A sudden constraint, an anxious bashfulness seized the young girl.
“You love some one, don't you?” resumed he, in a trembling voice. “Oh! you may speak out; I have no claim on your affections. Do you love any one?”
She turned very red, her heart was in her mouth, and she felt all falsehood impossible before this emotion which was betraying her, this repugnance for a lie which made the truth appear in her face in spite of all.
“Yes,” she at last confessed, feebly. “But I beg you to let me go away, sir, you are torturing me.”
She was now suffering in her turn. Was it not enough to have to defend herself against him? Was she to be obliged to fight against herself, against the breath of tenderness which sometimes took away all her courage? When he spoke to her thus, when she saw him so full of emotion, so overcome, she hardly knew why she still refused; and it was only afterwards that she found, in the depths of her healthy, girlish nature, the pride and the prudence which maintained her intact in her virtuous resolution. It was by a sort of instinct of happiness that she still remained so obstinate, to satisfy her need of a quiet life, and not from any idea of virtue. She would have fallen into this man's arms, her heart seduced, her flesh overpowered if she had not experienced a sort of revolt, almost a feeling of repulsion before the definite bestowal of her being, ignorant of her future fate. The lover made her afraid, inspiring her with that fear that all women feel at the approach of the male.
Mouret gave way to a gesture of gloomy discouragement. He could not understand her. He turned towards his desk, took up some papers and then laid them down again, saying: “I will retain you no longer, mademoiselle; I cannot keep you against your will.”
“But I don't wish to go away,” replied she, smiling. “If you believe me to be innocent, I will remain. One ought always to believe a woman to be virtuous, sir. There are numbers who are so, I assure you.”
Denise's eyes had involuntarily wandered towards Madame Hédouin's portrait: that lady so wise and so beautiful, whose blood, they said, had brought good fortune to the house. Mouret followed the young girl's look with a start, for he thought he heard his dead wife pronounce this phrase, one of her own sayings which he at once recognised. And it was like a resurrection, he discovered in Denise the good sense, the just equilibrium of her he had lost, even down to the gentle voice, sparing of useless words. He was struck by this resemblance, which rendered him sadder still.
“You know I am yours,” murmured he in conclusion. “Do what you like with me.”
Then she resumed gaily: “That is right, sir. The advice of a woman, however humble she may be, is always worth listening to when she has a little intelligence. If you put yourself in my hands, be sure I'll make nothing but a good man of you!”