Complete Works of Emile Zola (717 page)

Jean stood there with his mouth wide open, and all the color left his face. What! it was not right? And he could not understand, he had always treated his sister like a comrade, he thought it quite a natural thing to open his heart to her. But what choked him above all, was to learn she stopped up all night. The idea that he was killing her, and taking Pépé’s share as well, affected him so much that he began to cry.

“You’re right; I’m a scamp,” exclaimed he. “But it isn’t wicked, really, far from it, and that’s why one always does it! This woman, Denise, is twenty, and thought it such fun, because I’m only seventeen. Really now! I am quite furious with myself! I could slap my face!” He had taken her hands, and was kissing them and inundating them with tears. “Give me the fifteen francs, and this shall be the last time. I swear to you. Or rather — no! — don’t give me anything. I prefer to die. If the husband murders me it will be a good riddance for you.” And as she was crying as well, he was stricken with remorse. “I say that, but of course I’m not sure. Perhaps he doesn’t want to kill anyone. We’ll manage. I promise you that, darling. Good-bye, I’m off.”

But a sound of footsteps at the end of the corridor frightened them. She quickly drew him close to the grating, in a dark corner. For an instant they heard nothing but the hissing of a gas-burner near them. Then the footsteps drew nearer; and, on stretching out her neck, she recognized Jouve, the inspector, who had just entered the corridor, with his stiff military walk. Was he there by chance, or had someone at the door warned him of Jean’s presence? She was seized with such a fright that she knew not what to do; and she pushed Jean out of the dark spot where they were concealed, and drove him before her, stammering out: “Be off! Be off!”

Both galloped along, hearing Jouve behind them, for he also had began to run. They crossed the parcels office again, and arrived at the foot of the stairs leading out into the Rue de la Michodière.

“Be off!” repeated Denise, “be off! If I can, I’ll send you the fifteen francs all the same.”

Jean, bewildered, scampered away. The inspector, who came up panting, out of breath, could only distinguish a corner of his white blouse, and his locks of fair hair flying in the wind. He stood a moment to get his breath, and resume his correct appearance. He had on a brand-new white necktie, the large bow of which shone like a snow-flake.

“Well! this is nice behavior, mademoiselle!” said he, his lips trembling. “Yes, it’s nice, very nice! If you think I’m going to stand this sort of thing in the basement, you’re mistaken.”

And he pursued her with this whilst she was returning to the shop, overcome with emotion, unable to find a word of defense. She was sorry now she had run away. Why hadn’t she explained the matter, and brought her brother forward? They would now go and imagine all sorts of villainies, and say what she might, they would not believe her. Once more she forgot Robineau, and went straight to her counter. Jouve immediately went to the manager’s office to report the matter. But the messenger told him Monsieur Mouret was with Monsieur Bourdoncle and Monsieur Robineau; they had been talking together for the last quarter of an hour. In fact, the door was half-open, and he could hear Mouret gaily asking Robineau if he had had a pleasant holiday; there was not the least question of a dismissal — on the contrary, the conversation fell on certain things to be done in the department.

“Do you want anything, Monsieur Jouve?” exclaimed Mouret. “Come in.”

But a sudden instinct warned the inspector. As Bourdoncle had come out, he preferred to relate the affair to him. They slowly passed through the shawl department, walking side by side, the one leaning over and talking in a low tone, the other listening, not a sign on his severe face betraying his impressions.

“All right,” said the latter at last.

And as they had arrived close to the dress department, he went in. Just at that moment Madame Aurélie was scolding Denise. Where had she come from, again? This time she couldn’t say she had been to the work-room. Really, these continual absences could not be tolerated any longer.

“Madame Aurélie!” cried Bourdoncle.

He had decided on a bold stroke, not wishing to consult Mouret, for fear of some weakness. The first-hand came up, and the story was once more related in a low voice. They were all waiting in the expectation of some catastrophe. At last, Madame Aurélie turned round with a solemn air.

“Mademoiselle Baudu!” And her puffy emperor’s mask assumed the immobility of the all-powerful: “Go and be paid!”

The terrible phrase sounded very loud in the empty department. Denise stood there pale as a ghost, without saying a word. At last she was able to ask in broken sentences:

“Me! me! What for? What have I done?”

Bourdoncle replied, harshly, that she knew very well, that she had better not provoke any explanation; and he spoke of the cravats, and said that it would be a fine thing if all the young ladies received men down in the basement.

