An hour later Jean Marot and Mlle. Fouchette were at the foot of the broad stone steps leading to the Hôtel Dieu, the famous hospital fronting on the plaza of Notre Dame.
"I will wait," he said.
"Yes; I will inquire," she assented. "I was here last night." And Mlle. Fouchette ran lightly up the steps and entered the palatial court.
Another woman was hastily walking in the opposite direction. She bent her head and quickened her steps as if to avoid recognition.
"Why, it is Madeleine!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, throwing herself in the way.
A face stamped with the marks of dissipation and haggard with watching was raised to meet this greeting. The one big, round, dark orb gleamed upon the speaker almost fiercely.
"So you're here again," muttered the one-eyed grisette, in her deep voice.
"It seems so. I wish to find out how he is."
"What business is it of yours?"
"Oh, come, now, Madeleine; you're all upset. You look worn out. You have been here all night?"
"Ah, çà! it is nothing. Have I not been up all night more than once?"
"And monsieur——"
"They say he is better."
"You have seen him, then?"
"No; they would not allow me. Besides, there is his sister."
"Is she with him now?"
"Not now. They sent her away in the night. She will be back this morning."
"Poor girl!"
"But what is all this to you? Why are you here? Does the Ministry——"
"Madeleine!"
But the tigerish look that swept over Mlle. Fouchette's face gave way to confusion when the grisette quickly shifted her ground.
"Monsieur Marot, I suppose."
"Yes, Madeleine."
"And so he has thrown her over for you, eh?" the other bitterly asked, with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders.
"Oh! no, no, no!" hastily protested Mlle. Fouchette, trembling a little in spite of herself. "That would be impossible! He is so sorry, Madeleine."
"Sorry! Yes, and the wicked marks on his throat, mon Dieu!"
"Are on Jean's also, Madeleine," said Mlle. Fouchette. "Let us set these friends right, Madeleine. Will you? Let them be friends once more."
The one dark eye had been searching, searching. For the ears heard a voice they had never heard before. It came from the lips of Mlle. Fouchette, but was not the familiar voice of Mlle. Fouchette. But the search was vain.
"Ah! very well, petite," the searcher finally said, with a sigh. "Their quarrel is not mine. I have not set these men on to tear each other like wild beasts."
Mlle. Fouchette turned her face away. But the veins on her white neck were as plain as print.
They were read by the simple-hearted grisette thus: It could only be love or hate; since it is not hate, it is love! Lerouge or Marot?
"Mademoiselle!"
The other turned a defiant face towards the speaker.
"You know that a reconciliation between these men means——"
"That Jean Marot will be thrown into the arms of the woman he loves," was the bold interpolation.
"Exactly."
"That is what I wish."
The dark eye gleamed again, and the breast heaved. It must be Lerouge! Jealousy places the desirability of its subject above everything. It must be Lerouge.
"Chut! Here she comes," whispered Mlle. Fouchette.
It was Mlle. Remy. She was clad in a simple blue costume, the skirt of which cleared the ground by several inches, her light blonde hair puffing out in rich coils from beneath the sailor hat. Her sad blue eyes lighted at the sight of Madeleine, and her face broke into a questioning smile as she extended her small hand.
"Oh, Monsieur Lerouge is much better, mademoiselle," said Madeleine.
"Thank you!—thank you for your good news, my dear," Mlle. Remy warmly replied.
She turned towards Mlle. Fouchette a little nervously, and Madeleine introduced them.
"It is strange, Mademoiselle Fouchette," observed Mlle. Remy; "could I have met you before?"
"I think not, mademoiselle. One meets people on the boulevards——"
"No, I don't mean that,—a long time ago, somewhere,—not in Paris."
Mlle. Remy was trying to think.
"Perhaps you confuse me with somebody else, mademoiselle."
"Scarcely, since I do not remember seeing anybody who resembled you. No, it is not that, surely."
"One often fancies——"
"But my brother Henri thought so too, which is very curious. May I ask you if your name——"
"Just Fouchette, mademoiselle. I never heard of any other——"
"I am from Nantes," interrupted Mlle. Remy. "Think!"
"And I am only a child of the streets of Paris, mademoiselle," said Mlle. Fouchette, humbly.
"Ah!"
Mlle. Remy sighed.
"Mademoiselle Fouchette and Monsieur Marot have come to learn the news of your brother," said Madeleine, seeing the latter approaching.
Jean Marot had, in fact, followed Mlle. Remy inside of the building, but having been overtaken by timidity for the first time in his life, had hesitated at a little distance in the rear. He could stand the suspense no longer.
