"Me voilà!" said Fouchette, gaining her feet and lightly shaking her ruffled remains together, as if she were a young pullet that had calmly fluttered down from the roost.
"Well, you're a bird!" he ejaculated, the more embarrassed of the two.
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, but for you I'd soon have been a dead bird! I thank you ever so much."
She reached up at him and succeeded in pecking a little kiss on his chin. It was her first attempt at the masculine mouth and she could scarcely be censured if she missed it.
"It certainly was a lucky chance that I came this way at the moment," he said.
"It was, indeed," she assented.
He was surveying her now by the light of his lantern; and he smiled at her slight figure in the short petticoat. Her blind confidence in him and her general assurance amused him.
"Where were you thinking of going, mademoiselle?"
"To Paris."
"Paris!"
The young man almost dropped his lantern. Paris seemed out of reach to him.
"And why not, monsieur?"
"Er—well, mademoiselle, climbing a tree and throwing one's self head over heels over a wall—er—and——"
"And leaving ones skirt hanging on the spikes——"
"Yes,—is not the customary way for young ladies to start for Paris. But I suppose you know what you are about."
"If I only had my skirt."
Fouchette glanced up at the offending member of her attire which she had cast from her.
"Never mind that,—I'll return and get it. Come with me, mademoiselle. I live near by, and my mother and sisters will protect you for the time being. Come! Where's your hat?"
"I didn't have time——"
"You didn't stop to pack your bundle, eh?"
"Not exactly, monsieur."
They walked along silently for a few yards, following the wall.
"You have relatives in Paris, mademoiselle?" he finally asked.
"No, monsieur."
"Friends, then?"
"Well, yes."
"It is good. Paris is no place for a young girl alone. Besides, it is just now a scene of riot and bloodshed. It is in a state bordering on revolution. All France is roused. Royalists and Bonapartists have combined against the life of the republic. Paris is swarming with troops. There will be barricades and fighting in the streets, mademoiselle."
Fouchette recalled the fragments of conversations overheard,—conversations between the Supérieure and Father Sébastien and certain visitors. Beyond this casual information she knew absolutely nothing ofwhat was going on in the outer world. He misconstrued her silence.
"Whom do you know in Paris, mademoiselle?—somebody powerful enough to protect you?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur," she promptly answered. "I know one man,—one who sent me here,—who is powerful——"
"May I ask——"
"The Chief of the Secret Police," she said, lowering her tone to a confidential scale,—"Inspector Loup."
"Oh, pardon, mademoiselle!" quickly responded the young man. "Pardon! I meant it for your welfare, not to inquire into your business. Oh, no; do not think me capable of that!"
He appeared to be somewhat frightened at what he had done, but became reassured when she passed it with easy good nature.
"It is important, then, mademoiselle, that you reach Paris at once?"
"It is very important, monsieur."
"The royalist scoundrels are very active," he said. "They must be headed off—exposed!"
He spoke enthusiastically, seizing Fouchette's hand warmly. That demoiselle, who was floundering around in a position she did not understand, walked along resolved to keep her peace. He assured her that she might fully rely upon him and his in this emergency. Let her put him to the test.
The enigmatical situation was more confounding to Fouchette when she was being overwhelmed with the subservient attentions of the young man's family; but the less she comprehended the more she held hertongue. They were of the class moderately well-to-do and steeped in politics up to the neck.
Fouchette knew next to nothing about politics. Only that France was a republic and that many were dissatisfied with that form of government; that some wanted the empire, and others the restoration of the kings, and still others anything but existing things. Having never been called upon to form an opinion, Fouchette had no opinion on the subject. She did not care a snap what kind of a government ruled,—it could make no difference to her.
Coming in contact with all of this enthusiasm, she now knew that Le Bon Pasteur was royalist for some reason; and she shrewdly guessed, without the assistance of this family conviction, that all Jesuits, whatever they might otherwise be, were also royalists. And, as Inspector Loup was a part of the existing government, he must be a republican,—which was not so shrewd as it was logical; therefore that if Sister Agnes was suspected of being friendly to Inspector Loup, the good sister was a republican and naturally the political enemy of the managers of Le Bon Pasteur. Whatever Sister Agnes was it must be right.
But in holding her tongue Fouchette was most clever of all,—whereas, usually, the less people know about government the more persistently they talk politics.
The young man went back to the wall with a fish-pole and rescued the recalcitrant skirt, much to her delight. His mother mended the rents in it and his sisters fitted her out with a smart hat.
It was soon developed that Fouchette had no money. This brought about a family consultation.
"I must go to Paris," said Fouchette, determinedly, "if I have to walk!"
"Nonsense!" said the young man.
"Nonsense!" chimed in mother and sisters.
"I'll fix you all right," finally declared the young man, "on a single condition,—that you carry a letter from me to Inspector Loup and deliver it into his own hands, mademoiselle. Is it a bargain?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur,—very sure!" cried the girl, almost overcome by this last good fortune. "You are very good,—it would be a pleasure, monsieur, I assure you."
"And if you were to tell him the part I have taken to-night in your case it would be of great service,—if you would be so good, mademoiselle. Not that it is anything, but——"
"You may be assured of that, too," said Fouchette, who, however, did not understand what possible interest lay in this direction.
They were all so effusive and apparently grateful that she was made to believe herself a very important personage.
