The Ladies' Paradise

At first, they both crossed the bed-room, silent and empty. Then Madame Desforges, pushing open a door, entered the dressing-room, with Mouret behind her. It was a rather large room, hung with red silk and furnished with a marble toilet table and a large wardrobe with three compartments and great glass doors. As the window overlooked the court-yard, it was already rather dark, and the two nickel-plated gas burners on either side of the wardrobe had been lighted.

"Now, let's see," said Henriette, "perhaps we shall get on better."

On entering, Mouret had found Denise standing upright, in the middle of the bright light. She was very pale, modestly dressed in a cashmere jacket, with a black hat on her head; and she was holding the mantle purchased at The Ladies' Paradise. When she saw the young man her hands slightly trembled.

"I wish Monsieur Mouret to judge," resumed Henriette. "Just help me, mademoiselle."

Then Denise, approaching, had to give her the mantle. She had already placed some pins on the shoulders, the part that did not fit. Henriette turned round to look at herself in the glass.

"Is it possible? Speak frankly," said she.

"It really is a failure, madame," replied Mouret, to cut the matter short. "It's very simple; the young lady will take your measure, and we will make you another."

"No, I want this one, I want it immediately," she resumed with vivacity. "But it's too narrow across the chest, and it forms a ruck at the back between the shoulders." Then, in her sharpest voice, she added: "It's no use for you to stand looking at me, mademoiselle, that won't make it any better! Try and find a remedy. It's your business."

Denise again commenced to place the pins, without saying a word. This went on for some time: she had to pass from one shoulder to the other, and was even obliged to go almost on her knees, in order to pull the mantle down in front. Above her, placing herself entirely in her hands, was Madame Desforges, imparting to her face the harsh expression of a mistress exceedingly difficult to please. Delighted to lower the young girl to this servant's work, she gave her curt orders, watching the while for the least sign of suffering on Mouret's face.

"Put a pin here! No! not there, here, near the sleeve. You don't seem to understand! That isn't it, there's the ruck showing again. Take care, you're pricking me now!"

Twice again did Mouret vainly attempt to interfere, in order to put an end to this scene. His heart was beating violently from this humiliation of his love; and he loved Denise more than ever, with a deep tenderness, in presence of her admirably silent and patient demeanour. If the girl's hands still trembled somewhat, at being treated in this way before his face, she nevertheless accepted the necessities of her position with the proud resignation of one who was courageous. When Madame Desforges found they were not likely to betray themselves, she tried another device: she began to smile on Mouret, treating him openly as a lover. The pins having run short, she said to him:

"Look, my dear, in the ivory box on the dressing-table. Really! it's empty? Well, kindly look on the chimney-piece in the bed-room; you know, just beside the looking-glass."

She spoke as if he were quite at home there, and knew where to find everything. And when he came back with a few pins, she took them one by one, and forced him to remain near her, looking at him the while and speaking low: "I don't fancy I'm hump-backed, eh? Give me your hand, feel my shoulders, just to please me. Am I really made like that?"

Denise slowly raised her eyes, paler than ever, and in silence set about placing the pins. Mouret could only see her heavy blonde tresses, twisted at the back of her delicate neck; but by the slight tremor which was raising them, he could imagine the uneasiness and shame of her face. Hereafter she would most certainly repulse him, and send him back to this woman who did not conceal her affection even before strangers. Brutal thoughts came into his head, he could have struck Henriette. How was he to stop her talk? How tell Denise that he adored her, that she alone existed for him at this moment, and that he was ready to sacrifice for her all his former caprices of a day? The worst of women would not have indulged in the equivocal familiarities of this well-born lady. At last he withdrew his hand, saying:

"You are wrong in being so obstinate, madame, since I myself consider the garment to be a failure."

One of the gas jets was hissing; and in the stuffy, moist air of the room, nothing else was heard but that ardent sibilant breath. On the red silk hangings the glass-doors of the wardrobe cast broad sheets of vivid light in which the shadows of the two women played. A bottle containing some essence of verbena, which had been left uncorked inadvertently, emitted a vague expiring odour of fading flowers.

"There, madame, that is all I can do," at last said Denise, rising up.

