It was a long distance by rail.
Fouchette had never dreamed that a railroad could be so long and that the woods and fields with which her mind had been recently filled could become so monotonous and tedious. Even the towns and villages,—of which she had never heard,—that were interesting at first, soon became stupid and tiresome. She had long ceased to notice them particularly, her mind being naturally filled with thoughts of the place to which she was going, and where her whole future seemed to lay yet undeveloped. She finally fell into a sound sleep.
The next thing she knew was that she was roughly shaken by the shoulder, and a voice cried, somewhat impatiently,—
"Come, come! What a little sleepyhead!"
It was that of a "religieuse," or member of a religious order, and its possessor was a stout, ruddy-faced woman of middle life, garbed in solemn black, against which sombre background the white wings of her homely headpiece and the white apron, over which dangled a cross, looked still more white and glaring than they were.
Another woman in the same glaring uniform, though less robust and quite colorless as to face, stood near by on the station platform.
"Bring her things, sister,—if she has anything."
Following these instructions, the red-faced woman rummaged in the netting overhead with one hand while she pulled Fouchette from her corner with the other.
"Come, petite! Is this all you've got, child?"
"Yes, madame," replied the child, respectfully, but with a sinking heart.
"So this is Fouchette, eh?" said the white-faced woman, as her companion joined her with the child and her little bundle.
"Yes, madame," faltered Fouchette.
But for the eyes, which were large and dark and luminous, and which seemed to grasp the object upon which they rested and to hold it in physical embrace, the face might have been that of the dead, so ghastly and rigid and unnatural it was.
"She's not much, very sure," observed the other, turning Fouchette around by the slender shoulder.
"She'll never earn her salt," said the pale-faced sister.
Fouchette noticed that her lips were apparently bloodless and that she scarcely moved them as she spoke.
"Not for long, anyhow," responded the other, with a significance Fouchette did not then understand.
Without other preliminary they led Fouchette down the platform.
"Where's your ticket?" asked the white-faced woman, coldly.
Fouchette nervously searched the bosom of her dress. In France the railway ticket is surrendered at the point where the journey ceases, as the traveller leaves the station platform.
"Sainte Marie!" exclaimed the ruddy-faced sister,—"lost it, I'll wager!"
"Where on earth did you put it, child?"
"Here, madame," said the latter, still fumbling and not a little frightened at the possible consequences of losing the bit of cardboard. "Ah! here—no, it isn't. Mon Dieu!"
"Fouchette!"
The voice of the pale religieuse was stern, though her face rested perfectly immobile, no matter what she said.
"Let me see——"
"Search, Sister Agnes."
The ruddy-faced woman obeyed by plunging her fat hand down the front of the child's dress, where she fished around vigorously but unsuccessfully.
"Nothing but bones!" she ejaculated.
Meanwhile, everybody else had left the platform, and the gatekeeper was growing impatient.
Sister Agnes was a practical woman. She wound up her fruitless search by shaking the child, as if the latter were a plum-tree and might yield over-ripe railway tickets from its branches.
It did. The ticket dropped to the platform from beneath the loose-fitting dress.
"There it is!" cried the gatekeeper.
"Stupid little beast!"
And Sister Agnes shook her again, although, as there were no more tickets, the act seemed quite superfluous.
Outside the station waited a sort of carryall, or van, drawn by a single horse, which turned his aged head to view the new-comer, as did also the driver.
"Oh! so you're coming, eh?" said the latter.
"Yes,—long enough!" grumbled Sister Agnes.
They had driven some distance through the streets of a big town without a word, when the last speaker addressed her companion in a low voice.
"You noted the ticket?"
"Yes."
Another silence.
"I don't see what they sent her to us for, do you?"
"That is for the Supérieure."
A still longer silence.
"It's a pity," continued Sister Agnes.
"Yes, they ought to go to the House of Correction."
"These Parisian police——"
"Chut!"
But they need not have taken even this little precaution before Fouchette. She had long been lost in the profound depths of her own gloomy thoughts. In her isolation she required but a single, simple thing to render her happy,—a thing which costs nothing,—something of which there is an abundance and to spare in the world, thank God!—and that was a little show of kindness.
The child was not very sensitive to bad treatment. To that she was inured; but she had tasted the sweetsof kindness, and it had inspired hopes that already began to wither, encouraged dreams that had already vanished.
Fouchette was fast falling into her habitual state of childish cynicism. The police had tricked her, no doubt. She was more than suspicious of this as she noted their approach towards a pile of buildings surrounded by a high wall, which reminded her of La Roquette. This wall had great iron spikes and broken glass bottles set in cement on top, and seemed to stretch away out of sight in the growing shadows of evening. Once proceeding parallel with the wall, the buildings beyond were no longer visible to those outside.
