That day Bouthemont was the first to arrive at Madame Desforges's four o'clock tea. Still alone in her large Louis XVI. drawing-room, the brasses and brocatelle of which shone out with a clear gaiety, the latter rose with an air of impatience, saying, “Well?”
“Well,” replied the young man, “when I told him I should doubtless call on you he formally promised me to come.”
“You made him thoroughly understand that I counted on the baron to-day?”
“Certainly. That's what appeared to decide him.”
They were speaking of Mouret, who the year before had suddenly taken such a liking to Bouthemont that he had admitted him to share his pleasures, and had even introduced him to Henriette, glad to have an agreeable fellow always at hand to enliven an intimacy of which he was getting tired. It was thus that Bouthemont had ultimately become the confidant of his governor and of the handsome widow; he did their little errands, talked of the one to the other, and sometimes reconciled them. Henriette, in her jealous fits, abandoned herself to a familiarity which sometimes surprised and embarrassed him, for she lost all her lady-like prudence, using all her art to save appearances.
She resumed violently, “You ought to have brought him. I should have been sure then.”
“Well,” said he, with a good-natured laugh, “it isn't my fault if he escapes so frequently now. Oh! he's very fond of me, all the same. Were it not for him I should be in a bad way at the shop.”
His situation at The Ladies' Paradise was really menaced since the last stock-taking. It was in vain that he adduced the rainy season; one could not overlook the considerable stock of fancy silks; and as Hutin was improving the occasion, undermining him with the governors with an increase of sly rage, he felt the ground cracking under him. Mouret had condemned him, weary, no doubt, of this witness who prevented him breaking with Henriette, tired of a familiarity which was profitless. But, in accordance with his usual tactics, he was pushing Bourdoncle forward; it was Bourdoncle and the other partners who insisted on his dismissal at each board meeting; whilst he resisted still, according to his account, defending his friend energetically, at the risk of getting into serious trouble with the others.
“Well, I shall wait,” resumed Madame Desforges. “You know that girl is coming here at five o'clock, I want to see them face to face. I must discover their secret.”
And she returned to this long-meditated plan. She repeated in her fever that she had requested Madame AurÉlie to send her Denise to look at a mantle which fitted badly. When she had once got the young girl in her room, she would find a means of calling Mouret, and could then act. Bouthemont, who had sat down opposite her, was gazing at her with his fine laughing eyes, which he endeavoured to render grave. This jovial, dissipated fellow, with his coal-black beard, whose warm Gascon blood empurpled his cheeks, was thinking that these fine ladies were not much good, and that they let out a nice lot of secrets, when they opened their hearts. His friend's mistresses, simple shop-girls, certainly never made more complete confessions.
“Come,” he ventured to say at last, “what does that matter to you? I swear to you there is nothing whatever between them.”
“Just so,” cried she, “because he loves her! I don't care in the least for the others, chance acquaintances, friends of a day!”
She spoke of Clara with disdain. She was well aware that Mouret, after Denise's refusal, had fallen back on this tall, redhaired girl, with the horse's head, doubtless by calculation; for he maintained her in the department, loading her with presents. Not only that, for the last three months he had been leading: a terrible life, squandering his money with a prodigality which caused a great many remarks; he had bought a mansion for a worthless actress, and was being ruined by two or three other jades, who seemed to be struggling to outdo each other in costly, stupid caprices.
“It's this creature's fault,” repeated Henriette. “I feel sure he's ruining himself with the others because she repulses him. Besides, what's his money to me? I should have loved him better poor. You know how I love him, you who have become our friend.”
She stopped, choked, ready to burst into tears; and with a movement of abandon she held out her two hands to him. It was true, she adored Mouret for his youth and his triumphs, never had any man thus conquered her so entirely in a quiver of her flesh and of her pride; but at the thought of losing him, she also heard the knell of her fortieth year, and she asked herself with terror how she should replace this great love.
“I'll have my revenge,” murmured she. “I'll have my revenge, if he behaves badly!”
Bouthemont continued to hold her hands in his. She was still handsome. But she would be a very awkward mistress, thought he, and he did not like that style of woman. The thing, however, deserved thinking over; perhaps it would be worth while risking certain annoyances.
“Why don't you set up for yourself?” she asked all at once, drawing her hands away.
He was astonished. Then he replied: “But it would require an immense sum. Last year I had an idea in my head. I feel convinced that there are customers enough in Paris for one or two more big shops; but the district would have to be chosen. The Bon Marche has the left side of the river; the Louvre occupies the centre; we monopolise, at The Paradise, the rich west-end district. There remains the north, where a rival to the Place Clichy could be created. And I had discovered a splendid position, near the Opera House——”
“Well?”
He set up a noisy laugh. “Just fancy. I was stupid enough to go and talk to my father about it Yes, I was simple enough to ask him to find some shareholders at Toulouse.”
And he gaily described the anger of the old man, enraged against the great Parisian bazaars, in his little country shop. Old Bouthemont, suffocated by the thirty thousand francs a year earned by his son, had replied that he would give his money and that of his friends to the hospitals rather than contribute a sou to one of those shops which were the pests of the drapery business.
“Besides,” continued the young man, “it would require millions.”
“Suppose they were found?” observed Madame Desforges, simply.
He looked at her, serious all at once. Was it not merely a jealous woman's word? But she did not give him time to question her, adding: “In short, you know what a great interest I take in you. We'll talk about it again.”
