Complete Works of Emile Zola (691 page)

Then, the chorus was sung afresh. The architect, with his mouth wide open, gave out the first line. Clotilde struck a chord, and uttered her cry. And the other voices burst forth, the uproar increased little by little, and spread with a violence which scared the candles and caused the ladies to turn pale. Trublot, having been found wanting among the basses, was being tried a second time as a barytone. The five tenors were much noticed, Octave especially, to whom Clotilde regretted being unable to give a solo. When the voices fell, and she had applied the soft pedal, imitating the cadenced and distant footsteps of a departing patrol, the applause was deafening, and she, together with the gentlemen, had every praise showered upon them. And at the farthest end of the adjoining room, right behind a triple row of men in evening dress, one beheld Duveyrier clenching his teeth so as not to cry aloud with anguish, with his mouth all on one side, and his festering eruptions almost bleeding.

The tea coming next, unrolled the same procession, distributed the same cups and the same sandwiches. For a moment, the Abbé Mauduit found himself once more in the middle of the deserted drawing-room. He looked, through the wide open door, on the crush of guests; and vanquished, he smiled, he again cast the mantle of religion over this corrupt middle-class society, like a master of the ceremonies draping the canker, to stave off the final decomposition. He must save the Church, as heaven had not answered his cry of misery and despair.

At length, the same as on every Saturday, when midnight struck, the guests began to withdraw. Campardon was among the first to leave, with the other Madame Campardon. Léon and Madame Dambreville were not long in maritally following them. Verdier’s back had long ago disappeared, when Madame Josserand went off with Hortense, bullying her for what she called her romantic obstinacy. Uncle Bachelard, very drunk from the punch he had taken, detained Madame Juzeur a moment at the door, finding her advice full of experience quite refreshing. Trublot, who had stolen some sugar for Adèle, was making for the passage leading to the kitchen, when the presence of Berthe and Auguste in the anteroom embarrassed him, and he pretended to be looking for his hat.

But, just at this minute, Octave and his wife, escorted by Clotilde, also came out and asked for their wraps. There ensued a few seconds of embarrassment. The anteroom was not large, Berthe and Madame Mouret were pressed against each other, whilst Hippolyte was searching for their things. They both smiled. Then, when the door was opened, the two men, Octave and Auguste, brought face to face, did the polite, each stepping aside. At length, Berthe consented to pass out first, after an exchange of bows. And Valérie, who was leaving in her turn with Théophile, again looked at Octave in the affectionate way of a disinterested friend. He and she alone might have told each other everything.

“Good-bye,” repeated Clotilde graciously to the two families, before returning to the drawing-room.

Octave stopped short. He had just caught sight on the next floor of the partner, the neat little fair fellow, taking his departure like the rest, and whose hands Saturnin, who had just left Marie, was pressing in an outburst of savage tenderness, stuttering the while: “Friend — friend — friend — “ A singular feeling of jealousy at first darted through him. Then, he smiled. It was the past; and he again recalled his amours, all his campaign of Paris, the complaisances of that good little Pichon, the repulse he received from Valérie of whom he preserved a pleasant recollection, his stupid connection with Berthe which he regretted as pure waste of time. Now, he had transacted his business, Paris was conquered; and he gallantly followed her whom in his heart he still styled Madame Hédouin, every now and then stooping to see that the train of her dress did not catch in the stair-rods.

The house had once more resumed its grand air of middle-class dignity. He fancied he could hear Marie’s distant and expiring ballad. Beneath the porch he met Jules coming in: Madame Vuillaume was at death’s door and refused to see her daughter. Then, that was all, the doctor and the priest retired last and still arguing; Trublot had slyly gone up to Adèle to attend to her; and the deserted staircase slumbered in a heavy warmth with its chaste doors enclosing respectable alcoves. One o’clock was striking, when Monsieur Gourd, whom Madame Gourd was snugly awaiting in bed, turned out the gas. Then, the whole house lapsed into silent darkness, as though annihilated by the decency of its sleep. Nothing remained, life resumed its level of indifference and stupidity.

On the following morning, Adèle dragged herself down to her kitchen, so as to allay suspicion. A thaw had set in during the night, and she opened the window, feeling stifled, when Hippolyte’s voice rose furiously from the depths of the narrow courtyard.

“You dirty hussies! Who has been emptying her slops out of the window again? Madame’s dress is quite spoilt!”

He had hung out one of Madame Duveyrier’s dresses given him to brush, and he found it all spattered with sour broth. Then, from the top to the bottom, the servants appeared at their windows and violently exculpated themselves. The sluice was open and a rush of the most abominable words flowed from the foul spot. In times of thaw, the walls were steeped with humidity, and quite a pestilence ascended from the obscure little courtyard, all the hidden corruptions of the different floors seeming to melt and ooze out by this common sewer of the house.

