"'Nous allons chanter à la ronde,Si vous voulez.Que je l'adore, et qu'elle est blondeComme les blés!'"
"'Nous allons chanter à la ronde,Si vous voulez.Que je l'adore, et qu'elle est blondeComme les blés!'"
"A man never should neglect his lectures for anything, and that's what both Lerouge and Jean are doing," remarked a serious young man, looking up from his book.
"Yes, and the first thing our comrade Marot will know, he'll be recalled by his choleric father. He's taken to absinthe, too——"
"Which is worse."
"Theworst——"
"And prowling——"
"And moping off alone."
"What's the lady's name?"
"Mademoiselle Fouchette."
"What! the wild, untamed——"
"La Savatière? Nonsense!"
"Here's a lock of her hair in evidence," remarked Massard, going to a drawer and taking out a bit of paper. "It is as clear to my mind as it was to the police that Monsieur Marot had that girl, or some other like her, up here that night."
"Let me see that," said Villeroy.
"I found it on the floor the next day,—the inspector took away quite a bunch of it," continued the young man, as the other examined the lock.
"There are two women who have hair like that," said Villeroy,—"Fouchette and the girl who goes with Lerouge. Now, which is it?"
"Her name is Remy,—Mademoiselle Remy,"observed Massard; "and, as George says, she's a beauty——"
"Which cannot be said of La Savatière."
"No; and yet——"
"Lerouge keeps his beauty mighty close," interrupted Massard. "I never saw her but once, and she reminded me of that little devil, Fouchette, who stands in with the police, or she would have been locked up a dozen times."
"Very likely," observed Villeroy.
It was now Mardi Gras, and the whole Ville Lumière was en fête. The left bank of the Seine, the resort of nearly twenty thousand students, was especially joyous.
There was one young man, however, who chose to be alone, and he stood apart from the world, leaning over the worn parapet of the Pont Neuf, gazing idly on the rushing waters of the Seine.
Jean Marot loved the noble span that for more than three hundred years had connected the ancient Isle de la Cité with the mainland. A long line of kings, queens, emperors, princes, princesses, and noblemen of every degree had lived and passed the Pont Neuf. Royal knights, stout men-at-arms, myriads of mailed warriors and citizen soldiers, countless multitudes of men and women, had come and gone above these massive stone arches of three centuries.
Yet the young man thought not of these. His mind was occupied by one little, slender, fair-haired woman, and that one unattainable. Had he analyzed his new mental condition, he might have marvelled that thelittle winged god could have aimed so straight and let fly so unexpectedly. True love, however, does not come of reasoning, but rather in spite of it. And, to do Jean's Latin race justice, he never thought of doing such a thing, and thus spared his love being reduced to a palpable absurdity. The bronze shadow of that royal Latin lover, Henri IV., looked down upon the modern Frenchman approvingly.
A sharp shower of confetti and the laughter of young girls roused the young man from his revery and brought his thoughts down to date.
"Monsieur has forgotten that Boulevard St. Michel is en fête," said a rich contralto voice behind him.
He turned to receive a handful of confetti dashed smartly in his face and to look into a pair of bold black eyes.
"Mon Dieu! It is Monsieur Marot!"
"Hello! Madeleine,—you, Fouchette?"
"Yes, monsieur," replied the latter gayly. "And you,—is it a day to dream of casting one's self into the Seine?"
Meanwhile, the object of this raillery was busily extracting bits of colored paper from his eyebrows and neck,—a wholly useless proceeding, for both girls immediately deluged him with a fresh avalanche.
Madeleine was in her costume à la bicyclette, her sailor hat tipped forward to such a degree that it was necessary for her to elevate her stout chin in order to see anything on a level. Mlle. Fouchette affected the clinging, fluffy style of costume best suited to her figure, while her rare blonde hair à la Merode was her distinguishing feature. She dominated the olderand stouter girl as if the latter were an irresponsible junior.
Jean Marot knew very well the type of grisette indigenous to the Quartier Latin.
The day justified all sorts of familiarity, and his black velvet béret and flowing black scarf were an invitation to fraternity, good fellowship, and confidence.
Both young women were in high spirits and carried in bags of fancy netting with tricolor draw-strings their surplus stock of confetti, and an enormous quantity of the surplus stock of other manifestants in their hair and clothing. As fast as Jean picked out the confetti from his neck Mlle. Madeleine playfully squandered other handfuls on him, winding up by covering the young man with the entire contents of her bag at a single coup.
"Ah! Madeleine!"
"Monsieur will buy us some more," replied that young woman.
"How foolish!" said Mlle. Fouchette, affecting a charming modesty. She had a way of cocking her fair head to one side like a bird.
"Never mind, mes enfants," said Jean. "Come along."
