Denise, however, gave no thought to any of these things. She had never been either demanding or calculating. She had decided to leave precisely because of the opinions which, to her continual surprise, were being passed about her conduct. It was not as if she had willed it all, or had shown herself to be artful, flirtatious, or ambitious. She had simply turned up there, and she was the first to be surprised that anyone could love her like that. And why, even now, did people see cunning in her resolve to leave the Paradise? It was so natural! She was becoming most uncomfortable, she felt unbearable anguish, surrounded as she was by the continual gossip of the shop, by Mouret’s burning obsession, and faced with the struggle she could not avoid within herself; she preferred to go away, fearing that she might give in one day and regret it for the rest of her life. If these were skilful tactics, she was not aware of it, and she would ask herself in despair what she could do to avoid giving the impression that she was trying to catch a husband. The idea of marriage now irritated her; she was resolved to go on saying no, always no, if he persisted in his madness. She alone should suffer. The need for the separation reduced her to tears; but, courageous as she was, she told herself that it was necessary, and that she would have no peace or happiness if she acted in any other way.
When Mouret received her resignation, in his effort to contain himself he remained silent and apparently unmoved. Then he curtly declared that he would give her a week to think it over before allowing her to do anything so silly. At the end of a week, when she brought the subject up again and confirmed her resolve to leave after the big sales, he did not lose his temper, but attempted to appeal to her reason: she would be throwing away all she had achieved, she would never find another position equal to the one she occupied in his shop. Had she got another job in view, then? He was quite ready to offer her the advantages she was hoping to find elsewhere. When she replied that she had not yet looked for another job, but that, thanks to the money she had been able to save, she intended to have a month’s rest at Valognes before looking for something, he asked what would prevent her from coming back to the Paradise after that, if it was only concern for her health which was obliging her to leave. She remained silent, tortured by this interrogation. This made him imagine that she was going to join a lover, perhaps a husband. Hadn’t she confessed to him, one evening, that there was someone she loved? From that moment onwards he had carried the avowal he had dragged from her in a moment of distress deep in his heart, plunged in like a knife. If this man was going to marry her, she was giving up everything in order to follow him: that explained her obstinacy. It was all over, and he simply added in his icy voice that he would detain her no longer, since she could not tell him the real reasons for her leaving. These crisp words, spoken without anger, upset her more than the violent scene she had expected.
During the week which Denise still had to spend in the shop Mouret remained pale and impassive. When he walked through the departments he pretended not to see her; never had he seemed more detached, more buried in his work; and the bets began again, but only the bravest dared risk a lunch on marriage. Meanwhile, beneath this coldness, which was so unusual for him, Mouret was hiding a terrible crisis of indecision and suffering. Fits of anger made the blood rush to his head: he saw red, he dreamed of taking Denise by force, of keeping her by stifling her cries. Then he would try to reason, he would try to think of practical ways of preventing her from going out of the door; but he was always confronted with his own powerlessness, filled with fury by the uselessness of his power and money. Nevertheless, in the midst of these mad projects, an idea was growing and imposing itself little by little in spite of his resistance. After the death of Madame Hédouin he had sworn not to remarry; having owed his initial good luck to a woman, he was resolved from then on to make his fortune out of all women. It was a superstition with him, as it was with Bourdoncle, that the manager of a big drapery store should be a bachelor if he wished to retain his masculine power over the scattered desires of his nation of customers: once a wife was introduced, the atmosphere would change; her smell would drive the others away. He was resisting the irresistible logic of facts; he would rather have died than give in, overcome with sudden bouts of rage against Denise, sensing that she was the revenge, and afraid that, on the day he married her, he would be broken like a straw by the Eternal Feminine. Then he would gradually become faint-hearted again and would argue his reluctance away: what was there to be afraid of? She was so gentle, so sensible, that he could surrender himself to her without fear. Twenty times an hour the struggle would begin again in his tormented mind. Pride was irritating the wound, and he was finally losing what little reason he had left at the thought that, even after his final surrender, she might say no, still no, if she loved someone else. On the morning of the big sale he had still not come to a decision, and Denise was leaving the next day.
