Mouret followed her. The door closed, and he thought he could hear De Vallagnosc's grin stifled by the hangings. His courage was entirely exhausted. Since Henriette had quitted the drawing-room, and he knew Denise was alone in the house in jealous hands, he had experienced a growing anxiety, a nervous torment, which made him listen from time to time as if suddenly startled by a distant sound of weeping. What could this woman invent to torture her? And his whole love, this love which surprised him even now, went out to the young girl like a support and a consolation. Never had he loved her so strongly, with that charm so powerful in suffering. His former affections, his love for Henriette herself--so delicate, so handsome, the possession of whom was so flattering to his pride--had never been more than agreeable pastimes, frequently a calculation, in which he sought nothing but a profitable pleasure. He used quietly to leave his mistresses and go home to bed, happy in his bachelor liberty, without a regret or a care on his mind; whilst now his heart beat with anguish, his life was taken, he no longer enjoyed the forgetfulness of sleep in his great, solitary bed. Denise was his only thought. Even at this moment she was the sole object of his anxiety, and he was telling himself that he preferred to be there to protect her, notwithstanding his fear of some regrettable scene with the other one. At first, they both crossed the bed-room, silent and empty. Then Madame Desforges, pushing open a door, entered the dressing-room, followed by Mouret. It was a rather large room, hung with red silk, furnished with a marble toilet table and a large wardrobe with three compartments and great glass doors. As the window looked into the yard, it was already rather dark, and the two nickel-plated gas burners on either side of the wardrobe had been lighted. “Now, let's see,” said Henriette, “perhaps we shall get on better.” On entering Mouret had found Denise standing upright, in the middle of a bright light. She was very pale, modestly dressed in a cashmere jacket with a black hat, and was holding on one arm the mantle bought at The Ladies Paradise. When she saw the young man her hands slightly trembled. “I wish Monsieur Mouret to judge,” resumed Henriette. “Just help me, mademoiselle.” And Denise, approaching, had to give her the mantle. She had already placed some pins on the shoulders, the part that did not fit. Henriette turned round to look at herself in the glass. “Is it possible? Speak frankly.” “It really is a failure, madame,” said Mouret, to cut the matter short. “It's very simple; the young lady will take your measure, and we will make you another.”