We quote this journal in order to show the general opinion which attributed the death of Clémence's husband to fatal and lamentable imprudence.

Is there any occasion to say that M. d'Harville alone carried with him to the tomb the mysterious secret of his voluntary death,—yes, voluntary and calculated upon, and meditated with as much calmness as generosity, in order that Clémence might not conceive the slightest suspicion as to the real cause of his suicide?

Thus the projects of which M. d'Harville had talked with his steward and his friends,—those happy confidences to his old servant, the surprise which he proposed for his wife, were all but so many precautions for the public credulity.

How could it be supposed that a man so preoccupied as to the future, so anxious to please his wife, could think of killing himself? His death was, therefore, attributed to imprudence, and could not be attributed to anything else.

As to his determination, an incurable despair had dictated that. By showing herself as affectionate towards him, and as tender as she had formerly been cold and disdainful, by again appearing to entertain a high regard, Clémence had awakened in the heart of her husband deep remorse.

Seeing her so sadly resigned to a long life without love, passed with a man visited by an incurable and frightful malady, and utterly persuaded that, after her solemn conversation, Clémence could never subdue the repugnance with which he inspired her, M. d'Harville was seized with a profound pity for his wife, and an entire disgust for himself and for life.

In the exasperation of his anguish, he said to himself:

"I only love,—I never can love,—but one woman in the world, and she is my own wife. Her conduct, full of noble-heartedness and high mind, would but increase my mad passion, if it be possible to increase it. And she, my wife, can never belong to me! She has a right to despise,—to hate me! I have, by base deceit, chained this young creature to my hateful lot! I repent it bitterly. What, then, should I do for her? Free her from the hateful ties which my selfishness has riveted upon her. My death alone can break those rivets; and I must, therefore, die by my own hand!"

This was why M. d'Harville had accomplished this great,—this terrible sacrifice.

The inexorable immutability of the law sometimes makes certain terrible positions irremediable, and, as in this case (as divorce was unattainable), only allows the injury to be effaced by an additional crime.

CHAPTER IX.

ST. LAZARE.

The prison of St. Lazare, especially devoted to female thieves and prostitutes, is daily visited by many ladies, whose charity, whose names, and whose social position command universal respect. These ladies, educated in the midst of the splendours of fortune,—these ladies, properly belonging to the best society,—come every week to pass long hours with the miserable prisoners of St. Lazare; watching in these degraded souls for the least indication of an aspiration towards good, the least regret for a past criminal life, and encouraging the good tendencies, urging repentance, and, by the potent magic of the words, Duty, Honour, Virtue, withdrawing from time to time one of these abandoned, fallen, degraded, despised creatures, from the depths of utter pollution.

Accustomed to delicacy and the most polished breeding of the highest circles, these courageous females quit their homes, after having pressed their lips on the virgin foreheads of their daughters, pure as the angels of heaven, and go into dark prisons to brave the coarse indifference or infamous language of these thieves and lost women.

Faithful to their tasks of high morality, they boldly plunge into the tainted soil, place their hands on those gangrened hearts, and, if any feeble pulsation of honour reveals to them a slight hope of recovery, they contend for and snatch from irrevocable perdition the wretched soul of which they have never despaired.

Having said so much by way of introduction to the new scenes to which we are about to direct attention, we will introduce the reader to St. Lazare, an immense edifice of imposing and repulsive aspect, situated in the Faubourg St. Denis.

Ignorant of the shocking drama that was passing at her own house, Madame d'Harville had gone to the prison, after having received certain information from Madame de Lucenay as to the two unhappy females whom the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand had plunged into misery. Madame de Blinval, one of the patronesses of the charity of the young prisoners, being on this day unable to accompany Clémence to St. Lazare, she had gone thither alone. She was received with great attention by the governor and the several female superintendents, who were distinguished by their black garments and the blue riband with the silver medal which they wore around their necks. One of these superintendents, a female of mature age, with a serious but kind expression of countenance, remained alone with Madame d'Harville, in a small room attached to the registry office.

We may easily suppose that there is often unrecognised devotion, understanding, commiseration, and sagacity amongst the respectable females who devote themselves to the humble and obscure function of superintendent of the prisoners. Nothing can be more excellent, more practical, than the notions of order, work, and duty which they endeavour to instil into the prisoners, in the hope that these instructions may survive their term of imprisonment. In turns indulgent and firm, patient and severe, but always just and impartial, these females, incessantly in contact with the prisoners, end, after the lengthened experience of years, by acquiring such a knowledge of the physiognomy of these unfortunates that they can judge of them almost invariably from the first glance, and can at once classify them according to their degree of immorality.

Madame Armand, the inspectress who remained with Madame d'Harville, possessed in a remarkable degree this almost supernatural prescience as to the character of the prisoners; her words and decisions had very great weight in the establishment.

Madame Armand said to Clémence:

"Since madame wishes me to point out to her such of our prisoners as have by good conduct, or sincere repentance, deserved that an interest should be taken in them, I believe I can mention to her a poor girl whom I believe to be more unfortunate than culpable; for I am not deceived when I say that it is not too late to save this young girl, an unhappy creature of not more than sixteen or seventeen years of age."

"And for what is she imprisoned?"

"She is guilty of being found in the Champs Elysées in the evening. As it is prohibited to such females, under very severe penalties, to frequent, by day or night, certain public places, and as the Champs Elysées are in the number of the forbidden promenades, she was apprehended."

"And does she appear to you interesting?"

"I never saw features more regular, more ingenuous. Picture to yourself, my lady, the face of a Virgin; and what adds still more to the expression of modesty in her countenance is that, on coming here, she was dressed like a peasant girl of the environs of Paris."

"She is, then, a country girl?"

"No, my lady; the inspectors knew her again. She had lived for some weeks in a horrible abode in the Cité, from which she has been absent for two or three months; but, as she had not demanded the erasure of her name from the police registries, she comes under the power of that body, which has sent her hither."

"But, perhaps, she had quitted Paris to try and reinstate herself?"

"I think so, madame; and it is therefore I have taken such an interest in her. I have questioned her as to her past life, inquired if she came from the country, and told her to hope, as I did myself, that she might still return to a course of good life."

"And what reply did she make?"

