Jean Marot started from his heavy sleep much later than usual to hear the clatter of dishes in the next room. Going and coming rose a rather metallic voice humming an old-time chanson of the Quartier. He had never heard Mlle. Fouchette sing before; yet it was certainly Mlle. Fouchette:
"Il est une rue à Paris,Où jamais ne passe personne,"—
"Il est une rue à Paris,Où jamais ne passe personne,"—
and the rest came feebly and shrilly from the depths of his kitchen,—
"La nuit tous les chats qui sont grisY tiennent leur cour polissonne."
"La nuit tous les chats qui sont grisY tiennent leur cour polissonne."
"Oh! oui da!" he cried from his bed. "Yes! and the cats sometimes get arrested, too, hein?"
The door leading to his salon was opened tentatively and a small blonde head and a laughing face appeared.
"Not up yet? For shame, monsieur!"
"What time is it?"
"Ten o'clock, lazybones."
"Ten——"
"Yes. Aren't you hungry?"
"Hungry as a wolf!" he cried, with a sweep of his curtains.
"Come, then!" And the blonde head disappeared.
"This is living," said the young man to himself as he was dressing,—he had never enjoyed such comfort away from home,—"the little one is a happy combination of housekeeper and cook as well as guide, philosopher, and friend. Seems to like it, too."
He noted that the little breakfast-table was arranged with neat coquetry and set off with a bunch of red roses that filled the air with their exquisite fragrance. Next he saw that Mlle. Fouchette herself seemed uncommonly charming. She not only had her hair done up, but her best dress on instead of the customary dilapidated morning wrapper.
His quick, artistic eye took in all of these details at a glance, falling finally upon the three marguerites at her throat.
"My faith! you are quite—but, say, little one, what's up?"
"I'm up," she laughingly answered, "and I've been up these two hours, Monsieur Lazybones."
"But——"
"Yes, and I've been down in Rue Royer-Collard and paid our milk bill,—deux francs cinquante, and gave that épicière a piece of my mind for giving me omelette eggs for eggs à la coque; for, while the eggs were not bad, one wants what one pays for, and I'mgoing to have it, so she gave me an extra egg this time. How do you like these?"
Without waiting for him to answer she added, "They are vingt-cinq centimes for two, six at soixante-quinze centimes, and one extra, which is trois francs vingt-cinq; and I got another pound of that coffee in Boulevard St. Michel; but it is dreadful dear, mon ami,—only you will have good coffee, n'est-ce pas? But three-forty a pound! Which makes six francs soixante-cinq."
It was her way to thus account for all expenditures for their joint household. He paid about as much attention as usual,—which was none at all,—his mind still dwelling on the cheerfulness and genuine comfort of the place.
"And the flowers, petite——"
"Of course," she hastily interrupted, "I pay for the flowers."
"No! no!" he explained. "I don't mean that! Is it your birthday, or——"
"Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "that is it, Monsieur Jean. I was born this morning!"
He laughed, but saw from the sparkle of the blue eyes that he had not caught her real meaning.
"From the marguerites——"
"Ah, çà! I made the marchande des fleurs give me those. Aren't they sweet? How I love the flowers!"
"But I never saw such a remarkable effect, somehow. They are only flowers, and——"
"'Only flowers'! Say, now!"
"Still, it is curious," he added, resuming his coffee and rolls, as if the subject were not worth anargument or was too intangible to grasp. He could not account for the change in Mlle. Fouchette.
And if Jean Marot had been very much more of a philosopher than he was he would not have been able to understand the divine process by which human happiness softens and beautifies the human countenance.
"Mon ami," said the girl, seeking to hide the pleasure his admiration gave her, "do you, then, forget what we have to do to-day?"
"Lerouge? Yes,—that's so,—at once!"
Immediately after breakfast Jean sat down and wrote a friendly, frank letter, making a complete and manly apology for his anger and expressing the liveliest sympathy for his old-time friend.
"Tell him, Monsieur Jean, that you have changed your political opinions and——"
"Oh!"
"At least that you'll have nothing more to do with these conspirators."
"But, Fouchette——"
"Last night's discoveries ought to satisfy any reasonable being."
"True enough, petite."
"Then why not say so to——"
"Not yet,—I prefer acts rather than words,—but in good time——"
It is more difficult for a man to bring himself to the acknowledgment of political errors than to confess to infractions of the moral law.
In the mean time Mlle. Fouchette had cleared away and washed the breakfast things and stood ready to deliver the missive of peace.
