once the rage for dress had seized them. As he was aware of Mouret's
acquaintance with the thief, he treated her with the utmost politeness.

“We excuse these moments of weakness, madame. But pray consider the
consequences of such a thing. Suppose some one else had seen you slip
this lace----”

But she interrupted him in great indignation. She a thief! Who did
he take her for? She was the Countess de Boves, her husband,
Inspector-General of the Stud, was received at Court.

“I know, I know, madame,” repeated Bourdoncle, quietly. “I have the
honour of knowing you. In the first place, will you kindly give up the
lace you have on you?”

She again protested, not allowing him to say another word, handsome in
her violence, going as far as tears. Any one else but he would have been
shaken and feared some deplorable mistake, for she threatened to go to
law to avenge herself for such an insult.

“Take care, sir, my husband will certainly appeal to the Minister.”

“Come, you are not more reasonable than the others,” declared
Bourdoncle, losing patience. “We must search you.”

Still she did not yield, but said with her superb assurance, “Very good,
search me. But I warn you, you are risking your house.”

Jouve went to fetch two saleswomen from the corset department. When
he returned, he informed Bourdoncle that the lady's daughter, left at
liberty, had not quitted the doorway, and asked if she should also
be detained, although he had not seen her take anything. The manager,
always correct, decided that she should not be brought in, for the sake
of morality, and in order not to force a mother to blush before her
daughter. The two men retired into a neighbouring room, whilst the
saleswomen searched the countess, even taking off her dress to search
her bosom and hips. Besides the twelve yards of Alençon point at a
thousand francs the yard concealed in her sleeve, they found in her
bosom a handkerchief, a fan, and a cravat, making a total of about
fourteen thousand francs' worth of lace. She had been stealing like this
for the last year, ravaged by a furious, irresistible passion for dress.
These fits got worse, growing daily, sweeping away all the reasonings of
prudence, and the enjoyment she felt in the indulgence of this passion
was all the more violent from the fact that she was risking before the
eyes of a crowd her name, her pride, and her husband's high position.
Now that the latter allowed her to empty his drawers, she stole although
she had her pockets full of money, she stole for the pleasure of
stealing, as one loves for the pleasure of loving, goaded on by desire,
urged on by the species of kleptomania that her unsatisfied luxurious
tastes had developed in her formerly at sight of the enormous and brutal
temptation of the big shops.

“It's a trap,” cried she, when Bourdoncle and Jouve came in. “This lace
has been placed on me, I swear before Heaven.”

She was now weeping tears of rage, and fell on a chair, suffocated in
her dress. The partner sent away the saleswomen, and resumed, with his
quiet air: “We are quite willing, madame, to hush up this painful
affair for the sake of your family. But you must first sign a paper thus
worded: 'I have stolen some lace from The Ladies' Paradise,' followed by
the details of the lace, and the day of the month. Besides, I shall be
happy to return you this document whenever you like to bring me a sum of
two thousand francs for the poor.”

She got up again, and declared in a fresh outburst: “I'll never sign
that, I'd rather die.”

“You won't die, madame; but I warn you that I shall shortly send for the
police.”

Then followed a frightful scene. She insulted him, she stammered that
it was cowardly for a man to torture a woman in that way. Her Juno-like
beauty, her tall majestic body was distorted by vulgar rage. Then she
tried to melt them, entreating them in the name of their mothers, and
spoke of dragging herself at their feet. And as they remained quite
unmoved, hardened by custom, she sat down all at once and began to write
with a trembling hand. The pen sputtered, the words: “I have stolen,”
 written madly, went almost through the thin paper, whilst she repeated
in a strangled voice: “There, sir, there. I yield to force.”

Bourdoncle took the paper, carefully folded it, and put it in a drawer,
saying: “You see it's in company, for ladies, after talking of dying
rather than signing, generally forget to come and redeem their _billets
doux_. However, I hold it at your disposal. You'll be able to judge
whether it's worth two thousand francs.”

She was buttoning up her dress, and became as arrogant as ever, now that
she had paid. “I can go now?” asked she, in a sharp tone.

