Madeleine was nearly out of breath. She leaned against the table, put her hand against her side, and panted. She looked so pretty, so bewitching, that Percenez could hardly be angry with her, though he knew she had done wrong. Her cheeks were flushed, her dancing black eyes were bright with triumph, and her attitude was easy and full of grace. She wore her hair loose, curled and falling over her neck and shoulders. Her bodice was low, exposing throat and bosom, both exquisitely moulded; her skirt was short, and allowed her neat little feet and ankles to be seen in all their perfection. Gabrielle thought she had never seen so pretty a girl. She herself was a marked contrast to Madeleine. She was not so slender and trim in her proportions, nor so agile in her movements; but her face was full of simplicity, and that was the principal charm. Madeleine’s features were not so regular as those of Gabrielle, but there was far more animation in her face. The deep hazel eyes of the peasant-girl were steady, the dark orbs of the Parisian flower-girl sparkled and danced, without a moment’s constancy. A woman’s character is written on her brow. That of Gabrielle was smooth, and spoke of purity; the forehead of Madeleine expressed boldness and assurance. ‘You are the joy of my life, the loadstar of my existence!’ exclaimed the mother, embracing her daughter, and then the box, which she covered with kisses. ‘Oh ecstasy! oh raptures! this is beautiful. Klaus, lend me one of your tools to force the box open. Perhaps it contains jewels! Klaus, quick!’ The lad placed his hand on the coffer, and said, gravely: ‘I am sorry to spoil your pleasure, dear mother; but this mother-of-pearl box must be returned.’ ‘Returned!’ echoed madame with scorn,--‘returned to the mob, who are breaking everything. I never heard such nonsense.’ ‘Not to the mob, but to M. Réveillon.’ ‘To M. Réveillon! what rubbish you do talk! I shall keep the box and cherish it. Mon Dieu! would you tear it from me now that I love it, that I adore it?’ ‘We shall see, when my father comes,’ said Nicholas Deschwanden. ‘I have no doubt of his decision.’ ‘I shall kill myself,’ said Madame Deschwanden, ‘and go to heaven, where I shall be happy, and you will not be able to rob me of all my pretty things, and pester me with your conscientious scruples. See if I do not! or I shall run away with a gentleman who will love me and gratify all my little innocent whims. See if I do not! And so I shall leave you and your father to talk your rigmaroles about Alps and lakes and glaciers, and chant your litanies to Bruder Klaus and Heiliger Meinrad. See if I don’t!’ The discharge of musketry interrupted the flow of her threats, and the vehement little woman was next moment again at the window.