Fleur-de-Marie, the Songstress, wore the blue dress and black cap of the prisoners; but even in this common costume she was charming. Yet since she was carried off from the farm of Bouqueval, her features were much altered; her natural paleness, slightly tinted with rose, was now as dead as the whitest alabaster; her expression had also changed; it had now assumed a kind of dignified sadness. Fleur-de-Marie knew that to endure courageously the grievous sacrifices of expiation is almost to obtain a kind of regeneration. "Ask their pardon for me, La Goualeuse," said Mont Saint Jean. "See how they drag in the dirt all that I had collected with so much trouble; what good can it do them?" Fleur-de-Marie did not say a word, but she began actively to collect, one by one, from under the feet of the prisoners, all the rags she could find. One of the prisoners retaining mischievously under her foot a piece of coarse muslin, Fleur-de-Marie, stooping, raised her enchanting face toward this woman, and said, in her sweet voice, "I beg you to let me take this, in the name of the poor weeping woman." The prisoner withdrew her foot. The muslin was saved, as well as all the other rags, which the Goualeuse secured piece by piece. There remained only one little cap, which two of them were contending for, laughing. Fleur-de-Marie said to them, "Come, be good now, and give her that little cap." "My eye! is it for a baby harlequin, this cap? Made of gray stuff, with peaks of green and black fustian, and a bedtick lining!" This description of the cap was received with shouts of laughter. "Laugh at it as much as you please, but give it to me," said Mont Saint Jean; "don't drag it in the gutter, as you did the rest. I beg your pardon, La Goualeuse, for having made you soil your hands for me," added she, in a grateful voice. "Give me the harlequin cap," said La Louve, who caught it, and shook it in the air as a trophy. "I entreat you to give it to me," said La Goualeuse. "No; because you will give it to Mont Saint Jean." "Certainly!" "Ah! bah! such a fag! it's not worth the trouble." "It is because Mont Saint Jean has nothing but rags to dress her child with that you should have pity on her, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie, sadly, extending her hand toward the cap. "You sha'n't have it!" answered La Louve, brutally; "must one always give up to you because you are the weakest? You take advantage of this." "Where would be the merit of giving it to me if I were the strongest?" answered La Goualeuse, with a smile full of grace. "No, no, you wish to twist me about again with your little soft voice; you sha'n't have it." "Come, now, La Louve, don't be naughty." "Leave me alone, you tire me." "I entreat you!" "Stop! don't make me angry--I have said no, and no it is!" cried La Louve, very much irritated. "Have pity upon her; see how she weeps!" "What is that to me? So much the worse for her; she is our target."