The outer bell had rung. She got up, and he, himself, with an instinctive movement, drew back his chair, as if they might have been surprised. A silence reigned in the drawingroom, with its pretty hangings, and decorated with such a profusion of green plants that there was quite a small wood between the two windows. She stood there waiting, with her ear towards the door.
“There he is,” she murmured.
The footman announced Monsieur Mouret and Monsieur de Vallagnosc. Henriette could not restrain a movement of anger. Why had he not come alone? He must have gone after his friend, fearful of a tÊte-À-tÊte with her. However, she smiled and shook hands with the two men.
“What a stranger you are getting. I may say the same for you, Monsieur de Vallagnosc.”
Her great grief was to be becoming stout, and she squeezed herself into tight black silk dresses, to conceal her increasing obesity. However, her pretty face, with her dark hair, preserved its amiable expression. And Mouret could familiarly tell her, enveloping her with a look:
“It's useless to ask how you are. You are as fresh as a rose.”
“Oh! I'm almost too well,” replied she. “Besides, I might have died; you would have known nothing about it.”
She was examining him also, and thought him looking tired and nervous, his eyes heavy, his complexion livid.
“Well,” she resumed, in a tone which she endeavoured to render agreeable, “I cannot return the compliment; you don't look at all well to-day.”
“Overwork!” remarked De Vallagnosc.
Mouret shrugged his shoulders, without replying. He had just perceived Bouthemont, and nodded to him in a friendly way. During the time of their close intimacy he used to take him away direct from the department, bringing him to Henriette's during the busiest moments of the afternoon. But times had changed; he said to him in a half whisper: “You went away rather early. They noticed your departure, and are furious about it.”
He referred to Bourdoncle and the other persons who had an interest in the business, as if he were not himself the master.
“Ah!” murmured Bouthemont, rather anxious.
“Yes, I want to talk to you. Wait for me, we'll leave together.”
Meanwhile, Henriette had sat down again; and while listening to De Vallagnosc, who was announcing that Madame de Boves would probably pay her a visit, she did not take her eyes off Mouret. The latter, silent again, gazed at the furniture, seemed to be looking for something on the ceiling. Then as she laughingly complained that she had only gentlemen at her four o'clock tea, he so far forgot himself as to blurt out:
“I expected to find Baron Hartmann here.”
Henriette turned pale. No doubt she knew he came to her house solely to meet the baron; but he might have avoided throwing his indifference in her face like this. At that moment the door had opened and the footman was standing behind her. When she had interrogated him by a sign, he leant over her and said in a very low tone:
“It's for that mantle. You wished me to let you know. The young lady is there.”
Then Henriette raised her voice, so as to be heard. All her jealous suffering found relief in the following words, of a scornful harshness:
“She can wait!”
“Shall I show her into your dressing-room?”
“No, no. Let her stay in the ante-room!”
And when the servant had gone out she quietly resumed her conversation with De Vallagnosc. Mouret, who had relapsed into his former lassitude, had listened with a careless, distracted air, without understanding. Bouthemont, preoccupied by the adventure, was reflecting. But almost immediately after the door was opened again, and two ladies were shown in.
“Just fancy,” said Madame Marty, “I was alighting at the door, when I saw Madame de Boves coming under the arcade.”
“Yes,” explained the latter, “it's a fine day, and my doctor says I must take walking exercise.”
Then, after a general hand-shaking, she asked Henriette:
“You're engaging a new maid, then?”
“No,” replied the other, astonished. “Why?”
“Because I've just seen a young girl in the ante-room.” Henriette interrupted her, laughing. “It's true; all these shop-girls look like ladies' maids, don't they? Yes, it's a young person come to alter a mantle.”
Mouret looked at her intently, a suspicion crossing his mind. She went on with a forced gaiety, explaining that she had bought mantle at The Ladies' Paradise the previous week.
“What!” asked Madame Marty, “have you deserted Sauveur then?”
“No my dear, but I wished to make an experiment. Besides, I was pretty well satisfied with a first purchase, a travelling cloak. But this time it has not succeeded at all. You may say what you like, one is horribly trussed up in the big shops. I speak out plainly, even before you, Monsieur Mouret; you will never know how to dress a woman with the slightest claim to distinction.”
Mouret did not defend his house, still keeping his eyes on her, thinking to himself that she would never have dared to do such a thing. And it was Bouthemont who had to plead the cause of The Ladies' Paradise.
“If all the aristocratic ladies who patronise us announced the fact,” replied he, gaily, “you would be astonished at our customers. Order a garment to measure at our place, it will equal one from Sauveur's, and will cost but half the money. But there, just because it's cheaper it's not so good.”
“So it doesn't fit, this mantle you speak of?” resumed Madame de Boves. “Ah! now I remember the young person. It's rather dark in your ante-room.”
“Yes,” added Madame Marty, “I was wondering where I had seen that figure. Well, go, my dear, don't stand on ceremony with us.”
Henriette assumed a look of disdainful unconcern. “Oh, presently, there is no hurry.”
