The Ladies' Paradise

  Then Mouret, alone and pensive, went through the shop once more. This scene, which had taken his mind off the conflict within him, was now increasing his fever, bringing the final struggle to a head. In his mind he felt that everything was vaguely connected: that unfortunate woman’s theft, the final act of madness of his clientele which lay vanquished, prostrate at its tempter’s feet, evoked the proud avenging image of Denise, whose victorious foot he could feel planted on his chest. He stopped at the top of the central staircase, and gazed for a long time at the immense nave, at his nation of women swarming beneath him.

  Six o’clock was about to strike; the light which was fading outside was leaving the covered galleries, which were dark already, and was waning in the depths of the halls flooded with long shadows. In this lingering daylight, electric lamps* were lighting up one by one, and their opaque white globes studded the distant depths of the departments with bright moons. They shed a white brightness of blinding fixity, like the reflection of some colourless star, which was killing the dusk. Then, when all the lamps were lit, there was a rapturous murmur from the crowd; the great display of white took on fairy-like splendour beneath this new lighting. It seemed as if the colossal orgy of white was burning too, was itself becoming changed into light. The song of white was taking wing in the blazing whiteness of a dawn. A white gleam was projected from the linens and calicoes in the Monsigny Gallery, like the first bright streak which whitens the sky in the east; while, along the Michodière Gallery, the haberdashery and trimmings, the fancy goods and ribbons, were casting reflections of distant slopes—the flashing white of mother-of-pearl buttons, silvered bronze, and pearls. In the central nave, above all, there was an explosion of white bathed in flames: the froth of white muslin round the pillars, the white dimities and piqués draping the staircase, the white coverlets hanging like banners, the guipures and white lace floating in the air—all this opened up a dream firmament, a glimpse into the dazzling whiteness of a paradise, where the marriage of the unknown queen was being solemnized. The pavilion in the silk hall, with its white curtains, white gauzes, and white tulles, was like a gigantic bedroom whose brilliance protected the white nudity of the bride from onlookers. There was nothing left but a blinding white light in which every tone of white was dissolving, a dusting of stars snowing in the general whiteness.

  In the midst of this blazing scene Mouret was still looking down at his nation of women. Black shadows stood out strongly against a pale background. Long eddies were breaking up the crowd; the fever of the great sale was passing away over the disordered swirl of heads. People were beginning to leave, a mess of materials was littering the counters, gold was clinking in the cash-desks; while the customers, despoiled and violated, were going away in disarray, their desires satisfied, and with the secret shame of having yielded to temptation in the depths of some sleazy hotel. And it was he who possessed them all like that, who held them at his mercy by his continual accumulation of goods, by his price reductions and his ‘returns’, his charm and his publicity. He had even conquered the mothers themselves; he reigned over them all with the brutality of a despot, whose whims were wrecking families. His creation was producing a new religion; churches, which were being gradually deserted by those of wavering faith, were being replaced by his bazaar. Women came to spend their hours of leisure in his shop, the thrilling, disturbing hours which in the past they’d spent in the depths of a chapel; for this expenditure of nervous passion was necessary, it was part of the recurring struggle between a god and a husband, the ceaselessly renewed cult of the body, with the divine future life of beauty. If he had closed his doors, there would have been a rising in the street, a desperate outcry from the worshippers whose confessional and altar he would have abolished. In spite of the lateness of the hour he could still see them in their luxury, which in the last ten years had increased so much, clinging stubbornly to the enormous metal framework, along the staircases and suspension bridges. Madame Marty and her daughter, swept up to the very top, were wandering about among the furniture. Madame Bourdelais, held back by her children, could not get away from the fancy goods. Then came another group: Madame de Boves, still on Vallagnosc’s arm, was followed by Blanche, and was stopping in every department, still examining the materials in her arrogant manner. In the mass of customers, the sea of bosoms bursting with life, beating with desire, all decked with bunches of violets as if they were celebrating some royal wedding, he could no longer distinguish anything but the bare bosom of Madame Desforges, who had stopped in the glove department with Madame Guibal. In spite of her jealousy and resentment, she too was buying, and he felt himself the master one last time; under the dazzle of the electric lights they were all at his feet, like cattle from which he had extracted his fortune.

  Mechanically Mouret went along the galleries, so deep in thought that he let himself be carried along by the crowd. When he looked up he found himself in the new millinery department, the windows of which looked out on to the Rue du Dix-Décembre. There, his forehead pressed against the glass, he made a fresh halt and watched the people leaving. The setting sun was spreading a yellow sheen over the tops of the white houses, the blue sky was paling, cooled by a strong fresh breeze; while, in the dusk which was already enveloping the boulevard, the electric lights of the Ladies’ Paradise were casting the steady brilliance of stars lit up on the horizon at the decline of day. Towards the Opéra and the Bourse the three rows of waiting carriages were sunk in darkness, though the harness still reflected the bright lights—the gleam of a lantern, the flash of a silvered bit. The cries of liveried ostlers were ringing out all the time, and a cab would advance, a brougham would move forward and pick up a customer, then depart at a resounding trot. The queues were growing smaller now; six carriages went off at a time, occupying the whole street, to the sound of banging doors, the cracking of whips, and the buzz of pedestrians overflowing between the wheels. There seemed to be a continual expansion of customers as they spread out and were carried away to the four corners of the city, emptying the shop with the roaring noise of a sluice-gate. The roofs of the Paradise, the great golden letters on the signboards and the banners hoisted up in the sky, were still flaming with the reflection of the sunset, and seemed so colossal in this oblique lighting that they conjured up the monster on the advertisements, the phalanstery with its proliferating buildings, which were swallowing whole districts as far away as the distant woods of the suburbs. The soul of Paris, like an enormous, gentle breath, was falling asleep in the serenity of the evening, covering the last carriages with long, soft caresses, hastening down the street which was gradually becoming deserted, and disappearing in the darkness of the night.

  Mouret, gazing into the distance, felt that something immense had just taken place within him; and in the thrill of triumph with which his flesh was trembling, faced with Paris devoured and Woman conquered, he experienced a sudden weakness, a failure of his will by which he was being overthrown in his turn as if by a superior force. In his victory he felt an irrational need to be conquered; it was the irrationality of a warrior yielding on the morrow of his conquest to the whim of a child. He who, for months, had been struggling, who only that morning had still been swearing that he would stifle his passion, was suddenly giving in, overcome with vertigo, and happy to commit what he believed was an act of folly. His decision, so rapidly taken, had gathered such momentum from one minute to the next that he no longer considered anything else in the world to have any importance or to be necessary.

  That evening, after the last meal service, he waited in his study. He was trembling like a young man about to stake his life’s happiness; he could not stay in one spot, but kept going to the door to listen to the noises coming from the shop, where the assistants, up to their shoulders in the chaos from the sale, were folding up the goods. His heart beat at each sound of footsteps. Suddenly he felt a violent emotion and rushed forward, for he had heard in the distance a muffled murmur, which became gradually louder.

  It
was Lhomme, slowly approaching with the day’s takings. On that day they were so heavy, there was so much copper and silver in the cash taken, that he had asked two porters to accompany him. Behind him, Joseph and one of his colleagues were bending under the sacks, enormous sacks thrown over their shoulders like sacks of cement, while he walked on ahead carrying the notes and the gold in a wallet bulging with paper, and in two bags hung round his neck, the weight pulling him down on his right-hand side, the side of his lost arm. Slowly, sweating and puffing, he had come from the other end of the shop, through the growing excitement of the salesmen. Those in the glove and silk departments had laughingly offered to relieve him of his burden; those in the cloths and woollens had wanted him to take a false step which would have scattered the gold all over the department. Then he had had to go up a staircase, cross a suspension bridge, go up more stairs, turning through the girders, followed by the gazes of the salesmen in the household linen, the hosiery, and the haberdashery, who stood gaping with ecstasy at the sight of such a fortune travelling through the air. On the first floor the ladieswear, the perfumes, the laces, and the shawls had lined up with devotion as if God himself was passing by. With every step he took the noise increased, becoming the uproar of a nation bowing down to the golden calf.

  Mouret had opened his door. Lhomme appeared, followed by the two porters, who were staggering; and although he was out of breath, he still had the strength to shout:

  ‘One million, two hundred and forty-seven francs, ninety-five centimes!’

  A million had been reached at last, a million collected in one day, the figure of which Mouret had dreamed for so long!* But he made an angry gesture, and, with the disappointed air of a man disturbed by an unwelcome intruder, he said impatiently:

  ‘A million? Very well, put it there.’

  Lhomme knew that he liked to see big takings on his desk, before they were deposited in the central counting-house. The million covered the desk, crushing the papers and almost upsetting the ink; and the gold, silver, and copper, overflowing from the sacks and bursting out of the bags, made a great heap, a heap of raw takings, just as they had left the customers’ hands, still warm and alive.

  Just as the cashier was withdrawing, deeply hurt by his employer’s indifference, Bourdoncle arrived, exclaiming gaily:

  ‘Well, we’ve done it this time! We’ve reached a million!’

  But, noticing Mouret’s agitated state, he understood and calmed down. He was beaming with joy, and after a short silence he resumed:

  ‘You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you? You know, I think you’re right.’

  Suddenly Mouret planted himself in front of him, and, in the terrifying voice he used on days of crisis, he said:

  ‘I say, my good fellow, you’re rather too pleased … You think I’m finished, don’t you, and you’re feeling hungry. Well, be careful! People don’t eat me up!’

  Disconcerted by the sudden attack from this amazing man who always guessed everything, Bourdoncle stammered:

  ‘What? You’re joking! I’ve always admired you very much!’

  ‘Don’t lie,’ replied Mouret, becoming even more violent. ‘Listen, we were stupid to have that superstition that marriage would ruin us. After all, isn’t it the health necessary to life, its very strength and order? Well! Yes, my dear fellow, I’m going to marry her, and I’ll kick you all out if you do so much as lift a finger. Yes! You’ll proceed to the pay-desk just like anyone else, Bourdoncle!’

  He dismissed him with a gesture. Bourdoncle felt himself condemned, swept away by the victory of Woman. He took his leave. Denise arrived just at that moment, and he greeted her with a deep bow, having lost all his self-possession.

  ‘You’ve come at last,’ said Mouret gently.

  Denise was pale with emotion. She had just suffered further grief, for Deloche had told her of his dismissal; and when she had tried to keep him back by offering to speak on his behalf, he had clung to his misfortune, saying he wanted to disappear: what was the good of staying? Why should he stand in the way of those more fortunate than himself? Denise, overcome with tears, had bade him a sisterly farewell. Wasn’t she herself hoping to forget? Soon it would all be over, and all she asked of her exhausted powers was courage for the separation. In a few minutes, if she was valiant enough to break her own heart, she would be able to go away on her own and weep somewhere far away.

  ‘You said you wanted to see me, sir,’ she said in her calm way. ‘I’d have come in any case, to thank you for all your kindness.’

  As she came in she caught sight of the million on the desk, and the display of all that money distressed her. Above her, as if watching the scene, the portrait of Madame Hédouin in its golden frame had that eternal smile on its painted lips.

  ‘You’re still resolved to leave us?’ asked Mouret, whose voice was trembling.

  ‘Yes, sir, I must.’

  Then he seized her hands and, his tenderness bursting out after the coldness he had forced himself to show towards her for so long, he said:

  ‘And if I married you, Denise, would you still leave?’

  But she had drawn her hands away; she was struggling as if under the weight of some great sorrow.

  ‘Oh! Monsieur Mouret, please don’t say any more, I beg you! Don’t make me even more unhappy! … I can’t! I can’t! God is my witness that I was going away to avoid a misfortune like that!’