As the letter was brought out immediately, she saw that it was already prepared, and wondered why it was not sent by post.
Another family consultation, and it was decided that Fouchette might lose the letter by some accident; so, on the suggestion of the mother, it was carefully sewn in the bosom of their emissary's dress.
It was also suggested that, since an effort for Fouchette's recapture might include the careful scrutiny of the trains for Paris the next day, she should beaccompanied at once to a suburban town where she could take the midnight express.
All of these details were not settled without considerable discussion, in which Fouchette came to the private conclusion that they were even more anxious for her to get to Paris than she was herself, if such a thing were possible.
Fouchette arrived in Paris and alighted at the Gare de l'Est at a very early hour in the morning. Her idea had been to go direct to the Préfecture and demand the whereabouts of Sister Agnes. Incidentally she would deliver the mysterious letter intrusted to her.
But during her journey Fouchette had enjoyed ample time for reflection. She was not absolutely certain of her reception at the hands of Inspector Loup; could not satisfy her own mind that he would receive her at all. Besides, would he really know anything about Sister Agnes?
Fouchette's self-confidence had been oozing away in the same ratio as she was nearing her journey's end. When she had finally arrived she was almost frightened at the notion of meeting Inspector Loup. He had threatened her with prison. He might regard her now as an escaped convict. On the whole, Fouchette was really sorry she had run away. Back again in Paris, where she had suffered so much, she realized again that there were worse places for a girl than Le Bon Pasteur. Anyhow, it was early,—there was plenty of time,—she would consider.
She took the tramway of the BoulevardsStrausbourg and Sébastopol, climbing to the imperial, where a seat was to be had for three sous.
What crowds of people!
She was surprised to see the great human flood pouring down the boulevards and side streets at such an early hour in the morning. But her volatile nature rose to the touch of excitement. She at once forgot everything else but the street. Fouchette was a true Parisienne.
"Paris!" she murmured; "dear Paris!"
As if Paris had blessed her childhood with pleasure, instead of having starved and beaten her and degraded her to the level of beasts!
"Where on earth are all of these people going?" she asked herself.
There were now and then cries of "Vive l'armée!" "Vive la république!" and "Vive la France!" while the excitement seemed to grow as they reached the Porte St. Denis.
"What is it, monsieur?" she finally asked the man at her side.
"It is the 25th of October," said he.
"But, monsieur, what is the matter?"
He looked over his shoulder at the young girl rather resentfully, though his doubts as to her sincerity vanished in a smile.
"It is the rentrée of the Chambers," he answered.
"Oh," she said, "is that it?"
But she knew no more now than she had known before. Presently her curiosity again got the better of her timidity.
"Where are they going, monsieur?"
"They don't know, mademoiselle. Palais Bourbon, Place de la Concorde,—anywhere it happens to be lively enough to suit. But where have you been, mademoiselle, to not know,—in the country?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And where are you going?"
"Place de la Concorde."
"Don't do it, little one,—don't you do it! It is not a place for a mite like you on such a day. Take my advice,—go anywhere else."
"I'm going to the Place de la Concorde, monsieur," she responded, quite stiffly.
When she reached the great plaza, however, she found it practically deserted. The usual throngs of carriages were passing to and fro. Immense black crowds blocked the Rue Royale at the Madeleine and in the opposite direction in the vicinity of the Palais Bourbon across the river. These crowds appeared to be held at bay by the cordons of police agents, who kept the Place de la Concorde clear and pedestrians moving lively in the intersecting streets.
Fouchette hopped nimbly off the steps of the omnibus she had taken at le Châtelet, to the amusement of a gang of hilarious students from the Latin Quarter, who recognized in her the "tenderfoot."
The Parisienne always leaves the omnibus steps with her back to the horses. This keeps American visitors standing around looking for a mishap which never happens; for the Parisienne is an expert equilibrist and can perform this feat while the vehicle is at full speed, not only with safety but with an airy grace that is often charming.
But Fouchette did not mind the laughter; she had found a good place from which to view whatever was to be seen. She did not have to wait long.
"À bas le sabre!" shouted a man.
"À bas les traitres!" yelled the students in unison.
One of the latter leaped at the man and felled him with a blow.
The frantic crowd of young men attempted to jump upon this victim of public opinion, but as others rushed at the same time to his rescue, all came together in a tumultuous, struggling heap.
The angry combatants surged this way and that,—the score soon became an hundred, the hundred became a thousand. It was a mystery whence these turbulent elements sprang, so quickly did the mob gather strength.
The original offender got away in the confusion. But the struggle went on, accompanied by shouts, curses, and groans. One platoon of police agents charged down upon the fighters, then another platoon.
Friends struck friends in sheer excess of fury. The momentarily swelling roar of the combat reverberated in the Rue Royale and echoed and re-echoed from the garden of the Tuileries.
The police agents struggled in vain. They were unable to penetrate beyond the outer rows of the mob. And these turned and savagely assaulted the agents.
Then the massive grilles of the Tuileries swung upon their hinges and a squadron of cuirassiers slowly trotted into the Place de la Concorde. They swept gracefully into line. A harsh, rasping sound of steel, a rattle of breastplates as the sabres twinkled in thesunshine, and the column moved down upon the snarling horde of human tigers.
Brave when it was a single unarmed man, the mob broke and ran like frightened sheep at the sight of the advancing cavalry.