The three linked arms and passed off the bridge and up the Rue Dauphine and Rue de Monsieur le Prince for Boulevard St. Michel, the lively young women distributing confetti in liberal doses and taking similar punishment in utmost good humor, Jean not sorry for the time being at finding this temporary distraction. He had generously replenished the prettybags from the first baraque, though they were quickly emptied again in the narrow Rue de Monsieur le Prince, where a hot engagement between students and "filles du quartier" was in progress.
Mlle. Madeleine was fairly choking with laughter. She had just caught a young man with his mouth open, by a trick of the elbow; and as he mutely sputtered confetti her petite blonde companion caught her long skirt aside and kicked his hat off. This "coup de pied" was administered with such marvellous grace and dexterity that even the victim joined in the roar of laughter that followed it. A thin smile spread over her pale face as Jean looked at her.
"La Savatière,—bravo!" cried a youth.
"C'est le lapin du Luxembourg," said another.
"It is Mademoiselle Fouchette."
"There, monsieur," remarked Fouchette, slyly, "you see I'm getting known in the quarter."
"I don't wonder," said Jean, laughing.
They found seats beneath the awnings at the Taverne du Panthéon. The rain of confetti was getting to be a deluge. He asked them what they would have.
"Un ballon, garçon," said Mlle. Fouchette, promptly.
This designated a small glass of beer, served in a balloon-shaped glass like a large claret glass.
Madeleine also would take "un ballon," Jean contenting himself with the usual "bock,"—an ordinary glass of beer.
Each covered the beer with the little saucer, to protect it from the occasional gust of confetti thateven found its way to the extreme rear of the half a hundred sidewalk sitters.
Mlle. Fouchette had been studying the young man from the corners of her eyes. She saw him greatly changed. His handsome face betrayed marks of worry or dissipation,—she decided on the latter. What could a young man in his enviable position have to worry about? Was it possible that——
"Monsieur," she began at once, with the air of an ingénue, "they say you strongly resemble one Lerouge,—that you are often taken one for the other. Is it so?"
He glanced at her inquiringly, while Madeleine patted the ground with her foot.
"Have you ever seen Henri Lerouge?" he asked.
"No, never," replied Fouchette.
"Does he look like me, Madeleine?"
"Not much, monsieur," responded that damsel. "Have you seen him,—have you seen Lerouge lately?"
"No,—no," said he.
"From what I learn," remarked Mlle. Fouchette, with a precision and nonchalance that defied suspicion, "Monsieur Lerouge is probably off in some sweet solitude unknown to vulgar eye enjoying his honeymoon."
Madeleine shot one furious glance at the speaker; but not daring to trust her tongue, she suddenly excused herself and disappeared in the throng.
Jean saw that she had been cut to the quick, and her abrupt action served for the moment to dull the pain at his own heart. He concealed his resentment at this malicious—but, after all, this "child of thepolice" could not know. He shifted the talk to Madeleine.
"You seem to have offended her, mademoiselle."
"Bah! Madeleine is that jealous——"
"What? Lerouge?"
"Of Lerouge. Can't you see?"
"No,—that is, I didn't know that she had anything in common with Lerouge."
"Ah, ça! When she flies into a rage at the mention of him and another woman? Monsieur is not gifted with surprising penetration."
"But Mademoiselle Madeleine is rather a handsome girl," he observed, tentatively. While he mentally resolved not to be robbed of his own secret he was not averse to gaining any information this girl might possess.
"Perhaps," said she,—"for those who admire the robust style. But you should see the other; she's an angel!"
"Indeed?"
It was hard to put this in a tone of indifference, and he felt her eyes upon him.
"Yes, monsieur."
"I'd like to see her. You know angels are not to be seen every day."
"Monsieur Lerouge can be trusted, I suppose, to render these visions as fleeting and rare as possible."
He winced perceptibly.
"But Madeleine has magnificent eyes," he suggested.
"This other has the eyes of heaven, monsieur."
"And as for figure——"
"Chut! monsieur is joking,—the form of a Normandie nurse! Mademoiselle Remy is the sculptor's dream!"
Jean Marot laughed. This unstinted praise of the girl who had fascinated him,—who had robbed him of his rest,—who had without an effort, and unconsciously, taken possession of his soul,—it was incense to him. Truly, Mlle. Fouchette had an artistic eye,—a most excellent judgment. It extracted the sting——
"Yes," continued Mlle. Fouchette, looking through him as if he were so much glass, "a great artist said to me the other day——"
"Pardon! but, mademoiselle, does your new beauty,—the 'sculptor's dream,' you know,—does she do the studios of the quarter?"
"No! Why should she?"
He was silent. Would she have another drink?
"Thanks! Un ballon, garçon," repeated Mlle. Fouchette.
They looked at the crowd in silence for a while.
The scene was inspiriting. With the shades of evening the joyous struggle waxed more furious. The entire street was now taken up by the merrymakers, who made the air resound with their screams and shrieks of laughter. The confetti lay three or four inches deep on the walks, where street gamins slyly scraped it into private receptacles for second use. The haze of dust hung over the broad Boulevard St. Michel like a morning fog over a swamp. Mlle. Fouchette watched the scene for a few minutes without a word. Both were thinking of something else.