They stopped in front of an immense arched gateway, apparently of the mediæval period, with a porter's lodge on one side, slightly recessed. The gates were of stout oak thickly studded with big-headed nails and bolts. In the heavy oaken door of the lodge was set a brass "judas," a small grille closed by an inner slide, and which might be operated by an unseen hand within so as to betray the identity of any person outside without unbarring the door,—a not uncommon arrangement in French gates and outside doors.
If Fouchette had not been restricted by the sides and top of the van, she might have seen the words "Le Bon Pasteur" carved in the ancient stone above the great gateway. But, inasmuch as she could not have read the inscription, and would not have been able to understand it in any case, it was no great matter.
The driver of the van got down and let fall the old-fashioned iron knocker. The judas showed aglistening eye for a second, then closed. This was immediately followed by a slipping of bolts and a clanging of iron bars, and then the big gates swung inward. They appeared to do this without human aid, and shut again in the same mysterious way when the vehicle had passed.
"Supper, thank goodness!" said Sister Agnes, with a sigh.
"You're always hungry——"
"Pretty nearly."
"Always thinking of something to eat," continued the other, reprovingly. "It is not a good example to the young, sister. The carnal appetite, it is a sin, my sister, to flatter it!"
"Dame! As if one could possibly be open to such a charge here!" retorted the ruddy-faced Agnes.
"We are taught to restrain,—mortify,—pluck out,—cut off the offending member. It is——"
"But what are we going to do with this child, Sister Angélique?" interrupted Sister Agnes, and abruptly shutting off the religious enthusiast. "She must be hungry. And the Supérieure——"
"Cannot be disturbed at this hour. In the morning is time enough for an unpleasant subject. Take her to No. 17,—it is prepared,—in the right lower corridor."
"Sainte Marie!" cried Sister Agnes, crossing herself, "as if I didn't know! Why, I was taken to that cell myself when I came here forty years ago!"
"Perhaps, and have never had reason to regret it, quite surely. But take this child there. Let her begin her new life with fasting and prayer, as you doubtlessdid, sister. It will serve to fit her to come before the Supérieure in the morning with the humble spirit of one who is to receive so much and who, evidently, can give so little."
Fouchette was so bewildered with her surroundings that she paid little attention to what was being said. The great irregular piles of buildings, the going and coming of the ghostly figures, the silence, impressed her vividly. Of the nearest building, she could see that the windows were grated with iron bars; her ears registered the word "cell." Fouchette did not understand what was meant by the expression "fasting and prayer," but she had a definite idea of a "cell" in a house with grated windows within a high wall.
"Come! hurry up, my child; I want my supper. Yes, and I'll see that they treat you better than they did me. Come this way! Yes,—mon Dieu! Mortify the flesh! Flatter the carnal appetite!"
She muttered continuously, as she led Fouchette along a dark corridor with which her feet were familiar.
"Forty years! Ah! Mother of God! Pluck it out! Cut it off! Blessed Sainte Agnes, give me patience! Forty years! Holy Mother, pardon me! Forty years! Yes! Reason to regret? May the good God forgive me!—Here we are, my child."
She suddenly stopped and turned a key, opened a door, thrust the child within, and paused to look around, as if pursuing her reminiscences, oblivious of everything else.
It was a plain cell, such as was used by the earlymonks when this building was a monastery, possibly nine by six feet, with a high, small, grated hole for the only light and air. A narrow iron cot, a combination stand, and a low stool constituted the sole furniture. A rusty iron crucifix in the middle of the wall opposite the bed was the only decoration. The rest was blank stone, staring white with crumbling whitewash.
Stone floor, stone walls, stone ceiling,—cold, clammy, cheerless.
The floor was worn into a smooth, shallow furrow lengthwise, showing where countless weary inmates had paced up and down, up and down, during the long hours. And beneath the crucifix were scooped out two round hollows in the solid rock, where countless knees had bent in recognition of the Christ.
The religieuse seemed to forget the presence of Fouchette, for she dropped upon her own knees in the little hollows in the cold stone floor beneath the rusty iron crucifix on the wall.
"Oh, pardon, my child!" she exclaimed, coming back to the present as she arose from prayer, "I forgot. Forty years ago,—it comes upon me here."
She gently removed the little hat with its cheap flowers, then bent over and kissed the thin cheeks, promising to return soon with something to eat.
Fouchette heard the door close, the key grate harshly in the lock.
The moisture of the lips and eyes remained upon her cheeks. She felt it still warm, and involuntarily put up both hands, as if to further convince herself that the kisses were real and to hold them there.
