For a moment Denise stood bewildered on the pavement, in the sun which still shone fiercely at five o'clock. The July heat warmed the gutters, Paris was blazing with the chalky whiteness peculiar to it in summer-time, and which produced quite a blinding glare. The catastrophe had happened so suddenly, they had turned her out so roughly, that she stood there, turning her money over in her pocket in a mechanical way, asking herself where she was to go, and what she was to do.

A long line of cabs prevented her quitting the pavement near The Ladies' Paradise. When she at last risked herself amongst the wheels she crossed over the Place Gaillon, as if she intended to go into the Rue Louis-le-Grand; then she altered her mind, and walked towards the Rue Saint-Roch. But still she had no plan, for she stopped at the corner of the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, and finally followed it, after looking around her with an undecided air. Arrived at the Passage Choiseul, she passed through, and found herself in the Rue Monsigny, without knowing how, and ultimately came into the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin again. Her head was filled with a fearful buzzing sensation, she thought of her box on seeing a commissionaire; but where was she to have it taken to, and why all this trouble, when an hour ago she had a bed to go to?

Then her eyes fixed on the houses, she began to examine the windows. There were any number of bills, “Apartments to Let.” She saw them confusedly, repeatedly seized by the inward emotion which was agitating her whole being. Was it possible? Left alone so suddenly, lost in this immense city in which she was a stranger, without support, without resources. She must eat and sleep, however. The streets succeeded one another, the Rue des Moulins, the Rue Sainte-Anne. She wandered about the neighbourhood, frequently retracing her steps, always brought back to the only spot she knew really well. Suddenly she was astonished, she was again standing before The Ladies' Paradise; and to escape this obsession she plunged into the Rue de la MichodiÈre. Fortunately Baudu was not at his door. The Old Elbeuf appeared to be dead, behind its murky windows. She would never have dared to show herself at her uncle's, for he affected not to recognise her any more, and she did not wish to become a burden to him, in the misfortune he had predicted for her. But, on the other side of the street, a yellow bill attracted her attention. “Furnished room to let.” It was the first that did not frighten her, so poor did the house appear. She soon recognised it, with its two low storeys, and rusty-coloured front, crushed between The Ladies' Paradise and the old HÔtel Duvillard. On the threshold of the umbrella shop, old Bourras, hairy and bearded like a prophet, and with his glasses on his nose, stood studying the ivory handle of a walking-stick. Hiring the whole house, he under-let the two upper floors furnished, to lighten the rent.

“You have a room, sir?” asked Denise, obeying an instinctive impulse.

He raised his great bushy eyes, surprised to see her, for he knew all the young persons at The Ladies' Paradise. And, after observing her clean dress and respectable appearance, he replied: “It won't suit you.”

“How much is it, then?” replied Denise.

“Fifteen francs a month.”

She asked to see it. On arriving in the narrow shop, and seeing that he was still eyeing her with an astonished air, she told him of her departure from the shop and of her wish not to trouble her uncle. The old man then went and fetched a key hanging on a board in the back-shop, a small dark room, where he did his cooking and had his bed; beyond that, behind a dirty window, could be seen a back-yard about six feet square.

“I'll walk in front to prevent you falling,” said Bourras, entering the damp corridor which ran along the shop.

He stumbled against the lower stair, and commenced the ascent, reiterating his warnings to be careful. Look out! the rail was close against the wall, there was a hole at the corner, sometimes the lodgers left their dust-boxes there. Denise, in complete obscurity, could distinguish nothing, only feeling the chilliness of the old damp plaster. On the first floor, however, a small window looking into the yard enabled her to see vaguely, as at the bottom of a piece of sleeping water, the rotten staircase, the walls black with dirt, the cracked and discoloured doors.

“If only only these rooms were vacant,” resumed

Bourras. “You would be very comfortable there. But they are always occupied by ladies.”

On the second floor the light increased, showing up with a raw paleness the distress of the house. A journeyman-baker occupied the first room, and it was the other, the further one, that was vacant. When Bourras had opened the door he was obliged to stay on the landing in order that Denise might enter with ease. The bed placed in the corner nearest the door, left just room enough for one person to pass. At the other end there was a small walnut-wood chest of drawers, a deal table stained black, and two chairs. The lodgers who did any cooking were obliged to kneel before the fire-place, where there was an earthenware stove.

“You know,” said the old man, “it is not luxurious, but the view from the window is gay. You can see the people passing in the street.” And, as Denise was looking with surprise at the ceiling just above the bed, where a chance lady-lodger had written her name—Ernestine—by drawing the flame of the candle over it, he added with a good-natured smile; “If I did a lot of repairs, I should never make both ends meet. There you are; it's all I have to offer.”

“I shall be very well here,” declared the young girl.

She paid a month in advance, asked for the linen—a pair of sheets and two towels, and made her bed without delay, happy, relieved to know where she was going to sleep that night. An hour after she had sent a commissionaire to fetch her box, and was quite at home.

During the first two months she had a terribly hard time of it. Being unable to pay for PÉpÉ's board, she had taken him away, and slept him on an old sofa lent by Bourras. She could not do with less than thirty sous a day, including the rent, even by consenting to live on dry bread herself, in order to procure a bit of meat for the little one. During the first fortnight she got on pretty well, having begun her housekeeping with about ten francs; besides she had been fortunate enough to find the cravat-dealer, who paid her her eighteen francs six sous. But after that she became completely destitute. It was in vain she applied to the various shops, at La Place Clichy, the Bon MarchÉ, the Louvre: the dead season had stopped business everywhere, they told her to apply again in the autumn, more than five thousand employees, dismissed like her, were wandering about Paris in want of places. She then tried to obtain a little work elsewhere; but in her ignorance of Paris she did not know where to apply, often accepting most ungrateful tasks, and sometimes even not getting her money. Certain evenings she gave PÉpÉ his dinner alone, a plate of soup, telling him she had dined out; and she would go to bed, her head in a whirl, nourished by the fever which was burning her hands. When Jean dropped suddenly into the midst of this poverty, he called himself a scoundrel with such a despairing violence that she was obliged to tell some falsehood to reassure him; and often found means of slipping a two-franc piece into his hand, to prove that she still had money. She never wept before the children. On Sundays, when she would cook a piece of veal in the stove, on her knees before the fire, the narrow room re-echoed with the gaiety of children, careless about existence. Then, when Jean had returned to his master's and PÉpÉ was sleeping, she spent a frightful night, in anguish about the coming day.

Other fears kept her awake. The two ladies on the first floor received visitors up to a late hour; and sometimes a visitor mistook the floor and came banging at Denise's door. Bourras having quietly told her not to answer, she buried her face under her pillow to escape hearing their oaths. Then, her neighbour, the baker, had shown a disposition to annoy her: he never came home till the morning, and would lay in wait for her, as she went to fetch her water; he even made holes in the wall, to watch her washing herself, so that she was obliged to hang her clothes against the wall. But she suffered still more from the annoyances of the street, the continual persecution of the passers-by. She could not go downstairs to buy a candle, in these streets swarming with the debauchees of the old quarters, without feeling a warm breath behind her, and hearing crude, insulting remarks; and the men pursued her to the very end of the dark passage, encouraged by the sordid appearance of the house. Why had she no lover? It astonished people, and seemed ridiculous. She would certainly have to yield one day. She herself could not have explained why she resisted, menaced as she was by hunger, and perturbed by the desires with which the air around her was warm.

One evening Denise had not even any bread for PÉpÉ's soup, when a gentleman, wearing a decoration, commenced to follow her. On arriving opposite the passage he became brutal, and it was with a disgusted, shocked feeling that she banged the door in his face. Then, upstairs, she sat down, her hands trembling. The little one was sleeping. What should she say if he woke up and asked for bread? And yet she had only to consent and her misery would be over, she could have money, dresses, and a fine room. It was very simple, every one came to that, it was said; for a woman alone in Paris could not live by her labour. But her whole being rose up in protestation, without indignation against the others, simply averse to the disgrace of the thing. She considered life a matter of logic, good conduct, and courage.

Denise frequently questioned herself in this way. An old love story floated in her memory, the sailor's betrothed whom her love guarded from all perils. At Valognes she had often hummed over this sentimental ballad, gazing on the deserted street. Had she also a tender affection in her heart that she was so brave? She still thought of Hutin, full of uneasiness. Morning and evening she saw him pass under her window. Now that he was second-hand he walked by himself, amid the respect of the simple salesmen. He never raised his head, she thought she suffered from his vanity, and watched him pass without any fear of being discovered. And as soon as she saw Mouret, who also passed every day, she began to tremble, and, quickly concealed herself, her bosom heaving. He had no need to know where she was lodging. Then she felt ashamed of the house, and suffered at the idea of what he thought of her, although perhaps they would never meet again.

Denise still lived amidst the agitation caused by The Ladies' Paradise. A simple wall separated her room from her old department; and, from early morning, she went over her day's work, feeling the arrival of the crowd, the increased bustle of business. The slightest noise shook the old house hanging on the flank of the colossus; she felt the gigantic pulse beating. Besides, she could not avoid certain meetings. Twice she had found herself face to face with Pauline, who had offered her services, grieved to see her so unfortunate; and she had even been obliged to tell a falsehood to avoid receiving her friend or paying her a visit, one Sunday, at BaugÉ's. But it was more difficult still to defend herself against Deloche's desperate affection; he watched her, aware of all her troubles, waited for her in the doorways. One day he wanted to lend her thirty francs, a brother's savings, he said, with a blush. And these meetings made her regret the shop, continually occupying her with the life they led inside, as if she had not quitted it.

No one ever called upon Denise. One afternoon she was surprised by a knock. It was Colomban. She received him standing. He, looking very awkward, stammered at first, asked how she was getting on, and spoke of The Old Elbeuf.

Perhaps it was Uncle Baudu who had sent him, regretting his rigour; for he continued to pass his niece without taking any notice of her, although quite aware of her miserable position. But when she plainly questioned her visitor, he appeared more embarrassed than ever. No, no, it was not the governor who had sent him; and he finished by naming Clara—he simply wanted to talk about Clara. Little by little he became bolder, and asked Denise's advice, supposing that she could be useful to him with her old friend. It was in vain that she tried to dishearten him, by reproaching him with the pain he was causing GeneviÈve, all for this heartless girl. He came up another day, and got into the habit of coming to see her. This sufficed for his timid passion; he continually commenced the same conversation, unable to resist, trembling with joy to be with a girl who had approached Clara. And this caused Denise to live more than ever at The Ladies' Paradise.

It was towards the end of September that the young girl experienced the blackest misery. PÉpÉ had fallen ill, having caught a severe cold. He ought to have been nourished with good broth, and she had not even a piece of bread. One evening, completely conquered, she was sobbing, in one of those sombre straits which drive women on to the streets, or into the Seine, when old Bourras gently knocked at the door. He brought a loaf, and a milk-can full of broth.

“There! there's something for the youngster,” said he in his abrupt way. “Don't cry like that; it annoys my lodgers.” And as she thanked him in a fresh outburst of tears, he resumed: “Do keep quiet! To-morrow come and see me. I've some work for you.”

Bourras, since the terrible blow dealt him by The Ladies' Paradise by their opening an umbrella department, had ceased to employ any workwomen. He did everything himself to save expenses—the cleaning, mending, and sewing. His trade was also diminishing, so that he was sometimes without work. And he was obliged to invent something to do the next day, when he installed Denise in a corner of his shop. He felt that he could not let any one die of hunger in his house.

“You'll have two francs a day,” said he. “When you find something better, you can leave me.”

She was afraid of him, and did the work so quickly that he hardly knew what else to give her to do. He had given her some silk to stitch, some lace to repair. During the first few days she did not dare raise her head, uncomfortable to know he was close to her, with his lion-like mane, hooked nose, and piercing eyes, under his thick bushy eyebrows. His voice was harsh, his gestures extravagant, and the mothers of the neighbourhood often frightened their youngsters by threatening to send for him, as they would for a policeman. However, the boys never passed his door without calling out some insulting words, which he did not even seem to hear. All his maniacal anger was directed against the scoundrels who dishonoured his trade by selling cheap trashy articles, which dogs would not consent to use.

