Denise, however, had not come down with the other young ladies at eight o'clock. Confined to her room for the last five days by a sprained4 ankle, caused when going up stairs to the work-rooms, she was going on much better; but, sure of Madame Aurélie's indulgence, she did not hurry down, and sat putting her boots on with difficulty, resolved, however, to show herself in the department. The young ladies' bed-rooms now occupied the entire fifth storey of the new buildings, along the Rue5 Monsigny; there were sixty of them, on either side of a corridor, and they were much more comfortable than formerly6, although still furnished with the iron bedstead, large wardrobe, and little mahogany toilet-table. The private life of the saleswomen became more refined and elegant there, they displayed a taste for scented7 soap and fine linen8, quite a natural ascent9 towards middle-class ways as their positions improved, although high words and banging doors were still sometimes heard amidst the hôtel-like gust1 that carried them away, morning and evening. Denise, being second-hand10 in her department, had one of the largest rooms, the two attic11 windows of which looked into the street. Being much better off now, she indulged in several little luxuries, a red eider-down coverlet for the bed, covered with Maltese lace, a small carpet in front of the wardrobe, and two blue-glass vases containing a few faded roses on the toilet table.
When she got her boots on she tried to walk across the room; but was obliged to lean against the furniture, being still rather lame12. But that would soon come right again, she thought. At the same time, she had been quite right in refusing the invitation to dine at uncle Baudu's that evening, and in asking her aunt to take Pépé out for a walk, for she had placed him with Madame Gras again. Jean, who had been to see her the previous day, was to dine at his uncle's also. She continued to try to walk, resolved to go to bed early, in order to rest her leg, when Madame Cabin, the housekeeper13, knocked and gave her a letter, with an air of mystery.
The door closed. Denise, astonished by this woman's discreet14 smile, opened the letter. She dropped on to a chair; it was a letter from Mouret, in which he expressed himself delighted at her recovery, and begged her to go down and dine with him that evening, as she could not go out. The tone of this note, at once familiar and paternal16, was in no way offensive; but it was impossible for her to mistake its meaning. The Ladies' Paradise well knew the real signification of these invitations, which were legendary17: Clara had dined, others as well, all those the governor had specially18 remarked. After dinner, as the witlings were wont19 to say, came the dessert. And the young girl's white cheeks were gradually invaded by a flow of blood.
The letter slipped on to her knees, and Denise, her heart beating violently, remained with her eyes fixed20 on the blinding light of one of the windows. This was the confession21 she must have made to herself, in this very room, during her sleepless22 moments: if she still trembled when he passed, she now knew it was not from fear; and her former uneasiness, her old terror, could have been nothing but the frightened ignorance of love, the disorder23 of her growing affections, in her youthful wildness. She did not argue with herself, she simply felt that she had always loved him from the hour she had shuddered24 and stammered26 before him. She had loved him when she had feared him as a pitiless master; she had loved him when her distracted heart was dreaming of Hutin, unconsciously yielding to a desire for affection. Perhaps she might have given herself to another, but she had never loved any but this man, whose mere27 look terrified her. And her whole past life came back to her, unfolding itself in the blinding light of the window: the hardships of her start, that sweet walk under the shady trees of the Tuileries Gardens, and, lastly, the desires with which he had enveloped28 her ever since her return. The letter dropped on the ground, Denise still gazed at the window, dazzled by the glare of the sun.
Suddenly there was a knock. She hastened to pick up the letter and conceal29 it in her pocket. It was Pauline, who, having slipped away under some pretext30, had come for a little gossip.
“How are you, my dear? We never meet now——”
But as it was against the rules to go up into the bed-rooms, and, above all, for two to be shut in together, Denise took her to the end of the passage, into the ladies' drawing-room, a gallant31 present from Mouret to the young ladies, who could spend their evenings there till eleven o'clock. The apartment, decorated in white and gold, of the vulgar nudity of an hôtel room, was furnished with a piano, a central table, and some arm-chairs and sofas protected with white covers. But, after a few evenings spent together, in the first novelty of the thing, the saleswomen never went into the place without coming to high words at once. They required educating to it, the little trading city was wanting in accord. Meanwhile, almost the only one that went there in the evening was the second-hand in the corset department, Miss Powell, who strummed away at Chopin on the piano, and whose coveted32 talent ended by driving the others away.
“You see my ankle's better now,” said Denise, “I was going downstairs.”
They both sat down on a sofa. Pauline's attitude had changed since her friend had been promoted to be second-hand in the ready-made department. With her good-natured cordiality was mingled34 a shade of respect, a sort of surprise to feel the puny35 little saleswoman of former days on the road to fortune. Denise liked her very much, and confided36 in her alone, amidst the continual gallop37 of the two hundred women that the firm now employed.
“What's the matter?” asked Pauline, quickly, when she remarked the young girl's troubled looks.
“Oh! nothing,” replied the latter, with an awkward smile.
“Yes, yes; there's something the matter with you. Have you no faith in me, that you have given up telling me your troubles?”
Then Denise, in the emotion that was swelling38 her bosom39—an emotion she could not control—abandoned herself to her feelings. She gave her friend the letter, stammering40: “Look! he has just written to me.”
Between themselves, they had never openly spoken of Mouret. But this very silence was like a confession of their secret pre-occupations. Pauline knew everything. After having read the letter, she clasped Denise in her arms, and softly murmured: “My dear, to speak frankly43, I thought it was already done. Don't be shocked; I assure you the whole shop must think as I do. Naturally! he appointed you as second-hand so quickly, then he's always after you. It's obvious!” She kissed her affectionately, and then asked her: “You will go this evening, of course?”
Denise looked at her without replying. All at once she burst into tears, her head on Pauline's shoulder. The latter was quite astonished.'
“Come, try and calm yourself; there's nothing in the affair to upset you like this.”
“No, no; let me be,” stammered Denise. “If you only knew what trouble I am in! Since I received that letter, I have felt beside myself. Let me have a good cry, that will relieve me.”
Full of pity, though not understanding, Pauline endeavoured to console her. In the first place, he had thrown up Clara. It was said he still visited a lady outside, but that was not proved. Then she explained that one could not be jealous of a man in such a position. He had too much money; he was the master, after all Denise listened to her, and had she been ignorant of her love, she could no longer have doubted it after the suffering she felt at the name of Clara and the allusion45 to Madame Desforges, which made her heart bleed. She could hear Clara's disagreeable voice, she could see Madame Desforges dragging her about the different departments with the scorn of a rich lady for a poor shop-girl.
“So you would go yourself?” asked she.
Pauline, without pausing to think, cried out: “Of course, how can one do otherwise!” Then reflecting, she added: “Not now, but formerly, because now I am going to marry Baugé, and it would not be right.”
In fact, Baugé, who had left the Bon Marche for The Ladies' Paradise, was going to marry her about the middle of the month. Bourdoncle did not like these married couples; they had managed, however, to get the necessary permission, and even hoped to obtain a fortnight's holiday for their honeymoon46.
“There you are,” declared Denise, “when a man loves a girl he ought to marry her. Baugé is going to marry you.” Pauline laughed heartily47. “But my dear, it isn't the same thing. Baugé is going to marry me because he is Baugé. He's my equal, that's a natural thing. Whilst Monsieur Mouret! Do you think Monsieur Mouret can marry his saleswomen?”
“Oh! no, oh! no,” exclaimed the young girl, shocked by the absurdity48 the question, “and that's why he ought not to have written to me.”
