Jean Marot was the son of a rich silk manufacturer of Lyon, and therefore lived in more comfortable quarters than most students, in a fashionable neighborhood on the right bank of the Seine. He had reached his lodgings scarcely three-quarters of an hour before Inspector Loup. But in that time he had stampeded the venerable concierge, got his still unconscious burden to bed and fetched a surgeon. The concierge had protested against turning the house into a hospital for vagrant women; but Jean was of an impetuous nature, and wilful besides, and when he was told that the last vacant chamber had been taken that day, he boldly carried the girl to his own rooms and placed her in his own bed. And when the concierge had reported this fact to Madame Goutran, that excellent lady, who had officiated as Jean's landlady for the past four years, shrugged her shoulders in such an equivocal way that the concierge concluded that her best interests lay in assisting the young man as much as possible.
Dr. Cardiac was not only one of the best surgeon-professors of the École de Médecine but Jean's father's personal friend. The young man felt that he could turn to the great surgeon in this emergency, though the latter was an expert not in regular practice.
His Still Unconscious BurdenHIS STILL UNCONSCIOUS BURDENToList
HIS STILL UNCONSCIOUS BURDENToList
The appearance of Inspector Loup threw the Goutran establishment into a fever of excitement. Thewrinkled old concierge who had declined to admit the stranger was ready to fall upon her knees before the director of the Secret Service. Madame Goutran hastened to explain why she had not reported the affair to the police department as the law required. She had not had time. It was so short a time ago that the case had been brought into her house,—in a few minutes she would have sent in the facts,—then, they expected every moment to ascertain the name of the young woman, which would be necessary to make the report complete.
Madame Goutran hoped that it would not involve her lodger, Monsieur Jean Marot, who was an excellent young man, though impulsive. He should have had the girl sent to the hospital. It was so absurd to bring her there, where she might die, and in any case would involve everybody in no end of difficulties, anyhow.
To a flood of such excuses and running observations Inspector Loup listened with immobile face, tightly closed lips, and wandering fishy eyes, standing in the corridor of the concierge lodge. He had not uttered a word, nor had he hurried the good landlady in her explanations and excuses. It was Inspector Loup's custom. He assumed the attitude of a professional listener. Seldom any one had ever resisted the subtle power of that silent interrogation. Even the most stubborn and recalcitrant were compelled to yield after a time; and those who had sullenly withstood the most searching and brutal interrogatories had broken down under the calm, patient, philosophical, crushing contemplation. Questions too often merely serve to putpeople on their guard,—to furnish a cue to what should be withheld.
"And your lodger, madame?" he inquired, after Madame Goutran had run down, "can I see him?"
"Certainly, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. Pardon! I have detained you too long."
"Not at all, madame. One does not think of time in the presence of a charming conversationalist."
"Oh, thank you, monsieur! This way, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."
Inspector Loup gained the apartment of Jean Marot shortly after the united efforts of Dr. Cardiac and his amateur assistants had succeeded in producing decided signs of returning consciousness. The patient was breathing irregularly.
The police official entered the chamber, and, after a silent recognition of those present, looked long and steadily at the slight figure on the bed.
He then retired, beckoning Jean to follow him. Once in the petit salon, the inspector motioned the young man to a chair and looked him over for about half a minute. Whereupon Jean made a clean breast of what his listener practically already knew, and what he did not know had guessed.
"Bring me her clothing," said the inspector, when Jean had finished.
The young man brought the torn and soiled garments which had been removed from the girl.
Inspector Loup examined them in a perfunctory way, but apparently discovered nothing beyond the fact that they were typical charity clothes, which Jean had already decided for himself.
"Be good enough to ask Monsieur le Docteur tostep in here a few moments at his leisure," he finally said.
As soon as Jean had his back turned the inspector whipped out a knife, slit the lining of the bosom of the little dress, and taking therefrom the letter addressed to himself, noted at a glance that the seal was intact, tore it open, saw its contents and as quickly transferred the missive to his pocket.
"Well, doctor," he gravely inquired, "how about your young patient?"
