This affair amused the ladies. Mouret, rather vexed, merely said: “Old Jouve has been floored this time. He'll have his revenge.”
“Oh!” replied De Vallognosc, “I don't think he's equal to it. Besides, why do you display such a quantity of goods? It serves you right, if you are robbed. You ought not to tempt these poor, defenceless women so.”
This was the last word, which sounded like the sharp note of the day, in the growing fever of the establishment. The ladies then separated, crossing the crowded departments for the last time. It was four o'clock, the rays of the setting sun were darting through the large windows in the front, lighting up crossways the glazed roofs of the halls, and in this red, fiery light sprung up, like a golden vapour, the thick dust raised by the circulation of the crowd. A broad ray ran along the grand central gallery, showing up on a flaming ground the staircases, the flying bridges, all the network of suspended iron. The mosaics and the terra-cotta of the friezes sparkled, the green andred paint were lighted up by the fire of the masses of gold scattered everywhere. It was like a red-hot furnace, in which the displays were now burning, the palaces of gloves and cravats, the clusters of ribbons and lace, the lofty piles of linen and calico, the diapered parterres in which flourished the light silks and foulards. The exhibition of parasols, with their shield-like roundness, threw out a sort of metallic reflection. In the distance were a lot of lost counters, sparkling, swarming with a moving crowd, ablaze with sunshine.
And at this last moment, amidst this over-warmed air, the women reigned supreme. They had taken the whole place by storm, camping there as in a conquered country, like an invading horde installed amongst the overhauling of the goods. The salesmen, deafened, knocked up, were now nothing but their slaves, of whom they disposed with a sovereign's tyranny. Fat women elbowed their way through the crowd. The thinnest ones took up a lot of space, and became quite arrogant. They were all there, with heads high and abrupt gestures, quite at home, without the slightest politeness one for the other, using the house as much as they could, even carrying away the dust from the walls. Madame Bourdelais, desirous of making up for her expenditure, had again taken her children to the refreshment bar; the crowd was now pushing about there in a furious way, even the mothers were gorging themselves with Malaga; they had drunk since the opening eighty quarts of syrup and seventy bottles of wine. After having bought her travelling cloak, Madame Desforges had managed to secure some pictures at the pay-desk; and she went away scheming to get Denise into her house, where she could humiliate her before Mouret himself, so as to see their faces and arrive at a conclusion. Whilst Monsieur de Boves succeeded in losing himself in the crowd and disappearing with Madame Guibal, Madame de Boves, followed by Blanche and De Vallagnosc, had had the fancy to ask for a red air-ball, although she had bought nothing. It was always something, she would not go away empty-handed, she would make a friend of her doorkeeper's little girl with it. At the distributing counter they were just commencing the fortieth thousand: forty thousand red air-balls which had taken flight in the warm air of the shop, quite a cloud of red air-balls which were now floating from one end of Paris to the other, bearing upwards to the sky the name of The Ladies' Paradise!
Five o'clock struck. Of all the ladies, Madame Marty and her daughter were the only ones to remain, in the final crisis of the sale. She could not tear herself away, although ready to drop with fatigue, retained by an attraction so strong that she was continually retracing her steps, though wanting nothing, wandering about the departments out of a curiosity that knew no bounds. It was the moment in which the crowd, goaded on by the advertisements, completely lost itself; the sixty thousand francs paid to the newspapers, the ten thousand bills posted on the walls, the two hundred thousand catalogues distributed all over the world, after having emptied their purses, left in the women's minds the shock of their intoxication; and the customers still remained, shaken by Mouret's other inventions, the reduction of prices, the “returns,” the endless gallantries. Madame Marty lingered before the various stalls, amidst the hoarse cries of the salesmen, the chinking of the gold at the pay-desks, and the rolling of the parcels down into the basement; she again traversed the ground floor, the linen, the silk, the glove, and the woollen departments; then she went upstairs again, abandoning herself to the metallic vibrations of the suspended staircases and the flying-bridges, returning to the ready-made, the under-linen, and the lace departments; she even ascended to the second floor, into the heights of the bedding and furniture department; and everywhere the employees, Hutin and Favier, Mignot and Liénard, Deloche, Pauline and Denise, nearly dead with fatigue, were making a last effort, snatching victories from the expiring fever of the customers. This fever had gradually increased since the morning, like the intoxication arising from the tumbling of the stuffs. The crowd shone forth under the fiery glare of the five o'clock sun. Madame Marty's face was now animated and nervous, like that of an infant after drinking pure wine. Arrived with clear eyes and fresh skin from the cold of the street, she had slowly burnt her sight and complexion, at the spectacle of this luxury, of these violent colours, the continued gallop of which irritated her passion. When she at last went away, after saying she would pay at home, terrified by the amount of her bill, her features were drawn up, her eyes were like those of a sick person. She was obliged to fight her way through the crowd at the door, where the people were almost killing each other, amidst the struggle for the bargains. Then, when she got into the street, and found her daughter, whom she had lost for a moment, the fresh air made her shiver, she stood there frightened in the disorder of this neurosis of the immense establishments.
In the evening, as Denise was returning from dinner, a messenger called her: “You are wanted at the director's office, mademoiselle.”
She had forgotten the order Mouret had given her in the morning, to go to his office after the sale. He was standing waiting for her. On going in she did not close the door, which remained, wide open.
“We are very pleased with you, mademoiselle,” said he, “and we have thought of proving our satisfaction. You know in what a shameful manner Madame Frédéric has left us. From to-morrow you will take her place as second-hand.”
Denise listened to him immovable with surprise. She murmured in a trembling voice: “But, sir, there are saleswomen in the department who are much my seniors.”
“What does that matter?” resumed he. “You are the most capable, the most trustworthy. I choose you; it's quite natural. Are you not satisfied?”