This argument completely astonished Pauline. Her coarse face, with her small tender eyes, assumed quite an expression of maternal49 compassion50. Then she got up, opened the piano, and softly played with one finger, “King Dagobert,” to enliven the situation, no doubt. Into the nakedness of the drawingroom, the white coverings of which seemed to increase the emptiness, came the noises from the street, the distant melopoia of a woman crying out green peas. Denise had thrown herself back on the sofa, her head against the wood-work, shaken by a fresh flood of sobs51, which she stifled52 in her handkerchief.
“Again!” resumed Pauline, turning round. “Really you are not reasonable. Why did you bring me here? We ought to have stopped in your room.”
She knelt down before her, and commenced lecturing her again. How many others would like to be in her place! Besides, if the thing did not please her, it was very simple: she had only to say no, without worrying herself like this. But she should reflect before risking her position by a refusal which was inexplicable53, considering she had no engagement elsewhere. Was it such a terrible thing after all? and the reprimand was finishing up by some pleasantries, gaily54 whispered, when a sound of footsteps was heard in the passage. Pauline ran to the door and looked out. “Hush! Madame Aurélie!” she murmured. “I'm off, and just you dry your eyes. She need not know what's up.” When Denise was alone, she got up, and forced back her tears; and, her hands still trembling, with the fear of being caught there doing nothing, she closed the piano, which her friend had left open. But on hearing Madame Aurélie knocking at her door, she left the drawing-room.
“What! you are up!” exclaimed the first-hand. “It's very thoughtless of you, my dear child. I was just coming up to see how you were, and to tell you that we did not require you downstairs.”
Denise assured her that she felt very much better, that it would do her good to do something to amuse herself.
“I sha'nt tire myself, madame. You can place me on a chair, and I'll do some writing.”
Both then went downstairs. Madame Aurélie, who was most attentive55, insisted on Denise leaning on her shoulder. She must have noticed the young girl's red eyes, for she was stealthily examining her. No doubt she was aware of a great deal of what was going on.
It was an unexpected victory: Denise had at last conquered the department. After struggling for six months, amidst her torments56 as drudge57 and fag, without disarming58 her comrades' ill-will, she had in a few weeks entirely overcome them, and now saw them around her submissive and respectful. Madame Aurélie's sudden affection had greatly assisted her in this ungrateful task of softening60 her comrades' hearts towards her. It was whispered that the first-hand was Mouret's obliging factotum61, that she rendered him many delicate services; and she took the young girl under her protection with such warmth that the latter must have been recommended to her in a very special manner. But Denise had also brought all her charm into play in order to disarm59 her enemies. The task was all the more difficult from the fact that she had to obtain their pardon for her appointment to the situation of second-hand. The young ladies spoke41 of this as an injustice63, accused her of having earned it at dessert, with the governor; and even added a lot of abominable64 details. But in spite of their revolt, the title of second-hand influenced them, Denise assumed a certain authority which astonished and overawed the most hostile spirits. Soon after, she even found flatterers amongst the new hands; and her sweetness and modesty65 finished the conquest. Marguerite came over to her side. Clara was the only one to continue her ill-natured ways, still venturing on the old insult of the “unkempt girl,” which no one now saw the fun of. During her short intimacy66 with Mouret, she had taken advantage of it to neglect her work, being of a wonderfully idle, gossiping nature; then, as he had quickly tired of her, she did not even recriminate, incapable67 of jealousy68 in the disorderly abandon of her existence, perfectly69 satisfied to have profited from it to the extent of being allowed to stand about doing nothing. But, at the same time, she considered that Denise had robbed her of Madame Frederic's place. She would never have accepted it, on account of the worry; but she was vexed70 at the want of politeness, for she had the same claims as the other one, and prior claims too.
“Hullo! there's the young mother being trotted71 out after her confinement,” murmured she, on seeing Madame Aurélie bringing Denise in on her arm.
Cabs were rolling toward the railway stations, the whole population dressed out in Sunday clothes, was streaming in long rows towards the suburban75 woods.
Inside the building, inundated76 with sun through the large open bays, the cooped-up staff had just commenced the stocktaking. They had closed the doors; people stopped on the pavement, looking through the windows, astonished at this shutting-up when an extraordinary activity was going on inside. There was, from one end of the galleries to the other, from the top floor to the bottom, a continual movement of employees, their arms in the air, and parcels flying about above their heads; and all this amidst a tempest of cries and a calling out of prices, the confusion of which ascended77 and became a deafening78 roar. Each of the thirty-nine departments did its work apart, without troubling about its neighbour. At this early hour the shelves had hardly been touched, there were only a few bales of goods on the floors; the machine would have to get up more steam if they were to finish that evening.
“Why have you come down?” asked Marguerite of Denise, good-naturedly. “You'll only make yourself worse, and we are quite enough to do the work.”
“That's what I told her,” declared Madame Aurélie, “but she insisted on coming down to help us.”
All the young ladies flocked round Denise. The work was interrupted even for a time. They complimented her, listening with various exclamations79 to the story of her sprained ankle. At last Madame Aurélie made her sit down at a table; and it was understood that she should merely write down the articles as they were called out. On such a day as this they requisitioned any employee capable of holding a pen: the inspectors80, the cashiers, the clerks, even down to the shop messengers; and the various departments divided amongst themselves these assistants of a day to get the work over quicker. It was thus that Denise found herself installed near Lhomme the cashier and Joseph the messenger, both bending over large sheets of paper.
“Five mantles82, cloth, fur trimming, third size, at two hundred and forty francs!” cried Marguerite. “Four ditto, first size, at two hundred and twenty!”
The work once more commenced. Behind Marguerite three saleswomen were emptying the cupboards, classifying the articles, giving them to her in bundles; and, when she had called them out, she threw them on the table, where they were gradually heaping up in enormous piles. Lhomme wrote down the articles, Joseph kept another list for the clearinghouse. Whilst this was going on, Madame Aurélie herself, assisted by three other saleswomen, was counting the silk garments, which Denise entered on the sheets. Clara was employed in looking after the heaps, to arrange them in such a manner that they should occupy the least space possible on the tables. But she was not paying much attention to her work, for the heaps were already tumbling down.
“I say,” asked she of a little saleswoman who had joined that winter, “are they going to give you a rise? You know the second-hand is to have two thousand francs, which, with her commission, will bring her in nearly seven thousand.”
The little saleswoman, without ceasing to pass some cloaks down, replied that if they didn't give her eight hundred francs she would take her hook. The rises were always given the day after the stock-taking; it was also the epoch83 at which, the amount of business done during the year being known, the managers of the departments drew their commission on the increase of this figure, compared with that of the preceding year. Thus, notwithstanding the bustle84 and uproar85 of the work, the impassioned gossiping went on everywhere. Between two articles called out, they talked of nothing but money. The rumour86 ran that Madame Aurélie would exceed twenty-five thousand francs; and this immense sum greatly excited the young ladies. Marguerite, the best saleswoman after Denise, had made four thousand five hundred francs, fifteen hundred francs salary, and about three thousand francs commission; whilst Clara had not made two thousand five hundred francs altogether.
“I don't care a button for their rises!” resumed the latter, still talking to the little saleswoman. “If papa were dead, I would jolly soon clear out of this! But what exasperates87 me is to see seven thousand francs given to that strip of a girl! What do you say?”
Madame Aurélie violently interrupted the conversation, turning round with her imperial air. “Be quiet, young ladies! We can't hear ourselves speak, my word of honour!”
Then she resumed calling out: “Seven mantles, old style, Sicilian, first size, at a hundred and thirty! Three pelisses, surah, second size, at a hundred and fifty! Have you got that down, Mademoiselle Baudu?”
“Yes, madame.”
