"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!"
At first, utterly stupefied by so singular a discovery, confirmed, indeed, by Fleur-de-Marie's own admission, Madame Dubreuil seemed almost incapable of comprehending the scene before her; but quickly the whole truth presented itself to her mental vision, and shrinking from the unfortunate girl with horror and disgust, she hastily seized her daughter by the dress, as she was about to sustain the sinking form of the poor Goualeuse, and, drawing her towards her with sudden violence, she exclaimed:
"Clara! For Heaven's sake approach not that vile, that abandoned young woman! Oh, dreadful, indeed, ever to have admitted her here! But how came Madame Georges to have her under her roof? And how could she so far insult me as to bring her here, and allow my daughter to—This is, indeed, disgraceful! I hardly know whether to trust the evidence of my own senses. But Madame Georges must have been as much imposed on as myself, or she never would have permitted such an indignity! No, no! She is incapable of such dishonourable conduct. It would, indeed, be a disgrace for one female so to have deceived another."
Poor Clara, terrified and almost heart-broken at this distressing scene, could scarcely believe herself awake. It seemed as though she were under the influence of a fearful dream. Her innocent and pure mind comprehended not the frightful charges brought against her friend; but she understood enough to fill her with the most poignant grief at the unfortunate position of La Goualeuse, who stood mute, passive and downcast, like a criminal in the presence of the judge.