The Ladies' Paradise

Deloche turned very pale. He had understood, for he often questioned Pauline; each day they spoke of their common friend, and Mouret's passion for her. Moreover, she frequently scolded him for his secret love for Denise, with whom he would never succeed, and shrugged her shoulders when he expressed his approval of the girl's conduct with reference to their employer.

"Her foot's better, she's coming down," continued Pauline. "Pray don't put on that funeral face. There's no reason to cry." And thereupon she hastened back to her department.

"Ah! good!" murmured Liénard, who had heard everything, "you're talking about the young girl with the sprain. You were quite right to make haste in defending her last night at the café!"

Then he also ran off; but before he had returned to the woollen department, he had already related the story to four or five fellows. In less than ten minutes, it had gone the round of the whole shop.

Liénard's last remark to Deloche referred to a scene which had occurred on the previous evening, at the Café Saint-Roch. Deloche and he were now constantly together. The former had taken Hutin's room at the Hôtel de Smyrne, when that gentleman, on being appointed second-hand, had hired a suite of three rooms; and the two salesmen came to The Ladies' Paradise together in the morning, and waited for each other in the evening in order to go away together. Their rooms, which adjoined one another, overlooked a black yard, a narrow well, the stench from which pervaded the hotel. They got on very well together, notwithstanding their difference of character, the one carelessly squandering the money which he drew from his father, and the other penniless, perpetually tormented by ideas of thrift; both having, however, one point in common, their unskilfulness as salesmen, which kept them vegetating at their counters, without any increase of salary. After leaving the shop, they spent the greater part of their time at the Café Saint-Roch. Void of customers during the day, this café filled at about half-past eight with an overflowing crowd of employees, the stream of shopmen which rolled into the street from the great doorway in the Place Gaillon. Then a deafening uproar of dominoes, laughter and yelping voices burst forth amidst dense tobacco smoke. Beer and coffee were in great demand. Seated in the left-hand corner, Liénard would order the most expensive beverages, whilst Deloche contented himself with a glass of beer, which he would take four hours to drink. It was here that the latter had heard Favier relating, at a neighbouring table, some abominable things about the way in which Denise had "hooked" the governor. He had with difficulty restrained himself from striking him. However, as the other went on adding still viler and viler stories of the girl, he had at last called him a liar, feeling mad with rage.

"What a blackguard!" he had shouted. "It's a lie, it's a lie, I tell you!" And in the emotion agitating him, he had added a confession, entirely opening his heart in a stammering voice. "I know her, and it isn't true. She has never had any affection except for one man; yes, for Monsieur Hutin, and even he has never noticed it!"

The report of this quarrel, exaggerated and distorted, was already affording amusement to the whole shop when the story of Mouret's letter ran round. In fact, it was to a salesman in the silk department that Liénard first confided the news. With the silk-vendors the stock-taking was going on rapidly. Favier and two shopmen, mounted on stools, were emptying the shelves and passing the pieces of stuff to Hutin who, standing on a table, called out the figures, after consulting the tickets; and he then dropped the pieces on to the floor over which they spread, rising slowly like an autumn tide. Other employees were writing, Albert Lhomme being among the helpers, his face pale and heavy after a night spent in a low show at La Chapelle. A sheet of light fell from the glazed roof of the hall, through which could be seen the intense blue of the sky.

"Draw those blinds!" cried out Bouthemont who was very busy superintending the work. "That sun is unbearable!"

Favier, on tiptoe, trying to reach a piece of silk, then grumbled under his breath: "A nice thing to shut people up on a lovely day like this! No fear of it raining on stock-taking day! And they keep us under lock and key, like convicts, when all Paris is out of doors!"

He passed the silk to Hutin. On the ticket was the measurement, diminished at each sale by the quantity sold; which greatly simplified the work. The second-hand cried out: "Fancy silk, small check, twenty-one yards, at six francs and a half."

And then the piece went to increase the heap already on the floor. Whilst waiting for another he resumed a conversation previously begun, by saying to Favier: "So he wanted to fight you?"