Clara then had to look after the armfuls of garments piled on the tables. She pushed them about, and made more room. But she soon left them again to reply to a salesman, who was looking for her. It was the glover, Mignot, escaped from his department. He whispered a request for twenty francs; he already owed her thirty, a loan effected the day after a race, after having lost his week's salary on a horse; this time he had squandered88 his commission, drawn89 over night, and had not ten sous for his Sunday. Clara had only ten francs about her, which she lent him with a fairly good grace. And they went on talking, spoke of a party of six, indulged in at a restaurant at Bougival, where the women had paid their share: it was much better, they all felt perfectly at their ease like that. Then Mignot, who wanted his twenty francs, went and bent90 over Lhomme's shoulder. The latter, stopped in his writing, appeared greatly troubled. However, he dared not refuse, and was looking for the money in his purse, when Madame Aurélie, astonished not to hear Marguerite's voice, which had been interrupted, perceived Mignot, and understood at once. She roughly sent him back to his department, saying she didn't want any one to come and distract her young ladies from their work. The truth is, she dreaded91 this young man, a bosom friend of Albert's, the accomplice92 of his doubtful tricks, which she trembled to see turn out badly some day. Therefore, when Mignot had got his ten francs, and had run away, she could not help saying to her husband:
“Is it possible to let a fellow like that get over you!”
“But, my dear, I really could not refuse the young man.” She closed his mouth with a shrug73 of her substantial shoulders. Then, as the saleswomen were slyly grinning at this family explanation, she resumed with severity: “Now, Mademoiselle Vadon, don't let's go to sleep.”
“Twenty cloaks, cashmere extra, fourth size, at eighteen francs and a half,” resumed Marguerite in her sing-song voice.
Lhomme, with his head bowed down, had resumed writing. They had gradually raised his salary to nine thousand francs a year; and he was very humble93 before Madame Aurélie, who still brought nearly triple as much into the family.
For a while the work pushed forward. Figures flew about, the parcels of garments rained thick and fast on the tables, But Clara had invented another amusement: she was teasing the messenger, Joseph, about a passion that he was said to nourish for a young lady in the pattern-room. This young lady, already twenty-eight years old, thin and pale, was a protege of Madame Desforges, who had wanted to make Mouret engage her as a saleswoman, backing up her recommendation with a touching94 story: an orphan95, the last of the De Fontenailles, an old and noble family of Poitou, thrown into the streets of Paris with a drunken father, but yet virtuous96 amidst this misfortune, with an education too limited, unfortunately, to take a place as governess or music-mistress. Mouret generally got angry when any one recommended to him these broken-down gentlewomen; there was not, said he, a class of creatures more incapable, more insupportable, more narrow-minded than these gentlewomen; and, besides, a saleswoman could not be improvised97, she must serve an apprenticeship98, it was a complicated and delicate business. However, he took Madame Desforges's protege, but put her in the pattern-room, in the same way as he had already found places, to oblige friends, for two countesses and a baroness99 in the advertising100 department, where they addressed envelopes, etc. Mademoiselle de Fontenailles earned three francs a day, which just enabled her to live in her modest room, in the Rue d'Argenteuil. It was on seeing her, with her sad look and such shabby clothes, that Joseph's heart, very tender under his rough soldier's manner, had been touched. He did not confess, but he blushed, when the young ladies in the ready-made department chaffed him; for the pattern-room was not far off, and they had often observed him prowling about the doorway101.
“Joseph is somewhat absent-minded,” murmured Clara. “His nose is always turned towards the under-linen department.”
They had requisitioned Mademoiselle de Fontenailles there, and she was assisting at the outfitting102 counter. As the messenger was continually glancing in that direction, the saleswomen began to laugh. He became very confused, and plunged103 into his accounts; whilst Marguerite, in order to arrest the flood of gaiety which was tickling104 her throat, cried out louder stills “Fourteen jackets, English cloth, second size, at fifteen francs!”
At this, Madame Aurélie, who was engaged in calling out some cloaks, could not make herself heard. She interfered105 with a wounded air, and a majestic107 slowness: “A little softer, mademoiselle. We are not in a market. And you are all very unreasonable108, to be amusing yourselves with these childish matters, when our time is so precious.”
Just at that moment, as Clara was not paying any attention to the parcels, a catastrophe109 took place. Some mantles tumbled down, and all the heaps on the tables, dragged down with them, fell one after the other, so that the carpet was strewn with them.
“There! what did I say!” cried the first-hand, beside herself. “Pray be more careful, Mademoiselle Prunaire; it's intolerable!”
But a hum ran along: Mouret and Bourdoncle, making their round of inspection110, had just appeared. The voices started again, the pens sputtered111 along, whilst Clara hastened to pick up the garments. The governor did not interrupt the work. He stood there several minutes, mute, smiling; and it was on his lips alone that a slight feverish112 shivering was visible in his gay and victorious113 face of stock-taking days. When he perceived Denise, he nearly gave way to a gesture of astonishment114. She had come down, then? His eyes met Madame Aurélie's. Then, after a moment's hesitation115, he went away into the under-linen department.
However, Denise, warned by the slight noise, had raised her head. And, after having recognised Mouret, she had immediately bent over her work again, without ostentation116. Since she had been writing in this mechanical way, amidst the regular calling-out of the articles, a peaceful feeling had stolen over her. She had always yielded thus to the first excesses of her sensitiveness: the tears suffocated117 her, her passion doubled her torments; then she regained118 her self-command, finding a grand, calm courage, a strength of will, quiet but inexorable. Now, with her limpid119 eyes, and pale complexion120, she was free from all agitation121, entirely given up to her work, resolved to crush her heart and to do nothing but her will.
Ten o'clock struck, the uproar of the stock-taking was increasing in the activity of the departments. And amidst the cries incessantly122 raised, crossing each other on all sides, the same news was circulating with surprising rapidity: every salesman knew that Mouret had written that morning inviting123 Denise to dinner. The indiscretion came from Pauline. On going downstairs, still excited, she had met Deloche in the lace department, and, without noticing that Liénard was talking to the young man, she immediately relieved her mind of the secret.
“It's done, my dear fellow. She's just received a letter. He invites her for this evening.”
Deloche turned very pale. He had understood, for he often questioned Pauline; they spoke of their common friend every day, of Mouret's love for her, of the famous invitation which would finish by bringing the adventure to an issue. She frequently scolded him for his secret love for Denise, with whom he would never succeed, and she shrugged her shoulders whenever he expressed his approval of the girl's conduct in resisting the governor.
“Her foot's better, she's coming down,” continued Pauline.
“Pray don't put on that funeral face. It's a piece of good luck for her, this invitation.” And she hastened back to her department.
“Ah! good!” murmured Liénard, who had heard all, “you're talking about the young girl with the sprain3. You were quite right to be so quick in defending her last night at the café!”
He also ran off; but before he had returned to the woollen department, he had already related the story to four or five fellows. In less than ten minutes, it had gone the round of the whole shop.