"Uncertain, monsieur, but hopeful."
"She will recover, then?"
"I think so, but it will be some time. She must be removed to a hospital."
"Yes, of course,—of course. But you will report to me where she is taken from here, Monsieur le Docteur?"
"Oh, yes,—certainly. Though perhaps the girl's friends——"
"She has no friends," said the inspector.
"What! You know her, then?"
"It is Mademoiselle Fouchette."
"A nobody's child, eh?" asked the doctor.
"Mademoiselle Fouchette is the child of the police," said Inspector Loup.
He slowly retired down-stairs, through the court and passage-way, reaching the street. Then as he walked away he drew from his pocket the letter he had extracted from the little dress.
"So! Sister Agnes is prompt and to the point. These Jesuitical associations are hotbeds of treason and intrigue! They are inconsistent with civil and religious liberty. We'll see!"
When Fouchette opened her eyes it was to see three strange faces at her bedside,—the faces of Dr. Cardiac, Jean Marot, and a professional nurse.
But she had regained consciousness long before she could see, her eyes being in bandages, and had passively listened to the soft goings and comings and low conversations and whispered directions, without saying anything herself or betraying her growing curiosity.
These sounds came to her vaguely and brokenly at first, then forced themselves on her attention connectedly. Surely she was not at Le Bon Pasteur! Then where was she? And finally the recollection of recent events rushed upon her, and her poor little head seemed to be on the point of bursting.
Things finally appeared quite clear, until her eyes were free and she saw for the first time her new surroundings, when she involuntarily manifested her surprise.
It certainly was not a hospital, as she had imagined the place. The sunny chamber, with its tastefully decorated walls hung with pictures, the foils over the door,—through which she saw a still more lovely room,—the voluptuous divan and its soft cushions, the heavy Turkish rugs, the rich damask hangings of her bed,—no; it certainly was not a hospital.
It was the most beautiful room Fouchette had ever seen,—such as her fancy had allotted to royal blood,—at least to the nobility. To awaken in such a place waslike the fairy tales Sister Agnes had read to her long ago.
"Well, mademoiselle," said the old surgeon, cheerily, "we're getting along,—getting along, eh, Monsieur Marot?"
"Admirably!" said Jean.
Fouchette glanced from one to the other. The doctor she had long recognized by voice and touch; but this young man, was he the prince of this palace?
The eyes of the pair rested upon each other for the moment inquiringly.
Both Fouchette and Jean concluded this examination with a sigh.
Fouchette had recognized in him the young man who marched by her side in the Place de la Concorde,—only a rioter. He could not live here.
Jean Marot, who thought he had seen something in this girl besides her hair to remind him of the woman he loved, acknowledged himself in error. It had been a mere fancy,—he dismissed it.
He turned away and stood looking gloomily into the street. But the young man saw nothing. He was thinking of the unfortunate turn of political events in France that had arrayed friend against friend, brother against brother.
It was social revolution—anarchy!
Now his friend Lerouge and he had quarrelled,—exchanged blows. They had wrangled before, but within the bounds of student friendship. Blows had now changed this friendship to hatred. Blows from those whom we love are hardest to forgive,—they are never forgotten.
Yet it was not this friendship in itself that particularly concerned Jean Marot. Through it he had calculated on reaching something more vital to his happiness.
Henri Lerouge had introduced him to Mlle. Remy. It was in the Jardin du Luxembourg. They had met but for a brief minute. The presentation had been coldly formal,—reluctant. Yet in that time, in the midst of the usual conventionalities, Jean had looked into a pair of soulful blue eyes that had smiled upon him, and Jean was lost.
His hope of meeting her again lay in and through Lerouge,—and now they had quarrelled; and about a Jew!
The fine blonde hair and slender figure of this girl—this "child of the police"—had reminded Jean of Mlle. Remy. She possessed the same kind of hair. It was this mental association that prompted him to carry the unknown to his own lodgings as described. This impulse of compassion and association was strengthened by his narrow escape from being her slayer. In fact, it was the best thing to have done under all the circumstances.