"Monsieur Marot, Mademoiselle——"
"Oh, we have met before, monsieur, have we not?"asked Mlle. Remy, lightly. "I thank you very much for——"
Jean felt his heart beating against the ribbed walls of its prison as if it would burst forth to attest its love for her. He had often conjured up this meeting and rehearsed what he would say to her. Now his lips were dumb. He could only look and listen.
And this was she whom he loved!
In the mean time Mlle. Remy, who had flushed a little under the intense scrutiny she felt but could not understand, grew visibly uneasy. She detected a sign from Mlle. Fouchette.
He had unconsciously disclosed the telltale marks upon his neck.
At the sight Mlle. Remy grew pale. There was much about this young man that recalled her brother Henri, even these terrible finger-marks. All at once she remembered the meeting of Mardi Gras, when her brother insulted him and pulled her away.
Why?
It was because this young Marot admired her, and because he and her brother were enemies. She saw it now for the first time. Paris was full of political enemies. Yet, in awe of her brother's judgment and like a well-bred French girl, she dared not raise her eyes to his,—with the half-minute of formalities she hurried away. But as she turned she gave him one quick glance that combined politeness, shyness, fear, curiosity, and pity,—a glance that went straight to his heart and increased its tumult.
A pair of sharp, steel-blue eyes regarded him furtively, and, while half veiled by the long lashes, lostnot a breath or gesture of this meeting and parting,—saw Jean standing, hat in hand, partly bowed, speechless, with his soul in his handsome face.
The one black eye of the maimed grisette saw only Mlle. Fouchette. If that scrutiny could not fathom Mlle. Fouchette's mind, it was perhaps because the mind of Mlle. Fouchette was not sufficiently clear.
"Allons!" said the latter young woman, in a tone that scarcely broke his revery.
There is often more expression in a simple touch than in a multitude of words. The unhappy grisette felt this from the sympathetic hand of the young man slipped into hers at parting. At a little distance she turned to see Jean and Mlle. Fouchette enter a cab and drive towards the right bank.
"Çà!" she murmured, "but if that petite moucharde had a heart it would be his!"
During the next half-hour Mlle. Fouchette unconsciously gained greatly in Jean's estimation by saying nothing. They went to the Crédit Lyonnais, in Boulevard des Italiens, to Rue St. Honoré, to the "agent de location,"—getting money, taking a list of furniture, seeing about the sale of his lease. In all of this business Mlle. Fouchette showed such a clear head and quick calculation that from first being amused, Jean at last leaned upon her implicitly.
The next day was spent in arranging his new quarters, Mlle. Fouchette issuing general direction, to the constant discomfiture of the worthy Benoit, thus deprived of unknown perquisites.
When this work of installation had been completed, Jean found himself with comfortable quarters in theRue St. Jacques at a saving of nearly two thousand four hundred francs.
"There!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette.
"At last!" said Jean.
"Now," Mlle. Fouchette began, with enthusiasm, "I'm going to get dinner!"
"Oh, not to-day! Allons donc! We must celebrate by dinner at the restaurant."
"But it's a sinful waste of money, when one has such a sweet range,—and you must economize, monsieur."
"All right," he replied,—"to-morrow."
It is a popular plan of economy, that which begins to-morrow.
"Yes, to-morrow; to-morrow you shall have your way. To-day I have mine. Why, what a parsimonious little wretch you are! And have you not been devoting all of your time and working hard for me these five days?"
"Ah! Monsieur Jean——"
"We will treat ourselves to a good dinner au boulevard. You have been my best friend——"
"Oh, Monsieur Jean!"
"Are my best friend," he added. "I really don't see how I could have gotten on without you."
"Ah! Monsieur Jean!"
"You have saved me hundreds of francs,—you are such a good little manager!"
Nothing up to that moment had ever given Mlle. Fouchette half the pleasure bestowed with this praise. Mlle. Fouchette blushed. Jean saw this blush and laughed. It was so funny to see Mlle. Fouchetteblush. This made Mlle. Fouchette blush still deeper. In fact, it seemed as if all the warm blood that had been concealed in Mlle. Fouchette's system so long had taken an upward tendency and now disported itself about her neck and face.
Jean would have kissed her, only she repulsed him angrily; then, seeing his surprise and confusion, she covered her face with her hands and laughed hysterically.
"Mademoiselle——"
"Stop, stop, stop! I knew what you were going to say! It was money again!"
"Really, mademoiselle——"
"It was! You did! You know you did! And you know how I hate it! Don't you dare to offer me money, because I love——" Mlle. Fouchette choked here a little,—"because I love to help you, Monsieur Jean!"
"But I was not thinking of offering you money for your kindness, mon enfant." Jean took this play for safety as genuine wrath.
"You were going to; you know you were!" she retorted, defiantly.
"Well, I suppose I may offer to repay the louis I borrowed the other day?"