The Christ was to her a myth, the crucifix a vague superstition, prayer a mere unmeaning mummery. But the kisses were tangible and easily understood.
But oh! the country!—the woods! the fields! the flowers!—freedom!
She threw herself on the iron cot and wept passionately.
"Là, là, là!" came the cheery but subdued voice of Sister Agnes. She had re-entered the cell to catch the last faint sounds of childish grief coming out of the darkness.
"There! Softly now, petite! Where are you? Oh! If they catch me here at this hour and bringing—sh!"
The good-hearted woman had groped her way to the cot, raised Fouchette to a sitting posture, and, sitting down by her side, pulled the child over in her arms.
Fouchette, who had almost ceased to weep by this time, was at once overcome anew by the motherly caress and broke down completely. She flung her arms wildly about Sister Agnes's neck and buried her face in the ample bosom.
"Là, là, là, là! my little skeleton, there is nothing to be afraid of here. Nothing at all! Don't take on so. God is everywhere, and takes care of us in the night as well as by day. Fear not! And here, my child, see what I've brought you! Feel, rather,—taste; you must be half starved. Here is a big, fat sandwich, and here's another. And here's a small flacon of the red wine of Bourgogne. You poor child! You need something for blood. Here's a bit of cheese, too, and, let's see,—by the blessed Sainte! I was told to let you have bread and water and I've actually forgotten the water!
"Now eat! The idea of a big girl like you being afraid in the dark!"
"No, it was not that, madame. Mon Dieu, no! I'm used to that. Indeed, I'm not afraid. It——"
"Then what on earth have you been crying about, child?"
"Oh, madame! it is because—because you are so good to me. Yes, that is it. I'm not used to that,—no!"
Sister Agnes must have been quite agitated by this frank and unexpected avowal, for she pressed the child to her with still greater fervor, kissing her time and again more affectionately, after which she immediately slipped into the religious rut again below the crucifix.
A single ray of moonlight from the high loophole in the wall fell athwart the sombre cell and rested caressingly upon her bowed head as she knelt and seemed to bless her.
When she had recovered her self-possession she resumed her seat by the side of Fouchette, who, meanwhile, had been making havoc with the provisions.
"Oh! I was afraid—dreadfully afraid—that night, forty years ago," she whispered. "It was in this same place. And when they left me I almost cried my eyes out—and screamed,—how I screamed! Yet no one came. The next morning I had bread and water. And the next night and day, too. Ah! Sainte Mère de Dieu! how I suffered!"
Fouchette shuddered.
"And I was a strong, healthy child, but wilful; yet the dark seemed terrible to me—because I was wicked."
Fouchette wondered what dreadful crime this childof forty years ago had committed to have been thus treated. She must have been very, very wicked.
"Yes, forty years ago——"
"How much did they give you, madame?"
"Er—what's that, petite?"
"Pardon, madame, but how much time yet do you have to serve?"
"I don't understand," replied the puzzled woman, unfamiliar with worldly terms.
"Why, I mean, how long did they send you up for?" asked the child.
"Send?—they?—who?"
"The police."
"Police? Mon Dieu! my child, the police had nothing to do with me."
"Well, the gendarmes."
"The gendarmes?"
"No; you could never have been guilty, madame! Never! Whatever it was they charged you with——"
"Charged? Sainte Marie be praised, I never committed any crime in my life,—unless it was a crime to be thoughtless and happy."
"I was sure of that!" cried Fouchette, much relieved nevertheless.
"Why, I never was charged with any!" protested the astonished Sister Agnes.
"Then they imprisoned you without trial, as they have me. Ah! mon Dieu! madame, I see it all now! And forty years! Oh!"
"Well, blessed be the saints in heaven!" exclaimed the enlightened religieuse. "What do you think this place is, Fouchette?"
"It is"—she hesitated and changed the form of speech—"is it a—a prison?"
"Why, no! Holy Mother, no!—not a prison, child! You thought it——"
"Yes, madame," faltered Fouchette.
"You poor child! Not so bad as that; yet——"
"I see,—a house of correction?"
"No, not that. At least, not—ah! if Sister Angélique had heard you call 'Le Bon Pasteur' a house of correction it would have been worth three days of bread and water!"
"'Le Bon Pasteur?'" repeated Fouchette.
"Yes, my child. Didn't you really know——"
"No, madame."
Sister Agnes pondered.
"Then why should you remain here?" pursued the curious child. "Can't you go away if you want to?"
"But I do not wish to go now,—not now."
"But if you had wished it at any time."
Sister Agnes was silent.
"Then what is this place, madame?"
"A retreat for the poor,—an orphan asylum,—where little girls who have neither father nor mother, and no home, are sent. And where they are brought up to be good and industrious young women."
