“I really don't know yet, sir,” replied she. “You're like me, then. What a way of looking at and talking to you they have in there--eh? I'm applying for a place in the lace department I was at Crèvecour's in the Rue du Mail.” They were once more standing facing each other; and, not knowing how to take leave, they commenced to blush. Then the young man, just for something to say in the excess of his timidity, ventured to ask in his good-natured, awkward way: “What is your name, mademoiselle?” “Denise Baudu.” “My name is Henri Deloche.” Now they smiled, and, yielding to the fraternity of their positions, shook each other by the hand. “Good luck!” “Yes, good luck!” CHAPTER III. Every Saturday, between four and six, Madame Desforges offered a cup of tea and a few cakes to those friends who were kind enough to visit her. She occupied the third floor of a house at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue d'Alger; and the windows of both drawing-rooms overlooked the Tuileries Gardens. This Saturday, just as a footman was about to introduce him into the principal drawing-room, Mouret perceived from the anteroom, through an open door, Madame Desforges, who was crossing the little drawing-room. She stopped on seeing him, and he went in that way, bowing to her with a ceremonious air. But when the footman had closed the door, he quickly seized the young woman's hand, and tenderly kissed it. “Take care, I have company!” she said, in a low voice, glancing towards the door of the larger room. “I've just been to fetch this fan to show them,” and she playfully tapped him on the face with the tip of the fan. She was dark, rather stout, with big jealous eyes. But he still held her hand and asked: “Will he come?” “Certainly,” replied she. “I have his promise.”