O'Hara turned in the direction from which the voice came; he distinguished his compatriot in the middle of an unusually excited mass which pressed against the bars of this loathsome cage of mysterious horrors, a grim smile twisting his features. He could not see any of the twelve sloping tables on which the bodies were laid out in their last toilette--their stiff limbs stretched, hair combed back, hands fixed by their cold sides, and squares of black boarding covering the stomach and thighs--because of the intervening crowd. The clothing of the unclaimed dead, hats, jackets, and blouses, suspended from racks overhead, alone was visible. 'What's the excitement?' he asked of a grizzled soldier, who edged his way back from the bars. 'Oh, it's only a _cocotte_ of the quarter, who's been fool enough to go to the devil before the devil came to her. Sapristi! but she's been a well-favoured wench, and's got a well-turned leg even on her calafaque.'[7] 'Marguerite, Marguerite,' said O'Hara, as if recalling some train of thought. 'Yes, that's what's yonder individual, who pretends that he knew her, denominated her; but I inflect he's a joker.' 'Tall, with an Italian face and black hair?' asked O'Hara eagerly. 'Ay, ay, tall, with a handsome, despising face, and long hair, as black as a grenadier's bearskin.' 'I, too, think I know her--if it be the same.' 'If it be the same! It strikes me, jokers are consolidating in the Morgue to-day. Good-morning, bourgeois, I'm an old soldier,' and away marched the veteran. A pretty little girl, coquettishly clad in the costume of the grisette, a well-fitting robe of gray, relieved by a tidy patent leather belt with clasp, setting off her figure, and large imitation coral drops glistening under her bright chestnut hair, entered at the moment, a basket on her arm, as if returning from her work. 'Have you seen the bodies yet, please, sir?' she said to O'Hara. 'Not yet, mademoiselle,' he replied graciously; 'but if you wait a little, I shall get a place for both to see them.' She smiled her thanks. 'Now, then, forward. It's the first time I have ever seen a crush at the Morgue;' and they perseveringly made their way to the front. On a black slab lay extended the nude limbs of a woman who had been taken from life before she had reached its noon, whilst she might have been full of strength and lusty joy. They were bloodless to the view, but round and beautiful of proportion, and clean of colour as a statue of purest marble by a master hand. The head was pillowed on a luxuriant mass of wet, matted raven hair. There was a smile on the face (which was wickedly handsome, as the soldier had described it), even in death, and a proud, disdainful curl had left its unchangeable impress on the mouth. 'By Jove, it _is_ Marguerite!' cried O'Hara involuntarily.