"Oh, yes! I'll make you pay your debts, monsieur,—never fear that!"
She began to recover her equilibrium, and smiled confidently in his face. But he was now serious.
"There are some debts one can never pay," said he.
"Never! never! never!" she exclaimed. "Monsieur, whatever I might do, I owe you still! It will always be so!"
"Uh! Uh! That's barred, petite."
He stopped walking up and down and looked into her earnest eyes without grasping her meaning. "She is more feminine than one would suppose," he said to himself,—"almost interesting, really!"
"Come!" he cried, suddenly, "this is straying from the subject, which is dinner. Come!"
"We'd have to do some marketing, anyhow," she admitted, as if arguing with herself. "Perhaps it is better to go out."
"Most assuredly."
"Not at any fashionable place, Monsieur Jean——"
"Oh, no; is there any such place in the quarter?" he laughingly asked.
"Can't we go over on the other side?"
"Yes, my child, certainly."
"I know a place in Montmartre where one may dine en fête for two francs and a half, café compris." She was getting on her things, and for the first time was conscious of the hole in the heel of her stocking.
"There is the Café de Paris——"
"Oh! it is five francs!" she exclaimed.
"Well, one may dine better on five francs than two and a half."
"It is too dear, Monsieur Jean."
"Then there is the Hôtel du Louvre table-d'hôte, four francs,—very good, too."
"It is too fashionable,—too many Americans."
"Parbleu! one can be an American for one meal, can he not? They say Americans live well in their own country. They have meat three times a day,—even the poorest laborers."
"And eat meat for breakfast,—it is horrible!"
"Yes,—they are savages."
After discussing the various places and finding that his ideas of a good dining-place were somewhat more enlarged than her ideas, Mlle. Fouchette finally brought him down to a Bouillon in Boule' Miche',—the student appellation for Boulevard St. Michel. She would have preferred any other quarter of the city, though not earnestly enough to stand out for it.
They settled on the Café Weber, opposite the ancient College d'Harcourt, a place of the Bouillon order, with innumerable dishes graded up from twenty centimes to a franc and an additional charge of ten centimes for the use of a napkin.
Wine aside, a better meal for less money can be had in a score of places on Broadway. In the matter of wine, the New York to the Paris price would be as a dollar to the franc.
In the Quartier Latin these places are patronized almost exclusively by the student class. Not less than fifty of the latter were at table in the Café Weber when Jean Marot and Mlle. Fouchette entered. Here and there among them were a few grisettes and as many cocottes of the Café d'Harcourt, costumes en bicyclette, demure, hungry, and silent. Young women in smart caps and white aprons briskly served the tables, while in the centre, in a sort of enclosed pulpit, sat the handsome, rosy-faced dame du comptoir, with a sharp eye for employés and a winning smile and nod for familiar customers.
There was a perceptible sensation upon the entrance of the last comers. A momentary hush was succeededby a general buzz of conversation, the subject of which was quite easily understood. The stately dame du comptoir immediately opened her little wicket and came down from her perch to show the couple to the best seats, a courtesy rarely extended by that impersonation of restaurant dignity. The hungry women almost stopped eating to see what man was in tow of the "Savatière."
"We are decidedly an event," laughingly observed Jean as they became seated where they could command the general crowd at table.
"Yes, monsieur," replied the dame du comptoir, though his remark had not been addressed to that lady,—"the fame of the brave Monsieur Marot is well known in the quarter. And—and mademoiselle," she added, sweetly, "mademoiselle—well, everybody knows mademoiselle."
With this under-cut at Mlle. Fouchette the rosy-cheeked cashier left them in charge of the waitress of that particular table.
"You see, Monsieur Jean," said his companion, not at all pleased by this reception, "we are both pretty well known here."
"So it seems. Yet I was never in here before, if I remember correctly."
"Nor I," said she, "but once or twice."
Notoriety is fame to Frenchmen, and while he did not yet fully comprehend it, Jean Marot had reached this sort of fame in a single day. His name had been actively and even viciously discussed in the newspapers. He was accused of being both royalist and anti-Dreyfusarde by the ultra republican press. Hewas said to be a Bonapartist. The Dreyfusarde papers declared that the government had connived at his discharge from prison. The nationalist papers lauded him as a patriot. One extravagant writer compared him to the celebrated Camille Desmoulins who led the great Revolution. A noisy deputation had called upon him in the Rue St. Honoré to find that he had not been seen there since the riot.
Of all of this Jean Marot actually knew less than any other well-informed person in Paris. Being wholly absorbed in his domestic affairs, he had scarcely more than glanced at a newspaper, and did not at this moment know that his name had ever been printed in the Paris journals. The few acquaintances he had met had congratulated him for something, and some students he did not know had raised their hats to him in the streets; and once he had been saluted by a class procession with desultory cries of "Vive Marot!" Mere rioting was then too common in Paris to excite particular attention individually.
