Chapter X (1)

The first Sunday in August every one was busy with the stock-taking, which had to be finished by the evening. Early in the morning all the employees were at their posts, as on a week-day, and the work commenced with closed doors, in the immense establishment, entirely free from customers.

Denise, however, had not come down with the other young ladies at eight o'clock. Confined to her room for the last five days by a sprained ankle, caused when going up stairs to the work-rooms, she was going on much better; but, sure of Madame Aurélie's indulgence, she did not hurry down, and sat putting her boots on with difficulty, resolved, however, to show herself in the department. The young ladies' bed-rooms now occupied the entire fifth storey of the new buildings, along the Rue Monsigny; there were sixty of them, on either side of a corridor, and they were much more comfortable than formerly, although still furnished with the iron bedstead, large wardrobe, and little mahogany toilet-table. The private life of the saleswomen became more refined and elegant there, they displayed a taste for scented soap and fine linen, quite a natural ascent towards middle-class ways as their positions improved, although high words and banging doors were still sometimes heard amidst the hôtel-like gust that carried them away, morning and evening. Denise, being second-hand in her department, had one of the largest rooms, the two attic windows of which looked into the street. Being much better off now, she indulged in several little luxuries, a red eider-down coverlet for the bed, covered with Maltese lace, a small carpet in front of the wardrobe, and two blue-glass vases containing a few faded roses on the toilet table.

When she got her boots on she tried to walk across the room; but was obliged to lean against the furniture, being still rather lame. But that would soon come right again, she thought. At the same time, she had been quite right in refusing the invitation to dine at uncle Baudu's that evening, and in asking her aunt to take Pépé out for a walk, for she had placed him with Madame Gras again. Jean, who had been to see her the previous day, was to dine at his uncle's also. She continued to try to walk, resolved to go to bed early, in order to rest her leg, when Madame Cabin, the housekeeper, knocked and gave her a letter, with an air of mystery.

The door closed. Denise, astonished by this woman's discreet smile, opened the letter. She dropped on to a chair; it was a letter from Mouret, in which he expressed himself delighted at her recovery, and begged her to go down and dine with him that evening, as she could not go out. The tone of this note, at once familiar and paternal, was in no way offensive; but it was impossible for her to mistake its meaning. The Ladies' Paradise well knew the real signification of these invitations, which were legendary: Clara had dined, others as well, all those the governor had specially remarked. After dinner, as the witlings were wont to say, came the dessert. And the young girl's white cheeks were gradually invaded by a flow of blood.

The letter slipped on to her knees, and Denise, her heart beating violently, remained with her eyes fixed on the blinding light of one of the windows. This was the confession she must have made to herself, in this very room, during her sleepless moments: if she still trembled when he passed, she now knew it was not from fear; and her former uneasiness, her old terror, could have been nothing but the frightened ignorance of love, the disorder of her growing affections, in her youthful wildness. She did not argue with herself, she simply felt that she had always loved him from the hour she had shuddered and stammered before him. She had loved him when she had feared him as a pitiless master; she had loved him when her distracted heart was dreaming of Hutin, unconsciously yielding to a desire for affection. Perhaps she might have given herself to another, but she had never loved any but this man, whose mere look terrified her. And her whole past life came back to her, unfolding itself in the blinding light of the window: the hardships of her start, that sweet walk under the shady trees of the Tuileries Gardens, and, lastly, the desires with which he had enveloped her ever since her return. The letter dropped on the ground, Denise still gazed at the window, dazzled by the glare of the sun.

Suddenly there was a knock. She hastened to pick up the letter and conceal it in her pocket. It was Pauline, who, having slipped away under some pretext, had come for a little gossip.

“How are you, my dear? We never meet now----”

But as it was against the rules to go up into the bed-rooms, and, above all, for two to be shut in together, Denise took her to the end of the passage, into the ladies' drawing-room, a gallant present from Mouret to the young ladies, who could spend their evenings there till eleven o'clock. The apartment, decorated in white and gold, of the vulgar nudity of an hôtel room, was furnished with a piano, a central table, and some arm-chairs and sofas protected with white covers. But, after a few evenings spent together, in the first novelty of the thing, the saleswomen never went into the place without coming to high words at once. They required educating to it, the little trading city was wanting in accord. Meanwhile, almost the only one that went there in the evening was the second-hand in the corset department, Miss Powell, who strummed away at Chopin on the piano, and whose coveted talent ended by driving the others away.

“You see my ankle's better now,” said Denise, “I was going downstairs.”

“Well!” exclaimed the other, “what zeal! I'd take it easy if I had the chance!”

They both sat down on a sofa. Pauline's attitude had changed since her friend had been promoted to be second-hand in the ready-made department. With her good-natured cordiality was mingled a shade of respect, a sort of surprise to feel the puny little saleswoman of former days on the road to fortune. Denise liked her very much, and confided in her alone, amidst the continual gallop of the two hundred women that the firm now employed.

“What's the matter?” asked Pauline, quickly, when she remarked the young girl's troubled looks.

“Oh! nothing,” replied the latter, with an awkward smile.

“Yes, yes; there's something the matter with you. Have you no faith in me, that you have given up telling me your troubles?”

Then Denise, in the emotion that was swelling her bosom--an emotion she could not control--abandoned herself to her feelings. She gave her friend the letter, stammering: “Look! he has just written to me.”