Now that the causes and the impulse had disappeared together, he began to feel bored. The "child of the police" was in his way,—the police might look after her. Jean Marot had troubles of his own.
As for Fouchette, she silently regarded the motionless figure at the window, wondering, thinking, on her part, of many things. When it had disappeared in the adjoining room she beckoned to the doctor.
"The young man, Monsieur Marot?" she asked, feebly. "Is this his——"
"It is his apartment, mademoiselle," the doctor anticipated.
"Tell me——"
"Monsieur Marot found you in the street near by, after the riot of the 25th of October, and brought you here,—temporarily, you know."
"Monsieur Marot is very good," she murmured.
"Excellent young man!" said the doctor. "A trifle obstinate, but still a very excellent young man, mademoiselle."
The girl was silent for a minute, as if lost in thought.
"Is this his—his bedchamber, doctor?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"I must be moved," she said, promptly. "You understand? I must be removed at once. Take me to a hospital, please!"
"Oh, don't excite yourself about it, my child. Soon enough—when you are able."
"What day of the month is——"
"This? The 5th of November."
"Ten days! Ten days!"
"Yes,—you have had a narrow call, mademoiselle."
"And I owe my life to you, doctor."
"To Monsieur Marot, mademoiselle."
"Ah! but you——"
"If it hadn't been for him I would never have seen you, child."
He spoke very gently and in a subdued voice that reached only her ear. Another pause.
"It is all the more important that I should not trouble him,—disturb him any longer than necessary. You understand?"
"Very truly, mademoiselle," replied he; "very thoughtful of you,—very womanly. It does you credit, Mademoiselle Fouchette."
"What? You, then, know my name?"
"Certainly." The doctor observed her surprise with a genial smile.
"I am very grateful,"—that they should know her for what she was and yet have been so good to her moved her deeply,—"I am very grateful, monsieur. But how did you know it was me, Fouchette?"
"Well, there is one man in Paris who knows you——"
"Inspector Loup?" she asked, quickly.
"Inspector Loup," said he.
"And he knows where I am,—certainly, for he knows everything,—everything!"
"Not quite, possibly, but enough."
"I must see Inspector Loup, doctor; yes, I must see him at once. When was he here?"
"Within the hour in which you were brought," said the doctor.
He was not disposed to be communicative on the subject of the Secret Service, or about its director, having a healthy contempt for the system of official espionage deemed necessary to any sort of French government, Royalist, Napoléonic, or Republican. And he wondered what mysterious band could unite the interests of this charity child with the interests of the government of France.
"Where are my clothes, doctor?" she suddenly inquired, half raising herself on her elbow.
"Oh! là, là! Why, you can't go now! It is impossible! The inspector can come and see you here, can't he?"
"But where are my clothes? Are they——"
"They're here, all right."
"Let me see them, please."
"Very good; but don't get excited,—nobody will run away with them; bless my soul! Nobody has had them except—except the nurse and Inspector Loup."
"He?"
"Yes, mademoiselle,—for identification."
"Oh!"
Fouchette was nervous. She had been reminded of the letter by the first mention of the inspector's name. Had anybody found the letter? Was it there still? Supposing it had been lost! What was this letter, anyhow? It must be very important, or the senders would have mailed it in the regular way. She felt that she dared not betray its presence by pushing the demand for her clothing.
"It is very curious, too," added the doctor, "how that man could identify you by means of clothing he had never before seen. He probably had information from where you came, with your description."
"Y-yes, monsieur,—I——"
Fouchette had never thought of that. It did not comfort her, as may well be imagined.
"I'll speak to the nurse about the clothes——"
"Pardon! but it is unnecessary, doctor. I only wanted to know if they were—were safe, you know.No; never mind. I thank you very much. I shall need them only when I am removed, which I hope will be soon."
In the Rue St. Jacques stands an old weather-stained, irregular pile of stone, inconspicuous in a narrow, crooked street lined with similar houses. The grim walls retreat from the first floor to the roof, in the monolithic style of the Egyptian tomb. Beneath the first floor is the usual shop,—a rôtisserie patronized by the scholars of two centuries,—famed of Balzac, de Musset, Dumas, Hugo, and a myriad lesser pens.