"D-don't they ever get out again?" asked Fouchette, somewhat doubtfully.
"Oh, yes. They are set free at twenty-one years of age if they wish to go, and even sooner if their friends come for them. If they don't wish to go, they can remain and become members of the order, if they are suitable. I was brought here at ten years of age bymy aunt and left temporarily, but my uncle died and she was too poor, or else did not want me, so I was compelled to remain. When I became twenty-one I owed the institution so much from failure to do my tasks and fines, and what my aunt had promised to pay and didn't pay, that I had to stay a long time and work it out, and by that time I had become so accustomed to living here that I was afraid to leave the institution and begged them to let me become one of the community.
"Sometimes girls are bad and so lazy they won't work, and then they are punished. And when they prove incorrigible they are put in the other building, which is a house of correction. But if a girl is good and obedient and industrious she has no trouble, and may save up money against the day when she is set at liberty, besides receives the good recommendation of the Supérieure, on which she may find honest employment."
While the good Sister Agnes spoke truly, she dared not tell this child the whole truth.
She dared not say that Le Bon Pasteur,—The Good Shepherd,—although ostensibly a charitable institution, under religious auspices and subsidized by the State, for the protection and education of orphan girls during their minority, was practically a great factory which did not come under the legal restrictions governing free labor in France, and where several hundred girls and young women, whose only offence against society had been to lose their natural protectors, were subjected to all the rigors of the most benighted penal institutions.
She dared not warn this poor little novice that her commitment to The Good Shepherd was equivalent to a sentence of nine years at hard labor; that good conduct and industry would not earn a day from that term, but that bad conduct, neglect, or inability to perform allotted tasks would result not only in severe punishments but an extension of imprisonment indefinitely, at the pleasure of those who reaped the financial reward from the product of the sweat of the orphans.
She dared not notify this frail waif that these tasks of the needle were measured by the ability of the most expert, and that the majority of girls were obliged to work overtime in order to accomplish them; that to many this was an impossibility, and to some death.
She dared not add to her recital of the money that might be earned and saved up against the day of liberty that comparatively few were able to perform the extra work necessary; that fines and charges of all kinds were resorted to in order to reduce such earnings to minimum; and that at the close of her nine years of hard labor for Le Bon Pasteur the most she could expect was to be thrust into the street in the clothes she wore, without a cent, without a friend, without a shelter.
She dared not more than hint at the terrible alternatives placed before these young women from their long isolation from the world,—to remain here prisoners for life, or to cast themselves into the seething hell of Paris.
More than all, she dared not add that all of this was done in a so-called republic, in the name ofCivilization, to the glory of modern Religion, in love of the Redeemer.
Fouchette would learn all of this quite soon enough through her own observation and experience. Why needlessly embitter her present?
And this was well. Besides, the religieuse was ashamed to admit these things, as she would have been afraid to deny them, being divided between the vows of her order and her own private conscience.
Sister Agnes was a plain, honest woman of little sentiment, but this little had been curiously awakened in her breast by the coincidence of the time and place which had recalled minutely the circumstances of her own entrance to the institution.
She had unconsciously adopted Fouchette from that moment. She mentally resolved that she would keep an eye on this child. If it could be so managed, Fouchette should come into her section. And, since the child was ignorant and ambitious, she should receive whatever advantages of instruction were to be had.
Quick to respond to this sympathy, Fouchette, on her part, mentally resolved to deserve it. She would be good and obedient, so that the sweet lady would love her and continue to kiss her. How could girls be wicked if all the women of the community of Le Bon Pasteur were like Sister Agnes?
And it would have been quite unnatural and unchildlike, owing to the marked improvement in her condition, if Fouchette had not gone to sleep forgetting her earlier disappointment.
Five years in such a place are as one year,—the same monotonous daily grind in oblivion of the great world outside,—and need not be dwelt upon here beyond a brief reference to its results upon Fouchette's character, when we must hurry the reader on to more eventful scenes.
In this life of seclusion there were three saving features in Fouchette's case. First, its worst conditions were very much better than those under which she had formerly lived; second, she had been torn from no family or friendly ties which might have weighed upon her fancy; third, but not least, there was the love of Sister Agnes.
The petite chiffonnière's ideas of life had been cast in a lowly and humble mould, so that from the beginning these new surroundings seemed highly satisfactory, if not in many respects absolutely joyous. For instance, the beds were prison beds, but they were clean and the dormitories fairly well ventilated,—luxury to one who was accustomed to sleep in a noisome cellar on filthy and envermined straw. The food was coarse and frugal, but it was regular and almost prodigal to one habituated to disputing her breakfast with vagrant dogs. The clothes were coarse and cheap and often shabby, but to the child of rags they were equivalent to royal gowns. The discipline was severe, but it was unadulterated kindness by the side of the brutality of the Podvin.