Bourdoncle was already occupied with other business. On Jouve's report,
he decided on Deloche's dismissal, as a stupid fellow, who was always
being robbed, never having any authority over the customers. Madame
de Boves repeated her question, and as they dismissed her with an
affirmative nod, she enveloped both of them in a murderous look. In the
flood of insulting words that she kept back, a melodramatic cry escaped
from her lips.

“Wretches!” said she, banging the door after her.

Meanwhile Blanche had not gone far away from the office. Her ignorance
of what was going on inside, the passing backwards and forwards of Jouve
and the two saleswomen frightened her, she had visions of the police,
the assize court, and the prison. But all at once she stopped short: De
Vallagnosc was before her, this husband of a month, with whom she still
felt rather awkward; and he questioned her, astonished at her bewildered
appearance.

“Where's your mother? Have you lost each other? Come, tell me, you make
me feel anxious.”

Nothing in the way of a colourable fiction presented itself to her,
and in great distress she told him everything in a low voice: “Mamma,
mamma--she has been stealing.”

“What! stealing?” At last he understood. His wife's bloated face, the
pale mask, ravaged by fear, terrified him.

“Some lace, like that, up her sleeve,” she continued stammering.

“You saw her, then? You were looking on?” murmured he, chilled to feel
her a sort of accomplice.

They had to stop talking, several persons were already turning round. An
hesitation full of anguish kept De Vallagnosc motionless for a moment.
What was to be done? He was about to go into Bourdoncle's office, when
he perceived Mouret crossing the gallery. He told his wife to wait for
him, and seized his old friend's arm, informing him of the affair, in
broken sentences. The latter hastily took him into his office, where
he soon put him at rest as to the possible consequences. He assured him
that he need not interfere, and explained in what way the affair would
be arranged, without appearing at all excited about this robbery, as if
he had foreseen it long ago. But De Vallagnosc, when he no longer feared
an immediate arrest, did not accept the adventure with this admirable
coolness. He had thrown himself into an arm-chair, and now that he could
discuss the matter, began to lament his own unfortunate position. Was it
possible that he had married into a family of thieves? A stupid marriage
that he had drifted into, just to please his father! Surprised at this
childish violence, Mouret watched him weeping, thinking of his former
pessimist boasting. Had he not heard him announce scores of times the
nothingness of life, in which evil alone had any attraction? And by
way of a joke he amused himself for a minute or so, by preaching
indifference to his friend, in a friendly, bantering tone. But at this
De Vallognosc got angry: he was quite unable to recover his compromised
philosophy, his middle-class education broke out in virtuously indignant
cries against his mother-in-law. As soon as trouble fell on him, at
the least appearance of human suffering, at which he had always coldly
laughed, the boasted sceptic was beaten and bleeding. It was abominable,
they were dragging the honour of his race into the mud, and the world
seemed to be coming to an end.

“Come, calm yourself,” concluded Mouret, stricken with pity. “I won't
tell you that everything happens and nothing happens, because that does
not seem to comfort you just now. But I think you ought to go and offer
your arm to Madame de Boves, that would be wiser than causing a scandal.
The deuce! you who professed such scorn before the universal rascality
of the present day!”

“Of course,” cried De Vallagnosc, innocently, “when it affects other
people!”

However, he got up, and followed his old school-fellow's advice.
Both were returning to the gallery when Madame de Boves came out of
Bourdoncle's office. She accepted her son-in-law's arm with a majestic
air, and as Mouret bowed to her with respectful gallantry, he heard
her saying: “They've apologised to me. Really, these mistakes are
abominable.”

Blanche rejoined them, and they were soon lost in the crowd. Then
Mouret, alone and pensive, crossed the shop once more. This scene, which
had changed his thoughts from the struggle going on within him, now
increased his fever, and decided him to make a supreme effort. A vague
connection arose in his mind: the robbery by this unfortunate woman,
the last folly of the conquered customers, beaten at the feet of the
tempter, evoked the proud and avenging image of Denise, whose victorious
grip he could feel at his throat. He stopped at the top of the central
staircase, and gazed for a long time into the immense nave, where his
nation of women were swarming.

