Complete Works of Emile Zola (752 page)

“They must be in the lace department — impossible to drag them away. I’ll just see.” And he was gallant enough to procure them two chairs before going away.

In the lace department the crush was increasing every minute. The great show of white was there triumphing in its most delicate and dearest whiteness. It was an acute temptation, a mad desire, which bewildered all the women. The department had been turned into a white temple, tulles and Maltese lace, falling from above, formed a white sky, one of those cloudy veils which pales the morning sun. Round the columns descended flounces of Malines and Valenciennes, white dancers’ skirts, unfolding in a snowy shiver down to the ground. Then on all sides, on every counter, was a stream of white Spanish blonde as light as air, Brussels with its large flowers on a delicate mesh, hand-made point, and Venice point with heavier designs, Alençon point, and Bruges of royal and almost religious richness. It seemed that the god of dress had there set up his white tabernacle.

Madame de Boves, after wandering about for a long time before the counters with her daughter, and feeling a sensual desire to plunge her hands into the goods, had just decided to make Deloche show her some Alençon point. At first he brought out some imitation; but she wished to see some real Alençon, and was not satisfied with the little pieces at three hundred francs the yard, insisting on having deep flounces at a thousand francs a yard, handkerchiefs and fans at seven and eight hundred francs. The counter was soon covered with a fortune. In a corner of the department Jouve, the inspector, who had not lost sight of Madame de Boves, notwithstanding the latter’s apparent dawdling, stood there amidst the crowd, with an indifferent air, but still keeping a sharp eye on her.

“Have you any in hand-made point?” she asked; “show me some, please.”

The salesman, whom she had kept there for twenty minutes, dared not resist, she appeared so aristocratic, with her imposing’ air and princess’s voice. However, he hesitated, for the salesmen were cautioned against heaping up these precious fabrics, and he had allowed himself to be robbed of ten yards of Malines the week before. But she troubled him, he yielded, and abandoned the Alençon point for a moment to take the lace asked for from a drawer.

“Oh! look, mamma,” said Blanche, who was ransacking a box close by, full of cheap Valenciennes, “we might take some of this for pillow-cases.”

Madame de Boves not replying, her daughter on turning round saw her with her hands plunged amidst the lace, about to slip some Alençon up the sleeve of her mantle. She did not appear surprised, and moved forward instinctively to conceal her mother, when Jouve suddenly stood before them. He leant over, and politely murmured in the countess’s ear:

“Have the kindness to follow me, madame.”

She hesitated for a moment, shocked.

“But what for, sir?”

“Have the kindness to follow me, madame,” repeated the inspector, without raising his voice.

Her face was full of anguish, she threw a rapid glance around her. Then she resigned herself all at once, resumed her haughty look, and walked by his side like a queen who deigns to accept the services of an aide-de-camp. Not one of the customers had observed the scene, and Deloche, on returning to the counter, looked at her being walked off, his mouth wide open with astonishment. What! this one as well! this noble-looking lady! Really it was time to have them all searched! And Blanche, who was left free, followed her mother at a distance, lingering amidst the sea of faces, livid, divided between the duty of not deserting her mother and the terror of being detained with her. She saw her enter Bourdoncle’s office, but she contented herself with waiting near the door. Bourdoncle, whom Mouret had just got rid of, happened to be there. As a rule, he dealt with these sorts of robberies committed by persons of distinction. Jouve had long been watching this lady, and had informed him of it, so that he was not astonished when the inspector briefly explained the matter to him; in fact, such extraordinary cases passed through his hands that he declared the women capable of anything once the rage for dress had seized them. As he was aware of Mouret’s acquaintance with the thief, he treated her with the utmost politeness.

“We excuse these moments of weakness, madame. But pray consider the consequences of such a thing. Suppose someone else had seen you slip this lace—”

But she interrupted him in great indignation. She a thief! Who did he take her for? She was the Countess do Boves, her husband, Inspector-General of the Stud, was received at Court.

“I know, I know, madame,” repeated Bourdoncle, quietly. “I have the honor of knowing you. In the first place, will you kindly give up the lace you have on you?”

She again protested, not allowing him to say another word, handsome in her violence, going as far as tears. Anyone else but he would have been shaken and feared some deplorable mistake, for she threatened to go to law to avenge herself for such an insult.

“Take care, sir, my husband will certainly appeal to the Minister.”

