The Ladies' Paradise

And now Mouret appeared before her with his impassioned face and caressing eyes. He would certainly refuse her nothing; she felt sure that he would accord all reasonable compensations. And her thoughts strayed, seeking to judge him. She knew his life and was aware of the calculating nature of his former affections, his continual "exploitation" of woman, his intimacy with Madame Desforges – the sole object of which had been to get hold of Baron Hartmann – and with all the others, such as Clara and the rest. But these Lothario-like beginnings, which were the talk of the shop, gradually disappeared in presence of the man's genius and victorious grace. He was seduction itself. What she could never have forgiven was his former deception: real coldness hidden beneath a gallant affectation of affection. But she felt herself to be entirely without rancour now that he was suffering through her. This suffering had elevated him. When she saw him tortured by her refusal, atoning so fully for his former disdain for woman, he seemed to her to make amends for many of his faults.

That very morning Denise obtained from Mouret a promise of whatever compensation she might consider reasonable on the day when the Baudus and old Bourras should succumb. Weeks passed away, during which she went to see her uncle nearly every afternoon, escaping from her department for a few minutes and bringing her smiling face and girlish courage to enliven the dark shop. She was especially anxious about her aunt, who had fallen into a dull stupor ever since Geneviève's death; it seemed as if her life was quitting her hourly; though, when people questioned her, she would reply with an astonished air that she was not suffering, but simply felt as if overcome by sleep. The neighbours, however, shook their heads, saying she would not live long to regret her daughter.

One day Denise was coming from the Baudus, when, on turning the corner of the Place Gaillon, she heard a loud cry. A crowd rushed forward, a panic arose: that breath of fear and pity which suddenly brings all the people in a street together. It was a brown omnibus, belonging to the Bastille-Batignolles line, which had run over a man, at the entrance of the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, just opposite the fountain. Standing up in his seat, the driver whilst furiously holding in his two black horses which were rearing cried out, in a great passion:

"Confound it! Confound it! Why don't you look out, you idiot!"

The omnibus had now been brought to a standstill. The crowd had surrounded the injured man, and a policeman happened to be on the spot. Still standing up and invoking the testimony of the outside passengers who had also risen, to look over and see the blood-stains, the coachman, with exasperated gestures and choked by increasing anger, was explaining the matter.

"It's something fearful," said he. "Who could have expected such a thing? That fellow was walking along quite at home and when I called out to him he at once threw himself under the wheels!"

Then a house-painter, who had run up, brush in hand, from a neighbouring shop-front, exclaimed in a sharp voice, amidst the clamour: "Don't excite yourself! I saw him, he threw himself under! He jumped in, head first, like that. Another one tired of life, no doubt!"

Others spoke up, and all agreed that it was a case of suicide, whilst the policeman pulled out his note-book and made an entry. Several ladies, all very pale, quickly alighted and ran away without looking back, filled with horror by the sudden shaking which had stirred them when the omnibus passed over the body. Denise, however, drew nearer, attracted by a practical pity, which prompted her to interest herself in the victims of all sorts of street accidents, such as wounded dogs, horses down, and tilers falling off roofs. And she immediately recognised the unfortunate fellow who had fainted away there in the road, his clothes covered with mud.

"It's Monsieur Robineau!" she exclaimed, in her grievous astonishment.

The policeman at once questioned the young woman, and she gave the victim's name, profession, and address. Thanks to the driver's energy, the omnibus had swerved, and thus only Robineau's legs had gone under the wheels; however, it was to be feared that they were both broken. Four men carried him to a chemist's shop in the Rue Gaillon, whilst the omnibus slowly resumed its journey.

"My stars!" said the driver, whipping up his horses, "I've done a famous day's work."

Denise followed Robineau into the chemist's. The latter, pending the arrival of a doctor who was not to be found, declared that there was no immediate danger, and that the injured man had better be taken home, as he lived in the neighbourhood. A man then started off to the police-station for a stretcher, and Denise had the happy thought of going on in front so as to prepare Madame Robineau for this frightful blow. But she had the greatest trouble in the world to get into the street again through the crowd, which was struggling before the door of the chemist's shop. This crowd, attracted by death, was every minute increasing; men, women, and children stood on tip-toe, and held their own amidst brutal pushing; and each new-comer had his version to give of the accident, so that at last the victim was said to be a husband who had been pitched out of window by his wife's lover.

