The Ladies' Paradise (BBC tie-in) (Oxford World's Classics) (34 page)

‘Shut up,’ Denise would say. ‘I don’t want to know.’

But he would think she was accusing him of boasting.

‘But I tell you she’s a stationer’s wife … Oh! really gorgeous!’

Three months went by. Spring was coming round again. Denise refused to go to Joinville again with Pauline and Baugé. She met them sometimes in the Rue Saint-Roch, when she was leaving Robineau’s. One evening Pauline confided to her that she was perhaps going to marry her lover—it was she who couldn’t make up her mind; they didn’t like married salesgirls at the Ladies’ Paradise. This idea of marriage surprised Denise, and she did not dare to advise her friend. One day Colomban stopped her near the fountain to talk to her about Clara, and just at that moment the latter crossed the square; Denise had to make her escape, for he was begging her to ask her former colleague if she would like to marry him. What was the matter with them all? Why did they torment themselves like this? She considered herself very lucky not to be in love with anyone.

‘Have you heard the news?’ the umbrella dealer said to her one evening as she came in.

‘No, Monsieur Bourras.’

‘Well! The scoundrels have bought the Hôtel Duvillard … I’m surrounded!’

He was waving his long arms about in a fit of rage which was making his white mane stand on end.

‘It’s all very fishy, and impossible to understand!’ he resumed. ‘It seems that the
hôtel
belonged to the Crédit Immobilier, and its chairman, Baron Hartmann, has just sold it to that devil Mouret… Now they’ve got me on the right, on the left, and behind—just like I’m holding the knob of this stick in my fist!’

It was true; the sale was due to have been concluded the day before. It had seemed as if Bourras’s little house, squeezed in between the Ladies’ Paradise and the Hôtel Duvillard, hanging on there like a swallow’s nest in a crack in the wall, would certainly be crushed on the day the shop invaded the Hôtel
Duvillard; and this day had come; the colossus was encircling the feeble obstacle, surrounding it with stacks of goods, threatening to swallow it up, to absorb it by the sheer force of its gigantic suction. Bourras could feel the pressure which was making his shop crack. He thought he could see the place shrinking; the terrible machine was roaring so loudly now that he was afraid of being swallowed up himself, of being sucked through the wall with his umbrellas and walking-sticks.

‘Can you hear them?’ he shouted. ‘It’s as if they were eating the walls! And everywhere, in my cellar, in my loft, there’s the same noise, of saws cutting into plaster … Never mind! Perhaps after all they won’t be able to flatten me out like a sheet of paper. I’ll stay, even if they make my roof cave in and the rain falls on my bed in bucketfuls!’

It was now that Mouret made fresh proposals to Bourras: the figure was increased—they would buy his business and the lease for fifty thousand francs. This offer redoubled the old man’s fury and he refused it with insults. How these scoundrels must be robbing people to pay fifty thousand francs for something which wasn’t worth ten thousand! And he defended his shop as a decent girl defends her virtue, in the name of honour, out of self-respect.

For about a fortnight Denise saw that Bourras was preoccupied. He moved around feverishly, measuring the walls of his house, looking at it from the middle of the street with the air of an architect. Then, one morning, some workmen arrived. The decisive battle had begun; he had had the rash idea of beating the Ladies’ Paradise at its own game by making certain concessions to modern luxury. Customers who reproached him for his dark shop would certainly come back again when they saw it bright and new. First of all, the cracks were filled in and the front was distempered; next, the woodwork in the shop-window was painted light green; he even carried this magnificence so far as to gild the signboard. Three thousand francs, which Bourras had been keeping in reserve as a last resource, were swallowed up in this way. The neighbourhood, what is more, was in uproar; people came to gaze at him losing his head amid these riches, unable to pick up his old ways again. Bewildered, his long beard and white hair wilder than ever, he no longer seemed at home in
this gleaming new setting, against this pastel background. Passers-by on the opposite side of the street watched him in astonishment as he waved his arms about and carved his handles. He was in a state of fever, afraid of making things dirty, sinking ever deeper into this luxury business, of which he understood nothing.