"She'll soon get over it, never fear."
"I suppose so," he said, knowing that she still spoke of Madeleine, and somewhat bored at her reappearance in the conversation.
"A woman does not go on loving a man who never cares for her,—who loves another."
"'Loves another,'" he repeated, absently.
"But if Madeleine meets them just now,—oh! look out, monsieur! She's a tiger!"
He shuddered. He was unable to stand this any longer; he rose absent-mindedly and, with scant courtesy to the gossipper, incontinently fled.
"Ah! what a handsome fellow he is! Yet he is certainly a fool about women. A pig like Madeleine! But, then, all men are fools when it comes to a woman."
With this bit of philosophy Mlle. Fouchette buried her dainty nose in the last "ballon." She quenched a rising sigh by the operation. For some reason she was not quite happy. As she withdrew it her face suddenly became all animation.
"Ah!" she muttered, "I'd give my last louis now if that melon, Madeleine, could only see that."
Directly in front of her and not ten feet distant a young man and a young girl slowly forced a passage through the conflicting currents of boisterous people. The man was anywhere between twenty-five and thirty, of supple figure, serious face, and sombre eyes that lighted up reluctantly at all of this frivolity. It was only when they were turned upon the sweet young face of the girl at his side that they took on a glow of inexpressible sweetness.
"Truly!" said Mlle. Fouchette to herself, "but she is something on my style."
Which is perhaps the highest compliment one woman can pay another. It meant that her "style" was quite satisfactory,—the right thing. Yet Mlle. Fouchette really needed some fifty pounds of additional flesh to get into the same class.
If the rippling laughter, the shining azure of her eyes, the ever-changing expression of her mobile mouth, and now and then the rapt look bestowed upon her companion were indications, she certainly was a happy young woman. Her right hand rested upon his arm, her left shielded her face from the too fierce onslaughts of confetti. Neither of them took an active part in the fun. That, however, did not deter the young men from complimenting her with a continuous shower of confetti. The girl laughingly shook it out of her beautiful blonde hair.
"Allons donc! She has my hair, too!" thought Mlle. Fouchette. It is impossible not to admire ourselves in others.
With the excitement of an unaccustomed pleasure mantling her neck and cheeks the girl was certainly a pretty picture. The plain and simple costume was of the cut of the provinces rather than that of Paris, but it set off the lithe and graceful figure that needed no artificiality of the dressmaker to enforce its petite perfection.
"That must be Lerouge," thought Mlle. Fouchette. "He does look something like—no; it is imagination. He is not nearly so handsome as Monsieur Marot. But she is sweet!"
The couple were forced over against the chairs by the crowd and Mlle. Fouchette got a good look at them. The eyes of Mlle. Remy met hers,—they sought the face of her companion, and returned and rested curiously upon Mlle. Fouchette. The glance of her escort followed in the same direction. And even after they had passed he half turned again and looked back at the girl sitting alone amid the crowd under the awning.
Jean Marot had plunged into the throng to try and shake off the unpleasant suggestions of Mlle. Fouchette. While he felt instinctively the feminine malice, it was none the less bitter to his taste. It was opening a wound afresh and salting it. He felt that the idea suggested by "La Savatière" was intolerable,—impossible. He paced up and down alone in the Luxembourg gardens until retreat was sounded. Then he re-entered the boulevard by the Place de Médicis, dodged a bevy of singing grisettes in male attire, to suddenly find himself face to face with the object of his thoughts.
How beautiful, and sweet and pure and innocent she looked! The laughing eyes, the profusion of hair with its tint of gold, now sparkling with confetti, the two rows of pearls between their rich rims of red,—it surely was an angel from the skies and not a woman who stood before him! And his knees trembled with the desire to let him to the earth at her feet.
The young girl regarded him first in semi-recognition, then with blank astonishment,—as well she might. She shrank closer to her protector.
Henri Lerouge had at first looked at his former friend with a dark and scowling face; but Jean had seen only the girl, and therefore failed to note the expression of satisfaction that swiftly succeeded.
"Pardon! but, monsieur, even Mardi Gras does not excuse a boor." And Lerouge somewhat roughly elbowed him to one side.
The insult from Lerouge was nothing. Jean never thought of that. She had come, she had ignored him, she had gone,—the woman he loved!
He stood speechless for a moment, then staggered away, his self-love bleeding.
Unconsciously he had taken the direction they had gone, slowly groping his way rather than walking, next to the iron fence of the Luxembourg gardens, past the great School of Mines, along the Boulevard St. Michel towards the Observatory. Like a drunken man he stuck close to the walls, and thus crossed the obtuse angle into Rue Denfert-Rocherau. Hesitating at the tomb-like buildings that mark the entrance to the catacombs at the end of that street, he leaned against the great wrought-iron grille and tried to collect his thoughts.
