"I understand, Madame. Is it permitted to ask what you propose to do with me?"
Rosalie stared insolently. Then planting herself deliberately on a chair, she observed:
"It is certainly permitted to ask, my little aristocrat—certainly; but I should advise fewer airs and graces to a woman who has saved your life twice over, and that at the risk of her own."
Mademoiselle was silent, and Rosalie took up her parable. "Where would you have been by now, if I had not brought you home with me? There 's many a citizen who would have been glad to find a cage for a pretty stray bird like you, and how would that have suited you—eh? Better rough words from respectable Rosalie Leboeuf than shameful kisses from Citizen Such-a-one. And yesterday—if I had whispered yesterday, 'Montargis is dead, but there's a chick of the breed roosting in my upper room,' as I might very well have done, very well indeed, and kept your money into the bargain—what then, Miss Mealy-mouth? Have you a fancy for being stripped and dragged at a cart's tail through Paris, or would you relish being made to drink success to the Revolution in a brimming mug of aristocrats' blood? Eh! I could tell you tales, my girl, such tales that you 'd never sleep again, and that's what I 've saved you from, and do I get thanks—gratitude? Tush! was that ever the nobles' way?"
"Madame—I am—grateful," said Mademoiselle faintly. Her lips were ashen, and the breath came with a gasp between every word.
"Grateful—yes, indeed, I should think you were grateful," responded Rosalie, her keen eyes on the girl's ghastly face. With a little nod, she decided that she had frightened her enough. "I want more than your 'Madame, I'm grateful,'" and as she mimicked the faltering tones the blood ran back into Mademoiselle's white cheeks. "So far we have talked sentiment," she continued, with a complete change of manner. Her brutality slipped from her, and she became the bargaining bourgeoise.
"Let us come to business."
"With all my heart, Madame."
"Tut—no Madame—Citoyenne, or Rosalie. Madame smells of treason, disaffection, what not. What money have you?"
"Only what I showed you yesterday."
"But you could get more?"
"I do not think so, I know nothing of my affairs—but there was a good deal in that bag. I put it—yes, I 'm sure I did—under the pillow. Oh, Madame, my money 's not here! The bag is gone!"
"Té! té! té!" went Rosalie's tongue against the roof of her mouth; "gone it is, and for a very good reason, my little cabbage, because Rosalie Leboeuf took it!"
"Madame!"
"Ma'mselle!" mimicked the rough voice. "It is the little present that Ma'mselle makes me—the token of her gratitude. Hein! do you say anything against that?"
Mademoiselle was silent. She was reflecting that she still had her pearls, and she put a timid hand to her bosom. A moment later, she sank back trembling upon her pillow. The pearls were gone. It was not for nothing that Rosalie had undressed her the night before. She bit her lip, constraining herself to silence; and Rosalie, twinkling maliciously, maintained the same reserve. She was neither a cruel nor a brutal woman, though she could appear both, if she had an end to gain, as she had now.
She meant Mlle. de Rochambeau no harm, and honestly considered that she had earned both gold and pearls. Indeed, who shall say that she had not? Girls had to be managed, and were much easier to deal with when they had been well frightened. When she was well in hand, Rosalie would be kind enough, but just now, a touch of the spur, a flick of the whip, was what was required—and yet not too much, for times changed so rapidly, and who knew how long the reign of Liberty would last? She must not overdo it.
"Well now, Citoyenne," she said suddenly, "let us see where we are. You came to Paris ten days ago. Who brought you?"
"The Intendant and his wife," said Mademoiselle.
"And they are still in Paris?" (The devil take this Intendant!)
"No; they returned after two days. I think now that they were frightened."
"Very likely. Worthy, sensible people!" said Rosalie, with a puff of relief. "And you came to the Montargis? Well, she 's dead. Are you betrothed?"
Aline turned a shade paler. How far away seemed that betrothal kiss which she had rubbed impatiently from her reluctant hand!
"I was fiancée to M. de Sélincourt."
"That one? Well, he's dead, and damned too, if he has his deserts," commented Rosalie. "Hm, hm—and you knew no one else in Paris?"
"Only Mme. de Maillé—she remembered my mother."
"An old story that—she is dead too," said Rosalie composedly. "In effect, it appears that you have no friends; they are all dead."
Aline shrank a little, but did not exclaim. In this nightmare-existence upon which she had entered, it was as natural that dreadful things should happen as until two days ago it had seemed to her young optimism impossible.
Rosalie pursued the conversation.
"Yes, they are all dead. I gave myself the trouble of going to see my sister this morning on purpose to find out. Marie is a poor soft creature; she cried and sobbed as if she had lost her dearest friends, and Bault, the great hulk, looked as white as chalk. I always say I should make a better gaoler myself—not that I 'm not sorry for them, mind you, with all that place to get clean again, and blood, as every one knows, the work of the world to get out of things."
Mademoiselle shuddered.
"Oh!" she breathed protestingly, and then added in haste, "They are all dead, Madame, all my friends, and what am I to do?"
Rosalie crossed her arms and swayed approvingly. Here was a suitable frame of mind at last—very different from the hoity-toity airs of the beginning.
"Hein! that is the question, and I answer it this way. You can stay here, under my respectable roof, until your friends come forward; but of course you must work, or how will my rent be paid? A mere trifle, it is true, but still something; and besides the rent there will be your ménage to make. For one week I will feed you, but after that it is your affair, and not mine. Even a white slip of a girl like you requires food. The question is, what can you do to earn it?"
Mademoiselle de Rochambeau coloured.
"I can embroider," she said hesitatingly. "I helped to work an altar cloth for the Convent chapel last year."
Rosalie gave a coarse laugh.
"Eh—altar cloths! What is the good of that? Soon there will be no altars to put them on!"
"I learned to embroider muslin too," said Mademoiselle hastily. "I could work fine stuffs, for fichus, or caps, or handkerchiefs, perhaps."
Rosalie considered.
"Well, that's better, though you 'll find it hard to fill even your pinched stomach out of such work; but we can see how it goes. I will bring you muslin and thread, and you shall work a piece for me to see. I know a woman who would buy on my recommendation, if it were well done."
"They said I did it well," said Mademoiselle meekly. Her eyes smarted suddenly, and she thought with a desperate yearning of comfortable Sister Marie Madeleine, or even the severe Soeur Marie Mediatrice. How far away the Convent stillness seemed, and how desirable!
"Good," said Rosalie; "then that is settled. For the rest, I cannot have Mlle. de Rochambeau lodging with me. That will not go now. What is your Christian name?"
"Aline Marie."
"Aline, but no—that would give every donkey something to bray over. Marie is better—any one may be Marie. It is my sister's name, and my niece's, and was my mother's. It is a good name. Well, then, you are the Citoyenne Marie Roche."
Mademoiselle