Complete Works of Emile Zola (710 page)

Every evening she heard the same noises, the young ladies coming in one by one, short whispered conversations, laughing, and sometimes a dispute, which they stifled as much as possible. Then the beds creaked, the tired occupants yawned, and fell into a heavy slumber. Denise’s left hand neighbor often talked in her sleep, which frightened her very much at first. Perhaps others, like herself, stopped up to mend their things, in spite of the rules; but if so they probably took the same precautions as she did herself, keeping very quiet, avoiding the least shock, for a shivering silence reigned in all the rooms.

It had struck eleven about ten minutes before when a sound of footsteps made her raise her head. Another young lady late! And she recognized it to be Pauline, by hearing the latter open the door next to hers.

But she was astonished when Pauline returned quietly and knocked at her door.

“Make haste, it’s me!”

The saleswomen not being allowed to visit each other in their rooms, Denise quickly unlocked the door, so that her neighbor should not be caught by Madame Cabin, who was supposed to see this rule strictly carried out.

“Was she there?” asked Denise, closing the door.

“Who? Madame Cabin?” replied Pauline. “Oh, I’m not afraid of her, she’s easily settled with a five-franc-piece!” Then she added: “I’ve wanted to have a talk with you for a long time past. But it’s impossible to do so downstairs. Besides, you looked so down-hearted tonight at table.”

Denise thanked her, and invited her to sit down, touched by her good-natured air. But in the trouble caused by the sudden visit she had not laid down the shoe she was mending, and Pauline’s eyes fell on it at once. She shook her head, looked round and perceived the collar and cuffs in the basin.

“My poor child, I thought as much,” resumed she. “Ah, I know what it is! When I first came up from Chartres, and old Cugnot didn’t send me a sou, I many a time washed my own chemises! Yes, yes, even my chemises! I had two, and there was always one in soak.”

She sat down, still out of breath from running. Her large face, with small bright eyes, and big tender mouth, had a certain grace, notwithstanding the rather coarse features. And, without transition, all of a sudden, she related her history; her childhood at the mill; old Cugnot ruined by a lawsuit; her being sent to Paris to make her fortune with twenty francs in her pocket; then her start as a shop-girl in a shop at Batignolles, then at The Ladies’ Paradise — a terrible start, all the sufferings and all the privations imaginable; she then spoke of her present life, of the two hundred francs she earned a month, the pleasures she indulged in, the carelessness in which she allowed her days to glide away. Some jewelry, a brooch, a watch-chain, glistened on her dark-blue cloth dress, coquettishly made to the figure; and she wore a velvet hat, ornamented with a large grey feather.

Denise had turned very red, with her shoe. She began to stammer out an explanation.

“But the same thing happened to me,” repeated Pauline. “Come, come, I’m older than you, I’m over twenty-six, though I don’t look it. Just tell me your little troubles.”

Denise yielded, conquered by this friendship so frankly offered. She sat down in her petticoat, with an old shawl over her shoulders, near Pauline in full dress; and an interesting gossip ensued.

It was freezing in the room, the cold seemed to run down the bare prison-like walls; but they did not notice that their fingers were almost frost-bitten, they were so fully taken up by their conversation. Little by little, Denise opened her heart entirely, spoke of Jean and Pépé, and how much the money question tortured her; which led them both to abuse the young ladies in the dress department. Pauline relieved her mind.

“Oh, the hussies! If they treated you properly and in a friendly manner, you could make more than a hundred francs a month.”

“Everybody is down on me, and I’m sure I don’t know why,” said Denise, beginning to cry. “Look at Monsieur Bourdoncle, he’s always watching me for a chance of finding me in fault, as if I were in his way. Old Jouve is about the only one—”

The other interrupted her. “What, that old monkey of an inspector! Ah! my dear, don’t you trust him. You know, men with big noses like his! He may display his decoration as much as he likes, there’s a story about something that happened to him in our department. But what a child you are to grieve like this! What a misfortune it is to be so sensitive! Of course, what is happening to you happens to everyone; they are making you pay your footing.”

She seized her hands and kissed her carried away by her good heart. The money-question was a graver one. Certainly a poor girl could not support her two brothers, pay the little one’s board and lodging, and regale the big one’s mistresses with the few paltry sous picked up from the others’ cast-off customers; for it was to be feared that she would not get any salary until business improved in March.

“Listen to me, it’s impossible for you to live in this way any longer. If I were you…” said Pauline.

But a noise in the corridor stopped her. It was probably Marguerite, who was accused of prowling about at night to watch the others. Pauline, who was still pressing her friend’s hand, looked at her for a moment in silence, listening. Then she resumed in a very low tone, with an air of tender conviction: “If I were you I should take someone.”

“How someone?” murmured Denise, not understanding at first.

When she understood, she withdrew her hands, looking very confused. This advice made her feel awkward, like an idea which had never occurred to her, and of which she could not see the advantage.

“Oh! no,” replied she simply.

“Then,” continued Pauline, “you’ll never manage, I tell you so, plainly. Here are the figures: forty francs for the little one, a five franc piece now and again for the big one; and then there’s yourself, you can’t always go about dressed like a pauper, with boots that make the other girls laugh at you; yes, really, your boots do you a deal of harm. Take someone, it would be much better.”

“No,” repeated Denise.

“Well! you are very foolish. It’s inevitable, my dear, and so natural. We all do it sooner or later. Look at me, I was a probationer, like you, without a sou. We are boarded and lodged, it’s true; but there’s our dress; besides, it’s impossible to go without a copper in one’s pocket, shut up in one’s room, watching the flies. So you see girls forcibly drift into it.”

She then spoke of her first lover, a lawyer’s clerk whom she had met at a party at Meudon. After him, came a post-office clerk. And, finally, ever since the autumn, she had been keeping company with a salesman at the Bon Marché, a very nice tall fellow, with whom she spent all her leisure time. Never more than one sweetheart at a time, however. She was very respectable in her way, and became indignant when she heard talk of those girls who yielded to the first-comer.

“I don’t tell you to misconduct yourself, you know!” said she quickly. “For instance, I should not like to be seen with your Clara, for fear people should say I was as bad as she. But when a girl stays quietly with one lover, and has nothing to blame herself for — do you think that wrong?”

“No,” replied Denise. “But I don’t care for it, that’s all.” There was a fresh silence. In the small icy-cold room they were smiling to each other, greatly affected by this whispered conversation. “Besides, one must have some affection for someone before doing so,” resumed she, her cheeks scarlet.

Pauline was astonished. She set up a laugh, and embraced her a second time, saying: “But, my darling, when you meet and like each other! You are funny! People won’t force you. Look here, would you like Baugé to take us somewhere in the country on Sunday? He’ll bring one of his friends.”

“No,” said Denise, in her gently obstinate way.

Pauline insisted no longer. Each one was free to act as she liked. What she had said was out of pure kindness of heart, for she felt really grieved to see a comrade so miserable. And as it was nearly midnight, she got up to leave. But before doing so she forced Denise to accept the six francs she wanted, begging her not to trouble about the matter, but to repay the amount when she earned more.

“Now,” added she, “blow your candle out, so that they can’t see which door opens; you can light it again immediately.”

The candle blown out, they shook hands; and Pauline ran off to her room, without leaving any trace in the darkness but the vague rustling of her petticoats amidst the deep slumber of the occupants of the other little rooms.

Before going to bed Denise wanted to finish her boot and do her washing. The cold became sharper still as the night advanced; but she did not feel it, this conversation had stirred up her heart’s blood. She was not shocked, it seemed to her that everyone had a right to arrange her life as she liked, when alone and free in the world. She had never given way to such ideas; her sense of right and her healthy nature maintained her naturally in the respectability in which she had always lived. About one o’clock she at last went to bed. No, she did not love anyone. So what was the use of disarranging her life, of spoiling the maternal devotion she had vowed for her two brothers? However, she did not sleep; a crowd of indistinct forms passed before her closed eyes, vanishing in the darkness.

