The Ladies' Paradise (BBC tie-in) (Oxford World's Classics) (54 page)

Nowadays, in the evening, when he arrived at Lhomme’s cash-desk he would still, from habit, look at the amount of the takings, written on a card which the cashier stuck on an iron spike at his side; this figure rarely fell below a hundred thousand francs, and sometimes it rose to eight or nine hundred thousand on days when there were special displays; but it no longer sounded in his ears like a trumpet call. He would regret having looked at it, for it left him with a feeling of bitterness, hatred, and contempt for money.

Yet Mouret’s sufferings were to become even greater. He became jealous. One morning, in his office before the board meeting, Bourdoncle ventured to hint to him that that little girl in the ladieswear department was making a fool of him.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, very pale.

‘It’s true! She has lovers right here in the shop.’

Mouret still had the strength to smile.

‘I don’t think about her any more, old man. You can tell me whatever you like … Who are they, these lovers?’

‘Hutin, so I’m told, and a salesman in the lace department, Deloche, that big, stupid boy … I can’t swear to it, I haven’t seen them together. But apparently there’s no doubt about it!’

There was a silence. Mouret pretended to arrange the papers on his desk so as to hide the trembling of his hands. Finally, without looking up, he said:

‘We must have proof, try and get me some proof… As far as I’m concerned, as I said, I don’t give a damn, I got fed up with her. But we can’t tolerate that sort of thing in the shop.’

Bourdoncle simply replied:

‘Don’t worry, you’ll have proof one of these days. I’m keeping my eyes open.’

After that Mouret’s peace of mind was completely shattered. He did not have the courage to raise the matter again, and he lived in continuous expectation of a catastrophe which would really break his heart. His anguish made him quite terrifying; the whole shop trembled. He no longer wished to hide behind Bourdoncle and, feeling an urge to be spiteful, would carry out executions himself, relieving his feelings by abusing his power—that power which could do nothing to satisfy his sole desire. Each tour of inspection turned into a massacre; no sooner did he appear than a shudder of panic spread from counter to counter. The winter slack season was just beginning, and he made a clean sweep of the departments, piling up victims and pushing them out into the street. His first thought had been to get rid of Hutin and Deloche; then he had thought that if he did not keep them he would never discover anything; and so others suffered in their stead—the whole staff felt threatened. In the evening, when he was alone again, his eyes would fill with tears.

One day, in particular, terror reigned. A shopwalker thought he had seen Mignot, the glover, stealing. There were always a lot of strange-looking girls prowling around his counter, and one of them had just been arrested, her hips and bosom padded with sixty pairs of gloves. From then on a careful watch was kept, and the shopwalker caught Mignot red-handed, facilitating the sleight of hand of a tall blonde girl, a former salesgirl at the Louvre who had ended up on the street. Their technique was simple: he would pretend to be trying gloves on her, waiting until she had padded herself up, and would then conduct her to a cash-desk where she would pay for one pair only. Mouret happened to be there when this happened. Usually he preferred not to become involved in incidents of this kind, which were frequent; for, although it ran like a well-oiled machine, great disorder reigned in certain departments of the Ladies’s Paradise, and not a week passed without an employee being dismissed for stealing. The management preferred to hush up these incidents, considering it pointless to call in the police, for by so doing they would have been exposing one of the fatal weaknesses of the big stores. But, on that particular day, Mouret had an urge to lose his
temper, and he dealt very violently with the ‘Handsome’ Mignot who, his face pale and drawn, was trembling with fear.

‘I ought to call a policeman,’ Mouret was shouting, surrounded by the other salesmen. ‘Answer me! Who is this woman? I swear I’ll send for the police if you don’t tell me the truth.’

The woman had been led away, and two salesgirls were undressing her. Mignot stammered:

‘I’ve never seen her before, sir… She’s the one who came …’

‘Don’t lie to me!’ interrupted Mouret, becoming even more violent. ‘And no one warned us! You’re all in this together! We’re in a regular den of thieves, robbed, pillaged, looted! It’s enough to make me have everyone’s pockets searched before they leave!’

There were audible murmurs. The three or four customers who were buying gloves looked on in amazement.

