“It really is a failure, madame,” said Mouret, to cut the matter short. “It's very simple; the young lady will take your measure, and we will make you another.”
“No, I want this one, I want it immediately,” resumed she, with vivacity. “But it's too narrow across the chest, and it forms a ruck at the back between the shoulders.” Then, in her sharpest voice, she added: “It's no use you standing looking at me, mademoiselle, that won't make it any better! Try and find a remedy. It's your business.”
Denise again commenced to place the pins, without saying a word. That went on for some time: she had to pass from one shoulder to the other, and was even obliged to go almost on her knees, to pull the mantle down in front. Above her placing herself entirely in Denise's hands, Madame Desforges gave her face the harsh expression of a mistress exceedingly difficult to please. Delighted to lower the young girl to this servant's work, she gave her sharp and brief orders, watching for the least sign of suffering on Mouret's face.
“Put a pin here! No! not there, here, near the sleeve. You don't seem to understand! That isn't it, there's the ruck showing again. Take care, you're pricking me now!”
Twice had Mouret vainly attempted to interfere, to put an end to this scene. His heart was beating violently from this humiliation of his love; and he loved Denise more than ever, with a deep tenderness, in the presence of her admirably silent and patient attitude. If the young girl's hands still trembled somewhat, at being treated in this way before his face, she accepted the necessities of her position with the proud resignation of a courageous girl. When Madame Desforges found they were not likely to betray themselves, she tried another way, she commenced to smile on Mouret, treating him openly as her lover. The pins having run short, she said to him:
“Look, my dear, in the ivory box on the dressing-table. Really! it's empty? Kindly see on the chimney-piece in the bed-room; you know, at the corner of the looking-glass.”
She spoke as if he were quite at home, in the habit of sleeping there, and knew where to find everything, even the brushes and combs. When he brought back a few pins, she took them one by one, and forced him to stay near her, looking at him and speaking low.
“I don't fancy I'm hump-backed. Give me your hand, feel my shoulders, just to please me. Am I really made like that?”
Denise slowly raised her eyes, paler than ever, and set about placing the pins in silence. Mouret could only see her blonde tresses, twisted at the back of her delicate neck; but by the slight shudder which was raising them, he thought he could perceive the uneasiness and shame of her face. Now, she would certainly repulse him, and send him back to this woman, who did not conceal her connection even before strangers. Brutal thoughts came into his head, he could have struck Henriette. How was he to stop her talk? How should he tell Denise that he adored her, that she alone existed for him at this moment, and that he was ready to sacrifice for her all his former affections? The worst of women would not have indulged in the equivocal familiarities of this well-born lady. He took his hand away, and drew back, saying:
“You are wrong to go so far, madame, since I myself consider the garment to be a failure.”