“But it was my brother!” cried she with the grievous anger of an outraged virgin.

Marguerite and Clara commenced to laugh. Madame Frédéric, usually so discreet, shook her head with an incredulous air. Always her brother! Really it was very stupid! Denise looked round at all of them: Bourdoncle, who had taken a dislike to her the first day; Jouve, who had stopped to serve as a witness, and from whom she expected no justice; then these girls whom she had not been able to soften by nine months of smiling courage, who were happy, in fact, to turn her out of doors. What was the good of struggling? what was the use of trying to impose herself on them when no one liked her? And she went away without a word, not even casting a last look towards this room where she had so long struggled. But as soon as she was alone, before the hall staircase, a deeper sense of suffering filled her grieved heart. No one liked her, and the sudden thought of Mouret had just deprived her of all idea of resignation. No! no! she could not accept such a dismissal. Perhaps he would believe this villainous story, this rendezvous with a man down in the cellars. At the thought, a feeling of shame tortured her, an anguish with which she had never before been afflicted. She wanted to go and see him, to explain the matter to him, simply to let him know the truth; for she was quite ready to go away as soon as he knew this. And her old fear, the shiver which chilled her when in his presence, suddenly developed into an ardent desire to see him, not to leave the house without telling him she had never belonged to another.

It was nearly five o’clock, and the shop was waking up into life again in the cool evening air. She quickly started off for Mouret’s office. But when she arrived at the door, a hopeless melancholy feeling again took possession of her. Her tongue refused its office, the intolerable burden of existence again fell on her shoulders. He would not believe her, he would laugh like the others, she thought; and this idea made her almost faint away. All was over, she would be better alone, out of the way, dead! And, without informing Pauline or Deloche, she went at once and took her money.

“You have, mademoiselle,” said the clerk, “twenty-two days; that makes eighteen francs and fourteen sous; to which must be added seven francs for commission. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

And Denise was going away with her money, when she at last met Robineau. He had already heard of her dismissal, and promised to find the necktie-dealer. In a lower tone he tried to console her, but lost his temper: what an existence, to be at the continual mercy of a whim! to be thrown out at an hour’s notice, without even being able to claim a full month’s salary. Denise went up to inform Madame Cabin, saying that she would try and send for her box during the evening. It was just striking five when she found herself on the pavement of the Place Gaillon, bewildered, in the midst of the crowd of people and cabs.

The same evening when Robineau got home he received a letter from the management informing him, in a few lines, that for certain reasons relating to the internal arrangements they were obliged to deprive themselves of his services. He had been in the house seven years, and it was only that afternoon that he was talking to the principals; this was a heavy blow for him. Hutin and Favier were crowing in the silk department, as loudly as Clara and Marguerite in the dress one. A jolly good riddance! Such clean sweeps make room for the others! Deloche and Pauline were the only ones to regret Denise’s departure, exchanging, in the rush of business, bitter words of regret at losing her, so kind, so well behaved.

“Ah,” said the young man, “if ever she succeeds anywhere else, I should like to see her come back here, and trample on the others; a lot of good-for-nothing creatures!”

It was Bourdoncle who in this affair had to bear the brunt of Mouret’s anger. When the latter heard of Denise’s dismissal, he was exceedingly annoyed. As a rule he never interfered with the staff; but this time he affected to see an encroachment on his power, an attempt to over-ride his authority. Was he no longer master in the place, that they dared to give orders? Everything must pass through his hands, absolutely everything; and he would immediately crush anyone who should resist. Then, after making personal inquiries, all the while in a nervous torment which he could not conceal, he lost his temper again. This poor girl was not lying; it was really her brother. Campion had fully recognized him. Why was she sent away, then? He even spoke of taking her back.

However, Bourdoncle, strong in his passive resistance, bent before the storm. He watched Mouret, and one day when he saw him a little calmer, ventured to say in a meaning voice: “It’s better for everybody that she’s gone.”

Mouret stood there looking very awkward, the blood rushing to his face. “Well!” replied he, laughing, “perhaps you’re right. Let’s go and take a turn down stairs. Things are looking better, we took nearly a hundred thousand francs yesterday”

CHAPTER VII

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 neighborhood, 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 recognize 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 recognized it, with its two low storeys, and rusty-colored 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 discolored doors.