“Come, you are not more reasonable than the others,” declared Bourdoncle, losing patience. “We must search you.”

Still she did not yield, but said with her superb assurance, “Very good, search me. But I warn you, you are risking your house.”

Jouve went to fetch two saleswomen from the corset department. When he returned, he informed Bourdoncle that the lady’s daughter, left at liberty, had not quitted the doorway, and asked if she should also be detained, although he had not seen her take anything. The manager, always correct, decided that she should not be brought in, for the sake of morality, and in order not to force a mother to blush before her daughter. The two men retired into a neighboring room, whilst the saleswomen searched the countess, even taking off her dress to search her bosom and hips. Besides the twelve yards of Alençon point at a thousand francs the yard concealed in her sleeve, they found in her bosom a handkerchief, a fan, and a cravat, making a total of about fourteen thousand francs’ worth of lace. She had been stealing like this for the last year, ravaged by a furious, irresistible passion for dress. These fits got worse, growing daily, sweeping away all the reasonings of prudence, and the enjoyment she felt in the indulgence of this passion was all the more violent from the fact that she was risking before the eyes of a crowd her name, her pride, and her husband’s high position. Now that the latter allowed her to empty his drawers, she stole although she had her pockets full of money, she stole for the pleasure of stealing, as one loves for the pleasure of loving, goaded on by desire, urged on by the species of kleptomania that her unsatisfied luxurious tastes had developed in her formerly at sight of the enormous and brutal temptation of the big shops.

“It’s a trap,” cried she, when Bourdoncle and Jouve came in. “This lace has been placed on me, I swear before Heaven.”

She was now weeping tears of rage, and fell on a chair, suffocated in her dress. The partner sent away the saleswomen, and resumed, with his quiet air: “We are quite willing, madame, to hush up this painful affair for the sake of your family. But you must first sign a paper thus worded: I have stolen some lace from The Ladies’ Paradise,’ followed by the details of the lace, and the day of the month. Besides, I shall be happy to return you this document whenever you like to bring me a sum of two thousand francs for the poor.”

She got up again, and declared in a fresh outburst: “I’ll never sign that, I’d rather die.”

“You won’t die, madame; but I warn you that I shall shortly send for the police.”

Then followed a frightful scene. She insulted him, she stammered that it was cowardly for a man to torture a woman in that way. Her Juno-like beauty, her tall majestic body was distorted by vulgar rage. Then she tried to melt them, entreating them in the name of their mothers, and spoke of dragging herself at their feet. And as they remained quite unmoved, hardened by custom, she sat down all at once and began to write with a trembling hand. The pen sputtered, the words: “I have stolen,” written madly, went almost through the thin paper, whilst she repeated in a strangled voice: “There, sir, there. I yield to force.”

Bourdoncle took the paper, carefully folded it, and put it in a drawer, saying: “You see it’s in company, for ladies, after talking of dying rather than signing, generally forget to come and redeem their billets doux. However, I hold it at your disposal. You’ll be able to judge whether it’s worth two thousand francs.”

She was buttoning up her dress, and became as arrogant as ever, now that she had paid. “I can go now?” asked she, in a sharp tone.

Bourdoncle was already occupied with other business. On Jouve’s report, he decided on Deloche’s dismissal, as a stupid fellow, who was always being robbed, never having any authority over the customers. Madame de Boves repeated her question, and as they dismissed her with an affirmative nod, she enveloped both of them in a murderous look. In the flood of insulting words that she kept back, a melodramatic cry escaped from her lips.

“Wretches!” said she, banging the door after her.

Meanwhile Blanche had not gone far away from the office. Her ignorance of what was going on inside, the passing backwards and forwards of Jouve and the two saleswomen frightened her, she had visions of the police, the assize court, and the prison. But all at once she stopped short: De Vallagnosc was before her, this husband of a month, with whom she still felt rather awkward; and he questioned her, astonished at her bewildered appearance.

“Where’s your mother? Have you lost each other? Come, tell me, you make me feel anxious.”

Nothing in the way of a colorable fiction presented itself to her, and in great distress she told him everything in a low voice: “Mamma, mamma — she has been stealing.”

“What! stealing?” At last he understood. His wife’s bloated face, the pale mask, ravaged by fear, terrified him.

“Some lace, like that, up her sleeve,” she continued stammering.