In the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, Denise perceived, from a distance, Madame Robineau on the threshold of the silk warehouse. This gave her a pretext for stopping, and she talked on for a moment, trying to find a means of breaking the terrible news. The place wore the disorderly, neglectful aspect of a shop in the last agony, one whose business is fast dying. It was the inevitable end of the great battle of the rival silks; the Paris Delight had destroyed competition by a fresh reduction of a sou; it was now sold at four francs nineteen sous the mêtre, and Gaujean's silk had found its Waterloo. For the last two months Robineau, reduced to all sorts of shifts, had been leading a fearful life, trying to avert a declaration of bankruptcy.

"I saw your husband crossing the Place Gaillon," murmured Denise, who had ended by entering the shop.

Thereupon Madame Robineau, whom a secret anxiety seemed to be continually attracting towards the street, said quickly: "Ah, a little while ago, wasn't it? I'm waiting for him, he ought to be back by now. Monsieur Gaujean came this morning, and they went out together."

She was still charming, delicate, and gay; but was in a delicate state of health and seemed more frightened, more bewildered than ever by those dreadful business matters, which she did not understand, and which were all going wrong. As she often said, what was the use of it all? Would it not be better to live quietly in some small lodging, and be contented with modest fare?

"My dear child," she resumed with her pretty smile, which was becoming sadder, "we have nothing to conceal from you. Things are not going well, and my poor darling is worried to death. Again to-day this man Gaujean has been tormenting him about some overdue bills. I was dying with anxiety at being left here all alone."

And she was once more returning to the door when Denise stopped her, having heard the noise of a crowd and guessing that it was the injured man being brought along, surrounded by a mob of idlers anxious to see the end of the affair. And thereupon with her throat parched, unable to find the consoling words she would have liked to say, she had to explain the matter.

"Don't be anxious, there's no immediate danger. I've seen Monsieur Robineau, he has met with an accident. They are just bringing him home, pray don't be frightened."

The young woman listened to her, white as a sheet, and as yet not clearly understanding her. The street was full of people, and cab-drivers, unable to get along, were swearing, while the bearers set the stretcher before the shop in order to open both glass doors.

"It was an accident," continued Denise, determined to conceal the attempt at suicide. "He was on the pavement and slipped under the wheels of an omnibus. Only his feet are hurt. They've sent for a doctor. Don't be frightened."

A great shudder shook Madame Robineau. She gave vent to a few inarticulate cries; then said no more but sank down beside the stretcher, drawing its covering aside with her trembling hands. The men who had brought it were waiting to take it away as soon as the doctor should arrive. They dared not touch Robineau, who had now regained consciousness, and whose sufferings became frightful at the slightest movement. When he saw his wife big tears ran down his cheeks. She embraced him, and stood looking at him fixedly, and weeping. Out in the street the tumult was increasing; the people pressed forward as with glistening eyes at a theatre; some girls, fresh from a workshop, were almost pushing through the windows in their eagerness to see what was going on. Then Denise in order to avoid this feverish curiosity, and thinking, moreover, that it was not right to leave the shop open, decided to let the metal shutters down. She went and turned the winch, whose wheels gave out a plaintive cry whilst the sheets of iron slowly descended, like the heavy draperies of a curtain falling on the catastrophe of a fifth act. And when she went in again, after closing the little round door in the shutters, she found Madame Robineau still clasping her husband in her arms, in the vague half-light which came from the two stars cut in the sheet-iron. The ruined shop seemed to be gliding into nothingness, those two stars alone glittered on this sudden and brutal catastrophe of the streets of Paris.

At last Madame Robineau recovered her speech. "Oh, my darling! – oh, my darling! my darling!"

This was all she could say, and he, half choking, confessed himself, a prey to keen remorse now that he saw her kneeling thus before him. When he did not move he only felt the burning weight of his legs.

"Forgive me, I must have been mad. But when the lawyer told me before Gaujean that the posters would be put up to-morrow, I saw flames dancing before my eyes as if the walls were on fire. After that I remember nothing. I was coming down the Rue de la Michodière – and I fancied that The Paradise people were laughing at me – that big rascally house seemed to crush me – so, when the omnibus came up, I thought of Lhomme and his arm, and threw myself under the wheels."

Madame Robineau had slowly fallen on to the floor, horrified by this confession. Heavens! he had tried to kill himself. She caught hold of the hand of Denise who was leaning towards her, also quite overcome. The injured man, exhausted by emotion, had just fainted away again. The doctor had still not arrived. Two men had been scouring the neighbourhood for him; and the doorkeeper belonging to the house had now gone to seek him in his turn.

"Pray, don't be anxious," Denise kept on repeating mechanically, herself also sobbing.