"Lifting her full and melancholy blue eyes on me, filled with tears, she said, with angelic sweetness, 'I thank you, madame, for your kindness; but I cannot say one word as to the past; I was apprehended,—I was doing wrong, and I do not therefore complain.' 'But where do you come from? Where have you been since you quitted the Cité? If you went into the country to seek an honest livelihood, say so, and prove it. We will write to the prefect to obtain your liberty, your name will be scratched off the police register, and you will be encouraged in your good resolutions.' 'I beseech you, madame, do not ask me; I cannot answer you,' she replied. 'But, on leaving this house, would you return again to that place of infamy?' 'Oh, never!' she exclaimed. 'What, then, will you do?' 'God only knows!' she replied, letting her head fall on her bosom."

"Very singular! And she expresses herself—"

"In very excellent terms, madame; her deportment is timid and respectful, but without servility; nay, more, in spite of the extreme gentleness of her voice and look, there is in her accent and her attitude a sort of proud sorrow which puzzles me. If she did not belong to that wretched class of which she forms one, I should say that her haughtiness announces a soul which has a consciousness of dignity."

"But this is all a romance!" exclaimed Clémence, deeply interested, and finding, as Rodolph had told her, that nothing was more interesting than to do good. "And how does she behave with the other prisoners? If she is endowed with that dignity of soul that you imagine, she must suffer excessively in the midst of her wretched associates."

"Madame, for me, who observe all from my position, and from habit, all about this young girl is a subject of astonishment. Although she has been here only three days, yet she already possesses a sort of influence over the other prisoners."

"In so short a time?"

"They feel for her not only interest, but almost respect."

"What! these unhappy women—"

"Have sometimes the instinct of a remarkable delicacy in recognising and detecting noble qualities in others; only, they frequently hate those persons whose superiority they are compelled to admit."

"But do they hate this poor girl?"

"Far from it, my lady; none of them knew her before she came here. They were at first struck with her appearance. Her features, although of singular beauty, are, if I may so express myself, covered with a touching and sickly paleness; and this melancholy and gentle countenance at first inspired them with more interest than jealousy. Then she is very silent, another source of surprise for these creatures, who, for the most part, always endeavour to banish thought by making a noise, talking, and moving about. In fact, although reserved and retiring, she showed herself compassionate, which prevented her companions from taking offence at her coldness of manner. This is not all: about a month since, an intractable creature, nicknamed La Louve (the she-wolf), such is her violent and brutal character, became a resident here. She is a woman of twenty years of age, tall, masculine, with good-looking but strongly marked features, and we are sometimes compelled to place her in the black-hole to subdue her violence. The day before yesterday, only, she came out of the cell, still irritated at the punishment she had undergone; it was meal-time, the poor girl of whom I speak could not eat, and said, sorrowfully, to her companions, 'Who will have my bread?' 'I will!' said La Louve. 'I will!' then said a creature almost deformed, called Mont Saint-Jean, who is the laughing-stock and, sometimes in spite of us, the butt of the other prisoners, although several months advanced in pregnancy. The young girl gave her bread to this latter, to the extreme anger of La Louve. 'It was I who asked you for the allowance first!' she exclaimed, furiously. 'That is true; but this poor woman is about to become a mother, and wants it more than you do,' replied the young girl. La Louve, notwithstanding, snatched the bread from the hands of Mont Saint-Jean, and began to wave her knife about, and to vociferate loudly. As she is very evil-disposed and much feared, no one dared take the part of the poor Goualeuse, although all the prisoners silently sided with her."

"What do you call her name, madame?"

"La Goualeuse; it is the name, or rather the nickname, under which they brought her here who is my protégée, and will, I hope, my lady, soon be yours. Almost all of them have borrowed names."

"This is a very singular one."

"It signifies in their horrid jargon 'the singer,' for the young girl has, they told me, a very delightful voice; and I believe it, for her speaking tones are sweetness itself."

"But how did she escape from this wretch, La Louve?"

"Rendered still more furious by the composure of La Goualeuse, she rushed towards her, uttering menaces, and with her uplifted knife in her hand. All the prisoners cried out with fear; La Goualeuse alone, looking at this fierce creature without alarm, smiled at her bitterly and said, in her sweet voice, 'Oh, kill me! Kill me! I am willing to die. But do not make me suffer too great pain!' These words, they told me, were uttered with a simplicity so affecting, that almost all the prisoners burst into tears."

"I can imagine so," said Madame d'Harville, deeply moved.

"The worst characters," continued the inspectress, "have, fortunately, occasional good feelings. When she heard these words, bearing the stamp of such painful resignation, La Louve, touched (as she afterwards declared) to her inmost core, threw her knife on the ground, fell at her feet and exclaimed, 'It was wrong—shameful to threaten you, Goualeuse, for I am stronger than you! You are not afraid of my knife; you are bold—brave! I like brave people; and now, from this day forth, if any dare to molest you, let them beware, for I will defend you.'"

"What a singular being!"

"This incident strengthened La Goualeuse's influence still more and more. A thing almost unexampled here, none of the prisoners accost her familiarly. The majority are respectful to her, and even proffer to do for her all the little services that prisoners can render to one another. I spoke to some of the women of her dormitory, to learn the reason of this deference which was evinced towards her. 'It is hardly explicable to ourselves,' they replied; 'but it is easy to perceive she is not one of us.' 'But who told you so?' 'No one told us; it is easy to discover it.' 'By what?' 'By a thousand things. In the first place, before she goes to bed, she goes down on her knees and says her prayers; and if she pray, as La Louve says, why, she must have a right to do so.'"

"What a strange observation!"

"These unhappy creatures have no religious feeling, and still they never utter here an impious or irreligious word. You will see, madame, in all our rooms small altars, where the statue of the Virgin is surrounded with offerings and ornaments which they have made. Every Sunday they burn a quantity of wax candles before them in ex-voto. Those who attend the chapel behave remarkably well; but generally the very sight of holy places frightens them. To return to La Goualeuse; her companions said to me, 'We see that she is not one of us, by her gentle ways, her sadness, and the manner in which she talks.' 'And then,' added La Louve (who was present at this conversation), abruptly, 'it is quite certain that she is not one of us, for this morning, in the dormitory, without knowing why, we were all ashamed of dressing ourselves before her.'"

"What remarkable delicacy in the midst of so much degradation!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville.

"Yes, madame, in the presence of men, and amongst themselves, modesty is unknown to them, and yet they are painfully confused at being seen half dressed by us or the charitable visitors who come, like your ladyship, to the prison. Thus the profound instinct of modesty, which God has implanted in us, reveals itself even in these fallen creatures, at the sight of those persons whom they can respect."

"It is at least consolatory to find some good and natural feelings, which are stronger even than depravity."

