“It's a trap,” cried she, when Bourdoncle and Jouve came in. “This lace has been placed on me, I swear before Heaven.”
She was now weeping tears of rage, and fell on a chair, suffocated in her dress. The partner sent away the saleswomen, and resumed, with his quiet air: “We are quite willing, madame, to hush up this painful affair for the sake of your family. But you must first sign a paper thus worded: 'I have stolen some lace from The Ladies' Paradise,' followed by the details of the lace, and the day of the month. Besides, I shall be happy to return you this document whenever you like to bring me a sum of two thousand francs for the poor.”
She got up again, and declared in a fresh outburst: “I'll never sign that, I'd rather die.”
“You won't die, madame; but I warn you that I shall shortly send for the police.”
Then followed a frightful scene. She insulted him, she stammered that it was cowardly for a man to torture a woman in that way. Her Juno-like beauty, her tall majestic body was distorted by vulgar rage. Then she tried to melt them, entreating them in the name of their mothers, and spoke of dragging herself at their feet. And as they remained quite unmoved, hardened by custom, she sat down all at once and began to write with a trembling hand. The pen sputtered, the words: “I have stolen,” written madly, went almost through the thin paper, whilst she repeated in a strangled voice: “There, sir, there. I yield to force.”
Bourdoncle took the paper, carefully folded it, and put it in a drawer, saying: “You see it's in company, for ladies, after talking of dying rather than signing, generally forget to come and redeem their billets doux. However, I hold it at your disposal. You'll be able to judge whether it's worth two thousand francs.”
She was buttoning up her dress, and became as arrogant as ever, now that she had paid. “I can go now?” asked she, in a sharp tone.
Bourdoncle was already occupied with other business. On Jouve's report, he decided on Deloche's dismissal, as a stupid fellow, who was always being robbed, never having any authority over the customers. Madame de Boves repeated her question, and as they dismissed her with an affirmative nod, she enveloped both of them in a murderous look. In the flood of insulting words that she kept back, a melodramatic cry escaped from her lips.
“Wretches!” said she, banging the door after her.
Meanwhile Blanche had not gone far away from the office. Her ignorance of what was going on inside, the passing backwards and forwards of Jouve and the two saleswomen frightened her, she had visions of the police, the assize court, and the prison. But all at once she stopped short: De Vallagnosc was before her, this husband of a month, with whom she still felt rather awkward; and he questioned her, astonished at her bewildered appearance.