Between themselves, they had never openly spoken of Mouret. But this very silence was like a confession of their secret pre-occupations. Pauline knew everything. After having read the letter, she clasped Denise in her arms, and softly murmured: “My dear, to speak frankly, I thought it was already done. Don't be shocked; I assure you the whole shop must think as I do. Naturally! he appointed you as second-hand so quickly, then he's always after you. It's obvious!” She kissed her affectionately, and then asked her: “You will go this evening, of course?”

Denise looked at her without replying. All at once she burst into tears, her head on Pauline's shoulder. The latter was quite astonished.'

“Come, try and calm yourself; there's nothing in the affair to upset you like this.”

“No, no; let me be,” stammered Denise. “If you only knew what trouble I am in! Since I received that letter, I have felt beside myself. Let me have a good cry, that will relieve me.”

Full of pity, though not understanding, Pauline endeavoured to console her. In the first place, he had thrown up Clara. It was said he still visited a lady outside, but that was not proved. Then she explained that one could not be jealous of a man in such a position. He had too much money; he was the master, after all Denise listened to her, and had she been ignorant of her love, she could no longer have doubted it after the suffering she felt at the name of Clara and the allusion to Madame Desforges, which made her heart bleed. She could hear Clara's disagreeable voice, she could see Madame Desforges dragging her about the different departments with the scorn of a rich lady for a poor shop-girl.

“So you would go yourself?” asked she.

Pauline, without pausing to think, cried out: “Of course, how can one do otherwise!” Then reflecting, she added: “Not now, but formerly, because now I am going to marry Baugé, and it would not be right.”

In fact, Baugé, who had left the Bon Marche for The Ladies' Paradise, was going to marry her about the middle of the month. Bourdoncle did not like these married couples; they had managed, however, to get the necessary permission, and even hoped to obtain a fortnight's holiday for their honeymoon.

“There you are,” declared Denise, “when a man loves a girl he ought to marry her. Baugé is going to marry you.” Pauline laughed heartily. “But my dear, it isn't the same thing. Baugé is going to marry me because he is Baugé. He's my equal, that's a natural thing. Whilst Monsieur Mouret! Do you think Monsieur Mouret can marry his saleswomen?”

“Oh! no, oh! no,” exclaimed the young girl, shocked by the absurdity the question, “and that's why he ought not to have written to me.”

This argument completely astonished Pauline. Her coarse face, with her small tender eyes, assumed quite an expression of maternal compassion. Then she got up, opened the piano, and softly played with one finger, “King Dagobert,” to enliven the situation, no doubt. Into the nakedness of the drawingroom, the white coverings of which seemed to increase the emptiness, came the noises from the street, the distant melopoia of a woman crying out green peas. Denise had thrown herself back on the sofa, her head against the wood-work, shaken by a fresh flood of sobs, which she stifled in her handkerchief.

“Again!” resumed Pauline, turning round. “Really you are not reasonable. Why did you bring me here? We ought to have stopped in your room.”

She knelt down before her, and commenced lecturing her again. How many others would like to be in her place! Besides, if the thing did not please her, it was very simple: she had only to say no, without worrying herself like this. But she should reflect before risking her position by a refusal which was inexplicable, considering she had no engagement elsewhere. Was it such a terrible thing after all? and the reprimand was finishing up by some pleasantries, gaily whispered, when a sound of footsteps was heard in the passage. Pauline ran to the door and looked out. “Hush! Madame Aurélie!” she murmured. “I'm off, and just you dry your eyes. She need not know what's up.” When Denise was alone, she got up, and forced back her tears; and, her hands still trembling, with the fear of being caught there doing nothing, she closed the piano, which her friend had left open. But on hearing Madame Aurélie knocking at her door, she left the drawing-room.

“What! you are up!” exclaimed the first-hand. “It's very thoughtless of you, my dear child. I was just coming up to see how you were, and to tell you that we did not require you downstairs.”

Denise assured her that she felt very much better, that it would do her good to do something to amuse herself.

“I sha'nt tire myself, madame. You can place me on a chair, and I'll do some writing.”

Both then went downstairs. Madame Aurélie, who was most attentive, insisted on Denise leaning on her shoulder. She must have noticed the young girl's red eyes, for she was stealthily examining her. No doubt she was aware of a great deal of what was going on.

It was an unexpected victory: Denise had at last conquered the department. After struggling for six months, amidst her torments as drudge and fag, without disarming her comrades' ill-will, she had in a few weeks entirely overcome them, and now saw them around her submissive and respectful. Madame Aurélie's sudden affection had greatly assisted her in this ungrateful task of softening her comrades' hearts towards her. It was whispered that the first-hand was Mouret's obliging factotum, that she rendered him many delicate services; and she took the young girl under her protection with such warmth that the latter must have been recommended to her in a very special manner. But Denise had also brought all her charm into play in order to disarm her enemies. The task was all the more difficult from the fact that she had to obtain their pardon for her appointment to the situation of second-hand. The young ladies spoke of this as an injustice, accused her of having earned it at dessert, with the governor; and even added a lot of abominable details. But in spite of their revolt, the title of second-hand influenced them, Denise assumed a certain authority which astonished and overawed the most hostile spirits. Soon after, she even found flatterers amongst the new hands; and her sweetness and modesty finished the conquest. Marguerite came over to her side. Clara was the only one to continue her ill-natured ways, still venturing on the old insult of the “unkempt girl,” which no one now saw the fun of. During her short intimacy with Mouret, she had taken advantage of it to neglect her work, being of a wonderfully idle, gossiping nature; then, as he had quickly tired of her, she did not even recriminate, incapable of jealousy in the disorderly abandon of her existence, perfectly satisfied to have profited from it to the extent of being allowed to stand about doing nothing. But, at the same time, she considered that Denise had robbed her of Madame Frederic's place. She would never have accepted it, on account of the worry; but she was vexed at the want of politeness, for she had the same claims as the other one, and prior claims too.