"It is very singular," he repeated to himself after she had departed upon this errand, "very singular, indeed, that this girl—really, I don't know just what to think of her."
So he ceased to think of her at all, which was, perhaps, after all, the easiest way out of the mental dilemma.
The fact was that Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming necessary to him.
With a light heart and eager step she tripped down the Boulevard St. Michel towards the ancient Isle de la Cité. On the bridge she saw the dark shadow of the Préfecture loom up ahead of her, and her face, already beaming with pleasure, lighted with a fresher glow as she thought of her moral freedom.
The bridge was crowded as usual with vehicles and foot-passers, but this did not prevent a woman on the opposite side from catching a recognizing glance of Mlle. Fouchette.
The sight of the latter seemed to thrill the looker like an electric shock. She stopped short,—so suddenly that those who immediately followed her had a narrow escape from collision. Her face was heavily veiled, and beneath that veil was but one eye, yet in the same swift glance with which she comprehended the figure she took in the elastic step and the happy face of Mlle. Fouchette.
"Mort au diable!" she muttered in her masculine voice,—a voice which startled those who dodged the physical shock,—and added to herself, "It must be love!" She saw the flowers at the girl's throat. "She loves!"
It was at the same instant Mlle. Fouchette had raised her eyes to the Préfecture that stretched along the quai to the Parvis de la Notre Dame.
Ah, çà!
And after years of servitude,—from childhood,—some of it a servitude of the most despicable nature,—she had at last struck off the shackles!
No,—she had merely changed masters; she had exchanged a master whom she feared and hated for one she loved—adored!
Mlle. Fouchette, for the first time in her life, walked willingly and boldly past the very front door of the Préfecture,—"like any other lady," she would have said.
An agent of the Préfecture, who knew her from having worked with her, happened to see this from the court and hastily stepped out. He observed her walk, critically, and shook his head.
"Something is in the wind," said he.
But as the secret agents of the government are never allowed to enter the Préfecture, he watched for some sign to follow. She gave none.
Nevertheless, he slowly sauntered in the same direction, not daring to accost her and yet watchful of some recognition of his presence.
It was the same polite young man who had surrendered his place in the dance to Jean on the night of Mardi Gras. He had not gone twenty yards before a robust young woman heavily veiled brushed past him with an oath.
"Pardieu!" he said to himself, "but this seems tobe a feminine chase." And he quickened his steps as if to take part in the hunt.
Reaching the corner, Mlle. Fouchette doubled around the Préfecture and made straight for the Hôtel Dieu.
Rapidly gaining on her in the rear came the veiled woman, evidently growing more and more agitated.
And immediately behind and still more swiftly came the sleuth from the Préfecture. To be sure, there were always plenty of people crossing the broad plaza of Notre Dame from various directions and three going the same way would not have attracted attention.
Mlle. Fouchette drew near the steps of the big hospital, taking a letter from her bosom.
"That letter! Sacré! I must have that letter!" murmured the veiled woman, aloud.
"But you won't get it," thought the agent, gliding closer after her.
Mlle. Fouchette kissed the superscription as she ran up the steps.
"Death!" growled the veiled woman, half frantic at what she considered proof of the justice of her jealous suspicions as strong as holy writ.
The man behind her was puzzled; astonished most at Mlle. Fouchette's osculatory performance; but he promptly seized the pursuer by the arm.
"Not so fast, mademoiselle!"
"Go! I must have that letter!"
She turned upon the man like an enraged tigress, the one big black eye ablaze with wrath.
"Ah! It is you, eh? And right under the nose of the Préfecture!"
"Au diable!" she half screamed, half roared,struggling to free herself from his iron grip. "It is none of your business."
"Your best friend, too!"
"Devil!" she shouted, striking at him furiously.
"Oh, no; not quite,—only an agent from the Préfecture, my bird."
"Oho! And she's a dirty spy like you! I know it! And I'll kill her! D'you hear that? À mort! The miserable moucharde!"
"Not to-day, my precious!" said the man, cleverly changing his grip for one of real steel. "Not to-day. Here is where you go with me, deary. Come!"
"I tell you I'll kill her!"
"We'll see about that later; in the mean time you can have a chance to sweat some of that absinthe out of you in St. Lazare. And look sharp, now! If you don't come along quietly I'll have you dragged through the streets! Understand?"