“It wasn’t me,” said Adèle leaning out. “I’ve only just come.”

Lisa abruptly raised her head.

“Hallo! so you’re on your legs again. Well what was the matter?
Is it true you almost croaked?”

“Oh! yes, I had such colics, and not at all funny, I can tell you!”

This put a stop to the quarrel. Valérie and Berthe’s new servants, a big camel and a little jade, as they were termed, looked curiously at Adèle’s pale face. Victoire and Julie also wished to see her, and stretched their necks, and leant their heads back. They all had an idea there was something wrong, for it was unnatural to have such gripes and yell out as she did.

“Perhaps you’ve had something which didn’t agree with you,” said Lisa.

The others burst out laughing, another rush of foul language overflowed, whilst the wretched creature, awfully frightened, stammered:

“Hold your tongues, with your nasty words! I’m quite ill enough as it is.You don’t want to finish me off, do you?”

No, of course not. She was as stupid as stupid could be, and dirty enough to disgust a whole neighbourhood; but they all held too closely together to wish to bring her into any trouble. And they naturally turned to abusing their masters and mistresses; they criticised the party of the previous evening with looks of profound repugnance.

“So they’ve all made it up again now?
”
asked Victoire as she sipped her glass of syrup and brandy.

Hippolyte, who was wiping madame’s dress, replied:

“They’ve no more heart than my shoes. When they’ve spat in one another’s faces, they wash themselves with it, to make one believe they’re clean.”

“They must manage to agree somehow or other,” said Lisa. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t take long before our turn came.”

But there was a moment of panic. A door opened, and the servants were already diving back into their kitchens, when Lisa announced that it was only little Angèle: there was nothing to fear with her, she understood. And, from the foul spout, there again arose all the rancour of the domestics in the midst of the poisonous stench caused by the thaw. There was a grand spreading out of all the dirty linen of the last two years. It was quite consoling not to be ladies and gentlemen, when one beheld the masters and mistresses living in the midst of it all, and apparently enjoying it, as they were preparing to go through it all again.

“Eh! I say, you, up there!” suddenly shouted Victoire, “was it with Mug-askew that you had what didn’t agree with you?”

At this, a ferocious yell of delight quite shook the stinking cesspool. Hippolyte actually tore madame’s dress; but he did not care, it was far too good for her as it was! The big camel and the little jade were bent over the hand-rails of their windows, wriggling in a mad burst of laughter. Adèle, however, who was quite scared, and who was half asleep through weakness, started, and she retorted in the midst of the jeers:

“You’re all of you heartless things. When you’re dying, I’ll come and dance at your bedsides.”

“Ah! mademoiselle,” resumed Lisa, leaning out to speak to Julie, “how happy you must feel at leaving such a wretched house in a week! On my word, one becomes wicked here in spite of oneself. I wish you a better home in your next place.”

Julie, her arms bare, and dripping with the blood from a turbot she had been just cleaning for that evening’s dinner, returned to the window beside the footman. She shrugged her shoulders and concluded with this philosophical reply:

“Dear me! mademoiselle, here or there, they’re all alike. In the present day, whoever has been in the one has been in the other. It’s all Filth and Company.”

THE END

THE LADIES’ PARADISE

Translated by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly

Au Bonheur des Dames
was first serialised in the periodical
Gil Blas
and published in book form by Charpentier in 1883. Set amid the backdrop of a department store, the novel charts the growth of this innovative development in mid-nineteenth century retail sales. During the novel’s composition, Zola visited many retail premises in Paris to aid his research, choosing the store Le Bon Marché as his main model, which housed under one roof a variety of goods that were previously sold in separate shops. Detailing many of Le Bon Marché’s innovations, including its mail-order business, its system of commissions and its complex network of purchasing and retailing goods,
Au Bonheur des Dames
is a comprehensive study of the rapidly changing world of retail.

The novel is a sequel to
Pot-Bouille
, which also concerns the charming Octave Mouret, who at the end of the previous novel had married Caroline Hédouin, the owner of a small silk shop. Now a widower — his wife perishing under somewhat dubious circumstances — Octave has expanded the business into an international retail powerhouse occupying almost an entire street. 

The novel tells the story of Denise Baudu, a young woman from Valognes in Normandy, who comes to Paris with her young brothers in search of employment. In awe of the magnificent shop on her arrival, Denise feels compelled to take a position there, in spite of the heartfelt disapproval of her uncle, a draper opposite to the ‘Paradise’, who has since fallen on hard times due to Mouret’s success.  Nevertheless, Denise is unable to resist the temptation of the Ladies’ Paradise, finding herself arriving there early to apply for a position the following day.

One of the many department stores in Paris that Zola researched during the writing of this novel

Le Bon Marché (‘the good market’) the model for the Ladies’ Paradise — one the world’s first department stores