In the mean time myriads of omnibuses, vans, carriages, and vehicles of all descriptions, having been blocked by a similar mob in the narrow Rue Royale and at the Pont de la Concorde in the other direction, now became tangled in an apparently inextricable mass in the middle square.
The individual members of the crowd broke for this cover, while the agents dashed among them to make arrests. Men scrambled under omnibuses and wagons, leaped through carriages, dodged between wheels, climbed over horses, crept on their hands and knees beneath vans.
Fouchette ran like a rabbit, but between the rush of police and scattering of the mob she was sorely hustled. She finally sprang into an open voiture in the jam, and wisely remained there in spite of the driver's furious gesticulations.
"This way!" cried a stalwart young student to his fleeing companions.
The agents were hot upon them.
Fouchette saw that they were covered with dirt, and one was hatless. And this one glared at her as he dodged beneath the horse.
The next vehicle was pulled up short, as if to close the narrow passage, whereat the hatless man shook his fist at the driver and cursed him.
"Vive la liberté!" retorted the driver.
"So! We'll give you liberty, you cur!" and the hatless man called to his nearest companion, "Over with him!"
The two seized the light vehicle and overturned it as if it were an empty basket. The driver pitched forward, sprawling, to the asphalt. Seeing which the wary driver of the voiture in which Fouchette was seated turned and called to her behind his hand,—
"Keep your seat, mademoiselle! It's all right!"
He was terrified lest his carriage should follow the fate of his neighbor's. But the young men merely compelled him to whip up and keep the lines closed, and with this moving barricade they trotted along secure from present assault. Fouchette could have touched the nearest student. She was so frightened that the coachman's admonition was quite unnecessary. She could not have stirred.
"Jean!" said the hatless man to the other, who was so close, "you saw Lerouge there?"
"See him! I was near enough to punch him!"
"Did you——"
"Ah!" There was a quaver in his voice.
"I understand, my friend."
"But I can't understand Lerouge," said the young man called Jean. "Don't be afraid, mademoiselle," he added, speaking to Fouchette reassuringly. "Our friends the agents——"
"Oh, there they come, monsieur!" she cried.
"Pardieu!" exclaimed the hatless. "We're caught!"
A big van loaded with straw blocked the way. Behind it skulked a whole platoon of blue uniforms. The fugitives hesitated for a second or two.
"Over with it!" shouted the hatless young man, at the same moment appropriating a deserted headpiece.
"Down with the agents!"
A dozen stalwart young men seized the big wheels. The top-heavy load wavered an instant, then went over with a simultaneous swish and a yell.
The latter came from the police agents, now half buried in the straw.
A second squadron of cavalry, Garde de Paris, drawn up near by, witnessed this incident and smiled. These little pleasantries amuse all good Parisians.
Safety now lay in separation. Jean kept on towards the Rue Royale; his friends broke off, scattering towards the Rue de Rivoli.
"Que diable!" he muttered.
He stopped and looked hastily about him.
"Well, devil take her anyhow,—she's gone. And I'm here."
He saw himself, with many others out of the line of blocked vehicles, hemmed in by agents, Gardes de Paris, and cuirassiers to the right and left, now driven into the Rue Royale as stray animals into a pound.
Double lines of police agents supported by infantry and cavalry held both ends of this short street; here, where it opened into the Place de la Concorde and there where it led at the Madeleine into the grand boulevards.
The roar of the mob came down upon him from the Madeleine, where the rioters had forced the defensive line from time to time only to be driven back by thefists and feet of the police agents and with the flat of the cavalry sabre.
The authorities knew their ground. The Rue Royale was the key to the military position.
But in the attempt to clear the Place de la Concorde the nearest fugitives were thrust into the Rue Royale and driven by horse and foot towards the Madeleine, where they were mercilessly kicked outside the lines to shift for themselves, an unwilling part of a frenzied mob.
"I'm a rat in a trap here," growled the young man, having been literally thrown through the lower cordon by two stalwart agents.
The shopkeepers had put up their heavy shutters. The grilles were closed. People looked down from window and balcony upon a street sealed as tight as wax.
Having witnessed the infantry reserves ambushed behind the Ministry of Marine filling their magazines, and being confronted by a fresh émeute above, Jean Marot began to feel queer for the first time of a day of brawls.
He recalled the historical fact that here in this narrow street a thousand people were slain in a panic on the occasion of the celebration of the marriage of Marie Antoinette.
A horseman with drawn sabre rode at him and ordered him to move on more quickly.
"But where to, Monsieur le Caporal?"
"Anywhere, mon enfant! Out of this, now! Circulate!"
"But——"
"There is no 'but!' What business have you here? You are not a Deputy!" The man urged him with his sabre.
"Hold, Monsieur le Caporal! Has, then, a citizen of Paris no longer any right to go home without insult from the uniform?"
"Where do you live, monsieur?"
"Just around the corner in the Faubourg St. Honoré," replied the young man.
"Ah!" growled the cavalryman, doubtfully, "and there is another route."
All of this time the soldier's horse, trained by much service of this sort during the preceding year, was pushing Jean along of his own accord,—now with his breast, now with his impatient nose,—to the considerable sacrifice of that young man's dignity. The latter edged up to the wall, but the horse followed him, shoving him along gently but firmly under a loose rein.
Jean flattened himself against a doorway to escape the pressure. But the horse paused also and leaned against him.
"Oh, say, then!"