Liénard's last remark referred to a scene which had taken place the previous evening, at the Café Saint-Roch. Deloche and he were now constantly together. The former had taken Hutin's room at the Hôtel de Smyme, when that gentleman, appointed second-hand, had hired a suite124 of three rooms; and the two shopmen came to The Ladies' Paradise together in the morning, and waited for each other in the evening in order to go away together. Their rooms, which were next door to each other, looked into the same black yard, a narrow well, the odour from which poisoned the hôtel. They got on very well together, notwithstanding their difference of character, the one carelessly squandering125 the money he drew from his father, the other penniless, perpetually tortured by ideas of saving, both having, however, a point in common, their unskilfulness as salesmen, which left them to vegetate126 at their counters, without any increase of salary. After leaving the shop, they spent the greater part of their time at the Café Saint-Roch. Quite free from customers during the day, this café filled up about halfpast eight with an overflowing128 crowd of employees, that crowd of shopmen disgorged into the street from the great door in the Place Gaillon. Then burst forth129 a deafening uproar of clinking dominoes, bursts of laughter and yelping130 voices, amidst the thick smoke of the pipes. Beer and coffee were in great demand. Seated in the left-hand corner, Liénard went in for the dearest drinks, whilst Deloche contented131 himself with a glass of beer, which he would take four hours to drink. It was there that the latter had heard Favier, at a neighbouring table, relate some abominable things about Denise, the way in which she had “hooked” the governor, by pulling her dress up whenever she went upstairs in front of him. He had with difficulty restrained himself from striking him. Then, as the other went off, saying that the young girl went down every night to join her lover, he called him a liar15, feeling mad with rage.
“What a blackguard! It's a lie, it's a lie, I tell you!”
And in the emotion which was agitating132 him, he let out too much, with a stammering voice, entirely opening his heart.
“I know her, and it isn't true. She has never had any affection except for one man; yes, for Monsieur Hutin, and even he has never noticed it, he can't even boast of ever having as much as touched her.”
The report of this quarrel, exaggerated, misconstrued, was already affording amusement for the whole shop, when the story of Mouret's letter was circulated. In fact, it was to a salesman in the silk department that Liénard first confided the news. With the silk-vendors the stock-taking was going on rapidly. Favier and two shopmen, mounted on stools, were emptying the shelves, passing the pieces of stuff to Hutin as they went on, the latter, standing44 on a table, calling out the figures, after consulting the tickets; and he then dropped the pieces, which, rising slowly like an autumn tide, were gradually encumbering133 the floor. Other men were writing, Albert Lhomme was also helping134 them, his face pale and heavy after a night spent in a low public-house at La Chapelle. A ray of sun fell from the glazed135 roof of the hall, through which could be seen the ardent blue of the sky.
“Draw those blinds!” cried out Bouthemont, very busy superintending the work. “The sun is unbearable136!”
Favier, who was stretching to reach a piece, grumbled137 under his breath: “A nice thing to shut people up a lovely day like this! No fear of it raining on a stock-taking day! And they keep us under lock and key like a lot of convicts when all Paris is out-doors!”
He passed the piece to Hutin. On the ticket was the measurement, diminished at each sale by the quantity sold, which greatly simplified the work. The second-hand cried out: “Fancy silk, small check, twenty-one yards, at six francs and a half.”
And the silk went to increase the heap on the floor. Then he continued a conversation commenced, by saying to Favier: “So he wanted to fight you?”
“Yes, I was quietly drinking my glass of beer. It was hardly worth while contradicting me, she has just received a letter from the governor inviting her to dinner. The whole shop is talking about it.”
“What! it wasn't done!”
Favier handed him another piece.
“A caution, isn't it? One would have staked his life on it. It seemed like an old connection.”
“Ditto, twenty-five yards!” cried Hutin.
The dull thud of the piece was heard, whilst he added in a lower tone: “She carried on fearfully, you know, at that old fool Bourras's.”
The whole department was now joking about the affair, without, however, allowing the work to suffer. The young girl's name passed from mouth to mouth, the fellows arched their backs and winked139. Bouthemont himself, who took a rare delight in such gay stories, could not help adding his joke, the bad taste of which filled his heart with joy. Albert, waking up a bit, swore he had seen Denise with two soldiers at the Gros-Caillou. At that moment Mignot came down, with the twenty francs he had just borrowed, and he stopped to slip ten francs into Albert's hand, making an appointment with him for the evening; a projected lark140, restrained for want of money, but still possible, notwithstanding the smallness of the sum. But handsome Mignot, when he heard about the famous letter, made such an abominable remark, that Bouthemont was obliged to interfere106.
“That's enough, gentlemen. It isn't our business. Go on, Monsiéur Hutin.”
“Fancy silk, small check, thirty-two yards, at six francs and a half,” cried out the latter.
The pens started off again, the parcels fell regularly, the flood of stuffs still increased, as if the overflow127 of a river had emptied itself there. And the calling out of the fancy silks never ceased. Favier, in a half whisper, remarked that the stock was in a nice state; the governors would be enchanted141; that big stupid of a Bouthemont might be the best buyer in Paris, but as a salesman he was not worth his salt. Hutin smiled, delighted, approving by a friendly look; for after having himself introduced Bouthemont into The Ladies' Paradise, in order to drive out Robineau, he was now undermining him also, with the firm intention of robbing him of his place. It was the same war as formerly, treacherous142 insinuations whispered in the partners' ears, an excessive display of zeal in order to push one's-self forward, a regular campaign carried on with affable cunning. However, Favier, towards whom Hutin was displaying some fresh condescension143, took a look at the latter, thin and cold, with his bilious144 face, as if to count the mouthfuls in this short, squat145 little man, and looking as though he were waiting till his comrade had swallowed up Bouthemont, in order to eat him afterwards. He, Favier,' hoped to get the second-hand's place, should his friend be appointed manager. Then, they would see. And both, consumed by the fever which was raging from one end of the shop to the other, talked of the probable rises of salary, without ceasing to call out the stock of fancy silks; they felt sure Bouthemont would reach thirty thousand francs that year; Hutin would exceed ten thousand; Favier estimated his pay and commission at five thousand five hundred. The amount of business in the department was increasing yearly, the salesmen were promoted and their salaries doubled, like officers in time of war.
“Won't those fancy silks soon be finished?” asked Bouthemont suddenly, with an annoyed air. “What a miserable146 spring, always raining! People have bought nothing but black silks.”
His fat, jovial147 face became cloudy; he looked at the growing heap on the floor, whilst Hutin called out louder still, in a sonorous148 voice, not free from triumph—“Fancy silks, small check, twenty-eight yards, at six francs and a half.”
There was still another shelf-full. Favier, whose arms were beginning to feel tired, was now going very slowly. As he handed Hutin the last pieces he resumed in a low tone—“Oh! I say, I forgot. Have you heard that the second-hand in the ready-made department once had a regular fancy for you?”
The young man seemed greatly surprised. “What! How do you mean?”
“Yes, that great booby Deloche let it out to us. I remember her casting sheep's eyes at you some time back.”
Since his appointment as second-hand Hutin had thrown up his music-hall singers and gone in for governesses. Greatly flattered at heart, he replied with a scornful air, “I like them a little better stuffed, my boy; besides, it won't do to take up with anybody, as the governor does.” He stopped to call out—
“White Poult silk, thirty-five yards, at eight francs fifteen sous.”
“Oh! at last!” murmured Bouthemont, greatly relieved.
But a bell rang, it was the second table, to which Favier belonged. He got off the stool, another salesman took his place, and he was obliged to step over the mountain of pieces of stuff with which the floor was encumbered149. Similar heaps were scattered150 about in very department; the shelves, the boxes, the cupboards were being gradually emptied, whilst the goods were overflowing on every side, under-foot, between the counters and the tables, in a continual rising. In the linen department was heard the heavy falling of the bales of calico; in the mercery department there was a clicking of boxes; and distant rumbling151 sounds came from the furniture department. Every sort of voice was heard together, shrill152 voices, thick voices; figures whizzed through the air, a rustling153 clamour reigned154 in the immense nave—the clamour of the forests in January when the wind is whistling through the branches.
