“By the way,” resumed Pauline, “weren't you looking for Monsieur Robineau yesterday? He's come back.”
Denise thought she was saved. “Thanks, I'll go round the other way then, and pass through the silk department. So much the worse! They sent me upstairs to the work-room to fetch a bodkin.”
And they separated. The young girl, with a busy look, as if she were running from pay-desk to pay-desk in search of something, arrived on the stairs and went down into the hall. It was a quarter to ten, the first lunch-bell had rung. A warm sun was playing on the windows, and notwithstanding the grey linen blinds, the heat penetrated into the stagnant air. Now and then a refreshing breath arose from the floor, which the messengers were gently watering. It was a somnolence, a summer siesta, in the midst of the empty space around the counters, like the interior of a church wrapt in sleeping shadow after the last mass. Some listless salesmen were standing about, a few rare customers were crossing the galleries and the hall, with the fatigued step of women annoyed by the sun.
Just as Denise went down, Favier was measuring a dress length of light silk, with pink spots, for Madame Boutarel, arrived in Paris the previous day from the South. Since the commencement of the month, the provinces had been sending up their detachments; one saw nothing but queerly-dressed ladies with yellow shawls, green skirts, and flaring bonnets. The shopmen, indifferent, were too indolent to laugh at them even. Favier accompanied Madame Boutarel to the mercery department, and on returning, said to Hutin:
“Yesterday they were all Auvergnat women, to-day they're all Provençales. I'm sick of them.”
But Hutin rushed forward, it was his turn, and he had recognised “the pretty lady,” the lovely blonde whom the department thus designated, knowing nothing about her, not even her name. They all smiled at her, not a week passed without her coming to The Ladies' Paradise, always alone. This time she had a little boy of four or five with her, and this gave rise to some comment.
“She's married, then?” asked Favier, when Hutin returned from the pay-desk, where he had debited her with thirty yards of Duchess satin.
“Possibly,” replied he, “although the youngster proves nothing. Perhaps he belongs to a lady friend. What's certain is, that she must have been weeping. She's so melancholy, and her eyes are so red!”
À silence ensued. The two salesmen gazed vaguely into the depths of the shop. Then Favier resumed in a low voice; “If she's married, perhaps her husband's given her a drubbing.”
“Possibly,” repeated Hutin, “unless it be a lover who has left her.” And after a fresh silence, he added: “Any way, I don't care a hang!”