“Hullo! there's the young mother being trotted out after her confinement,” murmured she, on seeing Madame Aurélie bringing Denise in on her arm.

Marguerite shrugged her shoulders, saying, “I dare say you think that's a good joke!”

Nine o'clock struck. Outside, an ardent blue sky was warming the streets.

Cabs were rolling toward the railway stations, the whole population dressed out in Sunday clothes, was streaming in long rows towards the suburban woods.

Inside the building, inundated with sun through the large open bays, the cooped-up staff had just commenced the stocktaking. They had closed the doors; people stopped on the pavement, looking through the windows, astonished at this shutting-up when an extraordinary activity was going on inside. There was, from one end of the galleries to the other, from the top floor to the bottom, a continual movement of employees, their arms in the air, and parcels flying about above their heads; and all this amidst a tempest of cries and a calling out of prices, the confusion of which ascended and became a deafening roar. Each of the thirty-nine departments did its work apart, without troubling about its neighbour. At this early hour the shelves had hardly been touched, there were only a few bales of goods on the floors; the machine would have to get up more steam if they were to finish that evening.

“Why have you come down?” asked Marguerite of Denise, good-naturedly. “You'll only make yourself worse, and we are quite enough to do the work.”

“That's what I told her,” declared Madame Aurélie, “but she insisted on coming down to help us.”

All the young ladies flocked round Denise. The work was interrupted even for a time. They complimented her, listening with various exclamations to the story of her sprained ankle. At last Madame Aurélie made her sit down at a table; and it was understood that she should merely write down the articles as they were called out. On such a day as this they requisitioned any employee capable of holding a pen: the inspectors, the cashiers, the clerks, even down to the shop messengers; and the various departments divided amongst themselves these assistants of a day to get the work over quicker. It was thus that Denise found herself installed near Lhomme the cashier and Joseph the messenger, both bending over large sheets of paper.

“Five mantles, cloth, fur trimming, third size, at two hundred and forty francs!” cried Marguerite. “Four ditto, first size, at two hundred and twenty!”

The work once more commenced. Behind Marguerite three saleswomen were emptying the cupboards, classifying the articles, giving them to her in bundles; and, when she had called them out, she threw them on the table, where they were gradually heaping up in enormous piles. Lhomme wrote down the articles, Joseph kept another list for the clearinghouse. Whilst this was going on, Madame Aurélie herself, assisted by three other saleswomen, was counting the silk garments, which Denise entered on the sheets. Clara was employed in looking after the heaps, to arrange them in such a manner that they should occupy the least space possible on the tables. But she was not paying much attention to her work, for the heaps were already tumbling down.

“I say,” asked she of a little saleswoman who had joined that winter, “are they going to give you a rise? You know the second-hand is to have two thousand francs, which, with her commission, will bring her in nearly seven thousand.”

The little saleswoman, without ceasing to pass some cloaks down, replied that if they didn't give her eight hundred francs she would take her hook. The rises were always given the day after the stock-taking; it was also the epoch at which, the amount of business done during the year being known, the managers of the departments drew their commission on the increase of this figure, compared with that of the preceding year. Thus, notwithstanding the bustle and uproar of the work, the impassioned gossiping went on everywhere. Between two articles called out, they talked of nothing but money. The rumour ran that Madame Aurélie would exceed twenty-five thousand francs; and this immense sum greatly excited the young ladies. Marguerite, the best saleswoman after Denise, had made four thousand five hundred francs, fifteen hundred francs salary, and about three thousand francs commission; whilst Clara had not made two thousand five hundred francs altogether.

“I don't care a button for their rises!” resumed the latter, still talking to the little saleswoman. “If papa were dead, I would jolly soon clear out of this! But what exasperates me is to see seven thousand francs given to that strip of a girl! What do you say?”

Madame Aurélie violently interrupted the conversation, turning round with her imperial air. “Be quiet, young ladies! We can't hear ourselves speak, my word of honour!”

Then she resumed calling out: “Seven mantles, old style, Sicilian, first size, at a hundred and thirty! Three pelisses, surah, second size, at a hundred and fifty! Have you got that down, Mademoiselle Baudu?”

“Yes, madame.”

