One of the gas-burners was hissing, and in the stuffy, moist air of the room, nothing else was heard but this ardent breath. The looking-glasses threw large sheets of light on the red silk hangings, on which were dancing the shadows of the two women. A bottle of verbena, of which the cork had been left out, spread a vague odour, something like that of a fading bouquet.
“There, madame, I can do no more,” said Denise, at last, rising up.
She felt thoroughly worn out. Twice she had run the pins in her fingers, as if blinded, her eyes in a mist. Was he in the plot? Had he sent for her, to avenge himself for her refusal, by showing that other women loved him? And this thought chilled her; she never remembered to have stood in need of so much courage, not even during the terrible hours of her life when she wanted for bread. It was comparatively nothing to be humiliated, but to see him almost in the arms of another woman, as if she had not been there! Henriette looked at herself in the glass, and once more broke out into harsh words.
“But it's absurd, mademoiselle. It fits worse than ever. Just look how tight it is across the chest I look like a wet nurse.”
Denise, losing all patience, made a rather unfortunate remark. “You are slightly stout, madame. We cannot make you thinner than you are.”
“Stout! stout!” exclaimed Henriette, who now turned pale in her turn. “You're becoming insolent, mademoiselle. Really, I should advise you to criticise others!”
They both stood looking at each other, face to face, trembling. There was now neither lady or shop-girl. They were simply two women, made equal by their rivalry. The one had violently taken off the mantle and cast it on a chair, whilst the other was throwing on the dressing-table the few pins she had in her hands.
“What astonishes me,” resumed Henriette, “is that Monsieur Mouret should tolerate such insolence. I thought, sir, that you were more particular about your employees.”
Denise had again assumed her brave, calm manner. She gently replied: “If Monsieur Mouret keeps me, it's because he has no fault to find. I am ready to apologise to you, if he wishes it.”
Mouret was listening, excited by this quarrel, unable to find a word to put a stop to it. He had a great horror of these explanations between women, their asperity wounding his sense of elegance and gracefulness. Henriette wished to force him to say something in condemnation of the young girl; and, as he remained mute, still undecided, she stung him with a final insult: