They did not weary of this song in praise of whiteness which the goods of the entire establishment were singing. Mouret had never conceived anything more vast; it was the master stroke of his genius for display. Beneath the flow of all this whiteness, amidst the seeming disorder of the tissues, fallen as if by chance from the open drawers, there was so to say a harmonious phrase,—white followed and developed in all its tones: springing into existence, growing, and blossoming with the complicated orchestration of some master's fugue, the continuous development of which carries the mind away in an ever-soaring flight. Nothing but white, and yet never the same white, each different tinge showing against the other, contrasting with that next to it, or perfecting it, and attaining to the very brilliancy of light itself. It all began with the dead white of calico and linen, and the dull white of flannel and cloth; then came the velvets, silks, and satins—quite an ascending gamut, the white gradually lighting up and finally emitting little flashes at its folds; and then it flew away in the transparencies of the curtains, became diffuse brightness with the muslins, the guipures, the laces and especially the tulles, so light and airy that they formed the extreme final note; whilst the silver of the oriental silk sounded higher than all else in the depths of the giant alcove.
Meanwhile the place was full of life. The lifts were besieged by people; there was a crush at the refreshment-bar and in the reading-room; quite a nation was moving about in these snowy regions. And the crowd seemed to be black, like skaters on a Polish lake in December. On the ground-floor there was a heavy swell, ruffled by a reflux, in which nothing but the delicate enraptured faces of women could be distinguished. In the gaps of the iron framework, up the staircases, on the hanging bridges, there was an endless ascent of small figures which looked as if lost amidst the snowy peaks of mountains. A suffocating, hot-house heat surprised one at sight of these frozen heights. The buzz of all the voices made a great noise like that of a river carrying ice along. Up above, the profusion of gilding, the glass work and the golden roses seemed like a burst of sunshine, glittering over the Alps of this grand exhibition of white goods.
"Come," said Madame de Boves, "we must go forward. It's impossible to stay here."
Since she had entered, inspector Jouve, standing near the door, had not taken his eyes off her; and when she turned round she encountered his gaze. Then, as she resumed her walk, he let her gain ground, but followed her at a distance, without, however, appearing to take any further notice of her.
"Ah!" said Madame Guibal again stopping amidst all the jostling as she came to the first pay-desk, "that's a pretty idea, those violets!"
She referred to the new present made by The Ladies' Paradise, one of Mouret's ideas, which was making a great noise in the newspapers: small bouquets of white violets, bought by the thousand at Nice were distributed to every lady customer who made the smallest purchase. Near each pay-desk messengers in uniform stood delivering the bouquets under the supervision of an inspector. And gradually all the customers were decorated in this way, the building was filling with these white bridal flowers, every woman diffusing as she passed a penetrating perfume of violets.
"Yes," murmured Madame Desforges, in a jealous voice, "it's a good idea."
But, just as they were moving away, they heard two salesmen joking about these violets. A tall, thin fellow was expressing his astonishment: was the marriage between the governor and the first-hand in the costume department coming off, then? whilst a short, fat fellow replied that he didn't know, but that the flowers were bought at any rate.
"What!" exclaimed Madame de Boves, "is Monsieur Mouret going to marry?"
"That's the latest news," replied Madame Desforges, affecting the greatest indifference. "However, one's bound to come to that."