On that day, when Bourdoncle went into Mouret’s office at about three o’clock, as was his custom, he caught him with his elbows on the desk, his hands over his eyes, so absorbed that he had to touch him on the shoulder. Mouret looked up, his face wet with tears, and they looked at each other; then these men, who had fought so many commercial battles together, reached out and gripped each other by the hand. For the past month Bourdoncle’s attitude had completely changed: he was giving way to Denise, he was even secretly pushing his chief into marriage. No doubt he was manœuvring in that way to save himself from being swept away by a force which he now recognized to be superior. But, at the root of this change, there could also be found the awakening of an old ambition, the nervous but growing hope that he might devour Mouret, to whom he had been subservient for so long. Such a thought was always in the air, in the struggle for existence, the continual massacres of which boosted the sales around him. He was carried away by the workings of the machine, seized by the same appetite as the others, by the voraciousness which, throughout the shop, drove the thin to exterminate the fat. Only a sort of religious fear, the religion of luck, had so far prevented him from taking his bite. And now the governor was becoming childish again, was slipping into an idiotic marriage, was going to kill his luck, destroy his charm with the customers. Why should he dissuade him from it, when it would then be so easy for him to pick up the inheritance of a man who was finished, who had fallen into the arms of a woman? Thus it was with the emotion of a farewell, the compassion of a long comradeship, that he shook his chief’s hand, repeating as he did so:
‘Come on, cheer up, damn it! Marry her, and have done with it.’
Mouret was already ashamed of his moment of weakness. He stood up, protesting.
‘No, no, it’s really stupid … Come on, we’ll do our tour of the shop. Things are going well, aren’t they? I think we’ll have a magnificent day.’
They went out and began their afternoon inspection, making their way through the crowded departments. Bourdoncle cast sideways glances at him, worried by this last burst of energy, watching his lips in order to catch the slightest sign of suffering.
The sale was indeed roaring away at an infernal pace, making the shop shake like a great ship going at full speed. In Denise’s department was a gaggle of mothers, trailing hordes of little girls and boys who were drowning beneath the garments which were being tried on them. The department had brought out all its white things, and there, as everywhere else, there was an orgy of white, enough white to clothe a whole troupe of cupids feeling the cold: there were overcoats in white cloth, dresses in piqué and nainsook and white cashmere, sailor suits, and even white zouave suits. Although it was not yet the season, in the centre, as a decoration, was a display of first communion dresses and veils in white muslin, white satin shoes, a spectacular florescence, as if an enormous bouquet of innocence and guileless ecstasy had been planted there. Madame Bourdelais, facing her three children who were sitting in order of size—Madeline, Edmond, Lucien—was losing her temper with the smallest because he was struggling while Denise was trying to put a mousseline-de-laine jacket on him.
‘Keep still! Don’t you think it’s a little tight, miss?’
With the sharp look of a woman who cannot be deceived she was examining the material, criticizing the cut, and looking at the stitching.
‘No, it’s fine,’ she went on, ‘it’s quite a job dressing these youngsters … Now, I need a coat for this young lady.’
The department was being taken by storm and Denise had had to lend a hand at the counters. She was looking for the coat she needed, when she gave a little cry of surprise.
‘What! You! What on earth’s the matter?’
Her brother Jean, holding a parcel in his hands, was standing in front of her. He had been married for a week, and on the preceding Saturday his wife—who was small and dark with a charming, anxious little face—had paid a long visit to the Ladies’ Paradise to make some purchases. The young couple were going to accompany Denise to Valognes; it was to be a real honeymoon, a month’s holiday which would remind them of old times.
‘Just fancy,’ he repeated, ‘Thérèse forgot a lot of things. There are some to be changed and others to be bought… So, since she’s busy, she sent me with this parcel… I’ll explain …’
But, catching sight of Pépé, she interrupted him.
