The latter gave her advice, like a supreme umpire of fashion. “It isn't bad, the cut is original, but it doesn't seem to me very graceful about the figure.” “Oh!” interrupted Madame Aurélie, “it must be seen on the lady herself. You can understand it does not look much on this young person, who is not very stout. Hold up your head, mademoiselle, give it all its importance.” They smiled. Denise had turned very pale. She felt ashamed at being thus turned into a machine, which they were examining and joking about so freely. Madame Desforges, yielding to the antipathy of a contrary nature, and annoyed by the young girl's sweet face, maliciously added: “No doubt it would set better if the young person's dress were not so loose-fitting.” And she cast at Mouret the mocking look of a Parisian beauty, greatly amused by the absurd ridiculous dress of a country girl. He felt the amorous caress of this glance, the triumph of a woman proud of her beauty and of her art. Therefore, out of pure gratitude, the gratitude of a man who felt himself adored, he thought himself obliged to joke in his turn, notwithstanding his good-will towards Denise, whose secret charm had conquered his gallant nature. “Besides, her hair should be combed,” murmured he. This was the last straw. The director deigned to laugh, all the young ladies were bursting. Marguerite risked a slight chuckle, like a well-behaved girl who restrains herself; Clara had left a customer to enjoy the fun at her ease; even the saleswomen from another department had come, attracted by the talking. As for the ladies they took it more quietly, with an air of well-bred enjoyment. Madame Aurélie was the only one who did not laugh, as if Denise's splendid wild-looking head of hair and elegant virginal shoulders had dishonoured her, in the orderly well-kept department. The young girl had turned paler still, in the midst of all these people who were laughing at her. She felt herself violated, exposed to all their looks, without defence. What had she done that they should thus attack her thin figure, and her too luxuriant hair? But she was especially wounded by Madame Desforges's and Mouret's laughter, instinctively divining their connection, her heart sinking with an unknown grief. This lady was very ill-natured to attack a poor girl who had said nothing; and as for Mouret, he most decidedly froze her up with a sort of fear, before which all her other sentiments disappeared, without her being able to analyse them. And, totally abandoned, attacked in her most cherished womanly feelings of modesty, and shocked at their injustice, she was obliged to stifle the sobs which were rising in her throat. “I should think so; let her comb her hair to-morrow,” said the terrible Bourdoncle to Madame Aurélie. He had condemned Denise the first day she came, full of scorn for her small limbs.