Clara then had to look after the armfuls of garments piled on the tables. She pushed them about, and made more room. But she soon left them again to reply to a salesman, who was looking for her. It was the glover, Mignot, escaped from his department. He whispered a request for twenty francs; he already owed her thirty, a loan effected the day after a race, after having lost his week's salary on a horse; this time he had squandered his commission, drawn over night, and had not ten sous for his Sunday. Clara had only ten francs about her, which she lent him with a fairly good grace. And they went on talking, spoke of a party of six, indulged in at a restaurant at Bougival, where the women had paid their share: it was much better, they all felt perfectly at their ease like that. Then Mignot, who wanted his twenty francs, went and bent over Lhomme's shoulder. The latter, stopped in his writing, appeared greatly troubled. However, he dared not refuse, and was looking for the money in his purse, when Madame Aurélie, astonished not to hear Marguerite's voice, which had been interrupted, perceived Mignot, and understood at once. She roughly sent him back to his department, saying she didn't want any one to come and distract her young ladies from their work. The truth is, she dreaded this young man, a bosom friend of Albert's, the accomplice of his doubtful tricks, which she trembled to see turn out badly some day. Therefore, when Mignot had got his ten francs, and had run away, she could not help saying to her husband:

“Is it possible to let a fellow like that get over you!”

“But, my dear, I really could not refuse the young man.” She closed his mouth with a shrug of her substantial shoulders. Then, as the saleswomen were slyly grinning at this family explanation, she resumed with severity: “Now, Mademoiselle Vadon, don't let's go to sleep.”

“Twenty cloaks, cashmere extra, fourth size, at eighteen francs and a half,” resumed Marguerite in her sing-song voice.

Lhomme, with his head bowed down, had resumed writing. They had gradually raised his salary to nine thousand francs a year; and he was very humble before Madame Aurélie, who still brought nearly triple as much into the family.

For a while the work pushed forward. Figures flew about, the parcels of garments rained thick and fast on the tables, But Clara had invented another amusement: she was teasing the messenger, Joseph, about a passion that he was said to nourish for a young lady in the pattern-room. This young lady, already twenty-eight years old, thin and pale, was a protege of Madame Desforges, who had wanted to make Mouret engage her as a saleswoman, backing up her recommendation with a touching story: an orphan, the last of the De Fontenailles, an old and noble family of Poitou, thrown into the streets of Paris with a drunken father, but yet virtuous amidst this misfortune, with an education too limited, unfortunately, to take a place as governess or music-mistress. Mouret generally got angry when any one recommended to him these broken-down gentlewomen; there was not, said he, a class of creatures more incapable, more insupportable, more narrow-minded than these gentlewomen; and, besides, a saleswoman could not be improvised, she must serve an apprenticeship, it was a complicated and delicate business. However, he took Madame Desforges's protege, but put her in the pattern-room, in the same way as he had already found places, to oblige friends, for two countesses and a baroness in the advertising department, where they addressed envelopes, etc. Mademoiselle de Fontenailles earned three francs a day, which just enabled her to live in her modest room, in the Rue d'Argenteuil. It was on seeing her, with her sad look and such shabby clothes, that Joseph's heart, very tender under his rough soldier's manner, had been touched. He did not confess, but he blushed, when the young ladies in the ready-made department chaffed him; for the pattern-room was not far off, and they had often observed him prowling about the doorway.

“Joseph is somewhat absent-minded,” murmured Clara. “His nose is always turned towards the under-linen department.”

They had requisitioned Mademoiselle de Fontenailles there, and she was assisting at the outfitting counter. As the messenger was continually glancing in that direction, the saleswomen began to laugh. He became very confused, and plunged into his accounts; whilst Marguerite, in order to arrest the flood of gaiety which was tickling her throat, cried out louder stills “Fourteen jackets, English cloth, second size, at fifteen francs!”

At this, Madame Aurélie, who was engaged in calling out some cloaks, could not make herself heard. She interfered with a wounded air, and a majestic slowness: “A little softer, mademoiselle. We are not in a market. And you are all very unreasonable, to be amusing yourselves with these childish matters, when our time is so precious.”

Just at that moment, as Clara was not paying any attention to the parcels, a catastrophe took place. Some mantles tumbled down, and all the heaps on the tables, dragged down with them, fell one after the other, so that the carpet was strewn with them.

“There! what did I say!” cried the first-hand, beside herself. “Pray be more careful, Mademoiselle Prunaire; it's intolerable!”

But a hum ran along: Mouret and Bourdoncle, making their round of inspection, had just appeared. The voices started again, the pens sputtered along, whilst Clara hastened to pick up the garments. The governor did not interrupt the work. He stood there several minutes, mute, smiling; and it was on his lips alone that a slight feverish shivering was visible in his gay and victorious face of stock-taking days. When he perceived Denise, he nearly gave way to a gesture of astonishment. She had come down, then? His eyes met Madame Aurélie's. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he went away into the under-linen department.

However, Denise, warned by the slight noise, had raised her head. And, after having recognised Mouret, she had immediately bent over her work again, without ostentation. Since she had been writing in this mechanical way, amidst the regular calling-out of the articles, a peaceful feeling had stolen over her. She had always yielded thus to the first excesses of her sensitiveness: the tears suffocated her, her passion doubled her torments; then she regained her self-command, finding a grand, calm courage, a strength of will, quiet but inexorable. Now, with her limpid eyes, and pale complexion, she was free from all agitation, entirely given up to her work, resolved to crush her heart and to do nothing but her will.

Ten o'clock struck, the uproar of the stock-taking was increasing in the activity of the departments. And amidst the cries incessantly raised, crossing each other on all sides, the same news was circulating with surprising rapidity: every salesman knew that Mouret had written that morning inviting Denise to dinner. The indiscretion came from Pauline. On going downstairs, still excited, she had met Deloche in the lace department, and, without noticing that Liénard was talking to the young man, she immediately relieved her mind of the secret.

“It's done, my dear fellow. She's just received a letter. He invites her for this evening.”

