After a painful silence it was Mouret himself who mentioned the Baudus. He began by saying how sorry he was for them at the loss of their daughter. They were excellent people, very worthy, and had been dogged by bad luck. Then he resumed his arguments: basically, they had brought their troubles on themselves by sticking obstinately to the old-fashioned ways in their worm-eaten hovel; it was hardly surprising that the house was falling on their heads. He had predicted it scores of times; she must remember how he had told her to warn her uncle that it would be fatal for him to go on clinging to his ridiculous old-fashioned ideas. The catastrophe had arrived, and no one in the world could prevent it now. They couldn’t really expect him to ruin himself to spare the neighbourhood. In any case, if he had been foolish enough to close the Paradise, another big shop would have sprung up on its own next door, for the idea was gaining ground all over the world; the triumph of these great concentrations had been sown by the spirit of the times, which was sweeping away the crumbling edifice of past ages. Little by little Mouret was warming up, filled with eloquent emotion to defend himself against the hatred of his involuntary victims, against the clamour of small, moribund shops which he could hear rising around him. It was impossible to keep one’s dead, after all, they must be buried; and with a gesture he swept away and threw into the paupers’ grave the corpse of old-fashioned business, the greenish stinking remains of which were becoming the disgrace of the sunny streets of modern Paris. No, no, he felt no remorse; he was merely carrying out the task of his epoch, and she knew it, she who loved life and had a passion for big business deals settled in the glare of publicity. Reduced to silence, she listened to him for a long time and then withdrew, her heart full of confusion.
That night Denise hardly slept. Insomnia interspersed with nightmares made her toss and turn under the blankets. She thought she was quite small, and burst into tears in their garden at Valognes at the sight of warblers eating spiders who, in their turn, were eating flies. Was it really true then that death must fertilize the world, that the struggle for life propelled people towards the charnel-house of eternal destruction? Next, she saw herself again beside the grave into which Geneviève was being lowered, and she saw her uncle and aunt, alone in their dark dining-room. In the deep silence, the dull sound of something crumbling was echoing through the death-like air; it was Bourras’s house collapsing, as if undermined by floods. The silence began again, more sinister than ever, and another crash was heard, then another, and another: the Robineaus, Bédoré and his sister, the Vanpouilles, were cracking up and collapsing one after another; the small businesses of the Saint-Roch district were disappearing under an invisible pickaxe, with sudden, thundering noises, like carts being unloaded. Then, a feeling of immense sorrow woke her with a start. My God! What tortures! Weeping families, old men thrown out into the street, all the poignant dramas associated with ruin! And she could not save anyone; she was even aware that it was a good thing: this manure of distress was necessary to the health of the Paris of the future. When morning came she grew calmer; a feeling of immense, resigned sadness kept her awake, her eyes turned towards the window as it grew lighter. Yes, it was the necessary sacrifice; every revolution demanded its victims, for it was only possible to advance over the bodies of the dead. Her fear of being an evil genius, and having helped in the murder of her relatives, was now dissolving into heartfelt pity at those irremediable misfortunes, the painful birth pangs of each new generation. She ended up by trying to think of possible alleviations; she thought for a long time of measures that might be taken to save at least her own family from the final collapse.
Mouret then rose up before her, with his passionate expression and his caressing eyes. He would surely not refuse her anything; she was certain he would grant her all reasonable compensation. And her thoughts strayed as she tried to understand him. She was familiar with his life, how calculating he had been in his affections, his continual exploitation of Woman, the mistresses he had taken in order to further his own ends, his liaison with Madame Desforges with the sole aim of keeping a hold on Baron Hartmann, and all the other women, the Claras he picked up, the pleasure which he bought, paid for, and threw back into the street. But these beginnings of a career of amorous adventure, which the shop joked about, came to be seen as part of the man’s genius, his all-conquering charm. He was seduction personified. What she would never have forgiven him was the falsehood of his former behaviour, his coldness as a lover beneath the gallantry of his attentions. But now that he was suffering because of her, she felt no resentment towards him. His suffering had improved him. When she saw him tormented, paying so dearly for his contempt for women, she felt he was redeemed of his faults.
