The Ladies' Paradise (BBC tie-in) (Oxford World's Classics) (65 page)

‘Another dozen, you say?’ Denise asked her brother. ‘It’s Cholets you want, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I think so, the same as this one,’ he replied, showing her a handkerchief in the parcel.

Jean and Pépé had not left her side, but were staying close to her as they had in the past when, worn out from the journey, they had arrived in Paris. This vast shop, where she was so at home, was disturbing them; they sheltered behind her and, their childhood instinctively reawakening, once more placed themselves under the protection of the sister who was a mother to them. People were watching them, smiling at these two strapping lads—Jean who was scared in spite of the fact that he had a
beard, and Pépé bewildered in his tunic—following in the footsteps of the slight, serious-looking girl, all three of them now with the same fair hair, which made people from one end of the department to the other whisper as they passed:

‘They’re her brothers … they’re her brothers …’

While Denise was looking for a salesman, an encounter took place. Mouret and Bourdoncle entered the gallery; and just as the former came to a halt before the girl without, however, saying a word to her, Madame Desforges and Madame Guibal passed by. Henriette repressed the shudder which had passed through her whole body. She looked at Mouret; then she looked at Denise. They, too, looked at her; it was like a silent denouement, the common end of violent emotional dramas, a glance exchanged in the middle of a crowd. Mouret had already moved on, while Denise, still searching for a free salesman, disappeared with her brothers at the far end of the department. Then Henriette, who had recognized the assistant following the three of them, with a yellow number on her shoulder and her masklike face coarse and cadaverous like that of a servant, to be Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, relieved her feelings by saying to Madame Guibal in an irritated voice:

‘Just look what he’s done to that poor girl. Isn’t it shameful? A marchioness! And he forces her to follow the creatures he’s picked up off the pavements as if she were a dog.’

She tried to regain her composure, and putting on an air of indifference she added:

‘Let’s go and have a look at their silk display.’

The silk department was like a huge bedroom dedicated to love, hung with white by the whim of a woman in love who, snowy in her nudity, wished to compete in whiteness. All the milky tones of an adored body were there, from the velvet of the hips to the fine silk of the thighs and the shining satin of the breasts. Lengths of velvet were hung between the columns, and against this creamy-white background silks and satins stood out in hangings of metallic whiteness and the whiteness of porcelain; and falling in arches there were also silk poults and Sicilian grosgrains, light foulards and surahs, ranging from the heavy white of a Norwegian blonde to the transparent white, warmed by the sun, of a redhead from Italy or Spain.

Favier was just measuring some white foulard for the ‘pretty lady’, that elegant blonde who was a regular customer in the department and to whom the salesmen never referred except by that name. She had been coming there for years, and they still knew nothing about her, neither what sort of life she led, nor her address, nor even her name. None of them ever tried to find out, although all of them made guesses each time she appeared, just for something to talk about. She was getting thinner, she was getting fatter, she had slept well, or she must have gone to bed late the night before; and each small incident in her unknown life—domestic events, external dramas—therefore had repercussions which would be commented on at length. On that day she seemed very happy. And Favier, when he came back from the cash-desk where he had accompanied her, suggested to Hutin:

‘She may be getting married again.’

‘Why, is she a widow?’ asked the other.

‘I don’t know … But don’t you remember the time she was in mourning? … Unless she’s made some money on the Stock Exchange.’

There was a silence. Then he concluded:

‘It’s her business. It wouldn’t do if we became familiar with all the women who come here …’

But Hutin was looking very thoughtful. Two days earlier he had had an argument with the management, and he felt himself condemned. After the big sale his dismissal was certain. His job had been at risk for a long time; at the last stock-taking he had been reproached for not having reached the turnover fixed in advance; and, above all, there was still the slow pressure of appetites devouring him in his turn, a whole secret war in the department throwing him out, forming part of the very motion of the machine. Favier’s hidden work could now be heard; there was a loud sound of hungry jaws, muffled underground. The latter had already been promised the job of buyer. Hutin, who was aware of all this, instead of punching his old friend, now considered him to be very clever. Such a cold fish, with such a docile manner, whom he had himself used to wear down Robineau and Bouthemont! He was overcome with surprise mingled with respect.