But Jean Marot had been magnified by newspaper controversy into a formidable political leader; besides which there were young men here who had followed him a few days before in the riots. Therefore he was now the cynosure of curious attention.
From admiring glances the crowd of diners quickly passed to complimentary language intended for his ears.
"He's a brave young man!" "You should have seen him that day!" "Ah, but he's a fighter, is M. Marot!" "Un bon camarade!" "He is a patriot!" etc.
These broken expressions were mingled with sly allusions to Mlle. Fouchette from the women, who were consumed by envy. They had heard of the Savatière's conquest with disbelief, now they saw it with their own eyes. The brazen thing! She was showing him off.
"She's caught on at last."
"Monsieur has more money than taste."
"Is he as rich as they say?"
"The skinny model."
"Model, bah!"
"Model for hair-pin, probably."
"The airs of that kicker!"
"He might have got a prettier mistress without trying hard."
"He'll find her a devil."
"Oh, there's no doubt about it. He has fitted up an elegant appartement for her in the Rue St. Jacques."
"Rue St. Jacques. Faugh!"
It should be unnecessary to say that these encomiums were not designed for the ears of Mlle. Fouchette, though the said ears must have burned with self-consciousness. But it may be well enough to remark that despite the spleen the object of it had risen immensely in the estimation of the female as well as the male habitués of Café Weber.
As the couple occupied a table in the extreme rear, the patrons in front found it convenient to go out by way of the Rue Champollion in order to see if not to bow to the distinguished guest.
The apparent fact that the new political leader had taken up with one of the most notorious women of theQuartier Latin in no way detracted from their esteem for him,—rather lent an agreeable piquancy to his character. On the other hand, it raised Mlle. Fouchette to a certain degree of respectability.
These demonstrations annoyed our young gentleman very much. Nothing but this patent fact saved them from a general reception.
"It is provoking!" exclaimed his companion.
"I don't understand it at all," said he.
"I do," replied Mlle. Fouchette.
"And, see, little one, I don't like it."
"I knew you wouldn't, and that is why I suggested the right bank of the river."
"True,—I always make a mistake when I don't follow your advice. Have some more wine,—I call that good."
"It ought to be at two francs a bottle," she retorted.
"My father would call this rank poison, but it goes."
"Poor me! I never tasted any better," laughed the girl, sipping the wine with the air of a connaisseuse. "A litre à cinquante is my tipple," she said.
"Now, what the devil do all these people mean?" he asked, when a party had passed them with a slight demonstration.
"That you are famous, monsieur. I wish we had remained at home."
"So do I, petite," he said.
"Let us take our coffee there, at least," she suggested.
"Good!" he cried,—"by all means!"
They were soon installed in his small salon, where she quickly spread a table of dainty china. She hadagreed with him in keeping his pictures, bric-à-brac, and prettiest dishes.
"Ah! they are so sweet!" she would say. "Now here is a lovely blue cup for you. I take the dear little pink one,—it's as delicate as an egg-shell,—Sèvres, surely! And here's some of my coffee. It is not as good, perhaps, as you are used to, but——"
"Oh, I'm used to anything,—except being stared at and mobbed by a lot of curious chaps as if I were a calf with six legs, or had run off with the President's daughter, or——"
"Or committed murder, eh?" said she. "People always stare at murderers, do they not? Still, it isn't really bad, you know," abruptly returning to the coffee, "with a petit verre and cigarette."
"Au contraire," he retorted, gayly.
And over their coffee and cognac and cigarettes, surrounded by his tasteful belongings, shut in by the heavy damask hangings, under the graceful wreaths of smoke, they formed a very pretty picture. He, robust, dark, manly; she, frail, delicate, blonde, and distinctively feminine.
The comfort of it all smote them alike. The conversation soon became forced, then ceased, leaving each silently immersed in thought.
But Mlle. Fouchette welcomed this interval of silence with a satisfaction inexpressible. She, too, was under the spell of the place and the occasion. Mlle. Fouchette was not a sentimental woman, as we have seen; but she had recently been undergoing a mental struggle that taxed all her practical common sense. She found now that she saw things more clearly.
The result frightened her.
Mlle. Fouchette felt that she was happy, therefore she was frightened.
She experienced a mysterious glow of gladness—the gladness of mere living—in her veins. It permeated her being and filled her heart with warm desires.
This feeling had been stealing upon her so gradually and insidiously that she had never realized it until this moment,—the moment when it had taken full possession of her soul.
"I love him! I love him!" she repeated to herself. "I have struggled against it,—I have denied it. I did not want to do it,—it is misery! But I can't help it,—I love him! I, Fouchette, the spy, who would have betrayed him, who wronged him, who thought love impossible!"
