Amongst the fiercest enemies of Mont Saint-Jean (that was the unhappy wretch's name), La Louve was conspicuous. La Louve was a strapping girl of twenty, active, and powerfully grown, with regular features. Her coarse black hair was varied by reddish shades, whilst her blood suffused her skin with its hue; a brown down shaded her thin lips; her chestnut eyebrows, thick and projecting, were united over her large and fierce eyes. There was something violent, savage, and brutal in the expression of this woman's physiognomy,—a sort of habitual sneer, which curled her upper lip during a fit of rage, and, exposing her white and wide-apart teeth, accounted for her name of La Louve (the she-wolf). Yet in that countenance there was more of boldness and insolence than cruelty; and, in a word, it was seen that, rather become vicious than born so, this woman was still susceptible of certain good impulses, as the inspectress had told Madame d'Harville.
"Alas! alas! What have I done?" exclaimed Mont Saint-Jean, struggling in the midst of her companions. "Why are you so cruel to me?"
"Because it is so amusing."
"Because you are only fit to be teased."
"It is your business."
"Look at yourself, and you will see that you have no right to complain."
"But you know well enough that I don't complain as long as I can help it; I bear it as long as I can."
"Well, we'll let you alone, if you will tell us why you call yourself Mont Saint-Jean."
"Yes, yes; come, tell us all that directly."
"Why, I've told you a hundred times. It was an old soldier that I loved a long while ago, and who was called so because he was wounded at the battle of Mont Saint-Jean; so I took his name. That's it; now are you satisfied? You will make me repeat the same thing over, and over, and over!"