Six o'clock was about to strike, the daylight decreasing outside was
gradually forsaking the covered galleries, already dark and waning
at the further end of the halls, invaded by long shadows. And in this
daylight, barely extinct, was commenced the lighting of the electric
lamps, the globes of an opaque whiteness studding with bright moons
the distant depths of the departments. It was a white brightness of a
blinding fixity, extending like the reverberation of a discoloured star,
killing the twilight Then, when all were lighted, there was a delighted
murmur in the crowd, the great show of white goods assumed a fairy
splendour beneath this new illumination. It seemed that this colossal
orgie of white was also burning, itself becoming a light. The song of
the white seemed to soar upward in the inflamed whiteness of an aurora.
A white glimmer gushed from the linen and calico department in the
Monsigny Gallery, like the first bright gleam which lights up the
eastern sky; whilst along the Michodière Gallery, the mercery and
the lace, the fancy-goods and the ribbon departments threw out the
reflection of distant hills--the white flash of the mother-of-pearl
buttons, the silvered bronzes and the pearls. But the central nave
especially was filled with a blaze of white: the puffs of white muslin
round the columns, the white dimities and other stuffs draping the
staircases, the white lace flying in the air, opened up a dreamy
firmament, the dazzling whiteness of a paradise, where was being
celebrated the marriage of the unknown queen. The tent of the silk hall
was like a giant alcove, with its white curtains, gauzes and tulles, the
dazzle of which protected the bride in her white nudity from the gaze
of the curious. There was now nothing but this blinding white light
in which all the whites blended, a multitude of stars twinkling in the
bright clear light.

And Mouret continued to watch his nation of women, amidst this
shimmering blaze. Their black shadows stood out vigorously on the pale
ground-work. Long eddies divided the crowd; the fever of this day's
great sale swept past like a frenzy, rolling along the disordered sea
of heads. People were commencing to leave, the pillage of the stuffs had
encumbered all the counters, the gold was chinking in the tills; whilst
the customers went away, their purses completely empty, and their heads
turned by the wealth of luxury amidst which they had been wandering all
day. It was he who possessed them thus, keeping them at his mercy by
his continued display of novelties, his reduction of prices, and his
“returns,” his gallantry and his advertisements. He had conquered the
mothers themselves, reigning over them with the brutality of a despot,
whose caprices were ruining many a household. His creation was a sort of
new religion; the churches, gradually deserted by a wavering faith, were
replaced by this bazaar, in the minds of the idle women of Paris.
Women now came and spent their leisure time in his establishment,
the shivering and anxious hours they formerly passed in churches: a
necessary consumption of nervous passion, a growing struggle of the god
of dress against the husband, the incessantly renewed religion of the
body with the divine future of beauty. If he had closed his doors,
there would have been a rising in the street, the despairing cry of
worshippers deprived of their confessional and altar. In their still
growing luxury, he saw them, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour,
obstinately clinging to the enormous iron building, along the suspended
staircases and flying bridges. Madame Marty and her daughter, carried
away to the highest point, were wandering amongst the furniture.
Retained by her young people, Madame Bourdelais could not get away from
the fancy goods. Then came another group, Madame de Boves, still on De
Vallagnosc's arm, and followed by Blanche, stopping in each department,
still daring to examine the articles with her superb air. But amidst the
crowded sea of customers, this sea of bodies swelling with life, beating
with desire, all decorated with bunches of violets, as though for the
bridals of some sovereign, Mouret could now distinguish nothing but the
bare bust of Madame Desforges, who had stopped in the glove department
with Madame Guibal. Notwithstanding her jealous rancour, she was also
buying, and he felt himself to be the master once more, having them
at his feet, beneath the dazzle of the electric light, like a drove of
cattle from whom he had drawn his fortune.

