"But you could get more?" "I do not think so, I know nothing of my affairs—but there was a good deal in that bag. I put it—yes, I ’m sure I did—under the pillow. Oh, Madame, my money ’s not here! The bag is gone!" "Té! té! té!" went Rosalie’s tongue against the roof of her mouth; "gone it is, and for a very good reason, my little cabbage, because Rosalie Leboeuf took it!" "Madame!" "Ma’mselle!" mimicked the rough voice. "It is the little present that Ma’mselle makes me—the token of her gratitude. Hein! do you say anything against that?" Mademoiselle was silent. She was reflecting that she still had her pearls, and she put a timid hand to her bosom. A moment later, she sank back trembling upon her pillow. The pearls were gone. It was not for nothing that Rosalie had undressed her the night before. She bit her lip, constraining herself to silence; and Rosalie, twinkling maliciously, maintained the same reserve. She was neither a cruel nor a brutal woman, though she could appear both, if she had an end to gain, as she had now. She meant Mlle de Rochambeau no harm, and honestly considered that she had earned both gold and pearls. Indeed, who shall say that she had not? Girls had to be managed, and were much easier to deal with when they had been well frightened. When she was well in hand, Rosalie would be kind enough, but just now, a touch of the spur, a flick of the whip, was what was required—and yet not too much, for times changed so rapidly, and who knew how long the reign of Liberty would last? She must not overdo it. "Well now, Citoyenne," she said suddenly, "let us see where we are. You came to Paris ten days ago. Who brought you?" "The Intendant and his wife," said Mademoiselle. "And they are still in Paris?" (The devil take this Intendant!) "No; they returned after two days. I think now that they were frightened." "Very likely. Worthy, sensible people!" said Rosalie, with a puff of relief. "And you came to the Montargis? Well, she ’s dead. Are you betrothed?" Aline turned a shade paler. How far away seemed that betrothal kiss which she had rubbed impatiently from her reluctant hand! "I was fiancée to M. de Sélincourt." "That one? Well, he’s dead, and damned too, if he has his deserts," commented Rosalie. "Hm, hm—and you knew no one else in Paris?" "Only Mme de Maillé—she remembered my mother." "An old story that—she is dead too," said Rosalie composedly. "In effect, it appears that you have no friends; they are all dead." Aline shrank a little, but did not exclaim. In this nightmare-existence upon which she had entered, it was as natural that dreadful things should happen as until two days ago it had seemed to her young optimism impossible. Rosalie pursued the conversation.