Favier at last got clear and went up the dining-room staircase. Since the enlargement of The Ladies' Paradise the refectories had been shifted to the fourth storey in the new buildings. As he hurried up he came upon Deloche and Liénard, so he fell back on Mignot, who was following on his heels.
“The deuce!” said he, in the corridor leading to the kitchen, opposite the blackboard on which the bill of fare was inscribed155, “you can see it's stock-taking day. A regular feast! Chicken, or leg of mutton, and artichokes! Their mutton won't be much of a success!”
Mignot sniggered, murmuring, “Every one's going in for chicken, then!”
However, Deloche and Liénard had taken their portions and had gone away. Favier then leant over at the wicket and called out—“Chicken!”
But he had to wait; one of the kitchen helps had cut his finger in carving156, and this caused some confusion. Favier stood there, with his face to the opening, looking into the kitchen with its giant appliances—the central range, over which two rails fixed to the ceiling brought forward, by a system of chains and pullies, the colossal157 coppers158, which four men could not have lifted. Several cooks, quite white in the sombre red of the furnace, were attending to the evening soup coppers, mounted on iron ladders, armed with skimmers fixed on long handles. Then against the wall were grills159 large enough to roast martyrs160 on, saucepans big enough to cook a whole sheep in, a monumental plate-warmer, and a marble well kept full by a continual stream of water. To the left could be seen a washing-up place, stone sinks as large as ponds; whilst on the other side to the right, was an immense meat-safe, in which some large joints161 of red meat were hanging on steel hooks. A machine for peeling potatoes was working with the tic-tac of a mill. Two small trucks laden162 with freshly-picked salad were being wheeled along by some kitchen helps into the fresh air under a fountain.
“Chicken,” repeated Favier, getting impatient. Then, turning round, he added in a lower tone, “There's one fellow cut himself. It's disgusting, it's running over the food.”
Mignot wanted to see. Quite a string of shopmen had now arrived; there was a good deal of laughing and pushing. The two young men, their heads at the wicket, exchanged their remarks before this phalansterian kitchen, in which the least utensils163, even the spits and larding pins, assumed gigantic proportions. Two thousand luncheons164 and two thousand dinners had to be served, and the number of employees was increasing every week. It was quite an abyss, into which was thrown daily something like forty-five bushels of potatoes, one hundred and twenty pounds of butter, and sixteen hundred pounds of meat; and at each meal they had to broach165 three casks of wine, over a hundred and fifty gallons were served out at the wine counter.
“Ah! at last!” murmured Favier when the cook reappeared with a large pan, out of which he handed him the leg of a fowl166.
“Chicken,” said Mignot behind him.
And with their plates in their hands they both entered the refectory, after having taken their wine at the counter; whilst behind them the word “Chicken” was repeated without ceasing, regularly, and one could hear the cook picking up the pieces with his fork with a rapid and measured sound.
The men's dining-room was now an immense apartment, where places for five hundred at each of the three dinners could easily be laid. There were long mahogany tables, placed parallel across the room, and at either end were similar tables reserved for the managers of departments and the inspectors; whilst in the centre was a counter for the extras. Large windows, right and left, lighted up with a white light this gallery, of which the ceiling, notwithstanding its being four yards high, seemed very low, crushed by the enormous development of the other dimensions. The sole ornament167 on the walls, painted a light yellow, were the napkin cupboards. After this first refectory came that of the messengers and carmen, where the meals were served irregularly, according to the necessities of the work.
“What! you've got a leg as well, Mignot?” said Favier, as he took his place at one of the tables opposite his companion.
Other young men now sat down around them. There was no tablecloth168, the plates gave out a cracked sound on the bare mahogany, and every one was crying out in this particular corner, for the number of legs was really prodigious169.
“These chickens are all legs!” remarked Mignot.
Those who had pieces of the carcase were greatly discontented. However, the food had been much better since the late improvements. Mouret no longer treated with a contractor170 at a fixed sum; he had taken the kitchen into his own hands, organising it like one of the departments, with a head-cook, under-cooks, and an inspector81; and if he spent more he got more work out of the staff—a practical humane171 calculation which long terrified Bourdoncle.
“Mine is pretty tender, all the same,” said Mignot. “Pass over the bread!”
The big loaf was sent round, and after cutting a slice for himself he dug the knife into the crust A few dilatory172 ones now hurried in, taking their places; a ferocious173 appetite, increased by the morning's work, ran along the immense tables from one end to the other. There was an increasing clatter174 of forks, a sound of bottles being emptied, the noise of glasses laid down too violently, the grinding rumble138 of five hundred pairs of powerful jaws175 working with wonderful energy. And the talk, still very rare, was stifled in the mouths full of food.
Deloche, however, seated between Baugé and Liénard, found himself nearly opposite Favier. They had glanced at each other with a rancorous look. The neighbours whispered, aware of their quarrel the previous day. Then they laughed at poor Deloche's ill-luck, always famishing, always falling on to the worst piece at table, by a sort of cruel fatality176. This time he had come in for the neck of a chicken and bits of the carcase. Without saying a word he let them joke away, swallowing large mouthfuls of bread, and picking the neck with the infinite art of a fellow who entertains a great respect for meat.
“Why don't you complain?” asked Baugé.
But he shrugged his shoulders. What would be the good? It was always the same. When he ventured to complain things went worse than ever.
“You know the Bobbin fellows have got their club now,” said Mignot, all at once. “Yes, my boy, the 'Bobbin Club.' It's held at a tavern177 in the Rue Saint-Honoré, where they hire a room on Saturdays.”
He was speaking of the mercery salesmen. The whole table began to joke. Between two mouthfuls, with his voice still thick, each one made some remark, added a detail; the obstinate178 readers alone remained mute, absorbed, their noses buried in some newspapers. It could not be denied; shopmen were gradually assuming a better style; nearly half of them now spoke English or German. It was no longer good form to go and kick up a row at Bullier, to prowl about the music-halls for the pleasure of hissing179 ugly singers. No; a score of them got together and formed a club.
“Have they a piano like the linen-drapers?” asked Liénard.
“I should rather think they have a piano!” exclaimed Mignot. “And they play, my boy, and sing! There's even one of them, little Bavoux, who recites verses.”
The gaiety redoubled, they chaffed little Bavoux, but still beneath this laughter there lay a great respect. They then spoke of a piece at the Vaudeville180, in which a counter-jumper played a nasty part, which annoyed several of them, whilst others were anxiously wondering what time they would get away, having invitations to pass the evening at friends' houses; and from all points were heard similar conversations amidst the increasing noise of the crockery. To drive out the odour of the food—the warm steam which rose from the five hundred plates—the windows had been opened, while the lowered blinds were scorching181 in the heavy August sun. An ardent breath came in from the street, golden reflections yellowed the ceiling, bathing in a reddish light the perspiring182 eaters.
“A nice thing to shut people up such a fine Sunday as this!” repeated Favier.
This reflection brought them back to the stock-taking. It was a splendid year. And they went on to speak of the salaries—the rises—the eternal subject, the stirring question which occupied them all. It was always thus on chicken days, a wonderful excitement declared itself, the noise at last became insupportable. When the waiters brought the artichokes one could not hear one's self speak. The inspector on duty had orders to be indulgent.
“By the way,” cried out Favier, “you've heard the news?”
But his voice was drowned. Mignot was asking: “Who doesn't like artichoke; I'll sell my dessert for an artichoke.”
No one replied. Everybody liked artichoke. This lunch would be counted amongst the good ones, for peaches were to be given for dessert.
“He has invited her to dinner, my dear fellow,” said Favier to his right-hand neighbour, finishing his story. “What! you didn't know it?”