The other houses of the neighborhood are equally oblivious to modern opinion. They consent to lean against each other while jointly turning an indifferent face to the world, like a man about whose ugliness there is no dispute. No two run consecutively with the walks, and all together present a sky-line that paralyzes calculation.
The historic street at this point is a lively market during the business day. Its sidewalks being only wide enough for the dogs to sun themselves without danger from passing vehicles, it is necessary for the passers to take that risk by walking in the roadway. Those who do not care to assume any risks go around by way of Rue Gay-Lussac,—especially after midnight, when the street enjoys its personal reputation. The Panthéon is just around the corner, and the ancient Sorbonne, Louis le Grand, and the College of France line the same street on the next block, and have stood there for some hundreds of years; but, all the same, timid people certainly prefer to reachthem by a roundabout way rather than by this section of Rue St. Jacques.
Mlle. Fouchette had accepted a home in the Rue St. Jacques and in this particular building because other people did not wish to live there, which made rooms cheap.
If you had cared to see what Mlle. Fouchette proudly called "home" you might have raised and let fall an old-fashioned iron knocker that sent a long reverberating roar down the tunnel-like entrance, to be lost in some hidden court beyond. Then a slide would slyly uncover a little brass "judas," disclosing a little, black, hard eye. Assuming that this eye was satisfied with you, the slide would be closed with a snap, bolts unshot, bars swung clear, and the heavy, iron-clamped door opened by a rascally-looking man whose blouse, chiefly, distinguished him from the race orang-outang.
Once within, you would notice that the door mentioned was ribbed with wrought iron and that two lateral bars of heavy metal were used to secure it from within. It dates from the Reign of Terror.
Having passed this formidable barrier, you would follow the tunnel to a square court paved with worn granite, enter a rear passage, and mount a narrow stone stairway, the steps of which are so worn as to leave an uncertain footing. If it happens to be in the night or early morning, the brass knobs in the centre of the doors will be ornamented with milk-bottles. There are four of these doors on every landing, and consequently four "appartements" on each floor; but as each wing seems to have been built in a different age from the others, and no twoarchitects were able to accurately figure on reaching the same level, the effect is as uncertain as the stairs.
Mlle. Fouchette's "home" consisted of but a single square room fronting on the court by two windows with bogus balconies. The daylight from these windows showed a fireplace of immense size, and out of all proportion to the room, a bed smothered in the usual alcove by heavy curtains, a divan improvised from some ancient article of furniture, a small round table, and an easy-chair, and two or three others not so easy. There was one distinguished exception to the general effect of old age and hard usage, and this was a modern combination bureau, washstand, and dressing-table with folding mirror attachment, which when shut down was as demure and dignified as an upright piano.
The effective feature of a place the entire contents of which might have been extravagantly valued at twenty-five dollars was the exquisite harmony of colors. This effect is common to French interiors, where there is also a common tendency to over-decoration. The harmony began in the cheap paper on the walls, extended to bed and window draperies, and ended in the tissue-paper lamp-shade that at night lent a softened, rhythmical tone to the whole. This genial color effect was a delicate suggestion of blue, and the result was a doll-like daintiness that was altogether charming.
The autographic fan mania had left its mark over the divan in the shape of a gigantic fan constructed of little fans and opening out towards the ceiling. A few pen-and-ink and pencil sketches and studies,apparently the cast-off of many studios, were tacked up here and there. The high mantel bore an accumulation of odds and ends peculiar to young women of low means and cheap friendships. That was all. But a French girl can get the best results from a room, as she can from a hat, with the least money.
Mlle. Fouchette had reached all of this private magnificence through a singular concatenation of circumstances.
First, Inspector Loup.
That distinguished penologist had laid his hands upon Mlle. Fouchette in no uncertain way.