“You saw her, then? You were looking on?” murmured he, chilled to feel her a sort of accomplice.

They had to stop talking, several persons were already turning round. An hesitation full of anguish kept De Vallagnosc motionless for a moment. What was to be done? He was about to go into Bourdoncle’s office, when he perceived Mouret crossing the gallery. He told his wife to wait for him, and seized his old friend’s arm, informing him of the affair, in broken sentences. The latter hastily took him into his office, where he soon put him at rest as to the possible consequences. He assured him that he need not interfere, and explained in what way the affair would be arranged, without appearing at all excited about this robbery, as if he had foreseen it long ago. But De Vallagnosc, when he no longer feared an immediate arrest, did not accept the adventure with this admirable coolness. He had thrown himself into an arm-chair, and now that he could discuss the matter, began to lament his own unfortunate position. Was it possible that he had married into a family of thieves? A stupid marriage that he had drifted into, just to please his father! Surprised at this childish violence, Mouret watched him weeping, thinking of his former pessimist boasting. Had he not heard him announce scores of times the nothingness of life, in which evil alone had any attraction? And by way of a joke he amused himself for a minute or so, by preaching indifference to his friend, in a friendly, bantering tone. But at this De Vallognosc got angry: he was quite unable to recover his compromised philosophy, his middle-class education broke out in virtuously indignant cries against his mother-in-law. As soon as trouble fell on him, at the least appearance of human suffering, at which he had always coldly laughed, the boasted skeptic was beaten and bleeding. It was abominable, they were dragging the honor of his race into the mud, and the world seemed to be coming to an end.

“Come, calm yourself,” concluded Mouret, stricken with pity. “I won’t tell you that everything happens and nothing happens, because that does not seem to comfort you just now. But I think you ought to go and offer your arm to Madame de Boves, that would be wiser than causing a scandal. The deuce! you who professed such scorn before the universal rascality of the present day!”

“Of course,” cried De Vallagnosc, innocently, “when it affects other people!”

However, he got up, and followed his old school-fellow’s advice. Both were returning to the gallery when Madame de Boves came out of Bourdoncle’s office. She accepted her son-in-law’s arm with a majestic air, and as Mouret bowed to her with respectful gallantry, he heard her saying: “They’ve apologized to me. Really, these mistakes are abominable.”

Blanche rejoined them, and they were soon lost in the crowd. Then Mouret, alone and pensive, crossed the shop once more. This scene, which had changed his thoughts from the struggle going on within him, now increased his fever, and decided him to make a supreme effort. A vague connection arose in his mind: the robbery by this unfortunate woman, the last folly of the conquered customers, beaten at the feet of the tempter, evoked the proud and avenging image of Denise, whose victorious grip he could feel at his throat. He stopped at the top of the central staircase, and gazed for a long time into the immense nave, where his nation of women were swarming.

Six o’clock was about to strike, the daylight decreasing outside was gradually forsaking the covered galleries, already dark and waning at the further end of the halls, invaded by long shadows. And in this daylight, barely extinct, was commenced the lighting of the electric lamps, the globes of an opaque whiteness studding with bright moons the distant depths of the departments. It was a white brightness of a blinding fixity, extending like the reverberation of a discolored star, killing the twilight. Then, when all were lighted, there was a delighted murmur in the crowd, the great show of white goods assumed a fairy splendor beneath this new illumination. It seemed that this colossal orgy of white was also burning, itself becoming a light. The song of the white seemed to soar upward in the inflamed whiteness of an aurora. A white glimmer gushed from the linen and calico department in the Monsigny Gallery, like the first bright gleam which lights up the eastern sky; whilst along the Michodière Gallery, the mercery and the lace, the fancy-goods and the ribbon departments threw out the reflection of distant hills — the white flash of the mother-of-pearl buttons, the silvered bronzes and the pearls. But the central nave especially was filled with a blaze of white: the puffs of white muslin round the columns, the white dimities and other stuffs draping the staircases, the white lace flying in the air, opened up a dreamy firmament, the dazzling whiteness of a paradise, where was being celebrated the marriage of the unknown queen. The tent of the silk hall was like a giant alcove, with its white curtains, gauzes and tulles, the dazzle of which protected the bride in her white nudity from the gaze of the curious. There was now nothing but this blinding white light in which all the whites blended, a multitude of stars twinkling in the bright clear light.