Rosaline opened her eyes and looked at her with an effort, her soul filled with loathing, and the old hag saw it in her face and hated her for it. “God knows what you want of me,” Rosaline said. “I have never harmed you, and I cannot tell why you so misuse me.” “You never harmed me!” la Louve cried, throwing up her bony hands. “_Dame!_ you are a peril to my soul, you little heretic!” Rosaline read the evil look in the hag’s eyes and knew that she would never relent; and so great was her own abhorrence that it was well-nigh impossible to look at her again. She turned her eyes toward the door, therefore, and closed her lips; she had no hope save in heaven. “How would mademoiselle like the Tour de Constance?” Mère Tigrane inquired pleasantly. “’Tis a healthful place and full of her friends. _Dame de Dieu_, what an opportunity to travel without pay from Nîmes to Aiguemortes!” She stopped and looked at the girl eagerly, trying to discover what emotions were stirring in the heart of her victim, longing for tears and entreaties; but Rosaline sat like a statue. “_Nom de St. Denis!_” she exclaimed at last, “how proud mademoiselle is,--an aristocrat! But ’tis not the Tour de Constance, _ma chérie_,” she added, with a mocking laugh. “No, no, there must be a better fate for such a lovely prisoner. _Dame!_ but your flesh is white--I could eat it. How much does mademoiselle think that M. de Baudri would pay for such a prize?” “_Dieu!_” cried Rosaline, shaken out of her resolve, “are you a woman? Is it possible that the _bon Dieu_ put such a heart in a woman?” “A woman, my pretty?” retorted the hag, with a peal of wild laughter. “Ay--and once a pretty one! Now you see what I am--and you are like to live to be like me, unless I wring that pretty, white throat now! I am a woman, _morbleu_, yes--this is what a woman becomes!” and she crooked her talon fingers pointing at herself. “Do you think I will pity you? _Dame_, I would see you burn this minute with joy, you little white fool!” Rosaline nerved herself to bear it without tears; she struggled hard to ward off the faintness that stole upon her, clasping her heart in a vice. “What do you mean to do with me?” she asked, in a strange voice, her eyes chained now by a horrible fascination to the old hag’s face. “Sell you, my sweetheart,” Mère Tigrane retorted, showing her fangs, “to the highest bidder in Nîmes. _Dame_, you are pretty enough to keep poor Mère Tigrane’s pot boiling for a year or two, my sweetie.” “God will not let you do it!” cried Rosaline, with white lips; “I am His.” La Louve shrieked with laughter. “You heretic!” she said gleefully, “you are the devil’s--body and soul--my fine lady, and you will wish yourself in hell presently, I doubt not, _ma chérie_! Next time you drive Mère Tigrane away with her fish, I think you will not hold that little head so high.” “_Mon Dieu!_” cried Rosaline, in amazement, “is it possible that my one little act has made you hate me so?”