Deloche turned very pale. He had understood, for he often questioned Pauline; they spoke of their common friend every day, of Mouret's love for her, of the famous invitation which would finish by bringing the adventure to an issue. She frequently scolded him for his secret love for Denise, with whom he would never succeed, and she shrugged her shoulders whenever he expressed his approval of the girl's conduct in resisting the governor.

“Her foot's better, she's coming down,” continued Pauline.

“Pray don't put on that funeral face. It's a piece of good luck for her, this invitation.” And she hastened back to her department.

“Ah! good!” murmured Liénard, who had heard all, “you're talking about the young girl with the sprain. You were quite right to be so quick in defending her last night at the café!”

He also ran off; but before he had returned to the woollen department, he had already related the story to four or five fellows. In less than ten minutes, it had gone the round of the whole shop.

Liénard's last remark referred to a scene which had taken place the previous evening, at the Café Saint-Roch. Deloche and he were now constantly together. The former had taken Hutin's room at the Hôtel de Smyme, when that gentleman, appointed second-hand, had hired a suite of three rooms; and the two shopmen came to The Ladies' Paradise together in the morning, and waited for each other in the evening in order to go away together. Their rooms, which were next door to each other, looked into the same black yard, a narrow well, the odour from which poisoned the hôtel. They got on very well together, notwithstanding their difference of character, the one carelessly squandering the money he drew from his father, the other penniless, perpetually tortured by ideas of saving, both having, however, a point in common, their unskilfulness as salesmen, which left them to vegetate at their counters, without any increase of salary. After leaving the shop, they spent the greater part of their time at the Café Saint-Roch. Quite free from customers during the day, this café filled up about halfpast eight with an overflowing crowd of employees, that crowd of shopmen disgorged into the street from the great door in the Place Gaillon. Then burst forth a deafening uproar of clinking dominoes, bursts of laughter and yelping voices, amidst the thick smoke of the pipes. Beer and coffee were in great demand. Seated in the left-hand corner, Liénard went in for the dearest drinks, whilst Deloche contented himself with a glass of beer, which he would take four hours to drink. It was there that the latter had heard Favier, at a neighbouring table, relate some abominable things about Denise, the way in which she had “hooked” the governor, by pulling her dress up whenever she went upstairs in front of him. He had with difficulty restrained himself from striking him. Then, as the other went off, saying that the young girl went down every night to join her lover, he called him a liar, feeling mad with rage.

“What a blackguard! It's a lie, it's a lie, I tell you!”

And in the emotion which was agitating him, he let out too much, with a stammering voice, entirely opening his heart.

“I know her, and it isn't true. She has never had any affection except for one man; yes, for Monsieur Hutin, and even he has never noticed it, he can't even boast of ever having as much as touched her.”

The report of this quarrel, exaggerated, misconstrued, was already affording amusement for the whole shop, when the story of Mouret's letter was circulated. In fact, it was to a salesman in the silk department that Liénard first confided the news. With the silk-vendors the stock-taking was going on rapidly. Favier and two shopmen, mounted on stools, were emptying the shelves, passing the pieces of stuff to Hutin as they went on, the latter, standing on a table, calling out the figures, after consulting the tickets; and he then dropped the pieces, which, rising slowly like an autumn tide, were gradually encumbering the floor. Other men were writing, Albert Lhomme was also helping them, his face pale and heavy after a night spent in a low public-house at La Chapelle. A ray of sun fell from the glazed roof of the hall, through which could be seen the ardent blue of the sky.

“Draw those blinds!” cried out Bouthemont, very busy superintending the work. “The sun is unbearable!”

Favier, who was stretching to reach a piece, grumbled under his breath: “A nice thing to shut people up a lovely day like this! No fear of it raining on a stock-taking day! And they keep us under lock and key like a lot of convicts when all Paris is out-doors!”

He passed the piece to Hutin. On the ticket was the measurement, diminished at each sale by the quantity sold, which greatly simplified the work. The second-hand cried out: “Fancy silk, small check, twenty-one yards, at six francs and a half.”

And the silk went to increase the heap on the floor. Then he continued a conversation commenced, by saying to Favier: “So he wanted to fight you?”

“Yes, I was quietly drinking my glass of beer. It was hardly worth while contradicting me, she has just received a letter from the governor inviting her to dinner. The whole shop is talking about it.”

“What! it wasn't done!”

Favier handed him another piece.

“A caution, isn't it? One would have staked his life on it. It seemed like an old connection.”

“Ditto, twenty-five yards!” cried Hutin.

The dull thud of the piece was heard, whilst he added in a lower tone: “She carried on fearfully, you know, at that old fool Bourras's.”

The whole department was now joking about the affair, without, however, allowing the work to suffer. The young girl's name passed from mouth to mouth, the fellows arched their backs and winked. Bouthemont himself, who took a rare delight in such gay stories, could not help adding his joke, the bad taste of which filled his heart with joy. Albert, waking up a bit, swore he had seen Denise with two soldiers at the Gros-Caillou. At that moment Mignot came down, with the twenty francs he had just borrowed, and he stopped to slip ten francs into Albert's hand, making an appointment with him for the evening; a projected lark, restrained for want of money, but still possible, notwithstanding the smallness of the sum. But handsome Mignot, when he heard about the famous letter, made such an abominable remark, that Bouthemont was obliged to interfere.

