Henriette opens the trap-door of the cellar where the Frochards lodged, and peers within. Courageously she goes down the steps. Sympathy and horror struggle in the thought of Louise being an inmate of this foul place.
What is her disgust then to encounter the wart-faced and moustachioed hag who is its proprietor! Quickly Henriette tells La Frochard of her information, and demands Louise.
“I don’t know any such person,” the hag lies, with ready effrontery. “You must be mistaken!”
But Henriette’s eyes are gazing at the Frochard’s neck, sensing something or other vaguely familiar. The old woman, who has been drinking, has unloosened her nondescript rig. The girl’s gaze sees a well-remembered object.
“My sister’s shawl!”
The blue eyes are gleaming now in astonishment––with a hint of coming fury. She snatches the shawl from La Frochard’s shoulders, fondles and caresses it. Then 112 like a small tigress robbed of whelp she advances on the beggar, shaking her in paroxysmal rage.
It would have been a comical sight if not so very serious a one; the tiny Henrietta shaking a woman twice her size, pummeling her, brow-beating her till La Frochard sinks to her knees and begs for mercy.
“You have been lying, and that shawl proves it,” cries Henriette. “Where is she?”
The old woman gets up. She changes her tone to a whine, and tries to pat Henriette in pretended sympathy. “Well, if you must know the truth––”