The Ladies' Paradise

With his flowing locks and handsome girlish face the young rascal looked so comical, whilst launching out this melodramatic phrase, that she could have smiled had it not been for the anguish which his application for money caused her.

"What! ten francs?" she murmured. "Whatever's the matter?"

Thereupon he blushed, and explained that he had met a friend's sister. Denise stopped him, feeling embarrassed and not wishing to know any more about it. Twice already had he rushed in to obtain similar loans, but on the first occasion it had only been a matter of twenty-five sous, and on the next of thirty. He was, however, always getting into bad company.

"I can't give you ten francs," she resumed. "Pépé's board isn't paid yet, and I've only just the money for it. I shall have hardly enough to buy a pair of boots, which I want very badly. You are really not reasonable, Jean. It's too bad of you."

"Well, I'm lost," he repeated, with a tragical gesture. "Just listen, little sister; she's a tall, dark girl; we went to the café with her brother. I never thought the drinks would – "

She had to interrupt him again, and as tears were coming into his eyes, she took out her purse and slipped a ten-franc piece into his hand. He at once set up a laugh.

"I was sure of it! – But on my honour! never again! A fellow would have to be a regular scamp."

And thereupon he ran off, after kissing his sister, like a madman. The assistants in the shop seemed quite astonished.

That night Denise did not sleep much. Since her entry into The Ladies' Paradise, money had been her cruel anxiety. She was still a probationer, without a salary; the other girls in her department frequently prevented her from selling, and she only just managed to pay Pépé's board and lodging, thanks to the unimportant customers they were good enough to leave her. It was a time of black misery – misery in a silk dress. She was often obliged to spend the night in repairing her small stock of clothes, darning her linen, mending her chemises as if they had been lace; without mentioning the patches that she put on her shoes, as cleverly as any bootmaker could have done. She even risked washing things in her hand basin. But her old woollen dress was an especial source of anxiety to her; she had no other, and was forced to put it on every evening when she quitted the uniform silk, and this wore it terribly; a stain on it gave her quite a fever, the least rent was a catastrophe. And she had nothing, not a sou, not even enough to buy the trifling articles which a woman always wants; she had even been obliged to wait a fortnight to renew her stock of needles and cotton. Thus it was a real disaster when Jean, with his love affairs, suddenly swooped down and pillaged her purse. A franc-piece taken out of it left an abyss which she did not know how to fill up. As for finding ten francs on the morrow it was not to be thought of for a moment. All that night she was haunted by nightmare in which she saw Pépé thrown into the street, whilst she turned the paving stones over with her bruised fingers to see if there might not be some money underneath them.

It happened that the next day she had to play the part of the well-dressed girl. Some well-known customers came in, and Madame Aurélie summoned her several times in order that she might show off the new styles. And whilst she was posing there, with the stereotyped graces of a fashion-plate, she thought all the time of Pépé's board and lodging, which she had promised to pay that evening. She would contrive to do without any boots for another month; but even on adding the thirty francs left her of Pépé's money to the four francs which she had saved up sou by sou, there would never be more than thirty-four francs, and where was she to find six francs to complete the sum she required? It was an anguish in which her heart failed her.

"You will notice that the shoulders are quite free," Madame Aurélie was saying. "It's very fashionable and very convenient. The young person can fold her arms."

"Oh! easily," replied Denise, who continued to smile amiably. "One can't feel it. I am sure you will like it, madame."

She was now blaming herself for having gone to fetch Pépé from Madame Gras' on the previous Sunday, to take him for a walk in the Champs-Elysées. The poor child so seldom went out with her! But she had been obliged to buy him some gingerbread and a little spade, and then take him to see Punch and Judy, and all that had cost twenty-nine sous. Really Jean could not think much about the little one, or he would not be so foolish. Everything fell upon her shoulders.

"Of course, if it does not suit you, madame – " resumed the first-hand. "Just put this other cloak on, mademoiselle, so that the lady may judge."

And Denise then walked slowly round, wearing the cloak and saying: "This is warmer. It's this year's fashion."

And beneath her professional graces she continued worrying and worrying until the evening, at a loss as to where she might find this money. The young ladies, who were very busy, left her an important sale; but it was only Tuesday, and she must wait four days before drawing any cash. After dinner she decided to postpone her visit to Madame Gras till the morrow. She would excuse herself, say she had been detained, and before then she would perhaps have obtained the six francs. As Denise avoided the slightest expense, she went to bed early. What could she do out-of-doors, penniless and wild, and still frightened by the big city in which she only knew the streets around the shop? After venturing as far as the Palais-Royal for the sake of a little fresh air, she would quickly return, lock herself in her room and set about sewing or washing.