With a mechanical step, Mouret went along the galleries, so absorbed
that he abandoned himself to the pushing of the crowd. When he raised
his head, he found himself in the new millinery department, the windows
of which looked on to the Rue du Dix-Décembre. And there, his forehead
against the glass, he made another halt, watching the departure of the
crowd. The setting sun was yellowing the roofs of the white houses, the
blue sky was growing paler, refreshed by a pure breath; whilst in the
twilight, which was already enveloping the streets, the electric lamps
of The Ladies' Paradise threw out that fixed glimmer of stars lighted on
the horizon at the decline of the day. Towards the Opera-house and the
Bourse were the rows of waiting carriages, the harness still retaining
the reflections of the bright light, the gleam of a lamp, the glitter
of a silvered bit Every minute the cry of a footman was heard, and a cab
drew near, or a brougham issued from the ranks, took up a customer, and
went off at a rapid trot. The rows of carriages were now diminishing,
six went off at a time, occupying the whole street, from the one side to
the other, amidst the banging of doors, snapping of whips, and the hum
of the passers-by, who swarmed between the wheels. There was a sort of
continual enlargement, a spreading of the customers, carried off to the
four corners of the city, emptying the building with the roaring clamour
of a sluice. And the roof of The Ladies' Paradise, the big golden
letters of the ensigns, the banners fluttering in the sky, still flamed
forth with the reflections of the setting sun, so colossal in this
oblique light, that they evoked the monster of advertising, the
phalansterium whose wings, incessantly multiplied, were swallowing up
the whole neighbourhood, as far as the distant woods of the suburbs.
And the soul of Paris, an enormous, sweet breath, fell asleep in the
serenity of the evening, running in long and sweet caresses over the
last carriages, spinning through the streets now becoming deserted by
the crowd, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

Mouret, gazing about, had just felt something grand in himself; and,
in the shiver of triumph with which his flesh trembled, in the face of
Paris devoured and woman conquered, he experienced a sudden weakness, a
defection of his strong will which overthrew him in his turn, beneath a
superior force It was an unreasonable necessity to be vanquished in
his victory, the nonsense of a warrior bending beneath the caprice of a
child, on the morrow of his conquests. He who had struggled for months,
who even that morning had sworn to stifle his passion, yielded all at
once, seized by the vertigo of high places, happy to commit what he
looked upon as a folly. His decision, so rapid, had assumed all at once
such energy that he saw nothing but her as being useful and necessary in
the world.

The evening, after the last dinner, he was waiting in his office,
trembling like a young man about to stake his life's happiness, unable
to keep still, incessantly going towards the door to listen to the
rumours in the shop, where the men were doing the folding, drowned up
to the shoulder in a sea of stuffs. At each footstep his heart beat.
He felt a violent emotion, he rushed forward, for he had heard in the
distance a deep murmur, which had gradually increased.

It was Lhomme slowly approaching with the day's receipts. That day they
were so heavy, there was such a quantity of silver and copper, that he
had been obliged to enlist the services of two messengers. Behind him
came Joseph and one of his colleagues, bending beneath the weight of
the bags, enormous bags, thrown on their shoulders like sacks of wheat,
whilst he walked on in front with the notes and gold, a note-book
swollen with paper, and two bags hung round his neck, the weight of
which swayed him to the right, the same side as his broken arm. Slowly,
perspiring and puffing, he had come from the other end of the shop,
amidst the growing emotion of the salesmen. The employees in the glove
and silk departments laughingly offered to relieve him of his burden,
the fellows in the drapery and woollen departments were longing to see
him make a false step, which would have scattered the gold through the
place. Then he had been obliged to mount the stairs, go across a bridge,
going still higher, turning about, amidst the longing looks of the
employees in the linen, the hosiery, and the mercery departments, who
followed him, gazing with ecstasy at this fortune travelling in the air.
On the first-floor the employees in the ready-made, the perfumery, the
lace, and the shawl departments were ranged with devotion, as on the
passage of a king. From counter to counter a tumult arose, like the
clamour of a nation bowing down before the golden calf.

Mouret opened the door, and Lhomme appeared, followed by the two
messengers, who were staggering; and, out of breath, he still had
strength to cry out: “One million two hundred and forty-seven francs,
nineteen sous!”

At last the million had been attained, the million picked up in a day,
and of which Mouret had so long dreamed. But he gave way to an angry
gesture, and said impatiently, with the disappointed air of a man
disturbed by some troublesome fellow: “A million! very good, put it
there.” Lhomme knew that he was fond of seeing the heavy receipts on
his table before they were taken to the central cashier's office. The
million covered the whole table, crushing the papers, almost overturning
the ink, running out of the sacks, bursting the leather bags, making a
great heap, the heap of the gross receipts, such as it had come from the
customers' hands, still warm and living.

Just as the cashier was going away, heart-broken at the governor's
indifference, Bourdoncle arrived, gaily exclaiming: “Ah! we've done it
this time. We've hooked the million, eh?”