“That's enough, gentlemen. It isn't our business. Go on, Monsiéur Hutin.”

“Fancy silk, small check, thirty-two yards, at six francs and a half,” cried out the latter.

The pens started off again, the parcels fell regularly, the flood of stuffs still increased, as if the overflow of a river had emptied itself there. And the calling out of the fancy silks never ceased. Favier, in a half whisper, remarked that the stock was in a nice state; the governors would be enchanted; that big stupid of a Bouthemont might be the best buyer in Paris, but as a salesman he was not worth his salt. Hutin smiled, delighted, approving by a friendly look; for after having himself introduced Bouthemont into The Ladies' Paradise, in order to drive out Robineau, he was now undermining him also, with the firm intention of robbing him of his place. It was the same war as formerly, treacherous insinuations whispered in the partners' ears, an excessive display of zeal in order to push one's-self forward, a regular campaign carried on with affable cunning. However, Favier, towards whom Hutin was displaying some fresh condescension, took a look at the latter, thin and cold, with his bilious face, as if to count the mouthfuls in this short, squat little man, and looking as though he were waiting till his comrade had swallowed up Bouthemont, in order to eat him afterwards. He, Favier,' hoped to get the second-hand's place, should his friend be appointed manager. Then, they would see. And both, consumed by the fever which was raging from one end of the shop to the other, talked of the probable rises of salary, without ceasing to call out the stock of fancy silks; they felt sure Bouthemont would reach thirty thousand francs that year; Hutin would exceed ten thousand; Favier estimated his pay and commission at five thousand five hundred. The amount of business in the department was increasing yearly, the salesmen were promoted and their salaries doubled, like officers in time of war.

“Won't those fancy silks soon be finished?” asked Bouthemont suddenly, with an annoyed air. “What a miserable spring, always raining! People have bought nothing but black silks.”

His fat, jovial face became cloudy; he looked at the growing heap on the floor, whilst Hutin called out louder still, in a sonorous voice, not free from triumph--“Fancy silks, small check, twenty-eight yards, at six francs and a half.”

There was still another shelf-full. Favier, whose arms were beginning to feel tired, was now going very slowly. As he handed Hutin the last pieces he resumed in a low tone--“Oh! I say, I forgot. Have you heard that the second-hand in the ready-made department once had a regular fancy for you?”

The young man seemed greatly surprised. “What! How do you mean?”

“Yes, that great booby Deloche let it out to us. I remember her casting sheep's eyes at you some time back.”

Since his appointment as second-hand Hutin had thrown up his music-hall singers and gone in for governesses. Greatly flattered at heart, he replied with a scornful air, “I like them a little better stuffed, my boy; besides, it won't do to take up with anybody, as the governor does.” He stopped to call out--

“White Poult silk, thirty-five yards, at eight francs fifteen sous.”

“Oh! at last!” murmured Bouthemont, greatly relieved.

But a bell rang, it was the second table, to which Favier belonged. He got off the stool, another salesman took his place, and he was obliged to step over the mountain of pieces of stuff with which the floor was encumbered. Similar heaps were scattered about in very department; the shelves, the boxes, the cupboards were being gradually emptied, whilst the goods were overflowing on every side, under-foot, between the counters and the tables, in a continual rising. In the linen department was heard the heavy falling of the bales of calico; in the mercery department there was a clicking of boxes; and distant rumbling sounds came from the furniture department. Every sort of voice was heard together, shrill voices, thick voices; figures whizzed through the air, a rustling clamour reigned in the immense nave--the clamour of the forests in January when the wind is whistling through the branches.

Favier at last got clear and went up the dining-room staircase. Since the enlargement of The Ladies' Paradise the refectories had been shifted to the fourth storey in the new buildings. As he hurried up he came upon Deloche and Liénard, so he fell back on Mignot, who was following on his heels.

“The deuce!” said he, in the corridor leading to the kitchen, opposite the blackboard on which the bill of fare was inscribed, “you can see it's stock-taking day. A regular feast! Chicken, or leg of mutton, and artichokes! Their mutton won't be much of a success!”

Mignot sniggered, murmuring, “Every one's going in for chicken, then!”

However, Deloche and Liénard had taken their portions and had gone away. Favier then leant over at the wicket and called out--“Chicken!”

But he had to wait; one of the kitchen helps had cut his finger in carving, and this caused some confusion. Favier stood there, with his face to the opening, looking into the kitchen with its giant appliances--the central range, over which two rails fixed to the ceiling brought forward, by a system of chains and pullies, the colossal coppers, which four men could not have lifted. Several cooks, quite white in the sombre red of the furnace, were attending to the evening soup coppers, mounted on iron ladders, armed with skimmers fixed on long handles. Then against the wall were grills large enough to roast martyrs on, saucepans big enough to cook a whole sheep in, a monumental plate-warmer, and a marble well kept full by a continual stream of water. To the left could be seen a washing-up place, stone sinks as large as ponds; whilst on the other side to the right, was an immense meat-safe, in which some large joints of red meat were hanging on steel hooks. A machine for peeling potatoes was working with the tic-tac of a mill. Two small trucks laden with freshly-picked salad were being wheeled along by some kitchen helps into the fresh air under a fountain.

“Chicken,” repeated Favier, getting impatient. Then, turning round, he added in a lower tone, “There's one fellow cut himself. It's disgusting, it's running over the food.”