Denise trembled whenever he burst out thus: “Art is done for, I tell you! There's not a single respectable handle made now. They make sticks, but as for handles, it's all up! Bring me a proper handle, and I'll give you twenty francs!”

He had a real artist's pride; not a workman in Paris was capable of turning out a handle like his, light and strong. He carved the knobs especially with charming ingenuity, continually inventing fresh designs, flowers, fruit, animals, and heads, subjects conceived and executed in a free and life-like style. A little pocket-knife sufficed, and he spent whole days, spectacles on nose, chipping bits of boxwood and ebony.

“A pack of ignorant beggars,” said he, “who are satisfied with sticking a certain quantity of silk on so much whalebone! They buy their handles by the gross, handles readymade. And they sell just what they like! I tell you, art is done for!”

Denise began to take courage. He had insisted on having PÉpÉ down in the shop to play, for he was wonderfully fond of children. When the little one was crawling about on all-fours, neither of them had room to move, she in her corner doing the mending, he near the window, carving with his little pocket-knife. Every day now brought on the same work and the same conversation. Whilst working, he continually pitched into The Ladies' Paradise; never tired of explaining how affairs stood. He had occupied his house since 1845, and had a thirty years' lease, at a rent of eighteen hundred francs a year; and, as he made a thousand francs out of his four furnished rooms, he only paid eight hundred for the shop. It was a mere trifle, he had no expenses, and could thus hold out for a long time still. To hear him, there was no doubt about his triumph; he would certainly swallow up the monster. Suddenly he would interrupt himself.

“Have they got any dog's heads like that?”

And he would blink his eyes behind his glasses, to judge the dog's head he was carving, with its lip turned up and fangs out, in a life-like growl. PÉpÉ, delighted with the dog, would get up, placing his two little arms on the old man's knee.

“As long as I make both ends meet I don't care a hang about the rest,” the latter would resume, delicately shaping the dog's tongue with the point of his knife. “The scoundrels have taken away my profits; but if I'm making nothing I'm not losing anything yet, or at least but very little. And, you see, I'm ready to sacrifice everything rather than yield.”

He would brandish his knife, and his white hair would blow about in a storm of anger.

“But,” Denise would mildly observe, without raising her eyes from her needle, “if they made you a reasonable offer, it would be wiser to accept.”

Then his ferocious obstinacy would burst forth. “Never! If my head were under the knife I would say no, by heavens! I've another ten years' lease, and they shall not have the house before then, even if I should have to die of hunger within the four bare walls. Twice already have they tried to get over me. They offered me twelve thousand francs for my good-will, and eighteen thousand francs for the last ten years of my lease; in all thirty thousand. Not for fifty thousand even! I have them in my power, and intend to see them licking the dust before me!”

“Thirty thousand francs! it's a good sum,” Denise would resume. “You could go and establish yourself elsewhere. And suppose they were to buy the house?”

Bourras, putting the finishing touches to his dog's tongue, would appear absorbed for a moment, an infantine laugh pervading his venerable prophet's face. Then he would, continue: “The house, no fear! They spoke of buying it last year, and offered eighty thousand francs, twice as much as it's worth. But the landlord, a retired fruiterer, as big a scoundrel as they, wanted to make them shell out more. But not only that, they are suspicious about me; they know I'm not so likely to give way. No! no! here I am, and here I intend to stay. The emperor with all his cannon could not turn me out.” Denise never dared say any more, she would go on with her work, whilst the old man continued to break out in short sentences, between two cuts with his knife, muttering something to the effect that the game had hardly commenced, later on they would see wonderful things, he had certain plans which would sweep away their umbrella counter; and, in his obstinacy, there appeared a personal revolt of the small manufacturer against the threatening invasion of the great shops. PÉpÉ, however, would at last climb on his knees, and impatiently stretch out his hand towards the dog's head.

“Give it me, sir.”

“Presently, my child,” the old man would reply in a voice that suddenly became tender. “He hasn't any eyes; we must make his eyes now.” And whilst carving the eye he would continue talking to Denise. “Do you hear them? Isn't there a roar next door? That's what exasperates me more than anything, my word of honour! to have them always on my back with their infernal locomotive-like noise.”

It made his little table tremble, he asserted. The whole shop was shaken, and he would spend the entire afternoon without a customer, in the trepidation of the crowd which overflowed The Ladies' Paradise. It was from morning to night a subject for eternal grumbling. Another good day's work, they were knocking against the wall, the silk department must have cleared ten thousand francs; or else he made merry over a showery day which had killed the receipts. And the slightest rumours, the most unimportant noises, furnished him with subjects of endless comment.

“Ah! some one has slipped down! Ah, if they could only all fall and break their backs! That, my dear, is a dispute between some ladies. So much the better! So much the better! Do you hear the parcels falling on to the lower floor? It's disgusting!”

It did not do for Denise to discuss his explanations, for he retorted bitterly by reminding her of the shameful way they had dismissed her. She was obliged to relate for the hundredth time her life in the dress department, the hardships she had endured at first, the small unhealthy bedrooms, the bad food, and the continual struggle between the salesmen; and they were thus talking about the shop from morning to night, absorbing it hourly in the very air they breathed.

“Give it me, sir,” PÉpÉ would repeat, with eager outstretched hands.

The dog's head finished, Bourras would hold it at a distance, then examine it closely with childish glee. “Take care, it will bite you! There, go and play, and don't break it, if you can help it.” Then resuming his fixed idea, he would shake his fist at the wall. “You may do all you can to knock the house down. You sha'n't have it, even if you invade the whole neighbourhood.”

Denise had now her daily bread assured her, and she was extremely grateful to the old umbrella-dealer, whose good heart she felt beneath his strange violent ways. She had a strong desire, however, to find some work elsewhere, for she often saw him inventing some trifle for her to do; she fully understood that he did not require a workwoman in the present slack state of his business, and that he was employing her out of pure charity. Six months had passed thus, and the dull winter season had again returned. She was despairing of finding a situation before March, when, one evening in January, Deloche, who was watching for her in a doorway, gave her a bit of advice. Why did she not go and see Robineau; perhaps he might want some one?

