“Oh! a courtesan!” replied the other. “I fancy she looks too lady-like for that. She must be the wife of a stockbroker or a doctor, or something of that sort.”
“Don't tell me! it's a courtesan. With their grand lady airs it's impossible to tell now-a-days!”
Favier looked at his book of debit-notes. “I don't care!” said he, “I've stuck her for two hundred and ninety-three francs. That makes nearly three francs for me.”
Hutin bit his lips, and vented his spleen on the debit notebooks. Another invention for cramming their pockets. There was a secret rivalry between these two. Favier, as a rule, pretended to sing small, to recognise Hutin's superiority, but in reality devouring him all the while behind his back. Thus Hutin was wild at the thought of the three francs pocketed so easily by a salesman whom he considered to be his inferior in business. A fine day's work! If it went on like this, he would not earn enough to pay for the seltzer water for his guests. And in the midst of the battle, which was now becoming fiercer, he walked along the counters with hungry eyes, eager for his share, jealous even of his superior, who was just showing the thin young woman out, and saying to her:
“Very well! it's understood. Tell her I'll do my best to obtain this favour from Monsieur Mouret.”
Mouret had quitted his post on the stairs some time before. Suddenly he reappeared on the landing of the principal staircase which communicated with the ground floor; and from there he commanded a view of the whole establishment. His face had regained its colour, his faith was restored and increasing before the crowd which was gradually filling the place. It was the expected rush at last, the afternoon crush, which he had for a moment despaired of. All the shopmen were at their posts, a last ring of the bell had announced the end of the third lunch; the disastrous morning, due no doubt to a shower which fell about nine o'clock, could still be repaired, for the blue sky of early morn had resumed its victorious gaiety. Now that the first-floor departments were becoming animated, he was obliged to stand back to make way for the women who were going up to the under-clothing and dress departments; whilst, behind him, in the lace and the shawl departments, he heard large sums bandied about. But the sight of the galleries on the ground-floor especially reassured him. There was a crowd at the haberdashery department, and even the linen and woollen departments were invaded. The procession of buyers closed up, nearly all of a higher class at present, with a few lingering housewives. Under the pale light of the silk hall, ladies had taken off their gloves to feel the Paris Paradise, talking in half-whispers. And there was no longer any mistaking the noises arriving from outside, rolling of cabs, banging of carriage-doors, an increasing tumult in the crowd. He felt the machine commencing to work under him, getting up steam and reviving, from the pay-desks where the money was jingling, and the tables where the messengers were hurriedly packing up the goods, down to the basement, in the delivery-room, which was quickly filling up with the parcels sent down, and the underground rumbling of which seemed to shake the whole house. In the midst of the crowd was the inspector, Jouve, walking about gravely, watching for thieves.
“Hullo! is that you?” said Mouret, all at once, recognising Paul de Vallagnosc whom a messenger had conducted to him. “No, no, you are not in my way. Besides, you've only to follow me if you want to see everything, for to-day I stay at the breach.”
He still felt anxious. No doubt there were plenty of people, but would the sale prove to be the triumph he hoped for? However, he laughed with Paul, carrying him off gaily.
“It seems to be picking up a bit,” said Hutin to Favier. “But somehow I've no luck; there are some days that are precious bad, my word! I've just made another miss, that old frump hasn't bought anything.”
And he glanced towards a lady who was walking off, casting looks of disgust at all the goods. He was not likely to get fat on his thousand francs a year, unless he sold something; as a rule he made seven or eight francs a day commission, which gave him with his regular pay an average of ten francs a day. Favier never made much more than eight, and there was this animal taking the bread out of his mouth, for he had just sold another dress—a cold-natured fellow who had never known how to amuse a customer! It was exasperating.