Martine said nothing. She simply removed the one stabbed bird from
among the others, and setting it aside, picked up the knife from the
ground and went on knitting as calmly as ever.

"I am going to see the Archbishop," proceeded Marguerite, tossing
back her dishevelled locks and making one or two fantastic dance-
steps as she spoke--"The great Archbishop of this wonderful city of
Rouen! I want to ask him how it happened that God made men. It was a
mistake which He must be sorry for! The Archbishop knows
everything;--he will tell me about it. Ah!--what a beautiful mistake
is the Archbishop himself!--and how soon women find it out! Bon
jour, Martine!"

"Bon jour, Marguerite!" responded Martine quietly.

Singing to herself, the crazed girl sauntered off. Several of the
market women looked after her.

"She killed her child, they say," muttered the old vegetable-seller-
-"But no one knows--"

"Sh--sh--sh!" hissed Martine angrily--"What one does not know one
should not say. Mayhap there never was a child at all. Whatever the
wrong was, she has suffered for it;--and if the man who led her
astray ever comes nigh her, his life is not worth a centime."

"Rough justice!" said one of the market porters, who had just paused
close by to light his pipe.

"Aye, rough justice!" echoed Martine--"When justice is not given to