The whole table knew it, they were tired of talking about it since the first thing in the morning. And the same poor jokes passed from mouth to mouth. Deloche had turned pale again. He looked at them, his eyes finishing by resting on Favier, who was persisting in repeating:
“If he's not had her, he's going to. And he won't be the first; oh! no, he won't be the first.”
He was also looking at Deloche. He added with a provoking air: “Those who like bones can have her for a crown!” Suddenly, he ducked his head. Deloche, yielding to an irresistible183 movement, had just thrown his last glass of wine into his tormentor's face, stammering: “Take that, you infernal liar! I ought to have drenched184 you yesterday!”
It caused quite a scandal. A few drops had spurted185 on Favier's neighbours, whilst he only had his hair slightly wetted: the wine, thrown by an awkward hand, had fallen the other side of the table. But the others got angry, asking if she was his mistress that he defended her in this way? What a brute186! he deserved a good sound drubbing to teach him manners. However, their voices fell, an inspector was observed coming along, and it was useless to introduce the management into the quarrel. Favier contented himself with saying:
“If it had caught me, you would have seen some sport!” Then the affair wound up in jeers187. When Deloche, still trembling, wished to drink to hide his confusion, and seized his empty glass mechanically, they burst out laughing. He laid his glass down again awkwardly, and commenced sucking the leaves of the artichoke he had already eaten.
“Pass Deloche the water bottle,” said Mignot, quietly; “he's thirsty.”
The laughter increased. The young men took their clean plates from the piles standing on the table, at equal distances, whilst the waiters handed round the dessert, which consisted of peaches, in baskets. And they all held their sides when Mignot added, with a grin:
“Each man to his taste. Deloche takes wine with his peaches.”
The latter sat motionless, with his head hanging down, as if deaf to the joking going on around him: he was full of a despairing regret for what he had just done. These fellows were right—what right had he to defend her? They would now think all sorts of villanous things: he could have killed himself for having thus compromised her, in attempting to prove her innocence188. This was always his luck, he might just as well kill himself at once, for he could not even yield to the promptings of his heart without doing some stupid thing. And the fears came into his eyes. Was it not always his fault if the whole shop was talking of the letter written by the governor? He heard them grinning and making abominable remarks about this invitation, of which Liénard alone had been informed; and he accused himself, he ought not to have let Pauline speak before the latter; he was really responsible for the annoying indiscretion committed.
“Why did you go and relate that?” he murmured at last, in a voice full of grief. “It's very bad.”
“I?” replied Liénard; “but I only told it to one or two persons, enjoining189 secrecy190. One never knows how these things get about!”
When Deloche made up his mind to drink a glass of water the whole table burst out laughing again. They had finished and were lolling back on their chairs waiting for the bell recalling them to work. They had not asked for many extras at the great central counter, the more so as the firm treated them to coffee that day. The cups were steaming, perspiring faces shone under the light vapours, floating like the blue clouds from cigarettes. At the windows the blinds hung motionless, without the slightest flapping. One of them, drawn up, admitted a ray of sunshine which traversed the room and gilded191 the ceiling. The uproar of the voices beat on the walls with such force that the bell was at first only heard by those at the tables near the door. They got up, and the confusion of the departure filled the corridors for a long time. Deloche, however, remained behind to escape the malicious192 remarks that were still being made. Baugé even went out before him, and Baugé was, as a rule, the last to leave, going a circuitous193 way so as to meet Pauline as she went to the ladies' dining-room; a manouvre arranged between them—the only chance of seeing each other for a minute during business hours. But this time, just as they were indulging in a loving kiss in a corner of the passage they were surprised by Denise, who was also going up to lunch. She was walking slowly on account of her foot.
“Oh! my dear,” stammered Pauline, very red, “don't say anything, will you?”
Baugé, with his big limbs and giant proportions, was trembling like a little boy. He murmured, “They'd very soon pitch us out. Though our marriage may be announced, they don't allow any kissing, the animals!”
Denise, greatly agitated194, affected195 not to have seen them; and Baugé disappeared just as Deloche, who was going the longest way round, appeared in his turn. He tried to apologise, stammering out phrases that Denise did not at first catch. Then, as he blamed Pauline for having spoken before Liénard, and she stood there looking very embarrassed, Denise at last understood the whispered phrases she had heard around her all the morning. It was the story of the letter that was circulating. She was again seized by the shudder25 with which this letter had agitated her; she felt herself disrobed by all these men.
“But I didn't know,” repeated Pauline. “Besides, there's nothing bad in the letter. Let them gossip; they're jealous, of course!”
“My dear,” said Denise at last, with her prudent196 air, “I don't blame you in any way! You've spoken nothing but the truth. I have received a letter, and it is my duty to answer it.”
Deloche went away heart-broken, having understood that the young girl accepted the situation and would keep the appointment that evening. When the two young ladies had lunched in a small room adjoining the large dining-room, and in which the women were served much more comfortably, Pauline had to assist Denise downstairs, for the latter's foot was worse.
Down below in the afternoon warmth the stock-taking was roaring louder than ever. The moment for the supreme197 effort had arrived, when before the work, behindhand since the morning, every force was put forth in order to finish that evening. The voices got louder still, one saw nothing but the waving of arms continually emptying the shelves, throwing the goods down, and it was impossible to get along, the tide of the bales and piles of goods on the floor rose as high as the counters. A sea of heads, of brandished198 fists, of limbs flying about, seemed to extend to the very depths of the departments, like the distant confusion of a riot. It was the last fever of the clearance199, the machine nearly ready to burst; whilst along the plate-glass windows, round the closed shop, a few rare pedestrians200 continued to pass, pale with the stifling201 boredom202 of a summer Sunday. On the pavement in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin were planted three tall girls, bareheaded and sluttish-looking, impudently203 sticking their faces against the windows, trying to see the curious work going on inside.
When Denise returned to the ready-made department Madame Aurélie left Marguerite to finish calling out the garments. There was still a lot of checking to be done, for which, desirous of silence, she retired204 into the pattern-room, taking the young girl with her.
“Come with me, we'll do the checking; then you can add up the totals.”
But as she wished to leave the door open, in order to look after the young ladies, the noise came in, and they could not hear much better. It was a large, square room, furnished simply with some chairs and three long tables. In one corner were the great machine knives, for cutting up the patterns. Entire pieces were consumed; they sent away every year more than sixty thousand francs' worth of material, cut up in strips. From morning to night, the knives were cutting up silk, wool, and linen, with a scythe-like noise. Then the books had to be got together, gummed or sewn. And there was also between the two windows, a little printing-press for the tickets.
“Not so loud, please!” cried Madame Aurélie, now and again, quite unable to hear Denise reading out the articles.
When the checking of the first lists was finished, she left the young girl at one of the tables, absorbed in the adding-up. But she returned almost immediately, and placed Mademoiselle de Fontenailles near her; the under-linen department not wanting her any longer, had sent her to Madame Aurélie. She could also do some adding-up, it would save time. But the appearance of the marchioness, as Clara ill-naturedly called her, had disturbed the department. They laughed and joked at poor Joseph, their ferocious sallies could be heard in the pattern-room.
“Don't draw back, you are not at all in my way,” said Denise, seized with pity for the poor girl. “My inkstand will suffice, we'll dip together.”
Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, dulled and stultified205 by her unfortunate position, could not even find a word of gratitude206. She appeared to be a woman who drank, her thinness had a livid appearance, and her hands alone, white and delicate, attested207 the distinction of her birth.
