But the door remained half open, the servant was bringing in the tea. He went out, came in again, placed the china service on the table, then some plates of sandwiches and biscuits. In the vast room, a bright light, softened by the green plants, illuminated the brass-work, bathing the silk hangings in a tender flame; and each time the door was opened one could perceive an obscure corner of the ante-room, which was only lighted by two ground-glass windows. There, in the darkness, appeared a sombre form, motionless and patient. It was Denise, still standing up; there was a leather-covered form there, but a feeling of pride prevented her sitting down on it. She felt the insult keenly. She had been there for the last half-hour, without a gesture, without a word. The ladies and the baron had taken stock of her in passing; she could now hear the voices from the drawingroom. All this amiable luxury wounded her with its indifference, and still she did not move. Suddenly, through the half-open door, she perceived Mouret, and he, on his side, had at last guessed it to be her.
“Is it one of your saleswomen?” asked Baron Hartmann.
Mouret had succeeded in concealing his great agitation; but his voice trembled somewhat with emotion: “No doubt; but I don't know which.”
“It's the little fair girl from the ready-made department,” replied Madame Marty, obligingly, “the second-hand, I believe.”
Henriette looked at Mouret in her turn.
“Ah!” said he, simply.
And he tried to change the conversation, speaking of the fêtes given to the King of Prussia then passing through Paris. But the baron returned maliciously to the young ladies in the big establishments. He affected to be desirous of gaining information, and put several questions: Where did they come from in general? Was their conduct as bad as it was said to be? Quite a discussion ensued.
“Really,” he repeated, “you think them well behaved.”
Mouret defended their virtue with a conviction which made De Vallagnosc smile. Bouthemont then interfered, to save his chief. Of course there were some of all sorts, bad and good. Formerly they had nothing but the refuse of the trade, a poor, vague class of girls drifted into the drapery business; whilst now, such respectable families as those living in the Rue de Sèvres, for instance, positively brought up their girls for the Bon Marche. In short, when they liked to conduct themselves well, they could, for they were not, like the work-girls of Paris, obliged to board and lodge themselves; they had bed and board, their existence was provided for, an existence excessively hard, no doubt. The worst of all was their neutral, badly-defined position, between the shop-woman and the lady. Thrown into the midst of luxury, often without any previous instruction, they formed a singular, nameless class. Their misfortunes and vices sprung from that.
“I,” said Madame de Boves, “I don't know any creatures more disagreeable. Really, one could slap them sometimes.”