He remembered now; this was where he had gone down one day to view the rows and stacks of boxes and vaults of mouldering bones. Yes, he even recalled the humorous idea of that day that there were more Parisians beneath the pavements of Paris than above them, and that they slept better o' nights.
The cold wind stirred the branches, and they grated against the fence with a dismal, sighing sound.
"Loves another!"
Was it not that which it said?
"Loves another!" in plain and well-measured cadence.
And the word "l-o-v-e-s" was long and sorrowfully drawn out, and "another" came sharply decisive.
He wandered on, aimlessly, yet in the general direction of Montrouge. Fouchette,—yes, she had told the truth. He—where was he?
The streets up here were practically deserted, the entire population, apparently, having gone to the boulevards. Here and there some rez-de-chaussée aglow showed the usual gossippers of the concierges. Now and then isolated merrymakers were returning, covered with confetti, having exhausted themselves and the pleasures of the day together.
Rue Hallé,—he remembered now, though he scarcely noted it.
All at once his heart gave a bound. His mind came down to vulgar earth. It was at the sight of a solitary woman who sped swiftly round the corner from the Avenue d'Orléans and came towards him. Her stout figure between him and the electric light cast a long shadow down the street,—the shadow of a woman in bloomer costume, with a hat perched forward at an angle of forty-five degrees.
It was Mlle. Madeleine.
What could she be doing here at this hour,—she, who lived in Rue Monge?
Before he could answer this question she was almost upon him. But she was so absorbed in her own purposes that she saw him not, merely turning to the right up the Rue Hallé with the quick and certain stepof one who knows. Her black brows were set fiercely, and beneath them the big dark eyes glittered dangerously. Her full lips were tightly compressed; in the firmness of her tread was a world of determination.
Jean had obtained a good view of her face as she crossed the street, and he shuddered. For in it he saw reflected the state of his own tempestuous soul. He had read therein his own mind distempered by love and doubt and torn by jealousy, disappointment, and despair.
He recalled the warning of Mlle. Fouchette, and he trembled for the woman he loved. Well he comprehended the French character where love and hatred are concerned.
At Rue Bezout the girl turned to the left, crossed over, and ran rather than walked towards Avenue Montsouris. Jean ran until he reached the corner, then cautiously peeped around it. Had he not done so he would have come upon her, for she had stopped within two metres and fumbled nervously with a package. He could hear her panting and murmuring in her deep voice. She tore the string from the package with her teeth and threw the paper wrapper on the ground.
It was a bottle of bluish liquid.
His heart stood still as he saw it; his legs almost failed him. If he had seen the intended victim of this diabolical design approaching at that moment he felt that he would scarcely have the strength to cry out in warning, so overwhelmed was he with the horror of it.
What should he do? Would they come this way, orby Montsouris? He might fall upon her suddenly,—overpower her where she stood!
Jean softly peeped once more around the angle of the wall. She was trying to extract the cork from the bottle with a pair of tiny scissors, but, being half frantic with haste and passion, she had only broken one point after the other.
A sweet and silvery laugh behind him sent his heart into his throat. It was Lerouge and Mlle. Remy coming leisurely along the Rue Hallé. It was now or——
But a second glance over his shoulder showed that they had turned down the narrow Rue Dareau. Madeleine had made a mistake.
Almost at the same instant a piercing shriek of agony burst upon the night. The scream seemed to split his ears, so near was it, so deep the pain and terror of it.
And there lay the miserable woman writhing on the walk, tearing out great wisps of her dark hair in her intolerable suffering, and filling the air with heart-rending cries of distress.
Jean Marot was not, as has been seen, an extraordinary type of his countrymen. Sensitive, sympathetic, impulsive, passionate, extreme in all things, he embodied in method and temperament the characteristics of his race.
His first impulse upon realizing what had befallen the misguided girl of Rue Monge was the impulse common to humanity. But as he flew to her succor he saw others running from various directions, attracted by her cries and moved by the same motive.
To be found there would not only be useless but dangerous,—for the girl as well as for himself. Therefore he discreetly took to his heels.
Flight at such a moment is confession of guilt. So it followed quite naturally that a comprehension of what had happened sent a considerable portion of the first-comers after the fleeing man.
"Assassin!"
"Vitrioleur!"
"Stop him!"
These are very inspiring cries with a clamorous French mob to howl them. To be caught under such circumstances is to run imminent risk of summary punishment. And the vitriol-thrower is not an uncommon feature of Parisian criminal life; there would be little hesitation where one is caught, as it were, red-handed.
Jean ran these possibilities through his mind as he dashed down a side street into the Avenue Montsouris. Fear did not exactly lend him wings, but it certainlydid not retard his flight. And he had the additional advantage that he was not yelling at every jump and lost no time in false direction. He doubled by way of Rue Dareau, cut into Rue de la Tombe-Issoire over the net-work of railway tracks, and then dropped into a walk. But not so soon that he escaped the observation of a police agent standing in the shadow in the next narrow turning towards the railway station. The officer heard his panting breath long before Jean got near him, and rightly conjectured that the student was running away from something. To detain him for an explanation was an obvious duty.
