Complete Works of Emile Zola (722 page)

“Come on, Colomban, you can dine with us. No one will come.”

Denise had not noticed the shopman. Her aunt explained to her that they had been obliged to get rid of the other salesman and the young lady. Business was getting so bad that Colomban sufficed; and even he spent many idle hours, drowsy, falling off to sleep with his eyes open. The gas was burning in the dining room, although they were enjoying long summer days. Denise slightly shivered on entering, seized by the dampness falling from the walls. She once more beheld the round table, the places laid on the American cloth, the window drawing its air and light from the dark and fetid back yard. And these things appeared to her to be gloomier than ever, and tearful like the shop.

“Father,” said Geneviève, uncomfortable for Denise’s sake, “shall I close the window? there’s rather a bad smell.”

He smelt nothing, and seemed surprised. “Shut the window if you like,” replied he at last. “But we sha’n’t get any air then.”

And indeed they were almost stifled. It was a family dinner, very simple. After the soup, as soon as the servant had served the boiled beef, the old man as usual commenced about the people opposite. At first he showed himself very tolerant, allowing his niece to have a different opinion.

“Dear me! you are quite free to support these great hair-brained houses. Each one has his ideas, my girl. If you were not disgusted at being so disgracefully chucked out you must have strong reasons for liking them; and even if you went back again, I should think none the worse of you. No one here would be offended, would they?”

“Oh, no!” murmured Madame Baudu.

Denise quietly gave her reasons, as she had at Robineau’s: the logical evolution in business, the necessities of modern times, the greatness of these new creations, in short, the growing well-being of the public. Baudu, his eyes opened, and his mouth clamming, listened with a visible tension of intelligence. Then, when she had finished, he shook his head.

“That’s all phantasmagoria, you know. Business is business, there’s no getting over that. I own that they succeed, but that’s all. For a long time I thought they would smash up; yes, I expected that, waiting patiently — you remember? Well, no, it appears that now-a-days thieves make fortunes, whilst honest people die of hunger. That’s what we’ve come to. I’m obliged to bow to facts. And I do bow, on my word, I do bow!” A deep anger was gradually rising within him. All at once he flourished his fork. “But The Old Elbeuf will never give way! I said as much to Bourras, you know, Neighbor, you’re going over to the cheapjacks; your paint and your varnish are a disgrace.”

“Eat your dinner!” interrupted Madame Baudu, feeling anxious, on seeing him so excited.

“Wait a bit, I want my niece thoroughly to understand my motto. Just listen, my girl: I’m like this decanter, I don’t budge. They succeed, so much the worse for them! As for me, I protest — that’s all!”

The servant brought in a piece of roast veal. He cut it up with his trembling hands; but he no longer had his correct glance, his skill in weighing the portions. The consciousness of his defeat deprived him of the confidence he used to have as a respected employer. Pépé thought his uncle was getting angry, and they had to pacify him, by giving him some dessert, some biscuits which were near his plate. Then Baudu, lowering his voice, tried to talk of something else. For a moment he spoke of the demolitions going on, approving of the Rue du Dix-Décembre, the cutting of which would certainly improve the business of the neighborhood. But then again he returned to The Ladies’ Paradise; everything brought him back to it, it was a kind of complaint. They were covered with plaster, and business was stopped since the builders’ carts had commenced to block up the street. It would soon be really ridiculous, in its immensity; the customers would lose themselves. Why not have the central markets at once? And, in spite of his wife’s supplicating looks, notwithstanding his own effort, he went on from the works to the amount of business done in the big shop. Was it not inconceivable? In less than four years they had increased their figures five-fold; the annual receipts, formerly eight million francs, now attained the sum of forty millions, according to the last balance-sheet. In fact it was a piece of folly, a thing that had never been seen before, and against which it was perfectly useless to struggle. They were always increasing, they had now a thousand employees and twenty-eight departments. These twenty-eight departments enraged him more than anything else. No doubt they had duplicated a few, but others were quite new; for instance a furniture department, and a department for fancy goods. The idea! Fancy goods! Really these people were not at all proud, they would end by selling fish. Baudu, though affecting to respect Denise’s opinions, attempted to convert her.