"Hello! Here they come again!" exclaimed the corporal, reining in his horse, with his eyes bent towards the Madeleine.
At this juncture the door was suddenly opened and Jean, who was fast having the breath squeezed out of him, fell inside.
The door was as suddenly closed again and barred.
The cavalryman, who had not seen this movement, glanced around on either side, behind, then beneathhis horse, finally up in the sky, and shrugged his shoulders and rode on along the walk.
"Oho, Monsieur Jean!" roared a friendly voice as the young man caught his breath; "trying to break into my house, eh? By my saint, young man, you were in a mighty tight place! Oh, this dreadful day! No business at all, and——"
"Business!" gasped Jean,—"business, man! Never had a more busy day in my life!"
"You? Yes! it is such wild young blades as you and that serious-looking Lerouge who raise all the row in Paris.—I say, monsieur," broke off the garrulous old restaurateur, and, running to the window behind the bar, "they're putting the sand!"
Men with barrows from the Ministry of Marine were hastily strewing the smooth asphalt with sand. It meant cavalry operations.
"But, Monsieur Jean, where's your double? Where's the other Marot to-day?"
Jean's face clouded. He did not reply.
"I never saw two men look so much alike," continued the restaurateur.
"So the medics all say, and that I do all the deviltry and Henri gets sent to dépôt for it." He had called for something to eat, and looked up from the distant table in continuation,—
"Lerouge has turned out to be the most rabid Dreyfusarde. We met in the fun to-day——"
"Fun!"
"There certainly was fun for a while. George Villeroy, when I last saw him, was being chased to theRue de Rivoli. Hope he gets back this evening at Le Petit Rouge."
"Le Petit Rouge! Faugh! Nest of red republicans, royalists——"
"No royalists——"
"Anarchists——"
"Yes, I'll admit that——"
"And bloody bones——"
"Bloody noses to-day, monsieur."
"And this Lerouge and you?"
"Yes, this is George's night to carve," said Jean, changing the subject back to surgery.
"Carve?"
"Yes,—certes! Cut into something fresh, if it turns up."
"Turns up?"
"Why, Monsieur Bibbôlet, you're as clever as a parrot! Yes, turns up. Subject, stiff, cadaver,—see?—Le café, garçon!"
"Ah! you medical——"
"You see, George has a new arterial theory to demonstrate. I tell you, he can pick up an artery as easily as your cook can pick a chicken. If you'd care to let him try——"
"How! Pick up my arteries? Not if I——"
"What's that?"
They again ran to the window.
"It's the cuirassiers, Monsieur Jean! Ah! if it came to blows they'd pot 'em like rabbits here! You're out of it just in time."
So closely was the squadron of cuirassiers wedged in the street that Jean could have put his hand uponthe jack-boots of the nearest soldier. There had been a fresh break in the Madeleine guard, and this was the reserve. They slowly pricked their resistless way, and one by one the exhausted agents slipped between them to the rear. Some of the latter dragged prisoners, some supported bruised and bleeding victims. Some persons had been trampled or beaten into insensibility, and these were being carried towards the Place de la Concorde. Among them were women. There are always women in the Paris mob.
And this particular mob was a mere political "manifestation." That was all. It was the 25th of October, 1898, and the day on which the French Parliament met. So the Parisian patriots lined the route to the Palais Bourbon and "manifested" their devotion to liberty French fashion, by clubbing everybody who disagreed with them.
"Well!" said Jean, "they have pushed beyond St. Honoré. I can get home now."
"Not yet, monsieur. Do not go yet. It is still dangerous. A bottle of old Barsac with me."
Night had fallen. Jean Marot was cautiously let out of a side door.
The Ministry had also fallen.
Hoarse-lunged venders of the evening papers announced the fact in continuous cries. Travel had been resumed in the Rue Royale. Here and there the shops began to take in their shutters and resume business. Timid shopkeepers came out on the walk and discussed the situation with each other.
The ministerial journals sold by wholesale. Theangry manifestants burned them in the streets. Which rendered the camelots more insistent and obnoxious with fresh bundles to be sold and destroyed in the same way.
Jean Marot, refreshed by rest and food, lingered a moment at Rue St. Honoré, uncertain whether to return to his rooms or join a mob of patriots howling the Marseillaise in front of the Café de Londres.
"Enough," he finally concluded, and turned up towards the Rue Boissy d'Anglais.
There were evidences of a fierce struggle in the narrow but aristocratic faubourg. Usually a blaze of light at this hour, it was closed from street to street and practically deserted. Scared milliners and dress-makers and fashionable jewellers peered out from upper windows, still afraid to open up. Fragments of broken canes, battered hats, and torn vestments told an eloquent story of political differences.
"We certainly missed the fun here," thought Jean. "Hello! What's this?"
He had tripped on a woman's skirt in the shadow of the wall.
"Peste! Why can't our fair dames and demoiselles letusfight it out? There really isn't enough to go round!"
He paused, then returned impulsively and looked at the dark bundle,—stirred it with his foot. It was certainly the figure of a woman.
"Last round," he muttered; "next, the Seine!"
His budding professional instincts prompted him to search for the pulse.
It was still.
And when he took his hand away it was covered with blood.
"Wait!"
He placed his hand over the heart, then uncovered a young but bruised and swollen face.
"The cavalry," he murmured. "She's dead; she—well, perhaps it was better."
