“I have the very person you want,” cried Demoiselle Grifoni.  “A work-woman we call Brigida here—­the idlest slut in Pisa, but as sharp as a needle—­has been in France, and speaks the language like a native.  I’ll send her to you directly.”

Mademoiselle Virginie was not left long alone with her patterns and silks.  A tall woman, with bold black eyes, a reckless manner, and a step as firm as a man’s, stalked into the room with the gait of a tragedy-queen crossing the stage.  The instant her eyes fell on the French forewoman, she stopped, threw up her hands in astonishment, and exclaimed, “Finette!”

“Teresa!” cried the Frenchwoman, casting her scissors on the table, and advancing a few steps.

“Hush! call me Brigida.”

“Hush! call me Virginie.”

These two exclamations were uttered at the same moment, and then the two women scrutinized each other in silence.  The swarthy cheeks of the Italian turned to a dull yellow, and the voice of the Frenchwoman trembled a little when she spoke again.

“How, in the name of Heaven, have you dropped down in the world as low as this?” she asked.  “I thought you were provided for when—­”

“Silence!” interrupted Brigida.  “You see I was not provided for.  I have had my misfortunes; and you are the last woman alive who ought to refer to them.”

“Do you think I have not had my misfortunes, too, since we met?” (Brigida’s face brightened maliciously at those words.) “You have had your revenge,” continued Mademoiselle Virginie, coldly, turning away to the table and taking up the scissors again.

Brigida followed her, threw one arm roughly round her neck, and kissed her on the cheek.  “Let us be friends again,” she said.  The Frenchwoman laughed.  “Tell me how I have had my revenge,” pursued the other, tightening her grasp.  Mademoiselle Virginie signed to Brigida to stoop, and whispered rapidly in her ear.  The Italian listened eagerly, with fierce, suspicious eyes fixed on the door.  When the whispering ceased, she loosened her hold, and, with a sigh of relief, pushed back her heavy black hair from her temples.  “Now we are friends,” she said, and sat down indolently in a chair placed by the worktable.

“Friends,” repeated Mademoiselle Virginie, with another laugh.  “And now for business,” she continued, getting a row of pins ready for use by putting them between her teeth.  “I am here, I believe, for the purpose of ruining the late forewoman, who has set up in opposition to us?  Good!  I will ruin her.  Spread out the yellow brocaded silk, my dear, and pin that pattern on at your end, while I pin at mine.  And what are your plans, Brigida?  (Mind you don’t forget that Finette is dead, and that Virginie has risen from her ashes.) You can’t possibly intend to stop here all your life? (Leave an inch outside the paper, all round.) You must have projects?  What are they?”

“Look at my figure,” said Brigida, placing herself in an attitude in the middle of the room.