Mlle. Fouchette had, happily unconscious of this exciting scene, passed out of sight, inquired as to the condition of Lerouge, sent in the letter by a trusty nurse, and was returning across the Parvis de la Notre Dame at the same moment that Madeleine, alternately weeping and cursing, was thrown into her cell at the Préfecture.
A fortnight had passed since the note to Lerouge, and to all appearances the latter had ignored it and its author.
Mlle. Fouchette was ordinarily an infallible remedy for blue-devils; but to Jean Marot Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming a mere matter of course. A patient little beast of burden, she was none the less useful to a young man floundering around in the mire of politics, love, and other dire uncertainties.
As otherwise very good husbands are wont to unload their irritability on their wives, so Jean was inclined to favor Mlle. Fouchette. And as doting wives who voluntarily constitute themselves drudges soon become fixed in that lowly position, so Mlle. Fouchette naturally became the servant of the somewhat masterful Jean Marot.
She cheerfully accepted these exactions of his variable temper along with the responsibility for the economical administration of his domestic affairs.
But even the brightest and most willing of servants cannot always anticipate what is in the master's mind; so Jean had come to giving orders to Mlle. Fouchette. He had not yet beaten her, but the careless observer might have ventured the opinion that this would come in time.
It is the character of Frenchmen to beat women,—to stab them in the back one day when they are bored with them. The Paris press furnishes daily examples of this sort of chivalry. As a rule, the life of wife or mistress in France is a condition little short of slavery.
The mere arrangement of words is unimportant to the woman who anticipates blows, and who, doubtless, after the fierce fashion of the Latins, would love more intensely when these blows fell thickest and heaviest. As for being ordered about and scolded, it was a recognition of his dependence upon her.
Over and above all other considerations was Jean's future happiness. In this, at least, they were harmonious. For Jean himself was also looking solely to that end.
Since that memorable night when one brief pencilled sentence from Inspector Loup had bestowed upon her a new birth she found double reason for every sacrifice. She not only trampled her love underfoot with new courage, but bent all her energy and influence towards the reconciliation of Jean Marot and Henri Lerouge.
Mlle. Fouchette had gone to the hospital every day to ascertain the young man's condition. And when he had been pronounced convalescent she ascertained his new address. All of which was duly reported to Jean, who began to wonder at this sudden interest in one for whom she had formerly expressed only dislike.
Mlle. Fouchette offered no explanation of her conduct,—a woman is never bound to give a reason for her change of opinions. She never asked to see Lerouge,—never sent in her name to him,—but merely inquired, saying she was sent by one of his old friends. As she had intended, the name of this friend, Jean Marot, had been finally carried to Henri Lerouge.
One day she had seen Mlle. Remy, and had been so agitated and nervous that it was all she could do to sustain herself in the shadow of one of the great stonecolumns. She had watched for this opportunity for days; yet when it suddenly presented itself she could only hide, trembling, and permit the girl to pass without a word.
"If I could only touch her!—feel her pretty fingers in my hand! Ah! but can I ever bring myself to that without betrayal? They would be so happy! and I,—why should I not be happy also? I love him,—I love her,—and if they love each other,—she can help it no more than he,—it would be impossible!"
Thus she reasoned with herself as the sunny head of Mlle. Remy disappeared in the gloomy corridor. Thus she reasoned with herself over and over again, as if the resolution she had taken required constant bracing and strengthening.
And it did require it.
For Mlle. Fouchette, humble child of the slums, had bravely cut out for herself a task that would have appalled the stoutest moralist.
Love had not only softened the nature of Mlle. Fouchette, as is seen,—it had revolutionized her. The fierce spirit to which she owed her reputation—of the feline claws and ready boot-heel—had vanished and left her weak and sensitive and meekly submissive. Personally she had not realized this change because she had not reasoned with herself on the subject. Not only her whole time but her entire mind and soul were absorbed in the service of Love. She gloried in her self-abasement.
Mlle. Fouchette would have gone farther,—would have deliberately and gladly sacrificed everything that a woman can lay upon the altar of her affections. Shehad no moral scruples, being only a poor little heathen among the heathen.
Somewhat disappointed and not a little chagrined at first that Jean had not required, or even hinted at, this sacrifice, she had ended by secretly exulting in this nobility of character that made him superior to other young men, and distinctly approved of his fidelity to the image in his heart. Deprived of this means of proving her complete devotion to him, she elevated him upon a higher pedestal and prostrated herself more humbly.
Wherein she differed materially from the late Madame Potiphar.