"Assuredly it is; and these women are capable of devoted attachments which, were they worthily placed, would be most honourable. There is also another sacred feeling with them, who respect nothing, fear nothing, and that is maternity. They honour it, rejoice at it; and they are admirable mothers, considering nothing a sacrifice to keep their children near them. They will undergo any trouble, difficulty, or danger that they may bring them up; for, as they say, these little beings are the only ones who do not despise them."

"Have they, then, so deep a sense of their abject condition?"

"They are not half so much despised by others as they despise themselves. With those who sincerely repent, the original blot of sin is ineffaceable in their own eyes, even if they should find themselves in a better position; others go mad, so irremediably is this idea imprinted in their minds; and I should not be surprised, madame, if the heartfelt grief of La Goualeuse is attributable to something of this nature."

"If so, how she must suffer!—a remorse which nothing can soothe!"

"Fortunately, madame, this remorse is more frequent than is commonly believed. The avenging conscience is never completely lulled to sleep; or, rather, strange as it may appear, sometimes it would seem that the soul is awake whilst the body is in a stupor; and this remark I again made last night in reference to my protégée."

"What! La Goualeuse?"

"Yes, madame."

"In what way?"

"Frequently, when the prisoners are asleep, I walk through the dormitories. You would scarcely believe, my lady, how the countenances of these women differ in expression whilst they are slumbering. A good number of them, whom I have seen during the day, saucy, careless, bold, insolent, have appeared entirely changed when sleep has removed from their features all exaggeration of bravado; for, alas, vice has its pride! Oh, madame, what sad revelations on those dejected, mournful, and gloomy faces! What painful sighs, involuntarily elicited by some dream. I was speaking to your ladyship just now of the girl they call La Louve,—an untamed, untamable creature. It is but a fortnight since that she abused me in the vilest terms before all the prisoners. I shrugged up my shoulders, and my indifference whetted her rage. Then, in order to offend me more sorely, she began to say all sorts of disgraceful things of my mother, whom she had often seen come here to visit me."

"What a shameful creature!"

"I confess that, although this attack was not worth minding, yet it made me feel uncomfortable. La Louve perceived this, and rejoiced in it. The same night, about midnight, I went to inspect the dormitories; I went to La Louve's bedside (she was not to be put in the dark cell until next day) and I was struck with her calmness,—I might say the sweetness of her countenance,—compared with the harsh and daring expression which is habitual to it. Her features seemed suppliant, filled with regret and contrition; her lips were half open, her breast seemed oppressed, and—what appeared to me incredible, for I thought it impossible—two tears, two large tears, were in the eyes of this woman, whose disposition was of iron! I looked at her in silence for several minutes, when I heard her say, 'Pardon! Pardon! Her mother!' I listened more attentively, but all I could catch, in the midst of a murmur scarcely intelligible, was my name, 'Madame Armand,' uttered with a sigh."

"She repented, during her sleep, of having uttered this bad language about your mother."

"So I believe; and that made me less severe. No doubt she desired, through a miserable vanity, to increase her natural insolence in her companions' eyes, whilst, perhaps, a good instinct made her repent in her sleep."

"And did she evince any repentance for her bad behaviour next day?"

"Not the slightest, but conducted herself as usual, and was coarse, rude, and obstinate; but I assure your ladyship that nothing disposes us more to pity than the observations I have mentioned to you. I am persuaded (I may deceive myself, perhaps) that, during their sleep, these unfortunates become better, or rather return to themselves, with all their faults, it is true, but also with certain good instincts, no longer masked by the detestable assumption of vice. From all I have observed, I am led to believe that these creatures are generally less wicked than they affect to be; and, acting upon this conviction, I have often attained results it would have been impossible to realise, if I had entirely despaired of them."

Madame d'Harville could not conceal her surprise at so much good sense, and so much just reasoning, joined to sentiments of humanity so noble and so practical, in an obscure inspectress of degraded women.

"But my dear madame," observed Clémence, "you must have a great deal of courage, and much strength of mind, not to be repulsed by the ungratefulness of the task, which must so very seldom reward you by satisfactory results!"

"The consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and encourages, and sometimes we are recompensed by happy discoveries; now and then we find some rays of light in hearts which have hitherto been supposed to be in utter darkness."

"Yet, madame, persons like you are very rarely met with?"

"No, I assure your ladyship, others do as I do, with more success and intelligence than I have. One of the inspectresses of the other division of St. Lazare, which is occupied by females charged with different crimes, would interest you much more. She told me this morning of the arrival of a young girl accused of infanticide. I never heard anything more distressing. The father of the unhappy girl, a hard-working, honest lapidary, has gone mad with grief on hearing his daughter's shame. It seems that nothing could be more frightful than the destitution of all this family, who lived in a wretched garret in the Rue du Temple."

"The Rue du Temple!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville, much astonished; "what is the workman's name?"

"His daughter's name is Louise Morel."

"'Tis as I thought, then!"

"She was in the service of a respectable lawyer named M. Jacques Ferrand."

"This poor family has been recommended to me," said Clémence, blushing; "but I was far from expecting to see it bowed down by this fresh and terrible blow. And Louise Morel—"

"Declares her innocence, and affirms her child was born dead; and it seems as if hers were accents of truth. Since your ladyship takes an interest in this family, if you would be so good as to see the poor girl, perhaps this mark of your kindness might soothe her despair, which they tell me is really alarming."

"Certainly I will see her; then I shall have two protégées instead of one, Louise Morel and La Goualeuse, for all you tell me relative to this poor girl interests me excessively. But what must be done to obtain her liberty? I will then find a situation for her. I will take care of her in future."

"With your connections, madame, it will be very easy for you to obtain her liberty the day after to-morrow, for it is at the discretion of the Prefect of Police, and the application of a person of consequence would be decisive with him. But I have wandered from the observation which I made on the slumber of La Goualeuse; and, with reference to this, I must confess that I should not be astonished if, to the deeply painful feeling of her first error, there is added some other grief no less severe."

"What mean you, madame?"

"Perhaps I am deceived; but I should not be astonished if this young girl, rescued by some circumstance from the degradation in which she was first plunged, has now some honest love, which is at the same time her happiness and her torment."

"What are your reasons for believing this?"

"The determined silence which she keeps as to where she has passed the three months which followed her departure from the Cité makes me think that she fears being discovered by the persons with whom she in all probability found a shelter."

"Why should she fear this?"

"Because then she would have to own to a previous life, of which they are no doubt ignorant."

