“Don't you prefer to be served by men? One feels more comfortable?”
At last Marguerite brought a silk mantle trimmed with jet, which she treated with more respect And Madame Aurélie abruptly called Denise.
“Come, do something for your living. Just put that on your shoulders.”
Denise, wounded to the heart, despairing of ever succeeding in the house, had remained motionless, her hands hanging by her side. No doubt she would be sent away, and the children would be without food. The tumult of the crowd buzzed in her head, she felt herself tottering, her arms bruised by the handling of so many armfuls of garments, hard work which she had never done before. However, she was obliged to obey and allow Marguerite to put the mantle on her, as on a dummy.
“Stand upright,” said Madame Aurélie.
But a moment after they forgot Denise. Mouret had just come in with Vallagnosc and Bourdoncle; and he bowed to the ladies, who complimented him on his magnificent exhibition of winter novelties. Of course they went into raptures over the oriental saloon. Vallagnosc, who was finishing his walk round the counters, displayed more surprise than admiration; for, after all, thought he, in his pessimist supineness, it was nothing more than an immense collection of calico. Bourdoncle, forgetting that he belonged to the establishment, also congratulated the governor, to make him forget his anxious doubts and persecutions of the early part of the day.
“Yes, yes; things are going on very well, I'm quite satisfied,” repeated Mouret, radiant, replying with a smile to Madame Desforges's tender looks. “But I must not interrupt you, ladies.”
Then all eyes were again fixed on Denise. She placed herself entirely in the hands of Marguerite, who was making her turn round slowly.
“What do you think of it—eh?” asked Madame Marty of Madame Desforges.
The latter gave her advice, like a supreme umpire of fashion. “It isn't bad, the cut is original, but it doesn't seem to me very graceful about the figure.”