"Well, now! Monsieur seems to be in a hurry," said he, as he suddenly stepped in front of the fugitive.
This official apparition would have startled even a man who was not in a hurry, but Jean quickly recovered his self-possession.
"Yes, monsieur; I go for a doctor. A sick——"
"Pardon! but you have just passed the hospital. That won't do, young man!"
The agent made a gesture to seize his suspect, but at that moment Jean saw two other agents in the distance walking rapidly to join their comrade. He upper-cut the man sharply, catching him squarely on the point of the chin and sending him to grass with a mangled and bleeding tongue.
There appeared to be no help for it, but the young man now had two fresh pursuers. At any rate, he was free. It would be to his shame, he thought, if he could not distance two men in heavy cowhide boots, encumbered with cloaks and sabres. So he started down theRue de la Tombe-Issoire with a lead of some two hundred yards. He saw lights and a crowd and heard music in the Place St. Jacques, and knew that he was saved.
The Place St. Jacques was en fête. A band-stand occupied the spot long sacred to the guillotine, up to its last removal to La Roquette. The immediate neighborhood of Place St. Jacques would have preferred the guillotine and an occasional execution as a holiday enjoyment, but next to witnessing the sanguinary operation of the "national razor," a dance was the popular idea of amusement. And the Parisian populace must be amused. The government considers that a part of its duty, and encourages the "bal du carrefour" by the erection of stands and providing music at the general expense. It was the saturnine humor of Place St. Jacques to dance where men lost their heads. However, it would be difficult to find a street crossing in Paris big enough to dance in that had not been through the centuries soaked with human blood.
It was a little fresher in Place St. Jacques, that was all.
The band-stand being on the exact place marked in the stone pavement for the guillotine, it gave a sort of peculiar piquancy to the occasion. While the proprietors of the adjacent wine-shops and "zincs" grumbled at the new order of things, the young people were making the best of Mardi Gras in hilarious fashion.
Though Place St. Jacques presented a lively scene beneath its scattered lights, it was one common enough to Jean Marot, who now only saw in the romping crowd and spectators the means of shaking off hispolice pursuers. Among the hundred dancers he made his way to the most compact body of lookers-on, where the indications were that something unusually interesting was in progress. Here the blown condition of a student would not be noticed.
Yells of delight from those in his immediate vicinity awoke his curiosity to see what was the particular attraction. At the end of the figure this expression grew enthusiastic.
"Bravo! bravo!" came in chorus.
"Très bien! très bien!"
"It is well done, that!"
"Yes,—it is the Savatière!"
Jean was startled for the instant, since it brought vividly back to him the beginning of his bitter day.
So it was Mlle. Fouchette.
She made, with another girl of her set, a part of a quadrille, and the pair were showing off the agile accomplishments of the semi-professionals of the Bullier and Moulin Rouge. These consisted of kicking off the nearest hats, doing the split, the guitar act, the pointed arch, and similar fantasies. Having forced his way in, Jean was instantly recognized by Mlle. Fouchette, who shook the confetti out of her blonde hair at every pose. Then, as she executed a pigeon-wing on his corner, she whispered,—
"Hold, Monsieur Jean,—wait one moment!"
"Will monsieur be good enough to take my place for the last figure?"
Her partner, a thin, serious-looking young man, had approached Jean hat in hand and addressed him with courtly politeness.
Jean protested with equal politeness,—yet the offer served his turn admirably,—no! no!—and the mademoiselle, monsieur?
"Come, then!" cried that damsel, as the last figure began, and she seized Jean by the arm and half swung him into position.
The polite monsieur immediately disappeared in the crowd.
The French are born dancers. There are young Frenchmen here who would be the admiration of the ballet-master. Frenchmen dance for the pure love of motion. They prefer an agile partner of the softer sex, but it is not essential,—they will dance with each other, or even alone, and on the pavements of Paris as well as on the waxed floor of a ball-room.
Jean Marot was, like many students of the Quartier Latin, not only a lover of Terpsichore, but proficient in the art of using his legs for something more agreeable than running. There were difficult steps and acrobatic feats introduced by Mlle. Fouchette which he could execute quite as easily and gracefully. And thus it happened that the young man who three minutes before had been fleeing the police was now swept away into the general frivolity of Place St. Jacques. In fact, he had already absolutely forgotten that he had come there a fugitive.
Mlle. Fouchette had just joyously challenged him to make the "arc aux pieds" with her,—which is to pose foot against foot in midair while the other dancers pass beneath,—when Jean noticed a keen-eyed police agent looking at him attentively.
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SHE SEIZED JEAN BY THE ARMToList
"Look out!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, impatiently,and up went his foot against the neat little boot, and the other six passed merrily beneath.