In September, Robineau had decided to buy VinÇard's silk business, trembling all the time lest he should compromise his wife's sixty thousand francs. He had paid forty thousand for the good-will and stock, and was starting with the remaining twenty thousand. It was not much, but he had Gaujean behind him to back him up with any amount of credit. Since his disagreement with The Ladies' Paradise, the latter had been longing to stir up a system of competition against the colossus; and he thought victory certain, by creating special shops in the neighbourhood, where the public could find a large and varied choice of articles. The rich Lyons manufacturers, such as Dumonteil, were the only ones who could accept the big shops' terms, satisfied to keep their looms going with them, looking for their profits by selling to less important houses. But Gaujean was far from having the solidity and staying power possessed by Dumonteil. For a long time a simple commission agent, it was only during the last five or six years that he had had looms of his own, and he still had a lot of work done by other makers, furnishing them with the raw material and paying them by the yard. It was precisely this system which, increasing his manufacturing expenses, had prevented him competing with Dumonteil for the supply of the Paris Paradise. This had filled him with rancour; he saw in Robineau the instrument of a decisive battle to be declared against these drapery bazaars which he accused of ruining the French manufacturers.

When Denise called she found Madame Robineau alone. Daughter of an overseer in the Department of Highways, entirely ignorant of business matters, she still retained the charming awkwardness of a girl educated in a Blois convent She was dark, very pretty, with a gentle, cheerful manner, which gave her a great charm. She adored her husband, living solely by his love. As Denise was about to leave her name Robineau came in, and engaged her at once, one of his two saleswomen having left the previous day to go to The Ladies' Paradise.

“They don't leave us a single good hand,” said he. “However, with you I shall feel quite easy, for you are like me, you can't be very fond of them. Come to-morrow.”

In the evening Denise hardly knew how to announce her departure to Bourras. In fact, he called her an ungrateful girl, and lost his temper. Then when, with tears in her eyes, she tried to defend herself by intimating that she could see through his charitable conduct, he softened down, said that he had plenty of work, that she was leaving him just as he was about to bring out an umbrella of his invention.

“And PÉpÉ?” asked he.

This was Denise's great trouble; she dared not take him back to Madame Gras, and could not leave him alone in the bedroom, shut up from morning to night.

“Very good, Til keep him,” said the old man; “he'll be all right in my shop. We'll do the cooking together.” Then, as she refused, fearing it might inconvenience him, he thundered out: “Great heavens! have you no confidence in me? I sha'n't eat your child!”

Denise was much happier at Robineau's. He only paid her sixty francs a month, with her food, without giving her any commission on the sales, just the same as in the old-fashioned houses. But she was treated with great kindness, especially by Madame Robineau, always smiling at her counter. He, nervous, worried, was sometimes rather abrupt. At the expiration of the first month, Denise was quite one of the family, like the other saleswoman, a silent, consumptive, little body. The Robineaus were not at all particular before them, talking of the business at table in the back shop, which looked on to a large yard. And it was there they decided one evening on starting the campaign against The Ladies' Paradise. Gaujean had come to dinner. After the usual roast leg of mutton, he had broached the subject in his Lyons voice, thickened by the RhÔne fogs.

“It's getting unbearable,” said he. “They go to Dumonteil, purchase the sole right in a design, and take three hundred pieces straight off, insisting on a reduction of ten sous a yard; and, as they pay ready money, they enjoy moreover the profit of eighteen per cent discount. Very often Dumonteil barely makes four sous a yard out of it He works to keep his looms going, for a loom that stands still is a dead loss. Under these circumstances how can you expect that we, with our limited plant, and especially with our makers, can keep up the struggle?”

Robineau, pensive, forgot his dinner. “Three hundred pieces!” he murmured. “I tremble when I take a dozen, and at ninety days. They can mark up a franc or two francs cheaper than us. I have calculated there is a reduction of at least fifteen per cent, on their catalogued articles, when compared with our prices. That's what kills the small houses.”

He was in a period of discouragement. His wife, full of anxiety, was looking at him with a tender air. She understood very little about the business, all these figures confused her; she could not understand why people took such trouble, when it was so easy to be gay and love one another. However, it sufficed that her husband wished to conquer, and she became as impassioned as he himself, and would have stood to her counter till death.

“But why don't all the manufacturers come to an understanding together?” resumed Robineau, violently. “They could then lay down the law, instead of submitting to it.”

Gaujean, who had asked for another slice of mutton, was slowly masticating. “Ah! why, why? The looms must be kept going, I tell you. When one has weavers everywhere, in the neighbourhood of Lyons, in the Gard, in the IsÈre, they can't stand still a day without an enormous loss. Then we who sometimes employ makers having ten or fifteen looms are better able to control the output, as far as regards the stock, whilst the big manufacturers are obliged to have continual outlets, the quickest and largest possible, so that they are on their knees before the big shops. I know three or four who out-bid each other, and who would sooner work at a loss than not obtain the orders. But they make up for it with the small houses like yours. Yes, if they exist through them, they make their profit out of you. Heaven knows how the crisis will end!”

“It's odious!” exclaimed Robineau, relieved by this cry of anger.

Denise was quietly listening. She was secretly for the big shops, with her instinctive love of logic and life.

They had relapsed into silence, and were eating some potted French beans; at last she ventured to say in a cheerful tone, “The public does not complain.”

Madame Robineau could not suppress a little laugh, which annoyed her husband and Gaujean. No doubt the customer was satisfied, for, in the end, it was the customer who profited by the fall in prices. But everybody must live; where would they be if, under the pretext of the general welfare, the consumer was fattened at the expense of the producer? And then commenced a long discussion. Denise affected to be joking, all the while producing solid arguments. All the middle-men disappeared, the manufacturing agents, representatives, commission agents, and this greatly contributed to cheapen the articles; besides, the manufacturers could no longer live without the big shops, for as soon as one of them lost their custom, failure became a certainty; in short, it was a natural commercial evolution. It would be impossible to prevent things going on as they ought to, when everybody was working for that, whether they liked it or not.