He glanced up and down the street, as if considering whether to go his way or to call the police. There was nobody in sight near enough to attract by cries. The police were busy elsewhere. Then his face all at once lighted up.
"A good idea!" he ejaculated,—"a very good idea!"
He saw two cabs approaching.
Calling the first, he began to carry the good idea into immediate execution.
"What is it, monsieur?" inquired the cabman, seeing the body.
"An accident. Quick, cocher!"
With his usual decision Jean thrust the body into the cab and followed it.
"Allez!" he commanded.
"But, monsieur,—the—the—where to?"
"Pont de Solferino, to Boulevard St. Germain. An extra franc, my lad!"
Having vaguely started the cabby, Jean had time to think. He knew the prejudices most people entertain concerning the dead. Especially the prejudices of Paris police agents and cabmen. To give the Rue de Médecine would set the man to speculating. To mention Le Petit Rouge would be to have him hail the first man in uniform.
As to Jean Marot, medical student, du Quartier Latin, in his fourth year, a lifeless body was no more than a bag of sand. It was merely a "subject."
"The chief benefit conferred upon society and humanity by a large proportion of our population," he would have cynically observed to any caviller, "is by dying and becoming useful 'subjects.'"
He considered himself fortunate, however, in having a close cab, out of deference to those who might differ with him. They crossed the Pont de Solferino, where a momentary halt gave a couple of alert agents a chance to scrutinize him a little more sharply than was comfortable, and turned down Boulevard St. Germain.
At the École de Médecine Jean stopped the cab, as if struck with a new idea.
"Cocher!"
"Yes, monsieur?"
"Drive to 12 Rue Antoine Dubois."
"How then!"
"I said—drive—to—No. 12—Rue Antoine Dubois! You know where that is?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur,—only—er—it is right over there opposite the——"
The man was so excited he found difficulty in expressing himself.
"École Pratique,—that's right," said Jean.
Hardened sinner that he was, the old Paris coachman crossed himself and, as he entered the uncanny neighborhood, felt around for the sacred amulet that every good Frenchman wears next to the skin.
"I must get some instruments there before taking this lady home," Jean added.
The Rue Antoine Dubois is a short street connecting the Rue et Place de l'École de Médecine with the Rue de Monsieur le Prince. One side of it is formed by the gloomy wall of the École Pratique, where more "subjects" are disposed of annually than in any other dozen similar institutions in the world; the other by various medical shops and libraries, over which are "clubs," "laboratories," "cliniques," and student lodgings. At the Rue de Monsieur le Prince the street ends in a great flight of steps. It therefore forms an impasse, or a pocket for carriages, and is little used. It was now deserted.
The coachman drew up before a dark court entrance, a sickly light shining upon him through the surgical appliances, articulated skeletons, skulls, and other professional exhibits of the nearest window.
"Let us see; I'll take her up-stairs and make a more careful examination."
"You—you're a doctor, monsieur?"
"Yes,—there!" He gave the man a five-franc piece. "No,—never mind the change."
"Merci, monsieur!"
"Better wait—till I see how she is, you know."
Jean bore his burden very carefully till out of sight; then threw it over his shoulder and felt his way up the half-lighted stairs. He knew quite well that the man would not wait; believed that the overpayment would induce him to get away as quickly and as far as possible.
"It's a stiff, sure!" growled the nervous cabman, and he drove out of the place at a furious rate.
Jean threw his "subject" on the floor and hunted around for a light.
"Le Petit Rouge"—its frequenters were medical students and political extremists—was replete with books, bones, and anatomical drawings, black-and-white and in colors. Two complete skeletons mounted guard,—one in the farther corner, one behind the door. There were tables and instrument-cases, and surgical saws and things in racks. There were easy-chairs, pipes, etc. A skull, with the top neatly sawed off to serve as cover, formed a tobacco receptacle.
But the chef-d'œuvre was from Jean's ingenious hand. It was the bow-backed skeleton behind the door, which had been cleverly arranged as and was called "Madame la Concierge." The skeleton had been arrayed in a short conventional ballet skirt and scanty lace cap, and held a candle in one hand and a bottle marked "Absinthe" in the other. The skirt was to indicate her earlier career, the cap and candle gave an inkling of her later life, while the bottle told the probable cause of her decease. This skeleton was so controlled by wires and cords that it could be made to move out in front of the open door and raise the candle above the head, as if to see who asked for admission. When the room was in semi-darkness Madame la Concierge of Le Petit Rouge was charmingly effective, and had been known to throw some people into spasms.
Placing his lamp in a favorable position, Jean Marot pulled off his coat, removed his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and proceeded to extend his subject upon whatyoung Armand Massard facetiously called "the dressing-table."
"Good God!" he exclaimed, falling back a step. "Why, it's the demoiselle of the Place de la Concorde!"
And so it was.
Fouchette had been thrown from the voiture in the conflict, and had been run over by the mob and trampled into the mud of the gutter. So covered with the filth of the street was she, so torn and bruised and bedraggled, that she would have been unrecognizable even to one who had seen her more often than had her present examiner.
There was something in the girl's face, however, that had left an impression on the mind of Jean Marot not easily effaced. It was too indistinct and unemotional, this impression, to inspire analysis, but it was there, so that, under the lamp, Jean had at once recognized the young woman of the carriage.
"It's murder, that's what it is," he soliloquized,—"victim of 'Vive l'armée.'"
