e it.

"What is the matter with you?" she said to him, looking directly in
his face. "You have not bowed to me. Pray why should we put on our best
velvet gowns to please you?"

She pushed past Pierrette to lay down her hat, which the latter took
from her hand, and which she let her take exactly as though she were a
servant. Men are supposed to be ferocious, and tigers too; but neither
tigers, vipers, diplomatists, lawyers, executioners or kings ever
approach, in their greatest atrocities, the gentle cruelty, the poisoned
sweetness, the savage disdain of one young woman for another, when
she thinks herself superior in birth, or fortune, or grace, and some
question of marriage, or precedence, or any of the feminine rivalries,
is raised. The "Thank you, mademoiselle," which Bathilde said to
Pierrette was a poem in many strophes. She was named Bathilde, and the
other Pierrette. She was a Chargeboeuf, the other a Lorrain. Pierrette
was small and weak, Bathilde was tall and full of life. Pierrette
was living on charity, Bathilde and her mother lived on their means.
Pierrette wore a stuff gown with a chemisette, Bathilde made the velvet
of hers undulate. Bathilde had the finest shoulders in the department,
and the arm of a queen; Pierrette's shoulder-blades were skin and bone.
Pierrette was Cinderella, Bathilde was the fairy. Bathilde was about to
marry, Pierrette was to die a maid. Bathilde was adored, Pierrette was
loved by none. Bathilde's hair was ravishingly dressed, she had so
much taste; Pierrette's was hidden beneath her Breton cap, and she
knew nothing of the fashions. Moral, Bathilde was everything, Pierrette
nothing. The proud little Breton girl understood this tragic poem.

"Good-evening, little girl," said Madame de Chargeboeuf, from the
height of her condescending grandeur, and in the tone of voice which her
pinched nose gave her.

Vinet put the last touch to this sort of insult by looking fixedly
at Pierrette and saying, in three keys, "Oh! oh! oh! how fine we are
to-night, Pierrette!"

"Fine!" said the poor child; "you should say that to Mademoiselle de
Chargeboeuf, not to me."

"Oh! she is always beautifully dressed," replied the lawyer. "Isn't she,
Rogron?" he added, turning to the master of the house, and grasping his
hand.

"Yes," said Rogron.

"Why do you force him to say what he does not think?" said Bathilde;
"nothing about me pleases him. Isn't that true?" she added, going up to
Rogron and st