Mignot wanted to see. Quite a string of shopmen had now arrived; there was a good deal of laughing and pushing. The two young men, their heads at the wicket, exchanged their remarks before this phalansterian kitchen, in which the least utensils, even the spits and larding pins, assumed gigantic proportions. Two thousand luncheons and two thousand dinners had to be served, and the number of employees was increasing every week. It was quite an abyss, into which was thrown daily something like forty-five bushels of potatoes, one hundred and twenty pounds of butter, and sixteen hundred pounds of meat; and at each meal they had to broach three casks of wine, over a hundred and fifty gallons were served out at the wine counter.

“Ah! at last!” murmured Favier when the cook reappeared with a large pan, out of which he handed him the leg of a fowl.

“Chicken,” said Mignot behind him.

And with their plates in their hands they both entered the refectory, after having taken their wine at the counter; whilst behind them the word “Chicken” was repeated without ceasing, regularly, and one could hear the cook picking up the pieces with his fork with a rapid and measured sound.

The men's dining-room was now an immense apartment, where places for five hundred at each of the three dinners could easily be laid. There were long mahogany tables, placed parallel across the room, and at either end were similar tables reserved for the managers of departments and the inspectors; whilst in the centre was a counter for the extras. Large windows, right and left, lighted up with a white light this gallery, of which the ceiling, notwithstanding its being four yards high, seemed very low, crushed by the enormous development of the other dimensions. The sole ornament on the walls, painted a light yellow, were the napkin cupboards. After this first refectory came that of the messengers and carmen, where the meals were served irregularly, according to the necessities of the work.

“What! you've got a leg as well, Mignot?” said Favier, as he took his place at one of the tables opposite his companion.

Other young men now sat down around them. There was no tablecloth, the plates gave out a cracked sound on the bare mahogany, and every one was crying out in this particular corner, for the number of legs was really prodigious.

“These chickens are all legs!” remarked Mignot.

Those who had pieces of the carcase were greatly discontented. However, the food had been much better since the late improvements. Mouret no longer treated with a contractor at a fixed sum; he had taken the kitchen into his own hands, organising it like one of the departments, with a head-cook, under-cooks, and an inspector; and if he spent more he got more work out of the staff--a practical humane calculation which long terrified Bourdoncle.

“Mine is pretty tender, all the same,” said Mignot. “Pass over the bread!”

The big loaf was sent round, and after cutting a slice for himself he dug the knife into the crust A few dilatory ones now hurried in, taking their places; a ferocious appetite, increased by the morning's work, ran along the immense tables from one end to the other. There was an increasing clatter of forks, a sound of bottles being emptied, the noise of glasses laid down too violently, the grinding rumble of five hundred pairs of powerful jaws working with wonderful energy. And the talk, still very rare, was stifled in the mouths full of food.

Deloche, however, seated between Baugé and Liénard, found himself nearly opposite Favier. They had glanced at each other with a rancorous look. The neighbours whispered, aware of their quarrel the previous day. Then they laughed at poor Deloche's ill-luck, always famishing, always falling on to the worst piece at table, by a sort of cruel fatality. This time he had come in for the neck of a chicken and bits of the carcase. Without saying a word he let them joke away, swallowing large mouthfuls of bread, and picking the neck with the infinite art of a fellow who entertains a great respect for meat.

“Why don't you complain?” asked Baugé.

But he shrugged his shoulders. What would be the good? It was always the same. When he ventured to complain things went worse than ever.

“You know the Bobbin fellows have got their club now,” said Mignot, all at once. “Yes, my boy, the 'Bobbin Club.' It's held at a tavern in the Rue Saint-Honoré, where they hire a room on Saturdays.”

He was speaking of the mercery salesmen. The whole table began to joke. Between two mouthfuls, with his voice still thick, each one made some remark, added a detail; the obstinate readers alone remained mute, absorbed, their noses buried in some newspapers. It could not be denied; shopmen were gradually assuming a better style; nearly half of them now spoke English or German. It was no longer good form to go and kick up a row at Bullier, to prowl about the music-halls for the pleasure of hissing ugly singers. No; a score of them got together and formed a club.

“Have they a piano like the linen-drapers?” asked Liénard.

“I should rather think they have a piano!” exclaimed Mignot. “And they play, my boy, and sing! There's even one of them, little Bavoux, who recites verses.”

The gaiety redoubled, they chaffed little Bavoux, but still beneath this laughter there lay a great respect. They then spoke of a piece at the Vaudeville, in which a counter-jumper played a nasty part, which annoyed several of them, whilst others were anxiously wondering what time they would get away, having invitations to pass the evening at friends' houses; and from all points were heard similar conversations amidst the increasing noise of the crockery. To drive out the odour of the food--the warm steam which rose from the five hundred plates--the windows had been opened, while the lowered blinds were scorching in the heavy August sun. An ardent breath came in from the street, golden reflections yellowed the ceiling, bathing in a reddish light the perspiring eaters.

“A nice thing to shut people up such a fine Sunday as this!” repeated Favier.

This reflection brought them back to the stock-taking. It was a splendid year. And they went on to speak of the salaries--the rises--the eternal subject, the stirring question which occupied them all. It was always thus on chicken days, a wonderful excitement declared itself, the noise at last became insupportable. When the waiters brought the artichokes one could not hear one's self speak. The inspector on duty had orders to be indulgent.