A most careful examination showed there were no bones broken, though the young body was literally black and blue.
The face was that of a prize-fighter's after a stubborn battle.
Inspection of the clothing developed no marks of recognition. Her pocket lining showed that she had been robbed of anything she may have possessed. The coarse character and general appearance of the clothing indicated her lowly condition of charity scholar.
Although rigor mortis had not yet set in, the medical student, armed with a basin and sponge, proceeded to prepare the body for the scalpel.
"This ought to suit George Villeroy," he mused."And George has always said I was no good except on a lark. He has always pined for a fresh subject——"
He was attracted by the quality and peculiar color of the hair, and washing the stains from the head, examined the latter attentively.
"I never saw but one woman with hair like that, and she—wonder what the devil is in Lerouge, anyhow!—I suppose—hold on here! Let us see."
He had found a terrible gash in the scalp. Hastily obtaining his instruments, he skilfully lifted a bit of crushed skull.
As he did so he fancied there was a slight tremor in the slender body. He nervously tested the heart, the nostrils, the pulse, then breathed once more.
"Dame! It is imagination. That break would have killed an ox!"
Yet he took another careful look at the wound, cutting away some of the fair hair in order to get at the fracture. Then he made another experiment.
"Pardieu! she's alive," he whispered, hoarsely. "What's to be done? They're right. Jean! Jean! you'll never be a doctor! Never be anything but a d——d fool!"
But Jean Marot, if not a doctor, was a young man of action and resources. Even as he spoke he grabbed a sheet and a blanket from a cot in the corner, snatched a hat belonging to Massard's grisette from the wall, bundled the girl's clothes around the body the best he could, and ran to the window.
As he had anticipated would be the case, the cabman had disappeared.
He was fully aware of the risk he now ran; butabove his sense of personal danger rose his sympathy and anxiety for the young girl.
He realized that his first step must be to get her out of this place; next to get her under the care of a regular practitioner. French law is severe in such a contingency. Without hesitation he again shouldered his burden,—this time with infinite gentleness.
At first he had thought of depositing it in the court below until he had secured a cab in the Rue et Place de l'École de Médecine; but he saw an open voiture passing along the elevated horizon of the Rue de Monsieur le Prince and gave a shrill whistle.
The cab stopped.
Jean bounded up the steps as one endowed with superhuman strength. Placing his charge within, he mounted by her side.
"Faubourg St. Honoré!" he commanded. "And good speed and safe arrival is worth ten francs to you, my man!"
If Jean had followed his first idea and turned to the left instead of to the right he would have met some of his late revolutionary comrades returning, in boisterous spirits, to Le Petit Rouge.
"Parbleu!" exclaimed Villeroy, throwing himself into a chair, "but I believe every police agent in Paris has trodden on my corns this day!"
"For my part," said young Massard, a thin, pale, indolent young man scarcely turned twenty-one, "I don't see much fun in being hustled, shoved, kicked, pounded——"
"But, Armand," interrupted the third man, "think of the fun you have afforded the other fellow!"
This speaker was known as the double of Jean Marot, only some people could not see the slightest resemblance when the two were together,—Lerouge being taller, darker, more athletic in appearance, and more serious of temper.
"I say, Lerouge, I don't think your crowd of Dreyfusardes got much pleasure out of us to-day," put in Villeroy, dryly.
"We got some of it out of the police, it is true," said Lerouge. Henri Lerouge was half anarchist, socialist, and an extremist generally, of whom French politics presents a formidable contingent.
Armand Massard thoughtfully helped himself to a pipe of tobacco from the grim tabatière on the table. Politics was barred at Le Petit Rouge, and Lerouge was known to be rather irritable. On the subject of the police these young fellows were unanimous. The agents were considered fair game in the Quartier Latin.
"I've had enough of them for this once, George," yawned Massard.
"And they've had enough of us probably," suggested Villeroy.
"It is lively,—too much,—this continued dodging the police——"
"Together with one's creditors——"
A loud double rap startled them.
"Mordieu!" exclaimed that young man, leaping to his feet, "that's one now! Don't open!"
Again the peremptory raps, louder than before. There was also a clank of steel.
"Police agents or I'm a German!" said Villeroy.
Henri Lerouge, a contemptuous smile on his handsome face, arose to admit the callers.
"Wait!" whispered Massard,—"one moment! Madame la Concierge shall receive them."
This idea tickled the young men exceedingly. They had little to fear from the police, unless it was the chance identification on the Place de la Concorde. But these things are rarely pushed.
Madame la Concierge was quickly arranged, her candle lighted. Then the other light was turned down.
When the door was slowly opened four police officers, headed by the commissary of the quarter, entered.
But they stopped abruptly on the threshold. The hideous skeleton with the candle confronted them. A sepulchral voice demanded,—
"Who knocks so loudly at an honest door?"
It is no impeachment of the courage and efficiency of the Paris police to say that the men recoiled in terror from this horrible apparition. So suddenly, in fact, that the two agents in the rear were precipitated headlong down the short flight. The other two vanished scarcely less hastily. A fifth man, who had evidently been following the agents at a respectful distance, received the full impact of the falling bodies, and with one terrified yell sank almost senseless on the stair.
This man was the cabman who had brought Jean Marot to Le Petit Rouge.
