That spirit of hatred for the rich and idle classes, which was so characteristic of revolutionary France, was alive and hot within her: she had never had an opportunity--she, the humble fugitive actress from a minor Paris theatre--to retort with forcible taunts to the ironical remarks made at and before her by the various poverty-stricken but haughty emigres who swarmed in those very same circles of London society into which she herself had vainly striven to penetrate.
Now at last, one of this same hated class, provoked beyond self-control, was allowing childish and unreasoning fury to outstrip the usual calm irony of aristocratic rebuffs.
Juliette had paused awhile, in order to check the wrathful tears which, much against her will, were choking the words in her throat and blinding her eyes.
"Hoity! toity!" laughed Candeille, "hark at the young baggage!" But Juliette had turned to Marguerite and began explaining volubly: "My mother's jewels!" she said in the midst of her tears, "ask her how she came by them.

When I was obliged to leave the home of my fathers,--stolen from me by the Revolutionary Government--I contrived to retain my mother's jewels...

you remember, I told you just now....

The Abbe Foucquet--dear old man! Saved them for me...

that and a little money which I had...