"True; her peasant's dress."

"And then a subsequent circumstance has confirmed my suspicions. Yesterday evening, when I was walking my round of inspection in the dormitory, I went up to La Goualeuse's bed. She was in a deep sleep, and, unlike her companions, her features were calm and tranquil. Her long, light hair, half disengaged from their bands, fell in profusion down her neck and shoulders. Her two small hands were clasped, and crossed over her bosom, as if she had gone to sleep whilst praying. I looked for some moments with interest at her lovely face, when, in a low voice, and with an accent at once respectful, sad, and impassioned, she uttered a name."

"And that name?"

After a moment's silence, Madame Armand replied, gravely:

"Although I consider that anything learnt during sleep is sacred, yet you interest yourself so generously in this unfortunate girl, madame, that I will confide this name to your secrecy. It was Rodolph."

"Rodolph!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville, thinking of the prince. Then, reflecting that, after all, his highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein could have no connection with the Rodolph of the poor Goualeuse, she said to the inspectress, who seemed astonished at her exclamation:

"The name has surprised me, madame, for, by a singular chance, it is that of a relation of mine; but what you tell me of La Goualeuse interests me more and more. Can I see her to-day? now—directly?"

"Yes, madame, I will go, as you wish it, and ask her; I can also learn more of Louise Morel, who is in the other side of the prison."

"I shall, indeed, be greatly obliged to you, madame," replied Madame d'Harville, who the next moment was alone.

"How strange!" she said. "I cannot account for the singular impression which this name of Rodolph makes upon me! I am really quite insane! What connection can there be between him and such a creature?" Then, after a moment's silence, the marchioness added, "He was right; how all this does interest me! The mind, the heart, expand when they are occupied so nobly! 'Tis as he said; we seem to participate somewhat in the power of Providence when we aid those who deserve it; and, then, these excursions into a world of which we had no idea are so attractive,—so amusing, as he said so pleasantly! What romance could give me such deep feelings, excite my curiosity to such a pitch? This poor Goualeuse, for instance, has inspired me with deep pity, after all I have heard of her; and I will blindly follow up this commiseration, for the inspectress has too much experience to be deceived with respect to our protégée. And the other unhappy girl,—the artisan's daughter, whom the prince has so generously succoured in my name! Poor people! their bitter suffering has served as a pretext to save me. I have escaped shame, perhaps death, by a hypocritical falsehood. This deceit weighs on my mind, but I will expiate my fault by my charity, though that may be too easy a mode. It is so sweet to follow Rodolph's noble advice! It is to love as well as to obey him. Oh, I feel it with rapture! His breath, alone, animates and fertilises the new existence which he has given me in directing me to console those who suffer. I experience an unalloyed delight in acting but as he directs, in having no ideas but his; for I love him,—ah, yes, I love him! And yet he shall always be in ignorance of this, the lasting passion of my life."

Whilst Madame d'Harville is waiting for La Goualeuse, we will conduct the reader into the presence of the prisoners.

CHAPTER X.

MONT SAINT-JEAN.

It was just two o'clock by the dial of the prison of St. Lazare. The cold, which had lasted for several days, had been succeeded by soft, mild, and almost spring weather; the rays of the sun were reflected in the water of the large square basin, with its stone corners, formed in the centre of a courtyard planted with trees, and surrounded by dark, high walls pierced with a great many iron-barred windows. Wooden benches were fastened here and there in this large paved enclosure, which served for the walking-place of the prisoners. The ringing of a bell announcing the hour of recreation, the prisoners came in throngs by a thick wicket-door which was opened to them. These women, all clad alike, wore black skull-caps and long loose gowns of blue woollen cloth, fastened around the waist by a band and iron buckle. There were there two hundred prostitutes, sentenced for breach of the particular laws which control them and place them out of the pale of the common law. At first sight their appearance had nothing striking, but, after regarding them with further attention, there might be detected in each face the almost ineffaceable stigmas of vice, and particularly that brutishness which ignorance and misery invariably engender. Whilst contemplating these masses of lost creatures, we cannot help recollecting with sorrow that most of them have been pure and honest, at least at some former period. We say "most of them," because there are some who have been corrupted, vitiated, depraved, not only from their youth, but from tenderest infancy,—even from their very birth, if we may say so; and we shall prove it as we proceed.

We ask ourselves, then, with painful curiosity, what chain of fatal causes could thus debase these unhappy creatures, who have known shame and chastity? There are so many declivities, alas, which verge to that fall! It is rarely the passion of the depraved for depravity; but dissipation, bad example, perverse education, and, above all, want, which lead so many unfortunates to infamy; and it is the poor classes alone who pay to civilisation this impost on soul and body.

When the prisoners came into the yard, running and crying out, it was easy to discern that it was not alone the pleasure of leaving their work that made them so noisy. After having hurried forth by the only gate which led to this yard, the crowd spread out and made a ring around a misshapen being, whom they assailed with shouts. She was a small woman, from thirty-six to forty years of age; short, round-shouldered, deformed, and with her neck buried between shoulders of unequal height. They had snatched off her black cap, and her hair, which was flaxen, or rather a pale yellow, coarse, matted, and mingled with gray, fell over her low and stupid features. She was clad in a blue loose gown, like the other prisoners, and had under her right arm a small bundle, wrapped up in a miserable, ragged, checked pocket-handkerchief. With her left elbow she endeavoured to ward off the blows aimed at her. Nothing could be more lamentably ludicrous than the visage of this unhappy woman. She was hideous and distorted in figure, with projecting features, wrinkled, tanned, and dirty, which were pierced with two holes for nostrils, and two small, red, bloodshot eyes. By turns wrathful and imploring, she scolded and entreated; but they laughed even more at her complaints than her threats. This woman was the plaything of the prisoners. One thing ought, however, to have protected her from such ill-usage,—she was evidently about to become a mother; but her ugliness, her imbecility, and the custom they had of considering her as a victim intended for common sport, rendered her persecutors implacable, in spite of their usual respect for maternity.

Amongst the fiercest enemies of Mont Saint-Jean (that was the unhappy wretch's name), La Louve was conspicuous. La Louve was a strapping girl of twenty, active, and powerfully grown, with regular features. Her coarse black hair was varied by reddish shades, whilst her blood suffused her skin with its hue; a brown down shaded her thin lips; her chestnut eyebrows, thick and projecting, were united over her large and fierce eyes. There was something violent, savage, and brutal in the expression of this woman's physiognomy,—a sort of habitual sneer, which curled her upper lip during a fit of rage, and, exposing her white and wide-apart teeth, accounted for her name of La Louve (the she-wolf). Yet in that countenance there was more of boldness and insolence than cruelty; and, in a word, it was seen that, rather become vicious than born so, this woman was still susceptible of certain good impulses, as the inspectress had told Madame d'Harville.

