‘Perhaps,’ replied the section-manager, still smiling and determined not to tell the truth.
Then, preceded by Denise, Madame Desforges slowly ascended the staircase. She had to stop every two or three seconds to avoid being carried away by the stream of people coming down. In the living vibration of the whole shop, the iron supports were perceptibly moving underfoot, as if trembling at the breath of the crowd. On each step, fixed to the floor, was a dummy displaying a motionless garment, a suit, or an overcoat, or a dressing-gown; they looked like a double row of soldiers lined up for some triumphal procession, and each one had a little wooden handle, like the handle of a dagger, stuck in the red flannel, which seemed to be bleeding where the neck had been severed.
Madame Desforges was at last reaching the first floor when a particularly violent surge of the crowd forced her to stop for a moment. The ground-floor departments, and the scattered crowd of customers she had just gone through, were now spread out below her. A fresh spectacle greeted her, an ocean of heads foreshortened, hiding the bodices beneath them, swarming with ant-like activity. The white price tickets had become nothing but thin lines, the piles of ribbon were crushed, the headland of flannel was a narrow wall cutting across the gallery; whilst the carpets and embroidered silks which decked the balustrades hung at her feet like processional banners attached to the rood-screen of a church. In the distance she could pick out the corners of the side-galleries, just as, from the eaves of a steeple, one can pick out the corners of neighbouring streets from the black spots of passers-by as they move about. But what surprised her most, exhausted as she was and her eyes blinded by the brilliant mixture of colours, was when she closed her eyelids: she found herself even more conscious of the crowd because of the muffled sound of a rising tide it was making, and the human warmth it gave off. A fine dust was rising from the floor, laden with the odour of Woman, the odour of her underlinen and the nape of her neck, of her skirts and her hair, a penetrating, all-pervading odour which seemed to be the incense of this temple dedicated to the worship of her body.
Mouret, still standing outside the reading-room with Vallagnosc, was breathing in this odour, intoxicating himself with it, repeating:
‘They’re at home. I know some women who pass the whole day here, eating cakes and writing their letters. It only remains for me to put them to bed.’
This joke made Paul smile; in the boredom born of his pessimism, he still considered the crowd utterly stupid to get so excited about a few new clothes. Every time he came to see his old school-friend he would go away almost annoyed, to see him so full of life in the midst of his following of coquettes. Wouldn’t one of them, empty-headed and empty-hearted as they were, teach him the stupidity and uselessness of existence? On that particular day, Octave seemed to be losing his splendid poise; he who usually breathed fire into his customers with the calm grace of someone operating a machine, seemed to have been swept up in the wave of passion which was gradually consuming the shop. Since he had seen Denise and Madame Desforges coming up the main staircase, he had been talking more loudly, gesticulating in spite of himself; and, though he pretended not to turn his head round towards them, he was nevertheless becoming more and more animated as he felt them approaching. He was getting red in the face; his eyes had something of the bewildered rapture which flickered in the end in the eyes of the customers.
‘You must be robbed of huge amounts,’ murmured Vallagnosc, who thought the crowd had a criminal look about it.
Mouret threw his arms out. ‘My dear chap, you can’t imagine how much.’
And excitedly, delighted to have something to talk about, he gave him all sorts of details and related various cases, dividing the thieves into categories. First, there were the professional thieves; these women did the least harm, for the police knew almost all of them. Then came the kleptomaniacs, who stole from a perverse desire, a new kind of neurosis which had been scientifically classified by a mental specialist who saw it as a symptom of the acute temptation exercised by the big shops.* Finally, there were pregnant women, who specialized in stealing particular items: thus, for example, the police superintendent had discovered in the home of one of them two hundred and forty-eight pairs of pink gloves, stolen from every shop in Paris.
‘So that’s why the women here have such an odd look in their eye!’ Vallagnosc murmured. ‘I’ve been watching them, with their greedy, guilty looks, like mad creatures … A fine school for honesty!’