Meanwhile, like Robineau, Bourras had launched his campaign against the Ladies’ Paradise. He had just put his new invention on the market, the frilled umbrella, which later on was to become popular. The Paradise, however, immediately improved the invention. Then the struggle over prices began. He had a model at one franc ninety-five, in zanelle, with a steel frame, which, according to the label, would last for ever. But he hoped above all to beat his rival with his handles, handles of bamboo, of dogwood, of olive wood, of myrtle, of rattan, every imaginable kind of handle. The Paradise, being less artistic, paid more attention to the materials, boasting of its alpacas and mohairs, its serges and taffetas. And it was victorious. The old man repeated in despair that art was done for, that he was reduced to carving handles for pleasure, with no hope of selling them.

‘It’s my fault!’ he cried to Denise. ‘I should never have got trash like that at one franc ninety-five… That’s where new ideas get you. I wanted to follow those robbers’ example; so much the better if I’ve ruined myself because of it!’

July was very hot, and Denise suffered greatly in her little room under the tiles. Therefore, when she left the shop she would fetch Pépé from Bourras and, instead of going up to her room straight away, she would go to the Tuileries Gardens for a breath of fresh air until the gates were closed. One evening, as she was walking towards the chestnut trees, she stopped short: she thought she recognized Hutin, a few steps away and walking straight towards her. Then her heart beat violently: it was Mouret, who had dined on the Left Bank and was hurrying along on foot to Madame Desforges’s house. Denise’s sudden attempt to avoid him caught his attention. Night was falling, but he recognized her all the same.

‘Is it you, Mademoiselle Baudu?’

She did not reply, astonished that he had deigned to stop. With a smile, he hid his embarrassment beneath an air of kindly patronage.

‘So you’re still in Paris?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said at last.

She was slowly backing away, trying to say goodbye and continue her walk. But he turned and followed her under the dark shadows of the tall chestnut trees. The air was getting cooler; in the distance children were laughing and bowling hoops.

‘That’s your brother, isn’t it?’ he went on, looking at Pépé.

The little boy, intimidated by the unusual presence of a gentleman with them, was walking solemnly by his sister’s side, holding her hand.

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied once more.

She blushed, thinking of the dreadful stories which Marguerite and Clara had invented. No doubt Mouret understood why she was blushing, for he quickly added:

‘Listen, Mademoiselle Baudu, I owe you an apology … Yes, I would have liked to tell you before how much I regretted the mistake that was made. You were too lightly accused of misbehaviour … Well, the harm’s been done; I just wanted to tell you that everyone in the shop now knows of your love for your brothers …’

He went on, with a respectful politeness to which the salesgirls in the Ladies’ Paradise were not at all accustomed. Denise’s embarrassment had increased; but her heart was filled with joy. So he knew that she had not given herself to anyone! They both remained silent; he stayed close beside her, adjusting his gait to the child’s small steps; and the distant sounds of Paris were dying away under the dark shadows of the spreading chestnut trees.

‘There is only one thing I can offer you, Mademoiselle Baudu,’ he resumed. ‘Naturally, if you would like to come back to us …’

She interrupted him, refusing with feverish haste.

‘I can’t, sir … Thank you all the same, but I’ve found another situation.’

He knew, for he had been told that she was at Robineau’s. And calmly, on a footing of equality which was charming, he talked to
her about Robineau, giving him his due: a very intelligent young man, but too highly strung. He would certainly come to grief; Gaujean had burdened him with too big an affair, which would be the end of them both. Denise, won over by this familiarity, began to confide in him more, making it clear that in their battle with the small tradespeople she was on the side of the big shops; she became excited, quoted examples, showed that she knew all about the question, and was even full of bold new ideas. He listened to her with surprise and delight and turned towards her, trying to distinguish her features in the growing dark. She seemed to be just the same still, with her simple dress and gentle face; but this modest simplicity gave off a penetrating perfume, and he felt its power. No doubt this little girl had grown accustomed to the air of Paris; she was becoming a woman, and she was disturbing, with her sensible manner and her beautiful hair heavy with passion.

‘Since you’re on our side,’ he said, laughing, ‘why do you stay with our opponents? I think someone told me that you lodge with that man Bourras.’

‘He’s a very worthy man,’ she murmured.

