"Chut! it is her Mamzelle!"
"Here is Madame la Grande-Duchesse again." They had all been attendants on the opera-bouffe, and could fix a title on Madame Montyon as well as any one.
"She has not got any prettier, that's the truth!"
"Nourrice! Nourrice!" shaking her by the shoulder, "look, look—your old mistress!"
"A nice old mistress, vas!"
"A mistress who was too good to own slaves; she had to sell them."
"Madame had susceptibilities; Madame was a Parisian, not a creole."
"Hé! Nourrice, that's the God's truth, isn't it? She sold you?"
"Sold the nurse of her baby,—Seigneur!"
"It was not her baby; it was the first one's baby."
"That's the reason she was jealous,—jealous of Nourrice;" and they all laughed except Nourrice herself, who pressed her thin fingers over her mouth and looked on the crowd below.
"And the little boy, the young man, where is he?"
