"Ma foi, if you are not stupid to-day. The trial, I tell you, that Rochambeau girl’s trial—white-faced little fool. Ciel! if I could not play my cards better than that," and she laughed. Rosalie’s hands were hidden by her apron. One of them clutched something. The fingers lifted one by one, and in her mind she counted, "One—two—three—four—five"—and then back again—"One—two—three—four—five—" Thérèse was staring at her. "What’s the matter with you to-day?" she said. "Are you coming or no? It will be amusing, Hébert says; but if you prefer to sit here and sulk, do so by all means. For me, I go." She turned to do so, but Rosalie was already getting out of her chair. "Wait then, Thérèse," she grumbled. "Is no one to have any amusement but you? There, give me your arm, come close. Now tell me what’s going to happen?" "Oh, just the trial, but I thought you wanted to see it. For me, I always think it makes the execution more interesting if one has seen the trial also." "Dangeau is back," said Rosalie irrelevantly. Thérèse laughed loud. "He has a fine welcome home," she said. "Well, are you coming, for I ’ve no mind to wait?" "It is only the trial," said Rosalie vaguely. "Just a trial—and what is that? I do not care for a trial, there is no blood." She laughed a little and rocked, cuddling what lay beneath her apron. "Just a trial," she muttered; "but whose trial did you say?" Thérèse lost patience. She stamped on the floor. "What, again? What the devil is the matter with you to-day? Are you drunk?" Rosalie turned her big head and looked at her cousin. They were standing close together, and her left hand, with its strong, stumpy fingers, closed like a vice upon the girl’s arm. "No, I ’m not drunk, not drunk, Thérèse," she said in a thick voice. Thérèse tried to shake her off. "Well, you sound like it, and behave like it, you old fool," she said furiously. "Drunk or crazy, it’s all one. Let go of me, I shall be late." "Yes," said Rosalie, nodding her head—"yes, you will be late, Thérèse." "Va, imbécile!" cried the girl in a passion. As she spoke she hit the nodding face sharply, twitching violently to one side in the effort to free her arm. The ponderous hand closed tighter, and Thérèse, turning again with a curse, saw that upon Rosalie’s heavily flushed face that stopped the words half-way, and changed them to a shriek. "Oh, Mary Virgin!" she screamed, and saw the hidden right hand come swinging into sight, holding a long, sharp knife such as butchers use at their work. Her eyes were all black, dilated pupil, and she choked on the breath she tried to draw in order to scream again. Oh, the hand! the knife! It flashed and fell, wrenched free and fell again, and Thérèse went down, horribly mute, her hands grasping in the air, and catching at the basket across which she fell.