Denise had again assumed her brave, calm manner. She gently replied: “If Monsieur Mouret keeps me, it's because he has no fault to find. I am ready to apologise to you, if he wishes it.” Mouret was listening, excited by this quarrel, unable to find a word to put a stop to it. He had a great horror of these explanations between women, their asperity wounding his sense of elegance and gracefulness. Henriette wished to force him to say something in condemnation of the young girl; and, as he remained mute, still undecided, she stung him with a final insult: “Very good, sir. It seems that I must suffer the insolence of your mistresses in my own house even! A girl you've picked up out of the gutter!” Two big tears gushed from Denise's eyes. She had kept them back for some time, but her whole being succumbed beneath this last insult. When he saw her weeping like that, without the slightest attempt at retaliation, with a silent, despairing dignity, Mouret no longer hesitated, his heart went out towards her in an immense burst of tenderness. He took her hands in his and stammered: “Go away immediately, my child, and forget this house!” Henriette, perfectly amazed, choking with anger, stood looking at them. “Wait a minute,” continued he, folding up the mantle himself, “take this garment away. Madame can buy another elsewhere. And pray don't cry any more. You know how much I esteem you.” He went with her to the door, which he closed after her. She had not said a word; but a pink flame had coloured her cheeks, whilst her eyes were wet with fresh tears, tears of a delicious sweetness. Henriette, who was suffocating, had taken out her handkerchief and was crushing her lips with it. This was a total overthrowing of her calculations, she herself had been caught in the trap she had laid. She was mortified with herself for having pushed the matter too far, tortured with jealousy. To be abandoned for such a creature as that! To see herself disdained before her! Her pride suffered more than her love. “So, it's that girl that you love?” said she, painfully, when they were alone. Mouret did not reply at once; he was walking about from the window to the door, as if absorbed by some violent emotion. At last he stopped, and very politely, in a voice which he tried to render cold, he replied with simplicity: “Yes, madame.” The gas burner was still hissing in the stifling air of the dressing-room. But the reflex of the glasses were no longer traversed by dancing shadows, the room seemed bare, of a heavy dulness. Henriette suddenly dropped on a chair, twisting her handkerchief in her febrile fingers, repeating amidst her sobs: “Good heavens! How miserable I am!” He stood looking at her for several seconds, and then went away quietly. She, left all alone, wept on in silence, before the pins scattered over the dressing-table and the floor.