“By the way,” cried out Favier, “you've heard the news?”

But his voice was drowned. Mignot was asking: “Who doesn't like artichoke; I'll sell my dessert for an artichoke.”

No one replied. Everybody liked artichoke. This lunch would be counted amongst the good ones, for peaches were to be given for dessert.

“He has invited her to dinner, my dear fellow,” said Favier to his right-hand neighbour, finishing his story. “What! you didn't know it?”

The whole table knew it, they were tired of talking about it since the first thing in the morning. And the same poor jokes passed from mouth to mouth. Deloche had turned pale again. He looked at them, his eyes finishing by resting on Favier, who was persisting in repeating:

“If he's not had her, he's going to. And he won't be the first; oh! no, he won't be the first.”

He was also looking at Deloche. He added with a provoking air: “Those who like bones can have her for a crown!” Suddenly, he ducked his head. Deloche, yielding to an irresistible movement, had just thrown his last glass of wine into his tormentor's face, stammering: “Take that, you infernal liar! I ought to have drenched you yesterday!”

It caused quite a scandal. A few drops had spurted on Favier's neighbours, whilst he only had his hair slightly wetted: the wine, thrown by an awkward hand, had fallen the other side of the table. But the others got angry, asking if she was his mistress that he defended her in this way? What a brute! he deserved a good sound drubbing to teach him manners. However, their voices fell, an inspector was observed coming along, and it was useless to introduce the management into the quarrel. Favier contented himself with saying:

“If it had caught me, you would have seen some sport!” Then the affair wound up in jeers. When Deloche, still trembling, wished to drink to hide his confusion, and seized his empty glass mechanically, they burst out laughing. He laid his glass down again awkwardly, and commenced sucking the leaves of the artichoke he had already eaten.

“Pass Deloche the water bottle,” said Mignot, quietly; “he's thirsty.”

The laughter increased. The young men took their clean plates from the piles standing on the table, at equal distances, whilst the waiters handed round the dessert, which consisted of peaches, in baskets. And they all held their sides when Mignot added, with a grin:

“Each man to his taste. Deloche takes wine with his peaches.”

The latter sat motionless, with his head hanging down, as if deaf to the joking going on around him: he was full of a despairing regret for what he had just done. These fellows were right--what right had he to defend her? They would now think all sorts of villanous things: he could have killed himself for having thus compromised her, in attempting to prove her innocence. This was always his luck, he might just as well kill himself at once, for he could not even yield to the promptings of his heart without doing some stupid thing. And the fears came into his eyes. Was it not always his fault if the whole shop was talking of the letter written by the governor? He heard them grinning and making abominable remarks about this invitation, of which Liénard alone had been informed; and he accused himself, he ought not to have let Pauline speak before the latter; he was really responsible for the annoying indiscretion committed.

“Why did you go and relate that?” he murmured at last, in a voice full of grief. “It's very bad.”

“I?” replied Liénard; “but I only told it to one or two persons, enjoining secrecy. One never knows how these things get about!”

When Deloche made up his mind to drink a glass of water the whole table burst out laughing again. They had finished and were lolling back on their chairs waiting for the bell recalling them to work. They had not asked for many extras at the great central counter, the more so as the firm treated them to coffee that day. The cups were steaming, perspiring faces shone under the light vapours, floating like the blue clouds from cigarettes. At the windows the blinds hung motionless, without the slightest flapping. One of them, drawn up, admitted a ray of sunshine which traversed the room and gilded the ceiling. The uproar of the voices beat on the walls with such force that the bell was at first only heard by those at the tables near the door. They got up, and the confusion of the departure filled the corridors for a long time. Deloche, however, remained behind to escape the malicious remarks that were still being made. Baugé even went out before him, and Baugé was, as a rule, the last to leave, going a circuitous way so as to meet Pauline as she went to the ladies' dining-room; a manouvre arranged between them--the only chance of seeing each other for a minute during business hours. But this time, just as they were indulging in a loving kiss in a corner of the passage they were surprised by Denise, who was also going up to lunch. She was walking slowly on account of her foot.

“Oh! my dear,” stammered Pauline, very red, “don't say anything, will you?”

Baugé, with his big limbs and giant proportions, was trembling like a little boy. He murmured, “They'd very soon pitch us out. Though our marriage may be announced, they don't allow any kissing, the animals!”

Denise, greatly agitated, affected not to have seen them; and Baugé disappeared just as Deloche, who was going the longest way round, appeared in his turn. He tried to apologise, stammering out phrases that Denise did not at first catch. Then, as he blamed Pauline for having spoken before Liénard, and she stood there looking very embarrassed, Denise at last understood the whispered phrases she had heard around her all the morning. It was the story of the letter that was circulating. She was again seized by the shudder with which this letter had agitated her; she felt herself disrobed by all these men.

“But I didn't know,” repeated Pauline. “Besides, there's nothing bad in the letter. Let them gossip; they're jealous, of course!”

“My dear,” said Denise at last, with her prudent air, “I don't blame you in any way! You've spoken nothing but the truth. I _have_ received a letter, and it is my duty to answer it.”

Deloche went away heart-broken, having understood that the young girl accepted the situation and would keep the appointment that evening. When the two young ladies had lunched in a small room adjoining the large dining-room, and in which the women were served much more comfortably, Pauline had to assist Denise downstairs, for the latter's foot was worse.