“So you are for those who turned you out into the street?” asked Gaujean.

Denise became very red. She herself was surprised at the vivacity of her defence. What had she at heart, that such a flame should have invaded her bosom?

“Dear me, no!” replied she. “Perhaps I'm wrong, for you are more competent to judge than I. I simply express my opinion. The prices, instead of being settled as formerly by fifty houses, are now fixed by four or five, which have lowered them, thanks to the power of their capital, and the strength of their immense business. So much the better for the public, that's all!”

Robineau was not angry, but had become grave, keeping his eyes fixed on the table-cloth. He had often felt this breath of the new style of business, this evolution of which the young girl spoke; and he would ask himself in his clear, quiet moments, why he should wish to resist such a powerful current, which must carry everything before it Madame Robineau herself, on seeing her husband deep in thought, glanced with approval at Denise, who had modestly resumed her silent attitude.

“Come,” resumed Gaujean, to cut short the argument, “all that is simply theory. Let's talk of our matter.”

After the cheese, the servant brought in some jam and some pears. He took some jam, eating it with a spoon, with the unconscious greediness of a big man very fond of sugar.

“To begin with, you must attack their Paris Paradise, which has been their success of the year. I have come to an understanding with several of my brother manufacturers at Lyons, and have brought you an exceptional offer—a black silk, that you can sell at five and a half. They sell theirs at five francs twelve sous, don't they? Well! this will be two sous less, and that will suffice to upset them.”

At this Robineau's eyes lighted up again. In his continual nervous torment, he often skipped like this from despair to hope. “Have you got a sample?” asked he. And when Gaujean drew from his pocket-book a little square of silk, he went into raptures, exclaiming: “Why, this is a handsomer silk than the Paris Paradise! In any case it produces a better effect, the grain is coarser. You are right, we must make the attempt If I don't bring them to my feet, I'll give up this time!”

Madame Robineau, sharing this enthusiasm, declared the silk superb, and Denise herself thought they would succeed. The latter part of the dinner was thus very gay. They talk in a loud tone; it seemed that The Ladies' Paradise was at its last gasp. Gaujean, who was finishing the pot of jam, explained what enormous sacrifices he and his colleagues would be obliged to make to deliver such an article at this low price; but they would ruin themselves rather than yield; they had sworn to kill the big shops. As the coffee came in the gaiety was greatly increased by the arrival of VinÇard, who had just called, in passing, to see how his successor was getting on.

“Famous!” cried he, feeling the silk. “You'll floor them, I stake my life! Ah! you owe me a rare good thing; I told you this was a golden affair!”

He had just taken a restaurant at Vincennes. It was an old, cherished idea, slyly nourished while he was struggling in the silk business, trembling for fear he should not sell it before the crash came, and swearing to himself that he would put his money into an undertaking where he could rob at his ease. The idea of a restaurant had struck him at the wedding of a cousin, who had been made to pay ten francs for a bowl of dish water, in which floated some Italian paste. And, in presence of the Robineaus, the joy he felt in having saddled them with a badly-paying business of which he despaired of ever getting rid, enlarged still further his face with its round eyes and large loyal-looking mouth, a face beaming with health.

“And your pains?” asked Madame Robineau, good-naturedly.

“My pains?” murmured he, astonished.

“Yes, those rheumatic pains which tormented you so much when you were here.”

He then recollected, and blushed slightly. “Oh, I suffered,” and blushed slightly. “Oh I suffer from them still! However, the country air, you know, has done wonders for me. Never mind, you've done a good stroke of business. Had it not been for my rheumatics, I could soon have retired with ten thousand francs a year. My word of honour!”

A fortnight later, the struggle commenced between Robineau and The Ladies' Paradise. It became celebrated, and occupied for a time the whole Parisian market. Robineau, using his adversary's weapons, had advertised extensively in the newspapers. Besides that, he made a fine display, piling up enormous bales of the famous silk in his windows, with immense white tickets, displaying in giant figures the price, five francs and a half. It was this figure that caused a revolution among the women; two sous cheaper than at The Ladies' Paradise, and the silk appeared stronger. From the first day a crowd of customers flocked in. Madame Marty bought a dress she did not want, pretending it to be a bargain; Madame Bourdelais thought the silk very fine, but preferred waiting, guessing no doubt what would happen. And, indeed the following week, Mouret boldly reduced The Paris Paradise by four sous, after a lively discussion with Bourdoncle and the other managers, in which he had succeeded in inducing them to accept the challenge, even at a sacrifice; for these four sous represented a dead loss, the silk being sold already at strict cost price. It was a heavy blow to Robineau, who did not think his rival would reduce; for this suicidal competition, these losing sales, were then unknown; and the tide of customers, attracted by the cheapness, had immediately flown back towards the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, whilst the shop in the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs gradually emptied.

Gaujean came up from Lyons; there were hasty confabulations, and they finished by coming to a most heroic resolution; the silk should be lowered in price, they would sell it at five francs six sous, beneath which no one could go, without folly. The next day Mouret marked his at five francs four sous. After that it became a mania: Robineau replied by five francs three sous, when Mouret at once ticketed his at five francs and two sous. Neither lowered more than a sou at a time now, losing considerable sums as often as they made this present to the public. The customers laughed, delighted with this duel, moved by the terrible blows dealt each other by the two houses to please them. At last Mouret ventured as low as five francs; his staff paled before such a challenge thrown down to fortune. Robineau, utterly beaten, out of breath, stopped also at five francs, not having the courage to go any lower. And they rested at their positions, face to face, with the massacre of their goods around them.

But if honour was saved on both sides, the situation was becoming fatal for Robineau. The Ladies' Paradise had money at its disposal and a patronage which enabled it to balance its profits; whilst he, sustained by Gaujean alone, unable to recoup his losses on other articles, was exhausted, and slipped daily a little further on the verge of bankruptcy. He was dying from his hardihood, notwithstanding the numerous customers that the hazards of the struggle had brought him. One of his secret torments was to see these customers slowly quitting him, returning to The Ladies' Paradise, after the money he had lost and the efforts he had made to conquer them.