"Alas! alas! What have I done?" exclaimed Mont Saint-Jean, struggling in the midst of her companions. "Why are you so cruel to me?"

"Because it is so amusing."

"Because you are only fit to be teased."

"It is your business."

"Look at yourself, and you will see that you have no right to complain."

"But you know well enough that I don't complain as long as I can help it; I bear it as long as I can."

"Well, we'll let you alone, if you will tell us why you call yourself Mont Saint-Jean."

"Yes, yes; come, tell us all that directly."

"Why, I've told you a hundred times. It was an old soldier that I loved a long while ago, and who was called so because he was wounded at the battle of Mont Saint-Jean; so I took his name. That's it; now are you satisfied? You will make me repeat the same thing over, and over, and over!"

"If your soldier was like you, he was a beauty!"

"I suppose he was in the Invalids?"

"The remains of a man—"

"How many glass eyes had he?"

"And wasn't his nose of block tin?"

"He must have been short of two arms and two legs, besides being deaf and blind, if he took up with you."

"I am ugly,—a monster, I know that as well as you can tell me. Say what you like,—make game of me, if you choose, it's all one to me; only don't beat me, that's all, I beg!"

"What have you got in that old handkerchief?" asked La Louve.

"Yes, yes! What is it?"

"Show it up directly!"

"Let's see! Let's see!"

"Oh, no, I beg!" exclaimed the miserable creature, squeezing up the little bundle in her hands with all her might.

"What! Must we take it from you?"

"Yes, snatch it from her, La Louve!"

"Oh, you won't be so wicked? Let it go! Let it go, I say!"

"What is it?"

"Why, it's the beginning of my baby linen; I make it with the old bits of linen which no one wants, and I pick up. It's nothing to you, is it?"

"Oh, the baby linen of Mont Saint-Jean's little one! That must be a rum set out!"

"Let's look at it."

"The baby clothes! The baby clothes!"

"She has taken measure of the keeper's little dog, no doubt."

"Here's your baby clothes," cried La Louve, snatching the bundle from Mont Saint-Jean's grasp.

The handkerchief, already torn, was now rent to tatters, and a quantity of fragments of stuff of all colours, and old pieces of linen half cut out, flew around the yard, and were trampled under feet by the prisoners, who holloaed and laughed louder than before.

"Here's your rags!"

"Why, it is a ragpicker's bag."

"Patterns from the ragman's."

"What a shop!"

"And to sew all that rubbish!"

"Why, there's more thread than stuff."

"What nice embroidery!"

"Here, pick up your rags and tatters, Mont Saint-Jean."

"Oh, how wicked! Oh, how cruel!" exclaimed the poor ill-used creature, running in every direction after the pieces, which she endeavoured to pick up in spite of pushes and blows. "I never did anybody any harm," she added, weeping. "I have offered, if they would let me alone, to do anything I could for anybody, to give them half my allowance, although I am always so hungry; but, no! no! it's always so. What can I do to be left in peace? They haven't even pity of a poor woman in the family way. They are more cruel than the beasts. Oh, the trouble I had to collect these little bits of linen! How else can I make the clothes for my baby, for I have no money to buy them with? What harm was there in picking up what nobody else wanted when it was thrown away?" Then Mont Saint-Jean exclaimed suddenly, with a ray of hope, "Oh, there you are, Goualeuse! Now, then, I'm safe; do speak to them for me; they will listen to you, I am sure, for they love you as much as they hate me."

La Goualeuse was the last of the prisoners who entered the enclosure.

Fleur-de-Marie wore the blue woollen gown and black skull-cap of the prisoners; but even in this coarse costume she was still charming. Yet, since her carrying off from the farm of Bouqueval (the consequences of which circumstance we will explain hereafter), her features seemed greatly altered; her pale cheeks, formerly tinged with a slight colour, were as wan as the whiteness of alabaster; the expression, too, of her countenance had changed, and was now imprinted with a kind of dignified grief. Fleur-de-Marie felt that to bear courageously the painful sacrifices of expiation is almost to attain restored position.

"Ask a favour for me, Goualeuse," said poor Mont Saint-Jean, beseechingly, to the young girl; "see how they are flinging about the yard all I had collected, with so much trouble, to begin my baby linen for my child. What good can it do them?"

Fleur-de-Marie did not say a word, but began very actively to pick up, one by one, from under the women's feet, all the rags she could collect. One prisoner ill-temperedly kept her foot on a sort of little bed-gown of coarse woollen cloth. Fleur-de-Marie, still stooping, looked up at the woman, and said to her in a sweet tone:

"I beg of you let me pick it up. I ask it in the name of this poor woman who is weeping."

The prisoner removed her foot. The bed-gown was rescued, as well as most of the other scraps, which La Goualeuse acquired piece by piece. There remained to obtain a small child's cap, which two prisoners were struggling for, and laughing at. Fleur-de-Marie said to them:

"Be all good, pray do. Let me have the little cap."

"Oh, to be sure! It's for a harlequin in swaddling-clothes this cap is! It is made of a bit of gray stuff, with points of green and black fustian, and lined with a bit of an old mattress cover."

The description was exact, and was hailed with loud and long-continued shoutings.

"Laugh away, but let me have it," said Mont Saint-Jean; "and pray do not drag it in the mud as you have some of the other things. I'm sorry you've made your hands so dirty for me, Goualeuse," she added, in a grateful tone.

"Let me have the harlequin's cap," said La Louve, who obtained possession of it, and waved it in the air as a trophy.

"Give it to me, I entreat you," said Goualeuse.

"No! You want to give it back to Mont Saint-Jean."

"Certainly I do."

"Oh, it is not worth while, it is such a rag."

"Mont Saint-Jean has nothing but rags to dress her child in, and you ought to have pity upon her, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie, in a mournful voice, and stretching out her hand towards the cap.

"You sha'n't have it!" answered La Louve, in a brutal tone; "must everybody always give way to you because you are the weakest? You come, I see, to abuse the kindness that is shown to you."

"But," said La Goualeuse, with a smile full of sweetness, "where would be the merit of giving up to me, if I were the stronger of the two?"