As for Jean Marot, it is to be reluctantly admitted that he really deserved none of this moral exaltation, being merely human, and a common type of the people who had abolished God and kings in one fell swoop, constructed a calendar to suit themselves, and worshipped Reason in Notre Dame represented by a ballet dancer. In other words, he was an egoist of the egoists of earth.
He was, in fact, so unbearably a bear in his treatment of little Fouchette that only the most extraordinary circumstances would seem to excuse him.
And the circumstances were quite extraordinary. Jean was suffering from personal notoriety. Unseen hands were tossing him about and pulling him to pieces. Unknown purposes held him as in a vice.
Within the last two weeks his mail had grown from two to some twenty letters a day,—most of which letters were not only of a strongly incendiary nature, but expressed a wholly false conception of his politicalposition and desires. He was being inundated by indiscriminate praise and abuse. There were reams of well-meant advice and quires of threats of violence.
Among these letters had been some enclosing money and drafts to a considerable amount,—to be used in a way which was plainly apparent. From a distinguished royalist he had received in a single cover the sum of ten thousand francs "for the cause." From another had come five thousand francs for his "personal use." Various smaller sums aggregated not less than ten thousand francs more, most of which was to be expended at discretion in the restoration of a "good" and "stable" and "respectable" government to unhappy France. Besides cash were drafts and promises,—the latter reaching unmeasured sums. And interspersed with all these were strong hints of political preferment that would have turned almost any youthful head less obstinate than that which ornamented the broad shoulders of Jean Marot.
At first Jean was amused, then he was astonished. Finally he became indignant and angry to the bursting-point.
It was several days before he could adequately comprehend what had provoked this furious storm, with its shower of money and warning flashes of wrath and rumblings of violence. Then it became clear that he was being made the political tool of the reactionary combination then laying the axe at the root of the republican tree. The Orléanists, Bonapartists, Anti-Semites, and their allies were quick to see the value of a popular leader in the most turbulent and unmanageable quarter of Paris. The Quartier Latin was secondonly to Montmartre as a propagating bed for revolution; the fiery youth of the great schools were quite as important as the butchers of La Villette.
The conclusions of the young leader were materially assisted and hastened by the flattering attention with which he was received by the young men wearing royalist badges, and by the black looks from the more timid republicans. He thereupon avoided the streets of the quarter, and devoted his time to answering such letters as bore signature and address. He sought to disabuse the public mind, so far as the writers were concerned, by declaring his adherence to the republic, and by returning the money so far as possible.
Jean Marot had now for the first time, with many others, turned his attention to the revelations in the Dreyfus case as appeared in theFigaro, and saw with amazement the use being made of a wholly fictitious crisis to destroy French liberty. He was appalled at these disclosures. Not that they demonstrated the innocence of a condemned man, but because they showed the utter absence of conscience on the part of his accusers and the criminal ignorance of the military leaders on whom France relied in the hour of public danger. For the first time he saw, what the whole civilized world outside of France had seen with surprise and indignation, that the conviction of Captain Dreyfus rested upon the testimony of a staff-officer of noble blood who lived openly and shamelessly on the immoral earnings of his mistress, and who was the self-acknowledged agent of a maison de toleration on commission. In the person of this distinguished member of the "condotteri" was centred the so-called"honor of the army." As for the so-called "evidence," no police judge of England or America would have given a man five days on it.
Matters were at this stage when one morning about a fortnight since the day Mlle. Fouchette had changed masters they reached the bursting-point. Jean suddenly jumped from his seat where he had been looking over his mail and broke into a torrent of invective.
"Dame!" said Mlle. Fouchette, coming in from the kitchen in the act of manipulating a plate with a towel,—"surely, Monsieur Jean, it can't be as bad as that!"
"Mille tonnerres!" cried Jean, kicking the chair viciously,—"it's worse!"
"Worse?"
"Fouchette, you're a fool!"
Mlle. Fouchette kicked the door till it rattled. She also used oaths, rare for her.
"Stop!" he roared. "What in the devil's name are you doing that for? Stop!"
"Why not? I don't want to be a fool. I want to do just as you do, monsieur!"
"Oh, yes! it is funny; but suppose Inspector Loup wanted you for a spy——"
The plate slipped to the floor with a loud crash.
"There!" he exclaimed. And seeing how confused she got,—"Never mind, Fouchette. Come here! Look at that!"
Inspector Loup had politely requested Monsieur Marot to furnish privately any information in connection with the recent discoveries at his appartement which might be useful to the government,—especially in the nature of correspondence, etc.