‘What! Pépé too! What about school?’
‘Well,’ said Jean, ‘after dinner on Sunday, yesterday, I didn’t have the heart to take him back. He’ll go back tonight… The poor kid’s very sad at being shut up in Paris while we go back home on a holiday.’
In spite of her troubles, Denise was smiling. She handed Madame Bourdelais over to one of her salesgirls, then came back to them in a corner of the department which was fortunately becoming less crowded. The children, as she still called them, had become great strapping fellows. Pépé, who was now twelve, was already taller than she was; he was still very quiet, and craved affection, and in his school uniform he had a sweet gentleness about him; whereas Jean was broad-shouldered, and was a full head taller than his sister; and with his blond hair swept back in the windswept style of artisans, he still had the beauty of a woman. And she, as slim as ever, no fatter than a sparrow as she said, had retained her authority over them like an anxious mother, treated them like little boys who needed looking after, and would re-button Jean’s coat so that he would not look like a tramp, and make sure that Pépé had a clean handkerchief. When she saw Pépé looking at her with his big, reproachful eyes, she gently lectured him.
‘You must be reasonable, my darling. You can’t interrupt your studies. I’ll take you there in the holidays … Is there anything you’d like to have now? Perhaps you’d rather I gave you some money?’
She turned back to Jean again.
‘You know, you get him excited by making him think we’re going to have a good time. Do try to be more sensible.’
She had given Jean four thousand francs, half of her savings, to enable him to set up house. Her younger brother’s schooling was costing her a good deal and, as in the past, all her money was spent on them. They were her only reason for living and working, for she had again sworn that she would never marry.
‘Well,’ Jean resumed, ‘first of all in this parcel there’s the tan coat which Thérèse …’
But he stopped short, and on turning round to see what was intimidating him, Denise caught sight of Mouret standing behind them. For a few moments he had been watching her standing in her motherly way between the two big lads, scolding them and kissing them, turning them round like babies having their clothes changed. Bourdoncle had remained in the background, apparently more interested in the sale; but he lost nothing of the scene.
‘They’re your brothers, aren’t they?’ asked Mouret after a silence.
He spoke in his icy voice, with the stiff manner he used with her nowadays. Denise herself was making an effort to remain cold. Her smile disappeared, she replied:
‘Yes, sir … I’ve married off the eldest, and his wife has sent him to buy a few things.’
Mouret continued looking at the three of them. Finally he said:
‘The younger one has grown a lot. I recognize him, I remember seeing him in the Tuileries one evening, with you.’
His voice, which was growing more hesitant, shook slightly. Denise, very nervous, bent down, pretending to adjust Pépé’s belt. The two brothers, red in the face, stood smiling at their sister’s employer.
‘They’re like you,’ Mouret added.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘they’re better-looking than I am!’
For a moment he seemed to be comparing their faces. But he was at the end of his tether. How she loved them! He walked a few steps away; then he came back and said in her ear:
‘Come to my office after the sale. I want to talk to you before you leave.’
This time Mouret did walk away and resumed his tour of inspection. The battle within him was starting again, for now he was annoyed that he had arranged a meeting. To what feeling had he yielded on seeing her with her brothers? It was crazy; he no longer had the strength to have a will of his own. However, he could put an end to it by saying a word of farewell to her. Bourdoncle, who had rejoined him, seemed less anxious, though he was still studying him with sly glances.
Meanwhile Denise had gone back to Madame Bourdelais.
‘How is the coat?’
‘Oh, it’s excellent… Well, that’s enough for today. These little ones are ruining me!’
Denise was able to slip away and listen to Jean’s explanations, and then accompanied him through the departments, where he would certainly have lost his head without her. First there was the tan coat which Thérèse, after thinking it over, wanted to change for a white cloth coat of the same size and shape. Having taken the parcel, Denise proceeded to the ladieswear department, followed by her two brothers.
