At this, Madame Aurélie, who was engaged in calling out some cloaks, could not make herself heard. She interfered with a wounded air, and a majestic slowness: “A little softer, mademoiselle. We are not in a market. And you are all very unreasonable, to be amusing yourselves with these childish matters, when our time is so precious.”
Just at that moment, as Clara was not paying any attention to the parcels, a catastrophe took place. Some mantles tumbled down, and all the heaps on the tables, dragged down with them, fell one after the other, so that the carpet was strewn with them.
“There! what did I say!” cried the first-hand, beside herself. “Pray be more careful, Mademoiselle Prunaire; it's intolerable!”
But a hum ran along: Mouret and Bourdoncle, making their round of inspection, had just appeared. The voices started again, the pens sputtered along, whilst Clara hastened to pick up the garments. The governor did not interrupt the work. He stood there several minutes, mute, smiling; and it was on his lips alone that a slight feverish shivering was visible in his gay and victorious face of stock-taking days. When he perceived Denise, he nearly gave way to a gesture of astonishment. She had come down, then? His eyes met Madame Aurélie's. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he went away into the under-linen department.
However, Denise, warned by the slight noise, had raised her head. And, after having recognised Mouret, she had immediately bent over her work again, without ostentation. Since she had been writing in this mechanical way, amidst the regular calling-out of the articles, a peaceful feeling had stolen over her. She had always yielded thus to the first excesses of her sensitiveness: the tears suffocated her, her passion doubled her torments; then she regained her self-command, finding a grand, calm courage, a strength of will, quiet but inexorable. Now, with her limpid eyes, and pale complexion, she was free from all agitation, entirely given up to her work, resolved to crush her heart and to do nothing but her will.
Ten o'clock struck, the uproar of the stock-taking was increasing in the activity of the departments. And amidst the cries incessantly raised, crossing each other on all sides, the same news was circulating with surprising rapidity: every salesman knew that Mouret had written that morning inviting Denise to dinner. The indiscretion came from Pauline. On going downstairs, still excited, she had met Deloche in the lace department, and, without noticing that Liénard was talking to the young man, she immediately relieved her mind of the secret.
“It's done, my dear fellow. She's just received a letter. He invites her for this evening.”
Deloche turned very pale. He had understood, for he often questioned Pauline; they spoke of their common friend every day, of Mouret's love for her, of the famous invitation which would finish by bringing the adventure to an issue. She frequently scolded him for his secret love for Denise, with whom he would never succeed, and she shrugged her shoulders whenever he expressed his approval of the girl's conduct in resisting the governor.
“Her foot's better, she's coming down,” continued Pauline.
“Pray don't put on that funeral face. It's a piece of good luck for her, this invitation.” And she hastened back to her department.