of being whipped. She stammered out her request, but was obliged to repeat it to make herself understood. Madame Aurélie looked at her with her great fixed eyes, not a line of her imperial mask deigning to relax, “How old are you?”
“Twenty, madame.”
“What, twenty years old? you don’t look sixteen!”
The saleswomen again raised their heads. Denise hastened to add: “Oh, I’m very strong!”
Madame Aurélie shrugged her broad shoulders, then coldly declared: “Well! I don’t mind entering your name. We enter the names of all those who apply. Mademoiselle Prunaire, give me the book.”
But the book could not be found; Jouve, the inspector had probably got it. As tall Clara was going to fetch it, Mouret arrived, still followed by Bourdoncle. They had made the tour of the other departments – the lace, the shawls, the furs, the furniture, the under-linen, and were winding up with the dresses. Madame Aurélie left Denise a moment to speak to them about an order for some cloaks she thought of giving to one of the large Paris houses; as a rule, she bought direct, and on her own responsibility; but, for important purchases, she preferred consulting the chiefs of the house. Bourdoncle then related her son Albert’s latest act of carelessness, which seemed to fill her with despair. That boy would kill her; his father, although not a man of talent, was at least well-conducted, careful, and honest. All this dynasty of Lhommes, of which she was the acknowledged head, very often caused her a great deal of trouble. However, Mouret, surprised to see Denise again, bent down to ask Madame Aurélie what the young lady was doing there; and, when the first-hand replied that she was applying for a saleswoman’s situation, Bourdoncle, with his disdain for women, seemed suffocated at this pretension.
“You don’t mean it,” murmured he; “it must be a joke, she’s too ugly!”
“The fact is, there’s nothing handsome about her,” said Mouret, not daring to defend her, although still moved by the rapture she had displayed downstairs before his arrangement of silks.
But the book having been brought in, Madame Aurélie returned to Denise, who had certainly not made a favourable impression. She looked very clean in her thin black woollen dress; the question of shabbiness was of no importance, as the house furnished a uniform, the regulation silk dress; but she appeared rather weak and puny, and had a melancholy face. Without insisting on handsome girls, one liked them to be of agreeable appearance for the sale rooms. And beneath the gaze of all these ladies and gentlemen who were studying her, weighing her like farmers would a horse at a fair, Denise completely lost countenance.
“Your name?” asked Madame Aurélie, at the end of a counter, pen in hand, ready to write.
“Denise Baudu, madame.”
“Your age?”
“Twenty years and four months.” And she repeated, risking a glance at Mouret, at this supposed manager, whom she met everywhere and whose presence troubled her so: “I don’t look like it, but I am really very strong.”
They smiled. Bourdoncle showed evident signs of impatience; her remark fell, moreover, amidst a most discouraging silence.
“What house have you been in, in Paris?” resumed Madame Aurélie.
“I’ve just arrived from Valognes.”
This was a fresh disaster. As a rule, The Ladies’ Paradise only took saleswomen with a year’s experience in one of the small houses in Paris. Denise thought all was lost; and, had it not been for the children, had she not been obliged to work for them, she would have closed this useless interview and left the place. “Where were you at Valognes?”
“At Cornaille’s.”
“I know him – good house,” remarked Mouret.
It was very rarely that he interfered in the engagement of the employees, the manager of each department being responsible for his staff. But with his delicate appreciation of women, he divined in this young girl a hidden charm, a wealth of grace, and tenderness of which she herself was ignorant. The good name enjoyed by the house in which the candidate had started was of great importance, often deciding the question in his or her favour. Madame Aurélie continued, in a kinder tone: “And why did you leave Cornaille’s?”
“For family reasons,” replied Denise, turning scarlet “We have lost our parents, I have been obliged to follow my brothers. Here is a certificate.”
It was excellent Her hopes were reviving, when another question troubled her.
“Have you any other references in Paris? Where do you live?”
“At my uncle’s,” murmured she, hesitating about naming him, fearing they would never take the niece of a competitor. “At my uncle Baudu’s, opposite.”
At this, Mouret interfered a second time. “What! are you Baudu’s niece? Is it Baudu who sent you here?”
“Oh! no, sir!”
And she could not help laughing, the idea appeared to her so singular. It was a transfiguration; she became quite rosy, and the smile round her rather large mouth lighted up her whole face. Her grey eyes sparkled with a tender flame, her cheeks filled with delicious dimples, and even her light hair seemed to partake of the frank and courageous gaiety that pervaded her whole being.
“Why, she’s really pretty,” whispered Mouret to Bourdoncle.
The partner refused to admit it, with a gesture of annoyance. Clara bit her lips, and Marguerite turned away; but Madame Aurélie seemed won over, and encouraged Mouret with a nod when he resumed: “Your uncle was wrong not to bring you; his recommendation sufficed. They say he has a grudge against us. We are people of more liberal minds, and if he can’t find employment for his niece in his house, why we will show him that she has only to knock at our door to be received. Just tell him I still like him very much, and that he must blame, not me, but the new style of business. Tell him, too, that he will ruin himself if he insists on keeping to his ridiculous old-fashioned ways.”
Denise turned quite white again. It was Mouret; no one had mentioned his name, but he had revealed himself, and now she guessed who it was, she understood why this young man had caused her such emotion in the street, in the silk department, and again now. This emotion, which she could not analyse, pressed on her heart more and more, like a too-heavy weight. All the stories related by her uncle came back to her, increasing Mouret’s importance, surrounding him with a sort of halo, making of him the master of the terrible machine by whose wheels she had felt herself being seized all the morning. And, behind his handsome face, well-trimmed beard, and eyes of the colour of old gold, she beheld the dead woman, that Madame Hédouin, whose blood had helped to cement the stones of the house. The shiver she had felt the previous night again seized her; and she thought she was merely afraid of him.
Meanwhile, Madame Aurélie had closed the book. She only wanted one saleswoman, and she already had ten applications. But she was too anxious to please the governor to hesitate for a moment. However, the application would follow its course, Jouve, the inspector, would go and make enquiries, send in his report, and then she would come to a decision.
“Very good, mademoiselle,” said she majestically, to preserve her authority; “we will write to you.”
Denise stood there, unable to move for a moment, hardly knowing how to take her leave in the midst of all these people. At last she thanked Madame Aurélie, and on passing by Mouret and Bourdoncle, she bowed. These gentlemen, occupied in examining the pattern of a mantle with Madame Frédéric,