“Frankly, you can’t defend them. What would you say were I to add a hardware department to my cloth business? You would say I was mad. Confess, at least, that you don’t esteem them.”

And as the young girl simply smiled, feeling uncomfortable, understanding the uselessness of good reasons, he resumed: “In short, you are on their side. We won’t talk about it any more, for it’s useless to let that part us again. It would be too much to see them come between me and my family! Go back with them, if you like; but pray don’t worry me with any more of their stories!”

A silence ensued. His former violence was reduced to this feverish resignation. As they were suffocating in the narrow room, heated by the gas-burner, the servant had to open the window again; and the damp, pestilential air from the yard blew into the apartment. A dish of stewed potatoes appeared, and they helped themselves slowly, without a word.

“Look at those two,” recommenced Baudu, pointing with his knife to Geneviève and Colomban. “Ask them if they like your Ladies’ Paradise.”

Side by side in the usual place where they had found themselves twice a-day for the last twelve years, the engaged couple were eating in moderation, and without uttering a word. He, exaggerating the coarse good-nature of his face, seemed to be concealing, behind his drooping eyelashes, the inner flame which was devouring him; whilst she, her head bowed lower beneath her too heavy hair, seemed to be giving way entirely, as if ravaged by a secret grief.

“Last year was very disastrous,” explained Baudu, “and we have been obliged to postpone the marriage, not for our own pleasure; ask them what they think of your friends.”

Denise, in order to pacify him, interrogated the young people.

“Naturally I can’t be very fond of them,” replied Geneviève. “But never fear, everyone doesn’t detest them.”

And she looked at Colomban, who was rolling up some bread-crumbs with an absorbed air. When he felt the young girl’s gaze directed towards him, he broke out into a series of violent exclamations: “A rotten shop! A lot of rogues, every man-jack of them! A regular pest in the neighborhood!”

“You hear him!’ You hear him!” exclaimed Baudu, delighted. “There’s one they’ll never get hold of! Ah! my boy, you’re the last of the old stock, we sha’n’t see any more!”

But Geneviève, with her severe and suffering look, still kept her eyes on Colomban, diving into the depths of his heart. And he felt troubled, he redoubled his invectives. Madame Baudu was watching them with an anxious air, as if she foresaw another misfortune in this direction. For some time her daughter’s sadness had frightened her, she felt her to be dying. “The shop is left to take care of itself,” said she at last, quitting the table, desirous of putting an end to the scene. “Go and see, Colomban; I fancy I heard someone.”

They had finished, and got up. Baudu and Colomban went to speak to a traveler, who had come for orders. Madame Baudu carried Pépé off to show him some pictures. The servant had quickly cleared the table, and Denise was lounging by the window, looking into the little back yard, when turning round she saw Geneviève still in her place, her eyes fixed on the American cloth, which was still damp from the sponge having been passed over it.

“Are you suffering, cousin?” she asked.

The young girl did not reply, obstinately studying a rent in the cloth, too preoccupied by the reflections passing through her mind. Then she raised her head with pain, and looked at the sympathizing face bent over hers. The others had gone, then? What was she doing on this chair? And suddenly a flood of sobs stifled her, her head fell forward on the edge of the table. She wept on, wetting her sleeve with her tears.

“Good heavens! what’s the matter with you?” cried Denise in dismay. “Shall I call someone?”

Geneviève nervously seized her by the arm, and held her back, stammering: “No, no, stay. Don’t let mamma know! With you I don’t mind; but not the others — not the others! It’s not my fault, I assure you. It was on finding myself all alone. Wait a bit; I’m better, and I’m not crying now.”

But sudden attacks kept seizing her, causing her frail body to tremble. It seemed as though the weight of her hair was weighing down her head. As she was rolling her poor head on her folded arms, a hair-pin came out, and her hair fell over her neck, burying it in its folds. Denise, quietly, for fear of attracting attention, tried to console her. She undid her dress, and was heart-broken on seeing how fearfully thin she was. The poor girl’s bosom was as hollow as that of a child. Denise took the hair by handfuls, that superb head of hair which seemed to be absorbing all her life, and twisted it up, to clear it away, and give her a little air.