"No, no; you want to wheedle me over with your smooth, canting words; but it won't do,—you sha'n't have it, I tell you."

"Come, come, now, La Louve, do not be ill-natured."

"Let me alone! You tire me to death!"

"Oh, pray do!"

"I will not!"

"Yes, do,—let me beg of you!"

"Now, don't put me in a passion," exclaimed La Louve, thoroughly irritated. "I have said no, and I mean no."

"Take pity on the poor thing, see how she is crying!"

"What is that to me? So much the worse for her; she is our pain-bearer" (souffre douleur).

"So she is," murmured out a number of the prisoners, instigated by the example of La Louve. "No, no, she ought not to have her rags back! So much the worse for Mont Saint-Jean."

"You are right," said Fleur-de-Marie, with bitterness; "it is so much the worse for her; she is your pain-bearer, she ought to submit herself to your pleasure,—her tears and sighs amuse and divert you!—and you must have some way of passing your time. Were you to kill her on the spot, she would have no right to say anything. You speak truly, La Louve, this is just and fair, is it not? Here is a poor, weak, defenceless woman; alone in the midst of so many, she is quite unable to defend herself, yet you all combine against her! Certainly your behaviour towards her is most just and generous!"

"And I suppose you mean to say we are all a parcel of cowards?" retorted La Louve, carried away by the violence of her disposition and extreme impatience at anything like contradiction. "Answer me, do you call us cowards, eh? Speak out, and let us know your meaning," continued she, growing more and more incensed.

A murmur of displeasure against La Goualeuse, not unmixed with threats, arose from the assembled crowd. The offended prisoners thronged around her, vociferating their disapprobation, forgetting, or remembering but as a fresh cause of offence, the ascendency she had until the present moment exercised over them.

"She calls us cowards, you see!"

"What business has she to find fault with us?"

"Is she better than we are, I should like to know?"

"Ah, we have all been too kind to her!"

"And now she wants to give herself fine lady airs, and to domineer over us! If we choose to torment Mont Saint-Jean, what need has she to interfere?"

"Since it has come to this, I tell you what, Mont Saint-Jean, you shall fare the worse for it for the future."

"Take this to begin with!" said one of the most violent of the party, giving her a blow.

"And if you meddle again with what does not concern you, La Goualeuse, we will serve you the same."

"Yes, that we will."

"But that is not all!" said La Louve. "La Goualeuse must ask our pardon for having called us cowards. She must and she shall! If we don't put a stop to her goings on, she will soon leave us without the power of saying our soul is our own, and we are great fools not to have seen this sooner."

"Make her ask our pardon."

"On her knee."

"On both knees."

"Or we will serve her precisely the same as we did her protégée, Mont Saint-Jean!"

"Down on her knees! Down with her!"

"Lo! we are cowards, are we?"

"Dare to say it again!"

Fleur-de-Marie allowed this tumult to pass away, ere she replied to the many furious voices that were raging around her. Then, casting a mild and melancholy glance at the exasperated crowd, she said to La Louve, who persisted in vociferating, "Will you dare to call us cowards again?"

"You? Oh, no, not you! I call this poor woman, whom you have so roughly treated, whom you have dragged through the mud, and whose clothes you have nearly torn off, a coward. Do you not see how she trembles, and dares not even look at you? No, no! I say again, 'tis she who is a coward, for being thus afraid of you."

Fleur-de-Marie had touched the right chord; in vain might she have appealed to their sense of justice and duty, in order to allay their bitter irritation against poor Mont Saint-Jean; the stupid or brutalised minds of the prisoners would alike have been inaccessible to her pleadings; but, by addressing herself to that sentiment of generosity, which is never wholly extinct, even in the most depraved characters, she kindled a spark of pity, that required but skilful management to fan into a flame of commiseration, instead of hatred and violence. La Louve, amid their continued murmurings against La Goualeuse and her protégée, felt, and confessed, that their conduct had been both unwomanly and cowardly.

Fleur-de-Marie would not carry her first triumph too far. She contented herself with merely saying:

"Surely, if this poor creature, whom you call yours, to tease, to torment, to ill-use,—in fact, your souffre douleur,—be not worthy of your pity, her infant has done nothing to offend you. Did you forget, when striking the mother, that the unborn babe might suffer from your blows? And when she besought your mercy, 'twas not for herself, but her child. When she craves of you a morsel of bread, if, indeed, you have it to spare, 'tis not to satisfy her own hunger she begs it, but that her infant may live; and when, with streaming eyes, she implored of you to spare the few rags she had with so much difficulty collected together, it arose from a mother's love for that unseen treasure her heart so loves and prizes. This poor little patchwork cap, and the pieces of old mattresses she has so awkwardly sewed together, no doubt appear to you fit objects of mirth; but, for my own part, I feel far more inclined to cry than to laugh at seeing the poor creature's instinctive attempts to provide for her babe. So, if you laugh at Mont Saint-Jean, let me come in for my share of your ridicule."

Not the faintest attempt at a smile appeared on any countenance, and La Louve continued, with fixed gaze, to contemplate the little cap she still held in her hand.

"I know very well," said Fleur-de-Marie, drying her eyes with the back of her white and delicate hand,—"I know very well that you are not really ill-natured or cruel, and that you merely torment Mont Saint-Jean from thoughtlessness. But consider that she and her infant are one. If she held it in her arms, not only would you carefully avoid doing it the least injury, but I am quite sure, if it were cold, you would even take from your own garments to cover it. Would not you, La Louve? Oh, I know you would, every one of you!"

"To be sure we would,—every one pities a tender baby."

"That is quite natural."

"And if it cried with hunger, you would take the bread from your own mouth to feed it with. Would not you, La Louve?"

"That I would, and willingly, too! I am not more hard-hearted than other people!"

"Nor more are we!"

"A poor, helpless, little creature!"

"Who could have the heart to think of harming it?"

"They must be downright monsters!"

"Perfect savages!"

"Worse than wild beasts!"

"I told you so," resumed Fleur-de-Marie. "I said you were not intentionally unkind; and you have proved that you are good and pitying towards Mont Saint-Jean. The fault consisted in your not reflecting that, although her child is yet unborn, it is still liable to harm from any mischief that befalls its mother. That is all the wrong you have done."

