‘Really! How could you let yourself be taken advantage of like that!’
‘But, my dear, I really couldn’t refuse the lad …’
She shut him up with a shrug of her great shoulders. Then, as the salesgirls were slyly grinning at this family argument, she carried on severely:
‘Come on, Mademoiselle Vadon, don’t let’s fall asleep!’
‘Twenty overcoats, double cashmere, size four, eighteen francs fifty!’ Marguerite cried out in her sing-song voice.
Lhomme, his head bowed, had resumed writing. Little by little his salary had been raised to nine thousand francs; but he remained humble towards Madame Aurélie, who earned nearly three times as much as that for the family.
For a little while the work went ahead. Figures flew about, parcels of clothes rained thick and fast on to the table. But Clara had thought of another amusement: she was teasing Joseph the porter about the crush he was supposed to have on a young lady who worked in the sample department. This girl, already twenty-eight years old, thin and pale, was a protégée of Madame Desforges, who had tried to make Mouret take her on as a salesgirl by telling him a touching story: she was an orphan, the last of the Fontenailles, an old aristocratic family from Poitou.* She had been dragged to Paris by a drunken father, and had remained virtuous in spite of her misfortune; but her education had unfortunately been too rudimentary for her to become a teacher or to give piano lessons. Usually Mouret became quite angry when people recommended poor society girls to him; there was no one, he would say, more inefficient, more unbearable, more insincere than a creature like that; and in any case you could not suddenly become a salesgirl, you had to serve an apprenticeship, it was a complex and difficult profession. However, he took Madame Desforges’s protégée, but put her in the sample department, just as he had obliged some friends by finding jobs for two countesses and a baroness in the publicity department, where they folded envelopes and wrappers. Mademoiselle de Fontenailles earned three francs a day, which just enabled her to live in a little room in the Rue d’Argenteuil. Joseph, who had a soft heart under his dour soldier’s manner, had been touched on seeing her so sad-looking and poorly dressed. He did not admit it, but he would blush when the girls from the ladieswear department teased him; the sample department was in a nearby room, and they had often noticed him hanging about outside the door.
‘Joseph’s easily distracted,’ Clara murmured. ‘His head keeps turning towards the lingerie.’
Mademoiselle de Fontenailles had been conscripted to help with the stock-taking at the trousseau counter. As the lad was, in fact, continually casting glances at the counter, the salesgirls began to laugh. He became very confused and buried his nose in his papers; while Marguerite, in order to smother the flood of mirth which was tickling her throat, began to shout even louder:
‘Fourteen jackets, English cloth, size two, fifteen francs.’
For once the voice of Madame Aurélie, who was in the process of calling out the cloaks, was drowned. With an offended air and majestic deliberation she said:
‘A little quieter, Mademoiselle Vadon. We’re not at the market… And you’re all very silly to amuse yourselves in this childish way when our time is so precious.’
Just then, as Clara was no longer watching the piles of clothes, a catastrophe occurred. Some coats tumbled down and all the other piles on the tables were pulled after them and fell down one after another. The carpet was littered with them.
‘There, what did I say!’ cried the buyer, beside herself. ‘Do take a little care, Mademoiselle Prunaire; this is becoming intolerable!’
But a tremor had suddenly run round the room: Mouret and Bourdoncle had just appeared, making their tour of inspection. Voices started calling out again, pens scratched, while Clara hastened to pick up the clothes. The director did not interrupt the work. He stood there for a few minutes, silent and smiling; his face was happy and triumphant, as it always was on stocktaking days, and his lips alone betrayed a nervous quiver. When he caught sight of Denise he almost made a gesture of astonishment. So she had come down? His eyes met Madame Aurélie’s. Then, after a short hesitation, he walked away and went into the trousseau department.