That very morning Denise obtained from Mouret the promise of such compensation, on the day when the Baudus and old Bourras succumbed, as she might judge legitimate. Weeks passed, and almost every afternoon she would slip out for a few minutes to go and see her uncle, taking with her laughter and her cheerful courage to brighten up the dark shop. She was especially worried about her aunt who, since Geneviève’s death, had been in a dull stupor; it seemed as if her life was ebbing away all the time; and when questioned, she would reply with an air of surprise that she felt no pain, she just felt overcome with sleep. The neighbours shook their heads, saying that the poor woman would not pine for her daughter for long.
One day, Denise was coming out of the Baudus’ house when, at the corner of the Place Gaillon, she heard a loud cry. People were rushing forward; there was panic in the air, the breath of fear and pity which can suddenly take hold of a crowd. A brown omnibus on the Bastille-Batignolles line had just run over a man at the corner of the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, opposite the fountain. Standing on his seat and gesticulating furiously, the driver was reining in his two black horses, which were rearing; and he was swearing, shouting out furiously:
‘Damn you! Can’t you look where you’re going, you idiot!’
By now the omnibus had stopped. A crowd had gathered round the injured man; a policeman happened by chance to be there. The driver was still standing up, calling the passengers upstairs as witnesses—for they had also stood up in order to lean out and see the blood—and was giving his version of the incident with exasperated gestures, choking with anger.
‘He must have been mad! He just walked out into the road without looking. I shouted at him, and he just threw himself under the wheels!’
At that a workman, a house-painter who had rushed up with his brush in his hand, said in a piercing voice in the midst of the uproar:
‘There’s no need to get so worked up! I saw him, he obviously chucked himself under there deliberately! He dived forward head first. Someone else who was fed up with life, I suppose!’
Other people spoke up, agreeing that it was suicide, while the policeman was taking down particulars. Several ladies, quite pale, quickly got out of the omnibus without turning round, taking away with them the horror of the soft jolt which had made their stomachs turn when the vehicle had passed over the body. Meanwhile Denise approached, drawn by her compassionate impulses, which made her interfere in accidents of all kinds—dogs run over, fallen horses, tilers toppling off roofs. And she recognized the unfortunate man lying on the road, unconscious, his frock-coat covered with mud.
‘It’s Monsieur Robineau!’ she exclaimed in painful astonishment. The policeman immediately questioned the girl. She gave Robineau’s name, profession, and address. Thanks to the driver’s efforts, the omnibus had swerved, and only Robineau’s legs had been caught under the wheels. But it was to be feared that they were both broken. Four volunteers carried the injured man to a chemist’s shop in the Rue Gaillon, while the omnibus slowly resumed its journey.
‘God!’ said the driver, cracking his whip round his horses. ‘I’ve had enough for one day!’
Denise had followed Robineau to the chemist’s shop. The chemist, while waiting for a doctor who could not be found, declared that there was no immediate danger, and that the best thi
ng would be to carry the injured man to his own home, since he lived nearby. A man went off to the police station to ask for a stretcher. Then the girl had the bright idea of going on ahead so as to prepare Madame Robineau for the awful shock. But she had enormous difficulty in getting into the street through the crowd, which was milling round the door. This crowd, attracted by death, was increasing from minute to minute; children and women were craning their necks, standing their ground against violent pushing; and each newcomer had his own version of the accident; they were now saying that a husband had been thrown out of a window by his wife’s lover.
In the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs Denise caught sight of Madame Robineau in the distance, standing in the doorway of the silk-shop. This gave her an excuse to stop, and she chatted for a moment, trying to think of a way of breaking the terrible news gently. The shop’s appearance revealed the disorder and abandon of the final struggles of a dying business. This was the expected outcome of the battle of the two rival silks; the Paris-Paradise had crushed all competition with a further reduction of five centimes: it was now selling at only four francs ninety-five, and Gaujean’s silk had met its Waterloo. For the last two months Robineau, reduced to all sorts of expedients, had been leading a terrible life trying to prevent himself being declared bankrupt.
‘I just saw your husband in the Place Gaillon,’ murmured Denise, who’d finally stepped inside the shop.
‘Ah! Just now? I’m expecting him; he should be back by now. Monsieur Gaujean came this morning, and they went out together.’