The society of respectable young girls of her own age, and constant contact with those who were older and of superior birth and breeding, opened up a new world to Fouchette. That these companions weremore or less partakers of similar misfortunes engendered ready sympathies, though the feeling of caste was as powerful among these orphans of the State as in the Boulevard St. Germain. Tacitly acknowledging the lowly origin of the rag-heap, Fouchette was content to fag, to go and come, fetch and carry, and to patiently endure the multitude of petty tyrannies put upon her. She accepted this position from the start as a matter of course.
But it was chiefly in the daily intercourse with the cheerful, ruddy-faced, and rather worldly as well as womanly Sister Agnes that Fouchette found life worth living. It was Sister Agnes who patiently instructed her in the mysteries of reading and writing and spelling and the simple rudiments of language and figures. Sister Agnes smoothed her young protégée's pathway through a sea of new difficulties. Sister Agnes had secret struggles of her own, and had worn away considerable stone before the image of the Virgin in the course of her seclusion; though precisely what the nature of her private troubles was must have been known to nobody else. Sister Agnes was not a favorite with the Supérieure, apparently, since every time she was called before that dreaded female functionary she seemed much agitated and held longer conferences with the image of the Virgin in the little bare chapel. Whatever her mental and moral disturbances, however, Sister Agnes never faltered in her attention to Fouchette.
For the most part these were surreptitious, though to the recipient there did not appear to be any reason for this concealment. As one year followed another Fouchette saw more clearly, and it caused her toredouble her exertions to please the good woman who risked the ill will of her superiors to shower kindnesses upon the otherwise friendless.
Five years to a girl of twelve brings considerable change physically as well as otherwise. The change in Fouchette was really wonderful. She remained still rather stunted and undersized at seventeen, though face and figure had developed to her advantage. The hardness of the first had not wholly disappeared, but it was much modified, while the bones no longer showed through her dress. Her blonde hair had become abundant, and, being of peculiar fineness and sheen, lent an attractiveness to features that only a slightly tigerish fulness of cheeks prevented from being almost classical. This feline expression of jaws became more marked when she smiled, when a rather large mouth displayed two rows of formidable teeth. The pussy-cat and monkey-faces are too common among the French to be called peculiar.
Her hands and feet were small, her frail body and limbs straight and supple as those of a young dancer. While she excelled at lively games in the great playground under the trees, her complexion was extremely delicate, even to paleness. Being naturally a clever imitator and always desirous of the good opinion of Sister Agnes, Fouchette had acquired graceful and lady-like manners that would have been creditable to any fashionable pension of Paris. Continuous happiness had left her light-hearted even to shallowness.
Fouchette latterly was not popular. She had been first a fag and drudge, then had been withdrawn from the work-room to serve in the kitchen; fromscullery-maid she had been promoted to the chambers of Sister Angélique, who was the stern right arm of the Supérieure; and, finally, was transferred to the holy of holies of the Supérieure herself.
All through her tractability and adaptability. She was quick to see what was wanted, and lent herself energetically to the task of performance. The good sisters encouraged her. Especially in bringing to them any stray ideas she had picked up among her companions. Sister Angélique, severe to fanaticism in all the forms of religion, early impressed upon the child the importance and imperative duty of the truth. It was not only a service to the community, but a service to the Church and to God for her to keep her superiors posted as to what was going on among the inmates of the institution.
It was a very trivial thing at first, then more trivial things,—mere gossip of children. Then her information resulted in the cell and paddle for the unfortunate and began to be talked about on the playground and in the work-room. When she heard what had happened, Fouchette was conscience-stricken and ran to Sister Agnes for consolation. The latter was so confused and contradictory in her definition of right and wrong, as to how far one might go for Christ's sake, that Fouchette was left in doubt. And when Sister Angélique asked her for the name of the girl who committed an offence in the dormitory, Fouchette hesitated and wanted to consult Sister Agnes.
The result was that Sister Agnes was called before the Supérieure, and was compelled to instruct Fouchette that whatever was required of her by those inauthority was right and should be done. It is a doctrine as universal as the Christian religion.
So Fouchette told, and the tale brought to the offender five days' diet of bread and water in a cell.
As a tale-bearer who was not afraid to tell the truth Fouchette had in the course of time ingratiated herself into the favor of Sister Angélique, and finally, as has been shown by her transfer to the governing regions, became the factotum of the Supérieure. These services carried privileges.
They also brought unpopularity. On the playground Fouchette began to be avoided. In the work-room voices suddenly became hushed as she passed. In the dormitory she began to experience coldness and hostile demonstrations.