The laughter ceased all at once, and the work resumed its regular roar. It was Mouret who was once more going through the departments. But he stopped and looked round for Denise, surprised not to see her there. He made a sign to Madame Aurélie; and both drew aside, talking in a low tone for a moment. He must be questioning her. She indicated with her eyes the pattern-room, then seemed to be making a report. No doubt she was relating that the young girl had been weeping that morning.
“Very good!” said Mouret, aloud, coming nearer. “Show me the lists.”
“This way, sir,” said the first-hand. “We have run away from the noise.”
He followed her into the next room. Clara was not duped by this manouvre, and said they had better go and fetch a bed at once. But Marguerite threw her the garments at a quicker rate, in order to take up her attention and close her mouth. Wasn't the second-hand a good comrade? Her affairs did not concern any one. The department was becoming an accomplice, the young ladies got more agitated than ever, Lhomme and Joseph affected not to see or hear anything. And Jouve, the inspector, who, passing by, had remarked Madame Aurélie's tactics, commenced walking up and down before the pattern-room door, with the regular step of a sentry208 guarding the will and pleasure of a superior.
“Give Monsieur Mouret the lists,” said the first-hand.
Denise gave them, and sat there with her eyes raised. She had slightly started, but had conquered herself, and retained a fine calm look, although her cheeks were pale. For a moment, Mouret appeared to be absorbed in the list of articles, without a look for the young girl. A silence reigned, Madame Aurélie then went up to Mademoiselle de Fontenailles, who had not even turned her head, appeared dissatisfied with her counting, and said to her in a half whisper:
“Go and help with the parcels. You are not used to figures.”
The latter got up, and returned to the department, where she was greeted by a whispering on all sides. Joseph, exposed to the laughing eyes of these young minxes, was writing anyhow. Clara, delighted with this assistant who arrived, was yet very rough with her, hating her as she hated all the women in the shop. What an idiotic209 thing to yield to the love of a workman, when one was a marchioness! And yet she envied her this love.
“Very good!” repeated Mouret, still affecting to read.
However Madame Aurélie hardly knew how to get away in her turn in a decent fashion. She stamped about, went to look at the knives, furious with her husband for not inventing a pretext for calling her; but he was never any good for serious matters, he would have died of thirst close to a pond. It was Marguerite who was intelligent enough to go and ask the first-hand a question.
“I'm coming,” replied the latter.
And her dignity being now protected, having a pretext in the eyes of the young ladies who were watching her, she at last left Denise and Mouret alone together, going out with her imperial air, her profile so noble, that the saleswomen did not even dare to smile. Mouret had slowly laid the lists on the table, and stood looking at the young girl, who had remained seated, pen in hand. She did not avert210 her gaze, but she had turned paler.
“You will come this evening?” asked he.
“No, sir, I cannot. My brothers are to be at uncle's to-night, and I have promised to dine with them.”
“But your foot! You walk with such difficulty.”
“Oh, I can get so far very well. I feel much better since the morning.”
He had now turned pale in his turn, before this quiet refusal. A nervous revolt agitated his lips. However, he restrained himself, and resumed with the air of a good-natured master simply interesting himself in one of his young ladies: “Come now, if I begged of you—You know what great esteem211 I have for you.”
Denise retained her respectful attitude. “I am greatly touched, sir, by your kindness to me, and I thank you for this invitation. But I repeat, I cannot; my brothers expect me.”
She persisted in not understanding. The door remained open, and she felt that the whole shop was pushing her on to yield. Pauline had amicably212 called her a great simpleton, the others would laugh at her if she refused the invitation. Madame Aurélie, who had gone away, Marguerite, whose rising voice she could hear, Lhomme, with his motionless, discreet attitude, all these people were wishing for her fall, throwing her into the governor's arms. And the distant roar of the stock-taking, the millions of goods called out on all sides, thrown about in every direction, were like a warm wind, carrying the breath of passion straight towards her. There was a silence. Now and again, Mouret's voice was drowned by the noise which accompanied him, with the formidable uproar of a kingly fortune gained in battle.
“When will you come, then?” asked he again. “Tomorrow?”
This simple question troubled Denise. She lost her calmness for a moment, and stammered: “I don't know—I can't——”
But she quickly raised her head, looked him straight in the face, and said, smiling, with her sweet, brave look: “I am afraid of nothing, sir. I can do as I like, can't I? I don't wish to, that's all!”
As she finished speaking, she was surprised by hearing a creaking noise, and on turning round saw the door slowly closing. It was Jouve, the inspector, who had taken upon himself to pull it to. The doors were a part of his duty, none should ever remain open. And he gravely resumed his position as sentinel. No one appeared to have noticed this door being closed in such a simple manner. Clara alone risked a strong remark in Mademoiselle de Fontenailles's ear, but the latter's face remained expressionless.
Denise, however, had got up. Mouret was saying to her in a low and trembling voice: “Listen, Denise, I love you. You have long known it, pray don't be so cruel as to play the ignorant. And don't fear anything. Many a time I've thought of calling you into my office. We should have been alone, I should only have had to lock the door. But I did not wish to; you see I speak to you here, where any one can enter. I love you, Denise!” She was standing up, very pale, listening to him, still looking straight into his face. “Tell me. Why do you refuse? Have you no wants? Your brothers are a heavy burden. Anything you might ask me, anything you might require of me——”
With a word, she stopped him: “Thanks, I now earn more than I want.”
“But it's perfect liberty that I am offering you, an existence of pleasure and luxury. I will set you up in a home of your own. I will assure you a little fortune.”
“No, thanks; I should soon get tired of doing nothing. I earned my own living before I was ten years old.”
He was almost mad. This was the first one who did not yield. He had only had to stoop to pick up the others, they all awaited his pleasure like submissive slaves; and this one said no, without even giving a reasonable pretext. His desire, long restrained, goaded214 by resistance, became stronger than ever. Perhaps he had not offered enough, he thought, and he doubled his offers; he pressed her more and more.
“No, no, thanks,” replied she each time, without faltering215. Then he allowed this cry from his heart to escape him: “But don't you see that I am suffering! Yes, it's stupid, but I am suffering like a child!”
Tears came into his eyes. A fresh silence reigned. They could still hear behind the closed door the softened216 roar of the stock-taking. It was like a dying note of triumph, the accompaniment became more discreet, in this defeat of the master. “And yet if I liked—” said he in an ardent voice, seizing her hands.
She left them in his, her eyes turned pale, her whole strength was deserting her. A warmth came from this man's burning hands, filling her with a delicious cowardice217. Good heavens! how she loved him, and with what delight she could have hung on his neck and remained there!
“I will! I will!” repeated he, in his passionate218 excitement “I expect you to-night, otherwise I will take measures.”
He was becoming brutal219. She set up a low cry; the pain she felt at her wrists restored her courage. With an angry shake she disengaged herself. Then, very stiff, looking taller in her weakness: “No, leave me alone! I am not a Clara, to be thrown over in a day. Besides, you love another; yes, that lady who comes here. Stay with her. I do not accept half an affection.”
He was struck with surprise. What was she saying, and what did she want? The girls he had picked up in the shop had never asked to be loved. He ought to have laughed at such an idea, and this attitude of tender pride completely conquered his heart.
“Now, sir, please open the door,” resumed she. “It is not proper to be shut up together in this way.”