She was as charming as ever, delicate and cheerful; but her pregnancy, already well advanced, made her feel tired, and she was becoming more agitated, more at sea in business than ever, for her nature made it difficult for her to understand, and now it was all going badly. As she often said, what was the point of it all? Wouldn’t it be nicer to live quietly and modestly in some little house somewhere?
‘My dear,’ she went on, her smile growing sad, ‘we’ve nothing to hide from you … Things aren’t going well; my poor darling doesn’t sleep any more because of it. Today Gaujean tormented him again about some overdue bills … I thought I’d die of worry, all on my own here.’
She was moving back to the door when Denise stopped her. The latter had just heard the noise of the crowd in the distance. She imagined the stretcher they were bringing, and the stream of onlookers who were bent on following every stage of the accident. And then, her throat dry, unable to think of the consoling words she wanted, she was forced to tell her.
‘You mustn’t worry, there’s no immediate danger … Yes, I saw Monsieur Robineau, he’s had an accident… They’re bringing him; don’t worry, please.’
The young woman listened to her, as white as a sheet, without yet clearly understanding. The street was full of people, drivers of cabs were swearing, and the men had set down the stretcher outside the shop in order to open the double glass doors.
‘It was an accident,’ continued Denise, determined to conceal the attempt at suicide. ‘He was on the pavement, and he slipped under the wheels of an omnibus. His feet got caught. They’ve sent for a doctor. You mustn’t worry.’
A great shudder shook Madame Robineau. She made two or three inarticulate cries; then, no longer speaking, she ran to the stretcher and drew back the curtains with trembling hands. The men who had been carrying it were waiting outside the house in order to carry it away when a doctor had been found. They no longer dared touch Robineau, who had regained consciousness, and whose sufferings at the slightest movement were agonizing. When he saw his wife, two huge tears ran down his cheeks. She kissed him, and wept as she knelt looking at him. There was still a crowd in the street, and faces were packed together as if at some show, their eyes shining; some girls who had left their workroom were in danger of breaking the glass of the shop-windows in their attempt to get a better view. In order to escape from this fever of curiosity, and thinking in any case that it was not advisable to leave the shop open, Denise had the idea of lowering the metal shutters. She went to turn the crank-handle, the gearwheels made a plaintive cry, and the iron plates slowly descended, like the heavy drapery of a theatre curtain coming down at the end of a play. When she came in again and had closed the little round door in the shutters, she found Madame Robineau still clasping her husband in her arms, in the sinister half-light coming from two stars cut in the metal. The ruined shop seemed to be sliding into the void; the two stars alone shone on this sudden, brutal catastrophe of the streets of Paris.
At last Madame Robineau found her voice again.
‘Oh! My darling … Oh! My darling … Oh! My darling …’
This was all she could say, and, seeing her kneeling before him, her stomach pressed against the stretcher, he could bear it no longer and, in an attack of remorse, confessed. When he did not move he could only feel the burning leaden weight of his legs.
‘Forgive me, I must have been mad … When the solicitor told me in front of Gaujean that the notices would be served tomorrow, I seemed to see flames dancing as if the walls were burning … After that I don’t remember any more; I was walking down the Rue de la Michodière, I thought the people in the Paradise were making fun of me, that great bitch of a shop was crushing me … Then, when the omnibus turned round I thought about Lhomme and his arm, and threw myself under it …’
Slowly, in horror at this confession, Madame Robineau sank down and sat on the floor. He had wanted to die! She grasped Denise’s hand, for the girl had leaned towards her, deeply moved by the scene. The injured man, whose emotion was exhausting him, lost consciousness again. And still the doctor did not come! Two men had already scoured the neighbourhood, and now the concierge had gone off in his turn.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ Denise repeated mechanically, and she too was sobbing.
Then Madame Robineau, sitting on the floor, her head on the stretcher, her cheek against the webbing on which her husband was lying, unburdened her heart.
‘Oh! I could tell you … It’s for me that he wanted to die. He was always saying: “I’ve robbed you, it was your money.” And at night he used to dream about those sixty thousand francs, he used to wake up in a sweat, saying he was useless and that if you didn’t have a head for business, you shouldn’t risk other people’s money … You know he’s always been a terrible worrier. In the end he used to see things that frightened me, he’d see me in the street in rags, begging, me whom he loved so much, whom he wanted to see rich and happy.’
