That day Bouthemont was the first to arrive at Madame Desforges's four o'clock tea. Still alone in her large Louis XVI. drawing-room, the brasses¹ and brocatelle of which shone out with a clear gaiety, the latter rose with an air of impatience², saying, “Well?”
 
“Well,” replied the young man, “when I told him I should doubtless call on you he formally promised me to come.”
 
“You made him thoroughly³ understand that I counted on the baron⁴ to-day?”
 
“Certainly. That's what appeared to decide him.”
 
They were speaking of Mouret, who the year before had suddenly taken such a liking⁵ to Bouthemont that he had admitted him to share his pleasures, and had even introduced him to Henriette, glad to have an agreeable fellow always at hand to enliven an intimacy⁶ of which he was getting tired. It was thus that Bouthemont had ultimately become the confidant of his governor and of the handsome widow; he did their little errands, talked of the one to the other, and sometimes reconciled them. Henriette, in her jealous fits, abandoned herself to a familiarity which sometimes surprised and embarrassed him, for she lost all her lady-like prudence⁷, using all her art to save appearances.
 
She resumed violently, “You ought to have brought him. I should have been sure then.”
 
“Well,” said he, with a good-natured laugh, “it isn't my fault if he escapes so frequently now. Oh! he's very fond of me, all the same. Were it not for him I should be in a bad way at the shop.”
 
His situation at The Ladies' Paradise was really menaced since the last stock-taking. It was in vain that he adduced the rainy season; one could not overlook the considerable stock of fancy silks; and as Hutin was improving the occasion, undermining him with the governors with an increase of sly rage, he felt the ground cracking under him. Mouret had condemned⁸ him, weary, no doubt, of this witness who prevented him breaking with Henriette, tired of a familiarity which was profitless. But, in accordance with his usual tactics, he was pushing Bourdoncle forward; it was Bourdoncle and the other partners who insisted on his dismissal at each board meeting; whilst he resisted still, according to his account, defending his friend energetically, at the risk of getting into serious trouble with the others.
 
“Well, I shall wait,” resumed Madame Desforges. “You know that girl is coming here at five o'clock, I want to see them face to face. I must discover their secret.”
 
And she returned to this long-meditated plan. She repeated in her fever that she had requested Madame Aurélie to send her Denise to look at a mantle¹⁰ which fitted badly. When she had once got the young girl in her room, she would find a means of calling Mouret, and could then act. Bouthemont, who had sat down opposite her, was gazing at her with his fine laughing eyes, which he endeavoured to render grave. This jovial¹¹, dissipated fellow, with his coal-black beard, whose warm Gascon blood empurpled his cheeks, was thinking that these fine ladies were not much good, and that they let out a nice lot of secrets, when they opened their hearts. His friend's mistresses, simple shop-girls, certainly never made more complete confessions¹².
 
“Come,” he ventured to say at last, “what does that matter to you? I swear to you there is nothing whatever between them.”
 
“Just so,” cried she, “because he loves her! I don't care in the least for the others, chance acquaintances, friends of a day!”
 
She spoke¹³ of Clara with disdain¹⁴. She was well aware that Mouret, after Denise's refusal, had fallen back on this tall, redhaired girl, with the horse's head, doubtless by calculation; for he maintained her in the department, loading her with presents. Not only that, for the last three months he had been leading: a terrible life, squandering¹⁵ his money with a prodigality¹⁶ which caused a great many remarks; he had bought a mansion¹⁷ for a worthless actress, and was being ruined by two or three other jades¹⁸, who seemed to be struggling to outdo each other in costly¹⁹, stupid caprices.
 
“It's this creature's fault,” repeated Henriette. “I feel sure he's ruining himself with the others because she repulses²⁰ him. Besides, what's his money to me? I should have loved him better poor. You know how I love him, you who have become our friend.”
 
She stopped, choked, ready to burst into tears; and with a movement of abandon she held out her two hands to him. It was true, she adored Mouret for his youth and his triumphs, never had any man thus conquered her so entirely²³ in a quiver of her flesh and of her pride; but at the thought of losing him, she also heard the knell²⁴ of her fortieth year, and she asked herself with terror how she should replace this great love.
 
“I'll have my revenge,” murmured she. “I'll have my revenge, if he behaves badly!”
 
Bouthemont continued to hold her hands in his. She was still handsome. But she would be a very awkward mistress, thought he, and he did not like that style of woman. The thing, however, deserved thinking over; perhaps it would be worth while risking certain annoyances²⁵.
 