An order of arrest was at this very moment lying in a certain pigeon-hole at the Préfecture. She had seen it. The name of "Mlle. Fouchette" appeared in the body thereof in big, fat, round letters, and a complete description, age, height, color of hair and eyes, and other particulars appeared across the back of this terrible paper, which was duly signed and ready for service.
A tap of the bell,—a push of an electric button,—and Mlle. Fouchette would be in prison.
There were five distinct counts against her, set forth in ponderous and damning legal phraseology and briefed alphabetically with a precision that carried conviction:
"A.—Vagrant—no home—supposed to have come from Nantes.
"B.—Consort of thieves—confession of life convict called 'le Cochon,' drawer 379, R.M.L. 29.
"C.—Go-between of robbers of the wood of Vincennes and receivers of stolen goods. Confession ofM. Podvin, wine merchant, now serving term of twenty-one years for highway robbery, drawer 1210, R.M.L. 70.
"D.—Fugitive from State institution, where sent by lawful authority. See Le Bon Pasteur, Nancy. R.I. 2734.
"E.—Lost or destroyed public document addressed to the Préfecture and confided to her care under her false representation of being an authorized agent of that department of the government."
The service of this dreadful order of arrest, behind which crouched these crimes ready to rise and spring upon her, was suspended by Inspector Loup. For which tenderness and mercy Fouchette was merely to report to the Secret Service bureau in accordance with a preconcerted arrangement.
Second, Madeleine.
Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely ceased to bless Inspector Loup for his forbearance and kind consideration and was crossing the Pont au Change towards the right bank when she encountered a familiar face. She was somewhat startled at first. Her catalogue of familiar faces was so limited that it was a sensation.
It was the face she had seen through the iron gate on the road to Charenton long, long ago!
Somewhat fuller, somewhat redder, with suspicious circles under the lustrous eyes, yet, unmistakably, the same face. The plump figure looked still more robust, and the athletic limbs showed through the scant bloomer bicycle suit.
The owner of this face and figure did not recognizein the other the petite chiffonnière de Charenton. That would have been too much to expect.
"Pardon! but, mademoiselle——"
Fouchette boldly accosted her nevertheless.
"Pardon! You don't remember me? I'm Fouchette!"
"Fouchette?"
"Yes, mademoiselle. You do not remember the poor little ragpicker of Charenton? But of course not,—it was long ago, and I have changed."
The other stared at her with her big black eyes.
"I was hungry,—you gave me a nice sandwich; it was kind,—and I do not easily forget, mademoiselle,—though I'm only Fouchette,—no!"
"What! Fouchette—the—dame! it is impossible!"
"Still, it is true, mademoiselle," insisted Fouchette, laughing.
"Ah! I see—I know—why, it is Fouchette! 'Only Fouchette'—oh! sacré bleu! To think——"
She embraced the girl between each exclamation, then held her out at arm's length and looked her over critically, from head to feet and back again, then kissed her some more on both cheeks, laughing merrily the while, and attracting the amused attention of numerous passers.
Mlle. Fouchette realized, vaguely, that the laugh was not that of the pretty garden of years ago; she saw that the flushed cheeks were toned down by cosmetics; she noted the vinous smell on the woman's breath.
"Heavens! but how thin and pale you are, petite!" exclaimed the bicycliste.
"It is true. I have just come out of the hospital—only a few days——"
"Pauvrette! Come! Let us celebrate this happy reunion," said the other, grasping Fouchette's arm and striding along the bridge. "You shall tell me everything, dear."
"But, Mademoiselle—er——"
"Madeleine,—just Madeleine, Fouchette."
"Mademoiselle Madeleine——"
"I live over here,—au Quartier Latin. It is the only place—the place to see life. It is Paris! C'est la vie joyeuse!"
"Ah! then you no longer live at——"
"Let us begin here, Fouchette," interrupted Mlle. Madeleine, gravely, "and let us never talk about Charenton,—never! It cannot be a pleasant subject to you,—it is painful to me."
"Oh, pardon me, mademoiselle, I——"
"So it is understood, is it not?"
"With all my heart, mademoiselle!" said Fouchette, not sorry to conclude such a desirable bargain.
"Very good. We begin here——"
"Now."
