Marguerite was standing by Dame Doudel’s stall, around which the women of the market had assembled, forgetting their traffic, and filled with enthusiasm. Their praises went to the young girl’s heart. With a love of royalty deep-seated in her nature, she felt her present position among these ardent women as a fraud which she had no right to maintain. Dame Doudel, while she rejoiced in the scene, watched her protegée closely, fearing that some imprudent word might extinguish the enthusiasm which was exalting her into something scarcely less than a goddess. All at once, Marguerite burst into a passion of tears, and retreating from the crowd of her admirers, caught Dame Doudel by the dress. “Oh! tell them—tell them that I love the king, the queen, and everything that belongs to them! Tell these good women they are breaking my heart with praises that I do not deserve, never can deserve!” “Hush, child! Hush, I command you!” cried the dame, breathless with terror. “What is it to them? Who asks you not to love the king—we all love him!” “What—what does she say? Who is it among us that has made her cry—tell us that!” “It is nothing. She is a tender-hearted little thing, and weeps with joy. Cannot you see that yourselves? Hush, my darling! let me speak for you. I know these women; they wish no evil to the king. Hush! hush!” Still Marguerite’s tender conscience was not pacified. She was timid, but by no means a coward. Those women evidently believed her heart and soul one of themselves, while she shrunk from all sympathy with them. How could she make them understand this without wounding her benefactress. “Let me speak! Oh! let me tell them!” she pleaded, clinging to the frightened dame. “It need harm no one but myself.” “I cannot. I have already told them you were one of us. Would you prove me a liar, and have me hooted out of the market?” “No, no! I did not think of that.” “Then be quiet.” “I will—I will. Only tell them that I deserve nothing.” “Very well; but look up. Wipe your eyes, and try to smile.” Marguerite tried her best to obey. She wiped her eyes with a fold of her muslin mantle, and made a pitiful attempt to brighten her face; but just before her, or rather above her, as she looked up, stood a young woman mounted on one of the stalls, who was regarding her with the keen scrutiny of an enemy. Marguerite gave a faint cry, and clung to Dame Doudel in sudden terror. “Do not speak—let them all go; but take me away—take me away from that woman!” The words died on those white lips, leaving them parted till the teeth shone through. The great, blue eyes of the girl widened and glowed with kindling horror. She knew that the woman who stood there, so fiendish in her beauty, was, in fact, a murderer. A sick faintness settled down upon her, and she sunk to a market-stool perfectly insensible. Then the voice of Louison Brisot broke forth in clear, ringing tones, that fell from her lips hot with the seething anger of a jealous woman.