When he had finished the figure there were three agents, who whispered together earnestly; but they made no effort to molest him. His alibi stood.
Nevertheless the police agents openly followed the couple as they walked down the Rue St. Jacques. He saw there was no attempt at concealment.
"How, then, monsieur!" cried the girl, banteringly; "still thinking of Madeleine?"
Jean shivered. Poor Madeleine!
"What a fool a girl is to run after a man who doesn't care for her!"
"And when a man runs after a girl who doesn't care for him?" he asked, half seriously.
"Oh, then he's worse than a fool woman,—he's a man, monsieur."
They reached her neighborhood.
"Come up, monsieur, will you? It is but a poor hospitality I can offer, but an easy-chair and a pipe are the same everywhere, n'est-ce pas?"
"Good!" said he. "I'll accept it with all my heart, mademoiselle."
Jean had again noted the police agents, and he mentally concluded to let them wait a bit. Besides, he was very tired.
When Mlle. Fouchette had arranged her shaded lamp, drawn up the easy-chair and settled the young man in it, she flung her hat on the bed and bustled about to get some supper. She pulled out a small round oil-stove and proceeded to light the burners. He looked at her inquiringly.
"It is Poupon," said she.
"Oh! it's Poupon, is it?"
"Yes. It's a darling, isn't she?"
"It—she—is."
"You see, when I want a cup of tea, there!"
She removed the ornamental top with a flourish. Under it was a single griddle. Mlle. Fouchette regarded the domestic machine with great complacency, her blonde head prettily cocked on one side.
"It certainly is convenient," said Jean, feeling that some comment was demanded of him.
"When I cook I put it in the chimney."
"But you have other fire in winter?"
"Fire? Never! Wood is too dear,—and then, really, one goes to the cafés every night, and to the studios every day. They roast one at the studios, because of the models."
"Oh!"
"Yes, monsieur," she went on. "Now, Poupon is most generally a warm-hearted little thing, and then one can go to bed, in a pinch. And I can have tea, or coffee, or hot wine. Do you like hot wine, monsieur? With a bit of lemon it is very good. And look here," she continued rapidly, without giving him time to say anything, "it is quite snug and comfortable, is it not?"
She had thrown open a door next to the mantel and proudly exploited a cupboard containing various bits of china and glassware. The cupboard was in the wall and closed flush with the latter, the door being covered with the same paper. There were a few cooking utensils below.
"Yes, to be sure, mademoiselle, it is all very nice indeed," said he, "but—but have you got a bit to eat anywhere about the place?"
"Oh, pardon, monsieur! Oh, yes! Have we anything to eat, Poupon? Monsieur shall see."
She pinned up her skirt in a business-like manner, grabbed the little oil-stove, and placed it in the fireplace.
Jean watched her mechanically without thinking of her. He heard her without comprehending clearly what she said. And yet, somehow, he seemed to lean upon her as something tangible, something to keep his mind from sinking into its recent despondency.
"Tiens! but, mademoiselle," he cried, starting up all at once, "you are not going to try to cook on that thing!"
"What? Hear him, then, Poupon, chérie! To be called 'that thing!' Oh!"
Mlle. Fouchette affected great indignation on the part of herself and domestic friend,—the worst that could be said of which friend was that it emitted a bad odor of a Pennsylvania product,—but it did not interfere with her act of successfully rolling a promising omelette. She had already prettily arranged the table for two, on which were temptingly displayed a litre of Bordeaux, a loaf of bread, and a dish of olives.
"But——"
"Now, don't say a word, monsieur, or I'll drop something."
"You need not have cooked anything," he protested. "A bit of bread and wine would have——"
"Poor Poupon! So monsieur thinks you are pasbon! Perhaps monsieur thinks you and I don't eat up here, eh? Non? Monsieur is in love——"
"Mademoiselle!"
"Oh, I talk to Poupon, whom you despise,—and—now, the omelette, monsieur. Let me help you."
They had drawn chairs to the table, and the girl poured two glasses of wine. She watched him drain his glass and then refilled it, finally observing, with a smile,—
"It can't be Madeleine——"
"Oh! to the devil with——" but he checked himself by the sudden recollection of the terrible misfortune that had overtaken Madeleine.
Mlle. Fouchette shrugged her shoulders, but she lost no point of his confusion.
"Is it necessary, then," he asked, cynically, "that I should be in love with some one?" He laughed, but his merriment did not deceive her.
"Ah! Anybody can see, monsieur, you love or you hate—one."
"Both, perhaps," he suggested. "For instance, I love your omelette and I hate your questions."
"You hate Monsieur Lerouge, therefore you love where he is concerned."
He was silent. It was evident that he did not care to discuss his private affairs with Mlle. Fouchette.
The girl was quick to see this and changed the conversation to politics. But Jean had no mind for this either. He began to grow impatient, when she opened a box on the mantel and showed him an assortment of pipes.
"Oho! You keep a petit tabac?"