Yet up to the present she had been suspected only. When the growing suspicion became a certainty she was assaulted in the dormitory in the presence of a matron. The biggest and stoutest girl of the section pulled her from her bed in the dark and began to beat her. There was no outcry at first,—only a silent struggle on the floor.
But the stout young woman had counted too much on her physical strength and upon the supposed weakness of her frail antagonist. For Fouchette was like a cat in another respect,—she fought best on her back, where she was all hands and feet and teeth. Before the fat matron could find them between the beds the big girl was yelling for mercy and the whole section of a hundred girls was in an uproar.
"Help! help!" screamed the girl. "She's murdering me!"
"Who? Where?"
"Silence!"
"Quick! Help! She's killing me! Fouchette! It's Mademoiselle Fouchette!"
The matron was thus guided to Fouchette's bed, where she found the latter tearing the big girl's ear with her teeth, and with her hands clawing the big girl's face.
To this moment Fouchette had not uttered a word. Then she let flow a torrent of language such as had never before been heard within the sacred precincts of Le Bon Pasteur. She could no more be stopped than an avalanche.
The girls of the dormitory closed their ears in their fright at this flood of profanity.
"Stop! stop! stop!" cried the matron, now overcome with horror. "You belong in the Reformatory! You shall go to the Reformatory! You shall have the bath and the paddle, you vile vixen!"
And Fouchette's vocabulary having been exhausted for the time being, she ceased.
Meanwhile, a light was brought, and attendants came running in from the other parts of the building.
Notwithstanding the confused explanation, and the fact that the aggressor's bed was at some distance from the spot where the two were discovered, which sustained the charge of Fouchette that the latter had been first attacked, the terrible condition of the big girl was such that Fouchette was sent to a cell and held in close confinement till the next evening.
She was then taken to Sister Angélique, where shewas examined as to her version of the occurrence. The victim of her nails and teeth also had a hearing.
Between the two, and considering all the circumstances, Sister Angélique came to the proper conclusion, and so reported the case to the Supérieure.
The latter had Fouchette brought before her. She was a very flabby and masculine woman, of great brains and keen penetration, and invariably had an oleaginous Jesuit priest at her elbow on important occasions to strengthen her religious standing and to give her decisions the force and effect of ecclesiastical law.
"Father Sébastien," said the Supérieure, "this is a grievous case. What are we to do with these girls that fight like tigers,—that set the whole blessed institution of Le Bon Pasteur by the ears?"
The Jesuit rubbed his hands, eying the slender figure before them curiously.
"A sad case,—a very sad case," he muttered; "and yet——"
"Mademoiselle Fouchette has been of good service to us, and——"
"And has invited this attack by her friendliness for the institution. No doubt,—no doubt at all," said the priest.
"But it is necessary to punish somebody," persisted the Supérieure, "else we shall lose control of these hot-heads."
"How about the other one? Mademoiselle——"
"Mademoiselle Angot——"
"Yes."
"She's pretty well punished as it is. She looks asif she had been through a threshing-machine. How such a chit could——"
Father Sébastien laughed, in his low, gurgling way, and rubbed his hands some more, still eying Fouchette.
"She's been a good girl for five years, you say?"
"Yes, Father; we could not complain."
"Five years is a very long time to—to—for a girl like her to be good. Is it not so?"
"Truly."
"And yet they say her language was dreadfully—er—ah—improper."
"If you were pulled out of bed in the night and beaten because you spoke the truth to the Supérieure," broke in Fouchette at this point, "you'd probably use bad language too!"
"Chut! child," said the Supérieure, smiling in spite of herself.
"Oh! me?"
"Là, là! Father." The Supérieure now laughed.
"Quite possibly," he added,—"quite possibly. But in a demoiselle like you——"
"I'm afraid to send her back to the dormitory. Are you afraid to go back there, Fouchette?"
"No, madame," replied Fouchette.
"I think they'll leave her alone after this," said the priest.
"They'd better," said Fouchette.
"Oho!"
"But you must not quarrel, my dear,—remember that. And if they—well, you come to me or to Sister——"
"Sister Agnes, yes——"
"No, no; Sister Angélique," interrupted the Supérieure, tartly. "Sister Agnes has nothing to do with you hereafter."
"Wh-at? But Sister Agnes——"
"Now don't stand there and argue. I repeat that Sister Agnes is to have nothing to do with you hereafter. Sister Agnes has gone——"
"Gone!"
It was the worst blow—the only blow she had received in these five years. Her swollen lips quivered.
"I say Sister Agnes has gone. You will never see her again. And it's a good riddance! I never could bear that woman!"
