"As to all the prisoners, for that I cannot answer, but certainly there are some hundreds less of the pestilent aristocrats than there were. As to your cousin, the ci-devant Marquise de Montargis, she ’s as dead as mutton." Aline looked up—she was not stupid, and this woman’s altered tone was confirmation enough without any further words. Two days ago, it had been "Ma’mselle," and the respectful demeanour of a servant, smiles and smooth words had met her, and now that rough "my girl" and these brutal words! Rosalie Leboeuf was no pioneer. Had some terrible change not taken place, she would never have dared to speak and look as she was looking and speaking now. Mademoiselle had not the Rochambeau blood for nothing. She drew herself up, looked gravely in the woman’s face, and said in a fine, cold voice: "I understand, Madame. Is it permitted to ask what you propose to do with me?" Rosalie stared insolently. Then planting herself deliberately on a chair, she observed: "It is certainly permitted to ask, my little aristocrat—certainly; but I should advise fewer airs and graces to a woman who has saved your life twice over, and that at the risk of her own." Mademoiselle was silent, and Rosalie took up her parable. "Where would you have been by now, if I had not brought you home with me? There ’s many a citizen who would have been glad to find a cage for a pretty stray bird like you, and how would that have suited you—eh? Better rough words from respectable Rosalie Leboeuf than shameful kisses from Citizen Such-a-one. And yesterday—if I had whispered yesterday, ’Montargis is dead, but there’s a chick of the breed roosting in my upper room,’ as I might very well have done, very well indeed, and kept your money into the bargain—what then, Miss Mealy-mouth? Have you a fancy for being stripped and dragged at a cart’s tail through Paris, or would you relish being made to drink success to the Revolution in a brimming mug of aristocrats’ blood? Eh! I could tell you tales, my girl, such tales that you ’d never sleep again, and that’s what I ’ve saved you from, and do I get thanks—gratitude? Tush! was that ever the nobles’ way?" "Madame—I am—grateful," said Mademoiselle faintly. Her lips were ashen, and the breath came with a gasp between every word. "Grateful—yes, indeed, I should think you were grateful," responded Rosalie, her keen eyes on the girl’s ghastly face. With a little nod, she decided that she had frightened her enough. "I want more than your ’Madame, I’m grateful,’" and as she mimicked the faltering tones the blood ran back into Mademoiselle’s white cheeks. "So far we have talked sentiment," she continued, with a complete change of manner. Her brutality slipped from her, and she became the bargaining bourgeoise. "Let us come to business." "With all my heart, Madame." "Tut—no Madame—Citoyenne, or Rosalie. Madame smells of treason, disaffection, what not. What money have you?" "Only what I showed you yesterday."