"Yes, and as if we had never before seen or heard of each other."
"Exactly."
"Good! Now, what are you doing for a living, Fouchette?"
"Nothing."
"Good! So am I."
They laughed quite a great deal at this remarkable coincidence as they went along. And when Mlle.Fouchette protested that she must do something,—sewing, or something,—Mlle. Madeleine laughed yet more loudly, though Mlle. Fouchette saw nothing humorous in the situation.
"Nobody works in the Quartier Latin," said Madeleine. "C'est la vie joyeuse."
"But one must eat, mademoiselle——"
"Very sure! Yes, and drink; but——"
Mlle. Madeleine scrutinized her companion closely,—evidently Mlle. Fouchette was in earnest. Such naïveté in a ragpicker was absurd, preposterous!
"Well, there are the studios," suggested Madeleine.
"The—the studios?"
"Yes,—the painters, you know; only models are a drug in the market here——"
"Models?"
"Yes; and, then, unless one has the figure——" she glanced at Fouchette doubtfully. "I'm getting too stout for anything but Roman mothers, Breton peasants, etc. You're too thin even for an angel or ballet dancer."
"I'm sure I'd rather be a danseuse than an angel," said Fouchette,—"that is, if I've got any choice in the matter."
"But one hasn't. You've got to pose in whatever character they want. Did you ever pose?"
"As a painter's model? Never."
Having ensconced themselves in a popular café restaurant on Boulevard St. Michel, the pair ordered an appetizing déjeuner, and Madeleine proceeded to enlighten Fouchette on the subject of theprofession,—the character and peculiarities of various artists, their exactions of models, the recompense for holding a certain pose for a given time, the difficulty and art of resuming exactly the same pose, the studios for classes in the nude, the students generally and their pranks and games,—especially upon this latter branch of the business.
Mlle. Fouchette listened to all this with breathless interest, as may be imagined. For it was the opening up of a new world to her. The vivid description of the dancing and fun at the Bal Bullier filled her with delight and enthusiasm. She mentally vowed Madeleine as charming and condescending as ever. The girl had volunteered, good-naturedly, to make the rounds of the studios with her and get her "on the list." When Madeleine offered to engineer Fouchette's début at the Bullier the latter cheerfully paid for the repast the other had rather lavishly ordered.
The mere chance rencontre had changed Fouchette's entire plan of life. She had bravely started for the grand boulevards with the idea of securing employment among the myriad dressmaking establishments of that neighborhood, and thus putting to practical use her industrial knowledge gained at Le Bon Pasteur.
Fortunately for her, Monsieur Marot's generous liberality had placed her beyond immediate need. A matron had equipped her with a new though simple costume and had given her a sum of money as she left,—merely saying that she acted according to instructions; but Fouchette felt that it was from her prince.
It was on the advice of Madeleine that Fouchette had secured this place in the Rue St. Jacques.
"It will make you independent and respected," said the practical grisette. "You've got the money now; you won't have it after a while. Take my advice,—fix the place up,—gradually, don't you know? You'll soon make friends who will help you if you're smart; and one must have a place to receive friends, n'est-ce pas? And the hotels garnis rob one shamefully!"
And, while Mlle. Fouchette did not dream of the real significance of this advice, she took it. The details were hers. She knew the value of a sou about as well as any woman in Paris, and no instructions were required on the subject of expenditures. She collected, piece by piece, at bottom prices, those articles which had to be purchased; made, stitch by stitch, such as required the needle.
To Mlle. Fouchette the simple, cheaply furnished and somewhat tawdry little room in the Rue St. Jacques was luxury. She was proud of it. She was perfectly contented with it. It was home.
With the confidence of one who has seen the worst and for whom every change must be for the better, Fouchette had succeeded where others would have been discouraged. This confidence to others often seemed reckless indifference, and consequently carried a certain degree of conviction.
