They had both sat down on a sofa. Pauline's manner had changed since her friend had become second-hand in the mantle department. With her good-natured cordiality there mingled a touch of respect, a sort of surprise at realizing that the puny little saleswoman of former days was on the road to fortune. Denise, however, liked her very much, and amidst the continual gallop of the two hundred women that the firm now employed, confided in her alone. "What's the matter?" asked Pauline, quickly, when she remarked her companion's troubled looks. "Oh! nothing," replied Denise, with an awkward smile. "Yes, yes; there's something the matter with you. Have you no faith in me, that you have given up telling me your worries?" Thereupon Denise, in the emotion that was swelling her bosom--an emotion she could not control--abandoned herself to her feelings. She gave her friend the letter, stammering: "Look! he has just written to me." Between themselves, they had never openly spoken of Mouret. But this very silence was like a confession of their secret thoughts. Pauline knew everything. After having read the letter, she clasped Denise in her arms, and softly murmured: "My dear, to speak frankly, I thought it had all happened long ago. Don't be shocked; I assure you the whole shop must think as I do. You see, he appointed you as second-hand so quickly, and then he's always looking at you. It's obvious!" She kissed her affectionately on the cheek and then asked her: "You will go this evening, of course?" Denise looked at her without replying and all at once burst into tears, letting her head fall on Pauline's shoulder. The latter was quite astonished. "Come, try and calm yourself; there's nothing to upset you like this," she said. "No, no; let me be," stammered Denise. "If you only knew what trouble I am in! Since I received that letter, I have felt beside myself. Let me have a good cry, that will relieve me." Full of pity, though not understanding, Pauline endeavoured to console her, declaring that she must not worry, for it was quite certain that M. Mouret had ceased to pay any attention to Clara; whilst as for that other lady friend of his, Madame Desforges, it was probably all but so much gossip. Denise listened, and had she been ignorant of her love, she could no longer have doubted it after the suffering she felt at the allusions to those two women. She could again hear Clara's disagreeable voice, and see Madame Desforges dragging her about the different departments with all the scorn of a rich lady for a poor shop-girl. Then the two friends went on conversing; and at last Denise in a sudden impulse exclaimed: "But when a man loves a girl he ought to marry her. Baugé is going to marry you."