Along the corridor conducting to the bed-rooms reigned a barrack-like promiscuity – the girls, who were often not very tidy, would gossip there over dirty water and dirty linen, break into frequent quarrels and patch up continual reconciliations. They were prohibited from going up to their rooms in the day-time; they did not live there, but merely slept there at night, climbing the stairs only at the last minute, and coming down again in the morning when still half asleep, hardly awakened by a rapid wash; and this hurry-skurry which night and morning swept through the corridor, the fatigue of thirteen hours' work which threw them all on their beds thoroughly worn out, made the upper part of the house like an inn traversed by tired and illtempered travellers. Denise had no friend. Of all the young ladies, one alone, Pauline Cugnot, showed her a little affection; and the mantle and under-clothing departments being close to one another, and in open war, the sympathy between the two saleswomen had hitherto been confined to a few rare words hastily exchanged. Pauline certainly occupied a neighbouring room, to the right of Denise's; but as she disappeared immediately after dinner and only returned at eleven o'clock, the latter simply heard her get into bed, and never met her after business hours.

That evening, Denise had made up her mind to play the part of bootmaker once more. She was holding her shoes, turning them about and wondering how she could make them last another month. At last she decided to take a strong needle and sew on the soles, which were threatening to leave the uppers. Meantime a collar and a pair of cuffs were soaking in a basinful of soapsuds.

Every evening she heard the same sounds, the girls coming up one by one, brief whispered conversations, bursts of laughter and sometimes disputes which they stifled as much as possible. Then the beds creaked, the tired occupants yawned, and fell into heavy slumber. Denise's left hand neighbour often talked in her sleep, which at first frightened her very much. Perhaps others, like herself, stopped up to mend their things, in spite of the regulations; but if so they probably took the same precautions as she did, moving with prudent care, and avoiding the least noise, for a quivering silence prevailed behind the closed doors.

It had struck eleven some ten minutes previously when a sound of footsteps made Denise raise her head. Another young lady late, thought she. And she realised that it was Pauline, by hearing the door next to her own open.

But she was astonished when Pauline quietly came back into the passage and knocked at her door.

"Make haste, it's me!"

The saleswomen were forbidden to visit each other in their rooms, and Denise quickly unlocked her door, in order that her neighbour might not be caught by Madame Cabin, who was supposed to see this regulation strictly carried out.

"Was she there?" asked Denise, when the other had entered.

"Who? Madame Cabin?" replied Pauline. "Oh, I'm not afraid of her, she's easily settled with a five-franc piece!" And then she added: "I've wanted to have a talk with you for a long time past. But it's impossible to do so downstairs. Besides, you looked so down-hearted to-night at table."

Denise thanked her, and, touched by her good-natured air invited her to sit down. But in the bewilderment, caused by this unexpected visit she had not laid down the shoe she was mending, and Pauline at once perceived it. She shook her head, looked round and espied the collar and cuffs in the basin.

"My poor child, I thought as much," resumed she. "Ah, I know what it is! When I first came up from Chartres, and old Cugnot didn't send me a sou, I many a time washed my own chemises! Yes, yes, my chemises! I had only two, and there was always one in soak."

She sat down, still out of breath from running. Her broad face, with small bright eyes, and big tender mouth, possessed a certain grace, notwithstanding its rather coarse features. And, without any transition, all of a sudden, she began to relate her story; her childhood at the mill; old Cugnot ruined by a law-suit; she sent to Paris to make her fortune with twenty francs in her pocket; then her start as a saleswoman in a shop at Batignolles, then at The Ladies' Paradise – a terrible start, every suffering and privation imaginable; and at last her present life, the two hundred francs she earned each month, the pleasures she indulged in, the carelessness in which she allowed her days to glide away. Some jewellery, a brooch, and watch-chain, glistened on her close-fitting gown of dark-blue cloth; and she smiled from under a velvet toque ornamented with a large grey feather.

Denise had turned very red, worried with reference to her shoe; and began to stammer out an explanation.

"But the same thing happened to me," repeated Pauline. "Come, come, I'm older than you, I'm over twenty-six, though I don't look it. Just tell me your little troubles."

Thereupon Denise yielded to this friendship so frankly offered. She sat down in her petticoat, with an old shawl over her shoulders, near Pauline in full dress; and an interesting gossip ensued.

It was freezing in the room, the cold seemed to run down the bare prison-like walls; but they were so fully taken up by their conversation that they did not notice that their fingers were almost frost-bitten. Little by little, Denise opened her heart entirely, spoke of Jean and Pépé, and of how grievously the money question tortured her; which led them both to abuse the young ladies in the mantle department. Pauline relieved her mind. "Oh, the hussies!" said she, "if they treated you in a proper way, you might make more than a hundred francs a month."

"Everybody is down on me, and I'm sure I don't know why," answered Denise, beginning to cry. "Look at Monsieur Bourdoncle, he's always watching me, trying to find me in fault just as if I were in his way. Old Jouve is about the only one – "

The other interrupted her. "What, that old ape of an inspector! Ah! my dear, don't you trust him. He may display his decoration as much as he likes, but there's a story about something that happened to him in our department. But what a child you are to grieve like this! What a misfortune it is to be so sensitive! Of course, what is happening to you happens to every one; they are making you pay your footing."