Among a certain class of wild young men and confirmed Bohemians Fouchette had quickly achieved a sort of vogue which attaches to an eccentric woman in Paris. She was eccentric in that she danced eccentric dances, was the most reckless in the sportive circle, thehighest kicker at the Bullier, and, most of all, in that she had no lovers. Unlike the Mimi Pinsons of the Murger era of the quarter, Fouchette was the most notorious of grisettes without being a grisette. At the fête of the student painters at the Bullier she had been borne on a palanquin clad only in a garland of roses amid thousands of vociferous young people of both sexes. The same night she had kicked a young man's front teeth out for presuming on liberties other girls of her set would have considered trifling.
Fouchette at once became the reigning sensation of "la vie joyeuse." Having had little or no pleasure in the world up to her entrée here, she had plunged into the gayety of the quarter with an abandon that within two short months had made the Bohemian tales of Henri Murger tame reading.
Her pedal dexterity in a quarrel had won for her the sobriquet of "La Savatière."
The "savate" as practised by the French boxer is the art of using the feet the same as the hands, and it is a means of offence not to be despised. It is the feline art that utilizes all four limbs in combat. Fouchette acquired it in her infancy,—in the fun and frequent scrimmages of the quarter she found occasion to practise it. Mlle. Fouchette's temper was as eccentric as her dances.
On the wall of Mlle. Fouchette's room hung a rude crayon of that damsel by a prominent caricaturist. It was a front view of her face, in which the artist had maliciously accentuated, in a few bold strokes, the feline fulness of jaws, the half-contracted eyelids, thealert eyes, and general catlike expression,—to be seen only when Mlle. Fouchette was in anger. It was the subtle touch of the master, and was labelled "La Petite Chatte."
"Ah, cè!" she would say to curious visitors,—"it is not me; it is the mind of Léandre."
As Mlle. Fouchette stood tiptoeing before a little folding mirror on the high mantel, the reflection showed both front and sides of a face that betrayed none of these characteristics. In fact, the blonde hair, smoothed flat to the skull and draping low over the ears, after the fashion set by a popular actress of the day, gave her the demure look of a young woman who might shriek at the sight of a man in his shirt-sleeves. Which shows that it is exceedingly unsafe to judge by appearances,—of a woman, especially. The slender figure showed that the physical indications in the delicately rounded arm, the taper fingers, and shapely feet were justified by the proportionate development of the rest of her anatomy. Nature had been gentle rather than generous. Mlle. Fouchette was in demand for angels and ballet dancers.
Her face, evidently, did not suit Mlle. Fouchette, since she was at this moment in the act of touching it up and making it over with colors from an enamelled box,—a trick of the Parisienne of every grade.
Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely put the finishing touches to her artistic job when her door vibrated under a vigorous blow.
She paused, hesitated, flushed with symptoms of a rising temper. One does not feel kindly towards persons hurling themselves thus against one's privatedoor. But the noise continued, as if somebody beat the heavy planking with the fist, and Mlle. Fouchette threw the door open.
Mlle. Madeleine staggered into the room.
"How's this? melon!"
"Oh! so you're here,—you are not there!" gasped the intruder, falling into a seat and fixing her black eyes sullenly upon the other.
Mlle. Fouchette closed the door with a snap and confronted her visitor with a hardening face.
"I thought it was you, Fouchette!"
"Madeleine, you're drunk!"
"No, no, no, no! I have had such a—a—turn, deary,—pardon me! But she had the same figure,—the same hair,—mon Dieu!"
"Who?"
"Oh! I don't know, Fouchette,—the woman with him, you know,—with Henri, Fouchette!"
The speaker seemed overcome with mingled terror and anger. She stopped to collect her thoughts,—to get her breath.
"What a fool you are, Madeleine! I wouldn't go on that way for the best man living! No!"
And Fouchette thought of Jean Marot, and mentally included him.
"Oh! Fouchette, dear, you do not know! You cannot know! You never loved! You cannot love! You are calm and cold and indifferent,—it is your nature. Mine! I am consumed by fire,—it grips my very vitals! Ah! Fouchette!"
"Bah! Madeleine, it is absinthe," said Fouchette, only half pityingly.
"No, no, no, no!" moaned the other, covering her face with her hands.
