Louison’s sharp ears caught the words, or a part of them, and she turned with a swing that brought her hand in a resounding slap upon the girl’s plump cheek, which promptly flamed with the marks of five bony fingers. "Eh—Ma’mselle Impudence, so a wife mayn’t keep her own husband in order? Perhaps you ’d like to come interfering? Best put your fingers in some one else’s pies, and leave mine alone." The girl sobbed angrily, and Louison emitted a vicious little snort, pushing on a pace as the distribution began, and the queue moved slowly forward. A month before Mlle de Rochambeau would have shrunk and caught her breath, but now she only looked, and looked away. At first these hours in the open street were a torture to the sensitive, gently-bred girl. Every eye that lighted upon her seemed to be stripping off her disguise, and she expected the tongue of every passer-by to proclaim and denounce her. After the shock of the September massacres, it was impossible for her to realise that the greater part of those she encountered were plain, hungry, fellow-creatures, who cared little about politics, and much about their daily bread, but after a while she found she was one of a crowd—a speck, a dust mote, and that courage of the crowd, that sloughing of the individual, began to reassure her. She lost the sensation of being alone, the centre of observing eyes, and took her place as one of the great city’s humble workers, waiting for her share of its fostering; and she began to find interest in the scenes of tragedy and comedy which those hours of waiting brought before her. The long standing was fatiguing, but without the fresh air and enforced companionship of these morning hours, she would have fared worse than she did. Brains of coarser fibre than hers gave way in those days, and the cells of the Salpêtrière could tell a sadder tale than even the prisons of Paris. One day of drenching rain, as she stood shivering, her thin dress soaked, her hair wet and dripping, a heavy-looking, harpy-eyed creature stared long and curiously at her. The wind had caught Aline’s hair, and she put up her slim hand smoothing it again. As she did so, the woman’s eyes took a dull glare and she muttered: "Aristocrat." Terror teaches the least experienced to dissemble, and Mademoiselle had learned its lesson by now. Her heart bounded, but she managed a tolerably natural shrug of the shoulders, and answered in accents modelled on those of Rosalie: "My good mother, I? The idea! I—but that amuses me," and she laughed; but the woman gave a sort of growl, shook her dripping head, and repeated hoarsely: "Aristocrat, aristocrat," in a sort of chant, whilst the rain, following the furrows of the grimy, wrinkled cheeks, gave her an expression at once bleared and malignant. "It is Mère Rabotin," said the woman at Mademoiselle’s side. "She is a little mad. They shot her son last tenth of August, and since then she sees aristocrats and tyrants everywhere."