She felt thoroughly worn out. Twice had she run the pins into her fingers, as if blind, her eyes clouded. Was he in the plot? Had he sent for her, to avenge himself for her refusal by showing her that other women had affection for him? This thought chilled her; she could not remember having ever stood in need of so much courage, not even during the terrible hours of her life when she had lacked bread. It was comparatively nothing to be humiliated in this way, but to see him so unconstrained with that other woman was dreadful. Henriette looked at herself in the glass, and once more burst into harsh words.

"What nonsense, mademoiselle! It fits worse than ever. Just see how tight it is across the chest. I look like a wet nurse!"

Denise, losing all patience thereupon made a rather unfortunate remark: "You are rather stout, madame. We cannot make you thinner than you are."

"Stout! stout!" exclaimed Henriette, turning pale in her turn. "You're becoming insolent now, mademoiselle. Really, I should advise you to criticize others!"

They both stood looking at one another, face to face, and trembling. There was now neither lady nor shop-girl left. They were simply two women, made equal by their rivalry. The one had violently taken off the mantle and cast it on a chair, whilst the other was throwing on the dressing-table the few pins still remaining in her hands.

"What astonishes me," resumed Henriette, "is that Monsieur Mouret should tolerate such insolence. I thought, sir, that you were more particular about your employees."

Denise had again recovered her brave, calm manner. "If Monsieur Mouret keeps me in his employ," she gently replied, "it's because he has no fault to find. I am ready to apologize to you, if he desires it."

Mouret was listening, excited by this quarrel but unable to find a word to put a stop to it. He had a great horror of these explanations between women, whose asperity clashed with his perpetual desire for grace and refinement. Henriette was seeking to compel him to say something in condemnation of the girl; and, as he still remained mute and undecided, she stung him with a final insult:

"Very good, sir. It seems that I must suffer the insolence of your mistresses in my own house even! A creature you've picked out of some gutter!"

Two big tears gushed from Denise's eyes. She had been keeping them back for some time past; but beneath this last insult her whole being succumbed. And when he saw her weeping like that with a silent, despairing dignity, never making the slightest attempt at retaliation, Mouret no longer hesitated; his heart went forth to her full of immense affection. He took her hands in his and stammered: "Go away quickly, my child, and forget this house!"

Henriette, perfectly amazed, choking with anger, stood looking at them.

"Wait a minute," he continued, folding up the mantle himself, "take this garment away. Madame will purchase another one elsewhere. And pray don't cry any more. You know how greatly I esteem you."

He went with her to the door, which he closed behind her. She had not said a word; but a pink flame had coloured her cheeks, whilst her eyes moistened with fresh tears, tears of a delicious sweetness. Henriette, who was suffocating, had taken out her handkerchief and was crushing her lips with it. This was a total overthrow of her calculations; she herself had been caught in the trap she had laid. She was mortified with herself for having carried matters too far, and bitterly tortured by jealousy. To be abandoned for such a creature as that! To see herself disdained before her! Her pride suffered even more than her affection.

"So, it's that girl you love?" she said painfully, when they were alone.

Mouret did not at once reply; he was walking about from the window to the door, seeking to stifle his violent emotion. At last, however, he stopped, and very politely, in a voice which he tried to render frigid, he replied in all simplicity: "Yes, madame."

The gas jet was still hissing in the stuffy air of the dressing-room. But the reflections of the glass doors were no longer traversed by dancing shadows, the room seemed bare and full of profound sadness. And Henriette suddenly dropped upon a chair, twisting her handkerchief between her febrile fingers, and, repeating amid her sobs: "Good heavens! how wretched I am!"

He stood perfectly still, looking at her for several seconds, and then went quietly away. She, left all alone, wept on in the silence, before the pins scattered over the dressing-table and the floor.

When Mouret returned to the little drawing-room, he found Vallagnosc alone, the baron having gone back to the ladies. As he still felt very agitated, he sat down at the further end of the apartment, on a sofa; and his friend on seeing him so faint charitably came and stood before him, to conceal him from curious eyes. At first, they looked at each other without saying a word. Then, Vallagnosc, who seemed to be inwardly amused by Mouret's emotion, finished by asking in his bantering voice: "Are you enjoying yourself?"