“Thanks, you are very kind,” said Geneviève. “Ah! I’m not very stout, am I? I used to be stouter, but it’s all gone away. Do up my dress or mamma might see my shoulders. I hide them as much as I can. Good heavens! I’m not at all well, I’m not at all well.”

However, the attack passed away, and she sat there completely worn out, looking fixedly at her cousin. After a pause she abruptly asked: “Tell me the truth: does he love her?”

Denise felt a blush rising to her cheek. She was perfectly well aware that Geneviève referred to Colomban and Clara; but she pretended to be surprised.

“Who, dear?”

Geneviève shook her head with an incredulous air. “Don’t tell falsehoods, I beg of you. Do me the favor of setting my doubts at rest. You must know, I feel it. Yes, you have been this girl’s comrade, and I’ve seen Colomban run after you, and talk to her in a low voice. He was giving you messages for her, wasn’t he? Oh! for pity’s sake, tell me the truth; I assure you it will do me good.”

Never had Denise been in such an awkward position. She lowered her eyes before this almost dumb girl, who yet guessed all. However, she had the strength to deceive her still. “But it’s you he loves!”

Geneviève turned away in despair. “Very well, you won’t tell me anything. However, I don’t care, I’ve seen them. He’s continually going outside to look at her. She, upstairs, laughs like a bad woman. Of course they meet out of doors.”

“As for that, no, I assure you!” exclaimed Denise, forgetting herself, carried away by the desire to give her, at least, that consolation.

The young girl drew a long breath, and smiled feebly. Then with the weak voice of a convalescent: “I should like a glass of water. Excuse me if I trouble you. Look, over there in the sideboard.”

When she got hold of the bottle, she drank a large glassful right off, keeping Denise away with one hand, the latter being afraid Geneviève might do herself harm.

“No, no, let me be; I’m always thirsty. In the night I get up to drink.” There was a fresh silence. Then she went on again quietly: “If you only knew, I’ve been accustomed to the idea of this marriage for the last ten years. I was still wearing short dresses, when Colomban was courting me. I hardly remember how things have come about. By always living together, being shut up here together, without any other distractions between us, I must have ended by believing him to be my husband before he really was. I didn’t know whether I loved him. I was his wife, and that’s all. And now he wants to go off with another girl! Oh, heavens! my heart is breaking! You see, it’s a grief that I’ve never felt before. It hurts me in the bosom, and in the head; then it spreads everywhere, and is killing me.”

Her eyes filled with tears. Denise, whose eyelids were also wet with pity, asked her: “Does my aunt suspect anything?”

“Yes, mamma has her suspicions, I think. As to papa, he is too worried, and does not know the pain he is causing me by postponing this marriage. Mamma has questioned me several times, greatly alarmed to see me pining away. She has never been very strong herself, and has often said: “My poor child, I’ve not made you very strong.” Besides, one doesn’t grow much in these shops. But she must find me getting really too thin now. Look at my arms; would you believe it?”

And with a trembling hand she again took up the water bottle. Her cousin tried to prevent her drinking.

“No, I’m so thirsty, let me drink.”

They could hear Baudu talking in a loud voice. Then yielding to an inspiration of her tender heart, Denise knelt down before Geneviève, throwing her arms round her neck, kissing her, and assuring her that everything would turn out all right, that she would marry Colomban, that she would get well, and live happily. But she got up quickly, her uncle was calling her.

“Jean is here. Come along.”

It was indeed Jean, looking rather scared, who had come to dinner. When they told him it was striking eight, he looked amazed. Impossible! He had only just left his master’s. They chaffed him. No doubt he had come by way of the Bois de Vincennes. But as soon as he could get near his sister, he whispered to her: “It’s a little laundry-girl who was taking back some linen. I’ve got a cab outside by the hour. Give me five francs.”

He went out a minute, and then returned to dinner, for Madame Baudu would not hear of his going away without taking, at least, a plate of soup. Geneviève had reappeared in her usual silent and retiring manner. Colomban was half asleep behind the counter. The evening passed away, slow and melancholy, only animated by Baudu’s step, as he walked from one end of the empty shop to the other. A single gas-burner was alight — the shadow of the low ceiling fell in large masses, like black earth from a ditch.