“Get out of my way!” said he. “Everything is going on all right. I shall end by pitching out the tremblers.”
Mouret planted himself alone on the landing of the hall-staircase. From there he commanded the whole shop; around him the departments on the first-floor; beneath, those of the ground-floor. Above, the emptiness seemed heart-breaking; in the lace department, an old woman was having everything turned over and buying nothing; whilst three good-for-nothing minxes in the under-linen department were slowly choosing some collars at eighteen sous. Down below, under the covered galleries, in the ray of light which came in from the street, he noticed that the customers were commencing to get more numerous. It was a slow, broken procession, a promenade before the counters; in the mercery and the haberdashery departments some women of the commoner class were pushing about, but there was hardly a customer in the linen or in the woollen departments. The shop messengers, in their green coats, the buttons of which shone brilliantly, were waiting for customers, their hands dangling about. Now and again there passed an inspector with a ceremonious air, very stiff in his white neck-tie. Mouret was especially grieved by the mortal silence which reigned in the hall, where the light fell from above from a ground glass window, showing a white dust, diffuse and suspended, as it were, under which the silk department seemed to be sleeping, amid a shivering religious silence. A shopman's footstep, a few whispered words, the rustling of a passing skirt, were the only noises heard, and they were almost stifled by the hot air of the heating apparatus. However, carriages began to arrive, the sudden piffling up of the horses was heard, and immediately after the banging of the carriage doors. Outside, a distant tumult was commencing to make itself heard, groups of idlers were pushing in front of the windows, cabs were taking up their positions in the Place Gaillon, there were all the appearances of an approaching crowd. But on seeing the idle cashiers leaning back on their chairs behind their wickets, and observing that the parcel-tables with their boxes of string and reams of blue packing-paper remained unoccupied, Mouret, though indignant with himself for being afraid, thought he felt his immense machine stop and turn cold beneath him.
“I say, Favier,” murmured Hutin, “look at the governor up there. He doesn't seem to be enjoying himself.”
“This is a rotten shop!” replied Favier. “Just fancy, I've not sold a thing yet.”
Both of them, waiting for customers, whispered such short remarks from time to time without looking at each other. The other salesmen of the department were occupied in arranging large bales of the Paris Paradise under Robineau's orders; whilst Bouthemont, in full consultation with a thin young woman, seemed to be taking an important order. Around them, on frail and elegant shelves, the silks, folded in long pieces of creamy paper, were heaped up like pamphlets of an unusual size; and, encumbering the counters, were fancy silks, moires, satins, velvets, presenting the appearance of mown flowers, quite a harvest of delicate precious tissues. This was the most elegant of all the departments, a veritable drawingroom, where the goods, so light and airy, were nothing but a luxurious furnishing.
“I must have a hundred francs by Sunday,” said Hutin. “If I don't make an average of twelve francs a day, I'm lost. I'd reckoned on this sale.”
“By Jovel a hundred francs; that's rather stiff,” said Favier. “I only want fifty or sixty. You must go in for swell women, then?”
“Oh, no, my dear fellow. It's a stupid affair; I made a bet and lost. So I have to stand a dinner for five persons, two fellows and three girls. Hang me! the first one that passes I'll let her in for twenty yards of Paris Paradise!”
They continued talking for several minutes, relating what they had done the previous day, and what they intended to do the next week. Favier did a little betting, Hutin did a little boating, and kept music-hall singers. But they were both possessed by the same desire for money, struggling for it all the week, and spending it all on Sunday. It was their sole preoccupation in the shop, an hourly and pitiless struggle. And that cunning Bouthemont had just managed to get hold of Madame Sauveur's messenger, the skinny woman with whom he was talking! good business, three or four dozen pieces, at least, for the celebrated dressmaker always gave good orders. At that moment Robineau took it into his head to do Favier out of a customer.
“Oh! as for that fellow, we must settle up with him,” said Hutin, who took advantage of the slightest thing in order to stir up the salesmen against the man whose place he coveted.