"So this Lerouge has disappeared, eh? Well, then, let him go, fool! Are there not others?"
"Mon Dieu! Fouchette, how you talk!"
"Who is this lucky woman?"
"I do not know,—I do not know! Pardon me for thinking it, Fouchette, but I was half crazy,—I thought but just now that it was—was you!"
"Idiot!"
"Yes, I know; but one does not stop to reason where one loves."
"As if I would throw myself into the arms of any man! You sicken me, Madeleine. But I thought this Lerouge, whoever he is,—I never even saw him,—had disappeared——"
"From his place in the Rue Monge, yes. Fouchette, why should he run away?"
"With a girl he likes better than you? What a question! All men do that, you silly goose!"
"He said it was his sister. Bah! I know better, Fouchette. Her name's Remy,—yes, Mademoiselle Remy. And a little, skinny, tow-headed thing like—oh! no, no, no! Fouchette, pardon me! I didn't mean that! I'm half crazy!"
"I believe you," said Fouchette.
"Yes, Monsieur Marot told me——"
Mlle. Fouchette had started so perceptibly that the speaker stopped. Mlle. Fouchette had carefully guarded her own secrets, but this sudden surprise was——
"Well, melon!" she snapped.
"I—why, I didn't know you——"
"What did Monsieur Marot tell you?" demanded the other.
"That her name was Remy."
"Oh!" said Mlle. Fouchette, coldly.
"So you know Monsieur Marot? They say he resembles Lerouge, but I don't think so. Anyhow, he's in love with Mademoiselle Remy."
Mlle. Fouchette's steel-blue eyes flashed fire.
"You lie!" she screamed, in sudden frenzy. "You lie! you drunken gossip!"
Mlle. Madeleine was on her feet in an instant, but Fouchette's right foot caught her on the point of the chin, and the stout grisette went down like a log.
Madeleine came to her senses to find her antagonist bending over her with a wet towel and weeping hysterically.
They immediately embraced and wept together.
Then Mlle. Fouchette rummaged in the deep closet in the wall and brought forth a bottle of cognac. Whereupon Madeleine not only suddenly dried her tears but began to smile. Half an hour later she had forgotten all unpleasantness and went away leaving many endearments behind her.
Mlle. Fouchette was scarcely less astonished at her own outburst than had been her friend Madeleine, when she had time to think of it.
What could Jean Marot be to her, Fouchette? Nothing.
Suppose he did love this Mlle. Remy, what of it? Nothing.
Monsieur Marot was a being afar off, inaccessible, almost intangible,—like the millionaire employer to his humble workman, covered with sweat and grime, at the bottom of the shop.
When Mlle. Fouchette thought of him it was only in that way, and she would have no more thought of even so much as wishing for him than she would have wished for the moon to play with. She had met him, by accident, twice since her departure from his roof, and the first time he had a hurried, uneasy air, as if he feared she might presume to detain him. The second time he had gone out of his way to stop her and talkto her and to inquire what she was doing and how she was getting along,—condescendingly, as one might interest himself for the moment in a former servant.
In the mean time Jean Marot had held himself aloof from "la vie joyeuse" and from the reunions at "Le Petit Rouge." It attracted the attention of his associates.
"First Lerouge, now it's Jean," growled Villeroy. "Comes of loafing along the quais nights,—it's malaria."
"He's greatly changed," remarked another student.
"It's worry," said another.
"Probably debts," observed young Massard, thinking of his chief affliction.
"Bah! that kind of worry never pulls you down like this," retorted a companion.
"Now, don't get personal; but debts do worry a fellow,—debts and women."
"Put women first; debts follow as a necessary corollary."
"He ought to hunt up Lerouge. What the devil is in that Lerouge, anyhow?"
"More women," said Massard.
"And debts, eh?"
"Oh, well," continued Massard, "if she is a pretty woman——"
"She's more than pretty," cut in George Villeroy,—"she's a beauty!"
"Hear! hear! Très bien!"
But the student turned to the "subject" on the "dressing-table," humming a gay chanson of Musset: