The next day, in the ready-made department, Clara tried to be disagreeable with Denise. She had noticed Colomban's bashful passion, and took it into her head to joke about the Baudus. As Marguerite was sharpening her pencil while waiting for customers, she said to her, in a loud voice: “You know my lover opposite. It really grieves me to see him in that dark shop, where no one ever enters.” “He's not so badly off,” replied Marguerite, “he's going to marry the governor's daughter.” “Oh! oh!” replied Clara, “it would be good fun to lead him astray, then! I'll try the game on, my word of honour!” And she continued in the same strain, happy to feel Denise was shocked. The latter forgave her everything else; but the idea of her dying cousin Geneviève, finished by this cruelty, threw her into an indignant rage. At that moment a customer came in, and as Madame Aurélie had just gone downstairs, she took the direction of the counter, and called Clara. “Mademoiselle Prunaire, you had better attend to this lady instead of gossiping there.” “I wasn't gossiping.” “Have the kindness to hold your tongue, and attend to this lady immediately.” Clara gave in, conquered. When Denise showed her authority, quietly, without raising her voice, not one of them resisted. She had acquired absolute authority by her very moderation and sweetness. For a moment she walked up and down in silence, amidst the young ladies, who had become very serious. Marguerite had resumed sharpening her pencil, the point of which was always breaking. She alone continued to approve of Denise's resistance to Mouret, shaking her head, not acknowledging the baby she had had, but declaring that if they had any idea of the consequences of such a thing, they would prefer to remain virtuous. “What! you're getting angry?” said a voice behind Denise. It was Pauline, who was crossing the department. She had noticed the scene, and spoke in a low tone, smiling. “But I'm obliged to,” replied Denise in the same tone, “I can't manage them otherwise.” Pauline shrugged her shoulders. “Nonsense, you can be queen over all of us whenever you like.” She was still unable to understand her friend's refusal. Since the end of August, Pauline had been married to Baugé, a most stupid affair, she would sometimes gaily remark. The terrible Bourdoncle treated her anyhow, now, considering her as lost for trade. Her only terror was that they might one fine day send them to love each other elsewhere, for the managers had decreed love to be execrable and fatal to business. So great was her fear, that, when she met Baugé in the galleries, she affected not to know him. She had just had a fright--old Jouve had nearly caught her talking to her husband behind a pile of dusters. “See! he's followed me,” added she, after having hastily related the adventure to Denise. “Just look at him scenting me out with his big nose!”