For a moment Aline hesitated, and then, with a murmured "Pardon," advanced a step. "Who are you?" demanded Thérèse, in her roughest voice. Rosalie looked up with an expression of annoyance. Really Thérèse and her scenes were past bearing, though they were amusing, for a little. "I am Marie Roche," said Mademoiselle quietly. "I lodge here, and work for my living. Is there anything else you would like to ask me?" Thérèse’s eyes flashed, and she gave a loud, angry laugh. "Eh—listen to her," she cried, "only listen. Yes, there is a good deal I should like to ask—amongst other things, where you got that face, and those hands, if your name is Marie Roche. Aristocrat, that is what you are—aristocrat!" and she pushed her flushed face close to Mademoiselle’s rapidly paling one. "Chut, Thérèse!" commanded Rosalie angrily. "I say she is an aristocrat," shouted Thérèse, swinging round upon her cousin. "Fiddlesticks," said Rosalie; "the girl’s harmless, and her name’s her own, right enough." "With that face, those hands? Am I an imbecile?" "Do I know, I?" and Rosalie shrugged her mountainous shoulders. "Bah, Thérèse, what a fuss about nothing. Is it the girl’s fault if her mother was pretty enough to take the seigneur’s fancy?" The scarlet colour leapt into Mademoiselle’s face. The rough tones, the coarse laugh with which Rosalie ended, and which Thérèse echoed, offended her immeasurably, and she was far from feeling grateful for the former’s interference. She pushed past her opponent, and ran up the stairs without pausing to take breath. Meanwhile Thérèse turned violently upon her cousin. "Aristocrat or not, she has taken Dangeau from me," she screamed, with the sudden passion which makes her type so dangerous. "Why did you not tell me you had a girl in the house?—though what he can see in such a pinched, mincing creature passes me. Why did you not tell me, I say? Why? Why?" "Eh, ma foi! because you fatigue me, you and your tempers," said Rosalie crossly. "Is this your house, par exemple, that I must ask you before I take any one to live in it? If the man likes you, take him, and welcome. I am not preventing you. And if he does n’t like you, what can I do, I? Am I to say to him, ’Pray, Citizen Dangeau, be careful you do not speak to any girl, except my cousin Thérèse?’ It is your own fault, not mine. Why did n’t you marry like a respectable girl, instead of taking Heaven knows how many lovers? Is it a secret? Bah! all Paris knows it; and do you think Dangeau is ignorant? There was Bonnet, and Hébert, and young Cléry, and who knows how many since. Ciel! you tire me," and Rosalie bent over her knitting, muttering to herself, and picking fiercely at dropped stitches.