The Ladies' Paradise (BBC tie-in) (Oxford World's Classics) (51 page)

He hesitated, torn, recoiling from the scene which he could foresee. But he had to obey. The Baron said to him in his paternal yet mocking way:

‘Go on, go on, my dear fellow. Madam wants you.’

Mouret followed her out. The door swung to again, and he thought he could hear Vallagnosc’s laughter, muffled by the hangings. His courage was exhausted. Ever since Henriette had left the drawing-room and he had known Denise to be in jealous hands at the other end of the apartment, he had been feeling a growing anxiety, nervous pangs which made him keep his ears open as if there was a distant sound of weeping which made him wince with pain. What could the woman devise in order to torture her? All his love, this love which still astonished him, went out to the girl like a support and a consolation. Never had he loved anyone like this, never had he found such powerful charm in suffering. Since he led such a busy life, the loves he had had—including Henriette herself, who was so subtle and pretty that his possession of her flattered his pride—had been merely an agreeable pastime, sometimes a calculated one, in which he
looked only for profitable pleasure. He would leave his mistresses’ houses calm, and would go home to bed happy in his bachelor freedom, without a regret or a worry on his mind; whereas now his heart was beating with anguish, his life was no longer his own, and he had ceased to enjoy the oblivion of sleep in his huge solitary bed. He thought of Denise all the time. Even at this moment only she existed for him, and while he was following the other woman in fear of some distressing scene, he was thinking that he was glad to be there to protect her.

First of all they passed through the bedroom, which was silent and empty. Then Madame Desforges, pushing open a door, went into the dressing-room, and Mouret followed her. It was a fairly spacious room, hung with red silk, furnished with a marble dressing-table and a three-door wardrobe with broad looking-glasses on each door. As the window overlooked the courtyard, it was already dark there; and two gas burners had been lighted, their nickel-plated brackets extending on the right and left of the wardrobe.

‘So,’ said Henriette, ‘perhaps we’ll get somewhere now.’

On entering, Mouret had found Denise standing erect in the middle of the bright light. She was very pale, modestly dressed in a cashmere jacket and a black hat; and she was holding over one arm the coat which had been bought at the Paradise. When she saw the young man her hands shook slightly.

‘I want this gentleman to give his opinion,’ Henriette resumed. ‘Help me, girl.’

Denise, drawing nearer, had to help her into the coat again. When she had tried it on the first time she had put pins in the shoulders, which did not fit properly. Henriette turned round to look at herself in the looking-glass.

‘It’s impossible, isn’t it? Tell me exactly what you think.’

‘You’re quite right, it doesn’t fit,’ said Mouret to cut the matter short. ‘It’s very simple, the young lady will take your measurements and we’ll make you another one.’

‘No, I want this one, I need it immediately,’ she said emphatically. ‘But it’s too tight across my chest, and too loose between the shoulders.’

Then, in a harsh voice, she added:

‘You won’t make it fit any better by just looking at me, girl! … Come on, do something about it. It’s your job.’

Denise, without saying a word, began putting in pins once again. It took a long time: she had to go from one shoulder to the other; she even had to bend down, almost to kneel for a moment to pull down the front of the coat. Madame Desforges, standing over her and passively accepting all the trouble she was taking, had the hard expression of a mistress difficult to please. Happy at having reduced the girl to this servant’s task, she gave her a series of curt orders, watching for the slightest betrayal of emotion on Mouret’s face.

‘Put a pin here. No, not there, here, near the sleeve. Can’t you understand? No, not like that, you’ve made it all baggy again … Be careful, now you’re pricking me!’

Twice more Mouret tried vainly to intervene in order to bring this scene to a close. His heart was pounding at his love’s humiliation; and he loved Denise more than ever, filled with tenderness at the dignified silence she maintained. Although her hand was trembling a little at being treated like that in his presence, she accepted the demands of her position with the proud resignation of a courageous girl. When Madame Desforges saw that they were not going to give themselves away, she tried another approach; she kept smiling at Mouret, treating him openly as her lover. And so, as Denise had run out of pins, she said:

‘Darling, could you look in the ivory box on the dressing-table …? Really, it’s empty? Be a dear and go and look on the mantelpiece in the bedroom, then: you know, in the corner, next to the looking-glass.’

