"On coming from this den, you saw, did you not, at the corner of the
wretched streets, some unhappy creatures, who--but, no, no--I dare not,"
said Rudolph, concealing his face in his hands, "I dare not; my words alarm
me."

"Me also--they alarm me; what is it now?"

"You have seen them?" resumed Rudolph, with an effort. "You have seen those
women, the shame of their sex? Well! among them did you remark a young girl
of sixteen? beautiful, oh! beautiful as an angel; a poor child, who, in the
midst of the degradation in which she had been plunged, preserved an
expression so pure, so virginal, that the robbers and assassins among whom
she lived, madame, had given her the name of Fleur-de-Marie; did you remark
this young girl? speak, speak, tender mother."

"No, I did not notice her," said Sarah, almost mechanically.

"Really?" cried Rudolph, with a burst of sardonic laughter. "It is strange.
I remarked her on the occasion; listen, well, during one of the excursions
of which I have spoken just now, and which then had a double object, I
found myself in the city; not far from the den whither you followed me, a
man wished to beat one of these unfortunate creatures; I defended her
against his brutality. You cannot guess who was this creature; speak, good
and provident mother, speak! You do not guess?"

"No, I do not guess. Oh! leave me, leave me!"

"The 'unfortunate' was Fleur-de-Marie."