All the morning this crush went on increasing. Towards one o'clock there was a crowd waiting to enter; the street was blocked as in a time of riot. Just at that moment, as Madame de Boves and her daughter Blanche were standing on the pavement opposite, hesitating, they were accosted by Madame Marty, also accompanied by her daughter Valentine.
“What a crowd—eh?” said the former. “They're killing themselves inside. I ought not to have come, I was in bed, but got up to get a little fresh air.”
“Just like me,” said the other. “I promised my husband to go and see his sister at Montmartre. Then just as I was passing, I thought of a piece of braid I wanted. I may as well buy it here as anywhere else, mayn't I? Oh, I sha'n't spend a sou! in fact I don't want anything.”
However, they did not take their eyes off the door, seized and carried away as it were by the force of the crowd.
“No, no, I'm not going in, I'm afraid,” murmured Madame de Boves. “Blanche, let's go away, we should be crushed.” But her voice failed, she was gradually yielding to the desire to follow the others; and her fear dissolved in the irresistible attraction of the crush. Madame Marty was also giving way, repeating:
“Keep hold of my dress, Valentine. Ah, well! I've never seen such a thing before. You are lifted off your feet. What will it be like inside?”
The ladies, seized by the current, could not now go back. As streams attract to themselves the fugitive waters of a valley, so it seemed that the wave of customers, flowing into the vestibule, was absorbing the passers-by, drinking in the population from the four corners of Paris. They advanced but slowly, squeezed almost to death, kept upright by the shoulders and bellies around them, of which they felt the close heat; and their satisfied desire enjoyed the painful entrance which incited still further their curiosity. There was a pell-mell of ladies arrayed in silk, of poorly dressed middle-class women, and of bare-headed girls, all excited and carried away by the same passion. A few men buried beneath the overflow of bosoms were casting anxious glances around them. A nurse, in the thickest of the crowd, held her baby above her head, the youngster crowing with delight. The only one to get angry was a skinny woman, who broke out into bad words, accusing her neighbour of digging right into her.
“I really think I shall lose my skirts in this crowd,” remarked Madame de Boves.
Mute, her face still fresh from the open air, Madame Marty was standing on tip-toe to see above the others' heads into the depths of the shop. The pupils of her grey eyes were as contracted as those of a cat coming out of the broad daylight; she had the reposed flesh, and the clear expression of a person just waking up.
“Ah, at last!” said she, heaving a sigh.