“Why don't you set up for yourself?” she asked all at once, drawing her hands away.
 
He was astonished. Then he replied: “But it would require an immense sum. Last year I had an idea in my head. I feel convinced that there are customers enough in Paris for one or two more big shops; but the district would have to be chosen. The Bon Marche has the left side of the river; the Louvre occupies the centre; we monopolise, at The Paradise, the rich west-end district. There remains²⁶ the north, where a rival to the Place Clichy could be created. And I had discovered a splendid position, near the Opera House——”
 
“Well?”
 
He set up a noisy laugh. “Just fancy. I was stupid enough to go and talk to my father about it Yes, I was simple enough to ask him to find some shareholders²⁷ at Toulouse.”
 
And he gaily²⁸ described the anger of the old man, enraged²⁹ against the great Parisian bazaars³⁰, in his little country shop. Old Bouthemont, suffocated³¹ by the thirty thousand francs a year earned by his son, had replied that he would give his money and that of his friends to the hospitals rather than contribute a sou to one of those shops which were the pests of the drapery business.
 
“Besides,” continued the young man, “it would require millions.”
 
“Suppose they were found?” observed Madame Desforges, simply.
 
He looked at her, serious all at once. Was it not merely a jealous woman's word? But she did not give him time to question her, adding: “In short, you know what a great interest I take in you. We'll talk about it again.”
 
The outer bell had rung. She got up, and he, himself, with an instinctive³³ movement, drew back his chair, as if they might have been surprised. A silence reigned³⁴ in the drawingroom, with its pretty hangings, and decorated with such a profusion³⁵ of green plants that there was quite a small wood between the two windows. She stood there waiting, with her ear towards the door.
 
“There he is,” she murmured.
 
The footman announced Monsieur Mouret and Monsieur de Vallagnosc. Henriette could not restrain a movement of anger. Why had he not come alone? He must have gone after his friend, fearful of a tête-à-tête with her. However, she smiled and shook hands with the two men.
 
“What a stranger you are getting. I may say the same for you, Monsieur de Vallagnosc.”
 
Her great grief was to be becoming stout³⁶, and she squeezed herself into tight black silk dresses, to conceal³⁷ her increasing obesity³⁸. However, her pretty face, with her dark hair, preserved its amiable³⁹ expression. And Mouret could familiarly tell her, enveloping⁴⁰ her with a look:
 
“It's useless to ask how you are. You are as fresh as a rose.”
 
“Oh! I'm almost too well,” replied she. “Besides, I might have died; you would have known nothing about it.”
 
She was examining him also, and thought him looking tired and nervous, his eyes heavy, his complexion⁴¹ livid.
 
“Well,” she resumed, in a tone which she endeavoured to render agreeable, “I cannot return the compliment; you don't look at all well to-day.”
 
“Overwork!” remarked De Vallagnosc.
 
Mouret shrugged⁴² his shoulders, without replying. He had just perceived Bouthemont, and nodded to him in a friendly way. During the time of their close intimacy he used to take him away direct from the department, bringing him to Henriette's during the busiest moments of the afternoon. But times had changed; he said to him in a half whisper: “You went away rather early. They noticed your departure, and are furious about it.”
 
He referred to Bourdoncle and the other persons who had an interest in the business, as if he were not himself the master.
 
“Ah!” murmured Bouthemont, rather anxious.
 
“Yes, I want to talk to you. Wait for me, we'll leave together.”
 
Meanwhile, Henriette had sat down again; and while listening to De Vallagnosc, who was announcing that Madame de Boves would probably pay her a visit, she did not take her eyes off Mouret. The latter, silent again, gazed at the furniture, seemed to be looking for something on the ceiling. Then as she laughingly complained that she had only gentlemen at her four o'clock tea, he so far forgot himself as to blurt⁴³ out:
 
“I expected to find Baron Hartmann here.”
 
Henriette turned pale. No doubt she knew he came to her house solely⁴⁴ to meet the baron; but he might have avoided throwing his indifference⁴⁵ in her face like this. At that moment the door had opened and the footman was standing⁴⁶ behind her. When she had interrogated⁴⁷ him by a sign, he leant over her and said in a very low tone:
 
“It's for that mantle. You wished me to let you know. The young lady is there.”
 
Then Henriette raised her voice, so as to be heard. All her jealous suffering found relief in the following words, of a scornful harshness:
 
“She can wait!”
 
“Shall I show her into your dressing-room?”
 
“No, no. Let her stay in the ante-room!”
 