"Yes, I was quietly drinking my glass of beer. It was hardly worth his while to contradict me, for she has just received a letter from the governor inviting her to dinner. The whole shop is talking about it."

"What! hadn't she dined with him before!"

Favier handed him another piece of silk.

"No, it seems not; though my opinion was all the other way."

The whole department was now joking about the affair, without, however, allowing the work to suffer. The young girl's name passed from mouth to mouth and the salesmen arched their backs and winked. Bouthemont himself, who took a rare delight in all such stories, could not help adding his joke. Just then, however, Mignot came down, with the twenty francs which he had just borrowed, and he stopped to slip ten francs into Albert's hand, making an appointment with him for the evening: a projected spree, hampered by lack of money, but still possible, notwithstanding the smallness of the sum secured. However, when Mignot heard about the famous letter, he made such an abominable remark, that Bouthemont was obliged to interfere. "That's enough, gentlemen. It isn't any of our business. Go on, Monsieur Hutin."

"Fancy silk, small check, thirty-two yards, at six francs and a half," cried out the latter.

The pens started off again, the pieces fell; the flood of material still increased, as if the water of a river had emptied itself there. And there was no end to the calling out of the fancy silks. Favier, in an undertone thereupon remarked that the stock in hand would form a nice total; the governors would be enchanted; that big fool of a Bouthemont might be the best buyer in Paris, but as a salesman he was not worth his salt. Hutin smiled, delighted, and giving the other a friendly look of approval; for after having himself introduced Bouthemont to The Ladies' Paradise, in order to get rid of Robineau, he was now undermining him also, with the firm intention of depriving him of his berth. It was the same war as formerly – treacherous insinuations whispered in the partners' ears, excessive zeal to push one's self forward, a regular campaign carried on with affable cunning. Hutin was again displaying some condescension towards Favier, but the latter, thin and frigid with a bilious look, gave him a sly glance as if to count how many mouthfuls this short, little fellow would make, and to imply that he was waiting till he had swallowed up Bouthemont, in order to eat him afterwards. He, Favier, hoped to get the second-hand's place, should his friend be appointed manager. And after that they would see. Consumed by the fever which was raging from one to the other end of the shop, both of them began talking of the probable increases of salary, without however ceasing to call out the stock of fancy silks; they felt sure that Bouthemont would secure thirty thousand francs that year; Hutin for his part would exceed ten thousand whilst Favier estimated his pay and commission at five thousand five hundred. The amount of business in the department was increasing yearly, the salesmen secured promotion and increase of pay, like officers in time of war.

"Won't those fancy silks soon be finished?" asked Bouthemont suddenly, with an expression of annoyance. "But it was a miserable spring, always raining! People bought nothing but black silks."

His fat, jovial face became cloudy as he gazed at the growing heap on the floor, whilst Hutin called out louder still, in a sonorous voice tinged with an accent of triumph – "Fancy silks, small check, twenty-eight yards, at six francs and a half."

There was still another shelf-full. Favier whose arms were getting tired, was now progressing but slowly. As he handed Hutin the last pieces he resumed in a low tone – "Oh! I say, I forgot. Have you heard that the second-hand in the mantle department once had a regular fancy for you?"

Hutin seemed greatly surprised. "What! How do you mean?"

"Yes, that great booby Deloche let it out to us. But I remember her casting sheep's eyes at you some time back."

Since his appointment as second-hand Hutin had thrown up his music-hall singers. Flattered at heart by Favier's words he nevertheless replied with a scornful air, "I don't care for such scraggy creatures." And then he called out:

"White Poult, thirty-five yards, at eight francs seventy-five."

"Oh! at last!" murmured Bouthemont, greatly relieved.

But a bell rang, that for the second table, to which Favier belonged. He jumped off the stool where another salesman took his place, and he was obliged to climb over the mountain of materials with which the floor was littered. Similar heaps were scattered about in every department; the shelves, the boxes, the cupboards were being gradually emptied, whilst the goods overflowed on all sides, under-foot, between the counters and the tables, in ever rising piles. In the linen department you heard heavy bales of calico falling; in the mercery department there was a clicking of boxes; whilst distant rumbling sounds came from amongst the furniture. Every sort of voice was heard too, shrill, full, deep, and husky, figures whizzed through the air and a rustling clamour reigned in the immense nave – the clamour of forests in January when the wind whistles through the branches.