As if Inspector Loup had no agents in the Postes et Télégraphes and had not already generously sampled the contents of Jean's mail, going and coming! But there are some cynical plotters in France who never use the public mails and, understanding the thoroughness of the Secret System, prefer direct communication.
"It is infamous!" said the girl, when she had calmly perused the letter.
"It is damnable!" said Jean.
"Still, it is his business to know."
"It is a miserable business,—a dishonorable business! And Monsieur l'Inspecteur will follow his dirty trade without any help from me!"
"Very surely!" said Mlle. Fouchette, emphatically.
"I've had enough of politics."
"Good!" cried she, gleefully.
"But, I'd like to punch the fellow who wrote this," he muttered, tearing an insulting letter into little bits and throwing them on the floor.
She laughed. "But that is politics," she remarked.
"True. We Frenchmen are worse than the Irish. I sometimes doubt if we are really fit for self-government; don't you know?"
"Mon ami, you are improving rapidly," she replied, with a meaning smile,—"why not others?"
"I—I—mille diables!"
"What! Another?"
"Worse!"
He slammed his fist upon the table in sudden passion.
"It is very provoking, but——"
"Read it!" he said, dejectedly.
She read beneath a Lyon date-line, in a small, crabbed, round hand,—
"You are not only a scoundrel, but a traitor, and you dishonor the mother who bore you as you betray the country which gives you shelter and protection."
"He's a liar!" cried the girl, with a flash of her former spirit.
"He is my father!" said Jean, scarcely able to repress his tears.
"Ah! mon Dieu!"
She slipped down at his knees and covered his hand with kisses.
"He cannot know!—he cannot know!" she said, consoling him. "He has only read the newspapers, like the rest. If he knew the truth, mon ami!"
"Well!" sighed the young man,—"let us see,—a telegram? I hadn't noticed that. There can be nothing worse than what one's father can write his son."
He read in silence, then passed it to her with a shrug of the shoulders.
"Monsieur de Beauchamp!" she exclaimed.
"Yes."
"'Come to Brussels at once.'"
"It is the Duc d'Orléans."
"Bah!"
"He knows, then, that I am in possession."
"Yes,—certainly."
"Probably wants me to take charge of his guns——"
"And dynamite bombs——"
"The wretches!"
"You can tell him you have turned them over to Inspector Loup."
"I will, pardieu!"
He was inspecting the superscription of the next envelope.
"Something familiar about that. Ah! its from Lerouge!"
"Lerouge!"
"Very good, very good! Look!"
Jean jumped up excitedly,—this time with evident pleasure.
"Coming here! and to-night! Good!"
"Oh! I'm so glad, mon ami!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. "And, see! 'toi!'—he calls you 'thee;' he is not angry!"
The note from Lerouge was simply a line, as if in answer to something of the day.
"Merci,—je serai chez toi ce soir."
"'Toi,'—it is good!" said the girl.
"Yes, it looks fair. And Henri always had the way of getting a world of meaning in a few words."
"It is as if there had occurred nothing."
"Yes,—to-night,—and we must prepare him a welcome of some kind. I will write him as to the hour. Let us say a supper, eh, Fouchette?"
"A supper? and here? to-night?"
Mlle. Fouchette recoiled with dismay written in every line of her countenance.
"I don't see anything so strange or horrible about that," said Jean. "I did not propose to serveyoufor supper."
"N-no; only——"
"Well?"
Mlle. Fouchette was greatly agitated. He looked at her curiously. Monsieur Lerouge coming to see him and coming to supper—where she must be present—were widely different propositions according to Mlle. Fouchette; for she had hailed the first with delight and the second in utter confusion.
"Fouchette, why don't you say at once that you don't want to do it!" he brutally added.
"You do not understand. Would it be well for—for you, mon ami? It is not for myself. He probably does not know me."
"What if he does? It strikes me that you are growing mighty nice of late. I don't see what Lerouge has to do with you,—and you have pretended——"
"Pretended? Oh, monsieur! I beg——"
"Very well," he interrupted. "We can go out to a restaurant, I suppose, since you don't seem to want to take that trouble for me."
"Oh, monsieur!" she protested, earnestly, "it is not that; I would be glad, only—if it were not Lerouge."
"And why not Lerouge, pray?"
"But, mon ami, would he not tell his sister that——"
"Nonsense!"
"I know——" she hesitated.
