"Now, then," exclaimed the milk-woman, exultingly, "here is Madame Dubreuil. Now, my fine miss," continued she, addressing Fleur-de-Marie, "you will have your turn of being turned out-of-doors!" "Is it true, then," cried Madame Dubreuil, addressing the widow, who still kept firm hold of Fleur-de-Marie's arm, "that you have dared to insult my daughter's friend, as she asserts? Is this the way you show your gratitude for all I have done to serve you? Will you leave that young lady alone?" "Yes, madame," replied the woman, relinquishing her grasp of Fleur-de-Marie, "at your bidding I will; for I respect you too much to disobey you. And, besides, I owe you much gratitude for all your kindness to a poor, friendless creature like myself. But, before you blame me, and drive me off the premises with my poor children, just question that wretched creature that has caused all this confusion what she knows of me. I know a pretty deal more of her than is to her credit!" "For Heaven's sake, Marie," exclaimed Madame Dubreuil, almost petrified with astonishment, "What does this woman allude to? Do you hear what she says?" "Are you, or are you not known by the name of the Goualeuse?" said the milk-woman to Marie. "Yes," said the wretched girl, in a low, trembling voice, and without venturing to lift up her eyes towards Madame Dubreuil,--"yes, I am called so." "There you see!" vociferated the enraged labourers. "She owns it! she owns it!" "What does she own?" inquired Madame Dubreuil, half frightened at the assent given by Fleur-de-Marie. "Leave her to me, madame," resumed the widow, "and you shall hear her confess that she was living in a house of the most infamous description in the Rue-aux-Fêves in the Cité, and that she every morning purchased a half-pennyworth of milk of me. She cannot deny either having repeatedly spoken in my presence to the murderer of my poor husband. Oh, she knows him well enough, I am quite certain; a pale young man, who smoked a good deal, and always wore a cap and a blouse, and wore his hair very long; she could tell his name if she chose. Is this true, or is it a lie?" vociferously demanded the milk-woman. "I may have spoken to the man who killed your husband," answered Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint voice; "for, unhappily, there are more than one in the Cité capable of such a crime. But, indeed, I know not of whom you are speaking!" "What does she say?" asked Madame Dubreuil, horror-struck at her words. "She admits having possibly conversed with murderers?" "Oh, such lost wretches as she is," replied the widow, "have no better companions!"