Satin recognized her.
"Dear me," she exclaimed, "it's Queen Pomare with her wickerwork shawl!" And while a gust of wind lashed the fine rain in their faces she told her beloved the story of Queen Pomare.

Oh, she had been a splendid girl once upon a time: all Paris had talked of her beauty.

And such devilish go and such cheek! Why, she led the men about like dogs, and great people stood blubbering on her stairs! Now she was in the habit of getting tipsy, and the women round about would make her drink absinthe for the sake of a laugh, after which the street boys would throw stones at her and chase her.

In fact, it was a regular smashup; the queen had tumbled into the mud! Nana listened, feeling cold all over.
"You shall see," added Satin.
She whistled a man's whistle, and the ragpicker, who was then below the window, lifted her head and showed herself by the yellow flare of her lantern.

Framed among rags, a perfect bundle of them, a face looked out from under a tattered kerchief--a blue, seamed face with a toothless, cavernous mouth and fiery bruises where the eyes should be.