Meanwhile Denise, distracted by the slight murmur, had raised her head. Having recognized Mouret, she had simply bent over her papers again. A feeling of calm had stolen over her since she had begun writing in this mechanical way to the rhythmic sound of the articles being called out. She always gave way to her sensitive nature’s initial flood of feeling like that: tears would choke her, uncontrollable emotion doubled her suffering; then she would come to her senses again, and she would regain her splendid, calm courage, and her gentle but inexorable strength of will. Now, her eyes clear and her face pale, she was totally calm, absorbed in her work, resolved to ignore her heart and follow only her head.
Ten o’clock struck, and in the frenetic activity of the departments the din of the stock-taking grew even louder. And, despite the endless shouting on all sides, the same news was circulating with surprising rapidity: every salesman knew already that Mouret had written that morning to invite Denise to dinner. It was Pauline who had broken the news. As she had gone downstairs again, still shaken, she had met Deloche in the lace department; and, without noticing that Liénard was talking to the young man, she had got the news off her chest.
‘It’s happened, you know … She’s just got the letter. He’s invited her for this evening.’
Deloche had turned very pale. He had understood, for he often questioned Pauline, and they both talked every day about their common friend, about Mouret’s soft spot for her, about the famous invitation which would bring the whole thing to a head. And she would scold him for secretly loving Denise, for it would never result in anything, and would shrug her shoulders when he expressed his approval of the girl’s resistance to the governor.
‘Her foot’s better; she’s coming down,’ she continued. ‘Don’t make such a long face … This invitation is a piece of good luck for her.’
And she hurried back to her department.
‘Ah! I see,’ murmured Liénard, who had overheard. ‘It’s about the young lady with the sprained ankle … Well! You were right to be in a hurry to defend her in the café last night!’
And he, too, disappeared; but by the time he got back to the woollens he had already told the story of the letter to four or five salesmen. In less than ten minutes it was all round the shop.
Liénard’s last remark referred to a scene which had taken place the day before at the Café Saint-Roch. These days he and Deloche were never apart. Deloche had taken Hutin’s room at the Hôtel de Smyrne when the latter, promoted to assistant buyer, had moved into a little three-roomed flat; and the two shop assistants came to the Paradise together in the morning and waited for each other in the evening in order to go home together. Their rooms, which were adjacent, looked out over the same dark courtyard—a narrow hole, the smells from which poisoned the hotel. They got on well together, despite their different characters—the one squandering without a qualm the money he drew from his father, the other penniless, obsessed by ideas of economy—they did, however, have one thing in common: their lack of skill as salesmen, which left them both vegetating at their counters, without increases in salary. After work they spent most of their time at the Café Saint-Roch. Empty during the day, at about half-past eight this café would fill up with a great crowd of shop assistants, the crowd let out into the street through the big doorway in the Place Gaillon. From then on, there was a deafening noise of dominoes, laughter, and shrill voices, bursting out in the midst of the thick pipe smoke. Beer and coffee flowed. Seated in the left-hand corner Liénard would ask for the most expensive drinks, while Deloche made do with a glass of beer which he took four hours to consume. It was here that he had heard Favier, at a neighbouring table, saying abominable things about Denise, how she had ‘caught’ the governor by pulling up her skirts every time she went up a staircase in front of him. He had had to control
himself in order not to hit him. Then, as Favier had continued, saying that the girl went downstairs every night to meet her lover, Deloche, beside himself with rage, had called him a liar.
‘What a swine! He’s lying, he’s lying, d’you hear?’
And in his agitation he let out confessions in a stammering voice, pouring out his heart.
‘I know her, I know it isn’t true … She’s never been fond of any man except one: yes, Monsieur Hutin, and as he didn’t notice it he can’t even boast of having touched her with his little finger.’