‘Be quiet!’ he went on furiously, ‘or I’ll clear the shop!’

But Bourdoncle had come running up, worried at the idea of a scandal. He murmured a few words in Mouret’s ear, as the affair was becoming exceptionally serious; and he persuaded him to take Mignot into the shopwalkers’ office, which was situated on the ground floor near the Rue Gaillon entrance. The woman was there, calmly putting her corset on again. She had just mentioned the name of Albert Lhomme. Mignot, questioned again, lost his head and began to sob: he was not to blame, it was Albert who sent his mistresses to him; to begin with, he had just given them preferential treatment, allowing them to take advantage of bargains; then, when they had ended up stealing, he was already too deeply involved to inform the management. Then they learned of a whole series of extraordinary thefts: how goods were carried off by prostitutes who went and attached them beneath their petticoats in the luxurious lavatories, surrounded by green plants, near the buffet; how a salesman would omit to call out a sale at a cash-desk when he was conducting a customer there, and how he would share the price of it with the cashier; how there were even false ‘returns’, goods which were said to have been sent back to the shop, so that the money falsely refunded could be pocketed; not to mention the classic technique
of simply taking parcels out of the shop in the evening underneath an overcoat, twisted round a waist, or sometimes even hanging down someone’s thighs. Thus, thanks to Mignot and doubtless to other salesmen whom he refused to name, Albert’s cash-desk had been the focus for all sorts of shady dealings for the last fourteen months, a really shameless business, and the exact sums involved were never known.

Meanwhile, the news had spread through the departments. Uneasy consciences began to tremble, and even the most honest among them stood in dread of the clean sweep Mouret was making. Albert had been seen disappearing into the shopwalkers’ office. Then Lhomme had gone in, red in the face, already choking with apoplexy. Next, Madame Aurélie herself had been summoned; she was holding her head high in her shame and her face was pale, with the flabby puffiness of a wax mask. The argument went on for some time; no one knew precisely what happened: it was said that the buyer from the ladieswear department had slapped her son’s face, and that his poor old father had wept; while the governor, abandoning his usual graciousness and swearing like a trooper, had insisted on handing over the guilty parties to justice. However, the scandal was hushed up. Only Mignot was dismissed on the spot. Albert did not disappear until two days later; no doubt his mother had obtained a promise that the family should not be dishonoured by an immediate execution. But the panic had lasted for several more days, for after this scene Mouret had walked from one end of the shop to the other with a terrible look in his eye, firing immediately all those who dared even to raise their eyes.

‘What are you doing there, sir, watching flies? Proceed to the pay-desk!’

One day the storm burst over the head of Hutin himself. Favier, appointed assistant buyer, was undermining the buyer so as to take over his position. He was using the usual tactics—sending secret reports to the management, taking advantage of every opportunity to have the head of the department caught doing something wrong. Thus, one morning as Mouret was going through the silk department, he stopped, surprised to see Favier altering the price tickets of a whole stock of black velvet.

‘Why are you lowering the prices?’ he asked. ‘Who gave you the order to do that?’

The assistant buyer, who was making a great fuss over the job, as if he had wanted to catch the governor’s attention as he went by, replied with an air of innocent surprise:

‘Oh, it was Monsieur Hutin, sir.’

‘Monsieur Hutin! Well, where is Monsieur Hutin?’

When the latter had returned from the reception desk downstairs, where a salesman had been sent to fetch him, he was immediately called to account. What! He was now reducing prices on his own initiative! But he appeared greatly astonished in his turn, having merely discussed the reduction with Favier, without giving a definite order. At this the latter put on the distressed air of an employee who feels obliged to contradict his superior. However, he would gladly take the blame, if it would get him out of a fix. Things now began to look very bad.

‘You really must understand, Monsieur Hutin,’ shouted Mouret, ‘that I’ve never tolerated such attempts at independence … Only the management decides on prices!’

