in a depleted state; and that’s why I’ve always put off your marriage to Geneviève. Yes, I was stubborn, I hoped to bring back our former prosperity. I wanted to hand you the books and say: “Look! In the year I joined we sold so much cloth, and this year, the year I retire, we’ve sold ten or twenty thousand francs’ worth more of it…” In short, it was a vow I’d made to myself, you see, the very natural desire to prove to myself that the shop had not gone downhill while it was in my hands. Otherwise I’d feel that I was robbing you.’
His voice was choking with emotion. He blew his nose in order to pull himself together, and asked:
‘Why don’t you say something?’
But Colomban had nothing to say. He shook his head, and waited, more and more worried, thinking he had guessed what his employer was getting at. It was marriage without further delay. How could he refuse? He would never have the strength to do so. And what about the other girl, the one he dreamed of at night, his flesh scorched by such burning passion that he would throw himself on the floor, quite naked, afraid it would kill him!
‘At the moment,’ Baudu continued, ‘we’ve got some money which might save us. The situation’s becoming worse every day, but perhaps if we make a supreme effort… Well, I wanted to warn you. We’re going to stake everything. If we’re beaten, well, that’ll be the end of us … But I’m afraid, my boy, that this means that your marriage will have to be postponed again, for I don’t want to throw you two into the fight all on your own. That would be too cowardly, wouldn’t it?’
Colomban, relieved, had sat down on some pieces of duffel. His legs were still shaking. He was afraid that he might show his joy, and held his head down, while rapping his fingers on his knees.
‘Why don’t you say something?’ Baudu repeated.
No, he did not say anything, he could think of nothing to say. So the draper went on slowly:
‘I was sure that this would grieve you … Pull yourself together a bit, don’t be crushed like that… Above all, try to understand my position. How can I tie a stone like that round your neck? Instead of leaving you a good business, I might perhaps leave you a bankruptcy. No, only scoundrels play tricks like that… Of course, I just want you to be happy, but no one will ever make me go against my conscience.’
He went on for a long time, struggling with contradictory phrases, like a man who would have liked to be understood without saying anything and finds himself forced to explain everything. As he had promised his daughter and the shop to Colomban, strict probity obliged him to hand them both over in good condition, without defects or debts. But he was tired; he felt that the burden was too heavy for him, and his faltering voice betrayed a note of supplication. The words became even more confused on his lips; he was waiting for Colomban to burst out with something, to utter a heartfelt cry; but it never came.
‘Of course I know,’ he murmured, ‘old people lack fire … With young people things light up. They’re full of fire, it’s natural… But, no, no, I can’t do it, really I can’t! If I handed it over to you now, you’d blame me for it later on!’
He finally stopped, trembling; and, as the young man was still hanging his head, after a painful silence he asked him for the third time:
‘Why don’t you say something?’
At last, without looking at him, Colomban replied:
‘There’s nothing to say … You’re the master, you’re wiser than the rest of us. Since you insist, we’ll wait, we’ll try to be sensible.’
That was all Colomban had to say. Baudu was still hoping that he would throw himself into his arms, crying, ‘Father, you should rest, it’s our turn to fight; give us the shop as it is, so that we can perform the miracle of saving it!’ Then he looked at him, and was overcome with shame; he secretly accused himself of having wanted to dupe his children. The shopkeeper’s mania for honesty was aroused in him; it was this cautious young man who was right, for there are no feelings in business, there are only figures.
‘Give me a kiss, my boy,’ he said in conclusion. ‘It’s settled then, we won’t talk about the marriage for another year. We must think about serious things first.’
That evening in their bedroom, when Madame Baudu questioned her husband as to the results of his conversation with Colomban, he had regained his obstinate determination to fight personally to the bitter end. He praised Colomban to the skies: a reliable lad, steadfast in his ideas and, what’s more, brought up according to sound principles, incapable, for example, of joking with the customers like those young dandies at the Paradise. No, he was honest, he was one of the family, he didn’t gamble on the sales as if they were shares on the Stock Exchange.
‘Well, when will the wedding be?’ asked Madame Baudu.