"One has some friends, monsieur."
"A good many, I should judge,—each of whom leaves a pipe, indicating an early and regular return."
"I don't find yours here yet, monsieur," she replied, demurely.
"But you will," said he. "And I'll come up and smoke it occasionally, if you'll let me."
"With pleasure, monsieur, even if you had not saved my life——"
"There! Stop that, now. Let us never speak of that, mademoiselle. You got me into a scrape and got me out again, so we are quits."
"But——"
"Say no more about it, mademoiselle."
"I maythinkabout it, I suppose," she suggested, with affected satire.
"There,—tell me about the pipes."
"Oh, yes. Well, you know how men hate to part with old pipes? And they are, therefore, my valuable presents, monsieur."
"Truly! I never thought of that."
"No?"
"And the pictures?"
"Scraps from the studios."
He got up and examined the sketches on the walls. They were from pen, pencil, and brush, from as many artists,—some quite good and showing more or less budding genius. He paused some time before the head of his entertainer.
"It is very good,—admirable!" he said.
"You think so, monsieur?"
"It is worth all the rest together, mademoiselle."
"So much? You are an artist, Monsieur Jean?"
"Amateur,—strictly amateur,—yet I know something of pictures. Now, I should say that bit is worth, say, one hundred francs."
"Nonsense! The work of five minutes of—amusement; yes, making fun of me one day. Do you suppose he would give me one hundred francs?"
"The highest effects in art are often merest accident, or the result of the spirit of the moment,—some call it inspiration."
"But if you didn't know who did it, monsieur——"
"It is not signed."
"N-no; but, monsieur, every one must know his work."
"Yes, and every one knows that some of it is bad."
"Oh!"
"And this is——"
"Bad too, monsieur," she laughingly interrupted. "When any one offers me fifty francs for that thing, Monsieur Jean, it goes!"
"Then it is mine," said Jean.
"No! You joke, monsieur," she protested, turning away.
"Not at all," said he, tendering her a fresh, crisp billet de banque for fifty francs. "Voilà! Is that a joke?"
Mlle. Fouchette colored slightly and drew back.
"Monsieur likes the picture?"
"Why, certainly. If I didn't——"
"Then it is yours, monsieur, if you will deign to accept it as a—present——"
"No, no!"
"As a souvenir, monsieur."
"Nonsense! I will not do it," he declared. "Come, mademoiselle, you are trying to back out of your offer of a minute ago. Here! Is it mine or is it not? Say!"
"It is yours, monsieur, in any case," she said, in a low voice, "though you would have done me a favor not to press me with money. Besides, 'La Petite Chatte' is not worth it."
"I differ with you, mademoiselle; I simply get a picture cheap."
Which was true. There was no sentiment in his offer, and she saw it as she carefully folded the bank-note and put it away with a sigh. It was a great deal of money for her, but still——
There was a great noise at the iron knocker below. This had been repeated for the third time.
"My friends below are growing impatient," he thought.
Jean had that inborn hatred of authority so common to many of his countrymen. It often begins in baiting the police, and sometimes ends in the overthrow of the government.
"Whoever that is," observed the girl, "he will never get in,—never!"
"Good!" said Jean.
"He won't get in," she repeated, listening. "Monsieur Benoit will never let anybody in who makes a racket like that."
"Not even the police?"
"No,—he will not hear them."
"Oh! ho! ho! ho!" roared Jean; "not hear that!"
"I mean he would affect not to know that it was the police."
She went to a window and listened at the shutter. Then, returning to her guest, who was placidly smoking,—
"It is the police, sure."
"I knew it."
"Now, what do you suppose the agents want at this hour?" It was one o'clock by the little bronze timepiece on the mantel.
"Me," said Jean.
"You!" She glanced at him with a smile of incredulity.
"Yes, petite."
He puffed continuous rings towards the ceiling, wondering whether he had better explain.
Presently came a tap at the door. The girl hastened to answer it, while Jean refilled his pipe thoughtfully. When she came back she was more excited. She whispered,—
"Monsieur Benoit, le concierge, he wants to see you,—he must let them in!"
"Well, let them in!" exclaimed the young man.
He had thought of Madeleine, chiefly, and the effect of his arrest upon her. A hearing must inevitably lead to her exposure, if not to his. But it was useless to endeavor to escape. He felt that he was trapped. Being in that fix, he may as well face the music.
"But he wants to see you personally," said the girl.
Jean went to the door, where the saturnine Benoit stood with his flaring candle. The man cautiously closed the inner vestibule door.
"S-sh! It is a souricière, monsieur, as I suspected when you came in with that little she-devil! The agents were at your heels. Now, Monsieur Lerouge, do you wish to escape or do you——"
"I intend to remain right here. There is no reason that I should become a fugitive."
"As you please, monsieur," replied the concierge, with an expressive shrug. And the clack of his sabots was soon heard on the stone stair.
