Gradually among the tricoteuses, the bouquetières, and the clientèle of the Cabaret de la Guillotine it began to be whispered that something extraordinary had happened to Louison. Her manner had changed. She was no longer indifferent, mocking, and careless under the scaffold. Instead, her companions began to be alarmed at the cloud on her brow, the brooding fixity of her glance, the abruptness and the poverty of her speech. Her questions were even stranger than her moods. One day she asked of her companion, thrusting her hand toward the guillotine:
"Does that affect you to see them die like that?"
"I dream sometimes at nights," the girl answered.
Then Louison, turning on her an uncomprehending glance, exclaimed:
"True?"
Another time she said:
"Doesn't that make you curious?"
"Of what?"
"Curious to know what you would do."