She was showing that he was at home there, that he had slept there and knew where the brushes and combs were kept. When he brought her a handful of pins she took them one by one, and forced him to stand close to her, while she looked at him and talked to him in a low voice.

‘I’m not hunchbacked, am I?’ Put your hand there, feel my shoulders, just for fun! Am I built like that?’

Denise had looked up slowly, even paler than before, and in silence had carried on sticking in the pins. Mouret could only see her thick fair hair twisted on the slender nape of her neck; but,
from the slight tremor which was stirring it, he felt he could see the pain on her face. Now she would spurn him; she would send him back to this woman who did not even hide her liaison with him in front of strangers. He felt ready to do something brutal; he could have beaten Henriette. How could he make her be quiet? How could he tell Denise that he adored her, that she alone existed for him at this moment, that he was sacrificing for her all his old loves of a day? A prostitute would not have taken the ambiguous liberties this lady was taking. He withdrew his hand and repeated:

‘You’re wrong to persist, madam, since I myself consider that this garment’s defective.’

One of the gas burners was hissing; and in the stifling, moist air of the room nothing could be heard but this hot hissing sound. The wardrobe mirrors reflected broad patches of bright light on to the red silk hangings, on which the shadows of the two women were dancing. A flask of verbena which had been left with its stopper out was giving off a vague smell of fading flowers.

‘There, madam, that’s all I can do,’ said Denise at last, as she stood up.

She felt that she could bear it no more. Twice, as if blinded, her eyes clouded over and she had dug a pin into her hand. Had he taken part in this plot? Had he made her come to avenge himself for her refusal, by showing that there were other women who loved him? This thought made her blood run cold; she could not remember ever having had to summon up so much courage, even during the terrible moments in her existence when she had been starving. It was nothing to be humiliated like that, compared to seeing him practically in the arms of another woman as if she had not been there!

Henriette was studying herself in front of the looking-glass. Once more she started to speak sharply to Denise:

‘It’s absurd, girl. It’s worse than it was before … Look how tight it is across the bust. I look like a wet-nurse.’

At that Denise, her patience exhausted, said something unfortunate:

‘Madam is a little plump … And unfortunately we can’t make madam any slimmer.’

‘Plump, plump,’ repeated Henriette, who was turning pale in her turn. ‘Now you’re becoming insolent, my dear girl… You must learn not to make remarks like that!’

They stood staring at each other, face to face, trembling. The lady and the shopgirl had ceased to exist. They were simply two women made equal by their rivalry. The one had violently pulled off the coat and thrown it on a chair, while the other tossed on to the dressing-table the few pins which remained in her hand.

‘What surprises me,’ Henriette went on, ‘is that Monsieur Mouret tolerates such insolence … I thought, sir, that you were more particular about your staff.’

Denise had recovered her courageous composure. She replied gently:

‘If Monsieur Mouret keeps me, it’s because he has nothing to reproach me with … But I’m prepared to apologise to you, if he insists.’

Mouret was listening, paralysed by this quarrel, unable to find a word to put a stop to it. He had a horror of such scenes between women, the asperity of which offended his constant desire that everything should be graceful. Henriette wanted to force him to say something in condemnation of Denise; and, as he remained silent, still hesitating, she threw a final insult at him:

‘What a sorry state of affairs, sir, that I should have to put up with insolence from your mistresses in my own home! A tart you picked up out of the gutter!’

Two big tears fell from Denise’s eyes. She had been holding them back for a long time; but the whole of her being was smarting from the insult. When he saw her weeping like that without answering back, in silent, despairing dignity, Mouret no longer hesitated; his heart went out to her with immense tenderness. He took her hands and stammered:

‘Leave now, my dear, forget all about this house.’

Henriette, full of amazement, choking with anger, stood watching them.

‘Wait,’ he continued, folding the coat up himself, ‘take this garment with you. Madam can buy another one somewhere else … And don’t cry any more, please. You know what a high opinion I have of you.’

He accompanied her to the door, which he closed after her. She had not said a word; but a pink flush had risen to her cheeks, while her eyes were moist with fresh tears, this time of delicious sweetness.

Henriette, choking, had taken out her handkerchief and was crushing it to her lips. All her plans had been reversed; she herself had been caught in the trap she had laid. She was upset at having gone too far, tortured by jealousy. To be left for a creature like that! And to be treated like that in front of her! Her pride was suffering more than her love.