"Oh, madame! madame!"
Fouchette sank to her knees appealingly.
"Get up!"
"Oh, madame!"
"Get up! Not another word!"
"But, madame!"
"There, my child," put in the priest. "You hear?"
"But Sister Agnes was my only friend here. Where has she gone? Tell me why she has gone. Oh, mon Dieu! Gone! and left me here without a word! Oh! oh! madame!"
"She's gone because I sent her,—because it is her sworn duty to obey,—to go where she is sent. Where and why is none of her business, much less yours. Now let us hear no more from you on that point, or you will forfeit the leniency I was about to extend to you. Go!"
"But, madame," supplicated Fouchette, "hear me! Sister Agnes——"
The Supérieure was now furious. She rang a little bell, waving Father Sébastien aside. Two sisters appeared,—her personal attendants, well known to those who had suffered punishment.
"Give this girl the douche!"
"Madame!" screamed Fouchette.
"Give her the douche—for fighting in the dormitory. In the refectory. Assemble everybody! And if she resists let her have the paddle. If that doesn't bring her to her senses, give her five days on bread and water. I'll take that rebellious spirit out of her or——"
The two women hustled the trembling Fouchette away from the Presence.
Fouchette knew the disgrace of the douche. She had seen grown young women stripped stark naked before five hundred girls and have a bucket of ice-cold water thrown over them. One of them had been ill and was unable to do her work. She had died from the effects.
Fouchette understood the terrible significance of the paddle. A girl was stripped and strung up by the wrists to a door and was beaten with a heavy leather strap soaked in brine until the blood ran down her thighs.
Fouchette comprehended the character of the five days on bread and water, wherein the victim was forced to remain in her own filth for five days with nothing to eat but a half-loaf of stale bread and a small pitcher of water per twenty-four hours.
Yet, dreadful as was this immediate prospect, and as cruel as was the injustice meted out to her,Fouchette thought only of Sister Agnes. She would have gone to punishment like a Stoic of old could somebody have assured her that what she had just heard was false and that Sister Agnes was yet in the institution. Everything else and all together seemed dwarfed by the side of this one great overwhelming calamity.
"How could you have so angered Madame?" said one of her conductors,—both of whom were aware that she was to be unjustly punished.
"Be good, now, Fouchette," whispered the other; "besides, it is nothing,—a little water,—bah!"
They were leading her along a dark corridor, the same through which she had been taken five years before. It rushed over her now,—dear Sister Agnes!
"I only wanted to know about Sister Agnes," protested Fouchette.
Her conductors stopped short.
"S-sh! Mademoiselle did not know that——"
"That what?"
"Better tell her, sister," encouraged the other woman.
"That Sister Agnes was—was suspected of being a creature of the Secret Police?"
"N-no, madame," faltered the girl,—"I don't understand. And if——"
"And we are for the restoration——"
"The restoration——"
"Of the throne of France."
"Is it Inspector Loup?" asked Fouchette, suddenly recalling that personage.
"Inspector Loup,—it is he who is responsible for the withdrawal of Sister Agnes, mademoiselle."
"Paris,—I will go to Paris!" said Fouchette, brightening up all at once.
To the two who heard her it was as if Fouchette had said, "I will go to the moon."
She slipped from between them and darted down the corridor. Before they had recovered from their astonishment she was out of the building and out of sight.
Nothing could have been more absurd.
But one girl had succeeded in scaling the high walls that surrounded the establishment of Le Bon Pasteur, and she had been pursued by savage dogs kept for such exigencies and brought back in mere shreds of clothing, with her flesh terribly lacerated. Even once outside, if the feat were possible and the dogs avoided, how was a bareheaded girl without a sou to get to Paris, three hundred kilometres? And, that surmounted, what would become of her in Paris?
It was absurd. It was impossible.
Meanwhile, Fouchette evaded the now lighted buildings in the rear and was skirting the high walls towards the north with the fleetness of a young deer.
The grounds of Le Bon Pasteur embraced about ten acres, a well-wooded section of an ancient park, the buildings, old and new, being on the side next to the town. By day one might easily see from wall to wall, the lowest branches of the trees being well clear of the ground, the latter being trampled grassless, hard, and smooth by thousands of youthful feet.
It was now growing too dark to see more than afew yards. This did not prevent Fouchette from making good speed. She knew every inch of the park. And as she ran her thoughts kept on well ahead.
She had started with the definite idea of leaving the place, but without the slightest idea of how that was to be accomplished. Like a frightened rabbit running an enclosure, she sought in vain for some unheard-of opening,—some breach in the wall, some projections by which she might scale the frowning barrier.