The ladies continued to discuss the articles from the big shops. Then Madame de Boves spoke of her husband, who, she said, had gone to inspect the breeding depot at Saint-LÔ; and just then Henriette was relating that through the illness of an aunt Madame Guibal had been suddenly called into Franche-ComtÉ. Moreover, she did not reckon that day on Madame Bourdelais, who at the end of every month shut herself up with a needlewoman to look over her young people's under-linen. But Madame Marty seemed agitated with some secret trouble. Her husband's position at the LycÉe Bonaparte was menaced, in consequence of lessons given by the poor man in certain doubtful institutions where a regular trade was carried on with the B.A. diplomas; the poor fellow picked up a pound where he could, feverishly, in order to meet the ruinous expenses which pillaged his household; and his wife, on seeing him weeping one evening in the fear of a dismissal, had conceived the idea of getting her friend Henriette to speak to a director at the Ministry of Public Instruction with whom she was acquainted. Henriette finished by quieting her with a few words. It was understood that Monsieur Marty was coming himself to know his fate and to thank her.
“You look ill, Monsieur Mouret,” observed Madame de Boves.
“Overwork!” repeated De Vallagnosc, with his ironical phlegm.
Mouret quickly got up, as if ashamed at forgetting himself thus. He went and took his accustomed place in the midst of the ladies, summoning up all his agreeable talent. He was now occupied with the winter novelties, and spoke of a considerable arrival of lace; and Madame de Boves questioned him as to the price of Bruges lace: she felt inclined to buy some. She had now got so far as to economise the thirty-sous for a cab, often going home quite ill from the effects of stopping before the windows. Draped in a mantle which was already two years old she tried, in imagination, on her queenly shoulders all the dearest things she saw; and it was like tearing her flesh away when she awoke and found herself dressed in her patched, old dresses, without the slightest hope of ever satisfying her passion.
“Baron Hartmann,” announced the man-servant.
Henriette observed with what pleasure Mouret shook hands with the new arrival. The latter bowed to the ladies and looked at the young man with that subtle expression which sometimes illumined his big Alsatian face.
“Always plunged in dress!” murmured he, with a smile. Then, like a friend of the house, he ventured to add, “There's a charming young girl in the ante-room. Who is it?”
“Oh, nobody,” replied Madame Desforges, in her ill-natured voice. “Only a shop-girl waiting to see me.”
But the door remained half open, the servant was bringing in the tea. He went out, came in again, placed the china service on the table, then some plates of sandwiches and biscuits. In the vast room, a bright light, softened by the green plants, illuminated the brass-work, bathing the silk hangings in a tender flame; and each time the door was opened one could perceive an obscure corner of the ante-room, which was only lighted by two ground-glass windows. There, in the darkness, appeared a sombre form, motionless and patient. It was Denise, still standing up; there was a leather-covered form there, but a feeling of pride prevented her sitting down on it. She felt the insult keenly. She had been there for the last half-hour, without a gesture, without a word. The ladies and the baron had taken stock of her in passing; she could now hear the voices from the drawingroom. All this amiable luxury wounded her with its indifference, and still she did not move. Suddenly, through the half-open door, she perceived Mouret, and he, on his side, had at last guessed it to be her.
“Is it one of your saleswomen?” asked Baron Hartmann.
Mouret had succeeded in concealing his great agitation; but his voice trembled somewhat with emotion: “No doubt; but I don't know which.”
“It's the little fair girl from the ready-made department,” replied Madame Marty, obligingly, “the second-hand, I believe.”
Henriette looked at Mouret in her turn.
“Ah!” said he, simply.
And he tried to change the conversation, speaking of the fÊtes given to the King of Prussia then passing through Paris. But the baron returned maliciously to the young ladies in the big establishments. He affected to be desirous of gaining information, and put several questions: Where did they come from in general? Was their conduct as bad as it was said to be? Quite a discussion ensued.
“Really,” he repeated, “you think them well behaved.”
Mouret defended their virtue with a conviction which made De Vallagnosc smile. Bouthemont then interfered, to save his chief. Of course there were some of all sorts, bad and good. Formerly they had nothing but the refuse of the trade, a poor, vague class of girls drifted into the drapery business; whilst now, such respectable families as those living in the Rue de SÈvres, for instance, positively brought up their girls for the Bon Marche. In short, when they liked to conduct themselves well, they could, for they were not, like the work-girls of Paris, obliged to board and lodge themselves; they had bed and board, their existence was provided for, an existence excessively hard, no doubt. The worst of all was their neutral, badly-defined position, between the shop-woman and the lady. Thrown into the midst of luxury, often without any previous instruction, they formed a singular, nameless class. Their misfortunes and vices sprung from that.
“I,” said Madame de Boves, “I don't know any creatures more disagreeable. Really, one could slap them sometimes.”
And the ladies vented their spite. They devoured each other before the shop-counters; it was a question of woman against woman in the sharp rivalry of money and beauty. It was an ill-natured jealousy felt by the saleswomen towards the well-dressed customers, the ladies whose manners they tried to imitate, and a still stronger feeling on the part of the poorly-dressed customers, the lower-class ones, against the saleswomen, those girls dressed in silk, from whom they would have liked to exact a servant's humility when serving a ten sou purchase.
“Don't speak of them,” said Henriette, by way of conclusion, “a wretched lot of beings ready to sell themselves the same as their goods.”
0423
Mouret had the strength to smile. The baron was looking at him, so touched by his graceful command over himself that he changed the conversation, returning to the fÊtes to be given to the King of Prussia, saying they would be superb, the whole trade of Paris would profit by them. Henriette remained silent and thoughtful, divided between the desire to forget Denise in the ante-room, and the fear that Mouret, now aware of her presence, might go away. At last she quitted her chair.