And when the servant had gone out she quietly resumed her conversation with De Vallagnosc. Mouret, who had relapsed into his former lassitude, had listened with a careless, distracted air, without understanding. Bouthemont, preoccupied⁴⁸ by the adventure, was reflecting. But almost immediately after the door was opened again, and two ladies were shown in.
 
“Just fancy,” said Madame Marty, “I was alighting at the door, when I saw Madame de Boves coming under the arcade⁴⁹.”
 
“Yes,” explained the latter, “it's a fine day, and my doctor says I must take walking exercise.”
 
Then, after a general hand-shaking, she asked Henriette:
 
“You're engaging a new maid, then?”
 
“No,” replied the other, astonished. “Why?”
 
“Because I've just seen a young girl in the ante-room.” Henriette interrupted her, laughing. “It's true; all these shop-girls look like ladies' maids, don't they? Yes, it's a young person come to alter a mantle.”
 
Mouret looked at her intently, a suspicion crossing his mind. She went on with a forced gaiety, explaining that she had bought mantle at The Ladies' Paradise the previous week.
 
“What!” asked Madame Marty, “have you deserted⁵⁰ Sauveur then?”
 
“No my dear, but I wished to make an experiment. Besides, I was pretty well satisfied with a first purchase, a travelling cloak. But this time it has not succeeded at all. You may say what you like, one is horribly trussed up in the big shops. I speak out plainly, even before you, Monsieur Mouret; you will never know how to dress a woman with the slightest claim to distinction.”
 
Mouret did not defend his house, still keeping his eyes on her, thinking to himself that she would never have dared to do such a thing. And it was Bouthemont who had to plead the cause of The Ladies' Paradise.
 
“If all the aristocratic ladies who patronise us announced the fact,” replied he, gaily, “you would be astonished at our customers. Order a garment to measure at our place, it will equal one from Sauveur's, and will cost but half the money. But there, just because it's cheaper it's not so good.”
 
“So it doesn't fit, this mantle you speak of?” resumed Madame de Boves. “Ah! now I remember the young person. It's rather dark in your ante-room.”
 
“Yes,” added Madame Marty, “I was wondering where I had seen that figure. Well, go, my dear, don't stand on ceremony with us.”
 
Henriette assumed a look of disdainful unconcern. “Oh, presently, there is no hurry.”
 
The ladies continued to discuss the articles from the big shops. Then Madame de Boves spoke of her husband, who, she said, had gone to inspect the breeding depot⁵¹ at Saint-Lô; and just then Henriette was relating that through the illness of an aunt Madame Guibal had been suddenly called into Franche-Comté. Moreover, she did not reckon that day on Madame Bourdelais, who at the end of every month shut herself up with a needlewoman to look over her young people's under-linen. But Madame Marty seemed agitated⁵² with some secret trouble. Her husband's position at the Lycée Bonaparte was menaced, in consequence of lessons given by the poor man in certain doubtful institutions where a regular trade was carried on with the B.A. diplomas; the poor fellow picked up a pound where he could, feverishly⁵³, in order to meet the ruinous expenses which pillaged⁵⁴ his household; and his wife, on seeing him weeping one evening in the fear of a dismissal, had conceived the idea of getting her friend Henriette to speak to a director at the Ministry⁵⁵ of Public Instruction with whom she was acquainted. Henriette finished by quieting her with a few words. It was understood that Monsieur Marty was coming himself to know his fate and to thank her.
 
“You look ill, Monsieur Mouret,” observed Madame de Boves.
 
“Overwork!” repeated De Vallagnosc, with his ironical⁵⁶ phlegm.
 
Mouret quickly got up, as if ashamed at forgetting himself thus. He went and took his accustomed place in the midst of the ladies, summoning up all his agreeable talent. He was now occupied with the winter novelties, and spoke of a considerable arrival of lace; and Madame de Boves questioned him as to the price of Bruges lace: she felt inclined to buy some. She had now got so far as to economise the thirty-sous for a cab, often going home quite ill from the effects of stopping before the windows. Draped in a mantle which was already two years old she tried, in imagination, on her queenly shoulders all the dearest things she saw; and it was like tearing her flesh away when she awoke and found herself dressed in her patched, old dresses, without the slightest hope of ever satisfying her passion.
 
“Baron Hartmann,” announced the man-servant.
 
Henriette observed with what pleasure Mouret shook hands with the new arrival. The latter bowed to the ladies and looked at the young man with that subtle expression which sometimes illumined his big Alsatian face.
 
