One evening when Denise had not even any bread for Pépé's soup, a well-dressed man, wearing a decoration, commenced to follow her. On reaching the passage he became brutal, and it was with loathing and revolt that she banged the door in his face. Then, once more upstairs, she sat down, with her hands trembling. The little one was sleeping. What should she say if he woke up and asked her for bread? And yet had she chosen her misery would have ceased, she could have had money, dresses, and a fine room. It was very simple, every one came to that, it was said; for a woman alone in Paris could not live by her labour. But her whole being rose up in protest, against the disgrace of the thing. She considered life a matter of logic, good conduct, and courage.
Denise frequently questioned herself in this way. An old love story floated in her memory, the story of a sailor's betrothed whom her love guarded from all perils. At Valognes she had often hummed this sentimental ballad whilst gazing into the deserted street. Had she likewise some tender affection in her heart that she proved so brave? She still thought of Hutin, full of uneasiness. Morning and evening she saw him pass under her window. Now that he was second-hand he walked by himself, saluted with respect by the mere salesmen. He never raised his head, and she thought she suffered from his vanity. Still she watched him without fear of being discovered; whereas, as soon as she saw Mouret, who also passed every day, she began to tremble, and quickly concealed herself, her bosom heaving. He had no need to know where she was lodging. And then she would feel ashamed of the house, and suffer at the idea of what he must think of her, although perhaps they would never meet again.
Denise still lived amidst all the hubbub of The Ladies' Paradise. A mere wall separated her room from her old department; and, from early morning, she lived her old days afresh, divining and hearing the arrival of the crowd and the increasing bustle of business. The slightest noise shook the old hovel which clung to the side of the colossus, and shared in its pulsations. Moreover, she could not avoid certain meetings. She twice had found herself face to face with Pauline, who had offered her services, grieved to see her so unfortunate; and she had even been obliged to tell a falsehood to avoid receiving her friend or paying her a visit, one Sunday, at Baugé's. But it was more difficult still for her to defend herself against Deloche's desperate affection; aware of all her troubles, he watched her, waited for her in the doorways. One day he wanted to lend her thirty francs, a brother's savings, he said, with a blush. And these meetings made her regret the shop, and continually brought her back to thoughts of the life the others led there, as if she herself had not quitted it.
No one had ever called upon her till one afternoon when she was surprised by a knock. It was Colomban. She received him standing. For his part he seemed greatly embarrassed and began stammering, asking how she was getting on, and speaking of The Old Elbeuf. Perhaps, thought she, it was Uncle Baudu who had sent him, regretting his rigour; for he continued to pass her without taking any notice of her, although he was well aware of her miserable position. However, when she plainly questioned her visitor, he appeared more embarrassed than ever. No, no, it was not the governor who had sent him; and he finished by naming Clara—he simply wanted to talk about Clara. Then little by little he grew bolder, and asked Denise's advice, imagining no doubt that she might be willing to play the part of a go-between. And it was in vain that she tried to dishearten him, by reproaching him with the pain he was causing Geneviève for such a heartless girl. He came up another day, indeed got into the habit of coming to see her. This seemed to suffice for his timid passion; he continually began the same conversation afresh, unable to resist the impulse and trembling with joy at finding himself with one who had approached Clara. And all this caused Denise to live more than ever at The Ladies' Paradise.
Towards the end of September the poor girl experienced the blackest misery. Pépé had fallen ill, having caught a severe cold. He ought to have had plenty of good broth, and she had not even a piece of bread to give him. One evening, completely conquered, she was sobbing, in one of those despairing straits which drive women on to the streets, or into the Seine, when old Bourras gently knocked at the door. He had brought with him a loaf, and a milk-can full of broth.
"There! there's something for the youngster," said he in his abrupt way. "Don't cry like that; it annoys my lodgers." And as she thanked him with a fresh outburst of tears, he resumed: "Do keep quiet! Come and see me to-morrow. I've some work for you."
Since the terrible blow which The Ladies' Paradise had dealt him by opening an umbrella department, Bourras had ceased to employ any workwomen. In order to save expenses he did everything himself, cleaning, mending, and sewing. His trade moreover was diminishing to such a point that he sometimes remained without work. And so he was obliged to invent some occupation on the following day when he installed Denise in a corner of his shop. He felt, however, that he could not allow any one to die of hunger in his house.
"You'll have two francs a day," said he. "When you find something better, you can leave me."
She was afraid of him, and did the work so quickly that he was embarrassed to find her more. He had given her some silk to stitch, some lace to repair. During the first few days she did not dare to raise her head, uneasy at feeling him near her, with his lion-like mane, hooked nose, and piercing eyes, shaded by bushy brows. His voice was harsh, his gestures were extravagant, and the mothers of the neighbourhood often frightened their youngsters by threatening to send for him, as they would for a policeman. However, the boys never passed his door without calling out some insulting words, which he did not even seem to hear. All his maniacal anger was directed against the scoundrels who dishonoured his trade by selling cheap trashy articles, which dogs, said he, would not consent to use.
Denise trembled whenever he burst out thus: "Art is done for, I tell you! There's not a single respectable handle made nowadays. They make sticks, but as for handles, it's all up! Bring me a proper handle, and I'll give you twenty francs!"