In the silk department, Robineau's return had provoked quite a revolution. The salesmen had hoped that, disgusted with the annoyances they were incessantly causing him, he would not return; and, in fact, there was a moment, when pressed by Vinçard to take over his business, he had almost decided to do so. Hutin's secret working, the mine he had been laying under the second-hand's feet for months past, was about to be sprung. During Robineau's holidays, Hutin, who had taken his place as second-hand, had done his best to injure him in the minds of the principals, and get possession of his situation by an excess of zeal; he discovered and reported all sorts of trifling irregularities, suggested improvements, and invented new designs. In fact, every one in the department, from the unpaid probationer, longing to become a salesman, up to the first salesman who coveted the situation of manager, they all had one fixed idea, and that was to dislodge the comrade above them, to ascend another rung of the ladder, swallowing him up if necessary; and this struggle of appetites, this pushing the one against the other, even contributed to the better working of the machine, provoking business and increasing tenfold the success which was astonishing Paris. Behind Hutin, there was Favier; then behind Favier came the others, in a long line. One heard a loud noise as of jaw-bones working. Robineau was condemned, each one was grabbing after his bone. So that when the second-hand reappeared there was a general grumbling. The matter had to be settled, the salesmen's attitude appeared so menacing, that the head of the department had sent Robineau to the stock-room, in order to give the authorities time to come to a decision.
“We would sooner all leave, if they keep him,” declared Hutin.
This affair bothered Bouthemont, whose gaiety ill-accorded with such an internal vexation. He was pained to see nothing but scowling faces around him. However, he wished to be just “Come, leave him alone, he doesn't hurt you.”
But they protested energetically. “What! doesn't hurt us! An insupportable object, always irritable, capable of walking over your body, he's so proud!”
This was the great bitterness of the department Robineau, nervous as a woman, was intolerably stiff and susceptible. They related scores of stories, a poor little fellow who had fallen ill through it, and lady customers even who had been humiliated by his nasty remarks.
“Well, gentlemen, I won't take anything on myself,” said Bouthemont. “I've notified the directors, and am going to speak about it shortly.”
The second lunch-bell rang, the clang of which came up from the basement, distant and deadened in the close air of the shop. Hutin and Favier went down. From all the counters, the salesmen were arriving one by one, helter-skelter, hastening below to the narrow entrance to the kitchen, a damp passage always lighted with gas. The throng pushed forward, without a laugh or a word, amidst an increasing noise of crockery and a strong odour of food. At the extremity of the passage there was a sudden halt, before a wicket. Flanked with piles of plates, armed with forks and spoons, which he was plunging in the copper-pans, a cook was distributing the portions. And when he stood aside, the flaring kitchen could be seen behind his white-covered belly.
“Of course!” muttered Hutin, consulting the bill of fare, written on a black-board above the wicket. “Beef and pungent sauce, or skate. Never any roast meat in this rotten shop! Their boiled beef and fish don't do a bit of good to a fellow!” Moreover, the fish was universally neglected, for the pan was quite full. Favier, however, took some skate. Behind him, Hutin stooped down, saying: “Beef and pungent sauce.” With a mechanical movement, the cook picked up a piece of meat, and poured a spoonful of sauce over it; and Hutin, suffocated by the ardent breath from the kitchen, had hardly got his portion, before the words, “Beef, pungent sauce; beef, pungent sauce,” followed each other like a litany; whilst the cook continued to pick up the meat and pour over the sauce, with the rapid and rhythmical movement of a well-regulated clock.
“But the skate's cold,” declared Favier, whose hand felt no warmth from the plate.
They were all hurrying along now, with their plates held out straight, for fear of running up against one another. Ten steps further was the bar, another wicket with a shiny zinc counter, on which were ranged the shares of wine, small bottles, without corks, still damp from rinsing. And each took one of these bottles in his empty hand as he passed, and then, completely laden, made for his table with a serious air, careful not to spill anything.