“You will allow me?”
“Certainly, my dear,” replied Madame Marty. “I'll do the honours of the house for you.”
She got up, took the teapot, and filled the cups. Henriette turned towards Baron Hartmann, saying: “You'll stay a few minutes, won't you?”
“Yes; I want to speak to Monsieur Mouret. We are going to invade your little drawing-room.”
She went out, and her black silk dress, rustling against the door, produced a noise like that of a snake wriggling through the brushwood. The baron at once manoeuvred to carry Mouret off, leaving the ladies to Bouthemont and De Vallagnosc. Then they stood talking before the window of the other room in a low tone. It was quite a fresh affair. For a long time Mouret had cherished a desire to realise his former project, the invasion of the whole block by The Ladies' Paradise, from the Rue Monsigny to the Rue de la MichodiÈre and from the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin to the Rue du Dix-DÉcembre. There was still a vast piece of ground, in the latter street, remaining to be acquired, and that sufficed to spoil his triumph, he was tortured with the desire to complete his conquest, to erect there a sort of apotheosis, a monumental faÇade. As long as his principal entrance should remain in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, in a dark street of old Paris, his work would be incomplete, wanting in logic. He wished to set it up before new Paris, in one of these modern avenues through which passed the busy crowd of the latter part of the nineteenth century. He saw it dominating, imposing itself as the giant palace of commerce, casting a greater shadow over the city than the old Louvre itself. But up to the present he had been baulked by the obstinacy of die Credit Immobilier, which still held to its first idea of building a rival to the Grand HÔtel on this land. The plans were ready, they were only waiting for the clearing of the Rue du Dix-DÉcembre to commence the work. At last, by a supreme effort, Mouret had almost convinced Baron Hartmann.
“Well!” commenced the latter, “we had a board-meeting yesterday, and I came to-day, thinking I should meet you, and being desirous of keeping you informed. They still resist.” The young man gave way to a nervous gesture. “But it's ridiculous. What do they say?”
“Dear me! they say what I have said to you myself, and what I am still inclined to think. Your faÇade is only an ornament, the new buildings would only extend by about a tenth the surface of your establishment, and it would be throwing away immense sums on a mere advertisement.”
At this Mouret burst out “An advertisement! an advertisement! In any case this will be in stone and outlive all of us. Just consider that it would increase our business tenfold! We should see our money back in two years. What matters about what you call the wasted ground, if this ground returns you an enormous interest! You will see the crowd, when our customers are no longer obliged to struggle through the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, but can freely pass down a thoroughfare large enough for six carriages abreast.”
“No doubt,” replied the baron, laughing. “But you are a poet in your way, let me tell you once more. These gentlemen think it would be dangerous to further extend your business.' They want to be prudent for you.”
“What do they mean? Prudent! I don't understand. Don't the figures show the constant progression of our business? At first, with a capital of five hundred thousand francs, I did business to the extent of two millions, turning the capital over four times. It then became four million francs, which, turned over ten times, has produced business to the extent of forty millions. In short, after successive increases, I have just learnt, from the last stock-taking, that the amount of business done now amounts to a total of eighty millions; thus the capital, only slightly increased—for it does not exceed six millions—has passed over our counters in the form of more than twelve times.”
He raised his voice, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the palm of his left hand, knocking down these millions as he would have cracked a few nuts. The baron interrupted him.
“I know, I know. But you don't hope to keep on increasing in this way, do you?”
“Why not?” asked Mouret, ingenuously. “There's no reason why it should stop. The capital can be turned over as often as fifteen times. I predicted as much long ago. In certain departments it can be turned over twenty-five or thirty times. And after? well! after, we'll find a means of turning it over more than that.”
“So you'll finish by drinking up all the money in Paris, as you'd drink a glass of water?”
“Most decidedly. Doesn't Paris belong to the women, and don't the women belong to us?”
The baron laid his hands on Mouret's shoulders, looking at him with a paternal air. “Listen, you're a fine fellow, and I am really fond of you. There's no resisting you. We'll go into the matter seriously, and I hope to make them listen to reason. Up to the present, we are perfectly satisfied with you. Your dividends astonish the Bourse. You must be right; it will be better to put more money into your business, than to risk this competition with the Grand HÔtel, which is hazardous.”
Mouret's excitement subsided at once; he thanked the baron, but without any of his usual enthusiasm; and the latter saw him turn his eyes towards the door of the next room, again seized with the secret anxiety which he was concealing. However, De Vallagnosc had come up, understanding that they had finished talking business. He stood close to them, listening to the baron, who was murmuring with the gallant air of an old man who had seen life:
“I say, I fancy they're taking their revenge.”
“Who?” asked Mouret, embarrassed.
“Why, the women. They're getting tired of belonging to you; you now belong to them, my dear fellow; it's only just!” He joked him, well aware of the young man's notorious love affairs: the mansion bought for the actress, the enormous sums squandered with girls picked up in private supper rooms, amused him as an excuse for the follies he had formerly committed himself. His old experience rejoiced.
“Really, I don't understand,” repeated Mouret.
“Oh! you understand well enough. They always get the last word. In fact, I said to myself: It isn't possible, he's boasting he can't be so strong as that! And there you are! Bleed the women, work them as you would a coal mine, and what for? In order that they may work you afterwards, and force you to refund at last! Take care, for they'll draw more blood and money from you than you have ever sucked from them.”