Favier at last got clear and went up the dining-room staircase. Since the enlargement of The Ladies' Paradise the refectories had been shifted to the fourth storey of the new buildings. As he hurried up he overtook Deloche and Liénard who had gone on before him, so he fell back on Mignot who was following at his heels.

"The deuce!" said he, in the corridor leading to the kitchen, on reaching the black-board on which the bill of fare was inscribed, "you can see it's stock-taking day. A regular feast! Chicken, or leg of mutton, and artichokes! Their mutton won't be much of a success!"

Mignot sniggered, murmuring, "Is there a poultry epidemic on, then?"

However, Deloche and Liénard had taken their portions and gone away. Favier thereupon leant over the wicket and called out – "Chicken!"

But he had to wait; one of the kitchen helps had cut his finger in carving, and this caused some confusion. Favier stood there with his face to the opening, gazing into the kitchen with its giant appliances. There was a central range, over which, by a system of chains and pullies, a couple of rails fixed to the ceiling brought colossal cauldrons which four men could not have lifted. Several cooks, quite white in the ruddy glow of the cast-iron, were attending to the evening soup mounted on metal ladders and armed with skimmers fixed to long handles. Then against the wall were grills large enough for the roasting of martyrs, saucepans big enough for the stewing of entire sheep, a monumental plate-warmer, and a marble basin filled by a continual stream of water. To the left could be seen a scullery with stone sinks as large as ponds; whilst on the other side, to the right, was a huge meat-safe, where a glimpse was caught of numerous joints of red meat hanging from steel hooks. A machine for peeling potatoes was working with the tic-tac of a mill; and two small trucks laden with freshly-picked salad were being wheeled by some kitchen helps into a cool spot under a gigantic filter.

"Chicken," repeated Favier, getting impatient. Then, turning round, he added in a lower tone, "One fellow has cut himself. It's disgusting, his blood's running over the food."

Mignot wanted to see. Quite a string of shopmen had now arrived; there was a deal of laughing and pushing. The two young men, their heads at the wicket, exchanged remarks about this phalansterian kitchen, in which the least important utensils, even the spits and larding pins, assumed gigantic proportions. Two thousand luncheons and two thousand dinners had to be served, and the number of employees was increasing every week. It was quite an abyss, into which something like forty-five bushels of potatoes, one hundred and twenty pounds of butter, and sixteen hundred pounds of meat were cast every day; and at each meal they had to broach three casks of wine, over a hundred and fifty gallons being served out at the wine counter.

"Ah! at last!" murmured Favier when the cook reappeared with a large pan, out of which he handed him the leg of a fowl.

"Chicken," said Mignot behind him.

And with their plates in their hands they both entered the refectory, after taking their wine at the "bar;" whilst behind them the word "Chicken" was repeated without cessation, and one could hear the cook picking up the portions with his fork with a rapid rhythmical sound.

The men's dining-room was now an immense apartment, supplying ample room for five hundred people at each repast. The places were laid at long mahogany tables, placed parallel across the room, and at either end were similar tables reserved for the managers of departments and the inspectors; whilst in the centre was a counter for the "extras." Right and left large windows admitted a white light to the gallery, whose ceiling, although over twelve feet from the floor, seemed very low, owing to the development of the other proportions. The sole ornaments on the walls, painted a light yellow, were the napkin cupboards. Beyond this first refectory came that of the messengers and carmen, where the meals were served irregularly, according to the needs of the moment.

"What! you've got a leg as well, Mignot?" said Favier, as he took his place at one of the tables opposite his companion.

Other young men now sat down around them. There was no tablecloth, the plates clattered on the bare mahogany, and in this particular corner everybody was raising exclamations, for the number of legs distributed was really prodigious.

"These chickens are all legs!" remarked Mignot.

"Yes, they're real centipedes," retorted another salesman.