"Pouf! Lerouge will not know you. And what if he did recognize the—the——"
"Savatière——"
"Yes; what, then? But, say! Fouchette, you shall wear that pretty bonne costume I got you. Hein?"
"But, mon ami,—mon cher ami! I'd rather not doit," she faltered. "If Mademoiselle Remy should hear of it——"
"Bah! I know Lerouge. He'd think you my servant, my model. And have you not your own private establishment to retire to in case—really, you must!"
"W-well, be it so, Monsieur Jean; but if harm comes of it——"
"It will be my fault, not yours. It goes!"
Thus Jean, having reduced the "Savatière" to the condition of unsalaried servitude, now insisted upon her dressing the part.
He had paid her no empty compliment when he said that she looked her best as a maid. He had fitted her out for an evening at the Bullier for twenty-five francs. In the Quakerish garb of a French bonne she had never looked so demurely sweet in her life. The short skirt showed a pair of small feet and neat round ankles. Her spotless apron accentuated the delicacy of the slender waist. And with a cute white lace cap perched coquettishly over the drooping blonde hair—well, anybody could see that Mlle. Fouchette (become simply Fouchette by this metamorphosis) was really a pretty little woman.
And Jean kissed her on both cheeks and laughed at her because they reddened, and swore she was the sweetest little "bonne à toute faire" in all the world.
No doubt Marie Antoinette and her court ladies looked most charming when they played peasant at Petit Trianon; for it is a curious fact that many women show to better physical advantage in the simple costume of a neat servant than in the silks and diamonds of the mistress.
As for Fouchette, she was truly artistic, and she knew it. The knowledge that Jean comprehended this and admired her caused her eyes to shine and her blood to circulate more quickly. And a woman would be more than mortal who is not to be consoled by the consciousness of a successful toilet.
Yet she had dressed with many misgivings, between many sighs and broken exclamations. A little time ago she would have cared nothing whether it were Lerouge or anybody else; but now,—ah! it was a cruel test of her.
True, she must meet Lerouge some time. Oh! surely. She must see Mlle. Remy, too,—she must look into his sombre eyes,—feel the gentle touch of her hands! Often,—yes; often!
For if Jean married Mlle. Remy, perhaps she, Fouchette, might—why not? She would become their domestic, could she not?
Only, to meet Lerouge here,—in this way!
It was a bitter struggle, but love conquered.
Nevertheless, she felt that she required all of her natural courage, all the cleverness learned of rogues and the stoicism engrafted by suffering, to undergo the ordeal demanded of her and to follow the chosen path to the end.
"How charming you look, Fouchette!" he exclaimed, when she appeared in the evening.
"Thanks, monsieur."
She gave the short bob of the professional domestic. Her face was wreathed in smiles.
"But, I say, mon enfant, you are really pretty."
"Ah, çà!"
She was blushing,—painfully, because she knew that she was blushing. He put his arm about her waist and attempted to kiss her.
"No, no, no!" she cried, with an air of vexation,—"go away!"
"But you are really artistic, Fouchette. I must have a sitting of you in that costume."
He had made several sketches of her head, she serving as a model for Mlle. Remy. Only, he filled them out to suit his ideal. Mlle. Fouchette saw this; yet she was always pleased to pose for him.
"That is, if you are good," he added, in his condescending way.
"Have no fear,—I'll be good."
"Une bonne bonne, say."
"Bon-bon? Va!"
"And can sit still long enough."
"There! I can't sit still now, monsieur. The dinner,—it is nearly time."
She had set out the table with the best their mutual resources afforded. She had run up and down the street after whatever seemed necessary earlier in the day. Now that final arrangement had come, nothing seemed quite satisfactory. She changed this, replaced that with something else, ran backward a moment to take in the ensemble, then changed things back again. She had the exquisite French perception of the incongruous in form and color. Between times she was diving in and out of the little kitchen, where the soup was simmering and where a chicken from the nearest rôtisserie was being thoroughly warmed up. And in her lively comings and goings she wore a brightsmile and kept up the incessant purr, purr, purr of a vivacious tongue.
"And you must have champagne!" said she, reproachfully.
He had come in with the bottles under his arm. "You should have let me purchase it, at least. How much?"
"Ten francs."
"Ten francs! It is frightful! And two for this claret, I'll warrant!"
"More than that, innocent."
"What! more than——"
"Four francs."
She held up her little hands, speechless, being unable to do justice to his extravagance. He laughed.