Now and then she paused to listen intently. There were no pursuers, apparently. Her heart sank rather than rose at the thought; for it implied that the chances of her escape were not considered worth an energetic effort,—that she must inevitably return of her own accord.
Fouchette was mistaken. It was only that the pursuers were not so sure of their route and were not so fleet of foot. They had called in re-enforcements and were approaching in extended order beneath the trees, with the moral certainty of rounding her up.
As soon as Fouchette realized this she felt that she was lost. There was no place to hide from such a search,—then they could let loose the dogs!
With a fresh energy born of desperation she sprang at the chestnut-tree in front of her and began to shin up the rough trunk, boy fashion. Like most generalizations, the statement that a woman cannot climb a tree is not an axiomatic truth. It depends wholly upon the woman and the occasion. Fouchette had often amused her playmates by going up trees, and was considered a valuable addition to any party of chestnuthunters. So in this instance the woman and the occasion met. She was securely perched in the foliage when the scouting party went by. One sister walked directly beneath the tree.
"We ought to have brought the dogs," she muttered.
Fouchette was breathless.
Immediate danger past, she began to think of what she should do next. She could not remain up there forever; and if she came down she would be just where she was before,—would probably be run down by the dogs.
Presently she saw a light glimmering through the trees. Cautiously pushing the leaves aside, she saw it more distinctly. It was bobbing up and down. It was a lantern. It was coming towards her. Being a lantern, it must be carried by somebody, and that this somebody was in search of her she had no doubt. All the world was out after her.
The lantern came closer. And then she saw the barbed iron wall immediately below her, between her and the lantern. It was outside, then; and the tree she was in seemed to overhang the wall.
A desperate hope arose within her,—scarcely a hope yet,—rather a vague fancy. They could not have spread the alarm outside so quickly,—the lantern and its bearer could have no reference to her escape.
It was now almost immediately beneath her, and she saw that it was borne by a stalwart young man. It was a chance,—a mere chance,—but she at once resolved to risk it.
"S-sh!"
The bearer of the lantern stopped, raised it high, and peered about in every direction.
"S-sh!" repeated Fouchette.
"S-sh yourself!" said the young man, evidently suspecting some trick.
"Not so loud if you please, monsieur."
"Not so—but where the devil are you, anyhow?" He had looked in every direction except the right one.
"Here," whispered Fouchette. "Up in the tree."
"Tonnerre! And what are you doing up there in the tree, mademoiselle?" he inquired with astonishment, elevating his lantern so as to get a glimpse of the owner of the voice.
"Nothing," said Fouchette.
"Well, if this don't—say, mademoiselle."
"Please don't talk so loud, monsieur. They will hear you, and I will be lost."
"Indeed! So you're running away, eh?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"What for?"
"Because they are going to give me the douche, the paddle, and prison."
"The wretches!" whispered the young man through his half-set teeth.
"Then you'll help me, monsieur?" asked Fouchette, in a tone of entreaty.
"That I will," said he, promptly, "if I can. If you could swing yourself over the wall, now; but, dame! no girl can do that," he added half to himself.
"I'll try it," said Fouchette.
"Don't do it, mademoiselle; you'll break your neck."
For answer to this, Fouchette, who had beenworking her dangerous way out on the uncertain branches, holding tenaciously to those above, so as to wisely distribute her weight, only said,—
"Look out, now!"
There was no time to parley,—it was her only hope,—and if she fell inside the wall——
A splash among the leaves and a violent reversal of branches relieved of her weight and—and a ripping sound.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" she gasped.
She had swung clear, but her skirts had caught the iron spikes as she came down and now held her firmly, head downward,—a very embarrassing predicament.
"Put out the light, monsieur, please!"
He gallantly closed the slide and sprang to her assistance.
"Don't be afraid, mademoiselle. Let go,—I'll catch you. Let go!"
"Oh, but I——"
"Let go!"
"Sacré bleu! I can't, monsieur! I'm stuck like a fish on a gaff! My skirts——"
This startling intelligence, while it relieved his immediate anxiety, involved the young man in a painful quandary. He dared not call for help; he was likely to be arrested in any case; he could not go away and leave the girl dangling there. She was at least three feet beyond his extreme reach.
"Let's see," he said, hastily grabbing his lantern to make an examination.
"Oh, put out that light!" exclaimed the girl.
"But, mademoiselle, I can't see——"
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I don't wish you to see! No! I should—put down the lantern!"
Having complied with this request, he stood under her in despair.
"Can't you tear the—the—what-you-may-call-it loose?"
"No; it's my skirt,—my dress,—I'm slipping out of it. Look out, monsieur, for—I'm—coming—oh!"
And come she did, head first, minus the dress skirt, plump into the startled young man's arms.