One day he quite lost patience. A customer, Madame de Boves, had come to his shop for some mantles, for he had added a ready-made department to his business. She could not make up her mind, complaining of the quality of the goods. At last she said: “Their Paris Paradise is a great deal stronger.”

Robineau restrained himself, assuring her that she was mistaken, with a tradesman's politeness, all the more respectful, because he was afraid to allow his anger to burst forth.

“But just look at the silk of this mantle!” resumed she, “one would really take it for so much cobweb. You may say what you like, sir, their silk at five francs is like leather compared with this.”

He did not reply, the blood rushing to his face, and his lips tightly closed. In point of fact he had ingeniously thought of buying some of his rival's silk for these mantles. So that it was Mouret, not he, who lost on the material. He simply cut off the selvage.

“Really you think the Paris Paradise thicker?” murmured he.

“Oh! a hundred times!” said Madame de Boves. “There's no comparison.”

This injustice on her part, her running down the goods in this way, filled him with indignation. And, as she was still turning the mantle over with a disgusted air, a little piece of the blue and silver selvage, not cut off, appeared under the lining. He could not contain himself any longer; he confessed he would even have given his head.

“Well, madame, this is Paris Paradise. I bought it myself! Look at the border.”

Madame de Boves went away greatly annoyed, and a number of ladies quitted him when the affair became known. And he, amid this ruin, when the fear for the future seized him, only trembled for his wife, who had been brought up in a happy, peaceful home, and would never be able to endure a life of poverty. What would become of her if a catastrophe threw them into the street, with a load of debts? It was his fault, he ought never to have touched her money. She was obliged to comfort him. Wasn't the money as much his as hers? He loved her dearly, and she wanted nothing more; she gave him everything, her heart and her life. They could be heard in the back shop embracing one another. Little by little, the affairs and ways of the house became more regular; every month their losses increased, in a slow proportion which postponed the fatal issue. A tenacious hope sustained them, they still announced the near discomfiture of The Ladies' Paradise.

“Pooh!” he would say, “we are young yet The future is ours.”

“And besides, what matters, if you have done what you wanted to do?” resumed she. “As long as you are satisfied, I am as well, darling.”

Denise's affection increased for them on seeing their tenderness. She trembled, feeling their inevitable fall; but she dared not interfere. It was then she fully understood the power of the new system of business, and became impassioned for this force which was transforming Paris. Her ideas were ripening, a woman's grace was developing out of the savage child newly arrived from Valognes. In fact, her life was a pretty pleasant one, notwithstanding the fatigue and the little money she earned. When she had spent all the day on her feet, she had to go straight home, and look after PÉpÉ, whom old Bourras insisted on feeding, fortunately; but there was still a lot to do: a shirt to wash, stockings to mend; without mentioning the noise made by the youngster, which made her head ache fit to split. She never went to bed before midnight. Sunday was her hardest day: she cleaned her room, and mended her own things, so busy that it was often five o'clock before she could dress. However, she sometimes went out for health's sake, taking the little one for a long walk, out towards Neuilly; and their treat was to drink a cup of milk there at a dairyman's, who allowed them to sit down in his yard. Jean disdained these excursions; he put in an appearance now and again on week-day evenings, then disappeared, pretending to have other visits to pay; he asked for no more money, but he arrived with such a melancholy face, that his sister, anxious, always managed to keep a five-franc piece for him. That was her sole luxury.

“Five francs!” he would exclaim each time. “My stars! you're too good! It just happens, there's the stationer's wife——”

“Not another word,” Denise would say; “I don't want to know.”

But he thought she was accusing him of boasting. “I tell you she's the wife of a stationer! Oh! something magnificent!”

Three months passed away, spring was returning. Denise refused to return to Joinville with Pauline and Bauge. She sometimes met them in the Rue Saint-Roch, when she left the shop in the evening. Pauline, one evening when she was alone, confided to her that she was very likely going to marry her lover; it was she who was hesitating, for they did not care for married saleswomen at The Ladies' Paradise. This idea of marriage surprised Denise, she did not dare to advise her friend. One day, just as Colomban had stopped her near the fountain to talk about Clara, the latter was crossing the road; and Denise was obliged to run away, for he implored her to ask her old comrade if she would marry him. What was the matter with them all? why were they tormenting themselves like this? She thought herself very fortunate not to be in love with any one.

“You've heard the news?” cried out the umbrella dealer to her one evening on her return home from business.

“No, Monsieur Bourras.”

“Well! the scoundrels have bought the HÔtel Duvillard. I'm hemmed in on all sides!” He was waving his long arms about, in a burst of fury which made his white mane stand up on end. “A regular mixed-up affair,” resumed the old man. “It appears that the hÔtel belonged to the Credit Immobilier, the president of which, Baron Hartmann, has just sold it to our famous Mouret. Now they've got me on the right, on the left, and at the back, just in the way I'm holding the knob of this stick in my hand!”

It was true, the sale was to have been concluded the previous day. Bourras's small house, hemmed in between The Ladies' Paradise and the HÔtel Duvillard, hanging on like a swallow's nest in a crack of a wall, seemed sure to be crushed, as soon as the shop invaded the hÔtel, and the time had now arrived. The colossus had turned the feeble obstacle, and was surrounding it with a pile of goods, threatening to swallow it up, to absorb it by the sole force of its giant aspiration.

Bourras could feel the embrace which was making his shop creak. He thought he could see the place getting smaller; he was afraid of being absorbed himself, of being carried to the other side with his umbrellas and sticks, so loudly was the terrible machine roaring just then.

“Do you hear them?” asked he. “One would think they were eating up the walls even! And in my cellar, in the attic, everywhere, there's the same noise as of a saw going through the plaster. Never mind! I don't fancy they'll flatten me out like a sheet of paper. I'll stick here, even if they blow up my roof, and the rain should fall in bucketfuls on my bed!”