Those who had merely secured pieces of carcase were greatly discontented. However, the food had been of much better quality since the late improvements. Mouret no longer treated with a contractor at a fixed rate; he had taken the kitchen into his own hands, organizing it like one of the departments, with a head-cook, under-cooks and an inspector; and if he spent more money he got on the other hand more work out of the staff – a practical humanitarian calculation which had long terrified Bourdoncle.

"Mine is pretty tender, all the same," said Mignot. "Pass the bread!"

The big loaf was sent round, and after cutting a slice for himself he dug the knife into the crust. A few dilatory ones now hurried in, taking their places; a ferocious appetite, increased by the morning's work, burst forth from one to the other end of the immense tables. There was an increasing clatter of forks, a gurgling sound of bottles being emptied, a noise of glasses laid down too violently amidst the grinding rumble of five hundred pairs of powerful jaws chewing with wondrous energy. And the talk, still infrequent, seemed to be hampered by the fullness of the mouths.

Deloche, however, seated between Baugé and Liénard, found himself nearly opposite Favier. They had glanced at each other with a rancorous look. Some neighbours, aware of their quarrel on the previous day, began whispering together. Then there was a laugh at poor Deloche's ill-luck. Although always famished he invariably fell on the worst piece at table, by a sort of cruel fatality. This time he had come in for the neck of a chicken and some bits of carcase. Without saying a word, however, he let them joke away, swallowing large mouthfuls of bread, and picking the neck with the infinite art of a fellow who entertains great respect for meat.

"Why don't you complain?" asked Baugé.

But he shrugged his shoulders. What would be the use of that? It was always the same. When he did venture to complain things went worse than ever.

"You know the Bobbinards have got their club now?" said Mignot, all at once. "Yes, my boy, the 'Bobbin Club.' It's held at a wine shop in the Rue Saint-Honoré, where they hire a room on Saturdays."

He was speaking of the mercery salesmen. The whole table began to joke. Between two mouthfuls, with his voice still thick, each made some remark, adding a detail; and only the obstinate readers remained mute, with their noses buried in their newspapers. It could not be denied that shopmen were gradually assuming a better style; nearly half of them now spoke English or German. It was no longer considered good form to go and kick up a row at Bullier or prowl about the music-halls for the pleasure of hissing ugly singers. No; a score of them got together and formed a club.

"Have they a piano like the linen-men?" asked Liénard.

"I should rather think they had!" exclaimed Mignot. "And they play, my boy, and sing! There's even one of them, little Bavoux, who recites verses."

The gaiety redoubled and they chaffed little Bavoux; nevertheless beneath their laughter lay a great respect. Then they spoke of a piece at the Vaudeville, in which a counter-jumper played a nasty part, which annoyed several of them, whilst others began anxiously wondering at what time they would get away that evening, having invitations to pass the evening at friends' houses. And from all points came similar conversations amidst an increasing rattle of crockery. To drive away the odour of the food – the warm steam which rose from the five hundred plates – they had opened the windows, whose lowered blinds were scorching in the heavy August sun. Burning gusts came in from the street, golden reflections yellowed the ceiling, steeping the perspiring eaters in a reddish light.

"A nice thing to shut people up on such a fine Sunday as this!" repeated Favier.

This remark brought them back to the stock-taking. It had been a splendid year. And they went on to speak of the salaries – the rises – the eternal subject, the stirring question which occupied them all. It was always thus on chicken days; a wonderful excitement declared itself, the noise at last became unbearable. When the waiters brought the artichokes you could not hear yourself speak. However, the inspector on duty had orders to be indulgent.

"By the way," cried Favier, "you've heard the news?"

But his voice was drowned by Mignot asking: "Who doesn't like artichoke; I'll sell my dessert for an artichoke."

No one replied. Everybody liked artichoke. That lunch would be counted amongst the good ones, for peaches were to be given for dessert.

"He has invited her to dinner, my dear fellow," said Favier to his right-hand neighbour, finishing his story. "What! you didn't know it?"