She did not try to deceive herself. She knew that at this moment, when her heart was so full of him, he was thinking of another woman,—a beautiful and pure being that was worthy of his love,—that he had forgotten her very existence. She had not the remotest idea of trying to attract that love to herself. She did not even indulge in the pardonable girlish dreams in which "If" is the principal character.
He was as impossible to her as the pyramids of Egypt. Therefore she was frightened.
"Mon Dieu! but I surely do love him!" She communed with her poor little bursting heart. "And it is beautiful to love!" She sighed deeply.
"Mademoiselle!"
She started visibly, as if he had read her thoughts as well as heard her sigh, and felt the hot blood mantleher neck again,—for the second time within her memory.
"Pardon! mademoiselle," he said, gently, "I forgot. I was thinking——"
"Of her? Yes,—I know. It is—how you startled me!"
There was a perceptible chord of sympathy in her voice, and he moved his chair around to hers and made as if he would take her hand in the usual way. But to his surprise she rose and, seating herself on a low divan some distance from him, leaned her elbows on her knees and rested her downcast face between her hands. She could not bear to have him touch her.
"Mon enfant! Mon amie!" he remonstrated, in a grieved tone.
"Bah! it is nothing," she murmured; "and nothing magnified is still nothing."
There was that in her voice which touched a heart surcharged with tenderness. He came over and stood beside her.
"I was thinking——"
"Of her,—yes,—I understand——"
"And I lose myself in my love," he added.
"Yes; love! Oui da!"
She laughed a little hysterically and shrugged the thin shoulders without changing her position.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, pityingly, "you do not know what love is!"
"Me? No! Why should I?"
She never once looked up at him. She dared not.
"And yet you once said love was everything," he continued, thinking only of himself.
"Yes,—everything," she repeated, mechanically. "Did I say that?"
"And you spoke truly, though I did not know it then——"
"No,—I did not know it then," she repeated, absently.
In his self-absorption he did not see the girl in the shadow below him trembling and cowering as if every word he uttered were a blow.
"Love to me is life!" he added, with a mental exaltation that lifted him among the stars.
Mlle. Fouchette did not follow him there. With a low, half-smothered cry she had collapsed and rolled to the floor in a little quivering heap.
As a medical student, as well as habitué of the quarter, Jean Marot was not greatly alarmed at an ordinary case of hysterics. He soon had Mlle. Fouchette in her proper senses again.
He was possibly not more stupid than any other egoist under similar circumstances, and he attributed her sudden collapse to over-excitement in arranging his affairs.
Mlle. Fouchette lay extended on his divan in silent enjoyment of his manipulations, refusing as long as possible to reopen her eyes. When she finally concluded to do so he was smoothing back her dishevelled hair and gently bathing her face with his wet handkerchief.
"Don't be alarmed, mon enfant," he said, cheerily, "you are all right. But you have worked too hard——"
"Oh! no, no, no!" she interrupted. "And it has been such a pleasure!"
"Yes; but too much pleasure——"
She sighed. Her eyes were wet,—she tried to turn them away.
"Hold on, petite! none of that!"
"Then you must not talk to me in that way,—not now!"
"No? And pray, how, then, mademoiselle?"
"Talk of—tell me of your love, monsieur, mon ami. You were speaking of it but now. Tell me of that, please. It is so—love is so beautiful, MonsieurJean! Talk to me of her,—of Mademoiselle Remy. I have a woman's curiosity, monsieur, mon frère."
It was the first time she had called him brother. She had risen upon her elbow and nervously laid her small hand upon his.
She invited herself to the torture. It had an irresistible fascination for her. She gave the executioner the knife and begged him to explore and lay bare her bleeding heart.
"But, mon enfant——"
"Oh! it will do me good to hear you," she pleaded.
It does not require much urging to induce a young man in love to talk about his passion to a sympathetic listener. And there never was time or place more propitious or auditor more tender of spirit.
He began at the beginning, when he first met Mlle. Remy with Lerouge, every detail of which was fixed upon his memory. He told how he sought her in Rue Monge, how Lerouge interposed, how he quarrelled with his friend, how the latter changed his address and kept the girl under close confinement to prevent his seeing her,—Jean was certain of this.
Monsieur Lerouge had a right to protect his sister, even against his late friend; and even if she had been his mistress, Jean now argued, Lerouge was justified; but love is something that in the Latin rises superior to obstacles, beats down all opposition, is obstinate, unreasonable, and uncharitable.
When Mlle. Fouchette, going straight to the core of the matter, asked him what real ground he had for presuming that his attentions, if permitted, would have been agreeable to Mlle. Remy, Jean confessedreluctantly that there were no reasons for any conclusion on this point.