It was just at this moment that Mouret caused fresh proposals to be made to Bourras; they would increase the figure, they would give him fifty thousand francs for his good-will and the remainder of the lease. This offer redoubled the old man's anger; he refused in an insulting manner. How these scoundrels must rob people to be able to pay fifty thousand francs for a thing not worth ten thousand. And he defended his shop as a young girl defends her virtue, for honour's sake.

Denise noticed Bourras was pre-occupied during the next fortnight. He wandered about in a feverish manner, measuring the walls of his house, surveying it from the middle of the street with the air of an architect. Then one morning some workmen arrived. This was the decisive blow. He had conceived the bold idea of beating The Ladies' Paradise on its own ground by making certain concessions to modern luxury. The customers, who often reproached him about his dark shop, would certainly come back again, when they saw it bright and new. In the first place, the workmen stopped up the crevices and whitewashed the frontage, then they painted the woodwork a light green, and even carried the splendour so far as to gild the sign-board. A sum of three thousand francs, held in reserve by Bourras as a last resource, was swallowed up in this way. The whole neighbourhood was in a state of revolution; people came to look at him amid all these riches, losing his head, no longer able to find the things he was accustomed to. He did not seem to be at home in this shining frame, in this tender setting; he seemed frightened, with his long beard and white hair. The people passing on the opposite side of the street were astonished on seeing him waving his arms about and carving his handles. And he was in a state of fever, afraid of dirtying his shop, plunging further into this luxurious business, which he did not at all understand.

The same as with Robineau, the campaign against The Ladies' Paradise was opened by Bourras. The latter had just brought out his invention, the automatic umbrella, which later on was to become popular. But The Paradise people immediately improved on the invention, and a struggle of prices commenced. Bourras had an article at one franc and nineteen sous, in zanella, with steel mounting, everlasting, said the ticket, But he was especially anxious to vanquish his competitors with his handles—bamboo, dogwood, olive, myrtle, rattan, every imaginable sort of handle. The Paradise people, less artistic, paid more attention to the material, extolling their alpacas and mohairs, their twills and sarcenets.. And they came out victorious. Bourras, in despair, repeated that art was done for, that he was reduced to carving his handles for pleasure, without any hope of selling them.

“It's my fault!” cried he to Denise. “I never ought to have kept a lot of rotten articles, at one franc nineteen sous! That's where these new notions lead one to. I wanted to follow the example of these brigands; so much the better if I'm ruined by it!”

The month of July was very warm, and Denise suffered greatly in her narrow room, under the roof. So after leaving the shop, she sometimes went and fetched PÉpÉ, and instead of going up-stairs at once, went for a stroll in the Tuileries Gardens until the gates were closed. One evening as she was walking under the chestnut-trees she suddenly stopped with surprise; a few yards off, walking straight towards her, she thought she recognised Hutin. But her heart commenced to beat violently. It was Mouret, who had dined over the water, and was hurrying along on foot to call on Madame Desforges. At the abrupt movement she made to escape him, he caught sight of her. The night was coming on, but still he recognised her.

“Ah, it's you, mademoiselle!”

She did not reply, astonished that he should deign to stop. He, smiling, concealed his constraint beneath an air of amiable protection.

“You are still in Paris?”

“Yes, sir,” said she at last.

She was slowly drawing back, desirous of making a bow and continuing her walk. But he turned and followed her under the black shadows of the chestnut-trees. The air was getting cooler, some children were laughing in the distance, trundling their hoops.

“This is your brother, is it not?” resumed he, looking at PÉpÉ.

The little boy, frightened by the unusual presence of a gentleman, was gravely walking by his sister's side, holding her tightly by the hand.

“Yes, sir,” replied she once more.

She blushed, thinking of the abominable inventions circulated by Marguerite and Clara. No doubt Mouret understood why she was blushing, for he quickly added: “Listen, mademoiselle, I have to apologise to you. Yes, I should have been happy to have told you sooner how much I regret the error that has been made. You were accused too lightly of a fault. But the evil is done. I simply wanted to assure you that every one in our establishment now knows of your affection for your brothers,” he continued, with a respectful politeness to which the saleswomen in The Ladies' Paradise were little accustomed. Denise's confusion had increased; but her heart was filled with joy. He knew, then, that she had given herself to no one! Both remained silent; he continued beside her, regulating his walk to the child's short steps; and the distant murmurs of the city were dying away under the black shadows of the spreading chestnut-trees. “I have only one reparation to offer you,” resumed he. “Naturally, if you would like to come back to us——”

She interrupted him, and refused with a feverish haste. “No, sir, I cannot. Thank you all the same, but I have found another situation.”

He knew it, they had informed him she was with Robineau; and leisurely, on a footing of amiable equality, he spoke of the latter, rendering him full justice. A very intelligent fellow, but too nervous. He would certainly come to grief: Gaujean had burdened him with a very heavy business, in which they would both suffer. Denise, conquered by this familiarity, opened her mind further, and allowed it to be seen that she was for the big shops in the war between them and the small traders: she became animated, citing examples, showing herself well up in the question, even expressing new and enlightened ideas. He, charmed, listened to her in surprise; and turned round, trying to distinguish her features in the growing darkness. She seemed still the same with her simple dress and sweet face; but from this modest bashfulness, there seemed to exhale a penetrating perfume, of which he felt the powerful' influence. Decidedly this little girl had got used to the air of Paris, she was becoming quite a woman, and was really perturbing, so sensible, with her beautiful hair, overflowing with tenderness.

“As you are on our side,” said he, laughing, “why do you stay with our adversaries? I fancy, too, they told me you lodged with Bourras.”

“A very worthy man,” murmured she.

“No, not a bit of it! he's an old idiot, a madman who will force me to ruin him, though I should be glad to get rid of him with a fortune! Besides, your place is not in his house, which has a bad reputation. He lets to certain women——”

But feeling that the young girl was confused, he hastened to add: “One can be respectable anywhere, and there's even more merit in remaining so when one is so poor.”

