The Ladies' Paradise
Denise and her brothers were now able to get through. Every type of women’s linen, all the white things which are hidden underneath, were displayed in a succession of rooms divided into different departments. The corsets and bustles occupied one counter; there were stitched corsets, long-waisted corsets, armour-like boned corsets, above all white silk corsets with coloured fan-stitching on them, of which a special display had been arranged that day; there was an army of mannequins without heads or legs, nothing but torsos lined up, their dolls’ breasts flattened under the silk; they had the disturbing lewdness of the disabled. Close by, on neighbouring stands, there were bustles of horsehair and jaconet, their enormous taut rumps forming extensions to the long rods and their outlines appearing grotesquely indecent. But beyond them the luxury déshabillé began, a déshabillé strewn across the vast galleries, as if an army of pretty girls had undressed as they went from department to department, down to their satiny skin. On one side there were fine linen goods, white cuffs and scarves, fichus and white collars, an infinite variety of frills and flounces, a white froth escaping from the boxes and rising like so much snow. On the other side there were jackets, little bodices, tea-gowns, dressing-gowns, made of linen, nainsook, and lace, and long white garments, loose and diaphanous, which evoked visions of languorous, lazy mornings after nights of love. And the underclothes appeared, falling one by one: white petticoats of every length, petticoats tight across the knees, and petticoats with a train that swept on the ground, a rising tide of petticoats in which legs were drowning; bloomers in cambric, linen, and piqué; broad white bloomers in which a man’s hips would be lost; finally, the chemises, buttoned up to the neck for the night, and leaving the bosom bare during the day, held up only by narrow shoulder-straps, and made of plain calico, Irish linen, and cambric, the last veil slipping from the breasts and down the hips. In the trousseau department all discretion was abandoned: women were turned round and viewed from below, from the ordinary housewife with her common calicoes to the rich lady smothered in lace; it was an alcove open to the public, whose hidden luxury, its plaitings and embroideries and Valenciennes lace, depraved the senses as it overflowed in costly fantasies. Woman dressed herself again, and the white waves of this flood of linen again became hidden beneath the quivering mystery of skirts; the chemise stiffened by the dressmaker’s fingers, the frigid bloomers retaining the creases from the box, and all that dead cambric and muslin lying dishevelled, strewn about, and piled up on the counters were soon to become alive with the life of the flesh, scented and warm with the fragrance of love, a cloud of white which would become sacred, steeped in night, and of which the slightest flutter, the pink of a knee glimpsed in the depths of the whiteness, played havoc with the world. There was still one more room, devoted to baby linen, where the voluptuous white of Woman led to the guileless white of children: innocence, joy, the young wife who wakes up a mother, infants’ vests made of fluffy quilting, flannel hoods, chemises, and bonnets no bigger than toys, and christening robes, and cashmere shawls, the white down of birth like a shower of fine white feathers.
‘You know, they’re like chemises in the theatre,’ said Jean, who was delighted at this unrobing, this rising tide of clothes into which he was sinking.
In the trousseau department Pauline ran up immediately when she saw Denise. And before she even asked what the latter wanted, she spoke to her in an undertone, showing her agitation at the rumours which were circulating throughout the shop. In her department, two salesgirls had even quarrelled, one insisting that Denise would leave, the other denying it.
‘You’re staying with us, I’ve staked everything on it… What would become of me if you left?’
And when Denise replied that she was leaving the next day, she said;
‘No, no, you think you will, but I know you won’t… Now I’ve got a baby, you must get me promoted assistant buyer. Baugé’s counting on it, my dear.’
Pauline was smiling with an air of conviction. Then she gave them the six chemises; and as Jean had said that they were now going on to the handkerchiefs, she called another assistant to carry the chemises and the coat left by the assistant from the ladieswear department. The girl who happened to be there was Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, who had recently married Joseph. She had just obtained this menial job as a favour, and was wearing a big black overall marked on the shoulder with a number in yellow wool.
‘Would you please follow this young lady?’ said Pauline.
Then, coming back and again lowering her voice, she said to Denise:
‘I’ll be assistant buyer, won’t I? It’s agreed!’
Joking in her turn, Denise laughingly gave her promise. Then she moved on and went downstairs with Pépé and Jean, the three of them accompanied by the assistant. On the ground floor they suddenly found themselves in the woollens: one corner of a gallery was entirely hung with white duffel and flannel. Liénard, whose father was vainly summoning him back to Angers, was talking with the ‘Handsome’ Mignot, who had become a broker, and who had had the nerve to reappear in the Ladies’ Paradise. No doubt they were talking about Denise, for they both fell silent in order to greet her obsequiously. Indeed, as she advanced through the departments, the salesmen became quite excited and bowed down before her, uncertain as to what she might be the next day. They whispered, saying that she looked triumphant; and there was a fresh wave of betting: people began staking a bottle of Argenteuil wine and some fried fish on her. She had entered the household linen gallery in order to get to the handkerchief department, which was at the further end. There was an endless array of white: the white of cotton, of dimity, of piqués, of calicoes; the white of madapollam, nainsook, muslin, and tarlatan; then, in enormous piles built of lengths of material alternating like stones hewn in cubes, came the linens, coarse linens and fine linens of every width, white and unbleached, made from pure flax bleached in the meadows; then the whole thing began all over again and departments for every kind of made-up linen succeeded each other; there was household linen, table linen, kitchen linen, an endless avalanche of white, there were sheets and pillow-cases, innumerable different kinds of table-napkins and table-cloths, aprons and dishcloths. And the greetings continued as they fell back while Denise passed by. In the linen department Baugé had dashed forward to give her a smile, as if she was the beloved queen of the shop. Finally, after having gone through the blankets department, a room decked with white banners, she went into the handkerchiefs, where the ingenious decorations were sending the crowd into ecstasies—there were white columns, white pyramids, white castles, complicated architecture built up of nothing but handkerchiefs, handkerchiefs made of lawn, cambric, Irish linen, and Chinese silk, initialled handkerchiefs, handkerchiefs embroidered with satin-stitch, trimmed with lace, hemstitched, and with woven designs, a whole town of white bricks of infinite variety, standing out like a mirage against an oriental sky warmed to white heat.
‘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 for
mer 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.