At this, Madame Aurélie, who was calling out some cloaks, could not make herself heard. She interfered with a wounded air, and a majestic slowness of manner. "A little softer, mademoiselle. We are not in a market. And you are all of you very unreasonable, to be amusing yourselves with such childish matters, when our time is so precious."
Just at that moment, as Clara was not paying any attention to the packages, a catastrophe took place. Several mantles tumbled down, and all the heaps on the tables, carried with them, toppled over one after the other, so that the carpet was quite strewn with them.
"There! what did I say!" cried the first-hand, beside herself. "Pray be more careful, Mademoiselle Prunaire; it's altogether intolerable."
But a hum ran along: Mouret and Bourdoncle, making their round of inspection, had just appeared. The voices began calling again and the pens sputtered, whilst Clara hastened to pick up the garments. The governor did not interrupt the work. He stood there for several minutes, mute and smiling, with the gay victorious face of stock-taking days; and it was only on his lips that a slight feverish quiver could be detected. When he perceived Denise, he nearly gave way to a gesture of astonishment. She had come down, then? His eyes met Madame Aurélie's. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he went away into the under-linen department.
However, Denise, warned by the slight noise, had raised her head. And, having recognised Mouret, she had immediately bent over her work again. Since she had been writing in this mechanical way, amidst the calling-out of the goods, a peaceful feeling had stolen over her. She had always yielded thus to the first outburst of her sensitiveness: tears suffocated her, and passion increased her torments: but then she regained her self-command, a grand, calm courage, a quiet but inexorable strength of will. And now, with her limpid eyes, and pale complexion, she was free from all agitation, entirely absorbed in her work, resolved to silence her heart and to do nothing but her will.
Ten o'clock struck, the uproar of the stock-taking was increasing; and amidst the incessant shouts which rose and flew about on all sides the same news circulated with surprising rapidity: every salesman knew that Mouret had written that morning inviting Denise to dinner. The indiscretion came from Pauline. On going downstairs, still greatly excited, she had met Deloche in the lace department, and, without noticing that Liénard was talking to the young man, had immediately relieved her mind of the secret. "It's all over, my dear fellow. She's just received a letter. He has invited her to dinner for this evening."
Deloche turned very pale. He had understood, for he often questioned Pauline; each day they spoke of their common friend, and Mouret's passion for her. Moreover, she frequently scolded him for his secret love for Denise, with whom he would never succeed, and shrugged her shoulders when he expressed his approval of the girl's conduct with reference to their employer.
"Her foot's better, she's coming down," continued Pauline. "Pray don't put on that funeral face. There's no reason to cry." And thereupon she hastened back to her department.
"Ah! good!" murmured Liénard, who had heard everything, "you're talking about the young girl with the sprain. You were quite right to make haste in defending her last night at the café!"
Then he also ran off; but before he had returned to the woollen department, he had already related the story to four or five fellows. In less than ten minutes, it had gone the round of the whole shop.