An account of this quarrel, exaggerated and distorted, was already amusing the whole shop, when the story of Mouret’s letter went the rounds. It so happened that Liénard confided the news first of all to a silk salesman. In the silk department stocktaking was in full spate. Favier and two assistants, perched on stools, were emptying the shelves, passing the lengths of material to Hutin who, standing in the middle of a table, was calling out the figures after looking at the labels; then he would throw the lengths of material on to the floor, where they gradually piled up, rising like a spring tide. Other employees were writing; Albert Lhomme was helping them, his face blotchy from having spent the whole night in a low dance-hall at La Chapelle. A flood of sunshine was falling from the glazed roof of the hall, through which could be seen the blazing blue of the sky.
‘Draw those blinds!’ shouted Bouthemont, who was very busy supervising the job. ‘That sun’s unbearable!’
Favier, who was stretching up to reach a piece of material, grumbled under his breath:
‘How can they shut people up on such a superb day! There’s no danger of it raining on a stock-taking day! And they keep us under lock and key like galley-slaves while the whole of Paris is out walking!’
He passed the material to Hutin. The measurement was written on the label, and each time a piece was sold the quantity was deducted from it, which made the work much simpler. The assistant buyer shouted:
‘Fancy silk, small checks, twenty-one metres, six francs fifty!’
And the silk was added to the pile on the floor. Then he resumed a conversation he had already begun by saying to Favier:
‘So he wanted to fight you?’
‘Yes! I was quietly drinking my beer … There was no point in his saying that I was lying! She’s just had a letter from the governor inviting her to dinner … The whole shop is talking about it.’
‘What! I thought it had happened ages ago!’
Favier handed him another piece of material.
‘I know, I was absolutely sure. It looked as if they’d been together for ages.’
‘Ditto, twenty-five metres!’ shouted Hutin.
The dull thud of the material could be heard as he added in a lower voice:
‘You know what a loose life she led in that old fool Bourras’s house.’
Now the whole department was laughing about it without, however, interrupting the work. They were murmuring the girl’s name to themselves; backs were heaving with amusement, and there was a licking of lips at this juicy bit of gossip. Even Bouthemont, who took great delight in any sort of vulgarity, could not refrain from letting out a joke, the bad taste of which filled him with pleasure. Albert, who had woken up, swore that he had seen Denise between two soldiers at the Gros-Caillou.* At that moment Mignot was coming downstairs with the twenty francs he had just borrowed; he stopped, slipped ten francs into Albert’s hand, and arranged where they should meet that evening: the spree they had been planning, which had been held up for lack of money, was possible after all, in spite of the smallness of the sum. ‘Handsome’ Mignot, when he learned of the letter, made such a crude remark that Bouthemont felt obliged to intervene:
‘That’s enough now, gentlemen. It’s not our business … Come along now, Monsieur Hutin.’
‘Fancy silk, small check, thirty-two metres, six francs fifty!’ the latter shouted.
Pens were moving again, parcels were falling regularly, and the tide of materials was still rising, as if the waters of a river had been poured into it. The names of the fancy silks were called out ceaselessly. Favier remarked under his breath that the stock was going to be really impressive: the management would be so pleased—that idiot Bouthemont might be the best buyer in Paris, but as a salesman he was totally inept! Hutin smiled in delight, approving with a friendly glance; for, although he himself had introduced Bouthemont into the Ladies’ Paradise in order to get Robineau out, he was now undermining him in his turn with the firm intention of taking his place. It was the same type of warfare as before—treacherous insinuations slipped into the ears of the directors, excessive zeal in order to push himself forward, a whole campaign waged with suave cunning. Meanwhile Favier, towards whom Hutin was now showing renewed condescension, was furtively watching him, with a bilious expression, as if he had worked out how many mouthfuls the stocky little man would be, looking as if he was waiting until his comrade had devoured Bouthemont in order to devour him in his turn. He hoped to have the job of assistant buyer if Hutin were to become head of the department. Then they would see. Both of them, consumed by the fever which was raging from one end of the shop to the other, were talking of the probable increases in salary, without ceasing to call out the stock of fancy silks as they did so: they expected Bouthemont to get his thirty thousand francs that year; Favier estimated his salary and percentage at five thousand five hundred. Each season that the turnover of the department increased, the salesmen in it rose in rank and doubled their pay, like officers during a campaign.
