Mouret defended their virtue with a conviction which made De Vallagnosc smile. Bouthemont then interfered, to save his chief. Of course there were some of all sorts, bad and good. Formerly they had nothing but the refuse of the trade, a poor, vague class of girls drifted into the drapery business; whilst now, such respectable families as those living in the Rue de Sèvres, for instance, positively brought up their girls for the Bon Marche. In short, when they liked to conduct themselves well, they could, for they were not, like the work-girls of Paris, obliged to board and lodge themselves; they had bed and board, their existence was provided for, an existence excessively hard, no doubt. The worst of all was their neutral, badly-defined position, between the shop-woman and the lady. Thrown into the midst of luxury, often without any previous instruction, they formed a singular, nameless class. Their misfortunes and vices sprung from that. “I,” said Madame de Boves, “I don't know any creatures more disagreeable. Really, one could slap them sometimes.” And the ladies vented their spite. They devoured each other before the shop-counters; it was a question of woman against woman in the sharp rivalry of money and beauty. It was an ill-natured jealousy felt by the saleswomen towards the well-dressed customers, the ladies whose manners they tried to imitate, and a still stronger feeling on the part of the poorly-dressed customers, the lower-class ones, against the saleswomen, those girls dressed in silk, from whom they would have liked to exact a servant's humility when serving a ten sou purchase. “Don't speak of them,” said Henriette, by way of conclusion, “a wretched lot of beings ready to sell themselves the same as their goods.” [Illustration: 0423] Mouret had the strength to smile. The baron was looking at him, so touched by his graceful command over himself that he changed the conversation, returning to the fêtes to be given to the King of Prussia, saying they would be superb, the whole trade of Paris would profit by them. Henriette remained silent and thoughtful, divided between the desire to forget Denise in the ante-room, and the fear that Mouret, now aware of her presence, might go away. At last she quitted her chair. “You will allow me?” “Certainly, my dear,” replied Madame Marty. “I'll do the honours of the house for you.” She got up, took the teapot, and filled the cups. Henriette turned towards Baron Hartmann, saying: “You'll stay a few minutes, won't you?” “Yes; I want to speak to Monsieur Mouret. We are going to invade your little drawing-room.”