“Always plunged⁵⁷ in dress!” murmured he, with a smile. Then, like a friend of the house, he ventured to add, “There's a charming young girl in the ante-room. Who is it?”
 
“Oh, nobody,” replied Madame Desforges, in her ill-natured voice. “Only a shop-girl waiting to see me.”
 
But the door remained half open, the servant was bringing in the tea. He went out, came in again, placed the china service on the table, then some plates of sandwiches and biscuits. In the vast room, a bright light, softened⁵⁸ by the green plants, illuminated⁵⁹ the brass-work, bathing the silk hangings in a tender flame; and each time the door was opened one could perceive an obscure corner of the ante-room, which was only lighted by two ground-glass windows. There, in the darkness, appeared a sombre form, motionless and patient. It was Denise, still standing up; there was a leather-covered form there, but a feeling of pride prevented her sitting down on it. She felt the insult keenly. She had been there for the last half-hour, without a gesture, without a word. The ladies and the baron had taken stock of her in passing; she could now hear the voices from the drawingroom. All this amiable luxury wounded her with its indifference, and still she did not move. Suddenly, through the half-open door, she perceived Mouret, and he, on his side, had at last guessed it to be her.
 
“Is it one of your saleswomen?” asked Baron Hartmann.
 
Mouret had succeeded in concealing⁶⁰ his great agitation⁶¹; but his voice trembled somewhat with emotion: “No doubt; but I don't know which.”
 
“It's the little fair girl from the ready-made department,” replied Madame Marty, obligingly, “the second-hand⁶², I believe.”
 
Henriette looked at Mouret in her turn.
 
“Ah!” said he, simply.
 
And he tried to change the conversation, speaking of the fêtes given to the King of Prussia then passing through Paris. But the baron returned maliciously⁶³ to the young ladies in the big establishments. He affected⁶⁴ to be desirous of gaining information, and put several questions: Where did they come from in general? Was their conduct as bad as it was said to be? Quite a discussion ensued.
 
“Really,” he repeated, “you think them well behaved.”
 
Mouret defended their virtue⁶⁵ with a conviction which made De Vallagnosc smile. Bouthemont then interfered⁶⁶, to save his chief. Of course there were some of all sorts, bad and good. Formerly⁶⁸ they had nothing but the refuse of the trade, a poor, vague class of girls drifted into the drapery business; whilst now, such respectable families as those living in the Rue²² de Sèvres, for instance, positively⁶⁹ brought up their girls for the Bon Marche. In short, when they liked to conduct themselves well, they could, for they were not, like the work-girls of Paris, obliged to board and lodge⁷⁰ themselves; they had bed and board, their existence was provided for, an existence excessively hard, no doubt. The worst of all was their neutral, badly-defined position, between the shop-woman and the lady. Thrown into the midst of luxury, often without any previous instruction, they formed a singular, nameless class. Their misfortunes and vices⁷¹ sprung from that.
 
“I,” said Madame de Boves, “I don't know any creatures more disagreeable. Really, one could slap them sometimes.”
 
And the ladies vented⁹ their spite. They devoured⁷² each other before the shop-counters; it was a question of woman against woman in the sharp rivalry⁷³ of money and beauty. It was an ill-natured jealousy⁷⁴ felt by the saleswomen towards the well-dressed customers, the ladies whose manners they tried to imitate, and a still stronger feeling on the part of the poorly-dressed customers, the lower-class ones, against the saleswomen, those girls dressed in silk, from whom they would have liked to exact a servant's humility⁷⁵ when serving a ten sou purchase.
 
“Don't speak of them,” said Henriette, by way of conclusion, “a wretched lot of beings ready to sell themselves the same as their goods.”
 
Mouret had the strength to smile. The baron was looking at him, so touched by his graceful⁷⁶ command over himself that he changed the conversation, returning to the fêtes to be given to the King of Prussia, saying they would be superb, the whole trade of Paris would profit by them. Henriette remained silent and thoughtful, divided between the desire to forget Denise in the ante-room, and the fear that Mouret, now aware of her presence, might go away. At last she quitted her chair.
 
“You will allow me?”
 
“Certainly, my dear,” replied Madame Marty. “I'll do the honours of the house for you.”
 
She got up, took the teapot, and filled the cups. Henriette turned towards Baron Hartmann, saying: “You'll stay a few minutes, won't you?”
 
“Yes; I want to speak to Monsieur Mouret. We are going to invade your little drawing-room.”
 