From this moment Denise took an interest in the love-stories of the department. During the slack moments they were constantly occupied by their affairs with the men. Gossiping tales flew about, stories of adventures amused the girls for a week. Clara was a scandal; she had three lovers, without counting a string of chance admirers whom she had in tow; and, if she did not leave the shop, where she did the least work possible, disdaining the money which she could easily and more agreeably earn elsewhere, it was to shield herself from her family; for she was mortally afraid of old Prunaire, who threatened to come to Paris and break her arms and legs with his clogs. Marguerite, on the contrary, behaved very well, and was not known to have any lover; this caused some surprise, for all knew of her adventure — her coming to Paris to be confined in secret; how had she come to have the child, if she were so virtuous? And there were some who hinted at an accident, adding that she was now reserving herself for her cousin at Grenoble. The young ladies also joked about Madame Frédéric, declaring that she was discreetly connected with certain great personages; the truth was that they knew nothing of her love-affairs; for she disappeared every evening, stiff as starch in her widow’s ill-temper, evidently in a great hurry, though nobody knew where she was running off to so eagerly. As to Madame Aurélie’s passions, her pretended larks with obedient young men, they were certainly false; mere inventions, spread abroad by discontented saleswomen just for fun. Perhaps she had formerly displayed rather too much motherly feeling for one of her son’s friends, but she now occupied too high a place in the drapery business to allow her to amuse herself with such childish matters. Then there was the crowd leaving in the evening, nine girls out of every ten having young men waiting for them at the door; in the Place Gaillon, along the Rue de la Michodière, and the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, there was always quite a troop of men standing motionless, watching for the girls coming out; and, when they came, each one gave his arm to his lady and disappeared, talking with a marital tranquility.

But what troubled Denise most was to have discovered Colomban’s secret. He was continually to be seen on the other side of the street, at the door of The Old Elbeuf, his eyes raised, and never quitting the young ladies in the readymade department. When he felt Denise was watching him he blushed and turned away his head, as if afraid she might betray him to Geneviève, although there had been no further connection between the Baudus and their niece since her engagement at The Ladies’ Paradise. At first she had thought he was in love with Marguerite, on seeing his despairing looks, for Marguerite, being very quiet, and sleeping in the building, was not very easy to get at. But what was her astonishment to find that Colomban’s ardent glances were intended for Clara. He had been like that for months, devoured by passion on the opposite side of the way, without finding the courage to declare himself; and that for a girl who was perfectly free, who lived in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, and whom he could have spoken to any evening before she walked off on the arm of a fresh fellow! Clara herself appeared to have no idea of her conquest. Denise’s discovery filled her with a painful emotion. Was love, then, such a stupid thing as that? What! this fellow, who had real happiness within his reach, was ruining his life, enraptured with this good-for-nothing girl as if she were a saint! From that day she was seized with a feeling’ of grief every time she saw Geneviève’s pale and suffering face behind the green panes of The Old Elbeuf.

In the evening, Denise could not help thinking a great deal, on seeing the young ladies march off with their sweethearts. Those who did not sleep at The Ladies’ Paradise, disappeared until the next day, bringing back into their departments an outside odor, a sort of troubling, unknown impression. The young girl was sometimes obliged to reply with a smile to a friendly nod from Pauline, whom Baugé waited for every evening regularly at half-past eight, at the corner of the fountain in the Place Gaillon. Then, after having gone out the last and taken a furtive walk, always alone, she was invariably the first in, going upstairs to work, or to bed, her head filled with dreams, full of curiosity about this outdoor life, of which she knew nothing. She certainly did not envy the young ladies, she was happy in her solitude, in that unsociableness to which her timidity condemned her, as to a refuge; but her imagination carried her away, she tried to guess things, evoking the pleasures constantly described before her, the cafés, the restaurants, the theatres, the Sundays spent on the water and in the country taverns. This filled her with a mental weakness, a desire mingled with lassitude; and she seemed to be already tired of those amusements which she had never tasted.

However, there was but little room for these dangerous dreams in her daily working life. During the thirteen hours’ hard work in the shop, there was no time for any display of tenderness between the salesmen and the saleswomen. If the continual fight for money had not abolished the sexes, the unceasing press of business which occupied their minds and fatigued their bodies would have sufficed to kill all desire. But very few love-affairs had been known in the establishment amidst the hostilities and friendships between the men and the women, the constant elbowings from department to department. They were all nothing but the wheels, turned round by the immense machine, abdicating their personalities, simply contributing their strength to this commonplace, powerful total. It was only outside that they resumed their individual lives, with the abrupt flame of awakening passions.