He laughed louder still; and De Vallagnosc was also grinning, without, however, saying a word.
“Dear me! one must have a taste of everything,” confessed Mouret, at last, pretending to laugh as well. “Money is so stupid, if it isn't spent.”
“As for that, I agree with you,” resumed the baron. “Enjoy yourself, my dear fellow, I'll not be the one to preach to you, nor to tremble for the great interests we have confided to your care. Every one must sow his wild oats, and his head is generally clearer afterwards. Besides, there's nothing unpleasant in ruining one's self when one feels capable of building up another fortune. But if money is nothing, there are certain sufferings——”
He stopped, his smile became sad, former sufferings presented themselves amid the irony of his scepticism. He had watched the duel between Henriette and Mouret with the curiosity of one who still felt greatly interested in other people's love battles; and he felt that the crisis had arrived, he guessed the drama, well acquainted with the story of this Denise, whom he had seen in the ante-room.
“Oh! as for suffering, that's not in my line,” said Mouret, in a tone of bravado. “It's quite enough to pay.”
The baron looked at him for a moment without speaking. Without wishing to insist on his discreet allusion he added, slowly—“Don't make yourself worse than you are! You'll lose something else besides your money at that game. Yes, you'll lose a part of yourself, my dear fellow.” He stopped, again laughing, to ask, “That often happens, doesn't it, Monsieur de Vallagnosc?”
“So they say, baron,” the young man simply replied.
Just at this moment the door was opened. Mouret, who was going to reply, slightly started. The three men turned round. It was Madame Desforges, looking very gay, putting her head through the doorway to call, in a hurried voice—
“Monsieur Mouret! Monsieur Mouret!” Then, when she perceived the three men, she added, “Oh! you'll excuse me, won't you, gentlemen? I'm going to take Monsieur Mouret away for a minute. The least he can do, as he has sold me a frightful mantle, is to give me the benefit of his experience. This girl is a stupid, without the least idea. Come, come! I'm waiting for you.”
He hesitated, undecided, flinching before the scene he could foresee. But he had to obey. The baron said to him, with his air at once paternal and mocking, “Go, my dear fellow, go, madame wants you.”
Mouret followed her. The door closed, and he thought he could hear De Vallagnosc's grin stifled by the hangings. His courage was entirely exhausted. Since Henriette had quitted the drawing-room, and he knew Denise was alone in the house in jealous hands, he had experienced a growing anxiety, a nervous torment, which made him listen from time to time as if suddenly startled by a distant sound of weeping. What could this woman invent to torture her? And his whole love, this love which surprised him even now, went out to the young girl like a support and a consolation. Never had he loved her so strongly, with that charm so powerful in suffering. His former affections, his love for Henriette herself—so delicate, so handsome, the possession of whom was so flattering to his pride—had never been more than agreeable pastimes, frequently a calculation, in which he sought nothing but a profitable pleasure. He used quietly to leave his mistresses and go home to bed, happy in his bachelor liberty, without a regret or a care on his mind; whilst now his heart beat with anguish, his life was taken, he no longer enjoyed the forgetfulness of sleep in his great, solitary bed. Denise was his only thought. Even at this moment she was the sole object of his anxiety, and he was telling himself that he preferred to be there to protect her, notwithstanding his fear of some regrettable scene with the other one.
At first, they both crossed the bed-room, silent and empty. Then Madame Desforges, pushing open a door, entered the dressing-room, followed by Mouret. It was a rather large room, hung with red silk, furnished with a marble toilet table and a large wardrobe with three compartments and great glass doors. As the window looked into the yard, it was already rather dark, and the two nickel-plated gas burners on either side of the wardrobe had been lighted.
“Now, let's see,” said Henriette, “perhaps we shall get on better. This girl is a stupid, without the least idea. Come, come! I'm waiting for you.”
On entering, Mouret had found Denise standing upright, in the middle of the bright light. She was very pale, dressed in a cashmere jacket, and a black hat.
He hesitated, undecided, flinching before the scene he could foresee. But he had to obey. The baron said to him, with his air at once paternal and mocking, “Go, my dear fellow, go, madame wants you.”
Mouret followed her. The door closed, and he thought he could hear De Vallagnosc's grin stifled by the hangings. His courage was entirely exhausted. Since Henriette had quitted the drawing-room, and he knew Denise was alone in the house in jealous hands, he had experienced a growing anxiety, a nervous torment, which made him listen from time to time as if suddenly startled by a distant sound of weeping. What could this woman invent to torture her? And his whole love, this love which surprised him even now, went out to the young girl like a support and a consolation. Never had he loved her so strongly, with that charm so powerful in suffering. His former affections, his love for Henriette herself—so delicate, so handsome, the possession of whom was so flattering to his pride—had never been more than agreeable pastimes, frequently a calculation, in which he sought nothing but a profitable pleasure. He used quietly to leave his mistresses and go home to bed, happy in his bachelor liberty, without a regret or a care on his mind; whilst now his heart beat with anguish, his life was taken, he no longer enjoyed the forgetfulness of sleep in his great, solitary bed. Denise was his only thought. Even at this moment she was the sole object of his anxiety, and he was telling himself that he preferred to be there to protect her, notwithstanding his fear of some regrettable scene with the other one.