"It is an important occasion," said he. "But, really, you are simply astonishing, little one."
"Là, là, là!"
Jean had an artistic sense, and Mlle. Fouchette now appealed to it. He watched her skipping about the place and tried to reconcile this sweet, bright-eyed, light-hearted creature with the woman he had known as "La Savatière."
"Que diable! but she is—well, what in the name of all the goddesses has come over the girl, anyhow? It can't be that Lerouge—yet she didn't want to have him see her here."
Conscious of this scrutiny, Fouchette would have been compelled to retreat to the kitchen on some pretext if she had not got this occasional shelter by necessity. She was so happy. Her heart was so light she could not be quite certain if she were really on theearth or not. Never had Jean looked so handsome to her.
"Dame! It is nothing," she said and repeated over and over to herself,—"it is nothing; and yet I am surely the happiest girl in the world. Oh, when he looks at me with his beautiful eyes like that I feel as if I could fly! Mon Dieu! but if he touched me now I should faint! I should die!"
A vigorous ring at the door smote her ear. She trembled.
"Well, why don't you go, melon?" He spoke with a sharpness that fell on her like a blow.
She fumbled nervously at her apron-strings.
"Go as you are, stupid!"
"Yes, monsieur."
If her heart had not already fallen suddenly to zero, it would have dropped there when she opened the vestibule door.
The elderly image of Jean Marot stood before her. Somewhat stouter of figure and broader of feature, with full grayish beard and moustache that concealed the outlines of the lower face, but still such a striking likeness of father to son that even one less versed in the human physiognomy than Mlle. Fouchette must have at once recognized Marot père. The deeply recessed eyes looked darker and seemed to burn more fiercely than Jean's, and more accurately suggested Lerouge. Indeed, to the casual observer the man might have been the father of either of the two young men. In bearing and attire the figure was that of the prosperous French manufacturer. His voice was coldly harsh and imperious.
"So! mademoiselle!"
He paused in the vestibule and gazed searchingly at the trembling little woman with a fierce glare that made her feel as if she were being shrivelled up where she stood.
"So! May I inquire whether I am on the threshold of Monsieur Jean Marot's appartement or that of his—his——"
He was evidently making an effort to preserve his calmness, but the words seemed to choke him.
The implication, though not at once fully understood by Mlle. Fouchette, had the effect of rousing her powers of resistance.
"It is Monsieur Marot's, monsieur," she replied, with dignity.
"And you are——"
"His servant, monsieur."
"Oh! So!"
"And you, monsieur——"
"I am his father, mademoiselle."
"Ah!" He need not have told her that.
At this instant the inner door was thrown wide open, and Jean, who had recognized his father's voice with consternation, was in the opening.
Father and son stood thus confronting each other for some seconds, mute,—the father sternly and with unrelenting eye, the son with a pride sustained by obstinacy and bitterness. The sting of his father's letter was fresh, and he nerved himself for further insults. Nor had he to wait long, for his father advanced upon him as he retired into the room, with a growing menace in his tone at every successive step.
"So! Here you are, you—you——"
"Father!"
The old man had excitedly raised his hand as if to strike his son without further words, but he found Mlle. Fouchette between them.
"Monsieur! Monsieur! Hold, Jean! Do not answer him! Not now,—not now!"
The elder Marot glanced at her as if she were some sort of vermin. This at first, then he hesitated before kicking her out of the way.
"Ah, messieurs! is it the way to reconciliation and love to go at it in hot blood and hard words? Take a little time,—there is plenty and to spare. Anger never settles anything. Sit down, monsieur, will you not? Why, Monsieur Jean! Will you not offer your father a chair? And remember, he is your father, monsieur. Remember that before you speak. It is easy to say hard words, but the cure is slow and difficult, messieurs. Why not deliberate and reason without anger?"
As she talked she placed chairs, towards one of which she gently urged Marot senior. Then she insisted upon taking his hat. A man with his hat off is not so easily roused to anger as he is with it on, nor can one maintain his resentment at the highest pitch while sitting down. There was this much gained by Mlle. Fouchette's diplomacy.
But the first glance about the room restored the father's belligerency. He saw the elaborately laid table, the flowers, the wine——
"I am honored, monsieur," he said to his son, sarcastically, "though I had no idea that you expected me."
"It is—er—I had a friend——"
"Oh! I know quite well I have no reason to anticipate such a royal welcome. Yet there are three plates——"
"That was for Fouchette," said Jean, hastily and unthinkingly. "You will be welcome at my humble table, father."