Then carried away by her good heart she caught hold of Denise's hands and kissed her. The money-question was a graver one. Certainly a poor girl could not support her two brothers, pay the little one's board and lodging, and stand treat for the big one's sweethearts with the few paltry sous she picked up from the others' cast-off customers; for it was to be feared that she would not get any salary until business improved in March.

"Listen to me, it's impossible for you to live in this way any longer. If I were you – " said Pauline.

But a noise in the corridor stopped her. It was probably Marguerite, who was accused of prowling about at night to spy upon the others. Pauline, who was still pressing her friend's hand, looked at her for a moment in silence, listening. Then, with an air of affectionate conviction, she began to whisper to her.

Denise did not understand at first, and when she did, she withdrew her hands, looking very confused by what her friend had told her. "Oh! no," she replied simply.

"Then," continued Pauline, "you'll never manage, I tell you so, plainly. Here are the figures: forty francs for the little one, a five-franc piece now and again for the big one; and then there's yourself, you can't always go about dressed like a pauper, with shoes that make the other girls laugh at you; yes, really, your shoes do you a deal of harm. It would be much better to do as I tell you."

"No, no," repeated Denise.

"Well! you are very foolish. It's inevitable, my dear, we all come to it sooner or later. Look at me, I was a probationer, like you, without a sou. We are boarded and lodged, it's true; but there's our dress; besides, it's impossible to go without a copper in one's pocket and shut oneself up in one's room, watching the flies. So you see girls forcibly drift into it."

She then spoke of her first admirer, a lawyer's clerk whom she had met at a party at Meudon. After him, had come a post-office clerk. And, finally, ever since the autumn, she had been keeping company with a salesman at the Bon Marché, a very nice tall fellow. However, her advice had no effect whatever upon Denise.

"No," the latter replied in a tone of decision; and a fresh silence fell. In the small cold room they were smiling at each other, greatly affected by this whispered conversation. "Besides, one must have affection for some one," she resumed, her cheeks quite scarlet.

Pauline was astonished. She set up a laugh, and embraced her a second time exclaiming: "But, my darling, when you meet and like each other! You are really droll! Look here, would you like Baugé to take us somewhere in the country on Sunday? He'll bring one of his friends."

"No," again said Denise in her gently obstinate way.

Then Pauline insisted no further. Each was free to act as she pleased. What she had said was out of pure kindness of heart, for she felt really grieved to see a comrade so miserable. And as it was nearly midnight, she got up to leave. But before doing so she forced Denise to accept the six francs she wanted to make up Pépé's board-money, begging her not to trouble about the matter, but to repay her the amount whenever she earned more.

"Now," she added, "blow your candle out, so that they may not see which door opens; you can light it again immediately afterwards."

The candle having been extinguished, they shook hands; and then Pauline ran off to her room, giving no sign of her passage through the darkness save the vague rustling of her petticoats amidst the deep slumber that had fallen on the occupants of the other little rooms.

Before going to bed Denise wished to finish her boot and do her washing. The cold became sharper still as the night advanced; but she did not feel it, the conversation had stirred her heart's blood. She was not shocked; it seemed to her that every woman had a right to arrange her life as she liked, when she was alone and free in the world. For her own part, however, she had never given way to such ideas; her sense of right and her healthy nature naturally maintained her in the respectability in which she had always lived. At last, towards one o'clock she went to bed. No, she thought, she did not love any one. So what was the use of upsetting her life, the maternal devotion which she had vowed for her two brothers? However, she did not sleep; insomnia gained upon her and a crowd of indistinct forms flitted before her closed eyes, then vanished in the darkness.

From that time forward Denise took an interest in the love-stories of the department. During slack times the girls were constantly occupied with their amatory affairs. Gossiping tales flew about, stories of adventures which amused them all for a week. Clara was a scandal and merely remained at the shop under pretence of leading a respectable life in order to shield herself from her family; for she was mortally afraid of old Prunaire, who had threatened to come to Paris and break her arms and legs with his clogs. Marguerite, on the contrary, behaved very well, and was not known to have any lover; which caused some surprise, for all knew of the circumstances which had led to her arrival in Paris. The young women also joked about Madame Frédéric, declaring that she was discreetly connected with certain great personages; but the truth was they knew nothing of her love-affairs; for she disappeared every evening, stiff as starch with her widow's sulkiness, and apparently always in a great hurry, though nobody knew whither she hastened so eagerly. As for the tittle-tattle about Madame Aurélie this was certainly false; mere invention, spread abroad by discontented saleswomen just for fun. Perhaps she had formerly displayed rather more than a motherly feeling for one of her son's friends, but she now occupied too high a position in the business to indulge in such childishness. Then there was the flock, the crowd of the girls going off in the evening, nine out of every ten having young men waiting for them at the door. On the Place Gaillon, along the Rue de la Michodière, and the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, there was always a troop of motionless sentries watching for the girls' departure; and, when the défilé began, each gave his arm to his lady and walked away. It was like the stage-door exit of some theatre where figurantes predominate.