‘By the way,’ Favier went on, ‘you know she’s staying. The governor was just seen making sheep’s eyes at her … I stand to lose a bottle of champagne.’

He was referring to Denise. Gossip was raging more than ever round the counters, across the endlessly swelling stream of customers. The silk department, especially, was in an uproar, for heavy bets had been laid there.

‘Damn it!’ Hutin blurted out, waking as if from a dream. ‘What a fool I was not to sleep with her! I’d be well off today if I had!’

Then, seeing Favier laughing, he blushed at his confession. He pretended to laugh too, and added, in order to make up for what he had said, that it was that creature who had done for him in the eyes of the management. However, a need for violent action seized him, and he lost his temper with the salesmen, who had dispersed under the assault of the customers. But suddenly he began to smile again: he had just caught sight of Madame Desforges and Madame Guibal walking slowly through the department.

‘There’s nothing you need today, madam?’

‘No, thank you,’ Henriette replied. ‘I’m just walking round; I only came today out of curiosity.’

Having stopped her, he lowered his voice. A whole plan was springing up in his head, and he humoured her by running down the shop: he had had quite enough of it; he would rather leave than stay on any longer in such chaos. She listened to him, delighted. It was she who, thinking she was stealing him from the Paradise, offered to get him taken on by Bouthemont as buyer in the silk department when the Quatre Saisons was refitted. The deal was clinched in whispers, while Madame Guibal was looking at the displays.

‘May I offer you one of these bunches of violets?’ Hutin resumed, pointing to a table where there were three or four gift bunches, which he had procured for his own personal presents from one of the cash-desks.

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Henriette, stepping back. ‘I don’t want to take any part in the wedding!’

They understood each other. They separated, still laughing and exchanging knowing glances.

Madame Desforges, looking for Madame Guibal, gave an exclamation of surprise when she saw her with Madame Marty. The latter, followed by her daughter Valentine, had already been in the shop for two hours, carried away by one of those fits of spending which always left her exhausted and confused. She had made a thorough inspection of the furniture department, which had been transformed by a display of white lacquered furniture into a young girl’s bedroom, and the ribbon and fichu department, where there were colonnades covered with white awnings; and the haberdashery and trimming departments, where white fringes framed ingenious trophies carefully built up out of cards of buttons and packets of needles; and finally the hosiery, where that year there was a tremendous crush of people wanting to see an immense decorative design: the glorious name of the Ladies’ Paradise in letters three metres high, made of white socks against a background of red socks. But Madame Marty was especially excited by the new departments; a department could not be opened without her going to inaugurate it: she would rush in and buy something indiscriminately. She had spent an hour in the millinery department, installed in a new salon on the first floor, having cupboards emptied for her, taking hats from the rosewood stands with which the two tables there were decked, and trying them all on with her daughter—white hats, white bonnets, white toques. Then she had gone downstairs again to the shoe department at the far end of one of the galleries, beyond the ties, a department which had been opened that very day; she had ransacked the show-cases, seized with morbid desire at the sight of white silk mules trimmed with swansdown and shoes and boots of white satin with high Louis XV heels.

‘Oh, my dear!’ she stammered, ‘you’ve no idea! They’ve got a wonderful assortment of bonnets. I’ve chosen one for myself and one for my daughter … And what about the shoes, eh? Valentine …’

‘It’s fantastic!’ added the girl, who was as self-possessed as a mature woman. ‘There are some wonderful boots at twenty francs fifty!’

A salesman was following them, dragging the eternal chair on which a heap of goods was already piling up.

‘How is Monsieur Marty?’ asked Madame Desforges.

‘Quite well, I believe,’ replied Madame Marty, startled by this sudden question which disturbed her fever of spending. ‘He’s still away; my uncle was supposed to go to see him this morning …’

But she broke off and let out a cry of ecstasy:

‘Oh, look! Isn’t that adorable?’