They went on a few steps in silence. PÉpÉ seemed to be listening with the attentive air of a sharp child. Now and again he raised his eyes to his sister, whose burning hand, quivering with sudden starts, astonished him.

“Look here!” resumed Mouret, gaily, “will you be my ambassador? I intended increasing my offer to-morrow—of proposing eighty thousand francs to Bourras. Do you speak to him first about it. Tell him he's cutting his own throat. Perhaps he'll listen to you, as he has a liking for you, and you'll be doing him a real service.”

“Very well!” said Denise, smiling also, “I will deliver your message, but I am afraid I shall not succeed.”

And a fresh silence ensued, neither of them having anything more to say. He attempted to talk of her uncle Baudu; but had to give it up on seeing the young girl's uneasiness. However, they continued to walk side by side, and at last found themselves near the Rue de Rivoli, in a path where it was still light. On coming out of the darkness of the trees it was like a sudden awakening. He understood that he could not detain her any longer.

“Good night, mademoiselle.”

“Good night, sir.”

But he did not go away. On raising his eyes he perceived in front of him, at the corner of the Rue d'Alger, the lighted windows at Madame Desforges's, whither he was bound. And looking at Denise, whom he could now see, in the pale twilight, she appeared to him very puny beside Henriette. Why was it she touched his heart in this way? It was a stupid caprice.

“This little man is getting tired,” resumed he, just for something to say. “Remember, mind, that our house is always open to you; you've only to knock, and I'll give you every compensation possible. Good night, mademoiselle.”

“Good night, sir,”

When Mouret quitted her, Denise went back under the chestnut-trees, in the black shadow. For a long time she walked on without any object, between the enormous trunks, her face burning, her head in a whirl of confused ideas. PÉpÉ still had hold of her hand, stretching out his short legs to keep pace with her. She had forgotten him. At last he said:

“You go too quick, little mother.”

At this she sat down on a bench; and as he was tired, the child went to sleep on her lap. She held him there, nestling to her virgin bosom, her eyes lost far away in the darkness. When, an hour later on, they returned slowly to the Rue de la MichodiÈre, she had regained her usual quiet, sensible expression.

“Hell and thunder!” shouted Bourras, when he saw her coming, “the blow is struck. That rascal of a Mouret has just bought my house.” He was half mad, and was striking himself in the middle of the shop with such outrageous gestures that he almost threatened to break the windows. “Ah! the scoundrel! It's the fruiterer who's written to tell me this. And how much do you think he has got for the house? One hundred and fifty thousand francs, four times its value! There's another thief, if you like! Just fancy, he has taken advantage of my embellishments, making capital out of the fact that the house has been done up. How much longer are they going to make a fool of me?”

The thought that his money spent on paint and white-wash had brought the fruiterer a profit exasperated him. And now Mouret would be his landlord; he would have to pay him! It was beneath this detested competitor's roof, that he must live in future! Such a thought raised his fury to the highest possible pitch.

“Ah! I could hear them digging a hole through the wall. At this moment, they are here eating out of my very plate, so to say!”

And the shop shook under his heavy fist which he banged on the counter; he made the umbrellas and the parasols dance again. Denise, bewildered, could not get in a word. She stood there, motionless, waiting for the end of his tirade; whilst PÉpÉ, very tired, had fallen asleep on a chair. At last, when Bourras became a little calmer, she resolved to deliver Mouret's message. No doubt the old man was irritated, but the excess even of his anger, the blind alley in which he found himself, might determine an abrupt acceptance.

“I've just met some one,” she commenced. “Yes, a person from The Paradise, very well informed. It appears that they are going to offer you eighty thousand francs to-morrow.”

“Eighty thousand francs!” interrupted he, in a terrible voice; “eighty thousand francs! Not for a million now!” She tried to reason with him. But at that moment the shop door opened, and she suddenly drew back, pale and silent. It was her uncle Baudu, with his yellow face and aged look. Bourras seized his neighbour by the button-hole, and roared out in his face without allowing him to say a word, as if goaded on by his presence:

“What do you think they have the cheek to offer me? Eighty thousand francs! They've got so far, the brigands! they think I'm going to sell myself like a prostitute. Ah! they've bought the house, and think they've now got me. Well! it's all over, they sha'n't have it! I might have given way, perhaps; but now it belongs to them, let them try and take it!”

“So the news is true?” said Baudu in his slow voice. “I had heard of it, and came over to know if it was so.”

“Eighty thousand francs!” repeated Bourras. “Why not a hundred thousand at once? It's this immense sum of money that makes me indignant Do they think they can make me commit a knavish trick with their money! They sha'n't have it, by heavens! Never, never, you hear me?”

Denise gently observed, in her calm, quiet way: “They'll have it in nine years' time, when your lease expires.”

And, notwithstanding her uncle's presence, she begged of the old man to accept. The struggle was becoming impossible, he was fighting against a superior force; he would be mad to refuse the fortune offered him. But he still replied no. In nine years' time he hoped to be dead, so as not to see it “You hear, Monsieur Baudu,” resumed he, “your niece is on their side, it's her they have employed to corrupt me. She's with the brigands, my word of honour!”

Baudu, who up to then had appeared not to notice Denise, now raised his head, with the morose movement that he affected when standing at his shop door, every time she passed. But, slowly, he turned round and looked at her, and his thick lips trembled.

“I know it,” replied he in a half-whisper, and he continued to look at her.

Denise, affected almost to tears, thought him greatly changed by trouble. Perhaps he was stricken with remorse for not having assisted her during the time of misery she had just passed through. Then the sight of PÉpÉ sleeping on the chair, amidst the noise of the discussion, seemed to suddenly inspire him with compassion.

“Denise,” said he simply, “come to-morrow and have dinner with us and bring the little one. My wife and GeneviÈve asked me to invite you if I met you.”

She turned very red, and went up and kissed him. And as he was going away, Bourras, delighted at this reconciliation, cried out to him again: “Just talk to her, she isn't a bad sort. As for me, the house may fall, I shall be found in the ruins.”

“Our houses are already falling, neighbour,” said Baudu with a sombre air. “We shall all be crushed under them.”