‘I know!’ Mouret replied. ‘Although we make them at home here, we can’t let them take away the merchandise under their coats … And very respectable people, too. Last week we had a chemist’s sister and a judge’s wife. We’re trying to hush it up.’
He broke off in order to point out Jouve, who at that precise moment was shadowing a pregnant woman downstairs in the ribbon department. This woman, whose enormous belly was suffering a great deal from the pushing of the crowd, was accompanied by a woman friend whose business it was, no doubt, to defend her against the rougher knocks; each time she stopped in a department Jouve did not take his eyes off her, while her friend near her rummaged at leisure in the depths of the display boxes.
‘Oh! He’ll nab her,’ Mouret went on. ‘He knows all their tricks.’
But his voice trembled; his laugh was forced. Denise and Henriette, for whom he had been on the look-out all the time, were at last passing behind him, having had great difficulty in freeing themselves from the crowd. He turned round, and greeted his customer with the discreet greeting of a friend who does not want to compromise a woman by stopping her in the middle of a crowd of people. But she, on the alert, noticed immediately the glance with which he had first enveloped Denise. This girl must definitely be the rival whom she’d had the curiosity to come and see.
In the ladieswear department the salesgirls were losing their heads. Two girls were ill, and Madame Frédéric, the assistant buyer, had calmly given notice the day before, had gone to the pay-desk to have her account made up, and had dropped the Paradise from one minute to the next, just as the Paradise itself regularly dropped its employees. Since the morning, in the feverish activity of the sale, they had talked of nothing but this incident. Clara, kept on in the department because of Mouret’s whim, thought it was wonderful; Marguerite was describing Bourdoncle’s exasperation; while Madame Aurélie, who was very annoyed by it, declared that Madame Frédéric might at least have warned her, for no one could have imagined such deceit. Although Madame Frédéric had never confided in anyone, she was nevertheless suspected of having left the drapery business to marry the owner of some public baths not far from the Halles.
‘Madam requires a travel coat?’ Denise asked Madame Desforges, after offering her a chair.
‘Yes,’ the latter replied curtly, determined to be rude.
The department’s new decorations were of an austere richness: tall cupboards of carved oak, mirrors filling the whole width of the wall-panels, a red carpet which deadened the continual footsteps of customers. While Denise was fetching the travel coats Madame Desforges, looking round her, caught sight of herself in a mirror; and she sat there contemplating herself. Was she growing old then, if he was unfaithful to her with the first girl who passed by? The mirror reflected the whole department, with its endless commotion; but she saw nothing but her own pale face, she did not hear Clara behind her telling Marguerite about one of Madame Frédéric’s little mystifications, how she used to take a roundabout way, morning and evening, going through the Passage Choiseul, to create the impression that she lived, perhaps, on the Left Bank.
‘Here are our latest models,’ said Denise. ‘We have them in several colours.’
She laid out four or five coats. Madame Desforges looked at them with an air of disdain; and, as each one was shown her, she became more difficult. Why all those gathers, which made the garment look skimpy? And this one, with square shoulders, looked as if it was cut out with an axe! It’s all very well to travel, but one didn’t want to look like a sentr
y-box.
‘Show me something else, young lady.’
Denise unfolded the garments and folded them up again without allowing herself to show the slightest sign of irritation. And it was precisely her serene patience which made Madame Desforges more and more exasperated. She kept glancing at the mirror opposite her. Now that she could see herself in it next to Denise, she began to make comparisons. Was it possible for anyone to prefer this insignificant creature to her? She remembered now, this was the creature she had seen before, when she had first started work, and had seemed so hopeless and awkward, like a peasant girl who had just arrived from her village. Of course, nowadays, she did hold herself better, looking prim and proper in her silk dress. But how insignificant she was, how commonplace!
‘I’ll fetch some other model to show madam,’ Denise said calmly.
