And now Mouret appeared before her with his impassioned face and caressing eyes. He would certainly refuse her nothing; she felt sure that he would accord all reasonable compensations. And her thoughts strayed, seeking to judge him. She knew his life and was aware of the calculating nature of his former affections, his continual "exploitation" of woman, his intimacy with Madame Desforges--the sole object of which had been to get hold of Baron Hartmann--and with all the others, such as Clara and the rest. But these Lothario-like beginnings, which were the talk of the shop, gradually disappeared in presence of the man's genius and victorious grace. He was seduction itself. What she could never have forgiven was his former deception: real coldness hidden beneath a gallant affectation of affection. But she felt herself to be entirely without rancour now that he was suffering through her. This suffering had elevated him. When she saw him tortured by her refusal, atoning so fully for his former disdain for woman, he seemed to her to make amends for many of his faults. That very morning Denise obtained from Mouret a promise of whatever compensation she might consider reasonable on the day when the Baudus and old Bourras should succumb. Weeks passed away, during which she went to see her uncle nearly every afternoon, escaping from her department for a few minutes and bringing her smiling face and girlish courage to enliven the dark shop. She was especially anxious about her aunt, who had fallen into a dull stupor ever since Geneviève's death; it seemed as if her life was quitting her hourly; though, when people questioned her, she would reply with an astonished air that she was not suffering, but simply felt as if overcome by sleep. The neighbours, however, shook their heads, saying she would not live long to regret her daughter. One day Denise was coming from the Baudus, when, on turning the corner of the Place Gaillon, she heard a loud cry. A crowd rushed forward, a panic arose: that breath of fear and pity which suddenly brings all the people in a street together. It was a brown omnibus, belonging to the Bastille-Batignolles line, which had run over a man, at the entrance of the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, just opposite the fountain. Standing up in his seat, the driver whilst furiously holding in his two black horses which were rearing cried out, in a great passion: "Confound it! Confound it! Why don't you look out, you idiot!" The omnibus had now been brought to a standstill. The crowd had surrounded the injured man, and a policeman happened to be on the spot. Still standing up and invoking the testimony of the outside passengers who had also risen, to look over and see the blood-stains, the coachman, with exasperated gestures and choked by increasing anger, was explaining the matter.