“Where's your mother? Have you lost each other? Come, tell me, you make me feel anxious.”
Nothing in the way of a colourable fiction presented itself to her, and in great distress she told him everything in a low voice: “Mamma, mamma—she has been stealing.”
“What! stealing?” At last he understood. His wife's bloated face, the pale mask, ravaged by fear, terrified him.
“Some lace, like that, up her sleeve,” she continued stammering.
“You saw her, then? You were looking on?” murmured he, chilled to feel her a sort of accomplice.
They had to stop talking, several persons were already turning round. An hesitation full of anguish kept De Vallagnosc motionless for a moment. What was to be done? He was about to go into Bourdoncle's office, when he perceived Mouret crossing the gallery. He told his wife to wait for him, and seized his old friend's arm, informing him of the affair, in broken sentences. The latter hastily took him into his office, where he soon put him at rest as to the possible consequences. He assured him that he need not interfere, and explained in what way the affair would be arranged, without appearing at all excited about this robbery, as if he had foreseen it long ago. But De Vallagnosc, when he no longer feared an immediate arrest, did not accept the adventure with this admirable coolness. He had thrown himself into an arm-chair, and now that he could discuss the matter, began to lament his own unfortunate position. Was it possible that he had married into a family of thieves? A stupid marriage that he had drifted into, just to please his father! Surprised at this childish violence, Mouret watched him weeping, thinking of his former pessimist boasting. Had he not heard him announce scores of times the nothingness of life, in which evil alone had any attraction? And by way of a joke he amused himself for a minute or so, by preaching indifference to his friend, in a friendly, bantering tone. But at this De Vallognosc got angry: he was quite unable to recover his compromised philosophy, his middle-class education broke out in virtuously indignant cries against his mother-in-law. As soon as trouble fell on him, at the least appearance of human suffering, at which he had always coldly laughed, the boasted sceptic was beaten and bleeding. It was abominable, they were dragging the honour of his race into the mud, and the world seemed to be coming to an end.
“Come, calm yourself,” concluded Mouret, stricken with pity. “I won't tell you that everything happens and nothing happens, because that does not seem to comfort you just now. But I think you ought to go and offer your arm to Madame de Boves, that would be wiser than causing a scandal. The deuce! you who professed such scorn before the universal rascality of the present day!”
“Of course,” cried De Vallagnosc, innocently, “when it affects other people!”
However, he got up, and followed his old school-fellow's advice. Both were returning to the gallery when Madame de Boves came out of Bourdoncle's office. She accepted her son-in-law's arm with a majestic air, and as Mouret bowed to her with respectful gallantry, he heard her saying: “They've apologised to me. Really, these mistakes are abominable.”
Blanche rejoined them, and they were soon lost in the crowd. Then Mouret, alone and pensive, crossed the shop once more. This scene, which had changed his thoughts from the struggle going on within him, now increased his fever, and decided him to make a supreme effort. A vague connection arose in his mind: the robbery by this unfortunate woman, the last folly of the conquered customers, beaten at the feet of the tempter, evoked the proud and avenging image of Denise, whose victorious grip he could feel at his throat. He stopped at the top of the central staircase, and gazed for a long time into the immense nave, where his nation of women were swarming.