"All the wrong we have done!" exclaimed La Louve, much excited. "But I say it is not all. You were right, La Goualeuse. We acted like a set of cowards; and you alone deserve to be called courageous, because you did not fear to tell us so, or shrink from us after you had told us. It is nonsense to seek to deny the fact that you are not a creature like us,—it is no use trying to persuade ourselves you are like such beings as we are, so we may as well give it up. I don't like to own it, but it is so; and I may just as well confess it. Just now, when we were all in the wrong, you had courage enough, not only to refuse to join us, but to tell us of our fault."

"That is true enough; and the fair-faced girl must have had a pretty stock of courage to tell us the truth so plainly to our faces."

"But, bless you, these blue-eyed people, who look so soft and gentle, if once they are worked up—"

"They become courageous as lions."

"Poor Mont Saint-Jean! She has good reason to be thankful to her!"

"What she says is true enough. We could not injure the mother without harming the child also."

"I never thought of that."

"Nor I either."

"But you see La Goualeuse did,—she never forgets anything."

"The idea of hurting an infant! horrible! Is it not?"

"I'm sure there is not one of us would do it for anything that could be offered us."

Nothing is more variable than popular passion, or more abrupt than its rapid transition from bad to good, and even the reverse. The simple yet touching arguments of Fleur-de-Marie had effected a powerful reaction in favour of Mont Saint-Jean, who shed tears of deep joy. Every heart seemed moved; for, as we have already said, the womanly feelings of the prisoners had been awakened, and they now felt a solicitude for the unhappy creature in proportion as they had formerly held her in dislike and contempt. All at once, La Louve, violent and impetuous in all her actions, twisted the little cap she held in her hand into a sort of purse, and feeling in her pocket brought out twenty sous, which she threw into the purse; then presenting it to her companions, exclaimed:

"Here is my twenty sous towards buying baby clothes for Mont Saint-Jean's child. We will cut them out and make them ourselves, in order that the work may cost nothing."

"Oh, yes, let us."

"To be sure,—let us all join!"

"I will for one."

"What a capital idea!"

"Poor creature!"

"Though she is so frightfully ugly, yet she has a mother's feelings the same as another."

"La Goualeuse was right. It is really enough to make one cry one's eyes out, to see what a wretched collection of rags the poor creature has scraped together for her baby."

"Well, I'll give thirty sous."

"And I ten."

"I'll give twenty sous."

"I've only got four sous, but I'll give them."

"I have no money at all; but I'll sell my allowance for to-morrow, and put whatever any one will give for it into the collection. Who'll buy my to-morrow's rations?"

"I will," said La Louve. "So, here I put in ten sous for you; but you shall keep your rations. And now, Mont Saint-Jean shall have baby clothes fit for a princess."

To express the joy and gratitude of Mont Saint-Jean would be wholly impossible. The most intense delight and happiness illumined her countenance, and rendered even her usual hideous features interesting. Fleur-de-Marie was almost as happy, though compelled to say, when La Louve handed to her the collecting-cap:

"I am very sorry I have not a single sou of money, but I will work as long as you please at making the clothes."

"Oh, my dear heavenly angel!" cried Mont Saint-Jean, throwing herself on her knees before La Goualeuse, and striving to kiss her hand. "What have I ever done to merit such goodness on your part, or the charity of these kind ladies? Gracious Father! Do I hear aright? Baby things! and all nice and comfortable for my child! A real, proper set of baby clothes! Everything I can require! Who would ever have thought of such a thing? I am sure I never should. I shall lose my senses with joy! Only to think that a poor, miserable wretch like myself, the make-game of everybody, should all at once, just because you spoke a few soft, sweet words out of that heavenly mouth, have such wonderful blessings! See how your words have changed those who meant to harm me, but who now pity me and are my friends; and I feel as though I could never thank them enough, or express my gratitude! Oh, how very, very kind of them! How wrong of me to be offended and angry with what they said! How stupid and ungrateful I must have been not to perceive that they were only playing with me,—that they had no intention of harming me. Oh, no! It was all meant for my good. Here is a proof of it. Oh, for the future, if they like to knock me about ever so, I will not so much as cry out! Oh, I was too impatient when I complained before; but I will make up for it next time!"

"Eighty-eight francs seven sous!" said La Louve, finishing her reckoning of the collection gathered by handing about the little bonnet. "Who will be treasurer till we lay out the money? We must not entrust it to Mont Saint-Jean, she is too simple."

"Let La Goualeuse take charge of it!" cried a unanimous burst of voices.

"No," said Fleur-de-Marie; "the best way will be to beg of the inspectress, Madame Armand, to take charge of the sum collected, and to buy the necessary articles for Mont Saint-Jean's confinement; and then,—who knows?—perhaps Madame Armand may take notice of the good action you have performed, and report it, so as to be the means of shortening the imprisonment of all whose names are mentioned as being concerned in it. Tell me, La Louve," added Fleur-de-Marie, taking her companion by the arm, "are you not better satisfied with yourself than you were just now, when you were throwing about all Mont Saint-Jean's poor baby's things?"

La Louve did not immediately reply. To the generous excitement which a few moments before animated her features, succeeded a sort of half savage air of defiance. Unable to comprehend the cause of this sudden change, Fleur-de-Marie looked at her with surprise.

"Come here, La Goualeuse," said La Louve at last, with a gloomy tone; "I want to speak to you."

Then abruptly quitting the other prisoners, she led Fleur-de-Marie to a reservoir of water, surrounded by a stone coping, which had been hollowed out in the midst of an adjoining meadow. Near the water was a bench, also of stone, on which La Louve and La Goualeuse placed themselves, and were thus, in a manner, beyond the observation or hearing of their companions.

CHAPTER XI.

LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE.

We firmly believe in the influence of certain master minds so far sympathising with the masses, so powerful over them as to impose on them the bias of good or evil. Some, bold, enthusiastic, indomitable, addressing themselves to the worst passions, will rouse them, as the storm raises the foam of the sea; but, like all tempests, these are as ephemeral as they are furious; to these terrible effervescences will succeed the sullen reversion of sadness and restlessness, which will obtain supremacy over the most miserable conditions. The reaction of violence is always severe; the waking after an excess is always painful.

La Louve, if you will, personifies this fatal influence.

Other organisations, more rare, because their generous instincts must be fertilised by intelligence, and with them the mind is on an equality with the heart,—others, we say, will inspire good, as well as some inspire evil. Their wholesome influence will gently penetrate into the soul, as the warm rays of the sun penetrate the body with invigorating heat, as the arid and burning earth imbibes the fresh and grateful dew of night.

Fleur-de-Marie, if you will, personifies this benevolent influence.

