"Eh, Marie," she said, in a queer, thick voice. "Come along then—you sit and work all day, and in the end you will be ill. Every one must take a holiday some time, and it is exciting, this spectacle; I can tell you it is exciting. The first time I was like you, I said no, I can’t, I can’t; but see you, I could think of nothing else, and at last, Thérèse persuaded me. Then I sat, and shivered—yes, like a jelly—and saw ten knives, and ten heads, and half a dozen Citizen Sansons—but after that it went better, and better. Come, then, and see for yourself, Marie," and she put a heavy hand on the girl’s shrinking shoulder. White-faced, Aline recoiled. "Oh, Citoyenne," she breathed, and shrank away. Thérèse laughed loud. "Oh, Citoyenne, Citoyenne," she mimicked. "Tender flower, pretty lamb, but the lamb’s throat comes to the butcher’s knife all the same," and her eyes were wicked behind their mockery. "Have you heard any news of that fine lover of yours, since he rode away," she went on. "I have no lover," answered Mademoiselle, the blood flaming into her thin cheeks. "You are too modest, perhaps?" sneered Thérèse. "I have not thought of such things." "Such things—just hear her! What? you have not thought of Citizen Dangeau, handsome Citizen Dangeau, and he living in the same house, and closeted with you evening after evening, as our good Rosalie tells me? Does one do such things without thinking?" Mademoiselle’s flush had faded almost as it had risen, leaving her white and proud. "Citoyenne, you are in error," she said quietly. "I am a poor girl with my bread to earn. The Citizen employed me to copy a book he had written. He paid well, and I was glad of the money." "I dare say you were"—and Thérèse’s coarse laugh rang out—"so he paid you well, and for copying, for copying—that was it, my pious Ste. Nitouche. Copying? Haha—I never heard it called that before!" Mademoiselle turned haughtily away, only a deepening of her pallor showed that the insult had reached her, but Rosalie caught her cousin’s arm with an impatient—"Tiens, Thérèse, we shall be late, we shall not get good places," and they went out, Thérèse still laughing noisily. "Vile, vile, shameless woman," thought Aline, as she stood drawing long breaths before her open window. The strong March wind blew in and seemed to fan her hot anger and shame into a blaze. "How dare she—how dare she!"