"Fouchette,"—he had noticed the glance at the girl, now making a pretence of arranging the table,—"and so this is Fouchette, eh? And your humble table, eh?"
The irascible old gentleman regarded both of the adjuncts of life de garçon with a bitter smile. Still it was something like a smile, and the girl was quick to take advantage of it.
"Oh, this is a special occasion, monsieur,—a reconciliation dinner."
"A reconciliation dinner, eh?" growled the old man, suspicious of some sly allusion to himself and son. "And will you be good enough to speak for this dummy here and inform me who is to be reconciled and what the devil you've got to do with the operation?"
"To be sure!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, with affected gayety. "Only I must begin at the last first. I'm the next-door neighbor of Monsieur Jean, your son, and I take care of his rooms for him—for a consideration. My appartement is over there, monsieur, if you please. We are poor, but we must eat——"
"And drink champagne," put in the elder Marot, significantly.
"Is not champagne more fitting for thereconciliation of two men who were once friends than would be violent words?" she asked, with spirit.
"Who pays for it? It depends upon who pays for it!" He tried to ward off the conclusion by hurling this at both of them.
Jean reddened. He knew quite well the insinuation. It is not an unusual thing for Frenchmen to live on the product of a woman's shame.
"As if you should ask me if I were a thief, father!" protested the young man, now scarcely able to restrain his tears.
"And as if we had not pinched and saved and economized and all that! And can you look around you and not see that?" She had hard work to smother her indignation.
"Come to the point!" retorted the elder Marot, impatiently. "The woman! Where is the woman?"
Jean reddened more furiously and was more confused than before.
"It can't be this—this"—he regarded the slender, girlish figure contemptuously—"this grisette ménagère! You are not such a fool as to——"
"Oh! no, no, no, no!" hastily interrupted Mlle. Fouchette, with great agitation. "Oh, no, monsieur! Think not that! She is an angel! I am nothing to him,—nothing! Only a poor little friend,—a servant, monsieur,—one who wishes him well and would do and give anything to see him happy! Nothing more, monsieur, I assure you! I—mon Dieu! nothing more!"
There was almost a wail in her last note of too much protestation.
Both father and son scrutinized her attentively, while the color came and went in her now downcast face,—the one with a puzzled astonishment, the other with surprised alarm.
And both understood.
Not being himself a lover, the elder Marot divined at once what Jean, with all his opportunities, had till now failed to discover.
Another pull at the bell came like a gift from heaven to momentarily relieve poor little Fouchette of her embarrassment.
Jean started nervously to his feet, in sympathy with her intelligence, but by no means relieved in mind.
"It is Lerouge," he said, desperately. "Attend, Fouchette!"
The father glanced from one to the other quickly, inquiringly.
"Lerouge?"
"Yes, father,—it is he,—the friend—whom we—whom I expect—to whom I owe reparation——"
The two men studied each other in silence for the few seconds that followed, and Jean saw something like aroused curiosity and wonderment in his father's face,—something that had suddenly taken the place of anger.
Mlle. Fouchette had anticipated the coming of Lerouge with quite a different sentiment to that which overpowered Jean. The latter saw in it only the ruin of his most cherished hopes. Fouchette, on the other hand, with the quicker and surer intuition of the woman, believed the time now ripe for the reconciliation of not only Jean and Lerouge, but of father andson. It would be impossible for Jean and his father to quarrel before this third party. Time would be gained. And then, were not the two affairs one? The straightening out of the tangle between the friends must carry with it the better understanding between Jean and his father.
As to herself, the girl had not one thought. She was completely lifted out of self,—carried away with the intentness of her solicitude for Jean's future.
The situation appealed to her sharpest instincts. Its possibilities passed through her alert mind before she had reached the door. Glorified in her purpose, she flung it wide open.
She was confronted by two persons,—the one bowing, hat in hand; the other smiling, radiantly beautiful.
Mlle. Fouchette stood for a moment like one suddenly turned to stone.
This was more than she had bargained for. She leaned against the wall instinctively, as if needing more substantial support than her limbs. Her throat seemed parched, so that when she would have spoken the result was merely a spasmodic gasp. Even the friendly semi-darkness of the little antechamber failed to hide her confusion from her visitors.
Then, recovering her self-possession by a violent effort, she reopened the inner door and announced, feebly,—
"Monsieur Lerouge,—Mademoiselle Remy!"