The reaction to good is not so sudden as the reaction to evil; its effects are more protracted. It is something delicious, inexplicable, which gradually extends itself, calms and soothes the most hardened heart, and gives it the feeling of inexpressible serenity. Unfortunately the charm ceases.

After having seen celestial brightness, ill-disposed persons fall back into the darkness of their habitual life; the recollections of sweet emotions which have for a moment surprised them are gradually effaced. Still they sometimes seek vaguely to recall them, even as we try to murmur out the songs with which our happy infancy was cradled. Thanks to the good action with which she had inspired them, the companions of La Goualeuse had tasted of the passing sweetness of these feelings, in which even La Louve had participated; but this latter, for reasons we shall describe hereafter, remained a shorter time than the other prisoners under this benevolent feeling. If we are surprised to hear and see Fleur-de-Marie, hitherto so passively, so painfully resigned, act and speak with courage and authority, it was because the noble precepts she had imbibed during her residence at the farm at Bouqueval had rapidly developed the rare qualities of her admirable disposition. Fleur-de-Marie understood that it is not sufficient to bewail the irreparable past, and that it is only in doing or inspiring good that a reinstatement can be hoped for.

We have said that La Louve was sitting on a wooden bench, beside La Goualeuse. The close proximity of these two young girls offered a singular contrast.

The pale rays of a winter sun were shed over them; the pure sky was speckled in places with small, white, and fleecy clouds; some birds, enlivened by the warmth of the temperature, were warbling in the black branches of the large chestnut-trees in the yard; two or three sparrows, more bold than their fellows, came and drank in a small rivulet formed by the overflow of the basin; the green moss covered the stones of the fountain, and between their joints, here and there, were tufts of grass and some small creepers, spared by the frost. This description of a prison-basin may seem puerile; but Fleur-de-Marie did not lose one of the details, but with her eyes fixed mournfully on the little verdant corner, and on this limpid water in which the moving whiteness of the clouds over the azure of the heavens was reflected, in which the golden rays of a lovely sun broke with beautiful lustre, she thought with a sigh of the magnificence of the Nature which she loved, which she admired so poetically, and of which she was still deprived.

"What did you wish to say to me?" asked La Goualeuse of her companion, who, seated beside her, was gloomy and silent.

"We must have an explanation," said La Louve, sternly; "things cannot go on as they are."

"I do not understand you, La Louve."

"Just now, in the yard, referring to Mont Saint-Jean, I said to myself, 'I won't give way any more to La Goualeuse,' and yet I do give way now."

"But—"

"But I tell you it cannot continue so."

"In what have I offended you, La Louve?"

"Why, I am not the same person I was when you came here; no, I have neither courage, strength, nor boldness."

Then suddenly checking herself, La Louve pulled up the sleeve of her gown, and showing La Goualeuse her white arm, powerful, and covered with black down, she showed her, on the upper part of it, an indelible tattooing, representing a blue dagger half plunged in a red heart; over this emblem were these words:

MORT AUX LÂCHES!
MARTIAL
P. L. V. (pour la vie.)
(DEATH TO COWARDS!
MARTIAL
FOR LIFE!)

"Do you see that?" asked La Louve.

"Yes; and it is so shocking, it quite frightens me," said La Goualeuse, turning away her head.

"When Martial, my lover, wrote, with a red-hot needle, these words on my arm, 'Death to Cowards!' he thought me brave; if he knew my behaviour for the last three days, he would stick his knife in my body, as this dagger is driven into this heart,—and he would be right, for he wrote here, 'Death to Cowards!' and I am a coward."

"What have you done that is cowardly?"

"Everything."

"Do you regret the good resolution you made just now?"

"Yes."

"I cannot believe you."

"I say I do regret it,—for it is another proof of what you can do with all of us. Didn't you understand what Mont Saint-Jean meant when she went on her knees to thank you?"

"What did she say?"

"She said, speaking of you, that with nothing you turned us from evil to good. I could have throttled her when she said it, for, to our shame, it was true. Yes, in no time you change us from black to white. We listen to you,—give way to our first feelings, and are your dupes, as we were just now."

"My dupe! for having generously succoured this poor woman?"

"Oh, it has nothing to do with all that," exclaimed La Louve, with rage. "I have never till now stooped my head before a breathing soul. La Louve is my name, and I am well named: more than one woman bears my marks, and more than one man, too; and it shall never be said that a little chit like you can place me beneath her feet."

"Me! and in what way?"

"How do I know! You come here, and first begin by insulting me."

"Insult you?"

"Yes,—you ask who'll have your bread. I first say—I. Mont Saint-Jean did not ask for it till afterwards, and yet you give her the preference. Enraged at that, I rushed at you with my uplifted knife—"

"And I said to you, 'Kill me, if you like, but do not let me linger long,' and that is all."

"That is all? Yes, that is all. And yet these words made me drop my knife,—made me—ask your pardon,—yes, pardon of you who insulted me. Is that natural? Why, when I recovered my senses, I was ashamed of myself. The evening you came here, when you were on your knees to say your prayers,—why, instead of making game of you, and setting all the dormitory on you, did I say, 'Let her alone; she prays, and has a right to pray?' Then the next day, why were I and all the others ashamed to dress ourselves before you?"

"I do not know, La Louve."

"Indeed!" replied the violent creature, with irony. "You don't know! Why, no doubt, it is because, as we have all of us said, jokingly, that you are of a different sort from us. You think so, don't you?"

"I have never said that I thought so."

"No, you have not said so; but you behave just as if it were so."

"I beg of you to listen to me."

"No, I have been already too foolish to listen to you—to look at you. Till now, I never envied any one. Well, two or three times I have been surprised at myself. Am I growing a fool or a coward? I have found myself envious of your face, so like the Holy Virgin's; of your gentle and mournful look. Yes, I have even been envious of your chestnut hair and your blue eyes. I, who detest fair women, because I am dark myself, wish to resemble you. I! La Louve! I! Why, it is but eight days since, and I would have marked any one who dared but say so. Yet it is not your lot that would tempt one, for you are as full of grief as a Magdalene. Is it natural, I say, eh?"

"How can I account to you for the impression I make upon you?"

"Oh, you know well enough what you do, though you look as if you were too delicate to be touched."

"What bad design can you suppose me capable of?"

"How can I tell? It is because I do not understand anything of all this that I mistrust you. Another thing, too: until now I have always been merry or passionate, and never thoughtful, but you—you have made me thoughtful. Yes, there are words which you utter, that, in spite of myself, have shaken my very heart, and made me think of all sorts of sad things."