He continued to berate Hutin in a very harsh voice, which surprised the salesmen, for this kind of argument usually took place in private, and in any case it might really be the result of a misunderstanding. They could feel that he wanted to relieve some unavowed grudge. So at last he had caught him out, this man Hutin, who was supposed to be Denise’s lover! Now he could relieve his feelings a bit, by making him fully aware that he was the master! And he exaggerated the whole affair, ending up by insinuating that the price reductions hid certain dishonest intentions.

‘I intended to refer this reduction to you, sir,’ repeated Hutin. ‘It’s really necessary, as you know, because these velvets haven’t been selling well.’

Mouret cut him short with a final sharp remark.

‘Very well, sir, we’ll look into the matter … But don’t do it again, if you value your job.’

And he walked off. Hutin, stunned and furious, had only Favier to relieve his feelings on; he swore to him that he would go and fling his resignation in that brute’s face. Then he stopped talking about leaving, and merely raked up all the atrocious
accusations which salesmen were always making against their employers. Favier, his eyes shining, defended himself, making a great show of his sympathy. He had been obliged to reply, hadn’t he? And how could anyone have anticipated such a fuss about nothing? What was the matter with the governor lately? He really was impossible.

‘Oh! We all know what’s the matter with him,’ Hutin went on. ‘It isn’t my fault if that whore in the ladieswear department is driving him crazy! … You see, old chap, that’s what it’s all about. He knows I’ve slept with her, and he doesn’t like it; or else, she wants to have me kicked out because I make things difficult for her … I can tell you she’ll know about it if she comes my way.’

Two days later, when Hutin had gone upstairs to the workroom, which was up in the attics, to give some instructions to a seamstress, he gave a slight start on seeing Denise and Deloche at the end of a corridor, leaning against an open window, and so deep in conversation that they did not look round. He noticed with surprise that Deloche was weeping, and it suddenly occurred to him that he’d caught them unawares. He withdrew silently, and, bumping into Bourdoncle and Jouve on the stairs, he told them some story about one of the fire-extinguishers which looked as if its door had been pulled off; this would make them go upstairs and run into the other two. Bourdoncle saw them first. He stopped short, and told Jouve to go and fetch the governor while he waited there. The shopwalker was forced to obey, very annoyed at finding himself involved in an affair of this kind.

They were in an out-of-the-way corner of the vast world in which the multitudes in the Ladies’ Paradise came and went. It was reached by a complicated network of stairs and corridors. The series of work-rooms in the attics had low, sloping ceilings, lit by broad bay windows cut out of the zinc roof and furnished only with long tables and huge iron stoves; there were lingerie-makers, lace-makers, upholsterers, and dressmakers, who lived there winter and summer in stifling heat, in the midst of the smells peculiar to their trades; and in order to reach this remote part of the shop it was necessary to go right through that wing of the building, turn to the left after the dressmakers, and go up five
steps. The rare customers who were sometimes taken there by a salesman for something they had ordered would recover their breath, exhausted and anxious, feeling that they had been going round and round for hours and were a hundred miles away from the street.

Several times already Denise had found Deloche waiting for her. As assistant buyer she was in charge of the department’s dealings with the work-rooms where only models were made and alterations carried out; she was always going upstairs to give instructions. He would look out for her, inventing some pretext to walk after her; then he would pretend to be surprised when he met her at the work-room door. She had ended up by laughing about it; the meetings had become almost an accepted thing. The corridor ran along the side of the cistern, an enormous metal tank which contained sixty thousand litres of water; and there was another one of equal size on the roof, reached by an iron ladder. Deloche would stand talking for a moment, leaning one shoulder against the cistern, for his huge body was always exhausted and bent with fatigue. There were sounds of water, mysterious sounds which gave the metal of the tank a musical vibration. In spite of the utter silence Denise would look round anxiously, thinking she saw a shadow move across the bare walls covered in bright yellow paint. But soon the window would attract them; they would lean their elbows on the sill, and forget themselves in pleasant chatter, in endless reminiscences of the country where they had spent their childhood. Beneath them extended the immense glazed roof of the central gallery, a lake of glass bounded by the distant housetops, as if by rocky coasts. And beyond they could see nothing but the sky, an expanse of sky which, with its flights of clouds and its delicate azure blue, was mirrored in the still water of the window-panes.