"But," he wound up, impetuously, "when she knows—if she knew—how I worship her shemustrespond to my affection. A love such as mine could not be forever resisted, mademoiselle. I feel it! I know it!"
"Yes, Monsieur Jean, it would be impossible to—to not——"
"You think so, too, chère amie?"
"Very sure," said Mlle. Fouchette.
"Now you can understand, Fouchette. You are a woman. Put yourself in her place,—imagine that you are Mademoiselle Remy at this moment. And you look something like her, really,—that is, at least you have the exact shade of hair. What beautiful hair you have, Fouchette! Suppose you were Mademoiselle Remy, I was going to say, and I were to tell you all this and—and how much I loved you,—how I adored you,—and got down on my knees to you and begged of you——"
"Oh!"
"And asked you for a corner—one small corner in your heart——"
"Ah! mon ami!"
"What would you——"
"Shall I show you, mon frère?"
"Yes—quickly!"
He had, with French gesture, suiting the action to the word, knelt beside her and extended his arms, as if it were the woman he loved.
"Mon Dieu!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, throwingherself upon his breast precipitately and entwining his neck with her arms,—"it would be this! It would be this! Ah! mon Dieu! It surely would be this!"
For the moment Jean was so carried away by his imagination that he accepted Mlle. Fouchette as Mlle. Remy and pressed her to his heart. He mingled his tears and kisses with hers. Her fair hair fell upon his face and he covered it with passionate caresses. He poured out the endearing words of a heart surcharged with love. It was a very clever make-believe on both sides,—very clever and realistic.
As a medical adviser of an hysterical young woman Jean Marot could scarcely have been recommended.
And it must be remarked, in the same connection, that Mlle. Fouchette remained in this embrace a good deal longer than even a clever imitation seemed to demand. However, since the real thing could not have lasted forever, there must be a limitation to this rehearsal. Both had become silent and thoughtful.
It was Mlle. Fouchette who first moved to disengage, and she did so with a sigh so profound as to appear quite real. This was the second, and she felt it would be the last time. They would never again hold each other thus. Her eyes were red and swollen and her dishevelled hair stuck to her tear-stained face. She was not at all pretty at the moment, yet Jean would have gone to the wood of St. Cloud sword in hand to prove her the best-hearted little woman in the world.
"Voilà!" she exclaimed, with affected gayety, "how foolish I am, monsieur! But you are so eloquent of your passion that you carry one away with you."
"I hope it will have that effect upon Mademoiselle Remy," he said, but rather doubtfully.
"So I have given a satisfactory——"
"So real, indeed, Fouchette, that I almost forgot it was only you."
Mademoiselle Fouchette was bending over the basin.
"I think"—splash—"that I'll"—splash—"go on the stage," she murmured.
"You'd be a hit, Fouchette."
"If I had a lover—er—equal to the occasion, perhaps."
"Oh! as to that——"
"Now, Monsieur Jean, we have not yet settled your affair," she interrupted, throwing herself again upon the divan among the cushions.
"No; not quite," said he.
She tried to think connectedly. But everything seemed such a jumble. And out of this chaos of thought came the details of the miserable part she had played.
Her part!
What if he knew that she was merely the wretched tool of the police? What would he say if he came to know that she had once reported his movements at the Préfecture? And what would he do if he were aware that she knew the true relation of Lerouge and Mlle. Remy and had intentionally misled both him and Madeleine?
Fortunately, Mlle. Fouchette had been spared the knowledge of the real cause of Madeleine's misfortune,—the jealous grisette whom she had set on to worse than murder.
But she was thinking only of Jean Marot now. Love had awakened her soul to the enormity of her offence. It also caused her to suffer remorse for her general conduct. Before she loved she never cared; she had never suffered mentally. Now she was on the rack. She was being punished.
Love had furrowed the virgin ground of her heart and turned up self-consciousness and conscience, and sowed womanly sweetness, and tenderness, and pity, and humility, and the sensitiveness to pain.
Mlle. Fouchette, living in the shadow of the world's greatest educational institutions, was, perhaps naturally, a heathen. She feared neither God nor devil.
Jean Marot was her only tangible idea of God. His contempt would be her punishment. To live where he was not would be Hell.
To secure herself against this damnation she was ready to sacrifice anything,—everything! She would have willingly offered herself to be cuffed and beaten every day of her life by him, and would have worshipped him and kissed the hand that struck her.
Perhaps, after all, the purest and holiest love is that which stands ready to sacrifice everything to render its object happy; that, blotting out self and trampling natural desire underfoot, thinks only of the one great aim and end, the happiness of the beloved.