‘No, not at all, he’s a silly old fool, a madman who’ll force me to ruin him, though I’d be happy to get rid of him by paying him a fortune! Besides, his house isn’t the right place for you; it has a bad reputation, he lets to certain women …’

But he felt that Denise was embarrassed, and hastened to add:

‘One can be decent wherever one lives, and there’s even more merit in being so when one isn’t well off.’

They took a few more steps in silence. Pépé, with the attentive air of a precocious child, seemed to be listening to them. From time to time he looked up at his sister, whose burning hand, shaken by slight quivers, surprised him.

‘I know!’ Mouret went on gaily, ‘will you be my ambassador? I had intended to increase my offer tomorrow, to propose eighty thousand francs to Bourras … You speak to him about it first; tell him he’s cutting his own throat. Perhaps he’ll listen to you, because he’s fond of you, and you’ll be doing him a real service.’

‘All right!’ Denise replied, smiling back at him. ‘I’ll give him the message, but I doubt if I’ll succeed.’

They fell silent again. They had nothing more to say to each other. For a moment he tried to talk about her uncle Baudu; but
seeing how ill at ease she was, he had to stop. They carried on walking side by side, and they finally came out near the Rue de Rivoli in an avenue where it was still light. Leaving the darkness of the trees was like a sudden awakening. He understood that he could not detain her any longer.

‘Good-night, Mademoiselle Baudu.’

‘Good-night, sir.’

But he did not go away. Raising his eyes, he had just caught sight of Madame Desforges’s lighted windows in front of him at the corner of the Rue d’Alger, where she was waiting for him. And looking at Denise again, he could now see her clearly in the pale dusk: she was really quite skinny compared to Henriette. Why was it that she stirred his heart like this? It was a stupid whim.

‘Here’s a little boy who’s getting tired,’ he resumed, just for something to say. ‘And you will remember, won’t you, that our shop is always open to you. You’ve only to knock, and I’ll give you all the compensation possible … Good-night.’

‘Good-night, sir.’

When Mouret had left her, Denise went back under the chestnut trees, into the dark shadows. For a long time she walked aimlessly between the enormous trunks, her face burning, her head buzzing with confused ideas. Pépé, still hanging on to her hand, was stretching his short legs to keep up with her. She had forgotten him. Finally he said:

‘You’re going too fast, Sis.’

At this she sat down on a bench; and, as he was tired, Pépé fell asleep across her lap. She held him, pressing him to her virginal bosom, her eyes far away in the distance. And when, an hour later, they walked slowly back to the Rue de la Michodière, she was again wearing the calm expression of a sensible girl.

‘Hell!’ Bourras shouted to her as soon as he saw her. ‘It’s happened … That scoundrel Mouret has just bought my house.’

He was beside himself, thrashing about by himself in the middle of his shop, making such wild gestures that he was in danger of breaking the windows.

‘Oh! The scoundrel! The fruiterer wrote to tell me. And d’you know how much he’s sold it for, my house? A hundred and fifty thousand francs, four times its value! He’s another thief! Just
imagine, he used my decorations as a pretext; yes, he made the most of the fact that the house has just been done up like new … When are they going to stop making a fool of me?’

The thought that his money, spent on distemper and paint, had brought the fruiterer a profit exasperated him. And now Mouret would be his landlord: he would have to pay him! It was in his house, in the house of his detested rival, that he would be living from now on! Such a thought raised his fury to an even higher pitch.

‘I knew I could hear them digging through the wall… Now they’re here, it’s as if they’re eating out of my plate!’

And he slammed his fist on the counter, shaking the whole shop, making the umbrellas and parasols dance.

Denise, feeling dazed, had not been able to get a word in. She stood there motionless, waiting for his rage to subside, while Pépé, who was very tired, fell asleep on a chair. Finally, when Bourras calmed down a little, she resolved to give him Mouret’s message; no doubt the old man was angry, but the very excess of his anger and the impossible position in which he found himself might bring about a sudden acceptance.

‘I’ve just met someone,’ she began. ‘Yes, someone from the Paradise, and very well informed … It seems that tomorrow they’re going to offer you eighty thousand francs …’

He interrupted her with a terrible roar:

‘Eighty thousand francs! Eighty thousand francs! Not for a million, now!’