eer, 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!"

"If your soldier was like you, he was a beauty!"

"I suppose he was in the Invalids?"

"The remains of a man--"

"How many glass eyes had he?"

"And wasn't his nose of block tin?"

"He must have been short of two arms and two legs, besides being deaf
and blind, if he took up with you."

"I am ugly,--a monster, I know that as well as you can tell me. Say what
you like,--make game of me, if you choose, it's all one to me; only
don't beat me, that's all, I beg!"

"What have you got in that old handkerchief?" asked La Louve.

"Yes, yes! What is it?"

"Show it up directly!"

"Let's see! Let's see!"

"Oh, no, I beg!" exclaimed the miserable creature, squeezing up the
little bundle in her hands with all her might.

"What! Must we take it from you?"

"Yes, snatch it from her, La Louve!"

"Oh, you won't be so wicked? Let it go! Let it go, I say!"

"What is it?"

"Why, it's the beginning of my baby linen; I make it with the old bits
of linen which no one wants, and I pick up. It's nothing to you, is it?"

"Oh, the baby linen of Mont Saint-Jean's little one! That must be a rum
set out!"

"Let's look at it."

"The baby clothes! The baby clothes!"

"She has taken measure of the