"Will you please let me pass?" she said loudly, as a dishevelled
Amazon stood before her with arms akimbo, glancing sarcastically at
the lace petticoat, which just peeped beneath the young girl's simple
grey frock.

"Let her pass? Let her pass? Ho! ho! ho!" laughed the old woman,
turning to the nearest group of idlers, and apostrophising them with a
loud oath. "Did _you_ know, citizeness, that this street had been
specially made for aristos to pass along?"

"I am in a hurry, will you let me pass at once?" commanded the young
girl, tapping her foot impatiently on the ground.

There was the whole width of the street on her right, plenty of room
for her to walk along. It seemed positive madness to provoke a quarrel
singlehanded against this noisy group of excited females, just home
from the ghastly spectacle around the guillotine.

And yet she seemed to do it wilfully, as if coming to the end of her
patience, all her proud, aristocratic blood in revolt against this
evil-smelling crowd which surrounded her.

Half-tipsy men and noisome, naked urchins seemed to have sprung from
everywhere.

"Oho, quelle aristo!" they shouted with ironical astonishment, gazing
at the young girl's face, fingering her gown, thrusting begrimed,
hate-distorted faces close to her own.