Then he also took his stand at the edge of the pavement, waiting like the others. Denise, feeling rather awkward, glanced at his shop. He now altogether neglected it; only a disorderly collection of umbrellas eaten up by damp and canes blackened by gas-light now remained in the window. The embellishments that he had made, the light green paint work, the mirrors, the gilded sign, were all cracking, already getting dirty, exhibiting the rapid lamentable decrepitude of false luxury laid over ruins. But although the old crevices were re-appearing, although the damp spots had sprung up through the gilding, the house still obstinately held its ground, hanging to the flanks of The Ladies' Paradise like some shameful wart, which, although cracked and rotten, yet refused to fall.
"Ah! the scoundrels," growled Bourras, "they won't even let her be carried away!"
The hearse, which was at last approaching, had just come into collision with one of The Paradise vans, which at the rapid trot of two superb horses went spinning along shedding in the mist the starry radiance of its shining panels. And from under his bushy eyebrows the old man cast a side glance at Denise.
The funeral procession started at a slow pace, splashing through muddy puddles, amid the silence of the omnibuses and cabs which were suddenly pulled up. When the coffin, draped with white, crossed the Place Gaillon, the sombre looks of the followers once more plunged into the windows of the big establishment where only two saleswomen stood looking on, pleased with the diversion. Baudu followed the hearse with a heavy mechanical step, refusing by a sign the arm offered him by Jean, who walked alongside. Then, after a long string of people, came three mourning coaches. As they crossed the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, Robineau, looking very pale and much older, ran up to join the procession.
At Saint-Roch, a great many women were waiting, small traders of the neighbourhood, who had wished to escape the crowd at the house of mourning. The demonstration was developing into quite a riot; and when, after the funeral service, the procession started off again, all continued to follow, although it was a long walk from the Rue Saint-Honoré to the Montmartre Cemetery. They had to turn up the Rue Saint-Roch again, and once more pass The Ladies' Paradise. It was a sort of defiance; the poor girl's body was paraded round the big shop like that of a first victim fallen in time of revolution. At the door some red flannels were flapping like so many flags, and a display of carpets blazed forth in a gory efflorescence of huge roses and full-blown peonies. Denise had now got into one of the coaches, being agitated by such poignant doubts, her heart oppressed by such cruel grief, that she had not the strength to walk further. In the Rue du Dix-Décembre just before the scaffolding of the new façade which still obstructed the thoroughfare there was a stoppage, and on looking out the girl observed old Bourras behind all the others, dragging himself along with difficulty close to the wheels of the coach in which she was riding alone. He would never get as far as the cemetery, she thought. However, he raised his head, looked at her, and all at once got into the coach.
"It's my confounded knees," he exclaimed. "Don't draw back! It isn't you we hate."
She felt him to be friendly and furious, as in former days. He grumbled, declared that Baudu must be fearfully strong to be able to keep up after such hard blows as he had received. The procession had again started off at the same slow pace; and, on leaning out once more, Denise saw her uncle walking behind the hearse with his heavy step, which seemed to regulate the rumbling, painful march of the cortège. Then she threw herself back into her corner and rocked by the melancholy movement of the coach began listening to the endless complaints of the old umbrella maker.
"The police ought to clear the public thoroughfares, my word!" said he, "They've been blocking up our street for the last eighteen months with the scaffolding of their façade—another man was killed on it the other day. Never mind! When they want to enlarge any further they'll have to throw bridges over the streets. People say there are now two thousand seven hundred employees, and that the turnover will amount to a hundred millions this year. A hundred millions! just fancy! a hundred millions!"
Denise had nothing to say in reply. The procession had just turned into the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, where it was stopped by a block of vehicles. And Bourras went on, with a vague expression in his eyes, as if he were now dreaming aloud. He still failed to understand the triumph achieved by The Ladies' Paradise, but he acknowledged the defeat of the old-fashioned traders.
"Poor Robineau's done for, he looks like a drowning man," he resumed. "And the Bédorés and the Vanpouilles, they can't keep going; they're like me, played out. Deslignières will die of apoplexy, Piot and Rivoire have had the jaundice. Ah! poor child! It must be comical for those looking on to see such a string of bankrupts pass. Besides, it appears that the clean sweep is to continue. Those scoundrels are creating departments for flowers, bonnets, perfumery, boots and shoes, all sorts of things. Grognet, the perfumer in the Rue de Grammont can clear out, and I wouldn't give ten francs for Naud's boot-shop in the Rue d'Antin. The cholera's even spread as far as the Rue Sainte-Anne. Lacassagne, at the feather and flower shop, and Madame Chadeuil, whose bonnets are so well-known, will be swept away in less than a couple of years. And after those will come others and still others! All the businesses in the neighbourhood will collapse. When counter-jumpers start selling soap and goloshes, they are quite capable of dealing in fried potatoes. 'Pon my word, the world is turning upside down!"