“Listen, uncle,” said Denise, greatly embarrassed; “perhaps there might be a situation for you.” She stopped, and stammered. “Yes, I am charged to offer you a situation as inspector.”
“Where?” asked Baudu.
“Opposite,” replied she; “in our shop. Six thousand francs a year; a very easy place.”
Suddenly he stopped in front of her. But instead of getting angry as she feared he would, he turned very pale, succumbing to a grievous emotion, a feeling of bitter resignation.
“Opposite, opposite,” stammered he several times. “You want me to go opposite?”
Denise herself was affected by this emotion. She recalled the long struggle of the two shops, assisted at the funerals of Geneviève and Madame Baudu, saw before her The Old Elbeuf overthrown, utterly ruined by The Ladies' Paradise. And the idea of her uncle taking a situation opposite, and walking about in a white neck-tie, made her heart leap with pity and revolt.
“Come, Denise, is it possible?” said he, simply, wringing his poor trembling hands.
“No, no, uncle,” exclaimed she, in a sudden burst of her just and excellent being. “It would be wrong. Forgive me, I beg of you.”
He resumed his walk, his step once more broke the funereal silence of the house. And when she left him, he was still going on in that obstinate locomotion of great griefs, which turn round themselves without ever being able to get beyond.
Denise passed another sleepless night. She had just touched the bottom of her powerlessness. Even in favour of her own people she was unable to find any consolation. She had been obliged to assist to the bitter end at this invincible work of life which requires death as its continual seed. She no longer struggled, she accepted this law of combat; but her womanly soul was filled with a weeping pity, with a fraternal tenderness at the idea of suffering humanity. For years, she herself had been caught in the wheel-work of the machine. Had she not bled there? Had they not bruised her, dismissed her, overwhelmed her with insults? Even now she was frightened, when she felt herself chosen by the logic of facts. Why her, a girl so puny? Why should her small hand suddenly become so powerful amidst the monster's work? And the force which was sweeping everything away, carried her away in her turn, she, whose coming was to be a revenge. Mouret had invented this mechanism for crushing the world, and its brutal working shocked her; he had sown ruin all over the neighbourhood, despoiled some, killed others; and yet she loved him for the grandeur of his work, she loved him still more at every excess of his power, notwithstanding the flood of tears which overcame her, before the sacred misery of the vanquished.