When she came back the scene started all over again. This time it was the materials which were too heavy, and were no good at all. Madame Desforges kept turning round and raising her voice, trying to attract Madame Aurélie’s attention in the hope that she would get the girl into trouble. But Denise, since her return, had little by little conquered the department; she felt at home there now, and the buyer even acknowledged that she had qualities rare in a salesgirl—stubborn gentleness and smiling conviction. And so Madame Aurélie gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, taking care not to interfere.
‘If madam would be kind enough to point out the type of thing she requires …’ Denise asked once more with her polite insistence, which nothing could discourage.
‘But you haven’t got a thing!’ cried Madame Desforges.
She broke off, surprised to feel a hand on her shoulder. It was Madame Marty, who was being propelled through the shop by her attack of spending. Since buying the scarves, the embroidered gloves, and the red parasol, her purchases had swollen to such an extent that the last salesman had just decided to put her parcels down on a chair, for they were breaking his arms; and he walked in front of her, pulling behind him the chair, on which petticoats, table-napkins, curtains, a lamp and three door-mats were piled up.
‘Hello there!’ she said, ‘are you buying a travel coat?’
‘Oh! Good heavens, no,’ replied Madame Desforges. ‘They’re awful!’
But Madame Marty had just noticed a striped coat which she rather liked. Her daughter Valentine was already examining it. So Denise, in order to get rid of the article, which was a model from the preceding year, called Marguerite; she, after a glance from her companion, described it as an exceptional bargain. When she had sworn that it had twice been reduced in price, that from a hundred and fifty francs it had been reduced to a hundred and thirty, and that it was now priced at a hundred and ten, Madame Marty was powerless to resist the temptation of such cheapness. She bought it, and the salesman who was accompanying her abandoned the chair and the whole bundle of invoices, which were still attached to the goods.
Meanwhile, behind the ladies’ backs, in the midst of the jostlings of the sales, the gossip of the department about Madame Frédéric still went on.
‘Really? Was she going with someone?’ asked a little salesgirl who was new to the department.
‘The man from the baths, of course!’ replied Clara. ‘You’ve got to watch those widows who seem so quiet.’
Then, while Marguerite was making out the bill for the coat, Madame Marty looked round; and, indicating Clara with a slight flutter of her eyelids, she said in a very low voice to Madame Desforges:
‘You know, she’s Monsieur Mouret’s whim of the moment.’
The other, surprised, looked at Clara, then her eyes travelled back to Denise as she replied:
‘Oh no, it isn’t the tall girl, it’s the little one!’
And, as Madame Marty did not dare to insist, Madame Desforges added in a louder voice, full of a lady’s contempt for chambermaids:
‘The small girl and the tall one as well, perhaps, all those who are willing!’
Denise had heard them. She looked up with her large, innocent eyes at the lady who was thus wounding her, and whom she did not know. No doubt it was the lady they had told her about, the friend whom her employer used to visit outside. In the look they exchanged Denise had such sad dignity, such candid innocence, that Henriette felt quite embarrassed.
‘As you haven’t got anything decent to show me,’ she said sharply, ‘would you please conduct me to the dresses and suits.’
‘Oh!’ said Madame Marty, ‘I’ll come with you … I wanted to look at a suit for Valentine.’
Marguerite took the chair by its back and dragged it along by its back legs, which were gradually getting worn out by its being carted about in this way. Denise had only to carry the few metres of foulard which Madame Desforges had bought. It was quite a journey, now that the suits and dresses were on the second floor, at the other end of the shop.