Mouret did not appear to understand him at first. But when he remembered their former conversations on the empty stupidity and useless torture of life, he replied: "Of course, I've never before lived so much. Ah! my boy, don't you laugh, the hours that make one die of grief are by far the shortest!" Then he lowered his voice and continued gaily, beneath his half-dried tears: "Yes, you know all, don't you? Between them they have rent my heart. But yet the wounds they make are nice, almost as nice as kisses. I am thoroughly exhausted but, no matter, you can't think how I love life! Oh! I shall win her at last, that little girl who still says no!"

But Vallagnosc once more trotted out his pessimism. What was the good of working so much if money could not procure everything? He would precious soon have shut up shop and have given up work on the day he found that his millions could not even win him the woman he loved! Mouret, as he listened became grave. But all at once he protested violently, believing as he did in the all-powerfulness of his will.

"I love her, and I'll win her!" said he. "But even if she escapes me, you'll see what a place I shall build to cure myself. It will be splendid, all the same. You don't understand this language, old man, otherwise you would know that action contains its own recompense. To act, to create, to struggle against facts, to overcome them or be overthrown by them, all human health and joy consists in that!"

"A mere way of diverting one's self," murmured the other.

"Well! I prefer diverting myself. As one must die, I would rather die of passion than boredom!"

They both laughed, this reminded them of their old discussions at college. Then Vallagnosc, in an effeminate voice, began to parade his theories of the insipidity of things, making almost a boast of the immobility and emptiness of his existence. Yes, he would be as bored at the Ministry on the morrow as he had been on the day before. In three years he had had a rise of six hundred francs, he was now receiving three thousand six hundred, barely enough to pay for his cigars. Things were getting worse than ever, and if he did not kill himself, it was simply from idleness and a dislike of trouble. On Mouret speaking of his marriage with Mademoiselle de Boves, he replied that despite the obstinacy of the aunt in refusing to die, the matter was about to be concluded; at least, he thought so, the parents were agreed, and he affected to have no will of his own. What was the use of wishing or not wishing, since things never turned out as one desired?

And as an example of this he mentioned his future father-in-law, who had expected to find in Madame Guibal an indolent blonde, the caprice of an hour, but was now led by her with a whip, like an old horse on its last legs. Whilst they supposed him to be inspecting the stud at Saint-Lô, he was squandering his last resources with her in a little house at Versailles.

"He's happier than you," said Mouret, getting up.

"Oh! rather!" declared Vallagnosc. "Perhaps there's only wrong-doing that's at all amusing."

Mouret was now himself again. He was thinking about getting away; but not wishing his departure to resemble a flight he resolved to take a cup of tea, and therefore went into the big drawing-room with his friend, both of them in high spirits. When the ladies inquired if the mantle had been made to fit, Mouret carelessly replied that he had given it up as a bad job as far as he was concerned. At this the others seemed astonished, and whilst Madame Marty hastened to serve him, Madame de Boves accused the shops of never allowing enough material for their garments.

At last, he managed to sit down near Bouthemont, who had not stirred. The two were forgotten for a moment, and, in reply to the anxious questions of Bouthemont, who wished to know what he had to expect, Mouret did not hesitate any longer, but abruptly informed him that the board of directors had decided to deprive themselves of his services. He sipped his tea between each sentence he uttered, protesting all the while that he was in despair. Oh! a quarrel that he had not even yet got over, for he had left the meeting beside himself with rage. But then what could he do? he could not break with those gentlemen about a simple staff question. Bouthemont, very pale, had to thank him once more.

"What a terrible mantle," at last observed Madame Marty. "Henriette can't get over it."

And really the prolonged absence of the mistress of the house had begun to make every one feel awkward. But, at that very moment, Madame Desforges appeared.

"So you've given it up as well?" exclaimed Madame de Boves, gaily.

"How do you mean?"

"Why, Monsieur Mouret told us that you could do nothing with it."

Henriette affected the greatest surprise. "Monsieur Mouret was joking," said she. "The mantle will fit splendidly."

She appeared very calm and smiling. No doubt she had bathed her eyes, for they were quite fresh, without the slightest trace of redness. Whilst her whole being was still trembling and bleeding, she managed to conceal her torment beneath a mask of smiling, well-bred elegance. And she offered some sandwiches to Vallagnosc with her usual graceful smile. Only the baron who knew her so well, remarked the slight contraction of her lips and the sombre fire which she had not been able to extinguish in the depths of her eyes. He guessed the whole scene.