He obeyed; and with his temples throbbing220, hardly knowing how to conceal his anguish221, he recalled Madame Aurélie, and broke out angrily about the stock of cloaks, saying that the prices must be lowered, until every one had been got rid of. Such was the rule of the house—a clean sweep was made every year, they sold at sixty per cent, loss rather than keep an old model or any stale material. At that moment, Bourdoncle, seeking Mouret, was waiting for him outside, stopped before the closed door by Jouve, who had said a word in his ear with a grave air. He got very impatient, without, however, summoning up the courage to interrupt the governor's tête-à-tête. Was it possible? such a day too, and with that puny creature! And when Mouret at last came out Bourdoncle spoke to him about the fancy silks, of which the stock left on hand would be enormous. This was a relief for Mouret, who could now cry out at his ease. What the devil was Bouthemont thinking about? He went off, declaring that he could not allow a buyer to display such a want of sense as to buy beyond the requirements of the business.
“What is the matter with him?” murmured Madame Aurélie, quite overcome by his reproaches.
And the young ladies looked at each other with a surprised air. At six o'clock the stock-taking was finished. The sun was still shining—a blonde summer sun, of which the golden reflection streamed through the glazed roofs of the halls. In the heavy air of the streets, tired families were already returning from the suburbs, loaded with bouquets222, dragging their children along. One by one, the departments had become silent. Nothing was now heard in the depths of the galleries but the lingering calls of a few men clearing a last shelf. Then even these voices ceased, and there remained of the bustle of the day nothing but a shivering, above the formidable piles of goods. The shelves, cupboards, boxes, and band-boxes, were now empty: not a yard of stuff, not an object of any sort had remained in its place. The vast establishment presented nothing but the carcase of its usual appearance, the woodwork was absolutely bare, as on the day of entering into possession. This nakedness was the visible proof of the complete and exact taking of the stock. And on the ground was sixteen million francs' worth of goods, a rising sea, which had finished by submerging the tables and counters. The shopmen, drowned up to the shoulders, had commenced to put each article back into its place. They expected to finish about ten o'clock.
When Madame Aurélie, who went to the first dinner, returned to the dining-room, she announced the amount of business done during the year, which the totals of the various departments had just given. The figure was eighty million francs, ten millions more than the preceding year. The only real decrease was on the fancy silks.
“If Monsieur Mouret is not satisfied, I should like to know what more he wants,” added the first-hand. “See! he's over there, at the top of the grand staircase, looking furious.”
The young ladies went to look at him. He was standing alone, with a sombre countenance223, above the millions scattered at his feet.
“Madame,” said Denise, at this moment, “would you kindly224 let me go away now? I can't do any more good on account of my foot, and as I am to dine at my uncle's with my brothers——”
They were all astonished. She had not yielded, then! Madame Aurélie hesitated, and seemed inclined to prohibit her going out, her voice sharp and disagreeable; whilst Clara shrugged her shoulders, full of incredulity. That wouldn't do! it was very simple—the governor no longer wanted her! When Pauline learnt this, she was in the baby-linen department with Deloche, and the sudden joy exhibited by the young man made her very angry. That did him a lot of good, didn't it? Perhaps he was pleased to see that his friend had been stupid enough to miss a fortune? And Bourdoncle, who did not dare to approach Mouret in his ferocious isolation225, marched up and down amidst these rumours226, in despair also, and full of anxiety. However, Denise went downstairs. As she arrived at the bottom of the left-hand staircase, slowly, supporting herself by the banister, she came upon a group of grinning salesmen. Her name was pronounced, and she felt that they were talking about her adventure. They had not noticed her.
“Oh! all that's put on, you know,” Favier was saying. “She's full of vice62! Yes, I know some one she wanted to take by force.”
And he looked at Hutin, who, in order to preserve his dignity as second-hand, was standing a certain distance apart, without joining in their conversation. But he was so flattered by the air of envy with which the others were contemplating227 him, that he deigned228 to murmur42: “She was a regular nuisance to me, that girl!”
Denise, wounded to the heart, clung to the banister. They must have seen her, for they all disappeared, laughing. He was right, she thought, and she accused herself of her former ignorance, when she used to think about him. But what a coward he was, and how she scorned him now! A great trouble had seized her: was it not strange that she should have found the strength just now to repulse229 a man whom she adored, when she used to feel herself so feeble in bygone days before this worthless fellow, whom she had only dreamed off? Her sense of reason and her bravery foundered230 before these contradictions of her being, in which she could not read clearly. She hastened to cross the hall. Then a sort of instinct prompted her to raise her head, whilst an inspector opened the door, closed since the morning. And she perceived Mouret, who was still at the top of the stairs, on the great central landing, dominating the gallery. But he had forgotten the stock-taking, he did not see his empire, this building bursting with riches. Everything had disappeared, his former glorious victories, his future colossal fortune. With a desponding look he was watching Denise's departure, and when she had passed the door everything disappeared, a darkness came over the house.
该作者的其它作品
《Nana娜娜》
《Germinal》
该作者的其它作品
《Nana娜娜》
《Germinal》
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1
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sprain
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| n.扭伤,扭筋 | |
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sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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14
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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17
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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18
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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20
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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21
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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22
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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23
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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24
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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25
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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26
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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28
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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30
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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31
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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32
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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33
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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34
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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35
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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36
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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37
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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38
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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39
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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40
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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41
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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42
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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43
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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44
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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45
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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46
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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47
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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48
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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49
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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50
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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51
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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52
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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53
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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54
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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55
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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56
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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57
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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58
disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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59
disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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60
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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61
factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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62
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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63
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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64
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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65
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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66
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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67
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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68
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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69
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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70
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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71
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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72
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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73
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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74
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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75
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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76
inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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77
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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79
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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80
inspectors
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| n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 )；（英国公共汽车或火车上的）查票员；（警察）巡官；检阅官 | |
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81
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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82
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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83
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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84
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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85
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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86
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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87
exasperates
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| n.激怒，触怒( exasperate的名词复数 )v.激怒，触怒( exasperate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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91
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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92
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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93
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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94
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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95
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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96
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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97
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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98
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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99
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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100
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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101
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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102
outfitting
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| v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的现在分词 ) | |
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103
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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104
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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105
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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106
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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107
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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108
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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109
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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110
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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111
sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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112
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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113
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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114
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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115
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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116
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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117
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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118
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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119
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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120
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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121
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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122
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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123
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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124
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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125
squandering
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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126
vegetate
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| v.无所事事地过活 | |
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127
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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128
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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129
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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130
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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131
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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132
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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133
encumbering
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的现在分词 ) | |
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134
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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135
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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136
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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137
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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138
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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139
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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140
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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141
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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142
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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143
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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144
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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145
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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146
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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147
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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148
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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149
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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151
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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152
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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153
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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154
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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155
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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156
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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157
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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158
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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159
grills
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| n.烤架( grill的名词复数 )；（一盘）烤肉；格板；烧烤餐馆v.烧烤( grill的第三人称单数 )；拷问，盘问 | |
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160
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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161
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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162
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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163
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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164
luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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165
broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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166
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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167
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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168
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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169
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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170
contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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171
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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172
dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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173
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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174
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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175
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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176
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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177
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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178
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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179
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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180
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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181
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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182
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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183
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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184
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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185
spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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186
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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187
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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188
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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189
enjoining
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| v.命令( enjoin的现在分词 ) | |
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190
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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191
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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192
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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193
circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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194
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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195
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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196
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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197
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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198
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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199
clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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200
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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201
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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202
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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203
impudently
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204
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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205
stultified
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| v.使成为徒劳，使变得无用( stultify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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207
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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208
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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209
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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210
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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211
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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212
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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213
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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214
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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215
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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216
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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217
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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218
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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219
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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220
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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221
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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222
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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223
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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224
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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225
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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226
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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227
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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228
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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229
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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230
foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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