"Funny," said Jean, re-entering, "but he takes me for Lerouge. There is some sort of understanding between them. He would have aided me to escape."
"And why not have accepted, monsieur?" asked Mlle. Fouchette.
"I would rather be a prisoner as Jean Marot than escape as Henri Lerouge," replied the young man.
"Anyhow," muttered the girl, "perhaps the police have made the same mistake."
"I'm afraid not," said Jean.
Mlle. Fouchette regarded the young man admiringly from the corner of her eye. He was so calm and resolute. He had resumed the easy-chair and pipe.
Mlle. Fouchette was not able to veil her feelings under this cloak of indifference. Her highly nervous organization was sensibly disturbed. One might have easily presumed that she was in question instead of Jean Marot. She had hastily cleared the little table and replaced the lamp, when her unwelcome visitors announced themselves. Mlle. Fouchette promptly confronted them at the door.
"Well, gentlemen?"
"Mademoiselle, pardon. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I am after the body of one M. Lerouge."
"Then why don't you go and get him?" snapped the girl.
"Pardieu! that is precisely why we are here, mon enfant. He——"
"He is not here."
"Come, now, that will not do, mademoiselle. At least he was here a few moments ago.—Where is that dolt Benoit?"
"M. Lerouge is not here, I tell you; never was here in his life!"
"Oh!"
It was M. Benoit, the concierge. His astonishment was undoubtedly genuine; possibly as much at her brazen denial as at his own error in believing her a police decoy.
"Mademoiselle ought to know," he added, in reply to official inquiry.
"Let us see," exclaimed the man, thrusting the girl aside and entering the room. He was followed by two of his men and the concierge. A rear-guard had detained a curious assortment of half-dressed people on the stairs.
The eyes of the agents fell upon the young man with a pipe simultaneously. Monsieur Benoit saw him also, and flashed an indignant look at the girl. He had concluded that she had found means to conceal her visitor.
"Ah! Monsieur Lerouge," began the sous-brigadier.
"Bah! you fools!" sneered Mlle. Fouchette, "can't you see that it is not Monsieur Lerouge?"
"There! no more lies, mademoiselle. Your name, monsieur?"
"Jean Marot."
"Oh! so it is Jean Marot?" said the officer, mockingly, while he glanced alternately at Mlle. Fouchette, at M. Benoit, and at his men. "Very well,—I'll take you as Jean Marot, then," he angrily added.
"Nevertheless," said Jean, now amused at police expense, "I am not Lerouge. There is said to be some resemblance between us, that is all."
The face of M. Benoit was that of a positive man suddenly overwhelmed with evidence of his own stupidity. Mlle. Fouchette laughed outright. The sous-brigadier frowned. One of his men spoke up,—
"Oho! now I see——"
"Dubat, shut up!"
"But, mon brigadier," persisted the man designated, "it is not the man we took that night at Le Petit Rouge,—non!"
"Ah! là, là, là!" put in Mlle. Fouchette, growing tired of this. "I know M. Lerouge and M. Marot equally well, monsieur, and this is Marot. He has been with me all the evening. We danced in the Place St. Jacques and came directly here; before that we were at the Café du Panthéon. He has not left here. And they do look alike, monsieur; so it is said."
"That is very true," muttered the concierge,—"and I have made the mistake too; though, to be sure, I know M. Lerouge but slightly and had never seen this man before, to my knowledge."
Meanwhile, the girl had made a sign to thesous-brigadier that at once attracted that consequential man's attention.
"Then, mademoiselle," he concluded, after a moment's thought, "you can give us the address of this Monsieur Lerouge?"
"Oh, yes. It is Montrouge, 7 Rue Dareau,—en quatrième."
M. Benoit gave the girl informer a vicious look, which had as much effect upon her as water might have on a duck's back.
Jean did not require a note-book and pencil to fix this street and number in his own mind. He turned to the sous-brigadier as the latter rose to take his departure,—
"Pardon, monsieur; may I ask what charge is made against Monsieur Lerouge that you thus hunt him down in the middle of the night?"
"It is very serious, monsieur," replied the man, respectful enough now; "a young woman has been blinded with vitriol."
"Horrible!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. "I don't believe Lerouge could have ever done that! No, never!"
"Nor I," said Jean.
The police officer merely raised his eyebrows slightly and observed,—
"It was in the Rue Dareau, monsieur."
"And the woman? Do they know——"
"One named Madeleine, mademoiselle."
"Madeleine!" cried the girl, with a white face. "Madeleine! Mon Dieu! You hear that, Monsieur Jean? It was Madeleine!"
"Courage, mademoiselle; Lerouge never did that," said Jean, calmly. "It is a mistake. He could not do that."
"Never! It is impossible!"
Mlle. Fouchette wrung her hands and sought his eyes in vain for some explanation. She seemed overcome with terror.
"Parbleu!" exclaimed the police officer, in taking his leave. "Mademoiselle, there is nothing impossible in Paris."