"You are right," said Fleur-de-Marie, with bitterness; "it is so much the worse for her; she is your pain-bearer, she ought to submit herself to your pleasure,—her tears and sighs amuse and divert you!—and you must have some way of passing your time. Were you to kill her on the spot, she would have no right to say anything. You speak truly, La Louve, this is just and fair, is it not? Here is a poor, weak, defenceless woman; alone in the midst of so many, she is quite unable to defend herself, yet you all combine against her! Certainly your behaviour towards her is most just and generous!"
"And I suppose you mean to say we are all a parcel of cowards?" retorted La Louve, carried away by the violence of her disposition and extreme impatience at anything like contradiction. "Answer me, do you call us cowards, eh? Speak out, and let us know your meaning," continued she, growing more and more incensed.
A murmur of displeasure against La Goualeuse, not unmixed with threats, arose from the assembled crowd. The offended prisoners thronged around her, vociferating their disapprobation, forgetting, or remembering but as a fresh cause of offence, the ascendency she had until the present moment exercised over them.
"She calls us cowards, you see!"
"What business has she to find fault with us?"
"Is she better than we are, I should like to know?"
"Ah, we have all been too kind to her!"
"And now she wants to give herself fine lady airs, and to domineer over us! If we choose to torment Mont Saint-Jean, what need has she to interfere?"
"Since it has come to this, I tell you what, Mont Saint-Jean, you shall fare the worse for it for the future."
"Take this to begin with!" said one of the most violent of the party, giving her a blow.