So the great trek through the crowded galleries began. Marguerite walked at the head of the procession, pulling the chair along like a little cart, slowly opening up a path for herself. As soon as she reached the lingerie department, Madame Desforges began to complain: they were ridiculous, these bazaars where you had to walk two miles to lay your hand on the slightest thing! Madame Marty, too, was saying that she was about to drop; and yet she was deriving great enjoyment from her tiredness, the slow exhaustion of her energies, in the midst of the inexhaustible display of merchandise. Mouret’s genius held her completely in its grip. As she passed through each department she could not help stopping. She made a first halt at the trousseaux, tempted by some chemises which Pauline sold to her, whereupon Marguerite got rid of the chair, which Pauline had to take over. Madame Desforges could have carried on walking, and thus liberated Denise more quickly; but she seemed happy to feel the girl standing behind her, motionless and patient, while she too lingered, giving her friend advice. In the baby-linen department the ladies went into ecstasies, without buying anything. Then Madame Marty’s weakness came over her again; she succumbed successively to a black satin corset, some fur cuffs which had been marked down because of the season, and some Russian lace which was often used at that time for trimming table-linen. All this was piling up on the chair; the parcels were mounting, making the wood creak; and the salesmen who succeeded each other harnessed themselves to it with increasing difficulty as the load became heavier.
‘This way, madam,’ Denise said without complaint after each halt.
‘But it’s absurd!’ exclaimed Madame Desforges. ‘We’ll never get there. Why didn’t they put the dresses and suits near the ladieswear department? What a mess!’
Madame Marty, whose eyes were dilating, intoxicated as she was by this parade of wondrous things dancing before her eyes, repeated under her breath:
‘Oh, dear! What will my husband say? You’re right, there’s no system in this shop. You lose your way, and do all sorts of silly things.’
On the great central landing the chair could hardly get through. Mouret had cluttered up the landing with a great display of fancy goods—cups with gilded zinc mounts, work-baskets, and trashy liqueur cabinets—because he felt that people were able to move about there too easily, that there was no crush there. He had also authorized one of his salesmen to display there, on a small table, Chinese and Japanese curiosities, a few trinkets at low prices, which the customers were eagerly snatching up. It was an unexpected success, and he was already thinking of extending this type of trade. While two porters were carrying the chair up to the second floor, Madame Marty bought six ivory buttons, some silk mice, and an enamelled match-case.
On the second floor the journey started again. Denise, who had been showing customers round in this way since the morning, was ready to drop with exhaustion; but she continued to be correct, amiable, and polite. She had to wait for the ladies once again at the furnishing fabrics, where a ravishing cretonne had caught Madame Marty’s eye. Then, in the furniture department, it was a work-table that took her fancy. Her hands were trembling, and she laughingly be
gged Madame Desforges to prevent her from spending any more, when a meeting with Madame Guibal gave her an excuse. It was in the carpet department; Madame Guibal had at last come upstairs to return a whole purchase of oriental door-curtains which she had made five days earlier! She stood talking to the salesman, a brawny young fellow with arms like a wrestler, who, from morning till night, moved loads which were enough to kill an ox. Naturally, he was full of consternation at this ‘return’, which robbed him of his percentage. Therefore he was trying to make his customer feel embarrassed; he suspected some shady goings-on. No doubt she had given a ball, and the door-curtains had been taken from the Paradise, and now returned, to avoid hiring them from a carpet dealer; he knew that this sort of thing was sometimes done by the thrifty middle classes. Madam must have some reason for returning them; if it was the designs or the colours which did not suit madam, he would show her something else—there was an extremely wide choice. To all these insinuations Madame Guibal replied calmly, with regal assurance, that she did not like the door-curtains any more, without deigning to give an explanation. She refused to see any others, and he had to give in, for the salesmen had orders to take back goods, even when they noticed that they had been used.
As the three ladies were walking off together, and Madame Marty, whose conscience was still troubling her, was again coming back to the work-table she did not need at all, Madame Guibal said to her in her calm voice:
‘Well! You can return it… Didn’t you just see? It’s so easy … Anyhow, let them send it to your house. You can put it in your drawing-room, and look at it; then, when you’re tired of it, bring it back.’
‘That’s a good idea!’ exclaimed Madame Marty. ‘If my husband gets too angry, I’ll return the whole lot.’
This was for her the supreme excuse; she no longer counted the cost but went on buying with the secret desire of keeping everything, for she was not the kind of woman who returns things.