The department had laid out all its light-coloured garments, summer jackets and mantillas made of fine silk and fancy woollens. But the sale had moved elsewhere, and most of the customers had left. Almost all the salesgirls were new. Clara had disappeared a month ago; according to some, she had run off with the husband of a customer, and according to others, she had gone on the streets. As for Marguerite, she was at last going back to run the little shop in Grenoble, where her cousin was waiting for her. Madame Aurélie alone remained there, unchanging in the rounded armour of her silk dress, and with her imperial mask which had the yellowish fleshiness of antique marble. Nevertheless, her son Albert’s bad behaviour still troubled her greatly, and she would have retired to the country but for the holes made in the family savings by that good-for-nothing, whose terrible extravagance was threatening to eat away little by little their estate at Les Rignolles. It was like a punishment for their broken home, for the mother had started giving tasteful parties for women only again, while the father continued to play the horn. Bourdoncle was already beginning to look disapprovingly at Madame Aurélie, surprised that she had not had the tact to retire: too old for selling! That knell would soon be tolling, sweeping away the Lhomme dynasty.
‘It’s you!’ she said to Denise with exaggerated friendliness. ‘You want this coat changed, do you? Of course, straight away… Ah! So there are your brothers. They’ve really grown up!’
In spite of her pride, she would have gone down on her knees to do homage to Denise. In the ladieswear department, as in the other departments, they were talking of nothing but Denise’s departure; and the buyer was quite ill over it, for she had counted on the protection of her former salesgirl. She lowered her voice.
‘They say you’re leaving us … It can’t be true, surely?’
‘Yes, it is,’ replied the girl.
Marguerite was listening. Since the date of her marriage had been fixed, she had been going about with a more disdainful expression than ever on her pasty face. She came up to them, saying:
‘You’re quite right. Self-respect is the most important thing, isn’t it? I bid you farewell, my dear.’
Some customers were arriving. Madame Aurélie stern
ly asked her to attend to the sale. Then, seeing Denise take the coat so as to make the ‘return’ herself, she protested, and called an assistant. It so happened that this was an innovation which Denise had suggested to Mouret: the use of female employees whose duty was to carry the goods so that the salesgirls would be less tired.
‘Please accompany this young lady,’ said the buyer, handing the coat over to her.
And, returning to Denise, she said:
‘Do think it over, won’t you? We’re all really sorry that you’re leaving.’
Jean and Pépé, who were waiting, smiling in the midst of the overflowing stream of women, once more followed their sister. They now had to go to the trousseau department to get six chemises just like the half-dozen Thérèse had bought on Saturday. But in the lingerie department, where a display of white was snowing from every shelf, there was a tremendous crush, and it was becoming very difficult to get through.
First of all, in the corsets, a slight disturbance was making a crowd collect. Madame Boutarel, who had arrived from the Midi this time with her husband and daughter, had been scouring the galleries since the morning in quest of a trousseau for the girl, who was getting married. The father had to be consulted all the time, and it seemed as if they would never be able to choose anything. They had just found themselves in the lingerie department; and, while the young lady was engrossed in a close study of knickers, the mother, having taken a fancy to some corsets, had disappeared. When Monsieur Boutarel, a big red-faced man, abandoned his daughter in order to go and look for his wife, he finally found her in a fitting-room at the door of which he was politely asked to sit down. These rooms were narrow cells shut off with frosted glass doors; because of the exaggerated prudery of the management, men, even husbands, were not allowed to enter. Salesgirls were going in and out of them quickly, and each time they slammed the door those outside were given a rapid glimpse of ladies in their chemises and petticoats, with bare necks and arms, of fat women whose flesh was fading, and of thin women the colour of old ivory. A row of men sat waiting on chairs, looking bored: Monsieur Boutarel, when he grasped the situation, lost his temper, and shouted that he wanted his wife, he insisted on knowing what they were doing to her, and he would certainly not allow her to undress without him. Vainly they tried to calm him down: he seemed to believe that something improper was going on inside. While the crowd discussed the matter and laughed about it, Madame Boutarel was forced to reappear.