  She went on defending herself in broken phrases. Hadn’t she already suffered too much from the gossip of the shop? Did he want her to seem a woman of easy virtue in other people’s eyes as well as in her own? No, no, she would be strong, she would prevent him from doing such a silly thing. He was listening to her in torment, repeating passionately:

  ‘I want to … I want to …’

  ‘No, it’s impossible … And what about my brothers? I’ve sworn never to marry. I can’t bring you two children, can I?’

  ‘They’ll be my brothers too … say yes, Denise!’

  ‘No, no, leave me, you’re tormenting me!’

  Little by little he was losing heart, driven mad by this final obstacle. What! Even at this price she still refused! In the distance he could hear the din of his three thousand employees, shifting his regal fortune about by the armful. And that idiotic million lying there on his desk! He could not bear the irony of it; he would gladly have thrown it into the street.

  ‘Go, then!’ he exclaimed in a flood of tears. ‘Go and join the man you love … That’s the reason, isn’t it? You warned me; I ought to have known, and not tormented you any further.’

  She stood there dazed, astonished at the violence of this despair. Her heart was bursting. Then, with the impetuosity of a child, she threw her arms round his neck, sobbing too, and exclaimed:

  ‘Oh! Monsieur Mouret, it’s you I love!’

  A last murmur, the distant acclamation of the crowd, rose from the Ladies’ Paradise. The portrait of Madame Hédouin was still smiling with its painted lips. Mouret had collapsed on to the desk, and was sitting there in the middle of his million which he no longer even noticed. He was still holding Denise, clasping her tightly to his breast, telling her that she could go away now, that she could spend a month in Valognes, which would end the gossip, and that then he would go and fetch her himself, and bring her back, all powerful, on his arm.

  EXPLANATORY NOTES

  Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin: the Ladies’ Paradise is situated in the Opéra district of Paris, which was largely rebuilt by Baron Haussmann in the final years of the Second Empire (1852–70). Many of the streets whose names recur in the text (Rue de Choiseul, Rue Gaillon, Rue de la Michodière, Rue Monsigny, Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, Rue Sainte-Anne, Rue Saint-Roch) are situated in this area.

  Mexico: French troops fought in Mexico from 1862 to 1865 in support of the Austrian Archduke Maximilian as emperor of that country. In 1867 Maximilian was shot and a republic set up in Mexico. Allusions of this kind enable Zola to situate his novels historical
ly.

  Rambouillet: some 35 miles south-west of Paris, well known for its forest and palace.

  shop: the description of the Baudus and their shop is highly reminiscent of Balzac’s descriptions in La Maison du Chat-qui-pelote (1829) and Grandeur et décadence de César Birotteau (1837), in which he chronicled the predecessors of the department store, the magasins de nouveauté.

  Seine-et-Oise: a former département encompassing most of greater Paris; in 1964 it was divided into three smaller départements (Essonne, Val d’Oise, Yvelines).

  Vabre: an allusion to Auguste Vabre, a character (a silk merchant) in Pot-Bouille, the novel Zola wrote immediately before The Ladies’ Paradise and which features the young Octave Mouret, who has an affair with Vabre’s wife.

  Midi: the South of France; Mouret comes from Zola’s fictional ‘Plassans’ (i.e. Aix-en-Provence).

  business: Aristide Boucicaut, the founder of the Bon Marché, had encouraged his employees to invest their money in his shop, giving them 6 per cent interest on their investment.

  supervision: although the character of Octave Mouret is based largely on Aristide Boucicaut, the relationship between Mouret and Bourdoncle was suggested by the partnership between Alfred Chauchard and Auguste Hériot, founders of the Grands Magasins du Louvre (1855).

  father: Octave’s father was François Mouret, son of Ursule Macquart and the hatter Mouret, and husband of Marthe Rougon, the daughter of Pierre and Félicité Rougon: see La Fortune des Rougon (1871) and La Conquête de Plassans (1874).

  voices: the details contained in the preceding pages (the counterfoil book, the system of commissions and percentages, the counting-house, the receiving department) are based (like many others in the novel, but very systematically here) on the notes Zola took on Boucicaut’s innovations at the Bon Marché.