At first, they both crossed the bed-room, silent and empty. Then Madame Desforges, pushing open a door, entered the dressing-room, followed by Mouret. It was a rather large room, hung with red silk, furnished with a marble toilet table and a large wardrobe with three compartments and great glass doors. As the window looked into the yard, it was already rather dark, and the two nickel-plated gas burners on either side of the wardrobe had been lighted.
“Now, let's see,” said Henriette, “perhaps we shall get on better.”
On entering Mouret had found Denise standing upright, in the middle of a bright light. She was very pale, modestly dressed in a cashmere jacket with a black hat, and was holding on one arm the mantle bought at The Ladies Paradise. When she saw the young man her hands slightly trembled.
“I wish Monsieur Mouret to judge,” resumed Henriette. “Just help me, mademoiselle.”
And Denise, approaching, had to give her the mantle. She had already placed some pins on the shoulders, the part that did not fit. Henriette turned round to look at herself in the glass.
“Is it possible? Speak frankly.”
“It really is a failure, madame,” said Mouret, to cut the matter short. “It's very simple; the young lady will take your measure, and we will make you another.”
“No, I want this one, I want it immediately,” resumed she, with vivacity. “But it's too narrow across the chest, and it forms a ruck at the back between the shoulders.” Then, in her sharpest voice, she added: “It's no use you standing looking at me, mademoiselle, that won't make it any better! Try and find a remedy. It's your business.”
Denise again commenced to place the pins, without saying a word. That went on for some time: she had to pass from one shoulder to the other, and was even obliged to go almost on her knees, to pull the mantle down in front. Above her placing herself entirely in Denise's hands, Madame Desforges gave her face the harsh expression of a mistress exceedingly difficult to please. Delighted to lower the young girl to this servant's work, she gave her sharp and brief orders, watching for the least sign of suffering on Mouret's face.
“Put a pin here! No! not there, here, near the sleeve. You don't seem to understand! That isn't it, there's the ruck showing again. Take care, you're pricking me now!”
Twice had Mouret vainly attempted to interfere, to put an end to this scene. His heart was beating violently from this humiliation of his love; and he loved Denise more than ever, with a deep tenderness, in the presence of her admirably silent and patient attitude. If the young girl's hands still trembled somewhat, at being treated in this way before his face, she accepted the necessities of her position with the proud resignation of a courageous girl. When Madame Desforges found they were not likely to betray themselves, she tried another way, she commenced to smile on Mouret, treating him openly as her lover. The pins having run short, she said to him:
“Look, my dear, in the ivory box on the dressing-table. Really! it's empty? Kindly see on the chimney-piece in the bed-room; you know, at the corner of the looking-glass.”
She spoke as if he were quite at home, in the habit of sleeping there, and knew where to find everything, even the brushes and combs. When he brought back a few pins, she took them one by one, and forced him to stay near her, looking at him and speaking low.
“I don't fancy I'm hump-backed. Give me your hand, feel my shoulders, just to please me. Am I really made like that?”
Denise slowly raised her eyes, paler than ever, and set about placing the pins in silence. Mouret could only see her blonde tresses, twisted at the back of her delicate neck; but by the slight shudder which was raising them, he thought he could perceive the uneasiness and shame of her face. Now, she would certainly repulse him, and send him back to this woman, who did not conceal her connection even before strangers. Brutal thoughts came into his head, he could have struck Henriette. How was he to stop her talk? How should he tell Denise that he adored her, that she alone existed for him at this moment, and that he was ready to sacrifice for her all his former affections? The worst of women would not have indulged in the equivocal familiarities of this well-born lady. He took his hand away, and drew back, saying:
“You are wrong to go so far, madame, since I myself consider the garment to be a failure.”
One of the gas-burners was hissing, and in the stuffy, moist air of the room, nothing else was heard but this ardent breath. The looking-glasses threw large sheets of light on the red silk hangings, on which were dancing the shadows of the two women. A bottle of verbena, of which the cork had been left out, spread a vague odour, something like that of a fading bouquet.
“There, madame, I can do no more,” said Denise, at last, rising up.
She felt thoroughly worn out. Twice she had run the pins in her fingers, as if blinded, her eyes in a mist. Was he in the plot? Had he sent for her, to avenge himself for her refusal, by showing that other women loved him? And this thought chilled her; she never remembered to have stood in need of so much courage, not even during the terrible hours of her life when she wanted for bread. It was comparatively nothing to be humiliated, but to see him almost in the arms of another woman, as if she had not been there! Henriette looked at herself in the glass, and once more broke out into harsh words.
“But it's absurd, mademoiselle. It fits worse than ever. Just look how tight it is across the chest I look like a wet nurse.”
Denise, losing all patience, made a rather unfortunate remark. “You are slightly stout, madame. We cannot make you thinner than you are.”
“Stout! stout!” exclaimed Henriette, who now turned pale in her turn. “You're becoming insolent, mademoiselle. Really, I should advise you to criticise others!”
They both stood looking at each other, face to face, trembling. There was now neither lady or shop-girl. They were simply two women, made equal by their rivalry. The one had violently taken off the mantle and cast it on a chair, whilst the other was throwing on the dressing-table the few pins she had in her hands.
“What astonishes me,” resumed Henriette, “is that Monsieur Mouret should tolerate such insolence. I thought, sir, that you were more particular about your employees.”
