“Won't those fancy silks soon be finished?” asked Bouthemont suddenly, with an annoyed air. “What a miserable spring, always raining! People have bought nothing but black silks.” His fat, jovial face became cloudy; he looked at the growing heap on the floor, whilst Hutin called out louder still, in a sonorous 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 encumbered. Similar heaps were scattered 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 rumbling sounds came from the furniture department. Every sort of voice was heard together, shrill voices, thick voices; figures whizzed through the air, a rustling clamour reigned 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 inscribed, “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!”