The whole table knew it, they were tired of talking about it since early morning. And the same poor jokes passed from mouth to mouth. Deloche was quivering again, and his eyes at last rested on Favier, who was persisting in his shameful remarks. But all at once the silk salesman ducked his head, for Deloche, yielding to an irresistible impulse, had thrown his last glass of wine into his face, stammering: "Take that, you infernal liar! I ought to have drenched you yesterday!"

This caused quite a scandal. A few drops had spurted on Favier's neighbours, whilst he himself only had his hair slightly wetted: the wine, thrown by an awkward hand, had fallen on the other side of the table. However, the others got angry, asking Deloche if the girl was his property that he defended her in this way? What a brute he was! he deserved a good drubbing to teach him better manners. However, their voices fell, for an inspector was observed coming along, and it was useless to let the management interfere in the quarrel. Favier contented himself with saying: "If it had caught me, you would have seen some sport!"

Then the affair wound up in jeers. When Deloche, still trembling, wished to drink by way of hiding his confusion, and mechanically caught hold of his empty glass, they all burst out laughing. He laid his glass down again awkwardly enough and commenced sucking the leaves of the artichoke which he had already eaten.

"Pass Deloche the water bottle," said Mignot, quietly; "he's thirsty."

The laughter increased. The young men took clean plates from the piles standing at equal distances on the table whilst the waiters handed round the dessert, which consisted of peaches, in baskets. And they all held their sides when Mignot added, with a grin: "Each man to his taste. Deloche takes wine with his peaches."

Deloche, however, sat motionless, with his head hanging down, as if deaf to the joking going on around him: he was full of despairing regret at thought of what he had just done. Those fellows were right – what right had he to defend her? They would now think all sorts of villainous things: he could have killed himself for having thus compromised her, in attempting to prove her innocence. Such was always his luck, he might just as well kill himself at once, for he could not even yield to the promptings of his heart without doing some stupid thing. And then tears came into his eyes. Was it not also his fault if the whole shop was talking of the letter written by the governor? He heard them grinning and making abominable remarks about this invitation, which Liénard alone had been informed of, and he reproached himself, he ought never to have let Pauline speak before that fellow; he was really responsible for the annoying indiscretion which had been committed.

"Why did you go and relate that?" he murmured at last in a sorrowful voice. "It's very wrong."

"I?" replied Liénard; "but I only told it to one or two persons, enjoining secrecy. One never knows how these things get about!"

When Deloche made up his mind to drink a glass of water everybody burst out laughing again. They had finished their meal and were lolling back on their chairs waiting for the bell to recall them to work. They had not asked for many extras at the great central counter, especially as on stock-taking day the firm treated them to coffee. The cups were steaming, perspiring faces shone under the light vapour, floating like bluey clouds from cigarettes. At the windows the blinds hung motionless, without the slightest flapping. One of them, on being drawn up, admitted a ray of sunshine which sped across the room and gilded the ceiling. The uproar of the voices beat upon the walls with such force that the bell was at first only heard by those at the tables near the door. Then they got up and for some time the corridors were full of the confusion of the departure. Deloche, however, remained behind to escape the malicious remarks that were still being made. Baugé even went out before him, and Baugé was, as a rule, the last to leave, taking a circuitous route so as to meet Pauline on he way to the ladies' dining-room; a manœuvre they had arranged between them – the only chance they had of seeing one another for a minute during business hours. That day, however, just as they were indulging in a loving kiss in a corner of the passage they were surprised by Denise, who was also going up to lunch. She was walking slowly on account of her foot.

"Oh! my dear," stammered Pauline, very red, "don't say anything, will you?"

Baugé, with his big limbs and giant stature, was trembling like a little boy. He muttered, "They'd precious soon pitch us out. Although our marriage may be announced, they don't allow any kissing, the brutes!"

Denise, greatly agitated, affected not to have seen them: and Baugé disappeared just as Deloche, also going the longest way round, in his turn appeared. He wished to apologize, stammering out phrases that Denise did not at first catch. Then, as he blamed Pauline for having spoken before Liénard, and she stood there looking very embarrassed, Denise at last understood the meaning of the whispers she had heard around her all the morning. It was the story of the letter circulating. And again was she shaken by the shiver with which this letter had agitated her.