Denise had again assumed her brave, calm manner. She gently replied: “If Monsieur Mouret keeps me, it's because he has no fault to find. I am ready to apologise to you, if he wishes it.”
Mouret was listening, excited by this quarrel, unable to find a word to put a stop to it. He had a great horror of these explanations between women, their asperity wounding his sense of elegance and gracefulness. Henriette wished to force him to say something in condemnation of the young girl; and, as he remained mute, still undecided, she stung him with a final insult:
“Very good, sir. It seems that I must suffer the insolence of your mistresses in my own house even! A girl you've picked up out of the gutter!”
Two big tears gushed from Denise's eyes. She had kept them back for some time, but her whole being succumbed beneath this last insult. When he saw her weeping like that, without the slightest attempt at retaliation, with a silent, despairing dignity, Mouret no longer hesitated, his heart went out towards her in an immense burst of tenderness. He took her hands in his and stammered:
“Go away immediately, my child, and forget this house!”
Henriette, perfectly amazed, choking with anger, stood looking at them.
“Wait a minute,” continued he, folding up the mantle himself, “take this garment away. Madame can buy another elsewhere. And pray don't cry any more. You know how much I esteem you.”
He went with her to the door, which he closed after her. She had not said a word; but a pink flame had coloured her cheeks, whilst her eyes were wet with fresh tears, tears of a delicious sweetness. Henriette, who was suffocating, had taken out her handkerchief and was crushing her lips with it. This was a total overthrowing of her calculations, she herself had been caught in the trap she had laid. She was mortified with herself for having pushed the matter too far, tortured with jealousy. To be abandoned for such a creature as that! To see herself disdained before her! Her pride suffered more than her love.
“So, it's that girl that you love?” said she, painfully, when they were alone.
Mouret did not reply at once; he was walking about from the window to the door, as if absorbed by some violent emotion. At last he stopped, and very politely, in a voice which he tried to render cold, he replied with simplicity: “Yes, madame.”
The gas burner was still hissing in the stifling air of the dressing-room. But the reflex of the glasses were no longer traversed by dancing shadows, the room seemed bare, of a heavy dulness. Henriette suddenly dropped on a chair, twisting her handkerchief in her febrile fingers, repeating amidst her sobs:
“Good heavens! How miserable I am!”
He stood looking at her for several seconds, and then went away quietly. She, left all alone, wept on in silence, before the pins scattered over the dressing-table and the floor.
When Mouret returned to the little drawing-room, he found De Vallagnosc alone, the baron having gone back to the ladies. As he felt himself very agitated still, he sat down at the further end of the room, on a sofa; and his friend, seeing him turn pale, charitably came and stood before him, to conceal him from curious eyes. At first, they looked at each other without saying a word. Then De Vallagnosc, who seemed to be inwardly amused at Mouret's confusion, finished by asking in his bantering voice:
“Are you still enjoying yourself?”
Mouret did not appear to understand him at first. But when he remembered their former conversations on the empty stupidity and the useless torture of life, he replied: “Of course, I've never before lived so much. Ah! my boy, don't you laugh, the hours that make one die of grief are by far the shortest.” He lowered his voice, continuing gaily, beneath his half-wiped tears: “Yes, you know all, don't you? Between them they have rent my heart. But yet it's nice, as nice as kisses, the wounds they make. I am thoroughly worn out; but, no matter, you can't think how I love life! Oh! I shall win her at last, this little girl who still says no!”
De Vallagnosc simply said: “And after?”
“After? Why, I shall have her! Isn't that enough? If you think yourself strong, because you refuse to be stupid and to suffer, you make a great mistake! You are merely a dupe, my boy, nothing more! Try and long for a woman and win her at last: that pays you in one minute for all your misery,” But De Vallagnosc once more trotted out his pessimism. What was the good of working so much if money could not buy everything? He would very soon have shut up shop and given up work for ever, the day he found out that his millions could not even buy the woman he wanted! Mouret, listening to him, became grave. Then he set off violently, he believed in the all-powerfulness of his will.
“I want her, and I'll have her! And if she escapes me, you'll see what a place I shall have built to cure myself. It will be splendid, all the same. You don't understand this language, old man, otherwise you would know that action contains its own recompense. To act, to create, to struggle against facts, to overcome them or be overthrown by them, all human health and joy consists in that!”
“Simple method of diverting one's self,” murmured the other.
“Well, I prefer diverting myself. As one must die, I would rather die of passion than boredom!”
They both laughed, this reminded them of their old discussions at college. De Vallagnosc, in an effeminate voice, then commenced to parade his theories of the insipidity of things, investing with a sort of fanfaronade the immobility and emptiness of his existence. Yes, he dragged on from day to day at the office, in three years he had had a rise of six hundred francs; he was now receiving three thousand six hundred, barely enough to pay for his cigars; it was getting worse than ever, and if he did not kill himself, it was simply from a dislike of all trouble. Mouret having spoken of his marriage with Mademoiselle de Boves, he replied that notwithstanding the obstinacy of the aunt in refusing to die, the matter was going to be concluded; at least, he thought so, the parents were agreed, and he was ready to do anything they might tell him to do. What was the use of wishing or not wishing, since things never turned out as one desired? He quoted as an example his future father-in-law, who expected to find in Madame Guibal an indolent blonde, the caprice of an hour, but who was now led by her with a whip, like an old horse on its last legs. Whilst they supposed him to be busy inspecting the stud at Saint-Lo, she was squandering his last resources in a little house hired by him at Versailles.'