Then Madame Robineau, seated on the floor, with her head on a level with the stretcher, her cheek resting against the sacking on which her husband was lying, relieved her heart. "Oh! I must tell you. It's all for me that he wanted to die. He's always saying, 'I've robbed you; it was your money.' And at night he dreamed of those sixty thousand francs, waking up covered with perspiration, calling himself an incompetent fellow and saying that those who have no head for business ought not to risk other people's money. You know that he has always been nervous, and apt to worry himself. He finished by conjuring up things that frightened me. He pictured me in the street in tatters, begging – me whom he loved so dearly, whom he longed to see rich and happy." The poor woman paused; on turning her head she saw that her husband had opened his eyes; then she continued stammering: "My darling, why have you done this? You must think me very wicked! I assure you, I don't care if we are ruined. So long as we are together, we shall never be unhappy. Let them take everything, and we will go away somewhere, where you won't hear any more about them. You can still work; you'll see how happy we shall be!"

She let her forehead fall near her husband's pale face, and both remained speechless, in the emotion of their anguish. Silence fell. The shop seemed to be sleeping, benumbed by the pale twilight which enveloped it; whilst from behind the thin metal shutters came the uproar of the street, the life of broad daylight passing along with the rumbling of vehicles, and the hustling and pushing of the crowd. At last Denise, who went every other minute to glance through the door leading to the hall of the house came back: "Here's the doctor!"

It was a young fellow with bright eyes, whom the doorkeeper had found and brought in. He preferred to examine the injured man before they put him to bed. Only one of his legs, the left one, was broken above the ankle; it was a simple fracture, no serious complication appeared likely to result from it. And they were about to carry the stretcher into the back-room when Gaujean arrived. He came to give them an account of a last attempt to settle matters, an attempt moreover which had failed; the declaration of bankruptcy was unavoidable.

"Dear me," murmured he, "what's the matter?"

In a few words, Denise informed him. Then he stopped, feeling awkward, while Robineau said, in a feeble voice: "I don't bear you any ill-will, but all this is partly your fault."

"Well, my dear fellow," replied Gaujean, "it wanted stronger men than ourselves. You know I'm not in a much better position than you are."

They raised the stretcher; Robineau still found strength to say: "No, no, stronger fellows than us would have given way as we have. I can understand such obstinate old men as Bourras and Baudu standing out; but for you and I, who are young, who had accepted the new style of things, it was wrong! No, Gaujean, it's the last of a world."

They carried him off. Madame Robineau embraced Denise with an eagerness in which there was almost a feeling of joy at having at last got rid of all those worrying business matters. And, as Gaujean went away with the young girl, he confessed to her that Robineau, poor devil, was right. It was idiotic to try to struggle against The Ladies' Paradise. Personally he felt he would be lost, if he did not get back into its good graces. The night before, in fact, he had secretly made a proposal to Hutin, who was just leaving for Lyons. But he felt very doubtful, and tried to interest Denise in the matter, aware, no doubt, of her powerful influence.

"Upon my word," said he, "so much the worse for the manufacturers! Every one would laugh at me if I ruined myself in fighting for other people's benefit, when those fellows are struggling as to who shall make at the cheapest price! As you said some time ago, the manufacturers have only to follow the march of progress by a better organization and new methods. Everything will come all right; it is sufficient that the public are satisfied."

Denise smiled and replied: "Go and tell that to Monsieur Mouret himself. Your visit will please him, and he's not the man to display any rancour, if you offer him even a centime profit per yard."

Madame Baudu died one bright sunny afternoon in January. For a fortnight she had been unable to go down into the shop which a charwoman now looked after. She sat in the centre of her bed, propped up by some pillows. Nothing but her eyes seemed to be alive in her white face; and with head erect, she obstinately gazed upon The Ladies' Paradise opposite, through the small curtains of the windows. Baudu, himself suffering from the same obsession, from the despairing fixity of her gaze, sometimes wanted to draw the larger curtains. But she stopped him with an imploring gesture, obstinately desirous of looking and looking till the last moment should come. The monster had now robbed her of everything, her business, her daughter; she herself had gradually died away with The Old Elbeuf, losing some part of her life as the shop lost its customers; the day it succumbed, she had no more breath left. When she felt she was dying, she still found strength to insist on her husband opening both windows. It was very mild, a bright ray of sunshine gilded The Ladies' Paradise, whilst the bed-room of the old house shivered in the shade. Madame Baudu lay there with eyes fixed, full of that vision of the triumphal monument, those clear, limpid windows, behind which a gallop of millions was passing. But slowly her eyes grew dim, invaded by darkness; and when their last gleam had expired in death, they remained wide open, still gazing, and wet with tears.