The ladies, who had walked on a little, were now standing opposite the new flower and feather department, which had been installed in the central gallery between the silks and gloves. Endless blooms lay under the bright light from the glass roof, a white sheaf as tall and broad as an oak tree. Clusters of flowers decorated the base—violets, lilies-of-the-valley, hyacinths, daisies, all the delicate whites of a flower-bed. Then, higher up, there were bunches of white roses softened with a fleshy tint, huge white peonies lightly shaded with carmine, white chrysanthemums in delicate sprays starred with yellow. The flowers went up and up: there were great mystical lilies, branches of apple blossom, sheaves of fragrant lilac, and endless blossoming which, on a level with the first floor, was crowned with plumes of ostrich feathers, white feathers which seemed to be the breath floating away from this crowd of flowers. A whole corner was devoted to a display of trimmings and wreaths made of orange blossom. There were flowers made of metal, silver thistles, and silver ears of corn. In the foliage and the petals, in the midst of all this muslin, silk, and velvet, in which drops of gum were like drops of dew, there flew birds of paradise for hats, purple tangaras with black tails and septicolours with shimmering breasts, shot with all the colours of the rainbow.

‘I’m going to buy a branch of apple blossom,’ Madame Marty went on. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it… And that little bird, do look, Valentine. Oh! I’ll get it!’

Madame Guibal was getting bored at just standing there, in the swirl of the crowd. Finally she said:

‘Well, we’ll leave you to your purchases. We’re going upstairs.’

‘Oh no, wait for me!’ Madame Marty exclaimed. ‘I’m going upstairs again too … The perfume department’s up there. I must go and visit it.’

This department, which had been created the day before, was next door to the reading-room. Madame Desforges, in order to avoid the crush on the stairs, spoke of taking the lift, but they had to abandon the idea, as there was a queue waiting to go up. They got there in the end by going through the buffet, where there was such a crowd that a shopwalker had been obliged to curb people’s appetites by only allowing the gluttonous customers to enter in small groups at a time. Even in the buffet the ladies began to smell the perfume department; the penetrating scent of sachets pervaded the gallery. There was quite a struggle over a particular soap, the Paradise soap, a speciality of the shop. Inside the display counters and on the small crystal shelves of the showcases pots of pomades and creams were lined up, boxes of powder and rouge, phials of oils and toilet waters; while the fine brushes, combs, scissors, and pocket flasks occupied a special cupboard. The salesmen had used their ingenuity to decorate the display with all their white china pots and all their white glass phials. The customers were delighted by a silver fountain in the centre, a shepherdess standing in a harvest of flowers, from which a continuous trickle of violet water was flowing, tinkling musically in the metal basin. An exquisite scent was spreading everywhere, and the ladies soaked their handkerchiefs in it as they passed.

‘There!’ said Madame Marty, when she had loaded herself with lotions, toothpastes, and cosmetics. ‘That’s enough, now I’m at your disposal. Let’s go and find Madame de Boves.’

But on the landing of the big, central staircase she was distracted again by the Japanese department. This counter had grown since the day when Mouret had amused himself by setting up in the same place a little auction stall, covered with a few shop-soiled trinkets, without foreseeing its enormous success. Few departments had had such modest beginnings, but now it was overflowing with old bronzes, old ivories, and old lacquers. His turnover there was fifteen thousand francs a year, and he was ransacking the whole Far East, where travellers were pillaging palaces and temples for him. And new departments were still being opened: they had tried two new ones in December, in order to fill the gaps during the winter off-season—a book department and a children’s toy department, which would certainly
also grow and sweep away more businesses in the neighbourhood. In four years the Japanese department had succeeded in attracting all the artistic clientele of Paris.
*

This time Madame Desforges herself, in spite of the grudge she bore which had made her swear not to buy anything, succumbed to a delicately carved ivory.

‘Send it to me,’ she said quickly, at a nearby cash-desk. ‘Ninety francs, isn’t it?’

And, seeing Madame Marty and her daughter engrossed in a selection of trashy china, she said as she led Madame Guibal away: ‘You’ll find us in the reading-room … I really must sit down for a little while.’