She went out, and her black silk dress, rustling⁷⁷ against the door, produced a noise like that of a snake wriggling⁷⁸ through the brushwood. The baron at once manoeuvred to carry Mouret off, leaving the ladies to Bouthemont and De Vallagnosc. Then they stood talking before the window of the other room in a low tone. It was quite a fresh affair. For a long time Mouret had cherished a desire to realise his former project, the invasion of the whole block by The Ladies' Paradise, from the Rue Monsigny to the Rue de la Michodière and from the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin to the Rue du Dix-Décembre. There was still a vast piece of ground, in the latter street, remaining to be acquired, and that sufficed to spoil his triumph, he was tortured with the desire to complete his conquest, to erect⁷⁹ there a sort of apotheosis⁸⁰, a monumental façade. As long as his principal entrance should remain in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, in a dark street of old Paris, his work would be incomplete, wanting in logic⁸¹. He wished to set it up before new Paris, in one of these modern avenues through which passed the busy crowd of the latter part of the nineteenth century. He saw it dominating, imposing⁸² itself as the giant palace of commerce, casting a greater shadow over the city than the old Louvre itself. But up to the present he had been baulked by the obstinacy⁸³ of die Crédit Immobilier, which still held to its first idea of building a rival to the Grand Hôtel on this land. The plans were ready, they were only waiting for the clearing of the Rue du Dix-Décembre to commence the work. At last, by a supreme⁸⁴ effort, Mouret had almost convinced Baron Hartmann.
 
“Well!” commenced the latter, “we had a board-meeting yesterday, and I came to-day, thinking I should meet you, and being desirous of keeping you informed. They still resist.” The young man gave way to a nervous gesture. “But it's ridiculous. What do they say?”
 
“Dear me! they say what I have said to you myself, and what I am still inclined to think. Your façade is only an ornament⁸⁵, the new buildings would only extend by about a tenth the surface of your establishment, and it would be throwing away immense sums on a mere³² advertisement.”
 
At this Mouret burst out “An advertisement! an advertisement! In any case this will be in stone and outlive all of us. Just consider that it would increase our business tenfold! We should see our money back in two years. What matters about what you call the wasted ground, if this ground returns you an enormous interest! You will see the crowd, when our customers are no longer obliged to struggle through the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, but can freely pass down a thoroughfare large enough for six carriages abreast⁸⁶.”
 
“No doubt,” replied the baron, laughing. “But you are a poet in your way, let me tell you once more. These gentlemen think it would be dangerous to further extend your business.' They want to be prudent⁸⁷ for you.”
 
“What do they mean? Prudent! I don't understand. Don't the figures show the constant progression of our business? At first, with a capital of five hundred thousand francs, I did business to the extent of two millions, turning the capital over four times. It then became four million francs, which, turned over ten times, has produced business to the extent of forty millions. In short, after successive increases, I have just learnt, from the last stock-taking, that the amount of business done now amounts to a total of eighty millions; thus the capital, only slightly increased—for it does not exceed six millions—has passed over our counters in the form of more than twelve times.”
 
He raised his voice, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the palm of his left hand, knocking down these millions as he would have cracked a few nuts. The baron interrupted him.
 
“I know, I know. But you don't hope to keep on increasing in this way, do you?”
 
“Why not?” asked Mouret, ingenuously⁸⁸. “There's no reason why it should stop. The capital can be turned over as often as fifteen times. I predicted as much long ago. In certain departments it can be turned over twenty-five or thirty times. And after? well! after, we'll find a means of turning it over more than that.”
 
“So you'll finish by drinking up all the money in Paris, as you'd drink a glass of water?”
 
“Most decidedly. Doesn't Paris belong to the women, and don't the women belong to us?”
 
The baron laid his hands on Mouret's shoulders, looking at him with a paternal⁹⁰ air. “Listen, you're a fine fellow, and I am really fond of you. There's no resisting you. We'll go into the matter seriously, and I hope to make them listen to reason. Up to the present, we are perfectly⁹¹ satisfied with you. Your dividends⁹² astonish the Bourse. You must be right; it will be better to put more money into your business, than to risk this competition with the Grand Hôtel, which is hazardous⁹³.”
 
Mouret's excitement subsided⁹⁴ at once; he thanked the baron, but without any of his usual enthusiasm; and the latter saw him turn his eyes towards the door of the next room, again seized with the secret anxiety which he was concealing. However, De Vallagnosc had come up, understanding that they had finished talking business. He stood close to them, listening to the baron, who was murmuring with the gallant⁹⁵ air of an old man who h............