"Fortunately, madame, this remorse is more frequent than is commonly believed. The avenging conscience is never completely lulled to sleep; or, rather, strange as it may appear, sometimes it would seem that the soul is awake whilst the body is in a stupor; and this remark I again made last night in reference to my protégée."
"What! La Goualeuse?"
"Yes, madame."
"In what way?"
"Frequently, when the prisoners are asleep, I walk through the dormitories. You would scarcely believe, my lady, how the countenances of these women differ in expression whilst they are slumbering. A good number of them, whom I have seen during the day, saucy, careless, bold, insolent, have appeared entirely changed when sleep has removed from their features all exaggeration of bravado; for, alas, vice has its pride! Oh, madame, what sad revelations on those dejected, mournful, and gloomy faces! What painful sighs, involuntarily elicited by some dream. I was speaking to your ladyship just now of the girl they call La Louve,—an untamed, untamable creature. It is but a fortnight since that she abused me in the vilest terms before all the prisoners. I shrugged up my shoulders, and my indifference whetted her rage. Then, in order to offend me more sorely, she began to say all sorts of disgraceful things of my mother, whom she had often seen come here to visit me."
"What a shameful creature!"
"I confess that, although this attack was not worth minding, yet it made me feel uncomfortable. La Louve perceived this, and rejoiced in it. The same night, about midnight, I went to inspect the dormitories; I went to La Louve's bedside (she was not to be put in the dark cell until next day) and I was struck with her calmness,—I might say the sweetness of her countenance,—compared with the harsh and daring expression which is habitual to it. Her features seemed suppliant, filled with regret and contrition; her lips were half open, her breast seemed oppressed, and—what appeared to me incredible, for I thought it impossible—two tears, two large tears, were in the eyes of this woman, whose disposition was of iron! I looked at her in silence for several minutes, when I heard her say, 'Pardon! Pardon! Her mother!' I listened more attentively, but all I could catch, in the midst of a murmur scarcely intelligible, was my name, 'Madame Armand,' uttered with a sigh."
"She repented, during her sleep, of having uttered this bad language about your mother."
"So I believe; and that made me less severe. No doubt she desired, through a miserable vanity, to increase her natural insolence in her companions' eyes, whilst, perhaps, a good instinct made her repent in her sleep."
"And did she evince any repentance for her bad behaviour next day?"