“Ah, it's you, mademoiselle!”
She did not reply, astonished that he should deign to stop. He, smiling, concealed his constraint beneath an air of amiable protection.
“You are still in Paris?”
“Yes, sir,” said she at last.
She was slowly drawing back, desirous of making a bow and continuing her walk. But he turned and followed her under the black shadows of the chestnut-trees. The air was getting cooler, some children were laughing in the distance, trundling their hoops.
“This is your brother, is it not?” resumed he, looking at Pépé.
The little boy, frightened by the unusual presence of a gentleman, was gravely walking by his sister's side, holding her tightly by the hand.
“Yes, sir,” replied she once more.
She blushed, thinking of the abominable inventions circulated by Marguerite and Clara. No doubt Mouret understood why she was blushing, for he quickly added: “Listen, mademoiselle, I have to apologise to you. Yes, I should have been happy to have told you sooner how much I regret the error that has been made. You were accused too lightly of a fault. But the evil is done. I simply wanted to assure you that every one in our establishment now knows of your affection for your brothers,” he continued, with a respectful politeness to which the saleswomen in The Ladies' Paradise were little accustomed. Denise's confusion had increased; but her heart was filled with joy. He knew, then, that she had given herself to no one! Both remained silent; he continued beside her, regulating his walk to the child's short steps; and the distant murmurs of the city were dying away under the black shadows of the spreading chestnut-trees. “I have only one reparation to offer you,” resumed he. “Naturally, if you would like to come back to us——”
She interrupted him, and refused with a feverish haste. “No, sir, I cannot. Thank you all the same, but I have found another situation.”