“He's happier than you,” said Mouret, getting up.
“Oh! rather!” declared De Vallagnosc. “Perhaps it's only doing wrong that's somewhat amusing.”
Mouret had now recovered his spirits. He was thinking about getting away; but not wishing his departure to resemble a flight he resolved to take a cup of tea, and went into the other drawing-room with his friend, both in high spirits. The baron asked him if the mantle had been made to fit, and Mouret replied, carelessly, that he gave it up as far as he was concerned. They all seemed astonished. Whilst Madame Marty hastened to serve him, Madame de Boves accused the shops of always keeping their garments too narrow. At last, he managed to sit down near Bouthemont, who had not stirred. They were forgotten for a moment, and, in reply to anxious questions put by Bouthemont, desirous of knowing what he had to say to him, Mouret did not wait to get into the street, but abruptly informed him that the board of directors had decided to deprive themselves of his services. Between each phrase he drank a drop of tea, protesting all the while that he was in despair. Oh! a quarrel that he had not even then got over, for he had left the meeting beside himself with rage. But what could he do? he could not break with these gentlemen about a simple question of staff. Bouthemont, very pale, had to thank him once more.
“What a terrible mantle,” observed Madame Marty. “Henriette can't get over it.”
And really, this prolonged absence began to make every one feel awkward. But, at that very moment, Madame Desforges appeared.
“So you've given it up as well?” cried Madame de Boves, gaily.
“How do you mean?”
“Why, Monsieur Mouret told us you could do nothing with it.”
Henriette affected the greatest surprise. “Monsieur Mouret was joking. The mantle will fit splendidly.”
They had again returned to the big shops. Mouret had to give his opinion; he came up to them and affected to be very just The Bon Marche was an excellent house, solid, respectable, but the Louvre certainly had a more aristocratic class of customers.
“In short, you prefer The Ladies' Paradise,” said the baron, smiling.
“Yes,” replied Mouret, quietly. “There we really love our customers.”
All the women present were of his opinion. It was just that, they were at a sort of private party at The Ladies' Paradise, they felt, there a continual caress of flattery, an overflowing adoration which detained the most dignified and virtuous woman. The enormous success of the establishment sprung from this gallant seduction.
“By the way,” asked Henriette, who wished to appear entirely at her ease, “what have you done with my protege. Monsieur Mouret? You know—Mademoiselle de Fontenailles.” And turning towards Madame Marty she explained, “A maricheness, poor girl, fallen into poverty.”
“Oh!” said Mouret, “she earns three francs a day stitching.”
De Vallagnosc wished to interfere for a joke. “Don't push him too far, madame, or he'll tell you that all the old families of France ought to sell calico.”
“Well,” declared Mouret, “it would at least be an honourable end for a great many of them.”
They set up a laugh, the paradox seemed rather strong. He continued to sing the praises of what he called the aristocracy of work. A slight flush had coloured Madame de Boves's cheeks, she was wild at the shifts she was put to by her poverty; whilst Madame Marty on the contrary approved, stricken with remorse on thinking of her poor husband. The footman had just ushered in the professor, who had called to take her home. He was drier, more emaciated than ever by his hard labour, and still wore his thin shining frock coat. When he had thanked Madame Desforges for having spoken for him at the Ministry, he cast at Mouret the timid glance of a man meeting the evil that is to kill him. And he was quite confused when he heard the latter asking him:
“Isn't it true, sir, that work leads to everything?”
“Work and economy,” replied he, with a slight shivering of his whole body. “Add economy, sir.”
Meanwhile, Bouthemont had not moved from his chair, Mouret's words were still ringing in his ears. He at last got up, and went and said to Henriette in a low tone: “You know, he's given me notice; oh! in the kindest possible manner. But may I be hanged if he sha'n't repent it! I've just found my sign, The Four Seasons, and shall plant myself close to the Opera House!”
She looked at him with a gloomy expression. “Reckon on me, I'm with you. Wait a minute.” And she immediately drew Baron Hartmann into the recess of a window, and boldly recommended Bouthemont to him, as a fellow who was going to revolutionise Paris, in his turn, by setting up for himself. When she spoke of an advance of funds for her new protegee, the baron, though now astonished at nothing, could not suppress a gesture of bewilderment. This was the fourth fellow of genius she had confided to him, and he began to feel himself ridiculous. But he did not directly refuse, the idea of starting a competitor to The Ladies' Paradise even pleased him somewhat; for he had already invented, in banking matters, this sort of competition, to keep off others. Besides, the adventure amused him, and he promised to look into the matter.
“We must talk it over to-night,” whispered Henriette, returning to Bouthemont. “Don't fail to call about nine o'clock. The baron is with us.”
At this moment the vast room was foil of voices. Mouret still standing up, in the midst of the ladies, had recovered his habitual elegant gracefulness, and was gaily defending himself from the charge of ruining them in dress, offering to prove by the figures that he enabled them to save thirty per cent on their purchases. Baron Hartmann watched him, seized with the fraternal admiration of a former man about town. Come! the duel was finished, Henriette was decidedly beaten, she certainly was not the coming woman. And he thought he could see the modest profile of the young girl whom he had observed on passing through the ante-room. She was there, patient, alone, redoubtable in her sweetness.