The veteran commissary, however, flinched only foran instant. Having served many years in the Quartier Latin, he was no stranger to the pranks and customs of medical students. The next instant he had his foot in the doorway, to retain his advantage, and was calling his men a choice assortment of Parisian names. To emphasize this he entered and gave Madame la Concierge a kick that caused her poor old bones to rattle.
"For shame!" cried young Massard, laughingly, turning up the light. "To kick an old woman!"
"Now here, gentlemen, students,—you are a nice lot!"
"Thanks! Monsieur le Commissaire," replied Lerouge, with a polite bow.
"You are quite aware, gentlemen," continued the stern official, "that you are responsible at this moment for any injury to my men?"
"No, monsieur," retorted Lerouge in his dry fashion; "but, if any bones are broken we'll set 'em."
"Free of charge," added Villeroy.
"I want none of your impudence, monsieur! What's your name?"
"George Villeroy, 7 Rue du Pot de Fer, medical student, aged twenty-four, single, born at Tours."
Well these young roysterers knew the police formula! Armand Massard gave in his record at a nod. The veteran commissary wrote the replies down.
"And what is your name, monsieur?"
"Henri Lerouge, Monsieur le Commissaire."
"Ah! I think we have had the pleasure of meeting before this," observed the official. "A hundred francs that this is our man," he added under his breath.Then, turning to his men, who had stolen in, shamefaced, one by one,—
"Dubat!"
"Yes, monsieur." A keen-eyed agent stepped forward and saluted military fashion.
"Do you recognize one of these gentlemen as the man who crossed the Pont de Solferino this evening with something——"
"Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire,"—pointing promptly to Henri Lerouge,—"that's the man!"
"So. You may step aside, Dubat. Now where is that—oh! Monsieur Perriot?"
"Monsieur le Commissaire," responded the unhappy cabman, who had scarcely recovered from his mishap in the stairway. He limped painfully to the front.
"Now, Perriot, do you——"
"There he is, Monsieur le Commissaire," anticipated the cabman. "I'd know him among a thousand."
"Ah! And there we are. I thought so!" said the police official. "Now, Monsieur Lerouge," facing the latter with a catlike eye, "where's the body?"
The young man looked puzzled, very naturally, while his companions were speechless with astonishment.
The veteran police officer took in every detail of this and mentally admitted that it was clever, deucedly clever, acting.
"I say,where is the body?" he repeated.
"And I say," retorted Lerouge, with a calmness of tone and steadiness of eye that almost staggered theold criminal catcher, "that I do not understand you, and am very patiently awaiting your explanation."
"Search the place!" curtly commanded the officer.
A clamorous protest arose from all three of the students. But the commissary of police waved them aside.
"It means that this man, Henri Lerouge, between six and seven o'clock this evening, carried a dead body from the Rue St. Honoré——"
"Faubourg St. Honoré, Monsieur le Commissaire," interrupted the cabman, feebly.
"——Faubourg St. Honoré, crossed the Pont de Solferino, where he was seen by Agent Dubat, and was brought here in a voiture of place, No. 37,420, driven by Jacques Perriot. That, arriving in front of this building, the said Lerouge paid the cabman and dismissed——"
"Pardon, Monsieur le Commissaire," again put in the coachman,—who was evidently trying to do his duty under unfavorable circumstances,—"pardon, monsieur, but he told me to wait."
"Oh, he told you to wait, did he? And why didn't you say that at the Commissariat, you stupid brute?" The officer was furious. "But he paid you, then?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"He paid you five francs and expected you to wait!" sarcastically.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Why?"
"He said he might want me, monsieur."
"Might want you. And why didn't you wait, you old fool?"
"Here? In the Rue Antoine Dubois, after dark, monsieur? And for a—a—'stiff'? Not for a hundred francs!"
The students roared with laughter. As the agents had returned a report meanwhile to the effect that there were no signs of any "subject" immediately in hand, the commissary was deeply chagrined.
"Now, gentlemen," he began, in a fatherly tone, "it is evident that a body has been taken from the street and brought here instead of being turned over to the police for the morgue and usual forms of identification. That body is possibly unimportant in itself, and would probably fall to your admirable institution eventually. But the law prescribes the proper course in such cases. We have traced that body to this place and to one of your number. Far be it from me to find fault with the desire of young gentlemen seeking to perfect their knowledge of anatomy for the benefit of humanity; but we must know where that body went from here."
The last very emphatically, with a stern gaze at Henri Lerouge.
"And on our part," answered the latter, with ill-subdued passion, "we say there is no body here, that none has been brought here to-night, that we have been together all day, and that we had but just arrived here before this unwarrantable intrusion; in short, that your petits mouchards there have lied!"
It was impossible not to believe him. Yet the evidence of the cabman, corroborated circumstantially in part by Agent Dubat, seemed equally positive and irresistible.
The commissary was nonplussed for a minute. Helooked sternly at Monsieur Perriot. The latter was nervously fumbling his glazed hat. Somebody had lied. The commissary decided that it was the unlucky cabman.
"Monsieur Perriot?"
"Y-yes, Monsieur le Commissaire."
"Have you got a five-franc piece about you?"
"Y—n—no—er——"
"Let me see it."
Now, the poor cabman had lost no time fortifying himself with an absinthe or two upon leaving his fare in the terrible Rue Antoine Dubois. He had changed the piece given him by Jean Marot.
"I haven't got——"
"You said this man gave you a five-franc piece, didn't you? Now, did you, or did you not? Answer!"