"Dear me! each one to her taste," said Madame de Boves, also accepting a sandwich. "I know some women who would never buy a ribbon except at the Louvre. Others swear by the Bon Marché. It's a question of temperament, no doubt."

"The Bon Marché is very provincial," murmured Madame Marty, "and one gets so crushed at the Louvre."

They had again returned to the big establishments. Mouret had to give his opinion; he came up to them and affected to be very impartial. The Bon Marché was an excellent house, solid and respectable; but the Louvre certainly had a more showy class of customers.

"In short, you prefer The Ladies' Paradise," said the baron, smiling.

"Yes," replied Mouret, quietly. "There we really love our customers."

All the women present were of his opinion. It was indeed just that; at The Ladies' Paradise, they found themselves as at a sort of private party, they felt a continual caress of flattery, an overflowing adoration which made the most dignified of them linger there. The vast success of the establishment sprang from that gallant fascination.

"By the way," asked Henriette, who wished to appear entirely at her ease, "what have you done with my protégée, Monsieur Mouret? You know – Mademoiselle de Fontenailles." And, turning towards Madame Marty, she explained, "A marchioness, my dear, a poor girl fallen into poverty."

"Oh," said Mouret, "she earns three francs a day by stitching pattern-books, and I fancy I shall be able to marry her to one of my messengers."

"Oh! fie! what a horror!" exclaimed Madame de Boves.

He looked at her, and replied in his calm voice: "Why so, madame? Isn't it better for her to marry an honest, hard-working messenger than to run the risk of being picked up by some good-for-nothing fellow outside?"

Vallagnosc wished to interfere, for the sake of a joke. "Don't push him too far, madame, or he'll tell you that all the old families of France ought to sell calico."

"Well," declared Mouret, "it would at least be an honourable end for a great many of them."

They set up a laugh, the paradox seemed far fetched. But he continued to sing the praises of what he called the aristocracy of work. A slight flush had coloured Madame de Boves's cheeks, she was wild at the shifts to which she was put by her poverty; whilst Madame Marty, on the contrary, approved what was said, stricken with remorse on thinking of her poor husband. Just then the footman ushered in the professor, who had called to take her home. In his thin, shiny frock-coat he looked more shrivelled than ever by all his hard toil. When he had thanked Madame Desforges for having spoken for him at the Ministry, he cast at Mouret the timid glance of a man encountering the evil that is to kill him. And he was quite confused when he heard the other ask him:

"Isn't it true, sir, that work leads to everything?"

"Work and thrift," replied he, with a slight shiver of his whole body. "Add thrift, sir."

Meanwhile, Bouthemont had not moved from his chair, Mouret's words were still ringing in his ears. But at last he got up, and approaching Henriette said to her in a low tone: "Do you know, he's given me notice; oh! in the kindest possible manner. But may I be hanged if he shan't repent it! I've just found my sign, The Four Seasons, and shall plant myself close to the Opera House!"

She looked at him with a gloomy expression. "Reckon on me, I'm with you. Wait a minute," she said.

And forthwith she drew Baron Hartmann into the recess of a window, and boldly recommended Bouthemont to him, as a fellow who would in his turn revolutionize Paris, by setting up for himself. When she went on to speak of an advance of funds for her new protégé, the baron, though now never astonished at anything, could not restrain a gesture of bewilderment. This was the fourth fellow of genius that she had confided to him, and he was beginning to feel ridiculous. But he did not directly refuse, the idea of starting a competitor to The Ladies' Paradise even pleased him somewhat; for in banking matters he had already invented this sort of competition, to keep off others. Besides, the adventure amused him, and he promised to look into the matter.

"We must talk it over to-night," whispered Henriette on returning to Bouthemont. "Don't fail to call about nine o'clock. The baron is with us."

At this moment the spacious room was full of chatter. Mouret, still standing in the midst of the ladies, had recovered his elegant gracefulness; he was gaily defending himself from the charge of ruining them in dress and offering to prove by figures that he enabled them to save thirty per cent on their purchases. Baron Hartmann watched him, seized with a fraternal admiration. Come! the duel was finished, Henriette was decidedly beaten, she certainly was not the woman who was to avenge all the others. And he fancied he could again see the modest profile of the girl whom he had observed when passing through the ante-room. She stood there, waiting, alone redoubtable in her sweetness.