This was the instinct now of the girl who struggled with her emotions, who sought a way out that would accomplish that end very much desired by her as well as Jean. There was at the same time a faint idea that her own material happiness lay in the same direction.
"Monsieur Jean!"
"Well?"
"You must make friends with Lerouge."
"But, mon enfant, if——"
"There are no 'buts' and 'ifs.' You must make friends with the brother or you can never hope to win his sister. That is clear. Write to him,—apologize to him,—anything——"
"I don't just see my way open," he began. "You can't apologize to a man who tries to assassinate you on sight."
"You were friends before that day in the Place de la Concorde?"
"We had not come to blows."
"Politics,—is that all?"
"That is all that divides us, and, parbleu! it divides a good many in France just now."
"Yes. Monsieur Jean, you must change your politics," she promptly responded.
"Wha-at? Never! Why——"
"Not for the woman you love?"
"But, Fouchette, you don't understand, mon enfant. A gentleman can't change his politics as he does his coat."
"Men do, monsieur,—men do,—yes, every day."
"But——"
"What does it amount to, anyhow?—politics? Bah! One side is just like the other side."
"Oh! oh!"
"Half of them don't know. It's only the difference between celui-ci and celui-là. You must quit ci and join là, n'est-ce pas?"
Mlle. Fouchette laid this down as if it were merely a choice between mutton and lamb chops for dinner. But Jean Marot walked impatiently up and down.
"You overlook the possible existence of such a thing as principle,—as honor, mademoiselle," he observed, somewhat coldly.
"Rubbish!" said Mlle. Fouchette.
"Oh! oh! what political morals!" he laughingly exclaimed, with an affectation of horror.
"There are no morals in politics."
"Precious little, truly!"
"Principles are a matter of belief,—political principles. You change your belief,—the principles go with it; you can't desert 'em,—they follow you. It is the rest of them, those who disagree with you, who never have any principles. Is it not so, monsieur?"
He laughed the more as he saw that she was serious. And yet there was a nipping satire in her words that tickled his fancy.
A gentle knock at the door interrupted this political argument. A peculiar, diffident, apologetic knock, like the forerunner of the man come to borrow money. There was a red bell-cord hanging outside, too, but the rap came from somebody too timid to make a noise.
Mlle. Fouchette started up as if it were the signal for execution. She turned pale, and placed her finger on her lips. Then, with a significant glance at Jean, she gathered herself together and tiptoed to a closet in the wall.
She entered the closet and closed the door softly upon herself.
Jean had regarded her with surprise, then with astonishment. He saw no reason for this singular development of timidity. As soon as he had recovered sufficiently he opened the door.
A tall, thin man quietly stepped into the room, as quietly shut the door behind him, and addressed the young man briskly,—
"Monsieur Marot?"
"Yes, monsieur, at your service."
"So."
"And this is—ah! I remember—this is——"
"Inspector Loup."
The fishy eyes of Monsieur l'Inspecteur had been swimming about in their fringed pools, taking in every detail of the chamber. They penetrated the remotest corners, plunged at the curtains of the bed, and finally rested for a wee little moment upon the two cups and saucers, the two empty glasses, the two spoons, which still remained on the table. And yet had not Inspector Loup called attention to the fact one would never have suspected that he had seen anything.
"Pardon, Monsieur Marot," he said, half behind his hand, "but I am not disturbing any quiet little—er——"
"Not yet, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," replied the young man, suggestively. "Go on, I beg."
"Ah! not yet? Good! Very well,—then I will try not to do so."
Whereupon Monsieur l'Inspecteur dived down into a deep pocket and brought up a package neatly wrapped in pink paper and sealed with a red seal.
The package bore the address of "M. Jean Marot."
"May I ask if Monsieur Marot can divine the contents of this parcel?"
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur will pardon me,—I'm not good at guessing."
"Monsieur missed some personal property after his arrest——"
"If that is my property," Jean interrupted, brusquely, "it ought to be a gold watch, hunting case, chronometer, Geneva make, with eighteen-carat gold chain, dragon-head design for hook; a bunch of keys, seven in number, and a door-key, and about one hundred and eighty francs in paper, gold, and silver."
"Very good. Excellent memory, monsieur. It ought to serve you well enough to keep out of such brawls hereafter. Here,—examine!"
Hastily opening the package, Jean found his watch and chain and everything else intact, so far as he could recollect. He expressed his delight,—and when his grasp left the thin hand of the police official it was to leave a twenty-franc gold piece there.
"Will monsieur kindly sign this receipt?" inquired Monsieur l'Inspecteur, whose hand had closed upon the coin with true official instinct.
"But how and where did they get the things back?" inquired Jean, having complied with this reasonable request.
"I know nothing about that," said the man.
"And how did they know I had lost them? I never complained."