‘So it’s that girl you love?’ she said painfully when they were alone.

Mouret did not reply at once; he was walking up and down between the window and the door, trying to control his violent emotion. At last he stood still and, very politely, in a voice he was trying to make cold, he said simply:

‘Yes, madam.’

The gas burner was still hissing in the stifling atmosphere of the dressing-room. Dancing shadows were no longer passing across the reflections in the mirrors; the room seemed bare and had taken on an oppressive sadness. Suddenly Henriette threw herself on to a chair, twisting her handkerchief between her feverish fingers and repeating between her sobs:

‘Oh God! How miserable I am!’

He stood looking at her for a few seconds. Then he calmly walked away. Left alone, she continued to weep amidst the silence, with the pins strewn over the dressing-table and floor in front of her.

When Mouret went back into the small drawing-room, he found no one there but Vallagnosc, for the Baron had gone back to the ladies. As he was still feeling very shaken, he sat down at the end of the room on a sofa; and his friend, seeing how pale he looked, charitably came and stood in front of him to hide him from prying glances. At first they looked at each other without saying a word. Then Vallagnosc, who seemed inwardly amused by Mouret’s agitation, finally asked in his bantering voice:

‘Enjoying yourself?’

Mouret did not seem to understand at first. But when he remembered their former conversations about the empty stupidity and the pointless torture of life, he replied:

‘Of course; I’ve never lived so intensely … Ah! Don’t laugh, old man, the moments when you seem to die of suffering are the briefest of all!’

He lowered his voice and, with tears in his eyes, he went on gaily:

‘Yes, you know all about it, don’t you? They’ve just been pulling-my heart to pieces, the two of them. But it’s still all right, you know, the wounds they make are almost as good as caresses … I’m totally worn out; but it doesn’t matter, you’d never believe how much I love life! Oh! I’ll have her in the end, that little girl who keeps saying no …’

Vallagnosc said simply:

‘And then?’

‘Then? But I’ll have her, simply! Isn’t that enough? If you think you’re clever just because you refuse to be silly and to suffer, you’re making a big mistake! You’re just gullible, that’s all! Try wanting a woman and getting her in the end; in one minute that makes up for all the unhappiness.’

But Vallagnosc was giving full rein to his pessimism. What was the point of working so hard, since money could not buy everything? If it had been him, on the day he realized that his millions could not even buy the woman he desired he would have shut up shop and given up work for ever. Listening to him, Mouret became serious. Then he responded quite violently, affirming his belief in the omnipotence of his will.

‘I want her, and I’ll get her! And if she escapes me, you’ll see what a place I’ll build to cure myself. It’ll be quite superb! You don’t understand this language, old fellow: otherwise you’d know that action contains its own reward. To act, to create, to fight against facts, to overcome them or be overcome by them—the whole of human health and happiness is made up of that!’

‘That’s an easy way to forget your sorrows,’ murmured the other.

‘Well, I’d rather forget my sorrows … If we’ve got to die I’d rather die of passion than die of boredom!’

They both laughed, for their conversation reminded them of their old arguments at school. Then Vallagnosc, in a lifeless voice, rehearsed his views on how platitudinous everything was, taking great pleasure in doing so, boasting almost about the inertia and emptiness of his existence. Yes, the next day he would be bored at the Ministry, as he had been bored the day before. In three years his salary had gone up by six hundred francs; he was now getting three thousand six hundred, not even enough to allow him to buy decent cigars; it was getting worse all the time, and if he didn’t kill himself it was simply from laziness, to save himself the trouble. When Mouret mentioned his marriage with Mademoiselle de Boves, he replied that, in spite of his aunt’s determination not to die, it was going ahead all the same; at any rate, so he thought, the parents had agreed to it, and he pretended not to have any will of his own. What was the point of wanting something or not wanting it, since things never turned out as one desired? He quoted as an example his future father-in-law, who’d been sure he’d found in Madame Guibal an indolent blonde, the caprice of an hour, and who was now forced along by her with a whip, like an old horse being ridden to death. While people thought he was busy inspecting the stud-farms at Saint-Lô, she was finishing him off in a little house he had rented at Versailles.