‘Now then, haven’t you finished those light silks yet?’ said Bouthemont suddenly, with an irritated air. ‘What a dreadful spring it’s been, nothing but rain! People haven’t bought anything but black silks!’
His fat, jovial face darkened; he was watching the pile on the ground spreading, while Hutin was repeating even louder than before, in a ringing, almost triumphant voice:
‘Fancy silk, small check, twenty-eight metres, six francs fifty!’
There was still another shelf-full. Favier, his arms aching, had slowed down. As he handed the last lengths of material to Hutin he resumed in a low voice:
‘Oh, I was forgetting … Did you know that the assistant buyer from the ladieswear department used to be really keen on you?’
The young man seemed very surprised.
‘What! How so?’
‘Yes, that fool Deloche told us the secret… I remember how she used to make eyes at you.’
Since he had become assistant buyer Hutin had dropped music-hall singers and gone in for schoolteachers. In reality very flattered, he replied with an air of scorn:
‘I like them better upholstered, my dear fellow, and then I don’t go out with just anyone, as the governor does.’
He broke off and shouted:
‘White poult, thirty-five metres, eight francs seventy-five!’
‘Ah! At last!’ murmured Bouthemont, relieved.
But a bell rang, for the second meal service to which Favier always went. He got down from the stool and another salesman took his place; he had to step over the huge pile of material on the floor, which had grown even bigger. Similar piles were littered about in all the departments; the shelves, boxes, and cupboards were being gradually emptied, while the goods were overflowing on every side, under foot, between the tables, in a continual rising movement. In the linen department could be heard the dull sound of piles of calico falling on to the floor; in the haberdashery there was a light clattering of boxes; and distant rumblings were coming from the furniture department. All sorts of voices could be heard at the same time, shrill voices and thick voices; figures were whistling through the air; the immense nave was resounding with a rattling roar, the roar of forests in January, when the wind whistles in the branches.
Favier got clear at last and went upstairs to the dining-room. Since the extensions had been made to the Ladies’ Paradise, the refectories had been moved to the fourth floor of the new buildings. As he was hurrying along he caught up wit
h Deloche and Liénard, who had gone up ahead of him, so he fell back to walk with Mignot, who was following him.
‘Damn!’ he said in the kitchen corridor, staring at the blackboard on which the menu was inscribed. ‘You can see it’s stocktaking. What a treat! Chicken or rehashed mutton, and artichokes with salad oil! Their mutton won’t be very popular!’
Mignot sniggered, murmuring:
‘Everybody’s mad about chicken, then?’
Meanwhile Deloche and Liénard had taken their helpings and moved on. Then Favier, leaning through the hatch, said in a loud voice:
‘Chicken.’
But he had to wait; one of the waiters who was carving had just cut his finger, and this was causing some confusion. Favier remained in front of the hatch, looking into the kitchen. It had giant appliances—a central range on which two rails fixed to the ceiling carried, by means of a system of pulleys and chains, the colossal cooking-pots, which four men could not have lifted. Several cooks, standing out in their white aprons against the dark red of the cast iron, mounted on iron ladders and armed with skimmers on the end of long sticks, were supervising the hot-pot for the evening. Against the wall were grills big enough to roast martyrs on, saucepans in which a whole sheep could be cooked, a monumental plate-warmer, and a marble basin filled with a continual trickle of water. To the left could be seen a scullery with stone sinks that seemed like swimming-pools; while on the other side, to the right, there was a larder where red meat could be seen hanging on steel hooks. A potato-peeling machine was working away, tick-tocking like a mill. Two little carts, full of washed salad, were passing, pulled along by some kitchen-helps who were going to put them in the cool, under a fountain.