"Then perhaps somebody else did, eh?"
The bright little fishy right eye partially closed to indicate a roguish expression.
"Bon soir, monsieur."
And with another wink which meant "You can't fool me, young man," he was gone.
"Well, this is luck!" muttered Jean aloud. He examined the watch lovingly. It was a present from his father. "But how did they get these? how did they know they were mine? and how did they know where I lived? Who asked——"
He went back to the closet and told Mlle. Fouchette the coast was clear. There was no answer. He tried the door. It was locked. She had turned the key on the inside.
"Mademoiselle! Come!"
He waited and listened. Not a sound.
"Mademoiselle! Ah, çà! He is gone long ago!"
Still not a stir. Perhaps she was asleep,—or, maybe,—why, she would smother in that place!
He kicked the door impatiently. He got down upon his breast and put his ear to the crevice below. If she were prostrated he might hear her breathing.
All was silence.
This closet door was the merest sheathing, flush with the wall and covered with the same paper, after the fashion of the ancient Parisian appartements, and had nothing tangible to the grasp save the key, which was now on the inside. Jean tried to jostle this out of place by inserting other keys, but unsuccessfully.
"Sacré!" he cried, in despair; "but we'll see!"
And he hastily brought a combination poker and stove-lifter from the kitchen, and, inserting the sharp end in the crack near the lock, gave the improvised"jimmy" a vigorous wrench. The light wood-work flew in splinters.
At the same moment the interior of the closet was thus suddenly exposed to the uninterrupted view.
Jean recoiled in astonishment that was almost terror. If he had been confronted with the suspended corpse of Mlle. Fouchette he could have scarcely been more startled.
For Mlle. Fouchette was not there!
The cold sweat started out of him. He felt among his clothes,—passed his hand over the three remaining walls. They appeared solid enough.
"Que diable! but where is she, then?" he muttered.
He was dazed,—rendered incapable of reasoning. He went around vaguely examining his rooms, peering behind curtains and even moving bits of furniture, as if Mlle. Fouchette were the elusive collar-button and might have rolled out of sight somewhere among the furniture.
"Peste! this is astonishing!"
All of this time there was the lock with the key on the inside. Without being a spiritualist, Jean felt that nobody but spirits could come out of a room leaving the doors locked and the keys on the inside. But for that lock, he might have even set it down to optical illusion and have persuaded himself that perhaps she had really never entered that place at all.
As Jean Marot was not wholly given to illusions or superstitions, he logically concluded that there was some other outlet to that closet.
"And why such a thing as that?" he asked himself. What could it be for? Was it a trap? Perhaps itwas a police souricière? He remembered the warning of Benoit.
Jean hesitated,—quite naturally, since he was up to the tricks of the political police. If this were a trap, why, Mlle. Fouchette must have known all about it! Yet that would be impossible.
Then he thought of M. de Beauchamp, and his brow cleared. Whatever the arrangement, it could have never been designed with regard to the present occupant of the appartement,—and M. de Beauchamp had escaped.
He lighted a cigarette and took a turn or two up and down,—a habit of his when lost in thought.
"Ah! it is a door of love!" he concluded. "Yes; that is all. Well, we shall find out about that pretty soon."
The more he thought of the handsome, godlike artist who had so mysteriously fled, why, the more he recalled Mlle. Fouchette's confusion on a certain evening when he first called on her, and her recent disinclination to discuss his disappearance. He was now certain that this mysterious exit emptied into her room. He smiled at his own sagacity. His philosophy found the same expression of the cabman of Rue Monge,—
"Toujours de même, ces femmes-là!"
He laughed at the trick she had played him; he would show her how quickly he had reached its solution. He went outside and tapped gently on her door.
No reply.
He tried the lock, but it was unyielding. Examination by the light of a match showed no key on the inside.
"Eh bien! I will go by the same route," he said, returning to his room.
He brought a lighted candle to bear on the magical closet. It proved to be, as stated, the ordinary blind closet of the ancient Parisian houses, the depth of the wall's thickness and about three feet wide; the door being flush with the wall and covered with the same paper, the opening was unnoticeable to the casual view.
All Parisian doors close with a snap-lock, and a key is indispensable. This knowledge is acquired by the foreigner after leaving his key on the inside a few times and hunting up a locksmith after midnight.
The back of these closets, which are used for cupboards as well as receptacles for clothing, abuts on the adjoining room, quite often, in a thin sheathing of lath and plaster, which, being covered with the wall-paper, is concealed from the neighboring eyes, but through which a listener may be constantly informed as to what is going on next door.
A superficial survey of the place having developed no unusual characteristics, Jean took down all of his clothing and emptied the closet of its contents to the last old shoe.
With the candle to assist him, he then carefully examined the rear wall.