Once more all the ruined traders of the district followed the funeral procession. There were the brothers Vanpouille, pale at the thought of their December bills, met by a supreme effort which they would never be able to repeat. Bédoré, accompanying his sister, leant on his cane, so full of worry and anxiety that his liver complaint was getting worse every day. Deslignières had had a fit, Piot and Rivoire walked on in silence, with downcast looks, like men entirely played out. And they dared not question each other about those who had disappeared, Quinette, Mademoiselle Tatin, and others, who, in the space of a day, sank, ruined, swept away by the flood of disasters: without counting Robineau, still in bed, with his broken leg. But they pointed with an especial air of interest to the new tradesmen attacked by the plague: Grognet the perfumer, Madame Chadeuil the milliner, Lacassagne the flower-maker, and Naud the boot-maker who were still on their legs, but full of anxiety at thought of the evil which would doubtless sweep them away in their turn. Baudu walked behind the hearse with the same heavy, stolid step as when he had followed his daughter; whilst in the first mourning coach could be seen Bourras's eyes sparkling under his bushy eyebrows and hair of a snowy whiteness.

Denise was in great trouble. For the last fortnight she had been worn out with fatigue and anxiety; she had been obliged to put Pépé to school, and had been running about on account of Jean, who was so stricken with the pastrycook's niece, that he had implored his sister to go and ask her hand in marriage. Then her aunt's death, this fresh catastrophe, had quite overwhelmed the young girl, though Mouret had again offered his services, giving her leave to do what she liked for her uncle and the others. One morning she had yet another interview with him, at the news that Bourras had been turned into the street, and that Baudu was going to shut up shop. Then, she went out after lunch in the hope of at least comforting these two.

In the Rue de la Michodière, Bourras was standing on the foot pavement opposite his house, whence he had been evicted on the previous day by a fine trick, a discovery of the lawyers. As Mouret held several bills, he had easily obtained an order in bankruptcy against the umbrella-maker and then had given five hundred francs for the expiring lease at the sale ordered by the court; so that the obstinate old man had for five hundred francs allowed himself to be deprived of what he had refused to surrender for a hundred thousand. The architect, who came with his gang of workmen, had been obliged to employ the police to get him out. The goods had been taken and sold, the rooms cleared; however, he still obstinately remained in the corner where he slept, and from which out of pity they did not like to drive him. The workmen even attacked the roofing over his head. They took off the rotten slates, the ceilings fell in and the walls cracked, and yet he remained there, under the bare old beams, amidst the ruins. At last when the police came, he went away. But on the following morning he again appeared on the opposite side of the street, after passing the night in a lodging-house of the neighbourhood.

"Monsieur Bourras!" said Denise, kindly.

He did not hear her for his flaming eyes were devouring the workmen who were attacking the front of the hovel with their picks. Through the glassless windows you could see the inside of the house, the wretched rooms, and the black staircase, to which the sun had not penetrated for the last two hundred years.

"Ah! it's you," he replied at last, when he recognised her. "A nice bit of work they're doing, eh? the robbers!"

She no longer dared to speak; her heart was stirred by the lamentable wretchedness of the old place; she was unable to take her eyes off the mouldy stones that were falling. Up above on a corner of the ceiling of her old room, she once more perceived that name – Ernestine – written in black and shaky letters with the flame of a candle; and the remembrance of her days of misery came back to her, inspiring her with a tender sympathy for all suffering. However, the workmen, in order to knock one of the walls down at a blow, had attacked it at its base. It was already tottering.

"If only it could crush them all," growled Bourras, in a savage voice.

There was a terrible cracking noise. The frightened workmen ran out into the street. In falling, the wall shook and carried all the rest with it. No doubt the hovel, with its flaws and cracks was ripe for this downfall; a push had sufficed to cleave it from top to bottom. It was a pitiful crumbling, the razing of a mud-house soddened by rain. Not a partition remained standing; on the ground there was nothing but a heap of rubbish, the dung of the past cast, as it were, at the street corner.

"My God!" the old man had exclaimed as if the blow had resounded in his very entrails.

He stood there gaping; he would never have imagined that it would have been so quickly over. And he looked at the gap, the hollow at last yawning beside The Ladies' Paradise, now freed of the wart which had so long disgraced it. The gnat was crushed; this was the final triumph over the galling obstinacy of the infinitely little; the whole block was now invaded and conquered. Passers-by lingered to talk to the workmen, who began crying out against those old buildings which were only good for killing people.

"Monsieur Bourras," repeated Denise, trying to draw him on one side, "you know that you will not be abandoned. All your wants will be provided for."