are your dupes, as we were
just now."

"My dupe! for having generously succoured this poor woman?"

"Oh, it has nothing to do with all that," exclaimed La Louve, with rage.
"I have never till now stooped my head before a breathing soul. La Louve
is my name, and I am well named: more than one woman bears my marks, and
more than one man, too; and it shall never be said that a little chit
like you can place me beneath her feet."

"Me! and in what way?"

"How do I know! You come here, and first begin by insulting me."

"Insult you?"

"Yes,--you ask who'll have your bread. I first say--_I._ Mont Saint-Jean
did not ask for it till afterwards, and yet you give her the preference.
Enraged at that, I rushed at you with my uplifted knife--"

"And I said to you, 'Kill me, if you like, but do not let me linger
long,' and that is all."

"That is all? Yes, that is all. And yet these words made me drop my
knife,--made me--ask your pardon,--yes, pardon of you who insulted me.
Is that natural? Why, when I recovered my senses, I was ashamed of
myself. The evening you came here, when you were on your knees to say
your prayers,--why, instead of making game of you, and setting all the
dormitory on you, did I say, 'Let her alone; she prays, and has a right
to pray?' Then the next day, why were I and all the others ashamed to
dress ourselves before you?"

"I do not know, La Louve."

"Indeed!" replied the violent creature, with irony. "You don't know!
Why, no doubt, it is because, as we have all of us said, jokingly, that
you are of a different sort from us. You think so, don't you?"

"I have never said that I thought so."

"No, you have not said so; but you behave just as if it were so."

"I beg of you to listen to me."

"No, I have been already too foolish to listen to you--to look at you.
Till now, I never envied any one. Well, two or three times I have been
surprised at myself. Am I growing a fool or a coward? I have found
myself envious of your face, so like the Holy Virgin's; of your gentle
and mournful look. Yes, I have even been envious of your chestnut hair
and your blue eyes. I, who detest fair women, because I am dark myself,
wish to resemble you. I! La Louve! I! Why, it is but eight days since,
and I would have marked any one who dared but say so. Yet it is not your
lot that would tempt one, for you are as full of grief as a Magdalene.
Is it natural, I say, eh?"

"How can I account to you for the impression I ma