here, monsieur," she replied. "You will please take me to
Saint-Lazare to-morrow."

I would fain say as little as possible about the occupants of that
gloomy building at the top of the Faubourg St. Denis, but am compelled
to state in common fairness that, when once they are incarcerated and
behave themselves--of course, according to _their_ lights--they are not
treated with unnecessary harshness. I will go further, and say that they
are treated more leniently than female prisoners in other penal
establishments. The milder method is due to the presence in greater
numbers than elsewhere of that admirable angel of patience, the Sister
of Charity, who has no private grievances to avenge upon her own sex,
who does not look upon the fallen woman as an erstwhile and unsuccessful
rival for the favours of men, who consequently does not apply the _vae
victis_, either by sign, deed, or word. During my long stay in Paris, I
have been allowed to visit Saint-Lazare twice, and I can honestly say
that, though the laws that relegate these women there are a disgrace to
nineteenth-century civilization, their application inside Saint-Lazare
is not at all brutal. This does not imply that they lie upon down beds,
and that their food is of the most delicate description; but they are
well cared for bodily. The Empress, however, in a gush of misplaced
charity, thought fit to take objection to their daily meals not being
concluded with dessert. Thereupon, M. Boitelle, whose sound common sense
had already been severely tried during that morning, could not help
smiling. "Really, madame," he said; "you allow your kindness to run away
with your good sense. If they are to have a dessert, what are we to give
to honest women?"

Next day, M. Boitelle was appointed a senator; that is, removed from his
post as prefect of police, which he had so worthily filled, and where he
had done a great deal of unostentatious good. The next time M. Boitelle
came in contact with the Empress was at the last hour of the Empire,
when he tried, but in vain, to overcome her resentment, caused by his
unhappy speech of many years before.

Yet the woman who could indulge in sentiment about the absence of
dessert in the Saint-Lazare refectory, would, at the end of the hunt,
deliberately jump off her horse, plunge the gleaming knife in the throat
of the panting stag, and revel in the sight of blood. Many who saw her
do this argued that in the hour of danger she would as boldly