"Yes, Monsieur le——"
"Where is it? You said you came straight to the Commissariat,—you haven't had time to get drunk. Show me the piece! Come!"
"I drove to—I——"
"Come! Out with it!"
"But, Monsieur le Commissaire——"
"You haven't got a five-franc piece. Come, now; say!"
"No, monsieur. I——"
"Lie No. 2."
"But, monsieur, I stopped at the wine-shop of——"
"Then you didn't drive straight to the Commissariat?"
"I went——"
"Did you, or did you not? Yes or no!"
"No, monsieur."
"So! Lie No. 3."
The commissary got up full of wrath, and grasping the unfortunate cabby by the shoulder, spun him around with such force as to make the man's head swim.
"Dubat!"
"Monsieur?"
"Take this idiot to the post. I'll enter a complaint against him before the Correctionnelle in the morning. He shall forfeit his license for this amusement. Gentlemen, pardon me for this unnecessary intrusion. Either this fool Perriot has lied or has led us to the wrong number. I'll give him time to decide which. Allons!"
Led by the irate official the squad departed, Monsieur Perriot being hustled unceremoniously between two agents.
The young men left behind looked at each other for a minute without speaking, then broke into a chorus of laughter.
It was such a good one on the police.
"Ah!" exclaimed Villeroy, "if we only had that stiff here for a fact!"
"This joke on the agents must be got into the newspapers," said Lerouge. "It's too good to keep all to ourselves."
"Fact!" cried Massard, who had thrown himself on the cot.
"The joke is on Monsieur Perriot, I think," observed Villeroy.
"Whoever it is on," put in young Massard, "it is a better joke than you fellows imagine." And Massard went off into a paroxysm of laughter by himself.
"Que diable?"
"Oh! oh! oh!" roared Massard.
He had discovered the missing sheet and blanket and the grisette's hat. His companions regarded him attentively. But the young man merely went into fresh convulsions of merriment.
Lerouge suddenly raised his hand for silence. There was a low, half-timid rap at the door. It created the impression of some woman of the street.
"Come in!" cried Villeroy.
"Let her in," said Lerouge.
By which time the door had been opened and a tall, thin gentleman entered and immediately closed the door behind him.
"In-Inspector Loup!" ejaculated Lerouge.
"What! more police?" inquired Villeroy, sarcastically. "We are too much honored to-night."
"Excuse me, young gentlemen," observed the official, somewhat stiffly, but with a polite inclination of his lank body, "but I must be permitted to make an examination here—yes, I know; but Monsieur le Commissaire is rather—rather—you know—they will wait until I see for myself where the error is. Yes, error, I'm sure."
During this introduction the keen little fishy eyes searched the table, the floor, the walls, the cot in the corner whereon Massard now sat seriously erect, and, incidentally, every person in the room. They wound up this lightning tour of inspection by resting with thelast equivocal sentence upon some object on the floor under the table.
"Pardon me," he added, stepping briskly forward and grasping the lamp.
He brought the light to bear upon the object which had appeared to fascinate him, the wondering eyes of the three students becoming riveted to the same spot.
It was a wisp of light flaxen hair just tinted with gold.
The inspector replaced the lamp upon the dissecting-table and examined the lock of hair. It was still moist, and there were distinct traces of blood where it had been cut off from the head.
"Ah!"
The world of satisfaction in that ejaculation was not communicated to the students, who were speechless with astonishment.
"Yes," said the inspector, as if he were continuing an unimportant conversation, "Monsieur le Commissaire is rather—rather—show me the rest of the place, please," and without waiting for formal permission proceeded, lamp in hand, on his own account.
"So! One sleeps here?"
"Occasionally, monsieur."
He looked under the cot.
"Then you must have the rest of the bed; where is it?"
His quick eye had discovered the inconsistency of the mattress,—as, indeed, Massard himself had already done,—and his fertile brain jumped at once from cause to effect.
"Probably to wrap the body in. Where's the sink?"
In the little antechamber, redolent with the peculiar and indescribable odor of human flesh and its preservatives, was a long ice-chest, a big iron sink, an old-fashioned range, pots, pans, shelves with bottles, etc.
Massard hurriedly opened the chest, as if half expecting to see a human body there.
But Inspector Loup scarcely glanced at this receptacle for "subjects." His eyes sought and found the metal basin such as doctors use during operations.
The basin was still wet, and minute spots of red appeared upon its rim. A sponge lay near. It had recently been soaked. The inspector squeezed the sponge over the basin and obtained water stained with red.
"Blood," said he.
"Blood!" echoed the alarmed students.
"She's alive," said the inspector, more to himself than to his dumfounded auditors,—"alive, probably, else whoever brought her here would have kept her here."
He returned abruptly to the other room, and depositing the lamp, turned to Lerouge,—
"Were you expecting anybody else here to-night, monsieur?"
"Why, yes; Jean Marot——"
The possibility flashed upon the three young men at once, but it seemed too preposterous. The inspector had turned to the window and blown a shrill whistle.
"Pardon me, young gentlemen, but I'll not disturb you any longer than I can help. What is Jean Marot's address? Good! I will leave you company. Youwill not mind? Dubat will entertain you. It is better than resting in the station-house, eh?"
With this pleasantry Inspector Loup hurried away, snatched a cab, and was driven rapidly to the address in the Faubourg St. Honoré.