‘Later,’ he replied. ‘When I’m in a position to keep my promises.’
She made no movement, but simply remarked:
‘It’ll be the death of her.’
Roused to anger, Baudu controlled himself. It would be the death of him if they continually upset him like that! Was it his fault? He loved his daughter, he talked of laying down his life for her; but he couldn’t make the shop do well when it refused to do so. Geneviève should be sensible and wait patiently until they had a better balance sheet. Damn it all! Colomban was going to stay there, no one would steal him!
‘It’s incredible!’ he went on repeating. ‘Such a well-brought-up girl!’
Madame Baudu said no more. No doubt she had guessed the agonies of jealousy Geneviève was suffering; but she did not dare confide them to her husband. A strange feminine modesty had always prevented her from broaching certain delicate, intimate subjects with him. When he saw that she remained silent, he directed his anger against the people opposite, shaking his fists in the air at the building site where, that night, iron girders were being installed with great blows from a hammer.
Denise had decided to go back to the Ladies’ Paradise. She could see that the Robineaus, forced to cut down their staff, did not know how to give her notice. The only way they could keep going was by doing everything themselves; Gaujean, persisting in his feud with the Paradise, kept extending their credit, and even promised to find funds for them; but they were starting to get frightened, and they wanted to make an attempt at economy and order. For a fortnight Denise felt that they were ill at ease with her; and she was forced to take the initiative and say that she had a job elsewhere. It was a relief; Madame Robineau, deeply moved, kissed her, swearing that she would always miss her. Then when, in reply to a question, the girl answered that she was going back to Mouret’s shop, Robineau turned pale.
‘You’re right,’ he shouted violently.
It was not so easy to break the news to old Bourras. Nevertheless, Denise had to give him notice, and she dreaded it, for she remained deeply grateful to him. Bourras, just at this time, was in a constant state of anger, for he was now totally surrounded by the hubbub of the neighbouring building site. The builders’ carts blocked the way to his shop; pickaxes beat against his walls; everything in his house, all the umbrellas and walking-sticks, danced to the noise of hammers. It seemed as if the hovel, obstinately remaining in the midst of all this demolition work, was going to give way. But what was worst of all was that the architect, in order to connect the shop’s existing departments with those which were being installed in the old Hôtel Duvillard, had had the idea of digging a passage underneath the little house which separated them. This house belonged to Mouret & Co. Ltd., and as the lease stipulated that the tenant had to agree to any repair work that might be carried out, one fine morning some workmen turned up. At this, Bourras nearly had a stroke. Wasn’t it enough to constrict him on all sides, left, right, and centre, wit
hout grabbing him by the feet as well and eating the earth from under him? He had chased the workmen away, and was taking the matter to court. Repair work, agreed! But this was a question of making improvements. It was thought in the neighbourhood that he would win the case, but no one was certain. At any rate, it threatened to be a long one, and people were taking a passionate interest in this interminable duel.
On the day when Denise finally resolved to give him notice, it so happened that Bourras was just returning from his lawyer.
‘Would you believe it!’ he exclaimed. ‘They’re saying now that the house is unsound; they’re trying to make out that the foundations need repairing. Really! They’ve shaken it up so much with their damned machines. It’s not surprising if it’s breaking up!’
Then, when the girl had announced to him that she was leaving, that she was going back to the Paradise with a salary of a thousand francs, he was so shaken that he could only raise his old, trembling hands in the air. Emotion had made him sink into a chair.
‘You! You too!’ he stammered. ‘Well, I’m the only one now, I’m the only one left!’
After a silence he asked:
‘What about the boy?’
‘He’ll go back to Madame Gras,’ Denise replied. ‘She was very fond of him.’
They fell silent again. She would have preferred him to be furious, swearing, banging his fists; the sight of the old man speechless and crushed made her heart bleed. But he gradually recovered, and started shouting again.
‘A thousand francs, you don’t turn that sort of money down … You’ll all go. Go on then, leave me on my own. Yes, on my own, do you hear? There’s one person who’ll never give in … And tell them I’ll win my case, even if I have to put my last shirt on it!’