The Ladies' Paradise (BBC tie-in) (Oxford World's Classics) by Emile Zola, Brian Nelson Page A
Authors: Emile Zola, Brian Nelson
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too, had grown accustomed to loving him; but she loved him with all the seriousness of her reserved nature, and with a deep passion of which, in the dull, regular, everyday life she led, she was quite unaware.
‘When people like each other, and when it’s possible …’ Denise felt obliged to say with a smile, in order to seem pleasant.
‘Yes, it always ends up like that,’ declared Colomban, who had not yet said a word, but was slowly munching.
Geneviève, after giving him a long look, said in her turn:
‘When people get on together, the rest comes naturally.’
Their fondness for each other had grown up in this ground-floor shop in old Paris. It was like a flower in a cellar. For tenyears she had known no one but him, had spent her days beside him, behind the same piles of cloth, in the gloomy depths of the shop; and, morning and evening, they had found themselves elbow to elbow in the cramped dining-room, as chilly as a well. They could not have been more hidden, more lost, in the depths of the country beneath the leaves. But a doubt, a jealous fear, was to make the girl discover that, from emptiness of heart and boredom of mind, she had given herself for ever in the midst of those conniving shadows.
However, Denise, thinking that she could see a dawning anxiety in the look Geneviève had given Colomban, good-naturedly replied:
‘Nonsense! When people love each other, they always get on together.’
But Baudu was keeping a sharp eye on the table. He had distributed slivers of Brie, and to welcome his relatives he ordered a second dessert, a pot of gooseberry preserves, a liberality which seemed to surprise Colomban. Pépé, who had been very good until then, behaved badly at the sight of the preserves. Jean, whose interest had been aroused by the conversation about marriage, was staring at his cousin Geneviève, whom he thought too weak and pale, comparing her in his mind to a little white rabbit, with black ears and pink eyes.
‘That’s enough chat, we must make room for the others!’ the draper concluded, giving the signal to leave the table. ‘Just because we’ve given ourselves a treat is no reason for wanting too much of it.’
Madame Baudu, the other male assistant, and the girl came and took their places at the table. Denise, left alone again, sat near the door, waiting for her uncle to take her to see Vinçard. Pépé was playing at her feet, while Jean had taken up his observation post on the doorstep again. She sat there for nearly an hour, watching what was going on around her. Now and again a few customers came in: one lady appeared, then two others. The shop retained its musty smell, its half-light, in which the old-fashioned way of business, good-natured and simple, seemed to be weeping at its neglect. But what fascinated Denise was the Ladies’ Paradise on the other side of the street, for she could see the shop-windows through the open door. The sky was stillovercast, but the mildness brought by rain was warming the air in spite of the season; and in the clear light, dusted with sunshine, the great shop was coming to life, and business was in full swing.
Denise felt that she was watching a machine working at high pressure; its dynamism seemed to reach to the display windows themselves. They were no longer the cold windows she had seen in the morning; now they seemed to be warm and vibrating with the activity within. A crowd was looking at them, groups of women were crushing each other in front of them, a real mob, made brutal by covetousness. And these passions in the street were giving life to the materials: the laces shivered, then drooped again, concealing the depths of the shop with an exciting air of mystery; even the lengths of cloth, thick and square, were breathing, exuding a tempting odour, while the overcoats were throwing back their shoulders still more on the dummies, which were acquiring souls, and the huge velvet coat was billowing out, supple and warm, as if on
‘When people like each other, and when it’s possible …’ Denise felt obliged to say with a smile, in order to seem pleasant.
‘Yes, it always ends up like that,’ declared Colomban, who had not yet said a word, but was slowly munching.
Geneviève, after giving him a long look, said in her turn:
‘When people get on together, the rest comes naturally.’
Their fondness for each other had grown up in this ground-floor shop in old Paris. It was like a flower in a cellar. For tenyears she had known no one but him, had spent her days beside him, behind the same piles of cloth, in the gloomy depths of the shop; and, morning and evening, they had found themselves elbow to elbow in the cramped dining-room, as chilly as a well. They could not have been more hidden, more lost, in the depths of the country beneath the leaves. But a doubt, a jealous fear, was to make the girl discover that, from emptiness of heart and boredom of mind, she had given herself for ever in the midst of those conniving shadows.
However, Denise, thinking that she could see a dawning anxiety in the look Geneviève had given Colomban, good-naturedly replied:
‘Nonsense! When people love each other, they always get on together.’
But Baudu was keeping a sharp eye on the table. He had distributed slivers of Brie, and to welcome his relatives he ordered a second dessert, a pot of gooseberry preserves, a liberality which seemed to surprise Colomban. Pépé, who had been very good until then, behaved badly at the sight of the preserves. Jean, whose interest had been aroused by the conversation about marriage, was staring at his cousin Geneviève, whom he thought too weak and pale, comparing her in his mind to a little white rabbit, with black ears and pink eyes.
‘That’s enough chat, we must make room for the others!’ the draper concluded, giving the signal to leave the table. ‘Just because we’ve given ourselves a treat is no reason for wanting too much of it.’
Madame Baudu, the other male assistant, and the girl came and took their places at the table. Denise, left alone again, sat near the door, waiting for her uncle to take her to see Vinçard. Pépé was playing at her feet, while Jean had taken up his observation post on the doorstep again. She sat there for nearly an hour, watching what was going on around her. Now and again a few customers came in: one lady appeared, then two others. The shop retained its musty smell, its half-light, in which the old-fashioned way of business, good-natured and simple, seemed to be weeping at its neglect. But what fascinated Denise was the Ladies’ Paradise on the other side of the street, for she could see the shop-windows through the open door. The sky was stillovercast, but the mildness brought by rain was warming the air in spite of the season; and in the clear light, dusted with sunshine, the great shop was coming to life, and business was in full swing.
Denise felt that she was watching a machine working at high pressure; its dynamism seemed to reach to the display windows themselves. They were no longer the cold windows she had seen in the morning; now they seemed to be warm and vibrating with the activity within. A crowd was looking at them, groups of women were crushing each other in front of them, a real mob, made brutal by covetousness. And these passions in the street were giving life to the materials: the laces shivered, then drooped again, concealing the depths of the shop with an exciting air of mystery; even the lengths of cloth, thick and square, were breathing, exuding a tempting odour, while the overcoats were throwing back their shoulders still more on the dummies, which were acquiring souls, and the huge velvet coat was billowing out, supple and warm, as if on
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