“Here you are, then!” said Baudu. “Take care! they would run right over you.”
Inside the shop, Denise experienced the same heart-broken sensation; she found it darker, invaded more than ever by the somnolence of approaching ruin; empty corners formed dark and gloomy holes, the dust was invading the counters and drawers, whilst an odour of saltpetre rose from the bales of cloth that were no longer moved about. At the desk Madame Baudu and Geneviève were standing mute and motionless, as in some solitary spot, where no one would come to disturb them. The mother was hemming some dusters. The daughter, her hands spread on her knees, was gazing at the emptiness before her.
“Good evening, aunt,” said Denise; “I'm delighted to see you again, and if I have hurt your feelings, I hope you will forgive me.”
Madame Baudu kissed her, greatly affected. “My poor child,” said she, “if I had no other troubles, you would see me gayer than this.”
“Good evening, cousin,” resumed Denise, kissing Geneviève on the cheeks.
The latter woke up with a sort of start, and returned her kisses, without finding a word to say. The two women then took up Pépé, who was holding out his little arms, and the reconciliation was complete.
“Well! it's six o'clock, let's go to dinner,” said Baudu. “Why haven't you brought Jean?”
“But he was to come,” murmured Denise, embarrassed. “I saw him this morning, and he faithfully promised me. Oh! we must not wait for him; his master has kept him, I dare say.” She suspected some extraordinary adventure, and wished to apologise for him in advance.
“In that case, we will commence,” said her uncle. Then turning towards the obscure depths of the shop, he added:
“Come on, Colomban, you can dine with us. No one will come.”