But observing Mouret's febrile pre-occupation, he understood at once
and calmed down. His face was beaming with joy. After a short silence
he resumed: “You've made up your mind, haven't you? Well, I approve your
decision.”

Suddenly Mouret planted himself before him, and with his terrible voice
he thundered: “I say, my man, you're rather too lively. You think me
played out, don't you? and you feel hungry. But be careful, I'm not one
to be swallowed up, you know!”

Discountenanced by the sharp attack of this wonderful fellow, who
guessed everything, Bourdoncle stammered: “What now? Are you joking? I
who have always admired you so!”

“Don't tell lies!” replied Mouret, more violently than ever “Just
listen, we were stupid to entertain the superstition that marriage would
ruin us. Is it not the necessary health, the very strength and order of
life? Well, my dear fellow, I'm going to marry her, and I'll pitch you
all out at the slightest movement. Yes, you'll go and be paid like the
rest, Bourdoncle.”

And with a gesture he dismissed him. Bourdoncle felt himself condemned,
swept away, by this victory gained by woman. He went off. Denise was
just going in, and he bowed with a profound respect, his head swimming.

“Ah! you've come at last!” said Mouret gently.

Denise was pale with emotion. She had just experienced another grief,
Deloche had informed her of his dismissal, and as she tried to retain
him, offering to speak in his favour, he obstinately declined to
struggle against his bad luck, he wanted to disappear, what was the use
of staying? Why should he interfere with people who were happy? Denise
had bade him a sisterly adieu, her eyes full of tears. Did she not
herself long to sink into oblivion? Everything was now about to be
finished, and she asked nothing more of her exhausted strength than the
courage to support this separation. In a few minutes, if she could only
be valiant enough to crush her heart, she could go away alone, to weep
unseen.

“You wished to see me, sir,” she said in her calm voice. “In fact, I
intended to come and thank you for all your kindness to me.”

On entering, she had perceived the million on the desk, and the display
of this money wounded her. Above her, as if watching the scene, was the
portrait of Madame Hédouin, in its gilded frame, and with the eternal
smile of its painted lips.

“You are still resolved to leave us?” asked Mouret, in a trembling
voice.

“Yes, sir. I must!”

Then he took her hands, and said, in an explosion of tenderness, after
the long period of coldness he had imposed on himself: “And if I married
you, Denise, would you still leave?” But she had drawn her hands away,
struggling as if under the influence of a great grief. “Oh! Monsieur
Mouret. Pray say no more. Don't cause me such pain again! I cannot!
I cannot! Heaven is my witness that I was going away to avoid such a
misfortune!”

She continued to defend herself in broken sentences. Had she not already
suffered too much from the gossip of the house? Did he wish her to pass
in his eyes and her own for a worthless woman? No, no, she would
be strong, she would certainly prevent him doing such a thing. He,
tortured, listened to her, repeating in a passionate tone: “I wish it. I
wish it!”

“No, it's impossible. And my brothers? I have sworn not to marry. I
cannot bring you those children, can I?”

“They shall be my brothers, too. Say yes, Denise.”

“No, no, leave me. You are torturing me!”

Little by little he gave way, this last obstacle drove him mad. What!
She still refused even at this price! In the distance he heard the
clamour of his three thousand employees building up his immense fortune.
And that stupid million lying there! He suffered from it as a sort of
irony, he could have thrown it into the street.

“Go, then!” he cried, in a flood of tears. “Go and join the man you
love. That's the reason, isn't it? You warned me, I ought to have known
it, and not tormented you any further.” She stood there dazed before
the violence of this despair. Her heart was bursting. Then, with the
impetuosity of a child, she threw herself on his neck, sobbing also, and
stammered: “Oh! Monsieur Mouret, it's you that I love!”

A last murmur was rising from The Ladies' Paradise, the distant
acclamation of a crowd. Madame Hédouin's portrait was still smiling,
with its painted lips; Mouret had fallen on his desk, on the million
that he could no longer see. He did not quit Denise, but clasped her in
a desperate embrace, telling her that she could now go, that she could
spend a month at Valognes, which would silence everybody, and that he
would then go and fetch her himself, and bring her back, all-powerful,
and his wedded wife.

THE END.