This simple question troubled Denise. She lost her calmness for a moment, and stammered: “I don't know--I can't----” He smiled, and tried to take her hand, which she withheld. “What are you afraid of?” But she quickly raised her head, looked him straight in the face, and said, smiling, with her sweet, brave look: “I am afraid of nothing, sir. I can do as I like, can't I? I don't wish to, that's all!” As she finished speaking, she was surprised by hearing a creaking noise, and on turning round saw the door slowly closing. It was Jouve, the inspector, who had taken upon himself to pull it to. The doors were a part of his duty, none should ever remain open. And he gravely resumed his position as sentinel. No one appeared to have noticed this door being closed in such a simple manner. Clara alone risked a strong remark in Mademoiselle de Fontenailles's ear, but the latter's face remained expressionless. Denise, however, had got up. Mouret was saying to her in a low and trembling voice: “Listen, Denise, I love you. You have long known it, pray don't be so cruel as to play the ignorant. And don't fear anything. Many a time I've thought of calling you into my office. We should have been alone, I should only have had to lock the door. But I did not wish to; you see I speak to you here, where any one can enter. I love you, Denise!” She was standing up, very pale, listening to him, still looking straight into his face. “Tell me. Why do you refuse? Have you no wants? Your brothers are a heavy burden. Anything you might ask me, anything you might require of me----” With a word, she stopped him: “Thanks, I now earn more than I want.” “But it's perfect liberty that I am offering you, an existence of pleasure and luxury. I will set you up in a home of your own. I will assure you a little fortune.” “No, thanks; I should soon get tired of doing nothing. I earned my own living before I was ten years old.” He was almost mad. This was the first one who did not yield. He had only had to stoop to pick up the others, they all awaited his pleasure like submissive slaves; and this one said no, without even giving a reasonable pretext. His desire, long restrained, goaded by resistance, became stronger than ever. Perhaps he had not offered enough, he thought, and he doubled his offers; he pressed her more and more. “No, no, thanks,” replied she each time, without faltering. Then he allowed this cry from his heart to escape him: “But don't you see that I am suffering! Yes, it's stupid, but I am suffering like a child!” Tears came into his eyes. A fresh silence reigned. They could still hear behind the closed door the softened roar of the stock-taking. It was like a dying note of triumph, the accompaniment became more discreet, in this defeat of the master. “And yet if I liked--” said he in an ardent voice, seizing her hands.