But, turning her head, she saw that his eyes were open again; and she went on in a trembling voice:
‘Oh! My darling, why did you do it? Did you really think I was so concerned about the money? I don’t care if we’re ruined, believe me. As long as we’re together, we’ll never be unhappy … Let them take everything. Let’s go somewhere where you won’t hear any more about them. You’ll be able to work, you’ll see how good everything can be.’
Her forehead had dropped down close to her husband’s pale face, and both were silent in their distress. The shop seemed to be sleeping, numbed by the pale dusk which was flooding it; while behind the thin shutters, the din of the street could be heard—life passing by in the daylight, the rumbling of vehicles and the crowd bustling along the pavements. Finally Denise, who kept going to glance through the little hall door, came back crying:
‘The doctor’s here!’
The concierge showed him in. He was a young man with bright eyes. He preferred to examine Robineau before they put him to bed. Only one leg, the left one, turned out to be broken above the ankle. It was a simple fracture; there appeared to be no danger of complications. They were preparing to carry the stretcher into the bedroom, at the back, when Gaujean appeared. He was coming to report a final attempt he had made to avert the bankruptcy, but it had failed: the declaration of bankruptcy was now inevitable.
‘What’s this?’ he murmured. ‘What’s happened?’
In a few words, Denise told him, and he became embarrassed. Robineau sai
d to him in a feeble voice:
‘I don’t hold it against you, but all this is partly your fault.’
‘Well, my dear fellow,’ Gaujean replied, ‘it needed stronger men than us … You know that I’m no better off than you are!’
They lifted the stretcher. Robineau found enough strength to say:
‘No, no, stronger men would have fallen by the wayside as well… I can understand obstinate old men like Bourras and Baudu staying on; but you and I, who are young, and accepted the new ways of doing business! No, you know, Gaujean, it’s the end of a world.’
They carried him away. Madame Robineau kissed Denise with an energy in which there was almost joy at being rid at last of the worries of their business affairs. As Gaujean was leaving with the girl, he confessed to her that that poor devil Robineau was right. It was idiotic to try to compete with the Ladies’ Paradise. He knew that he himself was finished unless he could get into their good graces again. The day before he had secretly approached Hutin, who was about to leave for Lyons. But he was beginning to despair, and he tried to arouse Denise’s interest, having no doubt heard about her influence.
‘My word!’ he was repeating. ‘It’s too bad for the manufacturers. People would laugh at me if I ruined myself fighting for other people’s interests, when these fellows are quarrelling over who will manufacture at the cheapest rate … My goodness! As you used to say in the past, the manufacturers only need to keep up with progress by better organization and new methods. Everything will be all right, as long as the public’s satisfied.’
‘Just go and say that to Monsieur Mouret himself… He’ll be pleased to see you; he’s not a man to bear a grudge if you offer him even a centime’s profit per metre.’
On a bright, sunny afternoon in January Madame Baudu died. For a fortnight she had no longer been able to go down into the shop, which a charwoman was looking after. She was sitting in the middle of her bed, propped up by pillows. In her white face only her eyes were still alive; and, her head erect, she gazed fixedly through the little curtains on the windows at the Ladies’ Paradise opposite. Baudu, made ill himself by this obsession, by the despairing fixity of her gaze, would sometimes try to draw the big curtains. But, with an imploring gesture, she would stop him, determined to see it until her last breath. The monster had now taken everything from her, both her shop and her daughter; she herself had been gradually fading away with the Vieil Elbeuf, losing her life as it lost its customers; the day on which it was gasping its last breath, so too was she. When she felt she was dying, she still had enough strength to insist on her husband opening both windows. It was mild; a stream of bright sunshine was gilding the Paradise, whereas the bedroom of their old house shivered in the shade. Madame Baudu kept her gaze fixed on the Paradise, filled with the vision of the triumphant building, the clear glass behind which millions of francs were endlessly circulating. Slowly, her eyes grew dim, invaded by darkness, and when they were extinguished in death they remained wide open, still gazing, drowned in tears.