Denise sharply corrected this falsehood, certain that the least persistence on the part of the young man would decide her uncle. As to Colomban's surprise, it was not feigned; he had really never noticed Geneviève's slow agony. For him it was a very disagreeable revelation; for while he remained ignorant of it, he had no great blame to tax himself with.
“And who for?” resumed Denise. “For a worthless girl! You can't know who you are loving! Up to the present I have not wanted to hurt your feelings, I have often avoided answering your continual questions. Well! she goes with everybody, she laughs at you, you will never have her, or you may have her, like others, just once in a way.”
He listened to her, very pale; and at each of the sentences she threw into his face, his lips trembled. She, in a cruel fit, yielded to a transport of anger of which she had no consciousness. “In short,” said she in a final cry, “she's with Monsieur Mouret, if you want to know!”
Her voice was stifled, she turned paler than Colomban himself. Both stood looking at each other. Then he stammered out: “I love her!”
Denise felt ashamed of herself. Why was she talking in this way to this young fellow? Why was she getting so excited? She stood there mute, the simple reply he had just given resounded in her heart like the clang of a bell, which deafened her. “I love her, I love her!” and it seemed to spread. He was right, he could not marry another woman. And as she turned round, she observed Geneviève on the threshold of the dining-room.
“Be quiet!” she said rapidly.
But it was too late, Geneviève must have heard, for her face was white bloodless. Just at that moment a customer opened the door—Madame Bourdelais, one of the last faithful customers of the Old Elbeuf where she found solid goods for her money; for a long time past Madame de Boves had followed the fashion, and gone over to The Ladies' Paradise; Madame Marty herself no longer came, entirely captivated by the seductions of the display opposite. And Geneviève was forced to go forward, and say in her weak voice:
“What do you desire, madame?”
Madame Bourdelais wished to see some flannel. Colomban took down a roll from a shelf. Geneviève showed the article; and both of them, their hands cold, found themselves brought together behind the counter. Meanwhile Baudu came out of the dining-room last, behind his wife, who had gone and seated herself at the pay-desk. At first he did not meddle with the sale, but stood up, looking at Madame Bourdelais.
“It is not good enough,” said the latter. “Show me the strongest you have.”